Dress for Survival-not for Success

Okay, continuing our series on prepping for the days to come called an Arizona summer, we need to establish a few rules. Last week, we set our baseline of maybe getting ahead of the game and even toying with such ideas as using a tanning salon so our bodies would not wind up in a burn unit after a day on the beach in San Diego, the favorite refugee camp for Arizonans escaping the heat. Today, its clothing.

With attire comes a level of self pride. There is a distinction, obviously, between the young; lets say those in their real early twenties and teens; with everyone else. As the young get older, I have observed, they discover that comfort surpasses style.

Women are so much better at this then men at the younger age, but then border line later in life with style and trying to retain that sexy/stylish/beautiful look they think they might have lost but in fact, didn’t. It is this change that brings them to the discussion table. Men, young men, on the other hand, have a tendency to embrace stuff that makes no sense at all.

Example 1-Young men wear ball caps sideways, making them look like a modern day Lenny from Mice and Men (for those whom have never heard of it—it’s a book). In order to do this, they need to consciously ignore the feeling of the hat as it pinches theirs heads because in all the dream world of the hat manufacture, they never thought anyone would wear their product contrary to the way it was suppose to be worn. I’m waiting for someone to start another look where they wear it upside down. Now that will look good! Summers in Arizona require hats. If you truly wear them sideways, people just think you’re slow and will start talking to you in a loud voice—thinking you’re deaf as well.

Example 2-Young men have also forgotten to pull up their pants. This was a style some years ago when Mark Walberg was known as Marky Mark and did underwear commercials. It was a style that two years ago began to fade. Someone forgot to tell the Arizona connection. Nothing funnier than watching a young man with a pair a shorts hanging almost to his ankles, having to hold them up with one hand as he walks down the street. Pictures should be taken of these men, stored in a photo album, and secured until that man is thirty; then on his birthday, presented to him as what he use to wear. We older men have our leisure suit photos, the young—shorts dragging on the ground. Shorts in an Arizona summer is a required dress. It kills the functionality if you wear them long enough to cut off any fresh air circulation while both hands are filled, one with your pants and the other with your bag of pork rinds.

You combine these two examples on a young man walking down the street and one can not help but think that poor fellow has to write letters to his grandmother with a crayon and will spend the rest of his natural life working an assembly line sorting colored glass at the city’s recycling facility.

Now ladies, frankly, you’re perfect with some minor suggestions. Frankly, men have really no say in what you look like when we dress like that described above. But can we make some minor suggestion(s)?

Ever since we have accepted you and your shoe choices, which is a major realization of style and its importance in your self-esteem, we are left with only two minor things.

Spandex and moo-moo’s.

There are some things you need to be aware of. Young men (those wearing the crap above) will always be surface people. Your looks are what they are attracted to. Whether you can survive after your plane crashes on a deserted island never crosses their minds. What you looked like after you crawled from the wreckage—that’s the important part to them. The application of spandex is only good for one thing-the gym.

Women should never wear spandex past the age of twenty; in a climate where the daily temperature is over 100 degrees by eight o’clock in the morning; or the woman’s body mass would test the tinsel strength of the fabric weave.

Look ladies, here’s the thing, we are all in this life for the long haul. Those in the Donner party survived because they had something to survive on. Those skinny women who were so attractive to the others were the main course come supper time because their body mass index was so low they couldn't survive the blistering cold. They had no staying power. Embrace the fact that the average woman’s size in the United States is a size 12 and move on. Those women are survivors! You don’t need to wear moo-moo’s or whatever the Hawaiian name is for those one-piece dresses large women and some men wear unless comfort is your middle name. Those can be equally unsettling.

