We live in a violent world. I take that back. "Violent" is an understatement and a misuse of the term in comparing it to where we are. I read, just this morning, about a man killing eight people in a nursing home, another man killing his two sisters-decapitating one just before the arriving officer could kill him, and the always present suicide bomber blowing himself up along with a bunch of police cadets in Iraq. Each, I am sure, had a logical reason in their grey matter as to why they needed to do what they did.

I had lunch today with my friend, Rick, whom I worked with years ago. Rick is still in law enforcement and responsible for the security of the Arizona Supremes--the judges, and the building they live in. When we get together, along with our dear friend, Andy, we usually talk about 1) family 2) retirement accounts 3) vacation locations and 4) violence. Rick said he wears his gun where ever he goes, even off duty. I remember when I retired, one of the biggest issues I had was NOT wearing my weapon. Being unarmed, when for decades you always were armed, took some getting use to. Today, almost a decade after I left law enforcement, I wish I could still carry my loving little Glock. Frankly, you who read this, want people like me, Rick, Andy, my little boy Travis, my two sons-in-law, walking around in the grocery next to you fully and readily armed. I'm not saying everyone needs to have a gun just those highly trained with the nightmares being armed carries. Without your knowledge, we bring harmony to the places we walk and share that harmony with, well, you. Even church today, is not a fully safe and loving place although forgiving; it is not a safe place other than the full power and capacity of God to provide that protection. Who goes to a church with an armed guard at the door? With some news accounts out, that wouldn't be such a stretch. Maybe God-this is just a thought-provides the full power of His protection, via people who don't mind walking around with sixteen hollow-point rounds of 941 feet per second of pure lovin' ready to reach out and touch Crazy Henry in between the horns before he slaughters his baby in aisle 3 at the Safeway because Jodi Foster spoke to him in a dream and told him to do so. George Orwell had a statement which I copied and put on shirts for Travis and his squad-with some minor changes-"People sleep peacefully in their beds at night because there are rough men (and women) willing to do violence on their behalf." Somehow, that brings me comfort.

The world hasn't changed-ever. There wasn't a "nicer" time or a more "peaceful" time. People weren't any better off in the fifties; they just didn't talk about it. The world has had no time when man hasn't wanted to steal, rob, murder, his fellow man just for giggles. The world will never be a time or place, without God stepping in with Himself, where peace will reign. Sorry, it ain't going to happen without a God level of interdiction. We have moments of time where things are quiet and quite nice, but it doesn't last. It never has. It hasn't happened for thousands of years and it isn't about to start now. So, with that piece of wonderful, cheery news you say "Geez, Mark, that was happy. So, what is going to happen to us sheep?" Well, there is an answer.

First, you gotta understand I'm not a "God, guns, and guts" "kill 'em all and let god sort 'em out" "you can have my gun when you..." kind of guy. I am, I guess, a realist although labels are for shirts. This isn't a Republican/Democrat, pro-right/left kind of thing. I love peace. I love flowers. I like soft music and holding hands with my wife in public. I don't care for NASCAR and I don't have any guns except my service weapon. I got news; we, the collective we, aren't in trouble; we HAVE NEVER BEEN OUT of trouble. It's been a constant. Man has been messing up since the advent of the Red Delicious and ever since we have been trying to lie, cheat, steal our way back. There isn't a plan or new deal that hasn't been tried in ten different flavors. Nope, we've been treading water with no sight of shore. So, why am I so upbeat, singing high notes, dancing naked--er--dancing and smiling when all about us are high cholestorol, free-basing yahoos with a propencity for talking to people who aren't there and have high capacity magazines just aching to see how fast they can clear one to empty?

