THOU SHALT NOT SQUANDER

At this stage in my life - admittedly a late stage - I am searching for meaning. Answers to those musical questions,  “What’s it all about, Alfie?,” or “Is That All There Is?”. I need more compelling guidelines for the time ahead than watching my salt and fat intake, eating plenty of fiber, staying off ladders, and being “mindful.”

So I’m reading a couple of books about this sort of thing. One of the books is by a Buddhist Zen master and best-selling author, fairly impressive credentials and certainly far above my limited literary abilities. The other book is a compilation of thoughts and quotes for each day of the year, from January 1 to December 31. As if you hadn’t figured that out. Admittedly I came across this book in the middle of the year, but I cheat occasionally and read something from an earlier month. Chronology is not essential to effectiveness. 

I came across a phrase or a quote, not sure which, that I find meaningful. In fact, it’s so meaningful that I wrote it on an index card and taped it to my office door. It says, “I will look upon this day as a gift, not to be squandered.” I like that thought. It usually helps me get out of bed in the morning. Usually, but not always. Sometimes I begin the worrying process as soon as I open my eyes. “What kind of worries?” you may ask. The usual culprits. The roof, the furnace, the screens, the yard, the woodpecker who arrived a few days ago, that pain in my lower back, that pain in my right shoulder (can I play tennis today?), my heart, my liver, my kidneys, my teeth. It’s a really long list, and with very little effort I could stay in bed until noon just running through all the possibilities that might befall me that day, or certainly tomorrow.

Most of the time, at least since I discovered that phrase, I simply say to myself, “I will look upon this day as a gift, not to be squandered.” And I’ll pop out of bed, throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, feed the dog, make coffee, decide on Shredded Wheat or Plenty O’Fiber (or whatever it’s called), and I am on my way to positive, constructive things. Recently I’ve added a 15-minute meditation to that morning ritual, guided by an app on my iPad. 

Not this morning though. I let Lexi out and heard the rhythmic drumming of the Kirkwood High School Marching Band in the distance. They were practicing for this weekend’s football clash. I like marching bands, so Lexi and I jumped into the car, even before coffee, and hurried over to the football field. Sure enough, the band was lined up, all three thousand of them (at least that’s how it seemed), in school clothes. Yes, uniforms are a necessity for a band. Just like The Music Man said.  

We listened for about ten minutes, then came home where I resumed the morning ritual. It was actually an energizing way to start my day. I don’t know what song they were playing, but I don’t think John Phillip Sousa is on the top ten list anymore. (Side note: I played trumpet in the Washington U. ROTC Marching Band in 1956, until I bumped into a tuba player and cut my lip on my braces. Mom put an end to that right away.)

Back to that phrase. Here’s the word that sticks with me. “Squandered.” An interesting choice, that word. It’s not one you come across frequently, if at all. I can’t remember the last time someone used that in a sentence. I know what it means, as I’m sure you do. “To use or spend extravagantly or wastefully.” Ben Franklin wrapped it up neatly with “Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.” Amen, Ben.

I’m not going to give you any advice. You wouldn’t take it anyway. All I can say is that this “don’t squander” concept seems to work for me. On most days anyway.

But you’ve spent enough time reading this article. Don’t squander any more of your time. Go do something that makes you, or somebody else, feel good. You have the gift.

An Evening with Pasta, Wine and a Lambo

(Originally published in the Fall issue, 2018 of County Living Magazine, in my Random Musings column)

A friend named Alan recently invited me to his home for an evening of “hanging out with the guys.” These were friends of his whose wives were enjoying a “Girls Night Out.” Sounded like a proper thing to do, even though “girls” seems like a risky term these days. 

“You don’t know these guys,” said Alan, “but you’ll fit right in. We’ll sit around the pool, have some wine, and some pasta dishes I made for dinner.” I accepted. I had nothing else going and I liked the idea of pool, wine and pasta. He asked everyone to bring a bottle of red. Alan's rather particular about having the right wine to go with one of his meals. It's an admirable trait, one that is foreign to me since I'm not into wines. Give me a Tito's vodka or a Knob Creek bourbon and I'm happy.

That evening I was the last one there, having stopped at Total Wine for a bottle of medium-priced rose’, a good choice for summer drinking, so I’ve been told. Besides, red wine gives me a migraine. From the moment I pulled into his driveway in my 2013 Hyundai Elantra, I knew I had no business being there. It’s that “car thing,” a big deal with guys that closely ties the size of their net worth to their car. Mine is clearly reflected by my shiny red Hyundai.

I parked behind a 2018 white Mercedes convertible. It’s the model that grabs my attention when it passes me on the road. The Mercedes was behind a sleek new Infiniti SUV. Which was behind a new Lexus sedan and a sporty BMW or an Audi - I confuse the two. Sitting by itself, away from everyone else so it wouldn’t get scratched, was a white Lamborghini. This is a show stopper. These beauties start at $200,000 and rapidly escalate from there. 

I could own at least twenty Elantra’s for the price of one Lamborghini. Why, I wondered, would someone pay that much for a car to drive in a state where the maximum speed limit is 70 mph? The answer, of course, is because they can. 

As we sat around the pool - actually, next to it, on a patio; no one went swimming - a big, entertaining guy named named Bob asked a perfectly sun-tanned guy with a full head of beautifully-styled white hair a question I’ve never heard before. “Steve, how do you like your Lambo?”

Lambo! At first I wasn’t sure what a Lambo was. I started to laugh but realized it was a serious question. About what, I had no idea. “What’s not to like in a “Lambo?”, I almost said, always tempted to go for the cheap laugh. Steve casually said, “It’s a lot of fun.” Two or three hundred thousand dollars worth of fun on four wheels??? I don’t know what passes for fun in a Lambo but it sure isn’t going to Home Depot for a can of Rust-Oleum. 

And so the night progressed. The group was easy to be with. Lots of laughs, a relaxing banter, jokes both good and bad, golf stories. And I felt included - except for the golf. Never touch the stuff. After a delicious dinner of four different pastas prepared by Alan and a salad and a little more banter and wine, I was the first to say goodnight. I didn’t want them to see that pitiful little car I was driving. It didn’t work. They all decided it was time to leave. So there I was, trapped in the driveway while they climbed into their chariots and began to pull out. 

Look, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to spend a pile on a vehicle. If I had the money, I’d probably go for something that gets people to stare with envy and, as Mose Allison sings it, “makes little girls talk out of their heads.” The language of cars belongs to guys. I never heard women talk about their “Caddy” or a “Jag” or especially a Lambo. Of course that may change with the changing times. Along with “girls night out.”

One thing I regret - not asking Steve if he’d take me for a ride. Even to Home Depot. It’s probably as close to riding in a Lambo I’ll ever get.

(NOTE: Since this article ran in the Fall issue of County Living Magazine, I received an email from Steve. He offered to take me for a ride. To Costco. Fine by me. I like Costco better than Home Depot anyway.)