The other week I was on a conference call with about 20 people, including the country managers, the delivery manager, and a couple of guys who represent our external customer. Things got a little tense, and before you knew it, our delivery manager was in a heated argument with the customer. I am new to the specific project, but already had a pretty good understanding of why emotions could get a little tense.
As I sat at my desk listening to the two guys in their fiery exchange, I was reminded of being on a playground as a 10 year old watching two kids have an argument. In both situations, there was not an immediate solution present. In the case of the children, one person said something pretty much to the effect of, "I am going to tell my parents on you!" to which the other child responded, "Yeah? Well, nanny nanny boo boo!"
You know, all these years later, I cannot actually remember what the two ten year olds said to each other....
The incident really irritated me and put me in a bad mood for the rest of the work day. The sour mood returned a couple of days later when another colleague sent out an email requesting urgent feedback. The request was for information that most people understand realistically takes three to four hours to obtain. Unfortunately, said colleague did not understand this, so he sent a follow up message about 30 minutes later telling everyone to hurry up, and included a statement "the customer is escalating."
In other words, the customer was going to tell my parents on me? What might happen? My allowance might get cut off? Would I be grounded and not allowed to go out and play?
Throughout my career I have always been fascinated at the way people behave themselves in the workplace. All too often, I have experienced where people really get bent out of shape in moments of conflict, then proceed to exacerbate things because of the way they choose to handle the situation. Either they go into full blown panic mode and start making very rash decisions, or they simply throw all their toys out of the pram.
It is not coincidence that I keep referring to children in my analogies. What is rather distressing to me is that people (including myself, to be fair) tend to overlook their maturity. This is particularly exasperating for me at my job, since I work for a company that has continued to grow over the past six years, but we continue to really fall short when it comes to development, especially development of our resources.
Many of my posts here mention anecdotes from my work experience; a lot of them provide a sarcastic glimpse into the various challenges that occur when things are not going so well. As I said before, the company is actually reasonably successful, but I personally believe it comes at the expense of the people. As an example, a couple of years ago, we started a massive project which required a lot of system development and additional staff. Unfortunately, we somehow underestimated the requirements, and ultimately reacted way too late. We knew good and well that we would almost increase our basic accounting functions by 6000%, and we did not add any staff.
What?
It really came as no surprise to me last year as one by one, most of the financial team left the company. As much as I felt for them, I was equally frustrated by their reluctance to accept my offer to help support. It was clear to me that they were not clear on the tasks at hand, and I thought (rightfully, in my opinion) that I could help them understand what we were trying/needing to do.
Later on, I realized that my helpful gesture wasn't ignored because the recipients did not want the help, it was that they did not know HOW to understand that they needed the help. I ultimately decided that it was an issue of having the wrong people doing the task. Wrong, not because because they were incapable, but wrong because they never had the opportunity or the training. This comes down to personal development.
Recently, my teen-aged nephew was hired by a neighbor to do some yard work. My nephew grossly underestimated the task and quickly got himself overwhelmed. Instead of trying assess the situation and change his approach, he panicked, called in reinforcements (the parents), and together they more or less completed the project, albeit somewhat below expectation from all parties involved.
It was not as if my nephew had been asked to mow the lawn with a pair of fingernail clippers, but it was rather clear that he lacked the knowledge of how to approach the challenge, including which tools to use and how to use them. Of course, this was his opportunity to learn, and my disappointment comes more from the way in which the problem got resolved.
I know this sounds arrogant, but when I was that age, and when I worked for that same neighbor some 30 years ago, I had similar challenges. Likewise, I also got myself overwhelmed. But, when I reached out for help on how to solve the problem, from the likes of my neighbor and my father, I received both constructive criticism and support (as well as bit of humorous commentary) and most always was able to complete the job. And I LEARNED from the experience.
Building on those experiences leads to development and maturity, both of which have helped me greatly in my personal and professional life. True, a lot of this came from upbringing, but much of it also came from my education.
I consider myself to be rather logical, but certainly I have my moments of naivety, and I am still pretty good at being an absolute dipshit (Yes, I did almost lock myself out of the house again this week, and yes, I did narrowly escape the old aerosol spray in the eye trick). But, I always try to learn from the experience and build on it.
Earlier this week, I received a rather serious letter in the mail from the Frankfurt Finanzamt, stating that I owed them 200 Euro for failure to comply with a obligatory action that I was supposed to take part in last November. The letter went on to say that they were disappointed that I had ignored their follow up letters, along with their phone calls.
Exemplified? Naive - I failed to realize that the certified letter I received last November requesting my participation was important. Dipshit - I simultaneously failed to realize that there were financial penalties should I fail to comply. Dipshit point 2 - Simply ignoring the follow up letters.
Logic - I paid the penalty via bank transfer two days ago when I received the "final notice."
I do wish I had been a bit more aware last year when the whole thing started, but oh well.
Live and learn.
And don't continue to make the same mistakes over and over. That is what gripes me so much at work. How come we can't seem to collectively learn and move forward?
I had a rather enjoyable conversation just last Friday evening that helped remind me of how important this concept really is. As usual, I was standing outside the pub with a beer, enjoying the pleasant weather. I happen to overhear a young woman at the next table speak in English to one of the staff, and referred to time in Texas.
Normally, I don't go out of my way to broadcast where I come from, but I jumped out of character for a moment, and asked her where she came from. It turns out she comes from a city rather close to Fort Worth, where I have some roots. As we continued our conversation, we talked a little bit about the experience of living abroad, and then she remarked that she had attended college about an hour north of Dallas.
The moment she said that, and the way that she said it ("it's a really small college") I realized that there was about a 99% chance that I knew which one it was. I started laughing as she named the school.
It is my alma mater, too.
We went through the obligatory "No way, what a small world!" remarks, and just then, her husband returned to the table, found out what we were laughing about, and said, "So you are a 'Roo, too?"
The woman's husband is German, and the two of them met at an international event several years ago. He was quite familiar with our college and the three of us spent the next hour discussing how great the experience was, and what our time at the school had meant to us.
Both the woman and I agree that the school's curriculum was outstanding, but as much as we learned, perhaps one of the most rewarding things was that we learned HOW to learn. Although I have discussed this topic countless times with my classmates from my own years at college, this was one of the first times that I had ever had a chance to talk about it with someone who graduated 20 years after I did.
It was rather refreshing and comforting to encounter someone who appreciates the importance of living and learning, particularly someone so much younger. As I get older, I get the feeling that I don't see this enough, but this helps keep things in perspective for me.
People are still living and learning on the playground.
See you out there.
bryan
Friday, April 13, 2018
Thursday, April 05, 2018
Captain Idiot is Back and Stronger than Ever
So, the past few days I have been wondering what topic I would consider for my next post. Even this morning as I was rallying to get out of bed, I did not seem to have many ideas.
Fortunately, my own actions have come to my rescue...
As I prepare for the visit from my father here in a couple of weeks, I have been doing some tidying up around the flat. You might recall I had a little list of tasks that I wanted to get done at the beginning of Spring, and a thorough hoovering and mopping was certainly on the to-do list. During my breaks from work during this morning, I attacked the dust bunnies hiding in the various corners of the house (as well as under the bed and sofa). I did not stop with the vacuuming, but continued on by changing out the mop head and took care of the bathroom floor, quite impressively, I might add.
I was really feeling productive by midday, managing not only the household chores but also the routine duties of my job. It finally stopped raining just around 13h, and I rushed off to the bank and then on to pick up the dry cleaning, keeping one eye on the darkening skies above. At the cleaners, I smiled sheepishly as the girl brought all 10 items to me: 3 coats and 7 bulky sweaters. She struggled to carry everything over to me at the counter, and I made a note to myself that in future I would try not to schlep so many things to the cleaners at once.
5 minutes later, I was revising my mental note (along with swearing and sweating profusely) as I awkwardly walked across most of Bornheim with everything. Indeed, it was all really heavy. Why the hell did I think it such a good idea to take so many articles at once? Furthermore, I wondered if any of the five dry cleaners that are a LOT closer to my house do a better job, just so I don't have to show the entire neighborhood my entire winter apparel.
Once I got home, I hung everything back up in the closet and checked that task off the list.
A couple of short conference calls later, I finished my last coffee of the day, then decided I would put my doormat back outside my front door. During winter, I usually keep it just inside the front door for any shoes and boots that have picked icy gunk. That way, I wouldn't track it all the way through the flat.
Earlier in the morning I had opened up all the windows in the apartment, and with the balcony door open, the cross breeze was absolutely brilliant. I could almost smell the smoky fugg from my kitchen just whisking away into thin air.
So, when I laid the mat down in front of my door, I was feeling quite accomplished, right up until that moment (which was really in about 3 seconds) when my front door slammed in my face.
This now marks the second time that this exact same thing has happened to me.
(check out the post from March 2010 entitled "Parental Approval Rating - High!")
Not surprisingly, I said what normally comes to mind when something like this happens.
"Oh, fuck."
Of course my keys and my phone were sitting safely inside: just a locked door keeping us apart.
Once again, I trooped over to the pub, hoping to catch my friend (the owner) and see about borrowing his ladder. As I approached the door, it opened and one of the other tenants was just coming outside.
"Hi, do you know if Ray is around?"
"Nope. He is in the Dominican Republic and won't be back until next week."
Yikes.
After brief consideration, I rang the doorbell to see if one of the other guys was around, and I was relieved when Marc answered. Marc is also a friend who works at the pub and lives in one of the small apartments upstairs.
Marc came downstairs and after a quick greeting, I asked him if he was busy and would he mind not only helping to bring the extension ladder over, but could he also help hold the ladder so that I wouldn't fall and break my legs as I climbed up to my balcony.
Just like I did with my father 8 years ago, Marc and I assembled the extensions and struggled to steady the ladder against my balcony railing.
Marc is quite a bit shorter than I am (and lighter), and when he suggested that perhaps it would be better if he climbed up, I almost hugged him. It is not that I am afraid of heights, but I am just saying...
A minute later, Marc clambered over the railing and walked through the flat to my front door.
I was greatly relieved, only to realize that he was just about to exit my flat without removing the key from the door, which would have put us back where we started.
"Wait, don't let the door shut!" I exclaimed, and we both chuckled as I removed the keys from the door and stuck them in my pocket.
Back downstairs to make the ladder short again, and then I thanked Marc profusely as he carried the ladder back across the street.
It's funny. Only yesterday I had sort of reminded myself to be very careful when opening the front door so as to avoid this exact thing from happening.
Sigh. And giggle. What more can I do?
This probably means that sometime in the coming days I will inadvertently and inexplicably spray myself in the eye with an aerosol cleaner.
Thank goodness I can amuse myself by being such a goofball.
See you out there.
bryan
Fortunately, my own actions have come to my rescue...
As I prepare for the visit from my father here in a couple of weeks, I have been doing some tidying up around the flat. You might recall I had a little list of tasks that I wanted to get done at the beginning of Spring, and a thorough hoovering and mopping was certainly on the to-do list. During my breaks from work during this morning, I attacked the dust bunnies hiding in the various corners of the house (as well as under the bed and sofa). I did not stop with the vacuuming, but continued on by changing out the mop head and took care of the bathroom floor, quite impressively, I might add.
I was really feeling productive by midday, managing not only the household chores but also the routine duties of my job. It finally stopped raining just around 13h, and I rushed off to the bank and then on to pick up the dry cleaning, keeping one eye on the darkening skies above. At the cleaners, I smiled sheepishly as the girl brought all 10 items to me: 3 coats and 7 bulky sweaters. She struggled to carry everything over to me at the counter, and I made a note to myself that in future I would try not to schlep so many things to the cleaners at once.
5 minutes later, I was revising my mental note (along with swearing and sweating profusely) as I awkwardly walked across most of Bornheim with everything. Indeed, it was all really heavy. Why the hell did I think it such a good idea to take so many articles at once? Furthermore, I wondered if any of the five dry cleaners that are a LOT closer to my house do a better job, just so I don't have to show the entire neighborhood my entire winter apparel.
Once I got home, I hung everything back up in the closet and checked that task off the list.
A couple of short conference calls later, I finished my last coffee of the day, then decided I would put my doormat back outside my front door. During winter, I usually keep it just inside the front door for any shoes and boots that have picked icy gunk. That way, I wouldn't track it all the way through the flat.
