Totally Awesome and Worth the Wait

 I learned how to ride a bicycle in 1977 when I was six years old. Mine was a Western Flyer model with metallic-flake purple paint, gooseneck handlebars (with purple and white tassels), a banana seat, and a racing slick on the back. It was a gorgeous street bike built for cruising down the boulevard while looking good doing it. Although it was called a Western Flyer, it was never meant to fly. Yet fly it did.

 

Like most young boys in the 1970s, I idolized Evel Knievel, the legendary daredevil from Butte, Montana, who became a global sensation after spectacularly crashing his motorcycle while jumping the fountains at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas in 1967. Evel’s bikes, heavy street motorcycles including Nortons, Triumphs, and his iconic Harley-Davidsons, were not meant to fly either, yet fly they did.

 

Though Evel’s injury-riddled body caused him to stop jumping by the time I had my own “stunt bike”, footage of Knievel’s jumps re-aired regularly on television during my formative years, which gave me and kids across the United States plenty of inspiration for performing our own feats of daring. The fact that Evel broke dozens of bones in his body and nearly died several times did nothing to deter us from trying to emulate our hero. In fact, it only encouraged us. If Evel could survive plummeting into the Snake River Canyon, then surely, we could survive smashing into a parked car.

 

Last weekend, three of my childhood friends and I embarked upon a pilgrimage to Topeka, Kansas, to visit the Evel Knievel Museum. For my entire life, I operated under the assumption that the state of Kansas had nothing going for it. Until 2017, when the museum opened, I would have been right. But now I am reluctantly forced to admit that the Sunflower State has one destination that is indeed worth visiting.

 

Wearing a 1970s vintage red and white checked western ensemble, complete with a butterfly collar and a white cowboy hat, belt, and boots, I strutted into the museum dressed as if I were a contemporary of Evel’s. (I had also trimmed my facial hair into a Fu Manchu mustache with mutton chop sideburns.) I was a vision I tell you. A vision! The museum staff agreed that Evel himself would have approved of my flair. 

 

My friends and I thoroughly enjoyed reading about Evel’s life and watching clips of his horrifying wipe outs. Seeing Evel’sbikes, leathers, helmets, and hauler, as well as tons of assorted memorabilia brought back fond memories of our youth. A huge display of classic toys gave us a megadose of nostalgia, and a virtual reality ride and jump on a vintage Harley brought equally huge smiles to all of our faces.

 

In the gift shop, I bought the toy I always wanted but never owned as a kid, an Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle. It is an exact reproduction of the original unit that many people regard as the greatest action toy of all time. Yes, I am 49 years old. Yes, I did build a cardboard ramp as soon as I got home. And yes, I did launch Toy Evel and his Harley off of it successfully. Many times.

 

It was totally awesome. And it was worth the 40-year wait.

 

My friends and I first started talking about taking a road trip to the museum in March of 2020—just exactly when the museum and the rest of the world shut down. We were disappointed to have to postpone our trip, but we knew that as soon as conditions allowed, we would make it happen. With two doses of Covid vaccine in our arms and the worst of the pandemic behind us, John, Doug, Eric, and I finally made it to the museum.

 

It was totally awesome. And it was worth the 14-month wait.

 

150 by 50

When I stopped drinking alcohol four and a half years ago, I made a calculated decision to write about my struggle with addiction here in the pages of the Boone County Journal. I did so for two reasons. First, I hoped that my message might resonate with someone out there in Readerland who was struggling, too. Second, I wanted to hold myself accountable.  

Indeed, several people contacted me after I made my issues known. Some wanted to let me know that I was not alone. That knowledge brought me great comfort, and I thank those kind souls who reached out to me. One or two people were inspired to quit drinking after reading my column, and if I’ve done nothing else good with my life, at least I know that I helped a couple of people make the decision to take better care of themselves. 

 

Going public meant that I had the eyes of most of Southern Boone County watching for any missteps. In our close-knit community, I knew that I could not go to a bar, restaurant, orgrocery store to buy booze without someone noticing. I didn’t want to fail, and I didn’t want to let anyone—family, friends, students, coworkers, neighbors, or myself—down.

 

Luckily, my plan worked out pretty well. In fact, it went even better than I ever could have expected. In the first six months of my sobriety, I lost 35 pounds. Healthy eating, regular exercise, and cutting out thousands of empty calories from alcohol made me look and feel a decade or two younger.

 

In the years that have since passed, I have discovered a pair of truths about myself. One, I hate most forms of exercise. (Running is the bane of my existence. Sit-ups and burpees are my mortal enemies.) And two, I am as addicted to cookies, pies, and cakes as I am to booze. 

 

A loathing of exercise and a compulsion to stuff myself full of every baked good in the house is a dangerous combination. Unfortunately, I have found 30 of those 35 pounds I lost four years ago.

