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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: Only the Big Sticks Date: September 14, 2008, Sunday Thought: Instead of making the effort to go out and get the big sticks, I seem to be content to trudge along gathering the little stuff, ignoring the big things that need to be done. Jog: Of course I was thrilled when Max retrieved the stick from the lake. That is what Labs are supposed to do…swim and retrieve. But, it has taken a while to get to this point. A couple of years back when we got Max the dang dog didn’t even know he could swim. How could he; he’d never seen a large body of water. It’s difficult to learn to swim by running through the sprinkler, which he refuses to do anyway. But, over a period of time we have been able to coax the Lab out of him. The first time he waded in the lake, he loved it. Somehow, that inbred love of the water urged him to get in. How confused his mind must have been as he splashed shoulder deep in the lake. He knew he was meant for it but had no idea what to do with it. He would lift his legs high and splash in the water making swimming motions without really swimming. Until one day as wading along the shore, he stepped into a hole. Then it was, “Good Grief! I’m swimming!” Every since that fateful day large bodies of water have been a magnet. If I want to keep him out of the lake as we walk around the pathway, I must leash him; otherwise, his black butt is in the water. So it was, on one day, I decided I’d try throwing a stick into the lake and see if he would retrieve it. I picked up a stick, which I thought was a decent stick, and threw it in the water. Max ran to the water’s edge and watched the thing splash about ten feet out. He turned to me with that quizzical look he gets when I do some dumb human thing and said, “Now, why the heck did you do that? It’s in the water.” No amount of coaxing could get him to go in. I found another stick and tossed it in; I received the same stare. I did this several days in a row. I began to notice an abundance of sticks floating around the shoreline, and considered Max was gonna have to get the idea before I filled the lake with sticks. I also noticed I was beginning to run short of decent sticks. One day, realizing all the decent sticks were now floating in the lake, I found one that was about three long. I could have broken it in half and had two sticks but considered that too much trouble. I tossed it into the water. To my amazement, Max went in, swam to the stick and then brought the dang thing back to me. I threw it back in and his black butt went back in the water. After he brought it back to me the second time, I threw the dang thing as far into the lake as I could chuck it. Into the water he went, straight to the stick, and back to me he swam. Since that time, I have found that Max will not retrieve a little stick; that just doesn’t seem worthwhile to him. Nope it has to be a dang log before he goes after it. Who would have thought it makes a difference. Now, Labs were not meant to chase sticks. Nope, originally they were meant to help the fishermen of Newfoundland retrieve their nets and seize fish that escaped the net; but today they retrieve ducks and sticks thrown in the lake. So, I guess it just isn’t worth the effort to retrieve a little stick. In Max’s case, bigger is better. I got to thinking about that and decided my black dog has taught me another lesson. I find I often am content with chasing the little sticks. I have some really major tasks to complete in my job. They’re floating out there in my job-lake. Instead of making the effort to go out and get the big sticks, I seem to be content to trudge along gathering the little stuff, ignoring the big things that need to be done. I suppose that is procrastination. I like to think of it as just chasing little sticks. I somehow ignore the fact that it is in accomplishing the big tasks where I will be most rewarded. If I’m gonna get wet, I just might as well go after the big sticks. Thanks again for the lesson, Max. What in the world would I do without you to jog my senses? |
| Title: Still Remembering Date: September 11, 2008, Thursday Thought: Jog: The last couple of days have been pretty busy. Unfortunately, yesterday I attended the funeral of a very good friend's loved one; her father died. I suppose philosophically we must realize that death is a part of life. That does not make it more appealing...just understandable...and certainly inevitable. I did not give it much thought when I was a youngster. It scared the dickens out of me. I don't give it much thought now, guess I've gotten used to the notion. It doesn't scare me anymore. Well, anyway, like I said, I've been busy recently...doin' lots of work, which is good; it pays the bills and puts bread on the table. But, I've been thinking about my writing also. I have an unfinished piece that I put into final daft form today. Many of you may have taken the survey I have in my port about the day the Towers fell ("Invalid Item"  ). It was an attempt to get initial responses from folks as they remembered that moment. I originally posted the survey in February 2005. I have way over 100 responses now and have finished putting the thing together. Many folks who took the survey asked to see the finish product.Well, I've finished the document. I saved it to a PDF file and attempted to post it into my port; I was not successful. It appears the port only accepts documents less than 1 meg in size and this one is 3.5 megs. I suppose I'll not be able to put it in my port. However, if there is anyone out there who wants to see the tabulation of the material, I will be glad to email it to you in a PDF format. All I ask is that you give me some feedback on it. So, today is the anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center. It is amazing how time removes the emotion. However, I feel just as offended and violated today as I did then. My heart still goes out to all the families that lost loved ones...and all the friends who were lost. Somehow we have got to never let this happen to us again. It is my prayer that no one ever has to experience that sorrow again. Death that comes naturally is tough enough; there is no place in our lives for it to violently claim those we love. May it never happen again. |
| Title: A Little Bit of Rambling Date: September 9, 2008, Tuesday Thought: I want to write when I have a block of time to wander through my mind and imagination. When I have a deadline staring at me, writing becomes a burden. Jog: I get to doin’ stuff and loose all track of time. I mean, I dropped into my “jog” this morning, read a couple of blogs, made a comment, and then went over to check my calendar. The dang thing is totally black. This is the first entry of September. My work calendar, on the other hand, is full of entries. That’s good and bad. It means I have been trying to get more work done…at least account for the work I do. I’ve got to get my billables UP. Unfortunately, it means I haven’t been spending much time in WDC. I know it appears that I have deserted the place. However, I have been here; I read several blogs every day. I don’t always comment. In fact, I rarely comment lately. It has nothing to do with the fine folk who are in here; it has everything to do with my discipline and motivation. Sometimes I get a block. It isn’t that I have nothing to say. I could babble on all day long on the mundane. It seems to be that when faced with the notion that I have limited time, I don’t start writing. I want to write when I have a block of time to wander through my mind and imagination. When I have a deadline staring at me, writing becomes a burden. I suppose that is so because that’s how I spend my day in the job-world. My life is one of deadlines and crunch time. I’ve got a dozen assignments that are facing me; ordinances to be written, studies to be composed, correspondence to be returned. Each one carries a little tag that says, “date due.” Now, I know it could be worse; I could have nothing to do. That would free up a tremendous amount of time to wander through WDC and be creative; it would however put a crimp on paying the bills. So, I will be grateful that I am so busy. I look forward to the time when I will not fret about paying any bills…if that time ever comes. There will be a day when I will no longer have the deadlines facing me, the meetings to attend, the crises of clients to work on. I wonder if at that time I will miss it…probably. So, again, I will purpose to enjoy my ‘now’ and make the best of it. By the way, this is the week I had planned to travel to Gettysburg with Tor. Obviously, I am not doing that. Stuff got in the way…dang stuff! Maybe I can free up some time this summer. |
