%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  A sporadic account of my reaction to life. |
|
Over the years I have sporadically attempted to keep a journal. Each attempt has failed miserably. I think they expired because I established rules that were too ridgid for them. So, this attempt will bring with it very few rules. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** There are many incredibly kind and thoughtful people in WDC. One of them is zwisis. Out of the blue she sent me this flower gift. It reminds me of the Bluebonnets of Texas. Thanks, Sarah. And, I must not forget the very talented katherine76 who created the flower...thank you. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it appears that my blog is going to the dogs. It aslo seems as if folks have gotten me pegged as a dog lover....they're right. Our very own Anyea   has gifted me with this Valentine card. Now I ask you, "How sweet is that?" Thanks, Anyea  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I have been fortunate to encounter many generous and kind people during my tenure in WDC. Debi Wharton is one of them. She gifted me with the following sig. It shows how sensitive and caring she is. It also shows that she read some my entries. She'll never know how much I appreciate the gift and the attention to my blog. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: One More Day--Thank You, Lord Date: August 3, 2007, Friday Thought: Purpose today to smile more than you frown, give more than you take, and thank the Lord for the opportunity to do so. Jog: It was one year ago on a Friday; I checked into the hospital to undergo a “procedure.” It was explained very simply to me. I’ll be having an angiogram. They’ll run a tube through my veins to my heart. From that little tube they will determine if any of the arteries feeding my heart have blockages; if they do they will probably “roto-root” it and insert a couple stents. It won’t take long and I’ll be home in the evening in my own bed. Those who know me know that was not the way it went. After the doc got in there he halted the whole procedure and pulled out. “I don’t think I can help you,” he said. Instead, he passed me off to the cardiac surgeon. Early the next morning they split open my chest, stopped my heart, did four by-passes, and jumped started my heart again. I spent the next week in ICU and recovery. For the last year I have been recovering. Good news is I feel great. But it is an awesome thought to think that had it not been for that surgery, I may not be here today. I had three blockages of 95% and two at 98%. I was the walking dead and didn’t even realize it. My life is filled with the mundane again; I awake, I work, I sleep. It’s good to have the mundane in your life—heck, it’s good to have a life…literally. People ask me how I’m doing. I just smile and say, “Pretty good; I’m vertical.” It’s good to be standing. I look at things a little differently now. My priorities have shifted. My work and business success is not as critical to me as it used to be. Don’t get me wrong, I still work hard, perhaps harder than I should; but, my work does not rule my life. Little things are much more important now, like breakfast with Linda, an early morning walk with Max, a simple conversation with my grandchildren, and even writing my stories and this here “jog.” Tomorrow I begin a new journal with new entries. It’s my prayer that I get to finish it and start many more. I think I will. But folks, I’m here to tell you that none of us, not a one of us is guaranteed the time to finish the one we are currently working on. We often act as if we do. With that in mind I encourage you to take inventory of your life, regardless of your age or condition. Purpose to live life to the fullest. Appreciate the moment you have and don’t take the one coming tomorrow for granted. Purpose today to smile more than you frown, give more than you take, and thank the Lord for the opportunity to do so. Take if from me, a guy who has learned from experience. So, I’m off now to put the finishing touches on my new “jog” (see, I still refuse to use that ugly word ‘blog.’) I may post it tomorrow or even the next day. I’m in no particular hurry. But, I will be here, unless the Lord comes back or he takes me home. In any case I’ll be smilin’. |
| Title: On Lasts and Firsts Date: August 2, 2007, Thursday Thought: The experience of lasts in our life should not be overly depressing. For lasts always bring a brand new first. Jog: Well I find myself in a countdown of sorts. This entry is number 499. There is one more entriy left for this journal. The question is how will I fill it? The last one, tomorrow or the next day or whenever I get around to it, will be my last. You would think it would be something special. I don’t know how much “special” I have left in my journaling. I suspect there are a few more gems left. Anyway, I’ll try to provide something special for that last entry. Having said that, no doubt it will be anti-climatic. We’ll see. There is something intriguing about knowing the last is coming and having its number. My life is filled with “lasts.” Most of them are simple, like the last day of the month, the last day of a vacation, the last day of a deadline or the last entry in a blog. Most times I can prepare myself for the last. However, many times it rushes upon me with things yet undone. I’ve learned that most of these last things can be extended; and none of them brings the end of the world. Oh, I suppose that someday there will be a last day of the world; I doubt I’ll be around for it. Last days aren’t so easy to recognize sometimes; sometimes they are fuzzy—like the last day of the Dark Ages or the last day of youth. Some of these last days we kinda slide into and only recognize them from the hindsight of history. I’m sort a waiting for someone to define the first day of “global warming.” Seems that you’d kinda want to know that so’s you can recognize an era when the last day happens. I’ll jot a line to Al Gore; I’m sure he has that documented right along with the first day he established the Internet—I digress, pardon me. Last days bring with them a sense of loss, a sense that we have passed through the best or worse as the case may be; they bring with them a sense of finality. I remember the last words my grandmother spoke and the last breath my mother took. The sense of loss was deep and had a way of ordering priorities in life. In a few days it will be the anniversary of my heart by-pass surgery. I remember being wheeled down the hospital hallway to the operating room. I watched the ceiling tiles pass above me, wondering if that was the last thing I would see, wonder if I had already caught a glimpse of my last meadow, or if I’d spoken my last words to Linda. Heart surgery has that effect on a person. I have been blessed, that was not the last day of life. I have more opportunities to experience more of what life has for me before I come to that final last. However, the experience of lasts in our life should not be overly depressing. For lasts always bring a brand new first. And just as we face the rushing lasts of this life with dread, we also face the firsts of life with excitement and anticipation. The passing of the last brings new firsts. I remember the last day of my children’s days at home and the first day of school. With new backpacks and a nap blanket they charged into the first day of school excited and in wonder of their new world. As a newly married teen couple Linda and I did much the same thing on the first day of our marriage—forty years ago. I recall the excitement of my first day of being self-employed. I was full of dread and doubt and a little weak on self-confidence; but, I was filled to capacity with determination and fueled with excitement and hope. It was a good first day. So, I have come to not dread the lasts of this life. I set them aside when they come, and sometimes grieve when it is appropriate. I will not yearn for them to return nor will I obsess on the loss that I perceive they have brought. They have always presented me with a new and exciting first—always. And, I am convinced that on the day I breathe my last, I will step into the most glorious first of existence. I pity those who don’t believe that and chuckle at the surprise they are in for. So the last entry of this blog will be followed by the first entry of a new one. Hopefully it will be the new and improved version with new insights and ideas. Although I know I am not capable of it, wouldn’t it be marvelous if we could write in such a manner that the next entry would always be better than the previous. Oh, I know it can’t be done; but, we can dang near try. |
