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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: Weathering the Storm Date: July 5, 2008, Saturday Thought: I suppose we could greatly simplify our task as parents to focus on that one simple concept, weathering the storm. Jog: At the end of the day, in spite of all the accolades mankind has bestowed upon itself, after we cease our professions of greatness, and finish basking in the wonderment of all the progress and accomplishments our species has made, we still stand defenseless at the majesty of nature. When we lived in caves, which is just a blink of an eyelash in the scheme of history, we hunkered down at the back of the cave when the storm rampaged around us. We shook with fear when lightening lit up our sky and thunder rattled the walls of our little sanctuary. We do that still. Of course, we do it much more sophisticatedly than did Og. We wrap ourselves with our man-made construction, which provides a relative degree of safety during the tempest, confident that we have bested Mother Nature. Nevertheless, we still are not able to fend off the storm or dismiss it. Our children still scamper for the perceived safety of our covers for warmth, comfort, and security when the storm rages; just as I am sure Og’s kids did. All we are able to do is to ready ourselves for the onslaught, nothing more. So, it appears the legacy we’ve received from our ancestors—from Og, is the ability to weather the storm. I suppose we could greatly simplify our task as parents to focus on that one simple concept, weathering the storm. I have had the opportunity literally to witness that human phenomenon. In the early years of our marriage, Linda and I witnessed a tornado roll through the darkness in Oklahoma. The little town of Blanchard where my parents lived, was directly in the path of the storm. It took only a few minutes to reduce years of human construction and dreams to a pile of rubble. In the aftermath, we literally witnessed people brushing the debris aside and emerging from the rubble. Somehow, my parents weathered the storm. Everything around them was in chaos; but, surprisingly, there we stood on the following morning with them breathing in and out, with fingers and toes intact, wondering what the hell just happened. I’ve come to realize that is what we do in every area of our lives. We do it at work and we do it at home. Some lives seem to be one big-ass storm. Some lives seem to be sunshine and blue skies, bothered only by scattered showers here and there. But, the old saying is true, into each life a little rain must fall. Therefore, we need to prepare ourselves for weathering the storm—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Now, there isn’t enough room in this little blog for me to discuss in detail just how we do that. Nope, this entry will suffice only to establish the premise and to state the obvious. If we are going to succeed in this experiment we call life, we best hone our skills at weathering the storm. That does not mean fret, point to the darkening clouds, and worry about if they will come, for they surely will come. Nope, we need to learn to board an emotional window or two, secure a tattered relationship, and lay up provisions for the time following the tempest. We have an advantage the rest of earth’s creatures don’t have; we can reason. Unfortunately, some of us do that poorly. Fortunately, there are some who do it well and by so doing make up for the deficit of the simple minded, such as myself. In any case, we have the ability to examine our situation, inventory our resources, and formulate solutions. Our greatest disadvantage is stupidity. Sometimes we simply do stupid stuff. I suppose that is a breakdown in reason. Or at least it is a poor use of reason. It is difficult to weather the storm when stupid stuff is the norm for the day. To summarize what I’ve touched on in this entry, I find that I have storms in my life. They wage on at different levels, different intensities. Each morning I have to purpose that today I will not do stupid stuff that gets in the way of me using my reason well. If I can continually do that with some degree of success, I will likely be able to weather the storms…at least the little ones. I’ll need a little help for the big ones. So, that means you need to not do stupid stuff either; I’m depending on you. |
| Title: Happy Eclectic Birthday, America Date: July 4, 2008, Friday Thought: For surely it was a miracle when a rag-tag group of farmers and merchants lined up across the field and faced one of the mightiest armies of that era. Jog: We celebrate our birth as a nation today. Although we are a mixture of nationalities, including Native American and African slaves brought here against their will, we find our roots predominately in the British Empire. At least it was from the British that we fought two wars to secure our independence during our infant years. The Revolutionary War, by right, receives the greatest emphasis during this holiday time. However, many of the symbols associated with the 4th of July celebration are found largely from the War of 1812. By comparison, the two wars are not on the same magnitude relative to total loss and suffering. The Revolutionary War accounts for approximately 38,000 persons killed in action, of which 22,500 were Americans. Interestingly, 90,000 soldiers from both sides died from disease during the eight-year campaign, which lasted from 1775 to 1783. Statistically that accounts for 16,000 killed in action per each year of the conflict. In comparison, the War of 1812 lasted a short three years, from 1812 to 1815. Nevertheless, 11,700 combatants, from both sides, lost their lives in the short war. Interestingly, 7,800 of this total were from disease. In the first 40 years of our infancy, we experienced approximately 92,000 American lives lost for the sake of independence. By the standards of later wars, that would be a slight number. Its significance is in the fact that it represents a tremendous resource of an infant land and enormous human sacrifice. Because of that great sacrifice, we have the privilege to celebrate this day. Moreover, as we do, the whole world watches and is compelled to confirm the greatness of the American miracle, regardless of their like or dislike of us. For surely it was a miracle when a rag-tag group of farmers and merchants lined up across the field and faced one of the mightiest armies of that era. The miracle of the thing is that they continued to do that time after time for eight years until they were ultimately victorious. Therefore, tonight we will watch the fireworks and listen to the bands play the 1812 Overture, complete with cannons. And, sometime during the evening, the band will play the Star Spangled Banner and every American will stand where he is and hold his hand over his heart. But the real oohs and aahs will be heard during the playing of the 1812 Overture. Interestingly, the 1812 Overture by Tchaikovsky was written to commemorate Russia’s defense against Napoleon’s army at the Battle of Borodino. It has nothing to do with the American experience. However, we Americans have borrowed that moving piece and applied it to our own 1812 conflict. And, the fireworks we watch on the 4th of July recount a battle which was fought almost forty years after our independence—a battle at Fort McHenry with the British. The story goes that prior to the bombardment of Fort McHenry, a flag was commissioned that could be seen by the British at great distance. And, so it was that in 1813 a flag measuring 1,260 sq. ft. was pieced together to fly above the ramparts of Fort McHenry. It was this flag that Francis Scott Key witnessed still flying after twenty-five hours of British bombardment of the fort. When the bombardment ceased, in the early morning hours, Key anxiously scanned the ramparts of Fort McHenry looking for a sign that the Fort still stood in American hands. It was after he saw the massive flag that he was inspired to write a poem about the experience. In true American adaptability, the poem was set to music by adapting a British drinking song—only to be installed eventually in 1931 as the national anthem of the young democracy. And, so it is, we find ourselves celebrating our national birth by playing a Russian tribute to a Battle with France’s Napoleon in 1812, firing fireworks that commemorate a battle fought 40 years after our birth, and singing a national anthem set to the tune of a British drinking song. How eclectic is that? I suppose it is just another testimony to our variety and versatility. Happy birthday America; and may you have many more. God bless you! |
