Every day is a challenge.
Every situation is unique.
Every conversation is fragile.
Every opportunity can be missed.
This is neither positive nor negative.
Just truth. Our approach tilts it to either extreme.
4/08/2009
3/26/2009
Entry One Hundred Nine: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is thirty-nine of who knows how many will be posted. The last entry is here. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Seventeen
Once in his house, Adam pulled an atlas from a bookshelf and found the two page spread that presented a map of the entire United States, all 50 of them. He found the general area of his hometown in the southern part of Georgia and placed his index finger on that spot. “North or West? That’s about the only two options, I suppose.” He traced his finger to the left, following Interstate 10 across Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas and ended on the west coast of California. It was a long way from home and, even though the prospect of driving through states he had never visited before intrigued him, the unfamiliarity of it also caused him to rule it out. His situation was weird enough. To layer the unknown on top of it was too much to deal with. At least initially. “The first trip should be familiar.”
He returned his finger to south Georgia and dragged it up the page, briefly stopping on the word “Atlanta,” the state capitol. “I’ve been there before. I can possibly deal with that.” He left the book open on his desk and turned his attention to his computer. He hoped that MapQuest was still functioning because he wanted some directions to keep him on track during his trip. There was a significant amount of comfort in having a plan and comfort had been in such short supply since the note that he grabbed it whenever it presented itself.
To Adam’s delight, and relief, MapQuest functioned perfectly. After submitting his address and his destination, the step-by-step instructions filled his screen and he printed them. With the directions in hand, his attention turned toward supplies for his trip. He was only going to be gone for a couple of days so packing would be light. He brought a suitcase in from the garage and filled it with three outfits and an extra pair of underwear. Since he was driving north and the weather had started to cool, he added an extra sweatshirt as well.
Adam stopped preparations for a cigarette break and he decided to enjoy it sitting on the steps of the front porch. As he exhaled his first draw he thought about what it meant to leave, even if only for a day or two. He had not traveled much before, always comfortable in his small town existence, never feeling a need to get away and explore. The few forays to Atlanta to catch a Braves baseball game had given him all the taste of a big city he needed. Too much and too many, too fast. It was okay for an occasional weekend, but not fit for constant consumption, at least for him.
But this trip would be different. “Hell, what’s not different.” He wasn’t traveling to a city teeming with people, traffic and noise. He knew it would be empty but what that would look and feel like he couldn’t comprehend. Why waste time mentally churning on it; he’d experience it soon enough. He was not looking forward to the next few days but Adam knew the trip was inevitable, especially if he was interested in survival. As he stood and stretched he decided to leave the next morning.
All words and images ©2009/J. Colle
Chapter Seventeen
Once in his house, Adam pulled an atlas from a bookshelf and found the two page spread that presented a map of the entire United States, all 50 of them. He found the general area of his hometown in the southern part of Georgia and placed his index finger on that spot. “North or West? That’s about the only two options, I suppose.” He traced his finger to the left, following Interstate 10 across Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas and ended on the west coast of California. It was a long way from home and, even though the prospect of driving through states he had never visited before intrigued him, the unfamiliarity of it also caused him to rule it out. His situation was weird enough. To layer the unknown on top of it was too much to deal with. At least initially. “The first trip should be familiar.”
He returned his finger to south Georgia and dragged it up the page, briefly stopping on the word “Atlanta,” the state capitol. “I’ve been there before. I can possibly deal with that.” He left the book open on his desk and turned his attention to his computer. He hoped that MapQuest was still functioning because he wanted some directions to keep him on track during his trip. There was a significant amount of comfort in having a plan and comfort had been in such short supply since the note that he grabbed it whenever it presented itself.
To Adam’s delight, and relief, MapQuest functioned perfectly. After submitting his address and his destination, the step-by-step instructions filled his screen and he printed them. With the directions in hand, his attention turned toward supplies for his trip. He was only going to be gone for a couple of days so packing would be light. He brought a suitcase in from the garage and filled it with three outfits and an extra pair of underwear. Since he was driving north and the weather had started to cool, he added an extra sweatshirt as well.
Adam stopped preparations for a cigarette break and he decided to enjoy it sitting on the steps of the front porch. As he exhaled his first draw he thought about what it meant to leave, even if only for a day or two. He had not traveled much before, always comfortable in his small town existence, never feeling a need to get away and explore. The few forays to Atlanta to catch a Braves baseball game had given him all the taste of a big city he needed. Too much and too many, too fast. It was okay for an occasional weekend, but not fit for constant consumption, at least for him.
But this trip would be different. “Hell, what’s not different.” He wasn’t traveling to a city teeming with people, traffic and noise. He knew it would be empty but what that would look and feel like he couldn’t comprehend. Why waste time mentally churning on it; he’d experience it soon enough. He was not looking forward to the next few days but Adam knew the trip was inevitable, especially if he was interested in survival. As he stood and stretched he decided to leave the next morning.
All words and images ©2009/J. Colle
3/09/2009
Today, Elsewhere
I launched a new project today on the World Wide Web. By finally establishing a digital home for Christian Man and Dogma, I have completed a long held desire to introduce them to the public. They lept out of my brain and on to the page many years ago and have gone through several iterations since their "birth." They popped up sporadically after a fast start (like most endeavors) but they have always been my favorite dudes in the arsenal.
And now they have a new home. Go visit them at www.ChristianManAndDogma.com. The initial plan is to update the site with a new panel every week day. How long that lasts will depend a lot on my energy level and God's desire to give me ideas to write/draw. I will try to continue to add to this site as well but it may be less consistent than before (which was already inconsistent). We shall see. I am excited and I ask you to join in my joy.
P.S.: If you are a Twitter person, follow the boys @_cmd and you'll get a free gift! Do it. Do it now. Seriously. Go...
And now they have a new home. Go visit them at www.ChristianManAndDogma.com. The initial plan is to update the site with a new panel every week day. How long that lasts will depend a lot on my energy level and God's desire to give me ideas to write/draw. I will try to continue to add to this site as well but it may be less consistent than before (which was already inconsistent). We shall see. I am excited and I ask you to join in my joy.
P.S.: If you are a Twitter person, follow the boys @_cmd and you'll get a free gift! Do it. Do it now. Seriously. Go...
3/06/2009
2/28/2009
Weekend Thought From Flannery O'Connor
From Flannery O'Connor's letter to Alfred Corn on May 30, 1962:
Even in the life of a Christian, faith rises and falls like the tides of an invisible sea. It's there, even when he can't see it or feel it, if he wants it to be there. You realize, I think, that it is more valuable, more mysterious, altogether more immense than anything you can learn or decide upon in college. Learn what you can, but cultivate Christian scepticism. It will keep you free — not free to do anything you please, but free to be formed by something larger than your intellect or the intellects of those around you.
(scep·ti·cism: A doubting or questioning attitude or state of mind)
Even in the life of a Christian, faith rises and falls like the tides of an invisible sea. It's there, even when he can't see it or feel it, if he wants it to be there. You realize, I think, that it is more valuable, more mysterious, altogether more immense than anything you can learn or decide upon in college. Learn what you can, but cultivate Christian scepticism. It will keep you free — not free to do anything you please, but free to be formed by something larger than your intellect or the intellects of those around you.
(scep·ti·cism: A doubting or questioning attitude or state of mind)
2/27/2009
Something to Ponder
As details start emerging on the new stimulus and housing plans brought forth by the new administration, I want to offer something to consider. If it is true—and all indications are that this is the case—the threshold for higher taxes is household incomes of $250,000+, I recommend we start to channel all of that energy we are using to "get ahead" and "succeed" in the business world into other areas. Maybe instead of working that extra 30 hours for that bonus, we put those hours into our kids lives. Coach a soccer team, volunteer with the school band or just be there for dinner. If kids are not a factor, consider volunteering at church or at the local shelter. There are plenty of groups out there that could use our time and energy. At some point the bonus will not be worth the effort but investing in people's lives will never be a waste of time.
2/25/2009
One For the Little Guy
What started out as an innocuous errand-filled lunch yesterday turned into a battle cry for liberty and justice. But that is not all that unusual for my wife. After picking up a small check from a consignment shop ($30), she decided to cash the check at the bank the store uses for its business account which was conveniently located two blocks from the store. In the drive-through line at the bank, she was informed by the teller in the booth that the new policy of the bank was to charge $5 to cash a check from a business account. My wife said, “no way” and asked for the check and her driver license to be returned via air tube. In most instances, that would have been the end of the situation. Read on.
As she pulled away from the bank, she realized that she was very angry about what had just transpired. How ridiculous was it that the bank holding the corporate account would charge some regular Joe off the street $5 to cash a check from that account. It made no sense. So she pulled into the parking lot and decided to speak to the teller in person, hoping to rectify the situation. The bank lobby was devoid of customers, only two tellers and a person sitting at a desk being the live bodies in sight. She walked up to a teller and asked that they cash her check and not charge her the fee. The teller explained that she couldn’t do that. My wife argued that she could. After being turned down again, my wife asked why they decided to change the policy. The teller said that it was a new policy from management. That was no answer so Hope asked again, “But why?” The teller looked over at the teller next to her for some help and she offered that if we walked into a Wachovia or Bank of America we would be faced with the same fees.
Incredulous, my wife responded forcefully that she could not believe they were comparing themselves to those two banks and that she considered (one of the banks) to be the most crooked bank in America! “Why would you even want to be compared to them?” Then she held up the check in question and asked, “Is this your logo on this check? Does this business have an account with you? Then why in the world do you not trust your own clients enough to cash a check from their account? What is that five dollars for?”
The response? “Well, ma'am, you can open a checking account with us and receive free checking.”
“There is no way I would EVER open an account with this bank. Ever!” With that she decided to leave, her work complete. Almost.
She got out the door but then turned and walked back in. She pointed to the man at the desk and said, “If you are a manager here, shame on you for letting me walk out of this bank unsatisfied.” And she left.
Is there a lesson here about customer service? Or is it a lesson on dealing with strong females who need their $30 for lunch money? I think it depends on which side of the debate you are residing. I know who I am defending. (Are you crazy?)
As she pulled away from the bank, she realized that she was very angry about what had just transpired. How ridiculous was it that the bank holding the corporate account would charge some regular Joe off the street $5 to cash a check from that account. It made no sense. So she pulled into the parking lot and decided to speak to the teller in person, hoping to rectify the situation. The bank lobby was devoid of customers, only two tellers and a person sitting at a desk being the live bodies in sight. She walked up to a teller and asked that they cash her check and not charge her the fee. The teller explained that she couldn’t do that. My wife argued that she could. After being turned down again, my wife asked why they decided to change the policy. The teller said that it was a new policy from management. That was no answer so Hope asked again, “But why?” The teller looked over at the teller next to her for some help and she offered that if we walked into a Wachovia or Bank of America we would be faced with the same fees.
Incredulous, my wife responded forcefully that she could not believe they were comparing themselves to those two banks and that she considered (one of the banks) to be the most crooked bank in America! “Why would you even want to be compared to them?” Then she held up the check in question and asked, “Is this your logo on this check? Does this business have an account with you? Then why in the world do you not trust your own clients enough to cash a check from their account? What is that five dollars for?”
