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.

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.

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.

Book Review: The Takers; Book One of the Oz Chronicles by R.W. Ridley.

2006-10-30T11:48:00.000-06:00

R.W. Ridley has assembled a highly enjoyable cast of characters for us to follow in The Takers.Young Oz Griffin is the hero of this work but his supporting cast of a newborn baby he has to learn to care for. Lou, a young girl first thought to be mute. Wes, a middle-aged mechanic with a love for knives. A gang of bumbling would-be highwaymen led by a stubborn and sarcastic teenage girl. And most fun of all, a Silverback gorilla named Ajax with a fifteen-hundred word vocabulary in American sign language and a penchant for peaches supply much of the fun for the reader.

We meet Oz Griffin as he awakens from a feverish sleep to find himself hidden in his parents walk-in closet and all alone. His parents gone, Oz takes his dog and begins a search that will lead him into battle with the Takers, mysterious and frightening beings Oz discovers were conjured into existence in the mind of a mentally retarded boy he’d tormented. A boy who had recently committed suicide.

Our guilt ridden hero finds a comic book drawn by little Stevie Dayton, the mentally handicapped kid, and is shocked to discover it’s secrets. It shows everything that has and will happen! The only problem is, if you try to read it the Takers show up and they’re decidedly unpleasant company.

Brave and determined, Oz grows up as he takes the responsibility of leadership upon himself. With the capable assistance of Lou, Wes, gentle giant Ajax and a few allies picked up along the way, he becomes a strong and independent young man.

Oz and the gang share many adventures along the road to the final showdown with the Takers. I enjoyed reading it, if I am a bit older than the target audience.

Full of twists and turns, The Takers is a spirited and inventive book which should leave the reader anxious for Book Two. R.L. Stine has competition for the hearts of young thrill seekers in R.W. Ridley.

This Is Baseball Weather?

2006-10-26T13:18:00.000-05:00

Let’s get right to it. I think Major League Baseball might need to reconsider starting the World Series so late. “Is it cold enough for you?” Is this really something players and fans should be asking each other? Come on!

I could have told the powers that be the weather in St. Louis in late October can be unfriendly to the national pastime. I won’t comment on Detroit, I’ve never been there, but I’m looking for the first fly ball lost in the snow in World Series history to happen this year. That’s if the Series makes it back to Detroit at all. The Cardinals would just as soon suffer at home and get it over with.

I’m sure the players are loving it, especially the poor catchers. Must be fun to handle a guy throwing a hundred miles an hour when your hands are cold. Both Pudge Rodriquez and Yadier Molina have managed to take one low in the series thus far. Sympathetic groans could be heard from males nationwide. I’m sure they appreciated the fact they were freezing already when the ball bounced off.

I guess the Commissioner and his staff thought two California teams would make it to the Series? Or maybe they were planning on two New York teams, and didn’t check the Farmer’s Almanac for the forecast covering the rest of the country?

Just look at what the cold has already done to the players! Kenny Rogers was forced to dip his pitching hand in pine tar (dirt, my ass) to keep it warm! Placido Polanco is playing in a Gore-tex turtleneck, he looks more like a cat burglar than a second baseman. Albert Pujols can be heard screaming, “I didn’t sign up for this! I’m a Dominican, damn it!”

In short, play has suffered. Shivering too hard to swing the bat effectively, batters have been at a disadvantage as the pitchers (who move enough to stay warm) mow them down like young corn in a hard frost.

Who’s handing out the Championship trophy this year? Should be a penguin. On behalf of Cardinal fans everywhere I’d like to say if the Tigers steal the Series from us it’s only because we were too cold to stop them!

Muslim Cleric Says Women to Blame for Rape

2006-10-26T12:58:00.000-05:00

The Chief Cleric of Sydney, Australia's largest mosque ignited a firestorm of criticism following a recent sermon in which he described women appearing publicly without head scarves as "uncovered meat."

Sheik Taj Aldin al Hilali said, "if you take out uncovered meat and place it outside... without cover, and the cat come's to eat it...whose fault is it, the cat's or the uncovered meat's?"

Australian's angered at the cleric's sermon say he appears to be condoning rape with the statements by implying the woman is at fault if she is sexually assaulted. Al Hilali said he's "shocked" by the reaction to his sermon in a statement on Thursday.

He claimed his sermon dealt with Islamic religious teachings on modesty and not going to extremes in enticing men. "This does not condone rape! I condemn rape."

While the cleric denies he is blaming rape on the victim, his words seem to give lie to his protestations of being misunderstood. "The uncovered meat is the problem. If she was in her room, in her home, in her hijab, no problem would have occurred," he's quoted as saying in reference to the headdress worn by some Muslim women while in public places.

Outspoken Australian Prime Minister John Howard calls the remarks "appalling and reprehensible." He was joined in his condemnation of the cleric by civil libertarians, other Muslim leaders, and high ranking politicians.

Pru Goward, Sex Discrimination Commissioner for Australia, called upon Muslims to force al Hilali out of his position. "It is time the Islamic community did more than say they were horrified. I think it is time he left."

Al Hilali has served as an advisor to the Australian government on Islamic issues in the past and is considered the chief leader of the Muslim community in Australia and New Zealand.

This isn't the first time al Hilali has found himself at the center of controversy. While preaching a sermon in Lebanon in 2004, he said the September 11, 2001 attacks on America were "God's work against the oppressors." Despite the obvious overtones of the statement al Hilali later claimed they didn't mean that he supported the attacks or terrorism.

Prime Minister Howard said for al Hilali to imply women were at fault for being sexually assaulted was "preposterous, the whole idea of women being responsible for being raped is preposterous."

Already tense relations between the nations 300,000 Muslims and the majority Christian-heritage population are not helped by such ill-advised and foolish remarks by religious leaders. As Australian Muslims express the desire to become a viable part of society, let us hope they will emphasize the seriousness of their commitment by sending Mr. al Hilali packing.

To imply a woman was raped because of her own failure to dress modestly is unconscionable and has no place in a civilized discussion of a serious issue, either on the street or from the pulpit.

Carpenter Nails Tigers Down

2006-10-25T08:26:00.000-05:00

Country singer JoDee Messina spent as much time at the plate singing God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch as the Detroit Tigers did in most of their at bats in Game 3.

Cardinal ace Chris Carpenter gave up only 3 hits while striking out 6 without a walk over 8 innings in a dominant performance to give St. Louis a 2-1 Series advantage over Nate Robertson and the Tigers.

Braden Looper threw a perfect 9th to seal the win for the Redbirds after skipper Tony LaRussa decided not to send Carpenter back to the hill after a 20 minute rest on a chilly night at Busch Stadium.

Jim Edmonds supplied all the runs the St. Louis starter needed with a 2 run double in the 4th inning, plating Scott Rolen and Albert Pujols. The Cards missed an opportunity for a big inning to clutch pitching by Tiger starter Nate Robertson who stopped the bleeding by getting out of a bases loaded jam.

Detroit reliever Joel Zumaya’s costly error in the 7th allowed the Cards to add two more to their tally. Zumaya took third baseman Brandon Inge by surprise on an Albert Pujols tapper back to the mound by throwing to third instead of going for the expected play at second base. What should have been an easy double play for the Tigers ended with the ball flying wildly into left field as David Eckstein and Preston Wilson scored and Pujols jogged into second base. Zumaya gave way to Jason Grilli who got the Tigers back into the dugout without further damage.

St. Louis added an insurance run in the 8th when So Taguchi walked, was moved into scoring position on a sacrifice bunt by the versatile Carpenter, over to third on a sharp single to right by David Eckstein, and came in to score on a Zach Miner wild pitch to make the final score 5-0.

The Cardinals look to put Detroit’s backs against the wall tomorrow when they send NLCS MVP Jeff Suppan, 1-1 with a 1.86 ERA in three postseason starts to square off against Jeremy Bonderman, 1-0 in 2 playoff starts.

Tigers Paw Ruffles Cardinals Feathers

2006-10-24T11:57:00.000-05:00

Has Tigers lefty Kenny Rogers been cheating during his remarkable postseason performance of 23 consecutive scoreless innings? FOX Sports cameras picked up a mysterious brown stain on his pitching hand when he took the mound during his eight inning, two hit smackdown of the Cardinals on Sunday night. Redbirds manager Tony LaRussa asked the umpires to address the situation, "I don't like the stuff, let's get it fixed," but didn't insist Rogers be searched on the mound. Had he done so, and the substance turned out to be illegal, Rogers could have been suspended for the remainder of the World Series.

