%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  A sporadic account of my reaction to life. |
|
Over the years I have sporadically attempted to keep a journal. Each attempt has failed miserably. I think they expired because I established rules that were too ridgid for them. So, this attempt will bring with it very few rules. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** There are many incredibly kind and thoughtful people in WDC. One of them is zwisis. Out of the blue she sent me this flower gift. It reminds me of the Bluebonnets of Texas. Thanks, Sarah. And, I must not forget the very talented katherine76 who created the flower...thank you. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it appears that my blog is going to the dogs. It aslo seems as if folks have gotten me pegged as a dog lover....they're right. Our very own Anyea   has gifted me with this Valentine card. Now I ask you, "How sweet is that?" Thanks, Anyea  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I have been fortunate to encounter many generous and kind people during my tenure in WDC. Debi Wharton is one of them. She gifted me with the following sig. It shows how sensitive and caring she is. It also shows that she read some my entries. She'll never know how much I appreciate the gift and the attention to my blog. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| “He lays comfortable but motionless; his brown eyes embedded in his coal black coat forever following my every move, trusting, watching, adoring, loving…priceless. My black dog.” That’s an entry I made on Facebook one cold December morning. It was the caption for a photograph of my dog Max. The photo was one of those spontaneous things. I had noticed Max laying on the floor watching me with those big brown eyes. He lay like a reclining Sphinx, head between paws. The only thing moving as I walked around the room were those brown eyes. I stopped to marvel at the sight of him and noticed my cell phone laying on the counter next to me. I reached over, flipped the thing onto Camera, and snapped the photo. It is now one of my favorites. He is always there, dependable. Unless I prevent him from doing so, he accompanies me everywhere I go. I mean everywhere. For some odd reason he thinks his place is with me. And, honestly, that’s alright with me. There is something strangely reassuring about his consistency. In this world, few things exist on which we can truly count, especially where relationships are involved. I’m lucky. I’ve had the same mate for forty-three years. It is getting more rare to find someone still living with the girl they went to the Prom with, after forty-four years. I can count on Linda to be there, the Sun to rise every morning, the Son to always love me, and my dog Max to always be at my side. In this world of radical change, evolution, bankruptcy, violence, and sudden death, it’s reassuring to know some things will never ever change. As long as he or I are still breathing, I know he will be there. I know it will not always be so and that breaks my heart. But, I also know that the privilege of having him by my side is priceless and will assuage the heartache of a latter time. For the moment I will simply enjoy his presence and hope that he feels the same. Somehow, I believe he does. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Sometime this weekend, while I was sitting back watching a football game, John Lambert died. Sad and tragic as it may be to those who were close to John, his passing will likely not be significantly recognized by the rest of the world. Although he was the very center of someone’s world, he was on the periphery of mine. Nevertherless, I will miss him; he was a good man. I knew John through association with my work. John was the chairman of the Planning and Zoning Commission for the City of Bedford. I’ve know John for several years. Every two weeks, and sporadically in-between, I met with John and the rest of the commissioners to focus on the planning decisions for the City. There have been hours outside of meetings where he and I and other members of the commission visited on common mundane things, voicing opinions and interests, talking about hobbies, discussing politics, and occasionally eating a meal as a group. Over the years you form close associations with the people you work with. However, it is remarkable that through all that time, I really did not get to know the man. We were business associates, which does not mean you don’t become fond of a person. It’s just a different association. John died suddenly. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. I don’t know the particulars of his death. It had something to do with a medical procedure which was not considered as being life threatening. Sometimes those things just go wrong. Apparently, this was one of those times. As I read John’s obituary in the paper, I discovered more about the man—things I didn’t know or suspect. For example, I was informed that John was a Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Army. He retired after twenty-two years of service to our nation. Within those twenty-two years he served two tours in Vietnam and finished his military career serving in the Pentagon. I never got the chance to thank him for his service and to tell him how much I respected him for what he had done. John lived a full life, 68 years. Most certainly, in this age of medical miracles it was much too short. But he accomplished much in his time with us. The death of those we know, even associates, rocks our world a little, causing those of us still actively involved in living to order our perspective. None of us will live forever. Death comes to all of us, the infant as well as the aged. We often seem to live this life oblivious to death, delegating it to the distant future. As John’s situation testifies, death often finds us tomorrow. Last week I opened the newspaper and read an article about a fourteen year old girl who was killed in a car accident caused by her fourteen year old boyfriend driving under the influence of alcohol. Right now there are scores of people fighting cancer, who have a prognosis of just months to live. Perhaps John and that fourteen year old both knew someone like that. The common reaction is to assume that one under the sentence of the terminal condition would surely go first, certainly before a fourteen year old or even a healthy 68 year old. But that was not the case and is not the case. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow. And yet at times we live as if we are immortal. Now, you may think this is a dark entry all about death and dying. That certainly is not my intention. No, this entry is actually about living. You see since none of us have any guarantee of a full and healthy tomorrow, it would serve us well to be wise about what we do with today. If we are to find joy and beauty in this life, let it begin today. Don’t wait until tomorrow to experience happiness. If we find ourselves in the midst of despair today, we should fight with all we have to rid ourselves of the mantle of despair. I am reminded of a scene in the film “The Last Samurai.” Laying in the arms of his devoted friend, the mortally wounded Samurai looks around him and sees the apple blossoms falling from the trees on the perimeter of the battlefield. In that last instant he watches the wind blow scores of blossoms in a tender cascade to the ground—each blossom perfectly formed and a integral part of the beauty of the tree. With his last breath he utters, “perfect.” Perhaps living is after all a matter of perspective. We find in it what we look for and in turn are rewarded accordingly. Now is the time to do that. |
| Today is Veteran’s Day. The cessation of the hostilities on the Western Front of WWI took effect at 11:00 a.m. on the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. Although there were still hostilities present at other areas for a short period of time, for all practical purposes the First World War ended at that moment. It was to be the war to end all wars. Unfortunately, the fact that we have numbered our wars shows that was not to be. This day was known as Armistice Day and was declared a holiday in honor of all who died fighting during WWI. After World War II the name of the holiday was changed from Armistice Day to Veteran’s day so that we may honor those who gave their lives while fighting for us in all our wars. It’s at this time we pause to thank them. In my home town the streets are peppered with American flags. While that is a marvelous sight, it is sad that every home and business does not fly that flag in memory of what those brave men and women did for us. I am proud of my father. He did not die on a foreign field. But as a young US Marine he fought on one. He was there in the Pacific, fighting the Battle of Okinawa, where the blood of many of his friends was spilled. I will never be able to express the gratitude that I feel for what he and all those men did for me. He never asked for any recognition or sought any reward for doing what he did. He carried the scars of combat silently and throughout all his life. He loved his country and loved the Corps. He was a member of what Tom Brokaw calls the Greatest Generation. And, I’ve got to admit; I agree. Thanks Dad; thanks to every veteran who has served our country. We will never be able to repay the debt we owe you. All we can do is recognize you for what you have done. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** (Dad kneeling and holding the rifle) |
