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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: Like Trees Falling in the Forest Date: September 23, 2007, Sunday Thought: To publish means we open ourselves to the question of whether our work is any good. What if I publish the dang things and no one reads them? Jog: Equal to the question of if a tree falls in the forest will anyone hear the noise is if a book is left unpublished will it ever be finished? Sitting comfortably and securely in my data file are two complete books. They’ve been there for a year just waiting—waiting for me to take the final steps and have them published. Now, why in the world are they not already available for the public? Because they are sitting comfortably and securely in my data file. I like to think my little books are not the only completed volumes waiting. If you have puttered around the halls of WDC for any length of time you will soon realize the truth of that statement. For some reason new writers delay the publication of their books. I suppose for some of us it feels much more secure to know they are tucked away in that comfortable file. To publish means we open ourselves to the question of whether our work is any good. What if I publish the dang things and no one reads them? Each of us harbors a little doubt about our ability to tell the story and have someone enjoy the telling of the thing. The account of Harriet Beecher Stowe is an interesting one. That she possessed a talent for writing was a known fact among her friends, even before she published her famous novel. She seemed content to live her life as a wife and mother with no great desire to be a literary figure in American history. However, her background and tragic events forced her into believing passionately in a cause. Her brother was the renowned preacher Henry Ward Beecher, and her husband was a professor at Bowdoin College. She was well educated and comfortable within the world of words. All that Harriet needed was a reason to write. The loss of her infant child from cholera a year after its birth drove home the reality of loosing a child. She compared that loss to the loss of the slave mother being sold away from her child on the selling block. One morning her sister-in-law remarked, “Harriet, if I could use a pen as you can, I would write something that would make this whole nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is.” Shortly thereafter she took those words to heart and began researching and writing Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was her first book. Many first time novelists would discount that or use it as an excuse to wait for the second, perhaps it would be a better work. But the difference in many first time authors and Harriet is that she wrote with a purpose and a passion. Perhaps we should learn from that. There should be passion in what we write. The work need not be great; but, we need to place within it our passion for writing. Harriet also had a purpose which was to proclaim a message—to communicate. In her case it was to communicate passionately. Isn’t that why we write? Doesn’t each of us have a burning desire to communicate? I can only surmise that the reason I have not published my books is because I lack the passion. That is disappointing indeed. What a loss it would have been if Harriet had written her book, shared it with her closest friends, and then filed it safely away in the desk drawer. Forget the reward provided to the author, think rather of the affect it had on the reading public. Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a best selling novel of the nineteenth century second only to the Bible. Upon meeting Abraham Lincoln, the president remarked, “So, this is the little lady who made this big war.” The affect on the anti-slavery sentiment magnified by her book on the North was tremendous. Such is the power of the written word. There is no guarantee that if we publish our books they will be the soul and spirit of a great movement; heck, there is no guarantee that they will ever be read. But, if they never are published the guarantee that they will never have the opportunity to be read is assured. And just as that unwitnessed tree that falls in the forest will never be heard regardless of the sound it makes, an unpublished book will never share the thoughts of the author if it is never read. So, my books still sit comfortably in my file as I write this entry. I am compelled to do something about that; and, I will—if I can muster the passion to do so. |
| Title: How’d You Spend Your Dash? Date: September 22, 2007, Saturday Thought: I am keenly aware that the years behind me greatly outnumber the potential years in front of me. That is the way of life. I have much to be thankful for and as yet much to look forward to. Jog: Two score and nineteen years ago on this day a young woman gave birth a baby son. It would be the only child born into the union of Dee and Jack Boutwell. Early in the morning the 6.5 lb. baby boy they named Danny cried out for the first time and laid siege to a life that has spanned, thus far fifty-nine years. That’s correct; I celebrate my fifty-ninth birthday today. My half-brother, on the way to the hospital, left a note on the kitchen table for relatives who were hastily coming to the house. It read, “It is a dog!” At ten-years-old, Jimmy had problems with the direction of the 'b' and his ‘'y’ looked like a ‘g.’ So it is that my first announcement to the world had me listed among the canines. I am busy living the ‘dash.’ You know—the dash between the years. Every life can be reduced to its common denominator as being two years between the dash. Mine is 1948-????. The two years mark the initiation of a lifetime and its conclusion. The real work is done among the dash. And so it is that for those fifty-nine years I have been working on my dash. Needless to say I am generally pleased with my dash-work. Although I am not the riches man in the world, nor the smartest, nor the most talented, I have managed to do a few thing right and proper. Who would have thought that nineteen-year-old kid graduating from high school could have gotten his act together to mount for much. However, I was able to stumble in the right direction, through the fortune of Porvidence and blind luck, enough times to make my way to my present day situation. I am keenly aware that the years behind me greatly outnumber the potential years in front of me. That is the way of life. I have much to be thankful for and as yet much to look forward to. This day is just one more added to the dash of my life. That it represents an anniversary of sorts is of little significance; other than the fact that we humans tend to attach significance to anniversaries of all sorts. And so I will spend just a moment contemplating the meaning of my longevity and then move forward and work on my dash. Somewhere along the way I stumbled on this piece of poetry. The author has been lost to me, if ever I knew who it was in the first place. But, it speakes to the dash between the years. I thought I’d share it with you. The Dash Between the Years I read of a man who stood to speak At the funeral of a friend He referred to the dates on her tombstone From the beginning........to the end. He noted the first date was her date of birth He mentioned the second date through tears, But he said what mattered most of all Was the dash between those years. [(1934 -1998)] For that dash represents all the time That she spent alive on earth... And now only those who loved her Know what that little dash is worth. For it matters not, how much we own; The cars...the house...the cash, What matters is how we live and love And how we spend our dash. So think about this long and hard... Are there things you'd like to change? For you never know how much time is left, That can still be rearranged. We should treat each other with respect, And more often wear a smile.. Remembering that this special dash Might only last a little while. And, when your eulogy's being read With your life's actions to rehash... Would you be proud of the things they’ve said About how you spent your dash? |
| Title: Lesson From History Date: September 19, 2007, Wednesday Thought: It is a sad and wondrous thing that our liberty makes us both great as well as causes us to stumble. Jog: There is an overshadowing gentle influence on me these days—nothing serious, just an awareness. This happens when I am consumed with a good book. The subject matter lingers in my mind, causing me to meditate casually on it throughout the day. That awareness was the cause of my entry a couple of entries ago—the one about Lincoln and the slaves. I like to read biographies of great men and women. Somehow reading about their lives helps me live my own. It is heartening to find time and again that these great people were faced with everyday problems just as I am. Although that fact is obvious to us all, rarely do we take the time to learn from their experiences. It is amazing how much the lives of these great people parallel our own--oh, not exactly, of course—but there are enough parallels to be found to learn from their mistakes and victories. Lincoln was thrust into a time in American history where he was destined to make history regardless of his actions. His greatness is that he persevered in the course he chose with unswerving commitment to a cause which he felt was both right and just. Upon reading his biography, it amazes me that the Union was able to survive. Possessing superior numbers and resources the Union was plagued however with incompetent and self-serving leaders. Her generals were for the most part inept and unimaginative—unwilling to take a chance and act boldly. On one occassion Lincoln commented to General McClellan that since he (McClellan) didn't want to use the army, he (Lincoln) would like to borrow it for a few weeks. Eventually, Lincoln was able to find the right general to lead his army, Ulysses S. Grant. And with the few others, such as Sheridan, the Union was able to prevail. However, it was not by the North's superior talent and application but rather from attrition of men and resources experienced by the prolonged engagement that eventually defeated the South. The