Cardinal faithful and sports commentators nationwide have lambasted LaRussa for not being more aggressive in his handling of the situation. Why not have the umpires undress Rogers on the mound in an effort to determine what the mystery substance was? "I don't want to win like that," LaRussa said during Monday's walk-through at Busch Stadium in St. Louis. He said he'd told the umpires he didn't like it and wanted it fixed and they fixed it. End of story?

Hardly, Rogers said he just rubbed baseballs down in the bullpen prior to the game with a mixture of dirt and resin to make them easier to grip in the cold Detroit air Sunday night. LaRussa scoffed at that, "I don't believe it was dirt, it didn't look like dirt to me." Rogers said reports that he'd washed his hands in the clubhouse after the first inning were wrong and implied the Cards were grasping at straws, "I wiped them off. If they want to make it an issue, they can. But it's not an issue."

LaRussa's comments were carried over the public address system at Busch Monday. The Tigers were taking the field for practice as he spoke and several of them were seen stopping to listen to what the Cards skipper had to say. Tigers first base coach, and long-time St. Louis Cardinal, Andy Van Slyke said, "It has no bearing on how Kenny Rogers pitched, period. None, the sad part is people are going to talk about dirt on the hand instead of the way he pitched."

St. Louis backup catcher Gary Bennett said, "The bottom line is that after it was brought to his attention, he pitched innings 2 through 8 and we didn't do anything." In fact, the only inning the Redbirds managed multiple baserunners was during the first before Rogers cleaned the substance off his pitching hand.

Cardinal outfielder Preston Wilson didn't seem inclined to believe the Detroit aces side of the story. "You don't like the integrity of the game coming into question," Wilson said. "But the fact is, when things are said and done, they have to live with it. They have to sleep with that at night. They have to sit back at the end of their career and say whether they did it on their own merit or not. To me, that's more than anything else can do to them."

LaRussa became visibly upset when it was implied that perhaps his close friendship with Detroit manager Jim Leyland had played a role in his decision not to address the Rogers situation more vigorously. "We're friends. The competition isn't about friends," said La Russa. "This is about the Tigers and the Cardinals. And if somebody seriously accused me of that, I would get very upset and confrontational."

Whatever anyone thinks of Tony LaRussa, he's a man of integrity who wants his team to win the World Series on the field as it should be won, not by the rulebook. Could he have been more aggressive against Rogers? Sure, he could have, but LaRussa did his job. He pointed it out to the umpires and left it up to them to insure he wouldn't need to act further on it. Does it take away from Kenny Rogers spectacular performance in this postseason? Yes, but I don't think it should. If he only stymied the Cards because of a foreign substance on his thumb in the first, how do you explain innings 2 through 8?

Rogers deserves the highest respect for stepping up and leading when his young team needs him the most. LaRussa deserves respect for wanting the series decided on the field by the players.

Anyone who thinks Tony LaRussa would allow a personal friendship to jeopardize his teams chances of taking baseball's ultimate prize doesn't understand the man's deep desire to win. He and Jim Leyland are best friends, that won't stop either of them from pulling out all the stops and it certainly won't keep the players from leaving everything on the field when it's all over.

I think it's going to be a heck of a World Series. I'm picking the Cardinals to win, but I won't cry if this bunch of scrappy, hustling kids from Detroit takes it.

Did Kenny Rogers cheat in game two? Who knows? I've decided it doesn't matter. I can't wait for game 3!

Long Road Back

2006-10-21T13:18:00.000-05:00

I recently happened upon an excellent Diana Hartman article relating the marital woes of a dear friend of hers. A lady who found herself in a marriage in which physical intimacy had disappeared. As I read, I found myself examining my own situation.

This past June, I was in a serious accident on the way home from work. Falling asleep at the wheel, I ran off the road and overturned. I don’t remember much about the moments leading up to the wreck, but I’ve relived the accident itself more than I care to admit.

I remember being confused, not knowing where I was as I snapped awake after a tremendous jolt. My next conscious memory is of being throw violently, headfirst, into the dashboard, followed by the helpless, terrifying feeling of the truck rolling over. Moments later, I was lying across the seat in a pile of jagged, bloody glass. I remember calling my wife’s name, wanting her to come and get me, to take me home. I was afraid the truck would catch fire and I tried to move, to push the door open. I had trouble getting out, every move was harder than it should have been. I didn’t know I had a broken neck, a fractured skull, and a separated shoulder. Or that I was flirting with instant death or paralysis with one wrong move. All I knew was I hurt more than I ever had, and I needed to get out of that truck.

That was nearly five months ago. I’ve had two spinal fusion surgeries and spend my days wrapped in a plastic brace from my neck to my waist. It’s frustrating and painful physically, but the real fight is emotional, the battle to stay hopeful and upbeat while facing certain financial ruin.

Without my income there’s no way to pay our bills. I’ve watched prized possessions be taken away and live every day in fear of losing our home. I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, the important thing is I’m alive and I’ll get better soon. The truth is, it does matter, and I’m so ashamed to find myself in this situation. Without money, unable to work, to do my part. Seeing my wife with tears in her eyes because she’s afraid of what will happen to us. It matters.

There is no physical intimacy in our lives anymore, but that’s not what worries me. The desire is there, and bodies heal. What scares me is the loss of emotional intimacy between us. I know she’s angry with me, though she tries not to be. The few times she’s allowed it to show and said, “you put us in this situation, I didn’t,” were worse than physical blows for me. God knows I didn’t leave work that night intending to fall asleep at the wheel. I’ve cursed myself far more times than she knows for it. One foolish mistake, one stupid moment, and I face the loss of everything I own because of it.

I pass my days writing, just to have something to occupy me. It helps me, but it doesn’t help in any tangible way, no one will pay me to write. I pray we can hold out just a little longer, I don’t know how much more of this we can survive as a couple. I can stand losing possessions, though I hate it and it hurts my pride. If I lose her, there’s nothing left, I have lost everything if she goes. The thought of her leaving never crossed my mind before I got hurt. It does now, it does when I catch her looking at me and I don’t see love in her eyes, I see disgust at how helpless I’ve become.

I never fully appreciated the simple joy of being able to provide for my family until I couldn’t do it. The worst feeling in the world is letting down the people you love. I don’t like being ashamed of myself. I hate lying awake at night worrying, trying to think of something, anything, I have I can sell to help us until I can go back to work.

I’ve always considered myself a decent man, far from perfect, but decent. I didn’t realize how much of my self-worth I had invested in simply making a living. It’s been hard to deal with. I don’t know about the man in Diana Hartman’s article, but I know what I feel inside. Shame. I won’t give up, I don’t know how to give up, I wasn’t raised like that. I just hope what’s left at the end of this trial was worth fighting for.

I Miss My America

2006-10-19T12:54:00.000-05:00

A Blogcritics Editors' Picks: October 18 through October 24

I caught myself waxing nostalgic for the land of my youth the other day. I wished I could go back in time. Back to a place where terror was something I paid money to feel at the theater, not the ever present horror of today.

I wanted to return to the simpler times of my childhood. The joy of running barefoot though the fields, swimming in the creek, and knowing my Mother and Dad would protect me from any evil. I miss those days, and I wish my grandchildren could have what I had.

It’s funny how your mind plays tricks on you.

I’d allowed myself to forget how divided my beloved nation was even then. How Vietnam tore us apart, how the hippies and the old men hated each other. I’d forgotten the horror of watching fellow Americans attacked by police with dogs because they were black and had the audacity to desire equal treatment under law. I’d let myself forget how sad my Mom and Dad were because I would not have what they had.

I came to the sad realization that my America doesn’t exist except in my mind. The nation I sang of as a boy, ‘sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing’ has always been in a state of conflict and upheaval. Many could not hope to claim their share of the American Dream. Not because they weren’t willing to work at it, but because they were the wrong color, or the wrong ethnicity.

We were lucky here, in our little community. People helped each other without caring what color the family in need was, or what political party they favored. My hometown boasted two hundred souls and we knew all about each other. It was hard not to in a small town.

