My Sporadic Journal

         OK, I’ve been whining for about a year now about getting a hammock. Good grief, you’d think it was a new car or something. But, nope, it was just a hammock. It’s not that I’ve set my sights low or anything like that. I like fancy toys like the next guy. But, I’ve wanted a hammock for I guess forever. I can’t count how many times I’ve gazed at the shady spot in my back yard, which God created especially for a hammock. Every time a cool breeze caressed the trees and brushed the shrubs in our back yard I’ve recalled visions of a hammock strung in that perfect spot—of course the vision included my plump arse planted in the hammock gently rocking back and forth with my shades propped on my eyes and a cool drink with one of those long curvy straws sticking in it. Etched in my brain was that image; and for the last year it played and replayed in my mind when I glanced into my back yard.

         And so yesterday I did it. I bought the hammock. Today I moved it to my back yard and positioned it in that magic spot. Perfect—it was perfect. Of course I took it for a trial spin as soon as it was positioned correctly. All I can say is that I think I’m going to like this. However, there are a few concerns. It was a used hammock, after all. I have not purchased the super duper Mayan hammock that I’ve had my eye on. Nope this one is just a temporary one. My Mayan hammock is rated for 600 lbs--certainly enough for my ample self.

         I am a large guy. At six-foot three-inches tall, I have a lot of me to build on. Over the last sixty years I’ve carefully and strategically positions over 300 lbs of quality muscle and fat on my frame. In other words, I need a 600 lbs. load rated hammock. I don’t know what the temporary hammock I purchased is rated for. All I know is it creaks and pops every time I settle into it. So far so good. It has held. I’m gonna get my load rated Mayan hammock eventually. But, for now I’m gonna stress test this other hammock since I’ve got it already tested out. The only thing that bothers me is that my dog Max, refuses to lie under me or even next to me when I’m tucked onto the temporary hammock. Is his super dog-sense telling him something that I don’t know? Is this a warning? Oh, and I need someplace to set my drink. My root beer dribbles down my chin when I try to drink from my hammock. I need to invest in some straws.

         The awesome thing about having a new load tested hammock is that it gives you a new view on the things around you. I mean literally. As you lay there in your hammock, you look up. Have you ever thought about how much you miss by living most of your life vertical? Certainly it’s good to be able to stand on your two feet and navigate around. But, by doing so we tend to miss stuff. For example, as I was lying in my new load tested hammock, I naturally looked up…like into the sky. As I was looking there a message appeared in the heavens. Now, stay with me here. The message was actually written across the sky. It wasn’t the finger of God sending me some revelation; it was some skywriters delivering a message. It said, “Visit Myrtle Beach.com.”

What are the chances I would have noticed that if I had never looked up from my load tested hammock? Of course I saw other stuff as I looked vertical. I saw the sun sparkle through the leaves of the Redbud tree that was shading me. And, I saw my feet propped up in my new load tested hammock.

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **

         Multiple news media outlets recently reported the interaction between GOP candidate Mitt Romney and a struggling college student, regarding the cost of an affordable 21st Century education. Mitt responded as follows:

         “It would be popular for me to stand up and say I’m going to give you government money to pay for your college, but I’m not going to promise that. Don’t just go to one that has the highest price. Go to one that has a little lower price where you can get a good education. And hopefully you’ll find that. And don’t expect the government to forgive the debt that you take on.”

         As a result of this comment, Mitt has been severely criticized by those of the political left as being uncaring and out of touch with the American middle class. I read a well written article by Rebecca Sarwate, in a popular Internet blogging site, that criticized Mitt for his comments. The writer seemed to imply that it was his position of privilege which caused this disconnect with Main Street America. Now, Mitt may certainly be privileged, and there obviously appears to be some disconnect between him and Main Street America. However, I don’t believe it is necessarily on this issue.

          To that college student I would reply:

         Yes, the cost of education is expensive. Yes, I realize the cost of tuition when I first went to school is a fraction of what it is today. Yes, I realize students need help to get the education they so desperately are seeking. But, no! I will not condemn Mr. Romney for his comments or his position.

         It isn’t easy to make it through school. But, no one said it was supposed to be easy. Anything—ANYTHING--of value costs a great price. The work and toil we exert to pay that price is testament to its value. And, somehow the prize is much more cherished when we have to pay for it. So no! I will not pay for your education. It’s not that I don’t want to or even that I can’t. It’s that it is much more valuable and precious when you earn it.

