Long Pull

It was a long pull this week. And I look back and can't really say I did anything worth being so tired over. Sometimes, fatigue comes schlepping the mule across a prairie, scratching dirt and hoping to plant some soy beans in it, so in the fall you can sell them and buy that shot gun you've been eying at the Mercantile.

Or-

Sometimes, it just life.

Did some traveling this last week. Part of it was going all the way down the Florida, south of Jacksonville, then coming back within 48 hours, back to Phoenix, by way of Philadelphia. Yeah, I know, don't ask. There was nothing to it, except sitting and deciding which of the palm reading devices I would want to buy from Sky Mall magazine.

I don't know about you, but I am getting worse about air travel as I get older. I get anxious. Not that we are going to crash in a fiery ball of screams and body parts, although just writing that gave me a gurgle in my loins. The flying doesn't bother me. No, I don't do well until I get to the gate. I can sit for hours-HOURS at the gate, waiting to board, as long as I'm at the gate. Before I get there, I find myself pacing, cold and clammy hands, checking my boarding pass 78 times to make sure I have it, where's my debit card? Shoe strings? Is my bag full-crap, my tooth brush! It just takes one bump, one small squeal of the tennis shoes on the floor causing me to spin around to double-check something and then finding it was true, to solidify me in the paranoia for another ten years. The cycle starts all over again. It's like right before the kickoff and you are waiting to go in on the first set of downs, or the tip off of the big game, or you're in the chorus or orchestra and your Nana is in the front row. Anxiety, nerves; jeez, what a clown fish.

But, once at the gate, I morph into this playful kid. 'Who wants to go shop for food for the flight?' What about a loaf of bread? A magazine? Look at that guy over there and why is he taking his shirt off? Pull my finger-all those things that make time pass as we wait for our plane.

Arriving in Philly on the first leg of our return trip, we were late, hosting our own controlled crash-landing. Aside from the fact I hadn't been in a near crash like that since I used to fly as a pilot, we got off the plane and had to get two concourses over in 20 minutes to make our connection. 'Rajah', my little Ethiopian driver of the cart that the airline sent to move the seven of us more swiftly, said he could only take six of us and then only half way. He said this directed at me since I was sitting on the arm rest and by some OSHA code, I was endangering the lives of the world. Obviously, I was the one left behind, but since I had nothing to do with us being late and frankly, I think my dead mother could have landed the plane better, I was in a 'sporty' mood. The fear of being late or whatever it is that crawls out of my pancreas and causes me to be anxious prior to getting to the gate was gone. Now, it was game time.

I'm not quite sure what my little friend was thinking when his eyes looked into mine. Love? Compassion? His taxes? Fear that I would reach down his throat and rip out his duodenum with the hand I was pointing at him with and, of course-very politely, telling him to get my team to the gate-all the way to the gate, I'm not quite sure. There was no time. I grabbed my bag and turned for the four mile run (approximately, its always bigger when you're actually doing it). There was no time to check and make sure my boarding pass was secure, or my shoe laces, or the fact that I had to pee from somewhere over Gettysburg but couldn't get out of my seat for fear of being thrown against the overhead bulkhead due to the weather. I just had to get to the gate and hold the plane.

I had no plan as to where I needed to go or how long it was going to be to get there. I quickly knew, however, what I was going to do once I did get there to hold the plane-vomit. Hey, its a bio-hazard. I could buy 20 minutes easy and the run was going to provide the ability. I just needed to not make a wrong turn. I read signs and tried not to run over old women in the process.

Well, long story even longer, I got there. People were still in line and I climbed in behind them. I took up a waiting position behind the gate and waited for the rest of the team, preparing myself to force a stomach purge as soon as someone moved to seal the hatch. While I waited, I took stock in my gear-bag with contents-check, boarding pass stub with seat assignment-check, need to pee-on standby. I was good and in position. And then they showed. My little friend came through for us, although he and I didn't set eyes on each other again, he has made a wonderful memory for me.

I wonder if I made a wonderful memory for him?

Ah, life. It sometimes wears me out.

Bunnies, chocolate, and a good pair of underwear

So, it's Easter, again. I wrote this last year and was thinking about what to write this year and said to myself "Self, this is good to run one more time. Enjoy the day, each other, quiet moments and laughter. Take a look, that big ass stone has been rolled away. Dare to believe it.

