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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 am a procrastinator. Now, please don’t recoil in disbelief and cringe in revulsion. Because, if you are perfectly honest with me, you will confess you are too. I like to think, in my state of justification for my own actions, that everybody has a sliver of procrastination embedded in their personality. I hope so because I would certainly hate to be alone with this malady. Granted some folks have a firm grip on the malady and control it through sheer will power. Unfortunately, for some of us wretched souls, the evil beast squirms loose and wreaks havoc in our life. I can attest that it is certainly beastier that usual in my life today. I survey the landscape of my existence and conclude there is much work to be accomplished. Linda has stuff around the house for me to do; I have professional assignments to work on; and there are numerous writing projects that scream to be attended to. And, yet, by some strange power I am able to look these responsibilities straight in the face and say, “Later.” There was a day when I simply charged straight ahead at these chores in life. My mantra was, “Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today.” Somehow over the stretch of time it morphed into “Never put off some of the stuff until tomorrow, when some of it could possibly be done today.” And, pitifully that mantra has seemed to have finally changed totally into “Why try? Later, Dude.” I confess that is a sorry state of affairs. But, there is a glimmer of hope midst all this gloom and procrastination. I am not totally lost. That funny feeling I get deep down in my stomach, the one called hunger, is urging me to produce some significant work so that we may indeed have a paycheck. And the embarrassment of an overgrown lawn and weeds in the flower beds causes me to at least pay someone to mow the lawn and weed the beds. We have not yet become hoarders, stacking garbage and junk through our house. Nope, my revulsion of the TV shows showing the conditions of those homes has motivated me to keep my socks picked up off the floor. And the embarrassment of finding dog hair on my clothes when I’m at a business meeting has motivated me to frequently vacuum our house in an attempt to quench the tide of the dog hair produced by one solitary dog, which is amazing in itself. I must admit; the chore of staying on course and fighting the procrastination beastie is a monumental accomplishment. In some of my weaker moments I still let lesser items in my life pass by unattended, knowing full well I could tackle those issues if I just would. I’m not a super-hero; I’m just a man with ordinary abilities. Some things are going to just have to be undone. Although, I have friends who would never let any chore pass them by (show-offs.) There you go! I give up! I confess they are better humans than am I. Nevertheless, I will continue to live with my addiction to procrastination, continuing to fight it and minimize the results. What can I say?—other than, “Hi, my name’s Dan, and I’m a procrastinator.” (And I hear a chorus of voices say, “Hi, Dan!”) |
| As I retired to bed last night I caught a snippet of a news report regarding the ugly political situation currently plaguing the State of Wisconsin. It reminds me of a huge tug-of-war with an extremely long rope—enough rope for every proponent and opponent to get a good, solid handhold. Stretched between the two opposing sides is a vast muddy pit, promising to soil and thoroughly disgust the unfortunate one destined to be dragged through it. This situation affirms that our political system is not always pretty. In fact it is often rather soiled. However, I still contend it is the best system going. Only in a land where total freedom is granted to every person can opposing sides gather to express their opinions without fear of retribution. I just wish it was not so ugly and nasty, as witnessed in Wisconsin. Now, of course I realize there are two sides to every position. I also realize the allegations hurled by both sides are often a little exaggerated. Unfortunately, there is something from deep within me that says the majority of folks screaming from either side really have no idea of the core issues that are being wrestled out in this situation. In reality, they are fussing and fighting over surface issues and special interests. I perceive there are foundational interests and beliefs, beneath the surface, which do not receive media focus. These underlying interest and beliefs are the true goals of those who pull the political strings. The string-pullers are not the common people who work at a job driving a truck, teaching a class, or sitting behind a desk. They’re not the lady holding the sign or fella screaming obscenities from the crowd. The folks who pull the strings are the ones who organize and set the masses into motion; and these folks are not necessarily politicians. They’re the guys in the know. I realize this sounds like some sort of conspiracy theory, but that certainly is not my intent. It, in fact, is how I suspect normal politics is done, of which the regular guy and gal are totally ignorant. You see, I suspect the core issue is the acquisition of power, which is high grade nourishment for politicians. On the other hand, surface issues are usually emotional, personal, and simple in concept; surface issues rarely have anything to do with power, but they track well on TV. The surface issues focus on our ability to exist: things dealing with clothing, food, housing, jobs, and our general happiness. The populace (you and me), are spun by the forces which mold public opinion; we are manipulated by both the left and right media. We are somewhat pliable, and, as a result when our happiness is threatened, we willingly leave the comfort of our easy chair, pick up the sign, and storm the capital, climbing through windows to show our outrage to the other side’s actions. Through skillful manipulation, the string-pullers guide the populace to a destination at which they ultimately wish us to arrive: the position of power. However, that course likely will not be evident until the next series of elections are completed. That’s when those who really pull the strings realize the results of their labor, which was earned through painful exercises such as we see in Wisconsin performed by outraged teachers and even nationally by the grass roots Tea Party movement. Am I saying we are all being played? Perhaps. I look at the political maneuvering of the Republicans in Wisconsin and wonder just how much different it is than the maneuvers finagled by Pelosi, Reed, and Mr. Obama when the Democrats bypassed the opposition party regarding Obama Care. To be sure, there are definite similarities in the actions. To be sure, also, the opposing sides have dutifully protested, “Foul!” However, as far as I’m concerned “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” Or to quote another maxim, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.” You got outmaneuvered. Both of you shut up and stop whining! You’ve got work to do. Now, I certainly have my own political leanings, which can wait for another time and place to be penned. That’s not the purpose of this post. I’m simply alarmed with the direction our society is traveling. What