A ravioli maker valued at about $150 was taken between 12:45 p.m. and 12:58 p.m. Oct. 8 in Williams-Sonoma at Westfield Old Orchard. Police said two females were seen standing by the appliances and one placing the ravioli maker in a bag. Police said the females were able to leave the store and elude a store representative.Like most people, I think stealing is wrong, but honestly, stealing a 150 dollar ravioli maker? That's awesome. And they were able to elude the store representatives. I mean, I am sure the reps are trained to look for thieves, but they probably expect them to steal CDs, DVDs, clothing, make-up, or maybe some food items. Certainly not a ravioli maker. There's so much I want to know about this story. So much.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
File this under creative stealing.
From the Skokie News Police Blotter
Why am I doing this? Part 2
I talked about this in my very first post, but I realize now I only explained what I'm doing and how I'm doing it. There a lot of people out there who have started blogs for various reasons. And there are a lot of people who never started blogs for various reasons. Well, I will do my best to explain why I am blogging.
1) I love to write. I've been writing since I was in the third grade. My first story was what would now be termed fan fiction about Scooby-Doo. My third grade teacher let me read it to the class. I'm almost positive a vampire was staked. I continued to write short stories and more V, GI Joe and A-Team inspired fan fiction, short stories and novels through junior high.
Then I moved to another town and got distracted by girls. Anytime you are the new kid, it's a lot like being the latest iPhone. Everyone wants you because you are shiny and new, but later on, when the new one comes along, they are ready to move on. It wasn't that devastating to my self-esteem, and I did make some nice girlfriends out of the experience, but the point here is that it distracted me from writing.
I resumed writing in my Junior and Senior years of high school. And it was mainly poetry. A thesaurus rex of angsty poetry heavily influenced by Poe, Frost and the made-up tragedies of youth. My writing went into dormancy until intermittent periods in college. I was pretty much always a journaller, though. Well, an intermittent journal. And by intermittent, I mean, journal steadily for a few weeks and then pick it up again 4 months later.
Then my Creative Writing - Poetry - class reawakened the writer in me. I found my voice. It was awesome. Then over the next several years up to the present, I lost my voice, neglected my voice, abused my voice, threw my voice to the pigs and dogs, suffocated my voice with a novel of the French Revolution, left my voice in a road-side ditch, and finally found my voice all over again. However, I'm still not sure what to do with it. Next point, please.
2) I have almost no discipline. This is where the idea for forty days seemed like a good idea. I think I could do this for forty days. Just forty, I said to myself. But I must say, it worried me. Could I really do forty days? Forty days!?!? That's a long time. Every day!! Oh no, it's perfect because it's symbolic and I love symbolic stuff.
I am ashamed to say this, but until I write the blog entry for the day, I am internally (sometimes externally to my wife) whining about having to write. It's not as much fun as it used to be. It seems like work. In fact, it is work for me: I write for a living now. Sure, it's boring, technical instructions on how to use software, but I'm writing 8 hours a day, five days a week.
Still, I fear the blog post. I think all day about what I will write. Really. Before I started doing this SIX DAYS AGO, I would occasionally journal. I would write down sermon notes, great quotes and great experiences, and my reflections. I also would write down my creative ideas, usually an idea for a poem, short story or novel. And there were many of these ideas, sadly, that just disappeared into the fog of my brain before I got around to writing them down. It really does make me sad to think about that.
Why wasn't this good enough? Well, it was really just for me. Sure, like all writers, I half-hoped someone would discover my journals after my death and be able to form some brilliant and probably embarrassing bio about my life. Or at least I would be worthy of some Phd candidate's 20-year long a dissertation. Ultimately, the journals were for myself, and unfortunately those creative flourishes never took root. Which leads me to my third point.
3) I need an audience. I don't know how many people read this blog. I thought I would care a lot, and in fact this kept me from even starting one for quite some time, but really it doesn't bother me that much. That's the personal and emotional side of me.
