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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 know Sunday is the official first day of the week. However, I’ve always felt as if it finished the week. It seems to me like Monday is the first day of the week, probably because it is the first day after the weekend break in our schedules. So it is, my week begins with Monday, which is today. Now, of course, there are a couple of ways to address this first day of the week. One may look at the days ahead as periods of toil and stress, a gauntlet to navigate, or a crisis to survive until the restful relief of Saturday arrives. Or we may view the next five days as five opportunities to make the best of our lives, challenges to be achieved and milestones to be met. Actually, I have determined it to be a successful week if I manage to finish somewhere in between the two options. Needless to say, I stand here this morning with an empty bucket and gaze upon the horizon of a brand new Monday. The only sure thing about today is it will terminate in less than 24 hours—I’ve already slept through a major chunk of it this morning. I have things to do with the remaining hours. It is my choice as to whether they will be productive or not. The likelihood is I will be nudged along the way by responsibilities that come in the form of family, friends, and strangers. At the end of the day, my bucket will contain the produce of the day—whatever that may be. I wonder if it will be anything like the goals I set at the beginning of the day? Hopefully, it will be productive, because I’ve four more days just like this one to cram the stuff I left undone today into. It doesn’t take long before the leftovers clutter the next days as I find my bucket is full of stuff I'm just haulin' to the next day. That’s whats so great about Mondays. They begin with such promise. All they take to be successful is a little cooperation from me. It’s still dark outside. Everyone, including Max, is still asleep. I begin this day with this entry. It isn’t my most profound, but it isn’t chopped liver either. I can begin with one product—a successful blog entry. My next milestone is lunchtime. By lunchtime I hope to have progress on the City of Tolar’s comprehensive plan and zoning ordinance, interaction with the concrete workers who will pour my patio extension and drive way, and Max’s walk complete. The afternoon will be capped with a lengthy conference call with the city manager of Mineral Wells. My bucket will be close to full. Hopefully, by days end, I will have only a dribble of Monday to carry into Tuesday, which I have no idea what will bring. However, I can’t be held accountable for Tuesday on Monday. Monday is load enough. So, grab your bucket and follow me into our collective Mondays. Could be fun, even interesting and possibly, if we are lucky, exciting. |
| Sometimes I just don’t feel like writing. Call it lazy or a lack of a muse, doesn’t matter what you call it; the juices just don’t flow and the pearls of wisdom just aren’t there. At those moments it’s best if I do something else—anything else. The muse is just not there and inspiration is hard to muster. I certainly hand it to the bloggers who can punch out entry after entry on the Internet for day after day, week after week, and month after month (notice I stopped short of year after year, which as far as I am concerned is beyond reason.) I suppose it is easier to do this blogging thing if one has a crusade or agenda to pursue—a topic which interests you and one in which others have an interest. At least when writing about a favored interest the blog entry may possibly transmit a kernel of passion and/or emotion. My problem is, there is nothing I can passionately contribute which can remain continually fresh, especially after the first hundred days of writing about it. Even within passion, there has just got to be a little diversity in our writing. I find myself repeating the same old mantra after a few entries. Therefore, I stop to let time pass and the reader's memories to fail. I am willing to concede that perhaps this is more of an indication of my limited ability and skill as a writer. I keep thinking about the movie “Julie and Julia,” staring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. Now, you would think the movie is about the life of Julia Childs. Well, as far as I am concerned that is just fluff—mere filler. Nope, this movie masterpiece is really a documentary for writers. It is a primer on how to write a successful blog—needless to say, it is also a testament to the trials and tribulations of finding a publisher. But, it’s primary purpose is to teach us how to write a successful blog. I am sure the director and producer are not aware of this primary purpose. I am here today to enlighten them. As I watched Julie work through her daily blog entries, I was keenly aware of the dynamics of writing a blog, as presented in the movie. Her joy when she received a comment was well understood over here in my house. I identified with her. I remember a scene where she exclaims that her daily entry had received fifty-something comments. We bonded. Now, to those who do not blog, that certainly does not sound very impressive; in fact it appears to be an insignificant moment, just a flash on the screen. But to someone who rocks along receiving one, two, or no comments at all, well I was certainly impressed. To those who have never blogged, Julie’s simple little blog effort may seem trivial. However, to write intelligently for 365 days on a single topic is amazing to me. To accomplish that amazing feat, one cannot wait for the muse to move. Waiting on moments of inspiration is a luxury for unpublished and rarely followed bloggers. Nope, I suppose to write a serious blog one must realize that our pearls of wisdom must be principally born of labor and sweat with an occasional morsels of literary brilliance mixed in along the journey. Ah, what Julie did requires discipline and commitment—and just a smidgen of talent. Since it is apparent that I lack the ‘right stuff’ to do as Julie did, do I therefore count myself as a blogging failure? Not at all—I simply accept the fact that I am not, regardless of my occasional insistence otherwise, a serious blogger. Serious blogging requires commitment and at least regularity. So, next question—is this blogging effort of mine a waste of my time? Well, that depends. It depends on whether or not I enjoy creating and posting these entries. As long as I can say I enjoy them and I get satisfaction from the experience, then I will continue—which I intend to do. Who knows—maybe someday I will become serious about my writing and this blogging thing will become more regular. If it does, it is certain I will not be writing about recipes and Julia Childs. I can’t even boil water without burning it. |
What happened to customer service? Many senior citizens remember customer service, when it really was customer service. Today it appears to be only a link to an excuse. The day where corporate America really cared about providing good service because it was a matter of pride and simply the right thing to do—well that day is gone. Folks used to care about providing a quality product and were interested in critical comments which could be used to refine and better the product. Well, I’m here to say that is no longer the case, with one exception: small businesses—the Mom and Pop types. Those folks still care. What right do I have to make such scalding accusations against corporate American? Of course my disgust is fueled by a bad experience with a corporate giant. Remember when the motto of the phone company was, “We may be the only telephone company in town, but we try not to act like it.” I remember that. Well, that motto has changed because today they really don’t give a @#%& about any of us. Please excuse my language, but sometimes there is really no other way to say it. Over the past three weeks AT&T has been converting my services over to their system. Had I known the headache it would have been I would have never attempted it. Needless to say it has been a disaster. It didn’t have to be. If the communication giant would have just communicated with me, their customer, this would have gone much easier. As it stands now, my services are a mess and my wife and I have lost a home number that we held for thirty-five years—due entirely to an inept and nonfunctional system. I’m frustrated and disgusted with both parties who provided us service—our previous provider and now AT&T. The heart of the problem appears to be that no one at