Weddings, celebrations, and the proper use of scotch

My family and I were privileged to go to a wedding this last weekend of a dear friend's daughter. We were FRIGGIN' lucky enough to be invited to go to the wedding in Newport Beach, California. Anything to get out of a Phoenix summer. But this was a good one. Really good. Newport was where the bride and groom met, fell in love, and wanted to get married. It was beautiful, overlooking a golf course and in the distance, the ocean. The temperature was worth a jacket at night and the world for both families was something they should remember forever.

There are rules, however.

There is decorum.

My friend, whom, by the way, graciously stood out of the way and allowed his wife and daughter to run like muskrats in a forest fire and plan this beautiful event, knew these rules and followed them to the letter. Let's review some of them now for those of you planning a wedding in the future:

Never, dress nicer than the bride. The bride is the focus. The Father of the Bride-(FOB), however, is the modern day equivalent of a Greek God at his daughter's wedding. He should be admired and honored with bows, pats on the back, and revelry. The Mother of the Bride should be the second prettiest woman there. Followed closely by the Mother of the Groom. The Father of the Groom is parking cars. He really has no role except as arm candy for the Mother of the Groom. He should shower and wear nice clothes.

The food should be hot and cold when appropriate. A concern should arise if one is eating sushi, for example, and it is warm. This was not the case at the wedding we attended.

Music should be loud, especially at a venue like this where it was in the garden portion of the hotel. Hey, if I have to stay up, everyone should have to stay up.

Restrooms should be easily accessible. This was a little bit of a hassle because the nearest restrooms were next to the pool so women in formal dresses were in the same area as Russian factory workers here on vacation sporting their new swimsuits. It was fine, friendships were formed. For the men, the gazebo provided cover for a quick stop and release behind the bushes into the neighboring golf course. As long as you were with the FOB, this is perfectly legal and accepted, remember, he is a Greek God.

But, the most important part of these types of events is the explanation of proper drinking to young men. Women just drink the free champagne or things with umbrellas. But men, young men, boys who have been shaving for less than a month and having just passed their 21st birthday and wanting to swill the excellence of manhood, look to the old ones and watch their lead. A lot of men travel the wrong path, taking the young bucks with them. They talk about the elixir of the gods from the motherland in a hap-hazard way. I'm talking about scotch. The stuff legends are made of and treaties are signed by. But the American male has bastardized the sanctity of the drink by, how can I say this, 'blending' the elixir with something less than pure love.

You see, there is something about this drink in its pure form-single malt, that can never be avoided or minimized. It comes from the highlands of the motherland, Scotland. Home of God, Country, hairy backs, strong backs, and lovers of the faith. A good day for a Scot is a day with his family after a delightful bar fight over the last piece of haggis. I had the honor of assisting the FOB in the discovery of this drink and then educate the groomsmen who were wanting to touch a piece of history. It was a passing of a torch, although there is NO WAY I would give them this torch. Its mine, they have to get their own. But we had a bottle purchased so I didn't have to go to my own stock. The boys listened and watched as the proper drinking and icing of the glass, even the proper glassing itself, was explained to them. Some took notes and asked questons. My son-in-law was there. He had gone through this lesson before. But the young bucks watched the old Silverbacks as I and the FOB explained the law of the pack.

With the sipping of the nectar, they were told the following rules, swearing an oath to never break them:

Always love God, always let your wife know she is second-to God, that way she knows you trust someone higher than her; never beat your wife, we don't live in the Middle-East or parts of Atlantic City. Men don't fight their wives, hair loss and odd smells but never their wives; and never-----EVER----drink 'blended' Scotch whiskey---ever. That's it. The three rules- Loving God, no hitting, and no blended Scotch.

So if you are growing young boys, soon to be young men, remember these rules. This is the properness of manhood, the foundation for guts and glory. Treaties exist and peace reigns because men choose this course.

Ahhhhhhh. I like mine neat, thank you.

I have spent the last four weeks, four days each week, walking with ghosts. You see, I have spent the last four weeks, four days each week, walking around my old high school, West High-currently known as Metro Tech in Phoenix.