Earlier in the morning I had opened up all the windows in the apartment, and with the balcony door open, the cross breeze was absolutely brilliant. I could almost smell the smoky fugg from my kitchen just whisking away into thin air.
So, when I laid the mat down in front of my door, I was feeling quite accomplished, right up until that moment (which was really in about 3 seconds) when my front door slammed in my face.
This now marks the second time that this exact same thing has happened to me.
(check out the post from March 2010 entitled "Parental Approval Rating - High!")
Not surprisingly, I said what normally comes to mind when something like this happens.
"Oh, fuck."
Of course my keys and my phone were sitting safely inside: just a locked door keeping us apart.
Once again, I trooped over to the pub, hoping to catch my friend (the owner) and see about borrowing his ladder. As I approached the door, it opened and one of the other tenants was just coming outside.
"Hi, do you know if Ray is around?"
"Nope. He is in the Dominican Republic and won't be back until next week."
Yikes.
After brief consideration, I rang the doorbell to see if one of the other guys was around, and I was relieved when Marc answered. Marc is also a friend who works at the pub and lives in one of the small apartments upstairs.
Marc came downstairs and after a quick greeting, I asked him if he was busy and would he mind not only helping to bring the extension ladder over, but could he also help hold the ladder so that I wouldn't fall and break my legs as I climbed up to my balcony.
Just like I did with my father 8 years ago, Marc and I assembled the extensions and struggled to steady the ladder against my balcony railing.
Marc is quite a bit shorter than I am (and lighter), and when he suggested that perhaps it would be better if he climbed up, I almost hugged him. It is not that I am afraid of heights, but I am just saying...
A minute later, Marc clambered over the railing and walked through the flat to my front door.
I was greatly relieved, only to realize that he was just about to exit my flat without removing the key from the door, which would have put us back where we started.
"Wait, don't let the door shut!" I exclaimed, and we both chuckled as I removed the keys from the door and stuck them in my pocket.
Back downstairs to make the ladder short again, and then I thanked Marc profusely as he carried the ladder back across the street.
It's funny. Only yesterday I had sort of reminded myself to be very careful when opening the front door so as to avoid this exact thing from happening.
Sigh. And giggle. What more can I do?
This probably means that sometime in the coming days I will inadvertently and inexplicably spray myself in the eye with an aerosol cleaner.
Thank goodness I can amuse myself by being such a goofball.
See you out there.
bryan
Friday, March 16, 2018
Resturlaub and To-do Lists
Today I am taking a personal day. One of my challenges the whole time I have been in Germany is finding a way to consume all of my vacation (Urlaub) days during the calendar year. The law pretty much states that one has to use ALL their days within a certain time period; otherwise the days will be "lost."
During my first few years in Germany, I was so caught up in getting my ass kicked by the customer, who never stopped pressuring us on the project that I was managing. As a result, I never could take all my holidays, as (in my opinion) there was no time. Every year I got a real telling off from my employer, who seemed to forget that he was the one that had overloaded me in the first place. I always got frustrated during these conversations, since I recognized that a part of self-discipline is to manage one's time, including holidays. Part of me was irritated with myself for never able to do this so well.
I am secretly jealous of the mentality that most of my German friends have. They simply take their holidays and separate themselves from the job. I still remember a story I heard years ago, where some high level manager said, "Hey, I know that the factory burned down, and all the goods in the warehouse were destroyed. Na ja, I was on vacation."
I think it is the idea that people simply walk away from the responsibility that troubles me. I know, that this is mostly perception on my part, and over the years as I worked to improve my work-personal life balance, I do recognize that one simply must distance themselves from things from time to time. This includes really switching off from work.
Over the years where I have had anxious moments as the stress has reached a super high level, I better understand statements like, "Just let it go," or "Joel, sometimes you have to say what the fuck."
Easier said than done, of course.
Anyway, this brings me to 2018, where I found myself ending the month of February with four remaining vacation days to take before the end of March.
My solution? Take every Friday off.
Actually, I kind of like doing the four day work week. I made no plans for any long weekends away, not because I don't like traveling, but rather I enjoy kind of having a little quiet time around the house where I can do something I want to do. In short, focus on making it a "personal" day.
For me, this tends to include rather mundane activities, but I also try and do a few things that are not so routine. When I was submitting my time off requests the other week, I decided to make a little list of all the things that I have been wanting to do, but never seemed to find the time for.
Although several items are related to the end of winter/coming of spring, a few items from my list include:
-clean out the older paperwork I have accumulated over the past decade
-thoroughly clean my balcony
-file my US tax return
-clean the oven (uggh)
-take all the sweaters and coats into the dry cleaners for end of season (this task I will likely need to postpone another few weeks, as freezing temperatures and snow are in this morning's weather forecast)
I can appreciate that some people might consider this list rather boring.
"Why aren't you going to go do something fun and exciting?" I can imagine a few friends might ask.
The fact is, I like doing some of these things, and like having the feeling of having sufficient time to complete the task at my own pace. OK, maybe the oven cleaning will not be that fun, but I do expect to feel quite gratified once it's been done.
We won't change our clocks for another couple of weeks, but as always, I am starting to wake up a little earlier as it gets light outside. This morning was no exception. I was awake at 6h45, and was only slightly irritated that I was getting up so early on a vacation day. However, I quite enjoyed sitting on the balcony with my first coffee of the day, listening to the birds singing.
You see, I am trying to use the personal day to do stuff that I want to do. If that happens to be diddly squat, then so be it. Today's agenda is not overly full, so I can leisurely do a few things that I feel like doing, at my own pace.
As always, I am sort of "on-call" with regard to work. That being said, I am very comforted by the fact that my work email notifies everyone that I am not in the office, so it will be a quiet day.
And a day that I plan to enjoy.
see you out there
bryan
During my first few years in Germany, I was so caught up in getting my ass kicked by the customer, who never stopped pressuring us on the project that I was managing. As a result, I never could take all my holidays, as (in my opinion) there was no time. Every year I got a real telling off from my employer, who seemed to forget that he was the one that had overloaded me in the first place. I always got frustrated during these conversations, since I recognized that a part of self-discipline is to manage one's time, including holidays. Part of me was irritated with myself for never able to do this so well.
I am secretly jealous of the mentality that most of my German friends have. They simply take their holidays and separate themselves from the job. I still remember a story I heard years ago, where some high level manager said, "Hey, I know that the factory burned down, and all the goods in the warehouse were destroyed. Na ja, I was on vacation."
I think it is the idea that people simply walk away from the responsibility that troubles me. I know, that this is mostly perception on my part, and over the years as I worked to improve my work-personal life balance, I do recognize that one simply must distance themselves from things from time to time. This includes really switching off from work.
Over the years where I have had anxious moments as the stress has reached a super high level, I better understand statements like, "Just let it go," or "Joel, sometimes you have to say what the fuck."
Easier said than done, of course.
Anyway, this brings me to 2018, where I found myself ending the month of February with four remaining vacation days to take before the end of March.
My solution? Take every Friday off.
Actually, I kind of like doing the four day work week. I made no plans for any long weekends away, not because I don't like traveling, but rather I enjoy kind of having a little quiet time around the house where I can do something I want to do. In short, focus on making it a "personal" day.
For me, this tends to include rather mundane activities, but I also try and do a few things that are not so routine. When I was submitting my time off requests the other week, I decided to make a little list of all the things that I have been wanting to do, but never seemed to find the time for.
Although several items are related to the end of winter/coming of spring, a few items from my list include:
-clean out the older paperwork I have accumulated over the past decade
-thoroughly clean my balcony
-file my US tax return
-clean the oven (uggh)
-take all the sweaters and coats into the dry cleaners for end of season (this task I will likely need to postpone another few weeks, as freezing temperatures and snow are in this morning's weather forecast)
I can appreciate that some people might consider this list rather boring.
"Why aren't you going to go do something fun and exciting?" I can imagine a few friends might ask.
The fact is, I like doing some of these things, and like having the feeling of having sufficient time to complete the task at my own pace. OK, maybe the oven cleaning will not be that fun, but I do expect to feel quite gratified once it's been done.
We won't change our clocks for another couple of weeks, but as always, I am starting to wake up a little earlier as it gets light outside. This morning was no exception. I was awake at 6h45, and was only slightly irritated that I was getting up so early on a vacation day. However, I quite enjoyed sitting on the balcony with my first coffee of the day, listening to the birds singing.
You see, I am trying to use the personal day to do stuff that I want to do. If that happens to be diddly squat, then so be it. Today's agenda is not overly full, so I can leisurely do a few things that I feel like doing, at my own pace.
As always, I am sort of "on-call" with regard to work. That being said, I am very comforted by the fact that my work email notifies everyone that I am not in the office, so it will be a quiet day.
And a day that I plan to enjoy.
see you out there
bryan
Saturday, March 10, 2018
Getting in a Tizzy Makes for a Difficult Month
Throughout the month of February, I found myself getting more and more uptight. I could not seem to shake the gastro issues I had been experiencing from the start of the month. By the middle of the month, I kind of said to myself, "Hey, this is going on way too long," which did not really help me in the slightest. It made me even more nervous, which, knowing my character, can quickly lead to mental overload.
I was a little bemused by the whole situation, and started making some dietary changes in effort to get myself back on track. I cut out dairy products (as one does) and decided to skip the coffees for a few days. This proved rather difficult, as smack in the middle of the month, my brand new espresso machine arrived. Said machine is simply awesome, and I was really ready to try it out, but forced myself to try and take it easy; better to hold off just a bit and let nature have a chance to help recover.
A bit of miscalculation on my part sort of helped me through the delay. The new espresso machine has a built in grinder, and as I was unpacking it and putting it on my counter top, I realized that it would not clear the cabinets. I elected to resolve the problem by purchasing a little rolling kitchen counter, the kind of thing that one might use for microwave ovens. I had to wait a few days until it was delivered. It turns out that it works perfectly in a little corner of my kitchen, freeing up much needed counter room and allowing me more space to play barista.
My tummy issues were not really improving, but I plowed on, noticing that I was getting more and more anxious. I would make myself the odd coffee or two (without milk) and tried to convince myself that things would be soon back to normal with my plumbing.
I made the mistake of reading a few forums on the internet. I might as well have just sat down and watched every scary ass horror film ever made. I managed to get myself even more worked up about things. Finally, after one rather vivid nightmare where I dreamed that I got carjacked in Germany by some English police officers who stuck me in some indoor soccer complex full of just about every unpleasant person I have ever met in my life, I decided it was time to visit the doctor.
Over the past couple of weeks, I have had a few blood samples taken, almost all of which showed negative results, which ultimately meant things are OK. Of course, this was somewhat relative, as I was still not feeling all that well.
The mental stress continued to increase as I found myself getting more and more anxious. Trying to find calming distractions did not come easily. OK, my fault that I thought watching Arsenal football would help improve my mindset; four losses on the trot only worsened my mood.
Finally, I had a little chat with myself about things, and worked on some breathing exercises. I spoke with a couple of friends who tend to have very calming effects on me, and this helped tremendously. Slowly, I was able to kind of come to terms with things and found ways to focus my energy on more positive activities: piano playing, voice-over practice, etc.
Sure, this past week I was back at the doctor's office for a couple more tests, and the anxious moments are still kind of there, but yesterday morning, I woke up feeling better than I have in the past 3 or 4 weeks. It was amazing. To celebrate, I made myself an espresso (with milk!) which tasted absolutely awesome. My stomach seems to have settled down quite a bit, and several readings of books like "Self Esteem" (Virginia Satir) and "The Book of Calm" (various) seem to have contributed to me rounding the corner on the way back to "normal weird ass self."
I celebrated further last evening with a friend at a local Vietnamese restaurant. It was a nice way to spend a Friday night, and I went to bed in good spirits.
This morning I woke up feeling more rested and while I may not be 100% back on track, I feel like I am really close. As I was just loading the washing machine, I checked a pants pocket and found a 50 euro note. Nice.
Spring is just starting up, and it is nice to have temperatures that are just a little warmer than recent weeks. I have no doubt that the lingering winter had some influence on my mood over the past month, but I am glad to feel like I am taking it all in stride, with a better perspective.