| Title: Living in the Now Date: August 26, 2008, Tuesday Thought: I’ve found that dog can teach me a few lessons. One of them is to live in the ‘now.’ Jog: As you know, I am a dog person. I watch many of the dog programs on Animal Planet and catch Cesar Milan, the Dog Whisperer, every now an then on the National Geographic channel. One of the things I’ve heard Cesar say several times is that dogs live in the ‘now’. They are not concerned with yesterday and have no worries about tomorrow; they live in the now. I suppose that is so. I know my dog, Max, has a pretty good ‘now’ going for him. I was thinking about this and concluded it would be good if humans could learn to live in the now. We don’t, you know. Oh, we cruise along in the moment doing things: playing, fighting, working, and just doing stuff. But, our mind often seems to be focused either behind us or in front of us. I have a friend who works constantly for tomorrow. Everything he does is building for tomorrow, laying stores for a rainy day. That is a very wise thing to do. Heck, only a dummy isn’t concerned about where we will be tomorrow. The wise man prepares today for what life brings tomorrow. However, it is very easy to focus entirely on tomorrow and neglect today. My friend’s children, who are little, do not see him much; he has a second job on the weekend and in the evenings. He will no doubt someday be a wealthy man in his tomorrow; but, if he does not take care, he will be a lonely man. Much of my earlier life was lived this way; I worked all day and went to school much of the evening. When I graduated from school one of my boys asked, “Why’s Daddy home at night so much now?” Heck, my kids thought everybody’s dad went to school at night. I’m glad those days are gone; I wouldn’t want to do that again. But, unfortunately, my little boys are gone also; they are grown men now. Living in tomorrow can be detrimental if we neglect today—the now. On the other hand, I also have a friend who lives in yesterday. When he was a young man he was an athlete—a jock on the football team. My high school won the state championship three times in a row. Those were glory days. My friend somehow never got away from those days. The rest of us graduated from high school and went on to greater things. He stayed in the little town, got a job, and raised a family there. However, every time we get together, he goes back to the glory days. Everything he does is impacted by those days. All the ‘old-timers’ remember him and those state championship games. Yesterday has a way of barging into his ‘now.’ When he dies and his eulogy is read, one of the first items will be that he was on the football team that went to state three years in a row. Of all his yesterdays, those three years were the highlight. Isn’t it sad to have peaked in high school? Everything following that moment is just an afterthought—an anti-climax. My dog, Max, lives in the ‘now.’ He wakes in the morning excited about our walk. Heck, we’ve taken that walk every morning for three years and that dog acts as if it’s the first time he ever went. He doesn’t care about the bills or if it’s gonna storm outside. In the now he is glued to my side, either sitting there waiting for me to pet him or curled up next to my feet sleeping. He lives in the ‘now.’ I believe that dog can teach me a few lessons. One of them is to live in the ‘now.’ I try not to worry about tomorrow. I don’t let the fact that my yesterday holds heart surgery and a quadruple by-pass; that was yesterday. I can’t let it affect my ‘now.’ Neither will I fret over tomorrow. Gasoline may go to $10 per gallon tomorrow; but it’s only $3.40 in my now. I’ll just live with it-reach in my pocket and pay it out. I won’t even gripe because I remember the day I paid $0.19 for a gallon of gas; that was yesterday. And, I am no longer there. I’m in my now. The crazy thing about it is, that when I begin to live in the ‘now,’ I get excited about the possibility of living my ‘now’ that’ll happen tomorrow. In any case, I won’t ignore preparing for tomorrows. But, I won’t live them until they are here—until they are now. Like Max, I think it is time we all started living in the ‘now.’ It’ll probably lower our blood pressure—might even help us sleep a little better at night. I’ve noticed Max has no problem sleeping. |
| Title: Celebrating Our Wedding Day Date: August 24, 2008, Sunday—A very special day Thought: A marriage is not the wedding, it’s the life after the wedding. Jog: It has been forty-one years. Linda and I have been married forty-one years. Although it does not seem like it was just yesterday, it isn’t far from that. I still remember specific moments in that day. We were very young. I was eighteen and so was she. In Oklahoma, the ages of consent for boys and girls were different. Linda could marry without parental consent; I could not. One of the most embarrassing things for me to do was visit the courthouse with my dad so he could give me permission to get married. Now, my friends that is young. What do I think about getting married at eighteen? Well, I don’t recommend it. I’ve always said if I had it to do over again, I would still marry the same person, but probably not at that age. But, I did; and I’m glad I did. We began dating in high school. Linda was my date at my Senior Prom and I was her’s the following year at her Senior Prom, although we did not attend her’s. The night of Linda’s prom we skipped the dance and went out to eat like grown ups. We drove thirty miles to Norman and ate at an Italian restaurant…well sort of—it was Pizza Hut. Three months later, we were married and playing ‘grown-up’ for real—both still just kids. Our wedding was very simple. For some reason, I was a little embarrassed to be getting married. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married; I did. I just didn’t want to get married. You know, I wanted to wake up one morning and BE married. But, you gotta do the wedding thing. I agreed that the wedding thing would be simple—very small. Today, forty-one years later, I consider that young kid, who was me, as being a very selfish person. Linda deserved the big wedding, or at least one with all the trappings. However, we did not have the trappings. In attendance at our wedding were Linda and I, the best man and maid of honor, my parents, and Linda’s mom—her dad had to work. And, of course, there was the preacher. We had already rented a small garage apartment in Oklahoma City, which was waiting for us. After the preacher preformed the wedding, Linda and I rushed off to that apartment to begin our lives together as a married couple. That is, we left after I stopped at her house and washed off my car, which was decorated with tissue and shoe polish on the windows. We did not have a honeymoon; I had the weekend off work and we spent our first nights together in our own apartment. It’s funny, but we never really knew the difference. We were excited and exhilarated that we were married. Someday, maybe at our fiftieth wedding anniversary, Linda can have her wedding with all the trappings; and I can take her to some exotic place for our honeymoon. It won’t really matter to her. I know, because a marriage is not the wedding, it’s the life after the wedding. Just like our wedding day, today will be simply spent. We will work on the garage, getting some stuff moved out of the way. I have some work to do on the computer for my job and she will be doing some shopping for groceries. We will go out to lunch and dinner, just as we always do. Perhaps we will go to an Italian restaurant—not Pizza Hut. We will not exchange gifts, we don’t do that anymore—it isn’t necessary. We always wish each other a happy anniversary. And, although this sounds like a rather mundane way to celebrate an anniversary; don’t be fooled. Every minute of the day is special. The fact that young couple, just kids, walked into a relationship of commitment forty-one years ago and is still walking together today, is something very special. All the diamonds or gifts in the world would come up short in expressing the meaning of what we have done. The gift really isn’t necessary. All that is necessary is that we are still together and working hard on year number forty-two. |
| Title; Anonymity Date: August 21, 2008, Thursday Thought: Sixty years of living has taught me to be wary of the guys wandering around outside my frame of reference. Jog: This is a very public world. We live in a day and age where information abounds. It is no longer surprising, but rather shocking, how much information may be gathered about someone from Internet research. A very enterprising person can build a solid history, including demographics and financial condition on virtually any other person. And, surprisingly we give those searching for information about us a lot of assistance. Willingly, we provide our personal history, our likes and dislikes, and even a photograph in our web pages. Here in this relatively secure site of WDC I find an amazing assortment of personal data. It is true; I feel WDC is a safe site. Over the years, I’ve confirmed that the writers in here are normal people, well relatively normal. I’ve come to trust the site. But, should I? My site receives about thirty to fifty visits daily—much less than many sites. However, that translates into between 210 to 350 visits each week. I’ve looked at the stats and they tell me that about twenty-five percent of the visits are from sources outside WDC. That means about eighty strangers are wandering in here on a weekly basis. I have no idea about who these folks are or their intentions. I would hope they are here to read my stories; I would hope they are folks just like us. But, who knows? So, what is it we should do about this, if it is a concern? Well, I think we should take advantage of the tools provided by the site. We can limit the access to those who are members and are reasonably interested in reading and writing. We can close our work and keep it totally private, and if we wish provide a ‘key’ to those we give permission to visit. Generally, most of my work is open to the public. However, there are some things that I have chosen to keep private—not so much that they are secrets, but more limited to a ‘need to know’ basis. My attention to this is prompted by an exercise I began recently. After writing an entry about personal histories, several comments were made that perhaps I should consider writing my own. Over the years, I have been doing that very same thing. In fact, I hazard to guess that many of the folks who read that entry are doing the very same thing. It never entered my head that others would perhaps be interested in reading the thing. I have always considered my life rather mundane—commonplace. But, having lived sixty years of it, I have had the opportunity to collect enough experiences to fashion a somewhat interesting life, at least I developed skills that permit me to share it in such a manner that it appears to be interesting. And, so I’ve decided to write my ‘remembrances’ and post them in WDC. And, that raises the question of how private or public should they be? As I entered the second entry, I had a concern that there was significant information there—dates, names, and places. None of it is very useful; however, all of it combined begins to present a significant profile that I am not so sure I want to be distributed worldwide by the marvelous facility of the Internet. Therefore, I have decided to mark the entry as being private, limiting access to those who have permission to read it. The new item can easily be found in my portfolio. It’s titled “Autobiography”; a dead giveaway that it contains information about the writer. It would not be hard to find. But, I’ve created a passkey to limit access. If a writer wishes to read the material, Lord only knows why, I can and will give it to them. Now, tell me; how paranoid is that? Is it paranoia, social programming, or experience fueling my concerns? How much of our private lives do we share before we begin to limit access? Sixty years of living has taught me to be wary of the guys wandering around outside my frame of reference. They are capable of extreme nastiness just as well as tremendous goodness. It’s just too dang bad that humankind is that way; but, that’s just the way it is. What do you think? |
