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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: I Begin My Vacation Today Date: March 8, 2008, Saturday Thought: I am a human GPS. Fortunately, for those who travel with me my release valve will be present. Linda permits me to plan ‘ad infinitum’ as long as I agree to let her throw a ‘monkey-wrench’ into the works whenever she wants to. Jog: Tentatively planned for the second week of September, my vacation appears to be loaded with activity—lots and lots of driving. By the time I’m finished I estimate my cohorts and I will have travelled almost 3,700 miles. If I were driving that entire amount at one sitting, it would take three days solid, at least that is what Google tells me. However, I am going to spread it over ten day’s total. By the time I am finished, Linda and I will have traveled through nine states plus the District of Columbia. I will have visited five Civil War battlegrounds, seen the new World War II Memorial, the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and at least walked through the halls of the Smithsonian. If it sounds aggressive, it is. I seem to do that. I will immerse myself in historical sensory overload. Fortunately, I take my emergency release valve with me, Linda. She tends to put her foot down and I usually whittle the activities down to something manageable. The interesting thing about this visit is that along the way I plan on picking David McClain and his lovely bride up to share the vistas and the overload, that is if I don’t scare them off with my itinerary. David and I share a love of history, all types of history but especially American history. To be able to walk the places where common men, such as he and I are, and consider the unimaginable impact that their simple and often tremendously courageous acts had on our nation and our history is humbling to me. To be able to take the words out of the history books and see the places in perspective breathes life into these events. I plan to visit three great battlefield of the American Civil War—Gettysburg, Antietam, and Manassas. My only regret is that I will not be able to bring my grandson, Zack, with me. How wonderful it would be for him at ten-years to be able to experience what I will at 60-years. Unfortunately, it is likely it will take the other 50 years for him to grow to appreciate history, which I find is an acquired taste.While we are trudging through the battlefields of past conflicts, our little group of four has plans to perhaps bump into other WDC folks along the way. Debi and Eric Wharton and CC have all said they want to see us when we get in the vicinity. The opportunity to meet these WDC members only increases the excitement of the trip. I understand Eric is as much a history fanatic as David and I. This should be interesting. Fortunately, he speaks much faster than David, everybody speaks faster than David, so I expect to get loads of information and lots of local color. Poor Mel and David, they don’t know what they are getting into. I am a planning fanatic. Before I leave Burleson, I will have the entire trip planned. I will have researched each site I plan to visit—have a folder on each site with Internet printouts properly stored therein. Moreover, my itinerary will not be focused on the battle sites only; I will have researched interest points along the way and even restaurants that we may want to visit. The departure time for each morning will be calculated and the length of stay at the site will be estimated. I will know the mileage between the sites and the estimated time it takes to get there. If I could, I would have topographic maps of the route so I could verify my exact location at any moment. I am a human GPS. Fortunately, for those who travel with me my release valve will be present. Linda permits me to plan ‘ad infinitum’ as long as I agree to let her throw a ‘monkey-wrench’ into the works whenever she wants to. What this means is that any of this and all of it is subject to change. It usually begins with an, “I don’t think so..” When I hear that, I simply grin and bear it and do what she wants to do. Therefore, David and Mel, be good to Linda; she is your only salvation. Periodically, this trip will find its way into my “jog”. Undoubtedly, as I immerse myself in research I will stumble on items of interest that spur my imagination and cause me to think. You’ll probably recognize that. Just bear with me; I’ll try to make it painless but interesting. I am in vacation mode. For me that begins about four months out. I suppose in a sense I am already on vacation; and I suppose, in a sense, you will get to go with me, whether you want to or not…buckle up. |
| Title: He’s Become a Part of Me Date: March 6, 2008, Thursday Thought: He has become part of me. How did I let that happen? Jog: It was a little over freezing, maybe even in the low forties. However, the north Texas wind that had raced down the mountains of Colorado brought a definite chill to the air. Add the fact that the wind was gusting around twenty-five to thirty mile-per-hours, well, that made it downright cold—at least for a Texas boy who was used to the heat of August. I had bundled up to the ridiculous and was relatively comfortable as I walked with Max down the open fairway of the golf course. I didn’t have to worry about golfers at 7:00 am that morning. Undoubtedly there would be a few die-hards who would be out later, regardless of the temperature or the conditions. But, at that moment, Max and I had the whole dang golf course to ourselves. That’s a good time to walk, 7:00am on a freezing morning. The squirrels who inhabit the treetops take that time to scamper on the ground foraging for choice acorns, which have fallen from the trees. Max knows this and keeps an eye out for the little critters. We were approaching the little creek that crosses the fairway when I saw Max’s ears perk up. He lifted his head and froze as he studies the terrain on the other side of the creek. Two squirrels were at the base of a massive oak tree that had probably been a sapling when Texas entered the civil war. Its trunk was probably two-feet in diameter and the limbs were gnarled and twisted. And yet, it shed an abundance of acorns that attested to the fact that it wasn’t finished growing even yet. Max considered his problem. The squirrels were on the other side of the creek. He had two ways to get to them. He could head straight for them and go through the creek, which was no obstacle for him; or he could run a short way to the bridge, cross it, and then follow the bank to the big tree. Perhaps it was the fact that he knew I would chastise him if he plunged into the water on this cold day, whatever the case, he chose to take the bridge. As fast as he could run he scampered along the bank of the creek to the bridge, turned sharply and ran across the metal bridge, with his nails clicking on the metal surface; he turned sharply at the other side, intent on racing to the big oak. That’s where it happened. The thin layer of mud at the edge of the bridge and the sidewalk gave way at the weight of his front paws as they dug in for traction in the turn. Both paws slipped from in under him, causing him to fall on his shoulder. He recovered quickly and continued on a short way to find the squirrels. But, now his heart was not in it. The fall had caused him to twist his body and placed great pressure on his hips. As he trotted back to me, I thought I detected a slight limp. We continued to walk along our trail; but Max did not run out in front of me and search new smells. He stuck close to my side. The fall had hurt him; I could tell he was in pain. We walked a short distance to the truck and returned home. Linda noticed the limp immediately as he entered the house. By mid-morning he could barely walk. Even so, he insisted following me up the stairs to my office when I went to work. It is strange how much these animals mean to us. I worried about that dang black dog all day. He has been diagnosed with hip dysplasia. It’s a debilitating disease common in large breed dogs. I had visions of severe damage to his hips to the point where he could not function. I simply did not want to think about that. We gave him aspirin and tried to keep him from climbing the stairs. He slept by my side most of the day. When he was up and walked, the discomfort was apparent. I hoped that he had simply sprained the hip and nothing more. I simply did not know. We determined that if he were worse the next day we would take him to the vet. I woke the next morning to a paw in my face. It appears I slept a little too late. It was well into the time for Max’s morning walk. Looking at me was the face of an impatient Lab. I swung my legs over to the floor and mustered considerable effort to elevate myself from slumber and into a walking position. To my astonishment, I found a bouncing black Lab circling me telling me it was time for his walk. I would not have thought it was the same dog. I suppose all he needed was a good nights rest. This morning we chased squirrels and smelled a hundred new smells. The concerns of yesterday have vanished…mostly. I just remember how badly I felt and consider how happy Max is today doing his thing. I know someday he will grow old and the bounce will not be there. I was afraid it had come prematurely; but it did not. I savor this time with that dang dog. I am happy for him when I see him bouncing through the high grass or stalking some critter to terrorize. He has become part of me. How did I let that happen?--just did, I guess. What a blessing it has become. |