What the heck does that mean? If you were to read the paper, it would mean sales at Macy's; half off at Starbucks; cell phones, in all colors, at a discount; and of course, discounted breakfasts for seniors at IHOP. People don't want to really think about Easter, having to admit there is a God and that God had and has a plan individualized for each one of us. We don't want to think that on the Friday before, God took his son, and slaughtered the boy for us, as individuals. Who the heck wants to think of that? Nope, the idea of a chocolate bunny and paisley colors are much nicer.

Until you really look at the picture.

You see, I think love has nothing to do with what we think it has to do with. It has nothing to do with sex, skin tone, the shape in a pair of jeans, ice cream, or a trip to the Bahama's. Love, pure love, is a sacrifice word as my dear friend, John, puts it.

Joni and I just got done waiting out some tests to see if her breast cancer had come back. It had been a long couple of weeks waiting on the tests and doctors. You see, Joni's breast cancer was described by her original doctor as "having teeth." Meaning, if or when it does come back, the outcome won't be good. We've been here before and panic or high anxiety was not present. But there was an undercurrent of tension. I got the folder out containing the response plans to just such a situation. I keep this folder in the dark corner of my brain. I reviewed it and began to hold meetings with my response team, also deep within the gooey mind. As we waited, I planned.

This whole thing turned out to be fine. When I have some time, I will share with you some of the funnier moments; yes, there are some really laughable things-well-maybe just to me but still. But hear this, the one thing that was a constant was that I knew there was a plan. God, by definition, is Love. He can't be anything other than Love. He bought me, Joni, my kids, some of you, with Love. How? Well the payment was huge. He couldn't sacrifice a sheep or a goat like in the old testament. He could but we'd run out of sheep and goats and eventually start cutting up muskrats which doesn't work. So, He paid it once and for all. He laid his boy out on the alter and took his life--for me-oh wait, you too. Don't run from that image-run to it! That isn't embarrassing or degrading. Set that self-flagellating guilt aside. It is a wonderful image. Now, pass it on. I was able to think that this God has a plan for what we were wading in. It was a perfect plan. How Joni getting cancer again would be a perfect plan was beyond me. I just knew the source. I had to trust it. Whatever happened-Daddy had it.

So, Easter-the celebration of sales and chocolate, of half-priced meals and trips. I can look at those things and smile, enjoy them, melt them down and rub them on my chest. My Daddy said to me "Hey, now that you're mine, go and enjoy the world I have surrounded you with. Put some whip cream on that chocolate sundae; look at the sale of underwear at Target; check out the yellow ties and paisley bunnies. I made them-just for you to enjoy." We smile at each other because I know He knows. I remember. Then, like a toddler, I turn and run and play with the things He has laid out, looking back over my shoulder to make sure He is watching.

He is, with a big smile.

Happy Easter everybody!!! Go buy a chocolate bunny and bite its head off. Daddy thinks that is soooo funny.

A Country for Old Men

During our lives, we have times that, well, quite frankly, are a little busy. I am terrible at social stuff. I fake it. I really do. As I get older, I like to go out more often, but I don't like to stay. It's like I need to go 'touch' whatever it is then I can go home, get into my jammies, and wander off into the deep well that is the Delta sleep level during REM. This reminds me-let me take us down a rabbit trail about sleep, which I have to mention before I forget where I was going; kind of like walking into the kitchen from the den, opening the refrigerator door and standing there, forgetting what you were looking for.

What was I saying-see? I forgot-oh, wait, now I remember, sleep. A few years ago, I would wake up with the digital rolling of the clock. I could hear the alarm 'click' sound to start the music. I slept that light. Yesterday morning, I was soooooo faaaaarrrr down in the deep well that I call Delta level sleep, the music actually was part of the dream. I hit the snooze button twice. I never even knew what the snooze button was for until about six months ago-never used it. Bastards (my favorite swear word. It is always plural).