| Title: All About Age Date: July 27, 2007, Saturday Thought: Is it fair, I ask you? Is it fair that a few of us come out looking gorgeous, like Nada…and all the rest of us have to look forward to is Tor. (This entry was intended for Saturday. However, the computer gremlins attacked my computer and it was in the shop until today. Glory be, when I booted it back, this entry was dutifully waiting on my desktop. So, I have no other choice except to post it.) Age really is relative. Some of us are young pups and look and act like young pups. For the mathematically inclined amongst us that is a one to one ratio. Some of us get older and are able retain that one to one ratio for a while. But eventually we begin to loose our grip on that precious ratio. In other words we begin to not look our age. There is a site on the internet that gives you your actual age when you answer a few questions. I took the silly test and the dang thing told me I was eighty…stupid site. It is obviously flawed. Now, I don’t want to get personal, but there are a couple of bloggers in Blogville who defy the ratio formula. One of them is our darlin’ Nada . The other one is my old firend David McClain . Nada told me what her birthday was the other day. All I gotta say is I don’t believe it. She has blown the ratio rule to hell and back. Have you seen her photos? Have you seen the one in the bikini? I rest my case. Now, I know the ratio rule is bunk cause I’ve also seen Tor’s photo. Thank heavens he wasn’t wearing his speedo. What Nada does for a bikini, Tor definitely does NOT do for a speedo. All I can say is that in some cases photos lie. The man is older than dirt. I know I should be showing a little more respect for my elder here. After all, he will shortly be drawing Social Security and be a burden to the state. But, this dialogue is necessary to illustrate the inequity of the ratio rule. Some folks just look older and older. See what I mean?In a couple of months I will be advancing one more year. On September 22nd I will cram another year into that simple little day and turn 59. How the heck did that happen? Now, I’ve looked at my photo….heck no! I’m not showing you!. Believe me, I haven’t hid a day of my age. It’s all there. But, is it fair, I ask you? Is it fair that a few of us come out looking gorgeous, like Nada…and all the rest of us have to look forward to is Tor. Now, dang it! What kinda justice is that? |
| Title: Framing Our Life Date: July 27, 2007, Friday Thought: It is my hope that when one reads through the pages of the volumes which have been framed by this work, they find a person they like. Jog: Someone said it the other day; and, I can’t remember who—forgive me. Someone said, “We live our lives in frames.” It was a simple little comment that started my mind to thinking. They are right; we live in the present, according to the circumstances that are surrounding us. Those circumstances define our mood, our hopes, our emotions, our perceptions of life—it is framed for that moment. But we use multiple cameras. One is focused on our close-up, one stands back and catches the players involved in the action of the moment, and one stands remotely at a distance catching the entire vista of our existence. The history of our lives is the ordering of the frames such that when combined they chronicle those events, both spectacular and mundane. My chore from the labor of this journaling effort is to edit the frames of my life so that they provide an accurate representation of my time here on this earth. Now that is a difficult thing to do when you are doing the final edit as you go. I choose what enters these pages. I can fill them with constant listings of miseries and commiserations or select only bright spots that paint a Pollyanna picture of my life. A steady diet of either one would be untruthful, for although I am sometimes in the depths of despair I also reach heights of giddiness that the mountain-top highs provide. I don’t live only in the valley of despair nor the mountain-top ecstasy of its opposite extreme. I live somewhere in between. Correctly done these entries of mine should capture that place. A collection of frames was obtained last night. Linda and I received a call from our granddaughter, Lauren. Lauren is a very mature thirteen-years-old. She called from a party to ask if Grandma and Grandpa could please come and pick her and her friend up. There was no ominous reason other than it was a swimming party and it had begun to rain. Rain puts a damper, no pun intended, on swimming, which seems strange since you’re already wet. But, the party was over prematurely and Lauren needed someone to pick her up. Her mom and dad were taking advantage of the moment and running chores that prevented them from responding. So Lauren turned to us. It is warming to the soul to know that when in need you are on someone’s resource list, that they turn to you. After we picked her up, she smiled at us and said, “You love me, don’t you?” How could she tell? Perhaps it is the way we stroke her hair and kiss her on the forehead often. Perhaps it is the way we dote over her; or perhaps it is because we often tell her we love her. Nevertheless, through a myriad ways she knows. As this little scene developed the frames were accumulating—it was but one vignette of my life. It takes numerous entries in my journal to accurately portray the frames of my life. That’s why we include the silly entries and the somber entries. That’s why you find entries proclaiming patriotic fervor as well as rants regarding political pet peeves, tender moments dedicated to devotion of those we care for and outlandish moments of silliness dedicated to ducks and fantasies. There are times when we need to provide a hand up and also times when a swift kick in the butt is the best medicine. During the course of the years, my journal has come to contain the different frames of the events in my life. Unfortunately, these frames will not be totally reflective of my life. For, within my journal, I refuse to speak negatively of others nor chastise those who are close to me. I will save those frames for personal encounters—face to face encounters. There is no need to chronicle those frames for posterity within the pages of my journal. Nevertheless, it is my hope that when one reads through the pages of the volumes which have been framed by this work, they find a person they like. I really hope so, for it is the only person I know how to be. |
| Title: To Save or Not to Save Date: July 25, 2007, Wednesday Thought: Your witty comments will not decorate the annals of dusty volumes, speaking to generations of my kin to come. Jog: Sure, my title for this entry is really corny. It is, of course, a weak play on Shakespeare’s famous and often parodied line. Yeah, again it’s corny. So sue me. But feeble as it is, it cuts straight to the purpose of this entry. As indicated in my previous entry, I am running out of time in this blog. I’m bumping up against the limit provided for blogs in WDC. I have watched with interest as other writers in Blogville have addressed this event. It appears that most have attempted to save their blog for posterity in a separate file off-line. I have done the same. Every four or five months I have saved my blog entries to a separate file. Needless to say, this has been helpful since I don’t have to scramble back to the beginning and pull and save the mass of entries at one time. However, I have done more than just save them. I’ve formatted them and organized them into files in book form. I have three volumes at present. The first volume consists of rag-tag entries taking different forms and scattered over years 2004 and 2005. By the time I got to 2006 I had established a format that worked and was able to dedicate that year solely to a single volume. Thus far the same can be said about year 2007. I picture in my mind a set of hardback volumes accounting the years of my life from 2004 till the last times. Hopefully I will have a whole wall full of journal volumes by the time I expire. I intend to have three copies of each volume made, which is logical since I have two sons. Each son will be given a copy of this accumulated work. The remainder will stay with me and pass to Linda with the rest of my inheritance. For what purpose do I go to this trouble? Immortality, I suppose. What other way do we have to continually express our thoughts and introduce ourselves to generations to come. We can use film or digital images. But I know very few folks…well, none, who keep a digital journal. But a book of written words, chronicling the daily musings of a person can be very effective for such a purpose. Being a genealogy buff, I know how excited I am to find an original document of a long passed relative. Those simple documents help to give substance to those memories. If I were to stumble on to some great great great grandfather’s journals, I would be ecstatic. And so this burning need to communicate to ages to come fuels and prompts me to continue the work. I’ve come to the opinion my entries do not have to be “blue” (daily); they just have to be sporadically consistent. Every entry topic will add a little light to the image of who I am. Even the silly and mundane entries, such as this one, will add a stroke to the final painting. So, that’s my reason for journaling…blogging…or since I do not record my comments I suppose I actually have a “jog.” This brings me to two questions. The first is: Why do you blog? And the second is: Is it necessary to save the comments? To the second question I have determined to say no. As important as my friends are to me and as brilliant as the comments are, I'm not sure my great grandkids will care what my friends thought about what I said. Although they are important to me, are the comments necessary for a journal? I have determined that they are not. However, I have been wrong once or twice before in my lifetime. And so I thought I would ask you. Admittedly, I do not intend to change my format. Your witty comments will not decorate the annals of dusty volumes, speaking to generations of my kin to come. But, I am curious. So tell me what should be done with the comments, if anything at all. Besides, this may be a crass opportunity to increase my comment count. Don’t you feel used, now? |
