Last Day

Today is the last full day in the god-forsaken place. We come back to the world tomorrow. We are both chomping at the bit to get back to dust, extreme heat, dentist appointments, and preparing for school with endless hours of IEPs (you don't want to know). No more sitings of wild animals looking and smiling at you and welcoming you to their town. What a relief.

The Bad Boys of Ouray were out this morning. They ganged up on the flowers in the yard of the house just up the hill from 3rd Avenue on the un-named street just west of the toboggan run. They saw me and looked up from their gorging. We know each other by now over the years. They can see it in my eyes and I them, those bad boys. We have developed a mutual respect for each other. I tipped my hat and coffee cup to them. They looked long at me. Then went back to eating. Since they have no thumbs, and don't wear hats, they can't tip anything but the fact they were eating flowers some poor smuck planted in hopes of decorating their yard and add color to it, was sign enough. They knew I cheered them on. "We will consume it all and leave no stem untouched," they mentaled to me. Ah, those are my boys!

This time of year, you don't get a real good picture of this town. Tourists are here, leaving their snail trail everywhere. In June or after August, this town gets quiet. The businesses like it because the tourists come in and leave their money in exchange for yelling at 1:36am while stumbling back from the bars to their hotel rooms or rentals. The animals know it the best. You can see it in their eyes. They tolerate it. Soon, it will get quiet again. Then winter and the blanket gets pulled up and over this town until the International Ice Climbing in early January. Then she sleeps again, until spring and the summer migration of outside influences. Nope, you really don't need to come here. Nothing here worth seeing, unless you're in to a change of heart, spirit, soul, and go on long walks with God. Who the heck wants that?

Nope, we're coming back to the world. Yep, here we go. We're on our way.



Shit

Sunday

I slept in this morning. Maybe it was the downpour yesterday that washed all the stuff out of the air, if there was stuff in the air, which there wasn't. I went for my usual morning walk late after first getting up and starting the coffee. I took a different route this morning, up Seventh Avenue then crossed to Sixth and then up to the east until it dead ended, just below Chief Ouray's old house, which is now a new house, or at least new in the 20th Century. It was up on the side of the little hill that mother and her fawn were making their way back to their beds after a night of frolic and flower eating. Mother spotted me before I spotted her, her big-booty ears turning like a RADAR unit, picking up on my movement. Her baby, freezing behind her. Once she determined she was more of a threat to me than I to her, she moved on, fawn bouncing behind her in the tall grass.

Mouse Chocolates hadn't made lemon bars the whole time our team had been here. So, one of our team members, who craves lemon bars like a goose craves air, came up with a brave and bold plan. For the days we were here, at night we would take turns going in and asking for lemon bars. When we were told all they had was lime bars, we dropped our head in fain loss and walked out.

The day the majority of the team left for Phoenix, there were lemon bars on the shelf in Mouse. Bastards.

Duckett's Market is closed on Sunday so we stocked up yesterday. We went in to Montrose and stopped at Murdoch's Farm and Home Supply store. It was next to the Safeway where we got our cereal. Murdoch's is the place you can get a tool box you need to lift with a forklift. No, really, there are slide holes for the tongs of a forklift to fit in. You can also by herbicide concentrate for your herbicide issues right next to Slosh Authentic Root Beer. In the back is where you get your cow's ears for your dogs to chew on. They're just down the aisle from any size air compressor you could ever dream of. Oh, and don't forget that new set of Wrangler jeans on the other side of the store.

Chet, the dog, was directing traffic in front of Big John's store, Ivory's Trading Company and Gallery this morning. He sat in the middle of Main and 9th and didn't move while cars went around, thereby directing traffic. John and his wife, Sandy, use to live in Sun City a couple of years ago. Now, they live over their store, which use to be a bar and disco. The bar is still there, complete with bottles they've apparently dusted over the last few years. The bar is where they have breakfast. John was hosing off the front patio to the shop at 8:30 when the sun finally hit the center of Main Street.

The editing on the Holy Ground is going well. I have finished what my wonderful editor had given to me. Now, I get to turn to the next book Looking for Indianola. Part of that story takes place here. So, research and walking is in order.

Coffee, breakfast, naps are in order for today.

A Day of Quiet--sort of

There is something about this town I want all of you to avoid. When you get here, it takes a few days to dissociate yourself with the world you came from. Once you do, you find yourself doing stuff. Weird stuff.

You become nicer.

Who the hell wants that?

You notice flowers, and mountains, and trees, and dogs (cats are carried off by the eagles). You smile more and say 'Hi' to people on the street and here's the real weird part, they say 'Hi' back!

I went into the Artisan Bakery this morning. The only baker in town. Frankly, a town this size only needs one bakery. People were smiling and told me to have a nice day. When I started to leave with my coffee refill after completing my walk around town, I smiled and said the same to them. An infection of some kind had taken over!

You find yourself walking around town, up and down the streets, wandering back alleys, looking at everything and nothing at the same time. Simplicity takes over and you find yourself admiring window curtains, lights as they glow from inside homes during dusk, the quietness of dogs sleeping on the sidewalk.

Yep, it took a couple of days, almost a week, but the infection that I get every time I come here has set in. It will carry me for a year.

Crap.

The Morning After

Okay, its safe to come out of your bunkers; they're gone. If you compare this photo to the one yesterday, you have to ask yourself if someone called an evacuation of the town. All those people, who you could look at and just tell they don't belong. Give-a-ways like a woman in a dress and high heels walking up a gravel road. Or the family of ten and the whiny kids crying to the exhausted mother and her saying "I'm sorry your bored, for the last time, you can't go climb that mountain. I don't care if your older brother goes." Or the guy who just bought a hat for himself and his girlfriend/sister/wife and was walking down the street with the tag still hanging from it. At least try to blend in.

This is the way this crappy little town is suppose to look. The only cars on the street are the morning crews delivering rolls to the two restaurants open for breakfast. The young man drives in from Montrose to deliver whatever they need on this early morning. The Meadowfresh truck hasn't even made the run from Durango over that little hill you're looking at, through Silverton to Ouray and on to Montrose. Just some poor guy who drew the short straw and had to either wake up early to make the delivery or just stayed up, probably with a blood alcohol level somewhere near 'explosive.'

I made a cup of Ethiopian and wandered the town assessing damage as well as looking for 'The Bad Boys of Ouray.' Look, once a cop, always a cop, okay? Get off my back. These guys, although not fully bad, aren't fully good either. I'm talking about three rogue brothers that cause mischief and occasional swearing among the town's folk. They're deer, young male bucks looking for females and a good time chewing up someone's flowerbed. If they were human they would have a rap sheet as long as your arm for petty stuff, nothing hard or violent. They would be the neighbor that changes the oil to their NASCAR type car, probably an old Dodge Charger, in the street, leaving a permanent stain. You would always see at least two of them together, usually in bars called The Dew Drop In. Nope, not this morning. It concerned me a little with no signs of any deer reported the last few days in town. I felt better when I saw a young male at the intersection of 5th Avenue and 6th Street. We looked at each other, I tipped my hat, he went back to eating some Daises. That's the other pestering thing about this town, the wildlife wanders in and looks at you says 'What are you going to do? Shoot me? I don't think so.' Bastards.

Good news, Papillon Restaurant is back. They've moved from 7th Avenue to Main Street, just around the corner to a much bigger place. You can get the 'Big Easy Breakfast' for only $7.95 or sleep in and come back at lunch and get the 'Po Boy' for the same price. If you remember two years ago during my last report, most of the family was thinking about moving back to Louisiana and their Uncle Noble's home. Guess they didn't go.