| I just finished reading a book written by Newt Gingrich and William Forstchen called Gettysburg: A Novel of the Civil War. It’s a pretty good book for Civil War buffs. The thing reads like a historical account of the Civil War, much like the work of Michael Shaara. In fact it wasn’t until Newt entered the second day of the battle that I realized he was writing an alternate history of the battle. I’ve got to hand it to Gingrich, he made the transition seamlessly. It was as if history properly departed from what actually happened. I won’t get into the outcome of Gingrich’s alternate history, other than to say it is quite plausible and extremely convincing. However, it got me to thinking, which is a dangerous thing. When I get fixated on an idea my mind turns it over and over during the day or days; it drives me nuts. I’ve read alternate histories that have dealt with major events in history, such as what if an election went other than it did, what if the US aircraft carriers had been in Pearl Harbor the day it was bombed, what if Queen Isabella had not financed Columbus to make his trek to find the western passage to India, or what if the atomic bomb had failed to work when dropped over Hiroshima and Nagasaki? History would have been written differently in each of these cases, possibly the world would be a different place today—whether that place would be better or worse is the job of the alternative historian to present. But what about alternative history on the personal level. What if we had never met our partners? What if we had gone to a different school or lived in a different house in our childhood? What if we had changed our major in college or perhaps not even attended college? What if we had decided to take the next airplane on a business trip? Or, what if on one simple morning we had turned left at a stop sign instead of right? What alternative history could that left turn had made in our history today? Think of it. The possibilities are limitless. Every action we take brings with it a whole new alternative history. The next time you write a blog, before you push the submit button, consider the alternative to not pushing the button. Perhaps your future may depend on it. Perhaps the next entry you read may inspire you to act in a life changing way. Perhaps your decision to read or not to read a particular author will make the difference. Maybe a 30-second delay in your schedule will change your life forever. What if? I can only conclude “what if” is a very pointless game to play, unless you are writing a book, like Gingrich did. In that case it could very well be quite profitable. So, what if you never write it? |
| My dog likes ice. Not to run or play on it, but rather to eat it. Now, I know that isn’t an especially nifty trick for a dog—to eat ice, that is. But, it never ceases to make me giggle to watch that silly dog crunch ice. I first discovered he had this thing for ice a couple of years ago when we were walking in the golf course one summer evening. It had really been a hot day and the golfers had taken advantage of the ice water in coolers stationed around the course. At the end of the day the maintenance folks circled the course and emptied the coolers to ready them for the next day. I found a pile of ice next to almost every tee box. Well, Max actually found it. He would sit there and gobble and crunch on the ice as if it were a steak. I usually don’t let him eat stuff he scrounges up during our walks. The dang dog has a sensitive stomach and I usually find the morsel grossly deposited on our carpet at a latter date. Yes, I know…eewww! Anyway, when I see him start to eat some unwanted item, I usually spring into action and stick my fingers in that canine mouth and remove the stuff—against Max’s will. That, by the way, is how I know my black dog will never bite me. If ever he had occasion to snap at me it would be when I pry that mouth open and ignore the chomping teeth as I remove the unwanted morsel. But, not with ice. I figure ice is nothing but solid water. It’s like letting him get a drink. Just chomp away on that ice—and he does. Max likes all kinds of ice. Of course, he likes golf course ice—that is his first love. He especially likes fast food ice. When we visit the pick-up window he begins wagging his tail when he sees the iced drinks. He waits patiently for us to drink the soda down so that we will begin feeding him the left-over ice. We motor down the highway digging one cube at a time out of the cup and feeding it to that dang dog. He seems disappointed when the cup is empty and has to investigate the empty cup himself after we tell him, “It’s all gone.” Max loves big family dinners. Inevitably, wayward ice-cubes tumble to the ground when the glasses are being iced. I suspect our helpers have become secretly careless on purpose because everyone seems to know Max’s penchant for the frozen pellets. And, does he wait at the table for a morsel of turkey to drop on the floor? Probably—however, he would just as soon mooch ice from the grandkids after we’ve finished eating and sit around the table visiting. OK, I know—I’ve made a big to-do out of the ordinary. I’ve successfully demonstrated that Linda and I, or at lest I, have crossed the line in my affection for that dang dog. I’ve become one of those folks I used to shake my head about and mumble, “Pitiful !” He’s just a dog. Nevertheless, I think it’s pretty cool my dog eats ice. |
| Politics is a sorry topic for a journal entry. First of all, it turns everyone off immediately. You can count on that entry being lonely and unvisited. Second, it does little good to spout one’s position since very few folks are receptive enough to change a position or be spurred to action. The best you can expect is for readers of like thought to maybe shout out, “I agree.” Unfortunately, you can also expect those who differ radically from your position to respond with negative comments; hopefully none of them will involve your mother or your line of parentage. And, finally, writing on politics can make established relationships awkward, depending on how committed to political positions your friends may be. And, so the questions becomes, “Why do it; why write on politics.” Well, sometimes a topic just gnaws on you until you just gotta say something about it. That’s the reason I’m pounding on these keys right now. There’s something I gotta say. I respect and support the Tea Party movement. In the mind of some folks that now labels me as being racist, ignorant, red-neck, deluded, radical, and somewhat crazy. At least that appears to be the opinion of the liberal media and liberal populace. (Please forgive me for labeling them; bad habits are hard to break.) Needless to say, most polls of which I have seen or heard places the majority of Americans in positive agreement with the Tea Party movement. This does not mean they “belong” to the Tea Party; it just means they have a positive sentiment towards its core beliefs. This obviously is well documented by the wave of change demonstrated by the elections on November 2nd. How can this surge of the will of Americans be ignored? How can it be explained away by those who oppose it? Like it or not the core beliefs held by the Tea Party supporters represents the beliefs of a majority of Americans. You may wish to pause and argue with me on this point. Nevertheless, if it is the case, as I believe it is, why not embrace these basic beliefs? At least, don’t dismiss them as racist, ignorant, red-neck, delusional, radical, and somewhat crazy. At least take the time to examine carefully what they say. One does not have to join the Tea Party in order to examine these beliefs. Before I progress, I must make something clear. The name “Tea Party” can be misleading. It is easy to begin to assign to it attributes of an organized political party, similar to the Republican Party or Democratic Party. That is a mistake. The Tea Party is a movement. It has organized factions scattered around the nation, which helps to keep it focused. But there is no leader of the Tea Party; and there are no Tea Party candidates. The day it organizes as a political party and holds a convention to elect a candidate, is the day it diminishes in my favor. The Tea Party is a sentiment of political action. It holds as its spiritual model the Boston Tea Party of pre-revolution days, when men masqueraded as Indians and, as a protest to out of control taxation, dumped the inbound tea shipment from England into the Boston harbor, by so doing creating a colossal Tea Party for the benefit of King George. It is with that spirit the grass roots population across this nation has risen to convey a message to what they perceive as a runaway congress and executive office. To that extent, I agree with them. What has occurred on November 2nd is an historic event. Acceptance of that fact will likely depend on one’s political views. The strong left will surely reject the significance of this event as vehemently as the strong right will embrace it. That is unfortunate, for we miss the opportunity to work within history and make a difference for our future when we stubbornly deny the facts and hold to personal agendas over the common good of America. The changes effected last Tuesday were not victories or endorsements of the Republican Party. We who identify ourselves as being Republican must understand that. The changes effected Tuesday was the result of the will of a significant majority of Americans. It was the voices of Republicans, Independents, Democrats, Libertarians, and other folks who don’t have a clue as to where they stand with a political affiliation; these are all represented in the Tea Party. Many of them, like me, have never attended a Tea Party rally or have a Tea Party bumper sticker. For many of these folks this was the first time they had made their voice heard. Their collective voices cried loudly and clearly, “We do not want government increasing its role in our lives. We want legislation that decreases our tax burden, encourages the growth of commerce and jobs, secures our homes, and makes this a safe place to live.” In the eyes of this majority, the policies and actions of the current congress and executive office have failed. The voice of the people repudiated the actions of the current congress and executive office. They now seek corresponding actions from the congress and executive branch that does likewise. Likely, it is doubtful there will be much success in accomplishing that kind of turnaround, for each political camp holds stubbornly to the creeds and dogmas associated with the party line. This is evident by the spin presented by the party line in the speeches of leaders of the House, Senate and the President. However, the voice of the people has also said, if and when we see no significant action on a new direction to bring the change voiced by the American people and embrace these core beliefs, we have only one choice—remove them again in 2012 and keep doing it until we get someone in Washington who will do what the people want. Maybe then the Representatives, Senators, and our President will finally “get it.” But, why-oh-why should it take this much time. |
