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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: On Being Nice Date: December 12, 2008, Friday Thought: I have become used to working in the dark. I mean I don’t see any reason to turn the lights on in the house if all I need to see is the monitor. Jog: I’m a nice guy. I really am. I’ve practiced nice all my life—got it down pretty good. I’m generally nice all the time. It’s sorta become a habit. I ‘nice’ all day long. I say all this because I did it again this morning…early this morning. Now, for those of you who don’t know me, I’ve got to tell you that I’m also an old guy—well not real old, but sorta old—kind of a young old…around sixty. That explains why I’m up at 3:30 am working on this dang entry. Old guys are weird about sleeping. They wake up at god-awful times in the morning and can’t sleep and then they sleep standing in line at the ‘whatever’ in broad daylight. So, if you see some old codger nodding off standing in line at the grocery store, don’t wake him. He’s been up since 3:30 am and he’s catching up on a little of what he missed this morning. Anyway, because I found myself up and banging on these keys at 3:30 am, I have become used to working in the dark. I mean I don’t see any reason to turn the lights on in the house if all I need to see is the monitor. It lights up and gives me enough light to see the keyboard. So, that’s what I do; I work in the dark. Now, in my house that shows significant niceness, because we have an open concept in our house. Our second floor is open to the downstairs. It may be a difficult thing to comprehend, but we have half-walls upstairs and we can see from one room to the other and over the half-walls into the downstairs rooms. The only rooms upstairs that have walls are the bathrooms and two of the bedrooms, all the others are open. That includes both Linda and my office and the upstairs media room. I say all this to show that when I leave the lights off in my study, as I work, I keep the light from spilling into adjacent rooms and the rooms downstairs. Since Linda is not an old man—older man—sort of like a young old—she does not wake up at 3:30 am; she sleeps. So, when I leave the lights off it does not bother her. That’s how I’m being nice. See, there is direction to this rambling. Well, this morning as I logged on to the computer it started giving me error messages. First it tells me it can’t load all the network connections. It doesn’t give any reason other than it just can’t do it. Then it tells me it can’t receive any email messages…something about it doesn’t recognize the server. Must be Alzheimer’s, it’s the same server we’ve had for years, now all of the sudden my computer is saying, “Who are you?” Then my computer tells me it can’t find WDC…heck, it can’t even find the world wide web. So, this sends me into a routine of finding out the problem and fixing it….in the dark. Fixing it is not an easy thing at my house. All my computers, I’ve got five of the dang things, all of them work off of a wireless connection. They are all connected to my main server computer that stays on all the time and has the hard drive with all the files and stuff. We are connected to the network through a router. Occasionally the router goes down and we have to reboot it…that’s computer talk for kicking it in the butt. Then I have to restore the linking software from the server computer so all the other computers will be linked. Then I have to restore the link to the network on my computer. So after I run back and forth between computers restoring stuff, I hold my breath as I try to log onto WDC…by magic it works. And, I have to do all this in the dark…because I’m being nice. I know you think that is a lot of trouble. Well, it’s not so bad, because by the time I get on WDC and write this rambling entry, I’m sleepy again, being old—sort of—it’s more of a young old—I have to catch my rest when I can; or otherwise you’ll see me dozing in line at the grocery store. I will have to practice nice later…right now I need to go back and get a little sleep. I must do that, if I’m going to be nice later in the day…otherwise I’ll just be a grumpy old man…like Tor. |
| Title: On Growing Older Date: December 11, 2008, Thursday Thought: We are all growing older. It begins at birth. Until the day we die, we will ease into different stages of life. Jog: You can thank David McClain for this entry today. In fact, I see he prompted a few others to expound on this subject. He has a way of doing that.We do growing older like we do most near everything else; we procrastinate. Or at least I do. I mean, when I was younger I would ignore the fact that I was growing older. That was always something far removed in the future and something I didn’t really need to concern myself with at the moment. And, of course it helped to occassionally be in a large room and notice that everyone was older than you were. That's not so easy to do anymore. The possession of youth is a tenuous thing at best. It’s like water that seeps through your fingers. You can’t retain it. You can’t put it in the bank. You can stall it; you can hide it; and you can outright deny it. But, you can’t prevent it from slipping right through your fingers. You can age gracefully and you can do it in style. But, rest assured that you will definitely do it…grow older, that is. Now, I have no great secret for growing old. Heck, I’m learning as I go. But, I’ve learned a long time ago that there are lessons to be learned from those who have gone before me. I don’t intend to fret about being older. I will be older no matter what I think or do. It isn’t something to fret about. I’ve decided to enjoy the moment—receive each moment as a gift. Within that moment lies great opportunity. I can choose to do with it as I wish. I can make something of it or I can let it waste away. Now, doing something with it does not necessarily mean activity. Nope, I can accomplish great things sitting on a bench out by our lake with Max and watching the Sun rise. Experiencing life and the wonder of God’s creation does not take a lot of activity. It does require a little attention. I can accomplish something by teaching my grandchildren a little about life. They will listen to me when they won’t listen to their parents. You see, grandpa is the smartest and wisest man they know. I’ve got them fooled for the moment. And, the moment may be all I need to help direct them onto a right path. I can interact with a whole community of people—communicate and share ideas—that’s doing something. And, I can still work and make a living. But, that is a little thing that I do on the side, even though it takes up the majority of my time. I sit here writing this entry at the ripe old age of sixty. I’ve been sixty for two months now. I can attest that it ain’t so bad. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there are things in this world I cannot do any more. I no longer take much pleasure with being reckless, as I did when I was twenty. In fact, I’ve found that I embarrass myself much less at sixty than I did at twenty. I’m not sure if I’m any smarter at sixty, but I’m damn sure I’m wiser. At sixty I’m not as confused about life and what it brings than I was at twenty. I am much more confident in my abilities and life’s direction as I sit here with sixty years under my belt. Of course, I have quite a bit more wrinkles at sixty than I did at twenty. My muscles seem to have abandoned me to be replaced by extra tonnage in places that are not so attractive. And, although I care about my appearance, I am not trying to attract a female; so, I’m just not that concerned about my looks, which doesn’t mean I don’t like to look good…it just means I’m not worried about it. We are all growing older. It begins at birth. Until the day we die, we will ease into different stages of life. None of them hit us suddenly, but they all seem to morph into the other. It has taken me sixty years to get to this stage in my life. I’ve got some more morphing to do. And although it seems like it zoomed to this point, it didn’t; it took sixty years. I’ve been given another 30 years to morph. Or at least that’s what my cardiac surgeon told me after he completed my quadruple heart-bypass. He said; and I quote, “You’ve got another thirty years on that heart.” I’m determined to be productive with every one of them. And, I look forward to what tomorrow brings and what I can offer the world in each one of the days and hours and minutes of that tomorrow. So, after considering the prospect of turning sixty; heck, it ain’t so bad. It’s a damn site better than the alternative. |