Sun won't hit the heart of the valley where this hole is for another hour. All you have to look at is big mountains and colors that you can't find at Walmart, soft, hues that drive that darn blood pressure to normal levels. Jeez.

Happy Fourth from a Hell Hole

Look, there are certain things a person needs to do, experience, live, cherish, run from, that we just have to do. That's it. We just have to do certain things. One of my burdens is I have to go to this town, Ouray. It's in a valley surrounded by 13,000 foot mountains. The picture is Main Street. It also doubles as State Highway 550. If you will allow me, spend the next 10 days or so reading about a place I hope none of you come to. I'm selfish, I admit. Please don't come here, it's just not worth it. If you double me, please read on.

This place is crap! There are people here for the 4th. What's up with that? Why do people insist on being where I am? Do I hear an 'Amen" from some of you? Frankly, people are over-rated. Here is the first of several 'briefings' from this god-awful place.

I have to wear a coat outside. At the bottom of the stairs where we are staying, which overlooks some crappy mountains that go all the way to the friggin' sky, is a taco bar with cold beer and, well, tacos and in the other direction is an Irish bar/restaurant with reasonably priced appetizers, a 1/2lb burger for under $9 and really good scotch and Irish whiskey, which, I have learned, should not be consumed back to back-note to self.

I went to the Fireman's pancake breakfast this morning-all you can eat for $5-then the parade down the highway-the picture above, which, yes, I was standing in the middle of.

Over the next few days, allow yourself the pain of knowing that I am suffering for you-to report the truth and expose this town for something you really don't ever want to enjoy. I will update you on the 'Bad boys of Ouray,' the delivery timetable of the Meadowfresh truck to Ducketts Market, which, by the way, is closed for today; also, any other ramblings and of course, tonight's fireworks which resonates off the mountain walls like you're in a steel trash dumpster and someone is pounding on the side. The fact that it truly is a bigger display then anything in Phoenix, just goes to show you how crappy this place is, oh, and they synchronize it to the local radio station which plays some of the best music selections you have ever heard.

Look, I know its hot and dusty there, but just be thankful that you're not here. You're blood-pressure might drop and you would have to stop taking all those heart medications.

Please pray for me.

That taco stand I told you about-they sell regular Coors.

Weddings, celebrations, and the proper use of scotch

My family and I were privileged to go to a wedding this last weekend of a dear friend's daughter. We were FRIGGIN' lucky enough to be invited to go to the wedding in Newport Beach, California. Anything to get out of a Phoenix summer. But this was a good one. Really good. Newport was where the bride and groom met, fell in love, and wanted to get married. It was beautiful, overlooking a golf course and in the distance, the ocean. The temperature was worth a jacket at night and the world for both families was something they should remember forever.

There are rules, however.

There is decorum.

My friend, whom, by the way, graciously stood out of the way and allowed his wife and daughter to run like muskrats in a forest fire and plan this beautiful event, knew these rules and followed them to the letter. Let's review some of them now for those of you planning a wedding in the future:

Never, dress nicer than the bride. The bride is the focus. The Father of the Bride-(FOB), however, is the modern day equivalent of a Greek God at his daughter's wedding. He should be admired and honored with bows, pats on the back, and revelry. The Mother of the Bride should be the second prettiest woman there. Followed closely by the Mother of the Groom. The Father of the Groom is parking cars. He really has no role except as arm candy for the Mother of the Groom. He should shower and wear nice clothes.

The food should be hot and cold when appropriate. A concern should arise if one is eating sushi, for example, and it is warm. This was not the case at the wedding we attended.

Music should be loud, especially at a venue like this where it was in the garden portion of the hotel. Hey, if I have to stay up, everyone should have to stay up.

Restrooms should be easily accessible. This was a little bit of a hassle because the nearest restrooms were next to the pool so women in formal dresses were in the same area as Russian factory workers here on vacation sporting their new swimsuits. It was fine, friendships were formed. For the men, the gazebo provided cover for a quick stop and release behind the bushes into the neighboring golf course. As long as you were with the FOB, this is perfectly legal and accepted, remember, he is a Greek God.

But, the most important part of these types of events is the explanation of proper drinking to young men. Women just drink the free champagne or things with umbrellas. But men, young men, boys who have been shaving for less than a month and having just passed their 21st birthday and wanting to swill the excellence of manhood, look to the old ones and watch their lead. A lot of men travel the wrong path, taking the young bucks with them. They talk about the elixir of the gods from the motherland in a hap-hazard way. I'm talking about scotch. The stuff legends are made of and treaties are signed by. But the American male has bastardized the sanctity of the drink by, how can I say this, 'blending' the elixir with something less than pure love.

You see, there is something about this drink in its pure form-single malt, that can never be avoided or minimized. It comes from the highlands of the motherland, Scotland. Home of God, Country, hairy backs, strong backs, and lovers of the faith. A good day for a Scot is a day with his family after a delightful bar fight over the last piece of haggis. I had the honor of assisting the FOB in the discovery of this drink and then educate the groomsmen who were wanting to touch a piece of history. It was a passing of a torch, although there is NO WAY I would give them this torch. Its mine, they have to get their own. But we had a bottle purchased so I didn't have to go to my own stock. The boys listened and watched as the proper drinking and icing of the glass, even the proper glassing itself, was explained to them. Some took notes and asked questons. My son-in-law was there. He had gone through this lesson before. But the young bucks watched the old Silverbacks as I and the FOB explained the law of the pack.

With the sipping of the nectar, they were told the following rules, swearing an oath to never break them:

Always love God, always let your wife know she is second-to God, that way she knows you trust someone higher than her; never beat your wife, we don't live in the Middle-East or parts of Atlantic City. Men don't fight their wives, hair loss and odd smells but never their wives; and never-----EVER----drink 'blended' Scotch whiskey---ever. That's it. The three rules- Loving God, no hitting, and no blended Scotch.

So if you are growing young boys, soon to be young men, remember these rules. This is the properness of manhood, the foundation for guts and glory. Treaties exist and peace reigns because men choose this course.

Ahhhhhhh. I like mine neat, thank you.

I have spent the last four weeks, four days each week, walking with ghosts. You see, I have spent the last four weeks, four days each week, walking around my old high school, West High-currently known as Metro Tech in Phoenix.

Now I have been on this campus since I graduated in 1976. But only in the office and limited areas, not deep into its compound like where I am currently teaching. Nothing to cause me to walk through or drive around the grounds, until now. It has been 33 years since I have seen some of this place. Although the campus has expanded and is almost all new, there are still reminders of the past. It couldn't be helped, the images from the past. They just showed up.

I drove onto the campus this morning and down a driveway next to the football field. I had spent hundreds of hours on that field, the stadium structure still there although they don't play football there anymore. I passed the open handball courts, just south of the stadium. I had played hours of handball there with my peers. We tried racquetball but eventually we stuck with the purer sport of handball. Next on the right as I drove was the JROTC building. Back in my day it was where four teachers taught government. it was also the only drinking fountain for the football players, wrestlers, track personnel, and anyone else on the field. One drinking fountain. Gosh, we would take one water break during the 3 hour practice and god help the guy who got stuck in the back. Coaches didn't want you "spending all day guzzling water." I remember getting stuck behind Geek Squint Richardson. A great guy but he could suck water like a camel. He wore white cleats, too. Riddells, which had an air of whatever to those traditional athletes who stayed black with the little white Riddell 'belt' around the heal and the red soles. You had that one little fountain of water coming out and it just wasn't enough to stop you from peeing a yellow the likes of which are not seen at any other time. There was no such thing at water on the football field. Why? We had that drinking fountain.

