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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 ** |
| I haven’t received my membership card yet. I’m not sure they send them out. I think it just happens to you. Like the day I went to Golden Coral Restaurant and they charged me the Senior rate. It took me a while to figure out why my meal was cheaper than my associate’s. I realized I just joined the Senior Circuit. Well, it’s the same with the Codger Club. You don’t get a membership card, you’re just added to the ranks. There are some subtle outward signs of membership in this Club. You can identify members by watching them around a group of teenagers. The codgers are the ones you see shaking their heads in disbelief, muttering, “I don’t understand kids these days. I remember when …(add any of a dozen thoughts about the ‘old days.’) The codgers are the ones pushing on the ‘pull’ side of the glass door entrances. They are the one’s holding the menu at arm’s length in the restaraunt, squinting at the writing. And, they are the one’s deep in conversation regarding a recent scar, surgery, or comparison of prescription medicine. I confess I’m guilty to all those things, which means I must be a codger. I stumbled into this conclusion when I realized I have become a historical resource for my grandkids. I mean, the things in their history books are events I lived through. The most outstanding example are the tragedies of the assassinations of JFK, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr. I remember clearly where I was on those days. I remember Sputnik and our (US) first man in space. I remember sitting outside on our lawn in the evening, gazing at the sky and watching a tiny speck move across the heavens; we could watch our astronauts orbit the Earth from the ground. I remember the day the first man walked on the moon. I remember the Vietnam War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and I listened to the speech where Reagan said, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” Heck, I remember when Eisenhower was president. And, it isn’t just world and US history that is part of my codgery; there's local stuff in there too. I also remember the Great Heat Wave of ’80, where temperatures soared to 112 and remained over 100-degrees for over 60 days. I remember the Great Hail Storm of ’95, which pummeled the City of Fort Worth, busting out car windows and sending Mayfest revelers scurrying for safety. And I recall distinctly the tornado of 2000—recent history. I remember these weather related events just like my parents remembered the great dust storms of the Dust Bowl era. Final proof of membership in the Codger Club is the fact that I can remember all those events from way back when, but I can’t seem to remember where my car keys are, who it was that called last night with urgent news, or even what the heck the news was. However, I’m sure my forgetfulness is due to a busy schedule and nothing to do with the decades of years stacked behind me. Let’s see now; I know this article was headed somewhere. I was going to make a point of some sort but it has slipped my memory for a second. Oh well, I think I’ll go outside and sit in my easy chair and drink a cool glass of lemonade. I’m sure it will come back to me eventually. Have I ever told you about the Great Heat Wave of ’80? |
| “Mine, mine, mine,” that’s the mantra of two-year-olds. I know, I heard it enough as both of my children moved through that stage. However, now that I think about it, there are many adults who seem to possess an inability to leave that mantra behind. Well, that’s the subject of a future entry. Today’s subject is about my dog Max…again. Anyone who is familiar with dogs knows our canine friends can become a little possessive at times. Sometimes that possessiveness can be a bad thing. It takes some work and persistence on the part of the human partner to keep possessiveness from becoming destructive. Dogs may become dangerous if this is not addressed properly. We’ve worked very hard at focusing Max’s possessiveness into positive actions. To date, Max has a list of things of which he is very possessive. In order of priority they appear to be: 1) Me, 2) Linda, 3) Any other member of his pack¸4) His house, 5) His (my) truck, which is an extension of his house, 6) His yard, and 7) His bone. He has no real problem with anyone messing with his food or his other stuff. I can pet him while he eats and even remove food from his bowl and he does not react. His possessiveness of me is demonstrated when someone gets too close to me. If Linda walks up to me and puts her arm around my shoulder, as I work on the computer, Max will try to nuzzle between us. If I am talking to someone and they reach out to touch me, Max will react sometimes quite aggressively. One of Ryan’s (grandson) friends visited in our home one evening; the kid walked briskly up to me, reaching out his hand to shake mine. Max was on the kid in a heartbeat with growls and lunges…no bites but scary as hell. After Max was properly introduced to the young man there was never a problem again…however, I don’t think the kid ever offered to shake my hand again. Needless to say we are still working on that. The “two-year-old syndrome” surfaces when Max is in his back yard. The yard is his. Let a squirrel or bird, or heavens…a cat enter his backyard and its all “mine, mine, mine.” Our morning usually begins shortly after I get out of bed. Give me a moment to groom and get a cup of coffee and I take my position on the back porch with my Kindle and read the news or a book selection. Max roams the yard smelling and checking it out. It seems as if he is wondering, “Ok, is this thing the way I left it last night?” We have a community of squirrels living in the arbors surrounding our yard. In thirteen years our trees have grown to substantial heights, intertwining branches and creating quite an overhead highway for the critters living amongst the leaves. As a result the squirrels frequent our yard, running along our fences and jumping from branch to branch and tree to tree. They seem to have the misguided notion that it is their yard. They will perch on a branch, flicking their tail and chattering at Max below. Whereas, he in return will proclaim their error to the entire world as he barks, “Mine, mine, mine!” Sometimes a brave squirrel will climb down the tree trunk to be eye-level to Max. Max crouches in stalk mode and in slow motion lifts one paw after the other as he stealthily advances, slowly closing the distance between himself and the bushy-tailed interloper. Suddenly, Max sprints to the tree with hopes of snagging the foolish squirrel, who by the time of Max’s rendezvous with the tree, is well into the safety of the limbs above. Occasionally, the bushy-tailed rascals will venture into the middle of the yard a dozen feet from the nearest tree. When Max breaks for them it is a race to the nearest tree. As expected, the squirrels always beat Max to the safety of the tree. There is no hope that Max will ever catch a squirrel. That dog is just too fat and old to harbor such hopes. But, that trifling fact doesn’t keep him from trying. I suppose he is holding on to the possibility of some careless squirrel tripping as he scampers to the tree. Unfortunately for Max, I have never seen a squirrel trip. But, I suppose it could happen. In any case, the back yard belongs to Max. Let the squirrels have the trees that span the world above it; the back yard is his. He proclaims his ownership to the squirrels and even the birds as they fly across the yard. “Mine, mine, mine!” I hear him shout. Oh, I know the neighbors are thinking it’s just a barking dog. But his bark is as distinctive to me as the spoken word. “This is mine!” he proclaims. And, I confirm, “Indeed it is.” |
