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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 ** |
| Now this is the way to work…if you call this working. If the magic eye on my computer were turned on and you viewed the scene before it, you would find me leaning back in my big office chair, feet up on the desk, keyboard sitting in my lap, and typing without even watching the screen. (I’ll come back later and fix all the typos.) I’ve got to admit this is some sign of successful living. I mean, most folks I know are stuck in some office, watching the time clock, and performing tricks for the boss. Not me—I’m home in my upstairs office doing exactly what I want to do—sometimes I work…sometimes I don’t. I consider myself very fortunate indeed that I am able to have this kind of circumstance. But, don’t get me wrong—I will never say I am lucky. Luck has nothing to do with it. I had to work my ass off as a young man and take a tremendous chance when I struck out on my own. I could have fallen flat on my face in ruin. However, I was too damn scared to fail. When you are cast off in the middle of the ocean with the sharks, you either sink or swim; and, I swam like hell. Surprising what you can do with a little motivation. Well, anyway here I sit with my feet on the desk, pounding on these keys. Max is laying on the floor next to me protecting me with the one eye he has open and drooling on his pad—makes me feel secure all over. My whole situation causes me to pause momentarily and thank the Lord for watching after me, for I would have surely screwed up if left to my own design. Every now and then I begin to feel sorry for myself—that’s what we humans do. And, then I catch myself and ponder my lot as compared with the lot of others I know. It’s at those times I have to affirm that I ain’t got it so bad. It’s kind of funny. My wife was working with a good friend of hers, who she helps with bookkeeping for her accounts. This friend was bemoaning her tenuous financial state, concerned that her money would not be sufficient. Upon sitting down with my wife, who outlined her estate, it was determined the friend only had a paltry five-million dollars to hold her through her golden years. That’s a problem I wish I had. The bottom line is, certainly all of us get depressed at times. Having financial security does not necessarily make us immune to feelings of inadequacy and failure. No, that is something we are quite able to do to ourselves regardless of our means. I am proof of that, as I sit here with my feet on my desk, my dog curled at my feet, wasting away the hours doing whatever I wish to do. I ain’t got it so bad…I realize that. If you were to really think about it, I bet you’d decided you ain't got it so bad either. |
| Early this morning it was quiet on the beach. Rhythmically and unendingly the waves pushed each other to the shore and raced back out to the Channel. It was peaceful, serene, haunting. But along those beaches ghosts gathered again to play out the drama which took place there sixty-six years earlier on those Normandy beaches. Oh, I just suppose they were there, I don’t really know if I believe in ghosts. Nevertheless, the memories of them haunt my mind and heart on this day—D-Day, June 6th. The greatest assembly of warriors and equipment ever gathered assaulted those beaches on that day in 1944. From all over the USA and Great Britain young men came to make their mark against tyranny and evil. Recognizing the enemy didn’t seem to be as confusing at that time as it is now. We are much more sophisticated and intellectual today. We began to learn how to doubt our leaders during the Vietnam War. Since then we have refined it to the point that our people can discuss terrorist atrocities in Fallujah in the same breath as Lady Gaga. Our war dead have become an embarrassment or a tool in the hands of the politicos depending on the camp. Is it any wonder that as I examined the front page of the local newspaper, there was no mention at all of the momentous event that took place on June 6, 1944? Apparently it is unimportant. At least to some folks. Like all wars, the men assaulting the Normandy beaches were young—eighteen, nineteen, and twenty year olds. Seems as if we have always sent our youngest and strongest to bear the brunt of our ideology. Many of them died on the sandy beaches of Normandy that morning. Many more were to die before what they began was finished. Interestingly, they are all mostly dead today, or are looking at life's final moments. That eighteen year old would be eighty-four years old today. Precious few of those men are left. For that reason I feel it is even more important to remember what they did on that day. Especially at a time when it appears the first course of action for our diplomats is to apologize for our past actions, condemn the warriors of our past, and toss the friends we made during that period of time under the buss. Am I bitter? Not really. I’m ashamed of our public face. I’m ashamed of our insensitivity to our old warriors. I yearn for the day when we once again will be proud of our patriotic spirit and recognize again the greatness of that generation we have labeled The Greatest Generation. So on this day, my hat is off to them. I salute them and owe them a debt of gratitude I will never be able to repay. |
I've been putting my Kindle to good use recently. I've read a couple of books. Both were on the Vietnam War. That period of time has been weighing heavily on my mind recently. Maybe it's because I lived through it. I never served in Vietnam. Till the day I die, that will be a wonder to me. I was 1-A through most of it but never heard from my draft board. Of course I'm grateful I didn't have to go, but for some reason I have always felt guilty for not going. It's not as if I tried to dodge the draft, because I didn't. In fact, I had reconciled to myself the fact that I would soon be called; only, I never was. Well, anyway, I've been reading about it recently. And, I suppose all this exposure has sort of feed my witing muse, because I popped up with a short story of my own. As before, I'd appreciate any review that you may give it, but don't feel obligated to do so...thanks. However, it's new and could use a little attention...be gentle.