Right across from it was the men's locker room, now a state of the art weight room. That was where Big Ken Bell prided himself on being able to stand his practice jersey up on end and lean it against his locker. Our senior year, he wanted to go all season without washing his practice uniform. When you blocked him, your face burned from the ammonia. It was here, in this room of lockers, I began wearing Mennen Skin Bracer, same as my dad. I still do. You can buy it at all of your fine grocery stores. After Friday night games, there was always a dance in the gym and we would come out of the locker room, me in my Letterman's jacket, and a fresh splash of Skin Bracer.

I was standing in the gym, waiting for my kids to line up when suddenly, I realized I was standing in the gym. It's interior hadn't changed-at all.

The new library sits on top of the old Auditorium. We use to play full length movies in there on Friday's. For a buck you could come in and see such great movies as Patton, or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I gave my student body president speech right about where the copier is now in the back of the library. Next to it was the pool. It's now a drainage basin for rain runoff.

Behind the pool was the archery range, right next to the old parking lot. Me and da' boys took archery our senior year for P.E. We thought it would be funny to crank the elevation and see how far into the parking lot we could send the arrows. We stopped when George Payton almost hit Miss. Ward. She was a teacher who wore coke-bottle glasses and clown dresses. No, really, they were dresses you would swear clowns wore in the circus, a bad circus, like out of a nightmare.

The track and practice field now has a 80,000 square foot garage on it for tech education. As I continued around to building 900, my building, I drove on the track, or where the track use to be. John Kopchek use to run sprints there. At the far end, where the shot-put pit and the goal posts for the practice field were, Joe Jackson almost hung himself going out for a pass and catching the rope the linemen used for practice, right across the throat. Coach Johnston told him to get get some water and he'd be fine, as soon as he could breath again, to hustle back; he was needed to run some pass patterns. "That last one looked like a 'G.D' abortion." You always seemed to know where Coach Johnston stood on things.

Yep, lots of ghosts here. But then again, where do we go and leave our footprints that we don't also leave a few of our own 'ghosts'?

Have a good day fathers and mothers with fathers

He was bone tired, the father. He sat at the campfire, the last one to go to sleep. The children and wife were tucked into their bedrolls and the night, finally, was quiet; just the sound of the fire and the crickets, and the occasional brush of wind as it touched the tops of the pines. Just the man, his sleeping family, and the two dogs that laid at his feet.

He looked up and could see the heart of the Milky Way from the clearing where they made their camp that day. He use to love looking at the stars. When he was a kid, even younger than his own now, he could name most of the constellations by sight. They fascinated him. Then, the fading of the clarity of the city air hid them for years.

He grew up and found other things but it was always at night, here, in the wilderness, where he could look up again. He had passed four decades since those days of his youth and the patterns in heaven and the names that went with him, escaped his memory-most of them-not all.

He stirred the fire with the stick he had picked up during the day and now was the extension of his hand, moving the embers seemingly at random, but there was a purpose, even here. His could see something in the heart of the fire, most men did. Women did too but it was men, fathers, who reflected the deepest. They had paid a high price and found the cost to be so expensive, but the return was beyond measure. Here, in this camp, the man's world now existed. There was nothing beyond the light that was of any value, nothing of any consequence.

It had taken him years to reach that conclusion-years. There were still times the man thought otherwise.

It was late.

The man pulled his coat up around his neck and reached down and stroked each of the two dogs. Then he went back to stirring the fire. In two hours, it would be morning. The world would return and the fire would be out. His family would wake and they would roll up their bedrolls and break camp. The outside would enter again.

He waited, the man, for the first light of the new day. It came, first with just a glow, warming the distant hills with a soft grey color tinted with blue. He knew the rest would come quickly.

There were many choices the man could have made over the course of his life. He even thought some of them could have still caused him to arrive here, at this spot, on this day. Maybe.

But he knew one thing, he was here now. His road had caused him to be here now, for this time, at this moment. He looked again to the heavens and saw them begin to slide behind the curtain, away from his sight. He smiled. Then there was a slight laugh, one of pleasure and fun. But still very light and soft.

The man paused for a moment, staring at the sky. He looked down and poked the fire;the smile still on his face. It was almost time to wake the people. He looked up again.

"Thank you."

Father's Day

This Sunday is Father's Day. We take a moment to celebrate Dads. If you came here from another planet and you simply read the ads in the paper, you would think dads of this country were great men. Men of honor and valor and humble hearts. You would also think none of them had beer guts or jowls and all stood at least six feet tall. They all had trim waists and a full head of hair of the appropriate color.

According to our public perception, fathers in this country stand straight and firm, they have shiny steel eyes that see truth while having firm, chiseled jaws, that hold back straight white teeth. There's a scar on the face from some prior battle in which Good conquered Evil and the father was at the tip of the spear. In this day dream perception, fathers love their wives, nurture their children, and in times of trouble would hold up the collapsing roof until the last, aged, woman made it safely out. Then, with a smile and a wink, he would let go of the collapsing building and run like a mongoose on crack, clearing the falling rubble by inches and not stopping until he was in his wife's arms, giving her a kiss that curled her toes and then, with soft hands, he would cause his family to kneel right there and give thanks.

Yep, that's what the ads say.

That just is not the reality-or is it?

Also part of that public perception, is that fathers are the crux of the worlds ills. Sorry about that, but take a look at the news accounts. The issues we are having predominantly fall back onto a man who didn't live up to the hype as leader of their family. It only takes one bad apple to taint the whole barrel. Fathers abusing their wives, sons, daughters, kicking the dog, betting the rent on the ponies, and basically breaking the hearts he was sworn to protect, taint all of us. And it spreads to the next generation.

Look, I'm a dad X 3, and I am telling you that dads are asked to walk a real narrow tightrope. They have to be firm but not overbearing. They have to be gentle, but not a sissy-boy. They need to be refined but able to stick their hands into a pile of goo. They need to be a lover, but not 'over-sexed', whatever that is. The foundation of the family, by God's design, centers on the father leading and loving his family. Yep, and some of you reading this are saying that doesn't happen, or does it? We look around and we see these images of men who, based on our experiences, don't exist. Our own fathers have left, fled, beaten, abused, misled, cheated, or just basically defiled the role of 'Father.' I have taken the job of fatherhood seriously and I will be the first to tell you that I too, have violated that trust of the task. So, what do we do with the image of a man on the cover of Target or Macy's, with a tight waist, a full head of hair; or worse-those depicted in 'It's a Wonderful Life' reruns?

We look up.

Look, I have to tell you. I don't have the answer for you. No answer, except one that you might not want to hear. You see, there is this thing rattling around out there. It's called 'God.' Now, for some of you, that's the last thing you want to hear. "Oh, so that's what this is about Mark; you're going to preach to me about something I don't believe in and beat me over the head with. Well, no thanks. I'm dropping the 'follower' label and going home. I don't need to hear any more preaching about God and what 'He will do for me.' I've experienced his 'grace' with my dad and he violated me every which way. I tried god and if' God gave me that father, then he's no God of mine!"

No, I won't preach. I won't beat you with it. I will tell you every feeling you have is justified. I'm just a middle-aged white guy with three kids, a wife, a couple of grand kids and two dogs, both of which are sitting on my feet as we talk here. I can only tell you what I've had to do.

Look at the facts. Dads, like Moms, screw up; probably to a factor of twelve. So, what do we do? We go to counseling; we talk to friends; we withdraw; we have affairs; we go bet on the ponies; we run away; we seek rehab; we divorce one and marry another. How has that worked for us? We do all these things as fathers except the one thing we were made to do; run to our own daddy, the one who designed 'Daddom'. Between the mother and the father, He gave the father the excessant will in their hearts to do one thing really well.

