Outside the Frame

Idle Thoughts at the End of an Asphalt Yo-Yo

2011-09-02T13:20:00.000-07:00

I have this habit of watching cars behind me as I meander along highways, byways, and rural routes, mostly as I make my way into work in the mornings and home in the evenings. It is a protective habit as much as anything else, a way to check to see if I am going to get hit from behind as traffic comes to a screeching halt, again and again, resulting in a proverbial caravan of cars on an asphalt yo-yo. It’s not that I would have time to avert disaster, mind you, if I were to see a car careening in my direction but more of an involuntary reflex when traffic tightens. More times than not, however, regardless of the driver behind me, the amount of traffic on the road, or the time of day, one thing is for certain, the person in my rear view mirror is distracted.

With our unmitigated need for constant, fully-encompassing entertainment in full view, demographers continually create new and witty generational monikers to describe subsets of Americans more quickly than CBS cancels my favorite TV series in favor of another tenuous reality show featuring tattoos and toddlers, or some such thing. They have properly dubbed us the YouTube Generation, the 9/11 Generation, the Debt Generation, the MyPod Generation, etc., patching into patterns of behavior, societal norms, and other seemingly descriptive ways to define scores of people regardless of age. And suffice it to say…we are all these things, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, sisters and brothers alike. We are described in light of our habits; whether they are in the form of texting, Facebooking, video game playing, etc. And while these habits may conveniently group scores of people in easily definable subsets in which marketers can target with relentless precision, they all share one common attribute; they are simple distractions masquerading as technological necessities.

Of course it is easy for me to say that your iPhone is a distraction while I play my next word on Words with Friends, grab an email, Google an address while sitting at a red light, or comment on my wife’s Facebook status while she sits beside me. I’m as guilty as the next distracted member of the MyPod Generation, I surmise, as I offer my phone to my four year old to keep her quiet during the last half of America’s Got Talent…secretly hoping Professor Splash hits the bottom of the pool or at least catches a tag line as he plunges from his 40 foot rest. My hypocrisy aside, however, I’ll assure you of one thing; my distraction(s) won’t propel me into the back of your vehicle while cruising down the interstate at 70 miles per hour…or at least won’t anymore. I have seen the light, which, ironically enough, came to me in those few fleeting seconds, between my glance in the rear view mirror and the screeching brakes of the distracted driver behind me. He stopped in time, waved, and finished up his text message, as if to say, “My bad, traffic sure is heavy this time of day.”

Inching forward, I felt a gentle pulsation on my hip…a text message…for me. Who could it be? I waited, however, until I reached a red light to respond, enacting my new found restraint of all things phone related so I wouldn’t endanger my fellow drivers. And while I typed some silly thing, a honk from the driver behind me was my cue that the light was yet again green. Wishing traffic lights were just a little longer, I put aside my phone and proceeded through the intersection. As is my habit, I peered into the rear view mirror and noticed the driver behind me didn’t make it though the light. And as she faded in the distance, I’m certain the person on the other side of her cell phone got to hear all about it. Just a thought!

Twilight’s Overture; A Goonish Tale

2011-05-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

“In the cold gray tomb, there was a gravestone and a black lagoon, and a picture of…(page flip) Martians taking over the moon” begins the storybook I endeavor to read to my insomniac three year old as we ready her for bed each night. It is on loan from the library, as are 15 other titles, but Goodnight Goon is my personal favorite as it aptly defines the active imagination of a child at bedtime. ..or at least mine.

Our bedtime routine is gleefully void of adult stressors that often dominate one’s mindset. During these precious moments, we exist without the inclination of ridiculous rising gas prices, tyrannical terrorist masterminds, nautical natural disasters, weekly work-related ramblings, or soapbox socio-political anglings. For a mere moment in time, it is just a monster and his goon, a couple books, an imagination, and perhaps a magical moon (inhabited by Martians) …or something to that effect.

Images of bedtime often evoke tranquil and serene imagery even if it is cloaked in monsters or other maniacal mischief makers. Like the nickelodeons of yesteryear, bedtime is a time to ignore, if not forget, the real world, altogether. It is freedom in the truest sense imaginable as simple physics cease to exist and one can take on the characteristics of a Lorax, an Oobleck, or even a Sneech successfully and with little condescension. The stories evolve from evening to evening until we tire of mummies rubbing their tummies, opting instead for a skull or a shoe or a pot full of goo or something along those lines!

When I summon my own childhood, it is often bedtimes that I remember first. I recollect summer shadows dancing on the wall, fearsome creatures they were, continually created as the sun’s final light reflected off the slightly askew curtains dangling in the room. There were transcendent sounds there too, harrowing echoes and unrecognizable vibrations matching the crawling shadows in subtle synchronization. Clutching the sheet’s sheer edge, I derived comfort from the fortitude of my bed, imagining it a fort or castle, an object of great strength nonetheless, and often, sleep would come, disguised as a wayward drifter lurking just beyond twilight’s overture.

With my memories firmly in tow, I often wonder why I cannot recollect the many ills that plagued society during my formidable years. I recall nothing of the crises in the Middle East all though there were many. No memories of natural disasters, plane crashes, or acts of terrorism either. What I do remember is a simple white and green dinosaur book my father read to me repeatedly and the effortless joy I found in our bedtime routine.

I suppose I only have a precious few bedtimes left before my three year old grows out of our routine. A day will come, I fear, all too soon, when nightlights and baby dolls are no longer necessary and bedtime is just a matter of when one’s dreams might come. I will miss the stories, I admit, the cadence of rhymes, the ghouls and goblins, manifestations of the sublime filling our wistful minds. I will miss the cats and the hats and the load screechy bats. I will miss the brilliant butterflies, the cloudy blue skies, and all the wise guys with squinty eyes. I will miss the Sues and the Lous with tepid shoes, the Eds and the Freds with chandelier heads, and the Sams and the I Ams with…yeah…you guessed it...green eggs and ham.

But mostly I will miss one little goon whose bedtime looms.

Who protests she can’t sleep… because monsters creep…because the ocean’s deep …because babies weep…and the chickens peep.

Because the hour’s late… because it’s only eight… no wait, oh great… it’s all ready too late…for my little goon has met a sleepy fate and alas her goonish dreamscape awaits.

Goodnight Goon…See you real soon!

The Long Road Home - Part Two - Robert's Heart

2010-12-17T13:03:00.000-08:00

The Long Road Home - Part One: http://stormplay.blogspot.com/2009/12/long-road-home.html

As the beauty of Christmas morning draped the vast Afghan expanse like the December frost encased the rolling fields back home, Robert’s appreciation for Afghanistan swelled inside him. He finally felt at peace with the rugged terrain. It was a familiar feeling, one he’d felt a few years earlier when he stood entrenched in an Iraqi sunrise, amidst a limitless desert on a very similar morning. It was a morning he’d never forget yet he pushed the imagery out of his mind as he stared intently at the red skies of sunrise reflecting off the snowcaps all around him.

God’s magnificent creations knew no politics, no boundaries, no nationalities, no conflicts, no constraints, he thought to himself as the wonders of Christmas morning sent chills up his spine. This day was special to Robert and his hardened exterior always softened a bit on Christmas, regardless of the environment.

A member of the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division, hailing from Anchorage, Alaska, known to the military world as the “Spartans,” Robert’s unit had seen very little of home over the last four years. During his time abroad, he’d spent two Christmas’s in Iraqi, one in Alaska, and one in Afghanistan making him kind of a rolling stone to his folks back home in central Kentucky.

As a matter of fact, Robert’s parents had seen very little of him since the day they drove him to the big city to meet some fellow recruits in route to boot camp. A few weekends the first year, none the next, and one the third coupled with a week of leave here and there was all they had seen of their youngest son and they worried for his safety night and day. In his defense, Robert always had some reason for limiting his time back home, a girlfriend obligation, a buddy’s wedding, an impromptu trip with friends, you name it, if Robert had an excuse, he would use it to avoid the back roads of the Bluegrass and the people and places of his youth.

But this was Christmas and on Christmas, everyone in Robert’s unit wanted to be home, Robert included. It didn’t matter what he wanted to avoid, what situation didn’t sit right with him, who was dating his high school sweetheart, no, what mattered to Robert was communing with family and celebrating Christmas. As it was, deep down in the pit of his stomach, Robert felt a little bit alone as he wandered into the chow line. With a quick look around, chow firmly in tow, Robert located John Sellers; a stout bearded 20-something from Iowa, and Wesley Anderson; Robert’s best friend from boot camp and fellow Kentuckian fully engaged in breakfast. Wes and John made room for Robert to join them, just in time for the Lieutenant Colonel’s announcement who had rushed in with a specific look of uncertainty on his face. A 2nd Lieutenant followed closely behind exhibiting a similar look. “This isn’t good,” Robert murmured over an off-color joke John had told for the third time in two days.

As the Colonel addressed the men in his charge, his words hung in the air like the pungent aroma of a freshly lit cigarette. Robert, Wes, and John stared blankly at one another as they measured the gravity of his statements, carefully appraising his body language and the seriousness in his tone of voice. Once finished, the Colonel turned, made a few inaudible comments to fellow officers, and departed the chow tent. After a couple minutes had passed, John broke the awkward silence by repeating the punch line to his ill-timed joke….”Get it.” John giggled sheepishly, “Kermit the Frog’s undivided attention.” Robert dismissed John’s immaturity as he shoveled another spoonful of potato hash into his mouth.

Christmas in Afghanistan, while thousands of miles from home, was typically a festive occasion complete with American celebrities on tour with the USO, metal bands and mosh pits, parties with eggnog and mistletoe, and even a traditional feast complete with good old fashioned country ham and cranberry sauce. It was a time to lift the spirits of the troops in light of the harsh conditions that plagued them daily. And that was just by way of the Armed Forces. Corporations back home were sending care packages, Christmas cards, and video encouragements, random citizens were organizing fund raisers for military families in need, while radio stations were telling stories of families enduing yet another season without their loved ones. “Tis the season”, Robert thought, as he watched the Colonel’s Butterbar also disappear through the flap of the chow tent.

The disconcerting information that hovered over the men was news of a Christmas mission; one that would take Robert and the rest of his Spartan Brigade into direct conflict with the enemy. Reports from command had Taliban fighters mobilizing along a heavily used US supply route to Firebase Salerno, nick-named “Rocket City,” the current home of the 4th Brigade. No way would the Taliban jeopardize a major US supply line. Add to that the impending arrival of dignitaries and guests that were due in country for scheduled Christmas activities and you had the reason for the Colonel’s unexpected interruption of breakfast and the impeding mission at hand. All though the Colonel’s word indicated there was hope that the enemy would back down immediately when confronted by American Stryker Teams, Robert knew that he and his fellow Spartan’s faced a Christmas day battle regardless of the Colonel’s conjecture and idealistic attitude. It was just the way this enemy fought.

“Nothing like a Christmas assault,” John’s added sarcastically; an attempt to process the information he didn’t want to hear while Robert and Wes pushed back from the table, barely wiping their mouths. “We go where were told to go, John,” Robert said while choking down his last bite, “You know that.”

“No dancing girls for you tonight, buddy,” Wes prodded as the three men made the short walk to their barracks to ready themselves for the 9:30am departure. John didn’t find it funny. “Yeah, well, if you think the Taliban will just surrender, you’re plain crazy,” John offered as Robert rolled his eyes trying to distance himself from their childish banter. In his heart, however, Robert knew John was right. Bullets were sure to fly, certainly, and Robert was too well versed in Taliban combat tactics to believe otherwise. “They haven’t given up easy yet,” Robert thought to himself remembering the last firefight he’d had with a small group of bandits just a few days earlier. “They’ll put up a fight for sure…John…that they will…but we’ll put ‘em down, like we did in Khost,” Wes countered while piling more supplies into his pack. That was what worried Robert. Five men died in that assault, five Spartans. Robert knelt by his bedside and prayed as was his custom before every mission. John and Wes nervously looked on while making final provisions for their departure.

Amidst the somber mood of Rocket City, Robert, Wes, and John boarded their LAV’s with the rest of the Spartan Brigade and awaited departure. As the fleet left the safety of the base, Robert couldn’t help but notice the red skies of morning across the wide valley to which they were tracking. The beauty of the sky, while it was breath-taking, couldn’t mask the old saying Robert’s Granddaddy had taught him when he was a kid. Robert remembered the rhyme while taking in the eerie sight, “Red skies in the morning…sailors take warning…Red skies at night…sailors delight.” Robert repeated the rhyme in his head while massaging the trigger of the .50 caliber machine gun he manned on each mission. “Something’s wrong…I just feel it” Robert thought as the caravan of armored vehicles left tracks though the dirt passes of the Afghan valley creeping ever closer to the enemy. A few seconds later, over the radio, Robert heard what he thought were gun shots as he looked ahead to the first LAV leading the way. In an instant, the LAV burst into flames as a RPG slammed into the vehicle. The men were surrounded by Taliban fighters positioned on both sides of the caravan.

Swinging the .50 cal. from side to side, Robert engaged an enemy who was out-manned but relentless in their attack. “Scumbags,” Robert thought as he fired one shot and then another into the hills surrounding the valley passes, his weapon recoiling, again and again, spewing shells in every direction. It was chaos, in a way, the noise deafening, yet Robert and his fellow soldiers performed their duties like they were trained to do. Between RPG explosions, mortar blasts, machine gun fire, and men yelling orders at the top of their lungs, the Spartan Brigade was in full assault mode; an onslaught most in Robert’s midst had experienced at one time or another.

Some might say a battle is like an orchestra of instruments, each one adding to the symphony something unique yet completely necessary, in order to reach the concert’s conclusion. A violin, a horn, a clarinet, an oboe all strengthen one other by blending together to create music. So to are a band of brothers, fighting an enemy bent on employing every means necessary to wreak havoc. With all of the pieces of Robert’s unit in full symphonic engagement, slowly the insurgent forces were sectioned out and neutralized. As the last of the bullets fell to the frozen valley floor, Robert carefully took stock of the situation as a peculiar quiet loomed about the landscape. Exiting the vehicle to assess the injured, Robert’s toes had barely touched the ground when a stray bullet from an AR-15 tore though his chest sending him to the ground instantly. Staring up at the bevy of men rushing to his aid, Robert couldn’t really hear their words as they were garbled and slurred. His senses were malfunctioning. In those moments, everything seemed suspended in animation as normal processes appeared to operate in slow motion. Robert felt no pain, no worry, no pressure, only a wet sensation as a pool of blood formed on the valley floor beneath him. As his eyes closed, Robert wondered who would receive his Purple Heart. He was pretty certain it wouldn’t be him.

Awakening from his slumber, Robert looked around the empty hospital room to find no one in his presence. His uniform was gone and he was wearing a white gown with tubes and hoses emanating from every available orifice of his body. Mechanical ticks and squeaky moans of aged medical equipment accompanied by a searing pain coming from his chest and left arm made Robert uncomfortable and as he tried to speak, his words were barely audible. Looking down at his hand, Robert saw a remote control at his bedside with a nurse call button flashing a green beacon light. Robert pushed the button. Seconds passed, then minutes with no response. Robert pushed the button again. “Surely someone can tell me what’s going on,” Robert thought as he lay tied to a hospital bed in shear solitude on what he thought was Christmas. Slight at first and then louder, Robert heard what he knew were voices coming up the hallway. “Finally, nurses,” he murmured though the side of his mouth. As the voices passed his room and slowly faded down the hallway in the opposite direction, Robert knew something was wrong.

Just then, an older man in a black trench coat walked in Robert’s room and sat next to his bedside; his top hat covering three-quarters of this head. “Didn’t think I’d ever get here,” the man said sarcastically as he took Robert’s hand in his. “How do you feel, son,” asked Robert’s visitor clearly concerned for his condition. At first Robert could not place the old man, just felt his presence, knowing he knew him from somewhere but wasn’t sure from where. “I’ve been better,” Robert answered. “Well, I knew you’d be in need of some company so I thought I’d stop by for a few,” the old man offered as he removed his coat and top hat, making himself comfortable in the visitor’s chair to the left to Robert’s bedside. “I told that old club-foot nurse of yours to give us a few, that we had some catching up to do. By the way, you don’t know who I am, do you?” the old man said leaning forward in the chair, cupping his face in his wrinkled hands. Robert still couldn’t place him.

“You remember that time when you were little and we played basketball out in front of your Mom and Dads house, just you and me? Of course I was too old to really do much but I’d pass you the ball and you’d pretend to make the last shot, to win the game. Or how about our trips to the creek, the four of us, me, you, your Dad, and brother, you remember that, right? Or the Thanksgivings meals we’d share. I always told a story about a roaring bear that you loved. Or the riddles, you’ve got to remember my riddles. You used to love them! You and me, we were thick as thieves back then.”

“Pops?” Robert inquired trying to process the information. “You’re dead.” “Nope, not dead son, just doing other things in other places. I look in on you and your brother, you know, from time to time, to see what your up to. And when I saw you lying here, in a hospital bed with a two inch hole in you chest, I knew you’d need a visit,” Pops stated rather sternly as if his words made perfect sense to Robert. “Last time I looked, you were squeezing off .50 cal rounds, blowing the heads off some rogue Taliban fighters. You got four by the way; I saw them on their way through. I guess one got you after all, huh?” Pops surmised sounding a little dejected.

“Am I dead?” Robert inquired truly wondering what was happening to him. “I don’t know son, I don’t know,” Pops stated as he tightened his grip of Robert’s hand. The squeeze jarred Robert’s consciousness and invoked memories of long ago.

Roane Marley was Robert’s hero and paternal grandfather, whom Robert affectionately called Pops. Growing up, Pops was the one man that Robert seemed to understand with very little effort. Living some twelve hours away, Robert would visit him during holidays and other significant times of year and while the reunions were mostly short, they were continually wrought with smiles and laughter. Something was special about their relationship, a great connection shared by grandfather and grandson and when Pops passed, over the summer of Robert’s senior year of high school, Robert mourned the passing for months. It took some time to gather that he’d never see Pops again and Robert enlisted in the Army a few months later, partly to help deal with the loss. With time, he was able to remember Pops without the emptiness in his stomach he’d learned to hate. The loss of other friends, thanks to a hellish war and a ruthless enemy, made Robert hard and desensitized to death. A few years later, Pops death no longer haunted him, at least not until now.

Robert struggled to sit up but there was just no slack in the restraints that fixed him to the hospital bed. “A little tight, bud,” Pops said as Robert wrestled with the wraps on his wrists. “They’re there to keep you from flopping out of bed son,” Pops imparted as he worked to release the first and then the second wrap. “Now how’s that buddy,” Pops grinned, releasing Robert’s restraints while helping him to a sitting position. “Much better Pops,” Robert said, choking back the pain that pulsed through his body.

Once upright, Pops and Robert talked for what seemed like hours while the pain in Robert’s chest slowly began to fade. “It’s the morphine Robert, that what’s killing the pain, that ding was the pump releasing another dose,” Pops explained. “They think you’re a dead man Robert, that’s why you got no response earlier. Eight men in your brigade are dead from that attack, you’re the only survivor, and that’s still debatable. You were dead for 12 minutes, though. They brought you back. The burns on your chest are from the shock of the crash cart, the nurses in the other room are waiting to see if you ever wake up from this coma.”

“Coma, come on Pops, I’m not in a coma, I’m wide awake,” Robert exclaimed, “sitting up, pushing buttons, listening to voices, feeling the pain of that SOB’s bullet. I’m fine, right, how else could I be talking to you right now” Robert argued but the look on Pops face said otherwise. “Are you sure buddy? You are talking to a dead man you know,” Pops said.

Robert considered Pops words carefully. He was right. How else could he be speaking to a dead man if he wasn’t either dead himself or close to it? Once he accepted death as a reality the tension he felt began to subside. “What’s heaven like Pops?” Robert inquired. “Who said I’m in heaven,” Pops said trying to keep a straight face. “Come on,” Robert prodded, what’s heaven like? “Heaven, pal, heaven is a lot like home. It’s a place of routines and spontenaiety, of sunrises and sunsets, of reunions and celebrations, of new friendships and old loves. Heaven my boy is, well, heavenly,” Pops said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Robert,” Pops interrupted, “I’m always with you. I know you struggle with my death, with death in general, but I’m always there.” Robert strained as Pops continued, his consciousness fading. “I ride with you in battle and keep watch at night. I fit on you like your armor, your holster, your weapon.

Pops’ words were fleeting, it was obvious, and Robert concentrated on the movement of his lips, “I’m next to you at sunrise, at sunset. I’m so close at times I can feel the warmth of the morning’s light as it reflects in your eyes. I’m lost in the colors of the evening sky, the crimson and orange or the total blackness of the nightfall you patrol. I’m encased in the frost on the frozen ground and I too revel in your appreciation for of the pallid clouds floating in a sea of blue. I’m emitted by the light of a thousand gleaming stars and the ripples of the crystal waters mirroring the evergreens of your youth.” Pops continued, “I was with you in Iraq, Christmas morning, two years ago when you first gave God the credit for your existence and accepted Jesus Christ as your savior, on his birthday of all days. In His creations you’ll find me; whether amidst a shimmering rainbow or cobalt sky, whether your footsteps lead you to Afghanistan, Siberia, or the ends of the earth, I am where your heart is…”

Robert could no longer hear Pops; his words had trailed off to nothing until his lips no longer moved. With one final squeeze of Robert’s hand, Pops carefully stood, donned his over coat and top hat, wiped a tear from his cheek, and turned to leave. As Pops’ grasp regrettably fell from Robert’s hand, he exited the room as quickly as he came. “Why,” Robert tried to say but his words were frozen in his mouth. The chirps and squeaks of hospital equipment surrounding Robert were quickly replaced with screams and bellows from Robert’s unit as he struggled to get up from the frigid Afghan valley floor.

“You OK Robert,” Wes hollered as he dragged him to his feet. “Are you hit, buddy?” John asked rushing to his aid. “Yeah, John, I’m hit, at least I think so” Robert shouted as Wes pulled at the body armor covering Robert’s chest. Removing Robert’s vest, it was clear that Robert had taken a direct hit to his chest plate, about an inch or so below his heart. The bullet was still smoldering in the Kevlar, a sure kill without the protection of the ballistic vest. Robert looked stunned. “Close call huh’” Wes offered. “By the way, we hit that sniper a couple moments ago with a mortar. He’s meeting his maker,” Wes paused a beat, “right about now,” Wes laughed clearly relieved with Robert’s current condition.

“Your sure you’re all right Robert,” John inquired as the Styker Teams rolled back to base for a belated Christmas celebration, complete with country ham and pumpkin pie; the sun setting on the Afghan expanse. “Yeah, buddy, I think so,” Robert said. Now how about finishing one of those jokes of yours,” Robert chuckled, finally relaxing a bit “Alright,” John yelled doing his best to remember a joke he hadn’t told a thousand times all ready.

“There really is no place like home for the holidays,” Wes hollered sarcastically from his roost on the .50 cal as the caravan pulled back into the safety of Rocket City.

“Home is where the heart is gentlemen,” Robert added while rubbing the knot on his chest left by the bullet that nearly killed him. “Home is where the heart is.

Debating the Facts: A Wall of Separation

2010-10-27T08:02:00.000-07:00

“Where in the Constitution is the separation of church and state?” was the question uttered by Tea Party senatorial hopeful Christine O’Donnell in her most recent televised debate with rival Chris Coons, a Democrat in the heated Delaware race. After the laughter subsided by the mostly student audience, the debate continued.

The question above was asked by O’Donnell as the two candidates debated evolution and intelligent design and the public schools need to educate students on both theories; a debate that rages between secular society and evangelicals on a regular basis. Obviously, O’Donnell favors the inclusion of intelligent design in public school curriculum while Coons disagrees. See the video here:

O’Donnell is unintelligent, misguided, under-educated, etc., right? That is what the media, left-leaning liberals, and most of our secular society would have you believe. Their debate on the first amendment protection of religion exposes O’Donnell’s obvious ignorance of constitutional law and throngs of liberals and media zealots jump the bandwagon in the days following further extolling her buffoonery. Republicans and Libertarians scramble to justify her statements, making it clear that she is making a simple didactic point. Here is how CNN covered the matter:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yorxy87xH9E

Suffice it to say, the phraseology “separation of church and state” does not appear anywhere in the Constitution, first amendment or otherwise. The phrase comes from a letter written by Thomas Jefferson to the Danbury Baptists in 1802 in which Jefferson uses the phrase “a wall of separation of church and state” when speaking on matters of religion. His words clearly define a government aside from the church, a government which will not threaten the establishment of religion or prohibit the free exercise thereof. The letter addresses the protection of the church from the government, not the other way around, which is the intent of the establishment clause. Read the letter here:

http://www.loc.gov/loc/lcib/9806/danpre.html

So who’s right and who’s wrong? That is a matter of debate. O’Donnell is right to point out that the phrase separation of church and state does not exist in the first amendment because it doesn’t. Coons is correct in asserting that a separation of church and state is a settled piece of constitutional law because it is. Technically, both candidates make contentions of fact, yet one candidate is portrayed as a laughing stock. I wonder why that is? Debate open to public forum. What say you? Just a thought!

Why Technology is Killing You

2010-09-23T13:42:00.000-07:00

Technological advances have set us back 50 years…at least. Sound paradoxical? It did to me the first time I stared at the black and white words on the paper beneath my pen. My thoughts were in terms of what we have lost as a nation, as a people, with all we have gained with modern advances in technology. Suffice it to say, simple physics tells us that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. With that in mind, by applying Newton’s third law of motion loosely and in relationship with technology, one could surmise that for every technological advance that moves us forward as a species, something is lost that moves us backward, maybe not equally, but backwards still.

When Henry Ford pioneered the assembly line and made it possible for most Americans to own their very own “motorized car” much was gained that moved us forward as a people. Travel times were improved, mass transit became a possibility, and people and materials began to move about the country in ways never before perceived in the modern age. Consequently, pollution increased, motorists died in car crashes, traffic blighted cityscapes, and those who once walked now rode, thus forfeiting the exercise benefit that walking once provided.

The reactions that emanate from new technologies are hardly anything new. Thankfully, most advances are for the good of mankind and harm us very little when introduced to society. Without modern medicine, many people would die from senseless diseases and treatable ailments. With future advances, we hope to find cures for cancer, genetic and neurological disorders, and maladies that still boggle the most relevant medical minds. The same can be said for technologies that revolutionize food supply, communication, defense mechanisms, and many other processes that advance our world into future realms unfathomable at this point in time.

All of these advances have paved the way to longer, more beneficial life spans over time and while medical advances have shown an ability to lengthen one’s life by treating and curing myriad diseases, at what point does lifespan stagnate, and perhaps decline, due to negative reactions created by gains in other technological spheres; gains in which modern medicine can’t keep pace?

To date, modern medicine and other technologies have kept mankind advancing in average age with each passing era. With our transformation from predominantly agrarian vocations to industrialized ones, occupational exertions have slowly faded in many industries while technological pursuits have rendered a once dynamic citizenry static. New inventions launched daily in America achieve the same results as older, more physical processes, but in half the time or better, often with negative side effects. This is basically the inventor’s creed: Improve daily life by creating a product or service that increases results ten-fold while decreasing time 100-fold. Today we have faster food, faster transportation, better communication devices, etc. all bent at increasing our time and lessening our load.

A snapshot of an 18^th century farmer illustrates a lifestyle devoid of modern technology yet ripe with bygone era pursuits lending themselves to systemic heath and well being. This farmer might have had a shorter lifespan due to medical constraints, however, what he did have was an exercise program built into his vocation, a food supply lacking modern processing and chemicals, living in a world where patience and forethought were deemed virtues. While a gas-powered tractor might have increased his yield 10-fold, his health benefited from his lack of said tractor.

Today, many of us benefit from gains in technology, but without a measured effort to offset the ills brought about by these same technological gains, human lifespan and quality of life will stagnate, if not recede in the years to come. What does that mean? It’s simple. Modern medicine will not continue to cure conditions and diseases brought about by chemical-laden foods, static lifestyles, and hyper-stressors created by progressive technologies deemed necessary to advance society at the same rate it has in the past. It can’t. If we don’t make changes to how we eat, what we eat, employ exercise regimens to offset unhealthy idleness, periodically disconnect from the digital realm, and reduce stressors generated by the digital age; we will enter, for the first time in history, a phase of decline in quality of life and human life span.