All this to take us back onto the main trail about social dancing and the thrill of just living. We can go to the mall and walk around, usually when I am in the walking 'zone' I have my hands behind my back, my brain is in neutral, like every other man of 85 or more doing the same thing, only I'm not wearing black socks with my shorts. We might get something to eat, walk some more, then come home. Sometimes the drive to the mall is longer than the walk. Like I just want to go and get out and drive around, then walk, then come home. A friend of mine was in a small band and played at a restaurant. I could sit there and listen to him, have a scotch, share a pizza or a salad or whatever, then come home by 9:00. I'M FIFTY-FRIGGIN TWO!

I also discovered recently that my running days are just about done. No, correct that, my running days are over. My knees are like two Peruvian tortillas after my morning run. Look, I'm 52-oh, I said that huh? Memory is the next thing-bastards. I've been running since I was in Pop Warner, whenever that was-ten? Now, I get my sorry ass out of bed and go for a bike ride instead of a run in the pre-dawn dark. Same cardio, better on my knees, but I had to come to grips that I wasn't the Maltese Falcon anymore. If my son and I wrestled again, which we have done extensively, I think I could still take him, but I would have to refer you to the movie of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid for the type of fighting I would have to resort to. I could take him, but cheating would be my middle name. He has all that Army training crap and youth and muscle on his side but I have old age and treachery. I can still hop the wall to my neighbor's house next door, but with age comes the pausing question-why not walk around to the gate? See? I think that is what we exchange our knee cartilage for, brains-if we live long enough.

The wisdom that comes from just taking more breaths than others for a longer period of time, counts for something. Sure, you could be a real screw up at twenty-five. But if you live to eighty, you must have learned something to allow yourself to not be such a screw up for so long.

See, my theory is god thins the herd at two major points; between the age of thirty and forty-five and again later. If you haven't turned a major corner in your attitude or life style by one of those time periods, a tree is going to fall on you. I don't mean you have to be perfect, nope, that won't ever happen. But how many bullets can you dodge? A Department of Justice report indicated that most gang members are either dead or permanently incarcerated by the age of 42. The herd is thinned. The next thinning, at least for men, is right around 60-70. That's when the first 'Big One' starts thumping on your chest.

It doesn't help the fact that my family can now be shown to be 'predisposed' to things like cancer and heart disease. Every physical form I ever filled out since high school I had to check the first three boxes for family history-cancer, diabetes, and heart disease the 'Big Three', geez.

My dad had his first HA at 55 and the one that put him down at 58. My brother had something like eight vessels blocked and they were taking veins from chickens to put him back together at age 59. They didn't even have a name for it like 'quadruple' or 'triple' bypass. You look at him or my dad and you would say nope, not them. They look healthy. They had other factors that played into it but the Williams line has some gene that explodes at a predetermined time, our own IED. I have them both beat with dedicated exercise for a longer period of time and I eat well but I still have no illusions of making it out of fifties without someday breaking into a cold sweat with a sharp pain lancing down my arm while I'm operating something with a spinning sharp blade before I'm 60, not a chance in hell.

So, here, two weeks after our last kid got married and the smoke has cleared, do I sit in a house that is actually pretty still. Life, right now, has slowed, at least today. I helped my son in law move and plant something like 4,500 square feet of sod in his back yard yesterday. The old man operated an old wheel borrow and could still work like a Trojan slave. Three Advil this morning helped. Tomorrow morning, I'm back on the bike, listening to NPR and riding the neighborhood in the pre-dawn. Heart disease has to find and catch me first.

I like it.

But the pessimist in me says it won't last.

Nope, no such luck for a husband and father who actually did pretty well as a husband and father. My family loves me. They actually like to be around me, in limited amounts. They are making no plans for me to be electrocuted in the shower with an accidental falling lamp (not that I spent any time thinking about things like this) or doing Rocks Paper Scissors to see who gets Dad when he's in diapers, the house keeps the rain off, I've found a semi-creative side, I still have a job, and I currently have my health an most of my teeth. Life, right now, just before beddy-bye time is pretty good.

Now, if I can just put my hands in my pockets instead of behind my back when I walk the mall. Baby steps.

They Don't Call for Daddy

It's an early Saturday morning and yesterday was the rehearsal of our son's wedding, taking place tomorrow afternoon in the middle of the first fairway at a golf club in south Phoenix. Travis is the last of three children to break out and start the age-old trek of germinating a family. His fiance, Tara, is a wonderful girl and the two appear in love and devoted to the common goal of the rest of their lives together. So I sit here, quietly reflecting, as not enough fathers do, on what I did or didn't do to facilitate this end.