| Title: The Nature of Luck Date: December 5, 2008, Friday Thought: We seem to magnify the hurts in our lives much more than we dwell on the good stuff, at least it seems that way. Jog: I have come to the conclusion that everything does not always go right all the time. Some things seem to go right only some of the time. And, amazingly some things go right nearly all the time. Whereas, there are a few things in the life that just never seem to go right. My dilemma, and your also I may add, is to decide on which of these things do I choose to focus. If you are anything like me, and I know it may grieve you to admit that we are possibly alike in this world of individualism, you often seem to focus on the stuff that constantly goes wrong. We do that because that is the stuff that makes us uncomfortable—the stuff that hurts. We seem to magnify the hurts in our lives much more than we dwell on the good stuff, at least it seems that way. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” I don’t believe that. I don’t believe it because I give very little stock in the idea of luck. Luck only applies to flipping coins and finding parking spaces. Most near all of the rest of the time we are the authors of our luck. Often it is the case that luck is not the product of chance but the result of hard work or the lack thereof. Had I worked harder and made better decisions in my youth my economic fortunes would be much improved today. But, I chose to play when others were working and ignored the advice of those who were wiser than I am. I sit here today and consider my luck. Let’s see I’m still working while others around me are retiring, I sport a scar down my chest that is the result of a quadruple heart bypass, my hands, feet, shoulders, and knees hurt with the pain of rheumatoid arthritis, I checked my stock portfolio and see that I have lost enough money since August to support a family of four for a year, I’m behind on just about every project I am involved in, and I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet or put up my dang 12-foot Christmas tree. Now, it would be easy for me to say, “My luck sucks!” However, you will not hear me say that, because the simple fact is that it doesn’t. It has nothing to do with luck. That’s just the way it is. I just deal with it. There are simply too many things in my life that are wonderful, for me to focus on the down things that may or may not be significant. I just don’t believe in luck nor do I recognize that Murphy fellow who appears to be wandering around WDC. It is what it is, and I refuse to let difficulties steal my victories, especially when the victories are so much more significant than the down moments. I could list the victories in my life, but that would be much too time consuming. It is a very long list beginning with the black, furry butted dog that has his head propped up on my foot as I type this entry. He didn’t cost me anything, yet he returns enormous joy. So, as I stumble in and out of blog pages and see numerous accountings of woes and bad luck, I sometimes wonder if perhaps there are some instances of victory that can certainly out shine the darkness of the bad times in those lives. I wonder how many times we choose to dwell on the bad luck as a crutch so as to not have to make the decision to change it or even admit that there are good things happening right now in our lives. Do you suppose that if it appears that Murphy is living in your guest room it is because he has been invited. There is no room for him in my house. Now, before anyone gets offended and suspects that I am talking about you, I’m not. I wrote this entry totally without reference to any of my friends here at WDC. If the shoe fits, you may choose to wear it or not; that’s your choice. But, as I sit here pondering my state of being, I see ample opportunity to be the victim of mistreatment by unfortunate circumstances. However, I also see the opportunity to count my self as being blessed and privileged in so many ways. The trick is that I get to choose…and so do you. |
| Title: Messing With My Mind Date: November 29, 2008, Saturday Thought: There are enough of us confused codgers wandering around aimlessly in the world, that you don’t have to add to our confusion… Jog: OK, I know I can be a little bit picky. I mean, in my advancing years the little things seem to bug me more than usual. Like, why is it someone would have big double doors on their entrance and lock one of them? Don’t they know that I will push on the one that is locked and look like an idiot when it doesn’t budge? You got two doors—don’t lock one and then leave the other one open; it messes with my mind. And, I went to the restaurant the other day. During the course, I decided to visit the little boys room. So after negotiating the place trying to find the restrooms, I found the two doors marked “Men” and “Ladies.” Of course I entered the one marked “Men”. Or at least I thought I did. Have you ever done that—enter the bathroom and immediately wonder if you were in the right one? Well I do it all the time. As soon as I see the urinals hanging on the wall I know I’m in the right place. Well for some reason I didn’t make it that far. After I entered the room I immediately turned around to go check the door to make sure I was in the right place. But, right there on the door, on the inside of the bathroom, the door was marked “Ladies”. Holy cow! How in the world did I make that mistake? I immediately exited and went into the other door, confident I was in the right place. But that was weird, there were no urinals hanging on the wall. So I decided this place was just shaving money and only had stalls—even in the guy’s bathrooms. I did my thing, washed my hands, and left. Only, on the way out, I met two women coming in. They stopped talking mid-sentence and glared at me as they continued to enter the bathroom. I just shook my head and thought, “Women! Can’t even get the right bathroom.” But as I glanced around, having left the bathroom, I noticed the words on the door I just exited said, “Ladies.” A glance to the side showed a door that said, “Men.” Lordy, could I have been in the wrong bathroom? I stepped into the men’s room and looked on the back of the door. Sure enough—it said, “Ladies.” Now, I ask you, what kind of twisted mind would do such a thing. There are enough of us confused codgers wandering around aimlessly in the world, that you don’t have to add to our confusion by putting “Ladies” on the inside of the men’s bathroom door. They’re messing with my mind. And, it goes on. I just happen to be one of those people who journey through life never knowing how many days are in the month. Except for February, I am at a loss as to when the dang thing will end. You know, does it have 30 or 31 days. Don’t give me that line about how easy it is. And, yeah, I’ve heard that little jingle about the months a million times. However, I keep getting the jingle mixed up and still am not sure how many days the months have in them. I always, always, have to look at my calendar. So, having this little anomaly in my life, the creators of this blog site in WDC played on my weakness by only putting 29 days in November. Now, I’ve already checked and know that there are 30 days in November. What right does this site have to drop a whole day from the calendar. Don’t give me that “it doesn’t fit in the program” line. We’ve got computer geniuses out there, surely they can get 30 days in November. Especially, once they realize that my brain stutters each time I look at the month of November and see only 29 days. There they go—messing with my mind, again! But, this is nothing new. One of the very first things that I published in my portfolio, here in WDC, was a piece called "Please Lord, Help Me Find My Socks"  . It focused on how my wife of 42 years can mess with my mind. Now, Linda is the master at that. She has perfected the art. I’m sure that my advancing age has slowed me down and enabled her to do it with much more ease. Ah, well, that’s life. I suppose I’ve come to accept living this life with a "messed with" mind. Heck, I’m just fortunate I know the difference…at least I think I do. |