My father was a man who judged people by their actions, not their race or financial situation. Pop taught us to respect the opinions of everyone, but to decide for ourselves what we thought was right and stand by it. We were fortunate to have such a man stand as our example. I wish I could return to those days, just to ask my Dad what I should do? How do I keep my children from falling into the trap of hating someone’s politics so deeply they end up hating the person?

I always thought the ties that bound us together as Americans were stronger than the issues that divided us. I don’t know if I believe that anymore, and it saddens me more than I can say. It hurts to think of my beloved country dying a slow death from within. Our people too divided to care, too caught up in hating everyone else. Too busy despising the freedoms our forefathers fought and died for when they’re exercised by someone they disagree with.

I miss my America, even if it was only in my mind.

Why Am I Such A Misfit? Confessions of a Television Non-Viewer

2006-10-18T13:59:00.000-05:00

Hi, my names Donnie, and I don’t watch television. Just thought I’d get that off my chest. Why, you ask? It’s really quite simple. I don’t view television as an escape or break from reality. I view it as a colossal waste of time. This applies to everything except sports. I’ll watch sports once in awhile, but not often.

Double standard, you think? No, if you want double standards, look at Washington, D.C. I’m just inconsistent. I need my fix of Cardinal baseball occasionally, so I’ll tune in just to make sure the boys are alright. I consider that my civic duty here in the heart of Cardinal Nation.

How can any red-blooded American guy not like to watch television? I suppose because we didn’t watch much TV when I was a kid. My folks expected us to come home from school, eat dinner, then play outside until time to get cleaned up for bed. We were an active family, and I’ve done my best to keep my own children away from countless hours of TV time. I believe it’s far more beneficial to a child to be outside, running around and having fun, than it is to sit in front of the boob tube throwing snacks down their throat and losing the ability to speak.

I would much rather sit by the fire with my feet up, reading a good novel. No commercials. No talking suds begging me to use them to clean my bathroom. No one walking along a beach and suddenly realizing they don’t feel fresh. I don’t feel like explaining most of the garbage on television to my grandson that lives with me, so I limit his tv time. He watches his Spongebob Squarepants show, and he’s happy.

I’ve spent many quality hours in front of my fireplace, grandson on my lap, good book in hand, sharing it with him. He loves being read to, and he’s making good progress at learning to read himself at four years old. I always follow the words with my finger as I read. You’d be amazed how quickly kids pick up certain words, and how excited they get when they recognize them before you’ve read them aloud.

The next time you sit down to watch the nights favorite shows on television, look around at your children. Maybe they’re sitting on the floor, trying their best to read their favorite book. Take a few moments to read it to them. You’ll both get more out of that than any television show.

Book Review: Religion of Peace? Islam's War Against The World by Gregory M. Davis

2006-10-17T11:39:00.000-05:00

Islam is a religion of peace.

This mantra has been repeated ad-nauseam from every Western leader while condemning the acts of Muslim terrorists around the world. We are implored to believe these zealots are following a radical, misguided interpretation of Islam, far removed from the teachings of Islam proper.

But are they? Studying the rise of Islam from it’s beginnings under the Prophet Muhammad, and using the Koran and other religious texts intended to be the pious Muslim’s guide to rightful living, author Gregory M. Davis says no. He reaches two conclusions. The Muslim terrorists are, in fact, acting within the tenets of their religion, and that religion, Islam, is far removed from one of peace.

Instead, he paints the goal of Islam as nothing less than world domination, by proselytizing if possible, by force if not.

By pointing out the division of the world in the Muslim mind into two components, the Dar al- Islam (House of Islam), those residing under the rule and law of the Prophet, and the dar al-harb (House of War), comprised of the rest of the world, the author seeks to explain the incompatibility of the western ideal of ‘live and let live’ with Islamic beliefs.

He contends the Muslim will not be content until the whole of the earth is under the rule of Allah with Sharia law as it’s foundation. And that violence is not only acceptable under Islam, but expected of the pious Muslim as they seek to accomplish this goal.

Muslim scholars are quick to point out Koranic verses to the contrary in disputing this notion. They are less willing to admit the so-called “peaceful” verses have been abrogated (overruled) by later exhortations to violence in the Koran, the oft-disputed “sword verses.” By tradition, contradictory verses in the Koran are reconciled by abrogation, the practice of the later statement taking precedence over the earlier.

If the author is correct in his assertions, what is the western world to do? How do we combat these influences and maintain our way of life? Mr. Davis has some suggestions to consider. First, re-phrase the “War on Terror,” and accept what it truly is for the west, a “War on Islam.”

Secondly, that our leaders should face head-on the fact that we are in a fight to the death with a determined enemy whose concepts of justice and peace widely differ from our own. He suggests recognizing Islam as not simply a religion, but also a political philosophy sharing much in common with Communism and National Socialism, and basing our strategy on these points.

According to the author, the preachers of tolerance and multiculturalism are simply not facing the facts of the matter. Islam is not tolerant of the existence of other religions or cultures, except to serve Muslims, and the Islamic hordes have no intention of embracing any semblance of a multicultural world.

I found this to be a fascinating, if somewhat frightening, look inside the Muslim world. It certainly makes one wonder if we even realize the true nature of the fight we find ourselves in.

Happy Halloween!

2006-10-14T13:18:00.000-05:00

Ghoulish, ghastly, horrifying, breathtakingly ugly, and that’s just the people handing out the candy.

I love Halloween, but it certainly makes one wonder. It’s the holiday of contradiction. You spend the rest of the year warning your children not to talk to strangers then wreck it all in one night by saying, “I’ll bet they’ve got good candy! Let’s try that house!” “But, daddy, I don’t know those people!” “What are you? Some kind of weirdo? Get up there and beg like every other red-blooded American kid!”

A friend of mine down the street goes all out on Halloween. He lies in a casket on his porch, sitting slowly up as the little kids come up the walk. “You should try it.” Yeah, right. If I lay down I don’t care what’s happening around me, I’m gone. Keep it down, children. Dracula’s taking a nap. Not very scary.

My wife, sweet, loving, considerate woman that she is, always wants to give healthy snacks to the kids on Halloween. “Lets hand out granola bars or something!” No, dear. Bad idea. “Why?” Because, honey. I don’t want to spend three days scraping shoe polish off my windshield. The little angels occasionally react poorly if they disapprove of your choice of goodies.

Kids don’t want healthy snacks in their bags! They want a lump of sugar smothered in chocolate. If you want, it can be wrapped in chewy nougat, but it better be sweet.

The worst thing I ever got was a can of Budweiser from old Mr. Hill. I can still see him cackling as he dropped it in. “Give that to your old daddy, son. He looks dry.” Mom got a little mad but Dad just chuckled. “Hell, Mary. That old man wouldn’t hurt a kid. He knew Donnie would run straight to me with it. Besides, he was right. I was getting dry.”

The highlight of my youthful Halloweens was going to the haunted house the Lions and Kiwanis clubs put on in Flat River, on Schramm’s corner. Those men could do wonders by throwing a few old mattresses down for us to walk over in the dark and firing up a chainsaw while we were at it. Not the high tech, scare the living hell out of you stuff of today. Just frightening enough to be an adventure.

There were always a few grand-fatherly looking old gentlemen without costumes along the way. Just in case some little one got too scared and needed reassurance. One of the old fellows would take them by the hand and walk with them the rest of the way as they explained it was all make believe.

A gentle, happy, time and place to be a child. Even on Halloween.

One of our Halloween family traditions was popping a big kettle of corn and gathering in front of the televison for ‘fright fest.’ Bela Lugosi as Dracula, Lon Chaney as the Wolfman, anything with Vincent Price starring. Good stuff. Scary but not gory. I do this with my grandson now, he’s four years old and gets quite a kick out of it. I hope it’s something he’ll remember about me when he’s older.

I’m saddened that kids have to take their candy to be X-rayed before they can enjoy it these days. I’m not sure if that sort of thing happens more now, or if it’s just better publicized. Now, as then, parents need to be closely involved in their child’s celebration of Halloween. The bogeyman has always been with us.

I hope you’ll leave a light on for the little ones this year. They’re making memories that will last a lifetime. Let’s do our part to make them happy ones.

May the small ghouls, goblins, and witches in your lives have a safe and happy Halloween.

Boo! Scared you, didn’t I?

Separation Anxiety: America at War

2006-10-12T13:57:00.000-05:00

How do we disengage from Iraq, and when?