Fireworks streak into the night sky leaving a blazing rainbow of sparks. At the apex of it’s flight it burst into gloriously bright colors of red and gold, blossoming across the sky and coaxing ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ from the people seated on the grass far below. A reverberating boom follows the spectacular sight and causes small ripples to form in my diet coke. We all eagerly await the next aerial demonstration and are not disappointed as a silver streak arcs from the ground even before the final sparks of the last are spent. And so it goes as fireworks of every shape, size, and magnitude fill the evening sky. Somewhere an orchestra plays Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture in accompaniment, which is somewhat curious since that particular piece was a commemoration of a Russian victory over Napoleon at Borodino in the outskirts of Moscow and has nothing to do with American independence. However, I suppose it’s the sixteen cannon shots in the piece that provides the piece with the patriotic flavor on our Fourth of July. In our patriotic fervor we tend to discount those little details. The scene is usually the climax of a busy day ranging from parades in the morning demonstrating patriotic themes on all the floats and music from the marching bands, which always have their own rendition of “The Stars and Stripes Forever”. Later in the day we walk through the festival area where we get hot dogs, cotton candy, and the appropriate drinks, depending on whether or not you are a ‘tea-totaller’. It is a scene that is pure “Americana.” Although, I am quite sure at other times other peoples in other lands celebrate similar events proclaiming their national pride. But, here in America, this is what the Fourth of July is all about. But, how often do we pause to consider the source of this aerial demonstration. The exploding pyrotechnics and resounding booms send giggles through the youngsters. But, there are men and women among us who have seen similar aerial demonstrations in real life. After all, rockets and explosions are products of war. For generations our fellow Americans have seen for real the violence of which our fireworks mimic. I point this out not to cast a damper to the joy of the celebration. Not at all—for we should celebrate what has been done for us. We must celebrate their sacrifice and honor their memory. My father was one of those who paid this price. As a young Marine, he stormed the sands of Okinawa in WWII. He saw things a young man should not have to see; and did things that he would never forget. My uncle endured the frozen battlefield of the Ardennes during the Battle of the Bulge, earning a Bronze Star for gallantry. They did it for an idea, for a way of life, for reasons that they could never explain or even understand. Several years ago I had the privilege to walk next to the Wall Memorial in Washington D.C. I ran my fingers across the names on that wall; there are so many names. I whispered thank you to each of them. I will never forget them and what they did for me personally. Our young men and women again serve in Iraq and Afghanistan. There is no consciousable way that anyone could not show support to these fine people. The press cannot honor them enough. It’s not the presses place; that’s our job. We must honor our warriors. So, I urge each of you to enjoy the fireworks. Listen to the patriotic tunes. Enjoy the day and laugh and play. When the colorful display lights the night sky above me and the strain of the Stars and Stripes Forever is heard, I will remember those who paid the price. And I will whisper to them a quiet thank you--thanks for all they’ve done for me. Reprint and edit from Sporadic Journal, July 4, 2007, Dan C. Boutwell |
There is something magic about touching. I don’t know how you define magic, but I know it has something to do with the wonder of unexplained happenings. There are a multitude of touches in my life which can truly be classified as being magic. I remember when my children were very young, infants in fact. I remember standing over the crib of a sleeping child and wondering at the miracle lying before me. I remember reaching down and touching my finger to the tiny palm of his hand. I remember the thrill that coursed through my body as those little fingers closed around my finger and held on. It was such a tiny little grip, but it carried the force of a super-nova as it melted my heart. It was magic; nothing else but magic. I loved with a love that surpasses description. Every parent who has stood over a sleeping baby knows exactly what I mean. I remember sitting with a sleeping six-year old nestled in my lap. He had played hard all day. Dirt, grime, and sweat mixed together to form glue that pasted his hair to his forehead. Just moments prior, that same six-year old bristled with the energy of a tornado, created the havoc of a train-wreck, and fostered the exhaustion of driving through rush hour traffic on an empty tank of gas. How dramatically things can change in just a matter of minutes. And it was at that quiet time I found myself carefully stoking the sweaty forehead, oblivious of the sweat, dirt, and grime. That touch was magic as well as priceless. I remember groggily waking from an induced sleep after surgery. I remember seeing tubes, machines, and Linda all hovering in and out of my vision. I had passed through open-heart surgery. I had emerged on the other side and still had a heartbeat and found a world waiting for me. But life had shown that it was tenuous and not at all guaranteed. The reality of mortality and limited ability to do anything about it brought doubt, confusion, and fear into my soul. But, yet a touch on my shoulder and a smile from Linda told me I was not alone. It was a magic touch. Now, there is another touch that many folks discount and don’t really give much credence to. That is because it is the touch between a dog and a man. I don’t know why some folks roll their eyes at the thought of a magic touch between a man and a dog. But, I know it’s there. The day I came home from the hospital I was pretty much an invalid. The trip from the car to the bed exhausted me. The pain was significant, as it should be when someone pries open your chest and then wires it back up again. I remember walking into the house. I had been separated from my black Lab, Max, for almost a week. We had established a bond; however, I never knew how strong that bond was until that moment. When I walked into the house, Max checked me out thoroughly. His sense of smell told him his friend was different—I was vulnerable. He followed me to the bedroom and then lay down next to my bed. He has lain there every night since then. Occasionally, I felt, and still feel, a cold nose on my elbow and glance to find Max checking on me. The touch of that cold nose was magic to me. Today I find myself stretched out on the couch watching TV with Max lying beside me. Unconsciously, I reach down and scratch him behind the ears and stroke his soft black coat. The touch is magic. It is a gentle communication between him and me confirming he is a significant part of my life. Somehow that touch is therapeutic, calming, satisfying. Numerous times during the day he returns the gesture with a nudge from that cold, black nose or a gaze into those deep brown eyes. Each time I respond to him, his tail begins to wag—sometimes slowly, sometimes using his whole butt. I can’t describe it and to attempt to do so is worrisome. All I know it that, even with a black dog a touch can be magic. |
| Perhaps we are in for a little good news. That is if some natural calamity or man-made screw-up does not occur for a while. Stocks, which have been dropping since the first of May, just may be on the verge of gaining a little ground. The NASDAQ-100 is a stock market index listing of the top 100 non-financial companies listed on the New York Stock Exchange. It gives us a good shadow of what the stock market is doing as a whole. I’ve pasted a copy of the NASDAQ history for the last six months (courtesy of OptionsXpress.) You can see the usual up and down movement of the stocks on each day. The red bars are days where the stock market closed down; the green bars are days where the stock market closed up. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** After all the ups and downs during that period, you can see from the chart that the market is generally the same place it was six months ago—if not a little lower. In short term that is frustrating, because it seems as if very little progress is being made in our savings—all 401Ks will more than likely reflect this pattern. However, before we run out and jump from any buildings, there is perhaps a bright spot on the horizon. We just may have ‘bounced’ from the bottom of this latest cycle. Notice that the last ‘bottom’ in March was just about where we are today—that pretty much sets the floor. And, we had an up market yesterday. Perhaps we are turning on the upward swing of the cycle. The next week or so will likely give us our answer. If we bounce, we can expect some healthy gains over the next month or so. If we plow right on through the bottom, well, it may not be very pretty. My prediction is that something significant is going to happen to affect the market. Since this is the opening of the political season, you can expect some drastic actions on the part of Mr. Obama. He must do something to create positive impact to the market. As it stands today, industry and business simply does not have confidence that his policies are in the best interest of American businesses. I’m not sure what he can do to change that. It appears the actions most beneficial to business are contrary to the political philosophy he has embraced. He cannot provide incentives to business without endorsing some Republican philosophy. In an election year, I would not look for him to concede anything beneficial from the Republican camp, regardless of how beneficial it may be to the business environment. Likely, he will try to gain the favor of the populace without fostering incentives for businesses or benefitting the wealthy. The best way he can do that is to flat out give the people money through entitlements, and paint his opponents as hating grandma and the underprivileged. He can only do that by increasing taxes, more particularly the taxes of the more financially successful Americans, and giving those dollars to the lower income folks--notice small business is totally ignored in this maneuver. He can also increase his popularity by removing troops from the Middle-East, regardless of the ramifications that action would have on obtaining a successful completion of our mission. In the long haul these actions are devastating to our economy. In the short haul, they are beneficial to his political career. Bottom line is Mr. Obama and I are both hoping for the same thing. We both want the NASDAQ to bounce today. That would be good for my investments and all our 401Ks. If it does not bounce, but rather plows right on through the bottom—well, you and I will lose retirement savings and he very well may become a single-term president. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I very rarely pass things emailed to me on through the email. I consider it an annoyance. However, for once I took the time and read the piece. I remember that period in my life well. While I was safe at home, these brave men in service were forgotten and dishonored by their countrymen. I never spoke against them. My heart broke for them. They always had my support. But I did nothing but watch. I am so glad I was not an "activist." How does the liberal crowd feel about this today? How can we show honor to this action. I am so ashamed. Never Forgive A Traitor For those of you too young to remember, Hanoi Jane is a bad person and did some terrible things during the Vietnam war. Things that can not be forgiven! and now President OBAMA wants to honor her...... In Memory of LT. C. Thomsen Wieland who spent 100 days at the Hanoi Hilton IF YOU NEVER FORWARDEDANYTHING IN YOUR LIFE, FORWARD THIS SO THAT OTHERS WILL KNOW . She really is a traitor. A TRAITOR IS ABOUT TO BE HONORED. KEEP THIS MOVING ACROSS AMERICA This is for all the kids born in the 70's and after who do not remember, and didn't have to bear the burden that our fathers, mothers and older brothers and sisters had to bear. . Jane Fonda is being honored as one of the '100 Women of the Century.' BARBRA WALTERS WRITES: "Unfortunately, many have forgotten and still countless others have never known how Ms. Fonda betrayed not only the idea of our country, but specific men who served and sacrificed during Vietnam ..." The first part of this is from an F-4E pilot. The pilot's name is Jerry Driscoll, "a River Rat". In 1968, the former Commandant of the USAF Survival School was a POW in Ho Lo Prison the ' Hanoi Hilton.' Dragged from a stinking cesspit of a cell, cleaned, fed, and dressed in clean PJ's, he was ordered to describe for a visiting American 'Peace Activist' the 'lenient and humane treatment' he'd received. He spat at Ms. Fonda, was clubbed, and was dragged away. During the subsequent beating, he fell forward on to the camp Commandant 's feet, which sent that officer berserk. In 1978, the Air Force Colonel still suffered from double vision (which permanently ended his flying career) from the Commandant's frenzied application of a wooden baton. From 1963-65, Col.. Larry Carrigan was in the 47FW/DO (F-4E's). He spent 6 years in the 'Hanoi Hilton',,, the first three of which his family only knew he was 'missing in action'. His wife lived on faith that he was still alive. His group, too, got the cleaned-up, fed and clothed routine in preparation for a 'peace delegation' visit. They, however, had time and devised a plan to get word to the world that they were alive and still survived. Each man secreted a tiny piece of paper, with his Social Security Number on it , in the palm of his hand. When paraded before Ms. Fonda and a cameraman, she walked the line, shaking each man's hand and asking little encouraging snippets like: 'Aren't you sorry you bombed babies?' and 'Are you grateful for the humane treatment from your benevolent captors?' Believing this HAD to be an act, they each palmed her their sliver of paper. She took them all without missing a beat.. At the end of the line and once the camera stopped rolling, to the shocked disbelief of the POWs, she turned to the officer in charge and handed him all the little pieces of paper.. Three men died from the subsequent beatings. Colonel Carrigan was almost number four but he survived, which is the only reason we know of her actions that day. I was a civilian economic development advisor in Vietnam , and was captured by the North Vietnamese communists in South Vietnam in 1968, and held prisoner for over 5 years. I spent 27 months in solitary confinement; one year in a cage in Cambodia ; and one year in a 'black box' in Hanoi My North Vietnamese captors deliberately poisoned and murdered a female missionary, a nurse in a leprosarium in Ban me Thuot , South Vietnam , whom I buried in the jungle near the Cambodian border.. At one time, I weighed only about 90 lbs. (My normal weight is 170 lbs) We were Jane Fonda's 'war criminals....' When Jane Fonda was in Hanoi , I was asked by the camp communist political officer if I would be willing to meet with her.. I said yes, for I wanted to tell her about the real treatment we POWs received.. and how different it was from the treatment purported by the North Vietnamese, and parroted by her as 'humane and lenient.' Because of this, I spent three days on a rocky floor on my knees, with my arms outstretched with a large steel weights placed on my hands, and beaten with a bamboo cane. I had the opportunity to meet with Jane Fonda soon after I was released. I asked her if she would be willing to debate me on TV. She never did answer me. These first-hand experiences do not exemplify someone who should be honored as part of '100 Years of Great Women.' Lest we forget....' 100 Years of Great Women' should never include a traitor whose hands are covered with the blood of so many patriots. There are few things I have strong visceral reactions to, but Hanoi Jane's participation in blatant treason, is one of them. Please take the time to forward to as many people as you possibly can... It will eventually end up on her computer and she needs to know that we will never forget. RONALD D. SAMPSON, CMSgt, USAF 716 Maintenance Squadron, Chief of Maintenance DSN: 875-6431 COMM: 883-6343 "we cannot direct the wind~~~But we can adjust our sails" |
| The good thing about being a blond is you don’t notice the gray hair creeping in at the temples. Since I’ve got to look at that face every morning when I shave, that little detail is pretty important. I splash water in my face and wipe off the excess shaving cream when I’m finished; I take a good look in the mirror and say, “You good looking young fool, have a good day!” Well at least I used to. The unseen grey hairs were at one time unnoticed and I could fool myself, and even lie a little about the “good looking” part. But the wrinkles along the edges have made it exceedingly difficult to say that anymore. More likely it’s, “Well, you old fart, you’ve made it another day!” The ever ticking clock of age and mortality stubbornly takes step after step, regardless of my willingness for it to do so. Little reminders are provided to me on a daily basis. I’m slower to rise from a sitting position, I have aches and pains in my joints that have become more than occasional reminders. And, then there’s the little thing about the open heart surgery and quadruple by-pass that reminds me of some of the major tune-ups this body has had. Even my dog tells me we are getting a little older. This morning Max looked up at me with that adoring gaze he gives me on a regular basis—the one that melts my heart and continually endears him to me. As he looked at me I noticed the few gray hairs that have snuck in around the edges of his mouth. I had seen those before. But, today I also noticed a smattering of grey below his chin. Those weren’t there just a short time back. Or if they were, they were overpowered by the volumes of coal black hair that covers my black dog. He will be eight years old come October. In people years he would still be younger than I am. But he is gaining fast. He has become my constant companion. If I am in the house, he is next to me. They tell me dogs are not emotional. They don’t experience love or hate; they are just creatures of habit, reacting to past experiences. Well, you’ll have a difficult time convincing me that my dog does not love me. He shows more signs of his love and devotion to me than any human ever has, other than my wife. And, it would be inconceivable and unfair to think that the love and adoration I return to him is one sided--human oriented only. Nope, the dog loves me and I love him back. I guess that’s why it bothers me to see him age so rapidly, knowing that his life span is a seventh of mine. I will lose that hairy black friend someday; and that saddens me. Perhaps that is why I often talk gently to him and continuously pet his head and scratch his ears just the way he likes it. My time with him will be short—much shorter than I want. And, I wonder about the afterlife. I wonder if there will be room in heaven for those barks I’ve become so used to? Will I feel those cold nose nudges on my elbow in the everlasting ? I don’t know if there are dogs in heaven. The theologians say animals have no souls and therefore will not be in heaven. I don’t know how they know that. My understanding of heaven is that it is a very big place; surely there is room for a black Lab or two. All I know is that it won’t be perfect if Max isn’t there. And, since heaven is a perfect place, I’ve just got to think Max will be there with me—greeting me with that wagging butt and whimpers as I walk up to the pearly gates—just as he has done a thousand times before. |
