Firing from the Lip

Cedar Posts Don't Give

2008-02-04T08:50:00.000-06:00

When I was 14 my dad and I had our first major disagreement. The first serious skirmish in the war of teen rebellion...

No matter how kind and decent a man treats his son the time will come when the young buck feels moved to lower his head and poke his budding antlers into the old man's posterior.

As much as I loved Dad I had it in my mind that we should now find ourselves on more or less equal terms. I felt that I had reached the age of answering only to myself in most matters. No longer needing, or desiring, the constant guiding hand of my parents. I was a man, dammit, and I demanded respect!

My parents bore the changes in me with a combination of bemusement, amusement, and frustration. My mother, God rest her soul, was determined to simply ignore the fact that her son was growing up. I suppose poor Mom was living where Dad often said she did; in the state of denial. When I attempted to enlighten her on the new and challenging situation we found ourselves in she would just pat my hand and say,

"You'll always be my baby."

Talk about a slap in the face! She just didn't get it!

"I...am...not...a...BABY!!! I am a MAN!"

When my mother passed away I was married with three children. I was still her baby. Some battles can't be won.

Poor old Dad, having been a boy himself once, was a bit more understanding. That's not to say that he liked the changes in me, he didn't, and he let that be known from time to time, but at least he recognized and acknowledged that things were different. He continued as he always had. Trying to be patient, to offer sound counsel, to be a good father to me.

When I began to get under his skin Dad would go off to his shop and find solace in working on a car, all alone. Looking back, I realize those must have been lonely hours for him. To his credit, he kept trying. He gave me more and more freedom. He allowed me to make my own mistakes and he tried, Lord, how he tried, to be patient.

We were in the kitchen on that fateful day when I finally wore my father's patience out. Had I studied the signs I would have known better. Dad was sitting at the table with his his notebooks and ledgers spread out before him, working on the taxes that he paid quarterly. The government must have had Dad confused with Rockefeller because their idea of a 'fair tax' on this poor working man was a heavy burden for him. At any rate, it was a good time to watch my p's and q's, but, as the old saying goes, "fools go where angels fear to tread..."

I was digging in the refrigerator for a snack when Pop said,

"Dinner will be in a bit. Why don't you just wait?"

Using the obnoxious tone of voice only a teenager can possess I smartly replied, "I don't want to wait. I'm hungry now."

You would have thought that I called his Momma a bad name. My Dad's face got beet red, a flush ran all the way up his neck, and his eyes bulged out! He began to speak, almost a whisper, at first, but each word got a bit louder, building to a cresendo of anger I hadn't known the old man capable of.

"That's it! That is By God it! I have taken about all I'm taking from you!"

Standing up, leaning over the table, the old man continued to express his fatherly displeasure at my conduct of late.

"You mouth your mother, you disrepect me, and you think I'll put up with that? You think I'll take that from my own son? I'll be damned if I will! I'm done! Do you hear me, boy? I am DONE!!"

As he yelled out that last word he brought his fist down on our kitchen table and broke it in half. As his papers, coffee, and everything else fell to the floor with a crash I stood by the door, trembling like a virgin bride. A wiser kid would have fallen to his knees and begged for mercy, and I admit the thought crossed my mind, but wisdom had not yet come to me. As I stood there, staring at Dad in his rage, a little voice whispered in my head.

"Psst...you're a man, remember? Are you gonna' let him talk to you like that?"

"Not now, we'll chat later. I'm a little busy now."

"Chicken! Your Mom was right! You ARE still a baby!"

I made my decision. I didn't care how big he was, he wasn't getting the best of me! As Dad glared, I forced myself to smile at him and said, "that was cute." I had expected a reaction. Lord, did I get one. Did I ever.

My father, displaying a fleetness I didn't know he possessed, came after me. It was like facing all four of the Horsemen from Revelations simultaneously. In that split second, as he kicked that table out of his way, I realized the wisdom of a hasty retreat. As a friend of mine once said, "A good run is better than a bad stand."

Realizing I had made a major mistake, I decided to compound it by yelling, "You'll never catch me, fat boy!" and running out the back door with my father in hot pursuit. As I fled for my life through the yard I couldn't resist looking back over my shoulder to see how close Dad was. He was a man of many talents but he wasn't fast afoot. I mean he just flat could not run. Figuring I had the old goat beat I laughed, and turned around to finish my run to daylight...

*************************************************************************************

Did I mention my mother didn't own a clothes dryer? Strange, isn't it? All the money Pop made, but no dryer for Mom! I know what you're thinking. What the hell does that have to do with what we're talking about? Simple, really. The lack of a dryer made it necessary for Mom to hang our clothes out on a line to dry. Did I further neglect to mention that Dad had put cedar posts in to serve as clothesline poles?

I turned around from taunting the old man just in time to run smack-dab into one of those posts at full tilt. Now, when I say I ran into it, I don't mean I grazed it, or I glanced off of it. I mean I center-punched it. I must have looked like Wile E. Coyote in those old cartoons. I hit that thing and my arms and legs went straight out. I don't remember hitting the ground.

I woke up on my parents couch with my old man sitting there grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "You weren't all that hard to catch, boy." he said, with a chuckle.

I had broken my nose, had both eyes bruised black as coal, and had a knot on my head that stuck out about two inches past my eyebrows. Pop said, "hold still, son." He leaned over, grabbed my nose, and popped it back to where it belonged.

Thankfully, my Dad had a sense of humor about the whole affair and the ingominity of knocking myself out was the extent of my punishment. Pop still laughs as he remembers that day and delights in telling my children about it. I've tried to tell them that their grandfather spices a story up a bit, now and then, but I think they enjoy knowing that their Daddy wasn't perfect.

What DO You Know, Pa?

2007-02-20T08:35:00.000-06:00

Brendan and I were discussing his trip to Chucky Cheese Pizza last Sunday. He had a wonderful time at his little buddy's birthday party and wanted to tell me all about it.

"I didn't eat much, Pa. I was too busy playing all the games! I had six trillion tickets and all I got was a little red ball?"

"Six trillion, huh? That's a lot of tickets, bud."

"I know, Pa. I worked hard to win them."

"Did Mommy carry them for you?"

"Yes, Pa. I needed Mommy to hold them so I could play!"

"Glad you had fun, buddy."

"Yeah, me too, Pa! Pa? What makes those games work like that?"

"I don't know, bud. I've never been there."

"You've never been to ChuckyCheese?"

"Nope."

"Gosh, Pa. Mama didn't have your birthday there?"

"Nope."

"I guess you're too old for that, huh Pa?"

"Too old for what?"

"Birthday parties."

"I guess so, buddy. When you're my age, they're not as fun as they used to be."

"You are pretty old, Pa."

"Watch it, sucker."

Brendan laughed and climbed on to my lap to eat a hot dog. As he ate, he asked why his hot dog was 'square.'

"I don't know, buddy."

"Pa, what do you know?"

"Not much, I guess."

"I guess not."

I could have explained to him that Oscar Mayer packs them so tight they come out square looking, but where's the fun in that? Far better to receive a pitying look from a four-year-old who just can't understand how you can take care of yourself at such an advanced age as 45.

God, I love that little boy.

I Sold A Story!

2007-02-11T09:51:00.000-06:00

I sold a piece to commonties.com entitled 'Dead Broke and Underground.'

It's up on their story blog now. Stop by and read it, feel free to leave a comment!

What I Am

2007-01-30T07:57:00.000-06:00

What I Am
by Donnie Marler

Tempered by the fire of battle,
Tested by fear and doubt,
Held up by my God and my brothers.

I have suffered,
I have hurt,
I have bled,
I have lived,
and I have died.

I have wept for fallen brothers,
I have prayed for my family at home,
I have hoped,
And I have loved.

Though I've died, I yet live,
I am reborn in each new generation of my brothers,
I live in them,
They carry my memory in their hearts,
They honor me,
And they will never forget me.

This land I love,
I have given it all I had to give,
And I would do it again.

I am one of The Few and the Proud.
I am a United States Marine.

Do I What?

2007-01-16T12:14:00.000-06:00

"Brendan Tyler! Get back here and put your pants on! Right now!"
I chuckled as I heard my daughter scolding Brendan and the rapid thud of little feet running up the stairs toward my office.
"Pa?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Wanna' see my butt?"
"Is this a trick question?"
"No, Pa! I got new underwear! Look! Spongebob!"
"Hey! Those are pretty cool, buddy! Maybe Pa will get some?"
"You're too old, Pa."
"Gee, thanks. I'm cutting you out of my will, you know."
"What's a will, Pa?"
"Never mind."

Brendan has moved up in the world! He has boxer briefs now, and loves them. He wanted some because Keenan wears them, and Lord knows, if Keenan does it, it must be cool.

Our family is going through a difficult time, but any day that begins with Brendan running into my room for his good morning hug is a good day.

I love you, baby. I guess I'll leave you in the will after all.

Return of a Prodigal Son

2007-01-15T08:13:00.000-06:00

The tiny community of Richwoods, MO is a happy place this morning. Shawn Hornbeck is home, and safe. As a friend of mine said, we live in a fallen world, but every once in awhile something happens to bring a smile to even the most hardened faces and the saddest of hearts. The return of this young man is such an event.

When Shawn was kidnapped his step-father, Craig Akers, an incredibly decent and loving man, had begun the process of adopting Shawn as his own. One of the most poignant moments of the reunion was when Shawn asked Craig to see that through, to make him his son. "Shawn wants you to know that you might soon know him as Shawn Akers," Craig said, tearfully.

Craig Akers is a heart patient. After he and his wife received the call that Shawn had been found, and began the long drive to the Franklin County Sheriff's office for a long prayed for reunion the excitement of the moment overcame him and he began having chest pains and numbness in his left arm. "Please, God. Don't let me have a heart attack now. This is no time to have a heart attack!" Thankfully, his symptoms passed and he and his wife were soon with Shawn once more.

Smiling through his fear and pain, he cried as he recounted the first wonderful moments of reunion with Shawn. Neither he nor his wife could express the beauty and deep emotion of the moment. They simply held on to Shawn for all they were worth, and thanked a benevolent God for another miracle.

Upon his return to Richwoods Shawn was greeted by many signs proclaiming the communities joy, colorful balloons gaily bouncing in the breeze, smiling faces and happy tears, and most importantly, the realization that his small hometown had never given up hope and had never stopped searching.