| I’m trying to get a grasp on this thing we call perspective, at least as far as living my life goes. Yeah, I know that sounds like a pretty deep philosophical subject, one that will send most readers screaming from my journal. However, I promise not to get too deep and can almost assure I will not provide a definitive answer—I’ll likely just chip the surface of the marble block and leave the sculpture unfinished. Besides, I have much more important things to accomplish today, like clean my messy office. We (excuse me for dragging you into this mess, but I feel more comfortable if you are included in the group) tend to place a high priority on our jobs. They are the most important thing in our lives, at least they are if you determine importance by the amount of time we spend on them. When asked what we have accomplished in our life most of us recount the grand successes in our vocations, point to the awards plastered on the walls, and snuggle amidst the degree letters placed behind our name. See how important and significant my life has been? I’ve got letters behind my name. No matter no one else outside of my vocation has a clue as to what the letters mean, they just recognize I’ve got letters. Now, some of you may not have letters behind your name. No problem—we have solved that by giving ourselves titles. Unlike ants, where each ant is labeled as a ‘worker ant,’ we have titles. I am the Chief Executive Officer and President of a corporation. Sounds fancy doesn’t it. In reality, I am one of two employees of a business run out of my house. My wife, who is the other employee, has a much more important title, Supreme Commander of Logistics and Operations; she keeps the books and tells me what to do. She also can make her own title. By the way, her title extends beyond the business into her private life at home—mine doesn’t. I jokingly have alluded to the fact that we tend to define ourselves greatly by what it is we do to earn a living—our jobs. Now, I know all of us would be quick to assert that we are not just a ‘worker ant’, we also have families and social aspects of our lives. Of course we do. Those areas are what makes us unique. But, I contend that the routine focused around our vocation is the one we get most caught up in. It isn’t until that routine is disrupted by life, that we set back and take notice of what things are really important to us. This often occurs when tragedy or sorrow enters our life—a catastrophe or a death in the family. I've had a few of those in my family. I remember the day my parents home and neighborhood was decimated by a tornado. And, I remember the time my parents lost everything they had in hurricane Camille—all of it washed out into the Gulf of Mexico. I had a friend commit suicide and take his young son with him. I remember sitting with my chin resting on my hands and marveling at how really insignificant the problems were that led him to that point. And, at the same time I considered the insignificance of the problems present in my own workplace. Those kinds of events forces a persos to restructure the order of priorities in one’s life. So, what are the really important things in my life? Well, of course, they are legion—too many to be counted. But, a few of them include the early morning walks I take with Max, sitting out on the back porch on a cool fall day reading the newspaper, having lunch with Linda, watching my grandkids open Christmas presents, letting Max curl up on my feet while I try to work at my desk, the first bite of a Milky Way, rewriting a paragraph in a story until it seems to flow just right, having someone nod and say they like my work, cool sheets that warm quickly in the winter, opening my computer and finding an email waiting for me, a fire in the fireplace when it snows and the sound of rain on my window, a good football game where my team wins, a bowl of popcorn, an unexpected lick on my elbow from my dog, singing to an old song playing on the radio, watching the sun rise across the lake, egg nog with just a touch of rum during the holidays, and receiving a smile from a stranger or a hug from an old friend. That’s just a drop in the bucket of the things that are important to me. Hmmm…isn’t it strange that not a one of these things require letters behind my name.  |
| I just got off Facebook where I saw lots of references to Political Correctness. Now that is something I am getting sick and tired of. What the heck is Political Correctness anyway? I think the definition is “don’t say or do anything that will be offensive to anyone, no matter how much it flows against your own standards.” To be politically correct is to confirm that everyone has the right to be happy and to not be offended, which just ain’t gonna happen. In my own, imperfect opinion, political correctness sucks. Why fool ourselves trying to please everybody no matter the circumstances. Heck, there are some times when you gotta slap the snot out of someone just to get their attention. I’m a firm believer that some folks don’t have any rights. I mean they did until they stepped all over everyone elses rights--like the thief or the rapist. When he comes on my property and takes the stuff for which I’ve worked hard to get and violates my loved ones and friends, well, when he does that he loses his rights. That is when I feel I have the right to exercise my Second Amendment right and blow a hole in his sorry ass, which unfortunately is not politically correct. Rather, society usually throws his sorry butt in jail--sometimes. However, it is politically correct to never throw away the keys, we may need to let them out if we hurt their feelings; political correctness affirms they have rights. As far as I am concerned they forfeit their rights until they serve their time. (This doesn’t even speak to the one who is illegally in my country stealing jobs and services meant for those who come to his land legally.) Gay rights—now what the heck is that. Every person has the right to be gay. But along with that comes the stigma of living with that decision. Don’t expect me to treat them like it is a natural course of events and say it’s all right with me. Now, it is all right with me for them to make the decision to be gay. It is after all a free country. But, that does not change the fact the gay lifestyle is unnatural. Don’t sputter and point an accusing finger at me because of that comment; science affirms it is unnatural. The human being procreates by the union of a man and a woman. That is how nature works. Sex Education Class 101 teaches us that. If we don’t have the union of man and woman we don’t preserve the species; it’s just that simple. Now, it is logical to state the union between same sexes just doesn’t work, as far as reproduction goes. There will be no offspring under that scenario. It is not the way nature planned it. In other words, it is unnatural. Now, that doesn’t mean there aren’t cases where the attraction between same sexes seems to be predestined from birth. If you want to say some folks do not control this and are just born that way, so be it. Unfortunately, that is a deviation of the natural way. And, that does not mean those are bad people or it is necessarily wrong; it simply means it is an aberration, a departure, from the natural state, different from the norm. It has nothing to do with people falling in love and living happily ever after. It has everything to do with the natural course of biology. It has nothing to do with whether or not you have the right to have sex with your same sex guy friend or same sex gal friend, or for that case your brother, or your mother, or your father. You are free to do that, if you wish; I will never judge you. Just don’t expect me to be politically correct and believe that same sex sexual relationships are natural and even an acceptable alternative way of life. Heck, celibacy is an alternative way of life, and as far as I’m concerned it ain’t natural either. And, so, to be politically correct I am expected to ignore the clear pattern of nature, not to mention the spiritual teaching of the Bible against homosexuality, and embrace it as an acceptable lifestyle. I’m sorry I can’t do that. The best I can do is to bite my tongue and remain silent as those around me jump on the politically correct bandwagon and ridicule any Christian who voices opposition to the Rainbow Revolution. Unfortunately, it appears the corollary to being politically correct is to brand those who oppose it as being hate-mongers and bigots, which is not correct either. There is a penalty for speaking against political correctness. And, so I have kept my viewpoints to myself, respected each individual as a person of worth, and tried to keep from judging others, knowing the vocal politically correct crowd would quickly judge me harshly if I were to voice my opposition to their position. With the exception of this entry, I will remain quiet; that is easy to for me to do, because I truly believe each person is a creation of God and worthy of his love. And, isn’t that what Christ taught us to do, love the unlovable, try to determine for ourselves what is right and what is wrong, and understand that it is He who will make the final judgement as to what is truly right and what is truly wrong, not us. It is just, that I am so weary of being politically correct. |