American Civil War was not a popular war. From the very beginning there were critics within Lincoln’s own cabinet. The Senate certainly was not supportive of Lincoln. In fact there were more than a few who claimed the president entered the war with unjust motives and should get out with haste. A number of popular newspapers at the time wrote against his every action, which in their eyes was bungled at every move. Horace Greely wrote editorial upon editorial critical of Lincoln’s management of the war. Lincoln’s own cabinet snipped and criticized among themselves and purposely sabotaged the actions of others so that their own political position may be advanced. There are parallels that may be drawn relative to this present day president and the war in Iraq. Had Bush similar ability to do the things that Lincoln did, his course would certainly be easier. Lincoln suspended the right of habius corpus, seizing those who spoke out publicly against the administration’s policies in such a manner that it was injurious to the effort. Lincoln realized that words sometimes caused young soldiers to lose their lives. Why is it our present day press so blatantly ignores that fact? It happened in Vietnam and it is happening again today. It is a sad and wondrous thing that our liberty makes us both great as well as causes us to stumble. It is only in a free land that men may speak critically and loudly about and contrary to the government and remain under its protection. It is our pursuit of total freedom to act according to our will that opens us to criticism from the world. It is the openness in which we function that permits the entire world to see our flaws and magnify each one, and at the same time hide their own flaws. Outside of a democratic society this does not happen. In other societies the world does not see the flaws so clearly, although we all suspect they are there. Some think the American Civil War was fought because of the opposing positions of the North and South regarding slavery. That was only how it manifested itself. Lincoln waged war against his brothers because of an idea—the idea that the Union created by the framers of the Constitution was the only real system of freedom for men everywhere. He was not fighting to abolish slavery, but rather he was fighting to protect this new form of liberty which the world was so closely watching. Had it failed in America, it would have doubtlessly been abandoned abroad. Lincoln realized this and stayed steadfast in his course against the railing and hissing of his distracters. We have something to learn from history. We often time appear to be poor students. Perhaps we will eventually learn, in spite of ourselves. |
| Title: The Texas Outlaw Date: September 17, 2007, Monday Thought: He didn’t normally carry a gun, but in Texas, in 1867 it could be a useful tool. Jog: It was just a buggy. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it afforded a little gentler ride for the family when they wanted to ride in style, which in 1867 was a luxury in north central Texas. He wouldn’t have made such a big deal of it either but it belonged to him and Nathaniel wanted it back. He had loaned it to his neighbor months ago and repeated inquiries about its return had led to nothing. The last time he said something about it the neighbor was down right rude. It appeared the age old adage ‘owners keepers’ was the rule of the day. Apparently his neighbor seemed to be claiming permanent ownership of the little buggy. As Nathaniel had left the cabin he picked up his old Walker Colt and stuck it in the waste of his pants. He didn’t normally carry a gun, but in Texas, in 1867 it could be a useful tool. He saddled his horse and made ready for the trip across the county to where his neighbor lived. It was his intention to hook his horse up to the buggy and bring it home. It was his and he was going to get it. The trip would take just a short time traveling in the comfort of our automobiles of today, but in Texas in 1867 you traveled as fast as your horse could walk and much of the time you walked along side. It took most of the morning to get to the neighbors homestead. As he rode leisurely up to the corral and barn Nathaniel saw his neighbor working on the corral fence. His buggy was resting next to the barn just a short piece away. “Afternoon, Nathaniel. What brings you out this way?” “Well, I come to get my buggy. I figured you been busy on other chores and didn’t have time to return it.” “Well, Nathaniel, that buggy ain’t goin’ no where. You just had yourself a long ride for nothin.’” “That ain’t the way I see it. That buggy belongs to me and I’m goin’ to hook it up to my horse and take it home, whether you like it or not.” Nathaniel dismounted from his horse and began to lead it over to the buggy. Once there he began to take the saddle off the horse and prepare to attach the rigging. The neighbor watched for a moment with anger building. Then he sprang for the buggy and pulled the buggy whip off and began to lash out at Nathaniel. “You ain’t takin’ this buggy nowhere! You get back up on that horse and get the blazes outa here! I’ll teach you to come in here demandin’ stuff, damn you!” Nathaniel felt the sting of the lashes lick fiercely across his body and face. His hand found the gun in his pants and pulled it out to protect himself. He fired wildly in the general direction of the angry neighbor. He missed; but the lashing stopped. He looked for the neighbor and saw him rushing to the corral, where his rifle was leaning up against the rails. He fired a second shot; he missed again. He saw his neighbor reach the gun and chamber a shell. Nathaniel shot a third time. This time he did not miss. The neighbor fell to the ground dropping the rifle in the dirt. Some would say that it was self defense, especially when a man is protecting his own property and is being whipped with a buggy-whip. Lord knows in Texas in 1867 men were shot for much less reason. But the neighbor lay face down in the dirt with a bullet right through the spot where is suspenders crossed in the back. By just looking it was apparent that he had been shot in the back. If you’re going to shoot someone in Texas that was not the spot. Nathaniel tightened the cinch on the saddle, climbed up, and rode back to his cabin. He gathered a few provisions, kissed his wife and kids, promising to get word to them as to where he would be, and rode as fast as he could for the Red River. In a short time he was wading through the muddy red water into Indian Territory to any chance he had to remain free. The Texas Rangers would be looking for him. His best chance was to live out his days in the badlands of Indian Territory. After a while Nathaniel came back and got his family and moved them across the river with him, never to come back to Texas again. And, that is the story of how my great-great grandfather moved our family to Oklahoma. A little over one-hundred years later I would move back to Texas with my own family. The irony is that today, my son is a law enforcement officer in Texas. So, the truth is out now. I wasn’t born in Texas. Nope, I was born in Oklahoma the great-great grandson of a Texas outlaw, who was really just a simple family man. But, I got back here just as soon as I could—does that count? ***************** Some of you who have read my book, Across the River may recognize this story. In the book I accounted it as happening to Alexander Boutwell. In fact, it happened to my great-great grandfather Nathaniel. |
| Title: Lincoln and the Institution of Slavery Date: September 16, 2007, Sunday Thought: Belief in a wrong idea does not make the believer bad, just wrong. Jog: I believe in evolution. Before some of you panic expecting some discourse on creation vs. the evolution of the species—don’t. This isn’t a religious argument, which doesn’t mean I am not still a deeply religious person who holds his Christian faith paramount in his life. I am and I do. It’s just that I don’t think one must discount one truth to believe another. I may not also believe that my distant cousin is an orangutan either. But that’s not the purpose of the statement that I believe in evolution—bear with me. I am reading a biography on Abraham Lincoln at the moment. It is an interesting book about a very interesting person. The book itself was written in the early sixties—over forty years ago. It is amazing that Lincoln, who inherited a house divided, was able to hold the Union together through the turbulent and trying years of the Civil War. In the time period between his election in November of 1860 and his inauguration in March of 1861, a number of Southern states seceded from the Union. What a way to begin a presidency. This biography on Lincoln has helped me focus on the political and societal positions of that era. Although slavery was at the root of the differences between the states, it was not the only reason for the split. Reading Lincoln’s speeches has revealed the state of the minds of people of that time. Even when faced with the horrible institution of slavery, it is difficult to pronounce either position as being evil. The time in which Lincoln lived was certainly a difficult time to speak clearly and convincingly to peoples who were convinced that they were right. Indeed, Lincoln even professed a desire to permit the South as well as the North to establish the right to either practice or not to practice the institution of slavery. The question of slavery was so imbedded in the social foundation of the South that to categorically refute and deny the institution would be contrary to their very foundation and would constitute a totally different paradigm from which they must operate. We who function in our modern era see the institution of slavery as abhorrent to human existence. There is no question in our minds as to the right and the wrong of the thing. But, at the time of Lincoln it was totally accepted belief that the framers of the Declaration of Independence certainly did not include the black man in the truth that “all men are created equal.” There was a foundational sentiment and belief that the black slave was less than “man”, certainly less than the “white man.” To understand that the white man of that time, including Northern