| Title: Sometimes They Really Shine Date: August 20, 2008, Wednesday Thought: Certainly there are some bad apples who claim all the attention. But, sometimes, just sometimes they really shine. Jog: Sometimes they really shine. I’m talking about youngsters—mine to be specific. We hear how kids today are disrespectful and spoiled, and often there are examples to confirm this rumor. I know our homeowner’s association has been fighting vandalism for years. We have a real problem with kids riding golf-carts and tearing up the landscaped areas. Recently, graffiti was painted on the walls of our bathroom in the park. We’ve had kids curse and spew nastiness at adults and adult parents who permit it. Certainly, there are some bad apples who claim all the attention. But, sometimes, just sometimes they really shine. I’ve got one of those. Her name is Harley. In a recent entry, I introduced you to my granddaughter, Harley. She is a vibrant thirteen years old. Just recently, she was adopted by my son and given his name, of which she is immensely proud. That in itself is significant; because unlike all the other grandkids, she was not born with that name. Harley chose to wear it as her own; and that makes this grandpa very proud. I have been blessed with beautiful grandkids—beautiful in spirit as well as countenance. Harley is certainly no exception. She is a beautiful child and is turning into a beautiful young woman. I have been pleased to see her morph from the gangly and awkward child into this graceful young woman. What a marvelous thing to watch. As dramatic as it is to watch a butterfly spread it wings for the very first time, even more so has it been to watch Harley. She enters the ninth grade this year. As a freshman, she will be the low man on the totem pole, along with all the other freshmen. However, Harley has achieved a wonderful accomplishment. She has been selected for the marching band. Now, if that doesn’t sound like much, you need to be educated. It is a big deal to be selected to be in the marching band. Members are chosen from the entire high school. Very rarely is it that a freshman is selected. But, our Harley has been. Now, isn’t that neat? I think so. It amazes me. I think of the awkward child who tripped over her own feet—who definitely had a challenge with coordination. Well, not any more. She can actually march in step, in a straight line, and play an instrument at the same time—who’d a thought? No doubt I will be attending the home football games this year, for the marching band performs at halftime. I will sit up there with all the other gramps and say, “You see that one on the end there? Well, that’s my granddaughter.” Yes sir, sometimes they really shine. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: A Matter of History Date: August 18, 2008, Monday Thought: It takes the combine strength of all of us weaved together to create world history. Alone none of us is significant; together we share the strength of a mighty rope. Jog: When we think about history, we consider the landmark events that have charted humanity’s journey. We consider the ancient Greeks and the Romans. Names such as Alexander and Xerxes are prominent, as are Julius Caesar and Caligula. Great events such as the Reformation and the discovery of a New World propel us closer to more recent history such as the birth of the United States and its Civil War. Within the reach of generations, living history has experienced two World Wars and the rise and collapse of an Iron Curtain that shrouded a Cold War. In my lifetime I have witnessed the assassination of a president, the humiliation of another and, as history is now establishing, the recognition of a great one, Ronald Regan. History is littered with events and dates to fill a hundred-thousand books. However, that is history on a grand scale. There is history on a much more humble scale; there is a history of the individual—a personal history, if you will. We in WDC have witnessed this as we have watched Nada and Scarlett  chronicle the years of their lives. What an interesting exercise this has been. How totally diverse are the two histories. But, as different as they are, they hold many traits of human nature in common. Both personal histories share struggles with relationships and the challenges of living life one day at a time. Is either life history to be preferred over the other?—absolutely not. For each life, including all the life histories being written, including yours and mine, form the rope that creates the greater history of mankind. We are all but a thread in that rope. It takes the combine strength of all of us weaved together to create world history. Alone none of us is significant; together we share the strength of a mighty rope.I share this today because of the contrasting differences between the two histories being shared in tandem in the blogs of WDC. It takes both histories to give strength to the individual histories. One gives definition to the other, because it is only in seeing the contrasting difference that we understand the significance of the single history. It is amazing to me to realize that, as contrasting as these two histories may be, there can be even more contrast. During the period described by Nada and Scarlett, my history was being written in a small Oklahoma town. I stood at the opposite spectrum of experience from the other two histories. As a young father, I faced challenges of my own. I had two small children and a wife to support and very little income. My life revolved around service to a community of Christian believers. Having dedicated myself to the ministry of God’s word, I was enrolled as a full-time student in college, obtaining my Bachelors of Arts in Divinity. To sustain my family and myself I had accepted a position as pastor of a little Baptist Church in Carney, Oklahoma. And, so as Nada moved among the Washington DC crowd promoting the concept of C.A.T and as Scarlett vacationed on the Isle of Wright, I stood in the pulpit of a small Southern Baptist Church preaching the message of God's love and redemption. Now, consider what you were doing at that time. We are all just more threads of history in history’s great rope. Are any of our histories any more significant than the other? Nope, not in the slightest—each is critical in its own unique sense. I think back on the events that touched me, like the moment I held the hand of a young man with a head trauma as his life left him. I remember being with the family at that time. I remember conducting the funeral of a great Christian man. He was just a flicker in the history of his time, barely even noticeable. But, I remember how every Sunday morning he would place a gallon of fresh milk on my doorstep and a dozen eggs also. I remember his quiet support and prayers for my family when we faced trials of our own. I remember his spirit and the way he loved every person he ever knew. I remember how he taught a young preacher many of the lessons that I tried to preach. My history remembers a young girl who was lost and seeking direction--how she was snubbed by another church in town because her background was ‘questionable.’ I remember how she responded to simple kindness from a preacher who refused to judge her. I remember seeing her turn around and begin to make healthy decisions for her life. In addition, I remember seeing her graduate and go off to college with a new perspective on life. These things were happening in my history at the time Nada and Scarlett were writing their histories. Isn’t it remarkable the contrast that exists between them? Now, add to these your history. What a fantastic thing life is. What a wonderful rope we all weave together as we write our own personal history. At any particular time, there are countless moments of great joy and equal moments of great sorrow. But, it is the contrast and the differences that make us unique. I have always been a student of history. Usually I consider the greater events in mankind’s journey as my subject of study. However, lately I’ve become a great admirer of individual histories. Perhaps, we should all chronicle our history, if for no other reason than to remind us of the differences and the contrasts that exist between them. Oh well, just a thought. |
