Let’s Go!

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Listener’s responses from my request last week:

—–

To the many of you who pulled your Subaru’s over last week and emailed me, thank you. For those who don’t know, I had a stroke about two weeks ago and am, thankfully, ok. I walked out of intensive care about twenty-four hours later. Other than a fistful of pills every day, I’m back to normal. And as I said last week, it was close and I got lucky.

My request last week was what does this all mean? I got very close, received an enormous outpouring of support, and got stuck on the question, “What’s it all mean?”

The emails from listeners had three consistent themes: gratitude, the small things, and people.

Lara Shows emailed to say “find joy in every day even in the mundane things” which I tried to put to use in the Atlanta airport Sunday with a delayed flight. I watched the planes come and go, tried to enjoy it versus getting upset about the delay.

Lawrence Hughey of Mobile and I exchanged a few emails. He wrote “all of us are surrounded everyday by blessings and miracles but we don’t see them. Our vision is faulty and limited. But for you,” Lawrence continued, “I’m betting your vision is greatly improved at this point.” And it is, Lawrence, and I hope to never lose that vision and I know I have to work to keep it.

There was Andrew Willis who works at Alabama Public Radio. He began as an intern where one of his first jobs was learning to edit audio content and used my commentaries years ago as practice. He’s now the Assistant Program Director and Radio Producer. His message: “It’s not about the lifestyle changes that you need to make, but the relationships you have with people. Set aside more time for those relationships. That’s where you really make a difference.”

Andrew, I don’t know if I make a difference or not, but I do remember lying on that table in the hospital and telling my wife I’m not ready to die yet. The imagine in my head was of my children and how badly I want to watch them grow up and celebrate all the chapters in their life that lie ahead. I’m not ready to acquiesce that dream yet. And I’ve made some subtle changes with them already.

In the movie It’s A Wonderful Life, George Bailey’s guardian angel, Clarence, says, “You’ve been given a great gift George: A chance to see what the world would look like without you.” I was not given that gift, but I the stroke I had two weeks ago was a big scare. And I’m going to decide it was a gift and see what I can do differently going forward to try to make a difference.

My doctors told me to take it easy but get back to living. And all this rumination on life and such along with waves of emotion have been exhausting and they’ve left me feeling a bit melancholy. I’m ready to take my newfound lessons and move forward, renewed.

If you offered thoughts for me, I can’t thank you deeply enough. Truly, thank you.

Now, let’s get going.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

 

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Stroke of Luck

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It was big. I got lucky. And I’m not sure what to think about it.

—–

My wife and I moved to Mobile in 2007. We had four children ages four and under and needed cheap arms and laps – better knowns as family – to help through this overwhelming time. We committed to staying awhile so my wife and I did our best to invest ourselves in our community. That investment manifest itself last week.

Last Tuesday morning about 8:30 I was on the treadmill. About 8:35 I was mumbling, drooling, the left side of my face was sagging, and I was leaning against the wall. About 9:20am I was rolled into the University of South Alabama emergency room from the ambulance. The stroke code team was waiting. My femoral artery became the channel for a catheter thingy that went into my brain’s right side with a grabber thingy on the end, surrounded a blood clot and removed it. I was fully functional moments later and I walked out of intensive care unit on my own the following afternoon. No damage. It was close. I got lucky.

In the uncertain moments I learned many of our friends, the families we know, our church community and so many others asked God to wrap his arms around me, to cloak me in his protection, to lift me up. Massive quantities of food have materialized. Flowers, too. Calls, texts. Notes and gifts from strangers in our mailbox. My wife and my community showed up to a degree I’m not sure I deserve. I’m beyond humbled and, honestly, am struggling with it a bit.

The stroke was not a consequence of lifestyle choices. My doctors can’t say “I told you so” because, per all the data, I’m in very good health. Which makes me ask, what’s the lesson here? What’s the takeaway? How do I change? What should I change? Or should I even change other this new diet of blood thinners? Should this event move me but not change me or change me but not move me. I don’t know.