| Title: Accounting For My Time Date: March 4, 2008, Tuesday Thought: I cannot point the finger at others without doing the same to myself. Jog: When I entered my meeting last nigh it was still light outside. The day had been dreary all day long, raining off and on. The weatherman promised snow in the evening hours; I didn’t believe him—this is Texas after all. And, unless you live in Amarillo, you take that prediction with a grain of salt. However, when I left the meeting somewhere around 9:00 pm, it was snowing. The wind was gusting strongly and the wet, white stuff was pelting me in the face as I walked across the parking lot to my truck. So, this is the first snow of the year. “The stuff will not last till morning,” I thought to myself. I was right. At 3:30 am, as I stumbled into my study (because that’s what you do at 3:30 am), I pulled the drapes aside and looked outside. The winter wonderland that was promised by the driving snow of last night was nowhere to be found. It’s just too dang warm for it to accumulate. The means that in a couple of hours, when the black Lab who thinks he’s an alarm clock, finishes pestering me and finally goes for his walk, it will be only cold and wet. I can do without that. This morning will be a day for accounting. We have a monthly ritual. At the first of every month, we account for the time spent on various projects. Now, this should be easy to do. All you have to do is add up the hours spent on each project as provided on the daily timesheet. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Well, for some reason it is just not that simple. It seems the owner/CEO/big boss of the company has a little problem accounting for his time—dunderhead. Now I know that all you gotta do is write it down after you’ve spent the time. You can jot it down after each task is done; you can write it down before lunch and quitting time; or you can reconstruct it the morning after when it is still relatively fresh on your mind. Doesn’t matter when you do it—the important thing is that it gets written down. For some unknown reason that is the most difficult thing for me to do. Now the old saying, “Time is money” is literally true. The only thing I have to sell is my time. That’s what I am paid for. Just like an attorney or a doctor, I provide a service and my time is assigned a value. If I go on vacation, I am not working and therefore I am losing money. There is no such thing as a paid vacation when you are self-employed. When I had employees, I was painfully aware of the lost time and money that was experienced by the company. I had an employee who refused to get to work on time. She was 30-minutes to an hour late every day—every day. In addition a 15-minute break always stretched into 30-minutes. I lost an hour-and-a-half every day from almost each employee. At one time I had seven employees. I calculated, using an average of their billed rates, that I lost about $500 daily. That represents over $100,000 annually. All because of time lost. I cannot point the finger at others without doing the same to myself. I suspect I lose 30% of my hours just because I fail to write them down in a timely manner. I’m not even going to imagine how much that cost me. In an average workweek, that is about 12 hours. For the year, it figures to 624 hours—lost. When I consider the hours that I give away as administrative time I’m lucky to bill half of my time. So, therefore it is critical that I keep a good accounting of time spent. Now, I know that; but for some reason I fail to do it. It drives Linda nuts and disappoints me tremendously. Therefore I have determined to begin this month with new accounting fervor. I have created a personal calendar in Outlook that is titled ‘Timesheet’. Since I am constantly on the computer, I believe that will be the easiest. I’ll not worry too much about reconstructing the last month; I’ll concentrate rather on keeping current on this one. If I can, next month will be a good billing month. Oh, sorry for the boring entry. But that is what’s on my mind, and that’s what hit the page. |
| Title: Making Places To Live Date: March 3, 2008, Monday Thought: It is my opinion engineering caused the urban problem of blight and overcrowding by making it possible. If man had simply lived in small groups and moved on when the land could no longer support him, we would have no cities. Jog: At the present, the curtains in my study are drawn; they are sheers that hang from the top of the cathedral type windows to the carpet. They don’t hide the outside, just diffuse it. I can faintly recognize the movement of the trees; the wind pulsing against the windows help me visualize what’s happening outside in the elements. The overcast skies play their part in muting the happenings outside my window. I hear soft spats of raindrops on the panes. It’s been raining off and on for almost twelve hours. There will be no walk for Max this morning. The brief flashes of lightning accented by the deep rumbling of thunder, which chases the lightening across the heavens, assure I will remain safely behind the walls of my castle. Max will just have to be content with the limits of his backyard, which he loves. We have shrubs growing around the perimeter next to the fence-line. Various plants and flowers are planted in the bed, consuming a generous portion of the back yard. A half-dozen good-sized trees dot along the fence line, mainly along the rear where the adjoining two-story house spies on our back yard. In the ten years we have lived here, the trees have fulfilled their purpose and reclaimed our privacy by maturing into a thirty-foot high curtain along our property line. Max will dart in and out of the shrubs, staying mostly out of sight between the wood fence and the shrubs. I can hear him snorting and sniffing as he reclaims his territory. Occasionally, I detect movement or see the top of his tail wagging above some dwarfted shrub. Eventually, he finishes his rounds and looks for me. He likes to know where I am. If he does not see me, he will continue to wander through his own private wonderland unless of course, the sun is shining warmly. In that case, he stretches broadside in the sunniest part of the lawn and lets the sun warm his black coat. So see, the backyard is little sacrifice from the morning walk. Tonight, despite the condition of the outside elements, I will be doing my work thing. I will guide a city council through several zoning cases and provide them with their first look at the Comprehensive Plan. It sounds so mechanical when I speak of it. In fact, the chore of doing it has become mechanical to me. After you do it a few hundred times, any chore becomes almost mundane. However, what I do is closely connected with the rain and happenings outside my window this morning. Man has never lived totally haphazardly. Even the most primitive tribe chooses where the main house will be located. There is some sort of hierarchy to the placement of the buildings. In the early days of man’s history, defense of the city took precedence over the aesthetic character of where and how man lived. Engineering advanced the ability to mass folks together, providing for safety and accounting for health and sustenance. It is my opinion engineering caused the urban problem of blight and overcrowding by making it possible. If man had simply lived in small groups and moved on when the land could no longer support him, we would have no cities. Nevertheless, just as man himself evolved, so has his idea of what constitutes a preferred living space. Today guys like me get paid sums of money just to help cities direct how these living spaces will evolve. I suppose it is sort of like genetic engineering. We don’t grow the cities ourselves; we simply attempt to arrange the pieces so that when they do develop they happen in the most compatible way with each other. This place where I live is a testament to that process. It was an untouched wilderness lying in a natural habitat. We planned the roads to happen where they are located, provided for recreation activities with the small lake and playground areas, determined that it should not be vehicular oriented but rather pedestrian oriented. Along that line, we placed walking trails and sidewalks throughout the neighbor hood. We developed requirements for landscaping, including planting trees and irrigation of the yards. We established regulations that said where the buildings may be placed on the lots and how tall they may be. Most importantly, we regulated what the land could be used for. In this instance, it was for residential purposes. Then we set back and waited. Eventually the roads were constructed. Houses were built which transformed into homes. The rain and elements fed the soil and through the years the landscaping grew, giving me my living curtain of trees; and pleasing the eye aesthetically as anyone else drives, or better yet, strolls through the neighborhood. All of this is happening right now outside my window, in the rain. I wish somehow that the City Council could catch this vision of what the mechanical action of tonight’s meeting represents. Many times all they see is a plan on paper—a plan that costs tax dollars. However, every now and then some of them glimpse the vision of what it is all about. When that happens, the fee they pay me becomes insignificant. Yes, I really like what I do. |
