Trust: Build me a house.

What is a house?  A house is a structure serving as a dwelling for one or more persons.  It is a structure on its own piece of land, perhaps with a lush green lawn and plants outside.  Perhaps it sits on the edge of an ocean, or down a long lane in the midst of a beautiful forest, surrounded by tall and majestic trees.  Maybe the house is in the heart of a city or on the edge of a lake or the middle of a lush green field of grass.  It has a pitched roof, walls covered in brick or siding.  The house has windows that we can open and close at will which serve to let in fresh air, lock in heat or air conditioning or lock out a nasty downpour or windstorm.  The house has doors so that we may enter and leave but they also serve to keep us and/or our possessions locked inside when necessary.  

Before a house is built, the possibilities are wide open as to the size, layout, number of rooms, windows, doors and type of house if one were to build it themselves.  Will I build a colonial, ranch or a cape?  A bungalow, log cabin or split level?  Even if you were to build an igloo, to build a house, one must first grade and prepare the site the house is to be built upon and pour it’s foundation.   

Many factors determine the progress of construction:  time, weather, the people we have to deal with such as contractors and sub-contractors schedules, money and cash flow to name but a few.  Eventually however, the house’s foundation is completed having been made from bricks, cinder blocks and concrete with many reinforcement bars in needed locations.  Once the concrete is poured, it hardens and forms massive concrete beams on which the house rests and construction of the floors can begin.  The floors are built in direct contact with the foundation, carefully framed out with pressure treated lumber.  Once the floor’s framing is complete, the floor itself is laid on top of the framing and the walls can now be constructed.  We can begin to see how the house will take shape.  We imagine the walls being built, the windows put into place, the layout of the rooms.  We see ourselves living in this house and because we are building it, it will be exactly what we want.  Right?  

The exterior walls are up next.  These are built on the ground and then erected and raised into place.  They are constructed with a sole plate and two top plates to provide strength and durability to our house and ensure it will last and stand for many years to come.  Strength and durability are important characteristics needed to build a house.

The exterior walls are wrapped on the outside with house wrap and insulated from the inside to keep us warm and snug.  Once the exterior walls are up, the interior walls can be constructed and the trusses to support the roof are made.  The trusses are then attached to the walls - again to provide strength and durability.  Inside the house, things are now beginning to look enclosed however, we still need to put in the windows and doors so that we can enter and exit, let in and shut out the elements whenever we choose to do so.

Once the outside of the house is complete and it is sufficiently formidable, protected from everything outside the house - the outside world and weather; it is then that the interior construction can begin.

With all the renovations going on in my house, while I am not building a house, I am still building a house am I not?  Can we, you or me, be likened to the building of a house?  Let me see if I can explain what I mean.  A child is born.  This child could be me, it could be you.  The time, meaning year of birth, doesn’t matter.  The child is born with trust.  We draw our first breath and the only thing we know is how to trust.  We trust someone will hold us, comfort us, feed us and that someone will love us.   We trust we will not be dropped on our heads, that our soiled diapers will be changed, that someone will be there when we wake up and cry and we trust that that we will not be neglected.  We don’t even realize it as a baby because well, we’re babies, but we’re born with trust.  Initially, it’s all we have and we give it freely.  Much like our house, it is our foundation.  The possibility of what lies ahead is endless.

Trust is the foundation of so many emotions such as happiness, joy, excitement and the one emotion we all desire:  love.  The breaking of trust is responsible for many other emotions such as sadness, disappointment and fear.  

As we live our lives and grow, we inevitably experience things that erode our trust.  It begins with simple little things like when we are learning to walk and falling before someone can catch us and it moves to bigger things like finding out a friend was saying unkind things or perhaps a reneged promise by a parent.  As we grow older, we become even more jaded and speculative: “What did he/she mean by that?” “What will he/she think if I reach for their hand/offer a hug, will they take it the wrong way?”  Trust is replaced by walls:  cinder and concrete block, by reinforcement bar… by brick.  We’ve started building our house.

