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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: Chastity and the Media Date: May 2, 2009, Saturday Thought: The media has never been a chaste and unbiased society. It is by its very nature superficial, spurting the latest gossip of breaking events before the full context of the event has been accomplished. Jog: I am just a tad bit weary with the current political maneuvering in our government. Granted, that is a somewhat ridiculous statement because government is a political creature and it cannot help but maneuver. I suppose what distresses me then is that it is so prominent in our news. But, again, that is nothing new. We act as if the press were some sort of chaste system, elite and all knowing, the defender of the common man, and the only sane thought in a chaotic world. We are disappointed when we witness instances where the media is woefully biased and spins the news to meet their collective agenda. The press’s chastity, after all, is largely promoted by journalism schools and societies and is not supported by history. We should grow up. The media has never been a chaste and unbiased society. It is by its very nature superficial, spurting the latest gossip of breaking events before the full context of the event has been accomplished. In its effort to scoop the competition it has embraced pure sensationalism in order to peddle its papers, or bytes, whatever the case may be. It has always fed the near illiterate populace and swung the weight of popular emotion in the direction that fits its own special agenda and interests. I was reading of the accounts recorded in the newspapers of Virginia on the very eve of the first days of the American Civil War. The Federal troops marched into Arlington, Va the day after Virginia seceded from the Union. The Southern presses published accounts of the “invading" forces as being “lewd fellows of the baser sort,” “barefoot, dirty and degraded,” and as “diabolical fiends,” The media reported instances of the Federal troops “hunting married females from house to house, for the gratification of their brutal lusts.” The President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, the man we now consider as one of our greatest statesmen, was described as “that Baboon in the White House,” “that wicked tyrant,” and “that corrupt and arrogant creature in power.” It is no wonder many a young Southern man took up his musket and marched off to save Dixie. Considering that the Northern papers were equal to the task and printing their own versions of sensationalism, how could the flames of hate have not been fanned into a great national conflict that cost the lives of thousands and thousands of Americans from both the North and the South. I don’t lay total blame on the media. It is not the media’s fault that we again find ourselves immersed in the mire of political maneuvering, disgusted with the flagrant agendas being touted as gospel. That, after all, is the nature of the media, regardless of the manner of communication, print, video, or entertainment. The blame undoubtedly is rooted in our own nature. People are by nature pliable creatures. Our willing nature permits ideas and sensationalism to bend us in a multitude of directions. That’s just the way we are. There are, however, some of us who refuse to be manipulated by the surface news that is spewed out in great volume by the media. There are some of us who try to find the truth and weigh the accounts of what we come into contact with, discarding the nonsense and retaining the facts. But, even then we are bent to our own special agenda. Regardless of right or wrong, we eventually make our own decisions. As we do so, we run the risk of being frustrated and despondent because of the onslaught of information. It’s like getting a drink out of a fire hydrant, it becomes overwhelming. I come to a conclusion that is still forming. I realize that I am living in a dynamic time. It is however, no more dynamic than any other time in history. It is held hostage in the nebulous state of the present. As it passes into history, it will take on the patina of the history books and will eventually be understood as the logical consequences of the interaction of a pliable and dynamic people. And then, we will move on to a new present--one where old men will marvel at the impetuous nature of youth and cringe at the focus of our leaders that seem to be hell bent on sending the whole world to hell. That undoubtedly was the feeling of the Virginians of the Civil War era, the Frenchmen during their revolution, every American as they listened to the radio reports of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and even the Romans as they heard the reports of the barbarian hordes advancing on Rome. I’m sure the news media of each era had its own special way of sensationalizing the situations. I am but a small speck in the cosmic storm of history. I will continue to advance my own agenda and beliefs, because that is what I choose to do. Hopefully, I can accomplish this without too much influence of an errant press. Of course, I feel my way is the right way. However, I have the well documented fact that I have been wrong before and therefore welcome the opportunity to examine my position again…and again…and again. I suppose I’m destined to be included among the ranks of past generations who have shook their head in amazement at the folly of youth and touted the ‘good ole days.’ I have nothing else to say on the topic and therefore I will shut the hell up. |
| Title: Where Are the Folks? Date: April 29, 2009, Wednesday Thought: I have wondered why it is some of us who make entries get so few comments and others get loads of comments. Jog: I spend an enormous amount of time on the material that is contained within the folder of my portfolio in WDC. I have over 280 items posted in there. Sometimes the writing in those pieces are good, sometimes it’s less than good; but, sometimes I surprise myself and write something very good. I try not to get too conceited about that, in fact I remind myself that much of it has been rejected when sent out for publication. But the point I’m trying to make is that I have an investment in this material, an investment of time and emotion that is difficult to explain to anyone who is not a writer. I bring this up today because of a wonderful little blog entry that our friend Kim Ashby made recently. She wondered why it was that many of her family who are aware of her blog page did not frequent it? Why is it no one ever acknowledges they’ve read it? I’ve wondered the same thing. However, I have wondered why it is some of us who make entries get so few comments and others get loads of comments. Now it isn’t a subject that is earth-shattering to me. I am content with the attention I get. However, I’ve noticed there are some blogs that get either no comments at all or very few. That could be discouraging to say the least.I must admit that I am like so many other folks in here and comment pretty sparsely. I can’t spend the amount of time I’d really like to delve into all the blogs I read. Heck, I can’t even read all the blogs posted during the day. One day I determined I would read all the blogs posted on the first page on a single day. I couldn’t do it. The best I could do was scan the little pop-up on all of them. Now, there was no way I could comment on all of them. So, I assume folks are selective and comment just here and there—sometimes its more here than there; but, that’s just the way it is. This whole idea of attention given to our material is very interesting to me. I usually check the views my port has received during the day. Most of the views are for my blog page. However, I always receive a few views on my other material. The comments are sparse though, Hardly ever to I receive a review…just intermittently. Except for this Tuesday—I don’t know what happened Tuesday. On that day I had 119 views in my portfolio with 72 of them in my blog. But, do you know, I only received two comments out of all that. Where the heck did all those people come from? And so, I sit here today with the same question that Kay had. How come no one said anything? Of all the folks, in the real world, who have expressed an interest in my writing here in WDC, why hasn’t any of them acknowledged that they dropped in? I’m resigned to the fact that, it’s a mystery that will remain unanswered. |
