%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  A sporadic account of my reaction to life. |
|
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: Another Entry About the Black Dog Date: May 4, 2008, Sunday Thought: Max is high maintenance. He takes a lot of attention in the form of walks, bathing, brushing, playing, and generally being the center of attention. Jog: The day we got Max he was quite a sight. He was dirty and a little underweight. You'd stroke his back and loose hair would come off on your hand. But, even then, his tail wagged incessantly; it still does. However, the dog was not well. He had been left in the back yard with the only treats being occasional visits by the kids as they passed through during their play. Very little time was spent on him where he was the center of attention. No one really planned it that way; that's just the way it happened. Everyone just assumed the black dog was OK. He wasn't; he was very lonely. There was a houseful of people and he was lonely. Now, the folks living in the house weren't cruel people. In fact, if you asked them they would all profess their affection for the black dog. But, the fact was that he was just another possession to be used when they felt like it. No one stopped to consider the personality yearning to express itself. These people are my kids-my son and his family. One day another dog managed to get into the backyard with Max. Play turned to a dogfight, one that would play its self out if left alone. Animals have a way of establishing the pecking order in the pack. However, the five-year old neighbor kid did not leave well enough alone; he got on his hands and knees to separate the two dogs. The short version of this story is Max bit him in the face; the bite required several stitches. Max was seized by animal control and placed in quarantine; it seems as if my son had neglected to keep Max's shots current. For two weeks he was quarantined for observation. At the end of the two weeks, my son could claim the dog or leave him there. For cute little cuddly dogs, there is a chance that he would be adopted out. However, for a 65-pound black lab that had bitten a child, Max was serving time on death row. My son asked around for someone to step up and adopt Max; Linda and I also looked for a home for the Lab. There were no takers. So at the end of the quarantine period I claimed Max. I bailed the dog out of prison and brought him to my home to be my dog. The first thing we did was to get him a thorough exam. Excuse me, that's not right. The first thing we did was to give him a bath. Max had to be the filthiest dog in Texas. I swear we washed a full pound of dirt out of the dog...along with a bucket of hair. It was soon after that we took him to the vet for a check over and his shots. I remember the ride to the vet's. I placed Max in the bed of the pick-up and made the trip. Max was petrified. On the way to the vet he threw up several times. Nevertheless, when we got there and I went to get him from the bed of the truck, that tail was wagging at me furiously. The report from the vet was not good. It appears Max had a very serious case of Heartworms. In Texas, dogs not on heartworm medicine are doomed to brief lives; it is a killer. We initiated the complex heartworm treatment the following week. The week after that we had Max neutered...poor baby. It would take six months to know whether or not Max's heartworm treatment was successful. Fortunately, it was. But, heartworm always damages the heart. We don't know how severe it is but can be certain that there is damage. Since the day Max became ours, we have cared for him. We've given him discipline, exercise and affection...in that order. Max has responded beautifully. All he wanted was to be a part of the family. Max is high maintenance. He takes a lot of attention in the form of walks, bathing, brushing, playing, and generally being the center of attention. For that small dedication of my time, Max gives unquestionable loyalty and devotion. You would think that our investment on that dog is lost, uncollectable. But, you would be wrong if you thought that. It was during my attention to Max's walks that my heart condition was diagnosed. Had I not been taking Max on those little walks, the doc says I would have eventually had a massive heart attack and likely died on the way to the hospital. So, I guess we've saved each others lives-that black dog and me. Some would say we are even. But that's not so. Max is still giving to me on a daily basis. His fierce dedication to me amazes me and at the same time melts my heart. I've said it time and time again...he's just a black dog...that's all. But, somehow, in ways inexpressible, I know that he is much more than that. And the crazy thing is I'm still learning how much more that is....every day we spend together. |
| Title: Trip to the Doc Date: May 1, 2008, Thursday Thought: ? A few years ago, I would have smiled kindly at anyone accounting this stuff to me; and I would have wondered if the poor soul had lost touch with reality. Jog: We went to the doctor today. Nothing serious...just a check up. We had our weight measured, returned to the waiting room and waited for the doc to come in. I hate to wait in those little rooms. Well, the doc finally came in and performed her routine examinations. She listened to the ticker, drew a little blood for tests, looked at teeth and gums, peered down the ear canal and then did this nasty thing with a stick and the rectum. Now, what in the world is that all about! Oh, I forgot to tell you-it was Max's visit to the vet. Linda and I were like proud parents. It started in the waiting room. Sure enough, there was already one patient in there when we walked in; it was a 4-month-old Great Pyrenees. She was a very pretty little girl. She looked at the seventy-five pounds of Lab, which was Max, and began puppy growling. Max ignored the growling and preceded with the customary crotch checks. What can I say? Man or beast the first thing he does is bury his nose in the visitor's privates. Other than that, he was the perfect gentleman. Just like proud parents, Linda and I beamed with the good reports we received from the vet. Max weighs a solid seventy-five pounds. His coat is deepest black and very shinny. The vet was impressed with how good a coat he has. Teeth are good; and general physical appearance was good. The vet assistant lifted Max up onto the exam table. With a little coaching, Max laid down. They prodded and poked on him, took blood, and gave him three injections, and did the other little indignity of the rectum thing. Through all this, Max looked bewildered and kept those brown eyes trained on me. It was as if he was saying, "Hey! Aren't you gonna do something about this? They just stuck a stick in my butt!" Well, all the tests came back negative. There is no heartworm and he is free of nasty little wormy critters that the previous dog-the little lady Pyrenees-was full of. Max has a slight ear infection-very slight, and we were given some stuff that will clear that up pronto. And so, with that good report the vet reached over and got a dog biscuit, reserved for good dogs, and gave it to Max, which he promptly spit out-seems as if it wasn't his brand. And, that was how Linda and I spent our morning-tending to our dog. Now, isn't it a little pitiful that a grown man will take up this much space talking about his dog? A few years ago, I would have smiled kindly at anyone accounting this stuff to me; and I would have wondered if the poor soul had lost touch with reality. Come on, it's just a dog, after all. Well I suppose so-but things change; now I'm that poor soul going on about their dog. Sorry folks, that's just the way I am, now. Oh, by the way, I've got pictures if you want to see them. |
| Title:Finding the Connection Date: April 29, 2008, Tuesday Thought: Blogging is a two faceted thing. It consists of an origin and a destination. Something has to happen on both ends for it to be successful. Jog: I do not search for blog topics. I have no lack of material on which to write. My mind has always had the ability to produce a topic. The problem is whether or not there is any passion in my soul to write about it. If the passion is lacking, I don't write. On the other hand, sometimes I write and once finished there is no desire to post what I've written. I have several completed entries sitting in my file. They will not be posted because for some reason it doesn't feel right to post them. They do not say what I want to say, and therefore I won't share it. Perhaps my approach to blogging is too complicated...or too serious. It would be easy for me to simply jot whatever strays into my mind onto the page willy-nilly and fling the stuff on here. There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it seems to work for many bloggers. But, for some reason I can't do that. For some reason I have to make a big production out of each of these entries. Perhaps that is why I create each of my entries in Word and edit and primp over them until they are ready to be posted in WDC. Each entry has to be well thought out and developed; otherwise, they don't find a place in my little "jog." There has to be a purpose to them. I have to have something worthwhile to say. Of course, often times after finishing the entry I stand back and say, "What the heck is that?" But, usually I am pleased with the effort. Blogging is a two faceted thing. It consists of an origin and a destination. Something has to happen on both ends for it to be successful. Of course, I am the origin of my blog. Everything starts with me. I create my little masterpiece and shove it across the virtual abyss of the Internet with the hopes it will find a destination. You, of course, are the destination. Without someone reading it on the other end, it seems incomplete. There has to be a connection. That is why I check the stats, to see if the connection happened. In that sense, ‘views' are more important than ‘comments.' For the moment, I don't worry about the quality of the connection. I don't worry too much about if you like what I write or not. Now, I didn't say I don't care what you think; I just don't worry about it. My job in this little effort is to connect. Often times I am pleased by the pleasant comments that are left. Sometimes I'm frustrated because, by your response, it is obvious I did not deliver my message well. Rarely is what I say totally mistaken, but often there are nuances that fail to stick. I've made the connection, but not solidly. Therefore, like an electric light with a wayward connection, it flickers. That's OK, a connection was made and the beauty of blogging is that I will have another chance to connect next time. And so, it is the connection that is important. Otherwise, there is no desire to write and post. Blogging gives one an immediate connection. You say your piece post it and wait for some response. If people read it, you connect. If they don't, there is a sense of incompletion-a dead end street. The nature of my entries, are two-fold. I seek the immediate connection of the blog and I record and post each entry in a hard copy book for future generations as in a journal. Thus, my "jog"-more than a blog and sort of like a journal...a "jog." However, in either way, there is the connection. It is because of the connection, that I write. Perhaps as I get better at it the connection will be better, more polished, maybe even entertaining-perhaps, someday. But, I'll not worry about that right now. Right now I will just do the best I can and keep on looking for the connection. |
