Something Wicked This Way Comes

I’m not certain if you’ve noticed, but there is an election happening soon. That means three things are unavoidable truths in our daily lives for a while: an endless stream of nauseating political ads, numerous arguments and discussions in our social media, and the certainty that friendships will be tested.

I myself have staked out a clear stance on the upcoming election, and it has raised the ire of more than one friend or acquaintance. I knew it would, long before the recent disagreements were spawned by the fervor whipped up by the narrowing of candidate choices, and the proximity of the election day. I decided my position several months ago.

I probably should explain both my reasoning and decision. I dislike the killing of any sentient being, believe that everyone has value that deserves respect, and don’t believe that anyone should hold sway over the life and inalienable human rights of anyone else. Using those three things as my standards, there is no candidate that meets even my most basic requirements. Of the two “electable” presidential candidates we have to choose from, one is currently violating all three of those standards, and the other hopes to. So, I have enthusiastically joined a movement to reject the presidential election process and boycott voting.

I knew that would probably make you mad. You are not alone.

I have no shortage of friends to tell me I have gone over the edge. Their arguments include anything from telling me I am throwing away my right and forfeiting my voice, to telling me I have no right to complain about anything if I don’t vote and what I should fear if I don’t support the candidate they want me to vote for. Some have even told me I should leave the country.

Truth be told, however, it doesn’t matter what position I take, I would still have plenty of people around to tell me I was wrong. That’s what we do in elections. We tell each other we are wrong. In fact, we do it with such passion and ferocity that I think some may completely turn over their Facebook fiends list with each election cycle, discarding people with whom they disagree and adding people with whom they find themselves aligned.

Just kidding. Sort of.

Politics has become embedded within our social media because the campaigns wish to take advantage of how social media have become such a part of our daily lives; it is the easiest way to reach all of us. For our part, many of us have bought into it wholeheartedly, and allowed it to become a ready forum for both discussion and debate. It’s simpler even than walking next door, having a cup of coffee over a conversation, and possibly even a healthy disagreement over whose candidate is the best, the worst, or possibly just the “lesser of two evils.” But, it makes for less than pleasant moments sometimes, because we find it easier to be either more strident or confrontational from behind a keyboard. These days, I feel like donning mental gladiator gear anytime I open my browser.

Much of the time we are not talking to each other as much as we are talking at each other, believing that we can convince our counterparts of our positions with either volume or emotional investment. Many times we are not even talking at each other, but instead are talking past each other, and some of us even resort to USING ALL CAPS, TO SIMULATE SHOUTING OVER EACH OTHER! That last one I find hilarious.

Occasionally there is that moment of jocularity, where we pull ourselves back from the tussle, recognize our mutual human experience and dilemma, and laugh together. Yet, those moments are uncommon.

Much of the time we spend each in our corners, replacing our defensiveness with aggression, reacting to what we perceive as a threat from the other. The unspoken: we are not so much hurt by what it is we think the other believes, as much as we are by what we perceive to be as their inability—or even worse, unwillingness—to understand or acknowledge our needs or feelings. We simply mask those hurt feelings in our ideological differences, and shout them at each other. I doubt any of my friends want to accept that the death of even one person needlessly is palatable, but I interpret their political alignments as allowing for it, determining it as collateral damage, and thus rejecting my feelings about it.

And they see me and interpret my positions in exactly the same way. And so it goes.

But, sometimes I learn something. A friend recently pointed out something to me I had not thought of in deciding to not cast my vote. A group with which she identifies, depending on the outcome of this election, could be pushed further down the scale of perceived human value, to the point at which even being able to function or survive in our society, in our culture, could be extremely challenging. I’d not weighed that in my decision, had not considered it a consequence. I was reminded of my privilege in her lesson.

She made me aware of this without a single shout, or through any angry post, comment, message, or email. In all the time I’ve known her, all the time I’ve spent with her, she never once raised her concerns, or any objections, or ever countered any argument I made on my own behalf. She merely listened. She listened even though she knew she didn’t really agree with me or believe that what I was saying was right for her. She disagreed, but remained silent.

One night, when the din of quarreling was at its peak pitch between several of us, she finally spoke up. In remembering it, I liken it to one of those moments in a noisy classroom full of rowdy teens, when the quiet kid in the back finally raises their hand and utters something profound. And, in her concerns I heard things I had never considered, because they were outside of my life experience, and outside the scope of priorities I had ever before considered.

