100 Miles

Brandon Figliolino

100 Miles

February 19, 2018

            It was the last Saturday of June 2016. I had spent the past five hours with my butt on the saddle and my feet clipped-in to my pedals. My face was burnt from exposure to the sun, and my arms were caked in layers of sunscreen and insects. I hydrated myself with water and Gatorade, snacked on granola, apples, and lots of bananas. I relieved myself in hot, stench-ridden portable toilets. My bicycle and I shared the road with hundreds of other cyclists. My Instagram was updated frequently with spots I had visited: Erie, Niwot, Hygiene, Masonville, to name a few.

            It was the annual Colorado BIKE MS 150 ride, and I was having the time of my life.

            Having participated twice before, I was now a seasoned rider. I had cruised along at a great pace—the 500 miles of training that spring served me well! So far that day, I pedaled 60 miles, through the dreaded Horsetooth Reservoir, which had been a pain-point for me the previous two years. Horsetooth begins with a steady, long incline, before turning into steep switchbacks. It’s miserable, really.  

Despite the adversity that Horsetooth brought me, I made it down the hill. Gaining speed, I clamped my handlebars tight, and let out a triumphant roar.

My stride that day came with a choice. At the foot of Horsetooth, the road forked. Two electronic signs directed cyclists. To the right, we could beeline to the Fort Collin’s finish line, bringing our ride miles to 75 for the day. Cyclists who chose to turn left would add an additional 40 miles to their ride.

For obvious reasons, I veered left.

“Alright,” I said to myself. “Our first century. We’ve got this, right Caden?” I looked down at my bicycle.

He didn’t respond.  

The first year I participated in BIKE MS, I foolishly rode a mountain bike that weighed 30lbs—I could hardly ride the 75 miles before the sun began to set, let alone ride anything more than that.

I can’t remember why I didn’t ride the century my second year. Maybe I was being lazy and just wanted to rest with a beer. It was over 85 degrees that day, after all.

2016 was going to be my year! I was pumped. Nothing was going to stop me from hitting the goal I had just set for myself two minutes prior.

Then the road wrapped right back into Horsetooth. Uphill. Even steeper than before.

Well, shit, I thought out loud.

I jerked the bicycle into a lower gear. And then another. And another.

“Ugh! Why can’t I move?” I muttered to myself.

I couldn’t see any cyclists ahead of me. I looked over my shoulder. Two cyclists turned left, but a dozen others turned right.

Maybe they had the right idea.

At this point, I was crawling, my mojo gone.

As the two cyclists approached me, I did my best to maintain my breathing; there’s nothing more embarrassing than wheezing in front of other people.

“W—wow, this—is a—lot hard—er than I—thought,” I mentioned when they passed.

“Keep your eyes ahead of you and don’t stop. You can do it,” one woman said between deep breaths.

“Th—an—k—s,” I heaved.

Then they were gone. I was left alone. That’s when it started to rain.

I looked up to the sky. “Really? What’d I do?”

During my ascent up Horsetooth, I hadn’t noticed the congregation of heavy rain clouds overhead. They greeted me with pelting rain and blurry vision.

“I can’t see!” I shouted, to no one in particular.

I pulled off to the side of the road—exactly what the cyclist warned me not to do. I took off my sunglasses and stuffed them into my jersey pocket before pedaling onward; it made it easier for me to wipe the rain out of my eyes. With no one around, I decided to motivate myself by muttering profanities.

It made me feel better.

Forty minutes later, I descended Horsetooth, cheering and pumping my fist in the air.

“Take that, mountain! You ain’t got shit on me!”

 The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung overhead.

“Quit being a tease,” I shouted to the sky. “Either rain or get lost, clouds!” I hoped Mother Nature wouldn’t call my bluff; I was soaked, cold, and yearned for the sun’s warmth.

The next stretch of road smoothed out amongst farmlands and pastures. I didn’t see any cars, any other cyclists, or people.

“What up, cows!” I said on more than one occasion. All were too busy to moo in reply.

With the most challenging portion of the route completed, I steadied my pace. Each year I’ve participated in the ride, there were so many participants squished into bike lanes that I began to appreciate the absence of everything but my bike, my thoughts, and the surrounding countryside. Only yard signs with large, black arrows reminded me I was heading north and not any other direct. Mile after mile, there weren’t even volunteers to clap for me or cheer for me or tell me I was awesome.

I started to miss their cowbells, but not that much.

