Date nights, or - in this morning's case - Date Days, always prove to be very enlightening experiences for me. They give me a chance to talk with the person I trust most; the person who understands me more than that bathroom mirror I admire myself in on a regular basis.
My one true love. My wife. The knower of all things Billings.
On this particular morning, over a particularly massive vanilla latte, and a well-done Denver Omelet, her and I talked about me. Normally this isn't the case. Being married to a woman, our conversations usually revolve around her.
And having three kids, if our conversations during our Special Alone times aren't about her, then they center around our children.
On this morning, however, it was all about me. And rightfully so, I'm a pretty awesome guy - so there is quite a bit to talk about in regards to my general greatness. But, despite my greatness, we talked about the uncertainty that has been following me for some time now.
My future.
You see, I have the Art Billings Syndrome. (For those who don't know the infamous "D" Man - a term my brother and I used to call our pops - Art Billings is my late father whose life ended with a sudden implosion of his weakened, broken heart on Father's Day of the year 2005.)
Art Billings was a renaissance man.
Looking back at his life (now as a 32-year old married man with three children, a career, and a whole lot of advanced diplomas to show off my superior intellect) I've come to the realization that, even though he crushed me as a young child when I needed him most; and even though he was unfaithful to the one woman who helped shape the man I am today; and even though he never played catch with me; or took me to a baseball, football, or basketball game; and even though he was a blatant racist; and even though he drank too much wine - often hidden in an unassuming coffee cup; and even though he was a father who showed me what not to do with my own children; I still, nearly six years after the heart attack that claimed his life, learn something new from him every day.
His parenting - although questionable at times - didn't stop with his cremation. Even now I see more and more of myself in the man I grew up despising. It's both a scary and exciting realization.
He was superb talent: a brilliant artist, an analytical mastermind, an electrical engineer; a charismatic salesman; the funniest man I ever knew; and a once-in-a-generation photographer. He danced with every profession in the book, from running his own photography business, to working at Abbott Laboratories as a lead engineer, to selling carpet at some shady home improvement joint. The man was a not only a jack of all trades, but a master of them as well.
I always said we live our life in five year increments. And in terms of teaching, I am in my sixth year. As an educator, I am dead. It's no secret that keeping good teachers around for longer than five years is a very difficult thing to do. In fact, roughly half of new teachers quit within the first five years.
My Dad would have.
This was a man who dropped his six figure engineering job (circa 1989) and took a leap of faith with something he loved doing: photography. The man covered weddings, and took photos that, to this day, I marvel at. There wasn't another photographer like him. But he lost so much money, and spent most of his nights sucking down cheap wine in his coffee mug as he sifted through the piles and piles of bills sprawled out before him on his makeshift desk.
He left what he loved doing (photography), and turned to sales where commission got him back on track. Because the man could sell. This was a time where computers replaced his skillful artwork, so going back to engineering was out of the question. And he was okay with that, because it allowed him to reinvent himself. Something I oftentimes find myself doing (or wanting to do) on a daily basis.
Personally, I've often been told that I can sell ice to an Eskimo. I'm pretty sure that at one point in my father's selling-stint, he did actually sell ice to an Eskimo.
"What do you want to do?" asked Kristie, as she sucked down the rest of her Vanilla Latte at this morning's breakfast.
"Kristie," I told her, "I want to write. That's what I want to do for a living. Plain and simple. I want to live on a nice piece of land, where it's quiet, and do what I love most: write."
And I won't write news stories with sad endings. I refuse to be some beat reporter. Nor will I write articles that offer no entertainment value. I want to touch those who read my work. I want to tell stories of human interest, and of life lessons. Of strife, and struggle. I want to write how I've always taught. I want to write how I have always coached: with passion. With truthful passion.
If I ever get that chance, I will change a lot of people's lives. Just like I have in the classroom today, and like I once did on those jarring seven-mile runs, and post and pre-race meetings.
Dad, there's a lot of areas you failed at as a father. But, aside from teaching me to keep my cars clean, you did teach me one thing: do what makes me happy. Even if that means me having a half-empty coffee cup of cheap wine sitting on a desk piled high with unpaid bills.
