The Un-Secret Life of a Hero

I just finished reading the short-story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” by James Thurber.  (http://www.all-story.com/issues.cgi?action=show_story&story_id=100.)  The last time I read it, I was a sophomore in High School.  Reading about Walter Mitty’s imagination back then caught my interest immediately.  It was a fun, relatable story for me.  I remember the joy of a mental escape that my own imagination provided.  As a young high school kid, there were countless dragons I slayed, helpless women and children I rescued, and, of course, my recurring success at keeping civilization at bay from all the havoc, mayhem, and … well, just really bad stuff.

Even now, I can fall into my daydreaming, hero world with ease.  I mean, with a career as a coffee drinking, nerdy accountant and possessing virtually no handy-man skills, it can make for an appealing, even necessary, escape for me.  Like when I thoughtfully offer to fly my wife, Carrie, into work using my stealth helicopter so she can avoid traffic … or was it using my jet pack … or perhaps it was offering to beam her up ala Star Trek style.  Yeah, I think I like that last one best.

With that said, I would never trade my life experiences for all that Star Trek space travel stuff and going where no man has gone before.  I’ll take the ordinary, the mundane, and the phenomenal experiences that come with participating and engaging in real life events.

I cherish the ordinary memory I have of sitting with Carrie in our lawn chairs and watching our kids play soccer in the pouring rain.

§  I wonder if we were real life heroes to our kids for being there.

I absolutely love the mundane morning I spent with Carrie on our back deck drinking coffee, talking, and being together.

§  I wonder if we were real life heroes to each other for being there.

I anticipate all the phenomenal experiences I’ll have doing nothing, doing something, and doing everyday things with others.

§  I wonder if I’ll be someone’s real life hero for being there.

Sure, I’ll still climb the Himalayas to rescue the stranded hikers and I’ll personally administer the antidote to that small tribe in Africa, but I’ll also smile, open doors for others, listen, be a friend, and seek ways to encourage people.

Do you ever wonder if all those simple and ordinary life events you experience can be life changing events for others?  Look for opportunities to be an everyday hero to your waitress, your co-worker, and your family.  And you too just might save the world … one boring day at a time.

Eyebrow Hair Happens

I had to remind Carrie of the contract she entered into almost 27 years ago.  Come on, you know the contract.  It was the one with the sickness, health, richer, or poorer stuff in it … yeah, that one.  I’m so glad I had the foresight, in the summer of 1986, to include language requiring her to accept me even though I may one day have a hideously long, slightly grey eyebrow hair that protrudes vigorously and obscenely from my balding forehead.  Have a mental picture yet?  Well, that rogue eyebrow hair language was clearly woven into our deal ... our contract.  It was right there with the ‘til death do us part clause, yet somehow, my wife Carrie, forgot.  I know, I know … yes, it’s a huge oops on her part.  It’s gotta be quite embarrassing for her that she would forget that phrase... I mean, it was a part of our wedding day vows and all.

This morning, however, I willingly chose to rise above the controversy and not dwell on it ... at least very much.  I relinquished my rights, per the 1986 contract, and went ahead and clipped my lone, grotesque eyebrow hair.  And I was even able to forgive Carrie for her curious lapse in memory … yes, quite curious indeed.

I know talking about eyebrow hair is a strange topic for some … well, I guess the topic is strange for all now that I think about it.  But what I am about to share with you is even more strange.  It does not make sense.  Now please pay attention here … I’ve found that somehow, through all these years, Carrie still chooses to be there for me, supporting me, and loving me ... with or without my unsightly eyebrow hair.  Yes, it is strange, but true.  I’ve seen it.  I’ve lived it.  And I honor it and I cherish it.  I am grateful for her love that doesn’t always make sense.