We had a neighbor once who lived behind us. She was from Greece or some place from the Ukraine, I think. She would climb up on a ladder leaning against our back wall and call to us holding her cigarette in one of those extended filter things that Natasha used in the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show (it was a cartoon). We all laid bets she was a former Russian tower guard in the Gulag at some time and used her ‘get away from the electric fence’ voice in callilng us. She wore those moo-moo things. She passed before spandex made a showing. Just the idea of her in eight yards of black Spandex is enough to cause a seizure. Bottom line is this-dress this summer with loose fitting, breathable clothes, comfortable shoes, hats facing front, carrying a bottle of water.

We can get all wrapped up in the hype of needing to wear this or that just to say we have this or that when we really need to dress to survive. When the first skinny person became the pot roast for the Donner group, I bet, if you could of asked them, they wished they would have bulked up a little bit before they got to that pass in the dead of winter. Yep, just a little bit of me thinks they were a size 12-or even a 14.

The Chili Effect

Habenero chili. Yep, that is a hot food. Makes your mouth burn, any part of your skin that it touches feel like a red hot poker of burning metal trying to cook its way through. That is the foundational history of the chili. It is also the history of an Arizona summer.

You know, it’s hotter here now than when it was when my grandfather use to swing from a rope hanging from one of the cottonwoods that lined the canals near his parents dairy, which, by the way, is now runway 8 left for Sky Harbor International. Arizona summers require planning. We move from winter to summer in about 72 hours. There is no gosh, wasn't this whole month wonderful-type talk. These summers require us to think about such things as air conditioning servicing, pool maintenance, swamp coolers, cooking outside or just eating salads, chaffing, and the new ones for the new-agers—tanning booths.

“Mark, whoa, slow down there. Tanning booths? Where did you come up with that? You won’t find any self-respecting man who has a XY chrome-pattern to even think about going to a tanning booth. Besides, it’s Arizona, just go outside, take your shirt off and cut the lawn, or change that bearing adapter on your swamp cooler along with the pump. That old deer gut will be red in 12 to 19 minutes according to the woman with the troweled on makeup doing the weather on the six-o’clock news. She should know, she just transferred down here from Minnesota and she fell asleep laying next to her condo's pool and her back is the color of a fire truck.”

Okay, look, I’m not some wing-nut from a French baking school. This is serious prepping for one of the harshest climates the Big Ten Cities have. Now, granted, I would much rather have Phoenix summers than a Buffalo winter. Shoveling FEET of snow off my driveway just to be stuck in the street every day is not my idea of good times, but every year that same weather gal, having believed what her colleagues have told her, tries to fry an egg on the sidewalk outside her studio. Of course it eventually works, after hours on the pavement and the flies reduce it to a small pool of goo, but she tried and was marginally successful. We need a plan. I’m just spit-balling here.

Here is the idea, if you go to a tanning place (do we really need to call them a salon?) and capitalize on their specials, like a week free or coupons and discounted stuff, get a little controlled UV roasting, then when we do go outside and mow the lawn, trim the hedge, or replace that flange adapter on the #2 control rod of the cooler’s squirrel cage, we shouldn't wind up in the burn unit at County General. Arizonans have some of the worst tans on the planet. ALL the health experts say you shouldn't have a tan; its bad for you, it will give you some cancer they have to remove the old fashion way—with a knife and Bondo.

Some of us might want to travel this summer to someplace with an ocean like Florida, San Diego, or the Caribbean. You don’t want to walk out on the beach with a tanned head and neck, forearms, and the rest of your body so white it’s translucent. After one day, you find yourself in a burn unit on an island where the doctor is in a tank top of woven Hyena skins and treating you by waving some chicken bones (you hope they are chicken bones) over your head, while humming some chant through an Ibex horn, and throwing some crushed coconut ash on your second degree wounds. The idea of strapping yourself up with a zip line harness that afternoon is the last thing you want to think about.

Look, we need to live wiser out here in the great southwest. Sir Lawrence adapted when he came from pasty-white England to the Middle-East. He wore a man dress and head cover. HOw he looked was not as important as staying alive. He drank water and stayed out of the sun. With the flat screen and Blue-Ray, that last part should be easy. But we are creatures who like the outdoors. We are creatures who fix stuff. If we are going to harvest the lawn and do so in our Speedo and flip-flops, we need to take precautions against things, like someone doing a drive-by harpooning of a Great White.