| Title: Cold November Evenings and Warm Quilts Date: November 25, 2008, Tuesday Thought: You can buy blankets, throws, and comforters in the department stores; but, you’ll never find one of those quilts my grandmother made. Jog: I remember visiting my grandma’s when I was a kid. That was a long time ago, but the memory is still fresh in my mind. She lived in a little rural town in central Oklahoma. It was a small two bedroom house with a back porch that had been enclosed to provide an additional bedroom. That’s where I slept, on the big four-poster bed. In my memory it felt like a king-size bed; however, in reality it was just a full-size. I remember crawling into that bed on cold November evenings. Being an add-on, the enclosed room didn’t have the luxury of heating. In the summertime it was cooled by a window air conditioner; however, in the winter the room had to depend on residual heat wafting from the other rooms in the house. Needless to say, it got a little chilly. But the chill didn’t bother me much; for I was insulated with four or five quilts that were layered on top of a cover sheet. It’s those quilts that command my interest at the moment. My grandmother was a quilt maker. You can buy blankets, throws, and comforters in the department stores; but, you’ll never find one of those quilts my grandmother made. I have one folded and packed away. We don’t use it because it’s value to me is not measured in currency, at least not the kind that you keep in the bank. Grandma used cloth from old shirts and dresses that had passed their useful life as clothing; very little of the quilt was from store-bought material. I remember recognizing the pattern of an old shirt my grandfather had worn or an apron that had passed on to the quilt pile. Some of the quilts were simple things, no elaborate designs or stitching. A few were artfully crafted with amazing designs stitched into them. To grandma it didn’t matter; they were all active quilts used to keep us warm through the cold nights of winter. You wouldn’t find any of them hanging on the wall in some folksy display. Nope, they had a purpose and they were used for that purpose. Although they have nostalgic appeal to me today, their real importance to me, other than keeping me warm, was the sense of security that they gave. Somehow as I crawled under those layered quilts, I knew the coolness of the sheets would soon be replaced by radiant heat trapped and wrapped around my body. The weight of those quilts were reassuring hugs that promised, as long as they were there, I would be warm. An inch or so on the other side of the quilt the cold night waited to chill my soul and send shivers through my body. But on the underside of the quilts, where I was tucked between the sheets, I was warm. I lay there secure and warm, with only my head sticking out. My nose was chilled, but that didn’t seem to matter. The cool air was invigorating and fresh, and I breathed deeply. The rest of me was warm. As I grow older, I become more retrospect. I suppose that is characteristic of age. As we face our mortality, we look for things that make sense of this journey in life we are taking. I don’t seek excitement, adventure, or thrills as I did when I was younger. And, although the things you can attain with money are still enticing, the possession of it doesn’t thrill me as it used to. It’s importance is to help assure me of some sense of security as I grow older. And, if I could purchase the security that those quilts gave me on cool November evenings, I would spend all the money I have on it. It still brings a smile to my face as I remember sliding beneath the cool covers and feeling the weight of those quilts around me, knowing that in just a short while I would be as toasty as a pup snuggled amongst the litter of new puppies. I guess that’s all I really want now—that feeling of security. |
| Title: Why the Hell Not? Date: November 20, 2008, Friday Thought: Yup, I’ve done dumb stuff financially. But, never in my life did I ask someone else to pay my bill for my mistakes. Jog: I was watching television with Linda the other night and a commercial ran during the program I was watching. A distinguished gentleman came on and said he owed the IRS $40,000 and settled for $5,000. Other testimonials followed his. It appears there is a company who has found their nitch in getting folks out of financial problems with the IRS. Seems like a good deal, initially. It’s sort of like the ‘big bail-out’ that congress has allocated for the financial institutions and will probably dole out to the auto-makers. It sends a message that seems to be widely accepted by everyone around me. The message says it’s OK to be stupid and make wrong financial decisions. There will be someone there with a hand-out to make it go away. It says you can spend money beyond your means and go ahead and buy that sea-do and bass boat; you won’t have to pay for it. Someone will come along and bail you out. Now, before you jump all over me for calling some folks stupid, let me share that I’ve been stupid. Yup, I’ve done dumb stuff financially. But, never in my life did I ask someone else to pay my bill for my mistakes. I’ve paid every past due note and tons of penalties until I got rid of them. I was like that guy on the TV; I owed the IRS thousands of dollars. Never for a moment did I think of not paying my bill. Why? Because I owed it to them. As despicable as I believe the IRS is, I made that debt and by all rights I had to pay for it. And, I did. I’m one of those guys who believes letting your car be repossessed is dishonesty. When a person drives that car off the showroom floor, he has entered into an agreement. The agreement says he will pay the car-guy money for the right to drive the car. To do otherwise is dishonest. As an American, I have the dubious privilege of helping pay for the operation of my government. I do that by paying taxes. Now, I must admit it burns my butt the way the government takes my money as if it were theirs. But, I am still honored to do my part. When I default on that agreement, I am cheating everyone else who steps up and pays the taxman. And, so, I think that commercial I mentioned earlier is a shame. I’m ashamed that we have become a people who feel we are entitled to a bail-out. I’m ashamed that it is so pervasive. It goes from the little guy on the street to the big automobile corporations. When is someone going to say, “Enough! As bad as it seems and as messy as it’s gonna get, you gotta get yourself out of this mess!” Of course it’s gonna hurt to let the auto companies fail. However, that’s assuming they are gonna fail. They may just pull themselves up by their bootstraps and decide to work their way out of it. But, we will probably never know. Our Liberal congress is hell bent on tossing money to anyone who has a little ‘boo boo.” Where will it stop. I don’t know. All I know is that I see the State of California getting in line. Why not? If we are gonna be stupid enough to throw money we don’t have to bail-out irresponsible folks, why the hell not? After all, we own the dang presses; don’t we? Just print some more money off. Heck the national debt is already too large to count; and we don’t intend on paying it off anyway. Oh, well, I was just thinking. |
| Title: Eyeball to Eyeball Date: November 19, 2008, Wednesday Thought: I am not a chainsaw carrying mass murderer Jog: As you can see by my calendar, I am seriously working on having a ‘black’ month. This little entry will spoil that effort and place a solitary ‘blue’ day in the middle of my month. It has not been by design; stuff just happens. For some silly reason I just have not felt like speaking in public. Rest assured that the reason rests in me not you. I’ve continued to tip-toe around in here visiting others but generally keeping my mouth shut. I so enjoy the folks in WDC and would not think of not coming in here. I just haven’t felt like saying much. Besides, I’ve been very busy making a living. Dang-it! Have you noticed how work seems to take a bite out of your day! Well, anyway, the reason I am in here today is that I met someone from WDC in the real world yesterday. That’s right, another proof that real people are behind those ‘handles’ that we sport. I had the pleasure of meeting windac. Last Wednesday, I was sitting at my desk doing important stuff, like making money, when I took a peek into WDC. There waiting for me was an email. “Hi, Dan; it’s Winda. I’ll be in town next Tuesday; let’s meet.” (Or something like that) I have to say it was a very pleasant surprise. I suppose Wind is one of my oldest WDC friends. I met her online early in 2004 when I was just a newbie. Needless to say, it was very good to finally get the opportunity to meet her ‘eyeball to eyeball’. Although the meeting did not take the venue that we expected, due to car troubles. Linda and I spent a delightful thirty minutes standing in a rest stop on I-35 visiting with that delightful lady. I’m grateful for the time spent and insist that we do it again. Next time will be over a leisurely dinner or something like that…maybe we can do it outside, where Max can come. I suppose all I can say about the initial visit is that I thoroughly enjoyed it and look forward for many more years of knowing Winda. I suppose another thing that is good about this meeting is that Winda can now report to her mother that I am not a chainsaw carrying mass murderer who lives on the internet. Both Linda and I are real people….well, at least Linda is…  |
