Author’s Foreword

You are about to crack the spine, or perhaps the digital spine, on the third in a series of books. Looking for Indianola is part of the Emancipation Series. It started in 2007 with Emancipating Elias, and was followed in 2010 by Holy Ground. I love this series like marmots love sunning themselves on an open Colorado highway, with nary a truck in sight to rain their day. This is important, I think, because an author should probably like what he or she creates. Oh, this additional point does make me smile—this series, compared to other series you might have read, is a little—different.

It has no lead character, threaded from one book to the next. That makes it pretty different for a series.

With each book, however, I tried to take a different look at our common hunger in the human soul to be free, to be somehow—emancipated. This is not a freedom from taxes or pain or loneliness. As long as we live on this rock, we’ll be susceptible to all three of those big dogs. But if I’ve plied my craft at all well, you will find yourself in the very fiber of the characters I’ve written. It is art and honesty to give dignity to those who aren’t even sure themselves that they warrant it. So, I’ve tried to honor you. I really mean that. I see all of us, in these pages and I have tried to bring honor to our pursuit to live the best we know how in the midst of our struggles. There is a saying about authors that we write what we know. Now, that doesn’t always apply. I haven’t recently been blown up or shot, turned into a wolf, or been flown to another galaxy. But I have paid taxes; I have known pain, both physical and emotional; I have tasted death, literally; and I have known loneliness. I have known days when I wanted to just walk away, convinced I would never experience the life others appeared to enjoy.

I have also danced like I didn’t care. I have cried with tears of joy. And I have pointed a gun at another human and told them I would really appreciate seeing their hands before I blew their head clean off their shoulders, thank you very much. All of us have walked at least part of this same path in our lives.

Looking for Indianola is the third book in this series that looks at, well—us. Some of the characters are strung in cameo roles from book to book, causing you to remember that old friend from a prior novel. But mostly, they are stories of common people— our people, and their pursuit at slogging through the scene in their tapestry that presently has no design or identifiable order. Eventually, if we allow ourselves, we learn as students so eventually, we get opportunities to become the teacher. As a dear friend once wrote to me “…only in retrospect can you see an unseen hand moving disheveled lives along a perfect course.”

The Emancipation Series is just what it says. We get to watch our loved ones, and sometimes a neighbor, or strangers we’ve never thought two seconds about, and see ourselves in them. And as we watch the dignity and honor of a life that never expected or gave credit to such a hope, we get to imagine that we too are being given such dignity, delight and honor. We find ourselves in unsuspecting characters that are surprisingly heroic, loving, caring, funny, vulnerable; as well as, compulsive, overweight, near-sighted, envious, and often in conversations with themselves.

Sit back in a soft chair with comfortable light, your favorite beverage on the table next to you. Welcome your dog to sit at your feet, and if you must, allow your cat to fall asleep on the back of the chair. Turn off the television. And start your own journey.

Enjoy the trip.

Mark J. Williams

Author

Valentine's Day is a Weird day

Valentine’s Day is a weird day.


It is a day we show that special someone, you care about them, maybe even love them-whatever that means. So, like a math formula, it is also a day to be reminded of those that don’t love us, broken loves, fractured marriages or relationships, and for many it is a day we would rather leave to pass us by then spending a small fortune on a stuffed bear and chocolates that no one’s waistline needs.

But maybe, just maybe, we can try to look at it from a different angle.

It is actually a day when a bunch of years ago a priest named Valentinus decided to stand with the poor and sick in the catacombs and sewers, marrying them in the faith of the new religion with the threat of bat-crap crazy Nero putting him to death. They killed him on February 14th so the story goes. He just couldn’t leave his people. He, it is said, loved them even unto death.

Hmm. That sure is different than a fuzzy bunny, bear, or those teddy things from Wal-Mart and who, by the way, are those little skivvies for? But I take a rabbit trail.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. If we really want to show love, we need to be ready to write a metaphoric check. And it can be expensive.

You see, an old man taught me once a long time ago that Love-is a sacrifice word.

You can’t love without sacrificing. You can’t love without there being a cost. Anyone can do the romantic stuff. Who couldn’t spend a weekend at a ski lodge drinking hot chocolate, eating strawberries dipped in chocolate, and wearing those skivvies from Walmart?

How about holding your sick father’s hand while he’s in the hospital—for weeks. How about listening to your child scream in pain day after day while undergoing chemo? Or experiencing a miscarriage? What about sheltering your aged parents while they travel the last few months of their lives, all the while calling you names and berating you for what you are doing simply because they don’t remember who you are?

What about—looking over your shoulder and catching the glance of the man who is scourging you with thirty-nines strokes? You lost count somewhere around fifteen, knowing full well his life is about to be changed dramatically for the better because you let him do what he is doing?

People talk about loving with a happy heart. Well, the Guy who wrote the definition of love would call bull on that. There’s nothing happy about some of our love. There is joy but that also does not involve a happy skip down the street. It’s okay to love and hate the act of the love. It’s okay to sigh heavily, before you get out of the chair and join the fight. It’s okay to drop the always applicable ‘F Bomb’ just before you run into enemy fire looking for those last two soldiers who didn’t make it back in the wire. It’s okay to want to run, hide, scream, cry, wish, pray, and yet when the sun rises, we still find ourselves standing in the game. We might have even left the game for awhile, but something pulled us back. Love is that powerful.

That’s the metaphoric check. That’s the cost.

So today, love well. Look over your shoulder and find those hateful eyes and know your actions in the next few seconds will change those eyes you meet from hate and fear to compassion and contriteness.

That’s how strong that word ‘Love’ is.

Is the Panda really that hug-gable?

Today, in Phoenix, we've had rain all day. It was perfect to take an afternoon nap. I haven't had a nap in, well, years. Nothing like a little wolf nap on a rainy day to take the edge off. But then, random thoughts come rolling in to the brain pan that you just can't shake. Here's one for discussion: is this cute animal really that hug-gable? Can you walk up to this guy in the woods of China, without getting shot by the Chinese Army, of course, and give him his own bear hug without turning out like the great Chinook salmon in the Northwest, having your skin pealed off and your carcass left on a riverbank somewhere?

