Shortly after they finished the construction of the interchange between highway 74 and I-85, completed all the landscaping, and removed all of the orange cones, someone lost control and ran down one of the newly planted cedar trees. For along time it languished there half in and half out of the ground, surrounded by the tire tracks of an 18 wheeler, pointing at some unknown point on the distant horizon. Eventually the tire tracks disappeared and grass grew back, but the little dead tree lay there in a depressing display of brown branches and falling bark. Since I drove past it every day eventually sensory adaptation set in and I didn’t notice the poor little tree any more. At some point the state got tired of cutting around it and cut the remains down leaving only a small stump as a marker to the trees presence. In time I forgot the tree ever existed. Until today that is.
Today I drove down the onramp and began to merge on to the interstate when something caught my eye. To my left there was a small hint of green against the brown winter landscape. The little tree had, from some internal reserve of fortitude, sent out a branch and it has begun to show green. I was amazed. I remembered back to a time where it was nothing more than tire ruts and dead wood. Now life has sprung from the grave.
As I looked at it I was intrigued by the resilience of the little tree. By all rights it should be nothing more than a small stump. But now, at least until the big mowers come back through and cut it down, it has made a comeback. Not a huge epic struggle from behind that inspires millions to do great things, but a small gesture of unyielding strength. No matter what life throws at us, no matter how hard the situation and no matter how bad things get there is always hope for regaining some small part of what was lost. If we can take a lesson from the little tree and show resilience, stiffen our backs and set our heels we can survive anything. Just stay the course and do what you are supposed to. For the little tree it was growing branches, for us it is growing period. When we stop growing we are done.
So take a lesson from the little tree. Never give up. IF you hold out, and don’t fall out, you will find out.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
I forgot
My oldest daughter tells me that my hair is turning grey. I disagree. I think I am turning blonde. I keep doing these things that make no sense. Like tonight for example, I was watching The Tonight Show with Jay Leno that I had taped last night because Bill Cosby was a guest. I came in from working and sat down in my chair to eat and turned the tape on. After I finished eating I had a terrible thought. I was going to have to stay up later than I wanted to because I hadn’t taken a shower yet. The reason is that I don’t like to go to bed with my hair wet because it stands up like medusas snake-do and is impossible to tame the next morning. (Vain I know, but at least I don’t gel, mousse, and spray it down.) Then I remembered that it was only 7 pm and the show I was watching was taped.
If that was the only time something like that had happened I wouldn’t worry about it. However, it is becoming a daily occurrence. I can’t tell you how many times I have opened the microwave to heat up something and found the something that I heated up last night and then forgot about. Sometimes it doesn’t even make it into the microwave. I find a ruined un-frozen dinner sitting in the box on the counter.
I have to be careful with channel surfing because, more often than not, I will forget what I was watching when I started surfing which leads to more surfing and more forgetting. It is not unusual for an hour to go by and for me to have surfed through every channel and still not know what I was watching. I don’t know how people with the hundreds of satellite channels do it. I can’t keep track of seven stations. When I had cable I just surfed around until I passed out from hunger because I forgot to eat the dinner that was in the microwave.
Since I know that I cant remember anything I wrote myself notes and then promptly loose them, and then when i find them I have no idea what they mean. I call numbers all the time and say, “ Hi, I am William White. I found your number in my wallet and I have no idea how it got there. Do you know who I am?” Which sometimes leads to long awkward silences, and the occasional, “If you call back, I’ll call the cops.”
I cannot count the number of times I have looked through old computer files and found long rambling narratives I have written, that show great promise, but I have no idea what they are about. Or I open up an old notepad and see where I have written something down and I am not sure if it is a story idea or a list of things to do. Sometimes I try to work these scraps of information into a essay, Eggs, bacon, preparation H. But at that they don’t make sense. Wash car, vacuum hair, spaghetti.
To help with all this brain malfunction, my dad gave me his old Palm Pilot. It is a great tool. Now I carry all my phone numbers, things to do, appointments, and notes. It is a great way for me to carry more information around that I have no idea what it means. I find things like: lawn mower, potatoes, boots, and air scrawled in the memo pad section. I don’t know what they mean but they are there in this hi-tech wonder so they must be important.
The Palm is also one more reason for me to drive around the block and them come back to the apartment to get something. I have to make special trips for my keys, wallet, laptop computer, cell phone, and now for the Palm. I am sure that my neighbors take bets on how many times I am going to have to come back and get something.
I once drove all the way to Franklin, NC without my wallet to get a load of scrap metal. If you are not familiar with Franklin it is one downhill slide from Tennessee and a 3 hour drive from my apartment. I took my time loading up the truck and was ready to come home when I noticed that I was low on gas and needed to fill up before I headed in. I also noticed that I didn’t have my wallet. I scrounged through the WarWagon and came up with a few dollars in change, put that in the tank, and barely made it to Asheville. I then got to spend a long, hot, sweaty night not sleeping in the front of the truck. Finally, the scrap yard opened and I was able to unload and get some money for breakfast and gas.
And speaking of my wallet, there is a cashier at a store here in town that knows who I am and calls me when I forget my wallet. When I was having to walk with a cane for a while I was forever having to go back to a store and get the stupid thing off of a shopping cart where I had hung it when I unloaded the cart (yeah I know I didn’t put it back in the buggy corral but I was hurting). One gas station used to keep my cane when I left it leaning against a pump. I learned eventually to keep a second cane in the truck.
So what is the point to all this babbling. Well, to be honest with you I cannot remember. But whatever it is, I can blame it on blonde roots.
If that was the only time something like that had happened I wouldn’t worry about it. However, it is becoming a daily occurrence. I can’t tell you how many times I have opened the microwave to heat up something and found the something that I heated up last night and then forgot about. Sometimes it doesn’t even make it into the microwave. I find a ruined un-frozen dinner sitting in the box on the counter.
I have to be careful with channel surfing because, more often than not, I will forget what I was watching when I started surfing which leads to more surfing and more forgetting. It is not unusual for an hour to go by and for me to have surfed through every channel and still not know what I was watching. I don’t know how people with the hundreds of satellite channels do it. I can’t keep track of seven stations. When I had cable I just surfed around until I passed out from hunger because I forgot to eat the dinner that was in the microwave.
Since I know that I cant remember anything I wrote myself notes and then promptly loose them, and then when i find them I have no idea what they mean. I call numbers all the time and say, “ Hi, I am William White. I found your number in my wallet and I have no idea how it got there. Do you know who I am?” Which sometimes leads to long awkward silences, and the occasional, “If you call back, I’ll call the cops.”
I cannot count the number of times I have looked through old computer files and found long rambling narratives I have written, that show great promise, but I have no idea what they are about. Or I open up an old notepad and see where I have written something down and I am not sure if it is a story idea or a list of things to do. Sometimes I try to work these scraps of information into a essay, Eggs, bacon, preparation H. But at that they don’t make sense. Wash car, vacuum hair, spaghetti.
To help with all this brain malfunction, my dad gave me his old Palm Pilot. It is a great tool. Now I carry all my phone numbers, things to do, appointments, and notes. It is a great way for me to carry more information around that I have no idea what it means. I find things like: lawn mower, potatoes, boots, and air scrawled in the memo pad section. I don’t know what they mean but they are there in this hi-tech wonder so they must be important.
The Palm is also one more reason for me to drive around the block and them come back to the apartment to get something. I have to make special trips for my keys, wallet, laptop computer, cell phone, and now for the Palm. I am sure that my neighbors take bets on how many times I am going to have to come back and get something.
I once drove all the way to Franklin, NC without my wallet to get a load of scrap metal. If you are not familiar with Franklin it is one downhill slide from Tennessee and a 3 hour drive from my apartment. I took my time loading up the truck and was ready to come home when I noticed that I was low on gas and needed to fill up before I headed in. I also noticed that I didn’t have my wallet. I scrounged through the WarWagon and came up with a few dollars in change, put that in the tank, and barely made it to Asheville. I then got to spend a long, hot, sweaty night not sleeping in the front of the truck. Finally, the scrap yard opened and I was able to unload and get some money for breakfast and gas.
And speaking of my wallet, there is a cashier at a store here in town that knows who I am and calls me when I forget my wallet. When I was having to walk with a cane for a while I was forever having to go back to a store and get the stupid thing off of a shopping cart where I had hung it when I unloaded the cart (yeah I know I didn’t put it back in the buggy corral but I was hurting). One gas station used to keep my cane when I left it leaning against a pump. I learned eventually to keep a second cane in the truck.
So what is the point to all this babbling. Well, to be honest with you I cannot remember. But whatever it is, I can blame it on blonde roots.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Whats in your shorts?
Sometimes the great hand of fortune rests on us and leaves us with a, “How did I survive that?” feeling. After the excitement dies down and our pulse returns to normal we carefully reconstruct the circumstance of the event and are left wondering even more how we got away with it.
