Tales of the Heart

This next week men and women, little boys and little girls, and those in between, will be running around ordering flowers, cards, rings, making dinner reservations to lavish on their life partner, or someone they just met. We scramble to either get a date or to avoid it all together, to not give any false impressions, intentions, or basically tip our hand. Valentine's Day is next Sunday and this week is a running gaggle of stuffed bears made of soft reds and whites with sewn heart-shaped pillows attached to them. I think sometimes, we mix our definitions of 'romance with 'love'. Or even worse, the definition of 'gee, I really like you...' with love.



I remember in grade school, I had a Cyrano heart for a girl named Mary, I know-how traditional. She never knew about it. I could never tell her. Sometime between then and college, hormones kicked in and I think I 'loved' everything: cloudy days, rainy nights, my bathrobe, Gilligan's Island, liver and onions from the school cafeteria, and just about any high school aged girl and three teachers-everything. But upon reflection, it was the romantic side that I was wallowing in, not love. Especially after I learned what 'love' really meant years later.



I wrote, some time ago, that my bed was my 'lover'. Now, before you shutter and wipe the key board down with alcohol, you have to understand the context. It was in a book and, well, I thought it was pretty cool. My editor slapped me-hard. "Geezus, Mary, and Joseph Williams, are you from some small town in the West Virginia Appalachians? NO ONE can have a bed for a lover-unless, of course, you live in that part of the country." The point was, I liked my bed and bedtime and the resulting sleep a lot, most men, my very young age, do. I misused the word.



Every year, I get my students to write a letter expressing their love to their parents. That will take place again this Friday, for hand delivery on Sunday. Now, some of my kids really don't like their parents or many don't know where their parents are at so we substitute someone else. But this letter follows a discussion of the origin of Valentine and what 'love' might really mean.



A great teacher once said "Love is a sacrifice word." There, I should just let that line end this discussion. When I ask my high school students to tell me what 'love' is, they give me all the TV versions. They giggle when someone is bold and says 'Sexin' it up.' They dance all around it from 'really really liking someone' to marriage. When I ask them why do we say we 'love' our ham sandwich-does that fit into one of their definitions, they give me the deer in the headlights look. Sacrifice is funny too. I love my dogs. But I wouldn't sacrifice our financial stability and spend thousands on vet bills to keep them alive. However, and here's the weird part, I would run back into a burning building to rescue them.



But what if love meant 'sacrifice' and we lived by that? What does that make the world look like then? How would that thought, change the way we look at each other?



I look back at myself, coming up on 30 years of marriage. I swear, it just started yesterday. I made a video for my kids to give them on my 50th birthday, about two years ago, of pictures showing our family as they grew up, and set it to music. I have it on my desktop and watch it every now and again and still get teary. What a life I have been privileged to live! Now, hold the pony there sheriff, we stepped into it big time when we got married. Both Joni and I would say, and actually we did say in counseling six months after we were married, that it was completely different then the day before we were married. When you say 'for better or worse, sickness and health....'-- wow! Hold on to your toast.



We all say those words, almost as an after thought. Then, about a week into it, something I do, isn't so 'cute' anymore. Then the world applies stresses and tugs on that bond like the Olympic tug of war team. Job stress, bills, hidden issues from our childhood that we thought were dealt with come back again, addiction issues, self-esteem issues, unflushed toilets, pms, sex, fatigue, all weigh in, sometimes all at once. Those are fun days! The romance, so easily supplied at first, drains away and what you have left after the sweet candy outside is licked away is that weird chocolate center, which we all know, isn't chocolate. But there's something that happens in that trail ride of a married couple. Something that only happens if we allow it too.



We get purified.



After years of life, and if we allow ourselves to, we never reach the apex of that word, 'love'. It never stops growing-until we take our last breath. Soon into relationships, after the sex, and makeup, and ski trips to Vail, are all washed away in the sink, we wake up to living life and all the blemishes it has for us. During the daily melee of living, we have respites of peace, spread out over time, broken by life landing on us again. It is here, when we look around, we see those who matter. They matter because they stood in the fight with us. We look up and down the trench line and those faces that look back at us, providing a wink, a slight smile, a look of confidence letting you know they are standing firm with you, no matter the cost-'sacrifice'. They mouth simple words, like an old Scottish warrior-"Aye, ti's a good day for a fight." There is love in a form we can almost taste.





We have seen it daily:


The nineteen year-old marine in Fallujah


The single mother working to provide for her son


The father working three jobs to make ends meet


The fire and police running into a collapsing building while everyone is running out


The child, holding the hand of their dying parent as they reach the end of their life.



The problem is many of us fail-once, twice, many times. So, we think we can never find this Valhalla that is so celebrated; we can never get it 'right'. But we can. That's the thing, we can find it. Its there, we see it all around us if we stop to look. That act of sacrifice, we do-daily. We don't think much about it but the fact is, its huge! Look to both sides and see who is near you. Look and see who you are near and then take a hand. Sometimes that last few dollars or minutes of our time, that we can't really spare, we use to give a small token for someone less fortunate, a shirt, a birthday card, letting them know they matter, sometimes that small act will change that person's life forever.

So, here we are, approaching another Valentine's Day. Legend has it, that an old priest refused to give up marrying people in the dungeons of 3rd century Rome even after Caesar said he would have him killed. He was following an example of a guy before him. He didn't stop, and he was killed for it.



If you looked throughout the catacombs of the Roman dungeons where Valentine wandered, you won't find a stuffed bear with a red heart sewn to it anywhere.

Happy Valentine's Day!!

The Arts!

I have discovered a love for writing and painting. Not those paint by number things or painting a bedroom. I hate painting rooms. No, I'm talking about that artsy-fartsy stuff of a canvas, easel, oils, and acrylics type stuff. Then, you throw some writing stuff in there and I'm a happy clam.

Like right now, I am in my little library/office/study/storage facility and writing to you. I have KYOT on the radio, they're the best on Sunday mornings, two dogs at my feet who think I am lord and master, and a cup of coffee that if it was compared to a baseball base hit would be at least a two-bagger and maybe stretched into a triple. Both writing and painting are like crack. Up until about twelve years ago they never use to be.

J.D. Salinger died this last week. He was due, the guy was 91. I don't want to live that long unless I have complete and utter control over every part of my body. I don't need to be able to run at that age but maybe still go out and get on a bike. Sure, a three wheeler by then, but just to ride around the block at least. Then just die in my sleep. I don't want to have my kids or grand kids or great grand kids find me in my own goo-you know? Anyway, back to J.D.

He was kind of a recluse. If ever you saw the movie Finding Forrester I think he might be something like that. No one interviewed him. He rejected and shunned anyone wanting to talk to him about Catcher in the Rye. The best line that came out of anything he ever said was that he wrote for himself, no one else. I could relate to that. I write because I have to. I paint because I have to. If I didn't do both of these, I would be at the track, smoking filter-less cigarettes and betting my pension on the ponies-and losing.

This year, Holy Ground will be born. It will be chasing her sister, Emancipating Elias, born in late 2007. If five people get it, it'll make me smile. Selling it is not the drive in my writing. The drive is the creation of something that I and I alone smile about. I have a few close friends who I care what they think. Three of them are my editors but the rest are family and very close friends-countable on one hand with a few fingers amputated. When one of those people say "Holy crap man, that was so good! I'm sobbing, laughing, I couldn't stop turning the pages!" or "Hey, paint that same crap for me, would ya? I want one just like it over my toilet," then I know I made something good. When one of my editors say they cried, my smile grows bigger. Everyone knows editors had their tear-ducts removed when they became editors.

Now, I have never met Salinger and frankly, it's too late now. But I think if I did, we wouldn't talk about theme, or inspiration or "so, where did you come up with the title...blah blah blah." Nope, I think we would sit and talk about our favorite scotch, best pet we ever owned, and our bowels. Men always, eventually, talk about their bowels.