| Title: What’s In A Name? Date: April 28, 2009 Thought: All I can say is that I did everything right. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! Jog: I’m not a swearing man; but, I’ll swear I did everything right. I went to my email, opened the mail from a nice lady named Ruth, read the kind comment and replied back. I swear it was to Ruth and I swear I replied back to her. BUT, I get this email, out of the blue, from our friend David McClain asking, “Did you just call me Ruth?”All I can say is that I suppose I did. But, I swear I thought I was talking to Ruth! So, I went back to my email and looked for the comment Ruth sent me regarding Spam Hummer, because that’s what she commented on (By the way, it appears David is the only one who had anything to say about Spam, until then.) Well, anyway, I looked for her email…and looked…and looked. It ain’t there. Good grief, you’d think I was the one who had the stroke. I’m so confused. There’s no way I’d look straight at Tor and send a message to Ruth…I just wouldn’t do that. All I can say is that I did everything right. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! But, after I thought about this a little while, I’ve come to the conclusion that Tor seems like a pretty dang good Ruth to me. In fact, I think he wears it pretty well. Do you suppose this is some divine sign for him to change his name? I mean, stranger stuff has happened. The patriarchs of the Bible did that all the time. Abram changed his name to Abraham; Saul changed his name to Paul; David could very easily change his name to Ruth. Hey, I think that’s a dang-site better than me admitting I made a mistake, which like I said when I began, I swear I didn’t do. |
| Title: The Case of the Gardener’s Green Thumb Date: April 26, 2009, Sunday Thought: I continue to create new Spam Hummer stories. Now, I will warn you. They aren’t too complicated. The cases are all very easy to solve. Jog: Hi, folks. Somehow in the midst of all the chaos of my life, I’ve managed to do some writing. Several years ago I introduced a character named Spam Hummer to my portfolio. Now, Spam was an experiment. One morning I was messing around and thought I’d try my hand at an old time private eye story. You know someone like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade. It was mainly a spoof on the genre. Well to make a long story short, I created a guy named Spam Hummer. Since that first story I’ve sort of gotten attached to Spam and the characters he has introduced to the world. He has a best friend who own a tavern, Jocko’s. He has a side-kick buddy who is a lieutenant on the police force, and he has a girl-Friday who hold him together and keeps him properly dressed, Cassidy. Other characters have wandered in during the Spam’s cases. There is Cassidy’s kid, Jerry, the loveable drunk at Jocko’s, Ruben, and Spam’s landlady, Wilma Knight. Over the course of thirteen stories, some definitely better than others, and none of them of the quality of a Mickey Spillane or Mike Hammer, well over the course of creation of these stories, I have grown quite fond of them all. And so I continue to create new Spam Hummer stories. Now, I will warn you. They aren’t too complicated. The cases are all very easy to solve. I’ve come to be more interested in how these characters develop between the stories than the actual cases that Spam is working on. It has been an evolution. And it is this evolution that has intrigued me. I’m not sure where I’m going to take it. Somehow we suspect Spam and Cassidy are going to get hooked up and live happily ever after….but I don’t yet know about that. It will be a little while longer, if it happens at all. Anyway, Spam and Cassidy have solved another case. This time it was a murder that involved an old friend and a Latin lover. Feel free to visit Spam.
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| Title: Charting a Course for Mundane Date: April 24, 2009, Friday Thought: I patiently wait for inspiration to overtake me and catapult me into a writing frenzy, where I will produce some brilliant work to wow the masses. But, it doesn’t come. Jog: OK, here it is 4:00 am in the morning; I’m sitting behind these keys making words and putting them in sentences. Hopefully they are arranged in some recognizable order and you can make sense of my thoughts. I’ve been here since 2:30 am, reading my favorite blogs, checking on a map I’m doing for a client, and checking out how my retirement funds fared in the stock market yesterday. Now, I’ve got to say, that last one was depressing. For the last six months our funds have been virtually flat-lined—going nowhere. How boring and depressing can that be? However, generally, I sit here content with my state. I can function normally, at least for a sixty year old, which is to say when I wake up I’m grateful that I did. My mind is still active and brimming with ideas and thoughts. My greatest fear is losing my ability to reason. I watched my wife’s mom deteriorate with Alzheimer’s and it was heartbreaking. I can still punch these keys, which keeps me productive and in touch with the world. My children are near and are making me proud of them on a daily basis. I can still make a dollar in the workplace, that’s a good thing. I’m happily married to my first wife, who by the way is the girl I took to the high school prom forty-three years ago. And, my best friend is curled up beside me on the floor wagging his black tail as he sleeps. I guess things are generally pretty good. I patiently wait for inspiration to overtake me and catapult me into a writing frenzy, where I will produce some brilliant work to wow the masses. But, it doesn’t come. I’m left with my thoughts of general contentment—my Pulitzer will have to wait for another day. And that is the way my morning is going. Shortly I will stumble back to the master bedroom and ready myself for the workday, which begins with a 7:00 am breakfast meeting at the Rotary Club. I have three work projects that must be done before the closing bell rings in the weekend: touch up an annexation map for Keene, prepare a presentation to be delivered to Lakeside on Monday, and prepare the billing for New Fairview. I may or may not get all of that done, depends on how industrious I feel as the day wears on. Some days our entries are a mirror of our real life. I suppose that is what I will have today. Things are sort of mundane…but in order. There is a lack of chaos at the moment, which is where I want to keep it. It’s good to have a few mundane days now and then. I guess I’m resting up for my big trip to Bayse, Va. Perhaps I will be inspired to be a little more eloquent after I visit Gettysburg, Manassas, and Antietam. Perhaps—but for now, you’ll just have to be satisfied with plain vanilla mundane. |
