We Are Men, So:  Retreat!!

What does it mean to be a man?  Biologically speaking, I guess a man simply means being male and past the age of puberty.  But of course, it’s much more than that.  Right??  Well, I hope you’re not going to try to pin me down on what a man is, because I’m still learning that one.  While I was growing up, movie stars like John Wayne, Glenn Ford, Gary Cooper and the like were considered male role models.  Real men! Gun toting, sports loving, woman dominating guys that made this country great!!  Right??  

I don’t think so!!  

And because I don’t think so, according to some males there must be something wrong with me.  I don’t give a rip about sports. I don’t own a gun. In regard to women, I have nothing but the highest respect for them.  Admit it guys, you really have to give a huge amount of credit to women.  They brought us into this world, and in spite of the way all too many men have mistreated and abused females over the years, we still have women who are willing to put up with us.

Is that dedication or what?? 

Well, one of the things I’ve learned along the way is that fire and water don’t mix.  Even more importantly, firewater and family life definitely don’t mix.  At least not in my case, where one serving of firewater was too many and a thousand wasn’t enough.  And that is also the case for most of the men I consider friends these days.  We all have a common bond:  firewater make man crazy, stop drinking firewater and get into recovery, recovery make man better.  We’ve embraced a rather strange concept called “surrender to win.”  There is a bunch of us, and for those in this neck of the woods who get their application turned in by the deadline there is the annual “spiritual retreat.” 

In case any of you man-boys out there are thinking of attending one of these events, here’s a little sample of what you might find, which may or may not be a completely silly joke (well OK, it’s a joke) that I’m in dire need of writing because of the horribly brain draining universe I’ve been living in these days…

Day 1:  (Friday evening)

 Check in.  I was handed a packet of welcome materials, including a schedule, from a nice man who smiled at me and said with a twinkle in his eye, “Go find a place in the dirt for sleeping.”  So, I humbly took my tent to the mosquito infested river bank and set up my “room” for the weekend. Some friends saw me fumbling with the poles and walked over to mock me and pretend to help.  They all had a good laugh as I battled the blood sucking bugs, smacking the ones on my head with my hand until I was speaking in tongues.  Then they led me to the camp fire where a very old man with three teeth and big, bulging eyes was telling a story:  

“Long ago in Grandfather’s beard, a small squid died and stunk for days. All the village Elders offered him fire to drink and hid his remote control. Little children crawled up to see him and chewed off his toes. His own family sent for the Magic Bowl. They filled it with bird runch and mixed in pork, crayon shavings and geek fat. The ceremony began with the first three episodes of “Gilligan’s Island”; and when Grandfather started lusting for Mrs. Howell they fed him the Modongo. Very soon Grandfather blortled and fipped. He asked “What kind of bird runch are you feeding me today? Anyhow?” His family laughed at the snackwonder, and said, “This is a very joyful time for us.  We must remove our Flingel shirts and dance wildly around the Popsicle stick.”  As he finished the last sentence, everyone received a Popsicle.  

After this rather strange ritual, all the guys got dressed again and “Little Louie” shouted, “Meeting Time!!  C’mon, everybody grab a stump!!”  Then we started off with a topic, “using macramé to kill cravings.”  Silly me, I thought macramé was a forgotten art, but each man was handed some twine and when it was his turn to share about some issue with which he was struggling, he was to add his twine to the weave.  The finished product resembled a large duck with a sledgehammer on its head… and it was announced that, “Some lucky person will be taking this home after the retreat is done.”

Midnight rolled around and none of us had eaten dinner.  But we were assured we wouldn’t go to bed hungry; and that we should line up and a “fine feast” would be waiting for us in the lodge kitchen.  By this time I had already made a few friends and boy, I’m telling you, that bowl of Rice Crispies was just plain awesome.  After eating I flopped into my tent and slept like a baby until reveille.

Day 2:  (Saturday)

At about 5:30 in the stinkin’ morning I hear some kakahead  near the lodge yelling, “Breakfast for Kings!!  Breakfast for Ki-i-n-ngs!”  I’m thinking manly thoughts of running over and choking this guy.  But then my serenity kicked in, and I put on an happy face and dragged my sleepy hiney over to see what this “Breakfast for Kings” was all about.  Turns out they had invented a new way to cook eggs the previous year, and “Old Herman” was dropping a dozen or two straight into the coals of the camp fire. Shells and all!  We were each given a wooden spoon that had been soaked in castor oil and told, “Just get them eggs outta there when they’re done the way you like ’em.”   I excused myself and went to my car, where I had carefully stashed a Snickers bar and a RC cola.