I was watching a video this past week with my students on teen violence. Part of it was filmed in the L.A. County Emergency room. The doctor, taking a group of hard core teens on a tour of the hospital, was telling them, straight up, about the end of life which he saw so much of in those halls. He told them something that stuck, "All bad asses come in here and as they die, they all call out the same two words, 'Mommy' and 'god.'"

It hit me. Why don't these people call for their 'Daddy's'? The answer was clear. It didn't take a college professor to do a five year study. The dads had failed their daughters and sons. They abandoned them. They abused them. They made them witnesses to unspeakable crimes against their mothers or others who they, in their roll as a father, were sworn to honor and protect. Why don't bad asses, or any asses for that matter, call out for their 'Daddy's'? Because we fathers have butchered our duty.

I cried.

No, not like a Frenchman who got a paper cut. The eyes filled and when I blinked, they ran over. Crap, I get weepy at AT&T commercials now and don't even get me started with the Budweiser horses. I am sure I will be curled up in the corner somewhere during this wedding of my last child, sucking my thumb and holding a tablecloth up to my head like a binky.

The kids in the class knew why the bad asses didn't call for their dads. Why, as men, would we ever want to go down that road? Why, would we not want our child, in their last dying breath, to be thinking and calling to us as well? I lost myself in thought for a day or two.

Right before a wedding of one of your kids, you get reflective. You do the same on your birthday and Christmas. "Did my life count?"

I want my life to be one of those where, even years from now, my children or grandchildren will be able to come to my house, maybe I am stooped over some begonias in the garden (can one grow begonias in Arizona? What is a begonia?). I look up and there is fear, panic, tension in their face. Resources have been tried and for some reason, they felt a need to seek out the old Silverback. Quixada rises to a standing position, maybe helped by the child. "What can this old man do? He can barely stand," they might think to themselves.

But inside the old gentleman, still beats the heart of a lion of eighteen. Funny thing about fathers, they are capable of unspeakable horror and pain. But sometimes they get it right. And when a father gets it right-sometimes years or decades later, unimaginable healing and love happens. Which means for men, there is always hope.

So, since this damn video, I have been thinking the gruesome thought of whether my children would call my name in their last moment. Then I smiled, laughed almost. Nope, they wouldn't. They would call to their god. The one they know and who knows them.

Oh, I guess I all right.

Quixada straightens up to his child's fear. His back firms, his arms and legs tense. There is a fire that lights his eyes from the back. The child had not seen such a fire there before. Strange. He rubs his thinning silver hair and places his arms around the child. There is a transference of comfort in that arm. Something about it causes the child to believe he made the right decision coming to speak to the old man. As the fear is shared, the old man walks them into the house and they sit down. The child had not been there in a while, it was cluttered with old man things, newspapers, old gym shoes. Coffee is poured and cookies, for comfort are given. They sit at a table and Quixada listens. Counsel is asked for and smartly given. The old man smiles and says things will be better soon.

Just as the child prepares to leave, something in the corner catches their eye. There, next to stack of papers and where the old dog bed still occupies a corner. It is an old lance, a sword in an old leather scabbard, and a rusted iron helmet. The child asks about it-"Why do you have that old stuff over there?"

The old man smiles as he looks at it. "For certain times," the old man says. The old man winks and walks the child to their car. He kisses them gently on the cheek and waives good bye. When he comes back inside, he reaches under his sink and pulls out an old shoe box. In it, is a old can of rust remover, a well worn soap stone, a small tin of oil, and an old rag. He lays out some newspaper on the coffee table, takes the old helmet from its resting spot in the corner, and begins.

Another Day

I turned 52 today. Its Saturday morning and like other Saturdays, I get up, walk the girls, make a pot of joe, get into my art class with Jerry Yarnell, and then do some writing. All this before I face the day-- love this time of day.

