I want a life I can be proud of. When I am greeted by death's sweet embrace, I want to be able to say that I gave it all without holding back. I want to know as I close my eyes for the last time that, even with all the curve balls that life has thrown my way, and will continue to throw, that I kept swinging, without fear and without reservation. To say that I stood my ground and lived with integrity and honor. That I loved deeper than the sea, and gave without hesitation. I want to work hard and build an empire. More than anything though, I want to live in truth and find where I belong in this world. So how do I do this? (an honest question to anyone that has the answer.)
The logical answer, to me, starts with work. This is not something that I am not afraid of, in fact, some might say I work to much, to these people, I have to ask is there such a thing? I love to work, I mean I kind of hate it, but it drives me. It is the only way I ever see myself getting ahead.(this might seem like I am stating the obvious, but in today's day and age of entitlement, one can't be to sure...) I spent the early part of my twenties craving acceptance and partying my life away. The bar became my church, and in all honesty, I would still rather spend the night playing pool and having a few beers, than sitting in a pew waiting for the service to get over. Don't get me wrong, I NEED to go to church, it is one of the places that God talks to me, but the facade of church is just that, a false front. Maybe I have been jaded by the past, but I never feel comfortable in church, which is ironic, since it is often referred to as a sanctuary. For me there is something unsettling about it. I see the smiles, I hear the praise music, I see everyone dressed appropriately, yet it just doesn't feel right... Part of this falls on me, in fact the majority of it falls on my shoulders.
I smile back, I sing the songs, and i dress appropriately myself, but it never feels real. The conversation never goes past the weather, and that eats at me. Why can't I be real? Why can't I say that I am having a shitty day, or that I am doubting the path that God has set me on...? Or that I sometimes question if there even is a path? If, by chance someone does care to ask, it always feels as if they are trying to save me as soon as they hear an honest answer, but here is the thing, I am 100% secure in my faith. Does that mean that I can't question things from time to time...? I sure hope not. If questions are never asked, answers are never found. To me church has become a social club, at least the churches I have been to. People worry about how many cars are in the parking lot. ( I shit you not, I have been to places where they actually publish the weekly numbers in the bulletin.) There is a lot of in-reach and not a lot of outreach, and that is why people are turned away, no one likes to be judged. I heard it said that church is just rehab for sinners, and I feel like this has been forgotten, we all have secrets that we don't want to share, and we can all be, and will be judged. I am pretty sure the Bible says"...Judge not, lest you be judged..." Our job as Christians is to show compassion and understanding. I say we leave the judgment to God.
So why am I more comfortable in bars? I have found the realest people in the world at the bar. (before or mid drunk, if they are blacked out all bets are off.) In my experience the dirtier the bar the better. No one is trying to hide the fact that they are hiding something in a bar. Everyone knows on some level that they are trying to escape something, whether its a girlfriend or boyfriend, maybe a long day at work, or just trying to avoid being lonely. The unsaid is accepted and making an ass of yourself is celebrated. I lived for it,
As I have grown older though I realize that the bar is empty, it is still fun, but if I truly want to reach my goals, it holds nothing for me. All it will do is take my money and eat my soul. So where does that leave me? I was raised in the church, but feel unwelcome (partially due to my own hypocrisy), and I rebelled in the bar, which left me alone and behind the eight ball as far a maturity goes. The only answer that I am left with is work.
Like I said, I love to work. I have no formal education so my options as far as jobs go, are somewhat limited. Lucky for me I have diabetes and I love to swing a hammer. There is something to be said for physical labor. For one, I am convince that it has kept me alive, as soon as I got diagnosed with this wonderful disease, I went back to pouring concrete. If you have never poured concrete, I have to tell you it is the most demanding job, both mentally and physically, I have ever had the pleasure of doing. I. Love. It. In my mind there are only a few things greater than spending the entire day out in the sun, racing the clock trying to make a slab perfect, or setting wall forms knowing that the end product has to be precise. Being able to see what I accomplished at the end of the day is rewarding as well. I have found this is true of any kind of construction. It is a all one big puzzle that needs to be put together with a mixture of speed and skill. Some do it well, and others, not so well, but I know that I get better at it everyday, and that is something that I take pride in.
As much as I love working with my hands, I have found myself wondering lately, if that is how I want to spend the rest of my life...? Will it lead me where I want to go? There is certainly a good living to be made doing it, and it satisfies my need to create something and solve problems. I have found, however, that there are very few people that I work well with. I have high standards, and don't like being taken advantage of, I constantly worry that the work will run out. So I ask myself what else am I capable of....? What else do I need to feel fulfilled...?
These are questions that, I will without a doubt, ponder the rest of my life. The answers are right in front of me, I just can't seem to get to them. I know that I love writing. It clears my mind, and my thoughts are easier to walk through if I can see them on the page. I also love to create art, whether it is a painting, photography, or writing a poem. It is almost a compulsion, these things also create the most doubt in my life, because they are so intensely personal, and that is where the truth lies. It is a scary truth, because I have to live up to it. I often give up, because I fear that I will not be able to stand in the light of it. As soon as I figure out how to make a living, doing these things that I love, watch out....
At the end of the day I don't need to be rich (although that would be nice), I don't think being comfortable out of the question. It would be wonderful to not have to worry every time I swipe my debit card. 30 is looming in the not to distant future and it is time to grow up. I want to build my own house, with my own hands, and after years and years of watching and learning, I now have the skills to do just that. I also want to be published within the next 5 years, I am not sure how, but I will find a way. I have been blessed in many aspects of my life, but I have also squandered many of those blessings. Something has to change, and something is changing. I am not the same person I was a year ago, so I am gonna keep truckin as they say, because the change has to start with me, and that is what I really want.
-Micah
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Day eighteen: Words are not enough. (America Post)
Today is a somber day. It is a day that we as a nation get to remember all those that have fallen, in order that we can have freedom. Freedoms that we take for granted. Forgetting the price that was paid. A bounty paid in blood. Truth is, we are indebted to the Veterans of this country, and it is a debt that can not be repaid. The thing about every Veteran I have ever met is this, they don't expect repayment, or even a thank you for that matter. Most shy away from the extra attention, not knowing how to accept the gratitude. They do it selflessly, a sense of duty so strong it is ingrained into their very nature.
The responsibility is a sacred one. They are charged with the safety of a nation. While we sleep they stand guard. When we are attacked, they are the ones that run towards the fight, standing for what is right, defending the defenseless. They are warriors, but they are also ambassadors, and re-builders of nations. When President Roosevelt (the first one) said to walk softly and carry a big stick... he was talking about the men and women of the armed services being the stick, our first, last,a and only line of defense.
In recent years I have had multiple conversations with multiple people regarding the the military and this country... I need to make something clear here, I love this country and the ideals it stands for, I still believe that this is the greatest country in the world. I believe that we have some serious issues, but I also believe that we are not beyond repair. I believe that in order to have peace you need to prepare for war. This last one means that we, as a country, need to have the best possible military... on the planet. I would say that our track record is pretty good, and this is only because of our Veterans. I have noticed a rise in disrespect for those men and women, and to be quite frank, it disgusts me. I often wonder if these people realize that the only reason they can voice their opinions is because of they thing they claim to hate... Irony...
What does it even take join the Armed Forces? First you have to go to a recruiter. This man or woman will already be in what ever branch you want to join. The test starts here, it is their job to weed out the weak and unreliable, They walk you through the process, making sure you are healthy enough, and smart enough. If you make it past their desk, you get the joy of boot camp.
Boot camp is a grueling nine weeks of intense training. We have all seen the movies and heard the stories. You get yelled at, you are told when you can eat, when you can sleep, and when you can shit. Any control you had over your life is gone the second you walk through those doors. You are torn down to your bones, stripped of anything that makes you an individual. Doing a task so many times it seems pointless. Exercising to the point of exhaustion, and then exercising some more. It is all meant to keep you alive, and more importantly keep you in the fight. To give you any sort of edge over your enemy. Tearing the weak you down to build up a stronger faster you. A you that is part of a much bigger machine, a very well oiled machine.
If you make it though the boot camp, you have earned the title of solider and you get to move on to a more specialized training. Depending on your scores, you could end up a cook, because even an army has to eat... All the way up to special forces i.e., SEALS, Delta Force, Special Forces, E.O.D., Green Berets... the list goes on. This training can go anywhere from ten weeks to two years for the more specialized assignments.
