Beauty

The word 'beauty' is a funny and sometimes misleading word. Sometimes, we are entrapped by it with ads on TV, billboards, sides of buses, fliers on our doors. Almost all of it has some sexual edge to it to attract us to it, get us to pick it up, and at least touch it with our eyes.

Sometimes beauty is a mountain or a climate, even a culture. As I sit and write this piece, I am on the island of St. Lucia. It sits towards the southern end of the Lesser Antilles island chain way down towards South America. It is a British Commonwealth, formerly owned by Spain, France, Britain, the Ameri-Indians, the Carib cannibal Indians (who still have relatives in the heart of the rain forest on the island) and now, for the most part, they own themselves.

This is the second time we have been deep into the Caribbean. I think the farther you are away from the U.S., the better taste you get for the life these people truly live, how they look at life, what it is that makes them go about their day-their beauty.

I think its hard to see beauty when you plan for it. I guess you have to ask 'why is that beautiful to me?' You can watch the Miss USA contest and see physical beauty although the contestants do sing and tap dance and occasionally they twirl a baton but all anyone is interested in is hoping beyond hope that she drops the baton or trips on the dance floor, kinda like NASCAR. We really don't care about that kind of beauty-its just a show.

I think beauty, true beauty, changes people when it shows itself when you least expect it-like during a funeral when the lights streak in the windows and land on the casket at just the right time, or during a storm when the power and largeness of the event is awesomely incredible, or in a poverty soaked country where the environment is striking but its people, even living in the squallier they do, somehow have the ability to put a crease in the white uniform shirts of their children in order to send them to school. I mean a crease you can cut a loaf of bread with.

I have only been among these people for a few days and only have a few days more. But there is a beauty walking here among them, a quiet, dignified beauty that I want to learn from. No matter what you ask them, tell them, talk to them about, they almost always finish the sentence with no problem. To them it is, whatever it is, not a problem.

At this resort we are staying, there was a shift change about five in the afternoon. The women were leaving. They took their purses and their bags and began the long walk up the hill to the bus stop, about a mile away. there, the buses (vans really) would pick them up and take them home, maybe about an hour away. They smiled and laughed and some did a little dance as they walked up the hill. They had good jobs, making about the national average of $350---a month.

They would do this six days a week. There is no minimum wage here, no overtime, no social security, no food stamps. If you didn't make it or grow it, you don't eat. Yet, these people, as you drive along, waive to you-

-and then they smile.

I think as I get older, I learn about stuff that has value, real value. I want to hang on to that stuff and dump the other stuff. The stuff that takes too much energy and work and try to melt things down to what really counts. I am closer to the end than to the beginning and I want to finish well, although the finish line is decades away-maybe. I don't want to finish and have some say-'who died?' Not that I need some icon or statue of my image somewhere so pigeons can crap on it.

Nope, I just want my life to count, even if it is just for one person. Here is a group of people who live on a month's salary what we can spend on a meal at home and yet they have found beauty in their lives. Their lives impact and change people who come in contact with them. I want to take what these people are showing me and bring it back and pour it on others I come in contact with. Sure, there is always a need to be able to do well in a gun fight, but those moments are rare. It is much more important to do well in every day living; to share your life and give hope among the hopeless.

These people are experts at finding beauty in life when life itself is not beautiful.

I want to be an expert too.

Day and Night

I have had an incredible experience this last week.

I got to watch a man die.

It was a very sad and terrible thing, don't get me wrong, but if you have to do something like this, to get the opportunity to be a part of this was nothing short of inspiring.

Randy was my brother-in-law. He had lived in a group home for almost forty of his fifty-one years. He was diagnosed as a mosaic Downes, a unique chromosome pattern that turns normally docile Downes patients into a different, unpredictable individual.

By many beliefs, it was a tragic life. People would look at his situation and just shake their heads and then avert their eyes. But they didn't know. They didn't have an opportunity to look at this life close up.

Randy had a great life. He lived in a group home and had a room he shared with another resident for decades. He had a big screen TV, his own special recliner, bongos. He went to work making something with his hands that I am sure, somewhere in our house, we have at least one of. On days when his sister would come and see him, he would wear a tie, not necessarily a tie that matched the shirt, except maybe in Italy or parts of Uzbekistan, and it wasn't necessarily tied, but he got dressed up for her. She was never disappointed.

With all his health issues, he wasn't suppose to live this long, but he did.

He choked on a peanut butter sandwich.

Really? A peanut butter sandwich?

The staff worked so hard trying to save their friend, but the sandwich was so far down that only the paramedics could extract it. He had gone too long without air.

But then the magic began to show. The world doesn't expect to see people like Randy making a difference in the world. That's why the world created the group home. Make them comfortable is the official version and we do. We try to give them a life that is normal whatever that means. Then God steps in and makes it perfect.

This guy, impacted lives like I wish I did. In my life, I hope I have people who love me so unconditionally like this man had standing by his bed. The rules in cases like this are to wait 72 hours to see if his condition changed, righted itself, or ended. At the end of that time, the doctors gathered us together and the decision was made to let nature take its course.

