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 |  A sporadic account of my reaction to life. |
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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: May I Please Have My Hour Back? Date: April 1, 2006, Saturday Thought: I had no idea this chronometric conspiracy had progressed so far. Jog: Don’t you get really frosted when the whole world decides to mess up your day. Now, I know they did not think of me personally when they did this little tid-bit of irritation. I am simply not that vain to think the world keeps up with my life. So, whether I like it or not, the nation will wind their respective clocks up tonight when they go to bed and by so doing pilfer an hour of sleep from my life. In the scheme of things, I realize this does not rate much attention. My beauty rest is of no concern to the nation. As I looked into this obvious conspiracy to steal my hour, I found that it was first suggested by Benjamin Franklin. My Gawd! One of our founding fathers is in on this conspiracy. I had no idea this chronometric conspiracy had progressed so far. Of course, the idea given for this blatant snitching of my sixty minutes is that it would better humanity by giving the world an hour more of daylight, with which they could conduct more commerce and realize more wealth. An hour more of daylight supposedly would conserve on energy and make the country more efficient since they could see what they are doing with natural light. They (whoever THEY are) did not factor in the obvious detriment to health. For how many times have I stubbed my toe in the dark, having to rise an hour earlier? Or how can they undue the unbearable humiliation of standing before an assembly and noticing you have on a blue sock and a brown sock. After all, they both appear black in the darkness. “So why don’t you just turn on the light,” you ask? Hey! The reason I’m stumbling around in the dark is so I don’t have to turn the blasted light on an hour earlier at night! I tell you it is a conspiracy. And if we are going to do the dang thing, why can’t we get our collective acts together. I understand Arizona doesn’t even do it, with the exception of the Navajo Nation. Most of the countries near the equator never leave standard time. I also understand that this little issue of time is a divisive issue. Saskatchewan and parts of British Colombia refuse to go to daylight savings time when the rest of Canada does. And my information tells me that the Northern Territories of Australia and Queensland remain on standard time all year; the rest of Australia makes the switch. The most populated nation on the earth, China, spans five time zones and does not recognize daylight savings time. What’s their problem? Don’t they know who Benjamin Franklin was? So, even after acknowledging the alleged benefits of squeezing this one hour from me, I still want to ask, “May I please have my hour back?” |
| Title: Racing for Dollars Date: March 31, 2006, Friday Thought: I’ve been chasing that dang dollar all month. Jog: It has been a long race. In fact the dang thing ain’t over yet. I began the race when I was just a young boy in high school. I stood at the starting blocks, energy pent, enthusiasm high, and expectations confident. I raised my head and looked down the track and saw the goal in front of me. It was a car—a ‘57 Chevy to be exact. That goal was not a lofty goal, for that car was already several years old. But fixed up as I wanted it to be, with paint and interior completed, it was a prize to be coveted. To get my prize all I needed was some dollars. I waited for the starter’s gun and when it sounded, I was off—off chasing the dollar. That was many years ago, over forty of them to be exact. I cruised into my ‘jog’ site this afternoon and was alarmed and embarrassed by the sporadic blue days in my month. I don’t like that. But, I should not be surprised. After all, that is the title of the dang thing. So, where in the world have I been? Well, folks, I’m still in the race. I’ve been chasing that dang dollar all month. You’d think with all the experience that I have running after the dang thing, I could slow my pace to a walk. But that’s not the way it seems to happen. How come? Well as I look down the track at the goal before me, I see it has changed. No longer is there a ‘57 Chevy down at the finish line. Nope, that was replaced many times by other stuff. What the elusive dollar holds for me now is security and leisure. There is a promise down there that says I won’t have to chase the dang thing much longer. But that promise holds true only if I run the race. If pause and wait for someone else to bring it to me, it won’t happen. Nope, I’ve gotta do it myself. And so, these aging ole muscles will continue to pump and chase my dollars. But I will go slower now. They don’t seem to be as important to me as they were when I saw that ’57 Chevy down at the finish line. I’ll just jog along now for a little while longer. And the funny thing is, when I finally finish the race and have caught some of those dollars, someone will probably point at me and say, “Ain’t he lucky? He got him some of those dollars an’ he ain’t even racin’” Well, I’ll have you to know, luck has nothing to do with it. I’m lucky ‘cause I worked my arse off to chase ‘em! |
| Title: On Being a Tad Bit Silly Date: March 19, 2006 Thought: Perhaps I’ve got a ’jog’—a little of both. Jog: I suppose it’s a tad bit silly. But I’ve done it anyway. I have had a real problem with the nature of the blog vs. journal. Now, I know the difference. But, knowing the difference does not solve the dilemma. Just how do you treat these things? You see, I don’t want to have to keep two separate accountings. So, again, I will walk through the differences in the two. Not for your benefit so much as for my own. The problem lays in ‘purpose’. What is the purpose of a journal and a blog? We know one is public and one is private. But why do you do either one of them? I began this effort as a journal. I wanted to record an accounting of vignettes of my life and thoughts. Why? Well that was a little selfish of me. I wanted to be more than a 'dash' between the years. You know, the dash that they put between “born–died”, on your tombstone. I wanted for someone, someday to be able to read what the dash was about. That is the main purpose of a journal, as far as I am concerned. So, unless you are a President, who will be remembered anyway, will have a place in history, and will have your own library named after you, the journal will be an accounting of the events, small and large, that occur in ones life. Now, the blog on the other hand is a tool of proclamation. Most folks who have a blog are looking to tell someone something. Even though the journal does the same thing, there is a difference. The blog seeks to tell them now. The blog can be used to influence the positions and actions of others. It’s the high-tech soap-box of our age. I wonder, sometimes, how things would have been different if our founding fathers would have had access to the Internet. Patrick Henry would not have uttered the words “Give me liberty or give me death!” No, he would have written a one page blog and posted it on the Internet. The Continental Congress would have first met in a ‘chat room’ and discussed the price of tea and the nasty tax levied on it. No doubt the same result would have happened. Tea would have still been dumped in Boston Harbor; for the written word can move and stir the soul as well as the spoken word. But it would have been different. That brings me to my opening statement about being a tad bit silly. I suppose I want to do both journal and blog. Perhaps I’ve got a ’jog’—a little of both. I’ve spent the last couple of days pulling all my entries off of my blog page and ordering them in a volume. You see, I’ve decided to print the dang things. I mean I’m going to publish them. I have about two-and-a-half years of entries. That amounts to 294 entries. I never intended to be faithful with daily entries, so I’ve accomplished my goal of at least staying regularly sporadic. The way I’ve got it figured, each year can be its own volume. Since the first year was an incomplete year, Volume I will be a little larger and will have 2003, 2004, and 2005. The first two years had only forty-three pages of entries, with 2005 having the bulk of pages (167). By the way, those two-and-a-half years have 168,823 words. Well, I suppose it’s a tad bit silly. But, I’ve done it anyway. |
