%%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 ** |
Remembering Christmas in August--For the Last time We have finally sold our big house, which means we now return our attention to finishing renovation of the little one. We close on the sale of the big house this Monday, already scheduled, done deal. We begin Phase II of the renovation of our "tiny home" (actually smaller home) the very next day by contacting our contractor and setting up a meeting for the next efforts...ugh, construction while we live in it. Anyway, after eighteen years of living in our big house we say goodbye to it and cherish all the memories we gathered while we were there, of which are eighteen Christmases. We purchased a large Christmas tree for the eighteen foot ceilings in the house. Since we can't move the tree with us to the new eight foot ceilings in the tiny house, we are leaving it behind--like an old friend. The new family will get to use it, if they wish. Along that line, I have prepared an instruction sheet for the new owner of our big house and the ten-foot Christmas tree. Thought you might just want to see what I told them: We purchased this tree the year we moved into the home (1998). It is a little over ten feet in height, with the topper on it. It is prelighted and has approximately 1,400 lights woven into the branches. It has served us well over the years and brought us much joy. It is far too large for our new little house. It is a ‘bear’ to assemble but when it is finished, it is awesome. One of the sockets along the wall (behind the couch pictured here) is operated by the light switch next to the powder-room bathroom. It makes it handy to turn on and off. Components: 1) Three sections of tree, a top, center, and bottom, 2) three brace rods with wing nuts on each end (the longer bolt goes on the bottom at the stand) 3) metal tripod base. Assembly suggestions: You may want to wear a long sleeve shirt while assembling the tree. The tree needles will make it look like you were in a cat-fight. It is awkward getting the tree out of the closet, but just yank it out, don’t worry about the branches bending. They never have. IMPORTANT: When handling the center and bottom sections, hold it by the pole NOT THE BRANCHES. If you pull on the branches they will slide right off the pole, and then it is very difficult to get them back on. In fact you need to push them back down in place on the pole occasionally (you’ll understand when you get it out.). You will need a ladder, no way around it. You also need help assembling the sections. The center section is awkward and heavy and you need to thread it into the bottom pole. We’ve tried putting it together laying flat on the ground and then just tilting it up. But, usually we just grunt and lift it into place. The top piece is easy, just high up there. Each section needs to be plugged into the electric cord running in the middle, they piggy-back into each other. Once all the decorations are on the tree and it has its light on, the cord becomes invisible. You will want to check to see that all the series of lights will come on. They won’t. Every year we have a string that refuses to shine. Sometimes a couple of strings. The cord is kind of sensitive and when you jiggle it around a little the things pop on. If it doesn’t, like on several occasions, just turn that section to the back (like in the photo above.) You will need to attach the braces to the tree to give it stability. This is not easy because it is difficult to weave it through the branches.You gotta just keep working at it and give it a little pressure, they always fit in. IMPORTANT: Hold on to the wing nut when you are trying to thread it on the bolt. If you drop it into the branches, it is gone. We have found it a time or two a Christmas or two later when we were assembling it. Just don’t drop the thing. Usually takes us about an hour to get the thing assembled. Then the fun comes when you begin decorating it. Hope you enjoy it and it brings as much joy to you as it has us. The Boutwells ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
We Need Some Phone Booths I hear more and more people complaining, or being downright worried, about the condition in our country today. The blatant disrespect for our police by hateful self-interest groups has become tragically dangerous. The sales of handguns and weapons for self-defense is going out the roof. I admit I have a loaded and ready .45 Cal handgun near my bed. Don’t even get me started on the angst spewing from both political parties. And, as a topper, we have the most populace religion on the planet screaming Jihad and trying to kill Americans. The times, well, they are not good. Never have we more needed a superhero to come in and save the day. But, the last I looked there was nary a one to be found. A longtime high school friend, Beverly Dunham, who I just happened to recently connect with on Facebook, offered a suggestion the other day as to why they, the superheroes, have disappeared. I laughed when she first suggested it, but on further thought I believe she has something there. We have no super heroes because we have no phone booths. Think about it, when was the last time you saw a phone booth? Sure, maybe there are a couple in England for the tourists to gape at, but in the ole U S of A, you’ll be hard pressed to find one. Now, everybody knows, phone booths are a principle place for super heroes to change into their world saving uniform. You can’t have superman charging off as Clark Kent. Nope, that just will not do at all. We have divested ourselves of our heroes when we fully embraced the thumb sucking iPhone. Without a place to change into superman, he is fettered to the earth as mild manner Clark Kent, while all the time the bad-guys of this world run rampant, growing in hostility and boldness. Somehow we have to find a way to provide our heroes with the mechanism to become such. Perhaps, if we believed in them more openly it would help. Perhaps if we decided to respect the authority of our laws and stop being confrontational with those people who we hire to protect us, it would encourage our heroes to find a way to change into their colorful pajamas which sets them apart from just regular people. Perhaps some of our best and brightest cyber minds could spend a little time on a 'phone booth app' that superheroes could download, enabling them to do their thing. Now, I don’t know about all this. Perhaps it’s just a bunch of silliness—maybe so. All I know is that I could use a super hero about now. Especially, since so many people don’t recognize the super heroes we have now in our military and our first responders. We need some phone booths…I’m just sayin’. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
A Time When, In Our Ignorance, We Didn’t Know The opportunities we now have in this world of cyber-technology to be creative is amazing, as is the ability to continually be in-touch. At the touch of a finger more information than we had ever imagined floods us, satisfying our insatiable appetite to be connected—to be in the know. This ability to communicate instantly anywhere in the world is mind-blowing. I often chat with friends in England, South Africa, Australia, and Texas in a single sitting, with, I might add, the option to view them on the screen in real time through the magic of Skype. There was a time when, in our ignorance, we just didn’t know. There was an age when time and distance were insurmountable barriers to communication—to the ability to be current and know. Knowledge of the happenings in our world were limited to how far we could ride a horse in a day, how long it took for a letter to travel across country, or the availability to communication devices such as the telegraphs, radios, and eventually telephones. Stuff changed somewhere along life’s journey. Before, in our previous lives in the cyber dark-ages, it took a letter two weeks to arrive at a destination, and, in my youth a phone call was the quickest way to get hold of someone. We were content in our limited state of ignorance; we just didn’t know any better. We simply lived with our communication limitations. We gave it little thought since that was just the way it was. Thinking back on how much simpler life was in the age before cyber-technology, I wonder if today’s age of instant global-communication is as much a blessing as we think it is. I’m not sure we humans have adjusted well to this age of instant communication. Today our children’s access to the world isn’t limited only to the world within their sight—the world they can touch. It extends beyond their fingertips in the form of hand-held smart phone devices, which seem to be universally attached to every human’s thumbs. With those phones and the other tools of technology such as our lap-tops, there is no need to ever be separated from the world again—never do we need to be alone, unless of course our battery is dead. The quest for data and human contact is no longer limited to the physical limits of our personal space. Rather, it reaches world-wide through the tangled maze of cyber data, which includes social media platforms like Twitter and