| Title: Wisdom of the Trees Date: April 22, 2009, Wednesay Thought: Old oaks have a way of making me feel insignificant. I suppose that’s what it means to be ‘put in my place.’ Jog: I take trees for granted. I mean, they are all around us, that is unless you live out in west Texas. But, here where I live we have strong old oaks that have grown in our forested lands for hundreds of years. And, that is what we take for granted. I’ve got this ball of marble that’s about the size of a softball. It’s almost as black as Max is. Well, within the marble are fossils of living creatures that have been captured within the stone for eons. The little critters are called Orthoceras and lived abut 350 million years ago. It amazes me that I can sit and stare at something that dang old. But you know, trees are even more amazing than that to me. I mean a tree is still living. Along the trail around the lake that Max and I take every morning there are a few old oaks that are massive. These strong old oaks have weathered many a storm and survived countless droughts through their lifetime. At least two of these tress have got to be almost 300 years old. And they are still living; they’re not some picture of life like that Orthoceras captured in the marble is. Nope, these old gents are still living. They were growing tall at the time we became a nation. They were here at the time of the American Civil War, a part of a forest deep in the heart of Texas. Today they tower over a man-made lake in a residential subdivision. Fortunately, they were not sacrificed for additional lots and roads for progresses sake. Today as I walked with Max around the lake, I stopped at one of those majestic old oaks. I placed my hand on it and asked it what it had seen it its history, how many pioneers camped overnight beneath its canopy, how many outlaws rode past it, how many young confederate soldiers marched near it on the way to battles located in Gettysburg, Antietam, and Manassas. That tree was standing tall the day Pearl Harbor was bombed and the day my dad stormed ashore on the beaches of Okinawa. It stands out there in our little park, majestic and silent. Most folks jog by it and take it for granted. It’s always been there. Most folks would give it little thought if one day someone would cut it down to make way for a swing-set. Old oaks have a way of making me feel insignificant. I suppose that’s what it means to be ‘put in my place.’ History is more than facts and dates located in a school history book. History is like that old oak tree; it’s living and dynamic. It gives us roots in the scheme of human kind and if we are wise enough it tells us what to expect of the future. I wish that old oak could talk. If it could I would sit under it’s canopy and let it tell me of days long passed. But, it doesn’t say a word to me. It just sways its branches in the wind and carpets the ground with leaves and twigs. However, it does talk to me—in my imagination. I reach my arms around its girth and ponder the wonders of events that passed as it increased that girth. Yes, I still take trees for granted. There’s just so many of them around. I mean they are so common place. However, every now and then the spark within me that makes me want to learn, to know more, ignites my imagination and the old oaks become wonders, things to not take for granted. I suppose it happens to me more than most, because that’s just the way I am. However, I regret it doesn’t happen often enough. |
| Title: Getting Away Date: April 20, 2009, Monday Thought: …all these things make getting out of town a welcome change. And so we are going. Jog: Sometimes you just gotta get away. Or at least that’s the way it seems. We order our lives with stuff and sometimes all that stuff just seems to pile up. With the economy really smelling, all the issues Linda has had with the loss of her mother, the constant load of clients and billings, our oldest son going through a divorce…all these things make getting out of town a welcome change. And so we are going. Come May 9th, Linda and I will load our truck to the brim with clothes and set out for Virginia. All told we will be gone for ten days. We have a condo in Bayse that sleeps eight and just the two of us to fill it. Try as I may, I can’t seem to get it filled. Originally, we were going to take our two grandsons with us. Well, that did not work because one just doesn’t have enough days to miss. I tried to convince the school that this would be a very educational experience, since we are going to visit Gettysburg, Manassas, Antietam, and Washington DC. Well, they did not see it my way. The oldest grandchild couldn’t make it because his prom is scheduled in the middle of that period. Now I ask you…if you had the choice of spending ten days with your grandparents or a wild evening with a seventeen year of girl, which one would you choose? Well, the hormones won. Well, it appears we will be on our own. We plan on stopping off and seeing David and Mel on our way back. It won’t be much time, probably an evening meal at a ritzy restaurant in Doniphan, Mo. I wonder, should I pack my tux? That will be on the Sat. 16th. I hope Dave and Mel will be available on that day. So, if you live in the vicinity of Bayse, Gettysburg, Antietam, or Washington DC…or if you happen to be located on route from Fort Worth to Bayse, wave at us along the way and maybe we can stop and have a cup of coffee. |
| Title: Considering the Audience Date: April 18, 2009, Saturday Thought: I write my entries with consideration that children, as yet unborn, may one day read them. Jog: Do you ever consider your audience when you blog? I mean, beyond the obvious friends of WDC. I guess for that case, one must consider if these entries are a lasting thing. It is so easy to see them as pieces of conversation that are spoken and lost to the wind. The immediate nature of the Internet suggests that sense of immediacy. But, what if a year from now someone runs across these entries and reads them? Will they make any sense or, like verbal conversation, would you almost have to be there to understand the dynamics? Or better yet, what if twenty years from now your granddaughter or grandson stumble onto them, what would these entries tell them about you? I write my entries with consideration that children, as yet unborn, may one day read them. Does that make the entries any less spontaneous or natural? The knowledge that I try to observe proper sentence construction and run spell check does not necessarily send a sanitized image of the author, as some may say. My goal is not necessarily to obtain a ‘blue month’ and therefore splash any concoction of ideas on the page to satisfy the calendar--not that it is not a worthwhile goal for those who wish to do so. The fact is that I am simply not talented enough nor interesting enough to have a worthy topic every day of the week. As a result my journal here will forever be destined to be sporadic. I am into the fifth year of journaling. That is an amazing thing to me. Over that period of time, the nature, and perhaps personality, of my entries have