I arrived at a rest area. There were half a dozen cyclists mulling around the snack table. A volunteer wearing a bright orange shirt approached me before I could dismount.

“Hey, man! Congratulations; you’re almost there,” he said with a beaming smile.

“Well, thanks,” I said. “It’s been a little wet.”

He chuckled and pulled something out of his pocket. “We give these out here, but don’t celebrate yet; you still have ten miles to go before you can grab a beer and a shower.”

I extended my hand. He dropped a small round felt patch into my palm. It reminded me of the patches I earned—nay, tried to earn—in Boy Scouts many years ago when I thought it would be helpful to learn how to tie knots and camp outside.

The patch had a yellow border and blue background. The words 2016 BIKE MS CENTURY took up a majority of the space inside the circle.

“You can sew it onto your jersey when you get home,” the volunteer said.

“Thanks! I will definitely do that.” I waved him goodbye and gave the pedals two small strokes and rolled into the parking lot. I found a vacant spot of grass and dismounted. I rubbed the patch between my fingers, feeling the embossed letters brush against my fingertips. The volunteer told me not to celebrate prematurely, but I didn’t care.

This was an Instagram moment.

Thunder clapped overhead. Fearing the ride marshals might close the ride route before I could reach the finish line, I stowed the patch in my backpack, dashed to the row of portable toilets to relieve myself one last time, and was back to pedaling in minutes. I rode solo, and with a renewed sense of accomplishment, I pushed myself to go faster. Within forty minutes, I entered Fort Collins. The clouds had started to dissipate—in typical Colorado fashion—and I could see a few cyclists up ahead. They pedaled towards another pair of electronic signs. Century and Century + 20 miles flashed with arrows in different directions.

I was close enough to the cyclists to hear one of them scoff. “I just went 100 miles! Now they want me to go another twenty? I don’t think so!”

Her friend laughed and I silently agreed. I committed to 100 miles, not 120. My legs were beginning to spaz and if I went any further I might tip over into the fetal position forever.

I reached Colorado State University and slowed down. Passing a statue of their mascot, a large Ram, I cheered, “Go Buffs!” mostly because no one was around to boo at me or flip me off.

I rounded a corner and saw the finish line posts, with volunteers and ride participants flanking each side, screaming wildly as pop music boomed from the speaker system. I waved and cheered back at them, and when I crossed the threshold, I burst into tears.

I opened my phone’s fitness app and ended the workout at 101 miles.

Riding a century is not easy, even for someone who is slender and has practice riding.

I earned that patch, and the beer that followed!

For 2017, I was determined to repeat my success by riding the century again. Unfortunately, I missed the cutoff time by five minutes. For safety reasons, the ride marshals wouldn’t let me go left. I begrudgingly turned right, but I didn’t let that defeat me. When I approached the finish line, people still cheered for me, they still clapped for me, and they still told me I was awesome by clanging their cowbells while singing to a Katy Perry song that played over the speaker system. My ride, albeit shorter, still made a difference. My fundraising for MS still made a difference. I still made a difference, regardless of how many miles I pedaled.

On a whim in 2016, I rode a century. In 2017, I rode 991 miles. For 2018, I’m planning on doing both, and then some. With a positive attitude, confidence in myself, and a lot of sunscreen and bicycle tubes, I know I’ll be in for some great adventures.

For 2018, I have decided to explore more of Colorado (and possibly another state!), so I will not be riding in the Colorado MS 150. I encourage you to support my teammates, the RawHinies by clicking here. Hinie ho!  

Thomas Xavier

Brandon Figliolino

Thomas Xavier

January 14, 2016

               For entertainment, I sometimes will download GRE, SAT, and other collegiate-level test practice applications to my smartphone. I go through different sections, answering questions; filling in blanks and selecting multiple choice options. Most of the time, I’m right—except for the questions on mathematics, which I pretend don’t matter as much as the ones that ask about literary time periods or nineteenth century artwork.

               During my lunch hour today, I was answering some questions on an app, when one in particular caught my attention. It was a “which of the following can be inferred from the passage” question. These are my favorite type of questions! I was ecstatic. The passage detailed the use of pseudonyms by female authors, explaining the reasoning for doing so, and the ramifications of it. I selected my answer. It was correct. Score a point for Brandon! Those are the questions I like, as opposed to those that ask for equations and calculations. Who needs to know the average speed of a bus going along a stretch of highway at night? I don’t, but that’s mostly because the bus service in my area is lacking, so I don’t use the bus as a means of transportation.

