When my daughter was born over 20 years ago, I had some very specific prayers for her. I wanted her to be secure in her faith, secure in herself and to never lack anything from me, her father, which would cause her to seek it from someone else. As God planned it, she ended up the only female child set between two males, and her journey to adulthood has been more than fascinating to watch unfold. And God answered my prayers in a fashion that I could not have imagined. (Funny how that happens more often than not.) She is strong, confident and, as a bonus, beautiful (which wasn’t specifically prayed for but was no doubt subconsciously implied). In a logical extension of her development as a human, this past week my wife and I drove her to the airport in Atlanta so she could fly to Italy and begin an internship with an extension campus of Calvary Chapel Bible College, her alma mater. She will be in Montebelluna, near Venice, for several months, assisting the female students at the school, making herself available in whatever areas she is needed—physically as well as spiritually. I say all of this because a) I am quite proud of her and b) it is another step on the inevitable path toward her independence. You might be saying to yourself that she already sounds pretty independent and truer words have not been thought (or muttered if you happen to think out loud). What I am referring to is encased in undiluted selfishness: her independence from me. I know that there will always be a bond between us, that is the way of fathers and daughters, but I am incredibly sensitive to the dynamics of age and transitioning relationships, especially this year. With Hope’s mom in failing health, our youngest child a senior in high school, daughter leaving the country, oldest son chomping at the bit to make his own way, I am faced with examples of the flow of life every day. And it is both dazzling and numbing.
Much has been written about these types of transitions, countless books and articles by wordsmiths that put me to shame, but until you are here, living it out, it comes across as white noise, pretty words for someone else. I am here to tell you that it is real and I currently have so many windows snapping shut around me I am keeping my hands in my pockets for fear of losing a finger. So bear with me as I transition to “the Lord knows what” (and, thankfully, He does know) and occasionally use this forum to work through my angst and confusion. Blogger is so much cheaper than a therapist. And if I keep my fingers intact I should be able to pry open some new windows as they avail themselves, as they inevitably will.
BTW: You can follow my daughter’s newest journey and interesting life through her blog. I make stuff up, she doesn’t have to.
9/08/2008
9/04/2008
Truth in Advertising
I notice that a frequent ad under my clocks widget here on Blogger is about getting a flat stomach. I will try to withhold judgment on the power of Google but they are really starting to scare me...
9/03/2008
Filler
I will admit that this entry is being offered as some form of digital chum until I can get back on a regular schedule for posting. The last few days have been busier than normal (preparing and shipping off your only daughter to a foreign country tends to occupy more than one faculty; she did not deserve a multi-tasking dad over the weekend) so my time has been squeezed. I have started several entries but now need to finish them. (I know, the world does not need any more people who cannot finish; I'm working on it.) Until I get there, here is another old sketchbook doodle, again from my earlier stint with the state. And this sentiment is one of the few that has not changed one iota.
8/26/2008
Greetings!
It has been a few years since I have worked in a large, corporate environment. Most of my jobs have been in small shops where everyone is on a first name basis and the need for badges is nonexistent. One of the peculiarities of an office with several thousand employees is the whispered greeting. I had forgotten about it until I returned to the employ of The Man but I can report it is still very much a part of hall culture. The whispered greeting happens when you pass someone that you do not know in the corridors and the pleasant culture that has been fostered in your workplace necessitates that you smile and offer up some form of greeting. Since you don’t know their name, a generic salutation is all that can be expected so you squeeze out a “hello” or a “hi.” And for some unknown reason it comes out quiet and barely audible. The implied expectation is the greeted will read our lips and, since making no noise would be rude and possibly awkward, we throttle everything back, offer up the minimum and all criteria will be met. This does not apply if you know the person; it is only accepted if you have no idea who the person is and desire to be polite. The whispered greeting seems to be an accepted practice and I do not see it ending any time soon since there is no way I will get to know everyone in this building on a first name basis. (But wouldn’t it be amazing if I did?) The whispered greeting is one step above the head nod but way less cool.
8/25/2008
As promised...
Here is another drawing from an old sketchbook. Now that I examine it I am not sure if it is any less troubling than the previous entry. This one is less depressing, a bit more disturbing, but once you figure it out it's fairly harmless.
Or is it?
"Even my fantasies are disappointing..."*
*(Misspelling corrected in caption)
Or is it?
"Even my fantasies are disappointing..."**(Misspelling corrected in caption)
Blast from the Sketchbook Past
Here is another drawing I found in an old sketchbook. This one is interesting because it was created during my first stint as a state employee several years ago. We can safely assume that I am in a much better emotional state this time around than I was the last. This is called "Waiting for Anything" (in case you can't read the emotionally unstable handwriting on the original). I will post some happier drawings shortly to take the edge off this one. Until then... enjoy!
8/21/2008
Thought Combinations
I was at church and overheard a mother telling another mother about her son's plans for the summer. The conversation ended roughly like this: "And then he is going up to Virginia to visit his grandmother for a couple of weeks. Every summer they have a revival and bring in a child evangelist--and he is ventriloquist!"
I will let you think about that for a second.
Now, I don't know about you but I cannot think of anything I would rather not do as a child than spend a week in a revival led by a child evangelist with a dummy. Heck, I'm not sure I could be polite and fake two days as an adult, much less a week. But just as I start to get all snooty and obnoxious about the whole scenario, I am reminded of the end of the book "Diary of a Country Priest" and the final words of a dying man of the cloth. He has spent his entire, short, adult life working in a small French town and by all indications, he was a failure. But as he lies on his death bed and reaches the end of his life, he has an epiphany. His last words were, "What does it matter? All is grace."
And that stops me from judging, at least for a little while. And it reminds me that God can work through anyone. A child evangelist/ventriloquist. A flamboyant faith healer on TV. A quiet lady behind you in line to buy coffee. A middle-aged graphic designer working for the state. "What does it matter? All is grace."
I will let you think about that for a second.
Now, I don't know about you but I cannot think of anything I would rather not do as a child than spend a week in a revival led by a child evangelist with a dummy. Heck, I'm not sure I could be polite and fake two days as an adult, much less a week. But just as I start to get all snooty and obnoxious about the whole scenario, I am reminded of the end of the book "Diary of a Country Priest" and the final words of a dying man of the cloth. He has spent his entire, short, adult life working in a small French town and by all indications, he was a failure. But as he lies on his death bed and reaches the end of his life, he has an epiphany. His last words were, "What does it matter? All is grace."
And that stops me from judging, at least for a little while. And it reminds me that God can work through anyone. A child evangelist/ventriloquist. A flamboyant faith healer on TV. A quiet lady behind you in line to buy coffee. A middle-aged graphic designer working for the state. "What does it matter? All is grace."
8/19/2008
Entry One Hundred Six: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is thirty-six of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Fifteen
Adam embraced his new diversion with the same enthusiasm he had for his workouts. He developed a routine of getting up early, making sure the house was in order and then sitting at the kitchen table to work on a kit until it was time to go to the gym. His first attempts at putting together the cars and planes were shaky, revealing the unsteady hands of too much coffee and too many cigarettes, but with practice, he gradually became more skilled and the results improved with each finished car or plane. He loved the detail work best of all and found that, when he was concentrating properly, time would get eaten up and he wouldn’t notice how long he had sat in the kitchen working. He had to start setting an alarm to let him know when he should stop and do something else.
He continued his trips to the high school gym and after his workouts he found himself more and more drawn to the cafeteria and its crude map of the United States. He made sure and visit it every day before heading home. It was his personal pilgrimage to an unusual meditation spot. Besides the cafeteria being a great place to smoke a post-workout cigarette, something about the enormity and scope of the map painted on the wall calmed him down. He had no idea why and didn’t try to figure it out; self-analysis seemed such a waste of time. Very few things affected him deeply so he had learned to accept it and enjoy it while it lasted. The trip through the halls to the bowels of the school became part of his schedule and, to that point, the routine was working for him although he suspected it would run its course eventually, just like everything else. All the activities in his life seemed to be working off a cosmic timer, offering relief but only for limited amounts of time. He made efforts to ignore that or at least send it to the edges of his mind, preferring to live in the moment. Any part of the future was too much to grip and any hint of it crawling into his mind caused the chasm in his belly to awaken and remind him of the reality of his situation. He realized it was a form of denial, all of the stuffing and ignoring, but his main motivation was survival and he had made it this far utilizing the Adam Mahoney methodology, which he considered an achievement considering the odds.
It wasn’t long before Adam became proficient creating the models. He built enough of them that he soon discovered a rhythm in the creative process that, when immersed in it, allowed him to finish two or three models per day. His kitchen became a model factory with one part of the table set aside for a completed car, plane or tank to firm up and the breakfast counter reserved for a painted model to dry. All within view of Adam’s current work in progress, scattered in pieces around the rest of the table. His proficiency fed his obsession and he returned to the hobby store weekly, filling the back of his car with saran-wrapped boxes of plastic narcotics. This soon caused an unforeseen problem. The completed arsenal of miniature cars, tanks and planes were beginning to overrun his house. Most of the flat surfaces were covered with his creations and he had resorted to setting some on the floor, out of traffic lanes but still not safe. It was important to him that his work not be cast off and relegated to marginal status, collecting dust and in the way. After all, the models, no matter how small and plastic, were the only things new being created anywhere on the earth. They deserved to be displayed with respect and honor.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Chapter Fifteen
Adam embraced his new diversion with the same enthusiasm he had for his workouts. He developed a routine of getting up early, making sure the house was in order and then sitting at the kitchen table to work on a kit until it was time to go to the gym. His first attempts at putting together the cars and planes were shaky, revealing the unsteady hands of too much coffee and too many cigarettes, but with practice, he gradually became more skilled and the results improved with each finished car or plane. He loved the detail work best of all and found that, when he was concentrating properly, time would get eaten up and he wouldn’t notice how long he had sat in the kitchen working. He had to start setting an alarm to let him know when he should stop and do something else.
He continued his trips to the high school gym and after his workouts he found himself more and more drawn to the cafeteria and its crude map of the United States. He made sure and visit it every day before heading home. It was his personal pilgrimage to an unusual meditation spot. Besides the cafeteria being a great place to smoke a post-workout cigarette, something about the enormity and scope of the map painted on the wall calmed him down. He had no idea why and didn’t try to figure it out; self-analysis seemed such a waste of time. Very few things affected him deeply so he had learned to accept it and enjoy it while it lasted. The trip through the halls to the bowels of the school became part of his schedule and, to that point, the routine was working for him although he suspected it would run its course eventually, just like everything else. All the activities in his life seemed to be working off a cosmic timer, offering relief but only for limited amounts of time. He made efforts to ignore that or at least send it to the edges of his mind, preferring to live in the moment. Any part of the future was too much to grip and any hint of it crawling into his mind caused the chasm in his belly to awaken and remind him of the reality of his situation. He realized it was a form of denial, all of the stuffing and ignoring, but his main motivation was survival and he had made it this far utilizing the Adam Mahoney methodology, which he considered an achievement considering the odds.
It wasn’t long before Adam became proficient creating the models. He built enough of them that he soon discovered a rhythm in the creative process that, when immersed in it, allowed him to finish two or three models per day. His kitchen became a model factory with one part of the table set aside for a completed car, plane or tank to firm up and the breakfast counter reserved for a painted model to dry. All within view of Adam’s current work in progress, scattered in pieces around the rest of the table. His proficiency fed his obsession and he returned to the hobby store weekly, filling the back of his car with saran-wrapped boxes of plastic narcotics. This soon caused an unforeseen problem. The completed arsenal of miniature cars, tanks and planes were beginning to overrun his house. Most of the flat surfaces were covered with his creations and he had resorted to setting some on the floor, out of traffic lanes but still not safe. It was important to him that his work not be cast off and relegated to marginal status, collecting dust and in the way. After all, the models, no matter how small and plastic, were the only things new being created anywhere on the earth. They deserved to be displayed with respect and honor.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
8/18/2008
More Ebb and Flow
This morning, my youngest child began his senior year of high school. This represents a lot of milestones for all of us—my son, my wife and myself. One more year of public school to navigate. One more year of required, supervised education to check off the list. One more homecoming dance. One more prom. One more year of club meetings and fund-raising. One more graduation ceremony. One more year required to live at home. For once, “this time next year” has no shape or form for me. There are myriad possibilities but nothing is in concrete and that is a little bit weird and lot bit exhilarating—for him and us. Of all my children, this one has been shackled by school more than liberated. He has been tugging at the chain for 12 years and he’ll soon get a chance to run free. Sure, there will be new walls, new ditches and new obstacles to navigate but maybe he’ll have a little time to let the chaffing from the collar heal before those become too real.
