Tuesday Tracking

In October, Dave Fiore encouraged me to apply the Google Analytics code to this blog. I entered this phase of my blogging “career” with more than a little trepidation. The whole purpose of this blog is to give me an outlet to rant, share and create, regardless of who reads it. To actually see the hard numbers of the traffic on the site was potentially intimidating. Sort of. Since Oct. 16 (when I installed the software), the results are about what I expected in terms of total visits (445) with 84 unique visitors. I have had a high of 19 visits on several days and have never experienced a day with no one showing up. (Thanks for that mom and dad; keep up the good work!) What has been the most fascinating aspect of the reporting is that I have had visits from nine different countries. Having a daughter in Italy helped with that stat as well as my insistence that she check my site when she visited Norway. Some of the other countries are more puzzling. Iran, Brazil, and Poland all have one visit and the United Kingdom and Germany check in with two visits each. Canada is the other lone “single digit” country with four visits. Since the first group visited but never returned I will surmise they showed up by mistake but it is still pretty cool to see the countries listed. (No, the thought that my site did not interest them never crossed my mind. Why do you ask?) I promise I will not bore you with this information on a regular basis but I thought one report of the report wouldn’t hurt. Who knows, it might entice my new friend from Tehran to visit again.

Tuesday Trivial Tableau

Friday Musings

I rode the bike home from work again yesterday. Without a headwind and armed with some familiarity of the route, I arrived at the house five minutes earlier than Tuesday. Okay, five minutes is no record savings but it was an improvement. One thing that I am excited about is I am able to use my honed “whispered greeting” skills as I ride the bike, thanking the cars that do not pull out in front of me with a wave and a mouthed “thank you.” The circle of life continues.

I could not find the television remote last night. Nothing can make you feel more foolish than envisioning how you look as you crawl around the floor looking under chairs and cushions for the lost device. It is a powerful little machine, not only in its control of your TV but, maybe more so, in its control over the user. Unfortunately, the new TVs are practically useless without a remote control (which is what every person searching for one swears is a fact) so finding it was paramount to my plans for later in the evening (see the next paragraph). It was finally located but in a very odd, but explainable, place. Apparently it had been swept up inside a blanket that was stored in its proper place under the coffee table. The odd part was it had somehow made its way inside the blanket—a handmade quilt—so I had to sit on the sofa and push it around the edges until I found the hole it entered from. The things we do for love.

Last night I spent some quality time on the Man Porch. My wife was off at a meeting and the boys were not home so I ran the double-double. The TV in the house (visible from a chair on the porch) was displaying the Thursday night college football game and the TV on the porch was showing the FSU/Stetson basketball game. I burned a Sancho Panza, ate some plain M&M’s and enjoyed the cool weather. Although outcomes are not critical to Man Porch success, both teams I was pulling for won. Another stellar night at home.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to watch sports with no emotional attachment to the outcome. To simply watch a game and admire the quality (or not) of play. It will never happen—it is too late—and it could be what makes the games so enjoyable is the emotional investment. I think you could still appreciate a good play or lament a mistake but, at the end of the game, still be able to say, “Good game” and not care who won. Would that be a refreshing experience? Or an empty exercise and a waste of time? Discuss amongst yourselves.

This morning I discovered that the difference between a cheese and veggie omelette purchased from the cafeteria is onions. The letter of the law was not in my favor.

Stay warm and enjoy your Friday and your weekend.

Alternate History Through Doodling

Below is a flow chart I created during a teaching at church. I am not sure when this was, it is not dated, but it is a fascinating (or not) glimpse into what can happen when I hear an Old Testament word that makes me chuckle and I decide to rewrite history. In this case, there were several chuckle words and the following chart was the result. Any true Bible scholars may want to check my accuracy (or not) but I suggest you just let it ride. I will only blame the research interns and they are so easily replaced. After the chart I have offered a synopsis in case you cannot decipher my handwriting. When the ideas are flowing I cannot be expected to practice excellent penmanship. Besides, it’s hard to write neatly when you are trying to hide what you are doing from the nosy parishioners sitting around you (as well as your wife).

