What's Up With The Guy in Row 15C?

I received an email this week from my good friend Scott.

Scott's the same age as my son and both of them have similar characteristics, two of them being a reserved outspokenness, more common sense than I ever had at that age, and a real desire to get to the heart of whatever issue they may have on their plate at whatever given moment. Neither of them are satisfied with easy answers and keep digging until they discover the truth. I'm like these two in some of those regards. I'm sometimes content to let the real truth of the matter be a matter of continual quest, weighing lots of things before I say I have something figured out. Scott and my son arrive at answers more quickly than I do and the more I'm around them I wonder if it's just an age thing. They both think quicker than I do probably because they're younger. Oh well, on with the story.

When Scott (not his real name by the way) comes home from school on break for the holidays, we usually get together over a pattie melt (him) and a grilled chicken sandwich (me) at a well established eatery here in town. I let the cole slaw pass and head for the cottage cheese, though. Calcium, you know.

We used to do these informal luncheon meetings at the upscale bagel shop here in town. Now, there's an idea: an upscale bagel shop (they have gourmet coffee, too). Actually, they have nothing anymore, having closed up shop last year. But, Scott and I are hopeful that someday they'll re-open; we have a table in a corner with a glass top and high counter chairs where we sit and discuss whatever happens to be left on our plate after the rest of the dishes are cleared away and we refill (for free) his water and my diet soda. We talk his academic year to date, politics, candidates running for office (or those who are thinking about it), Vietnam, Iraq, and guy stuff.

Oh, the email. . . .

He mentioned something in his note that sort of took me by surprise: he's just a little afraid of flying. I would never have guessed this, and I later while shaving I thought that since we've talked about just everything we had covered this at one time or another. I guess not. When it comes to air travel, I could imagine Scott just sauntering down the jet way, finding his seat, stowing his carry-on in the bin above, settling down, and napping en route. Not the case.

He's just like me - we tremble a little during take off but when crusing altitude is reached the beverage cart comes down the aisle with all the soft drinks and water you can drink for free and we're OK - for the most part. It helps me to look out the window and not wonder what the pilot is doing or why the plane is making a southerly, westerly, or whatever-the-direction turn. I don't look at the wings and I do not want to listen to transmissions from the cockpit with airline supplied headphones. It's neat to look out and wonder how many Wal-Marts you fly over, how many folks below are mowing their yards, going to school, or painting their bathrooms. In one trip you can fly over dozens of Culver's, Menard's (real men hang out there), Lowe's (the rest of the real men are there with their wives picking out paint and wallpaper); mail is being delivered, cars are being washed, and diapers being changed. And someone is laying in a hammock 30,000 feet below looking up and wondering where the plane I'm flying in is headed.

That part of Scott's life was a mystery to me until this week, and to tell you the truth, I'm glad he shared it. I guess it lets me know that all of us are struggling with something, some vexatious something that we know is more of an annoyance than anything else. Still, we find ourselves bedeviled with our humanity, at a loss to conquer all this stuff. Matter of fact, Scott said something along those lines a few sentences later, and it helped me deal with my phobia in a new way. For me, it's a control issue. For two hours I'm out of control of where I'm going, trusting someone I don't know from Colonel Sanders to take me to a destination I paid a hundred and something dollars to go to. I guess that's the essence of faith, whether we're flying or walking the earth below, trusting God to take us to an eventual destination we've never seen but believe exists.

Others are dealing with stuff as well. I'm looking around the plane wondering about the lady in 12A - she sits there reading the paper, I wonder if she had a fight with her husband this morning. What's her story? How about the businessman in first class 5B nursing a drink while going over the contents of an over-priced leather binder. What are his issues? Does he want to be on this flight to an appointment or home with the kids, or maybe raking the yard? How about the guy in row 15C? He keeps looking out the window, trying to peer straight down to see what he can see. I wonder if he's scared to death or glad to be flying? The pilot announced a few minutes ago that we were starting our slow descent into the city. Maybe he'll feel better when the plane is locked in final approach. Maybe he's scared to death to think about landing; are the engines going to reverse in time to keep the plane from crashing through a fence and into the parking lot of 31 Flavors?