I try to be open minded regarding the feelings and beliefs of others. For certain, I am not always successful at it. However, it is nevertheless my intent. So, I tried to stifle the patriotic outrage which flushed over me when I heard that Goshen College has banned the National Anthem at its sporting events. Are they Americans? Yes. Is the Star Spangled Banner our official national anthem? Yes. Will Goshen College proudly place their hand over their hearts and sing it before kickoff? No, because the tune is forbidden. “Why?” you may ask. The answer from Goshen administrators is that it promotes violence and glorifies war. Really? Is that what that song is about? I never realized that. I had the mistaken idea it was about the ability to persevere over unbelievable adversity. I thought it had something to do about recognizing there was a central theme that binds all Americans together. I thought it was about loyalty and honor and freedom. But the scholars at Goshen tell me the National Anthem is a battle song that talks about bombs and rockets and conflicts. And, since they are pacifists, they want nothing to do with it. Now, I know all that stuff was present at the time the song was written. I know there was a battle going on; I grant you that. I also know Francis Scott Key witnessed the battle and was filled with pride and hope when he saw his fledgling nation’s flag still flying even after it had endured a vicious onslaught brought against it by an adversary. In my opinion, the battle was just part of the landscape—merely the setting. Key did not glory in the battle or the bombs or the rockets. His amazement and apparent joy was focused on the symbol of a new country, embodied in a piece of cloth attached to a pole. The sight of that flag still flying over the ramparts of Fort McHenry inspired him to record his patriotic emotions. His message was, “I am proud to be an American.” It is still a valid message today. Its message has nothing to do with war or violence, other than the fact that it is through such trials nations are often born. The song has nothing to do with man’s violence directed to his fellow man; but it has everything to do with a shared promise that every man shall be afforded opportunity to be free and the have the hope of a better tomorrow for himself and his family. After all that is the true American dream. That’s what the song tells me. I don’t care if it is written to the tune of an old English drinking song. I don’t care if it speaks of bombs and rockets. I don’t even care if the vocal octave range exceeds most folk’s easy ability to sing. It’s the meaning of the song that is important. The fact that song promises to provide every man an unlimited portion of freedom and opportunity, embodied in the symbol of that flag and voiced in the song,--well, that is what is important to me. The promise of that song is that folks who think different than I do, who may not agree with me all the time or even much of the time, who may even wish me ill will, all have the right to their opinion. They can even condemn the national anthem of their country and partake freely and justly in the freedom and grace of that nation. But that doesn't mean I have to like Goshen College’s silly actions. And I can say that because, remember—this is a free country. Thank you Mr. Key for your patriotic verse. |
| It must be a southern thing. I lived most of my youth before I figured out folks thought it was sorta funny. Seemed to be natural to me. I never thought for a second being called by two names was any bit odd. But, as soon as I walked the halls of higher learning, where I rubbed elbows with guys from other parts of the country, I began to pick up on the snickers and sideways smiles when I talked about my buddies back home. I suppose me and my crowd weren’t very sophisticated. I never really thought of myself as been country. Sure, I lived in a small town in Oklahoma and drove a pick-up truck. I had a pair of boots which I wore when the occasion was right, but I also had a pair of joggers and some penny loafers. I’ve got to admit jeans were my favorite pant. My favorite meal was a toss up between fried chicken and chicken fried steak. A big bowl of okra, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob finished off any meal. Of course, I loved homemade biscuits, gravy, eggs, and bacon or sausage for breakfast. Don’t dare put a plate of fruit or prissy croissant in my plate—that just ain’t right. And, worst of all I found I listened to country radio just as much as I listened to pop. I guess there was no way to keep a little bit of country from rubbing off on me. So, I suppose I’m a little bit country. That’s why it never struck me as being the least bit funny that folks in my family and folks with which I associated with in my youth were often known by two names. I mean, somewhere along the line I knew a Jim-Ed, Billy-Ray, Joe-Bob, Henry-John, and Clovis. Now, Clovis would have had two names if his parents would have given him one, but that’s all he had. Seems sad his folks ran out of options for a second name with so many possibilities out there. But, I’ll be the first one to admit some of my kin aren’t the brightest bulb on the string. Now, I don’t know why southern boys ended up with this curious affliction. Perhaps it has something to do with having two simple first names as part of your set. Like I doubt if a Nathaniel Edison Merryweather would be shortened to Nathaniel-Edison. Nope, wouldn’t happen. Maybe it has something to do with the frequency those southern rascals found themselves in trouble with their moms. “Jim Ed Smith! You get your butt in this house this second or I’ll switch you till you cain’t sit down!” Folks just got used to hearing the full range of names blared out across the neighborhood and, as a result, kinda shortened it to Jim-Ed—like it felt kinda natural. The option to the double name was to just use the initials—like J.R., R.L., P.J., and J.G. (all real live folks.) The guys I ran around with had simple names: Alan, Joe, Jerry, Mike, Ross, etc. Mine is an example. My parents could have named me Daniel. But, nope I was a Danny. My middle name was Clark. I’m lucky I didn’t get tagged with Danny-Clark. But, fortunately, my mom just stopped with Danny when she lowered the boom on me in front of my buddies. I suppose we are all a product of our social environment. The New York kids who roomed in my dorm in college had names like Franco Francione or Joseph Levowitz. They ended up being called Franky, Noodles, or Balls. Don’t even ask me about how Balls got his name. So, I guess I don’t really mind the southern trait of using two first names. Who cares if it suggests we are a little rednecked down here? So be it. It could be worse; I knew one kid whose nickname was Stinky. I’m not sure, but I don’t think it had a thing to do with him being from Texas. |
The 19th Century German philosopher, Nietzsche proclaimed, “God is Dead.” He was not asserting God did not exist. Not at all, rather Nietzsche was affirming that God no longer existed in the hearts of men. With no real concern as to God’s existence, Nietzsche insisted God simply no longer represented the motivating source and ultimate authority for the actions of men. Men no longer believed in him and, as a result, was for all practical purposes dead. Subsequently, in the age of the 1960’s, when I was an adolescent, our popular society ambled down a spiritual course filled with apathy and self-gratification, spurred on by free will, rebellion, and mind altering hallucinogens. Science was the new god and rational thought left no real room for God in the ‘If it feels good do it” generation. Within that culture the proclamation of Nietzsche resurfaced again, still trying to nail the coffin shut on God, asserting that by now God was certainly dead. And so today, in this age of super-technology and instant communication, we find a mainline society still trying to affirm God has no place in the hearts of a rational, educated, and modern man. Our churches are rife with proselytes of modernism, naturalism, and political correctness to the point where the watered down rolls of the church are becoming meaningless. Any modern poll will support an overwhelming assertion that the majority of Americans believe in God and are Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. However, those same people, when polled, will condemn the Church when it stands fast to moral principles that do not support popular pet agendas. It appears being religious is a matter of convenience to mainline society. But, have the voice of the Church sound out against abortion, homosexuality, same sex marriage, and attempts to remove prayer from school