His abduction was hard on this small town. His little classmates suffered and cried for him, and were forced to face a world in which not every person is good, and where not even a child is safe from the deviant desires of madmen in our midst. The abduction of this boy was the loss of innocence for many, and I hope his return will ease the pain of them all, and I pray Shawn is treated well by his old friends. I'm sure he will be.

When his class graduated eighth grade they left an empty chair for him and prayed he would someday fill it again. Upon his return, many of his classmates filled the bleachers with signs of welcome and love for him.

"I hope he remembers me!" one young man excitedly said.

"Don't cry, Papa", a little girl told her grandfather, the assistant principal of Richwoods school who couldn't hold back his tears when Shawn came in.

Our small towns are dying, the mines are closed or closing and there is little hope for another industry to move into our area, but the search and vigil for Shawn has shown the world why we live here, why we don't want to leave, and what being part of a community really means.

A child in trouble is every man's child, and each man and woman in this community gave something of themselves in the search for Shawn. Thousands of hours spent looking through the fields and forests searching for any clue to what happened to this young man. A search both relentless, and loving, and in which hope never died.

That hope was realized a few days ago. The thousands of prayers were answered, and a young man has returned to the family and the community that loves him.

There is a God in Heaven, and every once in awhile He shows His face.

Each New Day

2006-12-26T09:52:00.000-06:00

An ancient wise man once wrote, ‘there is nothing new under the sun.’ The Teacher was beaten down by a life filled with thrilling ascents to glory and crashing falls into despair and hopelessness, and had concluded that ‘all is vanity.’

But was he right? I don’t think so.

I believe each day brings forth something new under the sun. The brilliance of the sunrise may look like yesterday, but there are subtle differences in the Lord’s pallet of color each morning. Sunrises inspire me, they always have. I love sitting on my deck and soaking up the first new rays of another day of my life. Breathing the cool, crisp, air while watching the fog gradually thinning, then fading into nothingness is like lifting the veil of a new bride. The hint of beauty revealed for those who would seek it.

Many of us have been blessed with new life in our families this year. Some are parents for the first time, excited and a bit frightened by the responsibility for another. I remember that feeling well, the wondering if I will be good enough, if I have enough heart and patience. I did and I do, and so do you. Just enjoy them as much as possible because the time passes far more swiftly than you know. The days of tea parties and kickball games don’t last long. Treasure them, they are the memories you will hold fast to in your later years, long after the laughter has faded away.

A lucky few have become grandparents for the first time, and know the joy of seeing those special little faces napping gently in your arms. It is a moment you will never forget, the first time you gaze at your grandchild. Your heart melts and you find yourself wrapped around a very small finger forever. The two nicest things I’ve ever been called are Daddy and PaPa. God, it’s wonderful isn’t it? Nothing new under the sun? I daresay, he was wrong, there is something new, and beautiful, under the sun each bright morning of our lives.

Some of us have lost someone we love this past year, and are dealing with that loss as best we can. Our loved ones can see the sunrise from the other side of the veil now. They can watch as God creates the dawn. They can see the Creator’s sovereign right hand drop slowly as he gently and tenderly lays the sun to rest at the end of each day, and they can still share our lives and our love for them. I believe they remain with us forever. Nothing is stronger than love, and a heart full of love and devotion never dies, it simply takes on a new and majestic form in Heaven alongside the Father and the Son. We mourn for them, and we feel the pain of their absence from our presence, but we will be together again someday. I still talk to the loved ones I’ve lost in my life and I believe they can hear me. They cannot answer, but perhaps they smile when I say their names, and know they are remembered and loved.

There is something new under the sun this morning. It’s the opportunity to make it a better day than yesterday. To say I love you, or I need you, to someone special who would appreciate hearing it. To hold someone in your arms for a moment, to share the warmth of your heart with them, to treasure them. I look at each new dawn through the eyes of a child receiving a gift from a loving father. Each day is special, each day is ours to fill with what we will. The choice is ours.

Love in the Afternoon

2006-12-22T08:48:00.000-06:00

A recently released study claims that an overwhelming majority of Americans have engaged in premarital sex. In homage to premarital sex, family lore, and heart-pounding adventure, I bring you this tale of young love and an unexpected encounter with the Bull of the Woods. I call it Love in the Afternoon.

When my parents were courting they often double-dated with my mothers sister, Faye, and her boyfriend Jim. Aunt Faye was everything Mom wasn’t. She was outgoing, brassy, and bold, enjoyed a cold beer or a shot of bourbon, and could cuss like a sailor and fight like a man. It took a man with guts to date my Aunt Faye, and Lord knows, my future uncle, James Davis, had guts.

Jim was a rough-houser, a down-home country boy from way back in the woods with an engaging smile, a ready laugh, and sparkling eyes full of mischief. Not much bothered Uncle Jim. He could get along with you, or not, and smile either way. He’d grown up a sawyer’s son and worked in the mills and on the farm all his young life. He was an immensely strong man and wasn’t afraid of much of anything. He was a bit afraid, perhaps, of my grandfather, who’d threatened to take a shotgun to the young lad if he got out of line with his daughter.

Through mom and Faye, my dad and Jim met, and became as close as brothers for as long as they lived. The two had much in common. Daddy wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone either, and like Jim, he wasn’t one to shy away from a fight or a cold beer. My father always laughed as he told me about meeting Jim. Faye introduced him, and Jim looked up and said, “Damn! You’re a big sonofabitch, ain’t ya?” Pop said he laughed and shook Jim’s hand, and the bond was immediate between them.

The four of them liked to steal away in Jim’s old Buick out to the country to go parking. They often found themselves along Halter Road, a little strip of gravel that survives to this day, and one which I made much the same use of growing up. The best spot on Halter was at the top of the big hill. From there, you could see a car coming from a half-mile away and it gave you time to get yourself situated before unwanted attention was paid to you by the authorities or an angry father.

One lazy Summer afternoon, the four found themselves at the top of the big hill enjoying a beer and each other’s company. Faye and Jim were a bit more, shall we say, ‘advanced,’ in their relationship than Mom and Pop were at the time, and Faye let it be known that they’d like a bit of privacy.

Pop led Mom off, and they took a hand in hand stroll down the hill to the creek that ran through the bottom of the hollows. I don’t know exactly what pop had in mind, but being young myself once, I can make a pretty good guess. My mother was a chaste woman, and Pop didn’t get very far in his youthful attempts at amour with her. Momma believed in ‘ring before fling’ and suggested they cool their feet in the creek to get Pop’s body temperature down.

As the two young lovers sat, soaked their feet, and talked on the moss covered rocks of Halter Creek they had an unexpected visitor. The old farmer that owed the land had a big, black bull named Samson. He was a huge old bull, thick and wide with a bit of an attitude. He was the King of All He Surveyed. On this particular afternoon he surveyed my parents cooling their heels in his creek. The old fellow seemed to take offense at this trespass, and wandered over to lodge a formal complaint.

Wrapped up in each other, the two lovers didn’t see Samson coming. Being a polite bull, he announced his presence with a deep huff, and Mom looked up to see him standing just ten feet away on the other side of the shallow creek. My mother was a woman prone to quick reaction in time of doubt or fear. When it came to the ‘fight or flight’ instinct, she had a double portion of ‘flight.’ Grabbing her shoes, she took off running as fast as she could back to the car, leaving poor Pop to fend for himself. Pop didn’t know what to do, so he took off running after mom. Poor old Samson didn’t know what to make of all this but he must have thought, ‘hell, if everyone else is gonna’ run, I may as well too,’ and took off in hot pursuit of my parents.

Reaching the car in a panic, my mother jerked the door open and dove into the back seat. Right on top of a very busy - and buck naked - Uncle Jim. Jim thought it was my grandfather and he let out a screech you could hear from a mile away. The poor boy thought he was a dead man! Faye was screaming at Mom to get the hell out of there, Mom was screaming ‘you go to hell, there’s a bull out there,’ and wouldn’t budge, and Jim was trying to get his pants on before Mom saw something she shouldn’t.

While this was going on, my poor father was rolling on the ground laughing. It didn’t matter that Old Samson was just a few yards away. Pop couldn’t stop laughing at the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Samson himself seemed to think this was worth watching, because he just stood there pawing the ground and taking it all in.

Poor old Jim lost about five years off his life when Mom landed screaming on his back. Faye was mad at Mom at first, but when she found out the whole story she laughed til’ she cried. She told Mom, ‘I wish I’d seen you coming, Mary. I’d have locked the doors just to hear you scream.’ I told you Faye had a mean streak!

I remember my Daddy and my uncle telling me this story while my Mom’s face got red as a beet and Faye laughed. Jim said, “I’ll tell you what, son. I’m glad it wasn’t your granddaddy. I’d rather have taken my chances with Old Samson.”

A Time to Remember; A Family Christmas Tradition

2006-12-19T08:42:00.000-06:00

Four miles outside of town on a lonely country road, just around a hairpin curve to the left, lies Cedar Falls Cemetery. Over two hundred years old, filled with brooding old oaks that tower over the graves and shelter those resting beneath that hallowed ground. It’s a lonely, foreboding place that seems to take one back in time as you walk between the irregular rows of old and faded headstones.

On the far left as you pull into the drive, along the fence row, lie seventeen graves whose occupants share my last name. I have come today to see them, along with my aging father. We visit our family a few weeks before Christmas each year to clean their graves, and place small, colorful wreaths against the stones, to make them part of our Christmas celebration, and to tell their spirits that they are not forgotten.

As dad and I pulled weeds and cleaned fallen branches from the graves, he told me what he expected of me when he was gone. It’s not a subject I enjoy talking about, but he feels it’s necessary at his age, to reassure himself that his son will carry on our traditions after his death, and to reassure his son that his death is nothing to fear.

“I hope you’ll always do this, Luke. It meant a lot to your grandparents to take care of our family graves, and it means a lot to me as well. I trust you, Donnie, not to let it go when I’m gone.”

“No, sir. I won’t let it go, Pop. I’ll do it every year just like you always have.”

Looking into the fading blue eyes of a man who has meant everything to me, I was suddenly struck by an almost overwhelming grief. I felt the emptiness of his absence from my life and it broke my heart, and I had to turn away from him to hide my tears.

“You don’t like talking about me dying, do you, son?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

My father wrapped his arms around me from behind, and hugged me to his chest. I wondered as he held me, how many times had those arms sheltered me in my life? How many times had those hands, gnarled and twisted by arthritis now, gently brushed away the tears of a hurt little boy and sent him off with a pat on the back and a smile?

“Don’t worry about me, Luke. I’m an old man, son. God could take me at any time and I’m fine with that. I’ve tried to be decent and I think the Good Lord will take that into account.”

