Gradually, over the last several months, my emphasis in Writing.Com has begun to morph. Actually, it has morphed back towards where it was when I first joined the community. I have become more inclined to write short stories and less inclined to create blog entries. I have always been somewhat sporadic in my entries in my blog, but recently I have succumbed to one or two entries per month. Much less than the once a day entry I had at my zenith in my blogging effort.

Now, that is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It’s just the way it is. I decided that I needed to do two things. First, I realized I must spend less time in the realm of the Internet. I needed to walk the real world a little more each day. This stuff can be addicting. And like any addiction it can be harmful. To me it detracted from my work. I work at home. There is some small degree of discipline required to do that and be productive. The bottom line is that if one does not attend to his vocational activities, one does not eat and live the life of luxury enjoyed by those who do. I was getting hungry.

Secondly, I joined this site as an outlet for my desire to produce creative fiction writing. I love to write short stories. Writing.Com provided an outlet for creative expression of that effort. Of all the sites I have visited, only this site has consistently provided the level of professionalism and focus on writing for which I was searching. In this community, I have opportunity to display my work and receive critical and helpful reviews of that work. Everywhere else I have been provides significant opportunity to commune, and is little more than a forum for discussion and occasionally outright gossip. If one wishes to do that in this community, you can. But, the opportunity to focus solely on writing is available for each member of Writing.Com. You truly make it what you want it to be. Therefore, I determined I needed to morph away from the blogging effort and back to writing.

Since I have changed my focus I notice the logical results of my new efforts. First, I am once again gainfully employed, which means I am making money, chugging along the road towards retirement. Secondly, my portfolio of short stories is once again expanding. I have rekindled the excitement of creating fiction. One of those efforts has been fueled by a comment provided by Scarlett , who suggested I write a monthly addition to my Spam Hummer series. I have taken her up on that and have finished the one for November, with its Thanksgiving emphasis. "A Case of Black and White"  (I leave this shameless plug here for you to rush off and read my latest offering.) I still don’t know what I will do with all these stories, which are steadily growing. I suppose I will self-publish a compilation of all my short stories in two volumes. One for the generic short story and the other for the Spam Hummer series. Why not?

Anyway for those of you who may be wondering to where in the world PlannerDan has disappeared—those one or two--I have returned to writing at the expense of the blog. I will wander back occasionally to these pages to post an occasional entry, just to let you know I am still among the land of the living--until then, good writing and good fortune to each of you.

 

OK, I know this is going to seem like whining. I can’t help it; it just frost my rear when I think about it. In fact, I thought I had gotten over the rating of my pieces in here a long time ago—apparently not. I’ve been a member of WDC almost five years. In that time, I have built quite a stable of stories, which are kept in my port. These thoroughbreds of mine are cared for like my children. Oh I know some of them are little more than nags, but I treat all of them like champion race horses. They are not; some of the stuff is not so good, but the majority of them are decent. I have manage to maintain a relatively high rating, between 4.0 and 5.0 stars—generous to be sure. So, it sort of frosts me when some dolt drops in and gives one of the pieces I’ve worked hard on 2.0 stars. See, I told you I was whining.

Four years ago I introduced a new character into my stable, Spam Hummer. Now, Spam began as a spoof on the old detective series. It was just a lark that amused me to create. However, four years and sixteen stories later, I find that I am sort of attached to the guy. And, I must admit, four years of working on my writing skills has improved the delivery of Spam’s capers. It’s been fun, anyway.

Well, in the spirit of the Halloween season, I decided to take Spam into the realm of the supernatural. I gave him a little trek into the world of vampires. It was fun; and I thought I did a fairly good job of it. I finished the story, posted it, and waited for readers to sample Spam’s thriller with the world of vampires. Needless to say, I was somewhat disappointed when it appeared to be basically ignored, even by the faithful readers who have followed Spam through the years. That’s OK, I’m a big boy and can take that. That’s just the way it is.

Fortunately, someone stopped by and gave it a very thoughtful review and generous rating—a 4.0 stars. Thank you, Winnie. It needed work and I appreciated the comments. I worked on it and hopefully improved it. At least I thought I did. However, this morning (see, this has freshly pricked my ego) some dolt, who has never posted a story gives me a one line comment saying Spam’s name sounds like processed meat and then he gave it a 2.0 star rating. Now, come on! If you’re gonna slam it, tell me what’s wrong. I mean besides leaving a taste of processed meat in your mouth. At least then I could work on it.

So, I figured if it tastes so badly, I’d go ahead and be totally tasteless and blatantly ask you for a read and review of the story. If you think it’s a 2.0 star, then I’ll shut up and take my medicine. It’s just that I didn’t think my friend Spam deserved that. Now, I ask you, am I totally off base here?

ID: 1612378   (Rated: 13+) Title: Case of the Severed Finger  Description: Spam encounters a vampire...he thinks. By: PlannerDan

 

         There is an imbalance in our American culture. The media, as well as the mass communication potential of the Internet, has helped to deepen this condition. The imbalance I allude to is that of communication versus the silent majority within America.

         I believe America has a Voice and a Heartbeat. One is very visible and the other is only felt or perceived. One is ‘in your face’ and the other is a hidden current buried deeply in our fabric. We react in ‘knee jerk’ mode in one and at glacier speed in the other.

         Our Voice is projected in the communication media. This consists of the written and broadcast news media, the Hollywood contribution, and the Internet. Our Voice is predominantly liberal. There is no argument about that; that is just the way it is. With the exception of Fox News and the right wing blogging sites, the liberal viewpoint is the predominant tone of this voice. There is no right or wrong, good or bad, in this statement—just fact.

         The Heartbeat of America is the silent majority, conservative families, located across the heartland of the nation. The Heartbeat is typically rural, religious, simple folks. They populate small towns as well as suburbs and work hard for a living. Their number is strong in the metropolitan areas but they are muted by the social impact of liberal thought. They list themselves as being independent politically, but often tend to vote conservatively, regardless of their party affiliation. They are the silent majority of citizens who supported the Republican’s Contract with America, are suspicious of big government, and who flock now to the Tea Party meetings. They are the folks who voted for Ronald Reagan and who believe he was a great American statesman. They share a deep abiding love for this nation with their liberal mined brothers and sisters; they are the Heartbeat of America.

         What makes our current situation in this country interesting is that the Voice of America does not necessarily speak for the Heartbeat of America. However, it is the Voice which the masses hear. It is the Voice which reverberates overseas in other countries. It is the Voice which provides the image of who America is. When listening to that Voice, the other peoples of this world do not receive an accurate reflection of the Heartbeat of America. The Heartbeat is not the Hollywood image; nor is it the image of the liberal media. And, the mish-mash of the Internet cannot provide an accurate image of the Heartbeat; nor can the conservative talk show pundits.