We'd probably completely stay away from the topic of writing. Except for one thing, when is the best time for us to write? We'd compare. Then we'd talk about our favorite foods. Which, of course, would lead to another bowel story.

Do Your Eyes Leak?

Do your eyes leak?

No, its a valid question. Do you, on a daily, sometimes hourly basis, have eyes that cry for no reason? My grandfather did. If my dad lived long enough, I think he would have. I do. Am I that old that I have to take a wad of toilet paper with me and wipe my cheeks every 30 minutes? Sometimes, the right one runs more than the left, like a wolverine in the circus. Of course, I wouldn't do that anyway, taking the toilet paper, bad form. I'd just use my sleeve or, in case of short sleeves, my shirt tail, sock, or just let it run. Usually I just let it run down my cheek. That way, people think I'm this 'emotionally connected' French woman.

"Oh Mark, you're so sensitive!"

No, I just have a gland issue. I find that as I get older, I have a tendency to cut loose stuff that after a while, I just don't care about. People care too much about stuff that really doesn't matter and not about other stuff. Haiti and what's going on there, that's pretty high on the list. Global warming, wars, stuff like that. Whether your underwear is on inside out or not, not a big deal. Sometimes that happens to me. I get dressed in the dark. I load my clothes in my bag, hope on my bike and go to work. I change there, usually in the dark. Sometimes, things don't go on as planned. So, I leave it. Socks are the same way. Inside-outside, who really cares? I do brush my teeth sometimes three times a day. Probably to the point where I am wearing out my fillings.

I have a hole in my sweats, multiple holes. But I think they might make it one more year. I think I said that two years ago. They're just getting broken in. Besides, I don't want to go to Target and buy a new pair. I can, I have the money. I just don't want to go. I'd rather walk through Costco and try the potstickers.

I think good fitting shoes are important. Feet, that's where the real effort should be. Focus on the feet and you'll have a much better day.

What about the lint from the dryer? A little on your shirt after you take it out and put it on, especially if it is in a hard to reach spot is okay. Really.

I'm finding I buy name brand stuff now. Not all of it but I figured I've lived long enough to qualify for stuff that advertises on television. I like that new laundry liquid that smells like mangoes. It reminds me of mango margaritas I had in Mexico years ago. Ahhh. Or baths. Yeah, I said 'baths'. I take showers but a bath is a poor man's jacuzzi. Helps those joint issues.

I need to ride my bike more and run less. I'm running out of cartilage in my knees and I understand you can't grow that stuff back. They take it from pigs and replace it with surgery. That doesn't sound too appetizing.

I would rather read than go to a Cardinals game. I do like going to the Diamondbacks game but that's only because you can sit down and clap politely. Its' like being at a park watching the ducks swim.

I'm a grandfather of two now, soon to be three. I need an air of tranquility and profound knowledge, like the Silverback gorilla. King of the family, the one all apes go to and ask where the best bananas are. He walks in and whatever melee is happening, it all settles down because he is there. The little boy in me still likes kicking in a door and sticking a gun in some bad guys face and telling him that if he moves, well, you know the rest. The Silverback in me wants to knock on the door and tell him its a pizza delivery.

Little do they know his underwear is on inside out.

Busy Hands are Hands with a Cramp

How much more can one pile in a week? I know, a lot. But have you ever had a few days, a few compact days in a finite level of time that you just think, “Wow, that is a lot of stuff!”

Last week, a week ago Thursday, my son, Travis called me and tells me he is going to Haiti in 72 hours. That would put it on Sunday last. Travis is with an Army Reserve MP unit out of Mesa. It’s a week later and he still hasn’t heard. Every day, he repeats the same answer to the unending question-‘have you heard?’ If he doesn’t hear by Friday of this week, he won’t be going. It was a 30 day deployment and would bring him too near his wedding in the first part of March.

This, of course, is after the earthquake in Haiti. There is so much misery there in a state which is already miserable. But the tour cruises are still sailing there, so the country has that going for it-which is nice.

School is, well, school. The best part is when kids come into my classroom before the sun comes up. I’m usually at my desk by 6:30 to plan for the day and trying to get some writing in. I tried writing after school or at night but my brain is a bowl of cereal-covered in milk. I usually keep the lights off and have trees covered in those small, white Christm—oh, sorry, that’s politically incorrect—small white holiday lights and a fountain going with soft music. The smell of fresh coffee counters their over use of Axe cologne. Kids come in and just sit.

Wedding plans are progressing for a March lift-off. I called the place we’re having the rehearsal dinner at and made the reservations. It’s like we’re rolling out one of the shuttles to the pad for a launch. Soon, we’ll be fueling the rocket.

Speaking of shuttles, did you hear NASA is shutting down their shuttle program this year and selling off or giving away a million items to the highest bidder? I totally want a helmet.

Then this week are the rains. I’ve lived in Arizona all my life, same house even—never moved. And I have never seen so many people get their panties all in a wad over some rain. Sure, lots of rain, at least that’s what the weather forecasters say, but what do they know? They‘ve all moved out here from places like Chicago, or Omaha, or Long Island. They got their Doppler radar and maps and stuff and they bite their nails and say ‘ooohhh’ and ‘aaaaahhhhs’ a lot, but come on. Here’s an idea. STAY OUT OF THE WATER! If there is a creek where there didn’t use to be a creek, my suggestion to you is-stay away. Don’t go touch it. Treat it like you would a big Grizzly in Alaska. Yeah, their cute—from a hundred yards away. When they’re standing on your chest and preparing to rip your throat out and feed it to their young—not so cute.

There, that’s all you need to know.

So, that was a week that seemed busy. Sure, some of you had busier weeks and weeks with more action, but that was enough action for me. I’m a simple guy—really.

'Gut Instinct' or just Gas

'Intuition' is one of those words that we like to flip around like a five dollar chip on a craps table in Reno; not so expensive to really hurt but just enough to let people see it and say "Hey, that person is groovy," or some other words to that effect.

I just got through spending a week with my students talking about the 'Transcendentalist period' in American literature, mid-1800's. When people didn't have any place to go at night and once the sun went down, they didn't have any light so they sat around and 'thought.' That can be fun and 'enlightening' if your crops are in and the fire is warm and your belly is full from the possum you shot earlier in the day, but what if your marriage is done, your brother is on crack, your high school age daughter is dating some Colombian drug lord wanna-be and the doctor called you personally after your 'routine' lab tests and asked you when you can come in and talk. How does that instinct working for you now?

Its the same.

We have a tendency to doubt ourselves on every stage. Why? We've been told over the course of time, that our abilities are falling short. So, we have a tendency, after a while, to believe those people. We look past the facts and look at the fog in front of us and begin to doubt ourselves. I think that's pretty normal. But here's the thing, certain things never change. Our prior experience, still has and is made up of facts that had certain outcomes. Those don't change. Fire, still burns the skin. That Ethiopian restaurant still requires you to take a sandwich along with you for dinner, that's just a fact. Have you ever-EVER seen a fat Ethiopian? Nope, they don't exist. Why? Do you really need to ask?

People know right and wrong. By age 12, you pretty much know its wrong to shop lift, shoot people, steal, or eat an entire large bag of Doritos. We know these things. So, why do we do it-violate the truth we know? We like it. We like it so we justify it with some politically correct statement. Why do I still run in the morning? Well, first, let me clarify that 'running' is not what I do at almost 52 years young. I shuffle, at least for the first half mile. All my joints and muscles are reporting to my brain pan that this is really stupid. But after a while they assign themselves the task of just getting me home and to the bathroom before I have an 'accident.' I say I like it. In fact, if I didn't I would be Jabba the Hutt, complete with no neck and beached on a couch waiting for my family genetics of heart disease to take me out with one massive shutdown.