After all of this training, you get your orders, or assignment. Some are lucky enough to stay stateside, while others are deployed. Some on peace keeping missions, some are sent to war torn areas around the world. Lately the ladder has been the trend. The world seems to be falling apart around us, and without our Men and Women of service, it could be a much darker place. It is a strange thing to be both a sword and shield, yet the warriors in the United States Armed Forces do it everyday, making it look easy.
The best part of all of this is that we have a 100% volunteer fighting force. They are our neighbors. They are our cousins. They are our sons and daughters. They are our brothers. They are our sisters. They are our chosen ones, because they carry the weight of a nation on their backs. They don't falter in resolve, and they don't run from a fight. They are so much of what makes this country great... Words are not enough, they can not capture gratitude I feel, but they are all I have, so I would like to say thank you to all past, present, and future service men and women, I hope you know this country loves you and is forever grateful.
-Micah
The responsibility is a sacred one. They are charged with the safety of a nation. While we sleep they stand guard. When we are attacked, they are the ones that run towards the fight, standing for what is right, defending the defenseless. They are warriors, but they are also ambassadors, and re-builders of nations. When President Roosevelt (the first one) said to walk softly and carry a big stick... he was talking about the men and women of the armed services being the stick, our first, last,a and only line of defense.
In recent years I have had multiple conversations with multiple people regarding the the military and this country... I need to make something clear here, I love this country and the ideals it stands for, I still believe that this is the greatest country in the world. I believe that we have some serious issues, but I also believe that we are not beyond repair. I believe that in order to have peace you need to prepare for war. This last one means that we, as a country, need to have the best possible military... on the planet. I would say that our track record is pretty good, and this is only because of our Veterans. I have noticed a rise in disrespect for those men and women, and to be quite frank, it disgusts me. I often wonder if these people realize that the only reason they can voice their opinions is because of they thing they claim to hate... Irony...
What does it even take join the Armed Forces? First you have to go to a recruiter. This man or woman will already be in what ever branch you want to join. The test starts here, it is their job to weed out the weak and unreliable, They walk you through the process, making sure you are healthy enough, and smart enough. If you make it past their desk, you get the joy of boot camp.
Boot camp is a grueling nine weeks of intense training. We have all seen the movies and heard the stories. You get yelled at, you are told when you can eat, when you can sleep, and when you can shit. Any control you had over your life is gone the second you walk through those doors. You are torn down to your bones, stripped of anything that makes you an individual. Doing a task so many times it seems pointless. Exercising to the point of exhaustion, and then exercising some more. It is all meant to keep you alive, and more importantly keep you in the fight. To give you any sort of edge over your enemy. Tearing the weak you down to build up a stronger faster you. A you that is part of a much bigger machine, a very well oiled machine.
If you make it though the boot camp, you have earned the title of solider and you get to move on to a more specialized training. Depending on your scores, you could end up a cook, because even an army has to eat... All the way up to special forces i.e., SEALS, Delta Force, Special Forces, E.O.D., Green Berets... the list goes on. This training can go anywhere from ten weeks to two years for the more specialized assignments.
After all of this training, you get your orders, or assignment. Some are lucky enough to stay stateside, while others are deployed. Some on peace keeping missions, some are sent to war torn areas around the world. Lately the ladder has been the trend. The world seems to be falling apart around us, and without our Men and Women of service, it could be a much darker place. It is a strange thing to be both a sword and shield, yet the warriors in the United States Armed Forces do it everyday, making it look easy.
The best part of all of this is that we have a 100% volunteer fighting force. They are our neighbors. They are our cousins. They are our sons and daughters. They are our brothers. They are our sisters. They are our chosen ones, because they carry the weight of a nation on their backs. They don't falter in resolve, and they don't run from a fight. They are so much of what makes this country great... Words are not enough, they can not capture gratitude I feel, but they are all I have, so I would like to say thank you to all past, present, and future service men and women, I hope you know this country loves you and is forever grateful.
-Micah
Friday, November 7, 2014
Day seventeen: Picking back up. (keep it moving post)
I had to force myself to sit down and write this. If you have been following this blog I have to apologize for it taking this long to get something new up. There are a couple of reasons for this. I have been working non stop for the last twelve days, and I was exhausted. This is an excuse, it is a good excuse, but it is an excuse none the less. This is important to me, with that being said, it is also very scary... to look so deeply into myself, I have found that I don't like what is looking back. I am still torn between what I should be and what I am.
This is not the first time I have talked about the battle wages on inside my mind, and it will probably not be the last. It consumes my thoughts some days. I know that I have the capacity for good, but for me this fact it is a double edge sword. I inherently know when I do good things. I think we all do. I can feel it. It makes my pride swell. As my pride swells, I start to see my good deeds as a kind of hall pass. It's like; if I do enough good, it excuses some of the bad. It always starts out as fun, but soon the bad starts to out weigh the good. The guilt starts to pile up, like a big pile of smelly shit. I begin to feel defeated as I watch what I worked so hard to build come crumbling down around me. This always leads to a heavy bout of self hatred, and worse, disappointment.
As the stress builds, I eventually crack and run as far and as fast from the implosion as possible, leaving a path of emotional wreckage in my wake. This is the thing I dislike the most about myself. I am a runner. I will stand toe to toe with anyone. I have gotten my ass kicked on more than one occasion, by multitudes of people, and I would do it all again, on some level I even enjoyed it, smiling as the blood trickles down my face. I view it as the punishment I deserve. However, if you confront me with some kind of emotional threat, I am gone...
It has been well over a week since I sat down at this computer to write because I was lacing up my running shoes. The problem I am finding is that I cannot out run myself. No matter how hard I try,.. and fact of the matter is I am tired of running.
I lost my words for a week, but I am finding my way back into the light. I have had many people applaud me in the past few weeks, saying they admire my honesty, People I didn't expect, and I can not tell you what your kind words have meant to me, My fear is that I will let you down, because now I have to live up to that honesty. I feel arrogant I type this ,but it is the truth,
I am going to keep this one short, but I am also going to press on, I am two posts past half way, leaving me with thirteen more, the end is in sight and I have a renewed vigor to dive back in, to dig out the monster that has lurked in the shadows my whole life. I will cut him out and expose him, so won't you continue this little journey with me? I promise it will be interesting, and maybe even a little bit entertaining.
-Micah
This is not the first time I have talked about the battle wages on inside my mind, and it will probably not be the last. It consumes my thoughts some days. I know that I have the capacity for good, but for me this fact it is a double edge sword. I inherently know when I do good things. I think we all do. I can feel it. It makes my pride swell. As my pride swells, I start to see my good deeds as a kind of hall pass. It's like; if I do enough good, it excuses some of the bad. It always starts out as fun, but soon the bad starts to out weigh the good. The guilt starts to pile up, like a big pile of smelly shit. I begin to feel defeated as I watch what I worked so hard to build come crumbling down around me. This always leads to a heavy bout of self hatred, and worse, disappointment.
As the stress builds, I eventually crack and run as far and as fast from the implosion as possible, leaving a path of emotional wreckage in my wake. This is the thing I dislike the most about myself. I am a runner. I will stand toe to toe with anyone. I have gotten my ass kicked on more than one occasion, by multitudes of people, and I would do it all again, on some level I even enjoyed it, smiling as the blood trickles down my face. I view it as the punishment I deserve. However, if you confront me with some kind of emotional threat, I am gone...
It has been well over a week since I sat down at this computer to write because I was lacing up my running shoes. The problem I am finding is that I cannot out run myself. No matter how hard I try,.. and fact of the matter is I am tired of running.
I lost my words for a week, but I am finding my way back into the light. I have had many people applaud me in the past few weeks, saying they admire my honesty, People I didn't expect, and I can not tell you what your kind words have meant to me, My fear is that I will let you down, because now I have to live up to that honesty. I feel arrogant I type this ,but it is the truth,
I am going to keep this one short, but I am also going to press on, I am two posts past half way, leaving me with thirteen more, the end is in sight and I have a renewed vigor to dive back in, to dig out the monster that has lurked in the shadows my whole life. I will cut him out and expose him, so won't you continue this little journey with me? I promise it will be interesting, and maybe even a little bit entertaining.
-Micah
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Day sixteen: A tale of 2 Grandfathers. (forward thinking post)
I come from a long line of working class people. It is in my blood. Both of my grandfathers worked with their hands, My dad's dad worked the same farm as far back as I can remember. When it was harvest time he would let me "drive" the combine through the field, by this I mean that I sat on his lap and held the steering wheel, never having any real control, but when you are only 4 or 5, it feels like you are running the world.