 

Addiction is a mental health issue, as is bipolar disorder, another of my afflictions. When I suffer from depressive episodes associated with bipolar disorder, I occasionally have the urge to drink. I know that I cannot allow myself a single sip, lest I fall into the abyss again. Chocolate chip cookies, on the other hand, seem like a pretty harmless way of comforting myself. However, I eat cookies the same way I drank alcohol—one is never enough.

 

Once again, I have decided to make my struggles public knowledge. Not for your pity or ridicule, but to hopefully make a meaningful connection to someone going through the same thing and to hold myself accountable. So, without further ado, I am officially cutting myself off from sweet treats such as cookies, cupcakes, brownies, cheesecakes, and other baked calorie bombs.

 

Avoiding desserts is a start, but I know that regular exercise is just as important to my health. Therefore, I am publicly committing myself to ride my bike, jump rope, walk, or hike regularly. No, I do not plan to torture myself with running, sit-ups, or burpees, but there are plenty of other ways I can get—and stay—in shape.

 

My goal is to lose 15 of those 30 pounds I’ve packed back onto my 5’7” frame. That will put me at an even 150 pounds. My target date for achieving this goal is four months from now, on my 50th birthday. “150 by 50!” 

 

My hero, Mister Rogers, famously kept his weight at 143 pounds for his entire adult life. The number 1 in 143 represents the number of letters in the word “I”, the 4 is for the number of letters in “love”, and 3 is for the letters in “you”. “143” = “I love you.” To maintain his weight, (and his secret message to himself), he swam laps at the pool every morning, ate a strictly vegetarian diet, and did not touch alcohol. Now, I’m no Fred Rogers, (I love bacon too much), but I might as well take another bit of inspiration from the man who has inspired me since I was a little boy. 

 

More than his healthy lifestyle, Mister Rogers will always be associated with kindness. In addition to showing kindness to others, Mister Rogers talked about how important it is to be kind to ourselves (143). By taking better care of ourselves—and forgiving ourselves when we mess up—we can be healthy and happy.

 

And with all the money I’ll be saving by not buying cookies and booze, maybe I can buy another hot rod. That would be a pretty great way to celebrate reaching my weight goal and my 50thbirthday. I’m sure Mister Rogers would approve.

Locks, Labor, and Life Lessons

 When I stopped taking substitute teaching assignments back in March, in order to be available to watch my grandbaby Freya while her mom and dad dedicated themselves to their college studies, our household of seven humans, two dogs, two cats, and a half-dozen fish become a one-income household. (Thankfully, my lovely wife earns enough of a salary to keep us all from starving.) But as the spring semester draws to an end and the time for finding summer employment has arrived, ours has suddenly become a four-income household.

 

I am not among those who will be earning a paycheck this summer. My compensation as a stay-at-home grandparent is exactly the same as when I was a stay-at-home parent. Zero dollars per hour. However, in lieu of a paycheck, I shall continue to accept a steady dose of snuggles and naps instead.

 

Having stepped away from their high-risk, frontline jobs during the height of the pandemic, my son Alex and his girlfriend Sarah are now inoculated and ready to get back to work. Both of them accepted job offers last week, and they hope to be able to afford to rent their own place soon, although I keep reminding them that they (let’s be honest—Freya) are (is) welcome to live in our home as long as they (she) want(s). Nevertheless, whether they live in our house or their own, they will still need me to babysit Freya while they are at work or school, so there won’t be any shortage of snuggles or naps in my future, thank goodness. 

 

The fourth gainfully employed member of our family is my daughter Tiana, who just got her first job. She’ll be working at a fast-food restaurant. At seventeen, she is the same age I was when I got my first (and last) fast-food job. I hope her experience will turn out to be much better than mine. To give you an idea of how bad things got for me; I was scheduled to work a grand total of three hours the week I finally took my manager’s hint and handed-in my grease-infused, polyester uniform. 

 

Tiana is excited to begin earning her own money and learning new skills. She said she already feels older because she has a job. Her positive attitude and her desire to prove herself will serve her well at work. Her mother and I are so proud of her.

 

Truman, at age fourteen, is a little too young for most lines of work, although he wants to find a job, too. He is old enough to deliver newspapers, and were it not the case that we live two miles outside of town on a gravel road (and that the Journal is delivered by mail instead of by paperboy), I would encourage him to hop on his bike and sling newspapers like I did when I was his age.

 

Prior to my brief and miserable stint as a burger flipper, my first-ever job was delivering the Quincy Herald-Whig with my younger brother Blake. The truth is, Blake was the one who wanted the job, but because he was only eleven at the time, my parents insisted that I accompany him on his route. I resisted this arrangement with every fiber of my being, likening the situation to involuntary servitude, but my protestations fell upon the deaf and unsympathetic ears of both of my Marine parents.

