Christmas is here!!?!

Okay, Costco won.

Every year, starting in early August, I go on watch.

I watch and see who is going to start with the 'seasonal' decorations and sales first. For years, Walgreens always won with Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations out during the hottest month of the year. They, again, were way out in front with ghosts and goblins, and other crap that goes bump in the night. But Costco took the new prize for distance in the fact they had CHRISTMAS trees and decorations next to the sofas.

Christmas trees, that's right.

I think the theory is that as the market circles the proverbial toilet, the earlier you can open your warehouse and pull the stuff out from last year and sell them, the less of a likelihood you will be stuck with them for another year.

Actually, I like it. there is a feeling this time of year that winter is just three months away. That life might actually survive another Arizona Summer-Spring-Fall Heat-o-Rama. When Halloween is here, I actually have on a sweatshirt. Sure, I still wear shorts but I have a sweatshirt on. Oh, and I have turned off the A/C., saving thousands of millions of dollars. Plus, there is the attitude of the season. I still worry about money but its in conjunction with stuff and not having anything to do with making my water bill payment.

I guess I have to ask myself why I think twice about businesses doing this. I guess I really don't care. It just kind of amazes me and stops me to wonder about it, kind of like the fact that I learned from my kids this week about your foot being the exact length as your forearm. It's true, kick off your shoe and stick it up there next to your arm and you'll see. Weird stuff like that. But during this season, even if it is only in my brain pan, it brings a little hope. I don't feel so bad when my eyes are scalded out of my head by the driving heat as I ride my bike home from work.

So, there it is. Costco has the trees out and soon it will be the dancing Santa and those big blow up things you put in your front yard with the blower and they inflate so people have something other than your bedroom window to aim at with their "gat."

So break out the sweaters and parkas and reach for the thermal socks. Its that time of year for ho ho ho's and ha ha ha's.

Oh, you might want to pop a salt tablet or two, just in case the heat comes back.

I want to complain.

Look, I don’t complain a lot. As a matter of fact, you’ve never heard me complain in a general forum like this. We get and do enough of that so I figured we didn’t need to hear some middle-aged guy start ramping up about a bunch of stuff, but there are things—
Like chocolate. When I was growing up, you ate chocolate anyway you could get it with the staunch knowledge that it WAS going to make you fat and your skin break out. Now, it’s suppose to be good for you and has nothing to do with your acne. That now is genetic.
Another is mayonnaise; the sixth major food group in the line of Williams men. We kept our mayo on the second shelf up, just to the right of the sink, right next to the peanut butter. We opened it, put some on our bread (we always used spoons, never a knife) and put the lid back on and then back to its nest on the shelf. Only when I got married was I told of the vast error of my ways. Now, the FDA has come out with a report that refrigeration for mayo is not needed. To this day, I count this dietary formula for the strength of my white blood cells.
Whatever happened to the “family doctor?” When I was growing up, we all went to one guy. Now, actually for decades, we go to an internist if we’re over 18, a pediatrician if we’re under 18, women go here, men go--, I don’t know. One guy. Of course, his wife eventually died of undiscovered breast cancer. Hmm
When was the last time you got CPR certified? Now, its 32 compressions and forget about putting your lips on the poor smuck. We’ll just beat on his chest until help arrives. Last week it was 15 compressions and 2 breaths. Before that it was 2 rescuers. Geez.
See what I’m saying? Look, I’m not asking a lot. Just get your tail down to the Coffee Shed just off of Route 9 near the Berinth Avenue exit and take a left. The coffee (no lattes, cappuccinos, espressos, etc) are going to be there. Consistency, that’s all I’m asking!!!

A Good Day!

I had one of those days middle-aged men have where we go to the doctor and hear words like "some discomfort" and "a small amount of pressure" both, after the doctor tells you she will send you home with a prescription, if you want one, of a mild pain relief medication; which turns out to be a synthetic morphine in an IV drip. The words and the meds linger in your mind because the two aren't making sense in the same paragraph until the procedure is over and you find yourself cowering in the corner sobbing like a French longshoreman with a stack of wet-wipes and wondering why your Aunt Millie didn't bake you a birthday cake when you were seven. All of this leads you into a mental study of the human body.

