Ordinary People

If you do some digging around online or even in one of those book things, you realize that while Franklin Roosevelt was busy hiding his polio and cementing his status as one of our nation’s greatest presidents, wife Eleanor was equally busy generating lots of eventually famous quotes.

One of her more notable sayings is above. My dad used to tell me something similar, though at that age, I was more concerned with the lack of cable TV in his apartment than decoding what the saying meant. Years later, it’s pretty explanatory.

I’ve mostly been a glass-half-empty sort of guy throughout my life, so it shouldn’t be a shock that I usually fell into that third type of people category. As I’ve worked to move away from such a chronically negative outlook, I’ve been smacked with the realization of how well pessimism and talking about people go together.

You don’t need me to explain why people talk about others. It’s easy. It takes no real effort. It provides an illusion that you’re superior. I guess I did explain it. At any rate,  found myself in a situation today where people were unjustifiably criticizing people who (shockingly) were not present to defend themselves.

There are some contexts in which talking about others is necessary. Then there are those situations where it’s entertaining. And then still, there are those times where it’s just absolutely toxic.

The problem here is the difficulty in deciphering the often subtle differences among those situations. But as a recovering cynic, I can assure you this much: that third scenario is invariably tied to a source who is dissatisfied with their own life.

And that, my friends, is my wagging of the finger for the week.

Roundabout Lessons

There’s a timeless list of things your dad is supposed to teach you. The list varies, but entries such as shaving, riding a bike, and throwing a baseball are rarely omitted. My relationship with my dad was characterized by tension and an inability to connect most of the time.

During his life, he did cross out a few things on the aforementioned list. He bought me my first bike and taught me how to ride it in less than a day. Along with my brother, we built a kite and flew it. Actually, he and my brother built it, while I sat in a corner marveling over my new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Krang action figure. I have vague memories of him showing me the finer points of ridding yourself of facial hair without slashing your face to pieces. Even though I couldn’t have been older than eight and we used a razor with no blade, I drew from that experience when I finally had to shave for real many years later.

Most of the time, however, we were at odds. My mom was the reliable parent, while he was more prone to breeding disappointment. Spending time with him was often a chore. I just wanted to watch cable TV and loaf around with my wrestling action figures. He despised both and made no great secret of it.

He wasn’t like my friends’ dads. He was a free spirit. He was different. When you’re a youngster, that’s the absolute last thing you want your mom or dad to be. I was mortified when he’d strike up conversations with complete strangers. I was embarrassed that the music he played on his guitar, piano or accordion was all weird folksy stuff.

Though he had several legitimate shortcomings that weren’t exclusive perceptions because of my age, I’ve learned that the lessons your parents or guardians pass on to you are not always immediate nor direct. They can teach you to throw a baseball, count to 10, or ride a bike. But they can also indirectly teach you valuable lessons through their own poor behavior.

Maturity made realize that there are many aspects of my father that I could only appreciate with more years behind me. I’d embrace that free spirit personality, his desire to create music, or even his distinct way of dressing. But within these revelations have come knowledge. Knowledge that his genuine shortcomings and the impact they had on his life and of those around him were lessons in their own way.

His absence the last decade hasn’t caused me to edit out those flaws. Rather, I’ve used the good and the bad as guideposts in developing who I am and the man I want be. These lessons are not as by-the-book as learning to ride a bike. On the contrary, they’re more rooted in reality than a universal laundry list of father-son bonding activities. They’re unique. In retrospect of his life, that’s precisely the characteristic he would’ve wanted his lessons to carry.

4/12/2000

Do Not Adjust Your Monitors

The nifty “import blog” feature from WordPress allowed bandwagon jumpers like myself to back-end their WP blog with previous blogs from other venues. So while it creates the illusion that I’ve been meandering around WP for more than two years, it does make my “Oh man, I had to finally get a blog, too” post from 3.21.10 look out of place.

Not that I expect that post to be the last entry that creates an “out of place” aura. I have a knack for it.

Mr. Me Too

After some initial resistance, I’ve wised up and decided to hitch my wagon to the lucrative star of casual blogging. I’m aware that in doing so, I’ve metaphorically signed up for a lifestyle ample with easy money, exotic cuisines, beautiful women, and free Blockbuster rentals.

I want to assure all the people not reading this that none of these things will change me. The free rentals might a little, but the rest will just be part of the trade-off for being able to share my unsolicited thoughts about a range of topics, including “What I had for a snack this afternoon” or “Let me tell you how terrible my Chrysler Sebring is.”

It’s a heavy exchange, but as you can tell by the titles of these possible topics, I really have no other choice but to go through with the trade.