Life, love and loss

This was hard to write but like so much I’ve had to write the last several days I had to write it. Unfortunately death separates some of us from God. But during this week I feel that I have moved a few hundred steps closer to him.

When C and G Newspapers writer Robert Guttersohn’s piece about my book appeared in the paper today he wrote “Each of Wurdock’s stories confronts death in one way or another using the UP as a backdrop” I read it again and I panicked and thought; oh crap. . .that can’t be good for book sales.

But after these last few days on planet earth and the sad events previously mentioned here, it reaffirmed what I’ve known all along, which is that God has much heavier things going on than to be concerned with sales figures or my own selfishness.

In fact, Guttersohn interviewed me last week, before I got the last phone call from Keith and before the last lunch we had on Friday. All through the interview I mentioned to him that the underlying theme of most of what I’ve ever written was done is based upon the universal premise that every day life is but the flicker which serves only to illuminates our brief existence.

After completing the book "Bending Water and Stories Nearby" earlier this year, I did recognize how death and loss was part of this anthology. Still, when I was just out walking my dogs this evening I thought Robert was exaggerating the point in his article, so when I got home I grabbed a copy of the book and realized how right he was about it . . .and about me.

In my book twelve of the fourteen stories have obvious or less subtle references to someone dead, dying , wanting to die or trying not to die. Of the two remaining stories, one of them talks about a dying relationship (which can often feel like death) and one is about a dog who was left for dead, but became the sole reason for his owner wanting to live.

If I sound obsessed with dying it’s only because I am consumed with living.

I’m not sure what a shrink would think of that, nor do I have an interest in finding out just now. I am no stranger to death, from events in my youth and those as fresh as attending Keith’s funeral yesterday.

Keith’s funeral was held in a room full of love, surrounded by beautiful and fragrant flowers where beautiful music was sung and played and many people who may not have been prepared for what was to come even though we’ve been preparing for a few days.

The loveable and amiable Rev Richard Stafford (Keith’s brother) presided over the service. Let me rephrase that. . .Keith’s brother Rick wrote and led a beautiful celebration of Keith’s life. I have never been at a place so sad where so much love was radiated and the truth spoken about such a special love between brother and brother. The words also provided comfort in conveying the truth about what the gospel of Jesus holds and what it brings to those who believe it or live it.

At times Rick was redundant when he spoke to Keith’s son Aaron: “He loved you so much.”
But looking everyone in the eye and expressing what Rick did, especially to Keith’s son, were words of truth that needed to be said over and over and they will be remembered.

The service was as heartbreaking and poignant and it was funny and memorable; more than any service I’ve ever been a part of in my life. When I die, I hope mine is the same and that I will be remembered in the same way.

I am honored to have been a part of Keith’s life and this occasion and have written extensively about it here for the last few days. I am also honored to be a part of your life. It has been so great reconnecting with so many people during this time on facebook. Facebook? Interacting with people on a computer? What is that about (everyone over 35 has said, always)

I always thought death was hard to talk about. Maybe that is the reason that subconsciously I’ve included it so much in most everything I’ve written, not just this week, but for a long time.

It’s part of the human condition recognized as much if not more than birth because in our blurry world it is easy to miss an announcement of someone being born while our tendency is to let bad new travel fast. Meanwhile, in the life “in-between” too many of us plot ways to avoid what’s important and allow ourselves to live in avoidance or in a world of watered down emotions justified by posting memes we hope will reach the important people in our lives. What crap; and I am just as guilty of that as you are, so let's change it.

Family, friendships and marriages are things we need to work at every day if we have any expectation of success and happiness with them. I don’t know many people with an unhappy marriage who are happy in life anymore than I know unhappy people who are pleased with their success, wealth can accomplishment but who have no soul. It doesn’t work that way. . .see Life 101 for reference.

Pain and loss casts a long and dark shadow, but remember that we live most of our lives in the light.

http://www.candgnews.com/news/author-finds-creative-spark-writing-about 

He came in through the bathroom window. . .

