The day the music...uhhhh... became undead.

I've been loving songs and memorizing songs for as long as I can remember. I saw my first concert when I was a mere seven years old. Three Dog Night at the old Fulton County Stadium. Some guy named Rod Stewart opened for them. Having three older sisters gave me plenty of exposure to music ahead of my time. I was mesmerized by that music and the people who wrote it at a very early age. When other children were probably reading bedtime stories, I was reading the liner notes of the albums that were always strewn across my bed. The proverbial "now I lay me down to sleep" was more than likely a "Wait a minute...Irving Azoff produced this crap? He's better than this!"
Anyway, I've always loved songs. Around twelve years old I started writing them. I'm not saying they were any good, but I started writing them. I always kept it a secret because I thought it was silly that a child would be writing songs and knew that, to anyone else's eyes, they'd be likened to the "crap" I mentioned earlier. After literally years of getting up my nerve I finally HAD to show them to someone. That someone was my sister Susan. I'll always credit her for this - her attitude wasn't a condescending one - "Oh, isn't this cute! Little Timmy's trying to write songs." She told me she loved them (there's no way she loved them..they were BAD.) She told me that my style of writing (STYLE?) reminded her of this guy she listened to named Jackson Browne. So she bought me his "Running on Empty" album. Despite the fact that I was clueless what the song "Rosie" was really about until I was in my 20's I was completely taken with the music. In no way did I liken anything I wrote to what he wrote, but it still inspired me. It also gave me the courage to start showing my stuff to other people - mostly my other sisters and my parents. They were equally as encouraging and complimentary and I'll always be grateful.
But massive weight gain caused my songs to suffer the same fate that everything important in my life suffered - neglect. Only recently have I taken out the briefcase where I keep all my song stuff. Only recently have I gotten my guitar out of its case and reminded myself what some of those songs sound like. I've picked up my mandolin again and, though I'm not exactly Bill Monroe yet, I'm getting better. I've recently gotten back in touch with one of my oldest friends, Mark. He's a natural musician and a great songwriter. (Check out bearfoothookers.com to check out the band he's currently in and the music he's writing.) He wants to get together and work on stuff I've recently written...got an e-mail from him just this morning inviting me out to his place. The common denominator in all of this is, of course, my weight loss. My music - as hokey as it sounds - is part of me. If I didn't like me, I didn't like it. The cost of this surgery was astronomical...but I'm beginning to think it was a bargain the likes of which Kmart couldn't put a blue light over!
Now you're all Googling "Rosie" to see what it's about....aren't you?

In Living Color

I had a professor at LaGrange College named Dr. David Naglee. Dr. Naglee was a renaissance man in every sense of the word. He was a concert cellist. He built grandfather clocks by hand. He wrote books and lectured at universities all over the world. He was, at one time, listed in Cambridge University's "Who's Who Among Intellectuals." He was also the biggest professional wrestling fan I've ever met. He always said he wanted to start a tag team called "BOANERGES! THE SONS OF THUNDER!" ("Boanerges" means "sons of thunder" and was the name Christ gave to James and John because of their inclination to be hot-tempered. I encouraged him to come up with another name for his tag-team as that may have been a bit above the head of the average fan of professional wrestling.) I once told him that he reminded me of a Van Gogh quote that said "The best way to know life is to love many things..." His response - "My lands! I certainly pray that doesn't include cutting one's ear off!"
I tell you all of that to tell you this - Dr. Naglee had very poor eyesight and was colorblind. He was an avid golfer but often asked his students to go play a round with him because once he hit a ball it was gone for him. When you played with him you had to keep up with your shot and his as well. I can't remember the whole story, but there was a time when his eyesight was failing and doctors told him to expect the worst. Thus began a severe bout with depression. A man who built his life on lecturing, writing and reading would, of course, be lost without his ability to see. Though he wasn't Roman-Catholic he paid a visit to the monastery in Conyers, Georgia. Apparently he sequestered himself there to pray, meditate and ask the Almighty why this was happening to him. Again, I can't remember the details but as he left the monastery in his car suddenly, for one fleeting moment, everything on the road he traveled was in color. For the first time since his teenage years he was able to see colors! He stopped by the side of the road and wept. He felt he'd received a direct message from the creator of the universe. He always said "the voice of God isn't necessarily a language...sometimes it's a picture." As far as I know, he retained his vision through the remainder of his life.
Last week while walking the streets of Charleston as well as the beaches of the Isle of Palms and Sullivan's Island I felt like I was seeing the world in color for the first time in years. We walked and walked and walked...there was no aching or shortness of breath. I enjoyed the scenery instead of scouring the scenery in search of a chair or a bench. I felt very alive as if these were the first steps I'd ever taken. I know this borders on melodramatic and you probably think I'm being wayyyyyy over-the-top. But the moments are becoming more and more frequent where I'm caught off-guard as to how drastically different my life has become. There's no more going through the motions...I feel like I'm actually going somewhere and that there's purpose to all actions.
I've seen the beauty of Charleston. I've stood on the battery and watched dolphins play before. I've seen that flag flying out on Fort Sumter many times. I've stood in awe at the majesty and grace of those old homes. But this time I saw it all in color. Best part is, so did my bride. She didn't have to worry about how I was doing or how I was walking. Dr. Naglee was right - sometimes it's a picture not a voice.