The 19th Century German philosopher, Nietzsche proclaimed, “God is Dead.” He was not asserting God did not exist. Not at all, rather Nietzsche was affirming that God no longer existed in the hearts of men. With no real concern as to God’s existence, Nietzsche insisted God simply no longer represented the motivating source and ultimate authority for the actions of men. Men no longer believed in him and, as a result, was for all practical purposes dead. Subsequently, in the age of the 1960’s, when I was an adolescent, our popular society ambled down a spiritual course filled with apathy and self-gratification, spurred on by free will, rebellion, and mind altering hallucinogens. Science was the new god and rational thought left no real room for God in the ‘If it feels good do it” generation. Within that culture the proclamation of Nietzsche resurfaced again, still trying to nail the coffin shut on God, asserting that by now God was certainly dead. And so today, in this age of super-technology and instant communication, we find a mainline society still trying to affirm God has no place in the hearts of a rational, educated, and modern man. Our churches are rife with proselytes of modernism, naturalism, and political correctness to the point where the watered down rolls of the church are becoming meaningless. Any modern poll will support an overwhelming assertion that the majority of Americans believe in God and are Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. However, those same people, when polled, will condemn the Church when it stands fast to moral principles that do not support popular pet agendas. It appears being religious is a matter of convenience to mainline society. But, have the voice of the Church sound out against abortion, homosexuality, same sex marriage, and attempts to remove prayer from school and public gatherings, and that voice is labeled as being racist, redneck, ignorant, fanatical and simple minded. Support prayer around the flag pole on a public school campus, exhibit a nativity scene that proclaims a Merry and Holy Christmas, or display a plaque with the Ten Commandments in the halls of justice and the outcry from mainline society thunders in against the Church in peals of opposition and often ridicule. It appears it is much more politically correct for God to be dead in the eyes of the news media and among a community considering itself to be informed. Thus confirms the Apostles Paul’s statement that “considering themselves to be wise they became fools.” In the eyes of a nonbelieving world, if God is not dead he certainly has a terminal illness rapidly leading to death. However, there has always existed a faithful contingent of believers, whose number is undocumented, since they blend into the visibly “churched” silent majority. (Realize there are those who go to church to be seen going to church and there are those who go to church to deepen a relationship with a loving God. Often times it is difficult to visually discern one from the other.) There has always been a faithful remnant, as prophesied in the Old Testament. This remnant existed through the ancient captivity of Israel, persecutions of the Roman Empire, apostasy of the Dark Ages, and assault of humanism and science into our era. There has always been a remnant who believed in the one true God and remained faithful to him. Don’t try to identify them as a denomination or sect. God does not have relationships with denominations and sects. God has relationships with individuals. That is where you find the remnant, among individuals, who often times gather together in groups to worship. We like to think that, on the greater scale, Christian churches contain that remnant; unfortunately, that is not always the case. It is among the remnant where you find testimony of an active God, a God who is alive and working among his faithful. God is not dead, and will never be as long as there is a remnant who believes in him. It is not that God only makes his presence known to the remnant. No, God works openly and actively for all the world to see. Miracles still happen and are obvious to those who are witnessing God’s presence in the world. However, in the minds of those who scoff at the existence of the remnant and who contend that God is certainly dead, miracles are not politically correct and fail under the scrutiny of the common sense of science and right thinking. As a result, the scoffers do not see an Active God working a million miracles on a daily basis. And more significantly they totally miss the blessing of experiencing the first hand love of a truly loving God—the love of an Active God. So, it is on the occasions where super human strength is needed and unprecedented fortune is necessary to save the moment, we find the unbelieving media and populace quickly explaining away the miracles which prove God is alive. The testimonies of great saints, who are everyday people living a faithful life for God, are winked at and labeled as the ignorant musings of old people, whose basis of information is steeped in senility. The cancer gone to remission is attributed to the drug and the surgeon. The near lost life retrieved from the disaster is attributed to the action of the emergency medical technician (EMT). The extraction of 33 Chilean miners from beneath a half-mile of rock is attributed to the ingenuity and aggressive action of a president and his group of experts. And, the restructured and reconciled private life of the drug addict is attributed to the courts of justice and treatment institutions. The actions of God in each of these situations is often explained away, becoming only a footnote--a caption caught on TV such as, “Hi, Mom.” However, there are those who know and see God acting in this world today; just ask that miner who fell on his knees and gave thanks when he reached the light of day. The remnant still sees; and they know. Nietzsche was wrong. God is not dead—just ignored. But, just the same, he has not gone away. He has not slinked away with hurt feelings or wounded pride. God remains right where he has always been—right here next to you and me, doing what he has always done—loving us and caring for us. God is moving about; he is indeed an Active God. |
| OK, it's taken me thirteen years to get a brass kickplate to go on my front door. Of course I could have bought a fancy door with a kickplate on it when we first purchased the house, or anytime after that to be sure. But, I didn't. Why? Because a fancy door is expensive and I am cheap. Nope, I chose to live with my simple door the way it was. It didn't look too bad from the street and like I said, I could live with that. However, after about six or seven years the weather took a toll on the door, sapping from it any aesthetic value it may have originally had. It looked pretty sad. So, instead of replacing it with a new fancy door, like I should have, I removed it, sanded it, stained it, and put a coat or two of lacquer finish on it. I was pleased. It looked like a new door. Of course it was still a simple door. But, as before, I could live with that. Another six or seven years have passed. You guessed it. The door was looking really bad. However, so was the rest of the house. We chose to paint our house. That was an expensive undertaking but ultimately we were exceedingly pleased to have a bright new house. The thing looked better than new. It was revitalized. However we knew it would be. And, we knew the front door would be pitifully distracting, being so weathered and faded. So we asked the painter to paint our front door, which he did, It is now a very deep red—almost maroon. We like it. However, we still did not have a fancy front door. So, I improvised. I bought shinny new brass door knobs, lock, and knocker and attached it to the door—all brass. What a world of difference that made. However, there seemed to be something missing. I eventually realized the missing factor was a shinny brass kickplate for the door. With a shinny new kickplate our front door would almost look like a fancy door. So I waltzed right down to Home Depot and bought one. All I had to do was to put it on. Now, I have never been much of a handyman. That does not bother me. I never wanted to be. I smile and nod my head courteously as my next door neighbor and across the street neighbor talk about projects they are attacking, like laying tile throughout the house, remodeling a bathroom, or changing out the built-in range and oven in the kitchen. I give them credit for their industrious nature and cost savings projects. However, I've worked very hard all my life to to get to the place in life where I can let the plumber, electrician, or floor specialist do their jobs. I don't want to do those things. And, I've come to realize it is better for me to just pay the guys to do it. Therefore, I was out of my element when I chose to put the kickplate on my front door. But, I reasoned, "It's only a kickplate—ten little screws and a brass sheet. How difficult can that be?" I've watched those handymen on TV do their home improvement projects. Everything seems so simple; everything fits right into place; and nothing ever breaks. There is a reason for that. Those