Many Americans find themselves in an awkward position regarding the war in Iraq. Whether they oppose the war on principle or continue to support the mission but are disappointed with the apparent lack of progress, they would like an answer to two questions. How do we leave, and when?

The rhetoric from both sides is counter-productive to a solution. If one supports the mission they’re “warmongers.” Opposed to the war? You don’t “support the troops.” There is little truth to either argument.

I supported the missions in Iraq and Afghanistan and still do. I believe, then as now, that our troops are fighting to protect our nation from those who have, and would again, do us grievous harm.

I would like to see our troops have to worry less about political fallout and more about surviving, completing the mission, and returning home safely. I am pro-mission, not pro-war. A fine distinction to some perhaps, but an accurate description nonetheless.

Does that mean I feel the opponents of the war in Iraq are failing to support our troops? No, of course not. Opposition to war and failure to support those fighting that war are two very different things.

Many Americans have based their arguments against our continued presence in Iraq on what they view as the unnecessary sacrifice of our servicemen and women. This hardly seems appropriate to consider non-supportive of the troops.

Sadly, the argument has become so bitter that we’ve stopped listening to each others points of view. We’ve allowed ourselves to be divided into two camps defined by empty catch-phrases, “cut and run,” or “stay the course.”

In doing so, we have willfully ignored the wide but largely unacknowledged middle ground. The view-point that recognizes the heroism and sacrifice of our military, desires their safe return home, and understands the necessity to provide for stability in the region before our troops can fully withdraw.

The Iraqi people have braved many hardships in the past, they lived in fear under a despotic dictator, found themselves drug into wars they didn’t want which took many of their best and brightest young men, and have shown strength, resilience, and the desire to live in peace.

In throwing off the chains of that dictator and attempting to stand as a new nation, they find their efforts violently opposed by a heartless insurgency largely manned and funded by non-Iraqis, and by internal strife between Sunni and Shiite militias.

Bringing these parties to the table and making them part of the solution, rather than part of the problem, is the aim of a group founded by Rosemary Palmer and Paul E. Schroeder. Their son, Marine Lance Corporal Edward (Augie) Schroeder, was killed in action near Haditha, Iraq in August of 2005.

Families of the Fallen for Change, a non-profit organization, was begun to foster a bi-partisan solution to the Iraq war, and spare other parents the grief they feel.

The group seeks to break the stalemate in Congress by offering a compromise plan calling for measurable benchmarks to be met by the Iraqi’s themselves to determine the rate and timing of American withdrawal.

In presenting the plan, they hope to satisfy the desires of both Iraqi and American citizens for an end to the fighting and establish a workable framework for peace between all Iraqis, Shiite, Sunni, and Kurds.

In an effort to forestall internal chaos in Iraq during and after the proposed withdrawal, the plan calls for a quantifiable reduction in violence, both militarily and civilly, after each major draw-down of American troops.

If the parties involved can not or do not meet a previously agreed upon benchmark reduction in deaths and injuries, the next large-scale withdrawal of American troops would be delayed until the goal is reached.

In a potentially controversial area, the plan, recognizing the volatility of the region and what they consider the absolute necessity for the involvement of all factions for the proposal to succeed, calls for the inclusion of insurgents, with the exception of Al Queda, in the negotiations for peace.

The United States, under the plan, would announce it’s intention to withdraw as quickly as the progress attained by the parties allowed, disavow permanent American bases in Iraq, pledge not to extend hostilities beyond the border of Iraq, and tie economic assistance for reconstruction to the Iraqi governments performance in the protection of minority rights, sharing of power, and equitable distribution of oil resources.

Closer to home, it calls upon the government to provide full and free medical and psychological care, including prosthetics, for troops injured in Iraq and Afghanistan.

It’s an interesting concept which at least attempts to reach out to those Americans who, adhering to neither “cut and run” or “stay the course,” have stood silently and sadly by the way-side.

The proposal can be viewed in it’s entirety on the organizations website at Families of the Fallen for Change.

Negro League Legend O'Neil Dies at 94

2006-10-09T08:35:00.000-05:00

Buck O’Neil’s long love affair with baseball ended Friday, October 6 in a Kansas City, Missouri hospital.

Mr. O’Neil — player, manager, coach, scout, and good-will ambassador to the game — died at the age of 94.

Well known in baseball circles for his talent and wit, he became a national icon after being featured in Ken Burns tremendous Public Broadcasting System documentary Baseball in 1994.

Recently finding himself in the middle of a controversy over his failure to gain election to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, Mr. O’Neil asked disappointed fans to “shed no tears for Old Buck.”

He told supporters that not being able to attend Sarasota High School and the University of Florida because of segregation had hurt. Not being elected to the Hall of Fame didn’t because at least he had a chance.

Winner of two Negro League batting titles during his playing career, Mr. O’Neil retired and led the Kansas City Monarchs to the pennant as a manager. For a while he was also a scout for the Chicago Cubs, whose famous signings included Hall of Famers Lou Brock and Ernie Banks.

His love for the game nurtured through childhood talks with Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth of the famed New York Yankees “Murderers Row” of the 1920s. Mr. O’Neil was able to pass on his wisdom to modern day players, and with it, his respect for the game that had been his life.

Baseball is poorer today than it was yesterday.

Before You Go

2006-10-04T10:47:00.000-05:00

There are seasons in the life of a man. He grows quickly in his Spring, raises his family in the warmth of Summer, fades slowly into Autumn, and faces his mortality in the aching cold of Winter.

My father is seventy-two years old. His once keen and bright blue eyes have faded a bit. He sometimes doesn’t hear what I said, and he’s no longer the immensely strong man I remember from my youth.

As my Dad fades with his advancing years, I’ve come to appreciate what a wonderfully positive influence he’s been in my life.

If a man is fortunate, he had someone in his life to look up to, to learn from, to turn to when he was troubled, to trust implicitly. For me, my father was that person. Dad was, and is, my hero. He was father, friend, confidante, and steady guide into a world he hated to see me grow into.

I owe him for my love of laughter, for my belief in myself, for my spirit that never failed me. From him I learned to work hard, to care for my families needs, both physically and emotionally, and to always be available to a child with a question, no matter how tired I was.

I’m grateful to you, Dad. Thank you for your love, your patience, and your understanding as I grew up. It wasn’t easy for you, I see that now. I’ve come to know how difficult it is to let your child fall, to allow them to make their own mistakes. Like you, I was always there to pick them up and dust them off when it was over.

I haven’t said it often, but you’re the best man I know. I honor you. I respect you more than any man alive, and I love you with all my heart.

I just wanted you to know before you go.

Look for this and other articles by Donnie Marler on
Blogcritics.org

Come To The Fair!

2006-10-03T22:12:00.000-05:00

The Online book fair is on!! It's been great so far! I haven't won a raffle but I'm trying. Check it out! Share your love of reading and take advantage of free advice from successful authors and publishing professionals!

Be Sure To Check Out The "Guest Blogger" Contributions of
Blogcritics.org

Reading's Gift To Me

2006-09-29T11:30:00.000-05:00

One of my earliest memories is of reading, or at least beginning to. My father had wired a small light under the dashboard of his old pickup, and I sat in the floor between he and my mother reading comic books. I was just a little boy, but I remember how proud I was the first time I read to my dad, and how proud he was of me.

As a teenager, I went through the same coming of age issues as everyone else, and my relationship with my father was difficult at times. Even though it seemed we had nothing in common, we sometimes found a glimmer of our old closeness discussing a book one or the other had read.

Reading was always a favored pastime for me, but in the months following a serious accident in which I suffered a broken neck, it became my saving grace. Lying in bed wracked with pain from the spinal fusion surgeries I'd undergone, worrying about moving the wrong way and causing the paralysis I'd secretly feared all my life, and too proud to admit it to anyone, I found my escape in books.

As I read I could become part of the story. I could forget my pain for just a moment and ride with Lee at Gettysburg, or fight desperately to get off the beach at Iwo Jima under heavy fire. Books gave me the opportunity to do what my broken body could not do. I could immerse myself in the magic of the written word to the point of making the temporary harshness of my reality disappear.

Through reading, I revived my spirit and refreshed my soul. I have never been a quitter, I've been a fighter for as long as I've lived, but even fighters tire. Even the strongest of men have moments when they need lifted up by a friend. During my long days of struggle and pain, the great writers spoke to me, and raised me up. Through their words, I could enjoy the beauty of the world outside my walls, far beyond the confines of the bed I lay in, and I knew that as long as I didn't give up it would be waiting for me at the end of this trial.

