A Road of Little Consequence

I was driving down a road of little consequence, just today. A warm, Indian Summer sun sat in a western sky, and the aroma of dry spruce hung heavy in the air. The road was slightly cracked and the center line was faded and veering. The narrow lanes challenged my mind not to wander, but my imagination has always been a rebellious one. My old pick-up, a relic from the Carter administration, was now as much a friend of mine as my dog who sat, loyally as my co-pilot.

The past year had not been an easy one, and for that matter, neither had the one before that. A slew of piss-poor career attempts had left me unemployed and a failed marriage, a few failed relationships, and a group of strangers I believed were my friends had my mood and my mind in a somewhat depressive state. My short-comings and a future of seemingly worse events ahead were becoming thoughts that were beginning to trip over each other in my head. One job in particular that had seen me fired, had subsequently left me especially bitter, and almost unfeeling.

A stainless-steel mug of coffee, poured from my thermos sat cooling in my cup-holder. The broken center-line flashed by, and seemed to hum silently.

The past had left me a pile of debt I could never pay, a home I could no longer live in, a dream extinguished, my talents squandered. I spoke aloud to my dog in a serious tone, “You know, I could pull the truck over here. Right here. You and me, we could hike into those mountains today. Those mountains go on forever, they’re endless. Things get forgotten in those mountains. I’d only take you so far my friend, then I’d let you go to run, some campers would find you, and they would take you home with them. But I’d go further, I’d walk and hike so deep, and so far, until I was sure no one would ever find me. And then….I'd do it. People would find my truck. They’d figure I got lost. They’d even search for me I suppose. But I’d be leaving no wife behind; no children would miss their Dad. So they wouldn’t look that long, or probably even that hard. I’d be someone they could forget about.”

I could feel my foot easing on the gas pedal to find the brake and a spot to pull the truck to the side. But then something stopped me. I did indeed need to brake, but not because I intended on carrying out my plan, but because ahead of me on this deserted road, high in this mountain pass, was a small bridge. A bridge that ran above a clear creek that like the road, had no name. And scattered like tossed stones to the side were three bikes. Bikes of children, the tires mis-matched, the painted faded and chipped, dropped alongside the road in a hurried enthusiasm. And on that bridge were two boys and a sister, the oldest no more than eight, casting dime-store fishing rods into a stream as pure as their innocence, a summer sun in its twilight at their backs. I slowed the truck and passed, and noticed their pink shoulders and a Tupperware that was one of Mom’s best, filled with thin, hand-dug worms and black dirt.

In a world filled with everyday news of corrupt CEOs, and video game addiction, 3000 calorie Happy Meals, and sub-prime mortgages, for just a brief moment, on a no-name road in a land as green and perfect as Heaven, I glimpsed hope once again.

I pressed on the accelerator as the road ahead of me looked as if it could take me to the ocean, and a smile pulled itself, ever so slightly, out of a corner of my mouth.

The Person Who I am

I am a sitter. A watcher. A person who, by a young age was out of place. Where was I to fit in? I was from a poor home, a home of little monetary privilege, of little luxury, and even less societal fortitude. And so I sat. On the outside, looking in, on the sidelines, watching the game of life played out by others. Others, who grew up with the apparition of wealth and the illusion of their own self-induced enlightenment. As a watcher, a keen observer, I discovered even at a tender age that the wealth I ensued was far greater and was much higher in regard than their false monetary type.
I am a reader. A writer. A critic. A person who researches my interests, and full fills my curiosity by filling my notebooks with useless knowledge, retaining worthless facts. I toil over matters of no value, of little worth, insignificant in their circumstance, useless in day to day conversation; total and complete rubbish.
I am a purist. A believer. A helpless romantic. I live in a time and a place where I don’t belong. I believe in ever-after while surrounded by the temporary. I stroll while the world hurries. I absorb while the rest scans. I am alone in my pursuits. Misunderstood, misjudged, misconstrued.