An inspiration for re-engaging in my blog was a writers conference I attended on October 5, 2013. It was time well spent with other writers and learning something new, proving once again the truth behind a phrase I've heard many times which is that it's "never too late in the afternoon to learn something." I had been at the conference all day and it was upon exiting that I received a phone call that changed my life forever. In one second I learned of the death of one of my oldest and dearest friends, someone I had lunch with less than 24 hours earlier. It has been a heart-breaking few days. 

I met Keith Stafford in 1978 when I was in 8^th grade at Clara Barton Junior High School in Royal Oak, MI.  He was a larger than life kid barely out of 6^th grade but made his presence known in a big way when one of the first things he said to me was “So, I understand you are dating my sister. I’d like to know just how serious you plan on getting with her.”

Yep, that was Keith. And yes, the word precocious was an understatement.

I moved onto high school and was spared anymore grilling until a year later when Keith became a Freshman at Dondero when I was a Sophomore. We were together more than most students were because of marching band. 

The Stafford’s have a long legacy of great musicians in their family. His big brother Rick was the drum major my freshman year and his booming voice and serious tone was commanding. (I know where Keith got his maturity)  Anne of course was also in band; an awesome oboe player during concert season and part of the percussion section (I know where he got his good looks) Then I finally met Harold and Jean all the pieces fit perfectly. They were all their mother’s and father’s kids. Jean and the “Big H” have always been people I admire, and this is why I’ve always admired the entire Stafford family.

 I knew Keith looked up to his siblings. He adored and protected Anne and wanted to be like Rick. But he also wanted to be like Anne. The only difference between Keith and Rick was that Keith used Anne’s eye shadow to thicken his mustache and Rick didn’t.

Another one of his possible role models besides his older brother may have been Alex P. Keaton, the loveable character from the show Family Ties played by Michael J Fox. Why do I think this?  It’s because Keith was the only kid I knew who came to Dondero his freshman year carrying a briefcase.

He was also the only person I ever saw dance to Gordon Lightfoot, “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” by himself.

Being in the percussion section we spent more time together than most in the marching band. The season started before school was in session, we were on the field every morning and competitions allowed us the fun of traveling by bus together to many places. Naturally, the entire section had to be tight in our execution, so you learned to be close to one another in both proximity and in preparation. You had to trust the person on each side of you and you had to know them.

Keith and I were also competitive. During the three years we played together he beat me out for first chair at each audition and I tried not to resent him because he won; fair and square. Later I found out that when he beat me, it was only by one or two points at its largest margin.  However, he did need to be knocked down a time or two when he was becoming too much like a dictator, but in the end, especially when we were awarded best percussion section in the state of Michigan for tier 2, his demanding demeanor was worth it. He got respect from people the old fashioned way; he earned it.

But band was not always all work and no play.  During Keith’s freshman year we were led by two upperclassman; one was Damien McCann, who, in addition to being a great drummer also had the zaniness necessary to holding a young percussion section together.  I think this is where Keith learned to lighten up and about the time he also taught us that tampons were great for muffling a drum set.

We had quirky traditions, such as splashing worchester sauce on the ground before every halftime performance or competition. During concert season we kept Damien’s tradition of strategically placing the bottle among all the percussion equipment when we had our group photo and then laughed like the kids we were when it showed up in the yearbook.  

We’d  “cover “ for each other, creating a diversion when the code word was  given signaling one of us had to readjust our private parts during rehearsals carrying drums that often chafed our. . .well. . .you know. Kudos to Ann and the other girls in the percussion section for putting up with that.

But Keith could also take a ribbing.  He was as athletic as much as any of us were qualified to navigate the space shuttle. Watching him trying to throw a football was like watching that one poor girl who was always picked last in gym class try to throw a forward pass. The only difference was that she did it better.

He was funny, a team player, he was an encourager. In high school he used to put notes in the instrument case of his girlfriend’s younger sister saying things like “this is your conscience speaking, have you practiced your trumpet today?”