Look, we all need to take a breath. The world, this year, will be a place of hope, despair, love, hate, war, and peace. In other words, about the same as its been for the last, oh, well, since the whole thing started. We do the best we can each day with what we have. Look down range today and see what you can do to find a little slice of lemon pie to look forward to and then pursue it. It's okay, even for a diabetic, to eat sweets sometimes.

So trust your gut when it comes to the things immediately around you. Don't worry about stuff unless the crap is on your radar. If not, let it go. Trust me, someone will handle it because it will be on their radar. Take that trip, eat at that restaurant, buy the sweater, enjoy those things around you that you can enjoy. I'm not saying bet the rent money on the ponies, but if we're not enjoying the life we have, what the hell are we doing? Find that moment to make you smile and trust your self to get you there and then back.

Even if its an Ethiopian restaurant.

Okay, that's it. The holiday's over. All done. Nope, you can't count New Year's Eve as a holiday. Its just a marker for the end of the tax year and the beginning of your diet. Don't believe me? Look at the ads. Tell me where in your house you're going to put that $900 treadmill? Hmm? No, you're not going to get on it. Okay, maybe twice but that's it. Then it will be the thing that holds your clothes after your done ironing. Those new sweats you got, you will take them out and try them 'in the field' once, maybe twice, then you will wear them while you sit on the couch and watch re-runs of the Gilmore Girls, Band of Brothers, or NCIS. I don't care who you promised, it ain't gonna happen, at least not for very long, not if you shoot for the moon.

You've got to take baby steps.

Practice walking to the front walk for the paper and back. Start small. Instead of finishing those Christmas morning cinnamon rolls because you 'don't want it to go to waste,' try only eating one. If you wait another day or two, they'll be so hard, even microwaving them slathered in butter won't soften them up.

Take the dogs out and toss the ball or Frisbee for them. Make sure you stretch first. The last thing you want to do is pull a back muscle. That will interfere with you laying on the couch watching the Gilmore Girls, or Band of Brothers.

When you're ready, go for a walk in the mall. This will take some planning. You need a good pair of sneakers, good socks, and those sweats you bought. Take a bottle of water so you don't get dehydrated while you're looking at the sales in the windows or as you slow your pace down passing Victoria Secrets and give it a crisp, snappy hand-salute. Make sure you watch where you're walking. You don't want to bump into something and bruise yourself. It might lay you up for a week or so while the bruise heals.

We all know what's coming. First, we have to get back New Year's and drinking stuff that we haven't had since we were under the bleachers in high school. It all comes down to moderation. Between now and April we all need to save up enough to pay the IRS or, if we're lucky we're getting some back. So think about using that money for a new couch. Come on, you've earned it!

The Thrill of the Season

Look, I'm not proud of the picture, at least, not officially. The fact is, the season made me do it.

That's right-the season. What's worse, I was able to convince the wife and children (the grown up hairy kind) to participate in this offensive behavior in which we believe, several federal postal laws were-if not broken, severely bent.

I don't believe in all that dribble of 'the devil made me do it' or 'I don't know, I was raised by wolves,' or any of that other malarkey stuff that is laid out to justify crappy behavior. We go into stuff with our eyes wide open-except during this time of year. It seems this is the time of year that the wheels fall of, for good for bad. There are more suicides and more babies being conceived this time of year than any other. Just when you think its safe to go to your mail box and open 'safe' Christmas cards, you get something like this. It's like your driving in Iraq and an IED goes off next to your convoy as you drive, well, this is nothing like that but its the best I can do. You open this innocuous envelope and BAM! You have this exploding all over your shirt. You have to admit though, it looks good on the refrigerator. But lets look at it for a moment in its entirety.

Christmas is the second most holiest day in the Christian calendar, right behind Easter and way out in front of Columbus Day (this holiday just pisses me off but I appreciate the day off). Family and friends are fighting like aardvarks in the Spring, trying to gather in family reunions all across this country, fighting the weather and consuming gallons of coffee and cocoa to make the trips to grandma's house in time for Christmas Day football games. Trips that will be talked about for years as Herculean tribal tasks of repatriation and good times. People do two things this time of year; they get nicer or they flip you off in a parking lot vying for that parking slot right next to the store. It brings out the best and worst in people. I toyed, I must admit, with sliding into a handicapped parking slot for just a short run into the store. It was only going to be a minute-honest-I use to be with the government. But I didn't.

I like to go to the mall and just walk. I'm 51, soon to be 52. Sometimes, I still think I'm eighteen and try to do things that I shouldn't be doing, like playing football with the staff against our football team. Yep, that was a bad call. I think I tore my hamstring on the first play. Not wanting to curl up in a ball and suck my thumb on the first play, I played until the half and then claiming department chair duties, excused myself from the game. But I can still walk the mall. That now seems more my speed. Walking with my wife and watching her in her element. Joni could touch every garment in a mall and then start over. I have the knack of finding every chair and nesting until she is done. I even walk with my hands behind my back, just like the 'Old Ones' the 'Silverbacks' of our society. At 51/52 I know I'm pushing the age thing but its comfortable-really, strolling with my hands behind my back like I'm a rabbi from Oslo.

Well, there ya go. Look, there's a lot of stuff out there that causes us to leave the light on in the house so we don't see the Boogieman. The world, sometimes creeps into our lives with pain, suffering, cancer, infidelity, aging parents, lost jobs, unmet dreams. I think I have laid aside several dreams that will never take place-ever. Those are hard things to realize. But, and I truly believe this, there is a purpose to our lives. If you believe in a thing called 'god' you know what I mean. Even if you don't, there is a sense of destiny we all have in us. Just because A, B, and C happen, doesn't mean D will follow. Today, look out the window and see it for what it is, a new day. Sure, those things we have been dealing with for what seems like years, might still be there, but its our hearts that are different, if we allow them to be. Shakespeare wrote in Henry V 'All things are ready if our minds be so."

Take this day, this season, as an opportunity to have hope that whatever you are in, will be what we can have it be. Enjoy it for what it is, a fresh start-starting right now-one step at a time. Who knows, you may find yourself standing on the front porch in a diaper-and loving it.

The power of the Christmas light!

Every year it gets bad. The last few years its been the worst. We put lights up around our house. Not a lot, just the trim-easy, conservative lighting. Just enough to get us in the game and playing as part of the season. You know? Just to show up is a victory. But over the last few years, there has been peer pressure to move away from one style to another, more 'traditional' lights-the C9. Now, I admit, I caved. I bought some a couple of years back. We had them growing up as a kid. You know the ones, the alternating blue, green, red, orange\yellow, white bulbs that the power company wants you to buy because your little meter on your house starts to spin like a top.

Before the reinvestment in the C9's we had switched to the small, white lights and for a time, during their fashion, the icicle lights which takes on a whole new meaning in a city that never gets snow. But here was the thing, in all the years and during all the transitions, we never threw any of the strings of lights away. We had them all. We had those big plastic tubs from Target full of lights. We even bought the spools for them to wind them up and store them neatly. Crazy. So, last year, I put out every strand I had-all of them. I wrapped trees, bushes, walls, eaves, windows, nothing matched. We looked like a Key West margarita bar, a bad one. It was cool. then, after the season, we dumped them, keeping only the C9's and some lights for the tree. This year, during BLACK FRIDAY, I bought the lights on sale at Target. Hard to beat Target for Christmas lights, as long as you get there the first couple of days they open.

Ya see, they don't restock. Once those lavender lights with the LED bulbs are gone, they're gone. Their selection is really one of the best in the free world if your looking for that bulb that says "WHAM, NOW YOUR IN A NEIGHBORHOOD THAT LIGHTS CHRISTMAS THE WAY THE SHEPHERD'S SHOULD HAVE DONE IT 2000 YEARS AGO!!" You know the ones, the soft blues, or reds, or the lavenders. The multi-coloreds that you and I grew up with are, well, dull.