| Title: Journals, Blogs, and Jogs Date: July 3, 2008, Thursday Thought: I suppose blogs are a little like soap operas, you tend to get addicted to them. Jog: I've wondered about this blogging thing. Well, mine is more of a journal than a blog. Only, I suspect journals have more daily routine material than hard-core philosophy stuff. So, I guess my habit of calling it a 'jog' is not too far fetched. Anyway, I've been wondering about regularity--you know, how often you should make entries into the thing. As you know, there are no real rules here. You can do as you wish. And it really does not matter if all you want is to document changes in your life as you live the dang thing. I mean, a couple of dozen entries per year can be pretty telling if you have twenty years of entries. Whereas, 365 entries for twenty years can be sort of overwhelming--like getting a drink out of a fire hydrant. No, if all you are doing is charting the changes in your life and providing a glimpse of your thoughts, several entries for each month would probably be sufficient. Now, that works for a journal; but what about a blog? Well, a blog is interactive; it's sort of a editorial with dialogue. True blogs have dialogue; people have something to say about them. Sometimes the comments can be more insightful than the blog; sometimes they are mundane; and often they are only an emoticon. For a blog to be effective you need two things. First, you need to be regular. People who blog religiously do it daily. I suppose blogs are a little like soap operas, you tend to get addicted to them. You need to be there when someone looks for you. On that point, I fail miserably. As a result, my readership is down proportionally to my regularity. The second thing a blog needs is interest. A blog has got to be interesting. As a result, we find blogs written about topics, with opinions given and invitations to respond expected. You don't have to agree with the opinion of the blogger to find that site interesting. However, a steady diet of controversy quickly becomes tedious in my book; therefore, I always look for a little variety...they say that is, in fact, the spice of life. Because I am sporadic with my enties and only occassionally interesting, I will likely continue to garner four or five comments per entry. That's OK, I understand the dynamics of blogging. However, when you consider that this work of mine is neither a journal or a blog but rather a 'jog', I've come to be content with what I have. It records my varying moods and thoughts throughout the years and keeps me relatively in touch with others out there who drop by for a visit. What more could I ask for? So, what is it you have? Is it a journal, a diary, a blog, or is it something more like I have--a 'jog?' |
| Title: What’s That Smell? Date: June 30, 2008, Monday Thought: My buddy Max can be a real pain in the ass. But, even so, I can’t imagine a life without that black dog. Jog: When it comes to skunks, they say there are two kinds of dogs: 1. Those who learn; and 2. Those who don’t I definitely have the second kind. I opened the door this morning on a very promising day. The inevitable heat of the Texas day was still hours away. There was a slight wind and the temperatures were quite mild, for Texas. And so, I began my walk towards the woods looking forward to the morning with my faithful black-butted friend. We accessed the golf course at a point where the sprinkler system was going strong. Long tendrils of water sprayed from the heads as they slowly tracked their way along a wide circle. We had time to cross the fairway before the stream returned to our position. The grass was wet and felt good on Max’s paws. I can tell by the way he bounces through the wet grass. As I walked down the cart path to the bridge that crosses the little creek, I spied the critter waddling across the fairway—a skunk. His distinct white stripe acted like a neon light on a Las Vegas showplace. I quickly turned and began walking back the other way. I was fortunate that Max had not seen the neon light proclaiming “SKUNK!” “Max, This Way!” Max dutifully turned on his heels and began walking in the new direction. However, I suspect he was a little suspicious of the quick change in direction because I saw his ears pull forward as he glanced over his shoulder. I can only imagine what happened in that cranial space between his eyes. Somehow alarms went off in his brain that said, “Skunk, Get It!!” Sometimes a good firm, “Max! Stop!” will interrupt his concentration and he will obediently pull up and return to me—sometimes; but, not this time. I can only imagine that the surge of adrenaline also blocked his hearing capability as his brain screamed, “Get that dang thing!!!” And so I tried “Max, @#$%$#, now! Max, Stop, @#$#%#$!” That did not work either, but it did acquaint the neighborhood with my entire vocabulary of swear words, which I learned in the oil fields of Oklahoma and which on occasion have served me well; however, on this occassion they were wasted on the prevailing wind. And so, he was off, running in ignorant pleasure as if he knew what he was doing. If skunks ran faster, he could have easily outdistanced Max. But, unfortunately, that is not their defense. So when Max got there, the skunk was ready for him. But, Max was not ready for the skunk. Max’s idea was to run down there as fast as he could and say “hello.” Therefore, his action was to pull up on the hind-end side of the skunk and put his nose in there at the hello place. The skunk was only too willing to accommodate as he raised his tail and gave Max a very special greeting. From sixty yards away I saw Max back-peddling and shaking his head. I did not need to call him. He was headed back to me. When he got to me he was foaming at the mouth and spitting and hacking. If I had encountered the dog on some strange trail I would have sworn he was rabid. But I learned a long time ago that is a natural reaction to keep dogs from swallowing the vile stuff. We learned that from watching our former cocker spaniels try to eat frogs. Frog urine is very toxic, as a reaction, dogs will foam violently at the mouth to prevent the stuff from going down—same thing with skunk spray. In any event, I leashed Max and drug him back the house for treatment. Having gone through this before, remember Max is the second kind of dog, I knew what we would do. Max would now pay the price for his brief moment of pleasure of the chase by going through two thorough baths. Now, if you are one of the folks out there who are jumping up and down saying, “Bathe him in tomato juice!!!” Let me tell you that does not work. It only masks the stench. I have a sure cure. Max gets two baths. The first is a peppermint soap bath. Linda has found this peppermint smelling shampoo that is good on flea prevention. I’ve no idea what the stuff has in it; all I know is that it works. The end result is that Max smells like a peppermint candy cane for about a week after his bath. Anyway, the skunk application is to apply the soap on Max extra strength and let it sit on him for about fifteen minutes. That’s the first bath. The second bath is with a magic mixture that contains a cup of vinegar, a cup of dishwasher soap, and a couple cups of hydrogen peroxide. I apply this mixture on the wet dog full strength. Be very careful to keep it out of the dog’s eyes. I rub it all over his muzzle and deep into his hair and then let him sit for about ten minutes. It takes about a billion gallons of water to get the soap mixture off the dog. If he still smells you can repeat the peppermint and the magic mixture. All I know is that it works. Tomorrow we will walk again. I will avoid the golf course for a little while, because I have the second kind of dog; he does not learn. I conclude today to say my buddy Max can be a real pain in the ass. But, even so, I can’t imagine a life without that black dog. And, anyway, for the moment he is one clean dog. |
| Title: The Most Treasured Thing in Life Date: June 23, 2008, Monday Thought: One day I looked around and realized I had all the things in life that I really needed. I noticed there were blessings around me which I had failed to notice or even acknowledge. Jog: What is the most treasured thing in life? Ah, I know, that’s a very philosophical question. But, bear with me; you know how I am. Some would say health; some would say love. A few folks may say wealth. Although, wealth may be important, it is an adjective when it comes to treasured things—you know, it has to go with something. Wealth alone is empty. I would have to say the most treasured thing in life is peace. Regardless of how healthy, wealthy, and wise a person is, there is a great big hole in life without peace. How do you describe peace? I could use Webster’s; but that falls short of the experience of what peace really is. Some folks would say peace is the absence of conflict. I don’t like that idea. History shows us the world can be in turmoil and yet be without war and conflict. The Pax Romana was a peace that the Roman Empire brought to the world. The world was held in place by the Roman broadsword. There was an absence of war but certainly no real peace. There are marriages that have the blessing of longevity and yet lack the peace of mind and spirit that brings true happiness. I know individuals who seem bound and determined to rid themselves of any vestige of peace. Some folks are intent on worrying and fretting about the future and the past and miss out on the blessings of the present. I’ve seen folks burn enormous amounts of energy searching for peace by partying and playing in an attempt to find peace and a snippet of joy. It ain’t there. You won’t find it at some trendy club or built into some fancy new toy. Most folks I know work hard all their life to be able to idle through their latter years without the cares and worries of simple survival. Some of those folks don’t make it; they die of heart attacks or bleeding ulcers before they have the opportunity to spend the plunder of the workplace—never having found a day without conflict or reward—never finding true peace. Peace is the most treasured thing in life. I don’t know if we ever find total peace. You know a peace that permeates our every moment. Some of us get pretty close. Some of us are fortunate to experience moments of true peace. But, somehow the ugliness of the world has a way of elbowing into our peace. We can shove it out of the way and regain the moment, but its ugliness will have smudged the walls and left residue in its place. Why is peace so difficult to obtain? Why do so many search for it and never seem to find it? Is there some secret to peace? Is there a formula for it? How much does it costs and what does one have to sacrifice to find peace? Well, the answer is it does not come free. There is a cost for peace. I believe you have to give something up in order to find peace. You have to stop the incessant quest for pleasure. You have to abandon the frantic race for the American dream. Don’t ever stop dreaming; just stop chasing someone else’s dream. One day I looked around and realized I had all the things in life that I really needed. I noticed there were blessings around me, which I had failed to notice or even acknowledge. I did not measure up to the standard I had manufactured in my mind; but, I realized that standard was not realistic—not because it could not be achieved, but rather because it was not really part of my dream. What is the most important thing in life? I think I know; and I think I’ve told you. But, what do you think? Of course, there is more to this, but that is a subject for another time. |
