A Waddling We Will Go

I don’t know if it can be strictly attributed to age or if it is a genetic propensity for extra skin, but I have developed a waddle. I am not referring to walking like a duck but to the expansion of flesh that balloons beneath your chin and covers the front of your neck. (I think it was the show “Ally McBeal” that made the term synonymous with skin and not transportation.) Even though it is somewhat subtle, I am disturbed by this recent development.

Most of my life I have not been very concerned with getting my picture taken. Posing or only wanting my “good side” captured has never been an issue. I will admit that the last few years have seen me sucking in my stomach when I knew there was a camera around but there have been enough “candid” shots taken that even that became a waste of time (or is that “waist”?).

But this year, the waddle has brought a whole new issue to deal with in regards to photographs. I have actually had pictures retaken (and the insulting ones deleted) because my neck looks inflated. (PTL for digital cameras.) Yes, it is vain--so what?--but I’d like to think I can still rail against the visual signs I am getting older. The problem is there is no good way to hide a waddle. If I tuck in my chin even slightly it bloats out and I look like one of those lizards looking for a mate. I have tried to extend my neck right before the picture is snapped but that has proved to be a bad enough idea that no one will pose with me because I am being “weird” and I always look like I am straining for a high note. At this point I can only allow my picture to be taken if I am standing up and using perfect posture (with my chin tilted up ever so slightly). Are there exercises to reduce waddles? Not that I would do them; I’m just curious. It could be one of those “toothpaste is already out of the tube” issues that is impossible to reverse. One day I’ll relax and cease the fight, but it won’t be today. And I pray that ascots make a comeback.

Entry One Hundred Seven: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!

[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is thirty-seven of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]

One evening, a few weeks into his new hobby, he came up with a solution, more out of necessity than anything noble. He had just returned from the gym, walked through the front door and stopped. He had to; there was nowhere to place his foot for another step. His living room looked like a floor exercise for a major war game, only in The Battle of Adam’s House, tanks and planes were accompanied by Mustangs and monster trucks. Instead of pushing anything aside to make a path to his bedroom, he went back out the front door and walked to the garage, found a large cardboard box and entered the house through the kitchen door. He started at the edge of the plastic mélange, then began carefully lifting models off the floor and placing them on the bottom of the box. When he had safely secured all the container could handle, he left through the kitchen door and walked across the street to the Broughton’s house and strolled through their front door. He headed straight to the credenza in their living room, a large, cherry sideboard, its flat surface covered with framed photographs of the nuclear and extended family of the home’s former occupants. He set the box of models aside, began removing all of the pictures and stacking them on the floor. After the top of the furniture was cleared he began arranging his models in their place.

The placement started randomly but soon Adam began assembling the miniature replicas in more aesthetic groupings. World War II planes formed one group, desert tanks another. He completed the credenza display and had used all of the models he had carried in the box so he packed the box with the framed photographs, returned to his house, dumped the contents in the trash and filled the box again with his creations. He returned to the Broughton’s, seeking out any nook or flat surface that held a photograph and replaced them with the models. Bookshelves, dressers and china cabinets soon displayed Adam’s work, cars and tanks replacing the reminders of the past. In place of photos on walls he dangled model planes, using fishing line tied to an eyehook he screwed into the ceiling. After four trips there were no visual reminders of the Broughton’s anywhere in the house. As he perused his work, Adam felt some better, the chasm feeling less empty, yet sad that his outlook improved only by diminishing something—someone—else. “But if that’s what it takes. For the first time ever, it really is all about me.”

Adam continued with his replacement plan, eventually reworking all of the houses surrounding his own, the houses whose lawns he had mowed and whose earlier visits had disturbed him so. With each completed redesign, his soul grew a little stronger, for what reasons he couldn’t say. Maybe it was the symbolism of throwing away the memories of his neighbors or maybe it was the small rush of executing another project, creating mini-museums of his handiwork, on display for no one. It didn’t matter; at minimum he could move in and out of the houses without having to deal with the creeping feeling of abandonment he had experienced when he first entered the abodes. It expanded his world, his kingdom, and with it his comfort zone which was no small matter for the last man standing on the face of the earth.

All words and images ©2007/J. Colle

Friday Freebie

Moleskins out of Mountains

One of the adjustments that my wife had to make when we got married was my proclivity to never throw anything away. Over the years I have gotten a lot better dealing with this sad fixation which is a positive aspect of marrying an opposite who has the added benefit of being kind and flexible and believes in taking her time in bending me to her will instead of the instant slap down. If I had married someone like me we would have ended up on one of those horrifying shows on HGTV where they come in and force couples to clean out a room (or maybe the whole house) piled high with stuff.