Now I have been on this campus since I graduated in 1976. But only in the office and limited areas, not deep into its compound like where I am currently teaching. Nothing to cause me to walk through or drive around the grounds, until now. It has been 33 years since I have seen some of this place. Although the campus has expanded and is almost all new, there are still reminders of the past. It couldn't be helped, the images from the past. They just showed up.

I drove onto the campus this morning and down a driveway next to the football field. I had spent hundreds of hours on that field, the stadium structure still there although they don't play football there anymore. I passed the open handball courts, just south of the stadium. I had played hours of handball there with my peers. We tried racquetball but eventually we stuck with the purer sport of handball. Next on the right as I drove was the JROTC building. Back in my day it was where four teachers taught government. it was also the only drinking fountain for the football players, wrestlers, track personnel, and anyone else on the field. One drinking fountain. Gosh, we would take one water break during the 3 hour practice and god help the guy who got stuck in the back. Coaches didn't want you "spending all day guzzling water." I remember getting stuck behind Geek Squint Richardson. A great guy but he could suck water like a camel. He wore white cleats, too. Riddells, which had an air of whatever to those traditional athletes who stayed black with the little white Riddell 'belt' around the heal and the red soles. You had that one little fountain of water coming out and it just wasn't enough to stop you from peeing a yellow the likes of which are not seen at any other time. There was no such thing at water on the football field. Why? We had that drinking fountain.

Right across from it was the men's locker room, now a state of the art weight room. That was where Big Ken Bell prided himself on being able to stand his practice jersey up on end and lean it against his locker. Our senior year, he wanted to go all season without washing his practice uniform. When you blocked him, your face burned from the ammonia. It was here, in this room of lockers, I began wearing Mennen Skin Bracer, same as my dad. I still do. You can buy it at all of your fine grocery stores. After Friday night games, there was always a dance in the gym and we would come out of the locker room, me in my Letterman's jacket, and a fresh splash of Skin Bracer.

I was standing in the gym, waiting for my kids to line up when suddenly, I realized I was standing in the gym. It's interior hadn't changed-at all.

The new library sits on top of the old Auditorium. We use to play full length movies in there on Friday's. For a buck you could come in and see such great movies as Patton, or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I gave my student body president speech right about where the copier is now in the back of the library. Next to it was the pool. It's now a drainage basin for rain runoff.

Behind the pool was the archery range, right next to the old parking lot. Me and da' boys took archery our senior year for P.E. We thought it would be funny to crank the elevation and see how far into the parking lot we could send the arrows. We stopped when George Payton almost hit Miss. Ward. She was a teacher who wore coke-bottle glasses and clown dresses. No, really, they were dresses you would swear clowns wore in the circus, a bad circus, like out of a nightmare.

The track and practice field now has a 80,000 square foot garage on it for tech education. As I continued around to building 900, my building, I drove on the track, or where the track use to be. John Kopchek use to run sprints there. At the far end, where the shot-put pit and the goal posts for the practice field were, Joe Jackson almost hung himself going out for a pass and catching the rope the linemen used for practice, right across the throat. Coach Johnston told him to get get some water and he'd be fine, as soon as he could breath again, to hustle back; he was needed to run some pass patterns. "That last one looked like a 'G.D' abortion." You always seemed to know where Coach Johnston stood on things.

Yep, lots of ghosts here. But then again, where do we go and leave our footprints that we don't also leave a few of our own 'ghosts'?

Have a good day fathers and mothers with fathers

He was bone tired, the father. He sat at the campfire, the last one to go to sleep. The children and wife were tucked into their bedrolls and the night, finally, was quiet; just the sound of the fire and the crickets, and the occasional brush of wind as it touched the tops of the pines. Just the man, his sleeping family, and the two dogs that laid at his feet.

He looked up and could see the heart of the Milky Way from the clearing where they made their camp that day. He use to love looking at the stars. When he was a kid, even younger than his own now, he could name most of the constellations by sight. They fascinated him. Then, the fading of the clarity of the city air hid them for years.

