Faith, Hope, God, and Baileys

Christmas, it has been said, is a magical time of year. So, why do most of us don’t feel magical? We actually have to force ourselves to think good thoughts, be relaxed, let go of those things that stress us, and not—even for a moment, dwell on that dark, dark place in the back of our brain, where all pain is made free by the simple act of ending our life. Yep, for the happiest time of year, its also one of the darkest for millions.

‘Gee Mark, this is an uplifting blog,’ you start to say. ‘I could get the same great feeling by simply taking a ball peen hammer to the soles of my feet.’

Well, I think for a lot of people, they would prefer the hammer to the feet than the gut-wrenching pain of loneliness, fatigue, sadness, personal failure, abandonment, illness, poverty, or any and all combinations. What can one do to alleviate such hurt?

Buy a bike.

What?

Buy a bike. Isn’t that our answer? Look, when we have an issue, we, the collective we, do something about it. We medicate, exfoliate, generate, or terminate. Yeah, I know, I sound like an O.J. Simpson lawyer, but I couldn't pass it up, plus, it made my point. We go and throw a great big patch on it. We see each other and after the polite hug we ask the standard line—‘So how are you?’

We get the standard response—‘Fine, just fine.’

Bull.

We have internal bleeding and our organs are shutting down, our spouse left us for someone right out of bar tending school, our insurance lapsed, and the power company gave us until this Friday, Christmas Eve, to come up with $300 to bring us current or they will turn off our power. No, we’re ‘fine.’

I have spent hundreds of hours, buying bikes. And although it patched the open sucking chest wound for a short time, eventually, the patch came off and the existing wound is bigger and badder and usually its magnified and spread to other areas. There is no hope, no fix, and no remedy that lasts.

None.

Except, well, one.

You don’t have to read this. You can stop right here. ‘Crap, Mark, I know what you are going to say. You are going to start talking about faith and all that B.S. THAT is what got me here. I hate that—HATE IT!

Yeah, I think if we’ve been wounded by something, we would have a propensity to put it on our naughty list. But here’s the rub. It wasn’t your faith that beat you, it was others interpreting your faith that did. God can’t do those things we’ve accused him of. It is against his nature of being God. Man has been interpreting the words of God for centuries. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what it means,’ we’ve been told by our betters. And we assumed that God is so big, so—BIG that there is no way we could approach Him with our crap. He doesn’t want to hear it, just obey and be good or you’re going to Hell. Well, here’s a secret—no your not.

You see, here is the thing about God. Because He is God, he is perfect. Perfect love, perfect dependence, perfect forgiveness. All we have to do is accept that, believe that it was given to us as an individual, alone and separate from everyone else—no group rate, just for me. Accept that there is a God, that he took our place in line, took the terminal illness away from us so we can be in his presence (a perfect God can not be in the presence of imperfection so he makes us perfect) forever.

Wait just a minute, if he makes me perfect then why do I keep screwing up and feel guilty and blah, blah, blah? Ah, that’s the human influence, not God. You see, once you bite the bullet and dare to accept the gift he gives, life as you know it, will never be the same, although you might not feel it right away. That hairy mole on your ear will still be there, the cancer in your colon, will still be there, the spouse leaving you, yep, that too. Life might not get easier, it might actually seem to get harder. So why the hell would you want to sign up for such duty?

Good question.

Imagine, just imagine, the God of the whole friggin Universe, calling you His ‘child.’ What would that feel like? You see, our problems, our issues on this planet, without God’s intervention, would be sooooo much worse. You think its bad or even good now, imagine it without God.

It is the perfect medicine for a terminal disease. Once that decision is made, we now have the choice to screw up. Before, we were going to do it no matter what. Now, over time, we can choose not to do so. ‘Today, instead of having that affair with the receptionist, I choose not too. It’s not my power that did it, but Daddy’s.’

‘Tomorrow, I will not cheat on my taxes when I file. I’ll take the hit.’

‘I have the rent money, instead of betting on the ponies, I’ll pay the rent.’

‘I will love my spouse, even though I want them placed in a wood chipper one limb at a time.’

But when we decide to follow through and act out in our infection, God doesn’t flee or cast us off. He actually moves closer; His arm around us grows tighter. Holding us closer to him.

Every day, you might notice, is a battle, in one arena or another. We are in a gun fight and we keep getting shot at some level. At some level we disappoint even ourselves. God, never—EVER is disappointed in us. Ever. Even when we screw up with the receptionist while at the track right after we use a false name on our taxes. He knew we were going to do it, before the world began. And he stands right there with us while we do it. Thinking about that, the God of the Universe is standing with us while we commit the big sins, loving us through that, that is a game changer. Allow it to happen.

No man needs to interpret god for you. You don’t need anyone to have an on going out loud conversation with the God who made everything. You just need to start talking—in bed, in a closet, while you’re cooking dinner, while walking the aisles of Costco. He is standing there waiting for you to start. He isn’t pushy and can wait for you for, well, ever.

So, I guess whether this time of year is magical or not is really up to us. I have been in this dark box like I described. I know what it feels like. I can still taste it if I close my eyes. But the fact is, my faith is faulty. I will have good days and bad. I will be surrounded and have the absolute feeling of being all alone. The reality is, that Dad is sitting right next to me, right now, sharing my love for coffee and the dogs at my feet. He tells some of the funniest jokes and shares my love for Enya and Toby Keith. He runs next to this child of his while I try to ride without training wheels and catches me as I start to tip over. Yep, that’s my Dad. And all the crap I’ve done and will do until the day I die, He has taken away. He looks at my ‘naughty list’ and there is nothing there—nothing. The bill is paid in full.

Oh, and He loves egg nog with a splash of Baileys. Big smile Daddy gets!!

Crawl up in is lap today. Talk to Him. He LOVES to hear your voice.

Merry Christmas.

Men and their shopping RADAR

It is the last weekend before Christmas. If you are in this week and haven’t attacked the stores for bountiful Christmas booty, you’re in trouble. Now, here’s the thing, for men, we are in our element. Actually, we could wait a day or two and we would still be fine. You see, the trick to men is we don’t linger—ever.

The next time you’re out shopping, watch the two genders of the species. The woman will graze through the stores, touching every rounder, display, and in the process, almost without knowing it, will manage to avoid each and every Sale sign in the store. If it has one of those, it’s like a deflector shield over whatever it is advertising. ‘Why,’ the woman says, ‘would I want last month’s old stuff when right next to it is the new stuff?’ Sure, you can look at it that way, especially if you’re going to touch each and every garment or gadget in the store. There’s a sustainability issue here. There is only so much time before you need to rehydrate and take nourishment. You need to move if you are going to cover such ground. Maybe that’s why women last longer than a man when they’re stranded in the snow.

A human male is a quick-strike species, especially if you are a father and have kid duty. Watch these guys. They are the epitome of a shopper—rapid deployment, quick strike, no lingering, no prisoners. Fathers shopping are the most efficient shoppers. They move in and out of the stacks of merchandise, avoiding the high gloss mannequins and the glitz of the displays. They are locked in on the sales signs, usually with one child in the stroller, the older one in a backpack carrier, and one diaper in their hip pocket. They can Christmas shop for an entire family of four and their Aunt Millie in Burlington, Vermont in less than two hours. The key is they never stop—ever. If they do, the child in the stroller, who has been lulled into sleep by the gentle movement of the stroller, will wake up crying, then all is lost.

A man shopping, especially this time of year, is not someone you want to necessarily shop with. He moves quickly, head up, eyes focused, using his peripheral vision to take in data from the sides of his forward radar, analyzing anything that he might be missing. You see, he has no idea what to get. There is only a constant scrolling of ads and commercials he has seen on television in which he is using as a guide.

Now, the idea is not always in line with what the receiver really wants, but it’s not about that. His mission is all about conquering the task. He can say he shopped for Christmas with the kids. That alone, earns him a Bronze Star with an oak leaf cluster. The underlining knowledge is it can always be taken back. You see, men know something about women. Sure, not a lot and what we do know is ever right, but the one thing we do know is women have a gene that requires them to love-LOVE shopping, especially when its free. And a gift given that is wrong, is like getting free money or a gift card to a woman, which, by the way, is the perfect gift for any man. Remember the equation, gift card=perfection.

