Returning to a small town-Ouray week-Day one

Almost every year, about this same time, a group of us return to a small town tucked in a small corner of granite that reaches higher than some small planes can fly. I have written about this trip before, talking about the peace and quiet, the Bad Boys, Mrs. Johnson's prize roses,  or Bella's daily walks with her retired master, smoking his pipe and his wool cap pulled down tight in order to stay on when Bella scents a squirrel and jerks at her leash unexpectedly. Some businesses are here year after year; some, like the taco stand, have faded into memory. I don't come here enough, but when I am here, its as if it has been my town since birth. I want to protect it. 

I know the 4th of July is desperately necessary for the survival of this town. After Labor Day, the tourist season ends and dries up tighter than a paper towel under a broiler. I know its important to them, but I don't like the people that are needed for it to work. 

They don't understand. 

So, when we drove through the forest fire west of Durango on our way here, then found out the fireworks, as a matter of fact, all outside fires-grilling, smoking etc., was banned, and knowing these people would probably stay home and watch TV, there was a part of me that was ecstatic. Those people won't be here. When we pulled down Main Street, it was obvious tourist response was already impacting the  town. You could stand in the middle of Main Street, also known as State Route 550, without the threat of being run over. 

But there is a sadness here, everywhere in this state, as a matter of fact. Beautiful forests are burning up, never to be seen again in my grand children's life time. They say forests are a renewable resources, but not in any reasonable time frame. Moonscapes will be around for decades. 

So, stick with me this week. Pull  up a chair and ice down that knee. Get yourself a cup of coffee and read about a town I think we could all spend some quality time living in. These are a proud people, like us. They will make you laugh, maybe make you cry, but I promise, they are no different than any of us. 

Welcome to Ouray, Colorado.

Enjoy. 

Where is He?

Saturday morning and I’m up at 4:22. I took the dogs for their walk, after first waking them up, made some coffee, retrieved the paper, and now I am sitting here, talking to you.

There just is an incredible peace this time of day. The air, here in Phoenix, is still cool to the touch. Another week and you will feel like you just stepped in to a L.A. Fitness sauna. Sure, New York has high humidity with a medium temp, but we have medium humidity with surface of the sun temps and we all know both of those still beats a Buffalo winter.

Still, this time of day, about an hour or so before the sun comes up, is a place I would like to live all the time. The colors of life, you find at no other time during the day. The birds are waking, the streets are quiet, and all in all, peace lives here. I can think here. There isn’t a lot to worry about, not yet. The dogs sleeping on my feet, fresh from their run and ball throwing, aren’t even hungry, not for another hour. They just want their master to settle back in so they can go find their sweet spot again on the dog bed.

If you find your life searching for a Higher Being, you would find that search starting here. I ran in to God twice, both times, it was the early hours of a new day. If you believe in such a thing as God then you know He doesn’t roll in with Pomp and Circumstance—ever. If you’re looking for god, chances are, at least in my mind, you won’t find Him.

Why? Because what we want to find and what we need to find are usually two dramatically different things. You will always find what you want to find, painted and shiny, and all bedazzled. If you are looking for god, you will always find—something.

You see, you don’t have to look for God, He’s just there, right there, right at your shoulder. He is never anywhere else.

He waits. He loves watching and listening. He loves the sound of our voices and the way we move, especially when we dance and we think no one is watching. He loves that. I can never disappoint him-ever.

He is patient. He decides when to make his presence known, maybe during the hotteste day ever during a wire-tap surveillance on a contract killer’s home, or in the words of a Dave Matthews song. I’m just saying.

My experience with Him leads me to believe God loves Dave Matthews.

Both times, God also loved the pre-dawn. I’m not saying He doesn’t show up during a child’s birthday party or a father’s critical surgery. I’m not saying He isn’t there when you are in pain or full of laughter in the middle of the afternoon or evening. He is there for all of that. But to actually feel Him in your core, walking with you, sitting with you, those times, at least for me, are rare. I’m glad they are. I never want the neighbor’s grass, so green when I first saw on the other side of the fence, to ever just be green grass that needs to be mowed. You following me?

So, this morning, Betty, my three year old lab/border collie, just came in and put her head on my lap and burped her breakfast. Apparently, the sweet spot could wait until after some Purina. She wants me to scratch her nose. June, her one year old sister by adoption, is outside and can be seen through the window eating something the neighbor’s cat surely buried. The sun hasn’t come up yet, but peace reigns here. Oh, for it to linger a while longer.

At least until Dave Matthews’ album is done playing.

Father's Day

I think its okay for dads to be 'tough'.

Now, don't go lighting torches and start complaining about your dads being over the top, or your neighbor's dad, or the guy on TV arrested... 'look at what he did'.... I hear ya. Track with me here for a few minutes and see what you think.

Today, probably more than any other time in the history of the world, dads are taking on multiple roles at work and at home. My dad went to work, cut the lawn, and burned steaks on the grill. I mean burned them. It wasn't worth eating unless there was a decent amount of carbon on it. Oh, and he cooked Sunday breakfast, but that was it. He was a good dad. We all lived happily ever after, the three kids and mom and dad-a complete family of fun and frolic.