Each day we can choose to cherish life’s small and seemingly insignificant events, like my unexpected eyebrow hair growth.  Whoa, that’s right … I just said you can cherish eyebrow hair growth.  We can choose to love one another regardless of eyebrow hair length, the way we squeeze the toothpaste, the way we forget to take out the garbage, make the bed, or feed the animals.  You get it, right?  It’s all a part of your lifelong journey together.  Embrace it, live it, talk about it, find ways to improve it, and find a way to laugh about it … together.  You can do this.

 May your fairy-tale marriage experience be a happily-ever-after life … just like ours … with or without the unsightly eyebrow hair.

Enjoy life's journey.  And journey together... it's more fun that way.

They Accepted Me As One Of Their Own

I showered and shaved like it was just another day.  I wore no disguise.  I wasn’t hiding from anyone or anything.  Shoot, it wasn’t like I was going in undercover to observe them.  I had that “here I am” approach, or rather, it was more like an attitude than an approach.  I planned to show up at the event as my nerdy, corporate, accountant self … well, minus my comfortable neck-tie, argyle socks, and handy pocket protector.  I was awake this early Saturday morning to celebrate Earth day.  And my wife decided we were going to celebrate it … outside … together … digging in that stuff called dirt.  (Uh, wait … please edit that last sentence to read, “And my wife and I decided we … blah, blah, blah.  I almost forgot that we decided to do this Earth Day thingy together)

Anyway, Carrie said we could go cure global warming in a day by getting out of the house and volunteering to help plant some trees with a non-profit group called, “Friends of Trees”.  Whoa!  Yes, you read that correctly.  The for-profit, corporate business snob (who also happens to be slightly overweight with a hint of grey hair) was about to get his white tennis shoes and silky-soft hands dirty while planting a few trees ... in all that dirty dirt that he read about in a magazine once.

I was going deep into the wilds of the environmentalism movement.  I was going to observe the rare tree-hugging environmentalists, in their natural habitat, planting trees, … on Earth Day.  And to my pleasant surprise, soon, they would take me in and accept me as one of their own.

We gathered with the Friends of Trees crowd at a public park in Portland, Oregon.  Before we got started with all that saving the earth stuff, we socialized while enjoying the complimentary organic coffee, organic granola bars, and what looked to be various tree bark fragments.  Have you ever tasted tree bark fragments?  Me neither.

They divided us into four groups.  Each group had the day’s necessary equipment laid out in a pile.  The pile contained several shovels, rakes, tree stakes, rope ties, hand held pruners, a broom, a metal stake driver, and a large plastic bucket.  Sure sounded like we had everything, but wait … where were all the chains we’d need to lock ourselves up to trees?  Evidently, this earth day event would not involve any protests.  A bit of a disappointment, but it did not take away from all that Earthy-ness enthusiasm that was in the air.

Our leader asked each person to take a few of the equipment items with them to our tree planting and tree hugging site that was several blocks away.  It seemed, however, that all the other participants arrived by either walking, riding their bikes, or driving their Toyota Priest.  I saw my opportunity to contribute and seized it with force.  I boldly raised my hand and offered my truck as a way to transport the equipment.

What I said was, “I brought my truck and we can use it to load the equipment”.

What the mob heard was, “I brought my gas guzzling, four-wheel drive, over-sized Monster Truck that hates the planet and all the living creatures that inhabit it … and we can use it to load the equipment”.

The horrified crowd hesitated at first, yet soon began loading the back of my truck with equipment.  In addition to the equipment, I found two long-haired, bearded college kids were loaded up back there.  They were active members in the environmental club at their school and chose to load themselves in my evil, earth scorching truck.  Although not chained to my truck, they refused to move ... and it looked like they’d been refusing to shower for a few days too.  It was fascinating.  It was sort of like viewing my first protest.

Upon arriving at the site, I grabbed a shovel as my weapon of choice.  I used it to lean on and assess the daunting task ahead.  And there was much leaning and assessing to do.  Besides, I don't think people would appreciate this middle aged, slightly overweight guy bending over and exposing more of his pasty white back-side then our God intended.  So, while remaining upright and with a somewhat focused determination, I began to dig up the defenseless dirt and create a hole.  The pattern began.  I kept moving to new locations digging up more dirt and created more holes.  My teammates would follow, making sure that a young tree would find a new home in my freshly created void.  That’s what I did, again and again and again.  Move dirt.  Dig hole.  Clearly, this truck driving, accountant, and dare I say environmentalist was on fire ... or moving in a rapid fashion anyway.