| Title: Velcro Dogs Date: June 22, 2008, Sunday Thought: He follows me everywhere I go; and I am equally pleased when, while sitting at my desk, I reach down and feel him there. Jog: They call them Velcro dogs; they cling to you like Velcro. Go to the bathroom and they are there beside you admiring your performance. And, if they can’t get in the room, they lay their head on their paws, Sphinx-like, and wait for you to come out. When I sit at my desk he is there. If I get up to load paper into the printer, he pops up ready to head in any direction I lead. He follows me from room to room. When I walk about the room doing one thing or another, I can see his eyes following me. If I walk out the door, he soon follows. When we retire for the evening, he lays close to me on his bed which is a few paces from my bed. He is not allowed on the bed or the furniture; he doesn’t mind. He gets as close as he can. I admit I think it is cute and very endearing. However, I did not know until I Googled the term “Velcro dog” that it can be harmful to your dog. In its most severe form, it creates and encourages “separation anxiety.” I’ve heard of cases of separation anxiety that are very destructive. Dogs have scratched the doors and even chewed through the dry-wall trying to get to the separated owner. They tear things up and soil the carpet and floor. In severe cases, the dogs harm themselves. And, as I understand, it begins with a Velcro dog. So I was understandably concerned with Max when I read the reports initially. However, Max does not demonstrate any of the negative traits of separation anxiety. He certainly does not enjoy Linda and me leaving him alone, but we always, ALWAYS, find him sleeping by the couch when we return. Never has he been destructive or soil the carpet while we were gone. One Cocker Spaniel we had once would get into the trash in the bathroom when we left him alone. We would come back to a house with shredded tissues scattered throughout the house upon returning on the occasions we forgot to close the bathroom door. Max has never done such a thing. All I find upon returning home to Max is a very happy dog wagging his tail vigorously. Although I proclaim Max as being a Velcro dog, Linda is convinced that the Velcro sticks both ways. She can tell I am more than pleased to open our front door to find my black-butted friend waiting for me. I’m reluctant to be away from the house for an extended period of time because I’ve left Max at home, alone. OK, I admit it. That dog and I are mutually velcroed together. But, we both seem to handle it pretty well. I can make it through the evening being measurably sociable and Max can sleep away my absence without destroying our house. However, the both of us assume our position as soon as I open the front door. He follows me everywhere I go; and I am equally pleased when, while sitting at my desk, I reach down and feel him there. Without even realizing I do it, I smile and whisper, “Good boy.” And when I do, I hear the thump, thump, thump of that tail upon the carpet. Velcro’s not so bad. |
| Title: Did Someone Say Cancer? Date: June 20, 2008, Friday Thought: Its one of those topics that is approached in hushed tones. When referenced to others we always say how unfortunate it is and shake our head in bewilderment. Jog: Cancer—that has to be one of the scariest words in the English language. Its one of those topics that is approached in hushed tones. When referenced to others we always say how unfortunate it is and shake our head in bewilderment. However, we always secretly say a prayer of thanks that it is not us. At least that is the position I have always held. I had a little check-up yesterday. Seems I have a lot of those, lately. I guess that’s what happens after you have open heart surgery and also sport some other ailments. Dang-it! This is not a fun thing about getting older. Anyway, I went in regarding my Arthritis condition, which is actually pretty well controlled right now. During that visit, I suggested the Doc have a look at a small growth on the side of my nose. He grabbed a nifty little light and took a close look; and then remarked, “Yup, that’s skin cancer. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem. We’ll have the dermatologist have a look at it and get rid of it.” Now, I know my doctor relatively well; and can confirm that he’s a nice guy. But, regardless, it was a little shocking to have the “c” word just tossed out there all of a sudden. But, I have to also admit I’m glad he didn’t make a big deal of it. A fact is a fact; there is no need for hushed tones and lamentations. He doesn’t think it is too serious; so that helps my spirits a tad. However, I have to admit any form of cancer bothers the heck out of me. It’s just a scary thing. So, now I get to ponder on this for a couple of weeks until my appointment with the skin doc. In the meantime, life goes on. I still have hot projects to do and a life to live. No matter the results, life goes on…and so do I. |
| Title: Entitlement v. Endowment Date: June 15, 2008, Sunday—Father’s Day Thought: What happened with doing it the Smith-Barney way; you know, the old-fashioned way: earning it. Jog: There is a story about a study that was done which tells us a little about human nature. Now, I don’t know who did it or where the study was performed; I don’t even know if it was actually done or if it is just a figment of someone’s imagination. However, the lesson provided is worthy of remembering. They say there was a study, in which a hundred doors were knocked. When the occupants opened the door they were greeted with a researcher with a clipboard. The researcher indicated they were conducting a study and wanted the occupant to participate. After being assured no harm would befall them, the occupants agreed to participate. The researcher handed the occupant one-hundred dollars and left. Every Saturday for a month, the researcher knocked on the door and handed the occupant a hundred dollars. On the first day of the following month, after knocking on the door, the occupant was given one solitary dollar-bill. Each occupant reacted the same; they said, “Where’s my hundred dollars?” Some of them were angry; all were disappointed. Every one of the occupants expected a hundred dollar bill. In their mind, they were entitled to it. Sometimes I do that. Sometimes I feel I am entitled--deserving. I feel I am entitled to good reviews of my written work. I feel I am entitled to health and friendship. Heck, I feel I’m entitled to at least one comment at the end of this entry, unlike the previous entry when for the first time not one comment was left. I feel I am entitled to a cold nose on my elbow and a lick in the morning. I’m entitled to a warm bed and comfy covers through the night. Those are just some of the things of which I feel entitled. Why do you suppose I feel that way? Is it because I am used to receiving those things? I received them before and therefore I deserve them again? Where is my hundred dollars? We have long been taught that you do not get something for nothing. Everything comes with a price. After all, there is no free lunch in America. Or at least that’s the way it used to be. I look around today and see all kinds of folks expecting a free lunch. What happened with doing it the Smith-Barney way; you know, the old-fashioned way: earning it. I’m not totally against entitlement; there is a place for it. I feel that I am entitled to be treated fairly. Now, most folks would agree with that in principle. After all the preamble of the Declaration of Independence says, “All men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights.” Over the years, unfortunately, men have seemed to associate concepts of equality and rights to entitlement. Is that what the Declaration of Independence was telling us, that we are entitled to these rights? Nope, it says we are endowed with those rights. Endowment is much different than entitlement. One definition of ‘endowed’ means to be furnished with a gift. Using that definition, the statement from our Declaration of Independence could be interpreted to say, “We are furnished with a gift of rights.” They were not given to us because they were owed to us. Rather, they were furnished to us as a gift. Think about that. I suppose we, in turn, were to be responsible with these gifts and use them wisely. With this gift of equality, we were to labor for our own prosperity. That was the dream