| Title: Times Up! Date: July 24, 2007, Tuesday Thought: I suppose I will stick around just to be with my friends, if nothing else. Jog: We hid our eyes and counted to 100. Of course we did it at warp speed, slurring the numbers together just to get to the end where we yelled, “99, 100…Time’s up! Here I come ready or not!!” I play the same game as an adult. Only this time the warp count to 100 consists of the minutes ticking down to the deadline. Here I come!—ready or not! Usually I’m the one that is not ready. But, I’ve learned to fake it…B.S. When you’ve been doing what I do for as long as I’ve done it, it is remarkable how unprepared I can be and still come off as the expert. I guess that’s why I get the big bucks. Well it is happening to me here in WDC. I have 495 entries in my blog…or “jog” as I insist on referring to it. Time is just about to be up…ready or not. I’ve watched as others have rolled through this milestone. Most folks just create a new blog and forge on ahead. I suppose I will do that also. But, I’m faced with the same problem each one of you have faced—what to do with the old blog? I suppose I will just leave it sitting in my port. Although that too is almost full. I currently have 248 entries in my portfolio; I am permitted to have 250 with my membership. I suppose I can delete some of the stuff, which I will do as soon as I figure out how to do that. But regardless, I’m pretty close to the maximum for my membership. Have I outgrown the site? Am I still getting the benefit I was originally seeking from the site? I’m not sure. What I do know, however, is that I’ve definitely developed relationships in WDC that I’ve never had before. I suppose I will stick around just to be with my friends, if nothing else. But, I know that I need to be getting about the business of writing…writing something more than this blog entry. So after I enter number 500 in the blog, what do I do? Well, as far as I’m concerned I begin on 501, but in a new blog. I don’t think I’ll change a thing. I only know one way to do it—the way I’ve done it in the past. I have a formula and apparently it has worked for me. So, I guess this weekend I’ll be busy copying my old entries into a Word document. I don’t have much to do, since I’ve been downloading them periodically for the last three years. Now, all I have to do is have them published in book form—one volume for each year. What did you do with your old entries? |
| Title: Counting the Constants Date: July 21, 2007, Saturday Thought: There is something comforting to know that he is always there. And, if he isn’t, it’s not because he does not want to be. Jog: In mathematics they call them “constants”, in philosophy they are alluded to as ‘absolutes’; they are in fact things that are unchanging and certain. You can count on them and take them to the bank. I have some constants in my life. I control some of them and some of them just seem to be there. If I were to think real hard about it I could probably make a pretty good list regarding the “constants” in my life. However, that’s not the purpose of this entry. Today I’ll just name two of them and elaborate on one. Day in day out, for the last fifty years of my life Linda has been there—a constant. Sometimes she drives me nuts, but most of the time I thank my lucky stars the Lord placed her there. I know the Good Lord had a hand in it because I’m just not that smart to have arranged it myself. She is the great constant in my life. My other constant is that black dog that is glued to my side. Everywhere I go he is there, like a shadow on a sunny day. He is lying down beside me as I write this entry. When I get up to eat breakfast he will be right behind me. When I go to bed; he goes to bed. Heck, even when I attend to nature’s call he noses the door open and lays down right there beside me….dumb dog. He has become a constant in my life. I don’t know if dogs understand the concept of love; but, I guess he loves me. At least I suppose he does. I know I love that dumb dog…I suppose. We have much in common, that black dog and me. Linda feeds both of us, we share that fortune. He has a little hip dysphasia; I have arthritis. It takes both of us a little longer in the morning to get warmed up. However, we both overdo it at times. When he was just a pup he had a case of heartworm. He was a pretty sick dog. We took care of him and he has recovered; but, there was damage—there always is. Just about the time he was recovering from that I had a little heart problem myself and ended up with a quadruple heart bypass. We both have damaged hearts. We’re working through the rehab with each other every day when we take our walks. In a way, we will grow old together. Next year I will turn sixty. The lifespan of a dog is just around 13 years. I will have become used to being a seventy year old when he turns 13. With our histories there is no telling which one of us will go first. All I know is that I will miss him when we part. I sit here typing this entry and he lies at my side. I hear a deep sigh as he curls a little tighter at my feet. I can’t help but smile. There is something comforting to know that he is always there. And, if he isn’t, it’s not because he does not want to be. How in the world do we get so attached to these silly animals? I don’t know. All I know is that he is one of the absolutes in my life—a constant. I feel fortunate to have him there…oh yeah, and Linda too. |
| Title: Playing the Game Date: July 17, 2007, Tuesday Thought: Now, I don’t begrudge the game I’ve been playing all these years. Heck, I’m dang good at it—a pretty decent player. And I cannot deny that I love to do it. But, I’ve played it long enough, and I’m ready to go on. Jog: I played the game again today. Although, I could not tell who were the ‘good guys’ and who were the ‘bad guys.’ If you work in this business that I’m in long enough, eventually you will find yourself in a court of law. Developers throw millions of dollars at their land developments. When someone gets in the way and causes delays, well, millions of dollars can be wasted. When this happens, you can bet your life someone is going to pay. The mayor of one of my cities got in the way and caused just such a problem. As a result, he is personally being sued by the developer and is in turn counter suing the developer. Since I was the planner advising the city, I am a key player in the process. As a result, I spent this afternoon sitting in a lawyer’s conference room being deposed by two attorneys. I watched our capitalistic system work in this democratic society that we live in. Although, the ultimate concern is making money, I was impressed with how our judicial system works. Eventually, after the attorneys hack it up and create billings that equal the national debt, the courts will decide who the ‘bad guy’ is and who is the ‘good guy.’ There are many countries where that would not happen. Justice in some places is defined by the whims of some despot dictator. However, in this case, as far as I could tell there is enough blame to go around between the two to call it a draw. Regardless of who is declared the winner, neither one of them will really win. Both will pay a dear cost. However, rest assured the two lawyers opposing each other will win. It is likely they will slap each other on the back at the country club next Saturday and ride around on those new golf carts their respective clients bought them. It’s a system that favors those who have the bucks. It has its flaws. But, even so, it’s the best system going. There is no alternative system I would rather have. For two hours I gave testimony under direct questioning by the two attorneys. I was careful about my answers, volunteering very little. I thought about the combined investment that sat in that room—about the dollars that were spent for all that education—theirs as well as mine. We sat in that room as a group of experts in our respective fields, playing corporate chess. I have to admit that something in me enjoys doing this. It’s fun to be a player in the game. But, when all is said and done we come to the conclusion that it is just a game. At the end of the day we all go home. As I walk through the door to my home, I’m greeted by Max and Linda. Linda smiles and acknowledges I’m home. Max acts as if I’m the long lost prodigal son. I have to admit that the corporate game does not measure up to the rewards given by Linda’s smile and Max’s wagging tail. I’m tired of playing that game. I’m ready to spend time with the ones who make life worthwhile. Someday I know I will awake in the morning and be rewarded all day long with nothing but smiles and wagging tails. That’s what I’m looking forward to. Now, I don’t begrudge the game I’ve been playing all these years. Heck, I’m dang good at it—a pretty decent player. And I cannot deny that I love to do it. But, I’ve played it long enough, and I’m ready to go on—let younger men who have the energy to play the game take their turn. Although, ready, I know I must play it a little longer. But, I am blessed that I am one of the fortunate ones. I can play the game according to my rules. I work when I want to, where I want to, for whom I want to. They’re aren’t many of my friends out there playing the game who can say that. The game has been good to me. I’ve played it hard. I will play it a little longer. But, in just a few years I’ll play it as I want to—and just a little— and only because I want to. That’s a pretty good position to be in. Thank you, Lord. |