| Title: America-A Classless Society Date: April 28, 2008, Monday Thought: It doesn't take money to be an asshole...that is an attitude that anyone from any class can attain. Jog: I was listening to talk-radio the other day (I know, that's a dangerous thing to do.) And they ran a clip of Hillary talking to a crowd, informing them of one of the things she was going to do to help the economy. I don't remember the exact point of her talk; I just remember a piece of one line where she said she was going to help those "middle-class Americans who make less than $250,000 annually." I got to wondering, "Who the heck is that?" Since when did middle-class mean less than $250,000 annually? Well, actually, I had to admit that I don't have a clue where upper and middle class was. Heck, I don't know how many classes there are and who the heck set these standards anyway? So, I Googled it and got some answers. It was an interesting and useless piece of information I now have stashed in my knowledge banks. Here is what I found. Americans seem to believe we live in a "classless society". When asked most Americans state they are middle class. We have no pronounced breaks in social class but rather blend into and out of the different strata of classes. We don't even have an accepted way to measure class. Some measure it by education, some by wealth, and some by income; most of us don't measure it at all. So that means Hillary can be relatively safe establishing middle America as those who earn less than $250,000 annually. However, as you may have guessed there are some academic warriors out there who live by statistics and have defined the lines between the elusive American classes. Sociologist Dennis Gilbert and others contend that there are six distinct social classes in America. The most elite is the "capitalist" class. The capitalist represent the top 1% of Americans. If you are a member of the capitalist class, you likely earn more than $350,000 annually and have a net worth exceeding $1 million. You are a top level executive, heir, politician, or celebrity; and probably have an Ivy League education or at least a graduate level degree. By the way, that is about 1% of Americans-a pretty exclusive group. Middle class is actually divided into two categories: upper middle class and lower middle class. The upper middle class are college educated, professionals and managers with a household income over $100,000 annually. The lower middle class are semi-professionals with some college with annual incomes between $35,000 to $100,000. They say 15% of Americans are in the upper middle class range and 30% are in lower middle class. The next class is "working class". These folks are clerical and mostly blue-collar workers with high school educations. Household income for the working class is somewhere between $16,000 to $30,000 and they comprise about 30% of Americans. The next class, according to William Thompson & Joseph Hickey, a couple of sociologists, is the "low class." Dennis Gilbert calls this the "underclass", which sounds a dang bit better than low class. Actually, Mr. Gilbert divides this class into two classes: the "working poor" and the "underclass". Anyway, these folks are the ones who get the poorly paying jobs or rely on government subsidies. In addition, their high school education is limited. They earn an annual income less than the working class or $16,000. These folks represent as much as 25% of Americans. I'm glad this is just an academic exercise for some sociologists somewhere. I suppose it has some value in understanding the masses. However, as far as I'm concerned it is meaningless. The idea of categorizing folks in upper and lower classes is elitist and snobbish. It has nothing to do with the goodness of people. I find that goodness transcends any class ranking. It is prevalent in all classes. Unfortunately, crass, snobbish, condescending, and exclusionary people are found in all classes. It is true that you can find a snobbish redneck just as easy as you can find a snobbish capitalist. It doesn't take money to be an asshole...that is an attitude that anyone from any class can attain. So, what was Hillary telling us in that speech of her's? She has promised to lift the economically strapped middle class American, who is, to her, that poor soul making less than $250,000 annually. Let's see, by the standards set by the sociologists that's just about every one in American except the poor ‘capitalist.' Now, what kind of promise is that? I guess she's after the vote of everyone making less than $250,000-good strategy. |
| Title: My Best Friend Date: April 25, 2008, Friday Thought: Over a period of time a bond has developed between an ole fat guy and a big black dog. Jog: I don't know quite how it happened; but, it did. Over a period of time a bond has developed between an ole fat guy and a big black dog. Since the dawn of time, ever since there have been men and dogs, that bond has somehow formed. I don't know if God ordained it or if it was just too strong a force for Him to control; all I know is He just lets it happen. I didn't intend to get this attached to that furry butted dog...don't know how it happened. But, I find when I'm gone to a meeting I find myself looking forward to walking into the house and seeing that butt wag. It warms my heart to think that no matter how his day went, when I walk through the door, he is up and greeting me; happy that I'm there. He depends on me; he trusts me. I do the best I can to not let him down. I feed him, walk him, wash his furry butt and give him lots of pats and good words. It seems such a small price to pay for all the devotion I get in return. Similarly, he seems to feel that I belong to him. Whenever I'm up and walking around, his eyes are on me. If I leave the room he moves to the room I'm in. Heck, if I go to the bathroom he lays outside the door and waits. Lately, he insists on going with me in the truck. If I know I'll not be out of the truck for more than thirty minutes, I take him and let him curl up in the floor while I'm out. I don't know why he loves to go with me; he just does. Oh, he's gotten over getting sick in the truck....however, he still drools. I suppose that's what towels are for. But, I notice I've become very dependent on him too. As I watch TV I'll reach down beside me and feel him laying there next to me. I'll stroke his back as he sleeps there. Every stroke tells him he is special; I think he knows it already. Every now and then he will lift his head and sniff of me--check me out. When I came home from the hospital, he did that often. It's silly to think, but I do believe he worries about me. Perhaps we spend too much time together. Since my office is in my house, he is always with me. As I work, he curls up next to me. Occasionally, I take a break from work, reach out, stroke his back or scratch beneath his chin, and talk to him. He yawns and sighs, adjusts himself and nuzzles my hand as he returns to sleep. I've noticed he plays differently with me that he does with others. Within his growls and barks, I can hear laughter. The same kind of laughter that peeled from my kids when we roughhoused in the floor-the giggles and shrieks of pure joy. I can tell by the way he growls and tries to talk to me, by the way he cocks his head from side to side as I talk to him, by the way he holds his tail high and wags the thing vigorously. He makes me laugh. I become totally entertained, just as I was by my children when they were little. Good grief, Dan! He's a dog! You're right. He's just a dog. However, somewhere along the way he really did become my best friend-my dog, Max. Now, how'd that happen? |