disturbs me most is not the diversity of our personal beliefs; diversity is good. No, I worry about the tremendous political and philosophical chasm that appears to be separating the population. I perceive the same type of separation existed between the population of the North and South at the advent of the US Civil War, which in no means implies that we are heading for a similar conflict today. However, it does mean we may be heading towards similar social disruption. When both sides stand solidly on their righteous position and sincerely wonder in amazement how the other side can believe as they do, well, that is a problem. When both sides plead for the other side to abandon irrational beliefs in favor of their own, well, it makes it difficult to arrive at an agreement. When both sides firmly believe to compromise in any manner destroys the fabric of society as they know it, well, there can be no compromise. So what is the alternative? Perhaps that means we are reduced to maneuvers such as those taken by the Republicans in Wisconsin and by the Democrats who passed Obama Care. It is a particularly gloomy prediction when this grappling for power appears to be the status quo and may represent the best we can expect. I hope and pray that is not where we are. I suppose, ultimately I am willing to let the string-pullers have their power as long as my family and I can have our happiness. Of course, I prefer to let the power reside in the hands of those string-pullers who believe as I do. Seems a little selfish, doesn’t it? Well, I suppose it is. |
Hey, I guess I’m just pleased someone’s taking a look at it. A few days ago I popped in here and asked folks to take a look at my finished novel ("Invalid Item"  .) My concern was that I was too close to the thing and hadn’t a clue as to whether it was worth reading or not. Well, that was a couple of weeks ago. When last I looked (a couple of minutes ago) the thing had recorded 118 views since February 18.Now, that doesn’t mean 118 people had read the book. It means that it had been looked at that many times. The stats also revealed that fifteen of those view were WDC members and eight of those had viewed it multiple times. Remarkably, 103 views came from locations off-site. I don’t know if anyone has finished the book. All I know is that every chapter has been viewed at least four times. The Prelude has been viewed twelve times and the Epilogue has been viewed eight times. So I suppose there’s a chance someone has read the whole thing. The problem is, no one has confessed to reading much of it, except for “Party”. Party, my friend in WDC, has read at least six chapters with favorable feedback. But, no one else has confessed to wading through the verbiage. And, no one has said if it’s junk or jewels. So, not knowing whether to pursue any thought of publishing the thing, I closed my eyes and sent in a query letter to an agent, submitting a synopsis and the first two chapters. Silence—I’ve heard nothing back as of yet. Of course, I don’t expect to hear anything for a few weeks (months). I mean, what have you got to lose? At least I’ll know if at least one professional sees any promise in the thing. |
| Hey, it could happen. I know it is virtually impossible to catch a breath in a vacuum. I mean, that’s what a vacuum is—no air. But, there is a part of me that says, “Stuff just happens sometime.” I know the laws of physics are against it ever happening. But, that just doesn’t matter to me. Weird stuff happens all the time. I mean, rules bend. The reason I find myself taking this irrational position is the new blog I’ve opened. I have four locations for blogs now. I’ve got a couple which I don’t frequent because the folks in there pissed me off. Hey, it’s not because I am a disagreeable fellow. On the contrary, I thought they were rather rude, so I just stopped talking. I didn’t throw any rocks or toss a little fit like I’ve seen others do. I just stopped talking. I’m sure that ruined their day, like they even noticed I was gone. So, back to this new blog site. I snuck in there and created this little blog, leaving one solitary entry. There are no tag lines for it and no links to it anywhere else. It’s just sitting out there waiting to be discovered. Of course, I check on it daily. It is always the same—untouched. Over to the side there is a link that says, “Be the first to comment.” No one has. Now, how amazing is that? Don’t they realize who I am? You’d think someone would want to be first. Now, I know what you are saying? How in the world is anyone going to see it if you don’t tell them it’s there? I mean, that’s kinda like a vacuum, isn’t it? I know it is unreasonable to expect any attention to the little blog. It is after all its own little vacuum. But, like I said before, it could happen. That’s why I foolishly keep on checking it out, looking for that first person who claims the prize of being first. I mean, that is reward in itself. We all like to be first. (http://theplannerspen.blogspot.com/) |
| “What’s happenin’ in the world, Grampa?” It was a question my oldest grandson tossed at me as he came in from work yesterday. Of course, it was a purely rhetorical question. He could have asked, “How’re you doin’?” or “What’s for dinner?” and with equal interest. But, he didn’t; he asked about the condition of the world, expecting a generic response in return. I think I responded, “Well, let’s see. The Middle East is in turmoil; governments are in total upheaval and we haven’t a clue as to what the outcome will be. Some outright terrorist/thugs from Somalia, modern day pirates, hijacked a ship and killed the four American crewmembers, right in front of our Navy. The Democratic Legislators in Wisconsin have decided to run away and hide rather than vote as they were elected to do. That’s what grownups do when they can’t have their way. The mayor of Dallas quit his job, as did one of the council members of our town. That’s just some of the things happenin’ in the world today.” Of course there is good news mixed in there somewhere, but it isn’t as dramatic. Folks like stuff that makes a big commotion nowadays. Proof of that is in the nature of the most popular movies. In most instances they are the ones that have all the action—the stuff where things explode—be it things or in many cases people. I remember I popped a video into the player several months back, intending to show my grandkids a classic from 1957. It was “Twelve Angry Men”, staring Henry Fonda, E.G. Marshall, and Lee J. Cobb—actors they never heard of. Unfortunately, it was in black and white—an issue I was later to find being beyond redemption. Well, that was a bad idea. There wasn’t a chase scene where cars exploded, nobody was shot in the head, there wasn’t a martial arts fight scene with slow motion to accent the moves, there wasn’t any sex or even a hint of romance. Heck, I don’t think there was even a female in the whole dang movie. What there was, was lots of acting filled with dialogue—stuff that made you think. It was nominated for three Academy Awards in 1957 and won a dozen other awards. OK so I popped this classic, star-studded, award winning movie into the big screen to introduce my grandkids to real cinema. Well, you guessed it. It lasted about fifteen minutes before I noticed them digging out their cell phones and beginning texting their