| Title: The Monotony of Living Date: July 13, 2007, Friday Thought: There is actually a sense of security in monotony. There is no mystery regarding the future when it is dependably repetitious. It is easy for us to plan for tomorrow if it is a carbon copy of today. Jog: Have you ever begun your blog with no real idea of where it was going? Of course you have. Well, that is what has happened to this entry. I could have left an entry every day this week. It would have made my calendar blue but they would have been monotonous. That’s my word of use for this week…monotonous. Now, monotony is not particularly a bad thing…just boring. I’m not in a down mood; I come to this discourse feeling relatively well, without any great frustration or general malaise. I find myself simply contemplating the routine “day-in/day-out” living of life. I hazard to say that even the most adventurous of us live life according to some set schedule of repeating occurrences. Again, that is not particularly a bad thing; I mean, there is actually a sense of security in monotony. There is no mystery regarding the future when it is dependably repetitious. It is easy for us to plan for tomorrow if it is a carbon copy of today. Life just becomes monotonous. Perhaps that’s what makes the movies such an appealing thing to folks. We get to escape into the celluloid world of make believe. There, in that world, we find folks like us, with monotonous lives living adventures that challenge the imagination and thrill our souls. Think of some of the movies that have done that. “ET” inserted an adorable alien into a normal suburban family. “The Terminator” transformed the life of a young woman and her future child into an adventure whose outcome would eventually save all mankind. “Die Hard” inserted a twist in the life of your average cop. Now, how many cops do you know have done that sort of thing? “The Sixth Sense” took the rewarding everyday life of a prominent physiologist and thrust it into the paranormal. And, how about the family in “Poltergeist”? Now, that was a supernatural blip in the mundane life of an American Family. “Harry Potter” has conjured up a whole world of fantasy and presents education in a whole new paradigm. Is Indiana Jones your everyday college professor? Ever wonder what your professor does in his off hours? Well, now you know. I can go on and on. The movies are a enchanted escape from the mundane repetitious world that exists for most of us. I remember when I first found escape from the world in reading. I was a very young boy and somehow was introduced to the Hardy Boys. That was the first book I ever read all the way through. Do you remember the name of the first book, without pictures, you read all the way through? I don’t remember which adventure it was; but, eventually I read the majority of them. In fact I have much of my original library of Hardy Boys books. I could never interest my boys in reading them—nor my grandsons. But that is how reading is; you’ve got to pursue your own interests. Those Hardy Boy adventures took me out of my bedroom and thrust me into the midst of a rushing current or speeding car or abandoned mine-shaft. It was an escape from the mundane monotonous life of a young boy. As I’ve grown more mature, going to the movies and reading still has its magic; those activities still transport me from the present to more adventurous places. But, I’ve stumbled into another vehicle, that of writing. Writing affords me with the opportunity to create my own adventures. I’ve explored different ages, settings, and situations with my short stories. I’ve crafted the words such that they have evoked the range of emotions. To those who have read them, my words have nudged a giggle, nursed a tear, and even raised blood pressure in anger. And, although they are not comparable to greater works by recognized authors, they have occasionally, successfully accomplished their purpose and taken the reader from the present--into the world of imagination and escape. That’s why many of us write—not to make lots of money, although that would tickle us pink. But, the ability to communicate by the written word in such a manner that we take the reader, if even for the briefest moment, from the present and color his/her world with different hues and emotions. I suppose without the monotony of our everyday life, we would not appreciate the excursions into the world of our imagination afforded to us by movies, reading, and writing. As I’ve gotten older, I find that I look forward to the monotony of the time—a summer day with nothing to do but read or write, or perhaps a cold winter evening next to the warm crackle of the fire, or even a rainy Saturday sitting behind the keyboard of my computer letting my imagination direct my fingers as I write a story about a detective named Spam. Yes, sir, there is nothing wrong with monotony. In fact I sort of look forward to it. |
| Title: What’s With All the Drama? Date: July 7, 2007, Satruday Thought: I live a very simple life. I don’t jump to conclusions nor do I form scenarios and the alternative actions to those scenarios. Jog: Some folks thrive on drama as if it were jet fuel. Now, don’t throw anything at me, but most of the folks that do this are of the female gender—at least that’s how it seems in my family. Now, I want you to know from the beginning that I dearly love the females in my family. But they tend to make everything a soap-opera. I’m really curious about this. Is it a female trait or are guys just as bad? I mean, someone is discovered foolin’ around where they shouldn’t be foolin’ around and it is the topic of discussion for weeks. Scenarios are concocted and ‘what ifs’ are discussed as if they were actual happenings. There is more time spent on discussing what “Thelma” will do if “Georgia” happens to do something else than is necessary. I don’t understand it. I have long refused to fabricate scenarios. Heck, things NEVER happen just like you suspected they would. So why waste time forming actions for things that don’t happen. My approach has always been let it happen, and THEN determine the proper action or response. I had a young lady who worked for me at one time. I remember that she would get very uptight right before important meetings. She would assail me with questions just like a four-year-old. “What if they ask this?” “What if they ask that?” “What if they bring this topic up?”—on and on she would go. I would have to set her down and affirm two things. One, she could not say anything that I could not fix, so don’t worry about it. And two, you’re the expert in the room; you’re better prepared than anyone else. Act like it. There is way too much real-life drama in this world that we don’t have to fabricate drama of our own. Here is an example. I receive a telephone call from the police department. I’m out so they leave a message for me to call detective Smith back as soon as possible. Before I get to the message the receptionist has shared it with Linda. Theories have began to surface. Perhaps someone has been involved in a crime and has implicated me wrongly. Should I contact my lawyer? We recently purchased some items from a second party, are they stolen? Maybe one of my children is in trouble with the law…or worse one of my grandchildren? We can’t afford to hire an expensive attorney to fight a wrongful charge case. Surely, they won’t consider jail time for a first offender. STOP IT! I call them back and the detective informs me he is speaking to the Rotary Club and just wants to verify his speaking date. I live a very simple life. I don’t jump to conclusions nor do I form scenarios and the alternative actions to those scenarios. There really is too much drama in this world. And, there are too many instances where we don’t need to know any more than we already know. Other folk’s business really is none of my own. And, unlike some folks out there, that’s the way I want to keep it. I don’t want to know. If I need to know, someone will enlighten me. |
| Title: Celebrating the 4th of July Date: July 4, 2007, Independence Day Thought: My town is that image of Americana. I’m sure it is an image that is played out in countless communities all across this nation; but, I get to see it first hand in my town, today. Jog: There are those of us who see days like today as opportunities to express their importance to us. I take my initial cue from Carolina Blue . His description of a 4th of July parade brought to mind a Norman Rockwell scene of Americana. But, it was a fleeting image. I soon focused on my town.I don’t have to go to memories of celluloid reproductions of small town patriotic parades or vivid descriptions of celebrations of days gone by. I can live those moments in real life, today. My town is that image of Americana. I’m sure it is an image that is played out in countless communities all across this nation; but, I get to see it first hand in my town, today. It begins in the early morning hours, in fact in about twenty-five minutes from now. At 5:15 I will rouse myself from this keyboard and finish dressing. I don’t have to dress warmly, because it is already about 80 degrees outside. I will gather my neighbor and together we will travel to the local lumber yard where others just like me will be assembling. The owner of the lumber yard has graciously provided storage space for five-hundred American flags, which have been attached to ten foot poles. We will distribute those flags amongst ourselves and scatter through our community. I’ll take sixty-five of them and my friend and I will distribute them around our neighborhood. When the sleepy eyes of Burleson begin to wake and take stock of their morning, they will see five-hundred flags flapping in the breeze. But it doesn’t stop there, even as we finish the placement of the flags, folks are staging for the parade, which will begin at 9:30 am this morning. Old restored jeeps and military trucks that have been lovingly restored will assemble at appropriate points. The sheriff’s posse of mounted riders will hold their horses at bay. Last minute applications of little details on the floats will be made; and, numerous hastily decorated bicycles, wagons, and golf carts will take their positions. Scattered through the line will be the bands; but, not behind the sheriff’s mounted posse, for obvious reasons. The 4th of July parade will wander through its route with folks cheering and waving in joint celebration. We will break for lunch. Each of us will go to our separate celebrations at home. Families will gather together for charcoaled hamburgers and hot dogs. And although they are outlawed in our community, firecrackers will sound all across the neighborhood. Fortunately, we have had an abundance of rain and the chance of fire from wayward bottle-rockets is greatly diminished. Some of the gatherings will be large affairs and others will be small. Linda and I will likely spend the day alone together since our boys have plans of their own this year. But, that’s OK, we are happy to share our time with them with others. Besides, it will give me a moment to get some work done—yes, I work on holidays. As evening approaches I will gather a few other Rotarians and we will gather in the five-hundred flags and put them to rest until the next holiday. We roll each one carefully around the pole and stack it with the others. Each flag is a silent representative of the history of our nation—a reminder of what we stand for and what has been purchased by blood. We await the darkness, expectantly. Sometime around 9:30 this evening the band begins to play Sousa marches and the night sky erupts with fireworks. We hear the customary “ooo’s” and “aww’s” from the crowd. And eventually the sky is reclaimed by the darkness and the smoke drifts away. We each return to our homes. That is how we celebrate the 4th of July in my town. |