So ladies, if your man, husband, significant other, or dad hasn’t shopped yet, don’t worry. He has a plan. You see, the closer to Christmas he is before he starts shopping, the thinner the stock on the shelves gets. Those things left are now easier to see. It’s like when the Forest Service goes in and thins trees in a forest. All of a sudden, you can see! Items are now easier to spot. Why wouldn’t his woman want the melon-ball er that doubles as a tire pressure gauge? EVERYONE wants one of those! You just got to decide if you keep it in your kitchen or glove compartment of your Kia. Just kiss him on the cheek ladies and smile at the thought he put into it.

Besides, it will help with that cashmere sweater purchase you had your eyes on.

New Scientific Discovery! Well, sort of

Sleep is a magical time for me, especially this time of year when everyone gets all reflective and personal about their lives, where they’ve been and where they are going.

If you have a bad night’s sleep, your day is shot. Not only that, you make sure everyone else’s day is a piece of crap as well. “Geez, what a night,” you start in with, at the morning coffee stand.

“What happened?” some poor unsuspecting bastard says, not knowing he just walked into the perfect storm.

“Well, let me tell you….” The procession begins.

I have researched sleep, its components, nuances, flavors, and quirks. Over the years, I have been able to create perfection. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, perfection. I call the summation of my discoveries, the Perfect Sleeping Position or PSP.

When you’re young, you can sleep anywhere. Currently, my young son is sleeping in a country that doesn’t believe in shoes or owns a tree. But as you get older, sleep and the comfort of the sanctuary of the bed becomes paramount and if it was a god, temple lights would be lit to it.

It requires pillows—lots of them. Here’s the thing, when you sleep, your body collapses on itself. If you’re a belly sleeper, your body settles and actually bends backwards, hence the reason you wake up with a backache. A simple pillow under your stomach keeps this from happening. If you’re a side sleeper, your shoulders try to meet somewhere in the center of your chest. Through years of devoted research, I have perfected and eliminated these nocturnal issues!

Three pillows, piled one on top of the other, held in your arms as you lay on your side, keep your arms from collapsing. The fourth is under your head. The bottom of the three you are holding, is staggered down just far enough to rest between your legs, keeping your knees from hitting each other, but still providing volume to keep your shoulders properly distanced. If you’re short, two might work.

One of the great side benefits to this new program is the reduction of hourly trips to the bathroom, at least for men. You sleep right through it! You no longer wake up like an old cripple. Well, yeah, sure, you still do, but not so much like a ninety-year-old, maybe just a seventy year old.

Listen, most of you don’t care about this. I know that. Bed time for you is just the end of the day to get you ready for the next day, but for a few of us, a quiet few, bed time is just short of a religion. It has replaced the Holy of Holies since the curtain was torn and we approach it with beautiful trumpets blaring, announcing our arrival. We curl up with our cool pillows and our cool sheets, folding them back over the comforter ever so neatly, our own body heat bringing the temperature up to just the right comfort level while we peel back the pages of a good book until our eyes cross. Then, implementing the PSP, we roll over and tumble off into the Never Land of good dreams of flowers and pony rides.

Enjoy

The Third Wave on the Beach!!

Just got back from the annual witnessing of the great Free-Enterprise system. It's like one of those rare cactus flowers that only blooms one night in its life at about four in the morning and by dawn, its dead.

Now, don't look at us like that. We aren't so pushed to sit in line to save six dollars on a 50 inch big screen. Our mission formed about three years ago when we first went out. Now, we just want to see the phenomena.

The first desert flower we went to was Target. They have a different crowd. They stood in line, reading books and discussing Dostoevsky, all in a British accent. We got in line, followed the calm, well-mannered pack into the store and the women went one direction and I went the other way, towards the coffee. I found a quiet section next to the lettuce and was amazed that the store, at least from that perspective, was empty. I did buy some Christmas lights, which, according to my teammates was a lame purchase. They were purple. Sure, the house will look like a brothel but I like the color.

After Target, we moved to Walmart. And life changed its tune.

Now, my firm belief is that this store is the epitome of the American way of life. Its really not, and frankly, its scary, but the vortex of the enterprise system can be found in the center aisle in the center of the store. No discussions about Russian writers here. Nope, this is not a place for the weak of stomach or heart. Lines were formed INSIDE the store. If you wanted the big screen TV, you found yourself in line in the cereal aisle. If you looked around and found yourself standing next to the avocados, you had no chance of getting one of the six-hundred TV's being sold. You'd have a better chance with the portable TV player the size of your wallet. No line for that one. It was right next to the women's jammies. There was even a line for coffee at the McDonalds in the store.

It was hard to find a wall that I could put my back too. Yes, there was a desire to put my back against a wall or any solid object. You see, there were people there you don't routinely see during daylight hours. There was also a lot of illegal use of spandex at this store. Tensile strength of fabrics and buttons were being tested as well. There were people who you could tell, didn't have enough money to buy soup, and yet had two big screens in their cart. Somehow, in their minds, they had a plan to money-enough to top off their Thunderbird wine collection.

By the time we stepped outside, the sun was starting to peak over the horizon. The edge of the early morning was starting to fade the bloom. Pallets of purchased goods were finding their way to their new homes and our team was now heading for breakfast. Done for another year of observing what America is uniquely known for.

I love this country! I really do. First of all, most countries, when you go shopping, don't have floors, so we have that going for us. Secondly, where else can we observe, actually participate in some of the most flagrant violations of self-image without anyone really caring? In some countries, they arrest you and after you've aged for a few months in prison, they take you out and make a fine chili out your butt. Not here. People just watch you walk by and compare your stuff with what's in their possession and then are easily distracted about when the last time they took their meds were.

So, maybe next year, I'll sleep in. Then again, I might get up to see the flower bloom-one more time.

Thank you

So, Thanksgiving. Every year I tell my students to write a letter to someone and tell them you are thankful for them-tell them why you’re thankful for them. For some of the students, it is the start of a huge healing process. For others, it’s the hardest thing they’ve ever done. The students need to say it to those that impact them. The people need to hear it. Well, I guess that applies to the old man.

What am I thankful for? There is the list of standard answers, health, job, family, God, all of those work. But this year, for whatever reason, it cuts close to the bone.

I am grateful for my daughter, Jeannette, and her husband Matt, for standing firm in their love and commitment to each other and to model that image to their two kids. That is a rare thing, the model they provide. Matt sees a lot in his job that could turn him hard, but he is a Pooh Bear around his kids and a gentle soul to his wife. Good form.

I am grateful to my daughter, Jessica, and her husband Matthew, for standing firm in the faith. They are also committed to reaching out to others and pulling them into their world of safety and love. Both are careful with their love and they spend it on others, caring and listening to wounding and providing a home that is safe and loving.

I am grateful to my son Travis, and his new bride, Tara. They haven’t had a chance to follow the traditions of a marriage just starting out. Their love is truly a test of fire, with Travis in a world of darkness and evil. Yet he stands, sometimes held up only by his Father, but he is still standing, taking care of his team and somehow—somehow, reaching back a half world to his wife, stroking her face with his words of love and commitment. She, in turn, affirms him, causing his back to straighten and to make it, one more day—back into the breach.

I am grateful to my wife, Joni, who has committed herself to loving me for decades—DECADES. Not a lot of marriages can say that word when it relates to their marriages. It has been not without struggles, down and dirty struggles, but now at the apex of our lives, we can see the product of grace. It is because of her that I can see it.

Sometimes, we need to look pretty hard to see what we have. Sometimes, we need to work at looking. It’s hard—miserably hard, sometimes. But it’s there. The beauty of the life we have, it’s there. Sometimes, we just need to take a breath and relax for a moment. I hope you can find moments of peace this Thanksgiving. I hope you can find someone to say ‘thanks’ to. Tell them. Grab them by the shoulders if you have to and tell them they have impacted your life and that you love them. That word, love, isn’t used enough outside of TV shows and bar talk. In the real world, Love is a sacrifice word. When you love someone, you’re willing to say you stand with that person in the fires of Hell. Yep, it’s that big. So, if you have seen it demonstrated to you, thank the giver.

It cost them dearly.