| Title: The Cost of a Gallon of Gas Date: April 17, 2008, Thursday Thought: Once you make more money than you can count, in the billions, money no longer has any significance. Money becomes irrelevant. Jog: I stood at the pump and listened to the liquid gold splash into my gas tank. I mentally placed $3.30 on the hood of my truck every time the pump clicked over a gallon of gas. Having an empty tank and a truck that holds 28 gallons, I soon had $90 lying on the hood of my truck; I do this twice a week. I looked around the service bays of the fueling station and saw twenty pump locations. My analytical mind quickly estimated, if everyone else was doing the same thing I was, there could be as much as $1900 lying out in the open on the hoods of the vehicles hungrily sucking gas (although, some cars hold much less than mine.) Oil is definitely big business. Linda and I recently began receiving royalty money for leasing our mineral rights to Chesapeake Oil Company. Although these guys are a big operation they are nowhere in the range of an Exxon-Mobil. However, even little Chesapeake is making significant money out there. Our little acre earns us a pittance monthly. However, when I examine the breakdown of the monthly accounting of the two gas wells for which we are being paid, I find the Oil Company is making about $1,400,000 for two of the wells this month; and this was considered a down month. To date there are about 300 wells producing in our county. Do the math; that calculates to be about $210,000,000 monthly. By the end of the year, they project we will have nearly 1000 wells producing in the county, which calculates to be an amazing $700,000,000 earned by the oil companies from the sale of natural gas every month. Annually that calculates to be somewhere around 8.4 billion dollars. Our share, that is Linda and me, of that sum is ridiculously small--a finite fraction of a mere drop in a very big bucket. Of course, the oil companies have to pay for the cost of exploration and extraction; they have to refine and produce the final product, whether that is gasoline or natural gas. In addition, they have to pay taxes to the government and royalties to the owners of the mineral rights. At the end of the day, they may have a meager two billion dollars remaining from their original 8.4 billion they earned in this one North Texas county. But, drop this little drop of oil/gas into the overall bucket that is produced worldwide and you have staggering numbers that cause the zeros to spill from the paper on which they are printed. Oil is definitely big business. Now, return to the micro-focus of my truck's hood. I pump $90 of gasoline into my truck and in the total scheme of things that amount seems insignificant. It is, after all, only one zero. Do we really believe the oil companies care how much a gallon of gas costs us?--nope, not in the slightest. And, the really sobering fact is that the oil companies are not the really big earners in this equation. Nope, they are just a minor partner; the oil producing countries of the world are the ones mostly benefiting from that $3.30 I pay for each gallon of gasoline. In fact, they could care less if it cost me $1.00 or $10.00 per gallon. They are going to adjust prices to make their profit whatever the cost. So why do they permit the cost of gasoline to increase as it is? Well, it's all a matter of tactics-maneuvering. Once you make more money than you can count, in the multi-billions, money no longer has any significance. Money becomes irrelevant. At this point, the currency becomes power. We are all pawns in the world stage of those who really possess the power. This kind of power is above the law, it is beyond the authority of governments, and it surpasses the ability of the common person to conceive its meaning. The men who move in these circles, and they are all men, are dangerous. They are not necessarily evil--but, simply dangerous--kinda like a high voltage wire. It has awesome potential; you don't want to touch it. Now, John McCain may be able to relieve the tax burden on a gallon of gas for a short while; and Hillary or Obama may be able to legislate price controls on gasoline for a short while. But, it is not in the interest of the power merchants to reduce the cost of gas. As a result, gasoline will continue to increase, and we will just have to adjust. I charge my miles back to my clients. My clients, cities, raise taxes; and although I complain bitterly, I pay them. Truck drivers increase the price to haul their loads. The consumer then pays more for the product off the shelf. We adjust; that's what the power merchants intend for us to do. Unfortunately, there will be some folks who are not able to adjust. There are some folks who will not survive the change. Businesses will fail; men and women will loose their jobs; and families will become homeless. Those folks will die out. This is, in fact, the law of the jungle; the fit will survive and the weak will perish. Of course, congress will try to save every last one of the perishing; that's what they do. But they can't do it. No government can be stretched that thin. And some day, someone will discover a new medium for power; oil will be out and that new medium will be in. The players will change but the game will remain the same. Now as pessimistic as this sounds, somehow we will survive and do even better than that; we will thrive. Somehow, within this world dynamic we will be happy and grateful for what we have. We will carve our share of the wealth from the whole and consider ourselves to be lucky. Those with the real power will move on in a strata removed from the ordinary; we will complain about the price of gas and then grin and bear it. Here in the US the Democrats and Republicans will take turns driving the economy, neither one being successful because they ultimately are powerless. They, in fact are not part of the solution to our problem; they are part of the problem. The power merchants will smile at our little efforts because in the scheme of things they know there really is no problem. This is how it is supposed to be; this is how they want it. And it all starts at the pump, each time I throw $3.30 on the hood of my truck. I suppose it's all a matter of perspective. |
| Title: When the Words Don't Come Date: April 15, 2008, Tuesday Thought: If every word we write becomes our child, we soon get very tired of hearing folks tell us our baby is ugly. Jog: Sometimes the words won't come. It doesn't matter how much you want them to flow; there're just not there. What do you do? You can force them--push them on the page like a resisting child dragged to the evening bath. But, there are times when I just don't have the desire to fight them. If they won't come, well, so be it. Now, very rarely have I been at a loss for words. As evident by this blog, there are still words out there. The problem isn't finding just words; it's finding the right words. I face the blank page with a goal before me. I must write about a specific topic--intelligently. My words do not wish to be intelligent at the moment. They wish to be common and haphazard. They wish to wander onto the page in any order they feel fit to arrange themselves. You see it is not a lack of inspiration that seizes me; it is a lack of direction and motivation. The honest fact is my inspiration wants to lead me elsewhere--somewhere that my need is not. I have had a difficulty writing in WDC lately. I pop in, read some of my favorite blogs, and enjoy myself as I do. But then it comes to the comment and I find I have nothing to say. Others have already said it much better than I could. And so, I quietly walk out. My own blog sits mid-month with just a couple entries. The words aren't there. I wrote a new short story. Often that helps me find new words. There is nothing like being creative to help prime the pump. The story was received with luke-warm comments. Some folks really liked it--liked it enough to give it 5.0 ratings. Others thought is was mediocre and gave it a 3.0--they are probably right. Without a doubt, I appreciated every comment and have worked on the areas of concern. But, the comments on the story have left me wondering. Is it really any good? Who do you listen to--the guy who loved it or the one who carved it up with a brutal critique? What do you do with comments that say, "I loved your opening paragraph" when the next reviewer says, "Your opening paragraph is rough and needs significant work?" Or, how about when one reviewer says, "Great development, you kept me interested through the entire story" and the next says, "the story was tedious and very slow to develop; I lost interest midway through the story." I have worked with critiques of my work long before I ever logged on to WDC. Preparing studies and reports for clients--studies and reports that were often the target of small town political agendas, I have learned over the years to receive critiques of my work with an air of detachment. If every word we write becomes our child, we soon get very tired of hearing folks tell us our baby is ugly. And so, over the years I have learned to separate myself from the work. I critique the critique; I take what is useful and discard that which I think is not. I have learned that we are all subjective in our approach to any work. We are influenced by our own beliefs and even our moods. If you don't believe that, read the review of someone who has just received a traffic ticket on their way into the office. Likely, it may sting a little, regardless of how professional they claim they are. And so, I find myself stumbling around in here looking for the words. I realize the words have to be ordered intelligently to be understood. I further understand there are rules for ordering them. So, I will place them in an order that seems right to me and put them on display. I undoubtedly will receive comments on my attempt, and I will benefit from the comments. However, in the final accounting, I will order them as I please, because after all, they are my words. Sometimes the words don't come; we've already discussed that. And so, in those times where the words are scarce, I will gladly receive what words do come. At this time and place, these were the best I could find. They may not be good enough, but they are certainly sufficient for me. There are times when you just gotta go with what you have. |
| Title: Doing Other Stuff Date: April 6, 2008, Sunday Thought: I’m out of words for today. Jog: I’ve been out for a few days. Much of that time was spent working on work. Gotta make that money so I can do the things I want to do. Some of it has been spent working with the booking agent for the condo. Who knows where we will end up. We will just have to see. Tor needs to keep his sleeping bag ready; he may end up sleeping in the back of my truck. However, most of this weekend was spent writing a new short story. It is amazing how these things develop. It is a completely different story than what I expected in the opening sentences of the story. When I typed in the last line, I was amazed that it developed as it did. I still need to let it sit a few days before I take another look at it. I have no idea if the dang thing is any good. I like them all; I suppose I’m too close to them. If you get a chance, take a look at it and give me a heads up.