Lord, I pray blessings on him during the next ten months. May he catch a whiff of the perfect mixture of responsibility and fun. May he find teachers that admire his gifts and encourage their growth. May his heart remain pliable but not too vulnerable. Let there be good surprises along the way and let him know they are from You. May he write new songs that touch Your heart and ours. Reveal a glimpse of his future, a taste that will motivate and inspire. And in the midst of his busy and important schedule, provide him the time (and inclination) to sit and watch a game with his dad a few more times.
Lord, I pray blessings on him during the next ten months. May he catch a whiff of the perfect mixture of responsibility and fun. May he find teachers that admire his gifts and encourage their growth. May his heart remain pliable but not too vulnerable. Let there be good surprises along the way and let him know they are from You. May he write new songs that touch Your heart and ours. Reveal a glimpse of his future, a taste that will motivate and inspire. And in the midst of his busy and important schedule, provide him the time (and inclination) to sit and watch a game with his dad a few more times.
8/15/2008
Casual Friday Freebee
Constantinople is a mighty long word.
Got three more letters than mockingbird.
Artist: John Prine
Song: Morning Train
Album: Fair & Square
Got three more letters than mockingbird.
Artist: John Prine
Song: Morning Train
Album: Fair & Square
8/14/2008
Splainin' Scripture
In an attempt to add to the myth that a picture says a thousand words, I am providing a couple of drawings straight out of my sketchbook for you to study and admire. Inspired by teachings I heard in church, it is up to you to determine whether I was actually listening or not. I tell you what: let's not put the pressure of a thousand words on these mini masterpieces, lets just shackle them with 75 or 80. That would be a total of 160 for both, max. Seems fair. After all, this site is free so you should be feeling generous. Enjoy...
8/12/2008
Venting on Vending
The building here at HSMV has several strategically placed soda and vending machines on every floor as well as a cafeteria on the second floor. I don't pay much attention to the machines because they don't tend to offer the sort of things I like to eat. But they are pretty diverse considering the common denominator of all of the snacks offered is some form of preservative. How diverse? By golly, I am glad you asked. Listed here for your edification and wonder are the contents of the snack machine near the elevators down the hall from my office. (I wonder if it is a coincidence that the snack machines are near the elevators and not near the stairs? Just thinking out loud...)
Top Row: Crunchy Cheetos, Nacho Cheese Doritos, Honey BBQ Frito’s Flavor Twists, Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles, Baked Crunchy Cheetos
Second Row: Lays Classic Potato Chips, Garden Salsa Sun Chips, Hot Fries, Munchos, Knotts Berry Farm’s Raspberry Shortbread Bites
Third Row: Mac’s BBQ Chicharrones (Pork Rinds), Elfin Crackers, Cheez-its, Snyder’s Pretzels, Lemon Crème Cookies
Fourth Row: Snickers, Peanut M&M’s, Twix, 3 Musketeers, Reeses, Chocolate Almond Hershey’s Bar, Original Hershey’s Bar, Kit Kat, Wildly Cherry M&M’s, Spree
Fifth Row: Toastchee Crackers, Nekot Crackers, Malt Crackers, Captain Wafer’s Cream Cheese Crackers, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Lorna Doone Cookies, Salted Peanuts, Beef and Cheese Sticks, Granola Bar
Sixth Row: Strawberry Pop Tart, Rice Krispie Treats, Kiwi Danish, Jumbo Honey Bun, Fruity Snacks
Bottom Row: Dentyne Cinnamon Gum, Dentyne Spearmint Gum, Juicy Fruit, Breathsavers Peppermint, Breathsavers Spearmint
Between Wiggly Man and this list I sense a food theme today. Discuss amongst yourselves.
Top Row: Crunchy Cheetos, Nacho Cheese Doritos, Honey BBQ Frito’s Flavor Twists, Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles, Baked Crunchy Cheetos
Second Row: Lays Classic Potato Chips, Garden Salsa Sun Chips, Hot Fries, Munchos, Knotts Berry Farm’s Raspberry Shortbread Bites
Third Row: Mac’s BBQ Chicharrones (Pork Rinds), Elfin Crackers, Cheez-its, Snyder’s Pretzels, Lemon Crème Cookies
Fourth Row: Snickers, Peanut M&M’s, Twix, 3 Musketeers, Reeses, Chocolate Almond Hershey’s Bar, Original Hershey’s Bar, Kit Kat, Wildly Cherry M&M’s, Spree
Fifth Row: Toastchee Crackers, Nekot Crackers, Malt Crackers, Captain Wafer’s Cream Cheese Crackers, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Lorna Doone Cookies, Salted Peanuts, Beef and Cheese Sticks, Granola Bar
Sixth Row: Strawberry Pop Tart, Rice Krispie Treats, Kiwi Danish, Jumbo Honey Bun, Fruity Snacks
Bottom Row: Dentyne Cinnamon Gum, Dentyne Spearmint Gum, Juicy Fruit, Breathsavers Peppermint, Breathsavers Spearmint
Between Wiggly Man and this list I sense a food theme today. Discuss amongst yourselves.
Another Blast From the Past: Part 2
The following is the second poem and drawing of Wiggly Man. I spent some time trying to figure out if the Wiggly Man poems held some deeper meaning, some hidden gem that would enlighten and speak to us on a latent, spiritual level. Alas, I think they are just nonsense. Sorry about that.
Wiggly Man Redux
Oh, Wiggly Man is
Back in town,
He’s stoppin’
Cause he almost died
From wigglin’ his way
‘Cross the land
And eatin’
Chickens, whole and fried.
His face is shiny,
Belly slack.
Eyes are red
Sorta’ watery.
He spots my hot lunch,
Thinks, “A snack!”
Then eats it
Sans apology.
Wiggly Man Redux
Oh, Wiggly Man is
Back in town,
He’s stoppin’
Cause he almost died
From wigglin’ his way
‘Cross the land
And eatin’
Chickens, whole and fried.
His face is shiny,
Belly slack.
Eyes are red
Sorta’ watery.
He spots my hot lunch,
Thinks, “A snack!”
Then eats it
Sans apology.
8/11/2008
Not sure if I should post this...
... but, dang it, true life can be rather amusing so I present this for either your enjoyment or a personal sociological study on the dangers of undergarments. Today I decided to spend my lunch time downstairs on the Reading Porch here at FLDHSMV. It's not really a Reading Porch but more of a screened in room that is not air conditioned (but has ceiling fans) and is officially called "Smoke Free Room." I don't know if it is because people are allowed to smoke in there although it neither smells of smoke nor has ashtrays. All I know is it is usually empty and I can read a book during lunch undisturbed by the incessant TV's blaring in the cafeteria. After my reading time had ended, I began making my way back to the fourth floor via the stairs (Reading Porch is on the second). About halfway up the stairs I started getting a disturbing sensation that there was something extra in my pants, a wad of something in my underwear. I stopped and tried to retrace any bathroom decisions I had made (or forgot to make) over the course of the morning but nothing came to mind. I slowly made my way to the fourth floor and gingerly stepped into the men's restroom and secured a stall.
I have to admit, I was a bit freaked out about following through with the next step. What in the world was I going to find? I used all my mental powers to keep my imagination from running wild but knew I had to follow through regardless of the outcome. I unbuttoned my pants and started the examination. Much to my relief I found a single sock wadded up in the seat of my boxer briefs. Black on black, hiding but creeping, entirely missed when I pulled them on this morning. I supposed they started in the leg and went exploring as I walked up the steps. Fortunately it was one of my socks which is important since it keeps it in my clothing family. There is no point to this story and no moral. Just a slice of my life real time, shared as it happens. Discuss amongst yourselves...
I have to admit, I was a bit freaked out about following through with the next step. What in the world was I going to find? I used all my mental powers to keep my imagination from running wild but knew I had to follow through regardless of the outcome. I unbuttoned my pants and started the examination. Much to my relief I found a single sock wadded up in the seat of my boxer briefs. Black on black, hiding but creeping, entirely missed when I pulled them on this morning. I supposed they started in the leg and went exploring as I walked up the steps. Fortunately it was one of my socks which is important since it keeps it in my clothing family. There is no point to this story and no moral. Just a slice of my life real time, shared as it happens. Discuss amongst yourselves...
8/08/2008
Another Blast From the Past
The year was 2000 but that probably has nothing to do with what inspired the poetry that bubbled out of me about a dude named Wiggly Man. And it happened on two different occasions. They say all good (and bad) things happen in threes so, since there was never a third poem about Wiggly Man, I will have to assume he is neutral. I share him with you, my dear reader(s), because I ran across these in an old sketchbook recently and I smiled. Figured that made it worth sharing. One today, another one later. Enjoy…
I am the Wiggly Man,
Doin’ my wiggly dance.
Don’t have much of a plan,
But I got’s a wiggly stance.
Wiggly’s a way of life,
It takes a lotsa skill.
Or maybe not becuz
My dermis just won’t stand still
When I starts to giggle,
And grossin’ out the throng,
I wiggle and I jiggle,
And break out in a song.
Fa-la-la-la-laaaaah!
I am the Wiggly Man,
Doin’ my wiggly dance.
Don’t have much of a plan,
But I got’s a wiggly stance.
Wiggly’s a way of life,
It takes a lotsa skill.
Or maybe not becuz
My dermis just won’t stand still
When I starts to giggle,
And grossin’ out the throng,
I wiggle and I jiggle,
And break out in a song.
Fa-la-la-la-laaaaah!
8/07/2008
A Final Word on the Family Reunion (Maybe)
On the drive home yesterday, Hope made an interesting observation. She pointed out that of all the grandkids, only our two boys currently have the opportunity to carry on the Colle name within our branch of the tree. All of the male grandchildren with our last name have only sired girls and all of the boy grandchildren have parents with another last name. I found that very interesting for some reason. And I thought it was incredibly interesting that Hope was the one who noticed. Here’s to William, Jordan (and Kyle!)… good luck!
8/06/2008
Family Reunion Trip: Day Four
Monday, August 04, 2009
Numbered List (using letters)
Numbered List (using letters)
- Breakfast at
- Outstanding once again, plus it is cool having everyone in one room. It gives us all a chance to mingle.
- Tour the property with my parents
- We got a chance to drive up to the lot my parents want to purchase one day. It was a brief tour but it was nice to see the possibilities. Plus the view from there is very impressive.
- Helped serve lunch at our apartment
- Our residence was the lunch room. We had all the fixings for sandwiches, chips, fruit… all in our kitchen which made for a lively couple of hours each day. But a nice chance to chat with everyone as they ate lunch.
- Spent the majority of the day sitting around and visiting
- It was way too hot to do much of anything outside. Hope walked down to the pier to take a ride on the pontoon boat but she walked back because the wait was miserably sweaty.
- Memorial service for Grandy at
- It was a nice chance to get everyone on the Oaks/Minnich side of the family together and reminisce. We buried her ashes in the garden next to the chapel. She died right before her 103rd birthday last spring.
- Dinner at
- The kids were so tired of sandwiches that they borrowed a car and went into town to eat at Wendy’s (which is technically a sandwich but... whatever). Hope and I were not very hungry so we volunteered to baby sit some of the little ones and allow parents to have a quiet dinner at the farmhouse. It was easier than it sounds.
- Praise, worship and sharing time in the chapel 8:30 pm
- Dad led a short time of singing and sharing to cap off the day and the reunion. It was a nice capper.
- End the night playing Wii and enjoying each other one last time before departing
- Kyle and Shannon were last to leave which was a pleasant and fitting ending to the day.
Family Reunion Trip: Link to Photos
Here is a link to my Flikr site with a few pictures. This will have to do until I can finish the updates from the rest of the trip. That may be as soon as tonight but I ain't promising nothing...
Go see the pictures...
Go see the pictures...
8/04/2008
Family Reunion Trip: Day Three
Monday, August 04, 2009
Numbered List
Numbered List
- Breakfast at 8:30 am
- Our family was late but there was plenty of food.
- "Family" meeting at 10:00 am
- There are over 50 of us so it is always interesting when we are all in the same room. Lot's of little kids but it is fun energy.
- "Get to Know Random Family Members Better" Games 10:30 am
- Run by William and Jul and it provided many, many comical, awkward moments.
- Lunch 12:30 am
- Laura and I skipped lunch and borrowed one of the canoes for a 1.5 hour tour of the gigantic lake. William and Jul were out there in a kayak and so we were not alone.