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He’s sitting over there right now, looking out my upstairs study window. When it’s overcast outside I can open the curtains and shades without getting the morning glare of the sun shining through my window. Normally I would welcome the sunshine, except for the reflection and glare that it causes when it envelopes my computer screen. So, it’s a treat when I can remove the coverings from the window and reveal the world outside. When that happens, Max sits in review of the happenings in that little piece of the world. It helps that the windows run from floor to ceiling. He perches easily there and drinks in the outside happenings. I watch him as his ears move to different locations on his head. There is the alert position where they stand up, or at least as up as those floppy Lab ears will permit. In the alert position his chest is out and his shoulders back. He is prepared to enter the next phase of alert, which is ‘growl low and then bark like crazy.’ He usually does that phase when I am on the phone, causing me to have to explain to the client on the other end that I have a dog in my office, as if the barking was not evidence enough. Then there is the low whine and rapid lower and raise action of his hears, usually accompanied with shifting from on foot to the other while remaining seated. That look is his “I see a friend and want to go outside with them.” If I don’t acknowledge I also see them, he will enter the “bark like crazy” phase until they are out of sight or I drop the shades. This phase usually leads, or has in the past, to me hauling my fat ass down the stairs and taking him for a walk. I can either walk him or forever endure the whining and shifting from one foot to the other, feeling guilty for cooping the poor thing up in the house. Either way, he wins--the crafty K-9. There is also the “let’s eat the UPS guy” look. That one is easy to recognize. From a silent and tranquil peace, he erupts in a chorus of very intimidating barks and snarls. This is accompanied with a mad dash out of my office and down the stairs to the front door, hopefully in time to greet the UPS guy as he is bending over by the door depositing the packages in the threshold. I wonder why the UPS guy never rings the door bell? How come all I ever see of him is his sprint across our lawn and dive into his open door truck? Before I open the door, he’s driving off down the street screaming, “Run! Cujo’s loose!” When I finally get down the stairs to the front door, Max is sitting there with this silly look on his face that says, “What fun! Let’s do that again!” We’ve got to work on that. Lastly, there is that “I’m bored” look. With this one Max curls up next to the window and fakes sleeping. I know he’s faking because one ear, the one closest to the window is still perked up in vigilance. He’s gathering information—even while he’s sleeping. I’ve seen him assume the appropriate mode in a fraction of a second upon hearing the tiniest noise. He is ever vigilant. So, that is where he is right now—in the “I’m bored” phase—one ear cocked and listening for the next opportunity. It all begins right there, next to my upstairs window, his eye on the world. |
OK, I’m a little miffed again. Not much, just a little. Well, enough to write this little rant. Years ago I developed a personal mission statement that reflected my approach to living my life. Being a professional planner I am partial to long range goals. That is what this personal mission statement was—my attempt at setting a long range goal for living my life. Now, obviously, you don’t have to have a written personal mission statement to live your life. But, I wanted to do it; so I did.
Now, a personal mission statement is….well, personal. I didn’t think anything about posting it in my portfolio unrestricted. I mean, it’s my own personal statement; why in the world would anyone give it a rating? Well, over the years a few have done so. However, everyone has respected the fact that it was uniquely mine and simply gave it a 5-star rating. I mean, that’s what I would do, regardless of whether or not I agreed with the statement. I don’t know why these things happen, but today there seems to be some attention directed to this statement of mine. I mean I’ve had six views on the item within a two hour period. I don’t know why. Sometimes, folks see something and make mention of it in their blog or it is listed on some newsletter unknown to the author. I can only assume this is the case here, because all of a sudden it has received some attention. Well, you guessed it; a grey-case bopped into my portfolio, read the statement, commented that the thing was “far too narrow for his liking”, and rated it 4.5-Stars. What a stupid comment. Think about it, my personal statement was too narrow for him. Well, I’d advise him to not use it. Get one of your own! But, dummy, at least respect mine. And, what’s with the rating? Now, I must admit it is my own fault. I left the thing posted as ‘unrestricted,’ which is a particular stupid thing to do. But, hey! I’ve been known to do stupid every now and then…sometimes even on a regular basis. Rest assured I motored on over to my statement and edited it to restrict it for comments only. I can put up with some comments, but can’t tolerate someone rating the thing. Oh, well, that’s life and that’s the extent of this rant. [Geeze, this is the second posting in my blog in a single day. Geeze! I hate to do that!  ] |
| I’ve had them; you’ve had them. You know, moments it seems everything is right. Sometimes they don’t last very long; sometimes they last all day. You know you’re having one when something within your consciousness stops you in your tracks and says, “This is good; I mean really good; in fact it don’t get any better than this.” I suppose the trick to success is to have more of those moments than the others; or to have them last longer and longer. The trick about them is you can’t really intentionally have one of them. Oh, you can set the stage for one and even plan for it, but they usually pop up unexpectedly. Or at least that’s been my experience. I hope to have one today. Heck, I want to have one every day all day long. But, as you know, what I want and what I get are two different things. The last one I had was yesterday morning. Yesterday morning began uneventfully, with the exception of the fact I woke up. Waking up has become a particular fondness of mine. Ever since I had my heart surgery, waking up has held particular significance in my life. Other than having ‘as good as it gets moments’ I enjoy ‘waking up in the morning times’ thoroughly. I woke yesterday and stumbled through the house to the kitchen to get a drink, convincing my eyelids to remain open, or at least one of them. Max followed me, yawning and stretching, fighting his own battle with sleep. I immediately walked out on the back porch with Max to give him an opportunity to do his