So, my friend and I stood there looking at the bulbs, comparing notes, strategies, effects-both desired and misdirected, cost, and distance. Another man, overhearing our conversation, piped in with time/distance ratios and the anomaly issues he had about being five feet short on a fix measurement, thereby requiring him to go to Plan F and add a string of crap to fill the gap. The gap was filled but he commented 'it looked like a scab on the end of a pretty girl's nose.'

I usually just leave the gap there.

At night, from the street, it gives the effect of the driveway ending a few feet short. Of course, with all the lights, you can actually see the driveway and see that it doesn't, but that's the theory we're going with.

Anyway, there you have it. Lights. Its an annual thing. All of ours are up and active. Of course, we had a storm last night and half of them are now decorating the neighbor's yard. But, still, the yard needed decorating. I'm not going to move it. They look fine there.

The wisdom found in dogs

I love dogs.

They are what they are. We have two of them. One, is coming up on fifteen and the other is just over two and a half.

Dogs are what they are. What you see is what you get. They have no hidden agendas or plot or plans. They make stuff up as they go.

I came home yesterday and the two met me at the door like I was their god. "Oh, master master master, we are so happy to see you. See our tails wag? See? we are so happy. Pet us and let us know you love us too, quick, come see what we did today while you were gone." So you go and see your magazine shredded in the back yard and there is no one to blame but yourself. Why did you leave the magazine out if not for them to play with?

I woke up this morning a little later than normal. It's Saturday, after all and I wanted to sleep in. Betty, the young one, woke me with her face pressed up against mine. Her tail beating against something like a drum, only we don't own a drum. I couldn't roll over because Mindy, the fourteen year old, was laying on my feet. Yeah, I know what your saying. "Hey, what are you doing letting your dog sleep on your bed?" You're right, I shouldn't. But I did. And there is something comforting about an animal, particularly a dog, laying close to you. Mindy wants to lay between Joni and I because she feels safer there in her old age, and that, in turn, makes us feel good.

I guess as I get older I see my life between these two. The youth that I still cultivate in my mind that I think I still have, and the reality that as each day goes by, I seek the comfort that life has and of those around me. I want to be able to walk through the desert and look at life and smell the beauty that the world provides all the while thinking I can still leap walls and run like a galloping buffalo, knowing full well my galloping days are just about over.

I want Mindy's brains and Betty's young heart. I want the slow processing of the old girl and the willingness to jump into anything anytime of the youth. Somewhere, there is a happy medium.

Yep, I love my dogs.

My son said I would write about this

First, I have no idea who these people are. I was looking for Thanksgiving photos because, well, I didn't take any during our family feast. So, we have this family of strangers but at least they're waving at us.

My son, Travis, said I would write about the post-Thanksgiving day sales. He was right. Thanksgiving too. Thanksgiving takes on some meaning to the Williams footprint. We've had benchmark days that tied, at least myself, to what the holiday is suppose to be about.

When I was growing up, we never talked about the meaning of the day. I mean, we prayed over the meal, but that was about it. We went to our grandparents house and my two brothers would attempt to out eat the other. Two plates of food covered from rim to rim-impressive. Then dessert. Very impressive. We would dress up in tight clothes and eat off of good china. Grandmother was an amazing cook. I can still remember her fried chicken. Wow.

But then my parents and grandparents died off; I grew up; got married, had kids and had traditions of our own. Then, the Thanksgiving of 2000 rolled in. Two days before this Thanksgiving, we found out Joni had breast cancer.

And the prayers got real.

It was a great holiday and a terrifying holiday all at once. Conversations in the next forty-eight hours included combo platters like "Are you bringing rolls and oh, by the way, do you want to be buried or cremated if things goes south?" Weird.

Then there was the Thanksgiving of 2007 and the little boy who was ours was now a man and in the throat of the dragon that day. Travis was in Iraq, Saddam's hometown as a matter of fact. He volunteered to go out on patrol that Thanksgiving day, not necessarily so others could stay in and relax; he needed to stay busy. That was a long day for the father-"Are you bringing rolls and oh, by the way, has our son been shot today?" Again, weird.

Now, in 2009, Jessica and Matthew had Eli, a five pounder plus, on the Tuesday before, offsetting Joni's little event, but then Jessica's labs went south and sometime during the night, there was discussion of the day going really bad. But then the dawn brought a new day, and a full recovery. Weird.

Now, the Williams', some accusing Dad of starting, have a tradition of going out at pre-dawn on Friday and hitting the stores. It's funny, Dad doesn't buy anything; he just watches. The center to the American Free-Enterprise system is examined that day. All the scary people that make up the backbone to this civilization are there, buying crap that can't fit in a grocery cart, oh, and a pack of gum as well. The Williams family, working on a gift exchange program and having their gift list and dollar limit fan out and hide from each other, not wanting anyone to see what they bought. Weird.

The day is topped with breakfast at Five and Diner. A short stack, or an omelet, or some other combo platter and lots of coffee.

It's here that some of us, review the meaning of the holiday. Funny, it has nothing to do with anything advertised, purchased, traded in for, or listed. It has everything to do with those around the table and their spouses home with sleeping kids and how we survive those times when things aren't so good.

Weird? No, not really.

Smells are funny

You ever notice smells? They're funny.

We can find ourself walking down a street on a spring day and we can't stop breathing in deeply through our noses, inhaling the fresh aroma of orange blossoms. Or how about a store like Macy's or some other big retailer where they have ozone generators. That's why it smells so good; they generate electricity that lights up the air.

Or the fresh smell of a baby just after a bath.

Or how about a dog? I love dog smell. Not to be mixed with dog breath.

Or fresh baked bread, or chocolate chip cookies?

Then, as you get older, smells start to, well, change.

On the up side, you bury your nose in a tall glass of red wine, or even better-a short glass of scotch.

But then there's the not so good side. Like my tennis shoes right now. Yeah, sorry, too much information. But their comfortable tennis shoes and I like them. Although the sole is coming off-again-and they kind of flap a little when I walk. I have loyalty to clothes. If you serve me well, I will wear you until you disintegrate in the washer.

Fresh baby smell-meet fresh elderly man sitting in his ripe shoe smell. Yeah, not as cute. We even take our babies and blow raspberries on the bottom of their feet to watch them giggle and laugh. You wouldn't survive doing that to me, not today, after lawn cutting. You would pass out because whatever odor is coming off of my feet right this second is displacing oxygen and you would suffocate unless the chemicals in what ever that smell is, mixes with the moisture in your lungs and you find yourself clawing your way across the carpet towards an open window, dying slowly of some chemical reaction in your lungs.

Wet dogs don't do it for me. Nope. Not at all.

How about that funky smell when you leave chicken in the kitchen trash too long in the summer? Now, there is something to compete with the shoes! I got into my son's truck the other day and he normally keeps it pretty clean but something had crawled in there and died, maybe a free range chicken from the neighborhood. I looked down and had both of my feet so it wasn't me.

Sometimes noses smell stuff that isn't there. Example: sometimes when I'm outside, I could swear I smell cigarettes. Its actually fresh air but something causes me to smell that, weird. I remember working environmental crimes years ago and one of the safety things we learned early was that if you smelled a chemical smell, and then it went away, it wasn't that it went away and you were no longer standing in the middle of some toxic fume, it was that your nose and nasal membranes got overwhelmed and they didn't smell it anymore. They stopped working. That is never a good sign.

Now how come that doesn't happen to my feet?

Sorry, I'd just thought I'd share. Go back to whatever you were doing. I have to go glue the sole back on my shoe-again.

