The Craptastics

Continuing my shallow diatribe on hope, I’ve been surprised by the reactions to Michael Jackson’s death.  I don’t mean the sensationalist grossness of the media or the sycophants hoping for the moment in the spotlight, but rather all the status updates on Facebook and people talking about how much his music meant to them.

In my mind, Michael Jackson was primarily a sideshow oddity.  I remember his Thriller video scared the beejeebees out of me when I was little and I like his Jackson Five stuff, but his past twenty years of extreme oddness has in my mind overshadowed any musical greatness.  Thankfully, I’m in the minority it seems.

When someone dies, I think I like that we choose to focus on the good stuff.  Eulogies aren’t about drudging up painful memories but instead celebrating the positive attributes.  Even some minor negative things can transform into nostalgia when a person dies.  I like to remind my wife that she’ll miss my snoring when I’m dead.  I’m a good husband.

I think intrinsic to remembering-the-good-times is the aspect of hope I was talking about in my poo post.  The same way that we’re able to focus on the things we love about a person once they’re gone, I think we’re also able to do now with the people around us.  I don’t mean that we should be naive about people’s flaws but rather keep in mind the person they have the potential to be.

I think God constantly has in his mind the incredible people we were designed to be, even though we almost always fall short.  I think He’s always prodding us along, ecstatic when glimmers of the hoped-for-us shine through but never satisfied with the pale reflections walking around.

So the other day Thea walks into the bedroom where I’m lounging with laptop and asks me if I pooped.  I wondered aloud why she wanted to know, and she informed me that bathroom smelled bad.

OK.  Here’s my thought process.

Clearly, Thea knows that I stunk up the bathroom.  There’s no way around it.  We’re the only two who use the bathroom, and she would have to be pretty confused to stink up the bathroom herself and then be unaware of where the smell originated (not to mention that her poo smells distinctly of fresh daffodils… Filipino cuisine is exotic).  Since she must know that, by process of elimination, I fouled the watercloset it follows that she was not asking if I pooped to actually discover if I pooped.  Why, then, bring up the smell of the bathroom at all?

There are a myriad of answers to that question that I’ll leave for my reader to ponder.

But the whole scenario made me think about marriage and hope.  I’m not great with criticism.  Actually I’m horrible with criticism.  If there’s even a whiff of criticism I feel my irritation rising and defenses going up.  And I tend to smell criticism even where it wasn’t seriously intended.  Like in the smelly-bathroom-situation.  I mean, Thea just wanted to tease me.  We joke around all the time.  Like the time she didn’t lock the bathroom door so I walked in on her on purpose which was hilarious until she did the same thing to me.

But it’s too easy for me to take things as criticism.  Which brings me to hope.  I think part of hope is choosing to see the best of a person, and to believe in their best intentions, not the worst.

So after being told that my poo stinks I can a) be offended that my poo is being criticized or b) appreciate that my wife has a scatalogical sense of humour and wants to make me embarassed about normal bodily functions.

When I was little, when we lived in Campbellville surrounded by cornfields with our gravel driveway and creaky metal swing-set my dad could jump over picnic tables and kick a soccer ball so high in the air it would be just a little dot.  Every Father’s Day I want to write something, but I never do.  It’s hard to say things.

Let’s give it a try.

My dad didn’t let us win at games.  I think he found it funny how angry we got every time he scored a goal or delivered a checkmate.

At night I would wake up to his Vaseline-gobbed pinky stretching my nostrils for fear that I couldn’t breathe.  And he wouldn’t let me wear my Superman cape to bed in case I choked.  To this day I can’t think of I time where I’ve visited and he doesn’t ask me if I can breathe at night.

He would re-enact his army stories with our G. I. Joes.

Taking a cue from Solomon, he ripped my rubber Spider-Man in half to share with my brother when Jordan was convinced and vocal that it belonged to him.  Jordan’s Spider-Man was later discovered behind the washing machine.

When we’d jump into his bed in the morning he’d talk to us with his feet, falsetto-voiced Serbian feet that we’d pry apart as they’d argue with each other.

My dad was convinced that my pet lizards were disease ridden and one winter afternoon I arrived home to find their tank in the backyard, lizards frozen solid.  Apparently they were “already dead” when put outside.

The spectrum of my memory ranges from that guy jumping picnic tables and coaxing people to touch his biceps to the gray-haired man who needs help operating the printer… and digital camera… and cell phone… and who coaxes people to touch his biceps.

I should mention that last time I fixed his printer it wouldn’t work because it was full of change.  I didn’t ask any questions.  We can all make our own conclusions.

I feel blessed to have been raised by a dad who put us kids first, always.  When he coached my soccer team and I was chasing butterflies and picking dandelions instead of playing defense there must have been some dashed hopes of having a world-class athlete son.  But I know that all he ever wanted was the best for me, a chance to grab every or any opportunity, to cultivate in me the character to make the most of my life.  The same high hopes, aspirations and dreams that I’ll have for my own kids when I have them.

And his legacy is a part of me.  I’ve been thinking about it because of Father’s Day, about leaving a legacy.  And although I certainly didn’t inherit any athletic ability, so much of who I am and how I think has been molded by my dad: my sense of humour and love for nature and my well-developed calf muscles.

And the thing is, when it’s my turn to raise my own family, I have a lot to work with, to draw on.   Very little to discard other than a couple of dead lizards and a gob of Vaseline.

That’s what I think about Father’s Day.