AT&T talks to anyone else. They have tens of thousands of customer representatives who greet the customer with the initial call. After that initial greeting the word ‘service’ is removed from the discussion. I have been placed on eternal hold while the customer representative is off consulting the manual determining to whom I shall be passed. Rarely does the representative come back on line to make a successful transition. In most cases my hold resulted in a dead line, a hang up, or I was recycled back to the beginning to be greeted by a brand new customer representative and his/her cheery greeting. Every time I was graced with a human being on the other end of the line, I had to go through the whole litany of questions: service type, phone numbers, account numbers, password, security code, and description of the problem. You would think someone would have written my problem down in my file so there would be history of it. Obviously that is against the rules. Every time I spoke to someone new, it was a new day, new history. I recounted the litany until it became ingrained in my speech pattern. I spew it forth automatically like a prisoner of war recites name, rank, and serial number to a merciless enemy. Would it be to much to ask for a single person to represent a customer and take him/her through the process to its completion? Nope, that’s too much to ask for—way too much personal attention. And so I stand today a beaten person—frustrated and disillusioned with any idea that there is a solution to my problem. And if there were a solution, I doubt if there is anyone at AT&T who cares enough to help. No, I stand here and capitulate, surrender to the lot I’ve been given, whether of not it meets my needs. I resolved myself to simply write a letter to someone in charge and voice my cause. That would be good enough. Perhaps someone would answer. Who knows? Apparently, AT&T does not want to hear from me. There is no street address for AT&T. At least not one that will get a simple letter to a customer service representative. The corporate giant’s Internet page provides a massive amount of information. However, none of it provides an address to mail a letter. Companies used to give us addresses. Interestingly enough, I found an article in Wikipedia that referenced action of the Chairman of the Board, who threatened a customer who emailed a note to him for the second time regarding an issue the customer was dealing with. I certainly identify with the customer. The Chairman’s response was to notify the customer that, if he were contacted again, AT&T would issue a Cease and Desist letter regarding further contact. Mr. Stephenson is much too important to deal with an AT&T customer. I know he is totally out of my league because in 2009 he received a base salary of $1,450,000 and a cash bonus of $ 5,850,000—he is much too important to talk to the likes of me. Had AT&T provided an address to send our concerns, perhaps folks wouldn’t be emailing the Chairman of the Board. And so here I stand today. I’ve got something to say and no one to say it to. Oh, I can call them on the phone, but that is a waste of time. I’d probably be disconnected after my thirty-minute hold—it’s happened before. |
| They are painting my house. It’s been thirteen years since it was last painted; it needs it. I suppose some would say it is a big house. It’s two stories and has 3,100 square feet of living space, not including the garage and back porch areas. I know Linda certainly considers it to be big, since she is the primary cleaner of the place. OK, I admit my attention to household chores is sloppy. But, even so, I try to muddle through and help. Anyway, this size house takes a lot of paint. Even though much of it, about sixty-five percent, is of masonry construction, it takes about fifteen gallons of paint to do the job. That’s a lot of paint. Watching the process of painting the house has been interesting. The first step was to repair any deteriorated wood that existed. In thirteen years a little rotting will happen on any house, especially when you have an irrigation system continuously watering the base boards of the siding. The second step was to power-wash the house. And, of course the last step was to actually paint the house, which they did with a handy sprayer. It is amazing the difference. My off-white dull and dirty house (of course I didn’t realize it was dull and dirty until after they finished) transformed wondrously before my eyes. It is now bright and clean. It seems as if the fuzzy lines are sharp and in focus. It needed to be done, this painting. I put it off for at least five years, thinking it wasn’t so bad. So now, with the deed complete, I see how far I had let it deteriorate—not that it was dilapidated by any means. We shouldn’t do that, you know—let things go too far. But, it is easy to do. Gradually, with each passing year the original white assumed shades of grey and a loss of luster. Slowly, by subtle degrees it happened. Until one day I realized the distance we had traveled from where we began. It was no longer bright white, but rather a duller shade of white more akin to grey. It happens like that you know—and, not only with houses. We let ourselves deteriorate slowly over the years. Some of it is uncontrollable—just natures process. But, much of our personal deterioration is within our ability to control. I have the ability to eat correctly and to exercise my body as well as my mind. I don’t, but it certainly is within my control. I’ve watched my pant size steadily inch up to the larger sizes. Oh, I’ve been aware of it, but it was such a slow process and I was enjoying the moment with my pizza and slumber. The same can be said of relationships. Linda and I have been married for forty-three years this coming August 24th. We will be married to each other for the rest of our lives. I have no desire to be with anyone else. But, even with the devotion we still have for each other, there is always room for a paint job—a renewal. It isn’t too late to paint. I intend to make the next forty-three years just as desirable as the first. Isn’t it funny what watching your house being painted can bring to mind. I’m pleased with my bright new white house. It is a testimony of what needs to be done in other areas of my life. I’m gonna need a lot of life-paint, though. I wonder where I can find a handy sprayer like my painter has? |
Is there really magic in my fingers? Depends on your definition of magic. I don’t profess to have any presto-digito boloney going on. However, there is an abundance of wonder and fascination as I regard my digits as they zip across the keyboard. What an amazing thing it is to sneak a peek at the screen as the words form and sentences are arranged logically and ordered, capturing thoughts, moods, and emotions. I suppose it was just as exciting in distant days gone by to watch the letters form when the media was a simple quill and a scrap of paper or even a delicate sheet of vellum. The intellect and ability we possess which permits us to create words which capture these ideas and thoughts is a wonderful thing. Certainly, this must be considered as being magic of a special kind. Who would have thought that fat kid, who always stumbled at the wrong time and spoke too loud when the moment called for silence and who barely edged by in high school, would now be consumed in an affair with nouns, verbs, and adjectives, which when are fashioned together, with minimal skill, form my simple stories. The passion which once was devoted to any unsuspecting member of the fairer sex, who crossed my youthful past, is now greatly focused to the art of making words--redirected to the blank page, making it flow with ideas, wonder, laughter, romance and its own very unique form of magic. My passion has learned to be shared by the other loves in my life, including my writing. As I rummage through my portfolio of stories and other pieces I am pleased to find them patiently waiting for my attention--waiting to read and reread. They, in fact, have become ideas, thoughts, and tales which will never be lost as long as there is someone to read them. I do not fool myself to think they are eternal. Someday they may be lost. The media will change and they may no longer be accessible. The paper will crack and crumble; and they will be gone. But, that will take a very long time. By chance, they will live on for generations. Perhaps the stories will transform from the written page and back into the spoken word—to be shared verbally, as was done when man first began to tell his stories. There is always that chance. And, the remarkable thing is—the truly magical thing is, it all begins with the magic in the fingers as the words were first directed onto the page. I suppose we all have some magic. I know; I’ve seen it. |