You have those little boys at the top of this piece, and those like them, who are currently standing in the gap while you and I sleep peacefully at night. You have my friends Rick, Tina, Andy, Kathleen, and old bastards like Don who haven't retired yet-and really should-old Silverbacks, still trained and ready to respond appropriately to any level of violence some loon decides to mistakenly do in their presence. You, who sleep well and love your peace, deserve to sleep well. It has been paid for and continues to be paid for, first by the Son of Man but given His heart of serving, to men and women-rough, proud, humble, reckless abandoned-type people who, without hesitation, would jump into the darkness of Hell for strangers like you. Why? Well, we can go a bunch of different ways, one of which is the simple fact that they LOVE that stuff, but I have one belief that may cause you to think. God has laid his hands on them-these few-these happy few. They have a heart unlike any other. As one old warrior said once about Travis going overseas "Oh, he's a servant." Travis' company motto was a quote from Isaiah "Send me Lord." And there are men and women, thousands-millions of them world wide answering that call. They rush in while the sheep rush out. They can't help it. They are drawn to a good fight.

Yes siree, its a violent world. Sorry, wrong verb. I can't think of one bad enough to describe it so it will have to do for now. But, if you are looking for peace, ask one of those at the top of the page. They know the true definition of that word. What about God? Oh, he's here. He loves us, He cares for each hair on our heads. He cries when we cry and believe it or not, he laughs big belly laughs when we are happy and laughing too. God loves peace; He invented it. We, if we choose well, will see peace and experience it when we roll up the carpet and go home. But until then, we get to curl up in His lap anytime we want. We are never, unless we choose to, away from Him. And no one-no one, knows this loving protection, like those that have seen the worst the world has to throw at us.

Those few, those happy few.

Sunday morning

A little while ago, we talked about Saturday mornings and the quiet leading to the storm of the rest of the day. The one day of the week that traditionally holds it's peace is Sunday mornings. I just got back from walking the dogs. The early morning is still cool here in Phoenix. You don't have to tank up with a quart of water before you go out and get the paper out of your driveway like you do in the dead of summer. I actually put on a sweat shirt. The sun was up but low so the lights through the trees caused the green to be greener. You know what I mean? Even the morning music changes on Sunday morning.

If you're reading this in the Metro Phoenix area, you know about KYOT, 95.5 The Coyote as its called by its smooth talking announcers. Nick Francis, rules until ten with smooth, silky jazz but if you don't like jazz this is still the station because its not jazz. I'm not quite sure what it is. Now, if you're listening in Vladivostok, you don't have KYOT unless you're with the Russian Air Defense and then maybe through a satellite hook up, nope, the best ya got there is Good Morning Vladivostok with Igor Vlacdonovich and his sidekick Sal, talking about tides, fishing, and oh yeah-how freaking cold it is.

On Sundays we do different things, if we are not working second shift, but all of it is directed towards one goal-taking a breath and relaxing. A dear friend of mine goes golfing; another couple across the street go for a bike ride or walk their golden retrievers; my wife-Joni, sleeps in then we go to church followed by lunch somewhere with the kids. Even when our son, Travis, was in the vacation town of Tikrit, if he wasn't working Sundays patrolling for evil, there was something different about that day. If he could close his eyes, put on a pair of headphones and smell some artificial pine, like those hanging from your rear view, he felt he was almost home-until he opened his eyes. You get my point.

Nope, Sunday in 'Merica is special, they always have been and, hopefully, always will be. The coffee always tastes better; the paper is thicker, the news doesn't seem as bad when you have comics in color instead of black and white; God is seemingly closer. There's a light breeze outside. The grass just got watered, the dogs are resting with their heads on the windowsill or on the sidewalk in the neighbors front yard. Aaron Neville just got done singing It feels like Rain on the KYOT. Nope, Sunday morning is a good place to be.

I have to go, my coffee is getting cold.

Good old days with fire

To the right there, is a good example of having too much fat on your steak when your grilling on Saturdays. It also applies to the weekly coffee story below. Enjoy.

Remember your birthday parties when you were younger? There was a time when, in my youth, a change took place from pinning tails on donkeys to a higher form.

