Friends

My greatest treasure is my friends. Yesterday, a jewel from the past resurfaced. I was sitting at the computer around 6:00 PM when I heard a knock at the door. I usually ignore any knock, because most people just walk in. But this time I got up and went to the door. I was greeted with a big hug from a friend I had not seen in two or three years - Linda. Some women have an extra ability or quality that makes them even more compatible with guys than other women. I think it has a lot to do with being raised with brothers. Linda had this. What is this quality you ask? I will try to explain.



If an off-color joke is told in a group of men and women, often women respond with the "oh that's terrible, let's change the subject, I'm offended" type answer. But some, perhaps more enlightened women will laugh and tell one of their own. Linda was one of the women in the latter category. Still very much a lady, but when men were being men, she did not have to leave the room or fain being shocked and appalled. These are my kind of women. I can be myself and they do not punish me for being a man. They are the women capable of explaining "women things" in a way a man can understand. Most of all, they are really fun to be around.



Linda and Bill, her boyfriend for the past five years (a record for Linda and the guy who would date her) were house hunting in our town. Bill is getting transferred at his job and wants to live in this area. After passing by our house a couple of times they decided to pop in and I am so glad they did. We had a few drinks, caught up on each other's news, and regaled ourselves with past exploits. Bill and Linda took us to dinner at a little Mexican restaurant nearby. The food was great and we continued our catching up. Opting to go home and show off the new coffee maker that grinds beans just before dripping we headed back home. Surprise! the electricity was off, some sort of New York imitation. I rummaged around and found a florescent lantern and in the glow of the 6 volt generated illumination we continued our talking.



Bill and Linda are into sailing. They shared some of their adventures on the high seas. Linda has turned into quite a sailor. She captain's boats in sail boat races and is a sought after crewman on the racing circuit. It did not surprise me. I told her she already had two prerequisites for being a sailor. (1) You like to drink (2) You have mastery of English swear words. I have heard her put together strings of curse words that made me stand in awe. Rap singers could learn a thing or two from Linda. I do not want to paint a picture of Linda having a foul mouth, just that if the situation calls for it, she has the ability to go there.



Eventually the lights came back on and I made the coffee I promised them. Of course we had our additives, Irish Whiskey, Kahlua, and Frangelico. I was out of Irish Cream. We kept talking and laughing and forging another event that would be a sweet memory of tomorrow. This is why I count friends as my greatest treasure. My definition of family includes my friends. They are the people you love and care about. They are the people who love and care about me. If I had the whole world, but had no friends it would not satisfy me. But, if I had one friend and just the essentials of life I would consider myself a rich man. I do consider myself rich - rich in friends and Linda is just one of the jewels in my treasure chest.



Until the next time

John Strain

I Love Music

I love music - all forms of music - depending on my mood I can enjoy a wide range of it. I am glad too, because some folks have narrow tastes in music and most of what I hear from them regarding music is "I don't like that or that music annoys me." By all means, if music annoys you stay away from it, but for me it is as necessary as plasma and oxygen.



My mother tells me I responded to music as a baby. According to her I would drop whatever I was doing when music began to play and try to get closer to it. I like music loud best. I want to hear the musician's fingers sliding on the guitar strings. I want to hear the pianist's foot pressing the pedals. I want to hear the breath they take before singing. When I really listen and notice all of the instruments an appreciation for that piece grows.



Music is one of those common threads one of those anchors I have spoken of previously. When a song plays it triggers memories whether good or bad. Think of a time a song comes on the radio or CD player and someone stops in mid-sencence and says, "Oh, turn that up, that reminds me of . . ." The reverse is also true when a song comes on and someone goes, "Turn that off or switch stations, that reminds me of. . ."



When I hear Barbra Streisand sing "The Way We Were" I am reminded of my first date ever. It was with a girl named Mary Ann. That song brings back sweet memories of first love followed by a reminder of my first broken heart. When I hear the Ray Conniff Singers "Tiny Bubbles" I envision the Shawnee Bowl where I spent a few afternoons. At that time we hated that "old folks" music. Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" was on continuous play at my friends first apartment. Music was there when I was happy, music was there when I was sad, it is at weddings and funerals and when I hear it the memories bubble to the surface. I think the process of having these memories stirred whether positive or negative is healing and necessary. I feel the sad along with the happy. If I do this, the sad may become comforting. Like looking at a picture of a lost loved one. The feelings are bittersweet. More bitter at first, but as years go by more sweet.



