Yeeps

Mammoo dogface in the banana patch.

That is about all my brain can produce at dis momentous.  I be a bit frired.  Yeeps.

Undt mein toes is tellin mein selfen dat I meinst haf pushed dem ein bitten too fardt dis veekend. 

It’s scary when I think in a fake german accent.

See my new specs?  Cool and hip, eh?  Alyssa, my teen daughter helped me to pick them out, although I had already selected them on my own.  The actual purchase required her approval, though.  A few years ago, I picked out glasses on my own and promptly was marched back to the optometrist to select a new pair.  I was not about to let that happen again.

These have a nerd feature to them — magnetic clip on sunglasses.  I think that is cool.  Practical and not close to being as nerdy as those glasses that turn to sunglasses in the sunlight.  My magnetic clip ons are nerdalicious.

My repaired left foot is feeling a bit overused at the moment.  I’m blaming the fool foot for telling me that it’s feeling great, thus giving me permission to play league softball on Friday night (double off the fence down the left field line and three hits — WHOOT), mowed the lawn yesterday afternoon, followed by two hours of singletrack on the mountain bike, then splitting a jumbo 180 ball bucket of balls with Nate at the golf driving range last night.  Nate and I played our first round of golf together this afternoon, eighteen holes.  This over fifty guy is listening to his body scream over and over right now — WTF ARE YOU CCCRAAAAZZZZZYYYY!!!!??!!!

You know it.  What better way to show it by overdoing it?  Ummmm..  whoot.  Good luck getting out of bed in the morning.  If I can lift my arm to hit the snooze, I will.  Several times.

I should show off my surgery scar.  It’s cool.  Since it has been pleasantly Spring like this weekend, I have been sporting flip flops and showing off the scar, just like the guys did in Jaws. 

“Bunion shark.  Nasty one.”

Oh, and I whipped my smug thirteen year old on the golf course today.  He’s been playing for a few weeks.  Dad improved his mental game over the winter, apparently.  Whoot again.

Oh, and Nate earned his first pay as a caddie yesterday morning.  He’s complaining about being sore.  Welcome to the world of the working stiff, son.  HA!!!!! 

HA!  HA! HA!  Undt HA!!!

Errrrrr… I had better go to bed.  I might have to actually do some work tomorrow.  All play and no work makes Stevie a dull boy.

My new glasses are hip and cool.  Admit it.

This World Is Not My Own

Tags

husband, neighbors, relaxation, riding, Wife

I’m just a’passin through.

Last night was a beautiful evening in Chicagoland, temperatures in the sixties and sunny with a slight bit of wind, one of those Mondays where I sat in the office imagining myself in spandex (contrary to my normal imaginings, which are watching Batman movies on J-Lo’s white spandex clad back side).  Of course, Mir called me at 4:25 PM, asking me if I could stop and get charcoal on the way home from work, then could some brats for the family’s dinner.

“But, but…” (and not J-Lo’s, again)

“Oh yeah, you probably want to ride tonight.  But this might be the only night it’s going to be nice enough to cook out on the deck.”

“But, but….gaaaaacckkkkk”

And I proceeded to ask if she could check in the storage bin on the deck to see if I already had enough charcoal, then run down the street to get a small bag of charcoal if there wasn’t enough.

“But, but….” It was Mir’s turn, “how do I know if there is enough?”

*sigh*

If it’s a nice evening, I can count on Augie, my retired neighbor, to be outside sitting in front of his house with more than one can of PBR surrounding him.  He gets real chatty when PBR and nice weather is involved.  As I pulled into the driveway, there he was, perched in a lawn chair and waving me over as I stopped my car.

“Hey neighbor, come on over.  I have one thing to tell you and you’re not going to believe it.”

I looked west as I set my foot out of the car.  There looked to be maybe two hours of sunlight left.  Since Augie was holding up two cans of PBR as I strolled over, I knew that a good portion of that sunlight was going to be spent jousting with Augie.  He motioned to his son-in-law, the beer sloshing out of the can in his hand.