He grew up and found other things but it was always at night, here, in the wilderness, where he could look up again. He had passed four decades since those days of his youth and the patterns in heaven and the names that went with him, escaped his memory-most of them-not all.

He stirred the fire with the stick he had picked up during the day and now was the extension of his hand, moving the embers seemingly at random, but there was a purpose, even here. His could see something in the heart of the fire, most men did. Women did too but it was men, fathers, who reflected the deepest. They had paid a high price and found the cost to be so expensive, but the return was beyond measure. Here, in this camp, the man's world now existed. There was nothing beyond the light that was of any value, nothing of any consequence.

It had taken him years to reach that conclusion-years. There were still times the man thought otherwise.

It was late.

The man pulled his coat up around his neck and reached down and stroked each of the two dogs. Then he went back to stirring the fire. In two hours, it would be morning. The world would return and the fire would be out. His family would wake and they would roll up their bedrolls and break camp. The outside would enter again.

He waited, the man, for the first light of the new day. It came, first with just a glow, warming the distant hills with a soft grey color tinted with blue. He knew the rest would come quickly.

There were many choices the man could have made over the course of his life. He even thought some of them could have still caused him to arrive here, at this spot, on this day. Maybe.

But he knew one thing, he was here now. His road had caused him to be here now, for this time, at this moment. He looked again to the heavens and saw them begin to slide behind the curtain, away from his sight. He smiled. Then there was a slight laugh, one of pleasure and fun. But still very light and soft.

The man paused for a moment, staring at the sky. He looked down and poked the fire;the smile still on his face. It was almost time to wake the people. He looked up again.

"Thank you."

Father's Day

This Sunday is Father's Day. We take a moment to celebrate Dads. If you came here from another planet and you simply read the ads in the paper, you would think dads of this country were great men. Men of honor and valor and humble hearts. You would also think none of them had beer guts or jowls and all stood at least six feet tall. They all had trim waists and a full head of hair of the appropriate color.

According to our public perception, fathers in this country stand straight and firm, they have shiny steel eyes that see truth while having firm, chiseled jaws, that hold back straight white teeth. There's a scar on the face from some prior battle in which Good conquered Evil and the father was at the tip of the spear. In this day dream perception, fathers love their wives, nurture their children, and in times of trouble would hold up the collapsing roof until the last, aged, woman made it safely out. Then, with a smile and a wink, he would let go of the collapsing building and run like a mongoose on crack, clearing the falling rubble by inches and not stopping until he was in his wife's arms, giving her a kiss that curled her toes and then, with soft hands, he would cause his family to kneel right there and give thanks.

Yep, that's what the ads say.

That just is not the reality-or is it?

Also part of that public perception, is that fathers are the crux of the worlds ills. Sorry about that, but take a look at the news accounts. The issues we are having predominantly fall back onto a man who didn't live up to the hype as leader of their family. It only takes one bad apple to taint the whole barrel. Fathers abusing their wives, sons, daughters, kicking the dog, betting the rent on the ponies, and basically breaking the hearts he was sworn to protect, taint all of us. And it spreads to the next generation.

Look, I'm a dad X 3, and I am telling you that dads are asked to walk a real narrow tightrope. They have to be firm but not overbearing. They have to be gentle, but not a sissy-boy. They need to be refined but able to stick their hands into a pile of goo. They need to be a lover, but not 'over-sexed', whatever that is. The foundation of the family, by God's design, centers on the father leading and loving his family. Yep, and some of you reading this are saying that doesn't happen, or does it? We look around and we see these images of men who, based on our experiences, don't exist. Our own fathers have left, fled, beaten, abused, misled, cheated, or just basically defiled the role of 'Father.' I have taken the job of fatherhood seriously and I will be the first to tell you that I too, have violated that trust of the task. So, what do we do with the image of a man on the cover of Target or Macy's, with a tight waist, a full head of hair; or worse-those depicted in 'It's a Wonderful Life' reruns?