Friday morning I drove the WarWagon to Kannapolis to buy a 1995 Ford Windstar from a man. I had my trusty antique tow bar in the back and was looking forward to the extra money I would make when I parted out the van and sold it for scrap. I was really looking forward to finishing up the deal and going to pick my kids up at school to start our weekend together. I checked out the van and noted that only the right rear hubcap was missing. Then set about loading up all the various parts of the engine that the owner had removed and disassembled.
With the deal made and the van firmly attached to my trailer hitch I started back down I-85 through mid afternoon traffic in Charlotte. Things were going smoothly and I was calculating having a few minutes to eat a leisurely lunch and cleaning up the apartment a bit before going to get the kids. The van was towing smoothly and so I bumped up the speed to 65 mph and settled in for the drive.
Just before the Mallard Creek exit there was a huge chunk of tire that had been left by a transfer truck. Traffic slowed as both right hand lanes maneuvered around it. I made an easy move to the shoulder of the road and went around the obstruction then picked up speed again to head for home. Little did I know what that seemingly innocent maneuver would set into motion.
When the speedometer read about 63 mph I felt the van step to the right and instinctively I slowed and looked in the mirror. To my shock there was a tire rolling along beside my drivers door. It was far too small to be from the WarWagon so I knew that the van had lost a wheel.
The errant Bridgestone passed my front bumper and made a lazy turn for the shoulder fo the road and I breathed a mild sigh of relief. Then it decided it wanted a bit more freedom and turned left, crossed all four lanes of south bound traffic and rolled along the median. When it slammed into the cement barricade I began to really be concerned. It would have been funny had it not been so scary and potentially deadly as it leaped nearly 40 feet into the air and crossed into the north bound lanes. For a second or two it was out of sight, and then it appeared again as it hurtled skyward and vaulted a street light on the median. By this time everyone on the south lanes had stopped and were watching the show.
I slowly drove along the shoulder trying to stay even with the tire that had crossed into the south lanes again and headed straight for my front fender. I stood hard on the brakes as the tire sailed past the front bumper and charged up an embankment and went exploring in the trees along the side of the road.
After a brief scavenger hunt I located the tire and noticed that the brake rotor was attached to the back of the wheel. When I lugged the 90 pound assembly back to the van I saw what had happened. The nut that holds the wheel assembly on the van had been removed. I immediately pulled the wheel cover off the passengers side tire and found that the nut had been removed from it as well. A phone call to the man I had bought it from revealed that he had removed both of them not realizing that they held the wheel assembly on. He brought me the nuts an hour later and I was on my way again.
While I was waiting my guardian angel went and put in for hazardous duty pay – he deserves it. Me? Well I went back up in the trees and emptied my shorts.
Friday morning I drove the WarWagon to Kannapolis to buy a 1995 Ford Windstar from a man. I had my trusty antique tow bar in the back and was looking forward to the extra money I would make when I parted out the van and sold it for scrap. I was really looking forward to finishing up the deal and going to pick my kids up at school to start our weekend together. I checked out the van and noted that only the right rear hubcap was missing. Then set about loading up all the various parts of the engine that the owner had removed and disassembled.
With the deal made and the van firmly attached to my trailer hitch I started back down I-85 through mid afternoon traffic in Charlotte. Things were going smoothly and I was calculating having a few minutes to eat a leisurely lunch and cleaning up the apartment a bit before going to get the kids. The van was towing smoothly and so I bumped up the speed to 65 mph and settled in for the drive.
Just before the Mallard Creek exit there was a huge chunk of tire that had been left by a transfer truck. Traffic slowed as both right hand lanes maneuvered around it. I made an easy move to the shoulder of the road and went around the obstruction then picked up speed again to head for home. Little did I know what that seemingly innocent maneuver would set into motion.
When the speedometer read about 63 mph I felt the van step to the right and instinctively I slowed and looked in the mirror. To my shock there was a tire rolling along beside my drivers door. It was far too small to be from the WarWagon so I knew that the van had lost a wheel.
The errant Bridgestone passed my front bumper and made a lazy turn for the shoulder fo the road and I breathed a mild sigh of relief. Then it decided it wanted a bit more freedom and turned left, crossed all four lanes of south bound traffic and rolled along the median. When it slammed into the cement barricade I began to really be concerned. It would have been funny had it not been so scary and potentially deadly as it leaped nearly 40 feet into the air and crossed into the north bound lanes. For a second or two it was out of sight, and then it appeared again as it hurtled skyward and vaulted a street light on the median. By this time everyone on the south lanes had stopped and were watching the show.
I slowly drove along the shoulder trying to stay even with the tire that had crossed into the south lanes again and headed straight for my front fender. I stood hard on the brakes as the tire sailed past the front bumper and charged up an embankment and went exploring in the trees along the side of the road.
After a brief scavenger hunt I located the tire and noticed that the brake rotor was attached to the back of the wheel. When I lugged the 90 pound assembly back to the van I saw what had happened. The nut that holds the wheel assembly on the van had been removed. I immediately pulled the wheel cover off the passengers side tire and found that the nut had been removed from it as well. A phone call to the man I had bought it from revealed that he had removed both of them not realizing that they held the wheel assembly on. He brought me the nuts an hour later and I was on my way again.
While I was waiting my guardian angel went and put in for hazardous duty pay – he deserves it. Me? Well I went back up in the trees and emptied my shorts.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Assault on Kings Mountian
In a daring afternoon raid a band of ragtag troops, lead by an experienced and devoted leader, William, invaded the rough terrain of Kings Mountain battle field. Jared, the tireless scout, forged ahead of the small unit and reported back with much needed information. Emily, communications officer, kept each member informed of the progress of the advance. Allison, moral officer, did her best to boost morale and keep the troops moving by constantly smiling and repeating, “Daddy, I love you.”
Before the invasion the troops fueled up with orange Bug Juice, peanut butter crackers, and apples, then rode onto the battleground in the trusty WarWagon and disembarked to begin the assault. A scene of utter chaos ensued as the troop checked maps and watched informative movies in the pre-assault planning session held in the visitor’s center.
The troops carefully inspected all displays of weapons and equipment while asking many questions about their usage. Every button that could be reached was pushed and each new discovery led to many more questions. When all information that could be gleaned from the displays was investigated the band rushed out onto the well worn trail and charged through the dense fallen leaves in their quest to reach the summit.
Close observation of the terrain revealed creeks, hollow trees, and holes that could be used for shelter and camouflage. During the raid shrieks and yells could be heard pealing through the landscape as the warriors charged up the mountain side.
When the assault ended and the troops were safely ensconced in the WarWagon and headed for home. Their leader, with sore hips and knee – the only casualty of the day, mused that if the British were still there they would have run in fright from the attacking horde. Either that or would have all died from laughter.
Before the invasion the troops fueled up with orange Bug Juice, peanut butter crackers, and apples, then rode onto the battleground in the trusty WarWagon and disembarked to begin the assault. A scene of utter chaos ensued as the troop checked maps and watched informative movies in the pre-assault planning session held in the visitor’s center.
The troops carefully inspected all displays of weapons and equipment while asking many questions about their usage. Every button that could be reached was pushed and each new discovery led to many more questions. When all information that could be gleaned from the displays was investigated the band rushed out onto the well worn trail and charged through the dense fallen leaves in their quest to reach the summit.
Close observation of the terrain revealed creeks, hollow trees, and holes that could be used for shelter and camouflage. During the raid shrieks and yells could be heard pealing through the landscape as the warriors charged up the mountain side.
When the assault ended and the troops were safely ensconced in the WarWagon and headed for home. Their leader, with sore hips and knee – the only casualty of the day, mused that if the British were still there they would have run in fright from the attacking horde. Either that or would have all died from laughter.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Cosmic Revenge
Every religion or belief system that I have ever had any experience with has with it an element of retribution contained therein. Call it what you will – justice, judgment, karma, accountability or any thing else – it is unavoidable. I recently witnessed events that are irrefutably that intervention of justice in the life of someone I am fairly close to.
In February of 2004, my ex-wife decided that she would not allow me to see our children any more. Since I was not in a position to hire an attorney I was forced to accede to her wishes and stay away. It broke my heart to do. Recently I scraped up enough cash to hire help and my ex changed her mind and had allowed me to see the kids. I cannot express how overjoyed I was to be reunited with them.
The first Friday night that I kept them was like a dream. We hugged and talked and played and opened presents that had been accumulating in the closet. Late in the evening we all collapsed into bed. At 6:00 am my phone rang. It was the ring tone programmed for my ex-wife’s number.
When I answered all she said was, “If I die, tell the kids I love them,” and hung up. A call like that will wake you up faster than drinking espresso while soaking in ice water. I tried to call her back and could not reach her, each time I was sent to voice mail. Finally, thirty minutes later, I got her again. She said, “I’m on the phone with 911”, and hung up.
At t his point I was picturing her locked in the trunk of a Lincoln, headed out to Lake Norman to be fitted with concrete shoes. Thoughts of having to raise the kids myself, funeral arrangements, and possibly moving back to Tennessee to be closer to my parents stirred in my mind. I found myself trying to think of who may be that mad at her, other than me.