Facebook. Unfortunately, in the uncensored universe of cyber-space, rumors and vile accusations have the ability to travel at warp speed, inciting ignorant and susceptible minds, producing and even encouraging unbelievable responses and attitudes. Unfortunately, unlike the age before when we just did not know, people just don’t seem to take the time to digest ideas and concepts which assault us in rapid fire succession. We seem to lack the ability to digest these myriad ideas, to discard the bad, and hold fast to the good—not as we did when living in an age where information came to us at a much slower rate. After the horrific shooting of police officers in Dallas, the Black Lives Matter Twitter sites filled the cyber-thoroughfares with a venomous rhetoric of hate, directed to the impressionable and ignorant. I watched, horrified, as thugs ran in the streets holding their phones up to capture the mayhem, feeding it into the preferred social cyber-site to be spewed to the ignorant rabble hungrily waiting to be feed. In this rapid fire cyber-age is seems there is no time spent to register the terrible meaning and consequence of tragic events like Dallas and this morning Baton Rouge—no, not in this age of instant communication. When I was a young man, my long distance communication was best achieved in the form of a telephone, which was tethered by a cord to our kitchen wall. A trip out of town meant that we would be totally cut-off from others for the period in which it takes to travel the distance, until we reached another tethered telephone. And, for some unknown reason, in my ignorance, that was good enough for me. Don’t get me wrong, it is definitely reassuring to know that a child of mine, who has just driven away, will not be out of touch as long as they have their smart phone tucked securely near them. However, although you may not be young enough to remember it, there was a time when we just did not know—not until we heard their voice on the other end of the line upon arrival at their destination. A politician once said, “Never let a good tragedy/scandal go to waste.” And so, as the Dallas police officers were fighting for their lives on the operating tables, the cyber-monster was active. Even our President was quick to issue a statement condemning the attack and offering solace, but at the same time taking advantage of the sound-bytes to place the political blame on guns. There is no doubt that the implements use during the attacks in Dallas and Baton Rouge were guns. But, guns are not the issue. Color is not even the issue. The issue is found in the hearts of men. That applies to our neighborhoods as well as world-wide. We can disarm the world and it will not stop the carnage. Those who hate will use whatever is available at hand, be it knives, sticks, or rocks. The issue is one the heart--of character. How can I keep someone from hating me? Politicians will never be able to legislate laws to change the hearts of men. There is no law to make one man respect the life and liberty of another. Respect like that only comes from the heart. In my own personal case, it involves a deep spiritual faith in God. In others it may be rooted in other positive sources. I remember seeing character like that in my family and the families of my friends. I learned respect from my father who was taught by his father. Of course, I was a member of an intact family unit. But, I have seen inspirational character in single parent families too. However, that was at a time before the disintegration of the family overwhelmed society. It was in a time where communication was slower, where learning took a lifetime and wasn’t thrust upon young minds through mass cyber-communication. It was in a day and age where it was par-for-the-course to just not know. Humanity will hopefully work through this dilemma—either they will, or they will destroy themselves. Our experts, leaders of government and society will certainly make stands supporting their own personal agendas, as they condemn the travesty in Dallas, and they will likely offer their own personal solutions/agendas. I have little faith their planning and programs will have any success unless those plans and programs touch people and teach our children to respect each other. It’s a slow process, which was much easier done in an age where we didn’t know, an age where we were permitted to grow into it, at our pace, under the influence of caring mentors and not influenced by the mass onslaught of a cyber-multitude who indiscriminately encouraged and promoted mass murder. There was a time when we didn’t know. I suppose, in that other time, we were simply ignorant of a deep problem that needed attention. The problem was still there and still needed careful attention. However, it seems to me it was a safer time and place. |
| There’s a place Linda and I frequent early in the morning. We don’t get a chance to get there every day, but do it as often as possible. Elk’s Diner is tucked into a corner of an old strip shopping center in a small Texas city. Our town is growing up. It has blossomed from the nine-thousand people when we first arrived here to almost fifty-thousand souls. It’s on the cusp of transitioning from the slow-moving redneck town we first discovered into an urban center. That’s a little sad, because many of us will miss the small town flavor of the past. But, I suppose that’s how it always is. The old-timers are always looking back to the good-old-times. And, I suppose that’s what draws me back time and gain to Elk’s Diner. Well, that and the biscuits, sausage-gravy, and strong black coffee. Elk’s Diner gets the early morning crowd—the guys working construction who stop to get a bite of breakfast before working out in the sun the rest of the day, the farmers in town to pick up feed or seed before it gets hot and busy, and old retired farts like me. I pull my truck into line with the other trucks scattered in the parking lot, every one of them has a trailer hitch and a few have gun racks in the back window--although I've noticed there aren’t as many gun racks as there used to be when I was a boy. The dress code at Elk’s diner is country-casual, including overalls with bibs, and lots of faded jeans—faded because they’ve been worked in not because of some fancy designer. There’s always a smattering of western hats and ball caps, which are most likely covering grey hair and bald heads. You’ll find men wearing boots galore and even some dirty jogger/walking shoes. A few wives will be scattered among the hungry diners, but usually at this time of day it’s mostly guys. Linda and I have been there enough times that we always sit at a particular table, if someone hasn’t trespassed and seized it before we get there. The waitress is used to us sitting there and usually has Linda’s water and my cup of coffee waiting at the table by the time we sit down. She politely holds her order pad and pen at the ready, but knows we will order our regular. She asks, “What can I get you, Sugar?” “The senior biscuits and gravy,” I respond. To which she knowingly smiles. The “senior biscuits and gravy” comes with one scrambled egg and hash-browns. While I wait for breakfast to be served, which is never very long, I notice the other regulars sitting around the tables. There’s a round table that seats about six. I suppose that’s what you could call a philosopher’s table. All the issues and concern of the world are solved at that table. And, the solutions are definitely not always the most politically correct or expected course of action. Coffee is mostly served at the table; breakfast was gobbled down earlier at home. It’s the debates, editorials, and lies which have drawn the group of old-timers to the philosopher’s table. The price of hay, oil, and cattle are often discussed, and the worth of a dollar is always lamented. Through numerous references to the old-days, the sorry state of affairs of modern life will be contrasted and condemned—although, truth to be told, each man has a smart-phone and air conditioner in his tractor cab. When my breakfast is served, I pay little attention to the other folks, for I am busy inhaling my serving of sausage-gravy, biscuits, and scrambled egg with hot salsa. I’m usually good for a couple of fill-ups of my coffee cup before Linda and I push back from the table, grab the check and shuffle through the aisle past the other diners and philosophers to the front to pay the bill. At the register one of the waitresses wanders up, takes my bill and credit card, as she asks, “How’s your breakfast, darlin?’” “Just fine ma’am, thanks.” She smiles at us and returns with, “That’s what we like to hear. Y’all come back—ya hear?” We will. We will return to Elk’s Diner because, even though the biscuits and gravy are “to die for”, we feel at home. |
