Remember that my book of poetry is available online from Amazon and CreateSpace.com. In Omaha you can get a copy at The Bookworm in Countryside Village or at The Pizza Shoppe in Benson (where 100% of the proceeds go to the Benson Theatre Project!).
I have never really seen myself in the role of Great Sage or Oracle. I know too well the mistakes I’ve made in my life—those moments when my head seems to be in a different country from the rest of me and has taken common sense and sometimes morality with it. And I’m not even talking about those crazy “Hold my beer and watch this!” moments we all have in life. Despite this, I very frequently find myself asked for an opinion, even if not exactly advice, and too often I’m directly approached for advice on all sorts of issues. I not only have two grown sons but thousands of former students. I’m not in touch with all of them—the students—but plenty of them call, text, email, stop by. Inevitably the conversations get to some “Here’s my situation. What would you suggest?” In over forty years of teaching, those situations have run the gamut from bullies and girlfriend/boyfriend problems to sexual abuse, terminal illness, and death. So often I want to respond with a heartfelt and oh, so honest, “How the hell should I know??”
Truth be told, however, most of the time I am able to sympathize—even empathize—and help the truth seeker come to some course of action if not a solution. It’s the empathy that makes it work more often than not. I’ve been there; done that. Usually with a less than favorable conclusion myself: “Here’s what I did. Don’t do that.”
I’ve mentioned before (recently) that the people to whom I turned for advice are no longer with me. So much of my genetic/nurtured/geographic/generational influences seem to have kept me from adequately processing that, I think. I’ve made a few attempts to deal with it, but too often all I’ve done is hurt someone about whom I care deeply because I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling…because I don’t really know what I’m feeling. Typically (in so many ways) I hold things in. I’ve never really trusted “professional” therapists for some reason (probably part of the “typical”). At the same time, as a writer and many times a deep emotional well, I actually wear my heart on my sleeve. If I think about the words to the national anthem, for instance, and what they mean, and look at the flag and think about who and what it symbolizes, then I can’t sing the song. I get too choked up.
That bit of insight into my twisted psyche makes me worry about the advice people ask me to give them. Truly the worst for me is thinking that I’m setting a bad example for my sons. I don’t know who listens to them or even if they’re talking. I hope their good ladies provide the comfort and wisdom they need. I think they know that I am here if they need me, but will they tell me when they do? I hope so. Since we essentially share the same problems, you’d think we’d be our own therapy group. That’s more than likely our biggest stumbling block—we’re too much alike.
It’s good to have the friends I have. I know every one of them would help. I wish I could tell them how. I do know that all I have to do is ask. For those of you reading this who are in that illustrious group—Thank you, with all my heart. I hope all of you have someone there for you. If all else fails, call me. We can commiserate, at least.
On my way to the gym this morning over my usual route, I was taking my time and looking at the trees and flowers showing their spring attire. The speed bump in the main street was barely noticeable as I eased along, taking it all in. After a right turn I headed downhill, picking up a little speed, and forgot about the next one. I wasn’t really going very fast, but that rise in the pavement launched me up a bit and made me pay attention to where I was going and what I was doing before the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. I had to pay attention to the round about that was coming up. No traffic coming from either direction, so I accelerated around the turn and let momentum propel me on my way.
When I was several minutes into my jog on the treadmill at the gym a few minutes later, I thought back on my drive and how it is similar to how my life has been. Probably yours, too. Are you aware of the speed bumps and roundabouts in your life? Do you use them to your advantage, or are they merely nuisances and obstacles? It’s all in how you approach them, you know.
Like the first speed bump I encountered today, the things that slow you down in life can help remind you to take it easy and pay attention to the good things around you. Even if you’re looking around and enjoying the scenery, you still need to be aware of where you’re going and how you’re getting there. They can also be the changes in your road in life that you use to leap ahead or overcome the sameness that is making your path more a rut than your roadway to a better future.
Many people I know despise roundabouts. They view those circuitous routes as mere interruptions. Like speed bumps that make you slow down and pay attention to what you’re doing and where you’re going, roundabouts in particular make you look for other vehicles because you have to give the right-of-way to anyone in the circle ahead if you. Who’s there who will make you wait? Who’s there who will wave you ahead and speed you on your way or give you a helping hand? Do you use the centrifugal force of the curve to slingshot into the path you want? Are you needing a different direction, perhaps? There’s your chance! Don’t go the same way you’ve been going! Head off the other way. Do something new!
Whatever route you’re taking in your life, I hope you make the best of every circumstance with which you’re confronted. Detours are necessary sometimes. You may think they’ve just slowed you down or made you miss something important. Maybe. But just maybe each one is the opportunity you needed, the right excuse, to do something you truly needed to do…even if you didn’t know it at the time. Whatever comes your way, use it to your benefit. It’s your decision as to whether or not that speed bump is an impediment or the boost you needed. Go for it!