(This article was written as a contribution to the online book fair beginning October 3, 2006 at love of reading.com.
Selected as an Editor's Pick of the Week for September 27 - October 3, 2006 on Blogcritics.org.

Sago Suicides and Mine Safety

2006-09-27T09:07:00.000-05:00

The Mine Safety and Health Administration (MSHA) is a joke. I don't say that as someone on the outside. I've spent eighteen years in the mining industry and countless hours in MSHA sanctioned and conducted safety classes. MSHA holds an eight hour refresher course in mine safety each year. It's a mind numbing series of short, boring, films and bland speeches given by people with the personality of an eraser. It serves little purpose, other than giving MSHA the opportunity to say 'we did something' when someone dies working in the industry.
The company I worked for would routinely schedule you to attend 'safety' class after you'd worked several shifts in a few days and were so tired you couldn't see straight. My personal favorite was their habit of forcing a man to stay over after working night shift to sit in a classroom all day. It didn't occur to anyone that it might be a bit silly for them to schedule a man to work all night, attend MSHA training until 3:30 in the afternoon, and then expect that man to come in the next night, exhausted, and work safely? That's MSHA in a nutshell. They don't care, as long as the paperwork is in order.
Two men associated with the Sago mine tragedy have committed suicide within the last month. They both indicated they felt the authorities were blaming them for the deaths of their friends and co-workers. As someone who doesn't doubt MSHA would gladly put the blame on an individual to cover their own ass, this isn't hard to believe.
I read the comments from MSHA officials stating they'd talked to the men, but had no plans to talk to them again. Why would they? Firstly, the guys in the mine did their jobs, they reported any fluctuation in parameters to their supervisors. That's what they were supposed to do. If there was any blame on individuals, it shouldn't have fallen on these guys. It should have fallen on the bosses that told them to get to work and not to worry about it.
I feel for the guys that committed suicide and their families. The Spanish Inquisition has nothing on a government agency trying to protect itself. I have no idea what MSHA said to those guys, but whatever it was, it haunted them and drove them to early graves.
The sad part for me, is that they don't care that their playing of the blame game killed two men just as surely as the fire killed the others. The paperwork is in order. That's the only thing MSHA gives a damn about. They can hold themselves up as blameless and pretend they do everything they can to protect miners. This is more than a misrepresentation. It's a blatant lie.

Take It Like A Man!

2006-09-21T08:52:00.000-05:00

My sons couldn't have been more different. Todd, the eldest, was a quiet, studious kid who played trombone in several bands in high school. I was very proud of his talents as a musician, and when work permitted, I loved listening to him play with the symphonic, jazz, or marching bands. He was a committed student and I never worried about him getting good grades and staying out of trouble.
If Todd was a calm sea, Adam was a tidal wave.
A big, strong, rambunctious kid, Adam thought just about any problem could be solved with the appropriate application of brute force. He played varsity football, starting as the left offensive tackle, and seemed to take it as a personal insult that any opposing player would dare attempt sacking his quarterback. In class, he was everything Todd wasn't. If Adam needed a 75 to pass, I think he stayed up late figuring out how to get 75.1. He drove me crazy, and I loved him to death.
When the boys were in their early teens they began to settle their differences the hard way. I called it knuckle and skull diplomacy. Their mother had little patience for such negotiations, but I knew they didn't really want to hurt each other. They were just two little bulls in the same pasture.
Pulling into the drive one afternoon after a miserably hot day at work, I was met by my wife on the deck. She told me not to sit down, but to go upstairs and see what my two little angels had done to my wall. I found a large hole in Adam's bedroom wall and after looking it over, I went downstairs to discuss it with the boys. I let them know that fighting inside the house wasn't going to happen, and to drive the lesson home they were going to pay for the repairs, and my wages for fixing the damage. Since I love them, I gave them the cut rate of ten dollars an hour, and planned on taking my time repairing the wall. Their faces fell as they mentally calculated what this would do to their meager cash reserves. Warning them not to take it any further, I sent them upstairs to sit on their beds and reflect on a better way to settle their differences.
When I got back from the lumber yard, I found Vickie chuckling as she fixed supper. I asked what was so funny? She told me when the boys had walked past her on the way upstairs, they were talking about how much money this might cost? She said Adam looked at Todd and, sounding disappointed, said, this wouldn't have happened, if you'd stood there and took it like a man.
My sons are gone now. Todd is a federal corrections officer, Adam is a United States Marine, they're both good men, and I'm very proud of both of them. Sometimes, when the house is quiet I can almost hear their voices from those long ago days, and it makes me sad that they're grown.

The News Story I'd Like To Read

2006-09-19T22:47:00.000-05:00

Muslim leaders gathered this week in a historic summit to address the future of their faith, and released this stunning statement at it's conclusion.
"In the name of Allah, we have searched our souls, faced hard truths about ourselves and the world we live in, and declare full unity in the findings of this review."
Among the more startling statements were found under the section titled 'We Cannot', in which the leaders declared:

We cannot claim the right to be offended at the remarks of Pope Benedict XVI quoting a long dead emporor even as Imams and Mullahs call for the murder of non-Muslims from the pulpit and call it Jihad.

We cannot lament the deaths of innocents to collateral damage even as followers of Islam use children as bait for ambushes.

We cannot declare mosques holy ground when they are used to store weapons for terrorists and hate is preached from the pulpit. We declare any such use is not the offices of God, and any mosque engaging in such practices does so at it's own peril.

We cannot live in nations where we are not willing to accept the rule of law, and further, that failure to follow those laws will bring a justified reaction from the government of the affected country.

We cannot call for understanding between religions until we halt the preaching of the faith spread by the sword. The Koran states unequivocably as a sin, the act of forced conversion.

We cannot protest the treatment of captured terrorists and insurgents calling themselves Muslims even as non-Muslims are kidnapped, tortured, and beheaded as heretics by animals hiding behind the veil of religion.

We cannot accept acts done in the name of God that are repulsive to God and man. We state the term 'martyr' is inaccurate for anyone who commits the sins of suicide and murder. They are in fact mindless killers, and whosoever perpetrates such a crime will not enter the gates of Heaven, but shall be confined to the sufferings of eternal damnation.

We cannot continue to deny those calling themselves Muslims are the source of many terrorist attacks, without provocation except to further their own worldly agenda. We pledge to cease all support, financial and spiritual, for any follower of the Islamic faith engaging in terrorism.

We cannot continue to make excuses for those who bring shame upon Islam, and cause the citizens of the world to turn against us. We accept we have been culpable in allowing blood to be shed, and pledge to be so no longer.

We cannot continue to play the victim of aggression. We admit and lament that we have been the aggressors far too often, and often against innocents.

We cannot continue to protect the animals among us. We issue this fatwa, all Muslims are to lay hands upon anyone known to participate in terrorist activities and hand them over to the proper authorities without mercy.

We cannot continue to demand or expect the world to change to suit our views. We pledge to learn to exist peacefully in the community of nations.

We cannot rise up in righteous indignation at every perceived slur upon ourselves or our faith until we learn to give the same respect we demand.

World leaders praised the findings of the conference, and at long last a real chance for peace exists.

We're Still Here

2006-09-11T07:36:00.000-05:00

Five years ago today America was attacked by terrorists with the intent of destroying us as a nation. They failed.
Our great City of New York took a horrific blow and thousands of our fellow citizens died in the senseless and brutal attack, but we're still here.
Even as the Towers fell, America rose up. Do you remember how your town looked the day after? How the streets and houses were draped with our flag? If the terrorists thought this nation would go quietly into the night they were sadly mistaken.
America is not a skyscraper, not something that can be knocked down. America is a spirit within each of us, undefinable, unbreakable, unbeatable.
American's didn't react the way the terrorists thought we would. We didn't wring our hands and surrender. We lined up to give blood to the injured, we went to Church and asked God to stand by us as we defended our land. We cried for the people in the Towers. Many of us knew none of them, that didn't matter at all, they were American's and American's are a strange breed.
We can fight between ourselves and do so quite regularly, but if you're not one of us, stay out of the way. It's a family fight and you may want to take notice if you're our enemy, what the fight is about. It's about the best way to rid the Earth of you.
I've seen much of America. I've stood in the mountains of Tennessee, the thick Ozark forests of Missouri, alongside the ocean in the Carolina's, and in the heartland of Oklahoma. I've seen more than enough of this land and her citizens to convince me that we cannot be defeated.
The American Spirit is too strong. Love of Country too deep for words. We may disagree on all manner of things, but take note of the one thing we do not disagree on. This is our land and we will defend it to the death against anyone or anything.
You bloodied us, you hurt us badly, but you made a mistake. You underestimated the heart of the American people themselves. On September 11, 2001 you should have noticed one more thing. Americans didn't stop to ask the political views or ethnicity of our neighbors before we gave everything we had to help.
Democrats and Republicans, liberal or conservative, black, white, red or yellow, we stood shoulder to shoulder because the ties that bind are far stronger than the philosophies that divide. We are Americans before all else.
It's been five long years since that terrible day, but we're still here. We will always be here, whether you like it or not.