guys have the proper equipment to do the job. I don't. And, because of that nothing is simple, nothing fits like it is supposed to, and everything seems to break. Putting on a simple little brass kickplate with ten screws is not simple under those conditions. I needed a drill to drill starter holes in the door. The drill could not be found. When I finally found it the bits were not with it; nor was the cord for the charger. Of course it was not fully charged. When I finally got the thing to drilling, the second hole whirred to a stop. It was out of commission. So, frustrated with the constant delays and roadblocks that seemed to be in my path, I discarded the chargeable drill and sorted through my tool cabinet until I found my fathers old drill. Now this thing was built for one thing: drilling. It did not have variable speeds and will not change directions. It goes one way and at full speed; it's our chargeable drill on steroids. I know I must have smirked and emitted a maniacal chuckle as the drill chewed through the wood drilling holes as if they were through butter. All I needed to do was to screw in the ten little screws. You guessed it, nine of them went in relatively easy. However, one tiny screw refused to screw in all the way. And is still even more stubbornly refusing to back out, sacrificing its head so that no screwdriver in creation can take a bite on it, stripped as it now is. I am finished with the job. The simple little fifteen minute job took me an hour-and-a-half, when you take into account the time I spent looking for attachments and scrounging for my father's ancient drill. However, the job isn't quite finished. As I look at the new shinny footplate, which makes our front door a fancy door now, I notice one screw that is not fully seated. It sticks out further from the rest and laughs at me every time I walk through the front door. That's OK; let it laugh. I have plans for it. It won't be laughing when I get through with it. However, my pretty, shinny, front door kickplate may not be all that pretty then. It depends on how frustrated I get when I finally finish the job. |
| Geez, what do I want to be when I grow up? That was a question that absolutely haunted me when I was a kid. I can honestly say I did not have a clue. As a result, I firmly considered I may be one of those homeless guys you see wandering around the streets downtown. I never considered the fact that those guys are usually a product of circumstances, not necessarily a lack of direction. Some of those homeless guys have college degrees and were solid pillars of the community at one time. But, that’s a different topic for a different blog entry. What did I want to be when I grew up? Well my first urging was to be an architect. It took me just about one semester to change my mind. I considered being a journalist, briefly—very briefly. Then it was draftsman, engineering technician, preacher, and then finally a municipal planner. Even as a municipal planner it took a little while to select a path within that field. I would eventually become a consultant, and then a self-employed municipal planning consultant. Years after I nervously considered what I would be when I grew up, I looked around and found myself working in my own planning consulting firm—president of Municipal Planning Resources Group, Inc.—people working for me, clients considering me as the expert, planning awards hanging on my wall, degrees from two universities hanging up there also. That eighteen year old graduate from Lindsay High School (bottom rung of the class I must confess) would have surely considered it as being very unlikely. Things like birthdays do this to me. You know, make me think about the way it was and the way it could have been. After sixty-two years of birthdays, you’d think I would finally get used to the fact I’ve managed to stumble to where I am today. But, the strange thing is, I often find myself thinking just like that eighteen year old. In my mind I’m back there; to the rest of the world it’s plainly visible that the years have loaded this body with well earned mileage, making it often difficult to reconcile the two. I am much more fortunate than many folks. For when I consider what it is I had wanted to be when I grew up, and knowing that eighteen year old kid didn’t have a clue—well when I consider that, I’m amazed at the fact that I’m just what I wanted to be. What a miracle that we can do that. Was it just dumb luck, providence, or was I just not as clueless as I considered myself to be? I’m not sure I know the answer to that. |
| Sleep evades me at the moment. I laid in my comfy covers, in the dark, and tried unsuccessfully to coax peaceful slumber to take me away in pleasant dreams. But, no, the more I snuggled the more awake I became. Until, eventually, I abandoned all pretense of smuggling and stumbled upstairs to my office and my waiting computer, which I might say was peacefully sleeping with the Aurora Borealis screensaver floating across the monitor. So, I rudely woke it up and put it to work on this entry. Why in the world should an inanimate item such as a computer get to sleep when I can’t. It was little consolation but satisfying just the same. This morning was not any normal sleepless morning. On the contrary, this morning was…is…my birthday. And so, the first task of this very early morning is to consider sixty-two years of life as Dan. I must confess it is much too early to delve deeply into the topic. I simply revel in the fact that I’m here. The prospect that I will have sixty-two more is relatively dim. So, I’ll focus on one year at a time. However, I can’t escape the persistent question of what have I accomplished in those sixty-two years of breathing in and out?--quite a lot, as a matter of fact. I could make a list, but won’t. Suffice one to consider, I’m sitting in a house that I mostly own—two more years of joint ownership with the mortgage company and this baby is all mine—in my office, with my dog sleeping comfortably by my side. The only thing I am mildly disturbed about is the fact that my dog seems to have no problem drifting off to sleep. And that is good enough for me. I’m much too tired to examine my life. It is truthfully too spent to have any regrets, of which there are very few. I will save my energy for living the next quantity of years, whatever that may be, to the fullest. Like I said, that’s good enough for me. Looking around me, I see that it is still dark outside. Having set myself to a task at the keyboard I find that my eyes are drooping with slumber. What the heck! I can’t seem to make up my mind. So, I will wake my dog, shuffle back down the stairs, squeeze in between the covers, and go back to sleep for a moment or two. That’s good enough for me….but I already said that, didn’t I? |
| This is for my friends at South Hills Baptist Church. Story of the Crosses By Dan C. Boutwell There are some folks walking the halls of South Hills who remember me; I’m Dan Boutwell. I’m one of your absent members who for some reason is wandering in the suburbs as a prodigal. Linda and I spend our time and effort in Burleson now. Both of our boys live here and we have chosen to focus our attention locally. Unfortunately, we have not fixed ourselves on a local church here, but we have one in sight that will afford us the opportunity of worshipping with one of our boys and his family. That’s what we have been praying for and we’ve been looking for…for quite a while. We will forever cherish the wonderful family that we knew at South Hills. For years, that congregation nurtured us and accepted us as one of their own. No matter where we go, South Hills will always seem like home to us, even though our true home is deep in the heart of enemy country near the University of Oklahoma. But, that is another story for another time. Like so many other people in the age of computer technology, I am a regular visitor to the Internet. Undoubtedly, my grandchildren are much more comfortable navigating the virtual highway of the Internet; they are certainly much more talented. Nevertheless, I have stumbled around the virtual landscape and managed to become comfortable with a number of relatively “senior-friendly” sites which anyone over sixty years of age can move around in. One of those is Facebook. It was through Facebook that I was asked the other day to be ‘friends’ with South Hills. I was honored to respond to the request to be added as a ‘friend’ of South Hills. As you are aware, the ‘home page’ of the South Hills Facebook site has a photograph of the crosses which are located on the face of the building. As I stared at that photo, my eyes misted up as I recalled the significance of the crosses. Now, of course, as a Christian they are the symbol of God’s unprecedented love and sacrifice. But, they also represent more than 50 years of service of a single faithful congregation that could not be bound to a physical location. There is a story behind the crosses that begins much earlier than my day. For that reason, I will deal only with one moment in time that was transitional and important for that reason. Sometime back in 2004 I was asked to serve on a South Hills Feasibility Committee that was chaired by Lonnie Golsby. The purpose of that committee was to investigate the feasibility of either remodeling the current sanctuary or possibly relocating the church to another location. The effort in fact was the outgrowth of a simple effort to enlarge the women’s restroom in the sanctuary. Through their efforts, the Building and Grounds committee were informed by the City of Fort Worth that our facilities were nonconforming with the exiting building regulations. In order to conform we would be required to bring the building up to code in a number of areas, which ultimately represented a major capital