Thanksgiving and the Shopping Quandry

Guess what time of year it is? Unless you've been in a coma; a victim of a kidnapping, rolled up in carpet and locked up in a steel storage shed; or less than five other things to keep you from reality, you know its time to be gearing up for Aunt Martha's, just outside Cincinnati, to see the cousins and your mom and dad along with that pesky Tommy Chulansky who grew up with you and your sister and brother and eventually convinced your sister that his career as a telephone service sales representative for a magazine company, was a good enough foundation to start a marriage. Yeah, he'll be there in his leisure suit and pawing your sister and telling her how beautiful she is after five kids. Oh, crap, that's right--THE FIVE KIDS WILL BE THERE TOO!

But there is a greater concern this time of year, a more important focus we need to look at, shopping. That's right, groceries or gifts, it doesn't make any difference. Let me ask a few pertinent questions and see if you agree. Today, its the food we will objectively look at.

First, I was restocking the shelves, walking the aisle of my favorite warehouse store, when I came across the cheese section. I love cheese. I can eat cheese until I bind up like a longshoreman on a D-2 CAT forklift, but do I want a cheese that is advertised as ruggedly matured? What is a cheese that is labeled as that? One that had a hard childhood? Does it wear flannel shirts and carry an axe when the store is closed? What does that mean? So, I bought it. Hey, I needed cheese and I figured a cheese that's been working out is better than a cheese that's been sitting on the couch.

What about anything labeled earthy? Do I really want to slather butter on something that will taste like the mulch in my rose garden? There are breads out there labeled earth grain-as opposed to Moon grain or grains of Mars.

How about a full-bodied wine? Usually this happens to reds, Merlot, Cabernet, not the whites. I guess the reds live in a more ruggedly matured neighborhood and there are more amputee-type grapes. I think that's sad that you can't use a handicapped grape, or one that is physically challenged,to be more politically correct. I think the Feds should look into this for discrimination against handicapped grapes! The fact is, I wouldn't walk away from a half-bodied, or quarter-impaired wine if the price was right. Mix in a little 7-Up and we are good to go. This is a big issue with my favorite, scotch.

Scotch comes from all over Scotland. Some places, the water they use, comes from areas heavy in peat. Drinking that scotch is like licking the ashes of a campfire WHILE the fire is still lit. If you had a low testosterone level before, you will have a full beard by the time you're done with one glass.

I was forced to watch one of those home channels the other night. I was forced because it was on and I was too tired to change the channel. The home decorator was reworking some poor couples spare bedroom. It looked like all our bedrooms-packed floor to ceiling with crap. This decorator starting throwing around the word organic. He was referring at the time to the chrome lamp. Now, its been a while since high school chemistry, but I do remember that for something to be organic, that something had to have a carbon atom in it. Chrome doesn't have a carbon atom. It has chrome atoms. I think he was trying to refer to something ruggedly mature or full-bodied.

Who the hell knows.

All I know is that bird at the top of this article is one of the ugliest animals on this planet and needs killing. It needs to be on sale at 29 cents at Fry's and enough to feed a gaggle of people at my daughter's house within the fifteen minutes it takes a group to eat a meal that took two days to fix.

I'll bring the peaty stuff. There, quandry over.

Rocket Men--er and Rocket Women!!

I went to my thirty-fourth year reunion last night. I posted a blog yesterday about going. Well, I went and I have to say, I was surprised. It was really good, lots of old people, some who looked like they hadn’t aged at all, and many in various stages of life that ran the spectrum. The food was good, conversations, atmosphere; all of it went really well. I think the high point for me was that Elton John showed up.

Elton John.

No, not the real one. This one was better. He had brought a huge victory story with him.

At this reunion, there was a band. I think it was a compilation of former student musicians. They played as the hired band and they were really good. Later in the evening, the piano player came out-dressed like Elton John. For the next forty-five minutes he played and sang like Elton John too. Amazing. I sat there with my smuggled-in scotch (all they had was that blended crap) and sipped and listened. What was even more amazing and what added a taste of sweet victory to this story is this former student, piano player fellow had a stroke two years ago.

He had lost everything, including, I was told, his memory.

Now he was mimicking one of the premier piano players in the history of piano playing. And he made people smile.

This reunion was probably are watershed moment for those in attendance. Running this reunion for a ten year graduation span was a good idea, lots of people came, but it was also an indicator. A reunion in another ten or even five years, will find less and less people. Strokes, illness, distance, will begin to seriously take its toll.

But for a few minutes last night, we were hopping fences and feeling the touch of youth again. For a few minutes, we were all Rocket Men.

Heading into Life's Turn

Well today, actually, late this afternoon, I'm going to my high school reunion. It isn't a particular number, well, I guess it is. Let's see, I graduated in 1976 and its 2010 now, one plus one carry the four- it will be my thirty-fourth reunion. It's not the crystal or gold of reunion celebrations. It's a convenience.

I came from a large school. We had 2300 kids on our school and we graduated well over 400 in 1976. Our first reunion, five years in, we had about 200, not bad. But its been down hill ever since. The last eight reunions (seems like eight) we've been teaming up with other years, just so we can get a good group rate on the chicken breast or Fiesta Platters. This year, we are having a decade reunion. Anyone who went to West High (now its called Metro Tech) in Phoenix in the 70's can come tonight. Out of about 4400 graduating students, I think 200 signed up.

Not bad.

Which means, based on traditional math usage-one plus one, carry the two divide--I should know 2 people. I think its important that I go. Not necessarily to see everyone. I haven't been in contact with that group except on rare-distant occasions where we've maybe ran into each other in prison or something. Nope, I think I need to go because the reunions after this one, and yes, I am sure we will have at least a dozen more, will really get interesting. You see, from now until the end of the race, we are going to start losing chunks of the original herd to old age, disease, bus accidents, etc.

"Did ya hear about Pete?"
"No, what happened?"
"Hit by a train!"
"A train?"
"Yup, in his sleep! Jis lying there mindin' his own and WHAM, train dun run him clean over. Left nothin' but a stain."

We'll gather, talk about kids, grand kids, divorces, deaths, molds that look like they should have been removed a year ago, food allergies, heart meds. Heck, I can hold my own in that field.

Now if I can just remember where I left my car keys.

A moment to say 'Thanks'

Sometime tomorrow, I don't know when, the next book, our second book, Holy Ground, will be born. What started years ago as a way to memorialize my grandfather's stories we all had to listen to, over, and over, and over again, writing them down so we could read about him, morphed into, well, this.

I hope you like it.

No, Mark, you really hope we hate it. What person would create something so the viewer or reader would hate what they created? Good point. No, I say that because this is a story about a lot of us. Us with issues.

Stand in line.

When I first drafted this story, it was funnier. I had some ghosts and, well, it was just funnier. But only to me and a select handful who helped me create those characters over some well worn single-malt scotch. Everything is funnier over scotch, especially well worn scotch.

Then my editors read it and they all slapped me like I was stealing candy. So, I listened to them. That's what Stephen King said you are suppose to do, listen to your editors. Especially if you're paying them to be listened to. I thought they were wrong. But when the three of them came to the same conclusion. Look, I can be stubborn, but I'm not totally stupid. They saw something that I didn't want to. So the book took a turn.

Now, you can see the story for what it is, not what it was trying to be.

I hope you like it because of all the insecure reasons anyone hopes people like what they do. Like a party. You go to a friend's party and they have some wonderful food. But on the way home, you are happy to point out that they used Chick'n-in-a-bisk't crackers as the foundation for their Cheese Whiz and salami. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

No, I want you to like it because I want to enjoy this feeling of being absolutely humbled, brought to my knees humbled, that I have been allowed to go this far. Sure, it costs some greenbacks on my part, but there is something you all have caused and I want to share it with you. You see, you helped create this baby. It's ours. I believe everyone we meet, effects our lives, changes our path, sometimes in big ways, sometimes just a degree or two at a time. Most of the time-at that moment of contact, it is insignificant to us. We don't even feel it until later. Then, it has had time to build and grow, until we find ourselves on a grassy knoll with our own box of thoughts and issues. Then, in the sunlight and never alone, we look back over time.

So take a look at the cover. It's a neighborhood bar like a thousand others, but its a safe place, at least it was for our main character and a few others. It is a warm and inviting place, with fresh pastas, ice-cold beer, fresh made breads, and a French onion soup made with Guinness beer that you want to try to figure out how to bathe in-its that good. You can sit and have a conversation or just sit. Our hero likes to sit right there at the corner where the bar turns. He can watch the TV to his upper right. His favorite program comes on late and the bar owner flips it off of ESPN just for his friend. A small two-piece band, the Catfish Hunters, is playing for a few who venture out on the floor, another pair are playing some pool. The smell of whiskey in oak casks and fresh bread fill the air. You find yourself just sitting back in your chair, not speaking. You can actually feel your pulse slow, your blood pressure drop.