| We are in the midst of the political season. Here in Texas it is time for me to trek to the polling place and cast my vote. I don't mind; I consider it an honor to do so. This morning I saw a posting on Facebook that proclaimed a person has no right to complain about the results of an election if they do not vote in that election. At face value, that seems to be a reasonable statement--one I have used myself over the years. But further consideration has convinced me it is a flawed statement. After all, we are talking about a matter of rights. Our political system is founded on the collective voice of the people and the right of every man, woman, and child to add their own voice to the collective. It is a matter of personal responsibility for each person to exercise that right. However, in the event one does not, it in no way removes the right of free speech from the individual. Every man, woman, and child has the right to speak his own mind, regardless of whether or not they cast a vote. Therefore, no matter how annoyed I become regarding the loud proclamations of those who have not voted in the process, I must indeed respect their right to voice their concerns. It matters not if they have voted or not; they still have the right to shout. But, rest assured, I am secure in the knowledge that, if they continue to refrain from voting in future elections, their voice--as loud and obnoxious as it may be--will not be a party to the decisions which are made. We, the voting public, will continue to direct the political process, above the din of their protestations. So, excuse me if I cut this entry short. I have something to do. I must go to the polling location and vote. |
| You get as old as I am and you naturally lean in one direction or another politically. It is no secret that my lean over the years has been to the right. That’s just the way it is. I continue to have dear friends who are left-leaning, which I respect totally. And so, over the years I have refrained from making too much of an issue on my right-leaning tilt. But, sometimes it just comes out. Such is the case for the Affordable Health Care Act—or Obamacare as it has been commonly tagged. Now, to be sure, I am not a fan of Obamacare. I am, however, a great proponent for the goal of the Act. I also believe that, unfortunately, the document itself is truly as Senator Max Baucus (D-Mont) has stated a “trainwreck.” Obamacare is the product of partisan political sausage-making, of which no one knows the content—as evidenced by Nancy Pelosi’s comment, “We have to pass the bill to find out what’s in it.” The principles and ideals intended in the Act have been shoved and molded into a hodge-podge of regulations which rather than reforming healthcare is simply attempting to redistribute benefits to accommodate a one size fits all approach to universal health care, according to Holman Jenkins, Jr. of the Wall Street Journal (WSJ-Sat. Jan. 4, 2014.) I firmly believe Obamacare will never be repealed. The Tea Party and zealous conservatives might as well give up and direct their attention to other political battlefields. It is with us forever. However, it is not with us as originally presented. As it lays on the carving table of the US Congress, it is already going through transformations to whittle it into something that is acceptable to all of us. One piece at a time the elements of the Affordable Care Act will be massaged and refined to make it more palatable to the voting public. Even now it is a different law than what was originally passed. Nancy Pelosi was right. We looked at it after it was passed and determined it was a trainwreck. And so we did what we always do. We set about changing it. Through Executive Order President Obama has already initiated several refinements to the bill which certainly alters its impact. The House is loaded with proposed bills to cut and hack at offending parts of the bill—the Senate not so much. Even the Supreme Court is systematically addressing elements which will inevitably be changed due to the application of law. After an extended period of time, when all the forces finish with the bill, it will likely not resemble the 2000 page monstrosity which was passed, but rather a working document probably resembling the compromise bill which was originally submitted by the GOP and slapped down by the Democrats. Everyone will be a big winner. The Democrats will proclaim victory because they passed the landmark healthcare legislation of our generation. The GOP will be pleased because they whittled it into a compromise that they wanted in the first place. And, hopefully, the people will be served with some sort of healthcare provision that takes care of those who can’t take care of themselves or who were denied the care they needed. But, make no mistake, what we finally get will look nothing like what we were promised or thought we were getting. But that’s how government works, isnt’ it? This whole thing reminds me of the old Johnny Cash song, One Piece At a Time, where he assembles himself a Cadillac over a number of years from pieces taken here and there from the factory. In the end, he had a Cadillac automobile, but it looks nothing like anything ever built before. And it didn’t cost a dime. Hmm…that sounds familiar. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2riRAGzNzvQ |
There is a scene near the end of the classic movie, Dr. Zhivago, where Zhivago and Laura escape to a wintry refuge to find peace with their renewed love. The broken down but still stately family home is open to the winter elements and snow falls or filters into the rooms. Nevertheless, in one room they manage to kindle a magnificent fire in the fireplace and settle in together in warmth and intimacy. In the night while Laura is sleeping, Zhivago stirs, wraps himself in a wonderful Russian fur coat, and then wanders to his old writing desk, which is located in a colder part of the home. He sits there with lighted candle and pulls out a blank piece of paper, picks up a writing pen, and an ink-well that miraculously is filled with ink. Once again Zhivago begins to write as he once did. In that frigid Siberian isolation, warmed by love and the unquenchable hope of a future with Laura, Zhivago finds his inspiration. He writes with abandon, freeing thoughts and ideas that were weighted down by circumstances and tragedies of his former life. He writes all night, possessed with a creativity that comes with true inspiration. In the morning Zhivago presents to Laura a bundled manuscript of his writing, seemingly ready for publication. I am somewhat jealous of that scene. First because he got to spend the evening with Julie Christie, who in 1965 when the movie was made was quite a looker. Second reason I’m jealous is because of the voracious inspiration that overtakes Zhivago as he writes. And lastly, the fact that his manuscript was handwritten and seemed to be publish-ready at sunrise. I ask you, does one really need to go to frozen Siberia with a beautiful woman to find inspiration? Regardless of the beautiful woman, it seems to be a stiff price to pay. Can’t inspiration be found in the upstairs study of an American suburban home? The best I could do to mimic the situation was to sit next to the north widow in my short sleeves. Yeah, I know it’s not the same. Well, the measure of my inspiration wasn’t the same either. I managed only to punch out a weakly constructed chapter which needed lots of work. And, what’s with this handwritten publish-ready manuscript? How does one produce copy that is handwritten. My longest handwritten work is signing Halmark cards. Virtual cut and past, delete keys, the wonders of spell check, and computerized editing have much simplified writing. Okay, who cares if it isn’t as romantic as pens, quills, and a jar of ink? I tried the handwritten manuscript thing. My pages were scarred with mark-throughs, write-overs, micro written sentences down the margin, and arrows directing the flow of sentences that were in the wrong place. The pages were disastrous. Oh, how I’d love to take a peek at Zhivago’s pages. But, that would probably be depressing with its lack of scribbled out errors and the like. So here I sit in my study. Ready to be inspired like Zhivago. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be in the plan. Instead, I hear over and over again in my mind, the sound of balalaika playing “Laura’s Theme” (Somewhere My Love.) No doubt it’s a beautiful piece of music to be lodged in one’s mind. I mean, it could be worse. It could be that obnoxious barking dog “Jingle Bells” I heard yesterday. Oh, my goodness, the barking dogs. I forgot all about them. Oh, no, what’s that I hear? Is it Jingle Bells? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXtFRl1nSs4 |