The response? “Well, ma'am, you can open a checking account with us and receive free checking.”
“There is no way I would EVER open an account with this bank. Ever!” With that she decided to leave, her work complete. Almost.
She got out the door but then turned and walked back in. She pointed to the man at the desk and said, “If you are a manager here, shame on you for letting me walk out of this bank unsatisfied.” And she left.
Is there a lesson here about customer service? Or is it a lesson on dealing with strong females who need their $30 for lunch money? I think it depends on which side of the debate you are residing. I know who I am defending. (Are you crazy?)
2/21/2009
We Clean Up Good!
The entire family attended Aaron and Julie's wedding today. A delightful event and, since we rarely are all dressed up in one place, we took a bunch of pictures. The photo below of the kids is one of the best but I placed a bunch more at our Flikr site as well as on Facebook. Check them out if you are interested.
2/19/2009
Declaration of Nothing
Sorry for the lack of posts lately. There are a lot of things going on and sometimes putting my incredibly pointless thoughts into the digital ether slides down the priority list. Besides, if I wrote something every day, how would I get you to miss me?
The problem is I don’t feel like I have anything to say. I know, that has never stopped me before, but I don’t want to just put stuff on here for the sake of meeting a quota or deadline. So I haven’t. I’ve been writing, trying to get the new novel idea off the ground (I believe the proper term is “work in progress”) but that is different. The daily ramblings have ceased to be interesting, at least to me.
I have been immersed in the social media world for years and am still monitoring its progress from within, using Twitter, Facebook, this blog (and others) and everything else that is out there, but I have come to the conclusion that, unless I have something to sell or something to say, it is not worth the time. And I do not have something to sell and I really don’t have anything to say so my drive to post has been squelched a bit. Yet I am drawn to all of this technology (how could you not find it cool to have Lance Armstrong tell you his bike was stolen or Karl Rove tell you he is going hunting in Texas!) and that sets up an interesting emotional and psychological tug of war in my head. To feed both sides I will continue to watch and learn and occasionally toss a few verbal kernels into the fray. And I hope that satisfies the internal rumbles. (Let’s see... I think I can mix one more metaphor if I try hard enough... hold on...)
Maybe one day my head will exit the fog and some clarity will set in and I will be sure and record that here, first. Or second. I usually hand write thoughts first. Maybe that’s the problem! I am still nursing my inner Luddite...
The problem is I don’t feel like I have anything to say. I know, that has never stopped me before, but I don’t want to just put stuff on here for the sake of meeting a quota or deadline. So I haven’t. I’ve been writing, trying to get the new novel idea off the ground (I believe the proper term is “work in progress”) but that is different. The daily ramblings have ceased to be interesting, at least to me.
I have been immersed in the social media world for years and am still monitoring its progress from within, using Twitter, Facebook, this blog (and others) and everything else that is out there, but I have come to the conclusion that, unless I have something to sell or something to say, it is not worth the time. And I do not have something to sell and I really don’t have anything to say so my drive to post has been squelched a bit. Yet I am drawn to all of this technology (how could you not find it cool to have Lance Armstrong tell you his bike was stolen or Karl Rove tell you he is going hunting in Texas!) and that sets up an interesting emotional and psychological tug of war in my head. To feed both sides I will continue to watch and learn and occasionally toss a few verbal kernels into the fray. And I hope that satisfies the internal rumbles. (Let’s see... I think I can mix one more metaphor if I try hard enough... hold on...)
Maybe one day my head will exit the fog and some clarity will set in and I will be sure and record that here, first. Or second. I usually hand write thoughts first. Maybe that’s the problem! I am still nursing my inner Luddite...
2/12/2009
2/07/2009
The Curtain Rolls Back. Look Quickly.
Last week I came up with an idea for a novel. I guess that isn’t so rare since I am always thinking of something to write but what made this particular idea stand out is it was actually a good idea, possibly verging on great. I started getting excited about it, researching some particulars, jotting down notes and possible plot lines, basically fleshing out the idea to see if it developed any legs (forgive that metaphor—it just sort of rolled out of me and my internal filter is a little rusty). In the midst of the thrill, the practical part of me began to whisper into my brain. Do you really want to muster up the discipline it will take to write this tome? Do you really have the time to devote to a project like this? Remember the last one? And the one before that? Even if you go through with it, will anyone care? Or will this just be another exercise in anything-but-getting-published? The easy answer is, “just do it!” but that is really not an easy answer. Life really is grey. Unless it is black and white.
1/31/2009
Grad Done Good
It was very cool to see an old friend on the Colbert Report this week. Ed Young, pastor of Fellowship Church in Texas, has made news lately by encouraging the married couples in his congregation to have sex for seven straight days. Obviously, this has caught the eye of the national media and, whether intentional or not, it has provided Ed a national forum to share the intent of the challenge.
Ed and I met in college in a drawing class. We were both art majors and we hit it off immediately considering we were the only two happy people in the art department at Florida State. Tortured artists we were not. Before long Lisa, Ed, Hope and I formed a bond and spent a lot of time together playing Putt-Putt golf (Ed was a card carrying member of the PPPGA and had actually played in Putt-Putt golf tournaments), eating, watching wrestling and laughing. Always laughing. We ended up in each other’s weddings and, once they moved to Houston, I began following his career from afar. Watching the video’s from his blog I am happy to see that he is still as goofy and happy as when we were hanging out over 25 years (!) ago. He is still making me laugh. He is a busy man with some great ideas and is making a difference. Visit his blog here, his church here, his television ministry site here and his site supplying resources for pastors is here.
Ed and I met in college in a drawing class. We were both art majors and we hit it off immediately considering we were the only two happy people in the art department at Florida State. Tortured artists we were not. Before long Lisa, Ed, Hope and I formed a bond and spent a lot of time together playing Putt-Putt golf (Ed was a card carrying member of the PPPGA and had actually played in Putt-Putt golf tournaments), eating, watching wrestling and laughing. Always laughing. We ended up in each other’s weddings and, once they moved to Houston, I began following his career from afar. Watching the video’s from his blog I am happy to see that he is still as goofy and happy as when we were hanging out over 25 years (!) ago. He is still making me laugh. He is a busy man with some great ideas and is making a difference. Visit his blog here, his church here, his television ministry site here and his site supplying resources for pastors is here.
1/27/2009
John Updike, R.I.P
I always wanted to be John Updike. I suppose it would be more accurate to say I always wanted to write like him. While reading Rabbit, Run, the first Updike book I ever read, I experienced a sensation much like eating too much wasabi on a California roll. My head cleared, all air passages expanded and I achieved a clarity that had previously eluded me. The dude could write. He could describe the mundane and make you think it brand new. You could always sense there was something more, lurking beneath the surface, deeper and worth more than a skim. Sure, he was a word smith extraordinaire (which could be a detriment at times), but it was more than that. He had a rare gift to be able to infuse words with life. Whether you were able to fully grasp all he was trying to say or not, you knew there was something there, dancing in the spaces around the letters and paragraphs. And I wanted to “get” it, so I continued to read.
That was what I wanted to do with my words. Heck, every writer should aspire to that but he was the first to give me something to aim for. Sadly, his kind of fiction is growing rare in print. I guess it would be labeled literary fiction today but most of what I read in that genre is long sentences that don’t register, are not memorable, and don’t offer a big enough payoff for the effort of slogging through it. (I must give a nod to Marilynne Robinson and her novel Gilead, which is one of the great stories I have read in the last three years, but she is an exception. A lonely exception.)
John Updike will be missed. Fortunately, the best thing about when a writer dies is his words do not die with him. May he rest in peace and may you go read one of his books.
That was what I wanted to do with my words. Heck, every writer should aspire to that but he was the first to give me something to aim for. Sadly, his kind of fiction is growing rare in print. I guess it would be labeled literary fiction today but most of what I read in that genre is long sentences that don’t register, are not memorable, and don’t offer a big enough payoff for the effort of slogging through it. (I must give a nod to Marilynne Robinson and her novel Gilead, which is one of the great stories I have read in the last three years, but she is an exception. A lonely exception.)
John Updike will be missed. Fortunately, the best thing about when a writer dies is his words do not die with him. May he rest in peace and may you go read one of his books.
1/26/2009
Check it out...
My friend Jon Edwards just added a new post on his blog. You should read it and wait in glorious anticipation for the Snuggies reference. Any blog with a Snuggies reference should be linked to. Especially on a Monday. The blog is here.
1/22/2009
Randomness for Randomness Sake
So, yesterday we found out that the man that has been tapped by the new administration to run the Treasury Department, Timothy Geithner, not only failed to pay his taxes two years but he used Turbo Tax to do his taxes. Intuit quickly released a statement to absolve themselves of any blame:
"TurboTax, and all software and in-person tax preparation services, base their calculations on the information users provide when completing their returns. TurboTax also has built-in, error-checking tools that routinely catch common taxpayer mistakes."
In other news, Jackson Hewitt was seen sharing a beer with H&R Block and giggling like little school girls.
I really like RSS feeds. Of all the technology widgets that have come down the pike, this one has been my favorite and the most useful. And they are also the most distracting software on my desktop. Even more than Twitter. Oh my, I seem to be easily distracted. Look, a pony!
Cynical Post of the Day: In the course of my many vain attempts to draw the attention of an agent or book publisher, I have read numerous blogs that purport to have the scoop on getting published. I have also signed up for way too many email alerts and receive (daily) offers galore for writing workshops and conferences. Since very few people ever get a sniff from an agent, much less a contract, these writing “events” seem more and more like cash cows for the organizers than offering any real opportunity to get published. Hey! So that's how you make money in the publishing business. (I told you it was a cynical post. And you didn't believe me...)
"TurboTax, and all software and in-person tax preparation services, base their calculations on the information users provide when completing their returns. TurboTax also has built-in, error-checking tools that routinely catch common taxpayer mistakes."
In other news, Jackson Hewitt was seen sharing a beer with H&R Block and giggling like little school girls.
...............
I really like RSS feeds. Of all the technology widgets that have come down the pike, this one has been my favorite and the most useful. And they are also the most distracting software on my desktop. Even more than Twitter. Oh my, I seem to be easily distracted. Look, a pony!
...............
Cynical Post of the Day: In the course of my many vain attempts to draw the attention of an agent or book publisher, I have read numerous blogs that purport to have the scoop on getting published. I have also signed up for way too many email alerts and receive (daily) offers galore for writing workshops and conferences. Since very few people ever get a sniff from an agent, much less a contract, these writing “events” seem more and more like cash cows for the organizers than offering any real opportunity to get published. Hey! So that's how you make money in the publishing business. (I told you it was a cynical post. And you didn't believe me...)