expenditure. The question we were forced to ask ourselves, as a church, was, “Should we invest this amount of capital into a building plant that may be losing its ministry.” It proved to be a very unpopular question to ask. To say the least, to the unsuspecting congregation, it was a question that was shocking and totally unanticipated. Goodness, we had just celebrated our 50th anniversary at this location. Who would have ever thought our ministry was in trouble? Therefore, to help the congregation fathom the depth of the question the Feasibility Committee was formed to gather information and report back to the church. Being a professional city planner, I had access to the demographic data and was added to the committee. The findings were sobering. Carefully charting the growth of the church, the change in demographics of the South Hills area, and the projected trends for the future, we discovered that we had reached our peak at the time the new activities building was built and were declining rapidly. It was never publicly spoken, but the conclusion of the experts was that instead of building the activities building, our church should have considered relocation at that time. But, it is what it is, and we found ourselves in a neighborhood rapidly turning Hispanic and no one at the church could speak Spanish or intended to learn. The conclusion of the church when considering the Feasibility Committee report was that we should actively begin efforts to relocate our congregation, which required selling the current church plant. You can only imagine the turmoil that this had on this stable and proud congregation, of which many had built portions of the current church with their own hands years ago, as would be forcefully confirmed in church meetings to come. All of us had deep emotional ties to the church building. And, that was the difficult thing. It was very hard to separate our commitment to the building and our commitment to the mission of the church. The fact was that we were not able to minister to a rapidly increasing Hispanic neighborhood. Not that we did not want to--but rather we were not equipped to. Many of our congregation could not get past that point. The emotional pull of the bricks and mortar of the structure was tremendous. Many saw any move from the familiar halls and pews as a treasonous act--as abandoning the neighborhood. Others saw an opportunity to bring a Hispanic congregation into the church plant which could successfully continue the work we originally began. I suppose it was all a matter of perspective. I was also selected to serve on the next committee—the Building Committee, which was in charge of selling the current church plant, finding property on which to build, and hiring a contractor to build the new building. Through untold amounts of meetings and phone calls we eventually sold our church to an Hispanic congregation, found land at a new location to purchase, and hired a contractor to build our new building. Ted Williams was our chairman and was the glue that held us together during difficult times. Someday there will be a bust of his head sculpted to grace the halls of New South Hills. We moved next into the building phase of the relocation. The next committee was the Architecture and Land Committee, of which Ted Williams was again appointed as Chairman. We would now concentrate on building the building. Again, I was privileged to serve with a number of other members. My expertise was in zoning and site planning of the property. We eventually stumbled through the hurdles placed before us by the City of Fort Worth and received our building permit. It is easy to say, but was a chore to do. This effort also required that we finalize the construction plans of the structure, which had a myriad amount of decisions to be made from paint to floor to gym to chairs or pews. Eventually it was done and we started construction. Sometime, during all this activity, Mickey Lance remarked to me that it was very important that we move the three crosses which stood at the original church location over to our new location. Those crosses had stood in that neighborhood through much of our ministry. They were a landmark and should somehow be incorporated into the new church building. I agreed with Mickey but knew there was no way to move the original crosses. During our review with the architect, I asked if they could include the crosses on the front of the new building. I was told that they could do that and in fact inserted them into the elevation drawing. Mickey was pleased with the crosses, I was pleased with the crosses, and so was the rest of the congregation. However, when it got to the time to put them on the building, no one had provided dimensions for the crosses and the workers simply threw three crosses up. Before they were finished out, I received a phone call from the contractor asking me to sign off on the crosses, since I had given them a drawing of what they should look like. When I saw what they had formed onto the face of your new church building, I could not approve them. There were three crosses, but they appeared awkward and, to me, weren’t quite right. I redesigned the crosses dimensioned them carefully and had them try again. This time they worked and are today as I designed them back then. What was wrong with the first crosses? Well, first of all, they were constructed at the same size, even though they were off-set from each other. My design required the center cross—the one Christ was crucified on—to be larger and longer than the others. It would reach closer to the ground and higher into the air than the other two. That’s what God does; he goes lower and higher—reaches further--for our benefit. The center cross is larger in that it is wider than the other two. There is no doubt that it is the central dominant aspect of the design, just as God should be the central dominant aspect of our lives. Originally, the crosses did not touch each other. The new design had them overlapping. However, the center cross is the only cross that touches all the crosses. It is the one that brings everything together. The other two crosses reach and touch the center cross only, but they are tied to each other through the center cross., which is again what Christ does. It is through him that we are all brought together. My other contribution to the physical building of the church plant included the design of the sign and the placement of the initial landscaping. I apologize for this long drawn out explanation of a simple design of crosses. But, somehow, to me, it seemed to be pertinent to the story. Those crosses are significant for our Christian experience, but they also represent the heritage of the church planted on Merida almost 60 years ago. I thought it was only proper that you understood how they got there. God bless you. |
| Yesterday I posted an entry discussing my grandson's (18 yr old freshman) first college paper. It dealt with the issue of the New York mosque being proposed at ground zero. I determined not to post his paper without his permission. This morning he was excited for the opportunity of receiving feedback from the authors of WDC. I've attached it as follows: Legal, But Not Right Our constitution approves the right for all people to operate, within the reach of our laws, freely from the threat of retribution or interference of local and federal government. This is a basic but important attribute of our system of government that separates us from the other government systems throughout the world. This applies to a Muslim community who purchases a piece of land to build their religious place of worship, even if the location is within walking distance of a nationally recognized location, such as ground zero. So the question is, “Do the Islamic people have the right to build this place of worship?” Absolutely. In the minds of many Americans this is seen as a slap in the face because the Islamic people have ignored our sensitivity on the subject. It appears Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf is totally out of touch with the hearts of our nation’s people. It doesn’t matter that the Muslim community has the right to build the mosque. What most Americans are perceiving is the total disregard of our sensitivity towards the ground zero occurrences. Surely a caring and understanding Muslim community would give recognition to the sensitivity of the national scar and respect our desire for them to relocate the position of the mosque. The worldwide Muslim community does not appear to have the same compassion and moral support for Americans who lost family and friends at the ground zero location. Even to this date they have protested the American opposition to the mosque, burned the American flag and chanted, “death to America.” Imam [Rauf] claims to have a passionate heart towards the American nation but where is the compassion in that? These chants and protests alone are proof that the worldwide Muslim community does not have compassionate feelings towards our great nation—a compassion they are asking us to demonstrate in accepting the placement of the mosque. There is no argument at all that the Muslim community has all the rights necessary to build a mosque on legally zoned property. No one denies them that right. However, the legal right to build the mosque does not give them the moral right to follow through with these plans. When the overwhelming voice of “the people” screams to not build the mosque at this particular location, maybe someone should listen and make a change. The people of our nation can make their voices be heard, which they have done. Our voice alone cannot change the legal rights provided the Muslim community. However, the collective voice of “the people” can make clear the action that is right—to build the mosque elsewhere. |
