41 Years Old

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I love egg rolls.

The crispy edges, the chewy wrap, the bits of salty fillings, all erupt through the tangy sweetness of duck sauce. 

In my other hand is a skewer of teriyaki beef. It is cooked and seasoned to perfection. I grunt my approval as I tear into the hand-held food with reckless abandon. The next bite goes in before the last one is swallowed. Hot black coffee runs down my throat, slaking my thirst. On and on I eat and drink until a smattering of small, empty, white cartons and crinkly aluminum bags litter the table before me. It’s delicious and satisfying. I feel full and content.

It’s been years since we’ve eaten Chinese food.  But tonight, on my forty-first birthday it just seems to make sense.

It’s not a sexy or exciting milepost. It’s the year of strange muscle-pulls and chronic back tightness. It certainly isn’t worth spending a lot of money at an expensive restaurant.

But sexy or not, I was born on this day so what the hell, a little MSG and eating with chop-sticks to break up the monotony sounds pretty good.

I look around the table and see my three favorite people. Not bad.

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I thank them for my dinner and homemade cards as I bring my scraps to the trash-can. That’s when I see the mystery puddle.

“Why is it wet over here?”

It’s a common question in our house, one rarely met with a confession.

Tonight the silence is legitimate. No one has spilled, no one used the faucet like a squirt gun, and it’s been three hundred days since our last potty accident. Nope this mystery puddle is coming from…where?

So, ends my forty-first birthday. Chinese food and a trip to Home Depot. 

I sit there alone in the kitchen, still in wet shambles, as I try to figure out what’s going on. It’s tough not to get frustrated in these situations. I have a problem and I don’t know exactly what it is or how to solve it. 

I’m forty-one, out of shape and I can’t handle the smallest of home improvements.

What do I do? How much will this cost? How will we pay for it? Why am I not better at this? What’s wrong with me? Why-

No.

Stop.

Stop the negativity.

Stop the self doubt.

Stop whining.

Stop sitting.

Start doing.

I smile as I unbox the new faucet that evening. My son is upstairs. I call him down to help me.

We turn on some music. He fits perfectly under the sink. His little fingers are winding their way past pipes and hoses, and a song is on his lips.

What is it about tools and music and working with your hands that can bring us together?

We laugh under there in the tight space. Knuckles are skinned, screws are lost,  and more than a little gas is passed.

In the end he does it all by himself. I simply lie there coaching him and handing him tools. His pride is apparent as he turns on the faucet. 

I tousle his hair and put my arm across his broadening shoulders.

My son.

The leak has stopped, the problem is solved, and a right of passage has occurred. 

Forty-one is starting off pretty damn good.

-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

87 Flips

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“Dad! Can you smell that?”

This is never a comfortable question coming from a four year old.

“What Benny?”

“It’s Spring!”

I smile. He’s a few months early, but I smell it too. Last week the thermometer in my truck registered -4º F. Yesterday, February 5th, it was 53ºF and sunny.

Winter in Connecticut.

As a life-long New Englander I know I need to take advantage of the warmth, who knows when it will return.

“Okay boys, I am going to workout with the tire, so leave me alone for a little bit. I have to get to a hundred,” I announce.

“Ok!” they lie as they run from the playscape to the trampoline.

The tire was a gift. My dad picked it up from a farm equipment supplier. My wife wrapped it in a bow for Christmas.

My health journey is eclectic. I’ve spent years in the gym, I’ve trained for and run a half marathon, I’ve studied Judo, I’ve had two personal trainers, I’ve participated in mini-triathlons, and I’ve run a Tough Mudder.

I’ve been through a CrossFit phase, a rowing phase, and I am currently on a kettle-bell and functional strength phase. Yesterday, I inquired about competing in the Highland Games.

I know what I need to do, and my knowledge is extensive, I just can’t seem to find the one  workout that sticks.

My current workout is big, heavy and frozen to the ground.

I roll it behind the garden. It splashes down with a muddy thud. I inch my fingers under it and squat down. I pop it up easily. The mud splatters my shirt as it falls. Ten flips to one end of the garden, ten flips back to the beginning.

On and on we turn, the never ending cycle of man vs. exercise. My hands start to ache and my back is on fire. My legs are warming up and sweat stings my eyes. It doesn’t seem too hard at first, but soon enough I’m doing math:

“I’ve done thirty, that means I have seventy to go. No, wait, this length will be thirty. Ok wait, if the first length ends on an odd number and I am headed back to the start that means it will end on an even number…damn, now I lost count…ok so I think this is my third length and I am halfway through so…”

The grunts become louder. The rest at the end of the garden becomes longer. The boys want me to record them doing tricks on my phone, “Ok, but just for a minute,” I say with relief.