Stand and trust.

Now, I am not getting 'John Wayney' on you. That label has caused more harm than anything since that Garden episode with the apple. No, what I mean by that is life is a struggle. Sometimes, life is only a struggle-from beginning to the end. There is no breather, no break. Sometimes we marry and the world turns to the proverbial shit hole. We want to run. We see our friends do it so why not us? But that wasn't God that caused it-it was us-our own peeps.

The picture at the top is my dad and me. I was about one or so. Dad was born in 1914 and I was born in 1958, putting him at about 44. He married my mom who had twins by her first husband who died in a training flight during World War II. They had my other brother, Gary, shortly after he got married but then was diagnosed with diabetes and didn't want any more children because he didn't want to pass it on. So, I'm thinking, I was a stray round after a night of fun and frolic almost nine years after Gary was born and thirteen after Paul and Susan. I think I would open a vein if I fathered a kid at 44.

But, here's the thing about my dad. First, he stepped into a marriage with a woman with two kids already. That's pretty gutsy, especially in the late forties. They then had their own. Then, almost nine years later, he fathered me. He was raising a child well after most thought it was time to relax a little. I am sure he had some second thoughts when mom told him she was pregnant. After all, she was ten years younger, putting her at 34. She had to be wondering if this was such a good idea as well. The man hung in there. He stayed for the fight. But here's the thing about him. He was flawed; he was sick; he didn't have a full head of hair; he smoked like a chimney; he drank-probably too much; he had a temper; he had small feet; I rarely ever remember him going to church. But he made sure we did.

On Sunday's, he built us a diabetics nightmare breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup and real butter, smoking his cigarette and drinking coffee and then sent us with our mother to church. My brothers don't think he believed in God and all those points that get you 'salvation.' I think the opposite. I think he knew God intimately and talked to him in those quiet times when we were gone. Just a guess. He didn't live long enough for me to ask.

So, who are the fathers of the world? If they're not on the cover of GQ, where are they?

My daughter, Jessica, hates it when I refer to them as the 'Silverbacks' or our society. I used that analogy at her wedding and she didn't get it. But I think her husband, Matthew, did.

They come in many shapes and sizes including overweight, smokers, balding, with a smell that has nothing to do with cute babies. They have scars on their faces from falling flat on them. There is a shyness about them from being humbled many times and then learning to live in a humble state. They bleed openly and often.

There are many fathers who do not deserve the title of 'father.' Ah, but there are many millions, who stand and look at the wave of the world coming towards their family and square their shoulders and set their jaws. The twinkle in their eye says they are ready for a good fight. Their knees only buckling for the God that set them there in the first place and realize it is only the belief in God that gives their legs the strength to hold them up. They listen to their family's heart and gently, with the soft back of their rough hands, stroke each family members face and look into their eyes and say with that look, 'I am your father and in you, I am truly pleased.'

Then they trip and fall on their faces again-another scar.

That can be you, my fellow fathers, starting today. Dads are tired by nature. Nothing wears us out faster than being alone in a bar fight with a bunch of hooligans from someplace like, well, France. But when we look up and down the line and we see each other, like old Silverback gorillas standing, not by our own strength but by some magical power that could only come from one source, we are filled with the will to stay and fight for our families. "Oh, good, I'm not alone." Community of fathers-yep.

So, fathers, when it gets taxing, old, tempting, hard, miserable, fruitless, and there seems to be no hope left and the end of the rope, which fills your hands as you hang on, begins to slip, there was One who set the standard and proved it could be done. He set the standard; the only standard that works.

But you have to look up to see it.

Happy Father's Day.

No turn signals on an F-18

You know why God invented music--loud, boastful, heavy thumping music? So, middle-aged white men, like my self, can car dance. I was driving to summer school this morning. I had stopped for a medium 'bold' from Copper Star Coffee and was on my way to work when Kenny Loggins started.

Now I have dear friends, one of which is Bob, and Bob loves and plays music. He also listens and talks about musicians as if he is discussing a fine Bordeaux from the hills of France. He talks about groups that no one, except his kind, have heard of. Now, here's the thing. I am not a music guy. I don't hear the words very often. But Bob does. He hears the 'heart' of the music poet and can discuss it forever. Some of the best music I have heard has been Bob's. So much so he is the fictional band in Holyground which plays in Moreno's Bar. But Bob's music you don't car dance to. You sip a fine wine and ponder great thoughts to his music. Kenny Loggins you turn way up and yell. At least you do if you are a middle-aged white guy. If you're not yelling, it's because you are in a steep left bank trying to get tone on an enemy bandit.

One time, while driving my family somewhere, I had Loggins music in the CD player and the theme to Top Gun came on. I turned it up and accelerated the car to way beyond the posted limit. I wasn't driving a Corvette or a Camaro; I was driving a Kia Sorento, a white man's version of the Caprice Classic nine passenger wagon. But to me, it was an F-18 Hornet off of the Ronald Reagan posted somewhere in 'The Gulf''. Someone in the back seat asked a question. I'm not sure what the question was; it was just a question. When they didn't get an answer, they asked again. "Quiet," I said. "I'm flying a plane." I emphasised the words with an evasive maneuver between a truck and a van, without the use of the turn signal, leaving a stream of fictional 20mm cannon fire across the backs of both vehicles, causing them to immediately burst into flames and wing over into the field below-where ever that was. There were no parachutes.

Okay, look, I'm a twelve year old at heart. But you get music going in a middle-aged guy's car and he will seat dance, sing, and flame enemy aircraft all day long. Instead of moving to the next song on the CD, you press 'repeat' and play it again. The mission isn't complete until you hook the #3 wire back on the Reagan.

I'm just saying.

Geez, I'm tired.

We men kind of have an issue with our ages. Now, don't get me wrong. I think women are way out in front when it comes to issues with age. We don't help matters when we divorce our wife of thirty years to marry our secretary who is young enough to be our daughter or even our grand daughter. We, as men, somehow kind of appreciate that and wink and chest bump and just kind of quietly nod at those things. That is totally wrong and a true man doesn't accept it for very long. But really all we truly want to do is take a nap. Yeah, sure the physical side might be good for a while but eventually, Bambi is going to want us to take her skiing with her friends at Lake Placid and frankly, our new hip and knee just doesn't feel like it. We skied when we were with the Rangers in the Alps in Northern Italy and it really wasn't any fun then so what makes us think it will be any fun now? Especially since we don't get to shoot at anyone. But for a lot of us men who are hanging in there with our wives and modeling shear toughness of heart to our kids, that is not an option. We still climb the ladder to paint the eaves, throw the ball for the dog, wash the truck and mow the lawn, after our morning run/walk. All of this done in one long day. We're fine with that. But there is something that stops us in our wanderings and makes us do the math.

I was just at Home Depot, "the Temple" to men and women everywhere. If Jesus were alive today, he'd be wearing an orange apron in the 'fastener' aisle between molly bolts and 8 penny nails. Yep, God is alive and well at "the Temple." So, while I was checking out, the middle-aged woman at the counter smiled and was being very friendly. But she said some words that made me forget which card I was going to debit the item I was purchasing. "Did you find everything you were looking for today YOUNG MAN?" Holy Crap!

Every man reading this, every person, young or old, who has an X and Y flowing through their veins, knows what I am talking about. That term is withheld for two branches of the sex-those that are truly 'young men' and those that are pulling an oxygen tank and a clear hose line running from it shoved up their nose while operating a cane with the four little feet on them, all while dressed in a pair of striped shorts, a plaid shirt, and black socks and black dress shoes-scuffed.