morning chores. For the life of me I don’t know why he thinks I have to go outside with him to witness that event; but, he does. Anyway, I sat out there until he merrily did his thing and trotted back to the porch satisfied and ready to reclaim the house, which we did until later in the morning. Max missed his early morning walk yesterday because I had to get a project ready to transmit first thing come daylight. Only after working in my office to clear that hurdle could I even entertain the idea of walking with Max. It amazes me how he patiently waits until I am ready, obediently curled up next to me as I work. Anyway, we missed daybreak, which is the hour we most enjoy taking our walk. But, we were able to get out early enough where the morning chill still claimed the trail where we walk around our little lake. Somewhere along the trail we bumped into friends: Misty, Ernie, and their master Mel. I visited with Mel momentarily and let Max romp briefly with his two dog buddies. Then we continued on around the lake without encountering anyone else. The air was cool and the light windbreaker I had chosen was perfect. No wind was blowing and we had clear skies, with only wisps’ of high Cirrus clouds high above. All the rain we've had recently has encouraged every blade of grass and weed to grow vigorously, as if they were in a competition to see which could grow faster and greener. The leaves are fully on the trees now, broad and new, well into the competition for greenness. Max was rewarded with several squirrels romping in the park area, apparently there just for him to terrorize, which he happily did. As I waited, sitting on one of the benches located remotely around the park, I watched Max track down a dozen smells as he ambled through the dew laden grass. I listened to the sounds of the morning, calls of dozens of birds that I don’t recognize, the bark of a distant dog, the annoying racket of the geese claiming the lake as their own, even the distant roar of traffic down the unseen highway next to our subdivision. In the midst of that moment I realized, it didn’t get any better than that. There was just me and Max and the rest of the world, doing things right, at least right there…at that moment things were all right. I had no other concern in the world other than living that very moment. Of course, there is a lesson to be remembered here. We only really have the moment. The past is gone and cannot be reclaimed, no matter how much we want to. Tomorrow is out of our reach and not guaranteed. When tomorrow gets here, often we miss it because we are still looking at the next tomorrow. All we really have is this moment. I believe it is a gift given to me by a loving Creator. When I slow down and look around me, savoring the now, I often have one of those ‘as good as it gets’ moments. Me and Max had one of them yesterday morning, somehow I know Max knows what I’m talking about. |
| My grandson is living through a milestone. In just a few short weeks he will be graduating from high school. I often take him to school in the mornings. Our talks are short vignettes of small talk, lectures, information, advice, and often just silliness. These early morning talks last about twenty minutes. It’s hard to be a wise mentor in twenty minutes. No doubt I manage only to be an ancient and boring senior adult. Hopefully, though, I have succeeded in being a grandfather. I have come to the conclusion, most certainly, that Ryan is clueless about what life is about to dish out to him. He has ideas of college, independence, and fun—not necessarily in that order. I’m afraid that fun occupies the forefront of his after school goals. I certainly want him to have his share of fun and have told him so. I have also told him about the parts dealing with responsibility, hard work, study, and discipline. Unfortunately, I think his mind is focused on fun, which includes cars, parties, and girls—not necessarily in that order. Oh well, experience will order these things. Hopefully, he will come around without too much collateral damage. But, I’ve learned you gotta just let them learn on their own, for there will certainly be some collateral damage. I mean it’s not like they haven’t been advised beforehand. But, at the moment he is on the top of the world. He is in the last three weeks of high school. It’s taken him twelve years to get to this point. The last half-dozen years seemed to have crawled by, as he looked forward to the day when he would be out. Well, it’s here. He’s taken all his tests and passed respectfully with good grades. He attended the senior prom with a gorgeous young lady and had a blast. He has been accepted to Texas State University in San Marcos. He is now coasting to the finish line. It’s like a dream. I know; I remember when I did it. Like Ryan, I was in for an eye-opener soon to be dealt by life. I wonder, in forty-five years when he sits where I’m sitting, what life will have been like? In Ryan’s case I believe I will be able to smile and say he did alright for himself. He’s a good kid and will make good decisions….I hope. In any case, there are a bunch of folks who will be walking along side of him as he tests this new independence of his. I wish him well; and I will pray for him every day. He needs the help; and I need the practice. |
| OK, I’ve seen some comments in WDC which imply some folks are less than happy with the new format provided by the administrators of the site. Granted, it was quite a shock opening the portfolio up to a totally new layout. However, our initial reaction is typical of our species. It seems nature has ingrained within our being to be cautious. We are, in fact, cautious creatures; we got to sniff it first. We don’t accept change readily. Now, don’t get me wrong; we adapt beautifully. Given a second look, most of us are more than willing to jump on the newest craze. But, we first have to sniff it to record the scent and then we can mark it as our own. All I’m saying is that the new look ain’t so bad. In fact, it’s pretty cool. It does lots of stuff we couldn’t do before. I know one of the things I’m excited about is that I no longer have to have two folders for a single topic. The new pull-down style lets me have more than 25 items in a folder. I like that. I also like all the neat links located around the page. Now, I’m a statistics sort of guy. That’s what I do. This new look gives more statistics in an easier format. For example, click on the link that says “Stats and Info” just below the tab markers. That gives me some basic information, like it tells me I’m woefully negligent on my ratio of “reviews sent” to “reviews received.” In that same window, click on “Show Item Summary” and you get a very good summary of your activity in WDC. I am impressed to find that 49,307 people have viewed my portfolio. That’s a lot of folks. Granted, it has taken over six years to get all those views. Among those folks, 1,356 have reviewed the material