Yeah, I don't want to stop doing this.

Enjoy the ride.

And so, it begins again.

So, there's another book. Sorry, I can't stop. Holy Ground follows the life of Cooper Gardner, a man living a life like many of us. It will become available on November 1st. A friend of mine has graced this book with its Foreword. When you ask about the book, I think this describes it the best. Enjoy.

Foreword
___________________________

Mark Williams writes his heroes the way God probably sees us. We find them stumbling around in their own personal battles: grizzled, failed, weary, tough and cynical. They have a great heart, but it’s had the life nearly kicked out it by failure, pain or rejection. They drink too much scotch and employ language usually reserved for dockworkers and pirates. But near their lowest, they find themselves inexorably drawn into a life altering, life revealing chain of events. From somewhere within, they discover themselves responding with bravery they didn’t know they possessed. I think that’s how God probably sees us all: messed up and full of compromised sludge, without the slightest awareness that our moment to shine is waiting, just around the corner.

His hero is usually encouraged and reminded of his purpose by a partially-sane vagrant, or some such sketchy character. In speaking wisdom through them, his books give strange and wonderful dignity to the forgotten, misplaced, rumpled and ignored.

Smack dab in the middle of the most dangerous scenes is where you discover some of the best humor. And oh, there is humor! There are one-liners in here worth admission to an overpriced Vegas buffet!

Toss in his ability to seat you in a neighborhood bar-where undercover cops swap war stories…or an evacuated office where you learn horribly close-up how trigger pins detonate explosives-and you’ve got a page-turner like few others.

Mark has this great ability to show the invisible thread woven throughout each of our lives-giving meaning to every moment; especially the ones that presently make no sense.
He has become a writer worthy to stand with the “big boys of fiction.” He tells a story you don’t want to end. I think it’s because you’re not reading a rehashed plot a ghost writer has reworked for an author who has run out of good ideas. Mark’s letting us into how he sees life. He somehow convinces us that this life, in all its pain and ugliness, is still worth hanging around for. Because that moment is coming…where all the unraveled threads form a tapestry…where the good guy’s unseen courage gets displayed…where you finally see that your day to day life actually counts…where the garbled mess of real life turns on a dime, just when you’d feared it was all a random hoax. And he hands this gift to all of us who read along with him. You’re in for a wild and delightfully redeeming ride. Enjoy the pie!

John Lynch
co-author
True Faced and Bo’s Cafe

Nothing Important-or is it?

I haven't been writing my blog as much lately. For some of you, that's probably a good thing, well, deal with it. I've been busy doing other writing and just dealing with the mundaneness of life, if the word mundaneness is actually a word, which today, it is. At my age, still feeling young at this point, which is closer to the end than the beginning, I can look back and actually have an opinion that is worth something because I have walked the road. At least this much of it.

There is the bulk of our lives that are just, well, mundane; at least we think they're mundane. Its just life, refilling the toilet paper roll when there is three or four squares left on the end of the roll no one wants to try to use, that makes up the vast majority of our time on this rock. If you think about it, really analyze it, anyone can be a hero-really. What glory there is to strap a supersonic airplane to your butt and throw yourself off the front end of a moving ship, or run into a burning house and pull a small baby out of its smoldering crib, or my favorite-'keying' a door to a house with a forty-pound ram on a search warrant. Really, who wouldn't want to do that? Everyone wants to do that!

No one, absolutely no one, wants to refill the toilet paper roll.

Holy Ground, my next book after Emancipating Elias is coming out in a few more days. I was telling a friend I was having coffee with yesterday that writing to me is like heroin-the good kind of course. The type you can apparently now buy in California at their CVS pharmacies. After Holy Ground I am finishing up Looking for Indianola. Its a story of just this issue-the mundaneness of living. Life is not filled with fighting fires or the eighty yard touch down drive. Its filled with vasts amounts of time of what we could perceive as 'Boredom.'

We try to fill and remove our boring times with carrier launches and search warrants. We buy a car, we take a trip to the woods, we paint a room, something that is safe yet, whimsical. Now, don't sit there and say, 'Mark, you are just against change.' Because, you would be right. That is an Achilles issue I have had for a long time. You don't need a new couch or drapes if they are still working as a couch and a drape, do you?

The last few days, and writing this new book, is proving very interesting for me. I've gotten to focus on this topic and compare it to my life. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, until its your grass and you have to mow it. Ask any fighter pilot and they will tell you they love to fly. If you ask them what the worst part of their job is, they would say the three hour pre-flight and two hour post-flight de-briefings. Cops, cops love search warrants. They hate the eight to ten hours of paperwork afterwards.

Last night was an example. Everyone was over for Joni's birthday. She just wanted to be surrounded with her kids and grand kids-plural-jeez, it still stuns me that I am a multi-grandfather. Anyway, it was pizza and wings and toys on the wooden floor, and noise, and dogs, and TV on mute (why have a TV with a 'mute' button?-seems wrong). Then Spencer had one of those Latoya Jackson wardrobe malfunctions and blew threw his diaper like a shotgun blast at a watermelon, all over his mother, his father-my couch. People were laughing, screaming, running for towels. I just sat back, as a true grandfather would, and in all my wisdom of such things over the years called out in a calm, yet firm tone "Get the spray-someone spray the couch. Get the spray." Whatever that meant.

Actually, from a grandfather and a man's perspective, I was kind of proud of my little grandson. THAT, was an impressive feat. Most men would think so too.

I have also been working with my one son in law with his back yard sprinkler system. My other son in law, I helped lay sod when they moved in and so now is was plumbing. Of course, we waited until the hottest time of the year. Hey, if you're going to do something challenging, you might as well risk your life doing it. Also, on the last day of September, my oldest brother reported he turned the big sixty-five. This is a guy, who could and still can run us all into the ground. Lastly, my little boy sent me his first e-mail since going back to the Middle-east as an 'Advisor.' We talked about the Iraqi food and how he has Spencer issues for about a week.

Yep, the mundaneness of life.

What does it take to stay in the fight? To stay and deal with those things that come up and wash over our lives every day. I am not going to sit here and say it takes hero status to do so. That term gets misused enough. But it does take us sometimes stopping and looking around to truly appreciate what life is giving us at this particular moment. Sometimes the dancing Santa's and the Burger King commercials mask what is truly there for us to enjoy. A walk around the block, early morning coffee before the world is awake, a nap, a good book, trimming a hedge, window shopping with no intent in buying anything, anything that makes up our lives that have been given and laid out for us to look at and find humor or comfort in. Right now, as I write this to you, I have one dog asleep on the far side of the room under a desk and the other laying on my foot, sound asleep with her breath hitting my ankle. I am trying desperately not to move my foot so as to not wake her-my dog. Jeez.

The mundane, Old man Kopchek says in Looking for Indianola "You were feeling nostalgic about the good old days, or bad old days, whatever they were when you were a tike on a trike and wanted to reclaim that feeling? We could search forever for that feeling when all we have to do is open our eyes and look around.

Or we could go in and clean a toilet and change the roll. Try it. See if the next time you do it, it doesn't bring a smile to your face. I'm going to see if I can actually use those last four squares. Three cups of coffee will do that to this middle-aged man.

What's on tap for today?

Here's just a quick update on the wild things happening here in the Williams campground and cigar emporium.

We are fast approaching my favorite time of year. We are still in mid-September, but Christmas will be here in a week and a half. No kidding. Costco has had their decorations up since August beaten only by Walgreens, which had theirs available since July. I like this time of year because, yeah, yeah, yeah, the holidays. No, they bring stress and poor judgement. I'm talking about the weather changing.

It is mid-September and today its going to be 108. Yep, that's what I said. I was talking to my boy on Facebook today. He is in the beautiful Middle East and he didn't think they were going to be that hot. The nights cool though. That's a good thing. You hate going to bed and waking up hours later and its hotter before dawn than most countries have for a high for the year.

Teaching is still teaching. Kids in school come in all shapes and sizes. Their problems float between acne and being deported, parent (most only have one) dying or going to prison, and what they don't have to eat.