Finally, I staggered to the kitchen to start the first of several pots of coffee for that day. Around the time Mr. Coffee began his final gurgle her cell tone rang again. “I am upside down in the back seat of my truck.” To make a long story short she was driving too fast in the rain and flipped her Ford Ranger 4 times on Highway 110 in Cowpens, SC on her way to work. While she was not seriously injured, she was banged up enough spend the day in the emergency room. Somehow she only bruised her leg and her lung. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person, but I had already vented my spleen when we talked about the kids the first time and told her that she would one day get what was coming to her and it would happen in such a way that no one could blame me. I didn’t feel the need to get that worked up again.
Since that morning she has offered no resistance to my requests to see the kids. She has almost been nice - something I am unused to. Perhaps spending a couple of hours upside down in the rain while waiting for the Rescue Squad to cut her free with their giant can opener she had time to reflect on a few things. Perhaps it will be the last time the balance of her life has to be evened out. Time will tell.
In February of 2004, my ex-wife decided that she would not allow me to see our children any more. Since I was not in a position to hire an attorney I was forced to accede to her wishes and stay away. It broke my heart to do. Recently I scraped up enough cash to hire help and my ex changed her mind and had allowed me to see the kids. I cannot express how overjoyed I was to be reunited with them.
The first Friday night that I kept them was like a dream. We hugged and talked and played and opened presents that had been accumulating in the closet. Late in the evening we all collapsed into bed. At 6:00 am my phone rang. It was the ring tone programmed for my ex-wife’s number.
When I answered all she said was, “If I die, tell the kids I love them,” and hung up. A call like that will wake you up faster than drinking espresso while soaking in ice water. I tried to call her back and could not reach her, each time I was sent to voice mail. Finally, thirty minutes later, I got her again. She said, “I’m on the phone with 911”, and hung up.
At t his point I was picturing her locked in the trunk of a Lincoln, headed out to Lake Norman to be fitted with concrete shoes. Thoughts of having to raise the kids myself, funeral arrangements, and possibly moving back to Tennessee to be closer to my parents stirred in my mind. I found myself trying to think of who may be that mad at her, other than me.
Finally, I staggered to the kitchen to start the first of several pots of coffee for that day. Around the time Mr. Coffee began his final gurgle her cell tone rang again. “I am upside down in the back seat of my truck.” To make a long story short she was driving too fast in the rain and flipped her Ford Ranger 4 times on Highway 110 in Cowpens, SC on her way to work. While she was not seriously injured, she was banged up enough spend the day in the emergency room. Somehow she only bruised her leg and her lung. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person, but I had already vented my spleen when we talked about the kids the first time and told her that she would one day get what was coming to her and it would happen in such a way that no one could blame me. I didn’t feel the need to get that worked up again.
Since that morning she has offered no resistance to my requests to see the kids. She has almost been nice - something I am unused to. Perhaps spending a couple of hours upside down in the rain while waiting for the Rescue Squad to cut her free with their giant can opener she had time to reflect on a few things. Perhaps it will be the last time the balance of her life has to be evened out. Time will tell.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
20 things that make me smile
Things that make me smile
1. My children – They are the reason I exist.
2. Old friends – Those that are always there even when things go wrong.
3. My truck – Like the energizer bunny – still going.
4. Antique tools – They are scattered all over my apartment.
5. Old shoes – The ones that are so broken in that they start to break apart.
6. Morning coffee – How else do you start a day?
7. Winter chill – much better than the summer sweat.
8. Meeting new people – new people to laugh at all my old jokes.
9. Pictures – Moments frozen forever of life years ago.
10. Old barns – Exploring Mecca’s for a scavenger like me.
11. Pretty girls smiles – Seen too seldom but appreciated every time.
12. Old TV shows – Slivers of my youth.
13. Books – Other worlds to explore and hide in.
14. Apple pie – Especially when it comes with coffee.
15. Music – Real music that you can understand the words too.
16. Quiet conversation – Getting to know a person inside and out.
17. Word puzzles – Things that make my brain work.
18. Hot baths – Soak away your cares and aches.
19. Sunsets – Especially when viewed from a beautiful location.
20. Memories – Sweeter every day (some anyway)
1. My children – They are the reason I exist.
2. Old friends – Those that are always there even when things go wrong.
3. My truck – Like the energizer bunny – still going.
4. Antique tools – They are scattered all over my apartment.
5. Old shoes – The ones that are so broken in that they start to break apart.
6. Morning coffee – How else do you start a day?
7. Winter chill – much better than the summer sweat.
8. Meeting new people – new people to laugh at all my old jokes.
9. Pictures – Moments frozen forever of life years ago.
10. Old barns – Exploring Mecca’s for a scavenger like me.
11. Pretty girls smiles – Seen too seldom but appreciated every time.
12. Old TV shows – Slivers of my youth.
13. Books – Other worlds to explore and hide in.
14. Apple pie – Especially when it comes with coffee.
15. Music – Real music that you can understand the words too.
16. Quiet conversation – Getting to know a person inside and out.
17. Word puzzles – Things that make my brain work.
18. Hot baths – Soak away your cares and aches.
19. Sunsets – Especially when viewed from a beautiful location.
20. Memories – Sweeter every day (some anyway)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Ugly Daughters
I heard a song recently in which a father is giving his daughter away at her wedding. After thinking about the premise of the song ( and thinking of my own two daughters) I came to a conclusion (bear with me) - all fathers secretly, subconsciously, and selfishly wish for ugly daughters. They may not say it - or even realize that they wish for it, but they do. You see, all fathers, myself included, want to keep their little girls all to themselves. They want to keep boys away from their girls at all costs. Mostly because daddies remember how they felt about girls when hormones started to kick in. You see when girls are beautiful they eventually attract attention of the enemy - boys.
This villainous enemy is intent on taking girls away from their fathers. Boys are the nemesis for every father who has female offspring. (While I want my son to be married to a beautiful gal one day - I want all those insidious creatures to stay away from my girls.) Those disgusting beings who want to carry off and marry our beautiful daughters. They want to take our pony-tailed, freckle faced darlings and start new families. Of course- with their new families comes the possibility of having daughters. For the young fathers sakes - I hope those daughters are ugly.
This villainous enemy is intent on taking girls away from their fathers. Boys are the nemesis for every father who has female offspring. (While I want my son to be married to a beautiful gal one day - I want all those insidious creatures to stay away from my girls.) Those disgusting beings who want to carry off and marry our beautiful daughters. They want to take our pony-tailed, freckle faced darlings and start new families. Of course- with their new families comes the possibility of having daughters. For the young fathers sakes - I hope those daughters are ugly.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Goodbye
I don't like funerals, although ,I don't know of anyone who does. However, I now am faced with the reality of attending one once again. And yet, with the funeral comes a sweet comfort. You see, my friend, Jo Dyer, was a wonderful, godly, sweet woman. A woman I never saw without a smile on her face. A woman who cared for others, and loved her family. She was devoted to her family and raised two of her grandchildren. In the nearly twenty years that I knew her I cannot ever remember hearing her complain about anything or any one. She was one of those special people who truly make the world a brighter place to be.
You cannot think of Jo without thinking of her warm smile and her long dark hair. I remember visiting her house and being amazed that she and her husband, Lester, were sitting and eating an onion like anyone else would eat an apple, washing it down with buttermilk and cornbread. I remember her and Lester singing in church. I remember rarely seeing one without the other.
Now, after a prolonged illness, she finally has the comfort that she gave others in her life. She has “shuffled off this mortal coil” and stepped through the gates of glory. Her race ended, she now receives that, “Well done.”
No I don't look forward to her funeral, but I am comforted in the knowledge that her struggles here on earth are ended. I will miss her, but one day I will see her again.
You cannot think of Jo without thinking of her warm smile and her long dark hair. I remember visiting her house and being amazed that she and her husband, Lester, were sitting and eating an onion like anyone else would eat an apple, washing it down with buttermilk and cornbread. I remember her and Lester singing in church. I remember rarely seeing one without the other.
Now, after a prolonged illness, she finally has the comfort that she gave others in her life. She has “shuffled off this mortal coil” and stepped through the gates of glory. Her race ended, she now receives that, “Well done.”
No I don't look forward to her funeral, but I am comforted in the knowledge that her struggles here on earth are ended. I will miss her, but one day I will see her again.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Fate
A cold wind howls across the landscape of my soul.
Icy cold fingers bring pain to the depths of my being.
Cut off from those I love - I am alone.
The man who was afraid of nothing - now in fear of living alone.
Dispair and sorrow my only companions
I long for the warmth of loves touch.
Adrift in a black sea of nothingness,
Unable to fulfill my dreams,
Much less my wants,
And barely my needs.
Like a drunkard longing for the next sip
I long for love.
I yearn for comfort.
Yet I live
Alone.
Icy cold fingers bring pain to the depths of my being.
Cut off from those I love - I am alone.
The man who was afraid of nothing - now in fear of living alone.
Dispair and sorrow my only companions
I long for the warmth of loves touch.
Adrift in a black sea of nothingness,
Unable to fulfill my dreams,
Much less my wants,
And barely my needs.
Like a drunkard longing for the next sip
I long for love.
I yearn for comfort.