We stay back from the Grizzly and the Browns-why? Because we've all seen Jeremiah Johnson. We've seen movies where the bear wins. We've seen mountain men wearing hats made out bear heads and it is only right and fitting that those bears can lay claim to a few heads of their own. Frankly, I'm always rooting for the bear. They can't shoot back with a high-powered rifle---no index fingers. But we've never seen a Panda bear tear into a village of mini-Chinese folk and make chairs out of the villagers bones back in their own dens. Not even sure if the Panda has dens. But if they did, would we find some granddad's femur as an arm rest on a Panda's version of a living room couch?

All we've ever seen of these guys is cute and cuddly muffin tops. They roll around and eat bamboo. We've seen them on cereal boxes and as kung fu warriors, next to mice and snakes. If these guys had a chance, would they kung fu our asses, then eat them, then make a nice rue out of our bone marrow?

I know one thing, the little bastard just ruined my nap.

No one really knows when the kid was born

No one really knows exactly when the kid was born. Everyone pretty well agrees it wasn’t in December during a pagan holiday. Mostly, the people who write history say it was in the spring, when the ewes were lambing. Sheppard’s had to watch them day and night, just like the story says. 

There wasn’t a lot written about the boy’s younger years. He had younger brothers, a mom and dad, had some time teaching in the local temple. There was always something about the boy. Always something, well, special. He could read and write at an early age. Nothing too unusual for boys his age. He had to read the Torah.

Later in his life, he was a blue collar guy, but was eloquent and friendly. “Joseph’s kid,” some would say. He was the carpenter’s son and eventually, a carpenter himself. He was nondescript. Today, people probably like to think of him as some steal-blue-eyed hard body. He was probably just like everyone else-dark hair, dark eyes, darker skin, just like today. His hands had cuts and scars from working with the wood, calluses and dry. At least one black nail from where he missed with the hammer and hit his finger. His body was thin from the lack of an abundant food supply, and days of hard work.

He spit. He spit a lot and since Kleenex wouldn’t be invented for another nineteen hundred years, he blew his nose like a major league ball player. The Shopsmith I (you carpenters out there will understand) filling his nose with ancient saw dust. He was funny. He told jokes that started with “A Sanhedrin, a Roman, and a donkey walked into a tavern….” He was pretty good on his town’s equivalent to today’s little league but he wasn’t the best. He had trouble with grounders hit to his back hand. It took him years to get use to the body he was in.

He smelled like all the rest. His garments were plain, probably torn around the sleeves and worn in the seat. He had fixed his sandals several times and probably spent a lot his time just walking barefoot. It was just easier. His hair was oily, and his beard was untrimmed. Maybe a little of the morning’s breakfast hung in the hair on his face. He surely had cavities. Maybe even a bad tooth that today would have needed to be pulled or have a root canal. He experienced everything we did—everything.

He was The Carpenter’s kid.

This morning, some time  in the spring around 6 BC, a child was born to a teenage mom and a terrified dad. He was warmed by the body heat of some animals he shared a birth stable with, maybe even some baby lambs, because there was no room for his mom and dad  in the section where people stayed apart from their animals.

Let’s pretend, just for giggles,  recorded history actually recorded the events right. Let’s pretend Joseph’s kid grew up to be the guy the writers and historians actually say lived, that the Qur'an and Hebrew historians acknowledge walked and talked and eventually was put to death for what he walked and talked about. Let’s pretend what is written about the kid, actually took place and that we celebrate the arrival this morning every year. Is it such a leap then, to pretend the boy was here to do what he said he was suppose to do? To adopt us? To call us brother or sister?

To love us? Just the way we are? In our own sauce? In our own tent? On our worst day—He screams our name in pride. "Look, Dad! Look what they did! They beat it, defeated it, ran it, tossed it, drank it, got the joke right, cried, laughed fought the good fight?

Is it such a leap to believe there is a God and that god has the ability to reach down and call us by name? A Dad  who knows us right where we sit?

He was just the carpenter's kid-----------for a while.

Merry Christmas

Happy birthday Lord

Old Friends

There is something about an old pair of sneakers when you get rid of them, you actually grieve. They're like an old friend, becoming a part of your life and serving you without complaint for as long as you've known them.

Around my house, there is a definitive procedure for shoe processing. The new pair, after they've worn off their new shine and are ready for replacement, are designated to the work shoe, being replaced by their new brethren. When its time to buy a new pair, and the transition from new to old takes place, when its time for the old pair to find their way to sneaker heaven, it is at this moment we find ourselves reminiscing, that first run or walk or bike ride when we felt their comfort for the first time, holding our hooves so well you could hear them call out "I got ya kid." Or when they moved to the yard work roll, staying just as devoted to the cause of good sole protection. Not minding the mud or the mis-step into dog poo. When you kicked that chair, you remember saying to yourself "wow, that would have hurt if I didn't have my shoes on." Yep, they probably even saved your life a time or two and we don't even know it.

 So, when its time for these faithful friends to move on, we wrap them in the new shoe box their replacement came in, reminding them of the time when they too, were new and young. We put the box back in the plastic bag and take it to the trash, finding ourselves almost setting them in the bottom instead of throwing them in like we would the Sunday paper.

Goodbye old friends. Until we meet again.

Thanksgiving on the Edge

Its early as you get this.

Real early. Sun's not up yet.

Yeah, I know, its been awhile since I've published a blog. Here's the thing, I think blogs are fading in popularity, especially ones written by old men that roll on for pages and chapters and OH MY GOD WOULD YOU SHUT UP ALREADY!!!. I think people want the Facebook, hit and get out-type of writing. Not a lot of people clicked over from FB to the blog because they knew I would droll on for hours and hours. Even the Russian Chancellor stopped reading. At least that's who he said he was when I met him under the Seventh Avenue bridge. Well, they're right.

Bastards.

But it is Thanksgiving.

And according to the press, the Mayans, that Italian guy they named the Fighting Irish team's college after, and the palm reader down the street, this could be it. The Big Wave, no more Mr. Happy Britches.

Oh well.

Its funny how you don't really appreciate life and its stuff until its threatened. Sometimes there isn't enough church, god, bandages of the heart, to keep us  from crying at Starbucks commercials. Sometimes, no one knew the wounding of our hearts unless we told them-except the dogs. They knew. They know everything, as only dogs can.