Continuing to learn about myself never fails to be enlightening. The fact that I happen to have an extra 50 euro on hand just means that I will probably spend a little time this afternoon reflecting on a good start to March in the pub.
see you out there
bryan
I was a little bemused by the whole situation, and started making some dietary changes in effort to get myself back on track. I cut out dairy products (as one does) and decided to skip the coffees for a few days. This proved rather difficult, as smack in the middle of the month, my brand new espresso machine arrived. Said machine is simply awesome, and I was really ready to try it out, but forced myself to try and take it easy; better to hold off just a bit and let nature have a chance to help recover.
A bit of miscalculation on my part sort of helped me through the delay. The new espresso machine has a built in grinder, and as I was unpacking it and putting it on my counter top, I realized that it would not clear the cabinets. I elected to resolve the problem by purchasing a little rolling kitchen counter, the kind of thing that one might use for microwave ovens. I had to wait a few days until it was delivered. It turns out that it works perfectly in a little corner of my kitchen, freeing up much needed counter room and allowing me more space to play barista.
My tummy issues were not really improving, but I plowed on, noticing that I was getting more and more anxious. I would make myself the odd coffee or two (without milk) and tried to convince myself that things would be soon back to normal with my plumbing.
I made the mistake of reading a few forums on the internet. I might as well have just sat down and watched every scary ass horror film ever made. I managed to get myself even more worked up about things. Finally, after one rather vivid nightmare where I dreamed that I got carjacked in Germany by some English police officers who stuck me in some indoor soccer complex full of just about every unpleasant person I have ever met in my life, I decided it was time to visit the doctor.
Over the past couple of weeks, I have had a few blood samples taken, almost all of which showed negative results, which ultimately meant things are OK. Of course, this was somewhat relative, as I was still not feeling all that well.
The mental stress continued to increase as I found myself getting more and more anxious. Trying to find calming distractions did not come easily. OK, my fault that I thought watching Arsenal football would help improve my mindset; four losses on the trot only worsened my mood.
Finally, I had a little chat with myself about things, and worked on some breathing exercises. I spoke with a couple of friends who tend to have very calming effects on me, and this helped tremendously. Slowly, I was able to kind of come to terms with things and found ways to focus my energy on more positive activities: piano playing, voice-over practice, etc.
Sure, this past week I was back at the doctor's office for a couple more tests, and the anxious moments are still kind of there, but yesterday morning, I woke up feeling better than I have in the past 3 or 4 weeks. It was amazing. To celebrate, I made myself an espresso (with milk!) which tasted absolutely awesome. My stomach seems to have settled down quite a bit, and several readings of books like "Self Esteem" (Virginia Satir) and "The Book of Calm" (various) seem to have contributed to me rounding the corner on the way back to "normal weird ass self."
I celebrated further last evening with a friend at a local Vietnamese restaurant. It was a nice way to spend a Friday night, and I went to bed in good spirits.
This morning I woke up feeling more rested and while I may not be 100% back on track, I feel like I am really close. As I was just loading the washing machine, I checked a pants pocket and found a 50 euro note. Nice.
Spring is just starting up, and it is nice to have temperatures that are just a little warmer than recent weeks. I have no doubt that the lingering winter had some influence on my mood over the past month, but I am glad to feel like I am taking it all in stride, with a better perspective.
Continuing to learn about myself never fails to be enlightening. The fact that I happen to have an extra 50 euro on hand just means that I will probably spend a little time this afternoon reflecting on a good start to March in the pub.
see you out there
bryan
Thursday, February 15, 2018
Falling into the Gap and Crewing with J
Probably the people who can best connect with this topic are Kendall, Chris, Whitman, and Spence.
Thirty years ago, I was still regularly finding things that I liked at the Gap. Amazingly enough, back then, they still had a lot of clothes available in black, or at least darker colors. I found a pair of houndstooth (German word - Hahnentritt, if you are interested) pants that I absolutely loved. In fact, I wore them quite often over the next ten years, including to a job interview in the UK in the late 90s. The pants just continued to wear really well.
I will concede that those pants still hang in my closet, but I really stopped wearing them when I arrrived in Germany, partly because of the style, and partly because they no longer quite had the look of pants that were appropriate to wear outside the house.
For me, it was all about quality back then, and most everything I bought at the Gap really lasted a long time. In later years, perhaps the last fifteen years or so, I have not found this to be the case; the quality is no longer made to survive washings/dry cleanings for more than a year or two. Now, about this time, I was not really shopping that much, and very rarely in the Gap. The styles no longer interested me, and what shopping I was doing for clothes tended to be done in Europe. The stuff I was finding in Europe (particularly at one or two shops in Spain) was much better suited for me, and tended also to impress with their longevity.
Thanks for skipping over the point about my fashion style, which, as most of us know, is pretty basic but arguably a classic style. At least, classic Bryan.
As I entered into college, I started doing a little more mail order shopping through a place called J. Crew. My grandmother has always been a big shopper, and she has always greatly enjoyed giving my sister and me clothes as gifts; birthdays, Christmas, etc. She did this quite a bit more during our college years, and just about every time I visited her, she would bring out the J.Crew catalog and ask me to pick something out. There was some really good stuff on offer back in those days, and I found that I quite liked some of their sweaters. True, I also bought one or two suits from them, along with various jersey type shirts. Again, the quality tended to be rather high. In fairness, those clothes were not cheap, so I fully expected to get some real wear out of them.
Funnily enough, several friends of mine were also in similar situations where they had loving grandparents or just an overall fondness for J.Crew apparel. I can remember sitting in the kitchen one night with a buddy from college, gathered around the table chatting with my mother, perusing the catalog. The descriptions of the articles were so great. One had the feeling that wearing the collarless rugby shirt with stitched cuffs was just going to be the best thing, and particularly since it came in a cool color called heather lakeview or darkest indigo. Um, blue, right?
Another friend of mine and I would constantly use J.Crew adjectives in our conversations, which made for some interesting and humorous evenings sitting in a coffee shop making jack-asses of ourselves. It was particularly great if we were able to use butter, burl, and waffle all in the same sentence. OK, maybe "butter" sounds better than "pale yellow" when describing the color of a sweater, but then again, I am not one of those guys that is ever going to be wearing yellow in the first place, regardless of how you want to call the color.
In one of my last years of college, I did find an absolutely fantastic triple button black wool coat. It was more or less a blazer, but was just that extra bit bigger to sort of serve as a really good top coat. I loved it. The quality was great, and I ended up wearing that blazer to my job interview in the UK, along with the cool Gap pants. Clothes that basically were almost 10 years old looked more than suitable for a formal job interview. It was incredible.
The jacket stayed with me over the next many years, and I wore it often. Upon my arrival in Germany, it really became my top coat; it wore well over layers of sweaters, and the winters here are quite different than those in Dallas.
Eventually, the lining of my jacket kind of disintegrated, but I kept right on wearing the jacket. I did start looking for a suitable replacement in Spain, Germany, and even in the US, but could not find anything worthy of being the TRUE replacement. One day, Nadja finally kind of said, "Hey, the coat is nice, but it is time to stop wearing it."
She was right. Despite regular compliments I received about the coat, it was starting to look like it had been really really used. By this, I will briefly reflect on all the concerts and places I have been where one might get a beer or two spilled on them, among other things.
It was tough, but I put the coat in my closet, and started using some of the other coats I had purchased over the years in my attempts to find a replacement. I could not quite bring myself to throw it out, since it had been such a good friend to me nigh on 20 some odd years.
As a bit of an aside, I did come across a coat in an online catalog of a department store just before Christmas, and I made the mistake of telling my Grandmother about it. She immediately wanted to give it to me for Christmas, and I had to tell her that I would certainly welcome the gift, but first I actually wanted to try the garment on. When I got to the department store in Dallas last December, I found that the item was only available online, and since I could not actually try it, I elected to skip it.
Later, I actually looked again at the item online, and realized that I probably was not going to like the coat after all. It was not because the color of the coat was olive (in fairness, it was a really BLACK olive), but because it was just not quite what I was after. (one last note - I see now that it has been reduced in price by about 30% of what they were trying to sell it for a few months ago)
Anyway, over the years, as my tastes have varied from shades of black, I have still hung on to one wool sweater from J.Crew. Again, I got this sweater in the late 80s, and, even though I may not have had reason to wear a sweater so frequently in Dallas, I did wear it often when I lived in Boston, and I certainly have put it to good use here in Germany.
Sadly, last Saturday morning as I was putting on some casual clothes as I got ready to go watch a match at the pub, I noticed that my black sweater had a little hole in the elbow; created over time and maybe a few washes in a not so gentle cycle. I realized that I probably should retire the sweater, but I have elected to use it only for "at home" attire. After all, I don't care about the hole in the sleeve.
That afternoon at the pub, I got to talking to a couple of friends, one of which is Norwegian. He is rather fashionable and turned up wearing (literally) blue suede shoes, along with a smart pants and sweater outfit. At another time in my life, I might have made a comment about guys who get so perked up on trendy fashion, but I have wisely (and proudly) reminded myself that it is OK to be punk and still wear nice clothes. We actually got on the topic of fashion (how exactly, I don't know) during the second match of the afternoon, and we had all had several beers by this point. I held up my sleeve to show them what had happened to one of my favorite sweaters, only slightly alarmed that the hole was growing with each movement I was making.
I then went on to praise the quality of such a great garment from the shop where I bought it oh so many years ago. I think it was fitting that my sweater got to have one last little public hurrah.
In the past week, it has gotten really cold again, to the point where I am wearing a scarf. Yes, it is black and wool. And comes from the Gap, circa 1988. Basic, and classic.
I actually had lost the scarf at some point over the past 30 years, but during a visit from my parents a few years back, I noticed my mom wearing a black scarf, which was a little strange, as she always tended to be on the more colorful side of things. When I asked her about the scarf, she said she had found it in the hallway closet at home, down with all the other winter stocking caps, scarves, etc that get piled in there and used only once in awhile when the weather in Dallas required. Which was seldom.
At any rate, I examined the scarf a little more closely, and realized it was my Gap scarf from many years back, and I acknowledged that I had misplaced it. Certainly, I had since replaced it, but I was tugged by the nostalgia. At the end of their visit, my mom hung the scarf on my hallway coat rack and said, "Now the scarf is back where it belongs."
For a few days afterwards, I felt a little bad. In a way, Mom finding my scarf was a little bit of a "finders keepers" deal, and had she simply said, "I am going to keep wearing it," that would have been OK. However, I was kind of glad that it now stays at my house.
These past days as I have been wearing the scarf, I think of that story. Happy mom thoughts certainly help keep me warm.
Cheers to the Gap, and cheers to the Crew.
see you out there
bryan
Thirty years ago, I was still regularly finding things that I liked at the Gap. Amazingly enough, back then, they still had a lot of clothes available in black, or at least darker colors. I found a pair of houndstooth (German word - Hahnentritt, if you are interested) pants that I absolutely loved. In fact, I wore them quite often over the next ten years, including to a job interview in the UK in the late 90s. The pants just continued to wear really well.
I will concede that those pants still hang in my closet, but I really stopped wearing them when I arrrived in Germany, partly because of the style, and partly because they no longer quite had the look of pants that were appropriate to wear outside the house.
For me, it was all about quality back then, and most everything I bought at the Gap really lasted a long time. In later years, perhaps the last fifteen years or so, I have not found this to be the case; the quality is no longer made to survive washings/dry cleanings for more than a year or two. Now, about this time, I was not really shopping that much, and very rarely in the Gap. The styles no longer interested me, and what shopping I was doing for clothes tended to be done in Europe. The stuff I was finding in Europe (particularly at one or two shops in Spain) was much better suited for me, and tended also to impress with their longevity.
Thanks for skipping over the point about my fashion style, which, as most of us know, is pretty basic but arguably a classic style. At least, classic Bryan.