1/21/2009
Comfort the Discomforted
Sunday, for lunch, I opened a bag of ruffled potato chips and drug a few through some sour cream as a side dish for my slaw dogs. (Yes, hot dogs and chips. I was wallowing in that five percent of the time that I ignore trying to eat healthy. It keeps me sane.) After the first bite of the chip and dip I stopped and marveled at how good it made me feel. It was a palpable wash of gloriousness rushing through my body. (Hyperbole? Not by a million miles!) I had just experienced a moment that was brought to me by ingesting “comfort food.” In fact, eating the hot dog (or two) with sweet slaw and mustard a few minutes later rocketed me to such heights of feel goodness that I had to take a nap before the NFL playoff games started. (Note to self: ingesting two comfort foods in one sitting should be avoided. Or not. Who am I to judge?)
What I found the most interesting about my comfort food “moment” was that my wife did not share the same feelings about the food. Sure, she liked and enjoyed the slaw dog, but she was nowhere near my red-lined excitement. I concluded from this in-depth experiment that we all have our own comfort foods, each chemically lined up to cause our unique DNA (and taste buds) to release a full body pleasantness. My wife could not readily name her comfort foods (once I told her that Pinot Noir was not a food group) but I have seen her eyes glaze over while working on a stack of pancakes with peanut butter. And no syrup. (Ugh.) I have no doubt that there is a correlation between the amount of grease and fat contained in a food and it’s status on the comfort food pyramid. Hmmm... Do people that eat fried food all the time find comfort in a granola bar or a rice cake? I really hope not. That would be sad and I can take no comfort in that.
What I found the most interesting about my comfort food “moment” was that my wife did not share the same feelings about the food. Sure, she liked and enjoyed the slaw dog, but she was nowhere near my red-lined excitement. I concluded from this in-depth experiment that we all have our own comfort foods, each chemically lined up to cause our unique DNA (and taste buds) to release a full body pleasantness. My wife could not readily name her comfort foods (once I told her that Pinot Noir was not a food group) but I have seen her eyes glaze over while working on a stack of pancakes with peanut butter. And no syrup. (Ugh.) I have no doubt that there is a correlation between the amount of grease and fat contained in a food and it’s status on the comfort food pyramid. Hmmm... Do people that eat fried food all the time find comfort in a granola bar or a rice cake? I really hope not. That would be sad and I can take no comfort in that.
1/16/2009
Entry One Hundred Eight: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is thirty-eight of who knows how many will be posted. The last entry is here. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Sixteen
Adam took the final steps into the cafeteria, stopping just inside the double doors to light a cigarette. It had taken no time to develop a rigid ritual for his few minutes of cafeteria meditation. Since there was no one else to consider, his ceremony was comfortably tailored for him alone; no one else mattered. He would light a smoke, step into the center of the large room—he had long ago moved the tables and chairs away from the middle, giving him a wide berth and enlarging his personal space—and slowly turn, drawing on his cigarette and taking in all four walls. He would start with the wall that fronted the kitchen area; its two sets of double doors, former portals for students to collect their sustenance, giving it a symmetrical look that he felt gave him balance as well. He would then turn toward the wall of windows holding back the outside and, depending on the time of day, overrun by sunshine and shadows. It was invigorating and he took his time scanning the entire length. The third wall, the wall that held the stage and was dominated by a large, garnet colored curtain, was his least favorite but he never rushed through his time there. He used this wall as a means of discipline, a barricade that he had to break through slowly to allow him to fully build the anticipation of what followed.
His favorite wall he saved until last. He would close his eyes as he got to the end of the third wall and continue moving, keeping them pinched tight until he was squarely facing the final scene. By this time he had finished his first smoke and allowed himself one more as he slowly opened his eyes and took in the grandeur of the mural of the United States of America. It never failed to take his breath away, the size and colors never disappointed him. As he examined each state, starting in Washington and moving south then east then north, snaking his way across the mural, he always experienced renewed hope. He still didn’t know why or to what the hope was attached, but it was a positive and profound experience every time. And this particular day proved to be the most profound of them all.
His eyes had just slid off the east coast of Florida, his last visual stop every time because it was the closest to Georgia, his home state. He tried but could never figure out a way to make Georgia his last stop. Every solution ended up leaving Florida out altogether and, even though he had no special love for the sunshine state, he held no particular animosity toward it either so it was only fair to include it. He put his cigarette to his lips and stopped, mid draw. In large letters--a bold, wispy script that looked out of place on the wall--were the words “See America!” Their appearance startled him. He knew they hadn’t been there before, would swear to it if there was anyone to doubt him, and the letter’s professional quality blared in contrast to the artistic crudeness of the rest of the map. Everything about it was odd and, to complicate an already twisted situation, there was something familiar about the lettering. “Where have I seen that before?” He grabbed a chair and placed it in front of the newest addition to the wall. He sat and stared at the letters, obviously hand-painted but perfectly executed. He fumbled for another cigarette and felt no guilt at breaking his self-imposed rule that only allowed him two smokes per meditation visit. This trip had obviously strayed from normal and had careened into something new and, possibly, interesting. He stared and studied, taking time to examine each word and then each letter individually, hoping something would spark in his memory and help him solve the mystery. On his final exhale of smoke it came to him.
“The note! It’s the same handwriting that was used on the note I got from the Squatters.” He jumped up, his legs straightening so quickly that they snapped into his chair, sliding it across the linoleum floor two feet behind him. “It’s another message from the Squatters. Damn, I guess I’m getting boring again.”
Adam hurried home, trying to process what the Squatters expected of him. He had some initial thoughts but every one of them had enough doubt attached to them that he couldn’t settle on any one idea. His biggest fear was that he would be wrong and he had no idea how the Squatters would react to a misstep. The memory of them nearly obliterating the human race for sport caused his stomach to churn at the thought of what they might do if he crossed them, intentional or not.
All words and images ©2009/J. Colle
Chapter Sixteen
Adam took the final steps into the cafeteria, stopping just inside the double doors to light a cigarette. It had taken no time to develop a rigid ritual for his few minutes of cafeteria meditation. Since there was no one else to consider, his ceremony was comfortably tailored for him alone; no one else mattered. He would light a smoke, step into the center of the large room—he had long ago moved the tables and chairs away from the middle, giving him a wide berth and enlarging his personal space—and slowly turn, drawing on his cigarette and taking in all four walls. He would start with the wall that fronted the kitchen area; its two sets of double doors, former portals for students to collect their sustenance, giving it a symmetrical look that he felt gave him balance as well. He would then turn toward the wall of windows holding back the outside and, depending on the time of day, overrun by sunshine and shadows. It was invigorating and he took his time scanning the entire length. The third wall, the wall that held the stage and was dominated by a large, garnet colored curtain, was his least favorite but he never rushed through his time there. He used this wall as a means of discipline, a barricade that he had to break through slowly to allow him to fully build the anticipation of what followed.
His favorite wall he saved until last. He would close his eyes as he got to the end of the third wall and continue moving, keeping them pinched tight until he was squarely facing the final scene. By this time he had finished his first smoke and allowed himself one more as he slowly opened his eyes and took in the grandeur of the mural of the United States of America. It never failed to take his breath away, the size and colors never disappointed him. As he examined each state, starting in Washington and moving south then east then north, snaking his way across the mural, he always experienced renewed hope. He still didn’t know why or to what the hope was attached, but it was a positive and profound experience every time. And this particular day proved to be the most profound of them all.
His eyes had just slid off the east coast of Florida, his last visual stop every time because it was the closest to Georgia, his home state. He tried but could never figure out a way to make Georgia his last stop. Every solution ended up leaving Florida out altogether and, even though he had no special love for the sunshine state, he held no particular animosity toward it either so it was only fair to include it. He put his cigarette to his lips and stopped, mid draw. In large letters--a bold, wispy script that looked out of place on the wall--were the words “See America!” Their appearance startled him. He knew they hadn’t been there before, would swear to it if there was anyone to doubt him, and the letter’s professional quality blared in contrast to the artistic crudeness of the rest of the map. Everything about it was odd and, to complicate an already twisted situation, there was something familiar about the lettering. “Where have I seen that before?” He grabbed a chair and placed it in front of the newest addition to the wall. He sat and stared at the letters, obviously hand-painted but perfectly executed. He fumbled for another cigarette and felt no guilt at breaking his self-imposed rule that only allowed him two smokes per meditation visit. This trip had obviously strayed from normal and had careened into something new and, possibly, interesting. He stared and studied, taking time to examine each word and then each letter individually, hoping something would spark in his memory and help him solve the mystery. On his final exhale of smoke it came to him.
“The note! It’s the same handwriting that was used on the note I got from the Squatters.” He jumped up, his legs straightening so quickly that they snapped into his chair, sliding it across the linoleum floor two feet behind him. “It’s another message from the Squatters. Damn, I guess I’m getting boring again.”
Adam hurried home, trying to process what the Squatters expected of him. He had some initial thoughts but every one of them had enough doubt attached to them that he couldn’t settle on any one idea. His biggest fear was that he would be wrong and he had no idea how the Squatters would react to a misstep. The memory of them nearly obliterating the human race for sport caused his stomach to churn at the thought of what they might do if he crossed them, intentional or not.
All words and images ©2009/J. Colle
1/13/2009
Rideus Interruptus
Today was "Ride Home from Work Day." Or it was supposed to be. I had changed clothes and was mentally preparing to face a cold ride home as I leaned over the lock on my bike and twisted the numbers to line up the correct combination. But it did not open. I changed one of the numbers just to see if I had happened to forget the combination I had been using for two months. Nope, that didn't work either. I then spent the next ten minutes frantically twisting the dials and pulling to see if I could get lucky because luck was what I was reduced to relying on. Disappointed and perturbed, I called my daughter and asked her to come pick me up, still not sure what I was going to do with the bike that was secured to a rack with a spool of Kevlar.
On the ride home I got the 800 number for Bell (thanks Jim!) and prepared to try and explain myself to a faceless voice, hoping there might be some solution short of cutting the lock off the bike. To Bell's credit, the customer service lady was polite and apologized when she informed me there was no other solution than getting some bolt cutters and violently releasing my bike to freedom. At one point we were disconnected and she actually called me back. Why? Because she wanted to send me a new lock, gratis, to try to make up for the inconvenience. She also said I held the distinction of being the first person to ever call her with that exact problem. A day of highs and lows (but aren't they all?).
Now I need to figure out how I am going to lock my bike while I wait on the replacement lock to arrive. But I'll deal with that later, right after American Idol...
On the ride home I got the 800 number for Bell (thanks Jim!) and prepared to try and explain myself to a faceless voice, hoping there might be some solution short of cutting the lock off the bike. To Bell's credit, the customer service lady was polite and apologized when she informed me there was no other solution than getting some bolt cutters and violently releasing my bike to freedom. At one point we were disconnected and she actually called me back. Why? Because she wanted to send me a new lock, gratis, to try to make up for the inconvenience. She also said I held the distinction of being the first person to ever call her with that exact problem. A day of highs and lows (but aren't they all?).
Now I need to figure out how I am going to lock my bike while I wait on the replacement lock to arrive. But I'll deal with that later, right after American Idol...