| I am heartbroken at the moment. My dearest friend is having problems. It is no less heartbreaking that my dearest friend is a dog. As you know, dogs have a way of worming their way into your heart and taking up permanent residence there. My black dog Max has done exactly that. But, of course, if you know me at all you already knew that. For the last couple of months Max has been recovering from a pretty severe bout of arthritis. His front and rear legs both have become very inflamed and weak. The poor baby has had difficulties doing the stuff he easily used to do…like climbing the stairs. He can no longer climb the stairs. If he tries, he falls. And each fall brings potential damage to already damaged joints. And so, as I detailed in an earlier entry, I have moved my office to the downstairs bedroom. I had hoped it was a temporary move but have determined it must be a permanent arrangement. He seems to be responding well to his meds and walking free from pain. I am encouraged; but then I see him turn to run, or jump, or play and he trips and falls. Each fall seems to take a little confidence from him. The last time he fell, he hesitated before he got up. He looked up at me with questions in those brown eyes, seemingly asking me what happened and why can’t I do something about it. All I can do is speak to him as soothingly as I can, pet and stroke him, and tell him it’s okay….I’ll be here…I’ll always be here. He will be ten years old in October. We have always known he had hip and joint problems. I knew that someday it would slow him down. Nevertheless, I have done all I can to lessen that occasion. We’ve tried to keep him healthy. Maybe he’s a little too fat, but in all other ways he is healthy. We are trying to get some of that weight off of him so it will lessen the load on his legs. I know as he advances in age he will slow down. I can’t let him chase the squirrels anymore like he used to. We definitely can’t swim the pond and chase ducks. Our walks to the park will be much shorter now. And our trips in the truck are questionable because he can no longer jump into the truck. Looks like I’ll be hefting 80 pounds of Lab into and out of the truck, at least if he’s gonna be going with us that is. And that is why my heart breaks. When I think of all the things he loves to do and things that I love to watch him do, it saddens me to see those things curtailed. I am heartened to realize that there are still plenty of things we still do together. He is still as alert as ever and can at times even now still act like that puppy we had so many years ago. Ah, and he still likes to lay across my feet as I work at my desk. And, I still like the feeling of his weight there against me. He’s my boy…my baby. Dangit! how in the world did I get so attached to that big black Lab dog? I know someday he will be gone…and I will miss him terribly. But, he is still with me today and perhaps for a great deal longer. I can enjoy him during these moments and treasure them while he is here. |
I have been exiled to the first floor. That is unfortunate because I am so fond of my office on the second floor. It has all my stuff in it, and a guy just has to be around his stuff. But, that’s why exile is such a bitter pill; it pulls us unwillingly away from where we want to be…away from our stuff. My exile began about two weeks ago. I usually trudge upstairs in the mornings and take my post behind my big desk and crank up the computer. I piddle around there doing one mundane thing and then another until it’s time for me to shuffle downstairs to breakfast. We have our rituals. Part of that ritual is for that black dog of mine, Max, to shadow me around as I meander from one room to another and eventually up the stairs to my office. That is where things began turning sour. Max was slow following me upstairs. As I got to the top, I noticed he was still at the bottom looking up at me. “Well, are you coming?” I asked him. To which he just stared at me. I thought little about it since he is somewhat stubborn at times. However, eventually he determined that the separation from me was too much of a burden and he began to amble up the stairs. In just a few steps I noticed things were not right. He fell a few times and struggled to the top. I felt awful for him. His desire to be with me apparently was worth the pain it took in his arthritic legs to struggle to my side. Needless to say I was distressed and looked him over real good. His joints were swollen and hot. Obviously the dog was in severe pain. We immediately made an appointment for that morning with his vet. And, of course, I carried the 85 lbs. dog down the stairs, which I must say was not an easy task for an old fat guy. The vet checked him over real well, x-rayed him, and injected some anti-inflammatory drugs. Fortunately, none of the joints are damaged, just inflamed. So, after we dropped $450 for the exam and additional medications we returned home with the strict admonition from the vet to NOT CLIMB ANY STAIRS. And so, the following day when I trekked up to my office, we put the dog-gates on the stairs to prevent Max from trying to climb them, as if he could in his condition. That did not work. He laid at the bottom of the stairs giving these big “sighs” occasionally and whining between the sighs. The separation from me was miserable for him, especially when he could hear me bumping around up there. The only acceptable option was for me to bring my fat butt downstairs and stay with him. And, so that’s what I did. We spent the morning moving furniture around in the master bedroom. We hauled a wooden library table into the room and moved all my computer equipment to the table. I placed my big executive chair and chair-pad in place and that is where I’ve been for the last couple of weeks. The added benefit for Max is that we can open the drapes that frame the floor to ceiling windows looking into the back yard and he can sit and lay there as he watches the happenings in the yard. He is in heaven. I am in exile. Why do we do that? For the same reason we pulled all the carpet up from the downstairs and laid down tile—to accommodate that dog. It seems as if we are quite fond of him and will do almost anything for him, including move to a single story house. That’s right, we are beginning to look for another home where Max does not have to climb stairs. I concede that Linda is also not fond of stairs and the added square footage in this house, so we will downsize. But, listed strongly in the justification for the expected move is the desire to keep our black furry friend off the stairs…cause we love him. (geeze) |
| My mother's generation was the last generation to seriously practice penmanship. As a youngster I would study her written page and marvel at the clean loops and symmetry of her handwriting. My father's script was clean but not as near artistic. By examining the handwriting of my parents, it can clearly be determined that their hands were coached by long hours of training, writing each letter a hundred time until it became instinctive. I remember the ruled pages we had in school to assist us develop and improve our handwriting skills. Each letter was expected to extend the proper distance, filling the entire space between lines for capitals and extended letters such as "h" and "l". Lower case letters extended to the dotted line. A corrected copy of my penmanship practice sheet would show slanted letters askew with red lines marked by the teacher depicting the angle of slant. It was not a pretty sight. And yet when I examined my mother's handwriting, I saw nothing except uniformity and symmetry in her script. I miss that attention to penmanship. Unfortunately, I fear children today have been served an injustice by the lack of emphasis on the written page by our education system. Attention is now given to keyboard skills. My grandchildren are much more adept to "thumbing" a sentence than writing one. If in fact they were directed to write a paragraph, I'm not at all sure it could be done. I know for a fact when forced to write cursive, many young people produce a form of printing mixed with cursive movements. I feel this is sad indeed. But, what do you expect when many watches forego the standard dial face with digital face. It no longer matters where Mickey's big hand is since it isn't used with the atomic digital readout face. The departure from the written art certainly began after my parent's generation, for once out of grade school, I cannot recall attention being given to promoting penmanship. My teachers always, at least English teachers, insisted on legible products from me. However, there was little incentive to write with style. In fact it was my college years where my somewhat decent handwriting degenerated to a nasty scrawl. My excuse was it was necessary to keep pace with the lectures as I took notes. Somewhere along the line my own handwriting eventually transformed into a mixture of script and printing. Even though my handwriting does not possess the classic loops and symmetry of early cursive writing, it did develop a style of its own. I found my handwriting could be legible and even somewhat graceful in its own right if only I slowed down and concentrated on what I was doing. It's a far cry from the classic handwriting of our forefathers, but it is passable for a professionally written page, which keeps me at least from being embarrassed, which cannot be said of our Secretary of Treasury, Jack Lew. Mr. Lew's signature is a loop of spaghetti that has not a single distinguishable letter. How embarrassing that is to me. History will have the signatures of Alexander Hamilton, our first Secretary of the Treasury, and Lew recorded forever. Look at the difference and draw your own conclusions. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I suppose in a world where electronics permits things to happen instantly or at the speed of light it is expected the handwritten page would be rushed in its production. After all a speedy thumb-job on a text message can transmit a message around the world in a fraction of a second. Such availability in communications would certainly suggest the written page is becoming obsolete and even impractical. Perhaps it is. But, that does not make it any less sad to see handwriting disappear as a personal skill. It is unfortunate that something as unique as an individual's handwriting has become a unnecessary function. Schools of the future will be tasked with teaching students only enough handwriting skills to make their mark on legal transactions. However, if in some apocalyptic age electronics is removed from us as a source of communications, well, I suppose there are plenty of second and third grade textbooks stored in historic archives to help us begin the process all over again. |