and public gatherings, and that voice is labeled as being racist, redneck, ignorant, fanatical and simple minded. Support prayer around the flag pole on a public school campus, exhibit a nativity scene that proclaims a Merry and Holy Christmas, or display a plaque with the Ten Commandments in the halls of justice and the outcry from mainline society thunders in against the Church in peals of opposition and often ridicule. It appears it is much more politically correct for God to be dead in the eyes of the news media and among a community considering itself to be informed. Thus confirms the Apostles Paul’s statement that “considering themselves to be wise they became fools.” In the eyes of a nonbelieving world, if God is not dead he certainly has a terminal illness rapidly leading to death. However, there has always existed a faithful contingent of believers, whose number is undocumented, since they blend into the visibly “churched” silent majority. (Realize there are those who go to church to be seen going to church and there are those who go to church to deepen a relationship with a loving God. Often times it is difficult to visually discern one from the other.) There has always been a faithful remnant, as prophesied in the Old Testament. This remnant existed through the ancient captivity of Israel, persecutions of the Roman Empire, apostasy of the Dark Ages, and assault of humanism and science into our era. There has always been a remnant who believed in the one true God and remained faithful to him. Don’t try to identify them as a denomination or sect. God does not have relationships with denominations and sects. God has relationships with individuals. That is where you find the remnant, among individuals, who often times gather together in groups to worship. We like to think that, on the greater scale, Christian churches contain that remnant; unfortunately, that is not always the case. It is among the remnant where you find testimony of an active God, a God who is alive and working among his faithful. God is not dead, and will never be as long as there is a remnant who believes in him. It is not that God only makes his presence known to the remnant. No, God works openly and actively for all the world to see. Miracles still happen and are obvious to those who are witnessing God’s presence in the world. However, in the minds of those who scoff at the existence of the remnant and who contend that God is certainly dead, miracles are not politically correct and fail under the scrutiny of the common sense of science and right thinking. As a result, the scoffers do not see an Active God working a million miracles on a daily basis. And more significantly they totally miss the blessing of experiencing the first hand love of a truly loving God—the love of an Active God. So, it is on the occasions where super human strength is needed and unprecedented fortune is necessary to save the moment, we find the unbelieving media and populace quickly explaining away the miracles which prove God is alive. The testimonies of great saints, who are everyday people living a faithful life for God, are winked at and labeled as the ignorant musings of old people, whose basis of information is steeped in senility. The cancer gone to remission is attributed to the drug and the surgeon. The near lost life retrieved from the disaster is attributed to the action of the emergency medical technician (EMT). The extraction of 33 Chilean miners from beneath a half-mile of rock is attributed to the ingenuity and aggressive action of a president and his group of experts. And, the restructured and reconciled private life of the drug addict is attributed to the courts of justice and treatment institutions. The actions of God in each of these situations is often explained away, becoming only a footnote--a caption caught on TV such as, “Hi, Mom.” However, there are those who know and see God acting in this world today; just ask that miner who fell on his knees and gave thanks when he reached the light of day. The remnant still sees; and they know. Nietzsche was wrong. God is not dead—just ignored. But, just the same, he has not gone away. He has not slinked away with hurt feelings or wounded pride. God remains right where he has always been—right here next to you and me, doing what he has always done—loving us and caring for us. God is moving about; he is indeed an Active God. |
| OK, picture if you will, the perfect summer afternoon. Now, hold that in your mind for a moment. If that vision is truly a perfect moment, you will be unconsciously smiling as the rest of your co-workers curiously wonder about that silly grin on your face. I know; I’m grinning now. I am currently experiencing a portion of the perfect summer moment. The temperature is in the mid-seventies. I realize here in Texas that will not be the case as we move into August. However, right now I am loving it. I’m outside on my back porch, in the shade, with a gentle breeze caressing my face. I’ve moved my computer and office phone outside with me and have been steadily taking calls and making entries on the computer. I’m making a little money. My black dog Max has joined me out here, of course. He’s stalking a cardinal at the moment. Please rest assured the cardinal is in no immediate danger from Max. Now, what I’m doing now is pretty perfect, but that is not the perfect moment I have pictured in my mind. Nope, mine involves a hammock. I want a hammock, a cool drink, a gentle breeze, a little shade at just the right time, and my back yard. I don’t know what it is about hammocks that intrigue me. I just associate that with absolute comfort. As a kid, I remember lazy summer days laying on your back watching clouds drift across a deep blue sky. Countless schemes were concocted, dreams initiated, and problems solved by gazing at the blue heavens and those white fluffy clouds. I suppose I miss that. I also remember the hammock I had in my room in Venezuela. I spent much of my childhood in Maracaibo, Venezuela. My dad worked in the oil fields of that country and my mother, brother and I lived there with him. My room was large. It had tile floors and large windows that opened wide to let the breeze flow through. An additional feature in each bedroom were two heavy duty eye-hooks located in the corners where the ceiling and wall met. Many of the families in Maracaibo did not have beds. Hammocks were hung in the rooms and served as the sleeping device. Although, we had beds in our bedrooms, I also had a hammock strung between the hooks. I would spend hours lazing in the hammock. I suppose my perfect summer afternoon moment is the combination of these two childhood memories. For I would dearly love to laze in the backyard in my hammock, watching clouds drift by as I mentally solved the problems of the world. All I need to realize that simple dream is a cooperative environment and, of course, a hammock. I can’t do much about the environment, well not anything more. I've already planted trees which have grown tall and grass that has grown green. Nature takes care of the weather and the clouds. I’m working on the hammock. Unfortunately, I’m not a lad any longer but a old fat geezer, which means the load bearing capacity of the hammock must be heavy industrial quality to safely carry my mass. But, I know that can be accomplished. Why, just yesterday, while shopping at Sam’s, Linda and I found a hammock for the back yard. I purposefully noted the weight limit of the hammock and was pleased to find it rated for five-hundred pounds. A full cart and significant purchases prevented me from spending the $250 required for the hammock. Now, hindsight tells me I wish I had; because it is a perfect day outside. All that I need to make it a perfect moment is that silly hammock. Well, and maybe an “i-Pad 2” to mess with as I gently sway in my perfect moment glancing at the clouds creep across the heavens. |