The Evil Line of Babylon

It all starts with Japheth. He sired four children: Gomer, Magog, Tubal and Meshach. At this point, the evil begins in earnest (who was a distant cousin and did not make an appearance on this chart).

Gomer married Lou Ann Poovey (this is good) but then had an alleged affair with Sgt. Carter (this is bad). (Bad=Evil.)

Magog begat Eggnog who begat Agog (an emotional, shocked leader) who begat Gag (this is bad). (Bad=Evil.)

Tubal begat Two balls who begat Three Balls (the first juggler) who begat Mimes (this is bad). (Bad=Evil.)

Meshach begat Youshach who begat All God’s Chillin’ Gotta’ Shack who begat Shaquille O’Neill (who is bad because he dumped the Magic for the Lakers). (Bad=Evil.)

Random Thoughts from the Weekend

I have noticed a rash of commercials using text as the main graphic device, popping it on the screen in the rhythm of the speech cadence. Add a few graphic elements and music to jazz it up and they can be fairly effective. We used to do these type of vignettes using Flash more than a few years ago. We would place them in online educational Web sites. I loved to storyboard them and they were pretty effective in their use of animated text to tell the story. If I was cynical I would suggest this is yet another time I was about seven years ahead of my time but I’m not so that thought never crossed my mind.

After our trail ride on Sunday I have decided that I enjoy the more technical trails with a lot of tight fits between trees and cutbacks that rely less on speed and more concentration and control. This could all be based on my bike which is, to put it politely lest it somehow read this and get its feelings hurt, built for things other than speed. Yesterday was a beautiful fall day, the temperatures in the 60’s, clear sky and the trails were pretty clear despite the two days of hard rains last week. I also have started noticing, finally, that I am getting a bit more acclimated to the hills. I know this because I have moved beyond the desire to lay down and take a nap after a particularly hard climb. Now I just want to rest my head on a tree. Progress.

Another note about the bike ride yesterday: I wore the skeleton shirt my brother and sister-in-law bought me for my birthday and received another “nice shirt” on the trail by someone I crossed paths with. So far, all but one comment has been by a female. I don’t know what to make of that but I will try not to read too much into it. Let’s keep this away from the scientific research realm and just accept the compliments, okay?

I have one comment about the FSU debacle on Saturday: When the punter is the leading rusher, things did not go as planned.

Once again I was reminded how incredible technology is when it is used for good. Like allowing me to talk to my daughter in Italy as if she is just around the block and especially when we can hook up video chat and can see her in real time. It tends to melt the distance somewhat. Now when they come up with a virtual hug that feels real, it would complete the process. Or it will mean we are on the fast track to Creepy Town. I’ll have to decide when we get there.

I am going to attempt to ride the bike home from work on Tuesday. I have treated this like a military maneuver, mapping out the safest route, solidifying plans with Hope to drop my bike and me off at work in the morning, buying a lock and an outrageously bright orange vest to wear for visibility reasons. I realize I am not breaking new ground and there is a distinct possibility that I will never want to do it again after 6 p.m. Tuesday. But I must give it a try. Pray I avoid any interaction with automobiles and that I make it home before it gets completely dark. Updates to come.

Hand Made

I am currently working on the family Christmas card, trying to get it in some semblance of ready before Thanksgiving. That has been my personal deadline for years so thus it shall be in 2008. I enjoy creating the card, trying to come up with something different that I can pull off with as little outlay of cash as possible, so I am not complaining. I created my first Christmas cards on a “mass” scale in 1981. I’m sure I was trying to impress my fiance with something creative and 27 years later I am still trying to impress her (but now she has been my wife for 26.5 years). Trying to stay thrifty usually means it will be designed so that it can be copied onto card stock or bond paper and assembled by hand. Not quite at the level of using a letter press but practically the modern equivalent. (In fact, if I had a letter press you can believe I would be using it.) I like the idea that each card has been touched by my hands—minimally messaged, folded and stuffed in an envelope—and I have refused to go the route of laser generated labels in lieu of handwriting the address on each envelope. Combine that with the randomness of the placement of the stamp and postal ink and I am assured that every person on our list is receiving a unique card. What I regret is what I am doing is almost a lost art. Heck, I’m still using technology to the point that I’m hard pressed to refer to the cards as “hand made” in the traditional sense, but there is still some art in the process along with the manual labor (not ignoring that we send out over 100 cards every year which makes me appreciate the little technology I use). I find the entire process very satisfying.