So what can you do? Read food labels, cut back on excessive sugars, hydrogenated oils, chemical sweeteners, corn syrup, enriched flour, and overly processed foods not suitable for a dog to eat. Eliminate sodas from your diet all together even diet sodas in favor of water. Turn off the TV. Find ways to reintroduce physical activity into your life whether through vocation, exercise, or both. Choose to walk instead of ride, start a garden at home, read an actual book with real pages, get some extra sleep, and teach your children the benefits of wellness at an early age. Rise early to watch the sunrise, make jokes at your own expense, loosen up and laugh a little. Whatever you do, do something. Otherwise, new technologies might take us backwards another 50 years. Just a thought!

What a Difference a Day Makes

2010-09-09T10:49:00.000-07:00

"Earth's crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God. But only he who sees takes off his shoes. The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries"

~Elizabeth Barrett Browning~

Walking outside one morning last week, I couldn’t help but bask in the coolness that pervaded my own backyard. The air that morning was light and breezy and hinted of the upcoming autumn with all the temperance of an old lazy Labrador Retriever at evening’s call, quite discrepant from the heavy, moisture filled atmosphere I’d grown accustomed to over the last couple months. In that moment, with the sun peeking ever so slightly over the horizon, as the twilight languished in the shadows of my favorite shade tree, I was reminded of the overused, yet horribly applicable cliché, “what a difference a day makes!” No other thought could adequately describe the seasonal shift I felt that late summer morning as autumn prepared to permeate the central Kentucky landscapes I’ve called home for most of my 35 years.

The uniqueness of the seasons is indeed a blessing that reveals itself every three months to those who long for subtle changes and progressions in life. During the months of seasonal shift, that age old cliché is uttered again and again as one season rules one day and another season the next. And as the blessings unfold, each new day reveals yet another introspective glance of what’s to come, a glimpse of seasonal perspective which slowly closes the door on another summer, another fall, another winter, or another spring.

The cycle of seasons perfectly analogizes the cycle of life which is why, I surmise, so many of us pronounce a favorite time of year regardless of the weather characteristics a particular season yields. My favorite is autumn, one of the two temperate seasons, a time of harvest, and a season of brilliance; as landscapes vividly adapt to natures need for vibrant colors, unmistakable aromas, and unforgettable images. It is a season of decline, of celebration, of frost covered ground, and stellar night skies. It arrives dressed in the warmth of summer with all the pomp and circumstance one can fathom, yet departs with the chill of a frozen winter wind, yesteryear forlorn, a new year begun.

That recent fall-like morning was just a taste I presume of what’s to come in the near future for central Kentucky and beyond. While it was just a mere sampling of autumn’s fantastic splendor for those of us who wish away the summer and long for the festiveness of fall, it came, not a moment too soon; a simple reminder that no one season is permanent, not the summer’s sun, not the winter’s snow, not the springtime rain, or the falling leaves. While I fully know autumn too will soon depart, thus fulfilling the cycle of the seasons, I can’t help but revel in the knowledge that she is near, knocking ever so slightly on summer’s door, just loud enough to stir that old Labrador’s slumber. Perhaps my ears are perking just a bit as well. Welcome fall! My how we have missed your smiling face! Just a thought!

Light the House

2010-08-10T16:39:00.000-07:00

Peering through the glass of a full length doorway, as the new morning sun hid behind clouds of rain, my three year old daughter and five year old dog awaited the events of the day by patiently watching the world pass through the window’s pane. Outside, cars motored, passersby passed, neighbors neighbored; all the usual events of a completely uneventful morning unfolded before their glistening eyes and wishing minds and yet they stood there stoically wondering what the day might reveal. In a picture perfect moment, we snapped a photograph to chronicle such an unusual occurrence, and then, in an instance, it was over, much like a rainless rainbow, leaving nothing behind but a simple image frozen in time. Their unwitting pose, albeit momentarily, enveloped the camera’s lens and successfully intertwined the concepts of patience and friendship with such ease that my words can now only awkwardly paint the picture in prose. With a western flare, I offer the following:

“They lit it boys, they lit the house”

The dictionary defines the word patience as “an ability or willingness to suppress restlessness or annoyance when confronted with delay.” In today’s world, patience has become much less of a virtue and much more of an avoidance. Consider some of the following: fast food restaurants, convenience stores, grocery stores, express lanes, cable television, smart phones, etc. All of these goods and services are marketed for instant gratification thus eliminating patience from the equation. We sacrifice patience to obtain instant gratification and then wonder why our children never exhibit patience when facing delays. Our children practice what we preach and when instant gratification prevails in our lives, it does so in their lives as well.

Consider the following analogy; in the Wild West, when law men wanted to end a stand off with a criminal who had barricaded himself in a house, they did not rush in guns blazing, risking life and limb. Nope, they lit the house on fire. Monumental concept, I know. They resisted their desire to immediately end the stand-off and let the fire slowly smoke the bandit out, or burn him up, whichever came first. Either way, justice was served. In exhibiting patience, risks were reduced and results were increased.

The analogy can be adapted for present day in many different ways; want to get in shape, light the house. Work out methodically, over time, and without constraints. Be patient and results will come. Quit seeking instant results and slick machines that promise half the work with twice the results. Work out to maintain health and fitness, doing what you enjoy. That might mean hiking, biking, running, weight training, walking, skating, whatever. Allow the paradigm to shift from instant results to long term benefits by embracing your exercise of choice and infusing it into your everyday life. Be diligent, eat well, and remember, if you seek fitness as a goal, you must practice fitness as a way of life, not just in the moment, but in every moment.

Want financial freedom, light the house. Develop a long term plan and enact it with patience. Sure that new car, boat, house, etc. would look great in your possession but unless it is in your financial plan, it is not necessary. Be patient, it will come. Financial stability is obtained by creating strategic expenditures, resisting instant gratification, identifying peer pressure, and applying patience when dealing in matters of money. Marketers want you to act now; rates are low, slots are limited, prices are great, etc. They promise great yields regardless of the product or service they sell. They cite measureable results and display well developed plans but in the end, you control whether or not you purchase a product or service. If you want long-term financial stability, light the house. With patience, the results you seek will rise above the marketer’s smoke.

The awkward segue between concepts:

“It ain’t easy having pals”

If your like me, many of these friendships are hibernating, much like the summer sun, awaiting another time to shine, another moon to rise, another year to turn, before the friendship is renewed with old stories relived and new wrinkles ignored. Who else other than this merry band could see you as you were 20 or 30 years ago?

Our childhood friendships are very important to the lives we live as adults. The truth is simple, no matter how far we roam, we still visit our childhoods and remember similar events that helped create the man or woman we see in the mirror each day. The reflection, regardless of the age, still has the glimmer of youth and reckless abandonment you looked past so many years ago when your buddies were waiting for a ride to school, a trip to the ball park, or a night on the town.

I wonder sometimes how my pals are, the ones I don’t see regularly. I wonder if they also have similar nostalgic moments and find peace in knowing that no matter how far they tread, how long it has been, that our creed, whether spoken or not, was and is, anything, anywhere, anytime. Something tells me I’m not alone in this sentiment; that while our childhoods are only reviewable in reverse, good memories need no reason to remind, and friendships are never forgotten.

“There is many a slip twixt the cup and the lip”

In that fleeting moment, the moment between action and photograph, the concepts of friendship and patience came into stark focus. Funny how simple things can expose complex comparisons between concepts. But one could argue quite successfully that with friendship comes patience, as the two in this picture do, without a word, or without a thousand, while patiently awaiting the world and all its splendor. In the words of the Bard, “If you find a friend, tie him with chains of steel” as friendship is well worth the wait. Just a thought!

“Advices report that sometime later, an unidentified person snuck into the graveyard and chiseled an inscription. The epitaph read only one word... 'Pals'.”

Silliness is Next to Fo'dittiness...Happy Birthday Little H!

2010-07-20T13:11:00.000-07:00

Almost three years ago today, I sat in a dimly lit patient room on the 5th floor of Central Baptist’s Hospital’s maternity ward overcome with fear as a newborn baby girl slept just feet from my combo BARCO lounger / recliner bed. She didn’t need me in those moments, only her mother, but in her absence, I was left in charge. Amidst the beeping and pinging of medical equipment, the hustle and bustle of nurse shift changes, and the ambiance of a low rent efficiency apartment, I reached into the bassinette at the foot of the Craftmatic adjustable bed and gently lifted my child with all the tenderness I could muster. Resting in a half sitting, half lying position, we had our first conversation. She listened, I talked.

We spoke of things all fathers might cover with their newborn babies; things like fatherly protection, godly blessings, future adventures, unyielding love, and togetherness. We covered topics like thumb or binky, knit cap or bald head, hospital issue cover-up or embroidered blanket but mostly we just existed together unimpressed by surroundings and unaffected by others. Nestled in my arms, just the two of us, alone in that space, we enjoyed our very first Daddy/Daughter moment, accompanied by coos and cries, hopes and dreams, and the promise of many lessons to come. If I’d only known the lessons of the last three years would be mine, I may have listened more than I did.

Lesson #1 – I am not an Extrovert, Haegan is

I’m fairly reserved. Haegan is not. From early on, Haegan has taught me it is much more fun to engage people than to avoid them. In restaurants and shopping malls, on sidewalks or major thoroughfares, Haegan attracts people in droves by engaging them in ways I could only imagine. She attracts bikers with leather chaps, construction workers with week-old beards and pit stains, women with shopping bags, children on bikes, and crusty old men with facial scowls. She waves, smiles, touches, speaks, sings, or dances her way into each ones glance no matter how hard they try to avoid her. But in that moment, there is no avoiding Haegan. Once eye contact is made, the mood lightens and the stranger becomes less strange sharing just a fleeting moment with a child who knows no pretenses, just humanity and the desire to speak with those who cross her path. I have met more neighbors and had more conversations with complete strangers simply because Haegan loves people; whether they look like her, sound like her, dress like her, or not. This leads me to Lesson #2…

Lesson #2 – Fashion is Irrelevant, Style in Inherent

It has become routine in my household to outfit Haegan in a dress…not necessarily because we want to mind you but because that is the only thing she wants to wear. Once draped in the dress de jour, Haegan completes her outfit with one of the following: a fairy skirt, a hot pink hustler hat, or a band aid, and a pair of princess shoes or high heels, adult size 7. The shoes are constants. She fashions her outfits for dancing, I presume, making her way to the TV in Marilyn Monroe like fashion, dress spinning waist high as she pirouettes to hot-dog, hot dog, hot diggety dog. Her fashion sensibilities may embody that of a Jackson Pollock painting but her style is certainly inspiring. If you like it, wear it, she teaches, whether it’s a panda bear footy under-lying a stripped dress or a princess getup and pelican hat complete with shoes to match. Her creations might not make the fashion circuit but her style is inherent.

Lesson #3 – Silliness is Next to Fo’dittiness!

Breaking away from the monotony of everyday life is one of the great gifts Haegan has afforded me in her three short years. Part of the spice that Haegan has created in my life comes from an invented vocabulary and infectious imagination that our entire family has adopted. We use words like mimi, body, and fo’ditty on a daily basis when describing items near and dear to Haegan’s heart. Her “mimi” was her pacifier, at least until the “Mimi Fairy” came and took it away. She should have come sooner, I suppose, but she came nevertheless, sent by order of the “Mimi Queen” to retrieve all mimis in the house. Her “body” is the embroidered blanket she has had since she was an infant. It is her constant companion when sleepiness arrives and provides the perfect amount of softness only a “body” can. Fo’ditty is the magic word we’ve created for myriad things but mostly it replaces the words like fun, happy, or good in a sentence. For example, “This mac and cheese is fo’ditty,” “Do you feel fo’ditty?,” “That was the fo’dittiest time ever.” I prefer just to shout it out all by itself in a simple exclamation….”Fo’ditty!” It really speaks for itself. Haegan has taught me to be silly…as it is…fo’ditty for the soul!

Lesson #4 – Music Soothes the Colicy Baby
God did not bless me with a great singing voice all though he did bless me with a passion for music. Music accompanies me during workouts and yard work, in the car, on walks around the block, etc. and when we realized Haegan had colic, I learned that music helped her too. For the first six months of her life, she cried from four in the afternoon to around eight at night. Her bouts of incessant crying were more habitual than a rooster’s crow, an event you could set your watch by, and a nerve-racking experience for those who have had the pleasure of a colicy baby. During those moments I would cue up the most (fo’ditty) fun song imaginable and pace the room with Haegan draped in my arms. We’d sing and dance and when the music stopped, she’d often fall asleep or settle down. Haegan’s colic taught me patience in a time when it seemed like the crying would never end. It taught me that small things are often forgotten once the page is turned. Her colic is a distant memory now, but I will always remember how we danced, daddy and daughter, crying or otherwise, in an empty room full of hope and dreams, just her and I and perhaps a subtle sampling of A Tribe Called Quest, AKUS, or Willie Nelson. Our favorite colic song, however, was “Open Road” by the Long Beach Dub Allstars.

Lesson #5 – Love isn’t Always Easy

Three years have passed in the blink of an eye. I still remember an elevator ride at the hospital in which a random man offered his opinion on a newborn in the house. He told me, “Son, if you think your tired now, you just wait.” Of course, he was right…and in the days that followed, I encountered exhaustion I had never known. Rising at the crack of dawn, frequenting the pharmacy at 2:00am, running on four hours of sleep for days on end, I reached a moment when it seemed like sleep would never come. It was hard, just like the elevator-riding mystery man had had explained so plainly days earlier, but it fostered in me a love so deep that looking back now I couldn’t imagine life any other way. I learned from Haegan that love isn’t always easy, in fact, sometimes love is hard. Sometimes loves means making due, whether by dancing to reggae music, sleeping with one eye open, or making late night runs for the Mylicon. But love is worth it and at age three, my love for Haegan has grown from that of a newly christened father instinctively loving a helpless infant into the endless love of a somewhat seasoned dad living life with an active little girl constantly teaching me what it means to lighten up and live a little.

And live a little we have. Happy birthday Little H, may we continue to traipse, and sing, and smile, and play, and tickle, and pat, and laugh, and jump, and swing, and hop, and walk, and love for the rest of the time we have on God’s earth.

Patriots and Parades: Happy Birthday America!

2010-07-03T10:53:00.000-07:00

I was born a realist in every sense of the word. I often pretend to subscribe to the notion of idealism, but at my core, realism abounds like a rain-swelled river overflowing its banks. Dressing in idealistic attire requires whimsicalness that I just don’t possess and most often comes across like a politician feigning the truth when answering a simple question he/she must avoid. I can don the coat, sure, and exude idealistic concepts left and right, but when the winter wind blows, the chill of realism is overwhelming, coat or not.

That being said, my impracticality always spikes this time of year. The holidays have a way of exerting a certain romanticism that I just can’t avoid. From News Years Day to Christmas Eve, each planned celebratory event brings feelings of closeness and good will that are vacated during most other times of the year. I tend to indulge myself by extending benefits of doubt, assuming best intentions, and engaging in broad sweeping generalizations; my idealism coming through like the thunderous boom of a well timed firework.
Unfortunately, I may be the only one.

For instance, I hold the Fourth of July holiday in such regard, that I believe everyone gets a chill up their spine when certain songs are trumpeted over explosions of fireworks; songs like The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Proud to be an American, and my personal favorite, Ray Charles’s rendition of America the Beautiful. In that moment, reflection is nothing short of awe inspiring as raining sparks and ashes allude to the intolerable suffering by our fore fathers for the sweet taste of freedom. I like to think that every American appreciates the fact that the freedom we enjoy was bought with the blood of patriots so that future generations would thrive in freedom; if at least for a mid summer’s weekend.

We band together, as a people, for picnics, parades, and pyrotechnics enjoying the triumphant aspect of America’s independence. We bask in the smiles of children, the smells of summer, the warmth of the season, and the twinkling of fireflies. Neighbors bake pies, shut down thoroughfares, swim in local watering holes, and basically throw open the town to the people, city by city, state by state, from coast to coast, all across this great land for a once a year celebration. I couldn’t fathom an individual with any disdain for the Fourth of July.Not on this day. Not one.

Idealism aside, the Fourth of July to me is a warrior’s holiday and it’s evident throughout all symbolism, verbiage, and historical account. It is a strong and resolute day of reckoning in which to observe and celebrate, as much for its pomp as for its circumstance. The warriors, past and present, are honorable, fearless, and proud, and with good measure. They are the freedom fighters who march under the sovereign flag of the United States of America; the greatest country ever to fly a flag. To deny the credit due would be to spite the very hand of God who has blessed this country exponentially.

So thank you America. Thank you for staying true to your promise of freedom and opportunity for all Americans. Thank you for your steadfast obedience to the Almighty God and His word. Thank you for providing hope, direction, and stability to all comers, from all nations, and for all people. The land of the free as secured by the brave will forever stand as the greatest, freest, and unwavering nation in the history of the world. Disagree…well there’s always tomorrow…Happy birthday America! Just a thought!

Taking Nothing but a Memory...

2010-06-25T18:47:00.000-07:00

Miranda Lambert released a song entitled The House that Built Me recently which got me thinking. For the record, my wife turned me onto the song claiming that she knew I would like it. I wondered how she knew and when pushed, she simply said it reminded her of my childhood descriptions of home, metaphysically speaking I presume. My curiosity stemmed for the moment, I listened to the song. Her instincts were correct. Immediately, I related to the simple, yet mindful lyrics about a childhood home and the comfort derived therein. The home, built by the singer’s father, floods the songstress with childhood memories even though another family currently occupies the space. A simple look around is all she wants, perhaps to uncover pleasant memories hidden amongst the bricks and mortar, memories of comfort, security, and youth. The self-titled hook plays on the idea of one’s character in direct correlation to one’s environment; in this case, a positive and well remembered upbringing in a family home. I relate, as my wife first figured, because I remember vividly the houses that I called home over the years. More than that, I relate because I had a memorable childhood with all the smells, sights, and sounds that make a house a home

Watch the video here:

The older I get, my feelings for home grow even fonder; not because I had some grand childhood but rather for reasons of the mundane. While my childhood was ordinary, it was filled with loving parents determined to see my bother and I grow in an environment they constructed and controlled. Perhaps that is why feelings are so fond when revisiting one’s childhood home. It has nothing to do with the structure at all and everything to do with the family that once dwelt within those walls. The memories elicit forgotten moments with loved ones; loved ones who no longer reside together, and abound regardless of time elapsed. I could argue that in these moments, time travel is not only probable but possible and often achieved whether you realize it or not. Who needs a flux capacitor when you can revisit your childhood by merely viewing a handprint in concrete, a measurement on a pantry door, or an inscription on a tree? Who needs a time machine when a smell brings it all back immediately and without the fire tracks or Libyans?

Thomas Wolfe made famous the notion that you can’t go home again in his novel of the same name. I tend to disagree. He penned the following:

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back
home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the
country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed
everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time
and Memory."
Perhaps you can’t change your outcome, as Wolfe surmises, but you can always revisit the fondness of home regardless of misspent youth, failed glory, or disappointing fame. You can indeed go home again, as Lambert opines, if only for a memory or two. Just a thought!

Guardian's of Freedom; Memorial Day 2010

2010-05-28T11:02:00.000-07:00

In 1866, after the final shot was fired in the bloodiest war ever fought on American soil, as families were still mourning the losses of fathers, sons, and brothers, an interesting phenomenon began sweeping the country. In places all over the north and south, cities mutually large and small, survivors on both sides of the conflict began decorating the graves of fallen loved ones with spring flowers. And they didn’t stop there. Noticing the bareness of enemy graves amidst their floral displays, flowers were placed on adversarial stones as well by the decorators.

Places like Columbus, Mississippi, Macon, Georgia, Waterloo, New York were amongst the first holding celebrations to honor the causalities of the Civil War. Well before May 5, 1868, when Maj. Gen. John A. Logan, head of The Grand Army of the Republic, an organization of Union veterans, declared May 30th Decoration Day, most notably because spring flowers were in bloom all across the nation, common Americans had decided fallen soldiers, regardless of affiliation were to be honored for their sacrifice on the battlefield.

Memorial Day, originally designated as a day of decoration for causalities of the Civil War, was expanded to include causalities of all American wars sometime after World War I, and became a national holiday by an act of Congress in 1971. To consider the gravity of Memorial Day is to properly grieve the loss of life incurred in all wars. The decorations are merely gestures of respect but so integral in how we remember those who gave their all for the freedoms we enjoy today.

It seems the older I get the more I respect the American soldier. Most boys dream of soldiering some day, in their backyard fantasies, but it is through my accumulating age that I respect more and more those who selfishly serve our country. We support our soldiers but rarely understand their sacrifice, as if to assume they should desire something other than freedom fighting. I hear some criticize the warrior’s direction with disdain, openly wonder about their options, and pity those deployed throughout the world. I do not. At times I wish I was a soldier, not in some boyish fantasy, but in an effort to support the county I love, by whatever means necessary, especially on days like Memorial Day.

While I missed my opportunity to serve, I do not hold regrets, but rather offer my support to those who have chosen this noble destiny, pledging to give their all, up to and including their lives, to further claim that America and her values are worthy of such a sacrifice. For those who have paid this price, I can think of no better way to remember them than to decorate their gravesites and participate in the National Moment of Remembrance at 3pm on Memorial Day, this Monday, May 31, 2010.

In our Memorial Day celebrations, consider the words of Theodore O’Hara, who penned Bivouac of the Dead:

“Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanquished age hath flown,

The story how ye fell.

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,

Nor time's remorseless doom,

Shall dim one ray of glory's light

That gilds your deathless tomb.”

Read the poem

Regardless of political affiliation, race, creed, color, or nationality, all Americans owe their liberty to the men and women who died protecting the very freedoms we enjoy everyday in America. To that end, I say, Happy Memorial Day! We can debate politics on Tuesday! Just a thought!

P.S. I offer my sincerest gratitude to all of you who have donned the uniform of the Armed Forces and championed freedom around the globe. Thank you for your sacrifice and your service!

Other writings on Memorial Day:

Life, Libery, and the Pursuit of Happiness...A Declaration

Other patriotic writings:

May God Thy Gold Refine

911; Altering the Landscape of the American Mind

The Long Road Home

A Sparrow and an Empire: The Words of American Architects

One Less Thing

2010-05-19T13:30:00.001-07:00

I sometimes wonder what I would do with a million dollars. Quickly thereafter, my fantasy million turns into 100 million and my daydream twists and turns through various offerings, charitable donations, family contributions, and other good deeds a substantial windfall could perpetuate. Typically, after all the deeds are done, my windfall, paired down to a livable 20 million or so, I go about spending a certain percentage to “get by,” reserving the bulk for investments. This daydream, as it is, gets to the heart of a philosophy I have considered for the last few days: If money wasn’t an issue, what would you be? Better yet, who would you be? Care to play along?

I’m not asking what you would do with an enormous windfall. That’s easy and exactly what I previously outlined. That’s the game we all play when the local lottery exceeds some unfathomable amount and your loved one calls you up with the notion that you should buy a ticket. Somebody’s got to win, right? Might as well be you. Given the opportunity, most lottery winners would allocate resources to help the less fortunate, take care of family members, start a charity, etc. While our specific philanthropic tidings may differ, the fact remains that in a lottery style windfall, most feel like their problems would immediately vanish and their new found wealth would last a lifetime. Unfortunately, historic accounts suggest otherwise.

There are a select few, however, that come into this kind of financial supremacy through other means. Pro athletes, Hollywood stars and starlets, inventors, entrepreneurs, etc. all earn immense salaries for their efforts. Whether or not they are worthy of such lofty earnings is a topic for an entirely different blog. But the point is simply this: what you do with money and who you become if money isn’t a factor are decidedly different points to consider and the reason why I am writing this blog.

Setting aside the factors that enrich the masses, it is easy to correlate having money and having happiness when the two, at times, are polar opposites. We all do it. What is not so easy is the art of identifying who you would be outside of the barriers of money. Look at it this way, in the movie Forrest Gump, when Forrest Gump receives dividends from his Apple stock, he mows a football field. He later recounts the story to a bystander while awaiting a city bus like this: “Lieutenant Dan got me invested in some kind of fruit company. So then I got a call from him, saying we don't have to worry about money no more. And I said, that's good! One less thing.”

One less thing! From this vantage point, money is merely a tool to allow one’s passions to surface. Shiny cars, sprawling mansions, shopping bags full of overpriced boutique-style clothing, watches, and myriad other items that lose their luster quicker than a boy band amidst a sea of fickle tweeners are not passions, they are possessions. They do not foster personal growth; they inhibit it. While passions and possessions can overlap, many times, trying to find happiness in monetary possessions is just not possible. Forrest Gump mowed a field. Money allowed him his passion whether exciting in theory or not.

So who would you be if money was not a factor? What makes you tick? What would be your passion, your set point, your inner workings? Evangelism, spending time with children, working with your hands, participating in athletic pursuits, gaining knowledge, traveling abroad, earning degrees, unearthing relics, teaching, philosophizing, etc. Me, I think I’d take in the beauty of Earth’s pristine environments, relishing every ounce of God’s magnificent landscapes by touching, tasting, hearing, and inhaling every iota imaginable. Then I’d return home to Kentucky to “mow a field,” walk a trail, or something similar because that’s where I feel most at ease. As long as my family was with me in all of my pursuits, I couldn’t imagine anything else money could provide. In proper perspective, I’ve all ready won the lottery. That other daydream pales in comparison. Just a thought!

You've Got to Go Forwards to Go Back

2010-05-13T13:31:00.001-07:00

My musings have slowed to a crawl this spring as work loads have increased, bringing with them a spattering of writers block and a healthy amount of apathy for the current political and economic landscapes. Unlike some, my disdain for current events goes unspoken out of respect for my brethren who undoubtedly feel a connection to our current administration and a hatred for the former. As for me, in classic Willy Wonka form, I must say, “Strike that. Reverse it. This way, please!”

Dwelling on the deficiencies of society sucks the life out of my pen and renders me static and simple. It is a drivel that pokes and prods at the keypad like an uneven rain across an arid winter’s landscape. The prodding and poking fetch words from the mind like the frigid rain wrings dust from the prairie. The runoff, unfortunately, is mostly the same as the words and water fail to adequately appease the climates of men. Which, in turn, leads me to writer’s block and just a twinge of tomfoolery. “A little nonsense, now and then, is relished by the wisest men.” Or so they say!

The subjects of late have been fast and furious. I’ve contemplated “Awaiting the Why,” “Omitting the But,” and other politically incorrect topics I often ponder amid travels to and fro, ebb and flow. They wear on me like a suit of armor, uncomfortably but not without reason. They are the themes of my life and while many may object quite greatly I suppose, I develop these arguments inside and out and bounce them off the family dog; who looks at me sheepishly with that half-cocked head as to say, why me! It is Sam who reminds that “we are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams,” and “so shines a good (doggy) deed in a weary world.” Moving on!

I have learned that words can cut to the core but the same words carefully crafted can manipulate even the cleverest of adversaries. A medley, perhaps, of word like ingredients combined for a rich, undeniable flavor. A recipe of words, words that smack at first sight, softened so the ears can savor them without bias, words like immoral, entitled, unethical, judgmental, all brewed with just the right seasoning of the pen. Sometimes, however, the spice necessary to make the dish is a bit more harsh, words feathered in by those who fear not the indigestion of society. I have much respect for those who utter unspun truths regardless of reaction. If not for my fear of heights, I might dive into the batter with a thud and a th…wap! “There's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going. There's no knowing where we're rowing. Or which way the river's flowing. Is it raining? Is it snowing? Is a hurricane a-blowing?” I’ll let you be the judge.

If tactful I could write of hard work and fitness, health food and welfare but I fear my tact is less and less while in clear sight of more and more. More and more processed food amidst an idle citizenry content to pilfer the community’s coffers demonstrating very little work ethic and increasingly poor health. Atop the soapbox on which I stand, the vantage point is clear, painful, and hard to justify. Why can’t we see hard work for the life shaping necessity for which it is, health food as the fuel to power the most intricate machine known to man, fitness to insure ones health, and welfare as man’s compassion for his brother, not a governmental program bent on keeping the poor enslaved to a mentality of inferiority. But my soapbox is shrinking now, as is yours, I surmise, filled with a smaller supply of a doubly potent soapy mix capable of cleaning the same volume of dirtiness. I guess that is good old American ingenuity but bad for those of us attempting to be seen and heard. The silence is thunderous yet “invention, my dear friends, is 93% perspiration, 6% electricity, 4% evaporation, and 2% butterscotch ripple.” Don’t forget the ripple!