friends. I can only imagine what was in the text. “Hey, Monica, you won’t believe this boring movie my granddad is making me watch…..” Now, this sensationalism bleeds into every area of their lives. School has to be sensational. Proms and parties are major productions I would never have dreamed about as a teen. Entertainment—well I don’t even want to go into entertainment. That’s why I have gently been trying to expose my grandkids to the outside world. I talk world events with them when I get a chance. It amazes me most of the kids today do not know who the Vice-President of the United States is. They don’t have a clue as to how many states there are in the union, but know for certain that Canada is one. When asked in which states Oklahoma City and New York City are located they ask for a hint. So, I’m pleased when they ask me, “What’s happenin’ in the world?” Well, I take that as an invitation to spend a little time doing just that. I’ve been doing it for years, wondering if my words are falling on deaf ears. However, recently, my oldest actually expressed a desire to know more about the world around him. He actually suggested he may start reading some books about something other than sports. Small steps—we begin by taking small steps. |
| Take it outside--when I was a kid, that was a familiar command issued by my mom. I don’t think it had anything to do with me enjoying the glory of the environment. Probably had a lot to do with her maintaining her sanity. But, whatever the reason, it was good advice. And, I did exactly as I was told. In fact, taking it outside was what I did best. Before I had access to a car (I used the family auto until I was in college), I would roam the neighborhood and the small town in which I lived on foot or on my bike. There wasn’t anywhere in town that was not accessible to me within a matter of minutes. We had five-thousand people in town and miles of countryside just outside the limits. I spent as much time as I could being in it. There was no problem at all taking it outside. And, so, this morning, when I opened the back door and stepped out onto our back porch with Max, I was doing what my mom told to do so long ago; he and I were taking it outside. I don’t take it outside as much as I used to. If it wasn’t for Max I’m afraid I would experience the outside mostly through my windows. Again, I confirm that black dog is good for me. I’ve seen hundreds of sunrises in all kinds of weather while taking it outside with that dog for his morning walk. Remarkably, I haven’t been disappointed in a one of them, nor have I regretted rolling out of bed and walking around that little lake we always visit. Sometimes, I load up all my computer garb and haul it to the back porch. My garden out there isn’t as attractive as it used to be, but the outside is refreshing. I set up on the glass table and pretend to work. Occasionally, I actually get something done. The noises of the morning are somehow comforting, even the traffic noise and the train we can hear in the distance. We have a pair of cardinals taking up residence in our bushes. And, although I question their wisdom of nesting near the reach of our black dog, Max, I enjoy their presence. There are a couple of squirrels who scamper through our trees and run along our fence. Max explodes in barking as he runs the fence line and bounces below the trees in his best imitation of Cujo. A couple of years ago, Lord, over five in fact, I moved my office to my house. I tell myself it was a strategic business move—a way to reduce overhead and make wise application of the computer networking available to businesses nowadays. But, I wonder if actually it was a way taking it outside—a way to regain the freedom of my youth. I don’t know. All I know is that I will never work in an office again—not when Max and I can always just take it outside. |
Is there such a thing as a “cycle of interest?” I’m sure that some learned soul at some time has prepared a scientific paper noting a cycle of interest associated with the lifespan of an individual. I mean somewhere out there in the academic realm someone has dealt with this. I visualize this cycle of interest graphed as a undulating wave with different interests completing the ever traveling wave. Oh, excuse me; I just heard someone say, “What the hell are you talking about?” Well, I’ve been thinking. Do you remember how you rolled your eyes as a kid when some old geezer began talking about how things used to be? And, do you remember how your grandparents had no clue who the Rolling Stones where? Remember how out of touch with reality those old folks were? You know, it’s the same thing that appears to be coursing through my grandkids minds as I babble on about some inane topic. It is the exact look I see on their faces when they ring that silent tone on their cell phone that only young folks can hear. You know, that’s the one that proves without a doubt that anyone over thirty is defective. Well, I happen to believe that is an example of the “cycle of interest.” I’ve concluded that none of us are defective—neither young whipper-snapper nor old geezer. We are just at different places in our “cycles of interests.” You see, I admit I do not have a clue who the hell Lady Ga Ga is. Nor do I care. In fact, I don’t know any of those folks. I admit I don’t listen to the pop music of this generation. My television logs no hours on MTV. Am I out of the loop? Nope—I’m just not interested. I’m also not interested in knowing all the neat new gadgets and programs available in this computerized generation. Well, with the exception of a few of them, which make my life more interesting? For example, I would like to have an iPad; but don’t know what applications I want on it. I just want it to work. I will depend on someone within the cycle of interest of the details of the things to provide it to me user ready. I also realize my cycle of interest includes a voracious appetite for all things historical. A trip to the battlefield of Shiloh is very appealing to me, but not the least bit exciting for one of my grandkids. Our cycles of interests are different. My cycle of interest now includes knowledge of the genealogy of our family. However, there are members of that same family who don’t know the names of their great-grandparents, nor do they care. My cycle of interest includes knowledge of geography such that this world of ours fits together like a marvelous jig-saw puzzle. Speak of Sumatra or Uruguay and my mind visually locates them on the globe. I know where the Slovakian countries are located as well as those that are not with us anymore. The geography of this world is part of my cycle of interest. Ask my grandkids where Juno is and you are likely to get blank stares. Or ask them what the DC stands for as in Washington, DC and you will likely get the same blank stare. You see, it simply is not within their cycle of interest. Now I’ve noticed our cycles of interest seem to multiply as we grow older. No doubt they obviously change according to topic. Those areas of interest I had when I was younger no longer hold the same importance, and often simply phase out. They are replaced by new interests, changing the shape of the cycle. Now, what does all this mean? Well, for one, it means that babbling fool of an old codger is not out of tune with the world, he’s just functioning on a different cycle of interest. And, there is no way to determine which cycle of interest is appropriate or better. We are simply at different places. Interaction with individuals traveling along different cycles of interest can be facilitated when we recognize the fact that they exist. In other words, cut each other a little slack. We are all riding the waves…just different ones. |