If you want to cry or laugh or take a walk down memory lane just listen to music. You know the music that will unlock your memories. Embrace it, use it. I credit music for being able to center me. It helps me release anger, bitterness, and stress. It fills me with inspiration, hope, energy, love, and ambition.



Here's to music in every form.



Until the next time

John Strain

I Have Fallen In Love Again

When I was young I loved her with the purity of a child. She broke my heart more than once, but my love remained true. More and more she took me for granted and though I sensed something was wrong, I did not speak of it. I told myself things were OK, she was just going through a phase, she would change, things would be as they were before. In time I could no longer rationalize her hurtful actions. My hurt turned to anger and I finally walked away from her. As I walked, an aching void grew in the place that once held love. I thought it would never heal and it never did completely. Then I happened upon her one spring day. Spring offers hope and promise, but I told myself it was over, it could never be the same. I walked away again, but in midsummer an ember of hope a spark stirred deep within me. I tried to ignore her, but I saw her more and more. She really seemed different, innocent like before. Still I was reluctant, but the embers began to ignite a larger flame and I knew there would be no stopping this feeling - the love I thought was dead was resurrected. --I am a baseball fan again.



Now that I have the ladies attention, let me explain. I grew up loving baseball. As a little boy I listened to the broadcasts of the Kansas City Athletics. My mom and dad and I sat in the backyard listening to the announcer’s voices in the dark. At sunset the local AM radio stations cut power and it was difficult to hear the game. I constantly tweaked the tuning knob to find the ball game. I remember the day my father brought home an FM radio. We attached a long extension cord to it to reach the backyare and listened to the game clearly in the Kansas night. Lightning bugs blinking, crickets chirping, and the hypnotic voices of the A’s announcers became are sweet memories of childhood summers.



I pulled for a team that almost always ended up in the cellar. I knew the players names, their positions, their numbers. I was a fanatic. At least once a year I got to go to Municipal Stadium in Kansas City and watch a game. It was like a trip to Mecca for me. The smell of the grass, the sound of the crowd, and the smells of peanuts and popcorn were a collision of senses and experiences.



My love for baseball intensified. I never got to play little league ball due to poor eyesight, but I played everyday in our neighborhood. At one game in Kansas City, my dad caught a foul ball. That ball now rests on a shelf about twenty feet from where I am now sitting. The A’s left town for Oakland and the Royals were born in 1969. They developed quickly and had three League Championship Series’ with the Yankees who won all three in 76, 77, and 78. Finally in 1980 the Royals went to their first World Series, but lost to Philadelphia.



At last in 1985, the Kansas City Royal won the World Series and George Brett was my hero. My son was 6 months old and I remember throwing him in the air in celebration. I had waited and agonized for so long and now it was a fulfilled dream. My team won the World Series. I could go to my grave a happy man.



That was the Royals high point. Since then they declined and have never returned to the playoffs. Baseball had strikes and other problems. I became disenchanted with the guardians of the game. I felt the players and owners were so greedy and selfish they were going to destroy baseball - at least for me. Last year was more than I could take. When the players threatened another work stoppage and another year without the World Series, my anger turned to apathy. I walked away from baseball.



Then this year Kansas City got a new manager. Tony Pena. Enthusiastic, exciting, inspiring. With a team payroll $110 million less than the Yankees, they won 9 straight to begin the season. The Royals have been in first place and play with the enthusiasm and heart of a little league team. No big stars. No big egos, just hustle, pride, and heart. This team won my heart back to baseball and reconnected a thread which links my childhood with my adulthood.



When my son was growing up he played baseball. I helped coach. One summer evening under the lights, John was pitching. I thought about my life and his life and all of the lives that had danced across the field on which we were standing. I wrote something to express those thoughts and feelings and I called it “The Stage of Dirt and Grass.” I hope you enjoy it.



The Stage of Dirt and Grass

Engaged in a dance, a rite of passage, choreographed by those who have gone on before - still variations are written and composed as unique as the lives of the dancers who take to this stage of dirt and grass.



Yesterday he was 12 years old pitching his first game. His stomach was filled with butterflies from the fears of possible failure, the hope of success and the realization of responsibility that others were depending on him.