As I entered into college, I started doing a little more mail order shopping through a place called J. Crew. My grandmother has always been a big shopper, and she has always greatly enjoyed giving my sister and me clothes as gifts; birthdays, Christmas, etc. She did this quite a bit more during our college years, and just about every time I visited her, she would bring out the J.Crew catalog and ask me to pick something out. There was some really good stuff on offer back in those days, and I found that I quite liked some of their sweaters. True, I also bought one or two suits from them, along with various jersey type shirts. Again, the quality tended to be rather high. In fairness, those clothes were not cheap, so I fully expected to get some real wear out of them.
Funnily enough, several friends of mine were also in similar situations where they had loving grandparents or just an overall fondness for J.Crew apparel. I can remember sitting in the kitchen one night with a buddy from college, gathered around the table chatting with my mother, perusing the catalog. The descriptions of the articles were so great. One had the feeling that wearing the collarless rugby shirt with stitched cuffs was just going to be the best thing, and particularly since it came in a cool color called heather lakeview or darkest indigo. Um, blue, right?
Another friend of mine and I would constantly use J.Crew adjectives in our conversations, which made for some interesting and humorous evenings sitting in a coffee shop making jack-asses of ourselves. It was particularly great if we were able to use butter, burl, and waffle all in the same sentence. OK, maybe "butter" sounds better than "pale yellow" when describing the color of a sweater, but then again, I am not one of those guys that is ever going to be wearing yellow in the first place, regardless of how you want to call the color.
In one of my last years of college, I did find an absolutely fantastic triple button black wool coat. It was more or less a blazer, but was just that extra bit bigger to sort of serve as a really good top coat. I loved it. The quality was great, and I ended up wearing that blazer to my job interview in the UK, along with the cool Gap pants. Clothes that basically were almost 10 years old looked more than suitable for a formal job interview. It was incredible.
The jacket stayed with me over the next many years, and I wore it often. Upon my arrival in Germany, it really became my top coat; it wore well over layers of sweaters, and the winters here are quite different than those in Dallas.
Eventually, the lining of my jacket kind of disintegrated, but I kept right on wearing the jacket. I did start looking for a suitable replacement in Spain, Germany, and even in the US, but could not find anything worthy of being the TRUE replacement. One day, Nadja finally kind of said, "Hey, the coat is nice, but it is time to stop wearing it."
She was right. Despite regular compliments I received about the coat, it was starting to look like it had been really really used. By this, I will briefly reflect on all the concerts and places I have been where one might get a beer or two spilled on them, among other things.
It was tough, but I put the coat in my closet, and started using some of the other coats I had purchased over the years in my attempts to find a replacement. I could not quite bring myself to throw it out, since it had been such a good friend to me nigh on 20 some odd years.
As a bit of an aside, I did come across a coat in an online catalog of a department store just before Christmas, and I made the mistake of telling my Grandmother about it. She immediately wanted to give it to me for Christmas, and I had to tell her that I would certainly welcome the gift, but first I actually wanted to try the garment on. When I got to the department store in Dallas last December, I found that the item was only available online, and since I could not actually try it, I elected to skip it.
Later, I actually looked again at the item online, and realized that I probably was not going to like the coat after all. It was not because the color of the coat was olive (in fairness, it was a really BLACK olive), but because it was just not quite what I was after. (one last note - I see now that it has been reduced in price by about 30% of what they were trying to sell it for a few months ago)
Anyway, over the years, as my tastes have varied from shades of black, I have still hung on to one wool sweater from J.Crew. Again, I got this sweater in the late 80s, and, even though I may not have had reason to wear a sweater so frequently in Dallas, I did wear it often when I lived in Boston, and I certainly have put it to good use here in Germany.
Sadly, last Saturday morning as I was putting on some casual clothes as I got ready to go watch a match at the pub, I noticed that my black sweater had a little hole in the elbow; created over time and maybe a few washes in a not so gentle cycle. I realized that I probably should retire the sweater, but I have elected to use it only for "at home" attire. After all, I don't care about the hole in the sleeve.
That afternoon at the pub, I got to talking to a couple of friends, one of which is Norwegian. He is rather fashionable and turned up wearing (literally) blue suede shoes, along with a smart pants and sweater outfit. At another time in my life, I might have made a comment about guys who get so perked up on trendy fashion, but I have wisely (and proudly) reminded myself that it is OK to be punk and still wear nice clothes. We actually got on the topic of fashion (how exactly, I don't know) during the second match of the afternoon, and we had all had several beers by this point. I held up my sleeve to show them what had happened to one of my favorite sweaters, only slightly alarmed that the hole was growing with each movement I was making.
I then went on to praise the quality of such a great garment from the shop where I bought it oh so many years ago. I think it was fitting that my sweater got to have one last little public hurrah.
In the past week, it has gotten really cold again, to the point where I am wearing a scarf. Yes, it is black and wool. And comes from the Gap, circa 1988. Basic, and classic.
I actually had lost the scarf at some point over the past 30 years, but during a visit from my parents a few years back, I noticed my mom wearing a black scarf, which was a little strange, as she always tended to be on the more colorful side of things. When I asked her about the scarf, she said she had found it in the hallway closet at home, down with all the other winter stocking caps, scarves, etc that get piled in there and used only once in awhile when the weather in Dallas required. Which was seldom.
At any rate, I examined the scarf a little more closely, and realized it was my Gap scarf from many years back, and I acknowledged that I had misplaced it. Certainly, I had since replaced it, but I was tugged by the nostalgia. At the end of their visit, my mom hung the scarf on my hallway coat rack and said, "Now the scarf is back where it belongs."
For a few days afterwards, I felt a little bad. In a way, Mom finding my scarf was a little bit of a "finders keepers" deal, and had she simply said, "I am going to keep wearing it," that would have been OK. However, I was kind of glad that it now stays at my house.
These past days as I have been wearing the scarf, I think of that story. Happy mom thoughts certainly help keep me warm.
Cheers to the Gap, and cheers to the Crew.
see you out there
bryan
Tuesday, February 06, 2018
Routine Thoughts and the Smiles
So, it has been just over a month since my mother died. I was curious as to how I would get through the first month, and I am glad to say that I did better than simply to "get through" the month. I talked about my mother with a lot of folks and I am glad that they took the time to listen. I mentioned in the last post that I knew I had support from my friends in Germany, and it really has helped me.
I continue to celebrate Mom and as I walked around my neighborhood going about my normal life, I frequently thought about her and looked at things from her perspective. She always noticed the little things, and I concentrated on those things myself: how people behave in the grocery store when it is crowded, how excited the children get when they buy an ice cream on a sunny (but cold) day in January, I could go on and on...
Tears still come, and I welcome them. But smiles come more often, and I welcome those just as much. I am just finishing a quick business trip to Porto, and while I was walking through the shopping mall next door to my hotel, I saw a little boy walking with his mother. I was just a little bit behind them, and was just sort of ambling along myself, but I realized that the boy was trying to jump from the dark colored floor tiles, having to hop over the light colored tiles. He was doing pretty good, but he was still holding his mother's hand so it was a wee bit awkward. However, she was just as patient as could be. Then, they passed by a little store that had a life sized stuffed bear at each entrance. The shop was on a corner inside the mall, and when the boy saw the first bear, he ran over and gave it a hug. A second later, as we rounded the corner, he repeated a hug on the second bear.
I love seeing things like that, and I know my mom always did, too.
As I continued walking back to my hotel with a smile on my face, I thought back to last week when I was walking down my own neighborhood street. Outside of the ice cream cafe close to my flat, there is a rather large plastic statue of an ice cream cone. It is about the same height as an average four year old, and right as I passed by, I saw a child giving a big hug to the ice cream cone and as well, a pretend lick. His parents were right there with him and I got the idea that this was just a normal thing that happened every time they walked past the shop, which was probably every day.
These kinds of things are when I most often think of my mother, and likewise my own childhood. Yes, I have been known to hug stuffed bears (and ice cream cones, as it were) myself, and believe it to be just about the most natural thing in the world, simply because I was encouraged to explore, express, and enjoy things.
Often over the past month, I have had a moment to myself, standing on my balcony, or outside the pub on a quiet night. I use this time to talk to my mother, and tell her about the little things that I have seen just as I go through my day. I like sharing the stories, and especially like telling her why I wanted to share with her. Usually this is when the tears and the smiles happen simultaneously, but it always gives me a good feeling.
I have been in regular contact with my father, who gives me the impression that he is getting along pretty well. We talk about mom a lot, but we also talk about the regular happenings in our lives: my nephew's basketball games, my dad's golf outings, trips to the gym, etc.
This has been comforting to be in more frequent contact with him, and likewise, I am always in close contact with my sister. And of course, she is in close contact with my father. We are all in this together. Last weekend, when she and I caught up for a couple of hours, she told me about how my father talks to mom daily, telling her about his day, about upcoming plans, and who he is seeing.
This really did not come as any surprise to me to hear that he does this. Furthermore, I am quite sure that he gets the same good feeling that I do when I speak to her.
I have not yet spoken to him about this yet, and am not quite sure if I will. Perhaps I will wait to see if he tells me himself. Maybe there is a reason he only shared that with my sister. The important point for me is that we share a similar inclination. Again, this is really no surprise, as we always tend to approach situations very similarly. But, I like the feeling. It makes me feel closer to my father.
In our last skype call, my father told me he is already getting the ball rolling for his next visit to Germany, and I am so looking forward to his visit in the next few months.
It is a good time to keep on being B.
see you out there.
bryan
I continue to celebrate Mom and as I walked around my neighborhood going about my normal life, I frequently thought about her and looked at things from her perspective. She always noticed the little things, and I concentrated on those things myself: how people behave in the grocery store when it is crowded, how excited the children get when they buy an ice cream on a sunny (but cold) day in January, I could go on and on...
Tears still come, and I welcome them. But smiles come more often, and I welcome those just as much. I am just finishing a quick business trip to Porto, and while I was walking through the shopping mall next door to my hotel, I saw a little boy walking with his mother. I was just a little bit behind them, and was just sort of ambling along myself, but I realized that the boy was trying to jump from the dark colored floor tiles, having to hop over the light colored tiles. He was doing pretty good, but he was still holding his mother's hand so it was a wee bit awkward. However, she was just as patient as could be. Then, they passed by a little store that had a life sized stuffed bear at each entrance. The shop was on a corner inside the mall, and when the boy saw the first bear, he ran over and gave it a hug. A second later, as we rounded the corner, he repeated a hug on the second bear.
I love seeing things like that, and I know my mom always did, too.
As I continued walking back to my hotel with a smile on my face, I thought back to last week when I was walking down my own neighborhood street. Outside of the ice cream cafe close to my flat, there is a rather large plastic statue of an ice cream cone. It is about the same height as an average four year old, and right as I passed by, I saw a child giving a big hug to the ice cream cone and as well, a pretend lick. His parents were right there with him and I got the idea that this was just a normal thing that happened every time they walked past the shop, which was probably every day.
These kinds of things are when I most often think of my mother, and likewise my own childhood. Yes, I have been known to hug stuffed bears (and ice cream cones, as it were) myself, and believe it to be just about the most natural thing in the world, simply because I was encouraged to explore, express, and enjoy things.
Often over the past month, I have had a moment to myself, standing on my balcony, or outside the pub on a quiet night. I use this time to talk to my mother, and tell her about the little things that I have seen just as I go through my day. I like sharing the stories, and especially like telling her why I wanted to share with her. Usually this is when the tears and the smiles happen simultaneously, but it always gives me a good feeling.
I have been in regular contact with my father, who gives me the impression that he is getting along pretty well. We talk about mom a lot, but we also talk about the regular happenings in our lives: my nephew's basketball games, my dad's golf outings, trips to the gym, etc.
This has been comforting to be in more frequent contact with him, and likewise, I am always in close contact with my sister. And of course, she is in close contact with my father. We are all in this together. Last weekend, when she and I caught up for a couple of hours, she told me about how my father talks to mom daily, telling her about his day, about upcoming plans, and who he is seeing.
This really did not come as any surprise to me to hear that he does this. Furthermore, I am quite sure that he gets the same good feeling that I do when I speak to her.
I have not yet spoken to him about this yet, and am not quite sure if I will. Perhaps I will wait to see if he tells me himself. Maybe there is a reason he only shared that with my sister. The important point for me is that we share a similar inclination. Again, this is really no surprise, as we always tend to approach situations very similarly. But, I like the feeling. It makes me feel closer to my father.