I’m out of words for today. Gotta go and restock. |
| Title: Honey or Vinegar? Date: April 1, 2008, Tuesday Thought: People respond to folks who seem to be considerate and accommodating. In comparison, approach someone with an aggressive and belligerent attitude and you will get the same in return. Jog: I have no idea how the saying goes. But, it says basically you can attract more bees with honey than vinegar. It means simply, you can accomplish more by being nice than nasty. It’s true. People respond to folks who seem to be considerate and accommodating. In comparison, approach someone with an aggressive and belligerent attitude and you will get the same in return. That’s the way we are. I suppose it is a defensive action. What brings on this particular philosophical analogy is my approach to the reservation agents of the condo vacation service of which my company is involved. Years ago, I purchased a number of vacation holidays for myself and my employees. The way it works is that we have purchased eight one-week vacations in established condos ranging all over the world. We personally use only the ones located within the continental US. All we do is cite the location where we want to go, the time period, and the service locates and books a vacation condo for us at that location. Our only expense is the usual registration fee and an add-on charge for any extra features. The last time we used it they found us a two-bedroom condo with a hot tub. It was worth the money. However, in an effort to contact the company through the Internet, I ran upon some interesting data when I Googled the company. It appears there have been a number of very negative reviews of the company’s service. Armed with this information, I decided to attack my upcoming vacation proactively. I have been in contact with the company by email. As tactfully as I could, almost to the point of being ‘syrupy’ but not quite, I informed them of what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go, and when I wanted to be there. I conceded that they were busy people and therefore I did not want to intrude on there busy schedule with silly requests from me; however, I was at a loss for information and my only recourse was to contact them, the professionals. We have had a number of conversations through email. I must say that they have been very helpful and willing to go the extra mile to find us accommodations. I have received same-day responses and now have two reservationists working for us, Bobbi Jo and Carmen. I have not asked for any favors and have done basically what is expected of me to make their job easier. The only difference is that I have been just as accommodating to them as I expect them to be of me, the client. So far, this has been a fun game to play. They are currently, both of them, searching for that perfect condo for us. The real test will be later on when things go ‘foul.’ And, I assure you that somewhere along the way the perfect planning will break down. It is then that the extra effort I put into being nice will pay off; or at least I hope it will. It always has in the past. Why? Because, people want you to be nice to them. Certainly, they often don’t deserve it. But, that doesn’t give me license to attack them. I am interested in results. And, although I realize that at times the loud aggressive demanding approach appears to get immediate results, I have found higher quality comes from the cooperative and considerate approach. My problem is there are times when I don’t feel particularly cooperative and considerate. I know that’s hard to believe—just take my word for it. It is at those times when I have to reach down deep inside and just make it happen. I am paid, as a professional, to facilitate. That is what planning does. The only difference is I do it with cities. And, even working at the level which I do, I have found that a jar of honey works much better than a vat of vinegar. Therefore, now, I am having fun. I am deep within a human experiment with my two reservationists. The end result will be judged when I open the door to the condo. If I am lucky, we will have a fully furnished two-bedroom condo with a view. I just hope David McClain is happy with the double sized cot they will give him out on the porch. |
| Title: It Only Takes a Split Second Date: March 31, 2008, Monday Thought: In a split second, our lives can be changed. What happens after that? Well, I suppose it has a lot to do with the spirit that drives us. Jog: A split-second, that’s all it takes to change your life forever. I got to thinking about this again after Debi Wharton asked me in an email message about a friend of mine who was recently injured. I talked about that sometime around the first of the year. A professor of mine, Dr. Harry Hunt, was working on his farm with a post hole digger that was attached to his tractor. Somehow, the machine pulled him into the mechanism causing terrific damage. It literally pulled one of his arms off and cause severe damage to the other. At the time, we did not realize his spine was twisted violently, resulting in partial paralysis from the waist down. And, all it took was a split-second.Since that time, friends and family have kept up with his progress. There have been enormous amounts of prayers and well wishing. Harry is certainly loved. However, all the love and well intentions cannot relieve nor mask the constant reminder of his recent disability. His life is changed forever. What exactly does one do when they are suddenly thrust involuntarily into this position? To refuse to accept the situation is futile. To learn to live with it is almost just a futile. Within some people, there is a spirit that drives them to excel—in whatever condition they are in. I’ve seen articles on skiers who have learned to ski with amputated limbs. The other day on “20/20” there was a piece on a motivational speaker who from birth had no arms or legs. It is too difficult for me to imagine; and yet they live a normal life. Certainly, the definition of ‘normalcy’ has to be refined; but they contend it is normal. I look at Harry’s condition and conclude that his life is over, at least the normal productive life that he had. But, then again, I don’t account for the spirit that drives him. Harry will find a way to do what he does. He will find a way to teach and share his faith. The nurses, doctors and assistants who attend to him are in for a treat. I smile when I think of the unsuspecting caregivers who before long will be Harry’s patients—his students. There is of course an ancient precedent for Harry. It is found in the New Testament account of the Apostle Paul. Paul was a learned man. He was a scholar of Judaism and a member of the Sanhedrin. I guess you could say he was a graduate of the greatest seminary of his age. He was also a Roman citizen, which brought privilege beyond our understanding. Nevertheless, he was arrested and thrown into a Roman prison under the accusation of sedition against the Roman government—a capital offence. To look at Paul imprisoned in Rome, taken from his missionary work, deprived of his pulpit, humiliated as a common criminal, you would think his life was over. However, Paul gave new meaning to “changing of the guard.” For he preached to whomever he had available, those visiting him as well as those guarding him. Each new guard was a new opportunity to Paul. It was they who left as changed men. Paul just waited in his imprisonment for a constant supply of guards. It was during this time that some of the greatest books of the New Testament were written. Had Paul not been forced to write down these words we would never have had the opportunity to include them in the Bible. Moreover, it all happened because of a changed circumstance; an occurrence many of us would have given up on and conceded defeat. I have also witnessed this driving spirit to survive in nature. Along the path Max and I walk, there is a tree that is twisted and broken in half. Most of the tree is lying on the ground, attached to the trunk by the slimmest sliver of wood. To look at that broken tree one would concede there is no possible way it can live. The supply of nourishment from the roots embedded in the fertile soil is all but severed. However, for two springs now, Max and I have witnessed the branches lying on the ground budding with new leaves. The thing refuses to die. Somehow it produces leaves every summer. Certainly, there are prettier trees with massive canopies. But, there is no other tree in the forest that shows me the spirit to live like that tree does. There is no other tree in the forest that has made the impression on me that that tree does. And, there isn’t another tree in the forest that will be remembered as that one is. In a split second, our lives can be changed. What happens after that? Well, I suppose it has a lot to do with the spirit that drives us. Some of us will give up. I’ve seen that happen. Some of us will trudge on begrudgingly. I’ve seen that happen also. And, some of us, like Harry, the Apostle Paul, and that broken tree along the trail, will refuse to give up; but will rather take advantage of the opportunities that are provided to excel. When you find yourself with a bunch of lemons, you make lemonade. It’s easy to say. I wonder what I will do? |
| Title: Wanna Buy a Dandelion? Date: March 30, 2008, Sunday Thought: It seems that too much of my time is spent on accounting for the acquisition, allocation, or distribution of money. Jog: The blank spots can be very deceptive—you know, the blanks over in my calendar. It looks like I have not been doing anything. Well, the opposite is true. My butt has been very busy for the last week. I’ve been on this dang computer nearly day and night, working on work stuff. Even with all this activity, I still can’t seem to get caught up. It has been so hectic I can’t tell the difference between the weekends and the days between them—both are filled with work. However, the good thing is I get to bill for the time. It seems that too much of my time is spent on accounting for the acquisition, allocation, or distribution of money. I’m constantly toiling at trying to get some of the stuff, figuring out what to do with it when I get it, and watching most of it wander off out of my sphere of influence. I suspect it has always been this way throughout mankind’s shaky history. I suspect Og was constantly looking for Wooly Mammoth hides and tusks to sock away in the back of the cave for a rainy day. I’ve been watching the Travel Channel and have occasionally watched a series titled “Living With the Mek.” These two guys trekked deep into the jungle and arranged to live with the Mek tribe of West Papua, which is just as far away from modern civilization as you can get. In the village of Merengmen, a young man paid the father of his bride one pig, a bow and arrows, and a bag for the right to take her as his wife. It appears pigs are the highest form of currency. The father would have preferred to receive five pigs; however, the young man is poor and had to borrow a pig from his brother to seal the deal. Here in the great U S of A, we use dollars, which we really don’t see because they are simply represented by