TGIF

There's Fridays and then there's FRIDAYS. Today is a FRIDAY. Reason being, we're on vacation next week. We'll be in Charleston, one of our favorite places on planet earth. We went on our honeymoon to Charleston and have been back once. I'm looking forward to being able to walk and walk and walk.... A visit from me to Charleston usually meant that scores of oysters were about to meet their maker. With my talent for slurping oysters now diminished because of surgery most of them will be safe this time around...but I plan on putting at least a small dent in the mollusk population of coastal Carolina.
So the Atlanta Braves are setting up shop with a minor league team here in Gwinnett County. I put in an application to usher or work guest relations. A chance to make extra money in my spare time AND watch free baseball. Perfect storm for yours truly. I've had two interviews now that both went well. I had an interesting moment during the second interview. The gentleman asking the questions asked me "would you say that you're happy with your appearance?" I'm not sure who was president the last time I was happy with my appearance, but I'm pretty sure he's dead by now. It made my week to give a positive response to that question.

Lagging behind...

Ok, so I'm behind. This subject matter was stuff I meant to deal with LAST Friday. It's been a crazy week with work, work, oh and there was also work.
Last Friday night my bride and I acted like we were 25 again (well, we acted like I acted when I was 25...she was a better-behaved 25 year-old than myself.) Anyway, an old friend of mine has been after me forever to go hear his band. They're The Bearfoot Hookers, producers of what they call "Beer drinkin' gospel" music. It's good stuff. It's a lot like the stuff he and I used to listen to in many a wee hour in his basement back in our younger days. They've been quite successful in the storied music scene over in Athens and they'll soon be recording a third album. Therein lies the problem - y'all know that I avoid Athens at all costs. But on this particular Friday night they were at the Sweetwater Bar & Grill in Duluth - much friendlier environs - so we went to check them out.
Problem - they're the headliners of three bands playing that night, meaning they'll start about 12:30. There was a day when I used to head out at 12:30 on a Friday night but those days have passed. If I'm awake after midnight these days it's because nature's called. So around 7:30 we took a nap. That's right, we went to bed at 7:30 and set the alarm for 10:00. Thank God it was wintertime...if it'd been summer it would've still been daylight. I am officially old.
The reunion with my old friend was an excellent time. His band was good and he was glad to see me. I told him that I was sorry I'd avoided this evening for so long, but there was no way in the world I wanted anyone from 'the old days' to see me at by biggest. He rolled his eyes...."you're weight's not who you are, Tim. It's still not, even though you've lost a lot and look great. Everything that makes you fun to be around and a good person is still there no matter what body it's living in..." I mustered up the manliest guy hug I could and we promised that we'd come out to his house soon for dinner. He wants to check out songs I've been writing and see what can be done with them. I've actually been writing new stuff and touching up old stuff in anticipation of this happening. I do appreciate his comments...but I wouldn't have had the confidence for any of this to be happening 220 pounds ago. Life's good.

"The days they pass so quickly now..."

Sometimes you don't really think about your age. Then sometimes it hits like a freight train. One of my nephews is about to be a dad. So that means I'm about to be a great uncle (in my mind, I've always been a great uncle..but anyway...) We spent the weekend engaged in funeral activities for someone I've known since birth - one of the folks that's always been here and you figured they always would. I had yet another reminder this morning of how old I am that was as subtle as Rush Limabaugh's ego.
I was listening to a morning radio show on an "all the hits" type station. The hosts of this show use the word "totally" a lot. But I'm driven to their show because I find sports radio shows in this town intolerable. If it's not the Georgia Bulldogs (note correct spelling of "dogs") or pro basketball they don't discuss it. I have no interest in either. Anyway, they're discussing "romantic" songs and what should be on your play list when you're snuggling with your honey-bunny on Valentine's. Out of all the songs they discussed and played I knew two of them. Honest to God, I only knew two of them. One was a Beatles' song ("I wanna hold your hand") and one was an old Etta James song. The rest of the songs were performed by people who probably also use the word "totally" a lot.
How can you have a discussion about romantic songs and NOT include Sinatra singing "My Funny Valentine" ??????? Or Sinatra singing "One For My Baby(and one more for the road.)"??? It probably speaks volumes about me that I consider Greg Allman singing "Melissa" the epitome of romance.
Speaking of age, I was at the gym yesterday riding the bike. I was proud of myself as I went longer than I've ever been able to on the bike. I'm feeling pretty cocky until I notice the woman on the bike next to me. She looked to be well in her 60's and the timer on her bike indicated that she was in her second hour on the darn thing. And her legs were flying...if it'd been a real bike I swear she would've been doing 70 mph. I wanted to get off, go pop a cold one and listen to some Allman Brothers tunes...totally.