The resolve of what I had decided to do suddenly came into question. But it wasn’t just what she said that struck me, it was also in how she said it. The manner in which she brought this to my attention had an impact, and my decision to not vote no longer had mere abstract implications. It gave me something more to contemplate. I may not have given her ideas or concerns as much thought, had the usual tenor of a political conversation been taking place.

I’ve found it a little unnerving when I believe I’ve considered something thoroughly and acted on it in the belief I am doing the right thing, being the best person I can be, only to find out my actions may have a very real and negative impact on someone close to me. It’s disappointing. Still, it’s difficult for me to think of changing my decision right now, because I believe deeply in the reasons why I’ve chosen to not vote. But, my decision is not so cut and dried any longer, or devoid of any emotional weight. It’s become much more difficult, and has consequences on both sides.

It’s a shame I can’t know with certainty the outcomes of any of my seemingly important decisions. I understand that none of us do. It’s also unfortunate that some, or many, decisions come with both a prize and a price. In the absence of one or the other, choices would be much clearer, and easier to make. But, I don’t have that luxury. Nor, probably, does anyone else.

Up to this point I had been warned by friends that my position was stark and uncompromising, and was an attempt to hold the world to standards I would always see it fail to meet. I knew them to be right, but not in the manner I believe they meant, and I still feel no less a conviction about what I see as a transcendental truth. Everyone deserves a life, and everyone—so long as they respect that premise—deserves to live freely.

I just didn’t know that choosing one course of action which I hoped would save someone’s life may cause yet someone else’s to be more difficult, or cause them to lose their life needlessly. I wish it didn’t have to be so. It’s not fair. But, I guess nothing is truly fair.

On November 7th, roughly half of the country will feel vindicated in their decisions, and roughly half will feel disappointed. Some will feel anticipation in the work ahead, and some will feel dread. Some will feel hope, where others will feel frustration. A vast majority will feel relieved the election is over, because it will mean the angst is over, and the outcome something necessary to deal with, or live with. There will be a call, which some will heed at least for a little while, to heal our divisions and come together.

As for me: I’ll keep pushing, and hoping, to find more answers to more questions which offer more beneficial than adverse consequences.

© 2012 Cody Kilgore. All Rights Reserved worldwide under the Berne Convention. May not be copied or distributed without prior written permission.

When I Grow Up

As a young boy, I grew up in the small town of Mosby, Missouri. There is not much more to that town now than there was then, possibly even less. I remember it as a town of about 300 people, with little or no economic basis. The only businesses in town were a farm implement repair shop that always seemed to be full of the same equipment waiting to be worked on, and Bill Dew’s bait and tackle shop and grocery store, which he ran out of his garage not far from the banks of the Fishing River. Bill’s shop was the most popular place, since it was the one and only source of candy in the entire town.

Life in Mosby was pretty simple, as were most of the people. The two social hubs, around which everything in town seemed to center, were the church and the school. Attendance at one seemed as required as attendance at the other; anything less either deprived you of half the active life in the town, or subjected you to the potential scorn of wagging tongues. Neither was desirable, in a town where everyone knows everyone and everything, and any escape or transportation away from it limited by your access or actual ownership of a car, or even gainful employment.

We did not have much, in our lives there, but we seemed satisfied with that. When I was that age, I don’t remember being pummeled with television advertising that awakened any desires for things I did not have, and so I never knew any different. We ran loose in the town creating our own fun in all the ways that young boys did, either at the school yard, in the woods, or on and even in the muddy river—whatever could keep our energies and active imaginations occupied.

But it would be safe to say that our economic situation was—like that of pretty much everyone in town—not the best. The house was small and rented, and our landlord not fabulous. My mother, who had never worked a day in her life before the divorce, only held one job that I ever remember, as the part-time clerk for the city. Just the same, we managed somehow, and my memories of my time there are filled more with what I had than they are of what we did not have.