I Now Know Why

There is a great story I heard once. It was Pearl Harbor, December 7th. I think it was the USS Nevada; it was moored and its engines cold when it was attacked. The captain called down to engineering and told the young chief who answered he needed power yesterday. Normally, it took a battleship at least a half hour to come up to steam. The chief told the captain he would be ready to answer bells in 10 minutes. It was a cold engine start. It had never been done-until that day.

10 minutes later the chief called the bridge and told the astonished captain he had power. The chief won the Navy Cross for that.

I now know why the life expectancy of a teacher, teaching in the high school system (I am guessing it would apply to elementary school teachers as well) is only five years. The system, although not broken, is, well-bent.

Look, we have the best education system in the world. Sorry, you can pick and choose any country, ANY country, and we pound them like any opponent in an Ali fight. But its almost like those that manage our system sit down and actually try to figure out a way to make it difficult to work in that same system. We all are responsible, from parents to the head of the State Department of Education. All of us have got to look at this with common sense instead of "Who can we blame because Johnny can't read."

Actually, Johnny can read. He just isn't reading to the level we want him to read; or Johnny, believe it or not, doesn't give a crap about reading, writing, and definitely nothing to do with the slope-intercept formula. He would rather be listening to his I-Pod and 'shooting hoops' with his buddies or dealing with stuff beyond our comprehension. Now, there are a bunch, I want to say the majority of students, who do care. But if you have a bleeding artery, you don't spend a lot of time on those body parts that are working. All your focus is on the bleeder.

AIMS-Arizona Instruments to Measure Standards, came out in the late 1990's to start to hold schools accountable for educating Johnny to a certain level. They established that Johnny had to take a standardized test his 3rd, 8th and high school year. He only needed to pass the high school test to graduate. The other two he could have answered with a crayon and his toes and no one cared, just the high school test was the one where kids would be held back. The state, realizing it was a high stakes test and Johnny might need to run at it more than once, started to give him the test his 10th grade year. The idea was that Johnny didn't graduate until he passed the test. They even had practice years, where the test wasn't counted, it was just a research tool to see how students would do.

They bombed.

It took them a couple of years to figure out the math results, the worst of the three tests (reading, writing, and math), had calculus on the test. No big deal except calculus was not normally taught in high school. Students had never seen it. It was an elective class-not required-Oops. So, they adjusted and cut back to have algebra and geometry. However, now, both subjects are not completed until, at the earliest, the end of a student's 10th grade year. The same year they start taking the test in February and all schools are measured by. A lot of students take algebra their freshmen year, then geometry their sophomore year, whether they pass algebra or not. They just keep moving. Now, if Johnny doesn't pass algebra, they are fast tracking him into geometry because he has to take it on AIMS as well as having completed Algebra 3/4 by his senior year, whether he understands it or not.

Now, schools are starting to fail to make "AYP", annual yearly progress. The feds said, 'No Child left Behind', including SPED kids, that school should be moving forward, until all children-100% pass the test with the federal guidelines. Now, some of those federal people have great hearts, but they didn't bring their check book- a big checkbook.

Here's where it gets funny.

Test makers also intend students, who are new to this country and can not read or write, to take the test in the English language. Many seeing the English alphabet for the first time. This also applies to special education (SPED) kids. The legislature and Congress hold schools accountable for these groups passing the AIMS test. If these two groups of kids don't pass, the school, teachers, staff, administrators, could be replaced. Here's an even funnier part-I'll give you two real scenarios: 1) a student arrives on Monday to his new school. He is a refugee and Catholic Services, a great organization, helps him settle in his new life and enrolls him in high school. He is from a country that has actually seen the English alphabet. We get many students who have never seen the English alphabet. This particular student uses it in his native French language, anyway, he gets here on Monday, Tuesday he has to sit and take the AIMS test-wait-it gets better-the test on Tuesday is the writing component. He is given a writing 'prompt' that he has to read-in English- and answer in writing-that's right-in English. Lets just say he didn't do too well. So, he had a bad test day. The next day, Wednesday, he gets to take the Reading component-in English. Of course the math section is in, that's right, English.

No problem, he has until his senior year to pass and usually the staff do a Herculean job of getting him to that level. BUT-the school and the teachers are held accountable under AYP for that first test. He failed. That means the school failed. 2) SPED kids are accommodated throughout their school career. They should be. However, in AIMS they're not. Oh, yeah, they only have to try the test once. They are not required to ever pass it. It can be written into their education plan that they don't have to take the test ever again. BUT-the school is held accountable because SPED Johnny didn't pass the test his sophomore year. By 2014 it is required that 100% of the SPED kids have to pass the test. 100%.

You couldn't get 100% of Congress to even show up to vote on No Child Left Behind.

Teachers get asked, "Why is your D and F rate so high? What are you doing wrong-something must be wrong with your teaching?" D and F rate effects graduation rate and drop out rate, two other factors with AYP/No Child Left Behind and state measuring guidelines. Teachers were stopped being asked about D and F when it was discovered that of the, lets say 70% failure rate, 95% of those particular students had over a 40% absentee rate. In a 9 week term, they had missed anywhere between 25-50% of those days. You can't learn if your not here.

Where were they? Well, some are working 3rd shift at the CVS to make money for the family or themselves because they moved out due to their home life was so bad. Some were taking care of little brother or little sister because single mother is at work and can't afford a baby sitter. They overslept because they were on the phone with their boyfriend/girlfriend until 3am. They overslept because they were on the phone with their boyfriend/girlfriend until 3am talking about what they were going to do about the pregnancy. Or, they get to school late because mom or dad didn't want to drive them. When they're in class, they're not in class. A cold engine.

Now teachers aren't perfect, far from. They bitch more than cops, and I thought that was impossible, but they do. But maybe there's a reason. A lot of these problems would fall on deaf ears in parts of our society where ELL, Title 1, or SPED kids don't exist in any great number. There are some schools where there are virtually no Title 1 kids. These are usually the kids who fall into these categories we're talking about. Where discipline is not an issue and where STD's, pregnancies, and drug use, are handled by the family because they are embarrassed by the potential social stigma that could result if it was known publicly so they throw money at it and poof! It all goes away-back under the carpet. But for a great percentage of schools who deal with the vast majority of our kids, this is not a possibility. Its only getting worse.

I had a meeting with a parent the other day. The mother, counselor, three teachers, and the student met to discuss why 'Johnny' was circling the drain. The mother was berating the boy, who was busy dealing with what he was going to do as a senior, about trying to finish school, and whether he was going to marry or somehow financially support his 15 year-old girlfriend and their love child, created in a bathroom stall. The mother, claiming that she and her husband only had an 8th grade education, couldn't understand why Johnny was the way he was.

Johnny just hung his head. He had heard it all before. The cycle was repeating itself.

Look, I'm coming to grips with my heritage, I'm part Scottish. We love a good fight. But Geezus, Mary, and Joseph, if you ain't going to use the brain that God gave ya, and create solutions to the ills of the process, then don't get in the way of those that can. If you got no business in the engine room, then get the hell out of the way; I got a cold engine I gotta light.

Those are some tough bastards

I really didn't like to be around old people. They kind of creeped me out. I mean they were old. They had lost their cuteness when they were three, their teeth, smell, and the worst part was where they went when they got really old, to a nursing home. They'd sit on a bench and wear clothes that don't match, and again, that smell.

I had a grandfather who outlived his son. That made him a bitter, mean man in his last few years. His first wife died of the pandemic in 1917, leaving him to raise his four year old son by himself. It wasn't until WW II, the second war he fought in, when he decided to re-marry.

Old people and I just didn't mix. That was until I found myself becoming, well, older. I don't really know when it happened. I think, maybe, it was the movie Saving Private Ryan, I don't know, but something changed. I realized that old people, use to be young. They use to be young in a time in the world when youth didn't last long, there wasn't necessarily a phone, hospitals, or even the cavalry near by to help those living with the act of living. It dawned on me like a brick falling on my foot, that these people, were a lot like me, growing up, then again, they weren't like me at all.