The hours seemed like a minute.  Soon, the tree planting project was completed.  We all stepped back as a team and saw a line of freshly planted trees.  We were all proud of our work and rewarded ourselves with smiles, fist bumps, and leftover granola bars.  Obviously, the tree bark fragments were swallowed up too quickly this morning and sadly, there were no leftovers.  But I noticed when our team gathered this time; we all broke our granola bars together.  I ate my granola bars with them and they ate their granola bars with me.  We came together as a smiling, fist-bumping, and granola eating team.  We came together as friends.  And together, we made our Earth a little better this Earth Day.

With our differences and similarities, the environmentalist crowd took me in and accepted me as one of their own.  What just happened here?  Have I found myself a proud, granola eating environmentalist?  Perhaps, but please don’t tell anyone just yet.  I may have overstated that proud part a couple of sentences back.  It's all so overwhelming and I think I may need a little more time for this concept to sink in.

My life may have changed a bit after this Earth Day.  Oh, I still choose to shower and shave daily … that part will never change.  And it’s important to understand that I liked trees then and I like trees now.  It’s just that … well, I guess I have a heightened awareness and appreciation for our environment.

And I’m not afraid to eat a granola bar or hug a tree now and then … but only when nobody’s watching.

OK … that’s it.  Confession’s over people.  Move along now.  There’s nothing to see here.

A Scary Display of Conflict Resolution

** FINE PRINT WARNING:  The following brief essay has been known to create unwanted and lingering mental images for some … well, most readers.  Some readers may consider the following discussion juvenile or immature.  (I know, weird, huh?)  But just read it anyway.  **

I’m not sure what’s over there in my neighbor’s yard.  It’s big, it’s certainly hairy, and it’s no doubt dangerous.  Their pet is probably best described as a cross-breed Black Bear and Sasquatch with a touch of meaner than a junk yard dog.  Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the obvious signs of ware-wolf DNA … you know, so there’s that.  (OK, maybe the DNA part is exaggerated, but I’ve seen enough ware-wolf documentaries to know ware-wolf traits when I see ‘em.  I mean come on now … can’t anyone?)

With my nose firmly pressed against our living room window, I've seen Bob’s Red Meat home delivery truck dropping off at least a pallet of … well, red meat I suppose.  But that delivery only arrives once a week and that delivery is woefully inadequate.  How do I know this?  Because of the significant decline in furry, adorable, and harmless bunny rabbits that used to frolic carefree in our neighborhood … just sayin’.

And finally, now listen up here, you know Sam, our local dog catcher?  Well, it seems he came into our neighborhood last month and … well, let’s just say the investigation into his strange disappearance is still ongoing.  Do the math yourself.

I vividly remember that cold winter day when my up-close and personal encounter with the hairy beast happened.  It was only last week when I opened my front door and saw our adopted child GONE in a flash.  It happened quickly as her four legs moved her further and further away from me.  Our sweet, innocent Cocker-Spaniel puppy left our sanctuary and ran directly toward the danger of our neighbor’s house … yes, we’re talking the hairy danger.  I could not stop her.  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  BARK!  The barking of both animals filled the air with a deafening and horrifying sound.  It was a haunting sound like none I have ever heard before … nor ever wish to hear again.  I found myself resolved, however, to do what I must do.  With disregard for self, I went into the danger zone and met eye to eye with the hairy beast.

 =============

Easy now readers.  Please take a slow, deep breath.  Let’s all pause for a moment at this frightening yet true story and discuss some well-known facts of nature.  Skunks, porcupines, and overweight middle aged men.  Each may appear non-threatening on the surface.  At times they may even appear fluffy, cuddly, or approachable.  That is, until they are threatened.

