Old Trucks and Road Trips

High-mileage, early-model truck. Perfect for work or weekend projects. Some scratches and dings, no serious damage. Cranky starts, needs lots of TLC, but reliable. AM/FM radio with after-factory 8-track player. Still works!

Some people write their own obituaries. When I hit my early 50s, I drafted this classified ad as a favor to my wife, just in case she was inclined to put me on the market. The prompt was a visit to my doctor, whose evaluation changed from “You know, Mr. Bowden, you’re in pretty good shape for a man your age” to “You know, Mr. Bowden, it’s not unusual for a man your age to … (fill in the blank).”

I’m 54 years old and beginning work on a master’s program, which might also be a bit unusual for a man my age. Unfortunately, the first few steps have prompted some additional disclosures for my ad:

Subject to misfires. Shifts gears without warning. Needs LOTS of TLC. Owner’s manual lost.

I’m not sure if unintentionally cancelling my GRE after responding to the first question generated the ad re-write; but I do know there’s at least one young GRE monitor who was kind enough not to say, “You know, Mr. Bowden, it’s not unusual for a man your age …”

I loved earning my bachelor’s degree in mass communications. Learning the “tools of the trade” and actually seeing my work in print was thrilling. Now, as a 30-year marketing and communications professional returning for my master’s in journalism, I can’t wait to use those same tools to craft something spectacular. Maybe even give the ol’ truck a tune-up.

But the process is aging me. It began with studying for the GRE, where I found my old friends English and Math referred to as Verbal and Quantitative. My inner-Dorothy was warning me that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. I floundered through the e-application process, each step asking, “What do I do next?” And each time hearing, “The website explains it all to you.”

I am too old to be back in school. If the application process is this difficult, how am I going to do the course work? This is a young person’s game. Let’s put this ol’ truck back in the garage.

Cheap or best offer. Spare tire included. Will deliver.

In fairness to all involved … a few years ago, I found my elementary school report cards, and “Needs Improvement” appears as a consistent theme for “Listens to and follows instructions.” Unfortunately, I haven’t changed. I now approach projects with the joyous, decades-honed disdain of a man who amuses himself with his best bandito accent (stealing loosely from The Treasure of Sierra Madre): “We don’t need no stinkin’ instructions.”

One of the joys of reaching 54 is learning that stuff happens, and that it’s only stuff. It’s not the end of the world (like it might’ve been when I was 18). Pay attention, read the instructions, listen to that helpful person from the school who’s trying to save you from yourself, and make it happen (I hate having to give myself the same advice I give my kids).

So, here I am, typing my Introductory Reflective Essay on my new laptop. I laughed when I explained to my wife that it’s the same 12-point, double-spaced, serif-font format that I pounded out on a manual typewriter when I was learning to write for the University Press.

Back then, I was picking up new communications tools, marveling at the creative ways they could be used, and loading them into my truck (1977 Chevy step side pick-up, three-on-the-tree) for the welcome-to-rest-of-your-life road trip. Three decades later, I’m sharpening those tools, still marveling at the craftsmanship they allow, and, once again, loading them up for the road trip’s next leg.

And I love to drive!

Double Feature

Daughter #1 at Texas Tech; son at DeVry in Austin

Just another Saturday night

When daughter #1 left for college a couple of years ago, I told a friend that our house felt like it was missing a huge source of energy. Fortunately/unfortunately, I've gotten used to a no-teen house.

Social butterfly was the description used by #1's 6th-grade teachers during one of those 'I'm-so-sorry' parent-teacher conferences. In high school, especially her senior year, she became a custom-fitted, hyper-charged social bumblebee . . . on steroids (note to all her former coaches and UIL officials -- that was joke). Her activities were the driving force behind just about everything on our schedules, and it seemed like we often went into the fourth quarter working on adrenaline alone. 'Our' senior year was exhausting.

She's home for a couple of weeks during her winter break, and she really hasn't done anything disruptive or illegal or of questionable safety or sense -- yet -- (except bring home what I hope is a friend's dog . . . she said the friend told HER mom that the dog belongs to ANOTHER friend . . . both friends have gone on vacations with their parents during the break), but the energy has returned.

Not the feel-great, charged-up, let's-tackle-Everest energy, but the kind that crashes atoms into whatever atoms crash into and makes basic elements realign with other basic elements to create whatever B-movie creature that inevitably crawls out of the sand following a nuclear test.

I THINK it's the dog (un-house-trained, rat-sized, three-sweatered chihuahua-dachschund mix), although it's not a bad dog. And I THINK it's daughter #2, now an only child and an early-years victim of our attention to #1, who dearly loves and admires her older sister and who's determined to keep our floor from dirtying the dog's paws. But I KNOW that it's because my Lost-in-Space-Danger-Will-Robinson force field and daughter-repellant wife is out of town (my wife's been the 'don't worry, I'll talk to dad; he'll be fine' kind of mom for our daughters).

Actually, everybody's gone now: #1 took dog to do something possibly disruptive or illegal or of questionable safety or sense. #2's at a birthday sleepover, and wife is still out of town; went out with her sister this evening, probably to do something disruptive or illegal or of questionable safety or sense.

Hello-hello-hello-hello . . . okay, let's turn the energy back up. You can come back now. I'm done enjoying my quiet evening . . .