 After the “King’s Breakfast,” there was a long line for the port-a-john.  Once the fumes cleared, the activities coordinator jumped up on a stump and spoke loudly.  “We’re gonna have some fun today… now we know you’re here for your spirit, but we gotta play a little too.  So, we’ve arranged for golf and tree-bowling.  Just tell Arliss over here if you wanna golf, and tell Rufert over there if you wanna go tree-bowling.”  Most of the guys hooked up with Arliss, and my good friend Dick asked me if I was going to golf.  I told him that I don’t really golf, but thanks anyway.  In the spirit of the retreat, he promptly told me, “Well, I guess you’re just a stupid wuss and I won’t be talking to you anymore after today.”  So, remembering that tolerance is the key to spiritual wisdom, I prayed for him to hop into his car and run over his clubs while I walked over to Rufert to find out about this tree-bowling.  

“Hi Rufert, I’m Ken,” I announced as I shook his hand.  I looked around for any evidence of equipment and asked, “What’s this tree-bowling about, anyway?”  “Well,” he said sheepishly, “we didn’t have enough money to rent a lane at the bowling alley, and nobody had any pins at home.  So….”  I waited eagerly as he paused and looked at the ground and tightened his lips.  “So,” he continued, “we found some trees that are in a formation like bowling pins.  We’re gonna use this big beach ball over there and pretend we’re knocking them down.”  Then I responded, “Ohhh… ok…. well, ummm… how are you gonna keep score?”  “Oh FINE!! So you don’t want to play, huh??  What are you, some kind of wussy??  You better go before I lose my patience here,” Rufert snorted.

I decided to relax by the river and read my meditation books while the rest of the men played their very important games.  I don’t know about any other men out there, but one of the most helpful books for me is, “Daily Meditations for Men Who Have No Self-Esteem and Are Not Likely to Get Any.”  I believe it’s one of those Hazelnut publications.  Interesting, because in light of what was going on around me that day, the reading fit it to a tee:  “You are surrounded by dogs.  Remember that you are also a dog, and if you step in dog dirt your Higher Power will help you clean your shoes.”  How profound!

Well, when the men came back from their fun, it was time to eat again.  We were all amazed that we were eating so early… 10:47 p.m. and we were all famished.  “Old Herman” had outdone himself this time:  marshmallow pudding with peas, and deep fried salami sandwiches.  I was totally unaware that you could deep fry a whole sandwich, but “Old Herman” pulled it off.  I asked him later how he managed this feat, and he very humbly shrugged and pointed to the minnow trap in the corner.  When I turned my head to look, I saw that the wire trap glistened with oil droplets.  Then I turned my head back toward “Old Herman” and he gave me a wistful wink and nodded his head.  Then he abruptly excused himself and made a bee line for the port-a-john.

After dinner I scraped the grease off my face and slid back into my tent and enjoyed indigestion rumblings and numerous trips to the port-a-john for the entire night.  Maybe part of my inability to sleep was anticipation of the next morning, which was the wrap up session for the retreat.

Day 3:  (Sunday morning)

No “King’s Breakfast” this morning.  Ah well.  Instead, we got instructions on what wild fruits and edible plants were available in the area, and also a hand-drawn map on where to find them.  As we all set out to forage, I made a loop through the woods and got back into my car where I had some Little Debbie snack cakes tucked under the seat.  “Old Herman” spotted me and invited himself in, and the two of us shoved snack cakes into our faces until the rest of the poor souls returned with thorns on their lips and burrs in their clothing.  We were all invited to circle around the camp fire to say a last group prayer before departing.  “Old Herman” and I gleefully burped often and blew the scent of Little Debbie snack cakes into the nostrils of our famished neighbors.  Then we all did the secret handshake and called each other vile names, hopped in our cars, and gunned our engines to get the heck out of there.  Each of us abused our transmissions and kicked up globs of dirt with our tires until there was nothing visible but a huge cloud of dust over the lodge.  And I think I saw that poor macramé duck thing along the road as I drove home.

So as you call can see, this story about the men’s retreat was completely fabricated. But hey, I can hardly wait till next year!!  I’m sure I’ll be going, but I’ll make sure to tell “Old Herman” I’ll be a little late.

Gotta stop at the store on the way…

And now for something completely different.