I had to smile at him, he’s so at peace with himself and his God that he shames me sometimes. He has the faith of a child, simple, trusting, and innocent. He believes in a gentle and forgiving Christ, he believes all men are God’s children and deserving of respect and dignity, regardless of color or country. He’s a truly good man in a world that has too few good men. He has been the best of fathers, and my best friend, all my life.

I ached looking at him because I know how very much I will miss him when he’s gone. I hope he knows in his heart how much he means to me, how much I love and respect him. I’ve tried to tell him but words fail me as I attempt to explain such depth of emotion. I reached out and took my fathers hand, and we walked back to the graves and finished our work. I love listening to my dad hum softly to himself as he works. I’ve always found that sound reassuring, it told me everything was alright, that he was there and there was nothing to fear. He caught me looking at him and I laughed as he winked at me and asked if I was going to let an old man do all the work?

As we placed each wreath gently on the graves of our family, I reflected on how fortunate I’ve been in my life. How many gifts I have that I took for granted for so many years. One of the greatest gifts was working next to me as we payed tribute to our lost loved ones. He gave me love and patience, he was strong but gentle, and he was a father I could go to with any problem or question and be listened to and counseled wisely, without judgement on his part.

Rising from our work, we shared a thermos of coffee in his truck and talked. He told me he’d gone to see Mom that morning, on his way to my house.

“I’ll be laid to rest beside your mother, babe. It’s a long way from this place where so many of us are resting. Your mom wouldn’t hear of being buried here, it’s too far out in the country for her, so I guess I’ll have to be laid out in a damn town.”

“Could be worse, Pop. If we’d put mom here she probably would have haunted us.”

“Oh, I think she would have if we’d done that! That’s all I need, to get woke up at night by a mean old woman’s ghost.”

“You’re so full of crap, Pop.”

He laughed as he started his old truck and we drove back to my home. Dad was tired, so he dropped me off and headed for his cabin in the woods by the river. Watching him drive away, I whispered a soft prayer of gratitude for this man God has made my father.

Someday, the duty of taking care of our graves will pass to me. I’ll place a wreath on my father’s stone, and tell my sons about the greatest man I ever knew.

The Year Without Gifts

2006-12-13T08:50:00.000-06:00

Two weeks before Christmas in 1969 our home burned to the ground. Despite the tragedy of that loss it was a memorable time.

The most memorable Christmas of my life is the year we had nothing. I was eight-years-old, my parents home had burned to the ground two weeks earlier. They had lost everything in the fire and we were living in our storm cellar. My parents were sad and worried that year, but as always, they put me before themselves and tried to make it special despite the loss.

My grandmother lived next door to us. Her home was old and warm, with a large wood stove in the living room, and the memories of her life surrounding her. I loved that house, and I adored her. Granny’s house had a loft that was my daddy’s bedroom when he was a child. I’d climb the ladder and look over the rail at grandma and laugh.

“You better be careful up there, little boy. You’ll do just like your daddy did if you’re not!”

“What did he do, granny?”

“He fell! He was horsing around, just like you are now, when he slipped and fell on his fool head.”

I thought of all the happy moments I’d spent in her home as I looked at the ashes where it had stood. The heat from our fire had ignited granny’s house as well, and it was a total loss. My father had not only lost his home, but the house he grew up in. He was terribly sad over the loss of his mother’s home, and I think dad grieved over that more than anything. The loss of our home was sad but he was still young and healthy, and he could build it back. He knew he couldn’t replace what his mother had lost and it hurt him deeply.

The most difficult loss for my grandmother was her family pictures. She’d grabbed her wedding portrait off the wall and it was the only thing she had time to save. She told me later that it’s funny what you think of at a time like that, and that all she cared about was saving a picture of her and my grandfather together.

“As long as I have this, son, I can make another home.”

My father said he heard the explosion as the furnace malfunctioned, and had looked back in shock to see fire already rising from the roof. I’d never seen my dad cry before that day, but after he’d gotten me out of the house, he hugged me tight and when he put me down, his deep blue eyes were full of tears. Pop told me many years later that all he remembers thinking that morning was “Oh, God. My boy's in there.”

As dad spoke of that day, his voice was almost a whisper as he looked at me and said, “I thought I’d lost you.” He couldn’t say any more, but he didn’t have to. I had children of my own then, and I knew how deeply afraid he’d been.

As our homes burned on that terrible day, I stood in my neighbors yard and watched. I had on a pair of pajamas and they were the only clothing I had left. The fire was fast and hot, and the houses old and dry. There was no chance to save them. As my mother softly cried in the arms of my grandmother and my father, our neighbors gathered around. Dad had always treated folks with respect and kindness, and now that he needed them they were anxious to help. As the men talked to my dad, he stood by me with his hand on my shoulder, holding me to him. Dad was a loving man, but he was never openly affectionate. He wasn’t a hugger, he didn’t say I love you every day, and I think it embarrassed him to do so. On that day, he became a different man. He knew I was confused and scared, and he stayed right by me.

“Everything will be okay, Luke. I promise.”

“I know, daddy.”

I remember watching my mom and dad sift through the ashes of our home hoping to find anything they could save. I’d never seen them so sad, and I would have done anything to make it all go away, to bring back what they had lost. I told dad how sorry I was, and sitting on the ruins of our home, he gave me a little hug and said, “You and your Mom are okay, son. I can build it back. As long as I have you guys, I’ll be fine.”

We spent that Christmas Eve in the storm cellar my grandfather built in 1917. It had a ten step staircase and was large enough for a queen size bed, two chairs, and a bus seat. Light came from coal oil lamps, heat from granny’s down-filled comforter and a small, wood-burning kettle stove.

Dad cooked our Christmas dinner on a Coleman stove outside. We had fried potatoes, bacon and eggs, and sausage. It’s still the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever eaten. Sitting in a cold and damp storm cellar, without gifts, without a home, but surrounded by people I loved that I knew would take care of me, was far more meaningful that any toy could have been.

Over the course of the following year my dad built a new home and a three bay garage for his business, and bought my grandmother a small mobile home and placed it next to our new house. Things were never as they were again, no longer could I sit in granny’s old house and pretend to be my dad as a little boy, no more nights spent lying in her floor listening to the antique radio in her living room. We had lost much of our family history and irreplaceable photographs, but we had what makes a family in our hearts, and we’ve never lost it.

On that cold Christmas so long ago, I received chocolate chip cookies as my gift and fell asleep in the loving and protective arms of my father, and I was blessed.

Nice Surprise!!

2006-12-04T12:30:00.000-06:00

I'm Blogcritic Magazines's 'Blogcritic of the Day!'
A very nice, unexpected surprise.
Thank you to the editors and everyone involved in choosing me. It's deeply appreciated.

Christmas; Now and Then

2006-12-04T08:57:00.000-06:00

I put our Christmas tree up yesterday afternoon. For the first time, my grandson Brendan helped.
“We’re working as a team, Papa!”
“Yes, baby. We’re a team.”

When we were finished we sat in the floor and shared a cup of hot chocolate together. The look in his eyes is what I remember of my own children and it brings conflicting emotions. I’m so glad we can make Christmas special for him, but I’m sad that I can no longer do so for my own kids. I hate them being gone and I miss them so much at this time of year.

After we’d finished our chocolate, I told Brendan there were a few more things remaining to do. Going out into the garage, I brought in a very special box. As I took the contents from the box one by one, I explained to Brendan what they were, and why I treasure them.

The first item was an old manger, dusty and weathered by time. It's fragile and showing it's age now, but it’s not Christmas without it.

“Your great-grandmother Della gave me this when I was five-years old.”
“Gosh, Pa! How old is it?”
“It’s forty-years old, son. I know that seems very old to you, as it did to me when I was young like you, but it passed so quickly, baby. You would have loved Granny, Mr. B, and she would have adored you.”
“Was she nice, Papa?”
“She was more than nice, son. She was the sweetest person I’ve ever known. We used to bake cookies together for Christmas. I mostly just got in the way, but she always had me help her. I loved sitting in her lap, eating warm snickerdoodles and drinking my chocolate milk.”
“I like to help you, and sit in your lap, Pa!”
“I know you do, baby. Papa likes it too.”

Smiling at my little grandson, I placed my grandmother’s manger under our tree and carefully arranged the white cloth around it to make it look like snow. My mind was flooded with memories of a lady I loved with all my heart and miss every day of my life. I can still see her smile, her twinkling eyes behind small, round glasses. I miss the warmth of her hugs, our talks on the porch, her tenderness and her wisdom. My grandmother gave me a great gift. A gift I had to become much older to appreciate fully. She believed in me. I hope she’s looking down from Heaven today, and can see how much her little grandson still loves and cherishes her many years after her death.

Turning back to the box, I took out three tattered old stockings. They belonged to my children when they were small. I remember their excitement on Christmas morning when we handed them the stockings stuffed full of cookies and small toys, and with a note from Santa to each child. Brendan and I went downstairs to the fireplace, and as I lifted him up he placed each stocking on the mantle so Santa could see them.

“Mama has a surprise for you, baby.”
“What is it Pa?” he asked, wide-eyed.
“Better go see!”
He ran up the stairs yelling, “what do have for me, Ma?” A moment later, he excitedly said “Pa! I got my own stocking! It’s just like the others and it has my name on it!”
“Well, you better bring it down here, honey.”

Brendan came back downstairs carefully holding his stocking so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. I lifted him again, and he proudly placed his alongside those of his aunt and uncles.

“Will I get something from Santa in my stocking, Pa?”
“Have you been a good boy this year?”
“Yes! I’m always a good boy except when I’m mad.”

Laughing, I told Brendan I was sure his stocking would be stuffed as full as Santa could get it. His happy smile lit up the room, and his Papa’s heart. He ran to tell his Mommy about his special gift, and left me alone in the family room with my children’s memories for a few moments. Where did the time go? How did my babies grow so fast? It seems like only yesterday when our home was filled with their laughter. When bedtime meant changing giggling little bodies into pajamas with feet. God, how I miss them. The only regret I have over my children is that I cannot do it all over again. I was lucky, I realized they were a gift from God and I cherished every day with them.

They’re grown and gone now, with children of their own. I'm very proud of them but I still long for the days when they were small. My daughter laughs at me sometimes because I’m so sentimental. I can’t help it, it’s just who I am. I suppose it’s silly for a grown man’s eyes to fill with tears when he thinks of those he’s lost along the way. Sometimes the tears are sad and lonely, sometimes they’re filled with longing for another day of my long-ago life. Mostly, they are simply expressions of the love and gratitude I feel for those wonderful and wise people who made me what I am.