During those years, there was one person who came around once in a while and brought a little magic to my days: my Uncle Jimmy. Uncle Jimmy (somehow, I can still only call him that even now), was someone who had and shared things I never would have known existed had it not been for him. He was a seemingly successful car salesman (if that is possible) in Liberty, which to me seemed a thriving metropolis a world away from Mosby, and he always came to visit in the coolest of cars. To this day I can still picture the green Mustang Mach One—my personal favorite—that he drove for quite a while.

It was Uncle Jimmy who loaned or gave (I can’t remember which) my brothers and me a reel-to-reel tape player, which was considered the highest end of HiFi at the time, and reel after reel of music to listen to on it. At a very young age I got exposed to the likes of the Beatles and Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Uncle Jimmy would often pop into town and load up my mother, brothers, and me, and carry us out of Mosby to see movies at the drive in theater in town, or help us get some grocery shopping done, or sometimes just out to get fast food in Liberty or Excelsior Springs. Looking back, I have to believe now that it was Uncle Jimmy who probably helped mom enhance our Christmases a little, given some of the gifts I remember and mom’s and dad’s incomes.

Life was not bad then, but Uncle Jimmy made it better in ways that he could, and I always looked up to him as kind of a magical figure in my life. But when mom moved out of Mosby and in to the city, I stayed behind to finish out grade school, living first with another family for a while, and then with my grandparents for a couple of years. During that time, I did not see Uncle Jimmy much; I think the only time I saw him was when he was at my mother’s apartment in town when I came to visit.

The summer I turned twelve I moved to Parkville with my dad, because the family thought it best—and I agreed--that I went to school in the Park Hill district rather than the Kansas City District (I would have been enrolled in Paseo). It was a confusing time for me, adjusting to a step family in the totally new environment of the suburbs, but dad and Margaret and my sisters did everything they could to help me get acclimated.

One night that summer, after dad got home from work, he asked if he and Margaret and I could talk privately after dinner, and so we went off to their bedroom, the designated private conversation spot in the house. It was then that dad asked me about what I might know about Uncle Jimmy, and if I had an understanding of Uncle Jimmy being gay. In the small-town life of Mosby in the 60’s and early 70’s, I had never even heard the term, let alone have any understanding of it. Dad explained things, as gingerly as he could, his own definition of men and his challenges in communicating on that level making it very difficult and uncomfortable for him.

The conversation was a huge emotional moment for me. I remember coming out of it in tears, feeling confused at having learned about something so foreign to me in such an abrupt manner and having someone I looked up to torn down and made into—what I felt like—a monster. It was never dad’s intent to paint Uncle Jimmy that way; he was trying his best to be as sensitive as he could, knowing what Uncle Jimmy had meant to me and my brothers during those years in Mosby. But the edict from both my dad and my mother, where I was never allowed to see Uncle Jimmy or have contact with him again, left me with the indelible impression that he was a deviant to be avoided, and I needed protection from him.

It was years before I ever saw Uncle Jimmy again, well into my twenties, but for reasons besides his sexuality or those years of banishment, we were never close again. Seeing him then brought up the unpleasant memories of that night and that discussion with dad, and also reminded me of how far I thought I had come as a person since then. I had a little more life experience behind me, had shed many of the superficial notions of my youth, and had learned to appreciate diversity more and judge less. Or so I thought.

A few months ago I shared a link on my Facebook page that supported same-sex marriage, and it touched off a heated statement or two from friends that I didn’t necessarily agree with, but respected as their opinions driven by their own personal background and experience. I was discussing the comments with a friend a few days later when she shared with me that she had someone ask her about my sexuality. I was on my way to work at the time, and I remember that news angered me, that someone would think that about me and be discussing it. It was on my mind a great deal of the night while I worked, wondering what it possibly could have been that would ever give anyone that idea of me. I thought it was a huge leap from my sharing a link on Facebook to wondering about my sexuality, so I kept asking myself what else it could be that I had done or said that would support such a question. By the end of the night, I had worked myself into a fair amount of frustration and anger, and I was determined to make a public response in order to set the record straight.

Fortunately, I came to my senses first, and I didn’t. At first it was because I thought it best I just let something like that die, not poke sticks at the animals and be the bigger person. But then I began to wonder about why it was I felt so compelled to respond in the first place, and that was when I discovered something about myself I did not necessarily appreciate.