| Title: Writing Styles Date: August 14, 2008, Thursday Thought: There is room for individuality in our writing. There is room for us to develop our own style, which is not the same as a license for laziness in writing. Jog: I know there is a right and wrong way to use words. I know there is an appropriate way to arrange them in a sentence and order them in a paragraph. That is called grammar and composition. Painfully, I remember the first college composition paper I wrote and submitted. I did not know so many red marks and comments could be made on a paper. I think my grade was somewhere around a 30%, which in anyone’s book is failing. You know, I was pretty dang proud of that paper when I turned it in. I wasn’t half as proud when I got it back. Over the years, I have come to realize it takes a little finesse to write well. I haven’t mastered the art yet, but I’m trying. And, that’s what I want to discuss today. I’m not so sure folks care about writing well. This is apparent by the text messaging and “e-language” we receive. “U R 2 kool,” simply does not promote improved writing skills. Is it really too difficult to write, “you are too cool?” I realize it might not be cool, but at least it is correct. Unfortunately, our society encourages our young people to short cut our language skills. Our high school students can not write a sentence without using “e-speak.” A couple of years ago I hired a masters degree level employee at my firm. One of the qualifications was that they have decent writing skills. He had a 4.0 grade-point average during graduate school and apparently was very intelligent. I was appalled by the first text document I had him write for a study. It was a disaster. I soon concluded graduate school successfully transferred knowledge about the planning profession into his cranium, but there was no writing skill. It appears institutions of higher learning are more concerned in graduating students from their program in order to maintain their accreditation than honing basic communication skills. My firm was left with the job of teaching these skills. Fortunately, this young man was no dummy and soon understood the standards we require for the written page. I have been very impressed with the level of talent in WDC. There are folks in here who can conceive an idea and then convey that idea accurately to an audience by means of the written word. Now, how exciting is that? Well, for me that’s pretty dang exciting. There are writers in here who can paint glorious vistas with their words and evoke great emotion with them. I am proud to say many of them visit my blog page on a somewhat regular basis. For that, I am very honored. However, there are literally thousands in WDC who possess a talent for the written word I can only hope I touch on someday. What a glorious place this is. Now, I began this by saying there is a right way and a wrong way to use words. I need to clarify that a little. That does not particularly mean the words you write must be textbook accurate. It doesn’t mean you must follow every rule of punctuation. It does mean you have to be able to clearly show the reader what you want to say. And, even though you may be marked down by some professor of composition, you need to be consistent with your style. Sometimes what you write may not be pretty, but it dang sure ought to be consistent. I use punctuation forms that I know I should not use. I write “sorta” and “kinda” and “gonna” knowing they are misspelled. There are times I end a sentence with a preposition even though the rules say I shouldn’t. I may throw in comma flaws, full well knowing the little critters are in there. I begin too many sentences with “but”, “and”, “so”, and “well”—I know I do it. I know the difference between right and wrong regarding the rules of grammar. Usually, when they are violated they are violated willingly and purposfully. As long as I communicate my thoughts and feelings and you understand my message, well, all that is OK with me. I call that style, and each one of us has to develop their own. I’d like to use an example of a well-written work with a style of its own that may not meet all the rules of composition. I was impressed the first time I read it, and still hold the opinion that it is a brilliant work. It was written by our friend ccstring. Take a look at it and see if you don’t agree with me. I don’t like the shortcuts texting and e-mail have introduced into our written language. In a way, I am a purist and prefer complete sentences, proper paragraph construction, and correctly spelled words. However, I do feel there is room for individuality in our writing. There is room for us to develop our own style, which is not the same as a license for laziness in writing. I believe as writers we must know how to do it right before we make the choice to ignore the rules. But, there is room for individuality—room for developing our own style. WDC is a fine place to practice that individuality.
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| Title: The Beauty of the Rose Date: August 13, 2008, Wednesday Thought: To judge the whole system of the Olympics because of the political trappings of one or several governments is to allow oneself to miss the message of the games. Jog: Sometimes you have to look for the beauty in something. I read Nada entry about the hypocritical actions of the Chinese as they put on their best face, just for us to find out it was fake. For some reason they thought it wouldn’t matter to put the unsightly child down; for some reason they thought we would not appreciate her. Of course, they were wrong.Now, that disturbs me; but, I am also disturbed by the reaction many are taking to this. Folks are rightly appalled and disappointed in the Chinese government. However, to transfer these feelings to the games themselves is not reasonable. To lose interest in the drama of the competition between athletes who have worked for years because of infantile actions of the Chinese government is in itself hypocritical. To judge the whole system of the Olympics because of the political trappings of one or several governments is to allow oneself to miss the message of the games. Granted, the games have grown into a behemoth bureaucracy. There has always been difficulty with administration of the games. There has always been graft and cheating going on behind the scenes. However, when you look past that, and granted sometimes you have to hold your nose while doing it—well when you look down on the individual level, you find the spirit that I was talking about in my previous entry. When I examine the Chinese women’s gymnastics team, I see some women who are not the most pleasing to the eye. However, the talent is there. This is something the Chinese could not fake. They had to take the whole package—looks and talent. (Although, I swear some of them look to be only 12-years old, when they should be 16.) There is nothing hypocritical about the effort expended by the athletes from any of the countries, except of course when we find them using steroids—now that’s just wrong. But, when we look past these things, we see the purity of the spirit of the games. Somehow, we as people need to be able to see the purity of the spirit, instead of being sidetracked by the mire. For if we can do it in the Olympics, we can do it in other areas of our lives. Perhaps I am just a tad bit cynical, but it seems to me that folks focus on the bad things and are much too willing to write them off as lost causes. Too many children have been written off as being hopeless. Too many relationships have been written off as being over. Too many opportunities have been discarded because of self-doubt. When we look at a rose, we see the beauty of the blossom. Somehow, we forget about the thorns on the stem. Why can’t we do that with our life experiences? I’m not saying ignore the thorns; if you do that you’ll get stuck. I’m saying realize the beauty of the rose in spite of the thorns. I kinda think life would be more pleasurable if we could do that. |
| Title: The Human Spirit Date: August 12, 2008, Tuesday Thought: Like how many times have I marked on my schedule an exciting synchronized diving event—like, never. Jog: What is spirit? I suppose I could go all theological on you and discuss the supernatural aspects of otherworld existence. But, that’s not what I want to do; and it isn’t really what I’m talking about anyway. I’m talking about that drive in creatures that carries them beyond their normal capabilities. Everyone and every creature has spirit, albeit to different degrees and intensities. I witnessed this amazing spirit in the arena of the Olympic Games this week. I am simply obsessed with the Olympics. Even as a young child I would intently watch competitions that under other circumstances I would never take an interest. Like how many times have I marked on my schedule an exciting synchronized diving event—like, never. But, there I sat watching the divers jump from a platform in tandem like shadows to each other. And, there isn’t any amount of encouragement that will get me to watch a water polo match—well, not hardly. I watched the beach volleyball match and the two honeys from California whup everyone’s butt. Why are these competitions of such interest to me? It isn’t the game-but rather the spirit of the participants. Each entrant, no matter the sport, has made enormous sacrifices to be at this place at this time. I venture to say it is the spirit of the games that holds my attention—the human drama played out with each competition. And occasionally the amazing human spirit bursts through in all it’s magnificence. Like how in 1968, at the Summer Olympic Games in Mexico City, a runner named John Stephen Aquara was in the marathon, representing Tanzania. Somewhere along the route, he fell and injured his leg. Bleeding and in pain, he insisted on continuing with the race. Two hours after the last marathon runner had finished the course, John came running into the empty stadium. He ran his one lap around the track and over the finish line; I watched him do it on my black and white TV. A reporter asked him why he continued running injured as he was? His response was, “My country did not send me 6,000 miles to start a race; they sent me 6,000 miles to finish the race.” Where does that kind of spirit come from? Just last Monday, the