I grew up with heroes. They were all around me. Oh, sure. I read about Superman, Batman, Thor, Green Arrow, Submariner, Aquaman, The Flash, Captain America, Wonder Woman, and all the rest of those guys, and got to watch some of them on TV or at the movies. I have always been a big John Wayne fan, and Hopalong Cassidy, Zorro, and The Lone Ranger were Saturday morning favorites. My brothers and the neighbor kids and I would spend hours emulating their adventures, too. Even before it call came with “Do Not Try This at Home” warning labels, we knew better (OK, I jumped off the garage while wearing my cape). The thing is, we also knew that those were all actors or merely drawings. The real heroes that were our role models, however, lived in our house or close by or they were real people we knew.
Maybe it’s just the generation—Boomers!—or the fact that we simply knew the difference between truth and fiction, but I don’t think any of us ever doubted that in times of trouble, when we needed a hero, we could find one right there, coming home from work or doing the laundry. I had a hero who was the custodian at the county courthouse. Another who was the cook at the bus station. One hero drove a tank wagon for Standard Oil. A real mild-mannered hero made amazing chicken and noodles and dollar-sized (that’s a silver dollar to you young’uns) pancakes. Of course, the closest was the highway patrolman/minister/English teacher/college dean and his sidekick/secretary who wielded the thunderous Yardstick of Judgment.
Lots of others come to mind, too. Out in the country I could find a really stubborn hero who had lost the tops of his ears from frostbite at 40,000 feet above Germany and taught me how to stack hay bales. I spent some time with a debonair hero, a very sophisticated chap who ran a dry cleaning business. I realized many, many years later that a hero who had saved my hide in secret a few times had been one of my grandmother’s kindergarten teacher, and then I was one of her last high school English students the year she retired. I used to mow her lawn for a quarter and now and then she’d give me a jar of homemade grape jelly from the vines I trimmed for her.
As I sit here and think back over my life and the multitude of people who have influenced me in one way or another, I am amazed at the heroism I was fortunate to witness as all of these folk and so many others not only lived their lives but showed me how to live mine. This vague list is merely scratching the surface. Those who know me recognize my parents and grandparents, of course. I’ll name B.W. Nauman, Virg Watts, Mrs. Linville (like my own students I can’t call her by her first name even after she’s been gone so many years). I’d have multiple volumes if I tried to list everyone. Some are gone. Some are my age. Some are younger than I.
I doubt if any of them who come to my mind would accept the accolade of “hero” from me or anyone else, and they would never think of themselves in that way. I think that’s part of what makes their lives heroic. They go about their daily lives, living their “secret identities,” while all the while performing deeds of great strength of spirit, nobleness of heart, and virtuous idealism. With their examples as guides, I have been fortunate to find so many others around me. If you’ll look, I know you will find them. Don’t look for masks or capes or tights. That would give them away.
Now and then, take a good look in the mirror, too. Look closely. Behind that façade of everyday existence is a hero making a difference, even if you don’t know it. You don’t even have to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Share with someone, please!
 | shirleyeleanorj on “Citius, Altius, Fortius—Commu… |
 | Mark Sebring on “Friends Old and Young” |
 | drdancox on “Connections” |
 | Marie Davy on “Connections” |
 | Melissa Ratner on “Foul” |
| shirleyeleanorj on “Citius, Altius, Fortius—Commu… |
| Mark Sebring on “Friends Old and Young” |
| drdancox on “Connections” |
| Marie Davy on “Connections” |
| Melissa Ratner on “Foul” |
Howling at the Moon 
“Leader of the Pack”
In the pack everyone and everything is valued—the young, the old—they all have roles to play. The Alphas lead until they are no longer able, but they aren’t driven out but cared for until they’re gone. Those who leave are the young who need to start their own packs, usually because they know the territory will no longer sustain the numbers even when nature itself controls the birthrate and mortality.
It takes a trained eye and close observation to know where the pack is. They don’t leave much trace, just footprints, “extra” from kills that the scavengers themselves need to survive, and song. Their own role in the ecosystem is valuable to control the ruminant herds and the rodents—rabbits, voles, etc.—and that helps to control the size of litters for foxes and coyotes, even the size of flocks of vultures and raptors.
Wolves don’t make war on other packs or species. They don’t destroy their environment. They are true stewards of the earth and models of society. I wish we humans were more like them.
The moon is rising. Time to howl.
Remember to share. Either your friends will like this or your enemies will suffer for it.