We look up.

Look, I have to tell you. I don't have the answer for you. No answer, except one that you might not want to hear. You see, there is this thing rattling around out there. It's called 'God.' Now, for some of you, that's the last thing you want to hear. "Oh, so that's what this is about Mark; you're going to preach to me about something I don't believe in and beat me over the head with. Well, no thanks. I'm dropping the 'follower' label and going home. I don't need to hear any more preaching about God and what 'He will do for me.' I've experienced his 'grace' with my dad and he violated me every which way. I tried god and if' God gave me that father, then he's no God of mine!"

No, I won't preach. I won't beat you with it. I will tell you every feeling you have is justified. I'm just a middle-aged white guy with three kids, a wife, a couple of grand kids and two dogs, both of which are sitting on my feet as we talk here. I can only tell you what I've had to do.

Look at the facts. Dads, like Moms, screw up; probably to a factor of twelve. So, what do we do? We go to counseling; we talk to friends; we withdraw; we have affairs; we go bet on the ponies; we run away; we seek rehab; we divorce one and marry another. How has that worked for us? We do all these things as fathers except the one thing we were made to do; run to our own daddy, the one who designed 'Daddom'. Between the mother and the father, He gave the father the excessant will in their hearts to do one thing really well.

Stand and trust.

Now, I am not getting 'John Wayney' on you. That label has caused more harm than anything since that Garden episode with the apple. No, what I mean by that is life is a struggle. Sometimes, life is only a struggle-from beginning to the end. There is no breather, no break. Sometimes we marry and the world turns to the proverbial shit hole. We want to run. We see our friends do it so why not us? But that wasn't God that caused it-it was us-our own peeps.

The picture at the top is my dad and me. I was about one or so. Dad was born in 1914 and I was born in 1958, putting him at about 44. He married my mom who had twins by her first husband who died in a training flight during World War II. They had my other brother, Gary, shortly after he got married but then was diagnosed with diabetes and didn't want any more children because he didn't want to pass it on. So, I'm thinking, I was a stray round after a night of fun and frolic almost nine years after Gary was born and thirteen after Paul and Susan. I think I would open a vein if I fathered a kid at 44.

But, here's the thing about my dad. First, he stepped into a marriage with a woman with two kids already. That's pretty gutsy, especially in the late forties. They then had their own. Then, almost nine years later, he fathered me. He was raising a child well after most thought it was time to relax a little. I am sure he had some second thoughts when mom told him she was pregnant. After all, she was ten years younger, putting her at 34. She had to be wondering if this was such a good idea as well. The man hung in there. He stayed for the fight. But here's the thing about him. He was flawed; he was sick; he didn't have a full head of hair; he smoked like a chimney; he drank-probably too much; he had a temper; he had small feet; I rarely ever remember him going to church. But he made sure we did.

On Sunday's, he built us a diabetics nightmare breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup and real butter, smoking his cigarette and drinking coffee and then sent us with our mother to church. My brothers don't think he believed in God and all those points that get you 'salvation.' I think the opposite. I think he knew God intimately and talked to him in those quiet times when we were gone. Just a guess. He didn't live long enough for me to ask.

So, who are the fathers of the world? If they're not on the cover of GQ, where are they?

My daughter, Jessica, hates it when I refer to them as the 'Silverbacks' or our society. I used that analogy at her wedding and she didn't get it. But I think her husband, Matthew, did.

They come in many shapes and sizes including overweight, smokers, balding, with a smell that has nothing to do with cute babies. They have scars on their faces from falling flat on them. There is a shyness about them from being humbled many times and then learning to live in a humble state. They bleed openly and often.

There are many fathers who do not deserve the title of 'father.' Ah, but there are many millions, who stand and look at the wave of the world coming towards their family and square their shoulders and set their jaws. The twinkle in their eye says they are ready for a good fight. Their knees only buckling for the God that set them there in the first place and realize it is only the belief in God that gives their legs the strength to hold them up. They listen to their family's heart and gently, with the soft back of their rough hands, stroke each family members face and look into their eyes and say with that look, 'I am your father and in you, I am truly pleased.'