Bill Gates Punched a Time Card Everyday

When I was a very young man, just starting out in the wonderful world of work, a mentor of sorts, told me to always keep my nose to the grindstone. He went on to explain that good hard work was the secret to success, money, security, and advancement. I cherished that advice as I bit my lip and lowered my shoulder into the great unknown in front of me. As the years went along, I found myself in a number of different disciplines, and I always lived by the motto of the hardest working man I had ever known. Success and fortune awaited me, possibly at any corner of the road in front of me. It was mine for the taking; I was to simply sacrifice the sweat upon my brow, and the spirit that lay deep in my soul. I rode an ocean of differing economic tides and found myself laid off several times, and even fired once for a reason I am still contemplating. Several times throughout my tenure, I wanted to give up, I wanted to give in, and blend in, to perform simply a mediocre job; to behave much like the sprawl of other slackers, but I could almost taste the rewards of my hard work, and dedication.
Almost fifteen years after I had punched the first slot on a timecard, I ran into my mentor. He explained proudly that he was still working for the same company, ‘twenty-four years now, and I still have my nose to the grindstone, working as hard now as I did on my first day.’ While I admired his honest, and sincere enthusiasm in knowing he had always worked with a sincere attitude, and undying devotion to his trade, I couldn’t help but notice, he had gone very little in the success department, and was lagging even further behind in the fortune and security division. That’s when I came to the unsettling conclusion that what I had been taught and conditioned to my whole life was, in the simplest terms I can articulate, a total and complete crock of shit. I started to think of the great success stories of modern times: Bill Gates, Richard Branson, Warren Buffett, they are mavericks; people who didn’t follow the rules. Even historically, the greatest people in our nation’s history have been the individuals, who by their own admission, saw that the people around them were going nowhere and decided instead, to go somewhere. They broke the rules, did things their own way, and forged their own existence. Going into work every day, punching in on time every day, working hard and efficiently every day, only guarantees you’ll do that samething, everyday, for the rest of your life.

Some Thoughts on Things we Have, and the Things We're Going to Get

Have you ever noticed what people talk about? I was at a restaurant eating lunch at a side booth yesterday, with a dozen conversations going on all around me, and it suddenly dawned on me that people, in essence, only talk about two things: things they have and things they are going to get. I don’t think people always used to talk about that. I can remember when my dad’s friends would stop by when I was younger, they would stand in the driveway at my home, and I would rarely hear them having a discussion on what they had or what they were going to buy. They’d talk about the driveway they had just sealed, or how this was going to be a hot summer. My mom’s friends would ask how she made the ice tea, it was so delicious. Now people talk about everything they’ve bought that week, and the things they plan on buying next week. I suppose the only way to prove to someone that you have just as much money, and thus you’re just as good as them, is to buy things, and talk about it, and then explain that you are very much inclined on purchasing quite a bit more, and you’re going to spend a lot of money doing all of it. I don’t think anyone knows how to do without. When my dad was out of work, my family did without. Rough times fall on everyone sooner or later. The difference between now and then is now people refuse to skip a beat. Material items seem more important to people today. People like to tell you what they got, followed immediately by how much they paid for it. I don’t like telling people how much I paid for anything. I figure that’s my business. I don’t care to explain to people what I have either, or what I plan on buying. I really don’t have that much stuff come to think about it. I guess I really don’t have that much to talk about with other people. Maybe that’s why people don’t talk to me.