         When I began my college education, tuition for a state school was about $900 per semester. That’s a far cry from the $4,500 it takes today (look it up—the average cost per semester in the US is $4,500.) From just that perspective alone, one can certainly understand the angst of the writer of the blog and the lowly student confronting Mitt. But, remember, when I began my college education the average annual salary was about $6,000 per month. I know that to be a fact because that’s how much I brought home to my wife and infant.

         To further set the perspective, our first home came with a purchase price of $13,500—a far cry from the cost of my current home. The poverty level today is measured around $22,000—more than three times the amount of my early annual salary. The middle income today, of which is the target of Ms. Sarwate’s article, ranges from $22,000 to $90,000—much more than my simple $6,000 in 1970.

         Obviously a college education costs a lot more today than it did in 1970. However, income potential is also much greater today than in 1970. That is by no means to say we are currently not living through difficult economic times. We certainly are; I feel it just like the rest of America. However, we must also view these current times with some degree of perspective relative to times passed.

         My point is—it was not easy getting an education when I did it, and I have earned my Master’s degree. But, it was by no means given to me. I worked through two-year colleges, transfers, scholarships, and 2nd jobs to get mine—no loans. Sometimes that’s what you have to do. That's exactly what my grandson is doing today.

         I don’t mind my taxes going to help students today with some of the load. I’m just not willing to be happy with paying most of the burden; it's not my education. It IS my future, and I want my future to be guided by individuals who earned their place in life--who know what it means to make the sacrifices to gain the rewards. That’s all Mitt is saying. And, although he came from privilege, I didn’t. Nevertheless we can still arrive at the same conclusion.

(originally published as a comment to Ms. Sarwate's article)

         Each of us has to own up to having a little of an ego. Admit it; it makes you feel good to receive credit for some idea, action, or creation you are responsible for. I can be as humble as the next guy, but I’ve got to admit there are times when I feel slighted when someone else receives credit for something I did. I can’t help it; it’s the little boy in me tugging on my mom’s skirt saying, “Mommy, look what I did.”

         Over the years I’ve had plenty of opportunities to practice biting my tongue on such occasions. Being a consultant, I occasionally come up with a really good idea. Having worked in the field of municipal planning for over thirty years a few of those really good ideas have been implemented across north Texas. When I drive through a community and see aspects of the city plan built as I proposed it should be, I quietly smile and say to myself, “See, I told them that would work.”

         Occasionally, I will be at a meeting where leaders of the community will be touting some study or plan they use as the gospel to guide them in the development of their neighborhood, I wait for them to say, “By the way, Dan wrote this plan and is here with us today.” Well, usually I just wait without any recognition. In most instances the mayor or council receives the credit as well as the praise for the marvelous plan.

         On one such occasion I had a planning director of a community say, “I would have recognized you as the author, but since you were paid to do this, I figured it was just part of your job.” I suppose I should be ashamed that I received payment for work and efforts expended on their city. Perhaps I should have done it for free; that way I could have slept without shame at night. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have had a bed to sleep in or a roof over my head.

         What difference does it make that I received payment for an honest service rendered? Should credit not be given where credit is due? Of course it should; however, I’m not holding my breath. I’ve done this long enough to know that consultants don’t count; they are faceless and forgotten once the plan is adopted. So be it. But, just every now and then it would be nice for someone to say, “Thank you; you did a great job.” It's not as if I'm asking for an Oscar or a Nobel Prize.

         Next week I will have the opportunity to attend a meeting where a progressive community will be presenting their efforts and methodology in developing an historic plan of their old town area. They have already cited in the promotion material the historic document they are using as a guide through the process. As I read the material I recognized that the document is one I prepared for them almost twenty years ago. No one at the city was there when the plan was prepared. This staff does not have a clue that I wrote the thing. Nevertheless, I will be sitting in the audience listening to how they implement the plan realizing that I did that thing.

         I’ll probably nudge the guy sitting next to me and whisper, “That’s my plan; I wrote it.” To which I will probably get the response, “Sure you did.”

         I knew on the first day of my first real job, at age sixteen, someday I would do that retirement thing. I had no idea what that meant, other than I would not be working out in the field I was then in, cutting broomcorn. Now, many of you don’t know what that is or what the significance is. Let me just confirm you do it with your hands, arms and backs; it’s unpleasant, and you don’t make lots of money.

