Tony Bertauski's Blog, page 20

Knocking Out Rays

Grampa. Working on suntan, 1950s-style.

The High Wire

I had a talk this weekend. At at state-wide conference.  
The stage can be intimidating. Terrifying. Make a tough guy quiver. The spotlight magnifies every move. Every word. Sometimes, you don't know what the next word is until you say it. You're piecing together sentences a word at a time. Most of the time, you pull it off. Sometimes, you run into a dead end.
[image error]
If you're funny, if you're entertaining, the crowd is more forgiving. But there's a balance. Try too hard, you look desperate. Start apologizing, you look pathetic. Stay present. Be honest. Know this, you'll never win them all. Some won't like you. No matter what. But that's not why you get on stage. Not to get their approval. I don't know why you do it. It's just not that. 
Even the most seasoned speaker gets nervous. Maybe not like it was in the beginning, but it still happens. When it does, the veteran knows that the crowd has no idea your heart is trying to break your ribcage. They don't feel the cold panic harden your gut. They don't know any of these things. 
Unless you look down.
You stay focused in the present moment. Allow space for all your fears. Allow those life-threatening sensations to surge through you. But you don't look down. You stay here. You focus on the next step. And the next. 


Even when your thoughts become stones. Why is that asshole in the front row glaring at me? What's the deal with the sourpuss in the third row? I'm going to fail. Failing. I'm failing. And they're going to laugh. They're laughing at me. I'll die up here. I'll die. Die. Die, die. DIE.
But they're thoughts. Not stones.
You take the next step.

Hot Pepper

An acquired taste.

The Dream (Once Again)

13 years now, same dream. Same freaking dream.


Somehow, I lose the job I have now. The job I love. And I have to go back to the golf course in Illinois. I go back as an assistant superintendent, mowing greens on the weekend and changing oil and writing up the job board. And the whole time, I'm thinking, "How the hell did I lose my job?"

And "This sucks."

I've had the dream so many times that now when I find myself clocking in at the shop, I'm thinking, "You know, I always had this dream, that I'd lose my job and end up back here. BUT NOW IT REALLY HAPPENED!"

Followed by, this sucks.

What does this mean?
So after 13 years, I had the dream again last night. Only this time, there was a twist. For the very first time in 13 years, a new angle. This time, as I'm driving in to mow on the weekend, I think something different. I think, "Maybe I'll stay in Charleston and find another job."
I'm a slow-grower. But I'm getting there.

Fat Booth

I feel better already.

Just a Little Stick

Surgery sucks.
My daughter just consulted with an oral surgeon. In June, they're going to cut into her gums to extract a sunken tooth. Unlucky for her, the offending tooth never emerged. Instead, it drifted in the opposite direction beneath her other teeth like a buried treasure. She can't feel it, but the x-ray is messed up, man.


The surgeon, he's consulting with her and my wife, talking about cutting through muscle and bone, through skin and tissue, and my daughter, she's taking it all in. Not crying or shaking. Nothing. Like no biggie. She's 13.

Whaaaat?

I had my fair share of surgery when I was a kid. Tubes in my ears, three times. Adenoids removed, twice. Tonsils, once. I detested the smell of antiseptic. Despised the drafty hospital gown. The cold floor on my feet. The worst, by far without a doubt, were the shots. There were always shots.


The last surgery for me, I was 13. I was standing there with a grumpy nurse in a small room. Waiting. And Waiting. "Just a little stick," she said, when I asked. "To make your mouth dry."

Still young. Still trusting. I pictured a tongue depressor that would make my mouth dry. They must've invented something to replace the evil shot. The shot, surely created by the devil.

But then the needle arrived.

And I assumed the position.

The needle went in, like shooting rocks. I hunkered down and took it. Just like always. Not crying, not this time, just wondering why there had to be pain in the universe. Why can't it all be milk and cookies? Why can't everything feel awesome?

When she was done, when I was rubbing the dull pain in my ass and grumbling, moaning and maybe whimpering (maybe), she said, casually, "If you curl your toes, it doesn't hurt as much."

After. She said it after.

I know, if I live long enough, the days of poking and prodding, of curling my toes will be back. My daughter, she's got it ahead of her. And you'd never know it.

She's a heavyweight champ.

Black Squirrel

Deadline for this Sunday's column is today. I got nothing. It's winter. It's cold. Nothing much comes to mind.

Then this guy walks by. Odds of a black squirrel: 1 in 10,000.

Now I got a column.

A Southern Pearl

Sunday. 8:15 am. Phone rings.

My wife hands it to me. Says it's Pearl. I don't know a Pearl.

[image error]
Pearl says, "Are you the gentleman that writes the columns in the newspaper?" Imagine an old Southern drawl. Better yet, imagine Minnie Pearl from Hee Haw.

"Yes, ma'am." (I'm not Southern, but I know the ways.)

"Well, I have a Christmas cactus that's in bloom and you just got to see it. It's as big as a washtub."

I'm still sunk in the couch with a coffee cup hooked to my finger. Pearl, she's wide awake. She goes on. She wants to see her Christmas cactus in the paper. It's so big, she can't even get it all in the picture because she took a picture and it just wouldn't fit. People, they need to see this thing. Can I get it in the paper next weekend?

I tell Pearl that I might be able to run it next Christmas. It's just not topical this time of year. The drop in enthusiasm is palpable. Followed by another summary of said plant's size, color, and size. I tell Pearl to email me a photo.

"Email?"

I give her my mailing address, instead. Send me the photo, I'll see what I can do.

A week later.


Hi, There,

Here's the photo of my plant. Some of the blooms had started to close up by the time I got the picture made. As you can see, it is quite large. I couldn't get it all in. I've never seen one this big. I have several different kinds. I have pretty good luck with them. I wish I could have gotten it to you sooner. I would love to see it in the paper. Lord knows we need something in there besides bad news. I'm 85 years old. Just hope I make it until next December. 


Thanks so much,
Pearl


Pearl's Christmas cactus. Big as a washtub.

Catch that?

Just hope to make it until next December.
A dying woman once wrote Stephen King about the Dark Tower series. How does it end? She just wanted to know before she passed. King hadn't finished the last book. He didn't know. Couldn't help her.

No pressure. None.
I'm not cut out for this.

Sex on Trashcan

Anoles. Getting it on.
Busted. And yet, I couldn't look away.

Shut down.

Dogwood (Cornus florida).Charleston, South Carolina.

All work. Cancelled.