| OK, this is sort of a weak rant. But, I feel kinda bad about ranting on Easter…like, who rants on Easter or Christmas mornings? I’m sorry, but I can’t help this one little rant. I flipped through the TV channels last night, looking for something entertaining to watch, which is getting harder to do. Well, anyway, I found The Ten Commandments running on two of the nearly 400 channels on my Uverse selection. That was the only thing on the Tube of spiritual content which was associated with this Easter weekend. It used to be dozens of Easter stories would be running through the weekend, but not so today. Don’t get me wrong; I love to watch Charlton Heston facing down Pharaoh proclaiming, “Let my people go!” And the scene when he…err, Moses…stands on the rock at the Red Sea, holds his hands up, and has God part the waters as Pharaoh’s army rides down to its destruction, well, that has got to be one of the greatest feats of special effects in movie history. As an eight year old boy, I was convinced Charlton Heston really was Moses…or at least Moses really did look exactly like Charlton Heston. Needless to say, I’ve got nothing to say against that movie. My beef this Easter morning rather, is that The Ten Commandments was the ONLY movie the networks could find to commemorate the resurrection. Granted, it is a well presented story of a spiritual nature and deserves to be viewed. It is a movie that all Christians can enjoy and be proud of. But it misses the point of Easter morning. Or at least it does not tell it as well as other great classics. For example, Ben Hur, has a tremendous Christian message that focuses on the Easter story. Hey, you even get Charlton Heston again in Ben Hur. Another classic is The Robe. In fact there are several great movies more appropriate for Easter weekend, such as The Greatest Story Ever Told and even Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ. Now, what has gotten me all worked up about this is that this is the third year in a row this has happened. This smacks of ‘political correctness.’ I suppose I should be happy they (networks) broadcast anything spiritual at all. But to continuously throw The Ten Commandments out to us, as token spiritual fodder, is insulting. Moreover, since Easter occurs during the Passover, it is a perfect choice for them to satisfy both their Jewish patrons and their Christian patrons, or so they figure. I realize to show anything spiritual at all runs the risk of offending someone. Who knows the angst it must cause atheists to see these movies with spiritual content. And by all means we would not want to offend the Muslims, or by that means the Hindus, Buddhist, Hare Krishna’s, or Wiccans. So at least, in this land where Christians and Jews abound, it seems a pretty good bet that The Ten Commandments will satiate the majority of those spiritual nuts (of which I am one.) Who knows how far the networks and cable will go to not offend any person. Maybe we’ve seen the last of Jimmy Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy; we wouldn’t want to offend our non-American friends. We won’t see Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, too many football fans out there and we don’t want to offend them. And of course, Lassie will nevermore be on the big-screen but will be restrained in her doghouse for good, for we certainly don’t want to offend any cat-lovers out there. I remember, as an adolescent, how we were ushered by our teachers into the school auditorium each Easter season. As a special treat the school administrators would run an Easter movie, such as The Greatest Story Ever Told or The Robe. I’ll bet that’s not happening anywhere in the USA now…too bad. That was a different time. We are much more sensitive to the feelings of everyone else now. We are much more correct…too bad. Perhaps I take this too far, to the ridiculous. However, that is how I feel about the situation. I will have to get over it; I realize. I promise not to say anything next year when at this same time they broadcast The Ten Commandments as the lone offering for the season. I won’t rant; but, is it alright to silently grind my teeth? |
| I like to make lists; and with the advent of computers I’ve been enamored with data bases. Now, I know that sounds weird. Maybe it’s the planner in me—categorizing stuff, taking inventory, organizing…that kind of stuff. Well, like I said, the computer has created endless possibilities to do listings. The most recent culprit has been Window’s Outlook software. With Outlook I can list and categorize all my emails, incoming and outgoing, in neat little folders…which I have. Outlook also lets me organize all my contacts. Organizing contacts has been my latest obsession. Did you know you can put a photograph on each contact, so that when you pull up the information, you see a picture of who you are going to call? Even better, when you get an email, you have a photo of the individual on the screen. Now, that’s not as good as being there in person, but it does make the sterile virtual world a little more personal. I’ve been hounding my friends for information--mere acquaintances do not get hassled. Dates, phone numbers, mailing addresses, and a photograph are usually the morsels for which I hunt. Most folks have a photo from Facebook or other site that can be pasted in the contact list. But, unfortunately, having no accessible photograph, most folks have to remain unseen—unless I paste some character from the comics in their place, which I’ve not done but surely been tempted to do. The other day I received input back from one of my friends. They were somewhat alarmed and asked what that weird email was about that asked all sorts of questions and requested a photo to be emailed. I didn’t think anything about that until I thought about it for a bit. I suppose in this age of identity theft, cyber fraud, and virtual predators, you gotta be careful about what you cast into cyber space. Although, my Outlook Contact database is little more than a digital Roll-A-Dex, it does have the potential of being the beginnings of a CIA dossier. So, if you’re someone who has received an email asking for all sorts of information, purporting to be from me, do as my friend did, check it out before you send anything. There’s just too much really weird stuff going on out in Cyber-world…much weirder than me. I mean, I still refuse to send a credit card number over the cyber-waves. And I can’t believe I’ve seen some requests for Social Security numbers—can you believe it? Rest assured, my little contact file will not be diminished if it is a little incomplete. Besides, I’m on a new listing project now. I’m listing all our DVDs and VHS movies on the database…there’s loads of information there. |
| Forgive me, Lord, for not saying thank you. It is a particularly selfish habit I seem to have gotten into. Just like everyone else I know, I’ve filled my day with stuff, and whiz busily along my daily journey attending to that stuff—never seeming to finish all that I have to do. I suppose I have assumed my busyness gives me license to cut a few corners. Unfortunately, some of those shortcuts have been carelessly insensitive, presumptuous, and selfish—like saying, “Thank you.” This was brought to my attention recently as I had lunch on two separate occasions. On both occasions I was present with individuals who certainly are not as selfish as I, for before I could pop that morsel of food impaled upon my fork into my mouth, my eating partners bowed their head and said, “Why don’t I say grace before we dig in?” Without hesitation and appreciative of their thoughtfulness, I bowed my head as we quietly said thank you for the bounty provided for us. I often notice heads bowed in thanksgiving when Linda and I dine out—and we dine out far too much. It always warms my soul to see that happen. In fact there was a day when I also meticulously said thanks before each and every meal. I wonder why I stopped. I assure you it was not because of disbelief in the One who provides and sustains us. No, my faith is still strong. And, it wasn’t because I was not grateful for all He’s given me. My debt to Him can never be repaid, except through His atoning act. No, I am truly grateful. Was it because I was embarrassed by the public display? Nope, that’s not it either. To bow one’s head in grace is a witness to his/her servitude to the Lord, of which I am not ashamed. I suppose my condition, therefore, can be described as one of becoming too comfortable in my position with the Lord. I mean, I have come to believe He is with me all the time—every minute of every waking hour, and those when I slumber also. Do you really need to thank a constant companion for being there? I mean, He is always there. You see, I presume God already knows my heart and does not need me saying so. I don’t constantly thank my wife for all she does for me; nor do I thank my black dog for the absolute devotion he shows me. Why, if I said thanks for every occasion where others treated me kindly, I would seem a gushing idiot. Let me tell you; that kind of thinking will get you in trouble. It matters not how familiar I become with someone, whether in heaven or on Earth. There is forever a need to thank them for their generosity and I am afforded endless opportunities to do so. How do they truly know how much I appreciate them if I never tell them? It isn’t good enough to assume they already know. Besides, it does just as much good for me to tell someone I appreciate them as it does them good to hear it. When my family was young, we would say the blessing before the meal as a testament to our faith and a teaching opportunity for our children. How else could they realize from where our bounty came unless we thanked the Giver. And so they learned. Today, Linda and I often eat alone. There is no child to teach around the table. We often just dig right in. But, I remind myself. Even if I were alone in this world, there is still someone who watches over me--someone who deserves my gratitude. I guess now is the time for me to teach myself. And, I can begin by saying thanks before my meal. I also suppose a conversation or two throughout the day with my Lord would be appropriate—not even a full conversation, maybe just a whisper here or there. Funny, I already knew that—just had to be reminded. Thanks. |