Yet I live
Alone.
Friday, August 11, 2006
tiger by the tail
It seems that when the world starts to look sunny and bright it suddenly clouds up and begins to rain. Not that rain is always bad thing., but sometimes I would just like to sit in the sun for a while. This mold between my toes is starting to irritate me. The impetus for all this - well the transmission on the WarWagon died again. This is the first time that she hasn't got me home. I had to call my friend to tow it with his truck. Since he was at work when I called him I got to sit in a church parking lot in Charlotte for 5 hours. It was great fun. At least I had a book with me so I had something to read.
I know that all 2 of my faithful readers are wondering why I haven’t posted any new insightful writings so I will tell you. I have been busier than a one legged man at a butt kicking competition. I have been at home only long enough to shower change clothes and get a small amount of sleep each day. And on top of all that my laptop computer died. So for now I am holding the tiger by the tail. Problem with that is - when I let go there are teeth in the other end.
I know that all 2 of my faithful readers are wondering why I haven’t posted any new insightful writings so I will tell you. I have been busier than a one legged man at a butt kicking competition. I have been at home only long enough to shower change clothes and get a small amount of sleep each day. And on top of all that my laptop computer died. So for now I am holding the tiger by the tail. Problem with that is - when I let go there are teeth in the other end.
Friday, July 21, 2006
One for all my cop friends
I didnt write this.....but i wish I had.
Recently, a California website ran an e-mail forum (a question and answer exchange) where the topic was "Policing the Community." One of the civilian email participants posed the following question: "I would like to know how it is possible for police officers to continually harass people and get away with it?" ------------------------------------------------------
From the "other side" (the law enforcement side) a cool cop with a sense of humor replied with this email: It's not easy! In California we average one cop for every 2,000 people. About 60% of those cops are on patrol, where we do most of the harassing. One-fifth of that 60% are on duty at any given moment and are available for harassing people. So, one cop is responsible for harassing about 10,000 residents. When you toss in the commercial, business and tourist locations that attract people from other areas, sometimes you have a situation where a single cop is responsible for harassing 20,000 or more people each day. A ten-hour shift runs 36,000 seconds. This gives a cop one second to harass a person, and three-fourths of a second to eat a donut AND then find a new person to harass. This is not an easy task. Most cops are not up to it, day in and day out. It is just too tiring. What we do is utilize some tools to help us narrow down those people which we harass. They are as follows:
PHONE: People will call us up and point out things that cause us to focus on a person for special harassment. "My neighbor is beating his wife" is a code phrase we use. Then we come out and give special harassment. Another popular one on a weeknight is, "The kids next door are having a loud party."
CARS: We have special cops assigned to harass people who drive. They like to harass the drivers of fast cars, cars blasting music, cars with expired registration stickers and the like. It is lots of fun when you pick them out of traffic for nothing more obvious than running a red light. Sometimes you get to really heap the harassment on when you find they have drugs in the car, are driving drunk, or they have an outstanding warrant.
RUNNERS: Some people take off running just at the sight of a police officer. Nothing is quite as satisfying as running after them like a beagle on the scent of a bunny. When you catch them you can harass them for hours.
CODES: When you can think of nothing else to do, there are books that give ideas for reasons to harass folks. They are called "Codes" Penal, Vehicle, Health and Safety, Business and Professional Codes, to name a few. They spell out all sorts of things for which you can really mess with people. After you read the code, you can just drive around for a while until you find someone violating one of these listed offenses and harass them. Just last week I saw a guy smash a car window. Well, the code says that is not allowed. That meant I got permission to harass this guy.
It is a pretty cool system that we have set up, and it works pretty well. We seem to have a never-ending supply of folks to harass. And we get away with it. Why? Because the good citizens who pay the tab actually like the fact that we keep the streets safe for them. Next time you are in my town, give me a single finger wave. That will be a signal that you wish for me to take a little closer look at you, and then maybe I'll find a reason to harass YOU. Looking forward to meeting you...........
Recently, a California website ran an e-mail forum (a question and answer exchange) where the topic was "Policing the Community." One of the civilian email participants posed the following question: "I would like to know how it is possible for police officers to continually harass people and get away with it?" ------------------------------------------------------
From the "other side" (the law enforcement side) a cool cop with a sense of humor replied with this email: It's not easy! In California we average one cop for every 2,000 people. About 60% of those cops are on patrol, where we do most of the harassing. One-fifth of that 60% are on duty at any given moment and are available for harassing people. So, one cop is responsible for harassing about 10,000 residents. When you toss in the commercial, business and tourist locations that attract people from other areas, sometimes you have a situation where a single cop is responsible for harassing 20,000 or more people each day. A ten-hour shift runs 36,000 seconds. This gives a cop one second to harass a person, and three-fourths of a second to eat a donut AND then find a new person to harass. This is not an easy task. Most cops are not up to it, day in and day out. It is just too tiring. What we do is utilize some tools to help us narrow down those people which we harass. They are as follows:
PHONE: People will call us up and point out things that cause us to focus on a person for special harassment. "My neighbor is beating his wife" is a code phrase we use. Then we come out and give special harassment. Another popular one on a weeknight is, "The kids next door are having a loud party."
CARS: We have special cops assigned to harass people who drive. They like to harass the drivers of fast cars, cars blasting music, cars with expired registration stickers and the like. It is lots of fun when you pick them out of traffic for nothing more obvious than running a red light. Sometimes you get to really heap the harassment on when you find they have drugs in the car, are driving drunk, or they have an outstanding warrant.
RUNNERS: Some people take off running just at the sight of a police officer. Nothing is quite as satisfying as running after them like a beagle on the scent of a bunny. When you catch them you can harass them for hours.
CODES: When you can think of nothing else to do, there are books that give ideas for reasons to harass folks. They are called "Codes" Penal, Vehicle, Health and Safety, Business and Professional Codes, to name a few. They spell out all sorts of things for which you can really mess with people. After you read the code, you can just drive around for a while until you find someone violating one of these listed offenses and harass them. Just last week I saw a guy smash a car window. Well, the code says that is not allowed. That meant I got permission to harass this guy.
It is a pretty cool system that we have set up, and it works pretty well. We seem to have a never-ending supply of folks to harass. And we get away with it. Why? Because the good citizens who pay the tab actually like the fact that we keep the streets safe for them. Next time you are in my town, give me a single finger wave. That will be a signal that you wish for me to take a little closer look at you, and then maybe I'll find a reason to harass YOU. Looking forward to meeting you...........
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Proper perspective
Whoever it was that said, "Time heals all things," was a liar. Time doesn’t heal, time simply allows perspective. Time only allows things to fester and hurt worse. Time never healed cancer. Time never pieced a broken heart back together. Time only allowed wisdom to bring perspective that put the pain in its place. In high school I finally got out the nerve to ask a girl out. I didn’t date much, or actually at all. I had, and still have, a hard time relating to females. When the time came for Christmas banquet – we didn’t have a prom – I managed to muster up the courage to ask Holly Grubbs if she would go with me. She said yes. The day before the banquet she called me and told me that she was going with someone else. I was stacking firewood out in the snow when she called. I am surprised that my parents had anything bigger than a toothpick left to burn. Then someone, I don’t recall who, told me that timeless lie – time heals all things. It didn’t. Still today when I think about that there is a twinge of hurt. But perspective has allowed me to realize that anyone who would do what she did wasn’t really deserving of all that much affection from me.
On November 17, 1996 I got married. In October of 2000 separated. After a few years of trying to make things work (at least I did any way) she told me on December 23, 2004 she was having an affair, our divorce was final on April 26, 2005. Time won’t heal that pain either. Perspective, however, allowed me to see what life was like trapped in a loveless marriage with an unfaithful spouse. It has allowed me to finally see myself for who I really am. It has allowed me to start living again. Whenever I come across a piece of our marriage it still hurts just as much as it did the night she told me about the affair. It may be a picture, a note, or just a stray memory, but it hurts. It isn’t healed and quite possible never will be, but I can see why I am much better off now.
I have lost several fronds to death. Car wrecks, natural causes, murder, disease, and even suicide have added to the toll of accumulated loss. Time hasn’t healed the wounds that thier passing left. Time hasn’t brought piece or even acceptance. Perspective has allowed me to see that I hold the precious memories of their lives in my heart. Perspective allows me to love them still. It gives comfort through their memories. But not time. Time just marks the length of their absence, but perspective marks the love that was shared through our friendship.
In every tragedy or unfortunate circumstance we face our greatest ally isn’t time. It is being able to see the good that has come from each and every moment of our lives. Each situation is a portal to the future. Without pain there is no growth. The pain of birth brings life, the pain of life brings experience, and the pain of experience brings perspective. Only with the proper perspective can we go forward. Only perspective can allow us to accept the fate that has befallen us and lead richer, more fulfilling lives.
May you never know hardship, may you never suffer pain. But if you do eventually perspective will allow you to see the good that came from it. Proper perspective heals all things.
