Tony Bertauski's Blog, page 21

What Would Glen Do? (WWGD)

What would Jesus do? I don't know.

I know what Glenn would do.


He's been doing fine carpentry on Kiawah Island for 30 years. If you own a house on Kiawah, it's not your only house. People out there are so butt-loaded with money, they sometimes buy TWO beachfront homes, bulldoze them both to build ONE megamillion dollar Goliath. Glenn's the one that builds the interior.

He knows what's up.

[image error] A house on Kiawah? You're filthy rich.Here in the middle-class hood, our door frame was rotting. Not uncommon in South Cackalacky, especially on the shady side of the house. I can fix that. It won't be pretty, but I can get it to work. The door will shut when I'm done. There might be a gap, though. There probably will be a gap. But it'll shut. It'll lock.
I've seen  him work, he's like a superhero. Tools always return to their place while I drop them like two-year-old. If the cut is an 1/8" off, he'll walk out to the garage to square it off. I'll just pound it in. After hours of flashing, shimming, and shooting nails, we wrestled the door frame in place and hung the doors. We had a 1/2" gap at the bottom. Glenn took one look and shook his head.

"Take it down."

Take it down? Are you freaking kidding me? We just spent hours putting this thing up and now you want to... take it down? TAKE IT DOWN? Can't we just... attach a door sweep? Or something?

We took it down.

Much of the time, I watched him work. How he pays meticulous attention to detail. How even the simplest act of putting his tools in their proper place is done with care. Sanding down the most insignificant scuff. Squaring off the tiniest corner. Even when no one would notice, he did these things.



I avoid inconvenience. It's not even rational. I don't put the screwdriver away. I don't organize the workspace. I don't know why, or what my hurry is. Or where I'm going when I'm finished. But these details matter. It's paying attention when no one is looking. When no one will ever see.

It's the daily grind. The practice of being human.

Every moment of our life deserves complete devotion. It's fixing the gap at the bottom of the door. No matter how many times it has to come down.

Would Jesus fix the gap? I suppose. I know one thing. Glenn would.

New Year Magic

Magic in a beer bottle.
Mom wanted to know how I got the pic.

Magic.

Counted Breath

Allen died. About a year ago.

I didn't know him that well. He worked on the other side of campus. Occasionally, I'd stop by his office. Sometimes we'd talk publishing. Life. Mostly, it was football. He was a Bills fan. I'm a Vikings fan. Together, our teams are 0-8 in Superbowl history. We shared sportsfan misery.

One thing was always clear. Allen was a good man.



He had a tumor in his brain. Just one day -- boom -- a golf ball in the nugget. Cancer, the doctors  told him. Not even 60. And the odds not in his favor. The countdown started. His days now had numbers.

Every day, I wake up and take for granted the number of days I have. Maybe I've got 40 years x 365 days, whatever that is. Or maybe today I get hit by a bus. Point is, I don't think about. I get up, drink coffee, do my day, go to sleep. The next morning, rise and repeat.


Towards the end of Allen's sorted treatments, I stopped by his office. He'd been shaving his head because the radiated  half stopped growing hair. We sat and talked. Not about sports, this time. Quite frankly, he lost interest in that sort of thing. I don't know what we talked about, really. But we sat there for half an hour and talked about something other than the obvious. When I got up to leave, he shook my hand, cupped it with his free hand. So gracious that I stopped by.

Like I said, good man.

It was weeks later I saw him next. He was standing outside the building. I watched him and he didn't know it. I watched him looking around, at nothing in particular. He was just breathing. But not just breathing, he was taking each breath. Appreciating each one. Savoring. Or maybe I imagined it.


Some meditation practices count breaths to experience the present moment. To be aware. Just counting. Just here.  But what's it like when all your breaths have been counted? What it's like when they're numbered? I have 200 left. Now 199. Does the air taste different? Watching Allen, it seemed that way. But maybe I imagined that, too.

It was the last time I saw him. Standing there, just breathing.

It's been a year. Still haven't forgotten.