The writer side of me needs an audience. As I learned in creative writing class, a writer operates as if someone is looking over their shoulder. This is how it is for me. Writing a public blog forces me out on the stage. I have to attempt to edit, proof and rewrite things. The nice thing is that since it's a blog, I can go back and edit anytime I want. Recently someone told me they liked my post but I made a grammatical faux pas. It was nice to know I could just go in and edit the document and click Update.
The blog form is liberating and vulnerable at the same time. I want to become a better writer. I know I can't really become a better writer by just journalling. I'm aware a blog is not the best answer for receiving criticism and feedback on my writing, but it helps me begin the slow and steady journey to joining a writer's group or taking some classes.
4) I feel like I have something to say. When it comes to writing about one's life, I still feel very young. I have not had enough life experiences to justify an autobiography or even a memoir. And I am not a fan of online catharsis just for the sake of vomiting feelings.
However, I feel like God has give me a unique perspective on life. This perspective was largely shaped by my beliefs, relationships and experiences. Some of these experiences are worth sharing. Some of my insights may be worth sharing too.
I'm not sure if anyone out there was wondering why I started a blog. As I said before, people start blogs all the time. It's staggering to think about how many blogs are out there. This is mine, though. This is my attempt to figure out what to do with my voice. Thanks for reading.
1) I love to write. I've been writing since I was in the third grade. My first story was what would now be termed fan fiction about Scooby-Doo. My third grade teacher let me read it to the class. I'm almost positive a vampire was staked. I continued to write short stories and more V, GI Joe and A-Team inspired fan fiction, short stories and novels through junior high.
Then I moved to another town and got distracted by girls. Anytime you are the new kid, it's a lot like being the latest iPhone. Everyone wants you because you are shiny and new, but later on, when the new one comes along, they are ready to move on. It wasn't that devastating to my self-esteem, and I did make some nice girlfriends out of the experience, but the point here is that it distracted me from writing.
I resumed writing in my Junior and Senior years of high school. And it was mainly poetry. A thesaurus rex of angsty poetry heavily influenced by Poe, Frost and the made-up tragedies of youth. My writing went into dormancy until intermittent periods in college. I was pretty much always a journaller, though. Well, an intermittent journal. And by intermittent, I mean, journal steadily for a few weeks and then pick it up again 4 months later.
Then my Creative Writing - Poetry - class reawakened the writer in me. I found my voice. It was awesome. Then over the next several years up to the present, I lost my voice, neglected my voice, abused my voice, threw my voice to the pigs and dogs, suffocated my voice with a novel of the French Revolution, left my voice in a road-side ditch, and finally found my voice all over again. However, I'm still not sure what to do with it. Next point, please.
2) I have almost no discipline. This is where the idea for forty days seemed like a good idea. I think I could do this for forty days. Just forty, I said to myself. But I must say, it worried me. Could I really do forty days? Forty days!?!? That's a long time. Every day!! Oh no, it's perfect because it's symbolic and I love symbolic stuff.
I am ashamed to say this, but until I write the blog entry for the day, I am internally (sometimes externally to my wife) whining about having to write. It's not as much fun as it used to be. It seems like work. In fact, it is work for me: I write for a living now. Sure, it's boring, technical instructions on how to use software, but I'm writing 8 hours a day, five days a week.
Still, I fear the blog post. I think all day about what I will write. Really. Before I started doing this SIX DAYS AGO, I would occasionally journal. I would write down sermon notes, great quotes and great experiences, and my reflections. I also would write down my creative ideas, usually an idea for a poem, short story or novel. And there were many of these ideas, sadly, that just disappeared into the fog of my brain before I got around to writing them down. It really does make me sad to think about that.
Why wasn't this good enough? Well, it was really just for me. Sure, like all writers, I half-hoped someone would discover my journals after my death and be able to form some brilliant and probably embarrassing bio about my life. Or at least I would be worthy of some Phd candidate's 20-year long a dissertation. Ultimately, the journals were for myself, and unfortunately those creative flourishes never took root. Which leads me to my third point.