So, we come to this celebration that started in about 1622. Those poor bastards that survived the first winter after they arrived here in October due to poor timing, on a narrow beach south of what is now Boston. Half of them died and when the other half came out of their homes for spring, well. life didn't get any easier. Not sure who the lucky ones were that first winter. The living or the dead.

Yeah, I know and hear you. 'Mark, come on, all life is precious.' Not sure if I agree with that. Not sure I would want to live if my family just starved to death around me, or if I had a disease that was like being rolled up in carpet and left in the desert, or my mind wandered off and followed the sound of tom-toms to a dance no one else knew about. In my mind, sometimes, I have limits to this life. Not sure I'm willing to step too far over that final line.

But, not this year. Nope, I want to stick around, at least until we find out about the Mayans on December 20th. I was talking to a friend about if this is the one bet no one can make in Vegas. If you win and bet those little people hundreds of years ago were correct, who would pay you? Hmm? If you bet against the Mayans, well again, that's a dumb bet.

Being thankful for what we have is really up to us. Americans are unique in this celebration. We really are. Other countries probably have something similar, but not like us. We actually take a moment, once you push aside the ads and sales for everything from shampoo to Hyundai's and we really take a collective minute and say 'thanks.' Some of us thank a god of our choosing, some a human, some a combo pack of the two. Many of us, a true sizable number, struggle with identifying anyone to thank. They look around at their lives and don't think its worth it. So, I will just paraphrase one of my students who literally ran from one end of Africa to the other, chased by people who didn' like him for a list of reasons. Luckily, they were crap at shooting. My student said people just don't know, it can always be worse, we have it so good here. But in each case, it is a collective evaluation of what we have and what we might not have had if it hadn't been for that recipient of our thankfulness. Sometime today, amid all the business of who is picking up Aunt Mildred with the little goat whiskers from the airport, stop and tell the one who really deserves it---thanks.

So, we prep for hours, sometimes days, aiming for about a quarter of an hour of actual eating. If we prep right, clean up will be less than two hours. Kind of like flying a combat mission over Baghdad. Hours of prep before, minutes of shear terror, and hours to return to base and some form of normalcy.

Days ago, I started. I want to go back to the old days of Thanksgiving. You know, cranberry jelly from a can, stuffing from inside the bird, sherry in the stuffing prep, not necessarily in the recipe. Things like that. The glass at the top? That is a fine single malt. It is being activated this morning. Listen, we have to refrigerate mayo, we can't cook stuffing in the turkey anymore for fear we might get a little gastric distress, we can't have any hormones or defoliants or any of those quality items we all grew up with in our Thanksgiving meal, what else are they going to take away from us?? Hmm!! Are we turning into the Italian army? Are we getting so careful that we take the carnival fun out of the meal? Will we or won't we....?

By my math, in order to get the tribe eating at a particular time, I need to have feet on the deck at five in the morning--this morning. Most of you are still asleep. That gives me time for some coffee, maybe the paper, but not much else.

I think my ancestors would want me to call out the good stuff and color the glass above. To fortify my girded loins-ya know? My ancestors would want this to be how its done. That's how they would do it.Who in the Yankee bull pen is it going to be? Last night, we called out the great starter, Glenlevit 12 year old, can't go wrong with that. The dead ones are smiling. Toasting me with an even better single malt.

So, Thanksgiving 2012, as you might read this, hopefully, you will like what you read. Some might stop after looking at the length of the blog and go back and watch the morning news. For some of us, we will be working the sauces and flipping the switches.Know that we've been up working it for a while.   The dogs will be back from their walk and fed, finding a place in the warmth of the kitchen while the master works to the background of Hornsby and  Joe Cocker maybe even a little Frank Sinatra.

No warm mayo or stuffing in the main course, unless I find a recipe for it quick.  Over three hundred years ago, some survivors of a voyage found a wide spot in the field, shot some ugly birds, cooked for some friends, and some natives from the 'hood. The only thing missing----------is the single malt. Raise yer glass, er, mug, apple juice, orange juice, juice box! A toast! Thank you for riding this rock with us!!

To you and your family!!

'Blow My Whistle Baby'--Really?

Hey, for a fifty-four year old white guy, I'm pretty 'hip'. I can get 'jiggy with it'. I know the 'down low' or the 'up top'. I know the name of groups like 'Two-Chains' and Two Pac--Three Pac's brother. My weakness is I really don't listen to the lyrics of songs on the radio-until recently. It has caused me to ask and then research today's topic. There are lyrics, song lyrics, I think are hinting at some sexual-well, stuff! Yeah, I know, shocking!! Let me give you a couple of examples I am sure you were not aware of and then tell you what else I found.

'Will you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby....'
Or-
'I want to drive you like a car....'
 and my favorite-
'I want to take a ride on your pogo stick.'

In these cases, I do not think, I am kinda going out on a limb here and say, I don't think the first one has anything to do with sharing a person's referee whistle or the second dealing with automotive correctness. The third could actually be some eighth grader at PS-134 asking to share, jury is still out on that one.

Funny about lyrics. Here are a few from around the world and parts of Detroit you might not have heard and their secret meaning:

• 'Chunk me like a rabbit...' Tanzania- is a song lyric indicating how to actually cook another human for those remaining cannibal tribes. The follow up line has something to do with season salt and a little paprika. 
• '...Frito me loving you like a catwalk.' Portugal- Is indicative of a trend in that country in response to the financial hardship of its neighbor, Spain, and their financial problems. It is a Portuguese metaphor for "Holy Crap!!!!"
• 'Make me arch my back and fly me to the stars.' Jamaica-Bob Marley hold outs that still believe, with just the right amount of Ganja, they actually can fly to the the 'outer banks' of our solar system. 
• 'Mow me like you own me.' South Detroit- this simply means 'more of me for you to file liens against.' If you slow it down and play it backwards, however, you get the lyrics to an old Tony Bennett song. 

Well, there ya go. You never know--you know? Being vigilant in the song world is important. We definitely don't want these songs corrupting our youth. Yuz diggin' wat me hips sayin', dawg?

Dojo-Fall weather style

By the time you read this, Sunday morning will be well underway. You have read some of my dribble about the peace of this special morning. Now, we are on the edge of the weather breaking for the season, setting summer stupid temps back on the shelf until late March when we start the whole nightmare over again. 