So long as I am writing, and making some type of difference in someone's life - then none of that will matter.
My one true love. My wife. The knower of all things Billings.
On this particular morning, over a particularly massive vanilla latte, and a well-done Denver Omelet, her and I talked about me. Normally this isn't the case. Being married to a woman, our conversations usually revolve around her.
And having three kids, if our conversations during our Special Alone times aren't about her, then they center around our children.
On this morning, however, it was all about me. And rightfully so, I'm a pretty awesome guy - so there is quite a bit to talk about in regards to my general greatness. But, despite my greatness, we talked about the uncertainty that has been following me for some time now.
My future.
You see, I have the Art Billings Syndrome. (For those who don't know the infamous "D" Man - a term my brother and I used to call our pops - Art Billings is my late father whose life ended with a sudden implosion of his weakened, broken heart on Father's Day of the year 2005.)
Art Billings was a renaissance man.
Looking back at his life (now as a 32-year old married man with three children, a career, and a whole lot of advanced diplomas to show off my superior intellect) I've come to the realization that, even though he crushed me as a young child when I needed him most; and even though he was unfaithful to the one woman who helped shape the man I am today; and even though he never played catch with me; or took me to a baseball, football, or basketball game; and even though he was a blatant racist; and even though he drank too much wine - often hidden in an unassuming coffee cup; and even though he was a father who showed me what not to do with my own children; I still, nearly six years after the heart attack that claimed his life, learn something new from him every day.
His parenting - although questionable at times - didn't stop with his cremation. Even now I see more and more of myself in the man I grew up despising. It's both a scary and exciting realization.
He was superb talent: a brilliant artist, an analytical mastermind, an electrical engineer; a charismatic salesman; the funniest man I ever knew; and a once-in-a-generation photographer. He danced with every profession in the book, from running his own photography business, to working at Abbott Laboratories as a lead engineer, to selling carpet at some shady home improvement joint. The man was a not only a jack of all trades, but a master of them as well.
I always said we live our life in five year increments. And in terms of teaching, I am in my sixth year. As an educator, I am dead. It's no secret that keeping good teachers around for longer than five years is a very difficult thing to do. In fact, roughly half of new teachers quit within the first five years.
My Dad would have.
This was a man who dropped his six figure engineering job (circa 1989) and took a leap of faith with something he loved doing: photography. The man covered weddings, and took photos that, to this day, I marvel at. There wasn't another photographer like him. But he lost so much money, and spent most of his nights sucking down cheap wine in his coffee mug as he sifted through the piles and piles of bills sprawled out before him on his makeshift desk.
He left what he loved doing (photography), and turned to sales where commission got him back on track. Because the man could sell. This was a time where computers replaced his skillful artwork, so going back to engineering was out of the question. And he was okay with that, because it allowed him to reinvent himself. Something I oftentimes find myself doing (or wanting to do) on a daily basis.
Personally, I've often been told that I can sell ice to an Eskimo. I'm pretty sure that at one point in my father's selling-stint, he did actually sell ice to an Eskimo.
"What do you want to do?" asked Kristie, as she sucked down the rest of her Vanilla Latte at this morning's breakfast.
"Kristie," I told her, "I want to write. That's what I want to do for a living. Plain and simple. I want to live on a nice piece of land, where it's quiet, and do what I love most: write."
And I won't write news stories with sad endings. I refuse to be some beat reporter. Nor will I write articles that offer no entertainment value. I want to touch those who read my work. I want to tell stories of human interest, and of life lessons. Of strife, and struggle. I want to write how I've always taught. I want to write how I have always coached: with passion. With truthful passion.
If I ever get that chance, I will change a lot of people's lives. Just like I have in the classroom today, and like I once did on those jarring seven-mile runs, and post and pre-race meetings.
Dad, there's a lot of areas you failed at as a father. But, aside from teaching me to keep my cars clean, you did teach me one thing: do what makes me happy. Even if that means me having a half-empty coffee cup of cheap wine sitting on a desk piled high with unpaid bills.
So long as I am writing, and making some type of difference in someone's life - then none of that will matter.