Today he is a father watching his son. Feeling nostalgia and reliving some of the sweet innocent times of his life. A welcome break from the pressure of his reality. He feels butterflies too. This time from the awe that is the realization of life's cycles. Seeing where he has been, knowing where he is and knowing his time is growing short. The feeling that it has all happened so fast, yet able to enjoy the moment and drink in the spring air and sunshine. To put a glove to his face and be reminded of the smells of childhood. The smell of the leather and the grass transporting him back in time one sense at a time.



Tomorrow, he is a grandfather, now sitting in the stands. Observing, even more philosophical, at peace. The familiarity of the game and the sights and sounds are comforting. No matter what has changed in the world during his long life, this game has not. It is still the place boys begin to learn what it is to be a man. To work as a group, to win and lose with dignity, to encourage, to be humbled, to accept a challenge, to conquer a fear or work through a pain.



The lessons of baseball are endless, so too is the never ending stream of sons, fathers and grandfathers sharing in at least one common thread that runs through their lives. The stage of dirt and grass.

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Until the next time

John Strain

Domestic Violence Is Not Funny

This video, “Big Mama Beatdown” has been making the rounds on the internet. To view the video CLICK HERE. If for some reason you cannot view the video I will describe it for you.



The video opens with a rather large, but nimble African American woman helping an African American man up off the ground. Once up, the man hits her hard in the face with a roundhouse right. The woman charges him and gets him down. She gains the advantage and begins to pummel him as children walk around nonchalantly. For nearly two and a half minutes this woman punishes this obviously drunk man by repeatedly hitting him, dragging him, and throwing him to the ground. Laughter is heard throughout the video from the camera man and other, apparent neighbors standing nearby. Finally, the beating ends when a bystander intervenes and walks the drunken and beaten man off the street.



I am going to make a few assumptions. First, I believe someone captured a real event not a hoax. Second, I believe the two fighters are a couple. Third, I believe the two children in the video belong to one or both of the fighters.



“Big Mama Beatdown” was billed by one of my friends as really funny. I watched expecting to be laughing my ass off I felt disturbed instead. Maybe because my wife worked in battered women’s shelters for five years or maybe because I ran a batterers program for a couple of years myself, but to me it was not funny.



Granted, I do not know the context of this event. What had transpired between these two prior to the time the camera started rolling? Did he deserve the beating? That was a trick question. Any domestic violence training condemns retaliation and violence. That is because violence begets violence. This woman had ample opportunity to walk away. I will grant her the initial defense of the wicked shot she took. She reacted and fought back, but she then methodically wiped up the neighborhood with him.



She was not crazed but workman like. When the little girl asked her a question about a broken toy the calm reply was, “Don’t show me that at this particular time.” Beating a man down was not something she wanted to shield from a child.



Albert, the drunken punching bag may be a lot of things. At least on one occasion he was intoxicated to the point he almost got himself killed. Shielding children from highly intoxicated adults was not a value he held.



What of the camera man? He videoed the happenings giggling all the while. His commentary when Big Mama drug Albert across the street was, “walking the dog, giggle giggle.” No intervening or scurrying children away.



Loud, hysterical peals of laughter could be heard from other onlookers. This was entertainment for them. This was common place. The police drove by, but nobody flagged them down, only more giggles from chuckles the camera man.



Social problems and statistics are made up of incidents like this one. Discussions about domestic violence often make excuses for perpetrators. When race is discussed, even more excuses are introduced into the discussion. All of the excuses and explanations not holding individuals responsible for their behavior is frankly bullshit.



Whether black, white, or any other race, violence is not acceptable behavior. If the community sees violence and laughs it tells me they are desensitized to it. That means what they laugh at is not violence to them. Children who observe adults engaging in violence learn violence. Why is the number one cause of death for young African American males gunshots?



Violence is a vicious cycle. A community desensitized to it and children growing up in it perpetuates the cycle.



I do not have the answer to domestic violence. Our Nation settles disputes with violence and that is OK. Our families settle disputes with violence and it is a crime. Our media and entertainment is saturated with violence. I participate by watching the movies and I am sure in other ways so I do not write this as one who is pious.



I guess all I can say is that seeing the violence of “Big Mama Beatdown” disturbed me - did it disturb you?



Domestic Violence Information and Statistics

Violence Statistics in America



Until the next time

John Strain

Homework for tomorrow's blog: Watch this!

Big Mama Beatdown is the subject of tomorrow's column. Watch it today so tomorrow's comments will be more relevant. If you have a 56K modem it may take 5 to 10 minutes to download, but it is worth it. The video is in Windows Media Player format. Email me if you have problems getting the video.