Fast and Cool

What really matters... You gotta be cool... 

Three years ago (3/31/2015 -- "Up and Down the Dial"), I posted about the #SiriusXM satellite "highway"—taken each night; sometimes holding my sanity together on the parking lot known as Houston traffic, descending like a femoral artery into downtown.

The alchemy of memories and music transports me back on a tightrope time-machine to a place when we were all pretty "kewl", if I can say so myself. “Fast and Cool” as in the club, or Fast Times at Ridgemont High, for movie buffs.

Maybe a long time ago, but I remember when we were buff and the feathered haircuts fell just right on starched oxford button-downs. The girls all dressed for each other, and the wild night was calling. There was a time, back in my prime, when your old-man could really lay it down; but we didn’t rely on Instagram or Facebook to show everybody. It was sealed in our memories.

The music, tasting the rum, giving or getting all the jokes; ok, crank up the car stereo, and take off. The feel of a slow-dance with that girl you like… in the end, there's only the dance. How did the years go by so fast but the memories play back so slow? The smell of a ski boat's exhaust, a bonfire; I can hear the roar of the crowd, or the whisper in the ear. Youthful discovery is like electricity, but the assurance of wisdom is comforting. Life’s a balance in every decade. Maybe my pendulum needs to swing back to happiness; time flies whether you’re having fun or not.

It could be the passing of an old friend recently, or the end of a long week sending me on this journey, but my “trigger” is often just the right song, which takes me to the file cabinet in my head: pulling out the right disk from the right decade. We manually take it out of the sleeve and place it on the record player, crackling and hissing with expectation. Easter is the season of passage from death to life. The memories linger tonight in the “bardo” or in-between: I don't try to reconcile the past, but I do go back.

Without a physical photographic record on social media, how do I prove our youth? We were from all over the state, and the world was much more laid back. Somehow we had enough money to pool our resources as a group; supporting a large social structure consistently together to have a good time, and act “big”. I went to high school and college with the fast and cool crowd, always looking for adventure, maybe we were like the Club Gryffindor before we knew about Harry Potter. Or it might have been a middle-child syndrome, seeking to fit-in?

I would like to think of those foolish, happy days not as my last fling, despite the age and the miles. I believe that there are new beginnings in every springtime; I’d like to be happy again. Maybe we can get together and shake off the worldly blues and stride out tomorrow with the same arrogant confidence we had in our twenties, when everything was possible?

Probably not, but at least give the same swagger. I have more money and less hair. My car is not as hot, but more reliable. I’m more educated, but hopefully wiser. The songs seem more poignant now; the friendships deeper and more valuable. At least we can commiserate rather than compete—like we did back in those heady days. I don’t want to impress anyone like we used to, I’d rather show humility and kindness than competence and success. My heart yearns to express connection, admit defeat, listen with an attentive ear, be slow to speak, quick to squelch my opinion, easy to talk to, or ask for a favor.

“Grief” and its verb “grieve” come from the Latin gravis, “heavy, weighty” and its verbal form, gravare, “to burden or cause to grieve.” Grieving is like being weighed down with sorrow and a sense of loss. “Mourn” has its origins in the Old English murnan, “to mourn, to be anxious”. Jung says that mourners are fortunate because they are involved in a growth process, that “even though it cost me a great deal to regain my footing; now, I am free to become who I truly am.” (end quote) This is God’s truth, because the more I’ve cried and felt wretched and worthless, the more often I've felt on-a-passage (journey), and that I could have occasional moments of utter joy.

I think we know now how elusive confidence really is; the escalator has made some unexpected stops. Values now drawing respect are affinity, realism, collaboration, servant-leadership, empathy, kindness, faith, relationship, and humility. Money, beauty and power are not only elusive but ephemeral. Age tends to level the playing field even for those who woke up on third-base. (you know who you are).

Character is formed in the crucible, but everyone yearns for a second-chance; like the magical saying under the pyramid, on the back of a one-dollar bill: novus ordo seclorum (“a new order for the ages”). That’s what's astonishing about Easter; with Christ there is always the opportunity to brush yourself off and start again. His work on the cross gives us new life, forgiveness in exchange for our brokenness. This year I will relish in free grace, give thanks for true friends: “put that one on His tab, please…” 

I need to write off a few things, people, and losses, starting again with a clean ledger; don’t we all? Happy Easter.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

These Old Boots

These Old Boots:
A Personification of Life and Literature

“Antique,” “vintage,” or “retro,” typically describes older furniture, cars, or equipment; but between the learning years of college and midlife, my “old” Red Wing® boots became personal relics—walking me through life. Since 1983, in Austin, Texas, they’ve watched three very active decades fly by; taking a lot of abuse along the way.