The early morning, just before dawn, is an absolutely incredible time. You need to try it. Waking up early, grabbing a bagel and a cup of coffee and go outside and feel it. It only lasts for a few hours. By mid-morning, the heat is back and the sun making all the subtle colors disappear. But there is hope of relief just around the corner, like next week's corner. 

It is so exciting, some of us in da 'hood have been practicing our 'Celebrating the Fall Weather' where the men dress in comfortable clothes, usually a flat twin sheet, preferably one without flowers or little cowboys stenciled on them. The men of Devonshire Avenue, as you can see, are serious about celebrating the cooling weather. Some prefer to run up and down the street yelling such great things as 'Free the Marigold Seven? Free the Marigold Seven?' Others, like our large friend here, prefer ancient ways of standing and stretching in their own Tia-Chi kind of way. Others just like to stand in their celebratory garb and sip on their coffee, using the sheets long tail to dab at the corner of the mouth for that little bit of coffee that didn't follow procedures.

Here's the thing about this time of day, this time of year. There is peace here. There is a tranquility that rivals anything else around. It doesn't stay long. I think that's the thing about peace, its rare, that's why its so valued. We fill our lives with every minute of every day of, well, stuff. Now, the stuff we do has levels of intensity---we don't think twice about traveling across town to walk a mall searching for a pair of socks or in the case of my neighbor Jujusko at the top of this blog, a nice queen size muslin sheet. A short time ago, that trip to the mall would have taken all day on a horse. Of course, there were no malls back then so you'd ride your horse to a place in the desert and it really doesn't make my point, but what I'm trying to say is, we seem to fill every moment of the day with doing stuff, shopping, repairing, hooking a large mouth bass, you get my point. We just don't sit and watch the world wake up.

The other thing is there is 'stuff' that is just wicked fun!! Like, belly surfing off the coast of the Aleutian Islands in the winter, paint ball hunting grizzly bears during the mating season, drinking three twenty ounce beers and then operating a John Deere D820 bucket loader in the Queen's flower garden, dressing up in a middle-eastern 'man dress', going to the airport and  running passed TSA while yelling some random non-nonsensical jargon and trying to see how far you can get before they tackle you and shove you into a box. Maybe most of us aren't that much of the thrill seeking kind. 

So, for us, we just need to go into our closet where we keep our sheets, wrap up and tomorrow morning, greet the day properly. 

Love was a sacrifice word on 'that' day

Tomorrow is September 11th. There is a gathering of kids now who don't have the memory of that day. Soon, they'll be teenagers, then adults then, well, you get the idea. I think its different from December 7th, the other major day we all grew up remembering from our parents who lived it. Its different, I think, because after Pearl Harbor, there was something everyone could do. Everyone was involved in that fight because, well, each bomber had ten men in them and they needed a lot of bombers. This one, well, it just seems different. We watched it on the Internet. Now, its been over ten years. Has it been that long?

What isn't different is the hearts of our people. It still takes hearts to run into a blown up building when everyone is running out. But it seems easier during the event. Lots of emotion during an event like that. And over the years, emotions get use to the pain.  The list is endless of examples of ordinary people doing extraordinary things.
 
There has been enough time that has gone by that a generation has grown up to replace those who have come home. Young men and women, who were children in 2001, now stand up and say, "Yeah, well, I'll go. Send me."

This isn't about right or wrong, do we go, do we not go. Decisions about that are made at a higher pay grade than mine. But here's what I do know, there is true Evil in this world-with a capital E. It exists, it breathes, it lives to only cause pain and suffering and its whole existence is to consume my family, and I also know, I can't stand against it alone.

I need you.

So, tomorrow, we remember a day when the world changed-again. And for many of us, our hearts, while they were being broken actually  grew. We love more intensely, we breath the morning air a little deeper, we spend time with our kids, talk to our dogs, laugh at stupid jokes we didn't use to laugh at, and we forgive a little easier. Love is a sacrifice word and we got an opportunity to witness, some in person, most by watching our television, pure love on that day who's anniversary is tomorrow. We take a deep breath and look to each other, nod, and simply say-"Okay, send me."

I want to start listening to my dogs

First, this isn't my dog. I have two, June and Betty. Each have their own personalities and distinct attitudes. Dogs seem to know stuff. They seem to know stuff we humans have no clue of. A friend at work brought her dog to work today. It was a puppy, a cross between a Jack Russell Terrier and an Australian Shepperd. Two dogs, when combined, form an extremely smart animal. Like a dog that could sign checks if they had opposable  thumbs. That kind of smart.

My dogs aren't quite at the doctorate level of a Jack Russell. Betty, a Sheppard/lab/border collie mix is pretty quick and smart with things. Her tastes leaves a little to be desired however. She has a habit of rolling in smelly things. Kind of like going through Macy's perfume section and sampling every perfume on the counter. Only hers are dead things, cat poo, mud, or monkey crap. Perfume for a dog. 

June on the other is, well, no vet really knows what she is. She's not necessarily the 'sharpest knife in the drawer' if you get my meaning. But still, she doesn't roll in stuff her adopted sister does. She's bigger than Betty and two years younger. She's got shoulders of a linebacker, a fishhook tail, short turn-down ears, and paws the size of coffee saucers. However, both animals are aware of things I have no clue of. For example:

They know when I'm sad or happy. If I say anything with the word 'ball' or 'walk' their ears perk up and they march to the front door.  I swear they know English.

 They can hear me coming home from a block away. They can hear the mailman coming from two blocks away, posing in the window-each with their own chew bone-waiting.

On Saturday morning, when most people are using this quality time of day to sleep in from their night of living the party life, studying for that test on Monday, or making the midnight bail hearing and hitting the street by 1 and home in bed by 1:30, Betty and June allow me to sleep in until 5:45, then jump up on the bed and waking me up. Knowing that those extra hours of enjoyment are just wasted time that is too European. I either get up and take them out for ball throwing or suffer 150 pounds of dogs breaking my knees.

Dogs are just forgiving. They love, if given the opportunity, unconditionally. If you yell at them, or punish them, somehow, they come back and still seek your acceptance. Not quite sure I could ever do that--unless I was setting the conditions.