One of the biggest hurdles I had to overcome was writing things on little scraps of paper and then building little hills of scrap paper on my dresser. In way of explanation, my mind is annoying in that it rarely sits still. I am constantly churning on several things, most random, some with a chance to evolve into a more concrete idea. I will admit that 99.5% of the things I mentally chew on are worthless but I can’t risk losing that rare .5% so I write a lot of thoughts and ideas down. Back in the early days of our marriage, I would tear a corner off a piece of paper, jot down the words or sketch out something and then cram the scrap into my pocket. At the end of the day, I might have assembled several of these and I would deposit them on top of my dresser. I always went back through them and, if remotely valid, would record it in a sketchbook or notebook but that was rarely in a timely fashion. I swear I tried to get to them within a week. Or two. Hope threw out more than one of those little piles before she fully grasped the concept that she was tossing out parts of my brain in the process and compromises were worked out.

Time and technology have helped me in this area. Sketchbooks got smaller and more portable, Moleskin came out with a tiny notebook that I can keep in my back pocket and the little scraps of paper disappeared. Well, not entirely. They have now morphed into blank books of all sizes, some filled with my ramblings, most only partially complete. They chronicle a lot of really bad ideas and doodles and it is an historical record of little consequence to anyone but me. At least they can fit on a bookshelf (or a box in the attic). I’m not saying that’s where they are, I’m just saying they could be. I said I was better, not good.

H.B.T.Y.

Cool things that happened on my birthday:

1. I woke up still full from the sushi binge the night before. Even my coffee was finding it hard to find room;
2. My wife was awake a full hour before she remembered it was my birthday. I have to admit her Diet Coke was a little flat so she had an excuse;
3. My daughter traveled by train from Venice, Italy to Austria for the week. Hey! Whose birthday is this?
   
4. My office gave me a cake and a card at noon which meant I was able to eat my dessert before my lunch which is a very birthday thing to do;
5. I received many three word greetings via Facebook;
6. My brother celebrated my big day by getting a colonoscopy;
7. All but one of the birthday cards I received had chimps on them. I have no idea what that means or what people are trying to tell me but my kids suggested it has something to do with the ears;
8. Both of my sons sent me the same text message: “Happy Birthday, old man.” (Although I doubt there was punctuation or any capital letters in the actual text messages);
9. My youngest son hand wrote me a birthday card with a green marker that I was able to decipher without much help. And it was very sweet (if I can say that about a 17 year old);
10. My family gave me a new grill for my birthday and my oldest son put it together for me. And he let me watch;
11. My wife cooked my favorite meal for all of us tonight: Mexican steak and rice with green chiles and jack cheese. She had to learn how to cook that from my mom before I agreed to marry her;
12. My parents called and sang the traditional birthday song but this year it was peppy and the ending had a nice two-part harmony. If I feel old they must really feel old;
13. We ended the night with razzleberry pie a la mode. I anticipate being full when I wake up tomorrow morning;
14. And just like every year, as I looked at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth, I promised I would start exercising again. Tomorrow.

Random Fridayness

All words and images ©2008/J. Colle

Proclamation

I, William Jacob Colle III, having witnessed yet another gridiron performance by my alleged “home team,” and having found it to be wretched, and, during which, was reminded of the many emotional assaults I have subjected myself to in previous years—and yea, they were many—has made a judgment and do proclaim it publicly.

I will hereby not willingly or knowingly subject myself for an extended period of time to the extensive planning for and participation in watching football games of the aforementioned “home team.” Weekend--and occasional Thursday night--activities will now consist of reading, writing and spending copious amounts of time with my life partner until she deems it annoying and necessary to have her own space to which I shall respond by going for a walk. Or I shall participate in a ride on a two wheeled transport, enjoying glorious autumn temperatures and smells. Or I shall sit on my porch and burn a non-inhalable dowel-like object and relish the peace I feel in my spirit. My options in regard to activities are limitless but, despite the activity in which I am engaged, I shall not watch “the game.” Any and all communication with me during the gridiron engagement will be greeted with a grunt, if greeted at all. Thus say I. Thus may it be.

Proclaimed this day, twenty-five September, the year of our Lord, two-thousand oh-eight.

Wednesday Sketchy Sketchbook Sketch of the Day

Submitted without comment. Discuss amongst yourselves...



All words and images ©2008/J. Colle

Speaking of Transitions...

Funerals are strange events. There are so many traditional aspects of it that are accepted practices, regardless if they make sense or not. Between the viewing, funeral arrangements, programs, flowers and lots of food, the whole few days are an orchestrated dance of customs and awkwardness. I understand the need to work through grief and providing a waiting period after the death and before burial seems to help that process. Evelyn’s funeral was very nice and seemed to provide some closure for most everyone who attended. It was a success.