               This passage about pseudonyms got me thinking about the brief time in my life where I decided to write under a pseudonym. After reading some works by J.K. Rowling and Lemony Snicket, I thought it would be interesting to present my writing through an “alter-ego” of sorts. However, since I was in high school at the time, I mostly just thought it’d be cool.

               The name I selected perfectly encapsulated my writing: Thomas Xavier. I chose Thomas, seeing as that it was my middle name. When I was younger, I thought Thomas was a better fit for my zodiac sign. Plus, it allowed more flexibility when it came to nicknames. Tommy, Tom, Tommyboy. There were so many choices. How many nicknames can you get out of Brandon? None.

 Because my last name is practically impossible to pronounce correctly, I decided to ditch it. I selected Xavier because it was the last name of the Patron Saint of Writing, Francis Xavier. When I was younger, I memorized his novena, and to this day, I still wear a necklace with his picture and name etched in the metal medallion. Thomas Xavier was born out of a love for myself, and a love for a prolific writer.

On the day I decided to adopt my second persona, I went to my Windows 98 computer, and flipped on the Pacard Bell monitor. After it booted up, I put my purple floppy disk into the drive. I proceeded to change the name Brandon Figliolino to Thomas Xavier on every story and poem. To be honest, I felt like a badass, free to write whatever I wanted without giving anyone the ability to identify me as the writer. I could write the most obscene storylines without being reprimanded by my mom. At the time, I had neglected to think of the instance in which I wrote and submitted a story about a father being impaled by a fence post to my ninth grade honors English course, which happened the week before my decision to take on a pseudonym. I’ll have you know, my teacher LOVED the story, despite the dour ending. I even received extra credit.  

               Therein was the problem, I quickly realized. By hiding behind a pseudonym, my writing was no longer mine. Sure, I’d written it, but any and all credit—had the stories been published—would go to Thomas Xavier, who didn’t happen to exist. Praise and condemnation would go to him as well.

               I’d be left stewing in the aftermath of his glory.

               I’ll be honest; I’m an arrogant and prideful young man. I want people to know that what they read was crafted exclusively by me, Brandon Figliolino, not Thomas Xavier. I want the recognition and notoriety, the fame and the fortune. Mostly, though, I don’t want to hide. Some of my work clearly is offensive (I wrote an undergraduate story about assault), and others are joyous and heartwarming (one was about a wedding; and another, a birthday party). I want appreciation for everything I write, which is why I never actually submitted to journals or magazines under the name Thomas Xavier. It felt wrong. Plus, I didn’t have $10 to satisfy the application fees for submitting writing.

Shortly after I changed all my stories to being authored by Thomas Xavier, I went onto my purple floppy disk and changed the name back on all the stories to Brandon Figliolino. Who cares if someone can’t pronounce my name at the bookstore? Barnes and Noble staff are knowledgeable enough to know a customer saying they want the bestselling novel by Figalolini actually meant to say Figliolino.

So I did it. I pressed the backspace and as fast as Thomas Xavier appeared on the Word Perfect 2000 software, he disappeared. Bye-bye. Once the task was done, I moved everything to flash drives, and pushed my Pacard Bell computer off the roof. Splat.

               Thomas Xavier doesn’t exist. Though, I must say, that is a pretty awesome name for a guy. He sounds pretty dope. If the guy were real, I’d probably have lunch with him sometime. I guess for now, I’ll just have lunch by myself, while trying to solve for the variable x in its relationship to y.

Dueling Banjos Christmas

Brandon Figliolino

Dueling Banjos

December 19, 2015

            On October 31^st, I helped my father put up Christmas decorations on my childhood home. Normally, my father dedicates the day after Halloween as the official kickoff for his decorating blitz. Because of my family’s hectic schedule, however, he called upon me early to help.

            Christmas is a spectacle in our family. My father has been expanding his collection of lawn decorations, lights, inflatables, and the like ever since I was a child. Our house looks unrecognizable once he’s finished. My father’s Christmas display makes Clark Griswold’s look like something Charlie Brown would do at the last minute. I may be biased, but I believe my father’s light show fares well against the light displays of the millionaires and those people lucky enough to get a spot on televised light competitions. The photographs accompanying this story should help give evidence to this claim.

Every year, I’ve helped him decorate in some way. When I was young, I’d stick the North Pole way finding signs around the yard. In my teenage years, I’d help purge the sheds of their Christmas spirit. Now, as an adult with little time for anything, I typically walk past and give him a thumbs-up. I’m usually always free to help with the breakdown after the holidays.