I helped move some material for a friend the other day and his golden retriever came out and trotted up to me to greet me. As if to say, as only a dog would say to a stranger walking up to the front door, "HEYIKNOWYOUILIKEYOUWELCOMETOOURHOUSEPETMEPETMEPETMEDOESYOURBUTTSMELL?"

I want to learn from them. I think we can all learn from them, listen to their language, like when a stranger  is coming down the street, when play is required, when sleep it desired. They love to play and wait for me until I go to bed before they call it a night. They wait on me. Not sure I do that for a lot of people, waiting on them, I mean. I don't play enough. Life is a run from one event to the next and sometimes, I need t listen to my dogs, put my stuff down, and go throw balls for them to retrieve until they are so slobbery wet they are almost impossible to hold.

We can learn a lot from our pooches I think whether they are a Great Dane or a Tea-Cup Yorkie. We can learn how to love in spite of and not because of. Now, if I could learn to switch out my Mennen Skin Bracer with its 'skin tightener and chin chiller' effect with fresh minty scent and try out some of the neighborhood monkey crap.

Maybe Betty's on to something. Someone alert Drakkar.

Alcohol is Proof that God Loves Us!

Now, don't go getting all sideways about the title and just hear me out will you? Liquor when properly applied, can be the tittle in your tattle. And good things, truly good things, when properly applied, have to come from the Maker of really good things. If you remember, the Son of Man's first miracle was being the first bartender--making wine for a wedding he and mom were attending.

There are times when a little hit of the grape, a little nip of the bubbly, a tiny tug on the whiskey and all of a sudden life just got a little smoother.Apply the right liquor with the right food and soon, your toes begin the flick and the base of your skull gets warm. Like yesterday.

On a three day weekend, you could either be soaking your dogs in a pool, making your way down the South Rim trail of the Grand Canyon, or busting out all the crap you didn't get done this summer, last weekend, or since you were six growing up on Devonshire Avenue with heavy weights like Elliot, Dwayne and his brother Nelson, or the kid who use to ride his sisters bike with a zipper bell that he actually used. Trying to catch up on a list of things around the house that never end.

Running all day, it finally drew to a close with a trip for Mexican food and  a Pacifico ON TAP! Now, there is combination of two things, meeting from two completely parts of a commercial kitchen, one cold, one hot, perfectly timed to meet me and take me to heaven. Aaaahhhhh.

Mexican food is meant for beer, or tequila in the form of a margarita. You don't drink gin with Mexican food. That is just bad form. You drink gin when you're having bangers and mash and passing a note with the countries secrets in a small pub on the West End. Whiskeys go with steak, or, in the case of single malt scotch, most of your major breakfast foods-not that I would know. Bourbons love steak too along with the occasional cigar. Only single malts qualify to travel with American Whiskeys. For example, Jack Daniel whiskeys are based on Jack's grandparents who were single malt  scotch whiskey distillers in their home of Scotland. Blended scotchs are usually used by pretenders of the faith, bad investment bankers, and a guy in Topeka named 'Eddie' who has six fingers on one hand.

White wine eases you to gear down at the end of the week with the help of some bruschetta while hanging with friends in a bar on Bourbon Street. Red wine runs a good parallel as the white with a bread board to include sliced meats and strong cheeses while sitting under the cool shade of eucalyptus trees of a neighborhood restaurant or on your front porch of your cabin in the Arizona Rim Country. Mai-Tai's base of rums and spiced rums, fly on the beach while you sit in a low-slung beach chair in the lapping waters under your seat and eating things from that same sea, things you can't spell.

I think that's why I have to say a higher being is involved in the selection process. I'm sorry, but no human could mate these combos other than someone who has a perfect pallet. Who else could cause you to drink your beer without coming up for air when its first delivered to the table, your eyes rolling back in your head as your pains and stress leak out on to the floor soaking your socks and causing you to smile, seemingly without reason.

Of course, this discovery happened on a day that was full of hard work. I'm wondering if a nap would have done the same thing?

How many is too many?

Okay, so last blog was about god and 'what if' type questions. Pretty heavy stuff, but its nothing compared to this issue recently discovered, analyzed, evaluated, conscriptulated, pontificated, and looked at. Look, this is real serious stuff, heavy stuff, stuff that weighs on minds and clogs drains. So, sober up, sit up, and take some notes.

How many shoes are too many shoes?

 I think we've gotten carried away with shoes. I had one pair of black high top Converse and a black pair of really painful dress shoes I would go to Sunday school in or funerals. I went on a shopping mission this last weekend, had to buy a new pair of black dress shoes. My other pair died. That only left the one pair of browns, totally throwing off my whole mechanical progression of my work clothes application or MPWCA. The death of my blacks reduced my dress shoe choices in my closet by 50%. I know enough that wearing brown shoes with black pants is a fashion gaffes and I didn't want to be gaffed so, I went to the store-a big shoe store, a store with initials and a ceiling that went up two stories and twelve rows of shoes.

The men section had one row, maybe a row and a half, I forgot about the sandals. The shoes took up about as much room as a driveway-to a small patio home. The rest of the store was all women's shoes. Every square inch.

Now, understand, I think most men my age don't have a lot of shoes. Younger guys, they have multiple colors, shapes, highs and lows-all kinds. The American metro-sexual male loves their shoes. But if you're middle age or beyond, still compare the price of a six-pack of Fruit of the Looms, or Jockey whites with any other, and secretly ice parts of your body you don't want people to know about, you have to keep it simple. The closet just won't hold a lot so you reduce your ownership to some good running shoes even though your ACL is so warn out you can't run, a pair of flip flops you've had since that arrest in Tulsa, and a pair-one single pair of black and one pair of brown dress shoes. What else do you need, right?

Look, women's shoes are way out of control. They have shoes that will actually, if worn for ten days or more, kill them. That's right, they will kill the woman. A woman or some guy wanting to wear, well, women's shoes, will fall off those things, being unable to do a good tuck and roll, and land on their shoulder and side of their head. They'll get up and be embarrassed, refusing any help or a call for the paramedics. They will go home and put some ice on their knee because, yes their ACL is blown and two days later, they're found by their sister dead on the toilet, killed by that pesky sneak, a blood clot to the brain.