| Chapter Two seems to be a problem. What makes me think so? Well, by the magic of the WDC tracking process I can see how many folks have viewed my new book "Invalid Item" . The system tells me there have been 23 view thus far of the book. A further breakdown tells me most folks stopped reading at Chapter 6. The Prelude and Chapter 1 received 6 views. From there on, the chapters receive single views, with the exception of a couple that received 2 or 3 views. From Chapter 7 to 16 there are no views, with the exception of Chapter 15 which received a single view. Now, what does that tell me? Well, my first impression is Chapter 1 is a brick wall. Readers slam up against that wall and can’t read any further. Of course there are a few suffering souls who plod on through to Chapter 6, but run out of stamina to proceed. My second impression is the story, itself, is just not compelling enough to hold the interest. In that case, no matter how much literary style I may possess, it isn’t going to go anywhere, and therefore, folks are bailing out at Chapter 6. And of course, there is always a chance folks are simply busy and don’t have time to invest in a work in progress, regardless of the hooks and intrigue the story may contain. The dilemma? Well, no one has told me what they think of the thing. Well, I take that back. There have been a couple of folks who commented on the Prelude and the work in general. This leaves me with the conclusion that this book writing stuff is not easy. In fact, it is frustrating as hell. The author, by nature, is so close to the story that all objectivity on his/her part is removed. Which brings me to the understanding of why most authors spend an inordinate amount of time in the acknowledgement section of their book profusely thanking proof readers and editors for their assistance? As far as I’m concerned the folks editing and proof reading deserve a percentage of any profit or royalty gained from the book. Now, for folks who have agents and publishers, that is part of the cost of having those guys. But, for us unknowns and rank amateurs, we are left flailing in the darkness, wading up to our elbows in lost objectivity. No wonder there are so many unpublished volumes out there. And of those books which are published without the aid of editors and proof readers, no wonder so many of them appear to not have been edited or proof read. So why do this? Strange as it may seem, even the unfinished work, or finished and unedited work, brings a sense of satisfaction to the author. It may be his/hers alone to experience. However, the compilation of words and thoughts recorded between the front and back cover of the volume represents a finished product. Sometimes just finishing the race brings reward enough. And if we run in enough races, who knows—perhaps we may even win one of them. |
| I envy the good storyteller. I’ve heard a few. Actually, my dad was a great story teller. When he told a story you’d forget you were listening. His voice would rise and fall with the story. His hands would dart here and there as the action took place. When he would pause in the story, you’d hold your breath…waiting for it to continue. And when he finished, you’d immediately exclaim, “Tell me another!” Of course, as I got older my exclamation would be mental; as a mature adult I learned to quench my inner child. However, I suspect nothing could keep the smile from curling at my lip as I mentally exclaimed, “Tell me another one, Dad!” Yeah, my dad was a great storyteller. I have some of his storytelling ability. I do not delude myself as to imagine I can hold a candle to his smooth and infectious style. I have to work at it; he didn’t. However, I’ve found that I am a much more effective storyteller when my words are placed on the written page. After some effort, I can stand back and smile in approval of the written words contained there. Occasionally, I whisper, “Tell me another one!” as I finish reading. My favorite authors certainly have the ability to do that. That’s what makes a good storyteller. When the words form in your imagination as you read them, painting pictures and creating moving scenes—when you forget you are reading and it no longer is a chore for your eyes to move across the words—when the story leaps from the page and envelopes you in the action, well, that’s when you know you are reading a good storyteller. I so envy the good storyteller. That’s what I want to be when I grow up. |
| It’s a little bit of a dilemma. This computer age has caused some coordination issues when writing a book. I’m sure Stephen King does not share my dilemma. I’m sure there is a way the “professionals” do it that makes perfect sense. However, I am a rank armature and fully intend on playing my part to the max, doing stupid stuff that I’ll hit my forehead about and say, “Oh, of course!” when I am enlightened. My dilemma centers on my editing copies of my book. I find I have too many original copies. I mean there is the copy I work from on my laptop. I type my original work there and save it. I have the edit feature turned on and the thing is red-lined and has a zillion corrections and mark-ups. That’s the one I hold as the sacred script. Unfortunately, there are copies I have saved to PDF and sent to friends for review. They come back marked up ready for input into the original. I try to make all my changes into the sacred script. Sometimes they make it in, but I can’t guarantee they do. The problem is the review copy on WDC. The copy in WDC is a version of the sacred script, which means it does not always represent the updated text. For me to keep an updated copy in WDC, I would have to update both the sacred script and the WDC version. I do well just getting to the sacred script. Now, what scares me is that I’m not sure I have not updated the WDC version and not the sacred script. I lose track. And that’s my dilemma. Should I keep the WDC version updated or just my sacred script. To do both is just too confusing. For that reason, I have been reluctant to post my new book Dream Wanderer in my portfolio. However, I am desperate for reviews of the chapters. I have a nagging impulse that tells me this stuff is junk—I’m just wasting my time with this story. I have no idea if it is any good or not. The only way to find out is to toss it out to the authors in WDC and see what they think. It is a lot to ask for, because it is not a simple little story—it’s a volume of 60,000 words. My real dilemma is whether or not to continue to invest my time in this volume. Something tells me it can be redeemed. Something else screams to toss it. How do you know? Therefore, I’ve decided to post it to my portfolio in WDC. I have six of the twenty-six chapters entered thus far. I figure I’d see what those brought. The others are ready to be entered, if it’s worth it. I have it listed as requiring a passkey. The key is 1234, if anyone wants to unlock the door and look. That’s my dilemma.