 My father has a rhythm to his display installation, a madness no one could understand. He really doesn’t need my help, or anyone’s for that matter. But when he asked for assistance on all Hallows Eve, I reminisced over the times I was able to take credit for helping with the display, even if it was just sticking a yard sign into the grass.

            My father called early that morning. We chatted briefly about some fool who had gotten arrested, as well as my plans for that night. Then, he brought up the display.

“Hey, before you go, do you have a free minute to give me a hand this afternoon?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I need your help carrying that bear up to the roof. Ty is gone and I need to get it up first since it’s the heaviest and in the corner.”

“No problem. I’ll see you in a bit.”

I pulled up to the front of the house Saturday afternoon. I passed the fake tombstones that dotted the front yard. After tripping over the cord that secured a skeleton dog to a coffin my father had made, I wrapped around the side gate into the backyard. The yard was a mess of red and green and white. Reindeer and Santa Clauses, trees and elves, snowmen and inflatable nutcrackers all had found their way out of the two sheds. Dispersed along the entire surface of the patio and a large majority of the lawn, it was as though I was walking through an outdoor Christmas sale.

“Hey, B!” my father called out. I squinted up at the roof. He stood up there with his hands full of green cables. “Let me hop down and we’ll get that bear.”

“That bear” was a massive decorative item made out of dirty white tinsel that was nailed to a red platform. It held a present in its hand, which used to be red, but now was a dull pink; nature isn’t kind to outdoor decorations over the years.

My father descended one of the two ladders that were propped up against the roof of the porch.

“How’s it going, bud?” he asked.

“I’m great,” I said. “It’s looking pretty busy back here.”

My father grinned. “Yes, it is.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get that bear.”

After careful maneuvering, we hoisted “that bear” up to the roof. Once it was up there, we carried it to the front of the house, past the massive cloth ghost that hung between two windows. Once it was lowered into its spot, my father adjusted the base and secured it with the cables.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed.

“We’ve got both seasons up!” I said. “Now we just need a giant turkey and we’ll be all set.”

My father laughed. “Do you have time to help carry up a few more?”

I always have time for him.

A spiral LED tree, a Santa Claus riding a hot air balloon, and some penguins on sleds all made their way up to the back side of the roof.

“Sweet. We should be all set for now,” my father said. “Thank you for your help.”

“It’s no problem, Daddyo.”

We climbed down the ladder and headed to the front of the house. The garage door was open, and filling the space where cars normally go were mountains and toys my father had built out of wood. Led Zepplin played over the stereo on the workbench.

“Well, I’m off. Have to go get a few things for the party tonight.”

My father nodded. “Sounds good, bud. Thanks for your help.”

“It’s no big deal.” We fist-bumped and I turned to head to my car.

It was then I saw something I didn’t recognize. Off in the corner, near more familiar boxes of Christmas decorations, was a large box with what looked to be an alligator on it.  Even though I don’t participate in the Christmas set-up as much, my father always tells me about new procurements and changes; except this one.

“Hey, what’s that?” I asked, pointing to the box.

My father, who had gone over to the workbench for twist-ties, glanced over. Upon seeing the box, his demeanor perked up.

“Oh! That’s something new!” He hurried back to my side. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you about it.”

I moved in closer. “Is that an alligator?”

“Yeah! Come here and check it out.” He set down the canister of twist-ties and picked up the alligator box. I looked at it, which had an alligator, a rat, and what looked like a possum sitting on a fallen log, all playing musical instruments.

“You know how our music system keeps freezing when it’s cold out?”

How could I not? Every time the temperature dropped below freezing, the contraption that controlled the synchronized lights and music would stop. Since my father would typically be working, it was up to the children to go out and reset the breaker on it until it started up again.

“Yeah, I remember. Does this play music?”

“It does! It’s a country band.” He highlighted the text that read I PLAY MUSIC with his index finger. “It plays country Christmas songs.”

“That’s different.”

I don’t particularly like country Christmas songs.

“It’ll be something new! I think everyone will like it.”

“Plus, we won’t have to worry about it freezing up,” I said.

“Exactly.” We fist-bumped.

“Where’s this going to go?” The house was already overcrowded with inflatables and lights, so finding a place for this band was going to be difficult, I thought.

“It’ll go right on the corner of the porch, next to the bay window and Santa’s Workshop.”