that was discovered in the Colonies. Each colonist did not find his/her own treasure chest of gold; but rather each one found the opportunity to build his/her own treasure. Out of hardship and nothing, the colonist fashioned prosperity from the vast resources of this new land. The bounty was not given to them. Each person achieved to the degree as their natural abilities and talents were applied. That was the equal footing found in the New World. That is a far cry from the idea of entitlement I see permeating this country today. Can it be, however, that we do not have equal opportunity, that we are not equally endowed? The place where we go to secure justice, the courtroom, appears to favor the equally rich over the equally poor. For generations the equally male have dominated the equally female in the workplace. And, like it or not the equal minority is still oppressed by the equal majority. As much as we want to believe we have equal opportunity to achieve greatness, we perceive those born with names like Hilton, Kennedy, and Trump have more equal opportunity than we do. And, unfortunately, there grows from that sense of inequality a spirit of entitlement that says, because of that inequality, we are owed. When we are born, we each entered into this world the same way, naked and wet. We started from the same place and fought for that same gulp of first breath. It is only by the circumstance of birth, are we placed on unequal ground. But, that random circumstance of birth does not make me entitled to that which I have not earned, no matter how unfair it may seem. It is similar to the newborn sea turtle. Those born closest to the water have the best chance of reaching the surf. Those with obstacles in their way must work harder to gain the sea. Regardless of circumstance, each one of them drives for the same goal, the water; in that sense, they are equal. No doubt, each fledgling sea turtle is entitled to the freedom of the ocean. However, there is only one way to achieve that goal; and that is to scrape, crawl, and dig its way to the water’s edge. Now, some folks may say, “It is each turtle’s right to swim in the ocean”; some may even say, “They are entitled.” Many who hold that position would insist it is only right for the ocean, therefore, to be brought to the fledgling turtle; for it is too hard to make the trip themselves due to the disadvantage of obstacles in their path. I disagree with that position. Entitlement comes only after an effort has been made to exercise those rights endowed to us by our creator. The sea turtles that survive are the ones who have been strengthened by their crawl to the ocean. They have learned to survive and have built upon their resources. They are the true recipients of entitlement, for they have earned the rights that were feely given in the original endowment. So, instead of asking, “Where is my hundred dollars?” We should ask ourselves, “What did I do with my hundred dollars? Did I invest it well or was it squandered? “ I must realize that it was a gift—an endowment; a gift I may never again receive. Therefore, I have no right to expect it again. I am not entitled to it, not yet. However, I do have the right to earn it, no matter my position and/or place in life. That is my endowment. |
| Title: Accounting For My Time Date: June 9, 2008, Monday Thought: However, when you work for yourself out of your house, it takes discipline to keep track of your time….Inevitably, something slips through the cracks. Jog: One of the most difficult things I’ve ever done is accounting for my time. This drives me nuts; and it costs me money. Unless you work solely from commission, that’s what you do at a job—sell your time. Most folks rent their body out on an hourly basis. Even if you are salaried, you are usually contracting with your employer to give them eight hours of activity for a certain amount of money. Actually, if you are salaried you have agreed to receive a certain amount of money in exchange for performing a certain activity, regardless of how much time it takes. However, hourly or salaried, you commit your time to someone else for money. Now, what do they call it when you sell your body for cash? Some folks sell stuff; it could be widgets, mattresses, drugs (legal), cars, insurance or a multitude of other stuff. When asked what they do, they say, “I sell toilet seats (or whatever).” Not so—selling toilet seats is the product of selling your time and body. Your job is to sell the stuff for money. When you do that, the guy you work for gives back some of the money he has made. He really doesn’t care what you do with your body in the ‘off’ hours as long as you keep it in shape so he can use it in the ‘on’ hours. As a consultant, I am no different. I sell a service. My experience and specialized knowledge makes my service more valuable. The only thing I have of value is my time. Consequently, it costs my client for me to give them my time. Moreover, they pay dearly for it. I charge them when I’m just sitting around thinking about their problem. I charge them for the time I’m driving to and from their office. The plumber may charge only for the time spent at your house; but, I charge for the time it takes me to get to your house and then get home again. Heck, I even charge for receiving a fax or email. It takes time for me to read that thing, even if it’s junk. I don’t sell less than 15 minutes of my time. If I spend two minutes reading an email, you got it; I charge 15 minutes. That’s the way it works. When you work for someone else, they take care of accounting for your time—usually. It’s in their best interest. They want to know how much to charge the client or how little to pay you. To do this some companies have time clocks so that everyone can know when your rental time starts and ends. Some companies don’t care about time clocks or accounting for time because they are either going to pay you a set amount every time or they are gonna pay you only for how many toilet seats you sell. However, when you work for yourself out of your house, it takes discipline to keep track of your time. It doesn’t seem as if it would be all that difficult; does it? But, it is. At the end of the day, when you realize the time is spent and should be accounted for, you think, “Now, what the heck did I do all day?” Inevitably, something slips through the cracks. I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried jotting down every time I change a task. Now, that was disastrous. All it takes is a couple of telephone calls and two or three rapid interruptions and you realize that several tasks have been done and are undocumented. I spend all my time remembering and documenting. I’ve been rather successful jotting down what I’ve done at the end of the morning, just before lunch, or at the end of the day, before going home (oops, I am home.) But, I either forget to do it; or I am in a hurry out the door and don’t do it. Eventually, you realize a whole week has gone by without documentation—or worse yet, a whole month. I am currently remembering what I did for April and May. I am reconstructing my time. Fortunately, some of it is documented in my calendar in Outlook where I have created a calendar solely to document my time. Outlook also has a journal feature that logs every time you log onto a Microsoft file. And, I search my email “sent” file for attachments where I’ve mailed letters, memos, and documents to clients. But, mostly it is guesswork. And, it is tedious, inefficient, and inaccurate. As a result, I always give my client the benefit of the doubt and lose hours, which as I said is money. And, so with the new month of June upon us and a brand new week to be productive, I have purposed to try harder at documenting my time—again. Who would have thought this would be such a pain in the arse? Let’s see, writing a blog entry and reading some of the other blogs, that’s one hour and five minutes. I guess I owe myself $156.25. |
| Title: Ice Cubes and Grits Date: June 8, 2008, Sunday Thought: How much more exotic can you get than to deal with the fine culinary details of serving grits and ice cubes. Jog: Times are certainly changing. When I was a kid, in the hills of Oklahoma, grits was a staple on the breakfast table. I grew up with grits. Now, there are bunches of people who don’t have a clue as to what grits are. Most of them are younger and a whole passel of them are Yankees. When the topic of grits comes up, someone usually says, “Oh yeah, I know what grits are; I’ve eaten them and don’t care for them.” I usually follow with, “Ok, so how did you eat them?” “With a spoon.” “No, I mean how did you prepare them before you ate them.” “Well, I put a little sugar on them and mixed in a little milk; and then I ate them with the spoon.” It’s about that time I just shake my head and say, “You just ruined a good bowl of grits!” “Oh, yeah? –then how do YOU eat them.” I then proceed to inform them that grits are not eaten with a spoon but a fork. And, you don’t put them in a bowl, you just spoon some of them out on your plate right up next to your eggs and bacon. You see, grits aren’t a breakfast cereal. Nope, they’re just like toast and biscuits; you eat them with your bacon and eggs. Now, I know everyone is a little particular as to how their grits are prepared. Me and my friends like them when they are about the consistency of mashed potatoes. I don’t like no runny grits. When you place them on your plate, they should be good and hot. That makes the butter you put on them melt real easy. I salt them and pepper them; let them sit for just a moment