What an amazing piece of machinery. You know this thing we call a "body" was never meant to die? Sure, we do, but we weren't meant to. Forget your belief system, this body does everything it can to adapt and live in this contaminated world. Think about it. The body has a pancreas that is there just to process ice cream. Who would of thought that? After a while, your hair falls out just as your life is getting complicated and you need fewer things to maintain. How about your feet and hands, an engineering marvel. More than half the human bones are in your feet and hands. Dogs, our favorite friends in the whole world, don't have that. Or your eyes that pick up atoms of light, reverse them, send them to the brain via chemicals, where they are deciphered in a milli-second.

Even in sickness the body is amazing. If you get too fat, it tells you by making that spandex look like sausage casing while somewhere in the back of your mind, as you look at the light atoms entering your brain via your eyes reflected off the mirror, you're saying to yourself "Huh, not bad but did these things shrink?"

Since the world is the way it is, I don't mind helping it out by taking it to the doctor every once in a while an getting checked out, looking for skin cancer, getting a physical, or wondering why this thing is doing that thing. The doc looks at you attentively, takes a few notes, nods their head, then in their best pirate they wink and you and softly say "Aye laddy, stand by to be boarded."

That's fine too. It makes you think thoughts that you wouldn't otherwise think of, like Aunts and birthday cakes.

Come, sit a while and try the meat loaf.

There is a place we go, to escape, or maybe just to catch our breath. Sometimes its with friends on a boat, fishing for bluegill. Sometimes its reading a good book with a glass of wine on the front porch overlooking Puget Sound. But sometimes, the demons that occupy a space in our brain leak out and need more to suppress them and drive them back in to the box we keep them in up on a shelf in the back of the closet in the corner of our brain; waiting there until we are brave enough or just tired enough to face them. Welcome to Moreno's Bar. Just one of those places found in Holy Ground.

Originally due out this Christmas, we might linger a bit, do a bit more tweaking and sipping if you get my meaning. Oh, it will have legs and walk, the question is, what kind of legs and can we get her to run? We predict pretty strong legs at that. But while we wait, we want to give you a little taste of the story and let you linger, yourself, with our hero. He's tired-worn out, but the greatest moment of his life is yet to be. Come, pull up a stool and try the meat loaf.

Nights played one into the other and about every four months or so, as far as Moreno could figure it, Cooper would drink enough and think enough to walk over to the pay phone in the corner of the bar and ‘drunk dial.’ He never used his cell phone and in his well-oiled logic, why would he? He didn’t want Allison, his ex, to know it was him calling, although after receiving a dozen or so of his calls from Moreno’s Bar as it came up on the caller ID, she figured it was him calling—again. “You calling a cab again, amigo?” Moreno queried him.

“I don’t need a cab,” Cooper slurred.

“I wouldn’t drive if I were you,” Moreno returned without looking up.

“Lucky for me, you ain’t me. I walked here, remember?” Cooper mumbled under his breath.
The marriage crashed after five years, and it took an additional two years to put out the fire and carry away the wreckage. It had been years since the final disillusionment and eventually, Allison remarried. This one also didn’t want kids and was a federal marshal who traveled three days out of the week.

Cooper would sit and let old thoughts of Allison come to the forefront of the lubricated brain pan. Random thoughts of old times, old things, old ways. He never called her before midnight. That would be too convenient. He always knew the husband’s schedule, whatever his name was, so Cooper missed the inevitable confrontation for awhile. Allison never told him her ex-husband had been calling in the middle of the night over the past few years. Why—she never said and Cooper never asked. He dropped the coins in the phone and dialed. She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello.” Her voice was gruff. She cleared her throat and said it again. “Hello.”

It took a second for the voice to register as hers. She sounded different, and for that second, he thought he had dialed the wrong number. “Allison? It’s me.”

“Coop?” She sighed. “Of course, it is.”

“I was just calling to see how—”

“Do you know what time it is? You’ve got to stop calling here.”

“No, I didn’t know it was late. Hey, I’m sorry okay? I thought I’d just give you a call. I, ah …” He paused for moment. “Just wondering if you still had that baseball I caught at Candlestick Park when we were on our honeymoon. I remember you had on that green paisley dress.” He had to come up with something to talk about, and this subject came up between the third and fourth scotch.

“Baseball? You called me to ask me about a baseball?” She opened her eyes to look at the time. It was 12:34 . “I don’t know. I don’t remember any baseball.”

“You don’t know?” There was a sense of frustration that his wife—his ex-wife— didn’t remember the baseball he caught on their honeymoon. “I thought it was on the bookshelf next to the pictures of—”

“That was years ago, come on. There are different people here now,” she said with a cut. “It’s late—is that why you called? To ask about a damn baseball?”