Living through the last few days I have had ample opportunity to think about my own funeral and how I would like to see it transpire. What I came up with is most assuredly illegal but I can dream and plan without getting arrested. I would like a good old-fashioned Viking funeral. The ceremony would take place at dusk and everyone would gather on the side of a lake. Pile a raft with dead, dry tree limbs and then strap my body on top of it. Ring the outside edge of the raft with buckets of gasoline and then shove me out from the edges of the lake. Then, with everyone on the bank singing a song--something upbeat, not a dirge--signal the hired archer to send the first flaming arrow toward the raft and set the whole thing on fire (hopefully within a couple of shots). Visually, it would be stunning and quite memorable. Granted, there are a lot of details that would have to be worked out but it seems like such a grand way to exit the planet. Now I just need to live the rest of my days like a Viking so I can earn that sendoff. I hope it is not too late.

Transition

Today was my mother-in-law's funeral. It was not only the culmination of a long and fruitful life but it was also the end of a grueling season of “caregiver” for my wife. Okay, grueling is an unfair descriptor. The last week was grueling but the months before that were tiring, yes, but also a great time for my wife to show her mom how much she loved her by taking care of her as her health declined. She did a masterful job and I am very proud of her. She showed everyone around the situation (and there were many) exactly how it is supposed to be done. I hope my kids were paying attention.

I was asked to speak at the funeral, to provide the eulogy, and, in the spirit of the political environment we are wallowing in, I am providing my transcript in its entirety below.

I’d like to thank you all for coming out today. It is a great testament to the person Evelyn was that so many of you are participating in the celebration of her life. I am speaking today because Evelyn asked me to. She had this whole service planned a long time ago which should not be surprise to anyone that knew her well.

I entered this family over 26 years ago and was loved from day one. Initially, Evelyn was excited because my dad was a Baptist minister which meant Hope was marrying a preacher’s son. She eventually came to love me for different reasons but, even at the end, she claimed her favorite picture of me was when I was sporting some serious poofed-up evangelist hair.

Even though I was a late comer into the fold, I still have my share of stories.

She spent an entire Sunday morning introducing me to her home church as “Hope’s fiance, Ray.”

She cooked one of the best Sunday dinners on the planet and never again having her dressing on Thanksgiving could very well leave a permanent void in my life.

She was always the most stylish woman in the room. I never saw her dressed down--she could even make a warm-up suit look classy. When she got to the point where she needed to start using a cane she had me look on-line and find some fancy ones she could use.

She had a weakness for one particular television show. Unfortunately it was a show that never ended, a continuous feed, 24/7--QVC. Her addiction made for some interesting Christmas and birthday gifts. I regret I never was able to get the combination pedometer/dictation machine to work correctly.

And the woman was social. I don’t know that I have ever met someone who enjoyed the company of other people more than Evelyn. It wasn’t ever out of desperation or a fear of being by herself--she genuinely loved hanging out, laughing, playing cards, eating with her friends. She was always either hosting or going to a gathering.

And I am happy to announce to all in attendance that she is currently partying like never before. And she was more ready for this party than any other party in her life. Really, it is an understatement that she was ready. My dad, currently a chaplain with Hospice, has often told me that you can judge a persons emotional health by the way they deal with death. Anyone that visited Evelyn in the last few months of her life knew she handled it well. She was ready, assured of her destination and was impatient to get to that final party.

I can see her know, laughing, wearing a hat, bracelets jangling, working about 15 Bingo cards and waiting for Bill Gaither to join her so she can sing in his choir. And I am glad she will have an eternity in heaven. She has a lot of people to meet.

May God bless you all...

(Check out some pictures from the weekend at my Flikr site, linked on the right side bar)

Anticipation

RIP, DFW

When I heard about the apparent suicide of David Foster Wallace this weekend I had an interesting reaction. Actually, I had several interesting reactions which were a bit surprising since I did not know the man personally; I had just read his books. I was sad because suicide is sad, regardless of who commits the act. I cannot fathom the depths of despair and internal torture that would drive someone to end their life and I won’t try. But I will be sad for his wife and the students he taught and for the people that enjoyed reading his words because there will be no more forthcoming. I enjoyed DFW’s work but I admit they were a chore to get through. You had to commit to his stories and I'll admit my admiration probably was more for his giant brain and gift with words than for any great pleasure from spending time with his stories. I never finished “Infinite Jest” (and I have a feeling I am not alone) but one of the funniest things I ever read was the chronicle of his cruise in “A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments.” He was obviously very smart and had an incredible vocabulary and a lot of times that got in his way. Basically, he was Michael Chabon without any restraint. It’s sad that the brightest stars burn out sooner rather than later. (There is that word again—sad.)

