Wouldya? Couldya?

If I had it all to do over again, would I? Would you?

Take a look at your life--not just where you are today, but where you were in all of your yesterdays, and how they brought you to this point in your life. Is there anything you would change--and if so, how would that change affect the rest of your life?

I look back on what I have done over the years, who I have known, and all of the friends that I have made and lost in my life. What would I change?

Would I change moving to Texas in 1977 (a major crux in my life); would I change the breakup with my girlfriend that just sort-of happened just prior to that? Would I not move to Oshkosh in 1978, and all that happened because of that move?

Would I not meet and marry my first wife, and consequently not have my oldest daughter or my grandchildren? And because of that, would I not end up in Janesville with my second wife, and my two younger children?

Would I miss any of it if it had not happened? Would I know???

It would be interesting if we could spark up the old WhatIf machine, and just take a peek at our lives...but in the time that would take, we would use up our present lives just watching the past.

I guess that it's best to just live our lives, put the past to rest, and try to make the best of where we are today.

After all, we're the ones who got us here--even if we would wish otherwise.

And so it goes...

The Way I Was

Something about nostalgia makes me feel like a junkie who wants to quit, but keeps going back. What nostalgia does for me is something akin to what that junkie must feel: a need for it, but when you get it, it makes you wish you hadn't.

Nostalgia for me is a way of remembering my past. But hindsight has its bad points, too--like pointing out just how far back you can remember...and how much less you have ahead of you.

For me, it's a mixed thrill. I find that I keep going back to that well more and more all the time, even though I know that one day I will fall down that deep hole in the ground, and that's it--game over, end of story, finito.

And what will happen to my nostalgia when I'm no longer around to remember? Gone, like dust in the wind.

So why do I bother? Because someone has to. And it might as well be me.

Besides, if I share some of it with others, and they share it with others, etc., then a little bit of what I did might outlive me.

And that, my friend, is all the immortality we get.

Remember. Share those memories. Take pictures. GET THE WORD OUT!

You only get one trip around the block, so make it memorable.

And if I bring out a photo album or show you home movies when you come over, don't bitch at me--or I just might throw you out on your ass.

Wouldn't that make for a great memory? WHERE'S MY CAMERA???


And so it goes...

Whistle While You Work...and Talk...and Sleep...

I have tinnitus. For those of you who are not familiar with this condition, it is a hearing condition that can be brought on by a host of reasons; but the reasons are really unimportant. What is important is the symptoms.

In my case, the tinnitus causes a loud, whistling sound that seems to be in my left ear, but pervades the whole of my inner head (subjectively). For a better demonstration of what I go through 24 hours a day, take an old teapot--the kind that whistles when the water's boiling. Set it to boiling. When it is whistling at its best and loudest, put your left ear approximately a foot away from it. Hold it there until the water is gone and the whistling stops. Then repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Now, while you're doing this experiment, try to do something for which hearing is useful. Like watching television. Or holding a conversation.

After 8-10 hours of this, try to sleep with the teapot whistling near your ear. Make sure that someone is there to change the water every hour or thereabout, so that you can get the full effect of my tinnitus.

Now you know why I can't sleep. At least in part.

My wife says, "go see a doctor." I say, "whatever."

But you know (and I will deny ever having said this), this time she might just be right.

And so it goes...

Hours with My Eyes Closed

Today is Saturday. I have not slept since Tuesday past.

My mind races, and I desperately try to sleep, but something keeps me awake. I'd like to say that in its race, my mind is working on something amazing, but in reality, all I hear from my mind is the 'wahwah' of Charlie Brown's parents. Sound without meaning. Or maybe I just can't translate it.

Maybe that nasty wahwah is my brain's way of saying, "Get some sleep, idiot!"

I wish I could.

Today I will try again, with the help of some peace and quiet, a cup of Sleepytime tea, and a dose of full strength, drowsy-type Benadryl.

If I don't sleep soon, I may have to seek medical attention. After all, at my age and in my health, I'm a prime candidate for a heart attack or stroke if I don't get some rest. This old body can only keep going at this pace for a little while longer before I literally crash.

So...now I lay me down to sleep, I hope my rest is dark and deep...

And so it goes...

You Can Never Go Back...

I drove into the town of 3000 or so people, and the streets looked familiar to me, even though I hadn't been down them in nearly thirty years. Some things had changed, too; I wasn't sure what, at first, but then it struck me. While I had aged thirty years, the little town had aged, too.

The streets were still laid out like I remembered, but the faces had changed. Not the faces of the people, though if I'd seen anyone from the 'old days', I'm not sure that I would have recognized them. Rather, it was the face of the town that had changed. More worn and rundown than I recalled, with many of the once familiar signs changed to different names, different things.

Gone was Burn's Hardware. The sign on the Bridge Lounge was faded and nearly illegible, and I found out later that it had not been open in years. Where once a small, red pole barn sat on the site of the original Trek Bicycle works, now there were several huge warehouses, squatting like an ugly, cancerous blight in what had once been a neighborhood.

I drove past the house in which I had lived for a couple of years, and was dismayed to see the paint peeling on the drab remnant of what had once been a house filled with the town's history. Gone from in front of the house was the old coachstone that had borne the name of one of the town's founding fathers. Gone were many of the old trees that had once shaded the sidewalks and lent a homey atmosphere to the area. Gone was the feeling of neighborhood.

I drove around the town for as long as I could stand it--a mere fifteen or twenty minutes--but long enough to let me see most of the town. So much looked the same, yet so much had changed.

My old home town had the look of a woman who, in her youth, was pretty and bright and polished. But that young woman has long since come of age, and in her declining years she has lost what beauty that youth gave her, and in place of that shiny penny, all that is left now is a tarnished and dying husk.

They say that you can never go back. I guess, in the end, they're right. Memories make such attempts bittersweet at best; at its worst, nostalgia just makes us feel old.

And so it goes...