He was a happy man from what I could gather in the short time that I knew him. He was strong and always had a smile or a funny story to tell. His hands where thick and meaty, they where so calloused he could pick up a pot of boiling water ( I am not sure if this is actually true but I have heard my dad tell stories enough times that the image got stuck in my mind.) By the time I came along, they no longer lived on the farm, but he owned the land, and that made his life much more comfortable till the end. He was also a tough old bastard, it took 3 heart attacks before he threw in the towel,
He was on the way to the casino with his wife, my grandma, when the third on hit him. Miles away from home, and going into cardiac arrest, he calmly turned the car around and drove all the way back to the hospital, walked in told them what was happening, all as calmly as a Hindu cow, He was from a small rural community, but they had a helicopter, he was life flighted to a larger hospital. He coded a couple of times on the way, but made it. Unfortunately his heart could not take the damage and he passed a little over a week later. I will miss the man, and I can't wait to meet him again, just to see if he approved of the life I have led. ( I am sure there will be parts that he wont...) At that young age though, he instilled something in me, a love for the out doors and the need to work with my hands, he taught me that outside of my mind, they are my greatest tools and for that I will be forever grateful.
My mom's father was the same way, just a little rougher around the edges. He came from a large dutch family that worked a farm as well. He grew up working, cause that is what the Dutch did, had kids so they didn't have to hire laborers. And why not...? You don't have to pay them, there are no interviews, you get to train them however you see fit, and making them is kinda fun.
He was coming of age as World War II was in full swing. He saw it as his duty to fight for his country and enlisted. When we dropped the bombs, he was sent over to pick up the pieces. I can not imagine what he saw, he never talked about it, and I never asked, I did see the scars he carried and have more respect for that man, then I have for most. One of my biggest regrets in life is not being able to tell him, again because I was to young when he passed to understand the things that he had done.
Crusty is the wrong way to describe him, and at the same time it is almost perfect. I mean no disrespect by it. He came back from the war and started a family, spawning 6 kids all together. He crisscrossed the country with the family in tow, constantly looking for work. He was a hired hand and was most comfortable breaking horses, and working on livestock farms.
By the time I met him, he was retired and living with my grandma in a small trailer. Let me paint a picture. When we visited we would walk in through the garage. The door opened into a small, but comfortable dining room, just big enough for a table and some chairs. To the right was a living room, with his recliner a couch and a couple of chairs. If you went left, you would pass the kitchen and farther back there were bedrooms and a bathroom.
He would either be at the table, chain smoking or in his recliner, also chain smoking, I never saw him sit anywhere else. He was a larger man, his hair was always combed over, there wasn't much left but he made sure ever hair was in place, even if there were only six of them. He always wore Dickies, and I am talking, button shirt tucked into pants, with boots. I don't think that I ever saw him in anything else. They were always tan, no other color, He must have had twelve pairs of pants, and twelve matching shirts, all the same.
He had a deep raspy voice from smoking for so many years, He started when he was twelve, and he was in his sixties by the time I met him. He laughed a lot, but for some reason I was scared of him at first. He had thick black glasses, the kind you get from the military, and he had no teeth. When he got back from the war they pulled every last one out of his mouth. They thought in their infinite wisdom, that radiation stayed in the teeth, so anyone that went to Hiroshima or Nagasaki got a free trip to the dentist as soon as they got home. He hated dentures so he never wore them. His gums where so calloused that he could bite into an apple... with no teeth. He could also lick his own eyeball, Do you know what that can do to a four year old, it leaves deep physiological scars, believe that...
I was scared of him until I was five and I pushed my brother onto a bumble bee outside of his trailer. The bee stung him and we both ran inside crying. I felt guilty, and Marcus was wailing in pain. My grandpa got up quietly and went outside. I thought it was because he didn't want to be around a couple of crying little boys, I was wrong.
He came back inside a couple of minutes later and sat down, he had something in his hands. He got out a piece of paper and taped something to it. I was curious so I inched closer so i could see. On the sticky note there was a bee... He had gone out and caught a bee... with his bare hands... He looked at my brother as my mom tried to dig the stinger out, and with a smile asked if he wanted revenge. Through the tears Marcus nodded yes.
The old man smiled and took out a cigarette, slowly lighting it and taking a drag. The cherry had a red glow as he lowered it to the piece of paper, burning of one bee's wings off, it sizzled and smoke rose to the ceiling. The tears lessened. He took another drag, the toothless smile growing, as he lowered it again and burned off the other wing, the sizzle was accompanied by a smell this time, the smell of vengeance. Sobs subsided into silence, as he continued. He tortured that poor bee, burning off each of its legs until there was nothing left but a black and yellow body. We were not crying anymore. He took on last long drag with a smile and snuffed the cigarette out along with the bee. His revenge had been served, and his grandson avenged. Again, crusty is the wrong word, but there was a hardness about him. Life had not been easy for him, jading him, but underneath that gruff surface was a kind and caring man.
It is important to know what kind of stock you come from, it is for me anyways. It tells me something about myself. What I am capable of. I am sure I have made decisions that neither one of these men would understand, and probably done some things that would make them ashamed. All that aside, I would like to think that I have done some things that would make them proud. The both passed their work ethic down. I watched both my parents work hard my entire life, and that had to come from somewhere. It is the one trait that I am the most grateful for, and one I hope I will be able to pass to my son.
I look around these days and see a lack of ambition, one could even call it a disease of laziness. My generation was told that we had to go to college to get a good job. That if we worked in the blue collar trades we were not going to make it. This is a lie. I have nothing against college, but I have never met two people who were exactly the same. College is just not for some people. It amasses mountains of debt, and shapes young minds the way it sees fit, under the guise of free thinking. I prefer to have dirt under my finger nails, and being so worn out by the end of the day that I can hardly move. It keeps my mind sharp, and my body fit, it is the ultimate win win scenario.
I learn at least one new thing a day for free, and I am proud to be a skilled laborer. There is a reason they call it skilled. It has taken me ten years to get the experience I needed to make a decent living doing what I do, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. At the end of the day I can see the progress I have made. I get to build things and make them pretty, and there is certainly no shame in that. Neither one of my grand fathers made it past the 8th grade, and they seemed to be happy with the lives they worked so hard to create. Where there days that they hated their jobs? I am sure, but that is true with any kind of work. It's not going to be perfect everyday, Most days though, I get to be outside, earning the respect of the tools that I use everyday. I get to get better everyday, and eventually I will earn the title of craftsman, and I think that would make my grand fathers pretty proud. At the end of the day, I couldn't ask for anything more.
-Micah
He was a happy man from what I could gather in the short time that I knew him. He was strong and always had a smile or a funny story to tell. His hands where thick and meaty, they where so calloused he could pick up a pot of boiling water ( I am not sure if this is actually true but I have heard my dad tell stories enough times that the image got stuck in my mind.) By the time I came along, they no longer lived on the farm, but he owned the land, and that made his life much more comfortable till the end. He was also a tough old bastard, it took 3 heart attacks before he threw in the towel,
He was on the way to the casino with his wife, my grandma, when the third on hit him. Miles away from home, and going into cardiac arrest, he calmly turned the car around and drove all the way back to the hospital, walked in told them what was happening, all as calmly as a Hindu cow, He was from a small rural community, but they had a helicopter, he was life flighted to a larger hospital. He coded a couple of times on the way, but made it. Unfortunately his heart could not take the damage and he passed a little over a week later. I will miss the man, and I can't wait to meet him again, just to see if he approved of the life I have led. ( I am sure there will be parts that he wont...) At that young age though, he instilled something in me, a love for the out doors and the need to work with my hands, he taught me that outside of my mind, they are my greatest tools and for that I will be forever grateful.
My mom's father was the same way, just a little rougher around the edges. He came from a large dutch family that worked a farm as well. He grew up working, cause that is what the Dutch did, had kids so they didn't have to hire laborers. And why not...? You don't have to pay them, there are no interviews, you get to train them however you see fit, and making them is kinda fun.
He was coming of age as World War II was in full swing. He saw it as his duty to fight for his country and enlisted. When we dropped the bombs, he was sent over to pick up the pieces. I can not imagine what he saw, he never talked about it, and I never asked, I did see the scars he carried and have more respect for that man, then I have for most. One of my biggest regrets in life is not being able to tell him, again because I was to young when he passed to understand the things that he had done.
Crusty is the wrong way to describe him, and at the same time it is almost perfect. I mean no disrespect by it. He came back from the war and started a family, spawning 6 kids all together. He crisscrossed the country with the family in tow, constantly looking for work. He was a hired hand and was most comfortable breaking horses, and working on livestock farms.
