Every computer features one, usually tucked away in the lower right hand corner. All makes and models of cell phones are created with an easily accessible one. The moment you walk into a working environment, you can’t help but notice one on a desk; you might even have one loosely attached to a cork message board in the kitchen or bedroom…and if you still use them in this world of constant digital change, there’s always one somewhere in your checkbook.
Calendars…
I’ve never been a fan of the word. A first grade situation, “Come on little Arroe…sound it out.”
I failed to see two consonants between the letters A and E therefore it should be Cale-n-dar as in car. I had the same troubles with Wednesday. If it’s Wins-day…then spell it that way! Bucket is bucket. Tail versus tale taking on they’re, their and there completely kept me out of radio until someone finally felt sorry for me at the horribly old age of sixteen.
I once worked with a brilliant comfmercial writer and producer who taught me, “A calendar does nothing more than advertise another twenty four hour period filled with choices that 90% of us set aside.”
I’ve always wondered who pays for that space on a once living tree swiftly turned into a sheet of glossy paper. Advertising isn’t free…If a calendar is nothing more than a brilliant marketing tool…where are the pause, rewind and fast forward buttons? If I don’t write stuff down…it’s long forgotten. Wait…I write daily, there are times I return to a page four years after shaping ink into passing inside view and I wonder, “Oh God…What was I thinking?”
Gene Simmons of KISS had nothing to do with the calendar or it would be more user friendly. The Master of American cultured junk would release two more full days of play…some would choose to throw a ball, sit by a lake, visit racetracks or BBQ chickens…I personally need another 48 hours to figure out how to slow down those tiny boxes and numbers that bark at me like a dog impatiently waiting for a treat.
When did it suddenly become 2010?
I’ve grown into this person who looks into the eyes of someone born after 1985 and calmly whisper, “You waited in line too long. You should’ve demanded to be created much, much earlier.”
What? Even at 48, I soak in the suds of other people’s dreams and experiences connected to Frank Sinatra, Elvis and The Beatles. I completely didn’t get to participate with John F Kennedy becoming this nation’s youngest decision maker or the Chicago scare that turned Al Capone into a household name. Many times I’m disappointed to learn that I didn’t hop on board the ship that sailed into the Charleston Harbor during the days of vivid imaginations and every reason to explore the shores like John Lawson who sat in a pub one day and challenged himself to truly discover America by documenting every tree, plant and un-tethered wind that raced from the sands of Foley Beach toward the mighty mountains that make up hideaways named Hendersonville and Asheville.
We have a way of trying to manipulate the presence of a calendar by constantly living in a past we can’t change. I’ll never forget discovering what happens when you place a sharp object connected to a long metal arm onto a sheet of black plastic spinning on something that resembled the merry-go-round without the horses. Although I spent many years dropping pennies, nickels and dimes onto the same turntable just to watch them fly in any direction…uncovered that day was my first date with recorded music: On a farm in Ranchester, Wyoming, the Monkees singing I’m a Believer.
It took no time to learn that anything and everything with grooves isn’t blessed with lyrics to sing. I would tape sandwich baggies to the turntable and set the needle on it. What the? I grabbed cardboard boxes and cut them into circles and tried to create sound. Totally not my fault! Alphabet cereal put those Archie characters on there singing Sugar Sugar...and Mom was too good to let us have that much sugar in the morning...I assumed all cardboard could sing!
I became so addicted to the record player I refused to accept cash for babysitting. I made deals with the neighbors, “I want the stereo and speakers.” Before long…my stepfather Joe had reason to walk into my homemade radio station and yank out 28 speakers, six eight track tape players and five turntables. He was afraid it would start a fire. I became so angry that I took a walk toward Ponderosa school and discovered a tiny red building with the letters KOYN proudly displayed on the outside, “Oh my God! They have record players!”
Then something went unexpectedly wrong way, way, way down the road. I wrote in my book Another 1021 Thoughts, “God whispered so softly it stopped my heart.” Ever been there? At 6:15 pm tonight that moment will light up my calendar far brighter than this child’s first discovery of music. Everything that once was…was no longer important. I had a new map to follow: to heed the words of the doctor who traveled farther than any other human…physically in my heart. While laying on the table watching them on the big screens above, the well educated fixer upper said, “Give me two more minutes and I’ll get you back to living.”
And living is what I’ve been trying to do for the past 52 weeks…harder than any other day, year or month that fell into those ugly black lonely boxes that keep showing up on the calendar with no way of capping the well in my Gulf of Arroe. I’ve never been a fan of celebrating birthdays but something’s really different about an Alive Day.
Birthdays are selfish…Alive Days are the result of faith, chance, hope and the desire to take what you’ve just been handed and teach it to someone whose headed down the same path you stood before being nearly shoved into a box. I’m not the only one whose walked to the edge of the horizon and swiped a sneak peak at the vista calling your name…but I might be the only one who challenges you write about it. During an age of constant communication very few seem to be talking until something hits them unexpectedly and there’s nothing on the bookshelves at Barnes and Nobles that says, “Give me two more minutes and I’ll get you back to living.”
If the marketing geniuses continue to create calendars you might as well fill them up with at one positive per day, a simple thought jotted down that will wiggle and squiggle its way through time and when you least expect it…that single line scratched into the surface of something so incredibly smooth will no longer have anything to do with your current page but it will be the light at the end of someone’s extremely dark day.
Everyday is your Alive Day until further notice. Don't wait to be reminded.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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