| Title: The Sage is Out to Lunch Date: February 28, 2008, Thursday Thought: , I’ve found I just can’t do a whole bunch of it at a steady pace anymore. My pooper just poops out. Jog: We’ve been very busy the last few days, that is Max and I. We have two deadlines for two different cities and we are miles from being finished. Therefore it has been nothing but work, work, work. However, I notice that I don’t work the same as I used to. I mean, there is a whole different attitude in my work. Now, don’t get me wrong, I like what I do very much. City planning is a very interesting vocation. But, I’ve found I just can’t do a whole bunch of it at a steady pace anymore. My pooper just poops out. When I was younger, maybe a few twenty years ago I would work literally day and night. If I had a deadline, I would work on the dang thing twenty-four hours solid to get it out on time…and I loved it. However, today I can work steadily for four or five hours at a time and then I just stop for an hour or two. I can get by on very little sleep, as little as four hours. However, it isn’t the fatigue that gets to me. I just get bored and stop working. Now, what’s with that? How in the world can I get rich if I don’t rake up those hours? But, I can’t help it; I get the I don’t wanna’s and just stop. I’m getting very good about breaking the news to my clients that the deadline will not be met. Amazingly, they don’t care. It would help if they ranted and raved but they don’t; they’re very understanding. I think it’s a conspiracy. And so, I took a break; I started writing this entry and went over and read a few blogs. Now, that’s where I got stuck. It appears that Debi Wharton posted this puzzle. Within a paragraph that gives the directions to the puzzle there are thirty books of the Bible hidden among the text. Dang it, that’s all I needed to blow some time. It took me near an hour and a half to find those dang books. The last forty-five minutes was spent looking for a book that did not exist. Seems I miscounted and thought I only had twenty-nine. I thought I found one book listed twice and so was convinced it was a trick puzzle. However, after careful examination I discovered I had only miscounted…dufus! So, Debi, you just cost me $188. I will expect payment promptly. Today promises to be a very busy day again. The two deadlines are still looming and a few clients are insisting on adding to the load. That means very little time can be spent on being wise and sageful in this entry. You’ll just have to do with random thoughts splashed upon the screen. I’ll work on sage this weekend. |
| Title: The Fall Of The Printed Word Date: February 24, 2008, Sunday Thought: There was a time when the most powerful force in the world was the newspaper. It informed the people and helped formulate sentiment for or against issues. It could do tremendous good and wreak unimaginable havoc. Jog: Well my stats on my journal, My Sporadic Journal, says I’ve had 13,000 views of the thing since its inception in July of 2004. That means an average of 9.9 people have viewed my little ‘Jog’ every day. I want to just say thank you to those nine people and the majority of another for being so faithful. Of course, nine people and a majority of another is not nearly enough readership to be profitable, if I were receiving money for my pearls of wisdom. Let’s see at $0.25 per entry that would be a whomping $3,493, or about $20 per week—don’t think that would pay the bills. Of course, that’s assuming anyone would pay for it to begin with, but humor me and let us just assume. David McClain or Nada would make much more than that. Even so, it’s not enough to run a business. And that’s the way newspapers are. None of them can sustain themselves off readership alone.Truly successful newspapers make money by working the capitalistic system. They sell space for advertisements. The big bucks are made from corporate America and from common Joes and Janes who place ads for garage sales and used cars. That’s how our system works. Everybody is selling something and buying something else. We do it better than anyone else does in the world. If there is a way we can exploit it, we will find that way. Exploitation is not necessarily a bad thing. We have gotten so politically correct we frown upon anyone who takes advantage of a situation and makes a dollar. Now, I agree that exploitation of a situation that focuses on the tragedy of others is certainly poor taste and probably unethical. Some of these situations should never be warranted—such as a person who terrorizes and murders a family and then writes a book and profits from it. Our legal system prohibits that from happening—like Charles Manson. But, what about stories about Princess Diana. To release an expose immediately after her death would be in poor taste. But to release it ten years after her death is not considered poor taste—or is it? There are numerous books and stories now in circulation relating to the 911 tragedy. That event is still fresh in our minds, however, time has passed and more material is coming out every day. What is the difference in ‘exploitation’ and just good business sense? It certainly has something to do with taste and timing. The New York Times was once a reputable newspaper. That was a long time ago. It has degenerated into an opportunistic biased rag. The recent report on John McCain is pitiful and not worthy of any literary respect. It is certainly poor taste to write a story that alleges that unknown sources probably have information that may connect Senator McCain with a female lobbyist...just maybe--that's a cheap and pitiful journalistic act. Writing a story regarding nothing but suppositions through undocumented sources about the presumption of an affair is as low a blow as can be delivered. How in the world can that paper expect to garner any credibility for future stories when it repeatedly stoops to garbage journalism? For the Times to continue to print on a daily basis does our nation more harm than good. But, they can do this because they do not depend on accuracy and integrity of their words to keep them financially solvent. All they must do is sell enough advertisements and fill the classified ads to pay the bills. Apparently, there are enough corporate sponsors and scores of common Americans selling stuff to each other to keep the rag financially afloat. There was a time when the most powerful force in the world was the newspaper. It informed the people and helped formulate sentiment for or against issues. It could do tremendous good and wreak unimaginable havoc. The saying went that you did not want to wage war with the newspaper because there is no way to win an argument when your opponent buys ink by the barrel. But that is changing. The Internet has become the alternative source of information. No longer is our information disseminated through ink and paper; but has been replaced by bytes and electronic impulses—and is certainly quicker and more flexible than the newspaper. Unfortunately, there is little control over taste and accuracy in the Internet. We are totally dependent on our own minds and intellect to judge the competency of the source and to measure the statements for veracity. Oh my God! That means we must actually use the minds that God gave us to form our own decisions—now how radical is that? And so, my little blog effort that has produced 13,000 views may not have the weight of the New York Times. But it and the millions others like it have gotten the attention of the world, which no longer depends solely on the New York Times and other rags like it. Unlikely as it may seem, someone out there may actually prefer to visit my site than to buy the morning edition of the Times. That is a sobering and amazing thought. It is quite an honor and a responsibility—at least to my nine people and a portion of another. |