In our last skype call, my father told me he is already getting the ball rolling for his next visit to Germany, and I am so looking forward to his visit in the next few months.
It is a good time to keep on being B.
see you out there.
bryan
Friday, January 19, 2018
Celebrating the Dimensions and Elements of My Mother
A couple of months ago around the end of November, I suddenly found myself with a pretty bad cold. To make matters worse, I had a little bout of gastroenteritis, and, if you will excuse the pun, things were pretty shitty. I stayed in most nights for almost 2 1/2 weeks, mostly because I did not feel all that well. I took a bit of comfort by watching a lot of old Audrey Hepburn movies, which tends to improve my mood.
During a skype coversation, my mom clued in on the fact that I was under the weather, and she subsequently sent regular text messages to me asking about my recovery. "Are you better? Hope so, hope so! Mama Hens don't like it when the baby chicks are not on top of their game."
I was due to fly to the states on the 14th of December, and I still was not feeling that much better in the week leading up to that date. I was starting to get antsy. The last thing I wanted was to be in ill health during a long plane ride, or have my cold prevent me from having a good visit to the states for Christmas.
The Sunday before my departure, I suddenly felt a lot better, and ventured to the pub for the afternoon. We had a big fluffy snowfall, and I shared some pics with the family Whatsapp group. My mom responded positively, saying that she could imagine walking around the streets of my neighborhood enjoying the snow.
An old friend came up to the pub for a bit that afternoon, and we had a great time catching up on various things: his growing child, his domestic life, our length of time as Auslanders in Germany, and all in all we just enjoyed life for it was. We talked about our mothers and how they had to deal with us living far away (he is Australian), but even more importantly, we talked about how our lives were for the better despite the distance from loved ones. It was good day.
I felt better and better in the next few days as I finished my packing and wrapped up my work affairs before my coming holiday. I was looking forward to spending Christmas with my family and putting a rather lousy November behind me.
The following few weeks were just surreal.
As soon as I had finished unpacking and admired the Christmas tree and decorations in the house, my father expressed his concern about some behavioral changes he was noticing with my mother. I started noticing these almost immediately, and the next few days were a little unusual. My mom would show moments of clarity, then sort of do things that I considered to be rather strange.
Looking back, I was a little irritated at first, then felt more concern for both my parents, as the situation was not very pleasant. Clearly something was not quite right with mom, but what?
We managed to get a visit to the neurologist arranged, and my mother, father, sister, and I all went to the doctor's office together. I hadn't even been stateside for a week.
The doctor advised that the best course of action would be for mom to go into hospital for further tests. So, the following day, she was admitted, and within 24 hours, we had test results.
It was the Friday before Christmas, and I had arranged to meet Chris for a couple of beers and to watch a bit of the Arsenal match. No sooner had I taken a sip of beer, my sister phoned me with the news that we needed to urgently get to the hospital.
Brain tumor.
For the next few days, I felt like I had been kicked repeatedly in the gut. The world was crumbling around us, and we were all in complete shock.
Well, that Friday afternoon and evening we stayed at the hospital with Mom, waiting for the surgeon to come speak with us. He finally got to us around 9pm that night, and indicated that he wanted to do a biopsy on Sunday, Christmas Eve.
My father, sister, and I determined that we should proceed with the biopsy, and the doctor worked to make all the arrangements.
All things considered, the next day was kind of an OK day. My mom was pretty peaceful in the hospital (whereas the previous few days she had been belligerent), and a lot of friends and family came by to visit. Mom was able to chat with folks and we pretty much just hung out at the hospital.
Understandably, it was an emotional time. Baby chicks don't like it when Mama Hen is not well.
That Saturday night, after having spent the entire day at the hospital, we prepared to go home for a little rest; we would return on Sunday morning.
I hugged my mother goodbye, and she hugged me back. "You be a sweet girl," I said, making a similar statement that she always tends to say to me at the end of a conversation or a time together.
They did the biopsy Sunday morning, and by mid-afternoon mom was out of recovery and in ICU.
We went in to see her, but she never really responded to us. As discouraging as that was, we thought that perhaps it was simply the post-op process of coming out of the anesthesia that was keeping mom from responding. To keep up with our family tradition, we located a bible and the four of read the Christmas story together.
We went on home Sunday evening, knowing that we had some decisions to make in the next couple of days. No one was thinking much about Christmas, but back at home, Dad and I watched the evening service on the church website. None of us felt like we could emotionally attend the service personally.
In effort to have some semblance of Christmas Day, we visited Mom in the morning, then collected my Grandmother and brought her back home, where we had dinner and a bit of a gift exchange. My father put all of Mom's gift in her chair in the den, then took a photo of them. Later that afternoon, we returned to hospital to be with Mom, sharing some of the details of the day and showing her the pictures. Sadly, no noticeable response.
After speaking with the surgeon again on the 26th to discuss our options, we knew that the main priority was that Mom be comfortable. She was moved into hospice, and over the next days we gathered daily to greet friends and family as they came by to see us.
The support from family and friends was (and remains) incredible. The days were emotional, but as we all comforted each other, I kept thinking to myself how good it was that I was able to be there during a significant time of need with my family. I thought back to the conversation I had with Aussie Dave on that snowy Sunday afternoon, where we had talked about that exact thing.
This support came from all over. My sister's family and friends from Spain, my friends in Germany, and the friends and family from the community. I am so overwhelmed and grateful.
Mom passed away peacefully on the morning of the 31st.
My father, sister, and I went to the hospital to make the arrangements and have a last little moment with Mom.
We knew she was now in a better place, and this provided not only comfort, but relief.
That evening, my sister, brother-in-law, nephew, father and I all gathered at home and prepared a New Year's Eve meal. Sure, the evening was rather solemn, but I was glad to be with family.
I had spent most of the past week in a bit of a daze. Emotions were all over the place, and while I struggled to come to terms with everything, I again thought of the small positives. I was there during the time of need, and things went pretty quickly. Mom did not suffer.
From the first of the year, we worked on the arrangements for the memorial service. My aunts and uncles and most of the cousins arrived the following Friday night; the fellowship was comforting.
The first Saturday in January was a beautiful sunny day. We gathered at church for the service, and what a service it was. The music was perfect, the message was thoughtful and peaceful, and my father took a few minutes to speak. Listening to his words, I realized just how proud I am to be his son.
During that first week, I spent a lot of time with Dad just reminiscing, reflecting, and starting to heal.
Of course, my sister and her family were there also, but I was staying at my folk's house, so we had some one on one time. Dad and I talked often about how we would be going forward, missing Mom, but going forward because of Mom.
The week was comforting in that I could see my Dad was going to be able to cope in his sorrow. We were both sleeping a little better, mainly because our thoughts were turned more to celebration instead of the previous emotional weeks where we feeling lost, worried, and confused.
At one point, my father asked me, "Are you going to be OK when you get back home?"
I honestly did not have a concrete answer, but I felt like things would be OK. I prepared to return to Germany a couple of days after Mom's service, and as we shared a family hug before my departure, I spoke with my sister and father. "We will all be OK."
A lot of friends welcomed me back to Germany with wonderful support and thoughts. Again, I am so thankful for their friendship.
My first evening back in Germany, I was walking down my street and ran into an old neighbor. We greeted each other with the standard "Frohes Neues Jahr!"
He then asked me how my year was starting, and I had to explain the recent events. This led to a quite positive conversation, where he shared that one thing that he missed was that he never had a chance to get to know his father, who had died when he was very young.
I am fortunate to have been raised by parents whose love for me has never stopped. Over my 47 years, my relationship with them has only gotten stronger. Unlike my friend, I did have the chance to know my mother.
In February 2006, I moved away from the states to begin my life abroad. I made that move with the support and nurturing of my parents. As a way of expressing my thanks, I shared the below words with my mother, as a bit of a special belated Christmas message. During Christmas of 2016, I shared the words with her again, as I wanted to remind her how much she means to me.
During a skype coversation, my mom clued in on the fact that I was under the weather, and she subsequently sent regular text messages to me asking about my recovery. "Are you better? Hope so, hope so! Mama Hens don't like it when the baby chicks are not on top of their game."
I was due to fly to the states on the 14th of December, and I still was not feeling that much better in the week leading up to that date. I was starting to get antsy. The last thing I wanted was to be in ill health during a long plane ride, or have my cold prevent me from having a good visit to the states for Christmas.
The Sunday before my departure, I suddenly felt a lot better, and ventured to the pub for the afternoon. We had a big fluffy snowfall, and I shared some pics with the family Whatsapp group. My mom responded positively, saying that she could imagine walking around the streets of my neighborhood enjoying the snow.
An old friend came up to the pub for a bit that afternoon, and we had a great time catching up on various things: his growing child, his domestic life, our length of time as Auslanders in Germany, and all in all we just enjoyed life for it was. We talked about our mothers and how they had to deal with us living far away (he is Australian), but even more importantly, we talked about how our lives were for the better despite the distance from loved ones. It was good day.
I felt better and better in the next few days as I finished my packing and wrapped up my work affairs before my coming holiday. I was looking forward to spending Christmas with my family and putting a rather lousy November behind me.
The following few weeks were just surreal.
As soon as I had finished unpacking and admired the Christmas tree and decorations in the house, my father expressed his concern about some behavioral changes he was noticing with my mother. I started noticing these almost immediately, and the next few days were a little unusual. My mom would show moments of clarity, then sort of do things that I considered to be rather strange.
Looking back, I was a little irritated at first, then felt more concern for both my parents, as the situation was not very pleasant. Clearly something was not quite right with mom, but what?
We managed to get a visit to the neurologist arranged, and my mother, father, sister, and I all went to the doctor's office together. I hadn't even been stateside for a week.
The doctor advised that the best course of action would be for mom to go into hospital for further tests. So, the following day, she was admitted, and within 24 hours, we had test results.
It was the Friday before Christmas, and I had arranged to meet Chris for a couple of beers and to watch a bit of the Arsenal match. No sooner had I taken a sip of beer, my sister phoned me with the news that we needed to urgently get to the hospital.
Brain tumor.
For the next few days, I felt like I had been kicked repeatedly in the gut. The world was crumbling around us, and we were all in complete shock.
Well, that Friday afternoon and evening we stayed at the hospital with Mom, waiting for the surgeon to come speak with us. He finally got to us around 9pm that night, and indicated that he wanted to do a biopsy on Sunday, Christmas Eve.
My father, sister, and I determined that we should proceed with the biopsy, and the doctor worked to make all the arrangements.
All things considered, the next day was kind of an OK day. My mom was pretty peaceful in the hospital (whereas the previous few days she had been belligerent), and a lot of friends and family came by to visit. Mom was able to chat with folks and we pretty much just hung out at the hospital.
Understandably, it was an emotional time. Baby chicks don't like it when Mama Hen is not well.
That Saturday night, after having spent the entire day at the hospital, we prepared to go home for a little rest; we would return on Sunday morning.
I hugged my mother goodbye, and she hugged me back. "You be a sweet girl," I said, making a similar statement that she always tends to say to me at the end of a conversation or a time together.
They did the biopsy Sunday morning, and by mid-afternoon mom was out of recovery and in ICU.
We went in to see her, but she never really responded to us. As discouraging as that was, we thought that perhaps it was simply the post-op process of coming out of the anesthesia that was keeping mom from responding. To keep up with our family tradition, we located a bible and the four of read the Christmas story together.
We went on home Sunday evening, knowing that we had some decisions to make in the next couple of days. No one was thinking much about Christmas, but back at home, Dad and I watched the evening service on the church website. None of us felt like we could emotionally attend the service personally.
In effort to have some semblance of Christmas Day, we visited Mom in the morning, then collected my Grandmother and brought her back home, where we had dinner and a bit of a gift exchange. My father put all of Mom's gift in her chair in the den, then took a photo of them. Later that afternoon, we returned to hospital to be with Mom, sharing some of the details of the day and showing her the pictures. Sadly, no noticeable response.
After speaking with the surgeon again on the 26th to discuss our options, we knew that the main priority was that Mom be comfortable. She was moved into hospice, and over the next days we gathered daily to greet friends and family as they came by to see us.