My Dog is a Crackhead

I spent last weekend punching my dog in the head. Hard as I could.

Let me explain.

Kia, the mellow one, on the left. Kooper, the crackhead, right.
We've got two boxers. Kia's easygoing. You could run the vacuum on her, swear to God. Kooper, though, he's scared of everything -- strangers, lightning, sound. The one thing he's NOT scared of? Animals. And that makes him Alpha Dog #1 in our dog pack of two. He's first out the door. First to eat. First, everything.

Kia couldn't care less. Like I said, she's Sunday morning.

[image error]
Kooper is a sweet dog. Honestly, seriously. Wouldn't hurt anyone. Here's the problem: he's a crackhead. Meat bones are his crack. When he sees ones, smells one, thinks of one, he goes full-on rabid. And if Kia is standing between him and his crack?

Down goes Kia.

So last week, when Kia was digging for a bone she buried, Kooper went into a crack fury. It sounded like two hippos killing each other in the backyard. By the time I got there, Kooper had her by the neck. And he wasn't coming off. I called him. Pulled him. Yanked him. Still crack crazy.

So I punched him before she was seriously hurt. Six times, it took. Then he let go.

Funny thing, though. I put them back together an hour later (after I disposed of the bone). You know what? They curled up just like nothing happened. Kia didn't seem bothered in the least.

Six hours after death match.
That's how we roll. We're dogs.

Forgiveness seemed effortless. Animals make it look so easy. Problem is, will they learn? Would Kooper give a damn if he killed her for a bone? Maybe. As humans, we have the ability to transform, to rise above our instinct. Whether we do that, depends. It's not easy. But absolutely critical we do.

Moral of the story? Don't do crack, kids.

Or bones.

The Princess and the Gobstopper

Willy Wonka almost killed my daughter.
[image error]
The seconds that followed her abrupt inhalation was the realization she was choking. Willy Wonka's gobstopper had lodged in her throat. No time to remember the universal sign for choking when her last breath is counting down. No rational game of charades to explain that a marble-sized jawbreaker is wedged in her windpipe. Just time for her eyes to bulge. Just panic, shock and a timeless moment of uncertainty.
But then, just as quickly, it was out. She took a deep breath and tears filled her eyes. And my wife's. I was still in shock, like I'd just looked over the edge of a precipice, vertigo still swirling in my head.

[image error]
I lay in bed that night, feeling the rise and fall of my chest, wondering if in some parallel universe the gobstopper never came up and I never heard her laugh again. If she stepped off the precipice instead of away, would an emotional hole open in my chest like a California mudslide? Could I survive that?

Some of you aren't as lucky as us. You've lost loved ones. I wish I could say I understand, but I can only  imagine. But you are still here and stronger than anyone will ever know because even imagining stepping off that precipice fills me with hopelessness. The actual drop... I can't imagine.
Once, when my daughter was six, she asked me what I would do if she died. "I would cry," I told her. "For the rest of my life." She laughed because she thought I meant spilling tears. No, not tears, Princess. But here, in my heart.

To love deeply, we risk grandly. One cannot be without the other. And I am willing to risk that sinking mud hole for the rest of my life. It's worth every tear.

For Extra Credit...

Exams are imperfect.

A written exam is not a always a good measure of ability. Some students think better with a hammer than a pencil. Sometimes it's a learning disability, sometimes performance anxiety. Sometimes the exam sucks.



Try this on for size:

If a pesticide reaches groundwater, it will breakdown
a) Very quickly
b) Quickly
c) Slowly
d) Very slowly

This is an actual question on a certification exam. What's the difference between quickly and very quickly? I have no freaking clue.

Like life insurance, exams are a necessary evil. They measure a student's comprehension and the ability to express that understanding. Still, there are always questions that end up more tricky than challenging. And that's why I have extra credit.

It's not the type of extra credit that's super-challenging. Who invented the lawn mower and what was his daughter's name? If someone gets that right, they don't need extra credit. I give a little bonus at the end of an exam. All you have to do is answer a stupid question and -- boom -- two points.