Then they trip and fall on their faces again-another scar.

That can be you, my fellow fathers, starting today. Dads are tired by nature. Nothing wears us out faster than being alone in a bar fight with a bunch of hooligans from someplace like, well, France. But when we look up and down the line and we see each other, like old Silverback gorillas standing, not by our own strength but by some magical power that could only come from one source, we are filled with the will to stay and fight for our families. "Oh, good, I'm not alone." Community of fathers-yep.

So, fathers, when it gets taxing, old, tempting, hard, miserable, fruitless, and there seems to be no hope left and the end of the rope, which fills your hands as you hang on, begins to slip, there was One who set the standard and proved it could be done. He set the standard; the only standard that works.

But you have to look up to see it.

Happy Father's Day.

No turn signals on an F-18

You know why God invented music--loud, boastful, heavy thumping music? So, middle-aged white men, like my self, can car dance. I was driving to summer school this morning. I had stopped for a medium 'bold' from Copper Star Coffee and was on my way to work when Kenny Loggins started.

Now I have dear friends, one of which is Bob, and Bob loves and plays music. He also listens and talks about musicians as if he is discussing a fine Bordeaux from the hills of France. He talks about groups that no one, except his kind, have heard of. Now, here's the thing. I am not a music guy. I don't hear the words very often. But Bob does. He hears the 'heart' of the music poet and can discuss it forever. Some of the best music I have heard has been Bob's. So much so he is the fictional band in Holyground which plays in Moreno's Bar. But Bob's music you don't car dance to. You sip a fine wine and ponder great thoughts to his music. Kenny Loggins you turn way up and yell. At least you do if you are a middle-aged white guy. If you're not yelling, it's because you are in a steep left bank trying to get tone on an enemy bandit.

One time, while driving my family somewhere, I had Loggins music in the CD player and the theme to Top Gun came on. I turned it up and accelerated the car to way beyond the posted limit. I wasn't driving a Corvette or a Camaro; I was driving a Kia Sorento, a white man's version of the Caprice Classic nine passenger wagon. But to me, it was an F-18 Hornet off of the Ronald Reagan posted somewhere in 'The Gulf''. Someone in the back seat asked a question. I'm not sure what the question was; it was just a question. When they didn't get an answer, they asked again. "Quiet," I said. "I'm flying a plane." I emphasised the words with an evasive maneuver between a truck and a van, without the use of the turn signal, leaving a stream of fictional 20mm cannon fire across the backs of both vehicles, causing them to immediately burst into flames and wing over into the field below-where ever that was. There were no parachutes.

Okay, look, I'm a twelve year old at heart. But you get music going in a middle-aged guy's car and he will seat dance, sing, and flame enemy aircraft all day long. Instead of moving to the next song on the CD, you press 'repeat' and play it again. The mission isn't complete until you hook the #3 wire back on the Reagan.

I'm just saying.

Geez, I'm tired.

We men kind of have an issue with our ages. Now, don't get me wrong. I think women are way out in front when it comes to issues with age. We don't help matters when we divorce our wife of thirty years to marry our secretary who is young enough to be our daughter or even our grand daughter. We, as men, somehow kind of appreciate that and wink and chest bump and just kind of quietly nod at those things. That is totally wrong and a true man doesn't accept it for very long. But really all we truly want to do is take a nap. Yeah, sure the physical side might be good for a while but eventually, Bambi is going to want us to take her skiing with her friends at Lake Placid and frankly, our new hip and knee just doesn't feel like it. We skied when we were with the Rangers in the Alps in Northern Italy and it really wasn't any fun then so what makes us think it will be any fun now? Especially since we don't get to shoot at anyone. But for a lot of us men who are hanging in there with our wives and modeling shear toughness of heart to our kids, that is not an option. We still climb the ladder to paint the eaves, throw the ball for the dog, wash the truck and mow the lawn, after our morning run/walk. All of this done in one long day. We're fine with that. But there is something that stops us in our wanderings and makes us do the math.