1/12/2009
1/09/2009
Birthday Girl
Tomorrow is my wife's birthday. It is a round number and, for some reason, those seem to carry a bit more emotional weight. (It helps that she has reached this milestone nine months ahead of me.) In order to assuage her fears (or at least to dull them a little), I now present this very public declaration:
To one of the coolest, hottest, thoughtfulest, patientest, sharpest, eight hours of sleep at a minimum or I am grumpiest best friend a dude could ever pray (and ask) for (and receive). Happy birthday to you and I wish you many more (with me). I love you...
To one of the coolest, hottest, thoughtfulest, patientest, sharpest, eight hours of sleep at a minimum or I am grumpiest best friend a dude could ever pray (and ask) for (and receive). Happy birthday to you and I wish you many more (with me). I love you...
1/07/2009
Back in the Saddle
I rode my bike home from work yesterday. It was the first time I have done that in two weeks. I hurt my back on Christmas day—pulled a muscle in my lower back—and have been nursing myself back to health and, in the process, steering clear of any bike rides. Until yesterday. What I found discouraging was how difficult the ride was in terms of stamina. I started riding trails on the weekends in September and added riding home from work two days per week almost two months ago. I was laid up for a little over two weeks and yesterday felt like I had started over. Granted, in Tallahassee there is no such thing as level ground. You are either going uphill or downhill and the route I take home has six hills, three of which I would consider major. Yesterday, I only completed the last hill because I could see Jesus waiting at the top to take me to heaven. He didn’t, of course, and at first I was angry but, once my heart rate slowed and I was able to breathe consistently, I decided I was okay with being alive.
Has middle age turned earned stamina into a mirage? I now have to place it in the same category as G.P.A.s and debt: it takes one bad week to put you behind and months (nay, years in the case of debt) to get back on track. I am glad I got the “first ride” out of the way and I look forward to the easier rides in my future. I just wish sweat, effort and conquering a few hills was all it took to get me out of debt...
Has middle age turned earned stamina into a mirage? I now have to place it in the same category as G.P.A.s and debt: it takes one bad week to put you behind and months (nay, years in the case of debt) to get back on track. I am glad I got the “first ride” out of the way and I look forward to the easier rides in my future. I just wish sweat, effort and conquering a few hills was all it took to get me out of debt...
1/06/2009
1/01/2009
Happy New Year
Thanks for reading this thing over the last year. I can't promise it will get anymore interesting but I can promise I'll keep posting in 2009. I'm taking things one year at a time...
Have a great day and a blessed new year.
Have a great day and a blessed new year.
12/31/2008
TTEO2TAM
I have decided to join in the time honored (and ridiculed) tradition of compiling a top ten list to close out 2008. The following is my Top Ten Events Of 2008 That Affected Me. Read on and enjoy the memories (unless you had no idea any of this happened in which they would not be a memory but more like an announcement which you can still enjoy just not as a memory). The list is in chronological order.
As you wave goodbye to 2008, fasten your seat belt for 2009 and prepare to enjoy...
- I followed through with an idea I had toyed with for a long time and self-published a book of stories, blurbs and drawings. Digital technology finally allowed me to design and produce my own tome, sold ridiculously cheap (Shameless Plug Alert) here. Although it was self published, there was a sense of fulfillment that accompanied the process and I was happy with the end product.
- In February I was informed by my dermatologist that I had a cancerous melanoma on my right calf. It was caught in the early stages and, after surgery, all traces were removed. Having the word cancer and your name riding the same sentence together is disconcerting, no matter how reassuring the doctors were when describing it to me.
- Our family took two trips in the summer and both were memorable. In late May the whole family flew to California to attend Laura’s graduation from Calvary Chapel Bible College. My brother and his family joined us and we spent a long weekend touring, eating and laughing. (Pictures are here.) At the end of the summer we all attended my parents 50th wedding anniversary celebration in Tennessee. Over 50 family members from all over the U.S. attended and we had a great time. We capped off the visit with a memorial service for my grandmother who had passed away in the spring just a few days shy of her 103rd birthday. (Pictures from that week are here.)
- In June, Florida State sent their baseball team to the College World Series for the first time in several years. Although the team didn’t last long in Omaha, it was fun to follow them during the year and finally be rewarded for a great season.
- In July I left Taproot Creative and took a job with the state as a designer for The Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles. After toiling in the private sector it was a bit of a shock to the system to lurch back into the public sector side of life. It was not the easiest decision I ever made but, ultimately, it was the right one. I am still an emotional part of Taproot and was rewarded with the traditional Taproot shirt this past week. That made me feel good.
- I discovered Twitter. Come, follow me and join the inanity of the next social media “App of the Week.” For some reason I enjoy sending out the tweets and reading other folks short bursts of blab.
- Hope’s mother passed away in September after a lengthy battle with a number of health issues. Hope was her primary care giver and was a marvelous example of being a daughter to the end. (I wrote about it here.)
- Thanks to my friend Ron, I discovered the fun of trail riding on bikes this past fall. He allowed me to use his old bike and I have really enjoyed our weekend rides on the various trails around Tallahassee. I was even inspired to ride home from work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It has been nice to discover a way to get off the sofa that does not involve a gym membership.
- My youngest son had his first solo gig as a singer/songwriter this past November when he was asked to perform at Ilations, a Friday night gathering sponsored by one of the local churches. He sang five original songs and I was chief videographer (results here) and proud dad. The second part of that was a lot easier than the first. More to come, I am sure.
- The year closed out with the engagement of our oldest son to his girlfriend two days before Christmas. It was a very special night that I was thrilled to be a part. I chronicled it in detail here, including a video of the event.
As you wave goodbye to 2008, fasten your seat belt for 2009 and prepare to enjoy...
12/30/2008
When Civilizations Collide
Something that has always interested me is the dynamic of relationships. How and why we get along (or don’t), acknowledging the baggage that each of us brings into every relationship and situation and trying to understand how that colors every conversation. I have no answers, just increasingly complicated questions about how all of this works (or doesn’t). I know the dynamic exists and I try to allow that to color my response to people but that type of effort can get complicated really quick, mainly because I have my own baggage to deal with. Sure, I am trying to get past all of that, trying to grow up and out of the old skin but, once the old is sloughed off, I assume another fresh layer is added, dictated by what I went through last year or last week (or yesterday). Are we ever baggage free? Is all baggage bad? Discuss amongst yourselves...
The following paragraph is from the book “Gilead” by Marilynne Robinson. The story is marvelous, one that deserves a slow read because practically every sentence is worth your time. This snippet jumped out at me and is a nice capper to my thoughts about relationships. Again, no answers, just some grist to mentally grind.
“Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variants of notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable—which, I hasten to add, we generally do not satisfy and by which we struggle to live. We take fortuitous resemblances among us to be actual likeness, because those around us have also fallen heir to the same customs, trade in the same coin, acknowledge, more or less, the same notions of decency and sanity. But all that really allows us to coexist with the inviolable, untraversable, and utterly vast spaces between us.”
The following paragraph is from the book “Gilead” by Marilynne Robinson. The story is marvelous, one that deserves a slow read because practically every sentence is worth your time. This snippet jumped out at me and is a nice capper to my thoughts about relationships. Again, no answers, just some grist to mentally grind.
“Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variants of notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable—which, I hasten to add, we generally do not satisfy and by which we struggle to live. We take fortuitous resemblances among us to be actual likeness, because those around us have also fallen heir to the same customs, trade in the same coin, acknowledge, more or less, the same notions of decency and sanity. But all that really allows us to coexist with the inviolable, untraversable, and utterly vast spaces between us.”
12/29/2008
12/24/2008
A Very Special Christmas
Last night was ground breaking in the Colle home. My oldest child asked his girlfriend to marry him in front of over 30 family and friends. Before you view the video (below) it is worth a few minutes of back story...
Jul and William have been talking about getting married for a few months (and have even been looking at rings) but wanted to wait to get engaged until January or February to let the holidays pass and to keep the engagement short, hopefully around one year. William decided to jump the gun and surprise her so a ring was purchased. The only thing left was to plan the proposal. Jul's desire was to include all of their friends and family when they got engaged so that was all the opening we needed. (Okay, "we" is somewhat of a stretch. Let's be honest and say it was all the opening Hope needed. She and William dealt with the details and came up with a wonderful plan—wonderful because it worked!) The final plan was to have a big party on December 22 and include both families, friends and celebrate not only the season but also to welcome our daughter home from a semester in Italy. During the party we would conduct a gift exchange and make sure Jul got "the" gift in the midst of the proceedings. Everyone invited was let in on the real purpose of the night which was a little dangerous but ensured 100% participation. The one person not informed was Jul’s mom only because it would have put too much pressure on her to not insist that Jul get her nail’s done or question her outfit for the evening--subtle “mom clues” that may have planted a seed in Jul’s mind that something was up. All indications were that Jul had no idea what was afoot so everyone did their best job of acting the part of casual party guest all the while nervously waiting for the big moment.
As guests arrived, I handed them a number (and made sure Jul got #5), took their gifts and stacked them on the floor. When everyone had arrived I made a production out of randomly numbering the gifts and made sure “the gift” was labeled with a five. Then the gift exchange began. Numbers one through four went smoothly and then...
Jul and William have been talking about getting married for a few months (and have even been looking at rings) but wanted to wait to get engaged until January or February to let the holidays pass and to keep the engagement short, hopefully around one year. William decided to jump the gun and surprise her so a ring was purchased. The only thing left was to plan the proposal. Jul's desire was to include all of their friends and family when they got engaged so that was all the opening we needed. (Okay, "we" is somewhat of a stretch. Let's be honest and say it was all the opening Hope needed. She and William dealt with the details and came up with a wonderful plan—wonderful because it worked!) The final plan was to have a big party on December 22 and include both families, friends and celebrate not only the season but also to welcome our daughter home from a semester in Italy. During the party we would conduct a gift exchange and make sure Jul got "the" gift in the midst of the proceedings. Everyone invited was let in on the real purpose of the night which was a little dangerous but ensured 100% participation. The one person not informed was Jul’s mom only because it would have put too much pressure on her to not insist that Jul get her nail’s done or question her outfit for the evening--subtle “mom clues” that may have planted a seed in Jul’s mind that something was up. All indications were that Jul had no idea what was afoot so everyone did their best job of acting the part of casual party guest all the while nervously waiting for the big moment.
As guests arrived, I handed them a number (and made sure Jul got #5), took their gifts and stacked them on the floor. When everyone had arrived I made a production out of randomly numbering the gifts and made sure “the gift” was labeled with a five. Then the gift exchange began. Numbers one through four went smoothly and then...
12/23/2008
Story Interruption
The week of Christmas would not be complete without at least one reference to one of the top Christmas movies of all time, Christmas Vacation. Enjoy...
Clark: Since this is Aunt Bethany's 80th Christmas, I think she should lead us in the saying of Grace.
Aunt Bethany: [turns to Lewis] What, dear?
Nora Griswold: Grace!
Aunt Bethany: Grace? She passed away thirty years ago.
Uncle Lewis: They want you to say Grace.
[Bethany shakes her head in confusion]
Uncle Lewis: The BLESSING!
Aunt Bethany: [they all pose for prayer] I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands/ One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Clark: Amen.