numbers on pieces of paper. Some folks have accumulated big numbers on the papers and some have their numbers written in red, which is not a good thing. Anyway, the idea of currency appears to be relative to the jungle in which you live. In the jungle in which I live, we call the currency dollars. We spend our lives accumulating dollars much like the Mek people accumulate pigs; it takes a lot of effort. Some of us are successful and some of us are not. Most of us live from month to month where the month runs out before the pig does. However, I ran across an interesting story last week while I was working at one of my client-cities. Many of you will agree that you can own lots of land and still be broke. Owning the dang stuff does not accumulate many pigs for the treasury; you have to make it produce. And, that takes money. There is a family living in the county near my client-city. They consist of three families of bothers and sisters who are farming and ranching the family land. They don’t have much; but, what they’ve got is lots of land—about 4,000 acres of the dang stuff. For years they have eked out a living from farming and ranching that land. What the land produces just about pays for their expenses and the goods needed to carry on for the next year. These good folks even tried to sell the land, but at that time no one wanted to buy the rocky range with the creeks and flood plain running through it. They had little choice but to continue to just get by. Then one day a marvelous thing happened. Devon Oil Exploration company came rolling into town with their rigs and pipelines, announcing natural gas has been discovered in the Barnett Shale; and that stuff was waiting a couple of thousand feet under the ground for someone to take it out. Sure enough, our whole county is loaded with the stuff. Heck, I even sold a lease to my mineral rights under my little acre of land out in the county. To my surprise I have begun to receive a $700 check each month for royalties. Now that won’t be enough for my retirement, but I’ll not be tossing it away. Ok, you know where this is going. That family with the 4,000 acres of rocks, ravines, and flood plain have come into a little money. They receive royalty checks monthly for sixteen wells that have been drilled on their land and are now producing natural gas. Now get this, each well produces a monthly royalty check of $18,000. Do the math and you will quickly see that they get around $288,000 each month for the minerals lying under their land. That’s about $3.5 million annually. That’s a lot of pigs. For millions of years that stinky stuff lay trapped in the geologic formations under the ground. No one knew about it and no one wanted it. There was no value there. But, somewhere along the way, the worth of natural gas changed and became currency. I’ve come to understand that money is not important, neither are pigs or even natural gas. What is important is this thing we call value. When we place value on items they become currency. I find that interesting. I’ve stopped mowing my lawn. I have lots of weeds. I’m thinking that as soon as someone finds a use for weeds they will become valuable. I’ll make a killing. |
| Title: Hanging On the Side of a Mountain Date: March 25, 2008, Tuesday Thought: Funny thing about faith, if the other guy doesn’t have it, you can never explain it to him. It’s like trying to explain a rainbow to someone who has never seen or a symphony to someone who has never heard. Jog: There are some things in our life that are deeply ingrained within us. There are some things I believe but cannot tell you exactly why I do. Perhaps I have been taught that way by caring and loving parents. But, who taught them? Well, of course, their parents. And so on it goes--each parent passing down to their offspring the truths that build us and shape us into who we are today. However, my parents were simple folks; and theirs even simpler. They were basically uneducated people. My mother quit high school in the eighth grade. My father finished high school and went on to his higher education on the battlefields of WWII. I am the first one of my family to attend college and obtain degrees, which have served me well but have done very little in molding the person that I am. No, the mold for that person was cast long before I ever walked the ivy halls of higher education. As a child, I was filled with doubt and insecurity. That is not unusual for children for they are totally dependent on their parents. I looked at my dad and determined that there was no way I could ever fill his footsteps. He was bigger than life and I knew I could never match his stride. As I grew older, I began to see weakness in him that brought him off the pedestal where I had placed him and brought him among the regular people where I lived. But yet he maintained the stature of specialness in my life until his dying day. I revere him even today. Perhaps it was from my father that I learned what it means to have conviction and confidence in your actions--even when there are folks trying to sway you and talk you out of what you know in your gut is true. Perhaps it is from my dad that I learned you didn’t have to have all the answers to do what was right or to believe in an idea or principle. Sometimes you do stuff simply because it is right. Sometimes you believe stuff just because you do. Now, I know scientifically, you can’t prove it. Nevertheless, that doesn’t matter. You believe because you just believe. I suppose that’s what you call faith. Funny thing about faith, if the other guy doesn’t have it, you can never explain it to him. It’s like trying to explain a rainbow to someone who has never seen or a symphony to someone who has never heard. You can attempt it, but you just can’t do it. Faith is being able to have confidence in what you believe just because you do. It may seem irrational, but that’s the way it is. Now, just about here is where those who have no faith say that is ridiculous. To blindly believe without proof is foolish. I agree. That is why I do not cotton to ‘blind faith.’ However, faith that is built on a foundation of experience and reason is much more than blind. Francis Shaffer said it was like a man caught on the side of a mountain face when the fog rolls in. Hanging there on that face, he can see nothing above him or below him. If he does nothing, he will die there. Now, he can reason to himself that if he lets go he can possibly land on a ledge below him. That is blind faith for a ledge may not be there; it would only be wishful thinking. That is a faith left to random chance and even irrational. However, if while that man is hanging on the side of the mountain, he hears a voice ring out across the void, “I know where you are. I can help you. I’ve lived in these mountains all my life and I know exactly where you are. I know that you are eight feet above a ledge. If you let go and drop you will land on the ledge and be safe.” The man can still see nothing. He has no proof that the ledge is there. However, if he lets go now he is acting on a faith based on experience. Howbeit, it is the experience of someone else who knows the mountain; but it is not blind. There is a place and time in our life where each of us has got to take a leap of faith. There is a point where we cannot accumulate any more information or facts or gather anymore proof regarding that thing for which we are searching. When that time comes, we must take that leap of faith or forever live with the question. A long time ago, I chose to take that leap of faith. That is why I believe. That is part of what my mom and dad built deep within me. Leann Rimes sings a song; it’s an old song; but she does it well. That song says very well how I believe. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Dy-O3Ken_Q&eurl=http://video.google.com/videosearc... |
| Title: In Search of an Audience Date: March 24, 2008, Monday Thought: When we place these words on the page we expect or hope that somewhere someone will be reading them. Who do you want that someone to be? Jog: Who are you writing to; or perhaps it should be to whom are you writing? Any way you say it the bottom line is we have a particular audience to which we direct these words. A true journal is directed to a limited audience, probably oneself or a few selected persons. Memoirs are directed to the future readers of the work, whoever they may be. A blog is directed to the masses, or in my case the micro-masses. I have always assumed that our entries in our blogs (‘jogs’) are accessible to the masses outside of WDC. In fact, there is a stat that counts the number of “Non-Member Viewers.” Since Feb. 22, it says I have ‘zero.’ However, I know that occasionally I will get an email from someone outside the site who has a comment or request. Nevertheless, my point is that when we place these words on the page we expect or hope that somewhere someone will be reading them. Who do you want that someone to be? I write for a particular audience that is mixed. Much of what I say is intended for other members of WDC and whoever else from the outside world drops in. That is one audience. The other audience is future generations of my family. There is a great need for me to reach out beyond this time and place and have my words understood again. Perhaps it is a feeble attempt at immortality—a way to live on as a personality long after I am gone. What an incredibly selfish reason. However, forgive me this failing. I read a blog recently that flippantly grouped those individuals who spent time researching genealogy as being self-centered groupies of past celebrities. The amateur genealogist was pictured as a simple-minded dolt who wished nothing more than to establish a connection with some great historical character; be it Alexander the Great or King Arthur, no matter whether the personality was real or fictitious. This characterization was callous and demeaning, inaccurate. I am a genealogist of sorts. I have followed my ancestry back a few hundred years. After that, it gets rather difficult to do with any accuracy. My earliest ancestor was born somewhere around 1611 in Wales. It is interesting that his name was Adam—lol…no connection to the husband of Eve. I have uncovered a wealth of information about those who have lived between the time of my Adam and me. History has been given particular significance as I discover what part they played in certain events in our county’s history. Genealogy can be a marvelous tool to establish ones own roots in the great events of history. Not every person researching the dusty files of some chamber of records is seeking connections to nobility and fame. Some of us just want to understand from where we have come, and who were our people. We take what we find and work with that. Therefore, I write for a specific audience. Although much of what I write is simple silliness with the writers in WDC who have become my friends, I try to keep the general tone of the entries informative and of a quality that would be useful for some future generation. No doubt I fail often. But, I suppose even I will occasionally provide something enlightening to the reader of these entries. All I know is if, in my searching of the dusty archives of personal history, I had come across a series of journals detailing the everyday life of one of my ancestors I would have been ecstatic. I do not imagine ecstasy for some future reader of my material; but I do promise to be faithful and detailed. What appears to be mundane to me may very well be exciting to them. Again, it may just be mundane. I suppose I’ll have to just let them decide. |