| Title: The Sound of Music Date: March 17, 2006, Friday Thought: I feel guilty charging my client for my travel time; I enjoyed the trip home so much. Blog: Without a doubt, taste in music is a very subjective thing. I admit I have problems with some music. Undoubtedly that is my problem. My taste in music runs to the extreme. I like Ernest Tubb and Willie Nelson, Jack Jones, George Strait, David Alan Coe, Olivia Newton John, and Dean Martin. I like Buddy Holly, Elvis, Louie Armstrong, Lean Rimes, and Nat King Cole. I like most nearly all of the pop bands of the sixties, including the Monkey’s, Rolling Stones and the Beatles. I like Glen Miller and Tommy Dorsey. I like Jim Reeves and the Three Tenors. I even like John Phillip Sousa. I like a lot of stuff. What I have never been able to appreciate is rap. I’ve tried. I’m sorry; it just doesn’t work for me. I’ll not even go into the reasons, which are legion. That is why I was totally dismayed and disappointed when "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp," won an academy award for best music. They deserve the Oscar because they were awarded the dang thing; but, please don’t try to convince me that is the best we had to offer this year. Now, I’m not very good with music. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. The only instrument that I played in school was the ‘sticks.’ And that was in first grade. Needless to say, my talent came up short in music. However, I love to listen to it. Music moves me as nothing else can. It has a way of speaking to my soul. I know I am not alone in that aspect. What brings this to mind is what happened to me on yet another long trip home late one evening. Driving down the back roads of North Texas, I found myself out of range for the normal radio stations I listen to. As an alternative, I cranked my CD on. Now, they wrapped $45,000 worth of pick-up around my sound system, so the dang thing had better be good; and it is. With several speaker positioned around the interior and crystal clear sound and tone, I arbitrarily selected one of six CDs kept in the player. The sound of the Three Tenors flooded my cab. For two hours I listened to them; it was as if I was sitting on the front row of their concert. How can the human voice do that? I was moved and inspired by the music. Some of the songs were written a couple of centuries ago; some of them were relatively new. But all of it was beautiful. I’m sorry, but to me, "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp," just does not measure up in quality. Do they really think people will be humming that tune fifty years from now? “Torna a Surriento”, “’O Sole, Mio”, and “Nessun Dorma” will still bring tears to the eye. The amazing thing is all I had to do was listen. It cost me nothing, unless you want to count the cost of the pick-up truck. I feel guilty charging my client for my travel time; I enjoyed the trip home so much. I marvel at how much we take such things for granted. I looked outside my pick-up into the night sky, as I sped down the dark road; I saw a golden full-moon. Two of my senses, sight and hearing, freely absorbed the moment. My goodness, how many times have I missed this? How many times have I chosen to watch “Survivor” or “American Idol” instead of experiencing the things that have been provided to me free of charge, like music and the night sky? And, so I played these songs by the Three Tenors over and over and over. It was a good moment; it was moving; it was appreciated. I doubt if I could say the same listening to “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp.” I guess I’ve still got a long way to go. |
| Title: Filling Time Date: March 16, 2006, Thursday Thought: For eons animals have lived in caves, yet none of them have drawn pictures on the wall telling future generations what great event just took place. Blog: Each one us is given the same twenty-four hours to use in one day. As industrious as we may be or deserving of more moments, we will get no more or less. How do we spend these slices of existence? Are we compelled to savor and make each one of them meaningful, knowing that even as we ponder this they are passing? And, if by chance I spend my fleeting seconds by looking at the sky doing nothing, are they wasted? If you read on in this blog expecting answers to those questions, you will likely be disappointed. I don’t know the answers; I just have the questions. I listened to a talk show on radio the other night as I was driving home from a late meeting. Isn’t it interesting the philosophers we find on late night radio? The man being interviewed was an atheist and was active in his belief. He proclaimed forcefully that life was meaningless. Nothing mattered, for as incongruous as it is, all matter passes and we are just passing matter. In response to him, the callers were confused, belligerent, and threatened by his skillful argument. With precision he dissected and reduced the simple arguments of the listening public to foolish ramblings. I was disappointed to see no compelling argument presented from the listening public. For even as I passed the mileposts on my way home, I knew there was a reason for being that was much more rewarding that what he presented. I knew there was in fact meaning for us to occupy these passing moments; although, he insisted there was none. I’ve come to believe there are some arguments that can not be resolved. They are left unresolved not because of lack of sound and skillful presentation of thoughts and concepts by the presenters of all sides. No they are left unresolved because those presenting the arguments are standing on different paradigms. A race can be won or lost when the racers start from the same starting-blocks and run in the same direction. But, the race has no significance when the runners begin at different times and run in different direction. Those callers were running from starting-blocks that the atheist did not recognize. There was no way to win the race; not unless they were willing to run the race from his starting-blocks. Unfortunately, that is a foreign concept to many of us. Our arguments become only forceful presentations of our own positions, and nothing more. So, why even try? Why spend these moments of ours attempting to be understood? Perhaps the answer is not in winning the argument; but, in fact it is in the telling of our position. Perhaps meaning is given when we accomplish something—when we deliver our thoughts, put them on paper, make them heard and understood. Perhaps the real result in making our moments meaningful is not the winning, but the communicating. To arrange vowels and consonants together so that they make sense and cause others to think is truly a marvelous miracle. But, what if I were alone on a deserted island? Well, I would still want to communicate. I would want to accomplish things that told of my existence. Without paper and writing tool I would want to find a way. This is remarkably human. For eons animals have lived in caves, yet none of them have drawn pictures on the wall telling future generations what great event just took place. Yet, man has the urge to communicate. We want to do more than just exist. Unlike the atheist, who found no meaning in life, I do. And so, I will string my passing moments together as meaningfully as I can. I will stand on my own foundation of belief and approach each second within that paradigm, interacting and communicating with others the best I can, realizing they may be standing on a different foundation. If I am true to myself, those seconds will not be wasted. |