and Southern men both, intended no malice to the slave but did not see any possibility for equality, well, that is difficult for us to fathom. Lincoln’s position was in the sovereignty of each state. He believed that slavery must not be supported or provided an opportunity to expand; however, he also believed that each state had the right to establish slavery as a rightful and legal system. He believed the Constitution did not provide the right to make the institution of slavery illegal, or pronounce it as being wrong, or deny any state the right to make it a legal tenant of government. He felt that over a period of time the institution would deteriorate; all that was necessary to do was to not provide incentive for it to grow. In a sense, Lincoln seemed to believe human kind would evolve beyond the institution and it would eventually become obsolete. It was not only the plantation masters who favored slavery. In fact the simple Southern farmer and the pioneer settler never owned a slave. Yet they often supported the institution for reasons of their own. The poor dirt farmer, even the most based of the lot, held the belief that there was always someone beneath him on the social strata, of which he was least. In fact as long as there were black slaves, he would never be the least of the social strata. The immigrant and pioneer settler was not pleased with the prospect of having to share free land with an entire class of people who were prohibited from owning land. Even with all its land resources good homesteads were not easy to come by. As new territories were proposed to the nation, local sentiment was often strong to join the pro-slave group because of the restriction from slaves to own land. The differences in the foundational beliefs of people of Lincoln’s era most certainly doomed the nation to the civil strife it experienced. And as wrong as the South’s position on slavery was and is, the people of that time—really good people—believed with all their heart and soul that they were right. Belief in a wrong idea does not make the believer bad, just wrong. Intrusion of the North into the South with forced prohibition on slavery was an attack to their fundamental way of life. As onerous as the institution of slavery was, it was critical to their existence; or so they truly believed. It is hard to understand the reasoning of the men of that era. It is so easy for us to simply contend that they were wrong, very wrong. But, we are able to do that because we have evolved. It has taken a hundred and forty years, but we have come to the place where Lincoln figured we would eventually be. That is the way it is with evolution; it takes time. Sometimes the evolution is sped along its way by severe and tumultuous times—such was the American Civil War. I look around today and see that we are still evolving. That’s a good thing. So, that is why I can say I believe in evolution. |
| Title: Why?—Gravity Date: September 15, 2007, Saturday Thought: I awoke this morning with a feeling of retrospect. I lay there and pondered my circumstances and wondered about how I arrived at this place in time. Jog: Every now and then my thoughts inch a little deeper on the philosophical side. I can’t help it; that’s just the way I’m bent. I have resolved, to my satisfaction, some of the major time enduring questions like, “Why?” and I’ve developed what I feel are reasonable responses to many of these questions. The response to “Why?” of course is, “Gravity”--really. That’s not a cop-out or flippant answer. I suppose the alternate answer is, “Because.” However, “gravity” is my standard answer. In crisis moments when bereaved ask the question, “why?” I don’t use it. At those moments I use the traditional, “We don’t know why and never may; we just move through the crisis,” which although true is a little lame. When my kids were small and mastering the art of conversation, I endured the relentless assault of a child with the question ‘why?’ Every comment of mine to the child elicited the question, “Why, Daddy?” Novice that I was, I actually tried to reason with these little people and answer their question. Little did I know that their brain was caught in a never-ending loop that always came back to the question ‘why?' Frustrated and defeated I would eventually answer, “Just because!” Which would leave them unfulfilled and frustrated that my mountain of knowledge was unable to answer a simple little question. Occasionally, I would revert to my standby answer, “I don’t know, go ask Mom.” But then one day while listening to that great philosopher and deep thinker, Bill Cosby, he gave me the answer, ‘gravity.’ It was part of his comedy routine and supposed to be funny; and it was. But, I tried it and remarkably it worked. “Why do birds fly, Daddy?” “Gravity.” “Oh.” “Why do ants bite?” “Gravity.” “Oh.” “Why does Grandpa’s breathe smell?” “Gravity.” “Oh.” I was thrilled to find that little response stopped the loop--cold. As they got older and mastered the art of understanding and comprehension I provided more scientific and rational responses, which appeared to work reasonably well, at least until they turned fifteen. At fifteen I discovered nothing works and I might as well be speaking Chinese, for I was not reasoning with a human anymore but an alien substitute wrapped in my child’s body. But, fortunately and eventually they regained their humanity and actually began to listen to me. That happened, in both cases, somewhere around twenty, which is a very magic time. My increased level of intelligence when they turned twenty was both amazing and astounding. Why is it the older they get the smarter I seem to get, at least in their eyes? It was a good feeling and took a little time to get used to. I awoke this morning with a feeling of retrospect. I lay there and pondered my circumstances and wondered about how I arrived at this place in time. My momentary self-analysis eventually concluded that the result was satisfactory in general. And, I began to wonder about where my life would be taking me tomorrow and the day after that. That’s when I remembered my evolution regarding the question, ‘why?’ It brought a smile to my face and also brought me back to earth. It kept me from thinking too deep on a Saturday morning that began way too early. That’s what precipitated this entry today. I found myself asking ‘why?’ Fortunately, myself answered myself with the age-proven response, ‘gravity.’ Oh. |
| Title: The Face of The Opposition Date: September 14, 2007, Friday Thought Jog: To the point. Today I will have to get right to the point. The campaign is getting messy. Try as we do, we are having a difficult time keeping the campaign on the high ground. I suppose that is because the dang opposition keeps jumping in the deep end, splashing water in the face of America. I watched silently as my running mate (walking mate) was assaulted in his very own blog by the trio of smut. CC, Nada, and Scarlett ran a tag team assault that would do a professional wrestler proud. Well, turn about is fair play. Have you realized that you have no proof of what these three really look like. Oh, I know they have posted photos in their blogs of attractive and distriguished people....but, I know for a fact that it is a farce...like their campaign. Through our connections with the CIA (we got connections) we have produced a photo of the three henchmen together. The photo was taken at a Pool Party ralley, where they were decked out in their finest. Now, think about it folks. This is what they'll have you wearing. What self-respecting BullFrog would wear such a thing....better, WHAT AMERICAN WOULD WEAR IT? Nope, what we have here is the original Stooge, CC; his Papparazzi CCNN smear artist, Nada; and his eloquent mouthpiece, Scarlett. Look close....WOULD YOU VOTE FOR THIS TRIO? I rest my case. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Title: Differences of a Generation or Two Date: September 11, 2007, Tuesday Thought: What does the world say about us now? Jog: It was early on a Sunday morning. The Japanese fighters came in silently and unnoticed. Less than two hours later 2,348 Americans were dead and another 1000 wounded at Pearl Harbor. It was not our greatest loss of life in a conflict; but, up until that moment it was the most shocking and sudden. And, it remained so until September 11, 2001, when four sets of fanatical terrorists killed 2,974 people, mostly civilians. Strikingly similar to Pearl Harbor, it took a little less than two hours from start to finish. Both incidents caused a shock wave to reverberate through the American people. A number of emotions gushed forth. There was confusion, alarm, and maybe even a little panic with some. There was a great deal of anger ranging from violent outbursts to seething resentment and hostility. Not so amazingly there was a tremendous outpouring of compassion for the innocent fallen of both attacks. But, the similarities end there. At Pearl Harbor we were attacked by a known entity, the imperial forces of the Japanese nation--a recognized sovereign people. Each attacker wore a uniform and piloted an airplane with the Japanese red circle painted boldly on its surfaces. At the World Trade Center our attackers wore business suits or leisure clothes and mixed, with silent malicious and reprehensible intent, among the innocent victims unnoticed—the act of a coward. They hid their identity and only crawled from their lair after the carnage had been completed, announcing with insane pride that they had done this deed—again the act of a coward. Both acts initiated a war against the perpetrators of such evil. After more than three-and-a-half years of total war the Japanese surrendered, a beaten and humiliated people. After more than six years of open hostility with the elusive terrorists the faceless cowards still claw at us with evil intent. During the Second World War we tracked the progress of the war through the newspapers, which reported in harmony with the war effort. So much so that stories were withheld until they could be released without harming the effort. We saw country after country liberated; ground was fought over and wrested from the hands of the aggressors, never to be given back. In the War on Terrorism the reports