3) I need an audience. I don't know how many people read this blog. I thought I would care a lot, and in fact this kept me from even starting one for quite some time, but really it doesn't bother me that much. That's the personal and emotional side of me.
The writer side of me needs an audience. As I learned in creative writing class, a writer operates as if someone is looking over their shoulder. This is how it is for me. Writing a public blog forces me out on the stage. I have to attempt to edit, proof and rewrite things. The nice thing is that since it's a blog, I can go back and edit anytime I want. Recently someone told me they liked my post but I made a grammatical faux pas. It was nice to know I could just go in and edit the document and click Update.
The blog form is liberating and vulnerable at the same time. I want to become a better writer. I know I can't really become a better writer by just journalling. I'm aware a blog is not the best answer for receiving criticism and feedback on my writing, but it helps me begin the slow and steady journey to joining a writer's group or taking some classes.
4) I feel like I have something to say. When it comes to writing about one's life, I still feel very young. I have not had enough life experiences to justify an autobiography or even a memoir. And I am not a fan of online catharsis just for the sake of vomiting feelings.
However, I feel like God has give me a unique perspective on life. This perspective was largely shaped by my beliefs, relationships and experiences. Some of these experiences are worth sharing. Some of my insights may be worth sharing too.
I'm not sure if anyone out there was wondering why I started a blog. As I said before, people start blogs all the time. It's staggering to think about how many blogs are out there. This is mine, though. This is my attempt to figure out what to do with my voice. Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Red Rum
I'm reading the Shining by Stephen King. According to Kindle, I am 40% through the novel about Jack Torrance, a disgraced school teacher, who takes a job as a caretaker of the Overlook Hotel in Colorado (really called the Stanley Hotel, built around 1909). He takes his timid wife and eccentric but wise and psychically gifted son with him during his stay over the winter months. It's his last chance to complete his great novel and a chance to get his life back in order after he was fired for hitting a boy at a private school back east. He is hoping for time away, to work on his novel, his family, and enjoy the mountain air. Nothing says writer's retreat like being secluded in a snow bound mansion emptied of all tenants and workers, right? That seems like a good plan, right?
I can't imagine that ever being a good idea for anyone, especially a recovering alcoholic with anger issues. It's almost as if the house and its history beckoned the writer and his family to come to the hotel. Or perhaps the idea of being alone or almost alone in large houses, hotels, etc is relatively scary, lonely and overwhelming to me. As I read about the labyrinthine halls, basement rooms, huge dining rooms and lounges I'm reminded of a short period of time in my life where I stayed in a manor in England.
It was the summer of 1998, I believe. My girlfriend suggested we take summer classes in England that were offered in conjunction with another university in Indiana. The place was called Harlaxton Manor, and it was located near Grantham in Lincolnshire. The manor was actually used in a few films, most notably a remake of The Haunting. And let me tell you, this house was an actor in its own right.
See, we didn't stay in a normal looking manor that you might imagine in some British novels. No. We stayed in this mid-19th century mansion-manor-castle that was a blend of Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Baroque styles. The architect was named Gregory, I believe. It was beautiful but incredibly ornate. And unlike some ornate objects, it dominated its environment. It sat like an elaborate crown on the earthen horizon. When you turned into the long drive to the manor, its points and lines always seem to draw your attention first. And as you got closer, the golden hue of the stone structure shimmered in the evening sun. There were stone lions positioned at entry areas near the gardens. As there should be, right? And there large glass paned windows in the front and small cups and half moon windows on each column or minaretesque spire.
Once you entered the structure, it was immediately pedestrian. There were retired policemen as guard, a card swipe system and a room converted into the cafeteria for students. But later we were assigned our rooms.
My room was towards the back and middle of the manor, I think, and had a window looking towards the storage shed and back gardens. It seemed there many halls and stairways to take me to my quarters. I had a roommate, but I hardly ever saw him.