These boots cut down Cedar trees in the Hill Country and climbed the steps of higher learning at UT’s Old Main. Leo Schuster had a pair once, just like these. These tough old partners trudged to courthouses and jails all over North Texas, and they’ve had all sorts of spirits spilled on them at Greenville Avenue, or near the Crescent, in Dallas, on McKinney. Robert "Gig'em" Doggett polished them up one time after he lost a bet on the UT/A&M game. These trail blazers searched the creek bottoms of the Trinity River with the best DA investigator I’ve ever seen, George Espinosa; and they’ve helped Bill Bratton defend a murder trial in Ellis County. Red Wing® boots supposedly never wear out; although they have been torn, scuffed, and bruised along this life's journey.

(in their younger days)

I'm thinking of my boots in a literary context: like some of the popular “Male Detective/Protagonists,” tromping through recent paperback mystery thrillers. They are strong, but weathered, strident yet, they’ve slipped a few times. In this way they are like Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch. These boots are 100% American made in the early '80s. They hold justice dear, and have walked through the fire of conflict with a fierce determination to stay on the right path, even when bullets whizzed-by, too close. In this way they are like Stephen Hunter’s Bobby Lee Swagger.

 

They’ve been the shoes of a caring family man, walking through good & bad decisions, unexpected change, moving & uprooting, including the deeply troubled pursuit of truth in all of life’s mysteries. In this way they carry the same hidden nobility as Henning Mankell’s Inspector Wallander. Being over 30 years old, they’re boots of a time traveler like Stephen King’s Jake Epping in 11/22/63; a guy who believed Catcher in the Rye should be in school libraries in 1962, and was brave enough to try to stop Lee Harvey Oswald. John Grisham’s Jake Brigance practiced law in Ford County, Mississippi, an hour south of Memphis; surely, he has a pair of Red Wings®. Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett, the character of C.J. Box, can destroy one pickup after another, but not his boots; they're forever.

Most of all they are Jack Reacher’s boots; walking quietly in the shadows, performing like him with strength and integrity, even when it would be easier just to walk away from a powerful but evil opponent. Quintessentially American, bigger than everyone else but slow to use his insurmountable power; Reacher saddles up as a one-man posse, a lone wolf drawing a hard-line against injustice of any kind.

 Like Reacher, these boots have been cut, stitched back up, rubbed raw and bloody; persistently standing against all odds. They are rugged, and comfortable carrying the load; ready and able to help wrongdoers reap what they sow. Jack Reacher isn’t as "flawed" as the protagonists mentioned above, maybe that's his appeal. Author Lee Child’s 18 Reacher novels consistently show readers a suspenseful story line with an ending as reliable as the hero: his opponents first ignore him, then they mock his lonely walk through life, often laughing at Reacher as they prepare to fight him greatly outnumbered; finally, they fall victim to his fierce prowess as a lonely warrior. Jack Reacher always kicks-ass. 

Photo from Flickr: ©Kati Giblin (for personal use in this post, I call it "Reacher's Shadow")

These Red Wings® traversed Washington and Fort Bend County with Barrett Davis, and they’ve scaled the bleachers of Texas Stadium with Brent Pogue at Leon Lett's ice bowl/fumble game of 1993. They saw the final SWC game at Kyle Field with Rob Holmes; and I’ve worn them with shorts while dove hunting near Brady, Texas, with John Hamlin. On a balmy morning in 2013, they carefully stepped around some gooey, abandoned retention "pits" in Galveston County. These boots love RodeoHouston® every year; they go perfectly with my rancher granddaddy Hampton’s felt Resistol® (pictured below w/ his great-grandson). In the harsh winter of 2014, they took over 21,200 steps through midtown Manhattan, jumping around puddles of gray, slushy snow, with real estate broker Alex Leopold. They go where they need to go and do what needs to be done, just like the boot and safety apparel company founded in 1905, in Minnesota.

The boots' layers of wax peel back like pages of my life story; it's best they can't talk. Looking worn out, much like their grateful owner; slipping them on is like catching-up with an old friend: mindful as you fall back into lock-step, commiserating on the past, hopeful about the future. When I think about being a faithful friend, father, brother, son, partner, employee, lawyer; whatever I'm tasked with on the day I pull-on these Red Wings® I try to focus on what is true, honorable, pure, lovely, just, commendable, strong, caring, and excellent—and just like these old boots, I start walking in the right direction...

©Mark H. Pillsbury

(3 of the pictures herein are shown by the “fair use” doctrine of using copyrighted material, not an infringement of copyright, but fair use according to 17 USC § 107)

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