         If you are not included in the description of these folks, who are the Heartbeat of America, you will probably deny their existence. For each American believes he or she is part of the Heartbeat of America, and the thought that it may be the other guy does not set easily. Now, if you are not included in the description of the Heartbeat, it does not mean you are a bad person or inadequate. It does not mean you are wrong or misguided. It does not make you any less of an American. It simply means you are not numbered with the silent majority of Americans that make up the Heartbeat. If that is the case, do not be alarmed. For the ranks of the Heartbeat is eroding daily. It is giving way to a more understanding and open-minded liberal thinking—one which is much more inclusive. The Heartbeat is bowing to a thinking that compromises rather than preserves the status quo in a world where the status-quo is seen as being backward and ignorant. It won’t be long until there will be a new Heartbeat replacing the one our fathers and grandfathers knew. And, to many folks that is a good thing.

         However, until that transformation takes place, we will live in a land where the Voice of America is not reflective of the Heartbeat of America. Somehow that seems a little dishonest. It is as if we are telling the world we are someone we are not. I suppose if the Voice speaks loud enough and is persistent, the Heartbeat will change its beat—morph into something that resembles the image portrayed by the Voice. Or perhaps the Heartbeat will find it’s own voice. Who knows? Until that time, I suppose we will just have to live within the imbalance of the thing.

 

Title: Spam's Back
Date: August 28, 2009, Friday
Thought:

Jog: Some of you may be familiar with my friend Spam Hummer. Spam is a character I created a couple of years ago. I was playing with the detective mystery genre and sort of backed into Spam. Well, over the years I've written fourteen short stories featuring Spam Hummer and a developing list of characters. This has turned into a special work, since I've sort of gotten attached to the whole crew now.

Well, anyway, as many of you know, I've almost stopped blogging lately. The reason is that I've been directing more time to my job and to writing short stories. Something had to go, and it was my blogging efforts. Anyway, I'm back for this entry to see if there is anyone at all out there who still visits my site...probably not. If there is, I want to ask you for a favor. Please, if you have time, drop by and read Spam's latest adventure--my fifteen Spam Hummer story. He probably won't care much, cause he's kind of cantakerous. But I assure you I will certainly appreciate it.

Thank you so much.

ID: 1595178   (Rated: 18+) Title: Case of The Bereaved Brother  Description: Spam plays a sick game with an old acquaintance By: PlannerDan

 

Title: Breakfast at Tiffany's...er...The Porch
Date: August 8, 2009, Saturday
Thought: And, I’ve learned that not everyone likes catsup on their scrambled eggs. Harley says that is “yucky.”

Jog: It isn’t quite as glamorous as Breakfast at Tiffany’s. In fact it isn’t that kind of romance. There are some common aspects—she is a beautiful young woman and I happen to love her. But, all grandpas love their granddaughters. We have a standing date. The first Saturday in the month is Breakfast at the Porch—or some other local eatery.

The Porch is an old house located in the historic area of our little city. Long ago it was converted into a simple little café that serves home-style meals. It has changed its name at least three times in the last twenty years. I remember it originally as The Country Kitchen, which changed to Our Place; and now it is known as The Porch. Regardless of the name, it is what’s happening there that is significant. Harley and I are having breakfast.

In this day and age of instant communication and abundant activities to occupy a fifteen year old girls attention, I find it very gratifying that she can find time for me. Granted she is subtracting this time from her valuable sleep time. She is usually not up at 7:30 on a Saturday morning—no, 9:30 or 10:00 am is the usual beginning time of her Saturdays. So, I suppose that little sacrifice makes it a little more endearing to me. I smile at the thought that gramps is worthy of special effort.

Harley is a special child. She is liberal with her affection; she does not hesitate to say, “I love you grandpa,” which is pretty dang endearing in itself. In the mornings she is a little sleepy headed, but she perks up as the conversation gets going. She is not shy about talking. Nope, she’ll attack any subject that is broached, from politics to religion. I stay away from sex for I know she would wade into that subject as well; and I am just not ready for that conversation.

We will talk about simple things—school, her saxophone, current events in the news. The conversation isn’t as important as the connection that we make doing it. She is bright and listens intently. I actually perceive she learns something from each conversation. And, although she doesn’t realize it, I learn a little something also. I confirm that youth is a very special time, and is well used when it is bathed in love that is given generously. I try to do my part in that area. I learn that the older generation and the younger one can communicate effectively; we actually have much in common if we will take the time to interact. And, I’ve learned that not everyone likes catsup on their scrambled eggs. Harley says that is “yucky.”

After living six decades I have come to cherish each passing day. I try to find something in each one that is special, something that is worthy of remembering. Sometimes it comes from writing in this journal, often it comes from observing others live life, and sometimes like today it comes from eating breakfast. It isn’t a glamorous time, certainly not a Breakfast at Tiffany’s moment. However, my Breakfast at The Porch with Harley is rewarding in its own special way. Sometimes I wish there were more that just one “first Saturday” in the month—hmmm, maybe there are.

BTW, I have a new short story. Take a peek at it if you will.

ID: 1588233   (Rated: E) Title: The Wooden Box  Description: Contents of a Wooden Box By: PlannerDan

 

Title: Living With My New Tub-o-toilet
Date: July 19, 2009, Sunday
Thought: Oh, we’ve got new floors, which promise to be gorgeous. But, we are somewhat shell-shocked over the experience.

Jog: I realize now a sixty-year old man can truly be naïve. That’s me, Mr. Naïve. I thought all I had to do was go into the tile store, give them loads of money, wait for them to come out to my house, and the next morning we wake up in a house with new flooring ready to be photographed by Southern Living. Well, stop sniggering at me! I now know that’s a stupid idea. It’s been a week since the tile-guys invaded our home like the Nazi army running over Poland. The aftermath even looks a little like it. Today, on the seventh day of the new flooring, our home is a disaster. Oh, we’ve got new floors, which promise to be gorgeous. But, we are somewhat shell-shocked over the experience.

As I peer down from the second floor landing, I see litter all over the floor. The drapes are still pinned up and have collected a fine coating of dust. We will first try to vacuum them, but eventually will take them down and have them cleaned professionally—another bundle of money. We can sweep up all the trash and refuge, and once the tile is grouted we will nave a beautiful floor. But right now even that is somewhat doubtful. You can see in the photo below, even Max is trying to escape up the stairs. That black blur in the bottom left-hand corner is him charging the stairs.