Here’s hoping a healthy supply of butterscotch ripple to all who’ve made it this far. It really is too late to turn back. The next room, who knows, might expose an elevator capable of going “sideways, and slantways, and longways, and backways,” a fizzy lifting drink, or perhaps a logical assessment on a political landscape rooted in illogical and unacceptable institutions created by republicans and democrats alike. The politicians may never change but in this meandering of thought I can ensure you of one thing: “I promise you they'll be quite all right. When they leave here, they'll be completely restored to their normal, terrible old selves. But maybe they'll be a little bit wiser for the wear. Anyway, don't worry about them.” Exactly….Just a thought!

Lessons in the Land: Springtime in Kentucky

2010-04-15T08:19:00.000-07:00

The road was unkempt and wound its way methodically past rolling hills, marauding streams, and hand-made stone fences still standing in spite of years of harsh weather and neglect. The weather, however, was a perfect assortment of spring sunshine and summer breezes melting in aromatic splendor across the vast central Kentucky landscape. For those that traverse these lanes regularly, it’s sadly understandable how such beauty can go unnoticed and under appreciated. In the rush of living, life is oftentimes lost in the mundane, even when God’s creations loom in all directions daring you to take notice. On the road, that flawless day I took notice.

Amidst the gently swaying deciduous trees I was reminded that a strong leader often bends but seldom breaks, speaks with few words, leads with quiet calm, all while resting in the warmth of confident solitude. As the wind and the tree intertwine so eloquently, so should the leader lead those that follow. The tree cannot sway without the breeze nor can the breeze find relevance without the tree.

With a rippling stream pressing toward the horizon in workmanlike fashion, growing ever larger with each passing mile, patience and direction reverberated throughout my mind like stones under rushing water and I wondered why mine was often curt and short-sighted. In haste, we often trade experience for convenience, long walks for short rides, hand written notes for typed memos, family vacations for myriad meaningless possessions all the while unwittingly losing the experience forever. Without direction, a stream becomes a pond, and after some time, a pond can stagnate leaving in it unsavory inhabitants and unpleasant experiences. Like the stream and its meandering dedication to reach the horizon and beyond, I learned to choose struggle over ease and experience to convenience.

Framed on both sides with stone walls crafted by early African American slaves, the road I traveled made me consider the correlation of hard work in light of hardship. Suffice it to say, nothing harkens images of cruelty, hate, and moral bankruptcy like the institution of slavery yet thousands of miles of slave walls still exist today, crafted with calloused hands in bondage, hands forced for their labor, labor performed in the face of tyrants. The message echoing from these hallowed walls tell a tale of freedom; freedom of the human spirit even in the throes of bondage. The walls remain to remind us that our work is never too hard and should always be performed with great pride regardless of circumstance.

The road that day is the same today, I surmise, with history abounding at each subtle bend. The blossoms pink and purple color the landscapes providing texture to the horizon in all directions. The waterways, byways, evergreens, and fauna all hide reflections of thought whether noticed or not. Perhaps they need our eyes to focus just long enough to see the lessons in the land. On that day, I noticed a few and today, I rest in that realization. Just a thought!

Waxing Nostalgic

2010-03-10T12:05:00.000-08:00

At times when soft music plays, when faint whistles blow, or perchance when spring blooms dance on the gentlest breeze, the midst of the moment is so entwined with radical recollection, one cannot see the present without glimpsing the past. It is in this moment of solitude and complexity, wrought with déjà vu, wrapped in enduring peace, unexplainable in words, yet unmistakable in mind that one’s soul bridges the gap of reflection and reality if only for an instant.

These moments have consumed me like galactic stars consume the wilderness sky, challenging the darkness for a stronghold on the night. They come in waves triggered by seasonal tsunamis washing up memories oftentimes forgotten. They feel like nebulous dreams (View), brilliant flashes of light (View), family togetherness and loss (View), and friendships old and new (View). They often overwhelm when they embark leaving lasting impressions of warmth, familiarity, and happiness.

Nostalgia is my muse when warm air lifts the winter’s wrath, when the flower fills the yellow field, when ravens return to blacken skies. It is my muse when yesteryears feel like yesterdays, when sidewalks lead to nothingness, when shadows frame the setting sun. Nostalgia is merely a passing pilgrim content with brief encounters and subtle manipulations leaning on the histories of men. While triggers may differ, the history is life, past to present, and the visit welcome, like that of distant island in a sea of tranquility. Just a thought!

The Quest for Winter Gold

2010-03-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

The earliest Winter Olympics I can remember was the 1998 Nagano Games of which I can tell you nothing other than medals were won and legacies made. I wonder 12 years from now if I won’t have a similar feeling toward the most recent Vancouver Games. People came, people went, medals were won, medals were lost, skaters complained, countrymen bickered, and inclement winter weather canceled winter events. Imagine the irony.

A few days into the most recent edition, however, I took notice when the United States put a strangle squeeze on the medal count and never let go. My interest was plainly simple; win the most medals regardless of sport. The sheer act of winning consumed me. Secretly, I would revel when any none Slavic country won a medal, any medal, applauding the stick-to-it-ness and tenacity of Caribbean Clad participants mastering winter sports when their respective countries are essentially winter-free. What talent indeed!

In fact, I almost feared tuning to the Olympics each evening knowing Bob Costas would indoctrinate me with an Olympic soliloquy to curling, a wayward bobsledding sonnet, or an epic tale of biathlon bliss But I tuned in anyway and like that of a Siren, once Costasized, I could not look away; not even as the speed skaters practiced their relay in the same spirit as a 1980’s roller derby, sans the eccentric uniforms and busty blondes, yet were disqualified if they happened to touch another racer. Crashing your opponent isn’t the objective? But Bob never missed a beat, dramatizing the falling snow until the final flake fell thus ending an odd but compelling Olympic winter odyssey infused with upsets, narrow victories, and unfathomable failure. Here are some of my favorites:

Bobsleigh – Athletic Mastery - Leaning

A sport where the objective is to push a sled down an ice-covered half-pipe, buddies in tow (no literally), steer the careening sled around myriad twists and turns, at times reaching speeds in excess of 90 miles per hour, while “leaning” said sled when applicable. All that and the difference of the winner and loser is typically measured in hundredths of seconds.

I didn’t know perfected leaning was a key component in successful bobsledding (or is it bobsleighing) or any sport mind you but apparently it is. If you can lean well, enjoy high speeds while careening, and have no problem with winning or losing in less time than it takes to blink when you sneeze, this may be the winter sport for you. Like they say in German, “Sie suck bie anlehn” which loosely translated means “we lean in sleds” or something along those lines. Way to lean guy…oh and by the way, you crushed the competition by .0021 seconds.

Curling – Athletic Mastery – Sliding, Sweeping, Bumping

Certainly, with some research, I could share with you the origin of curling, famous curlers from the past, the importance of its existence, and significance of its inclusion in the Winter Olympics. But how much fun would that be? I mean really. As I see it, curling is the winter sports version of bowling crossed with marbles. The sweeping component possibly added some years later when snow covered the ice and no shovel was available. Thanks Mom. Surely, sweeping is to curling like the alternate possession arrow is to college basketball; completely unnecessary and silly yet present much to the chagrin of the ardent fan base. Me, personally, I’m pro-sweep. It just maintains the integrity of the game. Bumping on the other hand, now that’s a completely different story indeed!

Perhaps some years ago, those incapable of leaning needed an athletic outlet and curling offered a broader inclusion of athletes into the sport than some others. Think American darter crossed with bowler and pool player all mixed up and placed on ice. Insert some brooms and frictionless objects and there you have it; Olympic curling – the “lawn darts” of the winter weather season. Slide it on in here Steve!

Biathlon – Athletic Mastery – Escaping, Shooting

Perhaps one of the oddest events in any sporting exposition is the Olympic biathlon where the objective is to cross country snow ski and then rifle shoot. Standing alone, on their merit, each event works fine. I appreciate cross country skiing as much as the next guy. I can say the same for target shooting. Combining the two is paramount to ice cream topped with mustard, macaroni and syrup, or pizza and corn (sorry lunch room lady); combinations that just don’t mesh well.

I surmise the biathlon burst onto the winter scene after a successful Siberian prison break, cons equipped with skis crafted from saber tooth tusks and rifles taken from sleeping guards, an epic cross Siberian ski race for freedom with fur covered Mounties taking chase, all the while stopping ever so often to pop a shot at an approaching snow bunny to curb the hunger of the athlete/inmate. The result; those who snow skied the fastest and killed the most bunnies reached the freedom of the Soviet bloc and all the lavishness that followed. The losers; well those poor schleps had to endure another winter in a Siberian gulag sweeping ice for the prison curling team.

Indeed, the Winter Olympics exceeded my expectations and left me with a feeling of loneliness and solitude that will certainly persist for the next four years. In the meantime, I plan to lobby the Olympic Committee for the addition Figure Curling, Luge Jumping, and Cross County Moguls; all fine additions to the all ready tremendous schedule of Winter Olympic sports. Just don’t tell the Siberian Mounties. I hear their prison curling team is 26-1 this season; their lone loss to the Cossack Crew. Sweep it up Sergi…Just a thought!

Trying to Contain the "Why"

2010-02-09T12:12:00.000-08:00

I grew up with a love of sports and a passion for games. Who fostered this characteristic in my psyche I’m not sure, but my love for sport has stuck with me like that of a childhood nickname gleaned from one’s youthful gregariousness; think Pork Chop, Sparky, Bubba, etc.

As an adult, I still have that passion and all though I never excelled at any one sport exceptionally well; I love the idea of a sporting lifestyle; maintaining a proper fitness level, incorporating exercise throughout the day, and exhibiting a gladiator mindset. Most of my modern exploits include some sort of exercise with my kids, whether its trampoline jumping, dog wrestling, or weight lifting and when I am not actively engaged in sporting pursuits, I tune into elite level athletes performing their feats on TV.

The athletes we revere do things athletically that make most common enthusiasts revel in awe. They dunk, tackle, throw, jump, spin, catch, swivel, run, and pound faster, harder, and with more precision than 99% of all people on planet Earth. In essence, they are gifted in ways unfathomable yet we have become accustomed to their performances and even criticize their short comings when the score falls short and our team, “gasp” loses. I know I do.

As proper gladiators, we want to win, even if winning means living vicariously through whichever sporting star we are following at the time. Such a philosophy is vital in fandom and understood throughout all sport. Who plays…the best. Who sits…the second best. Who watches…the fans…because they are either retired or incapable of such a high level of play. We accept it because anything less would weaken the very integrity of sport.

On Super Bowl Sunday, with this mindset fully intact, a 60” TV screen some 7 feet from my nose, and a plate of football food in my lap, I sat comfortably on my brother’s barcalounger prepared to be dazzled with football feat after football feat. And the athletes did not disappoint. Through the glitz and glamour of the most spectacled sporting event on the face of the earth, the players performed like elite athletes should. The hits were hard, the passes precise, and the routes were clever. The skill on the field was unrivaled and 100 plus million viewers were treated to a game that was cleanly played and not decided until the fourth quarter. It was poetry in motion, like beautiful music under a perfect starlit sky, virtual flawlessness on grass…at least until halftime. At halftime, mediocrity crept in like a once vibrant glittering girl behind aged blue eyes still vying for super model status.

As I sat jaw agape and uncertain of the spectacle before me, trying to explain to my eldest daughter why the band was butchering the CSI theme song, I tried the have respect for the once dominant and musically relevant band affably named “The Who.” Settling in, however, I could not contain “The Why.”

Please don’t misunderstand me all you Who lovers, I don’t hate The Who. I merely question the lucidity of showcasing an aged albeit culturally relevant 1960’s and 1970’s English rock band on the most visible stage in the world for the preeminent “super” game between the two best gladiators…er I mean NFL teams of the year. Surely, in keeping with the philosophy of sport, we could have found a musical group still in their prime much the same as the players on the field. Scheduling “The Who” for the Super Bowl is like asking Jim Brown to suit up and run the ball between the tackles. Who among you think that would end well? And that, my friends, is my criticism of “The Who” halftime show. Well that and that darned windmill move I can’t get out of my mind.

But rest assured, “The Who” will continue their European Soccer Stadium Tour for all those that missed the show, enjoying renewed interest from elder fans and reaping new fans who will no doubt revel in “Who” music; inarguably some of the greatest music ever written. I hear tickets are still available.

Meanwhile in upcoming months, the NFL will enter into contractual agreements with “The March King,” John Phillip Sousa and famed lyricist Francis Scott Key for the production of next years Super Bowl Halftime Show. It should be an awesome presentation draped in American patriotism and pyrotechnics…now if only the Patriots can get back on track…maybe with the help of Babe Parilli and a few members of the “Steel Curtain” to shore up the line….Just a thought!

Fleeting Memories on Winter Days

2010-01-29T13:24:00.000-08:00

Childhood friendships are like perfect summer days; oftentimes fleeting yet never forgotten. The evidence of such a statement exists inside the falling mercury of sunless winter days when one’s thoughts turn toward the familiar glow of youthful meanderings and time well spent, usually with a buddy or two, a hayloft, a swimming hole, or perhaps a bicycle or tire swing.

If your like me, many of these friendships are hibernating, much like the summer sun, awaiting another time to shine, another moon to rise, another year to turn, before the friendship is renewed with old stories relived and new wrinkles ignored. Who else other than this merry band could see you as you were 20 or 30 years ago?

Watching my eldest enter this realm has laid on my mind the sheer gravity of childhood friendships. She is now old enough to see the world in proper perspective yet young enough to pretend it does not yet apply. What a wonderful place to sit, if only for a brief moment, and bask in the sunshine of childhood, companionship, and curious contemplation. If only the winter wind could be so kind! Just a thought!

Y2K10; Global Warmers, New Year’s Resolutions, and Random Musings

2010-01-09T04:26:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, I would look towards the year 2000 with awe. It was a milestone, a new millennium, a measuring stick among other things depending on your perspective or lot in life. Always gazing toward the future, I periodically reminded myself that I would be 24 years of age when the new millennium turned; an age hardly conceivable at the time. I even had a nifty countdown clock, one that ticked relentlessly, second by second towards the Y2K. What would happen after Y2K, after the countdown clock vaporized, all computers crashed, and life on our planet ceased to exist? That was the 64 thousand dollar question at the time, a question that played persistently over the media waves like a broken record, in order to stem rising societal fears and communal uncertainty, I surmise.

And then amidst systemic pomp and circumstance, Y2K arrived and we stood slack-jawed with faces agape wondering what, if anything, was different. How had we changed? Like the morning after your first day of high school, 18th birthday, wedding day, etc., something seemed different yet hard to put a finger on as we studied our proverbial reflections for evidence. With none found, much like other metaphysical milestones, Y2K ticked into the past, second by second, month by month, year by year until the dawning of a new decade; the decade beginning with 0-10, twenty-ten, 2010, Y2K10, or any other representation of the current year that pleases you when spoken aloud. It is indeed a new year and as my Y2K clock continues its absent ascent towards nothingness, here are six of my recent musings.

#1: I don’t buy the farce that is global warming, especially on days like today. Just take a look outside your window. What do you see? My position on global warming is not merely a political stance divided by partisan politics, it is a point of view generated by logic and common sense. The burden of proof lays with those who align themselves with the Al Gore and other global warming theorists as they attempt to justify an unjustifiable agenda; not those of us who scoff at notion of man-made climate change while the coldest temperatures in decades entomb the globe in snow and ice.

Their brilliance, however, was equating “green” products and businesses with global warming as if the two go hand in hand. On one hand, the common sense use of products considered environmentally friendly is a logical way of promoting a clean environment. I’m down with that. On the other, the acceptance of man-made global warming stemming from carbon emissions with no verifiable facts or figures is nothing but a politically correct logical fallacy meant to promote certain scientific organizations, scientists, and politicians. I say prove it “global warmers”…with “actual” data from ethical scientists geared more towards promoting a healthy earth and less towards padding pockets and obtaining governmental grants. Perhaps the record cold we are seeing this winter is also a by-product of global warming…according to the talking scientific heads, everything else is. How do you debate that?

#2: While we are on the topic of weather, isn’t it awesome how one degree Fahrenheit can change the nature of the landscape so massively? One simple degree can determine snow from rain, ice from water, turmoil from tranquility. This notion gives me a renewed appreciation for the oft used phrase (intelligent) “design is in the details,” which ultimately illustrates my posture on the old climate change debate anyway. Nothing, my friends, is left to mere chance. Nothing!

#3: While shopping at Macy’s over the Christmas holiday, I stumbled upon a rack of designer jeans. These weren’t just any old designer jeans; these were $300.00 a pop designer jeans, laid out like they were on sale. And they were ugly to boot…which got me thinking…while pushing a two-year-old in a stroller. They ought to name a store “Gaught Kyds?” for all of us who aspire to remain stylistically relevant yet spend all our money on our kids and their ridiculous fashions (I’m kind of thinking skinny jeans and sheep boots but feel free to lament any styling of your choice). Price points would not exceed $20.00. Anyone else in? Anyone got an extra C-note or two?

#4: What’s the deal with preemptive snow days? When we were kids, school was out only if snow was one the ground and more was falling. You can’t fault the schools, however, as they are in a lose-lose scenario with public perception and the media. Moreover, weather hysteria driven by the Mother Media essentially bothers me and ultimately begs the question; do you eat more bread and drink more milk when snow is on the ground? I didn’t think so.

#5: I read the other day that only 19% of people who make a New Year’s resolution actually keep it for two years. Here is exactly what I read:

“It is no secret that the odds against keeping a New Year's resolution are steep. Only about 19% of people who make them actually stick to their vows for two years, according to research led by John Norcross, a psychology professor at the University of Scranton in Pennsylvania.”

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704234304574625993885272978.html

The rest of the article discussed how to keep New Year’s resolutions using the aforementioned statistic in a negative sense. For me, however, I took it in a much more positive, glass half full, light. Since I’ve failed to keep my resolutions for the last ten years or so, I realized I’m more like the status quo than I thought and that made me feel good. That said, for all you regular card-carrying, gym membership holders; just wait a few months…all the newcomers will surely become a statistic by then. And for those of you who can’t wait…you have an open invitation to my garage…we have only one member thus far but look to expand two-fold by June. Advertising!

#6: During times of hardship, discomfort, or uncertainty, I employ the “two-month rule.”

Example: The weather outside my door is 8 degrees above zero as we speak. It is depressing to dwell on the oppressive cold weather. By employing the “two-month rule,” I essentially say, “In two months it will be the middle of March”…and that makes me feel much better. March also brings March Madness and that makes me feel even better still. Try it yourself; it can be applied to anything; two month your problem or mind set and your perspective will change immediately. Use this to help.

Musings aside, the arrival of Y2K10 brings renewed hope and perspectives on life, don’t you think? That said, I suppose we can once again close the book on those pesky, hard to figure “aught years” and pioneer a decade of tweeners and teens. It was an interesting decade, indeed, one that will certainly fill the pages of history books both far and wide with tales of hardship and triumph. For me, however, I take comfort in a once relevant count down clock gathering dust on its basement perch…ticking up proudly towards infinity and beyond…at least until the final battery fails. We should all be so industrious. Happy Y2K10. Just a thought!

So This is Christmas!

2009-12-23T16:59:00.000-08:00

Ever since I was a little boy, I have loved Christmas. Perhaps in theory alone, Christmas is the perfect blend of hope and joy coupled with magnificent imagination, abounding anticipation, and a grand sense of goodwill toward men. It serves as a yearly reckoning; a time when we lay down our politics, differences, preconceived notions and just revel in the sanctity of Christmas, whatever the nature of the season means to you.

If Christmas needs snow then…

Maybe this Christmas, snow will color your landscape and give you and your little ones the gift of a picture worth a thousand words, a vision wrapped neatly in Mother Nature’s paper; nary a footprint on the packaging.

If Christmas is highlighted by gifts then….

Possibly under a beautifully decorated Christmas tree trimmed in red and gold is a package that will mean much more to you than any other gift conceivable. Inside the parcel, nothing overtly materialistic, a chain for a pocket watch, a set of decorative combs, but priceless to you nevertheless; a perfect sentiment doused in sacrifice and generosity, a gift ala the Magi.

If Christmas isn’t Christmas without togetherness then…

Perhaps you can bask in the love of family and friends gathered together inside the warmth of the paternal home, children wide-eyed in anticipation, confections and comfort foods dotting the countertops like islands of delight amidst a sea of plenty. The hustle and bustle of the external world unanswered for a single day while new memories are made and old memories relived.

Regardless of fancy words and phrases, Christmas means so much to so many. As for me, Christmas is essentially Christmas; an indescribable phenomenon tightly wrapped with the fabric of my soul, the season of light of which all other seasons pale in comparison.

Christmas is the silence in the solitude of Christmas Eve, highlighted by subtle frost-covered landscapes absorbing all clatter, the stars illuminating the holy night for those of us who dare slip outside for a moment of contemplation. It is an overwhelming moment shared by very few days yet unexplainable unless experienced.

Christmas is the reflection of twinkling lights and metallic playthings in the ample eyes of our children, their sheer delight more awesome than any gift ever received. Thus, in the act of giving, we also receive; perhaps the true nature of the Christmas spirit reveal, yet often hard to capture in words.

Christmas is the blessing of the church on Christmas Eve, hymns of faith, candles aglow, and congregations gathered. It is community and family huddled together in celebration of the birth of Christ. It is an irreplaceable feeling exclusive to Christmas, a feeling of radiance in a world dominated by darkness, a victory of heavenly hosts and redeeming grace.

Christmas is the massive anticipation of Christmas morning, parents and children both sharing in common the notion that this holy day yields the most splendid, enchanting, and humbling sentiment imaginable.

While Christmas may be different for everyone, it is in this most wonderful difference that we find true harmony in diversity and peace amongst the masses while the true spirit of Christmas cradles the world…if only for a day. At least, that is what Christmas is to me.

Just a thought!

Merry Christmas Everyone!

The Long Road Home

2009-12-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

Robert Marley’s road home for Christmas was long, hard fought, and paved in blood. As a matter of fact, Robert was uncertain if he would ever return home and it had been years since he’d even had an opportunity. He was harder now, something of a cross between a warrior and beast, and his gritty exterior told a narrative without words; a biography to rival even the most skilled novelists donning a pen. Robert Marley was an exception. He was alive.

The last Christmas Robert spent at 531 East Hermitage Street was Christmas 1940; one year after high school and it very well may have been his last. His life at that time was muddled, post high school, pre career, not muddled in a bad way, but muddled in the ways of the world; where to go, who to be, and what to do. At 19, Robert settled on the Army and a mere three months later, he was dodging German bullets all over Europe like most boys his age.

When Robert left home, he was a simple, average kid wanting desperately to branch out and explore the world. For those of modest means, the Army proved to be the best option and the travel in those days was worldwide. The lure of the war was just too much to ignore so in late January 1941, Robert enlisted in the Army and said goodbye to everything he knew.

Breezing through boot camp, the Army assigned Robert to the 3rd Infantry Division and shipped him off to the front lines of war. The excitement was immediate and intense and Robert quickly embraced his soldier fortune opting for the toughest assignments he could get, never once fearing the tolls of war. He was a warrior.

Robert kept his folks abreast of his progress with hand written letters home, describing various situations, omitting the goriest details, all the while doing his best to keep his correspondence upbeat. After awhile, the hell of war started to wear the luster off Robert’s idealistic personality and regardless of his efforts; his tone grew more and more somber and riddled with the unimaginable horrors of mounting causalities. His messages were construed with guilt; guilt that comes from watching one friend after another fall in combat; guilt so deep, it was soon impossible to cover up in prose.

After awhile, war torn and weary from worry, Robert accepted his fate, his mind finding ways to compartmentalize the awful pain and despair of the conflict. The once prominent letters slowed until months passed without any word home. Finally, they ceased all together.

Robert grew to hate the chaos of war but fought hard nevertheless, from foxhole to foxhole, following each order until next one came, fighting for freedom, and ultimately surviving Hitler’s final assault. Robert's thoughts of home grounded him during melancholy moments but he wouldn’t dwell on them too long. He couldn’t. Home was a place of his youth, a sanctuary of tender memories bursting with family, friends, and idealistic times. Home was his escape, but for now, however, home was a distant recollection. The good times he took for granted were gone, at least that is what he told himself; much easier to admit loss than allow any hope to creep. That kind of hope can get you killed. Robert knew that too well.

Through Robert’s travels, his road led him to places unconscionable. Urban warfare in Belgium and Holland, ground assaults in Bavaria, and utter anarchy in France, Poland, England, and Western Russia. Places so far from the comforts of home; cities decimated by German bombs and English mortars, landscapes pierced by falling shards of metal, forests burnt by raging fire, with casualties lining every street and county bypass his unit navigated.

Selfishly, Robert was glad this war ravaged Europe and not America. He only imagined the added horrors if the war raged in American cities, displacing his loved ones, blighting the homeland he knew. “Better here than back in the States” Robert would repeat to himself when he needed a boost of affirmation. And this mantra kept him focused on the orders at hand and his continued duty to serve.

But like all wars, eventually a day dawns where everything changes for those who live past the bullets and bombs. For Robert, it was VE Day, the day the war turned for the Allied forces. Within months, Robert received word of his discharge, packed his bags, left the Army, and headed home. In those post war moments, Robert pondered his fate. Would home mean as much to him now as it did when he was fighting in a foxhole a world away? Could he finally allow his mindset to return again home? Would his parents treat him the same?

Robert thought hard on those notions during the long train ride home, as buildings and trees went by in blurs, plot by plot, acre by acre, state by state, trying to justify feelings created by hellish conditions no man should ever endure. What he missed the most, however, was nothing masterful, it was simply a shiny red door trimmed in shiny silver hardware.

From the train depot to the bus station, from the bus station to the bus stop, from one neighborhood to the next, Robert made his way through the alleyways of his past, stopping every so often to glimpse the subtle changes to the city of his youth. Slight nuances etched into the images of his past. When he finally turned the corner of Hermitage Street, his anticipation grew ten-fold until his boot prints blazed a path to the familiar walk marked with a 5-3-1.

Standing outside 531 East Hermitage Street knee deep in freshly fallen December snow, Robert Marley had finally made it home. Peering through the frosted window pane of the two story row house, Robert squinted past the fog and into the foyer. He stood there, shivering in the winter wonderland fascinated with the meticulously decorated interiors of his mother’s handiwork. “What a woman,” he thought to himself. Christmas was trimmed so magically for all passersby to see. There were presents beneath the 10’ white fir, hearty wreaths wrapped in bright crimson bows with vivid green lettering, a toy train marauding through the space complete with depot and landscaping, everything a prolific decorator would use to frame the Yuletide season. Rebecca Marley missed nary a detail. Rebecca’s husband Michael just shook his head as he traversed the insanely decorated room doing his best to dodge the little engine and her boxcar buddies.

The staircase was of particular interest to Robert and each step hoisted a different letter-clad stocking, from top to bottom, spelling the word C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S. A simple 4 and 6 finished the stocking row. Robert put it together rather easily. Christmas 1946.

Shaking the snow from his trousers and weary from the journey, Robert slung the canvas bag over his shoulder, removed his hat, made his way up the front walk and tapped on that shiny red door; the icon of hope he’d almost lost during the war. The date; December 24, 1946. Christmas Eve.

Inside the Marley home, the tension was as thick as the evening fog was wide as Rebecca and Michael impatiently anticipated their sons’ arrival. Not able to concentrate on anything other than welcoming their son home, the hours passed like quaint turtles in holiday molasses as the ticking of the second hand dawdled like tiny needle pricks piercing the skin, each tick a little deeper, until Michael and Rebecca wondered if Robert was really coming home at all. It had been so long since they had seen their son and they so much wanted their son home for Christmas. Thoughts of Robert’s punctuality were soon replaced with grand elation when, through the soft soulful sounds of Bing Crosy crooning Irving Berlin’s White Christmas, Robert’s rap at the front door ended all speculation. Their son was home, their Christmas wish granted.

The hour was late but no one was interested in cutting the reunion short based on the hands of that old clock and as time elapsed, their conversations carried on for hours as Robert did his best to update his parents on the last two years of his life. They were inquisitive; wanting to know every detail of a war Robert wanted so much to forget. They had done their part, they told him, kept quiet, rationed food, grew vegetables; everything the president asked that they do to support the troops. It was important to Rebecca that Robert know that.