The politics this time of year is great!! You have two candidates saying, in many cases, the exact opposite. Sooommmmeeeeeboddddy's lying!!!

We have three grand kids now. That makes me a true Grandfather. Now, don't get me wrong. You can be a grandfather with one grandchild. You're official. But, your not a Big Kahuna Grandfather, with a capital G, until you have at least 2. That way, no one can say the first one was just and accident.

Maybe a nap is in order today? I need to sleep on that.

Oh, need to check the transmission fluid in the truck. I think its leaking. Maybe need to add some.

When was the last time you had fried chicken? Doesn't that sound good-with homemade mashed potatoes. Yum.

Okay, look. There isn't much time left in today. In a while, I will need to start getting ready for work for tomorrow, laying out clothes, packing my lunch. Crap. BUT, I do have a job, my family is healthy and so far, Travis hasn't had to shoot anyone. So, I guess this is a banner day. We will take what we can get.

Now, what chair do I want that nap in??

Whoa Nellie!

We spent the night with some dear friends up at their home on the western end of Flagstaff this Labor Day weekend. Nice house, modern; not a 'cabin' one would think of for the woods. It had everything you wanted in a weekend respite.

The four of us walked around the downtown area, the two men following the women in front of us. I could feel my blood pressure drop, kicking my brain into neutral and allowing the coolish air to remind me that living in a convection oven most of the year was an anomaly and most places, just a few hours away, were not like that.

Then, I heard it. The train.

Every day, several times a day, trains pass through downtown Flagstaff on their way back and forth across the nation. And I mean BIG trains, lots of cars, carrying Aunt Millie's refrigerator and your sister-in-law's new car. They blew through town like they were on their way to a chrysanthemum convention in Long Beach.

It was funny, I love that sound-the sound of that huge piece of machinery running through town. You never heard a whistle; you didn't need to. The rumbling of it was enough to tell anyone to get the hell out of the way. Where ever you were in Flagstaff, you could tell a train was coming. Eventually, you stop hearing it. Oh, but at night, I found that was the sweetest time.

Just before I started my coma cycle, I got into bed with my book. This is my favorite time of day. Cool sheets, comfortable pillow, a book with a nice story, ahhhhh, I'm there now! But at this home, you could open the windows. Now, for those of you getting this who do not live in Phoenix, let me explain something. You don't open your windows in Phoenix in the summer time which, of course, goes from March to October. You definitely don't open them in July or August or the shoulder weeks on either side. You will wake up dead from dehydration. Someone will come into your room in the morning and there you are, looking like a dried piece of apple. So, opening the windows and letting fresh, cool, mountain air in was like the foyer to heaven. That, and my bookie time, I was two steps away from Nirvana.

After about three minutes of solid reading, my eyes crossed and I turned out the light, getting into my PSP (Perfect Sleeping Position-years of research have helped me find and patent this).

In about two minutes I was on my way to Never Never Land. Then I heard it.

The 10:05 from Muncey to LA was passing through town.

It started off a subtle rumble and it grew. I found myself loving it. Like thunder, I love the sounds outside. Wind, rain, thunder, locomotives, all of it massaged my brain. I pictured, oh so briefly, the engineer in the front engine looking out the window into the darkness that made up the woodlands of northern Arizona. He would be making sure that all the lights were green, showing he was clear ahead, knowing that if anything was in the way, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. So, he opened the throttle a little more, once he cleared the heart of the town. Five hours later, I awoke to the edge of consciousness to hear another train, then drifted off again, a smile on my face.

Funny how things affect us. Some people would no more be able to sleep than I could stay awake to that sound. I think today, I'm going shopping. Need to price one of those train sets that circled the base of my Christmas tree when I was a kid. Maybe an engineer's hat as well.

"Send me..."

An interesting conversation with two Iraqi boys occured in my class today. They saw a picture of my son, father, and grandfather in my room. My father’s picture was of him in WWII, my grandfather in both World Wars, and my son in Iraq. “Mister, is that your son?” one asked. I told him it was. He then asked if that picture was taken in Iraq. It was either Iraq or just before when he was in Kuwait, it has the epic image of moonscape. It opened up the conversation about likes and dislikes.

One boy clearly didn’t want to talk about it. I think he had been asked the questions before and was tired of answering them. The other boy was wide open. The boy who didn’t want to talk said he liked Saddam. “He kept the lights on.” The other boy, he clearly hated him and said so. Saddam and his people tried to arrest his uncle for being friends with someone Saddam hated and had killed along with anyone who knew him. Both said they miss the part of their families who were still there. Neither wanted to go back. Both said things are worse there now because at least when Saddam was in power, the power was on. The boy who didn’t want to talk just said “You would be fine if you just kept quiet about the government. Don’t talk or comment about them and you should be fine.” Both were amazed about the fact they could even have this conversation without fear-limited fear- that I might report them to some hidden government agency about what we were talking about. Old habits die hard.

Imagine a life where fear was a part of your daily life. Not the fear of being blown up by some bomber but a fear that is secret. It creeps out at night and snatches your uncle, your cousin, your brother, never to be seen again. You don’t even know who took them or if they had fallen ill on the side of some road in the middle of that flat country my little boy was photographed in front of. “Just don’t say anything, and you can keep the lights on.”

So, today, as I write this, my little boy is leading a small team back into the throat of the Dragon for a second time. In the undisclosed location that will be his duty station, somewhere between Saudi Arabia and the Himalayas, he will try to teach a new mind set. “Freedom” without limits, “Freedom” without reprisal, “Freedom” without fear. A concept we lose sight of while standing in the checkout line with a grocery cart full of food, getting upset because it is taking way over five minutes for the person in front of us to ring up their coupons. We have, forgotten the cost. Yes, the cost. “Freedom” is never-ever free. But, by the love of a power beyond our imagination, we have been supplied with hearts, owned by some who said a simple line, quoted by a simple man named Isaiah a long long time ago.

Send me, Lord. Send me.

With a wink and a nod, a kiss for his new wife, loving mother, and sisters and brothers-in-laws, a hug and one long look into the eyes of his father, a little boy turned and climbed up the stairs to a waiting plane. “Once again, into the breach.”

Nope, we’ll never know the cost to keeping the lights on.

Rain in Phoenix? You've got to be kidding!

It's 4:30 in the morning here and its raining. Actually, its 4:37 in the morning-thanks to the new digital clock I got for the new side table that is so bright, one can see it from space. Its raining AND thundering with bright flashes of lightening or as we call it in this house 'Mr. Lightening.' A carry over from when the kids were, well, kids. I'm up writing about it because I am living in a city that breaks in on their television programing to alert the people to the fact that the stuff falling from the sky is, in fact, rain.

Its a good one too. Washed out the curbs and filled the street from sidewalk to sidewalk. On days like this when I was a kid, I would take my carrier fleet of 2x4's with smaller chunks nailed with 8 penny nails to its deck simulating radar and comm antennas and float them down the street. Mom would give up telling me something I already knew, that my black high-top Converse All Stars were soaking wet. They were suppose to get wet. You can't launch a carrier without getting into the bay-Geez mom!

I got up and turned the coffee on and took the girls outside. Betty, of course, was halfway across the street, oblivious to the water. Mindy, on the other hand, didn't want to get her feet any wetter than she had to. She stood under the eaves and watched her adopted companion. I wanted to rip my clothes off and run naked (wearing proper foot wear of course) down the street while holding my coffee cup yelling for everyone to get up and come outside and enjoy what I was enjoying. I didn't. The sun was starting to produce enough light where I could be recognized.

Funny thing about rain. It is a mood enhancer. You can go either way with that. If you live on the Olympic Peninsula, rain could cause depression because you get so much of it. Here in Phoenix its the opposite. It causes people to do things they wouldn't normally do. Like-

• Go to morning mass. The real early one.


• Go to Pottery Barn and buy some wind charms.


• Think about eating healthier-including the idea of more tofu in their diet.


• Not dwell on, at least for today, about the neighbor's cat using your feng shui garden in your back yard as a toilet.


• Think about putting in a feng-shui garden.


• Looking up in Wikipedia what the hell a feng-shui garden is.