“Yeah, I guess it is a little late … no, no. Look, I’m sorry all right? Jeezus, why does everything have to be a battle with you? I don’t care who I’m waking up … Hello? Hello?” He thought for a minute about calling her back. He always thought about calling her back. After all, it was just a simple question about a baseball, his baseball. It wasn’t hers. She didn’t catch it. She didn’t care about it. She didn’t need to be rude about him calling, he thought. Yeah, he was sorry it was so late, but it’s not like she couldn’t go back to sleep. He went back to his stool.

“You call her?” Moreno asked.

“She doesn’t care how my day went.”

“She cares about you, my friend.”

Cooper nodded while he held his glass with two hands. “Nah, I stomped on her heart too many times while we were married for that. The only thing she wants to know is when I’m dead.”

“You underestimate that woman.”

“You underestimate this man. Now shut up and pour. I can still feel my lips.”

AN EPIPHANY!!

Why do we not change our work hours to early morning? It's 5:45am here in the frying pan of the southwest. I got up this morning to take my daughter, her husband, and my granddaughter to the airport. It was cool enough to roll down the windows and open the sun roof.

I got up and took the dogs for our traditional morning walk at about 4:30. Sure it was dark but the sun was starting to paint the sky and besides, we had street lights, frankly, the less light for what the girls have to do, the better. It was beautiful. The bats were out and ducks were flying. That's right, you heard me-bats. Those cool dudes make no noise when they fly, none. And ducks, flying in formation anywhere, are just flat out bitchin' because they talk to each other while they fly.

"Quack?"

"Quack, quack, quack."

"Quack."

I was thinking while driving home from the airport that if we switched to, oh, I don't know, 2:00am to 8:00am we would actually improve our disposition. I was happy this morning. George Strait came on with "River of Dreams" and I turned it up, a happy, jaunty tune. I actually wanted to live here. I came home and turned off the A/C and flipped over to evap for at least a little while.

We just have to be open-minded about it. We'd have to go buy some aluminum foil to cover our windows so we could sleep during the day and get use to watching Oprah instead of Two and a Half Men on TV. That, alone, might be a deal breaker.

Anyways, it was just a thought. When I was a kid, I remember the summer rains would cause me to build my aircraft carriers out of a 2x4's, some smaller pieces for the island, and nails for the RADAR. I would go out front and float it down the street in the gutter tracking behind it in my bare feet. Yep, that was a lot of rain and frankly, there was probably lightening involved that I wasn't fully cognisant of the full ramifications of standing in water during a lightening storm. But who cared. It was great. I can remember those happy times.

So, as I finish, the sun is coming up. The shadows are still filling the back yard and the doves are sitting on the phone lines behind the house. The ducks are, hopefully, at the lake in Steele Park or in the canal to our north and the bats are where ever bats go. It's Sunday morning and the music on the radio is gentle and soothing. The coffee is some of the best I've ever made. Yep, we need to really think about this. Sure, we make fun of old people who get up early, eat dinner at 4:30 and bed by 8. We scoff at them. Problem is, there is a real draw to that at my age of 51. And you have to ask yourself, part of living longer and having a lighter step in our strides might actually have something to do with beautiful dawns.

Running for freedom!!!

School rolled up this week for the first five days with a gaggle of high school kids/men/women/mothers/fathers and the ever present-missing school desks.

Every summer our staff, probably much like the staff of hundreds of schools across the state and country, spend their summers working to prepare the buildings and individual classrooms for the upcoming school year. They usually strip all the contents out of the rooms that touch the floor, take it into the hall, then go back in and re-wax floors or clean carpet. The rooms look good when their done. Then, they put the stuff back in the exact location it was in when they took it out, or close to it. Every year, when the teachers return, someone is missing something. Sometimes its personal gear like a radio or their favorite sweater. But most of the time its school furniture.

It is hard for me to imagine, and I have a vivid imagination, that anyone is stealing school desks to decorated their home.

I think this falls under the same category as the missing sock. You know the story. You do your laundry and throw a bunch of socks in the wash, then the dryer, then pull them out and start to match them; there is always one of them that has escaped --always. Where the hell did it go? Did it crack the door open when you were in the other room balancing your checkbook and jump out, running outside through the doggy door to freedom? Okay, so it did that, where did it go when it got to the yard? Florida? You want to disappear, everyone knows you go to Florida.

The theory is these desks, chairs, tables- all commercial grade education equipment, are finding their way to someones living room. You have an art table as a dining room table and a couple of student desks as end tables? Really?

