My last post was a bit heavy, but life is like that. One day things are light and airy, the next they are dark and stormy. Each of us has dark parts, things we struggle with, flaws we work on. My goal here is to hopefully provide insights for others, based on my insights. I certainly don’t come from a place where I think I am better than others. Well, except for ISIS. I am better than those turds.
What I’d like to do today is provide some insights of my life for my posterity. There will be a day I won’t be here, and I want my children and grandchildren to know what kind of a person I was, in all my humanizer.-ness. I’m sure most of the times their heads will be cocked to the side like Nipper, the RCA dog.
My grandfather, Rudy, was a World War II vet. He was Paw’s father. Most of my memories of him were of him on oxygen. He had emphysema, and he still smoked. He and Lucille, my grandmother, lived in a mobile home. My grandmother made the best egg noodles from scratch.
Grandpaw would tell us stories. The only thing I ever heard about his war experiences was that he had his dog tags blown off of him. I remember, once, he started to tell us about a place his unit liberated, then he stopped. What followed was a lesson I’ll never forget. He said that if a black child and a white child were put together, they would find a way to play with each other. He said they might notice the differences, but it wouldn’t matter, until adults taught them otherwise. I couldn’t be sure, but I think there was a tear in his eye. When you’re young, it’s impossible to fully understand what adults feel, or are thinking. All I know is that talk made a definite impression on me.
Later on I pieced together that his unit either liberated a concentration camp, or was at one soon after it was liberated. Even as an adult, I can’t imagine what that was like. I’ve been to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. I once refereed youth soccer with Mike Vogel, who was featured on a documentary, Auschwitz, If You Cried, You Died. I remember seeing the tattooed number on his forearm. He was great with kids, always had a smile on his face, and I struggled with the knowledge of his past, and how he was able to live life. I decided he struggled enough for the both of us, and I enjoyed our short time together. He taught me that you chose how to react to life. If he can chose laughter and happiness after the horrors he faced, my lesser issues can’t compete. Neither should yours.
Another time, I decided I would stick a butter knife in a wall outlet at Grandmaw and Grandpaw’s trailer. Grandpaw saw me and didn’t say anything. Grandma saw and started to say something. Grandpaw said, “No wait, he’ll figure it out.”
The butterknife went into the outlet, there was a snap, the trailer went dark, and I let out out a yelp. I did, indeed, figure it out. I learned that I should not stick metal things into wall sockets, and that electricity hurts.
But at least I got some egg noodles out of it. See? Getting the best out of life is a choice!
Meditations of a Bald, Fat Guy 