“OK, Cardinal fan, you ever met anyone who doesn’t know who Stan the Man is?”  Augie is a good natured man, so it wasn’t a mean statement.  But I knew from his tone that I might as well have a seat.  “I would offer you a beer, but you’re probably going for a ride aren’t you?”

A half hour later I managed to sneak away as Augie’s wife pulled in the driveway.

The bright orange cord extended from one of our garage outlets and under the door into our house.  I followed it inside, down the hall and upstairs where the whine of my shop vac was screeching loudly.  Both animals were cowering at the bottom of the stairs, so I knew that Mir had been at it for a while.  Our vacuum cleaner was sitting in the middle of the kitchen where my floor obsessed wife had left it earlier, probably when she called me about the charcoal.  For some reason, Mir likes to use my shop vac inside the house, especially when she is in the mood to move things around.  Why she has to use my shop vac, I don’t know.  It’s suckage is superior to the house vacuum, but it also vents right back into the air, so it’s not really all that great for inside. 

And it’s MINE.  This world is not my own.

I should have headed right for my closet and I would have done so had the shop vac not been blocking the door.  Mir saw me.  She had that ‘I want to discuss everything in the world right now’ look on her face.  I looked west out the hall window.  The sun was sinking lower in the horizon.

Fifteen minutes later, I poked Nick the Sheltie as he slept beside me to startle him into a bark.  He distracted Mir long enough for me to escape to my walk in closet down the hall, where I pulled on my tights and jersey while Mir kept talking about all the things she wants us to spend money on.

This world really is not my own.

But I did get my ride in.  And I cooked the brats as I helped Miriam figure out why the desktop computer wouldn’t start up.  My wife growls and snarls at that machine while complaining about how long it takes to start up.  I walked over and unplugged the external hard drive that our daughter had left on, then restarted the computer for Mir, then went back out to turn over the brats.

This world really is not my own.  I did manage to prop my feet up for a few minutes at a time in between the “DAAAAAAAD” and “STEVE CAN YOU HELP ME” and….well….

 

 

Sunday Night Sounds

Tags

mountain bike, Nate

I know I just posted a blog, but, well, I want to write another.

At the moment, I am still downstairs at our kitchen table with my laptop in front of me.  Behind me is the furnace, which means I can hear what is going on upstairs through the furnace vents.  Nate is upstairs in his bedroom, playing his guitar and singing.  It’s nice.  Ever hear a song by Fun called ‘Carry On’?  That’s what he just finished singing.

When I listen to him, it kind of makes all of the other nonsense I experience with him seem like nothing.  It’s not, I know.  The boy and I spent quite a bit of time sniping at each other this weekend, so it’s a good thing to end it this way, listening to him sing sweetly as he plays.

He is on a bit of a high at the moment.  Caddy class started this afternoon and he got to caddie for someone as practice, earning a nice tip for his efforts.  It was a cold day, but sunny, and a good one to be outdoors on a golf course.  The course he will be caddying at is like a garden, so it’s even better for him.

And I took the time I had to myself to test my surgically repaired foot by riding my mountain bike off road, on some of my favorite single track.  Believe me, riding took a lot off of my shoulders, especially when my foot responded well to the extra effort it takes to ride.  I like.. very much.  I needed the ride as it had been a rough week at work with a lot of pressure.

Alyssa helped me pick out new glasses yesterday afternoon, then we spent the rest of the afternoon sipping coffee at Starbucks, looking at shoes, shopping for clothes, walking through my candy store (bicycles), buying golf shoes, and running errands.  I don’t get hours like that with my daughter often, so I take them when I can get them.  It makes me smile.

The clock just turned over ten PM.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Didgeridoo Dad

Tags

brother, didgeridoo, humor

Today’s blog might just be one of my favorites, although I have yet to write it, which explains why I say might just be instead of is.  What excites me so is the opportunity to say/write the word ‘didgeridoo’.