| Title: Another Nature Trek With Dan Date: October 28, 2008, Tuesday Thought: There are two truths in that little happening. First is, I will always be there. The second is, he always comes back. Jog: Well, I guess it’s time for another nature walk with Dan. I can’t help it; when you get out there early in the morning something sorta speaks to you—something very basic and simple. I guess I was just listening today. It was rather chilly outside this early morning. Well, at least to this Texan it was chilly—about 40 degrees worth. The wind wasn’t blowing and every breath had a wisp of fog to it. As Max trotted through the brush looking for varmints, I could see his breath as he exhaled regularly. We like these kind of mornings—Max and I. I took special delight in watching him track squirrels. He found the tree they had just scampered up and began searching the treetops for them. He soon located them scampering from limb to limb and began bouncing at the bottom of the trees with each bark, thoroughly enjoying himself. The squirrels were annoyed, having been interrupted from their gathering and being terrorized by a black dog. They sat in the treetops and chattered angrily at Max from the safety of the arbor haven. Max just barked at them as if he were saying, “Yeah right! Get your bushy butts down here and say that!” Of course, they didn’t; they’re too smart for that. We walked through the trail in the meadow. Max stopped regularly to sniff each clump of grass or fallen limb. Occasionally he would bound into the brush and I would loose sight of him, except for that black tail that road slightly above the brush line and popped out every now and then. I knew he was content because he was carrying it so high. It always amazes me to watch him break out of the brush line back into my sight. He always pauses, looks around to get his bearings, finds me and come back to me. There are two truths in that little happening. First is, I will always be there. The second is, he always comes back. We left the meadow and found the paved sidewalk that skirts the edge of the little lake behind our subdivision. We were on our way home. Max was content to walk beside me on this leg of the journey. I was lucky he was there, usually the pull of the water is too great for him and he bounds into the lake. But, not today; today he was content to walk beside me. We both watched the ducks swim on the lake. You know, ducks are really amazing. They have three modes of transportation. They walk, they swim, and they fly. That is really amazing. Of course, their walk is a little awkward; it’s more of a waddle. Looking at them walk belies the beauty of the other modes. As soon as they hit the water they glide along the surface with remarkable grace. And I was content to just watch them glide on the surface of the lake, that is until a couple of them decided to fly. With forceful beating of their wings, a couple of the ducks picked up speed and with a small splash, they left the mode of swimming and began flying. They did not immediately soar into the sky; no, they flew the length of the lake about twelve-inches above the water--the beating of their wings leaving a trail in the water where little ripples formed. They were parallel to the surface and for a moment, I could see their reflection in the water as clearly as I could see them, making it appear to be four ducks flying along the surface of the water. Then they lifted up and soared above the treetops, gaining altitude. They turned and flew in wide sweeping circles around the lake. On the last circle they flew full speed about twenty-five feet from the waters surface the entire length of the lake. As they came around from the final concentric circle they flew in close to the surface of the water, pulled up, and gracefully landed in the water. I looked around and Max was sitting down beside me watching them intently. We were both impressed. I was amazed at the beauty of their flight; Max was probably just thinking, “lunch!” Regardless, it was a spectacular morning all around. It was worth getting up at daybreak to see it. And the remarkable thing is it did not cost me anything, nothing except a little time. All we have to do is stop and look around us and we will see these wonderful things. I wonder why so few of us do that? |
| Title: Breakfast With Tor Date: October 26, 2008, Sunday Thought: There isn’t much need of political correctness at the Country Kitchen; you say what you mean and don’t look for fancy words to dress it up. Jog: Y’all know that I’m a city planner. I really get into making living spaces truly living spaces. I use terms like community, neighborhood, interaction—stuff that draws people together. In my previous entry, I gave a little lesson about some of the principles of urban planning. Well, I not only promote the stuff and have built a career around it; I try to live it too. That means I try to spend time in places that create community. Well, along that line, Linda and I got spiffed up to go out to eat breakfast this morning. That means I threw on a ball hat and my clean Dallas Cowboy sweatshirt and took Linda to breakfast. Now, I did not go to the franchise breakfast places located out on the highway. Nope, I went downtown to what we call ‘old town.’ There’s a restaurant there called the ‘Country Kitchen.’ It’s located in a historic house and serves country style food. The biscuits are made on site and so is the gravy. There’s a big porch that has a half-dozen tables set up if you want to eat outside; I didn’t. I ate breakfast with rednecks and country folk this morning. I felt right at home. That’s where my roots are. There are good folk in there; they play hard and they work hard. I’d wager that 90% are deep in debt and almost every one of them owes money on their pick-up truck. They didn’t know they were experiencing ‘urban community’; they thought they were just eating breakfast. I gave the waitress a hard time and she gave me one right back. She didn’t know she was a server; she thought she was a waitress. There isn’t much need of political correctness at the Country Kitchen; you say what you mean and don’t look for fancy words to dress it up. Needless to say, it was a good country breakfast—stuff that sticks to your ribs and hardens the arteries—good food in other words. The interesting thing about the Country Kitchen is that it reminds me of Tor—not because it’s country or anything like that. But because dang it if he ain’t right there on the building. I mean like king size. I started chuckling when Linda and I pulled into the parking space at the side of the building. For painted right there on the side was my friend Tor. Dang it, I can’t seem to get away from him. I found him even at breakfast. I still couldn’t believe that he was part of the ‘urban community’ of the Country Kitchen. You see Tor was smack dab in the middle of that mural painted on the side of the building. We encourage murals and stuff like that in ‘Old Town.’ Well, Tor, my friend, I hope you had a good breakfast this morning. Mine was almost ruined when I pulled up and saw you staring back at me. But, then I smiled when I realized that there was no one else, besides Linda, whom I’d rather have breakfast with. Yes sir! That gravy and biscuits was good this morning. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: The Mind of the Planner Date: October 24, 2008, Friday Thought: The plans and regulations we develop affect the environment in which people live and work, particularly in urban spaces. Jog: I spent yesterday in downtown Dallas. I had to because my profession requires that I attend these things to stay sharp on the latest and greatest in city planning ideas and practices. That’s the problem with being a certified ‘anything.’ You are required to obtain ‘continuing professional education.’ I attended a seminar for people who help to grow and shape cities. The speakers at this particular seminar are a group of forward thinkers who are on the cutting edge of city planning. They are proponents of a new line of thought called the “New Urbanism.” Many of the principles advocated by these folks are valid and will be included into my own practice of the profession. It amazes me that the people I have become associated with are changing the way our cities work and function. The plans and regulations we develop affect the environment in which people live and work, particularly in urban spaces. The smaller town and communities are not as drastically affected. I suppose that is because the economy of scale. When we shape the living and working spaces of the metropolitan areas, we have the greatest impact on the greatest amount of people. We can do this in the smaller towns, but it is much more difficult, because change in small communities comes slower. The big money is in the large metropolitan communities; and honestly, that is where all the glory in the profession is. I mean, if you are on the design team to develop a new plan for New Orleans, as is a friend of mine, that is were all the recognition is. Those on that team are the ones who will be leading the discussion at the conferences and seminars. I on the other hand will be shaping and helping the neophytes in the small towns and cities grasp the basic idea of planning for the physical growth of their community. Many of them will not know that the principles that I share with them were used first in Paris or Washington DC when they were much younger. I will be changing old ideas of what their town should look like. For example, there is a flawed idea that wide streets with houses set far back from the road is a positive feature for residential neighborhoods. I’m usually told that you need to have enough room to park cars on the street and easily have fire trucks drive through. In addition, they think large front yards encourages activity in the front yard. Therefore they want the streets to be 42-feet wide and the houses to be set 30-feet back from the curb. Unfortunately, they