Death of A Hero

2006-09-10T20:52:00.000-05:00

Our community said goodbye to US Army Staff Sergeant Michael Deason today. Deason was killed in action in Iraq on August 31, less than a week from the end of his tour and his return home to his wife and two children.
Deason's father had requested the procession wind it's way through our city so 'Mike can see home one more time.' The family asked the community to turn out, to line the route for SSgt Deason, to let him know his sacrifice was appreciated and his loss mourned. He wouldn't have been disappointed. Hundreds of his hometown folks stood silently as he passed, carried to his final resting place in a glass sided, gloss black travois hearse, pulled by a motorcycle.
I hope his family found some comfort in the presence of their neighbors and their show of respect for SSgt Deason. May he rest in peace.

Four Old Chairs

2006-09-05T21:04:00.000-05:00

They're four very old chairs, well made, sturdy, seats worn smooth from the use of many years. They sit in my dining room now, surrounding an equally old table bought long ago for five dollars at a yard sale. We always thought we'd replace it someday, but never did. The little nicks and cuts in it's surface were put there by my children long ago. When I'm lonely or sad, our table has the power to take me back to soft talks with my kids, to pictures proudly colored and presented for display on the refrigerator door, to tired little heads napping gently as I watch.
The chairs belonged to Vickie's grandmother, a lady long since passed from this world. Vickie spent many happy days in her grandmother's house as a young girl, and the old chairs in our dining room are a connection. A physical reminder of a love that endures. To her they are ice cream sundaes on hot Summer days, gentle touches when she was crying, warm hugs, pies and cakes from her grandmother's oven, and memories of a gentle time when she was loved as only a grandmother can love.
Vickie's mother died when she was fifteen, and she became both sister and mother to her two little sisters. When she was at her grandmothers house, she could just be the kid she was and for a time, put aside the responsibility that she was far too young to bear. Her grandmother tried to help Vickie all she could, and she knew how very afraid her little granddaughter was, and how much she missed her mother. In her, Vickie had someone to turn to, to cry to, to admit her fear of failing her father as she tried to help raise her sisters.
The old womans love and tenderness was a gift to my wife, and because of that, a gift to me as well. She helped make Vickie what she is, loving and gentle, kind and wise, strong but tender. A woman I thank God for every day of my life.
We could get another table, a newer table, a larger table, but it would mean nothing to us. It would not bear the scars of our lives together. It would not remind us of those we've loved and lost in our youth. Our old table and chairs are hand me downs, but we will never part with them. They remind us too much of how lucky we've been.
They're just four old chairs, a scarred table, and a thousand loving memories.

'The Crocodile Hunter' Dies

2006-09-04T12:56:00.000-05:00

I was saddened to learn of the death of Steve Irwin, the irrepressible Aussie with the childish grin who never lost his wonder at the power and creatures of nature.
Mr. Irwin was a conservationist, naturalist, television host, zoo curator, and teacher. He entertained millions of people with his signature line when things went awry. 'Cricky! She's a beaut!' I laughed every time he said this while he was rolling around in the mud on top of a captured crocodile.
His death from a stingray was sudden, unexpected, and tragic. I for one will miss this man, his zest for life, his love and devotion to his vocation. Rest in peace Steve.
G'day

I Love You Son, But!

2006-09-01T07:02:00.000-05:00

Would you please stop messing with my computer! Poor kid doesn't mean to, but everytime he gets on this thing weird stuff happens. My background pics of the grandkids disappeared, replaced by Johnny Cash, I was getting a million pop ups a minute but I took care of that, and as he put it "hey Pop, I don't know what I did but you have a different homepage now?" Sigh, that's ok babe, I'll fix it.
I know he doesn't do it intentionally but the Marine is a cyber klutz. An accident looking for a place to happen and since I'm his Daddy it happens on my computer! I've tried to reason with him to no avail, he's convinced he "know's what he's doing". Oh' really?
For whatever reason he seems to run into the most problems trying to find backgrounds and whatnot for his myspace.com profile. I can count on spending at least half an hour on maintenance after he's updated that profile. I think the problem is the Jarhead just clicks on everything without looking at it closely. God only knows how many tracking cookies I found after his last foray into myspace add-ons. More than 20 if I recall.
I'm not really complaining, although it does get frustrating to have to restore my settings twice a week when he's home. It's a small price to pay for having him here. We expect him to head back to Camp Pendleton and beyond shortly so I'm just thankful for this time together. Now son, you know I love you, do Pop a favor? Buy your own computer. You're killing me.

Good Things In Life

2006-08-31T20:23:00.000-05:00

My son and I took my wife out for dinner this evening and had a wonderful time. I couldn't help thinking how lucky I've been in my life to have this lady by my side through good times and bad. As I listened to her and my son talk and laugh, I silently thanked the Creator for all the blessings in my life.
I celebrate the closeness of my family. The warmth of a grandchilds hug, the joy of hearing a little voice excitedly yell 'Papa' when they see you. Even though I'm hurt and often worried, these small moments give me hope and help me hang onto the promise of a better day.
I'm happy my children are growing to know each other as friends, putting aside the sibling rivalries of youth and learning how to depend on each other in their adulthood. I know my grandchildren are in good hands. That's a priceless feeling. I hope whoever and wherever you are tonight, you can find something to look too that gives you hope. In the end, hope and faith are all we truly have to keep us going in the hard times.

Happy Birthday to my wonderful wife

2006-08-31T08:47:00.000-05:00

Fifty two years ago today God gave me a gift. I wasn't born yet, I didn't come along until 1961, but He knew what I would be and that it would take someone very special to be my wife.
He made you patient, loving, strong, gentle, warm, wise, and oh' so beautiful.
You are the glue that has held our marriage and our family together. You made my house a home with your love and your laughter. You filled my days as you filled my heart.
You gave me three wonderful children to light my life and make me work at being a good example for. You laughed at me when you were pregnant because I would get tears in my eyes looking at you. You will never know how beautiful you were to me when you carried our babies. You will never know the comfort I felt knowing my children would never lack for love from their mother.
We had a lot of hard times when we were young and nearly gave up once. I was headstrong and proud, too stubborn to admit that I was wrong. I am so grateful that we didn't give up, that we fought to save our marriage and our family. My life would be empty without you.
When I look at you I see the same dark haired beauty I fell head over heels in love with so long ago. I didn't even know your name, I had just seen you for the first time, but I loved you. I had never believed in love at first sight, I thought it was a fairy tale, but it exists, God how it exists.
Thank you for our life together. Thank you for being the most understanding and gentle woman I've ever known. Thank you for teaching my children to be decent and honorable people, and for loving their father.
It may be your birthday babe, but you are my gift every day of my life. I love you with all my heart and soul. Always have, always will, and someday when my time is ended, I pray God will take me from this world as I hold your hand and look into the most beautiful brown eyes I've ever seen. You are my angel.
I love you
Happy Birthday

Talking With Brendan

2006-08-30T21:09:00.000-05:00

The night before I underwent the first spinal fusion surgery to repair the damage caused by suffering a broken neck in an automobile accident, I sat down with my four year old grandson, Brendan Tyler, and tried to explain to him, in his terms, what was happening and why. He is a very special little boy, and I love him very much.