We all know of skunks and porcupines and their natural defenses, but allow me to continue as I share how my God given, middle aged large-ness saved my dog, my city, and most likely … the world.

 =============

Without even thinking, I placed myself in harm’s way.  I found myself directly between my dog and that … large, fierce, hairy beast.  I took a vulnerable position of turning my back on the imminent danger to stoop down and somehow managed to snatch up my puppy.  I embraced her in the safety of my arms.  While still crouching down, I held her tightly against my chest and shielded her as I awaited my fate.

A strange silence suddenly overcame the brisk morning air.  Wait, silence?  Calm?  And more importantly, why was I still alive?  What just happened here?

Seconds later, while still hunched over, a chilling breeze passed over the backside of my body … specifically, in an area just south of my waistline.  I slowly turned my head around to see the hairy beast cowering in fear on my neighbor’s front porch.  Could it be that I was able to do something that no physically fit 20 or 30 year old could do?  Was it the sheer girth and pale skinned display of my overweight, middle aged physique that repelled the threat of that beast?

Slowly, I arose victorious from my crouched position.  Although I was still holding my pink collared Cocker-Spaniel, I now held her with only my right arm firmly clutching her as if she was a leather football.  Of course, I remembered not to spike her as if she was a leather football.  With pride at that very moment, I realized that even an overweight and middle aged man can be called upon to save the world.

Wait, are you threatening me?  ‘Cause I’ll use my conflict resolution skills on you right now ... and don’t think I won’t.

Note? What note?

Twenty-six years of marriage bliss.  So much bliss that I've been known to make up rhymes like, "She's so cool she makes me drool" and "I love my life with my wife" ... I could probably keep going, but you get the idea.  This sorta romantic stuff just oozes out of me.  For guys, I think the creative expression of these or similar knee bucking poems, combined with a fairly consistent pattern of lowering the toilet seat when finished, can only help to cultivate a long marriage.  You see, it's building a foundation with a balance of words and action.

Knowing some of this neat-o stuff abut me, I ask then ... why, when I saw my mother-in-law last weekend, did she attempt to undermine the happily-ever-after dream marriage of her daughter?  For twenty-six years, we've received thoughtful wedding anniversary cards, Merry Christmas cards, and a stockpile of birthdays cards.  These greeting card communications from the in-laws led me to believe that ... well, that I was an acceptable enough selection for their beautiful daughter.  And that acceptance was in writing.  It left no doubt that I had my mother-in-law's blessing.

That is, until the dreaded note that was delivered last weekend ...

When my mother-in-law was performing a modern-day makeover of Carrie's old room, a 7th grade handwritten letter from one of Carrie's old boyfriends was found (Rats, and I was certain  that I burned them all).  For some reason, my mother-in-law decided she needed to return this good for only toilet paper document to my wife.  What?  Did this once pimple faced, Junior High punk just get paroled or something and he's recently single?  I mean come on now; of course that loser is still single, but was it really necessary to deliver to Carrie his poorly written, spelling error prone letter where he was attempting to win over her 7th grade affection?  And today, he's no doubt shower-less and living under a bridge somewhere.  He's a LOSER!  LOSER!  LOSER!

All kidding aside, the above is presented as extreme and is certainly not based in reality.  Yes, there was a note from an old flame delivered, but what is also true is that Carrie and I remain secure in our healthy marriage.  We can't help but grow more and more in love with each other every day.  And to set the record straight, I continue to get along just fine with my in-laws.  We had a fun time laughing and joking about this preposterous undermining scenario.  It was all very funny.  But he's still a LOSER!  ha!  Got you ... just kidding again.

Seriously though, you know what else?  if I can find that note (it got misplaced somewhere in our house), I'd be glad to show it to you.  It's really not a big deal ... and it's just silly to pretend that it's anything more than just an old piece of paper with some meaningless words on it.  That's all.  Besides, it didn't even have any rhyming words in it ... weak.