- Free time all afternoon
- We basically laid around and tried to stay cool. The weather is Africa hot and a bit uncomfortable. Even hanging around we get a chance to chat up different relatives we haven't seen in a while so it is the equivalent of a quality at bat--even if we walk.
- Begin the video's, talent and no-talent night along with bar-b-que dinner 5:30 pm
- Lots of tears, sweating, laughing, displays of talent and semi-talent, more sweating, a few more tears and a quality night for mom and dad. They were pleased which means it was a success.
- Back in the rooms for adult beverages and cigars on the porch
- Finally.
8/03/2008
Family Reunion Trip: Entry Two
Sunday, August 03
Bulleted List:
- Started with breakfast in the lobby of the hotel along with a few hundred of our closest friends.
- Rolled north around
- We had to stop at a nasty convenience store so that Hope wouldn’t pee in her pants. We were almost too late but she was able to bend over and take baby steps so she made it.
- We voluntarily stopped at a nasty Arby’s and tried to eat healthy. William refused to play and ordered three Arby Cheddar Melts. His girlfriend was displeased.
- We arrived at Whitestone at three and were greeted by my parents, the 50th anniversary couple. The grounds are beautiful and our room is really nice, large enough for all six of us to hang comfortably.
- Dinner tonight was five courses and really good. More laughing. Loud. Silly. Fun.
- Everyone from our clan is now in our room. Laughing. Loud. Silly. A little wine. A few cigars. Fun.
Family Reunion Trip: Entry One
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Today can be divided into Good and Bad.
Good: Car was packed and we were ready to leave on time.
Bad: Hope wanted to wait on a blanket to finish its cycle in the washing machine so she could put it in the dryer before we left. We left thirty minutes “late.”
Good: The rented van had an auxiliary input which meant I could play my iPod through the stereo.
Bad: No one wanted to listen to my music.
Good: GPS got us to Turner Field in time for the Braves game.
Bad: Traffic around the stadium held us up so long that we didn’t get to our seats until the second inning.
Good: I thought ahead and bought a parking pass on line to save us time.
Bad: The spaces were so tight that it took a group of five people to guide me into the parking space. It didn’t help that the owner of the car next to us stayed to watch me back in and make sure I didn’t scratch his car.
Good: Our friend Ben turned our six dollar bleacher tickets into prime seats, 12 rows behind the Brave’s dugout.
Bad: It was one of the hottest days of the summer and there is no shade in the prime seats, 12 rows behind the Brave’s dugout.
Good: GPS told us that, from the stadium parking lot, we were only 5.2 miles from the brand new H&M store.
Bad: GPS was more confused with the pervasive road construction in Atlanta than we were and our meandering route ended up doubling the ETA.
Good: Found a Chipotle and enjoyed a chicken burrito along with chips, guacamole and a Barq’s root beer.
Bad: Can’t think of anything negative about that.
Good: Hope had accumulated enough Hilton Honor’s points for us to get two free rooms for the night.
Bad: The hotel is hosting three family reunions, one with over 200 people involved, and the entire hotel is hopping. And they are all wearing matching t-shirts. And there is a table in the lobby selling Obama shirts.
Tomorrow: Tennessee
Today can be divided into Good and Bad.
Good: Car was packed and we were ready to leave on time.
Bad: Hope wanted to wait on a blanket to finish its cycle in the washing machine so she could put it in the dryer before we left. We left thirty minutes “late.”
Good: The rented van had an auxiliary input which meant I could play my iPod through the stereo.
Bad: No one wanted to listen to my music.
Good: GPS got us to Turner Field in time for the Braves game.
Bad: Traffic around the stadium held us up so long that we didn’t get to our seats until the second inning.
Good: I thought ahead and bought a parking pass on line to save us time.
Bad: The spaces were so tight that it took a group of five people to guide me into the parking space. It didn’t help that the owner of the car next to us stayed to watch me back in and make sure I didn’t scratch his car.
Good: Our friend Ben turned our six dollar bleacher tickets into prime seats, 12 rows behind the Brave’s dugout.
Bad: It was one of the hottest days of the summer and there is no shade in the prime seats, 12 rows behind the Brave’s dugout.
Good: GPS told us that, from the stadium parking lot, we were only 5.2 miles from the brand new H&M store.
Bad: GPS was more confused with the pervasive road construction in Atlanta than we were and our meandering route ended up doubling the ETA.
Good: Found a Chipotle and enjoyed a chicken burrito along with chips, guacamole and a Barq’s root beer.
Bad: Can’t think of anything negative about that.
Good: Hope had accumulated enough Hilton Honor’s points for us to get two free rooms for the night.
Bad: The hotel is hosting three family reunions, one with over 200 people involved, and the entire hotel is hopping. And they are all wearing matching t-shirts. And there is a table in the lobby selling Obama shirts.
Tomorrow: Tennessee
7/30/2008
You never know...
I wrote the following while I was attending a very important meeting where very important things were being discussed. It is proof why I never have and probably never will get much higher on the corporate ladder.
During the course of the meeting, the buzz of engaged Blackberry’s could be heard above the drone of the individual speakers, like muted cicadas at dusk. Just like that except it was in a conference room and it wasnine a.m. But other than that it was a lot like muted cicadas at dusk.
At least it looked like I was taking notes.
During the course of the meeting, the buzz of engaged Blackberry’s could be heard above the drone of the individual speakers, like muted cicadas at dusk. Just like that except it was in a conference room and it was
At least it looked like I was taking notes.
7/29/2008
Walking Stick
Tonight I was driving through my neighborhood and I spotted an older woman earnestly walking toward me. She was obviously “power walking,” her determination evident in her gait and lean. What was unusual was she had a dowel, probably a broom handle, resting horizontally across her lower back, being held in place by both her arms which were wrapped around it at the elbow. Like a prisoner in shackles (only it was obvious the positioning was self imposed and she could escape whenever she wanted). The interesting thing about the incident is that I immediately understood why she did it. By keeping the stick across her lower back, it made her stand up straight and dissuaded her from slouching. It probably helped her breathing as well as strengthened her core. Plus she could still fend off dogs if needed.
As the explanatory thoughts completed their trudge through my mind, I realized I am old. Elderly people devising wacky ways to stay fit don’t seem to phase me. Ten years ago I would have wondered what the heck that lady was doing. Twenty years ago I would have mocked her. Today, I admired her ingenuity and sent her a silent “kudos.” Heck, maybe in another ten years I’ll have the guts to join her.
7/26/2008
Mr. Goiter: Part Five
This was only funny if you found humor in the thought of the two goiters knocking up against each other and making the two fellows lean away from the center. It was before the internet so I obviously made up the French but lighten up with the criticism... it's only a cartoon.7/25/2008
Mr. Goiter: Part Four
I never considered whether Struma was a fresh water or salt water fish. At least I didn't put him in a pool...7/24/2008
Mr. Goiter, Part Three
I guess the "life work" theme has been with me for a long time. The disinterested dog with the bandanna collar is a puzzling addition. Maybe he thinks Mr. Goiter is contagious...7/23/2008
A little poetry
I read this today. It is just a snippet (the beginning) of a poem written by James Weldon Johnson. He is better known for a song he penned with his brother (for an event for Abraham Lincoln in Jacksonville, Florida) but I read this and thought it was worth sharing. Words, done right, are timeless. Enjoy...
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of Morning blushing in the early skies.
The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face
James Weldon Johnson
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of Morning blushing in the early skies.
The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face
James Weldon Johnson
Mr. Goiter, Part Two
The depth and layers of the "humor" here leave me speechless. But I can still write stuff...7/21/2008
It once was lost…
I was digging through some old boxes of stuff this past weekend, trying to purge some things and take advantage of the job change to reorganize my… well, my stuff. One of the boxes contained a surprise, an assumed long lost folder that contained five ragged sheets of paper I thought I would never see again. Ladies and gentlemen, I found the original drawings of Mr. Goiter.
Mr. Goiter was a character that bubbled out of my brain in 1984 while I was unemployed and interviewing with advertising agencies in Atlanta. It was only five panels but it was inspired. At least I thought so at the time. Over the years I misplaced the drawings and have never quit hoping that I would find them tucked away in some obscure place. And that is exactly what happened. I won’t go so far as to say that it’s a good thing I don’t ever throw anything away but I will say that it is a good thing that I found the obscure place before my wife. She tends to toss first, ask later. Mr. Goiter (and his pet fish Struma), lives!
For a special treat (I realize that is subjective but I will assume specialness until informed otherwise), I am going to present the drawings to you one at a time over the next few days. They are presented as they were drawn, neither edited nor cleaned up, quickly drawn in my sketchbook, sitting in the lobby of an ad agency long ago shut down and forgotten. All added comments are by the author.
The only thing I regret is not making the establishment a “Bar & Gill.” Hard to believe that was drawn 24 years ago…
Mr. Goiter was a character that bubbled out of my brain in 1984 while I was unemployed and interviewing with advertising agencies in Atlanta. It was only five panels but it was inspired. At least I thought so at the time. Over the years I misplaced the drawings and have never quit hoping that I would find them tucked away in some obscure place. And that is exactly what happened. I won’t go so far as to say that it’s a good thing I don’t ever throw anything away but I will say that it is a good thing that I found the obscure place before my wife. She tends to toss first, ask later. Mr. Goiter (and his pet fish Struma), lives!
For a special treat (I realize that is subjective but I will assume specialness until informed otherwise), I am going to present the drawings to you one at a time over the next few days. They are presented as they were drawn, neither edited nor cleaned up, quickly drawn in my sketchbook, sitting in the lobby of an ad agency long ago shut down and forgotten. All added comments are by the author.
The only thing I regret is not making the establishment a “Bar & Gill.” Hard to believe that was drawn 24 years ago…7/20/2008
Reality Review: Hurl!
Warning: This is not one of my typically deep, spiritual, thought-provoking, life-changing posts. Seriously, it's not. I have to take a break every now and then and keep it real...
I finally got the opportunity to catch a couple of episodes of the new show on the G4 channel called "Hurl!" They have been running commercials for it for several weeks (which I see as I feed my "Ninja Warrior" addiction) and it looked to have some promise. The premise is this: five people have to eat a lot of food and then they are put in situations that try to make them vomit. The last person standing who has not lost it is declared the winner.
The first episode I watched had five guys eating macaroni and cheese and then having to survive rolling around in a cage/ball for five minutes. Whoever survived that had to eat pumpkin pies for four minutes and then get back in the cage/balls to get rolled around again. One guy finally hurled when they made them eat more pies while sitting in the cage/balls. The winner gets $1000 in cash and the Iron Stomach Award.
Frankly, I was a little disappointed. For one, you don't get to see the people actually barf. They cover it with a graphic of little buckets that is supposed to show how intense it is (three buckets, five buckets, etc.). The other problem was there were no girls playing. Both shows I have seen have had all male contestants. What ever happened to Title IX! I demand equal time not because I am fair or have a keen sense of justice but because watching girls throw up is a lot funnier than watching dudes. Pretty simple, really.
Two Buckets: Watch it if you want (but you will need to use your imagination).
I finally got the opportunity to catch a couple of episodes of the new show on the G4 channel called "Hurl!" They have been running commercials for it for several weeks (which I see as I feed my "Ninja Warrior" addiction) and it looked to have some promise. The premise is this: five people have to eat a lot of food and then they are put in situations that try to make them vomit. The last person standing who has not lost it is declared the winner.
The first episode I watched had five guys eating macaroni and cheese and then having to survive rolling around in a cage/ball for five minutes. Whoever survived that had to eat pumpkin pies for four minutes and then get back in the cage/balls to get rolled around again. One guy finally hurled when they made them eat more pies while sitting in the cage/balls. The winner gets $1000 in cash and the Iron Stomach Award.
Frankly, I was a little disappointed. For one, you don't get to see the people actually barf. They cover it with a graphic of little buckets that is supposed to show how intense it is (three buckets, five buckets, etc.). The other problem was there were no girls playing. Both shows I have seen have had all male contestants. What ever happened to Title IX! I demand equal time not because I am fair or have a keen sense of justice but because watching girls throw up is a lot funnier than watching dudes. Pretty simple, really.
Two Buckets: Watch it if you want (but you will need to use your imagination).
7/18/2008
Friday Report
I started a new job today. Odd starting on a Friday but it does get the whole first day drama out of the way so you can start the next week clean. I have had many a "first day at the new job" in my active work history and, to be honest, every time I really do think it will be the last one. But this new chapter is in front of me and the first bold step is out of the way. New surroundings, new people, new situations. I pray the stories continue to reveal themselves and that I can put them into words...
