Guest Post by cz
Though I made money as a child mowing grass for neighbors and looking for then selling golf balls, I got my first official punch-in/punch-out job when I was 17. It was at a golf course that had a restaurant, hotel, and swimming pool. The job title was Maintenance, but I was primarily a dishwasher with some miscellaneous duties thrown in like washing and bringing out golf carts on the day shift, and gassing up and putting away golf carts on the afternoon/evening shift.
It was a great job for a 17 year old lunkhead as there were other 17 and 18 year old lunkheads there doing dumb young-guy stuff like drinking the leftover beer from golf outings, eating as much free food as we possibly could, having golf cart races after the sun went down, and checking out chicks at the swimming pool. Good times.
I had a buddy that worked as a front desk clerk for the hotel and golf course. He played guitar in a band, and we would often talk music and about our favorite guitar players and albums. He turned me on to Sweet’s Desolation Boulevard album and loaned me Led Zeppelin I so that could hear the entire album. He was a smoker and he always had a pack sitting on the counter.
One day I pulled one out of the pack and he pretty quickly said that I shouldn’t play with them because the next thing I’d want to do is put a cigarette in my mouth, and then I’d want to light one up. I was 17, so of course I thought he was crazy, and, no, that night I did not put a cigarette in my mouth and light one up. And though I don’t recall exactly when it happened, I eventually did, and before my eighteenth birthday I was buying my own packs of smokes.
Neither my mother nor my father smoked, but nearly all of my aunts and uncles did, and my Grandma (my mom’s mom) did. As a child I enjoyed the smell of cigarette smoke, especially when they were first lit, and I really enjoyed the rare times when I would catch a whiff of someone smoking a pipe. I noticed when my uncle Jay would prepare a cigarette, tapping it filter side down on the arm of his chair in the living room, packing it down. He took his time. He really got the most out of those Kents.
My wife and I went for a hike this past July, only about two miles: Start at the old mill, walk along one side of the creek, cross a bridge, and walk back to the mill on the other side of the creek. Not really challenging as it’s a well-worn path, no major hills, but you are occasionally climbing some rocks and crawling over some logs, especially after storms have made their way through the area. The park is beautiful with huge rocks all around, steep hillsides, and a beautiful creek that runs fast through many sections.
Some good whitewater for the kayakers. What became a problem was making our way back to where our car was parked. The trail’s in the valley and the parking lot is at the top of the hill. There are many stairs with small landings winding back and forth up the hill from the mill, then a long grade to the parking lot.
My wife’s in decent shape. She jogs, walks, and hits the gym regularly. She’s into fitness, but she’s not a workout lunatic. She’s a lunatic in other ways. Anyhow, she led the way up the steps and I was basically just trying to keep up. We made it up all the stairs and started on the long, graveled, uphill grade which was the last leg to the parking lot. My heart was pounding fast and I was truly struggling to get a breath. At this point I was lagging behind.
It’s amazing how quickly the mind works/races when put in unexpected situations. I wasn’t panicking, but I thought “Hmm, I could die right here. There’s no help anywhere even close, and if I can’t breathe this could could get bad fast.” So I stopped and rested for a few minutes, let my heart calm down, and did my best to take relaxed breaths. My wife didn’t freak out, but she was concerned. We made it back to the car without incident, but I felt defeated and very sad. If it was just me I could have kicked the bucket right there pretty peacefully, but when I thought of my wife, son, step-daughters, and step-grandkids, I was feeling low. I still have a lot of work to do.
It’s a deep gut introduction of sorts, coming eye to eye with consequences that took decades to, at least partially, materialize. It’s having a revelation of what I can only describe as selfishness coupled with a willing ignorance to think that nothing would come from this 40 year (!) abuse of my body. In a way I’m amazed at the abuse the human body can endure.
The day of our hike wasn’t even two months ago, but it’s still blurry to me. Pretty sure I still smoked the rest of that day, but the next day I quit and haven’t smoked since. I can’t say it’s been easy and without temptation, but it’s been fine and getting better. I will say that the absolute hardest part of this whole quitting thing has been the HABIT.
I do indeed pray to the Lord Jesus Christ to help me find productive ways to occupy idle hands. I hope to play more guitar, read more, and continue multiple projects around our humble home. Yesterday I baked a loaf of sourdough and pickled a few quarts of banana peppers I grabbed from the garden. It’s moment by moment every day. I’m thankful His compassion never fails and is new every morning.
I haven’t talked about this in-depth to anyone except my wife. This is the first “thing” I’ve ever written since high skool. I’ve been a reader of the great TBP and of the awesome comment section for many years, and just wanted to share a little snapshot in the life of a joe shmoe from a small town in Pennsylvania.