This year, Christmas is even more special because of how horrible and trying the year has been. I was hurt but I’m alive. My body was broken, but my spirit didn’t bend. I called on the strength and love of my youthful memories to pull me through. They didn’t fail me.

On Christmas morning I will watch my beloved grandson tear into his gifts with glee. I will smile, and his joy will be my greatest gift this season. My eyes will wander to the stockings hanging over the fireplace and the manger under the tree, and I will once again recall special people and cherished memories. I will see, in my mind’s eye, the bustle of my grandmothers kitchen and hear her soft singing as she bakes cookies for her grandson. I will hear again the laughter of my own children on those ancient Christmas mornings when they were young, and I will softly thank God in my heart for all his gifts to a foolish and undeserving man.

Wine With Patton; Near The End With The Third Army In Europe

2006-11-28T09:37:00.000-06:00

During the push of the U.S. Third Army across Europe in the closing days of World War II, the war-weary troops of General George Patton began to allow themselves to dream of the end of the conflict.

The Germans fought desperately, knowing defeat was all but certain. Caught in the bloody pincer of the Soviets on one side and the Americans on the other, they were like “a mad dog trapped in a corner” according to Sgt. Marvin Cook. Mr. Cook said the worst fear he had was dying this late in the game, with victory so close at hand. It was a “bitter and hard-fought” end to the Thousand Year Reich.

Even in the heat of those last terrifying days of World War II in Europe, American servicemen found reason to smile at the antics of their brothers-in-arms. Mr. Cook had a friend, a Corporal named Al from New York City, New York that Marvin claims could “find a bottle of wine in Hell.” It seems Al was adept at finding the only surviving bottle of booze in a bombed out village. It was a talent greatly appreciated by his squad, but one the officers were less enamored with.

One memorable day, as Al climbed out of a cellar strewn with bricks and timber from the shelling carefully shielding a crock of wine, the soldiers got an unexpected surprise. After a cursory glance around to make sure no officer was looking, the boys popped the cork and took the chance to taste it. “Damn good stuff, we were so happy to find it and pass it around that we didn’t notice the jeep until it was too late.”

“My heart fell plumb to my stomach when we saw the flag on that jeep. The flag of a General Officer named George S. Patton.” It was the first time Marvin had ever spoken to General Patton, and the exchange between this legendary General and a dogface Sergeant is both comical and telling of both men in extraordinary circumstances.

“What the hell are you men doing? The goddam Germans are that way, and you’re standing here with your thumbs up your asses?” Sgt. Cook, being the highest ranking NCO standing there, was the one to offer the explanation. “Sorry, General. We were just having a quick smoke and talking about going home, sir.”

“Home? Why you ignorant sonsofbitches are going to get killed standing here gawking! What the hell is that bastard hiding behind his back?” “It’s a bottle of wine, sir.” “Wine! Where the fuck did you find wine? Never mind. Don’t just stand there, Sergeant, bring it here.” “Yes, sir!”

Sgt. Cook took the crock from Al, and walked to the jeep to hand it to Patton. He expected to see the General throw it to the ground and proceed to tear into them for drinking. He got a shock when this feared General popped the cork and took a healthy drink. “Jesus! I can’t believe my men are drinking this piss!” Replacing the cork, Patton tossed it back to Sgt. Cook. “Take one drink each, bust that damn bottle, then get your asses in gear. We’ve got a war to win.” “Yes sir, thank you, sir.” “If you find any more goddam wine, if it’s better than that crap, let me know.” “Yes, sir.”

Yelling at his driver to pull out, Patton stared at the men of Sgt. Cook’s company as they moved away, and Cook said he had a smile on his face. “That was my only run-in with that crazy bastard, and I’m glad. He was a tough bird, but we would have followed him into Hell. No, that’s wrong, son. We did follow him into Hell, and he brought us out the other side.”

Two men, a famous General and a tender-hearted, soft spoken, future high school teacher and piano tuner, shared a moment of their lives in a war-torn Belgian village. General Patton probably wouldn’t have remembered it today, but a Sergeant from a small Missouri town will never forget his one face-to-face meeting with “Old Blood and Guts.”

Madness 101; Holocaust Archives To Be Opened

2006-11-27T06:41:00.000-06:00

The numbers are staggering to consider. Stored in a German archive so vast there are nearly sixteen miles of corridors, crammed onto floor to ceiling shelves, over fifty-million files giving mute testimony to the savagery and inhumanity of the Nazis during the Holocaust await their long overdue release to the public.

The archival evidence of Hitler’s mad Final Solution is irrefutable. Page after page of death, torture, inhumane medical experiments, and fear. I wish the records had been opened long ago, before so many survivors desperate for information concerning the fate of their loved ones had passed away.

It’s difficult for me to imagine what it must have been like during that time for the ‘undesirables.’ The Jews, the gays, the blacks, the gypsies, and anyone else Hitler decided had no right to live. It is far more difficult to imagine myself as one of the perpetrators, killing women and children indiscriminately, without remorse, and considering it my duty to do so. I doubt I will ever understand the collective madness of that time in history, and I am very glad that I don’t understand it. I’m glad that I can’t find anything within myself that would make my participation acceptable.

I suppose the only real explanation for participating in the slaughter of innocents was the fear of what would happen if they refused. I doubt the Nazis would have hesitated for a second to shoot down the conscientious objectors to the Holocaust. I believe there were very few ‘true believers’ in the Final Solution, but they were vicious and heartless in their application of madness on a grand scale. I hope I would have had the courage to refuse. To choose an honorable death over a life of shame and grief. I know I could not have participated and lived with it. I would have ended my own life and gone gladly into hell to escape hell. There are things worse than death.

The pages of the archives can tell us what happened to the victims. Who died, when and where, and in many instances, how. But they can never reveal the true horror of what happened. Pages cannot cry out in fear, they can’t beg God to save them, and they can’t spend the last moments of their lives desperately trying to save their children. Paper can’t feel pain, it doesn’t bleed and it doesn’t scream when it’s cast into a fire. The people murdered by the Nazis did.

We owe it to them to remember what happened, and we owe it to ourselves to live up to the promise of ‘never again.’ Our world has witnessed what happens when humanity is sacrificed at the altar of ideology and hate.

My next door neighbor, Mr. Marvin Cook, fought his way across Europe with Patton during World War II. He speaks hesitantly of those sad and lonely days, but he reserves his deepest emotions for his stories of the U.S. Army finding the death camps of the Nazis. It’s hard to listen to this old man talk about it, to see his pain and sorrow still keen after all these years. He told me of his platoon sergeant, a man he calls the “meanest sonofabitch in the U.S. Army,” a ferocious fighter and a hard man. Mr. Cook said he saw this man cry only one time, when they stumbled onto a concentration camp the Nazis had fled in a panic before their arrival. He told me of his platoon sergeant staring around the camp saying, “Oh My God! What are they doing here? What the hell are they doing here? Sweet Jesus, what are they doing.” Mr. Cook told me “a lot of tough boys cried like babies that day. Me too, hell, there was no way not to cry at what we saw.”

The opening of the archives will be painful for many Holocaust survivors and their families, but they have to know what happened. They have to discover the fates of their loved ones. They have a right to know, and very little time left.

As for the rest of us, I hope we will realize the importance of containing madness before it’s too late.

Teen Pregnancy; A Father's Story

2006-11-22T09:54:00.000-06:00

It takes courage to share yourself in words, to open the vault of painful memories, difficult decisions, and life-altering situations in the hope that someone, somewhere, reading the story, will benefit from it.

A.L. Harper’s wonderful and touching My Teenage Pregnancy is such a story. A tale of a young girl faced with an unexpected pregnancy and her painful decision to give the child up for adoption. Ms. Harper shows grace, strength beyond her years, and a great deal of love in her story. It touched me deeply because I was the father of a teenage girl who became pregnant. It was hard to accept and it hurt me, but my pain was not what mattered, what mattered was my daughter, and my grandchild. This is her story, and mine.

I didn’t learn of my daughter’s pregnancy from her, I received a phone call from the boy’s mother telling me Alisha was pregnant. I called her a liar, slammed the phone down, and called my daughter at her friends house. “I want you to come home, right now.”As my wife and I waited for her, I became angrier and angrier, I couldn’t believe she was pregnant, and I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t told me. My wife was crying, not for herself, but for her baby. She understood better than I why Alisha hadn’t told me. She knew my daughter was afraid to tell me.

Alisha arrived, and we sat her down at the table in the kitchen. I told her about the call I’d gotten, and asked her if it was true? When her eyes filled with tears, I knew. It was one of the most difficult, saddest, disappointing moments of my life. I thought she ‘knew better.’ I was the one that should have known better. When I asked her why she didn’t tell me, she couldn’t speak, she could only put her head down and cry. I hate seeing my daughter cry, I never was able to resist her tears, and thankfully, it caused me to think before I spoke again, before I caused her more pain through my anger.

“Alisha, why, baby? Why didn’t you tell us?” When she choked out the words, “I thought you’d hate me,” it broke my heart. How could my daughter think that? Nothing she could ever do would make me hate her, no mistake could change my love for her. Taking my little girl in my arms, I held her close to me as she broke down. I told her that we would be there for her, that we would help her, and respect the decision she made, no matter what it was. Holding the face I cherish more than life in my hands, I told my daughter that I would love her til’ the day I died, no matter what had happened, that would never change. My daughter had never seen me cry before, but as I looked into her sad brown eyes I couldn’t hold back my tears. I ached for her, and I was sorry I had allowed my wounded pride to cause her more pain.

During the long months of her pregnancy, she did her best to cope with the changes in her life. She went to school, she worked, she took care of herself and her unborn child to the best of her ability. She endured the hurtful comments, the sideways glances, the slings and arrows of those who take pleasure from someone else’s pain, and she held her head up.

Many nights I could hear her crying softly in her room, and I wanted to go to her, to make everything all right, like I had when she was little. I couldn’t do that anymore, and I hated it, I hated seeing her suffer more than anything else. I was proud of her strength, but I knew she was paying a heavy price for this baby.

Finally, the day arrived and we rushed her to the hospital and waited anxiously for the birth of our grandchild. Alisha had difficulty, and ended up having to deliver by Caesarian Section. She asked me to stay with her, and I was there when my grandson, Brendan Tyler, was born. The nurses cleaned him up, and I carried him to the nursery. He quite easily wrapped me around a very small finger on the way. I was madly in love with him from the first moment of his life.