The outpouring of support has caught me off guard. So many people have contacted me, my wife, my kids, my father, my brothers, all to check on me. All expressing gratitude that I’m Ok. My eyes have been regularly wet for well over a week, and they are again right now – not because of what almost happened, but because of what did happen – a gush of support. I’m unsure I deserve it.

I hoped to finish with an impactful lesson from all this. But I don’t have one. Truthfully, I don’t know what to do or say. I don’t know what to think about it.

Certainly some of you listening have similar stories. Stroke. Heart attack. Car wreck. Something. What’s time taught you? What’s the lesson? I need my intelligent and vocal public radio listeners to pull your Subarus to the side of the road and go to CamMarston.com where you can email me or call and leave a message. What’s all this mean? What’s the grand take away? I need your guidance. I’ll share what you share next week.

Until then, I’m Cam Marston and I am truly grateful to be here.

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Camping

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I’ve been offered an invitation to go camping…

—–

Years ago, my wife and I got a deal on some camping equipment. We headed into the North Carolina mountains to a creek camp site and set up our fancy new tent and tried out our new gear. When night fell, we unpacked our fancy new sleeping bags that were rated to keep us warm well below that night’s low temperature, climbed in, and waited to get warm. And we waited. And we waited. Then we started shivering. Teeth began chattering. After an interminable amount of time, I asked my wife what time it was. “Ten PM,” she said. The night wasn’t even half over. It was awful. As soon as there was any hint of daylight we packed up, hiked out, drove home, climbed in bed. That was well over twenty years ago. The cold got into my bones that night and has never left. I’ve still not warmed up.

Mankind, and especially Western society, has gotten soft. In fact, a book called The Comfort Crisis documents this and I’m right in the crosshairs of that book. Humans have figured out how to make nearly any environment on earth more and more and more comfortable. Along the way we’ve lost some toughness, some resilience. At the same time, however, I don’t think the solution to too much comfort is to seek discomfort.

And this is on my mind right now as I have, once again, been invited to go camping. I have a certain friend who claims to love camping. And I think he really does. But he has a hard time finding anyone to go with him. He invites me multiple times each year. The reason that no one joins him is that we know camping is not fun. It is unfun. It is the inverse of fun. It is proactively seeking discomfort. And this current invitation involved a five and half hour drive one way to sleep on the cold ground for one cold night and then drive home. And I’ll say it again: Five-and-a-half-hour drive. Sleep on the ground. Very cold night. Drive home. Un-fun.

For two summers during college, I worked in Glacier National Park in Montana. Each summer I planned to become a camping savant. Each summer I camped one time and never did it again. I lay there all night hoping a grizzly bear would come maul me because it’s got to be better than this.

The idea of camping is glorious. Nature and hiking and self-sufficiency and wildlife and all that. It’s romantic. But it’s like horses. I love the idea of being a horse person. But I’ve been around horses. They’re big and they’re strong and they spook easily and run very very fast and I’ve learned that I love the idea of being a horse person. But I have no interest in actually being a horse person. The same is true with camping.

It disgusts my friend when I tell him this, but on a pretty night when the wind is out of the north with low humidity in the air, I’ll open my bedroom window and throw an extra blanket on the bed. And that’s as close as I’m gonna get to camping.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

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Too Much Bottom

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What my wife and I saw on my recent business trip to a Bahamas resort was more than enough.

—–

My wife and I spent four nights at a Bahamas resort on a business trip and here are my observations. Here’s what I saw.

First, I remember hearing that most traffic accidents happen within five miles of the driver’s home. Seems inverse of what you’d expect. The reason? When you’re driving through your home territory, you’re so familiar with the roads, the traffic, the scenery and such that you let your guard down. The familiarity and the routine make you vulnerable to carelessness. When you’re out of your home territory, you slow down, take notice of what’s around you, and are cautious.

The same can be applied to people at a vacation resort. We were all strangers in an unfamiliar place, carefully navigating around each other in sometimes tight quarters and sometimes long lines, like drivers navigating unfamiliar roads. We were all polite and accommodating. Everyone was on their best behavior.