Mortar between those bricks is laid with every disappointment, with every broken promise and every emotional and physical pain inflicted by others in our lives and the wall grows higher.  We become more focused on the maintenance of those walls and our interest in tearing it down wanes because we no longer have that sense of trust we were inherit-ably born with.  

We begin guarding our hearts, our minds and our souls in a very proprietorial way.  

Is it any wonder then, as adults, that we are afraid to open up to others, to express our feelings or opinions?  Do we open the front door, the back door or just a window?  We try to choose our words carefully and we rein in our spontaneity.  We do all these things because we are worried about how it will be perceived by others and that our actions may be taken as more than others may welcome.  A different point of view or difference of opinion become major barriers as we are all busy building our own houses.

Very few people can build a house alone.  I don’t know what’s really being constructed in your house unless you tell me and you certainly don’t know what is being constructed in mine without asking.  No two houses are alike and no house is made of glass.  I would write more but I’m off to Home Depot myself for more building materials…..

Mulligan

I know absolutely nothing about golf and I must admit that I am more than a little but stumped at the whole concept of golf.  What is golf anyway?  Is it a game?  Is it a sport?  Or is it just an excuse to spend an afternoon with friends having a few laughs and a few drinks in a beautiful, outdoor setting?  Isn’t hiking just as good and if so, why should I chase this little white ball around trying to put it into this tiny hole in the ground while enjoying the outdoors?  But I jest…

I have ‘mini-golfed’ (you try hitting that itty bitty ball between the windmill sails).  I have ‘hit balls’ at the driving range in an attempt to impress a date.. this went terribly however as I swing a golf club much like a baseball bat I was told – ok so he should have taken me to the batting cage instead.  Who knew you had to grip a golf club and swing it a certain way?  Certainly not me.  Give me a bat and I’ll knock that (larger) ball out of the park!  In any event, I don’t think either of those things count as ‘playing golf’. 

I’ve hardly ever been on a course, I have no idea why golfers yell “fore”, I can’t hold a club correctly and well, hell, the only clubs I know about are on my playing cards.  In fact, the closest I’ve ever come to golfing was probably on that driving range, aiming the ball as best I could at the ball collectors.  (Hey, just because they’re in a covered cart doesn’t eliminate them as a viable target does it?)  Needless to say, I don’t golf.  I do however, know what a ‘mulligan’ is. 

I know what a mulligan is because years ago I dated a golfer and the term ‘mulligan’ stuck with me.  Prior to dating him, I’d never heard the term.  He attempted to explain to me the rules of golf and I went with him and his friends on several occasions to see for myself what the game (or sport?) was all about.  The only thing I retained was the term ‘Mulligan’ (perhaps because in my futile attempts to play, I needed so many of them).  In it’s simplest terms, a mulligan is a “do-over”.  If you hit a bad shot and it was agreed by all parties in the group, you could “take a mulligan” and replay the stroke.  As I understand it, this has to be agreed upon before the start of the round of golf however, and there is usually only one mulligan allowed per player – at least that’s how they used to play.  Technically speaking, a mulligan is not legal in the official rules of golf, and is most often employed during friendly rounds by golf buddies; or during charity tournaments.

Too bad life doesn’t offer mulligans.

When I was young and I didn’t know what a mulligan was, I remember how myself and groups of friends outside playing games would settle arguments:  After much arguing, someone would eventually yell “do-over!” and the controversial out, or the player who may have been tagged, got to ‘do it over’ - the game moved on. We gave and got ‘a mulligan’ at will.  As an adult, that seems astoundingly diplomatic.  Yet as a child, this sort of thing happened over and over without too much thought.  It seemed fair.  So what happened and when did it happen, that as we all got older, the do-over suddenly disappeared?  Why can’t we, as adults, apply the same logic – necessary, diplomatic, fair, fun, complimentary logic – to our lives?