to stiffen up a little; and then I eat the dang things. Now, that’s how grits are supposed to be eaten. I don’t eat grits very often anymore. No one else in my family likes them much; I guess it’s the Yankee influence—dang carpetbaggers, ruinin’ a good thing with all those Yankee notions. Nope, to me grits have become a real treat. And, speaking about treats, that’s what ice cubes are. Or at least that’s what Max thinks. I don’t know when it happened; but, you know how when you ice the glasses one of those slippery ice cubes always seems to squirt from your fingers and onto the floor? Well, that’s how we first found out that Max loves ice cubes. I know some folks who go to great lengths to bake special treats for their dogs. Heck, all I gotta do is freeze a tray of ice cubes. I can feed ice cubes to that silly dog all day long and he thinks he’s getting special treats. He crunches them, then sits there, and begs for more. Sometimes after I finish a meal and my tea glass is empty (yes, for you folks across the pond, we drink our tea iced) I will hand feed the remaining ice cubes to Max. Heck, I can make him do tricks for them. Silly dog, it’s just water. He could slurp a bucket-full out of his dog dish just as easily. But, for some reason Max loves to chew his water. Now, I did not intend to make this a gourmet entry. Nevertheless, that’s exactly what I did. How much more exotic can you get than to deal with the fine culinary details of serving grits and ice cubes. I see this could set a completely new trend for me. Like, I’m sure most of the world would really like to know the fine art of mixing peanut butter and jelly. There is a right and wrong way, by the way. The only reason I haven’t done this sooner is I don’t want to run those other folks like Rachael Ray, Emeril and Wolfgang Clutz out of business. I am, after all, a considerate person. |
| Title: Blessings in the Furnace Date: June 7, 2008, Saturday Thought: My life, with all its problems and distractions, is truly blessed. Jog: It’s getting hot here in North Texas. Yesterday the heat index was over 104 degrees. This is a little worrisome since the hot months of July and August are not yet upon us. The heat affects me differently than it did when I was a kid. Well, duh! Of course it does. But, dang-it, it’s just so obvious that I can’t function outside in that sort of heat. Am I spoiled or am I really age-infected and have become an old fart? The correct answer is, both. I remember a day before air-conditioning. We’d place an oscillating fan in the open window and wait for the rush of air when it oscillated to our spot. Somehow, we endured the heat and even seemed to function normally. Today, in this heat, I make a desperate dash from the house to the truck, crank the air-conditioning in the truck, and then once again dash from the truck to my air-conditioned destination. Now, if that ain’t spoiled, I don’t know what is. Max is down to one walk per day. We still take the morning walk. However, we take the thing in the early morning at the break of day. Hot has not yet happened infected the day at that early morning hour. That does not mean that it still isn’t uncomfortable. It is humid, really humid. By the time I finish with our 1-1/2 mile walk, I am drenched. I still enjoy that early morning walk, though. The squirrels are out for breakfast and the golf course is a deep luscious green. My visual senses are peaked with the beauty of the surroundings. But, the heat of the day makes it feel like a steam bath. I’m ready for the sanctuary of my truck cab by the time our circuit brings us back to the truck. However, I am grateful for the opportunity to be out in it, even so. I know there are some folks who physically are bound to the bed or the house. I’m so glad I do not have that limitation. And, I realize that there are some folks who live in places where they don’t have the luxury of our little park, lake, and adjacent golf course. Indeed, I count myself fortunate. It makes the heat and the humidity worth it to experience the moment with Max. He still terrorizes squirrels and loves to run and bark at the trees on the fairways. I get such joy to see him happy. And that is heightened when I call him, “Max, come!” and he breaks what he is doing and runs to me. He wants to be with me; and that makes me happy. In the heat of the day, with sweat running down my back, and the humidity pressing in, I say a little prayer, “Thank you, Lord.” I don’t have to tell him for what I am thankful; He knows. I probably don’t really need to even tell Him; He knows already. But, somehow it helps for me to say it aloud. My life, with all its problems and distractions, is truly blessed. It is only appropriate that I let Him know I’m thankful. We both are—Max and me, even when the heat index is over 100 degrees. |
| Title: I Remember Date: June 6, 2008, Friday Thought: I pause for a brief moment to say, “Thank you!” It seems like such a little thing to do for such a great sacrifice. Jog: Sixty-four years ago, early in the morning on the beaches of Normandy, France, a drama that affected you and me was being played out on the world theater. One of the greatest invasions that has ever been recorded was being attempted by forces of the Allied nations. The United States had two beaches of the five to win and control: Utah and Omaha. Very few of the men who fought for us on that day are sitll living. We are losing them at an alarming rate. Soon there will be none who were there on those beaches. If you have seen the movie “Saving Private Ryan”, you have a glimpse of what happened that day. The water of the English Channel turned red with the blood of our soldiers. Terrific loss of life and terrible casualties were experienced, especially by the soldiers on Omaha beach. If these young men had refused to make this great sacrifice, we would likely be living under a different culture and society today. But, that is an academic quesrion that we don’t have to pursue; for in spite of the tremendous sacrifice, our men won the day and held the beach. It was the first big step towards annihilation of the Nazi government on the mainland. Soon following this great battle, the heartland of Nazi Germany would be under a relentless attack until it finally was brought to its knees. To us June 6th is just another day. Unless someone reminds most folks, like this entry, it passes with little thought about the tremendous sacrifice paid for our freedom on that day. In the course of my lifetime, there have been other great days. Days that we remember with some sense of history and tie to destiny. December 7, 1941, the attack on Pearl Harbor, and June 6, 1944, D-Day, happened before I was born. It was in a previous generation. But, that should not and does not prevent me from remembering what those men and women did for me on those days. I pause for a brief moment to say, “Thank you!” It seems like such a little thing to do for such a great sacrifice. Perhaps the only other thing that would be of greater significance is to assure them and their loved ones that I remembered. They have not been forgotten. |
| Title: Preoccupied Date: June 4, 2008, Wednesday Thought: ...."Feed Me!"...I hear them calling. Jog: I'm printing tonight. I have two printers going at the same time. Tomorrow at noon, I will be meeting with the city staff and attorney of the City of Joshua. We will be reviewing their brand new zoning ordinance, which I have prepared for them. The dang thing is 177 pages long. I have to print out six copies. It takes a little while to print six copies of the thing. That's why I've sent it to two printers. Even so, it will take a few hours to get it finished. Now, while the silly thing is printing, I have to stand guard over it. Sometime in the process it will jamb. I will swear and throw things and then fix the dang thing. It will undoubtedly run out of ink. I will replace the cartridges...several times. And, of course I will continually need to feed more paper into the tray. I will use the better part of two reams of paper before it is finished. However, the good thing about this process is that I have time to read blogs and do this little entry. I guess its my contribution to multi-tasking, which is the same thing as just working your ass off. I will not get too deep with this entry tonight; I'm sharing attention with two printers. The only thing of significance is that I will keep this month 'blue,' which is not really a good thing. I would much rather miss a day and relieve the pressure of 'bluing' it. (Just glanced and saw its too late for the blue month...good!) And, so it is that I bring this meandering entry to a close. I've got to go check the printers and feed some more paper into their hungry trays...."Feed Me!"...I hear them calling. |