I’m not sure I posess the skills to write delicately and within the limits of propriety about a subject that is in its very nature crude, rude, and oderous. Yes, I can see the viewers departing this entry like rats from a sinking ship. However, I will try my best to write intelligently and clearly without being too crass. The origin of this entry first came over me last night as I slouched on my couch watching a movie with my wife. It slowly crept up on me and then gently rattled my senses until my furrowed eyebrows and wrinkled nose caused me to exclaim, daintily, “My god, Linda! What is that smell?” Linda did not answer; for she was occupied fanning the air with a couch pillow and gasping for fresh air. It’s a wonder our smoke alarms did not go off warning us of the noxious gas. The only being not consumed with panic was our dog Max, who, as you have guessed by now, was the culprit. I don’t know how else to say it. My dog farts. I mean big time. I swear he didn’t do this until after we got thoroughly attached to him. To cast him outside into the night now would be like throwing grandma from our doorstep. We can’t bring ourselves to do it. But, with each flatulent attack we seriously reconsider our decision, only to bring him back into the fold as soon as the air clears and the public address warning system sounds the final OK. The offensive act isn’t without humor. In addition to the comical sight of Linda and I scrambling to clear air, we about crack up watching Max. I mean, we have seen him when the oderous event happens. There is a slight ‘toot’ and then Max reacts. He seems to be as surprised as we are. I mean it’s a total surprise to him. He jumps to the side and turns his head in the direction of where his butt was at the time, as if he were looking for the offending party. I swear he looks like somebody ‘goosed’ him. The expression on his face says, “What was that? Who did that? What?” I’m sure I will likely get a thousand recommendations and helpful suggestions from viewers offering to assist us in preventing his fateful farts. It’s probably as simple as changing his diet. Who knows. Regardless, we are going to keep the dang dog. We only hope and pray that this never happens at Christmas time as we unwrap the gifts or even worse at Thanksgiving as we all settle in at the table to carver the turkey. Oh, no!--now I’m beginning to worry. |
| Of course I was only a kid. A long time ago, in the summertime, after school let out for summer break I would spend all day outside doing stuff. In the morning, after rising and eating a good country breakfast (thanks, Mom—I really miss those biscuits), I’d hit the ground running. I ran with a gang of kids in those early years. We were all between ten and twelve years old—about a dozen of us. We would hang all day together doing whatever came to mind. But, always, always it was something which was done outside. Of course, there was no such thing as Gameboy/Nintendo to occupy our time. That was science fiction. Television didn’t enter the picture until after our evening meal. And, since we only had one TV set, we watched it as a family in the evening. Dad used me as the remote--"Danny, get up and turn the channel." I reminisce back to those early summer days because I think I’ve finally uncovered proof of global warming. Permit me to explain. Max and I rose relatively early this morning and did what we usually do in the mornings. We took our walk around our little lake (big pond). By the time we were half way through our walk, I was sweating buckets. The Sun had barely broken the horizon and I was complaining to Max about the heat. Of course he ignored me and continued to pee on every rock and twig in the park. But, even his black butt was dragging on the final leg of our walk. Don’t tell me black dogs don’t get hot. He almost stepped on his tongue, it was dragging so low. I am convinced it is getting hotter every morning. As I leave the comfort of my air-conditioned home and sprint to my air-conditioned truck on my way to the air-conditioned restaurant, I gasp and wheeze from the assault of the sauna of the great outdoors (and the sprint—I’m not much for running nowdays.) Dang! It gets hot in Texas! I don’t remember the heat affecting me this way last year. Surely, when I was a kid it couldn’t have been this miserable. Therefore, I’ve come to the conclusion it has to be global warming. There, I’ve said it! Al Gore was right! It’s hotter today than it was when I was a kid. That’s the only possible solution. Linda, of course, thinks it has something to do with the fact that I'm getting older and totally soft. But, what does she know, silly woman. I've got proof. Just ask Max. I hate to admit I’ve softened over the last fifty years or so. No longer do I have the endurance of that twelve year old. I wistfully shrug and bemoan the loss of my youth. I yearn to be able to do the things I did back then. Heck, if Max had been with me back then, the two of us would have been inseparable—the places and adventures we would have experienced. If it wasn’t for this dang global warming, I’d do it today. And so, all I have left is my memory. I sit back in my easy chair, cold beer by my side, black dog at my feet, computer-actuated thermostat set on 68-degrees, wide-screen TV playing a DVD of a football game in glorious high definition, and I consider what I’ve lost. But, wait a minute. Back then I didn’t have all the really cool stuff I’ve got now. Back then I’d still have zits and teenage hormones. I’d have a case of stupid worthy of being in the Guinness Book of Records. I’d have to push my car to get it started. I’d be working for pennies, or even worse wondering if I was ever going to get a job at all. And, I’d have all those mistakes I’ve already made waiting out in front of me. Now that I consider it, global warming ain’t so bad after all. Well, maybe not until Max and I take our walk in the Texas heat tomorrow morning. |
| Everybody needs to be the ‘go to’ guy for someone. You know about the ‘go to’ guy, don’t you? That’s the guy that everybody thinks about when there is a problem to be solved…the guy who has the answer when nobody else does. Everyone needs to be that guy (or gal) at sometime. It does a body good to be that person every once in a while. I’m the ‘go-to’ guy at our house for some things—not all of them. I don’t want to be the ‘go-to’ guy for all things. There’s some stuff that goes on around our house which I want no part of. I’m perfectly willing to let Linda be the ‘go-to’ gal in those areas. Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m talking about laundry, house cleaning, domestic stuff—well, I’m not. I don’t like that stuff, but those are not ‘go-to’ items; they are chores. Nope, the ‘go-to’ person in our home, regarding major decisions and problem solving is a shared function. Linda and I have been ‘going-to’ each other for forty-three years; we’ve sorta become blended in that area. However, there is no doubt who is the ‘go-to’ guy in my job. That’s what I do. I’m a consultant. I know to some folks that’s a nasty word. Some folks automatically think of some dude who professes to know everything, gets paid lots of money for it, and leaves folks scratching their collective heads wondering what in the world he did after he’s gone. I’ve been the brunt of many jokes, the subject of cartoons, and the scapegoat for officials looking for a way to save their asses. That’s me—the consultant. My clients are cities. I help cities grow in an orderly fashion. It’s a long term commitment. I see the results of my efforts years after the action. Cities use a consultant for three reasons: 1. To solve problems they can’t solve, 2. To perform chores they don’t have the manpower (or expertise), and 3. To say stuff they don’t want to say in public—to be the target of rocks and arrows. I’ve done it for over thirty years. It’s sorta fun to be the ‘go-to’ guy. However, I’ve come to believe I am not the only ‘go-to’ guy out there. There are lots of folks who do what I do—and, I’m not talking just about city planning. Nope in every area of our lives we need ‘go-to’ guys. From little kids to old men, there are ‘go-to’ guys out there doling out expert advice. I watch the two brothers who live next door to us. The six year old goes to his ten year old brother for expert advice; that ten year old is a ‘go-to’ guy. The ten year old turns