| Title: Is That Some of That Christian Writing? Date: February 23, 2008, Saturday Thought: I contend there is a difference in being rated “G” and being classified as being Christian writing. Jog: First of all, I am a Christian. I sorta resent saying that ‘cause I’ve always thought if you have to tell folks then you’re not doing a very good job of it. I’d just rather folks see the difference and then figure it out. I’d much rather they conclude that being a Christian’s not such a bad thing by the way I live my life. It’s the example thing. It’s like the old deacon told me years ago, “Boy, your life’s the only Bible some folk ever see; so, live it right.” By the way, this isn’t gonna be a preachy entry, so don’t check out just yet. Moreover, it has nothing to do with theology. If you want to talk theology, I am well qualified; but that is a topic of another time. I’m not talking theology here and now. I was reading vivacious  ’s blog the other day—the one where she talked about doing Christian writing, although she never used that term—Christian writing. However, I’ve seen it used plenty times before. It’s even assigned its own genre. The thing is, I’m not sure what that is. What makes it Christian? Does it have to preach and say the name of Jesus to be Christian writing? Or does it just have to support and further Christian principles? If it’s the later, who in the world defines what those are? There are many folks out there who profess to be Christian; and as far as I can tell, it runs quite a gamut. Even Christians have opinions on whether other folks who claim to be Christian are in fact Christian. Moreover, those folks who decidedly and openly claim to be nonChristian have their own definition. So, just what is Christian writing?I contend my port is Christian writing. Like I said in my response to vivacious my writing does not preach unless it is a sermon and then it’s suppose to. Nevertheless, I always thought the reader was well aware of that fact when they chose to read a sermon. However, the greater majority of my other stuff is not preachy and is usually not even religious. It just happens to be written by a Christian who reflects his personal principles in the manner in which he writes; as I said, those principles just happens to be Christian. Moreover, I must affirm they are not exclusive to Christians; plenty of other folks who aren’t professing Christians share the same values. My values just happen to be based on the New Testament; and if someone else has the same values for other reasons, all the better.So, is it Christian writing just because I say it is; or is there a threshold of characteristics it must satisfy to be labeled as being Christian? And, what if my characters say damn or hell, and say it often; does that drop it from the category? I contend there is a difference in being rated “G” and being classified as being Christian writing. The definition of Christian writing has to be more than just that body of work accepted by Christian publishers, whoever they are. It just dawned on me that you don’t necessarily have to be a Christian to be accepted by a Christian publisher. All you gotta do is satisfy his criteria—meet his thresholds. (Please, I use the editorial “his”, it could be a “she”, I’m already Christian, don’t force me to be politically correct also.) So, if I understand this correctly, I don’t have to be a Christian to do Christian writing; my work has just gotta look Christian so that the folks who call themselves Christian publishers will publish it. Granted, I am not well versed on the ins and outs of Christian writing and even less on Christian publishing. Perhaps, my perception is much too narrow. Perhaps I’ve done what the rest of society has done and typecast a whole industry. That is a distinct possibility. Heck, I didn’t even know I was part of an industry. I just thought that, me being a Christian and a pretty solid one if I must say, anything I wrote would be Christian writing—that is if I stay true to my values. I don’t want my work to necessarily be pigeonholed in a spot because it fits certain criteria. I want it to be Christian writing because it just is. I’ve come full circle and I still don’t know what Christian writing is. All I know is that I’m one of those and my writing is a result of who I am—doesn’t matter what you call it; it is what it is. |
| Title: Halfway Passion Date: February 22, 2008, Friday Thought: Don’t you know we can’t go around just hafway doing stuff. Jog: What is it about doing things halfway. It seems that is an alarming trait of mine recently. I have a new story for Spam Hummer that’s halfway finished. Poor Spam is stuck halfway between solving this dang case he’s working on and I’ve just left him hangin’ out there—unfinished. For example, I’ve begun working on this very entry about a dozen times and when I get halfway I just delete it all and start all over. Heck, I’ve even got a bunch of work projects halfway finished. And that ain’t good. When I do that I don’t get even half paid…I get nothing at all. Don’t you know we can’t go around just halfway doing stuff. I mean, what if we just halfway went to war. You know, like we started something and didn’t finish it. I won’t say anything else about that. Yeah, I know I just sorta halfway opened that can of worms. I mean, like when I was a kid, if I were to just run outside and slap the silly out of “bad-ass” Johnny and just stand there, what do you think would happen? You know good and well what would happen, Johnny would clean my dang clock! Nope, my daddy taught me that if I began something like that I dang well better be ready to finish it. Why can’t congress and those flamin’ liberals see that? Well anyway, that’s what I’ve been doing recently—startin’ stuff and leaving it half finished. Is that a sign of old age?—or maybe just laziness? I don’t know, but it’s buggin’ the heck out of me. I think maybe I’ve lost my passion. No! not that sex kinda passion—I mean like my drive to finish stuff. There was a time when I could work all night on a project—I would be so involved. That doesn’t happen any more. The passion is gone. And when the passion is gone what do you do to get re-passioned. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I would finish this entry, but well, its just about halfway finished and so I guess it’s time to stop…..Hey! If you want to just halfway comment, that’s alright with me…  |
| Title: With A Lot of Help From My Friends Date: February 19, 2008, Tuesday Thought: The contribution that our friends make to my writing cannot be measured. Jog: There was a day when the US Mail was carried by ponies. For a very short period of time, eighteen months, the Pony Express ran mail across the West from St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California. It took ten days for the mail to make this run. The quickest letter was a copy of President Abe Lincoln’s address to Congress in 1861; it took seven and days seven hours. The day is quickly approaching when communications will occur instantaneous. The Internet has that capability now. In fact, earlier today I communicated with zwisis in Turkey. They don’t make a pony that can run that fast. However, we still use the US Mail for many items. In fact I received an article today that I have been expecting. It took about seven days to get here; I suspect there is one tired pony tied up somewhere. Well, today I received my copy of David McClain ’s book. I suppose this means Tor is not only a published author but he is also making money. Congrats, David!!I am very thankful regarding my own writing now. Just today I received an awardicon, merit badge, and gift points for my work "Invalid Item"  . That was a very special story and I am pleased it has received the attention it has. It was featured on "Invalid Item" which is sponsored by Gaby ~ Quiet contemplation  . She was more than generous to give me the awards. I thank her publically.In addition, several of my friends have reviewed my latest work "Invalid Item" . It is a better story now than it was when I first posted it. The contribution that our friends make to my writing cannot be measured. This truly is a very wonderful community. I don’t know if any of my stuff will ever make a dollar; and it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that I can continue to become a better writer every time I write. Any progress I’ve made to become more accomplished can be measured proportional to the assistance you people have given me. And, so again, I thank each and every one of you for the contribution each has made to make me better. |