| He really wanted to go. I don’t take him often enough. I should but I just don’t. I feel badly about that, but can’t seem to be able to drag my ass out into the heat and expend the energy. The truth be known I’m just a tad bit lazy…heavy on the tad. A second truth is that a little walking wouldn’t hurt me either. I resolve every morning to just get up and go….getting a lot of practice at resolving. Well, he got all excited this morning when I said, “Wanna go ride in the truck, Boy?” They say a dog can learn about 200 words. I don’t know about that; all I know is that three of the words he does know are “go,” “truck,” and “ride.” And, I used all three of them in one sentence. I couldn’t get his collar on him, because he kept running to the front door and then back to me…back and forth. I finally got his head still and slipped the collar on him; and he was dressed and ready. He always has to sit while I open the door, which he does impatiently. When I stepped over the threshold the spring in his butt catapulted him into the yard and up to the truck, where he impatiently waited for me to open the back door so he could scramble in. It amazes me at how simple his world is. It revolves around his pack, which includes me, Linda, our children, and grandchildren. His territory is his house, yard, and my truck. When he is attended by his people in his places, he is content. Needless to say he is content most of the time. We work hard at keeping him happy. So, as I drove to the City compost site to discard my limbs and shrub clippings, Max happily perched next to me watching the world pass by his window, taking time to bark at some cows in a field adjacent to the roadway and letting the birds perched on the traffic light standard know that was not a suitable perching place, at least not according to black Labs. I did not let him out of the cab when we arrived at the compost site. Rather, I rolled all the windows down, including the rear window that opens to the truck bed. This gave Max full view to all his surroundings. As I tugged on the limbs and tossed clippings onto the heap, Max would bark at someone or something that caught his attention…not a vicious bark, but rather a bark that indicated he was part of the crowd. In his own way, he seemed to believe he was doing his part in building the compost pile and helping me. As I returned to the cab and asked, “Who in the world are you barking at, silly dog?” He wagged his tail vigorously and seemed to respond, “Who knows? I was just helping. Did I do good?” A scratch behind both ears and a few pats on the back was all the reward he was looking for. He resumed his place perched next to me as I pulled out of the compost site for the return trip home. As I pulled into our subdivision I asked him, “Do you want to stop in the park for a moment?” The rapid fire wag of his tail confirmed I had used another of the words Max knows, “park.” We stayed in the park long enough for Max to sniff of a dozen prime spots, leaving a message of his own each time (I call it pee-mail), chase a very irritated squirrel, do his business over in the bushes, and slowly wander back to the truck with his tongue hanging out. It was a good morning for the dog. But, you know, it wasn’t just the dog. I’m enormously blessed by the time spent with that dang dog. I admit, it makes me feel good when he and I relate as we do. My heart breaks to realize our time together is limited. That’s just the way it is. But, I’ve determined to just enjoy his company for as long as he is with me. I’m kinda selfish that way. |
| Unexpected guests in your home, although they may place an awkward burden on the situation, are due all the hospitality you can offer. We all know that; however, someone forgot to tell our black Lab Max. We had an unexpected guest drop in to our home last night and is scheduled to spend the day with us. The young fellow is four to six months old and is a mostly German Shepard pup. We were the last choice for a home for the evening for the little fella. The previous caretaker, my granddaughter, had orders to find a home for the pup or place it in the pound. Her conversations with area shelters informed her they were all full up and the only choice appeared to be euthanasia, which for my granddaughter who has a heart made of butter, simply was not a choice. Out of desperation she appealed to the tender hearts of grandma and grandpa. And so, to make a long story short, we have a new guest. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Unfortunately, no one ever asked Max if it would be okay for another canine to take up residence, however brief it may be, in HIS house. Max accepted the youngster with cool indifference. Immediately, he set the ground rules when he snapped at the pup for daring to lay on HIS bed, much less drink out of HIS bowl, and chew on HIS chew toy. I think the pup got the message, which was, “This is MY house, MY people, MY chew sticks, MY stuff.” We are pleased that Max is tolerating the pup. He permits limited interaction with the youngster, cutting off all shenanigans when the licking get too profuse. Geez, a black Lab can take only so many licks to the face before you gotta stop it. The pup got the message. Now, Linda and I thought we could give the pup the old leather chew stick which Max long ago discarded and just ignores now….foolish humans. As the pup placed his jaws onto the stick to pick it up, Max pounced on him with a firm snap and growl…no damage done. However, the pup got the message…again, which was, “It don’t matter how long its been since I was interested in that thing, it’s MINE.” Interesting that even though we admonished Max for his rudeness and gave the chew stick to the pup with affirmations that it was okay, all the pup did was look at us with eyes that said, “Really? I don’t think so. I ain’t touchin’ it.” We made it through the evening. Luckily the pup has manners enough to use the bathroom outside…thank heavens. A survey of the house in the light of morning did not show any signs of bad conduct in the dead of night. The only mishap was that we found the pup sleeping on the couch in the morning, which is against the rules. He was curled up in a tiny little ball, so I determined the cuteness cancelled out the violation; we'll give him another chance. We need only to make it to the end of the day. At day’s end, my granddaughter’s boyfriend is scheduled to pick the pup up for his forever home. The pup is to be his dog. Lord I hope he picks him up. Max started out as an unexpected guest and now we’ve had him for almost nine years. |
| Of course storms are a little more dramatic at night. The awesome power unleashed by a storm cannot be compared to anything man has achieved, including the horrendous power and destruction of a nuclear device. And, when it happens at night, it can be all the more terrifying, especially according to Max, our 80 lb. black Lab. Contrary to what we all believe, dogs don’t really see that well. I’ve been told they are color blind and see in shades of grey or at least some muted pallet that really isn’t very dramatic. I’m sure they still see better than I do, but the experts tell me that is not necessarily so. Therefore, with the cover of night, I can only imagine the dramatic impact the storm’s flashes of lightening presents to Max. I do know that his hearing is leagues advanced of mine. And his sense of smell, well, I’m not even in the same ballpark with him. As the storm rolled in this morning, Max became increasing troubled. He was not this way when he was a young dog, at least I don’t recall this apprehension he has now developed. But in his advanced age (he will be 10 yrs in October) he has become increasingly troubled by storms. At the first sound of a distant rumble I see his head pop up and his ears perk forward like radar searching for an incoming bogie. As the storm moves nearer and the peals of thunder get louder and come closer to the flash, he moves closer to me, even closer than he usually is. He will position himself next to me, sitting up, leaning against my leg. If he gets tired he will lay across my feet. When the storm is on top of us he will whine and constantly cast his eyes to me, expecting me to do something, after all I am his protector. ”Do your job!” his