But, as is high school. . .there were some people who for whatever reason just didn’t like him. These were guys on the football team who were just. . .well, guys on the football team. I remember the story of how a math teacher, who was also the football coach was giving Keith the business one time for not being an athlete. “why don’t you play sports Mr. Stafford, are you afraid? aren’t you good enough?” he was reported as saying. The jockstraps in the class played right into the coaches BS and challenged him to “come on out after school and try playing a sport.”  The teacher continued to egg Keith on until Keith explained why he didn’t want to play football. “The truth is coach that I am too busy. I have several drum students I teach most days after class and currently I make about $15 an hour, which I think is pretty good for a kid in high school, wouldn’t you agree?”

It was reported that steam came out of the coach’s ears like a cartoon character and his face turned red as an apple and that topic was never discussed again.

But life was not all “just band.” Life became a deeper more convoluted place for Keith and I when our mutual best friend Scott Mitchell died in 1985.  It was a brutal time for both of us and often times still is for me, especially now.  Losing your best friend at 19 is not supposed to happen. Losing your friend at 47 isn’t supposed to happen either. But looking back, perhaps the greatest thing I took away from losing Scott was gaining Keith. 

We were together through all things friends do when you are trying to console the inconsolable. We got to spend time in the UP at our family cabin. One year we took Scott’s younger brother Lee. The cabin is a rustic place, which meant bathing in the lake. Lee was not too keen on this and refused to put his head underwater for fear of getting minnows in his hair.

I was the best man at his first wedding and made numerous trips to Kalamazoo to visit before and after his son Aaron was born. As life continued at its frantic pace the trips became less frequent but we remained in touch and continued as best we could until we began a stretch of only seeing each other every few years and then every several years.  Still, the friendship would pick up where it left off each time we were together, up until last Friday when we saw each other for the last time, never knowing it was to be our last, but treating it as if it were.

Whenever we’d reconnect, the first thing he would tell me about was his terrific son Aaron.  I have not seen Aaron since he was a young child but would always get an earful from Keith about the noble work he was doing in school, at the church and how he admired the great man he was becoming.  He was a professional bragger who loved and admired his son, second only to God.

He was also his father’s son. I learned about a trait of his that he got from Harold (the big H) It mean when he was done saying what he had to say on the phone, he’d announce it and then hang up. Keith’s version of this was “Well buddy, I don’t want to run your bill up, so I gotta go.”  Sometimes I think he was afraid of talking about how he felt about me, but nothing was held back during our last time together on this earth.

Our lunch together last Friday was probably what I will remember most about him because it is so fresh.  We talked about our ex-wives and politics (but did not dwell on either very long) We talked about drumming, campers, his new red truck, the cabin up in the UP, his girlfriend Christy who he loved dearly and anyone who knows Christy knows why he did. We also talked about his relationship with God, his new drums, his beautiful son Aaron, his parents and my new book, where only moments before I had written the words “To Keith, with love and respect.”  I meant it.

In the middle of the conversation he put down his fork and told me how sorry he was for the voids, disappearing acts, unreturned phone calls and time we’ve missed being an active part of each other’s lives. I tried to stop him and said “If you need to say that for your sake that’s fine, but you don’t need to say it for mine.” He knew I was telling the truth. 

When he was done I put my fork down, looked him in the eye and said “Look, I love you brother, I’m always going to love you and if I don’t see you for another month, year or ten years, it’s ok because I know that our bond is constant. It will always remain and our friendship is always going to pick up right where it left off with no hard feelings and no games, only the truth. It’s what friends do.  Everyone is a fuck up in life with something and the past doesn’t matter. “

He thanked me and I know he understood. 

But our lives were full of so many memorable moments.

Often when he’d call, I would be greeted with his low, Old Man River, baritone voice on the other end as he recited an obscure line from a movie we watched together. We loved watching moves together and we loved each other, only it took us several years to be able to say it out loud.

I was always a bit envious of his hairline as it never seemed to recede. It’s too bad he could never have the mustache he wanted to without the help of his sister’s eye shadow. The world is less interesting without him. His sudden loss is difficult for many people right now, especially those who may read this and walk back into whatever other grief they are experiencing in this stone hard joy filled life. There is never a good time for these things in life and they only are becoming more frequent in mine.  The comfort will come; it always does even though there are days upon days when it feels like it's just not coming through at all. This is when you discover what faith really is.