'Young man'? Really? Am I that old? Am I that far along that I need a cane with the four little rubber bottomed feet on it? I do have shorts but there are no stripes and this is just the reason I hate plaid.

I do love my bed though.

Oh, and I could eat dinner, like, now.

The end to a perfect day is in bed reading until I pass out, about a page to two later--before 9:30.

I'm starting to buy named brand underwear, while throwing away the old stuff-not trying to patch it with that patch kit you use to iron on for denim holes like your mom did when you broke open a hole in the knees of your jeans when you were twelve. Levi jeans didn't have a number then. They were just Levis-sold at Yellow Front.

The mines have me on their Christmas card list for the gold crowns I have in my mouth.

When you touch my knees, they're warm. I think my daughter said that's a sign of 'inflammation.'

I floss--------twice a day.

I make sure we have double-ply, extra soft, toilet paper. Even if it means paying more for it.

I'm going to doctors I don't want to talk about, nor can I pronounce their speciality; so I use the standard street lingo for what they do.

Soup sounds good.

I want to buy a Harley but my daughters say "No, way, you'll die." I haven't bought one yet only because there's no air-conditioning on them.

The critical factor for the car we just bought was electric windows AND seats.

I cry at Jack in the Box commercials.

Look, I think I'm still pretty young. I can't go chase down a bad guy anymore. They would lose me in the first hundred yards, okay--ten yards. But the point is, I've grown smarter. God gives us brains, if we live long enough, to make up for the youth we've lost--no--really lost. Instead of chasing down Evil, I would drive the car and run them over. Then, its all in the way you tell the story.

I'm a good story teller.

What are we looking for?

I have a dear friend (I have so very few of the 'dear ones') who is teaching down in Auckland, New Zealand. He will be there until this next Monday. He says its beautiful. The town is great and the New Zealanders love Americans. I wanna go. Why? I wanna go to Colorado. Not just to visit but to live. I want to go to the Caribbean; or South Miami Beach is even appealing as long as I don't have to wear a thong-well, okay, I'll try it--again.

Now, if you know me, have hung out with me, spent any time with me, or even been to my home or some how got my phone number, you are saying to yourself and whoever is around you right now, "Williams, ya daft longshoreman, what are you talking about? You live in the same house you buried your parents in (point of clarification-they're not exactly buried here. They did leave here to meet the Lord. This is their last known address. You get what I'm saying)."

Well, that's true. But I bet I'm not alone in this conversation. I bet some of you out there are saying the same thing. "Let's move honey. Come on, it'll be fun packing all those boxes and getting passports." No, it won't happen. Crap. I'm stuck.

Look, I got family here. I have a grandchild here. I have another grandchild coming. I have two dogs who, as we write, are laying on my feet, causing them to go numb. I ain't shoveling snow to get out of the driveway. That's one drawback Colorado has. The town we love gets 270+ inches every year-in town. That's almost 24 feet. That's a lot of shoveling. I'd have to put booties on the dogs feet to go out and go pee. And that town is the closest to family. Auckland-well-I've only seen pictures and heard testimony. I think I would rather move to Whistler, Canada. I love the Canadians. Why? They're Americans-lite. South Miami has the whole thong issue which would disqualify it alone without the idea of a class five hurricane waking me up in the morning. Imagine waking up one morning and the beach was actually IN your living room? I hate sand so that wouldn't work. The Caribbean? I think I would drink too much. I don't drink now except when I'm with my two friends who are pastors so I would be found on some beach by an old couple down from Wisconsin walking along, looking for shells.

As I am writing this, I am looking out my back window and looking over the yard. I like my back yard. It has roses in it and a path made out of stones that I put in years ago as a path around the yard. It needs work but that's okay. It keeps me busy and away from the track, betting on the ponies. The colors from the sun really give it some pretty colors. You don't see the colors like this at any other time of day.

I do want to go to Auckland. I want to go to the northern coast of Australia and its jungle; I want to go Fiji and run naked--somewhere. I heard they run naked in Fiji. I want to go to the Caribbean. I want to go to Austria and drink beer; one of those big half-gallon beers in one of those big glass steins. I want to go to Scotland and see where my grandfather lived and tour the scotch distilleries.

I think looking around is fine. I really do. I also think that looking around causes us to look right back to where we are with fresh eyes. God puts us where we are for a reason. We can find contentment where ever we are if we just give it a chance. It doesn't mean we don't need to better ourselves or get our big old butts off the couch and out of harmful environments. But it does allow us to rest and enjoy where we are. I remember a story where Paul, the guy who wrote a good chunk of the New Testament, was in prison, chained up, and singing. SINGING! Now, I don't think he had picked this as a travel destination, but he knew, somehow, that he was where he was suppose to be. We can go and visit the grass on the other side of the fence. But if we stay, eventually, we will be expected to mow it. Then its our grass.

No, I think I'll stay. After all, it takes some people with some backbone to live in Phoenix-in the summer time which, of course, starts in late winter and goes to late fall. You won't find any French here in the summer. The heat kills 'em back like a weed. But we can travel. We can go see those things we want to see and then come back. Life allows us to to do that. We'll try to hit all those spots. That's all. I think I could be done then after completing that travel list, especially after the Glenlivet's distillery.

Oh, yeah, Miami one more time-to wear the thong. Hey, don't knock it until you try it.

Days are numbered

I am in the last day of the first week of teaching summer school. I have a classroom of new sophomores taking their freshmen English class again. Three of the students are mothers-to-be. I am sure there is one or two more who already are. I got a couple of wanna-be gansters, a couple who don't speak English, and one who is taking the class again to improve his grade.



I'm glad I'm here. First, it brings in some extra money that we will no doubt need before the end of July. Every year, the Williams family comes across the outer marker with vapors for financial fuel. It had been a couple years in a row that I would hit up my kids to float dad a few hundred for two weeks. Now, we might actually make it without having financial dreams wake me in the middle of the night.



I'm also glad I'm here because I need to be doing something. Sure, I can sit and relax but it takes time. I need to decompress and leaving school and sitting down doesn't happen right away. For example, this last week off before summer school, I built a shed on the side of the house, complete with concrete foundation. Yep, that's my down time. So keeping me here 4 of the 5 working days is a benefit to our home. Given enough time, I might have a second story built on the house. Even though that would be nice, it would be way too much square footage for the neighborhood.



I guess what I am really happy about, even though I have to stop and think about it, is the faces of the kids. I think God has gifted me to inspire. If you believe in that sort of thing, I think God gave me the gift of inspiration. Summer school is a challenge for me to light a fire in children's hearts to get them going again in only four weeks. For so many of them, the fire in their belly is out, extinguished by years of parents, friends, relatives telling them they are something less than what they are. I tell them that's 'bullshit.' Yep, I swear. I tell them to go back to the person who told them they were worthless and won't amount to anything and the next time they say that to them to politely tell them their English teacher said they were lying. Then give them my name and if they want to discuss it, to please contact me.

No one has-crap. A Scot, even one as distant to my ancestors as I, is always looking for a good fight.

What are we really up to?

This last Saturday was a great day at Costco! Now, many of us need to just come clean, especially the men. There are few reasons we go to either Costco or its bastard brother, Sam's Club. Very few of those reasons have anything to do with saving money. Sure, they got some deals if you are able to break it down by unit. But when you have to buy 1500 units of anything, the upfront price is a little, well, pricey. Nope, we go to Costco for a limited number of things-the free food and big screen TVs.