Nope, rain in Arizona is like a drug to us here. As I sit here and look out the window, everything seems to be in its place. The world's problems, for just one brief moment in time, all seem to be at peace. In a little while, we will be back into the fray, but for right now, right this very moment, well, lets just say that this old man thinks he can get to the end of the street and back without anyone seeing me with my 2x4 and a half dozen nails.

Big Obituary or a Small One?

I was thumbing through the paper this morning. Yes, I still get the paper. I like reading it in the quiet early morning. The smell of the newsprint on my hands, the feel of the dirt from the wrapper as the newspaper man slid it across the oil spots on my driveway. It leaves a little black stain on your fingers that you inadvertently transfer to your new white dress shirt. Anyway, after the comics, crossword puzzle, and I have my 'private time,' I come back out and finish the rest of my reading, I always turn past the obituaries. Now, I have noticed that they are getting to be big. Like a quarter page big. With a big picture and little emblems to show the dead guy's memberships in things like the Elks and being a Shriner Clown. Then I look at the others, the common man obits that are from, well, the common man. Or maybe the family just didn't have the money for the bigger one. I had to ask myself-would I 'wear that'? Would I want a big, quarter page, short story about me being dead and what my life was, what I did, or who was still left in my family after I 'crossed the bar'?

Nope, don't think so. I think I want to go out with no notice at all, just to make people wonder 'Hey, have you seen Williams? I haven't heard from him in three years. Maybe I'll give him a call.' You start thinking of this crap as you get older. I swore I would not live live past 40 when I was 40. Now, I'm 52 and stuff is getting more and more real. Physicals actually have stuff showing up. I can't remember when my knees didn't hurt or I wasn't so tired as I was approaching Coma Level at 8:30 at night, and the greatest marker-I'm listening to NPR instead of music-and liking it!

So, to wander through this life and have a big-booty article written about myself, that might be nice. I don't think I could say enough to fill a quarter page though. I know, maybe I could attach a coupon for a 'buy one-get one' somewhere. That would be cool. Pre-pay like $1000 to a neighborhood bar or drive through and the first bunch of people to eat up the $1000 win. Why can't you do that? Why hasn't anyone thought of that before? At least then I would be remembered? Not that's is the most important thing. Frankly, three or four generations down, your siblings will say 'Mark who'?

I left instructions in my will (you have to have a will when you pass a certain age; its required) to 'dispose of my remains the cheapest way possible.' I don't want to be buried so people can come 'visit me.' That, frankly, is kind of gross. Think about it. If you have any religious background, you aren't there. If not, you are a pile of ashes or a plot of ground with a piece of granite on top. Can't you get the same effect by going in your backyard and sitting quietly in front of the begonias?

Maybe a nice coupon for chocolate shake somewhere? Chocolate always makes people happy. Plus, its free! Now, that would be worth remembering.

Summer in Phoenix-you've got to be kidding!!

Is there a reason we few, we happy few, live in Phoenix, better known as Dante's Fifth Level of Hell, during the summer? Huh?

We Phoenicians cheat and go to places like San Diego or Los Angeles, anywhere close to the ocean for a week or two during the summer. However, the vast majority of us are here for the greater part of the summer, moving the hose from one location of our dried-out lawn to another and scalding our collective mouths on water that is hot enough to boil an egg emanating from the 'Cold' water tap.

I remember my mom talking about moving to Phoenix after she met and married my dad. She met him while she was employed at the Alameda Naval Air Station in San Fransisco while he and his squadron were stationed there just after the Big One. She moved, like a dutiful wife, following her husband to where he was born, on the banks of the flowing Salt River in the middle of a wide beautiful valley-in the late fall, early winter. Warm, yet cool, and full of sun, unlike her hometown which had a little reputation for fog and cool-always. Then winter rolled to spring, which lasted about two days waking her to the start of an Central Arizona summer; introducing her to the hell to come. Oh, by the way, there was no such thing as 'air-conditioning' in homes then. That was reserved only for large department stores like Hanny's which would advertise their store with a sign which simply read 'air-cooled.' Evaporative coolers were in full effect and actually worked until late June when Dante's demons rolled in to town on vacation and invoked charms and chants and burnt incense raising their brethren demons of the underworld to come lay out in this god-forsaken heat.

Every year-I swear it gets worse. Although I don't think its the weather as much as my sorry ass is just getting older. Now, I think mom cried every night during the summer time. I know I would have. I never saw her do so, but she was 35 by the time she had me. By the time I was 7, mom and dad were frankly just tired. She probably got tired of weeping uncontrollably after years of repressed despair. I never saw her cry about missing the beautiful weather of the bay, cool breezes, fog, dark days, no sun, and the smell of stale ocean water. To a Phoenician, a 'true' Phoenician defined as one who was born/stranded/abandoned/left for dead here, maybe has a generation or two or, in my case, five generations worth of idiots who never took the train out, the smell of stale ocean and endless cloudy, cool days this time of year is like offering crack to any of the people living under the Seventh Avenue Bridge. I am salivating just sitting here thinking about it!

The idea of getting up in the morning in a place, such as the one my mother left, and doing something such as going out for your morning run, you actually get to sleep in. Ya see, in Phoenix, in order for anyone to exercise during the summer, you have to wake up and be outside before the sun comes up. That's about 4:30. Sure, its still 96 decrees at that time in the morning, but the advantage is you don't die as quickly from heat exhaustion in the pre-dawn hours. Anything after the sun rises, the simple fact is, you're dead-simple. They will find you under a neighbor's tree with your eyes rolled back in your head and your tongue swollen. If you awakened for a run in the morning in San Fransisco, you don't want to go out before dawn. You want the sun to be up or at least behind the clouds above the horizon. The neighborhood coffee shops aren't open until then. The only thing up at that time are the fishing boats getting ready to go out into the bay to catch something you could eat that night. The only thing in Phoenix you could get up and go catch at a pre-dawn hour is a STD.

Look, I like living here. I know you don't believe me and frankly, you'd be right. Except for my roots going way down and having actually touched Dante's fifth level, I am in too deep to move. Our kids are here and they show no signs of moving. Sure, mom could have married a dad who could have been born on the Olympic Peninsula, or New Hampshire, but she could have married a guy from Buffalo, New York where they 26 inches of lake effect snow in one day in the winter. That would-well, that would be bad.

There is a great advantage to living here. Living here weeds out the weak. This is God's farm where He thins the herd. We are hearty souls who make a living here, we few. My son, Travis, is in El Paso, gearing up for another tour of the beautiful Middle East and I talked to him yesterday. They spent 17 hours in the sun and soldiers were dropping like flies, except for his team. They were all from Phoenix. Just another day at the pool for them. You don't find any French people here in the summer. Italians are missing too. The Germans are in the hotels and delis and the Scotch and Irish are, you guessed it, in the bars. Don't believe me? Go hang out at one of our malls. We have a bunch of them. They're marked with signs that say 'air cooled.'

Ears, walking away-

So its July 4th, 2010. Independence Day has always been a special day in the Williams household, going back to when I was a kid. The Williams lineage goes clear back to WW I with my grandfather. This one, how ever, is different.

I have been thinking. What do you say, those last words, to you little child, before they go off to war-again? What are those last precious sounds you want them to remember coming from your mouth, the last vision of you, as a parent, speaking to them, saying something so important? It has to count. It has to mean something-at least to you.

My little boy is saddling up again and leaving for Iraq. At least that where the first leg of his second deployment takes him. He was in Tikrit, Iraq the first time, Saddam's home town, two years ago. Now, he commands a team and is responsible for their lives in addition to his own. He will leave his new bride of three months and leaves tomorrow. What do you tell him that you want him to know, want him to remember, before he leaves, that he doesn't already know? What words, what cluster of sounds, do you want to put together and in just the right order, that you want him to hear, that you haven't said, used, formed in various ways over the years before?

There are a lot a things, especially a father, wants to say. A last piece of advice, a kind word, a question, some blustery quote, anything. We want to say anything and keep saying it to the ears walking away.



Because we know.



We know there is nothing more we can say that will make anything wash the chalkboard clean. We can add to it-this chalkboard, of all the memories we have generated over the years, but all that was said or done is there already, written in our memory; in our child's memory. If we did it right, those ears walking away have already heard it, seen it, tasted it, felt it with their own hands and seen it in the aging eyes of those they call 'father.'