to his dad as the ‘go-to’ guy. ‘Go-to’ guys need to have a few credentials to support their position. First, they must be able to listen to the problem; I mean really listen. They’ve got to have a solution—even if the solution is to wait and see; or the solution is there isn’t any solution. And, ‘go-to’ guys have got to show results. If there are no results, they won’t be the ‘go-to’ guy the next time there is a problem looking for a solution. Trust me, I know about this stuff. Being the ‘go-to’ guy can be very rewarding; it can leave you with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. It also has its drawbacks. Some ‘go-to’ guys can get very full of themselves. Being the ‘go-to’ guy feeds the ego, so you better have your head on straight. If you don’t you can turn out to be a self-centered, snobbish, know-it-all. Unfortunately, that’s what some folks call some consultants, and they are justified at doing so. I’ve found it very rewarding to be the ‘go-to’ guy for all these years. I love what I do; and I do it very well. But, I don’t fool myself. I know that even ‘go-to’ guys sometimes need help. So as much fun as it is to be a ‘go-to’ guy, I try to wear the title with caution and hopefully with humility. After all, we are all ‘go-to’ guys and gals to someone. The only difference is some of us get paid for it. |
I keep stuff. None of it is really very valuable. All of it has a story. That’s what makes it good stuff. Stuff without a story is just junk. I’ve got a dollar mounted in a small frame. It’s a brand new dollar bill…never been used in a transaction. It passed from the bank tellers hand to mine and went straight into the frame. It’s the first dollar bill I earned when I started my company twenty-five years ago. It’s value on the market is just a dollar. It’s value to me is enormous; it’s not for sale. I have a rock that sits on my mantle. Looks like a common rock that we kick and stumble on when we amble down some backwoods trail. It’s not a big rock. I’d call it a decent throwing rock. It’s not a skipper—won’t skip when thrown across the water’s surface; it’s not thin enough. It just sits on my mantle. I can’t sell it because no one would buy it. I picked it up one day while I was walking on the battlefield of Gettysburg. I was standing at the location where a young Confederate soldier died. I know I was because there is an ancient photograph of him laying at that very spot. I may have picked up a rock he stood on when struck down by the Yankee bullet. To a history buff, that little rock is a physical reminder of an awesome event in American history. No one would buy the rock, but it is worth something to me because it tells a story. I have a magazine laying flat on a shelf in my bookcase. That isn’t so unusual. I doubt there is a home in this country that doesn’t have scores of magazines laying around. The cost of this issue was twenty-cents. That ought to give you a hint of its age. It’s a weekly magazine that was published on September 20, 1948—the week I was born. Years ago I was rummaging around an old book store and found a stack of old magazines for sale. I was intrigued to find a “Life” magazine published in my birth-week. I bought it…for more than the twenty-cents on the face of the magazine. Even so, it is not worth much to the world today, unless of course you were born during the week it was published. I’m fascinated by the advertisements in the magazine. A wave of nostalgia washes over me every time I look through it. It reminds me of my mortality as I consider every adult in the magazine is likely dead, or nearing his/her departure date. It is after all sixty-two years old. I’ve sat for hours leafing through the magazine with a grandchild sitting on my lap or next to me, talking about the things shown within its pages. It’s become a history book. It’s just stuff—something that tells a story, but isn’t worth much. My life is full of stuff--more stuff than I have time to detail in this little entry. I guess that’s what happens if you live long enough. My grandchildren love to go to the movies. They love the stories told on the big screen. Hollywood has become more than a simple diversion. It is an industry of big and fantastic stories. Their stories explode across the screen and feed the voracious imaginations of the audience, which includes my grandchildren…and on occasion me and Linda. Oh how I wish I could capture the their imaginations as I walk among the stuff in my home. Oh how I wish the stories attached to all that stuff could be as fantastic as those seen on the screen. Maybe someday they will be. It just takes a little time…time for it to become stuff to them also. |
| Soon we will lose all familiarity with personal interaction. I mean, when was the last time you approached someone and had a reasonable interaction regarding obtaining information or direction. I mean when did you actually do that with a human being. The occasions where that can happen are becoming fewer and fewer. We still order our meals from a waitperson at a restaurant and we still interact with clerks in department stores. But, try to do that over the telephone and more likely than not you will encounter a recording. Real live human beings do not answer telephones anymore, or least not many real people. It seems the rule is the larger the corporation the further removed the human species is from the customer. It is so much more efficient to have a droid meet the public. Droids are not subject to emotions or slick talking callers. I know; I waged war with one of the giants this week—AT&T. I suppose I was finally victorious, at least that is what they let me believe. However, after my encounter with the enemy this tea-totaling ex-preacher man was more than willing to “tie one on” with any wino willing to share their bottle with me. Heck, I’d have bought the wine. The humiliating thing about this is I paid them for the pummeling they gave me. I doled out several hundred dollars and committed to monthly payments for Uverse service. Oh, yes, I was seduced into the world of movies, wireless internet, DVD recording capability, pause action, picture in picture, and thousands of viewing choices I really did not need but was drooling to have. For two weeks I slept each evening with the anticipation of a ten-year-old at Christmas time as I waited for my installation date. When it came the experience was anything but pleasant. Forty-eight hours after my installation appointment I finally picked up my remote for a test drive—but, it took forty-eight hours to get the dang thing installed. I have neither the space nor the time to recount a blow by blow account of my harrowing experience. All I can say is everything that could go wrong indeed went wrong. As a result I spent several hours on the phone with thousands of representatives (it seems as if it were thousands, must have only been hundreds.) During this period I discovered two rules of frustration used by the enemy to sap the will and reason from the lowly customer. First is there is no communication at AT&T. Don’t let the fact that they are the communication giant of the free world impress you. Just because they sell it does not mean they have any of it. No one at that place tells anyone else what the heck is going on. Every time I got a representative on the phone (after waiting twenty minutes listening to “Memories” set to the music of a kazoo) I would have to recount the whole issue over again, including service numbers, account numbers, four-digit security number, telephone number, secondary telephone number and for some ungodly reason my BMI. To do this one time is irritating enough, but I had to do it dozens of times. Why? Because the representatives of AT&T do not know how to use a telephone. I was disconnected, lost on eternal limbo-hold, and passed around like a hot potato. There is no way to get back to the original representative. No! you gotta start over anew with each one. Why doesn’t someone write my information down in the dang computer under my ID number? I gave it to them enough times. The other frustrating thing, among many, is the fact that phone numbers are meaningless to AT&T personnel. The representative who sold us our plan gave us four numbers to call in case of problems or issues. Those numbers either don’t work or are on eternal ring. And if someone answers the phone, you don’t get a human you get a machine who asks stupid questions and ultimately transfers you to a number that has a recording telling me the office is closed for this season and I can call back in November. And, I don’t know how many people I talked to who promised they would call me back and promptly tossed me into the trash as soon as they hung up. If this corporate communications giant wishes to become a little more personable and helpful, three things should happen. First, if someone says they will return a call, Do It! Second, learn how to use the dang phone system and stop hanging up on people; good grief, you’re AT&T after all. Third, after the initial screening by a machine, let a human speak. I know, I would have appreciated it. I could go on, this is in fact only the tip of the iceberg. However, I think you have the general idea. Just imagine this rant lasting for forty-eight hours and you will begin to understand my frustration. Bottom line is everything is now installed and seems to work fine. I’m sure with the passing of time I will forget the labor pains connected with our new glitzy service. Like all humans, my memory is shortened when lavished with treats. However, I’m not sure I will ever be able to live again without this strange nervous tick I’ve developed nor the instant panic that stirs my soul each time the telephone rings. But, I’m working on it. |