| Title: Measurement of Honesty Date: February 18, 2008, Monday Thought: When we make it easy to be unfaithful and promiscuous by endorsing that lifestyle value through all the media, why should we expect society to respect the promises we make? Jog: What ever happened to the values of fidelity, honesty, and truth? Seems to me they are passé now—outdated, out of style. I’ve been thinking about this after I read David McClain ’s recent blog about his dad. There was a time when these values actually meant something. There was a time when folks did the right thing simply because it was right.Have I become old and cynical—out of touch? I’m sure I am just old fashioned in my thinking. But, that’s probably because I feel more comfortable with much of the old ways. In a lot of ways, I really have become out of touch. I have no idea who the current rock stars are anymore. Actually, I don’t give a flip. I think the music is crude, rude, and meaningless. But, of course that’s because I’m out of touch. But, am I mistaken with my perception that our society is become familiar and accepting of falsehoods and untruths?--that we have become comfortable with this? Does anyone really believe anything the politicians are saying? Do you trust any of them? Does it make a difference what kind of man or woman they are? We are all too ready to give them the benefit of the doubt with their little missteps. So what that they are unfaithful to their spouses; of what importance is fidelity? Can we afford to look the other way as long as it’s our party that’s in power? Is that all that’s important? Do the ends really justify the means? My son’s wife, soon to be ex-wife, is the product of this false attitude that seems to have infected society. Her father sees no problem in lying and cheating the government. Tell the authorities whatever they need to hear to get the money. Cheat the social security, lie to the IRS, falsify your reports—the government owes you that money. This young lady sees this as the norm. She says, since everybody is doing it, it ought to be OK. Our nation is in financial crisis because of the greed and selfishness of the people as well as the establishment. There is a whole generation out there who have been raised on the philosophy “I want it all and I want it NOW!” These folks are willing to enter into agreements/contracts that they know they can’t honor. They commit to pay for homes and then when they over-extend themselves getting it all and getting it NOW, they default on their promise to pay. Now, I understand you can’t get blood out of a turnip. But, those folks should never have entered into the contract to begin with. In an earlier time, they would have never qualified for the loan. But, the attitude now seems to be, “If they’re silly enough to give me the money, I’ll take it and worry later about how to make the payment.” And, the financial institutions are not blameless in this. Nope they fed the craving. They said, “You can have it NOW…here take it!” Why would they do that?--well, greed. They dang well knew people were over-extending themselves and would someday have to pay the price for that over-indulgence. But, they didn’t care because they could make money charging interest and penalties. And, when they repossessed the house, THEY GET TO SELL THE DANG HOUSE AGAIN. But, for some reason they never figured it would happen on such a wide scale. It isn’t the economy’s fault. Heck, we have the lowest unemployment rate in history, just at 3%. Think about it, that means 97% of the people have jobs. There’s money out there. The interest rate on homes is the lowest it has been since the Second World War. But, the personal indebtedness of the American people is enormous. The desire to want it all and have it NOW is killing us. It is apparent in our financial irresponsibility. The core values taught to me by my father and David McClain ’s father are out. My father said, “A man is only as good as his word.” It seems a man’s word is of no value now. If it isn’t signed in a contract you simply don’t have to respect the commitment; and, even then, there is always a way out. The only way out was to do what is right; keep your word.Linda and I said our marriage vows almost forty-one years ago. According to statistics found on the Internet, 50% percent of first marriages, 67% of second and 74% of third marriages in America end in divorce. Linda and I are bucking the odds. Now, our marriage has not been perfect. In past times, there were occasions where I didn’t know if we would make it. But, to me there was no option; I made a promise to her and she to me. Both of us had to just grow up and try harder…well mostly me. We will be together forever. Now, I know that I’m likely to be treading in a sensitive area here. I realize that there are circumstances that just cannot be overcome. Heck, my son is going through one of those right now. But, this is just another symptom of our lack of commitment to our values. When we enter into a union where we always hold an escape clause open, that union is doomed. When we make it easy to be unfaithful and promiscuous by endorsing that lifestyle value through all the media, why should we expect society to respect the promises we make. A marriage that is not built on the foundation of mutual respect and trust cannot survive on passion. My son’s marriage is a perfect example. But, then I consider the values taught to his wife by her father and I concede that she didn’t have a chance. No one ever showed her what integrity was. We were at a restaurant the other day with friends. When we received the separate bills, our friends remarked that the server had undercharged them by five dollars. The wife was all gleeful and quite proud of their unintentional discount. She remarked that if they were going to be that sloppy with their work it served them right; the restaurant’s prices were inflated anyway. I was appalled. That is dishonesty at its core. But, that is what we are teaching our youth. My sons have seen me turn the car around and drive thirty miles to correct a fifty-cent undercharge. Is that being silly?--probably so. But, as I drove away, I remembered my dad saying, “A man is only as good as his word.” That counts when no one sees you. It counts in the private moments. Even when no one else would know, I would know…and dad would know. Somehow, that’s more important to me than any amount of money…even pennies. |
| Title Changed My Mind Date: February 17, 2008, Sunday Thought: Sometimes it just doesn't feel right. When it doesn't, do something about it. Jog: I rarely have two entries on one day. However, today can't be helped. Early this morning I posted an entry featuring one of my new short stories. Well, this entry is to correct that posting. You know, sometimes it just doesn't feel right. When it doesn't, do something about it. At least that has been what I've always done in the past and seems appropriate for this occassion also. I wrote this story and posted the thing. However, as I was editing it I contiually had a feeling of discord. I mean, it felt like something was missing. As I read it and re-read it, I determined that I did not like the story line. It just did not work for me. This was confirmed when I received David McClain s review. Now, Tor is a nice guy; and he is a good friend. He said nice stuff but I know he was not pleased with the story. He was right. It needed work. So, if you tried to open that story and found it locked, it's because I restriced the access to save you time. You really don't want to read that version.So as a result, I have changed the story line and re-written much of the thing. It is not complete yet. There is still some fine tuning to do, but at least I'm more satisfied with the story. So to all of you who have labored through the story and are wondering what the heck you can say about it. Don't say anything. At least not until you read the revised story. And let me say something about that. Many of us are pressed by time when we read the blogs. We are doing well enough to just read the blogs, much less go out and read a short story and give a review. I know it is an imposition on my part to expect that kind of commitment. Therefore, please feel free to ignore it if you wish. It certainly will not hurt my feelings. But, if you do get an opportunity to read the new version, let me take ths opportunity to thank you in advance.
I wonder if tomorrow I will read this one and again change my mind. Geeze, I hope not. |
| Hi folks. OK, don't throw rocks at me. But, I'm hawking a shameless plug tonight. I wrote a brand new short story today. I started it about 3:00 AM this morning and finished it about ten minutes ago. I haven't finished the final editing yet and it is still a little rough. Yes, I know it's about a man named Dan and his dog named Max. Hey, it's my story and I can name them whatever I wish. If you get a chance give it a look at and let me know what you think.