When the place really took on a role of its own, at least for me, was at night. The halls were lined with oriental rugs, large mirrors and occasional paintings of unknown lords and such. And yeah, their eyes seemed to follow me. I was really pretty scared walking alone in the halls at night. And often, I admit I was scared of my reflection. Honestly how often in America are you walking in a hall and see a five foot tall mirror? You really don't. So since I wasn't used to this, I would often scare the crap out of myself. The years of filling my head with horror movies didn't help, no doubt, but still.
I don't have a ghost story to share. I just had this overwhelming feeling of dread or loneliness in such a large place. I felt small. Yeah, I have expected to see some sort of phantasm, but in truth, just wide open halls and high ceilings were enough to frighten me back into my room. Oh, and there were trapdoors and secret stairways, too.
It's not hard to understand how a place like the Overlook hotel could drive a person mad. I think we aren't meant to be so isolated in such large places. I think the architect of Harlaxton might have gone crazy. And of course there was the Winchester widow who kept adding and adding onto her house in California up until her death. And wasn't Howard Hughes going crazy when he made the Spruce Goose? I suppose there is a lesson in here about hubris, but I'm just interested in the idea of a man made construction making humans feel small, lonely and scared. And at the same time, we are drawn to things that are much larger than we are.
I still think of wandering those Harlaxton halls late at night. The gaudy trim and vaulted ceilings with peeling tapestries normally inspire and peak interest. But at 1 am they become scary and grotesque. Eyes of chubby angels looking down from high ceilings. They hold banners with Latin phrase. It's maddening.
I can't imagine that ever being a good idea for anyone, especially a recovering alcoholic with anger issues. It's almost as if the house and its history beckoned the writer and his family to come to the hotel. Or perhaps the idea of being alone or almost alone in large houses, hotels, etc is relatively scary, lonely and overwhelming to me. As I read about the labyrinthine halls, basement rooms, huge dining rooms and lounges I'm reminded of a short period of time in my life where I stayed in a manor in England.
It was the summer of 1998, I believe. My girlfriend suggested we take summer classes in England that were offered in conjunction with another university in Indiana. The place was called Harlaxton Manor, and it was located near Grantham in Lincolnshire. The manor was actually used in a few films, most notably a remake of The Haunting. And let me tell you, this house was an actor in its own right.
See, we didn't stay in a normal looking manor that you might imagine in some British novels. No. We stayed in this mid-19th century mansion-manor-castle that was a blend of Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Baroque styles. The architect was named Gregory, I believe. It was beautiful but incredibly ornate. And unlike some ornate objects, it dominated its environment. It sat like an elaborate crown on the earthen horizon. When you turned into the long drive to the manor, its points and lines always seem to draw your attention first. And as you got closer, the golden hue of the stone structure shimmered in the evening sun. There were stone lions positioned at entry areas near the gardens. As there should be, right? And there large glass paned windows in the front and small cups and half moon windows on each column or minaretesque spire.
Once you entered the structure, it was immediately pedestrian. There were retired policemen as guard, a card swipe system and a room converted into the cafeteria for students. But later we were assigned our rooms.
My room was towards the back and middle of the manor, I think, and had a window looking towards the storage shed and back gardens. It seemed there many halls and stairways to take me to my quarters. I had a roommate, but I hardly ever saw him.
When the place really took on a role of its own, at least for me, was at night. The halls were lined with oriental rugs, large mirrors and occasional paintings of unknown lords and such. And yeah, their eyes seemed to follow me. I was really pretty scared walking alone in the halls at night. And often, I admit I was scared of my reflection. Honestly how often in America are you walking in a hall and see a five foot tall mirror? You really don't. So since I wasn't used to this, I would often scare the crap out of myself. The years of filling my head with horror movies didn't help, no doubt, but still.
I don't have a ghost story to share. I just had this overwhelming feeling of dread or loneliness in such a large place. I felt small. Yeah, I have expected to see some sort of phantasm, but in truth, just wide open halls and high ceilings were enough to frighten me back into my room. Oh, and there were trapdoors and secret stairways, too.