They asked of his friends and their fate and counted their blessings every time Robert spoke of his fallen brothers. It was a selfish notion but completely understandable, and Robert did not fault them for it. They wanted to know places visited, missions accomplished, and names of adversaries. Did he ever kill anyone, what was his bleakest moment, did he have enough to eat, and other questions a parent might want to know about their child’s lot in life.

Robert did his best to answer each question, trying not to act distracted, but his distractions were overwhelming and intoxicating as all the elements of Christmas played on his soul. The aromas of fresh cut holly, evergreen sap, sugar cookies, and winter’s breath taking cold massaged his senses while a corner recorder played the modern tunes of the big bands. It was so simple; the joys of Christmas, the feeling of regained hope, and the love of his parents replaced any despair left in Robert’s heart.

Turning in, Robert entered his childhood bedroom. It was as he left it. The bed sheets were the lone exception, different, yet turned down for ease of entry, the furniture was the same however, prints on the wall, trophies on display, the whole bit was lost in time. Robert realized how fortunate he was to live with basic prosperity, home for the celebration of Christmas, knowing how so many others would never go home again to congregate with parents who longed for their return. It was the same selfish notion Robert’s parents had earlier. “Why me,” he thought. “Why did you spare me Lord?” “What did I do to deserve your blessing?” The questions were forth coming but the answers were not and as the flame of a nearby candle flickered, a random draft causing the light to dance, Robert drifted off to dream

Waking in a rush, Robert wiped the sleep from his blackened eyes. His body ached. His mind confused from the sudden rousing. With so many different places in which to sleep, Robert was not always certain where he was when he arose. The dreams didn’t help either. There was always something lingering, something more on the dreamscape than he could remember. Was he home? Out of habit, Robert reached to his side for his GI issued M16. Grabbing his weapon, Robert donned the rest of his gear and headed for the chow line stopping only to catch the beauty of the Afghan sunrise. It had become something of a tradition for Robert and today was special. Today was Christmas.

Watching the sun slowly take the mountain by storm, Robert thought of home. He thought of his parents, his sister, and the Christmas traditions of his past. He couldn’t help but wish he was home too, with the ones he loved, enjoying the simple aspect of togetherness on the most holy of days. He knew God had a purpose for him, however, and knelt to pray.

“Dear Lord, all though I am just one man, I pray that you use me as a mighty warrior. Make me strong so that I can defend the weak, make me wise so I can see Your ways, make me compassionate so I can help those who cannot help themselves. Give my loved ones the knowledge that I wear Your armor Lord, knowing that my protection is always in Your Almighty hands. Give me hope, dear Lord, that I will one day walk through the doorway of home. Until that day comes, Lord, help me stand resolute, doing Your will. Amen.”

It was his regular morning prayer, but on this morning, it was said with a little more urgency. Continuing with his routine, Robert stopped to watch the sun’s final assault on the night.

When the sun took full view, towering over the world, Robert’s dream from the night before revealed itself, piece by piece, until the entire tale unfolded like a black and white version of a made for TV Christmas movie.

When it was complete, he couldn’t help but smile at the irony. Maybe it was just a dream, maybe not, but in that frigid, sun drenched morning, Robert somehow knew he had made it home for Christmas…you know, like the words to that old Bing Crosy tune. How does it go?

“Christmas Eve will find me, where the love light gleams. I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.”

To the soldiers who fight at home and abroad to secure our freedoms, you are not forgotten. Thank you. Merry Christmas!

Thanksgiving is Last

2009-11-18T08:13:00.000-08:00

If I were to identify my least favorite American holiday of the year, it would be Thanksgiving. Sound harsh? It really isn’t. It is just a matter of ranking all national holidays and realizing something has to be last.

Here is my list (feel free to post yours if the moment strikes you.)

There are six national holidays. I have listed them in order of preference:

1. Christmas Day (December 25th)
2. New Years Day (January 1st)
3. Independence Day (July 4th)
4. Memorial Day (Last Monday in May)
5. Labor Day (First Monday in September)
6. Thanksgiving (Last Thursday in November)

In defense of my list, Christmas probably ranks near the top of everyone’s list. Christmas is a hugely festive occasion, celebrated for nearly a month prior to the day’s highly anticipated arrival. With Christmas serving both secular and religious aspects, it trumps all other holidays by matter of mass appeal, buildup, relevance, and meaning. Christmas is almost a fifth season, one that most people find enchanting and elegant as they conjure images of falling snow and groups of carolers smiling as they sing The First Noel while their breath floats into the cold night air.

I love Christmas, materialism aside, and fittingly have placed it atop my list of holidays.

From Christmas onward, my list loses a little of its sizzle. New Years Day comes in second place because it symbolizes a new beginning, a fresh start, intense personal reflection, and college football bowl games. It is a day that builds for a week culminating in late night revelry followed by a day of peaceful rest and relaxation which does not focus solely on food. For me, New Years day is a day of goal setting and looking ahead, and a good football game to boot. Pun intended.

Independence Day is almost certainly the best of the summer holidays. As the centerpiece of three quick hitting summer holidays, July 4th is arguably more American than apple pie, and with its host of parades, cookouts, fireworks, and summer weather, the celebration of our country’s independence is the focal point of the entire summer season. I can almost smell the pungent burn of Chinese made firecrackers as they light up the summer sky to the scripted sounds of John Phillip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever! Independence Day is almost better than New Years Day but the heavy food requirement it demands drops it a spot to number three.

After Independence Day, the rankings are simply a matter of preference. I stand in honor of the American military and value the sentiment of paying tribute to the fallen. In my opinion, we don’t value Memorial Day enough. Therefore, Memorial Day comes in 4th place on my certainly disputed holiday list.

The battle for 5th place comes down to Labor Day and Thanksgiving. Both involve fairly abstract principles in which to celebrate. One recognizes one’s labor and sets aside a day to honor one's toils while the other features a feast to recognize the alliance between the pilgrims and the indigenous American Indians, a couple of lob-sided NFL games, and a turkey leg. On one hand, I must admit, I like to eat and watch football, but on the other, honoring my labor is highly welcomed and I do work hard. And since Labor Day also serves as the ceremonial end of summer, comes with picnics and parades, and features swimming pools, vacations, and myriad outside activities, I give Labor Day the nod.

Thanksgiving is nice, but I’m claustrophobic and being stuck inside an over-heated home, drowsy from a tryptophan overdose, while sporting an extended belly doesn’t make me want to move Thanksgiving up the list. I am thankful for antacids, however, which make Aunt Sally’s turkey gravy even slightly palatable.

With that said, I do value the aspect of thankfulness, just not solely on Thanksgiving Day. While pondering my many blessings last year, I chronicled my thankfulness in a blog entitled A Thanksgiving to God: (http://stormplay.blogspot.com/2008/11/thanksgiving-to-god.html)

During my time of reflection last year, I had an epiphany, and in that moment, made an audit of my blessings with my thanksgiving being to God, as I believe was the sentiment of the original Thanksgiving. Debate aside, if one gives thanks, it must be to something or someone. Otherwise, it seems useless to do so.

Too many times, around the holiday of Thanksgiving, you hear the generic word “thankful” thrown around like a verbal tic; an overused cliché used without ascribing proper ownership for the blessing. To be thankful without giving credit to God is to improperly understand the meaning of thanksgiving.

I am looking forward to Thanksgiving, however. It will be a week filled with family time and a to-do list a mile long. I am indeed thankful for my many blessings; my lovely wife and beautiful children which I do not deserve, extended family that loves us unconditionally and helps us all year long, a job that supports our lifestyle and meets our needs, and friends that come in all shapes and sizes poised and ready to encourage us when life bends in unforeseen directions. Additionally, I am thankful for the unusual events of the last year that have provided us a Godly perspective; a roof leak that reminded us that we have shelter from the storm, sicknesses to remind us our health is a blessing, struggles that strengthened us, trials that taught us, and tribulations that granted us the foresight we lacked. Truly, we are blessed and I am thankful to God and His mercy on my family.

So, yeah, Thanksgiving is last on my list of celebratory national holidays, not because I am unthankful, but rather because I am. Today’s Thanksgiving is more of a gluttonous occasion highlighted by noncompetitive football and retail bliss than a day of remembrance, thanks, and togetherness. But that’s just me…and since it’s my list…Thanksgiving is last. Just a thought!

The Dysfunctional Life of Annie Heights

2009-11-10T12:50:00.000-08:00

Blog Chapter 2 – The Awakening

Sometimes when I sleep, I have dreams; vivid dreams which host unusual and illogical patterns of thought shrouded in a somewhat mystical facade. Sometimes I remember the dream when I awake and other times I just vaguely remember I had a dream but carry no real recollection of the event. Nothing whatsoever.

And then other times, I don’t dream at all. I wonder why that is? The experts say that you always dream in REM sleep but I dispute that fact, knowing at times that I do not dream. I just know. Call it intuition or whatever you like but when you know, you just know.

Perhaps you cannot dream inside a dream, as it is in my case, or maybe you can, right Edgar, but while Annie was gone, while I slept like a baby, I did not dream. Not one iota of grandeur, fantasy, nor despair did I conjure while sleeping yet when the door creaked and the floor moaned, I awoke feeling refreshed if only a little disheveled. I tend to feel that way after a long slumber and judging by the frayed edges of the crooked calendar, I slept approximately six months; not a record in my case but close.

Annie’s entrance engaged my awakening, which is good for you, because Chapter Two is where you will come to know the complexity of Annie Heights. Chapter Two is not only my awakening, but Annie’s as well and as we delve into her character, her malevolent motives and wicked desires start to frame her essence and we begin to see Mrs. Heights for who she truly is; a misguided dreg hidden by elitism and privilege.

Before we move forward, let me bring you up to speed on the makings of one Mrs. Annie Heights.

Annie comes from a prideful position stemming from a well-to-do coming of age. Her arrogance and ego are now bolstered by past accomplishments and entitlement complexes which warrant her attitude on almost everything is life. She sees herself holding a status she hasn’t achieved and yielding a notoriety she hasn’t earned simply based on the blessings of her youth. In adulthood, she has failed to come to grips with the reality she has created; opting instead to focus on fantasy and ignore the literalness of her life.

Annie listens to her inner voice often, talking to it even. We have all done this a time or two haven’t we? A moment of Zen we share with no one except a nameless, faceless entity deemed our inner voice. Well Annie’s is different. Annie’s manifests itself in the form of a man named Milo and Milo can’t stand me. He is the epitome of self destruction and sees me as an intruder, which ironically enough, is what I am.

As bizarre it sounds, Milo is the only one that can see me apart from Trixie, the repulsive Pug that makes funny noises and smells of liver and onions. She doesn’t growl at me but keeps a beady eyeball in my direction as if to say, “come close to me and I will chew your leg off.” What Trixie doesn’t comprehend is that in this metaphysical state, my leg is unable to be bitten. Conversely, if it is able to be bitten, her face is able to be pummeled, physically speaking that is, so at least we have a somewhat mutual feeling of contempt and standoffishness. Suffice it to say, she keeps her distance.

The resident feline has yet to acknowledge my existence and that’s fine with me. Avoiding Trixie and keeping Milo at bay allow me to concentrate on the story at hand; the dysfunction that is Annie Heights. And with that said, here is our heroine now.

Annie enters the house with a certain swagger, emitting toxicity with each footstep. Annie is that person you’d avoid in the supermarket if you crossed her path, her scowl tightly wound, her movements quick and jagged, her being fraught with disappointment and chaos, yet not completely unattractive in appearance which makes her somewhat of a siren for men who neglect to take proper appraisal and stray too near. She preys on this attribute. Do you know the type?

Renne is gone now and inside the house, there is no hint that he was ever here. Like a shadowless day yields no shadow, there is no remnant of Renne anywhere. It is kind of eerie. I guess a six month catnap can have serious repercussions on a story, even mine, something Mr. Van Winkle and I must discuss in a future meeting.

Perhaps Renne’s inner voice told him to run. Maybe it was Milo. Either way, Renne is out of the picture and Annie is all alone with her thoughts. They seemingly rain down on her like watershed after a summer storm. She is in the kitchen, smoke is emanating from the space, and her ear is trained on the television. The nightly news is running scrolls at the bottom of the screen and the anchor is recapping the day’s events.

While Annie burns dinner and over the volume of the television, Annie and Milo discuss their next move. With Renne gone, the house is on the brink of foreclosure and with pen and paper in hand, Annie bounces ideas off Milo. Under the caption “I could” begins a list that reads like this:

Move out West
Get a job at Walt Disney World
Sue Renne for Spousal Support
Move to NYC
Get Dad to pay off my house
Go back to school

Well that’s the list so far. All seem logical at this point all though some more than others. If choosing for Annie, I guess I would pick the school option since she has no job and no formal education after high school. That might put her in a position to run one of the family’s many businesses or at least look good in her father’s eyes.

Milo is balking a little on the school issue. He seems to be pushing for NYC all though the move out west isn’t entirely out of the question. Annie is waffling, another of her weaker attributes. Slowly, Disney is crossed off the list followed by spousal support (too much follow through), paying off the house (weak in the eyes of dad), back to school (too difficult), and move out west (too far). That leaves NYC. The big city. There really is nothing like it. Annie seems happy with her decision and sits aglow as she eats her burnt tuna steak; puffing intermittently on her Salem Light while sipping her Seagrams’ gin. Well at least the cigarette smoke is coving up the smell of burnt tuna.

So let’s review shall we. In chapter two, I have given you the background on Annie Heights. Sure, I was asleep for six months but all you missed was the break up of Annie and Renne and you can rest assured it was sculpted right after an episode of Cops, complete with patrol cars, yelling and screaming, befuddled neighbors, handcuffs, and jail. Just use your imagination.

The picture of Annie Heights today is one of disparity. She has come to a crossroads; the first of many which will determine the overall course of her ill-fated life. This crossroads is one of location and she has chosen the road most heavily traveled, the road leading to NYC.

I have also given you an introspective look into her “Type A” self-centered personality that is responsible for the vast majority of the decisions she makes and the reason she makes them. Of course Milo doesn’t help and Annie consorts with him almost minute by minute. His counsel is as skewed as Annie’s decisions but we will see more of that in NYC.

As Annie lights another cigarette, I think I will have one last look around. I wouldn’t want to miss any juicy Chapter Two nuggets, not that I have mind you, but nevertheless, one last peak at the unfortunate past of Annie Heights shouldn’t hurt.

Walking back into the kitchen, it is obvious Annie’s mind is set. Milo leers at me from the couch but he can do little to oppress my presence. His grimace lets me know that I am unwelcome.

Chapter Three will take me to NYC to further pursue the dysfunctional life that is Annie Heights. I’d better get packing. You will find me there when you turn the page. I will be the one in the hat.

The True Joy of Giving

2009-11-10T05:18:00.000-08:00

Writer's note: (The following is another guest blog from Darcy, my lovely passionate wife. Poignant, well timed piece focused on the reasons to give and the rewarding joys that come from giving to those in need!)

One of my favorite things is to actually have the remote control to myself. No morning ESPN, no tweener Disney, and no Dora the Explorer, Blues Clues or the Price is Right. I love Hot Topics! For the few of you that don’t know the meaning to this, quick tutorial: Barbara Walter’s 20 minute montage which brings women together from different back grounds and different political/religious views to recap current events on The View.

Let me start with a disclaimer…Whoopi Goldberg is quite possibly the wittiest woman that God placed on the face of this earth. I don’t fancy most of her ideas, but she is witty and entertaining.

I caught a brief five minutes of today’s Hot Topics, and once again, Whoopi made my go, “hmmm”; she did this partially because I have been guilty of a ridiculous idea that she has. The idea is in gift giving. She actually buys gifts for every child invited to a birthday party that she is hosting. Not a party favor, a gift.

I have done it many times. When I heard it come from her mouth it was absolutely one of the most nonsensical things that I have ever heard. And so I began to think. I thought of all the times that there was a new baby and I had purchased a big brother/big sister gift for the older sibling; a simple way and reminder that “you are still important”. Of course the gift never over shadowed the “main gift”; it was just a way of making everyone feel important.

Today as I listened to Whoopi go on and on, like so many other times, I could not stop from thinking. Is this really necessary? Have we so conditioned our children to receive material things at all times that we have forgotten to teach them it is better to give than to receive? What every happened to solely bringing joy to others?

Quickly, I was taken back to a friend who invited us to a birthday years ago. The birthday was for her 4 year old daughter. The inscription on the invitation read, “All gifts received will be donated to underprivileged children, please bring wrapped gently used gifts to re-give.” She had not made the day a day of self focused celebration. It was focused on giving, yes, but not entirely focused on her daughter. She recognized her great blessing (her child had been born to two well known physicians).

We celebrated Bethany’s birthday that day, but we celebrated knowing that Bethany was blessed; blessed enough that she would never have a need for food, clothes or any other material item. We celebrated with an understanding that there were far too many children without these privileges. We celebrated with a greater understanding of giving.

This same physician gave a goat in my name to a village in Africa one year for Christmas. I laughed at first, it was hysterical! Then, I was humbled. That goat provided a small village with milk, something I had taken for granted every time I purchased an exorbitant amount of food at the grocery. She could have bought me a bracelet, a gift certificate to my favorite restaurant or given me cold hard cash. Instead, she spent nearly $200 to purchase a goat. Instead of pampering my selfish desires, she gave money that I didn’t need to a cause that would continue giving. I wonder what my kids would do if I viewed Christmas through her eyes?

Really, I guess, I wonder what the world would do if we quit looking at our own needs (mostly wants) and focused a little more on those truly in need.

As I continue to think about Whoopi’s outlandish way of thinking, I ask myself this. What is my motive for giving gifts? I love to give. I love to look at the recipient when I have given a perfectly thoughtful gift. I love to receive. But, I want my children to learn that it is better to give than to receive. I want the focus of getting to be taken away from them. I want them to celebrate birthdays, and Christmas, new births and weddings with the feeling of excitement of new relationships and a new opportunity to serve. I don’t want them to have a self-focused “me first” idea of receiving. I ultimately want them to understand that the best gift we can ever receive is the feeling of giving to those in need.

The Dysfunctional Life of Annie Heights

2009-11-03T12:02:00.000-08:00

Blog Chapter #1 – Trapped

My name is Sam Rutherford but that is irrelevant in the story I’m about to tell. What’s in a name anyway? You can call me Sam, I don’t mind.

Who I am is the preeminent question I would ask if I were you. Pretty much nobody, I’d say if asked. Just a guy trapped inside a story of abandonment, addiction, and foolishness. Selfishly, I have to smile when I say that. As a narrator, good stories are so few and far between and my… oh…my do I have a good one on tap for you.

How did I get here? I was hoping you might know. What I remember continues to come in bits and pieces, like flashes of light, but the memories that have taken root are vivid and exact, like I was just there, like it was just a moment ago.

I’m in a bookstore, why, I don’t know. I remember feeling upset, thinking there had to be a specific story that would enlighten my mood, or at the very least, leave me with the feeling of real life exploits.

In the bookstore, my mind was humming with realization and contempt. Most stories begin rather lackadaisically, I thought, with no real emotion or feeling for the reader.

Almost as if I am peering through a looking glass, I can hear myself say, “There now, on the shelf in the classics section; there’s an example of what I mean.” “A quaint journey into a day long past,” read the enticement on the front of the book jacket in question. “I mean, what is that? What’s the deal with all the clichéd stories about the past? And how ‘bout we focus on the here and now. I got the classics in school. Challenge me with the future for a change.”

From what I can remember, I was searching for something to capture my thoughts and hold my interest for longer than two minutes, it seems. “Why do so many books reflect only on the past? Here's another about the antebellum South and a boy named Tom. No wait, it's Huck.

Anyway, my point is this; where are the real stories about people you and I know? Complicated stories you tell at the dinner table to a wide-eyed gallery of your family and friends. Nothing too fancy or lengthy but simple tales wrapped in reality and delivered to the reader with a passion. I want to read about characters I can relate to and instances I can understand in places I will probably end up some day. I want to believe the story and venture guesses about the outcome even after the last page is turned. And here's the kicker, I want these stories to be told candidly and not portrayed in some Hollywood spectra-vision, black-and-white, no wait…rose-colored cinema scope, slow motion, odd-angled, spectacles that garner the Academy Award nominations I hate. I need to relate.

The last memory I have is of a book covered in a shiny blue jacket with a picture on the cover of a girl looking at the sky and mouthing something as a train went by underneath her. I concluded she was in the city when the picture was taken but she looked so alone, so tortured, so weathered. I grabbed the book immediately and found a seat between a hippy and what looked like a professor sitting in a light brown leather sofa chair. You know the kind, glossy leather with deep button holes. Anyway, I sat quietly and pondered that picture. In the bend of her eye you could see a tear. I opened the book.

And that’s all I remember. The rest, as they say, is the dysfunctional life that is Annie Heights. And she is the story.

Annie Heights was your average girl, in your average town, with your average everyday life. I mean, how could you write it any differently. Some people strive to be in the affluent one percent but really, most of your every day folks are average. Sure you got your movie stars and your millionaire businessmen but what good is making all of that money if you have no time to spend it. And for that matter, what good is being unemployed if you have nothing to spend. It is a unique duality, indeed. One that Annie knew all too well. Married right out of high school, Annie did her part to help her husband pay the bills. When I say she did her part, I mean, she would work a job for a little while and then quit. A few months later, she would repeat the cycle.

But, nevertheless, Annie, more times than not, had a job which fit into her average life rather well. Hers was a life of normalcy sprinkled with an occasional trip to the islands or night out on the town and for some time, she seemed happy.

Now let me stop you for just one minute and ask a simple question. Who doesn't know someone like Annie Heights? Come on, think about it. A girl, married out of high school really young. A successful husband who pays all the bills while providing a secure roof over her head. There was absolutely nothing for Mrs. Heights to worry about except the little issue of her wild oats and misspent youth (foreshadowing people, foreshadowing). So who knows what happens next? It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

It's quite funny how this story begins actually. Not that all the details of Annie Heights are funny. Some are tragic, others are just plain strange, perhaps fulfilling the age old adage that truth is stranger than fiction. Well in this case, what else could one conclude? I mean, how often to you find yourself engrossed in a fairy tale. Well maybe not a fairy tale, how's scary tale sound. Here is what I know.

The chick over in the corner is Annie Heights. For some reason, her husband just left in a hurry and she's late for work. I've been here five minutes and it's obvious they are not your average happily-married couple.

I've already looked around the house. I do that sometimes. Houses can tell you a lot about people. This one is small but extremely tidy. My guess is Annie's husband is a clean freak. That can cause some domestic distress, you know. Anyway, Annie just doesn't look like a clean freak. Her husbands name is Renald. Your guess is as good as mine on this one. Maybe he's French or Cajun. She calls him Renne most of the time.

Annie’s constantly on the phone; I'm guessing her current conversation is going on at least an hour. She kind of paces as she talks, walking back and forth and twirling her auburn locks of curly hair. When the telephone cord stretches as far as it will reach, she turns and walks in the other direction.

Annie’s talking with her mother I surmise…I’m good at that sort of thing…you know, guessing who’s on the other end of the phone from one side of the conversation. I keep hearing her say "I don't know what I am going to do, you just don't understand, I don’t know how much longer I can take it, and he keeps pushing and pushing me." Her tone is hurried and sarcastic.

So it sounds to me like Annie wants a divorce? I guess you could say that is pretty typical these days. No one wants to stick it out anymore and I guess Annie is pretty much one in the same.

While Annie ponders life changing issues with her mother, let's peek in on her husband, Renne.

As we speak, Renne is pulling his late model SUV into his parking spot at work. Renald Heights appears in dark green letters on the parking space under the red word "Reserved." Now that's a good sign. The guy has his very own parking spot. He must have some clout. You can't say the same thing at home. Renne gets out of his car and ventures into the rotating doors of corporate America. Well at least at work he will get some respect. Who knows, maybe things will turn around for these two. But you know, that would make for a boring story….back to Annie.

While wiping the sleep goo from my tired eyes, Annie finally hangs up the phone. The tail end of the conversation was far from telling to say the least so I chose to ignore it mostly. Annie is a gabber. Something like a telemarketer. I am sure mom would have loved to get a word in edgewise. But not today, no today Annie is really fired up. Surprisingly, she hums an eerie tune as she exits the house. Something of a tone deaf “Hotel California.” Tone deaf humming, now there’s a unique character trait.

With Annie gone for now, I can finally sit back and reflect for a moment as the morning whittles itself into the afternoon. Maybe I’ll take a nap.

But first, let's review our story thus far. We got two one-time lovers, married even, living under the same roof, one of whom is unhappy with the relationship and wants out while the other works to cover the bills. We also have a house, one dog, one cat, and an unforeseen future. I told you in the beginning how it ends, but it’s the middle that you will want to read. The middle is where the dysfunction meets the drama. And it’s in the drama where the real story unfolds.

Wake me when she gets back.

Losing My Relevance: A Recollection

2009-10-30T08:29:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, maybe more at this point, I awoke to a media frenzy surrounding Taylor Swift and Kanye West. It quickly became evident, that while I was sleeping, the two singers had a tiff on a major awards show. And now, every news program in the country was running tape.

The first thought the crept through my mind was simply, “who is this Kanye West fellow and what’s the deal with his hair?”

Almost immediately, I fielded thought number two which went something like this, “why am I criticizing another man’s hair.”

My final thought on this eye-opening morning was the most sobering of all, “when exactly did I lose my relevance?” And that, my friends, is the question at hand.

The answer, I’m afraid, is summed up in the fact that I slept through the broadcast, opting instead for a good nights sleep over the glitz and glamour of heart throbs and sex pots bent on rolling out the next great fashion craze to the throngs of eager, albeit, more relevant fans than I. Shaking my head, I flipped the channel to Sportscenter, where I knew relevance was not a prerequisite in understanding the constant variety in sport.

I have pondered the issue of relevance since I was a little kid and realized my father was having a hard time converting his 1970’s wardrobe to the hip fashions of the 1980’s. He seemed content in his 1970’s styles; a proud father hip to the beat of “Stayin’ Alive.” I did wonder, however, when exactly he lost his relevance to pop culture. I guess I figured there comes a point in everyone’s life when you finally stop following senseless fashion crazes no matter how monumentally relevant they may seem at the time.

(Exhibit #A: L. L. Cool J and the One Leg Push Up (LLCJ1LPU) - Earth to LL…Seriously?)

When I was younger, I tried to follow all the fashion trends, musical genres, and social relevant movements of my day. I was fluidly aware of each cool new necessity, be it band, clothing, or gizmo. I wanted to be cutting edge or at least as cutting edge as a teenager from Kentucky can ascribe without falling off the deep end. I went the mall, browsed through all the “hip” stores, and donned many of the latest fashions much to my parent’s chagrin. And then one day, I stopped.

Perhaps one just finally finds a style they prefer and refuses to take anymore liberties in the “trying new things” department. At the same time, as we age, modern music and eccentric personalities begin to look and sound more like intergalactic visitors bent on invading the Earth than the once cool and omnipresent trend-setters of our youth.

(Exhibit #B: Lady Ga Ga Wearing a Zippered Eye (LGGWAZE) - How about a zippered mouth?)

I really don’t have a concise answer for when I lost my pop culture relevance, but like my father before me, I shamelessly admit that I have. There I said it! Coincidentally, I solemnly vow to never plunge head first into the next big thing ever again…unless of course it’s a flying car. Or a robot maid. Or an invisibility cloak, everlasting chewing gum, self-repair paint, space elevator, downloadable dreams, etc.

Then perhaps we could talk.

Hey Lady Ga Ga, L.L.’s 1LPU is way better than your WAZE!! How about an invisibility cloak? Thanks Kanye Swift, just a thought!

Animal Crackers

2009-10-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

My memory is a bit foggy now and no matter how hard I try, I cannot conjure the exact expressions of a man I came to know as Granddaddy many years ago. Granddaddy was a peaceful and attentive man, a perfect blend of gentleness and grace, and although I knew him for a just a matter of years, he left a profound impact on my life. He was a farmer first and foremost, a painter in later life, and a grandfather to my brother and me. He took an in-depth interest in us, not because we were his only grandchildren, but because he loved us, as his actions and subtle nature proved through and through. His was a rare relationship that required no explanations or pretenses and his kindness was as pure and present as I have ever encountered in all my years. I found him, at the age of 5 years old, very honest and precise. His name became my name at my birth and his legacy is something I am proud to carry.