of progress come mixed with political spin and posturing. It is difficult to follow the progress through the haze of politics. Somewhere patriotism and perseverance to a common cause has gotten mixed up with personal gain and advancement. Our forces are constrained by a rule of engagement that is politically constructed. Our service people fight for ground that is relinquished to the defeated at the end of the day. That’s how it is when politicians rule the battlefield. In World War II the American people made sacrifices for the war effort. There was a shortfall of any number of goods. Gas was rationed as was all raw materials. Families made personal sacrifices. Dad went off to war; mom stayed home and laid down her dishtowel and picked up a rivet gun. It is difficult to see the sacrifice to the War Against Terrorism in our society today. Our headlines are more attuned to the length of time Paris Hilton will spend in jail, or the love life of spoiled Hollywood celebrities. Unfortunately that appears to be where our interest is centered. Our young people task their thumbs with text-messaging their friends and shop for designer clothing, unaware of where Iraq is located or why we are there. There is a tremendous difference between the generation of our fathers, or in many cases our grandfathers, and today’s generation. With all its differences, the War on Terrorism is a real war. Those who oppose us are real antagonists who want to defeat our way of life, control our freedom, and take from us what we have gained through the democratic process. Be very sure that they are not concerned with our safety; they will kill us if it serves their purpose. The day the Towers fell, we saw clearly their dedication to our defeat. However, I fear the passage of time, the political rhetoric of men in business suits, and the biased reporting of a press media with an agenda will lessen our resolve to see this thing through. According to the polls I now stand in the minority. I have no where else to stand. I look back at an America that was at one time respected and feared. I recall the statement of Japan’s Admiral Yamamoto on the day of December 7th when he solemnly stated, “I fear all we have done is awaken a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve.” What does the world say about us now? |
| Title: A Walk Down Pennsylvania Ave. Date: September 8, 2007, Saturday Thought: Don’t be swayed by their innocent eyes, or stammerin’ dirt kicking. Don’t fall for their pretty words accented with Blink..Blink…Blink. Jog: I ask you why they call it ‘running’ for president. Who’s running? My fine example of male hunkage running partner and myself are not running from anything. What you see in this campaign is a slow and deliberate walk into the big-house…or is that the White House? As his running mate for vice, I’m compelled to get the message out to the people. So from now on I shall be known as his walkin’ partner as we walk for the two top jobs in this here land. Of course with the tainted journalism that taints the facts, that is not an easy job. Nope, taint easy at all. But we shall endeavor to persevere. My man David McClain has clearly spouted his stuff. He’s broken from the rhetoric of other politicians and decided to do something novel and unique. He’s gonna tell the truth!As a personal campaign plank I will be promoting Holi-Flex. I ask you why is it all the dang holidays happen the same time every year. It’s usually raining on that day anyway. Or, Aunt Bertha shows up on the doorstep with a bag of wienies grunting, “Let’s have a cook out!” I think it’s every American’s right to take off work when he feels good an’ ready. Nope, the way it is now, the dang roads are packed with cars with Chevy Chase and his family making the roads pure disaster. When I am the vice-guy, I’m gonna push for legislation to give every American 10 days of holiday every year…to take whenever he/she wants. Who said you gotta celebrate the 4th of July on July 4th? It’s hot then! Why not wait until November when its twenty degrees cooler. Just pick your day and take it. This will prevent the dummy oil companies from gouging prices on the holiday cause they won’t know when the dang thing is. It will also keep 90% of Americans out of debt cause they won’t be spending money on a “Holiday Season at Wal-Mart!” Our economy will improve. Now, I know that recent events in the political scene have begun to turn tainted. Rumors of CC running for president with the backing of the papperutzi…paperatusee…Oh! You know who, have tried to detract from the clear message of the Bullfrog party. You can keep that from happening….JUST DON’T LISTEN TO THEM. For the moment, their camp is silent. But just like garbage building heat in the local landfill, they are doin’ something dangerous…they’re out there thinking. Don’t be swayed by their innocent eyes, or stammerin’ dirt kicking. Don’t fall for their pretty words accented with Blink..Blink…Blink. Help, turn America back to logical thinking…you know doin’ STUFF that makes sense. Help us color that big state map Sorta Green (there’s already a Green Party out there). Tell us (me an’ Tor) what you want to see in government. Heck, we’ll do something different for a change; we’ll listen to YOU. Come on! Tell us what’s on your mind…as we walk through the gate of the White House grounds. |
| Title: Keep Your Hands Off My Stuff! Date: September 7, 2007, Friday Thought: It ain’t none of your business. Jog:(The following message is not a paid political message. Therefore, since I didn’t pay any money for the dang thing I don’t have to tell you who isn’t paying for it. Just know it is in support for the Bullfrog party and its candidates, who could care less about open disclosure. It ain’t none of your business.) I’ve come to the conclusion that the most critical thing in life is stuff. We need stuff to survive. Without stuff man simply cannot function. Stuff is the thing that keeps us occupied; it entertains us; it pleasures us; it gives us something to talk about; heck it gives us something to do and something to complain about. Without stuff in our life we would simply float around like amoebas. Amoebas care nothing about stuff. Their existence is therefore meaningless. That doesn’t mean they don’t have a purpose; although, beats me as to what it is. But stuff is what gives purpose to life. I have long considered the failing of our political system to the fact that government is much too concerned about my stuff than they should be. They got stuff that they don’t deal with as it is much less mess around in my stuff. That’s one of the main reasons I support David McClain bid for the presidency in the Bullfrog party. He holds stuff as a high priority in the life of every American. And that is good.More important than just stuff, “my stuff” is most important. I don’t care about your stuff. I obviously give it the attention it deserves because it is the polite thing to do and I really do care about you. But, your stuff does not affect me near as much as my stuff does. Unless of course your stuff messes with my stuff; then, we have trouble in River City. Cause, I don’t like folks messing with my stuff. The California ultra-liberal CCNN press recently has been messin’ with someone else’s stuff. As a matter of fact they’ve created a bunch of liberal media stuff that has assailed the character of a recent candidate’s personal political stuff. And, that’s getting awfully close to messin’ with my stuff. Now, stuff becomes a problem when its ownership is contested. My oldest son is going through a messy divorce (is there any other kind?) The stuff in his case is called “our stuff.” That is particularly dicey since both my son and my soon to be ex-daughter-in-law claim that some of that “our stuff” is really “my stuff.” Lucky us; we have a court system that in its infinite wisdom has the divine ability to discern whose stuff it really is. In this case the stuff turns out to be mostly “lost” stuff. Our government has been doin’ that for years…turning my stuff into lost stuff. They do it mostly with taxes, which have added new dimensions to the odor of stuff in general. I’m pleased and heartened to see that one man stands above the stuff of government and brings order into the chaos of that system. Our man Tor has given the American people new dreams—dreams that involve stuff. He has added new meaning to the old adage “The Stuff Dreams are Made of.” If the slanderous reports of the West Coast CCNN media, which is definitely near the left wing…somewhere in the vicinity of the arm pit, will but listen to the clear message of the Bullfrog platform, they will understand this stuff and cool it. But, I am afraid that we have gone too far…I am afraid we may never recover from the stuff that cogs the wheels of progress. Perhaps this coming election will be the difference. Perhaps we will at last be able to put our stuff where it really counts…just perhaps. |