It's not hard to understand how a place like the Overlook hotel could drive a person mad. I think we aren't meant to be so isolated in such large places. I think the architect of Harlaxton might have gone crazy. And of course there was the Winchester widow who kept adding and adding onto her house in California up until her death. And wasn't Howard Hughes going crazy when he made the Spruce Goose? I suppose there is a lesson in here about hubris, but I'm just interested in the idea of a man made construction making humans feel small, lonely and scared. And at the same time, we are drawn to things that are much larger than we are.
I still think of wandering those Harlaxton halls late at night. The gaudy trim and vaulted ceilings with peeling tapestries normally inspire and peak interest. But at 1 am they become scary and grotesque. Eyes of chubby angels looking down from high ceilings. They hold banners with Latin phrase. It's maddening.
Posted with BlogsyMonday, October 15, 2012
Papyrus Yellow
I spent considerable time discussing the first year anniversary to my wife, Heather, in a previous post. Today is the day, though. Today is the actual anniversary day of our wedding. It seems unreal and very real at the same time. It seems like the year has moved quickly and slow at the same time. And while things changed a lot, things didn't change that much. I know, that doesn't really make sense, but maybe those of you who are married will understand that paradox.
The pastor who led the ceremony at our wedding, John Wentz, said something to me before our wedding that has stuck with me. He said the funny thing about being married is that things don't change nearly as much as you think they will. I remember hearing that and finding some comfort in it, but also wondering if he really understood how set in my ways I had become.
Honestly, though, I think things really do change in marriage. Quite a bit. But I think what happens is that your perspective changes. As long as you love the other person, and you are willing to grow, you (meaning me) end up changing the more and so does your perspective on things. And so later, when you look back on several years of marriage, you have this case of happy forgetfulness for the way you were before. In fact, I have already begun to forget what it was like to be single.
Public Service Announcement on behalf of Single People
If you are a newly married person, be very careful how you listen and talk with your single friends. Once you get married, you have left the solidarity you once had with single people. You have left the homeland, crossed the picket line, whatever. You think you remember what it was like to be single, but you really don't. And never repeat that expression or anything like to a single person. It doesn't help. If you want to help a single person, just hang out with them. Don't patronize them with cliches about finding the right person. Just invite them to be a part of your life. Or don't. Either way, you must remember you have given up your single-person empathy card.
Okay, where was I? Happy forgetfulness. I heard on NPR that they are working on a drug that could help remove or block bad memories from our past. They say it could be especially helpful for those with traumatic or disabling memories (ones that normally required ECT). I hope this doesn't sound trite, but I think sometimes that having someone speak love and truth into your life about who you really are to God can go a long ways towards replacing those bad memories. My wife speaks truth and love to me in this way. Today, for example, she sent me a simple statement in a text message. It's one she has shared before, but it's still hard to accept. It's incredibly sweet, endearing and authentic. And a little Charles Schulzish.
She says, "You're a good man, Jason Logue."
Okay, after this, I will wait considerable time before blogging about my amazing wife.
The pastor who led the ceremony at our wedding, John Wentz, said something to me before our wedding that has stuck with me. He said the funny thing about being married is that things don't change nearly as much as you think they will. I remember hearing that and finding some comfort in it, but also wondering if he really understood how set in my ways I had become.
Honestly, though, I think things really do change in marriage. Quite a bit. But I think what happens is that your perspective changes. As long as you love the other person, and you are willing to grow, you (meaning me) end up changing the more and so does your perspective on things. And so later, when you look back on several years of marriage, you have this case of happy forgetfulness for the way you were before. In fact, I have already begun to forget what it was like to be single.
Public Service Announcement on behalf of Single People
If you are a newly married person, be very careful how you listen and talk with your single friends. Once you get married, you have left the solidarity you once had with single people. You have left the homeland, crossed the picket line, whatever. You think you remember what it was like to be single, but you really don't. And never repeat that expression or anything like to a single person. It doesn't help. If you want to help a single person, just hang out with them. Don't patronize them with cliches about finding the right person. Just invite them to be a part of your life. Or don't. Either way, you must remember you have given up your single-person empathy card.
