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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: Pressure Release Date: February 16, 2010, Tuesday Thought: However, I dare say, it encourages me to become a vegetarian. Jog: OK, I got the new Kindle DX. For those of you who do not know, it is a really large e-reader device. It does some other stuff, but the only thing I use it for is reading ebooks and PDF files. The fact is, I love the dang thing. Anyway, what this means is I am doing a lot more reading. Shoot, I can carry a dang library with me so why not? I downloaded an old book that I was assigned to read when I was a freshman in college, years ago: The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. It’s a very interesting book. It has a very Socialist viewpoint. In fact, Upton Sinclair, who was quite a socialist, wrote the book as an expose of capitalism, an endorsement of unions, and a call to workers to unite. It was very interesting reading until the last few chapters, where it turned into a Socialistic propaganda pamphlet—totally out of context with the entire story. I thought the last chapters ruined the book. However, it was a big seller and won Sinclair much attention and eventually a Pulitzer prize. So be it for 1906. Different times. In any case, his descriptions of the stockyards and meat packing houses of Chicago were truly graphic and very memorable. Everyone should read it to gain an understanding of life during the infancy of the industrial revolution—just stop at Chapter 30. However, I dare say, it encourages me to become a vegetarian. I understand the book was the motivation for the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906, which eventually led to the Food and Drug Administration. This is significant because, Sinclair's goal was to move the workers to political action. As such it failed to accomplish its charge. However, it did cause Americans to question the quality of its food supply and create safeguards against tainted food. Interestingly, Sinclair is attributed with a quote, which has him saying, “I intended to shoot the public in the heart with my message; instead I hit them in the stomach”—amusing, isn’t it? It is interesting that Sinclair lays the blame of the ills of society in the lap of the rich capitalists. There are abuses to be sure, but there is very little said in The Jungle about individual responsibility. Although, the main character, Jurgis, holds himself responsible for protecting and nurturing his loved ones, the tone of the book implies that his worthy desires are totally futile. Whereas, there are numerous occasions in the story where a right decision on the part of Jurgis could have changed everyones fortunes. Unfortunately, the story line created a scenario where Jurgis was destined to fail, through no real fault of his own. The real truth is that a person is not destined to fail. Failure, in most cases is self-imposed—the result of a series of very poor decisions. One should also understand that the measure of success is not in material acqisitions and money. And, the simple truth is poor decisions are not exclusive to the very poor alone. We all make poor decisions. The peson who succeeds is the one who learns from those poor decisions. Jurgis, certainly did not. Now the interesting thing about this entry is that it was not intended to be a book review. No, I originally intended only to emphasize the fact that I have been reading more lately. But, I suppose The Jungle made such an impression that my mind just had to release the thought overload. So, the pressure has been relieved. Perhaps now I can deal with other issues of much simpler magnitude. |
| Title: A Generational Snow Date: February 12, 2010 Thought: Therefore, like so many others, as soon as the light outside gets to be sufficient for photographs, I will take a few of our snowed in abode. Jog: They say it’s been thirty years since this has happened. Of course, I’m talking about the snow blanketing my yard. Texas, north Texas to be exact, has not had this much snow in thirty years. Last night one newscaster called it a generational snow. Hmm, that’s interesting. I suppose it’s true. Therefore, like so many others, as soon as the light outside gets to be sufficient for photographs, I will take a few of our snowed in abode. I was up early this morning, 5:30 am. That is nothing new, I’m always up early. I visited the little room and then ushered Max outside to do his thing. I forget that the blanket of snow is a new thing to him. He is six-years old and has never seen the white stuff in any major quantity. He stood for a moment on the porch wondering what to do next. It appears as if all the landmarks in his yard were hidden under a thick layer of snow. Eventually he wandered out into the yard, finding known spots of interest. He did his thing and then decided to explore a little. Before long he was ripping across the yard, flinging snow like a snow-plow, chasing his ball, which was thoroughly frozen and encrusted with snow and ice. Growls and barks and sideway leaps in the air attested to the fact that he learned to play in the generational white mantle covering our yard. Snow