I was just at Home Depot, "the Temple" to men and women everywhere. If Jesus were alive today, he'd be wearing an orange apron in the 'fastener' aisle between molly bolts and 8 penny nails. Yep, God is alive and well at "the Temple." So, while I was checking out, the middle-aged woman at the counter smiled and was being very friendly. But she said some words that made me forget which card I was going to debit the item I was purchasing. "Did you find everything you were looking for today YOUNG MAN?" Holy Crap!

Every man reading this, every person, young or old, who has an X and Y flowing through their veins, knows what I am talking about. That term is withheld for two branches of the sex-those that are truly 'young men' and those that are pulling an oxygen tank and a clear hose line running from it shoved up their nose while operating a cane with the four little feet on them, all while dressed in a pair of striped shorts, a plaid shirt, and black socks and black dress shoes-scuffed.

'Young man'? Really? Am I that old? Am I that far along that I need a cane with the four little rubber bottomed feet on it? I do have shorts but there are no stripes and this is just the reason I hate plaid.

I do love my bed though.

Oh, and I could eat dinner, like, now.

The end to a perfect day is in bed reading until I pass out, about a page to two later--before 9:30.

I'm starting to buy named brand underwear, while throwing away the old stuff-not trying to patch it with that patch kit you use to iron on for denim holes like your mom did when you broke open a hole in the knees of your jeans when you were twelve. Levi jeans didn't have a number then. They were just Levis-sold at Yellow Front.

The mines have me on their Christmas card list for the gold crowns I have in my mouth.

When you touch my knees, they're warm. I think my daughter said that's a sign of 'inflammation.'

I floss--------twice a day.

I make sure we have double-ply, extra soft, toilet paper. Even if it means paying more for it.

I'm going to doctors I don't want to talk about, nor can I pronounce their speciality; so I use the standard street lingo for what they do.

Soup sounds good.

I want to buy a Harley but my daughters say "No, way, you'll die." I haven't bought one yet only because there's no air-conditioning on them.

The critical factor for the car we just bought was electric windows AND seats.

I cry at Jack in the Box commercials.

Look, I think I'm still pretty young. I can't go chase down a bad guy anymore. They would lose me in the first hundred yards, okay--ten yards. But the point is, I've grown smarter. God gives us brains, if we live long enough, to make up for the youth we've lost--no--really lost. Instead of chasing down Evil, I would drive the car and run them over. Then, its all in the way you tell the story.

I'm a good story teller.

What are we looking for?

I have a dear friend (I have so very few of the 'dear ones') who is teaching down in Auckland, New Zealand. He will be there until this next Monday. He says its beautiful. The town is great and the New Zealanders love Americans. I wanna go. Why? I wanna go to Colorado. Not just to visit but to live. I want to go to the Caribbean; or South Miami Beach is even appealing as long as I don't have to wear a thong-well, okay, I'll try it--again.

Now, if you know me, have hung out with me, spent any time with me, or even been to my home or some how got my phone number, you are saying to yourself and whoever is around you right now, "Williams, ya daft longshoreman, what are you talking about? You live in the same house you buried your parents in (point of clarification-they're not exactly buried here. They did leave here to meet the Lord. This is their last known address. You get what I'm saying)."

Well, that's true. But I bet I'm not alone in this conversation. I bet some of you out there are saying the same thing. "Let's move honey. Come on, it'll be fun packing all those boxes and getting passports." No, it won't happen. Crap. I'm stuck.

Look, I got family here. I have a grandchild here. I have another grandchild coming. I have two dogs who, as we write, are laying on my feet, causing them to go numb. I ain't shoveling snow to get out of the driveway. That's one drawback Colorado has. The town we love gets 270+ inches every year-in town. That's almost 24 feet. That's a lot of shoveling. I'd have to put booties on the dogs feet to go out and go pee. And that town is the closest to family. Auckland-well-I've only seen pictures and heard testimony. I think I would rather move to Whistler, Canada. I love the Canadians. Why? They're Americans-lite. South Miami has the whole thong issue which would disqualify it alone without the idea of a class five hurricane waking me up in the morning. Imagine waking up one morning and the beach was actually IN your living room? I hate sand so that wouldn't work. The Caribbean? I think I would drink too much. I don't drink now except when I'm with my two friends who are pastors so I would be found on some beach by an old couple down from Wisconsin walking along, looking for shells.