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| Does anybody out there remember the “Five and Dime?” Actually it was the “Ben Franklin 5 & 10.” It’s sorta hard to describe it. It was kinda like a Dollar General store but not as cheap. And it was like Wal-Mart but not so big. It was an everyday general store, without the groceries. You could actually buy things for a nickel and get something of value—well, at least worth five-cents, and five cents went a lot further back in 1960 than it does today. I purchased 45-records there, mostly. Oh, you don’t remember 45s? And, don’t tell me you don’t remember what a record is? Well, a record was what you listened to for the latest pop songs. (That and a transistor radio…remember those?) Unlike the MP3 players today, it did not hold five-hundred-thousand tunes. Nope, it was one tune for each side. You listened to one side and then flipped it over and listened to the other. Of course, I had a fancy record player that held about a dozen 45s at a time so I wasn’t continually flipping records. Well, I’m way off in the bushes chasing rabbits. 45 records were just one of the things I bought at the “Five and Dime.” The crazy thing is this entry isn’t even about “Five and Dimes.” It’s about the relativity of small sums of money—like a nickel. Most folks don’t mess with nickels now days. Heck, most folks won’t even pick up a penny on the sidewalk anymore. And, the penny’s big brother, the nickel, isn’t given much value either. I remember when vending machines would drop a cold Coke to you for a nickel. Sure, it’s been a while since that happened—but, I remember it anyway. What got me to thinking about all this was some shopping I did today on my Kindle. I was shopping for reading material online. Lordy, there are a million things to read out there in virtual-digital land. I was browsing through the thousands of blogs available, and downloaded some samples. Now, I’ve got a blog, and probably so do you. Do you realize folks are actually getting paid for writing these dang things? Lots and lots of them are junk. But a few are pretty good. I mean they are good enough for folks to spend money to read them. Now, the cost of the subscription for these is not much at all. But, it does cost some money and some money is always better than no money. So, I got to thinking. I wonder how much money I could make from my blog? Sure, I realize in reality I probably would have to pay someone to read this stuff. But, just imagine if someone actually paid a little something to read my entry—let’s say a nickel. (See, I told you I would get around to this nickel.) Well, I happen to know about 20,600 folks have viewed my blog since I started writing it. At a nickel a view, that would be $1,030. And, what if I actually marketed this silly blog and increased the readership. Hmmm, that’s interesting. Now, I don’t intend to market this. Although, it’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had; but, I know I just won’t. I’m content with slapping a few words in here sporadically and letting the thing take care of itself. But, someday, if I was all out of options, the world of the Internet would be a very tempting thing. And, I’m not beyond a little temptation. |
| OK, I know it’s Valentine’s Day. But, do you see me sending a bouquet of roses, buying a box of chocolates, dropping a bundle on a cute little diamond heart thingy on a silver chain, or even buying a singing Valentine’s Day card from Hallmark? Nope—not me. Now, does that mean I’m not in love with my wife or that I’m some sort of insensitive Neanderthal male pig? I don’t think so. Although, I may be some sort of Neanderthal pig, but not because of Valentine’s Day--rather because I’m male and we sorta can’t help it sometimes. Nope, I wished my bride of forty-three years (forty-four?) a Happy Valentine’s day early this morning. As she fetched her breakfast burrito out of the convection oven she responded, “Back at ya!” I gave Max his dog food and we settled in to a romantic breakfast as I buttered my toast. That little ceremony completes our ritual for Valentine’s Day. Now, part of the reason I show a disdain for this day is the sheer commercial idiocy of it. Do you really believe Hallmark is interested in my romance--not hardly? Or do you believe the FTD super sweetheart roses bouquet delivered at her doorstep is intended to deepen our relationship—right again, not hardly. Hallmark is interested in my five dollars exchanged for the card and the FTD florist’s winged feet are taking my $35 to the bank. All this in the guise of romance. I refuse to participate in heightening the hypocrisy of our capitalistic system. Now don’t get me wrong. I love capitalism. In my books it’s the best system going. What makes me angry is being manipulated by the system. Don’t dare imply that I am less of a husband and sweetheart because I don’t participate in the hemorrhage of cash expected from me on this day--and not just this day, what about Christmas?…don’t get me started on Christmas. We are living through a period in time where our government is going bankrupt. Likewise, we the people are spending money foolishly and as if all we have to do is crank up the printing presses. Perhaps the government can do that, but millions of Americans out there cannot. And still, folks are encouraged to spend funds they do not have on items that are not necessities. A vast amount of Americans are ill prepared for Christmas when it rolls around. In spite of the fact that it comes the same time every year, folks are unprepared for it. As a result credit cards are overtaxed, loans are extended, and money that simply is not there is spent foolishly. Why? Because it is expected of us. To not spend wantonly and foolishly is somehow Un-American. What kind of parent or what kind of sweetheart are you if you don’t spend on Valentine’s Day? Well, I for one would call you responsible. In our age of “I’ve got to have it right now,” it is refreshing to see some folks say, “No.” They and I will endeavor to show our affection some other way. We will do it with a touch or a smile, or even a little understanding will go a long way. Now, before you blow me off on this one, consider the fact that I am still dating the girl I took to my Junior Prom. That was forty-six years ago. Unless you can stand with those credentials, be careful about giving me advice on romance. There ain’t a card made that can say more than that. There ain’t any bunch of flowers which will last near as long. Certainly, I still have a ways to go in the romance department. I am after all still a lump of coal in the Master’s hand, and granted a little sparkle doesn’t hurt. However, there IS sparkle there. Perhaps you can’t see it because of the superficial stuff tossed out by all the commercials. I suppose “sparkle” like “beauty” may just be in the eye of the beholder. |