When I took the time to ask myself why I felt the need to define myself, I realized that declaring myself heterosexual was, in fact, inferring my heterosexuality was better, or the best, or the only acceptable norm, and it was at the very least me marginalizing any friends or anyone I’ve ever known whose sexual preferences were different than mine. Declaring my preference one way was tantamount to saying that my friends who were different were lesser persons. I was a little ashamed to see that I could possibly do that, and it became a learning moment for me.

Some things die, or are killed off, with great difficulty, and sometimes only accomplished with diligence and reflection. Sometimes the remnants—even the smallest bits—of what I learned as a child, as a teen, even as a younger adult, can linger in the deep recesses of my conscience until something creates the opportunity to fully examine them, understand them, and work a little more on expunging or modifying them. But hopefully, that is a process that never stops, no matter my age. Otherwise, it would be a pretty boring life going forward from here, if I’ve already managed to learn all there was to learn. Even about myself.

© 2010 Cody Kilgore. All Rights Reserved worldwide under the Berne Convention. May not be copied or distributed without prior written permission.

It's (almost) Showtime

Cue music. A piano plays a few repetitive chords, which I easily recognize. It’s Journey, Don’t Stop Believin’. Steve Perry’s voice begins:

“Just a small town girl, livin’ in a lonely world…

I hear Steve continue singing, but it is barely registering. The mental images are already beginning to dance around in my head, and Steve becomes a background soundtrack to some memories I am playing out from somewhere back thirty years or so ago. Sometimes it’s the first time I heard the song, and sometimes it was the time it was playing when it was just me and that someone and that moment.

But that memory kind of fades a little and the music resumes the forefront of my thoughts as Neil Schon’s guitar builds into a crescendo and the song takes off with all its momentum. The song itself has taken back over now, and I begin to swim in a fusion of the way I felt in my youth, the music, nostalgia, all with the little added twist my years add to it.

And that’s the way I think it’s going to feel: the reunion.

Maybe, with a little anticipation, you’ve done the same thing. You’ve dug up some of your old tunes that you’ve not listened to in a while and given them another spin. You’re wondering what it is you’re going to look your best in wearing, what will least betray whatever the years may have done to you. You’re wondering who will be there, maybe even checking the list of confirmed guests or paid dinner reservations every so often. Maybe there is a name or two that you really, really hope will be there, even though you’ve never spoken their name to anyone.

It’s okay. I think we’ve all been there with you. Go ahead and give in to it a little. I know I’ve been there myself. I will admit I am looking forward to it. I think all of us already on board for this have expectations and anticipations. The mini-reunion of last year only whetted our appetites and got us motivated to plan something bigger, better, for this year. We had a blast.

But, this year would have to be classified as more of an event, where last year was more of an impromptu get-together. This year, we have a hotel, and dinner, complete with presentations, good food, and music. There is a warm-up the night before with a Komen fundraiser over beers and a baseball game, and a chance to play golf together that morning. The cappers, on Sunday, will give Harley enthusiasts a chance to get in a ride, and for all of us who are able, a chance to show off our families at the picnic that afternoon.

Lately I have been thinking about what I am expecting and hoping for and anticipating at the reunion. I’ve taken inventory.

A chance to see people I have not seen in a very long time. There will be people there I have not spoken to since we all roamed the halls at Park Hill, and just as many that I have only spoken to online over these last few months. Some of these people I’ve only been able to wonder about now and then, imagining to myself they are still alive and out there somewhere, doing something that makes them happy. It will be good to get confirmation of that.

A few laughs. Actually, a lot of laughs. And then more. There are certain people who give rise to the ornery side of me. They would be embarrassed to be mentioned, so I won’t. Okay I will: Jack, Carl, Mark.

Some new memories. There will be a treasure trove of these to carry home with me. Hopefully, I will have as many photos as memories, so that I can revisit them whenever I feel like flipping through a few pages or clicking through them on my Facebook albums. I expect their servers are going to go into hyperdrive the first few days we all return home.

Revisiting some old memories. Funny, but for all the angst of those teenage years, I can now only remember the good times, the funny events, and the mischief. Like the time Carl parked his car outside my house and it rolled down over the hill. Or watching my dad lecturing Randy after he yard-farmed our lawn. Parties on Jack’s farm. Feeding trash cans of Purple Passion to unsuspecting cheerleaders at the kegger at Bruce’s house. Maybe I shouldn’t recount some of these.

