Saturday Pier Fishing

Our plans were finalized near the end of January, just before the weather turned wintry. Ethan, Elliott, and I would drive to Wrightsville Beach, to the Johnnie Mercer concrete pier, and spend the day fishing in late February. I was honored and thrilled to be going. A whole day with any of our adult children is rare these days, and more than anything, I was excited to spend the time with 2/3 of them. We picked a date far enough out that I had plenty of time to experience the entire gamut of emotions ahead of the day.

It might not surprise my readers, but I’m an exemplary overthinker. With the month ahead of our planned outing also came plenty of time for me to ruminate on scenarios that stressed me out even though they hadn’t happened yet. I worried that I might do something stupid to draw the lads’ ire, like drop a rod into the drink or lose a prized lure, or injure myself with a filet knife and need to go to the hospital, thus ruining the day. Ethan’s wife and kids were staying for the weekend, which was bittersweet. Our grandbabies would be at our house, but I would be all the way (as they say in PA) “down the shore”, and so I would miss almost an entire day of MiMi and Pop-Pop time. Next, there was the problem of weather. I only own clothes suitable for the beach during clement weather, so I might be woefully unprepared for a wet, cold, and miserable several hours.

Finally, after weeks of snow, illness in the home, and wobbly work schedules, our last few weekends had been eaten up with guests, running errands, and just trying to catch up after the holidays. I felt a tiny twinge at yet another Saturday not getting outside chores done. As the day neared, though, all my fears passed, drowned out by how much I was looking forward to spending time with our guys.

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When I lived in Reading, I procured a Pennsylvania State fishing license, a rod, a reel, and tackle, and went fishing with a handful of friends at the reservoir. If I wasn't working or out with the same guys going to see bands, we were fishing. I never caught anything back then, but I loved the Zen-like quality to the pastime.

Somewhere in the transition from PA to NC, I lost track of my rod, my tackle, and fishing. We were raising kids, working full and part-time jobs, just trying to make ends meet. Any free time we had (and there wasn’t much) was spent trying to keep the house from coming down around our ears. I had no time to fish, let alone get the leaves raked or the grass mowed. To me, if we couldn’t all go fishing together, then I didn’t see the point.

Time goes so fast. Back then, I could barely get my head around being a husband and father, let alone the prospect of eking out time to fish. Ethan is now a husband and father in his own right. He still loves to fish when he can, but he always prioritizes his family, as he should. 

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Ethan brought some rods to a family beach trip a few years ago. The lads all took bait and dropped a line over the edge of the closest pier. They also did some surf fishing and seemed to like it, though they only caught a stingray. It was fun sitting near the surf, while Elliott, Ethan, and Evan fished into the night. There must be something enjoyable about standing out there early and late, because Ethan caught the bug, and little by little, he began to invest in the needful tools of the hobby.

Last summer, with the whole family, all three boys spent some more time surf fishing. Ethan, most of all, seemed to double down on his enjoyment. When Eth likes something, he doesn't do it by halves. His baby daughter also loved the beach, and Pop-Pop and Mimi spent a lot of time chasing the little one up and down the sand. I’ve rarely had that much fun on a vacation. As that week drew to a close, talk of maybe driving back down on a Saturday to do some fishing began.

As always happens after vacation week, reality sets in. Soon enough, summer is waning. In the meantime, another granddaughter snuck into the family, the holidays zoomed by, and then, we were in the depths of cold, dark winter. Almost six months after vacation ended, Ethan rang me up to finally plan our outing. 

Life is busy for all of us.

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Ethan asked Elliott to join him a few weeks before we were set to go as an experiment. Though he does do some fishing at the beach, Elliott is most assuredly not a fishing hobbyist. His pursuits (other than skateboarding when he was a teen and twenty-something) have been almost entirely of the indoor species. He has a retiring nature, which I thought I had, but he makes it look like an art. He’s always working on something: a programming project, recording music, reading prolifically, all while going to school and working full-time. If a day at the pier was a little daunting to me, Elliott likely had to move some things around and take some deep breaths to make time to go.

Nevertheless, they drove to the pier. The day was cold, rainy, and no one was catching anything. Elliott candidly expressed frustration with his brother for stubbornly refusing to give up and staying for hours and hours, when “we could have come home.” They were both cold and miserable, but Ethan stood firm, never doubting that he would eventually catch a fish. 