Today, Brendan is four-years-old. He’s a happy, well-adjusted, and much loved child. I wasn’t thrilled when my daughter got pregnant at sixteen, but I can’t look at my Brendan and consider him a ‘mistake.’ He is one of the great joys in our lives, and we treasure each day with him.

A.L. Harper and my Alisha made different decisions, but they were both guided by the best interests of the child, and by love. I’m grateful to Ms. Harper for sharing her story. It took a great deal of courage for her to do so.

Reflections; Lunch with a World War II Marine

2006-11-22T09:52:00.000-06:00

I had a lunch date yesterday with an old friend. Norman is eighty-two years old, a wonderful, wise, sentimental, old man that longs for his late wife and despises growing old. He told me he never thought he’d live as long as he has, and talked of his days in the Marine Corps during World War II.

A hell of a time to be alive, is how he put it. He talked of flying in bombers over Japanese held territory, looking down to see the anti-aircraft defenses firing and wondering if he would survive another moment? He remembered the beauty of the sea carrying vast armadas of warships bearing down on those islands, and he spoke of his brothers aboard waiting to go ashore.

The names are known to us all. Iwo Jima, Tarawa, Saipan. The bloody island-hopping campaign of the Marine Corps in the Pacific during WWII. They are chapters in history books to me, places and events difficult for me to imagine. To him, they are all too real.

“It was so odd, to look down over the ocean, how beautiful and peaceful it seemed from great heights, and reconcile that beauty with the utter devastation all around us. The Japanese we hated, we had seen what they would do to prisoners, we knew they wouldn’t surrender, and God help me, I didn’t want them to. I wanted to kill every one of those sonsofbitches for what they’d done to my brothers.” My brothers. Not my ‘fellow Marines,’ or ‘my buddies,’ my brothers. This is how Norm remembers his friends.

A part of him feels guilty for surviving when so many didn’t. He spoke of the hardest thing for a man to admit, abject terror under fire. His eyes still fill with tears as he relates hearing screams from other crews as their planes went down and they couldn’t escape. “They all cried out for God, son, but there was no God in that hell hole. It was the Devil’s playground and he had a field day with us.”

Despite the carnage and death all around him, he loved to fly, to soar above the clouds, and for a few brief moments, put the fear aside and be moved by the immensity and beauty of the ocean. “I had a hell of a vantage point,” he laughed. “I was the belly-gunner so I could see everything unobstructed. Too bad I was such a damn inviting target though. Japanese pilots liked to shoot belly gunners. I guess we were just such damn easy pickings they couldn’t resist. Lucky for us, our escort fighters seemed to take it personally and did their best to shoot em’ down before we had too do it ourselves.”

“You’re a brave man, Norm. I’d have been scared to death.” “You think I wasn’t? Hell, boy. I was scared out of my wits half the time, but we had a job to do and we did it. The really brave men were the grunts. The ones that had to wade ashore. God, what men they were. Tough as nails and hard. They were the ones with guts. I flew above them and I saw what they went through. I don’t see how any of them survived, but they did. God, they were the best Marines I’d ever seen. I was damn proud of them, I still am.”

Talking with Norm gives me an appreciation for this land and her people. He has also convinced me of one thing. They were indeed “the greatest generation” of Americans. They are leaving us quickly now, and if you are fortunate to have one in your life, please talk with them. Learn what they want you to remember, and let them know you appreciate their sacrifice. That’s really all the old warriors need to know, that they are appreciated.

Someday soon I’ll lose my old friend to the passage of time but I’ll never forget him. I’ve treasured our time together. The lunches, the jokes, the easy camaraderie of two people that enjoy each others company. Norm is one of my heroes, and in getting to know him I’ve been blessed.

For his part, Norman is comforted in his old age, far from his family, by the knowledge his friends will look out for him. That he won’t be alone, and that he won’t simply go to his rest and be forgotten like too many others. My task, when he’s gone, is to keep a fresh Marine Corps flag on his grave. He’s asked me to do that for him, and I was moved that he trusts me not to let him down.

I am a better man for having gotten to know him, and I am so grateful to him and his brothers of that war, for protecting our freedom when it mattered most. God Bless all of them, always.

Brave New (Old) World

2006-11-20T08:42:00.000-06:00

No one in their right mind would consider breaking their neck a blessing, but in a way it has been for me. I had taken so much for granted in my life, and why not? I was a youthful forty-five, strong, and healthy. Hell, I’d probably live another fifty years. So I thought.

That all changed quite suddenly on a rainy June night. In a few terrifying moments I went from a healthy, vital man to a broken one facing a long recuperation with an uncertain outcome. Through the pain of two spinal fusion surgeries and long days spent in a strangling, and much despised brace around my neck, I’ve discovered a lot about myself.

I’ve learned the things I thought so important just a few months ago don’t mean a damn thing to me. I’ve learned that all I truly care about are the people in my life. Not the job, not the money, not the expensive toys I’ve lost along the way. Those can be replaced someday. If I had died that night, all alone, lying in that damn truck covered in my own blood and broken glass, I would have done so thinking of the ones I love, and the fear of losing my life paled before the thought of eternal separation from them. I am not afraid to die, now less than ever, and now I’m not afraid to live.

I’m not afraid of people thinking I’ve lost my mind because I dance with my granddaughter. Let them give me strange looks, what does it matter? I’m not afraid to make my grandson laugh by imitating the characters in ‘Shrek.’ I do a pretty mean donkey, and if someone doesn’t like it, all I can say is “hey! That is unwanted physical contact!” I’ve re-learned the lessons of my youth, and I’ve remembered how to live. I’ve found more joy in sharing an ice cream cone with Brendan, or having a tea party with Emma than I ever found from taking home the big paycheck. I discovered my grandson, Alex, is quite the soccer player, and that my baby grandson, Ian, can yank half a man’s beard out in one handful and find it hilarious.

I’ve learned more difficult lessons as well. I’ve found my relationship with my wife was almost non-existent when I got hurt. I rarely saw her, working shift work like I did, and in truth, I was too busy making a living to give it much thought. We had become strangers to each other, and needed each other far less than we had. We have grown apart over time, but perhaps with effort, we can find each other again. We both want to so badly, but the result desired will take more than wishful thinking, it will take a committed effort from both of us. At least we have the opportunity to try.

I have regained the optimism I’d lost along the way. I’ve re-learned how wonderful it is simply to watch a sunrise breaking though the heavy morning fog. I’ve enjoyed sitting on my deck with a cup of coffee and my faithful, slightly cowardly, rottweiler at my feet. I’ve laughed many times watching him chase a squirrel around the yard, only to turn tail and run yelping away if the squirrel stops and turns around. I love that silly dog, and I’m glad he was taken from an abusive owner and came to live with us. In helping Isaac heal, I’ve helped myself. We’ve both been hurt badly, but we still love life. Through a mistreated puppy, I’ve rediscovered my gentle nature and I’m glad I did.

I began to write to keep myself busy, and I’ve discovered I love it. I love remembering what I had, and realizing what I have. Sometimes, as I write, I can almost smell the biscuits rising in my grandmothers kitchen, and hear my gruff, lovable, grandfather calling my name, and I know how very lucky I’ve been in my life. I’ve been given so much, so many blessings, so many reasons to smile that I can’t believe I took it for granted like I did. I won’t do it again, I know that.

I don’t know what my future holds, but I have a future, and I’m downright giddy about it. If it took pain to make me realize how much I love simply being alive, it was worth the price.

Death Stars and Memories

2006-11-19T12:13:00.000-06:00

“Papa?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Can I borrow the keys to the death star?”
“What’s the death star?”
“Mama’s car.”
“Death star, huh? I don’t know, do you have a license?”
“Yes, I have an inter-galactic drivers license.”
“Oh, yeah? That sounds impressive! Can I see it?”
“No, pa. It’s indivisible.”
“You mean ‘invisible.’
“That too.”

My four-year-old grandson, Brendan, didn’t get to borrow the car like he wanted. Sadly, I explained that putting the booster seat behind the wheel might let him see out the windshield, but it wouldn’t allow him to reach the pedals. He’d have to find another way to see Phoebe, his girlfriend.

Conversations like this are among my favorite things in the world. I love the innocence and imagination of children, and I’ve spent many happy hours with my grandson reading, playing games, and just talking with him. My father taught me long ago that time was the ultimate gift from a father to a son, or a grandson. He used to say “you can buy a kid everything in the world, but all they really want is to feel loved and to be paid attention to.” He was a believer in the face to face, heart to heart talk, in truly listening to what his son was saying and providing honest answers.

Among my most cherished memories of my father are the times we simply sat and talked together. My dad told me about my grandfather Clarence, who died long before I was born. He told funny stories about my aunts and uncles, and if I listened closely there was a lesson in most of dad’s stories. He never stopped trying to teach me, and to his credit I never really stopped listening to him, even when I was a hard-headed and wild-eyed teenager.

A lot of people remember special toys, or their first dog or cat, from their childhood. What I remember, what I treasure, is the warmth of my parent’s home. The love of two people that had been together for many years and still appreciated each other. My father’s gentle laughter at something my mom would say, the glances they shared that said more than words, the simple joy of loving each other every day, good and bad, set an example for me.

My mother passed away after a long and brave fight with cancer in 1998. She and my dad had been married for fifty years when she died. I’ll never forget watching my father during that last heartbreaking night with my mother. Knowing she had very little time left, he refused to leave her side even for a moment. He sat next to her, holding her hand, talking softly to her, stroking her hair, trying to love her as much as he could in the last moments of their life together. My mom couldn’t speak, but she would squeeze dad’s hand as he raised hers to his lips.

When my sweet, funny, charming, wonderful mother breathed her last, my dad’s hands shook as he held hers to his face. Dad said, “Mary,” I’d never heard more pain in a single word. I felt as though I were intruding on something so beautiful, so deeply moving between them, that even a son couldn’t understand or appreciate. I had lost my mom, but my wife and children waited outside the room. My dad had lost much more, the love of his life was gone, but even in his pain he reached out to take my hand as well, to reassure me.

Time is our most valuable asset, we can’t buy more of it, we can’t regain what’s lost, but we can make the most of it if we make the effort. My dad taught me the simple joy a boy can feel just by being with his father. It’s a lesson I remembered when I became a dad in the Fall of 1980. I spent a lot of time with my children as they grew, and I’m so glad I did. I couldn’t give them much in material things, but I gave them everything I had every day. It was time well spent.