By the time I met him, he was retired and living with my grandma in a small trailer. Let me paint a picture. When we visited we would walk in through the garage. The door opened into a small, but comfortable dining room, just big enough for a table and some chairs. To the right was a living room, with his recliner a couch and a couple of chairs. If you went left, you would pass the kitchen and farther back there were bedrooms and a bathroom.
He would either be at the table, chain smoking or in his recliner, also chain smoking, I never saw him sit anywhere else. He was a larger man, his hair was always combed over, there wasn't much left but he made sure ever hair was in place, even if there were only six of them. He always wore Dickies, and I am talking, button shirt tucked into pants, with boots. I don't think that I ever saw him in anything else. They were always tan, no other color, He must have had twelve pairs of pants, and twelve matching shirts, all the same.
He had a deep raspy voice from smoking for so many years, He started when he was twelve, and he was in his sixties by the time I met him. He laughed a lot, but for some reason I was scared of him at first. He had thick black glasses, the kind you get from the military, and he had no teeth. When he got back from the war they pulled every last one out of his mouth. They thought in their infinite wisdom, that radiation stayed in the teeth, so anyone that went to Hiroshima or Nagasaki got a free trip to the dentist as soon as they got home. He hated dentures so he never wore them. His gums where so calloused that he could bite into an apple... with no teeth. He could also lick his own eyeball, Do you know what that can do to a four year old, it leaves deep physiological scars, believe that...
I was scared of him until I was five and I pushed my brother onto a bumble bee outside of his trailer. The bee stung him and we both ran inside crying. I felt guilty, and Marcus was wailing in pain. My grandpa got up quietly and went outside. I thought it was because he didn't want to be around a couple of crying little boys, I was wrong.
He came back inside a couple of minutes later and sat down, he had something in his hands. He got out a piece of paper and taped something to it. I was curious so I inched closer so i could see. On the sticky note there was a bee... He had gone out and caught a bee... with his bare hands... He looked at my brother as my mom tried to dig the stinger out, and with a smile asked if he wanted revenge. Through the tears Marcus nodded yes.
The old man smiled and took out a cigarette, slowly lighting it and taking a drag. The cherry had a red glow as he lowered it to the piece of paper, burning of one bee's wings off, it sizzled and smoke rose to the ceiling. The tears lessened. He took another drag, the toothless smile growing, as he lowered it again and burned off the other wing, the sizzle was accompanied by a smell this time, the smell of vengeance. Sobs subsided into silence, as he continued. He tortured that poor bee, burning off each of its legs until there was nothing left but a black and yellow body. We were not crying anymore. He took on last long drag with a smile and snuffed the cigarette out along with the bee. His revenge had been served, and his grandson avenged. Again, crusty is the wrong word, but there was a hardness about him. Life had not been easy for him, jading him, but underneath that gruff surface was a kind and caring man.
It is important to know what kind of stock you come from, it is for me anyways. It tells me something about myself. What I am capable of. I am sure I have made decisions that neither one of these men would understand, and probably done some things that would make them ashamed. All that aside, I would like to think that I have done some things that would make them proud. The both passed their work ethic down. I watched both my parents work hard my entire life, and that had to come from somewhere. It is the one trait that I am the most grateful for, and one I hope I will be able to pass to my son.
I look around these days and see a lack of ambition, one could even call it a disease of laziness. My generation was told that we had to go to college to get a good job. That if we worked in the blue collar trades we were not going to make it. This is a lie. I have nothing against college, but I have never met two people who were exactly the same. College is just not for some people. It amasses mountains of debt, and shapes young minds the way it sees fit, under the guise of free thinking. I prefer to have dirt under my finger nails, and being so worn out by the end of the day that I can hardly move. It keeps my mind sharp, and my body fit, it is the ultimate win win scenario.
I learn at least one new thing a day for free, and I am proud to be a skilled laborer. There is a reason they call it skilled. It has taken me ten years to get the experience I needed to make a decent living doing what I do, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. At the end of the day I can see the progress I have made. I get to build things and make them pretty, and there is certainly no shame in that. Neither one of my grand fathers made it past the 8th grade, and they seemed to be happy with the lives they worked so hard to create. Where there days that they hated their jobs? I am sure, but that is true with any kind of work. It's not going to be perfect everyday, Most days though, I get to be outside, earning the respect of the tools that I use everyday. I get to get better everyday, and eventually I will earn the title of craftsman, and I think that would make my grand fathers pretty proud. At the end of the day, I couldn't ask for anything more.
-Micah
Monday, October 27, 2014
Day number fifteen: My buddy Alex (hero Post)
I was going to write about a job that I had. I was going to write about the bad lands in North Dakota, and how they took my breath away. About how I got the chance to see a rattle snake in the wild ( I was terrified in the back seat of a truck while a park ranger brushed it off the road.... with his hat... ballsy) I was going to tell of another betrayal that led to me decide to go out on my own, and owning that choice,,,
I, however, am not going to do that. I got distracted. I got distracted because I have the chance to hang out with my buddy Alex this week. Alex is one of my personal hero's. It is impossible to be depressed around Alex, his smile is infections. His demeanor is one of grace, there is no other word to describe it. Life has thrown Alex a few curve balls, he has taken the hits in stride and continues to thrive. There is nothing that can hold him down or hold him back. The strength that he holds in his mind, spirit, and character are unmatched and make him the strongest person I know.
I have know Alex for some time. We actually met because he dated someone I was dating. We met at a Homecoming dance, of all places. He was nice enough, but I was threatened. He was from another town and I was sure I would never see him again.
Fate had other plans. Months later my brother and I would open the board shop. We started meeting people from around the area, Alex was in the circle of friends that I was most drawn to. We started hanging out at the same parties. I was no longer with the girl we had both dated, so I was no longer threatened, and she quickly became a reason to bond. He started coming to the shop to hang out. We would play video games in the back, or go long boarding along the beach. The summer ended and he went off to college, but we stayed in touch. when he would come home he would get a hold of me. It felt like true friendship. He always wanted to catch up, insisting to know everything that was new in my life. It was and is hard to lie to Alex, and he was not, and is not, afraid to tell me where I am making or have made a mess of my life. He doesn't do this to judge, he does it because he cares.
Ten years ago something happened that would change Alex's life forever. It is a night, that I am sure, he thinks about everyday. It was not a small change, it was a life shattering, change everything you thought you knew, have to learn everything over, kind of change. He was on a dock and his hat blew into the water. Being familiar with the lake, and being a ways out on the dock he dove in after it... we had not gotten a lot of rain that year, and the lake was low. He went head first into less than 20 inches of water, breaking his neck instantly.
He had a friend with him, who jumped in and pulled him back to shore, without a doubt saving his life. An ambulance was called and he was rushed to the hospital. The news was not good, He was quickly transferred to a larger, more capable hospital, and eventually ended up in a hospital out in Colorado that specialized in spinal injuries. His recovery took months. He ended up being paralyzed from the chest down.
I can assure you, that if this had happened to me, I would have given up. I would have screamed out to God, enraged at the hand I had been dealt. I would have been swallowed by self pity, and probably would have drawn into myself, I imagine I would live in a dark room, never wanting to come back out into the light.
This is why Alex is my hero. I remember seeing him when he got back from Colorado. He was all smiles. We sat in his parents garage with some other friends and played cards all night. I think he knew on some level that we were unsure as to what to say to him. It could have been an incredibly awkward night. Alex didn't let that happen. He encouraged us to talk about it, and answered all of our questions with patience and understanding. He even dubbed himself the Quad Father.
Over the years I have watched Alex shoot for the stars. He went back to college, joined a frat, and got involved on campus. He graduated towards the top of his class, and went on to get his masters in mediation. Articles have been written him in Times magazine. As if that was not enough he continued on to an internship out in Washington D,C.
The kid sets goals and just goes for it, without any fear. Holding nothing back he will step into the ring with anyone or anything. I have spent many long nights in that ring, around a fire, or a poker table, discussing life, all aspects. We talk about girls, we talk about God, but our favorite thing to discuss is politics.
We don't enjoy these conversations because we share the same opinions, in fact it is the exact opposite. If you know me, you know know that I am an "independent" but in that independence, I lean pretty far to the right, some might use the word "conservative", There is no doubt that Alex is a red blooded democrat. He believes in the democratic ideals down to his very core. He spends the time to research what he believes in. He gets involved in the political process. He doesn't just swallow information, he analyzes it from all sides, and makes a rational decision. It is a scary prospect to get into one of these debates, because I know going into it that there is a 60% chance that I will lose the argument.