eyes plead. I’m so sorry, Max; I’m doing the best I can. But, I’m no match for Nature’s awesome majesty. Unfortunately, Max finds no consolation in my feeble capitulation to Nature’s power. This morning it was dark as the storm rolled in at 4:00 am. I’m sure it made it’s quiet announcement much earlier than that. However, it’s distant rumblings were not enough to wake me from my slumber, so, 4:00 am was my first inclination that the tempest was upon me. In fact, it was not the storm that roused me from my sleep. It was the pawing on the side of the bed and Max’s desperate whine which loosed sleeps hold on me. Max determined enough was enough; it was high time I got my ass out of bed and did my job…comfort him. It is times like this that I secretly desire Max to be Linda’s dog. Let her be the one wakened from sleep, pulled from the midst of a morning dream into the reality of a summer tempest. However, that is a mute argument; he is my dog. He determined that fact a long time ago. Therefore, I was the one who stumbled in the darkened room searching for my jeans, wiping sleep from my eyes the best I could, coveting the slumber Linda was enjoying as the rain pelted our bedroom window. I left the comfort of our bed and negotiated the nocturnal obstacles in our living room, making the way through that mine-field to the door leading onto our back porch. Oh yes, I was going into the mouth of the beast, into the tempest, well really just out onto the sheltered back porch. It seems Max has no problem entering the storm as long as I am leading the way. So, I found a relatively dry seat and sat and watched the storm, hoping Max would step off the porch and do his job so I could go back into the warmth of the house. Silly me, Max had no intention of getting his feet wet. He positioned himself between my legs and assumed the petting position, expecting me to begin stroking, which being the well-trained human I am, I did. We sat there for a long time, that silly dog and me—just watching the storm from the safety of our sheltered porch. Max seemed content with waiting out the storm now that I was awake and stroking his head. I was content with the feel of his soft coat beneath my hand and was in awe of Nature’s performance. Eventually, the storm moved on. It’s still raining gently outside my study window as I type this entry. Max is curled up next to me. He accomplished his job of getting me out of bed; now he’s doing his other job and sleeping near me. He’s quite accomplished at that. |
| I have a suspicion that as we get older we get more kind-hearted. The only thing I have to base that suspicion on is me. I don’t know when it happened and suppose it was a slow transformation over the years, but I have become super sensitive to the living conditions of animals, more particularly dogs. I’ve always had a soft spot for dogs. It doesn’t take much to melt any reserves I muster against my feelings. A whine, whimper, or just a look into their eyes destroys me. I want to save them all and I want to bring all of them home. It is fortunate the good Lord has not blessed me with an abundance of money. He’s given me enough to live on and to take care of my family. If I had more I would have more dogs running through my house and would support more animal charities than what would be deemed reasonable. And, although that would be a good thing, I am certain my money would be twittered away wastefully. As it is I find I am totally devoted to the advanced care of one particular dog, my black Lab, Max. I’d mortgage my house if necessary to care for that dang dog. He has become that important to Linda and me. I’ve tried to understand how it happened; and have given up. It just did. Fortunately, the fidelity and devotion does not go just one way. Max is totally devoted to us. However, that mutual commitment we share only exacerbates the soft-hearted feelings I find myself having every time I see a touching photo or watch an animal oriented movie. I will not watch the movie Hatchi. It is far too sad for me to watch. In fact, if in the course of any movie the story has the dog harmed, I determine that is certainly a bad movie. I liked “I Am Legend” up until the point where they killed the dog. I don’t care what the story line is…rewrite the dang thing. The dog doesn’t have to die. I know that is probably an unreasonable request of me; but, hey humor me…I’m an old guy. What has prompted this outburst of sentimentalism of mine is a dang photo I saw on the Internet this morning. Just looking at the thing broke my heart. I wanted to go out and find the dog and make it right. Of course, I couldn’t do that. I had to make due with hugging Max and petting him for a good half hour, of which he totally accepted like the affection sponge he is. I posted the photo on Facebook with a caption. However, every time I look at the photo it prompts me to want to finish the story. Therefore, in an attempt to save my sanity I suppose I will write a short story with the photo as a prompt…a story where everything will turn out happy in the end. Geez, I can’t believe I let a photo of an unfortunate little dog affect me this way. It’s true…that suspicion that as we get older we get more kind-hearted, at least I do. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I suppose I’m as vulnerable to a titillating morsel of gossip as the next guy. Now, don’t go getting all righteous on me and insist you hate gossip and never ever listen or pass the stuff. I detest it also and refrain from participating in the practice; but, I must admit that occasionally I listen just because I’m interested in hearing what is being said. And, I have been known to share an interesting tidbit with a friend. What I don’t do is scurry out the door looking for an opportunity to share the juicy morsel with someone else…or with as many someone else’s as I can. As I write this, I have in mind an account that perfectly illustrates the nature of gossip. I wanted to detail it here to show the vileness and pointlessness of the stuff. However, every attempt I made in detailing it ended with me deleting the text. I couldn’t do it without passing it along again. It is so dang easy to be snared in gossip’s grip in this age of information technology. The newspapers and television shows of yesteryear were bad enough, but today we have universal access to the virtual world and universal assimilation of any piece of garbage that is carelessly tossed in there. The problem is, I believe the majority of folks passing this gossip are relatively innocent folks. There is an old adage that says, “If it’s printed in the book, it’s gotta be true.” For some reason the printed page seems to establish some sort of validity on anything that has been written. People are basically trusting by nature. We want our information to be true. We want to be able to go somewhere and read the truth; after all, we for some reason don’t trust the information shared by word of mouth. But, if it is recorded on the written page, perhaps then we can trust the page. I read a biography of our sixteenth president. It appears Lincoln faced a hostile press far more vicious than any faced by our current presidents. It was amazing the depth of partisan bias and all out lies and slander possessed by the press of the 19th Century. How in the world did the common man ferret out the truth from such blatant doggerel? Our ancestors certainly must have been people of discerning capabilities to separate the lies from the truth. Apparently, they were able to do that, and still advance the cause and spirit of our democracy. How fortunate for us. I'm concerned that the people of our era are overwhelmed with information that is at most questionable. Not only are there multitudes of printed sources of this information, each person has instant access to the gossip stream directly from the world-wide web, just by thumbing on the cellphone. The people of Lincoln’s age were faced with the sporadic publication in the newspaper…a paper which was read and discussed and mulled over between issues. There was time to digest what was said and to get impressions from friends and associates. Over a period of time, the truth of the page was often either established or called into question. Today’s population does not have that luxury. Information flows forth as an open fire-hydrant, forcing instant assimilation and moving the story down the line with new information almost instantly. We are faced with a daunting task. We must somehow discern the truth in this flood of information. That is not an easy task, for there are reputable and professional outlets on every side of an agenda. Often the truth is conveyed under the spin of a political agenda. Now we find we must be savvy in the art of spin. So, do you watch Fox News or MSNBC? To protest and say you never watch one of those stations because they are not truthful because of your political leaning may not be conducive to getting the unspun truth. Of course, you have to watch both. What I rarely do is read the partisan blogs which are prevalent on the internet. If I do read them, it is for entertainment value alone and not as a quest for truth or substance. And, I endeavor to never pass on the stuff which is posted there. Oops, but I have occasionally done just that, believing it was true. There have been a few occasions where my passion has been captured by the subject and I errantly passed along a story I believed to be correct. Dang it! I hate when that happens. So, I’ve decided to just not pass stuff along, unless I wrote it or find it has been vetted. However, even with the vetting process one needs to check the vetting sources for bias. It just never ends. I really detest gossip. And, hate it even more when I find I have unknowingly been a party to it. The Bible has this word to say about gossip, “The words of gossip are like choice morsels; they go down to the inmost parts (Prov 26:22.)” Hmmm…that’s interesting. I guess that means gossip really stinks. It must be true. It’s written in the book. |
