A Field of Dreams

We drove down the two-lane state roads and discovered a field of dreams. Corn and big farm houses with front porches and swings.

"Is this heaven?"

"No, this is Indiana."

"I could have sworn this was heaven."

"Is there a heaven?"

"Oh, yes. It's the place where dreams come true."

"Maybe this is heaven."

It wouldn't take much to get me to move back to a small town where I could leave my home unlocked and my keys in my car. Maybe a variation on the old saw is more true than I ever imagined. You can take the boy out from the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the boy.

I can see myself sitting on the swing with my wife and daughter watching the lightning bugs and listening to the music of the night.

We could ride bikes for hours on country roads. Stop and climb a tree, or two. Wade in a creek underneath a covered bridge.

Maybe for lunch we'd have some cold fried chicken and handmade potato salad. Enjoy some watermelon or homemade ice cream. And then lay underneath an apple tree and dream.

Later we could pick some apples. We wouldn't need a ladder. The limbs almost touch the ground because there are so many huge red delicious apples hanging from each branch.

You could make a pie. I don't know which is better, the flaky, buttery crust or the cinnamoney, gooey sauced apples.

"Could I have just a little more ice cream with my pie?" you ask.

"Of course you can," I say.

And it will be as though we dipped ourselves in magic waters. And the memories will be so thick we'll have to brush them away from our faces.

People will come. People will most definitely come. They won't even know why.

"Do you mind if we look around?"

"Not at all. It's just $20 per person."

And they will hand over the money without even thinking. For it is money they have and peace they lack.

In a few hours I will step back again through time. I'll see places I haven't seen in years and embrace friends I haven't known in decades. And together we will build a field of dreams where we can visit—anytime.

Countdown

T-minus 170 hours 44 minutes (depending on your time zone) until we meet at the Streamliner!

Sorry, I just can't bring myself to add the "2" and I can't believe they tore down the original restaurant that some of us worked in. But no matter what it's called or where it's located, next week we'll step back in time.

I'm more eager than ever to see so many of you from the RHS class of 1969. We have so much to talk about. So many memories, so little time. And so much of life to catch up on. I suspect we'll laugh and cry and maybe do both almost at the same time.

And we won't have enough time to share all of our hopes and dreams. So, my intention is that we won't lose touch with each other as much as we have over the past forty years. I also hope we can continue the search and reconnect with those we haven't located yet.

My plan now is that this blog will remain active as one more means of communication.

Tune In

No, not "turn on, tune in, and drop out." Tune in as in tunes, songs, music. You know, RPMs. Not engines, turntables. A what? Record player. Vinyl. And I'm not talking countertops or floor covering.

One day one of the sons of a woman young enough to be my daughter came home from school. He was very excited about something his teacher showed them. "Mom, you should have seen what the teacher brought. It was a big flat black plastic disk that played songs! She said it's what they used back in the old days."

The mom glared. "That was a record. I used to play them. I am not old."

And now as I approach another turning point in life—60 in a little more than two years--I remember the evolution of the devices we've listened to over our years. We started with 78s, then 45s, and by the time we went to college LPs that had been the product of choice gave way to 8-tracks. Then came cassettes which were replaced by CDs. And now MP3s are yielding their market share to MP4s and MP5s and who knows what's next. Like "K" played by Tommy Lee Jones in Men In Black, we'll soon have to buy the White Album again.

But my reminiscing carried me away to the days of jukeboxes. Drop in a few coins and listen to some tunes. And if you were lucky enough to work at the Streamliner, after closing you could turn up the volume and enjoy great hits including Classical Gas.

So, what was your favorite song from 1969? And what memories are associated with that song? A dance at the prom? Homecoming? Did you and someone special cruise around the lake or hang out at the A&W, hoping to hear the one tune that the two of you called "our song?"

And perhaps what reveals more about us than our preferences today. Who is your favorite artist? Your favorite song? I suppose it's hard to choose. And if you're like me, you mark the passing of time by the music you enjoyed over the years. College, Bridge Over Troubled Waters by Simon & Garfunkle. The early 70's, John Denver's Sunshine and Rocky Mountain High. Later, Fleetwood Mac, The Doobie Brothers, and of course The Eagles and Hotel California.

In the 80s, Maranatha Music with Phil Keggy, and Don Fransisco's ballads gave voice to my speechless soul. Then Keith Green and later Carmen challenged me. Today, I most enjoy the simple tunes often written by unknowns. Music that the world listens to via YouTube, such as Revelation Song.

Oh, don't think for a minute that I don't still enjoy oldies but goodies, as well as favorites from over the decades. But after almost 28 years, nothing draws me close as much as songs that help this once wayward son carry on. And after I died, that first Sunday back with friends and family I could barely mouth the words, "You are the air I breathe."