I want to pause for a second.  Reading over the beginning of this particular piece, it has become apparent that I am reading one certain blog a bit too often, a blog belonging to Ted Nixon and his fugly udder Ned.  The voice inside my head sounds exactly the same as when I read his blog, a bit of a nasal upper register lisp.  If you see his blog, you will know exactly what I mean.  (oh great, I just hacked and spewed milk on my computer screen — probably because I said fugly udder)

Back to my blog.  The didgeridoo one.

My brother, Mark, is a man of many talents, a renaissance man of sorts. He looks smart. He is smart. He holds more than one college degree (more than one means several) and speaks several languages. He has a didgeridoo and his wife is proud of it.  So is he, so much so that he is inclined to show it off.  Not every man can do that.

I had to say that. It sounds dirty. You can’t take the teenager out of the man.  Or is that supposed to be you can’t take the boy out of the man?  Either way, I have proved once again my sophomoric tendency.

Mark is holding his didgeridoo in the picture.  It’s longgggggggg and hhhhhard.  Wood.  Eucalyptus, as a matter of fact.  Some poor koala bear is going hungry because Mark wanted a didgeridoo.

What was I going to say?

Oh yeah.  My brother, the one that stole all the brains in my family, plays all kinds of musical instruments.  One of his several degrees is a music degree, a performance degree.  But Mark is a corporate lawyer, so he just gets to play his music for fun.  An entire room of his house is dedicated to all of the keyboards, instruments, and recording equipment he has.  The room is big enough to fit his didgeridoo.  He plays his didgeridoo there.

Mark also plays his didgeridoo in church.  The first time I ever heard a didgeridoo was when I visited Mark at the downtown Chicago church where he lended his immense talent to the worship band.  We sang ‘Amazing Grace’ with didgeridoo accompaniment.  If you have never heard a didgeridoo, it sounds like a mother whale searching for it’s lost baby whale (I would think it’s pretty hard for a whale to get lost, but humor me here).  The sound is very sorrowful, a low pitched and sorrowful moan.

*BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

That’s how it sounds.  Trust me.  It does.

*BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

♫ Amaaaazingggg grace, how sweet the sound ♫

*BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

♫ That saved a wretch like me ♫

*BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

By that point, I was already feeling a bit wretched.  Not about to retch, but wretched.  I got to say ‘didgeridoo’, ‘wretch’, and ‘retch’ in one blog.  Cool.

♫ I once was lost, but now am found ♫

*BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

♫ Was blind but now I seeeeeeee ♫

The congregation sang all of the verses, accompanied by the haunting moan of Mark’s didgeridoo, including the “when we’ve been there ten thousand years BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” verse.  From that day on, I hear the didgeridoo in my head every time I sing ‘Amazing Grace’, possibly due to the BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa still bouncing around the expanse inside my head.

Mark showed his didgeridoo to his daughter’s kindergarten class the other day.  They are learning about Australia, Anna’s teacher heard that Mark has an awesome didgeridoo, and she wanted to see it.  He obliged.  All of the children sang ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ while he played the didgeridoo.  OK, maybe not, but that seems mildly funny so I threw that into this story.  All of the children were fascinated by the instrument, a bit disappointed that Mark is a pale white man instead of an aborigine, and they all got a chance to make the instrument go BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Anna was enthralled, as you can see by the picture.

I wonder if Mark uses the didgeridoo to help lull Anna to sleep each night while Mel, his wife, sings to her.

♫ Luuuulllllabbyyyy and good night ♫

*BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*

Just Not Right

Allegory of the senses by Jan Brueghel the Elder, Museo del Prado (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s that smell?

Until I figured out where the new scent was coming from, it drove me nuts.  For hours.  All day.

Then I figured it out.  I bought new underarm deodorant last Sunday afternoon.  Irish Spring, for those who really want to know and need to know the details or else it bothers them all day.  For hours.  Every time I raised my arms, put my hands behind my head to ponder, the oddly sweet aroma wafted through my nostrils.

I don’t think it’s a manly smell.