changed. Actually, they have not so much as a changed as they have swayed. My emotions, my focus, my personality has swayed with the passing of the years, going back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. Taken as a whole body of work, the different years paint a more complete picture of who I am, or at least how I think and reason. That is the benefit of having your entries assembled into volumes. By the way, for those of you who did not know, I publish my journal entries into hardback volumes—a volume for each year. I have been considering a little project. I’m not sure what to name it, but it will consist of 366 days (can’t leave out leap day) of entries. I suspect that I can shuffle through my five years and find at least one entry of each day. The entries will not be all from the same year, but they will be a compilation that covers a year. I expect that, because I am a sporadic blogger, there may be vacant days in the year. Well, that’s what makes this a project. That means I will have to identify those days and make certain I enter an entry on that day this coming year. For the days I have multiple entries, I will have the luxury of choosing the best of that day. Well, it is as yet a consideration. Regardless of what I do with the project, I will continue to make entries in my sporadic journal. I will continue to attempt some degree of proper sentence structure and will continue to use spell check. I write for two audiences. First, I write for my friends and those who frequent this simple blog page. And ultimately, I write for some future reader who by chance may be interested in knowing who I am, other than a memory or an image in an old photograph. |
| Title: Thoughts of the Rain Against My Upstairs Window Date: April 17, 2009, Friday Thought: Things happen and we deal with them. It’s a blessing that we don’t have to deal with them by ourselves, though. Jog: The rain continues outside my upstairs window. I’ve opened the curtains on the double windows and look out onto our front yard. It’s difficult to see very far now. The little trees I planted twelve years ago are no longer small. They reach to the top of our roofline, which is approximately thirty-five feet. The Crepe Myrtle trees I planted at the corners of the house now invade the second story window’s view. The rain has provided a good drink for the grass and foliage and deep shades of green dominate the color spectrum. Later on in the summer the lawn will try to claim a brown shade, especially if we do not irrigate as much as we should. But today, the rain has refreshed the landscape and each plant competes with the other to show its most vigorous shade of green. Max sits at the window and stares out. I’m sure he is looking for movement that will betray the location of some varmint that he is interested in. At the moment all is quiet, no varmints are moving. Max seems content to sit in the warmth and comfort of his dry house and ponder the possibilities. I opened the front door earlier as the rain pelted down. He stood with his front paws out on the threshold and his back paws on the entryway tile, uncertain if he really wanted to venture out the door. Much more content to stand in the doorway, half in and half out, checking the air with his nose, sniffing for some reason to venture out. He found none. It seems he is not fond of water raining down on him. Oh, he has no problem jumping in the lake chasing the ducks, but to venture into the elements with it showering on his back is not to his liking at all. He is a tad bit spoiled. And so, the two of us sit inside the house watching the rain and lightening, counting the seconds after each flash, as I did when I was a kid. Sometime after noon the rain will move on to the east, probably be over Tor sometime around early evening. I’ve come to not try to be too philosophical when these moments come, you know I can be. Nope, I’ve decided to just enjoy them when they happen and thank the good Lord that I took the time to look around and see them. I missed far too many of them earlier in my youth. I talked to Tor this morning for a spell. The old goat is doing pretty good, considering. When things like that happen to you, it sort of causes you to sit back and consider your mortality. It appears like there is a lot of that going around in here. Nada and Lance have been dealing with it over the last year. Eric is going through his special bout with it, Heck, a couple years ago I had the docs splitting my chest and toying with my heart. Even Tor has had a smidgen of health concerns. You know, that’s just how life is. Things happen and we deal with them. It’s a blessing that we don’t have to deal with them by ourselves, though. It seems to help, in some way, to know that there are people out there who care what happens. All of the concern in the world will not detain the inevitable; we are only mortal after all. But, it does my soul good to know that I am not alone. And it does it good to feel Max lay down beside me against my foot; it helps to hear Linda banging pans in the kitchen; and it helps for me to just watch the rain patter against my upstairs window and runoff across our lawn and into the gutter. Those are simple things. It seems the simple things of life are becoming the more important things as each day passes. I really am a very lucky man. |
| Title: So Many Choices Date: April 14, 2009, Tuesday Thought: Our lives are filled with choices. We make hundreds of them each day. Any one of them has the potential to affect our history. Jog: We are captives to our choices. Our history is written by the nature of our choices. A simple choice to act or not can determine our future. This was illustrated graphically to me the other day, when I saw a young man led off in handcuffs to prison. His choice was to ride with a friend when they stole a car. They chose to drink and drive, in the process they ran from the police in a high speed chase and eventually killed a man when they crashed the car. A simple choice to get in the car altered the course of his life, but now a promising future is destroyed and a family is left with out a father--poor choices. It could just have easily been the other way. When I was a young married adult I chose to go to school. My family suffered because of my choice, since I had to study at strange hours and take lower paying jobs to fit my schedule. I finally graduated with a Masters degree in City Planning. I chose to work for a prominent engineering consulting firm. One day I chose to quit and take a chance on going into business for myself. With no salary, no guarantees, no safety net I struggled for five years. I questioned my choice. And then one day I looked around and discovered that clients were eager to come to me. I had a reputation of being good at what I did. My choice paid off. I could have just as easily chosen to stay with the security of the large firm. Had I done so, I’d probably still be there today…working for the other guy. In the Battle of Gettysburg, Longstreet counseled Lee to not fight that battle, but to sidestep the Union forces and establish defensive lines behind the Army of the Potomac and let that army come to him. Lee was convinced that the Army of Virginia was invincible and attacked the flanks of the Union forces on the second day of the battle. Within the narrowest margin the Union forces held. On the third day, Lee decided to attack the Union army in the