They were tough.

A friend of mine's mother, growing up, baked us cookies whenever we went over to her house after school. We were in high school and teenagers with thoughts that didn't much pass that of a functional aardvark. She would come out with a plate of cookies in a dress with an apron around her. She was well into the shrinking time of her life, only about five feet tall if she was standing on a box. I found out she was a bomber pilot during WWII. She would shuttle the bombers over to England across the Atlantic and South Pacific. That way, men were free to fly the missions. There was no GPS in those days. They navigated by the stars. BY THE FRIGGIN' STARS!

A friend of mine, at least I wish to claim him as a friend of mine, is now a frail man living with his frail wife in Montana. I think he's about 120 years old. When you talk to him he has a smile that will melt lead and cries for you because he is so sensitive to your heart. He is the kind of man you want to, even as a grown up, just crawl up in his lap and tell him about your day. I thought about it but figured I would just crush his hips. His arms are black and blue from the slightest bumping.

He was at Normandy the day Normandy became a household word. He didn't need a knife to cut your heart out, his hands would do.

My dad would be 95 this year. Mom would be 85. Had he lived past 58, he'd undoubtedly be using a cane now and need heavy care. But in his day, he would ride a horse bareback and fly night missions patrolling the Tokyo Express and dare to bomb Japanese cruisers in a plane that didn't go more than 200 knots and his crew would have to throw the one-hundred pound bombs out the waist windows by hand. AND THEY ACTUALLY HIT STUFF!

Before my grandfather fell into distant disrepair, he showed me a few things. We would go to his small ranch and we would castrate cattle and de-horn them. He would sometimes cut his hands so he would wrap the bleeder in a kerchief soaked in kerosene. He said it healed it. When he got a sore throat, he would gargle with it. He said it cured that too. I tried it. All the grand boys tried it. I think I'll stick with name brand stuff. But I found myself using alcohol and stuff that cures your cut by burning every nerve shut. Maybe I got that from him?

Yesterday, I went to Costco with my son and future daughter-in-law. At a table in the food court, were three old men with clothes that didn't seem to match but each wearing a ball cap. On the front of the cap was the the emblem for the Big Red 1. They were sipping drinks and talking. There were two canes and a walker at their table. Old warriors-silverbacks. I looked at my son who was walking ahead of me and didn't see them. He was a warrior in his own right. Ah, the contrast.

At my daughter's wedding, I talked to her husband. I told him to look around the room and see the old men. I called them 'Silverbacks' because they had crowns of silver and in a group of gorillas, it was this old wise gorilla that was the heart and strength of the troupe. I told him to trust these men and women for they were the source of great wisdom. My daughter didn't like it because, well, I was talking about gorillas at her wedding.

But in their eyes, deep in their eyes, the old ones, behind the wrinkles and the smell, behind the coarseness and the bad teeth, the walkers and the canes there still is a fire. Don Quixote was a character written long ago, but he lives in the hearts of the old today. Watch them, look into their eyes. There, right there! You see it? The old men would take your last donut but risk their life to drag you to safety. They would want to date your sister but beat up any one who was not part of your group for saying the same thing. They would be the first to stand with you when the wheels were falling off. They will bake you cookies or stand with you in the fires of hell.

They know the path, they walked it before.

Buried or Cremated and what's that on the bottom of my shoe?

At 51, some might think that age is too young to have any plans about death and what to do with the package when the contents are gone. You might think that topic is too sad, too gloomy to think about now. Frankly, I kind of like thinking about it because it won't be my money or time to figure it out. It'll be the collective 'yours.' One of the last great 'Deal With It' moments anyone could have.

I'm pretty keen on the idea that it really will not make any difference to me. I won't be there and the vessel I had been riding in for decades will need to be disposed of because, frankly, if you keep it, it will start to smell, like week old potato salad. It doesn't make any sense to bury me, although my dogs will bury their chew bones, Joni and I get them, in the couch (I get the feeling my dogs don't like the taste of dirt, especially on their food or food-like substances so, hence, the couch) so burial makes sense. But the cremation, now that's economy in a little silver dish.

Joni and I took the kids to D.C. once and watched the changing of the guards at the Tomb of the Unknowns. What a peaceful place, Arlington. I liked it. I know as sure as I'm sitting here that I don't deserve to be there, although I did take the oath twice in my lifetime, those men and women earned that trip.

Then I saw Joe Louis' headstone at the bottom of the hill just down from the Unknowns. 'Wait a minute little pony. What's he doing here?'

Nope, not taking anything away from anyone. Sure, there are special people there. Someone made the decision to install some non-warrior types there because of their deeds and services in their civilian lives. Okay, I get that. I still haven't earned a spot there.

Then, it occurred to me, as we walked over a small stream that cuts through the property, I could be cremated and thrown into the stream and wind up being fertilizer for the flowers and plants giving peace to those marked there. Hey, that's not a bad idea! I didn't earn a plot, but I could fertilize the plots, kind of a servant thing, honoring all of those that my little microbes could sprout flowers for.

Why not?

Look, its not morbid. I'm not saying you throw the whole carcass in the stream. That would be gross and probably block the water flow. You got to do something with the casing when you're done living. I bet most of you throw your coffee grounds out in the trash instead of tossing them into the flower bed, huh. How many of you have a compost pit in your back yard? Yeah, I didn't think so. Now that would be gross if my kids just kicked me to the pile of yard clippings and leaves in the corner of the back yard. They would come out and turn the pile once a week and see old dad's frame out there and I think it would cause some distress, as well as some light vomiting and or dry-heaving. But this way, all they would have to do is sneak me in via a brown paper bag. They could pretend to be eating peanut butter and jelly's among the New Hampshire's 3rd Regiment of horse soldiers from Shiloh and tip the bag over and there ya go, Daddy's working again, serving the Thin Line!!

Just think about it before you go all Calypso on it. After a while, it kind of grows on ya. Maybe, the idea of your old friend here causing a flower or two to bloom at the foot of the Unknowns, among the fallen sons and daughters will bring a smile to your face.

Besides, as you walk there, moving among the markers, looking at the names and years etched in the marble, you'll smile. A little bit of me will be stuck on the bottom of your shoe.

I want to hang out with this guy

"If you were to pick someone in history and hang out with them, who would it be?" Everyone has been asked that question. I've had my students write about that as kind of one of those "filler" assignments. You get the traditional answers like MLK, Lincoln, Jesus, not too many ask for Buddha, more ask about Hitler, sports figures, politicians, even Wyatt Earp-the whole spectrum. I was writing this morning, coffee was hot and the dogs asleep on my feet when I started to think. There are a bunch of people I would want to spend a day with, Winston Churchill for example. He would be a kick. I mean, just look at this guy. He knows secrets-you can just tell.

I think it was because Trace Adkins was playing on the CD that caused me to come up with this one-the apostle Peter. Now, don't change the channel. I'm not going to proselytize you. Don't worry about that. Just ride the pony with me for a minute and see if you don't agree.

Peter, one of the Big Twelve of Jesus' 'cabinet', was a sailor. Today, sailors are still pretty rough around the edges. Sure, you get a bunch of them coming out of the Naval Academy and they are all spit and polish, but I'm talking about a true sailor, like on 'Deadliest Catch.' You know the kind, they smoke hard, drink hard, don't wash, don't shave, and when they cut themselves, they find some fishing line and sow themselves up while they bite down on a leather belt-those kind of guys. You hit them in the face with a wrench and they just smile at you. Right at that moment, you know you made a wrong move somewhere in your life to get you to that particular spot on the time line.