 I will miss Keith’s sidesplitting humor, laughter and smile. I will miss our meaningful conversations, but perhaps what I will miss most is the conversations we had when we were talking about nothing at all.

Back in Business

Today I am back in the blog business. In late August of this year I launched a new page on facebook page to serve as the official home for my new book Bending Water and Stories Nearby. The page contains all things related to my new book including artwork, sample chapters, reviews, stories from the road and videomercials, which are new this week.

It can be found at: www.facebook.com/blueboundarybooks

Bending Water and Stories Nearby is my forth book and was released through the new imprint, Blue Boundary Books on August 26, 2013. It will be available for purchase at my website and as well as numerous retail locations throughout Michigan via my distributor.

The book follows the regional success of my book "Places I Hide" photos and poetry of Michigan's Upper Peninsula and two other books. In May of 2013 a campaign was launched through Kickstarter to fund the printing of Bending Water and Stories Nearby. It was a successful campaign  and the pre-sales for Bending Water were high enough to cover the cost of the initial run of the book and I am working hard to promote it in whatever way possible. 

What follows are the media quotes which appear on the back cover of the book. But this blog is not just about promoting my book and talking about the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (though I will do that a lot) It’s where I will continue to share my life will with regularity for anyone who wants to listen.

Pete Wurdock writes stories that are so real, you’ll feel like you already know these characters, and you care about what happens to them.  Bending Water is a beautiful anthology, and you won’t want the stories to end.   

 

-Sherry Margolis, News Anchor, Fox 2 News, Detroit

Peter Wurdock has infused new life into the literary landscape with a collection of short stories that are reminiscent of the pioneering narratives of Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories, avoiding the pitfalls of the derivative by plotting a course through the rough, unpredictable, and often isolated terrain of Michigan’s natural splendor, populated with characters wrestling with emotive realization in a voice that is as equally fresh as it is contemporary. 

Possessing a gift for concise, laconic, and lyrical prose, Wurdock fashions together a series of vignettes embracing the overwhelming density of the forests that often confines these characters to the haunting echoes of their past and leads both character and reader to the light of realization and epiphany that ultimately sets them free, for better or worse, in a manner that is worthy of such literary landmarks and meditations on small town life as Sherwood Andersen’s Winesburg, Ohio.

- Robert E. Martin • Editor and Publisher • Review Magazine

 

Searching for a Heart

There is no do-over- life and everyone discovers regrets on their deathbeds they may not share. Mine will not be that I loved too little, but that I didn’t find you sooner. But right now, I can’t seem to find you through this confusing view.

Who is it that you are and what became of your dreams? Do you still carry them or have they only become another part of the eroding landscape of youth?

You have now become her and she can laugh at herself. She’s beautiful with her hair up cleaning windows or glowing in the black dress, bought for special occasions. If there’s humor in the room, she’ll find it. Humor in the world, she’ll eat it up with a laugh nobody can ignore.

She will stop to pet the neighbor’s dog and make the old woman down the street feel wanted. She’ll make fun of herself for being a dork but knows how to excite me in 5 seconds. If I act like a guy, she’ll forgive me and remind me that I’m too old for whatever it was I did. She knows I’ll still be here, especially after a week’s worth of “one of those days.”

She has curiosity in the world and is a fan of kisses for no reason. Love is my one requirement and is easy for her to fill. We’ll cling to each other in this often slippery world.

Love is the heart’s only law.

Love is the soul. Love the sweet breath of air just before dark, as I wait for you. Love is laughter and music and I want to release to feel the colorful and gentle melody in your heart. Just come out and show yourself whoever you are; I’m right here waiting.

A kitten , a vixen, maybe a mother, who can see the innocence in a child and find her own in the scrapbook of black and white photographs she hid because she was no longer a size 5. Now the vanity is gone and time has become her friend because she knows that she’s beautiful inside and out. I love her loudly and she loves when I brag about her. She has turned into the beautiful woman her mother tried to convince her she was when her heart was broken in the ninth grade. Now she can’t remember his name.

I’m not part of her unbroken circle of friends, but can dance with them just the same; proud that my first and last dance will always be hers and each one in-between belongs to us. She was born with eyes that shine and she will die with eyes that shine. I surprise everyone by telling them she’s my best friend and also my wife.

