Overcomer
When you’re in a pinch
Don’t give an inch
It’s time to go to bat
That’s where it’s at
Today will not be a bummer
Because you’re an overcomer
So show the world your metal
And troubles will skedaddle
And in the end of it all
You will stand tall.
The not-so great pretender: Man falls off bridge
Drunken stunt ends with joker tumbling 30 feet into marsh, police say
BLOOMINGTON, Minn. – A 23-year-old man is in stable condition after he plummeted off a bridge over the Minnesota River while pretending to fall off the structure.
Police got a call just before 5 a.m. Sunday from a 21-year-old man who said his friend fell off the Highway 77 bridge and into a marshy area about 30 feet below.
The caller said he was driving north when his friend, who he said had been drinking, told him to pull into the bridge’s emergency lane so he could urinate.
The 23-year-old eventually climbed to the ledge of the bridge, then looked at his friend and pretended to fall. “He then in fact fell,” according to a press release from the Bloomington Police Department.
Police from Bloomington and Eagan responded, and the Eagan Fire Department used a chair lift to retrieve the man. He was transported to Hennepin County Medical Center, where he was treated.
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This story evoked a story about my youth. It seems lately to be the thing with me when I see certain stories. This story is about when I was an early teen. My brother Danny and friend Dwight were “feeling it” one day. We had to hatch a plan. There was this set of bridges around the corner from the house. One we called the big bridge and the other the little bridge. Come on, we had big imaginations. After all our tiny community was called Small.
The big bridge had scrapple under the bridge to prevent the dirt from washing away from under the road where the bridge met the ground. Okay, maybe I need to describe scrapple to the ladies. Scrapple is large rocks from granite quarries. They will range in size, but to give an average they probably weigh in at about seven to ten pounds and are about the size of a bowling ball.
This scrapple was to be placed on the bridge rail over the water in the creek. One of us would stand on the bridge rail along side of this rock and the other two of us would stand on the bridge roadway and wait for an oncoming car.
When a car was spotted the two of us would pretend to fight near the one standing on the rail and as the car would near we would “bump” the one standing on the rail and at the same time push the rock into the water. The water would splash while the one of us standing on the rail would land on the bank below. This wasn’t a big drop. It was probably only seven or eight feet at the most. We just had to watch for moccasins. We had our share of snakes. Fortunately we never encountered one in all our tries at this adventure.
We did this a few times till one particular time. It was the scariest one. We had ourselves poised at the ready and as the car approached we went through the routine and all went well. The water splashed well up over the bridge rail. The car was traveling quite fast and when the guy saw the water splash, he came to a screeching, tire dragging halt right on the bridge and jumped out and hung over the rail looking for a drowning victim, only to find Dwight standing on the bank brushing his pants off. Boy, was this guy upset. I thought he was going to beat all three of us, take us to our parents and have them beat us too, which was the custom in Small when kids were found doing stuff they ought not to.
We were fortunate though. He just gave us a good tongue lashing and we never did that again. That’s something ain’t it? You find something fun to do and the adults ruin it for all of us.
I’m not particularly inspired today, but I thought I’d test the waters to see if anything is there. I’ve been feeling kinda lonely lately. It must be a cycle. Come to think of it, just how many cycles can there be?
lifecycle
bicycle
unicycle
recycle
menstrual cycle
moon cycle
bio-cycles
cycles of depression
water cycle (water, vapor, cloud, rain or solid, liquid, gas)
aliquot cycles
seasonal cycles
deeper debt cycles (I’ve been riding this one for quite some time.)
harmonic cycles
climatic cycles
biogeochemical cycles
generational cycles
short cycles
long cycles
moderate cycles
wash cycles
You came in the back door
Your smile
Made my heart soar
Your arms
Are what I yearned for
Your lips
Kisses, I want more
Your hug
My heart melted to the floor
Your strength
From you I drew more
A fresh charge of life
From this day
No more strife
All I can say
You give me life.
Sometimes I feel young
Sometimes I feel old.
Back where I came from
Us Rowe men of my clan
Died, no longer in the fold.
By the age of sixty I’m told
This would be my time to go
I was told by my old man
On this I’m not sold.
Sixty, plus I am
With many years to go,
A lady to love.
She loves me, you know.
This isn’t original to me, but very much how I feel sometimes.
What do you see nurses? . . . .. . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you’re looking at me?
A crabby old man . … . .. . not very wise, Uncertain of habit . .. . . . with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food . . . . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice .. .. . .. . the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not .. . . . . lets you do as you will, With bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? . .. . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you’re not looking at me..
I’ll tell you who I am. . . .. . . As I sit here so still, As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten . . .. . . with a father and mother, Brothers and sisters .. . . . .. who love one another.
A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet.
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . . . my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now .. . .. . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide .. . . . .. And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . . .. . . My young now grown fast, Bound to each other .. . . .. . With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons . . . . . have grown and are gone, But my woman’s beside me . . . .. . to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more, babies play ’round my knee, Again, we know children . . . . .. My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
I look at the future .. . . . . shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . .. . . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . . . and the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man . .. . . .. and nature is cruel.
‘Tis jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone .. . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells, And now and again . .. . . . my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys .. . . . . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living . . . .. . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . .. . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . .. . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .. . … . . open and see.
Not a crabby old man .. .. . Look closer . . . see ME!!
The sands of time
Weigh heavy on my soul
In that hourglass
Seem like seven fold
I’ve many years now
Some say still young
I still see many years
Till I go home.