| Title: The Philosophy of Good Enough Date: June 2, 2008, Monday Thought: . I will never embrace the philosophy of 'good enough' when I have the ability to excel. Jog: I listened to a speaker last week, who shook me with a case of reality. The man works for Mercedes Benz and speaks to top executives about the ability to achieve excellence in the things we do. He was very interesting. The alarming thing about his talk was that he introduced me to a new and disturbing concept in corporate America-the concept of 'good enough.' Mercedes Benz has long been known for excellence in workmanship. Their automobiles must meet the test of excellence in every step of production. That's one reason they cost more than the average car. And, that's the point; they are not average. Average is comfortable. Average places a product, or a person, in the middle-surrounded by others who are average. Now there is nothing really wrong with average; but there are some traits of average that tend to hold people back and keep them from fulfilling their potential. Average tends to be of a lesser quality simply because the care and time to excel has not been applied. For that reason, it is cheaper but it also is unremarkable. There is no real demand for average and as such, the value is less. It certainly costs much less for average, but you get less product-one that is not as dependable. For years, corporate America has strived to produce the highest quality possible so that the greatest value could be obtained from that effort. In my house growing up, there was no place for average; we were required to be the best we could be-anything else was unacceptable. There was a feeling that to give less than your best was a disservice to yourself as well as the person or task you were addressing. We did not have to be the best, just give our best; that was all. The speaker from Mercedes Benz told us the philosophy of excellence is changing. Although Mercedes Benz firmly holds to the philosophy of excellence, many are now embracing a philosophy of 'good enough.' It appears it is no longer profitable for some corporations to provide a quality product; it costs too much and the product lasts too long, decreasing the demand. 'Good enough' is much cheaper to produce and although the value is not as great, the profit margin is greater. It appears the workforce does not have to be as skilled, work as hard, and be compensated as much for 'good enough.' Therefore, the new measure of excellence in some corporations is the attainment of 'good enough' for the product. This surfaced from the computer industry. The demand for software that provided new and wonderful things was tremendous. However, the process for providing error free software, one without the bugs, was extensive, time consuming, and expensive. Therefore, the idea was adopted to go ahead and present a package that was 'good enough' and work out the problems later. That's why we continually get updates on our software. Now this appears to work in a dynamic industry like computer software where changes come as rapidly as new ideas. However, when we apply this to other areas of our lives, we encourage an attitude of mediocrity, just being 'good enough.' We take the challenge away from the things we do and we lower our goals and expectations by underachieving. And, that is disturbing. Of course, we still demand excellence in certain areas like medicine. I know I dang sure want excellence regarding my heart surgeon. And, who wants to be treated by a doctor who will settle with 'good enough'-not me. I want the carpenter who builds my house to be a craftsman and not take shortcuts. I want my banker and financial advisors to be the best in their fields; they should at least know how to count. I want the mechanic who works on the airplane, on which I fly, to be the best airplane mechanic in the world and use the best equipment and parts. And I want my pilot to be a "Top Gun" graduate. Settling for average is dangerous. From the streets on which we drive, to the buildings in which we work, we ought to be able to rest assured that they meet the highest standard. And, the reason is not because they are simply more valuable or look better or work better, but because they keep us and those we love safe. Perhaps there are some areas in life where 'good enough' is in fact good enough. I really don't care what kind of toilet paper Linda buys; as long as it is free of splinters, it is good enough. My watch is a Seiko; I don't need or desire a Rolex. My Seiko is good enough. As long as my basic needs are met, I suppose there are many things that are good enough. But, as far as what we do with our lives, we should never settle for less when it is within us to achieve more. I will never embrace the philosophy of 'good enough' when I have the ability to excel. And, although my excellence will likely not be as great as many others, it is mine to achieve and anything less is a disservice to myself and my loved ones. The human spirit thrives upon challenge. Take away the challenge and replace it with a spirit of 'good enough' and we change the very fabric of what we, as well as this nation, were meant to be. Now, I will read this entry, edit it, revise it, and then post it. To do less is only good enough. And, although it will not merit a Pulitzer Prize or even an honorable mention, it is far from just 'good enough.' |
| Title: The Fullness of Time Date: June 1, 2008, Sunday Thought: Now, the fullness of time is not simply a matter of fate. We control it to some degree. Jog: "In the fullness of time"-that's a little phrase the Bible uses occasionally to convey the thought that there is a correct time for a specific action or event. The phrase has always intrigued me. It's simplicity is remarkable and its truth unquestionable. A wise man would do well to chart his journey in this world with that truth as a guide. There is an appropriate time to remove bread from the oven-too soon and it is doughy and too late too hard. There is an appropriate time to pick the grape for fine wine-too soon or too late and it is unremarkable, just right and folks smile and say, "Ah, that was a good year." There is a time to cash in your chips-cash them in at the appropriate time and you may walk away from the table richer than you were when you sat down, wait too long and your greed will send away with nothing. Our great problem is to discern when the fullness of time has occurred in our life for any given decision. Now, the fullness of time is not simply a matter of fate. We control it to some degree. For those who are foresighted, it begins in our youth. Every year I interview young scholars who are preparing themselves for college. Many of these remarkable people began that preparation years before, so by the time they reach the cap and gown ceremony, they are well prepared. It helps to have parents who guide and nurture them along the way; but I have discovered it takes personal commitment and dedication that is beyond the control of the parent. It's a personal thing. There was a football player who played for the Dallas Cowboys, Hollywood Henderson. The man was tremendously talented. He had charisma and natural ability that served him well as he helped the team win a Super Bowl and get one of those valued rings the victors are awarded. Ten years later, the man had served time in prison, hocked his ring for money, and was just a footnote in the record books. He squandered his moment, missed the fullness of time, let it pass him by. Dickens' story about Scrooge is a classic example of miscalculating the 'fullness of time.' Scrooge busied himself with becoming a resounding financial success and missed his moment of happiness by waiting too long to act regarding the matters of the heart. The love of his life moved on to another and he embraced the coldness of gold and silver, a miserable old and lonely man. I have friends who act otherwise. They move too soon; they make purchases prematurely, like houses and vehicles. They smile at me and say, "You only live once."-which is true, but unfortunately, it prevents them from living well and securely later on. I've seen folks quit good jobs before they have a replacement, jump at bad jobs before they investigate, and make life changing commitments on a whim. Heck, I've done some of that myself. And so I sit here today looking at my life and wondering what the 'fullness of time' will mean to me. There have been many of these moments; I have misjudged many of them-jumped too soon or waited too late. A few of them I have timed just right-blind luck I suppose. But now, as I look at my sixtieth birthday looming before me, I wonder how I will fare at the 'fullness of time.' I can smile as I realize that it's still evolving; and I still have control. I just have to sigh as I remind myself what could have been, if I had known what I know now, at the beginning. But, perhaps it takes the 'fullness of time' to get to that point. All I really know is that, at this very moment, a black dog is nuzzling my elbow telling me the 'fullness of time' is right for his walk. Therefore,, I will not tarry; we will walk now and ponder the meaning of tomorrow later, in the 'fullness of time." |