Someone recently asked me if I would write about this particular subject and I replied that I had already.  Then I went back and looked at what I had written years ago about “If I had it to do all over again” and “what would I change”.  What I had written then was quite different from what I think and how I feel now.  Why?  Because, things change. 

To be sure, not everything has changed and there are still many things I’ve said and done that I wish I could take back or do over.  As I have written previously: “We spend our lives working on ourselves, healing, changing, growing and becoming more enlightened..”  While I still believe this holds true, how often do we hear phrases such as these:  “what if?”, “If I only knew then what I know now…” or “I wish I hadn’t/had..”  These phrases, this type of thinking, has given way to and has been the subject of, endless science fiction works.  Outside the realm of fiction however, I don’t think it’s possible to go back in time and change past events, so why do we ask ourselves these questions so much?  Why do we give so much weight to these things?  Is it because we refuse to put the past behind us?  Do we dwell too much on what happened and what could have been? 

Let’s think about this for a minute:  For example, we have an argument/disagreement, lose our cool and speak those unforgiveable words.  The next day, week or month, we apologize and we are friends again.  Perhaps we don’t apologize, but over time things are simply let go and forgotten.  Here’s the thing:  we don’t ever really forget do we?  Regardless of who the other person was on the receiving end of those unforgivable words is, and whether or not they forgive us, we ourselves still remain horrified by the degree of our own insensitivity and agonize over the distance our words have placed between ourselves and whomever the words were spoken to.  If we are the recipient of those unforgivable words, although we may forgive we never really forget - do we?

Perhaps the anguish and distress those words caused make us realize how sensitive we truly are to each other; how much we desire the closeness of the ones we love and care for; how much we want to be accepted and fit in.  There is usually what innately happened or the truth to a matter and then there is the perception that we create in our mind about what happened. Any realization of what really happened in the past compared to how we have always perceived it instantly changed the past for us.  Therefore, from that point up to the moment, everything self-adjusts according to the changed perception, does it not? If the reality of something that happened in the past could actually be changed, we wouldn’t really have any conscious recollection of it anyway now would we?

Some things change and some things don’t.  As “enlightened, changed, grown and healed” (quoting myself) as I’d like to think I am, I know that, speaking solely for myself, there still are many things I would change if I could.  I fancy myself a writer, albeit amateur, (insert laughter here – I did say ‘fancy’ ;).  I am not a conversationalist.   More often than not, what’s in my head usually pops right out of my mouth.   When I write, I get to put all the things rummaging around in there into some sort of order and I get to think before I proverbially speak, hence what I really want to say or convey comes through.  In the heat of the moment, the conversation, I’m stuck.  I’m either a babbling idiot because I don’t have enough time to organize my thoughts, or I feel so passionately about something that every thought in my head comes flowing out of my mouth.  Can I have my ‘mulligan’ now?  I guess that depends on who the current players are in this round of golf…

The Unsung Spouse Equivalant Award goes to,..

Yesterday morning I went to make a cup of coffee and the K-cup was already sitting in front of the Keurig machine waiting for me – along with my creamer I might add.  As a matter of fact, I had zero time last week to even buy K-cups (the kind I like anyway, not his kind which would do in a ‘coffee emergency pinch’) and yet, before I ran out, there was a brand new box.

I am not a morning person and cannot function without my coffee first, most times even before the dog gets let out or fed - coffee is very important to me.  Usually, I am up and about before he is and it’s rare that I am not.  Most mornings I stumble into the kitchen, trying to avoid being knocked over by the dog in his haste to show me whatever toy he has in his mouth while begging to be let out, rummage through the cabinet for a k-cup, schlep to the refrigerator for my creamer and anxiously await the aroma of that wonderful brew.  However, yesterday morning, all I had to do was lift the cover and press the button. Aaahhh..