I’ve been tied up in history the last few days—personal history, family history. That is nothing new for me. Somehow everything I touch is flavored with history. I suppose historians are folks who live in the past. But we get a bad wrap from some folks. They say we need to get a life, live in the present. Well, the folks who are saying that are usually younger than I am. But, hey, that’s not difficult anymore; most folks are younger than me. That’s significant, though. I have lived enough to build history behind me. And although I am a forward looking guy, I am a city planner, after all, I see the benefit in looking behind me, examining the past. True history is not found in the books. Sure, that’s where you will find history recorded. But true history is dynamic; it lives. History is comprised of a vast multitude of combinations of lives interacting with each other. The things we as people do make history. It should only make sense then that there are a few of us who are intrigued with the history associated with our families, our community, our nation, our time. I am wise enough to realize as a whole humans benefit little from history. We are doomed to repeat our mistakes time and again regardless of the lessons history teaches us. Like a two-year-old, we gotta do it ourselves. Well, the first two days of this week plunged me head-long into family history. It started with a couple of simple emails. One asked if I was familiar with Alexander Boutwell and the other was from my niece, informing me that her son, my grand nephew, has joined the Marine Corps. Well, those two comments sent me in two different directions recounting family history. I found myself multi-tasking in history, sharing information about North Texas during the American Civil War and of my father as a Marine during the Second World War. I suppose every family has a historian—someone to which you go to chronicle the past. There is always someone who either has written it down or knows it so well they can related it be rote. I didn’t intend on being that person. It just happened. As a matter of fact I’m looking for a replacement, some family member who shows a hint of interest in our past ancestors and events. Unfortunately, those are far and few between. I’ve discovered interest in family matters only develops after the excitement of youth has worn off and the reality of our mortality stares one straight in the face. That takes a few years and a death or two. So, since I don’t wish that on anyone, I’ll just wear the mantle of historian and persevere. |
| I could very easily become a hoarder. You know, one of those people you see on television who never ever throws anything away. Heck, some of them have filled their houses with so much stuff it’s impossible to navigate through the house. Linda and I are amazed when we watch the documentaries about the most severe cases. Well, truth be known, I would never go to that extreme. However, there is something in me that wants to keep items of history which come into my life. Some things tell a story. Although their cash value would be insignificant, their value to history is substantial. This is especially true with my personal history. There are things which have come into possession of my family that have significant historical meaning. Therefore, I am especially saddened when I remember items from my youth which are lost to me today. I wish I had those things today. If I could once again acquire them, I’m sure I could fill a house with them worthy of any hoarders desire. Gone from my possession is a ruby ring my father wore all his adult life. It was to be passed to my sister upon his death. That didn’t happen. Gone is a Marine Corps ring he wore while during the Battle of Okinawa. My grandfather was a chief of police in a small Oklahoma town. He carried a revolver, which was on his person on the day he died on duty. That was to be mine someday. Somewhere along the way it was stolen, as were several souvenirs acquired by my father in battle during the Second World War. There was a quilt my grandmother made which I particularly wanted. It is long gone, as are scores of other items which entered into my life and disappeared without my knowledge. My mother’s wedding rings are gone, along with my father’s pocket watch, and scores of family photos—all gone. With all that said, I have come to the conclusion that it is probably best those wonderful items are gone. I do not possess them any longer. I cannot hold them in my hand nor caress them with my eyes. They are indeed gone. And, although I quietly yearn to have some of them back, I am resigned to their loss forever. However, I’ve come to realize these wonderful items can never be lost as long as I remember them. In my mind’s eye I hold them today, remembering every detail. They will always be special and never forgotten, at least not until I am gone. I consider how satisfying it would have been to pass these items down the line to my children’s children. And then I realize I can still do that. I am a writer after all. What better opportunity to pass our treasures than through the family lore that is passed from one generation to another. After all, a family story can never rust or tarnish. No, it sparkles with every telling, oftentimes taking on new luster when heard by the ear of a youngster for the very first time. Yeah, I can endure the lost of the artifact as long as I have the story. And, I’m told I can tell a very good story. |
I’ve never professed that back in my day I had to walk to school in the snow and live without the niceties of life as we know it today. I’ve certainly lived enough days to affirm the ‘old days’ of my youth were definitely technically challenged. We didn’t have all these new fangled gadgets kids have today. Of course not—that’s always been the case with every generation. Old grumps have always gripped and complained about the reckless youth and affirmed that the younger generation had it easy compared to them. This is being driven home to me as I look forward to this coming Thursday when the U-Verse technician will be installing our new system. When that techno-geek leaves my humble domicile, I will be the proud possessor of more communication technology than the CIA had at the height of the Cold War. I will have high-definition feed coursing into three flat screen TVs, with the largest having a wholloping size of 62-inches and the smallest 32-inches. In my day we didn’t even own a black and white nine-inch television until I was about ten years old. As I sit in my media room today, with my surround sound assailing me from every direction, my viewing experience has a closeness to real life that scares the heck out of me. And, it doesn’t stop there. Back in my day, I would rise early on a Saturday morning and camp out in front of the TV, waiting for the morning programming to begin. For about thirty minutes I’d sit there and watch the test pattern, waiting for the national anthem and the first cartoons of the day. Yes, I said test pattern. Programming did not begin until 6:00 am. There was no 24/7 concept of continual television. Transmission stopped at midnight and resumed at 6:00 am. We had to muddle through the lonely early morning hours doing silly stuff, like sleeping. And in my day, we only had three stations to choose from: NBC, CBS, and the local educational station. That upstart ABC didn’t hit the scene until later. Amazingly, next Thursday my new U-Verse capabilities will afford me with almost 400 channels to choose from-every one of them operating 24 hours daily, with most of them in glorious high-definition. Not only that, yup there’s more, but, I also have wireless Internet service for my computer, which connects me with literally the rest of the world. Through the magic of the Internet (thank you Al Gore) I can ‘chat’ with friends in Zimbabwe, London, Melbourne, and across the street. I have more information gathering capacity than the Library of Congress. And…and, I can access it from any dang place on the world that has a cell tower AT&T operates—and those dang things are everywhere. Now get this, I can operate my television from my computer while sitting on the beach in Puerto Vallarta. And…and, have the dang thing record four movies at one time. Now, why in the world would I do that?