7/16/2008
Food Musings
I eat a lot of frozen, pre-packaged meals for lunch. Smart Ones, Lean Cuisine, Healthy Choice... I've tried them all and have been eating them for years. One thing I have noticed is they smell better than they taste. If I was unfortunate enough to have had my nostrils seared shut by a blast of hot steam or a toxic chemical, my guess is I would not enjoy the little lunches as much as I do now.
(Wait a second. I don't really enjoy them. I would much rather be eating Chick-fil-a or sushi every day for lunch but budget and waistline constraints do not allow that to happen. Let's just say I appreciate the fact that I can get somewhat satisfactory meals for a pretty cheap price and that makes them palatable. I should run for office...)
The one thing that would really suck is if I could not heat them up in a microwave oven. They still print instructions on the boxes for heating the meals in a conventional oven and it takes 35 minutes! I feel really bad for people without access to a microwave oven (maybe a little worse than how I feel bad for me not owning an iPhone). I cannot imagine the disappointment one would feel after waiting over half an hour to eat ginger garlic stir fry with chicken and realize the kitchen smells better than the taste of the paste in the plastic bowl. There is no point here, people. I'm just saying...
(Wait a second. I don't really enjoy them. I would much rather be eating Chick-fil-a or sushi every day for lunch but budget and waistline constraints do not allow that to happen. Let's just say I appreciate the fact that I can get somewhat satisfactory meals for a pretty cheap price and that makes them palatable. I should run for office...)
The one thing that would really suck is if I could not heat them up in a microwave oven. They still print instructions on the boxes for heating the meals in a conventional oven and it takes 35 minutes! I feel really bad for people without access to a microwave oven (maybe a little worse than how I feel bad for me not owning an iPhone). I cannot imagine the disappointment one would feel after waiting over half an hour to eat ginger garlic stir fry with chicken and realize the kitchen smells better than the taste of the paste in the plastic bowl. There is no point here, people. I'm just saying...
7/15/2008
“It’s a bad night to be an atheist...”
Last night I had the privilege of watching a wonderful story unfold at, of all places, the home run derby at the Major League Baseball All-Star game. The first round provided all viewers—at home or in Yankee stadium—with a remarkable display of skill and power as Josh Hamilton hit 28 home runs, at least three of them over 500 feet. “So what?” you may be asking. Well, Josh Hamilton’s story is a lot bigger than baseball. Follow this link for more detail in his own words or this link for a long article in Sports Illustrated. Read on for a synopsis.
In 1999, Josh, a high school senior, was the first player chosen in the MLB amateur draft. He was a “five tool player” and considered by many professional scouts to be “the best baseball player I’ve ever seen.” Instead of fulfilling his potential, he unbelievably squandered everything by abusing drugs and alcohol until he was eventually kicked out of baseball. His path was ugly and his spiral down was harsh. But he came out of it. With a lot of family support and a renewed relationship with Jesus, he overcame his addictions and was eventually reinstated into baseball. This year he is an All-Star and last night his hitting display left everyone speechless (except Joe Morgan, but that is another bone to pick for another day).
Two things stood out to me last night. One, he chose his 71 year old former American Legion coach to pitch to him during the competition. To share the stage at that moment had to be a thrill for him and even though he threw over 80 pitches during the night (and may never recover), you could sense the moment was very special to both of them. The second thing that jumped out to me was the statement by Rick Reilly, one of the talking heads on ESPN (who just started at the four letter network after a long career at SI). During the first round onslaught he mentioned where Josh came from and how remarkable it was. He was a “former heroin and cocaine user, three years out of baseball, has a spiritual rebirth and is now hitting bombs in Yankee Stadium with all the fans chanting his name. It’s a bad night to be an atheist.” I can’t add to that...
In 1999, Josh, a high school senior, was the first player chosen in the MLB amateur draft. He was a “five tool player” and considered by many professional scouts to be “the best baseball player I’ve ever seen.” Instead of fulfilling his potential, he unbelievably squandered everything by abusing drugs and alcohol until he was eventually kicked out of baseball. His path was ugly and his spiral down was harsh. But he came out of it. With a lot of family support and a renewed relationship with Jesus, he overcame his addictions and was eventually reinstated into baseball. This year he is an All-Star and last night his hitting display left everyone speechless (except Joe Morgan, but that is another bone to pick for another day).
Two things stood out to me last night. One, he chose his 71 year old former American Legion coach to pitch to him during the competition. To share the stage at that moment had to be a thrill for him and even though he threw over 80 pitches during the night (and may never recover), you could sense the moment was very special to both of them. The second thing that jumped out to me was the statement by Rick Reilly, one of the talking heads on ESPN (who just started at the four letter network after a long career at SI). During the first round onslaught he mentioned where Josh came from and how remarkable it was. He was a “former heroin and cocaine user, three years out of baseball, has a spiritual rebirth and is now hitting bombs in Yankee Stadium with all the fans chanting his name. It’s a bad night to be an atheist.” I can’t add to that...
7/14/2008
Entry One Hundred Five: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is thirty-five of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
The weather had started to cool and Adam, unsure of the date, had to wear a sweatshirt for the first time when he drove to the gym. He had lost track of the month and day of the week during his movie induced trauma time on the sofa and had never been concerned about getting caught up. There didn’t seem to be a need. Adopting a primitive mindset, he reasoned he would adjust his clothes as the days presented themselves. He decided to take the long way to the school, winding his way through the downtown area, a route he had been driving more frequently over the last few weeks. The deserted downtown didn’t disturb him as much as it used to and he even derived some pleasure and comfort from seeing the places he had grown up patronizing as a child and young man. He felt much older than his actual 32 years but that only bothered him after a workout or during a severe bout of melancholy, struggling to stem the gnawing in his gut. If he stayed busy he could live in the present, forgetting the past and ignoring the future, but the slow glides down the main drag in town were different, affecting him on a distinct level. He couldn’t nail down why and eventually decided to quit trying, enjoying the moment for whatever it was offering.
As he came to the end of the street he glanced toward his right and saw a store he had completely forgotten about. The Blue Bell Hobby Shop was in the exact same real estate it had occupied for as long as he could remember but he had no recollection of it for the same reason; it had always been there and had become just another door in the downtown landscape. He stopped the car and walked to the window, looking at all of the rockets, planes and kits displayed for no one but him to see. The diversity of activities on exhibit was mesmerizing, revealing wider options of pursuits than he realized existed. He ran back to his car, grabbed his tire iron and knocked out the window pane on the door, shattering the painted name of the store but allowing him to enter easily. There was no alarm so he started browsing immediately, looking and learning, hoping something would capture his interest.
The amount of merchandise was impressive, especially since the store was not very big. The owners of the Blue Bell Hobby Shop ignored all established store display conventions and had created their own aesthetic based on high volume and low mobility. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, all completely full of boxes of varying shapes, rimmed the store. The center of the shop was intersected by three rows of similarly stocked shelves leaving a body-width moat for navigation. “Damn, where to begin?” Adam was a little overwhelmed but he decided to start down the aisle closest to him—aisle one, he guessed— and see if anything piqued his interest.
He got lucky at the end of the first row. What grabbed him and sucked him in was the section with boxes of model planes and cars. When he entered that area he was transported and immediately felt the excitement he had experienced as a young boy, clutching his few dollars, needing to make the right choice because he only had enough money for one model. If he chose poorly, it would be a couple of weeks of disappointment and saving his allowance before he could return and choose again. Now there were no limits and the choices were mind boggling. A 1966 Ford Galaxie was stacked next to a 1972 Chevelle SS. The General Lee on top of a 1965 El Camino. The shelves were tightly packed, filled with any and every make of car he had ever heard of and some he hadn’t. And there were planes and tanks as well, ripe for his picking, any and all that he desired. He ran to the front of the store and found shopping baskets, red with metal handles, stacked in columns by the front door. He grabbed a couple of them and returned to the models, filling both with as many boxes as would fit. He took that load and deposited them into the back seat of the Volvo then returned to gather more. After three trips to the car he decided he had enough to keep him occupied for some time so he then made one last trip to gather paints, glue and miscellaneous supplies, making sure he had enough so he would not have to return to the store any time soon. He sat in the car long enough to light a cigarette, adjusting the rear view mirror so he could admire the cargo in the back seat. “Hello, hobby. You got here just in time.”
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
The weather had started to cool and Adam, unsure of the date, had to wear a sweatshirt for the first time when he drove to the gym. He had lost track of the month and day of the week during his movie induced trauma time on the sofa and had never been concerned about getting caught up. There didn’t seem to be a need. Adopting a primitive mindset, he reasoned he would adjust his clothes as the days presented themselves. He decided to take the long way to the school, winding his way through the downtown area, a route he had been driving more frequently over the last few weeks. The deserted downtown didn’t disturb him as much as it used to and he even derived some pleasure and comfort from seeing the places he had grown up patronizing as a child and young man. He felt much older than his actual 32 years but that only bothered him after a workout or during a severe bout of melancholy, struggling to stem the gnawing in his gut. If he stayed busy he could live in the present, forgetting the past and ignoring the future, but the slow glides down the main drag in town were different, affecting him on a distinct level. He couldn’t nail down why and eventually decided to quit trying, enjoying the moment for whatever it was offering.
As he came to the end of the street he glanced toward his right and saw a store he had completely forgotten about. The Blue Bell Hobby Shop was in the exact same real estate it had occupied for as long as he could remember but he had no recollection of it for the same reason; it had always been there and had become just another door in the downtown landscape. He stopped the car and walked to the window, looking at all of the rockets, planes and kits displayed for no one but him to see. The diversity of activities on exhibit was mesmerizing, revealing wider options of pursuits than he realized existed. He ran back to his car, grabbed his tire iron and knocked out the window pane on the door, shattering the painted name of the store but allowing him to enter easily. There was no alarm so he started browsing immediately, looking and learning, hoping something would capture his interest.
The amount of merchandise was impressive, especially since the store was not very big. The owners of the Blue Bell Hobby Shop ignored all established store display conventions and had created their own aesthetic based on high volume and low mobility. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, all completely full of boxes of varying shapes, rimmed the store. The center of the shop was intersected by three rows of similarly stocked shelves leaving a body-width moat for navigation. “Damn, where to begin?” Adam was a little overwhelmed but he decided to start down the aisle closest to him—aisle one, he guessed— and see if anything piqued his interest.
He got lucky at the end of the first row. What grabbed him and sucked him in was the section with boxes of model planes and cars. When he entered that area he was transported and immediately felt the excitement he had experienced as a young boy, clutching his few dollars, needing to make the right choice because he only had enough money for one model. If he chose poorly, it would be a couple of weeks of disappointment and saving his allowance before he could return and choose again. Now there were no limits and the choices were mind boggling. A 1966 Ford Galaxie was stacked next to a 1972 Chevelle SS. The General Lee on top of a 1965 El Camino. The shelves were tightly packed, filled with any and every make of car he had ever heard of and some he hadn’t. And there were planes and tanks as well, ripe for his picking, any and all that he desired. He ran to the front of the store and found shopping baskets, red with metal handles, stacked in columns by the front door. He grabbed a couple of them and returned to the models, filling both with as many boxes as would fit. He took that load and deposited them into the back seat of the Volvo then returned to gather more. After three trips to the car he decided he had enough to keep him occupied for some time so he then made one last trip to gather paints, glue and miscellaneous supplies, making sure he had enough so he would not have to return to the store any time soon. He sat in the car long enough to light a cigarette, adjusting the rear view mirror so he could admire the cargo in the back seat. “Hello, hobby. You got here just in time.”
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
7/10/2008
Best Seller?
I just finished reading “The Ground Beneath Her Feet: A Novel” by Salman Rushdie. It was a very good book, not a fast read, but one I enjoyed digging through. I noticed on the cover that it was a New York Times Bestseller. I read a lot of books. Some bestsellers, most not. At the risk of sounding like a snob, I find this “best seller” info hard to believe. Actually, it’s not hard to believe because the list is based on book sales and, supposedly, concrete data to determine who makes it. I guess what I have trouble believing is that everyone that bought the book read it. It is dense and full of word play, subtle metaphors and a whole bunch of things I have no doubt I missed. It just didn’t seem like the typical “best seller” fare. Most best sellers are non-fiction “tell alls” or “tell me hows” and, if they’re fiction, they are suspenseful spy novels or chick-lit. Given the fact that the book was published in 1999, does that mean that we used to read this heavier stuff in large enough numbers to register as a best seller? Or did a whole lot folks buy it because of the author’s name and never actually got around to reading it? It just confuses me and I had to say something. So there.