As the years go by and my age expands, I can’t help but wish I knew more of my maternal grandfather. I wish I had the opportunity to spend more time with him; picking the adventures out of his mind’s eye like my youngest daughter picks at stray strands of grass on a glorious summer’s day. I still value the impression he had on my life and the memories make me yearn to pay-forward his brand of child-rearing to my children.

In the end, it was cancer that took him from us but not before his shadow was etched firmly on this earth and especially not before he impacted the lives of his grandchildren. His reputation was strong, but around my household, he was best known for his animal crackers; a simple memory of happy times highlighted by graham cracker elephants, giraffes, and monkeys. Animal Crackers were Granddaddy’s calling card and my what a calling card they were.

The box was red and yellow and still is to the best of my knowledge. I recall a golden background and animals in cages ready to be wheeled into the big top. The writing on the box simply stated its contents. Even now, I can recall the joy a simple box of animal crackers would bring, not just for snack value but as Granddaddy’s extremely clever entrance. When the animal crackers arrived, so did Granddaddy and his stay would mean only one thing; Granddaddy was all ours for the next few hours while the folks suited up and headed out on the town.

This realization soon became legendary in my household. It was abuzz from the moment we caught wind of the evening’s grand scheme. Sure, we had fun with our other baby- sitters, as most kids do, especially the pretty ones, but with Granddaddy it was different. He did not seem to be bothered by our childish antics like the others. He seemed rather at home with children and his comfort with us never seemed to waiver. With Granddaddy present and in charge, the brother’s Frame would play games we only dreamt of in Granddaddy’s absence; games that parents disallow, babysitters fear, and granddaddies supervise. Games like couch jumping, stair diving, furniture moving, and dog chasing. All the while, Granddaddy would sit and supervise, watching us with the precision of a hawk, eyes tightly fixed on its next meal. He allowed the games as long as he provided the safety; should our youthful abundance turn to tom foolery in his aged eyes. Granddaddy did not put up with tom foolery and we were well versed in keeping inside these bounds. In his adventures in babysitting, I still remember the animal crackers the most as if there is something more to be gleaned from the crackers of my youth.

In our travels, short stops at a particular country store were routine when you rode in Granddaddy’s pickup truck to the farm. The store was a classic country market equipped with all the stereotypical backdrops; people at the counter talking, some sitting, others were slumped over leaning on one knee or the other. Everyone was friendly and spoke as we strode passed.

I vividly remember the store’s wooden floor and various knots in each plank. Over multiple visits, I picked my favorite knot and looked for it on each visit. It vaguely resembled something, kind of like a cloud does from time to time, and I made certain to find it while Granddaddy made small talk with one of the regulars. It was my way of finding comfort in the vast world that Granddaddy traversed as if I was finding my mark on the land. I had been here before and the knot was my proof.

The air inside smelled musty, but not too musty as it carried the faint scent of candy and other treats we were there to inspect. In each aisle, my mind would wander into another world. Another spot on the floor might trigger a 10-minute daydream. Everything just seemed so new, as if I had entered parallel universe where my mind was free to roam the immeasurable realm of my surroundings without restraint. My thoughts would explode with revelation and my mind would construct the next adventure, again and again, until a gentle tug on my collar brought me back to reality.

I loved the trips to the country store and even though I can’t remember how often Granddaddy took me, I do know it was a grand event. I felt calm with him. It was almost as if he was showing me the world from his perspective. A world of soft-spoken grace only the country can achieve. His favorite store became a child’s haven, this I can remember fully. Perhaps this old county store, rooted in Kentucky tradition, is where he first bought the animal crackers that would become my grandest memory of all. If only I knew.

Granddaddy’s farm was not too far from the country store. It was not an elaborate farm but a quaint property completely protected from any hint of urban sprawl. It possessed gently rolling hills covered in sway grass and cows seemed to roam peacefully without any indication of their fate. Crooked paths of worn trails zigged and zagged across the farm in all directions. I can remember the farmhouse perched high upon a hill somewhat overlooking the pastures below. There was nothing special about the house other than the notion that it was my grandfather’s and his father’s before him. The front porch held flawlessly positioned chairs, perfect for an afternoon break filled with lemonade and small talk. From time to time grandfatherly advice would be dispensed beneath the shade tree in the front yard as if time were standing still and we were all that mattered in the world.

I can still gather the feelings of my childhood trips to Granddaddy’s farm. They come from nowhere, on random days, with no rhyme or reason as if to remind me of bygone moments and childhood memories. These are peaceful feelings, when they come, which leave a quiet calm on my heart as they exit my mind. I cannot forget them yet I cannot totally recall them either; an interesting duality, yet nevertheless, the truth. One thing I am certain of; we shared animal crackers on that farm many a time.

Cancer came to Granddaddy when I was five years old. Of all the memories I have of my grandfather, I cannot recall how I learned of his illness. Perhaps one of my parents shared the news with me in a way only a parent is capable of doing. I cannot imagine how they felt nor do I want to try. I surmise the first defining moment in my life took place when I was too young to understand the reality in the word cancer. Maybe that is a blessing. For awhile it seemed as if nothing has changed. I could still see Granddaddy and he would spend time with us as always. The animal crackers still came like clockwork, as did the smiles, with his arrival. But as his cancer progressed, he began to deteriorate.

Some of my final memories of Granddaddy exist with me standing next to his nursing home bedside where he lived his final days. They are dark images with my mother and brother at my side. Or maybe I was at theirs. We would visit after school while my father was at work; he would go back later, most times alone. The cancer which confined Granddaddy to his bed, carved a pain so deep on his face that I find it inconceivable to explain in words. His struggles to roll over became daily endeavors, all the while the farmer inside of him was enclosed in a square room with the sun reaching him only through a narrow window’s pane. He was at the mercy of his illness; mercy which would never come until death kindly carried Granddaddy home. He died on my birthday; I was six years old.

Many years have passed since Granddaddy made his mark on this earth. I can only hope the legacy Granddaddy left me can be passed to future generations as my time on earth becomes apparent and my children look to me for gentleness and leading. Granddaddy was a great teacher, especially for a child my age. His knowledge was not factual but observational and his instruction came in the form of a pickup truck and a country store. His sights were earnest and genuine while his being enveloped the land he loved so much. He helped me see compassion, strength, quiet resilience, and absolute follow through. I can still feel his memories and when they come, I’ve learned to take notice.

My biggest memory of the man I came to call Granddaddy, however, will always be of his animal crackers. Who would have ever thought a simple graham cracker cookie could mean so much to a child. But that was just his nature; simplicity in its rarest form.

The Midnight and the Mind

2009-10-08T08:56:00.000-07:00

And so it was, the night warmth triggered an emotive memory, so repressed, so distant, yet so close to the heart.

Years passed with no reprise, the memory, etched in stillness of summer air, perhaps the reason for conjugation ‘tween the night and I.

Tranquility opened mindful antiquities. Marauding fireflies gleamed visions hidden only by the darkness, like flashes of another life colliding with relative sensibilities. How elaborate, the night, to hide what dreams may come. How intriguing, the mind, unleashing what only the night would hide.

A thought, a simple smile, a youthful grin, perhaps a mile to the nearest reality; a walk in the moment, hand to hand, chain in band, memories cradled betwixt midnights and minds.

With stillness aglow, flashes of fireflies engulfed all remnants of a fleeting time. Like the funnel of a wild wind, the past vanished as quickly as it befell. Perchance the images created will glow in another summer’s realm, to live again, outside the memory of the mind.

Alone in silence, whistling winds with swirling leaves pecked grandly on the evening’s floor. In the distance, a songbird sang the final chord of recollection, as if to say, the day would soon dawn.

The Forest for the Trees

2009-10-02T05:09:00.000-07:00

Writer's note: (The following is another guest blog from Darcy, my lovely passionate wife. If you are in the market for an advocate, look no further!)

Wow! Imagine my shock and surprise as my father informed me this morning that he is dropping all financial support to our local Birthright organization. I come from an immediate familial line of single issue, pro-life voters. I have seen my family put their money and place it directly where the mouth is when it came to supporting to pro-life positions. Suddenly, I could not believe my ears. Why in the world would you not choose to contribute to Birthright?

With that question, he handed me an invitation to a local fundraising gala. No surprise to me, he is not attending. Truth be told, I would have been surprised if he had told me that he was going to spend an evening at a charity event full of people, auctions and local celebrities. But to opt out altogether with financial support and ask to be removed from the mailing list, what? I reviewed the invite and knew immediately what his distaste was all about. It was the please join us for complementary vodka and bourbon tasting; this is what did my father in on the whole shin-dig. Yup, he is a 40 plus year t-totaler. He is of the belief that alcohol destroys lives.

I cannot argue with most of his positions on alcohol. He has lived nearly 70 years watching, as most of us, the negative effects that alcohol can take when an individual allows it to take control of their life. He has witnessed lives ended early, marriages broken, children’s youth shattered, the current addiction rate at its greatest levels and many more unmentioned alcohol related indiscretions; who can argue with the fact that it can be harmful?

So I asked him, where in the Bible are we commanded not to partake? I know that our bodies are temples; I know that we are not to become drunk with wine. I know that we are to be sober minded. I am not advocating drinking Dad; I just think that you may be taking the wrong approach. After calling our local Birthright organization he found that they consider themselves non-denominational so now he is splitting positions over religious affiliation. Meanwhile I am concerned with saving life. What about all the Christian denominations that are strong on life; the ones whom do not have a personal conviction to not to partake in alcohol? Why can’t we acknowledge that we stand together? We stand strong on life!

I understand he quickly assumed that Birthright (because it was pro-life) had Christian affiliation. In his mind, Christians don’t drink. Does this mean that only Christians are pro-lifers? I do believe that all Christians (regardless of denomination affiliation) have a call to stand for the rights of the unborn. If you have argument with this, don’t take it up with me. It is clearly given to us in the Word. Still, I hope that Christians are not misguided enough to believe that all unbelievers have been blinded. Believers are not the only ones that see life as precious. I can only pray that believers are not the only ones who have not bought the lie that abortion is a humane and a safe act.

In this instance we are not arguing the theological debate on alcohol consumption. We are joining forces to fight for the life of the innocent babies who do not have a voice. So when there is an unbeliever that believes that taking the life of an unborn baby is wrong, we have a common goal and I can join hands with them. Furthermore when a believer or non-believer does not have a problem with consumption, in the instance of innocent life, why would I split hairs over drinking? Why would I remove my brother’s splinter only to avoid the plank in my own eye? Why would I remove funding from an organization that I share all positions on concerning life and not set aside that we may have different social views and or practices? Why can we not align ourselves to win a war for the most innocent among us? Let’s deal with personal convictions later.

Unfortunately, I did not convince him differently. Throughout the day I have had images in my mind. My images are of Satan himself dancing with delight. Once again, he has been able to take the attention off of the most relevant and most pressing issue, the demoralization of life. He has caused one, if not more to abandon a cause; all in the name of placing our personal convictions on our brother.

Just a lingering thought….

We the Sheeple

2009-09-25T13:16:00.000-07:00

In the 1980’s, prior to the cable revolution, I watched ordinary cartoons, many of which had dominated the TV landscape since the early 1940’s. My favorites included Popeye the Sailor Man, Tom and Jerry, Fred and Wilma, Boris and Natasha, Elmer Fudd, Porky Pig, Scooby Doo, and a litany of others. I was tuned into ‘toons as often as possible.

Occasionally, an obscure random Loony Toon cartoon would play on Saturday mornings, be it Foghorn Leghorn, Henery Hawk, Hector the Bulldog, or Slyvester the Cat helping to moderate a cartoon landscape dominated by the likes of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Yosemite Sam.

Another of my favorites was Sam the Sheepdog and Ralph the Wolf. For those of you unfamiliar with the aforementioned dynamic duo, a quick peak at this video will jog your memory.

For what it’s worth, old cartoons are wrought with this type of on again off again friendship. Remember Tom and Jerry? In some episodes Tom and Jerry were allies in cahoots against “The Man” and in others, Tom couldn’t wait for a little Jerry flavored soup. Suffice it to say, I never forgot Sam the Sheepdog and here is why:

If you watched the embedded video, you encountered a simple example of U.S. politics in the modern realm. Sure Sam and Ralph are at odds over “the issues,” i.e. one protecting the flock, the other planning a mutton dinner, but only “on the clock” do they differ. When the work whistle blows, they stroll, step for step, one in the moment, friends after hours, devoted to the end much like the politicians of our time.

Perhaps I am oversimplifying the relationship between the parties but the parallel between Sam and Ralph and our American political machine is frightening. Regardless of who you ascribe your party to be (most I imagine are choosing Sam as their representative) there is an obvious “after hours” camaraderie between democrats and republicans following a day shift of finger pointing and name calling which most Americans seem to ignore.

Let me ask a simple rhetorical question: would you want to be my friend if I continually called you a loser, a liar, an idiot, a betrayer, or a(n)[insert insult here]? Would you spend valuable time in my presence if you thought I was the scum of the earth? Would you put your values aside if I routinely mocked your ability to do your job? I didn't think so. That leads me to one final question: Are we sheep or are we people? That, I am afraid, is the question our politicians pose to each other after a long hard day of back-biting, name-calling, and finger-pointing. I can only imagine how they answer. Just a thought!

The Simple Smell of the Rain

2009-09-10T10:41:00.000-07:00

This morning, in between moments of everyday reality, a simple smell blew the portal of yesteryear wide open. In my experience, the sense of smell can trigger inescapable memories forever etched on the shadow of the soul. Memories in the shape of a dream, or at least that's how they feel now; memories so surreal, it's hard to believe they ever were a reality. Yet the simple essence of a smell can rewind the mind to moments purged from memory with nothing more than a gently fragrant wind blowing in a fortunate direction.

Recently, smells have invoked images of times long since passed. Times of innocence and security, times when things were not quite so rushed for resolution and childhood was still noticeable in the rearview mirror. I am sure every one of us has moments like these when time seems to suggest the past is more comfortable than the present and its' sparkle rises from our memories like a Phoenix from the ashes.

The passing of time is indeed a strange bedfellow. I, for one, have never noticed the sweet simplicities of the present. I have, however, viewed the future with wistful abandon and relived the past with stories that evolve each time they are told; bigger and better tales of mythical magnitudes. I have held in my mind the idea of the present but never really reveled in it. Not really. There always seems to be something pushing us forward with a plausible end just on the tip of the horizon. Once we reach the horizon, another horizon leads us to another end just outside of our reach.

And as this cycle continues, the present is superseded by the future and out-shined by the past. In a moment, the present is the past. In an instant, the future is gone.

As I age, I have learned to relish feelings extolled by the senses; feelings that come from familiar smells, pleasant sounds, or reminiscent images. Feelings not necessarily tied to holidays or monumental occasions, but seasonal feelings, feelings derived by wind, strong storms, spring smells, or autumn foliage. It seems these senses summon certain places in time, places of youth, places of joy, places of recklessness, places that will never be again and at the same time, current places that I am unknowingly reserving for future meanderings.

As I made my way outside this morning, the aforementioned “portal bursting” smell was mostly of the rain. It was an earthy smell mixed in part with fallen leaves. It was the purest smell I have encountered in quite a while and immediately, I felt the whisper of the past. It happened so quickly that it is almost impossible to explain in prose, but in that instant I felt the coming autumn in all its glory. I felt football as a child, camping with dad, carving pumpkins with mom, family togetherness, and the intensity of true love. I was reminded of my first date with my wife and our courtship so vividly that I relived three months in three seconds. All these images were restored from the past with the simple smell of the rain.

As cycles of time frame the changing seasons, I hope to relish the present, embrace the past, and not wish away the future. That being said, if I fail, and I will, I can always open the door, breathe deep, and let the past stream in like a feather fluttering on the last gust of summer’s fleeting wind. Just a thought!

911; Altering the Landscape of the American Mind

2009-09-04T13:30:00.000-07:00

"The eye only sees what the mind is prepared to comprehend" Henri Bergson

It was a day like any other September day, perhaps a little cooler than normal, picturesque clear blue skies framing the horizon while gently nomadic nimbus clouds gathered overhead. For me to wax poetic does not fully justify the translucent ambiance of the day, the peaceful accord between life and environment, and the innocence of ignorance.

It could have been a day easily forgettable if not for the horrible reminder and ominous feeling that dates yield when evil events unfold inside their ranks. I struggle to recall these dates from history class; December 7, 1941 (Attack on Pearl Harbor), June 6, 1944 (D-Day), November 22, 1963 (Kennedy Assassination), and August 4, 1968 (Martin Luther King, Jr. Assassination). There are others from our history, from our cherished ancestry, as there are notable dates from different generations all throughout the annuals of time. We memorize them as children, minds impressionable, bent on whatever context we are taught, yet nevertheless, the evil that once unleashed itself on humanity is safely tucked away in a textbook with worn pages and highlighted passages from previous students studying the very same yesteryears.

Many events have changed the course of history but very few have the gravitational force to change the world. Very few etch the ending of an era or the beginning of another like that of D-Day or the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Very few events can unilaterally meet the definition of “pure evil” upon first glance like Hitler’s SS, Imperial Japan, or likes of Lee Harvey Oswald or James Earl Ray. These are the moments that turned the world in ways unfathomable and while their dates reside neatly in our children’s textbooks, one date is too new to consider the friendly confines of a book home; September 11, 2001.

For a generation whose parents can account for their exact whereabouts when Kennedy was shot and man first walked on the moon, I can optimistically contend that most any generation X, Y, or Z’er, for that matter, can plainly and unequivocally relate their exact location when American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the World Trade Center’s North Tower at 8:46am. As for me, I was staring blankly at an office TV screen trying to figure out how a pilot made such a drastic mistake. When United Airlines Flight 175 hit the South Tower at 9:03am I knew there was no mistake. And while the official details would take years to report, in the very moments of the disaster you could almost feel the landscape of the world change. Much like an earthquake can alter the land beneath your feet, 911 altered the landscape of the American mind, providing a picture of the evil known only to those who had seen other atrocities in real time.

Roughly 2,914 days have passed since Osama bin Laden and his Al-Qaeda force ended the lives of 2,993 people in New York City, Washington, DC, and a remote field in Pennsylvania. Two wars and eight years later, it is unarguable that the September 11, 2001 attacks were acts of raw evil perpetuated by a pure terrorists rivaling the ranks of Attila, Stalin, Pot, etc. It is horrifying the depths of evil that 19 hijackers and numerous co-conspirators exhibited in their plot to destroy innocent life and alter the course of history. For many in my generation, we awoke with a feeling of loss, finally knowing first hand how quickly precious life can end or change, unsheltered no longer, and bearing the full brunt of a most cruel reality.

In the end, the historical accounts of 911 give me hope that future generations will read about the heroic efforts of those directly involved in the 911 attacks: the men and women who stood vigilant and remained strong helping the victims as the towers fell, the men and women in uniform, the families who cried tears of sorrow for their lost, the soldiers that fought the wars that followed, and everyone who stopped in their tracks, fully grasping the horrible evil perpetuated that perfect September day in 2001 when all perfection was lost, when the textbooks burst open, and the atrocities of men made history yet again.

The Wisdom of the Bee...or Lack Thereof

2009-08-15T10:26:00.000-07:00

The pain was barely noticeable; a slight discomfort, a minor prickly sensation, nothing of consequence, no, not at first. But what began as a miniscule pinch quickly resonated into a three-alarm-fire right below my left pectoral muscle, or as my 2-year puts it “boob.” And in that instant, the very moment my brain instructed my fingers to remove the stinging insect from my chest, and after I uttered a few choice words, I uttered a few more, spoke disparagingly about bees, and felt sorry for myself. It wasn’t until later that my mind turned toward the bee; the dead bee at that. No, in that instant it was all about me and the ridiculous sting from that ridiculous stinger. My one thought…why me bee…dang it…why me? What…you thought I had a moment of profound thought? Yeah, right!

I’m no stranger to insect stings, ant and mosquito bites, or other pesky bugs and their litany of defense mechanisms. I have been stung, bitten, poked, prodded, gnawed on, pinched, and deterred by my fair share of insects. I’ve been attacked by angry wasps, chased by provoked bumble bees, haunted by fire ants, hunted by mosquitoes, and surrounded by spider webs yet rarely do I get sniped by a bee, in the “boob” of all places, while walking the family dog. These things just don’t happen…for no reason.

Three times in my life a bee has stung me without provocation. The first time was on my buddy’s back porch after work one summer evening in the mid nineties. The dive bombing bee scored a blow to my lip causing it to swell. A few hours later, the swelling was gone and life went on. The second unsolicited bee sting came last summer while walking the dog…fancy that. This time, the buggar stung me on the back of the left knee. Two weeks later, life went on. And then there was Tuesday.

Perhaps the moral to the story is simple…bees don’t like me. That’s fine…I don’t like bees and I’m fine with that scenario. I am fascinated, however, with the fact that after the bee stings, it dies. I wonder if it knows this fate when deciding to sting. That is to say…”If I chose to sting this oblivious human harmlessly walking his dog, then I will certainly die.” I’d say it would have to understand this fact after watching countless members of its hive die after the “sting.” I imagine the conversation would go something like this, “Who…Roscoe…Yeah he was a cool bee but he just wouldn’t put up with routine dog walking so he stung that man in the boob; and that was Roscoe for you…a defender to the end. Good ole Roscoe will be missed.” Well, you get the idea.

In the moments following my latest sting I couldn’t help but consider Roscoe’s dogmatic nature, his tenacious follow through, and his strict dedication to the cause; whatever it was. Regardless of his sacrifice, Roscoe, in his little bee mind, acted in the best interest of the hive, whether or not it meant stinging a harmless member of humanity. Unfortunately for Roscoe, I posed him or his hive no harm. Isn’t that just life, or in Roscoe’s case, death? Hmmmm…Just a thought!

Gospel Living...Gospel Driving

2009-07-30T05:01:00.000-07:00

Writer's note: The following is a guest blog from Darcy, my lovely passionate wife. Her piece challenged me...I hope it does you as well.

Have you ever been on auto pilot? Auto pilot is a dangerous place to be when you are operating a motor vehicle. I know we all want to pat ourselves on the back and say that we are not guilty of this recklessness, but too many times we have all been there. Lost in thought, talking to or looking at our passenger, exhausted or just driving the route we are too familiar with traveling. I wonder if studied, if this type of driving could possibly be as dangerous as drunk driving?

I found myself in a mindless trek just this past Sunday. I was taking a very familiar trip to my brother’s house. I don’t have any recollection of where my mind was and suddenly a car was coming directly at me that I failed to see. I found myself at fault and in complete and obvious error. Thank heaven for a defensive driver! While my recklessness could have been a devastating situation and have lent itself to a horrific accident, my children and I are safe. I am thankful that the other driver was in control of her thinking and reacted quickly. Her driving skills were self-protective and to me very beneficial.

We have all made a mistake while driving; a mistake that is totally ours, a mistake that bellows I MESSED UP BIG DIDN’T I?! It always makes the situation worse when the driver in the right of way lets you know it.

With my near catastrophe simmering in mind, trying to figure out where my mind a drifted off, a horn is blaring. And not the “toot-toot” you made a mistake horn. The “BLARRING”, you’re an idiot horn….the one where someone lays across the steering column like they’re pounding plastic moles at the local Chuck E Cheese. The horn that says, “in case you don’t already know it you are an idiot”.

In the midst of this, I was thinking…There was a time in my life that I would have blessed this woman out. But I continue driving, uttering the words. “I know; I am sorry, please forgive me.”

Honestly, I made a mistake, I know it…you know it. Can we just stick to I’m sorry and part ways, like we were taught as toddlers? Well…maybe not!

Next thing I know this woman is riding so close to my bumper that I can’t even see headlights, but I can see her and her passenger throwing their hands in the air as to say, “Idiot…what were you thinking.” And as if the tailgating wasn’t getting my attention, back to the blaring of the horn. Seriously, I’m sorry. I really wish you could hear me say it…I’M SORRY!

When the road finally split into two lanes, my bumper rider had the opportunity to pass. And she did. Stopping at the next light, my rival had clearly forgotten her “I’ve lost all control” road rage incident; which made me feel better. Her car, however, was still in sight and lined up on the back were not one, not two, but three stickers, “Jesus Saves”, a silver plated JESUS, and an Ichthus. My jaw dropped to my lap and I almost missed my turn arrow

“Jesus Saves”, really? How come I didn’t just see this proclamation in living color? Jesus, Jesus and Jesus, right there across the back of that little, silver CRV. And all I have experienced the last 12 blocks is her lack of self control, her anger, and a spirit of vengeance.

Wouldn’t she die if I rolled down my window to ask her how Jesus had changed her life?

I have since not been able to get this incident of my mind. I have asked myself one hundred times, what do I do in the car that people could say, “Jesus, really?” Not just in the car. How many times have I failed to show Christ in my actions? How many times have I been the only Bible that someone will read? What does Jesus think when I turn my body when talking to a stranger that looks different or does not smell fresh?

Obviously my CRV friend needed to harness her anger. Would she have acted differently if she remembered those stickers were there?....Would she have acted differently if she remembered Jesus was there?

How many times would we stop our actions in their tracks if we truly believed that Jesus was sitting on the seat next to us?

Would we cut the driver who was an idiot a break?

Would we quit taking part in the conversation when unkind words were being spoken? Would we stop if we could see Jesus listening?

How would we strive to take captive our thoughts to make them obedient to Christ, if we truly thought he heard everyone of them?

St. Francis of Assisi is noted with one of my favorite quotes, “Preach the gospel always and when necessary, use words.” I hope that we don’t forget that the Gospel is not always the easiest, but is the only thing we should be preaching. Bumper sticker or not.

From Photographs to Funny Faces

2009-07-22T13:35:00.000-07:00

I remember the words as if I wrote them myself. It was a prophetic statement, written by someone with similar beliefs, taunting me as if to say, I beat you to your own thoughts. They happen more than I would like, neglected moments of invention, when songs I could have written, products I could have created, or phrases I have pondered life long find the light of day through innovative outlets other than my own.

The proverb I am referring was uttered during a verbal exchange of two TV characters. The writer, drawing on a cliché, penned the following exchange between a father and his associate. “Sometimes we don’t teach our children, sometimes they teach us.” Taking the words out of my mouth, I was bested once again by a like minded thinker leaving me to ponder the serendipity of the statement alone. And while deep in thought…I updated my facebook status…because that is what hip, computer savvy social networkers do in light of poetic expression. Nevertheless, I was reminded of my deep-seated feelings on family matters, children, and personal growth by a character on TV. Whatever gets your attention, right?

Thinking through such a simple statement reminded me of the birth of my youngest daughter Haegan and her 3-4 month battle with colic. The struggles of child rearing fade quickly over time but while entrenched in infancy, little things like colic represent a mountain, not a mole hill. Endless crying, late nights, little to no sleep all add to the challenge of parenthood yet a simple smile or gentle hug wipe away sleep stained eyes in an instant. New life, no matter how difficult, present parents with pure joy capable of rejuvenating even the most tired of souls. It is a lesson only an infant can teach and only a parent can understand.

Once the colic faded, Haegan taught me that simple things oftentimes supersede those of complexity with smiles, giggles, and funny faces. She’d react to fire trucks, kittens, puppies, and other babies in expressive ways most of us have unknowingly grown past. She’d talk to strangers, tap burley biker-looking men on the shoulder, hug random animals, and make use of the oddest items. Through her innocence I learned that most people melt when engaged by an outgoing baby, grown men can and will go gaga unwittingly in public, judging people by their appearance is not only wrong but most often inaccurate. I also learned that while I was charged with raising Haegan, I was essentially a student and the lessons were for me.

As Haegan’s 2nd birthday quickly approaches, I am sometimes saddened with the passing of time. I am unsettled by certain changes; changes that subtly erase infancy, yet elated by others, charting Haegan’s milestones with the pride of a lion. Indeed, the transitions bring forth knowledge but a certain side of me wants to harness time and relish the moments that are simply slipping into photographs for my future self to see.

In reality, a year is equivalent to 365 days but for the last two years, I have experienced a lifetime of learning under the tutelage of a daddy’s girl in vast and colorful world I have only begun to see.

Happy birthday Haegan, may we traipse, and sing, and smile, and play, and tickle, and pat, and laugh, and jump, and swing, and hop, and walk, and love for the rest of the time we have on God’s earth.