| Title: Do We Forget? Date: March 11, 2006, Sunday Thought: For the first time in my life I identified with my father when he heard on the radio Pearl Harbor had been attacked. Blog: I begin my week with the luxury of having two days in my weekend. For the last six weeks my weekend has been fragmented with work responsibilities. Those are still present, but I was not required to "perform" this Saturday. Nope, I will be meeting with several cities during the weekdays this week. There is no likelihood that my work-load will slacken...just shift. That means I was afforded a little time this weekend to turn my attention to WDC, therefore I will blog (that's still a disgusting word.) I've been spending time working on my nonfiction work regarding the 911 tragedy with the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and the field in Pennsylvania. I am concerned that the passage of time will dull the memory of those who I need to take the survey ("Invalid Item"  ). My thanks go to Tor for sponsoring it for a time. I will need to do that again as soon as I purchase additional gift points.But I wonder how the modern age we live in has affected the impact of tragic events such as this. Throughout the ages men have been rallying to the call to remember. The fight for Texas' independence from Mexico was spurred by the rallying cry, "Remember the Alamo." The cry during the Spanish-American war was, "Remember the Maine." And, my parent's generation labored through the Second World War with, "Remember Pearl Harbor." Britain had several rallying cries, among them, "Remember Dunkirk." I remember how fervently people expressed the horror the moment the Twin Towers were attacked and subsequently collapsed. I perceived it was an experience that all Americans, and our friends abroad, would certainly remember. I felt it would fill us with a resolve to strike back against such aggression--to right a grievous wrong. I recall the alleged quote from Admiral Yamamoto when he received the report of the Japanese success at Pearl Harbor, "I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve." For the first time in my life I identified with my father when he heard on the radio Pearl Harbor had been attacked. However, I am concerned that this time we have failed to wake. Are we still asleep? Are we, today, a people who will remember? Or are we a people who embrace the emotion of the moment and then shove it into the background of our experiences? Are our memories selective? Do we remember the tragedy when it suites our purpose and set it aside when other more important issues arise, such as who will win American Idol, or which song will win the Academy Award (What was with that, anyway?), or even how do we sabotage and discredit an American president during a time of national emergency? I am afraid most Americans today would look puzzled and ask, "What emergency?" Our youth must be taught to remember. They must be taught the importance of their own place in time. We, those of my generation, owe it to them to teach them to revere those who have gone before us, who have died to win and retain our system of government and way of life. They must know the importance of places such as Concord, Yorktown, Valley Forge, Independence Hall, Gettysburg, Appomattox, the Alamo, Pearl Harbor, Normandy, Okinawa, Korea, Vietnam, and the Twin Towers. I am afraid that we are too busy having fun, enjoying the things those who have paid the price gave us, to take time to remember. I hope it is not so. I hope our people are silent but resolved still. I hope, because hope is all we have. |
| Title: A Little Help From My Friends Date: March 11, 2006, Saturday Thought: Here I find community in a place without physical dimensions. Weird, ain't it? Blog: Get ready, this is another of those sappy praises of friends and blogging. We have pursued this theme many times before, at least I have. But the old saying, "Where there's smoke; there's fire" has some validity in it. This outburst of mush is motivated by something Tor did for me...on his own and unselfishly. You see, I have this survey that I am working on ("Invalid Item" ). Most of you have already completed it. My goal is to reach one-hundred responses before I craft it into some sort of book. Needless to say, I was stumped somewhere around forty-eight responses. I need half-a-hundred more. Upon mentioning this, Tor says, "Have you ever thought about sponsoring it?" "Nope, I don't even know what that is." "Don't worry about it. I'll sponsor it!" he says. And then he goes right out and does it. At least I think he did because I received around fifteen responses to the survey yesterday. Now, Tor didn't have to do that; but, he did. Many of you have read my book, Across the River. You didn't have to; but you did. Sultry pops in and gives me these neat snow-globe thingies. She didn't have to; but she did. Nada, Wind, and Tor dropped me emails saying, "Where are you? Are you OK?" They didn't have to; but they did. And that's what I'm talking about. This is true community. The irony is that as a profession I design spaces and cities to create community; and here I find community in a place without physical dimensions. Weird, ain't it? This community, the one here in WDC particularly, never ceases to amaze me. We are a people from diverse situations, for the most part unseen and generally unknown to each other. Yet, I find an acceptance and compassion among its ranks that is both genuine and unselfish. Most of the time all one of us has to say is, "Geeze, I wonder how to ....." and one of you nice folk will step up and say, "No problem, here's how you do it." We get busy with the chore of living our lives and are absent from the group, and the community gets concerned and worries about each other. Like a mother hen, you check on the missing chicks. Now, some folks may say that is not so unusual. You see it everyday. But, it is unusual. For, this is the Virtual World. And, the nature of this virtual world is that we never see each other. Lord, most of us know that for the most part we never will. I associate you with images that I glimpse from the yellow page in WDC. You are no bigger, in my mind, than my 17" screen on my computer. Yet your emotions, concerns, likes and dislikes are communicated through this virtual space and become real and solid, somehow. No wonder it is not unusual for find folks captivated by the Internet. It is easy for some of us to be enticed into this virtual world. Fortunately, this place at WDC, these bloggers, who make up the 'ring', are good people. We are fortunate, indeed, for it is not always the case. You are the essential element that makes a plan turn into community. I'm glad and fortunate to be a resident of this community. |
| Title: So Nice Date: March 10, 2006, Friday Thought: Journal/Blog: So nice--that's what you all are, so nice. I have in fact been covered under with other responsibilities that have demanded my attention. I am moved by the nice comments and enquiries regarding my absence. But, to address you concerns, with the exception of the stress that has been placed on me because of all the balls I'm juggling, I am fine. I have had the administrator of the library perform a critical review of my book, Across the River. She thought it was a good read worthy of further attention. I have changed it somewhat and completed another edit. The thing is ready to be distributed to someone, either self-published or the other route. I'm still vacillating as to what to do. As far as my job goes, it's chaos. I've got a dozen projects going full steam. I've been doing meetings in the evening in Royse City and Mineola trying to get those out of the way. I've three plans just beginning that I haven't even been able to get to. In addition I have at least four cities wanting me to give them proposals to begin new work. Add to this all the normal maintenance of a half-dozen existing clients. Then there is the billings and marketing responsibilities for exiting and future clients. I've got my hands full. And then there is the other stuff from Rotary, the Homeowners Association, and church committees. At about this time in my discussion of my busyness, I get disgusted. I just HATE IT when folks complain about all the work they have to do. You see, I think it points out a weakness. Either I am too dang unorganized to get it done in proper order, or I've overextended myself and deserve exactly what I'm getting, which is chaos. Either way, it is a sign of poor management. So, I will continue to try to get my act together. I do not indend to stay a stranger to the blog pages. As Arnold says, "I'll be back!" Thank you all for being SO NICE. |