Okay, where was I? Happy forgetfulness. I heard on NPR that they are working on a drug that could help remove or block bad memories from our past. They say it could be especially helpful for those with traumatic or disabling memories (ones that normally required ECT). I hope this doesn't sound trite, but I think sometimes that having someone speak love and truth into your life about who you really are to God can go a long ways towards replacing those bad memories. My wife speaks truth and love to me in this way. Today, for example, she sent me a simple statement in a text message. It's one she has shared before, but it's still hard to accept. It's incredibly sweet, endearing and authentic. And a little Charles Schulzish.
She says, "You're a good man, Jason Logue."
Okay, after this, I will wait considerable time before blogging about my amazing wife.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Black Balloons
As I approach 40, I often wonder where my parents were at this point in their lives. I know I am in a radically different place than they were at this age, but I am curious about the specifics. I try not to compare what they had accomplished by 40, but it's hard not to at least think about. So I did something that often has interesting (sometimes humorous) results, I texted my mom.
I wasn't entirely sure how old I was when dad was 40, but I know I was in junior high. She said I was 13. And that she was 40, I was sixteen. So, basically, when both of my parents turned 40 I was in self-centered, growing pains, sand-in-my-underwear phase of my life. I don't really think I left that phase until my senior year of high school. That's not really what came to mind when she told me how old I was. I was actually thinking of a very short memory I had at the time.
My dad was a high school principal in a village in southern Illinois. I would say town, but it's really smaller than a town. And I often heard people at the time say, this is a village not a town. So, there you go. My dad was a high school principal in a village. And we would normally walk to the high school with him in the morning because mom would drive to work to a nearby "town" where she taught fifth grade. Or maybe it was fourth grade at that time. I can't remember.
We walked with dad to his school because the grade school was in home-run distance of the high school. There was this small, paved walkway between the high school and grade school. Until that year, my sister and I would walk on the walkway to the grade school each morning after we harassed the cafeteria cooks at the high school. Seriously. We would try to scare them every morning in new and unoriginal ways. And then we would dance like idiots in the half-darkened, empty gym until it was time for us to go to school. Once again, I digress.
On the morning of my dad's birthday, we made our usual walk across Route 40, through Joyce's Cafe gravel-parking lot, across the high school parking lot and into the darkened high school halls. I think that's how it went. These are memories, you know, often subject to alteration due to sentimentality, age, and creativity. When we walked into dad's office that morning, there were black balloons, black flowers, streamers, and dot-matrix printed banners that spelled out things like, "Lordy, Lordy, look who's Forty." At the time I had no idea why everything was black. Apparently dad was over the hill, and I wasn't entirely sure what that meant either.
I think his secretaries or administrative assistants sat all of it up for him. I don't recall who it was because he fired her shortly thereafter. My dad hated surprises like that. I'm kidding. My dad laughed along with everyone else. And I probably just smiled like a goof, pretending to get it all.
It's crazy how much the age 40 has changed, though. It doesn't seem that old anymore. It doesn't seem "over the hill" anymore. Or does it? Is it because I'm turning 40 that it doesn't seem that old? Or is it because there are still so many hot celebrities over 40? Or is it because I just got married one year shy of forty? Or is it because I feel like I finally know something about life at 40?
I'll admit it, I don't feel as mature or as wise as my parents probably were at 40. I think that's probably why I respect and admire them so much. As a person who married late, I honestly feel like I was way too immature to marry young...or younger. I was too selfish, too close-minded, and really had incorrect expectations for marriage. I'm sure my parents would admit they certainly didn't have it figured out either. I'm sure they still don't feel like they have it all figured out.
So my experience of turning 40 is radically different from my Dad's. It's not better or worse, it just is. I don't feel like I'm over the hill (unless the hill is my belly). Sure, things are backed up a bit, but that's okay too. I feel like I have (my wife says the same thing, too) this amazing appreciation for all these new experiences that I think only comes from having to wait.
And you know, things will probably get better. Honestly, I fear writing that out, but God is working on getting me to let go of that fear. Because it's okay to hope. It's okay to expect the next ten years to be even better than the last.