The support from family and friends was (and remains) incredible. The days were emotional, but as we all comforted each other, I kept thinking to myself how good it was that I was able to be there during a significant time of need with my family. I thought back to the conversation I had with Aussie Dave on that snowy Sunday afternoon, where we had talked about that exact thing.
This support came from all over. My sister's family and friends from Spain, my friends in Germany, and the friends and family from the community. I am so overwhelmed and grateful.
Mom passed away peacefully on the morning of the 31st.
My father, sister, and I went to the hospital to make the arrangements and have a last little moment with Mom.
We knew she was now in a better place, and this provided not only comfort, but relief.
That evening, my sister, brother-in-law, nephew, father and I all gathered at home and prepared a New Year's Eve meal. Sure, the evening was rather solemn, but I was glad to be with family.
I had spent most of the past week in a bit of a daze. Emotions were all over the place, and while I struggled to come to terms with everything, I again thought of the small positives. I was there during the time of need, and things went pretty quickly. Mom did not suffer.
From the first of the year, we worked on the arrangements for the memorial service. My aunts and uncles and most of the cousins arrived the following Friday night; the fellowship was comforting.
The first Saturday in January was a beautiful sunny day. We gathered at church for the service, and what a service it was. The music was perfect, the message was thoughtful and peaceful, and my father took a few minutes to speak. Listening to his words, I realized just how proud I am to be his son.
During that first week, I spent a lot of time with Dad just reminiscing, reflecting, and starting to heal.
Of course, my sister and her family were there also, but I was staying at my folk's house, so we had some one on one time. Dad and I talked often about how we would be going forward, missing Mom, but going forward because of Mom.
The week was comforting in that I could see my Dad was going to be able to cope in his sorrow. We were both sleeping a little better, mainly because our thoughts were turned more to celebration instead of the previous emotional weeks where we feeling lost, worried, and confused.
At one point, my father asked me, "Are you going to be OK when you get back home?"
I honestly did not have a concrete answer, but I felt like things would be OK. I prepared to return to Germany a couple of days after Mom's service, and as we shared a family hug before my departure, I spoke with my sister and father. "We will all be OK."
A lot of friends welcomed me back to Germany with wonderful support and thoughts. Again, I am so thankful for their friendship.
My first evening back in Germany, I was walking down my street and ran into an old neighbor. We greeted each other with the standard "Frohes Neues Jahr!"
He then asked me how my year was starting, and I had to explain the recent events. This led to a quite positive conversation, where he shared that one thing that he missed was that he never had a chance to get to know his father, who had died when he was very young.
I am fortunate to have been raised by parents whose love for me has never stopped. Over my 47 years, my relationship with them has only gotten stronger. Unlike my friend, I did have the chance to know my mother.
In February 2006, I moved away from the states to begin my life abroad. I made that move with the support and nurturing of my parents. As a way of expressing my thanks, I shared the below words with my mother, as a bit of a special belated Christmas message. During Christmas of 2016, I shared the words with her again, as I wanted to remind her how much she means to me.
Are you my
mother...? Yes, you are!
Funny, it
took me 35 years before I could express my appreciation for mothers,
particularly my mother. Even more funny
was that I needed to see my sister become a mother before I better understood
the whole bit of being a mother in the first place.
Now, it’s
not as if I never appreciated my mother until I turned 35 – in my own Bryan way
I’ve appreciated my mother always. Like
any other child, I took things for granted, but at the same time, despite
actions that might have indicated otherwise, I was paying attention.
Furthermore,
watching my sister become a mother wasn’t the sole catalyst for why, in 2006 I
finally feel the ability to express.
That said, seeing a sister mother a child certainly helps to put things
in perspective.
I made a
new friend towards the end of 2005, and as she and I were getting to know one
another, we played a game of 20 questions.
In one question, she actually asked about my father and his influence on
me, but she preferaced it with the statement, “You only seem to talk about your
mother.”
I think it
was about that time that I realized how much my mother means to me. Not to say my father doesn’t mean loads to
me, but this is a story about my mom.
Right after
that game of 20 questions, I spent a few weeks in Spain, and as I watched my
sister interact with my nephew, I kept noticing, “Wow, Mom did that with
me.” Over the rest of my trip, I
reflected about that in relation to my life thus far.
Though I
have a strong memory, I won’t try to document my first memory of my
mother. Sure, I have to mention a
certain event at Lake Superior, simply because it has such significance in
life’s rich pageant. In all honesty, I
was having a little lie down under the water.
Only my mother was having a moment of, “Holy shit, my child is about to
drown!” It wasn’t until years later that
I actually was able to imagine what was going through my mother’s head during
those frantic moments…
I had a job
at Radio Shack right out of college, and a workmate put it best. “Mom approval rating very high!” he would say
when describing how she had had he foresight to prepare his favorite meal or
something at home. I’ve used that phrase
countless times since…my mother always has a way of thinking about me when I
least expect it.
Another
friend of mine, during a conversation we were having, mentioned rather casually
that my mother’s face always lit up when I was around. It was a flattering observation, one I
haven’t ever really noticed. Of course,
I’m a bit naïve at the best of times, but this friend noticed this regularly
each time she was around our family.
I’ve often
thought about my friend’s observation.
It makes perfect sense that my mom appreciate me, but I guess I always
thought she was quietly proud to see me being me. After all, she’s repeatedly said, “You can do
it! Why?
Because you’re Bryan Barlow.”
Rule number
1 on being yourself came straight from my mother. Again, I just assumed she had a front row
seat in seeing Bryan be Bryan, so it never occurred to me to express my
gratitude.
One of the
biggest differences between my sister and me is that my sister talks a
lot. Me, not so much, as I’m a bit more
reserved. Though I’ve had my moments of
gabbiness, I consider myself one who always listens first, then speaks.
Considering
those two attributes – confidence and listening skills, hands down they have
helped me advance my career, and they’re relatively simple things. For much of my life, I assumed that everyone
else’s mother told their kid about this, too.
In my experience, though, it seems to me that people lack confidence and
tend to listen less than they should.
Are these people just choosing to ignore this important influence?
More
recently, I began thinking that perhaps other mothers just didn’t encourage
their children, or perhaps never even taught them the importance of confidence
and listening.
Why
not? Didn’t these mothers love their
children like my mother loves me?
I’ll touch
on that correlation a bit later, but the specific point of a loved child merits
discussion. I had a colleague, who
matter-of-factly pointed out that he could tell whether a child had been loved
or not. Children who are loved by the
parents develop into thoughtful, consenting adults, clearly demonstrating
traits from a previous generation.
I paid
particular attention to my co-worker’s comment because he said it about
me. Maybe I’d subconsciously shown those
attributes, but I hadn’t yet linked them directly to my mother. For a period of my life, I couldn’t
comprehend why people just didn’t seem to listen. (note – I’ll talk about confidence a bit
later)
Listening. A valuable attribute. As I’ve already said, being a good listener
has helped advance my career; I’ve grown from the experience. Though I’m fortunate to have a strong memory,
it’s the mere fact that I was listening in the first place that I find so
important.
I listened
when I was taught right from wrong. I
listened when my mother said, “You’re Bryan Barlow.” True, my mother has a tendency of offering
reminders; part of this is motherhood,
part is my mother. Sure, it was
sometimes tedious to be reminded, but later, it was nice to realize how nice
those reminders really were. My mother
hasn’t ever stopped thinking about me.
My mother has always said, “A mother likes to look after her baby
chicks, even after they have grown up.”
This has
left several sheepish memories with me – it’s firmly imbedded in my brain to
NEVER try on a bathing suit sans underwear…
On the more
serious front, my mom always seems to notice if I seem tired, or sad, or
afraid, or happy, or psyched up…
It’s like
listening, only without words. It’s
actually observation – a mother’s way of watching to see that her child is
always OK. Pretty cool, as far as I’m concerned.
Confidence. In fairness, I learned this on three fronts:
my mother, my father, and myself. I’ll
leave Dad and Bryan for another discussion.
My mother
isn’t what I would describe as overly confident, but certainly she has
confidence. What I’ve noticed is that
one can be confident through others; sometimes it’s easier to encourage others
than it is to encourage yourself.
Ironic, though, that by simply encouraging others one motivates the
self.
My mother
has always gently encouraged, sometimes with a bit of sternness, but only a
little. I’m fortunate that she “gently
encouraged” me to play piano. as I would not be alive today without it.
Encouraging
me to follow my heart is also from my mother.
I live my life with my heart on my sleeve, and as a result, am a bit
more sensitive. I endure a lot of angst,
but only because I was encouraged to express myself. While this makes for a challenging life, it
makes for an exceptionally rewarding one, too.
Believing
in myself is something that I credit myself with, but I wouldn’t be able to do
that without a lifetime of encouragement from my mother. “Be proud of who you are. You can do it because you are you.”
Hardly a
day passes without me pausing to think, “my mother helped me get here.”
Because I’m
who I am, I think I actually “discovered” myself a bit earlier than my
contemporaries. While I struggled as an
adolescent to find out what I was all about, I found that everyone else seemed
to be trying hard to be what others wanted them to be. Short term, that made for some rough years I
lived through, but long term, I couldn’t be more content. Sure, I’m still finding out about myself, and
I’ll always be growing, but because I’ve had the encouragement from my mother
in the first place. Talk about one of
the best gifts ever…
It’s funny
to watch my sister practice this same process with my nephew. I have only vague memories of being three,
personally, but I do see how a mother’s love influences a child. I can truly see what it will be like for my
nephew in 5 , 10, 15, 30 years… Amazing.
It’s not
necessarily big things, either. It’s
little things like: “doing a motorboat” in the swimming pool, or playing “I
Spy” at lunch, or going to the library, or being woken up at 6am to practice
piano, or learning how to wash clothes at age 10, or just singing to sing, or
getting newspaper clippings about the hazards of smoking, or finding a little
pack of Kleenex in your stocking at Christmas, or always receiving a smiley
face on a post-it.
As an adult,
I get to observe my mother being a daughter, a daughter of an aging parent, and
have learned several lessons from that.
I’m still too young to completely understand, but I’m watching. After all, I had a pretty good teacher.
As an
adult, I’m able to be a friend to my mother, albeit it’s a slightly unusual
friendship. I’d no sooner call my mother
to ask her to drive me home safely from a bar after I’ve had too much to drink
than I would call a soccer mate to have them take me to the hospital because I
had strep throat. But, it’s still really
cool. Being able to express myself to my
mother will always be special. We can
share with one another as adults, and can express our viewpoints even when we
might not see eye to eye. My mom can see
the real me, which is a partial result of the real her.
I’m not a
parent, and may never become one. That
decision is my own, but again will come from the influence of my mother: be yourself.
Should I ever decide to become a father, I’ll look forward to my mother
grandmothering my child. Until then, I’m
forever grateful, appreciative, and simply her loving son.
keep the
faith
bryan
Spring 2006
– How fortunate I was to receive a visit from my mother two months after I
changed my life. We got to celebrate my
birthday as a family, and whether its for 6 or 36, it’s still comforting.
Over the past 12 years that I have been abroad, I continue to celebrate my mother and father. These past 2 weeks that I have been at home in Germany, I have constantly reflected on how my life has changed. Many of my friends here knew my mother, and their words have been so kind and complimentary. They share my sorrow, but also join me in celebrating her.
She was and remains just a wonderful woman, mother and friend.
Thanks Mom. I love you.
Sunday, November 05, 2017
Snippets From a Short Work Week
I always tend to lie low right before Sommerzeit (Daylight saving) comes to an end. So, last weekend I kept a very low profile, venturing out only to do a brief bit of shopping Saturday morning. I had stayed in the previous evening, and somehow found myself watching the first three films of the Lethal Weapon series. Normally, that should have prompted me to actually try and make up for time wasting by being extra active the following day. Instead, I consciously worked on being as productive as possible at, well, being unproductive. Sometimes a lazy Saturday is just what one needs.
This did include preparing myself a huge portion of nachos at home, which I ate while watching the Arsenal game via stream in my living room. During the second half of the match, I woke up just in time to see the stream start to hang, right as Arsenal got their winning goal. I went on to celebrate the victory by selecting another film to watch, one that was rather higher up the cinematic scale. This is precisely why people need to have DVDs of Hitchcock films at their house.