Clark: Since this is Aunt Bethany's 80th Christmas, I think she should lead us in the saying of Grace.
Aunt Bethany: [turns to Lewis] What, dear?
Nora Griswold: Grace!
Aunt Bethany: Grace? She passed away thirty years ago.
Uncle Lewis: They want you to say Grace.
[Bethany shakes her head in confusion]
Uncle Lewis: The BLESSING!
Aunt Bethany: [they all pose for prayer] I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands/ One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Clark: Amen.
12/22/2008
Oh, Tanner Baum (Pt. 5 of 5)
Note: Call me lazy (I can take it) but I have decided to re-post the Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. Yes, it ran on this blog before and, even though I am loathe to re-post old material, I like this story and thought it was worth another spin around the digital block. Today (Sunday) is the first chapter and the story will conclude on Christmas Day. Enjoy...
“Right side, spin!” The kids holding the tree on the right spun their tree one-quarter around. This was followed by a moment of silence before daddy barked, “Left side, spin!” The kids on the left quickly obeyed. “Left side, spin!” They turned it once again. When daddy told the kids on the right to spin their tree back to its original position, daddy’s plan became crystal clear. It was like the heavens opened up and a big angel choir started singing one of those fancy church songs. Even the Man Scout muttered, “Well I’ll be…” Without being told the kids holding each tree moved toward each other, stopping as their two trunks met. The result was one of the most beautiful, full trees any of us had ever seen in our lives. Daddy had found two perfect halves to make a glorious whole and his reputation as a blessed genius was forever seared in our minds.
After a few moments of respectful silence, daddy grabbed the saw and twine from the Man Scout and instructed the kids not to move. He started snipping and hacking, ridding each tree of its bad parts until the two orphans fit together like Siamese twins. Then he grabbed the twine and united the two at the top, middle and bottom, securing them so tightly that no man would ever put them asunder. When daddy was through, the Man Scout offered to hold the tree (it was one now) and let the whole Baum crew inspect Daddy’s work. “Spin!” we all shouted at once and repeated it until we had seen the tree from every angle. It was perfect, probably the best-looking Christmas tree we had ever found. Then I had an idea that, weirdly, seemed to strike all of us kids at once, because we all grabbed hands and let out the biggest silent scream we had ever mustered. Daddy laughed but the Man Scout lost his smile briefly. I believe he happened to be looking at Hootie and, if you’re not ready for it, his silent scream can disturb you.
As we piled into the van, Oleta remembered Bart and wished out loud that he could have witnessed our Christmas miracle. Cecil said he believed the Man Scout would be telling that story for a lot of years to come so he was sure Bart would hear about it. Then everybody started talking at the same time and, for once, Daddy didn’t try to shut us up. It was a very special night indeed.
© 2008 Jay Colle
“Right side, spin!” The kids holding the tree on the right spun their tree one-quarter around. This was followed by a moment of silence before daddy barked, “Left side, spin!” The kids on the left quickly obeyed. “Left side, spin!” They turned it once again. When daddy told the kids on the right to spin their tree back to its original position, daddy’s plan became crystal clear. It was like the heavens opened up and a big angel choir started singing one of those fancy church songs. Even the Man Scout muttered, “Well I’ll be…” Without being told the kids holding each tree moved toward each other, stopping as their two trunks met. The result was one of the most beautiful, full trees any of us had ever seen in our lives. Daddy had found two perfect halves to make a glorious whole and his reputation as a blessed genius was forever seared in our minds.
After a few moments of respectful silence, daddy grabbed the saw and twine from the Man Scout and instructed the kids not to move. He started snipping and hacking, ridding each tree of its bad parts until the two orphans fit together like Siamese twins. Then he grabbed the twine and united the two at the top, middle and bottom, securing them so tightly that no man would ever put them asunder. When daddy was through, the Man Scout offered to hold the tree (it was one now) and let the whole Baum crew inspect Daddy’s work. “Spin!” we all shouted at once and repeated it until we had seen the tree from every angle. It was perfect, probably the best-looking Christmas tree we had ever found. Then I had an idea that, weirdly, seemed to strike all of us kids at once, because we all grabbed hands and let out the biggest silent scream we had ever mustered. Daddy laughed but the Man Scout lost his smile briefly. I believe he happened to be looking at Hootie and, if you’re not ready for it, his silent scream can disturb you.
As we piled into the van, Oleta remembered Bart and wished out loud that he could have witnessed our Christmas miracle. Cecil said he believed the Man Scout would be telling that story for a lot of years to come so he was sure Bart would hear about it. Then everybody started talking at the same time and, for once, Daddy didn’t try to shut us up. It was a very special night indeed.
© 2008 Jay Colle
Oh, Tanner Baum (Pt. 4 of 5)
Note: Call me lazy (I can take it) but I have decided to re-post the Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. Yes, it ran on this blog before and, even though I am loathe to re-post old material, I like this story and thought it was worth another spin around the digital block. Today (Sunday) is the first chapter and the story will conclude on Christmas Day. Enjoy...
As we started running toward the tree Bart was holding, we all stopped at the same time and stared. The tree was pathetic. The trunk was crooked and the left side of it looked like it had survived a hurricane, limbs curled back over themselves and needles sticking every way but right. There was no way daddy would accept a tree in that condition and he proved me right by telling Bart to get that one out of his site and grab another. The next one Daddy pointed to got displayed a lot quicker because all of the kids were helping. We couldn’t help the way the tree looked, though. It was possibly more wretched than the first one. It was so bad that daddy didn’t even have us spin it, not even once. Daddy decided to change his luck by trying another row of trees, but each one we pulled out to show him was pitiful. They were either really thin or had giant holes in them big enough for baby Cephus to hide in. Daddy was spinning and pointing that stick so fast he looked like a wizard casting spells, except he would have to be from the Minnesota Wizard Clan where they are more accepting of flannel and lace-up boots.
Whatever he was trying to conjure up with that stick it wasn’t working. Every single tree we hauled in front of him was useless. I was starting to get scared and, by the amount of fingernail chewing being conducted by my brothers and sisters, they were too. Bart had to go home when his momma came to pick him up an hour into our hunt. He looked relieved. As we all gathered around the latest choice, Daddy told me to run get one of the adult Boy Scouts because he had some questions for him. I grabbed the first dude I found and we hurried to the back of the lot to talk to Daddy.
Daddy didn’t give the Man Scout a chance to introduce himself before he barked, “Sir, your allotment of trees this season is deplorable. What say you?”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Mr. Baum. Seems we tried a different supplier this year and what they sent us has been a bit disappointing.”
“Disappointing? That, my man, is a gross understatement. These trees should be burned!” I admit I would love to see a whole Christmas tree lot set on fire but I know what Daddy was getting at. So did the Man Scout.
“I tell you what I can do, Mr. Baum. If you can find something in here you can work with, I’ll sell it to you half price.” When daddy heard that offer, he softened up a little. If coupons are big in the Baum family then half-off deals are huge. The Man Scout was speaking Daddy’s language.
Daddy placed both his hands behind his back and took on a serious look. He stared at the Man Scout and said, “I will take that offer under advisement and let you know in a reasonable time what my decision will be.”
“As long as a reasonable time is within fifteen minutes because we close at nine.”
Daddy turned away from him and started to pace. This was a good sign because when daddy paced it seemed to charge up the part of his brain where The Genius lives. Some near miracles have occurred from Daddy’s hands once he has spent a little time pondering. The kids knew to let him be and work through it on his own time. After ten minutes the Man Scout got tired of waiting and he walked back to the front to begin the process of shutting down the lot for the night. In all my years of hunting the tree, we have never come home empty handed, proving that when Daddy got the special feeling, great things happened. I could not imagine tonight would be different but just as a little seedling of despair started to germinate in my gut, daddy stopped, turned to face us and pointed the measuring stick at me.
“Tanner, go find the man in charge and tell him to bring me a saw and a ball of twine and meet us in aisle two. The rest of you, follow me. There is work to be done.” I ran off to find the Man Scout. Daddy was getting us a Christmas tree.
By the time we found Daddy and the kids, they had pulled two nasty trees out of the stack and had them lying on the ground right next to each other. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what daddy had planned but I was in no position to doubt him. He instructed my brothers and sisters to stand the trees straight up and hold them side-by-side. When that was done, he stepped back, setting one end of the measuring stick on the ground, holding it out from his body, looking like Moses before he parted the Red Sea. Since I wasn’t a participant at that particular miracle, what followed next will have to suffice as my Children of Israel moment. Daddy started barking out instructions, simple and clear, and that’s when we all knew daddy was either a genius or a saint.
© 2008 Jay Colle
As we started running toward the tree Bart was holding, we all stopped at the same time and stared. The tree was pathetic. The trunk was crooked and the left side of it looked like it had survived a hurricane, limbs curled back over themselves and needles sticking every way but right. There was no way daddy would accept a tree in that condition and he proved me right by telling Bart to get that one out of his site and grab another. The next one Daddy pointed to got displayed a lot quicker because all of the kids were helping. We couldn’t help the way the tree looked, though. It was possibly more wretched than the first one. It was so bad that daddy didn’t even have us spin it, not even once. Daddy decided to change his luck by trying another row of trees, but each one we pulled out to show him was pitiful. They were either really thin or had giant holes in them big enough for baby Cephus to hide in. Daddy was spinning and pointing that stick so fast he looked like a wizard casting spells, except he would have to be from the Minnesota Wizard Clan where they are more accepting of flannel and lace-up boots.
Whatever he was trying to conjure up with that stick it wasn’t working. Every single tree we hauled in front of him was useless. I was starting to get scared and, by the amount of fingernail chewing being conducted by my brothers and sisters, they were too. Bart had to go home when his momma came to pick him up an hour into our hunt. He looked relieved. As we all gathered around the latest choice, Daddy told me to run get one of the adult Boy Scouts because he had some questions for him. I grabbed the first dude I found and we hurried to the back of the lot to talk to Daddy.
Daddy didn’t give the Man Scout a chance to introduce himself before he barked, “Sir, your allotment of trees this season is deplorable. What say you?”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Mr. Baum. Seems we tried a different supplier this year and what they sent us has been a bit disappointing.”
“Disappointing? That, my man, is a gross understatement. These trees should be burned!” I admit I would love to see a whole Christmas tree lot set on fire but I know what Daddy was getting at. So did the Man Scout.
“I tell you what I can do, Mr. Baum. If you can find something in here you can work with, I’ll sell it to you half price.” When daddy heard that offer, he softened up a little. If coupons are big in the Baum family then half-off deals are huge. The Man Scout was speaking Daddy’s language.
Daddy placed both his hands behind his back and took on a serious look. He stared at the Man Scout and said, “I will take that offer under advisement and let you know in a reasonable time what my decision will be.”
“As long as a reasonable time is within fifteen minutes because we close at nine.”
