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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: To Set the Record Straight Date: February 4, 2006 Thought: Journal: Now, all of you know the great service that Tor did when he introduced CC into our little ‘ring’ here. Hey, even I have touted CCs brilliance. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count all the admirable qualities about the man. HOWEVER, I have come to see that he DOES have his deficiencies. Now, to this point I have refrained from taking issue with him. I just considered him a harmless little duck-lover. Like what is it with running around with that flashlight he calls a sword with all them rubber ducks? An then I figured it out….the man is JEALOUS. Yes, that’s right. He associates with those latex quakers because he knows the wimmins thinks he’s cute. He’s a hug stealing, wimmins slobbers, fiend. All that blink, blinkin’ and dirt kickin’ is maskin’ his alterior motives. HE’S JEALOUS OF ME AN’ TOR!!! Every time some wimmins says somethin’ nice to me an’ Tor, CC comes in blink, blinking and dirt kicking till they all say, “AW, CC WE WUB YA!!!” HECK! I AIN’T NEVER WUBBED ANYTHING!!! IT AIN’T EVEN A WORD! I looked in the dictionary and I didn’t find “wub” anywhere in there. Hey! You can ask Forever, she knows dictionaries; it ain’t there! I tell ya! CC’s got an agenda. He wants to be KING OF THE WIMMINS. Aw, he don’t want to be a wimmins…I think; he just wants ‘em all to himself. He’s jealous, I tell ya! Heck, he’s even campaining. I found this photograph on the internet. He’s even joined the National Organization of Women. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** As if that ain’t bad enough. The dude’s gone out and bought a PINK car. I tell ya! He’s trying to be the WIMMINS KING. An he’s just JEALOUS. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Hey, I wouldn’t be bringin’ this to you if’n I didn’t have photographic proof. YOU GOTTA BELIEVE YOUR EYES!!! Me an Tor, hey we still like the little feller. But you just need to know the truth about him. What else can I say? I just gotta tell it like it is. An’ if’n any of you need to email me then here’s my email address: davidmcclain@Writing.Com |
| Title: My First Love Date: February 3, 2006, Friday Thought: Boys and dogs choose who they really belong to. Journal: I remember my first love. She had long blond hair and was totally devoted to me. I returned her affection. I was about six-years-old and she was a Cocker Spaniel named Sissy. Actually she was my brother’s dog. But boys and dogs choose who they really belong to. Sissy chose me; and I knew she was really mine. That began my love affair with Cocker Spaniels. Sissy lived with us in Maricaibo, Venezuela. I guess since she was born there you could say I fell in love with a young Venezuelan female. That’s sorta pushing the envelope, but we were devoted to each other. We were constantly together. If I was at home, Sissy was with me. When I was away from home, I missed her. We would play chase in the house. Sissy would chase me through the house, her claws clicking and slipping on our tile floors as I attempted to make the couch before she caught me. Once I jumped upon the couch, she would wait and watch for me to take off for some other ‘safe’ spot, where she would chase me again. My mother had a difficult time keeping me in underwear, for that was Sissy’s favorite way to catch me. She would grab the butt end of my underwear and hit the brakes. Fortunately, all she would snag is material. However, every pair of my underwear had holes it them. Some of them were totally destroyed. Both Sissy and I were chastised for playing our game of chase. But we enjoyed it so much; we braved the chiding and played the game anyway. As is the case with mothers, mine decided it was time for me to have my photograph taken by a professional. Living in a foreign land as we did, mom missed visits with her family and missed being able to let her mom spend time with me. As a weak substitute, she often sent photographs back with detailed explanations as to what was happening in our lives. And so the photographer was scheduled to be at our house at the appointed hour. My mother had me well prepared on that morning. I was wearing new shoes and a new suit outfit; she really had me spiffed up. I remember there was an extensive discussion when the photographer arrived as to the nature of the backdrop to be used for the photograph. He did not bring the phony backgrounds with him as they have in photographs today. Nope, we had to choose something appropriate within our environment. Eventually, they decided on taking the photograph outside in our yard. The photographer chose a location next to a tropical tree which looked amazingly like a Mimosa; but, I don’t think it was. Other greenery was in the photo and it appeared to have all the elements for an appropriate site. He positioned me on a chair my mother used at her dressing table. All was ready. The photographer was set up. Standing next to my mother was Sissy. I suppose Sissy could not stand it any longer so she ran to me and jumped up with her front feet in my lap. The photographer cursed in Spanish. My mom exclaimed, “Sissy, come here!” She returned to my mother. However, Sissy did not take her eye off of me. Watching her, and seeing the grief she caused the photographer, I tapped my finger on my leg. Mom did not notice it nor did the photographer. However, Sissy did. She immediately ran to my side and up into my lap again. Another Spanish curse and a sigh from mom. With much coaxing Sissy returned to my mother, where she was held. However, Sissy did not want to be there. She wanted to be with me. I clucked my tongue. Sissy heard it and began squirming; mom lost her hold on the dog; and once again she ran to my side. I was quite proud of Sissy for her loyalty. I petted her and praised her. Mom said, “Danny, don’t do that! You’ll encourage her.” “Yes, I know,” I thought to myself; but replied“What?” innocently as I scratched Sissy behind her ears. Again mom retrieved Sissy and the photographer prepared to take the photo. But again, I signaled to Sissy and she responded. Although, she again had to break my mother’s grasp on her. Sissy ran to me where she promptly sat between my legs and looked to mom and the photographer. Mom and the photographer looked at each other and shrugged. Then the photographer had an idea. “Why don’t you let the dog be in the photograph? I think it will make a fine photo.” My mother considered his suggestion and admitted they had little choice. And so, for posterity I was photographed with Sissy, sitting devotedly with me. In the photograph, I am looking at the camera. Sissy is sitting between my legs, staring off to the side at my mother. I think it is a wonderful composition. I also think the photograph would have been good without Sissy. But through the years, we have come to realize that with her in it, well, she makes it perfect. It’s even more than that really; it is priceless. Don’t you agree? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: The Bidet Date: February 2, 2006, Thursday Thought: On occasion, when I was unobserved and the strange thing came to mind, I would visit my parent’s bathroom and test the strange contraption. There are some things that houses in the States don’t come equipped with, at least the houses that I had lived in. I found the bidet shortly after we moved in to the house in Maracaibo. It was not in my bathroom. No it was in my mom and dad’s bathroom. I was a little disappointed their’s had something that mine did not. “Geez, what is this thing?” I asked once. “I’m not sure?” was all my mom offered in explanation to her seven-year-old son--me. My mom was somewhat naïve. But, I have to believe she had her suspicions of what the thing was used for. Someone eventually explained to my mom what it was. I knew it was something strange because she thought it was hilarious. When someone visited our house, if they were old and good friends, my mom would eventually drag the woman into the bathroom where they would joke and giggle about the thing. “Well, what’s it for?” I would persist. “Don’t worry about it.” I was told; and that’s all I knew. I didn’t mind if they didn’t want to answer my question. My world would rock along without knowing what the strange thing was in my parent’s bathroom. As a matter of fact, I didn’t