I've asked everything from what's the last movie that made you cry to what's the most revolting food you've ever eaten. I provide students with my answer and then ask for theirs. Not only is it entertaining, but we learn a lot about each other. There's been some good answers over the years. This semester's Hall of Fame winner had me laughing for days. It comes from a rough-cut guy with a good sense of humor. It goes like this.

EXTRA CREDIT
Looking back, what clothing or accessory have you worn in younger days that seems ridiculous now? It might have been a fad, maybe you were just cool or perhaps your parents made you wear it... whatever. Any way you slice it, "What was I thinking?"

Student answer
The whole spandex fad in the 80s. Yeah, my mom made me wear spandex bicycle shorts in elementary school. Long and short. Me and my classmates had many black eyes.


[image error] Classic.

Die, pool. Die

There are things I want to die.

Fireants. I want them to die. All of them and their stinging little asses and the welts they leave behind. They're like street gangs. Anything touches their mound and they swarm out, kill it and drag it into the colony and pull it apart. Eat it. That's what they do.



Cockroaches, they can die, too. In South Carolina, there's the palmetto bug. It's big, and it can fly. I don't mind them outside, but I want the ones that find their way into our bedroom to die. Ever have one walk over your skin when you're sleeping? It's creepy and it sucks. And you'd want them all to die. Fast.


I recently added our pool to the death wish list. Pools are great the first year. Maybe the second. After that, you can hear it sucking the money out of your wallet. And when one of our dogs recently fell through the cover, that was it. Done deal. The pool must die.

[image error]
[image error]

I couldn't wait to tear it down. It would free up $800 a summer and countless hours of maintenance. So when the family unanimously voted, it was dead pool walking the very next morning. First, the pump and filter came down. Then it was the posts and caps and railings. A few days later, when all the water was drained, I started rolling up the wall (yes, an above ground pool; we're not rich).

Funny thing happened, though, when I cut the liner to drain the last few inches. A sense of loss fell on me as the utility knife slid through the plastic. Suddenly, I felt the passage of time. The pool, for all it's aggravation, represented my kids' youth. And though they're still 13 and 16, I was suddenly aware how quickly time has passed. It was like we just built it yesterday. Now it felt like that last game of Little League or the last time you go to summer camp. It was over. Forever. And it went just like that.

A few years ago, our dog, Samu, had to be put down. She was old and had gone into a seizure and wasn't coming out of it. So at midnight, I took her to the animal hospital. I held her while the vet inserted the needle and Samu convulse once, stiffened, and then her chest fell for the last time. The vet asked if I needed some time with her. Now I didn't expect to get emotional, but when Samu stopped breathing I suddenly recalled all the memories of her as a puppy and when the kids would play with her. When she was full of life. And now, it was over. I sat in that office and wept.

It ends, just like that.

I didn't cry when the pool went down. But I had the sense that when I turned around I'd be walking my daughter down the wedding isle. It would happen, one of these days. But for now, it was just the pool.



Carefully, I rolled the wall up and gently gathered the components into the corner of the yard. It was over. I didn't cry. But I didn't cheer it's death like I do a mound of fireants. Instead, I laid it to rest.

Zero Followers

I have no followers.
I've thought about this blog for over a year. No kidding, a year and then some. I resisted, thinking why in the hell does the world need another blogger? It doesn't. But then I've things to promote and I've got things on my mind. So, here I am.
The novel made me do it, if I'm honest. I published The Discovery of Socket Greeny, a YA sci-fi novel. I'm looking at different ways to get the word out.

I'm not thrilled about promotion, especially self-promotion. Have you seen the latest Kiss commercial for Dr. Pepper? Self-serving and so not rock and roll. Paul Stanley with the thumbs up, "Detroit Rock City, and drink Dr. Pepper!"
Holy crap.

But they're rich, so what do they care what I think.
I'm a horticulturist. A columnist. A teacher. Writer. Husband, father, son, brother, and a world-class slacker. I have other labels, depending on who you talk to. Some nice, some not so nice.
My takes will be short, like my attention span. So if you want to hang around this blog, let's do it.