I’m a Papa now, and somewhere in my world of death stars, inter-galactic drivers licenses, puppies, scraped knees and a rough housing grandson, the spirit of my parents lives and is cherished.

Sex Education, Dad Style

2006-11-16T08:03:00.000-06:00

My father was a man of many talents, explaining the "facts of life" to his young son was not among them.

I always laugh when I recall Dad’s attempts to prepare me for my grand entrance into the world of sex. It was riotously funny, informative, and quite useful in the long run. I was worried, knowing my dad, that I’d be the only guy in the world that knew less after "the talk" than I did before.

I went to Dad when I was thirteen-years-old, I walked into his shop and stood around for a few moments, trying to decide on how to broach the subject. Pop gave me a curious glance a time or two, and finally asked, "what’s on your mind, Luke?’ "Pop, I’ve got questions." "Oh God, I knew it." My poor Dad’s face got red, and he didn’t say anything for a few moments, but when he began to talk, it was worth the wait.

"Ain’t you a bit young to be thinkin’ about sex, boy?"
"I don’t think so?"
"I’m sure you don’t. So, you got somebody special in mind?"
"Pop! I ain’t telling you that!"
"Yeah, I thought so, I’ve seen how these little neighbor girls act around you. Up to sparkin’ are ya?"
"Oh, God! I should have asked Mom!"
"Sit down, boy. Well, I guess I can give you the basics, but there’s a lot you just have to learn on your own, son. You’d be better off to just wait a spell. It ain’t somethin’ to take lightly."
"I know that, that’s why I’m asking you, and I don’t want to wait, I’ve waited long enough! Most of my friends have already done it."
"Bullshit, most of your friends are too dumb to jack off, son. Speaking of that, I guess you know how to do that, huh?"
"Aww, geez! I knew this was a bad idea!"

Laughing, my father sat me down on one of his little work benches and pulled his own up to me. "I’m sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have laughed at you, I know it’s hard to ask the kinds of questions you want to. I’ll just tell you a few of the things to watch out for, ok?" Finally, we were making some headway. When the old man said he’s start with the basics, he wasn’t kidding. Even a thirteen-year-old boy isn’t completely ignorant!

"Well, son, women are different than us."
"Yeah, Pop. I had that part figured out."
"Shut up and listen, smart ass."
"Yes sir, sorry."
"Well, Donnie, I guess I’ll just tell you how things work, and then we can talk about anything you didn’t understand, okay?"
"Sure, Pop, that will be fine."

Looking around his shop, Pop saw what he was looking for on his workbench, and walked back to me carrying a ratchet and a socket. "Well, son. It’s like this here ratchet. See how the socket fits on it? That’s pretty near how a man and a woman go together." Huh? Was he serious? I had to be the only guy in the world that learned how men and women went together from his old mans socket set! Good grief!

Pop thought it wise to tell me about a woman’s menstrual period as part of the basic course. I had an idea something crazy went on once in awhile with women, but I damn sure hadn’t known they bled like that!

We were off to a bad start. So far, I’d discovered nothing, except that women bled on a regular basis for some God-awful reason that was a mystery to the old man. It wasn’t exactly reassuring when he said, "you don’t need to worry about that, unless they don’t bleed, then you’re up shit creek without a paddle."
"Why’s that?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, son. That means they’re pregnant. The rabbit done died, and you, my boy, will be tee-totally screwed if that happens! Not to worry, I’ll buy you some rubbers to wear. Don’t even ask how they go on, sonny. There’s a picture on the box."
"Yes, sir. So, these rubber deals will keep me from getting a girl pregnant?"
"Damn right, as long as you use them every time! That don’t mean get a boner and forget every damn thing I’m telling you, do you understand?"

I was getting a headache by then. I just sat and stared at Pop as he grinned like the Cheshire Cat and shook his head. I think the old man was feeling better about things. It was obvious I was dumber than a stump on the subject of sex. For some reason, he seemed to find that reassuring.

We sat and talked for a while, and Pop taught me a lot, in his own way. His methods weren’t impressive, but they were effective. "You ever heard of VD?" Yes, I had. "You don’t want that. It’ll make your thing fall off." Fall off? Sweet Jesus! I hadn’t known sex had so many potential disasters involved. Pop just laughed, and told me the rubbers he’d buy would stop most of that stuff as well.

Dad explained that some folks liked it a bit different than most. By that he meant homosexuals, and his talk on this point was short and sweet. "Some things are meant to go in a mans mouth, a penis ain’t one of them. And there ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth made to go up your butt. You understand that, I guess?" After I’d picked my jaw up off the floor, I just nodded to let him know I understood. He said homosexuals had it rough in a lot of ways, and that was sort of silly to him. "They’re just people, son. They’re different from me and you in some ways, but they’re no different from us in any way that matters. Do you understand what I’m saying." Yes, I did. My Dad was telling me to treat them as he’d taught me to treat anyone else, with respect for the person.

My introduction to sex education, Pop style, was funny and open. He pulled no punches in telling me what could happen if I was irresponsible. He was straightforward about venereal disease and my need to understand the risks. He was dead serious when he told me if I ever got a girl ‘in trouble’ I’d take care of it, or I’d be the sorriest boy alive. He was worried, but he was glad I’d came to him, that I’d trusted him.

My father knew I was embarrassed to ask about sex, and he used humor to make me feel comfortable, but his answers were serious, and he did his best to explain it in a way a young boy could understand. I appreciated that, and I walked out of his shop that day confident that I knew how to protect myself, and the girl, and that was important to me.

When my own sons came to me with their questions about sex, I had his loving, if confused example, to go by. I was as open and honest with them and he’d been with me. A bit less graphic, but just as effective. Pop asked me how I’d handled it later. I said, "I didn’t use a damn socket set." My dad laughed all day.

Holiday Traditions: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

2006-11-11T09:57:00.000-06:00

This article was a Blogcritics.org Editors' Pick of the Week!

I have a confession to make. I love Christmas, I always have and I always will. It was a special time when I was young, full of love, laughter, and family. At this time of year, the little boy inside me fights his way past the gruff, shaven-headed and goateed, middle aged man and takes over for a few weeks.

I love seeing my grandchildren, wide eyed and smiling at the Christmas displays, the bright lights, the trees, Santa Claus and his elves, and reindeer. They love the story of a very special reindeer, the one who led Santa’s sleigh and saved Christmas during the Big Storm. The misfit who turned out to be the most important one of all despite his odd red nose- Rudolph!

The Rankin-Bass classic Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is my favorite Christmas program. I suppose there is a bit of the misfit in all of us. We’ve all been teased and picked on at one time or another. We’ve all had dreams, some came true, some didn’t, but we had them. There was always someone who scoffed at us for dreaming at all. I emphasized with Rudolph as a boy, and I loved it when he said he was "independent." I felt much the same, but I was too young to put it into words.

I remember running around my mothers kitchen pretending to throw my pick in the air as I screamed "silver, gold," only to pick it up, give it a lick, and pronounce I had "nothin." I was Yukon Cornelius, and my mother would laugh and tell me to keep trying. Someday, I’d find my gold or silver if I didn’t give up. She was right, I did. My family is my treasure, and in them I’ve found all the gold and silver of my young hearts desire.

I loved Yukon, the big, gruff, but loving man. The loyal friend with the mismatched team of sled dogs always made me laugh. He was a bit loud for most people, but he was someone you could depend on. I’ve known a few Yukon’s in my life, guys who always seemed to have a plan, no matter how doomed to failure it was, who never gave up, and were always there for a friend.

Hermey, the poor little elf that wanted to be a dentist, was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I felt for him, because I was a walking contradiction myself, and still am. I wear leather and bandanas and ride a Harley, but I’m just as content lying under an old Oak tree with a good book and a cup of coffee. In a family where only Dad and I were avid readers, this was odd behavior.

While most of my family entered military service and did well, I had to find something else due to a serious injury as a child. A severely broken leg that prevented me from following them. I felt left out and sad, but my Dad took me off to the side and told me God had a purpose for me, that I was special, and that whatever I did with my life, he would be proud of me. I never forgot those words, and I’m grateful to my father for realizing how alone and disappointed I felt, and for doing something about it. I recognized myself in Hermey as well, good-hearted misfits, he and I found a way to fit in.

Rudolph, the scrappy button buck with the red nose and big heart who lit up the world and soared on the wings of love, the poor little guy who desperately wanted to please the father ashamed of his ‘imperfection.’ Teased and tormented, feeling he had nothing left to keep him at home, Rudolph set out on his big adventure in a harsh world. Along the way, he faced danger, made friends, found his place and his purpose, and told a generation of kids it was okay to be a little different, and that just one good friend can make the path a lot easier.

I look forward each year to watching Rudolph and his friends triumph once again. To seeing Yukon and his team, the abominable snowman, Hermey, Clarice, the wonderful vocal talent of Burl Ives as the snowman, Santa, and the rest of the family of friends. It’s a joy to watch with a small, loving grandson next to you. I look at him, hear his laughter, and I know just how he feels.

Tuesday's Lessons: Were Our Leaders Listening?

2006-11-09T08:09:00.000-06:00

I wasn’t surprised by the results of Tuesday’s elections, I thought the Republican losses were a foregone conclusion, but why? What lessons should President Bush, the Republican Party and the Democrats take from them?

I would hope they all realize they are reading the American people wrong. I think most Americans are moderate in their thinking, be they Republican or Democrat, and most of us want the same things. We want our nation safe, our economy strong, and for our government to work on the real difficulties facing us and deal with them. To worry less about the party line, and more about what’s good for America. I would hope both sides realize Americans are tired of the political games, and desires for all their elected representatives to sit down and work together.

President Bush committed a grave error in ignoring the Democrats legitimate concerns over the war in Iraq and the need for a careful analysis of our goals in the region, and our strategy for realizing those goals. He has stubbornly, and wrongly, refused to alter our course in Iraq. We have the finest troops on earth, dedicated and brave men and women who are sacrificing a great deal in our service in this war. I don’t believe Tuesday’s results were a mandate to leave Iraq immediately, or to establish an unrealistic time frame for doing so. I think the American people voted for a substantial change in strategy to give our troops the opportunity to accomplish the mission, turn security over to the Iraqis themselves, and pull out.

We are nearly all in agreement that the War on Terror will go on for many years. I don’t believe anyone will ever forget September 11, 2001. I believe Americans, left, right, and center, are united in the desire to defend our land and defeat global terrorism. I think Tuesdays result was a wake-up call for all our leaders from the American people. If something isn’t working out, look at the problem seriously and make changes. Don’t refuse to alter American strategy if it will save lives and bring the conflict to a swifter conclusion.