Soon after Carrie's parents left, we relaxed together and enjoyed our first wood burning fire of the season.  I'm not sure why, but seeing that fire transfer all the wood and paper products into an unrecognizable heap of ash ... so effortlessly, brought me inexplicable happiness.

And all is well in the world now.

Note?  What note?  Not sure what you're talking about.

Confessions of an Idiot

Dear Private Journal,

I did a stupid thing last night. You see, I’ve always been aware of my idiot-ness, but I’ve tried to keep it pretty close to the vest ... and I’ve been somewhat successful at it I might add. But last night, I fear that the world may soon know what my older brothers and sister have told me since birth … that I am an idiot (Fact: All youngest birth order children receive this unbiased assessment from their older siblings). I tell you for sure, it’ll start with my neighbors and then my idiot-ness legend is destined to go viral throughout the world. So, the days of my being an anonymous idiot are indeed numbered. It’s over, private journal. It’s over.

Although difficult to write, here’s how the tragic events of yesterday unfolded. I left work early because I wanted to talk with the road construction crew that was swarming our neighborhood. They were sealing the asphalt of our mile long private drive. I parked my car at the top of the hill and walked the long mile down to our house. I could not help but notice that their work was progressing quite well and that it all looked good ... really good. After our brief chat, these professionals counseled me to stay off the asphalt sealant. Excellent advice that I noted and would abide by, but I did have a simple follow up question. I had plans to go out later that night so I asked the pros if I could walk on the freshly laid sealant at that later time. They seemed overly cheerful as they granted me permission for my walk and then proceeded to pat me on the back. Friendly workers, yet in hindsight, I truly believe that this is how the “Kick Me” sign ended up on my back. That sort of stuff happens to me all the time.

My noble plan was to escort my wife down the hill when she got off of work at 10:00 PM. Sounds good, right? I figured we could enjoy a moonlight stroll together. I envisioned that we would descend the mile journey hand in hand, still in love after 26 years of marriage … and, of course, pausing from time to time for a romantic smooch or two. So, at 9:45, I grabbed a flashlight and headed out the door in all my nerdy, yet sexy accountant-ness. My pace was a bit slow as I soon noticed that my flip-flops wanted to remain on the fresh sealant surface instead of following the commands of my feet. It was getting worse. I began to wonder if those construction dudes had set me up. I got off the road where I could, but there were several stretches that would not allow relief. Onward I traveled to rescue my wife. I would not give up. I was comforted knowing that I could easily follow my footprints home should we become disoriented in the harsh 70 degree weather and clear night sky.

The damage of my wake was bad. I left one set of footprints going up the hill, and we had two sets of footprints going down the hill. I am so embarrassed. The only thing I did not do was to lie flat on my back and create a beautiful tar angel … ok, I sorta regret not doing that actually. (Yet I wonder if my neighbors will conspire together in mob like fashion to tar and feather me in tribute to my angelic actions. Let’s see here … tar angel / tar and feather … although similar, both are decidedly different.)

My fate awaits me as I write this private journal. I’m resigned to the fact that the end may be very near. In my recent Craig’s List search, I was unable to locate a viable time machine on such short notice. If I am reported as missing in the coming days, my only hope is that someone, someway and somehow, will discover this private journal and provide it to the local authorities. (Note to local authorities: You still have to find me even though I’m an idiot. It’s your job so stop reading this and find me!) Well, should my remaining time on earth come to an abrupt end and I have that glorious opportunity to meet all those for-real winged Angels in the sky, at least I will have left behind a part of me as a permanent reminder that Kevin Monroe was here.

He left his mark for all to see.  A left and a right mark ... and it’s a manly size 9.