| Title: It’s A Way To Pass Some Time Date: July 3, 2007, Tuesday Thought: I’ve successfully established the fact that I am insane to be up at this hour of the morning doing this and have established that you have a tenuous hold on sanity yourself for spending so much time reading it. Jog: We spend entirely too much time in here. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t intend to change that and would be upset if you did. But, I still think we spend entirely too much time here. Why do I say such an outlandish thing? Well, first of all, it’s 4:00 am as I write this and there is something insane about that. I should be snoozing instead of banging on these keys. The second reason is David McClain ’s fault. I took a peek at one of my stats. Seems as if my simple little blog page has been viewed over ten thousand times.Now, who would waste ten-thousand moments to wander through my entries? Well, you for one. And, again, I appreciate the company. After all, that’s why I write them—to be able to communicate with you. But, I stand amazed that so many of us would spend the time to do this. If only five minutes were spent on each visit, it would amount to about four months of 8-hour work days. Now, I know that’s only a rough estimate. But; can you imagine going into the office everyday and reading and commenting on one blog entry for four months. I mean, I want to thank that bleary-eyed, bored, tortured soul for his/her loyalty. We certainly are curious creatures. Our need to interact with others is our common trait. Some of us do it more effectively than others. Some of us have much better results than others. But, we all yearn to “reach out and touch someone,” as Ma Bell used to say. In fact, I find that I am obsessed with the idea of communicating through the written word. I know I am not alone there; and I also know that the vast majority of the human race does not share this particular obsession. But, that’s OK too; they’ve got there own obsessions. I just happen to think mine is pretty cool. And if you are a member of this community, well, I know I’ve got company. So, now that I’ve successfully established the fact that I am insane to be up at this hour of the morning doing this and have established that you have a tenuous hold on sanity yourself for spending so much time reading it, what can I conclude? Well, with all said and done, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s OK. It is a constructive way to spend our time. The writer leaves something behind to show that he’s/she’s been there. And the reader, well, the reader has enriched his life just a smidgen. That is if the writer has done his job right. And if I haven’t, well all I gotta say is don’t spend so much time in here. But, spend it somewhere, reading something. And while you’re at it, write something down for me to read. I can’t be expected to do all the writing. |
| Title: Pass the Rattlers; I’m Hungry Date: July 2, 2007, Monday Thought: I’m always, well both times, a little apprehensive about meeting someone from the Internet in person. Jog: The weekend is no longer a weekend; it is a memory. I began the weekend with too much to do. Somehow I had to get significant progress done on the City of Quitman’s zoning map. They wanted it last week. Monday is here and it did not happen. I’m still behind and the backlog is growing. But, what’s new? That’s the nature of my business. There were other things that demanded attention of my meager weekend. I had a cookout to attend on noon Saturday and a wedding later in the day. Fortunately, I got to watch this one and not participate in the ceremony. Although, it was touch and go. Seems as if the judge, who was performing the wedding, was thirty minutes late. They were seriously considering having me to fill in. However, in the nick of time the judge showed up and did the dirty deed, leaving me relieved. On Sunday, I tried to get some work done prior to our diner meeting with welkerdeb and her hubby, which by the way is Mr. Wrong . I was partially successful, which means I partially failed also. Linda and I had lunch with some good friends and then crashed until it was time to go to meet welkerdeb.I’m always, well both times, a little apprehensive about meeting someone from the Internet in person. All those silly questions run through your mind—like: Will we have anything in common? Will there be silence the entire time? What if they don’t like us? What if they turn out to be totally different than what I perceived online? What if there just is no chemistry at all? Well, Geeze ya’ll, I’m human too. And, as you suspect, there was absolutely no need for concern. We met, we visited, and we talked about WDC and a million other topics. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I do think I need to set the record straight, though. Mr. Wrong has been tagged with the wrong name. In my books it ought to be Mr.OK. Given the opportunity we could get along right nicely. He drives a truck and has a neat cell phone that does all kinds of stuff. I know the thing takes a much better photo than mine; that’s why I’m gonna let welkerdeb post our only photo. We got to visiting and forgot to do any photos. And then, we discovered that the lighting in the place was all wrong. Hey, we did the best we could do.As for the menu, I know you’re probably not interested; but, I did ask you to give me suggestions on what to order. Well, we got the dang Range Rattlers like a few of you suggested. Who would have thought jalapeno peppers stuffed with shrimp and deep-fried in a golden batter would taste so good. We all liked them. Well except for welkerdeb. Seems as if she does not appreciate jalapeños or the onion rings they were served on. That’s OK, we improvised. Mr. Wrong and I split Deb’s. I see this could be a lasting partnership. All we gotta do is order stuff welkerdeb hates and we get what we want. Wonder if that works with big screen TVs and table saws?On to the meal—we all had salads. The main course was either some form of steak or chicken. It’s interesting that the women both got chicken. welkerdeb ordered the humongous chicken fired steak. It was so big it seemed it was served in a 24” pizza pan. Needless to say she took some of it home with her. The guys, on the other hand, ordered the sensible and logical thing from a steak house. We both got steaks. I must admit we did a good job. They were really good. All of this happened in the span of about two-and-a-half hours. Linda and I arrived a little early and got the table. We were at the table about ten minutes before George and Deb arrived. The rest is history. Over the course of two-an-a-half hours we visited, compared notes, and generally made a friend. If you are thinking of meeting someone from the Internet, I would recommend that you do it. But, only if it is someone like George and Deb. Or, if it is David and Mel. I can now say I’ve met two couples from WDC. And in the language of American baseball, I’m batting 1000. For those of you who may not be familiar with American baseball, that’s a good thing. |
| Title: What In the World Am I Gonna Eat? Date: June 29, 2007, Friday (Second Entry for This Day) Thought: I thought you might want to help me decide what I’m gonna be having. In fact, I’ve decided to let you choose my meal for that evening. Jog: OK, time is running out. It’s almost time for me and Linda to go out with Deb and hubby. I’m excited about the opportunity. I haven’t met many folks from my Internet wanderings. I guess I could count them on one hand. Since one of those meetings was Tor and Mel I can say so far it’s been a very rewarding experience. I’m looking forward to meeting Deb, she has become one of my favorites over the months. I fully expect her to drag that great sense of humor along with her. I know I will be delighted. We are going to meet at a Texas steak house called Saltgrass. I love that place. If I remember right, that’s the same restaurant I met Tor and Mel at, except in the Woodlands. I wish all of you could be there, although I’m not sure I want to share Deb with you. I’m sure there will be talk about WDC and we’ll remember all our friends here. If you feel your ears burning, that’s us gossiping (except, us guys don’t gossip…we just share facts.) Anyway, I thought you might want to help me decide what I’m gonna be having. In fact, I’ve decided to let you choose my meal for that evening. Since all the food is Texas style, I can’t go wrong with any of it. So I’ve attached the link to their menu and will await your response. If I don’t get enough feedback, well, I’ll just be on my own in that case. And, no telling what I’ll order. http://www.saltgrass.com/menu_items/lone_starters.htm Now, I’ve got some serious business to handle. I’ve got to lobby Saltgrass to open stores in Ojai, England, and Turkey. The rest of you can come down here to Texas. We got ‘em scattered all over the rangeland. Heck, I bet they’ll even serve CC a good Chicken Fried Steak. Life doesn’t get any better than that. (This is the second entry for this day. I know you're not suppose to do that; but, hey I did it anyway. So, that means you gotta read this one and the next one. Confusing ain't it?) |