I believe most Americans think as I do. That political decisions should be made by politicians, and military decisions by the professionals on the ground. I think many are convinced this isn't the case in Iraq, that our military is facing an undue amount of political interference in their conduct of the war. Americans are angered, not only by the loss of precious young lives in Iraq, but by the refusal of the administration to consider other options. They equate “staying the course” with more unnecessary deaths without a cohesive long-term strategy. President Bush has been implacable in his stance and has refused to bring all sides of the question together to form a coherent and united policy on Iraq. If he learns nothing else from Tuesday, I hope he realizes he must bring all sides to the table. He no longer has the overwhelming majority that allowed him to ignore Democratic concerns.

Tuesday results were a repudiation of a heavy-handed approach to governing. They were a call for a more moderate, centrist, approach to problem solving on the national level. They weren’t a mandate for the Democrats to do as they please. I hope they realize this and act accordingly.

Missouri Senate Race Too Close To Call

2006-11-07T12:06:00.000-06:00

Missourians will play a large part in the battle for control of the Senate in today’s election. In a race too close to call, Republican incumbent Jim Talent faces off against state Auditor Claire McCaskill –D in this heated and often bitter campaign.

McCaskill has sought to portray Mr. Talent as a puppet of President Bush, a yes-man who has put the party ahead of the people in his votes on the war in Iraq, who’s out of touch with Missourians, and who doesn’t support “basic mid-western values.”

Talent calls Ms. McCaskill “extreme” for her heavily liberal views, pointing to her support of controversial abortion methods and refusal to support a Constitutional Amendment stipulating marriage as between a man and a woman.

The latest poll has Talent leading his Democratic opponent by one percentage point entering election day. In a race too close to call, where issues were often ignored in favor of personal attacks and accusations of ineptitude and incompetence, where the candidates have taken to cutting two versions of their ads, one pronouncing the name of the state “Missour-uh,” the other “Missour-e”, to play in rural and urban markets, let’s take a look at how they stand on the issues themselves, both national and regional, that Missourians are most concerned with.

National Security Issues
The Findings of the 9-11 Commission:

Sen. Talent: The government has implemented or is in the process of implementing 37 of the 39 recommendations of the 9/11 Commission. And the Senate recently passed the Port Security bill which represents action on 38 of the 39 recommendations.

We need to do two things to keep America safe: First, secure the border, including security fencing, which Claire McCaskill opposes. Second, continue to improve our human intelligence capabilities in cooperation with allies like Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iraq.

Ms. McCaskill: The 9-11 Commission represented America at its best. It was Republicans and Democrats coming together and looking closely at what we need to do to make America secure, in a completely nonpartisan way. It is five years later and the majority of those recommendations have not been implemented.

Senator Talent mistakenly believes we can't implement the recommendations because of budget constraints and bureaucratic resistance. I believe it's because Washington and the priorities of the Bush administration have placed a higher priority on giving multimillionaires more tax breaks than making sure we can inspect more cargo for dirty bombs and that our first responders and agencies can talk to one another more effectively.
The funding of the 9/11 Commission's recommendations should be a top priority. As to Senator Talent's excuse that there is bureaucratic resistance, I have exactly the right experience to wrestle bureaucrats as a result of my work over the past eight years as Missouri's state auditor. If we do not have the will to implement good, strong bipartisan work that will make our country safer, I think we need some new voices in the Senate who will implement these recommendations so we can better protect Americans.

Warrantless Surveillance and responses to the finding of the Federal Court declaring it unconstitutional.

Talent: The federal judge's decision was wrong. The decision was roundly attacked within the legal community by people in both political mainstreams. If allowed to stand, it would harm the security of the United States and the American people. Our government has the authority to monitor international phone calls or e-mails coming from terrorists.

As the arrests in Great Britain make clear, there are a large number of terrorist cells and organizations plotting to carry out attacks against the United States and all who oppose their barbaric vision of the future.

The judge's ruling fails to recognize the primary objectives of winning the war and the interdependence of liberty and security. We must make our intelligence gathering efforts focused and effective. Nothing in the Constitution was intended to prevent the exercise of those powers that are necessary to protect our people.

I strongly support the terrorist surveillance program. Claire McCaskill opposes it. I believe that when terrorists are willing to die to hurt us, we need to do everything it takes to stop them.

McCaskill: I certainly am a big supporter of surveillance. I think surveillance is absolutely necessary. As somebody who's been a prosecutor and as somebody who has been involved in very complex criminal investigations, I know that we need to do human surveillance, Internet surveillance, financial transaction surveillance, and phone surveillance. Congress needs to give the president and our intelligence community the tools they need in the framework of our laws to do the surveillance necessary.

If people weren't so interested in playing politics with this issue we'd be catching more terrorists and the president would have all the tools he needs. I will never put politics ahead of national security, because preventing future attacks is the first, last and most important duty of our government.

Military Tribunals:

Talent: The question is whether terrorists will have a right to demand classified information for their defense. I don't think they should have that right. It seems obvious to me that we should not release classified information about terrorist operations to the terrorists. My opponent supported the U.S. Supreme Court decision and supports a system of trying terrorists that jeopardizes our security.
The United States does not engage in torture of captured terrorists. However, some are arguing that evidence should not be admissible if it was obtained in violation of protective rules, like the Miranda rules, that apply to criminal defendants in civilian courts. I do not agree that probative evidence against terrorists should be inadmissible in such circumstances.

McCaskill: I would follow the leadership of President Bush's first secretary of state and the former chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, Colin Powell, along with Sen. John Warner, R-Va., the former Secretary of the Navy and Chairman of the Armed Services Committee; Sen. Lindsey Graham, R-S.C., an Air Force reserve officer and reserve military judge; and Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., a former POW, as it relates to how we conduct our military trials.

These men, who have decades of military service, are all Republicans and are truly great examples of being nonpartisan in the name of being strong patriots and supporting our military. They understand this isn't just about how we treat the terrorists, it's our how our men and women will be treated in prisons across the world. If they're captured, we need to provide an example for the rest of the world. As a prosecutor, I understand we do our best work under the framework of rules.

Stances on interrogation tactics of captured or suspected terrorists:

Talent: The law prohibits the use of torture or cruelty against captured terrorists. It does not prohibit the use of “rough” interrogation techniques. I would want to make certain that a “rough” interrogation technique did not amount to torture, but if it didn't I would support the use of such techniques if they held promise of getting intelligence that would save American lives. It should be remembered that some people think playing loud music to terrorists, or varying their meal schedule, is a “rough” or degrading interrogation technique. I do not agree.

McCaslill: The law on this type of torture was sponsored by Sen. McCain and passed through the Senate with Sen. Talent's vote and was eventually signed into law. As a former prosecutor, I believe all interrogations need to be tough, but all interrogations should be conducted under that recently enacted legislation and the Geneva Conventions.

How should the United States respond to nuclear programs in Iran and North Korea and their potential for developing nuclear weapons?

Talent: Unfortunately, North Korea already has nuclear weapons. We cannot allow Iran to develop them as well. There is a great danger that they would use them or give them to terrorists.

We need to develop a united Western response or approach to Iran that imposes sanctions on that country until it abandons its nuclear program or allows inspections. We also need to keep a military option on the table in case diplomatic efforts and economic sanctions are not successful.

McCaskill: The greatest threats to our safety are weapons of mass destruction. The spread of chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons must be stopped. And there must be no uncertainty about that goal. North Korea has been stockpiling nuclear weapons without so much as a glance from the current administration. Iran may now be close to producing a nuclear bomb. We cannot allow them to go any further.

I believe our tunnel vision in Iraq has allowed both the situation in North Korea and Iran to deteriorate. As a result, Iran has become emboldened by the fact that we are spread so thinly and allowed the Hezbollah to invade our best ally in the region. Iran's nuclear capability, however, can still be prevented. There must be an immediate and complete moratorium on their enrichment processes. Together with our world allies, we must convince Iran of their own best interest, using the threat of economic sanctions and the promise of world trade and investment.

It is a grave concern that the current Prime Minister of Iraq is talking of his growing bond of friendship with Iran and has expressed strong support of Hezbollah. They need to know that our talks, if unsuccessful, will be followed not by rhetoric and reprisal, but by the full strength and force of the American military. With North Korea, we must call for reopening the six-party conference to develop a more effective containment strategy. We must talk to the North Koreans directly if we are ever to get them to renounce their weapons and allow a verification system to assure their compliance.

Methamphetamine crackdown

Talent co-sponsored the “Combating Methamphetamine Epidemic Act” to limit access to cold medicines containing pseudoephedrine, the primary ingredient used to make methamphetamine. The bill, which took effect at the end of September, requires such medicines to be moved behind the pharmacy counter and limits the amount one person can buy per month.

McCaskill led a crackdown against methamphetamine as Jackson County, MO Prosecuting Attorney during the early to mid-1990s. She implemented a program to condemn properties where meth labs had been found so meth makers could not return to set up business. She did not oppose Talent's bill but questioned whether the bill would have sufficient funding.

Alternative fuels

Talent supports development of alternative energy sources such as ethanol and biodiesel fuels, but also wants oil to be mined from Alaska's Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. He also supports efforts to increase natural gas supplies by tapping into resources in the Gulf of Mexico.

McCaskill does not believe drilling for oil in Alaska's Arctic National Wildlife Refuge would be worthwhile. She supports a repeal of $14 billion in tax breaks and subsidies for big oil companies and an increase in development of alternative energy in this country.

Marriage amendment to the U.S. Constitution

Talent supports an amendment to the Constitution that would stipulate that marriage may only be between a man and a woman.

McCaskill believes marriage is between a man and a woman. She thinks a constitutional amendment to that effect is unnecessary.

Wiretapping

Talent says a federal judge was wrong to rule that the National Security Agency's warrantless surveillance program is unconstitutional. He supports wiretapping as a surveillance method to identify terrorists and believes the President should have the authority to wiretap with or without seeking court permission.

McCaskill believes the President should have the tools, including surveillance, he needs to fight and capture terrorists. She supports human, Internet, financial transaction, and phone surveillance.

Illegal immigration

Talent opposes amnesty for illegal immigrants, wants the U.S. to strengthen its borders by building a fence along the Mexican border to combat illegal immigration, and supports felony penalties for employers who repeatedly hire illegal immigrants.

McCaskill opposes amnesty for illegal immigrants and supports fences along with additional technology to monitor the borders. She also supports tougher fines and penalties for companies that exploit illegal immigrants.