7/08/2008
Back and Breathing
I had a wonderful three day weekend. My parent's were in town and having adult children makes for a more relaxed dynamic with meals and visiting. The kids can sit and talk to their grandparents and that is considered entertainment. For a little while, anyway. The night still calls with the promise of movies and friends but we are willing to let them go because they have done their time with us and done it well. There was a lot of laughing and a lot of eating so I must consider the three days a success.
I want to mention one milestone that passed on Friday. July 4th marked the tenth anniversary of living in our current home. When we moved in the kids were twelve, ten and six so a lot of family history has transpired within those walls. And it is still a comfortable, pleasant place to hang out. Hope and I haven't had any serious desires to leave and as each kid moves on, the place gets a little bigger. I suppose more chances to entertain and more time to chill on the Man Porch await us still. Here's to another ten...
I want to mention one milestone that passed on Friday. July 4th marked the tenth anniversary of living in our current home. When we moved in the kids were twelve, ten and six so a lot of family history has transpired within those walls. And it is still a comfortable, pleasant place to hang out. Hope and I haven't had any serious desires to leave and as each kid moves on, the place gets a little bigger. I suppose more chances to entertain and more time to chill on the Man Porch await us still. Here's to another ten...
7/02/2008
Ruminations from The Road (Final Entry)
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Nine
I would like to finish up this series of posts with a few photographs I liked but couldn't work in elsewhere. I hope the captions provide enough explanation but, if not, make up something. It will probably be better than what actually happened...
My brother consuming a cold burrito purchased at a convenience store at 11 p.m. When I asked him if he wanted to heat it up he waved me off and said, "It gets all mushy and soft when you do that." God bless preservatives.
Our Native American waitress serving us food prepared by an Asian cook in a Denny's in a very small town in Arizona. God bless America.
A typical landscape in Texas and Oklahoma (including the truck). God bless the folks that think we are running out of room.
The first family portrait on the porch of the new house in the new town starting the new job. God bless this family...
Entry Nine
I would like to finish up this series of posts with a few photographs I liked but couldn't work in elsewhere. I hope the captions provide enough explanation but, if not, make up something. It will probably be better than what actually happened...
My brother consuming a cold burrito purchased at a convenience store at 11 p.m. When I asked him if he wanted to heat it up he waved me off and said, "It gets all mushy and soft when you do that." God bless preservatives.
Our Native American waitress serving us food prepared by an Asian cook in a Denny's in a very small town in Arizona. God bless America.
A typical landscape in Texas and Oklahoma (including the truck). God bless the folks that think we are running out of room.
The first family portrait on the porch of the new house in the new town starting the new job. God bless this family...Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Eight
Kyle dropped me off at the St. Louis airport Sunday morning so I could begin my long day traveling home. My flight had a scheduled layover in Tampa before delivering me to Jacksonville where I would then drive the two (plus) hours home to Tallahassee. The small airport was a madhouse. People were finding any place they could to sit, lie down or lean against a wall. I walked to my gate, made sure the flight was still on time and began my search for a place to wait the hour before boarding.
All airports have one annoying characteristic that I would love to know the origins of: they all blare CNN 24/7 in the waiting areas. (What is this, 1984? Do we have no choice but to listen to the announcements of Oceania? I do not understand why they can’t have a Bloomburg-type screen broken into quadrants, quietly displaying news, sports scores and Wall Street tickers. Unobtrusive yet informative. But I digress...) This particular morning in this particular airport the televisions were loud. So loud that there was no fringe area to get away from the blasting of Sunday morning talking heads. And this particular morning they were discussing the economy and the near “recession” and our countries inevitable stumble toward “another depression.” I looked around. There were no seats in the airport and barely any floor space. This was the fourth airport I had been in over the last week and every airport was just as busy. The irony was not lost on me. (Besides, I was no economics major but I know that a recession happens when the country suffers two straight months of negative economic growth. We haven’t even had one yet... but I rant. There is more to the story and I should get on with it before I burst into flames.)
The more the heads on the television yelled their inane commentary, the more aggravated I got so, instead of yelling at the screen (like I do at home), I pulled out my iPod, popped in my earphones and got lost in some music of my choosing. At eleven a.m., I noticed the line forming at my gate, preparing for my flight that departed at 11:20. I put my things away, found my boarding pass and queued up, entered the plane and found a seat in the back. (It was a Southwest flight—no assigned seats). I was jarred from my usual ignoring of the mundane pre-flight rituals of the airline staff when they welcomed all of us to “Southwest flight 85 to Louisville.” What? I looked around and no one else seemed alarmed at this news. Unfortunately, the door was closed and we were preparing for departure. I was heading to Kentucky and it was CNN’s fault!
Apparently there had been an announcement in the terminal about a different flight using our gate and I had missed it trying to drown out the babbling T.V. I eventually found out the flight was going from Louisville to Tampa so at least I would end up in Florida at some point. Minimally, that helped quell the panic. After we landed in Louisville, I confessed to an airline attendant my mistake and, at first, she seemed nonplussed, assuring me that we would be landing in Tampa in time for my connecting flight to Jacksonville but she would double check for me before we departed. Then the ramifications of what happened seemed to finally reach her brain and she realized that I had just flown on a completely full flight, had my boarding pass scanned, occupied a seat and not one Southwest employee seemed to notice. She asked to see my boarding pass and then had me wait as she scurried off to pow wow with other personnel on the plane. She returned and quizzed me some more about “how I got on the plane” and I finally said, “Listen, you guys can have a staff meeting about your security issues tomorrow. I just need to know if I can make my connecting flight to Jacksonville.” She assured me I would and I hurriedly found an empty seat in the bulkhead before the new passengers started scrambling for seats. I wanted to be first off the plane when it landed. I was ready to get home.
This photo of the dogs displaying Penelope's balletic urinating stance has nothing to do with this post. Or does it?...
Entry Eight
Kyle dropped me off at the St. Louis airport Sunday morning so I could begin my long day traveling home. My flight had a scheduled layover in Tampa before delivering me to Jacksonville where I would then drive the two (plus) hours home to Tallahassee. The small airport was a madhouse. People were finding any place they could to sit, lie down or lean against a wall. I walked to my gate, made sure the flight was still on time and began my search for a place to wait the hour before boarding.
All airports have one annoying characteristic that I would love to know the origins of: they all blare CNN 24/7 in the waiting areas. (What is this, 1984? Do we have no choice but to listen to the announcements of Oceania? I do not understand why they can’t have a Bloomburg-type screen broken into quadrants, quietly displaying news, sports scores and Wall Street tickers. Unobtrusive yet informative. But I digress...) This particular morning in this particular airport the televisions were loud. So loud that there was no fringe area to get away from the blasting of Sunday morning talking heads. And this particular morning they were discussing the economy and the near “recession” and our countries inevitable stumble toward “another depression.” I looked around. There were no seats in the airport and barely any floor space. This was the fourth airport I had been in over the last week and every airport was just as busy. The irony was not lost on me. (Besides, I was no economics major but I know that a recession happens when the country suffers two straight months of negative economic growth. We haven’t even had one yet... but I rant. There is more to the story and I should get on with it before I burst into flames.)
The more the heads on the television yelled their inane commentary, the more aggravated I got so, instead of yelling at the screen (like I do at home), I pulled out my iPod, popped in my earphones and got lost in some music of my choosing. At eleven a.m., I noticed the line forming at my gate, preparing for my flight that departed at 11:20. I put my things away, found my boarding pass and queued up, entered the plane and found a seat in the back. (It was a Southwest flight—no assigned seats). I was jarred from my usual ignoring of the mundane pre-flight rituals of the airline staff when they welcomed all of us to “Southwest flight 85 to Louisville.” What? I looked around and no one else seemed alarmed at this news. Unfortunately, the door was closed and we were preparing for departure. I was heading to Kentucky and it was CNN’s fault!
Apparently there had been an announcement in the terminal about a different flight using our gate and I had missed it trying to drown out the babbling T.V. I eventually found out the flight was going from Louisville to Tampa so at least I would end up in Florida at some point. Minimally, that helped quell the panic. After we landed in Louisville, I confessed to an airline attendant my mistake and, at first, she seemed nonplussed, assuring me that we would be landing in Tampa in time for my connecting flight to Jacksonville but she would double check for me before we departed. Then the ramifications of what happened seemed to finally reach her brain and she realized that I had just flown on a completely full flight, had my boarding pass scanned, occupied a seat and not one Southwest employee seemed to notice. She asked to see my boarding pass and then had me wait as she scurried off to pow wow with other personnel on the plane. She returned and quizzed me some more about “how I got on the plane” and I finally said, “Listen, you guys can have a staff meeting about your security issues tomorrow. I just need to know if I can make my connecting flight to Jacksonville.” She assured me I would and I hurriedly found an empty seat in the bulkhead before the new passengers started scrambling for seats. I wanted to be first off the plane when it landed. I was ready to get home.
This photo of the dogs displaying Penelope's balletic urinating stance has nothing to do with this post. Or does it?...6/30/2008
Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Seven
Our goal on day two was to make it to Oklahoma City. Kyle wanted to spend the night in a decent hotel, eat a good steak and then smoke a cigar—all designed to give ourselves a reward for a hard day of driving. Naturally, I was on board with every aspect of his plan. As we approached Oklahoma City, we decided to get to the eastern side of town before we stopped so that we would not get stuck in any traffic on our way out the next morning. It was, unfortunately, one plan too many. As we looped around the city limits I noticed we had suddenly, with no warning, been dumped on to a toll road. This particular road was completely void of civilization: no restaurants, no hotels and no discernible exit for over 50 miles. When we finally transitioned from the toll road we were only thirty miles from Tulsa so we decided to wait and stop there. Adjusting our plans would prove our maturity and inner strength.
We spotted an intersection that seemed to have a lot going on so we pulled in to secure room and board. The only hotel option was a Super 8 Motel and they only had one room remaining—a non-smoking room with two beds. And they accepted dogs. It was soon clear why they there was only one room available—this particular motel seemed to be a very popular layover for truckers. The parking lot was full of tractor rigs (the kind that pull 18 wheel trailers) and we had trouble finding a place to park. Walking past all of the loitering truckers with two poodles in tow did not cause quite the stir I had anticipated. This was fortunate because our room was located next to the laundry room and there was a group of truckers doing laundry all night long, leaning on the fence overlooking the “pool” (don’t ask), drinking and smoking cigarettes.
Our room reeked of cigarettes proving that being surrounded by smoking rooms is the equivalent of being in a smoking room. By the time we got settled it was late and we were not real high on our prospects of finding a restaurant open at 10:30 p.m. Instead of a nice juicy steak and a glass of wine we enjoyed a hot meal at The Village Inn. Standing in front of our room to smoke a cigar seemed, well, dangerous, so we skipped that part of the plan as well. It was not the night we had anticipated but, frankly, living to check out the next day seemed like a monumental accomplishment so we took our victory as it was presented.
The hotel parking lot at night.
Entry Seven
Our goal on day two was to make it to Oklahoma City. Kyle wanted to spend the night in a decent hotel, eat a good steak and then smoke a cigar—all designed to give ourselves a reward for a hard day of driving. Naturally, I was on board with every aspect of his plan. As we approached Oklahoma City, we decided to get to the eastern side of town before we stopped so that we would not get stuck in any traffic on our way out the next morning. It was, unfortunately, one plan too many. As we looped around the city limits I noticed we had suddenly, with no warning, been dumped on to a toll road. This particular road was completely void of civilization: no restaurants, no hotels and no discernible exit for over 50 miles. When we finally transitioned from the toll road we were only thirty miles from Tulsa so we decided to wait and stop there. Adjusting our plans would prove our maturity and inner strength.
We spotted an intersection that seemed to have a lot going on so we pulled in to secure room and board. The only hotel option was a Super 8 Motel and they only had one room remaining—a non-smoking room with two beds. And they accepted dogs. It was soon clear why they there was only one room available—this particular motel seemed to be a very popular layover for truckers. The parking lot was full of tractor rigs (the kind that pull 18 wheel trailers) and we had trouble finding a place to park. Walking past all of the loitering truckers with two poodles in tow did not cause quite the stir I had anticipated. This was fortunate because our room was located next to the laundry room and there was a group of truckers doing laundry all night long, leaning on the fence overlooking the “pool” (don’t ask), drinking and smoking cigarettes.