NEXT TIME: Sun block v. Baby oil-sauteed or fried.

To Live to my potential-According to my dog

Some wise person said once, they hoped to live up to the potential their dog thinks they have, or something like that. There is something magical about dogs and men. Sure, women love dogs just as much and have just as good a relationship and feelings, blah, blah, blah. But I'm not a woman, so I can't talk from that perspective.

Dogs and man go back to when we use to chase down mastodons together. Today, we herd sheep, stand guard at some remote airbase, pull a sled in a fifteen hundred mile competition, chase balls or Frisbees, or just sit and watch TV. All the dog wants to do, is please its master, whatever that looks like.

Some people spend thousands of dollars on their pets. They say, 'Hey, he/she is just like my kid.' Since I've had kids I know the difference. I know I wouldn't spend thousands of dollars for something like a kidney transplant or surgery from a car accident like I would on my own flesh and blood, but I can understand those who do and why they would. What's funny is, I would run back into a burning house to save either of my dogs.

They would try to do the same for me if they could. Funny.

So, today, this morning, I have to do the thing dad's have to do and take my sixteen year old dog to the humane society to have her put to sleep. I would rather run back into a burning house to save her. I have to live to that level my dog thinks of me and do what she wants me-expects me to do, make the pain stop. I curled up with her last night while she got sick and then this morning, realized it was time. She had been sick for a while.

It was surely time.

Funny thing about those times. Dogs (and I'm sure other pets for other people as well) become this thing in our lives. If we truly want to admit it, in a way, we want to be like them. Imagine knowing someone-anyone, who, when you came home, ran to the door and kissed you and welcomed you home like you had been away for years, instead of just to the corner store for a gallon of milk. Imagine knowing someone who only wants to please you, love you, play with you, listen to you and whatever dribble you have to say so attentively that you would swear they were listening. Another guy, probably the same one who said the first quote, said once "Don't you wish you had the heart for god, like a dog does for its master?" How about the heart for anything like a dog has for it's master?

That dog didn't care what we wore, how we smelled, how much money we made last quarter, or if we drove a new car. All she cared about was being around us. Where ever I was, she was within feet of me, laying down, taking the pressure off of her arthritic legs.

Yep, that dog taught me a lot over the years. She listened to stories and could sense heart ache and joy and at just the right time, she would drop some dog wisdom on the old man that made sense-perfect sense.

When it was time to go, I swear she smiled.

She knew something.

Yep, I want to live up to the image my dog thinks of me. It would only make me a better man.

Wave of Life

Sometimes, don't you wake up just wanting to go back to sleep again? Kind of like life-not everyday is a fun filled extravaganza run of frolic and joy.

Sometimes, its just work.

Sometimes, we just have to lower our head, tuck our shoulder, and prepare for impact. I remember as a kid swimming in the surf in San Diego, a wave would come and it was too shallow to dive under it, you did exactly that, leaning into this wave that you could see coming, ready to try to knock you over. Once it hit, it usually pushed you back on one leg where you found yourself hopping, trying to keep your balance.

You survive the impact only to find yourself in deeper water, trying to wipe your face free of the salt water and that long green grass like kelp that got stuck in your hair, not to mention what ever that stuff is wrapped around your ankles.

Sometimes, for days, weeks, months, whole seasons, we feel like we just have to tuck our shoulders, lower our heads, and brace for whatever is going to roll down the street at us, leaving whatever it brought, wrapped around our ankles and stuck in our hair. After a while, after one wave then another, we get use to the stuff in our hair and we don't even feel the goo around our ankles. It has become a part of our life.

But then it happens.

You don't even realize it, but finally you come to a point when you are in the perfect position to catch one of these waves that has been beating you for so long and ride that puppy to shore.

And the one you pick is huge!