need to know because I would find my own use for it. On occasion, when I was unobserved and the strange thing came to mind, I would visit my parent’s bathroom and test the strange contraption. I found that when I turned the water on, it shot straight up. “Now, that’s stupid,” I thought, “Who’s gonna wash their hands with the water coming up like that. It gets all over the place.” Then I discovered, if I turned it on full blast, the water would shoot up with such force it would beat violently against the ceiling. Now, that was just pretty neat. I ought to be able to do something with that. I put my mind to working on a suitable application of the geyser located in my parent’s bathroom. One day, when I was alone in the house, which was an unusual and dangerous happening in itself, I made my way to the bidet. Forget the practical application and purpose of the thing. I determined that it was a weapon to be used on invading villains. Depending on the ferocity of the attack that came from the bathroom ceiling, different pressure would be needed. Just a couple of villains may not even require full force. But an all out attack would require the weapon to be opened wide and full force applied. I found that I could straddle the apparatus near the wall and have full access to the controls, leaving the firing mechanism clear and unimpeded. All afternoon I beat back waves of invading villains—on and off, on and off. Between attacks I would turn the weapon off and watch the drops form on the ceiling and pelt to the ground—a feeble weapon against my mighty cannon. “Here they come!....Fire!!” I’d open it full throttle. A stream of water would beat the ceiling, throwing water everywhere. Very little of the water would be caught in the useless bowl. However, that was no problem, we had tile floors and I had a good supply of towels. When the water began to collect, I’d toss the towel on the floor, mop up the excess, and wring them out in the useless bowl. That was unimportant; I was saving the universe from villains. My valiant effort to save the universe would have been successful had the ceiling not fallen. It seems the constant attack of my water cannon was not conducive for the well being of the ceiling. I must admit that all of the ceiling did not fall, just the part directly above the bidet. I retreated to my bedroom. Needless to say, my explanation as to why the ceiling fell did not include a description of my relentless onslaught against the villains of the universe. I convinced my mom that, because she did not tell me what the gadget was, I turned it on out of innocent curiosity one time and got the ceiling wet. And that’s all I did, that one time. “Honest, Mom!” |
| Title: It Seemed to be a Good Idea Date: February 1, 2006, Wednesday Thought: There would be hell to pay. The first casualty was my father. Journal: When I was very young, we lived in Venezuela. My father worked in the oil fields and punched holes in the ground to extract ‘black gold.’ My parents told me I spoke Spanish before I spoke English; we could afford a full-time maid and I spent many hours under her care. My father worked under two-year contracts, which meant every two years we would come back to the States for several months before he entered another contract. So, you see, much of my youth was spent in South America. We loved it there. We loved the culture, the people, and the life-style we were able to have. We lived in a ‘company house.’ The oil companies literally purchased several blocks of houses in which their employees lived. On my block there were a dozen other ‘gringo’ kids who grew up with me. We loved these houses. They were stucco exterior and very colorful. The floor was totally tile. I remember all the widows had bars on them; and, every house had a name, seriously, like Rosilia. Our yard was filled with exotic plants; we had banana, papaya, and mango trees. For a kid, I suppose it was pretty close to heaven. These houses were designed with a central hallway that ran through the middle of the house. Sleeping quarters were located off to one side and living quarters were located off to the other. In the summer we opened the front and back doors and the breeze circulated through the entire house. We did not have air-conditioning. I mentioned earlier that we had a maid. In fact we had many. My mother was not a difficult person for whom to work. They did fine with her. It was me where they had a problem. I was so dang ornery they couldn’t take the constant antics and pranks I pulled. My father would return from two weeks on location and notice a new maid working in the house. “Dee [my mother], who the hell is that?” “Oh, that’s the new maid.” “What happened to the other one?” “Danny.” “Oh.” On one particular hot summer day my mother was gone, the maid was in her quarters, and my father was reading a book in my parent’s bedroom. It was a lazy day. My mother was on a foray with some of the other wives and when she left she said, “Jack [my father] I’m leaving now; watch Danny.” To this my father grunted and continued to read his book. Now when mom said, “watch Danny,” she was not particularly concerned with my safety. Nope, it was more like what you say when you’re walking past a growling dog, “watch that dog!” It was for your own protection. Sitting in the living room, bored, my mind got to churning as to what to do. That was a dangerous thing. If nothing else, I have a very active imagination, of which I have never outgrown, as is evident by the cigar box incident in my high school days. Looking at the open door and feeling the breeze filter through the house, my seven year old mind came upon an idea. I got more excited about it the more I thought of it. “Yes! This will work!” I sprang into action. I pushed the furniture blocking the hallway to the side of the living area. I rolled back all the area rugs. I moved all the lamps and gadgets out of the hallway. As I stood in the front door I could see a clear path of tile from the front door out to the back door and beyond the back patio. “Yes! This will do fine!” I then attached the water-hose to the outside faucet; turned it on and brought it into the house, where I watered down our hallway, thoroughly. I then proceeded to the laundry room, retrieved the detergent, and spread it liberally down the soaked hallway—perfect. I found I could run like the dickens from my front gate hit the soaked hallway and slide all the way through the house and out the back door. It was the first ‘slip ‘n slide.’ I enjoyed our hallway, which I decided was actually built for this purpose and had been misused all these years, until my mother got home. Mom did not share the same enthusiasm for my indoor ‘slip ‘n slide’. There would be hell to pay. The first casualty was my father, who when rousted from his reading surveyed the room and in wonderment said only, “Damn!” “Jack! I TOLD you to watch him! You gotta’ watch him!” “Damn, Dee, It was only forty-five minutes since I last check on him!” “Jack! I keep telling you, it only takes an instant. He can turn on you in the bat of an eye!” The next casualty was Maria, the maid. Upon surveying the disaster that used to be a well ordered hallway and living area, she quit. Mom had to hire another maid. However, it was difficult since the word was out about the cute little blond-headed ’gringo’ kid. Looks could be deceiving. As for me, I was verbally lectured and some sort of punishment was exacted. However, I was safe from any physical discipline. My father was my protector. No one could lay a hand on me. He would smile, chuckle and make some remark about the creativity of my actions. I think he was a very wise man. *********** Here are a few photographs of me and our house at about the time this story was written. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Yup, that's me. I'm thinkin about stuff to pull. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This is a friend and my mom, standin' in front of one of our houses. Notice the house's name in the upper right hand: Rosalia. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This is me with one of our maids. Now, what about that cute little kid is there not to love? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** These are two of our maids. I know they look happy, but they couldn't last. Of all the pictures we have of our maids, we don't have two with the same maid. |