contained in there. Which means a pitiful 03% of the people who read my stuff actually stop to leave a review. But, remember, those same statistics revealed I need to get on the stick and improve my own reviewing rate. The bottom line is that I’m still trying this new format out…still sniffing. However, my preliminary evaluation is SM and company has done a pretty good job. There were problems with the older format. SM has spent time chipping away at the issues. However, this new approach is much more than a “band-aid” approach to the site; it is, in fact, an improvement. Way to go, SM. Now, the biggest problem it seems to me is regaining the spirit of writing again. This was intended to be a writing site, a place where folks came to showcase their writing and to improve their craft. I know it has been helpful to me. However, I suspect, from the comments I’ve received, many folks have strayed from that original purpose. Perhaps it is the blogging or the emphasis on reviewing—I don’t know. I would regret if any of that would decrease; we need those areas of emphasis. However, we need more writers to write. I know I miss some of my favorite writers who have stopped writing and started blogging. Maybe there is some way to provided an incentive for those writers to return to the creative world of writing….and still be bloggers; after all blogging is also writing. Oh, I don’t know…just thinking. |
OK, I've written a new story
I need to know if it's any good. The only way I know is if you tell me. Two days later... OK, I'm beginning to think there is something wrong with the story. It's been two days and twelve views since it was originally posted. Folks have looked at it but nobody has said anything about it. Is the topic too contraversial? I mean, it deals with race, slavery, brutality and sexual exploitation. It also deals with the desire of the human spirit to be free and the quest for freedom. It's based on an actual place...a place that my ancestors were familiar with. It is couched in historical fact, however unpopular and disgusting that may be. Yet, I've become concerned that maybe the style of the story is offensive. The dialogue is certainly stereo-typical of what we consider being the uneducated, illiterate dialect of black slaves in the south. Did I do something wrong with this story so that no one will touch it? I didn't think so when it gushed out of my mind onto the page. I don't know...just wondering. You know, forget about a review. Just let me know if it's any good, or if it's inappropriate, or just plain sucks. |
OK, I've written a new story
I need to know if it's any good. The only way I know is if you tell me. |
| Have you noticed that most historians are older folks. I realize that is quite a generalization, and I stand to certainly be corrected. Nevertheless, as I have grown older I notice that my interest in the items of history has increased relative to the advancing years. Even as a young man, I had an interest in the events surrounding the Second World War. Of course, I connect that directly to my father who fought with the Marines in the Pacific on Okinawa and my uncle who fought with the 82nd Airborne in Europe at the Battle of the Bulge. A personal connection to history helps to feed one’s interest. At the loss of my parents, who died just months apart, I developed a keen interest in genealogy. As an only child I found myself without roots and somewhat disturbed regarding my place in history. And so, I tenaciously followed the example of genealogist who have preceded me and rooted around in dusty archives and old cemeteries. The advance of personal computers and access to the Internet propelled me at light speed into the depths of my heritage. I made countless enquiries for birth certificates, marriage licenses, and death certificates at state archives, county courthouses, and other places of records. I connected with a few knowledgeable researchers who were also following my lineage and shared information with them. Eventually I amassed quite a store of records and information. I can now trace my paternal lineage back to 1650 to Captain Adam Boutwell. Along that lineage I found Stephen Boutwell who fought in the Revolutionary War, Nathaniel who fought in the Civil War, and Alexander who fought in the War with Mexico and the Civil War. Of course there are scores of other folks who had full lives and very interesting stories. The bottom line is all of it is history. Almost every important event of my American heritage can be tied by name to an ancestor who was there at the time. And so my interest has moved me professionally to work with municipalities creating historic preservation districts which help reclaim the local heritage of small Texas communities. My library is filled with books on the Second World War and the Civil War. I have nick-knacks on my selves that ‘have a story.” Every opportunity I get I share these stories. My grandchildren are the primary recipients. And, I must not forget the short stories I have written using historic events. All of these are products of my ever insatiable appetite for history. Realizing that I could go on and on, I choose to stop this discourse. Only the truly interested student of history will have made it this far anyway. And, if you contend you are not a historian, I take issue with that. It is a very contagious condition and you have been infected. At some time in the future you too will be smitten with the history bug. That’s just the way it is. |
| Twenty years ago my in-laws, Linda's mom and dad, purchased a house in Tulsa and moved it to a spot adjacent to Lake Keystone in the State of Oklahoma, USA. The move was very interesting. The movers actually cut the house in half, moved it to the new site, and then reassembled it. Well, in the course of cutting the house in half they found a box in the attic. Upon opening it they found a stack of currency—German currency. It was assumed the stuff was worthless, since the dates on the bills ranged from 1907 to 1923—all before World War II and the advent of a new monetary system for Germany following the war. Nevertheless out of curiosity they kept the worthless bills. For some reason, perhaps because she knew how much of a history buff I am, my mother-in-law gave me an envelope with twenty-eight bills that ranged from 1 RM (Riechsmark) to 500-Million RM-quite a range. The cumulative total of all the denominations is around 548,152,695 RM. Not knowing what I had, I filed the envelope away for safe keeping. Occasionally, I take it out and allow my curiosity to roam as I shuffle through the odd bills. Twenty years later, I still don’t know what I have. But, It’s interesting that within that simple little envelope I possess a half-billion Riechsmarks of pre WWII German currency. No doubt that these bills are worth more today than they were when they were printed. History tells us that Germany was caught in a very difficult circumstance at that