He thinks I don’t notice these little things – but I do.  I notice all the other little things too and I got to thinking, there should be an ‘Unsung Spouse Equivalent  Award’…

Unlike the Oscars or the Emmy’s, these unique awards aren't given to the gifted and the beautiful actors/actresses on television or movie screens before huge audiences of people.  Instead, only the winners’ spouse equivalent and God witness the Unsung Spouse Equivalent Awards, which celebrate the unnoticed and unappreciated heroes and heroines of relationships.  Quick, somebody cue the music and the rainbow laser lights as we applaud and high-five this year’s champion.  This award is given in honor of such “little things” which include:

The man who combed through the box of “trash” his girlfriend was going to throw out and found the cover to the exhaust fan (along with several electrical outlet boxes, plugs and switches that couldn’t be found).

The man who sent the “you look very sexy tonight” text even though we were at the same club two weeks ago, who sent the picture of the dog with the caption “we miss you” and strung the rope lights around the gazebo while his girlfriend wasn’t home and sent that picture via text as well.

The man who brought dinner home, lit candles, built her a fire, mixed her a drink, opened the hot tub and stayed home with her because she was too emotionally exhausted to go out last Saturday night.

The man who puts the toilet seat DOWN and makes the bed every morning.  Always.

The man who warmed up his girlfriend’s truck all winter on every cold morning we woke up together.

The man who found a shelf for over the stove in the kitchen because it had been mentioned once that his girlfriend would really like a shelf there.

The man whose girlfriend sometimes believes her truck can run on gasoline fumes. He fills her tank and reminds her to charge her cell phone battery so hatchet murderers won't find her stranded along the highway at 11 PM after she’s gone out with her girlfriends.  (And he calls to make sure she is home safe.)

The man whose girlfriend is constantly ‘running late’…  He sits patiently and without comment as she finishes getting ready and/or getting things together.

The man who’s ‘stuff’ is always fair game. Everything from the tee-shirts and sweatshirts to the hard core items like the sawzall, skill saw and screw gun.

Unfortunately, there is no ‘trophy’, no plastic gold spray painted little figure holding up anything, no plaque with blue or gold edges around it.  There is only his knowledge that these things are noticed and appreciated by his girlfriend.

Paying It Forward

Yesterday we received a call at the shop.  Your standard call mind you, there was nothing that stood out or was different about it.  A motorist was on the side of the road, just down the street in town, trying to fix his wheel which was quite literally falling off his vehicle.

I took down the information and gave it to my fiancé who then got on the line with the gentleman.   He got in the tow truck and drove up to meet him.  Just another day, just another call.

My fiancé returned to the shop about forty minutes later. When I saw his face, I already knew (after six years, I can read him that way most times).  He explained to me that the motorist was missing lug nuts from the tire and one of the two remaining was stripped – in other words, it was useless.  The motorist explained to him that he really needed to get home and wasn’t sure what to do at this point.  It was late in the day and after several calls, it was impossible to get the lug nuts necessary to repair the vehicle properly “at that moment”.  

Being a bit “MacGyver”ish, (I’ve written about this before); my fiancé took one lug nut off each of the other wheels and put them on the wheel that was falling off.  He explained to the motorist this was not a long term or even technically ‘safe’ situation however, as long as he wasn’t going too far and drove slowly, he should make it home.  He advised him to call his garage the next day and schedule to have the lug nuts ordered and put on.

Job done, motorist on the road, yep just another day.  He asked what he owed for the road service.  In typical fashion, my fiancé told him he owed him nothing. “Do something nice for someone else today”.  That’s my man.  I wouldn’t want him any other way…

An old tattered photograph

I sat across the table looking at a man I don’t know.  I am studying him, his face, his hands, his mannerisms.  His eyes.  I supposed in my mind many times they were a cobolt blue or perhaps a shade of hazel but they are not.  They are brown. Like mine.  I search those eyes for a lot of things.. fear? Hope? Pain/hardship?  Is there any sincerity in there?   I’ve heard the eyes are the windows to the soul so I continue to look…

He has an ever so slight crack in his voice every now and again as he speaks to me and he fidgets like a school boy.  Ah, but I am no school girl and I won’t be captivated by boyish charms besides, this is a man across the table, not a boy.