I wish I could make money doing this kind of thing but I am afraid that would necessitate moving to some mountain town and getting in good with the local shops so they will display my wares for the tourists to buy. And when the visitors ask the proprietor’s who created the collateral they can talk about the crazy man on the mountain and they can all laugh. Nervously. The man on the mountain may very well be crazy but he’d be happy.

Quick Hit

I found it humorous to read of all the worry and gnashing of teeth in regards to how awkward the first meeting between the Bush and Obama families was going to play out at the White House. President Bush has survived and risen above eight years of ridiculous name calling and having a sit down with someone who only called him a failure was not going to bother him very much. I am sure W was gracious and professional, just as he has always been, and that the meeting was not awkward at all. Besides, if anyone knows how clueless President-elect Obama is, it would have to be George W. Bush. He was in the exact same situation eight years ago.

Brush With Greatness

Watching some of the celebration and documentary style remembrances for Bobby Bowden’s 79th birthday I was reminded that I have an Ann Bowden story. Yes, it would be much cooler if I had a Bobby Bowden story instead of a story about his wife, but it’s all I have so everyone will have to deal with the almost-meeting-famous-people-but-usually-meeting-their-spouse life. One day several years ago my mother-in-law called me and asked if I could do her a favor. I dutifully agreed and she informed me she had a friend who owned a rowing machine that she was tired of and had promised to another friend. The issue was they had no way to get it from point A to B and thought, since I owned a truck, I could help them out. (Anyone that owns a truck has heard this spiel more than once.) I agreed to help, got the address of friend A, convinced a buddy to help me and we made our way to the house to pick up the rowing machine.

When we arrived, we found out the machine was upstairs and had to be maneuvered down the narrowest set of stairs ever designed by an architect. The task was made more difficult by the 100 framed pictures lining the wall of the stairwell. Once we finally had it in the truck, the previous owner of the machine informed us that the new owner was only two houses down the block. I did some mental calculations and realized we were delivering the rowing machine to Bobby Bowden’s house. Pushing aside the ridiculous notion that the Bowden’s could not afford to buy a new rowing machine (and pay someone to deliver it to their house) I got excited. We followed owner A to the new owner’s house where we were greeted warmly by Ann Bowden, Bobby’s wife, at the front door. My friend and I carried the machine into the house and were told we needed to deposit it upstairs (of course, although her staircase was wider). Once we had the machine in place, Mrs. Bowden asked me to show her how to use it. I reluctantly climbed in the seat and showed her the few things I knew but quickly got up, feeling a little awkward.

As soon as I was standing, Mrs.Bowden jumped on the machine and decided to see if I had taught her anything. She eventually got everything moving in synch and seemed quite pleased with herself. The rest of us stood around and watched, slowly wishing we were elsewhere. When she finally finished her impromptu workout, she looked up at me and said, “This is going to be great, especially for my legs.” At this moment she reached down to her shorts-clad legs and grabbed the inside of each thigh with her hands and started shaking the loose skin. “As you can see, I have some work to do in this area.” Horrified, I found I couldn’t move which was a shame because I suddenly had a desire to leave. Instead we all chuckled uncomfortably as she cackled and then I helped her up out of the machine. We quickly said our goodbyes and accepted her thanks. Once outside, sitting in the truck, I looked straight ahead and told my friend, “We must never speak of what we witnessed today.” He agreed but, since I cannot remember who it was that was with me, I decided to break the vow. Thus ends my brush with greatness.