When I was a teenager, I was sometimes embarrassed by my mother. No, it’s not fun to say, but my mom had ‘consumption’ issues that, in the early seventies, were unpredictable. Having a house full of the most important elements to your high school identity, when your mom was on a binge, was fully avoided at all cost. Younger birthday parties were fine but that season in my mom’s life happened to coincide with my teenage years and as we can all attest, a child, in their teenage years, goes legally insane when anything happens.

My father had died when I was fourteen and my brothers and sister had moved out years before so it was just the two of us. She was really a great mom-with one massive flaw. During the day and a sizable portion of the nights, she was fine, but on some nights-wow. So a birthday party-at night-with my friends-was out of the question. I told her why. She actually begged for a shot at it. Believe it or not, she was actually turning the corner. We talked and came to a mutual game plan. A party of just my guy friends, over for dinner-a big dinner-steaks, potatoes, you know-real food. Stuff that made teen age boys forget about girls and beer was anything that has the word ‘T-bone’ in it. Thus, “Festival” was born.

Festival was the annual birthday celebration that lasted for several years, eventually moving itself to North Mountain Park and the ramada you see next to the water tower, just above the National Guard base on Seventh Street. The boys would gather and grill steaks and eat beans, filling themselves on soft drinks and beef. Alcohol was never needed when you had cows to eat. Teenage boys, with full bellies of good food, were content and not overwhelmed by any other desires, at least for a while. There was a cake in there somewhere but if memory serves, most of that was used in a food fight. As a significant part of the annual celebration, the birthday boy would climb the hill behind the ramada to a craggy outcropping a few hundred feet straight up, light a road flare, let out a god-awful ‘war cry’ and run down the dark, cactus invested, razor sharp hill holding the 1500 degree road flare up so all could see. The idea was to make it down without falling, setting the mountain on fire, or making any form of late night news. It always seemed to work, other than the one time he set his hair a blaze with a piece of molten ember from the flare falling onto his skull. Mom was always so proud-of the party-she never knew about the pyrotechnics.

Festival has gone by the wayside along with the yellow leisure suit. But tomorrow morning there will be coffee and snacks, the food of middle-aged ‘Festival’ goers. Come and enjoy. If you’re there before the sun comes up, and if you listen quietly-facing north, you can hear the war cry of the festival revelers of the past. Don’t try it yourself. At our age, we’ll throw a clot.

Saturday morning isn't for wienies

Saturday mornings are not for wienies. A lot of people look at Saturday as a day of rest but if you own a home and you're a dad, it's a day to get all that stuff done you didn't get done during the week. A week's worth of stuff to do in one day. Only dad's can do that.

The day starts soft. You sleep in a little later than you did during the week, but knowing its the weekend, you stayed up later on Friday night, maybe treating yourself to watching the 10 o'clock news. You throw your robe on and wander out with the dogs to collect the paper from the driveway. It's beautiful this time of year, still cool but not cold. Here is where things start to get aerobic. The paper isn't seen. That's because the paper boy on the big paperboy bike is no longer a paper boy, but a grown man or woman driving a 1987 Toyota getting up at three in the morning to earn a few extra bucks. They don't like their job; who would at three in the morning? The care they give your paper when they toss it into your driveway and it slides under your car, is not high on their list. So, in your robe and half secured sandals, you get down on your hands and knees and crawl under the car to retrieve it.

You spend the next hour making your coffee, reading the paper, and then a quiet moment by yourself in the bathroom. The house is quiet. The only quiet for the whole day. You love that. You finish the paper with the comics and a weak attempt at the crossword puzzle then, after making yourself a second cup, you start to organize your attack. The lawn? That leak in the sink? Summer is just a few hours away, that means the swamp cooler needs to be prepped and staged for service.

