The El Camino

As much as I hate to admit it, I have become very attached to a material possession. The object of my affection is a sweet '77 El Camino that I bought three years ago. Always wanted one. Got one. And, it has been my main ride since 2006. Now, I have the luxury of buying a "real" car, as my daughters say. Options abound, money isn't the issue for the first time in my life, and yet I find myself really struggling with saying good-bye to EC. EC is paid for. It's so classic. It's been good to me. It is, however, a money pit. That worn out catch phrase is so true--my head knows what to do, but my heart says otherwise.

We had a date two nights ago--waited for the sun to go down (no AC in EC) and drove the thirty miles to the nearest town to get a few groceries. Just me and EC, driving on HWY. 180 with the windows rolled down, no music, no talk radio....just a lovely moonlit night. Can I do that in a new car? Sure, but that new car will tempt me to use its fancy amenities that I'll pay for dearly.

One daughter says keep the El Camino if I really want to. The other one says (and emphatically, I might add) sell it. The analogy she used was that EC was like a family pet, and the time just comes when we have to let go. (This is also the offspring that doesn't like my current schnauzer pets either). I should have told her that I didn't just put her up for sale when she was a money pit...aren't all children? It just comes with the territory, sort of like a classic car. However, it's hard to argue with a daughter who has demonstrated far better money management skills than her mother ever had, and I am very proud of her for that. Bottom line, there is no reasonable reason to keep my beloved old car. I hate reason sometimes.

You see, I had this vision of pimping my ride. I went as far as to talk to a guy in a city nearby about rebuilding the entire thing--the acid dip to stop the rust, a new fuel injection engine that would allow me to drive it anywhere and get 25 mpg instead of the current 10, new gauges, camper top on back for that cross country road trip I've always wanted to take, and of course the new white paint job with a navy blue pin stripe trim. A New York Yankee logo on the back would complete the masterpiece.

And then, I come back to the real world where practical people are rewarded and dreamers are misunderstood--and understandably so. It's not a matter of right and wrong, rather appropriate and not-so-appropriate. I get that, but I don't want to get that.

Ads have been placed with few bites. Maybe I've set the price too high on purpose--a Freudian slip. But, I bet it sells before long as I lower the stakes. This time next month I'll be riding in a nice car. It'll probably get 35 mpg, have a great sound system, provide a quiet ride and AC and will be very dependable. Despite these great qualities, I find it ironic that a new car will cost me more but be made with less quality parts than a 1977 El Camino. Chrome was standard then, not extra.

I just hope someone buys it that will appreciate it as much as I have and enjoy it as much as I did.

My new dream? Well, I hope to write and publish a book in the next two years that will be a bestseller or at least make me some fun money. I'll track down my old EC and do just what I had hoped to do all along, restoring EC to its former glory.

Then, read my cross country blog as the schnauzers and I will take to the road. Bark on.


 

While My Freshly Cleaned Carpet is Drying......

Immobility due to drying carpets forces me to write today. I am confined to the kitchen. Yes, my computer is in the kitchen because I do not use my kitchen for cooking. Rather than have wasted counter top space (small bar area), I write here.

Being a writer--and it's still difficult for me to admit that I am--makes one vulnerable.  It involves sharing information or putting a spin on information or having an opinion about information or about entertaining with information. This wears me out.

It's also a tricky thing because of the motive. Is my writing paving the way for financial reward? Am I writing purely for aesthetic purposes? Do I want Oprah to recognize me? Or, am I writing because it's like talking to myself which I already do?

As you can tell, I tend to over analyze life. It's a curse from birth--anyone born in a hospital named Root Memorial has this issue. Why can't I just write to write and be done with it? I think I feel guilty writing about the mundane and writing knowing that it is being done to be read immediately. There's something more noble about an Anne Frank diary experience--she had no idea that sixty years later school children would be reading her material.

Maybe I need to draw on my athletic career for the analogy to know that my writing--whether posted or not--has some merit. Being an athlete for me was a job. Practice was important. I wanted to excel all the time, not just when someone was looking. Having said that, of course I was extra motivated when someone special was in the stands. It was exhilarating to think I was doing something--and hopefully doing it well--to impress. But impressing others wasn't nearly as important as impressing myself. I was my harshest critic.

My public school writing in English classes was stilted, formulated, and not original. I was writing to turn in a structurally perfect paper or to please a teacher. Today, it is my voice that comes across on paper. Yes, I still want the words on paper to sound and "look good." But I strive now not for perfection but for communication. This maturing has made me a better teacher of writing, too. Effective communication doesn't always use good grammar.

Case in point: today's post isn't about anything really. But, it gave me something constructive to do while waiting for that dang carpet to dry. And that's good enough for me even if it doesn't impress you.