| Title: Now, Where’d That Come From? Date: February 25, 2006, Saturday Thought: All across Texas, in the greasy-spoon cafes that serve strong black coffee, you can hear these sayings thrown into conversations to prove a point or explain a position. Journal…Blog: This world of ours is a truly wondrous place We walk upon its surface as a diverse and marvelously unique people. Recently, someone listed a number of amusing Aussie sayings. They were delightful. It made me think of my own situation living here in Texas. We also have a colorful assortment of saying and our own unique way of getting our points across. As you all know, I am a professional. I’ve got stuff hangin’ all over my wall that attests to my level of education. That’s meant to impress the folks who come to me for expert advice. As far as I’m concerned they are just pieces of paper that take up space on the wall. Don’t get me wrong, I am very proud of what I’ve accomplished. Like an old rancher said, “When you get to thinkin’ you’re so all fire important, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around.” In other words, I’m no more important than the next guy. I got to thinking about this after I conducted a workshop with one of my client cities. The little Texas town that I’m helping to develop cutting edge development regulations is a ranching community. There’s a grizzly old cowboy who has lived there all his life and owns a significant quantity of property. He happens to be on the city council. His comments are filled with colorful Texas sayings. The refreshing thing about his conversation is he is natural with it; it is not contrived. The ole’ boy is the real thing, a product of Texas through and through. I thought I would share with you some of the color of rural Texas speech. Here is a sample: 1. He’s a tall drink of water: He is really tall, well over six feet. 2. Rode hard and put up wet: Could be referring to any person but unfortunately it usually refers to an exceptionally unattractive and hard looking woman. 3. Big hat, no cattle: Someone is all talk and no action. 4. We’ve howdied but ain’t shook yet: We’re still strangers not formally introduced. 5. Tighter than bark on a tree: Very frugal with money, almost cheap. 6. This ain’t my first rodeo: I’ve been around for awhile and have experience. 7. It’s a real frog strangler: A really heavy, torrential rain (by the way, I used this term in one of my stories and the ‘moderators’ censored me and changed the rating because I used the word ‘strangled.”) 8. Never kick a cow chip on a hot day: Don’t be stupid; think before you act. 9. There’s two ways to argue with a woman; neither one works: True statement. 10. If’n you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’: Think! Don’t make things worse than they already are. There are a thousand of these sayings. All across Texas, in the greasy-spoon cafes that serve strong black coffee, you can hear these sayings thrown into conversations to prove a point or explain a position. These saying have their root in countries of origin of the American frontier. They come from England, Scotland, Ireland, and all the English speaking countries. They were changed and modified to fit our particular experience. Occasionally, they were original with Texas or the South in general. I hope they remain a part of Texas forever. I know they will not. They are dynamic and will evolve into something else. But for the moment, I am content and comforted to realize that it will be beyond my generation before they change. For that I consider myself fortunate. |
| Title: On Climbing the Mountain Date: February 20, 2006, Monday Thought: Gather all these mountains together and we have a veritable range—enough mountains to climb and scale for a lifetime. Journal: Mountains have long been a symbol of majesty. They tower above the rest of the earth, reaching the uninhabitable heights. Only the strongest and noblest of creatures make their home upon their reaches. They stand invincible, unmoving, and unconquered. Men may climb them, but they cannot remain on their summit. They plant their little flags and retreat to the safety of the fireside homes in the valleys and distant lands. The storms come and assault the mountain peaks with snow, sleet, and ice, but yet they wear these temporary decorations of nature like a mantle, increasing their grandeur and beauty. That is why men climb mountains, to share in the grandeur and majesty of the mountain, to accept the challenge of scaling the peaks, and enduring the assault of height and cold. When we climb mountains we confirm in our souls that we have accomplished a grand task, we prove to ourselves, and those who would take notice, we are worthy and capable—we belong on the mountain. Now, I have seen the mountain peaks, but have rarely been on the mountain. Never have I stood on the summit. However, I contend that there are other mountains in our lives—mountains that offer challenges, require skill, and bring rewards when they are scaled. One such mountain is being a husband or wife, another is being a parent, another a friend, and yet another being a success in our vocation as well as our recreation. Gather all these mountains together and we have a veritable range—enough mountains to climb and scale for a lifetime. In fact, it will take us a lifetime. The unique thing about mountains is that they don’t go away. They cannot be ignored; they are much too big to be ignored. Mountains in our life require us to make choices. Do we climb them or remain in the shadows of their peaks, after all, the streams are cool and clear in the valley, and there is plenty there to sustain us? But it is the reaches of the peaks that call to us, that offer the challenge. Each of us stands at the base of the mountains of our range. Often, we scale up their slopes to get a view of the valley below. Occasionally, we climb to greater heights and get to experience the exhilaration of the accomplishment. Rarely, do we ascend to the summit of our mountains. When we do, we find a deep sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. I feel that each of us must determine our position on the mountains. Of course, different mountains require different positions. But, each one is there for us to climb. Some of us are content to remain in the valley; some of us are content with making brief forays up the slopes a little way, and others of us are driven to take on the summits. There are many mountains in our life’s range. It is not necessary that we reach the summit of all of them. Certainly we must at least climb the slopes of most of them. But, I think it is critical that at least a few of the summits be reached, and our little flag securely fixed thereon. The question is, which mountain shall I climb today? And, how far up its slope shall I go? |
| Title: Here It is, the Cigar Box Date: February 6, 2005, Monday Thought: “Well, this is not over yet! Someone is going to be expelled!” Journal: I was determined to enjoy my last year in high school. I was not a particularly deep-thinking young man. My long range goals included buying a car and making enough money to go out with Linda—admirable goals, just not very ambitious. Except for the one about Linda—I’m still trying to make enough money to go out with Linda. Anyway, I was hell bent on having fun during my senior year. I don’t know how they did it in your school; but, at mine you had to have a ‘pink-slip’ to get out of class during normal class hours. If you got caught roaming the halls without a pink-slip, life got complicated. Every teacher had a couple of pads of pink-slips. It was not very difficult for me to appropriate a pad from Mr. Carter. With a supply of pink-slips, we would simply forge a teachers name and claim the freedom of the halls and beyond. Both Alan and I took Speech our senior year. I couldn’t believe I took it. I was terrified to stand in front of a group of people and speak. To me, oral book reports were cruel and inhumane requirements. And, so I was amazed to find myself in Speech class. Our speech teacher, Mr. Carter, was a nice guy. He was soft spoken and not what you’d call a man’s man. You would never find him hanging around with the coaches. But, that didn’t matter, he was a nice guy; and, I liked him. Mr. Carter was responsible for the senior play. He ran the auditions, directed the actors, and generally produced the thing. That year I actually auditioned and got a part in the senior play. It was just a little part but it was all mine. My best friend Alan also had a part. It was Alan who arranged for him and me