are wrong. All wide streets accomplish is to increase speed. The greatest cause of injury to children is being hit by speeding cars. The majority of these accidents happen on the local street. In addition, the loss of property and life is ten times greater from speeding cars in neighborhoods than from burning houses. What good is it to keep your house from burning down if you lose your child or have a truck crash through your living room? The solution is to narrow the streets. I have never seen a serious collision on a narrow street. I’ve seen folks lose their temper, but not their life. One of the most serious breakdown of our social system is the community of the home. To many people their home is only the house in which they stage the other activities of life. Work, recreation, education, worship all occur outside the place in which they live. Many American communities have stopped talking with each other. When was the last time you observed two women talking to each other over the fence as they hung the fresh laundry on the clothes line. As far as that goes, when was the last time you observed a clothes line. Our homeowners association has a regulation that prevents the hanging of clothes outside on a clothes line. Or, when have you last observed someone strolling down the street and striking up a conversation with someone else sitting on their front porch—well, not in most American subdivisions. First of all, builders don’t build functional front porches anymore and even if they did, the house sits too far from the curb for a idle conversation. So, I’ve given you three things that we can do to make our living spaces more people friendly: narrow the streets, bring the houses closer to the curb, and design porches on the houses. You do those three things and you create community—a place where people interact with each other—a safer place to live. Now there are some other things we can do. For example, we need to decrease our dependence on the automobile and become more pedestrian. To do this we need to change our thinking on where we shop and where we work. Shops, schools and parks must be within a five-minute walk of our living places. We’ve figured that represents about a quarter-mile, which means we need to design our communities accordingly. Instead of having a central mall or shopping area located across town, locate smaller shop and retail centers in nodes surrounded by our living spaces. Connect these nodes to each other with walking trails and provide functional sidewalks along the streets—remember, we’ve narrowed the streets to make them safer. In our retail and commercial areas we need to encourage folks to use the streets for outside seating and display. That means we need to have wider sidewalks and plaza areas. You can still bring cars into the commercial areas, but park them in the back. Or better yet, leave them at home and take the bus, trolley, tram, or train. If all else fails you can walk; it’s only five-minutes away. Ah, I wish it were that easy. I wish, as a planner, I could snap my fingers and citizens would be inspired by what they could have. However, I’ve been doing this long enough to know that the politicians and the developers have their own agenda as to what happens to our spaces. Along the way I have been able to make a change here and there. It has been very rewarding when I go back and see it working now. The amazing thing is, that when I visit these places, that are working like they are supposed to, I find the politicians and the developers standing out front beating their chests claiming the credit. It never changes. But, the fact that it changes at all is encouraging, because it is at these moments of change that I get the opportunity to work my magic. I’m just glad that there are still those opportunities out there. |
| Title: Sailing the Ocean Without a Rudder Date: October 22, 2008, Wednesday Thought: Sometimes you just get tired. It makes must no sense. I suppose it’s not supposed to. I’m not sure I like it though. Jog: Malaise—the dictionary tells me it means: “a general feeling of worry, discontent, or dissatisfaction, often resulting in lethargy.” Seems like a pretty good definition. That gave me another word to look up—lethargy, meaning: “a state of physical slowness and mental dullness resulting from tiredness, disease, or drugs.” So, if I put the two definitions together it comes out: “a general feeling of worry, discontent, or dissatisfaction, often resulting in a state of physical slowness and mental dullness resulting from tiredness, disease, or drugs.” I think malaise is a pretty good word to describe my general mood for the last couple of years. This general state of malaise has been progressing since I recovered from my quadruple heart bypass. For some reason I can’t seem to find enthusiasm in my career anymore. My relationship with Linda and my family is great. I just seem rudderless when it comes to functioning in the workplace, which is a dangerous thing to be when your future depends on a good rudder. I keep telling myself all I need is a little vacation. But, in reality, I feel it will take more than that. I find myself in quite a strange position. On the one hand, I have little interest in functioning in the work world of municipal planning, which has been good to me for the last thirty years. There is no real excitement in my job, just sameness. On the other hand, I find there is no other avenue that can provide me with the income that planning has. My job is perfect—a dream job. Unfortunately, it is a dream job that I now find little interest in performing. Now, I’ve evaluated this logically; you know, the way a planner would. I’ve created a table on paper with pros and cons written down the page—pros on the left side and cons on the right. The pros far outweigh the cons. In my mind it is reasonable for me to continue to work as I am—in fact, it borders on insanity to do anything different. Good grief, I’ve worked for thirty years to get to this point in my profession. The fact that I work from home, when I want, on what I want just reinforces the position to continue to do what I do. Yet, I find myself doing all manners of things during the day, which allow me to do anything except my responsibilities at work. If what I did were unrewarding or mundane, then it would make sense. But, it isn’t. There is tremendous satisfaction regarding my labors. If it were physically exhausting, I could understand my avoidance of my responsibilities. But again, it is not. At times it can be mentally draining, which brings on an exhaustion of a different nature. However, I am physically able to fulfill the requirements of the job. If the requirements of the job were beyond my capabilities and tasked my knowledge and experience, I would understand my reluctance to be involved in the assignments. Again, that is not the case. Over the years, I have become one of the mentors in my profession. I’m one of the gray-haired patrons in the profession who all the youngsters—the enthused, green idealist, coming straight out of planning schools with their Masters degrees—point to and seek to impress. It is an earned position, one that I am honored to hold. So, why the malaise? Danged if I know. Sometimes you just get tired. It makes must no sense. I suppose it’s not supposed to. I’m not sure I like it though. I yearn for the days past when I attacked the job and the assignments with fresh new energy—the Energizer Bunny type of energy, which keeps going and going and going. I am between the proverbial rock and hard place. I want to bask in the sunshine of my accomplishments but the reality of daily living tells me I cannot. So, I must again remind myself that I am a grown-up; I can’t go outside and play until I’ve cleaned my room, which includes doing the work required to pay the bills. Appears that I am a little selfish; I want my cake and to eat it too. What a silly saying—what good is cake if you don’t get to eat it. |