And the resort was huge – 2500 rooms – on 1000 acres fronting the beach. It was more Six Flags amusement park than a beachfront resort. There was a water park. And there were one million places to get overpriced food and two million places to get a very overpriced drink.

We heard at least five different languages. We saw lots of what I think were Orthodox Jews – it’s not something we see a lot in south Alabama, so I’m not sure – and quite a few people dressed in what I think was Muslim attire. There were same-sex couples of all ages and mixed-race couples of all ages. There were people dressed luxuriously as they walked through the huge casino, and some dressed like they lived under a bridge. However, for the most part, there were no sideways glances. No looks up and down. Just lots of acceptance, space, and privacy in close quarters. It was nice. However, there was one notable exception.

The one thing my wife and I saw way too much of was very, very small bikini bottoms. Actually, the reverse is true. We saw very little of the bikini bottom, it being so small, and a whole lot of what the bikini bottom was not covering. Bottoms were everywhere. Everywhere. Call me a prude. Call me whatever you want, but it was way too much. Many of those displaying were young girls and I felt awkward being around it. But there was no escaping it. If I looked towards the ocean, they walked in front of me. As I stood in line for a towel, there they were. At the pool. At the poolside restaurant. They were even walking inside through the casino late in the day. Bottoms. Lots and lots of bottoms.

It appears, with the way things are going, many of the women at that resort will soon be emulating the same bikini bottom Eve wore in the Garden of Eden. The majority of them were most of the way there and, well, I wish they weren’t. This old fuddy duddy wanted to say, “Pardon me, miss, at the risk of being rude, I don’t care what the fashion trends today are, do yourself and the rest of us a favor and please put on some pants.”

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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Roast or Toast

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My wife invited some friends to a birthday gathering and gave them two options…

——

My birthday was last week. Right now, my wife is inviting friends to dinner and asking them to come and either roast me or toast me and if I were this invitation, I know what I’d do.

I’m not sure if it’s me and my friends or just males or just certain types of males, but I’d roast me. My friends and I constantly work hard to roast each other whenever we can. It’s savage exchange whenever we’re together.

For example: When I walk into my gym the head trainer starts trash-talking me as soon as he sees me. He leaves no stone unturned in his evisceration of me. And I smile and laugh at his creativity and usually come back with something like “I didn’t think it was possible for someone to gain that much weight since yesterday. You’re like a plump, wet snowball rolling down a hill. I wouldn’t tell anyone you own this gym looking like you do – it’s not good for business.” However, he and I have shared some of the most thought-provoking conversations I’ve had in recent times.

Another one – Several weeks ago I nearly stopped writing these commentaries and I shared my reasoning with a friend.  “Cam,” he said, “all of your commentaries are bad and some of them are actually worse than bad.” He then handed me his phone to show where he’d downloaded every one of them and had book-marked some to listen to again and again and others he shares with friends who he felt would enjoy them and others still he shares with people who he feels needs to hear them. It was a generous gesture on the heels of a sharp poke at me. In return, I won’t let him forget the nearly spectacular meal he cooked back in December. He, however, admitted that the meat was a bit undercooked. And now, that’s all I talk about with him now – his undercooked meal which was almost good but was not.

The model of these roasts is, upon greeting – especially when there is a small crowd – loudly roast and eviscerate. We tell each other how badly each other looks with a beard. After they shave, we tell them we preferred the beard since it hid their face. We discuss each other’s incompetence in their job. It goes on and on. The only thing off the table are wives and children – we don’t include them. Do we discuss our wives’ and children’s disappointment in each other as husbands, fathers, role models, partners? Of course. That is a layup. That’s table stakes. Quietly and interpersonally, though, out of earshot of the group, we dial down the roasting and offer compliments and appreciation though sparingly.

It’s strange how weird yet comfortable this all is. It’s strange and weird how much I look forward to a brutal assessment of me whenever I step into a place where friends are gathered.