The tile-guys have shot themselves in the foot, so to speak. In their haste to get the tile laid, they disassembled the bathrooms. It had to be done. They turned the master bath toilet into a new novel tub-o-toilet, where you can take a dump and a bath at the same time—lovely thought, isn’t it? However, they have dragged their feet putting the things back together. As a result, we’ve had tile-guys jumping up and down on one foot, holding their crotch, and whining, “I gotta pee!” Well, put one of my bathrooms back together and you can use the dang thing. But, no! They would rather traipse up and down the stairs, into our area, to use the bathroom. And they would do that, if it wasn’t for the fact that Max is waiting at on the top floor—hungry. Nope, they just hop up and down, holding it and blurting at him in Spanish.

Linda is fit to be tied. As a matter of fact, I might have to tie her up to keep her from sicking Max on the whole lot of them. All her furniture is covered in dust. Instead of moving the furniture out of the room, they have played musical chairs with them, shuffling them from one side of the room to the other as they prepped, tiled, or grouted that area. We just figured it would be easier to move the furniture one time—out of the way completely—than play musical shuffle with it for the last six days. Silly, us—what do we know? Anyway, as I peek over the upstairs rail to the family room below, we see havoc. We can only hope that this time next week it will be suitable for that Southern Living photo.

Title: Carpet, Wood, or Tile? You Tell Me
Date: July 18, 2009, Saturday
Thought: I have been exiled to the second floor all week. I do not look forward to going even another day in exile.

Jog: OK, you can tell me how we did? For the last twelve years we have lived in a totally carpeted house. A few years ago, our life was changed for the better when Max came to live with us. Max is a black Labrador Retriever. He’s five years old now and is the center of my world. Well, that’s probably a little overboard, but the dang dog means a lot to me.

I don’t know if it is typical of Labs, but ours sheds tons of black hair twice a year. That means, regardless of how much I brush him and we care for him, we get black hair all over our house. The stuff has an uncanny ability of getting into the tightest space and simply drives us nuts. Worst yet, it embeds itself deep into our carpet. So, we have vacuumed and cleaned frantically trying to keep up with his rate of shedding. We have lost miserably. Try as we may, we still find wads of black hair accumulating in the corners or floating across our path, usually when visitors are present. We were at our wits end. However, one thing we knew…the dog stays; it’s his home and he is a member of our family.

And so fifteen-thousand dollars later we are looking at new tile floors throughout our first floor. I must say, the new floors are looking great. Now, we needed new flooring anyway; but, dang, the things we do for our dogs! I just hope it is worth it. It’s too late to ask your opinion now; the deed is done…or being done. But, which is best: carpet, wood, or tile?

We have had workers in our house since last Monday. Today is Saturday and they are banging around downstairs. Lord, I’m not sure they will be finished today. Linda, Max, and I have been exiled to the second floor all week. I do not look forward to going even another day in exile. But, there is no indication that we will be repatriated with our downstairs anytime soon. When I ask the tile-guy he just scratches his head and says, “Man, you got a lot of angles. Those are big-assed tiles, and you’re laying on the diagonal—takes time, man.”

The tile-guy tells me that if we’d had carpet or wood flooring installed they would be finished by now. I sense that’s his way of blaming the length of their stay on our decision to go with tile. Several times he has pointed out the time difference in laying the tile on the diagonal. So, I suppose it is all our fault. My god! We just want our house back. Tell me, did we make the right decision? –carpet, wood, or tile?

 

Title: Cursing or Cussin'--It's still @#$% !
Date: July 17, 2009, Friday
Thought: You will no longer hear those utterances from me, nor will you see it written in my work. Over the years, I have removed this colorful language from my written and spoken vocabulary.

Jog: Like so many others, I have been spending some time on a different blog page recently. I don't know if I like it there. WDC feels so comfortable. And, I have a better idea about how many folks are visiting my simple little blog, here. So, I thought I would post a few of my entries on both pages and compare the responses. This is the first of the double-posts. Now, I'll just sit back and watch.

To say the least, I am not a newbie to the art of skillful cursing…or cussin’ as my grandmother called it. The first word I learned was ‘damn it’; so my father tells me. And, he ought to know since he is the one who taught me. In fact, my father found great joy in teaching all his grandkids simple cussin’—you know words like damn and hell.

There was plenty of cussin’ around our house. My father was born and raised in the oil fields of Oklahoma. As a young man, he joined the Marine Corps and was sent to Okinawa in time to fight in WWII. When he came home he resumed his work in the oil fields and remained there for forty years, honing and perfecting the delicate art of cussin’. Well, there was a short period of time when he owned Jack’s Bar, which I must insist was not a tavern or pub; it was a honky-tonkin’ bar.

Naturally, I learned the fine art of using cuss words at an early age. I used them sparingly around Mom. A guy just doesn’t cuss around his mother, or grandmother for that point—even though that grandmother has a higher proficiency of use than even his father. It’s something you just did not do. So, I developed some level of constraint, which leaked out occasionally in a sudden burst when the moment seemed to warrant, causing me much embarrassment and sometimes bringing reprimands.

I say all this to assure you I am no prude when it comes to profanity and language. I will not gasp in horror when you utter some expletive or profanity. I also am not offended by cussin’. I have always considered it a item of personal choice. However, you will no longer hear those utterances from me, nor will you see it written in my work. Over the years, I have removed this colorful language from my written and spoken vocabulary. I have done it out of a sense of propriety and consideration for those who are forced to be around me. I know that sounds a little prudish, but really, it’s not.

I consider cussin’ to be related to farting and belching in a crowded elevator. I would ask you not to do that and I will restrain as well. I am somewhat disappointed when I meet someone, either male or female, who constantly peppers their conversation with cussin’. I realize that I am an aging being, and the youth of this age is not hampered with the fetters and bonds of propriety. We are living in a liberated world where old fashioned rules regarding speech and communication are, well, old fashioned.

So, I was just wondering. When do the words we use become offensive? I’m not talking about verbal attacks. I’m talking about the proliferation of profanity in our spoken and written words. Are there things you can say that you will not write? Is there a need to even try to control it? Should there be constraints? I’m not talking about censorship here; I’m talking about personal restraint. Is there a socially accepted standard? And, if there is, where/what is it? I mean, like I really want to know. I no doubt will not change my position; because that is how I feel. But, I’d just like to know.