Our room reeked of cigarettes proving that being surrounded by smoking rooms is the equivalent of being in a smoking room. By the time we got settled it was late and we were not real high on our prospects of finding a restaurant open at 10:30 p.m. Instead of a nice juicy steak and a glass of wine we enjoyed a hot meal at The Village Inn. Standing in front of our room to smoke a cigar seemed, well, dangerous, so we skipped that part of the plan as well. It was not the night we had anticipated but, frankly, living to check out the next day seemed like a monumental accomplishment so we took our victory as it was presented.
The hotel parking lot at night.6/29/2008
Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Six
Every trip needs at least one scary moment, one (mis)adventure that can be embellished and exaggerated over time to mythical proportions. Outside of the hotel choices which cannot be considered for this category strictly because they were choices, Kyle and I’s big moment came a few miles outside of Amarillo, Texas the afternoon of our second day on the road. I was driving, admiring the gigantic wind turbines that stretch across the otherwise flat landscape of the panhandle of Texas when the northern sky started changing from light blue to purple. It seemed safely in the distance so we weren’t concerned, especially since the southern sky to our right was still clear and cloudless. That didn’t last long. The buildup was quick and it wasn’t long before we knew we were headed into a major storm. By the time the wind hit us and tried to push us off the road we were between exits and committed. Soon we started getting pelted by waves of rain and I felt like we had just entered the rinse cycle of a car wash. The visibility was measured in feet and I had to use all my aging faculties to keep us on the road. I could see the yellow line at the front left edge of the car so I used that as my north star. Then came the hail. It arrived in swells, leaving for a few minutes only to return and pound us some more. Our first thought was our own personal safety followed closely by, “What is this hail doing to the outside of this brand new car?” (Sorry dad, not once did either of us say, “Aw, hail!”.) I glanced over at Kyle and he was alternating between rubbing his temples and pinching the bridge of his nose. I guessed he was trying to push the visions from his brain of a brand new Cadillac DTS with a “golf ball” exterior but I’m not sure it was working. There was no place to pull over, no underpass under which to seek refuge; we were in it to the end but the end was slow in arriving.
Of course we eventually drove out of it. I have no idea how long the storm lasted. It felt like three days to us but it probably was no more than 30 minutes. When we were finally safely under blue skies again, we pulled off the interstate and bucked up our courage to look at the destruction. Miraculously the exterior was perfect, not a ding or bump. The only damage incurred was the plastic under-plate next to the front left wheel had been beaten to the point of breaking loose and was dragging on the ground. Kyle bought some plastic ties, cinched it up and we were back on our way. Granted, not an incredible, life-changing adventure but it will always be our adventure. Let the embellishing begin...
Maybe we should have seen it coming...
Entry Six
Every trip needs at least one scary moment, one (mis)adventure that can be embellished and exaggerated over time to mythical proportions. Outside of the hotel choices which cannot be considered for this category strictly because they were choices, Kyle and I’s big moment came a few miles outside of Amarillo, Texas the afternoon of our second day on the road. I was driving, admiring the gigantic wind turbines that stretch across the otherwise flat landscape of the panhandle of Texas when the northern sky started changing from light blue to purple. It seemed safely in the distance so we weren’t concerned, especially since the southern sky to our right was still clear and cloudless. That didn’t last long. The buildup was quick and it wasn’t long before we knew we were headed into a major storm. By the time the wind hit us and tried to push us off the road we were between exits and committed. Soon we started getting pelted by waves of rain and I felt like we had just entered the rinse cycle of a car wash. The visibility was measured in feet and I had to use all my aging faculties to keep us on the road. I could see the yellow line at the front left edge of the car so I used that as my north star. Then came the hail. It arrived in swells, leaving for a few minutes only to return and pound us some more. Our first thought was our own personal safety followed closely by, “What is this hail doing to the outside of this brand new car?” (Sorry dad, not once did either of us say, “Aw, hail!”.) I glanced over at Kyle and he was alternating between rubbing his temples and pinching the bridge of his nose. I guessed he was trying to push the visions from his brain of a brand new Cadillac DTS with a “golf ball” exterior but I’m not sure it was working. There was no place to pull over, no underpass under which to seek refuge; we were in it to the end but the end was slow in arriving.
Of course we eventually drove out of it. I have no idea how long the storm lasted. It felt like three days to us but it probably was no more than 30 minutes. When we were finally safely under blue skies again, we pulled off the interstate and bucked up our courage to look at the destruction. Miraculously the exterior was perfect, not a ding or bump. The only damage incurred was the plastic under-plate next to the front left wheel had been beaten to the point of breaking loose and was dragging on the ground. Kyle bought some plastic ties, cinched it up and we were back on our way. Granted, not an incredible, life-changing adventure but it will always be our adventure. Let the embellishing begin...
Maybe we should have seen it coming...6/27/2008
Entry One Hundred Four: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is thirty-three of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Fourteen
To stave off the omnipresent boredom and help ignore the ache in his gut, Adam began to branch out of his routine, trying things that only made sense in his unique situation. He broke into his neighbor’s houses, poked around in their belongings and sat on their furniture. At first he was afraid he’d find something alarming but soon realized everyone on his street was just as boring as Adam Mahoney. The one good thing about his adventures into their homes was he was able to find more supplies that kept him from having to visit the IGA again. He procured enough frozen meat and vegetables to keep him nourished for two weeks after his supplies started running thin. But everything about it wasn’t positive. After some time he limited the break-ins to need, less out of respect for the long-gone and more out of a desire to not be confronted by all of the family photographs lining walls, dressers and tables. They were painful reminders, ones that tore into him with an ache that refused to dull with time. He needed to stay busy but he was sure he could find things to do that didn’t require trips down Memory Lane.
Another activity he added to his routine was taking DVD’s to Sears and watching them on the big screen televisions in their showroom. He found a comfortable, leather recliner in the furniture section of the store and dragged it in front of the biggest TV, enjoying a movie or two without the worry that he would fall back into his earlier sluggard routine, something he did not want to repeat. It was strange the first time he tried it, sitting all alone in the aisle of a large department store, but the excitement of watching movies on a larger screen in High Definition quickly usurped the oddness of it all and he allowed himself to enjoy the movie with no lingering emotional side affects. There were no lines in the bathroom and he could stop and start the movie when necessary, which he did occasionally to ride a scooter he had absconded from the toy department across the linoleum floors and through the aisles. He eventually added speakers to the large television and created his own home theatre with surround sound. The movies were a diversion he allowed himself twice per week, limiting himself merely to save its novelty. If this was his life he had to stretch out new activities as long as he could, whether it be passive movie-watching or an engaging hobby.
Adam had always wanted a hobby; something he could work on in his off time between his job and eating. He’d never endeavored to start one and now that he had more than enough free time he made a concentrated effort to come up with something to collect or create. Like most kids, he had built model cars and collected baseball cards but it wasn’t an obsession; just something to do with his friends. Most of the cards ended up as flaps clipped to the wheels of his bicycle and discarded when they wore down and didn’t make enough noise. All of the models were eventually thrown out as he outgrew the desire to sit and glue plastic together. He laughed thinking about that, especially remembering all those folks who had spent all that money to collect, trade and cherish old player cards for investment purposes. They always said the cards were only worth what someone was willing to pay for them and his situation placed him in a unique position to comment on that canard. “Since I am the only person left to buy the cards and, thereby, am the only person who can establish their worth, I, Adam Mahoney, deem all baseball, football, basketball and soccer trading cards worthless.” It was his first glimpse of power as the last man standing on the face of the earth.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Chapter Fourteen
To stave off the omnipresent boredom and help ignore the ache in his gut, Adam began to branch out of his routine, trying things that only made sense in his unique situation. He broke into his neighbor’s houses, poked around in their belongings and sat on their furniture. At first he was afraid he’d find something alarming but soon realized everyone on his street was just as boring as Adam Mahoney. The one good thing about his adventures into their homes was he was able to find more supplies that kept him from having to visit the IGA again. He procured enough frozen meat and vegetables to keep him nourished for two weeks after his supplies started running thin. But everything about it wasn’t positive. After some time he limited the break-ins to need, less out of respect for the long-gone and more out of a desire to not be confronted by all of the family photographs lining walls, dressers and tables. They were painful reminders, ones that tore into him with an ache that refused to dull with time. He needed to stay busy but he was sure he could find things to do that didn’t require trips down Memory Lane.
Another activity he added to his routine was taking DVD’s to Sears and watching them on the big screen televisions in their showroom. He found a comfortable, leather recliner in the furniture section of the store and dragged it in front of the biggest TV, enjoying a movie or two without the worry that he would fall back into his earlier sluggard routine, something he did not want to repeat. It was strange the first time he tried it, sitting all alone in the aisle of a large department store, but the excitement of watching movies on a larger screen in High Definition quickly usurped the oddness of it all and he allowed himself to enjoy the movie with no lingering emotional side affects. There were no lines in the bathroom and he could stop and start the movie when necessary, which he did occasionally to ride a scooter he had absconded from the toy department across the linoleum floors and through the aisles. He eventually added speakers to the large television and created his own home theatre with surround sound. The movies were a diversion he allowed himself twice per week, limiting himself merely to save its novelty. If this was his life he had to stretch out new activities as long as he could, whether it be passive movie-watching or an engaging hobby.
Adam had always wanted a hobby; something he could work on in his off time between his job and eating. He’d never endeavored to start one and now that he had more than enough free time he made a concentrated effort to come up with something to collect or create. Like most kids, he had built model cars and collected baseball cards but it wasn’t an obsession; just something to do with his friends. Most of the cards ended up as flaps clipped to the wheels of his bicycle and discarded when they wore down and didn’t make enough noise. All of the models were eventually thrown out as he outgrew the desire to sit and glue plastic together. He laughed thinking about that, especially remembering all those folks who had spent all that money to collect, trade and cherish old player cards for investment purposes. They always said the cards were only worth what someone was willing to pay for them and his situation placed him in a unique position to comment on that canard. “Since I am the only person left to buy the cards and, thereby, am the only person who can establish their worth, I, Adam Mahoney, deem all baseball, football, basketball and soccer trading cards worthless.” It was his first glimpse of power as the last man standing on the face of the earth.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
6/26/2008
Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Five
My shampoo was confiscated in Jacksonville. I forgot to pour some in a smaller container and got busted by TSA. As I prepared for bed in the Ramada Limited, I opened my travel Zip-lock bag and discovered my deodorant had exploded (The heat? The lack of humidity? The interesting, hard-to-define odor of our hotel room?). Without either of these items, my “overnight bag” now consisted of a nail file, a partially used mini-lotion from a previous hotel visit and my toothbrush (which now tasted like anti-perspirant, the upside being my teeth did not sweat while I slept).
Entry Five
My shampoo was confiscated in Jacksonville. I forgot to pour some in a smaller container and got busted by TSA. As I prepared for bed in the Ramada Limited, I opened my travel Zip-lock bag and discovered my deodorant had exploded (The heat? The lack of humidity? The interesting, hard-to-define odor of our hotel room?). Without either of these items, my “overnight bag” now consisted of a nail file, a partially used mini-lotion from a previous hotel visit and my toothbrush (which now tasted like anti-perspirant, the upside being my teeth did not sweat while I slept).
Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Four
There was a purpose behind the road trip. My brother, having finished up a Fellowship in Phoenix, was now headed to Missouri and, at long last, gainful employment. He had loaded one car on the moving truck which allowed his wife and daughter to fly to their new home but he needed to drive his new car and bring their dogs—two poodles named Penelope and Einstein. It wasn’t until we pulled off the interstate the first night into a one road town called Holbrook, Arizona that we fully grasped the visual vibe we were giving off on our travels. Two middle-aged men in a brand new red Cadillac (white, leather interior) with two small poodles in tow. After we chose a motel based on outward appearances as well as their willingness to allow pets, I mentioned my concern to my brother about how we might be perceived as traveling partners. I added, “At least we look enough alike that people will surmise we are brothers.” He responded by reminding me that as couples grow old together they tend to start looking alike. And he grinned.
When he returned to the car after checking-in to the hotel, his first words were, “The Ramada Limited is not as nice on the inside as it is the outside.” Then, as a punctuation to our earlier discussion, he told me there was a sign at the front desk that informed all customers there were “No refunds after the first hour.” There is nothing quite like living a sitcom.
