On Apropos of Nothing

Here's a collection of random thoughts and stories unencumbered by unsaturated segues or artificial adverbs.

It's New Phone Day!

It's also 2020.

I'm now sporting a brand new Motorola G Power, my first foray into the world of Android.  I'm excited for improved communication between my phone, my Chromebook, my office, and Christa's phone.  (Put another way:  I can now more easily populate her calendar with all the things her ADHD brain will forget.)

Last night I set my morning alarms on the new phone.  (Yes, that's plural.  I wake early, typically at 0500, and I haven't been sleeping well.  I, therefore, like to set several alarms.)  Then I went to sleep (surprisingly well, last night!).

The next morning, when I saw sunlight creeping in from behind the curtains, I knew something had gone wrong.  After the requisite text to my very understanding supervisor, I arose to quickly prepare for work.  When I got a moment, I checked the alarms.

I had set them to repeat on weekdays.  Except I hadn't.  What I had really done was set them to repeat on weekENDS.  My unfamiliarity with Android had lead me to choose to turn OFF the repeat function for weekdays when I thought I was turning it on.

Emblematic of 2020, I thought off was on.  

Today is my father's birthday.  I've said before that I don't put much stock in birthdays because we should be showing each other love the same amount on non-birthdays.  I don't love someone more because it's the anniversary of the day they were born. I don't love someone less because I don't remember to mention their birthday.  And yet, birthdays are important to some. To some, my point sounds harsh.  That's valid and to be respected.  So I do celebrate others' birthdays. I just bought Christa a new phone for hers. So Happy Birthday, Dad!

Several years ago, one day sitting on my parents' pool deck, in the middle of a divorce-inspired depression and life-saving foray into living back home in my 40s, I began writing about Dad.  Words flowed out of me like water from a hydrant.  I don't think I can improve on those words, so I offer them again here:

Sometimes when I'm mockingly talking like I'm full of myself, I like to call myself "The Man." When I do something I think is impressive but that usually no one else cares about, I'll say, "I'm the Man!" Well, Dad is The Man. He is The Man to his wife. He is The Man of the House (without all the misogynistic undertones). He is a man of God. He's not showy about his Christianity; he doesn't wear it on his sleeve. But Dad is a true man of God.  

He is an example of a man to his sons. I've learned that there's one question every man asks himself, whether they know it or not. We all want to know "am I good enough?"  Or "Am I man enough?"  I've also learned that there's only one place we can go for the answer to that question, and that's to God.  Well, Dad, I'm here to tell you, you are good enough, and I'm damn sure God thinks you're good enough too. 

Dad has his faults, sure. We're all broken in some way or another. He and I certainly had our share of knock-down drag-outs back in my foolish younger years, which, I think, just ended last week. But I always knew that if I did things more like Dad did, if I could just try to emulate him a little more, I'd be much better off. 

My favorite story about Dad happened the day I was born. In my 51 years of life, no story about Dad has ever topped it. I was born in 1969, when fathers still weren't allowed in delivery rooms--at least, not at the hospital where I was born. So Dad passed the time in the waiting room with all the other expectant fathers. Now, the way it was told to me, or maybe it's just the way I've always pictured it, is that Dad was the last one of the group of nervous fathers to find out his child had arrived. Apparently, a nurse or a doctor came into the waiting room and said to Dad, "Mr. Searles, you've had a baby boy." Dad's reply was a very worried "But all the other fathers had girls."  Interestingly, Dad's never denied that story, so whether it's apocryphal or not, I think Dad was apprehensive about raising a son. I think maybe he thought he wasn't good enough. Because of his prosthetic eye, Dad didn't grow up playing sports or participating in gym class with the other boys. He grew up very close to my grandmother's apron strings.  

The truth is, Dad knew, without even realizing it about himself, exactly how to raise good, productive men of God. In his own way he still models it every day. He is loyal to his wife. He raised and even disciplined his children with love and kindness. He has modeled responsibility and a work ethic that never quit. 

Jesus told us to love our enemy, to treat others how we want to be treated. Dad always walked in love. And that is the measure of a man. Dad you are good enough.

I love you, Dad. Thank you for loving all of us. 

I see my father in myself a lot more recently.  I suppose that partly comes with age.  I've responded too often to doctors that "Oh yeah, my father has that too."  I see him in the shape of my face, in my temperament, in my struggles with understanding how others think (and why they don't think like me!).  We're not very much alike, and yet, in many ways we are.  I like the things we have in common.  It comforts me somehow, possibly grounds me, to know there's a certain sensibility I possess that comes from Dad.  He's strong and doesn't even know it, and that alone makes him even stronger.

The other day I was lamenting to Evelyn that my bike was in the shop.  It was an expression of faux sadness for the sake of humor.

Said she: You cheat on your wife with your bicycle.

Cue the laugh track.

Later that night, I was not sleeping well, so I was lying in bed perusing the Amazon app for bicycle paraphernalia.  Christa came home about 0330, and noticed what I was doing.

Said she: What are you buying?

Me: New handlebar grips.

She: You ARE cheating on me with your bicycle!

Plans for the big Cowboy Trail Moto-Cycling Trip are moving along.  We scouted some gravel roads last weekend for Day 1.  I changed to tubeless tyres this week.  I'm installing new handlebars and grips this weekend. Christa will install the new orange bar tape because she's artistic and far more tolerant of such tedium.  She's also going to create some cool stickers for my frame to reflect the brand of my tyres (WTB Riddlers--get it? Batman!) as well as my love of all things Orioles and Mets!

Hopefully all those new toys can be installed in time for my planned overnighter tomorrow.  

I just did a thing.  My love (need?) for competition, especially against myself, has just reared its ugly little head again.  I found something on Facebook called the Icy Bike Winter Commuter Challenge.  The gist is this:  commute to work round trip 52 times between October 1 and March 31.  But here's the thing:  my office is about to move.  My current commute is a mile and half one way.  Easy, even on the coldest or snowiest days of the year.  When we move, however, sometime during the first week in December, my one way commute will be 7 1/2 miles.  Still not that long, just quite a significant increase comparatively.

Oh well, I can't resist a good challenge.  Here we go!