 

Title: The Specialness of the Fourth of July
Date: July 4, 2009, Saturday
Thought: I love this country and take pride in unfurling this flags down the streets of our town. The feeling I get when I see dozens of them waving in the breeze is one of deep appreciation and pride.

Jog: It’s 5:30 A.M. and it’s dark outside. I sit behind my wheel, driving down to meet with dozens of other old farts to pick up my quota of American flags. Our Rotary Club puts out 500 of them on six holidays throughout the year. Of course, the Fourth of July is one of them. I’ve done this for a dozen years now. It gets a little old, but it is always, always rewarding. And so, I roll my fat butt out of bed early in the morning, on those special days, and just do it.

But, today was a little bit more special than the others. This morning my granddaughter, Harley, met grandpa down where the old codgers gathered and helped me put out the flags. This is special for a couple of reasons. The first is I love this country and take pride in unfurling this flags down the streets of our town. The feeling I get when I see dozens of them waving in the breeze is one of deep appreciation and pride. Yeah, I know that’s corny; but, that’s just the way I am.

The second reason this is special is that I get to be with my granddaughter. That is something grandpa and she do together that no one else in the family shares. It’s our time. Afterwards we always go out for breakfast and share what’s happening in our lives. It’s a way for me to show her I care about this land of ours and to show her I care for her—to emphasize she is special—and she is.

Title: Old Time Communication
Date: July 2, 2009, Thursday
Thought: I am concerned that the art of thoughtful and casual communication has been bullied out of favor.

Jog: My good buddy Tor has recently made the decision to rid himself of telephone, internet, and cable TV. His plan is a good one. He will be able to put the funds funneled to the communications industry to better use. Geeze, if more folks would be as responsible we would not be in the economic mess we now are in. But, people seem to have determined that their lives simply cannot function if they have to do without or, Lord have mercy, if they have to wait to get what they want. I commend David for having the balls to step up and do what it takes. And, I must say, the fact that he is getting a cell phone to assist him to do this just tickles the bejeebers out of me. (I can see that mustache twitching now as I grin and point at him.)

But, the fact that we seem to think that a telephone, internet, and cable are necessities of life bothers me a little more than a smidgen. In fact, it scares the crap out of me. Whatever happened to thoughtful conversation? There was a time when people actually thought about how to construct a sentence when they communicated. As soon as communication became instant, we lost something in civilization—it was diminished. As it is now, we rush through our conversations. Before we can finish our thought we have zipped that puppy out across the ether-space. And do we wait for a response? Sure—for about two seconds. We stand glued to the screen expecting an answer before our heart beats a dozen beats.

There was a time when long distance communication was much more thoughtful. The writer took time to form his thoughts, scribble them on paper, wad the paper up and start over, and eventually, formulate the right thing to say. The writer took the time to fold the letter, put it in an envelope, stamp the dang thing and then drop it in the post. And then he/she waited for a response. There was a time when the wait for the response took weeks or months. Communication took time. We have become much too impatient in this society. We expect results now!

Now, I don’t want to wait for a month to get an answer to my questions, although it may not hurt me in most cases to wait. But, I am concerned that the art of thoughtful and casual communication has been bullied out of favor. I am alarmed that all of society seems to prefer instant communication, regardless of what it does to proper form and well constructed thoughts. I remember the excitement of waiting on a return letter from some sweetheart when I was in high school. There was a quiet joy in getting the letter, smelling it for a scent of perfume, and opening the letter to find the handwritten words placed on the page by the young lady. Somehow I think something would be lost in texting, which is the normal mode of teenage communication today.

So, I was kinda looking forward to dropping my friend a letter, when he divested himself of the other standards of communication. You can rest assured he won’t get any letter full of sweet nothings from me, but hopefully, I will be able to convey other ideas and concepts that are of interest to the McClains. The bottom line is that I think this world of ours would do well to divest itself of some of its instant communications. I guess I’m just an old fashioned kind of guy. OK, now I’ll post this on the internet and wait for David’s response. You’ve got five minutes.

 

Title: Shameless, Shameless Plug
Date: June 26, 2009, Friday
Thought: , I would propose that I have learned as much about writing in this community than I have in all the college I have attended.

Jog: I belong to a writing community. That is no news to you, since you belong to it also. But, occasionally I have to remind myself the reason I first came in here was as an outlet where my work may be viewed and critiqued. Along the way I have discovered that I also learned a great deal about the craft. That’s right, WDC has been enormously beneficial. In fact, I would propose that I have learned as much about writing in this community than I have in all the college I have attended. I’m just a little peeved that I can’t get college credit for all this knowledge. I guess I’ll just have to settle for reaping the benefit of improved writing skills.

I bring this up because I find that recently I tend to spend more time blogging and reading blogs…mostly reading blogs…than actually writing. Although, I could argue that preparing a well ordered and structured blog that conveys an idea IS actually writing. In any case, I am disappointed that my portfolio seems to suffer when I get caught up in the blog thing. I encouraged myself, which was a one-sided conversation, to enter a contest and write something original. So, I did.

In response to a photo prompt I wrote a fiction piece about a well known figure in recent history. I would call the piece more of a ‘faction’ than fiction, since all the events of the short story really happened. I just added the filler to the story, supplying ample imagination and taking great advantage of my artistic license. Well, anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed myself creating the little piece and remembered why I joined this community in the first place.

Shamelessly, I now post the plug for the story in this entry. Read it if you wish; in fact I would be honored if you do. However, if you do, please take a moment and drop me a line. You see I’d kinda like to know if it’s any good. That was another reason I joined this community, remember—the critique. Regardless, I appreciate you reading this blog entry at least this far. And, I will end it here, counting myself fortunate indeed to have you with me and bowing out when I am ahead.

ID: 1574710   (Rated: 18+) Title: The War Bird  Description: History is controled by the history written before it. By: PlannerDan

 

Title: Jobs
Date: June 25, 2009, Thursday
Thought: I came to the conclusion that, regardless of how much I enjoyed manhandling that iron, it would be much easier to do it at twenty than at fifty.

Jog: I’ve got a job. I’ve had one, of one sort or another, for almost forty-five years. I worked mowing lawns, hauling hay, and cutting broomcorn during my youth and didn’t really count those as jobs. Those early efforts were just a way to make spending money and were short time endeavors. Nope, my first job was working after school and during the summer for a discount store stocking shelves. I punched a time clock there and was expected to be on the job on a regular schedule. I can’t say that I enjoyed it much. But, it was steady work with a steady income.