center, where he assumed they were weakest. Longstreet again counseled to not engage in this conflict. He stated no 15,000 men on earth could breach the Union forces in the center, where they held the high ground. He was correct. The Army of Virginia failed and retreated back into Virginia. The war would continue for two more terrible and costly years. Had Lee decided to accept Longstreet’s council, history would surely have held a much different accounting. Our lives are filled with choices. We make hundreds of them each day. Any one of them has the potential to affect our history. Some of them could alter it significantly. We make most of them automatically, with little thought. That may be our downfall, for we sometimes don’t take the time to count the consequences of the important choices we make; or we make them influenced by our passions and desires, with no thought of the practical effect of our actions. It is a wonder we somehow live full and rewarding lives. For most of us, we are fortunate indeed that the ramifications of our poor choices are overcome, although not often easily done but with great effort and often hardship. For some, the consequences are much too grievous to recover. After reading Nada blog entry about Marilyn Chambers, it reinforced my thoughts recently on the nature of our choices. What if four years ago, as I was surfing through the list of links produced by my Google search, I had not chosen to click on the link that led me to Writing.Com? I wonder in what way my history has been altered by that choice? |
| Title: Road Trip Date: April 10, 2009, Friday Thought: Well, anyway, come hell or high water, we are taking Max. We may find ourselves sleeping on the curb after we get there. Jog: Well, it appears that in about one month Linda, Max, and I will be motoring to Basye, Virginia. Now, I had not planned to go there. Well, I guess I really did; it’s just that I forgot. Last year, somewhere around August, I had planned to take a trip to Gettysburg. I was going to go by and pick Mel and David up and cruise into that area for a Civil War vacation. I was looking forward to the trip and was terribly disappointed when circumstances caused me to cancel my trip. The only thing is, I didn’t cancel the trip…I postponed it. Yeah, I told our travel agents that I was going to have to put it off until this summer. Seems as if I have been tooling along and simply forgot the postponement. They didn’t. This morning I received my reservations in the mail for a week in Basye, Virginia. We have a 2-1/2 bedroom townhouse reserved for a week. The thing sleeps 8 people; there are just me, Linda, and Max. That’s right, we are taking Max. Never mind that they have not mentioned if they are pet friendly. In fact, the information is silent on the subject of pets. They do, however, scream in capital letters that all rooms are NO SMOKING. Seems to me, if they had a problem with pets, they’d be screaming No Pets. Well, anyway, come hell or high water, we are taking Max. We may find ourselves sleeping on the curb after we get there. It will take us 18 hrs each way to drive there and back. We will split it up into two eight hour days. Tentatively we will spend the night in Nashville on the way down and back. Our route will take us on IH-35, IH-40, and IH 81. We will pass through Texarkana, Ar/Tx, Little Rock, Ar, Memphis, Tn. Nashville, Tn, Knoxville, Tn, and Roanoke, Va. So, it seems as if PlannerDan & Co. are on the move. You can rest assured that I will stumble across the battlefields of Gettysburg, Fredericksburg, Antietam, and Manassas…I’m a little tardy, having missed David, Ken, and Eric. However, you play the cards that are dealt you. And the history and power of those places will not be diminished, by the absence of friends….after all, Max and Linda will be with me, and for all they know, I’m the expert. |
| Title: The Marvelous Difference Date: April 6, 2009, Monday Thought: That’s what happens when you are the only preacher in the family. You get automatically elected to perform the funerals. Jog: This time tomorrow Linda and I and my whole group will be in Oklahoma. The boys are going up with their families, all except Harley; she has a ULI band competition on Wednesday and will be staying with her other grandparents. Oh, yeah, Max is going too. We found an inn that will let us board Max with us. Of course I assured them that he was as brilliant as Lassie and would be no trouble at all. Dang dog better not make me a liar! Much of the clan will be gathering for Ruby’s funeral. I doubt if there will be any occasion that will command their combined attendance again. Isn’t it a shame that the only time it seems folks gather as a whole is at occasions of crisis. I suppose that’s just how it is and how it will always be. This trip is a little traumatic for me. That’s what happens when you are the only preacher in the family. You get automatically elected to perform the funerals. It matters not that I have not held a position as pastor for thirty years, in their minds I am still the preacher in the family. So I suppose I will just suck it up and do it. The clear fact is that I know the family better than anyone and most likely will be able to make it much more meaningful than a stranger. I just hate to do funerals. I remember, once when I was pastoring, I was called away from an out of town meeting to attend to the sudden deaths of two individuals. The comparison between the two families has left a permanent impression on me. The funerals were to be on a Wednesday. One was scheduled at 10:00 a.m. and the other at 2:00 p.m. One was for a long time member of the church, and the other was for a non-Christian and virtual stranger. I remember the marked contrast in the way the families received the funeral message. Realizing that this is certainly a traumatic experience, I try very hard to be as comforting to the family as I can. Since I did not know the non-Christian family, I spent extra time with them beforehand and tried to find out as much as I could about the loved one. That message was difficult to construct and deliver, although, I did it as tenderly and comfortingly as I could. The services of the old time member was remarkably different. It was relatively easy to prepare. We all had fond memories of the loved one and easily constructed a suitable memorial to their life. But preparation and delivery of the message was not the remarkable thing. The remarkable thing was the attitude and atmosphere between the two situations. No matter how hard I tried, there was a sense of loss and despair in the attitude of the family of the non-Christian. It was not anything I presented or our church presented; it was something the family brought with them. From this family I perceived a sense of hopelessness, despair. Unlike the non-Christian family, the attitude of the long time member was strikingly different. Although it was quite obvious that there was a deep sorrow and feeling of loss, there was no despair; and there was no hopelessness. In fact, it was obvious that there was an expectation of reunion. Their loved one was departed but not forever. There was the promise of reunion at a future time. There was hope in their hearts. Now, this was nothing that I did. I’m not that good of a preacher. It was something that came from beyond them; it was a divine promise. And that’s the difference. I will not make any conclusions as to why the difference. All I can do is testify to the fact that there most assuredly was a difference. I was there. I saw it; and I have remembered it all my adult life. You can explain it away and chalk it up to social environment if you wish. But, I know there was something else. Something else much greater than what the eye could see or the mind could reason. That is another reason as to why I believe. And, unless you were there, you may never understand. |