| Title: Stepping Out of Line Date: May 21, 2008, Wednesday Thought: Why should I buck the voices of the doom-masters? After all, folks seem to enjoy having the dark clouds of disaster looming overhead. Jog: You know, I began writing an entry about the economic condition in my neck of the woods. The gist of the entry was that times are good. I was going to cite why I thought the gloom and doom pundits who tout a recession were totally misleading the public. I was going to cite personal findings that supported my claims. I stopped writing my piece; I thought, why? Who really cares? The mainline media have an agenda to make things look as badly as they can right now; it is politically expedient for calamity to be upon us. Why should I buck the voices of the doom-masters? After all, folks seem to enjoy having the dark clouds of disaster looming overhead. There are too many folks out there who want a recession, who seem to want us to be loosing the war, who want the oceans to be rising and the icecaps melting, and who want our economy to be in the dump. After all, it just has to be so if there is to be a change. Why in the world would folks want to endorse change if things were going good?--they wouldn't. Therefore, no matter the damage it does to our society, no matter the false alarm it broadcasts to the masses, no matter the harm it does to our soldiers fighting for our principles in far away lands-by all means, push the agenda of change at any cost for political expediency. I'm tired of being forced to be politically correct. I'm weary of making amends for the sins of my forefathers who had the audacity to be born white and sweat, toil, and fight during the infancy of this country. And, I'm reluctant to paint myself green because someone says I'm incorrect and out of step with society if I don't. I'm sorry; I don't want to be green. I'm happy the way I am. I teach my children and my grandchildren to not be wasteful and to care for the precious natural bounty of this great land. However, I fully intend to drive my gas-guzzlin' truck and not feel guilty about it. If that means I have to pay $10.00 a gallon for gas, then so be it. I recently had a client who asked me to write them a "green" comprehensive plan. Sorry, I don't do green. I don't avoid doing 'green' but I am not going to design my life around it; and I wouldn't know how to begin to write a 'green' plan. Now I know that is just about as politically incorrect as you can get. But, when you reach my age and have fought as many battles as I have, you really don't give a flying flip. Well, I've come to the conclusion that Texas is really not a bad place to live. At an economic development meeting I attended yesterday, it was reported that the unemployment rate for our county is about 3.5%. The national average is 5.5%, which is not so bad, itself. Think about it, a 3.5% unemployment rate means that 96.5% of the folks who want to work in our county have jobs. Granted some of those folks may hate their job, but they have something to help put bread on the table nevertheless. Someone told me we were in a recession. Excuse me, but I haven't found it yet. The indicators in the stock market are not saying that. Perhaps one or two point in that direction, but not all of them by any means. However, every time one does, the press ignores the ones that indicate a healthy economy and jump all over the one that spells disaster. We had a few down months since November; and I have to admit the first quarter was totally dismal. But, the second quarter is blowing the doors off with the rebound. Our funds have gained at an annual rate of 37%. That's the same annual rate we have experienced from the last 18 months of investing. Are there stocks that have taken a nosedive? Of course there are, I'd advise you not to buy those. But, on the whole the market is still going strong. If you don't believe me check the 5-year trend line of NASDQ (below.) In addition, housing starts in our area are still up; and the retail sales tax reported by our city to the state comptroller is at a record pace. These things don't happen in a recession. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Instead of slowing down and sticking their heads in the sand, which is what happens in a recession, our clients are bombarding us with work. I have to turn jobs down. I know the cost of gas is up, but so are revenues. I fully expect to be paying $4.00 per gallon this summer. If I did not have added income because of the boom in business, I'd be listening to the nay-sayers and groaning about a recession. I know that this may be a regional experience; but this certainly is not my idea of a recession. You will have to forgive me folks. I really did not intend for this entry to be a rant. But, you know, sometimes you just get fed up with walking in step with the other drones out there. Sometimes you want to say, "Wait a minute! Something's not right with this picture!" Of course all the other folks in line will shrug and whisper, "Oops, there's another one who stepped outta line. Poor fool, doesn't he look silly?" Therefore, I'm gonna stay out here a little while longer. I'm not ready to take my place back in line. Heck, I'm not sure I ever will be. |
| Title: Wearing a Name Date: May 14, 2008, Wednesday Thought: At birth the name was assigned to them and has become as commonplace to them as their thumb. Jog: I suspect most of us take our last name for granted. The thing is hung on us when we are born and we sorta get used to wearing it. I suppose for some it is easier than others. I don't have a simple name like Smith or Jones. Every time I give my name to a secretary or someone sitting across the desk from me I have to spell it. It isn't a difficult name, but except for the South, particularly Alabama and Mississippi where the thing is almost common-place, I'm usually one of the few in the phonebook wearing it. I never thought much about my name until several years ago when I began to do some serious genealogy work. I suppose it begins to mean more once you are introduced to the men and women who have worn in from past generations. Lord, I never knew there were so many of them. I've documented well over three-thousand of them by now. Some of them have become close friends. You get to know someone when you research into their life. Although most near all of them are long deceased, they have become alive to me through their history. It has become a valued inheritance. Moreover, through the years the wearing of the name has become significant to me; it's become important-an honor. There is a story about Alexander the Great. Seems as if there was a young soldier who was brought before Alexander for sleeping on guard duty-a very serious offense indeed. When Alexander asked him his name, the young soldier remarked that it was Alexander. To this Alexander the Great replied, "Then you must either change your ways or change your name." I have a granddaughter who has done this. My youngest son married a young woman who had a child from a previous marriage. Today that child is thirteen years old. She was a very little girl when she came into our world. She took her position with our other grandchildren; it didn't matter that her last name was not the same as theirs-at least not to Linda and me. Through the years, she lived in two worlds, one with her father and the other with her mother. That's the unfortunate fate of too many children who are the casualties of divorce. Recently, after the culmination of years of work and tons of legal fees, her natural father has released all parental rights. This opened the door to the possibility of my son adopting her as his own, which he did. Last Monday my granddaughter, Harley, completed the final step. As a matter of choice, she legally changed her last name to mine. Although it was not a necessary thing to do to become my granddaughter in my heart, she felt strongly it was something she wanted to do. Now, my other grandchildren were not afforded this opportunity. At birth the name was assigned to them and has become as commonplace to them as their thumb. However, for Harley it was a choice--what an honor. Harley is probably too young to understand the magnitude of this simple little act. But, she has chosen to take her place among all the others who have proudly worn this name-men who have fought for this land on our battlefields and women who endured the hardships of the pioneers. Some who wore the name became distinguished men and women; they were someone who was recognized simply by the sound of his/her last name. Most of the folks who wore my name were common dirt-poor folks-the stock from which this nation was raised. And, I must confess there were a few outlaws thrown in there for balance; we wouldn't want to get too boastful. However, years ago my father took me aside as a young man and told me it was the only thing of real value that he could give me. He told me to be proud of it and wear it honorably. It was a relatively easy thing to do because I had a good example. All I had to do is to place my feet in his footsteps. At first, it was a difficult stride. However, eventually I walked comfortably in his footsteps and have managed to create footprints of my own for my children to follow. I suppose that is why I am so proud of Harley. My name was something she chose to make her own. I'm not too surprised; for I know her other grandfather and know he has left good footprints for her to follow to this point. She will not discard his clearly marked trail simply because she has changed her name. No, she will follow both our trails now for he and I appear to be walking the same direction. But, she will do it now as a 'Boutwell;' and because of that, I am very proud of her. Welcome home, Harley. It's the same place you already knew; but, only now it's a tad bit more special. |
| Title: Thanks for the Inspiration Date: May 12, 2008, Monday Thought: I thought it was a very tender story and was jealous of Eric that I never thought of that idea for Linda. Jog: The other day, Debi Wharton posted a little entry in her blog about the gift of a box of crayons she got from Eric. Many of you read it, I'm sure. I thought it was a very tender story and was jealous of Eric that I never thought of that idea for Linda. However, Linda did not have the first-grade experience that Debi had. Anyway, I remarked to Debi that I thought the story was a perfect candidate for a short story. I suggested she or Eric write one; but, then I could not help myself from writing one. So, based on the story provided by Debi, I have written the short story below. I suppose it is only appropriate that I dedicate the story to Debi and Eric Wharton. Know, of course, that it is totally fictional and based on the story Debi accounted.