I have the love of a woman
Who cares for me
Her eyes dance
Her smile so bright.
Her love I feel, so sweet
Being around her
Is such a treat.
Keeping the sands of time
In retreat.
Well, I told my girlfriend I would give it a try. She wants us to learn to Shag. It looks like an easy enough dance. My problem is I gave up dancing because for some reason I’m not real talented at it. I can play drums and did so for some thirty years, so it’s not a co-ordination thing.
I think what has me kind of leery at this point in my life is that I’m sixty and haven’t considered attempting hot footing around the dance floor since I was sixteen. Why, you say, don’t you give it another try now?
Okay, here it is. I went to a local club with my girlfriend where a beach music style band was playing one evening and the music was great. But to watch a bunch of people my age dance like they were sixteen made me push my little plate of food away from me and stick to the beer. I needed more beer just to make these people look like they were close to good.
To watch an old woman with breasts that could be tucked into her jeans isn’t so adoring. 
Nor is an old man whose testicles probably are keeping time with the music against his knee caps as he swings and sways to the beat. Now this picture I have here doesn’t resemble the people I just described, but you can imagine that some forethought needed be considered before they looked like they needed worming.
So, should I make that attempt? Maybe so, but please let me look more sophisticated. I don’t want to embarrass my girlfriend.
Quite a contrast there in that title, eh? What would one have to do with the other is a question I’m sure is sprinting around in your head at this moment. Let me explain.
I do at least portend to be a discrete gentleman about my girlfriend. I tell her she’s beautiful. This I truly mean. Even from high school she was such a woman. 
Eyes that dance with excitement. Lips that are full and teeth that are perfect. Yes, teeth are an important part of her beauty. Blonde hair that is truly blonde. Yes, with age she covers the gray, but it’s a natural color blonde of her youth. I tell her all the time she’s beautiful, extremely beautiful and she has now taken note of it enough to question herself about it. No one, especially her ex ever told her such a thing. Honestly, I can’t believe he didn’t see it. You see, she’s beautiful on the outside, but she’s also beautiful on the inside. She’s full of life and adventure. She doesn’t mind trying anything at least once.
She’s now 55 yrs old and I would stay discreet to say she have a healthy appetite for sex. This has been a boon for me, except that now at sixty, I have to take things slow and deliberate. Okay, she has a voracious appetite for sex. She’s told me that she never dreamed of this level of enjoyment at any point in her life. That I appreciate. On a serious note, I had a scare a few years back where my cardiologist told me I’d had a heart attack. After a stress test, sonograms and eventually a cardiac cath, I was pronounced free of the diagnosis of such including the diagnosis of left ventricular hypertrophy fifteen years prior. In this process I became somewhat impotent. I couldn’t deal with it. My wife at the time wasn’t helping me overcome this. I certainly wasn’t buying into such a loss. Libby has been so good to me in regaining my virility. She’s such a kind, loving woman. She’s always willing and ready and I love it. One thing she has repeatedly told me is that I’m the only one she wants and I believe her. I really do. I don’t put our very healthy sex life in the forefront. I find it to be the result of having developed a well-rounded relationship of which this is the fruit of it.
My issue is this. I want to tell the world about her and all the above and more, but I don’t feel it proper (except I just hung it out there in this post), to say such things. I’ve found myself now telling people who ask about her something a bit different about her that is just as extraordinary. She’s cook’s like Betty Crocker. She can cook anything like a master chef. How she does it I don’t know. It has to be a natural talent. I went over for dinner one evening and she had made these biscuits that looked vaguely familiar. I asked her about them and she said they were made from some recipe like that of the Cheddar Bay biscuits you get at Red Lobster. I took a bite into one and my heart melted. My mouth watered. Tears of joy ran down my face. Okay, that last sentence went overboard, but you get the picture. These biscuits were as good or better than the ones at Red Lobster.
So, instead of telling people who ask me about her, I don’t tell them, oh YEAH!, she can make love like no other with passion. We hang from the ceiling and have mirrors on the walls. I don’t say she’s a screamer or anthing like that. I’m not saying she is. I’ll leave that to your imagination. I tell them, damn this woman can make a biscuit that’ll make you wanna slap your mama. Then they look at me like damn man is that all you can say?
Well, did I tell you she’s beautiful? 
I have a few lucid memories of when I was quite young. My grand daddy lived just a short walk across the ditch to the tobacco barns and chicken pen, then the house. They lived in an old clapboard house.
Some of my memories of my grand dad was to watching him shave in front of a mirror by the back door. I watched, as he cut his gray whiskers away from his face more than once. He wore wire frame glasses, which I now have. They are frail looking, but I open them up and can still imagine them on his face.
My grand dad and I would go for a walks or just sit in a swing 
on the front porch and talk. I remember one day observing my young five year old hand against his. There I was. This young tow headed boy with fresh smooth skin on my hand. I placed it next to his weather beaten hand. He had endured many days in the fields on the farm plowing, harvesting and tending to the animals. His nails were rough edged. Even with that his hand was gentle to run it across the back of my head when he’d tell me I was special to him. Wrinkles on the back of his hand made me ponder would mine look like that when I got older.
Now that I’m sixty, I have two grand daughters. One is seven and the other has a birthday coming up in July. She’ll be three. I sometimes look at my now aged hand and see my grand dad’s hand. But there’s nothing in them. I cannot hold my grand daughters’ hands. The older lives close by, but she may as well live the same distance away as the other. I miss them. I have no young fresh skinned hand in mine while we walk or sit in the swing.
Livin' Small 