A feeling of continuity. That feeling, like someone once told me of their reunion, of someone having hit the pause button for thirty years , then hit it again now. Something about that weekend, I think, is going to reduce the size and significance of all the time and distance we have all put between each other since then.

But not everything I anticipate is a good thing. Some of it is actually, not so good.

I am not expecting to do any dancing. I can’t. I just…well, I just can’t. I am like an elephant with snowshoes on when it comes to dancing, so I will be content to watch those who can. Have fun. I’ll be over here, tapping my toes, maybe drumming my fingers, maybe even singing a little under my breath, where people nearby will not have to bear witness that I also cannot sing.

I also have stuck in my mind this nightmarish scene I remember from a John Cusack movie, Grosse Pointe Plank. As scenes go—where there is some reunion involved in the plot—it seems to be fairly common in cinema. It’s near the end of the evening, and the retro music is playing in the background as the last of the diehards are still hanging in there, obviously having had a few too many adult beverages. I’m haunted by that shot they show of those last few people, hanging on to live out unrealized or long-lingering romantic flames, believing they can make it happen in those glorious final minutes of music. They can barely stand as they fight off the drunkenness and attempt something resembling a slow dance, but they end up looking something like two zombies arisen from the dead, swaying and leaning into each other.

My vow is that I will not be one of those zombies. But, I am betting someone will. And…so what?! More power to them. Everyone should get to enjoy the reunion in whatever way they want. It’s supposed to be fun, and everyone has their distinctly different version of fun.

Something else: the very thing that has helped produce this year’s reunion is also going to be the same thing that helps shape it. Honestly, Facebook has changed things for all of us over the last year or so, and I don’t mean all of their incessant technical adjustments. No, there is more.

We have all had to time to reacquaint, get to know each other a little better. Some of us have changed a little physically, emotionally, spiritually, and politically, and we have come to learn those things about each other in all of our interactions during that time. We have come to form and reform opinions about each other, where initially there may have been no opinions, only excitement over reconnecting. Sometimes we may have reconnected and confirmed our thoughts of someone based on our shared personal history. In other cases, we may be asking ourselves how the person we used to know became this new person we see now.

But, my biggest hope: none of that matters. And, I don’t think it will, because what it is we are all gathering to celebrate is what we have shared in common. Otherwise, we wouldn’t even make the effort. Oh, I am sure there will be the person or two that might avoid each other, for whatever reasons they bring with them. There will be circles of friends who will tend to gather, in much the same way we all did in school, and some of those circles will expand and include people that before were never included. Those social lines seem to have blurred and become rather insignificant these days.

I’m betting the worst thing that happens to any of us that night will be that awkward moment when we find ourselves chatting with someone while we rack our brains to figure out who it is. (This person knows me, is really glad to see me. I feel like a total heel because I—for the life of me—cannot remember them. Okay, look away, look away, look away for just a second so I can steal a less-than-obvious glance at your name tag, and…yes!...) “SO _____, how are you doing these days? Great! Hey, I have to get this drink over to my friend. Good to see you!”

Then you’ll slink away and wonder why the heck you still can’t remember that person. But that awkward, guilty feeling is nothing that a little reminiscing won’t kill in just a few minutes.

© 2010 Cody Kilgore. All Rights Reserved worldwide under the Berne Convention. May not be copied or distributed without prior written permission.

Why I Write

The entire library of my published work consists of this: one poem in my high school newspaper, two peer-reviewed papers on literary theory, and what I post here on Facebook. That's it. So you might understand why I hesitate every time I try (externally at least) to refer to myself as a writer. Sure, I seem to have a knack for saying things, for crafting together words and sentences in a pleasurable cadence that people enjoy reading, but my audience consists mostly of kind friends. That may be a bit of a captive audience, when you come to think of it. But, I get a great deal of satisfaction and pride in thinking--emphasis on thinking--of myself as a writer, and until recently I have never really explored why.

To say that it is a creative outlet seemed too simple an answer, and an answer that easy almost always pushes me into deeper contemplation. So, I have spent the last few days looking back over the work I posted before and after the reunion and reviewing some of the conversations I had while I was there with everyone and after. Whenever I did, certain comments kept surfacing.