Standing Ovation

I saw that it's been almost two months since my last post. That doesn't mean that my interest waned. It also doesn't mean that I forgot. In fact, I've been thinking more about us. Our upcoming reunion. And how busy life can be.

Forty years flew by too fast. And now, some days, I feel as if the sun is setting on my life and I'm just watching the days go by. I know that's not true, but I'm sure I'm not the only person who has taken a backward glance and wondered, "what happened and how did I get where I am?"

But perhaps the biggest question—the one most of us wrestle with more often that any other—is what have I accomplished?

Our society today is driven by and the media focuses our attention on celebrities from every genre. They hoist aloft those they admire one day, and the next day rejoice when they fall from grace. We sometimes look for heroes, but secretly applaud when someone's story comes to a sad end. A celebrity goes into rehab or gets sentenced as any other person would for drug use or drunk driving. A sports icon falls prey to the truth about steroid use. Or any number of other examples.

I've wondered why I sometimes feel better about myself when someone else fails. And I'm not convinced I have an answer. But I do have a few thoughts.

The idea that we all want to be accepted, appreciated, and applauded is conventional wisdom. So when I fail to achieve my goals, I tend to think that others will like me less. The problem is that I draw my dignity from what I do, rather than who I am.

Our character and nature are often much more than what can be seen or appreciated by those who don't know us. Likewise, those who know us best love us in spite of our weaknesses and flaws.

I'm not sure how that explains my recent thoughts. Maybe it's the Memorial Day weekend. Or the emails I've exchanged with some of you. Or something I'd like to do. But I'm trying to remember Tim Roe and Carl Johnson.

I didn't know either of them. But I wish I could say thank you to both of our classmates who died in Vietnam. They are two of the tens of thousands of reasons I've had forty year to enjoy life. And why I have time to remember what I have accomplished. And for that they deserve a standing ovation.

Priceless

You know the tag line, "For everything else, there's MasterCard." And I can't think of anything more priceless or precious than friends. Unfortunately, I haven't always esteemed their value.

Like so many of us (whether we admit the truth or not) much of my life I've felt inferior. In grade school I learned to read by doing so aloud in a remedial class—special ed. I never lettered in any sport in high school. I didn't excel academically. In college, I fared even worse. If I'd had enough money to continue, I would have flunked out. I never learned to type. And yet, today I'm a writer.

Now, you may wonder what that has to do with how I view others. Simple. We only love others to the degree and in the manner that we love ourselves. Which is why the admonishment to love others as we love ourselves seems to be more of a plea that we should love and forgive ourselves first, so that we can forgive and love others.

So, when did I learn my lesson? When I listened to what others said. One man told me, "Be good to yourself." On another occasion I felt the distinct impression that I should love myself as I love others—unconditionally—because that's how I am loved.

When I did that I began to change. I've become more content with who I am, and who I'm not. I've learned to be less critical of my imperfections and more accepting of my strengths.

So now, I value people because people are valuable. And it doesn't matter to me if someone is a CEO or a janitor, a barber or a doctor, blue collar or white collar, a soccer mom or founder of her own business. Because regardless of what Bruce Wayne (a.k.a. Batman) thinks, it's not what we do that defines who we are, it's who we are that defines what we do.

Time is Flying

"Don't blink," someone told me when my daughter was a precocious two-year-old. I didn't listen. Next month Meaghan will be 11.

Time is racing past me at speeds Captain Kirk only dreamed of. And now I understand why some folks leave up their Christmas lights year round. Why take them down in January when you only have to put them back up a few weeks later?

Of course, the past 40 years since I graduated high school have been gaining momentum the past decade. And this July we'll celebrate the milestone with a look backward and forward.

We'll take a walk down memory lane when we meet Friday night, July 10 at The Streamliner. We'll listen to some oldies but goodies and shake hands and hug a few of them, too. We'll chat about where we've been and what we've done since we last saw one another. But I think I'm just as eager to hear about what my friends' plans are for the future: where they want to go, what they want to see, what they hope to do.

As for dreams, I have a few of my own that I hope will come true. My wife Rosemary and I have lunched our new business. She hopes we'll recoup our investment. I hope our profits will fund our daughter's wedding (in about 15 years), and in the meantime help us become debt-free so we can travel. But win, lose, or draw, I want to love now. (BTW, that's not a typo. That second heart attack that killed me, left an indelible impression.)

So while time keeps on slippin' slippin', slippin' into the future, I'm learning to enjoy every day. Because contentment isn't something I'll find tomorrow.

What Are You Looking At?