Prioritization; Media Style

2009-07-07T11:33:00.000-07:00

Pat Hingle (actor) -- Dead. Myelodysplasia. Cheryl Holdridge (actress) -- Dead. Lung cancer. Don Galloway (actor) -- Dead. Stroke. Rob Gauntlett (adventurer) -- Dead. Mountain climbing accident. Patrick McGoohan (actor) -- Dead. Ricardo Montalban (actor) -- Dead. Andrew Wyeth (artist) -- Dead. Bob May (actor/robot driver) -- Dead. Congestive heart failure. James Brady (writer) -- Dead. John Updike (writer) -- Dead. Lung cancer. James Whitmore (actor) -- Dead. Lung cancer. Bossom Dearie (singer/pianist) -- Dead. Robert Anderson (playwright) -- Dead. Pneumonia/Alzheimer's. Estelle Bennett (singer) -- Dead. Colon cancer. Louie Bellson (drummer) -- Dead. Parkinson's Disease. John McGlinn (conductor/music historian) -- Dead. Heart attack. Dr. Eugenia Calle (epidemiologist) -- Dead. Murder. Howard Zieff (director) -- Dead. Parkinson's disease. Philip Jose Farmer (writer) -- Dead. Wendy Richard (actress) -- Dead. Cancer. Paul Harvey (radio broadcaster) -- Dead. Horton Foote (writer) -- Dead. Jimmy Boyd (singer/actor) -- Dead. Cancer. Lenore Annenberg (Philanthropist) -- Dead. Betsy Blair (actress) -- Dead. Ron Silver (actor) -- Dead. Esophageal cancer. Natasha Richardson (actress) -- Dead. [rumors] "England" Dan Seals (singer) -- Dead. Lymphoma.

Michael Jackson (singer/songwriter) -- Dead. Cardiac arrest.

Irving R. Levine (newscaster) -- Dead. Maurice Jarre (composer) -- Dead. Andy Hallett (actor) -- Dead. Heart failure.Jody McRea (actor) -- Dead. Cardiac arrest. Dave Arneson (game creator/teacher) -- Dead. Cancer. Jack Wrangler (Theater producer/porn actor) -- Dead. Emphysema. Marilyn Chambers (model/adult star) -- Dead. Mark Fidrych (pitcher/farmer) -- Dead. Truck accident. J. G. Ballard (author) -- Dead. Prostate cancer. Bea Arthur (actress) -- Dead. Cancer. Danny Gans (comic/impersonator) -- Dead. Heart disease/prescription drug overdose. Marilyn French (writer) -- Dead. Dom DeLuise (comic actor/cook) – Dead. David Eddings (writer) -- Dead. David Carradine (actor) -- Dead. Reported asphyxiation. John Houghtaling (inventor) -- Dead. Complications of a fall. Lorena Gale (actress/playwright) -- Dead. Stomach cancer. Jerri Nielsen Fitzgerald (doctor/speaker) -- Dead. Cancer. Ed McMahon (announcer) -- Dead. Pneumonia/cancer. Farrah Fawcett (actress/model) -- Dead. Cancer. Gale Storm (actress) -- Dead. Billy Mays (pitchman) -- Dead. Heart disease. Fred Travalena (impersonator/comic/cartoon voice) -- Dead. Cancer. Harve Presnell (actor/singer) -- Dead. Pancreatic cancer. Mollie Sugden (actress) – Dead. Allen Klein (music agent/movie producer) -- Dead. Robert McNamara (secretary of defense) -- Dead. Steve McNair (Quarterback) – Dead. Murder

Seven soldiers died Monday in Afghanistan: Four soldiers died in a roadside bombing in Kunduz province. Two soldiers died in a roadside blast in southern Afghanistan. A soldier died after a firefight with militants in the east. The latest identifications reported by the military: Two Army soldiers died Saturday at Combat Outpost Zerok, Afghanistan, after an insurgent attack. Both were assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 509th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team (Airborne), 25th Infantry Division, Fort Richardson, Alaska. Killed were Pfc. Justin A. Casillas, 19, Dunnigan, Calif. and Pfc. Aaron E. Fairbairn, 20, Aberdeen, Wash. Lance Cpl. Charles S. Sharp, 20, of Adairsville, Ga., died Thursday during combat in Helmand province, Afghanistan; assigned to 2nd Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, 2nd Marine Division, II Marine Expeditionary Force, Camp Lejeune, N.C.

RIP to the fallen. The true heroes of our land.

May God Thy Gold Refine

2009-07-02T07:13:00.000-07:00

On July 2, 1776, future president John Adams signed the Declaration of Independence and penned the following words to his wife Abigail:

“The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfire and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.”

To see the entire letter, visit:

http://www.masshist.org/digitaladams/aea/cfm/doc.cfm?id=L17760703jasecond

While Adams’s timing was a couple days off from the eventual date set for America’s independence, his foresight was prophetic. As we near the 233rd celebration of American Independence, it is hard not to explore the grandeur of the American Fourth of July celebration; a celebration of monumental proportions with all the pomp and circumstance described in Adams’s letter home. It is a time for Americans to band together and revel in the freedoms we were afforded by men like Adams, who helped architect the greatest country the world has ever known amidst overwhelming odds and a monarchy bent on controlling the lives and minds of her men, women, and children.

Adams knew life would not be easy in America, even after the Declaration, as his final paragraph to Abigail eludes:

“You will think me transported with Enthusiasm but I am not. -- I am well aware of the Toil and Blood and Treasure, that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. -- Yet through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means. And that Posterity will tryumph in that Days Transaction, even altho We should rue it, which I trust in God We shall not.”

Freedom’s cost is infinite for those who wield the sword and Adams made sure Abigail knew the rays of freedom would eventually shine through the wrath of battle, the toll of securing independence, and the “days transaction.” His foresight again rang true.

As free Americans we enjoy the enthusiasm that eluded Adams and other founding fathers. Our freedom’s were paid for by God-fearing men, men who stood and fought the battles necessary to secure our independence and we need not take it for granted.

This Saturday, when the fireworks explode overhead and the battle hymns ring out amongst the crowds in celebration of American independence, remember the men who “kept the line,” who loaded the cannons, who sacrificed their sons, and pioneered our freedoms. Remember the men and women who have fought for us in the past and those who fight for us today and pray for their safety. Without American heroes there would be no America.

In the words of Katherine Lee Bates, “O beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife. Who more than self their country loved. And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine. Till all success be nobleness. And every gain divine!”

Happy birthday America! God surely has shone His grace on thee.

In Reality...Good Stories are so Yesteryear

2009-06-19T12:44:00.000-07:00

Growing up, MacGyver was my favorite television show. I am certain you remember MacGyver, the Phoenix Foundation employee that could get himself out of any and every scratch with a roll of duct tape and a ballpoint pen found beneath the seat of a burned up Army supply truck abandoned somewhere between Belarus and Uzbekistan. He was a genius, lived on a houseboat somewhere out west, fancied a peaceful approach to problem solving, and seemed to have recurrent encounters with one Mr. Murdoc who could not be killed. MacGyver ran for seven seasons beginning in 1985 and culminated with a made for TV movie sometime in 1994, two years after the series finale. I know this because I watched every episode…some of them twice..all before the modern marvel we know as the DVR.

MacGyver was an interesting character with many levels to his persona. He hated guns, was a scientific mastermind, knew foreign cultures like the back of his hand, and dated exotic women (most notably Teri Hatcher). He marauded with the likes of Jack Dalton, Pete Thornton, Frank Colton (whose little brother Billy Colton was played by a very young Cuba Gooding, Jr.) and his English bulldog Frog, along with a litany of other role players. MacGyver nearly died in every episode yet as viewers, you came to expect the unexpected which typically had MacGyver riding off into the sunset in a very James Bond like fashion. Needless to say, I liked the series, as did my wife, ironically enough which makes for good conversation when the topic arises.

Looking back on one of my favorite TV programs, albeit hokey when compared with modern television productions, I am reminded that there was once a marketplace for TV programs with strong characters. That no longer seems the case in today’s trigger happy world of TV cancellations. And the viewer…the viewer is left holding the bag wondering how this program or that would have ended if allowed to run its course. It is comparable to a book missing it last five chapters, ripped violently from its pages, the ending never to be revealed. Yet as viewers, we have no say in the matter.

Gazing across the spectrum of TV listings today, one finds a plethora of idiotic reality programs followed by news magazines, game shows, and sit-coms. Very few, if any, strong dramas are left revealing a significant shift in TV viewership; based on ratings, TV viewers are choosing mindless reality shows and other untraditional content over strongly written dramas. All the while, TV execs are saving millions of dollars in production costs by catering to the dumbing down of an industry…and generation for that matter.

TV watching has never been the wisest of options for one’s free time. It is a guilty pleasure of sorts, one I compare to story time of old, just in the modern world, our stories are delivered to us live and in color. Or they were. Tomorrow, I’m afraid, we will be discussing my next door neighbor’s pursuit of a front yard garden as her endeavors unfold as part of a new reality show entitled “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow.” Just think of the possibilities. I assume ABC has picked up the rights…as it will premiere right after the shim-sham Barack Obama Health Care special this Wednesday at 9. Do you think MacGyver can get us out of this mess…What about health care? Yeah, me neither…just a thought!

http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/tv/2009/06/17/2009-06-17_abc_pledges_gop_a_healthy_debate.html

RIP

The Beast – A&E
The Unit – CBS

Remembering a Wild Man of God

2009-06-04T05:23:00.000-07:00

Writer’s note: I have waited 10 years to tell this story. Thus far, I have shared it with two people in it’s entirely; my wife and my best friend.

His name was Reed but we called him Wildman. I’d met Wildman one summer laboring as a member of a grounds crew for the local school board, trying my best to pocket some money over college break. My best friend’s mother had scored us the gig which roughly entailed driving from school to school, cutting trees, mulching playgrounds, trimming bushes, etc. We earned our pay those summers but the memories now matter much more than the $7.15 per hour did back then. Isn’t it funny how precious memories linger?

I can still smell the musty aroma of earth and gas inside the back of O24, the dilapidated green van we drove from school to school, rattling at every turn, contents banging at the sides, as black smoke trailed behind. Arriving in style or lack thereof, ours was a motley crew of grounds workers; some in college, some full time, some were teachers on sabbatical, and some wielding nicknames like Papaw, Craw Daddy, Cock-Eye, Wildman, the Egyptian Magician, and others better left unsaid.

Everyone had a story but Wildman’s seemed to be the most interesting to me because he was the most aloof. He operated on his own and even though he had over 20 year’s tenure with the board, he hardly spoke and mostly hummed. Wildman wore overalls and looked more like a farmer than a laborer, his slightly graying hair cut into a military crew with his black, horned-rimmed glasses framing his fat, cheeky grin. He was always at work on time, however, and worked harder than most, hummed hymns constantly, and read his Bible during breaks. Although some poked fun at Wildman, it never seemed to bother him. He would simply hum a little louder. When I saw Wildman, I saw the image of a man a little unstable with a slight hint of crazy. It was hard not to.

Having an insatiable curiosity, I asked another one of the long-timers one day about Wildman, the fact that his nickname and demeanor were in conflict and the reason why he didn’t talk yet hummed incessantly. It seemed Wildman was indeed the Wildman of yore, burning the candle at both ends, raising a ruckus, carousing, and basically living the life of a long-haul trucker with a one track mind. What track you ask? Does it matter? That is…until he found Jesus. When he was saved by Jesus, he changed, and he changed all at once. Wildman went from being the Wild Man to being Wildman, a nickname identifying the loner of the group, the one who didn’t talk, yet the one who hummed. He was no longer lauded as a party animal and everyone’s idol; he was labeled an outcast who was simply cast out of the group. Wildman had hung up his antics for service to the Lord explained Craw Daddy, who had certainly answered my questions that day, in a working man’s vernacular, peppered with expletives and truth.

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The summer trailed on like most summers do, the heat of the day sapping any moisture from the dirt-cracked ground while the grass struggled to maintain its color and texture. As the hustle and bustle of fall started to focus on the horizon, we were assigned our final job with the board for the summer; replacing a homeowner’s flowers that were destroyed in a previous fence building project. The assignment was preferred, yet unusual, as we’d never worked on a private residence during our tenure with the board. It seemed the homeowner was well connected in our small town and the flowers that were destroyed constituted a major expense. Nonetheless, it was our job to replant the flowers while maintaining a positive public relations effort with the well-to-do and hard-to-please land owner.

Since it was near the end of the season, many of the temporary workers had hung up their boots, opting instead for a nice break before the last call of the summer. With the decreased roster of grounds crew workers, the foreman had no choice but to assign all hands to the flower patch restoration project. This is where our paths crossed; Wildman’s and mine.

The sounds from five rows over grew increasing louder until I could pick out the tune Wildman was humming. I remembered the song from church, a hymn, but couldn’t quite put my finger on the title. This went on all morning and even amidst the scolding words and sneers from the others that day, Wildman kept true to his tune. It was Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art followed by The Old Rugged Cross and It is Well with My Soul and myriad others, some I knew and others I’d never heard, but they were all hymns, every last one of them. Wildman hummed until break and as we rested under a shade tree on the owner’s property, he surprisingly told us his story. He talked, we listened.

Wildman man had indeed earned his nickname all though he never once elaborated on his escapades as a younger man (much to our chagrin). What he talked about was the small church he pastured, the children he’d reared, and the rest he was looking forward to upon retirement. He explained his humming calmed him, especially during moments of ridicule. He was fascinating to us and we hung on every word as he spoke his mind, quite normally, and without hesitation or uncertainty. We became friends that day, Wildman and I, a friendship that would foreshadow what was yet to come.

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Making our way to the car on the last day of our summer employment, I heard my name called out with the emphasis of a man on a megaphone. I turned to see Wildman approaching with what looked like presents in tow, smiling broadly with that same fat-faced, cheeky grin. He handed similar looking packages to each of us, wrapped neatly in Christmas paper. The fact that it was August mattered not and as I tore into the wrapping paper, I quickly noticed the bright red book I was unwrapping was a Bible, a New International Version of the Holy Bible. Sticking out of the top was an index card with a bible verse hand written in red ink. Mine was from Ephesians, more specifically, Ephesians 4:26-27:

26"In your anger do not sin"[a]: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, 27and do not give the devil a foothold.

Not overly excited about the gift, we bid Wildman adieu, thanked him for the thought, and headed home.

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There is an email that circulates describing the nature of friendships. It describes various friendships as happening for a reason, for a season, or for a lifetime. (http://www.steeldog.com/reasonseasonlifetime.htm) I believe Wildman’s friendship was for a reason, a profound reason, yet one I would not realize for five years.

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It was summer, college was a memory, and the job front loomed in daunting fashion. Working two part time jobs while seeking full time employment when possible, my days were filled with runner responsibilities for a local law firm and ad agency. For the most part, I was happy all though a little lonely as a previous relationship had ended and another had yet to take root. And while I was comfortable being alone, I secretly longed for the security of a long term relationship that may just, one day, turn into marriage material. Did I have a plan? Not really…but I had an image in mind of what I wanted, and in the image, two people stood united, ready to take on the world. It was at this time that I prayed to God. I prayed because I wanted something. It was all about me, my prayer, as I repeatedly asked God to provide me with a woman in which to share my life. I was ready to settle down; I just needed a little help.

Isn’t it funny how many of us go to God in times of need, asking for things to serve our own desires. Just this thing or that we ask, hoping our prayers will be answered ala Aladdin and his magic lamp. But what began as self-serving prayers developed into a daily conversation with God, a conversation I perused countless times all through the day, while driving, eyes wide open and alert, and during the quite lull just before sleep. We discussed life and love, tragedy and loss, hopes and dreams, but inevitably, we would dwell on the love part of the equation and why I felt I was ready to start a family. It was during these moments that I began to feel a peace with my place in the world and as I stared at the sky above, cumulus clouds draped across the horizon like pallid blankets on a rolling sea, I sensed the Almighty God and His power. It was welcoming.

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There is a certain stretch of road between Lexington and Frankfort that parts some of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen. The hills are slightly rolling, horses at play, white fences framing the verdant fields, while the sky meets the ground in a full spectrum of colors depending upon the season. It is a backdrop that harkens God at every turn; all you have to do it open your eyes to His creation. My mood this particular day, however, was a little different, a little askew, and as I prayed, I grew impatient with God. A year had passed, maybe more, and I still felt like I had not progressed in matters of love. This time, I prayed with a sense of urgency as if to impress upon God the nature of my impatience. I asked God for selfish things of little significance but remembered feeling as if it didn’t matter anyway. God was not listening. God was not listening to me. So I drove, looking past the scenic beauty of my travels, and grating at the life I would live alone.

Returning to Lexington, I had one stop to make prior to the day’s end. I needed stamps for work and I knew of a Post Office that had just opened in downtown Lexington; close to the ad agency. Finding a parking spot, I entered the new building, paint fumes still evident, the line for the two tellers snaking toward the entryway. “It never fails,” I grumbled to myself but got in line with the rest of the patrons anyway. I needed stamps and conversely was prepared to wait, albeit impatiently. Lost in thought, I wondered about the evening’s activities, the days ahead, the impending summer, anything and everything, as I cast my glance towards the front of the line. There waiting to be helped was a young lady wearing a white t-shirt with bright red words screen printed on the back. They read simply:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud.” 1 Corinthians 13:4.

The only thing that was lacking was a large beam of light streaming down from overhead.

I thought for a moment and read the verse again. White t-shirt, bight read Bible verse, words printed on back large enough to read. “What are the odds,” I thought to myself? I had never read this Bible verse before nor had I ever heard it regardless of its popularity at weddings. I struggled to commit the verse to memory, repeating it again and again until the woman turned and left the building. 1 Corinthians 13:4 I repeated to myself knowing I would get out my Bible when I got home to explore the verse further. I would remember it, certainly I would, and as I continued to commit it to memory, the clerk handed me my purchase. I paid, and left the building thinking, 1 Corinthians 13:4, Love is patient, love is kind…I got it God; I hear you loud and clear.

At home that evening I did not forget about my experience in line at the post office all though I was not prepared to tell anyone about my encounter. I did, however, retire to my bedroom looking for the Bible I knew I had…somewhere.

I looked through boxes, on shelves, under the bed, anywhere I thought my Bible might be. Unsuccessful, I looked in the top of my closet once more and there behind a few notebooks and shoeboxes were the two Bibles I owned; one from my childhood (a King James Version in a light tan, fake leather cover) and the bright red Bible given to me years before by Wildman. I grabbed the KJV of my youth and sat down to explore 1 Corinthians 13:4 further. Flipping to the table of contents, I quickly found the page number for Corinthians and made my way to the chapter in mind. “Let’s see, 1 Corinthians 13:4” pages flipping until I found the passage and read aloud:

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.

“Hmmm…well that doesn’t sound right,” I thought to myself quickly questioning my mental acuity and memorization prowess. So I checked 1 Thessalonians 13:4…nope, 2 Corinthians 13:4…nope, 2 Thessalonians 13:4…nope. At this point I was getting frustrated. I thought I had memorized the verse but could not find it anywhere so I decided to put the Bible away and forget about the whole experience. Blowing the dust off the cover, I placed the Bible back on the shelf next the Wildman’s edition when I felt the urge to take a look inside another Bible, this one maybe opened once in its lifetime.

Wildman’s Bible looked more like one found in a hotel bedside table or a church pew than a Bible used for personal use. “Maybe the difference in versions would mean a difference in verbiage,” I remember thinking. Again, retiring to my bedroom chair, I opened the bright red book, it’s bindings cracking, and perused the pages, starting with 1 Thessalonians…still no luck in finding the love verse I sought. Flipping pages at random and loosing grip on the mission at hand, I came across Wildman’s note card with the hand written Bible verse from Ephesians in red ink. Reading this verse, I remembered Wildman and his flare for solidarity. I remembered our two summer’s together years before and his example to my best friend and I. He had placed the note card in the Bible for a reason, and there on page 813, it had rested for over five years.

Coming back to reality, and just before I closed the book, I noticed what seemed to be a mere coincidence. The note card Wildman had left for me was placed in 1 Corinthians. More specifically, page 813 was 1 Corinthians 12:13 including 1 Corinthians 13:4, the verse I sought. I drew my pointer finger down the page stopping at 1 Corinthians 13:4 and read aloud:

4Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

8Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. 9For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. 11When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. 12Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

13And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

I closed the Bible, dwelling on the verse I’d longed to read. The other verse Wildman left for me.
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I do not know why I have the compulsion to tell this story as it has laid dormant for 10 years or more. All I know is Wildman has been on my heart lately, whether or not I have been on his. I am, however, indeed thankful for the outcast who took the time to share the gospel with an impatient college kid though incessant humming, cheeky grins, and an unexpected gift unwrapped years later.

Relishing the providence of God reminds me of one of my wife’s favorite quotations by Albert Einstein, who once quipped, “Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.” It most certainly is…but don’t take my word for it…take His.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness...A Declaration

2009-05-22T11:44:00.000-07:00

Working in HR, I refer to paid holidays as the Big Six…you know, News Years Day, Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Since I have always worked in the private sector, the Big Six are the only paid holidays I have ever known and quite frankly, the only holidays that really matter to me. They matter because holidays yield a short week, a festive occasion, a celebratory atmosphere, and a certain charm absent any other regular day of the year.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m down with Columbus Day, Presidents Day, Flag Day, May Day, Veterans Day, Boxing Day, or any other federal or non federal holiday we recognize each year but for me, work aside, these days are not holidays; they are equated more as days of recognition for specific nationalistic movements, events, great people, etc. My memory of federal holidays is jogged when the mail fails to run and the trash overflows…not quite the moxy of an anticipated holiday. Not in the least.

Memorial Day, however, is representative of what a national holiday should entail. Celebrated the last Monday of May and seen as the unofficial start of summer, Memorial Day originated in 1868 to honor Union soldiers who fought and died in the Civil War. Originally entitled Decoration Day, Memorial Day took on its current name following WWI when it was expanded to include all American causalities of any war or military action. Memorial Day is a day in which we honor our fallen heroes, decorate their graves, and remember that our most precious freedom has never been nor will never be without cost.

I’ve often wondered what it was like to live in historic times; during the American Revolution, the Civil War, WWI, WWII, Viet Nam, etc. I've wondered if the minds of men ever questioned their physical actions when it came to fighting for freedom, whether it was for national independence, basic human rights, or for the preservation of the world and her people. I wonder if I would have risen to the occasion and fought heroically for the liberties of all over the liberty of a few. I wonder what this world would resemble today if conflict was avoided for compromise. Have you? Where would we be if we never fought the English, the Mexicans, the Germans, the Japanese, the Italians, the Koreans, the Vietnamese, the Iraqis, etc? The blood of American soldiers echoes throughout the chasms of the past and reminds us “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

I weep for the fallen my friends and hold fast for the day we reunite praying that I too would possess the same fortitude if called upon to protect American sovereignty. It is my sincere hope that patriotism abounds this Memorial Day as we remember why such a day is celebrated and the ultimate price many have paid in securing the American way of life.

This Memorial Day, please decorate the grave of a fallen hero, take place in the national moment of remembrance at 3pm, or thank one of our freedom fighters. We live free, not as a luxury, but because our Creator endowed us with certain unalienable rights that our fighters protect to this day, weapons raised, poised and ready to pay the ultimate sacrifice, whether you can see them on that wall or not.

Copy + Paste = Fact

2009-05-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

On March 28, 2009, French composer, Maurice Jarre died. Almost immediately, thanks in part to the internet, his obituary began popping up on news sites across the country.

Dead at 84, I’m certain Jarre led a full life of musical pursuits; his most notable achievement, the film score for Lawrence of Arabia in 1962. He was a celebrated music man which is why, I gather, that his death is newsworthy. Honestly, I had never heard of the man, or any of his achievements, but nevertheless, a celebrity dies and people snap to attention offering memories, kind words, and compassion. (By the way…I took this information from Wikipedia.)

As with any good obituary, especially one for a celebrity, a personal quote from the deceased is essential to tie the life to the legacy. It also makes for good reading. The quote pulled for Jarre was as poetic as it was philosophical. It read:

“One could say my life itself has been one long soundtrack. Music was my life, music brought me to life, and music is how I will be remembered long after I leave this life. When I die there will be a final waltz playing in my head that only I can hear."

How profound. Unfortunately for the media, however, Jarre’s quote was fabricated by a 22 year old Dublin university sociology student on the day of Jarre’s death, posted on Wikipedia, and bought hook line and sinker from dozens of news organizations around the world. All this to test the dependency the globalized media has on the internet in their supply of factual news.

Copy + Paste = Fact…I surmise is how this headline should read. Kind of scary if you ask me but certainly not unique in the world of news reporting during the digital age.

http://cbs11tv.com/technology/Wikipedia.Fake.Quote.2.1006804.html

I guess I just require more from the news than “copy and paste” reporting regardless of the subject matter. I expect nonbiased, fact checked, objective points of view when consuming my daily dose of tragic happenings across the globe. If I want it editorialized, I will look for the closest editorial page or editorialize it myself. Is that too much too ask?

In spite of the trickery employed in the aforementioned obituary, the brilliance on the part of the sociology student, or the lackadaisical laziness on the part of the writers, the media, as a whole, is responsible for the maintenance of objectivity while systemically fact checking their stories. Or should Wikipedia wear the hat of responsibility when if comes to reporting the news…hmmmm…now that’s an interesting thought!.

Hear Ye...Hear Ye...Whatever!

2009-05-07T13:49:00.000-07:00

Conservative shock jock Michael Savage is banned from traveling to Great Britain per Home Secretary Jacqui Smith. Accompanying Savage on this notable list are American Baptist pastor Fred Waldron Phelps and his daughter Shirley Phelps-Roper, who have picketed the funerals of Aids victims and claimed the deaths of US soldiers are a punishment for US tolerance of homosexuality.

Hamas MP Yunis Al-Astal, Jewish extremist Mike Guzovsky, former Ku Klux Klan grand wizard Stephen Donald Black, neo-Nazi Erich Gliebe, Artur Ryno and Pavel Skachevsky, the former leaders of a violent Russian skinhead gang which committed 20 racially motivated murders, are also banned from coming to Britain. Both are currently in prison.

Making up the rest of the 16 named are preachers Wadgy Abd El Hamied Mohamed Ghoneim, Abdullah Qadri Al Ahdal, Safwat Hijazi and Amir Siddique, Muslim activist Abdul Ali Musa (previously Clarence Reams), murderer and Hezbollah terrorist Samir Al Quntar and Kashmiri terror group leader Nasr Javed.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/8037025.stm

Obviously, Great Britain is serious about who they let traverse their grand island. The list, small as it may be, names the most grievous individuals one could imagine and basically slams the proverbial gate in the faces of the aforementioned murders, hate mongers, terrorists, and thugs. Don’t come here they say, but in a more classic sounding verbal assault, accent intact, gaining instant sway and swagger with those reading the dictate. Hear ye, hear ye…whatever.

Good for Great Britain with one minor, ever so breezed-over exception; how in the ever-loving world did a legitimate, conservative, popular, radio host become the equal of the world’s most degenerate ruffians? Earth to England, earth to Jacqui Smith, sounds to me like you have a minor axe to grind with a conservative ideology as if it is directly correlated with hate. What a dim-witted approach to global politics. What a wonderful example of a personal vendetta for the world to see. Cue “God Save the Queen.”

Last time I checked, Michael Savage’s opinions and political ideology were not mired in hate. He simply espouses a right-wing conservative message while speaking out against illegal immigration and Islamic fascism while championing the English only movement, environmentalism, and animal rights. He is pro life, guns, capital punishment, traditional marriage, and small government; most all the core beliefs housed by the Republican Party. He, like every one of us, is a hodge-podge of beliefs molded into a political ideology of individualism. Yet, in Great Britain, if you espouse strong conservative views, then you must be considered a rebel rouser, paired with the likes of the common criminal, and banned from a country known for a stodgy, wig wearing political approach to the world. Are you kidding me? Cue “God Save the Queen.”

I wonder if Howard Stern will be banned next. After all, he is the ultimate shock jock. I guess in the eyes of England, his antics are right regal. Just a thought!

Sunset and Evening Star

2009-05-01T13:37:00.000-07:00

The earliest memory I have comes from a trip my family took when I was two years old. It was a beach trip to Cape Cod, Massachusetts complete with a few side trips to Duxbury Bay, the childhood vacation spot of my father and grandfather. Living in Kentucky, I can only imagine the duration of the trip, but considering I can’t remember the drive or any other detail of the trip prior to arrival, I will assume it went off without a hitch.