The summer of my junior year I worked as a Fuller Brush salesman. I have no idea how I fell into that opportunity. But, I do know it formed some of my vocational decisions for the rest of my life. I absolutely hate going door to door. It’s the worst job I ever had. Even today, I do not do anything that requires door to door activity—fundraisers, political campaigning, whatever, if it involves going door to door, count me out. I much prefer my clients coming to me, at least I know they took the initiative to be there.

My senior year and summer between college I worked in the oil field as a ruff neck. This one I loved. It was hard, dirty, and sometimes dangerous work. It suited me very well. I enjoyed throwing that iron around. I guess the most important thing it taught me was the value of working as a team. There are four men who make up a drilling crew. Each one is necessary and if any one of them slacks it causes hardships on the others. It was there I learned how to be a hand. A good hand works hard and helps his crewmember. When the crew works well together, the company makes money. And, on a drilling rig, time literally is money.

However, it was on the drilling rig I learned two other valuable lessons. The first was that it’s best to be the boss. There are benefits for being the boss and I wanted to have them. On a drilling rig the boss of the crew is the driller. The driller’s boss is the Tool Pusher; he’s the guy who supervises several rigs and several crews. That was my dad. I worked for my dad, the Tool Pusher. I noticed also that my dad’s boss was the Company Man, the representative of the oil company who owns the mineral rights and who sells the refined oil and natural gas—that would be Mobil, Sun, Exxon, etc. All those company men were college educated. I figured out that I needed an education.

The second lesson I learned was that hard manual labor takes a toll on your body. On the crew, on which I worked, several men had missing parts, or parts that didn’t work right. It’s easy to lose a finger or smash an elbow or fracture a hip when that much iron is banging around you. I noticed that iron and hydraulics can be very unforgiving and it only takes a short lapse in diligence to screw up. Working in that oil and mud can also be very humbling at times. I came to the conclusion that, regardless of how much I enjoyed manhandling that iron, it would be much easier to do it at twenty than at fifty, which many of the ruff necks were. You don’t want to be an old man and still out there on that rig floor. I figured out that I needed an education.

So I went to school--lots of it. I went to trade schools, junior colleges, universities, and even a seminary. I earned a Bachelor of Arts and a Master of City and Regional Planning degrees. It took me almost twenty years to get it all done. But the degrees alone do not mean you will be any better off. You’ve got to do something with them and you have to apply that education you got at the school of hard knocks. The first lesson I learned in the oil field still held true. It really is best to be the boss. And so, twenty-one years ago I left the safety of my corporate position and struck out on my own—started my own company—my own planning consulting firm. You can find me on the Internet, if you Google Municipal Planning Resources Group, Inc. http://www.mprginc.com

I’ve had may jobs in my long career. Some of them were very menial and some were interesting. However, I most enjoy the one I hold now. Although, I still have to bend to the needs of my clients, I do exactly as I please. And, since I enjoy the work I do, I have difficulty counting it as a job. I am so glad that as a young man, I took notice of the toll that some of my jobs took on the men who were performing them. My way was certainly not easy, and no one gave me any gifts along the way. I had to earn it. But I am here to testify and be a witness to the fact that if a person will be steadfast in their determination, and take a chance every now and then, they will be rewarded. Daniel Burnham (some old planner guy) said, “Make no little plan, for they have no magic to stir men’s blood.” He was right.

 

Title: Dad’s Day
Date: June 21, 2009, Sunday
Thought: I did not have a clue what it meant to be a dad. I stumbled through it for the first dozen years.

Jog: Today is my day—Father’s Day. It has always been a very passive celebration in our family. Sometime during the day I will receive a couple of phone calls from my sons, wishing me a happy Father’s Day. I expect nothing more and to tell the truth the recognition by those two phone calls is plenty; in fact, it speaks volumes.

Our family has never been inclined to give gifts on these special days. The most we will do is to take the honored person out to eat, especially the mom’s. I don’t know why we have been so subdued in our demonstrations. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that finances were always so tight when we were younger—during the time traditions were established. It just never became a tradition. Even birthdays pass with moderate acknowledgement.

I’ve come to understand that the importance of these special days lays not in the value of the gift that is purchased, but in the sincerity of the recognition of the event. Linda and I have been married for forty-two years this coming August. There is no gift that can be purchased that will equal the accomplishment of her putting up with me for all those years. I will do something special for our 50th anniversary, after all simply to live that long is an accomplishment, much less to spend all that time with one person.

I’ve been a father for forty-one years, come October. I have not always done the best job. I was just a young man of twenty years when I had my first son—just a kid. To say the least, I did not have a clue what it meant to be a dad. I stumbled through it for the first dozen years. Unfortunately, those were the formative years in the lives of our young boys. Fortunately, I seemed to have stumbled in the right direction. Possibly that was due to the example left to me by my own father. I just did the things he did. It seemed to work; both my sons are fine men, of which I am very proud.

That brings me to my dad. It is strange indeed that after all this time, I have become more attached to my father. Dad died almost thirty years ago. For some reason I miss him more today than I did back then. I wonder why that is? When I was just a young man, my father was my hero. He was bigger than life and was the foundation upon which I built my image of what a dad should be. As I grew older, I realized that he was not perfect—not in many ways. I was not disillusioned nor disappointed in him; but I was somewhat sad that the image of my dad, which I formed in my youth, was flawed in places. My intellect told me that was only natural. None of us will forever be able to stand to the scrutiny and high standard of an adoring child.

So, today, I remember my dad and recognize that we both have a special day today, as do both of my sons. We belong to a vast fraternity of men. Today is our special day. One, which in most cases, will be observed simply. I suppose the thing that makes this so important is the responsibility we dads have to our children. It is a simple responsibility,requiring only that we love them and care for them, as we are able. If we do it with sincerity, we can make some mistakes along the way and everything will still turn out OK.

As Linda and I ate out last night at our favorite Italian restaurant, I witnesses a short glimpse of what this day means. A family was leaving the restaraunt, having finished their meal. As they passed by the tables, a man led his daughter of about five by the hand. I saw her look up at him with adoring eyes and simply say, “Daddy, look at this.” Now, it wasn’t what she said that impressed me. What I was struck with was how small she was beside him, how he held her small hand in his own, how she looked up to him, and how the simple little question was filled with a desire to please and a hope of approval. I’m sure she was rewarded with a smile and a comment. That’s what it means to be a dad, seizing the small almost hidden opportunities to make them happy, to make them feel secure, to make them feel loved.

Happy Dad’s Day to all you guys out there who find yourselves in that position. I hope you will have a very good day. I’m gonna just lay around and take it easy and wait for my two phone calls.