| Last night I had the joy of helping my grandson prepare a paper for a college course. It was only a short position paper related to the recent issue of relocating a mosque planned for ground zero in New York. He was writing it for government class. He was challenged to state his position and relate that to the rights provided by the Constitution. Earlier in the evening I received a call from him saying he had completed his research but wanted some help getting started. We talked about the issue a moment and then I shared an opening paragraph with him. I must say this was quite a collaboration. We used cell phones, email, and instant messaging on Facebook. I was amazed at how well that worked. Anyway, Ryan took my opening paragraph, our discussion, his research, and rewrote my opening and completed the paper. I'm quite pleased with the product. For all its brevity, it delivers his position quite honestly and clearly. After he had finished his effort, Ryan expressed his pleasure of developing this little work. For someone who really never concerned himself with events outside his scope of friends, he was surprised that he enjoyed thinking on another level. I was pleased he expressed his opinion so well. I smile as I quietly confirm to myself that I think he is coming along nicely. The butterfly is emerging; a new world is dawning on him. I am excited to be able to help him see it, to be his guide if he needs one. It was my intent to post his paper here for you to see and provide comments. However, my better judgement has caused me to change my intent. It is not my place to showcase his work here. This is not the refrigerator door, where his simple kindergarten drawings were posted with grandparental pride. He is no longer a chid. He is an adult with adult ideas. No, I will wait to post his work; I will wait for his permission, as is appropriate. As much as I want to display his skill, it is not mine to display. Although, I'm curious about the grade he will get. If it's a good one I will be pleased to share the credit. It is isn't a good one....well, I'll be disappointed but pleased with his effort nevertheless. |
| Have you ever really considered how totally amazing the act of communication really is. Anyone who has had a sick infant on their hands knows exactly what I’m talking about. You know something is wrong but you have no way of communicating. A simple question like, “Where does it hurt?” is frustratingly useless. Well, it’s the same way with dogs. You know something is wrong but you have no way of knowing for sure. I mean, you want to say, “Bark once if its in the front…twice if its in the back.” However, all you can do is just guess. Communication is a miracle we all take for granted. My dog Max had a problem. I knew something was wrong because normally the dog did not act the way he was acting. He would be sleeping quietly and suddenly jump to his feet run about ten feet and sit down and look at me with his ears back. This happened a few times--with not all of them being from a sleeping position. Sometimes he would be eating and after a few bites he would flinch and run to his bed and sit down. He would do this about a dozen times as he worked through his bowl of food. Now, Max has arthritis. Sometimes he is a little slow walking; it sometimes takes a little bit for him to warm up. So, we thought perhaps he was having some ‘twinge’ pain in his hips—seems plausible. Or perhaps he had a flea biting him. He is a little bit of a whimp and I can see him being irritated with some terrorist flea who has a jihad on Max’s rear end. But, unfortunately, everything was utter guessing. This has progressively been getting worse over the past few weeks. Therefore, with a particularly bad breakout this weekend we determined to take Max to the vet Monday morning. I’m glad we did. Max appears to be doing much better. He is sleeping sounder and has not had an episode of ‘jump and sit’ since returning from the vet. We will watch him closely for a while to make sure we have fixed the problem. I had no idea what was ailing the dog, but the vet fixed it. I appreciate her work and gladly donated my fee to help pay for her education—and boat. Oh, did I tell you what Max’s problem was? I guess I didn’t. Well, it is a little delicate and a whole bunch gross. It seems Max had a full anal gland that was in great need of being expressed. That’s what the vet said. She had to “express Max’s anal gland.” I’ve expressed my opinion, taken the express lane, but never seen a dog's anal gland expressed. And, since it only cost me fifty dollars for the visit, I probably never will. I’ll let the vet do it. Bottom line is Max feeling better. If he had just told me that’s what was wrong, I’d have taken him in a long time ago. Geez, people and their dogs! |
| Today is September 1st. Ever stop to think how many “firsts” we encounter every day? I wonder what we do with them? Are they even noticed? It’s my prayer for you that today you have many more pleasant “firsts” than unpleasant ones. Unfortunately, it’s usually the unpleasant ones we remember, and that clouds our day. So, I thought I’d spend a little time and consider some of my pleasant “firsts.” There was my first breath of the day. It happened just an instant past midnight. It came along with my first heartbeat. I’m fortunate to have experienced both of them. There was a day when the surgeon split my chest and skillfully inserted bypasses along my heart. Had he not done that delicate surgery, I would not have experienced my first “first” of this day. I’m thankful for the skill placed in his hands. My first yawn came as I snuggled in bed and watched Max adjust his head as he rhythmically slept on the floor beside me. It was soon after that I saw the first wag of that incessantly moving tail, which brought the first smile to my face…and the first prayer of thanks to my lips. I heard the first noise from our kitchen and was comforted by the knowledge it was Linda rustling pans on the counters and stove top. As I stumbled into the kitchen, blinking sleep from my eye I heard the first, “Good morning, Hon” from her. To that she receive an abbreviated, “mornin’.” But there was no abbreviation from Max as he placed a full, cold, wet nuzzled nose on the back of her leg, as he waited for his first greeting from her. I heard, “Hi, Max, how you doing, Sugar?” Max seemed to be pleased with that first of this morning. Linda retreated to the bathroom to shower and prepare for the workday. Max and I opened the back door and stepped out into the morning. I certainly would have preferred to feel the cool gentle breeze of the morning, but I didn’t. I was greeted by a luke warm stillness that promises a good Texas scorcher latter in the day. However, I felt the first dew of the grass on my toes, saw the first swoop of the birds into the trees in our backyard, and heard the first song of the mockingbird for this morning. And that was good enough for me. I now sit behind this keyboard writing my first piece of the day. There will be many more; almost all of them will pertain to work assignments. Beside me, Max is stealing his first nap of the morning. I will soon be caught up in the routine of the day, cramped by a schedule, and hurried by a calendar. I will likely lose track of all the varied firsts I will encounter; I always do. However, tomorrow I have the opportunity to experience another set of firsts, which is quite presumptuous of me. So, in case I forget or don’t have the opportunity, let me wish you a bunch of pleasant firsts and thank God for those he has given me thus far. |
| He’s not a bad dog. In fact he’s a dang good dog. I could go through a litany of things that he does not do which other dogs do, proving they are problem dogs. Max doesn’t do any of those nasty things. However, by no means is he the perfect dog. That’s why he has a personal trainer. I want the perfect dog…or at least as close to it as Max’s temperament and ability will permit. I want him to come to me when I call him—every time, not just when he feels like it. I want him to plop his butt firmly on the floor each time I say, “Sit!” I don’t think that is too much to ask for. And I want him to not eat the UPS guy at our front door. He can salivate and drool waiting in the wings—but no eating. That is why we got Max a personal trainer—to finish the task we started and get the perfect dog. Now, I don’t know if you have ever experienced a dog trainer before. If you have, you can confirm my frustration in telling you they have an annoying habit of telling me I am partially the reason Max eats the UPS guy. I mean, the trainer actually said I was NOT the alpha dog in this family. Now, the really annoying thing was the silly grin Linda had on her face and the nodding in agreement she did when the trainer made that ridiculous announcement. The trainer spent two solid hours (a lifetime in the dog training world) showing me how to reclaim my position as top dog. I can tell you this will not be easy. I mean, it could be, if that dang dog of mine would cooperate. However, when I tell him to sit he just stands there. So I do all the correction and fancy dog-training stuff that works with the trainer but is useless with me—I do all that stuff and Max still stands there, refusing to place his black butt on the ground, which means in dog-language, he wins. The first rule of dog-training is to not let him win. Well, all I can tell you is it is easier to say it than to do it. I have a two week period to show some results. The trainer will be back at that time to assess how the training is going. By that time, Max is supposed to be well on his way to perfect. I have my doubts. It’s just the second day and I’m about to pull my hair out. Oh, the dog sits—but it’s when he is good and ready. He does most of the other stuff pretty well, he just doesn’t like people to tell him to sit when he doesn’t want to. Heck, I do that all the time. Linda says, “Sit!” and I sit. What’s so hard about that? I think I will give “sit” a rest and work on not eating the UPS guy. That’s a lot more fun. In fact, it’s quite entertaining to open the door and say, “Stay! Don’t eat!” You ought to see the guy’s eyes. We have some very quick visits with the UPS guy. Usually they are over his shoulder as he is jumping in that open door truck of his. Sure the packages get a little roughed-up as he tosses them over his shoulder, but Max enjoys fetching them as they bounce on our front lawn. He is a Lab, after all. Hee hee, maybe I’ll let him eat the trainer when he comes to the door next week. |