| It just doesn’t seem to be a big deal, Memorial Day 2013, that is from the lack of attention it seems to receive among the general public today. I suppose it is a sign of the times; we have so much happening in our world. It seems the generations in the know today have more interest in Justin Bieber's romances and Lindsey Lohan’s skirmishes with staying out of jail than they do an old tradition like Memorial Day. I must admit it is an ancient tradition spawned out of the devastated losses of a people after the Civil War, a time where brother fought against brother and Americans from both sides of the conflict lost nearly 212,000 men killed in action. It was a day meant to be a day of remembrance of those who perished on both sides. Eventually it morphed into a day of remembrance for all service people who have tied on our battlefields. The old timers, my grandparents used to call it Decoration Day. Cemeteries all over our land were visited and gravesites were decorated with flags and flowers. Folks used to spend hours in the cemetery visiting with neighbors who were also visiting gravesites. In the little country town I lived in years ago, there would be a memorial service at a pavilion in the cemetery and one of the area preachers would be invited to deliver the key message. Today, it seems the big attractions of Memorial Day are the sales the retail stores hold on that day; the big NASCAR race held on that day; or even more the beer and feast served at the family picnic. Oh, there may be a mention or two of the veterans; but, that is only in passing to warrant spending the day off from work, that is if you measure our commitment to the day by the attention provided to it by the media. But, I’ve got to believe there are plenty of common folks who still understand the significance of this day. And that makes me hopeful that future generations will embrace the tradition for its true meaning. However, our understanding of history is woefully lacking if you measure it to what the younger generation, that which is 25 years old and younger, know about our sacrifices and where we have come from. I’ve watched news articles which have interviewed young people on the street (and some older folks too) and asked basic questions you would think any American would know. They didn’t know whose faces are chiseled into the stone on Mount Rushmore, could not name the Vice-President of the United States, had no idea what D-Day was, could not name our enemies during World War II, could not list three out of the five military branches of our countries, believed the Dust Bowl is a football game held in the desert, did not know how many stars we have in the American Flag, and listed Canada as one of the states in the United States. But, on the contrary, they could accurately name who won the last American Idol or Dancing With the Stars Competition, know which Hollywood star was filmed in the latest sex tape, name the top rappers and their songs, and recite in detail the workings of the latest smartphone ap. It just appears to me our priorities have been confused, become shallow and sensational….selfish. I know I’m not the only one who still tears up when I think of the sacrifice my father paid fighting on Okinawa during the Second World War or what the brave men and women are doing in Afghanistan at this very moment. I’m not the only one who knows theirs is a debt that can never be repaid, and can only be respected and revered for what it is, a sacrifice. I know there are many others like me out there. I’m just so saddened to find that the populace at large and the media in general seem to ignore them to the most part. It breaks my heart. All I can do is to say once again, “Thank you again for all you’ve done for me; and, God bless you.” |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** William Shakespeare, known to his friends as Bill, would say “a rose by any other name would smell so sweet.” In other words, it’s not one’s name that matters, but rather it is the character of the person who wears the name. And, Bill quite artistically urges us to not judge a “book by its cover”, or in this sense a person by their name. Nevertheless, we must admit names can often be an interesting tidbit and sometimes even a little amusing. My family name, Boutwell, has its share of strange names attached to it. When dealing with genealogy you occasionally blunder into some of these instances. There is the example of the couple with the sound alike names. R.L. Boutwell married R.L. Case sometime around 1958. They became Mr. and Mrs. R.L. Boutwell. Making both spouses sport identical initials. The truly interesting fact was that their first names were Robert and Roberta. Even more interesting is that their son, who was born in 1961, married a young lady named Terri Rae. His name was Terry Ray, sounds the same, only spelled differently. How confusing would it be to have parents who where both named Terry Ray and grandparents who are Robert and Roberta. The couple’s kid had to be confused. There is the unfortunate Boutwell who in 1821 was named after a profession. Fortunately, it was a honorable profession. His first name was Doctor. Can you imagine the confusion if he had become a medical doctor. He would be Dr. Doctor Boutwell. As it was he had to go through life telling people, “No, I’m not a doctor. That’s my name.” Apparently, it wasn’t too traumatic though, for he named his son Doctor, who named his son Doctor also. So we have Doctor Sr, Doctor Jr., and Doctor III. And then there are the Boutwells who are named after places. One could assume that Georgia Boutwell, who was born in 1873, was named after the State of Georgia. However, that may not be an accurate assumption, for her father was born in Arkansas and her mother was born in Tennessee. They all lived in Texas. It doesn’t appear that any of them lived in Georgia. There is the case, in 1864, of the Boutwell who was so enamored with the great State of California that he named his daughter California. Yes, poor California Boutwell was destined to live her life named for the state in which she lived. Unfortunately, my ancestors have not always been the most decisive. One Boutwell offspring had a mother who came from Texas and a father who came from Louisiana. Her parents could not make up their mind and she was unfortunately branded, in 1869, with a derivative of both states, as she was named Texanna. I purposed that my own my children would not have any name peculiarities. Linda and I named out boys Noel and Chad. Seems simple enough, until folks pointed out the older is named after a Christmas proclamation and the younger is named after a African nation. I guess you can’t win. This is emphasized by a curious finding during my search of family genealogy. My grandson was named (middle name) Clark, after me. My middle name is Clark. Interestingly, my son and daughter-in-law did not know at that time that my own grandfather’s middle name is also Clark. Even more interestingly, I found that his grandfather’s middle name is also Clark. That spans a time period of almost one hundred and eighty-eight years of succession between grandfather and grandson. Needless to say that puts pressure on my grandchildren’s children to name one of the offspring “Clark.” Hmmm….nothing really mind-blowing or relative to today’s price of coffee. Nevertheless, interesting just the same. So, I ask you, “What’s in a name?” Well, sorry Bill, quite a bit, actually. |