—don’t know; don’t care, but I can. Yes, we’ve come a long way, Baby. Did I have it rough back in the good ole days? Well, I certainly didn’t have the techno-gadgets I have today. I guess I didn’t see it as being all that rough. Shoot he old-timers back then were telling me how rough they had it. We just didn’t know it; we didn’t have all this neat stuff. It wasn’t so bad back then. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to go back. Heck, I just now got my U-Verse. But, I suppose we’ve lost something in the process—something good and wholesome. Innocence in children lasted a little bit longer back then, it seems. Life was a little slower, easier to keep up with. Stuff didn’t cost as much and there wasn’t an emphasis on buying things on credit. Instant gratification was a luxury. Most folks had to save up funds to buy the latest gadget. But, were times better? Oh, I don’t know. All I know is that they were certainly different. |
| Honesty is a very personal thing. I mean, even though a lie usually hurts bystanders, the real harm is done to the one doing the lying. I remember the movie “Bagger Vance”, where the hero called a stroke on himself for moving the ball when no one else saw it happen. My understanding is that scene was patterned after something golfer, Bobby Jones, actually did. Bobby called a two stroke penalty on himself in the 1925 U.S. Open when he caused a slight waver in the ball which was sitting in the rough. No one saw the waver, save Bobby. His decision caused him to lose the Open by one stroke. When praised for his action, Jones replied, “You may as well praise a man for not robbing a bank.” Honesty is something you do because you are. You don’t do it because you’re supposed to; you do it because it is right. I’ve driven twenty miles back to a restaurant to refund a dollar because I figured out I’d been overcharged. I’ve never cheated on my taxes and don’t inflate possible deductions. I have good friends who tell me I’m being silly—everybody exaggerates a little. I’m not sure I believe that. I think most folks are honest, even in the small stuff. Because I feel this way, I am continually disappointed when my fellow man lets me down. I know I’m old enough to know better, but somehow I think folks want to do the right thing. Unfortunately, there are far too many people out there who could care less—far too many who seem to think the ‘right thing’ is cheating and stealing as much as they can from the government and their neighbor. This morning was one of those moments of disappointment. Our subdivision has a park in the common area for the benefit of the residents. In our pavilion we have four iron picnic tables. We have tried to dissuade those who would damage or steal them by welding them to anchors in the concrete. Apparently that was not good enough. Last night someone broke the welds and stole one of the tables. Why would someone do such a thing? Again, why would someone break into a home at Christmas and steal all the gifts wrapped under the tree? I don’t know; but it seems to happen every year. We won’t get our table back. It is no great loss; we have others. But the real damage is done to the good will of those honest neighbors who pay for the use of that table and expect others to respect that gift. Each act of dishonesty erodes the faith good people have in others. Enough erosion and we become a closed and defensive people. What a waste. What a disservice to everyone else. My father taught me as a young man that a man was only as good as his word. This means in the little things as well as the big things. When we sign a contract to purchase something, we pay for it. There is no option permitting us to letting it go back. Bankruptcy and repossession were dirty words in our house; we did neither. Our option was to suck it up and pay for it…all of it. And, you do this because a man is honest just because it’s the right thing to do…even when no one is watching. |
| I suppose I have been in the longest slump in history. At least it seems that way. After perusing my past entries for the last several years, I noticed a reoccurring theme. Seems as if I have little motivation to do my work. Big revelation—I could have told myself that if’n I’d just asked. So I thought I’d consider this thing we call motivation. Is it a kick in the butt or a prize just within reach? Both of them get you going. Now, some folks would call that depression. I’m not ready to jump on that bandwagon yet. I think it’s just a serious case of ‘burnout.’ The depressing thing is, I don’t really know how to un-depress it. Some folks have said I need to get away from it for a good vacation. That doesn’t work. While I'm out recreating, I’m conscious that my job is waiting patiently for me at home. However, doing a little reading this morning presented a new concept to me. Yeah, after six decades (and counting) there are still a few new things under the Sun. This new concept was a ‘motivation program.’ You got that right, someone has developed a formal motivation program. What a concept. Instead of just running our motors until we run out of gas, we periodically top off the tank—works with my truck; why not me? This one fella, I was reading about, develops a formal yearly motivation plan. I mean, it’s planned out. Being a professional city planner, that’s something I can get my hands around. Man, I’m a planning fool! So, I read on. Seems a motivation plan is comprised of a few elements: Get away from it. The standard getaway is a part of this plan. However, it is not intended to be the end all. It’s just a small element. The important thing is that the events are planned for three or four times during the year. When you are on these, don’t fool yourself. You won’t forget the job waiting for you. That’s not the purpose; the purpose is to relax. Attend some motivational seminars: Schedule two or three weekends where you attend seminars that provide motivational material. These should be professional oriented—something that provides a new insight on what you do. We need to give ourselves new challenges in the workplace. It may simply be a new approach to an old task. Finish things: Nothing is more depressing than leaving stuff undone. Unfinished tasks reek of failure. Unaccomplished assignments that linger on are a dark cloud that blocks the sunshine. You want a little relief in your life? Finish something. Exercise: Now, he has gone from being constructive to meddling! You don’t know how much I detest exercise. I know all the medical and physiological arguments for a good regimen of exercise. I do my best to find logical reasons to not do it. BUT, since EVERYONE seems to make it a hinge pin of keeping the doors on our lives, I suppose I can do it. Ultimately, I know it is good for me. So OK! For the good of the “plan” I will develop a solid exercise program. Read, watch, and listen to motivational material: Just as we are what we eat, we act/function on the mental and emotional fodder we chew on. Read, watch, and listen to doom and gloom all day long and your attitude will match it. Now, don’t overload yourself on motivational material such that you ignore the valleys in life. Just don’t make a steady diet of negative. Associate with winners: I heard a guy once remark, “You want to be a millionaire? Hang out with millionaires. Think like a millionaire. Don’t get me wrong. Wealth does not rub off. You won’t get rich by wishful thinking. However, your fortunes will likely increase when you think like a millionaire. Along that line, you want to have a positive attitude and be a motivated person? Hang around positive folks and motivated people. The bottom line is that any or all of these things can help lift our spirits. Why in the world do I wait around for some of them to wander into my life. Why not be proactive. Make a plan. OK, I think I will. |