time. Following the end of World War I, the treaty of Versailles required the German government to pay reparations for the damage incurred to the Allied countries during the war, mainly England and France. Of course the loser has very little say regarding the conditions of surrender. Germany agreed to the condition and then proceeded to attempt to make payments. With a devastated economy the German government initially made their payments in gold and goods at the expense of repairs and improvements of their own country. The factories and printing presses ran non-stop making products to export and printing currency with which the workers were paid. The trade unions sought and received raises for the worn workers, and the government simply printed more money. Likewise the baker raised his prices and the farmer raised his prices to meet the increased cost of doing business. In January of 1923, believing Germany had defaulted on the terms of the treaty, France invaded the resource rich Ruhr region of Germany and occupied the area with the intent on using its resources as payment of Germany’s war debt. The Ruhr region furnished four-fifths of Germany’s coal and steel production. The German workers refused to work for the French and the plants lay idle. To support the striking workers the German government printed and distributed more unsecured currency. Into this scenario a new term was born—hyperinflation. By fall of 1923 the price of goods had increased to the ridiculous. Workers were paid with wheelbarrows of currency, which explains the 500-Million RM bill tucked within my collection. In 1924 the breathtaking spiral into inflation was halted when Charles Dawes, a Chicago Banker, helped to orchestrate the Dawes Plan, which left the Reichsbank partially under an American commissioner and reduced the reparations by 80%, in some cases. This eventually permitted Germany to proceed with repayment and help it to climb from the depths of the abyss. However, the psychological impact of these events to the people of Germany was significant, and it prepared fertile soil for the fanatical ideology of Adolf Hitler and a renewed nationalist spirit. The seeds of the Second World War had been sowed and the world would soon experience the produce. I handle these obsolete Reichsmarks casually but thoughtfully. I imagine the hands from which they have been exchanged. Some of them are folded, being carried in a wallet or vest pocket. They speak to me of history and events that have impacted us today. I consider my family and how we have been changed because of the events which caused these bills to be created. I think of my uncle as a sergeant with the 82nd Airborne in the Battle of the Bulge, as he participated in finishing the great conflict, which was the outgrowth of this period. I suppose my half-billion Riechsmarks may not have much monetary value, but they are important, nevertheless. They represent a piece of history that I can hold in my hand. I’ll probably go ahead and see if they have any value in today’s dollars. Regardless of their financial worth, I already know they are significant historically, at least they are to me. And that is probably enough to cause me to hold on to them. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** [Note: Further research after posting this entry, revealed the exchange rate in 1923 was $1 for 4.2 Trillion Reichsmarks. That would make my half-billion worth about $0.12 in 1923 dollars.....interesting.] |
| Curiosity is a very interesting thing. We all have it. It is universal. I’m often curious about stuff; Linda is also. Heck, we know what curiosity did to the cat; the saying says it killed it. Surely curiosity has been around even before man discovered fire. Og probably burned his fingers sticking it in the flames, caused by his curiosity of the warm flickering stuff. The Bible tells us Eve plucked the forbidden fruit from the tree because of her curiosity. Some would have us believe little green men cruising the solar system noticed a pretty blue planet and curiosity caused them to detour to Earth, resulting in the Pyramids and endless speculation by curious Earthmen for generations. So I shouldn’t be too surprised to find that my dog, Max, is a curious dog. I mean he wants to know what I’ve got in my hand constantly. The plumber came over to fix the sink. Every time the man stuck his hand in his tool box, Max’s nose went in there also. If you pick it up, Max wants to know what it is. His curiosity has gotten him in trouble on occasion, like the time he had to investigate the strange cat with the white stripe down its back and tail; at least he thought it was a cat. Max’s most embarrassing curiosity trait has got to be his crotch sniff. I’ve tried to stop him from doing that but have come to know that’s just the way he is. When he meets someone new, he has to get all the information he can—therefore, the crotch sniff. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was delicate about it. But no, he has to plunge his nose firmly into the crotch, probing almost. What can I say, “Enquiring minds gotta know.” So, this morning as Max and I entered my study, I walked to the floor to ceiling window that overlooks the street, drew the curtains open, and raised the shade. I do that on days when we don’t have bright morning sunshine. Today’s overcast skies were perfect for Max. He immediately placed his black butt on the ground with his nose nearly pressed to the window and surveyed his kingdom. As I sat in my chair behind my desk I watched him for a moment. His ears would spring alert; he would whip his head in the direction of interest, and he would analyze what was outside his window. Occasionally, I would hear a very low growl as he disapproved of some critter invading his yard. And a few times he would erupt into a cascades of barking as he vocally announced either his displeasure or his desire to join in the action taking place outside the window. He is a very curious dog. At this moment, the window is still uncovered, waiting for his attention. But, Max has satisfied his initial curiosity. He is now perfectly willing to let the world pass by his window unmolested. Watching the world pass by is hard work. He is now curled up next to my chair soundly asleep—content to dream about the wondrous things he discovered outside his upstairs window. Later he will wake with renewed curiosity. There seems to be an endless reserve of the stuff. However, right now, there is peace and quiet in my office. The only curiosity present is mine. I am amazed at my dog, curiously so. |