         I knew that someday when I retired I wouldn’t be working in broomcorn. I suspected I wouldn’t be doing my next job either, which was working on a drilling rig as a roughneck. No, I realized those jobs were stepping stones to get me closer to the job I would be doing as a career. I had no earthly idea what that was, and today as I look back at my career I’m amused as to how I got here. The steps through vocations to get to where I am today could never have been planned or choreographed. I had to stumble through life to get here. That I stumbled with such success surprises me as much as I’m sure it would all of my teachers, advisors, councilors, friends, and relatives.

         I’ve always realized that someday I would have to retire—voluntarily or involuntarily. I just hoped that when the time came I could do it gracefully and without worry. During the journey through my work years, there was always the possibility tucked in some insecure part of my psyche that I would be one of those homeless guys camping out under some bridge somewhere. Now, although anything can happen, I don’t really believe that one is much of an option today—fortunately.

         But, as I closed in on the age of sixty I seriously began dealing with the definition of what it means to be retired. Surely the video bytes of commercial scenes where granpa and grandson are sitting in some idyllic setting watching geese fly in the sunset is some of it. Certainly there is a portion of taking time to do the simple things with family. However, that is just a very small portion. There are lots of other hours in the day to occupy one’s time. Of course, a few moments must be set aside for mid-morning and afternoon cat-naps, which are highly underrated and an absolute must.

         The rest of the time is spent in leisure or at work—just like before retirement, except with the proportions significantly switched. The important thing is that both leisure and work be dedicated to things one enjoys. I heard for years that the most important thing to do in life is to find a job that you truly enjoy doing. Find a job that, when given the choice of doing anything else, that’s what you want to be doing. Get a job so that when you retire you do it anyway—you just call it a hobby. And, more importantly, you do it when you want to.

         That being the case, I think I just may be retired. I’m not ready to declare that at this moment; it’s just a suspicion I’ve been mulling over. I hardly ever work a forty hour week anymore—haven’t in years. In fact, I neither want to nor intend to. I piddle the day away studying stocks, trading a few, and keeping up with the business news. I also expend hours writing stuff—nothing special, just stuff. Fortunately I’ve made a little money on the stocks and with the writing. It’s enjoyable and it makes me happy. Nudged in the hours of the week are a couple of projects left over from my consulting days. Three or four clients are all I have going on at any one time and that is plenty for me.

         To me, retirement does not appear to be a specific date on the calendar. There is no last day at the office and no gold watch or party. I appear to be just slipping into it gradually. I suppose the day I claim my Social Security will be the official beginning of retirement. However, I know that isn’t so. On that day I’ll be doing the same thing I’m doing today—only Uncle Sam will be sending me a check…that is if there is anything left in his coffers.

         It seems to me the US government may be guilty of selective application. You know, that’s where you apply great truths selectively in situations which most benefit a particular agenda. A dear friend pointed out a couple of comments made by the government, as follows: “The food stamp program, part of the Department of Agriculture, is pleased to be distributing the greatest amount of food stamps ever. Meanwhile, the Park Service, also part of the Department of Agriculture, asks ‘Please Do Not Feed the Animals’ because the animals may grow dependent and not learn to take care of themselves.”

         Amazingly, there are scores of people who take great pride in the fact that we are feeding more and more people and increasing that number rapidly. And yet the Park Service warns us against the harmful effects of feeding the animals. Now before you begin your tirade proclaiming my intent to let the poor and defenseless starve, don’t. I am just as compassionate as my neighbor. Just think about this for a moment.

         Since we are animals too, should it not hold true that humans can develop the same type of dependency as other animals, when it becomes easier to receive a food handout than to work for it? Is it not within the realm of possibility that the human animal could possibly grow dependent and cease to take care of themselves? We cite Pavlov’s dogs to explain the human tendency to form habits. It just appears to me the Park Service has run a much grander experiment with feeding the animals. Should we not draw some conclusions from their experience?

         The last time I checked my biology handbook, humans are still part of the animal kingdom. We are just as impressionable as the animals roaming our wilderness areas. When food is scarce and difficult to come by, bears and other animals leave the protective canopy of the forest and venture into suburbia looking for food. They have discovered that we, the human animal, are easy picking. We toss our unwanted leftovers in receptacles which we conveniently store outside, that is if we don’t just throw our half-eaten hamburger and fries on the ground. Sometimes, out of curiosity and amusement humans hand-feed the hungry animals, ignoring the signs admonishing us to do otherwise. The animals, by the way, have learned it is much easier to receive this handout than to hunt for food in the forest. And perhaps they realize that we as humans have a disdain of being told what to do and will usually ignore any and all signs of admonition.