Now, fathers with kids, it takes on a new meaning. Children want to participate in the cool stuff that we call 'labor' which, of course, adds six hours to any project. I always wondered how my father, in his late fifties, was so strong. He didn't work out (early seventies, no one worked out) but in his role as father he would routinely wrestle with my older brothers who were young strapping teenagers and he would always, win-always. His arms weren't 'cut' or bulky but smooth and non-descript. It was not until I became a father did I realize his strength came from carrying kids around the yard, up on the roof, to the store, everywhere. Dads ALWAYS worked out. Plus, they knew holds and kicks they learned in those 'special schools' while they were in the military or some other para-military organization that would render strapping teenagers useless.

As the day crawls through the hours, things start getting checked off; the yard, that leak, the awesome swamp cooler. Meanwhile, mother is working on the inside, either with the children, or creating another list for you to start, just in case you finish your first list. Idle hands are the Devil's workshop-or something like that. Women don't like men with idle hands.

Scientifically, men go home to God ten to fifteen years before women. Doctors and scientists have made livings studying how to improve and extend our lives. I don't know about you but I want them to stop. I don't want to live to be ninety with the last seven years in a diaper and people talking to me at the top of their lungs because I can't hear.

Nope, God doesn't like that either. Men go home ten to fifteen years earlier than women because of two reason, 1) they have become such flaming butts they need to be removed from the planet and deposited somewhere else (yes, this is Biblical-its in the minor prophets somewhere) or 2) it's God's reward for a job well done. So, men, I think we bitch about our Saturdays only if we're not real men, like we're from France. A real man will attack their Saturdays! Make it from dawn until dusk, stress that heart, torque that back. Yep, that's what we'll do.

Who knows, the bus might get here that much sooner!

Hey, I wanna a bonus too! I think.

I'm not upset with those boys and girls who are getting bonus money from these big companies. Really, think about it. I mean, what is your price, or mine? Who would I sell out for a million dollars? how about six million? Wouldn't you TRY to sneak away unseen with a nice direct deposit to your Wells Fargo? Now, I wouldn't shoot somebody or try to sell some pictures of someone walking on the beach-holding hands with someone who wasn't his or her spouse, or commit a major crime (low and medium crimes are still up for clarification and discussion). I mean if you legitimately "earned" a bonus by sticking it out or holding it up, or sold the most, wouldn't you try to walk out the door with something that would clear most of your debts, put a nice little balance in your savings account, as well as pay for that round trip to the Grand Cayman's where the water is blue, the beer is cold, and the banks have no agreements for disclosure via subpoena. What, actually, is our bottom line?

It's funny, I might actually sell out my country's secrets for a maple long-john. One of those from Krispey-Kreme. You know the kind; the one's that when you bite them, the top and bottom are so moist and gooey they pinch together. Yep, I'm salivating too. But a million bucks-hmm. I'm not that motivated. Sure, it would be nice but you know someone would find out. Then they would want something, like a car, or dinner, or a new kidney. Pretty soon, you've run out of money but no one would believe you. They would keep asking. You'd have to say 'no' or keep up the lie and keep shelling out the gifts, then you'd be broke but you would keep it up until all you had left was a pair of black socks and a CD of Gordon Lightfoot, laying face down in your own mix of vomit and Thunderbird, under the Seventh Avenue Bridge with a new street 'friend' named Gustave who said in his prime he was a feline in CATS on Broadway until he broke his ankle and became addicted to the pain meds. He talks to cats all around him, none of which are there.



Nope, I'm not upset with those boys and girls at all.

Morning

Every Friday at school, I make coffee for the staff. I've been doing it for a few years as a way to bring people out of their caves and get them to mingle a little with others as well as just to enjoy a Friday morning. Teaching, especially teaching high school students is tough-real tough. It was kind of a way I got to minister to others. Free or real cheap coffee and snacks before school. Well, I started with just a quick announcement the day before, giving people a head's up that in the morning, there would be a nice snack for them. Those announcements grew from a sentence or two to full blown short stories. So, to stay in the tradition of Coffee Friday, here is an example and from now on, you will also be privy to the blessings of a good cup of joe.