E W

E W smiled with his whole face, not just his mouth. His eyes smiled, too. He could make you laugh anytime, anywhere. He was just another of the individuals that, as a boy, gave me a glimpse into what it meant to be a man. Men like my father, Uncle Ralph and E. W. - I figured these men could charge into hell with water pistols and scare the devil out of his own house. They had the answers to every question, they knew the solution to every problem and they navigated families through good times and hard times. But while I aligned him with these men of strength and fortitude, I also found a "human" edge to E.W. Wait, as a man you can be strong AND caring, sensitive and nurturing? To put it in terms usually used to describe athletes, E.W. was the whole package.

While in the Army, he guarded a water tower somewhere in Arizona carrying only a broomstick (because there wasn't ample supply of weapons....although late in the day on December 7, 1941 they found a need to put a real weapon in his hand.) He served in Europe in WWII and then came home and married his sweetheart. His honeymoon was cut short because his sweetheart had to get home lest she ruin her perfect Sunday school attendance record. They spent the next 59 years building a life that included five children, twelve grandchildren and eleven great grandchildren.

They laid E.W. to rest yesterday while a bugler played "Taps." He received military honors and they handed the aforementioned sweetheart with perfect Sunday school attendance his folded flag. I went to a hero's funeral yesterday. As I walked away from his grave, I was reminded of the day back in 1985 when we buried my own father. That day, as we started to depart the grave site, I looked back to find E.W. standing over the place where my father was buried. He was sobbing uncontrollably. He was the last person to walk away from that grave. I realized then that he and my dad were more brothers than friends. I also realized that being heartbroken and letting your emotions show make you no less a man than the next guy. My wife often scolds me for being so hard on myself. I hope that after spending the last couple of days learning of the legacy left by the men that raised me she understands why.

Personal Trainers

I feel so trendy. I feel so Hollywood. I've had a session with a personal trainer. I'm in. A PDA and a bluetooth thingy in my ear are soon to follow. I'm going to flit around the tennis skirt Kroger in my warm up suit and talk really loud in my bluetooth thingy about "doing lunch," "touching base," "networking" and "revisiting this issue next week."
That's laughable. I'm not a bluetooth thingy in my ear kind of a guy. And I probably won't be a personal trainer kind of a guy. Part of my new membership to Gold's Gym included 2 sessions with a personal trainer. They're a bit out of reach for our budget right now. But it would be good to continue the sessions. The young man assigned to me pushed without being Vince Lombardi. He asked the right questions and suggested a smart path - a slow start, some cardio, some resistance. He understood that my upper body is strong, but my lower extremities are still feeling the brunt of carrying so much weight for so many years. So most everything was on a bench, toning upper body and letting the cardio work (on a bike) gently tone the legs.
It's hard to believe now, but I used to be young and enjoy athletic endeavors. It felt really good to be working up a sweat and tweaking muscles that have sat dormant for so many years. It felt good to go to bed stiff and sore. But I must admit some trepidation. We were doing some band training (a new one to me...last time I worked out it was either Nautilus or free weights.) He was pulling one on end of these bands and I had the hand grips in the other. My fear was that the grips would slip out of my hands and I'd send this kid flying across Suwanee, Georgia like somebody in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Fortunately, it didn't happen. When he suggested this band training I thought "great...I'm still being treated like an old, fat guy and I'm going to have to do some wimpy rubber band training..." I had images of old folks in wheelchairs wearing sweatbands, coach's shorts and dress shoes passing a big rubber ball back and forth as part of their physical therapy. I was wrong. It was a workout in every sense of the word. The kid knew what he was doing ("kid"..he was probably 30 years old...ok, so I am old.)
You know what the highlight of the afternoon was for me, though? He sat us in front of the mirrored wall for our workout. I cringed, still living in a time when I avoided mirrors. But you know what? I wasn't sad about what I saw. In fact, trying to push out one more rep on a particular exercise, I gave myself a bad-ass grimace in the mirror. "Private Joker, let me see your war face!!" Turns out there's a drop or two of testosterone left...the countdown to the tattoo has begun!