On November 17, 1996 I got married. In October of 2000 separated. After a few years of trying to make things work (at least I did any way) she told me on December 23, 2004 she was having an affair, our divorce was final on April 26, 2005. Time won’t heal that pain either. Perspective, however, allowed me to see what life was like trapped in a loveless marriage with an unfaithful spouse. It has allowed me to finally see myself for who I really am. It has allowed me to start living again. Whenever I come across a piece of our marriage it still hurts just as much as it did the night she told me about the affair. It may be a picture, a note, or just a stray memory, but it hurts. It isn’t healed and quite possible never will be, but I can see why I am much better off now.
I have lost several fronds to death. Car wrecks, natural causes, murder, disease, and even suicide have added to the toll of accumulated loss. Time hasn’t healed the wounds that thier passing left. Time hasn’t brought piece or even acceptance. Perspective has allowed me to see that I hold the precious memories of their lives in my heart. Perspective allows me to love them still. It gives comfort through their memories. But not time. Time just marks the length of their absence, but perspective marks the love that was shared through our friendship.
In every tragedy or unfortunate circumstance we face our greatest ally isn’t time. It is being able to see the good that has come from each and every moment of our lives. Each situation is a portal to the future. Without pain there is no growth. The pain of birth brings life, the pain of life brings experience, and the pain of experience brings perspective. Only with the proper perspective can we go forward. Only perspective can allow us to accept the fate that has befallen us and lead richer, more fulfilling lives.
May you never know hardship, may you never suffer pain. But if you do eventually perspective will allow you to see the good that came from it. Proper perspective heals all things.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Back in the saddle again
Well after a lot of long hot hours of cooking in the July heat, numerous abrasions and cuts, 3 lost tools, and several sets of very sweaty and greasy clothes I finally did it. I resurrected the WarWagon. I am back to working out in the hot sun all day for the time being. Hopefully my back will hold out long enough for me to make a little cash so I can fix it more. Poor thing has been abused since she rolled off the assembly line, but then again it is a GMC she can handle it.
I also have the phone back on. Yippee. I almost feel liker a functioning member of society. Well it is time to go soak my sore tired body in hot water and see if it melts. Hopefully soon I will write something worth reading on here and things will be back to normal.
I also have the phone back on. Yippee. I almost feel liker a functioning member of society. Well it is time to go soak my sore tired body in hot water and see if it melts. Hopefully soon I will write something worth reading on here and things will be back to normal.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Fresh gossip
Well, now my neighbors have something to talk about. Living in an apartment complex is somewhat akin to living in a goldfish bowl – just slightly drier and with walls, windows, and doors and curtains – OK so maybe it isn’t like a fishbowl at all but you get my meaning. They have two somethings actually. One was the rare daylight sighting of the nocturnal occupant of apartment 12, and two was seeing another human at my apartment. Well, not just another human, but a human of the female variety (and the attractive female variety at that) dropped me off this morning (sparing me the long hot sojourn home from the library.)
You see the usual visitors to my apartment are smelly simian males who want to borrow my tools. (I am still missing a wire stretcher and a left-handed metric pipe wrench.) Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t even come to my door. The mailman does but he gets paid to. The last visitor I had got fed to the veggie drawer monster (VDM) (refer to Paper and Plastic and Lint for more details on this mythological creature). I am sure that I have had another female around the place but she didn’t sign the guest register so I don’t have a record of it. That is unless you count the red-headed Amazon (RHA)(whom the VDM is afraid of), but I try to block those memories out. They are definitely not well assembled female type persons. (A few poorly assembled ones have staggered up on the porch, but they are usually scared off by the torch-wielding peasants.)
The daylight sighting will be talked about like Bigfoot around here. Usually everyone determines my living status by setting traps or looking in the dumpster for frozen dinner cartons (evidence of either me or that the VDM has learned to use the microwave - which is entirely possible). Usually as long as they don’t smell to many bad odors emanating from my abode they assume I am still alive. About a month ago I stumbled into a trap left by the little old lady next door, when she set me free she told me that she was getting worried about me. Good thing she came out when she did because I was starting to gnaw through my cane to get away.
So now there will be new gossip flying around the building. That is until something more exciting happens. Like the VDM getting out and eating all the cats or at least doing battle with the RHA. If that happens I will sell tickets.
You see the usual visitors to my apartment are smelly simian males who want to borrow my tools. (I am still missing a wire stretcher and a left-handed metric pipe wrench.) Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t even come to my door. The mailman does but he gets paid to. The last visitor I had got fed to the veggie drawer monster (VDM) (refer to Paper and Plastic and Lint for more details on this mythological creature). I am sure that I have had another female around the place but she didn’t sign the guest register so I don’t have a record of it. That is unless you count the red-headed Amazon (RHA)(whom the VDM is afraid of), but I try to block those memories out. They are definitely not well assembled female type persons. (A few poorly assembled ones have staggered up on the porch, but they are usually scared off by the torch-wielding peasants.)
The daylight sighting will be talked about like Bigfoot around here. Usually everyone determines my living status by setting traps or looking in the dumpster for frozen dinner cartons (evidence of either me or that the VDM has learned to use the microwave - which is entirely possible). Usually as long as they don’t smell to many bad odors emanating from my abode they assume I am still alive. About a month ago I stumbled into a trap left by the little old lady next door, when she set me free she told me that she was getting worried about me. Good thing she came out when she did because I was starting to gnaw through my cane to get away.
So now there will be new gossip flying around the building. That is until something more exciting happens. Like the VDM getting out and eating all the cats or at least doing battle with the RHA. If that happens I will sell tickets.
My treatise on sports
I was talking to a friend about sports today. She said she didn’t understand what the point of racing was all about. I was going to try to explain it to her, but it is something you either like or you don’t. Not that she isn’t capable of understanding it, she just wouldn’t care to. (I include that last sentence in the interest of self preservation.)
If you know me you know that I like racing. Not just stock car racing, but all kinds of racing. I like cars racing, truck racing, boat racing, horse racing, bicycle racing, airplane racing. I went to visit a buddy of mine in the hospital this week and there were two guys in wheelchairs going across the lobby of the I stopped and cheered them on. Most racing has only one rule – get there first. I can understand that. Oh sure there are the three R’s of racing (rules, regulations, and requirements) but basically the first guy there wins. It is uncomplicated and you can take a nap in the middle and still be able to figure out what is happening. Other sports I am not so sure about.
Canadians are rabid about hockey. I can’t figure out why a bunch of toothless guys want to strap razor blades to their feet, pick up oversized tongue depressors and chase a Ho-ho around sheet of ice; trying to whack it into a fish net in between the fights. But Canadians also brought us curling – the sport that consists of chasing a broken bowling ball down a frozen hallway with brooms. Maybe it has something to do with the amount of ice they have up there – they have to do something with it.
And speaking of bowling what is the point. You pick up a chunk of some unidentifiable material and hurl it across a hardwood floor (which you aren’t allowed to walk on) and try to knock down little snowmen. If I had thrown heavy objects at my mom’s hardwood floor she would have chased me down the hallway with a broom(not to be confused with a curling broom), not to mention what she would have done when the snowmen melted.
The dumbest sport is golf. A bunch of supposedly sane people take deformed sticks and whack a ball across a yard trying to get it into a cup. The real art in golf is cussing. I know I used to work at a golf course. I heard things out there that would make a merchant marine go running for his mommy with his ears covered.
Then consider basketball. A mob of genetic mutants bounce a pumpkin across a hardwood floor (my mom wouldn’t like that either) and toss it into a broken fishnet. At least the Canadians have a whole net. When the genetic mutants get tired of chasing the pumpkin they amuse themselves by attacking people in the stands.
Soccer is a lot like hockey but it comes from ice deprived, warmer countries where they have to contend with things like sunshine and grass while chasing a pumpkin instead of a ho-ho. And they don’t have tongue depressors. They aren’t even allowed to use their hands. Sounds like a good sport for double amputees. (It was a joke please don’t send me scathing emails – I wasn’t equating double amputees with lower intelligence soccer players.)
Baseball and softball are other odd past times. Where else do you see a bunch of guys look like they don’t want to have anything to do with the ball. One who is standing on an anthill guy throws it to a guy who doesn’t want it so he hits it with a branch. Then a bunch of guys in the yard throw the ball at each other until it finally gets back to the guy who is standing on the big ant hill. Since no one wants to touch it if they don’t have to they all wear oven mitts. The guy with the branch has a pot on his head. The guy on the anthill doesn’t want the ball so he throws it at the guy who whacks it with a branch and the whole thing starts again. Sometimes one of the guys with the branch gets lucky and smacks the ball out of the yard and into Mrs. Petrofski’s petunias. The other guys are so glad that the evil ball is gone they let the guy run around the yard by himself then swat him on the butt. I am not sure why they do that. Then the dumb guy wearing the black coat flings another evil ball to the guy on the anthill and they do it again until all the people in the stands get tired of watching and go home. Mrs. Petrofski runs around her yard talking to herself about the hoodlums that are ruining her flowers and then puts the evil ball in a box with the others.