Can Can

Tags

anxiety, heights, mocking cans, worrying wife

anxiety (Photo credit: FlickrJunkie)

I frowned at the can of roof sealer, mocking me as it sat perched at the edge of the corner gutter where the garage roof meets the side of our house.  The insolent can had jumped out of the plastic bag in my hand as I squeezed through the second floor hall window to the garage roof, laughing as it rolled down the roof to a place it knew I would not want to get close to.  I’m not kidding nor am I crazy.  That can was sneering at me, taunting me.

Come on, chicken man, come over to the edge of the roof if you dare.

Perhaps it was that sarcastic can that made me forget that I am afraid of heights.  Without hesitation, I stomped down the shingled pitch of the garage roof, bent over, looked that can in the eye.

“How dare you mock me, little can.  Prepare to feel the pain, suckerrrrrr.”

I bent over, the realization of the height hitting me as I stared straight down at the ground below, reluctant to try to grab the can.  I kicked the can, literally, sending the rebellious sphere on a plunge to the grass below.

“Serves you right.”  I thumbed my nose at the groaning aluminum adversary as it writhed in pain.

“Who are you talking to and what are you doing up here?  Aren’t you a bit close to the edge?  DON’T FALL.  OH MY GOODNESS!”

My ever anxious spouse was sticking her head out the window behind me,  the panic escalating with each word.  Suddenly I realized where I was standing, which was at the very edge of the garage roof.  Normally I would be mortified, but the brief argument with the mocking can had somehow at least temporarily cured my vertigo.  I was Spiderman.  I looked out over our backyard, Nick the sheltie peering up at me with his tongue hanging out, a hopeful expression in his dog eyes that I would come down from my perch to throw a tennis ball for him.

I turned to witness Miriam clutching her temples between her hands, her crazed eyes pleading for me to crawl back inside the house through the window.  When she gets that way, anxious that is, the frustration  monster begins to rear its ugly head.  Either I am going to get impatient with her or her anxiety is going to consume me.  Really I didn’t want either to happen, not this time.

“I just need to check out that hole in the roof, see what needs to be done to fix it.  I’m fine.  For some reason, the height isn’t bothering me right now.”

I turned and stepped over the crown of the garage roof, towards the front of the house.  Years before, when a crew had replaced the siding on our house, that crew had not covered the garage and porch roof when they replaced the second floor siding, damaging the roof in the spot where the front of our garage roof meets the front porch roof.  Now there is a gaping hole in that spot, at least two feet long and six inches wide.  All of the shingles in that area have blown away.  Each step I took down the roof towards the hole prompted a nervous “oh my goodness, oh my goodness” from Miriam.

“Why don’t I just call Ken to come help you?  You really shouldn’t be doing this.  Aren’t you just dying up here?”  When she gets nervous, she asks a lot of questions.  I suppose this was one anxiety that I have earned.  I do hate ladders,usually freezing about halfway up a ladder.  Our friend Ken came over last year, at Miriam’s beckon, when she got tired of watching me fret over climbing a ladder to the top of our roof to fix some wind damage to the aluminum flashing on our chimney.  Ken likes to climb ladders, claims to adore heights, and he owes me several favors (or thinks he does) after years of maintaining his families bikes for him.  He scaled the ladder with little thought and fixed the damaged chimney quickly.

“I can do this.  Really.  I can.  You’re not really helping me by worrying over me.  If you can’t stand watching, then go find something else to do.”  What I didn’t want to say was that I was trying to be extra quiet in the first place, hoping I wouldn’t wake her from her nap and therefore not giving her cause to worry, but the giggling can had taken care of that.  She had heard the can hit the roof and came running to see what was the matter.

She left.  I went back to the cavernous hole in the roof, scowled at bit at the hole, decided that the little patch kit I had would not be sufficient, and returned to my worrying wife where she waited in the upstairs hall.

“Who were you talking to out there? (still nervous and asking questions) You always get a little crazy when you try stuff like that.”