So, to my friends who will join me for my roast or toast party, bring your best. I’m not worried. I know each of you well and know none of you are smart enough to bring anything that could sting.

I’m Cam Marston and I will probably regret saying that.

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Sad Anniversary

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My mother died a year ago. Cleaning out her home office brought about some questions for my father and me as we gathered her things. 

——

My mother died nearly one year ago today. It was March 5^th, the day after my birthday. I think of her frequently. Last week, my wife, my daughter, and my son and I placed purple flowers on her headstone for her birthday. Purple was her favorite color. We bought a purple orchid on the way home to remind us of her and it’s now sitting in the kitchen window.

Last week I said in an interview that doing these commentaries helps me process things, they help me think through things that I’m seeing or that are going on inside.

Which leads me to a somber day several weeks ago when my father and I cleaned out my mother’s home office. Lots of the stuff in there was easy to throw away – stuff that made no sense to either of us.

However, some of the things did make me pause. What do you do with your mother’s faded black and white pictures of family members from long, long ago that have no notes or identifiers on them? They were important enough to her to set aside. But, without her explanation, they’re no one to me. My dad and decided to keep them, hoping the decision about what to do would be easier when we found them again someday.

And I came across a Ziploc bag full of inspirational and spiritual and motivational quotes she’d had collected for what appeared to be half her life. Some were torn out of books. Many appeared hurriedly handwritten in her beautiful handwriting before the disease took her ability to write. Like she heard it and quickly captured it on a receipt or a church bulletin. There were probably two hundred of them. They meant something to her. Maybe, they even shaped her in some way or another. The ideals and attitudes she cherished, that she’d taken the time to gather for many years, sat in a Ziplock bag in my hands. Without her explanation, though, they were meaningless.

Is it possible to capture someone, to gather who they were and how they engaged life in a plastic bag full of torn out pages and handwritten quotes? No, I don’t think so. But what do you do with something that was once so important to someone who’s now gone?

I’ve been a bit surprised by how quickly my mother has disappeared since her death one year ago. How quickly all of us who loved her have moved on. I remember her daily which, I suppose, should be no surprise.

And the same will happen to you and me. We will vanish from the lives of our cherished loved ones. They’ll come clean out our stuff and throw most of it away. We will be very gone. It’s what the wisdom teachers and philosophers have told us for thousands of years. And, of course, my mother cares the least about this. The benefit of the deceased they don’t have to make decisions about their stuff.

And I think about these things. Like r ight now. As I stare at a Ziplock back full of meaningless quotes now sitting on the edge of my desk that, in some unexplainable way, capture my mother.

I’m Cam Marston, and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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How to Embarrass Your Children

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Embarrassing your children is a parent’s obligation. It happened to me. I’m doing it to my kids. It’s part of the contract.

—— 

Here’s a guaranteed way to embarrass your teenaged child. In a restaurant, say loudly where other diners are close enough to hear: “Your mother and I are going to a clothing optional resort in the Bahamas next week. It will be nice for us to get back in touch with each other.” My fifteen-year-old favorite youngest daughter flushed red, buried her face in her hands, and said over and over again “Please stop, Dad. Please stop.” Which is, for me, a big win.

Please know my wife and I are NOT going to a clothing optional resort in the Bahamas next week. I am giving a speech at a banking conference in the Bahamas next week, but it is not at a clothing optional place nor is that the type of place I would ever go. In fact, when I take off my shirt at the beach, people usually shield the eyes from the glare and then run to splash water on me and say to each other “make sure his blowhole is clear.”

Embarrassing your children is a right of every parent. I’m sure some woke parents out there disagree but they’re simply wrong. It’s a right. It’s our duty.

I remember a summer day when my mother encouraged my friends and me – all of us teenagers at the time – to start a car washing business in the neighborhood. We were skeptical. She made up a jingle and suggested we go door to door singing it. “You’ll kill it,” she said, “The jingle alone will get you tons of business.” She then made up a dance and sang and danced in front of my friends. I flushed red, got angry, and quickly pushed my friends into my bedroom. Then a knock on my bedroom window. I pulled back the shade and my mother was now in the front yard dancing and singing the jingle. My friends laughing. Me an angry and embarrassed wreck.