Daddy turned away from him and started to pace. This was a good sign because when daddy paced it seemed to charge up the part of his brain where The Genius lives. Some near miracles have occurred from Daddy’s hands once he has spent a little time pondering. The kids knew to let him be and work through it on his own time. After ten minutes the Man Scout got tired of waiting and he walked back to the front to begin the process of shutting down the lot for the night. In all my years of hunting the tree, we have never come home empty handed, proving that when Daddy got the special feeling, great things happened. I could not imagine tonight would be different but just as a little seedling of despair started to germinate in my gut, daddy stopped, turned to face us and pointed the measuring stick at me.
“Tanner, go find the man in charge and tell him to bring me a saw and a ball of twine and meet us in aisle two. The rest of you, follow me. There is work to be done.” I ran off to find the Man Scout. Daddy was getting us a Christmas tree.
By the time we found Daddy and the kids, they had pulled two nasty trees out of the stack and had them lying on the ground right next to each other. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what daddy had planned but I was in no position to doubt him. He instructed my brothers and sisters to stand the trees straight up and hold them side-by-side. When that was done, he stepped back, setting one end of the measuring stick on the ground, holding it out from his body, looking like Moses before he parted the Red Sea. Since I wasn’t a participant at that particular miracle, what followed next will have to suffice as my Children of Israel moment. Daddy started barking out instructions, simple and clear, and that’s when we all knew daddy was either a genius or a saint.
© 2008 Jay Colle
Oh, Tanner Baum (Pt. 3 of 5)
Note: Call me lazy (I can take it) but I have decided to re-post the Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. Yes, it ran on this blog before and, even though I am loathe to re-post old material, I like this story and thought it was worth another spin around the digital block. Today (Sunday) is the first chapter and the story will conclude on Christmas Day. Enjoy...
As we approached the entrance the smell of pines buckled my knees--caused by my stomach’s memory of that afternoon--but I recovered by taking a swig of ginger ale from Cecil’s flask. He was always getting car sick so he had special permission to carry carbonated soda with him every time he rode in the car, no matter how short the trip. Fortunately, since ginger ale lacked caffeine, it didn’t interfere with his Ritalin. Since I had to hesitate in the parking lot to settle my stomach, I got left behind. By the time I caught up, Daddy had already grabbed a measuring pole and was marching into the first row of trees. Boy Scout Troup 1412 always ran this particular tree lot and we kept coming back every year because they gave returning customers $5.00 off the purchase of a tree. Coupons are a big deal to the Baum family. I found daddy and the crew halfway down aisle one, being led by one of Troup 1412’s finest, a little dude with buckteeth sporting his Scout shirt, scarf, khaki shorts and what looked like size twelve white sneakers. He looked nervous and I was guessing he was probably new. No one ever waited on Daddy twice. As I got closer I could hear Daddy getting ready to explain why.
“What was your name again, son?”
“Bart, sir.”
“Okay, Bart, here are my expectations for the evening. If you want to sell me a Christmas tree, you will need to follow these rules. One, I point to a tree I am interested in with the measuring stick. You will then pull it into the aisle and hold it straight. Two, I will measure for height, which will determine its price, which will determine whether it is in our price range. If it qualifies, we will proceed to three, which will require you to spin the tree one-quarter turns when I say the word ‘spin.’ I will say the word four times and you will spin the tree four times until I have inspected the tree from every angle. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Bart’s response was barely a whisper and his hand was shaking as he mindlessly raised it, holding up three fingers like he was going to start reciting the Boy Scout pledge. Daddy smiled and then made everyone jump by spinning 90 degrees and pointing the measuring stick toward his first evergreen subject, shouting “That one!” Bart recovered and ran over to Daddy’s choice, pulled it out of the stack and dragged it to the middle of the aisle. We all watched silently as he struggled to gain enough leverage to pull it upright. He was so little that it took him a long time to get it balanced perpendicular to the ground. By the time he succeeded, he was sweating through his shirt and his hair was starting to stick to the sides of his face.
“Good Lord, man!” Daddy shouted. “If you’re that slow with all of these trees we’ll need to order breakfast!” Bart was deflated and right before he started to cry, Daddy told us kids to help him with the trees, which was what we were waiting to hear. Humiliating a Boy Scout is part of the Baum family tree buying tradition, at least for Daddy.
© 2008 Jay Colle
As we approached the entrance the smell of pines buckled my knees--caused by my stomach’s memory of that afternoon--but I recovered by taking a swig of ginger ale from Cecil’s flask. He was always getting car sick so he had special permission to carry carbonated soda with him every time he rode in the car, no matter how short the trip. Fortunately, since ginger ale lacked caffeine, it didn’t interfere with his Ritalin. Since I had to hesitate in the parking lot to settle my stomach, I got left behind. By the time I caught up, Daddy had already grabbed a measuring pole and was marching into the first row of trees. Boy Scout Troup 1412 always ran this particular tree lot and we kept coming back every year because they gave returning customers $5.00 off the purchase of a tree. Coupons are a big deal to the Baum family. I found daddy and the crew halfway down aisle one, being led by one of Troup 1412’s finest, a little dude with buckteeth sporting his Scout shirt, scarf, khaki shorts and what looked like size twelve white sneakers. He looked nervous and I was guessing he was probably new. No one ever waited on Daddy twice. As I got closer I could hear Daddy getting ready to explain why.
“What was your name again, son?”
“Bart, sir.”
“Okay, Bart, here are my expectations for the evening. If you want to sell me a Christmas tree, you will need to follow these rules. One, I point to a tree I am interested in with the measuring stick. You will then pull it into the aisle and hold it straight. Two, I will measure for height, which will determine its price, which will determine whether it is in our price range. If it qualifies, we will proceed to three, which will require you to spin the tree one-quarter turns when I say the word ‘spin.’ I will say the word four times and you will spin the tree four times until I have inspected the tree from every angle. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Bart’s response was barely a whisper and his hand was shaking as he mindlessly raised it, holding up three fingers like he was going to start reciting the Boy Scout pledge. Daddy smiled and then made everyone jump by spinning 90 degrees and pointing the measuring stick toward his first evergreen subject, shouting “That one!” Bart recovered and ran over to Daddy’s choice, pulled it out of the stack and dragged it to the middle of the aisle. We all watched silently as he struggled to gain enough leverage to pull it upright. He was so little that it took him a long time to get it balanced perpendicular to the ground. By the time he succeeded, he was sweating through his shirt and his hair was starting to stick to the sides of his face.
“Good Lord, man!” Daddy shouted. “If you’re that slow with all of these trees we’ll need to order breakfast!” Bart was deflated and right before he started to cry, Daddy told us kids to help him with the trees, which was what we were waiting to hear. Humiliating a Boy Scout is part of the Baum family tree buying tradition, at least for Daddy.
© 2008 Jay Colle
Oh, Tanner Baum (Pt. 2 of 5)
Note: Call me lazy (I can take it) but I have decided to re-post the Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. Yes, it ran on this blog before and, even though I am loathe to re-post old material, I like this story and thought it was worth another spin around the digital block. Today (Sunday) is the first chapter and the story will conclude on Christmas Day. Enjoy...
When Daddy’s car pulled into the carport every one of us was dressed and ready to go. As he walked through the family room and passed in front of all of us sitting lined up on the sofa, he nodded approvingly and told us he needed to change clothes and then we would leave. When he left the room we all grabbed hands and simultaneously contorted our faces into silent screams. I kept my eye on Hootie during the scream because he always made the best faces due to his lazy eye and his current transition between baby teeth and permanent.
My father is shaped like a box. He is as wide and tall as he is thick. If he ever had a visible neck it was long gone before any pictures were taken of him. He has great posture but he is as wide as a door jam and he walks with tiny, bouncy steps that make it look like he is skipping everywhere he goes. I guess he’s kind of funny looking but we never laugh about it because we’re used to it. He’s not the snazziest dresser but the one day Daddy can be counted on to look fine is the day we get our Christmas tree. This time he put on a crisp pair of blue jeans held up by plain brown suspenders that overlapped his favorite green and red plaid flannel shirt. He always rolled up the sleeves, one turn each, because it gave him some breathing room when he needed to slide on his gloves. The rugged, manly, leather gloves hung exactly halfway out of his right back pocket, thumbs lined up, far enough away not to be a nuisance but close enough to grab when needed. On his feet were a pair of boots purchased over ten years ago that were still as shiny as the day he bought them. They were brown to match his suspenders and they were cut high, climbing midway to his knees, which gave him ample room to tuck his jeans into the top before he laced them, tight and secure, tied with a double knot. The whole fashion package was topped off with a bright orange John Deere baseball hat. Daddy liked wearing it really high on his head. I think he thought it made him look taller but it really just looked like he needed a bigger hat.
When he walked out of the bedroom and stood framed in the doorway, he was the coolest daddy that any of us had ever seen. I had witnessed the transformation for 12 years and the initial sensation of pride never faded. Our daddy was going to get us a Christmas tree and we were going to help.
The only person in the house not allowed to go with us was Momma. Daddy liked having her stay back at the house to make sure the tree lights were functioning and all the ornament boxes were open and ready to be raided. Whenever Daddy kissed her goodbye she would salute and thank him in advance for the task he was about to undertake. The way Momma smiled when she said it made me wonder if she was talking about getting the tree or the fact that Daddy was taking all five kids out of the house at once by himself. Either way, I liked the salute and I think he did too. We all piled into the mini-van and once Daddy was sure we were all buckled in, he got us on the road, heading out to find our tree.
The Methodist Church was only five blocks away but it felt like eight. It always seems to take longer to get some place than it does to get back. Daddy found a parking space right near the front of the tree lot and, before he turned off the van and unlocked the doors, he turned in his seat, as much as his body would let him, and went over the rules just like he does every year. “Number one: don’t act like little hooligans when we get out of the car. You represent our family and its good name while you’re in public. Number two: Help me with this one… Who makes the final decision about which tree we buy?”
We all shouted, “Daddy!” And with that we were released.
© 2008 Jay Colle
When Daddy’s car pulled into the carport every one of us was dressed and ready to go. As he walked through the family room and passed in front of all of us sitting lined up on the sofa, he nodded approvingly and told us he needed to change clothes and then we would leave. When he left the room we all grabbed hands and simultaneously contorted our faces into silent screams. I kept my eye on Hootie during the scream because he always made the best faces due to his lazy eye and his current transition between baby teeth and permanent.
My father is shaped like a box. He is as wide and tall as he is thick. If he ever had a visible neck it was long gone before any pictures were taken of him. He has great posture but he is as wide as a door jam and he walks with tiny, bouncy steps that make it look like he is skipping everywhere he goes. I guess he’s kind of funny looking but we never laugh about it because we’re used to it. He’s not the snazziest dresser but the one day Daddy can be counted on to look fine is the day we get our Christmas tree. This time he put on a crisp pair of blue jeans held up by plain brown suspenders that overlapped his favorite green and red plaid flannel shirt. He always rolled up the sleeves, one turn each, because it gave him some breathing room when he needed to slide on his gloves. The rugged, manly, leather gloves hung exactly halfway out of his right back pocket, thumbs lined up, far enough away not to be a nuisance but close enough to grab when needed. On his feet were a pair of boots purchased over ten years ago that were still as shiny as the day he bought them. They were brown to match his suspenders and they were cut high, climbing midway to his knees, which gave him ample room to tuck his jeans into the top before he laced them, tight and secure, tied with a double knot. The whole fashion package was topped off with a bright orange John Deere baseball hat. Daddy liked wearing it really high on his head. I think he thought it made him look taller but it really just looked like he needed a bigger hat.