USA swimmers were entered in the 400-meter freestyle relay. Now any team with Michael Phelps is a good team. But they were not favored to win; the French were favored to win. In fact members of the French team said they would destroy the Americans in the race. In the last 100 meters the French were ahead, almost a full body length; then, amazingly, US swimmer John Lezak reached back into reserves that were surely nurtured by his spirit; he closed the gap and touched the pad first to win the Gold, shattering the world record for the 400 meter freestyle. Amazingly, it was Frenchman Alain Bernard, the current record holder of the 100-meter freestyle, who Lezak caught and beat on that last leg of the relay. Where did that spirit come from? When asked, all Lezak could say was, “I didn’t want to lose again.” In 1988, the Country of Jamaica entered a team in the bobsled event. The only ice found in Jamaica is in a rum and coke, and yet these men formed and competed in an Olympic winter sport. They funded their Olympic journey by selling sweatshirts in malls and restaurants. But, when it counted, they ran the course and sped down the bobsled track in Olympic competition. Partially through the course, their sled flipped over. They were given a resounding roar of appreciation as the team walked to the finish line. Where does that kind of spirit come from? Derek Redmond was a runner from the United Kingdom. In the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, he tore his hamstring during a semifinal heat and collapsed on the track in tears. He then got up and proceeded to hobble down the track intent on finishing. The stands watched as he struggled in agony down the track. His father was watching from the stands and immediately made his way down to the track, scaled the fence, eluded the guards and made his way to his son. He put his arm around his boy and together they struggled to the finish line. Just short of the finish line, the father turned loose of his son and let him finish by himself. What a testimony to the human spirit. Where does that kind of spirit come from? Well, it isn’t found only on the Olympic field. It is found in the lives of common people—folks that you and I both come into contact with. Some folks may look at us and marvel about our spirit. In my case, I find it in others—in a child, a working mother, a quiet father, a teacher, a cop, or just the guy next-door. What is important is that we recognize the spirit that is found in our fellow man and woman. Everyone has it. It’s that thing that makes us marvel at one another. We see it clearly in special events like the Olympics, because it is so intense there. But, never doubt the intensity of the human spirit in the common person; it is every bit as amazing. I love the Olympics, it reminds me that there is a purpose to our efforts, that rewards can be great, and mostly that just running the race and finishing it is often good enough. Where does that spirit come from? I don’t know; but, I’m glad it’s there. |
| Title: Waiting For a Breeze Dage: August 6, 2008, Wednesday Thought: Like the great sailing ships of the eighteenth century, my sails are set but there is just no wind. Jog: There is a small diameter pipe that runs across our little dirt road in the park. It’s purpose is to relieve storm water that collects on the uphill side of the road. It has been blocked for some time now. It no longer serves its original purpose; but its now the home for various creatures that scamper around in the wooded area around our lake. Now, I’ve never seen a critter in that pipe; but, I know they are there, because that pipe commands Max’s undivided attention every dang day we walk past it. As we near the pipe I see his ears pop up erect, or at least as erect at those velvet floppy flaps can be. About five feet out he goes into stealth mode, lifting and carefully placing each paw as he slowly approaches the pipe. Once he is there, he hovers over it almost frozen. That dang pipe demands his closest attention and utmost concentration. I do believe he would stand frozen there all dang day if eventually I didn’t literally drag him away. Some days he breaks into forceful barking directed at the hole. I suppose on those days some one is at home in there, curled up and pressed against the back of the passage. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Now, Max’s little ritual is both good and bad. There is a difference between concentration and obsession. Concentration is a good thing; it focuses on a single issue as alternatives and solutions are pursued. Obsession is not such a good thing. When a person is obsessed they are overpowered with a particular issue, person, or thing. Attention is directed at the subject with no reasonable accounting for other factors. In fact it very well could be detrimental to a person and those around them. I watched Max and that ritual at the pipe and tried to determine if it was concentration or obsession controlling him. I believe it was concentration, for given enough prompting, he eventually will break away and continue with his walk. However, it very well could turn into an obsession. I will not let that happen. I seem to be a little scatter-brained recently. I say that because, I can’t seem to get the kind of focus that Max has on that pipe. I am neither obsessed or focused on anything I do. I feel sort of adrift without power. Like the great sailing ships of the eighteenth century, my sails are set but there is just no wind. I do those things that are necessary and no more. Wouldn’t it be great if like Max, all we humans had to do to get focused is get a little scent of some critter hiding in a hole. That used to happen with my job. I’d get the scent of a new project and would attack it with vigor. Today, I still complete my projects, but there is certainly a lack of vigor. However, I still get a great deal of satisfaction out of serving my clients. I am just not looking to the horizon for new challenges. It’s almost as if I’ve climbed all the mountains and slayed all the dragons there are. I’ve been there and done that, in every aspect of my job. Of course, that experience is what my clients are paying for, so there is no danger of starving. Now, this is not particularly a bad time for me. Heck, I’m happy and content, certainly comfortable—just a little restless. I yern for a little obsession in my job—just enough to get me focused. Perhaps I should try out Max’s pipe. Maybe there’s something to that. Hmm…in the meantime I will continue to drift along waiting for a breeze to fill my sails. At least I’ve got sails; Tor would have me sitting in some canoe….probably without a paddle. |
| Title: Dog Days of Summer Date: August 4, 2008, Monday Thought: Folks do lots of stuff to keep cooled off in this weather, like removing their clothing Jog: It is hot. Don’t argue with me about it. My temperature gauge reads 107 F. in the shade. Any way you look at it that is hot. Now let me throw in 65% Relative Humidity and it’s now also miserable. It could be worse. I could be in Houston where the humidity is somewhere around 80%. You feel like you’re in an eternal shower; it’s downright sticky. Years ago, my parents lived in New Orleans. I swear it rained every dang day. Oh, the sun would shine and it would clear off instantly, but sometime during the dang day it would rain--seemed like the humidity was always 100%. Now that was miserable…BUT, the dang temperature wasn’t 107 degrees either. And, Anyea, don’t give me this “you should be in Arizona or Needles or some arid bakery like that.” I know it gets hot there, but there isn’t any dang humidity in those places. I know there are bunches of you who will likely call me a dang wussy cause I insist on staying in the air conditioned office all dang day. Heck, some of you probably don’t even have an air conditioner. Well, if you live here you better have one. Our civic and service clubs and organizations are giving the dang things away to poor families now. It can be deadly with out one. So, you can understand my frustration last week when Linda and I came home from lunch and our upstairs air conditioner was out. The downstairs unit was chugging away fighting a losing battle to keep our little bungalow cool. Fortunately, about midday the next day we were cooling again. Unfortunately, I was poorer because of the cost to repair the dang thing. But, let me tell you, it was worth it. Folks do lots of stuff to keep cooled off in this weather, like removing their clothing. Our across the street neighbor wears her bikini in weather like this. That is also dangerous since she is very attractive and the thing is barely two strips of see-through gauze. Of course, I don't look…at least not for long. Her bikini is good for traffic control, though. Amazing how much slower cars go down our street when she is outside working in her yard. Only, we do have a lot of tread marks on the curbs where guys have hit the curbs gawking at her. I wouldn’t know, I don’t go out at that time of day. But if you stand on a chair in my office and look over the top of the curtains you can clearly see her out there….or at least I suppose you could see her…I haven’t done that myself….at least not often. Max beats the heat by going swimming in our lake. As we walk around the lake, he constantly looks at me for permission to take to the water. I waited until we were almost through with our walk today. In fact, I was not going to let him go in the water, except for a chance encounter he had with a female lab. Her name is Dakota. He met her today. She is about two years his junior and is coal black like he is. She ran up to him while he was on leash. I carefully watched him to make sure it was going to be a friendly encounter. She rolled over on her back and exposed her female parts to him, which Max certainly appreciated as he checker her out—the little hussy. Then with both tails wagging, I released him from the leash. He looked at me and I said, “Go on! Get in the water.” Into the water he went, with Dakota closely following. This is the first time he has gone swimming with another lab. Needless to say the two of them enjoyed themselves tremendously. They ran up and down the shore splashing and growling at each other. Then they would jump into the water and swim out after the ducks, which would beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the lake. Eventually the two dogs came ashore and scampered about. Obviously, the heat was not a factor to these two. Heck, I enjoyed watching Dakota and Max more than watching my neighbor—not that I ever do, mind you. When they say the “dog days” of summer, I think they are referring to the hottest and most sultry days of summer. It usually conveys an uncomfortable and listless time of year. However, watching those two dogs play in the lake have given it new meaning to me. It just goes to show that even at its most tiresome; life can be very rewarding—even in the dog days of summer. |