Whatever.  And the worrisome waltz of questions began.  Why don’t you let someone else fix that hole?  Don’t you think it is better if we pay someone to replace the roof instead of you doing it yourself?  Do you really think you are going to be able to stand on that roof to fix it?

On and on.  Anxiety.  Worry.  Of all the things I like about my wife, her anxiety is the one thing I can not stand to be around.  It consumes me if I let it.  When the barrage of questions start, I can feel the knot begin to grow.  All spouses worry, some more than others, and I am married to one of the more than others.

What to do?  Well, it’s been more than twenty years.  I do what most husbands do when their wives start lobbing the worries on them – flee.  Thank goodness I needed to take a shower and get ready for our daughter’s band concert yesterday afternoon.

And there you have it.

Oh geez, that can is still out there.  I think it has suffered enough.

Trust And Obey

Tags

church, hymns, memories

♫ For there is no other way to be happy in Jesusssss, than to trust and obey ♫

The old standard hymns are still burned into my memory, permanently a part of me, ultimately a bit of what I am about.  Mention a phrase from one of those hymns and my brain finishes it off.

Surrender?

♫  I surrender all, I surrender all, all to Jesus I surrender, I surrender all  ♫

That one brings back memories of marathon last-man-standing altar calls sung with weak knees as our preacher beckoned all to come forward to accept Jesus in baptism, rededicate, join the church.  When she wasn’t playing the piano, my mother would be gripping the pew in front of us tightly, praying under her breath something like “please, God, let somebody respond now” and not because she was concerned for lost souls.  I surrender all took on a whole different meaning in those moments of survival.

Plea?

♫ Just as I am without one plea, but that thy blood wast shed for me ♫

This one was a favorite of a preacher our church, a small town Restoration movement Christian church, used in the brief tenure he spent in our pulpit.  He was a former major league baseball player, saved from the clutches of alcohol, fancied himself a bit of a Billy Sunday, ambitious to the point of excess.  Our church grew in number quickly during the time he spent at our church.  I heard a lot of old time revival style preaching then, not only delivered by Pastor Prevatt, but also by the likes of the many revival preachers he brought in.  I was baptized during one of those revivals, a night when a large man named Raldo Cook who had obviously participated in many potluck dinners delivered a sermon about coming to the feast, complete with a freshly cooked banquet meal laid out across a large table at the front of the church ‘sanctuary’ (I hate the term ‘sanctuary’ to this day).  We sang ‘Just As I Am’ so many times during that period of our church, my early teen years, that my brain still goes numb when I think about the hymn.

The front part of this church building was the new addition built when I was a boy. The original was one of those one room brick buildings with a basement under the ‘sanctuary’ and a large white wood steeple and bell tower. The church complex is quite large now.

Our quiet central Illinois farm town church experienced a bit of Bible belt leadership in those days.  We even had a thirty minute television show each week called “Get All Excited”.  I was on the show a few times, lending my musical skills on my trumpet as well as singing while my mother played her country honky tonk style piano (I still love hearing her play).  One time I sang ‘I Wish We’d All Been Ready’ with the youth choir.  Pastor Prevatt could pound a softball.  Our church softball team was the talk of the county.

I could go on.  Those old hymns hold dear memories for me.  In a way, they were a way to place the gospel on my heart.  No wonder God instructed us to teach our children, put his word in our hearts.  The Jews of old carried the word of God on their person, called phylacteries, scriptures placed in small leather bags or boxes to be carried on their arm or forehead by a leather cord.  God knows the way he put us together and knows that we need to memorize, to put his word in our heart, and carry that reminder there for when we really need him.  That is a cool thought to me, not a scary one.  Those hymns, no matter what memories may be attached to them, are the comfort and reminder to me that I often need.  When those hymns come to mind, I remember Whose I am, where my heart lives.

And I remember my roots.  I need that.  So many stories, so many memories tied to those years growing up in that small town, in that traditional yet very alive church.

—–

Thanks, Ned, for unwittingly providing the inspiration for today’s blog.  Keep wearing your Neo black.

