An Author's Tale: One Day at a Time

Char and I drove to Clovis, NM this weekend to get our yearly half-cord of firewood.

I burn real wood in my fireplace. No gas logs for me, certainly none of those paper-wrapped “fire-logs.” Sorry, Duraflame, but I say zero heat and zero atmosphere.

In our teens, my brother Craig and I owned a firewood lot. Sold oak and piñon for $40 a cord. Yep, inflation hit the wood business.

I have friends who say they’ve tried real logs, but just can’t get them to burn. Not to worry. Here are Mike’s three tips to successful fires:

1. Use well-seasoned wood. That’s why, despite the 90-mile drive, we go to David’s. Enough said.
2. Leave several inches of ash in the fireplace. Provides a good bed for those hot coals.
3. Use enough wood. 1 log—don’t even think about it; 3 logs—won’t burn;  4 logs—might burn; 5 logs—will burn (I  put three lengthwise on the bottom and cross with two on top).

So get the real stuff this year and enjoy one of the best pleasures of colder weather.

“Some say people who have extramarital affairs are looking for one. I say it’s more like what happened to me on that bridge. One has an affair not because he is—but because he isn’t—looking.”

So begins my memoir, Bicycling through the Midlife Crisis, now available as an ebook on Amazon’s Kindle and the Barnes and Noble Nook.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever written. 

For I’ve tried to be brutally honest about the unfaithfulness that ended my career over 20 years ago, a failure that—if it hadn’t been for the stubborn love of a wife I don’t deserve—would have ended my marriage, too. 

Why tell this embarrassing story? Because writing it down has brought insight, healing and renewal to both Charlotte and me. 

And because I’m pretty sure reading it will do the same for others. 

So I hope you’ll read my story. And I hope you’ll pass it along to others, too.  

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Order on the Amazon Kindle or Barnes and Noble’s Nook or read a few chapters free on my website.

The preacher’s sermon was on forgiveness. You know, the passage that says we have to forgive others: No matter what (read it for yourself—Matthew 18).

Over the years, I think I’ve done pretty well with the command—those of us who have received much forgiveness tend to give it—except when it came to C.

Oh, I’ve said the words. “God, I forgive C” or “I want to forgive C.” But the phrase sounded hollow and insincere. Because it was.

And I couldn’t figure out why—why couldn’t I let go of the resentment?

Until Sunday, when I finally realized what I needed to forgive C for. At various times I thought he had lied about me, or judged me, or turned people against me.

But with each of these charges, I knew the evidence was inconclusive. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see.

Because I was hurt.

And didn’t realize why. Until Sunday.

When the chips were down, when I needed him most, my friend didn’t stand up for me, didn’t protect me, didn’t support me, wasn’t my defender, my advocate, my cheerleader.

And somehow on Sunday I saw all that, and seeing it helped me let go of the resentment.

Maybe because I realized how hard it would have been for him to do that, to take my side when few others did.

And maybe because I know I’ve been guilty of the same; I’ve sometimes failed to be an advocate for my friends.

Which is what Matthew 18 is about, refusing to forgive others for the same sins we commit. Ouch.

I need a personal assistant. Scratch that. I need several personal assistants.

Just read an article on solitude and leadership by William Deresiewicz. In a speech to the cadets at West Point, this Yale professor bemoans the fact that modern leaders are so busy they have little time for necessary things, things that build great leaders.

Like deep conversation with a few friends or reading good books (especially the older classics). Deresiewicz says we’re too busy with superficial chats (Twitter and Facebook) and a load of extracurricular activities (clubs or activities one must join to advance in a bureaucratic society).

Back to my problem. It’s not Facebook or elective activities that are making me need more me’s. My struggle isn’t with things one can eliminate or delegate.

How do you delegate deep reading? Or a consistent prayer life? Or important relationships with people you care about? Or causes you’ve given your life to?

People my age tend to dream of an uncluttered retirement, one where you can spend one afternoon after another on the golf course or fishing a favorite stream.

But that’s not what I want. Not yet anyway. I love what I’m doing. I’m just frustrated that I can’t do it all, in a timely manner that is.

Which may be the problem. What do I consider “timely”? Maybe my problem isn’t trying to attempt too much stuff, but trying to fit the stuff into too few days.

Hmm. Sounds like I need to work on expectations and scheduling.

Roy would have chuckled at the thought.

Roy who was born in a dugout on the Palo Duro, who as a child didn’t have electricity or running water in his home, who rode a horse because it was the only means of transportation available.

The very idea: Four grown men traveling horseback in rugged mountain country without modern conveniences.

And for what?

Maybe it’s something Roy wouldn’t understand—that modernization took as well as gave.

What modern conveniences took (stole?) from us was a connection to the outdoors, something unattainable vicariously through mere words or photos. Even a car window can blur it.

Can’t explain it any better.