The Day After

I voted for John McCain. That is probably not a mind expanding revelation to anyone who knows me, but I wanted that out of the way before I say what I have to say. I am disappointed with the results but the historical gravity of the election is not lost on me. Forty years ago a man of Barak Obama’s race was using a separate water fountain and restroom; today he is president of the United States of America. No matter your preference of candidate, that is a pretty remarkable thing. I can take some pride in that as an American.

Barak Obama is an enigma, one of the least vetted candidates in the history of our elections, so that makes it really difficult to anticipate what is next for him and for our country. So that means I will pray. For him, his decision making, his safety, his family and that he has Divine wisdom for however long he is president. I will also pray against the nastiness of the last eight years and that he does not have to endure the vile hatred that engulfed George W. Bush throughout his eight years in office. The natural response from the right will be to jump into the fray and “pay back” the left, applying the new rules they invented, and gloat when the inevitable mistakes are made. It was ugly and uncalled for then and turning the tables makes it no less wrong. I pray mature, sane people will start making the rules and learn to enforce them.

And I will also pray that all Christians—regardless of denomination or race—will never rely on anything but God for their security and peace. Never a government, leader or idea. Man and his schemes will inevitably disappoint us but God can’t and won’t; there is no greater anchor. So take the time to refocus, carve out time to read your Bible every day and listen for direction and Godly wisdom. And then follow it. And do not lose focus on the simple guide for living that Jesus gave us: Love God and love people.

The times are always interesting but for some reason I think they are getting ready to take a very interesting turn. We cannot always control the outside forces but we can make choices about the inside. Be ready by being secure in what you believe. Then enjoy the ride, peacefully.

The Day Before

Words of wisdom to bear in mind over the next 48 hours (and forever).

The lot is cast into the lap, But its every decision is from the LORD.
Proverbs 16:33

Friday Story

Leading up to this Friday (today!) I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. Yesterday was part three (pan down). Today is part four, the final installment.

The “dads,” as the girls referred to us, were required to stay on the sidewalk and not interfere in any way with the comings and goings of our three rodents. The dads were happy to comply. As we slowly traipsed his neighborhood, Wally and I had a chance to talk about the mundane things guys discuss. Football, refinancing and family topped the list but other subjects crept in and out of the conversation as well. It was nice for me because I had been conducting my life at such a dead run the last few weeks I had forgotten how pleasant it was to merely stroll and chat, even if I was talking to a large block of cheddar. The girls started to lose their steam after an hour so we manipulated their path to head them back toward home. As we walked the final block, Wally inquired if he could ask me something personal. The last time he made that request was in his car during my interview and it was followed with a question about church. I gave him permission but I also activated my defense shields.

“I don’t know if you remember this, but back when you were interviewing with us I asked if you attended church anywhere and you answered ‘not any more.’ Since you seem to get all jumpy when there is any reference to religion or faith during conversations, I was wondering if there’s a story behind that answer. Is there?”

I didn’t want to get into a long drawn out explanation at that moment, especially since we were almost back to his house. If our friendship progressed it would be unavoidable but that would come in time. I took a deep breath and offered up the abridged version, hoping it would suffice. “Yes, there is a story but it’s not that interesting. Let’s just say I tried it but it wasn’t for me.”

“And that answer did nothing but make me even more curious, but I won’t pry. I can tell it’s not something you want to talk about. Let’s get the girls home and I’ll grill us some real food. You hungry?”

“For some reason I am craving queso…”

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m a married man.”

Thursday Story

Leading up to this Friday I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. Yesterday was part two (pan down). Today is part three.

Wally and his family lived in a fairly new housing development complete with sidewalks, generous street lighting and nearly identical looking houses. It appeared the variety of design ended with the architect flipping the house plans and alternating between four color choices. Every house had two-stories, lap siding, a two-car garage and well-groomed yards. No cars were parked on the road and there were no visible boats or sheds to disrupt the clean lines of the neighborhood. Based on those observations, I assumed they lived under the totalitarian rule of a strong homeowners association. Wally’s house had the minor distinguishing characteristics of a basketball goal right off the driveway and a flag jutting from the front door frame. I was pleased to see the flag proudly displayed a cartoon, appliqué vampire. Dad would have been proud.