| I suppose the greatest daydream of all humanity is that of the do-over. I don’t know of anyone who, if they had the opportunity to live life over, would not do it differently. I suppose the game of golf is the only place where the "do-over" is permitted; that is if you are playing with a group of friends who permit it; and most times they will because each of them occassionally wants to take that second shot. Granted I know plenty of folks who have said, “If I were to get the chance to do it again, I wouldn’t change a thing.” Now, I contend that is an easy position to claim when standing on this side of the do-over, knowing full well it will not happen. I will also concede there are many things in my life which I like exactly as they are and would certainly not want to change. But, is there a single person who would not change one solitary thing? I think not. This topic has been on my mind recently as I have closely mentored my oldest grandchild. Ryan graduated from high school last year and has been experiencing the hard, cold, up front and in your face world of being a grown-up. He is learning dreams don’t come true simply because you want them to; you gotta do some work to achieve those dreams. And, he is learning it does not happen overnight. A good night’s sleep may get you rested, but it won’t make you any richer, smarter, or better looking. You gotta work at it. And, I suppose he is learning there are consequences for your actions—consequences which may be significant to overcome. And, lastly, it is dawning on Ryan that gramps is not just an old fart; he’s really pretty wise and is worth listening to. I am amazed at the opportunity which is within his grasp at this moment. And the thought comes to me, “Oh, but if I could be where you are now. If I could do it over again, how differently things would be.” And, it is true. I would be significantly more wealthy. Heck, I’d be out right stinkin’ rich. Yes, I’d do some things differently, but, not all things. I am quite satisfied with the family I have. I want these boys which Linda has given me. And, I would need Linda in my life. The decisions which lead to happiness have generally been right decisions. Those are decisions which financial wealth cannot buy. I would remove any decisions I have made which have brought hurt and disappointment into the lives of others. There isn’t anything significant in that area which I can put my finger on, but certainly I have let some folks down some time or another. I would definitely say more words of encouragement and provide a hand to lift someone up more quickly than I have in the past. I’d pet that old black dog of mine a little more and give him a few more treats. And, I suppose I would take care of myself better physically. Those would be things I would do over. But, I don’t have the opportunity to do those things over. I had my shot at life and for the most part presented myself well. I am content to grasp firmly onto the remaining portion, which if the Lord wills, is still substantial. If I had it to do over again, would I do it any differently? Absolutely—who wouldn’t? |
| Well, I’m in the market for a handgun. I don’t intend to rob a bank or shoot it out at high noon. I just want a handgun to play around with. OK, I know there are some of my friends who will immediately point out that guns are nothing to play around with. Well, yeah, as a matter of fact they are. There is no reason a responsible person cannot enjoy a firearm (key word here is "responsible.") There seems to be a strange notion that the only purpose for having a gun is to shoot somebody--Balderdash! (always wanted to say that.) That’s like thinking the only purpose for matches is to burn down buildings. Fire can be very dangerous. Every year approximately 3,430 people die as the result of fires. Do we outlaw or require matches to be registered and licensed? Nope. Granted, the number of folks who die as a result of firearms is much greater, about 12,000 persons annually. But, compare that with how many folks die because of smoking, which is approximately 443,000 people. Why aren’t cigarettes licenced? Or why aren't smokers required to obtain a conceal carry permit for cigarettes carried in public. Oh, and approximately 50,000 of those smoking related deaths are from second-hand smoke. Now, considering the fatality rate on our highways is about 34,000 people annually, we can conclude automobiles and cigarettes are by far much more hazardous to your health than a loaded handgun. Of course the issue of handguns is one steeped in political and social perceptions. In many cases it seems as if it is a hereditary thing, something that is in our genes. I grew up around guns. They were always in my house. My father had a gun case that contained about a dozen. Some of them were hunting guns and some of them were weapons. My grandfather carried a .38 cal. Police Special on him when he was Chief of Police in a small Oklahoma town. He died with that gun strapped to his side. Interestingly, he died of a heart attack, which was likely more related to a diet of fired chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy than to the firearm he carried. Also in my father's gun cabinet was a 30.06 rifle, which my father brought back from the Battle of Okinawa and WWII. It was a Japanese sniper rifle. It had a bullet hole through the stock, which probably speaks volumes as to the health of its previous owner. My dad brought it back, cleaned it up, made a new stock, and placed it in our gun cabinet. We also had assorted shotguns, rifles, and a few handguns. We occasionally shot them and always cared for them. Hopes No. 9 gun oil was a familiar smell in our house. My personal arsenal is small. I lost all the guns of my inheritance through theft and greed. When my father was at an advanced age, individuals took advantage of him when my brother and I were not around. As a result all but one of the guns in my father’s gun cabinet have been lost. I have only a little single shot .22 cal. rifle and a .45 cal. handgun in my personal arsenal. Today I am in the market for a western .22 cal revolver to plink around with at the shooting range. If you are familiar with the cost of .45 cal. cartridges you would certainly understand my reasoning. Anyway, I’m off to the gun show to arm myself…some more. |
| I like my office chair. It’s a boss chair. You know the kind: oxblood colored leather, big padded arms, round brass upholstery nails, high cushioned head rest, action that rocks back and forth, adjustable up and down movement, and all sitting on a big wooden base with five brass rollers. Like I said, a boss chair. Of course, it’s the most expensive chair in the office. Forget my office now consists of the study in my home. But, when it didn’t, that’s the chair I had in the office downtown. Of course, it is much too big for my small home office. For that matter, so is my desk and matching credenza. But, I’ve crammed them all in that room and somehow it feels right. So each day I migrate upstairs to my lair…oops…my office and run my little company. I seem to think all my stuff helps me do that, especially my oxblood colored boss chair. Little frustrations come into all of our lives. I suppose that’s what keeps life from being totally mundane. Now, I don’t particularly like them; however, I have little control over them. I simply recognize them and shove my way through them as I walk life’s corridor. An example of a few would be the double doors at the entrances to some establishments, where one is locked and the other is open. Why do you do that? Why provide a door and then lock it. Or, there’s the guy who darts in and out of traffic to get a car ahead of you. You and I both know that when we both arrive at our location he has saved only five minutes in time. And there is my big boss chair. I’ve already established the fact that I like that chair. What I don’t like is what it has begun to do in its twilight years…that’s right; it is an older chair…a senior citizen amongst boss chairs. I don’t like to sit on the ground. The adjusting feature on the chair would permit me to do that if I so desired. But, I don’t. And so, I adjust it to sit me up at its highest range of sitability. Seems my chair has lost a little of its endurance over the years. For as I sit in my elevated position, I feel an almost imperceptible sensation of lowering. My concentration is broken as I lift my head and tune my senses to the feeling. Sometimes it goes away and I return to my chores. However, often, I am rewarded with a slip in elevation. It never slips all the way. It’s just momentary losses in elevation. Often it continues like that for several minutes until at last I find myself sitting with my knees tucked under my chin at the bottom setting of the old chair. Sometimes the force of gravity overtakes the abilities of my boss chair