“Let’s sleep late on Saturday and I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
You tell me, “No. It’s early to rise with a big breakfast because we need it to have strength for shopping later. We must find all the good stuff at the garage sales before anyone else does. “

We’ll split up the minute we enter the flea market and meet at the same place after circling around and finding the perfect gift we bought for under five dollars and hide in our pocket, coat or behind our backs. Only 5 questions can be asked before guessing and we’ve never guessed right We’ll reveal them with the excitement of Christmas before an afternoon nap. Then in the quiet slumber, we’ll dream of water, trees, the fragrance of lilacs in early May, a rainy forest, the first snow on a Saturday night, the smell of baked bread, a thunderstorm moving over the fields, how the third step in the old house still creaks. . . and the sun, of the warmth of the sun!

I love the roots in your hair. You have become a woman of the world, with a little girls wonder and the cheerleader spirit who can get me going again. You measure time with our heartbeats and moments, not with the elegant watch on your wrist that drives your work load each day and that you’ll leave on the dresser when you get home.

Sometimes you want to be alone, but welcome me after a while, because I can detect the tears in your eyes from what mine don’t see and hear the quiet, sobbing you think is sentimental, but that I will always understand.

I will wipe away every tear yet my stupidity may still cause you to cry on occasion. I will always put life on hold to listen. Why are you crying now? Is it the memory of the dog you never got to kiss goodbye when you went away to college? Or is it because your parents didn’t tell you when he died because you were too busy to call them?

Or is it the flicker of life that’s awakened you, as you suddenly realized we are in the middle of the third act and can’t start over? I want to walk in the light with you.

I can hear you from the bedroom as I collect my thoughts in the kitchen.
“Ohh, are you roasting garlic or are those onions that I smell? Remember, don’t boil the pasta too long. You know I’m one part Italian.”

The first sip of Riesling on your lips covers the real flavor of you and I want to kiss it off when you enter the kitchen so I may taste your sweetness instead. I fell in love with you for many reasons and all of them are perfectly, imperfect.

“Come to bed; I want to be held. You can skip the floss on your perfect teeth tonight.” You pause and laugh at the cute absurdity of what you just said, knowing I love you but will disregard your request for at least another 60 seconds.

As I look into the bedroom I see your smile and your reading glasses give you the sexy librarian look you know I love.

“Maybe we’ll play library cop tomorrow,” I say.
As you remove your dime store readers you whisper: “In that case I’ll steal some more books “

You’ve turned the electric blanket up high on your side and I don’t care. Together, we thank God for letting us find each other. I shut off the light while Sam Cooke warms the AM radio waves, helping us to fall asleep. And we know each morning we wake, we will be given the chance to make things right again.

Faith In Faith Itself; Stew and Bruce

About 3 or 4 years ago during a conversation over breakfast, Stewart Francke told me about the new songs he was writing for his next album. As a close friend, I consider myself fortunate to have been a part of his music for the last 20 years. Usually men have their most intimate conversations while driving, because they don’t have to look each other in the face. But the most rewarding part of Stewart’s friendship has been watching it grow by leaps and bounds as his ideas are born or revealed; face to face, friend to friend and heart to heart. Watching his work transform from its creation to completion has been nothing short of amazing. I know I’m one of the few people he listens to when it comes to the direction of his music and it’s an honor that I covet. I also like to laugh and remind him that it’s a damn good thing he listens to me, because I also listen to him. He’s seen me at my best and more recently, at my worst.

One of the many things Stewart and have in common is our incredible admiration of Bruce Springsteen. During the past several weeks I’ve been living on the sustenance of Stewart & Bruce; music that means something and for better or worse has sustained me, as I’ve been forced to get to know my broken heart. Listening to them feels so right because of where I and so many others I know find themselves; living in a town with a bitter wind, broken dreams out on the street and a fractured faith. Thank God their music brings hope within the helplessness and color even forms in the grey matter.

As Springsteen fans we had to wait 30 years for the tenderness and unfinished story that “The Promise” delivered. But looking back to that era, Bruce gave us a different kind of promise showing us that faith isn’t always happy or clean and it isn’t always pretty, but the results of it can produce an extraordinary beauty when revealed.