Football isn’t really football at all it is more like hand ball but that is another can of worms. In football a bunch of guys take a small watermelon and fight over it. Unlike baseball they all want the watermelons. The spend a couple of hours running all over the pasture chasing watermelon. When someone runs it to the end of the pasture (but not into Mrs. Petrofski’s petunias) they get a chance to kick the watermelon through a giant broken pitchfork, but first they have to fight off a swarm of ants that run into their pants (perhaps the ants are trying to escape the evil baseball too).
Tennis I don’t understand at all, or its cousins handball, racquetball, volley ball, badminton, or Ping-Pong. With so many different names and ways to play it seems that no one else understands it either. I mean if it made sense someone would have made a standard set of rules and equipment. The basic rule of these games is to hit the ball, birdie, or whatever back and forth and try to make the other person miss it. Either that or you try to hit your opponent in a sensitive area, but I am not sure.
Boxing isn’t a sport. You take two overgrown bullies, put oversized oven mitts on them, and put them in a pig pen and let them beat on each other. In school it was called a visit to the principals office, and if there wasn’t a good reason for it - a meeting with daddy at home. I personally always made sure I had a good reason. I am not so sure that the bullies in the pigpen have a good reason. I mean I can see the guy how got his ear bit off being mad at the psycho who bit him, but I don’t understand what they were doing there in their skivvies with oven mitts on their hands to begin with. On top of all of that they aren’t allowed to hit the other guy where the fight can end and everyone can go home. At least in wrestling (or wrassilin’ depending on where you are from and your waist to IQ ratio) they get to bite, kick, and swing furniture. But the bald headed guys should always be able to beat the dudes with hair down to their ankles. Maybe that is why most boxers are bald.
So as you can see racing is the only sport that makes any sense. They may only go round and round in circles, but the first one there wins – usually.
If you know me you know that I like racing. Not just stock car racing, but all kinds of racing. I like cars racing, truck racing, boat racing, horse racing, bicycle racing, airplane racing. I went to visit a buddy of mine in the hospital this week and there were two guys in wheelchairs going across the lobby of the I stopped and cheered them on. Most racing has only one rule – get there first. I can understand that. Oh sure there are the three R’s of racing (rules, regulations, and requirements) but basically the first guy there wins. It is uncomplicated and you can take a nap in the middle and still be able to figure out what is happening. Other sports I am not so sure about.
Canadians are rabid about hockey. I can’t figure out why a bunch of toothless guys want to strap razor blades to their feet, pick up oversized tongue depressors and chase a Ho-ho around sheet of ice; trying to whack it into a fish net in between the fights. But Canadians also brought us curling – the sport that consists of chasing a broken bowling ball down a frozen hallway with brooms. Maybe it has something to do with the amount of ice they have up there – they have to do something with it.
And speaking of bowling what is the point. You pick up a chunk of some unidentifiable material and hurl it across a hardwood floor (which you aren’t allowed to walk on) and try to knock down little snowmen. If I had thrown heavy objects at my mom’s hardwood floor she would have chased me down the hallway with a broom(not to be confused with a curling broom), not to mention what she would have done when the snowmen melted.
The dumbest sport is golf. A bunch of supposedly sane people take deformed sticks and whack a ball across a yard trying to get it into a cup. The real art in golf is cussing. I know I used to work at a golf course. I heard things out there that would make a merchant marine go running for his mommy with his ears covered.
Then consider basketball. A mob of genetic mutants bounce a pumpkin across a hardwood floor (my mom wouldn’t like that either) and toss it into a broken fishnet. At least the Canadians have a whole net. When the genetic mutants get tired of chasing the pumpkin they amuse themselves by attacking people in the stands.
Soccer is a lot like hockey but it comes from ice deprived, warmer countries where they have to contend with things like sunshine and grass while chasing a pumpkin instead of a ho-ho. And they don’t have tongue depressors. They aren’t even allowed to use their hands. Sounds like a good sport for double amputees. (It was a joke please don’t send me scathing emails – I wasn’t equating double amputees with lower intelligence soccer players.)
Baseball and softball are other odd past times. Where else do you see a bunch of guys look like they don’t want to have anything to do with the ball. One who is standing on an anthill guy throws it to a guy who doesn’t want it so he hits it with a branch. Then a bunch of guys in the yard throw the ball at each other until it finally gets back to the guy who is standing on the big ant hill. Since no one wants to touch it if they don’t have to they all wear oven mitts. The guy with the branch has a pot on his head. The guy on the anthill doesn’t want the ball so he throws it at the guy who whacks it with a branch and the whole thing starts again. Sometimes one of the guys with the branch gets lucky and smacks the ball out of the yard and into Mrs. Petrofski’s petunias. The other guys are so glad that the evil ball is gone they let the guy run around the yard by himself then swat him on the butt. I am not sure why they do that. Then the dumb guy wearing the black coat flings another evil ball to the guy on the anthill and they do it again until all the people in the stands get tired of watching and go home. Mrs. Petrofski runs around her yard talking to herself about the hoodlums that are ruining her flowers and then puts the evil ball in a box with the others.
Football isn’t really football at all it is more like hand ball but that is another can of worms. In football a bunch of guys take a small watermelon and fight over it. Unlike baseball they all want the watermelons. The spend a couple of hours running all over the pasture chasing watermelon. When someone runs it to the end of the pasture (but not into Mrs. Petrofski’s petunias) they get a chance to kick the watermelon through a giant broken pitchfork, but first they have to fight off a swarm of ants that run into their pants (perhaps the ants are trying to escape the evil baseball too).
Tennis I don’t understand at all, or its cousins handball, racquetball, volley ball, badminton, or Ping-Pong. With so many different names and ways to play it seems that no one else understands it either. I mean if it made sense someone would have made a standard set of rules and equipment. The basic rule of these games is to hit the ball, birdie, or whatever back and forth and try to make the other person miss it. Either that or you try to hit your opponent in a sensitive area, but I am not sure.
Boxing isn’t a sport. You take two overgrown bullies, put oversized oven mitts on them, and put them in a pig pen and let them beat on each other. In school it was called a visit to the principals office, and if there wasn’t a good reason for it - a meeting with daddy at home. I personally always made sure I had a good reason. I am not so sure that the bullies in the pigpen have a good reason. I mean I can see the guy how got his ear bit off being mad at the psycho who bit him, but I don’t understand what they were doing there in their skivvies with oven mitts on their hands to begin with. On top of all of that they aren’t allowed to hit the other guy where the fight can end and everyone can go home. At least in wrestling (or wrassilin’ depending on where you are from and your waist to IQ ratio) they get to bite, kick, and swing furniture. But the bald headed guys should always be able to beat the dudes with hair down to their ankles. Maybe that is why most boxers are bald.
So as you can see racing is the only sport that makes any sense. They may only go round and round in circles, but the first one there wins – usually.
Paper and plastic and lint, Oh my. (With apologies to Dorothy and Toto)
So I finally did it. I took a deep breath and got to cleaning. No not the refrigerator (I simply shoved another sacrificial stray dog into it to appease whatever that thing is that growls at me from the vegetable bin) I am talking about my wallet. My wallet gets used for everything: filing system, phone directory, scheduler, and door stop basically everything but money. The impetus for this domestic undertaking was that I walked up to the CVS close to my house to get a drink. You guessed it a root beer.
I am not saying that my journey was undertaken in adverse weather conditions, but my shoes melted and the soles of my feet are now fused to my knees. In these conditions it is best to travel light. Recently my wallet has grown so heavy that it has begun to pull the left rear pocket out of my pants. It is so heavy that it forces my spine out of alignment. I have taken to carrying the engine block from the neighbor’s dump truck in my right rear pocket just to even things out. (Let me tell you he was mad when I decided to stop at the hospital to see a friend of mine who had just had surgery – who would have known that a construction contractor would need his dump truck on a Tuesday morning. I mean what ever happened to a wheelbarrow?)
At the counter I was asked for the thing every cashier wants these days – my (insert cute store name here) card. The little card that says you are allowed to have 3 cents off a can of Geisha mushrooms (yes an actual brand of mushrooms I found at CVS I was tempted to open one and see if a scantily clad mushroom woman popped out). The ensuing avalanche of bonus/discount/loyalty/makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal cards (spell check just had an aneurysm), receipts, coupons, illegible phone numbers, decomposed business cards, forgotten appointment reminders, old prescriptions, and a half-eaten bologna sandwich nearly wiped out the camera display. So after stuffing it all back in and ferreting (yes I keep an actual ferret in my wallet) out the appropriate card (yes, it probably would have made more sense to look for it when it was all dumped out in the floor, but a little old lady had stopped screaming for help). (Now grammar check just stroked out.) I handed the card to the woman.