His philosophy is that the chances of catching a fish increase dramatically with a baited hook in the water. That doesn't necessarily influence whether or not a fish will bite that bait and get hooked, but as I told Elliott, you have to admire Ethan's determination. Pragmatic as ever, Elliott shrugged and said that he thought a few hours were more than enough to determine the outcome. He hung in there with Ethan, and I admired him for that.

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A few weeks later, it was time for the three of us to go. The week leading up to it turned out to be very rough for both Micki and me. We were exhausted as Friday drew closer. The prospect of waking at 4 on Saturday morning to drive three hours just to stand on a concrete pier, with lines in the water for hours, felt a little daunting. The trends of the week culminated in a frustrating and exhausting Friday well before the kids arrived. The house had to be cleaned up and rooms prepared, the pizzas I ordered for dinner were not ready on time, the upstairs sink was leaking all over, and somewhere in all the mayhem, I learned that Elliott had opted not to join us after all.

At 2 a.m., I woke and, brain swirling, had trouble falling back to sleep. Micki startled me awake at 4:10, wondering if I had forgotten to set an alarm. I hadn’t, but I got up, took a shower, thanking myself for getting my snacks and sandwiches ready the night before, and then we headed out.

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As we went slinging down the highway, Ethan and I talked of this and that, while our caffeine drinks slowly charged us. In the quiet moments, I resolved to enjoy the day come what may, without complaining about anything. I was along for the day. I chose to enjoy it and learn something, and do so with the express purpose of appreciating time with Ethan.

The weather, which had gradually warmed in Asheboro over the week, now slid back to more seasonal temperatures. Every weather app prophesied something different for Wrightsville, but when we arrived at the bait shop, the morning air seemed comfy, and I thought we might have a lovely day.

Ethan, always a charmer, was quick to make friends with the proprietor of the bait shop, who shared that his store would soon be a DOT excavation for an on-ramp or something. I never chat more than necessary; my battery for small talk is always at low ebb because of my job working with the public. Because of Ethan, we spent some time interacting with a neat guy with an interesting, if sad, story while we purchased our bait.

Then, mullets in hand (well, in the cooler), it was back to the car and off to the pier. At water's edge, the air felt cooler, damp. It was foggy—something I don’t remember ever seeing at a North Carolina beach. I wished that I'd brought a fleece for under my waterproof jacket. We lugged the bait and snack-stuffed cooler, net, and broken-down rods into the pier shop. I paid for a full day for two, while our stuff got rifled for glass bottles or contraband beer and liquor (which we didn’t have, of course). We got orange tags stapled to our jackets and then brought everything to a spot Ethan liked and set about putting baitfish on hooks and casting our lines. Ethan was patient, generous, and happy as he helped me with my rod. It was nice to see him so engaged.

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We Bares are resilient. My public may assume that I am similarly imbued as my hardy ancestors, but I have always tended more toward the Elliott side of the spectrum. I like to be outdoors, but when I'm done with chores or a hike, I like to slump into my chair and relax with a cup of tea and read or zone out in front of the idiot box. Not for me the endless, dogged hours of constant action. 

Standing on a concrete pier for hours in stiff wind and sprinkling rain, not catching anything, I began to understand (though not to voice) Elliott's objections. It's not that I wasn’t enjoying our time together. The fish just weren’t interested or were elsewhere. Part of my mind felt that, if we weren't regularly hauling in the freshly caught piscine delights for supper, what was the point of hanging around? I kept quiet and hung on, because I experienced something that day more valuable than catching fish.

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If you have kids, you know that at a certain point, you begin to understand that your babies have their own perspectives, thoughts, opinions, personalities, and values. Parents think that it is our responsibility to teach them and model correct behavior, but they can teach us a lot, too, only if we relax enough to pick up what they’re putting down. I long ago realized that all three of our sons are much better men than I was at their respective ages, and I can learn a lot from them. If I pay attention and give them a chance, I will definitely come away a better man, if I can actually shut up long enough. I did, and I learned from Ethan that the joy of fishing is really about being there, in the moment, observing, listening, learning, and enjoying the time.