Rochelle greeted me warmly as we entered the house and was kind enough to anticipate my need for a glass of wine after my first foray into Atlanta traffic. As we talked in the family room while Wally changed clothes, I was introduced to the Barnes offspring, all decked out in homemade costumes, ready to hit the road. Vanessa, Patty and Sondra were dressed as three blind mice, complete with big mouse ears and long tails. At eight, five and three they were each suffering from a different aspect of their getup. Vanessa, the oldest, hated how the hood with ears attached interfered with her curly hair. She was not happy that her locks were covered and kept trying to pull the headpiece further back on her head to allow everyone to at least see her bangs. Patty was fascinated with her tail and kept bending over and looking through her legs to see what it was doing behind her. Sondra was just not happy. Rochelle explained she wanted to be Cinderella and could not understand why she had to dress like a “wat.” I tried to console her by explaining she was a “cute little wodent” but she just wrinkled her nose and continued to whine. Just as we approached a mutinous level of despair, Wally emerged from his bedroom and rescued us all from near anarchy. I’m not sure who talked him into it but Wally had agreed to dress up like a big block of cheese. At least I thought that’s what it was. He was wearing a matching yellow sweatshirt and pants, standing in a cardboard “wedge”—painted to match his clothes—which was hanging around his waist, held up by suspenders. Upon his grand entrance, his daughters squealed and jumped up and down with delight. Costume issues were quickly forgotten.

“Who’s ready to go trick or treatin’?” Wally yelled above the din. The girls screamed, “We are!” and put on their sunglasses and grabbed their canes. We headed out into the cool, Atlanta night, joining a surprising number of kids and chaperones already criss-crossing the well-lit neighborhood. Rochelle stayed behind to man the door and dispense treats.

(Part Four will be posted on Friday)

Wednesday Story

Leading up to this Friday I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. Yesterday was part one (pan down). Today is part two.

I spent my lunch hour on the phone, talking to the hotel about continuing my stay with them and calling the realtor to find out if she could help me find a temporary dwelling. I wanted to find an apartment over the weekend and keep my stay in the hotel to only one more week. Yvonne was happy to help and we made plans to meet in the office parking lot on Saturday morning.

At 3:30, Wally called and asked what my plans were for the weekend. When I told him I was staying in town he insisted I join him and his family that night as they walked the neighborhood with their children. He promised if I survived that portion of the evening he would reward me with a quality meal afterwards. I was hesitant and told him I would let him know by five whether I could go or not. The idea of helping supervise strange children as they walked through unfamiliar territory was not all that appealing. I held out hope that a better offer would pop up in the next hour and a half.

By 4:45 the depressing thought of spending another night in the hotel room eating takeout overcame my reservations about spending an evening in suburbia so I let Wally know I was up for the challenge. He met me in the lobby at five and gave me a brief overview of where we were heading. He lived in Kennesaw, which was straight up I-75 but at that time of day, on a Friday no less, it would be slow going. Before we left the parking lot we exchanged cell phone numbers in case we got separated. I didn’t realize how slim the chances were for that since the majority of our trip to his house was spent traveling 20 miles per hour. By the time we pulled into Wally’s driveway it was 6:30 and I was a wreck. Ninety minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic had inched its way through every nerve and hair follicle in my body and I was reduced to a sensitive and sore mess. As I sat in my car trying to compose myself, he bounded up to my door sporting a huge smile, rejoicing in how fast we made it to his house.

(Part Three will be posted on Thursday)

Tuesday Story

Leading up to this Friday I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. (No, it hasn't been published but I still wrote it which doesn’t change the fact that it is still a novel. Or does it?) The excerpt takes place on a Friday night that just happens to be Halloween. What a coincidence. A little back story is in order: The story is about a “Christian from birth” who, at middle age, decides to turn his back on his faith. He assumes everything else in his life will stay the same—the loving wife, the wonderful kids—but then he lands a “dream job” in Atlanta and things at home do not go as planned. The story picks up soon after starting his new job, waiting for his old house to sell and for his family to join him. Wally is a new friend he has made since arriving in the big city.