All I know is that I’ve felt rain and sun on my face, looked at a sky filled with stars undimmed by city lights and heard coyotes welcoming the morning.

Yep. I already miss it

Truchas Lake seen from Truchas Peak

Maybe I shouldn’t have identified myself as an English teacher.

I’m referring to our guides on the Pecos trip. First, they tell me my horse is the one they put six-year-olds on. Then, I’m told I can’t adjust the stirrups or tighten the cinch myself. Finally, I’m asked to stand on a stump to mount.

All in the first five minutes.

Give me a break. I’m no cowboy. Never claimed to be. I don’t rope, don’t climb on bucking broncs (intentionally, that is) and don’t look good in a Stetson.

But–trip name not withstanding—I’m no city slicker.

The teenage me would have done something really stupid. Like spurring the horse to a gallop and attempting some impressive turns and stops. If I had, pretty sure I would have either fallen off the horse or got kicked off the ride.

So the older me decided to just go with it and try to gain some respect along the way. And maybe give some as well.

After all, I’m thinking, the guides probably had an English teacher who looked at their boots and jeans and said “climb on the stump” (i.e. “we’ll start simple since you obviously can’t read or write”).

So I did what I do with my students. Looked for opportunities to draw them out and appreciate their accomplishments. Wasn’t hard. Huie, the head guide, graduated from New Mexico State with an agricultural science degree. His conversations about cloning and such convinced me this cowboy could be a successful professor. He has the mind for it (I told him as much).

And Emily, Huie’s niece, once was competitive jumping horses. Plus she uses the off-season to train to be a nurse.

Not sure if they changed their view of me.

But there was the day we rode six miles to Truchas Lakes. While the others rested, I climbed Truchas Peak (second highest in New Mexico). Did the 1500’ ascent in about 45 minutes.

“Hey English teacher,” said Huie, late that afternoon when we had unsaddled and were walking back to camp. “How do you feel”?

“Tired and hungry; what’s for dinner”?

His grin said it all.

Ray King looking towards southern Colorado

Averaging over 11,000 feet high and running for over 60 miles, the Skyline Trail is the longest in the Pecos Wilderness. We rode the 10-mile north section from Truchas Peaks (one of which I climbed) to Cebolla Park.

To the east we could see the abrupt drop to the plains of eastern New Mexico. To the north lay the southern Rockies of Colorado, and the treeless meadows on top were populated with elk (over 200 in one herd).

I think Heaven will be like that: beautiful and majestic, scary (in a good sense) and comforting.  And, most importantly, instructive.

For the high country gives perspective to the low country. Want to understand why those trails twist and turn as they do? Climb a mountain.

Want to understand life’s tribulations and trials? One day you’ll see them from the High Country.

This Thursday, when I join my buddies for a four-day horseback ride in New Mexico’s Pecos Wilderness, I will wear his hat.

It seems only fitting. For Roy knew horses the way I know books; he handled them every day. They were both his work and his pleasure.

You see Roy was born in 1904, a time when Chief Quanah Parker still lived in Oklahoma and Texas-Ranger-turned-cattle-driver Charles Goodnight still ran a herd of longhorns in the Texas Panhandle.

Hanging out with Roy is the closest I’ve come to experiencing the Old West face-to-face, something I also hope happens, at least in small measure, this week.

Oh, and Roy was more than just a man I once knew; I was related to him, sort of. You can read about it here.

As a child, my family took vacations every summer. Was never a question about where we would go. Our car always headed west, to the mountains of New Mexico and Colorado.

Which is where Charlotte and I will travel tomorrow—for three nights in Santa Fe and four in Ouray, Colorado.

Like a hot shower after a hard bicycle ride or an overdue visit with a good friend, the mountains refresh, relax and renew me. At least they provide the atmosphere where those things can happen.

This summer has been a hard one. Started with foot surgery and a long recovery for Charlotte. She’d say it was nothing—others go through much more—and she’d be right, but it was nonetheless painful and limiting and frustrating.

Then, because of school and writing projects, my work didn’t end in early July like it usually does. So I haven’t had time for extended reading, adventures and just hanging out the way I like to do in the second half of summer.

More significantly, we lost two good friends this summer, and this drought won’t go away. And—you get the picture.

“I will lift up my eyes to the mountains,” wrote the psalmist. “From where shall my help come?”

He found the answer. Hope I do, too.

Jack Danjczek and Brooke Bellah

Discovered two great allies in keeping small grandkids: older cousins and happy meals.

Yes, the granddaughters who saved Christmas also helped save my trip to Conner Park with three-year-old Jack. No one does better getting a little boy to try out the slide than cousins, especially older cousins, especially older female cousins, especially cute, older, female cousins.

And nothing makes granddad more of a hero than a trip to McDonald’s (or “Old McDonald’s” as Jack says it). Got him a happy meal with burger, fries, chocolate milk and a toy light sabre.

Wish they made happy meals for seniors.