Gus Timmerson was a cowboy. He had been a cowboy for seventy-two years, ever since he could ride the Morgan his papa gave him when he was four. He could saddle the horse on his own at 5. He won his first junior rodeo with barrel racing at 12 and was on his first cattle drive the year before. He married his high school sweetheart who was also the apple of his young eyes in grade school, which was the same two room school house in that remote part of eastern Montana. They had four children together and just a year before this writing, Gus Timmerson, buried his wife from an extended fight with cancer. Now, in the backyard of his years on Earth, a history of two broken hips, a broken arm, the blizzard of ’86 that almost took him and his herd, all the things that life had thrown, and at a time when most would find the rocker on the porch of that back yard a comforting thought, Gus Timmerson was going back to school to get his college degree in, of all things, Modern Art.

Gus Timmerson loved to draw and paint what he drew. Wherever he was on his 1900 acres, either on horse or in his Ford truck, Gus kept a sketch pad with him. He would draw whatever he saw, simple things, and common things. Things most of us miss-he saw. At night, he would sit either on the front or back porch and have a fine, aged drink, his border collie, Mindy, laying at his feet, and looking at something that was finding its way onto his paper. One of his grand children suggested college one day and the idea stuck. It had taken him ten years, the first of them at the community college and the rest he would make the hour trip into Billings.

So, on a cool spring day, Gus Timmerson walked down the aisle of the University of Montana at Billings in a black robe and a mortar board, underneath were a pair of well worn jeans and cowhide Ropers.

And when his name was called as he crossed the stage, the legacy of Gus Timmerson, his four children, sixteen grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren, were the loudest of all.

It’s never too late. Coffee is free on Friday-Coffee Friday. If you don’t drink coffee, it’s never too late to learn how. Oh, yeah, snacks and tea are also available for you tenderfoots.

Engagement parties-really?

So, our little boy, Travis, got engaged and we have an engagement party to celebrate-the engagement. No, Travis isn't little. That's just a hangover from when he was a little boy. He is now 22, 6'3", and in college. He spent a beautiful year touring Saddam's home town of Tikrit. Nope, he's just a little boy in his parent's mind. But do we really need a party to celebrate him asking Tara, his wonderful fiance, to marry him? I think its a girl thing. Any reason to get together and do social stuff like that. There were pictures of the two of them when they were kids, pictures of the two of them when they were older, pictures of the two of them together, there were videos of the two of them, testimonials, lies, all types of things going on at this festival. Mother spent the day cleaning and nesting and I spent the day cooking, cutting the lawn, grooming the dog (my goal was to save $60 at Petsmart) and running to the store for the thirtieth time. The night went great but there were discoveries.

As clans have for centuries, the meeting of two families took place. My ancestors use to meet in the fields of the highlands in Scotland, swap some sheep, get drunk, and throw rocks at each other out of love and respect. We've come a short block from those good days. The Williams clan was drastically outnumbered by Tara's deep and wide family roots. She has cousins who have cousins-and she knows their names! Who the heck knows the names of their cousins' cousin? What is a cousin of a cousin? Do they get invited to the wedding? If they are invited, do they eat or is that limited to just the first line of cousins? When one is planning a wedding, money is an issue, the most expensive part is the food. Are there levels of eating? If your part of the immediate family, you get the whole enchilada. If you're second tier, like nephews or parents of the flower girl, you get cake only. If you are the cousin of the cousin, I think we should be able to limit you to whatever you bring from Burger King. I think that's fair.

Here's the problem, I don't come from a big family. Big families scare me. They're big. But what fun! Huge, gargantuan families of people whose names you never even begin to remember. Counsel to my little boy-just smile, nod, and say "It's good to see you again."

I've mentioned it a few times. Emancipating Elias is out and available. Here is the book jacket for your light entertainment. Just click on the photo and it will explode to where you can read it.