| Title: Continuing On Date: April 5, 2009, Sunday Thought: Death in a family is sensitive. It makes the bystander uncomfortable. Jog: Linda and I were getting ready to hit the road for a quick trip to Oklahoma, her mother being on her deathbed. We knew that her mom’s time with us was short since all efforts at resuscitation had been removed. The medical care givers had informed the family that she would undoubtedly pass within hours. I had already been asked by Linda’s sister, who was handling the affairs, to preach the funeral message when the time came. Therefore, I packed my computer and a hastily prepared message in my case, fully expecting to use the message in a few days. Early this morning, as we were packing the car, Linda received a phone call telling her that her mother had passed at 5:10 this morning. The urgency for our trip was removed. We are now delaying our departure depending on when the services will be held, likely on Wednesday. It is strange how the finality of her mother’s death has struck us hard. Even with the knowledge of her imminent death, the blow is still difficult to take. We realize that she had lived a long and fruitful life and was ready to go on to glory to be with her husband and family. That realization lessens the impact of her death but does very little to lessen the tremendous sense of loss. I know that the topic of death is not a comfortable one to blog about. It tends to sober up the slapstick carefree attitude that often flows in Blogville. I’m sorry for that, I don’t mean to put a damper on the giggles and banter. However, this is a part of life; it’s an event in our lives, a milestone. And, you make entries about milestones in your life. I fully expect many will comment with respect and consideration of the loss in our family. I’ve come to expect that sort of sophistication and class of this group. But, there will be many folks who will read this and then say, “Geeze, what in the world can I say?” The answer is, don’t feel that you have to say anything at all. I understand. Death in a family is sensitive. It makes the bystander uncomfortable. We don’t always know how to approach it. So, many folks simply skirt on by and try to be as respectful as they pass, saying very little if anything at all. We will leave for Oklahoma on Tuesday morning. I will officiate at Ruby’s funeral and meander on back home with Linda probably sometime on Thursday. Linda and I have lives to live and obligations to fulfill. Death provides a little detour in our life, but life is dynamic and forces us to continue on. We will hurry to catch up with the rest of the world who have continued to interact in spite of our personal crisis. Life is a very powerful resource. And, those of us who are left, are obligated to continue living. |
| Title: The Piano Recital Date: April 4, 2009, Saturday Thought: The talent at this recital is truly remarkable. In fact, you often can even make out some melody, if you are lucky and have a lot of imagination Jog: For several years, around this time of year, my granddaughter has her piano recital. She has been taking lessons for some time and her instructor holds a recital for all of her students once a year. Now, I know I need to beg forgiveness from the grandparent consortium for my dread of going to this thing. You see it wouldn’t be so bad if my granddaughter were the only one playing. But, she is only one of about thirty who grace the stage and display their remarkable talent. That means I have to listen to all the other kids play. I know, this is wrong, wrong, wrong of me…so sue me. And, I must say, the talent at this recital is truly remarkable. In fact, you often can even make out some melody, if you are lucky and have a lot of imagination. I know I should not dread seven year olds who valiantly attack Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but my prayer is that I suddenly go deaf for the afternoon. It is absolutely awful--horrendous. I often secretly believe the instructor should refund the good money that has been spent on piano lessons because it obviously didn’t work. OK, I agree—I’m terrible. But, old people should not be forced to endure that kind of torture. I swear, if this recital had been held in Guantanamo, the terrorists would have spilled their guts with information. Granted, all two hours of recital were not wasted. At least four or five students were actually remarkable. There was a thirteen-year-old that seemed to be a child prodigy. His fingers ran up and down the piano, actually hitting the correct keys and impressing everyone. Unfortunately, he was playing some Mozart piece that, even when played correctly, leaves me cold. I concede that it is not easy to do what these kids did. They sit up on stage, by themselves, and bang that dang piano. The really unfortunate thing about playing piano is that everyone knows your mistake when you make it. I mean, when you bang down on that chord, and it is wrong, everyone in the place grimaces. It’s not like singing in the choir, where you can move your mouth without singing, and if a bad note is sung by someone, all you have to do is look at the guy across from you and shake your head. No one will know it was you. But, in the piano, there is no way to hide your mistake. I made it through all two hours of the recital. I earned my grandpa merit badge—they will be sending it to me in the mail. After the recital I was fortunate to take my granddaughter, her mom and dad, and her other set of grandparents out to eat. As penance for my sorry attitude, the financial “God of Got it Coming” graced me with the check for the meal. I am now $200 lighter. Somehow it doesn’t seem fair to subject me to the audio torture of the recital and then penalize me with a $200 food bill. I’ve got a new plan for recital time. Next year I am going to invite Harley and all the relatives over to our house and let her play our piano. She can do all her recital pieces in the comfort of my own home. I then will pay her parents a hundred dollars for their effort and pop popcorn as a meal. This way I can forgo listening to the other twenty-nine kids slaughter the musical scale and save myself a hundred dollars…and, I won’t even have to leave my house. |