| I sit in my study this morning an older man; some would call me old. I’ll just say older. Time has taken its toll on my body, as time is want to do. In the mornings it takes a moment to stretch old bones and work out the aches and pains, of which some just never seem to get worked out. I have a history now that includes asthma, arthritis and open heart surgery. I move much slower and the stairs to my second-story study have become somewhat of a nuisance to negotiate. I find I use the handrails more than I used to—drat! Nevertheless, I still consider myself a lucky guy as I sit in this upstairs study with my black dog snoozing by my side. I sit here and observe the stuff in this room. I am surrounded on all sides by reminders of times past. On my shelves, bookcases, desks and walls are items and articles collected and acquired along my life journey. Heck, even the desks, chairs, and tables have a story. My study is like the storybook “1001 Tales of Arabian Nights.” My grandkids often point out articles on my shelves or pick them up to examine. If I see them, I usually follow that action with, “There’s a story behind that.” And that leads to a trip to another time which may be historical, political, or simply personal. In any case, it is always a story. And, occasionally I may embellish a tad to create interest, nothing that would discredit the validity of the story, you understand—just enough to make it interesting. What a fortunate fellow I am indeed. The moments and events I’ve experienced, the places I’ve visited, the things I’ve learned are documented in this room by these mementos scattered throughout. I have this idea of taking a photo of the room; of course, it would have to be one of those panoramic 360-degree photos. Each item on the shelf, bookcase, or hanging on the wall would be a link to a written story. One would simply point to an item and click on the link to be transported to a story. After all, that is what I see when I walk into the room. I don’t just see doodads; I see stories—some good, some bad, but all interesting…at least to me. I don’t have that marvelous 360-degree photo. Oh, I know there exists the technical capability to do it. However, like so many other projects, I just haven’t gotten around to it. But, it’s there. I see it every time I enter my study. The links are there and the stories are complete; they’re just in my mind. For the moment, I will just have to let my grandchildren be the pointer and supply the click for each link. Although each click is lost to the past when I tell the story, it lives as I tell it. Fortunately, I have enough grandchildren who wander the room and pick stuff up, continually clicking the link and telling the story. That makes me smile. Oh, to be sure, the stories are not finished yet; I still have room on my shelves for a few more. Yup, I’m a lucky guy. |
| I love the mellow tones of a saxophone. I dream of sitting on a rock in the desert, a log in the forest, or a fire escape stair in the city and playing the mellow tones of some blues tune. I like the way the sound of the music reverberates off of the walls of the city buildings, the massive trees of the forest or the rocks of the desert canyon. There is just something soothing in the tone of the sax. I wish I could play it now. I say now because a long time ago I had a chance to play it. As a kid I had a saxophone. I played in the band for a short period of time. Unfortunately, that was a day and age where the cool kids where on the football team and not in the band. And, I wanted to be a cool kid so I dropped out of the band. Unfortunately, I didn’t make the team either. And so the saxophone and I parted ways. Although I rarely regret not making the football team, I often regret not being able to play the saxophone. Even when I was playing the sax in my early years, it was rarely distinguishable as playing. No, the noise I produced was more like tooting. While everyone else was playing their instruments, I was tooting my sax. Perhaps if I had persisted my toot would have morphed in to playing. I don’t know. I’d like to think it would have. But, that doesn’t matter now. Those days and that opportunity is long gone. My father played the harmonica. As a child I would beg him to play me a tune, and was genuinely thrilled when he did. He couldn’t read music and had no other really creative skills, but he could make that harmonica sing. It’s too late for me to become proficient on the saxophone; believe me it really is. But, perhaps it’s not too late to pick up the harmonica. I’ve heard some pretty soulful renditions on a harmonica. Geez, I really love the saxophone. Check it out. |
| I need a new ‘wannadoo’; my old one is broken. Oh, you say you don’t know what a ‘wannadoo’ is? It’s slang for “want to do’—see?’ wannadoo’…’want to do’. Say it fast and it works. Anyway, my wannadoo just isn’t working these days. I’m having difficulty getting motivated to do any of the stuff I used to do, like work. I dearly love the planning profession—love it. I regret it took me so long to wander into the trade. But, that’s the way it is with me, I do things in Biblical proportions—like wandering in the wilderness for forty years. So once I stumbled into the profession, I was thrilled with the work and infused myself in it--for about thirty-five years. I’ve achieved some small level of expertise and garnered a simple amount of praise from my peers during the journey. I’ve been rewarded by seeing the visual impacts of helping to plan several cities. Some of them grew the way we planned, some of them didn’t, and some of them totally ignored the fine work we did for them and carry the resulting visual scars for their choice. Well, so be it. I’ve just grown sort of tired of the drama of the job. Oh, yes, there is drama in the vocation of city planning. Somewhere during my education I was taught that planning was a process that was separate from the political system. My esteemed professor contended that planners were not elected officials and therefore did not respond to planning in a political way. Nope, he contended we simply guide the public process in evolving a plan which is conduits for the planning principles which provide pleasant places where people live and work. It is the legislators and politicians who hammer out the laws that serve as regulatory guidelines for our plans—documents such as zoning ordinances and subdivision regulations. Nope, we planners are removed from such nasty things as politics. I understand now why my esteemed professors spent their days in academia. It is much easier to hold to utopian ideals professed in the halls of academia than to endure the rat-race of the real world. Planning, my friend is heavily affected by politics. Bliss or misery is just an election away for most planners. A newly elected councilperson or appointed commissioner fostering a personal agenda for growth (or no growth) and prosperity (or austerity) can make even the most accomplished and veteran planner wish he were selling shoes in Siberia. I applaud my fellow planners who work for municipal governments. They must often rise from their beds and go into the office under the oppression of hostile commissioners and council persons. If they are to eat and pay the mortgage they will go in every day and slog it out in the trenches. As a consulting planner, I have the luxury of getting up the next morning after a particularly contentious Planning and Zoning meeting or Council meeting and going into my office. At least I don’t have to face the hostile tirade of an angry commission, council, or public. I get to go to my office, where I rule, and spend my day. Hey, if I wish I can choose to never return to that city again. Or, if they fire my firm, I still have a job. Oh yes, I am a very fortunate planner indeed. It is the politics of the profession which has become so worrisome to me. There was a day when I accepted the drama as a challenge. After all, one reason folks hire a consultant is to deflect the slings and arrows of a contentious mob. There are times when we are hired simply to be the bearers of bad news. I accept that and have been paid appropriately. But the challenge of politics has become a nuisance. People are so often ill-informed and unwilling to understand the planning solution. There is an attitude of conspiracy prevalent in the public. And there are times when no matter how fervently the planner tries to explain the dire consequences of ignoring the presented plan, all the public sees is conspiracy to harm them personally. And so unfortunately, all the planner can do is step out of the way and let the public shoot themselves in the foot. And as ridiculous as it may seem, we are often forced to hold them steady as they shoot the other foot. If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times. And, so I suppose I’m sort of tired of the routine. I once had a policy that there were no stupid questions. I would gladly address all questions with the understanding that the planning process is often complex and foreign to most people. I gladly addressed questions which seemed so obviously simple—no problem. However, I have now come to the point where the idiocy of the question seems overwhelming. I have often wanted to simply respond, “You know, in thirty five years of planning that must be the dumbest question every asked.” But, being the professional, which I am, I will never do such a thing. However, I can’t help but think it. And so, after thirty-five years of doing this job, I find that I still would not choose to do anything else. It’s just that my ‘wannadoo’ is a little lacking in motivation. I think it’s time I become very selective. From now on I will work only on the assignments I enjoy working on. I will work for clients which I like. And, I will work as much as I wish, depending totally on how much charge my ‘wannadoo’ has in it at the moment. |
 Log in to Leave Feedback |
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