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: Waltz Across Texas Date: February 14, 2008, Thursday--Valentine's Day Thought: It’s funny, but after fifty years that song by that artist is one of my old time favorites. I guess it just kinda grows on you. Jog: What is it about some songs and some voices? Is it just that I’m so used to hearing that voice with that song it seems it’s the only right way it should be? What I’m talking about is an old song sung by an old country idol, Earnest Tubb. When I was a kid I hated to hear his twangy voice. But, I heard it over and over again on the radio while I was captive in my dad’s car driving down the highway. Now, the song that he sings, that sticks constantly in my mind, is Waltz Across Texas. It’s funny, but after fifty years that song by that artist is one of my old time favorites. I guess it just kinda grows on you. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=390001181650400115&q=waltz+across+texas&... For some reason that song is very moving to me. Perhaps it takes me home, to Texas. Perhaps it takes me back to earlier times—helps me to explore memories. Some songs do that. There are some songs that are emotional songs. They carry with them certain emotions like hidden time bombs being released at odd moments when casually played on the radio or stumbled onto in a video. To me Waltz Across Texas is one of those songs. Linda and I have friends who have a foreign exchange student living with them for this school year. The young lady is from the Ukraine. She is a delightful girl, full of smiles and giggles. She turns seventeen this year and is a senior in high school. Needless to say, her taste in music is not Earnest Tubb. When I was young, neither was mine. We played Waltz Across Texas for her. It was obvious she thought it was terrible; certainly not something she would want to hear again. But, to me and my friends, who were both Texan and country, we heard an endearing melody. How can different sets of ears hear the same song with such different reactions? I can only conclude that we really are products of our social environment, even if we choose not to be. I’ve determined to not fight it. I will always love Waltz Across Texas and will cling to the memories and emotions it evokes when it plays. Likelihood is I will only hear it in Texas. I suppose there are songs that have the same effect you. Many of us are from drastically different backgrounds, different cultures. I wonder if we would even recognize some of the different melodies that touch the emotional heartstrings of each other? Are we really so different? With the magic of the Internet, we are eroding the difference away, a little at a time. Who knows maybe in England or Turkey we will have folks humming Waltz Across Texas, imitating Earnest Tubb—or maybe even in far away Missouri. By the way, this entry is dedicated to my valentine, Linda--who's been waltzing across Texas with me for forty-one years. Maybe that's why the song touches me so. |
| Title: Enter the Grey Haired Sage Date: February 13, 2008, Wednesday Thought: Well, that’s what I get paid for—to stand up there and let them throw rocks and shoot arrows at me. Jog: Well, I’ve reached another milepost in my life. I am now the revered wise man—the grey haired sage. I’ve been know to be a “wise ass”; but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m one of the ‘grey-hairs now. If you’ve been in the business world any time at all, you recognize those guys. They are the ones who quiet the crowd simply by means of their presence. It’s kinda like the EF Hutton commercial—you know the one where the guy says, “When EF Hutton speaks…people listen!” And then the room comes to a hush for this one person. Well, that guy’s me. At least that’s what some of my clients think. Last night the City staff of the City of Bedford presented their new sign ordinance, which I authored. Sign ordinances are one of those documents that tend to be very volatile. It is almost impossible to get them passed without significant gnashing and gnarling of teeth. It is also one of those ordinances where the Council tends to slay the messenger. Therefore, City staff considered it a better part of valor to let the consultant do it—that’s me. Well, that’s what I get paid for—to stand up there and let them throw rocks and shoot arrows at me. Sure enough, one councilperson was hell-bent on getting the ordinance denied. He had objection after objection and every silly-ass reason he could think of to defeat the thing. But, I stood there like a trooper and took his silliness and reduced his arguments to putty. The Council seems to believe me when I say, “In thirty years of creating these ordinances we have never had a problem with that issue”—or “Of the thirty-five Cities I currently represent, this is the standard way of doing it, and by doing it this way it protects your butt.” (Perhaps I didn’t say butt.) I’ve come to recognize that years of experience and confidence, and the fact that you are the best at what you do, means something to those people. After the Council voted six to one in favor of the ordinance, the opposing councilman mouthed to me, “Good job.” The City staff, being the Director of Community Development and the Building Official, shook their head and said, “You are amazing. I’d never believe we would get that approved!” That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Now, before my head swells too much and I begin to consider doubling my rates, let me put this into perspective. It is not my ego that has garnered this power; it is the years of experience. People respect experience. The fact that I am good at what I do helps a little also. But, what they don’t know is that I am just as amazed as they are. For I do not see that confident sage of the planning profession. I see a kid who has been scared all his life of not measuring up to the standard expected of him—a standard he set for himself. All my life the other guy has always been that revered wise man. I’ve been in meetings where we have called in the president of the company to make the presentation simply because of who he was. I was amazed then at how respect can overcome many obstacles. I remember thinking, “Hell, I could have said that!” But, at that time in my life, I had not earned the respect of the position. But, as I consider it now, I suppose I have arrived. Funny, but it isn’t what I thought it would be. I’m no different. Deep inside I’m still the scared kid. The only difference is that when I stand before them now, people stop and listen. |
| Title: Grandeur of the Storm Date: February 12, 2008, Tuesday Thought: Consider the power that it takes to produce and maintain that scope of physical interaction. Man’s abilities are dwarfed by the scope of nature’s force. Jog: It was somewhere around three in the morning when I was awaken by a loud clap of thunder. Needless to say, at that time in the morning, I am usually snoozing deeply. However, the cascading booms across the heavens raised me from my slumber. Through my groggy consciousness, I was immediately greeted by a spectacular light show outside my window. Linda, in an industrious moment last weekend, convinced me to rearrange our bedroom. The king-sized bed now sits with the headboard directly under the triple window in our bedroom. And so, the flashing extravaganza performed by Mother Nature literally occurred directly over my head. For nearly an hour I lay there with the alternating, sometimes concurrent, booms and flashes of the storm as it moved through the Dallas-Fort Worth area. I have always loved storms. Certainly, I do not relish the potential destruction that they may visit on us; but the shear magnitude of the display amazes and humbles me. This storm ranged across most of North Texas. Consider the power that it takes to produce and maintain that scope of physical interaction. Man’s abilities are dwarfed by the scope of nature’s force. Sure, we can produce a localized maelstrom that is gigantic in its focused nuclear destruction; but the sustained force of just one storm that spans from Canada to El Paso reduces even that power to insignificance by comparison. Fortunately, Mother Nature has the ability to display this mighty force, usually without causing disastrous casualties to life and property, sparing us from long-term nuclear fallout. As I lay in bed unable to reclaim sleep's release from the concerns of the waking moments, I listened and watched the show displayed across my ceiling. Within the rumbling and crashing of thunder, I perceived a scraping sound. I concentrated on that sound and soon recognized what it was. Max was chewing on his leather chew-stick. Now, he rarely seizes an opportunity to do this at 3:00 AM. I slowly got out of bed and knelt down beside him in the middle of our bedroom floor. He looked up at me and his eyes said, “Well, I had to do something; this dang display outside our window scares the hell out of me.” I stroked his head for a moment and decided not to take the chew-stick from him, even though it was making quite a racket; and I’m sure it was disturbing Linda. However, she said nothing. She just looked at me now sitting in the middle of the