| We are really a strange bunch, we humans. It amazes me that I ever sit and ponder about what to write. I mean there is so much material out there just regarding us being us. We do strange stuff. Just reading the newspaper provides me with a source for stories. Of course I must now give you an example. OK, for example, I read of a lady from Wyalusing, Pennsylvania, who was discovered living with her dead sister and her dead husband. As gruesome as it sounds, it was really a tender act. Seems as if she loves them and is lonely. Now, the article said the two corpses were embalmed and buried. She had them dug up and brought to her house--her husband ten years ago and her sister just last October. Don’t ask me how she did that. Surely, that is another story in itself. But, the elderly lady, Jean Stevens, was quite distraught with the fact that she was going to be separated from the two deceased loved ones. Jean obtained legal council and has petitioned to have husband and sister returned to her. Now, the amazing thing is, the State of Pennsylvania said she could have her way. Both husband and sister will be returned to Jean if she treats them properly. That is to say they must reside in a proper place for the dead. To that end, Jean is building a mausoleum for her loved ones. Now the whole thing is a little ridiculous. After all, Jean is 91 years old and likely will not be with us too many years, herself. But, never say we are not a compassionate pack, us humans. It seems Jean is claustrophobic and simply could not stand the thought of her loved ones being contained in a coffin buried in the ground. You gotta hand it to her. She obviously took on City Hall and came away victorious, even if it is sort of morbid. Now, don't tell me you wouldn't shake your head in disbelief if you read some concocted short story along that line. I mean, you would probably agree that the writing was good but the story line was just too outlandish to be believed. I don’t ever want to hear you whining about not having any story ideas. Read the paper; there’s plenty of them. Or just sit in the mall and watch a bunch of strangers. I mean, they’re all around us. Happy writing. |
Why do I keep writing when no one reads this stuff? Why to I have sixty short stories catalogued and presented in book form ready to be published? Why to I have a historic fiction story about the life of one of my colorful distant relatives assembled in novel form and waiting again to be published? Why do I have seventeen short stories written about a private eye in the style of Phillip Marlow, Sam Spade, or Mike Hammer? (You need to meet Spam Hummer.) Why to I write this blog thing, even if only sporadically? Why do I belong to a community of writers on the Internet? Geez, I don’t really know. I haven’t made a dollar with my writing. Well, that’s not true. I’ve published two devotionals in a magazine, earning a total of fifty dollars, and I’ve published a Christmas article in a New England newsletter for free. I suppose in a sense I am a published author. However, I certainly don’t feel like it. Apparently, I don’t do this for the money. I have no qualms about making a living off of my writing skills. Well, that’s not quite true either. I write technical studies for a living. But, somehow I have never counted professional studies and reports as journalism. It certainly does not measure up to writing fiction, which is my passion. I again ask the question, “Why do I write?” I would respond, “Because I have to.” Just like a climber scales the mountain because it is there I pursue the written word because there are ideas, concept, and stories I must communicate. But, I have always believed that answer was a little lame…too easy. Just as when a child is asked why he did some wayward act, I as a writer respond, “Because.” That just doesn’t work. There has got to be more than, “Because.” I enjoy writing. It thrills me to take a seed of an idea and paint a word picture of the story. It thrills me even more when someone reads it and says they like it. Hopefully they are not lying to me and truly liked it. Often in the evening I wander through the files of my writing, reading selected pieces. Occasionally, I nod to myself and confirm that the material was good; certainly I am prejudiced. However, some of the pieces surely are good; and that pleases me. So I write because I enjoy it. I write because it is immortal. Words on the page have the possibility of lasting way beyond the years of the author. Does anyone care what they say? Maybe not…or maybe some distant relative a century from now will be captivated and intrigued by the living words placed on the page of a long departed ancestor. The written word has a way of bringing personality to a name. It in a very limited sense permits one to live again, if only in the memory of the reader. But, isn’t it amazing to consider that we can again communicate personally with someone long past our days? I like the immortality of writing. I’m sure, if I think about it long enough and get philosophical enough, I can come up with more reasons why I write. But, I’ll not think about it any more today, and I’ve gotten as philosophical as I intend to get. For the moment the two reasons I’ve stated are good enough. That’s the beauty about writing. You can stop doing it whenever you want. |
Unfortunately, the names we place upon our works are important. Regardless of what the thing is called, we must market the product to increase awareness and popularity so our product will receive appropriate treatment. But, first and foremost we must grab the attention of the wandering eye. I am talking, of course, about naming our written pieces. Shakespeare had Juliet make the profound announcement that a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. Our friend, Bill, was inferring that our moniker is relatively unimportant; it’s the content to which it is attached that is important. Now, the ancient English poet penned no truer fact. However, Juliet would be the first to affirm the awesome impact a name has on the article it wears. And, although the old adage, “You can’t tell a book by its cover,” is reasonable advice, human nature often turns a blind eye, or at least one that is severely dimmed, to reason. Human nature is a sensual thing; we are driven by our senses. The smell of fresh bread makes our mouth water in anticipation of the taste. The sight of a gorgeous woman in a bikini grabs a male’s attention, regardless of the intellect of the scantly clad creature wearing the thing. First impressions really are important. Do not expect to walk into an interview with a Fortune 500 company dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt, with tattoos across your face and multiple piercings in your nose, lip, and ears and get the job. You may have multiple nipple rings and even the verses of all the Beatles’ songs tattooed on your chest; if it doesn’t show it doesn’t matter. Because, my friend, appearance counts. We are sensual creatures who take great stock in the first impression. Is this just and right? Well, right has nothing to do with it. It’s nature. That’s the way we are. So, what has this to do with writing? Lots. A reviewer, publisher, or editor will begin their consideration of your work by first reading the title of the piece. If the title works, then you are headed in the right direction. Of course, you then have to perform. But, at least they didn’t lay your masterpiece in the pile and proceed to the next title. This was driven home to me as I perused the titles of books pertaining to the writing craft. I wanted to purchase a “how to” book on writing fiction. So, I pulled a resource up on my Kindle. It was a listing of books on writing fiction, as catalogued on Amazon. I looked at the bottom left hand corner of the page and noticed I was reading titles on the first page of many listing 20,000 titles. Now, what is it that is going to cause me to select one of these books over one of the other 20,000? Well of course, I will read the description and reviews of the ones with which I am interested. However, with 20,000 titles, which ones will I even pause to consider further? I was driven solely by the title of the book. Needless to say, I passed right on by the ones that simply said “Writing Fiction.” Although short and sweet, it lacks imagination. With 20,000 choices I wanted something with a little imagination. After all, I am writing fiction. I almost stopped at the one titled “Writing