Late last night after Alisha got home from work, we were all sitting at the kitchen table, talking and enjoying each others company when I noticed Brendan kept looking at me then hanging his little head. I had taken my shirt off to be more comfortable, and it was the first time he had seen the collar fully exposed.
I asked him what was wrong and he asked, 'what's that thing on your neck Pa?' 'It's a cervical collar honey, it's to keep Papa's head straight until they can fix his neck.' 'Can you say cervical collar, B?' 'No.' Come here, son.' My daughter helped Brendan on to my lap, and I told him to ask me anything he wanted to about my injury and how they were going to fix it and I would try my best to explain it to him.
He touched the collar and asked if it hurt me. I told him no hon, it's not hurting your Papa, it's helping keep him safe for now. 'I don't like it Pa, it scares me.' Oh' sweetheart, don't be scared, it's just like the cast your little friend had to wear to Head Start when he broke his arm. Do you remember that?' Yes, I do Pa! Jacob broke his arm!' That's right baby, well, your Papa has broken his neck but the doctors are going to make it all better on Monday. They're going to fix your Papa's neck honey. 'How?' I was afraid you were going to ask that. They're going to make a brace that will be inside your Papa's neck honey. It's kind of like when you play Legos, Mr. B, you know how you have to stack them perfect or they fall over?' 'Uh huh Papa, I like to knock them down!' 'I know you do! Well, think of it that way, they're going to make Papa's Legos go together right again so it won't hurt Papa if Mr. B knocks me down!' 'Are you going to be otay?' 'Yes, son, I'm going to be ok, but I need you to be good for Mommy and Mama while I'm gone. I know you will be, you're Papa's big boy.'
Brendan told me he was going to be worried on Monday, and he was upset when I told him I couldn't come home for a day or two. His only experience with hospitals was when his beloved PaGene went into the hospital following his heart attack. Gene died, and it hit the little boy hard. I think Brendan is afraid I'm going to die but is scared to say it.
'Hey! You want to share a banana with Papa?' 'Yes! I'll pick us out a good one Pa!' 'Alright, lets go!' Brendan picked us a banana, and we went halfsies on it. I suspect his half was far superior to mine, but who's measuring. Alisha helped him back onto my lap and I gently held him as we ate. After we finished, I told him to look at me. He did, and I held his little face in my hands and promised him I would come home to him, that nothing would happen to me, and that I loved him too much not to come back to him. He put his little head on my chest and held on to my arms and hugged me. We sat like that for a long time, with his tousled blonde head resting on my chest, and I think it helped us both. I know little kids can feel stressed and helpless when someone they love is hurt, and they can't kiss it and make it all better. I tried to reassure my loving little grandson last night that he would have a Papa for a long time, and that we would play baseball in the yard again.
He helped me up the stairs with his Mommy, and after I got into bed he climbed up with me. We laid there and watched the cartoon channel for a while, and I fell asleep with my arm around my little man.
Brendan knows his Papa loves him and is devoted to him. I think last night went a long way toward putting his little mind more at ease over tomorrow. I know it helped me to talk to him.

Little Beatles Fan

2006-08-30T17:22:00.000-05:00

How many four year olds can sing Beatles songs to you? Much less tell you who they were and what happened to them. Brendan came in from Head Start this afternoon singing 'Yellow Submarine', he remembers his Mama singing it to him when he was a 'little boy'. He's four now, and he'll readily tell you he's a 'big boy' these days. I got tickled as I listened to him tell his Mama about how John Lennon was shot, George died, but Ringo and Paul are still alive. He knows more about them than I do, and I'm just a tad older.
I like to talk to my grandson because he renews my faith in people. He knows he's in a home full of love and we're all deeply committed to making his life as warm and happy as we can. I only wish every child had the same. There would be a lot less hate in the world and we'd all be better off.

Flags of our Fathers

2006-08-30T12:49:00.000-05:00

Six men immortalized in a photograph that has come to symbolize the very essence of the United States Marine Corps. In a chance millisecond atop a volcanic outcrop known as Mount Surabachi, a photograph breathed new life into a war weary nation in the closing months of World War II.
We've all seen it, the Marines struggling to raise the flag as the wind catches it, the powerful emotions it brings forth in each of us, the pride in our nation, the memories of a 'good war' in which America was united.
Flags of our Fathers takes us inside the lives of the six men in the photograph. Five United States Marines and one Navy Corpsman. They hailed from the Arizona desert, the woodlands of Kentucky and Wisconsin, the plains of Texas, Pennslyvania steel towns and New Hampshire textile mills. Three of them would leave Iwo Jima alive. Three would be buried there along with nearly 7000 other Marines. In a battle that lasted nearly a month and during which Admiral Chester Nimitz said 'Uncommon Valor was a Common Virtue' the Marine Corps suffered 26,000 casualties.
It is a heartwrenching story of these young men, teenagers really, boys barely out of school who found themselves caught up in a bloodbath of epic proportions. Their courage is awe inspiring and their sacrifice humbling. More than once as I read I would find my breath catching in my throat and tears in my eyes. The tale is told without any false pretenses, without any reference to the 'glory' of battle. It was not glorious to serve on Iwo Jima, it was blood and pain, it was young men dying far too soon. Facing an enemy that would not surrender, the Marines fought the ultimate battle of kill or be killed, all the while suffering the pain of watching their buddies die and wondering if they were next.
These Marines depended on one thing. Each other. The espirit de corps of the USMC leaps off the pages and the Corps Values of Honor, Courage, and Commitment are given human faces during the battle. One Marine, having lost both feet to a mortar attack, fought the Corpsman trying to evacutate him. 'I can't leave now, my buddies need me'!
Jack (Doc) Bradley, Navy Corpsman and father of the author, served with distinction on Iwo Jima. A dedicated caregiver, Bradley would be awarded the Navy Cross for heroism during the battle. An award he would never speak of and that his children would learn of only after his death many years later. For those unfamiliar with this award, it is second only to the Medal of Honor in prestige.
The book follows the men in the famed picture from childhood to the end of their lives. Their training, their sense of humor, their love for their families, their dreams of going home. One comes to know them as you read and the deaths of the three hit you hard, and make you realize the price paid for the freedom we enjoy.
It is as much a love story from son to father as it is a tale of war. Mr. Bradley's pride in his Dad and his brothers on Iwo is evident, as is his dedication to getting the story right. It's a wonderful, if sometimes difficult, read and I highly recommend it.
On the gate of the 5th Division cemetary on Iwo Jima shortly after the battle ended an anonymous Marine wrote these words.
When you go home
Tell them for us and say
For your tomorrow
We gave our today.

'Grandpa's Outhouse'