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[ H/T The Burning Platform ]
Though I made money as a child mowing grass for neighbors and looking for then selling golf balls, I got my first official punch-in/punch-out job when I was 17. It was at a golf course that had a restaurant, hotel, and swimming pool. The job title was Maintenance, but I was primarily a dishwasher with some miscellaneous duties thrown in like washing and bringing out golf carts on the day shift, and gassing up and putting away golf carts on the afternoon/evening shift.
It was a great job for a 17 year old lunkhead as there were other 17 and 18 year old lunkheads there doing dumb young-guy stuff like drinking the leftover beer from golf outings, eating as much free food as we possibly could, having golf cart races after the sun went down, and checking out chicks at the swimming pool. Good times.
I had a buddy that worked as a front desk clerk for the hotel and golf course. He played guitar in a band, and we would often talk music and about our favorite guitar players and albums. He turned me on to Sweet’s Desolation Boulevard album and loaned me Led Zeppelin I so that could hear the entire album. He was a smoker and he always had a pack sitting on the counter.
One day I pulled one out of the pack and he pretty quickly said that I shouldn’t play with them because the next thing I’d want to do is put a cigarette in my mouth, and then I’d want to light one up. I was 17, so of course I thought he was crazy, and, no, that night I did not put a cigarette in my mouth and light one up. And though I don’t recall exactly when it happened, I eventually did, and before my eighteenth birthday I was buying my own packs of smokes.
Neither my mother nor my father smoked, but nearly all of my aunts and uncles did, and my Grandma (my mom’s mom) did. As a child I enjoyed the smell of cigarette smoke, especially when they were first lit, and I really enjoyed the rare times when I would catch a whiff of someone smoking a pipe. I noticed when my uncle Jay would prepare a cigarette, tapping it filter side down on the arm of his chair in the living room, packing it down. He took his time. He really got the most out of those Kents.
My wife and I went for a hike this past July, only about two miles: Start at the old mill, walk along one side of the creek, cross a bridge, and walk back to the mill on the other side of the creek. Not really challenging as it’s a well-worn path, no major hills, but you are occasionally climbing some rocks and crawling over some logs, especially after storms have made their way through the area. The park is beautiful with huge rocks all around, steep hillsides, and a beautiful creek that runs fast through many sections.
Some good whitewater for the kayakers. What became a problem was making our way back to where our car was parked. The trail’s in the valley and the parking lot is at the top of the hill. There are many stairs with small landings winding back and forth up the hill from the mill, then a long grade to the parking lot.
My wife’s in decent shape. She jogs, walks, and hits the gym regularly. She’s into fitness, but she’s not a workout lunatic. She’s a lunatic in other ways. Anyhow, she led the way up the steps and I was basically just trying to keep up. We made it up all the stairs and started on the long, graveled, uphill grade which was the last leg to the parking lot. My heart was pounding fast and I was truly struggling to get a breath. At this point I was lagging behind.
It’s amazing how quickly the mind works/races when put in unexpected situations. I wasn’t panicking, but I thought “Hmm, I could die right here. There’s no help anywhere even close, and if I can’t breathe this could could get bad fast.” So I stopped and rested for a few minutes, let my heart calm down, and did my best to take relaxed breaths. My wife didn’t freak out, but she was concerned. We made it back to the car without incident, but I felt defeated and very sad. If it was just me I could have kicked the bucket right there pretty peacefully, but when I thought of my wife, son, step-daughters, and step-grandkids, I was feeling low. I still have a lot of work to do.
It’s a deep gut introduction of sorts, coming eye to eye with consequences that took decades to, at least partially, materialize. It’s having a revelation of what I can only describe as selfishness coupled with a willing ignorance to think that nothing would come from this 40 year (!) abuse of my body. In a way I’m amazed at the abuse the human body can endure.
The day of our hike wasn’t even two months ago, but it’s still blurry to me. Pretty sure I still smoked the rest of that day, but the next day I quit and haven’t smoked since. I can’t say it’s been easy and without temptation, but it’s been fine and getting better. I will say that the absolute hardest part of this whole quitting thing has been the HABIT.
I do indeed pray to the Lord Jesus Christ to help me find productive ways to occupy idle hands. I hope to play more guitar, read more, and continue multiple projects around our humble home. Yesterday I baked a loaf of sourdough and pickled a few quarts of banana peppers I grabbed from the garden. It’s moment by moment every day. I’m thankful His compassion never fails and is new every morning.
I haven’t talked about this in-depth to anyone except my wife. This is the first “thing” I’ve ever written since high skool. I’ve been a reader of the great TBP and of the awesome comment section for many years, and just wanted to share a little snapshot in the life of a joe shmoe from a small town in Pennsylvania.
Tweet
Continue reading...
[ H/T The Burning Platform ]