Yeah, that's what happens to people who wear those shoes. This store also has stuff that you have to lash on; boots that are more expensive then the cow they'll be branding. Very expensive beach flip flops that have thousands of those little sequins glued on. I'm thinking we go buy those rubber 'thongs' we use to call them, at the dollar store, a pound of sequins, and four or five dollars worth of Elmer's and we make our own, attach a fancy name with only one vowel in it, and sell them for a hundred dollars each.

I had four boxes of blacks sitting in front of me to try on. They all looked the same and frankly, men shop price. That is the big decider. The next most important factor is comfort. How is that sole? Does it have one of those pillow things in them? The only other thing to decide is slip on or shoe string?

Luckily, they both, my blacks and browns, look good with my white tube socks.

What if there is a God

Usually, my blogs usually land on a lighter note not asking you to think too much, but it was interesting yesterday and thought I would ask the question. I was at the mall and the timing could not have been more perfect. Two young boys, probably about ten or eleven, maybe about fifth grade, were walking down the mall next to me. As they walked by, I heard one, apparently answering a question from the other say "...yeah, I believe in god...." I don't know what the question was or what context it was in. It was just a snapshot in time. But, here's the question. What if there is a god?

I guess we have to assume the definition over thousands of years, that God is all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving, perfect is as good as any for a starting definition. I assume the term 'god' means that. So, what if-there is one? How would that effect or change us, if there was, you know-a god?

What if there was a god and he fit in the above description?

What if there was a god who was the most powerful?

What if there was a god who was all-knowing?

What if there was a god who was all-loving?

So, we struggle with why things happen that are so against what we think god should allow. We get angry, we run. We come up with our own definition of who and what god is. Good valid reasons and questions.

Why would god allow a child to die or be molested or tortured for years?
Why would god allow disease-eating away families from the inside, costing them physically, emotionally, draining them.
Why would god allow war? Thousands-millions dying or homeless.
What if some guy went his whole life running from drink to drink, deal to deal, living on the 'edge' because his nightmares from Korea, Vietnam, some other trauma keep him running.
And what about all this science stuff showing bangs and pulsars, quasars, black holes and don't even mention Daffy Duck planting a flag on Mars with a real Martian. If there was such a thing as this god we speak of, he or she or it wouldn't allow such things. So, the math equation is pretty easy- excessive bad things=proof there is no god.

Unless-

Well, what if the definition of this god is well, true?

If it is true, then answers are as big as the definition, infinite maybe. So big we couldn't plan or predict them. If we had a thousand years and the best minds in the world working just for us, our answers to these problems wouldn't be worth the paper we wrote them on compared to, well, God's.

That kid that died? What if God knew their suffering and ended it and now that child is sitting on a perfect 'lap.' Their suffering for years? What if God ended the suffering years before they were destined to go and now that child helps others deal with their own issues.

What if that disease opens up dialog with a family that for years have been estranged and now are all standing around the same bed-crying together, united once again as a family tighter than ever before?

What if war, ends bondage and enslavement of mind and body. What if Good, really did defeat Evil?

What if that moving and shaking guy now has resolved his hate and pain because this god guy took it from him and replaced it with a heart for others. But he had to endure it for years so it refined him and prepared him for just this?

And what if all this science stuff, well, what if all this science stuff really is science stuff? What if the guy who invented all the things and places and how things work and planets and suns and how a dog shakes so hard it rains actually allows us to see how some of this stuff works because it shows us a little about how He works and He knows it amuses us in figuring things like this out.

What if we really can be as smart as a fifth grader?

Greatest show on Earth

I posted this sign on Facebook yesterday, or maybe it was the day before. Its a sign I finally, after several years of wanting one, got for my birthday from last year. It's hanging in my classroom window and if you drive down Indian School Road, about a half mile away and look between the trees in the early pre-dawn morning, you'll see it. It's symbolic, at least for me, for everyone one who works at our school, every school around the country, all grade levels, for every child, that we educators are ready for the 2012-2013 school year. I called it 'lighting the lamp' and every day, after I get to school, in the pre-dawn hours, we will light the lamp and be open for business.

I get to work with some humans that are truly amazing people, heroic in some instances.The kids and some of their stories make you want to go in and kiss your kids on their foreheads while they sleep. But these are adults.

 Our head night custodian won classified employee of the year-for the entire district-the whole district. This guy would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him-then ask you if you needed his shoes as well.

In my department alone, a department I have had the privilege to be the department chair for the last five years, twenty teachers in all, I had two teachers have their entire schedule flipped upside down two weeks before the beginning of school and although they weren't the happiest people in the world, they rallied and starting Monday, they won't miss a beat. Imagine going away on vacation and coming back to work and being told that the work you did and made sure was set on your desk so when you came back from Wallyworld, you wouldn't be too far behind, you discover instead of a desk there's a coffee maker and a rattan chair.

Another teacher  has to sleep at various friends homes because her abusive husband is at home. She will be ready. The kids won't even know.  Then there is a young woman in another department who, after working all day, goes and sleeps in a chair next to her elderly father who is in the hospital, taking care of him for the last two weeks. She's made it every day, coming from the hospital and returning at night, driving her mother there as well and returning her home, amazingly strong and unless you knew what was happening and were able to look real close and see behind the veil, you couldn't tell she was running on fumes, physically and emotionally.

Monday is game day. It is the start of a nine month run where, in that time, young men and women will find themselves, discovering hope, while many facing the dragons in their nightmares, discovering they really are true. Oh, and with some of these kids, the Boogieman really does exist. Some others, luckily less than the number of fingers on one hand, will not see their 2013 summer.

This is my second career. in my entire life, never has my work ever exhausted me like it has being a teacher. Last year, the idea of changing careers and being that guy who has to open the envelopes on those stools sample cards we mail in from our annual home test kits was looking pretty good compared to a teacher.

Then it happens.

Just when you are ready to stand on your desk and throw yourself off, some kid from three years ago, comes back to visit. Crap, you want to go home, not talk to some kid you don't even remember the name of. He comes up and shakes your hand and tells you he's doing fine, getting ready to finish at ASU. "In what?" you ask. You figured it would be rude not to ask.

"I want to come back and be a teacher, like you Mr. Williams." Crap.

On top of that little lift, within ten minutes, two of your teachers come in and tell you if it hadn't been for you, they would have quit. Crap again.