I know our staff. Although they are way underpaid for what they do, they have pride. None of them, NONE, would want Mrs. Turk's table in their house. Nor would they want a desk, covered with years worth of gum stuck to the bottom. Nope, I think there is something even more sinister working here.

These things are possessed. Yeah, I know, it sounds crazy. But was it crazy when the Italians won at Gettysburg, or any crazier than Nero playing the tuba while Rome burned? I think not. These things have been slaves to man for a long time. I think they've just had enough. Somewhere in the Florida Keys, a table and a couple of desks have found new life as patio furniture at a margarita bar, slurping up all that spilled margarita mix and overhearing all those drunken conversations. It makes them laugh.

Yep, a margarita bar in the Keys.

Not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.

So, once again, Monday brings school and the return of students to the track of knowledge. It was funny, last Monday, in the morning, I had an appointment with a doctor and a procedure that I will just say, after I got home, caused me to curl up in a corner, sucking my thumb, and whimpering like a French girl. But later that day, I sent out an e-mail to my department trying to encourage them about the start of school the next day. I didn't have the words, phrases, pictures, nothing. I had no heart to step back into the job that I had been at for almost ten years. But it was funny, by the late afternoon, the heart began to change. Motivation started to come back. Now, I have to admit, it wasn't fast, nor was it a lot, trickling like a leaky faucet. But it was definitely changing.

By Tuesday morning, when all the teachers and staff were to report back, I was ready to go. It was getting exciting, things were coming together, things were moving, shaking, we were in the groove, and for the week, 187 teachers and another 75 staff were 'fuelin' the rocket.'

This Monday, we take possession of your teenagers. Yep, we get their baggy-pants, gum-chewin', cell-phone textin', rap-crap listenin', little hearts. Somewhere over the next 190 days, we get to try to teach them how to read, write, and cipher so when they're forty-seven, a job that pays a dollar over minimum wage is not considered by them as a good job. The world wants their young educated; hopefully, so they live and work enough to contribute to the social security pot so the rest of us can afford canned soup in our old age. The powers measure our success with high stakes tests two years before they graduate and hope that in four years they're wearing a robe and walking down the aisle of the ASU sports arena waving to their family, many being the first high school graduate in the history of their family.

Yep, we're geared to go for Monday. Of course, in order to get to the wood ring (brass is for college, silver is for your masters, and gold for your doctorate) of a high school graduation, we get to deal with literally, sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. Oh, I forgot, parent abandonment, not enough food at home, working third shift before coming to school, no shoes, water turned off at home, crap for clothes, not to mention pencils, paper, notebooks, pens, or lunch money.

Somewhere in the magic, a kid gets a scholarship to an ivy-league school, then another, and then another, then someone will go to a military academy, jobs, more education. Somewhere in the magic, they become productive citizens and wake up to the fact that the door to life just doesn't open to them, they have to push on it after they turn the knob.

I ran into a kid at a restaurant a couple of years ago. I can't remember my own name let alone a kid I had for a couple of months. He remembered me and we talked for a minute while I waited for my sandwich. Almost as an after thought, I asked him 'so, what do you want to do after you finish college?' He looked at me like I should have been able to read his mind. "I want to be just like you, a teacher." I couldn't remember that kid's name and barely remembered his face. But apparently, at least once, I did something right.

Tomorrow is game day. The biggest game of young lives. Ready? Hell yes I'm ready.

Vegas baby!!

We've all heard those words. Well, uh, I went this last week, just got back as a matter of fact. We went as the Williams Footprint-big and smelly. Most of us went to celebrate Jeannette and Tara's respected birthdays. We stayed in the MGM and did Vegas stuff. If you are reading this, two things- one-boredom has overcome you and two-go out and kiss your sidewalk for living where you do.

Listen, I've been to Las Vegas for work and pleasure. I've walked and been one of the privileged few to actually have run down the center of it a few years back, so I'm not some Puritan prude pontificating pleas of propriety. We had fun and laughed-a lot. But there were things observed and witnessed that I wish I could take a Brillo pad and scrub from my brain.

Let's address the sound issue. IT'S TOO FRIGGIN' LOUD IN THAT TOWN! There is no place-no place-you can go to where it's quiet, unless you count filling the bathtub with water and submerging yourself under the water but then you can still hear the guy flush the toilet two floors above you. Bells, chimes, people screaming, radios, announcements, cars honking, people honking, gee whiz guys, can't we all just take a breath?