floor at 3:00 AM, petting a dog and reassuring him that it’s just a storm and we won’t let anything get him. After a moment, I left him to his task and returned to the welcome refuge of the covers to wait out the fury of the storm. After a while it subsided and sleep once again overtook me and even Max returned to his bed, abandoning his mission of reducing the leather chew-stick to a gooey mass. By 5:00 AM, the storm had moved out of our area. It is quiet again in this big house. The flashing is gone and it is easy to sleep in the silence of the aftermath of the storm. I of course have abandoned the covers again and am composing this entry in the darkness of my study. Max moved with me to the floor beneath my chair and has resumed his nocturnal bliss, snoring occasionally and dreaming about finishing off that chew-stick. I will finish this entry and post it for you to read. I will put the computer to sleep and shuffle back to my waiting spot where the bed has once again become cool. In the span of time that it takes my spot to regain it's warmth, I will doze for another hour before I rise to address a busy day. By this time, the storm should be somewhere over Missouri, blowing Tor’s butt around. Maybe, he’ll take a moment and marvel at it's grandeur. No, I don’t think so. By that time, it will have picked up an icy chill and he’ll probably just put on another layer of clothes and mumble about the dang cold. But, then again, maybe he won’t. |
| Title: Preparing For the Big Trip Date: February 9, 2008, Saturday Thought: Maybe Max will wag his tail gleefully as we motor down the highway and even hang his head out the window and let his tongue flap in the wind like any self-respecting Lab would do. Jog: The directions said, “Just drop 10 or 15 drops on his tongue six to eight hours before traveling, and 10 to 15 more just before departure.” That ought to be simple enough to do. Just squeeze off a dropper full of vile tasting stuff onto Max’s tongue as he obediently holds it out for me—yeah, right! It took two of us. I wrapped my legs around him and pried his mouth open, noticing there are some significant teeth in there. Even for a full-grown portly gent such as myself, this was not an easy chore. Max wiggled and squirmed from his tail to his head. Needless to say, he wasn’t having any part of this nonsense. Linda, on the other hand had only to squeeze the dropper full of brew into his mouth. I definitely considered she had the cush end of this assignment. However, I knew we were in trouble when she said, “I can’t see the drops…I lost count.” And so, it is that when all was said and done, we still don’t know if we got any of the stuff in his mouth. I know I got plenty of it on my thumb. We will repeat the same procedure in the morning just before we take Max on his little trip in the truck. That’s what this is all about. We are trying to get Max acclimated to riding in the truck. Our seventy pounds of black Lab has an issue with doing that. He gets carsick and throws up on even a ride around the block. It is both embarassin’ and frustratin’. Hunting dogs are supposed to love riding in trucks. Someone forgot to share this little detail with Max when they assembled our Lab. And so, for the past couple of weeks I’ve been loading his black furry butt in the truck every morning and driving down the street to the entrance to our little park for his morning walk. Neighbors look at me and then down the street a dozen doors at my house and then back to the park and just scratch their head. I’m tired of explaining what I’m doing. All I get is blank stares and a nod of their head anyway. And so, this stuff, with which we’re force-feeding Max and anointing my thumb, is supposed to be a relaxer. The directions say it will calm and unstress the dog and make him feel at ease when we take him for his ride. I have very little hope that it can do that. Although, my thumb is feeling very tranquil now. It takes it’s time hitting the space bar. Maybe there is something to this after all. I can’t tell about Max though. He’s curled up snoozing at my feet as I type this; but he’s always curled up at my feet. So, how the heck do I know if the dang stuff works? I do know that it was successful in pissing Max off. He licked and tongued his mouth for fifteen minutes after his forced administration of the vile stuff. In fact, immediately afterwards he crept off into the corner holding his head down and giving me looks of hurt betrayal. You’d think I was administering tainted Kool-Aid to him. I’m sure he will want me to taste-test his dog food before he eats it. All trust has been destroyed. Perhaps it will be worth it. Just perhaps the stuff will work. Maybe Max will wag his tail gleefully as we motor down the highway and even hang his head out the window and let his tongue flap in the wind like any self-respecting Lab would do. Yeah, and maybe pigs will fly too. My expectations are guarded; my wildest hopes are also guarded. But, hey!—miracles still happen. It could work. After all, my thumb feels great. I just hope I can grip the steering wheel with the dang thing—it’s so mellow. I’ll keep you posted. |
| Title: As the World Turns Date: February 07, 2008, Thursday Thought: It is a fortunate thing that we have opportunities to meet new people and establish new relationships virtually as well as in real life. Jog: It is early in the morning, somewhere around 4:00 AM. I have a habit of getting up early. My intention this morning was to get started early on a project at work that has to be finished today. My intentions were good. However, a peek into WDC to check my email and all my good intentions went out the window. I will instead follow the promptings of my heart and create this entry, because I feel led to do so. There has been an undercurrent in the Bloggville community lately, or at least in the community of bloggers that I frequent, reflecting a coolness and disenchantment with the condition of things. Several writers have left the community and others have curtailed their involvement. The reasons are of course varied. Some folks have simply gotten busy, some have become bored and unfulfilled with the effort, and it seems others have left with hurt feelings--how unfortunate. I do not believe this is any cause for alarm. This is in fact a pattern of life. In real life friends and acquaintances pass in and out of our lives on a regular basis. Conditions and situations change and so does our circle of friends. How very natural is it that our virtual friends should also change with time. In fact, it is a fortunate thing that we have opportunities to meet new people and establish new relationships virtually as well as in real life. I have been a member of WDC for over four years. In that time I have made many friends. As far as I know, I have no enemies, and do not relish the idea of having any. There are some relationships that I choose not to expand, as is the fact in my real life also. My decision to do this is more of a matter of time rather than personalities. But, that happens. I say all this to point out that I am constantly making new friends. It is the new friends that keep me fresh in this community. It is the old friends that keep me grounded. I thank both of those groups for being in my life. Recently, two of my new friends have given me gifts that touched me and reinforced my appreciation and thankfulness for the people I've come to know that make up this WDC community. SouthernDiva and I recently exchanged a series of email that brought back memories and smiles about our country upbringing. The exchange had the two of us researching Google for country songs and tossing them at each other. It yanked smiles on both of our faces. One morning I opened up my email and a little round badge was sitting in there, a gift from SouthernDiva . How thoughtful and kind it was of her. It warmed my heart.Just this morning, I opened my email and again I was treated with a surprise. I received another gift. Debi Wharton presented the nifty new sig that I sport above. Again it was a totally unexpected exercise of generosity and kindness. It demonstrated to me that she had understood the message of what that dang dog of mine means to me. I was touched.And so, I consider now that undercurrent of dissatisfaction that I mentioned earlier and have concluded that there are more nice things happening in here that more than compensates for the unfortunate things. I am excited about the opportunities to meet new people. I value the old friendships I have made here and marvel at how solid they have grown. But, I refuse to dwell on the gossip or be caught up in any spirit of animosity. There are just too many folks in here who want to give a little of themselves and offer a smile every morning. |