to also be the construction crew. We were responsible for building the set. What a great opportunity for getting out of class. We would write ourselves a pink-slip to work on the senior play, sign Mr. Carter’s name, and split. So, as often as we could, we were excusing ourselves from classes and trekking down to the auditorium to build the set. Sometimes we would even work on the set. Usually we explored the reaches of the auditorium, including the cat-walks, and generally lounged around in the seats talking. Now, the bad thing about working in the auditorium is you are removed from the restrooms. When the urge hit, you had to leave the security of the auditorium and brave the halls. Of course, we had a forged pink-slip; but why test fate? And, so it was that on one day, as we were actually doing some work on the set, Alan proclaimed he had to go to the restroom. As he started off down the aisle for the lengthy journey, I stopped him. “Surely there has got to be another option,” I insisted. We scratched our collective heads and could not come up with one. And, then I thought of it. I had seen it during our forays into the reaches of the auditorium. I led Alan into the storage area. There I found a large cigar box. Inside the box were screw-drivers, nuts & bolts, and some other small tools of sorts. I emptied the tools on a nearby bench and presented Alan with a portable ‘john.’ “Why not?” Alan agreed and took advantage of the opportunity. I closed the lid and we resumed our work—simple. The next day the urge struck again; and again we took advantage of the cigar box. Now, a cigar box, this one in particular, is a sturdy creation. But, after all, it is only cardboard. So, it should not have been any surprise to find it was beginning to bulge a little by the end of the week. We ignored it. The following week we were busy in class and could not get away to go to the auditorium. As Alan and I walked the halls between classes one day we encountered Mr. Carter walking towards us. His face was bright red. Something was up. “Dan, Alan, come here!” “Yes, Sir?” We were very respectful. “I’ve just come from the Superintendent of Schools office. The man is furious. Since the auditorium is my responsibility he came to me. Now, I’m coming to you!” “What’s the problem, Mr. Carter?” “It appears that someone has tinkled in the maintenance man’s cigar box. He went to retrieve some tools and when he picked the box up it broke all over him. The maintenance man is very angry; and, the Superintendent is going to expel someone!” “No? Really?” We were astonished…shocked. “You two wouldn’t know anything about this would you?” he asked suspiciously. “Us? No, we don’t know nothing!” “Well, this is not over yet! Someone is going to be expelled!” And he walked off down the hall muttering to himself. Alan and I did not tell a soul. We were much too close to freedom to risk being expelled. As the news spread among the students, everyone speculated who had done the evil deed. No one ever stepped up to take credit—certainly neither Alan or me. We finished the set, performed in the play, and graduated. It was years before either one of us told anyone about that cigar box. Heck, we figured somehow we’d still get expelled from something. |
| Title: Truth Will Prevail Date: February 17, 2006, Friday Thought: Now I ask you, would guys as connected as me an’ Tor lead you wrong? Journal: You know, children know the truth. Like I always say, "You can fool a kid some of the time and you can fool them most of the time, but two hands in the bush is better than an early bird." (Never was any good with those old sayin's). That photo of those kids with Tor in the toilet, well, THAT'S THE PROOF!!! You see, what you don't know is that those orphan children found poor Tor stuffed in that toilet-mobile by the wicked "Yeller Knight." That's why they're so SAD. They're sad because CC stuffed the innocent Tor in the toilet and put wheels on it. An’ they were left with trying to figure out how to get him out. Well, my buddy Tor and I, are not trying to convince any of you wimmins that CC is a "false-knight". No, we know that there is no use in trying to do that. His twisted plan has worked...he's deceived you loverly wimmins (His power is strong, see, even Me an' Tor say "wimmins" instead of women.) No, Tor and I stand now only for principle, for right, for good. For we see that against all odds we must unmask the deceitful purpose of the Yeller Knight! I leave you with a photo that was in the box that CC stole...YES, STOLE!!! IT DIDN'T BELONG TO HIM!!. Anyway, this picture fell out. I guess he was not interested in the truth. Now I ask you, would guys as connected as me an’ Tor lead you wrong? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: Hit 'n Miss Date: February 16, 2006, Thursday Thought: Beats me as to how or why I allow myself to get covered up this way. Journal: Well, same old same old. (I assume that's a term most of you are familiar with. Here in Texas it's used to refer to the mundane, routine schedule that we toil through day after day.) For the last few days I've been up to my eye-balls in alligators. Beats me as to how or why I allow myself to get covered up this way. I suppose I'd be miserable if I didn't have all the activity. I have three zoning ordinances that I am competing for cities. One of them has insisted on a workshop on every Saturday for the next three weeks. That's a delightful thing to look forward to. In addition, I have three comprehensive land use plans to work on for three other cities. Got some miscellaneous stuff to do for a few other cities and two cities want me to propose on new contracts....Geeze, I'm getting tired. I've been working on committees for our church, the architectural committee in charge of the new construction. That one is driving me nuts. And, since I'm on the Homeowner's association Board of Directors, I've been working on developing a new webpage for our association. Now, I did not lay the thing out, we got a professional to do that, but I did write much of the text and I designed the maps and took all the photographs. If you get a chance take a look at it and tell me what you think of the place in which I live.(http://mvccestates.com/ ) (Why can't I get this link to work?) I have two projects to do for rotary, the Flag project, where we place 500 flags at residences on five holidays throughout the year and the Scholarship project, where we award six scholarships to high school seniors. I will be glad when I term as president is finished! Enough of that--Just wanted to touch base and let you know why I've been absent and why I haven't been commenting on my favorite blogs. Just know this (..is CC watching?..I WUB YA! Can't believe I just said that. He'll think I've gone all soft! DON'T TELL HIM!) |
| Title: Onto The Printed Page Date: February 14, 2006, Tuesday Thought: Journal: First thing first, I wish all of you a happy Valentine's day. Unfortunately, I am a little cynical. I feel it has been commercialized too much. We are driven to spend money to show our affection. The big companies don't care about our affection, they just want us to buy the flowers, candy, jewelry, and lots of dinners. But, for those of us who have found that someone to spend our lives with, it is still a special day. Now, to the prupose of my entry. I am amazed at the process of transfering our story ideas to paper. Does the story in your head ever resemble the story on the page? For me the answer is, "somewhat." In my head it is a fleeting and vague concept. However, as a concept it is exciting with the possibilities that it promises. I believe these mental concepts could in fact be a number of stories. There are endless possibilities for them to form along different lines. And so it is I have to ask myself if I am satisfied with this direction and this story that has formed on the page. I think I am. The last couple of days I have been struggling with work and other responsibilites. My struggle has been to keep my mind on them and off of this mental concept that entered my mind this weekend. It was a losing battle of which the mental concept won. Onto the written page I have crafted my latest story. Is it any good? Who knows? It certainly may not appeal to many. But it satisfied that urge in my soul to release the concept. And so here it is.