| Title: Almost Five Years of Plugging Along Date: October 13, 2008, Monday Thought: I have other favorite sites on the Internet; but none other that gives me the honest literary interaction that I’ve found on Writing.com. Jog: It is two months shy of being five years since I created my portfolio here on Writing.com. I had no idea what I was going to do with this site. All I knew was that there were other writers here and I could practice my writing skills. To that end the site has certainly been worth it. I have 270 items secured within my port. Of course, a good many of those are photographs and other images I have used in my blog. Generally, my material is divided into poetry, fiction, and non-fiction pieces, with the smallest contribution being the poetry, which I really suck at. My primary interest has been my short stories. I have forty-five short stories, a collection of thirteen mystery stories, featuring Spam Hummer, and a book with thirty chapters. All other material is basically filler. And then of course there is the blog page, which I call a ‘jog’ because I detest the word ‘blog’ and I think this thing is more of a cross between a journal and a blog, anyway. The jog has given me opportunity to write regularly and have an audience. Blogs are greatly diverse. They can be unbelievably menial as well as deeply meaningful. You can be a philosopher or an airhead and have equal audience. Unlike an editorial or journal, the blog pages provides near instant feedback and interaction between the writer and the reader. That gives it a dynamic character similar to conversation rather than just written documentation. As I consider my years of participation on Writing.com, I am relatively pleased with the experience. It is, in fact, the only Internet site on which I have consistently been active. I have tried other writing sites and have been disappointed. The communities of Facebook and MySpace are simply chitchat or gossip pieces, of which I have little interested. I have other favorite sites on the Internet; but none other that gives me the honest literary interaction that I’ve found on Writing.com. I find I have moved around within the site itself; trying different activities. At one time, I belonged to several newsletters; I now belong to none. At one time, I read and reviewed actively. Now, I find I review only those pieces that are well written; I ignore or leave the junk unfinished. I don’t have time to read junk. And, I must confess that is a very subjective position; whereas, one man’s treasure is another man’s junk. I am very sporadic in my ‘jog.’ I realize there are many fine blogs written here. The problem is I have very little time to spend reading all of them. I read a few, and when time permits, I try a new one. There was a time when I entered contests regularly, with a limited amount of success. I rarely enter contests now. I think I’ve just lost interest. I think the draw to Writing.com has been the people I’ve come to know in here. Of course, we have the common passion for the written word; that helps. But, it seems to me that there is a self-control and self-restrain in this site that keeps it clean and honest. I don’t find the idiots in here that I find on other sites. That doesn’t mean they are not here or have not tried to be in here. But, it appears the membership just does not permit that sort of abuse to happen. There is a sense of decorum in this site that I must complement the StoryMaster for establishing and maintaining. Perhaps it is maintained at high standards because of the quality of its membership. I don’t know, I’m just pleased it is here. So, I approach another anniversary at the first of next year. I fully intend to renew. I may take on a different role as a member; and yet I may stay the same. I will continue to do the things I like—‘jog’ and write short stories. My only regret is that my time on Writing.com cannot be counted for any college credit. That seems a pity, since I firmly believe I have gotten more out of my experience than any semester of formal education relative to the art of writing. I guess the bottom line in this site is totally what you make it. It has the potential to be amazingly rewarding or boring, depending totally on what you want to do with it. Me?—well, I choose to be amazed. |
| Title: Creation of a New Halloween Legend Date: October 8, 2008, Wednesday Thought: Now, understand I had no idea what it was gonna be; I just knew I had to write something. Jog: It is amazing to me how an idea will begin bouncing around in my mind, and won’t turn loose until I do something with it. Sometimes I just let it bounce around in there until it fades and doesn’t bother me any more. But sometimes the idea won’t let go. That happened to me yesterday. This entry is about that happening. On Monday I gave my friend Tor a call on the phone--no special reason, just to visit a little. As we were talking somehow the idea came that we should drag CC into Halloween with a story. I commented that we could drag him into some concoction that spoofed the Legend of Sleepy Hollow—maybe even pull Advilicus his horse into the yarn. We chuckled about the idea and moved on to other topics. Well, the idea would not leave my cranium. It bounced around in there all day Monday. On Tuesday it begged to be written down. Now, understand I had no idea what it was gonna be; I just knew I had to write something. And as a result, I took the disjointed ideas that were turning over in my mind and placed them on the page. Needless to say, by the beginning of my day today, after spending a few early morning hours putting the finishing touches on the yarn, I have completed the story. It came out differently than I originally envisioned it; they always do. CC and Advilicus are not named in the tale, but could be. I’m still somewhat amazed that anything at all came from this. But, it is done. Certainly it will receive loads of editing and refining. But basically it is finished. So, if you wish you may visit my Halloween tale inspired by an idea to spoof CC and Advilicus…I present to you the creation of a new legend the Legend of the Brainless Horseman of Shippley Wallow.
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| Title: Following Rules Date: October 5, 2008, Sunday Thought: Now that is real freedom…freedom to choose to live within the restraints of the rules. Jog: There are a few rules that are applicable on the little walks that my black Lab, Max, and I take every morning. It’s taken a couple of years to make them effective, but at last, they are now usually observed. In fact, I can summarize them in four commands: “Come”, “Back,” “This Way,” and “Sit.” Armed with those four commands we have learned to take our morning walk with a maximum of freedom and enjoyment. “Come,” is exactly what it says. Max had to learn to come to me when called, regardless of the interesting thing that his nose has latched onto. At that command he is to break his concentration on his interest and give his entire attention to me, which means coming back to me. You don’t know how thrilled it makes me to have Max sniffing in the brush 100 yards from me and to see him break and come to me when I call. It amazes me even today. “Back,” is a command I use to have Max walk directly next to me. Often when we walk off leash he runs up ahead or over to the side investigating some hole or bush or rock. If I see a walker approaching us, I command him to walk next to me—not particularly for Max’s sake but for the walker’s sake. Most folks are a little apprehensive with an 80 lbs dog running about. Usually I will reach down and attach the leash for their added comfort. If they have another dog with them, I always do it. “Back” is a good command; it tells him to walk with me. “This way,” is a change of direction. When I use that command he expects to stop going in the direction he is going and assume a new bearing. It is particularly helpful if Max is some distance from me and I notice a stray dog, walker, or in some cases a skunk. I am amazed at how responsive he is to that command. Usually he will immediately change his direction to match the new bearing I am taking. He doesn’t come to me but rather changes course to intersect our new direction. The last command is “Sit.” Almost every dog has mastered that command, or at least they know what it means and choose to ignore it. This is a difficult command for Max. He always obeys it but I’ve come to understand he thinks it means, “sit in my own time.” Often it takes a little for his black butt to begin the lowering process. Usually, he sits on the first command. I have given the command and then just waited…and waited…and waited. Eventually, his butt slowly lowers to the ground. It’s as if he has a delayed fuse. However, when we are on the trail, a yank of the leash, if he’s on it, will hasten the butt drop. I use that command to get him still so I can leash him or to settle him down if I see he’s getting excited over an approaching dog or jogger. With those command, Max has realized great freedom. I will unleash him in the fields, playgrounds, and golf courses in our community and let him do his thing. He chases squirrels, birds, and rabbits as he wishes. He bounces beneath the trees barking at the squirrels scampering in the treetops. He smells a thousand twigs and marks a thousand trees to let the world know he has been there. He is as free as he wants to be. And, that is the secret. You see Max wants to be with me. There is nowhere else he would rather be. He loves to run in the meadow, bark up the trees, and swim in the lake. But, he always does this with the awareness that I am there. Therefore, those commands let him enjoy the freedom he loves. Those commands are also for me. I get tremendous joy in seeing Max enjoy the freedom off the leash. I like him to just be a dog. I am disappointed when I see pet owners who have not trained their dog to understand this freedom. I see them straining at the leash. Their freedom is only as far as the leash will stretch. Max’s is so much more. I have trained Max to respect my commands. But, it pleases me to see that he also respects them because he chooses to. Now that is real freedom…freedom to choose to live within the restraints of the rules. Now, that’s a lesson most people have not learned. |
