Sunday Scribble: I AM NO HERO!

Sunday Scribble:

I AM NO HERO!

Last week I shaved my head.  I even wrote about it here when I discussed wearing a kilt.  I thought I was brave for doing it and tried to make a big deal about wearing something that was completely different and not normal.  Wearing it brought me some fear and was able to get a lot of kids on board with shaving their heads.  But I’m no hero. 

I don’t say this to convince myself, knew it long ago.  I say this because I want to make sure that there is a clear delineation between what a hero is and what a hero isn’t.   Me shaving my head, wearing a kilt is good for the kids, shows lots of spirit and commitment to cause, and maybe even draws some more students into donating money or shaving their heads.  But I am not a hero. 

Working on the Sussex Tech Fashion Show has given me the opportunity to know some heroes.  A little background first.  For the second year in a row the Fashion Show is trying to raise money to put together the cemetery that is going up next to Sussex Tech.  Last year the Fashion Show and Sussex Tech raised $13,000.  This year we’re hoping to break that amount. 

However, my point still stands.  While I am no hero, the people who we are doing the Fashion Show for are heroes, and families of heroes.  I can think of nothing sadder than hearing a Gold Star mother tell me that she appreciates my efforts because she cannot drive the three hours to South Jersey, where her son is buried.  That bringing him up here to Sparta is her greatest hope and prayer.  It leaves you speechless, and if it doesn’t- well you just don’t get it.

I can never understand or know what these heroes and their families have gone through.  I can appreciate and respect it.  It’s a humbling feeling getting hugged by a man old enough to be my father, tears running down his cheeks.  He struggles to thank you for making it possible for his wife to visit him when he’s no longer here, that she won’t risk her life to drive so far in her declining health. 

Meeting wounded soldiers, so damaged from the foreign war and the one waged in them on a daily basis, when they can’t hold a job that pays more than $12 an hour; their families struggling to live on less than $25,000 a year, with veteran’s benefits. 

There is no substitute for courage, valor or the heart of love of country.   These brave men and women are more than just some forgotten statistic from some power struggle.  We fight wars for various reasons, and this is neither condemnation nor support for those reasons.  Instead, it’s just meant as support for those who fought it in our name, for the love of their country. 

Every day of my life I look up at my father’s flag in my office, it’s triangle box of wood a poor substitute for the mountain of my life he represented.  I wonder at how many other triangles are out there, not observed by a grown adult man who lost his father, but a child whose only way of remembering his father is that wooden triangle with the stars and stripes folded inside. 

I am no hero.  Are you?

I REMAIN UNCONQUERED! Invictus Maneo!

Invictus Maneo:

I REMAIN UNCONQUERED

Friday this week was St. Baldrick’s at where I work.  Our fundraising goal was set at $3000 for the event.  We’ve done more in the past, but this year I figured we’d start low and if we went over, even the better.  One of my ‘deals’ that I made with the students was that the top three students would get to shave my head, trim my goatee or dye my hair.  I also promised not to trim or cut my hair from Thanksgiving on. 

My female relations and friends protested this agreement, but as I explained to them.  Children who have cancer endure so much; we can all endure this obstacle.  So my hair grew.  It grew long and out of control.  It got to the point that I would comb my hair before I left for work only to have a completely disorganized mess by the time I got there.  My goatee made me look like a distant cousin of ZZ TOP or the Roberts Family.  But I endured these obstacles and would remind my friends, family and coworkers – Kids who have cancer suffer so much more….

One fateful day I was having a conversation with my good friend and fellow administrator Barbara Z.  I mentioned to her that I desperately wanted to wear a kilt for St. Baldrick’s.  We’ve bandied about the idea for some time, me talking about it wistfully, her and others with that hint of a knowing smile of – oh yeah, that WOULD be crazy!  Looking on-line one day I found a website that would make my size and it would look awesome!  However, the cost was easily in the $300 range – immediately it was out of range for me.  And then Barbara made her mistake.  She offered to make one for me.  She was hooked!  There was no going back now. 

I mentioned my plans to those who know me and immediately they cringed with fear.  “No, please tell me you’re not.”  But we were committed. 

A trip to Wally World with Barbara and her daughter Amanda and we had selected the fabric and the assorted odds and ends for the sash and kilt.  We were on our way.  Barbara said it took her seven hours to do it – I’m willing to believe that it was longer than that – closer to 10 at least.  So Thursday before the event rolled around and I brought the finished kilt home.  Before I went to bed I put everything on, the socks, shoes, kilt, shirt, sporran and pins.  I saw what I looked like.  Yep, that was a kilt! 

The fabric for the kilt wasn’t some traditional tartan.  Yes, my family can trace a legacy back to the homeland; but no – This was not my family tartan.  The fabric was a pattern based on IRON MAN!  It had a pair of Iron Man suits flying in a blue field of comic.  It wrapped around my waist and fit perfectly.  The Velcro held it tight against me, the belt loops painstakingly stitched on and the pleats fitted to the right spots on the kilt all worked to make me look like – well an IRON MAN Highlander! 