| I helped give away twelve-thousand dollars yesterday. That may not seem like a lot of money when you consider the amount of zeros stacked up in the Stimulus and Bailout bills. We seem to get used to hearing about the trillions of dollars being shuffled around by our government. It sometimes sensitizes us to lesser sums of money, until we begin to examine our own personal budget. When it comes to my own budget, George Washington’s single dollar bill becomes the dominate denomination with which I deal. From that perspective twelve-thousand dollars is indeed a significant amount of money. Well, to make a long story short, I helped to give that tighty sum away yesterday. Our local Rotary Club gives scholarship grants to deserving seniors who are committed to attending college. Generally the money is given in a number of grants of one-thousand dollars. However, we award one five-thousand dollar scholarship. The five-thousand dollar scholarship is awarded after we interview the top six candidates. It takes about twenty minutes per young person to determine to whom it will be given. I must say those are some of the most rewarding minutes I spend all year; I’ve done it for twelve years, now. All the times I’ve witnessed or heard some smart mouthed teen flipping off an adult, threatening a teacher, lying to a parent, or drinking, drugging, and having reckless irresponsible sex—all those instances are put into perspective after I interview these young high school scholars. Every year I leave the interview site affirming these were some of the brightest and focused minds on the planet. I have hope that the social, economic, and political mess we adults have created will be in capable hands, eventually. All we have to do is to get them through college. These young people will be the brain surgeons, engineers, bankers, attorneys and scientists who will make the world work once I am retired and assigned to a rocking chair on the front porch. I feel assured that although these young people were certainly the upper ten-percent of the graduating class, there are scores of other young adults who share their passion for life and ability to do it right. Many of them may never go to college or shine academically as these do, but they are all cut from the same cloth and will make responsible parents and neighbors. This thought helps me look past the few bad apples that gain all the attention of the media. It helps me commit to continue to seek to find a solution to our socio-economic problems now. If we can just give these young people a chance to exercise their responsibilities and abilities, there is a chance this mess of a world we’ve created will be a better place. In the scheme of things, our little twelve-thousand dollars will not go very far materially. However, it reaches light-years into the future with its spirit. It gives these young adults hope that someone cares. It may buy some books or pay for room for a semester; it may defray tuition just enough to permit them to make it otherwise. In the back of their mind, these young people realize that someone has helped. And someday, maybe not too far off, they will be able to pay it back by gestures of their own. And that’s what it’s all about—helping others to help others. Yup, me and my Rotary friends did good yesterday. |
| The human spirit is a remarkable thing. But, of course, you already know that. I have come to believe, for the most part, people are trusting creatures. We want to believe the things we read and hear. For the most part, we believe what folks say is true until they prove otherwise. At least that is the way I feel. To believe otherwise from the beginning would lead to a very cynical view of life. From that view no one is trusted and everyone must prove themselves first. Perhaps that is why the confidence in our current political leaders is at such a low ebb…but, that’s another story. I have known a few ‘con-men’ in my day. I worked with one for about a year. The amazing thing about con-men is they are truly likable people. This guy, I’ll call him Ted, was a good story teller. He passed himself off as a registered engineer from the State of Alabama. He was hired by an engineering firm I worked for in Texas—a very large and prestigious firm. The bottom line is they discovered he was lying about being an engineer when the Texas firm contacted the State of Alabama to see if they could facilitate the reciprocity of his engineering credentials. The Texas firm was informed that Ted was a fraud and wanted by the authorities for practicing without a license. One day Ted was there and the next he was gone. I never saw him again. The interesting thing about Ted is the relationships he formed with me and my fellow employees at the Texas firm. He was considered a capable engineer. He knew just enough to get by, and what he didn’t know he faked. But, during that particular period of time, a coworker and I were considering breaking away from the large firm and starting our own consulting firm. Somehow Ted got wind of this and before we knew it, he was in on the partnership. Supposedly, because of his close relationship with the Governor of Alabama, he was going to bring several large road contracts into the new firm. Of course, this excited my buddy and me, because we were looking at a dozen of our local clients who we figured would make the move with us. The lucrative government projects promised by Ted gave us hope for a grand beginning of the fledgling firm. Hindsight is always 20/20. However, when you are in the middle of life, your perspective of the situation is often that of tunnel vision. Our natural desire is to always see the good, which means we only want to see the good stuff—not the bad. Such was the case with Ted. After Ted was gone there were a dozen stories and yarns he had weaved, which I now find very difficult to believe. Amazingly, I believed each one at the time he was telling them—well, almost. Two or three times I shook my head and said to myself, Self, that’s just a little hard to believe. However, what doubt entered my mind at the time was quickly displaced by the willingness of my coworkers to accept Ted at face value. And, so I, along with everyone else including management who had hired him, believed Ted. Lucky for me, he was exposed and fled the area before my friend and I entered into a new business venture with him. That was a close call. I tell this long and drawn out story to provide the background for something that happened to me just this week. Last Friday my Rotary Club had a guest speaker who was an author from Alaska. The man had written a book about his thirty years of living in the Alaskan wilderness with his family. He shared with my group of Rotarians some of the events chronicled in his story; it was a thoroughly fascinating story. As a result, I quickly purchased a copy of his book. I read it and was impressed with the human spirit captured within the story. So much so, that I quickly recommended it to a close friend, giving it raving reviews. Inspired by his story, I decided to wander on over to Amazon.com and write a review of the book. When I got there I noticed I was not the first one to do so. I was preceded by a fair number of readers who had left glowing reviews, much along the line of my own thinking about the book. All was good; the world was right; others believed as I did. I said “did” because I just don’t know now. The very last reviewer pronounced the author to be a fraud, claiming personal experience with him. I mean, this was someone who was personally familiar with the man. So, now, what am I to think? Hindsight tells me the fantastic account of the author’s life was certainly unusual and at time difficult to believe. Perhaps he has embellished the facts a little? Perhaps things are not quite as they really occurred? But then perhaps the damaging review is the fraud. Now, I just don’t know. You can read it for yourself and decide. The book is called “One Wave at a Time.” The author is Billy Bryan Brown. I want to believe, but, then again, I’ve known a couple of con-men in my day that have caused me to doubt. It was so much easier to just be naïve. It’s hell having to grow up…even at my age. |