| Title: Equipped to Learn—the Education Rip-Off Date: August 29, 2007, Wednesday Thought: I’m sure some enlightened educator or PTA parent will enlighten me; but, I don’t understand why we are buying all this school supply stuff for the kids. Jog: Now, don’t get me wrong; I’d do anything for my granddaughter. Well, anything that is legal—and probably a few that aren’t depending on the circumstances. She is a doll and she has grandpa wrapped around her little finger; I know that and have ceased to fight it. So, I should not be miffed about a few school supplies that her grandmother and I are going to get for her for the start of the school year. After all, on the day she was born I promised to buy her a Mustang on her sixteenth birthday, a promise I fully intend to keep. But, I am miffed. I’m sure some enlightened educator or PTA parent will enlighten me; but, I don’t understand why we are buying all this school supply stuff for the kids. I have no problem paying school taxes, which I do on two houses. I don’t mind at all. I just don’t understand why my tax money doesn’t cover supplies. Now, I understand buying a folder for each class, pens, pencils and a very big eraser. But, the list Lauren brought home is ridiculous. And the crazy thing is they want the stuff by tomorrow! They did not distribute the list until the first day of class. If they had we would have been working on it slowly. But, NOPE, they want the dang stuff right now! OK, I know you’re not interested, but here’s the stuff they are asking for: 3 boxes of facial tissue 5 boxes of pencils (sixty pencils) 5 boxes of pens (2 red, 1 blue, 1 green, 1 black) 1 box of fine tip markers 4 packs of college ruled loose leaf paper 1 large set of map pencils (what the heck is a map pencil?) 1 3-subject spiral notebooks 2 Single-subject spiral notebooks 1 1-inch three ring binder 1 2-inch three ring binder 2 sets of five place divider pages 2 folders 1 poster board 6 packs of index cards Many markers (numerous packs and various sizes) (what the heck is that?) 3 highlighters 1 pencil bag 1 marker bag (what’s the difference in a pencil bag and a marker bag?) Post-it notes 1 pack of sharpies Bottle of glue Pair of scissors Cardstock (60-80lb) This is just for one kid. We have two others who also need supplies. Just multiply that lost by three. I’m thinking about getting a second mortgage on the house and renting a storage space just to keep the stuff. I don’t remember my mom and dad buying all this stuff. It was supplied at the school. On occasion, we were given a list of supplies that were necessary for a special project. But I don’t remember this type of haul happening at the first of the year. Now, I know some of you younger folks who have kids are probably used to this and take it in stride. But, for some reason it kinda miffs me to be sucked into this black hole. OK, I’m finished. I’ll change topics—get deep and philosophical about something else. It’s just that at the moment, this has me shaking my head. |
| Title: Just a Few Boring Statistics Date: August 26, 2007, Sunday Thought: As popular and active as the blog pages seems to be, the majority of the interest in my portfolio remains in the body of work outside the pages of the journal. Jog: I joined WDC in January of 2004, which means I’ve been a member over three-and-a-half years. It’s been an interesting journey. I’ve noticed my writing has been changing—evolving. My general interests which lay in short stories and essays have remained unchanged. Similar to many of you, I’ve noticed a major dedication to blogging, or as I would prefer to call it ‘journaling.’ And, it appears that dedication has been a common undercurrent held by others here in the blogging community. The question often arises, “Do we write; do we blog; or do we do both?” Is blogging serious writing? Or is it just literary gossip? Well, if you are expecting an answer from me, you’ll likely be disappointed; because I’m still trying to decide. As many of you know, I am a city planner by profession. I went to school and everything just to be able to do the stuff I do. Some of the stuff I do as a planner involves juggling numbers. Usually those numbers represent people, acres of land use, traffic volumes, and a bunch of other stuff. I juggle; as a result, my juggling has bled over into WDC. In an attempt to understand my efforts spent in this place for the last three-and-a-half years, I decided to juggle a few WDC numbers. The folks in WDC have thoughtfully provided some basic numbers to fuel my efforts, for which I am very thankful. Here is what I’ve found and some basic conclusions of these findings. Generally, I have seven folders in my portfolio that contain the majority of my literary work here. One of those is poetry, which should be classified more as a literary stumble. I have several other folders with miscellaneous stuff; but, by far my writing is contained in those sever folders. I don’t even want to imagine them being lost by some virtual hic-up. That’s why all my stuff is saved on my hard drive or as hard copies in my files. So, how do the numbers stack? Well, of the combined pieces, not including the journal, I’ve written eight-two separate works. That figures to a little less than three pieces per month. I guess that’s not too bad. My most popular folder is the one called “Awarded Material.” The twenty-three items have received a total of 4,467 views. My most popular piece of my entire collection is in that folder, "Please Lord, Help Me Find My Socks"  ; it has received 483 views. Of course it is also one of my oldest works, which gives it added opportunity for review. The pieces in that folder average 203 views per piece. The least popular of all my pieces is a sermon, "Invalid Item" , which only has ten views. I guess folks just don’t like to be preached to. However, the folder with the sermons averages 121 views per piece. I suppose it’s just that one that doesn’t appeal to them. Of my short story folder, the most popular work is "Invalid Item" , which received 358 views but is by far not my favorite. I liked "Invalid Item" with only 177 views. I’ve always been a little surprised it has not received an award, since I think it is much better done than many of those sporting pretty ribbons. Of the non-fiction folder, the most popular work has 279 views and is "Invalid Item" . Although, my favorite Christmas effort was "Invalid Item" or "Invalid Item" , which have 247 and 127 views respectively. It’s a toss up between those two.Regarding my journal…blog…jog, since July 2004 I have received 10,913 views of my 509 entries. That’s about 21 views per entry. Comparatively my other combined work, has about 11,730 total views to date, which figures to 143 views per entry. My conclusion? Well, as popular and active as the blog pages seems to be, the majority of the interest in my portfolio remains in the body of work outside the pages of the journal. I will continue to write the journal (blog); but, I will not discount the importance or my contribution to the other work. It just amazes me when I consider that I’ve had 22,641 total views for all of this work combined. That is only seventeen people every day for three-and-a-half years. But, it is very impressive to me. What an opportunity this has been. I thank each and every one of you who have supported this effort and all of those strangers who just popped in for a short while. It really has been worth it. |
| Title: Why Not a Few Policies? Date: August 25, 2007, Saturday Thought: They’re not fast rules, they’re more like policies, anyway. Jog: This dang blog stuff is sorta confusin’. You know, there really aren’t any rules. Without rules we have no idea where the limits are. Our sense of decency keeps most of us in check. Our ego is the measure of how far we step over the line. We go too far and no one will read our stuff. At least not the sort of folks you’d want to introduce to your Mom. So because we want to be successful communicating to the other guy out there in cyber-land, we stay reasonably close to some vague boundary of common decency. At least most of us in WDC do. But, there are no rules that tell us how long to make our entries--or what form they will take. Some folks write poetry, some stories, some like to rant and vent, some keep it to the light side and really crack me up. Some of us are philosophical even deep sometimes. Some of us are all over the place, spanning a wide range of emotions and topics in the spectrum of our writing. There just are no rules. And, that’s OK. But, I sometimes wish there were some rules—policies, so to speak. At least then I’d know when I really screwed up. As it is now I have to let my conscience be my guide; and, I suppose I can live with that. Only there are times when I wonder if others out there have a conscience. If there were some rules—policies—perhaps they would include variations of the following: 1. This isn’t a gossip column. We should refrain from talking about each other in a critical way, except of course when we are giving constructive criticism of our work. The old adage “If you can’t say anything good, don’t say anything at all” should rule. And this should apply to anyone we refer to as ‘that unnamed person.’ And, by the way, this is not directed to anyone; so, don’t be hasty to jump to any conclusions. 2. Keep it clean. That means don’t spout anything that you would not want to sign your name to in your local newspaper editorial. If it is rude to say in your neighbor’s living-room it’s just as rude to say here. This is sometimes difficult to measure because different folks have different thresholds for common decency—which isn’t very common at all. 3. Size doesn’t matter. The length of your entry should be reasonable. Whether it is one paragraph or twenty doesn’t matter. However, don’t expect anyone to want to read your entry when it rivals the length of a Stephen King novel. I don’t think an entry should be any longer than your typical newspaper editorial—but, that’s just me. 4. Don’t worry about receiving or giving comments. It is good to receive and give comments, but it’s not necessary. Your activity in this area should be determined by the amount of time you have to dedicate to it. If you propose to respond to every comment you may find it to be an exhausting task. And, likewise, don’t expect folks to comment to each and every one of your entries. Holding those expectations just sets you up to be disappointed. The fact of the matter is that the world just doesn’t have time—nor is it always interested in responding to what we say. Therefore, don’t be disappointed when folks stay away. When you get a comment, count it as a gift. I have found there are a lot of very generous folks in WDC. But, unlike a gift, every comment does not require a response. This isn’t a chat room. It’s a blog…or in my case a ‘jog’ (more of a journal.) 5. Have fun. As far as I know, none of us are counting on these blogs to put food on the table. Junior will not be clothed and sent to prep school by the efforts of these blogs. They are an expression of our feelings, wants, and desires. They are the result of actions focused on the need to communicate our thoughts. We have unprecedented freedom in this media. But freedom does not give us license to abuse it by being rude and crude and cruel. Within those limits we can write to our hearts content—and should. I could go on; but to do so would violate my third item regarding length. I think you’ve got the idea. I’m pleased we have no rules in these blogs of ours. I do not want to restrict anyone’s freedom. But, I do think some general rules would be helpful. After all like was said in Pirates of the Caribbean; “they’re not fast rules, they’re more like policies, anyway.” |