| Title: Gravity Date: January 30, 2006, Monday Thought: I had three periods of study hall at one particular period of time, being that I was asked to leave a couple of other classes. Teachers have a very short fuse. Journal: I suppose I learned something in high school. I must have—they let me out. I sometimes wonder though. For example, the last semester of my senior year was ‘nip-‘n-tuck’ in a business math class that I was taking. By all accounts I was a borderline ‘D’. I visited Mrs. Askew, concerned about my grade. She asked, “What are you going to do if I don’t pass you.” I answered, “I guess I’ll have to take it again.” After considering that she said, “I couldn’t take that; you’re out of here!” As I said, I must have learned something. I think it was science. I learned about gravity. In fact I had practical applications that helped me understand the principle. Gravity, for example tells me, “Stuff falls down.” I haven’t ever seen it fall up. I applied these principles in Study Hall. I had study hall a lot. Most kids had only one period for study hall. I had three periods of study hall at one particular period of time, being that I was asked to leave a couple of other classes. Teachers have a very short fuse. Anyway, applications of gravity—I found that if I take my time I could get a whole piece of paper in my mouth at one time. No little spit-ball for me. No, I discovered that I could create a spit-ball the size of a baseball if I chewed on one little piece of paper at a time and continually fed it into my mouth until the whole piece was nice an juicy. Now, I know what you are thinking—“Geeze, Dan, that’s gross!!” Yes it is, but gross is common ground for seventeen year olds. You ask, “Where is this story going?” Well, I discovered that it takes about fifteen minutes for a spit-ball, or in this case a spit-baseball to release itself from the ceiling after it’s been thrown up there. When the bell rang to change classes I would remove the nasty thing from my mouth and heave it up to the ceiling, where it would stick—for fifteen minutes. Shortly after the beginning of the next class the thing would release and come splattering down—gravity. The other example of gravity was much more satisfying. Our library, where we had study hall, had rows and rows of book shelves. I sat at a table directly next to these bookshelves with five other boys. We would do anything except study. There was a kid by the last name of Griffith who began to hang around our table. He did not sit there. No, his table was on the other side of the room. He would wander to our table, pulling books out of the shelves as if he were reading them and visit with us. He was pleasant enough and we did not mind. However, his regular visits cause me to dream up a little prank. Now, Griffith stuttered. It took him forever to tell a story. But we were patient and waited him out. We would often rib him about it and he accepted it good naturedly. One day, before Griffith made his way over to our table, and unknown to my table mates, I got to study hall a hair early. I checked the shelves to see if what I had in mind would work and was delighted to see that it would. I then proceeded to shove all the books on the shelf Griffith usually stopped at to the very back of the shelf. I then removed the front two pegs holding the shelf. A row of about six feet of books were now balanced on the rear two pegs of the shelf. I waited. The study hall filled. Shortly after the bell rang, signaling the beginning of the period, Griffith wandered over to our table. Casting his eye around to see where the study hall monitor was he grinned and leaned his elbow on the doctored shelf. At once, the entire self of books were dumped at Griffiths feet. In the silent study hall the noise was tremendous. The entire study hall erupted in laughter. All we heard Griffith say was, “D D D D Damn!”—gravity. They never found out who removed the pegs…it was not as if they did not suspect. True story—Linda is my witness. Perhaps someday I’ll tell you about the cigar box. |
| Title: The Night Alan and I Were Hit by The Train Date: January 30, 2006 Thought: Now, I have already established the fact that we definitely were not too bright. Journal: Alan and I were best buds. We spent lots of time together in high school. I remember we would meet after our dates and usually stay over with each other. We both had ’54 Chevys. I know that feels ancient, but it wasn’t so bad in 1966. I was dating Linda at the time and he was dating Sherleen, one of Linda’s best friends. Sometime after midnight we would usually meet somewhere on the drag and determine if it would be my house or his house. Alan and I were best buds. And so it was not unusual that he and I roomed together in college. And although it is not unusual, it certainly was not the smartest thing to do. We were our own bad influence. Either I would talk him out of going to class or he would talk me out of going to class. My first semester at OU produced academic excellence of a 1.5 grade point average. But, we were having a lot of fun. We both took vehicles to school with us, of course. I had a powder blue Thunderbird. Alan had a little Ford Falcon. Therefore, we usually used my car to go out. One evening we decided to go to the drive-in theater. We also decided that we would take our own beverages. Alan had a fifth of Jim Beam and I found this concoction of peach vodka (double-yuk). We spent the evening watching the movie, talking a lot of guy talk, and drinking that alcohol. By the end of the movie we were wasted. Now, I have already established the fact that we definitely were not too bright. So, it’s no surprise that I was driving under a bunch of influence. As we drove home that night we were in great spirits, partially due to the spirits that were in us. On our route home to our dorm, we took Lindsay Street, which at that time was just a two lane asphalt road. It took us by what was known as the Duck Pond and into the campus. Just prior to reaching the Duck Pond the road crosses the railroad. The tracks are well above the grade of the road, so the intersection has a steep incline to the track and then a equally steep decline on the other side of the track. I suppose I’ve seen trains on that tract, but never noticed—until that night. Parked down the track was a locomotive engine. I suppose it was about seventy-five feet from the road. It just sat there waiting. It’s light was high on the engine and shone brightly down the track, right across the intersection. However, it did not illuminate much of the road. Again, it was just sitting there waiting for two tipsy college kids to come along. Now, I suppose that engineer saw a couple of college boys meandering down Lindsay Street toward the tracks. And I suppose he had a sense of humor and a boring job, because he chose to wait until I was directly on the track to sound his whistle. From seventy-five feet directly in front of a train, it is not a little whistle. Nope, it’s more of a BLAIRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! And that’s what he did. He waited until I was perfectly positioned before he let loose on that horn. When you hear a noise like that you naturally look in the direction of the noise, which we did. All we could see were LIGHTS. Right on top of us. We were dead. My reaction was to floor the accelerator, which I did. My car responded and flew over the up incline and into the air on the down decline of the intersection. I lost control and we went into the gravel parking area of the Duck Pond. I hit my brakes and we slid to a stop. Dust filled the air around us. My heart was pumping like mad. Both Alan and I had just experienced death. I opened the door, unable to stand and just rolled into the gravel parking lot. I looked under the car and saw Alan on the other side. I don’t know for a fact, but I suspect the engineer of that train was having convulsions of laughter. Later, after we regained control of our senses, we laughed. But we did it cold sober. It’s amazing what a train seventy-five feet away from you can do on a dark night. To this day I can’t drive over that intersection without remembering the night Alan and I were run-over by the train. And by the way, I stop at all train crossings. |