Drinking anything seemed to be pretty high on the list of things you do there. When I went down for a coffee from Starbucks at 6:15 am, bars were open. Okay, I get that. That's fine; I'm hip; I'm in the know. But that's for people just getting off third shift at the docks. Who the hell is swilling Jack at 6:15 in the morning and DOESN'T have a drinking problem or entered in some weird reality TV docu-drama? How about the "Yard of Alcohol?" Yep, they measure liquid by the foot in Vegas. Interesting.

Good deals are still found in this little hamlet. But you have to looooookkkkkk haaaarrrrrddd. Coco's still had a breakfast for $3.99 and McDonald's in the MGM still had their dollar menu but that's it. Yeah, there were buffets but good luck finding the all you can eat for $5. We were shopping in Caesar's Forum and Joni wanted a Gellato and an ice tea. Okay, it was hot outside and we were on a sort-of vacation and she wanted some treats, I get that.

$18 later I felt they should have kissed me first. "They over-charged you, let me talk to them," she will say when she tells the story. I told her 'no,' don't bother. She will say I weenied up and wouldn't let her "discuss" the issue with the person who was having trouble with the translation from English to some language from Southeast Asia via Nepal. She's right, I didn't. I admit. I figured it was just part of the pain, since I had paid, just an hour before, $9 for a baby hot dog and a water. At least with the Gellato I got to taste it. Actually, I licked the bowl and wiped it out with my fingers. The slime we normally leave on a container like that is about $2 in this market.

Speaking of early mornings, the collection of people out at the slots working hard to buy mommy a new pair of shoes is impressive. They are propped up with their feet on the chair next to them, apparently having been in that position for hours, smoking their cigarette holding it with their thumb and forefinger, like the old Gestapo. Their eyes long since done tearing from the smoke and the three teeth still left in their head, made easy work for sipping their Jack through a straw. Just one more spin would bring them home to papa.

Speaking of three teeth, we went to Coyote Ugly.

It's a bar in the New York, New York Hotel. Its famous, although I don't remember seeing it advertised in Newsweek. I am sure I have lost some of my hearing and here is where the Brillo pad comes in. You see, its not your typical bar. It's the last hope for men. If you were trolling the bars on the Strip and your pick-up lines were not working as well as once or twice you got your face slapped, you wind up here. This is where people of last resort go. Women, grandmothers, the handicapped, dancing on the bar, taking off their bras and hanging them from the ceiling. But the good news was the beer was only $3 and it was cold. The music was real good even though it was at a decibel level that caused my bowels to spontaneously release. We went as a group because the birthday girls wanted to go see it. It was Travis and I as the two men with a herd of women. Travis was with Tara and watching over her and I had my son's back and, I guess, everyone else. You see, we were in a bar, a bar with drunk men, who had wound up here after being slapped by thousands of women, not just that night and all up and down the Strip, but probably for their entire lives. We had some nice looking ladies in our group. Anyone one of them could have made a nice kidnapping victim. The girls were young and naive enough to not even know they had been kidnapped until the next morning when they woke up on the tramp steamer. Frankly, this isn't a place where you go and meet and strike up long conversations with each other to learn the deep secrets and inflame your heart's interest in the opposite sex; you are there to fish the game and get out. Gaff something and leave with it. I could just see this thing erupting into a drunken brawl.

I thought "The Russian" might have taken a shot. He looked either like Napoleon or one of those factory workers from the Ukraine. Oh, and he was drunk. How do I know? He was dancing by himself while carrying on a conversation-with himself. "Geko Man" might have tried. His eyes worked independently of one another making him able to see around corners. When you looked at him, you didn't know what eye to make eye contact with. But he got lucky with a woman; at least I think she was a woman. Hmm.

All in all, it was fun. I discovered something about myself there. I like comfort. Now, I can camp, survive, get dirty, crawl, hunt, and handle myself in 'close quarter crisis management' situations with the best of them, at least that's what my 18 year old heart says feeding my 12 year old boy's brain. But why? Hmm. I'm fifty-one. I like soft and cozy things now. I want a hotel that doesn't smell like stale Pal-Mal's. They all did except for The Venetian. That place makes a hearty man say "Ahhhh." I want to do shows, sleep, and instead of walking, take the tram. Something with air-conditioning. I will watch Treasure Islands ships sink and re float every time. And I really don't mind paying $18 for some tea and Gellato. As long as there is a foot rub in the deal.

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.