| Title: We All Need a Little Attention Date: September 29, 2008, Monday Thought: An extension of that social need, as a writer, is the desire to have someone read our stuff. That’s not being selfish, its just the way we are made. Jog: How about a little attention over here? Do you ever feel that way, like you need to have someone make you the center of their attention for just the briefest moment? Of course you do. If you say you don’t, then I just don’t believe you. We are social creatures. Our socialization may be extensive or it may be very limited, but we are social; we need to be around folks every now and then. An extension of that social need, as a writer, is the desire to have someone read our stuff. That’s not being selfish, its just the way we are made. Consider that feeling you get when you log on to WDC and you see you have email waiting for you in your mailbox. Immediately, your interest is peaked and somewhere down in your psyche a measure of satisfaction is felt as you in realize someone has given you attention. Now, this feeling grows as you open your mailbox and examine the contents. You scan the items to see who the mail is from and what is the subject. I’ll wager, as soon as you see the StoryMaster or some administrator of WDC has left mail, you are less satisfied. You know that mail is advertisement or promotional material for WDC. Everyone got that mail, which means you are not so special. But at least it is mail and you were not left out. But, there are other items in the mailbox. You notice there are a couple of comments to your blog and you see one that promises to be a review to one of your short stories. You are pleased; you are getting attention. Believe it or not, what you do now depends on how you deal with desert—bear with me here. How we deal with desert reveals how we also deal with attention. When I attend one of those stuffy conference diners in the massive banquet hall, I never have great expectations regarding the food. I receive what everybody else is served without concern for my particular likes or dislikes. In spite of the inevitable ‘rubber chicken’, I am usually never disappointed with desert. And, the exciting thing about desert is occasionally it is already sitting on the table, with the bread. Many folks take a piece of bread and munch on it while they visit and wait for the main courses. However, I eye the desert. Sometimes I will take a bite of it because I just don’t want to wait. Most of the times I patiently wait through all the serving until the end of the meal for the appropriate time to eat it. But, sometimes, just sometimes, I can’t wait and eat the desert at the first. My email box is like that. Sometimes I save the review mail for the last as desert; sometimes I just can’t wait. Why is that? What makes the review mail so much more exciting than the other mail? Perhaps it is the expectation that we will receive positive attention. There is always the possibility someone has read some of our work and will give it attention. Of course, we will take the high plain and insist that it is not attention we seek but rather literary evaluation of our work so that we can improve our craft. Bull! We certainly want to improve our craft; but make no bones about it, it is the attention we crave. I will go on to say that it is not attention alone we want but rather positive attention. We want someone to give us a glowing report filled with stars. Don’t deny it. Why else do you think we get so peeved when some knucklehead writes a review, which is barely legible, and blasts our work, leaving us a two-star review? Certainly, it’s because he’s an absolute idiot, but it is also because we did not receive the attention we crave. It is a lost opportunity. Now, why all this drivel about attention? Well, I guess I just wanted to comment on what’s been happening to me, and I suppose you, in WDC. I check my stats often just to see how many folks are viewing my material. I find the views and comments to my blog have decreased remarkedly. That’s understandable; when you make fewer entries, fewer people stop by. But what has interested me is I daily receive multiple views of my other material. That’s attention. However, if not for the stats page, I wouldn’t know anything about that. Very few folks stop to comment about my stuff. Is this unpopularity devastating? Nope, not at all. Fortunately, I feel confident enough about my writing to be pleased with my little collection. I don’t have to have folks fawning over it to keep me happy. All I’m saying is we all want a little attention. We want folks to read and review our material. But, that goes both ways. We should be willing to leave a few reviews ourselves. I am able bodied and capable of reading someone else’s material. I should leave a comment or two along the way; you know, give someone else a little attention. After all, that’s what it is all about. We come in here to share our work with others; and at the same time, we have the opportunity to give someone else a little attention. When is the last time you checked your review given/received ratio? I’m a little disappointed in mine. I’ve received 1100 reviews and given 300. For my four-and-a-half years of being in WDC, that works out to me giving one review every five-and-a-half days—and receiving a review every one-and-a-half days. That’s not very even; it appears I need to get busy. However, I don’t think I’m alone. I’ve had 38,000 views to my portfolio; that works out to twenty-three views every day. Which also means only 3% of the folks left a review. Isn’t it interesting what you can do with statistics? |
| Title: Things That Scare Date: September 25, 2008, Thursday Thought: When the last paragraph is written, for some reason you start another one. The ones following the ending don’t really add to the book, they’re just more words for the sake of words. Jog: What scares me? My grandchildren think nothing scares grandpa. I’ve tried to teach them to walk in this world with confidence. But, there are things that scare me. I’m not particularly fond of high places. Especially high places without rails. We stood on the edge of a deep canyon one time; I think it was the Royal Gorge. I remember not being able to approach the edge, even with the security of the rail—just don’t like it. I’m not particularly fond of deep water. Oh, I know seven feet of water is just as dangerous to me since I can’t stand in it. But, deep water sends a chill through me. And, snakes—don’t like ‘em. I can deal somewhat with those things. But, I don’t think I could deal with being alone. Being alone is the scariest thing I know. Now, I enjoy having the house to myself sometimes. However, that’s different; I know that Linda is always coming back. It is a temporary ‘alone’ that isn’t really there. But, to have no one would be devastating to me. As I sit here typing this, Linda is asleep in the other room. I am alone in my office, well not quite, Max is lying curled up at my feet. It is amazing how much company that black dog is. He doesn’t say a word; but yet he communicates with me. I swear he speaks through the way he looks at me, the way he holds his tail, the tilt of his head, and a paw gently placed on my leg. I talk to him; and I think he knows what I’m saying. Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t understand the sentences; but, he knows my feelings and has a perception from my voice that assures me he understands me. He does recognize certain words—words that I am very careful about when I use them. You don’t want to say ‘walk’ unless you’re ready to get out in the world and actually walk—dangerous word. The point is I am rarely alone. And, that is how I like it. I suppose that is the one thing that distresses me about growing old—the possibility of being alone. Linda’s mom is ninety-four years old. She has a bunch of children and grand children and even great-great grandchildren living near her. One daughter drops in on her every day—others occasionally. And, although she is not alone, she is. She told me on our last visit, “You know, Dan, a person ought not to live this long. She went on to say all her family and friends have died and left her alone. She is certainly grateful for her children who are still around; but, the people she grew up with—the people who brought meaning and memories into her life are now all gone. She is left here alone. She said it was like writing a novel and getting to the last chapter but never ending it. When the last paragraph is written, for some reason you start another one. The ones following the ending don’t really add to the book, they’re just more words for the sake of words. Linda’s mom could certainly have it worse. There could be no family at all. In fact family surrounds her. However, in her world there is a loneliness that none of her children or their children can satisfy. Yes, that is one of the great things that scare me—being alone. Max nuzzles my foot in his sleep. He is emitting little yips and a slight growl. Somewhere in his dreams, he is chasing squirrels or defending his pack. His presence assures me that for the moment, I am not alone. I run my hand through his soft coat. He responds by lifting only an eyelid and looking at me. He still has serious work to do sleeping, that is as soon as I stop disturbing him with the rubs, of which he is quite fond. I will leave him alone and let him sleep. Shortly, he will be up and nuzzling at my elbow asking to go out for his walk. I smile to myself and confirm that it is good to have him near—to not be alone. And, such are the early morning musings of a sixty-year-old guy. |