Entry Four
There was a purpose behind the road trip. My brother, having finished up a Fellowship in Phoenix, was now headed to Missouri and, at long last, gainful employment. He had loaded one car on the moving truck which allowed his wife and daughter to fly to their new home but he needed to drive his new car and bring their dogs—two poodles named Penelope and Einstein. It wasn’t until we pulled off the interstate the first night into a one road town called Holbrook, Arizona that we fully grasped the visual vibe we were giving off on our travels. Two middle-aged men in a brand new red Cadillac (white, leather interior) with two small poodles in tow. After we chose a motel based on outward appearances as well as their willingness to allow pets, I mentioned my concern to my brother about how we might be perceived as traveling partners. I added, “At least we look enough alike that people will surmise we are brothers.” He responded by reminding me that as couples grow old together they tend to start looking alike. And he grinned.
When he returned to the car after checking-in to the hotel, his first words were, “The Ramada Limited is not as nice on the inside as it is the outside.” Then, as a punctuation to our earlier discussion, he told me there was a sign at the front desk that informed all customers there were “No refunds after the first hour.” There is nothing quite like living a sitcom.
Downtown/all of Holbrook, Arizona.
The winner of The Truth in Advertising Award: Ramada Limited (now with less internet!).
A dinosaur across the street from our hotel, eating breakfast.
The winner of The Truth in Advertising Award: Ramada Limited (now with less internet!).
A dinosaur across the street from our hotel, eating breakfast.6/25/2008
Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Three
As we approached Phoenix by air, the pilot made the announcement that the current temperature at our destination was 110 degrees. It was actually 114 degrees but, honestly, I doubt the measly four ticks on the thermometer made that much difference. As I departed the plane and started the short walk through the tube that leads to the Phoenix terminal I felt like I was in a convection oven and I was deeply concerned that my internal organs were being baked (or convected or... whatever). And all those folks who throw out “but it’s a dry heat” need to come experience it before they rattle off inane comments they picked up on the internet. Getting hit by the 114 degree wind as you cross the street is the equivalent of the first step into a dry steam room. Your breathing gets shallow and it feels like you got a high-voltage blast from a tanning booth. And then you realize that the asphalt you are walking on is sticky because it is in a constant state of melting. And this is the fifth largest city in the United States? Whose idea was it to build a big city in the desert? And why are all these people still here? These were questions that leaked from my mind, never to return, as we started heading north...
Entry Three
As we approached Phoenix by air, the pilot made the announcement that the current temperature at our destination was 110 degrees. It was actually 114 degrees but, honestly, I doubt the measly four ticks on the thermometer made that much difference. As I departed the plane and started the short walk through the tube that leads to the Phoenix terminal I felt like I was in a convection oven and I was deeply concerned that my internal organs were being baked (or convected or... whatever). And all those folks who throw out “but it’s a dry heat” need to come experience it before they rattle off inane comments they picked up on the internet. Getting hit by the 114 degree wind as you cross the street is the equivalent of the first step into a dry steam room. Your breathing gets shallow and it feels like you got a high-voltage blast from a tanning booth. And then you realize that the asphalt you are walking on is sticky because it is in a constant state of melting. And this is the fifth largest city in the United States? Whose idea was it to build a big city in the desert? And why are all these people still here? These were questions that leaked from my mind, never to return, as we started heading north...
There's always that...
Over the years I have made a few attempts to get signed by a literary agent, researching agent listings, setting up spreadsheets to follow progress, massaging and re-massaging query letters to make my writing projects sound brilliant and unstoppable. Alas, there has been no success but yesterday I received a rejection letter in a rare category: it was nice, encouraging and not a form letter. It was still a rejection letter, of course, but I actually felt pretty good after reading it. Either I have been beat down to the point of "a little means a lot" or I can appreciate that a non-form letter is a small sign of encouragement in the brutal world of literary representation and book publishing. Glass half empty? Meet glass half full. When the bell sounds, come out fighting...
6/23/2008
Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry Two
The aisle between the seats on an airplane are extremely narrow. They must have a “width of buttocks” maximum for the flight attendants. A person can only be so wide before they are a hazard to the aisle sitters. I know they don’t have that requirement for the people buying the tickets. When our plane landed in Birmingham, Alabama I had no need to get up from my aisle seat since I was staying on the plane as it continued to Phoenix. As soon as the “ding” sounded to release the departing passengers, my personal space was severely violated by a large man who promptly jumped into the aisle and then let people pass him until he could reach his suitcase stored in an overhead bin. As people worked their way around him he began leaning back toward me, poor defenseless aisle sitter, his massive, denim covered derrière filling over half my already cramped space. His actions caused me to have to lean toward hairy-armed man which created an immediate involuntary reaction of my arm reaching up across my body, resting my left hand on my right shoulder. With the crook of my arm near my face, I had a ready made nose shield in case the large man broke wind. I was only mildly frightened and it was all over in a few minutes. I began looking forward to the wide open spaces of the Midwest.
Entry Two
The aisle between the seats on an airplane are extremely narrow. They must have a “width of buttocks” maximum for the flight attendants. A person can only be so wide before they are a hazard to the aisle sitters. I know they don’t have that requirement for the people buying the tickets. When our plane landed in Birmingham, Alabama I had no need to get up from my aisle seat since I was staying on the plane as it continued to Phoenix. As soon as the “ding” sounded to release the departing passengers, my personal space was severely violated by a large man who promptly jumped into the aisle and then let people pass him until he could reach his suitcase stored in an overhead bin. As people worked their way around him he began leaning back toward me, poor defenseless aisle sitter, his massive, denim covered derrière filling over half my already cramped space. His actions caused me to have to lean toward hairy-armed man which created an immediate involuntary reaction of my arm reaching up across my body, resting my left hand on my right shoulder. With the crook of my arm near my face, I had a ready made nose shield in case the large man broke wind. I was only mildly frightened and it was all over in a few minutes. I began looking forward to the wide open spaces of the Midwest.
Ruminations from The Road
These entries will be snippets and observations from the road trip I took with my brother last week. We covered 1600 miles, five states and every subject under the sun. I'll post these as long as I can remember them. Enjoy...
Entry One
The fellow next to me on the flight to Birmingham suffered from “space creep.” Before I sat down he had the arm rest (that serves as a minimal personal space barrier) raised and out of the way. He was working a sudoku puzzle the entire flight and his right arm kept breaking into my non-barricaded area, his arm hairs grabbing the hair on my arms, linking like Velcro and sending small, nauseating ripples up the back of my neck. No matter how far I pulled my arm away from him he filled the gap and he never seemed to notice there was an issue. Apparently I was the only one bothered. It just gives me another reason to hate sudoku puzzles.
Entry One
The fellow next to me on the flight to Birmingham suffered from “space creep.” Before I sat down he had the arm rest (that serves as a minimal personal space barrier) raised and out of the way. He was working a sudoku puzzle the entire flight and his right arm kept breaking into my non-barricaded area, his arm hairs grabbing the hair on my arms, linking like Velcro and sending small, nauseating ripples up the back of my neck. No matter how far I pulled my arm away from him he filled the gap and he never seemed to notice there was an issue. Apparently I was the only one bothered. It just gives me another reason to hate sudoku puzzles.
6/18/2008
A Quick Howdy
I am currently in Phoenix, sitting in my brother's soon-to-be former office at Barrow Neurosurgical Associates, waiting for him to finish his day and his fellowship. The flight was fine. Flying stand-by is always a challenge but all went smoothly from Jacksonville to Birmingham to Phoenix. We plan on heading out tonight in an attempt to get a small jump on our 1600-mile journey.
As expected, I already have some blog fodder. Traveling is inspirational if you pull your head out of your book (or magazine) and unplug your iPod long enough to observe. Some things you may be hearing about in the future:
1. Why people in airplanes think the back of my chair is a handle;
2. Exploring the possibility that there is a "width of rump" requirement for airline personnel;
3. The benefits of a breakfast cigar.
Until we speak again…
As expected, I already have some blog fodder. Traveling is inspirational if you pull your head out of your book (or magazine) and unplug your iPod long enough to observe. Some things you may be hearing about in the future:
1. Why people in airplanes think the back of my chair is a handle;
2. Exploring the possibility that there is a "width of rump" requirement for airline personnel;
3. The benefits of a breakfast cigar.
Until we speak again…
Taking a Break
I will be out of blogging commission for the next few days. I am flying out to Phoenix this morning so that I can drive with my brother to Cape Girardeau, Missouri where he will begin his career as a neurosurgeon. It is roughly 1600 miles so I expect there will be plenty of blog fodder created before the trip is complete. If you think about it, pray for our safety and that I learn to love Penelope and Einstein (our canine traveling companions). Until next week...
6/17/2008
Tuesday Night Thought
The only people who see the whole picture are the ones who step out of the frame.
Salman Rushdie
The Ground Beneath Her Feet
Salman Rushdie
The Ground Beneath Her Feet
6/13/2008
Direction
If looking forward is looking north, then, to round out the metaphor, looking back would be looking south. What does that make looking in the present? Can we actually do that? I’m not sure we are ever in the present long enough to look at it. Within a blink it becomes the past and we have moved incrementally north. On Father’s Day I find myself very sensitive to this moving target. I tend to focus a lot of my time, energy and prayers north, dealing with my three almost-grown children and their slowly forming plans for the future, trying to encourage and help without getting in the way. (Which, by the way, is a ridiculously delicate balancing act.) Some days it is consuming, often to the point that it bothers me that I care and dwell and grind so hard about things that are, in the big picture, pretty much out of my control. (I am betting that the lack of control is the number one cause of the grinding. Just a guess.) Is this natural? Am I too involved? Am I wasting my time on things that are already in place and rocketing toward predetermined destinations? Long ago I made the resolution that my career goal was to release into the world (at the proper time) three humans that were ready to be positive, solid contributors in the world. Three adults who would be focused on others, aware of the mark they could potentially leave in their path and desire to make a difference. And above all, be tuned in to God’s direction in their lives—regardless of where it takes them. Maybe part of my angst is that this chapter is drawing to a close. I can see it and, more importantly, I can feel it. Where does all of this weird mix of love, concern, hope, desperation and pride come from?
Oh yeah. My dad.
It is a rather tired cliché that we become our parents. It is also a tired cliché to wave off a tired cliché as meaningless since the cliché became a cliché because it is grounded in the truth. As I experience the winding down of a pretty remarkable season in my life, I am more aware than ever of my dad. I see him a lot more in the mirror. I hear him more and more as I speak. The kids are labeling my jokes as “Paw Paw Jokes” with alarming regularity. I have gained greater clarity of what he meant when he told me things years ago. And how he reacted to things. And how he responded to things. He makes more sense. He has to, otherwise I would have no way to explain myself (or at least anticipate that one day I will be able to explain my actions of today). I am so thankful that I am dealing with a heritage based on love and empathy instead of the all too common legacy of aloofness and lack of emotion. And for that I thank him from the bottom of my conflicted, loving, sympathetic heart. With more and more frequency the kids are telling me, “Oh my gosh, that sounded just like Paw Paw!” I calmly respond that I could do a lot worse than end up being like my dad. After a thoughtful pause they always say, “You’re right.”
Happy Father’s Day to the north, south, east and west. Pass it on...
Oh yeah. My dad.
It is a rather tired cliché that we become our parents. It is also a tired cliché to wave off a tired cliché as meaningless since the cliché became a cliché because it is grounded in the truth. As I experience the winding down of a pretty remarkable season in my life, I am more aware than ever of my dad. I see him a lot more in the mirror. I hear him more and more as I speak. The kids are labeling my jokes as “Paw Paw Jokes” with alarming regularity. I have gained greater clarity of what he meant when he told me things years ago. And how he reacted to things. And how he responded to things. He makes more sense. He has to, otherwise I would have no way to explain myself (or at least anticipate that one day I will be able to explain my actions of today). I am so thankful that I am dealing with a heritage based on love and empathy instead of the all too common legacy of aloofness and lack of emotion. And for that I thank him from the bottom of my conflicted, loving, sympathetic heart. With more and more frequency the kids are telling me, “Oh my gosh, that sounded just like Paw Paw!” I calmly respond that I could do a lot worse than end up being like my dad. After a thoughtful pause they always say, “You’re right.”
Happy Father’s Day to the north, south, east and west. Pass it on...
Writing Quote for Casual Friday
"We're past the age of heroes and hero kings. If we can't make up stories about ordinary people, who can we make them up about?"
- John Updike
- John Updike
6/12/2008
Don't Rain on My D.N.A.