| Title: Running Out of Words Date: June 29, 2007, Friday Thought: I’ve been flinging words onto paper so fast recently, I’m seriously wondering if maybe my stockpile of words are running a little thin. Jog: I had a weird thought this morning. What if words were like heartbeats? I mean, I’ve figured that each of us have only a limited number of heartbeats—a quota, so to speak. Assume a person lives to the ripe old age of seventy-five. During our lifetime we sleep and snooze a bunch, at which time our heart rate slows to it’s slowest rate—let’s say 50. And then there are the times we exert ourselves…could be wild passionate sex, a driver cutting us off on the Interstate, or carrying the piano upstairs. At those times our little heart rages along at 180 beats per minute. So, I figure the average of these highs and lows is probably somewhere around 68 beats per minute. From the time the doc slaps our bare bottom at birth till the time we gasp our last, our heart will beat a total of 2,682,396,000 times, including the 1,836,000 beats we get for all the leap years we experience during our seventy-five years of life. Now, although that seems like a powerful lot of beats, I don’t think they are quite enough. In fact, I’ve been working on ways of slowing the beats down a bit, just so they last a little longer. Now, what if words were like heartbeats? What if we only had so many words to speak or write? I mean, I’ve been flinging words onto paper so fast recently, I’m seriously wondering if maybe my stockpile of words is running a little thin. I thought I’d run a little inventory on my word stock and this is what I found. 1. Short three letter words and articles are like pennies, I’ve gotten more left than I can really use. That’s not bad but they don’t really do anything. I’m a little embarrassed at the quantity of words like “I” and “me” that I’ve accumulated. I apparently use those way to much. Does that mean I’m a little self-centered? Probably. 2. I’ve buckets of adjectives left over. There are describers and modifiers of all colors and emotions. It seems like plenty, but I’m really concerned at the vast amount of empty buckets lying around my vocabulary. 3. Nouns seem to be holding out well. There are still an abundance of pronouns, not counting of course the personal pronouns of “I” and “me” discussed earlier. There ought to be enough to go around. 4. My real surplus is verbs. There are lots and lots of verbs. It appears that I have not been doing as much as I need to. The action verbs are getting a little overweight from just sitting around. They definitely need a little more activity. But, that’s the way it is with verbs. 5. In a room at the back of the area there are boxes of four-letter words and words typical of drunken sailors, angry confrontations, and pornographic media of all kinds. They are generally unused and still in the packages. I don’t use them often and notice that they come with an instruction sheet for the novice. I’ll probably not use them, not because I’m innocent by any means but because they just are not my style. 6. There are special combinations of words that are prepackaged to use on proper occasions. I’m running pretty low on “I can’t do that”, “I told you so”, “I forgot”, and “I’ll get around to it.” I’ve apparently used those way too much. Similarly, I have an abundance of combinations I should really use more often, such as: “I’m sorry”, “Here, let me do that,” “forgive me,” and “I love you.”--shame on me. 7. Technical words and words from my workplace are so used that they have lost the new shine and patina that came with them forty years ago. They’ve been reused and recycled to the point that they are thread-bear in places. But, I’ve noticed they have earned a place of respect that comes with age. They have earned the right to be filed away with “been there and done that.” I can continue the inventory, but will stop here. It just seems like I’ve used more than my quota of words. I haven’t run out yet; but, it feels like I’m running low. Sometimes I just want to stop and conserve the words I have left, or take a little time organizing the ones I have left better. But right now I’m obligated to open the flood gates and gush forth with words for the sole purpose of making a dollar or two. Yup, my words are for sale. And, as long as someone will purchase them, I suppose I’ll keep flinging them out there. Now, I know there really is no danger of me running out of words—that’s fortunate. But, Geeze! It sure feels as if I’ve used my fair share and some of yours recently. I guess I ought to just feel blessed that I can still use the things. There may come a day when I run out of words. But not today…not today. |
| Title: Splittin’ Hairs Date: June 24, 2007, Sunday Thought: Now, I know I’m scaring some of you. You’re probably scratching your head and saying, “Now, where the heck did THAT come from? Jog: Our language is a perplexin’ thing sometimes. No wonder congress has a hard time of makin’ it our official language. They’re still trying to understand it themselves, much less require others to learn the stuff. But as confusing as it may be, it’s the one we are stuck with and it ought to be used. But, figuring out how to use it is a real trick. The word ‘read’ is a screwy word. Standing alone you don’t know what the thing is. You gotta use it before you know how to say it. It is either past tense or present tense and it sounds different, depending on its tense. And then, when you do use it in the past tense it sounds exactly like ‘red.’ Now, that’s a dang color. I don’t like the word ‘picture.’ Now, I know I’m scaring some of you. You’re probably scratching your head and saying, “Now, where the heck did THAT come from?” But it’s true, I don’t like the word. I feel it is terribly inadequate. I know this is splittin’ hairs; but, it crops up occasionally in these blog pages. Usually it is in reference to someone posting some pictures. Here’s where I’m coming from. “Picture” is a perfectly good word; but is confusing. Do you know that the word picture can mean either a drawing, a painting, or a photograph? Now, I contend that’s a pretty drastic range. When Nada posts the stuff from her meetings with sweett and Ŧĥē Beŋ will they be painted portraits or photographs? If they are a picture, they could be either. Why don’t we just say ‘painting’ or ‘drawing’ or ‘photo?’ I mean don’t leave me in the dark. I gotta wait until the dang thing is posted to see what it really is.Now, ‘picture’ is also easily confused when you’re using spoken language. You may mistake it for ‘pitcher,’ which is pretty dang confusing itself. I mean ‘pitcher’ can mean a fella that throws a mean fastball or a container holding a gallon of sweet tea. My advice is to stay away from using ‘picture’ altogether and consider the context on ‘pitcher.’ It’s a miracle we understand each other in these United States. I mean the differences in speech and the way we use our terms differs from region to region. Here are some simple examples. Linda and I come from Oklahoma (I will wait a moment now as the Texans in our midst crack all those Oklahoma jokes…yeah, I’ve heard them all.) Although we are just over the state line, we use different terms than do the Texans. Like, where Linda and I come from, a small area dammed up to catch water for stock is a ‘pond.’ These silly Texans call it a ‘tank.’ Now how weird is that. A tank is a big metal container that holds water. It’s also a big metal contraption that blows things up. Those holes in the ground out there in the pasture are ‘ponds!’ And, I’ve got friends from Arkansas who constantly confuse the words ‘carry’ and ‘take.” For example, if a friend needs a ride to the grocery store, you may hear an Arkie say, “I’ll come by around noon and ‘carry’ you to the store.” Now, that messes up my mind. I can’t help but see Mabel loading Beatrice on her back and hauling her to the store. You don’t ‘carry’ folks places! You drop by and pick them up and ‘take’ them to the grocery store. Now, there may be some of you out there how see this simple little entry as a waste of blog space; so be it. All I gotta say is that sometimes little stuff piles up and causes me to wonder out loud, “What the heck?” This is one of them. I’ll return to my typical philosophical self tomorrow. But I leave you with one thought and question, when the wise man said, “A picture is worth a thousand words,” was he referring to a painting or a photograph? I wanna know. |