For thousands of year, people have had to do what we now have to do, say good-bye to a part of us, our family- my child, as they walk off to face danger. For most, so it is with my son, it is to stand for a belief that there is Evil and this Evil is destroying those that are not strong enough to withstand it themselves. Sure, there is a whole political side to it, but none of that matters when it comes down to those wearing the boots. At this level, this level where two sides meet and look into each other's eyes, where names are attached to faces, the level most politicians have never seen, and some have avoided themselves, its personal, intimate, strikingly pure.



At this level, our best and brightest are forged. They do not develop their character here, they expose it.



This is not a place for politicians, or those weak in their character and morals. This is not a place for those slow at decisions or who waiver in action. This environment is where the test is made, not only for those leaving, but also for those staying behind. They are tested as well.



Sometimes, I think its harder to stay than to go. I always felt it was better to be in the melee than to watch. At least you had a feeling of some control, some belief the steps you take are under your power, your decision.

Where do we get such individuals, men and women, who can do such deeds? There's a whole list of reasons these people join the military or any first response group for that matter-good insurance, nice retirement, steady income, three hot meals a day, a personal pride, the Flag, God, a whole bunch of reasons. For my little boy, its all those things as well, but also he's going because he has orders to and most importantly, he will not leave his team without his experience from the first tour to protect them. He can't leave them-at least not now.

I went out this morning and drove to get some food for the sleeping little ones at the house. I drove through a neighborhood, also still asleep. I went into a crowded restaurant, got what I went there for, and drove home. No where along that route did I even think about a bomb going off, being shot at, kidnapped, or my life threatened by martyrs wanting a random piece of me. Not that some neighborhoods aren't a little 'sporty' but at least in this area, at this time, there was a natural calm and peace to the world. There are a lot of people who wrote checks over the centuries so that this could be so. My little boy was one of them. Thanks son.



We come back to the question of what are those last words. What do I want my boy to know? The conclusion is there is nothing. He has heard it all. He knows all that I would want to tell him because he has heard it from me for years. Those things that count, those words that have the real meaning-he knows them. He can close his eyes at night and hear me say them. I would rather he think of his beautiful bride and I am sure I will be way down on the list, but when he needs a word or two, he can tap that part of his brain and find me. I could remind him to duck or to run faster between buildings, love his team by caring for them, wear clean dry socks, pray, but he knows this better than I. I don't need to tell him. He knows.



I guess, when he walks away, when I lose sight of his face and can't smell his cologne anymore, it is then that the work begins. There is really only one things my little boy needs to hear from this father. Everything else has been said, instructed, shared-everything but one. There is one thing that no human should ever get tired of hearing or saying.

I love you.



Oh, and maybe-stay low and run fast.

To those standing watch, thanks.

A Road Less Traveled

We were driving north on Interstate-17 this last weekend when I got to experience one of the least observed and yet most widely seen sights in our nation that any of us have ever had the privilege to experience. Of course, I thought I would share my take on it-with you.

We got stuck in the long tail of stop and go traffic due to an accident, ten miles north from where we were. I literally stopped the car on the freeway, designed to be traveled on at 75+ miles an hour. I stopped, twenty feet beyond the last possible exit to escape back to the south and an eventual trip around a mountain, fifty miles out of our way. But then I saw it.

It was rare. As a matter of fact, I had never seen this before, at least I had never seen it at this speed, which was slower than walking.

Crap along the side of the road.

Trash, waste, spillage, whatever you want to call it. I looked out my window and down at the asphalt. I looked over at the retention barriers, the faded Sprite 16-ouncer. All of them were still. They weren't flashing by at 110 feet per second (75 miles per hour converted to feet per second-hey- I'm bored and you admit, you found that interesting). So, as we creeped up the hill, out of Black Canyon City, towards Sunset Point, I started to make observations. I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry anymore.

9 hubcaps in about two miles. Here's a question- what would cause you to lose your hubcap? Wouldn't you realize it when you did? One of the hubcaps was from a Mercedes. You know that guy got out and looked for it, you just know he did. Here's a better one-ice chests.

If you lost your ice chest, heading north out of the city, you had something in it you wanted to preserve until you got to your destination; something you wanted to eat or drink at the campsite you were heading to that night. "Hey Merrill, did ya heard that?"

"Heard what Carl?"

"That explosive crashing sound. Sounded like a forty-pack and five steaks hittin' da asphalt at whatever speed we'z were goin'."

"Nope, besides, you know'd I'm deaf in one ear."

I saw several vehicle shock absorbers. How big of a pot hole would you have to hit to jar one of those babies loose? There was also some clothing that, if given the right water setting and some Tide detergent, could probably be recycled. I almost made Joni get out and get a five-gallon water jug just sitting upright with the lid still in place, but then we started moving a little faster and I could just see her trying to run to catch up with me in stop and go traffic, she'd just about get to the car and I would have to move the car up again, all of it going up hill. I would never hear the end of it.

Then there was all the trash. Mostly plastic bottles. I would not mind the recycling contract for the freeway. You could make a pretty penny with all the plastic, metal, and rubber that you could put back into the economy. You'd get enough to be able to order cheese on your burger, that's for sure. The interesting part was that I didn't see any cigarette butts. I'm sure they were there but they weren't recognizable, so we have that going for us, which is nice.

I think we need a little Koran law when it comes to intentional polluters. I can see having part of your load come undone and your steaks and beverages are returned to the land, but to do it intentionally, bad form. I think we, when one of these 'road polluters' is captured, tried, and convicted, should have his/her left hand completely cut off and duct-taped to their antenna of the offending car. Several things happen. Most immediately, they will stop polluting while they drive. They can't, unless they steer with their knees and throw with their right hand. It would just be easier to toss the empty container on the floor next to their baggy of Colombian and bag of half eaten Doritos. Secondly it sends a message, like a head on a pike in ancient Rome, that we take our 'road pollution' very seriously.

"Oh, look Marge, there's another one."

"Yeah, I wonder what he threw away?"

Third, it would bring people back to conversing instead of texting and tuning the world out while they traveled cross country. They would look out the window, hoping to spot another 'Polluters Flag' flying stiffly in the traffic breeze.

After an hour and ten minutes, we passed the accident scene. It was almost cleaned up. There were a couple of police officers, three news crews, and an overturned truck about twenty yards off the road. It looked like it had been a bad accident (I guess anytime you roll your vehicle over while traveling at high speed on the freeway can be considered a 'bad accident'), but it also looked like everyone made it out. Ten yards beyond the accident, I began to accelerate to flight speed. It will be, hopefully years, before I ever take that tour again, but I was sure glad I got to do it.

The last thing I remembered as I pulled away from the accident scene and back into my weekend was the image of the accident and the truck.

It was missing a hubcap.

Is This Something I Need?

This is Memorial Weekend-2010. This is a holiday of conflicting ideas and activities. When you think about it, it is designed as a sad and reflective weekend. Unlike its twin brother on the other end of summer, Labor Day, where we celebrate, well, 'labor' and the 'Merican worker, Memorial Day is designed to be somber and passive, thinking about those warriors who paid the ultimate price for us. In response to this, the Americans honor this day with those things that only Americans have earned the right to do. We remember Memorial Day with the Indy 500, lake boating, and sales on toilets.

Look, I use to be like everyone else and talk about what we, as a family, were going to do on this three day weekend until Travis decided to connect the dots for us with his deployments into the throat of the dragon. But I won't take you there. I got my flags out and run through my mind the significance of this day and how it could very well relate to me and my family this coming year. BUT, and I speak for my son, we are not going to dwell on that. There are other things to think about, fun things.

Let us examine the sales that tag along with this day and what, if anything, we can do about them.

Our fallen would actually, if we could hear their collective voices, want us too. "Momma, I'm fine here, don't you fret. You need to get yourself out and go mallin'. Go find that pillow you've been talkin' 'bout. You're sleepin' on one you've had since you were in tenth grade. You keep sayin' it makes your jaw hurt. Take Aunt Millie with you. Let her drive. Her eyes are better than yours.' Yep, I think our fallen would want us to think about them and the cost they paid, maybe over the morning cup of joe, but then get ourselves out and enjoy the day-the way of life, they wrote the check for. I think if I could take their collective souls shopping, we would hit two places-Costco and Home Depot. And what says Memorial Day sales better than toilets!