has a wonderful capacity to bring out the adventure in our lives. Perhaps it is the temporary nature of the stuff, at least in Texas. Tomorrow it will be gone, or at least significantly disappearing. But, today, right now, kids, grown-ups and black Lab dogs will seize the opportunity to play in it’s novelty. Folks all across town will be smiling as they gaze out their windows, not realizing the tug at the corners of their mouth was caused by this momentary environmental wonder. Tomorrow the snow will be gone in Texas. It will become a memory. Thirty years from now old-timers, who are adolescents today, will shake there heads and say, “I remember the snowfall of 2010. That was a momentous occurrence. I had never seen that much snow before.” But, that’s the way it is. Today’s experience becomes tomorrows memory. Now go out there and enjoy the memory. Update: here are the photos ("Invalid Item"  ) |
| Title: A Very Special Relationship Date: February 8, 2010 Thought: Max helps me remember some of the basic things of living—things that enhance our lives. Jog: I suppose it is somewhat telling of my relationship with that black butted dog that, with so many things of significance happening in this world, the thing I choose to write about is that dog. What can I say? He is my constant companion and very best friend. The funny thing is, I see life a little differently when I look at it through our special man/canine relationship. Max helps me remember some of the basic things of living—things that enhance our lives. I don’t know how many times some simple little occurrence during our morning walk has emphasized a life lesson I needed to remember—countless times to be certain. It’s downcast outside today. The clouds are heavily laden with moisture that has leaked intermittently, soaking the ground and making driving a challenge. Combined with the cool temperature, just around forty-degrees, it encourages one to stay inside. Fortunately, since my office in is my house, I am quite content to do just that. I want to be reading a good book on my recently acquired Kindle DX, however, I need to be working on something that pays the bills. Unfortunately, I’m already encroaching on that time by writing in this journal. I sit in my upstairs office and contemplate what I need to do today. Certainly, I must progress on some of my client’s projects; that is a must. But, I turn to this journal. It is dark in here—light enough to see what I’m doing but too dark to read. Rather than turning on a lamp, I open the drapes that cover the windows overlooking the front yard. I raise the blinds, giving me an unobstructed view of the street. At least it would be unobstructed if the Crepe Myrtle and Live Oak trees in the front yard did not partially block the view. However, I enjoy looking through the foliage. In fact, I reflect on the progress of these trees growth over the twelve years we have lived here. Personally I think the trees are gorgeous. Max is indifferent to them. As he takes his position looking out the window, he scans the front yard for movement. Any movement at all, whether it be squirrel, child, cat or some other dog, will cause him to raise his ears in attention and begin a low growl, which culminates with several forceful barks. He absolutely loves looking out the window. After a spell, when the activity lessens, he will slowly assume his position next to me, where I have spread his ‘upstairs’ bedding pad. A few turns on the pad to prepare his nest and he plops down to rest and sleep. That’s where he wants to be. His world is perfect. I am amazed at how totally and completely content he is. And, somehow, his contentment is infectious. I find myself smiling, reaching out my hand and stroking his very soft fur, and whispering, “Good boy.” I can’t imagine not having that dog in my life. The day I cam home from the hospital, after being gone for about a week, our relationship has been different. Max was not pleased that I was gone for the week where I received my quadruple heart by-pass. He was not at all happy with my absence. When I got home, I remember Max thoroughly checke me out. He sniffed of me from head to toe. He then laid by my bed, so he could check on me periodically. He has never left my side since that time. When I am in the house, Max is two feet from me. If I go into the bathroom and close the door, sometimes I don’t close the door, Max will position himself in the door way until I exit. If I take a trip in the truck, he insists on going with me. And on the occasions where he cannot go, he will lay by the front door and wait for me to return. Occassionally, he will lay down by Linda, but he will usually be positioned where he can see the front door. How in the world do you respond to such loyalty and devotion. The only way I know is to return it. Which I try to do. |