Feminine Fatherhood

Tags

daughter, father/daughter, smarmy musings

Had someone told me some 17 years ago that fathering a daughter required getting in touch with my feminine side, I would have ha-ha-ha laughed in their face.  Who me?  Mister macho sports guy?  Mister watcher of Rocky films and everything masculine?

I’m watching ‘Switched At Birth’ with my daughter and wife, getting snide comments about the idiocy of the husband in the show.

“A real husband would have offered to help.  Geez, Dad!”

“Sorry, I missed that last part.”  Alyssa and Miriam rolled their eyes at each other as if to say ‘yeah, right, sure you did’.

“Ummm, Dad, the mom said she would be right up to bed after she finished washing the dishes in the sink.  He said ‘you’re such a gem’ instead.”  (another roll of eyes)

“Oh.  Instead of what?”  TV show dads can be such dorks.  I tried to give my best ‘what a dork’ look.

“He should have just helped her.  Duh, Dad.”  (both women on each side of released a sarcastic psssshhhhh in my direction)

I have learned in the last few years it’s best to take my lumps like a man, sit there in front of the chickie teen soap opera rather than flee.  Bonding with my girls over female TV or movie dramas earns extra points.  Bonus if I can actually regurgitate the plot, relate to the characters.  If I can produce the names of the characters of a show in front of my daughter’s friends, I’m golden.

Ba. Daphne.  All in their over the top dramatic situations.  Two girls, one a poor deaf girl, the other an artist living like a fish out of water in a well to do family.  Both switched at birth.

Anne Shirley.  Gilbert Blythe.  Marilla Cuthbert and her brother, Matthew.  All of Green Gables.  My own little ginger snickers and blushes every time Anne goes into a tither about Gilbert calling her carrot top.  Anne of Green Gables living on picturesque Prince Edward island.

Mean Girls.  High School Musical (I know all of the songs, even a few dance routines).  And there is always Taylor Swift, One Direction, Justin Bieber, and lots of other girlie stuff.

I learned to appreciate all of those things, entertainment I would never have learned to like had I never fathered a daughter.  I do.  I even like cats, our cat.

It started with Barney, a big fruity purple dinosaur who, prior to finding out how talented he truly was, was anathema to any guy.  Soon my daughter progressed to the Wiggles, once again showing me that four guys singing and dancing in colorful Star Trek costumes could truly be awesome and even masculine.  WAKE UP, JEFF!!!  Things progressed to iCarly, a truly funny show and Good Luck Charlie.

I read every book in the Warriors series, discussed the intricate details of the clash of wild cat clans with my enthralled daughter and her friends.  We stood/sat in line for hours just to meet Erin Hunter, the main author of the series, at a book signing.  It was a wonderful time with my daughter, a time when she discovered that I love books.  We moved on to the Percy Jackson ‘Lightning Thief’ series, Inkheart, Bridge to Terebithia, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings… and my daughter’s tastes began to mingle with my own.

She became my kindred spirit as I strived to become hers, by sharing whatever I could with her.  As I learned to be in touch with my feminine side with her, she in turn learned to enjoy and at least understand what makes her dad tick.  Now she can recite most of the key scenes in Monty Python’s ‘The Holy Grail’, guffaws with me each time we watch ‘Airplane’ together, FORCED her boyfriend not only to watch ‘Sleepless In Seattle’ with her but also all three ‘Lord of the Rings’ movies.

Along the way, she has helped complete the relationship I have with Miriam, my wife, by figuring out the things that make me tick that her own mother has not figured out in twenty some years.  Daughters are a gift in more ways than one.

One more year I have her.  She turned 17 at the beginning of this month.  We’re going to visit colleges together next month.  I find myself wondering what my life is going to be like without her.

In the meantime, put on another episode of ‘Switched At Birth’, please.

English: The “Anne of Green Gables Bridge” on the EICanada headquarters property in Stouffville, Ontario. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Alyssa Rocks Another One!

I just received one of those texts from my daughter where I could practically hear her excited voice as I read her words —

“Hey Dad, I just got named features editor for next year’s school newspaper!”