I finally figured out a fundamental truth. There is a core nugget of humanity inside each of us that makes us who we are. It doesn’t matter if we are an electrician or a musician, we will react and respond to certain situations in certain ways because that is “just how we are.” When we are cut off in traffic, when we witness the birth of our child, when we see a sunset, when we see fireworks--our DNA is woven in such a way that we feel and sense things without much choice.
I hate parades. I can’t imagine a circumstance or profession that would cause me to feel differently when faced with huge, sweaty crowds and grown men on scooters. I don’t think my parents are very huge fans of parades either. I remember attending a few of them growing up but it was never a valued tradition or an event we could never pass up.
Is my deep, emotional response to parades influenced by my upbringing? Did their love/hate of parades taint the way I viewed them? What if I had been born into a family that planned parades for a living? Would I still hate parades? Would I be able to get past that emotion to carry on the family business? Or, because I am who I am, would I have begged off and gone to art school anyway? Would I then have ostracized myself from my parade loving family? Cut myself off from their respect and admiration? Would I then pass on my distaste for parades to my own children who in turn would be influenced by me in their opinions of their grandparents life work? What if one of my children has it in their DNA to love parades? Would they be able to express that in the hostile anti-parade environment I have established in our home? And when they finally “come out” as a parade lover, will that repair the fissures in my fractured relationship with my parents and have everyone talk to me again at the family reunions? And maybe, just maybe, all of this plays out because of who we are at our core.
Okay, I haven’t figured out squat.
I hate parades. I can’t imagine a circumstance or profession that would cause me to feel differently when faced with huge, sweaty crowds and grown men on scooters. I don’t think my parents are very huge fans of parades either. I remember attending a few of them growing up but it was never a valued tradition or an event we could never pass up.
Is my deep, emotional response to parades influenced by my upbringing? Did their love/hate of parades taint the way I viewed them? What if I had been born into a family that planned parades for a living? Would I still hate parades? Would I be able to get past that emotion to carry on the family business? Or, because I am who I am, would I have begged off and gone to art school anyway? Would I then have ostracized myself from my parade loving family? Cut myself off from their respect and admiration? Would I then pass on my distaste for parades to my own children who in turn would be influenced by me in their opinions of their grandparents life work? What if one of my children has it in their DNA to love parades? Would they be able to express that in the hostile anti-parade environment I have established in our home? And when they finally “come out” as a parade lover, will that repair the fissures in my fractured relationship with my parents and have everyone talk to me again at the family reunions? And maybe, just maybe, all of this plays out because of who we are at our core.
Okay, I haven’t figured out squat.
6/09/2008
Speech! Speech!
This time of year always brings a lot of commencement speeches to our attention—both in real life and on the internet. I found this one to be especially well done. Given the person delivering it and the audience she was speaking to, the poignancy is a nice added layer. Plus it has the option of reading or watching it (which is another nice thing about the internet). Enjoy...
6/05/2008
Entry One Hundred Three: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is thirty-three of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
After his workout, Adam wasn’t ready to leave the gym. The thought of driving straight home after his shower didn’t appeal to him so he decided to explore the school and see what treasures he could discover in its deserted halls. The first corridor off the gym doors held the history classes. He remembered that a lot of the coaches taught history so their proximity to the locker rooms made sense. He started walking east, stopping and looking over classrooms when he had the urge, but mainly staying within the confines of the halls, the contents of the rooms not offering much of interest. He was an alumnus but felt very little nostalgia.
Somewhere near the middle of the school he came across the library. The sign over the door stated it was the “Media Center” but it had always been a library to him. Shelves of books, no matter how many computers were interspersed throughout, was not enough to warrant a name change, at least according to Adam and he was the only one who counted anymore. He walked in and for the first time the silence of the world seemed appropriate. He meandered through the rows of books, scanning titles and occasionally pulling a book down to thumb through. He had never been much of a reader because it had been too time consuming. Now, faced with nothing but time, the books still didn’t appeal to him. “Maybe I just don’t like to read.” And he was okay with that. He suddenly wanted a cigarette so he left the library and lit one in the hall.
Around the corner from the library was the cafeteria. It was the one place in the school that looked and felt the same to him based on his limited memory of high school. It was large, but smaller than he remembered, with high ceilings, all the tables lined up in rows with the chairs upside down on top of them. The maintenance crew had created the sculptures in order to mop the floors the night everything changed. He walked in through the double doors and stood still, finishing his smoke and thinking about how much activity that room would normally have sustained—laughter, flirting, fights, pranks, bullying, hiding, staring. It would never be that way again and it made Adam sad. He reached into his pocket for another cigarette and turned to leave but something on the wall that had been at his back made him stop. It was a large mural of the United States of America. It covered the entire wall and he had to step back deeper into the room to take it all in. It wasn’t drawn very well, almost crude in execution, probably created by the same artist who painted the bulldog in the weight room. Quality aside, the sheer size of it was impressive. Each state displayed its capitol, labeled and denoted by a star, plus a smaller graphic of some item or thing that represented that state. Georgia had a drawing of a peach, Texas an armadillo and Nevada a poker chip. Adam stood and stared, quietly smoking and examining the mural state by state. It wasn’t signed so he’d never know who created it. The only words were the labels for the capitols and the names of the states. The finished mural wasn’t much of a concept but Adam gave it an “A” for ambition and the diligence to get it up on the wall. “The United States of America.” He let that hang in the air. “I pledge allegiance to the mural of the United States of Adam Mahoney.” He saluted, flipped his cigarette butt in a water fountain and started walking back to the gym. He was suddenly ready to go home.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
After his workout, Adam wasn’t ready to leave the gym. The thought of driving straight home after his shower didn’t appeal to him so he decided to explore the school and see what treasures he could discover in its deserted halls. The first corridor off the gym doors held the history classes. He remembered that a lot of the coaches taught history so their proximity to the locker rooms made sense. He started walking east, stopping and looking over classrooms when he had the urge, but mainly staying within the confines of the halls, the contents of the rooms not offering much of interest. He was an alumnus but felt very little nostalgia.
Somewhere near the middle of the school he came across the library. The sign over the door stated it was the “Media Center” but it had always been a library to him. Shelves of books, no matter how many computers were interspersed throughout, was not enough to warrant a name change, at least according to Adam and he was the only one who counted anymore. He walked in and for the first time the silence of the world seemed appropriate. He meandered through the rows of books, scanning titles and occasionally pulling a book down to thumb through. He had never been much of a reader because it had been too time consuming. Now, faced with nothing but time, the books still didn’t appeal to him. “Maybe I just don’t like to read.” And he was okay with that. He suddenly wanted a cigarette so he left the library and lit one in the hall.
Around the corner from the library was the cafeteria. It was the one place in the school that looked and felt the same to him based on his limited memory of high school. It was large, but smaller than he remembered, with high ceilings, all the tables lined up in rows with the chairs upside down on top of them. The maintenance crew had created the sculptures in order to mop the floors the night everything changed. He walked in through the double doors and stood still, finishing his smoke and thinking about how much activity that room would normally have sustained—laughter, flirting, fights, pranks, bullying, hiding, staring. It would never be that way again and it made Adam sad. He reached into his pocket for another cigarette and turned to leave but something on the wall that had been at his back made him stop. It was a large mural of the United States of America. It covered the entire wall and he had to step back deeper into the room to take it all in. It wasn’t drawn very well, almost crude in execution, probably created by the same artist who painted the bulldog in the weight room. Quality aside, the sheer size of it was impressive. Each state displayed its capitol, labeled and denoted by a star, plus a smaller graphic of some item or thing that represented that state. Georgia had a drawing of a peach, Texas an armadillo and Nevada a poker chip. Adam stood and stared, quietly smoking and examining the mural state by state. It wasn’t signed so he’d never know who created it. The only words were the labels for the capitols and the names of the states. The finished mural wasn’t much of a concept but Adam gave it an “A” for ambition and the diligence to get it up on the wall. “The United States of America.” He let that hang in the air. “I pledge allegiance to the mural of the United States of Adam Mahoney.” He saluted, flipped his cigarette butt in a water fountain and started walking back to the gym. He was suddenly ready to go home.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
6/04/2008
Blind(s)
In preparation for my daughter’s triumphal return home from college, my wife created a list of improvements and to-do’s to accomplish before she arrived at the house. One of my jobs was to move the blinds from her room, hang them in the garage (replacing the old, damaged blinds currently hanging there) and then hang a new set of blinds over her bedroom window. This was not a complicated chore since all the brackets and hardware were in place; it was just a small matter of sliding out and sliding in.
I measured (twice) to make sure I bought the correct replacement blind and travelled to Lowe’s for the purchase and subsequent trimming of the width. Back home with my purchase, I began the process by taking down the old blinds in my daughter’s room. I quickly figured out that it would be easier to transport the old blinds if I pulled them up and compressed them as far as I could, making them compact and less wobbly. I pulled the string down, hard, to roll them up and was suddenly falling back on the bed, my head throbbing and vision blurred. Apparently one of the brackets had come loose and the force of my pull had dislodged the blind and it had whacked me in the head. I was initially stunned but then grew scared when I realized I couldn’t see, at least I couldn’t see clearly. My vision was impaired, alternating between blurry and clear but with no ability to focus on anything for more than a second or two. I looked around the room, blinking, trying to regain any sort of visual clarity. “Oh Jesus, I can’t be blind, I can’t be blind. I need my eyes.” I was praying out loud, panicked and not sure what to do. No one else was home and all I could think was my life had changed in an instant.
I stumbled to my daughter’s bathroom, expecting to see a huge gash across my head and was surprised that, through the blur, all I could detect was a small slash of red near my hairline. Now I was confused. Did a glancing blow damage my eyesight that drastically? Is this one of those head shaking moments that no one will be able to explain? Then I started thinking more practically. How was I going to explain this to people? Blinded by the blind? Would people eventually make fun of me after a period of time? Why didn’t I learn to touch type? I pulled my glasses off to rub my eyes and when I reopened them, things were still blurry, but they weren’t as dizzying blurry; there was a consistency to the haze. As I reached to put my glasses back on, my thumb poked through the left side of the frame—right where one of the lenses was supposed to be. Apparently, the blow to my head had dislodged the left lens of my glasses and I had been looking through one lens with my right eye and looking through air with my left. I wasn’t blind after all, just temporarily broken. I was able to locate the missing lens on the floor, replaced it and relished the restoration of vision for a few minutes before I raised my hands in the air and let everyone in the house (which was no one) know, “I’m alright! Everything is fine! Nothing to see here. Move along.”
I see this as a sign that I should get back on those typing lessons.
I measured (twice) to make sure I bought the correct replacement blind and travelled to Lowe’s for the purchase and subsequent trimming of the width. Back home with my purchase, I began the process by taking down the old blinds in my daughter’s room. I quickly figured out that it would be easier to transport the old blinds if I pulled them up and compressed them as far as I could, making them compact and less wobbly. I pulled the string down, hard, to roll them up and was suddenly falling back on the bed, my head throbbing and vision blurred. Apparently one of the brackets had come loose and the force of my pull had dislodged the blind and it had whacked me in the head. I was initially stunned but then grew scared when I realized I couldn’t see, at least I couldn’t see clearly. My vision was impaired, alternating between blurry and clear but with no ability to focus on anything for more than a second or two. I looked around the room, blinking, trying to regain any sort of visual clarity. “Oh Jesus, I can’t be blind, I can’t be blind. I need my eyes.” I was praying out loud, panicked and not sure what to do. No one else was home and all I could think was my life had changed in an instant.
I stumbled to my daughter’s bathroom, expecting to see a huge gash across my head and was surprised that, through the blur, all I could detect was a small slash of red near my hairline. Now I was confused. Did a glancing blow damage my eyesight that drastically? Is this one of those head shaking moments that no one will be able to explain? Then I started thinking more practically. How was I going to explain this to people? Blinded by the blind? Would people eventually make fun of me after a period of time? Why didn’t I learn to touch type? I pulled my glasses off to rub my eyes and when I reopened them, things were still blurry, but they weren’t as dizzying blurry; there was a consistency to the haze. As I reached to put my glasses back on, my thumb poked through the left side of the frame—right where one of the lenses was supposed to be. Apparently, the blow to my head had dislodged the left lens of my glasses and I had been looking through one lens with my right eye and looking through air with my left. I wasn’t blind after all, just temporarily broken. I was able to locate the missing lens on the floor, replaced it and relished the restoration of vision for a few minutes before I raised my hands in the air and let everyone in the house (which was no one) know, “I’m alright! Everything is fine! Nothing to see here. Move along.”
I see this as a sign that I should get back on those typing lessons.
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