| Title: So Many Raindrops Date: April 2, 2009, Thursday Thought: I don’t dread the sound of thunder as it approaches. I look forward to the miracle it will bring. Jog: It’s 4:30 in the morning as I rouse from sleep. My covers are warm and I’ve found that comfortable position that makes me want to just not move. I hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. As I lay there, content in my state, I feel thankful for the fact that I am warm, and dry, and safe. I hear Max yawn next to me; he’s laying on his bed just as warm and comfortable as I am. I smile as I consider that both K-9 and man are doing pretty good at the moment. The thunder continues to grumble, creeping closer. Soon the rain will come. Sheets of crystal moisture will fall from heaven's reservoirs and the ground will be left wet and muddy. But, that is good, for the foliage is thirsty and the rains will replenish their thirsty need for sustenance; yards and trees will magically turn green, being the first real greening of the new year. Although my street is not a paradise, the rain will encourage it to act as such. Therefore, I don’t dread the sound of thunder as it approaches. I look forward to the miracle it will bring. And, it’s all about miracles, you see. The glorious way that God’s nature continues to surround me with them is unimaginable and certainly remarkable. I am continually amazed at how much for granted I take these awesome miracles that daily enter my life. Its like an overload of blessings and, if I’m not careful, I negligently rush through them and past them busying myself with the mundane things I consider important. However, life has a way of stopping you dead in your tracks and forcing you to look around. When I do, I usually end up stammering, “Wow, I almost missed that!” We received a telephone call yesterday. It was one of those calls that you know someday will come but dread. Linda’s mom, Ruby, is dying. She’s made her mark on this world for 94 years and her time is now closing. By her direction all heroic acts to extend her life will be withheld. She wants no feeding tubes, artificial heartbeats, or IV lines coaxing life from her. She is well into the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s and will soon be released from her burden. As I lay here in the warmth of my bed, listening to the thunder roll, knowing the clouds will be dark and dreary outside, I am reminded of the miracle of life. Ruby is right up there at the top of that list. For nearly a century she has molded her little part of the world. She gave birth to five children who brought seventeen additional children into the world. Exponentially, the offspring of Ruby and Tom have grown such that a small town could be populated with their offspring. So, let the thunder come and let the rains fall, for it provides another opportunity for life’s cycle to work its miracle again. Soon we will be traveling to Oklahoma to participate in Ruby’s final memorials. I refuse to be despondent about the events. For I will look around at the humanity in the place where we will gather and know that it was Ruby and Tom who were responsible for it. The thunder that rolled through their life and the rain that nurtured their children are proof again of that great miracle of life that we so often take for granted. I hear it now, the raindrops have reached my window. How many raindrops have fallen in just my lifetime? I will never know. I’m just fortunate and glad they have. |
| Title: A Day to Remember Date: April 1, 2009, Wednesday Thought: It’s interesting how some days automatically draw associations to our minds, like October 31st, December 25th, and February 14th. April 1st is one of those days. Jog: Well, today is the day of practical jokes and pranks. I’m sure someone will be able to tell me the history of how we got to this state. I don’t mind the jokes, as long as you keep them away from me. And it’s interesting how some days automatically draw associations to our minds, like October 31st, December 25th, and February 14th. April 1st is one of those days. But, I don't think of practical jokes. I think of something entirely different when I hear April 1st; just like I do when I hear June 6th. I am a history nut--love the stuff. And, World War II is only one of the periods that fascinates me. I just can’t help it. When I hear June 6th, I immediately think of the great sacrifice that was offered on the beaches of Normandy on that day, which is known to the world as D-Day. It humbles me. The same happens when I hear April 1st. On that day in 1945 the Battle of Okinawa was began, perhaps it was one of the costliest battles in terms of human sacrifice of the Pacific War. That has always been significant to me because my father was there. As a young Marine he waded ashore and scurried across those sandy beaches to face an enemy who was desperate and committed. He did things and saw things I will never be able to comprehend. But, he did it for me, for all of us. The combined sacrifice of my father and all the young men and women who fought in that battle remains a debt that I will never be able to repay, except for my respect and honor to their spirit. Just as with all the warriors of the Second World War, the ranks are thinning out rapidly now. In a few years there will be no living participants of that generation. We will replace them with other heroes of newer conflicts. But, there are some of us who will never forget them, like me. By the way, there is another reason that I remember April 1st. Exactly fifty years after my father stormed the beach of Okinawa on April 1st, he died quietly in his sleep, on that day. Perhaps it was a tribute to his buddies who never came home, perhaps it was a little joke of his own. Dad was like that. |
| Title: Facing the Conundrum Date: March 21, 2009, Saturday Thought: I edit and refine and edit some more. I’ve spent a bucket-load of time on it. The confusion to me is if it is worth it. Jog: Hi folks! I feel badly about my absence in WDC. Several of my friends in here have very graciously dropped me a line and asked if everything is alright. I thank you for the concern. Yes, I’m doing well. At least there is no pressing crisis in my life. I’ve been trying to make a living and working mostly. Gotta charge hours in order to get paid. In my spare time I’ve been doing some serious writing on my book, which is a real conundrum to me. I’ve gotten 45,000 words finished. I’ve about 25,000 to go before it’s finished. I find myself reading and re-reading the thing over and over. I edit and refine and edit some more. I’ve spent a bucket-load of time on it. The confusion to me is if it is worth it. How do you know if it’s any good? I mean, if it’s junk, I could spend my time more wisely. But, if it has promise, you want to nurse it along. I’ve got to believe every writer believes his/her work has promise. Otherwise, why even put the words on the page. The test is if anyone can get interested in it enough to finish the book. I’ve been doing a little exercise along that line. I’ve been reading a different work of fiction every week. I go to the library and randomly chose two books. So far they have been mostly a pleasure to read. However, a couple of them have been absolutely terrible. I think to myself, “Surely, my work is better than that.” But is it? I don’t know. So, I’ve posted the prelude and first six chapters in WDC. If anyone reads them and is interested I will post the remaining thirty chapter that are completed. And, I will continue to finish the book. It is interesting. I’ve done so much editing to this point, that the book is significantly different than when I started it. The copies that I have distributed to my friends for review, are woefully lacking. Is that the way books go? Is that normal? It makes you want to hold on to the stuff until it is ready. But if you do that, you have no idea if you are on the right path. Anyway, I’ve shamlessly included the link to the book in my portfolio. If you have any interest in it, take a peek. I apologize for my boldness and imagine most of my readers are saying, “Oh, Lord! That’s all I needed, another incomplete and boring book to review.” If so, that’s OK, I was thinking it myself.