Sometimes, in a man's Costco quest for the best day for the free stuff, he hits the jackpot. It's like fishing and you find that hidden inlet in a lake that, for some reason that day, all the fish in the lake are at. You throw your hook in and WHAM! Fish on! Saturday, yesterday, May 30th, was such a day.

You enter pushing a cart. Professionals at this all have carts. You can spot rookies who are in a warehouse shopping store with nothing to carry all their 'groceries' in. Yep, the big screens were there and on and as you entered you were awash in three foot high faces from shows and movies in such vivid colors that just don't exist in the real world. You proceed past them, the nuts, videos, you slow your pace down as you see some slacks for less than $10 but you keep moving. There is the $500 grill they sent you a flyer on that does everything except buy the food and rub your feet after a night of grilling. The big shed made out of that heavy plastic would look great at your house; you just have no place to put it. Then the patio furniture but there, next to the cheese and the $9 wine, is a tent. Not just any tent, but a tent by a sausage company! The fish have come to you.

You walk by slowly, not wanting to seem too anxious. The three sales reps, schlepping a sausage you've never heard of, were actually grilling them on two George Forman's and placing the hot links, carved and in their own little paper doilies just for you. Six different sausages. Who cares what they were, the justification to try all six was clear. You didn't care about the name because there was no intent in buying any when you can have at least six bites for free. Then, as if the gods were with you, the three reps all turned their backs at once, focusing on the grills. The crowd moved on in one mass, leaving three of the sausage platters open for one massive, first round score. You sweep in as if you were a Delta Force operator and scored three doilies and moved on without breaking your stride. None of the three men even saw you. This was such a critical event in time because now you could come back as a regular shopper, casually strolling and take on the other three as if you were a true comparison shopper. Then, as you tasted each as if it was a fine Chablis, they would offer the other three again. You don't want to disappoint them so you wolf down all of them.

Now your thirsty, you need to cleanse your pallet so you mosey to the other side and hit the power drinks and those that are good for your joints. They are next to the pasta and pot sticker samples. You walk past the 'vegetable medley' being offered by the woman in the hair net. She's not too happy because she knows she got the lame sample station and it will be a long day for her. You hit the free chicken patties and then the pot stickers. Then its time for dessert and you find yourself heading back to the bread side, next to Valhalla and the sausage. Free cheesecake today.

You top off your luncheon buffet with chips and salsa then head for the door. Oh, wait, the coke and thirty-six rolls of toilet paper. That's right, you actually came for something.

Show ME the money!!

I read in the paper this morning that the Federal debt will cost every household something like $577,000. Now, I'm not going to sit here and argue over who got us here, Republicans or Democrats, or muskrats. It really doesn't make any difference after the ship hit the iceberg, who might have had a little too much rudder one way or the other. My comment is on that number-$577,000. I have confidence in the powers that there are some bright people in the right places that have legitimate degrees in finance and economics from known colleges that are low enough on the GS pay scale to still have to pay their own bills and are really thinking this was the best thing to do. I get that. I want to throw my two-cents in because, well, this is my blog and I can.

I want the money.

Now, I don't have a degree in Finance, Accounting, or Economics. Those degrees, frankly, would have caused me to paint my walls with grey matter a long time ago. Nope, I have no idea what I'm talking about. But I do have some common sense and sometimes even a blind pig will find a walnut or however the saying goes. Track with me and see if you don't say "Hmm, the white boy may have somethin', Maude."

You give me the $577,000 (hereafter referred to as the $$). I turn around and clear all of my debt. Now, for some of us, that won't be enough but I figured if you are that high in the debt ratio, you don't need it in the first place and your house in the Hampton's can just wait for that extra coat of paint.

If I take the $$ and pay off the mortgages, I am clearing my bank's debt; I have just relieved their receivables and AIG's obligation to insure it against default. That debt can now be reinvested back, via the bank, to another investment opportunity, maybe creating jobs-reemploying people. Now, that money I got from the Feds, maybe part of it is taxable and counted as taxable income. That means they get some back. Whatever money I don't use, I turn around and beef up my 401, thereby investing in the stock market, almost ensuring my retirement plans or at least making them and me feel better about retirement and not becoming a ward of the state or living in a friends garage at 80.

Now, there's always someone who will take that money and go to Vegas, bet it all on red at the roulette table. Those are members of the "herd" we will always have and need to be thinned but what can you do? The rest of us, however, the farmer rebuilding that John Deere, the baker replacing that Vulcan oven with a newer one, the candlestick maker--well, you get what I'm saying, will buy crap we need, employing more people. I think we, the people, would allocate that money pretty well. If we did, we would all win. Even those that mis-spent their allotment would feed the system, like a dead carcass starting the food chain with the flies and worms. They bet on the ponies at one of the local Indian casinos. Obviously, the casinos benefit and hire more people. The individuals who just lost their money, drink their problems away, stimulating those depressed areas in Kentucky to grow more grain for Jack Daniels. On the drive home, they run off the road and into a tree, destroying the tree thereby stimulating the dramatically hurt landscaping industry. The investigation and subsequent arrest help my son's-in-laws and promote hiring more police, thereby employing my son. The driver, is transported to my daughter's hospital, ensuring her job and helping out the gauze and bandage industry. We all win.

All we need for this to happen is for us to get our check. Of course, we can only get it with a valid driver's license, an original birth certificate, and one credit card with our picture on it.

The price had no sales tax added

The sun hasn't come up on this 2009 Memorial Day. I woke up and got the dogs walked and made a cup of coffee and came in and sat down. Best time to create and think is just about now. I look out the window and see the trees and plants moving in the pre-dawn light. It's a fresh feeling, a time of renewal. So different for many whom we celebrate today.

In thousands of stories, those who stood in the gap, had their lives end just before dawn-in the darkness, days very similar to what I am looking at. The day captured thousands but there is something about the night that cuts to our primal fears. The Boogieman loves the dark and dwells there. The fears we have as children of darkness and things that go bump in the night are, almost always fictional. Parents scramble out of bed to the night terror cries of their kids who are having a bad dream. We tell them no one is going to hurt them and everything is just fine. It is fine, for most of us. But for those in this photograph and countless others, the night brought with it the fear of those things that live in closets and under beds.

So, you're nineteen and are in some beauty spot like Guadalcanal, a sandy Normandy beach, Mogadishu, the Mekong, or Tikrit and you are on patrol, or with a long-range patrol (LRP), or standing a post. It's night, and you know about the Boogieman. You know he's real. You know he exists. Yet, you continue to do your job. Where do we get such men and women who can look under the bed and then crawl under it with those things that go bump in the night?

Now, don't make them Supermen or Superwomen. They will be the first to tell you they're not. They are scared. Have you ever been scared? No, really scared of something that was real; it breathed and wanted in the worst way, to look you in the face while it took your life. That kind of fear. Knowing that something so vile was right there-waiting just for you. And yet you took steps forward, not backward. Something moves these people. Yeah, it could be for love of country or honor. I don't think all that political crap applies. I think what moves these men and women, who stepped into the vastness of fear, was a motivation of the heart. That's the only thing that could move the body in such conditions. Now, maybe their hearts were motivated by their love of protecting their country or their family or getting even for sins against them. Most of them would tell you they did it for each other, the person to their left and right. God is the only one who knows.