| Title: Part Two - The Coffin Date: January 29, 2006, Sunday Thought: The primal urge to escape was paramount. Journal: We thought, “Hey, this is great! We scared the bejebbers out of the girls, an’ Dennis has developed a strange twitch. Wonder if we can do it again?” Then someone said, “How about a teacher.” “Cool! Which one?” “Well, what about Mrs. Moore? She’s given most of us licks (paddlings) and she’s responsible for sending most of us either out of class or to the principal, where HE gave us licks!!” What a great idea. We all began drooling thinking about it. And so we formed a plan. Very simply, we would take the coffin over to Mrs. Moore’s house, put Kenny in it, set it on the porch, ring the door-bell and scatter to watch the fun. Now, Mrs. Moore taught English--a topic most of us knew very little about. Her husband was the band teacher. Together they conspired to give us an education whether we wanted one or not. I personally had been given licks by both. Actually, Mrs. Moore did not do the nasty deed. She would walk next door to the coach’s class and have him do it, which he did with great enthusiasm. The week before, I was minding my business, sitting in her class, quietly chewing my gum. “Dan!” “Yes, Mrs. Moore?” “What do you have in your mouth?” “Teeth, tongue….” “Are you chewing gum?” “Sorta…it’s mostly just laying there.” “Well, spit it out!” I was taught to do what I was told. I spit it out and watched it roll down the aisle. My classmates thought it was rather funny. Mrs. Moore did not. We walked next door to the coach. Needless to say, I thought putting the coffin on Mrs. Moore’s porch was a marvelous idea. I wished I’d have been the one who thought of it. We concocted our plan in public while at the Dairy Queen. A host of kids heard the plan form and egged us on. Unfortunately, Mrs. Moore’s son was at the Dairy Queen with a date. Although, it was at a time before cell-phones, Eddie still had access to the pay-phone on the wall, which he used to call his mother. Filled with enthusiasm that was contagious, we loaded the coffin in the pick-up and made the drive in a caravan of cars over to Mrs. Moore’s house. It was a dark and chilly night, perfect. Mrs. Moore’s house was dark; the porch light was off. With stealth and silence equal to the Keystone Cops or the Three Stooges we unloaded the coffin and carried the thing to the porch. Kenny jumped in and we closed the lid. Now at the exact same time someone pushed the doorbell someone else said, “Cops!!!” We looked down the street and saw the police car had just turned the corner. “RUN!!!!” Which we did. At least all of us except Kenny. Kenny lay in the coffin chuckling to himself at how he was going to scare the bejeebers out of Mrs. Moore. We hit the bushes and jumped fences, leaving our cars sitting at the curb. There was no thought that we would have to come back and reclaim them. There was certainly no thought of Kenny. The primal urge to escape was paramount. From a safe distance we watched as our own Barney Fife wannabe (Andy Griffith Show) climbed out of his car and walked to the front door, standing over the coffin scratchin’ his head. The porch light came on. Mrs. Moore stepped out on the porch with Barney. They discussed the situation while Kenny waited inside for his magic moment to open the casket lid, which he chose to be then. Slowly the lid began to open, even providing an appropriate creak. Kenny rose from the crypt, looked around, saw the cop and Mrs. Moore, and promptly escaped into the safety of the coffin, pulling the lid down and holding it tightly from within. From my vantage point in the bushes I began to roll with laughter. All around, chuckles and laughter came from hidden places. Needless to say, the coffin was retired to the farm. It became the foundation for a pig trough. Kenny came close to being suspended, although, I think it was just a threat. No real harm was done. The rest of us had to walk home and retrieve our cars in the morning. Eddie was labeled as a ‘rat.’ Doesn’t matter if it was his mom, he told the teacher. But, I think it came out better this way. |
| Title: Boys Will Be Boys Date: January 28, 2006, Saturady Thought: I was about to have a heart attack just waitin’ in the place. Every noise was a zombie or a vampire. Journal: It all started when Kenny’s mom arranged to get this old coffin that the local funeral home was tossing out. Don’t ask me why, maybe it was used--don’t know. Kenny’s mom was gonna use it for a feeder for her hogs. Seems as if that would work. Well a bunch of us went and stole that coffin. Just think of the things that a bunch of sixteen and seventeen-year-old boys could do with an old coffin. The list is endless. So, we decided that we would scare the hell out of a bunch of girls. The idea was that Dennis Rider would go into town and talk a carload of girls to ride with him to the cemetery. The cemetery in the little town I grew up in was a little off the beaten path. It had these tall cypress trees that were eerie as all-git-out. Heck, they were spooky to me in the daylight. Well, the idea was that Dennis would get five or six girls and walk them out into the middle of the cemetery. Don’t even ask what he was to say to get them out there. It was probably a dare of some sort. Anyway, we placed the coffin behind two really tall cypress trees. You wouldn’t see the thing until you were right on it. We got everything positioned. Dennis took a really long time getting the girls. It must have been close to midnight by the time he talked them into getting out there. I was about to have a heart attack just waitin’ in the place. Every noise was a zombie or a vampire. But, being with a group of other guys held me there. We saw the lights of the car enter the cemetery. Kenny jumped in the coffin and we closed the lid. We hid behind the cypress trees. It was so dark they couldn’t see us. The moonlight was shining on the coffin. We heard them coming up the path. They were not happy with Dennis and it was taking all he could do to keep them coming. At twenty feet away I was thinking, “This is gonna be great!” They rounded the cypress trees. They froze in their tracks. The coffin was just sitting there. “OH MY GAWD! IT’S A COFFIN’ one of the girls cried. I could hear Dennis chuckling. Then Kenny opened the lid slowly. We forgot to tell Dennis that we were going to put Kenny in the coffin. The girls didn’t move. They just started screaming. But that wasn’t half of it. Dennis started screaming…and running….back to the car. “EEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHGGGG!!!” The girls saw where he was going and started screaming louder. Kenny rose from the coffin. The girls found their legs…they ran. However, it wasn’t fast enough. Dennis was hurtling tombstones better than an Olympic hurdler, all the time screaming, “EEEEEEAAAAHHHHHHGGGG!!!” An’ he was in on the prank!!! He got to the car, jumped in, started it and threw gravel and sod all over the place as he left the girls screaming and running through the cemetery. Chivalry was forgotten. We finally calmed them down. They were not happy with us. But it was almost the funniest thing I’d ever seen. The funniest thing was Dennis jumping the headstones. Now, that was only the first installment with the coffin. We had further use for it. But, that’s another story. |
| Title: Message from Spam Date: January, 27, 2006, Friday Thought: Journal: My good friend PlannerDan invited me to say a word in this joint about a case I've just solved. It's good to have friends. I don't see many come my way. Most of them have turned legit and are livin' the easy life. Me, I beat the pavement. That's why they call me a 'gum-shoe.' I don't get to be around many classy folks. Most of the dames I see are out to get some poor Joe hitched. Some of them are classy dames, though. I know one. Her name is Cass an' she's quite a doll. She's got brains too. Anyway, my friend, PlannerDan, said that I could talk to you folks straight. I want you to get to know Cass. She's a good kid who's had some bumps in her life. She's got a kid named, Jerry. Bright kid, he knows all about baseball. Any kid who knows the battin' average of Gil Hodges in 1957 is alright in my book. To cut to the chase, I thought you'd like to know what happened to Cass and Jerry, you know, give 'em a break an read their story. Anyway, PlannerDan beat the livin' fire out of the keys on this machine and wrote it all down. He's alright, a regular Joe. Most of what he said is right. What he didn't say, don't matter. I just thought you Dolls and Joes might want to get the straight scoop on Me an' Cass an' her kid, Jerry. If you want to fine. If you don't, well, I'll be seein' you around. Spam