| I watched my grandson get an $86,000 haircut yesterday. You’d think that would be quite a haircut. But, he appeared much the same to me when he came out as he did when he went in. Now, don’t get me wrong. He didn’t spend $86,000 on one haircut; nope, that’s what the dang thing cost him. Let me try to explain. He paid twenty-seven dollars for his haircut. I thought that was a little steep for a doo. I mean, I pay ten dollars at the ‘Old Farts Haircut Shop’ to get my ears lowered. And, I must say I believe I look just as good when I come out as my grandson does. Now, using my outdated mathematics skills, that comes to a difference of seventeen dollars. If you take that seventeen dollars and invest it to get a modest 8% return on that monthly haircut, adding seventeen dollars to it for each month you realize the savings, you have $86,000 at age 65. Now, think about this. What has he lost? He still gets a haircut, albeit does not have a designer stamp. I bring this up because I read an article recently, stating the reason young people do not save their money is because they have no concept of themselves forty years older. I mean, why should my grandson of 20 care about someone he does not know who is sixty, even if it is himself. In other words he would rather spend money on his twenty year old self than his sixty year old self, who is a stranger to him. The article contends this seems to be some of the problem of begining savings at a young age. Most folks simply cannot identify with their future self when facing financial decisions with the exception of guys like Warren Buffet. Mr. Buffet, when he was just a young man, would first ask, “Do I really want or need that $86,000 haircut…or $825,000 sports car?” A few individuals have the ability and insight to connect with their future self. The sacrifice and savings seems reasonable to them. For years I have believed the reason many of us do not save today is because we are greedy. We live in an “I want it now society,” which is encouraged by the financial and commercial systems. I thought we lacked both the will power and the ability to save. I know in my younger life every penny was obligated, leaving nothing to save; at least I believed that was the case. But, I know today, I spent funds for items which could have been placed in savings. Even the small sum like the difference in the cost of haircuts can be a significant factor to our future self. Never doubt the power of compounding interest, regular deposits, and time. I suppose I never really identified with the reality of my future self. I now live with my future self. He's not a bad guy. I look back at my young self and mutter under my breath, “Idiot.” It is true; I’ve gained in wisdom and means over the years. But, I kick myself at the mountain of lost opportunities. The most significant loss of all is time. All the education, wisdom, and dedication in the world cannot replace or extend the time necessary to grow my savings. Fortunately, I realized this several years ago when I still had time to benefit from it. I just wish my young self would have been better acquainted with my future self, at least enough to care more. But, it does not have to be the case with the young self of my grandson. If I can but introduce him to his future self, it will be a tremendous investment in his future. I’m working on it. However, I fear that the young self in us all is strongly influenced by our current sensations and is conscious of the future self only as a dim shadow somewhere out there in the vast and distant future. I fear there is no way to impress on him the far distant future is so much closer than he could ever imagine. And, it all hinges on the difference between the cost of a haircut. |
| I could use a spike right now. I mean a sharp increase in the stock market would do wonders for my attitude. Year 2010 actually was a pretty good year for my little stash of nuts, which are snuggly stored for winter. I know, all the economic pundits said it was a rough year. Well not for me. My little portfolio gained about 27%--guess I was in the right place at the right time. However, since the first of the year it has been a miserable roller-coaster ride. The first quarter has me holding about even for the year, after bouncing all over the place. With the sorry news regarding the Middle East (governments in turmoil, civil war, terrorists running rampant, finishing a war in Iraq, fighting one in Afghanistan, and the price of oil), the catastrophic happenings in Japan, and the lack of our congress to control spending, much less even pass a reasonable budget—well, to say the least, no wonder the money men on Wall Street are a little antsy. All I gotta say is, “Hey World! Get your flippin’ act together!” Through all this I stand amazed at the resilient nature of the human being, at least the ones I know. Life has dumped a bunch of lemons on us and we’ve promptly set about making lemonade. It’s heartening to see how folks are able to pick themselves up, dust off the residue, and continue the journey. We people are a curious breed. In the darkest hours we often find a moment to tell a joke—to laugh at life at its most miserable moment. I recall the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. These two desperados are laying wounded in a South American country, a company of Federales are outside loaded to the hilt, they have only a moment before destruction, and these two are bantering lightheartedly back and forth as if it were a Sunday afternoon picnic. People seem to have a way of seeing the lighter side of life. When president Ronald Reagan was wounded by John Hinckley, he lay on the operating table waiting for the surgeons to begin, he joked, “I hope all of you are Republicans.” The entire room chuckled and were encouraged by his attitude. And so, as I watch Wall Street play Ping-Pong with my modest life savings, I can only smile and hope they don’t lose the dang ball. (Sigh) What else can I do…I don’t know any jokes. |
| Sometime they say it just right. Sometime the words are placed in proper order and the emotions sing with uncanny clarity, enveloping a person in their meaning. I find it amazing that humankind can assemble words into patterns that communicate so effectively. I am not a poet, but there are some poems that do this so effectively even I grasp their significance. There are a few great speeches that touch me. Some of those by Churchill have catch phrases that will live with me forever. Some say the Gettysburg Address was written on the back of an envelope, although that is not the case. No matter where it was penned, it is still very effective. And I suppose the most learned verse in the world could very well be the Twenty-Fourth Psalm. Sometimes they say it just right. Passion is what enables the author to do that. Oftentimes he/she is driven by extreme emotion. The Star Spangled Banner was written after witnessing an amazing assault on Fort McHenry. The Charge of the Light Brigade was written after witnessing the unwavering bravery of British Calvary sent into a desperate and unnecessary massacre. Almost every great piece of written word has a great purpose driving it. What would we do if we had no passion? When I write without passion it is a tiresome and grating thing. Each word and phrase must be coaxed from the pen, and often they must be rearranged and even discarded and replaced before they are suitable for reading. But, when I write with passion the words burst forth with amazing clarity, almost begging to be used. Even my lack of writing skill does not deter the effectiveness of the product. I often wonder how amazing it would be if I were really good—how much more meaningful the written page would be. However, I am amazed enough that I have risen to even the level I have attained. I marvel at those who do not value the written word. How unfortunate, they are missing the beauty of the words. When they remark, “I don’t have time for reading,” I want to console them for their loss. We travel at warp speed in our world, today. We live in a world of immediate sensation. I-phones, i-pads, Game Boys, and cell phones give us instant communication worldwide, claiming the attention of our youth—and many of the un-youth. How sad it is we do not have time to read, much less write. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. I’m so glad Robert Frost was not hooked on XBox. |