| Title: A Look at Being Alone Date: February 4, 2008, Monday Thought: The sadness in being alone is the knowledge that you are incomplete. Jog: Alone—what does it mean to be alone. Some folks can be alone in a room full of people. Hey, that is not always bad. Some folks like it that way. I don’t. Alone to me is more like incomplete. I look at some of the lives of celebrities and I see alone. Perhaps that’s what Ms. Brittany is going through now. With all the excitement and notoriety, in the midst of all the madness with the paparazzi pressing in, the young lady is alone—something is definitely missing in her life. And, the ironic thing is that, in this feeling, she is not alone. There undoubtedly are folks reading this entry who are alone. I dare say this sensation of personal solitary confinement is pervasive in this world of ours. I have been alone; or rather, I get these fleeting feelings occasionally. Sometimes I want to be there; I want the quiet solitary moments with no one else around. There are times when I don’t want anybody to get in the way of me doing my stuff, whatever that is. Then I wonder if at those times I really am alone. Sure, there is no one else around, but I know that Linda is near; and there is always that black dog lying at my feet. I guess the thing that concerns me about being alone is that feeling of ‘incomplete’ I mentioned earlier. I have never really given it much thought before; but I think that’s it. The sadness in being alone is the knowledge that you are incomplete. Life is like a great big jigsaw puzzle--you know, like the ones with 8,000 little pieces. We work furiously through life putting all the pieces into place. When you are young, the stack of unused pieces does not bother you. But, as you grow older, you notice the stack, although smaller, still occupies a noticeable place on the table. Nada had a blog entry recently where she said, “Isn’t it strange how when we are in our teens we can’t wait to get to where we can drive, then drink, then (maybe) vote, get a career, get a family, get them grown and then....before you know it here you are.” The life-puzzle is still incomplete and the pieces left over are substantial.Some of us spend all our time on just one piece of the puzzle. We find where it goes and press it into the puzzle with a snap. Unfortunately, we don’t move on to the next piece. We just keep on pressing on that same piece, thinking somehow if we press on it long enough and hard enough it will fit better—it won’t. It is time to move to the next piece. But, it’s difficult to do because you feel so dang secure in pressing that piece—the one that fits so well. That’s when being alone stands out so distinctly in my life—when I find myself pressing on the same piece of the puzzle and realize there is still a whole stack of unused pieces that need my attention. I suspect that being incomplete is part of the human experience. As far as I know, only one man has ever walked this world in total completeness; and, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have a little deity working on your side. I may never be able to put all the pieces together. Likely, I will run out of time before I find the places for all the unused pieces. But, I’ve come to realize that even though there are occasionally times when my consciousness of being alone and incomplete envelopes me, I have resources that exceed my capabilities and wildest expectations. I have the pieces that I have already found placed in proper order; and I have a promise that God knows how to arrange all the unused pieces and will do that for me if I cannot go on. As long as I breathe, as long as the ticker keeps on ticking I will always have feelings of being incomplete. There will always be things I want to do—pieces I want to set into proper place. However, I have the deep satisfaction of knowing that I did a good job with what I had to work with. And, although I sometimes feel alone, there are others in my life that makes that feeling insignificant in comparison. I know someday, somewhere in eternity, all the pieces will fit together—complete. That makes me smile. |
| Title: Country Humor Date: February 3, 2008, Sunday Thought: "I don't tell funny stories, I tell stories funny," Jog: You people crack me up! I mean, you really are a fun group of folks to hang with. All day long yesterday SouthernDiva and I had a running email throwing country songs at each other…”Oh, yeah, well what about this one…” It kept me entertained all dang day. Through the day I’d take a break from what I was doing to check my email to see if she responded. When she did, I’d search Google for a proper response. Inevitably I’d get sidetracked on other stuff; but eventually I’d find a proper response and ship it back to her.When all the dust settled I ended up with one piece that I had left over. It’s not really a song, it’s actually a joke. I thought it was funny. Now, it’s not as funny as the one I sent to SouthernDiva . I can’t use that one ‘cause she said she’s gonna use it someday. But, I thought this one was pretty dang funny so I’m sharing it with you all.This joke comes to you via Mr. Jerry Clower. He is a southern boy from Liberty, Mississippi. Jerry died in 1998. Anyone who was even remotely familiar with country music will probably remember Jerry Clower. He was a member of the Gand Ole Opry. Most of his stories were taken from actually happenings. In his case, it really was all in the way you tell it. He said, "I don't tell funny stories, I tell stories funny," I hope you enjoy it. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2555415694839275069&q=jerry+clowers+jer... Have a great Sunday! |
| Title: The Red Neck is Still Showin’ Date: February 2, 2008, Saturday Thought: Regardless of where I live and the crowd I associate with now, my roots are still “Country.” Jog: Now, I know I was raised as a redneck bubba. Somehow, I made a transition out of that image and have become a yuppie professional type. But, regardless of where I live and the crowd I associate with now, my roots are still “Country.” You just can’t change your roots; they’re what hold you on this ole earth. I was raised in the oil fields of Oklahoma, Texas, and Venezuela. My father worked on those nasty ole oil rigs all his life. He drug me around on them for much of my youth. Heck, I even worked on a few of them myself. Now, my Dad had short ventures into other vocations such as law enforcement, automotive service and bar owner/operator. That’s right, for a time in his life he owned a bar—not a nightclub or a tavern—a redneck bar. I remember dad coming home three times one night to change shirts; they had blood all over them—always someone else’s. I guess I’ve heard every beer drinking, honky-tonkin,’ redneck, country song ever made. There are probably some of you out there who poke fun at country songs and wouldn’t give them the time to listen to. But, those country songs were and are a pure slice of life. They are the closest thing to Americana that we have. They originate from the small rural towns of the west and south, from the hills of Kentucky and the open plains of Texas and even up into Montana and Wyoming. They are the ballads of hard working farmers, miners, truck drivers, cowboys, and oil well workers. I love the outlaw country singers: Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Jr., and David Alan Coe, just to name a few. This entry was prompted by a comment I made to SweetT the other day about me being country. I called her attention to David Alan Coe’s song “You Never Even Call Me By My Name.” I love that dang song. If you’ve never heard it, I’ve attached a link to it. Now, if you listen to it, listen to all of it. It has a part in the middle that’s pretty dang funny. But regardless, I just like the song. I guess it’s part of my redneck roots. These songs are flavored with humor that was a necessary part of the lives of these hard working simple folks. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=3191429971845661363&q=you+never+even+cal... There are loads of songs that attest to this sense of humor, like “Take This Job and Shove it” and “I’m Gonna Hire a Wino to Decorate Our Home” http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=3792649352316311903&q=i%27m+gonna+hire+a... Country songs have always had a way of playing with words. It amazes me that they can come up with the most amazing melodies to go with these plays on words. One of my favorite old country songs is “Setting Fancy Free” by the Oak Ridge Boys, who actually started in gospel music. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4939743930967165906&q=oak+ridge+boys+sit... And as far as the heart goes, well, after being married for 40 years to your high school sweetheart, Kenny Rogers says it best…and he happens to say it “country.” This has got to be one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1220188378841118028&q=kenny+rogers+thro... I hope you’ll take a listen to these. For those of you who have never heard them before, I hope you enjoy them. I doubt if they will win anyone over to ‘country’ music who wasn’t bent that way to begin with. But maybe they’ll speak to you in some way and give you a little insight into what “Country” is. And, for those of you who have heard them time and again, well, I hope they bring a smile to your face and a nod to your head. And, finally, if you listen to these and think they are just plain bad and you don’t like them at all, then don’t tell me about it, because I don’t really care. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way I am. |
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