Julie referred to what I was writing as "putting [my]self out there," and that struck me because I never really felt like I had exposed or opened myself in any unusually vulnerable way. But I liked the idea of being an open book; that seems honest and comfortable.

Bill was good enough to compliment "Reconciling" as a piece that struck an emotional nerve with everyone. There is likely no greater satisfaction to a writer than knowing that your work touches people. Bill is also a writer himself, so I got the double-pleasure that comes from the approval of a peer.

Trina told me one night that "writing is the loneliest profession," and that it was a good idea that creative minds reach out and connect with other creatives. That was another “aha” moment. For me, the processing of my thoughts and the act of writing feels like a solitary endeavor, but the end result I hope to achieve far from it.

A clearer understanding came through to me in a message I got from my brother Randy, who himself is a published author of devotional books and biographies. I’m kind of proud of this one, so I apologize for including so much of it to make my point: “Raw, vulnerable, powerful, they are—both pieces—the kind of writing that slips past readers’ objections unnoticed, prompting them to reflect on themselves as much as your own experiences. Their Trina; their Rob; their Bill and Mary slips into view and the same thoughts you express suddenly sneak into the scenery, blending their journey with yours.”

Ding ding ding ding ding! “Blending their journey with yours.” That is why I write.

I write to self-examine, but more importantly, I write to understand whatever it is I learn about myself and try to connect it with what everyone else might feel in common. Connections, for me--and I think for all of us--have become very important. My writing is my way of reaching out from that Self and feeling a bond with others. Otherwise, it would be pointless. What would be the purpose of writing about it if it were unique to me alone and meant nothing to anyone else? It would simply be an opinion, or an internal conversation expressed externally, and my internal conversations—for the most-part—are really not that unique or interesting. That I can express them may be. And even as I try to compose my thoughts for this essay I am asking myself what might even be interesting to anyone about the question that titles it. When I answer that question, what is the “so what” that follows for the reader?

In this case, it may only be this: we are all at an age now where we have been fairly shaped by our experiences. We are not pups, nor are we ready for rocking chairs. We are in the comfort zone, where we really don’t have anything to prove to anyone anymore. We are also at a time in our lives where we are more likely to reflect on what it is we have done, what we still want to do, what it all has meant, and—more importantly—what it may mean to those we love and care for. We have enough experience behind us to be knowledgeable, and enough maturity within us to apply that knowledge in much better ways than we would have in previous years. We are also beginning to think of our legacy. What is it that we represent, what do we do that matters, and what is it that we should do from our positioning in that “comfort zone” that may be selfless?

So maybe that is why I write now. And maybe that is why I write more (and hopefully better) now.

Just the other day, when I began to compose this note, I went back to "Reconciling" to reference a couple of comments that friends had made about that piece. They were gone. I'm not sure why, but I imagine it to be some sort of Facebook technology that deletes them after you have too many comments. There was a moment of disappointment for me in seeing that. It wasn't that any record of appreciation or accolade was gone; it was more like an erasure of the connection and conversation between the "me" in the essay and the "everyone else" in the comments. I was kind of bummed by that, even though I still carry the feelings that all those comments gave me. Human emotion-1, modern technology-0.

And in the end I also discovered in all of this a second, very compelling reason for why I write: I write to leave Megan and Kylee my legacy, or at least some sort of insight into who their father was on a level they may not always see. I try my best to be who I am consistently with them, but my role as their father and their youthful perspective may alter or filter that image. Maybe what I write now will mean something different to them when they are older, when they see me more as a person and less as an authority figure or caretaker. I certainly hope so.

Originally published 11/10/09.

© 2009 Cody Kilgore. All Rights Reserved worldwide under the Berne Convention. May not be copied or distributed without prior written permission.

Reconciling

A couple of summers ago the girls and I took a trip to Italy to visit Giorgia, the exchange student we had hosted the year before, and our informally adopted family member. We planned, prepared, and anticipated months for the trip, and the experiences we had there and the quality time that we got to spend with her and her family far exceeded our expectations. It was the trip of a lifetime.