Dude, seriously, the squirrels in our back yard are having a serious wrestling match. One just pile-drived another.
Which reminds me of something else my mom said. Wait, the squirrels remind me of my mom, not wresting matches. She enjoys watching squirrels out of her living room window. (I probably shouldn't have said that.) At any rate, she texted me later that morning, as if she could tell what was on my mind, and said, "Your Grandpa Logue was 46 when Dad was born."
Grandpa also lived on a hill.
I wasn't entirely sure how old I was when dad was 40, but I know I was in junior high. She said I was 13. And that she was 40, I was sixteen. So, basically, when both of my parents turned 40 I was in self-centered, growing pains, sand-in-my-underwear phase of my life. I don't really think I left that phase until my senior year of high school. That's not really what came to mind when she told me how old I was. I was actually thinking of a very short memory I had at the time.
My dad was a high school principal in a village in southern Illinois. I would say town, but it's really smaller than a town. And I often heard people at the time say, this is a village not a town. So, there you go. My dad was a high school principal in a village. And we would normally walk to the high school with him in the morning because mom would drive to work to a nearby "town" where she taught fifth grade. Or maybe it was fourth grade at that time. I can't remember.
We walked with dad to his school because the grade school was in home-run distance of the high school. There was this small, paved walkway between the high school and grade school. Until that year, my sister and I would walk on the walkway to the grade school each morning after we harassed the cafeteria cooks at the high school. Seriously. We would try to scare them every morning in new and unoriginal ways. And then we would dance like idiots in the half-darkened, empty gym until it was time for us to go to school. Once again, I digress.
On the morning of my dad's birthday, we made our usual walk across Route 40, through Joyce's Cafe gravel-parking lot, across the high school parking lot and into the darkened high school halls. I think that's how it went. These are memories, you know, often subject to alteration due to sentimentality, age, and creativity. When we walked into dad's office that morning, there were black balloons, black flowers, streamers, and dot-matrix printed banners that spelled out things like, "Lordy, Lordy, look who's Forty." At the time I had no idea why everything was black. Apparently dad was over the hill, and I wasn't entirely sure what that meant either.
I think his secretaries or administrative assistants sat all of it up for him. I don't recall who it was because he fired her shortly thereafter. My dad hated surprises like that. I'm kidding. My dad laughed along with everyone else. And I probably just smiled like a goof, pretending to get it all.
It's crazy how much the age 40 has changed, though. It doesn't seem that old anymore. It doesn't seem "over the hill" anymore. Or does it? Is it because I'm turning 40 that it doesn't seem that old? Or is it because there are still so many hot celebrities over 40? Or is it because I just got married one year shy of forty? Or is it because I feel like I finally know something about life at 40?
I'll admit it, I don't feel as mature or as wise as my parents probably were at 40. I think that's probably why I respect and admire them so much. As a person who married late, I honestly feel like I was way too immature to marry young...or younger. I was too selfish, too close-minded, and really had incorrect expectations for marriage. I'm sure my parents would admit they certainly didn't have it figured out either. I'm sure they still don't feel like they have it all figured out.
So my experience of turning 40 is radically different from my Dad's. It's not better or worse, it just is. I don't feel like I'm over the hill (unless the hill is my belly). Sure, things are backed up a bit, but that's okay too. I feel like I have (my wife says the same thing, too) this amazing appreciation for all these new experiences that I think only comes from having to wait.
And you know, things will probably get better. Honestly, I fear writing that out, but God is working on getting me to let go of that fear. Because it's okay to hope. It's okay to expect the next ten years to be even better than the last.
Dude, seriously, the squirrels in our back yard are having a serious wrestling match. One just pile-drived another.
Which reminds me of something else my mom said. Wait, the squirrels remind me of my mom, not wresting matches. She enjoys watching squirrels out of her living room window. (I probably shouldn't have said that.) At any rate, she texted me later that morning, as if she could tell what was on my mind, and said, "Your Grandpa Logue was 46 when Dad was born."
Grandpa also lived on a hill.
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