He has a rugged, worldly look to him (or maybe it’s my imagination because that is what I want to see?)  Even at sixty-three and knowing what I know (or at least what I’ve heard anyway) the years have been kind to his outward appearance.  He is handsome.  His hair is brown.  Again, like mine.  I dye mine of course so he wouldn’t know what color it really is anyway and I’m not about to divulge this information or any other information for that matter.. just yet anyway.   He has a beard and a mustache and I see traces of gray hair in there.  Back to the eyes…

The waitress has brought us drinks and we browse the menu.  He announces he will probably get an antipasto salad.  I have been to this restaurant before, many, many times especially when I worked in this area, with my co workers.  I always ordered the antipasto.  Nine times out of ten visits, I ordered the antipasto.  I make no mention of this but agree that an antipasto sounds good and we decide to split a larger one with a side order of garlic bread.

I’ve met this man before.  I’ve known him,  to the extent any child can, before.  Most of what I recall isn’t good and I’m determined this time, this LAST time, to push that all aside and see for myself who this man is now because for me, it’s now that matters.  For now.

I look at his hands. They are on the table.  They are not especially big or thick hands but they suit him.  They are neatly folded together, fingers entwined into each other except when he reaches for his drink (a cranberry and soda water but that’s another story for another time).  It appears as though there may be some arthritis in them, they are ‘crooked’ to an extent.  They do not stand out but rather in an odd sort of way, blend in to the red and white checkered table cloth.  One of the fingers also seems to have been broken at one time.  There is a ring on his left finger but it is not a wedding band.  It looks from my side of the table to be perhaps a high school ring? I don’t ask.  His nails are clean and trim.  These are not working hands, they have not done a lot of physical labor and there are no calluses.  Back to the eyes…

Lunch arrives as we continue to make small talk about inconsequential items such as the weather, this past winter and how cold, harsh it was, how much snow there was.  There are at least fifty questions on the tip of my tongue along with another at least ten ‘statements’ I would like to make but I hesitate and end up saying nothing.  I wonder how many nothings are on the tip of his tongue?  Are there any?

Finally, quietly, he asks about my daughter.  I offer few details other than the standard “she’s well”.. ”she’s doing really good”.  How old is she, he asks. Back to the eyes as I tell him she is now twenty-two.   I see something in them.  Actually, I see a lot of things there, the least of which is shock.  I offer to show him some pictures and scoot around to his side of the table.  I pull out my Droid and begin scrolling through my life.. my house, my dog, my timeshares, my daughter.. the renovations I am doing at the house, the slate walk way I put in last summer, my girlfriends and I on vacation, out dancing, my fiance and I at The Sea Watch having dinner…  When I am through he is clearly overwhelmed and I am feeling satisfied with this knowledge, knowing he missed all these things.  Ah ha, I finally have the upper hand!

As I return to my side of the table, he excuses himself to the rest room, he has to check his blood sugar.  What? He is also diabetic?  He leaves with his kit and I push around in my mind this past hour or so much as I have pushed the salad around my plate.

He returns to the table and says he does not have “one of those things” (referring to my phone), hell, he doesn’t even have a cell phone he tells me, so he has no photographs to show me but one.  One of those hands I studied so astutely earlier reaches around to his back pocket to pull out an old, battered leather wallet.  It’s practically falling apart I think to myself as he carefully opens it and turns it in my direction.

There, in the center portion is an old, tattered photograph.  Cautiously, painstakingly and silent,  he removes the photo and I am able to see it fully now.  I recognize the younger face of the man sitting across the table from me – with the younger, much, much younger, face of myself.  So much for that upper hand.   Back to the eyes…