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| Title: Maybe I Don’t Want to be the Expert Date: January 25, 2006, Wednesday Thought: I don’t have to be right. I only have to be reasonable. Journal: People come to me because they want answers. Sometimes it’s, “What will my city look like in twenty years?” Sometimes it’s, “How do I want my city to look in twenty years.” It always leads to, “How can I get my city to look like I want it to look in twenty years.” I show them how. That’s what experts do. Recently, I’ve had a variant to those questions. Two of my cities asked, “What am I today?” Or more particularly, “How many people live inside our city limits today?” Now, it’s always good to know where you are before you begin a journey. If you don’t know where you are, how can you buy a ticket from there? You go to buy a ticket to Seattle. The agent asks, “From here are you departing?” It’s best that you not say, “I don’t know!” So, you see, it’s good to know from where you are starting. That is the same principle we use when we do long range plans for cities. We determine where they are today; we see where they want to be twenty years from now; and then we tell them how to get there. Well, like I said, two of my cities wanted to know “where we are today.” For these two cities there is a specific reason for that question. You see, when a city reaches 5,000 people, the State of Texas permits it to change its status. At that time they may be granted additional authority by chartering their form of government and becoming ‘home-rule.” That just means they no longer fall under the general laws of the state for small cities and can create their own governing laws, among which includes the authority to annex property outside their corporate limits without the permission of the property owner. Now, I don’t want to get into the rights of the property owner at this time. Just let it be assumed that there are good reasons for cities to have this authority. Anyway, it is in the best interest of the city to establish their population as exceeding 5,000 people, if they want to claim this ‘home-rule’ status. And so the cities come to me asking me to work my magic and proclaim them as being over 5,000 persons in population, which I did. In order to do this I must use multipliers for population taken from the US Census data, water meter connections taken from the city’s records, and apply population estimate techniques that I have used over the last twenty years, which I also did. The problem with creating these figures is that someone always, always takes issue with them. Very few people understand the dynamics of preparing population estimates. What people don’t understand is that a population estimate does not have to be accurate. How the heck do I know if it is accurate? I’d have to literally count every person in town personally. That ain’t done. No, the question is not whether or not it is accurate but rather is it reasonable. If the methodology and the assumptions are reasonable the courts have determined that the derived population is also reasonable. The reason for this tirade and detailed explanation is that this game is getting a little tiring. People say, “Well who the heck is this guy?” and, “What makes him think he’s right?” The answer to the second question is that I don’t think I’m right. I don’t have to be right. I only have to be reasonable. And so, I have opponents in two cities who are threatening lawsuits. It will not come to that; they are only threats; I get them regularly. But like I said, playing the game is getting a little tedious. And so, as I hung the telephone up from talking to the city manager from one of the cities I thought, “Hey, maybe I don’t want to be the expert.” But, dang it!—maybe I do. |
| Title: Doing What I Do Tonight Date: January 24, 2006, Tuesday Thought: Basically, it is because people don't understand. They let the visual appearance of the painted lady control their emotions. Journal: I've been preparing all day. My date is for 7:30 PM tonight. I will be traveling to Royse City to discuss some Painted Ladies. It seems as if Royse City has a painted lady that is creating quite a stir. Basically, it is because people don't understand. They let the visual appearance of the painted lady control their emotions. What they don't understand is that the bright colors and gaudy presentation is normal. In the world of historic preservation, Victorian houses painted according to the period are quite colorful. We have become used to our drab earth-tone houses. And so tonight will be an education experience for the Heritage Commission of the City of Royse City. It appears that someone has painted their Victorian house green. I haven't seen the house yet. But, green is an appropriate color for these fine old Victorian homes, as is purple, lilac, bright yellow, and even rose. At times they are even mixed together. I thought I would give you some examples of these ladies so you could see what I meant. I entered "Painted Lady" into Google and searched for images. OOPS! You need to be careful what you ask for in Google. Try it and see what I mean. Or don't try it and let your imagination fill in the blanks. Anyway, I will be doing what I do tonight. I will be helping a city regulate their painted ladies. Out of the meeting will come a listing of appropriate colors and construction techniques. It will be fun. Especially since they will pay me for it. Oh, I forgot to show you the painted ladies. Well here they are: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: Stuck in the World of I Can’t Date: January 23, 2006, Monday Thought: I have believed that we must always be willing to try. Journal: One of the saddest things I’ve ever witnessed was from a six year old child. This happened years ago. That small child would be a young adult today. I constantly wonder what kind of man he is today. But, eighteen years ago he was a pitiful little boy. I don’t know how many of you have ever taught a six year-olds Sunday school class. I helped one time. It takes more resources than I possess to be able to handle a class full of six year olds. Somehow I was enlisted to be a ‘helper’ in the class. The teacher was Linda. It was very interesting to watch her do her magic with those little minds. I have to tell you that I did as I was told. We had stories and games and a period of crafts. It is the period of crafts that astounded me. Crafts that day were to be a simple drawing illustrating a story about a family that lives in a house. Now most children that I know have drawn houses and stick people since they were capable of grabbing a crayon. We even ended up with a few of them on our walls; I of course was chastised for not being observant. “Dan! You’ve got to watch them! They’re slippery and will sneak by you if you don’t watch them!” Believe me, I tried. They outmaneuvered me. After all, there were two of them and I was outnumbered. But that’s a different story. I settled in with my six-year-old pupil that day. “OK, let’s draw a house,” I began innocently. “I can’t” “Sure you can. I’ll help.” “No, I can’t” “OK, watch me. Take the crayon like this and draw a line like this.” “I can’t.” “OK, let’s start with just one line, like this.” “I can’t” “Yes, I know you can. You’re smart and I will help you. It doesn’t have to be pretty, just one little line. Let’s try together.” “No, I can’t” The bottom line was that he didn’t. The other children drew lopsided houses, round houses, houses with three sides; there were houses that were unrecognizable. But each child was pleased and proud of their creation. And we praised each one of them, except for one child. He insisted that he could not and therefore accomplished his goal. The sad thing is that he was from a family who couldn’t. His dad could not keep a job, could not pay his bills, and could not finish any task that he began. He was a friend of mine. But, he was the definition of a loser if there ever was one. He failed at everything he ever attempted to do. He could do only one thing—father children. He had three. Each of the children was disciples of “I Can’t.” It is the saddest thing I have ever seen. I admit that I am aggressive. I attack each challenge in life with the belief that there is a solution that I can find. If I can’t solve it then I learn to manage it. But I refuse to stop with “I can’t”. Now, I am also realistic. There are some things that I will simply never do. I will never be a marathon runner or an astronaut. They are beyond my resources. However, if my desires were in those areas, I would find a way to find a solution to the challenge. It may not be exactly as I wanted but it would be something. I believe that we must always be willing to try. My father, who spent his life punching holes in the ground in the oil field, used to say, “There’s no such thing as 'I can’t' in the oil field.” Even if the challenge was beyond me, he expected me to get off my butt and create some racket slapping iron and steel around. So, what is the purpose of this entry? Well, I heard someone say, “I can’t” today and it made me think of my Dad and the way he raised me. I’m concerned that there are too many of those pitiful little boys who grew up saying, “I can’t;” and so today they don’t. What scares me is that it seems our government has agreed with them and has said, “of course, you can’t. We don’t expect you to.” I am not against giving anyone a ‘hand up.’ All of us need help from time to time. But when people begin to expect a ‘hand-out’ instead of a ‘hand-up’, there is something wrong. My father’s world was black and white. Either you did it or you didn’t. Don’t bother with excuses; all excuses are good. All I want is for folks to try before they say I can’t. It worries me that the problem with many folks is not that they can’t, it’s that they won’t. I hope I never again hear someone say, “I can’t.” However, I know that is too much to expect. So, I will just have to instill the values of my father into my children and my grandchildren. If enough of us do that maybe we will begin to hear, “I can” more often. |
| Title: The Things We Do Date: January 22, 2006, Sunday Thought: We are a diverse people, are we not? Journal: I have a friend. Well, of course I have many. But, today I’m thinking of one friend in particular. Over twenty-five years ago I met a young man at a church in Norman, Oklahoma. We became friends. I met several men in that church who eventually became very close friends. As happens when people move around and our lives take different courses, we separated and went our own directions. However, over all this time I have kept up with two of those young men, who now are not so young. A couple of weeks ago I received an email from one of the men. “Hey! Let’s have lunch!” I suppose it’s been eight of nine years since I’ve heard from him and all of a sudden it’s “Let’s have lunch!”—just as if it has only been a couple of days. Sometimes you develop friendships like that. I have been very fortunate in that I have a dozen friends like that. To these men time means nothing. We are best friends and will be for eternity. Anyway, I ended up going to a very long lunch with my friend. We talked and caught up and generally enjoyed each other’s company. My entry is prompted by that lunch. My friend has been connected with some sort of church work for years. For an extended period of time he was a member of a church staff. I was interested to find that he has not done that for several years, now. He is a chaplain. More particularly he is a hospice chaplain. In my friends own blunt words he “helps dying people.” For several years now, James has helped people face and experience their last moments on this earth. He informed me that he has actually been with over a hundred people as they took their last breath. Many times he was the one holding their hand. He is not connected with any denomination. He does not represent any organized religious group. His soul purpose is to help the terminal through these last moments. We talked for a very long time. Of course we talked about our kids and our wives and the major changes in our lives. But we also spent an extended period of time discussing the theological impacts of his job. He described how all manner of people approached that final moment in their life. James said he has been with Christian and non-Christian, old and young, of course male and female. James has witnessed this experience for the heroes in our lives and those who were not so well thought of. He actually stated he has been with a murderer as they took their last breath. So what insight do you gain when you sit with one-hundred someones as they take their last breath? Of course, I assumed that it has to have an effect on a person. Some folks would think this is a very morbid subject. But, James said, “Dan, I love my job. I’ve been so blessed by these people.” All James could do was to slowly shake his head and say, “There is something there. There is something beautiful about that moment. I’ve seen peace return to troubled souls.” He does not claim any great spiritual revelation. But, James does confirm that nothing in what he has witnessed has caused him to doubt his faith in the least. On the contrary, he has become more confident in what he believes. It is interesting that James also says it doesn’t matter if the person is a Christian or non-Christian, the overall experience is the same. The theological questions are numerous and can get quite deep. We only scratched the surface in our lunch discussion. I came away with a sense of awe. Isn’t it remarkable the things we do? We all see a different slice of life. My city planning slice is far different from James’ hospice slice. My son, who is a sergeant at the correctional facility sees a much different slice of life. It is interesting, isn’t it? As we were talking, James’ cell phone rang. He checked it and stated simply, “Someone is dying. I’ve got to go.” And so we ended our lunch. I went back to my $4,000,000 grant application for one of my cities and James went to be with someone as they died. It has left me with the task of balancing the purpose and meaning of what we all do. We are a diverse people, are we not? |
| Title: Just Wondering Date: January 21, 2006, Saturday Thought: Now, please forgive me, but I don't like reading junk. Journal: Well, today is a lazy Saturday. You recognize those. Those are the ones when you get up when you want to and let the day just unfold without structure. Now, there are things that I can surely do--but don't want to. I got up and read a few entries, maybe responded--can't remember. I checked on the stock market; the dang thing fell yesterday. The Dow was down 213 points and the NSDAQ fell 57. Fortunately, we have good strong stocks and actually made some gains. Next week will be very interesting. I'm looking at buying CHK (Chesapeake Energy Corp.) and NFX (Newfield Exploration Corp.) both of these stocks are strong up-trending stocks that should exhibit strong buy signals early next week. If anyone is into stocks, what do you think? About that time, the smell of breakfast lured me downstairs and so I did what guys do--followed my stomach. After a simple breakfast of eggs and sausage and some coffee, I went outside to play with a very frisky Lab. It's sort of cool in Texas this morning and Max loves it. He was bouncing around outside playing by himself when I joined him. He thought that was great fun. Then he noticed that I had his leash. The dog was beside himself; his whole butt was wagging. And so we went for a long walk around the lake (don't take Tor around the lake...the wimp thinks it's the Bataan Death March.) We eventually came back to the house and I played with that dang dog for another hour or so. I felt sort of sorry for him; I've been so busy in my office. Anyway, eventually I ended up behind this keyboard. Seems as if that always happens, given enough time. That dang Tor has got me watchin' the stats. Now, I don't have a lot of activity in there, probably a dozen views. But, I got to wondering, how do folks chose which item to read. Someone always reads the journal--thank you. But the other stuff has no rhyme or reason. I know, when I visit a port I look at certain things. I first look to see if there is any information on the author--you know, some sort of biographical piece. Then I look at how long they have been in WDC--if they are a newbie. If they are a newbie, I try to find something that I can read and review to encourage them. If they are not, then I just look for something interesting. Now, please forgive me, but I don't like reading junk. I won't read anything with three stars or less. I know that may not be fair, but it certainly saves a lot of time. And, don't throw rocks at me, but I also don't read poetry. I am inept at poetry, so why even try to review it. I will go to the "Trophy Room" link and take a look at the items that have been awarded an awardicon. I may read a couple of those. If I like the writing style and enjoy the pieces I then will go and try to find an unawarded item to read. That's how I do it. I'm wondering how those dozen who read my other stuff do it. All I know is that they surely did not review any of the pieces. Now, that is disappointing. But, hey, I'll live! PS: Get by and read the "Invalid Item"  ; you'll be glad you did. |