| Title: Living in the Land of Messy Date: September 24, 2008, Wednesday Thought: I rarely have a clean desk. And, do you know something? I’m just about fed up with it. Jog: I am living in the Land of Messy. There is no other way to describe my office. The obvious solution is to just clean it up. Now, why in the world is that so dang difficult? I don’t know, but it is. I know there is a philosophy that says a clean desk encourages productive days. Bull! I can be just as productive with my messy desk. Unfortunately, it has flowed over onto the floor and into the visitor’s chairs. But, hey! I’m still productive. However, I am also frustrated because I can’t find stuff. For example, there is a business card of this guy I want to contact. I know it’s here; the question is where? It is on my desk lost in the reams of documents deposited there by yours truly. Another example is when I get a phone call from a client who has a question about some item. I say, “Hold on a minute while I get that file.” I can’t find it. I eventually have to say, “I can’t lay my hands on it at the moment, let me call you back.” After about an hour and a half of searching, I get to call them back. Am I the only one with this problem? Am I gonna get comments back that say, “Dan, you slob, clean your desk. I ALWAYS HAVE A CLEAN DESK!” Well, if you do then I’m jealous. I rarely have a clean desk. And, do you know something? I’m just about fed up with it. Which means I’m gonna clean my office today…or tomorrow…or may the weekend would be a better time. But, by golly! I’m gonna do it. My question to you is, how clean is clean? Do you put all the files away every night? Is it dusted and swept regularly? Do you put stuff on the floors as a mid-stage for filing? Are little post-it notes stuck all over your desk and computer screen? How much stuff on the desk is OK?—maybe a stack of files or maybe two? When does it become clutter? And, the most important question of all is, will you help me clean my office? It will probably take a couple of days and I’ll let you sleep over. We’ve got two spare rooms; ones the girl’s room and the other’s the boy’s room. You can have your pick. I’ll even fix breakfast in the morning. Geeze, the things I go through to get a clean office. |
| Title: I’m Dealing With It Date: September 22, 2008, Monday Thought: Turning sixty has some benefits. I can now order my Chinese food for two dollars cheaper. Jog: I am mindful that out there on the campaign trail is a 72-year-old man running for president. That gives me some verification that life is not over once you reach your senior years. Which is a good affirmation since today is my birthday and I am a very round 60-years old. I am dealing with reaching this elderly milestone. However, I am doing it with some difficulty because I still find 18-year-old thoughts running through my brain. I concede however, that, without a doubt, the body is not eighteen, which is verified every morning when I shave and watch that old fart in the mirror. Of course, turning sixty has some benefits. I can now order my Chinese food for two dollars cheaper. And, there are a myriad of discounts provided by other stores selling all sorts of merchandise and offering all kinds of services. I suppose the purpose of this is that now I am of advanced age I am considered to be privileged. I suppose somehow it really is a miracle I’ve reached this milestone. There really have been some careless moments in my life which cause me to shudder even today. Most of those moments were lived when I was in my teen years and early twenties. Good grief, I’m glad I finally grew out of that. I suppose also these generous discounts are provided because I have reached my peak earning potential and must now live off of scraps from social security. Well, not yet buster! However, I’ll take the discounts anyway. My celebration of this birthday will not be grandiose, by any means. I’m sure Linda and I will go out to eat tonight. However, we go out to eat every night. Only, tonight it will be two dollars cheaper. I will receive a few well wishes and quite a few barbs about being a senior citizen, which I am pleased to accept. I now turn to new milestones, which are fewer and some not so pleasant. But, sixty-two looms before me, the date I am eligible to draw partial Social Security. And, of course there is Sixty-five, when I can draw full Social Security. However, the one I’m looking forward to is turning 100. Fortunately, that one is forty years off and I’ll have to work on getting there. So, I thank all of you who wish me a happy birthday; it is appreciated. There is no need to buy gifts; all the toys I want are really expensive, anyway. But, you can give a simple gift if you wish, but certainly not required. Just last week I finished a new Spam Hummer story ("Invalid Item" ). It needs a little attention. It has a few views and only one review. And, just last night I finished another ("Invalid Item" ). If you want, and if you have time, give those two pieces a review. But, please know that if you are not able, that is quite all right with me. You will still be my friend and I will not be offended or disappointed. Good grief, I’m sixty years old, I’ve grown out of that. |
| Title: Becoming Friends Date: September 21, 2008, Sunday Thought: It is remarkable what writing can do. New worlds open to the imagination. Jog: They’ve become my friends. I suppose that happens to writers. The characters you create in your mind and give life to on the page become real. I’ve got a few who have done that. One is a piece of silliness. A few years ago, I introduced Stealthman to the folks in WDC. Stealthman is a pseudo super-hero. Don’t expect him to save the world; he’s just not that spectacular. But, he is a character. His outfit is a pair of super-hero pajamas bought at Wal-Mart. He has a super duper utility belt that permits him to render himself invisible and to beam himself across great distances like on Star Trek. That’s pretty dramatic stuff, but in the hands of Stealthman it comes out pretty anti-climatic. However, he is a good guy and is well intended. I guess he’s sort of like a Barney Fife in disappearing pajamas (for those of you old enough to remember the Andy Griffith show). Another friend is a private eye named Spam Hummer. Spam was created in February of 2005. It was my attempt to write a spoof on the old detective series of the past. He is a cross between Sam Spade and Mike Hammer. He solves little stuff, nothing too dramatic. Spam’s challenge is to revive the feel and style of the 1950’s and early 60’s. He has a friend who owns a local tavern where he hangs out, a best friend who’s a cop, and a girl Friday named Cassidy. There are now twelve Spam Hummer stories in the series. I’ve enjoyed getting to know all of the group connected with Spam. It’s amazing to me to see relationships develop through each story. They have all really become good friends. It is remarkable what writing can do. New worlds open to the imagination. Emotions are touched such that sometimes the reader giggles or laughs aloud, or sometimes they cry. The characters we create in our minds become real when we put them on the page. They depend on us for everything. Their future and destiny are in our hands. And, once they are on the page, unlike us, they become immortal, lasting as long as the page. I wonder if Homer felt this way about Odysseus when he began his epic poem. I wonder what will become of them tomorrow. Their future is fragile, so dependent on my moods and desires. I think Spam will be around—just twelve more stories and I’ll have more than enough for a whole TV season. Last week I posted Spam’s most recent caper. It is interesting to me to compare it to his first. He’s come a long way in three years. I don’t know if he has improved over the years or not; I’d like to think he has. All I know is that he has developed and evolved. He’s become my friend. You can check him out at "Spam Hummer -- Private Eye" |
| Title: Spam Hummer at Work Again Date: September 19, 2008, Friday Thought: Jog: Some of you know my friend Spam Hummer. Spam is a gum-shoe--a private eye. My port has eleven capers solved by Spam. Today, I've posted caper twelve "Invalid Item" . If you have a desire to read an old time detective story you might drop by and see what Spam is up to. I know he'd appreciate it. |
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