As I am writing this, I am looking out my back window and looking over the yard. I like my back yard. It has roses in it and a path made out of stones that I put in years ago as a path around the yard. It needs work but that's okay. It keeps me busy and away from the track, betting on the ponies. The colors from the sun really give it some pretty colors. You don't see the colors like this at any other time of day.

I do want to go to Auckland. I want to go to the northern coast of Australia and its jungle; I want to go Fiji and run naked--somewhere. I heard they run naked in Fiji. I want to go to the Caribbean. I want to go to Austria and drink beer; one of those big half-gallon beers in one of those big glass steins. I want to go to Scotland and see where my grandfather lived and tour the scotch distilleries.

I think looking around is fine. I really do. I also think that looking around causes us to look right back to where we are with fresh eyes. God puts us where we are for a reason. We can find contentment where ever we are if we just give it a chance. It doesn't mean we don't need to better ourselves or get our big old butts off the couch and out of harmful environments. But it does allow us to rest and enjoy where we are. I remember a story where Paul, the guy who wrote a good chunk of the New Testament, was in prison, chained up, and singing. SINGING! Now, I don't think he had picked this as a travel destination, but he knew, somehow, that he was where he was suppose to be. We can go and visit the grass on the other side of the fence. But if we stay, eventually, we will be expected to mow it. Then its our grass.

No, I think I'll stay. After all, it takes some people with some backbone to live in Phoenix-in the summer time which, of course, starts in late winter and goes to late fall. You won't find any French here in the summer. The heat kills 'em back like a weed. But we can travel. We can go see those things we want to see and then come back. Life allows us to to do that. We'll try to hit all those spots. That's all. I think I could be done then after completing that travel list, especially after the Glenlivet's distillery.

Oh, yeah, Miami one more time-to wear the thong. Hey, don't knock it until you try it.

Days are numbered

I am in the last day of the first week of teaching summer school. I have a classroom of new sophomores taking their freshmen English class again. Three of the students are mothers-to-be. I am sure there is one or two more who already are. I got a couple of wanna-be gansters, a couple who don't speak English, and one who is taking the class again to improve his grade.



I'm glad I'm here. First, it brings in some extra money that we will no doubt need before the end of July. Every year, the Williams family comes across the outer marker with vapors for financial fuel. It had been a couple years in a row that I would hit up my kids to float dad a few hundred for two weeks. Now, we might actually make it without having financial dreams wake me in the middle of the night.



I'm also glad I'm here because I need to be doing something. Sure, I can sit and relax but it takes time. I need to decompress and leaving school and sitting down doesn't happen right away. For example, this last week off before summer school, I built a shed on the side of the house, complete with concrete foundation. Yep, that's my down time. So keeping me here 4 of the 5 working days is a benefit to our home. Given enough time, I might have a second story built on the house. Even though that would be nice, it would be way too much square footage for the neighborhood.



I guess what I am really happy about, even though I have to stop and think about it, is the faces of the kids. I think God has gifted me to inspire. If you believe in that sort of thing, I think God gave me the gift of inspiration. Summer school is a challenge for me to light a fire in children's hearts to get them going again in only four weeks. For so many of them, the fire in their belly is out, extinguished by years of parents, friends, relatives telling them they are something less than what they are. I tell them that's 'bullshit.' Yep, I swear. I tell them to go back to the person who told them they were worthless and won't amount to anything and the next time they say that to them to politely tell them their English teacher said they were lying. Then give them my name and if they want to discuss it, to please contact me.

No one has-crap. A Scot, even one as distant to my ancestors as I, is always looking for a good fight.