I learned that while on the pier, everyone is a friend. People were generally friendly, good-naturedly speaking and sharing amiable quips as they passed by on their way to a spot they hoped would provide a sheepshead or red drum for supper. One fellow, smoking an aromatic cigar and wearing a hat that was a stuffed shark biting the top of his head, spoke to us for several minutes about his own adventures and the fish he’d seen others catch. As usual, I was less chatty than Ethan, who spoke to the man as if he were an old family friend. 

We periodically checked our bait, casting our lines anew, stared at the miraculously clear blue-green water, listened to the patter of rain on our hoods and the ‘scree’ of beach birds. The whole time, I never once looked at my watch. I just existed and fished and learned from and spent time with a man who, not that long ago, was just a little fellow playing baseball in the cul-de-sac. It was a privilege to see and spend time with the man he has grown to be.

On the way home, Ethan controlled the music, and we listened to classic tunes from the early 2000s. After a long day, we were happy to be quiet in one another's company. It was an altogether lovely day.

We probably won't go again until November, when his family will go for two weeks. It’s way too hot on that pier in late spring and summer. I think, with the experience of Saturday pier fishing under my belt, I will go to it with less trepidation and more comfort and confidence, both about fishing, but mainly about how Ethan sees the world. 

He later asked if I wanted a salt rod of my own for future adventures. Maybe. I think what I really want, not to be greedy, would be if all three boys could go next time. To me, that would be the ideal day, whether we caught anything or not. I would surely benefit.

World War II Flying Ace

When I was a kid, my elder stepbrother, Karl, was big into planes and jets. He liked to draw them and also build models. I followed in his footsteps, at least in terms of enjoying looking at books with planes in them and trying to draw them, though I could never get the hang of it. More than any other planes, though, Karl liked the World War II-era fighters. He even carved a Corsair and a Messerschmitt 262 (one of the first jet planes) out of a piece of wood, which was well beyond any talent I had. During this time, I got to be very familiar with all kinds of planes, and could even recite styles and designations. I eventually got interested in other things, but I still have fond memories from that time in my life.

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Recently, when friends came in for the weekend, we spent a rainy afternoon at the North Carolina Aviation Museum, which is always an eye-opening experience. While there, admiring the displays and the many planes, I stumbled across a local hero who still holds the record for the number of enemy planes shot down in a single campaign during the Second World War. A whole section of the museum is devoted to this pilot and his brother. If you have time and you’re interested in local history, planes, World War II, or amazing feats of heroism, I highly recommend taking the afternoon to visit the museum and learn about Major George Earl Preddy, Jr. It will be an engaging and memorable experience.

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George Preddy was born to George Earl Preddy Sr. and Clara Estelle Noah Preddy on February 5th, 1919, in Greensboro, NC. Preddy had an unassuming life as the eldest of his parents’ four children, went to Aycock School and Greensboro High School. Things might have gone on this way for Preddy until he decided to take a ride in a plane with a family friend, Hal Foster. Foster took Preddy on a flight to Danville in a 1933 Aeronca plane, and the experience changed Preddy’s life. After the trip, Preddy wrote that he “had to become an aviator”. He attended Greensboro College for two years, but dropped out to become a barnstormer, with the help and tutelage of Bill Teague, where Preddy learned how to accomplish barrel rolls, loops, and other hair-raising aerobatics.

Rumors of war spread across the globe, and Preddy, already an accomplished pilot yearned to join the US Army Air Corps. In the meantime, he enlisted in the National Guard and wound up with the 252nd Coast Artillery Regiment. He tried three times to become a Naval Pilot, but never made the grade. Dejected, Preddy was told about the Aviation Cadet Program with the US Army and signed up. Preddy had a natural talent for flying and impressed all of his trainers. By December of 1941, just five days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Preddy was commissioned as a first lieutenant and earned his wings. “Ratsy,” as he became known during his short but prolific career, immediately showed prowess behind the stick. Flying to Australia, where he defended Oz from Japanese fighter pilots with the 9th Pursuit Squadron of the 49th Pursuit Group, Preddy was assigned a P-40 Warhawk. The Curtiss P-40 was a fighter-bomber, ideal for defending the Australians from Japanese bombers. Fast, light, and maneuverable, the Warhawk was deadly as piloted by Preddy and his Squadron. According to Joseph Noah, author of George Preddy, Top Mustang Ace, Preddy shot and damaged two Japanese planes before a midair collision with another P-40 would pause his career and send him back to the US. The other pilot was killed in the crash.