One-Way Ticket

My agent/daughter Julie informed me on my return from the monastery retreat that I was now a published blogger. All that means is that she has shared my blog site with family and friends making it official: I am obligated to write. My overachieving daughter is now overachieving for her mother. God love her.

The retreat stories can wait. I'm still processing the impact those few days had and hopefully will continue to have. Until those stories emerge, here's something that came to mind during my travels through train terminals. For you Saturday night fans from the 1990s, this will be sort of a "Deep Thoughts By Jack Handey" segment.

I recently read the nonfiction bestseller Same Kind of Different As Me. The author's wife, suffering from cancer, comes home distraught after someone she runs into while shopping mentions the wife's "terminal" illness. Though an honest remark, the word came across as tactless and hopeless. It is a word we usually associate with something that is about to end.

In the past year I've been in bus terminals, airport terminals, and train terminals--watched a lot of people. It occurred to me that terminals are a rotation of people arriving and people departing. It is not a place of endings--everyone is going somewhere. Life is, from our first breath, the leaving of one place to get to another. And immediately after taking that first breath, we are on our way to the moment to when we breathe our last. Arriving so that we can prepare to leave. There's your deep thought.

Being terminal describes all of us.

However, only a few fortunate souls figure that out (either while healthy or when facing a life-threatening illness). When and if we do, that word terminal opens doors to a life that is lived with meaning--which is what it is supposed to be! Living with meaning manifests itself in kindness, patience, joy, compassion, generosity, laughter, selflessness, tolerance, and two scoops of your favorite ice cream anytime you want it (another deep thought).

Whether we like it or not and whether we realize it or not, we are traveling to that ultimate Destination. I think Jack Handey might have said something like, "Open the door. Walk through the turnstiles. Get your ticket. And live." And if he didn't say it, I suspect St. Peter will.

Dissertation A.D. 2015

Grad school is not in my future, but my right brain random self enjoys coming up with possible topics for doctoral thesis type things. Sort of like I enjoy coming up with book and song titles but certainly have not pursued writing any of late. After today's driver education sessions, this potential research idea came to mind:

A Comparative Study of Middle-Aged Female Driver Ed. Teachers and Weight Gain

In 1996, when I began this moonlighting job, I was happily driving in the lightweight division. Agile, nimble, quick to use the brake on my passenger side, able to turn my neck 180 degrees without discomfort, and capable of having a donut or two during morning driving sessions without gaining a single pound.

Several years later, the tires on the right side are riding low. I'm just saying, there's a heck of a lot of difference between 40 and 53. Someone forgot to tell me that I cannot eat a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit for breakfast and wash it down with a coke and then move on to Sonic for lunch where I just get a simple burger, fries, and drink, and then have my afternoon coke float to calm my nerves after a hard day of driving. I might as well come clean and also say that we visited a bakery today where I treated the graduating driver ed. students (and myself) to some darn good cookies.

My driver ed. teachers in 1972 were men--skinny, old men. How come they didn't gain weight? Maybe they snuck in a smoke when we were taking restroom breaks, I don't know. Maybe they had more willpower because they had someone at home who was going to cook a good hot meal for them when they got off work. Maybe fast food just wasn't as prevalent then as it is today.

Perhaps I could file workers' compensation for this tragedy. Or, at least ask the school district to pay for my masters and doctoral studies so I could research this topic, defend the thesis, and have my diploma in hand by 2015. I would become the first driver ed. teacher ever to have a Ph.D, enabling me to make at least $5 more an hour.

Or maybe, I could just quit rationalizing my weight gain and do one of three things: (1) accept it and enjoy another coke float tomorrow during Happy Hour, (2) discipline myself, or (3) start smoking. Thank goodness cigarettes cost too much.

Of course, option two makes the most sense. I'll just discipline myself to having a coke float every other day.

Going Global

We are but a small part of the globe. I realized this year while teaching high school students World Geography that many of us are locked into a limited perspective: seeing events and people and issues through one set of eyes: through Gail America eyes, Texan eyes, American eyes, Christian eyes, Republican or Democrat or Independent eyes. This limits the Creator, who at last check, was responsible for creating all folks on the face of this earth. Will we ever be able to see the world through His eyes?

Perspective comes when you check your mirrors. Often.
I use that phrase at least fifty times a day when teaching driver education here in Gail America. It is the number one thing those kids forget to do. I don't have to tell you the cause/effect of neglecting to perform those simple glances to the left, to the right, and in the middle rearview mirror. The same is true of our views of issues that may go left, right, or down the middle. Looking in all directions will help generate a decent and informed and healthy perspective of life's journeys.

So, whether you drive in the Metroplex or on Mopac, the Autobahn, Loop 289, or FM Road 1785 , check your mirrors--you might be surprised at what you'll really see.