| Title: Another Morning, Another Blessing Date: March 22, 2008, Saturday Thought: This morning, the day before Easter, Max and I walked across the dew-laden grass of the golf course that is a part of our daily walk. I have yet to make that trek that I am not moved by the grandeur of God’s creation. Jog: I suppose I am basically a lazy person. I know that. I would rather sit in the warm house and sip hot chocolate than get out in the early morning chill and walk. However, once I am out there surrounded by nature’s miracles, I love it. So, it is no doubt a good thing that Max has come into my life. We learned a long time ago that Labs are energetic dogs; they need activity every day. My black Lab is no different. As a result, he can be found nuzzling my elbow around 6:30 every dang morning reminding me of his need. Mind you, he waits patiently for the Sun to rise; but, once the sunshine breaks through our upstairs window, Max is urging me to go outside. Therefore, that is what I do. He has me trained pretty well. This morning, the day before Easter, Max and I walked across the dew-laden grass of the golf course that is a part of our daily walk. I have yet to make that trek that I am not moved by the grandeur of God’s creation. That it is given to me every morning as a gift is not lost on me. I say a simple, “Thank you, Lord.” That’s enough; that’s all He needs to know I’m thankful. The Lord and I have become fast friends over the years, and I’ve found that I don’t have to say much for Him to know I’m walking with Him. However, that’s another story and a whole other blog entry. This morning I was filled with wonder with the relationship of that dang dog and me. It has become so that I don’t have to call Max to lead him on our walks. He watches for me. I walk and he adjusts his route to mine. He does not stray too far from me. He will run off on some tangent, chasing the scent of some critter. However, he is always looking over his shoulder to see where I am. Eventually, he will break his trail and return to me. Occasionally, I may call him to see if he will come. He does…always. Along our walks, I’ve noticed the inbred instincts of the hunter. Max stalks and retrieves. He loves to carry stuff in his mouth. That should not be too surprising since he was bred to retrieve. Originally, off the coast of Labrador, the breed was used by fishermen to jump into the icy waters and help retrieve fishing nets that were cast. Later, they were adapted to jumping into fridgid waters to retrieve ducks brought down by the hunter’s guns. So, whenever Max’s ears are raised and his tail goes out straight behind him, I know he is on some trail that his ancient genes have directed him. He did it today, twice. It always thrills me to see him go into stalk mode. I stop and watch him concentrate on his target. He creeps ever so slowly up on his prey. He freezes when the prey looks up and takes steps when it’s head goes down to feed. This takes a little time. The first time he did that today; I got tickled and began laughing at him. Perhaps from his vantage point he could not tell that the squirrel near the tree was really a broken knotty portion of a fallen oak limb. Heck, from a distance even I could have taken it for a critter. At about thirty feet out Max broke and charged the prey. When he got up on it he figured out it was only a piece of knotty wood. He pulled up and immediately looked back at me. I swear he was embarrassed. His ears dropped, as did his tail, and he had a look that said, “OK, so it’s a piece of wood! If it’d been a squirrel his bushy butt would have been mine!” Fifty yards down the trail we came upon another critter. This time a dove was feeding on the new grass at the edge of the fairway. Max stalked it, charged it, and watched it easily escape into the skies above the golf course. It is a good thing we buy his food at Pets Mart; if he were to depend on the game he hunted down, he’d be one skinny dog. When we get home, the first thing Max does is go find Linda to tell her he is home. She always asks Max if he had fun. I always smile and answer for him, “Yes, he had fun.” He did what he is bred to do; he stalked and hunted. He sniffed a hundred trees and claimed half of them as his own. He was with me, which is where he wants to be. He and I are both getting older. There will likely come a day when neither of us will be able to stalk and hunt, even if it is just make believe. That day is still a long way off. I am just so grateful that today we have each other. It makes me say another, “Thank you.” It is appropriate that Easter occurs in the Spring. As I walked with Max this morning, I noticed new buds on the barren trees. Grass is beginning to creep into the yards and the fairways. There is a promise in creation around us that a new day is being born—life is once again claiming dominance over a dormant world. Every day is a promise of new things. Every morning walk brings the realization that today is unique—the only one like it. I think somehow Max knows that, as we walk in the early mornings. I think we both know it. What a gift it is. I just hope I will always appreciate it and never take it for granted. Watching that black dog romp through the high grass and stalk knotty pieces of wood reminds me of the specialness of it. I wish you could be there with us. I suppose I will just have to try to bring it to you. Nevertheless, I know, if you just look around on the early morning that is gifted to you, you will see it too. |
| Title: Figment of My Imagination? Date: March 20, 2008, Thursday Thought: It is amazing to me how characters we create in our writing assume a life of their own in our minds. Jog: A friend of mine got some attention this morning. One of you nice folks decided to drop in on Spam and see how he was doing. Early this morning, around 6:00 AM I decided to check out my stats page and see if anyone had dropped by. I was amazed to see that someone had viewed my entire collection of Spam Hummer stories. There are only ten of them, so I suppose it really doesn’t take very long. I’m not even sure they read them, because a view is not really the same as a read. Nevertheless, that doesn’t matter; Spam appreciated the attention. It is amazing to me how characters we create in our writing assume a life of their own in our minds. I think they call that anthropomorphism—the assigning of human characteristics to items, objects, and non-living things. I refer to my truck as “he” and the faithful cars I have owned as “she.” Why is that? Is it really so surprising we tend to assign human characteristics to items that we become familiar with. I refer to my computer as being “faithful” and sometimes “stubborn.” There have been times when, in anger, I’ve even blurted out, “Stupid computer!” I guess my ego may be searching for someone with which to share the blame or fault when I do some bonehead thing, like push delete instead of save. Even more so, our stories and the characters within them take on real live characteristics. I have two literary characters who have become friends of mine—Spam Hummer and Stealthman. There are times, when faced with real life situations, I wonder what would Spam do? Or better yet, I think, “Dang-it! I wish Stealthman were here!” These characters have found a place in my mind or inner self, somewhere. To me they have emotions and actually exist. In fact, they are as real to me as the “virtual” friends I’ve made in WDC. Now, that’s strange. ”Now hold on, Mac.” A voice from over in the darken corner of my study interrupts the typing on the keyboard. “Just hold your horses.” Dan directs his attention to the corner. There he sees a figure in a trenchcoat sitting quietly. “Just what makes you think I don’t exist? I’ve done too much poundin’ the pavement on some case, to just rack it up as imagination.” Spam raised his eyebrow at Dan and continued, “Just what makes you think, I’m a figment of your imagination? Maybe you’re a figment of mine.” “Well, I…” Dan began to respond but was cut off short. “Or maybe even mine!” From out of nowhere, the voice resonated low and clear. Both Dan and Spam jerked their heads around looking for the voice. Spam reacted by habit and pulled the 45 cal. from its place beneath his left armpit. He grinned sheepishly and replaced it. Magically, Stealthman materialized in the doorway. Grinning, Stealthman added, “You’re not the only one who knows how to make an entrance, Gumshoe!” “Geeze, you’re lucky, Mac.” Spam directed his words directly to Stealthman. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re standing there in your PJ’s, like some cartoon character, I’d a probably plugged you.” “Give me a break, Gumshoe; even you can’t shoot something you can’t see.” Stealthman then turned his attention to Dan. “But, you my friend. You’re dangerous. Cause in that mind of yours you can make us do whatever you wish. That’s powerful stuff.” Dan nodded and agreed, “Yeah, I guess it is.” Spam interrupted, “You know, I’ve covered a lot of cases—seen a lot of weird stuff. Heck, I’ve seen stuff even I don’t believe. All it means is that things are not always what they seem.” “That’s true,” Stealthman continued. “But, even so, you can’t doubt that I became visible right out of nowhere. You can’t deny it because you just saw it with your own eyes—the both of you.” “Wait a minute,” Dan protested, “I’m in the middle of a blog here. I mean, I’m doing it right now. I don’t have time for figments of my imagination to be interrupting this serious business.” “Figment!” Spam snorted in amazement. “You call us figments? You sure you don’t have a loose screw Dan?” “Well, I…” Dan stammered. “Well, I nothin’!” Stealthman continued. “Spam’s right. You need to get your figments straight. What makes you think we’re a figment of your imagination? Have you ever considered that just maybe—maybe you’re a figment of ours? Now, try that on for size.” Dan closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously to clear it. He openned his eyes and looked around the darkened room. He was alone, with the exception of Max, who was snoring at his feet. “What the heck happened?” he thought. I dunno…maybe they really are real. Maybe I’m the figment…scary. |