| I don't remember who sent this to me. I received it in an email. I am not an emotional person, but it brought a tear to my eye. I will let you be the judge. http://www.greatdanepro.com/Pray%20For%20America/index.htm |
| In the early morning hour, I stood hovering over the brewing coffee, willing the dang stuff to be made. I glanced at our back door, which has a full glass pane permitting us an unobstructed view into the back yard. There, giving equal attention to the happenings outside and totally ignoring the coffee brewing, was my black Lab, Max, sitting with his nose pressed against the glass of the door. Tearing myself away from my vigil over the brewing pot of coffee, I managed to open the door. Max bounded through the door as soon as I released the catch, shoving the door open and scurrying into the back yard. Apparently, he had his mission already formed and planned, even as he waited in the house with his nose pressed against our back door glass. In great arcing circles he ran around the back yard, barking and bouncing like Tiger in the Winnie the Pooh cartoons. I would have considered him as being totally insane, had I not seen the birds swooping in dive-bomber maneuvers into our yard. Well out of Max’s reach, the birds coursed through the airspace that hovered above our yard. I don’t know when Max noticed birds. Most of the time the dog has his nose affixed to the ground chasing some scent of preceding creatures. But, somewhere along the way, Max looked up and noticed birds. Perhaps it was as he stared out the glass of our back door. It doesn’t matter when he received that revelation, for it was thoroughly entrenched in his conscious now as he tore around the yard, bouncing and barking at the elusive avian creatures. I murmured under my breath, with my smug omniscient human intelligence, “Dumb dog! Why in the world does he even try? He can never catch a bird. He’s just wasting time and effort and making a big to-do out of it.” I then returned to the house and prepared for an early morning meeting with a valued client. Later, as I sat in traffic, I considered the stalled automobiles waiting impatiently in line, yearning for some progress in our collective journeys. I could almost hear the barking coming from the cars. Each one contained a human who was chasing some elusive object—be it wealth, power, freedom, fulfillment, rewards, recognition, etc. Like Max, we held our noses to the windshield and bounded down the freeway barking at something that seemed totally out of reach. I had to smile and hand it to Max. That dog wasn’t so dumb. He was just doin’ what we all did—chase a dream. Only, Max didn’t drive sixty miles down a crowded freeway; he just walked outside his back door and did it in his own yard. Nope, he’s not so dumb after all. (posted also in opensalon.com) |
| Title: Reviewing with Class and Style Date: March 23, 2010, Tuesday Thought: There are many reviewers out there who have far outclassed me, and I appreciate their efforts. Jog: I have been a member of WDC for some time now. I entered my first item on January 3, 2004. Since that time I have posted many more items, mostly short stories. I contend that my stay in WDC has been a very rewarding one. I have learned much in here. In fact, I believe my stay in WDC has taught me more than could a series of university writing classes. And, believe me, I have some experience taking college courses, having stumbled through enough of them to earn a master’s degree. OK, I know some of you will raise a dubious eyebrow, thinking that just can’t be so. Well, you must consider first how far I had to go, which was considerable. When the bucket is empty it’s easy to see the progress as it fills. And, my journalistic bucket was empty. So, of course, I was going to see progress, if I even half way utilized the tools provided in WDC. It’s all about utilizing the tools. What did I do? Well, first of all I wrote a lot of stuff—all kinds of stuff, essays, poetry, blogs, short stories, and really short stories. There is no substitute for simply practicing the craft. Secondly, I read the stuff other folks had written—the bad stuff as well as the good stuff. The trick to reading other stuff is to recognize the pitfalls of others as well as the genius. Recently, I’ve gotten into the habit of reading only material that has been awarded ribbons and trophies and items rated four stars and above. I applied what I learned from reading other folks material. I entered as many contests for which I could meet the qualifications. There’s no doubt contests get exposure for your material. And, after all, don’t we write so other people will read what we write. The most important thing about entering the contests is not winning the thing, but the exposure you get from posting your material. The reviews are important. I don’t know of even one item I have entered which has not been improved through the comments of reviewers. However, for those comments to be useful to me, I had to swallow my pride of authorship and admit there are issues in my writing. Once I got over that hurdle, the rest of the race was easy. (Important note on reviews: they are all suggestions. Take what you feel will help, discard the other. But, appreciate the time and effort given by the reviewer in any case.) One rule that I have kept is to also review others material. My reviewing has been minimal. Let’s face it; it takes time to do a review. However, we all have to do it if we expect others to review our own stuff. I have determined to, at a minimum, give as many reviews as I have received. There are many reviewers out there who have far outclassed me, and I appreciate their efforts. But, when you review, do it with grace and style. What I mean is to be considerate of your fellow author’s feelings. You are not a paid journalistic critic. There is no need to slash and burn as the big boys do in the publishing houses. Make every comment with the desire for it to be a helpful comment, realizing that to some folks it is exceedingly difficult to receive any criticism at all, even though it is well intended. Be truthful, but be tactful. I’ve had my share of idiots review my stuff. However, the vast majority of reviewers in WDC are unbelievably talented and useful. One last thing relative to reviewing—never…NEVER…rate a piece without leaving a review. Unless of course there is no improvement necessary for this piece and you intend to leave it with a five-star rating. In my most recent submittal ("Invalid Item"  ) I have had four reviews, which has given me an average rating of 4.5-stars, of which I was pleased. Then, overnight, some dummy read it and gave it 3-stars, which pulled the overall rating down.Now, that’s OK, because I know the piece is better than that; others have told me so. But, it simply infuriates me that some folks toss ratings around in such a haphazard method. I know, I could have chosen to set the piece to “no rating without review” when I set the parameters of the item. But, why should we have to do that? Why can’t we trust our friends in WDC to show a little class and style?