You know, this does not stop either Debi or Eric from writing a story of their own. In fact, would it not be interesting to have three stories based on the same premise? Thanks Deb for the inspiration. And, Eric, you ole dog! I still think that is about the most romantic thing a guy has done...wish I had done it. |
| Title: Changing Times Date: May 11, 2008, Sunday-Mom's Day Thought: Am I just getting old and crotchety; or are times really changing? Jog: There is a tremendous amount of drama going on around our house lately. Much of it involves young teen humans. I know there was drama when I was a kid; but don't remember it being this serious. I'm relating to two recent occurrences; one of them involved my granddaughter, Lauren. I think I posted a photo of Lauren recently. I've got another one for you below. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Anyway, Lauren has been the victim of bullies in school. Four girls have decided that they don't like Lauren and intend to make life difficult for her. Don't ask me why, they have their reason, which I am sure are warped. In any case, they have been spreading rumors about Lauren...really nasty stuff. They have also done cruel stuff mocking her. They call her ugly and fat. Recently, they said her face is orange-ridiculous. To mock her they all wore orange shirts to school. Well the teachers have had enough of it and told them to go home and change their clothes. Some did and some didn't. They all argued about it for a while. In fact, one of the ringleaders got so vehement with the teacher they called the school resource officer (police) in to restrain the girl. She began cursing the police and his family tree and made quite a spectacle of herself. The resource officer had to handcuff the girl and put her in a room by herself. The other three girls were handcuffed to a chair. Can you believe this is going on in the school...and this is eighth grade? Bottom line is that the girls have been expelled to an alternative school for the remainder of the year. Lauren still is exposed to them, for some reason I can't explain. All through this, my granddaughter has handled it with class and been relatively calm. However, the bottom line is she wants to change schools. I'm not sure that's such a good idea. You can't just run away from the problem. This is insane to me. I heard of a case where some girls were harassing another girl on the internet and the harassment got so bad the young lady killed herself. Come to find out one of the mothers was in on the harassment. What is this world coming to. The other incident happened next door to our house. Seems as if our young neighbor boy (16) has been arrested for rape. This is a very tricky situation. My grandson, who is in the same class as the young man told me yesterday that the young girl was bragging at school about how easy it was to get him in trouble and that she lied about the whole thing. I have no idea who is telling the truth. All I know is that young lives are being ruined as a result of a lack of parental supervision. My neighbor,who is a divorced mom, leaves her kids unsupervised most of the time. The kid had a party while his mom was gone for the weekend and this situation occurred. She has six kids, with this young man being the oldest. This also is insane. And so, we have drama in the land of PlannerDan. When I was a kid, we did stuff. But, we did not hurt people. At least we did not do it with the regularity that it appears to happen now. Am I just getting old and crotchety; or are times really changing? |
| Title: Chit Chat and What-not Date: May 9, 2008, Friday Thought: With tens of thousands of members, it is inevitable that there are some sites that miss the mark, that are not well written, and are nothing more than ramblings and day-to-day gossip. Jog: It takes a lot to be productive. I mean it takes effort. There are a number of projects that I want to tackle. Many of them are writing projects. But for some reason I want my life to simplify before I tackle them. I want my desk to be clean...the debris around my desk to be straightened...my garden beds in the front and back to be trimmed and mulched...new flowers planted...the front door repainted...the roof fixed...and my schedule vacant . I want to settle down without the outside world pressing in and write leisurely, without feeling guilt that I'm stealing time from other more critical areas. Do you think that will happen?-not likely. And so, the alternative is to do what everyone else does...just do the best that you can with what you got. Our friend Tor has impressed me greatly. The dufus has written two stories in just as many days...I'm jealous. Much less write new stories, I can't even manage to make entries into my "jog." But this is mostly my choice. You see I've purposed to be particular with my entries. I don't want to simply "chat." There are places where I can do that...and I don't do it there either. Nope, I want more from this thing I call a "jog." I've seen this addressed in a number of blogs. Just what in the world is a blog, anyway? It's an elusive thing. It changes with the mood of the writer and with the nature of the site in which it is housed. Here in WDC, you would think it would have a literary quality to it; after all this is a writer's community. And, I'm not disappointed with the quality of the blogs in here. Even the lighthearted ones are well written. Nevertheless, with tens of thousands of members, it is inevitable that there are some sites that miss the mark, that are not well written, and are nothing more than ramblings and day-to-day gossip. But, you know, that's OK, too. For the beauty of a blog is it is what it is because that's what the writer wanted it to be. None of us has to like it or agree with it. Heck, we don't even have to read the thing. It is totally uninhibited. All we ask is that it be in good taste; and even that is somewhat subjective. And so, there are no rules for blogging. The only rules are the ones we place on ourselves. That is why my "jog" has been very sparse recently. I've determined to post my entries only when I have something to say. I've determined that I don't have time right now to chat; although, there are a dozen or so members who I am very fond of and want to visit with. I don't fault those who choose to chat away; it serves its purpose well for those folks. And, I don't mean to be rude or unfriendly-not by any means. Nor do I mean to imply that, unless you post deep philosophical entries, blogging is a waste of time. I certainly do not mean to offend anyone. But, I just think this blogging thing has so much more potential than idle chatter-sorry. If you wonder where I've been, realize that I'm still around; and rest assured that I don't intend to go anywhere else. I will still drop into the blogs of my favorites occasionally, because they are very special to me; and I'll leave a little comment along with all the other nice people. And someday, when my desk is clean, the debris around my desk ordered, my garden and yard in pristine shape, new flowers blooming, the front door glistening with fresh paint, and my schedule free as a lark, well then, at that time, I will peruse around the sites chatting here and there, spending whatever time I want wherever I wish. But, until that time comes, I will likely be in and out of here on a sporadic basis. That's about the best I can do right now. Dang it, Tor! Two stories in as many days! I wanna do that. |
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