So, thank you Synergy Labs for your job application, but I think I'll stick it out and see what happens. Where else can you be among heroes and make heroes at the same time.

Place Your Bets

Here we go.

Now, for the next seventeen days we will be watching the best in athletics, not necessarily amateur athletics. There are quite a few players that are getting paid through sponsorships and other means to help them train on a full time basis. Most of the countries and even here in the U.S. there are still athletes crawling out of bed at 4am after working the night shift at the Buswani Food Mart, tying on the old sneakers and taking it to the street---or water buffalo path. But last night's opening was pretty fun. Nothing better then the Queen of England, having relinquished herself to being a 'Bond Girl', parachuting in to the games right before the crowd stood on their feet and sang 'God Save the Queen.'

Those crazy Brits.

I won't eat up more of your time. I know this Saturday morning you have lawns to cut and laundry to wash before you even think about turning on the TV to see that highlighted bike crash on the men's 10K, or maybe the girl from Italy missing the pummel horse all together and crashing into the first row of folding chairs. I think a lot of us watch the games for the great performances, but I have to admit, I am one of those that watches sports like I would ever, which I never do, want to watch NASCAR-for the crashes. Nothing crippling, of course, but come on. Who doesn't want to watch the diving competition from the high platform and see a belly flop? We all do if we were honest.

So, get the laundry and lawn squared away. Order that pizza or get the hot dogs grilled before tonight's show. Who knows, the Olympics might be as good as a Daytona 500 on a rainy day.

Sorrow

Most of the time, my blog is in the process of seeking some humor in life’s daily stuff. Not today.

There is no humor in what happened in Aurora, Colorado. Everyone who heard about the killing and hurting of almost one hundred people and the shattering of countless other lives, begs explanation. We always want a reason why someone would do such a thing, any reason is better than no reason. When we don’t have that reason, we start to try to pigeonhole the actions into something we can explain, at least to ourselves.Having that explanation wrapped in our brain pan, it allows us to go on. At least we 'know.'

It never works.

Unfortunately, it won’t be the last time we have to do this. From Columbine to Red Lake to the Arizona representative shot in the head and the world watched her recover, we are an animal that absolutely finds it miserable to live quietly for any length of time in peace.

We want to. We talk about it. We vote for it. But behind the smiles and ‘he was such a quiet neighbor, kept to himself a lot’ type conversations, eventually, something pops, and we find ourselves again sitting in front of the six-o’clock news with our hand over our mouth and shaking our collective heads at the images on the TV, listening for that explanation.  

So, what could we ever do to counter this depressing, overwhelming, nauseating thought of such a desolate future?

We can love.

Yep, we get up, push away from the TV, take a deep cleansing breath, and love. We love our neighbors, love our families, love the guy in the grocery store, love the poor, love the rich.Love the family of the shooter. Love the victims. Simply love and whatever that looks like.

That’s all we can do.

When you  think about it, that’s all we need to do.

Men and the Fifth Level of Pi

I have come to the conclusion, there is nothing more manly, more able to tap into a man's testosterone, more willing to spark a man and cause him to grunt and find the simple function of his brain stem, then pouring and setting concrete.

I poured a concrete slab early this Saturday morning. Had the boys over, three wheelbarrows, tools, AND RE-BAR! Anytime you can put a man with other men, concrete, a concrete truck, and RE-BAR you got yourself an event that transcends time.

I do not want to take away those testosteroney events from my brothers if they haven't ever done this- moments like parachuting into Kandahar in the dead of night or throwing a runner out at home from deep right field or even something as simple as changing the flange adapter to your m-wheel brace all contribute to the 'Big T' development, passing by a moment with my ancients and campfires, skinning the fatted calf, digging an arrow out of someones shoulder, those kinds of things. For men, all these things cause a significant release of that little hormone. But nothing can compare to schlepping mud like the Romans who invented it.

My daughter suggested that throwing a few hundred dollars at the project and allow some seasoned, experienced labors do the work would eliminate the sore backs, knees, shoulders, neck, feet, eyes, basically all parts of my fifty-four year old body that is sitting here popping ibuprofen like their jelly beans while I write this. But then, I wouldn't be in touch with the ancient Romans and the Big T. I laughed in her face and proceeded to order my three full yards of PSI 3000 Mix On Site bad boy concrete.

The project was set up quick, executed like landing Apollo on the moon, and after just twenty minutes, all the concrete was off the truck, being pushed into the corners and woven around the iron (really steel but the word iron is just more manly), cutting in expansion joints. We were running a cacophony of shovels, trowels, and enough sweat to take out three shirts, enough sweat to soak your shorts--both of them, running down your leg into your socks and pooling in the bunker fire boots we "accidentally" forgot to give back to our former employer thirteen years ago, just waiting for a day like today.The fact I didn't use the restroom for most of the day and when I did in the afternoon, the fluid coming from me was the color of lemon zest pie might have been an indication to the miscalculation of our hydration issues. 

Yep, that's what men do. I guess you could say the same thing for just about anything men participate in, but moving concrete, having a cement truck in your driveway, you have every man in the neighborhood perk up their ears, stop in their tracks in whatever it was they were doing, and turn in the direction of the disturbance in the force. Its like the migration of the Great American Bison during the rut. They're RADAR was on this primal event.

An incredible moment. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go tank up on some injectibles, a tall-boy of whiskey, and a bath, before I fall asleep sitting up.

Wait, I need to go pop a Bayer aspirin, you know, just in case.

Morning Peace and a cup of joe

As you can tell from the picture, morning rush hour here is a bitch. This being the last full day here, I get my cup and go for the complete walk, hitting every street, before sunrise, which actually doesn't hit the valley until almost 8:30. This time of day, when the street lights are still on, is something else. I've given up trying to explain it years ago.

Jake was driving his water truck again, washing down the streets after yesterday's heavy rain. It was enough rain to break the back of any fire danger here in the valley and surrounding areas. Jake's partner was driving the street sweeper. That little piece of machinery could be heard up on 6th Street and 3rd Avenue. The deer on the toboggan hill didn't seem to mind the noise, they just kept grazing. As you walk down Main, when you walk passed stuff in the gutter the sweeper missed, you find yourself picking it up and throwing it away.  The second crew comes in behind the street crew and waters the hanging flower baskets and empties the trash cans found on each corner, getting the old girl ready and presentable for her fans.