In 2012 he worked on the Obama campaign, and was a large part of the reason that his county went democratic for the first time in years. It was quite the accomplishment. Alex knows what it is to work. As I type this he is running for his county's board of supervisor's, while working full time for the college that he graduated from and loves.
I don't live in his district, but if I did he would have my vote, and I don't take that lightly. Ideologically we disagree about almost everything, Alex is humble but firm in his opinions. He is willing to listen, and not afraid to concede a point, that is something that demands my respect especially in this day and age, where it seems people just want to fight.
What happened to him all those years ago was terrible, there is no other way to describe it. Like I said, I could not imagine spending one day in his shoes, they are far to big for me to fill. Through everything though, Alex continues to smile. There is wisdom in his eyes, he knows what he is capable of, and that is anything he sets his mind to. In a twisted way, losing his body, freed his mind.
I aspire to be like my buddy Alex. I am sure that he will go on to do great things, in fact I don't think the Presidency is to far out of reach. When he is on the cover of every political magazine, or has published multiple books, or helped countless kids through college, or actually becomes President, I will be honored to say that I knew him. To say that I had the opportunity to bask in his light. The absolute best thing about Alex is this though: If all that does happen, if he does become President, I will always know that he is just phone call away, because above all else, Alex knows how to be a friend, and I am lucky enough to call him one of mine.
-Micah
P.S. If you live in Woodbury County make sure you go vote Nov. 4th. Watters for Woodbury.
I, however, am not going to do that. I got distracted. I got distracted because I have the chance to hang out with my buddy Alex this week. Alex is one of my personal hero's. It is impossible to be depressed around Alex, his smile is infections. His demeanor is one of grace, there is no other word to describe it. Life has thrown Alex a few curve balls, he has taken the hits in stride and continues to thrive. There is nothing that can hold him down or hold him back. The strength that he holds in his mind, spirit, and character are unmatched and make him the strongest person I know.
I have know Alex for some time. We actually met because he dated someone I was dating. We met at a Homecoming dance, of all places. He was nice enough, but I was threatened. He was from another town and I was sure I would never see him again.
Fate had other plans. Months later my brother and I would open the board shop. We started meeting people from around the area, Alex was in the circle of friends that I was most drawn to. We started hanging out at the same parties. I was no longer with the girl we had both dated, so I was no longer threatened, and she quickly became a reason to bond. He started coming to the shop to hang out. We would play video games in the back, or go long boarding along the beach. The summer ended and he went off to college, but we stayed in touch. when he would come home he would get a hold of me. It felt like true friendship. He always wanted to catch up, insisting to know everything that was new in my life. It was and is hard to lie to Alex, and he was not, and is not, afraid to tell me where I am making or have made a mess of my life. He doesn't do this to judge, he does it because he cares.
Ten years ago something happened that would change Alex's life forever. It is a night, that I am sure, he thinks about everyday. It was not a small change, it was a life shattering, change everything you thought you knew, have to learn everything over, kind of change. He was on a dock and his hat blew into the water. Being familiar with the lake, and being a ways out on the dock he dove in after it... we had not gotten a lot of rain that year, and the lake was low. He went head first into less than 20 inches of water, breaking his neck instantly.
He had a friend with him, who jumped in and pulled him back to shore, without a doubt saving his life. An ambulance was called and he was rushed to the hospital. The news was not good, He was quickly transferred to a larger, more capable hospital, and eventually ended up in a hospital out in Colorado that specialized in spinal injuries. His recovery took months. He ended up being paralyzed from the chest down.
I can assure you, that if this had happened to me, I would have given up. I would have screamed out to God, enraged at the hand I had been dealt. I would have been swallowed by self pity, and probably would have drawn into myself, I imagine I would live in a dark room, never wanting to come back out into the light.
This is why Alex is my hero. I remember seeing him when he got back from Colorado. He was all smiles. We sat in his parents garage with some other friends and played cards all night. I think he knew on some level that we were unsure as to what to say to him. It could have been an incredibly awkward night. Alex didn't let that happen. He encouraged us to talk about it, and answered all of our questions with patience and understanding. He even dubbed himself the Quad Father.
Over the years I have watched Alex shoot for the stars. He went back to college, joined a frat, and got involved on campus. He graduated towards the top of his class, and went on to get his masters in mediation. Articles have been written him in Times magazine. As if that was not enough he continued on to an internship out in Washington D,C.
The kid sets goals and just goes for it, without any fear. Holding nothing back he will step into the ring with anyone or anything. I have spent many long nights in that ring, around a fire, or a poker table, discussing life, all aspects. We talk about girls, we talk about God, but our favorite thing to discuss is politics.
We don't enjoy these conversations because we share the same opinions, in fact it is the exact opposite. If you know me, you know know that I am an "independent" but in that independence, I lean pretty far to the right, some might use the word "conservative", There is no doubt that Alex is a red blooded democrat. He believes in the democratic ideals down to his very core. He spends the time to research what he believes in. He gets involved in the political process. He doesn't just swallow information, he analyzes it from all sides, and makes a rational decision. It is a scary prospect to get into one of these debates, because I know going into it that there is a 60% chance that I will lose the argument.
In 2012 he worked on the Obama campaign, and was a large part of the reason that his county went democratic for the first time in years. It was quite the accomplishment. Alex knows what it is to work. As I type this he is running for his county's board of supervisor's, while working full time for the college that he graduated from and loves.
I don't live in his district, but if I did he would have my vote, and I don't take that lightly. Ideologically we disagree about almost everything, Alex is humble but firm in his opinions. He is willing to listen, and not afraid to concede a point, that is something that demands my respect especially in this day and age, where it seems people just want to fight.
What happened to him all those years ago was terrible, there is no other way to describe it. Like I said, I could not imagine spending one day in his shoes, they are far to big for me to fill. Through everything though, Alex continues to smile. There is wisdom in his eyes, he knows what he is capable of, and that is anything he sets his mind to. In a twisted way, losing his body, freed his mind.
I aspire to be like my buddy Alex. I am sure that he will go on to do great things, in fact I don't think the Presidency is to far out of reach. When he is on the cover of every political magazine, or has published multiple books, or helped countless kids through college, or actually becomes President, I will be honored to say that I knew him. To say that I had the opportunity to bask in his light. The absolute best thing about Alex is this though: If all that does happen, if he does become President, I will always know that he is just phone call away, because above all else, Alex knows how to be a friend, and I am lucky enough to call him one of mine.
-Micah
P.S. If you live in Woodbury County make sure you go vote Nov. 4th. Watters for Woodbury.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Day number fourteen: The fear of succeeding, part 2 of 3 (backwards thinking post)
I have a tendency to trust people more than I should. This has gotten me in trouble on more than one occasion. The Bakery was a bar, that me and three other people started together. I thought I had learned something from the board shop, and I had, but the voice started whispering, greed turned us against each other, and the whole thing ended going up in flames. I lost more than one friend in the whole ordeal, but learned a thing or two about loyalty.
It all started as a pipe dream. The idea was brought to my attention by a guy that I had tattooed, (I will not name names, but imagine a weasel that walks upright and you will have a good picture of whom I am talking about,) He knew the owner of the building, that was his way in. He had a very large friend that followed him around, kind of like a body guard. He reminded me of a neanderthal, the way his brow hung over his eyes, His lower jay jutting up and out into the world, causing a sever under bite, and he wasn't to bright.Some how this guy got involved, he had nothing to offer other than the fact that he was friends with the weasel. That fact alone should have been a red flag, but the voice in my head was screaming, COME ON DUDE YOU COULD OWN A BAR!!! Sirens where sounding, it was dream come true.
I live in a bar town, There is nothing else to do, I mean there is, but nothing as entertaining. Bars are also a cash business, basically it is a recipe for success, and all I saw where dollar signs. The weasel and lurch approached me because they thought I had money, and could back their little endeavor. I, however, had no cash, but have a talent for asking for it. That was my way in, it would be my job to secure the capital.
I didn't know many people with the kind of money that we were going to need, but I knew a few, so I made some calls and arranged a sit down. It would require a drive, so I invited a friend to ride along. He agreed to come, on the way we discussed the plan, how I would phrase things, what and how much I was going to ask for... We arrived, I went in and had a nice little chat, but in the end I was turned down. I had figured it was a long shot, so I was not disappointed, I was in no hurry to be in debt again, and was not sure about the weasel and the proof of evolution. The way i saw it, I had tried, it didn't work, it was not a big deal.