and it just releases its hold totally and I zip to the floor in one swift trip. Of course, I immediately jump up, swear at the old chair, and readjust it to its higher elevation. At times it appears it is duly chastened as it holds it elevation as I plop back into the chair. At other times it shows its deep resentment and rebellious spirit and drops me immediately when I reposition it at the higher elevation. At those times we repeat the exercise several times until its spirit is broken and it grudginly holds in place. However, I suppose the most frustrating experience with the old boss chair is when it exhales elevation in very slow measures, which are in themselves tiny and nearly immeasurable. In that case, it often takes hours for it to make its journey to the bottom where it can finally rest. I, of course, have no perception of the descent in elevation until many hours later when I discover my knees resting under my chin, wondering how in the world that happened. As you can see, it can be a very frustrating experience. I can’t be angry with the old chair. After all, look at the task I have given it. Granted, I am not a wee wisp of a man. I am rather substantial—in fact, I’m becoming more substantial every day. It is quite an engineering feat it has performed over the years. But, regardless of the justification of its sudden releases, it was in fact designed to do a job, albeit a difficult job. I have determined to trudge along with the chair, enduring the roller coaster ride during my workday, simply because it has become an old friend. And one does not cast off old friends over little frustrations. But I am serving notice right now. I have limits to my endurance. A friendship only goes so far. |
| The weather has turned very cold and icy here in North Texas, Linda and I purchased a gift for our Chinese friend, Max got a new bed for his upstairs sleeping spot, and Oh yeah, a man died across the street from us a couple of nights back. That's right, mixed in with all the day to day stuff we concern ourselves with was a tragedy of life. We humans seem to take that in stride. Our next door neighbor called toward the end of yesterday and filled Linda in on the details, as she knew them. Seems the guy was one of three men living in the homeowner's house. The story is a little convoluted. The owner of the house got a divorce a few years back. He lived in this two story four bedroom house by himself. His wife moved out taking the children with her. Actually, she ran off with another man and let the children fend for themselves. They in turn left for parts unknown—friends, relatives, boyfriends, etc. The husband, left alone and bumping around in that big house, decided to rent out the other bedrooms. So in pops three more guys. To say the least, traffic in and out increased. Each guy had his own girlfriend(s) who wandered in and out. They had motorcycles, trucks, vans and dogs. And, although they were not unruly, the sheer volume of activity was a distraction to the neighborhood. We wanted them to find other pastures, but since they did not really bother anyone, they were left alone. Seems as if one of the guys was depressed. He was on medication. To complicate the issue, he also was a drinker. A couple of nights back he was heavily medicated on anti-depressants and decided to assault a bottle of Jack Daniels. It proved to not be a winning combination. The final result is the combination killed him. It is a sad testimony to the human condition. It appears that some of us see the need to live our lives on stimulants. They charge us up and they calm us down. For some reason some of us can't seem to do that on our own. There is nothing new about this story. It is as old as history. I suppose the caveman had his way of dealing with stress, and I suppose the way sometimes killed him. About twenty years ago, my next door neighbor put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. I don't know why she did it. Someone said she was depressed. A gun or a bottle of Jack Daniels, seems to be the same end result. And after they are gone, the day still goes on. The weather has turned very cold and icy here in North Texas, Linda and I purchased a gift for our Chinese friend, and Max got a new bed for his upstairs sleeping spot. |
| I know the topics for blogging or journaling, whichever one ‘floats your boat’, are legion. The headlines are full of topics that have deep political and sociological issues which are ripe for the writing community. I could go grab one of those and wax strongly for a moment, perhaps even getting some “Amens” for my effort. But those serious topics don’t interest me at the moment. Nope, at this moment, my quizzical mind is snagged on a mundane element of grammar that is just pesky enough to not let go. You see, I was merrily typing out a short quip on my Facebook site when I got snagged. I mean I was stopped in my tracks. I hate it when that happens. Having finished my two line entry I discovered I simply could not hit the enter key on the keyboard. The snag was a single misspelled word; or at least I thought it was misspelled. I mean it could have been misspelled. The longer I looked at it the more confused I got. Speller would be no help at all. The culprit was that pesky “ing” ending. The simple little word I was writing formed two different words when the “ing” was added. You see, I have forgotten the rule about doubling the consonant when adding the ending. You see, the word “gripe” could be “griping” or “gripping.” Or the word “tape” could be “taping” or “tapping.” You gotta remember the rule to know which way to go. And, I forgot the dang rule. My simple little dictionary did no good. It provides information on the root word only, leaving the participle form to those who know the rule—very presumptuous of it. Anyhow, I didn’t wish to fish my dictionary out of the side drawer to leaf through it for an answer. Being a product of the age, I instead typed “rule for “ing” on Google and was rewarded with a link to a page that explained the rule to me. Well, actually it explained a couple of rules. You see, I had to look up the rule for dropping the “e” also...and then the rule for doubling the consonant. Lord, I’m sixty-three years old and still trying to pass sixth grade English. |
| I was not born into the age of technology. Nope, I was born in the fringe. Computers were a strange new gadget capable of wondrous things in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s. It was an age of the Univac computer and the language of FORTRAN. Only the most brilliant of minds spoke the language and the concept of the computer was a fanciful dream coming true. On college campuses engineering students were still attached to their slide rules to do their computing. There certainly was no such thing as a personal computer—not yet. I remember a friend of mine who was stationed at Ft. Belvoir, Va., during his tour in the Army. He was one of many officers who created strategies for defensive actions regarding possible attacks on the US—very detailed and complex war games. This was in the mid-sixties. He told me they had at least one gigantic computer that occupied an entire building. That computer was the most sophisticated at that time and did complex analysis never before possible. The remarkable thing is that the laptop I am currently writing this entry on has more capability now than that massive computer did at that time. During my young adult years, the technology associated with computers and digital technology spilled over into a veritable flood of information, gadgets, and wonders. When I was dating my wife, Linda, in high school, my family had a single rotary telephone in our house. When we were out of the house we were at the mercy of pay phones and the almost extinct phone booth. There were excruciating times when one had to actually wait