Except for....

I look at a lot of our 'young' parents now and I got to say I am really proud of both father and mother. Yes, I know about the 50% divorce rate, delinquent dads, and crack babies, etc. In a prior life, I was in law enforcement and now I'm in education. Failure of the parent in their role is dripping from the rafters. However, there are parents, a lot of parents, doing it right. What makes it right? 

They love their kids.

To raise a child in this world, the optimum number of adults to do so is not two-its a village. But two is a good start. I know, from the stats above, 50% of all marriages end in divorce and almost all the kids wind up with the mum. Many are successfully raised by single parents. Many of those dads think they got a free ride and move on. But, we also have to admit, many of those dads stick around and help with their share of the responsibility, making sure that child has a fighting chance as an adult. Being a parent is the hardest thing to do on the planet. Being a single parent is, well, just ask a single parent.

Dads, today is a day we celebrate the title knighted to you for being in the game, staying, fighting for every inch of ground for your kid. But understand something dads, just because you get your kid to eighteen, it doesn't mean your done; just because you get your kid 'married off', it doesn't mean you're done; just because you had your first grandchild; it doesn't mean you're done. Here is the simple truth, dads or those who want to become dads-you are NEVER done. 

A real dad has signed up for a permanent position in history. There is such a thing as a 'perfect father'; there is one and only one. You will never be perfect, but there is a model you can follow. A real dad is a messed up, frail, vulnerable guy who wears bad socks. But, he knows and owns his screw ups, apologizes, and loves what he has created. A kid needs to see their dad owning their screw ups and trying hard to not do them again. 

Kids are funny. They want their pops to be their hero and are willing to look way passed a boat-load of years of screw ups. If a dad wants to, he can still make that team of fathers known as 'dads', even after years of pain. If a kid sees their dad owning their issues, that gives the child the freedom to own theirs when they get older as well. Why should a child want to be different from the models in front of them? "Hey, my dad was drunk and slept around, why shouldn't I?" And the answer of "Because I said so, that's why" just doesn't cut the butter.

I got to tell you, its easy being a father and going off to war, going off to work, going off to hunt, going off to where ever. Anyone can 'go'. Not to be crass, but it takes balls to stay in the fight. Sure, we have to work, but what are we fighting for? The lives of the children we made, that's what. "Well, I gotta go to work, earn a living, put bread on the table." Hey, here's some news, we eat too much bread! Any man can fly a jet off the front of a carrier or work the swing shift, or dig a post hole, or be a brain surgeon. Any man can do that. There is glory in that, prestige, notoriety. Life-war is just that, war. It can be ugly and sad, depressing, lonely, all of the emotions associated with war. Dads, true dads, are fighting that battle. They love their children, modeled after the one Dad that got it right, it is said that love is perfect and also sacrificial. Dads love sacrificially. Yep, you are going to get it wrong a lot of the time, but when you get it right, oh baby-it is sweet!

So, today, we raise our glasses and toast to the dads, the tough ones, the ones with scars and wounds, bad knees, cheap glasses, and baby poo under their nails. They are here in this Room of Life. They are the ones with the sloped shoulders and the crows feet around their eyes. The hair in their ears, long since surrendered to 'I don't care if it's there' attitude. These are men of men. They have stayed in the trenches and fought like Trojan warriors for their kids and family, some even flew off the front of carriers. They clean the floors, change the diapers, mow the lawns, do the shopping, fix the squeaky hinge, love their wives, and fall asleep reading 'Good Night Moon' to their kids, all before they go to that second job to earn enough money to pay the power bill. These men are anchored with a servant's hearts. They stand at the fence of the little league game and watch the swing, making sure its level, hold the extra hair ribbons in their pockets for the small ballerinas, or carry the fear and quiet panic alone, shared with them by their child, now a man them self, who share the daily threat of battle  and death with their dad, so as to be unburdened and able to again function in that nightmare world of such things that go bump in the night. 

There is no greater job on this planet, no greater burden to carry, no greater honor to have than to be a Dad-father. If you do not have such a man in your life, find one you admire and tell them so. Ask them, today--make this decision today--to ask that man to be your father on Father's Day. I will tell you what he will say-"I would be honored to be your father today." You see, dads are never done being dads. Until the day they die, they have sworn an oath to the model of Dad-dom. They are centurions, knights of an order many thought was long since passed. But they stand and look up and down the line of battle, their crows-feet shrouded eyes wink and give a slight nod to other dads, standing in the same trench. Their silver hair and sloped shoulders, long since worn in battle, still willing to carry the load of hearts yet to find the love of a dad. Until their last breath they live by a motto most don't know, some have only heard in passing, many don't believe in, but these dads do. These few, these men, with their last breath will be a dad to you. With their last breath they will breath the words instilled in their hearts by their Father, words that have gotten them up every morning, and gently pushed them forward, stepping them into the fray.

"Send me, Lord."

Happy Fathers' Day