When I walked into the offices Friday morning I was stunned to see the receptionist dressed like Cruella DeVille from the 101 Dalmatians movies. When I asked what was the point of the outfit she politely reminded me that it was Halloween. I couldn’t believe a major holiday had snuck up on me but my current situation away from family and living in a hotel didn’t offer a lot of reminders. Halloween was one of the holidays the church had decided to ruin, trying to pay back the world for screwing up Christmas and Easter. It used to be about candy and costumes. Now the preachers have turned it into Satan worship and the fear of baby sacrifices. When I was a kid, Halloween may have been the most fun holiday in my house. My dad would channel his inner thespian and create elaborate costumes and devise various ways to scare all of the little trick-or-treaters who knocked on our door. My favorite memory was the year dad dressed up as Dracula. Our house had a set of stairs that began their climb up as you entered the front door, offering the perfect angle to rest a cardboard coffin. When kids would ring the doorbell and scream “trick or treat,” mom would stay hidden behind the door and open it very slow. As the kids stood there facing a dark entryway, unsure of what to do, my dad would dramatically rise out of the coffin to a sitting position, shining a flashlight up from under his chin. He would then say “ Goot Eve-ah-ning” with all the clichéd inflections of a vampire, or at least what the movies had taught us. If the kids hung around through that mini-drama, mom would load them up with candy and tell them to warn their friends. Inevitably we would get a call from a concerned parent and I would have to pull sentry duty, signaling to mom and dad if the kids were old enough to get the full treatment or just receive their candy from a kindler, gentler vampire. In the climate of today, when Halloween has been replaced with Fall Festivals and parades through the mall, my pastor/father would get called up before the Southern Baptist Convention on heresy charges if he pulled any of those stunts now. Too bad. He was a great vampire AND a great pastor.

(Part Two will be posted on Wednesday)

Say Hello to My Little Friends

Several years ago I created a couple of characters called Christian Man and Dogma. Initially, they were strictly to star in some tracts I had envisioned (and eventually wrote and drew). Once again, I was digging through some old notebooks and came across my original drawing of Christian Man and Dogma. I thought it was an interesting contrast from the early drawing to what they morphed into in their debut in My Life as a Sailor, the first tract in which they were the “stars.” File this under FWIW. It’s definitely not as inspiring as the early Simpsons characters on the Tracey Ullman show, but, then again, Christian Man is no Homer...

Christian Man and Dogma, the early years.

Christian Man and Dogma, posing for their first tract, My Life as a Sailor.

Book Club

I read a lot. I don’t read very fast and am constantly amazed when I see people blow through a book (or more) per week. Maybe it has more to do with the type of books I read which lean toward “literary” rather than “contemporary” fiction. I tend to read and savor instead of plow through stories. Besides, I’m in no hurry; there is no competition. I think my reading taste also has to do with the type of fiction I like to write (or maybe it is the other way around). Writing literary fiction is not the fast track to publication but I won’t let that deter me from either reading or writing it. Besides, it is a built-in excuse and I like to think it might be genetic and I can’t fight DNA. (Don't tell me different. Keep hope—and justification— alive!)

One of my favorite writers (and someone whose style, approach and technique I wish I could emulate in even a small way) is Flannery O’Connor. She died young but left an impressive body of work that was very spiritual but, thankfully, not always in an obvious way. If you have not read anything by her I would suggest one of her short stories and my favorite (by far) is a story titled Revelation. It is included in Everything That Rises Must Converge, one of her impressive story collections. And once you have read it you can spend hours on the internet reading the hundreds of term papers and analysis that are posted by every doctoral student that dipped a toe into “southern literature.” (Just kidding. Not about the information on the internet, it is there, but about reading all of that stuff. Don’t over analyze; just read it and enjoy.) It ain’t Grisham but, then again, it’s not 250 pages long.

My Daughter's Journey

Laura just returned from a week in Norway. She and a few folks from the Bible College in Italy spent time hanging out at a Christian boarding school, ministering, praying with and getting to know 150 Norwegian high school kids. She has posted some pictures here and will probably update her blog this week (so check on it periodically).

