The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

These days it's rare that my wife and I get out to see a movie in the theater, and even rarer that we share a movie experience as rich and captivating as The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. While everyone may take away different messages from this movie, we both felt that it clearly and charmingly conveyed the message that regardless of how you look or, in the case of Benjamin how you age, the body is only a vehicle for the soul. Yes the performances were excellent, the makeup effects and cinematography, exceptional, but I didn't leave the theater thinking about those elements. Instead, both Elizabeth and I were compelled to turn our thoughts to our own mortality, our obligations and roles as we move through time. But don't get me wrong - this wasn't a runaway sappy flick! Stragely enough, although emotionally draining at times, the movie was so well crafted that it felt more cathartic than burdensome - more life-afirming than preachy. Look, we are all aware of our short engagement on this planet and most of us don't need a movie to remind us of that. What if though, there was a movie that didn't set out to do anything but tell a beautiful story, but ended up making you feel great to be alive? That's the power of this movie. If you've experienced this movie and feel the same, or walked away with different messages, please share.

I don’t have it so bad

The TV show, Dirty Jobs serves two purposes for me. On the one hand, I enjoy the juxtaposition of Mike Rowe tossing out one-liners while casually shoveling road kill into the back of a van. On the other hand, and even more profound for me, is the impact the show has on how I view my own job. I think we all have days where we look around our work environment and ask ourselves how we ended up where we did. Don’t get me wrong – I like my job, but sometimes I take it for granted, and that’s where Dirty Jobs comes in. No matter how bad of a day I’m having, I know it’s a thousand times better than if I had taken a different vocational path and become the sludge containment officer at a water treatment plant. Believe me – there were times in my past that I was nearly forced into taking that detour.

That being said, I’m certain that to all of you who currently hold dirty jobs, the thought of sitting behind a desk in an office all day sounds equally appalling. In fact, there’s probably enough of you to constitute a suitable viewing audience for a show named “Clean Jobs.” But let’s leave that for another discussion. For now, I’ll continue on my campaign to have all of my office’s ‘motivational’ posters of rock climbers and eagles snagging trout from a lake replaced by prints of men with shovels standing next to small mountains of animal parts in a cattle rendering plant. Customers might get offended, but the resulting productivity will be well worth it. Thank you Discovery Channel for keeping it real.

Hard Candy

I brought an assortment of hard candy to work today. We have a shelf along ‘writers’ row’ upon which we deposit quasi-edible jetsam from our household pantries. Amazingly, no food, regardless of type or freshness ever stays on the counter more than one day. Today’s goodie selection reminded me of my many visits to an old neighbor’s house. Clorinda McCumber was in her 70s when I was five, and she had a coffee table situated between the couch and the TV that supported a huge, seemingly bottomless dish of hard candies. I’d walk next door whenever the mood struck and Clorinda would let me in without question. She had a color TV where ours was black and white, so I’d use that as an excuse to sit on their couch and pluck away at the congealed mound of petrified ribbon candy. Clorinda would be in the kitchen or her sewing room, so my secret candy binges were strictly between me and her perpetually-drowsy Basset Hound, Duke. By this point of the confection’s life cycle, it was futile trying to separate the individual candies, so I’d use the handle of the metal nutcracker from the mixed nut dish and quietly chip away at the sticky heap, sending razor-sharp white and red shards in all directions. Duke watched me from his pillow near the fireplace with never more than a hint of curiosity.

My family moved when I was six, but about a year later we visited Clorinda. I stood in the kitchen with my parents as the three adults chatted and I eventually glanced toward the living room. Duke was standing with his front paws on the coffee table and was licking at the mass of ribbon candy in a predator-like frenzy. I stared at him for a bit as the notion sunk in that this behavior was probably not new. My throat began to close up a little and as I cleared it, Duke turned his eyes toward me, but continued licking. We stared at each other for a moment or two, or at least as long as it took for both of us to feel comfortable with the fact that our little secret was as safe as ever.

My Daughter is With Me All Day

I keep a picture on my wall at work that Juliana drew for me. Even
better than a photo, it keeps me connected to her throughout the day.

Mental Vacation

Lately I’ve been experiencing a profound sense of nostalgia. I’ve been seeking songs, movies, images from a time two decades before I was even born. Past-life regression practitioners would claim that my longing for the past represents an attempt by my former self to contact me. Well, I’ve heard what people admit to under hypnosis, and I’m not about to hand over control of my faculties to a spiritualist. Still, there must be a trigger for my neurosis-de-jure – and this time I’m pretty sure it’s not something I ate.

Take this picture for instance. Try to look past the plaid skirts and bobby socks for a moment and ask yourself who would pass up a chance to travel in time and spend a carefree afternoon in a malt shop? I’m equally intrigued by photos like these two, and find myself staring at them – wondering what life would have been like to live in a war-time steel town. Then there’s my renewed fascination with art deco locomotives – please, no Freudian comments here folks, it’s nothing like that - really. Big band music, film noir movies, and Time Life photo journals have become like comfort food for me, and I’m eagerly consuming all that I can.