Undaunted, Preddy, once healed, actively sought another assignment. By 1942, Preddy was flying a P-47 Thunderbolt, and eventually wound up in the European theater, where his real heroism would occur. 

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I’ve only ever been behind the stick of a plane once. Well, plane is a strong word. In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, my stepfather and mother paid for my brother and me to get a ride in a glider. This plane with no motor is dragged skyward by a single prop plane, usually a Cessna, and, at a certain altitude, the glider is released and circles to earth. My brother went first, and I went second. The glider has two seats. The front seat is lower, where I sat, and the second seat is immediately behind and a little higher. That’s where the pilot sits, and he manages the entire trip until, as we were released, he talked me through how to work a secondary set of controls. The pilot who flew with us was a former World War II pilot and was a cool customer. Being dragged up behind a noisy plane, dealing with the jumping and jiggling that the tow plane's wings caused, and putting up with a very talkative teen, he never once grew impatient with me.

At one point during the descent, he let me take over, and I steered the plane for about five minutes. I’ll never forget the sensation of moving the stick to the left and the plane turning that direction. It was addictive and awoke within me the fascination for flying and planes again. The pilot, having landed us safely, told my mom and stepdad that I did a good job. My brother told me that the man said the same thing to him. Maybe he had, but I took that as proof that we Bare brothers both have some latent skill as pilots. That pilot could have just as easily been George Preddy Jr., but as we shall see, Preddy, a valiant and gifted pilot, wouldn’t live to see the end of the war. 

Sadly, despite a record that remains untarnished, Preddy would be shot down by friendly fire on Christmas Day, 1944. A year previously, after a harrowing flight in which he had to turn back to base for lack of fuel, Preddy shot down his first confirmed “kill”, a Messerschmitt Bf-109. A few weeks later, Preddy would intervene against more German warplanes as they attacked a lumbering B-24 Liberator. His skill saved the lives of the pilots and crew on the Liberator as he drew the other fighters away. For his bravery, he was awarded the Silver Star.

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A year later, Preddy’s 352nd Fighter Group escorted nearly 800 bombers as they returned from a run on Frankfurt. Preddy shot down another fighter, but was hit by flak and jumped out of his plane as they crossed over the English Channel. After a daunting rescue, Preddy returned to England, where in the next few months, he would be issued the plane(s) for which he would become famous: the P-51 Mustang, which he called Cripes A Mighty and Cripes A Mighty 3rd. Between June and August, Preddy had nine aerial victories and had already scored the title of “Ace”.

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On August 6th, 1944, George “Ratsy” Preddy Jr. would lead an attack against formidable German Bf-109s, as his squadron escorted bombers home. Harrying the bombers, the Bf-109s, zoomed around, firing at the unprotected larger planes. Preddy led his men from behind, strafing the German planes. He shot down two in rapid succession and then, swinging around again for a second pass, shot down two more. The German pilots finally caught on that they were being attacked from the rear and broke off their pursuit of the bomber formation and Preddy diverted his group after them, where he shot down two more planes. As the display that the NC Aviation Museum puts it, “six planes in five minutes”. Preddy was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his daring and skill.

Over the next several months, Preddy, who was made commander of his squadron, took on several more missions, where he and his men shot down almost thirty enemy aircraft. He even flew in the Battle of the Bulge, where they engaged in ground attacks and patrols. From his first flights over Australia until his death on Christmas Day, 1944, Preddy shot down 26.83 enemy planes (the decimal accounting for damage). His heroism, his bravery and his skill as a pilot deserve to be remembered, despite his tragic end.

Pursuing enemy fighters low over Belgium, Preddy was hit by American anti-aircraft fire intended for the planes he was tailing. The heavy machine gun fire incapacitated his plane, but also likely killed Major Preddy. As low as he was, he might have survived the crash, otherwise. 