My buddy was kind of quite for the first part of the ride home. When he did finally speak up, it was to offer the money I had just been denied. The request shocked me a little, in fact I tried talking him out of it. I knew that his family would not be a fan. He would have to put his car up for collateral at the bank, and technically he didn't own it. He said he would talk to his banker, and try to keep his parents out of it. We parted ways at my apartment. He had to return to his life hours away. Before he left told me he would call me in a couple of days to tell me what the bank had to say.
I tried not to focus on it to much but that phone call consumed my thoughts. It finally happened four days later, it was good news, the bank had approved his loan request, we where in business. He told me he would be up the following day to get the ball rolling. I made one phone call to the weasel and told him we would need a meeting with building owner.
He set it up and the following night we were looking at the bar and the lease. We came to terms, signed the papers and started cleaning, painting, getting signage, setting up bank accounts, liquor licence, just a whirlwind, and I loved it, I have always worked well under pressure, and we only had two weeks to get up and running. We opened in the middle of the winter, which is a horrible time, all the tourists are gone, but there is a strong local crowd and if you can win their favor, you can make it to the halfway point. At the end of January there is a massive weekend long party on the frozen lake. Thousands of people flood back to town and they are there to do one thing, and one thing only... drink.
We managed to get everything done and opened just before Christmas, this was a good soft opening, because all the college kids come back for Christmas, and many of them stay through New Year's. Luckily our gamble paid off. We didn't make a huge amount of money. but we made enough to make through to the end of January. We had all agreed that none of us would get paid until we had made it through to February, just to see what we were dealing with.
The weasel was older than I was by quite a bit, so for some reason he made the argument that he should hang onto the check book. I said alright, but I shouldn't have. This is where I trusted blindly. If there is one thing I know about myself, it is that I am great with money. This arrangement worked for me, because if I didn't have it, I could not be accused of using it improperly, unfortunately it also meant I could not keep a close eye on it.
January came to an end, and it was a blow out, I had never seen so much cash in my entire life. The weekend came to an end and I knew how much money we were supposed to have in bank th following Monday. I was anxious to get paid after all the bills the bar where taken care of, we where looking at a four way split, it was so close I cold taste it and I had my own bills stacking up.
I got to the bank and over half of the money was missing... Angry is not a strong enough word... I immediately called my partner and told him what was going on. I got a copy of every check that had been written over the past month, and sat down to figure out what was happening. What I found was both eye opening and devastating.
The weasel had been paying all his bills out of our account. I mean everything, rent, cable, new car payment, settling old debt, it was ridiculous. It took me a couple of hours to comb through everything, but as soon as I was done I called my partner, and told him we needed to kick the weasel and the gorilla out, they could not be trusted. I was told that it was my fault, and was accused of stealing it myself. I was shocked, I had done everything I could to keep my integrity intact. I told him I could prove that it wasn't me. He told me to go meet his dad and plead my case.
Armed with the truth I met with him. He was not a fan of me, he held me responsible for getting his 25 year old boy involved. I understood this, but didn't have the time to deal with it. I showed him what I had found and was redeemed, we spent the next two weeks pouring over the books, and trying to get the weasel and the thing gone. We changed the locks, took his name off the accounts, reapplied for our liquor licence, it was a hassle. Not to mention the fact that we had become the talk of the town, and not in a good way. People started drifting away.
Legally there was nothing we could do about the lost money. In the end we had to buy the weasel and lurch out, I made some noise about this, but ultimately there was nothing we could do. We paid him and decided to incorporate. The Day before we were supposed to sign the papers, my "buddy" turned on me as well and cut me out completely. Part of me saw it coming, but the rejection still stung,
I dove into the pool with out checking to see if there was any water. I was again blinded by the possibility of success, but I rushed in without checking my surroundings. I had learned to keep track of my bank account after the board shop, but I was so focused on the money, that I excused or ignored what was going on. I can say that I was not the only one that was blinded by greed. We all became ugly. I had been friends my partner for years, never had a bad memory with him, and now I have no desire to ever see him again. I wish him no ill will, but that doesn't mean I have to invite him back in my life.
I will always be driven to success. I have not made it yet, but it took Edison 2000 tries to get the light bulb right. I know I got a few more tries in me, The prospect of making money is my blind spot. Not just making money but making it fast. This thought gives that voice power. It drives me to make rash decisions. Controlling this part of my life is crucial, and somewhere that I need to rely heavily on God, I need to take a step back and trust that he will take care of me, he always has.
North Dakota for part 3 and day fifteen.
-Micah
It all started as a pipe dream. The idea was brought to my attention by a guy that I had tattooed, (I will not name names, but imagine a weasel that walks upright and you will have a good picture of whom I am talking about,) He knew the owner of the building, that was his way in. He had a very large friend that followed him around, kind of like a body guard. He reminded me of a neanderthal, the way his brow hung over his eyes, His lower jay jutting up and out into the world, causing a sever under bite, and he wasn't to bright.Some how this guy got involved, he had nothing to offer other than the fact that he was friends with the weasel. That fact alone should have been a red flag, but the voice in my head was screaming, COME ON DUDE YOU COULD OWN A BAR!!! Sirens where sounding, it was dream come true.
I live in a bar town, There is nothing else to do, I mean there is, but nothing as entertaining. Bars are also a cash business, basically it is a recipe for success, and all I saw where dollar signs. The weasel and lurch approached me because they thought I had money, and could back their little endeavor. I, however, had no cash, but have a talent for asking for it. That was my way in, it would be my job to secure the capital.
I didn't know many people with the kind of money that we were going to need, but I knew a few, so I made some calls and arranged a sit down. It would require a drive, so I invited a friend to ride along. He agreed to come, on the way we discussed the plan, how I would phrase things, what and how much I was going to ask for... We arrived, I went in and had a nice little chat, but in the end I was turned down. I had figured it was a long shot, so I was not disappointed, I was in no hurry to be in debt again, and was not sure about the weasel and the proof of evolution. The way i saw it, I had tried, it didn't work, it was not a big deal.
My buddy was kind of quite for the first part of the ride home. When he did finally speak up, it was to offer the money I had just been denied. The request shocked me a little, in fact I tried talking him out of it. I knew that his family would not be a fan. He would have to put his car up for collateral at the bank, and technically he didn't own it. He said he would talk to his banker, and try to keep his parents out of it. We parted ways at my apartment. He had to return to his life hours away. Before he left told me he would call me in a couple of days to tell me what the bank had to say.
I tried not to focus on it to much but that phone call consumed my thoughts. It finally happened four days later, it was good news, the bank had approved his loan request, we where in business. He told me he would be up the following day to get the ball rolling. I made one phone call to the weasel and told him we would need a meeting with building owner.
He set it up and the following night we were looking at the bar and the lease. We came to terms, signed the papers and started cleaning, painting, getting signage, setting up bank accounts, liquor licence, just a whirlwind, and I loved it, I have always worked well under pressure, and we only had two weeks to get up and running. We opened in the middle of the winter, which is a horrible time, all the tourists are gone, but there is a strong local crowd and if you can win their favor, you can make it to the halfway point. At the end of January there is a massive weekend long party on the frozen lake. Thousands of people flood back to town and they are there to do one thing, and one thing only... drink.
We managed to get everything done and opened just before Christmas, this was a good soft opening, because all the college kids come back for Christmas, and many of them stay through New Year's. Luckily our gamble paid off. We didn't make a huge amount of money. but we made enough to make through to the end of January. We had all agreed that none of us would get paid until we had made it through to February, just to see what we were dealing with.
The weasel was older than I was by quite a bit, so for some reason he made the argument that he should hang onto the check book. I said alright, but I shouldn't have. This is where I trusted blindly. If there is one thing I know about myself, it is that I am great with money. This arrangement worked for me, because if I didn't have it, I could not be accused of using it improperly, unfortunately it also meant I could not keep a close eye on it.
January came to an end, and it was a blow out, I had never seen so much cash in my entire life. The weekend came to an end and I knew how much money we were supposed to have in bank th following Monday. I was anxious to get paid after all the bills the bar where taken care of, we where looking at a four way split, it was so close I cold taste it and I had my own bills stacking up.
I got to the bank and over half of the money was missing... Angry is not a strong enough word... I immediately called my partner and told him what was going on. I got a copy of every check that had been written over the past month, and sat down to figure out what was happening. What I found was both eye opening and devastating.