Tonight I'll be on that hill 'cause I can't stop
I'll be on that hill with everything I got
Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost
I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost
For wanting things that can only be found
In the darkness on the edge of town

Broad streaks of faith have always been on the face of Bruce and Stewart’s music and they'll generously reveal themselves to you if you want to listen. Lately, I’ve been looking for meaning in everything I do; hoping it brings a chance for me to reach a place where I can move forward instead of building bridges made of leaves over the emotional chasm I’m trying to cross.

The problem with writing about faith is that so many artists have cheapened it with songs that do nothing but make it memorable and easy to obtain, while using the same worn out rhymes. I don’t doubt the sincerity of the writers of those songs, but often question their depth. This is because faith isn’t something you talk about, have, find, get or buy into; it’s a verb.

It’s taking that uncertain step and occasionally looking behind you, not to be reminded of the past, but to see how far you’ve come. As I listen to The Promise, I hear two friends who understanding that in order to let go they needed to be moving toward something else at the same time.

All my life, I fought this fight. The fight no man can ever win
Every day it just gets harder to live, this dream I’m belivin’ in.
Thunder Road--- for the lost lovers and all the fixed games.
Thunder Road--- for the tires rushing by in the rain.
Thunder Road, remember what me and Billy we’d always say
Thunder Road, we were gonna take it all, then throw it all away.

2010 started with great hope and a lot of firsts for me. For the first time in my life I had a woman I loved and who loved me with a shared passion. She took me to my first Kentucky Derby, just after the stresses of my former employer sent me to the hospital to get injected with radioactive material and test my heart. My second book sold out and a second pressing was completed to fill the soft but steady “demand.” My third book was completed and pressed in June, I had my first play produced in July, and suddenly people were interested in other things I’d written.

As life ramped up with my girlfriend we began sharing hopes and visions more often, and we were close to fulfilling a lifelong dream we both had of buying that “little place in the UP” and living happily ever after with 3 months of bad sledding from June-August. But life started unraveling. In August, I was unceremoniously fired under the new “management” of the agency where I had worked without any disruption for almost 10 years and I didn’t take it lying down. In September, the UP dream fell apart. In October I lost the woman I loved, leaving me with a lot of time on my hands to contemplate life, its meaning left me wondering why I’d hit rock bottom but kept on digging. Through a miracle, I became reunited with my her at Thanksgiving. Suddenly, each day was a gift again and because we knew that love was a choice. It actually felt better than falling in love the first time because the heart can be incurably deceptive. I was seeing the world in wide screen and our relationship was ramping up every day. I began writing again and many people thought I was finally finding my own voice or relevance. I lost 50 pounds and was the happiest most productive and busiest unemployed person in the Midwest. I was hittin’ on all cylinders.

At Christmas, I was blindsided again when she got scared and uninvited me (via an email) for the holidays. It came the night before I was to leave. My bag was packed and a diamond ring was inside it, but it was not to be. I guess it was better than getting a text at the altar telling me “sorry ,but I can’t,” and after weeks of trying to keep my end of the promise alive, I’ve learned that nobody can’t chase a scared, unsure and runaway heart anymore than they can fix a broken one.

I’ve been trying to convince myself that that the opposite of love is freedom and not hate. But each day it’s like an addict trying to forget the smoke, the bottle or fine white line. It still feels like I’ve been robbed of everything except my pain, but I can finally feel a momentum shift. But for the grace of God, go I, but I still don’t buy green bananas and the first thing I do every day is to scan the obits for my name. If I don’t find it, it tells me God still has a plan for me and maybe today will be the day it is finally revealed.

I’m trying to hold my head high tonight, but faith in faith itself feels like a feeble crutch, because even faith has its weaknesses---like when I woke up this morning and realized it's is Valentine’s Day and I’ve got a really beautiful diamond ring in my dresser that’s never been worn.