It was my fault if anyone was to blame. I didn't wear safety glasses. The racquetball hit my left eye and left me wondering what would happen.

"You better get that checked," someone said. So I headed for the hospital. Not too concerned, I waited my turn, got two stitches, and asked the doctor, "When will I be able to see again?"

"What? Open your eye." One glance told him what neither of us knew. He'd only seen the outside of my eye. I thought blood from the cut covered the outside. But the impact had crushed capillaries and filled the inside of my eyeball with blood. I couldn't see anything. I could tell if the light in the room was on or off, but that's all. I was blind. "I'll be right back," the intern said.

The specialist examined me and gave me the bad news. "You've lost half your eyesight." She said there was no surgery, no medication, that could change that fact. Then she told me what to expect. "There's a 70% chance of glaucoma in the other eye."

She admitted me to the hospital "for observation." I don't know if I misunderstood or simply didn't believe what she'd said. But I spent the next hour or more lifting the patch, curious about whether or not I could see yet.

Then I fell asleep, woke the next morning, and read the eye chart 20/20.

I don't know why we wait for some miracles and others happen overnight. And I don't understand how some people who can't see have incredible vision.

What Happened To You?

I don't know who to thank. During a lunchtime basketball game in high school I went up for a rebound and came down sitting. Someone took my legs out from under me. It was an accident. The one that kept me out of Vietnam.

My birth date was drawn as #91 in the lottery. But, I flunked my pre-induction physical and went from 1-A to 4-F in a moment of time. Because the fall broke my back—the fifth lumbar vertebrae was 75% off center.

I've always been grateful though because I've thought that I wouldn't have been as smart as Forrest Gump. I wouldn't have run. More likely I'd have been like Bubba, Forrest's best good friend. I'd have gotten shot. But instead of either scenario, I faced life in a wheelchair.

Over the next twenty years that injury left me crippled with increasing partial paralysis in both legs. Then, one summer night in Phoenix, I got my second miracle. (I'll write about the first one later.)

Of course, I didn't want to live in a wheelchair. I didn't want to be in pain. So I attended a crusade.

I can't tell you what happened or how. I can't tell you why then and not before that night. But I can tell you that instantly something happened. And I've been pain free since then.

Maybe that's not as dramatic as when I died, but that's another story. Sometimes life is less about what happened to you and more about what didn't happen.

Favorites

Huge fried tenderloins. Yummy chocolate malts. Crispy onion rings. These are a few of my favorite things. And I found them at The Streamliner.

That's where I began my career in the restaurant industry. I left my first job at P. N. Hirsch, the department store across from the courthouse, to work for the Calhouns. I didn't make more money, but in addition to my $1 per hour wage, I got food. And for a growing, ravenous teenage boy that meant a lot.

Over the years some of my tastes have changed. I still love those not-so-good-for-my-heart foods, and I'm looking forward to eating them when I'm back in Rochester, Indiana for our 40th class reunion this summer. But time has a way of changing us. We grow up. We move on. Because we get second chances.

Those are my favorite things of all. One of my friends calls them "do-overs." In golf, they're referred to as Mulligans. Now, I didn't know Mulligan. I think he lived before my time. Because I'm fairly certain people have wanted—and needed—second chances since Adam ate the fruit in the Garden.

And that's why I'm grateful that life presents opportunities to us. They are gifts. And while it's true that we can't go back (and I'm not sure many of us would want to), we sometimes wish we could "make things right." Unfortunately, such chances are rare. But fortunately, we can "pay it forward." Perhaps we can't undo what we did or do what we should have done, but we can encourage others. And that's my favorite thing of all.

Pet Teachers

They taught us more than what the textbooks offered. They taught us how to think. They taught us what we could do. They taught us why we could believe in ourselves—because they did.

They took time and gave it to us. Often when that meant they had less for themselves. They encouraged us. They sacrificed more than we knew and maybe more than we will ever appreciate. Even so, we want to thank them for all they did.

Not just for us. But those who came before us and those who followed after. We wish we could tell them how much they meant to us and we hope we can say thank you to some of them.

Mr. Betz was the Principle Principal. He set standards that influenced our lives. Mr. Showalter, Mrs. Bond, and the one who planted the seeds of what became my passion—Gary "Mac" MacMillan.

He understood what I needed and gave me time to search for myself. He opened the worlds of theater and words. And today I'm a writer, in part because he gave me what I didn't deserve. And he's part of my story—how a little boy who couldn't read became a teenager who should have flunked English who became the 2007 Sherwood Eliot Wirt Writer of the Year.

I don't know who's holding your ladder. I don't know who packed your parachute. But I remember who gave me a second chance.