I promise that as soon as I get finished working, and writing, and reading, I will get back in here and get involved in Blogville again…sorry. But, you all look great! |
| Title: Saying It Right Date: March 12, 2009, Thursday Thought: You know they say those ought to be the first two in the beginning paragraph; but, I’m just as convinced that the last sentences are just as important. Jog: Sometimes you write stuff you really like. I mean, sometimes the words flow together just right and you look around and wonder if you really wrote that stuff. I’m in the middle of writing a Sci-Fi book. It’s been a real labor for me; and that’s why I haven’t been in here much lately…that and a bucketful of work. Sometimes I look at all those words I string together and wonder if it is all worth it. Then I decide it doesn’t matter, I birthed the dang thing so I gotta take care of it. Anyway, I finished the latest chapter and tagged the last concluding sentence on the thing. It was then I read over it again…well, and again and again. But, regardless of how well I wrote the other part of that chapter, the last couple of sentences really felt good. So I got to thinking. It would be neat if I went through all my work and just picked out the two sentences (no more) in the whole thing that I really liked. You know they say those ought to be the first two in the beginning paragraph; but, I’m just as convinced that the last sentences are just as important. It also wouldn’t hurt to throw in a few good ones in the middle. But, anyway, I’m talking about the last two in this particular work. Then I thought. Are those sentences enough to make someone want to read the whole story…in this case read the whole book? Granted, it took 41,000 words to get to this one sentence. But, what if that was how people chose which book to read? Like, what if the only description you could give your book or story was two sentences? Don’t tell them the author’s name, don’t write a synopsis, don’t have an endorsement, or a review…just two sentences you could choose out of the entire work. Would those two sentences be enough to spark an interest in your writing? Here’s my last sentence: “He lay there coaxing breath from his abused windpipe, spitting blood, and feeling the pain of his busted kneecap. She’d just kicked his ass; but, he was still alive.” Now, I know that’s not much. But, you could write a pretty interesting story around those sentences. Whether I have, will yet to be seen. So, what is the sentence, or two from your last work that would cause me to drop what I was doing and begin reading? |
| Title: Living Vicariously Date: March 7, 2009, Saturday Thought: If it were not for the vicarious possibilities in this life, I dare say most near all of us would live pretty unfulfilled lives. Jog: Vicarious is a ten-dollar word. I mean, you don’t use vicarious every day, at least I don’t. But, nevertheless it’s a pretty good word. I mean it sounds neat when it rolls off your tongue. It’s fun to say, if words can be fun in that way. But, like I said, it’s a pretty good word. It means to experience something through somebody else. I personally will never do some things in any other way. For example, I will only experience swimming with sharks, vicariously. I will change the energizer batteries on the antenna on top of the Empire State Building vicariously. Thank you, I’m not fond of heights and vicariously doing some things is fine with me. Unfortunately, some experiences are only possible vicariously, such as spending a romantic evening with Pamela Anderson or Heather Locklear or Catherine Zeta-Jones or Katherine Heigl or Sophie Marceau or…well, the list is lengthy indeed. Vicariously is the only romance of that caliber I will ever experience. I will only throw or catch a Super Bowl pass for a touchdown, vicariously. It appears that is the same way I will ever make a ‘hole-in-one.’ If it were not for the vicarious possibilities in this life, I dare say most near all of us would live pretty unfulfilled lives. However, we are fortunate the word exists, because it’s a good word. My black Lab and I took our walk in the early morning today. It was a vicarious trek in the woods of suburbia. Max ran along trails, sniffed at a hundred spots, and tagged a few. I suppose I did that vicariously with him. But, the significant thing was that I experienced the joy and freedom of a dog. I saw curiosity, excitement, and joy through the actions of that dog. I experienced the freedom that obedience and loyalty brings to a relationship. I didn’t have to chain him to me. He ran free but never very far from me. I’d like to think he gained something from me through this vicarious relationship. I realized that life is only lived to its fullest when we permit ourselves to live vicariously. I am constantly experiencing things through my relationship with Linda. I’m always learning through it, understanding better. I could not do that if we did not share vicariously with each other. Heck, there are folks in Blogville that I live vicariously through. I go places I know I’ll never go and do things I know I’ll never do otherwise. There are times when my heart is broken vicariously, when it hurts for my friends. That makes me grow; it helps me to be a better person. I’ve been away from the blog-pages of WDC for a few weeks now. Occasionally, folks have emailed me to check up on me. For that I am truly grateful. But life has gone on in here. It doesn’t wait for any of us, and certainly does not fall apart when we are absent. That is good. For when the wanderer comes back, it’s like coming home again. You can step into the stream of relationships at anytime and pick up where you left off. And, that is a testament to the vicarious nature of the Internet. It opens worlds and possibilities none of us would have in any other way. It lets us spread out wings and test the waters without being hurt. It helps us to live vicariously through the live of other people different than ourselves, but in so many ways just like us. This is a good place. And vicarious, I think, is a good word. |
| Title: Take a Deep Breath and Start Counting Date: February 17, 2009, Tuesday Thought: I suppose if you have the ability to ignore the zeros a trillion dollars does not bother you. Jog: I have very little time to waste in this life. I mean when you consider the fact that there are only 1,314,000 seconds in one year; and I need every one of them to get the things in my life done. In fact, if I could borrow a couple of million seconds from you, I might just be able to break even. But, like I said; I have very little time to waste. Nevertheless, I decided to waste a little of it on figuring out this little inane thought about the amount of seconds in a year. Who the heck cares? It serves no purpose to know that there are 1,314,000 seconds in one year. Bear with me a little and I’ll show you the relevance. For example, if you were to count at the rate of one second for every number you would get to one-million sometime in the middle of September. Of course, it takes the whole year to get to 1,314,000. That’s a lot of counting. But, suppose you had nothing better to do with your time than to count. If you were to begin counting with your very first breath, by the time you were at retirement age, somewhere around sixty-five, you would only be to 78.8 billion. A little before your eightieth birthday, you could finally take a breath at 100 billion. Now, here’s the big number; it takes 761 years to count to a trillion. If we were to count backward in time to a trillion, we would find ourselves at the beginning of the Seventh Crusade, which was brought to a screeching halt by the Muslims of Egypt when they captured King Louis IX of France. Now, does that little tid-bit give you some sense of the enormity of the number ‘one-trillion?’ Apparently, congress and the President of the United States do not consider it a significant number, because they just placed our country in debt by 1.4 trillion dollars. I suppose if you have the ability to ignore the zeros a trillion dollars does not bother you. Today, our President said, “We have seen the beginning of the end.” Unfortunately, I’m afraid he is correct. I’m sixty years old. It’s too late for me to begin counting to a trillion. Shoot, I’d probably loose count in a year or two and have to start over. But, geeze!--it’s a big number. By the way, Louis IX paid his own ransom, which was 50,000 gold bezants…I bet that’s no where near a trillion. |
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