At my apartment I dumped the whole mess into the floor (and man is my neighbor mad about the wall) and began to sort through it. First came the receipts, notes, and business cards. I think I had a receipt for everything I have purchased in the last 75 years (and I am only 35) stuffed between the chunks of cow flesh that I have been lugging around. I found receipts for things that I have no idea what they are – like the receipt from Big-Lots for chemicals. (I am going to have to check around and see if I have a laboratory stashed in a drawer somewhere. Who knows, I may have discovered the cure for forgetfulness and… umm…what was I saying? Why hello pretty lady what a lovely shirt you are wearing today.) I found a receipt for all three of my kids. (If I could have found one for my ex-wife I would have tried to return her for a refund. I am sure that they wouldn’t have wanted her back either.) I found business cards for businesses that no longer exist. (Or possibly don’t exist yet. I think my wallet has an ability to influence space and time. I put money into the empty space and when it comes time to get it out it is gone.) Nearly all of the phone number have no name associated with them so I am either going to have to call the entire eastern seaboard to figure out who they belong to, or trash them all. The appointments have all been missed or rescheduled anyway so they got trashed. And I can’t remember what all the reminders were for so I stuffed them into a drawer. (Quite possibly the one containing the laboratory.) The coupons are all expires because when a cashier asks if I have one my Pavlovian response is, “no”. (That is until I get home and the wad of coupons falls on my foot causing me to have to hobble across the road to the hospital. (Which prompts more paperwork to stuff into my wallet. (I wonder how many parenthisis I can use in this one sentence. (My computer is liable to suck me in (like Tron) and give me a good thrashing for this (which would be funny (and I might find that part of my book that got lost (because I save things under titles and then forget what I called them and where I saved them (which is irritating (and causes me to think bad words (OK that last one was superfluous (how often do you get to use a word like that (I like big words (they sound neat))))))))))))). (13) (Grammar and spell check just cried out from their graves.) I unearthed enough paper products to recreate a Sequoia tree (leaves and all), any two works by Russian authors (they all weigh about 85 pounds don’t they?), a fully detailed 1/20 scale model aircraft carrier complete with a squadron of tiny paper airplanes (highly detailed paper airplanes), and three rolls of Charman Ultra.
Next I moved on to the makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal cards. (At first I was going to build a house out of them but then I would have had to have zoning hearings and get building permits – plus I don’t have a coupon for glue.) ( I used to have bank cards and credit cards but the ex got those in the divorce – I just got the bills.) I have cards for stores that went out of business with the dinosaurs. I think I am going to invite all my friends over and have a makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal card poker game. (I’ll see your Bi-Lo and raise you a Books-a-Million (BAM is consequently the only card I have which I had to pay for and which is currently expired (OK I suppose those cards for the out of business stores are technically expired too (let’s not get into the whole parenthesis marathon again.)))) I wonder how many forests of plastics they had to chop down to make all these cards. Somewhere a whole plastic ecosystem has been destroyed so we can save a penny on artichoke hearts. (Which will just get fed to the vegetable bin monster let’s face it no real human ever ate those things and lived to tell about it.) I even found a PetSmart card (which I got three days before my cat decided to take up residence in Kookamunga (either that or I left the refrigerator door open the monster got her.)
Once the paper and plastics were cleaned up and organized all that was left was lint. I am using that to knit a sweater – for the neighbor’s dump truck.
I am not saying that my journey was undertaken in adverse weather conditions, but my shoes melted and the soles of my feet are now fused to my knees. In these conditions it is best to travel light. Recently my wallet has grown so heavy that it has begun to pull the left rear pocket out of my pants. It is so heavy that it forces my spine out of alignment. I have taken to carrying the engine block from the neighbor’s dump truck in my right rear pocket just to even things out. (Let me tell you he was mad when I decided to stop at the hospital to see a friend of mine who had just had surgery – who would have known that a construction contractor would need his dump truck on a Tuesday morning. I mean what ever happened to a wheelbarrow?)
At the counter I was asked for the thing every cashier wants these days – my (insert cute store name here) card. The little card that says you are allowed to have 3 cents off a can of Geisha mushrooms (yes an actual brand of mushrooms I found at CVS I was tempted to open one and see if a scantily clad mushroom woman popped out). The ensuing avalanche of bonus/discount/loyalty/makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal cards (spell check just had an aneurysm), receipts, coupons, illegible phone numbers, decomposed business cards, forgotten appointment reminders, old prescriptions, and a half-eaten bologna sandwich nearly wiped out the camera display. So after stuffing it all back in and ferreting (yes I keep an actual ferret in my wallet) out the appropriate card (yes, it probably would have made more sense to look for it when it was all dumped out in the floor, but a little old lady had stopped screaming for help). (Now grammar check just stroked out.) I handed the card to the woman.
At my apartment I dumped the whole mess into the floor (and man is my neighbor mad about the wall) and began to sort through it. First came the receipts, notes, and business cards. I think I had a receipt for everything I have purchased in the last 75 years (and I am only 35) stuffed between the chunks of cow flesh that I have been lugging around. I found receipts for things that I have no idea what they are – like the receipt from Big-Lots for chemicals. (I am going to have to check around and see if I have a laboratory stashed in a drawer somewhere. Who knows, I may have discovered the cure for forgetfulness and… umm…what was I saying? Why hello pretty lady what a lovely shirt you are wearing today.) I found a receipt for all three of my kids. (If I could have found one for my ex-wife I would have tried to return her for a refund. I am sure that they wouldn’t have wanted her back either.) I found business cards for businesses that no longer exist. (Or possibly don’t exist yet. I think my wallet has an ability to influence space and time. I put money into the empty space and when it comes time to get it out it is gone.) Nearly all of the phone number have no name associated with them so I am either going to have to call the entire eastern seaboard to figure out who they belong to, or trash them all. The appointments have all been missed or rescheduled anyway so they got trashed. And I can’t remember what all the reminders were for so I stuffed them into a drawer. (Quite possibly the one containing the laboratory.) The coupons are all expires because when a cashier asks if I have one my Pavlovian response is, “no”. (That is until I get home and the wad of coupons falls on my foot causing me to have to hobble across the road to the hospital. (Which prompts more paperwork to stuff into my wallet. (I wonder how many parenthisis I can use in this one sentence. (My computer is liable to suck me in (like Tron) and give me a good thrashing for this (which would be funny (and I might find that part of my book that got lost (because I save things under titles and then forget what I called them and where I saved them (which is irritating (and causes me to think bad words (OK that last one was superfluous (how often do you get to use a word like that (I like big words (they sound neat))))))))))))). (13) (Grammar and spell check just cried out from their graves.) I unearthed enough paper products to recreate a Sequoia tree (leaves and all), any two works by Russian authors (they all weigh about 85 pounds don’t they?), a fully detailed 1/20 scale model aircraft carrier complete with a squadron of tiny paper airplanes (highly detailed paper airplanes), and three rolls of Charman Ultra.
Next I moved on to the makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal cards. (At first I was going to build a house out of them but then I would have had to have zoning hearings and get building permits – plus I don’t have a coupon for glue.) ( I used to have bank cards and credit cards but the ex got those in the divorce – I just got the bills.) I have cards for stores that went out of business with the dinosaurs. I think I am going to invite all my friends over and have a makeyouthinkyouaregettingadeal card poker game. (I’ll see your Bi-Lo and raise you a Books-a-Million (BAM is consequently the only card I have which I had to pay for and which is currently expired (OK I suppose those cards for the out of business stores are technically expired too (let’s not get into the whole parenthesis marathon again.)))) I wonder how many forests of plastics they had to chop down to make all these cards. Somewhere a whole plastic ecosystem has been destroyed so we can save a penny on artichoke hearts. (Which will just get fed to the vegetable bin monster let’s face it no real human ever ate those things and lived to tell about it.) I even found a PetSmart card (which I got three days before my cat decided to take up residence in Kookamunga (either that or I left the refrigerator door open the monster got her.)
Once the paper and plastics were cleaned up and organized all that was left was lint. I am using that to knit a sweater – for the neighbor’s dump truck.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
The boy and the snake
I was recently involved in a rather in depth discussion about a bad choice that I made in the past. The question was posed to me as to when I knew I had made a bad choice. My answer was I know it was bad from the beginning. I actually knew it was a bad decision when I still could have changed it. Then I was asked, “Well, why did you do it then?” My answer was in the form of an old story.
Once a boy was up on a mountain peak standing in the snow, holding his collar up against the wind, and he happened upon a Cobra. The boy looked at the serpent as it shivered.
“Little boy, I’m freezing. Please take me down the mountain where it is warm.”
The boy answered, “No, you are a poisonous snake and you will bite me if I try to pick you up. Even if you don’t then you will surely bite me when you are warm.”
The snake answered back, “No if you spare my life I will not bite you. You have my promise.”
The boy considered this all for a moment then carefully he picked the adder up and placed it in his satchel and began his hike down the slope. Soon he was home and he took the snake and placed him near the fire. Before long the snake began to warm and move around. The boy seeing how beautiful it was began to stroke its scaly skin. Then the snake bit him.
Incredulous the boy looked at his swelling arm and cried out, “but you promised not to bite me. Now I will die. Why did you bite me?”
To which the serpent answered, “You knew what I was when you picked me up.”
As for me I knew what I was getting into when I got into it. Why did I go ahead and do it any way. Perhaps it is in innate desire to be found wrong. Perhaps it was stubbornness. Perhaps it was stupidity. In the end it was a combination of these and other things. Now, like the boy, I must live with the consequences of my actions. And don’t we all from time to time look at the serpents we know we should walk away from and pick them up any way. Is it human nature to blunder headfirst into things we know we should avoid?