Men, I think all men, get up this high in the number range of their ages and when their 'special day' comes around, they can't help but be reflective. Think about it; I'm much closer to the end than the beginning, at least I pray to god I am. I would hate to think I am going to live to 104. "Roll over Mr. Williams. We need to change your bed linens-again." The Inuits had a good idea. The old ones would just wander out onto the ice pack and go away, eventually falling asleep and then surely becoming an afternoon snack for a polar bear. I would love being food for a bear! What a great cycle of life you could claim.

"How did you die?"
"Drowned in my own pee. You?"
"Fell asleep on an ice flow then a bear and her two cubs ate me. They didn't have to eat for two weeks after that."
"Oh, dude, that is SO COOL!"

So men get all reflective. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sitting here, polishing off a bottle of Jack and wiping tears away from my stained cheeks with a pair of dirty underwear. I feel pretty good right now. Very little in my life that I wish I could have done different or that I still see as an un-obtained goal. Maybe I still want to own my own restaurant or be a short order cook at Denny's. Plus, with age, come a paradigm shift in feelings, beliefs, values, etc. I want to grow up and be a Silverback!

My daughter hates that term, Silverback. I spoke at her wedding and while addressing her new husband, I made him turn and look into the audience an focus on the old men with silver hair. I told him those are the wise ones whom he should seek for counsel when you need it. Now there is a goal worth pursuing!

Look, my legs are starting to wear out. My "Christmas Day present handing out injury" actually still bothers my left knee which means my running ability is cut. I am sure I am going through male menopause-I'm having night sweats like a Coyote muling a bunch of illegals across the Arizona Sonoran in the summer time, and now there is just the act of living-like why is there water under my wood floor in the den and where is it coming from? That kind of living.

Life is a strain, its suppose to be. How I respond to that life, well, that's the fun part. I had a couple of partners in my prior life who I would still run into a collapsing building for. They're older men now, just like me. I remember we were following a bad guy along a canal. One of the young bucks we were working with was in a foot chase with this guy. Problem was, the young buck was a young buck who liked food too much and the bad guy was a gazelle. We couldn't shoot him; that would have been bad form. So, my partner and I were chasing him in a car. My guy pulled up next to this man running and opened his car door 'accidentally' causing the man to fall. That was Silverback wisdom.

We let the young buck cuff him after he finished puking his lungs out.

I am at a time of my life that I am still willing to try hopping walls, leaping tall buildings, and jousting at windmills. My Scottish heritage won't let me think that there isn't a day that isn't a good day for a fight.

But there is also something to be said for driving the car, filling the inside with the sounds of Bachmann-Turner Overdrive, up to the local Denny's for a short stack.

Now, where the hell is that leak coming from?

To you and yours, thanks for being in the life of this developing Silverback.

Stop and Sniff!!

There are things around us that if we blink, we miss. The simple things, the quiet things, those things that we haven't seen because we've been too busy worrying about the building burning down around us. Sure, we have to survive the fire, get out of the building, make sure it doesn't collapse on our heads, but what about the beauty of the fire? Fire is primal. Both sexes love a good fire. Women love one in the fire place with a glass of wine, snuggled next to someone they care for and who they think cares for them. Men, well, we like the burning building.





I discovered this 'blink' thing this morning. I should say, rediscovered it. I got up and didn't have enough coffee to make coffee. So, I loaded the girls, Betty and Mindy, into the back of the rental (I was in an accident last week in my truck, a story for another day) and we went to Copper Star Coffee Shop on 7th Avenue.





I enjoy coffee. I don't worship it or light candles to it, but I am of an age now where I will spend $8 a pound for some instead of the $2 at Fry's.





The girls stayed in the car because I wanted to give Betty enough time to get her white hair on the dark upholstery. I ordered a cup of joe and a pound. Then I looked at the food display case. I have been coming to this neighborhood store since it opened, sometimes stopping on my bike ride to work for a cup, but I've never ordered food. Bagels, muffins, scones, things with frosting and things plain. I was easily talked into a scone, something between a biscuit and a heavy loaf of bread only this one had chocolate chips. They had some with blueberries and cranberries but why? I paid for everything and went over to a side table to dress my coffee. I then pulled a chunk of the scone out of the little paper bag it was in and, without thinking, plopped it into my mouth.



It was warm.





A warm-bready thing, with soft, melting pieces of chocolate, some fresh ground coffee with cream and sugar. All of a sudden, life just got real good.