 

Title: Wall Street Roller Coaster
Date: June 19, 2009, Friday
Thought: I’ve never seen the thrill in being tossed from side to side and dropped vertically, leaving my stomach 100-feet behind me

Jog: I’m one of those boring guys who doesn’t like roller-coasters. Yeah, I know, to some of you that seems down right un-American. But, I’ve never seen the thrill in being tossed from side to side and dropped vertically, leaving my stomach 100-feet behind me--and, most ridiculously, paying for it. As a result, I generally steer clear of the gizmos.

So, why in the world do I follow the stock market? That has got to be the mother of all roller coasters. The only difference is it’s done in slow motion—over a long period of time. I’ve watched the funds we are invested in careen madly in a nosedive for a year and then rebound and tease me that they are going to soar again, only to drop again stubbornly. We have been fortunate, we escaped the mega losses that some experienced—thanks to the fact that we jumped off the dang ride in the middle and on again after it bounced rudely off the bottom.

Those of us who ride this financial roller coaster know that it is cyclical and will provide significant profits eventually. But, the dang ride is getting frustrating. I don’t enjoy roller coasters. In fact, I’m looking forward to the time when I can get off the dang thing...or at least find another ride that is less taxing—maybe like the merry-go-round. That one doesn’t go anywhere. Staying even sounds like a reasonable compromise.

 

Title: Hot Summer Mornings and Cool Lake Water
Date: June 8, 2009, Monday
Thought: I’m surprised I don’t see folks walking around buck-ass nekid, soaping up and saving on their water bill.

Jog: It’s June in Texas. Those who aren’t familiar with Texas will shrug and say, “So what?” Actually it really isn’t a big deal; but June in Texas is the precursor to some really hot days. A few years back we had over 100 consecutive days where the heat registered over 100 degrees. Now, there are places in this world where it gets hotter, and I guarantee you will not find me there. But, Texas in June, July, and August can be a scorcher. Life can be miserable. The funny thing is that when I was a kid, no one ever told me how hot it was; and, I really didn’t give a flip. I spent my entire summer outside doing stuff.

This morning as I left the house, early because that dang dog had been pestering me for about 45 minutes, I realized summer was here. It was 7:15 and it already felt like an oven. It is near 80 degrees outside and the humidity is 80%--a veritable recipe for discomfort. It’s almost like getting a mobile sauna. By noon we will be at 95 degrees and the humidity will still be 80%. I’m surprised I don’t see folks walking around buck-ass nekid, soaping up and saving on their water bill.

However, it does explain something about that black Lab dog of mine. It helps to explain why in the world he becomes deaf as we walk around the lake. I think the heat and humidity affects his hearing, because there is no way he will mind me as I holler, “Max, No! Max, No, damnit!” as he jumps into the lake. It seems to make no difference to him that I had just given him a bath yesterday, groomed him and killed the wet-dog smell that he sometimes gets (after all he is a dang dog.) And, it is my responsibility to keep him that way for at least a week. Do you think HE will get in trouble as we come back into the house dripping and grinning that dumb-ass grin he seems to get sometimes. Nope, I’m the guy who gets chewed on and who get to wash him down again in the backyard, as he stands there thinking, “Wow! What a deal! Getting wet twice in one morning!”

However, today I really thought I was going to have to go into the lake and save his black butt from drowning. You see, although Max loves to swim, he can’t do it for great stretches of time. After all, the most he does during the day is terrorize the UPS guy as he leaves a package at our door. The guy has given up on knocking on the door. Max thinks it’s great fun to snarl, snap and bark like the dickens when he hears the UPS truck. There’s no way he would bite the guy; Max just likes the show. And, the UPS guy isn’t taking any chances.

Anyway, after Max disobeyed me so blatantly and jumped into the lake today, I went ahead and tossed a stick into the lake and let him swim out and retrieve the thing about a dozen times. Hoping his urge to swim was satisfied I walked on down the pathway with a dripping dog scampering happily around me. I almost made it home. However, down at the shore was a multi-colored soccer ball floating along the shoreline. That’s the other thing Max loves—balls. So, down to the water’s edge and into the lake he goes. He was able to retrieve the ball by pressing it against the shore and biting into it, which totally deflates the thing.

Anyway, as it turned out the ball retained enough of its air to float along the surface and still hold its shape. Max brought the ball to me and dropped it at my feet. I am well trained and realize this is my cue to toss the thing back into the lake, which I did. Only this time, it was located away from the shore. Max jumped in and swam to the ball. However, each time he nosed it this time, it floated further out into the lake. Soon, Max is swimming in circles out in the middle of our little lake. Each time he noses the ball it pushes out in front of him. And, Max, has no intention of stopping. I called him several times to no avail. He either could not hear me or would not. All he could do was focus on that dang ball.

Just as I was thinking I was going to have to go out and get him, the ball began to be shoved toward the shoreline. Eventually, it snugged up against the bank and Max retrieved the thing. He walked up next to me, dropped the ball and laid down. He looked at me with those big brown eyes as if to say, “Don’t you throw that dang thing back into that water. I ain’t chasing it any more.”

I just answered back to him, “Hey, I’m not the one who insisted to take a break from the heat and jump in the lake. Next time listen to me!” Yeah, sure, as if that’s gonna happen.

 

Title: D-Day Remembered
Date: June 6, 2009, Saturday
Thought: We live in a different age with different values as well as interests. The significance of that time in our history is now lost to the history books and to stories told by old folks to impatient young ears.

Jog: Bill Clark was twenty years old when he died. He grew up in Tennessee, in Huntingdon, which is half-way between Nashville and Memphis. Due south of Huntingdon, about twenty minutes, is the little town of Parkers Crossroads, where a battle between the Blue and Gray was fought during the American Civil War. He grew up steeped in the tradition of the South; he was keenly aware of the battlefields which lay around him, reminding him of our heritage and the precious price to be paid by war. Bill Clark died on a battlefield in Normandy, France, on June 6th, 1944. The place was called Omaha Beach.

Bill’s family never really accepted his death. They didn’t get a chance to say good-bye; there never was a funeral. Although they did not know it, his body was buried in a cemetery in France, dedicated to fallen warriors of that battle. Sixty-three years after the tragedy of his death, a tragedy shared by 2,374 men, Bill came home—in a way. The dog tags he wore were uncovered in the beach at Normandy, after sixty-three years. They were weathered and blackened with age, but his name, identification number, religion, and blood type were still clearly visible. Over the course of time, they were eventually returned to his family.