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| Title: Early Morning Mist Date: February 11, 2006, Saturday Thought: It is forming as an embryo, waiting to be developed fully. Journal: I took a little time for myself today, after beginning work at 4:00 AM and working until 4:00 PM. I took a little time and watched a DVD on the big screen TV. The movie was "Gettysburg." It's a presentation of the battle of Gettysburg that was fought during the American Civil War. It is well directed, with outstanding performances, very well shot, and historically accurate. I am an avid historian of that period of time. I was, to say the least, moved by the film. As a result, it started as a vague idea. Then it blossomed into a possibility. My mind began turning the idea over and over in my head. Soon, it became random pieces of a story line. And now, as I type this entry, it exists as scattered written thoughts on a sheet of paper. It is in fact my next story. That is how it is with me. I don't receive an epiphany. No, the story begins as a vague notion and picks up speed. If it is worthy, it survives my chaotic mind and finds its way to paper in the form of quickly scribbled statements to be refined at a later time. So, now the desire is there. I know the story wants to be birthed. It germinates still. It is forming as an embryo, waiting to be developed fully. When I begin to write it will happen in a day. It will consume me for that moment. Linda, my clients, my responsibilities and even my adorable grand-kids will take a lesser priority to the birth of the story. I even have a title: "From the Early Morning Mist." I impatiently wait now--wait for the moment when I will begin the process. This moment--the moment before the writing begins--is an exciting time for me. For, at this time I am in the dark, unaware of what will be said or how I will say it. I have an idea; but, even yet, it is still an exciting mystery. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: Demise of the Little Rabbit Date: February 9, 2006, Thursday Thought: There are always ramifications for your actions. Journal:In Venezuela, the Americans who worked for the US oil companies were a very tight group. We interacted with the populace on many occasions but were somewhat isolated amongst ourselves. All of the US companies joined together and built a school—kindergarten through sixth grade. After the sixth grade, the children went home to the US to attend private schools. My brother attended military school from seventh through graduation. But, because we were a very tight knit group, we recreated together much of the time. My parents had very close friends, who they maintained throughout all their life, by the Name of Ruth and Doyle. Dad and Doyle worked very hard offshore in Lake Maricaibo. Often dad was gone for two weeks at a time. But, when they played, they played very hard also. There was always a party being held at someone’s house. There were no baby sitters, so the kids just went along. One evening we were spending the afternoon and much of the night over at Doyle and Ruth’s house at an extended party. Somewhere during the evening, Dad shared with Doyle the presence of the Little Rabbit at our house. He recounted the story of how the rabbit had appropriated the cashed paycheck and hid it in my bottom drawer. He also recounted the slew of offenses perpetrated by the Little Rabbit after the money incident. Everything that was amiss was blamed on that rascal rabbit. There were several other children present at that party. We were playing some rowdy outside game when Doyle entered the backyard. It was late afternoon. As he walked to the back of his yard, he called me over to him. “Danny, I understand that you have a Little Rabbit causing trouble over at your house. Is that right?” “Yup, he comes in when we are asleep and does stuff.” “Have you tried to get rid of him?” “Yup, he won’t go. That’s a smart rabbit. I guess he’s gonna live with us forever.” “You’ve seen that rabbit, haven’t you?” “Yeah, I know him real well.” I have to tell you now that Doyle raised rabbit. It was a hobby of his. And, you must know that his rabbits were not pets. They had rabbit for their evening meal as often as the rest of us had chicken. We were walking toward the rabbit hutch…you know where this is going. When we got to the hutch, Doyle asked me, “Do you see that rabbit out there?” “Yup, he’s out there.” Doyle entered the hutch. He walked over to a rabbit and picked it up by the ears, “Is this your rabbit?” “Nope, that’s not him.” He picked up another rabbit, “Is this him?” Again I answered, “No.” “Well, which one is it?” Doyle asked. After looking at all the rabbits, I pointed to one and said, “That’s him over there.” Doyle walked to the rabbit, picked it up, and broke its neck. “There, I bet he won’t be stealing anymore” I was horrified. I’d just killed an innocent rabbit. I didn’t know that they had planned a meal with rabbit for that evening. Heck, I didn’t even know that was what we were eating. Now, that may not the best way to handle this. But I’ll guarantee the Little Rabbit did no further mischief at our house. And, I learned a lesson. There are always ramifications for your actions. If it affects others, you best be sure your actions are honest. |
| Title: Pesky Wabbit! Date: February 8, 2006, Wednesday Thought: What I did not know was my imaginary scapegoat was in jeopardy. My dad had an imagination of his own. Journal: I’ve already established the fact that as a child my imagination ruled my actions. As an adult I’ve learned to channel it into productive avenues, usually. My dad tells the story of me galloping through the house at age five on an imaginary horse. “Whoa, partner, where you going?” I stopped my gallop and rode over to my dad. “I’m just ridin’ my horse here; you like ‘em?” “That’s a good looking horse for a cowboy.” “I’m not no cowboy! Can’t you see this badge?” I pointed to my bare chest. “Oops, I didn’t see the badge, Sheriff. In that case, I think that Indian chief’s horse is a better horse!” I looked across the room at the imaginary Indian chief. “Wait here; I’ll be back.” Dad said I rode across the room and bartered for a moment with the imaginary Indian chief. I then climbed off my horse and traded with the chief. I rode back over to my dad. “Yeah, I like this horse better. I gotta go!” And, off I galloped in search of outlaws. It’s a simple little story. However, it correctly illustrates the grandeur of my world as a child. When someone saw a simple room, I saw a fort to be arranged to defend against attacking renegades. A simple bathroom implement, such as a bidet, became a weapon for the defender of the universe. I was never alone and there was never a moment when I had nothing to do (check out "Invalid Item" for a true example that I crafted into a short story). My family had to live with my imagination. My dad was very protective of it. As a result they were all kept on their toes. But, also as a result you have these little stories fifty years later.I don’t know why, but one day my father brought home his paycheck in cash. He was paid in Venezuelan currency and because of the exchange rate he literally had a wad of bills. I remember staring at it in amazement as he showed it to mom and they chuckled about it. Mom took the wad of bills and placed it on the top of their dresser, in their bedroom. She did not notice; but, I was watching. Later in the morning, when I was alone and unobserved, I made my way to the dresser and took the wad of bills to their bed. Carefully I unrolled the currency, laid them on the bed, and marveled at the novelty of all that money. After inspecting the bills, I rolled them back as they were and instead of replacing them on the dresser top, I took them to my room, where I could look at them again later. A couple of hours later I heard a commotion coming from my parent’s room. Excitedly I heard my mom exclaiming to my dad that the money was gone. Drawers were opened and closed. Closet doors were ajar and the tops of the selves rumpled by their searching. Purses and pockets were checked and rechecked. “Dee, are you sure you put it on the dresser?” “Yes, right there! Or at least I think I did? Where could it be?” Simultaneously, I heard them say, “Danny!” I retreated to my bedroom, picked up a comic book, jumped in my hammock, and put on my most innocent face. Very shortly they came bursting into the room. Mom had this wild look in her eye that was framed by desperation. Dad wore his “poker face;” I could not read it. “Danny?” My mom cut to the chase, “Do you have that money?” “What money?” “Don’t give me that ‘what money?’ young man. You need to give it to us and you need to do it right now.” “I don’t have it.” At this mom was coming unglued. Dad determined it was his turn. He entered through my imagination. “Danny, you’d have seen someone if they would have taken that money, wouldn’t you.” I thought about that. Maybe this was my escape. “Yeah, I guess so.” “Well, did you happen to see anyone go into our bedroom this morning?” “I think I did.” Mom could not help herself, “Danny, if you know where that money is give it to us right now!” “Dee! Let me handle this!” He turned his attention to me. “Who’d you see go in there, Danny?” “Well, it was this ‘little rabbit’.” “Hmm, a ‘little rabbit’. Did you see what he did in there?” “Yes, he got that money and put it on the bed.” “He did? Well, that’s just like rabbits. I bet he took it with him, didn’t he?” “Yes.” “Where did he take it? Can you show me?” “Yeah, I followed him.” With that we made a trek through the house. We went from room to room, “And then he went in here…and then he went in here.” Eventually, my dad said, “That’s a sneaky rabbit, sure enough. But, I bet you saw where he put that money?” “Yes, I saw him put it in the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers. He didn’t think I saw him; but I did.” We rushed to my bottom drawer and found the money. My mom was relieved and replaced the desperate look in her eye with one of revenge. However, dad did not let anyone do anything to me. There was no discipline, no lectures, no ramifications. The ‘little rabbit’ took the full brunt of the blame; I was in the clear. After that, anything that was amiss was blamed on the ‘little rabbit.’ I had struck a gold mine. What I did not know was my imaginary scapegoat was in jeopardy. My dad had an imagination of his own. The ‘little rabbit’ was soon to be challenged. But that is a story of its own. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Armed and Dangerous, hunting for outlaws...or maybe that pesky wabbit. |
| Title: United We Stand Date: February 7, 2006, Tuesday Thought: It appears that my buddy ran over and chunked a few rocks at CC. Journal: First of all, this is not at all what I had planned for an entry today. But, Tor has forced this entry. OK, so I’m off working my tail off, making a living. I haven’t been able to read all the entries and stuff. So I get in here today; and, what do I find? An email from my buddy, Tor. I have to admit that Tor wrote a mighty fine entry today. Sometimes he throws the words on the page and they are all aligned just right. Today was on of those days. But that email. I opened it up and this humongous WHINE came out. “Oh, Dannis (that’s not my name)…Dannis, Dannis. I’m all alone in here. Help me…help me.” It appears that my buddy ran over and chunked a few rocks at CC. Understand he didn’t hit anything ‘cept a couple of ducks—no problem, the rocks just bounced of their rubber butts. Have you ever stuck a stick in a bee’s nest and wiggled it real hard—don’t! Now them bees aren’t to smart. They just start flying around and bumpin’ into each other, makin’ quite a commotion. (Hint, don’t stay around and watch them…take my word for it.) Anyway, that’s what my bud did with CC. Immediately, CC began blink, blinking and kickin’ dirt. Then he got all flustered and brave. Before you know it he’s jumped up on a rock and pointed that flashlight in the sky (THAT AIN’T NO SWORD….IT’S A DANG FLASHLIGHT!!) Now I know that all the wimmins are feeling sorry and compassionate toward the little dude with the lopsided mustache. Hey, me ‘an Tor like him too!! It’s just HE’S GOT THE FACTS ALL WRONG!!! He thinks I got upset because my knees were knobby as a kid. (they were NOT! Them are mighty fine good-lookin’ knees!) No, the injustice of the situation is that CC ACCUSSED ME OF STEALING THE SYMPATHY OF THE WIMMINS….ME!!! After the way he has wrapped all the wimmins around is thumb, he accuses fine guys like me ‘an honest-Tor of flappage stuff. Well, I’ve got connections. My friends at the IRS are gonna be checking into that expense on his 1040 that says ‘duck food $10,000.’ And anyone knows that you can’t deduct college expenses for no latex quaker. An the Humane Society will be hearing about the illegal servitude and bondage placed on a MISSING PERSONS MONKEY! And then there’s my hole card. I won’t play it unless I have to. BE AFRAID CC DUDE. Cause me an’ Tor are in cahoots with a LAWYER!!! An’ he can also fly a dang spaceship. So, ya better turn your flashlight off before the batteries run down; and get off that rock before you fall off! (And will someone go over and tell Tor to stop whining. He’s got the dogs to howling. Tell him help has arrived.) |
| Title: Football Makes Guys Crazy Date: February 6, 2006, Monday Thought: We tended to play a lot during out stint at OU. Journal: If you are a boy growing up in Oklahoma, you like football. Chances are good that you are an Oklahoma Sooner football fan, unless of course you’re a cowboy, then you root for OSU. The University of Oklahoma was my school. I attended classes there, sort of, so you could say that I’m kinda an alumnus. I say kinda because I did not graduate from there. In any case, that’s where my heart was, and is even to this day. I spent many afternoons in Memorial Stadium watching Sooner football. It is interesting to me that the name of the football stadium is Memorial Stadium whereas the football field itself is called Owen Field. That is not an overly important fact to the rest of the universe but has some bearing on my story. For, I am going to relate the story of when Alan and I broke into Memorial Stadium to gain access to Owen Field. I have already established the fact in an earlier account that Alan and I were best buds, rooming together at the University of Oklahoma. Again, that was not a particularly wise thing for us to do since our desires were not academically inclined at that time. We tended to play a lot during out stint at OU. Oftentimes our play included alcoholic beverages. One evening during our playing, I struck upon the idea that we should leave something lasting during our stay here—you know, leave our mark. Alan agreed, because that’s what he did, as did I when he had an idea. The question was, “What was to be that mark.” I promptly had another idea, shared it with Alan, he agreed once more, and we proceeded to Memorial Stadium. It was still early in the evening, sometime around 9:00 pm. It was a Monday evening and the University of Nebraska was scheduled to play that upcoming Saturday. The game was to be televised nationally. Now, I don’t know why; but, football seems to make guys crazy. They do stupid stuff. It was our turn to do stupid stuff. Alan and I walked from our dorm to the stadium. A deserted stadium at night is an ominous thing; it’s so dang big. We walked around the thing checking all the gates, which were locked securely with chains. There was no room to slip between the gates and there was no space to go over the top. Our last resort was the south end zone area. The stadium had not yet been enclosed on that end and we found a ten foot chain link gate where emergency vehicles gained access to the field. Unfortunately, there were two series of gates with an open enclosure between the two. We would have to scale two gates. That is much easier to say than to do. Especially for two inebriated college kids who were a tad out of shape. But, our goal was to scale the gates and gain access to Owen Field. We began. We lost our grip a half dozen times and tumbled to the ground; we were laughing hysterically. Eventually, we scaled the first gate, falling over the side on the way down. We attempted to scale the second gate. Time and again we tried to climb up that second chain-link gate. Time and again we fell. Our sides were hurting we had laughed so much. We were huffing and puffing and were skinned and scraped. We never considered we would have to scale the dang thing to get out; nope, we were single-purposed—to get in. However, when we were about to despair I noticed there was no chain on this second gate. We walked over