The weasel had been paying all his bills out of our account. I mean everything, rent, cable, new car payment, settling old debt, it was ridiculous. It took me a couple of hours to comb through everything, but as soon as I was done I called my partner, and told him we needed to kick the weasel and the gorilla out, they could not be trusted. I was told that it was my fault, and was accused of stealing it myself. I was shocked, I had done everything I could to keep my integrity intact. I told him I could prove that it wasn't me. He told me to go meet his dad and plead my case.
Armed with the truth I met with him. He was not a fan of me, he held me responsible for getting his 25 year old boy involved. I understood this, but didn't have the time to deal with it. I showed him what I had found and was redeemed, we spent the next two weeks pouring over the books, and trying to get the weasel and the thing gone. We changed the locks, took his name off the accounts, reapplied for our liquor licence, it was a hassle. Not to mention the fact that we had become the talk of the town, and not in a good way. People started drifting away.
Legally there was nothing we could do about the lost money. In the end we had to buy the weasel and lurch out, I made some noise about this, but ultimately there was nothing we could do. We paid him and decided to incorporate. The Day before we were supposed to sign the papers, my "buddy" turned on me as well and cut me out completely. Part of me saw it coming, but the rejection still stung,
I dove into the pool with out checking to see if there was any water. I was again blinded by the possibility of success, but I rushed in without checking my surroundings. I had learned to keep track of my bank account after the board shop, but I was so focused on the money, that I excused or ignored what was going on. I can say that I was not the only one that was blinded by greed. We all became ugly. I had been friends my partner for years, never had a bad memory with him, and now I have no desire to ever see him again. I wish him no ill will, but that doesn't mean I have to invite him back in my life.
I will always be driven to success. I have not made it yet, but it took Edison 2000 tries to get the light bulb right. I know I got a few more tries in me, The prospect of making money is my blind spot. Not just making money but making it fast. This thought gives that voice power. It drives me to make rash decisions. Controlling this part of my life is crucial, and somewhere that I need to rely heavily on God, I need to take a step back and trust that he will take care of me, he always has.
North Dakota for part 3 and day fifteen.
-Micah
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Day number thirteen: The fear of succeeding, part 1 of 3 (backwards thinking post)
I am, with out a doubt, my biggest critic, nothing is ever good enough. I carry this into every aspect of my life. I took it with me to school, I take it into every relationship, I carry it into work. There is a voice in my head that just gnaws away at whatever I am doing. This voice motivates me, as well as terrifies me. It is not a logical voice, but rather an emotional on. It is not driven by reason, it runs on hopes and fears, anger and joy, it bounces all over the place, and the truth is I need to stop listening to it so much.
There are three times in the last ten years that this voice has been a huge detriment, urging me to go forward, when I knew I shouldn't have. Building up my confidence before stripping me back down to nothing. Each time the voice was a little louder than the last, and each time getting up has been a little bit harder.
For the first real failure I have to go back a little more than a decade. I graduated high school early, along with my brother. I was so ready to be done, I never really felt like I fit it, and I was ready to start making money. I had poured concrete with a large contractor the summer before, I didn't necessarily enjoy the work at the time, but I worked hard and conversely my body had become hard from the work. As soon as we graduated we got our jobs back.
We left school on good terms in January, not a great time to pour concrete. I remember it being especially cold that year and by April I was ready to try something new. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life, college was out, it was too expensive, plus I had just finished up twelve years of school. I needed a break, and I wanted to see what I was made of.
We lived near a cozy little lake town, and had learned how to wake board the summer before. We had gone almost every night that summer, It was a painful and somewhat expensive hobby. I had dreams of going pro.. I wore the right clothes, I talked the right talk, and I was willing to try things that where way to advanced, often leaving me bruised or broken for a short period of time, but I always got back up. I was young and my body was quick to forgive me.
So back to April, both my brother and I were ready for a change. there was a small board shop at the lake, and we both thought that would be the best summer job in the world, work in the shop during the day, ride all night. We drove down on a Saturday, just to see if they were hiring. We knew that we had to apply fast, the season at the lake started memorial day, and if we waited till then it would be to late. We drove by multiple times and saw no activity, but we where determined to stick around until we got the chance to talk to someone.
After and hour and a half of driving in circles someone finally showed up. We parked and made our way to the shop. A man came out to greet us. We introduced ourselves and asked if he owned the shop. He told us he did, but that he was looking to sell it so he wasn't sure if he was going to be hiring anyone. A light bulb went off in both of our brains.
My brother quickly asked how much he was asking. He gave us a number and we headed back to the car, giddy with excitement, The voice started to whisper.
We raced home, eager to tell our parents about the opportunity. For the cost of a nice car we could be business owners. It seemed like a flawless plan, it was cheaper than college, and instead of just spending money, we were going to be making money. The voice telling me that I was going to be a millionaire before I hit twenty five, the thought made my mouth water.
My parents were very supportive, but told us that they did not have the money to get us started. It was a depressing blow, but it was not going to hold us back. We were only seventeen at the time, but with some help we put together a business plan and started calling banks set up appointments to see if we could get a loan. The first three banks laughed at us and all but told us to get out. With each no, the light of our dream seemed to fade, but there was no way we were going to give up. There was one more bank on the list, and we were determined to push forward until we couldn't anymore.
We had started these meetings on a Monday and by the time we got to the last one it was Friday. We both woke up with a sense of urgency, the meeting was in the mid morning, so we both showered and got dressed up. (dressed up for a seventeen year old is just jeans, and untucked dress shirt with loose tie around the neck, using a paperclip as a tie clip,,, so classy.) This was it, it was go time.
We arrived at the bank, nervous, but firm in our resolve. Through the course of the week we hadgiven the presentation a couple of time, and we had it down pretty good, Both of us knowing what part we had to play. It was like watching poetry in motion the way the words rolled off our tongues. We knew the questions that were going to come our way, and we were prepared with answers.
The bankers door opened and we walked in, The plan was presented while he sat there quietly, listening to our math, We had decided that we would need twenty two thousand dollars to do it right. part of that would be for stocking the store, part would be for paying rent, and part would be for the actual purchase of the business.
We wrapped up our little show, and waited for him to react. He sat there for a couple of minutes in silence. His lips pursed, hands clasped together, both of his index fingers resting on his chin. I could tell he was thinking, but couldn't tell about what. I started to think that we were looking down the barrel of another no, my heart started to sink at the prospect, but I kept my poker face on, just in case.
He finally lifted his head, and smiled. He told us that he loved the plan, but asked if we had any collateral. We were seventeen, the only thing we owned was a 1986 Buick Le Saber (which is french for the sword.... just in case you didn't know.) and that was not going to get us to the twenty two grand that we so desperately needed. He told us that if we could come up with fifteen thousand for the bank to hold, he would be alright giving us the loan.
We left, it was not a no, but it was certainly not a very solid yes. Fifteen thousand dollars is not a huge amount of money, but when you are seventeen and broke, it might as well be a million. We took a step back and reevaluated our situation. Hope was fading, but we were determined to make it happen. The voice telling me that it was better to burn out that to fade away, We pressed on.
We decided to hit the phones. We called anyone we thought would be willing to help us out. The initial plan was to get three investors, we would ask each for five thousand dollars. Late in the afternoon we made our first call and set up a meeting for the next day. We arrived and made our pitch. The first investor said they could not give us five, but the could give us three, and we where off. The weekend was a blur but by the end of it we had raised thirteen thousand five hundred dollars.
We had a meeting with the bank that Monday, we knew that they wanted fifteen, but we were so close we decided to go for it and see what happened. Half way through the meeting we got a call, telling us there was someone that was interested in our little plan. We cut the meeting short and headed out. We sat down with the potential investor, and an hour later walked out with a check for fifteen hundred dollars, we had made it. We drove back to the bank, our heads in the clouds, I started dreaming of the success ahead, failure was not an option, the voice filling my head with ideas of endless bank accounts and private jets. Telling me that the work was almost done, and the fun was right around the corner.
We were a week away from our birthday, and only five weeks away from memorial day. We had a lot of work to do and not much time to do it. Once the money was in the account we started spending it. We took control of the lease, ordered what we thought we would need, and bought some advertising, even leased the nicest boat we could find. Things where falling into place.