Now, go back 2000 years and picture yourself working the docks around the Sea of Galilee, basically, a very large lake. You're living from hand to mouth. There is no Walmart. What ever you have, you have to make out of a tree or rock. You are a very early version of a blue collar worker and when people try to take your stuff or mess with you, you don't " go get your GATT and bus ta cap", you get into a fight using big sticks, clubbing each other until one of you backs down. Then you go find some fishing line and sow yourself up-biting down on a leather strap.

Peter, I am sure, was one of the first users of the 'F Bomb' or whatever that word or phrase might have been in Judea two millenniums ago. When he relaxed, he probably went home to his family or sometimes a neighboring sports bar and had a skin of wine with some buds and talked about how bad the fishing 'sucked' or whatever the Hebrew word equivalent was for 'sucked'. Kind of sounds like the docks in Boston, the warehouse at Henley's Shipping and Receiving, ANY construction site, etc.

The early writings, I think, cleaned up Peter's response when he was recruited and merely have him follow the rabbi, but I think there was some initial response similar to 'WTF' or again, the Hebrew equivalent. From then on, what we know about this guy is he had a paradigm shift in thinking about who he was. It would chase him for the rest of his life until he was killed for it.

But along with that, there was still the Peter I would like to hang out with.

I think today, Peter would love to go to a sports bar and drink a beer-or three, and have a plate of nachos with those green jalapenos on it. I think he would be a great listener and although he doesn't tell 'blue' jokes anymore, like he did before the teacher fellow became a part of his life, he still tells jokes-clean, but really really funny. He was the inventor of the joke starting with "A priest, a rabbi, and a lawyer walk into a bar...."

He would love to tell stories and even make some up. You look at him, sipping your beer, and say out loud, 'you're full of crap on that.'

"No, I swear," he would say, and then spoon a slather of nacho and peppers into the salsa and shove it into his mouth, getting half of it on his chin whiskers. He might or might not use the paper napkin left by the waitress on the table."I swear, that fish was as long as the boat," raising his right hand to heaven, a sure giveaway the man was lying to you. He would comment about what ever story you told and when you described something and tried to make it sound bigger than what it was, he would, if he knew you well enough, say in a whisper, "You're full of shit," with a big smile. That was Peter, a fisherman, a working man, a guy I think much like the rest of us.

I don't know if he would like baseball, definitely not basketball unless they changed the rules and allowed a forearm shiver every once in a while. He would love football and tolerate hockey. He would be a Pittsburgh Steeler's fan because Pittsburgh is a working man's town. Boston would run a close second because of the seafaring. Unfortunately for you, if you went to a game where Pitt was playing, he would paint himself the team colors, take his shirt off, and show you during the game. He wouldn't be obnoxious, like calling the refs' names or saying things like "My dead grandmother could call a better game than you, you stupid (insert Hebrew equivalent to F Bomb here)" but he would be loud-real loud. Still, he would be fun to go with.

He'd drive a truck. It wouldn't be an extended cab but one from the seventies with those side vent window, no A/C, and an AM radio only along with a gun rack holding two fishing poles, a fly rod and a regular rod-just in case he wanted to stop at one of the canals and wet a line. Old habits are hard to break.

Yep, he would be fun to hang out with. And If I could hang out with two, it would be Sir Winston and the fisherman. Wow, the three of us out for dinner, Peter and his beer and Churchill and scotch. We'd be smoking cigars-those big fat ones and telling lies and listening to Peter and the priest jokes. After a couple of drinks, Sir Winston might have a comment or two about the men around him.

"Look at that weak chin daffer," Winston would say, just loud enough so the man could hear.

"You talking to me?" the tall skinny guy with the Polo shirt turned up would say to the old man.

"Why, no-no I am not necessarily addressing you but undoubtedly talking about you, my good man. I was just wondering, did you have the mandible removed from your face to allow your lower lip to slide into your neck like that? And if so, why?" He would finish the sentence with a draw on his cigar, his eyes squinting to slits.

"Winston, stop it," Peter would say, half laughing because, all three of us would be sitting there looking at this lodge pole of a man and in our minds wondering about the same thing at what our friend pointed out. "Please, forgive my friend," Peter would continue. "He has a working bowel obstruction that causes his Tourettes to flare. Please-" he turns to the bartender while addressing the man with no chin-"let me buy you another drink of whatever you are having there."

The lodge pole man nods as if he had won a great victory and takes the offer, then moves down the bar to recover his free drink. Churchill's eyes never leaving the man's face.

"Winston," I would start after the man moved down the bar and out of ear-shot "what are you thinking? He had friends, this is a nice spot, we're three middle-aged men and you're trying to get us into a bar fight."

"I could of taken the tanker," he would say puffing on his cigar, sipping his third neat scotch, and looking down the bar, remembering the days of his youth when he was a calvary officer in the Light Brigade.

"Yeah, fifty years and a hundred pounds ago. Geezus, Mary, and Joseph," I would say.

"Hey."

"Oh, sorry Peter."

"Now, what was I saying, oh yeah, a priest, a rabbi, and a lawyer walk into a bar...."

Yep, someone would be going to jail that night!

Sprint or Marathon

As teachers go, life comes down to sprints or marathons. Our life is a compilation of days and weeks of random lengths, with the finish line being the next available holiday. For example, we are just coming off of Fall Break. Now, don't start bitching at me for having a week off and saying you didn't. Teachers all know we have a good gig. But we do earn it. This, from a guy who before he became a teacher, said those same words; until I did the job and then realized that there isn't enough time for the therapy and oh, don't forget, I am expected to go back to school and get another degree, more education, seminars, and stuff to keep me 'sharp.'

Please, I need a week sitting on a boat, moored in some harbor somewhere just pretending to sail and trying to decide where I am going for lunch. Joni, being a special education teacher, does IEP's in her 'off hours.' We sat down and figured it out, her hourly salary is right around $7 an hour. She could earn more putting fruit out at the Fry's than she does at school. So, its understandable when she has true down time, she likes to sleep in and then curl up in the corner and suck her thumb. Me, I find relaxation by reading, writing, painting, or playing 'Dodge Ball' with trucks on the freeway. So, with that, we measure our time from one break to the next either as a sprint or a marathon.

Example: It's now October so it is a marathon to summer break.

Another example: we just came off of Fall Break (Joni is just going on break so that's why I'm not writing this from some beach cottage in Fiji) and I know I have almost exactly one month to Veteran's Day. Test it. Ask any teacher and they will be able to tell you when their next holiday is. This is a good example of the individual sprints from one break to the next. We teachers don't measure grading by semesters or terms but by holidays and what goes in between them.

Now, its weird this time of year because Halloween is not a holiday but more of a marker. It feels like a holiday because Walgreens has been selling bats and witch hats since July plus it is the doorway to the winter season and halfway to Veteran's Day, which, of course, is just two weeks until Thanksgiving, the only holiday with two-TWO days, making it a four-day weekend. Then, its a down hill run to Christmas! Or, as we like to call it in the politically correct world-Winter Break. Throw in weekends and a teacher or any staff member at any school can tell you, almost to the hour, when time off is coming.

So, in the second week of October, as I crawl out of the mire and muck of what was a delightful week of working around the house and doing mind-freeing tasks, as I look down range at nine more weeks until Santa shows up to my door and offers me a forty-year old scotch, I am reminded why I went into this profession. Yeah, sure, the breaks and time and the fact that I wasn't traveling or working weird hours anymore, is part of it. I hate to admit it, there is something I miss about adolescent teens and their pines of woe. Some of them really have those-for real. Others are just dorks that make me laugh. So I'm going back with a half-assed smile and clean underwear (tell the truth men, when you're off for a while, don't you forget to change your underwear?)

Besides, who would teach them how to play dodge ball on the freeway?

Fall Break? Who's watchin'?

Some teachers and staff in this great country of ours get a break about now. In our district its called "Fall Break" because it happens-you guessed it, in the Fall; although, Fall in Phoenix just means you can try to switch over to your evap cooler.