Mud from my fingers smudges across the screen. I am breathing heavily. Part of me wants to quit right here. I’m halfway through, that’s pretty good for my first time out, isn’t it?

I can feel the tire behind the garden. It’s mass has a gravity to it, pulling me back.

I go.

At flip number seventy, my mindset changes. It’s gonna feel so good to get there, to get to one hundred. Nothing can stop me. I am a machine. I can feel the mush transforming into iron.

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There’s just something about an outdoor workout.

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Yes! this is it, I’ve found what will get me healthy!

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This sucks, but in a good way! I am committed to this!

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“Dad! I have a bloody nose!”

I sigh as I pull my hand out from under the thick wet rubber. The kid is leaking everywhere. He’s tough but I can see a tinge of fear in his eyes.

“Ok, Bud, no problem, let’s go.”

We fumble our way into the house, shedding muddy clothes and boots as we go. 

I feel guilty as I head into the kitchen. We were out there too long. I have to get dinner made before basketball practice which is thirty minutes from now. I can see the tire  halfway down the garden path. It sits there waiting, wondering where I went. 

I didn’t reach my goal.

I failed.

The ache in my shoulders disagree with me.

I suppose it’s like life. We strive for our goals. They sustain us, they gives us hope, but sometimes we focus so much on finishing, we don’t appreciate the journey.

What if the mud and the sweat and the pain is what we strive for?

Who would we become? What would we value?

It might just make us love ourselves a little more.

-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

For proper tire-flipping technique check out this link!

 

There’s A Penguin In My Freezer and A Machine Gun on My Stairs

img_1228His eyes burrow into my soul.

We stand there facing each other, neither daring to move a muscle. I admit he has me at a disadvantage, I had no idea he would be there.

But none of that matters right now. What matters is the razor sharp beak standing between me and a frozen steak.

Do I talk him down? Do I inch my hand forward? Do I strike hard and fast, and hope that I am faster?

My stomach gurgles in response.

With a nod I gird my loins.

My right hand is a slingshot. The icy enclosure saps my strength. The glint in his black eyes shakes my resolve. A war cry pierces the air as my left hand knocks my tuxedo clad opponent to the ground. I slam the door closed.

The steak is cold in my shaking hand. A grim smile spreads over my stony countenance.

We are safe, and fed…for now.

I let the steak sizzle to fetch my reading glasses. They are upstairs on my nightstand, a short jaunt up the stairs…take cover!

I dive to the left, rolling to a stop a few feet into the living room.

Is it what I thought it was? But how? The stairs were clear just a few minutes ago.

I chance a look in the mirror at the base of the stairs.

img_1168I stare into the vacant eyes of heavy artillery. It seems unmanned, but is it? Has the trigger-man camouflaged himself in the deep carpet of the hallway? Does he bide his time simply waiting for a better shot?

I can’t be sure, but I need those glasses.

I’ll have to chance it.

For the second time in five minutes I find myself breathing hard, muscles tense, heart slamming in my chest.

A tennis ball waits at my feet. Inspiration!

I slide down the wall, my eyes never leaving the mirror. I feel a familiar fuzzy texture brush against my fingertips.

In one fluid motion I grab the ball, swing around the banister and heave with all my might. It bounces off the wall as I take the steps two by two.

I squeeze my eyes and grit my teeth waiting for the hot lead to tear through my soft flesh.

The shots never come.

All is safe.

Wildlife is in the freezer. Weapons are in the hallway.

At what point did I lose control here?

Who can be behind these traps?

I may never find the answer.

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-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

In Need of Adventure

Seek.

“The key is on the table! Just go!” 

Something, or someone, is yelling at me. I can’t hear them. It’s as if they’re behind one of those police mirrors watching me try to escape that tiny, poorly-lit, soundproofed room. 

Still, I sense something so I turn. I put my hand against the cool silvery surface, and look into my own eyes. For a second something familiar passes through me and runs up my spine. It’s the answer to my quest. But just as quickly, the energy passes, and with a shrug I go back to my search.

For seekers like myself, we fear the same thing: There is no quest. There are no secrets to be revealed. Life is what it is, and you’re wasting it asking questions for no reason.

I rage against that logic for fear it will drag me down. I battle it with weapons like intuition, meditation, and prayer. I ask questions. I look closely. I think deeply. I listen to every word, every nuance you say. 

And sometimes, I act.

“In need of adventure. Saw tracks on the pond on the way to day care. Gonna try and skate around it. Not to worry I’ll stick close to the shore.”