Then the voice started to speak, it was no longer whispering. We had worked hard reach the goal, and for the first time, people where starting to take notice. We were young business owners. We deserved to have fun. I thought that the getting the money together was impressive, and it was, I also thought that maybe it was time to coast. That the business would run itself, so I listened to that voice, as it told me to shut the shop down early and go ride. It told me that it was ok to sleep in, I was my own boss, the shop would open when I got there. My sense of entitlement grew each day. I was the master of my own destiny, and popularity was more important than making sure the business was headed down the right path. I stop working, and started having fun, because I deserved it. I stopped keeping track of the money, and things went down hill quickly.
In a vacation town you have three maybe four months to make enough money to carry you through the year. This did not happen the first year of the shop, so as we closed the doors, it was time to go back to pouring concrete. It was a tough winter, but I made it through, determined to make the shop work. That second summer we took on a silent partner, or so we thought. I did a better job watching the books and keeping the store in order, but money kept disappearing. I had to take a closer look when we bounced a sizable check for some merchandise that we needed oh so badly.
I dug into the books, confused and angry. As it turned out, our silent partner had a gambling problem and had drained our account. We made it to the end of the season, but after that we were dead in the water. Success had slipped though my fingers, because I had focused on the fun and not the work. I had listened to that voice telling me that I deserved the fun, and had relaxed when the battle was just beginning. It was sobering, being 19 and staring at a mountain of debt. I had no idea where to even start, so back to concrete I went. It would take a couple years to get another "wonderful" idea, and with the idea, the voice returned.
Part two: the bakery, will be up tonight.
-Micah
There are three times in the last ten years that this voice has been a huge detriment, urging me to go forward, when I knew I shouldn't have. Building up my confidence before stripping me back down to nothing. Each time the voice was a little louder than the last, and each time getting up has been a little bit harder.
For the first real failure I have to go back a little more than a decade. I graduated high school early, along with my brother. I was so ready to be done, I never really felt like I fit it, and I was ready to start making money. I had poured concrete with a large contractor the summer before, I didn't necessarily enjoy the work at the time, but I worked hard and conversely my body had become hard from the work. As soon as we graduated we got our jobs back.
We left school on good terms in January, not a great time to pour concrete. I remember it being especially cold that year and by April I was ready to try something new. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life, college was out, it was too expensive, plus I had just finished up twelve years of school. I needed a break, and I wanted to see what I was made of.
We lived near a cozy little lake town, and had learned how to wake board the summer before. We had gone almost every night that summer, It was a painful and somewhat expensive hobby. I had dreams of going pro.. I wore the right clothes, I talked the right talk, and I was willing to try things that where way to advanced, often leaving me bruised or broken for a short period of time, but I always got back up. I was young and my body was quick to forgive me.
So back to April, both my brother and I were ready for a change. there was a small board shop at the lake, and we both thought that would be the best summer job in the world, work in the shop during the day, ride all night. We drove down on a Saturday, just to see if they were hiring. We knew that we had to apply fast, the season at the lake started memorial day, and if we waited till then it would be to late. We drove by multiple times and saw no activity, but we where determined to stick around until we got the chance to talk to someone.
After and hour and a half of driving in circles someone finally showed up. We parked and made our way to the shop. A man came out to greet us. We introduced ourselves and asked if he owned the shop. He told us he did, but that he was looking to sell it so he wasn't sure if he was going to be hiring anyone. A light bulb went off in both of our brains.
My brother quickly asked how much he was asking. He gave us a number and we headed back to the car, giddy with excitement, The voice started to whisper.
We raced home, eager to tell our parents about the opportunity. For the cost of a nice car we could be business owners. It seemed like a flawless plan, it was cheaper than college, and instead of just spending money, we were going to be making money. The voice telling me that I was going to be a millionaire before I hit twenty five, the thought made my mouth water.
My parents were very supportive, but told us that they did not have the money to get us started. It was a depressing blow, but it was not going to hold us back. We were only seventeen at the time, but with some help we put together a business plan and started calling banks set up appointments to see if we could get a loan. The first three banks laughed at us and all but told us to get out. With each no, the light of our dream seemed to fade, but there was no way we were going to give up. There was one more bank on the list, and we were determined to push forward until we couldn't anymore.
We had started these meetings on a Monday and by the time we got to the last one it was Friday. We both woke up with a sense of urgency, the meeting was in the mid morning, so we both showered and got dressed up. (dressed up for a seventeen year old is just jeans, and untucked dress shirt with loose tie around the neck, using a paperclip as a tie clip,,, so classy.) This was it, it was go time.
We arrived at the bank, nervous, but firm in our resolve. Through the course of the week we hadgiven the presentation a couple of time, and we had it down pretty good, Both of us knowing what part we had to play. It was like watching poetry in motion the way the words rolled off our tongues. We knew the questions that were going to come our way, and we were prepared with answers.
The bankers door opened and we walked in, The plan was presented while he sat there quietly, listening to our math, We had decided that we would need twenty two thousand dollars to do it right. part of that would be for stocking the store, part would be for paying rent, and part would be for the actual purchase of the business.
We wrapped up our little show, and waited for him to react. He sat there for a couple of minutes in silence. His lips pursed, hands clasped together, both of his index fingers resting on his chin. I could tell he was thinking, but couldn't tell about what. I started to think that we were looking down the barrel of another no, my heart started to sink at the prospect, but I kept my poker face on, just in case.
He finally lifted his head, and smiled. He told us that he loved the plan, but asked if we had any collateral. We were seventeen, the only thing we owned was a 1986 Buick Le Saber (which is french for the sword.... just in case you didn't know.) and that was not going to get us to the twenty two grand that we so desperately needed. He told us that if we could come up with fifteen thousand for the bank to hold, he would be alright giving us the loan.
We left, it was not a no, but it was certainly not a very solid yes. Fifteen thousand dollars is not a huge amount of money, but when you are seventeen and broke, it might as well be a million. We took a step back and reevaluated our situation. Hope was fading, but we were determined to make it happen. The voice telling me that it was better to burn out that to fade away, We pressed on.
We decided to hit the phones. We called anyone we thought would be willing to help us out. The initial plan was to get three investors, we would ask each for five thousand dollars. Late in the afternoon we made our first call and set up a meeting for the next day. We arrived and made our pitch. The first investor said they could not give us five, but the could give us three, and we where off. The weekend was a blur but by the end of it we had raised thirteen thousand five hundred dollars.
We had a meeting with the bank that Monday, we knew that they wanted fifteen, but we were so close we decided to go for it and see what happened. Half way through the meeting we got a call, telling us there was someone that was interested in our little plan. We cut the meeting short and headed out. We sat down with the potential investor, and an hour later walked out with a check for fifteen hundred dollars, we had made it. We drove back to the bank, our heads in the clouds, I started dreaming of the success ahead, failure was not an option, the voice filling my head with ideas of endless bank accounts and private jets. Telling me that the work was almost done, and the fun was right around the corner.
We were a week away from our birthday, and only five weeks away from memorial day. We had a lot of work to do and not much time to do it. Once the money was in the account we started spending it. We took control of the lease, ordered what we thought we would need, and bought some advertising, even leased the nicest boat we could find. Things where falling into place.
Then the voice started to speak, it was no longer whispering. We had worked hard reach the goal, and for the first time, people where starting to take notice. We were young business owners. We deserved to have fun. I thought that the getting the money together was impressive, and it was, I also thought that maybe it was time to coast. That the business would run itself, so I listened to that voice, as it told me to shut the shop down early and go ride. It told me that it was ok to sleep in, I was my own boss, the shop would open when I got there. My sense of entitlement grew each day. I was the master of my own destiny, and popularity was more important than making sure the business was headed down the right path. I stop working, and started having fun, because I deserved it. I stopped keeping track of the money, and things went down hill quickly.
In a vacation town you have three maybe four months to make enough money to carry you through the year. This did not happen the first year of the shop, so as we closed the doors, it was time to go back to pouring concrete. It was a tough winter, but I made it through, determined to make the shop work. That second summer we took on a silent partner, or so we thought. I did a better job watching the books and keeping the store in order, but money kept disappearing. I had to take a closer look when we bounced a sizable check for some merchandise that we needed oh so badly.
I dug into the books, confused and angry. As it turned out, our silent partner had a gambling problem and had drained our account. We made it to the end of the season, but after that we were dead in the water. Success had slipped though my fingers, because I had focused on the fun and not the work. I had listened to that voice telling me that I deserved the fun, and had relaxed when the battle was just beginning. It was sobering, being 19 and staring at a mountain of debt. I had no idea where to even start, so back to concrete I went. It would take a couple years to get another "wonderful" idea, and with the idea, the voice returned.
Part two: the bakery, will be up tonight.
-Micah
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