That is a real big deal for her.  She has been writing for the newspaper, both features and stories as well as an anonymous advice column.  One of the minors she is considering for college is journalism, so this appointment will look good on her college resume’.  Alyssa has been talking to me about the possibility of being appointed as editor — she already knew she was being recommended by a teacher and also a staff advisor.

My girl writes for fun, probably the biggest thing we have in common.  She is in a little club this month to write for Camp NaNoWriMo and has a NaNo certificate on her bedroom wall.  I really have enjoyed watching how her writing skills are progressing as she matures and learns.  I may never be published, but I may just get the chance to see my daughter’s work published!

Stick A Fork In Me

Tags

bicycle, God, healed, recovery

IT HAS HAPPENED!!!!!!!!

No, it’s not the second coming. I would be gone and I probably wouldn’t leave a note behind for my family.  I would also be posting this blog from a WiFi hot spot in heaven.  Hey you, get off of my cloud.

Nope.  But I about high enough to be in heaven.  I called my dad a few minutes ago and he told mom as he handed her the phone —

“Watch out, it’s Steve and he’s on one of his highs.”

I love you, dad.  But you can’t ride my bicycle.

YES, IT HAS HAPPENED!!!!!!!!

No, it’s not the attack of the exclamation points.

Steve wasn’t home for dinner.

My.. first.. bicycle.. ride.. since.. foot… surgery.  I thought this day was never going to get here.  At least not this soon.  January 10th was the surgery and the surgeon said that three months was the minimum (urgh, argh) recovery time.  Six weeks ago my doctor said that I would be wearing the walking boot for six weeks or more, definitely not riding in six weeks, depending on if the fused bone takes and heals.

This afternoon was my six week check up.  Doctor Sunshine showed me the xray, pointed to where the bone had grown around the plate and screws, smiled and said

“Congratulations.  You can throw away that walking boot.  Get out that orange Adidas shoe you have been saving your left foot.  Walk.  You can try riding a bike but be careful.  The exercise is going to help alleviate the swelling… and I don’t want to see you again unless the foot is falling off.”

He shook my hand.  It’s nice to have a doc who rides.  I’ll likely see him on a group ride some time this summer.

The first shoe I wore on my new left foot was my Shimano cycling shoe.  I got home with the sun shining, hardly a breeze blowing, and plenty of daylight left.  We were supposed to have thunderstorms all day, so the weather was a bit of a miracle.  God was telling me to go for it.  No one was home.  There was no question what I was going to do.

My bike looked at me questioningly as I opened the garage door.  Ready?

The spandex fit like a glove.  A very tight glove.  Three months of riding the couch has added a few pounds.  Three months without feeling spandex close to my skin is too long, but it felt soooooo good.

You may stop reading to gag, if required.

Now imagine a 51 year old man bending over a bicycle pump in spandex.  The fssshhh fssssshh fsssshhhhh of the pump filling the high pressure tires of my road bicycle was music to my ears.  I gathered gloves, helmet, water bottle, and shoes.

Ready.

The familiar clop clop clop of the hard soled bike shoes and cleats on the asphalt driveway as I walked my bike out to the street.  I sighed a happy sigh as I stretched my right leg over the top tube, clicked the cleat on my left foot into the pedal, pushed off with my right as the saddle met my back side, then the right cleat clicked in.  The hum of the tires soothed.

I was riding again.  Right turn, turning the pedals to propel my light titanium bicycle forward.  Left turn.

And God showed me that my return to the bike was blessed.  Rolling towards me was my friend, Jim, the guy riding through the woods on my blog header, one of my best riding friends.  Coincidence?  Some times you just have to admit that God does stuff like that.

Best ride ever.  Ten miles out of the box, out of healing.  It felt good with hardly a twinge of pain.

Miriam greeted me in the garage as I pulled in from the ride, laughing at me as I gave a loud whoop with my fist in the air.

It’s going to be OK.  It’s going to be great.  All is well.

It has happened.