| Title: A Dog’s Life Date: June 23, 2007, Saturday Thought: Actually, I had a very good morning this morning and really wanted to say a little about it. So, that’s what I’m gonna do. Jog: Hi folks! My name is Max. I’m a dog; you’d call me a black Lab. This here is my Pack Leader’s (PL) blog page. You know him as PlannerDan. He thought it would be neat if I made the entry today. So here I am pawing through this entry. Actually, I had a very good morning this morning and really wanted to say a little about it. So, that’s what I’m gonna do. I could tell by the light showing through above the curtains that it was daybreak. Somehow the world outside was calling for me to get out there and get into it. So, I did what I always do at that time, I began nosing my PL’s elbow as he typed on the computer. I’ve found if I do that enough he will stop what he’s doing and give me a little attention. It worked. Soon he was petting me and talking to me. But, he didn’t move. So, I did the next thing that I usually do. I adjusted the contents of the top of his desk with my tail. I’ve found if I wag the dang thing hard enough and fast enough I can knock stuff off. That always gets his attention. Again, it worked. Soon he was walking down the stairs towards the front door. I scampered down behind him and got there about the same time he did. Immediately I nosed my leash that’s hanging on the wall. Sometimes I have to remind him what is important in life. My walk in the morning is definitely important; and, it doesn’t hurt him any little bit either. Oh, my joy!—when he picked it up and opened the door. All he has to say is, “Come on!” It was simply a gorgeous morning this morning. The smell of the world greeted me and flooded my soul with excitement. Oh, how I love to go on these walks. It’s taken me a while to train my PL to do this regularly; but, he’s coming along nicely. He didn’t hook the leash to me and just let me run loose. It was fantastic. I had run just a few houses down the street when I heard a door shut next to me. To my surprise, Oreo came bounding down the sidewalk up to me. Can you believe it; he was also going for a walk this morning. His “very little people” really love me. Every time I see them they run up to me and want to pet me. It’s heaven. The youngest, Nathan, is away in the hospital right now. He is a very sick little person; but is getting well and will soon be back home. I look forward to walking in front of their house. They decorate the sidewalk with colored chalk—all kinds of stuff. I don’t know what the pictures mean; but I do know they come with giggles and squeals and lots of petting. When I plop my butt down to get petted it always comes up with reds and yellows and blues dusted on it. So I got to walk with Oreo this morning. Well, I actually ran a lot because Oreo loves for me to chase him; and I did. Except for the time I broke for the lake and chased those prissy ducks into the water. Man were they paddling, especially when I went right in the lake behind them. Didn’t catch them though, I never do. I just like to chase them. We walked a little ways around the lake and then my PL decided we were going to go out and walk on the golf course. Oreo and his PL went on down the trail and we angled off into the golf course. I love the golf course. I can run as fast and hard as I want and will never loose sight of my PL. There’s a creek that runs through the golf course. There’s water in the creek. You guessed it; it’s perfect for wading, which I did. When I popped up out of the creek, what do you think I saw? Coming down the cart path was Maggie and Charlie, two toy poodles. Maggie’s got a crush on me and Charlie thinks I hung the moon. My PL and theirs walked for the longest time on around the golf course. Maggie and I saw some squirrels and chased their little bushy tails up a tree. She thinks she’s a hunting dog but doesn’t have the same drive as Labs. She will chase a rabbit to the brush but won’t go in after it. I on the other hand have no qualms about plunging into the briars and brush. But, rabbits aren’t my favorite; ducks are. I love ducks. We saw a whole flock of ducks sitting on the bank of the lake when we got around to that part of our walk. So, I got to go into the lake again chasing their feathered butts. Dang! I wish I could swim. I walked with Charlie and Maggie on over to the swing sets that are located in the trees. There were several squirrels who thought they would scamper around gathering nuts. We fooled them. I chased them up the tree and then sat there and barked at them so they’d know who was boss. As I was sitting there Abby, a young Lab mix, and her PL walked up. Now, Abby is just a pup. She gets so excited when she sees me; she’s almost uncontrollable. Her PM has a heck of a time trying to keep her calm. Today her PL unleashed her and let Abby run free. Geeze, I wish I had the energy of a pup. I chased that little girl until I got pooped. Charlie and Maggie joined in the fun also. Maggie is fast and could catch her. But even Maggie got tired. Eventually we ran her down and brought her back to her PL, who was so grateful she gave me a liver treat. We left Abby in the park walking the opposite direction, but ran into Caesar and his PL. Caesar is the whitest dog I’ve ever seen. He’s a Husky/Chow mix and is so white he’d disappear if we ever had any snow. I guess he is as white as I am black. The two of us are quite a contrast when we are together. I visited with Caesar for a moment before he walked on around the park in the same direction Abby went. That’s OK, I visited enough; and, besides we were standing next to the creek again and, well, I just had to take another dip. Eventually, I heard my PL call me and ran to find him. The rest of them were walking down the trail to the street where I live. I guess it was time to go home. I figured out that I was pooped and walked about ten feet behind my PL the rest of the way home. Man my tail was really draggin’. When I got home, my PL toweled me off real good, because I was still sopping wet. I love it when he does that. He puts the towel over my head and I walk around with it there, mouthing it and growling. And then he rubs me and gets me mostly dry. All in all, it was a good walk this morning. I’m now curled up next to him in his office. He’s putting the finishing touches on my entry. I suspect my morning will finish with me getting a bath. Great, I get to get in the water again! And that is how my morning has been--pretty typical actually. I’ll sleep a little the rest of the day until my evening walk. Maybe this evening I’ll see my other friends, Missy, Tinker, Jessie, Shadow, and Macy. Life’s tough for a dog. What would I do without my friends? [ed note: Linda thinks this would make a great children’s story.] |
| Title: Grandpa, Tell Me a Story Date: June 18, 2007, Monday Thought: I am saddened to think of the history that we are missing today. As we busy ourselves with our pastimes, our Play Stations, and Gameboys, our four-wheelers and jet-skis we are losing our history. Jog: I sat across the table from my buddy’s dad. He was eating a Victoria’s Fillet from Outback Restaurant—medium well. Jerry and his wife and Linda were with me. Woody is somewhere in his eighties. He was enjoying the steak and in between bites he was telling me a story of a crossing of the English Channel during World War II. He was careful to let me know it was not the D-Day crossing. I suppose someone had made that mistake before. Veterans are very careful about embellishing on combat stories; a little adjustment for color is OK but they never ever imply that they were in a battle that they were not or claim medals that are not earned. It just is not done. Politicians, however, have no problem doing that. Anyway, Woody was using his fork to provide a visual of how the bow and stern of the ship was lifted and dropped by the terrific swells encountered during his trip. A little later during our meal he would use the same fork as a visual for a B-29 landing in Okinawa after the war, a particularly harrowing landing it seems. Woody had served in the Air Force in the latter years of WWII and in Korea during the Korean War, which he was quick to say was just a Police Action according to the politicians. Woody has very little respect for politicians. I listened to his account with great interest. Being a student of history of that era, I was particularly pleased to hear a first hand account from a witness of the time. I was amused that little historic facts were mixed up and somewhat out of order in Woody’s account. For example, he referred often to Normandy Beach on D-Day. There was no Normandy Beach; all the landings occurred on the beaches of Normandy. The American beaches were named Omaha and Utah. However, that was a detail that I would not take up with Woody, after all, I am just a student of history, and he was there. In any case, it did not matter; I was not interested in facts found in history books; I wanted to hear of experiences lived during that period of time. You will not find those experiences recorded in the books of history, not like this. A simple thought surfaced in my mind—a concept or idea. Wouldn’t it be great to have a series of meetings with Woody and record the accounts of his understanding of history? To get an oral history of the times he experienced as he grew up. He was a child during the Great Depression. He saw the social reforms of Roosevelt. He was there on the day Pearl Harbor was attacked. He remembers the day Hiroshima and Nagasaki were bombed. The Cold War was fought while he was in the military. Through all these events the common American lived and did their best to provide for a future for their families. To hear the stories in the voice of someone who experienced them would be amazing. This is not a new idea for me. I have done something similar before. During a time when I was researching my wife’s family history, I interviewed her mother, who is in her early nineties. I have a tape that tells of how her family came to Oklahoma from Arkansas in an ox-drawn wagon. That must have been around 1910 or so. That tape is priceless now. I wish I could have done this with my grandparents. However, they passed away before I was born and that opportunity was never available to me. When I was pastoring the little church in Carney, Oklahoma, there was a dear soul there by the name of John Cole. At that time John was one-hundred years old. He is the oldest man I have ever