Maybe someday we will all learn from our mistakes and when it seems like we should run we will. Our survival instincts will win out over our desire to have the things that may come if we can somehow overcome our bad choices. Until then remember the boy and the snake. Knowing what not to get into will save a lot of wasted energy trying to get out of trouble we never should have been in in the first place.
Once a boy was up on a mountain peak standing in the snow, holding his collar up against the wind, and he happened upon a Cobra. The boy looked at the serpent as it shivered.
“Little boy, I’m freezing. Please take me down the mountain where it is warm.”
The boy answered, “No, you are a poisonous snake and you will bite me if I try to pick you up. Even if you don’t then you will surely bite me when you are warm.”
The snake answered back, “No if you spare my life I will not bite you. You have my promise.”
The boy considered this all for a moment then carefully he picked the adder up and placed it in his satchel and began his hike down the slope. Soon he was home and he took the snake and placed him near the fire. Before long the snake began to warm and move around. The boy seeing how beautiful it was began to stroke its scaly skin. Then the snake bit him.
Incredulous the boy looked at his swelling arm and cried out, “but you promised not to bite me. Now I will die. Why did you bite me?”
To which the serpent answered, “You knew what I was when you picked me up.”
As for me I knew what I was getting into when I got into it. Why did I go ahead and do it any way. Perhaps it is in innate desire to be found wrong. Perhaps it was stubbornness. Perhaps it was stupidity. In the end it was a combination of these and other things. Now, like the boy, I must live with the consequences of my actions. And don’t we all from time to time look at the serpents we know we should walk away from and pick them up any way. Is it human nature to blunder headfirst into things we know we should avoid?
Maybe someday we will all learn from our mistakes and when it seems like we should run we will. Our survival instincts will win out over our desire to have the things that may come if we can somehow overcome our bad choices. Until then remember the boy and the snake. Knowing what not to get into will save a lot of wasted energy trying to get out of trouble we never should have been in in the first place.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Walking in the rain
For a while now I have been in a funk. I really haven’t felt like doing much and have had no inspiration to write. I have basically lived in a pair of old shorts that has become my uniform of choice while siting around the apartment. When you can’t work and basically have no life things can get fairly depressing real quick. Until today that is, today I went for a walk in the rain. As I sat watching television I heard the thunder begin and soon I heard the rain drumming on the vent pipe for the stove. I quickly dressed in an old pair of jeans, waterproof boots, jacket, and my dusty old hat and headed outside.
While others were rushing to get to their cars or inside buildings I was thoroughly enjoying hearing the rain beat down on my old hat. Cars passed and the drivers gave me strange looks. As they thought they were better off in their hermetically sealed interiors I was splashing through puddles and enjoying nature. I waded up the road to a store and bought a candy bar and a Dr. Pepper. Inside the store I got more than a few funny looks from people who were waiting out the storm; especially when I walked back outside and sloshed across the street to the little coffee shop. I was rather disappointed when the rain stopped before I started home.
Back at the apartment, I shrugged out of my soaked jeans and dripping jacket and replaced them with the shorts. (Thanks to the boots my feet were actually dry even though I waded through racing ankle deep water more than once.) Now my hat is dust free and I feel much better. Rain isn’t just good for trees and grass. If used properly, it’s good for people too.
While others were rushing to get to their cars or inside buildings I was thoroughly enjoying hearing the rain beat down on my old hat. Cars passed and the drivers gave me strange looks. As they thought they were better off in their hermetically sealed interiors I was splashing through puddles and enjoying nature. I waded up the road to a store and bought a candy bar and a Dr. Pepper. Inside the store I got more than a few funny looks from people who were waiting out the storm; especially when I walked back outside and sloshed across the street to the little coffee shop. I was rather disappointed when the rain stopped before I started home.
Back at the apartment, I shrugged out of my soaked jeans and dripping jacket and replaced them with the shorts. (Thanks to the boots my feet were actually dry even though I waded through racing ankle deep water more than once.) Now my hat is dust free and I feel much better. Rain isn’t just good for trees and grass. If used properly, it’s good for people too.
I am still alive
Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I know it has been a while since you have heard from me. I would like to say that I have spent the past few weeks in quiet introspection and meditation. I would like to but it would all be a lie. The fact of the matter is that I have spent them reading too many Zane Grey novels and watching waaaay too much TV. Summer always does me like this. I get the lazys - the terminal lazys as a matter of fact. I know that this technically isn’t summer but why wait is my motto. I have been doing a little writing. I have half of a new book written. One of these days I will finish one. I have so many ideas for this new one I don’t know where it will lead.
So here are a couple of things I wrote recently. I hope you enjoy.
So here are a couple of things I wrote recently. I hope you enjoy.
Where have all the men gone
One of the greatest things about being a man has always been that we didn’t have to work at it. I mean women have to work at it. They obsess about an inch on their waist. They get up three hours early to paint on their faces and rebuild their hairdo. But men are supposed to look rough around the edges. That is until now. Now we are supposed to get manicures and moisturize our faces. Television commercials bombard us with hair care products and new razors that will shave our faces back to our childhood. We are supposed to worry about looking like actors and have no body hair. We aren’t supposed to smell like men either, but like a sea breeze or a winters afternoon. What ever happened to being a man? What happened to having a five-o-clock shadow and combing your hair with a screwdriver?
I remember a time when moisturizing a man’s face meant that the tractor had a hydraulic leak. I had a woman who cut my hair who asked me what I used on it because it was so thick and wonderful. I told her I routinely rubbed it under cars and washed it with dish detergent and I was telling the truth. What is wrong with having a little stubble? When I was a kid I couldn’t wait till I got to shave. Now it seems that men are supposed to look like they never reached puberty. What is wrong with a little dirt under a man’s nails and un-moisturized skin? I say it is time for the men of this world to be men.
Would the Marlboro man worry about his skin? NO! He would sharpen his knife on his stubble and then slice open a cow with it (the knife not the stubble) and have a steak then wipe his hands on his pants. He wouldn’t care if his socks matched his belt or even if they matched each other. Skin care for him is a pair of gloves and hair care is a Stetson. If he smelled like a sea breeze it was because he was on the beach. I can’t imagine John Wayne saying, “Let’s moisturize our skin, and make sure our belts and our hats match then go out and waft our fragrance over the hills until the bad guys surrender.” Never! He would say, “All right ya’ smelly dogs, get yer guns and let’s go after them scoundrels.” Now days Wyatt Earp would have been too busy conditioning his hair to go to the OK Corral.
So join me men. Let’s go out and get dirty. Let’s grow stubble and don’t shave till morning. Let’s wash our hair with unscented shampoo. I challenge you my brothers to shave with a razor that has fewer blades than a helicopter. Let’s smell like anything but a summer breeze. Gain a pound and don’t fret over it. Drive with the window down and let it blow through your hair. Toss that hair gel in the trash and let your hair be free. Throw out the tofu and quiche and have a steak. Be men. Get in touch with your feelings. Cry when Ol’ Yeller dies, but be men. Be a man or wear a dress. Let the women worry about facial hairs and hair fragrance. After all, they are supposed to make the world beautiful – not us.
I remember a time when moisturizing a man’s face meant that the tractor had a hydraulic leak. I had a woman who cut my hair who asked me what I used on it because it was so thick and wonderful. I told her I routinely rubbed it under cars and washed it with dish detergent and I was telling the truth. What is wrong with having a little stubble? When I was a kid I couldn’t wait till I got to shave. Now it seems that men are supposed to look like they never reached puberty. What is wrong with a little dirt under a man’s nails and un-moisturized skin? I say it is time for the men of this world to be men.
Would the Marlboro man worry about his skin? NO! He would sharpen his knife on his stubble and then slice open a cow with it (the knife not the stubble) and have a steak then wipe his hands on his pants. He wouldn’t care if his socks matched his belt or even if they matched each other. Skin care for him is a pair of gloves and hair care is a Stetson. If he smelled like a sea breeze it was because he was on the beach. I can’t imagine John Wayne saying, “Let’s moisturize our skin, and make sure our belts and our hats match then go out and waft our fragrance over the hills until the bad guys surrender.” Never! He would say, “All right ya’ smelly dogs, get yer guns and let’s go after them scoundrels.” Now days Wyatt Earp would have been too busy conditioning his hair to go to the OK Corral.
So join me men. Let’s go out and get dirty. Let’s grow stubble and don’t shave till morning. Let’s wash our hair with unscented shampoo. I challenge you my brothers to shave with a razor that has fewer blades than a helicopter. Let’s smell like anything but a summer breeze. Gain a pound and don’t fret over it. Drive with the window down and let it blow through your hair. Toss that hair gel in the trash and let your hair be free. Throw out the tofu and quiche and have a steak. Be men. Get in touch with your feelings. Cry when Ol’ Yeller dies, but be men. Be a man or wear a dress. Let the women worry about facial hairs and hair fragrance. After all, they are supposed to make the world beautiful – not us.
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