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In April of 1945, William Preddy, George’s younger brother and an accomplished pilot in his own right, was shot down over what is now the Czech Republic and was wheeled to Allied help, where he succumbed to his wounds. Both Preddy brothers are buried next to one another in the Lorraine American Cemetery in France. Although it is a tragic tale, it is nevertheless an incredible story of prowess and bravery that originated in Greensboro, when a young man took a flight with a family friend to Danville.

World War II generated many heroes from all walks of life, in all theaters and in all branches of service. Men and women gave their lives, saved lives, fought against a seemingly endless horde of hateful and vicious enemies charged by the worst ideologies imaginable. They faced incredible odds, fought through unimaginable extremity and, eventually, with great loss of life, managed to bring an end to fascism in Europe and Asia. Major George Earl Preddy Jr. was just one of many heroes, all of whom deserve to be remembered and honored for their sacrifice. Few come from so close to home as the Preddys.

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If you haven’t ever been to the NC Aviation Museum, please make time to go and spend some time learning about these planes and the pilots who flew them. You won’t regret it.

Sitting Through an Hour

I checked in with the nurse on duty and went to sit in the aptly named waiting room for my appointment. I promptly lost track of everything as my brain slipped into a kind of semiconscious liminal state. Apparently, it never occurred to me to check the time. I was involved in a game on my phone, scanning email and Instagram.

When the nurse finally called my name, apologizing for the long wait, I looked up, shocked. She said they were running behind and had had some challenges with my paperwork, then offered to write me a note for keeping me so long. Glancing at my watch, I was startled to notice that an entire hour had passed without realizing it. I remarked as much to the nurse, who frowned a bit, perhaps surprised at my ability to be so disconnected from reality.

Later, as I reflected on the situation, I felt some chagrin. It felt like I had been robbed of an hour—not by the doctor (these things happen), but by my own lack of awareness of time. I spent the entire hour in that waiting room unaware that I was even a thinking, breathing human. I sought distraction and was distracted out of sixty minutes I can never get back. I spent that time flippantly, willfully deluded into thinking that I am lousy with hours to spend carelessly and without intention.

The lack of intention was what upset me most. I didn't even have the good grace to be angry that the wait was so long, which would have at least been mildly self-aware. Instead, I lost myself in a tiny glass brick with nothing to show for an hour of my life, except that I could zone out and lose all sense of myself and my surroundings.

I couldn’t even blame my smartphone. That was the thing I used to distract me, but I chose it. The phone could have stayed in my pocket—or better, in the car. The loss of that hour was my fault. I actively refused to take account of whatever time is allotted to me in my waking, conscious life. I sold it for bright lights and memes and an endless, mind-numbing deluge of emails. The whole situation didn’t sit right with me.

At some point, probably in middle school, I learned a mental trick to make the sometimes endless class periods fly by. I would zone out. I’ve always been a “walking daydream,” but I became a black belt in drifting on a sea of disconnected thoughts, and it served me well—especially in math class. It also became a bad habit. I could tune out with the best of them and regularly did, dare I say, particularly in the seemingly endless sermonizing that occurred each week in church, but I also did it when I ought to have been paying attention.

Whenever I needed to distract myself from an unpleasant duration of time, I disappeared into a kind of limbic reality, fuzzy with unfettered, wandering thoughts. As a result, my imagination grew quite robust, but, as with all things, I never mastered when not to disappear into imaginary worlds or untethered thinking. It was a bad habit, and I rightly got the reputation for being a space cadet. It frustrated teachers and parents and irritated friends when I got bored and zipped off to la-la land.

With the advent of mobile phones, many of which had built-in games, I lost myself further in a hand-held universe of endless gameplay or, later, ‘Net surfing. Smartphones, as I’ve written before, are nothing but brain-sucking computers that get us to actively switch off our minds as we mindlessly scroll, search, or stare into a void. Modern smartphones are excellent at getting us to switch off the prefrontal cortex, where concentration and active thinking occur. We just sit and stare, our brains not only untethered but effectively gone. There isn’t even anything remotely instinctual about it. Our eyes are open, but our consciousness vanishes—a kind of voluntary waking coma or catatonia occurs.

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Ancient philosophers understood that humans have agency, which is a fancy way of saying that we can decide to act or not. I have always been fascinated by the implication that a decision we make can have immense consequences for ourselves and others—especially in circumstances where we might not be focused or paying attention at all.