We've all got a story, a tale to tell, problems to be resolved, and inner conflicts that aren't soothed with Haggen Daaz or Starbucks. But we do have each other and the familiarity and blessing of friendship. It's great to tell someone, "hey, this is my struggle, what do you think about it?"

Thanks, Scott, for sharing your journey. Next time you're home, let's wear our cowboy boots when we go for lunch. Maybe someone will think we're real kick-butt dudes and not wonder if we're afraid to fly.

A Lotta Cash

That's a lotta Cash in that photo. . .it's a collection of some of the very best the Legendary Man In Black has ever done. I like to think that whatever Cash collection I've got on the stereo is the best, since I don't think he ever made a bad record. I must confess some of the very early Sun waxings probably left something to be desired by today's standards, but they seemed to lay the groundwork for what was coming - simple, uncomplicated music that has a like message. It's music for the masses, the ultimate for those reject a lot of complexity in life and songs. He said what he meant and meant what he said, and captured several generations of respect for the great body of material he produced.

The Folsom Prison and San Quentin albums were more than just concerts that were captured on tape and released. He was affirming those inmates and stating through presence and song that each of them mattered. It was Billy Graham who told Cash to keep doing what he did best - singing to people and reaching out where others might not take opportunity to go. Where others may have seen a sea of wasted humanity, he saw a bunch of guys that needed a song. Sounds almost like a God thing, huh?

The Captain and the Caveman

Caveman lived near the sea from time to time.

He came to the cave to get away from the press of people he found every day. He couldn't live here all the time, but retreated inside when things got too much to handle. It was comfortable and warm. He started bringing a few books here now and again, and on sunny days would sit near the entrance on a rock and devour poetry, prose, and philosophy. It's a world no one could penetrate, although cavers did stop from time to time to explore the inner regions of Caveman's hiding place. If he was there, he wouldn't let them in, despite the fact that not too far from the mouth of the cave were many natural wonders. A stream ran through it on its sojourn to the sea that made earth music like he had never heard before.

It wasn't his cave to keep people out of, and he was always careful to take anything he brought home with him. He really wanted to put a sign on the front of it and let people know they weren't welcome. His attitude when anyone came around, though, made that sign unnecessary and soon passersby who were familiar with the area simply stayed away and looked for other, more inviting caves along the seashore to venture into. "My world, my cave, and I don't want anyone here," reasoned.

One afternoon in spring, Caveman noticed banks of threatening clouds along the southern horizon. He knew a storm was coming; winds that had only been warm and breezy became chilly and blustery and boats that were hugging the shoreline several hundred yards off started to make for the harbor. The rain came in late afternoon, in torrents, waves became unruly and began dashed the rocks relentlessly nearby. Peering through the gloom of the storm, that he noticed a small rowboat heading toward the pier down the shoreline. In fair weather, the harbor and the pier wasn't a problem to get to from the ocean. In this wind and rain, it was impossible. Though Caveman didn't anyone around, he felt a little sorry for the captain of the tiny craft, picked up a lantern, and signalled for the rower to head toward the safety of the cave. The strong arms of the captain had to be just about giving out, thought Caveman. At last he reached the mouth of the cave and Captain tossed anchor overboard, jumped out and waded to the cave entrance.

"I don't have much to offer you," began Caveman with hesitation, "but you're welcome to come in. I've some coffee and you can dry out before continuing on." The Captain beamed his appreciation and the two sat down on rocks near the cave entrance and discussed the storm.

"I have been looking for safe harbor now for a few hours, knowing that bad weather was coming," he began. "Nothing was visible from my boat, but when you shone the light my way, I knew someone cared enough to guide me to shore. If I stayed out there much longer, I'm not sure what would have happened. A guiding light in a storm is a wonderful thing, but you find so few these days."

On and on they talked - of life, of loves, of storms, the sea; Caveman spoke of poetry and great books he had read and took one from his backpack. He handed it to the captain with a smile and told him to take it with him. It was a favorite, but Caveman didn't care. There were others.