On our twins last day of grade school years ago, my wife and I threw the car in park in the carpool line and began dancing. Grade school carpool was over forever and this deserved celebration. Our twins stood watching in horror on the curb.

Parents dancing seems to always do the trick. Watching middle aged people try to dance is typically very difficult to stomach. Children watching their middle-aged parents try to dance like cool kids and imitate the dances of the day puts their children into a spiral of embarrassment. And when the parents notice this, they double down and really go for it. Tik Toc is made up of such videos.

I’m fairly certain the ancient Greeks found way to embarrass their children. So much of our Western society today is made up of early Greek philosophies and concepts that one must imagine some part ancient Greek culture included embarrassing their children. It can’t be new.

Anyway, back to my favorite youngest daughter who is fifty percent of my twins. Embarrassing her in the restaurant last night was a big treat. Her face flushing red. Her head in her hands begging me to stop. A big win.

At least, sweetie, I didn’t mention how you wake up at night talking sweet to movie star Tom Holland and kissing your pillow with his picture on it.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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“Keepin’ It Real” Interview with KXCR’s Larry Bloomfield

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“Keepin’ It Real” is now broadcast on KXCR in Florence, Oregon. Larry Bloomfield invited me to be a guest on the station’s “KXCR Conversations” to talk about the commentaries. 

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The Arc of Beads

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The value of Mardi Gras beads peak when they’re under no ownership. It’s part of the silliness of my favorite time of year.

———

If you’re not listening in the deep south, you may not know that it’s Mardi Gras time for us derelicts and mystics living here on the top lip of the Gulf Coast. Ships from all over the world back in the day delivered a menagerie of people here where they threw their customs and traditions into one big gurgling pot and one of the results is Mardi Gras. The story I tell is that Mardi Gras was a time for people to dispose of food that would spoil during the fasting associated with Lent, which begins with Ash Wednesday next week, so they threw big parties to consume all the food. Is it the truth? I don’t know. It’s the story I’ve heard the most, so it’s the story I tell.

Folks from other places who now live here are fond of saying “I just don’t get Mardi Gras. It makes no sense.” And they’re right. It doesn’t. Don’t try to make sense of it. Just enjoy it. If you can’t enjoy it because it doesn’t make sense, stay away. L et us have our fun.

Take Mardi Gras beads as one of many examples. The value of a typical strand of Mardi Gras beads can range from a few cents per strand to a few dollars. So, for argument’s sake, let’s assume one of the strands I bought at the bead store last weekend for my parade cost one dollar. It was likely made for a few cents by some poor underpaid child somewhere operating massive machine and wondering what in the world these beads things are used for and why they need so many. Nevertheless, the bead store paid maybe forty cents for it. Its value shot to a dollar when I paid for it at the register. However, the highest value of those beads cannot be assigned a number and was not when it was owned by the manufacturer, the retailer, or me. The highest value of the beads was when those beads were ownerless after I had tossed it from my hand, and it curved in gentle arc through the air and began its descent. In those moments the beads were in the air, grown men and women, aggressive children, and people who are normally friendly neighbors saw the beads and used NBA style block-outs, tremendous jumps, karate chops and tae kwon do style elbows to friend’s ribcages to classes to catch ’em.

Once caught, the beads went around a neck for a short time. Or they disappeared into a bag already full of them. Or were tossed on top of a pile of other beads just like it. Or, they could very likely been given away to a complete stranger. Once secured and under new ownership, the bead’s value vanished instantly. In a week they’ll be in the trash.

It makes no sense to spend so much money buying beads, then give them away, only for them to ultimately be thrown away. No sense at all. But that’s Mardi Gras. If you try to apply logic to it, you’ll scream.

And, frankly, I can’t get enough of it.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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