| Title: A Little About Heroes Date: January 20, 2006, Friday Thought: A hero does not necessarily have super-human strength. Nope, mostly they are normal everyday people. Journal: Everybody needs some heroes. I know I do. But, what is a hero? Well, there is Batman, Superman, Spiderman, and even Stealthman. These guys are super-heroes—friend of the oppressed and protectors of the universe. They are also figments of our imaginations—creations of our minds. You don’t find true heroes in the comic books. You gotta look around you for true heroes. They come in all sizes, shapes, and ages. Heroes are both male and female. A hero does not necessarily have super-human strength. Nope, mostly they are normal everyday people. We read about heroes who dash into burning buildings or jump into swollen rivers to pull some unfortunate individual from imminent peril. Those solitary acts of valor are truly actions of heroes. I’m glad there are people in this world that will react fast and sure when others are in dire need. However, I am proud to say that I have some heroes of my own right here in WDC. Now, don’t turn me off. I’m not trying to embarrass anyone. But I know of three folks, among many others, who are my heroes. My first hero, and they are listed in no particular order, is only 16 years old. I don’t know if you’ve been over in Jessie’s port (jessiegirl). But you need to visit this remarkable young lady. Jessie demonstrates a remarkable resiliency and exuberance that only comes with youth. She has an enormous burden with her eyesight. Yet, she seems to refuse to buckle under the strain of this debilitating situation. When many of us would be caught up in a world of self-pity, I find a fresh and positive spirit in this young lady. She is talented and bright and vibrant. Because of this remarkable spirit, she has become one of my personal heroes. Another of my heroes is our very own CC (ccstring). There are very few folks who command my respect such as CC does. I have never met the man. We live a thousand miles apart, but that does not matter. His devotion to his family, his wimmins, is exceptional. I don’t know of many folks who would take the time to make the effort to give of himself as he does. CC does what it takes to make a life for his family. His only ulterior motive is that he loves them and wants the best for them. And from what I can see, they respond to that. Because of that, he is raising young girls who will become strong and wise women someday. Our friend CC does whatever it takes to get the job done. That means working two jobs and giving everything he has to both of them, as my dad would say, “making a hand.” It may even mean using a plow truck to move a broken down old pick-up. His spirit and his attitude are remarkable. For that reason he is my hero. I will mention a third hero, although there are many more. Tor (David McClain ) seemed a little crusty to me at first. I have no idea what that is—it’s just crusty. But it did not take long for me to see the hero in him. As a young man, Tor did what I did not. He placed himself in harms way to protect my freedom. He gave his heart to his friends on those fields in Vietnam and left a little of it there. He wrote in his latest blog that he was a greeter at Wal-Mart. I contend that Tor is much more than a greeter. Each time he says, “Welcome to Wal-Mart” he means it. Now, no doubt there are times he has to spray the smile on. But, I have come to know his heart. He truly cares for others and would give more than he has for them. Tor is honest, soft-hearted, and passionately patriotic. Mel recognized that in him a long time ago. So, Tor may be just a greeter, but he is also my hero. Even though he is older than dirt.No doubt I am someone’s hero—just as you are someone’s hero. My intention is not to embarrass any of these fine people. I also do not mean to neglect any of my other heroes. My purpose is to show that heroes are everyday folks who come into our lives and make a difference. They are unselfish and good folks. That’s all it takes to be my hero. But, you know, that’s a lot. |
| Title: Fill 'er UP: I'm Ready to Roll! Date: January 19, 2006, Thursday Thought: And so, fueled with all sorts of inspiration, I faced the blank box for my entry ready to roll. Journal: It's been a couple of days since I left an entry. So, I logged on ready to do my WDC duty. I first thought I'd visit a few of the favorite sites. Hey, you guys are on the ball tonight. Everyone was so good. And so, fueled with all sorts of inspiration, I faced the blank box for my entry ready to roll. Why is it that some time the desire is there but the content just doesn't materialize? I am more than ready to be brilliant. But, I know that tonight it will not happen. Tonight I will have no sage advise, no funny quips, and no searing insight. Tonight I'll just be me. Now that's a little scary. Cause when we just come in here as 'me' there is a chance we will fall on our face. All across the World Wide Web folks will be shaking their head saying, "So that's the real PlannerDan? Who'd of thought it?" It is interesting how we form opinions about folks who write the things in these blogs (yuk). Do you suppose we could fool the world. You know, be someone else entirely? I've entered 261 entries. It seems much more; but the counter says 261. If we were to study all these entries, do you suppose the real PlannerDan would be obvious....or the real Tor...or the real CC (now that's a scary thought). My guess is that our collective entries is a very good indication of who we really are. More so than our facade that we present to the public in the 'real' world. We write and reveal snippets of our selves. Over a period of time we have a pretty good picture of who we are. What do you think others see in your writing? Do you think you are as transparent as I am? And what would you have others get from your entries? Now I know what you're thinking, "So that's the real PlannerDan? Who'd of thought it?" |
| Title: The Center of My Life Date: January 17, 2006, Tuesday Thought: The problem with being self-centered is that you are destined to be disappointed. Journal: Be warned, this entry has religious content. If you are turned off by religious content, you may leave, I hope you don’t. I received a simple little email from a friend today. It was one of those cute little things that folks pass along to everyone they know and are in turn passed along to everyone THEY know. Isn’t the Internet wonderful? We send cutesy stuff and a bunch of junk all over the world with a push of a button. The bottom line of this little slide show, along with the most gorgeous scenes I’ve ever seen, was a little message about finding God as the center of your life. Curiously, it pointed out that Psalm 118:8 is the exact center of the Bible. There are 1,188 verses before it and 1,188 verses after in. I smiled when I saw what the verse said: “It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in man.” That IS the center of my life. When I am lost and befuddled, I find my center in my faith. When I have strayed from purpose in my life, I find it is because I have strayed from my faith. My purpose of this entry is not to get you to believe as I do. You may certainly believe as you wish. No, I just thought the idea of being “centered” was an interesting one. Of the billions of people living on this earth, each one has something that is central to their life. Some center their life on principles and concepts; some place God in that central place. Others have as the center of their world their children and family. Unfortunately, many people believe the world revolves around them. I’ve always said those folks have an “I” problem (not “eye”) that has nothing to do with vision. Those folks are self-centered with “I” being the center of the universe. The problem with being self-centered is that you are destined to be disappointed. You see, “I” simply does not have the resources or the stamina to provide lasting rewards. I’ve lived over a half century. In that time I’ve had the opportunity to bump into lots of folks. Some are well centered. Some haven’t a clue. My center has taken a long time to develop. As a Christian, I have come to find that my center is found in the very center of the Bible. Until I received that little email, I did not realize it was Psalm 118:8. I thought that was interesting. I learned something. It did not take that verse to teach me what my center was. But it caused me to reaffirm it-again. |