The tearful goodbye between all of us at the airport in Milan that morning we left was just a precursor to the long and sleepless flight, the seemingly numb five-hour drive from Chicago, and the confusing few days thereafter. Normally I unpack my bags the moment I get home from any trip; it’s the closing punctuation mark, a way of tucking it away and getting on with the usual routine. But our suitcases sat for days, and I really struggled with coming back to the realities of work, of bills and laundry, cleaning house, running errands and getting to this and that event with the girls. I kept reliving memories of there and had a difficult time focusing on anything here.

I haven’t experienced feelings similar to that since. That is, until this week. I didn’t recognize it at first, but as a little time passed and I began to fully digest the last few days of thoughts and feelings I started to see the parallels. I struggled all week long to compose the essay you are now reading, one I knew I had to write somehow because too many things wanted to spill out on to page and the need to share too intense. At first it surfaced as a simple montage of memorable moments I had with people while I was there, but when I tried to write that it seemed to lack something, seemed to ignore something I couldn’t get my head around. Then I started another piece trying to talk about things everyone was expressing in common about that weekend, before, during, and after. Yet another one got started that was about what it all meant to me personally. For some reason, all of them felt incomplete and a little random, without a meaning that I thought everyone might either connect with or enjoy reading.

I spent weeks building up my anticipation of this past weekend, fueled mostly by the reconnection with so many friends on Facebook, whom I had not seen in far too many years. It was enough that we were all planning to see the game, have some pizza, and share a dinner the following night, but the chorus of responses to the idea of eating before the game only added to the fervor. Then came the news from Trina that she was flying in from California and suddenly the weekend couldn’t get here fast enough. By the time I got in the car to drive there, after little sleep, a lot of work, and too much coffee, I was at a peak. I jammed louder than I had for some time—which was good because it kept me alert—to tunes that I had not listened to for even longer. After arriving, I had trouble trying to get in a little sleep before going to meet everyone at Tomfooleries.

And then, I think from the moment I first stepped through the doors of that bar, I entered what seemed like a weekend-long state of euphoria. Thinking about it, just now, still prompts the urge to just write about some of the different moments I shared with people while I was there. Forgive me for while I humor that:

Trina: I didn’t want to let go that first hug when I saw you, and probably wouldn’t have had I not equally wanted to hold back the tears welling up.

I remember, exactly, the feelings of recognition and relief I had when I first heard Carl’s unmistakable and infectious laugh from across the room, and realized he was there.

Robert: At the Pizza Shoppe I offered to man the table a while so that you could get out and mingle with everyone like the rest of us. You turned me down and said that you were enjoying just watching everyone, and I recognized that you were—deservedly so—enjoying the sense of accomplishment you saw in everyone having fun, and that you had a hand in that.

I had the chance to sit and talk with Mark B. and put a little distance between the Cody that used to be his semi-tormentor in high school and the person that I feel I am now. Thanks, Mark. And thanks also for your comment that I have grown philosophical in my years, which I take as a compliment.

Mark also brought a treasure trove of memorabilia to the dinner. Among them: the final edition of the school newspaper from our senior year, across the front of which is sprawled the epic poem of teen angst I wrote those many years ago. Reading it again now was a conflict of embarrassment and pride.

Brad and Ruth: our walk and talk about kids and trips there in Parkville before dinner was a nice repose from the rest of the weekend. It helped remind me of some of the most important things in life waiting for me back home.

There was a bit of that ornery side of me that I felt surfaced, and I owe that to Jack. Seems like whenever you and I get together that happens, Jack. It is reflected in the photo of you and Mark and me.

Bill and Mary: we’ve stayed a little more connected over the years than I have with most, but seeing you there and getting to spend time with you was invaluable. My connection--however slight--with the two of you helps me feel grounded.

Sue, Jules, and Cindy: for some reason I think of the three of you collectively, probably a product of that time we all spent together at Nick and Jake’s. I am not sure I have laughed that hard in a very long time. Your sister Shelly, Sue, makes for the perfect comic sidekick. It was just plain fun.

I could go on forever, as we all probably could, but this piece is becoming incredibly long and rambling I think. So I’ll attempt to re-track.

There was a comment that Rob Nelson made during the conversations of Saturday evening that stuck with me. Rob mentioned that one of the reasons he was there, and there both nights, was because he knew that some of the people there had spent a lot of time and money to attend. In his comment I didn’t hear any sense of obligation, but instead consideration and appreciation. It reminded me of what I heard a great number of people reflect on while we were together, that everyone there was very genuine.