So, these people that we celebrate today, what do they want us to do today? Do they want us to wear black and mourn their passing all day? If we have lost one, we probably feel like doing just that. Everyone of these fallen this country loses, we should take personally. That is a good healthy reaction. I think they want us to enjoy what they bought.We live in the greatest country in the history of the world. Sorry Canada. You're real nice but you know we're right. I'm looking out my window into a nice yard-a yard-with grass! NO ONE in Iraq has grass. I'm listening to Aretha on the radio right now. They shoot people in Mogadishu for listening to a female singer. We get upset standing in line at the grocery store wondering why they don't open another lane because there's four of us in this line. I counted yesterday, there are eleven different bars of soap at the store. Eleven! Whole towns in most of the places we sent troops don't have soap, of any kind. I can even decide if I want to go to work, or live under the 7th Avenue bridge. My life, and that of my family's is our choice. I can follow God or pray to Ulsa, goddess of the pond trees. I can be a professional taxidermist or President of the United States. Its up to me. Those we think of today bought that for me.

When people complain about the U.S. and are here from other countries, I don't think we should say, "Hey, ya knucklehead, go home then." I think we should say "Stay and take another look. You obviously missed something the first time. Forgive them Father, for they don't know what they are saying." We wear our worst on our sleave. You want to know what issues this country has? Read the paper or watch the news or listen to the radio. We'll tell you. Our worst day, beats most nations best. That 7th Avenue bridge thing? That's good living in some countries.

So, today is Memorial Day. This weekend-where did you go, what did you buy, what did you bring to the picnic, soccer game, NASCAR event, Indy race, come on, what did you do? We did everything we could except what we should have been doing; going around and kissing, full on the lips, every veteran of any war, conflict or dispatch we could find, then looking them in the eyes and saying nothing. Just making that eye contact; they will know what we mean. I don't care if you're sitting there coughing and saying "Well, ah, Mark, I know what you want to say, but I just don't feel comfortable kissing another man...." Git you're scrawny, phobic ass over it! That's not the point. As I get older, I am finding myself losing my tolerance for whatever it is I feel I am losing tolerance for. Whatever the heck that just meant. These people, the ones that survived, are the living legacy to the ones that paid the bill for us. This prize we call life, was paid first on the cross, the gold standard to follow. Then, it was paid by millions of men and women. Thousands are standing that same post today. Anywhere the weak need protection or violence happens and that special kind run to help, the soldier, sailor, marine, airman, coast guard, police, or fire. These people go to the noise rather than flee from it. They know the potential is there that they will come face to face with the Boogieman.

Some people think that God has nothing to do with this. I honor your ability to believe what you wish. But I find it impossible to separate the two out. There is an old saying "there are no athesists in foxholes." Before our son, Travis, went to Iraq, we all met as a group. The 63 Combat Regiment has a motto. All units do. Now, some of you might be thinking "Oh, what is it? Gut 'em when you find 'em or some other violent chest pounding rhetoric?" Nope, his combat unit's motto was from Isaiah 6, "Send me Lord."

Where do we find such people to pay the sales tax on our enjoyment on this life? We find them in the homes we have made. From our teaching and our our own hearts. Those that died, they came from us. They mimicked our hearts and minds. They are us and we are they. This is "our day" the best and brighest would say. Remember them, cherish them, kiss them full on the lips.

Life's path

There are layers to life, I think. When you look back or forward in you life, there are twists and turns which occur at specific stages of life.

Like the early years, when you chipped your tooth playing football in the front yard. Grade school and then high school was when you discovered girls were dopey and then girls cause us to be dopey. College years or post high school were when you wanted to exercise your sophistication with smoking a pipe, drinking beer, discussing Milton, or discussing the validity of Fifty-cent (for the older group-he's a rapper and only God knows how he spells his name). Post college years we're spent looking for a mate.

Then we moved into child years or traveling in search of ourselves; or we're in jail. There's a long stretch here where we're running fast and hard. Once the kids are grown and start to cycle out, we look around for something to filling the void. First, there's the long awaited nap. But that doesn't last. You can only take so many of those during the day. You start going to things, like the symphony. Some, finish their spousal duties and move on to others-again. Others, move into different phases with their partners and look for what phase is next.

As the years pass, comfort becomes the command of the day. Instead of that 1977 Gremlin you nursed for years, you live on the edge with a Kia, a brand new one. You get your hair done differently, you daily try to stay ahead of the ear hair. You've become fluent in HDL and LDL dialog. And later, you begin to take interest in news reports on what the Federal government is doing with Social Security and Medicare.

In your fifties, which is where I am finding myself now, I am dramatically closer to the end than to the beginning. But I remember, with advantages, what feats I did those days. My youth is but a thought away and sometimes, like yesterday, still thinking I can leap tall buildings or at least find I can still leap up on a short wall without the use of a ladder, to check my mister system for my front porch. I was kind of proud of that little hop. The old man can still move. Of course this morning, as I write to you and sip my coffee, KYOT playing their Sunday set of melodic music in the background, and two of my favorite things laying at my feet, I have a dull pain in one of my hips. Brought on, of course, by something other than my leap of youth yesterday.

So, what's next? At this point of my life, what is coming up? They say that fifty is the old forty. So, I guess I am equal to what my father was at forty huh? Well, okay. I can live with that. I just don't want to go to ninety. I think if I went to ninety those last few years would not be as cute as the first few years. Lots of talking at high volume. "MR. WILLIAMS, DO YOU WANT TO GO DOWN THE CAFETERIA AND HAVE SOME MUSH?" Nope, I think at that point we take stock in where we are and look at a cab ride to the Golden Gate Bridge, take a walk out to the first tower and take one last leap, with the intent of hitting a passing luxury liner. Wow, now that would be fun! Yep, I want to always be able to leap tall buildings, or at least a short wall.

End of the year teacher's story

Carol Ferguson was wrapping up her room the week after school let out for summer. She had been a teacher for thirty-nine years, the last thirty-three in this inner city high school district and at this particular school. When she told people how long she had been there and just after their gasp, she would comment “Well, I have changed rooms over the years.” What she didn’t say was the last twenty had been in this particular room, tucked away in one of the older wings. Now, at the end of her career, Carol Ferguson found herself trying to find a place for the lifetime of memories, most of which she knew she couldn’t take home. It was time for Carol Ferguson to make room for the new teachers and time for her to rest. Carol Ferguson struggled with the idea of whether it had been worth it.

She walked the room as if lost. She would start packing a box then flitter to another part of the room. She would bog down with opening a book or a file and finding something that she hadn’t looked at for years, in this case, a file with cards from students. She would linger over their words and pictures. Carol Ferguson would then smile and again wander the room, trying to find a place to put the old treasure. She had until the end of the week to clear out. A new teacher was transferring in and wanted to get keys and move in before they got too deep into summer. It was at this point Carol Ferguson heard a knock on her open door.

“Hello,” the old man with the cane said. He was about seventy but looked older with a hunched back and a long mustache. A well worn hat covered his head.

“Hello,” she said.

“Are you Carol Ferguson?”

“Yes, can I help you?”

The old man shuffled a few steps into the room before he spoke. “You don’t know me. But I needed to see you.” The man paused for a moment.

“Would you like to sit down?” she offered but the man held up his hand.

“No, I can’t stay. I just needed to see you.” There was another pause. “Thirty years ago, you had my kids. They was one behind the other in ages,” the old man slowly started, a tinge of southern drawl hung in his voice. “Two boys and a girl.”

“What were their names?”

“It ain’t important. What is important is what you did.”

Carol Ferguson had a flash of worry. Fear, quickly swept over her; as if this man posed a violent threat and that she was going to pay for some mis-deed from years past.

The old man’s voice began to break. “You see, I wasn’t around much when they was growin’ up. I wasn’t around at all, by choice, I guess. Their mother raised them as best she could and they were ripe for the pickin’ if you get my meaning. They could have gone either way. I hadn’t seen them since until last year. They found me and we all got together and,” he paused again and caught his voice. “It’s something now. Really something. I needed to come tell you because when we was talkin’ they said one thing that got them through and that they remembered for, well, until now, was their high school teacher, Mrs. Ferguson, giving them the will and the courage to believe. One’s a contractor in Chicago, one’s a writer for a magazine in LA, and the girl is a teacher in the South Miami. They all said between momma and you, they made it. I just came here to tell you thank you for saving my kids.”