until finishing a long trip before calling that person of interest waiting at home or elsewhere. Today, every man, woman, and child carries a communication device with them, permitting them almost instant conversations with anyone in the world. All of this makes me feel so old. My granddaughter initiated a ring on her cellphone that is of a pitch of which those of an age past thirty can’t hear. I thought they were kidding. But, no it is true. The older ear cannot distinguish the ring. I’m sure the younger generation will put that knowledge to use while us old foggies walk around ignorant to the ringing around us. As I consider this wonderful new age, I’m not sure if I envy or pity the youngster caught up in its technology. Certainly they will have unbelievable wonders open before them through this technology. How exciting is that? But, on the other hand they will miss out on the slower and simpler way of life I knew as a child. And, even my childhood was on the cusp of the technical revolution and much more fast paced than my father’s or grandfather’s. It does no good to pine away for some ancient age that is now gone. Life is what it is. I will attempt to adapt to this technical age. I am well satisfied with my cell phone, Internet, Kindle, and handi GPS unit in my car. I look forward to other advances that will certainly need to be explained to me by my grandchildren. It’s just, I miss that age where we didn’t have so much. Seems as if, somehow, we had more. |
| Have you ever felt as if you should say something and to not do so would, in fact, be inappropriate? Well, that’s the way I felt yesterday, January 1, 2011, when I began this entry. I suppose being the first day of the year was substantially responsible for that feeling. After all, the first day of a brand new year certainly is a proper occasion to begin anew, to say something significant. Well, sometimes the words just aren’t there. It happens—in fact, it happens to the best of us. Nevertheless, yesterday was an opportunity to step off on a new direction—make a fresh start. At sixty-two years of age I suppose I don’t feel as fresh as I once did. But, I had already made a first start on personal refreshment the day before. I shaved off my mustache. The thing was mostly gray anyway—sorta funny looking actually. I must say that immediately the loss of that lip hair made me look several years younger—brought a sense of freshness to the face looking at me in the mirror. It’s a start. As I was lying in bed, having watched the big ball in Times Square lower and bring in the New Year, I re-read the New Year day entries I had made in my journals for the last several years. They were appropriately reflective, focusing on setting goals and counting the challenges of a new year. All of the remarkably witty and clever things I wrote in those past journal entries were true, after all I am a remarkable guy (of which I alone confirmed at that moment.) It is not contested that all of us certainly need to charge ourselves with achieving measured goals in the upcoming year. However, for some reason, in the waning gasps of 2010 I was sufficiently satisfied to simply be able to complete the full year, much less focus on attacking the next. As Linda and I quietly watched the last few minutes of 2010 tick away, I stated, “Unless an airplane falls from the sky onto our house in the next five minutes, we should at least make it through this year.” No planes fell and we indeed have made it into 2011—quite an accomplishment. I don’t know what the next 365 days have in store for me. With each passing year the odds of me even making it through all of those approaching days decreases steadily. Don’t get me wrong, I fully intend to be making an entry on the first day of 2012. However, as time ticks by, I become increasingly aware of my own mortality and the deterioration of this body, which the Lord has lent me for this moment. It certainly is not surprising I can’t do the things I did easily ten years ago. Heck, some things I did five years ago cause me to puff a little more, and that is a little disconcerting. Nevertheless, what am I to do--give up? I don’t think so. I am increasingly convinced I must do more to take care of myself. Eat right--which I’m not doing. Exercise--which I’m not doing. Concentrate on my work--which I’m not doing. There seems to be a pattern here. Which leads me to conclude all of this neglect easily identifies the areas on which I must concentrate. Therefore, I suppose New Year’s resolutions are in order. However, as appropriate as these statements of resolve may be, I will not make them; for they are much too easily broken. And once broken they are quickly ignored, having been dispatched. I've been there before...gotten the t-shirt...this ain't my first rodeo. No, I will simply agree with myself that I must make an effort, an honest effort to do those things of which I know I am deficient. That’s easy enough for me to do. And, you’d be surprised at how well it works to set reasonable expectations which are not rigid rules. This journal, which I began several years ago is an example. When I began writing in it, I did not commit to doing it daily or even weekly. All I said was I would be persistent and simply continue sporadically as it may be. And so, if I must make only one solitary resolution, it will be to continue to focus on those things of which I am committed—be it regularly, irregularly, frequently, occasionally, or sporadically. But, in all cases continue. |
| This has certainly been a different Christmas. For the last several years the loot under the Christmas tree has been sparse to say the least. That never seemed to make any difference to our kids and grandkids. There was always plenty of gift unwrapping to do, and meager as it was, everyone was pleased with Christmas; after all, Christmas is to celebrate the gift given to us by God. Folks seem to forget Christmas was not an idea of corporate America or the Chamber of Commerce. It originally was God’s grand idea to bring us back into a right relationship with Him by giving us His Son to guide our way. And remember, His gift came to us in the simplest of forms as a child born in a stable. Well, our Christmas this year was the simplest that we have seen in years. Not a gift one was placed under our elaborate twelve-foot tall Christmas tree—not one gift. And yet, without any gifts to open our family gathered and fellowshipped, and ate, and laughed, and loved. There was no melancholy or sad faces in the lot. And so, that was the greatest gift to me. Because of sickness, chores, and neglect we did not wander the aisles of the department stores or brave the traffic at the malls. For some reason we simply did not get around to it. We gave each child and grandchild a crisp new fifty-dollar bill in a decorative envelope. It was our intent to make that only one of several gifts they would get. It just didn’t happen. The only other gift we were able to secure was a Christmas tree ornament for each of our two boys—a tradition that has been running since they grew up and established homes of their own. And that was it. In any case, it was still Christmas; and we all, as a family, enjoyed the traditional Christmas Eve gathering at our house. I don’t know how many more of these we will have. There should be many more, but as I enter into my sixty-second year on this earth, I know there is a possibility that this one could be the last. There will be a time when infirmity will prevent others from celebrating at our home. That happens. And so, as I consider Christmases come and gone, I am pleased that this was a joyful time. And, I am resolved to work diligently on making the next one just a memorable…perhaps I will start a little earlier on the trappings. Although I know the love will always be there. |
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