Telephone Books

I am not so sure I understand any longer why we have telephone books. At one time, the telephone book was a pretty big deal. I can remember my grandmother’s house very well growing up as a child. There was a cupboard next to the phone where she kept all the phone books. Every so often a new one would come in the mail and she would quickly replace the old one with it. It was an exciting moment for her. There were several phone books in that old cupboard. There was one for the small town where she lived. It wasn’t very big, but if you needed to call someone, well at least you had it. Problem was, sooner or later, you would need to call someone who didn’t live in town. That’s why she had a little bit bigger one for the county. I don’t think a lot of people looked at the first few pages of a telephone book, they just simply opened it and found the letter of the last name of the person they wanted to call, and that was that. But there was always a map in the first few pages. I used to love maps. I guess I wanted to go anywhere but where I was.
Now days, there doesn’t seem to be much use for telephone books. We have the internet, where we can find a phone number to anyone, anywhere in the world in a matter of seconds. That doesn’t matter much, because, nobody really has a home phone they answer anymore anyways. We don’t need telephone books anymore. But we still get them. And they are bigger now than they’ve ever been. I can’t seem to figure out whose numbers are even listed in there. No one I ever try to call has a listed number. Maybe it’s unlisted, because I try and call them.
I am not sure why we don’t get a telephone book with peoples cell phone numbers listed in them. You would think that would be more practical. I still see advertisements for people to put advertisements in telephone books. I am not sure people do that anymore, but they must. I don’t think they get a lot of exposure, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t throw out the telephone book the moment they get it.
Telephone books use a lot of paper. These days you’d think we would just do away with them. We could save some trees, and some space in our grandmother’s cupboards.

Fast Food

I have read that Americans have an obsession with fast food. I’ve seen enough headlines that I suppose I believe it. I myself have a habit of making a trip through the McDonalds drive thru every now and then, and I do it for one simple reason: the food tastes good. A lot of experts claim the reason we consume so much fast food is because we live busy lives that leave little time for preparing a meal. I have to disagree. I just don’t think people know how to cook any more. When I was a kid, we would go to my grandma’s house on Sundays. I remember how good her cooking was. I also remember how my mother’s cooking wasn’t as good. As I got older, I attributed the taste of my grandmother’s cooking as something of a sentimental thing rather than superior cooking skills. However, in recent years, I’ve had to revise my theory once more. My grandmother was simply a better cook. My mother, a fine cook herself, wasn’t as good however. And my sister barely knows how to cook at all. I am not exactly sure what to attribute the degenerating cooking skills to. My mother follows the same recipes as my grandmother did, but the food doesn’t taste the same. I suppose it could be the time, or maybe the love. Whatever it is, there’s a secret ingredient missing from today’s home cooking. I am bound and determined to figure out what it is. First, I need to take a trip to Burger King to mull things over.

Houses

They sure build big houses today. Every house I see being built is enormous. Then again people now days don’t have yards. They’ve taken up their entire yard with their big house. Houses have more rooms too. The house I grew up in had a small square living room, one bathroom, two small bedrooms, and a kitchen that had a kitchen table in it. My parents bought it right after they got married, and they still live in it today. It still has the same paint, the same carpet, and it suits them just fine.

Houses built today serve a different purpose. I don’t think people spend as much time outside anymore. They’ve brought the outside inside, or at least they’ve tried. Houses have dining rooms now, and thats where they put the table. That never made any sense to me, cook the food in the kitchen, and cart it into a whole other room. And then when you were done, you have to cart it all the way back. I suppose were not outside as much and could use the exercise. I’ll never understand dens either. Every den I’ve ever seen has a TV in it and perhaps a bookshelf or two and minus the mounted deer head, it looks and functions a lot like a small living room. Most people don’t go in their dens very much, or their family rooms for that matter. Now a family room is what exactly? From what I can see, it’s a living room without the TV. When we wanted to do family things when I was a kid, we turned off the TV, and stayed in the living room. But then again, we had families back then.

Most bedrooms have their own bathrooms today. We had one bathroom, and nobody ever locked the door when they were in it. All five of my brothers and sisters and I would brush our teeth at the same time. When I was seven and my four year old brother had to pee, we both peed at the same time. People don’t have basements anymore either. They have rec rooms. I suppose this is where you do stuff inside instead of outside now. I think people use them mostly for storage though, seems I have to step around a lot of stuff when I am in other people’s rec rooms. People are so lazy they won’t even do stuff inside anymore. And people sure do have a lot of TVs. Every bedroom has a TV now. The living room has a TV. The den has a TV. The rec room has a TV. The kitchen has a TV. Bathrooms have TVs. I know a lot of people who have TVs in their garages. I don’t think we need all those TVs. When we were kids, we had one, and it had four channels. We would get bored watching the same four channels and we’d go outside.