The next book, Holyground, hopefully will be out by Christmas for a holiday book release and more importantly, a book signing at the University Club here in Phoenix. What a fun time at the last one!! Holyground is darker than Emancipating, dealing with forgiveness and carrying the burden of that for decades. It seemed so dark that it even depressed me. But then the guys showed up. I won't say anymore now because, well, I don't know what more to say-right now, other than they will be great to meet.

Food-stealing ethics

I had dinner with a couple of dear friends the other night. We try to get together and drink with good food as the motivation. Its kind of funny because both of these men are pastors. I have turned them on to fine single-malt scotch and now when they go home or just want to feel special, they pour themselves a couple of fingers of the amber gold but more importantly, they know they can hang out with me and just enjoy a glass of wine without anyone saying to them something stupid like "Youz two now goin' to Hell for consumin' the Devil's drink." Not that anyone in Phoenix talks like that, unless of course, they're out here from West Virginia and they have married their sister's child. Now, don't get me wrong, we don't sit there and do shots of Jack and throw things. At our age, we like peace and quiet. For as much as I talk about it and include it in my stories, I just don't drink. One of my friends even asked me how many beers I drink a week, since I was drinking one. I couldn't remember the last one I had.

So there we sat, sitting on the patio of this fine central Phoenix establishment, they with their wine and I with my beer, allowing our blood pressure to drop. Now, the thing is about this restaurant is it advertises good, healthy, food-healthy. That's fine with me. Based on recent family medical history discoveries, I'm do for a quintuple bi-pass before I'm 60, just nine years away. I run and exercise and don't smoke, I never play with high-power lines if I can help it so I feel pretty good. But its in the cards; I just know it. I started to look around and saw that a lot of the people there were, well, skinny. Other than my two friends and I, everyone else kind of looked like a good steak with some mashed potatoes and gravy would be good for them right about now. I found out why.

When they brought our dinner (one friend had a chicken salad, the other a chicken burger-red flag right there, and I a personal pizza) I knew I would need to stop off at Wendy's on the way home. Now, it was good, don't worry about that. All three bites were fine. It just wasn't enough. Volume, even volume of mediocre stuff, is better than a thimble of excellent food. So, we sipped our drinks, talked about how good everything was, then as we finished, we started looking around at other people's meals. Maybe one of them would leave to use the restroom, leaving their plate unguarded? No luck.

So we sat for a while longer. One of my friends had to leave for rehearsal, leaving just two of us. Eventually we got up and walked for a while, just talking, trouble-shooting life. After about a half an hour, we were done and went to our prospective cars for the quick ride home. On the way, I passed by a Wendy's, Quiznos, two Arby's, and a sushi place. You heard me, I said 'passed.' I wasn't hungry or so hungry I couldn't control myself. Nope, I was a good boy. The idea of my chest cracked open and a team of three doctors, one of them doing their internship from New Dehli saying things like "Oops" and "I have never seen such a blockage" ranted in my skull. However, come to think about it, I probably should of had two beers.

What do we think?

I don't know about this, this 'blog' stuff. I mean I swore I would never do this and here I am-blogging or whatever the politically correct term is. I was convinced by a few friends that it might be good for the book, Emancipating Elias and the birth of another-Holyground sometime before I die, maybe the end of this year or the beginning of next.

Now, if you've been reading this, somehow, you are way ahead of me and already blog and flog and probably eat hot dogs. So, here we go, wandering into a world of typing conversations and virtual voices.

Now, quickly so you can get back to where ever you were, this is me and if you decide to stay and ride the pony over the next few months or years or however long we do this, this site will be the home of what I do, write. Yep, Emancipating is a good book and if you don't have it, you really want it. Order it on line or break into your friends house while their gone and steal it. It's okay, I told you to do it. There are still some at Borders at the Biltmore. If you're reading this in Helsinki, that little piece of information is as worthless as a Speedo and picnic basket for a nice beach day.

So, there will be more later but as for right now, that will be enough. But if you want more, check out the website about the book, www.markjwilliams.com