You look up at it as it starts to curl and the top ridge of it starts to thin, allowing the sun light to come through. For a moment, you think about going under it, avoiding it because for a moment, you are feeling fear. Then it happens.

You lose your fear and replace it with courage of a paramount level-almost joyful, exuberant joy. You turn and start swimming as hard as you can to shore and quickly find yourself being picked up by this thing and pushed forward. You tuck your arms and try to form a bullet, going faster and faster and sliding down the curl that now, instead of beating you to death with its power, you are in full sinc with. You and the wave, for just a few seconds, are together.

Until your belly scrapes the sand.

Then, you stand up, pull the green grass out of your mouth, the kelp off your ankles, turn and walk back out to sea, only to be battered again for a season, before you get another chance to ride the Big Kahuna all over again.

Just like life.

Hmm.

Do I really, really need this?

I was feeling really vulnerable the other day, kind of like a French yachtsman off the coast of Somalia. I was in uncharted waters when I crossed the Big Muddy this last weekend.

I bought a phone.

Actually, it is probably not called a phone anymore. It’s probably more of a communication/multi-media interactive device. Yep, that’s what I got. My wife got a bigger one with bigger icon-type things but I wanted to stay low to the ground, keep my feet planted in the reality of what I really needed, not go crazy with all the bells and whistles that so many of my contemporaries have reduced themselves to.

I got an I-Phone.

‘Whoa there little pony,’ you’re probably saying. ‘We all heard you say you didn’t go crazy.’

You’re right, you did. I did say that. I didn’t get the new I-phone. I got the one-one step down I-Phone. Frankly, I drew the line at being able to talk to the Space Shuttle while I sat on the toilet in the morning. Nope, don’t need to do that. Why get a piece of hardware that you truly don’t need?

Besides, this one was less in price than the regular little ‘flip phones’. But here’s a question: When did this happen? Hmm? When did I get so busy or so important that there is a standing need to be in contact with the weather reports in Nepal if I need it at the touch of a finger on a device smaller than the pack of cigarettes my Dad smoked when I was a kid? I got a better phone than the President of this here United States, and he truly does need to be able to talk to the Shuttle when he’s on the crapper. He only has a Blackberry. He can only text America’ Bravest. I can Facebook those little bastards WHILE I’m texting them AND listen to my music or watch a movie at the same time.

For some of you (geez, I sound like a geezer, but…) we remember rotary phones and the first two numbers were in the form of a name. For example, our house line started with AMHERST and the first two numbers were whatever was under A and M. As a matter of fact, when people asked for your phone number, you would quote ‘A, M,’ then the other five digits. You started living large when you got that space age-looking phone--The Trim Line! It had push-button technology. I remember feeling like we were part of NASA. Something with so many buttons had to come from the space program; it just had too.

Cult groups started to figure out ways to play songs on the phone with the different tones each button produced. Then someone wised up and sold just the cords, either the one from the wall outlet to the phone or from the phone body to the handset, long cords. Now, you were mobile! It was always better to get the cord from the wall to the phone because if you did the other, you had a tendency to reach the end and pull the phone off the wall. We went through about a half-dozen phones that way. You could talk to your Uncle Ervin about his gout and stir the chicken fried steak at the same time. What will they think of next? The Trim Line, tucked safely under your arm. It even had a light for night use!

Now, I can’t figure out how to turn my phone on.

The day before we went to look at phones, I was thinking. What if I came across an accident at an inter-section? My phone was out of batteries and there, right next to you, the victim of a red-light runner, was your phone. I pick it up to dial 911 (a product of the space-age push button technology) and I DON’T KNOW HOW YOUR PHONE WORKS! I lean down and poke your unconscious body with my foot “Hey, mister, how the hell do you turn your phone on?”

You don’t answer.

Where’s my trim line with a seven hundred foot extension cord when you need it?