| Title: Looking at Sixty Date: August 3, 2008, Sunday Thought: I suppose we should all move to Japan where the life expectancy is eighty-two. Jog: I am amazed at how quickly the weeks are flying by. It seems as if all I do is blink and it’s Sunday again. Don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Doesn’t really matter; the weeks are gonna fly by regardless of how I feel about it. It’s just that I have so dang much I’d like to do. That says nothing about the chores left undone that need tending to. I suppose it does not help my time frustration to continually realize that very soon I will be celebrating the milestone of sixty, of which I am not particularly pleased; but am powerless to control. I’ve noticed that many of my friends handle sixty differently. I have a good friend who recently turned sixty. He received the jabs and teasing of his peers in good spirit; however, I know it really perturbed him greatly. This friend of mine is also very short, not alarmingly so, but shorter than the other guys I know. For years, he has been the brunt of good-natured short jokes. He appears to take the ribbing well; he is a good sport. However, I know it grates on his very soul. As such, I don’t join the crowd with the jabs. My friend has the classic “short man’s complex.” Because of his reduced vertical stature, he compensates with competition. He has to win at everything he does; and everything he does becomes a competition. Driving across town with him is an experience similar to a mix of the Indy 500 and a demolition derby. I swear that someday some road-rage prone Texan is going to shoot his vertically challenged butt. And, wouldn’t you believe it, his favorite sport to play is basketball—a game where he comes up to the waistband of the other competitors. He is smarter than anyone else, always the first in any line, and always has a better way to do whatever task you want to address. Seems like he would be difficult to like; doesn’t it? Well, some don’t like him; just can’t take him. On the other hand, he is always the first to help and would literally give you the shirt off his back—the dang thing wouldn’t fit me; but he’d give it just the same. I’ve come to respect and care for him for the giving person that he is…I guess you could say in spite of his shortcomings (sorry, bad joke.) Well, this buddy of mine is older than me by six months. A few months ago he turned sixty. It irks him that he is older. He compensates with the fact that his hair is a solid rich golden color…not a single grey hair can be found on his head. His mustache matches perfectly. But, they ought to, he has been coloring them for years. He loves to ask the waitress at the restaurants, “Who do you think is older, me or him?” I sit there with touches of grey in the temple. He is as gleeful as a schoolgirl when she says I’m older. I give him his little victory for I know it is yet another validation that he is virile and a big boy. However, sixty is proving to be difficult on him. He refuses to recognize his body does not function as smoothly as a high school athlete anymore. He ignores the limitations of age. Now, I’m not saying that at the turn of sixty each of us should rent our wheelchair and retire to the porch swing. Nope, activity—and lots of it—should be the order of the day for each of us. There is no need to prematurely take ourselves out of any game or race. All I’m saying is that it is also OK to slow down. It’s OK to tire out a little earlier than you used to. Life really is not a competition. You don’t have to play basketball with the high school kids. Life isn’t a sprint to the finish line. We don’t have to be first in order to enjoy the journey. Not a one of us should ever ‘give up’ on living life to the fullest. But, we should at least enjoy the trip. Heck, I guess to just reach the age of sixty means you’ve accomplished great things. According to United Nations figures, the life expectancy of the average American is seventy-eight years, as compared with forty-three years if you were from Zimbabwe. I suppose we should all move to Japan where the life expectancy is eighty-two. Several of my friends are approaching the sixty milestone this year, as am I. I’ve decided to not make it a competition; I’m just glad I made it this far. Heck it’s just another number after all. |
| Title: Mystery Girl Date: August 2, 2008, Saturday Thought: Isn’t is strange that decades after this photo, some stranger would hold her photograph and wonder about her? Jog: An entry in another site got me to thinking today—thanks, Nada . We all have boxes of old photos stored on some back shelf. It’s amazing the history and memories that these little pieces of paper hold. They are of course priceless and irreplaceable.After my father died, I inherited a box of photographs. That’s all—just a box of photos (that's a whole other story.) I remember setting down on one rainy day and beginning to sort through those photos. In one stack I placed the photos of people and places I recognized. Another pile was for those who I could guess about. And, the last stack was for those people and places for which I had no clue as to the identity. I was disappointed to find, when I had completed the task, the stack of unknowns was larger than the stack of knowns. I would muse through the pile of photos shaking my head wondering just who the heck these people were. Within the midst of these unknowns, one photograph intrigued me more than any other. It is a photo of a young girl posing for the camera. She has become my Mona Lisa—a mystery. I wish the photo were just a tad bit clearer, but nevertheless, it is of pretty good quality. I am certain she lies resting in some cemetery by this time, for it is a very old photograph. I guess it is at least ninety years old. I suspect she is between fourteen and sixteen at the time of the photo. I can date the photo from the old Model T she is standing by. The license plate on the car is difficult to read but I can pick out 1920 on the plate (or it could be 1930). It is far from a new car; I surmise, from its condition, it is at least five or six years old. I have studied the photo for hours. She is an attractive young woman. By today’s standards, after she has been made up and outfitted, I suppose she would be quite a beauty. She stands erect and proud in the photo—innocent and ready to face a new world with new horizons promised by the Roaring Twenties. Her shoes are polished and appear new. She is wearing nylons, which put a shine to her legs. Even with the loose fitting skirt and sweater, you can tell she has a fine figure. She gazes at the camera—not smiling but perhaps just getting ready to smile. She comes from humble, common folk. They are probably farmers from Texas, Oklahoma or Louisiana. I can only guess, because that is where my people came from at around that time. You can’t see it from the photo I’ve posted, but LA can be seen on the license plate. When did the abbreviation of LA for Louisiana become common place? The old model-T she is standing by has seen its better days. The fenders are bent and there is a layer of dirt or even rust beneath the license plate. Close examination of the photo shows one tire being almost new while the other is slick—without tread. Is it a family car?—a boyfriends? I guess they are going on a trip. It is either early morning or late afternoon—see the length of the shadows. I suspect it is early morning. For some reason she looks fresh and ready to start the trip. Perhaps the photo was taken to commemorate the occasion, whatever it may be. Is she alone with the photographer, or are there friends and families standing out of sight? Why did she and her companion choose this spot to stop in their journey? They are located at the entrance to a bridge across some small creek. Who is she and what is her story? Over the years I have shuffled through my photos, constantly stopping and wondering about this mystery girl—this Mona Lisa. Isn’t is strange that decades after this photo, some stranger would hold her photograph and wonder about her? Oh, I know it’s a waste of time. But, I can’t seem to control my imagination each time I run across it. How about you? How old do you think she is? What do you think her story is? We will never know. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: A Little Slice of Stranger Pie Date: August 1, 2008, Friday Thought As soon as Max catches sight of the stranger, he bounds to the end of the leash barking and straining for his portion of stranger-pie. Jog: We have a small problem in our house. Well, perhaps it is not so small; however, it is one we definitely have to nip in the bud. Seems as if our dog, Max, has developed a taste for salesmen. Actually, it could be the FedEx or UPS guy or any other stranger carrying stuff who pops up at our doorstep uninvited. The doorbell sounds and it’s like the bell to round one of a prizefight. Max bounds from a sound sleep beneath my feet and charges to the front door barking, snarling, and licking his lips in anticipation. I can imagine the terror building on the other side of the door. Eighty pounds of Lab barking like Cujo is certainly intimidating. If it is a solicitor or someone handing out handbills, they usually retreat off the porch and wander on down the street. We have successfully rid ourselves of Jehovah Witnesses and other religious peddlers amidst Max’s protestations. If I were the recipient of his shameful actions I would get the heck off my porch as soon as possible—certainly before the door open and Cujo climbs my frame. As proud as we are of Max protecting his pack, we have got to get a handle on this. After the doorbell rings, as soon as we catch up to Max—usually at the front door, we clip the short leash on him and make him sit and stay before opening the door. That works about three seconds after the door is open. As soon as Max catches sight of the stranger, he bounds to the end of the leash barking and straining for his portion of stranger-pie. Now, the crazy thing is, he has never bitten one of them. Nope, Max is simply a terrorist…so far. Yesterday, some time around noon, Linda and I noticed that the temperature in our house was getting warmer. Now, that is not unusual since the temperature outside in the Texas afternoon was 105 degrees. But, upon checking further we found that the air conditioner unit that cools the second floor of our little hut was simply not working. We called the air conditioner repair people and begged for assistance. Unfortunately, the list of other beggars was legion as the Texas heat has been over-tasking air conditioners like popping popcorn. For the remainder of that night and most of today we limped along on a single unit. Pitiful isn’t it? We had to live on just one air conditioner. But, humor me; I’m an old fart who is just a tad spoiled (but I’ve earned it.) Therefore, you can understand our glee when the super-hero, Air Conditioner Man, rang our doorbell this afternoon. Only we were appalled when Max tried to eat the poor guy at the door. The guy said nothing; but looked at us with a stare that said, “If you want to get cool tonight you better control Cujo.” I got the message and restrained Max, who was disappointed and a little perturbed that I ruined his fun. Fortunately, we learned later that Air Conditioner Man is a dog person and did not take offense. The bottom line is that our super hero fixed our air conditioner, we are closed up in the cool house now, and Max is anticipating his next opportunity. We are expecting a UPS delivery; Max loves chocolate shorts. The amazing thing is, Max does not act this way with all strangers. If a friend were to enter the house with me or one of the grandkids, Max accepts the stranger like one of the family. Of course, he sticks his nose in their crotch first thing, a little indignity that we simply cannot stop—it’s his way of saying hello and checking their credentials. Nope, he only turns into Cujo when a stranger comes to the door unannounced. Now, I know there are “Dog Whisperers” out there who can help me out of this little dilemma. Lord knows I don’t want this behavior to increase. I’m considering moving to a desert island void of pesky strangers—Linda seems to think that’s a little radical. |
| Title: TV Anyone? Date: July 29, 2008, Tuesday Thought: There is some comfort in knowing that you got a state of the art piece of electronics sitting in your living room—at least until next week when the latest and greatest in electronics comes out and makes the one in my living room “old news.” Jog: Well, Linda and I made a little purchase on Sunday. I spent all day Saturday shopping at electronic stores. Seems as if we are in the market for a new TV. Geez, that can be confusing. Do you know how frustrating it can be to try to understand the little subtleties of HDTV? Salesman after salesman threw pixels, processors, and all kinds of features at us. Seems as if every TV we looked at was the “best.” Now, I don’t know about that; but I do know that their favorites were also the most expensive. So, I did what any good American would do. I came home and consulted the Internet. Geez, that was almost just as bad—information overload. And so, Sunday I went back to the stores armed with “printouts.” You know, all the stuff I learned from the Internet. Well, somehow I think it helped. I went home with a 46” Samsung HD LED TV. Picture is great…I mean, I’m impressed. Although, Max isn’t. Dang dog just sleeps and ignores it. Truth be known, I don’t think I could tell the difference in any of them—certainly if they aren’t lined up next to each other. But, there is some comfort in knowing that you got a state of the art piece of electronics sitting in your living room—at least until next week when the latest and greatest in electronics comes out and makes the one in my living room “old news.” You know, the thing that gets me is that I can remember, in my lifetime, when having a TV of any kind was a novelty. When I was a kid, we lived in Venezuela. My dad worked in the oilfield and there was oil to be gotten in Venezuela. There was no such thing as TV in Venezuela in the early 1950s. I guess I was about seven years old when I saw my first TV. We were back home, in the States, for a visit and someone we were visiting had a TV. Of course, it was black and white; and the screen was very small. I remember the stations did not broadcast 24 hours daily. Nope they signed on at 7:00 AM and went off the air at midnight. I would get up early in the morning and watch the test pattern for thirty minutes until the National Anthem came on, signaling the beginning of broadcasting. The stations I watched always started the day with cartoons. That was a long time ago. Who would have ever imagined the piece of electronics that sits in my living room today? We have sixty channels to choose from and that is limited only by how many I want to have. Of course, everything goes 24 hours daily. The impact on mankind of that piece of electronics is tremendous. Instant communication and mass manipulation has influenced society in ways only history will be able to measure. All I know is that I am impressed with my new HDTV. That kid, who first watched the test pattern on a black and white TV so many years ago, has certainly had quite a journey. I can’t wait until football season. |
| Title: Chasing Ducks Date: July 26, 2008, Saturday Thought: He is fiercely devoted to his people and loves to be with them. I mean he must be near them—in the same room and often sharing the same space. He is my Velcro dog. Jog: My dog Max is a Lab—a deep, shinny, black Lab. It is obvious that somewhere in his breeding something else but a Lab snuck into the doghouse, because, at a glance, he does not have all the classic Lab features. Nevertheless, with that said, there are moments when without a doubt you see the Lab shine through and there is no doubt that he is a Lab. I’ve learned to recognize some of the main characteristics of Labs in Max. He has two layers of hair to his coat. He has a coarse, shinny, and somewhat oily topcoat, which seems to repel water. Underneath that top layer is a downy-like undercoat that provides insulation against frigid water. Moreover, I did not know this, but somewhere I read that Labs have webbed toes. I checked it out on Max; sure enough, his toes are webbed. Besides all this, he acts like a Lab. He is fiercely devoted to his people and loves to be with them. I mean he must be near them—in the same room and often sharing the same space. He is my Velcro dog. Unfortunately, when we first got Max, a couple years ago, he did not know that he could swim. The instinct was certainly there. When we walked past the little lake in our subdivision, he would trot down to the water’s edge, cast his eyes to the ducks swimming offshore, and whine. Eventually, with much coaxing from me, Max wadded shoulder deep into the lake’s edge. I watched him lift his paws high as he walked, almost like he was swimming—but not quite. Then one day during that first summer, Max stepped into a hole as he was wading near the shore. Suddenly he was swimming. It was just a short distance; he was surprised by the new experience and headed straight for me standing on the shore. However, after that he began to venture a little further out into the lake until today he is quite an accomplished swimmer. He absolutely loves it. The only real problem is that he does not know what good it is. It’s fun indeed, but until recently, it seemed to serve no purpose except for cooling off on hot summer days. This week we did a new thing. As Max and I walked by the little lake, I showed him a stick and then threw it into the water. Lo and behold, into the water he went—he swam out to it, grabbed it firmly in his mouth, and then swam back to me, depositing it at my feet. He was so proud of himself, and I of course heaped praises on him. For the rest of that walk, I threw the stick into the lake and Max went in and got it. People stopped on the walk path and watched Max swim and retrieve. One little boy even exclaimed, “Look, Mommy! That dog is swimming!” And, indeed, he was. When we returned home, both of us were wet—Max from swimming in the lake and me from standing near him as he shook the water from his coat after each retrieval. As I usually do, I shared the news of our walk with Linda. “Linda, Max is no longer a Lab!” She raised one eyebrow at me and quizzed, “What do you mean? Of course he’s a Lab.” “Nope, he’s not. Today he wasn’t a Lab. Today Max was a Labrador Retriever. I threw a stick into the lake and he swam out and retrieved it.” “That’s nice, Dan. I’m proud of the two of you. But, Dan it’s just a stick. He’s still a Lab.” “Yeah, well I don’t care. I threw the dang thing out there and he went in and got it. He’s a Labrador Retriever. Today