Came the night, and the storm's fury became greater. Caveman, sensing himself in the presence of a friend, offered his sleeping bag, meanwhile dozing off in a corner on some blankets he had brought with him the previous day. Not thinking he would sleep a wink, he drifted off quickly to a night of peaceful slumber, waking the next morning just as dawn announced the start of another day. He walked to the entrance of the cave and beheld a cloudless sky. The rain left a lingering fragrance of newness, wildflowers growing near the edge of the water amidst clumps of grass shouted refreshed shades of color. Caveman sat on the rocks and breathed in the moist air and contemplated the events of the past afternoon. Sharing what he had, though not much, had driven desire to remain in the cave away for a while. He wanted to get out, be up and about. His thoughts were interrupted by the captain who was coming out of the cave, ready to depart.

"Going so soon?" asked Caveman.

"Yes, I must be on my way. I've a few miles to cross before I arrive at my cottage down the shore. I want to get yesterday's catch dressed and ready," he replied.

Caveman convinced the captain to stay long enough to share some coffee. He thanked Caveman for hospitality and heart, lumbered to the rowboat, pulled anchor, and gently rowed away on the silent, glassy harbor. In minutes, he had rounded the bend out of sight and the surface of the harbor was again silent. The soft dipping of oars was heard no more.

Caveman had let someone past the entrance of not only his home but his heart. Both had shared their lives, laughter, tales from the sea; tales from the cave. . .

He eventually came away from so much cave dwelling, and remembered the light he had shone across the water to a wayfaring stranger and how he let Captain in - it felt warm and wonderful, and new. Best of all, he wanted to do it again.

The Singer and the Musician

The Singer is a musician.

He's got the passion and riffs of a John Mayer and the optimism of Sinatra's high-in-the sky apple pie hopes.

"You're going to be hearing a lot from me, soon," he says.

Singer plans to gig it for the summer on whatever he can make in tips in his guitar case and encouragement from passersby like me. I threw leftover change from Starbucks in his case, listened to him for a few minutes and then folded a crisp dollar bill under his cell phone.

"I'm from the 95th and Cicero area here in Chicago," he tells me, adding that this area of North Michigan Avenue is going to be home for spring and summer. Come fall, he's heading to California.

Right now, famous names are within a block or so of this gadabout minstrel: Brooks Brothers, Neiman Marcus, Anne Taylor, Saks Fifth Avenue. They're all here in copper on buildings and etched in glass. They reflect a culture that has arrived (they think they have, anyway) and have disposable money to burn. If Singer/Musician has five dollars tops in his guitar case he's lucky. The world passes him by, a few stopping to listen, the business suits on their way to meetings, and the shoppers on the way to the next store and a name brand bag to carry out the door, the contents charged to a card quietly commanding 20% or more interest on the unpaid balance.

Somehow, with music and a plan, Singer/Musician is faring better than all of them.

Dream Ride

This 2005 Harley Davidson Road King is the bike I would like to own - it belongs to a co-worker, but he allowed me to photograph it. I would rather do it in blue but he didn't call me up and ask what color I thought his bike should be. All I need is about $18,000 and it's mine. Neat, huh?

Conversations

If I told you about it, you'd not believe it, but then you might.

My buddy (I'll call him Bob) and I got talking guy stuff last week, for better or worse. We just sort of vented about different stuff, things we'd done, where, when, that sort of thing. I walked away from that one wondering if I should have revealed so much, but then, it was sort of burning in the recesses of my mind for quite some time, so perhaps for one time it was good to get it all of my chest. I'm really antsy for nicer weather to get here; being stuck in the house is getting really old, and maybe with that frustration I decided to open up and let it out. It's kind of like a fantasy island so to speak. Not a place you want to stay all the time, just visit now and then - does that make any sense?

Ironies and Observations

Currrently listening: Obscure 45s from the ancient Colpix Records label circa late 1950s and 1960s. I promise I'll get current one of these days. If you check out my Xanga blog, you'll discover that I'm a fan of Johnny Cash and John Mayer.

Irony: I read a lot about the virtues of grace, compassion, and unconditional love, but seem to show less of it as a result (at least sometimes anyway). I guess I'm afraid that I might have to step out of a comfort zone. Could be.

Observation: I need to step out of that comfort zone and get with it. This whole buisness of living a Christian life is more than just words on paper that go to the head and give said head lofty ideals and little else. Showing grace, compassion, and unconditional love require action, uncomfortable action at that. I'm working on it, okay?