Miss America-That's not a talent

I found myself sitting in front of the big screen last night and somehow, in the sea of channels on my satellite TV, I fell on the Miss America Beauty Pageant. Before I could escape, the women in the room yelled at me to step away from the remote. It has been years since I have actually watched the competition and there have been some significant changes-like the swim suit portion, the host, etc. BUT-the one thing that still remains a touchy subject with me is the talent competition.

Come on.

Now, I should say they did make a change or two to this portion as well. All the competitors, ten at this point, come out and sit on a bench. You got your singers, piano players, dancers-who actually aren't sitting but you can see stretching just off camera, on stage watching and waiting to be called up.

They only call eight out to compete. So here you are, all warmed up and ready to do your interpretive dance of the flamingos and they don't call you up. You and one other loser get to walk off stage trying to smile. That's pretty cool. But lets talk talent for a minute.

Sure, you can sing Puccini or be some white blond gal trying to be Tina Turner, but anyone with a voice coach can do that. Here are some real talents-new talents that I think we need to write letters to the pageant and have them at least try. Let me know what you think.

• Recharging the freon on a 1976 Admiral refrigerator in under two minutes (the actual length of the talent portion)


• field strip a military grade M-4 rifle while blindfolded.


• Eight second bull ride (the other minute and fifty-two seconds could be filler video of the competitor being loaded on the bull-clock starts when her butt hits the bull's back)


• roofing a small shed.


• changing the flange adapter on a Hudson 280 smoke suppressor


• performing a live appendectomy (it can be done in under two minutes of the volunteer/patient is already anaesthetised)


• Fix a table leg on someones patio table


• Digging ten feet of trench for a sprinkler system


• repairing a sprinkler head on said system


• changing a washer on a kitchen/bathroom faucet


• starting a fire in a fireplace

I am sure we, as a collective, could come up with more. What I am happy to see is none of them are baton twirling. Now, if the baton was lit or had razor sharp ends to it-huh, maybe.

The wonders of vision

I'm not going to bore you with my health issues. First, your eating and drinking something nice and you don't want to hear the ramblings of a middle-aged guy talking about his bowels, joints, teeth, or anything else. Its just not proper, not good form.

Except this time.

I went to the eye doctor yesterday. Now, I am not an expert at searching for doctors and that is a good thing. For the most part, I'm in good shape with the exception of things starting to wear out, like joints, teeth, and apparently, now my eyes. I went to one of those chain stores in the strip mall. I have an acquaintance of mine who goes to an eye doctor and then an exclusive eye glass store-so exclusive they don't take insurance. Mine, well, I think they have coupons. Something about a doc that takes coupons that just seems borderline.

Now, understand something. I use to have vision. Like owl vision. 10/20 in each eye at one time and not when I was twelve either. I was in my late twenties. I could see stuff across the universe without the use of a telescope. Bats asked for advice from me. It was that good.

I have been wearing little reading glasses for about 6 years. Ever since my arms quit being long enough to hold the paper away from my face. But in the last few years, they have started to leak, itch, blurry, all of it. So, I figured it was time to get another inspection for the decade.

Geez.

The appointment wasn't bad, quick, efficient, but now I am truly a middle-aged guy with another part that is in need of repair.

I understand I was going to hear about my vision. I get that. But I wasn't prepared for hearing I have the beginning stages of cataracts. "You have just a little bit of cloudiness, Mr. Williams, nothing you need to deal with now." And then, as if to console me, she told me that everyone gets them as we get older.

Now that made everything better. 'Cloudy', really? Is the next thing that I take a fall and I can't get up? And what about my bowels? Haven't heard from them lately. You know what they say-'No news is not necessarily a good news.'

They then tried to sell me a $400 pair of glasses. Once I took the Cadillac stuff off of it, it was whittled down to about $178.

I can get 3 glasses for $18 at Costco.

But I can't complain. Life is good. Daily struggles, occasional rewards that we are allowed to see and remind us of those things and people we touch that positively impact their lives as we walk through them.

Now, I just need to find my cane.

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.