If I dig a little I might be able to come up with an on-the-fly diagnosis as I write this entry. Here’s one possible explanation: The past 18 months have been very traumatic for my family. We’ve battled cancer and are still in the midst of a long recovery. But, scans are clear, Ema’s pain is easing, and as things fold back into whatever our new ‘normal’ lives will be – living with the immutable threat of the disease, perhaps my mind is taking a little vacation. For over a year, I was forced to live every moment as it was dealt – with no room for anything but the immediate present and worrying about the future. There was no time to reminisce, think about the past in any context, and certainly no time to daydream about what life would have been like some six decades ago chatting with friends over a cherry Coke.

If I’m correct, and my mental holiday is just that – a well-deserved respite from the mayhem, then it won’t last too long. For the moment at least, my preoccupation with another era provides sanctuary from any pending turmoil and allows me time to rally my wits for the next battle. Don’t worry baby - I’ll be ready.

Day 7 - Countdown to Christmas

Annabelle’s mother sat at a drop-leaf table which was flush with the far wall of the small room. A ceiling fan moaned and buzzed as the motor, which had been in its death throes for the better part of a year, labored for one more revolution of its dusty, yellowed blades. Everything in the parlor, in the whole house for that matter, looked much older than it should. Even Annabelle's mother, Charlotte who at 36 should be in the prime of life, wore the weathered countenance and chalky pallor of a much older woman.

Charlotte smiled as Annabelle approached, and she placed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Come here.” Charlotte said, patting her skirt above her knee. Annabelle scooted onto her mother’s lap and wrapped her arms around her, resting her head on her shoulder. She closed her eyes as she squeezed her mother and as she opened them her gaze fell onto a wall calendar which hung in the laundry room. The picture for December depicted Santa clutching a bag Chesterfield cartons. His ripened cheeks glowed red and healthy and his teeth sparkled. Annabelle pulled back and looked at her mother’s face. Charlotte smiled, pulled a few strands of hair away from her daughters face. “You are so pretty,” Charlotte said. Annabelle just looked into her mother’s eyes. They were bloodshot, but not too bad. There were hundreds of tiny wrinkles around her lips that Annabelle hadn’t noticed before. She stared at them, wondering if she would have wrinkles like that when she gets old. “Mommy?” Annabelle said, “Does Santa Clause drink?” Charlotte took a breath that triggered a cough which turned into a deeper, throaty bellow. Annabelle slid off her lap and put her hand on her mom’s back as the coughing continued. When it finally stopped, Charlotte reached for her cigarette and took a long drag, blew the smoke toward the fan, then snuffed out the remainder in the ashtray. When she turned back to her daughter, Annabelle saw that her eyes were very red. “That’s a funny question. I don’t think he does.” Charlotte said, reaching for her wine glass on the table. “I saw him on the back of one of dad’s magazines and he was drinking a bottle like daddy drinks.” Charlotte was quiet for a moment. She sat back in her chair and took a sip of wine. Annabelle used that moment to walk into the laundry room and pluck the calendar off its nail. She walked it back to her mom and showed her the picture. “Does he smoke too?” Annabelle said, placing the calendar on the table. “Santa Clause doesn’t do either of those things honey, and neither should you.” And as she spoke, Charlotte looked down at the table, eyeing the evidence of her hypocrisy.

[to be continued. . .]

Day 8 - Countdown to Christmas

There’s a problem here, and it’s not an easy one to solve. Santa Clause is recognized as a fictional character, or, more precisely, is not recognized as a real person, by the United States Copyright Office. Therefore, unless you duplicate the copyrighted version of Santa that CocaCola designed some 75 years ago, he can work for you to sell anything you want! Through the decades, advertisers invented often disturbing, certainly insulting ways of exploiting Saint Nick as their seasonal go-to guy for shilling just about every product and service imaginable. Such irresponsible advertising surely had consequences on children whose innocent visions of Santa were continually challenged.

Seven-year-old Annabelle walked through the living room and glanced at the back cover of her father’s “Field and Stream” that sat on the edge of the coffee table. She stopped, looked closer, and was shocked at the sight of Santa drinking the same funny-smelling juice that makes her daddy boil with rage, throw his shoes at the news reporter on the TV, and curse in his sleep. Annabelle was lost as she tried to decide whether her discovery made daddy’s actions acceptable, or Santa’s actions objectionable. Certainly these two worlds could not exist within such a small universe. She picked up the magazine and thought about asking daddy about the ad, but remembered that by this point of the evening he’s halfway through another bottle and she could already hear Walter Cronkite’s voice escaping from the den. Her mom would have an answer, and luckily she was easy to find. Annabelle followed the pungent scent of Chesterfields to the small parlor off the kitchen. She could hear the “chink” of her mom’s cigarette lighter from the hallway, and as she approached the parlor, the air grew thick and grey.

[continued tomorrow]