He lasted another twenty four hours.

In that entire time, this man had a standing vigil by his bed. The group home workers took turns with Randy round the clock, sitting by his bed, talking to him, touching his arm, rubbing his legs, washing his hair, shaving him, trimming his toe nails. I could have done all of those things-if I had too. Here's the thing, they didn't have to-they wanted to. It shamed me.

They loved him. He changed their lives. He loved them back-purely; in a way that took away all the crap the rest of us deal with and use. This was his family. Even the residents, who had some knowledge of a change in things, wanted to come to the hospital and were granted and escorted by the care workers. I met them all, shook their hands, received their hugs. Yep, I was shamed.

I want to love like that.

I can-I have, but it is never consistent. I want to be like these people. I want to love so purely that conditions or issues are never even questioned, there is just love.

There is a letter, written a long time ago, that talks about faith and revealing things. It talks about the revelation of love, not to the wise, but to the children. Randy couldn't drive, have a family, do his own taxes, or fly a plane, well, maybe he could, but you definitely wouldn't want to be around him when he was doing it. He couldn't do the vast majority of things we all take for granted.

Frankly, none of those things are important. ANYONE can do those things. Randy, was a lover. He gave it and, in the end, he received everything he sowed. He changed lives, healed hearts, motivated the lives around him to be better and to continue to love like they had for so long.

If we find comfort in a spiritual life involving God, then we need to know something about that. Randy doesn't want to come back from where he is now. He has the wisdom of the Universe and as I write these words and as, I am sure he sees them form on the page, he is nodding his head. "You tell them for me they don't understand where I am. Tell them they don't understand-they will, but no way do I want to leave this place! No pain, no suffering, laughter all the time, fresh pie, and purple ponies. Tell them there is pure joy, pure happiness, pure love."

"...and the greatest of these is love."

Now its over-or so we think. I guess that's up to each of us.

Yep, I got to watch a man die-or did he?

Pish-Posh and a Well Done Wedding

I, like apparently two-billion other people around the world, watched part of the Royal Wedding. Actually, I saw it on the news the next day. I wasn't about to get up at one in the morning and watch it like some colleagues I know. Yep, they got up to specifically watch the Prince marry the common girl he had been living with for years. There are some observations I have noticed about myself in this process.

I like the English-all of them.

Just about any country that is or was part of the British Empire, I smile at. I think I like them because they like us. Sure, we have opinions about each other, but families do that. Still, we truly like each other and like to spend time together.

I like the Canadians. When the crazies in Iran invaded our embassy and took our people hostage for 444 days, they had several dozen Americans that were caught outside the embassy when it was taken over and they sheltered them in their own embassy, made them fake passports, citizens, and got them out with the rest of their own people, right out from under the Iranians noses. That was just good form.

The Aussies are the British version of American NASCAR lovers. They play hard, work hard, and were just a bunch of bandits cutting a life out of a area of the world that was just like ours, only sixty times bigger. They have common sense, dress comfortably, and frankly don't care what people think. If anyone doesn't like what the Australians do or say, they can get the hell out, thank you.

Then of course, there are those in the Motherland and its extension-Ireland. I am sure I am missing other territories and for that, I apologize. It is the Motherland that I really have discovered a true affection for. After all, Scotland's there and so is the birthplace of the single malt. I also like some of their words and phrases. 'Pish-posh' I heard one Brit say on TV.

Pish-posh-hmm.

I have a poster in my classroom taken from when the Brits were being bombed by those pesky Huns during WWII. It simply says, Say Calm, and Carry On. Well said-oh-there's another one-well said. Some how, I need to weave into my vocabulary pish-posh, The key is to not sound like Mary Poppins Italian towel boy.

Frankly, any place you can have a calm Welshmen, a sly Scot, and a crazy-eyed Irishman-or lady, together under the same cause, you got something no one wants to mess with but many want to be around.

Pish-posh? No, not yet.

Sure, they spent a lot of money on this thing. A lot of money in a country that is struggling economically. But you watch the people and there was a celebratory pride. It was part of their identity. It was their heritage.

It was part of ours.

Family.

There is something about this country and its people. They do put on a party really well. They drink hard, cheat at fighting, love their country and each other. The fact is, they can track their heritage back thousands of years. I noticed the prince doesn't even have a last name. Did you know that? No last name. Sure, he's from the house of Windsor. What does that mean? What name did he use on his driver's license application? I think the work 'prince' is in there somewhere. He rattled off five names when he was putting the ring on his brides hand. They were all first names. Good form.

Heritage. Sometimes it isn't so nice to look at. You look hard enough, you'll find that dark, ugly side. But then there's the colorful, hat wearing, flag-waving, singing out of tune, side of family.

Yep, good form.

A Sunday Morning in April

For many today, they wake up on this Sunday morning and in some form, celebrate Easter. They mix traditions of such things as wearing their best clothes to church, often being the only day of the year some members of the family even go to church. I remember my father, on this day, would go with the rest of us, all in our suits and mother and sister in dresses with those little cap/hat things with the pretend veil that covered the forehead. They would even wear gloves.