it was a stick; tomorrow it may be ducks.” And, that’s how it has been all week—every morning. I throw the stick in the lake and Max goes and gets it. We are quite a team. I’ve been throwing it a little further every morning. There is no hesitation on his part; it’s his fun new thing. Now, all was going well until this morning. We had thrown and retrieve a number of times, thoroughly enjoying ourselves, when I noticed the ducks were swimming relatively near where I last threw the stick. As usual, Max went in after the stick. However, this time he swam right past the stick. His eyes were on the ducks. Worried that he may swim beyond his limit, I called to him to come back. That was a useless act on my part. Max was duck hunting and he was going to get him a duck. Now, the ducks in our little lake are not used to big black dogs out in the middle of their lake. Usually the ducks are chased into the water where they swim offshore and squawk and quack at the frustrated barking dogs standing on the shore. However, here was one of those dang dogs out in the middle of their lake, bearing down on them like a navy destroyer. Now, I have to believe my black Labrador Retriever was much more of a nuisance to them than a threat. However, in any case the ducks took evasive action. They swam further out into the lake. The dog swam after them. They changed direction. The dog changed direction. Back on the shore, I’m uselessly calling for Max to come back. He is ignoring me—duck hunting. The ducks try a new tactic; they split into two groups. One group swims south and one group swims north. Max is momentarily confused but decides to head for the group swimming south, which fortunately is in my direction. I am amazed at the wake that black swimming dog created as he pursued the ducks. Apparently, the ducks were a little amazed and frustrated also. However, the really amazing thing is that Max was actually gaining distance on the ducks—he was closing in. I could see the ducks looking over their shoulder and passing the word down the line, “The dang dog’s gaining!” Then the ducks cheated. In a flurry of flapping and splashing, the ducks took to the air and flew to a secure part of the lake. This startled Max and I saw him splash in the water disoriented. However, he quickly recovered and finally acknowledged me standing on the shore calling him. Finally, he decided to come on in. On shore, he shook the water from his coat, glanced at the empty lake, and walked on home with me as my Velcro dog. I realize in other regions of this world there are real life dramas being played, which are much more exciting than what happens around our little lake. There are other events that are much more important than Max chasing ducks. But, in a way, you can’t discount the significance of what that black dog and I have experienced on that morning walk. In a small simple moment, a man and a dog shared the exhilaration of a common event. It was just some ducks on a little lake; but, it was a first for us, and we shared it together. At that moment, we were as happy as a dog and a man could be. Now, that’s something. |
| Title: Hey, Doc, I’ve Got This Rash! Date: July 12, 2008, Saturday Thought: . I momentarily fought the urge to begin pointing out old blemishes to see if she could do something about those. Jog: Some of you may remember the entry a couple of weeks ago when I went to the dermatologist to get a couple of suspicious growths on my face looked at. My general care physician looked at them and casually said, “Those look like cancer; get them looked at!” So being the obedient soul that I am, I promptly arraigned to do exactly that. I made my appointment with a new doc I had never before visited, a dermatologist. On the day of the visit, in popped a physician assistant who promptly tells me the doc is on vacation for two weeks and she would be doing the biopsy in my doc's stead. I was a little perturbed but said, “Fine.” She then sent in a nurse to give me a shot to deaden the side of my face sporting the nasty growths—a couple of small moles. I swear this nurse then proceeds to insert this twelve-inch dull needle into my face and inject battery acid. Geez! They split my chest open and cracked my breastbone and it didn’t hurt as much as that dang injection. Needless to say, I was a man about it and didn’t even so much as utter a little moan; however, all my fingernails are still embedded in the ceiling of that room. I survived the biopsy and was sent home with these two massive bandages on the side of my face that apparently had a message written on them that said, “Please stare at these and then ask me if I had something done with my face.” I was told to return in two weeks and meet with the real doc to discuss the results of the biopsy. I considered by that time the doc ought to be well rested and be at the top of his game. Well yesterday was my return visit to the doc to get the results. The same wicked nurse, who pierced my face with a crowbar, led me down the hall to my exam room to await the doctor, who I was going to meet for the first time. I waited an appropriate amount of time; you know just enough to allow my idle mind to conjure a series of scenarios that for some reason all ended in my demise. Geez, I hate to wait in those little rooms. Eventually, I heard the door rattle and was soon greeted for the first time by my new doc. All I can say is bring on the twelve-inch needles and battery acid; I’m going to the dermatologist more often. Smiling before me was this drop-dead, model-gorgeous, female creature in a lab coat. My new doc is gorgeous. “Hello, I’m doctor Chaker.” I’m sure I said something intelligible; but, I can’t swear to it. She sat down across from me and leafed through some papers on a clipboard. “Well, there’s good news, Dan. Everything is OK, you’ve got nothing.” And, she smiled at me. Well you’d think I was a sixth grader talking to a beauty queen. The news certainly pleased me; but being in the same room with this woman wasn’t any sacrifice either. I momentarily fought the urge to begin pointing out old blemishes to see if she could do something about those. Fortunately, I didn’t do that because I suspect Nurse Pain was standing outside the door with a carving knife waiting to be summoned. I talked for a moment with my new doc. I must say she is very nice. However, other patients were waiting and so she sent me on my way a happy man. As I walked to my big red truck I fancied the thought of my next visit. However, I was disappointed that I have to wait for some offensive growth to appear. That takes time and who knows how long I will have to wait. Then I remembered the big tree in the Park where me and Max walk—the one that’s covered with poison oak half way up the trunk. I bet that stuff would produce a pretty good rash; might even warrant a doctor’s visit. I bet I could get some on me if I were to pee on that tree. Of course, I’d probably have to back up to it. |
| Title: Finding Our Trend Line Date: July 10, 2008, Thursday Thought: I mean, there are many facets to every persons life. Surely it would take a calamity in a bunch of them at the same time to warrant a ‘terrible.’ Jog: The other day I was asked, “How you doin, Dan?” Usually I answer, “Great, how about you?” Usually I mean that. Considering the circumstances and the blessings that I’ve been gifted with, I generally feel my life is pretty dang good. However, sometimes I don’t feel all that good but I find myself still saying, “Great!” Now, what’s with that? Well, first, I don’t think folks appreciate me launching off into a litany of woes that have befallen me. Chances are they don’t compare with their woes and we spend the conversation comparing woes. I definitely don’t want to do that. So, I just toss out, “Great!” Secondly, I’m not sure I know when ‘great’ does not apply. I mean, there are many facets to every persons life. Surely it would take a calamity in a bunch of them at the same time to warrant a ‘terrible.’ For example, I may get up with a backache that makes me miserable. But, consider I was able to get up at all, when I got up I had people to greet me, and a sunny day to warm my aching back. That can’t be ‘terrible’ and certainly is a fairly great thing. Nope, I think determining my status has got to be sorta like developing a trend line. I do that often in my job. There are so many things that vary to such a degree that it is difficult to understand the progress that is being made, if any. For example, we deal with populations in my business. An increase in population represents growth. But sometimes it goes up rapidly and sometimes if stays the same over the years. We need to have an understanding how it will do in the long term—let’s say like twenty years from now. If we estimate in too high we are planning for infrastructure and services that are not necessary because the people are not there. If we estimate it too low we run out of money and services and must rely on crisis management actions, which is neither cost effective or efficient. So we gotta be close. We do that by taking into account the ups and downs and projecting a trend of the averages. That trend line gets us close. At least we are in the ballpark and can adjust as we get closer to the target date. When I consider the ups and downs of my life, I can draw a trend line. I am fortunate to say that it is a progressively improving line. Certainly, it has its down moments. But the averages of the good moments outweigh the bad and the line continues to represent an improving life. So, that’s why in the morning when I get to my business meeting, and the guy asks me how I’m doing, I don’t let the fact that I spilled my coffee in my lap and that I lost the last page of my report somehow—well, I just don’t let that bother me. Nope, I just consider the trend line and say, “Great!” After all, what else can I say? |
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