What I remember is a vague image of a large hill. At the top of the hill, cars were parked and children ran and played about the lush deciduous and conifer trees. The path that led down the hill narrowed a bit but once through the constrained opening was Duxbury Bay complete with a beach and sand dunes as far as the eye could see. I remember playing in the frigid waters, climbing the mountainous dunes, and finding enchantment in the atmosphere of my grandfather’s paradise. I was two, and this is still the first memory of my life.

Throughout my childhood years, I developed a love for my grandfather that I could not explain. It was an intrinsic feeling and while we lived hundreds of miles apart, I identified with Pop Pop in a way that needed no greetings or salutations. We just fit, grandfather and grandson, old man and young boy, mentor and mentored, the way all grandfathers fit with their grandsons. And so it was that in my youth, I treasured the presence of my grandfather all though our visits were limited and our time was short.

The last memory I have of my grandfather bears a slight resemblance to my first memory over thirty years ago. The landscape, the same, the boy, now a man, my father, older and holding the urn of my grandfather upon the gently sloping waters of Duxbury Bay. The passing of Pop Pop did not come unexpectedly as he was well into his 80’s and in deteriorating health. My grandmother had passed a year earlier and he was ready to go home, lost without her, and losing his worldly body.

The harbor master had met us at the shipyard, arranged by Pop Pop’s brother. A pastor was present, Bible in hand, and the 5 of us boarded a trawler and motored toward Bug Light; a lighthouse in the middle of the bay. The water was placid that October day yet winter was on the horizon. It was a fitting moment, cloudy with just the right hit of gloom, a salty taste in the air, and a rolling tide gently rocking my memories to rest.

Once in view of the lighthouse, the pastor bared his Bible and read a few lines. His words eluded to those who had come before and to those who have all ready returned home. It was befitting of the moment and as his Bible closed and halted upon his hip, one foot resting on the ship’s hull, he presented a poem that I will never forget. It is a memory every bit as powerful as my first. The words he read, as my father spread his father’s ashes upon the sea were from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Crossing the Bar.

Pop Pop was laid to rest on the sea of his youth that cold, blustery October morning. It was a noble departure, a complete odyssey, a turning point from youth to death as the Almighty God called another child home.

The first memory I ever formed was on Duxbury Bay so many years ago and it will never fade, nor will it ever end. Those whom we’ve loved are always with us, a constant companion, night or day, just as the wave never ceases to roll to the land, but for a moment it stalls, and then back home again. Just a thought.

Growing Down; Living Like a Kid Again

2009-04-24T13:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve finished my half cup of coffee for the day and I can’t say that I am happy about it. And while my thoughts trickle down to other things much like the constant drip of the decanter, I am reminded that 6 ounces of coffee a day is much better than the 100 or so I was drinking daily a month ago. Nevertheless, the aroma of a fresh pot of coffee is all that lingers now, and that, I find, is just simply hard to swallow.

In my youth, I was bulletproof. I imagine all of us felt a certain sense of immortality in our endeavors during our younger years. It wasn’t until college and shortly thereafter, that I began to understand that my body was not impenetrable and certain activities could lead to pain lasting a couple days to a week. At first, I shied away from the activities I felt I had outgrown; no more tackle football in the park without pads, no more bottle rocket wars, no more jumping off roofs, playing bloody knuckles, skateboarding, etc. I gravitated toward more respectable pursuits, less physical exertion allowing my childhood to vanish like the last beam of daylight before darkness. And when at last the sun rose, I was 30-something staring at the wasteland of my youth and the skyline of my future with a couple extra pounds and some very bad habits.

I think all of us face a reckoning at some point in our lives, be it physical, as was mine, or mental, in the case of the individual going back to school in their 30’s or 40’s. It is a point in time where we see ourselves for who we are and finally decide to make a dramatic change.

When I looked in the mirror on October 4, 2007, I knew I had to change. My inspiration for change was my 3 month old daughter and my bad habits included heavy tobacco use, physical inactivity, poor food choices, and massive coffee consumption. You know, all the things that make life’s journey a little more rewarding, a little more fun…that is…until they kill you. Looking back, it was a moment devoid of consciousness, yet I knew what had to be done…I had to become a kid again and it had to start immediately.

Step 1: Quit using Tobacco

I smoked my last cigarette sometime after 5pm on Thursday, October 4, 2007. It is a date I will never forget and one that is still important for me to remember. For those of you who have never been addicted to tobacco in any form, let me explain the difficulties in quitting. Nicotine rules your entire life. She speaks to you first thing in the morning and last thing at night. She reminds you of your relationship after meals, in tense painful moments, and in occasions of sheer joy. She becomes a welcome confidant, following you everywhere you go, constantly reminding you to pack her a bag, as you huff and puff your way to addiction and disease.

And then you quit. You quit because you decide continuing your relationship with nicotine is no longer good for you, because you know the effects of nicotine on your body, and you no longer wish her to control your mind and spirit. But nicotine has other plans. Much like a thwarted love interest, nicotine does not just go gently into that good night. Nope, she didn’t for me. Nicotine boiled my bunny in a fit of rage. She called hourly for the first month, daily for the first year, and occasionally rings me up to this day just to remind me of what I am missing.

But regardless of the spell she had on me, I quit, and in doing so, began the process of regaining my childhood that began on that early October day in 2007.

Step 2: Get up off the Couch

I gave myself six months after nicotine cessation to get fat, and I did. I gained 20 pounds pretty quick. My metabolism, without nicotine, slowed to a crawl and I ate like a starved baboon in a field of blind antelope. In a way, I ate to replace the loss of smoking and to calm my inner anxieties, but mostly because I was unbelievably hungry. I allowed over eating and physical inactivity a pass because I wasn’t smoking. Yet while justifications are wonderfully employed at strategic moments in our lives to deflect from our obvious flaws, I knew that getting fat wasn’t the answer, and I had to get up off the couch and push myself away from the table.

My first workout was an utter embarrassment to my over eager sense of pride. I did 20 sit-ups and wanted to throw up. I did 20 push ups and got a head ache. My body, whom I had allowed to live like a frat kid on an all night bender, was tapping out after 40 reps. Wuss. Needless to say, I was going to have to work at this if I was going to get into some sort of shape. So I did. I built the home gym 3000 behind the garage, was given a weight bench and weights for inside the garage, and began to prioritize working out into my daily agenda. And little by little, I began to recognize myself in the mirror. Little by little, my body began to change, and that was an awesome feeling.

Now that I was exercising again, I was back in the game, working out in my garage like I did when I was a kid, singing songs at the top of my lungs and feeling a kinship with Rocky Balboa when the weather turned cold. I was closer to my goal of rekindling my childhood but still not all the way there.

Step 3: Start Eating Whole Foods

In our society, it is easy to grow accustom to processed foods because they are prepared quickly and taste great. I know I had. I hated the idea of whole grains and fruit because white bread tasted better and fruit was expensive. My wife, who comes from a whole foods perspective kept implying the notion that if I ate better, I would feel better. And wouldn’t you know it, she was right.

I started implementing fresh berries and yogurt into my diet and it quickly replaced ice cream. Next, I gave up enriched flour for the most part for whole grain wheat bread and that heavy feeling after eating went away. For awhile I avoided sugar and junk food but kids got to have a little junk food now and again so I indulge at times. The moral of the story is simple for me…eat like you ate when you were a kid and had a mother who saw to it that you maintained a balanced diet full of whole foods.

Step 4: Give up the Coffee

Step four has been the hardest thing for me to quit since I gave up nicotine. It doesn’t help that I had allowed myself to drink coffee all day every day regardless of the season. Coffee for most people is a morning drink and one that is acceptable in most settings. For me, coffee was nicotine replacement therapy and because of that, I was consuming gallons of it each week. And then the light in my bald head came on; kids don’t drink coffee, so why do I?

Well it wasn’t as easy as that but the theory is sound. Coffee is an adult’s drink just like cigarettes are an adult’s habit and food options are at the discretion of an adult. It seems, as parents, we protect our children from everything unhealthy, yet we carry on the bad habits we’d hope them to avoid. Some of us (ME) worse than others.

The reckoning I experienced on that fall day, in light of my little girl, was in part, Divine. Regardless of the habits I had developed, I wasn’t living with a child’s enthusiasm for anything and hadn’t for a long time. My routine had caste a rut a mile long and a fathom deep of which I was unable to traverse attached to the couch in front of the TV. So I changed and in my change, I experienced life again from a child’s perspective. I jumped on a trampoline, played basketball, rolled down a hill, rode a scooter, lifted weights, sang out loud, hunted for Easter eggs, laughed uncontrollably, made up songs, played with my dog, and loosened up. I explored the landscape like I had when I was 12, my brother at my side, and an empty field unrolled at our feet. It was my time to grow down in order to continue to grow up…and so I did. And so it goes even today.

I may never do another back flip, bike stunt, or roof jump, but I will not yield when it comes to chasing the passions of my youth. I may have replaced the habits of adulthood with the pursuits of childhood, but I am healthier for it. I surmise we all could learn from our childhood if we just stopped for a moment and listened to our inner child beating against our grown-up exteriors in a futile attempt to come out and play. I let mine out, care to join me? Just a thought!

Keeping Score...The Simple Notion that Winning is Better.

2009-04-03T07:24:00.000-07:00

Vince Lombardi once said, “Show me a good loser and I will show you a loser.” While his words may come off abrasive and uncouth, those of you with a sporting mind understand that losing is not a positive outcome when engaging in any sport. When losing becomes acceptable, one becomes a loser. I surmise that is human nature and for the most part, common sense.

That being said, I have never understood an existence devoid of sport. Win or lose, there are some that have no need for sports in their lives. No basketball, no football, no baseball, no boxing, no tennis, no golf, no MMA, no nothing. While I am sure it is a life full of other rewarding pastimes, I marvel at how one can traverse our global landscapes and not tune into or engage in one game, one inning, one match, one set, or one round and yet be happy. How is that possible? How can I relate to this person? The answer is simple…may times, I cannot.

The aspect of winning is foreign to some. In today’s watered down, politically correct, socio-economic environment, many believe playing the game has nothing to do with winning and everything to do with individual effort. While I applaud individual effort, I wonder why anyone would play a game to lose. For that matter, why would anyone do anything really well if there was no benefit for how you finished. Sadly, this philosophy is eking its way into our schools and the lives of our children at a phenomenal rate thus creating a generation of vulnerability and a population of mediocrity.

Maybe I’m just crazy because I want to win when I play a game or engage in some other life activity. I want my children to understand that their best is all I can expect but it better be their best and not some corner-cutting routine disguised as their best. Winning, my friends, does matter whether it is a game of cricket or an A plus on a paper. In the drive to win or succeed, individual effort is harnessed for the maximum achievement of what is possible. If victory is possible, desire victory. If mastery is possible, desire mastery. If an A plus is the highest grade possible, desire an A plus. All of these scenarios depict man’s quest of achievement. If we allow our politically correct society to tell our children that it is fine to be mediocre, they will be mediocre. Why are we constantly reminded that success is bad?

Like every other parent, I want my children to succeed. I also want to spare their feelings at times. The problem is, sports do not spare feelings and that is, I imagine, what some folks dislike about athletic pastimes. Failure is a necessary life lesson and one we must allow our children to learn. We cannot spare them from failure only to “foist” them into the real word and expect them to succeed. Failure builds character. Losing builds character. Hating losing teaches the simple lesson that winning is better. And when you want to win, individual effort is maximized, not minimized.

I have failed many times and I am certain I will fail many more. My successes, whatever they may be, are so much sweeter after a fall than they could ever be absent one. I cherish these achievements knowing that I picked myself up, dusted off a little dirt, and got back in the game. That is all I want for my kids. I want them to know success because they attempted great things and were able to fail. In the words of the great Sparky Anderson “Success isn't something that just happens, success is learned, success is practiced and then it is shared.” In an environment that is continually taking the competition out of our lives faster than the fat out of our food, I for one, am keeping score. Just a thought!

“Everyone I meet is in some way my superior.” William Shakespeare

A Sparrow and an Empire: The Words of American Architects

2009-03-11T06:27:00.000-07:00

“God governs in the affairs of man. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without His aid? Benjamin Franklin

–Constitutional Convention of 1787 original manuscript of this speech

A simple answer…No.

My thoughts today are on America’s founding fathers and other notables and their view of God and the bible. Why, you ask? Because nothing I read in our secular media even casts its glance toward the Almighty God without obvious sweeping political correctness. I fear this is because Americans are losing their religion. Or at least the pundits have concluded this fate.

http://www.canberratimes.com.au/news/world/world/general/americans-losing-their-religion/1454466.aspx

I often wonder what our founding fathers would think about this trend. Based on their very words, one could conclude that their thoughts are somewhat out of touch with modern contemporaries if one subscribes solely to the media and its presentation of Christians. And that my friends, is a shame. Consider the following:

“The Bible is worth all other books which have ever been printed.” Patrick Henry

Or perhaps

“It is impossible to rightly govern the world without God and Bible.” George Washington

Or maybe still

"I believe the Bible is the best gift God has ever given to man. All the good from the Savior (Jesus) of the world is communicated to us through this book. Abraham Lincoln

Are the words of our founding fathers, who we revere in our public, state-funded schools unclear? There is a simple exactness to what is written above, absent any form of apologetic political correctness. There is the same exactness in the words that follow:

“I have a very simple thing to ask of you. I ask every man and woman in this audience that from this day on they will realize that part of the destiny of America lies in their daily perusal of this great Book (the Bible)." President Woodrow Wilson

“The doctrines of Jesus are simple, and tend to all the happiness of man.” Thomas Jefferson

"I have carefully examined the evidences of the Christian religion, and if I was sitting as a juror upon its authenticity I would unhesitatingly give my verdict in its favor. I can prove its truth as clearly as any proposition ever submitted to the mind of man." Alexander Hamilton

And I quote; I can prove its truth as clearly as any proposition ever submitted to the mind of man.

These men designed the very fabric of this nation, the greatest nation to ever raise a flag, and they did so with the Almighty God in constant view:

Liberty Bell Inscription: “Proclaim liberty throughout the land and to all the inhabitants thereof” [Leviticus 25:10]

“In my view, the Christian religion is the most important and one of the first things in which all children, under a free government ought to be instructed...No truth is more evident to my mind than that the Christian religion must be the basis of any government intended to secure the rights and privileges of a free people.” Noah Webster

Their words are unyielding;

“It cannot be emphasized too strongly or too often that this great Nation was founded not by religionists, but by Christians; not on religious, but on the Gospel of Jesus Christ. For that reason alone, people of other faiths have been afforded freedom of worship here.” Patrick Henry 1776

They are unequivocal:

“God who gave us life gave us liberty. And can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are a gift from God? That they are not to be violated but with His wrath? Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just, and that His justice cannot sleep forever.” Thomas Jefferson

And they are politically bipartisan:

"The fundamental basis of this nation's law was given to Moses on the Mount. The fundamental basis of our Bill of Rights comes from the teaching we get from Exodus and St. Matthew, from Isaiah and St. Paul. I don't think we emphasize that enough these days. If we don't have the proper fundamental moral background, we will finally end up with a totalitarian government which does not believe in the right for anybody except the state. Harry S. Truman

"Within the covers of the Bible are all the answers for all the problems
men face. The Bible can touch hearts, order minds, and refresh souls." Ronald Reagan

And still today we face a system of political correctness that takes God out of schools, holidays, and, for all intents and purposes, out of our society.

Lincoln’s famous words, speaking of the slavery issue in America, were, "A house divided against itself cannot stand." He was quoting from Luke 11:17, "Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and a house divided against a house falleth" (KJV)

I wonder if America’s house isn’t all ready divided. I pray, emphatically, that it is not.

Thankfully, I do not have to speak for our founding fathers as they have spoken clearly and shamelessly for themselves.

“We cannot read the history of our rise and development as a nation, without reckoning with the place the Bible has occupied in shaping the advances of the Republic.” FDR

Surely, we can’t, regardless of what those who wish to rewrite history would have us to believe.

The bible says:

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" Philippians 4:13

With these words firmly in grip, America’s architects built the strongest and most prosperous empire in the history of the world. In that, my friends, there is no debate. Just a thought!

Inventing Disney Greatness

2009-03-06T13:26:00.000-08:00

I think I was five the first time I experienced the magical tale of Pinocchio. What a wonderful story; a little doll who comes to life thus fulfilling the hopes and dreams of his toy maker father, Geppetto. The fact that his nose grew when he told a lie was the icing on cake. Someone other than me penned the following:

“Pinocchio, for all intents and purposes, is a wonderful metaphor for the dual nature of the human experience; our material self versus our real self.”

To me, however, Pinocchio was a doll, robotic and a little stiff, who broke free from marionette strings to become a real boy with real flaws, who told lies and made bad choices…oh, and by the way, his nose grew when he fibbed. All of which was great fodder for Disney’s epic animated movie. The rest as they say…is cinematic history.

Until….

Pinocchio’s….

Sister….

Surfaced….

Meet Pinocchia…Pinocchio’s kooky, kid sister…formerly known as Megan Corkrey!

This season of American Idol features a roughneck, a music minister, a Little Debbie snack cake, a dueling pianist, a Noop, a showman, Antonio Banderas, a blind guy, and a few teenagers among others.

But Corkrey, in her marionette-like performances grabs the “most awkwardly interesting” award early on. Check her out:

Unlike Pinocchio and his fib-induced nose, Pinocchia’s right arm is inked with a tattoo every time she tells a lie. One can only surmise that the left arm is next, and then the right leg, and then the left leg until she is covered head to toe.

I guess it helps that she can sing but I am at a loss with her “relevant” dancing style and “interesting” persona based on the judge’s most recent assertions.

In the season finale, I imagine our little girl will discover the importance of the truth, learn from her bad song choices, and complete her transformation from puppet doll to real life girl. Let's hope it happens sooner than later. How’s that for an encore!

Until then, how about we get Geppetto on Dancing with the Stars in an effort to hone his puppetry skills. Our little girl needs to dance. She’s just waiting to bust out of her ink-covered skin. Oh, and please Megan, no more lies. Just a thought!

Newspapers, Nostalgia, and Yesteryear

2009-02-27T12:02:00.000-08:00

On a recent rain-soaked night, with the babies tucked tight in their beds and nary a thing on the TV, I put off the home gym 3000 and disappeared into the basement for some long overdue organization of stuff. By stuff, I mean anything and everything that my family has acquired over the last ten years that is currently not in use. Some of the items are outdated, (i.e. the old electronics, remotes, stereos, etc.), some of the items are unnecessary by purposes of passé home décor or overstock, and some of the items are type specific be it seasonal clothes or items from my eldest daughters past. Mixed in with all of these boxes, however, are nostalgic items from my past.

With my motivation high, I plunged into myriad boxes, containers, and baskets in order to separate the junk from the treasure, the past from the present, and the his from the hers. I began by eliminating certain items that had no value at all. Who needs cat toys with no cat, electronics ten years out of date, and old college papers anyway? Once all items of no value went into the garbage, I still had a mountain of stuff in which to contend. Since most of what was left was not for me to sort, I decided to concentrate on what was mine. This is where my evening got off track.

Isn’t interesting when one’s thoughts turn nostalgic?

Suffice it to say, we all have a box or two with random elements from our past which we have kept for unknown reasons. I am no different. I have a couple boxes that I get into from time to time, when the moment presents itself, for no specific rhyme or reason. My boxes include old UK basketball magazines and newspaper clippings regarding our late nineties greatness, a coin collection, pictures and trinkets from my travels, bad poetry, random writings and letters, and a litany of other items from past experiences. These items define where we have been and what we have accomplished, tucked away in personal time capsules of sorts, for recollection in moments just like these. What else did I have to do anyway?

There was one small box, however, that night that I decided to open once I had looked through all the usual boxes. It was a little box, one that was half opened with old hospital scrubs sticking out. Obviously, this was not one of mine. Upon closer inspection, and under the pastel green scrubs serving as the lid, was an old newspaper. I immediately knew what it was. An hour later, I put it away.

What I found that night is why I love waxing nostalgic. Hidden away in a box of hodgepodge was a newspaper dated May 31, 1994. The front was decorated with pictures of classmates, the heading read Tates Creek Masthead. What I had unearthed was the final edition of my High School Newspaper for my senior year complete with 16 pages of senior wills. I started to read.

In a way, I had forgotten all about senior wills. Who knows if they are still done in 2009? With newspapers folding at monumental rates (The Rocky Mountain News being the latest to close its presses) perhaps seniors are writing senior blogs, sending their notes via text message, or emailing their wills to all their friends by bulk mail. Either way, I lost myself in nostalgia, reading the cryptic offerings of friends, and wondering what it all meant. As I perused numerous entries of publicized inside information, a familiar feeling came over me as if I was reverting for a moment to a youthful time. I was holding a tangible relic of the past; an anthropological goldmine of youthful meanderings, sculpted friendships, and lessons learned, and through the musty fragrance of the past, I could feel the presence of certain events just like I was there.

I didn’t write a senior will, but if I did, I suppose it would feel something like this:

I, Grant Frame, of conspicuous mind and inconspicuous body do hereby bequeath the following…to my friends and family, a fortune cookie, a ball peen hammer, a left hand thumb, a pan of chocolate, Crazy Bob in Aqua Ville, 32 points, grease lightning, water wars, lemon squares and a host of other obscure inferences, references, and recollections.

For an hour, on that rain-soaked night, under the guise of sorting stuff, I felt like the kid I remember but rarely see anymore. Still, in remembering events long since forgotten, I dusted off the past, explored the present, and peeked into the future all in the simple turn of a newspapers’ slightly yellowing page. Wouldn’t it be sad if all newspapers were replaced with digital outlets? In tomorrow’s edition, they just may be. “Extra, Extra, A.J. Stewart Quits the Team…log in and read all about it.” How ‘bout it Creekers…Just a thought!

Who is Paul Smith?

2009-02-13T13:31:00.000-08:00

Paul Smith was waiting patiently in a partially covered bus stand shrouded in used newspaper and empty coffee cups for the next downtown express. His daily routine led him to this uneventful bus stop every Wednesday and nothing was different about today. The skies were fair, the sun danced from cloud to cloud, and the people bustled…if you can attribute bustling to people. Just like always. In and out of car sounds, oily road smells, and distant rumbles, Paul sat, legs crossed, book in hand, pretending to flip the next page of Atlas Shrugged for those willing to look up and take notice. No one did notice however, and as the 105 pulled into view, a line began to form, front to back with little issue or excitement. Just another Wednesday, you might think.

A young lady in her late 20’s filed in behind Paul, book in hand as well, although not near as pretentious as Paul’s, slightly brushing him as she fumbled through her purse. Something about her touch caused Paul to take notice, turning quickly to glimpse his line companion. The woman, plain and simple, just smiled as Paul returned his glance forward, focusing on the diminishing queue of people.

The bus was crowded and when Paul reached the two black steps, he grabbed his fare from his hip pocket and boarded, tossing his change in the automatic collector and nodding at the man behind the wheel. The driver, somewhat distracted, noticing Paul was the last passenger, pulled the door lever and waited for Paul to sit.

Taking his time, Paul sat near the front, next to an intellectual in his early 40’s. Not the best seat for a single man looking for random encounters or at least female conversation, but since Paul was in the mood to read, it really didn’t matter who he counted as his seat mate. The roar of the bus engine signaled their departure and through the bumps and jerky motions of the city bus, Paul turned the next page of his book.

The ride on the 105 had become routine as had the wait, the boarding, and the ultimate departure. Everything in Paul’s life was orderly. His days passed like well scripted manuscripts in which nothing was left to chance. He did entertain the idea of spontaneity from time to time but it had no part in his life, not really. He would rise in the mornings and retire in the evenings with accomplishments in work and folly but they were all part of a master plan. What Paul didn’t have, however, and what consumed him was the search for a significant other, someone who would complete the model of a man he had crafted. Someone who had eluded him at each bend in the road of life.

With the bus in motion and the passengers locked into their respective routines, a subtle hum below their seats will ignite a series of events that will change their lives forever. Nothing will ever be the same. Not for Paul or for any of the 105’s 65 passengers. As lives are cast again and again, Paul must conquer his biggest fears in a test of both physical and philosophical fortitude in order to answer life’s most compelling questions and fulfill his purpose.

What consequence does but one instant in time have on us all? Join me in exploring the nature of time and the gravity of life through the eyes of Paul Smith and the 64 other passengers on bus 105. This is not an idle Wednesday in Portland, Maine, it is a reckoning. All aboard!

Albert and the Woodchuck...Shattering Shadows and Other Tom Foolery

2009-02-03T10:57:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning, amidst a maddening crowd in western Pennsylvania, a small rodent named Phil was whisked from his cage and made to gaze haphazardly at a horde of people who had gathered for Groundhog Day festivities. Through the throngs of absent minded revelers and top hat wearing handlers, Phil’s shadow cast itself upon the ground like a great net of disappointment, thus revealing to all those who believe in groundhog folklore that winter will last for six more weeks. Yeah that’s right, six more cold and frigid winter weather weeks. Aren’t we lucky?

What I find interesting about Phil and his prognostications have nothing to do with his ability to foretell the weather and everything to do with the rate in which he sees his shadow. For instance, if I were to tell you that every year, as we awaken on February 2 there is an 88% chance that Phil will see his shadow, would you even fain surprise when, like clockwork, it is revealed that old Phil as seen his shadow yet again? Probably not, yet that is the rate in which Phil, the proverbial seer of seers and prognosticator of prognosticators sees his shadow, 98 times in 112 years of performing this monumental feat. Suffice it to say, even Vegas would not bet on Phil’s ability to predict an early spring as even in his 14 predictions of early spring, he has been right only 36% of the time. Perhaps the laws of statistics do not apply to Phil but year in and year out, we celebrate a day of foregone conclusions and utter ineptitude on the part of this pudgy and predictable woodchuck.

On a lighter note, I wonder if Al Gore and his global warming alarmists feel cheated each year when Phil sees his shadow. I would suspect an early spring would spell global warming much easier than that of a long and mostly normal winter weather season. Yet even as the snow falls and the ice rains, somehow, global warming prognosticators have convinced us all that no matter what the weather brings, it is due to the invisible phenomenon of global warming. Epic snows, global warming. Early spring, global warming. Freak snow storm, global warming. Too much rain, global warming. Too little rain, global warming. I guess we really should be happy to have an answer for all of the world’s weather regardless of warmth or lack thereof.

Perhaps Phil can take notes from the modern day prognosticators in which no matter what the prediction is…it is what was forecast in the first place as no one really wants to get caught up in the details anyway. Assumingly, all we really need is another meritless holiday and reason for celebration even when the information we receive is nothing more than a best guess by a bunch of nincompoops with a little glitz and glamour to boot. Move over Punxsutawney Phil, Algore is gunning for your gig except in his grand scheme and epic design, everyday will be Groundhog Day. Isn’t that dandy?

This just in…winter will end when spring begins…on March 20, 2009. (Global warming will end when the prevailing political winds blow in another direction). Oops, never mind…I just saw my shadow…six more years of global waywardness and absolute lunacy. Just a thought!

How to be Resolute in your New Years Resolution

2009-01-08T08:10:00.000-08:00

January has always been a rather odd month. Outside of a freak snowstorm, the month of January has very few redeeming qualities and seems to last longer than November and December combined. Perhaps I’m not alone in this overcast impression. I surmise my sentiment stems from the abrupt conclusion of Christmas and New Years and the realization that spring is still three months away. And while that loathsome groundhog up in Punxsutawney never, ever sees his shadow, I wonder how it is possible to celebrate the inevitable shadowless varmint with quite the vim and vigor seen in up north. Maybe if groundhog stew was on the menu every February 2, Phil might unleash his illusive shadow once in a while and bless us with an early spring. But instead, Phil’s captors revere him as a saint of sorts as they handle him with kid gloves and celebrate this peculiar day of note. If Phil lived in Kentucky, we’d probably eat him. Slight difference I know but something must be done about his perpetually poor performance.

For some, January offers birthday celebrations, tax refunds, and meaningless hockey games, but for me, January is the proverbial armpit of the year with nothing but cold weather, 14 hours of darkness, frozen landscapes, icy roads, school cancellations, and empty resolutions, which is why I am writing this critique in the first place.