I’m running with a different crowd now. Actually, it’s more like shufflin’ along. I don’t run anywhere anymore, at least not if I want to be able to breathe. Of course, that is a testament to my poor physical stamina. I keep telling myself I’m gonna lose weight, tone up the muscles, work on the cardio, and improve my diet—Bull! Regardless of how much I want to trim up this old bod of mine, I realize there is just so far it can go. The best I can do is to try to do a little better in all those areas--just don’t expect much. I know that sound like a defeatist point of view. Well, it is a little negative; I must admit. But, four years ago my body hit a brick wall and it just hasn’t quite gotten over it. I’m sure some of it is mental—just how much I don’t know. When they lay you down on the table, pry open your chest, stop your heart, cut and whittle on it, and then hope the thing will jump start again, well, that has a way of playing with your mind. They tell me quadruple heart by-pass surgery is common place today. Geez, excuse me if I’m not greatly comforted. That sort of thing is a sobering testament to a person’s mortality. It reminds me the body is wearing out, as if I need a reminder. I’m not saying I’m ready to give up now. Nope, not at all. As far as I’m concerned I’ve had an overhaul and tune up and am now ready for extended mileage. I want to enjoy each mile of that extension. However, I firmly realize I’m running on blessed minutes which are nothing less than miraculous. God has done a special thing in the form of the surgeon’s hands. This is confirmed by the news I received this past week from two of my contemporaries. One of the best friends I have ever had, shared news with me today. He had just received a double lung transplant. I’ve never heard of such a thing—remarkable. Another friend has just gone home from the hospital following quadruple heart by-pass. I know what he’s going through. So that’s the crowd I’m running with—guys with zippers on their chest. Now, I’m young enough to have many friends who are still quite active, who still play athletics regularly, and who live robust lives. But, even with those healthy examples in my crowd, the future proves still to be very tentative. Last December an acquaintance of mine in the workplace, a man who to everyone appeared in good health, had a heart attack and died on the operating table. The crowd is thinning. I’m ever mindful of this diminishing crowd of mine. Each contact with old friends on Facebook and other social outlets brings news of heart attacks, strokes, and other illnesses. It doesn’t really bother me nor upset me, other than the fact that I miss my old friends. However, it does weigh on my mind somewhat. I can’t help but wonder what tomorrow brings. Have I stored enough nuts to take me through the winter—have any of us? Will our economy abandon us now that we’ve given it the most productive years of our lives? Will we be permitted to sit on our porch with our feet on the rail and sip our coffee, without concern that a faltering economic system will kick the legs of our chair, remove the roof from our porch, and take away our coffee? I’ve come to the opinion that the answers to all these questions depends on me—on us. I still have control of my destiny, as do you. I suppose, if time continues to trudge along, there will come a time when that is not so. However, it will have to take me forcibly, and I guarantee heart by-passes and lung transplants are a testament to time’s forceful nature. Nevertheless, I will not surrender to it. I will not lose the passion. And, that is the answer—passion. Whatever it is we do with our time, we must do it with passion, whether it be working at a job, tending a garden, collecting stamps, or writing. As long as we attack life with a passion, we will be successful; it will all be worthwhile. It is much too soon to write my epitaph. However, if one must be penned at this moment, let it say simply, “He did what he chose to do with passion, knowing he was loved by a passionate God.” |
| My routine, being a well-trained master, is to walk outside just before bedtime, regardless of the time or the nature of the weather, and sit on the back porch while Max takes his time attending to bedtime chores. The dog is exasperating. Often I sit there or stand there and urge him onward, “Go Max, go tinkle, go boy, go, go!” He in turn stands stone still and gazes into the night, frozen in sniff. I mean, that’s what he is doing. The only thing moving on that dog is his nose, sniffing, twitching, looking for smells that are certainly hidden to me. Sometimes we stand there like forever—me urging him onward and him ignoring my urgings. OK, I know my option is to kick his black butt out the door and just wait inside in the warmth of the hearth while he tends to his duties. That doesn’t work well. When we expel him from the house on these nocturnal moments, he turns immediately and gazes back at us through the glass doors. I can read that canine face so well. He looks at me with those big brown eyes that say, “What? You’re not coming with me? I can’t go if’n you don’t come with me. In fact I’ll sit right here and look in the door until you let me back in.” And so I end up going outside with him. Oh, it’s not so bad. In fact I enjoy the night, especially in the spring and summer months. I sit near the edge of the porch where I can see the night sky. Unfortunately, we live in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex and the glow of the cities mute the effect of the starry sky. I can pick out a few constellations I memorized as a Cub Scout all those years ago. Mostly I just watch the moving light of the planes in the approach pattern for D/FW airport. They look like stars, except for the blinking red and green lights. They line up like children in line, waiting their turn to go to the bathroom. I often recall one summer night when I was a kid in Lindsay, Oklahoma. It was a small town removed from the big city lights. Spending the night outside in the back yard on blankets was one of the fun things my buddies and I loved to do. We would chatter for hours about a thousand mundane things which only held true importance to ten-year-olds. I remember staring at the stars. We witnessed a meteor shower one evening. Of course, we didn’t know that was what it was. All we know is we lost count way before we reached a hundred shooting stars. I can’t remember the last time I saw a shooting star. Perhaps Max and I should spend the night outside in the back yard on a blanket. I’m not sure it’s dark enough here to get the full effect of the night sky. But, maybe it’s worth a try. Naw, I can’t do that. I’m too used to that big nice bed and comfy covers. Besides, my neighbors would probably call the cops on an old codger running around in the wee hours of the morning with a blanket. They’d probably put me in the ‘home’ and throw away the key. |
| Does a tree make a noise in the woods when it falls, if there is no one there to hear it? Don’t know. But that’s the sort of question that drives me crazy. I mean, learned folks will spend hours arguing about it and in the final end…well, who the hell cares? I suppose a sound is not a sound if no one hears it. But, it certainly sends out sound waves. I’ll bite on either way you want me to on this one. I bring this up because I have a similar question: Is the written word useful if it is never read. Why take the time to write a journal or blog if your words are never read? In such a case, the only good accomplished would be therapeutic for the writer. But, in a sense it is like the fallen tree in the woods. I have thought about that as I write my simple stories. Unpublished as they are, they serve very little purpose. Are they simply fallen trees in a deserted forest? That thought in itself would be discouraging and prompt one to stop writing altogether if it were not for one thing: these words don’t have to be unread. If there is but one ear in the forest to hear the fallen tree, there is a sound. If there is but one mind to absorb the written words, there is purpose to the written page. Remarkably, it does not take a host of eyes to read the pages, it takes only a very few. When we begin to measure the number of readers the exercise becomes one of ego. I firmly believe the larger the ego the greater the desire for a large numbers of readers. On the other hand, I believe to be read by only one other person is satisfaction enough to justify the effort of placing the words on the page. And, in this age of technology it is so much easier than it has ever been to place them on that page. When else in the course of time could a person record his/her inner thoughts and be assured they could be read world-wide. Our audience is truly the world. This morning I ventured through the postings on Facebook which are recorded on my page. I nodded in agreement, raised a few eyebrows here or there, and smiled at many of the comments. It amazes me the opportunity for communication we have on the Internet. Most of these folks live some extended distance from me. And yet I am able to drop a line, send a greeting, or write a private message to any of them if I so desire. These people are separated by miles and often by oceans; now, how remarkable is that? One of these dear people commented on my recent blog entry on Writing.com. (I have it set to post automatically on Facebook when I post a new entry.) I was pleased to see the comment (Thank you, Nancy.) It re-enforced the idea that what I do here is not useless. All of my work is not simply lonely trees in an abandoned forest to be unheard as they fall. Someone is there to read my simple words. They will never be best-sellers, nor will they be subject to Pulitzer Prize consideration. They don’t have to be. All they have to do is to have one other person read them. Thank you to those of you who do. |
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