| Even though I’m from Texas, I’m not much of a cowboy. I don’t ride horses; the closest I ever come to a cow is my hamburger. Heck, I don’t even own a pair of boots or a hat. I do have an awesome belt buckle, but no belt for it. I’m not a big-city kid either. I grew up in small rural towns across the West, mainly in Oklahoma, except for those ten years I spent in Venezuela. I suppose I’m a product of the oil field. My dad worked, in one form or another, on those old oil rigs, sucking black gold from the belly of the earth. But, even though I grew up in town, the culture of the cowboy and the West was all around me. We drove those old pick-up trucks, listened to country-western music, and rubbed elbows with cowboys and farmers. It wasn’t unusual that one of the things we occasionally did was to attend the rodeos which came to town. Most of my rodeos were small local affairs. Local cowboys and ranchers were usually the participants. Very rarely did we have professional rodeo cowboys. The beer flowed freely at these affairs. That was almost a prerequisite. I don’t know if you’ve ever been up close and personal to a Brahma Bull. If you had, you’d understand why it sometimes takes a six-pack before you crawl up on that beast. Lord, I don’t know how many drunk cowboys I’ve seen tossed from the back of one of those bulls. And if it wasn’t for the rodeo clowns, there’d be a dozen funerals after each rodeo. Those guys dressed up silly and acting the role of a clown, are really lifesavers. They’ve got to be some of the bravest fools around to do what they do. But, God bless ‘em; I’m glad they do it. Since Linda rarely cooks a meal anymore, we get the opportunity to eat out at our local eateries. The wait-staff and owners of the places have come to know us on a first name basis. Heck, when they see us drive in the parking lot, they prepare our drinks and have them waiting a our preferred table. To say the least, we have become regulars at several of the watering holes in town. One of those establishments happens to be a Chinese restaurant which we have grown fond of. We will eat there a couple times during the week. We met a young hostess there, Fei Lin. Fei is from China, which is not unusual to find in a Chinese restaurant. She is a product of that communist culture and has left her home in China to find new opportunities in America. I forget her age, probably around twenty-two. Anyway, over the last couple of years we have become attached to Fei. We visit with her throughout our meals, as much as we can and not interfere with her duties as hostess. She is in this country living with relatives. Her uncle owns the restaurant and her cousins work there. During the period we have know her, we have become more exposed to the heritage and culture of her native land, which should not be confused with the communist government. Fei is her parent’s second daughter, which means she is illegal. By law, a Chinese couple can only have one child. As a result, she was given to her grandmother after birth to be raised. What a brave young woman this is to leave her country and be immersed into the diverse and confusing culture found here in America. And so it is that we have been a small part of her adventure here. We have taken her to her first Italian meal; introduced her to chicken parmesan, lasagna, and chicken marsala. We encouraged her to visit places around the state she was not aware of. On a recent trip to Sea World in San Antonio, we encouraged her to stop in Austin and visit the capitol and to visit the Alamo. We detailed the history around those places. I have no idea what ideas transferred in our dialogue or what she told her travel companion to get them to divert to those places. Last Friday we took her to Cowtown, the old Stockyards of Fort Worth. Years ago that place was a smelly sea of pens, cattle, and slaughter houses. Today all that remains of the pens and slaughter houses are photographs which adorn the walls of every tourist spot on Exchange Street. If you go to Dallas, you’ll not find any cows or cowboys. You’ve got to go to Fort Worth to find that heritage. It’s in the middle of the Stockyards where you’ll find the rodeo coliseum. They’ve been holding rodeos and wild west shown in that building since 1911. It was the first indoor rodeo ground in America. And, so today, you can sit in the stands and watch a rodeo in an air conditioned arena. Here in Texas, that’s significant. We began the evening at Riscky’s Steakhouse down on Exchange Street, just across the street from the Coliseum. She refused to climb up on the back of a huge Longhorn steer saddled and available for tourists. The best I could do was to take her picture standing fifteen feet from the beast. I smiled as I thought about the Brahmas she was going to soon see. The main meal was steak—of course. We had a couple of side foods like beans and mashed potatoes, but steak was the featured food. It was cooked to perfection and melted in you mouth. Oh yeah, I forgot—we also had a side order of calf fries. It wasn’t easy to describe that dish to her. Her English is limited and my Chinese nonexistent. I finally had to just point at a picture of a bull at the location where the delicate meat was located. It was funny to watch her eyes widen as it registered on Fei just from where that cut of meat came. But, like a trooper, she tasted it and liked it; however, I noticed she only took three or four healthy bites. Let me assure you, the dish was well prepared and was delicious. We had plenty of time to shop in some of the stores along Exchange Street. Fei purchased several items and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. We eventually wandered down to the Coliseum and took our seats in the grand arena. She “oohed” and “aahed” the bull-riding, calf-roping, and barrel racing. The clowns entertained the entire crowd as they performed their duties. After a couple of hours it was over and Fei had experienced her first rodeo. I have been to many rodeos. However, the chance to experience someone else’s first rodeo is quietly exciting in itself. I remember when I took my boys to their first rodeo many years ago; it was the same feeling. Nope, last Friday wasn’t my first rodeo; but, it was one to remember. |
| I suppose one of the most precious emails I have ever received dropped into my email folder today. Very early this morning, as I was arranging photos in my photos folder, that distinctive chime and pop-up graced my screen announcing I had a new email message. As you know, when that happens, everything else in the universe becomes secondary until you rush into your email folder to check it out. Usually it is some piece of trash mail and disappointingly you wander back to your business. But, sometimes it is an item of interest, like this morning. I am fortunate to have had the opportunity to meet a couple of precious young women in the course of my business life. Both of them are “Ann’s”—well sort of. One is Ann and the other DeAnne. Anyway, I hired both of these young ladies to be professional planners with my firm. What a smart person I was. Both of them have enriched my life by being gracious, loyal, and hard working. They were different in many ways, but so much alike in the ways that really count. My wife, Linda, accuses me of not hiring planners but rather hiring daughters. It is true; I must confess. If I had had daughters, instead of nasty ole boys, I’d want to have a couple of Ann’s like these two. They have left me, my Ann’s—years ago they bolted from the job to go and have boys of their own--just like our children do when they leave the nest. And, like true daughters, every once in a while I check in on them or they check in on me. I do not delude myself; they are really not my daughters—just young women who listened to me as I did my boss thing. But, I am grateful for the years they gave me under my employ. And, I am proud of the amazing women they have become, which was not difficult since someone else molded and guided their character before I ever met them. I was simply privileged to have them work with me for a moment. And so, when DeAnne dropped me a note this morning, telling me that she was passing on some of the little things I had impressed on her during our experience—well it touched me. She laughingly said my legacy is being passed to her children. Now, what better honor can there be? All of our lives are imprinted by those with whom we come into contact. Some of the imprints are lasting and survive the weathering of time. I am so fortunate that the imprints on my own life, from these two ladies, have been precious and memorable. There are may people who have left precious imprints on my life—more than I can easily count. But, today I’m thinking about these two. Thanks, DeAnne for dropping me that little email. I assume it was just a spur of the moment thing—perhaps even an afterthought. Nevertheless, it’s a testimony to your spirit—your thoughtfulness. Thanks. |
 Log in to Leave Feedback |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