| Title: Just How’d We Get This Far? Date: August 24, 2007, Friday Thought: I stumbled along not knowing that there was any other option. The miracle is that she held on as I stumbled. Jog: Well, we’ve just about made it through another day, my bride and me. Over the years we’ve done a lot of these days. Let’s see, today would make about 14,240 of them. You know, I don’t see how Linda has done it. That’s a whole lot of Dan to endure. But, today Linda celebrates her 40th wedding anniversary. You got it; we’ve done this forty times now. Who would have thought it? It’s ironic that my oldest son is going through a divorce right now. Our youngest son did it a few years ago. Heck, almost everyone we know has done it once, and some have done it more than once. There must be a reason why Linda and I have made it forty years. As I think back to the beginning, there wasn’t anything in our circumstances that pointed to any great chance of success. Heck, most folks would have been betting on us being busted up in a short time. I had little confidence in myself and my abilities. I was a young teenage fella facing the future with my eyes closed. I had Linda and I had…well I had Linda. And so I stumbled along not knowing that there was any other option. The miracle is that she held on as I stumbled. We were eighteen when we got married. Now, I know there have been younger couples in the history of mankind; but that doesn’t lessen the fact that we were just too dang young to be getting married. But, we were in love, my car was paid for, and I had a job…sort of. I was working part-time at a service station while I attended trade school. Linda got a full time job at an insurance company doing some mundane paper work and between the two of us we were able to earn enough to pay for our garage apartment, some food, and gas—little else. As I think back on it now, I should have been scared stupid. But, at eighteen you feel you are immortal. And, we were. The first thing we purchased as a newly wed couple was a Magnavox color TV. It scared me to death because somehow we talked the store into letting us buy it on payments—six of them to be exact. The second thing we bought was a Christmas tree. I’ve written a story about that tree if you are interested in reading it…you don’t have to; it’s just out there if you want to. ("Invalid Item" )So, how come we made it forty years? Heck if I know. But, I’ve got a suspicion of a few things. I’ll share them briefly. They aren’t magic and certainly no secret; but, if you follow these I believe your chances of making forty years are pretty good. I suppose you can call them Rules to Be Married By. 1. Rule No. One: Do it together. Linda and I have never ever done anything that we have not talked over together first. It doesn’t mean we have always been in agreement; but, we dang sure never took a step without the other. 2. Rule No. Two: Watch each other’s back. This is particularly important when dealing with children. They will play you against each other. When I said “No” it was “No.” When Linda said “No” it was “No”. We never, ever argued the point in front of the kids. They knew for a fact both of us would support each other, even if we didn’t agree. We watched each other’s back. 3. Rule No. Three: Never, ever make a decision without sleeping on it. We had to learn this rule the hard way. In our early years we were easy prey to every encyclopedia and insurance salesman knocking on our door. I remember the night me and my nineteen year old pregnant bride signed up for burial plots. Who in God’s name would sell a burial plot to a nineteen year old? 4. Rule No. Four: Failure is not an option. It would be years before the Apollo 13 crew would make that statement; but, somehow we knew we were in this together for eternity. Divorce was not an option. We refused to give up. We worked on it. After all, marriage is not a 50/50 partnership; it’s a 100%/100% partnership. And, when the other guy isn’t giving 100%--well, at those times you gotta give more than 100%. It is not a choice; you just gotta do it. 5. Rule No. Five: Always remember love is a verb. Verbs are action words. Love does not happen to you and it is not something you find. It is something you do. When you think it’s not there, don’t whine about it. Do it! Work at it! You’ll find that it looks a lot different after forty years than it does at four years. I can’t explain it to you; I can only show you. Take my word for it. Always, always treat love as a verb. 6. Rule No. Six: Never ever make light of your spouse when you are in a group…no matter how innocent the intention. Believe me, there can be hurt hidden behind the smiles. Her feelings are the most important thing in the world. Never take a chance that you can say something that may be hurtful…never. 7. Rule No. Seven: Always be willing to follow. There are times when I just have to shut up and concede that Linda knows best. I’ve learned her strong points and have learned to recognize when I need to shut up and listen. When that time comes, do exactly that—shut up and listen. Now, I suppose I could go on with a bunch of other rules. But, most of those are simply derivatives of these seven. I could fill volumes recounting examples when I stumbled through some of these rules. And in forty years I’ve bunged them up a few times. But, generally we have both respected these simple little rules. I suppose I could give credit to our longevity to the fact that we followed the rules. That may be so; but, I suspect the main reason we made it forty years is because Linda knew how to make them work and had the patience to raise me right. It has taken a lot of work; but, she’s done a pretty good job. I suppose that makes me the lucky one. Thank you, Lord; I could not have done it without her. |
| Title: I’m With You Date: August 21, 2007, Tuesday Thought: I will never be able to explain the attachment that this dog has to me or me to him. I will probably try and fail a million times. Jog: A fella can only stand so much inspiration. After a while it becomes a private pep rally. Nevertheless, I will not seek to avoid those moments of heightened awareness that cause my soul to expel an unexpected “ahh.” Sunrises still do that to me as does a baby’s smile. Fortunately, my quota of inspiration has far to go before it reaches its limits. As I walked the early morning places where I live, I was once again inspired. And, once again it involved that silly black dog of mine. Because of pressing matters scheduled for this morning, I had to go for my walk with Max very early this morning. When we left the house it was still dark outside. Having a totally black dog gets to be a challenge when we walk in the darkness. Usually, I leave him on the leash since I can’t see him in the shadows. But knowing that in a very few minutes day would break I let him off leash so he could experience the freedom of the early morning, which he most certainly did. He romped through the wooded and groomed area around our little lake, not going far from my sight. Eventually we reached the break in the wooded area and walked the short distance through the woods and broke into the adjoining golf course. At daybreak the golf course has a certain beauty as it rests in its pristine condition asleep. The greens of the different grasses seem to be a little greener, the birds a little more abundant, and the solitude more pronounced. As I walked across the fairway to reach the paved cart path I noticed Max and I were leaving a trail in the early morning dew with each step—evidence that we passed that way. The open spaces of the vast fairways urged Max to test his legs and chase invisible squirrels and rabbits. He scampered back and forth across the fairway constantly turning back to see that I was following. Eventually, I did something I don’t usually do. I sat down on the bench on the sixth tee. I watched the morning unfold across the landscape. Instead of hurrying through the morning I sat and waited for it to wake. It was one of those perfect moments. Max trotted back to me and sat next to me, panting. His head swiveled to gaze up and down the fairways, not wanting to miss a thing, looking for a rabbit to make its break across the distant fairway. He was aware of the world around him and excited about being in it, and yet he chose to take his place with me for the moment. He sat there patiently, a bundle of pent up energy on hold. I watched him and smiled at his state of contentment. He is truly one happy dog. And then he looked at me. He focused those brown eyes of his on me and spoke in silent communication. He said, “I’m with you.” And I understood. He could be chasing rabbits or searching out new scents in the woods; but, he chose to be with me—that was his place. If I were one to permit a wayward tear to sneak to the surface, one would surely have found its way to my cheek. How in the world can I ever repay that sort of devotion? I’m not sure I can. I can care for him when his hips get old and sore; I can scratch his ears and give him warm baths. I can sneak him a piece of sausage from my plate when Linda isn’t looking; I can talk to him for hours with meaningless words just so he can hear the tone of my voice. I can do those things and I will. I suppose it will take all of those things to repay that look at me that said, “I’m with you.” I will never be able to explain the attachment that this dog has to me or me to him. I will probably try and fail a million times. You will surely bore of hearing of it in this journal. All I know is that at the end of each day before we lay down to sleep, after we have finished our walks, had our last pat on the head, and scratched for the last time behind his ears, rest assured that through it all I was also with him. |