I had already changed the time on the wall clock in my kitchen in the afternoon, way earlier than necessary. And like usually happens after a lazy day, I found myself going to bed early because I was tired.
Not surprisingly, I woke up Sunday morning rather early, but quite refreshed. I enjoyed a few coffees during the morning while listening to German public radio. In the past weeks, I have avidly listened to Deutschlandfunk. (note to the non-German reader: funk here refers to the German term for radio and does not have anything to do with the music of James Brown.) I kind of wish that I started this habit years ago when I first arrived in Germany, as it certainly would have accelerated my ability in the German language. Still, better late than never. This particular Sunday morning, they broadcast an interview with the author Judith Kerr, a German woman whose family had to flee Germany during the early 1930s. They landed in Britain, and she became an author of children's books. So, my Sunday morning was most enjoyable as I listened to her tell her interesting story.
After a bit of piano time later in the afternoon, I did slip across to the pub for a few quiet beers. As always, I was amazed as it suddenly got dark early in the evening.
Monday, I started the work week hoping that things would stay quiet. To celebrate the 500th anniversary of Martin Luther's 95 Theses (Reformation Day), the whole of Germany took an official holiday on the 31st of October. Since the 31st was on Tuesday, a fair amount of people had a "bridge" day on Monday. I, unfortunately, did not have said bridge day, but the 1st of November was also going to be a public holiday in many European countries, including some states of Germany. Again, November 1 is not a public holiday in my state, but most of my repair partners are in other countries, particularly those that DO celebrate the 1st. Therefore, Wednesday was going to be a quiet work day, for sure.
Monday evening, I met up at the kiosk with a few friends as part of our standard routine. A couple of guys were absent (due to bridge day), but a lot of people were out on the streets taking advantage of the coming Tuesday holiday. Some bars and restaurants, those that like to celebrate Halloween, elected to have their parties on the Monday night so as to allow revelers sufficient time to recover from their hangovers.
I am not a huge fan of Halloween, myself, so Tuesday I took it easy. Wednesday, as expected, things were pretty calm on the work front, so I was able to get a few things accomplished without having to deal with the normal interruptions of various colleagues and partners. That evening, we once again convened at the kiosk, this time with almost all of the usual suspects in attendance. Those of us that appreciate the significance of Monday night kiosk Abend recognize that flexibility is always key. After all, when it comes to gathering with friends to drink beer, one can respect that we can simply plan our schedules around public holidays without any fuss.
Wednesday evening at the kiosk was particularly enjoyable. Everyone was in good humor, jokes were flying around; that is always a good thing. Maybe it was because we only had a couple more days until the weekend, I don't know. It wasn't just us, either. As we were standing there having a good time, a young family exited their building right next to us. The youngest, who is probably 7 or 8 months old and being carried by her mother, was just giggling away without any care in the world. It's a bit of a production for a a family with small children to get going, what with strollers, baby bags, etc. So, they were all right there by us for several minutes, and the child's laughter was simply contagious. The little one just captured our hearts, and even those of a few people (who looked rather dour) that were passing by.
I am not saying that our evenings at the kiosk are totally like Monty Python sketches, but we do tend to continue themes throughout our evenings. Sometimes it's about the inability of someone to parallel park, or the strange noise coming from someone's bicycle as they ride by, or a group of really loud tourists walking past after eating in the traditional German restaurant down the street. ("They're some of yours, Bryan," my friends usually say, referring to the fact that said tourists were obviously speaking my mother tongue and scoring a perfect 10 on the stereotype scale. This is actually a backhanded compliment, as all of us in the kiosk gang not only respect each others cultures but also know full well that people can behave differently when they are not zu Hause.)
So, for the rest of the night, someone regularly emulated the child's giggle, and each time, we all had a good laugh.
I finished the work week with a quiet Friday evening, but jumped up yesterday morning with productive intentions. I hoovered and mopped the entire flat, got the shopping done, and got a good workout in at the gym. During the afternoon, I enjoyed several beers while sitting outside the pub, watching people go about their activities on a crisp fall Saturday. There is nothing better than enjoying one's alone time without feeling lonely. Yesterday was one of those good days where I was able to collect my thoughts, spend some time on my own, but also exchange pleasantries with a few friends and locals as they went about their own business.
The pleasant weekend continued later that evening with a little movie night with a friend, including a bit of take-out and ice cream.
This morning, it is cold and rainy, but I am literally watching leaves fall from the tree outside my door as I write this piece. It is a nice way to appreciate autumn, especially from the warmth of my flat.
I will spend the afternoon at the pub, watching a little footy, and fully expect for there to be some giggling involved.
see you out there
bryan
This did include preparing myself a huge portion of nachos at home, which I ate while watching the Arsenal game via stream in my living room. During the second half of the match, I woke up just in time to see the stream start to hang, right as Arsenal got their winning goal. I went on to celebrate the victory by selecting another film to watch, one that was rather higher up the cinematic scale. This is precisely why people need to have DVDs of Hitchcock films at their house.
I had already changed the time on the wall clock in my kitchen in the afternoon, way earlier than necessary. And like usually happens after a lazy day, I found myself going to bed early because I was tired.
Not surprisingly, I woke up Sunday morning rather early, but quite refreshed. I enjoyed a few coffees during the morning while listening to German public radio. In the past weeks, I have avidly listened to Deutschlandfunk. (note to the non-German reader: funk here refers to the German term for radio and does not have anything to do with the music of James Brown.) I kind of wish that I started this habit years ago when I first arrived in Germany, as it certainly would have accelerated my ability in the German language. Still, better late than never. This particular Sunday morning, they broadcast an interview with the author Judith Kerr, a German woman whose family had to flee Germany during the early 1930s. They landed in Britain, and she became an author of children's books. So, my Sunday morning was most enjoyable as I listened to her tell her interesting story.
After a bit of piano time later in the afternoon, I did slip across to the pub for a few quiet beers. As always, I was amazed as it suddenly got dark early in the evening.
Monday, I started the work week hoping that things would stay quiet. To celebrate the 500th anniversary of Martin Luther's 95 Theses (Reformation Day), the whole of Germany took an official holiday on the 31st of October. Since the 31st was on Tuesday, a fair amount of people had a "bridge" day on Monday. I, unfortunately, did not have said bridge day, but the 1st of November was also going to be a public holiday in many European countries, including some states of Germany. Again, November 1 is not a public holiday in my state, but most of my repair partners are in other countries, particularly those that DO celebrate the 1st. Therefore, Wednesday was going to be a quiet work day, for sure.
Monday evening, I met up at the kiosk with a few friends as part of our standard routine. A couple of guys were absent (due to bridge day), but a lot of people were out on the streets taking advantage of the coming Tuesday holiday. Some bars and restaurants, those that like to celebrate Halloween, elected to have their parties on the Monday night so as to allow revelers sufficient time to recover from their hangovers.
I am not a huge fan of Halloween, myself, so Tuesday I took it easy. Wednesday, as expected, things were pretty calm on the work front, so I was able to get a few things accomplished without having to deal with the normal interruptions of various colleagues and partners. That evening, we once again convened at the kiosk, this time with almost all of the usual suspects in attendance. Those of us that appreciate the significance of Monday night kiosk Abend recognize that flexibility is always key. After all, when it comes to gathering with friends to drink beer, one can respect that we can simply plan our schedules around public holidays without any fuss.
Wednesday evening at the kiosk was particularly enjoyable. Everyone was in good humor, jokes were flying around; that is always a good thing. Maybe it was because we only had a couple more days until the weekend, I don't know. It wasn't just us, either. As we were standing there having a good time, a young family exited their building right next to us. The youngest, who is probably 7 or 8 months old and being carried by her mother, was just giggling away without any care in the world. It's a bit of a production for a a family with small children to get going, what with strollers, baby bags, etc. So, they were all right there by us for several minutes, and the child's laughter was simply contagious. The little one just captured our hearts, and even those of a few people (who looked rather dour) that were passing by.
I am not saying that our evenings at the kiosk are totally like Monty Python sketches, but we do tend to continue themes throughout our evenings. Sometimes it's about the inability of someone to parallel park, or the strange noise coming from someone's bicycle as they ride by, or a group of really loud tourists walking past after eating in the traditional German restaurant down the street. ("They're some of yours, Bryan," my friends usually say, referring to the fact that said tourists were obviously speaking my mother tongue and scoring a perfect 10 on the stereotype scale. This is actually a backhanded compliment, as all of us in the kiosk gang not only respect each others cultures but also know full well that people can behave differently when they are not zu Hause.)
So, for the rest of the night, someone regularly emulated the child's giggle, and each time, we all had a good laugh.
I finished the work week with a quiet Friday evening, but jumped up yesterday morning with productive intentions. I hoovered and mopped the entire flat, got the shopping done, and got a good workout in at the gym. During the afternoon, I enjoyed several beers while sitting outside the pub, watching people go about their activities on a crisp fall Saturday. There is nothing better than enjoying one's alone time without feeling lonely. Yesterday was one of those good days where I was able to collect my thoughts, spend some time on my own, but also exchange pleasantries with a few friends and locals as they went about their own business.
The pleasant weekend continued later that evening with a little movie night with a friend, including a bit of take-out and ice cream.
This morning, it is cold and rainy, but I am literally watching leaves fall from the tree outside my door as I write this piece. It is a nice way to appreciate autumn, especially from the warmth of my flat.
I will spend the afternoon at the pub, watching a little footy, and fully expect for there to be some giggling involved.
see you out there
bryan
Friday, October 20, 2017
A Little Nostalgia to Start the Weekend
"Let's go to the San Francisco Rose. The burgers are great, and they serve something called a Toolbox, which is a super drink."
The year was 1989 or 1990, and Chris and I were out looking for something to eat.
Indeed, the burgers were quite tasty, but I was particularly thrilled to be drinking my first alcoholic beverage in a restaurant. This was a huge deal for me, as I was still a couple of years away from actually being of legal age. It was not so much that I was so interested in drinking, but rather the actual idea that I could drink a beer in public. I guess it may have been a coming of age thing.
Those early days are bit fuzzy. I did return on a few occasions, and somewhat memorably (and just a tad foolishly) I returned there to celebrate my 21st birthday, when I was actually turning of legal age. I remember trying somewhat feebly to explain that that particular evening was actually my 22nd, no, 23rd birthday. Of course the staff knew, and of course, back then it was not that big of a deal to be drinking under age in various establishments.
Once I was 21, though, I made the Rose my local haunt. I was still in college, but I regularly brought more and more school friends by for burgers and beers. We had started driving into Dallas for the odd rock show, which almost always included a stop for dinner before hitting the club. The "We" was usually Bill and I. I had gotten to know Bill during a school trip to Ireland, during which time we developed a taste for a nice whiskey. Once I introduced him to the Toolbox (complete with the story of my first ever trip to the Rose), he also became quite the fan.
The Rose's Toolbox was a mixed drink somewhat on the strong side: equal portions Vodka, Kahlua, Bailey's, and cream. On ice. Refreshing, tasty, and it was pretty much my choice drink at the place.
By the time I graduated from college, Tim had also become a fan of the Rose. The summer of 1992 was all about playing pool at the Royal Rack most afternoons, and otherwise we spent hours and hours sitting on the patio at the Rose, contemplating our futures. The patio was easily one of the best in the city, and Tim and I both agreed that it was time well spent. We could relax and escape the scary thought of actually having to go look for a job and begin our careers.
By the end of that summer, my father finally lost his patience with me and gave me some very strong encouragement to go find a job, and be quick about it.
That actually turned out to be excellent advice, as my consumption of Toolboxes was impressively (and frighteningly) high. It was time to enter the real world.
Tim left town for a few months, but returned within half a year. Suddenly, we were both gainfully (if not embarrassingly...viva the Shack and viva the Hut!) employed, and Tim had an apartment not too far from, where else?
I had continued to be a frequent patron of the Rose during Tim's hiatus, and once he was back in town, we would be there multiple nights throughout the week. Because it was a neighborhood bar, there were a lot of regulars, many of which we got to know. One evening during a college basketball tournament, the place was hopping. One of the games was being shown on one of the television screens, and one guy made a buzzer shot that was so incredible that about half the guests stood up and cheered. The funny thing was, no one was really there to watch the game. It was just one of the moments when everyone glanced at the TV at the exact moment the guy made the shot. Great memory.