But do I really need a new toilet with 'siphon flush action?' Do I want a toilet that uses the word 'action' in its advertisement? Do I want a toilet that does something that you describe as an 'action' rather than just a 'flush'? Especially when I am at its mercy and in a position of vulnerability?

So we have a toilet in this house of ours that dates back to when I was a child-in this same house. I never changed it and my dad never changed it. Its an American Standard. The type that won the hearts and minds of the third world. It has different guts but the porcelain is the same. It has been acting up lately. It is strictly an indication of the guts needing to be replaced, but one doesn't just go buy guts to a toilet without first looking at 'what's new in the world of toilets.' Its very similar to when you need to buy new tires for your car so you go buy a new car.

At Costco recently, they had a toilet for an odd price of $93.78. Why not $93.76 or .79? Someone told me once that those weird prices indicate something is about to go away and be sold out. Which means, good luck on finding someone to fix it. AND, it had a push button flushy thing. No handle, just a button. Apparently, you can pick your flush strength which, I would guess, taps into that 'siphon action' we were reading on the side of the box. It also is a way to save water, which is something I am not sure I want to negotiate about when it comes to my toilet-plants and trees, yes, my toilet-nope.

Look, I don't know about you, but I am a 52 year-old man that is, apparently, at a cross road in his life. I have to make a life changing decision. I don't think I want to make this decision. I don't think I want my life to be faced with ANOTHER life change. First, its computers, and televisions then cell phones, and as always, boxers or briefs.

Questions raced through my mind. Men take their toilets seriously. We spend time there. We 'linger.' Women get in and get out. Men, ah, men plan financial empires during their toilet time. It's said that Tesla came up with the alternating current while camped on his. Mercury astronauts sang songs before their flights on commodes, or the invasion of the Falkland Islands was mapped out on the back of the stall door. Worlds are conquered here. Very serious stuff-very.

So to change from handle to button, oval to round, toilet height to seat height, all are easy decisions for a women. Men, well, we have to go to our god about such things. Then, we field test them.

Yep, I sat right down on that bad boy right in the middle of Costco. No, I didn't 'use' it but I wanted to check it for, you know, reach. That's why they put one out there, for the men, to try-I swear. Can I reach around and push the button without getting up? Yes, with some strain to my back muscles. It just means I need to spend more time in the gym working that part of my back. Seat height appeared fine. It wasn't chair height like the one in our other bathroom. My feet dangle on that one and my legs go numb. This one, well, height was not an issue.

There ya have it. The decision of the day. Instead of watching the Indy 500, I can wait until tonight to see the wrecks, the best part of the race, I might buy a toilet with 'siphon flush action'. There is a game or two on today but maybe I'll try to finish the crown molding in the living room. I didn't buy the toilet for $93.78 with the siphon action the other day. The timing wasn't right-maybe today. I thought about it, but then thought I would go price another set of guts at Home Depot, my other favorite store.

As I was walking out of Costco, my path took me right by the LCD flat screens. I slowed. I stopped. I have a second thing to take to my god-I guess.

Another year gone. Did it count?

Just finished another school year. It was a high casualty rate this year. Out of twenty-six juniors in one class, eleven failed. Here's the tough part, they chose to do so.

'Mark,' you start off, 'We think you're just a crappy teacher.' Well, sure if you are any teacher at all, you should go there. What can I do differently? What didn't I do? All of it. Many times we can, as teachers, differentiate our teaching and adapt. But sometimes, sometimes we need to let choices be lived out.

I've heard people say that kids don't choose to fail. They would be wrong. I've seen it. I've talked to them. I've actually heard them say 'I choose to fail.' Why?

That's all they know. They're comfortable with it. They've been told all their lives they were worthless, no good, wish they were never born, by those that were suppose to be their biggest fans. Some of the lives of these students are what make up bad movies. Their lives are terrible. They are old before their time. Parents? What parents? I am a firm believer that some parents-many parents, should never-ever be parents. They leave a wake of damaged children in their path. Somehow they breed and have children they don't care about, sometimes even hate. The cycle continues with the next generation.

But then there are those students that walk into class, torn, worn, beaten, and still they would rather spend the day with me than at home. It always happens just when you are contemplating changing your career path and thinking that being a roofer is the Arizona summer sounds like a nice break from this gig we call teaching. There's a look in their eyes. So, we take a walk, using whatever the non-educators at the state tell us we should be teaching. Ahhh, and here is the best part-I have learned that I can adapt and teach Life using anything-ANYTHING. Somehow, I can find an application to these young minds while identifying a preposition; how about Shakespeare? Way too easy. Give me a stick and a ball of twine and I will tie a life skill and a literary element to it. I can look any geek from the state in the eyes and justify why I used pudding pops and sock puppets to explain the literary element of characterization in Homer's Iliad while the transcendental metaphor was ignored. Yeah, I know, it makes me dry heave too. Same with the kids. We don't teach this crap for any other purpose than to help them understand the life they've been given. So, I usually tell the kids -"Look, the parts to Shakespeare you can't understand, well, those prose were probably written in the afternoon after he had been drinking rum all day because the water in London was so foul (sucked). The stuff that makes sense-the 'once again into the breach...' that good stuff? He wrote that in the morning before he got tanked." They buy it because instead of rum-momma's live-in-boyfriend is doing Cobra 40's.

Some of these kids, actually, most of them, will be the first in their family to graduate from high school. In some countries they make doctors out of a high school graduate. Here, you'd be lucky to mop the blood off the floor of the surgical room the doctor was in.

So, we as teachers, are running for the door at this time of year. This teaching crap really takes its toll. Lives are used up and spent before they even have a chance to grow whiskers. We get front row seats at the train wreck. We can even predict them, with almost 100% certainty. But, then there are those that have the eyes, looking into mine. The worn out and broken ones that somehow show up and stay.

I think about the course changes that have brought me to this very spot. In some districts, I'd be fired for talking to someones little spoiled brat the way I do. Here at my school, ahhhhh---I have students like 'Jose' come up to me. He was timid, shy, struggling with the language and life. He was almost completely broken, badly bruised, and his heart had been spoiled.

He waited until the room was empty before he spoke. "Mister, is it true?"

"What?" I responded. I was distracted with something meaningless.

"Is what you say, is it true?"

"About what?" I don't even think I looked up when he clarified. It took a minute before the radar picked up something.

"About what you told us all year, that whatever we can dream, we can do? I come from a real bad neighborhood and life. I don't want that. They shoot people and do drugs on the corner. My cousin, he wants me to join his gang-I want what you said."

Its was then that a middle-aged teacher's back straightened. Somewhere deep inside, as I get older, I find myself looking back and identifying, in times like these, with my heritage. My one grandfather was a Scotsman and my other was a rancher in the 19th century. Both, if they heard this, and I reckon they did, would look at each other and wink.

Grandaddy Jim's family, my brother and I figured, were not great warriors in Scotland; maybe his great grandfather, although doubtful. They were probably bakers. But in Scotland three hundred years ago, you were all warriors. You all went to the fight with whatever you had-an axe, a mallet, a long stick sharpened on the end. Your clan lived for a good war. You'd kiss your wife goodbye whom, by the way, could kick your ass, and you'd go. "Aye, looks like the lad is in need of some guidance he is," James would say, swirling some fine single-malt as he watched my show from the other side.

"Yep, reckon the boy needs someone with a good rope and a strong back to carry him if need be," Harrison would say missing the spittoon and leaving some pug on his chin. Grandad Harrison's idea of fine medicine was a kerosene soaked rag wrapped around whatever open, leaking wound he had, usually caused by a dull knife covered in cow dung. He would gargle with it when he had a sore throat. The brothers and I tried the kerosene treatment. It actually worked. He had the rag always with him, around his neck. it was his kerchief and if he needed to, he'd blow his nose in it too.

Sometimes, when God sets you down where you are, you don't know why most of the time. You look around and you question the foundation of life. 'This isn't my plan.' But sometimes, sometimes, he lets you see behind the veil. Instead of flying fighters off of a carrier, I am here. Aye, tis a good day for a fight! I could hear in the back of my brain.

"Yeah, Jose, every word is true-every word. Stay, and I'll show you," the old middle-aged teacher said.

Yeah, give me time and pen and paper. I'll make it fit into anything the state wants me to 'teach.' I'll even issue a grade.

As you read this, I am on my way to graduation. I don't want to be late. Jose is walking. He will be the first one on his block to graduate from high school.