| Title: Dealing With Life’s Problems Date: August 18, 2007, Saturday Thought: I’m glad that I have a source to guide me in the darkness and someone to carry me when my foot falters. Jog: “Houston, we have a problem.” I spent a little time Googling on this phrase. It’s amazing the stuff you can find on the Internet. I listened to the actual recording as the Apollo 13 astronauts initially informed the folks on earth that the guys floating around in space had a serious problem—they might not come home alive. Now, I’ve never floated around in space with my life support slowly seeping away, but there are times when I certainly understand the gravity of that statement. In fact, at the moment I feel like opening my upstairs window and yelling, “Hey, World! Stop a minute…I gotta problem here!” Problems are part of the substance of which we are made. It’s how we grow. I’ve come to believe we do not so much overcome problems as work through them. It’s sorta like eating one of those monster jaw-breakers you used to get as a kid. If you just clamp down and chomp on it, you may very well crack a tooth and reek all sorts of havoc. But if you allow the thing to dissolve a little and chip away at the edges, eventually you can chomp the thing with reasonable expectation of avoiding damage. That’s what we gotta do with problems…work through them. When I first started working on oil rigs for my dad and something on the rig fouled up, which is typical of oil rigs, I would often remark, “Hey, we got a problem.” An old driller who had drilled more oil wells than there are stars would shake his head at me and remark, “Worm (that’s what they called the rookies) you ain’t got a problem. What you got here is a situation. Work through it. I’ll tell you when you got a problem; and this ain’t it!” That made a lot of sense to me then and as I look at the rubble of life’s happenings around me it makes sense now. With all the issues in my family and my work, I can truly say this ain’t a problem. It’s just a situation I gotta work through. I thank the Lord I don’t have a problem, at least not like Apollo 13. Now, those guys had a problem. Fortunately, another saying I take to heart was also spoken at that time when someone said regarding their problem, “Failure is not an option.” Remarkable, there is a lot of wisdom out there in the world. Wisdom that has already been discovered and gifted to us. I’m so glad I don’t have to work all this stuff out by myself. I’m glad there have been other men much smarter than me who have figured things out. I just need the common sense to listen and learn from what they have already said. And, I’m also glad that I have a source to guide me in the midst of the darkness and someone to carry me when my foot falters. How in the world could I think I had a problem? Nope, I’ve got a problem solver to get me through the situations. I think I’ll walk on a little while and think about that. |
| Title: Trip to Oklahoma Date: August 9, 2007, Thursday Thought: But, that is how life is. Life goes on, built upon the legacy of those who came before us. Jog: On Friday morning Linda and I will fix our gaze for north of the Red River and head into the Indian Territories. That was what they called Oklahoma prior to 1907 and statehood. Linda’s mom lives in a little town north of Tulsa. It’s been a while since we have been up there and the urgency to see her mom is accented by the fact that her mom is ninety-four years old. Forty years ago when Linda and I got married Ruby threatened to live to be one-hundred and be a continual thorn in my side. It appears the old gal is gonna do it. Oklahoma was barely a state when she entered into it from Arkansas as a very little girl. She tells me she came in a covered wagon pulled by some oxen. She remembers the day because it was on Thanksgiving Day. It’s remarkable to consider that Henry Ford’s Model “T” was introduced in 1908, five years before Ruby was born. The new fangled automobile was something poor folks could not yet afford. Henry Ford would soon change that within the next several years. In a short time the dang thing would be chugging across muddy roads feeding the ozone with exhaust. But that’s another story for another time; Ruby continues to tell the story how they entered into Oklahoma from Arkansas in that covered wagon on Thanksgiving Day. Sometime during the day she will share that little tid-bit with every visitor—usually several times before the visit is over. It’s amazing to have a conversation with Ruby, and she still has a sharp mind—except for stuff that happened thirty minutes ago or last week. The distant past is still clearly etched in her mind. She remembers the days following World War I. She lived her childhood during those days. She remembers the day the stock market fell. Being poor farmers, she didn’t feel the difference. Her family was used to coaxing their susbstinance from the earth. Rarely would they have a store-bought anything. All they had was either grown or made right there on the farm. It was a habit that was hard to break. I remember the night Linda and I attended my senior prom. Linda was gorgeous in a white dress that was itself gorgeous. Her mom made that dress. Today you’d probably pay three-hundred dollars for that dress. Woodrow Wilson, our twenty-eighth president was elected in the year Ruby was born. Today George Bush is our forty-third president. It is quite possible that she will be alive when we elect our first female president—something I know I’m not real excited to see. In any case she will have lived during the office of sixteen presidents. That’s a lot of politics to endure. Linda’s mom and dad lived through the depression, which is a very difficult concept for the kids of today to grasp. You’d work hard all day long for a dime during those years. Sometimes you’d work just for a plate of food or a sack to take home to the kids. There was no credit. But, yet I find that folks of the age of Ruby somehow refer to those days as the ‘good ole days.’ We have certainly changed our frame of mind. Ruby lived in a time where you could leave for a two week vacation and leave your house unlocked. That being the case, your neighbors could drop by and check it out while you were gone. When you came back, nothing would be missing; but there might be a hot apple pie waiting on the kitchen table for you. Ruby lived during the Second World War. She remembers the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. Although, her husband Tom did not serve, her brother Floyd was sent to the Pacific. Other wars have come and gone and Ruby has watched each one of them claim America's strongest and bravest. She has a little different look at war than the Hollywood crowd that spouts it's stuff today. She believes it’s a very ugly thing that sometimes just can’t be avoided. Ruby and Tom took God’s command literally when he said, “Go forth and multiply.” They had five children. Each one of those children had multiple children. Ruby has seventeen grandchildren, a bunch of great-grandchildren, and an unknown number of great-great-grandchildren. Linda’s oldest sister is almost forty years older than her. There have been lots of years and plenty of opportunity for procreation in that family, and procreate they did. Well, all this dialogue is provided to let you know that I’ll be gone for a couple of days as we make a trip to Oklahoma. I’ve been so sporadic in here lately that many of you may not even notice. I’ll be back, happy about the experience but a little sadder; because I realize that an era is coming to a close. But, that is how life is. Life goes on, built upon the legacy of those who came before us. That’s the way it is with Ruby and that’s the way it will be with me and eventually my children. It is just so remarkable when you think about it. I’m looking forward to a long discussion with Ruby. I’m sure she’ll tell me about how she entered Oklahoma on Thanksgiving Day in a covered wagon. That’s OK; I’m looking forward to hearing it from her one more time. |
| Title: If the Shoe Fits, Wear It Date: August 8, 2007, Wednesday Thought: When are we gonna realize that we are not “entitled” to have everything we want. When are we gonna learn that we gotta “earn” the right to own some of that stuff. Jog: (Warning: The following blog is seriously disjointed and dangerously close to being a rant. The views expressed herein are absolutely the views and policies of the writer. This entry is not meant to offend anyone, but if the shoe fits…wear the dang thing.) Now, as some of you may remember, from time to time I do a little investing in the stock market. Have you been watching it lately? If you have you know you need to be dodging the debris from the falling market the last couple of weeks. It dropped so fast last week I got a nose bleed. Needless to say, I lost a little ground during these last two weeks, not to mention $$$$. It’s enough to make a novice sell everything. But, DON’T YA DARE DO THAT! What we have experienced is a little correction. I’m still running at a 23% annual return over my entire portfolio. My advice is to keep buying good stocks. There’s gold in them thar hills! as the old prospectors would tell ya. Regardless of what some doomsday sayers will tell ya, the economy is really in very good shape. That is, with the exception of the financial credit sector. Those boneheads threw caution to the wind and overloaded on bad loans. One of the worst financial schemes targeted for new first-time home buyers has been the ARM (adjustable rate mortgage). What was touted as being a way for everybody to have the opportunity to buy their own house has turned into a disaster. First of all, the financial people let anyone, regardless of credit history, purchase a no-down home mortgage at a rate that was bound and determined to increase in coming years. When interest rates did increase, as they were bound to do, the folks could no longer afford the house because of the increased payment and the house was subsequently repossessed. Everybody was a looser-the owner, the banks, builders, and the economy. What looked to be a pot of honey has turned into a bowl of vinegar. When are folks gonna learn that buying on credit is not sound business, whether it is a car or a house or a box of pencils. Can you believe that the auto industry is financing new cars on seven year loans? This almost guarantees that many of the vehicles will be taken by the dealers and resold again. The majority of Americans are swimming in debt, and being offered more opportunities to get deeper