| Title: A Purpose to Be Here Date: January 15, 2006, Sunday Thought: This site has proven to be as effective as college training. Journal: I come into this forum wondering what I'm doing here. My friend windac is the reason for this wondering. Her last two entries have been very deep and thought provoking. There is a reason that she has one of those spiffy blue cases. The lady can write. But she is correct. We each need to consider the reason we are here. Now, it doesn't need to be earth-shattering. We cannot be the philosopher with each entry. There are moments when we will draw a blank and can only toss mundane words onto the page. Each of us expects that. But, there is a reason we are in here. That reason may be to enjoy some banter and spoofing--nothing heavy. And, that's OK. We may be in here to hone our writing skills and say some of the things that are left unsaid in the 'real world.' And, that's OK. Our purpose in here may be therapeutic. Tossing these words on the page can have a cleansing effect--an outlet that helps us to focus on our life. And, that's OK. Some of us have found that being in WDC, especially the 'blog'(yuk) feature has opened new opportunities for communication with new friends. We come here to nurture those relationships. And, that really is OK. I don't know why you are here. I'm here because of a mixture of some of those things I just described. It is an opportunity to be creative. But it's an opportunity to actively share that creativity with real people. I am amazed that you read my stuff. I am flabbergasted that you like it. It is strange, but in the real world I tell people about WDC and my stories stored in my portfolio. I receive smiles and nods. Many are interested in the site and quiz me about it. A few are amazed that I have been published as an outgrowth of my efforts in here. But none of them share the vision that I have found here. Occasionally, they will read a story or two. But there is no follow-up with them and my stories and any talent that they represent is cast as a curiosity and filled away as being 'interesting.' And that's OK. After being in the site for two years, I have examined my portfolio. It has grown significantly since that very first story. This site has proven to be as effective as college training. I can see the improvement in my writing. I have learned. I'm definitely still not a poet, and never will be. But, my writing seems to make an connection. It seems to have a purpose and seems to be acceptable to the readers in here. I can say that my time in here has been profitable. Two years from now, if I am fortunate to still be writing, I only hope I can see similar progress. But, it has been the blog that has given extra purpose to the word stored here. This little blog-ring has become something extra special. I know that when Spam has a new adventure, you will read it and be gracious with your comments. And, even though you do not enjoy reading westerns, you followed Alexander Boutwell through the Civil War and Texas. That has added purpose to this site and is part of the reason that I am here. So, Winda, thanks for reminding me again about purpose. |
| Title: OK, Where’s That Silver Lining? Date: January 13, 2006, Friday Thought: If I had a snow plow, I’d shove all their cars into the drainage ditch. Journal: I’m no Pollyanna. Hey I get down just like the next guy. But I’ve been through enough tough times to know that there is always a silver lining on every storm cloud. I am one of the most positive mental attitude dudes that I know. Nothing has changed—I feel the same today. But, I’m looking upward today saying, “OK, damnit! Where’s that silver lining?” Why all the doom and gloom? Well, for one, I’m getting tired of waiting for the $36,000 my clients owe me. Some of them are 90 days late. The thing that really miffs me is that many of our statements are located in some box on a desk that is being ignored. Some bozo is visiting over coffee and will neglect to send it on down the line. I can’t do anything about that. It comes with the territory. I’m just ranting. No, that’s not the thing that started this interesting day. It started with a call from one of my oldest clients. I’ve worked for them for over ten years—through five different mayors. We’ve won state awards and recognition for the work done there. Well, this morning I get a call from their brand new mayor saying, “Dan, we are proud of the years of service that your firm has given to Northlake. But we think it’s time for a change. Your contract will be terminated at the end of the month.” Now, this does not happen often. Our firm is known for the longevity of our clients. But it happens every now and then. Am I miffed? YOU BET! If I had a snow plow, I’d shove all their cars into the drainage ditch. But, I am very fortunate. Other than the fact that they already owe me $6,000, this is no real problem. They have turned into a problem city—always bickering and fussing. I don’t enjoy working with the people who are there now. So the way I see it, if it ain’t fun—dump em. What irritates me is that they did it to me before I could do it to them. But I will handle this with professionalism and class and finish the projects that they need before I leave. Now, the good thing about working for yourself is that you can never be fired from your job. I can lose a client. They can release our contract. Some people would say that is being fired. Ah, not so. For you see, the next morning, I’ve still got a job. I’ve still got thirty clients who mostly love me. I will just focus my efforts towards someone else. So does losing a $24,000 contract suck? Sure it does. Will I replace it with another? Already have. |
| Title: It Can't Be Done Date: January 12, 2006, Thursday Thought: Someday I will be able to fling as I desire. Journal: From the appearance of my calendar, it would seem that I have deserted my journal. Ah, but don't let appearances fool you. I have not posted an entry because I have had to choose where to spend my time. As you may or may not know, I own a professional planning consulting firm (http://mprginc.com/). I have a very demanding clientele. And so, I moan a lot about how busy I am. That's because I'm very very busy. For some insane reason I also belong to a number of civic organizations and serve on a number of boards of directors. I am not trying to impress you; I am just trying to let you see what has been demanding my time. Regardless, I insist on being a member of WDC. But my time in here is limited. I have recently written an entry for Nada's BANG. (Stealthman returns) In addition, as you see in my previous entry, Spam Hummer has solved another case. I have also began a new Spam Hummer story. It will be my tenth of the series. I feel a responsibility to my friends here. So, I've at least tried to read your blogs (yuk!) and respond. That means the low man on the totem-pole has been my journal entry. Now, I want to do it all. I really want to; but it can't be done. Something has to go undone. Lately, it's been the daily journal entry. But there is a danger in not posting an entry. When you don't post regularly, folk stop coming by. And I do so enjoy company. But this is the choice that we have to make. The crazy thing is that I am finding that I am most content when I am flinging words together to tell some story. Someday I will be able to fling as I desire. But for the moment, I must share my time with a hundred other concerns. Thanks to all of you for keeping on checking my journal. I will do as best I can to keep new and interesting words in there. |
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