When he walked out of the bedroom and stood framed in the doorway, he was the coolest daddy that any of us had ever seen. I had witnessed the transformation for 12 years and the initial sensation of pride never faded. Our daddy was going to get us a Christmas tree and we were going to help.
The only person in the house not allowed to go with us was Momma. Daddy liked having her stay back at the house to make sure the tree lights were functioning and all the ornament boxes were open and ready to be raided. Whenever Daddy kissed her goodbye she would salute and thank him in advance for the task he was about to undertake. The way Momma smiled when she said it made me wonder if she was talking about getting the tree or the fact that Daddy was taking all five kids out of the house at once by himself. Either way, I liked the salute and I think he did too. We all piled into the mini-van and once Daddy was sure we were all buckled in, he got us on the road, heading out to find our tree.
The Methodist Church was only five blocks away but it felt like eight. It always seems to take longer to get some place than it does to get back. Daddy found a parking space right near the front of the tree lot and, before he turned off the van and unlocked the doors, he turned in his seat, as much as his body would let him, and went over the rules just like he does every year. “Number one: don’t act like little hooligans when we get out of the car. You represent our family and its good name while you’re in public. Number two: Help me with this one… Who makes the final decision about which tree we buy?”
We all shouted, “Daddy!” And with that we were released.
© 2008 Jay Colle
Oh, Tanner Baum (Pt. 1 of 5)
Note: Call me lazy (I can take it) but I have decided to re-post the Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. Yes, it ran on this blog before and, even though I am loathe to re-post old material, I like this story and thought it was worth another spin around the digital block. Today (Sunday) is the first chapter and the story will conclude on Christmas Day. Enjoy...
My daddy set his fork down, placed his elbows on the either side of his plate, laced his fingers almost directly in front of his face and cleared his throat. The rest of us occupying the rim of the breakfast table swallowed whatever we were chewing, sat up straight and quickly shut up.
“When I get home from work tonight, we are going out to get our Christmas tree. Everyone be ready at six p.m. sharp. We will depart at 6:01.” The buzz surging around the table was strong enough to reheat momma’s burnt biscuits. In other households picking out the Christmas tree may be seen as mundane or even a chore but in the Baum home, there was no bigger event. For us, it marked the official beginning of the holiday season and was an activity that involved the entire family. Six o’clock couldn’t get here fast enough and everyone would be ready. Tardiness would not be an issue.
I’m the second child in a string of five, all of us tow headed and thin. Too thin, according to my grandmother, but I think it’s because my momma refuses to get glasses and she tends to burn half our dinner because she can’t read directions or the numbers on the stove. Even though a diet of charcoal isn’t very filling, the plus side is we all have very pleasant breath. Since I’m almost the oldest, I have experienced the Christmas tree gathering almost more than any of the other kids. Momma told me it wasn’t as big a deal when it was just she and Daddy but something came over him when she birthed my older sister. Momma said he jumped from not caring too much about the tree to caring way too much, but she likes this way better even if he does take it too seriously. I’m glad he does because our trees are always the best in the neighborhood every year, and daddy says that doesn’t happen by accident. “Planning, preparation and perfect timing” are the three “P’s” Daddy lives by, and we don’t go get our tree until he says it’s time. I guess he woke up this morning and could sense today was the day because he wouldn’t have made the announcement unless he felt it deep in his spirit. And he sounded mighty sure this morning, like he had a special feeling, more special than other years.
I couldn’t concentrate in any of my classes at school knowing what was waiting for me when I got home. I got called out by three different teachers for not hearing a question or just staring out the window. I snuck one of Momma’s pine scented air fresheners into my locker at school to serve as a pungent reminder of the upcoming event but after lunch I almost messed up everything by getting sick to my stomach from sniffing my math book. Daddy doesn’t take the weak and infirmed on the tree hunt and that includes children with queasy stomachs. For the last fifteen minutes of my final class I just stared at the clock, watching the second hand spin toward three o’clock. If I was given an assignment during that time I have no idea what it was because I was paying zero attention to my teacher. I ran all the way home, which was pretty stupid since we live three miles away and all of my siblings had already finished their snack before I got home because they rode the bus. I put up with the laughing and the name calling from my brothers and sisters because it was such a special day, although I will remember to get back at Oleta for continuing to chant “treetarded” long after everyone had agreed it wasn’t very funny.
© 2008 Jay Colle
My daddy set his fork down, placed his elbows on the either side of his plate, laced his fingers almost directly in front of his face and cleared his throat. The rest of us occupying the rim of the breakfast table swallowed whatever we were chewing, sat up straight and quickly shut up.
“When I get home from work tonight, we are going out to get our Christmas tree. Everyone be ready at six p.m. sharp. We will depart at 6:01.” The buzz surging around the table was strong enough to reheat momma’s burnt biscuits. In other households picking out the Christmas tree may be seen as mundane or even a chore but in the Baum home, there was no bigger event. For us, it marked the official beginning of the holiday season and was an activity that involved the entire family. Six o’clock couldn’t get here fast enough and everyone would be ready. Tardiness would not be an issue.
I’m the second child in a string of five, all of us tow headed and thin. Too thin, according to my grandmother, but I think it’s because my momma refuses to get glasses and she tends to burn half our dinner because she can’t read directions or the numbers on the stove. Even though a diet of charcoal isn’t very filling, the plus side is we all have very pleasant breath. Since I’m almost the oldest, I have experienced the Christmas tree gathering almost more than any of the other kids. Momma told me it wasn’t as big a deal when it was just she and Daddy but something came over him when she birthed my older sister. Momma said he jumped from not caring too much about the tree to caring way too much, but she likes this way better even if he does take it too seriously. I’m glad he does because our trees are always the best in the neighborhood every year, and daddy says that doesn’t happen by accident. “Planning, preparation and perfect timing” are the three “P’s” Daddy lives by, and we don’t go get our tree until he says it’s time. I guess he woke up this morning and could sense today was the day because he wouldn’t have made the announcement unless he felt it deep in his spirit. And he sounded mighty sure this morning, like he had a special feeling, more special than other years.
I couldn’t concentrate in any of my classes at school knowing what was waiting for me when I got home. I got called out by three different teachers for not hearing a question or just staring out the window. I snuck one of Momma’s pine scented air fresheners into my locker at school to serve as a pungent reminder of the upcoming event but after lunch I almost messed up everything by getting sick to my stomach from sniffing my math book. Daddy doesn’t take the weak and infirmed on the tree hunt and that includes children with queasy stomachs. For the last fifteen minutes of my final class I just stared at the clock, watching the second hand spin toward three o’clock. If I was given an assignment during that time I have no idea what it was because I was paying zero attention to my teacher. I ran all the way home, which was pretty stupid since we live three miles away and all of my siblings had already finished their snack before I got home because they rode the bus. I put up with the laughing and the name calling from my brothers and sisters because it was such a special day, although I will remember to get back at Oleta for continuing to chant “treetarded” long after everyone had agreed it wasn’t very funny.
© 2008 Jay Colle
12/19/2008
Room of Rest
In the short alcove leading to the men’s bathroom near my office is a door that, behind it’s coded lock, holds an ice maker. Apparently, quite a few people know the combination because I often see people walking away from the area when I am headed to use the facilities. It is a little disconcerting seeing women walking out of the space and it makes me check the sign on the wall to make sure I am walking into the proper restroom. Every mistaken trip through the wrong door from my past gurgles up and makes me pause and double check. That reminds me of a story...
I began struggling through the Wednesday night service approximately five minutes after the teaching started. My need to urinate was a small blip before church started so I ignored it and again during the break after worship. The urge began to surge from distant to immediate as our pastor was winding up his teaching and I decided I would slip out during the final prayer and deal with the situation before having to battle the crush of people at the end of the service. As soon as everyone settled into their prayer stance, I quietly and slowly walked out through the door in the back of the church and then broke into the familiar “I have got to pee really, really bad but if I run too fast I will regret it” trot. I turned the corner, pushed through the door and walked straight to a stall. Relief was immediate and, not surprisingly, interminable which was punctuated by the band in the sanctuary (pumped through the speakers in the bathroom) playing the song “Everlasting.” I smiled, appreciating the irony.
As things were winding down, the door to the bathroom flew open and a group of boys came rushing in, loud and frenetic. My wife and I had been leading the music for children’s church for several months so I had a feeling that I knew the trouble makers, even though I had no visual verification since I was still in the stall. To scare them I put on my deepest, manly voice and said, “Settle down in here!” It was greeted with dead silence. I chuckled as I zipped my pants and opened the stall door. What greeted me was the wide eyes of five young girls, all cowering in a row, lined up by the sink. I was confused. “What are you all doing in here?” I asked. One of them scrapped up enough courage to whisper, “This is the girl’s bathroom.” The immediate hot flush of humiliation flooded my face as, for the first time, I noticed there were no urinals and I was, in fact, standing in the ladies restroom, looking down on the same faces I saw every Sunday morning. Only now they were not smiling and singing, they were scared.
I muttered an apology and quickly left the bathroom, almost knocking over another lady who was entering. As I fought through the mass of people in the lobby, a small thought began fighting through my embarrassment: “What are those girls going to tell their parents? And what happens after that? This could turn into a huge nightmare of misunderstanding, quick.” I knew I was going to have to explain myself to a number of people, a preemptive confession to, hopefully, hold the outraged parents at bay. I sought out the lady in charge of the children’s ministry and explained what had happened and, fortunately, she thought it was hilarious. I then sought out each parent of the girls and discovered that every one of them already knew, courtesy of their daughters. Some smiled, some laughed, some looked at me a little critically but all gave their forgiveness and the benefit of the doubt. The one concession I made was that I placed a moratorium on the song “I’ve got a river of life flowing out of me” at Children’s Church for at least four months. Oddly enough, no one has requested it since.
I began struggling through the Wednesday night service approximately five minutes after the teaching started. My need to urinate was a small blip before church started so I ignored it and again during the break after worship. The urge began to surge from distant to immediate as our pastor was winding up his teaching and I decided I would slip out during the final prayer and deal with the situation before having to battle the crush of people at the end of the service. As soon as everyone settled into their prayer stance, I quietly and slowly walked out through the door in the back of the church and then broke into the familiar “I have got to pee really, really bad but if I run too fast I will regret it” trot. I turned the corner, pushed through the door and walked straight to a stall. Relief was immediate and, not surprisingly, interminable which was punctuated by the band in the sanctuary (pumped through the speakers in the bathroom) playing the song “Everlasting.” I smiled, appreciating the irony.
