One Resolution Blown to Hell

Well, my New Year's resolution to write six hours a week hasn't come even close to fruition. In fact, Since the end of January, I doubt I've averaged six minutes a week.

I've never really obsessed over getting older. I really don't feel much different than I did twenty years ago; aging so far has brought more positives than minuses.

But now, halfway through my fifties, I'm struck with how time is getting more precious, whether I have one year or forty left on this earth. I'm struck with how much living I've done inside my head, and not engaged with the world in the here and now.

My job takes me away from home, and when I'm away, I grieve over every lost hug, every laugh, every warm moment with my wife and son lost to those wanderings inside my head.

Writing is part of that world, that world inside my head. Sometimes I think it detracts from the riches of my life instead of adding to it. Before I can truly engage with writing as a life journey, I'll have to make peace with the feeling that it could be a detour away from what really matters.

I'm not a writer. I'm a guy who writes now and then.

Will that change? I don't know. I'll have to get back to you on that one.

The New Year

Another year in my life and yours.

River rafting strikes me as a metaphor for life: when you're negotiating the turbulent rapids, your attention is focused on what is to come. But then, in the calm stretches, you have the luxury of looking back and wondering about the meaning hidden in the calm behind you.

Gee. That was so profound, I just want to hurl.

Things change. I learned that a couple of high school classmates died. Some coworkers went to other helicopter operators. People I know moved away from our area.

I came back from two weeks away from home last time, and I wondered if someone slipped some sort of growth formula into my kid's food: he looked nearly as tall as Rhonda, who's five-seven. Sure enough, I put him up against the growth chart, and my eleven year-old son, Dylan, is now five-five. He's grown an inch and a half since September. I fear, with teenage years on the horizon, that we'll have to take out a second mortgage just to feed him.

I realize that my writing dwindled more and more, so I made a modest New Year's resolution: I will write for a minimum of six hours per week. Blogging, working on the anthology, grocery lists, whatever: if I have to set my alarm for an hour earlier a few times a week, I'll get those hours in. Six hours ain't much compared to what serious writers put in, but it would be a marked improvement in output for me.

Happy New Year to all my friends out there, and may the rapids in your life be just frequent enough to give you a renewed appreciation for the calm waters.

But, not so frequent that you wanna hurl.

Fun With Spam

It's been a good while since one of these emails snuck through the spam filter, so I thought I'd have a little fun with it.

Here's the email from, uh, "Mary."

Wow!

You are an exquisite looking man. So stunning. You captured my attention.

But then I imagine you have that affect on all women. Would you be interested in corresponding? If you would like to know more about me, please reply to my email.

Sincerely,

Mary

I couldn't just leave the poor gal hanging, so I promptly replied.

Dear Mary,

It's true: tall, middle-aged, somewhat overweight balding men such as me are often burdened by the need to fend off young, alluring women such as you.

That said, I do appreciate the accolade. I'll try to keep it in mind when I shave in the morning, when I'm prone to talk to myself: "Whoa man, what the hell happened to you?"

However, my wife is a passionate Italian woman who happens to be quite proficient with firearms. So, even if I were inclined to let the little Eskimo explore strange igloos, my strong sense of self-preservation would preclude such (mis)adventures.

I sincerely hope I've let you down gently. And please, quit skipping meals.

Regards,

Hal Johnson

Mixing

It's been a long time since I've thought of someone as "my bartender." I don't frequent taverns much nowadays, but for the last few months, on my break night before flying home, I've stayed at a hotel in New Orleans with a bar and restaurant I like.

The first night I met K as my bartender, I was talking to a British waterworks engineer who'd recently lost his wife. K mentioned that she'd lost her husband a few years ago to cancer. He was only in his forties.

The last time I saw K on the night before flying back home, the restaurant was busy, but the bar deserted. Being the nosy guy I am, I asked how she met her husband. She told me that they met during Mardi Gras, and started dating. She then told me how they came to be married.

"Marry me," she said to him.

"I don't want to get married," he said.

"Then I'm going back to California," she said.

"Okay then, I'll marry you," he said.

They were married for twenty-five years before cancer took him away. She followed the ambulance with her oldest son and daughter in the car. Her youngest son rode with his dad in the ambulance.

The dad looked at his son. "I'm not going home again. You know that, don't you?"

The youngest son couldn't accept such a proclamation. "Sure you will, Dad."

Silence.

The dad looked at his youngest again. "Your mom is the love of my life."

And indeed, the dad never went home again, although his message did make it back to the woman who would soon carry on as a single parent, making a living in a bar, pouring beer for nosy guys like me.