I also had a flash of pain for an indirectly related reason. The person that introduced me to the work of David Foster Wallace was my friend Blaine. The chapter of my life that starred Blaine could be a novel all its own, a story that included genuine love and friendship that ended in a bizarre, “can’t-explain-it-so-I-just-have-to-accept-it” fashion. That story could be told, but not today. Maybe some other time; maybe not. Odd how sad drags up sad…

Menthol Catheter

I know I forwarded this link to everyone that (probably) reads this blog but if you haven't checked it out, please go visit this Web site: nolaf.org. It is by Frito Lay (don't let that dissuade you) and it is one of the best things I have seen on the internet in a long time. Do yourself a favor and go through the entire site. Only when you get to the Boardroom will you understand the title to this post. Enjoy...

Random Ramblings on Story

This election season has provided the people of the United States (and dare I say the world?) with a unique opportunity. Regardless of your political persuasion, all four of the people running for the highest office in the country have really fascinating life stories. Joe Biden lost his wife and year old daughter in a car wreck (and almost lost his two sons as well) in the early 70’s and was a Senator and single dad for five years before remarrying. Sarah Palin is a mother of five who started her political career in the PTA of her kid’s school and is now Governor of Alaska. Barak Obama was raised by a single mom and grandparents and pulled himself up from having nothing (materially) to Illinois Senator and then U.S Senator. John McCain was a P.O.W. in Vietnam for five years and a U.S. Senator since 1986. And that is just a skim of the surface; the many layers for each of them are fascinating and give plenty of indications why they are where they are today and who they are while they walk it out.

Reading their stories is a great reminder that every person on the planet has their own tale to tell. Some may blow it off as boring but that is impossible. From birth to the present every single one of us is living out our own original, unique journey and it cannot help but be fascinating. And to take it a mystical step deeper, we are all influenced by the people around us living out their specific life and the times we intersect have a tendency to knock us around a bit. Sometimes the bumps cause us to veer this way or zig that way, never really off course, but possibly heading a direction we did not expect. Why do people always say, “If you’d of told me five (or ten or twenty or two) years ago that I would be (fill in the blank), I would have never believed you.” We say it because our lives are mysterious and hard to predict, a fact we can either embrace or struggle with. It is why I like to sit in the mall or in traffic and look at people and wonder about their story.

All these people. All these stories. And not many of us taking time to listen. So next time you are hanging out with someone you don’t know (or that you do know) look them in the eye and ask, “What’s your story?” And listen.

Inevitable

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.

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...

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.

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.

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)

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!

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."

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

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.

Casual Friday Freebee

Constantinople is a mighty long word.
Got three more letters than mockingbird.

Artist: John Prine
Song: Morning Train
Album: Fair & Square

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...

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.

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.

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...

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!

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!

Family Reunion Trip: Day Four

Monday, August 04, 2009

Numbered List (using letters)

1. Breakfast at 8:30 am
1. Outstanding once again, plus it is cool having everyone in one room. It gives us all a chance to mingle.
2. Tour the property with my parents
1. 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.
3. Helped serve lunch at our apartment
1. 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.
4. Spent the majority of the day sitting around and visiting
1. 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.
5. Memorial service for Grandy at 5:00 pm
1. 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.
   
6. Dinner at 6:30 pm
1. 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.
7. Praise, worship and sharing time in the chapel 8:30 pm
   
1. Dad led a short time of singing and sharing to cap off the day and the reunion. It was a nice capper.
   
8. End the night playing Wii and enjoying each other one last time before departing
1. 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...

Family Reunion Trip: Day Three

Monday, August 04, 2009

Numbered List

1. Breakfast at 8:30 am
1. Our family was late but there was plenty of food.
   
2. "Family" meeting at 10:00 am
1. 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.
   
3. "Get to Know Random Family Members Better" Games 10:30 am
1. Run by William and Jul and it provided many, many comical, awkward moments.
   
4. Lunch 12:30 am
1. 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.
   
5. Free time all afternoon
1. 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.
   
6. Begin the video's, talent and no-talent night along with bar-b-que dinner 5:30 pm
1. 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.
   
7. Back in the rooms for adult beverages and cigars on the porch
1. Finally.
   

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 11:30 am and the GPS said we will arrive at 2:30 pm
• 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 50^th anniversary couple. The grounds are beautiful and our room is really nice, large enough for all six of us to hang comfortably.
• Lot’s of hugging, hand shaking, laughing, eating. And more to come.
• 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

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 was nine a.m. But other than that it was a lot like muted cicadas at dusk.

At least it looked like I was taking notes.

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.

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.

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...

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...

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

Mr. Goiter, Part Two

The depth and layers of the "humor" here leave me speechless. But I can still write stuff...

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…

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).

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...

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...

“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...

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

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.

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...

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...

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?...

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.

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 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