Bruce Springsteen, 30 years gone and missin’ my baby

This past weekend I went to a Super Bowl party. It was the first time I’ve been out in weeks. There were some strangers there, but it was mostly friends I’ve known for 30 years. We were there for different reasons and most of us didn’t care who won the game . For some, showing up to a party was a good reason to catch up with friends and watch the game as part of everyday life, but I knew I was only there to take a break from my own.

I’ve been listening to Bruce Springsteen’s new record, The Promise, over and over. If you’ve read anything about it you’ll know its material he recorded but abandoned 30 years ago ---about the same time I first met the people at the party. It was written and recorded between Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town. As Bruce states in the liner notes, it’s “tough music for folks in tough circumstances” and it was custom made for that night. After a few heart to heart conversations with friends, we were right back in each other’s lives --- old friends who had never outgrown the circle.

The songs on Springsteen’s new collection, The Promise, are about love, tenderness, doubt, hope, passion, loneliness, discovery and trying not to give up on life even though sometimes it feels like every part of you wants to. After I left the party, I swear I could have selected any song and matched it to any one of my friend’s situation. The Brokenhearted, It’s a Shame, Breakaway, Because the Night, Talk to Me, Outside Looking In, Racin’ in the Street. The Promise. . . and on and on.

Being able to see people with whom I shared a special bond was a joy without measure. Yet slowly as the night went on, I felt the room filling with doubt and uncertainty. Many of us were wounded in some way or another; the end of a marriage, the loss of a parent, unemployment, illness, addiction, confliction and contradiction. After spilling guts like old friends can do, I’m pretty sure when we left, each of us retrieved our own burdens from the invisible pile that had grown in the middle of the room. Some acted as if they didn’t care while some washed away the pain with a beer and a shot, allowing their buried laughter to briefly surface. Some searched quietly for help and some knew they’d be ok in time; while others of us were still trying unsuccessfully to move on.

30 years ago when he recorded the material, Bruce was talking about some of life’s simple truths that I’d not yet learned. In the span of 30 years I grew to love him because of the undeniable connection his music forged with me as I grew up. Now, 30 years down the road, the subject matter has become the soundtrack to my life.

“Save My Love” was the first song I heard from “The Promise.” For my money, it’s the greatest 2:38 of music to be released in the last three decades. The first verse feels doubtful and fearful: “There’s something coming through the air, that softly reminds me—tonight I’ll park out on the hill and wait until they find me. Slipping through the ether, a voice is coming through. So keep me in your heart tonight and I’ll save my love for you.” The redemption arrives in the next blistering stanza “So turn up your radio, darlin’ dial me in close. We’re ridin’ through the airwaves and we’re traveling’ coast to coast. Over river and highway, your voice comes clear and true. Though we’re far apart tonight I’ll save my love for you.”

Having just gone through (and still going through) a sad and terrible break up with the woman I thought I was going to marry, it surprised me how the song gave me hope during the dying days of our relationship. I was still hanging on to the promise I made to her and her abrupt departure made me feel like a fool, until I realized promises sunk like stones when they’re only held with one hand.

The song resonated with me because it was once a reflection of the love we both knew. “Hold me in your arms and our doubts won’t break us. If we open up our hearts, love won’t forsake us.” It provided the sliver of hope that I needed, but now I know I’ll never talk to, or see her again. In a fantasy, I wanted her to dial me in close and hear the same bittersweet message the song held because we lived in different cities. I thought if she tried, she’d be able to feel it through the radio waves, in the wires, in the air, somewhere . . .anywhere.

People have told me there’s beauty in pain, but I have yet to find it. I love her and I hate her and some days I’m not proud of either one. The same people told me there’s a lesson to be learned somewhere in all of this, but the only thing I’ve learned is that losing someone you’re in love with robs you of everything except your pain.

“The Little Things My Baby Does” is a song that no woman in love could deny. It’s a Phil Spector-ish mid tempo rocker, reminiscent of The Ronnette’s “Be My Baby,” but a little slower. It is the perfect, cheek- to-cheek-sway-with-your- own- baby song. You feel the tenderness found in the sentiment like you feel your lovers heart beating next to yours as you dance.

“The way she kisses so tenderly, the way she gives her love to me
The way she sighs when I hold her tight. Good times or bad will be all right.
Faces on the street they push hard and they shove Then disappear with the little things my baby does.