As I read the article accounting this remarkable story, I was struck by the ages of the participants. There were comments by his cousins Lota and Ava, seventy-nine years and eighty-four years of age, respectively. I was reminded that this battle, which was fought by young men, is quickly running out of survivors. In a few years there will be none left. I remember reading somewhere that the average age of the soldier on Omaha beach was twenty-five. That would put them at being around ninety years old today. It was interesting that the article said the average age of the German soldier, serving in Normandy at that time, was around thirty-two. There likely are very few survivors from those who were counted as our enemy of that time.

Today is June 6th, the anniversary of the battle that we have come to commonly refer to as D-Day. I suspect that very few will stop during their day and remember the significance of that day. Many of that generation are now gone and the younger folks have other more pressing things on their minds. We live in a different age with different values as well as interests. The significance of that time in our history is now lost to the history books and to stories told by old folks to impatient young ears. Tom Brokaw was right when he called them “The Greatest Generation.” He said in fact, “this is the greatest generation any society has produced,” noting that this generation fought not for fame and recognition, but because it was the right thing to do. Many people may argue against this position, but I won’t be one of them. My mom and dad were a part of it; my dad was one of those young men who left his rural home and fought in the great conflict the history books call the Second World War. Somehow, after seeing their example, I agree with Brokaw.

 

Title: My Dog, Max—Again
Date: June 1, 2009, Monday
Thought: I suppose that’s just his way of reminding me that I belong to him.

Jog: He’s not too far away. I can’t see him right now, but I know he’s there. He’s always there. Of course I’m talking about my dog, Max. Some of you who are particularly spiritual would have thought I was talking about God, who of course is always there. But, at the moment, I’m not being especially spiritual—just a bit contemplative about my dog.

To some folks it would seem to be a nuisance, always having a dog under your feet, or at times laying on your feet under the desk, preventing you from rolling in and out to do your work. But to me it is tremendously endearing and comforting. To have another living being be so dedicated and totally trusting to you is a gift that many take for granted.

We have new neighbors next door. The young couple have an adorable little boy named Noah and a yellow Lab pup named Sugar. Since they have hardwood floors they have decided that Sugar must live outside. Her nails would scratch the floor and diminish the visual impact of the floors as well as hurt the value of the house. I respect that decision, but I am very disappointed in the affect it will have on Sugar. Although it is a very nice back yard, it is a lonely place. Sugar spends her time there alone, with the family moving about in the house. She often cries and barks to get their attention, but is rewarded only with a stern, “Sugar! Hush up!”

When that happens, I usually give Max an additional stroke, to which he usually adjusts his head to gain full advantage of my touch. Our home has witnessed the impact of having an animal living in the house. Although he does not chew, scratch, climb on the furniture, or mark the floors and furniture, our floors and carpets are forever littered with black hair, which even with all our effort seems to be impossible to remove. We do a very good job, but there is always a stray hair that seems to attach itself to the clothing of any visitor, leaving our clothes untouched. It is a battle we are destined to lose, but motivated to fight daily.

From what I understand, Labs are very people oriented. In fact, they get attached to THEIR people, and are happiest when they are with their people. We confirm that piece of information after witnessing Max’s actions. He is tremendously attached to us; we call him our Velcro dog. If we were to assign him to the back yard, he would pine away from loneliness. When I say Max has to be with me, I mean within five feet of me. If I enter a room and close the door behind me, he will lay up against that door and wait for my return. He does not whine or bark; he just lays his head on his paws and patiently waits. His patience amazes me.

How can someone not become attached to a dog like that? It is certainly beyond my ability to withstand. As a result, I have become a pitiful dog lover, who gushes about his dog with the slightest encouragement, boring friend and stranger with equal fervor. I’ve always determined I would not do that, but find myself helpless to prevent it. Especially when those brown eyes look up at me when he lays his head across my foot, or when he gives me a solitary lick on the elbow as I work at the computer. I suppose that’s just his way of reminding me that I belong to him.

I bring this piece to a conclusion, having once again spent time dedicated to my dog, Max. Many of you who are familiar with the relationship that black dog of mine and I have, will recognize the redundant feelings here. Those of you who are new to my blog will likely take this discourse as an obvious ramblings of a dog-lover, and perhaps consider it boring. It doesn’t really matter, because I write it not for you as much as for me, who selfishly is seeking an outlet for the emotions that I have for a black dog. Never having experienced this type of relationship with a canine, it is new to me also. Even as I write this, Max is nuzzling my foot, trying to find the right position to continue his nap. I am touched that he has chosen my foot, under my desk, in my way to close his eyes and rest. I must be careful not to disturb him.

 

Title: What’s Happening Below the Belt?
Date: May 31, 2009, Sunday
Thought: I’ve got to tell you, there’s a lot of pretty cool stuff happening below the belt. And, I would certainly want my doctor to know how to take care of all that area.

Jog: OK, what if your doctor informed you that he was only going to treat you from the waist up? Everything below the belt would be ignored. Or what if you decided you only care about your partner from the waist up? Nothing below the belt would get any attention. I’ve got to tell you, there’s a lot of pretty cool stuff happening below the belt. And, I would certainly want my doctor to know how to take care of all that area.

This concept was driven home to me yesterday. As you may or may not know, I am a city planner. As such, my professional affiliation requires that I obtain a certain amount of continuing education. That means I am occasionally attending seminars and conferences earning hours to apply to that requirement. As a result, I attended a seminar yesterday that dealt with the importance of trees in our urban areas. Sounds like a simple little topic and a little “Duh.” But, as usual, I found it very enlightening and I actually learned something.

We talked about how trees relate to safety, economic, aesthetics, health, and play. They are really an essential part of our urban environment and should be included in the planning of our spaces as we develop new land. All that was sufficiently interesting, but, what really impressed me was the fact that we know so little about what goes on under the ground—the area we can’t see.

There are in fact a lot of misconceptions about what happens under the ground. The lecturer asked for several persons in the audience to come to the front and take a position by very large note pads mounted on easels. The people were instructed to draw a tree, including the root system. Everyone seemed to be able to get the part located above the ground right. They also drew the root system in about the same way. They all drew what we have typically been told was how the root system of a tree looks underground. Although, some of the drawings were a little crude; they got the basics across. Here is an illustration of the standard concept, which we have been taught, of a tree and it’s root system.

I was amazed to find that for all these years I have been operating under the misconception that underground all trees look like that illustration. I would guess that you have too. As you have guessed, that’s not the way it really is. Just like those innocents who heard Galileo’s pronouncement that the earth was round, I was amazed to find that my understanding of the shape of the tree’s root system was not as shown above. The roots are an amazing thatch of shallow leaders reaching far beyond the drip line of the tree, easily twice the radius of the drip line or canopy, as shown in the illustration below.