Right below that bear.

“Well done, Daddyo.” I patted him on the back this time. “I think that’s a good purchase.”

I was wrong.

Several weeks passed. The cobwebs draped over the porch lights and brick walls disappeared, replaced by wreaths and garland. It was Thanksgiving Day, and everything had been installed. The house was ready for opening night.

My father and I stood across the street, admiring the house in the morning light. The inflatables were lifeless, and there were no bursts of color from twinkling icicle lights, but even so, the house looked remarkably festive, even without snow on the ground.

“The house looks great, Daddyo.” I took a sip of tea from my travel mug.

“Thanks, bud. I really mean it.”

“I just can’t believe how much bigger it is this year!” I motioned to the second-story roof, where my father had erected a large Island of Misfit Toys made out of hand-carved wood pieces. “I mean, look at all that. There’s so much going on.”

“You’ll have to let me know how it looks tonight.”

My father worked a part-time retail job, which scheduled him to work Thanksgiving night. Not only would he have to dine and dash, he’d miss out on the first night of the lights.

“You want to know something crazy?” he asked me.

“Sure.”

“Normally, I count how many days it takes me to set up the lights. Last year, it was six days; three weekends, essentially. This year, I counted how many hours.”

“What’d you end up with?” I took a sip of tea.

“Thirty-six.”

I swallowed. “Are you serious?”

“Yup! That doesn’t even count the time building anything or taking it out of the sheds.”

“You definitely need to calculate that next time, Daddyo, because then you’d be well into the hundreds of hours. That’s just amazing.”

“It takes a lot of work, that’s for sure.”

I nodded. “Totally worth it, though.”

            “Absolutely.” We bumped fists.

            That night, my mother and I hurried outside at five-until-six. Already, a small crowd of neighbors was gathered in front of the house, all waiting for the big reveal. We exchanged hugs and hellos. By now, the weather had dropped and there was a dusting of snow on the ground.

            “Let’s get this show on the road!” I called out.

            Sure enough, at six o’clock, the house was illuminated in color. The inflatables rose, and the strings of lights popped on. Everyone started clapping and cheering, myself included.

            Then, the music started playing, except, it was not music.

            I’m not a country music lover. Taylor Swift is about all I can stand, and what my father’s inflatable hick band began playing was definitely not T-Swift, nor was it Christmas themed. The banjo twang that emanated from the inflatable’s stereo was awful.

            Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-da-da-duh.

            The song lasted a mere thirty seconds. After a brief reprieve, it started up again, with the same song.

Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-da-da-duh.

I wasn’t the only one who thought it was anomalous. I looked over to my left. My neighbor craned her neck, as if it would help her understand what she was hearing.

“Well, that’s a different song, isn’t it?”

“It’s coming from the country band, back behind the gingerbread house.” I tried to show her, but it was too hard to see behind all the other lawn ornaments.

“That’s unique,” she said.

“It sure is,” I muttered. “Doesn’t sound like Christmas music to me.”

I walked up the driveway and onto the porch to get a closer look. The way the possum’s eyes were closed, it looked dead. The possum’s mouth was open, and showing teeth, which made the inflatable even more unsettling. The alligator had a dumbstruck look on its face, and I couldn’t even tell what animal was playing the bass in the band. Maybe it was a frog?

The only thing that made the country band a Christmas country band was the Santa hat on the alligator, and the snowflakes on the box.

A few days later, my father asked me about the display. “What’d you think of it?”

“I loved it! It looked amazing.”

“That’s good to hear!”

I paused.

“Have you had a chance to hear the country band yet?” I asked.

“Yup!”

“It doesn’t sound very Christmas-like.”

“Yeah, I thought it would play Christmas music, but it’s okay.”

“I don’t really understand it, though.”

My father laughed. “Your mom’s gotten the same reaction from others. Some of her students have come by with their parents and thought it was weird.”

“Well, Daddyo, that’s because it is weird. Honestly, I miss the old music.”

“I think what we’ll do next year is put the band in the front of the lawn, that way people can tell that that’s where the music is coming from.”

He patted me on the shoulder.

“I guess that’ll work.”

When I would visit my parents’ house, I had to hear the twang of the banjo. With it sitting next to the wall of the living room, every time I sat on the sofa, I could hear it seeping through the walls, badgering me.

Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-da-da-duh.

On the fifth night, I couldn’t take it. I had to say something.           My father and I were standing by the front door, getting ready to go outside and snap pictures of the lights to post onto the local newspaper and media websites.