The next morning I was determined to go to school like this.  I put everything on, got dressed and there I was.  And suddenly I had cold feet. 

Me wearing my Iron Man
Kilt and hair teased out!

People would laugh at me.  I was sure of that.  I hadn’t even bothered to comb my hair, Kim G. who was going to tease my hair out said it would be better if I didn’t wash it – so it was a disorganized bed head mess  (I did wet it a bit because it didn’t feel right not to.)  I would look like an idiot and the laughing would make me feel embarrassed.  I thought of all the silly things I had done – this was right up there.  I usually don’t care about my self-image.  I’m overweight and not Mr. Handsome – but I am me and usually I just don’t care as long as I’m suited nicely – well this was different than having a nice suit on. 

I tried to remind myself that refrain from before – Children who have cancer go through so much more.  It wasn’t enough to dispel all the butterflies, but it was enough to get me out the door or at least headed towards it. 

I was driving to school that morning, and the butterflies returned in full force.  Sitting in the truck as we drove down my dirt road and then out onto the connecting roads I wanted to turn around.  Every morning I stop to get my breakfast.  I order the same thing every day from the same place and yes I am a creature of habit – but so was Einstein and my rocket scientist father – so it’s a sign of genius – thank you!  

But today I WAS NERVOUS.  They would laugh at me; people there would laugh at me.  I would be a laughingstock. 

And I thought about kilts in general.   They have a strong tradition.  They were used by those of the Scottish Highlands to represent their families and clans.  To wear them was to honor them.  In many circumstances the kilts were worn to battle to defend their families and traditions.   At one point in the history of the kilt, they were banned from use because the British government tried to suppress the highland culture.  The kilt was associated with fighting to protect the clan and the culture of their people.

Strangely, it filled me with purpose.  That’s what I was doing now.  Fighting cancer in the way that I could, revving up my students and co-workers to help fight cancer.  And YES WE DID!  Early counting shows that we nearly doubled our original effort.    My trepidation from the morning was gone.  I did not give in to my fear and got my breakfast wearing my kilt – and YES I was asked and then I told them why I was wearing it.  I showed up at the school and every student stopped and stared as I passed their classroom throughout the morning.  But I wasn’t worried anymore – I was energized

Later, while I was walking around the gym, my hair half shaved off- the rest teased up and painted pink, yellow and green.  I was a walking advertisement to enlist others.  Three students volunteered and got permission from their parents.  The school cheered on everyone who did it.  I had to convince my principal to not shave her head because one of us had to appear to be sane – and from my hairdo before and after I was clearly the crazy one!   

I REMAIN UNCONQUERED

!  Invictus Maneo!

The FALL - The Final Part

The FALL

Final Part

And then that last image replayed itself again.  Clarice hadn’t moved to catch me nor had she acted surprised as I crashed into the water.  And then I remembered.  Randall’s other hand had been cupping my wife’s fanny.  My best friend, the man who I entrusted with so many pieces of my life, was holding firmly and decidedly onto my wife’s rear end.

Clarice, my loving wife, held something in her hand.  What was that in my wife’s hand?  The image within my head focused on something white which her hand wrapped around, like a ball, its whiteness marred by a fresh mark of redness which marked its round image. It was the cue ball from the pool table on one of the lower decks of my yacht.  We had spent hours playing pool as my yacht wandered the world, Randall would often play pool till late at night with Clarice while I slept.  Or if I was getting ready for a webcast from my office on the yacht I would often here the two of them banging away at the balls on the deck below mine. But looking at the image now I knew instantly what the red substance was, it was my blood. 

The whiteness of the ball intensified, hiding the blood.  The whiteness turned into a bright light, I could feel myself fading.  My arms and legs moved automatically, trying to get to that light, my instincts the only thing giving power to my limbs.  I knew what that light represented; the freedom from the betrayal that I felt in my heart.  It would be a warm embrace, welcoming and refreshing for the betrayal that I felt in my heart. 

She had hit me on the head.  How could she have done that?   She had tried to kill me, and now she would succeed. My wife and best friend had betrayed me and now I was doomed and free.   Doomed because I was a dead man, but free of her and Randall’s treacherous behavior.  Free to live in Heaven, away from the evil that had penetrated my house.  My poor mother, she was right.  It was true, mothers were always right.

My hand reached out for the light.  With my last bit of strength I reached out towards the light, embracing the freedom and doom.  I felt the Angel of Death grab my hand and pull me towards the light.  I was finally going to be released from this prison.

My head crested above the surface of the water. I took in a breath of fresh air, and began to cough.