—most reviewers do. Heck, I would gladly accept the 3-star rating if the joker would have left a review explaining why my piece is only “average.” I mean, that would have been helpful. In that case I could have possibly made the adjustments and allowed him/her to reassess the story. It has taken me six years in WDC to learn the lesson to never permit a rating without a review. So, please forgive me for that little rant. |
| Is it a bad thing to waltz in here with an entry when I want something from you? I mean, it's not like like I have been really faithful with my posts recently. But, you know, after years of writing this blog, I seem to be a little burned-out. Instead of blogging I've been trying to write. Of course, for me that means fiction...in the form of short stories. In fact, that's what my last entry was about--promoting a short story about military snipers. And so, I have written another story. It's really not my fault, though. I can blame the administrators of WDC. They are the ones who came up with the recent contest. You know, the one where they give you a quote and you write a short story of about 2,000 words inspired by that quote. Well, I did it; I wrote the thing. And then I entered it in the contest. Only, no one seems to notice my brand new creation. Of course, I realize the not everyone's computer is setup with an alarm that sounds when Dan posts a new story....actually, no one is. But, that doesn't mean you don't want a little attention for the new piece. After all, I really have no idea if it sucks or is presentable until someone reads it and tells me. You see, I have no objectivity on that matter. I'm like a new father; all my children are beautiful. Until someone points it out to me, I can't see the warts. Anyway, selfishly and shamelessly I present my new creation. If you've read this far, you might as well take a peek at it. I'd appreciate it. And forgive me for being so selfish.
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: Writing in the Comfort Zone Date: February 28, 2010 Thought: If you get the chance and are so inclined to read my story of war and the finess of killing a man at extreme distance, I would appreciate your comments. Jog: It is of course a certainty that we are more confident of the things of which we are most familiar. I have a friend who will often speak most authoritatively concerning the nature of bees, as well he should since he is a master bee-keeper. I know nothing of bees and can speak only of the experience of being stung a time or two. Of the swelling it produces I can certainly attest most authoritatively. Similarly, I once authored a story about the oilfields of Oklahoma. It was quite easy to write since I was raised in the oil fields and briefly spent time as a roughneck on those oily rigs. Therefore, when desiring to write a story about our modern-day snipers serving in our armed forces, I found myself in unchartered territory, having never served in the military. In fact I was somewhat intimidated by the task. Now, the usual course of action is to steer clear of such situations, simply find another topic on which to write. However, my fascination with the aspects of the sniper would not release its hold on my imagination. I found that the only way I could move on to other things was to write the dang story, which meant I must make myself as familiar with the topic as time and research would permit. Now, I already had a brief knowledge of the topic. My brother, who served as a Lance Corporal in the Marine Corps had long ago introduced me to the long range wonder of hitting a distant target. I remember one summer morning when he and I camped out on a summit of a small hill with a view of a plowed field in the distance. He loaded my father’s 30.06cal rifle, posted me next to him with binoculars as his spotter, and fired a half-mile away at targets down in the field. The thought that the targets, under different circumstances would be people fascinated me. From that day forward I read with interest any article or story pertaining to snipers that I chanced to find and watched intently any movie or video program regarding the subject. So it was with limited knowledge I entered into my task to write my story. Before I could write my first sentence, I realized I would need to have a ready source for the technical aspects necessary to write such a piece. I researched Amazon.Com for suitable written documentation. I selected a book titled Trigger Men: by Hans Halbertstadt, which contained extensive details regarding weapons, scopes, ammunition, tactics, and most importantly, first hand accounts by snipers who served in Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I downloaded the book on my new Kindle and read it. And, lastly, I asked for critical review of my work from my good friend David McClain, who served with the Marines in Vietnam and witnessed his share of combat. Even with this limited education and support, I felt very much inadequate. However, 4,000 words later my story was written and is itelf now history. It is not my best work. However, that does not bother me, since I am not finished with it yet. It is a new piece and the editing will continue for several weeks before I will leave it alone. Verbs, tenses, voice, and flow will be massaged. Perhaps a paragraph or two will be rewritten in their entiety. However, for the most part the bones of the thing is set, and it is presentable for the public. That doesn’t mean it is any good. But of course, I have found that being good is a very subjective thing depending on the likes and dislikes of the reader. And so, I present it to you now. I suspect that very few will in fact read it. Fewer still will review it. But, if you get the chance and are so inclined to read my story of war and the finess of killing a man at extreme distance, I would appreciate your comments. Thanks.
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