People make comments about teachers. "Oh, you're so lucky, you get nine months off in the summer and ten weeks off at Christmas (staying politically correct and not wanting to hurt any of those Tibetan Buddhists who have converted to Judaism but still pray five times a day, we now call it 'Winter Break') and now you guys get a week off in the Fall and one in the Spring. Geez, I wish I had your job." Yeah, well, we wish you had our job too sometimes. What do teachers and support staff do with all that time? We do a lot of the same stuff you commoners do. We see our therapists wishfully, while we're at some cheap happy hour.

Some of us teach your kids that still, in high school, can't read or write beyond a fifth grade level. Whatever we do, we've got to get them to pass the state graduation test-in their tenth grade year. Yep, that didn't make any sense to us either. Oh, and if your child is SPED (receiving special education services) they have to take the same test. But don't worry, they don't have to pass the test, but the teachers and school will be taken over by the state if they don't. Teachers are accountable for the child taking and passing the test just like the rest of the regular kids. Wait, it gets better.

The refugee kid that happens to be old enough to be a sophomore but yet, might never have seen a school, let alone the English alphabet or shoes, guess what he has to do-yep, pass the test his tenth grade year. The kid that can say "Okay Joe, waddya know? Want tickets to the picture show," when asked to write an essay explaining what he would change about the American way of life? He's the head of his class. in the mean time, what did we do with that kid who talked to us about his family being evicted and he has to work the late shift at Fry's to buy Top Ramine to feed his little brother and cousin?

First of all, we don't get nine months in the summer, its only eight and the Winter Break is only two weeks but we get tickets to fly anywhere in the world. But the breaks at both ends, nope, don't see them.

NOW, shut up and pour. I can still feel my lips.

Simple things

Sometimes fast food is revealing and good. Sometimes, eating at a place that has thousands of restaurants across this great nation is a breath of fresh air, reminding us that life in this society, as glorious as it can be, is just one drive through after another, unless we choose to look in the kitchen.

I came home from work the other day and didn't feel like cooking dinner. I do most of the cooking between Joni and I. She could eat mac and cheese every meal, mixed with chocolate; plus, when she gets home, she's usually in a coma.

I saw one of those commercials where the hamburger joint was offering is owner's name with the word 'Big" in front of it. It just sounded good, looked even better, and since my wife eats stuff with no flavor in it, I was off to get me one of them there Big somethin's. Here was the other thing I wasn't expecting, once I got there, there was a difference in the place.

The kitchen behind the counter was huge and wide open. Of course it was a takeover from a Krispy-Kreme after Krispy-Kreme ran head-long into the South Beach Diet and Adkins. There was wide open space where baby donuts were born in a river of oil a long time ago.

The place was clean-immaculate actually. There is something about walking into a fast food place and not feeling the need to draw your arms and hands in tight to your body for fear of catching something, that improves your appetit. So I got the sandwich-combo actually. It just looked good on TV. The girl at the counter was nice and had all her teeth, "How may I serve you today sir?" You could even understand her and she looked at you and smiled when she spoke to you. For a moment, you thought she really liked her job and wanted to make a career out of it. I ordered the burger and then added the special, two deluxe hot dogs for $1. No, they weren't Costco size, but they were large enough that one would have satisfied me. Why did I order two dogs when I had a "Big?" Because they were two for a buck. Why else?

Look, there are complications to life-war, peace, cholesterol, water, global warming, what will the Cubs do this year, but if you get the chance to enjoy a moment and see the simple side where all those things, for a moment, just fall away and you find yourself admiring a clean floor where one usually isn't, a sincere smile, and a value for a dollar-if you can find that moment, you need to remember it and pass it on.

The power of the 'Word'

I want to bring some words back.

A lot of us remember the 'good old days' now as being the sixties. You see fewer Elvis impersonators and more Temptations look-a-likes at the Indian casinos. Why? Because the people remembering the fifties are dying off and the sixties generation is at bat, plain and simple. That's just the tip of the iceberg that's looming large on our bow. Wait until Michael Jackson wannabes start showing up at your kids bat-mitzvah. So if we're going to do it, lets bring back the words that galvanized a decade of love, war, leisure suits, and some guys called The Beatles.

Groovy is a term developed by long hairs to mean 'cool' and 'hip'. These are two words we need to clarify later. Groovy means to be harmonious and usually was accompanied by the person raising their index finger and whatever that finger is next to the index finger as if they're indicating two orders of fries. The two fingers was symbolic for 'peace' in those days which is not to be mixed up with Sir Winston Churchill's use of the same two fingers during WWII which were symbolic for 'Victory.' There could be a correlation between victory and peace although that combination is fleeting.

Bitchin' is one of my favorite words. Its cutting, hard-packed, and makes you seem like you live on the edge. Anyone hearing it will get the image that the user has a motorcycle, a gun, and isn't afraid to use either. The word means 'groovy' 'cool' 'neat' only with an air of someone saying "I want to see you bleed, man."

Hip associates with fashion. It marks whatever it is addressing as trendy, fashionable, stylish, so on. You are not groovy if you stand there and comment on what your friend is wearing and say "Hey, you're stylish," and then flip the peace/Churchill sign. You would then be a "drag." I like to think this came out of the fashion style of 'hip-hugger' jeans when the women wore their jeans waaaaaay down on their hips, showing their form, usually accented with a big, wide, white belt; much like high school boys do today.

Cool. I don't think this word ever went away. It's classic and versatile. Its one of those words that can apply to almost any situation from fashion, attitude, to your coffee on a winter day.

Boss rates up there with groovy. It symbolizes that something is king-be it a shirt, a band, or music. Whatever it is pointed at means that item deserves respect and a free pass back stage.

Look, there are a bunch and some of them today we could even weave in, although they haven't lived long enough in our vocabulary to warrant a seat in the Hall of Fame of Words yet, like Phat; which we all know means someone who is fat spoken by someone with a lisp. These words have been around and I think we need to try to revitalize them. Come on, weave them back into your daily vocabulary. It'll be bitchin.

I remember a morning.

I remember where I was.

It was about 6:20am and I was about four miles into my bike ride to work. It was dark with the sun just starting to color the horizon a deep blue. I was listening to the radio, country station, KNIX. I would like to call him a friend, but to be a friend we would have to hang out together or at least borrow tools from each other and our lives didn't allow that much time together so I will simply call him a close acquaintance. We went to church together and he was one of two morning DJ's on the show that morning.



Its funny, what you remember, during those times when things go terribly sideways. The images of a bad movie that seems to stick in your brain and burned itself so deeply. When Kennedy died I was at the Turkey Farm with my kindergarten class. I can still see a turkey from that day.



First, it was a terrible accident; a plane hitting one of the tallest buildings in New York. It could happen; it had happened before. Stuff was always flying into buildings in that city, especially on a foggy day. But then the pictures were of a brilliant blue sky. The two on the radio-you could tell one was broadcasting while the other worked the TV and computer, relayed what they were seeing. There was confusion. It was unclear what was happening.

The ride seemed to grow dark again. I remember the head light to my bike, it was on.

I tried to increase my speed. I wanted to get to my room and turn on the television. What a terrible accident. I had three miles to go.

Then there was a second plane.

Being a former pilot, I knew enough to know something was terribly wrong. I had never heard the name Al Qaida before-never. By the time I got to my room and flipped on the TV, it was on every station. Fire trucks were like huge red salmon swimming up stream to the smoke. Cops were trying to remove thousands of people from a city that had no real plan for removing people quickly from a nightmare like this. This WAS the plan. It worked. Two buildings holding 75,000 were evacuated except for those who were above the impact sight.

I remember standing there watching and my mouth was open. But we all know it got worse.

Yeah, I remember a morning.