“I got him, Detective,” a voice said as I felt strong male hands grab me from under my arms. “He’ll live.”  With a sudden pull I was yanked from the water, coughing and hacking up my insides.  I was on my knees and palms, water cascading down from my body as I began to feel the hot summer sun shine down on me.  And life. 

But what life would it be without Clarice, and knowing that the two people I trusted the most had betrayed me and almost gotten away for it.  Looking around I could see the nearby piers stretching back towards the land.  My yacht had docked the night before, snugged in behind some of the large cruisers along Miami Harbor.    The Passport Office sat higher than the rest of the piers, surround by the palm trees decorating the dock areas.   Behind me West Island Park blocked the horizon, giving me a view of the park.  My yacht sat on the edge of the pier, the perfect spot for me to be dumped into the water.  The bulk of the yacht hid their plotted murder scene from the shore and the lack of traffic during this early in the day prevented any possible witnesses.

“How?” I struggled to get out as I continued to cough and hack at the water still within me.  “How did you know?”  More coughing caused me to spit.

“Seems your mama must have heard them talking about it,”  The one officer said as he put the handcuffs onto Clarice.  “Seems this one has some type of liking to talking dirty on the phone and left a rather detailed message on your mama’s answering machine when she butt called her yesterday.” 

“Yeah,” said a third officer as he handcuffed Randall.  “They were doing A LOT of talking,”  the officer winked.  “If you know what I mean?” 

“Can it rockie.” The first officer said. “Seems it was a turn on to off ya,” the first officer said as he patted me on my back. “Sorry buddy, but at least your mama reached out to us and somebody down at the station finally believed her.”

“More like they got tired of her screaming and threatening them over the phone,”  the officer who had handcuffed Clarice said. 

“Nothing worse than an irate mom,” The first officer said as he helped me to sit along the lounge chair on the forward deck.  “She said she would do things to the Desk Sargent that I haven’t heard a longshoreman say to his worst enemy.”  

Sunday Scribble: COMMITMENT to a Cause!

Sunday Scribble

Commitment to a Cause!

A brief trip....

The other day I was driving along and wondering when the next story idea was going to hit me.  And then it did.  I find it funny sometimes how the simplest thing can hit me as a story idea.  Of course it helps I have no specific genre that I haunt around, although the closest one would probably be science fiction, but there's almost an equal push towards simple fiction or what some nose in the sky people might call literary fiction.  

That puts me in an unenviable position of having to make some tough choices when it comes to time management.  For example;  right now I am sitting on a number of potential literary fiction stories because I am working on my latest sci-fi epic story (one of two that I am working on btw)  Which puts me at odds with the three or four stories that are fiction that I haven't been able to work on so far, but have been sitting in the back corner of my 'pile of stuff' to write about.  

Of course, all this vies for time in my busy work day.  Helping out with the Fashion Show, holding down a full time job and of course keeping the family happy, makes for a full full full time lifestyle.  Let's not forget that the work week is a finite resource and that sleeping is more myth on some days then reality.  Throughout this we find ourselves looking for power days.

Power days can be defined as those days when everything seems to come due, or when the big appointments are happening.  I found out recently that I seem to be building a power week in this last week of March. 

During this week I have a meeting in which I have to be very professional, help out with two presentations and present to my peers a front of someone who not only is a solid professional but someone who knows their profession - education.  I'm also getting my head shaved - oh and painted.  

For the last six months(plus) I have been letting my hair grow and grow and grow, much to the consternation of family and friends - last week I was referenced as Sasquatch due the massive amount of untamed hair on my head and face - oh yeah, I forgot to mention the goatee that has now reached almost three inches in length.  

I promised my students earlier this year that they would be able to dye my hair the week of the shaving for St. Baldrick's day (see www.stbaldricks.org).  But St. Baldrick's is happening on Friday of that week and the hair dying is on Wednesday, the same day as my very professional meeting.  

For those of you who are unfamiliar with St. Baldrick's it is an organization that helps to fight childhood cancer.  Across the nation there are a number of organizations and groups that set out to raise money by organizing head shaving events for two reasons, to raise money and to de-stigmatize those kids who have to fight childhood cancer and may also be loose their hair. At the end of every fundraising year the organization puts out a complete list of what money was raised and where it went; very transparent and very open.  They are ranked very high in the percentage of money raised going to their mission as very little is used as 'administrative' costs - an easy way for many charities to raise money for the benefit of those raising the money.  St. Baldrick's is not like that at all. 

Those of you who know me, or can figure out what kind of person I am know that I plan on not even HESITATING about dying my hair, and then going to the professional meeting.  It's just not in my DNA to postpone that, nor is it to shirk my responsibilities to help fighting Childhood Cancer.  I have no problem looking the fool if it means I might be able to give another child a day with their parents.  It's worth all the laughing, silly comments I may get.  This is my commitment.  

What's yours?