known; and that was nearly thirty years ago. John was born ten years after the Civil War had ended. He lived through much of the history of our country. In college, history of the United States is usually divided into two sections: Pre-Civil War and Post-Civil War. Each section is a course of its own. John Cole lived the whole period of the second course—amazing. I had numerous conversations with John, whose mind was as sharp as a tack. Oh, how I wish I had recorded them. As I left that lunch with Woody and my friends, I left with a yearning in my heart. I am saddened to think of the history that we are missing today. As we busying ourselves with our pastimes, our Play Stations, and Gameboys, our four-wheelers and jet-skis we are losing our history. As we concern ourselves with American Idol, Survivor, and Paris Hilton, the real stories of our days are dying. In a few years there will be no veterans of World War II. In a generation there will be few living who experienced the day Sputnik sailed into space fifty years ago or the Kennedy/Nixon debates in 1960. Who will we have to tell us about how it was when they were a kid? Will we trust totally to the History Channel and the Time Life books of photos? Who will document the simple life of the common man as they lived through these times--no one? Unless we do it. There is a very active movement in academia to record and archive oral history. I contend that we should all become oral historians, documenting the histories of members of our own families—mothers and fathers, grandparents, old aunt Bessie. All it takes is a little time and a tape recorder, and of course a few sixty minute tapes. |
| Title: It's Raining on Father’s Day Date: June 17, 2007, Sunday Thought: Somehow it seems appropriate that it rain on Father’s Day. The rain should not be seen as casting a pall on the festivities of this special day. Jog: It’s raining outside my window this morning. The rain is hard but not violent. After it quits the sun will burn the rain clouds away we will be treated to lush green growth. Our lakes are full and the creeks are running. After being in a drought for the last five years the earth seems to sigh a relief for the needed moisture. I can expect my grass to grow with renewed vigor; the trees will sprout new tendrils of infant limbs with soft green leaves. Our flowers, which usually labor this time of year in the Texas heat, will burst out with new blossoms that weigh the branches and treat our yard with an eruption of welcome color. I like the rain. Somehow it seems appropriate that it rain on Father’s Day. The rain should not be seen as casting a pall on the festivities of this special day. Nope, it seems appropriate that the rain be pelting down this morning. Nature is after all at work here, doing what needs to be done for us to survive. That’s what my Dad did all his life. I can’t remember much of my Dad outside of his connection with work. We took the occasional vacations and he certainly had his days off, but my father was synonymous with work. It is from him I have gotten my work ethic. He has been gone many years now. As I near the age of sixty, it is hard to comprehend the situation. In my mind's eye I will always be a kid when I think of him. I will see him as I did when I was a little boy. My memory magically morphs the years together because I also see him as a teenager. For most of my life he was bigger than life itself. He stood boldly in my life and was my hero. The stories of his youth entertained me; his service in the Marine Corp during WWII awed me and rooted a deep respect for the man he was; and, his chosen vocation, the oil fields of this world, was a witness to the physical person that he was. When he took me to work with him I was impressed by the massive nature of the equipment, the clanging steel, the belching smoke, and the violently physical nature of the job. It seemed appropriate that my father would supervise men to work in this field. Although this world will never consider him a great man and history will absorb his presence, he set a standard to which I have attempted to meet and a reference point for which I could orient my life; much like the North Star. Amazingly, it was late in life when I learned he had weaknesses—flaws in his character. But even then I considered him my hero. Those weaknesses and flaws proved to me that all of us are works in progress, even my dad. They confirmed that I had a chance to be respected and loved like my dad was. I’m not the same kind of dad that he was. I’m no better and no worse. I’m just a different kind of dad. I hope my example to my boys has been sound and inspiring like my dad’s was for me. I hope I’ve challenged them to be good men; and I believe they are. In many ways I’ve done better than my dad in this life. But that’s as it should be. One generation should always be able to learn and better themselves from the efforts of the previous. My father left me a legacy. It was handed down to him from his father, a man I never got to know. I feel relief that I do not have to begin from nothing; these men of my past have given me a step up. Hopefully I have built on this legacy and will hand it off to my sons. But, not yet; I’m still working on it—much like the rain is still doing its work outside my window this morning. I don’t mind the rain on Father’s Day. It somehow seems appropriate to me. |
| Title: A Little Slice of My Morning Date: June 14, 2007, Thursday – Flag Day Thought: I was ever so conscious of being an American this morning. Jog: Somewhere around 5:00 am Max and I stumbled out the front door. I had not intended to take him for his walk at that time of the morning. But, the anticipated look of disappointment on his face, when I would leave him a little later, got to me even before it happened. He was so excited when I got up in the morning. His excitement began when he saw me open my sock drawer and get a pair of white socks. You see, to Max that is a sign that I’m getting ready to put my joggers on, which is a sign that I’m ready to pick up the leash, which is a sign that he is going walking. I know it is presumptuous of him; but, he can’t help it. He has a one track mind first thing in the morning; and, when I change the routine his disappointment is obvious. His tail drops; he lays his ears back; he tilts his head to the side and he looks intently at me with those big sad brown eyes. I say, “Stay!” and he plops his butt on the ground in disappointment. It makes me feel terrible for him. And, so at 5:00 am this morning, I changed MY schedule and grabbed the leash and said, “Come on, Boy!” And, out the door we went into the darkness, walking; he was elated and content. I was up this morning to perform a civic service. Our Rotary Club puts out 500 flags across our town on six special days of each year. Today is Flag Day. Now, you HAVE to put out flags on Flag Day; and so we did. I am responsible for sixty of the 500 flags we put out. So, early this morning I met with other Rotarians as we hunted in the darkness for the sleeves that are usually filled with water from irrigation of lawns. All across town we dropped the flag poles into the pre-set sleeves, often displacing the water filled to the brim onto our clothing in spurts. It is a glorious thing to see a flag lined neighborhood. It makes you feel good. My granddaughter, Harley, loves to help me put out flags for some reason. Who would have thought a thirteen year old would get out of bed that early to meet with a bunch of old farts stumbling down the streets with 500 American Flags. Well, Harley does. And I kinda like the fact that she likes to do it. After I found my sixty flags a home and left them blowing in the gentle morning breeze, Harley and I went to have breakfast—just the two of us. We sat in a little café with all the farmers, retired ‘old farts’ and assorted business men and ate a small country breakfast. I was ever so conscious of being an American this morning. Four ‘old-timers’ sat next to us. I overheard their conversations as they traded topics ranging from farming, to fishing, to military service, to politics, to oil wells. They moved smoothly from each topic with the transitions seeming to be prearranged, even though I know they were not. It was truly a scene from small town America. At one table years of experience of a senior generation; at the other table a man and his granddaughter. Both tables enjoying the freedom and privileges that have been earned by previous generations of Americans. All of us living under the protection and fortune of a free society represented by those 500 flags I helped put out this morning. Harley and I enjoyed our time together. I challenged her to write a journal this summer chronicling her summer. I told her she does not have to do it all year—just during the summer. At the end of summer she and I will read back through it. She thought it was a marvelous idea. I’m looking forward to watching her use her mind and develop her writing skills. I told her I would let her read mine. We finished our breakfast and I took her home. I returned to my home where Max greeted me at the door with excitement as if I’d return from a distant journey. I hugged my wife, played with my dog, and retired to my office. You know, there are many things that we can do in this great land. There are grand places to which we may go, events we may attend, and amusement centers where we can spend our money. We have unprecedented opportunities to live the good life. But, you know, with all that opportunity, I don’t think it gets any better than what I did this morning. And, the remarkable thing is it only cost me a little time and the price of a breakfast for two. Now, how wonderful is that? |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