Folks wonder why the trees begin dying when a new housing development or shopping center is built. Well, a part of the reason is that we don’t have any earthly idea what we are doing when we start digging holes and trenches. Now, isn’t that just a little bit interesting? What this little piece of information does is give me more insight when I help cities develop their ordinances. We can require different construction processes as well as plan where we let stuff be built. Now, there is a lot of stuff that we talked about in the seminar that applies to how we protect the trees and how we position streets, sidewalks, and buildings. I’ll not get into all that. I just thought is was interesting that we generally have a misconception about what goes on under the ground. And, I don’t know about you; but, I am very interesting about the area below the belt.

Title: Losing the Tie
Date: May 29, 2009, Friday
Thought: I have nothing to prove—already done it.

Jog: Have you ever put your feet up on our desk and just snoozed? I mean right in the middle of the work day? I’ve got to admit it is a great experience. In fact that is what I am going to do as soon as I finish this entry. Or, I might have to split the entry with the snooze in the middle. (…..zzzzzz…)

Unfortunately, my snooze was interrupted with work—a phone call. I hate it when work gets in the way with my day. Anyway, it is my opinion that offices should have a free snooze rule. I mean, if a little snooze helps to refresh you and make you a little sharper, why not benefit from it. I know; my office instituted the rule at least three years ago. Anytime I feel a little sleepy, I drop what I’m doing, put my feet up on my desk, and snooze for twenty or thirty minutes. It works like a jewel.

OK, I know my situation has a few extenuating circumstances—like I’m the only employee in my firm at the moment and my office just happens to be in my home. And, after all, I am the boss and can do dang right what I please. However, that does not change the fact that I still think our offices should be a little less structured.

I have read accounts of successful businesses where the office model has changed from the stiff coat and tie professionalism of the Twentieth Century to something much more laid back. Ben and Jerry’s sell a lot of ice cream. They are one of the most successful companies around. However, they have changed the office to fit a different pattern. The first clue is by the company motto they have adopted: “If it’s not fun, why do it?”

It is not unusual today to find a successful, professional office where there isn’t a tie around and absolutely no coats. I remember an office where ties were outlawed. If you came to the office with a tie on, you ran the chance of having it cut-off leaving only a stub next to the knot—my kind of place. Myself, I have reduced my standard to always wearing jeans to work. I even wear them to corporate meetings and public hearings before city councils. As a concession, I wear a corduroy sports jacket with my jeans--no tie. It’s comfortable and even looks a little spiffy.

I’m beginning to be known as that exocentric planner guy. If you are good enough, folks look past the fancy stuff to the real thing. I’m that good. Besides, I’ve earned my stripes. I’ve been doing this long enough so that I have nothing to prove—already done it. I’ve earned the right to lose the tie. You know, life is pretty good. Now, I think I'll put my feet back up on my desk. I may or may not take a snooze--depends on how I feel.

 

Title: In Defense of a Tree
Date: May 26, 2009, Tuesday
Thought: For some insane reason I seem to think the cottonwood has some kind of rights. I know that sounds terribly liberal of me.

Jog: I’ve got this thing about trees. Although I am far from being some wacko tree lover who chains themselves to a tree to protect it from the bulldozer, I really hate to see one cut down—for any reason. And that has become somewhat of a problem. You see, I have two neighbors who are having a dispute. One neighbor has a swimming pool and a pristinely manicured lawn. The other neighbor has a magnificent cottonwood tree. It is a majestic tree that must top out at fifty feet in height. Some of you may already know the problem.

If I were planting trees in my new yard, I would never plant a cottonwood tree. Although they are gorgeous trees, they are a nuisance. They are beautiful to sit and stare at on warm summer days when the wind flutters their leaves. The breeze makes the tree actually shimmer. My youth is filled with memories of sitting in the shade and watching the breeze play with the large cottonwood leaves. However, I also remember the wispy seeds that are dispelled by the tree. It sends out these cottony deposits indiscriminately, covering everything with the cotton-like residue. It plays havoc on allergies as well as swimming pools.

My next door neighbor is a perfectionist, in fact both he and his wife are; they are a perfect match. Not a blade of grass is out of place and every flower bed is properly groomed. The life span of a weed is about thirteen seconds in their lawn. They attend to their swimming pool with the same religious zeal. So you can imagine their chagrin when each morning their pool has a film of cottonwood seeds floating in the water and their lawn looks like someone sprinkled it with flour.

Now, they have complained bitterly to my other neighbor, who owns the cottonwood tree. They insist that the tree be cut down. Seems as if the tree offends their sense of aesthetic order and is a nuisance to their entertainment plans. They see no reason why the rest of the free world does not agree with them and rid us all of the offending tree. I’m not real sure what my other neighbor thinks about their sensibilities. All I know is that the tree is still standing.

My perfectionist neighbors, who are really our best friends, have shared their miseries with us with the expectation and assumption that we agree that the offensive cottonwood must be destroyed. I have tried to be understanding, but am growing increasingly troubled. You see, I have come to have a completely different position. For some insane reason I seem to think the cottonwood has some kind of rights; although, I fully realize the Bill of Rights does not extend to plants. I know that sounds terribly liberal of me. And, I know that it’s just a dang tree, after all. But, I just can’t shake this feeling.

The tree has got to be in the vicinity of 90 years old. It stood in this field before urban development decided to cut roads and build houses. It survived storms and floods and drought. It survived when weaker trees succumbed to the elements. It stands today as a majestic testament to survival. That tree stood when the US faced the Great Crash on Wall Street. It may have shaded a vagabond or two during the depression. It was standing in that field on the day Pearl Harbor was bombed as well as on the day victory in Japan ended the Second World War on the decks of the USS Missouri. It stood in that field on the day I was born and on the days my children were born. And, it stands just outside my fence-line, on my neighbors property, today. Now it was there before the pool next door was built and before someone decided to turn that piece of ground into a pristine residential lawn. Somehow, someway I’ve got it figured that trees have the right to stand there until they expire of natural causes. What a shame it would be to cull it from existence because of a foolish and prideful desire to please someone’s sensibilities.

OK, I admit it is just a tree. Perhaps I am taking this much too far. After all, the desires of the human creatures on this planet should be paramount to that of a simple plant. The world would not be diminished if they were to cut it down. So, why, pray tell, am I so offended by the thought?