Left, right, left, right, left …

Was a Good Friend of Mine

“Joy to the world” is a song also popularly known by its opening words, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog”.  The song, which has been described by members of Three Dog Night as a “kid’s song” and a “silly song”, topped the main singles charts in North America, was certified gold by the RIAA, and has since been covered by multiple artists.  It was Billboard Hot 100 number-one single for six weeks in 1971.  Wikipedia (must be true)

======================

I don’t use the land line at the house.  Haven’t for years.  The land line seems to exist only to capture those inconsequential solicitation messages from annoying call centers.  I just wish the calls were at least interesting ... sorta like my junk e-mails where I inherit millions of dollars every day from African relatives that I never knew I had.  Those annoying phone messages tend to consume my time as I listen to voices droning on while they read their annoying, well-rehearsed sales scripts in either a depressing, monotone voice or the extereme caffeine voice.  It’s all very annoying … have I said that yet?  Well, not enough times for sure.  I am willing to take the bullet for our family by being the one who does the message listening and erasing … all the while asking myself to recurring question of, “Why do I continue to pay a monthly bill for this joy?”  Clearly, I’m twice tortured.  Next month I’m gonna cancel the land line … no, really, this time I will.  (Next month never seems to come.)

Last week the pattern changed.  A different sounding voice was on the recorder.  Could it be my African relative?  No, it was not.  Although I was disappointed at first, it was much better than inheriting millions and millions of dollars ... I guess.  You see, I was listening to a voice from the past … way, way back, as in 1975.  And in 1975, that voice was from a fellow ten year old buddy of mine.  Of course his voice sounded unfamiliar on the recorder.  I’m just glad that my own voice sounds the same as it did when I was a ten year old.  I know this because when I was around three years old, my adolescent voice changed to the hairy-chested tone that you are all familiar with today.  I’m really not sure what a hairy-chested tone is, but it sure sounds manly.  (Beg your pardon?  Why yes, I have always been this manly … and hairy.)  So, the voice I heard on our recorder was not a polished sales pitch, but more of an impromptu stammering from a stranger inquiring if I was the Kevin Monroe that used to reside in Antioch, California.  I quickly tried to think of all the kids I borrowed lunch money from and failed to repay.  Whoa, that list was way too long.  He then provided the clue I needed … his name and his cell number.  He did not offer a land line.  I was really intrigued now.

I definitely knew his name when he said it and was relieved that I didn’t owe him any money.  The following day we talked on the phone … uh, our cell phones that is.  (As you are well aware, people in their 40’s are always so in tune with the latest technology.)   He said that what prompted him to call me was that he was reminiscing about his youth and recalled a time when we were sitting on the school bus together singing Three Dog Night’s, “Joy to the World.”  To this day, I think anytime I choose to sing in public, it marks a memorable event in people’s lives … not sure why.  That memory set the stage for our private, two-person Mission Elementary School Reunion.  We had a great time reliving memories and catching up on our missing 36 years.  I think Russell from the movie UP summed up our memory lane trip when Russell said, “I know this may seem boring, but I think the boring stuff is what I remember the most.”

Now I find myself trying to figure out if my recent phone call from “the friend from season’s past” was a friendship that was cherished and that the silly singing just happened to be part of it … or, could it be that my rendition of “Joy to the World” was the critical element to retaining our friendship memory all these years?  I’m not sure, so in an abundance of caution, and not wanting to risk any friendship memory lapse, I hereby pledge to relentlessly build existing friendships and passionately seek new ones.  Sounds good so far, right?  But also, I promise to tirelessly pursue you in an uncomfortable, boarder-line stalking manner.  When I catch you, I will bellow out the soothing words of “Joy to the World” directly at you.  Our friendship is just too important not to do this.  I hope you understand.  I’m coming after you.

The good news is … I will find you.  After I belt out the first few words of the song, the memory of our friendship will be indelibly lodged in your head in such a way that it will never escape.  Oh, and I plan on adding some breathtaking choreography moves to my performance.  So, I’ll see you soon … and probably sooner than you think.

Wait, wait … scratch that stalking part.  On second thought, let’s just go out for ice cream instead.  It’s probably better for everyone that way.

Say, mind if I borrow some ice cream money.  I promise to pay you back.  I'm expecting some of that African inheritance money any day now.

Call me.