         Our welfare system is a necessary system. It must never be abandoned. We must have some sort of provision to assist those who are truly needy. Let’s face it; sometimes people just need help. However, we do a disservice to those we are helping when we promise unending support from the cradle to the grave. How can they be expected to stand on their own if they are not given the incentive or the opportunity to do so? It seems only reasonable to expect someone who is promised to be fed for month after month to wait until there are no more months before they attempt to stand on their own.

         And, we have a government that is bent on extending the feeding period to infinity, if left unchecked. Are we not enablers? In the guise of compassion, do we not deepen the dependency and helplessness of those in need—not to mention those who are intent on abusing the system? How is what our government does any different from what a drug dealer does to the junkies they supply? How will our actions under the guise of compassion and generosity ever break the habits of poverty, when we righteously ignore the signs which read, “Please, Do Not Feed the Animals!”

         Two-hundred-and-thirty-six years ago our government declared our independence. It was a novel idea that men should have the right and the opportunity to be whatever they could make of themselves. Truly we have discovered that equality is difficult to define. Even in the best systems we have discovered that some men were born more equal than others. However, we have been working under the framework of the guidelines established by our founding fathers to continually refine that right of equality. However, nowhere in our Declaration of Independence or the Constitution does it encourage the right of dependency of one individual on another. No Sir, it is independence which is the foundation of our government. Without casting judgment on any people, class, or ideology, the statement by the Park Service, “Please, Do Not Feed the Animals” may possibly be much more responsible than the ever expanding influence of the food stamp program.

         If you’ve wandered into this blog to gain inspiration to accomplish some life deed or if you’re seeking some profound bit of knowledge to spark some sort of life epiphany, relax; it ain’t gonna happen today—at least not here. Today I’m gonna compare me to my dog--our ages to be more exact. However, if you believe you can launch an epiphany from that, then stick around.

         For those of you who have never graced these virtual pages before, I’ve got an eight year old black Lab named Max—or he’s got me; we’re still figuring that one out. Anyway, through the years he and I have grown quite fond of each other. To say we are inseparable is only a gnat’s hair from being the gospel truth. Most days he is glued to my side. When I take a ride into town to do stuff you usually do in town, he goes with me. As I do my people thing in the places I go to, Max curls up in the back seat of my Titan pick-up truck and snoozes, which isn’t a bad thing since when I fold up the back seat he has a veritable dog run back there.

         Being close, we have the opportunity to do a little staring at each other. I have studied his chin recently as he slept on the floor beside me. I haven’t a clue what he has studied about me, but I am a little disconcerted as I consider he often joins me in the bathroom. I’ve noticed grey hairs are beginning to populate the side of his muzzle and beneath his chin. At first there were just a few solitary invaders which were over-powered by the mass of deep black hair that covers him—and our floor and furniture. He is so black he shines like polished coal. We have black hair everywhere. I’ve opened the refrigerator door to find a wayward black follicle perched on a shelf—yes, I know it’s disgusting. Please know I made the appropriate “yuk” sound when I discovered it. Nevertheless the invasion of grey hair on my dog, Max, is quite noticeable, especially now that it has invaded in more number and with a concerted effort.

         It’s obvious to me that Max is no longer a puppy. The energy and excitement of puppy-hood has long disappeared from his nature. Although he is playful at times, it’s more of a grown-up play. I suppose he doesn’t play as much anymore because I don’t play as much. I no longer run and jump and play with him, not because I’m a party-pooper; I don’t run and jump and play because I happen to be an old codger. I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened. The important thing is that Max really doesn’t seem to care that much. At eight years of age, he is quite content to curl up and sleep on my feet, which is a good thing because it gives him his rest and it keeps my feet warm. And, accompanying this change in activity apparently is the onslaught of grey hair.

         The invasion of grey hair on Max’s muzzle and chin testifies that age has established a beachhead on my dog. He is growing older. I don’t like to dwell on Max’s mortality. I’m not particularly fond of the idea he is aging much more rapidly than I am. It has been said that each year is like seven years to a dog, in terms of lifespan. Using that analysis, being eight years old would make Max the equivalent of 56 years. He’s sneaking up on me, who claims 63 years on this planet. That means on his next birthday he and I will almost be the same age (since I’ll sneak in one more birthday before that time.)