Some of the regulars were quite a few years older than we were. At least, that's how it seemed to me at the time. Then again, when you are 20-something, anyone older than you are is simply old. One of them was never short of wisecracks; he was a really funny guy. To get to the bathrooms, you had to sort of go down a dark hallway which was a bit cramped and had a sharp corner. Right at that corner, there used to be a little newspaper dispenser (remember those?) holding the Dallas Observer. During the more quiet afternoons, you almost always heard someone bump into the thing, and it made a very recognizable sound.
"Watch that first step. It's a doozy," the guy would call out. I think I laughed out loud EVERY time he said that. Of course, when it was my turn, despite my best efforts, I invariably bumped into it myself. This wasn't of great surprise, especially after six toolboxes. And for those that have heard me utter a similar statement out and about in Frankfurt or wherever, now you know where I got the line from.
Along with getting to know the other regulars, Tim and I really got to know the staff, and this is probably where my attraction to waitstaff really took off. In fairness, we were just socializing and being friendly. It certainly helped that most of the staff were the same age as we were, but we were (and still are) nice people. I think neither Tim nor myself, however, expected to start dating any them. Although I dated a couple of the girls, Tim actually got himself into a relationship, which continued for quite some time. This created some interesting stories, which I will save for another time. Overall, it was just a wacky time of life.
Meanwhile, I continued to take just about every girl I went out with to the Rose. The patio was just brilliant, and umpteen toolboxes always hit the spot. And yes, for a time, it seemed my love life (as remarkably inactive as it was) revolved around a Rose and a toolbox. Hmmm.
Alas, we reached a point where it was time to find a new watering hole, and about that time I started spending a lot more time at the Dubliner, which became my new local until I moved to Boston.
Upon my return to Dallas after two years, things had changed, probably for the better. Tim had moved to Austin and was happily settled, and I found myself back in a city that I had to get to know again. This meant finding a new local, but those stories from the Monk will be shared at another time.
By chance, I ran into an old friend of mine from church. He had played in a few bands when we were in high school, and had continued his aspirations to perform his music throughout the 90s. He mentioned that he was tending bar at none other than the San Francisco Rose, and I should drop by and see him. (Hey, I drank my first toolbox there!)
I took him up on his offer and went by the Rose for old times' sake. Like many places, they were experimenting with new attractions, and Dave told me that he was going to be playing a few sets of his own material. Always one to support local talent, I made a point of going to the Rose every time he played, bringing along any friends who were up for the outing. Dave was playing at a few other local venues as well, and I made sure to catch any show that I could.
Dave did not work that long at the bar, but for however brief that time was, it was nice to be back in the old Rose.
I did not make it back to the Rose again until around 2008, when I arranged to meet Tim, along with his wife and young son there during a stateside visit. My own young nephew was also in town, along with his folks, and we spent a nice Saturday afternoon catching up and watching the boys play together. The burgers were still great, and I took the opportunity to have another toolbox.
Of course, living in another country limits my visits to a lot of places I like in Dallas, but when I have been back to visit, the Rose hasn't been on the list, mainly since it wasn't ever really the same going there without Tim all those years ago.
So, the last time I did see Tim in Dallas, which was about 3 years ago, we made the decision to head to the Rose. Sadly, with the exception of two people sitting at the bar, obviously friends of the bartender, the place was completely empty. Since it was summer, we sat outside, which was only slightly less dreary than inside. The food was OK, and I did have one last toolbox, and of course, the company was fine. I think I probably realized then that it would be unlikely I would return to the place. The memories I have from there are great, but the place was no longer MY neighborhood bar. At the time, it did not look like it was anyone's neighborhood bar any longer. Despite that, I hoped that the little place would continue, though I had some doubts.
I celebrated the start of 2017 in Dallas; I had spent Christmas there, as I have in recent years. My parents, nephew and I went to brunch at a restaurant right next door to the San Francisco Rose. As we walked outside after eating, I went over and stood outside the patio of my old haunt. I explained to my nephew that I had spent many many wonderful hours hanging out there years before. He listened politely, but I don't think he was particularly enthralled. I couldn't blame him, as the place was almost as empty as it was when I was last there.
Sigh.
This morning, I woke up to find an email from Moe with a link to a brief article from a Dallas neighborhood rag: the San Francisco Rose, after 40 years, will soon be closing.
So, another of my old haunts is shutting down, but that is just how it is. Those times were great, and will always stay with me.
Chris sent me a text early this week, commenting about an enjoyable quiet night he'd had at the Monk. It was another reminder of other good times. I think it is great that I seem to associate periods of my life with the places I frequent. The Deep Ellum days, or the Dubliner times, or the Old Monk era...all of them have tremendous significance for me.
As for the San Francisco Rose years, I will simply smile and say thanks.
see you out there
bryan
The year was 1989 or 1990, and Chris and I were out looking for something to eat.
Indeed, the burgers were quite tasty, but I was particularly thrilled to be drinking my first alcoholic beverage in a restaurant. This was a huge deal for me, as I was still a couple of years away from actually being of legal age. It was not so much that I was so interested in drinking, but rather the actual idea that I could drink a beer in public. I guess it may have been a coming of age thing.
Those early days are bit fuzzy. I did return on a few occasions, and somewhat memorably (and just a tad foolishly) I returned there to celebrate my 21st birthday, when I was actually turning of legal age. I remember trying somewhat feebly to explain that that particular evening was actually my 22nd, no, 23rd birthday. Of course the staff knew, and of course, back then it was not that big of a deal to be drinking under age in various establishments.
Once I was 21, though, I made the Rose my local haunt. I was still in college, but I regularly brought more and more school friends by for burgers and beers. We had started driving into Dallas for the odd rock show, which almost always included a stop for dinner before hitting the club. The "We" was usually Bill and I. I had gotten to know Bill during a school trip to Ireland, during which time we developed a taste for a nice whiskey. Once I introduced him to the Toolbox (complete with the story of my first ever trip to the Rose), he also became quite the fan.
The Rose's Toolbox was a mixed drink somewhat on the strong side: equal portions Vodka, Kahlua, Bailey's, and cream. On ice. Refreshing, tasty, and it was pretty much my choice drink at the place.
By the time I graduated from college, Tim had also become a fan of the Rose. The summer of 1992 was all about playing pool at the Royal Rack most afternoons, and otherwise we spent hours and hours sitting on the patio at the Rose, contemplating our futures. The patio was easily one of the best in the city, and Tim and I both agreed that it was time well spent. We could relax and escape the scary thought of actually having to go look for a job and begin our careers.
By the end of that summer, my father finally lost his patience with me and gave me some very strong encouragement to go find a job, and be quick about it.
That actually turned out to be excellent advice, as my consumption of Toolboxes was impressively (and frighteningly) high. It was time to enter the real world.
Tim left town for a few months, but returned within half a year. Suddenly, we were both gainfully (if not embarrassingly...viva the Shack and viva the Hut!) employed, and Tim had an apartment not too far from, where else?
I had continued to be a frequent patron of the Rose during Tim's hiatus, and once he was back in town, we would be there multiple nights throughout the week. Because it was a neighborhood bar, there were a lot of regulars, many of which we got to know. One evening during a college basketball tournament, the place was hopping. One of the games was being shown on one of the television screens, and one guy made a buzzer shot that was so incredible that about half the guests stood up and cheered. The funny thing was, no one was really there to watch the game. It was just one of the moments when everyone glanced at the TV at the exact moment the guy made the shot. Great memory.
Some of the regulars were quite a few years older than we were. At least, that's how it seemed to me at the time. Then again, when you are 20-something, anyone older than you are is simply old. One of them was never short of wisecracks; he was a really funny guy. To get to the bathrooms, you had to sort of go down a dark hallway which was a bit cramped and had a sharp corner. Right at that corner, there used to be a little newspaper dispenser (remember those?) holding the Dallas Observer. During the more quiet afternoons, you almost always heard someone bump into the thing, and it made a very recognizable sound.
"Watch that first step. It's a doozy," the guy would call out. I think I laughed out loud EVERY time he said that. Of course, when it was my turn, despite my best efforts, I invariably bumped into it myself. This wasn't of great surprise, especially after six toolboxes. And for those that have heard me utter a similar statement out and about in Frankfurt or wherever, now you know where I got the line from.
Along with getting to know the other regulars, Tim and I really got to know the staff, and this is probably where my attraction to waitstaff really took off. In fairness, we were just socializing and being friendly. It certainly helped that most of the staff were the same age as we were, but we were (and still are) nice people. I think neither Tim nor myself, however, expected to start dating any them. Although I dated a couple of the girls, Tim actually got himself into a relationship, which continued for quite some time. This created some interesting stories, which I will save for another time. Overall, it was just a wacky time of life.
Meanwhile, I continued to take just about every girl I went out with to the Rose. The patio was just brilliant, and umpteen toolboxes always hit the spot. And yes, for a time, it seemed my love life (as remarkably inactive as it was) revolved around a Rose and a toolbox. Hmmm.
Alas, we reached a point where it was time to find a new watering hole, and about that time I started spending a lot more time at the Dubliner, which became my new local until I moved to Boston.
Upon my return to Dallas after two years, things had changed, probably for the better. Tim had moved to Austin and was happily settled, and I found myself back in a city that I had to get to know again. This meant finding a new local, but those stories from the Monk will be shared at another time.
By chance, I ran into an old friend of mine from church. He had played in a few bands when we were in high school, and had continued his aspirations to perform his music throughout the 90s. He mentioned that he was tending bar at none other than the San Francisco Rose, and I should drop by and see him. (Hey, I drank my first toolbox there!)
I took him up on his offer and went by the Rose for old times' sake. Like many places, they were experimenting with new attractions, and Dave told me that he was going to be playing a few sets of his own material. Always one to support local talent, I made a point of going to the Rose every time he played, bringing along any friends who were up for the outing. Dave was playing at a few other local venues as well, and I made sure to catch any show that I could.
Dave did not work that long at the bar, but for however brief that time was, it was nice to be back in the old Rose.
I did not make it back to the Rose again until around 2008, when I arranged to meet Tim, along with his wife and young son there during a stateside visit. My own young nephew was also in town, along with his folks, and we spent a nice Saturday afternoon catching up and watching the boys play together. The burgers were still great, and I took the opportunity to have another toolbox.
Of course, living in another country limits my visits to a lot of places I like in Dallas, but when I have been back to visit, the Rose hasn't been on the list, mainly since it wasn't ever really the same going there without Tim all those years ago.
So, the last time I did see Tim in Dallas, which was about 3 years ago, we made the decision to head to the Rose. Sadly, with the exception of two people sitting at the bar, obviously friends of the bartender, the place was completely empty. Since it was summer, we sat outside, which was only slightly less dreary than inside. The food was OK, and I did have one last toolbox, and of course, the company was fine. I think I probably realized then that it would be unlikely I would return to the place. The memories I have from there are great, but the place was no longer MY neighborhood bar. At the time, it did not look like it was anyone's neighborhood bar any longer. Despite that, I hoped that the little place would continue, though I had some doubts.
I celebrated the start of 2017 in Dallas; I had spent Christmas there, as I have in recent years. My parents, nephew and I went to brunch at a restaurant right next door to the San Francisco Rose. As we walked outside after eating, I went over and stood outside the patio of my old haunt. I explained to my nephew that I had spent many many wonderful hours hanging out there years before. He listened politely, but I don't think he was particularly enthralled. I couldn't blame him, as the place was almost as empty as it was when I was last there.
Sigh.
This morning, I woke up to find an email from Moe with a link to a brief article from a Dallas neighborhood rag: the San Francisco Rose, after 40 years, will soon be closing.
So, another of my old haunts is shutting down, but that is just how it is. Those times were great, and will always stay with me.
Chris sent me a text early this week, commenting about an enjoyable quiet night he'd had at the Monk. It was another reminder of other good times. I think it is great that I seem to associate periods of my life with the places I frequent. The Deep Ellum days, or the Dubliner times, or the Old Monk era...all of them have tremendous significance for me.
As for the San Francisco Rose years, I will simply smile and say thanks.
see you out there
bryan
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