For moments in time, we have these things cross our path-then they leave, sometimes never to be seen again. Here are just a few that I have overlooked:

• The color green in the early morning light as it falls into the shadows. Sunsets work the same way, but those are at day's end and we're usually too tired to notice.


• A dog sleeping on your foot or curled up next to you on the couch and placing their paw in your lap.


• The smell of an out-door grill from a neighbor cooking beef (men can smell the difference between beef and anything else).


• The smell of the lawn at a spring training baseball game.


• Having to stand in line for only fifteen minutes at the grocery store instead of hours in most countries only to be told they were out of whatever you were standing in line for, two days ago.


• Reading a book in the afternoon and falling asleep after a page.


• The laughter of a child younger than three.


• A morning run, bike ride, especially this time of year. Summer time we would move from neighbor's sprinkler to sprinkler, dehydrating ourselves until our pee was a fluorescent yellow, but this time of year, it's glorious.


• The soft, stroking, touch of a hand from someone you care about across your cheek while they smile at something 'cute' you said.


• A barefoot walk on a beach, almost any beach.
• ANY single-malt scotch, cigar, and a good friend talking about nonsense.
• Seeing a rabbit in your backyard.


• A clean pair of white socks. Underwear is a distant second.

Look, life is a freight train screaming right at our noggins. I guess we need to ask ourselves, what are we doing? Are we living to work, finding our identity in the labels we get from each other? Or, are we working to live? Most of us would say the second, but are we really? "Mark, you don't get it, my hours got cut, my wife is sick, my kids are sick, the car broke down...."Yeah, I've been there. I've also said that same exact sentence-still do sometimes.

But when you think about it, is our identity in what we do, since what we do, when we're done doing it, is just handed to someone else or cancelled due to budget cuts?

Here, tell ya what, lets try something. Today, go for a walk, a bike ride, or a simple drive in the car with the windows down-wear a coat if its cold. Throw the dogs in the back seat and let them have their own windows and just go. Stop off at some gooey store and buy a scone or a scone like substance. "Mark, (insert whine) I can't eat that. My doctor said I...." Geezus, quit yer bitchin', are ya French? What's it going to do? Shave a month off your life? I'm not asking you to double-salt your fries, although that sounds pretty good right now. Nope, we're going out for 'socks.'

Some nice, white socks.

Maybe if we're lucky, we'll see a house fire.

Pulling on a Cat's Tail

I love the sound of bag pipes. I like the sound of drums-any kind of drum, bass drums, bongos, Native American drums, USC marching band playing with Fleetwood Mac, just about any marching band, really. Put those two sounds together and I'm marching off to war.

We had a "Cultural Awareness Assembly" at our school yesterday. It was one of those assemblies where student get up on stage and dance, sing, do something from their culture. We are an international school, something like thirty-seven languages are spoken by our students from all over the world, pretty cool. Of course, as I get older, I draw closer to my own ancestry-the Scots. These students don't necessarily need to see another white guy in a dress but I give them a pretty good accent when we're talking about Shakespeare and my theory that he was drunk most of the time, a prime reason why you can't understand half the crap he wrote. London water, terrible in 1604.

So I'm sitting there watching the tribal dancers and eventually, the Hula dancers arrived. Who the hell on our campus is from 'Hula,' I thought to myself. Most of the kids I saw dancing, from the back row I was sitting in, looked like Hispanic kids. Of course, if you put a Hispanic kid next to Polynesian kid, baggy their pants, turn their hats on backwards, and have them say "Wazup?" they would be identical. If they can have suspect Hula dancers, why can't they have the Scots!

I'm sitting there imagining a pipe and drum core marching in and then up the aisle to the stage. Kids would follow them automatically because they couldn't help it. That's just what they did at the Battle of Sterling!! Wait, I think we lost that one, anyway-why can't we?

So, as the sun starts to crack the horizon on another snow-less Phoenix landscape, the beasts are sleeping at my feet, the coffee is oh, so good, and The Royal Dragoon Guards play on the CD, I think today, later after the sun dries the lawn, I will proceed to the yard where I will mow the bonny glen to an even layer to the melodic sound of someone jerking on a cat's tail. Aye, tis a good day for a fight!

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.