The two stood for a moment and neither spoke. The old man shuffled in his turn and left the same way he came in. Carol Ferguson walked over to her desk and sat down, still holding the treasure in her hand. She opened the file and a card fell out. She picked it up and opened it, noticing it was signed by three kids-two boys and a girl.

Carol Ferguson closed the file, laid it on her desk, and began to cry tears of joy.

Mother's Day

Today is the one day of the year we stop and turn to our mothers and say all that we should of said over the last years of our lives. Fathers are important, critical actually, but when the father doesn't fulfill his role in the home, it is the mother who almost all the time steps up and takes on both roles. Frankly, I think most of us take our moms for granted until there is nothing around to take for granted anymore. "Oh, mom, geez."

There is a strength in mothers that fathers don't have. There is a strength that is so strong, so powerful that it is hard to describe. It runs the gambit of physical, emotional, social, environmental and anything else that ends in 'al.' Sometimes we know when they're leaving this planet but sometimes we don't. Maybe you were four and you and your parents were living a good life, just the three of you. Your mother and father loved you very much and their love for each was shown as an example to you every day of your young life of what pure love was to look like. Then, your mother developed a cough, maybe a little fever, then she was gone. It was 1918, and she was one of 18 million who died of the flu that year. Or you had a little time, some warning. She became sick when you were nineteen and it was just you and her now. Father had died and the older siblings had moved away. Now it was just you as the last of the family who stood and watched her breath. The cancer had her. She was boarding on unconsciousness until you bent over and whispered something in her ear. Then, she smiled. She rallied and said a few words of coherence and a smile. It would be her last smile on this earth. That image is burned into your mind. The last thing she did was smile at something you told her. Not a bad ending for a son or daughter with their parent.

What are you whispering in your mom's ear today? What are you going to say to her? Don't let her go without a word or two. Moms aren't perfect. The contamination of the Earth has made sure of that. But they are our mothers. Revere them today. Hug them today. Let them know their life counted. Because in them, all they really want to do is love you and know they meant something to you.

Happy Mother's Day moms everywhere!!

As part of my second life, that of a teacher, I am finding myself sounding more and more like my parents generation. I can't say I sound like my parents because they died when I was young and never really got a chance to talk to them about anything other than daily surface stuff. But I'm guessing they would say certain things and I am finding myself saying those exact things. Such things as "Weren't you listening?" "Didn't I just say that?" "Copy the example on the board-exactly," X 3; or my favorite-"Kids music now a days."

Still, I am comfortable with the generation coming up. "Mark, how can you say that? Have you heard blah blah blah." I know what you're thinking but I really do think we'll be all right. Kids today are no different-----NO DIFFERENT than when I was growing up, except maybe more resilient. Listen, I don't like rap music. Anything that is called 'music' that I could actually do, is not music. If I can stand and hold a microphone too close to my mouth and mumble words and get a million dollars for it, I don't think is music. How is that different from someone like Bob Dylan? You can't understand him even if there is no music and you and him were the only two in the room. How about the Beatles? Huh? Now I've touched a nerve. I knew a girl in high school who, I am sure, lit a candle to them every day. Have you listened to the White Album? Charlie Manson did and apparently it told him that he was the next Jesus Christ.

You look at our gaggle of teens about ready to step out on the stage of graduation and then into the 1040 long form and you find yourself rubbing the frontal lobe of your head in worried anticipation. Nah, we'll be alright. My parents couldn't fathom why anyone, men in particular, would want to wear their hair long. My brother was cut out of his grandfather's will because he had a beard. What exactly is a 'Doobie Brother'? And wat iz txtn LOL? I look at my three kids and their friends and play the stories back of their teen years. Our girls were 'better' than our boy but none of them caused us to worry about their hearts short of them being hurt by their boyfriends or girlfriends at the time. Now, we see young men and women where children once stood-peers in the faith. I got into my sweet Jessica's car the other day and she had some head-banging music on-my Jessica the nurse! Jeannette and Travis actually know the lyrics to rap songs!

So, take rest in the knowledge that those that follow will be fine. Sure, they will face divorce, death, taxes, war, and that cross-road decision about God as they grow. Maybe our fear is that they will turn out like us? They watch us and want to emulate us. I guess we all know what that means. We better get our act together and model what we want them be like. Apparently, we're still leading the parade.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

What was I thinking? WHAT WAS I THINKING? So, yesterday I made a doctor's appointment. Now, I'm a fifty-one year old middle-aged white guy. At this point in my life, the appointments to see the doctor no longer include "torn ACL's" or "pulled ham-strings" or the endless ringing in my ears from too many "gun fights" at close quarters. I am still in reasonable shape and still, if I had too, could leap tall buildings but age has given me wisdom so I use the elevator to the top then jump to the other side. Get my meaning? Nope, doctor visits are reserved now for those things that men, women, no one of any real decorum, want to wander into.

So, I made this follow up appointment with the doctor. Sure, it had been three years but things like this, especially a man-in his fifties-still able to sit-scared of what she had already said, didn't want to rush in to. I needed some time to think and three years seemed appropriate. But it was time. I don't know what I was thinking. I thought she was just going to open the file and simply say "Oh, hi again Mr. Williams, I see its been over three years but sure, I don't think anything has changed, lets just schedule that "procedure" and you can be on your way. I knew I had not thought this out when they put me in a room with buttons, switches, garden hoses, and something that said "Craftsmen" on it.

I sat in the chair waiting. I was proud of the way I looked, my new Jerry Garcia tie and clean white dress shirt. I looked good. Then my eyes scanned the room. There was a Tupperware container with stainless steel things; things you see only on Thanksgiving when one is basting the turkey, soaking in a light blue liquid. Then I looked up. In the ceiling was a light; one of those fish eye lens aimed right at a strategic spot on the table. There were tubes of ointment on the counter. Maybe they were left over from the last guy? I thought. Then I said 'hmmm.'

She was real nice-the doctor. Yes, a 'she.' So was her six foot Russian nurse. Something about her, though, screamed in my mind 'gulag'. Now, you have to understand, she was just the luck of the draw three years ago when my primary doctor sent me to her. My brother and a dear friend who both counseled me back to life after these previous events, asked the same question--'a she'? Here's all I got to say-small hands. Yep, that's critical-especially in these 'procedures.' But, she was not going to budge. She had to repeat everything she did three years ago. It was like it didn't even happen! Like that whole thing just sailed out to sea, never to be seen again. My tie and starched shirt looked worn and used draped across the chair I was previously sitting in.

So men, I stand before you-humbled but proud. You see, at this age, as I walked out of the office, finding my car one floor down in the parking garage, I realized I didn't really care. There was a point of pride of what I had just accomplished. Younger men would still be up stairs, curled up in a little ball and the Russian would be tapping them with her size eleven boot say "git up ya sloppy pool of a man!" Nope, as I enter this stage of my life career, I greet it not with trepidation but with open arms! "Go on, take your best shot. I'm an 'Merican male, father, warrior of the faith, husband, grandfather, protector of the weak-you ain't got nothin' with those things in the Tupperware container. I laugh at you!"

So, sometime in the next few weeks, I will make an appointment and do the do. I will march in, the Royal Dragoon Guards playing in my MP3, my head up, my chest out, the word 'mommy' quietly clenched between my teeth.