The party has been over for a while and presumably everyone who was there is now home with someone they either love, missed or maybe hated; didn’t want to live with, never should have married yet can’t live without--- someone they’d give their life for or someone they don’t realize they are ignoring. Or maybe they just don’t know each other and haven’t given it enough time, or effort; or perhaps they don’t understand the significance of a promise.

It’s now going on 2:30 AM. This is the first night I’ll slept in my own bed since she said goodbye. Hers was always the last voice I’d hear telling me she loved me before we went to sleep. My baby’s voice is gone and she’s muted mine in the process. She’s probably at home, sleeping peacefully with her new dog taking up my side of the bed and getting on with her life.

I’m still restless and I can’t sleep. I look at the clock in front of me but it’s too blurry to read. The sliver of light coming through the window will no longer shine on her face as she turns for that one last kiss goodnight. Every kiss from her was the greatest one my life would know until her next one.

Bruce is still playing in the other room.

“When the promise is broken you go on living
But it steals something from down in your soul
Like when the truth is spoken and it don't make no difference
Something in your heart turns cold.”

And like Bruce, when the promise was broken, I cashed in a few of my own dreams.

Why contractors suck

Not to dwell on old news. . .but last week when the Rod Blagojevich (the soon to be former governor of Illinois) scandal broke into national headlines, I was not sure what was worse: was it the fact that he did what he did, or was it the fact that so few people were surprised?

I just don’t get it. And I’m not just talking about the way we’re getting bludgeoned from all sides these days by lunacy and scandal, but the frequency we’re forced to endure is astounding. On a lesser, but from the same “scratching of my head” philosophy, recently I was looking for a contractor/handyman to do some work on a bathroom. I called a few people to get a bid here is what happened. Keep in mind I live in Michigan, where we lead the nation in unemployment, foreclosures and divorce.

#1 person is someone I’ve met a few times and each time we talk he complained about how all the newly unemployed people in Michigan were “hurting his business” because they were underbidding him.

He lives less than a mile from the place I needed work done but didn’t want to come and give an estimate on the first few days I offered to meet him until it was “a good time for him.” We set up a time and he called a few hours before and cancelled because of a family matter, Being compassionate, I completely understood and asked him to contact me at his earliest convenience, preferably at a time (2 days from then) that we set while still on the phone. He didn’t phone back when he said he would. Fair enough.

#2 person was called and didn’t call back.

#3 person, a recently unemployed architect, answered his phone and we arranged a time to meet. After leaving the key for him to get into the house because I couldn’t be there, he sent me a detailed bid on the job.

I called #1 again asking if he could re-bid. He said he thought I was supposed to call him back and asked me why I didn’t! He then told me he was too busy but had a person to recommend (#4)

I called #4 and told him I needed a written quote and that the job was approaching with some urgency, but nothing immediate but needed to be done soon. Since he came recommended from #1 (who I thought I knew) he agreed to meet me 2 days later to take a look. When he didn’t show up 20 minutes after our agreed time, I left the premises and phoned him, telling him I left the door open and asking him to please take a look and let me know. He told me he’d email a bid in “a few days.”

When 6 days had passed and he had not contacted me, I phoned him asking if I could get something in writing from him as I requested initially. He said “ok” and a day later sent me a bid (though he couldn’t remember my name) that consisted of a dollar amount and nothing else.

He left me a message a day or two later stating if I wanted to talk about the quote I could give him a call, but would appreciate it soon because he had “other jobs” he was working on in the area.

I accepted the bid of #3, you know, the honorable guy who actually showed up and gave me something to look at? He offered to meet again with the owner of the property to walk through everything again and explain it in detail.

As an afterthought I emailed #4 back simply stating (very nicely) that since he basically didn’t tell me anything of substance in his “bid” I went with another contractor. Ten minutes later he called me telling me how unprofessional I was for not calling him back after he sent me the original “bid” and wished me good luck getting the work done.

Please tell me what’s wrong with this picture. Are my expectations too high? Why do I get hit with the “indignant switcheroo” when all I’m trying to do is offer work to someone?

Is it just me, or has common sense become all too uncommon?