I hit send and try to imagine my wife’s reaction. If we were face to face she would squint and look out the nearest window. Her muscles would tense and she would take a few seconds to respond. She’d throw out some sort of nonchalant response like, “Cool. The ice is probably thick enough,” which would translate to, ” Oh my God, you’re going to die an icy watery death.”

Luckily, through the power of technology, by the time she replies “Ok,” I am already laced up, and on the pond.

I take the first few strides wondering if the ice is indeed thick enough. The pond groans and stretches, and a crack races out from the tip of my right skate.

A smile creeps over my face. It isn’t my first time on thin ice.

The cold shreds through my flannel, and tears form at the corners of my eyes. My feet cramp painfully and my back is exhausted from my poor form.

It’s exhilarating.

I’m alone on the pond on a cloudy winter day. Logs thrust up through the ice, and trees bend low, their branches trapped by the frozen surface. Grass and algae suspend motionlessly beneath me, waiting patiently for the thaw. Groans, cracks, the scrape of my skates, and my breath are the only sounds I hear.

I stop to take a picture of a floating stone. I see its brother a few yards further. Who threw them? Some timid soul wanting to check the thickness? Some vandal trying to break the near perfect surface? Either way I thank them. It makes for a cool picture.

I stop to take a close up of the ice. Rows of tiny bubbles hang there in the thickness and it fascinates me. I try to wrap my head around this process. Can anyone ever say they watched an air bubble become trapped in ice? My imagination wanders, but my feet tell me it’s time to turn around.

I wasn’t out long, and there are certainly more, and greater adventures out there, but this one captured a piece of my heart. There’s something about the cold that helps define me.

Cold grey days are easy to dismiss.

Sometimes you have to seek to find beauty.

-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

 

 

Fearless

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The boots pinch his feet, and the pack cuts into his shoulders.

The walk from the parking lot is long, but he’s impatient to get to the end. He knows the ocean is just there, past that distant berm of sand. He can smell the salt water and taste the salt air.

A wicked wind flattens his sweatshirt against his skinny body, and the sun is in his eyes.

None of these things matter. The ocean calls to him.

The boots only hinder his speed, but the solution takes seconds.

Bare feet slap the cold pavement. His pack is a few pounds heavier.

The path turns to sand, and suddenly the view is breathtaking.

Winter beach.

Throngs of glistening skin and coconut oil have vanished. Clouds hurry along the grey horizon. Shadows freckle the water, but there, just a few hundred yards out, it’s different. Dull green waves catch the pale sunlight and the color touches his soul. He watches the waves roll in for a moment, and does nothing else.

Indomitable, he takes a deep breath, and rolls his pants to his knees. He wades deep enough for the frigid water to lap over his ankles. A shiver runs up his spine, but be it cold or excitement I cannot tell. His little frame leans into the wind, towards the expanse of water, and I wonder if he’ll dive in.

He’s alone out there, but I dare not disturb him. Adventure is on his mind, and his imagination needs every jeweled twinkle of light that bounces off the waves. He is committing this sight to memory, just as I commit the sight of him to mine.

The sun is so bright he has no color. He’s a black shape cut into the wild scene that stretches past my periphery. His footprints in the dark sand fade with each wave, and a lone gull hovers out over the waves.

His soul skims across the water. He seeks treasure. He sails ships in rough seas. He battles Blackbeard one second, Lord Nelson the next. Sea monsters fall to his spear, and he wakes, sandy and exhausted, on the shores of some deserted island.

Suddenly he turns, hitches up his pack and races down the beach. I see his mouth open but the wind is too strong for me to hear what he shouts. 

I told my wife I wanted to start the New Year off healthy. A hike on the beach seemed perfect. I thought the exercise would do us good, and the kids would enjoy a break from the bare trees of our neighborhood. I didn’t know this trip would make such an impact.

I shouldn’t be surprised. My son has this effect on me. I watch him interact with the world, and suddenly I want to explore. Details come into focus, and my senses come alive. He fuels my creativity and every move he makes, makes me want to experience life on another level. What’s next in my story? What adventure awaits? What is beyond those waves, and over the horizon?

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-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

 

 

 

 

Feast of the Seven Fishes and Unlocking Life’s Secrets

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The line is long and the smell is invasive.

People swarm the place, jostling for position at the glass counter. They wave their tickets and shout their orders. 

“53!”

“Here!”

“Whaddya need?”

“Three pounds of cooked shrimp! A fillet of cod, and six lobster tails!”

And on it goes. The workers hustle and push past each other. They argue amicably at the register, and a few spouts of laughter erupt intermittently throughout the morning. It’s a reminder to the impatient customers, we aren’t unfriendly, just busy. 