I’ve never really had a good New Years resolution other than the year I vowed to quit smoking. And while my attempt to cease all nicotine goodness lasted well over ten years, today I am resolute in my cessation and looking for other areas in which to tweak. Rest assured, there are plenty. I have pondered with some intensity where I want to tread in 2009. Here is what I am thinking:

Coffee – I have thought about giving up coffee as my New Years resolution but I cannot conceivably imagine my life without caffeine. Life without coffee is like sleep without dreams, at least for me, and what an empty proposition that is. I have tried tea but it is just not the same, plus it is way less cool. Can you imagine sipping hot tea over the morning sports page? Maybe drinking tea with crumpets is feasible but not with sports outside of cricket. And since I don’t know what a crumpet is, I guess I will continue my relationship with coffee this year.

Soft Drinks – I have been told that if you eliminate soft drinks from your diet that you will lose 10 pounds. I pondered this notion for a second and wondered if I would like myself any better if I lost ten pounds. And while I was drinking a Mountain Dew (caffeine) I decided that no, I don’t think I would. Now if soft drink cessation would cause me to gain 10 pounds of muscle mass, I might have a realistic resolution for 2009. Since it does not, I am on to my next option.

Meat – I never really ever considered not eating meat. I like eating meat and since a good steak is one of life’s little thrills, I will continue my plan of offsetting all the vegetarians in the world by eating more than my share. I do, however, offer my condolences to those who disagree with this philosophy. Perhaps we can settle our differences over a nice piece of steak flavored tofu and a fresh vegetable juice…with some coffee, of course.

Work – Last year I vowed to have a full-fledged book idea in place prior to December 31, 2008. While this didn’t happen, I did review some nice ideas around about December 19. Sure, procrastination is fundamental to any New Years resolution, be it exercise or book writing, but I wonder if I spent less time blogging and more time in character development if I would make any more headway. I would venture a guess that I would but blogging is much more fun and plus I get to renew my book resolution yet another year. What luck!

Well there you have it. My 2009 resolution is to repeat my 2008 resolution which is to have a feasible and well developed book idea in mind by the end of this year. In a “back to the drawing board” mentality, I proudly stand beside this decision and vow only to abandon this resolution if it has not been completely fulfilled by 2010. Whew…that’s a load off. Just a thought!

2008: A Year in Retrospective Hilarity and Lessons of Life

2008-12-10T08:13:00.000-08:00

My wife’s favorite holiday is New Years Eve. The glitz and glamour of this most festive night coupled with the allure and excitement of new beginnings and a universal sense of foresight gives her great pause and allows her a moment of reflection each year. At least that is what she tells me. As for me however, I can’t wait for the ball to drop so I can go to bed, my grand reflection awaiting my next blog entry. Who wants to be up with all the crazies anyway with their fun-loving, song-singing, beer-guzzling tom foolery? New Years Eve also reminds me of a certain little Irish pub I spent weeks of my life in as a marauding college kid with no legible plan for the future. My days in the pub lent themselves to moments of much less personal responsibility, gleeful indiscretion, and Woodpecker cider. Man I miss that cider. I guess one could say New Years Eve reminds me that things inevitably change and as we age certain memories slip further and further into the past until the are hardly memories at all.

In an effort to thwart the phenomenon of change, I am offering all those who have found their way to this obscure, yet horribly well-written blog my thoughts for 2008. I challenge all of you to do the same. In this exercise, you will not only see where you’ve been but what you have become in the year 2008. Care to play along?

On Daily Struggles and Chip-Chip Golf - February 2008

Early this year, I had the opportunity to attend a golf outing in Myrtle Beach. With the fair weather and scenic beauty of South Carolina, I joined a group of co-workers for four days of golf. What a mistake it was. I struggled with the drives, I struggled with the puts, and I struggled with the irons, although I had the chipping down cold. (Maybe I should open a chip-chip golf chain for like-skilled crappy golfers who can chip). I quickly learned if you can’t play golf well in Lexington, KY you probably won’t excel in a beach locale either, be it Myrtle Beach or any other beach on the face of the earth.

I also learned that many times life reflects this bad golfer scenario. No matter how hard a specific task is for us to achieve, others breeze through it with half the effort achieving twice the result. Perhaps not all of us are bad golfers but I surmise that at some point in your life you have faced a stumbling block that seemed insurmountable; a moment of uncertainty, not knowing how the situation should be played or if you could even attempt the task. I believe these situations to be the turning point of life, the moment when our Creator looks down at us questioning our resolve and wondering how we will play the hole. In the end, I played all 72 holes knowing that while I may stink at golf, I am an excellent caddie and cart operator. I also learned that it is in our struggles that we find our passion, our resolve, and our direction.

On Popular Culture’s Strangle Hold on the News – March 2008

In late February 2008, most major news outlets were overly occupied in covering Britney Spears and her litany of exploits and destructive behavior. While Dr. Phil worked feverishly to right her ill-fated ship, many news outlets back-burnered a story involving a U.S. spy satellite, the size of an armored truck, and its projected crash into the United States. The headline read: …”and the chance of the satellite hitting the U.S is slim, now onto other more intriguing stories involving pop culture princesses, designer crack pipes, mobile meth labs, youthful disillusionment, and the like.” Call me crazy, but how can a news agency breeze over the possibility of a spy satellite slamming into the United States while segwaying to the latest Lindsay Lohan saga? In the end, we shot that satellite down demonstrating the finest qualities of our American space programs but I am certain you were not briefed fully on the early March fireworks display; you were tuned into the pregnant man story and his, I mean her new arrival. By the way, he is pregnant again. The news would have it no other way.

Maybe I am naïve or better yet oblivious to the perils of the Universe but when a big ole spy satellite has even the slightest potential to crash into our planet, maybe we should dwell a little more on the satellite and a little less on dismissing it for the latest drug overdose in tinsel town.

On Hay Bailing and Heat Exhaustion and Everything in Between – June 2008

My brother’s father-in-law is a farmer. He is also a mountain of a man with forearms the size of my thighs and hands the size of polar bear paws, only bigger and without the claws and penguin scent. He is furthermore a sweet and kind man which is why I agreed to help him bail hay one bright and sunny June day, along with my brother of course. My decision to become a farm boy for a day was bolstered by my ego in that I figured I could handle any farm task because I had recently taken to lifting weights. Sometimes we write checks our bodies can’t cash…this is that story.

For those of you without the pleasurable experience of bailing hay let me see if I can set the scene. I arrived at the farm in question on a Sunday in late June. It wasn’t your ordinary Sunday in June and as the mercury outside inched past 92 degrees; I began to question my good judgment and forethought in this endeavor. Appropriately clad in hay bailing attire (jeans, boots, t-shirt, long-sleeved button down, hat, glasses, and gloves) I climbed aboard the hay wagon and began my future as a migrant worker in training (MWIT). While the tractor driver (Big John) directed the tractor over miles of cut hay, the bailing machine spit out hay bail after hay bail. It was fine at first, hauling each 40 pound bail to its final resting spot on the 24 foot long trailer, but as the adrenaline wore off and I realized we only had 500 or so more bails and two more trailers in waiting; I lost my ability to cope and about 8 pounds of water through my pores.

After five hours of bailing hay, hauling it across the hay wagon, stacking it 5 tiers high, drinking 7 gallons of water, and looking toward my brother (who at this point had lost all feeling in one arm) for moral support, I learned a few things about myself that I thought I would share.

1. I had no idea that you could shiver in 92 degree heat, wearing two layers of

clothes soaking wet with sweat. I’m here to tell you it is entirely possible.

2. Bailing hay is harder than typing on the keyboard. Much harder and dirtier to boot.

3. My brother was right. It is better to drive the tractor than haul the hay. A lot better.

4. Hay will scratch the skin off your arms through long sleeves and work gloves. It will also get in every nook and cranny in your body.

5. For one to write about personal experiences, regardless of their rigorous nature and heat

exhausting effects, one must experience them first.

When the last trailer was loaded and before Big John could rush home for another, I dragged my tired, tattered body to the barn. Before I departed, I was paid $50.00 for my labors as was my brother. And while my brother, being the good-hearted son-in-law he is argued every reason he could not to take the money, I grabbed my fifty bucks, slammed it in my pocket, and took my self to the house without a second thought. I was reminded that an honest days work is worth an honest days wage whether at the keyboard or on the hay wagon. I would like to think I earned that pay check; if not any other in my life…I earned that one. Thanks Big John!

Sampson and the Dishwasher, a Marley and Me Moment – October 2008

For those who know me well know Sampson at least a little. Whether or not you like Sampson is an entirely different story. Sampson is a 100 pound Boxer cut from the same cloth of Grogan’s beloved Marley; a larger than life canine with boundless energy, endless licks, and the temperament of a happy loon. Sampson is, for all intense and purposes, a very loyal companion for me and my family, my partner in crime (PIC) if you will and my love for this dog goes way beyond the salient nature of any typical man-dog relationship. With all his flaws aside, he is, without a doubt, unavoidably perfect…except when he is possessed by Marley.

In August of this year, we replaced our aging dishwasher with a new snazzy model from the local appliance store. With our new buttons, we push and poke our way to crystal clean dishes that come out dry as a bone. This was, at least until Sampson imposed his will on the new machine one late October evening. As I was diligently performing my husbandly duties of loading the dishwasher, Sampson had wandered up for a closer look. Now for all you dog people out there, I’m certain you know what he was up too, for everyone else, he was licking the dirty dishes, as was his habit. No worries, lick away right. Not Sam, not this night.

Attempting to recreate the scene, Sam must have ventured a little too far into the dishwasher and as he retreated his collar caught on the bottom tray, dishes loaded and ready to roll. Now most dogs, when facing a collar tug and with their PIC at their side might whimper or paw at your leg, heck, some would run and get little Timmy for help, but not Sam. No Sam goes ape. All of a sudden, with the might of a polar bear (sorry Big John), Sam rears back and heaves the bottom dish rack 5 feet in the air, successfully dislodging it from his collar. In the meantime and as dishes are crashing around me at a feverish clip, Sam releases a scent comparable to rotten tomatoes in the summer sun on the pantry door. When the final dish landed in pieces and the dishwasher rack lay in ruins, Sam stared up at me as if to say…Whew…That was close. Me, I felt a little less relieved, a little more enraged, and the slight pain of shredded glass stabbing my pinkie toe inside my sandal.

As I bled profusely I cleaned up the kitchen and was reminded that dishwashers and dishes are replaceable but the love of a slightly askew, overly eager, majorly skittish dog like Sampson is but one in a million. Okay, perhaps this epiphany took awhile to build, but it did nevertheless leaving me with a Marley and Me moment to add to my scrapbook. Samuel Butler once quipped "The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you,but he will make a fool of himself too.” Perhaps in this case one should say vice versa, right Sam?

On Politics, Elections, and Slights of Hand – November 2008

The United States of America made history as we elected Barack Obama President in November of 2008. While I share nary a viewpoint of similarity with the president-elect, I applaud the American political process of peaceful transitions in government through elections. And while I look back at the election that will become noteworthy for producing the first African-American president and a near democratic super majority in Congress, I wonder where the all the conservatives have gone. Perhaps they have gone the way of the martyr, leaving all fibers of belief behind for a neo-conservative mentality absent any reflection of the once strong party of self-control, personal empowerment, moral affluence, and small government.

In my last blog prior to the election I made some bold predictions. I predicted:

1. John McCain’s decision to distance himself from George Bush will cost him votes from a

centrist / right leaning electorate. (They Did)

2. The electorate, including me, does not embrace hard left liberalism even though

the nightly news tells us we do. (Debatable)

3. Most Americans prefer divided government (Even though I don’t). (Guess Not)

4. Americans will resist either a Barack Obama presidency or a filibuster proof Senate.

(Got it half right)

Here’s to hoping for a conservative reemergence in the years to come but in the meantime, I will enjoy my minority status in my political persuasions. After all, as a conscientious objector, 2009 will bring me many contradictable moments for writing and I ensure you that you will find them here. That said, the election of 2008 has taught me that no matter who you are, where you’re from, or what color skin, you can achieve the highest office in the land in the United States of America. All children can now say with a feeling of certainty that they want to be the president when they grow up…just like I did.

As 2008 slips to a close, I leave you with the moments that have marked me in ways necessary for 2009 and beyond. Only God knows our true course but I believe He uses our past to direct our future. This truth is evident in everything I do from bailing hay to comforting a large dog with a gastrointestinal defect. By chronicling these moments, I find myself etching them forever in my memory bank so that the past does not erase their clarity. I leave you with one final challenge. If you have made it to this point, (my dear wife may not apply) I urge you to click the leave a comment button, put in your information, (could be anonymous) and leave me one experience that you have had in 2008 that you want to chronicle for years to come. I will read them with anticipation as together, our experiences equal the lives we live, the people we embody, and the souls we squeeze. May 2009 find you well and lead you in ways only God can foresee. Just some thoughts and thanks for reading!

A Thanksgiving to God

2008-11-19T08:19:00.000-08:00

Every year, as the leaves begin to fall at an astronomical pace, my thoughts again turn towards the holidays. I call them the “holidays” because that is what our secular society has dubbed the times of the year when Americans celebrate general thankfulness and the birth of Jesus Christ, but in spite of definition and all sarcasm aside, my thoughts stream towards this most beautiful time like a rain-swelled creek overflowing its banks with water gushing in all directions. I am thankful, no wait, I am truly thankful for the American holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas because they allow me acquiescent pause regardless of the moment’s tenor. To be thankful, I have surmised, is to look outside of self and find peaceful accord with the environment that envelops both my physical and metaphysical being apart from its oppressive footprint on my life. I can then approach my reality in utter gratitude and thanksgiving as the American “holidays” suggest with their whimsical connotations and spiritual contexts. This mindset, however easily scripted, is a work in progress, with each step out-pacing the last until thanksgiving replaces all selfishness and “good will toward men” isn’t just an image conjured from a certain Dickens Christmas story.

As I grow older, however, and as my experiences pile up like a heavy winter’s snow, wind blown and drifted, I have realized a certain inescapable truth; my blessings are God granted, and my pathways, God guided. I make this notation, not for the obvious reason of illustrating a point but for the purpose of acknowledgement, a proverbial announcement of gratitude during a time of good tidings and inner reflection. I see in the eyes of my children the likeness of infinite peace and feel a sense of trust, as if to say, I have been trusted with these beautiful souls, and for that, I am immensely thankful and blessed. I can no longer picture my self alone, unattached, or able to meander the world like a placid river roaming the landscape in search of the sea because I feel the significance of my little ones with their hearts on my sleeve and their heads on my chest. I am physically blessed to be a father, a blessing from God which cannot go unspoken this Thanksgiving.

When I was young, in my mind, I pictured the woman I would marry when I grew old. In much the same way as a dream leaves a canvas etched but unseen, I imagined her to be what she became when I married her years later. Her exquisite physical shell is simply the wrapping of her beautiful soul, soft and fragile, yet strong and prominent in her earthly stride. Her blessing was planned for me, and I for her by our Creator who knew us in our mother’s wombs and guided us safely through a world of obstacles and obstructions. He matched us from birth and collided our souls in physical and spiritual harmony with a skill not known in earthly ranks. He chose for me a partner to lean towards and celebrate inside of all the days I have on earth. I am a husband, a gift from God, and a blessing that cannot go unspoken this Thanksgiving.

As a boy, I formed lifelong friendships that have delivered many lessons along the way. Through the eyes of my brothers, I have learned compassion for others, strength in unity, unwavering love, a warrior spirit, equality, youthful exuberance, and unfortunately heartbreaking loss. I am thankful to have one friend but truly blessed to have many, an unmistakable gift from God. I am a friend and in this acknowledgment I pledge my friendship for all the days of my life in the shared missions our band of brothers choose to engage.

I am utterly thankful this Thanksgiving for the landscapes that lay out before my eyes and the seasons that color them in every hue of the rainbow. It is in the sights and smells of nature that I find my most reflective appreciation of God and His wondrous creation. The poets write of flowering lace and shadows of air, of clear midnights and woodlands brown, of myriad harmonic creatures and their earthly treks upon whirls of foliage not yet laid. Their verses, however expertly crafted, pale in comparison with an actual view from a mountain’s peek or a glimpse inside an autumn’s fall; a phenomenon even the poets prose fails to completely capture. This Thanksgiving, I recognize my thankfulness of our world and its features, a thanksgiving that cannot go unacknowledged and a blessing from God.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once penned,

For flowers that bloom about our feet;For tender grass, so fresh, so sweet;For song of bird, and hum of bee;For all things fair we hear or see,Father in heaven, we thank Thee!

I will let Mr. Emerson have the final word but only this once. Just a thought!

Bucking the System; the Popularity of President George W. Bush

2008-10-29T08:08:00.000-07:00

I follow political polling and trends like most people follow weather forecasts. The same can said for the DJIA, a barrel of crude and statistical averages across three major sports. Trending is something I analyze, manipulate, and in many cases cite to buoy a political point or perspective. This hobby of mine, however, makes me horribly unpopular with those who engage in bandwagon politics for the sole purpose of fitting in with the aptly named “in crowd.” Not me. Fitting in politically has never been my bailiwick nor will it ever be with the current tide of entitlement that has swept across America. In this election cycle, the American people will soon decide whether a borderline Marxist liberal will obtain the presidency or if an elderly liberal Republican will get the nod. Absent their running mates, the politics of this cycle can be summed up as follows: after the presidency of George W. Bush, conservative politics as we know them will be taken out back and caned for the next four years. This is of course because George W. Bush is an atrociously unpopular president, or that assertion, at the very least, is what the statistics and talking heads suggest.

The graph above is a simple illustration of President Bush’s approval ratings through June 2008. What this graph illustrates is the notion that President Bush is horribly unpopular with the electorate, as per the dismal approval ratings. We see this dismal number of 25% and we draw conclusions as to why this number is so low. Do 75% of Americans really disapprove of President Bush? And if so, then why shouldn’t I? Due to that question, I decided to add a little objectivity to the above graph. Please don’t turn me in for copyright infringements…this is for illustrations purposes only (my add-on skills are way above par!)

(Add on information: January 2006 – Democrat filibuster of Supreme Court picks show spike in presidential popularity…hmmmm very interesting, November 2006 – Election Day – Democrats take control of Congress, approval numbers of the president substantially tank, Current approval rating of 25% - October 2008).

While President Bush enjoyed the largest approval rating ever in September 2001 (90%) he is also primed to leave office with the worst approval rating ever (since records have been kept, 25%). As a conservative, I do not accept the broad stroke explanation that conservatism should give way toward liberalism in the same manner that I do not wish the flu on my common man for the cure of his head ache. Historically speaking, here is why.

Since 1946, every president has produced similar approval rating graphs with one exception, Bill Clinton. We will get to Slick Willie in a second. Upon election to supreme leader of the world, our presidents have enjoyed approval ratings above 55% (i.e. the reason they were elected in the first place). Over the course of their presidencies, however, they had to make some hard decisions and their popularity began to wane. In some cases, these ebbs and flows were drastic and in others, a little more modest, however, the one constant is that they leave office with much less popularity in the polls. Bill Clinton being the lone exception (remember this: the exception does not disprove the rule.) Here is why.

BILL CLINTON DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!

Sorry, that is not indicative of my political prowess. I wanted to wake you up prior to illustrating these historical facts. President Clinton, who I have grown to love, gets his highest approvals amidst sexual misconduct allegations and perjury accusations. One interesting note on Clinton is that in late 1993, his approvals spike concurrently with Operation Gothic Serpent that was fought on October 3 and 4, 1993, in Mogadishu, Somalia, by forces of the United States supported by UNOSOM II against Somali militia fighters loyal to warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid. This was a quick strike operation. Perhaps this is a coincidence but it leads me to other war time presidents and interesting similarities with peace time presidents.

President Truman tanks in approval ratings prior to a November 1946 Republican take over of Congress thus dividing the parties of the executive and legislative branch. His popularity is ebb and flow until the onset of the Korean War, when, like President Bush, his popularity flops like a chocolate chip pancake in a sea of maple syrup.

Skipping forward to Lyndon Johnson, we see a continual downward trend in popularity due to the unpopular and on going Viet Nam war. Languishing throughout his term, Johnson enjoyed wild popularity compared to George W. Bush even though he chose to micro manage a war in a board game like fashion. Ignoring generals in the field and choosing targets over his morning coffee, I wonder how Johnson remained as popular as he did. I’d say George W. Bush wonders that as well.

Similar to Johnson’s ratings, Bush’s approval ratings tank after the onset of the Iraq war. Even the paltriest of political thinkers can make the assumption that the quagmire of war is unpopular with a population of quitters and corner cutters. But that is just me. Let’s consider these comparisons prior to moving on:

President Truman: Approval ratings tank at onset of Korean War.
President Eisenhower – Lowest approval rating is still over 50%, no wars in either term.
President Kennedy – Approval ratings decline throughout partial term most notably due to the Bay of Pigs Invasion and the Cuban Missile Crisis. Lest we’ve forgotten?
President Johnson – Lowest approval ratings seen around the Tet Offensive in Vietnam.
President Nixon – Highest approval rating seen around the Paris Peace Accords signed by all parties in Viet Nam. Watergate, really…why?
President Ford – Approvals tank just prior to Saigon falling to the North Vietnamese in early 1975.
President Carter – Lowest approval ratings during the Iranian Hostage Crisis in 1979.
President Regan – Considered to have ended the Cold War, Regan still left office with approval ratings under 60% after a plummet to the mid 40’s% during the Iran Contra scandal.
President H W Bush – Sees a major peak in popularity during the liberation of Kuwait (80%). The Persian Gulf War lasted from August 1990 until the Kuwaiti liberation in February of 1991.
President Clinton – Enjoys rising popularity amidst a provocative yet timid two terms in office.
President Bush – Steady decline in approval ratings until he tanks at 25% in October of this year. Can you say “One, two, three, four, what are we fighting for, don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn.” War is unpopular. Really!

The above information has illustrated my point that any president guilty of modern day war fighting in the eyes of the electorate will take a nose dive in approval rating. This does not count quick strikes that demonstrate our fighting prowess, i.e. the Persian Gulf War, et al. but only long and hardened wars against the filth of the world. If we don’t fight these wars, who will? Should tyrannical governments be allowed to systematically kill their people? Should the United States and our presidents act in our best interest? If George W. Bush knew the Iraq War would look like this:

Would he still have chosen to liberate a people from a tyrannical government, dispose of a murderous dictator, and create a democracy in the Middle East? Would you? The Iraqis are probably glad President Bush didn’t review graph prior to the liberation of their country.

Why would a president choose to go to war knowing his popularity will suffer in the long run, his legacy will be tarnished, and he will be accused of war mongering for the sake of oil? All good questions for debate, but not here…this is a numbers blog…onward my friends to congressional approval ratings.

The above graph illustrates Congressional approval rating since the Nixon administration. I find it interesting that once again, the highest approval ratings come amidst the onset of the Afghan conflict resulting from the September 11, 2001 attacks. What is even more interesting is the substantially low approval numbers across the board for our representative government. Here are the facts:

Throwing out 2001 when approval ratings reflected patriotism surrounding 9/11, the highest congressional approval ratings come during the 104th Congress when Republican leadership seized control and laid out their contract with America. (Republican Contract with America). Interesting enough, Bill Clinton’s popularity takes off like a bottle rocket at the very same time. Ultimately, Bill Clinton gets the credit for the economy while Newt Gingrich goes home to teach. Putting a microscope on recent approval ratings, it is my duty to share with you the following:

Since the Democrat take over of Congress in January 2007, their approval ratings have collapsed by more than 75% landing them at a robust 11% approval rating, by democrats none the less. (Writer’s note: these numbers are 9 months old, current approval ratings have the approval of this Congress below 10%. Freightening.) At a 25 – 30% approval rating, President Bush looks like a hero compared to our Democratic led Congress. But that is not what we hear on TV nor on the campaign trail is it?

What we continue to hear on the campaign trail from Barack Obama is that we need change and speaking rhetorically, change is what we will get on November 4, 2008, whether in the form of John McCain or Barack Obama. We will have change because George W. Bush, the media darling that he is will have served two consecutive terms as our president. While his popularity comes under scrutiny every day, I ask you this, with the information just provided and based on historical fact, is he really that unpopular or is it his war that is unpopular? And if indeed he is horrendously unpopular, how do you square away the fact that our Congress is half as popular as our president. Certainly there is a reason why the popularity of the Congress or lack thereof, is the fault of the Republican Party. Perhaps objectivity does not apply to politics these days but calls for a filibuster proof Senate and huge democratic gains in the House by congressional Democrats due to a lack of popularity by a lame duck president has me scratching my head and asking one very necessary question.

Is any one buying this POOP?

History paints a very clear picture. Modern war time presidents are unpopular. George W. Bush is unpopular because he went to war with Iraq. This notion has snowballed into what we see today; Democrats masquerading, yes I said MASQUERADING, as if they have a blank check to cash (tax dollars, folks! You must be patriotic) on behalf of the American people, and we the people, are eager to get out our check books and pony up to the bar. But are you ready to embrace hard left Marxist politics in the home of the free?

If you buy the Obama argument that change is needed because of George Bush’s unpopular Y2K politics and war, then you must also accept the argument when applied to the Congress. If, like me, you think the change argument is a load of poop, then perhaps you will reject the theory of political capital being put forth by Pelosi, Reid, and the rest of the ruling power in Congress and elect John McCain, the only moderate running this cycle regardless of the coattails of President Bush. (Did I just support a liberal? I am feeling very, very worldly now).

So, in contrast to political consensus among the talking heads, here is the conscientious objectors take on the political winds today:

President Bush is not as unpopular as our democratic congress.

John McCain’s decision to distance himself from George Bush will cost him votes from a centrist / right leaning electorate.

Congressional approval ratings correlate directly with presidential approval ratings.

The electorate, including me, does not embrace hard left liberalism even though the nightly news tells us we do.

Hard decisions will always lead to dissent.

Most Americans prefer divided government (Even though I don’t).

Americans will resist either a Barack Obama presidency or a filibuster proof Senate.

Of course, I have been wrong once before…Just a thought!

Gleaming the Sneetch

2008-10-08T07:10:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite children’s stories growing up was Dr. Seuss’s The Sneetches. Year after year, in doctor offices and myriad other random waiting rooms, I would patiently search out any resident Dr. Seuss collection in hopes to peruse the pages of Sneetchdom.

Who knows why children like what they like, be it Green Eggs and Ham or any of the many adventures Seuss created, but for me, I looked for Sneetches “with stars upon thars.” I found Sylvester McMonkey McBean intriguing and his machine, masterful. Could he really create a Star-Bellied Sneetch from a Pain-Bellied Sneetch, I remember thinking as if Seuss’s cartoon world was as real as my neighborhood at home.

A sneetch is a sneetch, whether starred or barred, I concluded with the last flip of the page in a sort of awkward way thus fulfilling the author’s objective of illustrating the picture of racial equality for youthful readers. While the story book Sneetches “forgot about stars and whether they had one, or not, upon thars,” today’s Sneetches are all about stars and, “with their snoots in the air, they sniff and they snort, we'll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!"

It is hard not to make the comparison of Seuss’s Sneetches with today’s political landscape. Whether tuned into the evening news or perusing the political blogs, one finds no objectivity anymore, only political mouthpieces blindly repeating the day’s talking points and slights of hand.

While conservative in nature myself, this criticism is leveled at both political parties and their all too eager minions bent at sculpting political gains from unsuspecting bystanders with hollow words and catty comments. With “famous idiots” issuing their decrees, political neophytes repeating their ill-constructed philosophies, and politicos pocketing your money at a frenzied clip, politics is no longer a device of this republic; it is a game of perversion with the winners reaping Sylvester McMonkey McBean-like fame and fortune.

via The Insider

“Then, when every last cent of their money was spent,The Fix-It-Up Chappie packed up. And he went. And he laughed as he drove in his car up the beach, “They never will learn. No. You can’t teach a Sneetch!””

I see an unfortunate environment in this country where our politicians stand on platforms and make statements of fact that are conclusively false yet, as voters, we spin their rhetoric faster than a hungry spider in a field of mosquitoes. We spin a web of partisanship because our preferred candidate is a reflection of our beliefs and must be defended against the indefensible, protected against all criticisms, and paraded as the next savior to the world.

In the end, however, our candidate, win or lose, becomes yet another politician playing a game we, as citizens, have agreed to lose every election cycle. When will we see that the issues we fight for year in and year out are secondary to the goals of our politicians?

In November, when the fix-it-up chappies pack up and go, will we be left with a president-elect primed to right the ship of America or a charlatan who just won the greatest game on the face of the earth? Perhaps my sneetchdom is too raw and my ire too thick, but sneetches these days get the short end of the stick. Just a thought!