Celebrating the rise from the dead of the Son of Man was almost always preempted, at least for a few years, by me sitting up in our Mulberry tree in the front yard with my fully automatic Thompson, that I got from the toy aisle of Skaggs Drug Store, waiting for the Easter Bunny to show up so I could machine gun his fluffy little butt back to Arkansas, or where ever Pez candies are from.

We use to hunt real eggs, not those plastic containers which, I'm sure, originated in France in some neighborhood where it is totally acceptable to have pasty skin, no chin, and a weak handshake all under that now well-worn label of just be yourself. You know the containers, shaped like eggs of different colors, where you put candy or coupons to a movie in. People have gotten so afraid of a little food poisoning. We use to hunt the eggs until their shells were so cracked they made a noise when you simply held them in your hand. Then we would bring them inside and make egg salad; the color from the mono-sodium gelatin phosphate #3 dye turning the salad a pale blue. Just eggs and real mayo, no celery or any other crap.

We kept the mayo on the shelf next to the sink, next to the peanut butter. We never kept it in the refrigerator until I got married and I was asked why I was putting the open jar back on the shelf. "That's where we've always kept it," was my answer.

I can't keep it there any more.

Not once did we get sick. At least I don't remember getting sick. Tying gastric-distress with egg/mayonnaise consumption in the Williams household in the late sixties was never on the radar. We were the family that use to dip our potato chips in a side of mayo. So, eggs that were hidden in bushes, under trees, and sometimes buried with a shovel never held a health concern. This age-old tradition has simply fallen by the side of the road, never to come back, I'm sure, because of those guys in France.

This Easter, we have a lot on our plates. We have things that distract us, push us down, cause to feel wounded and pained. We sometimes stop and realize things are not only not fair, but often it feels like bad guys and Evil is winning. I don't have all the answers. Most of the time, I don't know the question, but I know where to start.

Evil, never----ever wins, ever.

It starts with a basic question-If there is a god and if this god IS the God of the Universe-the inventor of the the Big Bang, Enya's music, the Banzai pipeline on the North Shore, and the cinnamon roll, then is it possible he could chose us to be his kids?

Sunday is about a lot of things, but most of all it is a love story, pure and simple, probably the best and greatest love story of all time. It is a story about a father running towards his lost child, scooping them up and holding them so tight they gurgle the words "Daddy, I can't breathe." Then the two fall to the ground and laugh and cry together, the father still holding the child close. Nothing that kid could ever do, would separate that father's love from them again---------------------------nothing-------------------ever.

Now, saddle up. Grab your Thompson's, a canteen of water, and some warm egg salad. We got some rabbits to hunt!!

Happy Easter.

"Git out of my way-I'm going to sneeze!"

This will be, should be, the last of the series on preparing for, and living through, an Arizona summer. I hope you have been taking notes, putting them into a three-ringed binder you went to Target to specifically buy for this review and study, and tabbed the sections accordingly. If you did, I'm afraid you have more to worry about than the six months of suffocating heat you are about to enter.

Allergies in Arizona, especially the lowlands like Phoenix and Tuscon are terrible. According to some study somewhere, we are the third worse climate for allergy and allergy related symptoms. The Third!! People use to come from all over the world to recover from disease's like tuberculosis. Problem was, they brought their plants with them, you know, to remind them of the old country they would never want to see again. An Arizona Spring is the worse time of year for allergies.

I never remember having allergies growing up. Maybe I did and never knew it. You feel like you have a cold or flu all the time. You cough and hack and feel achy, and your face just leaks-constantly. You take one of those generic allergy relief meds, a case of those breathing strips you wear on your nose at night, and a bottle of Southern Comfort just to get you to the next day. I went to the doctor a couple of years ago with these symptoms that had lingered for two or three weeks. I was sure I needed something cut or lanced or something. She asked me three questions-"What trees do you have in your yard?" Mulberry and Olive. "Ah huh," she said and made a note. "What kind of grass do you have?" Bermuda was my answer. "Ah huh?" She made another note. "Any pets?" Two. She took a deep breath.

Come to find out we were lucky enough to have the first three plants on the Mother of All Allergy Lists with regard to plants not even mentioning the dogs. And everything was in bloom now-right now, in my front yard.

What does this have to do with summer? You see, once it starts to warm, I mean really warm, things in the desert begin to die-quickly. I guess we could be living somewhere like those sites depicted in Sunset Magazine. You know the images, those people who have back yards where you spit a seed out and it grows. Their yards are jungles of vegetation and neat places to hide when you and your kids are playing Army Rangers with broom sticks for guns (maybe that was a different generation?). Anyway, I think those people have faces that leak too.

At least I hope so. I want to share the good times. So, we gird our loins, and pop the salt tablets, and wear hats that frankly we make fun of people who don such attire any other time of year, just to survive. We shop at malls and see movies-all indoors with the thermostat set at 68. We switch to living more at night although temperatures posted at the 10:00 o'clock news is often well over 100 degrees. So we hunker down and take smaller steps and dream of Halloween.

We're always in a sweatshirt by Halloween.

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.