The morning walk this early in the morning was well before the Artisan, Back Street, and Silver Nugget restaurants were open, requiring me to come back to the apartment and refill my coffee before hitting the lower half of the town, down by the livery where the mule teams were just waking up. Crows/ravens/black birds, whatever they are, start the sounds of the day with their cawing. Someone told me once what the difference was between a raven and a crow, not that I am losing any sleep over it. They are big enough to carry away your toy poodle if you had one up here, which some visitors bring, causing the wolf hybrids some residents own to salivate just a little.

The trip this year was pretty simple. The town continues to change, one shop closes or sells and another opens. Someone sells their house, the next owner paints it. It can't grow, there is no place to grow too, unless you attach yourself to the side of a cliff and that's just fine with me and probably most folks here. They work to live here, not live to work.

Not a bad philosophy.

Ouray on the 4th

This is small town America. Ouray is the county seat with no stop light. This morning, the street, by 6:30am, was already filled with cars, parked along the side of Main Street. Many of them were trucks so families can sit in the back of them and watch the parade, a small American town, like thousands of others across the country today, having a parade to celebrate the country's birth.

Today is a day of tradition here, culminating in a fireworks display to challenge those in New York and Boston, only its been cancelled due to the fires ravaging the state. Still, the Ouray County Volunteer Fire and Mountain Rescue had their traditional pancake breakfast this morning in the community center on the second floor over the fire truck bays. The mountain rescue volunteer staff is up all night, right after the Volunteer Rescue Dance from the night before. These hearty souls stay up all night drinking beer and making pancakes as well as eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, gallons of coffee, juice and just about anything else that would go with a breakfast. Some, as you walk down the line, meet your eyes with their blood-shot ones and toast you with a half empty beer bottle. Just like pirates would do, if pirates were makers of pancakes. At 8, starts the Ourayrace 2012, a 10K run that heads north on Highway 550 and then back on Oak Street, circling around with a Hollywood finish coming down Main from the south of town. Lots of skinny, fit people run this as well as some show offs pushing their child, or someones child, in a stroller while pulling the family dog, or someones family dog.

The parade is at 10. There is a fly over sometime after the parade, about 11. One of the military branches sends some form of aircraft down the canyon, just as they reach the town, they light in the afterburners, setting off every car alarm in town. One year, it was a C-130 which has no afterburners but was fun to see a large plane fit into a reasonably tight canyon. Lots of 'oohs' and 'aahhs' on that one along with 'holy crap, its going to rain plane!' The highlight might be the fly over. Mine is the synchronized wiener dog team.

At 2 today is the Fire Hose Fights. Teams divide up and try to knock each other over with a fully functional, fully on, stream of water from a fire hose. Teams actually train for this, have custom made helmets and body armor. It has been described as getting hit with a Barry Bonds bat, only constant. Now, to me, that sounds like fun.

At 4 today, the concert in the park starts. I'm not sure if this takes the place of the fireworks usually seen about 9 or if this was part of the plan the whole time, but music in a small town park actually sounds like fun. We'll let you know.

Today, even with all of America's problems, issue, disagreements, we can still come together and celebrate the reason we are able to have all those issues. I  don't think Iran has a synchronized wiener dog team. They, apparently, aren't that sophisticated.

Ouray and after the lay of the land

DAY 2-3 REPORT
We took a jeep tour yesterday. We went up to Red Mountain and took the Corkscrew Gulch leg into the depths of Red Mountain #1. There are three Red Mountains in a string and I'm sure they each have names but our guide apparently named them 1, 2, and 3. When you're a jeep tour guide, you can say stuff that can be pure sci-fi and no one would know or care about. This picture doesn't do it any justice, but does justify the name. We went into the mountain and somewhere near the top of one of the endless peaks, snaking along a ridge line to a point of just under 13,000 feet where only lichen and the marmot live. There, off to one side, was the remnants of another mine. Hundreds of scratches in the sides of these mountains where you can't even stand straight without falling over. You have to ask that miner, if you could, "Okay Giles, what made you pick that site to start digging for gold, hmm?  Were you drunk?"

When we came back, we went down to the town's deli and ate lunch. This place was bought by a young couple with young kids a couple of years ago, wanting to escape the big city life of Montrose. I remember the glazed-over look in their eyes when they were first starting out wondering what foolish move they made. Apparently, they worked it out because the kids are now working the front counter and pouring each sandwich plate with a bountiful load of Lays potato chips. They make their Caesar Salad with chunks of chicken from a real chicken.

O'Brien's Pub has as part of their drink menu called-'flights'. Well, we had to try them, purely for the reporting need. Each flight contains four special whiskeys. We ordered Leprechaun balls, fried pickles, and scotch eggs to 'marry' the flavors according the literature that comes with each flight. Of course, after the second drink, no one really cared about the fight, who was married, or anything other than how the good whiskey in a Irish pub in the middle of a small Rocky Mountain town made you feel. We laughed at nothing. We, as a group, decided we should make this a formal meeting place to discuss the needs of the community, economic well-being, sports, the color of that mole one of us has, and  of course, the whiskey. It seems to be a need of the group to do this.

This morning, starting on the early walk, Jake the Ouray City maintenance guy, was filling his water truck via the fire hydrant at the corner of Main and Seventh Avenue before dawn this morning. You can recognize Jake from his soft demeanor, the walrus mustache and the steel blue eyes. He was part of a morning crew that was busy washing the street for the 4th of July parade tomorrow. Every morning, they move up and down the street, towing a water trailer and water the hanging baskets of flowers from each street light at each intersection. Another worker is running a CAT with a scrubber attached to its front, the kind that  you have in a car wash that scrubs your tires only this one looks like it s on steroids.

The Artisan Bakery wasn't open yet at 7 when I walked by, so I just came on back to the apartment for my refresher cup of joe. The big debate is about breakfast, then maybe a nap. When was the last time I have ever had a nap, besides the fact its in the morning. I know the Artisan will be closed tomorrow. The whole family is in the parade. They are driving a truck pulling a flatbed with a montage of people spanning the centuries dressed in period garb. The float will be labeled Baking Across Time. I heard they are dressing their baby up as a bag of yeast. Hmm.