| Title: What's Happened Since I Was Last Here? Date: February 6, 2010 Thought: I’m old and feeble and have difficulty concentrating on tasks at hand. Jog: The good thing about a delay in posting journal entries, is that it gives one much more opportunity to write on a variety of happenings during the absence. Three things of significance have happened within the period of six days. Needless to say one of them has not been the incessant rain we have received the last week and a half. We have had enough rain to thoroughly cast even the most buoyant soul into a depression. And since I would rather not talk of depressed things, I shall not count the weather as one of the three items to recount in this journal entry. The first happening is the acquisition of an e-reader. As detailed in the previous entry, I am ready to enter into the world of electronic reading. As luck and the situation would have it, a friend of mine chose to sell his portion of a ‘his and hers’ Christmas gift. He and his wife gifted each other with Kindle DX e-readers. He soon determined that they were a ‘one e-reader’ household and mentioned he wanted to sell his. As fate would have it, I mentioned I wanted to purchase a Kindle DX. By circumstances of providence I found myself the new owner of the device. I have been the master of the thing for three days only, and I am totally satisfied with it. It does all that I wanted it to do, even though there are certain limitations. The consequences of possessing an e-reader is that my reading has increased dramatically. Unfortunately, the device comes with free wireless access to Amazon and their entire library; for a price I can own their entire stock in a matter of seconds. Fortunately, there is a wealth of books in the public domain, which are available at no cost, which I can and have downloaded. I bought Mark Levin’s book Rescuing Sprite, and thoroughly enjoyed it. In addition, I have downloaded, free of charge, Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. I have also downloaded several zoning ordinances and many of my personal works in PDF format. As you can see, I’m enjoying my new toy. The second happening to occur over the past six days is that I have cleaned my office…well sort of. My desk and computer desk are free of debris and clutter. In any case, the transformation is significant enough to qualify it for recognition. This is a particular exciting thing. For I am now filled with expectation about all the work I may accomplish, and therefore I anticipate the riches which surely will come my way. However, I am also reminded of the quote supposedly attributed to Albert Einstein, which goes, “A clean desk is the sign of a sick mind.” I am here to inform you, Albert Einstein said no such thing. What he said was, “If a clean desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, then what is to be said of an empty desk?” However, fear not—I am in no danger of being labeled as an impeccable house-cleaner…or office-cleaner, as the case may be. There is still sufficient clutter on outlying shelves and bookcases to raise an eyebrow to any such admonition. I’m still chipping away at the remainder of my office. The last happening of significance is breakfast this morning. Bright and early, if 8:30 am can be considered bright and early, I picked a gorgeous young brunette up for breakfast. Linda was not invited, even though she was well aware of my morning date. Being the first Saturday of the month, my standing date with this brown haired dark eyed beauty found us sitting across a table at the local greasy spoon. She had a plate of Belgium waffles and I loaded up on biscuits and gravy. I know, it was far from health food. However, my granddaughter and I have both come to covet this monthly appointment with each other. She shares her thoughts and ideas with me and I feebly attempt at sharing the wisdom of my age with her. We are not sure who benefits the most from this outing. I am convinced it is me. Strangely, she does not agree. I will miss these morning meals when she goes off to college in 18 months. Perhaps I will be able to journey to far off campus lands and visit her when she takes up residence in some hotbed of academic learning. Who knows? In any case, I have been busy since I last entered a post in this journal. Certainly, I more than likely could have squeezed in an entry or two. But, give me a break. I’m old and feeble and have difficulty concentrating on tasks at hand. Or better yet, life just happens and we don’t always do the things we should, even if we want to. |
| Title: Entering the World of E-Books Date: January 31, 2010 Thought: The leather bound publications we have all become so familiar with will likely become collector items, show pieces to set on the mantle. Jog: There is something intriguing about carrying a whole library around with you…not just a book or two, but the whole dang library. That’s what the world of ‘e-book’ promises me. Yeah, I’m considering entering the world of ‘e-book.’ I’ve hesitated doing that because there is something magical to me about turning the pages of a book; admittedly something the electronic gadgets of ‘e-book’ cannot do. As I read my book, I subconsciously measure my progress by the bookmark I use to keep my place. Over the period of time it takes to read the entire book, I watch the placement of the bookmark move through the book. As the thickness of pages mount in front of the bookmark I subconsciously become excited about the coming ending. As the remaining pages dwindle to a thin ribbon behind the bookmark, I notice the voracity of my reading increases, and I race to the conclusion. Now, I suppose that’s just me. Surely no one else has these types of tendencies when reading a simple book. I do. Therefore, it appears that some of the magic may be lost with the ‘e-book’ gadgets. But, from what I’ve seen about the new Apple i-Pad, you still turn a page as you read. Certainly, my old system of bookmarking will be replaced by technology contained within these electronic reading devices. But, perhaps, that’s just progress. After all, there is no such thing as an ‘ice-box’ now. The refrigerator has delegated the icebox to antiquity. Geeze, can you believe folks actually had to place a block of ice in those things to get the same result as our modern refrigerators? So it may also come about with reading books. The leather bound publications we have all become so familiar with will likely become collector items, show pieces to set on the mantle. No longer will I shuffle slowly down the aisle of my local Border’s Bookstore perusing the books on the shelves, reading the information provided on the cover-jacket of the books. I will miss that activity. Granted, it will be many years before the bookstore will become obsolete. But, it’s exclusivity is waning even now. For, this morning, as I still sit in my sleepwear, I find myself perusing through the inventory of Amazon on my computer, reading excerpts here and there and checking out the illustrated cover on a virtual book. And, the amazing thing is the book is always in stock. If it’s listed on the browser page, I can get it. In addition, since every book is in digital format for publishing, they are all available as an e-book. That amazing feature greatly overshadows the nostalgic activity of walking the bookstore aisles. And so it is that I am seriously considering entering into the world of ‘e-books.’ The only burning question I have now is, who do I let take me there—Kindle or Apple i-Pad? |
| Title: A Spot In the Sun Date: January 11, 2010, Monday Thought: Our spot in the sun is temporary at most. And it lasts longest when we have to do a little work to enjoy it. Jog: In the early morning hours we get direct sunlight on the big window above our entrance door. It shines through and focuses on a spot in the family room and quickly works its way down the hallway as the morning progresses. For those several moments, about 90 minutes of them, we have glorious sunlight spotlighting our floor. My dog, Max, has found that spot. He loves to sit in the midst of it and soak in the sunshine. If he could purr, I’m sure he’d be doing that. It’s interesting to watch him chase it down the hall. The spot moves ever so slowly, so that by the time he has settled down in the middle of the spot, it has moved. He glances around as if to say, “Dang it! Who moved my sunshine?” He then patiently raises and moves over a couple of feet to reposition himself in the sunshine again. Please understand that positioning himself in the spot is not a simple task. It involves a ceremony of sorts. Each time, before he lies in the spot, he must circle five or six times to prepare his resting spot. Only after doing this little circling exercise will he plop down to enjoy the sunshine. Yesterday I decided to hep him out a little. I positioned his bed in the midst of the sunshine. I’m sure he enjoyed being able to lie on his cushioned bed in the sunlight. Unfortunately, I can not stop the Sun from moving, that is a talent reserved for Biblical accounts. All that I could do was to move him slightly down the hall as the sunshine took its course to our front door. I am sure it must have been an amusing sight. Before losing the sunshine totally at one location, I would grab the ends of Max’s bed and slide it a foot or two into the new middle—only to be repeated in a few more minutes. Max sat regally on his bed and permitted me to slide him down the hall, chasing the sunshine. Needless to say, this was a limited effort on my part that will not be a daily activity. I don’t intend to serve as bearer to that dog; although, I suspect he was willing to permit it. He lay comfortably during the whole ordeal, not bothering to rise. This little event has cast new meaning on the old saying, “finding one’s spot in the Sun.” I know where Max’s is. It is in our living room on sunny days, for a very few moments. I suppose there is a lesson to be gathered here. Our spot in the sun is temporary at most. And it lasts longest when we have to do a little work to enjoy it. So, when you find it, do exactly that—soak it up, enjoy it. Now, if you have someone to slide you around keeping you focused in the middle of the spot, so much the better. But, don’t count on that. That only happens to black Lab dogs…and only occasionally. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: Cold is Cold Date: January 9, 2010, Saturday Thought: Now, I really do consider myself as being fortunate that I can work from the warmth of my house on frigid days like today. Jog: It’s cold outside. I know, of course, some macho type will probably say, “Hey, this ain’t cold! Once in the Arctic Circle I was fishing for polar trout and cut a hole in the ice when it was -46 below zero. Now that was cold!” First of all, that’s ridiculous. What difference is it what the temperature is when its below zero. One below zero is the same as 46 below zero, as far as I can tell. Once my nose and ears get cold, it’s too dang cold, regardless of what the numbers say. My nose and ears tell me it’s cold outside; forget the numbers. I’m fortunate in that I don’t have to work outside in the cold. We had our back fence reset and two new gates installed yesterday. I watched from the warmth of my kitchen as the three laborers dug holes in the cold ground with a post-hole digger. It was nowhere as cold as it is today; but, like I already said, “cold is cold.” I was thankful that I was toasty and warm inside and very grateful that they were outside fixing my fence. Now, I really do consider myself as being fortunate that I can work from the warmth of my house on frigid days like today. But, my existing status has very little to do with luck. I’ve paid my dues and now have the privilege of collecting on my investment. Years of going to school to gain an education and become a professional has provided the luck I needed to have an inside job. Having the guts and discipline to strike out on my own with my own firm—to take a chance by risking all--has given me the opportunity to choose when and where I work. Luck has had little to do with it. No, when you consider luck, it’s more like my dog Max. On a cold October morning, six years ago, his little whimpers were heard as he laid in a ditch, abandoned. That someone heard his whimpers is lucky. That he eventually found his way into my home is a series of lucky circumstances. I was not looking for him and he had no say in the matter. He simply ended up with me. Now, as I look at him laying by my feet snoozing on this frozen morning, I consider him as being very lucky. And, I consider myself to be very fortunate that he was so lucky. That silly black dog has enriched our lives and firmly established a place with me…in fact about three feet from me…always. So, let it be cold outside, let it snow, or let it broil. It is of little difference to me and Max. I am fortunate to control my circumstances. There are others who are much more successful than I am, who make more money, who have more stuff. But, on the whole I’m satisfied with where I am…just wish it weren’t so dang cold outside. |
This is brand new. I would appreciate someone reading and reviewing this, if by chance anyone stumbles into this blog. If you don't want t read it, that's OK too...just glad you stumbled in...bless ya!
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| 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. "Invalid Item" (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?
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** 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. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** 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. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| 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. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I have great dreams for Harley. I am pleased that she holds great dreams for herself. That almost assures she will do well. But, this is still a land where we can have dreams and they can still be fulfilled. She will not be given anything without working for it. She already knows that. She is willing to work. She was willing to forego sleep this morning and pile out of bed to meet with me and the other Rotary codgers to put those flags out. Now, that may not mean anything to some of you, but, I guarantee that there were no other teens up doing that this morning, save Harley. I realize that is just a little thing. But, great deeds are accomplished by first doing the little things. This is such a great land. On this day when we celebrate our declaration of independence in this nation, there will be scores of folks who feel the same as I do. Unfortunately, there are many who count it as just another day and see no specialness in it. Life has given many very little to promise a bright future. However, I have to think, that even the unfortunate among us still has a chance to be more than what he/she is today. In fact, if there is a place on this earth where that opportunity exists, it is here. Please forgive me for being so selfishly patriotic on this day. Forgive me for being so American. I realize that we Americans do not hold exclusive rights to freedom and opportunity. There are many other places where people can still excel and live good lives. But on this day, in this place, I celebrate our independence and wish the rest of the world well. As an American, we are painfully proud of the gift of freedom we have been given. It is my prayer that we never forget the price that has been paid for it. God bless you all. |
| 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 David McClain 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.
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| 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. |
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