We might call this passive agency: shutting down our awareness to the point where we are less responsive to stimuli than a jellyfish. By contrast, active agency means taking things in hand—being thoughtful and responsible in our choices. In one case, we employ our brain, our intellect, our reason. In the other, we simply switch off. The more I considered it, the more this active/passive idea seemed applicable to my own ability—one might say skill—for tuning out.

All of this made me wonder about why the idea of just sitting in a waiting room caused me such agony that my first instinct was to seek the depths of my mind-numbing smartphone. Why did I so readily switch off agency and seek the mental focus of a pile of sheep dung?

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I grew up before smartphones and personal computers were in everyone’s home. I’m accustomed to the kind of access to technology that prevents boredom, but it wasn’t always thus. As a kid, my job was to entertain myself or, failing that, help clean or cook or jump into some other chores. So I learned to keep myself to myself and, crucially, learned to keep myself from boredom through activity and imagination, at least when I wasn’t in church or school.

These days, no one is ever bored (though there seems to be an endless supply of boring people—but that's a somewhat different problem) long enough to get into any kind of extremity. I see people out to dinner with their families, gazing into the smartphone abyss rather than interacting with one another. That's time they'll wish they had back when their hours—or those of their loved ones—reach zero balance. This was the part of the waiting room episode that truly irked me: my own willingness to switch off my consciousness in exchange for a glowing screen and, of course, the wasted hour of my life.

All of this made me wonder if I even had the ability to just sit without distraction—or without zooming off into la-la land. Could I sit for just one hour alone with my thoughts, unentangled by my bad attention habits, without the lotus-like attention-eater of my phone?

The idea fascinated me, especially because I was a little nervous that the answer might be “no.” So, I decided to spend one hour of my day in intentional silence. I would just sit. No technology, no distractions. One hour, just sitting. I was ambivalent, of course. This was going to take effort, but I thought it was a worthy exercise—especially for someone like me, who has a dangerous inability to stay in the moment when waiting is required.

I chose a day when I knew that I would have at least an hour to myself, without interruptions. When that day arrived, I prepared myself for the experiment. Micki had gone to work, and the pups were quietly snoozing in their crate. I was the only human at home, and so I went into my Green Behemoth Room and sat on the floor in front of the old green couch and took a few deep breaths.

At first, I noticed that I was keenly aware of how much time lay ahead of me. There I was, just sitting, and I was already champing to be up and doing, or to look at my phone, or to do anything, just so long as it wasn’t sitting there. The sensation was like an agonizing itch. I reached for my phone several times, only to remember it wasn't there. The last time, I sighed and said, “Seriously?”

I tried to settle down. Accepting that I wouldn’t have my phone to ease the hour by, I moved on to trying to guess how much time had passed. The alarm (set in another room) was out of sight, and I had taken my watch off to curb the temptation to check it incessantly. Then, as these first jitters passed, I struck out into this new realm of just sitting with something like an open mind.

I hadn’t made many rules for myself, but I didn’t want to doze, nor did I want to get caught up in too thick a reverie. I decided to take the tack of some mindfulness exercises and, when my thoughts drifted too far, call myself back. At first, it was a challenge. The mind is never really silent, and what Buddhists call “monkey brain” took over. For me, it’s more like a five-year-old version of myself, tirelessly asking questions. Soon enough, though, and with some patience, one can ease the savage child simply by mentally looking at whatever it is the kid is pointing at. I found that a kind of pleasant emptiness filled my head as I acknowledged the seemingly endless mental jumping about. 

Eventually, I became conscious that, paying attention to the light of the room, the sounds, the birds outside, the traffic on the street, even the dull hum of the HVAC unit in the attic, that I was just sitting and the world hadn’t ended. It didn’t bother me at all once I’d gotten there. In fact, it was peaceful and pleasant, even pleasurable to just sit and be awake and aware.

I was beginning to really enjoy the quietude, the soothing mental state of sitting in contemplation, when the alarm went off. An hour had passed quickly, and I felt a little sad. I sat for a while longer, slowly coming back to the world. The rest of that day, I was unusually tuned to time passing. I was quieter, more thoughtfully aware of the world and my place in it. I think I even slept more calmly that night, less daunted by the long, sometimes wakeful hours when I lay there wishing for sleep to return.