As things were winding down, the door to the bathroom flew open and a group of boys came rushing in, loud and frenetic. My wife and I had been leading the music for children’s church for several months so I had a feeling that I knew the trouble makers, even though I had no visual verification since I was still in the stall. To scare them I put on my deepest, manly voice and said, “Settle down in here!” It was greeted with dead silence. I chuckled as I zipped my pants and opened the stall door. What greeted me was the wide eyes of five young girls, all cowering in a row, lined up by the sink. I was confused. “What are you all doing in here?” I asked. One of them scrapped up enough courage to whisper, “This is the girl’s bathroom.” The immediate hot flush of humiliation flooded my face as, for the first time, I noticed there were no urinals and I was, in fact, standing in the ladies restroom, looking down on the same faces I saw every Sunday morning. Only now they were not smiling and singing, they were scared.
I muttered an apology and quickly left the bathroom, almost knocking over another lady who was entering. As I fought through the mass of people in the lobby, a small thought began fighting through my embarrassment: “What are those girls going to tell their parents? And what happens after that? This could turn into a huge nightmare of misunderstanding, quick.” I knew I was going to have to explain myself to a number of people, a preemptive confession to, hopefully, hold the outraged parents at bay. I sought out the lady in charge of the children’s ministry and explained what had happened and, fortunately, she thought it was hilarious. I then sought out each parent of the girls and discovered that every one of them already knew, courtesy of their daughters. Some smiled, some laughed, some looked at me a little critically but all gave their forgiveness and the benefit of the doubt. The one concession I made was that I placed a moratorium on the song “I’ve got a river of life flowing out of me” at Children’s Church for at least four months. Oddly enough, no one has requested it since.
12/17/2008
12/16/2008
Tuesday Twaddle
If I had to choose which of my five senses I could live without, I choose smell. When I take into account the plusses and minuses of this quandary (albeit a fake quandary—and aren’t those the best kind?) I gravitate to smell because the postives outweight the negatives. Sure, it would be a drag to not catch a whiff of your wife’s perfume or a great meal being prepared but there are plenty of things out there that I would be happy to never smell again. I’ll take those odds.
I have a slight fear of going blind. It isn’t consuming or debilitating but it is something I think about every time my eyes start giving me trouble. I have even attempted to learn to touch type (more times than I care to admit) just in case I lose my sight and still have a desire to write. If I was to be analyzed—please, don’t—it makes sense that I would be worried about going blind. My whole career is based on the visual arts so it is a need buried deep inside me. But I assume I could adapt. Many before me have although I’d rather not find out first hand.
I have discovered that what music I have on my iPod is almost as important as tire pressure when I am riding my bike home from work. I own an old school iPod Shuffle, the one shaped like a Vienna Finger cookie, so it is perfect for my hour-long ride. Currently I am listening to a combination of Elbow, Toy Matinee and Glen Phillips and it is a nice contrast to the large, fast moving automobiles screaming by me at uncomfortable distances. It quells my potential road rage.
I have been dealing a lot with truth lately. At least the idea of truth. I write that because the more I think about truth, I realize it is much closer to a concept than a fact. We say we want the truth from everyone and I have no doubt we think we do. It is defnitely a noble concept and something we all assume we should aspire to. But, and this is going to sound cliche and silly, what is truth? Every one of us brings into every situation a lot of baggage, some of it light but most of it pretty hefty. I am no psychologist, but this baggage has to color what we think truth looks like. Combine our individual baggage with that fact that there is no such thing as a “normal” situation (normal according to who?) and we have the makings of unlimited versions of truth with a lot of different people thinking they own the most accurate version. So is it still true that 95% true is still a lie? According to who?
I have a slight fear of going blind. It isn’t consuming or debilitating but it is something I think about every time my eyes start giving me trouble. I have even attempted to learn to touch type (more times than I care to admit) just in case I lose my sight and still have a desire to write. If I was to be analyzed—please, don’t—it makes sense that I would be worried about going blind. My whole career is based on the visual arts so it is a need buried deep inside me. But I assume I could adapt. Many before me have although I’d rather not find out first hand.
I have discovered that what music I have on my iPod is almost as important as tire pressure when I am riding my bike home from work. I own an old school iPod Shuffle, the one shaped like a Vienna Finger cookie, so it is perfect for my hour-long ride. Currently I am listening to a combination of Elbow, Toy Matinee and Glen Phillips and it is a nice contrast to the large, fast moving automobiles screaming by me at uncomfortable distances. It quells my potential road rage.
I have been dealing a lot with truth lately. At least the idea of truth. I write that because the more I think about truth, I realize it is much closer to a concept than a fact. We say we want the truth from everyone and I have no doubt we think we do. It is defnitely a noble concept and something we all assume we should aspire to. But, and this is going to sound cliche and silly, what is truth? Every one of us brings into every situation a lot of baggage, some of it light but most of it pretty hefty. I am no psychologist, but this baggage has to color what we think truth looks like. Combine our individual baggage with that fact that there is no such thing as a “normal” situation (normal according to who?) and we have the makings of unlimited versions of truth with a lot of different people thinking they own the most accurate version. So is it still true that 95% true is still a lie? According to who?
12/12/2008
12/10/2008
Planning It, Old School
Yesterday the office manager stuck her head into my office and asked me if I wanted a planner for the next year. Someone had ordered refills and the company had sent a brand new leather folio along with a starter kit of inserts and she did not want to send it back. My first thought was “How very 1990’s of us to be using analog daily planners in this digital age.” Then I remembered that this was the same office that included a box of brand new 3.25” floppy disks (1.44 mb capacity!) as part of my welcome package--four months ago. My second thought (or would that be the third?) was “Heck yeah, I’ll take it” and I actually said that out loud. For some reason, the idea of having a new planner, analog or not, inspired me. There is something intoxicating about notebooks, potential creativity and (possibly) a new pen that I cannot resist.
After she brought it to me and I unwrapped all of the inserts, it dawned on me that, regardless my excitement, I was not going to go back to the Luddite way of conducting my life, adding phone numbers and daily tasks to a notebook when I already had a pretty good system within my digital world (like most people in the working world... outside The State Offices, that is). But the folio smelled good (Mmmm, leather) and it seemed like a waste to stick it in a drawer or on a shelf and forget about it. So I went online to see what FranklinCovey offered in the way of insert options, hoping to be inspired (or re-inspired) to use my new leather planner. Lo, on yonder home page blared the weekly special: 100 sheets of simply lined paper for the Classic planner (mine) for $5.00. I ordered two and decided I could use the folio as a writing notebook. A very fancy writing notebook. And I could add it to the other four, very plain, writing notebooks I have sitting strategically around the house and in my briefcase. And I already have my defense ready when my wife finds it in a random place (and she will) and she asks why I needed another notebook--albeit a fancy notebook--when I already have several that still have empty pages. I’ll ask her, “Have you smelled that notebook?” I’m pretty sure that will work.
After she brought it to me and I unwrapped all of the inserts, it dawned on me that, regardless my excitement, I was not going to go back to the Luddite way of conducting my life, adding phone numbers and daily tasks to a notebook when I already had a pretty good system within my digital world (like most people in the working world... outside The State Offices, that is). But the folio smelled good (Mmmm, leather) and it seemed like a waste to stick it in a drawer or on a shelf and forget about it. So I went online to see what FranklinCovey offered in the way of insert options, hoping to be inspired (or re-inspired) to use my new leather planner. Lo, on yonder home page blared the weekly special: 100 sheets of simply lined paper for the Classic planner (mine) for $5.00. I ordered two and decided I could use the folio as a writing notebook. A very fancy writing notebook. And I could add it to the other four, very plain, writing notebooks I have sitting strategically around the house and in my briefcase. And I already have my defense ready when my wife finds it in a random place (and she will) and she asks why I needed another notebook--albeit a fancy notebook--when I already have several that still have empty pages. I’ll ask her, “Have you smelled that notebook?” I’m pretty sure that will work.
12/09/2008
12/08/2008
Monday Ruminations
The national championship game between Florida and Oklahoma should be a lot of fun to watch. I am just grateful that a slow, Big Ten team is not being sacrificed in the final game this year. We had enough of that over the last few seasons. To be reminded how painful that is to watch, be sure to tune in when Penn State takes on USC in the Rose Bowl.
I cannot thank my wife enough for her house decorating skills this time of year. Her tasteful transformation of our home into a Winter Wonderland makes me want to just sit in the living room every night and enjoy.
Speaking of Christmas, we dropped off all of the Christmas cards into the mail on Saturday morning. I enjoy concepting, creating and pulling them together but it is a tangible relief when they are all in the mail.
It is getting harder and harder to secure a “religous” themed stamp for the Christmas cards. I went with nutcrackers this year. Potential metaphors abound but don’t spend too much time connecting the dots; there really is nothing there. (Or is there?)
Two weeks from today my wife and I drive to Atlanta to pick up our daughter who will be returning from a semester in Italy. All indications are she will be home for a little while, not returning for the spring semester. Fine with me. I miss her.
I cannot thank my wife enough for her house decorating skills this time of year. Her tasteful transformation of our home into a Winter Wonderland makes me want to just sit in the living room every night and enjoy.
Speaking of Christmas, we dropped off all of the Christmas cards into the mail on Saturday morning. I enjoy concepting, creating and pulling them together but it is a tangible relief when they are all in the mail.
It is getting harder and harder to secure a “religous” themed stamp for the Christmas cards. I went with nutcrackers this year. Potential metaphors abound but don’t spend too much time connecting the dots; there really is nothing there. (Or is there?)
Two weeks from today my wife and I drive to Atlanta to pick up our daughter who will be returning from a semester in Italy. All indications are she will be home for a little while, not returning for the spring semester. Fine with me. I miss her.
12/05/2008
Fabulous Friday Factoid
Roughly 70 percent of Americans who go to college do it just to make more money.
12/02/2008
Emu-tional Moments
I have filled several 3-ring binders with drawings I have created over the years. Most of the drawings are projects I gave myself to pass the time, sort of like a hobby. The remaining are either paid jobs or not-paid jobs. In other words, I drew them with every intention of being paid but the project either fizzled or I never heard from the "client" ever again. This also includes the people, too numerous to count, who suckered me into doing a freebie with the prospects of "more paying work in the future." (Uhm, yeah.) Today I share with you one of the members of the latter category. Someone was going to market and sell emu oil for medicinal purposes and they approached me with the great idea of creating a cartoon character as the "spokesperson" which was an emu dressed as a doctor (or is that a doctor masquerading as an emu?). Regardless, I provided the artwork and for some reason the project never left the ground. (Irony Alert: Emu's can't fly!) Enjoy this one from the archives.
11/30/2008
11/26/2008
Happy Thanksgiving
I leave you with a drawing from a series I created many moons ago. I attempted to give turkeys some ideas on how to hide at Thanksgiving. This was one of my favorites. Enjoy but enjoy tomorrow even more...
11/25/2008
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.
11/21/2008
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.
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.
11/18/2008
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).
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.)
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.)
11/17/2008
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.
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.
11/13/2008
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.
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.
11/12/2008
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.
11/10/2008
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.
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.
11/05/2008
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.
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.
11/03/2008
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
The lot is cast into the lap, But its every decision is from the LORD.
Proverbs 16:33
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