         This disparity in age caused me to do a little more research on the calculation of dog years. What I discovered is that the one to seven ratio may not be quite accurate. In fact, one dog expert contends that dogs age at a rate of 10.5 to one for the first two years of life and then at a rate of four to one thereafter. Considering that theory, Max would be a middle-aged 45 today. This mode of calculation would also put Max and me at the same age of 71 when he is 14.5 years—that’s over six years away. For right now, I'm still older than him. All I can say is that old dog and me have got a bunch of livin’ to do in the next six years. I only wish he was eligible for Social Security; I could use the extra check.

         I had breakfast with a beautiful young lady today. Her beauty is certainly physical but it extends much deeper to her inner-self, and surely to her very soul. The amazing thing about advancing age is that I am afforded the opportunity to watch a precious life evolve. I am mindful of the great journey my granddaughter has taken these first seventeen years of her life--from adolescent to a mature young woman; the transformation has been exciting and dramatic.

         For the last several years she and I have chosen to set aside the first Saturday of every month for breakfast with each other. Over that period we have sampled breakfast fares of numerous eateries located in our town and adjacent towns. The food has certainly been nourishing for the body, but more importantly the relationship we have shared has been satisfying to my spirit and hopefully her’s. She has shared her likes, dislikes, viewpoints, problems and dreams over these morning meals. I have attempted to provide a smidgen of grandfatherly wisdom whenever I could. Undoubtedly, I have received the better payment for these precious moments. I am therefore in her debt forever.

         We talked today about her quickly approaching graduation from high school and her plans afterwards. Gratefully, college is solidly in her future, as she seeks to find the institution of higher learning that will provide her the best opportunity for education at a price that satisfies the budget. It isn’t an easy task, but a necessary one. I have no doubt she will soon have that step taken.

         This caused us to discuss briefly the difference between her life in high school and her new life afterwards. Her high school years, although generally satisfying, have not been free of adolescent trauma. Her sense of right and wrong and her choice in making decisions led her to sever some long established friendships and forge new ones. Such is life in high school. But there is no doubt that today’s teenager is faced with pressures the older generations simply did not have. The peer pressure is tremendous, and young people are influenced by an onslaught of ideas and lifestyles conveyed by a communication system which was non-existent when I was in high school.

         I am proud of the choices she has made during these formative and confusing years. Certainly it is difficult to endure the changes from adolescence to young adult without the added peer pressure encouraged by media and friends. It forces young people to set boundaries and make difficult decisions as to who really is worthy to be one’s friend. Many teens fail at this decision; hopefully the damage is minimal until the lesson can be learned.

         As we talked, I shared my analogy of her current situation. Until this moment she has existed in a very controlled environment whose boundaries have been generally related to associations formed in high school. Her life and sphere of relationships have been largely influenced by her school activities. For these last twelve years she has rubbed shoulders with many of the same kids--each one maturing through the process of growing and learning to be an adult. Cliques have formed and social standards have been set, be they either good or not so good. Her world has been framed within the panes of the high school system, which was by law mandatory and beyond her control.

         In a couple of months she will graduate from high school and move beyond this system. She will move into a new society beyond the limits of the high school parameters. For many young people, this represents new freedom and new opportunities. Assuredly, for my granddaughter and for all of these young people, it can be a frightening experience often approached with excitement and bitter-sweet emotions. Until this moment she existed as a fish in a small pond, constantly bumping into the familiar things in that pond. Now, she will be released into the vast ocean—much deeper than the pond of her adolescence and filled with untold opportunities and strange things to bump into.

         What she does now is up to her. It is her decision. She can do as many have done and stay close to the pond, never venturing far from its familiar banks and bottom—always preferring to bump into the things she has bumped into for her first seventeen years of life. She can swim into to the ocean, but not far, keeping an eye on the distant banks of the pond while testing the waters of the ocean. Or she can jump into the ocean and swim—swim into its depths, claiming its vast waters and endless opportunities as her own—swimming far from the familiar banks of the little pond, being aware of the dangers of the deep but welcoming its currents and swells with the confidence of an accomplished swimmer. The decision is hers. What will she do? Regardless of her decision, I know she will be happy with the decision she makes, for it will be made with divine guidance.

         Personally, I suspect she will swim into the ocean, testing and claiming its depths as her own. Regardless of what she does, I am very proud of her and envy her greatly. Ah, if only I were seventeen again.