BTW: My oldest son has started a blog as well. I will shill for him with pride as well. He is trying to update on Mondays and he shares his heart on worship and whatever else is occupying his mind. Check him out as well.

I Rant Because I Can’t

(Yet one more entry in the never ending chronicle of middle age and embracing my inner crankiness.)

This morning I rode to work and I ate my concoction of strawberry flavored carb control yogurt mixed with Kashi granola, washing it all down with a Fresca. Sitting at a red light I came to the realization that I was a prisoner to my body and its needs. Or maybe I am a prisoner to the fear of what my body will become if I do not feed it fake food (and, yes, that is what it is. Compare real sour cream and fat free sour cream—one is obviously fake!). I often threaten to give up the battle and just let it go, to test the unproven theory that I will balloon to an unwieldy girth if I eat what I want without any mental and emotional filters. To explore the world of sweat pants and XXL shirts. But I won’t; I am way too narcissistic to go down without a fight. Some call it discipline. I call it fear. Oh sure, I balance it all with a stated desire to be healthy and “take care of myself,” but it has more to do with vanity; health is a convenient cover.

One of my fantasies is I will be afforded a two or three month warning of my impending death and I will then eat any and everything I want with zero reservations. That only comes into play if heaven is not equipped with an incredible all-you-can-eat buffet with no need for digestive enzymes when you are done. What’s that? Why, yes, that is a shallow interpretation of heaven but, since I cannot seem to wrap my small, human brain around the few descriptions in the Bible, I have to use what I know and I know that I want to eat a hamburger, not a Bocca Burger. I want to eat real ice cream, not Healthy Choice white something shaped into blocks to resemble an ice cream sandwich. I want a calzone, not a chef salad with a meatball on the side. I want blue cheese dressing, not balsamic vinaigrette. I want a baked potato with butter and (real) sour cream as well as cheese, not a sweet potato with Butter Buds and Splenda. And I want it all without guilt or indigestion. And that, to me, would be, well... heaven.

Post-Grease Report

I have just returned from the fish fry and I wanted to share with all three of my readers how it went. Basically, it was all I expected it to be. There were three kinds of fish provided—catfish, brim and mullet—as well as baked beans and hush puppies (also referred to as "dough boys"). I believe the cheese grits were made by melting several pounds of cheese, waving a bag of grits over the pot and calling it even. There was also cole slaw and a random Greek salad that looked sad and lonely and was hardly touched. We washed it all down with either sweet tea or lemonade (or a mixture of both) and then had a choice of so many desserts that they required their own table. The result? I ate enough fish and dough boys to have adequately lubricated my internal organs and enough cheese "grits" to keep me constipated until next weekend. All in all a successful fish fry.

The bubbling nector of the Fry Gods preparing for its sacrifice.

I was fascinated by this "dough boy" tool but the old-timers mocked my fascination.

Friday Foolishness

I am going to a fish fry tomorrow afternoon. This is my idea of a mid-life crisis since my aversion to grease has been consuming for many years. I am not sure how my body will react to the product that will be served. But I will partake and I will be fierce. And I will eat an extra hush puppy dipped in cheese grits for everyone that promises to pray for me. It is that sort of twisted logic that has me mentally repeating "Get Big or Stay Home" every time I think about what I am about to do to myself. But if you are going to shave some years off your life with food I'd much rather do it with fried grouper than a Snickers. Now, if they are going to fry the Snickers, that is a whole 'nother situation...

Themeless Thursday

Posted without comment.

Nothing

I have started three blog posts over the last few days but they were lame so I didn’t finish them. For that, you should thank me. I always start writing with the best of intentions, thinking I actually have something to say, but it doesn't take long to figure out that the idea was not as strong as I had hoped and the moment passes. Like gas, only I don’t feel better after it’s gone. So, yeah, this is a blog post to let you know I have nothing to say. Is that more ironic or sad?

Casual Friday Sketchiness

Note to Sean D: Just trying to get some closure...

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