“I’m sorry, but I hate that country band. Hate hate hate it,” I told my father while zipping up my coat. “It doesn’t play Christmas songs and it’s awful. I can hear it in the living room all the time. Can we please turn it off? I’d rather have no music than that noise.”

“No worries,” he said. “We can turn down the volume. Let’s get a picture of the house first, okay?”

We went outside and started taking photographs, the noise blaring in the background. A few cars rolled past, their passengers admiring my father’s extravagant display of Christmas cheer. We captured a few solid shots and were ready to head back in when one car unrolled its passenger window.

It was our neighbor.

“Hey! Excellent job on the display again, Thomas!” she said.

“Thanks! I’m glad you like it!”

My neighbor started laughing. “I have to ask though, Thomas, why did you pick that song for the display?”

“Ha! I told you, Dad, it’s just not a Christmas song!” I popped my head through the car window. “That song is weird, isn’t it?”

My neighbor scrunched her face and wiggled her nose. “You know what that song’s from, don’t you?”

I pulled my head out of the car and looked at my father. We both shook our heads.

Our neighbor erupted in laughter. “Oh, my goodness! You two are a hoot!”

“Wait, I don’t get it,” I said.

She stopped laughing long enough to speak. “Have either of you seen the movie Deliverance?”

My father and I shook our heads again.

“It’s an old, old movie. Thomas, you kids were probably way too young to watch it when it came out, but you both should see it.”

We chatted for a few more minutes before heading inside. I promptly retrieved my phone and did an internet search of Deliverance. It was my turn to laugh.

Here’s a synopsis of the film: four male friends go on a canoeing trip. Seems innocent enough, right? Well, then one of them gets raped, and then they murder the rapist with an arrow through the chest, and then the rapist’s accomplice murders one of the four friends, also with an arrow, and then the canoes crash and one friend breaks his leg. The one friend, who wasn’t killed, raped, or hurt, takes it upon himself to murder the rapist’s accomplice with an arrow through the chest.  Then they sail home, broken and mentally unhinged.

Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like the theme song from a movie about rape and murder, am I right?

I told my father, and showed him a video of the song being played in the movie.

“Unbelievable.”

My father was miffed at first. “How could we have known that song was about that?”

I shrugged.

“Why would anyone think that’s a good idea for a Christmas display?”

I shrugged.

“I’m turning it off.”

The next morning, I received a text message from my father. It read:

                                    MERRY DELIVERANCE DAY!!

I phoned him.

“Good morning, B!” he said cheerfully. “Do you want to play a banjo with me?”

We erupted in laughter.

“I ordered a replacement music system for next year,” he said after a few minutes of bantering.

“Are we going to keep the banjo band?”

“I think so, but it sure isn’t going to be making any noise!”

“Amen to that!” I laughed.

If there’s one lesson I can take from the Dueling Banjos Christmas inflatable, it’s this: There is too much information in the world for us to know and understand everything, but that shouldn’t stop us from learning and seeking out information. It’s imperative we continue to seek out knowledge. This betters ourselves and improves our perspectives. Being willing and receptive to information, whether it is what we want to hear or not, helps develop our wisdom and shape our character.

My father had unknowingly purchased a Christmas decoration that paid homage to a movie that was violent and offensive. It was what he did after he found out about it that makes all the difference: he adapted, and did so with good spirits.

So often we discover the truth about a situation or person, and become upset that that situation or person didn’t turn out how we had anticipated. That’s not to say we should halt any exploration of the world. Instead, we must continue searching and learning and analyzing—essentially living. It’s better to uncover the truth, and consequently, deal with it, than it is to live blindly and unwilling to change.

           

            On October 31^st, I helped my father put up Christmas decorations on my childhood home. On January 2^nd, I will help him deconstruct the North Pole he has erected. The lights will come down, the inflatables will fall, and that bear will be pulled from his perch on the roof and placed safely back into his spot in the shed.

            “Where are we going to put all this new stuff, Daddyo?” I’ll ask, pointing to the workbench upon which an Elsa, Olaf, and miscellaneous woodland animals lie.

            “I’ll just build another shed,” my dad will joke.

            “I’ll be there to help you build it,” I’ll say.

            Then, I’ll take a sip of my tea. My father will turn on the radio. Led Zepplin will begin singing about living and letting die.

            “Alright. Let’s get the house back to normal. Ready?”

            “Ready.”

            We’ll, fist-bump and then get to work.