| Title: On Greater Things Date: March 19, 2008, Wednesday Thought: We come into this world crying and announcing to the world that we are here. As youth, we are convinced that we can make a difference in our environment, that the world can and will change by the things we do. I don’t care what science says. I know intellectually that our sun is dying and in a few short trillion years or so it may in fact burn out. The likelihood is that I won’t be here when it does; whether I’ll still be around in heaven becomes a theological argument that I don’t want to get into now. But, for all practical purposes I think we can agree that of the things that we consider eternal, time is one of them. The Sun will always rise in the morning and set in the evening. In spite of the impact man has on each other and the environment, time will still march on. Wars will still be fought and civilizations will come and go. Children will still be born and old folks will pass away. On the day that each of these significant milestones in the lives of people occurs, the other people in this world will carry on business as usual—day after day. Taken into perspective with the eternal dynamic of time, my little life is comparable to less than a flicker in the fire that burned Rome. When I truly consider the insignificance of my single life as compared to the history of all that is around me, I marvel at the fact that we even bother to make our mark on history. We come into this world crying and announcing to the world that we are here. As youth, we are convinced that we can make a difference in our environment, that the world can and will change by the things we do. Somehow, we believe that the world revolves around us and that we are invincible. Little by little, as we grow older, the experiences of life begin to erode that confidence and we somberly begin to accept the reality of our position. Somewhere in there, it dawns on us that time is not infinite for us but is in fact finite and fleeting. We examine the goals that we set for ourselves as youth and calculate begrudgingly that we have somehow unjustly been slighted on time. We simply do not have enough time to complete the things that we would wish to have completed—we are running out of time. I submit that is the position of every person who has ever walked this earth, with the exception of one man. I will not discuss the exception of that one life in this entry; that is not my purpose, regardless of the great truth that it proclaims to us. So, why then do we go on when faced with the insignificance of this short life of ours? Well, for one thing, we have no choice. Life progresses outside of our control. That is so with all of biology, not just the human condition. However, we have a consciousness that other members of the animal kingdom do not have. We reason and have the ability to perceive our condition and react accordingly as a unit and in coordination with others like us. There is evidence that other members of the animal kingdom share these attributes to limited degrees, but none to the extent and sophistication as humans. We have the ability to express our emotion and to communicate ideas. Now, you’ve got to admit that is something quite special. Can all of this be accidental? Is it simply a function of science? Again, that has at its foundation a theological question that I will refrain from arguing at this time. Is there some purpose for me to have this special ability that I share with the remainder of humanity? Moreover, a greater question is what do I do with it? After all, I have only a very short period of time to make my meager mark. Somehow, it seems trifling and wasteful to spend it going to work day after day working at some job. I suppose it is significant that I multiply and teach my offspring to function within this environment in a socially acceptable manner. But, this only creates the opportunity for them to do the same thing for a brief moment in history. I refuse to believe that the human experience is simply an accident. I refuse to believe that this is all there is. I am convinced that there is a purpose for my life and yours. There is a reason I am here. And, my life is significant, as is your life; they are important and have an impact on history, no matter how slight we feel that may be. And, so I will get up in the morning; I will go to work and do the things I have determined are necessary to be done; I will play when it is time to play and steal time from other things to play again. I will do it because I think it makes a difference. I will do it because I see value in doing it. Someday I will discuss the theology that is my foundation, but not today. Today I will be satisfied to simply know what I do, and what you do, makes a difference. That is all I need. That is enough. |
| Title: Am I Being Rude? Date: March 16, 2008, Sunday Thought: I know there are rules of conduct; at least I have never been aware of them. Folks simply conduct themselves appropriately and treat each other with respect. Jog: Am I being rude? I mean, I certainly don’t mean to be. All of you folks in WDC have become like a second family to me. Some are very close and some are sorta like distant relatives. And as family, I sorta take advantage of you. Like, I don’t always say hello when I see you. But, I always smile and wave. Oh, I know you can’t see me as I scroll down the blog page choosing blogs to pop into. I don’t often leave a comment cause it seems I’ve always got something pressing and I was just in here for a moment. I read your blogs constantly. I know you don’t know it cause there isn’t any evidence of the fact. But, I do. And, some of you are very faithful to drop in and saying nice stuff to me. I try to return the favor but don’t often make it; and that makes me feel badly. So, is it too awfully rude of me? I’ve thought about this for more time than I should—I know. I’ve considered just popping in and leaving an emoticon (since I have learned how to do the “  ”.) Then I decide against that. If I have enough time to pop in and leave a , I ought to have enough time to say something. Therefore, I say nothing. Sometimes I marvel at the wonderful blogs you write and want to say something; but as I sit there with the cursor blinking at me, nothing comes. So, I leave. Now, what’s up with that? Sometimes I just don’t know how to respond? This site, WDC, amazes me. It has evolved into a complicated and massive community. I guess the thing that impresses me so much is the attitude that prevails in here. There is an attitude of professionalism, respect, and decency. Occasionally, like any family, there are little squabbles. Writers come and go. But, I’ve noticed that the cream really does rise to the top. It is a joy to be associated with people of this stature. I know there are rules of conduct; however, I have never been aware of them. Folks simply conduct themselves appropriately and treat each other with respect. Because there are no rules, I have never known what is expected of me regarding proper blogging etiquette. I’ve noticed there are some folks who comment in scores of blogs on a daily basis. I’m sure there are some folks in here who comment rarely. I’ve come to believe that I don’t comment enough; but, it’s about as good as I’m going to be able to do. So, does that make me rude? I’ve noticed that activity in the blog pages changes from writer to writer. Heck, the way any individual writer approaches the blog page changes over time. Some write prolifically, some are like myself and make entries sporadically. Some leave comments in scores of blogs and some don’t leave comments as all. There are a few bloggers that faithfully maintain a daily blog and visit the blogs of others, leaving generous comments. That has certainly not been me. However, there is no rule. I’m not even sure if I know the etiquette applied to the blogs? I suspect I have been negligent in my attention to every aspect of blogging. I realize no one will carry me away to blog-prison because of it—I know that. Nevertheless, deep within me there is a nagging suspicion that I may have acted rudely. And, that, I certainly did not mean to do. |
| Title: Life is Fragile Date: March 15, 2008, Saturday Thought: We live in a world where we trust the guy next to us to refrain from doing the irrational and unthinkable. Knowing how fragile life is, I sometimes wonder if we are asking a lot of the other guy. Jog: Life is a pretty fragile thing. For most of us, we keep it fairly well ordered. We get up in the morning, walk our dog, clean up, eat breakfast and go about the chores of our day. I can look at most of my yesterdays and be relatively confident that they resemble my today. Moreover, if I maintain control of my faculties I can be assured that my tomorrows will mirror by my past. Of course, most of us live lives that are rather mundane, in that they are predictable. We are after all creatures of habit. Some of us live lives that are more active where adrenaline is the norm. However, I contend that even the soldier or the guy who jumps out of airplanes live life consistently. You can always count on the guy who jumps out of airplanes to in fact jump out of airplanes. He simply has a more adventurous routine, but it is a routine nevertheless. That being the case, I am amazed at how easy it is to totally disrupt that routine we call our life. In a second, circumstances can change the course of our life. One irrational or thoughtless action, that is inconsistent with the ordered pattern of our life, can alter it dramatically. I will never understand what dynamic causes a person to do that. I can read about it and study it; but I will never understand it. Now, I’m not talking about the chance happening that occurs randomly, like being struck by lightening on a clear day or being struck by a runaway car. Nope, those are fatefully unavoidable. Sometimes stuff just happens. What I’m talking about is the conscious decision to act irrationally. A few days ago, a woman made a conscious and calculated decision to do just what I’m talking about. She walked to a bridge overpass that spans one of the freeway systems here in the Dallas area with a purpose in mind. In tow, with their hands in her’s, she led her two young children to the middle of the bridge. Below her the bustle of traffic raced down the freeway—tons of metal speeding at 70 mph, three abreast. The woman lifted each child over the side and dropped them from the bridge into the traffic below. She then climbed over the edge and jumped into the traffic. Miraculously, everybody survived. Of course, the woman has been charged with attempted murder and the children taken into custody. But, what causes someone to snap like that? How can someone make a conscious decision to throw everything away? Two commuters are driving down the Interstate on their separate ways to work. One pulls in front of the other, causing tempers to flair. The offended party honks his horn, pulls up, and rides the bumper of the rude guy who cut him off. Eventually, the cares of the day are forgotten or ignored. One guy pulls up beside the other, traveling precariously in rush hour traffic, on their way to their mundane workday. He picks up a gun and fires it out the window, striking and killing the other—stupid. Instead of spending his evening at home tossing the ball with his kids, this idiot will be in a jail cell for the rest of his life. I have plans today to drive to a client city and spend the morning doing what I do. I will work with the city council of that city in a workshop that has as its purpose the preparation of sign ordinances that make their place a better place to live. I will finish around noon and drive home to spend the remainder of my weekend doing the mundane things