That thought first occurred to me during a contemplative moment I was having in the middle of the karaoke Friday night at Arthur’s. Yes, a strange time for deep thought, but it was my way of tuning out the karaoke, and I am sometimes prone to drawing back into thought and observation when I’m in the midst of a large group. But the thought which came to me, as I looked around the room at who was gathered there, was that we were an eclectic little group. Spin the clock back 30 years and you might not have seen the same group, not even at any of the big parties that happened then. We all had sets and subsets of different friends, that did or didn’t necessarily include the people that were there that night. Everyone was glad to be there, and just as glad that who was there had made the trip. There wasn’t any need to impress each other with stories of what we had done or were doing. There were no pretenses, just fun, and a sense of belonging. I don’t remember too much reminiscing or reliving of our Springsteenian Glory Days. I think we mostly spent time sharing about our lives now and what they have been since many of us saw each other, and sharing news of those who weren’t able to be there with us.

That is who we are now: genuine people. Our lives, our experiences, have stripped away the insecurities of our youth, and what has surfaced is what is genuine about us and has always been. I think we all recognized it in each other back then, even though it was difficult—for ourselves as much as others—to see through the mists of adolescence. And it’s what drew us all back together last weekend, what we all enjoyed most. It is no surprise that we all had so much fun together and that we all had so many feelings of gratitude to share with each other on Facebook the hours and days afterward. It’s hard to let go of it.

Which brings me around to other feelings I have been dealing with over this last week. Along with the enjoyment of reliving that fun, I have been coming down from it was well, in much the same way that I had to do when I returned from Italy. Life has to get back to normal. And in a way, life last weekend seemed a little incongruent with the way my life has been these last few years. It’s wrapped up in something I have mentioned in a note before, about being a father, a single father, about not dating and being a responsible example to my girls. And I probably owe a conversation with Trina to my exploration of these feelings.

Trina and I ducked away for a quiet drink, removed from the mayhem, so that we could catch up on things. At one point Trina asked me, “So, how is your love life?” and I remember giving her, at first, my stock response, which is a shrug of the shoulder followed by “Fine, it doesn’t exist.” Beyond that is usually a rationalization about how working two jobs, raising the girls, running, and writing leaves little time for anything else. Somewhere I throw in there that the girls are most important and deserve my focus, and that I am satisfied with my life. But in trying to express that to Trina it felt like I was, and have been, whistling past the graveyard. I had to be truthful, that I had at times felt like it was not ever going to happen for me again because I was just not the kind of person that would be interesting to someone again. My youthful looks had matured, I was divorced, in my forties, had two young girls, no time for a social life, and not exactly financially secure.

“Did Cody lose his Mojo?” she asked. Trina has a splendidly candid way of putting things. I have. Or did. And what’s more: I’m the one (if I can assume I ever really had it) who tucked it away in the closet.

When I remember some of the fun of the last weekend I also remember how some of it made me feel, well…a little attractive again. But in settling back into the routines and responsibilities here, it became easy to feel conflict with those times and this life, and to return to the tendencies that the two were separate, and always should be. I even worried about my new Facebook photo and how I thought it was hilarious, but that I probably should remove it before Megan or Kylee saw it, particularly Megan. She has this little thing she does with me if we are out somewhere together: she is very adept at noticing when I notice an attractive woman, and quick to zing me with a “Dad, stop it!”

But, Megan saw the photo last night, and she laughed at it. And in that singular moment, a number of things came together for me. The person of last weekend and the person of this week are one and the same. It is okay to be both, and it is okay to be both for my daughters, to let them see that. It is okay to have fun, to be myself, and to take time for myself without feeling it is selfish. In a watershed of realization, I came to understand that last weekend was not a brief, isolated, piece of my life, but instead an integral part of it. It’s a thread, not a patch.

And it all snapped together: the fun, the feelings I was having, the difficulty in writing about the weekend, the note from Giorgia on the way home about how much she misses us, Megan’s laugh…it all came to the epiphany that produced this essay.

Originally published 10/29/09.

© 2009 Cody Kilgore. All Rights Reserved worldwide under the Berne Convention. May not be copied or distributed without prior written permission.