Fiction for Dummies.” I identified with that one, but somehow felt offended and am still in denial whether or not I am in fact a dummy. However, if I’m later confirmed to be a dummy, I know where to find it. So, which book did I finally select? After much shopping, without making a dent on reading all 20,000 titles, I finally selected a book that seemed to be just what I was looking for. Its title is, “When Did I Become the Oldest Person in the Room?” by Ed Swartley. I believe you must agree that it is certainly an interesting name for a book on writing fiction. What caused it to be selected? Well first, it caught my eye. You see, I’ve made the very same observation myself. Right off the author and I have established a bond; we are members of a brotherhood. We both write and are both over the age of….well, we are over-aged. I was instantly convinced the author had to have an imagination to create such a unique title. And most importantly, he had to have a sense of humor. How can you be successful in this craft without having a good sense of humor. How was the book? I’ve read better. It really is not a very good ‘how to’ book. However, it is a great book on attitude and inspiration for persevering in the craft. Whether or not it fulfills my original purpose for buying the book, it is worth the time, effort, and money I’ve spent. There is no revelation of new technique here. There’s lots of advice about writing in the book. In fact, it deals very little with selecting titles. Nevertheless, I suppose the most interesting thing I’ve come away with is a reinforcement of the idea of making a good first impression. I may not become a master of titling my work. Hey, I may not even show improvement. But, I’m dang sure aware of the significance of a good title and will try my best to have an eye-catcher every time. Thanks, Ed. |
| We are lazy people. Notice I used the pronoun ‘we.’ I include myself in this observation. Very few Americans know the details regarding our Flag, the national anthem: The Star Spangled Banner, and the relationship that both of them have with our fight for Independence. In the recesses of our collective minds we seem to recall George Washington crossing the Delaware to fight the British in the snow. Shortly after that we were a free country. Of course Benjamin Franklin, John Hancock and a bunch other men first signed the Declaration of Independence. And then on the next page they developed the Constitution. And, that my friend is the basic understanding of how we became a country, as held by the common man (or woman) on the street. Now, I don’t, by any means wish to cast dispersions on my fellow countrymen. How can I condemn anyone when I suffer from the same ignorance. Let’s face it, most of us slept during American History in high school, and when we got to college we simply didn’t take the class…at least most of us. But the fact of the matter is that it didn’t happen that way. I’m referring, of course, to how we became a country. It wasn’t that easy. The history books record the American Revolution as occurring between the years 1775 and 1783, a period of eight years. We celebrate the formal declaration of our independence as July 4, 1776—the day we put it into writing and thrust it under the nose of King George III. Now, the Star Spangled Banner and the fight over Fort McHenry wasn’t even during this period. That scrap was in the next war, the War of 1812. But, I suppose that’s an honest mistake since we were fighting the same foe. They all seem to run together. To place further perspective to our early history, our Constitution, which has served us well over these last two-hundred-and- thirty-four years, was adopted on September 17, 1787, four years after the end of the Revolutionary War. So, it seems, if I’m doing the math correctly, our birth as a new nation took over a decade to accomplish—an awfully long period of labor. Interestingly, George Washington did not begin his term as our first president until 1789—a full six years after the war ended and two years after the adoption of the Constitution. That’s a scary thought—to think we were being totally governed by congress for those intervening years. So there you have it—our early history in a nutshell. As you can see, George Washington did not come straight from the signing of the Declaration of Independence to sail across the frozen Delaware just in time to win the War and become president. It was a little more involved than that. Our entrance into this grand experiment we call America, was a tumultuous one. We have earned the right to stand tall—to be proud. We are a great nation because we have scraped and bled the entire way to where we are today, making mistakes and correcting them, fighting for what we have. Sometimes we were not so gentle. At times we were even a little bit amoral. But, we are what we are because we earned it the hard way. No one gave it to us. And, sometimes we were divinely led. We fought for each bit and scrap. Sometimes we were lucky. Sometimes we were cruel. But, mostly we were simply persistent, clinging to a vision proclaiming all men to be equal and endowed with unfettered opportunity. It’s a vision I hope we never lose sight of. Happy birthday, America. |
| Have you ever considered how amazing the phenomenon of written communication is? I mean, think about it. We begin with twenty-six characters called letters. To be able to arrange them in an ordered sequence such that they form an intelligible word is in itself amazing. Then string a whole grouping of them together such that the amazing words create an amazing sentence. Take it a step further and string all these amazing characters and words together to form a whole paragraph, and then stories and books—millions of them. Now how amazing is that? I suspect the greater part of mankind thinks little of this amazing feat. Heck, the greater part of mankind can’t even read, much less write. Those of us who do are a privileged group of creatures--recipients of a vast universe of ideas and emotions recorded and captured for our own benefit; be that pleasure or education. And, yet we take this ability to understand the assembly of character on the page for granted. And, those of us who have the ability to actually create intelligible stories, directions, and dialogue squander the opportunity to write. Why? Well, that’s just the way we are. We will always take freely given treasure for granted. Only when it is purchased by great sacrifice will we truly treat it as a treasure. Many of our youth see the learning years at school as being a prison sentence…time to serve until graduation…release. I have a dear friend who detests reading. His excuse for not reading is that it takes too much time and he has far too much to do to waste time reading. What an utterly ridiculous statement. Having read many biographies of great men and women, I can attest they share a desire for knowledge. One of our presidents has recorded that his day was always started with reading the newspaper—but not just one, several different papers. General George Patton was quoted as remarking after he fought and defeated Field Marshal Rommel in the sands of North Africa, “Rommel, I read you damn book!” How can we make a statement such that we have no time for reading? I contend we do those things we truly want to do. No, my friend has no time for reading because he doesn’t want to read. I spend the last thirty minutes of every evening laying in bed reading something. When I wake I spend the first moments are usually spent in devotion reading the Bible or some other volume that will feed the spirit. When I’m waiting for Max to eat his breakfast (Yes, I wait for my dog to eat breakfast…that is a whole other story) I read the newspaper on my Kindle. I try to be in the process of reading some book by utilizing cast off moments from other tasks—while waiting for a bus, or waiting for the oil to be changed, while waiting in the truck as Linda runs in and picks up a few items of groceries. We are constantly having to wait for something. Why not put the time to good use? So don’t tell me you don’t have time to read. I would prefer you said you just don’t want to read that particular book I suggested. Anyway, this ability to read and write is a fantastic gift. And, yet I find I must be very disciplined to read and doubly so to write. This has been just a thought about the written word. I am continually amazed at the wonder of it; and just as amazed at how much we take it for granted…all of us, even me—especially me. |
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