that order my life. I like it that way. However, I am mindful that at any moment in that day I could change the course of my life and the lives of others by doing something totally irrational and inconsistent with my character. Of course, I won’t do anything like that. But, there is nothing, except the sense of right and decency that is imbedded in my soul that keeps me from doing stupid stuff. Now, that’s what makes life fragile. Most of us are able to function day in and day out without crossing the line. However, each of us are capable of doing the unthinkable; but we don’t. We live in a world where we trust the guy next to us to refrain from doing the irrational and unthinkable. Knowing how fragile life is, I sometimes wonder if we are asking a lot of the other guy. That’s why I am so confused about the suicide bombers associated with the Muslim terrorists. I know all about the argument of fanatical causes, the irrationality of the thinking, and the brainwashing that occurs. But, to strap a bomb onto your body, walk into a crowded market with families and children living their fragile lives, and then to detonate the thing, well, that is simply unimaginable to me. I will never, never understand it. Their misguided message is lost on me; the action is wasted because I fail to identify with their cause, and all sympathy for their position is lost in the insaneness of the act. I will now carefully end my entry—a conscious act that is in order with the routine of my day. I will stay within the bounds of civility, because that is who I am. I will complete my day with respect for the right of others to complete their day. In our shared mundane completion of our routines, my neighbor and I will enjoy interaction with each other and confirm that life is good—neither of us stepped across the line of madness that seems to infect some people out there. Nevertheless, as I do this, I am mindful that there is just a small thread that separates the rational from the irrational. And, in that realization, I am thankful that I have once again managed to retain control of my life. All of us can look at the guy who didn’t and say, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” |
| Title: Time and Profit Date: March 13, 2008, Thursday Thought: It’s just I wish someone would have motivated me to do this when I was younger. Time can be your friend or your foe; it’s the one commodity that we can’t replace. Jog: If you have seen my blogs in the past you will confirm that occasionally I talk about the stock market. I’ve noticed every time that I have a stock market entry my comments are way down, not that they are stellar by any means. For some reason people are turned off by the topic. However, I am fascinated by the stock market. As a young man, I never had the funds to invest in the market. Moreover, even if I did the stock market was a foreign land with its own language and temperament. Until a few years ago, I was content to let the other guy invest my funds for me. That was the way it was for years when I worked for someone else. I contributed to the 401K fund or retirement fund and they invested the money. I trusted that someday when I was old and needed the money it would magically have grown into a small fortune—silly me. I found that those whom I trusted to care for my meager contributions invested them poorly. I rocked along for years content in getting between 2-4% return on my money. After all, I could do nothing about it because it was a company sponsored plan that was out of my control. It was not until about ten years ago that I figured out something very important. Those guys investing the money don’t really care if I make money or not. All they cared about was managing it. They got paid for counting it. It didn’t matter to them if the amount went up or down; they got paid the same. So, I ask you, “What makes me think a stranger (or in some cases a good friend or family member) has more interest in my welfare than I do myself?” They don’t—sorry but that’s the plain truth. I decided to self-direct my own funds. I fired my money manager and brokers and decided I’d just do it myself. Now, it cost me to do that. I had to educate myself—take some courses on stocks and mutual funds. And, I lost a little money learning how to invest—no pain, no gain. I received lots of raised eyebrows from my banker and business cohorts who ‘swear’ by professional brokers and financial planners. Many of my friends would shrug and say, “I don’t enjoy that type of thing” or “That takes too much time; I let the professionals do it for me.” That just doesn’t make sense to me. If you can make as much money in a one-day period as you do working two days, how can that not be a good investment of time? For example, my funds made $2,000 yesterday. I spend maybe thirty minutes a day managing them and researching new funds; that’s not a bad return. Of course, there is a possibility that I can lose $2,000 in one day. But, over the course of the time I’ve been investing, the good days far outnumber the bad days—almost three to one. As an exercise, I took four actual mutual fund accounts (CGMFX, JHLVX, PNRZX, and GHACX). I entered the rates for administration of each fund and used the annualized rate of return since inception. All of these are good funds that will return well over 12% for the long run, which is what you have to do with mutual funds. I used a maximum earning period of twenty-five years. That means that those of you who are forty or younger could actually realize this at the time you turn 65 years of age. I hypothetically purchased a total of $10,000 of funds over a twenty-year period. That would permit anyone to save up $2,500 in any five-year period to purchase the funds. I purchased a fund every five years for $2,500. Using the historic rates for each of these funds, the return at the end of the 25-year period is approximately $550,000. And, that is how you turn $10,000 into $550,000. The trick is to buy it and LEAVE IT ALONE. Of course, if you contribute to the fund on a regular basis it will grow proportionately. The trick is to get your money in there early in good funds and let it sit. Of course, all this is hypothetical. However, the funds I’ve cited are real funds with real rates of returns; those are not make believe. Until recently, the common person could not easily do this type of research and analysis. However, the Internet has an enormous quantity of sites to help one do this. Purchasing, selling, and tracking stocks and mutual funds is relatively easy. The middleman has literally been removed. However, most of the financial world would have you to believe you are not smart enough to understand this. The idea that it is just too time consuming and confusing prevails and stops most folks from controlling their own destiny. However, I will say this. There are times when a little information can be a dangerous thing. Before you jump into this with both feet, dedicate the time to research it thoroughly and spend a little time learning. Like anything worthwhile, the return is proportional to the effort spent. I contend the effort spent in shaping your own financial destiny is well worth it. And, as a matter of information, if you invest this at the age of 25 instead of 40, this same $10,000 will be well over a million dollars. How can we ignore this? I don’t know; but at the age of 25, I did. I wish I hadn’t. Now, I wonder just how many folks read this entry to the end. And, how many folks rolled their eyes and said, “Well, that’s not for me.” For those who did, I have no problem with that--to each his own. It’s just I wish someone would have motivated me to do this when I was younger. Time can be your friend or your foe; it’s the one commodity that we can’t replace. I know, I’ve been chasing it for years. |
| Title: Two Names—One Battle Date: March 11, 2008, Tuesday Thought: The facts of the events are always the same, regardless of the perspective from which it is written; but the slant in which the facts are delivered are weighted in favor of the perspective of the author. Jog: For the last several days, I’ve had something on my mind that relentlessly holds its place in my thoughts. It’s a simple little tidbit I learned the other day while researching some Civil War battle on the Internet. It seems we never ever stop learning--that is if we keep on poring through the research. That’s a good thing. My grandchildren are amazed at Granpa Encyclopedia. I just hope I can keep up with their rapid dash to learn. Anyway, the simple little thing I learned, and I suppose I already knew this and the knowledge was just reinforced, was that history is written with different perspectives. The way you learn of history depends on which side the historians chronicling the account were on. This was brought home to me when I learned that virtually all of the Civil War battles are known by two names. I learned that the Union named the battle by some physical feature and the South usually attached the name of a place to the battle. Thus, we have the Battle of Pea Ridge and the Battle of Elkhorn Tavern being the same battle--the Battle of Bull Run and the Battle of Manassas, the Battle of Antietam and the Battle of Sharpsburg. It is interesting that I’ve found when I read the stories of the accounts of these events I can discern the perspective from which it is written by simply considering the name by which it is called. The facts of the events are always the same, regardless of the perspective from which it is written; but the slant in which the facts are delivered are weighted in favor of the perspective of the author. We have come to recognize this as ‘spin.’ The adage that history is written by the victor is generally true. However, it is still very interesting that an event that occurred almost one hundred and fifty years ago is still disputed regarding the reason for the conflict. History books will tell you the Civil War was fought over freedom for the slaves. The proponents of the South will contend it was for states rights. The South saw no difference in the War for Independence from the English king, which was fought for the right to govern oneself in the New World, with freedom from interference from a president in Washington. The states of the Union entered into the Union voluntarily over a period of time. Each one making a conscious decision to enter the relationship. At no time did these states abdicate the sovereignty of each local government. This feeling was especially strong in the South. If left alone, the South would have eventually freed the slaves on their own. The insistance that one man can own another could not survive the scrutiny of democracy for any great length of time. A southern leader was once purported to comment, “We should have freed the slaves first and then fired on Sumner.” But that did not happen and the South did not prevail. However, history tells us that the South’s demise was due only to the fact that it possessed a lack of resources. We may never realize how very close the South came to victory. I wonder how differently the history of the world would be today if that had happened? |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