 

Delivering papers up and down the long, steep incline of hilly Hannibal’s West Ely Road every weekday afternoon was pure torture, especially while pedaling single-speed, BMX-style bikes in the sweltering summer months. To add insult to injury, we also had to deliver the paper on weekend mornings, which meant that during the school year we never got to sleep in—ever. To a teenaged boy, this was egregious, outrageous, and utterly unacceptable. I brought my complaints to my parents, but the Jarheads were disinclined to show me any mercy. 

 

So, I stuck it out, and eventually I saved enough money to buy a ten-speed mountain bike. I had to admit it felt pretty great to buy something nice with my own money. A year later, I got my driver’s license and started delivering the papers by car. By the time I rode that bike again as a college student at Mizzou, it had become rusty and obnoxiously noisy, no matter how much WD-40 I soaked it with. 

 

My bike was stolen within months of my arrival in Columbia, which absolutely infuriated me, and when my roommate heard a hideous, yet familiar sound as he walked home from class a week or two later, he watched as the thief parked my bike at the fraternity house directly across the street from our dorm. I marched over there in a blind rage and reclaimed my bike, only for it to be stolen a second time later that year. (Yes, it had been locked up both times.) During my sophomore year, I returned to Columbia with the bike my brother bought with his paper route money—only for it to be stolen as well.

 

As it turned out, that paper route taught me more about hard work and the value of a dollar than all of my other jobs combined.

 

I guess I owe a “Thank You” to my parents (and Blake) for the forced labor and life lessons. I would also like to offer congratulations to the newest, gainfully-employed members of my family. May your work experiences be rewarding, and may your bike locks be much stronger than mine.  

Goodbye, Sweet Friend

 

Just before the 2020-2021 school year kicked off last September, I received a notification from Kelly Educational Staffing alerting me that my subbing services had been requested by my friend and coworker Misti Post. When I saw that Misti would need coverage for the first two weeks of the school year, I immediately became concerned. I knew that Misti, a special education paraprofessional at the Primary School, would never willingly miss the beginning of a new school year if she could help it. 

 

“Hey Misti!” I wrote in a text message, “I just saw that you requested me to sub for you to start the year. When I realized you needed me for two weeks, I started to worry about you. I hope everything is okay.”

 

Misti said that she had been having some health issues but was supposedly on the mend. Her doctor advised against her returning to work until October, which made Misti sad because she loved her job, but she understood that she needed time to rest and heal. I subbed for her as often as I could during the first month of school, and when I began covering a long-term subbing assignment in kindergarten in October, Misti was still not well enough to return to work. I became increasingly worried that something was very wrong with my friend.

 

On November 2, the primary school staff received an email informing us that Misti had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Less than six months later, our friend and colleague was gone. Misti Post, a loving wife, mother, daughter, and friend passed away last Tuesday at University Hospital. She was only 47 years old.

 

When Bethany told me the news, I burst into tears. I was shocked and heartbroken. Six months from diagnosis to death. Though Misti and I weren’t the kind of friends who spent time together outside of work, we were friends just the same. We had many conversations at school about all sorts of topics, including our children, and I can tell you that no one loved being a mother as much as Misti did. She was so proud of all three of her kids. 

 

There were several occasions when our talks resulted in tears being shed—tears of joy and tears of sorrow. I remember how devastated she was when her father died a couple of years ago. I shared my experience about losing my mother, and Misti and I wept together. When I shared the story of adopting my daughter Tiana, Misti and I cried then, too. 

 

Misti had many gifts in addition to being a wonderful listener. She was smart as a whip. She could light up a room with her laugh. She could bring comfort to those who were in pain. And she loved with every fiber of her being. 

 

I confided to a friend the other day that I should have reached out to Misti more often in recent months. My friend said, “She knew you loved her. You’re great at letting people know that.” I hoped that was the case, and when I re-read my texts to Misti a few minutes later, I discovered that I did not let those important words go unspoken.

 

“Never forget that you are loved by all who know you,” I wrote to Misti, shortly after learning of her diagnosis.

 

In last week’s column, I wrote about my mother-in-law’s recovery from a serious stroke. You may recall that because the clot that caused the stroke was still in her brain, Glee worried that she has a ticking time bomb in her head. I wrote that we should all live our lives as if we have ticking time bombs in our heads. If we lived each day as if it could be our last, then certainly we would relish every moment we get to spend with those we love. 

 

I guarantee you that in the last six months, Misti savored every last second that she was able to spend with her family. Although they are all reeling right now, I know Misti’s husband and children are grateful for the time they had together. And I’m sure they would agree that there is nothing—I mean nothing—more important in this world than spending quality time with the people you love.

 

Thank you for being my friend, Misti. And thank you for giving so much to your family, your coworkers, your students, and your community. The world is a little darker today than it was before you left us, but because of the love you spread over the course of your 47 years, the world is a far brighter place than it would have been otherwise. 

 

Goodbye, sweet friend. I love you.