This is City Fish, in Wethersfield, Connecticut, the day before Christmas Eve.

I love it. It’s my favorite day of the year. My dad pays for the fish, we have a beer then I head home. Carols blast from the speakers and I start wrapping scallops,  making clam chowder, and sipping my way through some Christmas cheer.IMG_0967

I’ve shared this day with my Dad and brother for the past twelve years.

My grandmother was Italian, and invited us every Christmas Eve to her house for a traditional seven fishes meal.

It was always strange to my siblings and me. The house would reek of fish and bony shards of smelt would hide among the tangles of oily angel-hair pasta. We’d smile and chew and fill up on bread, but our distaste of seafood only grew.

When Grandma got too old to handle all of the preparations, the meals came less and less often, and I felt the tradition slipping away to a faded memory. I decided to take on the holiday, a passing of the torch I suppose.

She guided me through the first few meals, and after she passed, I became more determined to continue the tradition.

I know I am supposed to complain about this.

It’s too stressful, we need to stop using food to celebrate, it’s too much money, it’s too hard to keep up the tradition…

But then it’s 11 o’clock at night the day before the party and the only sound in the house is Elvis crooning Blue Christmas and the sizzle of bacon in the pan. The house looks incredible and I am alone in the kitchen too focused on when to add the cream to worry about anything else in the world. My heart and soul is the space between stove and counter and fridge, and my religion is bathed in olive oil. 

Father: Celery

Son: Carrot

Holy Spirit: Garlic and onion

This is the secret to life my friends. I have unlocked it for you. Immerse yourself in the kitchen and cook for people. Find what makes you happy and use it to make others happy. You will never be disappointed.

The next night and the house is filled with love. Cousins chase one another IMG_0970and cheeks are red from the fire and wine. Music plays and I watch the scene unfold from behind my apron. 

As the last hors d’oeuvres is slid into the chaffing dish I stand on the hearth to make a toast. My youngest son runs to me as I start talking. He is my shy one, but now,  he looks out at the faces with me.  

I didn’t prepare a speech. My mind reels with what to say. How do I capture it? I want to say to everybody how much this night means to me. How this year has been eye-opening to me. How I struggle everyday to discover my purpose, how I fear for my future, how self doubt and self loathing threaten any progress I make in my new career if not for their support and for the morals and tenacity passed down to me from them and those now gone. I fear for my kids’ safety and for their own futures. I struggle and I worry and I eat and I wonder and I freeze. But this night and the days leading up to it I am who I most want to be. I am decisive and creative, and I have family and tradition on my mind. I am happy and relaxed and finding joy in the little things like watching my son scrunch up his face at the smell of fresh garlic, or the intoxicating aroma of food and coffee, or the refreshing sting of cold night as I run barefoot across the driveway to the garbage can. How I worry about our country,  not for what I see on tv, but for the unrealized potential I see in all of us, and how when family gets together like this, like this night, we feel happy and loved and this is how we will prevail as humans, by remembering our traditions and ancestors and keeping their spirit alive, by staying together and progressing from what they taught us…

But fish gets cold quickly and the smelts are burning, so instead I say, “Thank you all for coming. I love tonight, and I love all of you. Now let’s eat.”

-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC

 

 

 

‘Twas The Week Before Christmas

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‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through my home,

Lay Amazon boxes, everywhere that we roam.

My wife is done shopping or so she has said,

I haven’t started, and it fills me with dread.

The children are feverish and coughing and sick,

The infections and virus are spreading real quick.

To ensure the Nice List, the behavior is fake,

On the day after Christmas, the whining will wake.

And mom on the treadmill and I with my weights,

Furrow our brows, at what-the-scale-states.

When down in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,

I ran down the stairs to see what’s the matter.

I jump over needles from the fake Christmas tree, (how?)

I step on a Lego and mutter ‘Oh Gee!” (edited for content)

And there wrapped in blankets one nine and one four,

Stand my two boys among the Chrtistmas decor.

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The older is drawing a picture with care,

He shows it to Benny, who can’t help but stare.

It’s an artist’s rendition of Santa’s World Tour,

The logic makes sense when your audience is four.

“Is he real?” he asks later, with a tremble and shake,

“Some kids at school say that he’s fake.”

“Look in your heart,” I say without fear,

His body relaxes, but his face is unclear.

“The magic is in you,” I whisper and wink,

He nods and he smiles and you know what I think?

He’ll wake on that morning and jump to the floor,

He’ll see all his presents and I’ll have it…

Once more.

-Mike Sposito

Owner Spowerks LLC