and simply unlatched the gate and walked through—dummies! We had done it! We were in the end zone of Owen Field. We dashed onto the field, ran to the fifty yard line, and stood in the middle of the field. We turned around 360 degrees and looked at the stands and the field. The history of the field was tremendous; and we were keenly conscientious of it. This was the field that Bud Wilkinson led the Sooners to three National Championships and won 145 games. To a kid from small town Oklahoma, this was hallowed ground. And because we were so moved, we left our mark—literally. Alan and I peed on the exact middle of Owen Field. Now as gross as this may sound, there was purpose to our madness. Oklahoma football is one of the most televised football events in the nation. For as long as we watch football, when the hairs on our heads are gray; every time we see the coin toss at the beginning of the game, Alan and I will say, “You see that spot? I peed there!” Now, I know that is no great significance in the tide of human events. But every time I watch a football game played on Owen Field, I smile and remember those two foolish youngsters who broke into Memorial Stadium. Unfortunately, we still had to scale the gates on the way out, which we eventually did. After all, we were a little bit lighter. Interestingly, as soon as we dropped from the last gate outside the field, we were accosted by a security guard. “Hey! What are you two doing?” “Ah, we were thinking about climbing that gate.” “Don’t even think about it. You’re lucky I caught you before you went in. Now, get out of here!” “Sure, officer, we’re going.” And that’s exactly what we did. We winked at each other and left. By the way, the statute of limitations on breaking and entering expired many years ago. |
| Title: The Art of Playing Possum Date: February 5, 2006, Sunday Thought: For some reason they loved me and adored the little snot, as long as his target was someone else Journal: My brother is ten years older than me. That age gap does not lend itself to a close relationship for boys growing up together. But it does lend itself to idol worship. You see, my big brother could do no wrong. I wanted to do everything like Jimmy. I’m not sure what he thought of me, for I pestered the dickens out of him. One day he brought one of his girlfriends over to the house to visit. While she was sitting there I remarked, “You’re prettier than the girl he brought over last night.” Now, there was no girl ‘last night.’ However, Jimmy was left to explain that fact and to convince her that the cute little kid who just called her pretty was lying. And then there was the time he came home quickly from work with very little time to get ready for his date one evening. Before he got to the bathroom I went in, locked the door, crawled out the window, and went off to play with my friends. Why did I do those things? Well, there are two reasons. I thought it was funny as heck to see Jimmy squirm. And second, I got lots of attention. Jimmy would retaliate. It would not be pleasant, but he would get even. Amazingly, he never physically hurt me. My sister was putty in my hand. I had her in tears most of the time she was around. But for some reason they loved me and adored the little snot, as long as his target was someone else. Everyone would say, “You gotta’ do something about Danny!” Dad would smile and say, “No one’s hurt; he hasn’t done anything hurtful or spiteful. It’s just his imagination. You are all gonna just have to live with it.” We were back from Venezuela for a spell. We were living in Shawnee, Oklahoma at the time. In a few months we were going to begin the routine of getting ready to go back to Maracaibo, which included a series of dreaded inoculations. But, for the time being we were cruising through the summer months. Friends from Maracaibo were in town and mom and dad had an opportunity to go out for the evening. I was left at home with my brother to watch over me. Jimmy was cool; he let me stay up past the evening news and watch the horror show that came on television on Friday nights. You need to understand this was a great treat for me. We did not have television in Maracaibo. Halfway through the movie Jimmy looked at the clock and realized mom and dad would be getting home at any minute. Mom would not be pleased if she discovered Jimmy let me stay up watching horror movies. “’Danny, you need to get in bed, bud, before mom and dad get home.” “I don’t wanna’” “I know, but they won’t be happy if you’re up when they get home.” “I don’t care; I still don’t wanna’” “Danny, Get out of that chair and get to bed, now!” I grinned at him, “Nope!” “Get up or I’ll put you to bed my way!” ”This ought to be fun,” I thought, “Nope!” I was sitting in a swivel chair that was great fun. At times I would rotate round and round in the thing until I got dizzy. I clutched the chair with an iron grip. I may be moved; but, it was going to be a battle. Jimmy started with my shoes and socks. He removed those with little difficulty. He next turned to my pants. I squirmed and drew my legs up and made it as difficult as I could. All the time I was giggling and enjoying the battle. Jimmy was, on the other hand, getting frustrated. He managed to get the pants unzipped and grabbed a hold of my pants at my feet. He then began to pull and tug. Little by little he was gaining ground. I knew he would have them off shortly. One big pull would do it. He pulled. The force of the pull broke my handhold to the chair. Out into the floor I came with my pants flying off. He had succeeded; my pants were off. So, I changed my strategy. I decided to play dead. “OK, Danny, get up and get in bed!” Nothing…I just lay there, eyes closed, listening to his voice. “Danny!....Danny?” Concern came into his voice. My strategy was working. Jimmy got on his knees near me. He lifted me. I became a rag doll. “Danny! Danny, wake up!” I didn’t budge, didn’t smile. I listened to the concern in his voice and fought the urge to smile. Jimmy was beside himself worried about his little brother. He ran out of the house barefooted and down the street to the neighbors. They weren’t home so he ran to the next house, beating on the door. I knew this because as soon as I heard the door close, I scampered over to the door and watched him running up and down the street. I was giggling to myself as I watched. He spoke to a neighbor and then started back to the house. I scampered back into position, closed my eyes, and waited. Now a strange thing happened next. Jimmy must have been diverted in his return home because he did not come back in promptly; he delayed. During that time I went to sleep. I mean, I went sound asleep. When he came back in I was deep under. In fact when the ambulance came I was still out. They checked me over quickly as I slept. They loaded me into the ambulance and off to the hospital I went. I awoke when they took me out of the ambulance. My startled look around and confused questions were genuine. When I went to sleep, I was in my living room. When I awoke, I was then being wheeled down a corridor of a hospital. My concerned parents showed up with Jimmy still barefooted. The doctors checked me over and proclaimed there was nothing wrong with me. But all of them were concerned with my unconsciousness. There would need to be a series of tests, which happened over the next few weeks. At that young age, I realized that a lot of folks had gone to a lot of trouble and were very concerned. Therefore, I kept my mouth shut. Even dad would not be happy if I jumped up and suddenly shouted, “Surprise, I was just kidding!” Nope, I held my piece. I held my piece until after I was married. On a summer evening during a family get together, we were all telling stories. Jimmy accounted the time when he almost killed his little brother. I stopped him in the middle of the story and told him “the rest of the story.” To my amazement, my brother and sister and parents refused to believe I was faking it. I’m not sure they ever did or will believe me. That was the best acting performance I ever did. By the way, I was so upset that I missed the ambulance with its sirens going, I convinced the ambulance crew to take me home in the ambulance with the sirens going. Now, do you think they’d do that for a little kid today? I don’t think so. |
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