Cherish people, not stuff.

Inspired from my brother-in-law, Robbie.  Things are just things.  Too often people attach memories to the objects rather than the people associated with the item.  An argument could be made that it’s too easy to forget about that person or act if you got rid of the item, but the real solution there is to find a better way to preserve memories or signs of affection, perhaps through words or actions, rather than becoming a collector of stuff.

My senior year in high school, I was dunking.  My hands were too small to palm a basketball firmly enough, so I had to build up the ability to get high enough for both hands to be above the rim.

Let me step back a bit.  We had a new coach my senior year.  I was also spending half days at high school and the second half at a Laurel Business Institute pursuing an associate degree.  On those days that we had basketball practice right after school, I’d either have to miss practice, or show up really late.

Now, most adults have the student’s best intentions in mind.  Like in soccer, my coach didn’t penalize me for missing practices.  He knew that I wanted to play, and I was the kind of guy that would work extra hard to make up for it in a game.  My basketball coach did not share the same view.  Sometimes, my teammates would agree with me that our coach had something personal against me.

Flash to an early season game at Charleroi.  We’re doing our warm-up lay-up drill and I’m feeling pretty energetic.  All of us are always trying to get as high as we can.  In my mind, I didn’t know that it was considered a technical foul to dunk in warm-ups.  I also didn’t do a flagrant, hanging from the rim, kicking my legs, aggressive, spectacle of a dunk.  I just tipped it in the basket.  The ref didn’t like it though, and immediately blew the whistle.  Everyone was confused.  That’s probably the only pre-game whistle anyone will ever hear.  The other team was awarded 2 foul shots, before the clock started, and they made them both.

Our coach was livid.  At half-time, the locker room “pep talk” included references to everyone having to make up for my mistake.  When we came back at the end of the game, having lost by 2 points (the equivalent of the 2 foul shots)  The coach specifically said we lost the game because of me and even physically pointed at me.

I didn’t get to play that game, and many games after that.  Had I been given the chance to prove my worth, I’m confident my season would have gone a lot better than it had.  I think that coach was one of the first people to confuse me with their ridiculousness.  Logically, without those foul shots, that just ties the game.  Even in practical terms, to say I caused our team to lose the game, without me actually participating in the game, seems wrong if not just simply unfair.

Anyway, I dunked my senior year of high school.  If you don’t believe, go ask the old coach. I bet he blames his short lived coaching career on me dunking.

I’m starting to question memory in dreams.  In some of my more recent dreams, the feeling of being familiar with the dream happens.  Does this mean that I really did dream about that dream before, or is it all part of the fantasy and illusions in dreams?

Recently, I’ve had dreams that I’m in a play or a musical back at my high school.  I have to remember all my lines and dance routines and cues.  Last night’s dream was the actual performance of the play, and I had such a hard time remembering all my lines and parts, but I was very familiar with them.  There was a complicated costume change where I had to wear some sort of Roman soldier chest plate under my dress shirt so that I could make a critical change quick enough.  I remembered rehearsing that part…or did I?

I’m really curious as to whether my dreams are picking up fragments of old dreams and I’m interpreting them as memories.  Or maybe I’m just being fooled into thinking I’ve dreamed about it before.  Broken down, it’s all just chemical and biological reactions.

I’m actually getting a little stressed out about it in my waking life, as well as my dream state.  I’m worried that I’m not creating more unique dreams but I’m stuck on the same recycled concepts.  I’m worried my dream memory is failing and my dreams will not be as fun as they used to.  Maybe my dreams will wind up just being similar to the real life of an old man with Alzheimer’s.  Am I there already?

Growing up at my dad’s house, we had an above ground pool.  I think it was about 4 feet high and 24 feet wide.  We loved when the water got low, because that meant that  Jay Gillis was coming over with his water truck to fill it up.  He’d take the hose from his truck, hook it up to the rim of the pool at an angle, and flip the switch on his truck to send gallons of water rushing into the pool, enough to create a decent current for a whirl pool.  It was awesome.

Mr. Gillis was more than our water guy, he was sort of a family friend.  His daughter, Janna,  went to school with us at Bentleyville Wesleyan.  Jay was a quiet guy though, and I think that’s why I enjoyed him so much.  When he would deliver water for our cistern, he’d go sit on our porch or play with our dogs, and I’d go out and hang with him.  Sometimes, I’d take him something to drink.  I didn’t want him to be out there by himself.

Anyway, after my parents had split, and my brother had died, our church attendance was sporadic at best.  One summer day, we did go to church, and Jay was there.  When the pastor asked what good news anyone had to share with the congregation, Jay raised his hand and stood up.  He said that he had delivered water to us the day before, and it just brought him so much joy to see us kids playing and laughing.  I was so stunned to see the quiet guy I admired so much speaking up to everybody about us.

What’s so great about that memory is that we were able to bring him joy.  I know he’s still around, and we have a few degrees of separation socially, so he may stumble across this, but Mr. Gillis played a big role in the happiness and maturing of my childhood.  He was a man that I respected, appreciated, and enjoyed.

Last year they didn’t have the class, but after 2 years, I walk back in to the class, see a few familiar faces, and all of them remember me.  They asked me if I’m bringing back in my large LEGO man I brought in for them last time.  They remember the class and what we did and want to know if we’re going to build a solid block of LEGO again to stand on.  Kids can be awesome.

I don’t want it to be sad.  I’d hope that friends and family that know me well would throw up gang signs in jest at my funeral.  Maybe even going as far as pouring out some champagne on the floor.  If I died in an accident, I’d hope that someone would do an impression of me saying, “what the crap” or “that was ballz.”  Death hath no sting.  I wouldn’t want to be remembered for being a boring “stand up citizen” or a “good person.”  I’d want to be known as the guy who just wanted to have a good time, love people, explore, and be creative.  I’ve said a few times before, I’d love to be buried viking style; body set on a raft and then set on fire and pushed out to sea.  I’d be screwed if we could feel pain after death…but whatever.