Minimum wage

Talent supports minimum wage increases only if packaged with support for small businesses.

McCaskill supports an increase in minimum wage either initiated by the state or through a national increase by Congress.

Abortion/ Missouri Proposed Amendment 2

Talent opposes abortion with some exceptions, including in cases of rape, incest or the mother's life. He supports stem cell research, but opposes somatic cell nuclear transfer. Talent does not support Amendment 2 because he believes the language allows for human cloning.

McCaskill believes the decision to have an abortion is up to a woman and her family, doctor and/or spiritual beliefs. She supports requiring parental permission for minors with some exceptions, such as victims of incest. McCaskill supports Amendment 2 as a way to protect stem cell research and believes the Amendment's language clearly prohibits human cloning.

Jim Talent and Claire McCaskill exemplify the polarity of the American people on this election day. The time for partisan bickering and attack ads has passed and the voters will decide. The eyes of the nation, and the hopes of both parties, are on Missouri today.

Source references for this article include a series of debates sponsored by the Associated Press.

A Look Ahead To The 40th Annual CMA Awards!

2006-11-05T16:33:00.000-06:00

Our house was always full of music when I was young. My mother loved the deep baritone of Johnny Cash, the sad, heartfelt and hard times lyrics of Merle Haggard, and the tortured genius of George Jones. The CMA awards was something to be looked forward to. I remember my mother saying ‘Oh, Good Lord,’ when her favorites didn’t win. In honor of my late mother, a lady who knew all too well the struggles sang of in her favorite country songs, who worried about her children, prayed and worked each day to make our lives better, and who always stood by her man, I bring you this look at the 40th annual CMA awards. Mom would have loved it.

If you hear creaking it’s from the limb I’m climbing out on. I’m going to spit in the face of conventional wisdom and pick the winners of the top awards using my own tried and true system. It’s somewhere between careful study and ‘pick a card, any card.’ If by chance I’m wrong, there was more than likely some skullduggery behind the scenes, or I just didn’t know what I was talking about. That’s possible, perhaps likely, if you ask my wife. Here we go!

Entertainer of the Year:

I’m picking the hosts of the show, Brooks & Dunn, to win this one. Why? Because I said so. I know B&D will win, because the dart I threw at the wall hit them. Sure fire method of decision making in a pinch. The fact they put on one of the greatest live shows in country music might play a small part, but they win only because of my well-placed throw. They owe me!

Female Vocalist of the Year:

Carrie Underwood
should take this one home. Her competition is the hugely talented Martina McBride, the tabloid superstar Sarah Evans, the ever-present, highly annoying, Faith Hill, and the vastly over-rated Gretchen Wilson. I think this is Carrie’s year. Again, because I said so. Okay, it might help that Jesus Take The Wheel resonated with so many people.

Male Vocalist of the Year:

This one’s a toss-up between Brad Paisley and Keith Urban. I’m giving it to Paisley on the strong performance of When I Get Where I’m Going,’ his hit with Dolly Parton. Great song, strong country tradition, very well done. I think Brad Paisley rises well above everyone else this year.

Horizon Award:

Given to the best new act, the Horizon Award should go to Josh Turner, a new-traditionalist in country music who will be around a long time. It won’t, however. It will go to Sugarland
even though many believe Miranda Lambert should win. As for Ms. Lambert, she joins Gretchen Wilson in the ranks of the over-rated. She looks very nice, that get’s you a record contract in the video age, but it says nothing for your talent. One would think Carrie Underwood would win this award, but she already has Female Vocalist of the Year and I like to share the wealth.

Vocal Group of the Year:

Alison Krauss and Union Station are far above any of their competition in this category. Ms. Krauss is immensely talented and surrounds herself with a fabulous group of singer-musicians in Union Station. They’re easily the cream of the crop in this group of nominees.

Vocal Duo of the Year:

One would think since Brooks & Dunn are Entertainer of the Year, they would take this hardware home as well. Don’t bet on it. Big & Rich will pull out a surprise win here.

Single of the Year:

The most competitive category of the night. Tremendous efforts from Brooks & Dunn with Believe, Carrie Underwood’s Jesus Take the Wheel, and Brad Paisley (with Dolly Parton) in the haunting and beautiful When I Get Where I’m Going are all deserving of recognition. This is one of those rare times when one hates to see anyone lose. I’m going with Brad Paisley, but the competition is fierce.

Album of the Year:

It’s been a great year for country music and these efforts led the way. All worthy, all compelling, all highly entertaining compilations. Once again, Brad Paisley is my choice for Time Well Wasted, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see Brooks & Dunn’s Hillbilly Deluxe take this honor.

Music Video of the Year:

An eclectic mix of tradition and cutting edge improvisation make this an interesting and entertaining category. I think Miranda Lambert’s Kerosene wins here. The CMA likes to appear hip, and this is their chance to prove it. The more deserving Brad Paisley, Brooks and Dunn, and Big & Rich get stiffed in this one.

Musical Event of the Year:

Surely I’m not the only person sick to death of Tim McGraw and Faith Hill? This comes down to Jennifer Nettles of Sugarland (with Bon Jovi), in Who Say’s You Can’t Go Home, and Brad Paisley with Dolly Parton for When I Get Where I’m Going. I think Jennifer Nettles walks away with this one.

Song of the Year:

While I admit to being confused as to why there is a ‘song of the year,’ and ‘single of the year,’ since I don’t understand why one isn’t the same as the other, I’ll go with Keith Urban for Tonight I Wanna Cry and be done with it.

There you have it, my picks for the victors during the 40th Annual CMA awards on Monday night. If I’m wrong about any of this, unlikely as that may be, blame my mother. She couldn’t pick winners either. I’ll be back Tuesday with a follow up, either boasting (mildly), or having a large plate of crow, well done, if you please. Enjoy the CMA’s, see you after the show!

Blues Legend: Robert Johnson

2006-11-02T18:55:00.000-06:00

Blues Bash: The Legendary Robert Johnson
Written by Donnie Marler
Published November 02, 2006 as
Part of Blues Bash on Blogcritics.org.

"You may bury my body down by the highway side
Baby, I don't care where you bury my body when I'm dead and gone
You may bury my body, ooh down by the highway side
So my old evil spirit can catch a Greyhound bus and ride" — Me and the Devil Blues ©(1978) 1990, 1991 Lehsem II, LLC/Claud L. Johnson
Administered by Music & Media International, Inc.

A young man walks slowly down a lonely dirt road in the delta region of Mississippi. Without a soul for miles around, and near midnight, it’s an eerie place - A place where the imagination runs wild and anything is possible. "Damn," he curses to himself, ashamed of his fear for starting at the hoot of an owl nearby, "ain’t nothin’ here, it’s just a damn old wives tale, is all."

Legend has it, if you go to the crossroads at midnight you can get your hearts desire, for a price. All you have to do is step out into the crossroads and wait for your guest to arrive. If you’re lucky, he won’t come. If he does, you’d better be sure what you want is worth the cost. The devil only wants one payment, and there’s no going back on the bargain. Don’t bother praying to God for help, your soul is no longer His concern.

Welcome to the legend of Robert Johnson. No personality in the long and colorful history of the blues has fired the imagination more than he does. Rumored to have sold his soul to the devil for his musical ability, Johnson made the most of his talent, beginning a musical legacy that would last long beyond his short years, and ensure he would never be forgotten.

Adding to the mystique surrounding his purported arrangement with Beelzebub was Johnson’s physical appearance. He was a handsome man, very popular with the ladies, but he had unusually long fingers and a cataract in one eye. Some said it was his ‘evil eye,’ a reminder of his crossroad meeting with old Scratch.

Johnson was known for odd behavior while performing. His habit of turning his back on his audience while he played made some uneasy. He was also known to get upset. He would simply walk off the stage and leave if someone got too curious about his technique. Such behavior wouldn’t raise an eyebrow today, but in Robert Johnson’s era it was unusual for a performer to behave as he did.

Robert Johnson lived the blues man lifestyle to the fullest. A traveling man, he didn’t like to sit still. He loved being out on the road, playing his music and women - all women. He had an interesting way to insure he’d be well fed and cared for in the towns he played in. He’d find the homeliest woman he could and sweet talk his way into her good graces. He thought this was the safest way to go. Chances were, if she was homely she didn’t have a man, and she wouldn’t mind taking good care of a traveling blues man if there was a little romance in it for her.

This worked out well for Johnson in his travels, and perhaps, if he’d have stuck to that tactic he would have lived longer. In little Greenwood, Mississippi, Johnson struck up a relationship with the wife of a roadhouse owner. None too subtle, Johnson didn’t make an effort to hide the fact he was sparking the lady, and before it was over he got a case of strychnine poisoning from a half-full bottle of whiskey he was handed. The strychnine didn’t kill him, but it weakened him badly and he succumbed to pneumonia a few weeks later, August 16, 1938.

Robert Johnson was buried in a simple wooden coffin by the county at Little Zion Church, just north of Greenwood, along a stretch of highway locals call the ‘money road.’

As for the devil, no one knows if he collected his debt, but the root of that legend was a comment by Son House, another famed blues man, who said, “He sold his soul to play that way.”

Duncan Hunter To Announce Presidential Bid

2006-10-30T13:36:00.000-06:00

Duncan Hunter, Republican Congressman representing California’s 52nd District encompassing eastern and northern San Diego County, is expected to announce his decision to seek the Republican nomination for President in 2008 in a speech today in San Diego.

Hunter, the powerful chairman of the House Armed Services Committee and a thirteen-term Congressman, has built a reputation of being a strong supporter of the military and an ardent advocate of increased security along the Mexican-American border.

Congressman Hunter is the co-author of H.R. 6061, the Secure Fence Act, enacted before the end of the recent session. The legislation calls for more than 700 miles of strategic security fencing on America’s land border with Mexico. The act seeks to replicate the design of the San Diego Border Fence Congressman Hunter passed through Congress in 1994, in which more than ten miles of a two layer fence with a high speed road between them has been erected to date. Congressman Hunter states crime rates in San Diego have been reduced by more than half since the erection of the fence and that significantly fewer crossing attempts have been made.

While serving as Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, Hunter has focused on modernization initiatives to rapidly move new and effective technologies into the field, and sought to move resources from the bureaucratic side of the Defense Department to the needs of the warfighters. Congressman Hunter has shown support for military personnel and their families by attempting to ensure they are well-compensated and enter combat with the most modern and effective weapons and equipment.