everyday. A friend of mine once told me when you find yourself digging deeper in the debt hole, STOP DIGGIN’! We have a furniture store down here that advertises loans for purchase a house full of goodies at no-down, 0% interest, and no payment for one year. At the end of the year, after nothing has been paid on the furniture, the rate jumps to 28% on the unpaid amount. Now, how stupid is that. Heck much of that stuff will be worn out in six months. I’ve also heard that one of the fastest growing group of folks filing for bankruptcy are college students. They are putting school tuition and books on credit cards and then defaulting on the cards. Geeze, our future leaders are bankrupt before they get out of college and into the work force. And, this is the generation who will be responsible for taking care of all us old folks. Look over your shoulder folks. You’ll see Christmas sneaking up on you. In a short few weeks Madison Ave will begin to start its push on selling all the gadgets and gizmos junior will be whining about for Christmas. Lord forbid that mom and dad will consider telling them, “Nope, we can’t afford it.” Not as long as the Jones are getting one for their little junior. No, an already broke American public will charge it to the card and buy the stuff anyway, and throw in a few items for Aunt Bessie. Geeze, we have absolutely no self control. OK, OK, somebody kick the soapbox out from in under me. I really did not intend to turn this into a rant. It’s just that, our “I want everything right now” generation is doing themselves a great injustice. When are we gonna realize that we are not “entitled” to have everything we want. When are we gonna learn that we gotta “earn” the right to own some of that stuff. OK, OK, I’m stepping off an’ kicking the soapbox out of reach. (Dan looks around) Hmmm…looks like I sotra made a mess out of this entry today. Oh well, I suppose I can do that every once in a while…sorry. |
| Title: I’m Still Here? Date: August 5, 2007, Sunday Thought: I’ve determined to simply continue to insert entries in this old ‘jog’ until I’m told I can no longer do that. Jog: Dutifully I prepared myself for the inevitable—the last entry of the blog (yucky word). I said my good-byes to the old blog, did my best to finish with style and class, and even began the design of the new blog, which is still referred to as a “jog” because I detest the word “blog” and consider what I do here more akin to a journal. In any case I’ve come up with a new name for the new ‘jog’ and even created a spiffy new graphic to adorn the cover. With all that said and done, I pushed the enter button and sent number 500 into cyber-space to appear in its prized position of number 500. I then waited. I didn’t know what to expect. Would I get a flashing message informing me I could enter no further entries in this collection of entries? Would my attempts to enter number 501 be kicked back as being excessive? I didn’t know; all I knew were the war stories of other blogger friends in WDC who have experienced this event. Heck, if I remember right, zwisis didn’t even get to finish her 500 entries. It seems that there is a word limit to the blog also and her colorful, graphic, and well developed travel-journals and exposes exceeded the word limit, as she was rudely informed she could enter no more in her previous blog. And David McClain , the buckethead, just plowed right into his demise like a bubba driving 80 mph down a Texas back road—wham, it was over. And so I tread very lightly as I sneaked up on entry number 501 in my ‘Jog.’With the final entry complete, I waited and nothing dramatic happened. So, I figured it would happen when I tried to enter number 501. To test my theory I created a ‘throw-away’ entry—one that would virtually stick my toe in the water and test the status of exceeding the blog limit. To my surprise the blog accepted the entry and promptly recorded number 501 in my official count. What? How’d that happen? So, I went to the ‘create item’ feature and began the effort of creating my new blog…err, jog. When I clicked the link asking for ‘type of book’, indicating I was creating a journal, the dang thing boldly stated “Limit 750 entries.” What? Whatever happened to the magic 500? Does this mean we have an additional 250 entries per blog now? It appears that it does. I deleted the ‘test entry’ and returned my count to 500. However, I’ve determined to simply continue to insert entries in this old ‘jog’ until I’m told I can no longer do that. It may be some quirk and happen tomorrow; but, again, I may cruise along to number 750. Heck, perhaps by that time it will be lengthened to 1000 entries. But I’m left with a quandary. What do I do with that spiffy new title and graphic that I created to adorn my new ‘jog?’ Hmmm…don’ know. So, I thought I’d share it with you in this entry. Perhaps, I can work it into the introduction of this current ‘jog.’ ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** So, what’d ya think? I wanted to keep the name the same. However, I wanted to provide a little more of a classical touch, since after all, time dictates that this effort has advanced from the previous. Therefore, I kept the same title but translated it into Latin. So, it is still My Sporadic Journal. Unfortunately, I could not find an exact translation. The literal translation of “libellus vulgivagus meus” is “My Wandering Little Book.” Hey, that works for me. |
| Title: On Surviving the Conflict Date: August 4, 2007, Saturday Thought: My survival will be to devote my life to doing whatever I can to never, ever, ever find myself in such a conflict again. Man is not geared for this. Jog: It was 6:30 in the morning and dark outside. It was dark and sweat was already beading on my forehead. I was working way too hard for just being up for forty-five minutes. There comes a time in our life when we turn the hard stuff over to younger backs—a time when fresh young muscles, although straining with the weight and repetitions of labor, welcome the effort and even gain strength and mass from the hard physical labor. I remember that distant time even in regards to myself; this, however, was not one of those times. I had been working steadily for thirty minutes and the possibility of breakfast was a remote figment of my imagination. I knew I would be lucky if I got a stale donut mid-morning. I had no time for idle dreams of eggs, bacon, warm biscuits and gravy; there was work to be done before the real work began. In a perfect world I would be spared of such labor. In a perfect world I would be master of my circumstances and lord of my domain. As I stooped to pick up another heavy load I was rudely reminded that I am neither master or lord, but rather a servant of another, a serf to be pressed into unwelcome labor for someone else. But that is how it is in this imperfect world. I began this laborious day already tired. The previous evening was spent preparing for the labor in which I was then engulfed. A drop of sweat ran down the back of my neck. I dropped the load at its destination and returned for another. Under my breath I quietly made a vow that this was the very last time Linda was going to press me into forced labor of a garage sale. Man is not geared for such humiliation. The doors were to open at 8:00 pm. Even as I lugged a box of books weighing as much as a Volkswagen the Piranha frenzied women pulled up to the curb in their SUVs and gathered together as they measured my means and calculated their attack. I was shocked at the calculated cold-hearted viciousness of their descent across the driveway. “Ma’am, we’re not open yet. We’re still assembling the loot.” I naively blurted. Eyes mad with blood-lust and void of mercy turned to me and stared, as if to say, “Mind your own business; I’m feeding here!” I was totally taken aback. Never had I encountered such evil intent and persistence. I froze like a deer being caught in the headlights. Fortunately, I was accompanied by two comrades who were equal to the task, both female, one of which lives under the same roof with me. I have never before witnessed the swiftness of the response of these two women. The cackles rose on the backs of their necks as they immediately turned and confronted in tandem the crazed early morning shopper, who wilted before their onslaught and whimpered back to the shelter of her SUV. I could see I was in a theater that I had never been before—a party to a conflict in which I was a sniffling rookie. This was a garage sale. My only possibility of survival was to retreat behind the defenses of the females and do exactly as I was told. Which for the remainder of the day I did. At the end of the battle, which I understand is repeated each and every week-end; the battlefield was littered with casualties, of which I was one. But, I survived. However, my survival was not to fight another day. No, my survival will be to devote my life to doing whatever I can to never, ever, ever find myself in such a conflict again. Man is not geared for this. It is shear folly to believe that a man can survive more than one occasion of garage selling. My life is not dedicated to folly. No, I will support those who are stronger than me—those of the species who are equipped with the metal to survive and even thrive in the conflict—the female…and as God is my witness, the stronger sex. I am told that we prevailed on the battlefield this day. I would not know. I have no way of measuring such inhumane cruelty that transpires at such events between humans. But, Linda is pleased. I suppose the wad of cash tucked in the pocket of her shorts has something to do with it. I thought for an instant that I’d share in the bounty of the day. But the suggestion caused her to turn on me like a she-wolf protecting her pups. I will stay my distance. If I am to be the recipient of any of the bounty, she will let me know; and I will like it. That’s OK with me. In fact, life in general is good now that the garage sale is over. I only hope that tonight I will be able to sleep through the night without reoccurring dreams and flashbacks of the wild eyes that turned on me in the early morning hours. Nope, man definitely is not geared for this. |
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