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I’ve struggled all my life with periods of waiting, paying attention, living with intention in the moment. If there’s nothing going on, I’d rather be up and doing, entertaining myself—or looking for something to entertain me, like TV or my phone. And yet, those moments of distraction are as much a part of my life as the times when I’m gliding along happily. They have the same value, the same worth, and just like every moment of our lives, we cannot get them back once they are spent.

Intentionally sitting and doing nothing seems to have a very efficacious way of making a third road for me between actively seeking to be entertained at every waking moment and drifting off into la-la land. Just sitting for an hour isn't avoidance or distraction. It forces me to use the time and spend it thoughtfully, actively listening to my headspace, growing a sense of connection with myself and with the passage of time as each moment slips by.

Although I wouldn't qualify my experiment as meditation, it did seem to help me find a type of mindfulness that soothed my otherwise sometimes troublingly distracted brain. I have found a tool, and it is fairly inexpensive. It just requires one hour of my day, unplugged, away from TVs and smartphones. The reward is a mind soothed of distraction and interruption—and a smoothed-out emotional state. This is a gift, especially in a world where distraction has become the norm and where, as often as possible, we all seek to disconnect from reality. We could all benefit from giving ourselves the present of sitting through an hour.

February Thoughts

Winter Disruptions

Groundhogs and shadows aside, and bearing in mind that I like winter, the recent bout of white stuff has been pretty, but I need to get back to routine.

Enough cold weather is important to kill ticks and mosquitoes, but it helps make people stir crazy, too and I'm getting there. Between weather and being under the weather, of late, I can't quite remember the last time I was even outside. 

The Wire

Years ago, when we had HBO the channel, I caught a few episodes of a show about cops and criminals in Baltimore. I remember it being great, but life was different before streaming services and the show was catch as catch can.

Over the last few snow (and sick) days, I watched all of season 1 and was blown away. This is the most incredible police procedural I have ever watched. Shows like Law and Order pale in comparison. The characters, the depth, the details are all amazing. And well worth the investment of time. I fully intend to get into the other seasons soon.

Under Weather

I woke up Sunday with a stuffy head. After the snow passed, we went outside to shovel and I got warm. My Nana would have swatted me for being out without my hat in cold weather.

I have long known such associations were invalid. On Monday, things were cancelled, so I was pretty chill, figuring I'd bounce back quickly. I usually do. Tuesday, I felt like death warmed over. Wednesday, I felt a bit less like death, but still, not great. I'm not one for sick days (as demonstrated by over 350 days of it in my benefits), but it has taken a toll. 

I'm a man of action, which makes me better at being on the move, working on something, or just not sitting around all day. I'm feeling better, or as Dwight from The Office said in another context, “Good. Not great.“ I'm really, really looking forward to getting things back to a routine. Also, shaking the dregs of this cold.

Hard Goodbyes

Last week, after 16 and a half years, we said goodbye to our beloved pug, Kobe. We are understandably distraught. For the last several months, life had gotten harder and harder for our Bubbie. For the last few days, he couldn't get comfortable or calm. No position, no pain killers, no snuggles helped. Heart breaking in me, I took him to our vet. The news wasn't good.

I won't say more, except to say that, if you have furry friends, hold them close. We were so fortunate, I will even say blessed, to have had such a wonderful, joyful, funny, engaged, loving, playful, dedicated and family-focused friend. We all miss him severely. We feel his absence keenly and so, if I'm brusque if you mention it, it's because I cannot talk about it without choking up. None of us can.

Good Things

I like to try to be positive about things. When life gets ugly, as it does sometimes, I tend to wonder why I didn't appreciate the good things more. 

Feeling like dreck, why didn't I realize how good I felt when I was well? Sitting with my pup, why didn't I spend more time loving on him?

The reality is, when we are relatively emotionally unencumbered, we forget how good we have it. This is why I try to acknowledge, at least once a day, all the things I'm grateful for. As time goes by, it really does help to look back and feel as though, while things were good, we were grateful for them being so.

Back to Normal?

It will take a few days to really shake this cold. Everything else may take more time. In the meantime, next week's essay and hopefully all between now and April will be more like usual, too.

Thanks for bearing with me. And thanks in advance for all the kind words.