2006-08-30T09:50:00.000-05:00

Grandpa Lindsey had an outhouse, and every Halloween it would get tipped over as a prank. Grandpa saw nothing funny about it! He was ready to cut loose with a load of rock salt into the kids behinds if he ever caught them.
He tried everything to keep that privy upright. Stayed up and kept watch, put the dog out, you name it he tried it, to no avail. "Those dang kids! I'd like to tan their hides!' I thought the whole thing was funny as all get out but I sure didn't let grandpa know that!
Dad would just sit there and listen to the old fellow. 'Yes sir, Mr. Lindsey! Sure is a shame. Doggone kids got no respect, and that's a fact.' Grandpa would grumble 'I got my shotgun by the door, Chimp. A dose of rock salt oughtta calm those little hellions down!' 'Yes sir! That should do the trick.' Pop laughed.
The next morning poor grandpa called, and asked Dad to come help him set his outhouse back up. He was mad as a hornet! 'I must have dozed off, and around ten I heard a thud.' 'They was gone by the time I found my glasses.' 'Decent kids should be abed at that late an hour!' My dad was sure trying hard not to laugh. But as he lifted that outhouse off the ground I could see those big, old shoulders shaking. He sure didn't let grandpa see him.'Chimp! Take me to Pirtle's Hardware! 'I'll show em', yes sir, I got me an idea that will fix their little red wagons!' We hopped in Pops old 56' Chevy pickup and off we went. Gramps bought eye bolts, clamps, guide wire, and several bags of quick mix cement. He was gonna' tie that sucker down!
Mr. Pirtle grinned as grandpa piled his stuff on the counter. 'Kids still knocking your privy over, Marvin?' Pop chuckled, and grandpa stared. I just bit my lip and tried hard not to laugh.
After grandpa got himself 'supplied up' as he put it, we shot back to the house and he called Uncle Jim on the phone. 'James Davis? Are you busy? I'd like you to help me and Chimp set my outhouse.' 'Why sure, Mr. Lindsey! I'd be glad to help!'
Well, my daddy and Uncle Jim, under gramps' watchful eye, spent the rest of the day digging post holes, installing eye bolts, and stringing cable. They'd put pipe sleeves in the post holes and filled them with cement. That old outhouse was tied down tight. Gramps' cackled and said 'knock her down now, boys!' He sure was proud of himself.
All was well that first night, and grandpa had his morning coffee on the back porch. Watching the glow of the rising sun reflect off his shiny, new outhouse cables.
I stayed the next night at grandpa's house. Pop drove me over and dropped me off. 'You be good, son. I'll see you in the morning.' 'I will, Pop. See you then.' My old dad sat in his truck til' I'd reached the door, then pulled off with a smile and a wave.
Along about nine, as we got ready for bed, we heard a loud thump from behind the house. 'No! It can't be!' Grandpa yelled, and ran to the door. Sure enough, there lay his outhouse, door open to the sky, with it's shiny, new cables lying limp around it. 'Damn kids!' Grabbing his shotgun, grandpa shot out the door determined to administer a little down home punishment on their behinds with his load of rock salt.
That's when things really went downhill fast for the old man. Not only had those 'mean kids' knocked it over, but they'd pulled it up the hill, and thrown a dark, wool blanket over the hole. Well, gramps found that blanket, and as he fell in he pulled both triggers and that old shotgun roared into the night! Every light for blocks around came on, and every dog with an ounce of self respect started barking and howling furiously!
My old grandpa was kicking and screaming, and threatening to shoot anyone and anything in sight as he pulled himself out of that hole!
I was fit to be tied! I'd never seen anything this funny in my life! Grandpa is yelling, 'take that damn flashlight and look around, boy!' 'Find em'! You hear me? Find em'!' I walked to the alley, grin getting wider with every step, as the old man raged and fumed behind me.
I was about to turn around to go back to the house when I heard a stifled laugh! It was coming from the culvert across the alley! Well, I headed that way, and as I got near I could hear 'shh, shh, they'll hear us' followed by hysterical giggling!
Shining the light into the culvert, I got a shock! There, lying down trying to hide, was my Dad and my Uncle Jim! Pop saw me, and waved his hand back and forth, for me to keep quiet. As he and Jim giggled and shook, I almost busted out laughing. That would have given them away for sure!
They'd spent the whole previous day working their butts off. Digging and tying that old outhouse down, just to sneak out in the dark and turn it over.
'Do you see anybody, boy?' Grandpa yelled. I looked down at my Dad and my Uncle, laughing so hard they were in tears, and called back 'No sir, nobody's up this way anyhow!'
Grandpa gave up after this, and Dad installed indoor plumbing for him. I'll never forget what my grandfather said after Dad had tightened the last bolts on his shiny new commode. 'Well, what do you think Mr. Lindsey?' 'My luck Chimp, some fool will knock it over.' My Dad laughed, and, blue eyes twinkling, winked at me.
My grandpa never found out the truth about that night. And sometimes, as he'd tell the story and everyone laughed, my Dad, my wonderful, fun, Uncle Jim and I would look at each other and smile.
Seeing the fun, playful, sides, of my big, hardworking Uncle and father only made me love them more.

'Small Town Fourth of July'

2006-08-30T09:26:00.000-05:00

Every year the small neighboring town of Bismarck, MO holds 'Freedom Fest' to celebrate the Fourth of July. Folks gather from miles around to enjoy the parade, food, fun, games and each other.
Our local VFW Post 2426 in Desloge, MO always looks forward to taking part in the parade, supporting our comrades, and seeing our old friends after the parade for conversation and a cold beer.
Several local veteran's groups enter the parade each year. Marching or riding in wagons, the old warriors enjoy the day. The Ladies and Mens auxiliaries are right there with them.
We've been fortunate these last two Fourth's of July. Our son, Adam has been home on leave from the Marine Corps. Each year he has proudly worn the uniform of the USMC and stood in our wagon holding Old Glory.
I've seen women cover their mouths and men stand a little straighter as we pass, and they catch a glimpse of Adam. I can't tell you what goes through their minds? The ladies I suppose, see their own sons who serve or have served.
The men? I believe the men see themselves. They are proud of their time in uniform, and they are prouder still of this tall, straight , young man who has taken up the flag in their place. Who has volunteered to face our enemies. To fight for us.To the lady who stood along the route today holding your son's Dress Blues portrait in your hands. We saw you. We saw your sons face, and though we do not know him we share your pride, and we know your heart.
You see, my wife and I have one of those on our own wall.
The steely gaze of a dark eyed, hard as steel Marine looks down on us from his own Dress Blues picture. Sometimes, when we're lonesome for the sound of his voice or his deep laugh, we sit and look at, yes, sometimes even talk to, his picture. We know dear lady, God how we know.
To the older gentleman, who stood as we passed, waved, then came to attention and lifted your right hand in salute. We saw you, sir. We saw the hand that saluted was missing a large part of it. We returned your salute, and we watched you remove your glasses and wipe a tear from your eye after we did so. Our eyes were damp also brother. We thank you for your courage and sacrifice. For your service to this, our land.
There are many such moments in a small town parade on the Fourth of July. They touch my heart, they make me weep, and smile, and they make me proud to be an American. Each year I come away with a special memory, and a warm feeling.
Patriotism is alive and well here, in our little towns. Love of country is as deep and rich as our dark soil. Our loyalty as clear, bright, and flowing as the Ozark Mountain streams that surround us.We gathered today to honor our nation and our warriors, and we gave thanks to God for both.
The veterans groups and auxiliaries assembled for a flag raising ceremony at the conclusion of the parade. They filled the outfield of the high school's baseball diamond. Row upon row. Still, proud, lost in their memories, as the Chaplain of the local VFW prayed for our nation.
I hope I always get a thrill as I watch that proud banner that has been carried into battle, raised in victory, and folded at the funerals of heroes, rise slowly up into a crystal blue sky to be taken and filled by the breeze.
I did today.
God Bless America.

'Get Off My Porch!'

2006-08-29T19:46:00.000-05:00

My grandfather Clarence died several years before I was born. My grandmother, Della Belle Starr Marler, loved and missed him until the end of her days. Grandma was a little old short thing, she might have been five feet tall, but not by much.
She lived next door to us. Daddy had built our house right next to grandma’s so he could ‘keep an eye on her.’ I think he did it because she made good biscuits, and Pop sure did love his biscuits. I can remember laughing as a child, seeing my father sticking his head out the door of his shop and looking toward Granny’s house because he smelled her cooking, and was getting awful hungry.
I thought Granny was a nice looking lady, and I asked her once, ‘Grandma, why didn’t you ever get married again?’ She looked at me, dusted off her apron, sat down at her table and said, ‘come here son, sit by me.’ I did, and granny told me about my grandfather who she called, ‘my Clarence.’ ‘The Lord gave me my Clarence, and we were happy for a long time, Donnie. He was the best man I’ve ever known. He was kind, gentle, and loving, and I just know that someday I’ll be with him again. God gave me the perfect man, son. Why would I want anyone else?’ Well now, I thought that was sweet!
There was an older gentleman here in town that took a decided interest in granny. He was an insurance man, and he found cause to stop in now and then, to try to sell Pop a policy, and eyeball granny.
This wasn’t lost on my father. He would cock his eyebrow, and look at that old boy like ‘what are you thinking?’ He teased granny about her ‘boyfriend’. Man, she didn’t think that was funny at all!
Before long granny began receiving flowers and whatnot, left on her porch with little notes, from this old insurance man. Well now, my daddy thought this was the greatest thing since sliced bread. He’d tease that old woman until she was ready to take him out behind the woodshed. ‘You better hush Bill. I don’t like that old fart sending me flowers and such and you know it!’ ‘Well Momma, you must be doing something to let him know you’re interested?’ Pop said, with his devilish little grin, ‘He sure does like you, Momma.’ ‘I’m warning you boy, you hush, or you’ve ate your last biscuit at my table.’ My mean old daddy would just cackle.
Not long after that, a few days maybe, the truck from Greene’s Florist pulled up and granny got an awfully nice bouquet of flowers. She didn’t look all that happy to me, to get them. My Pop giggled, and it was funny to see that big old body, giggling and shaking, while granny stared at him. Me? Well, I was the mercenary sort, looked out for myself, you know? I just hoped when granny cut the old man off the biscuits, she’d keep making them for me! That’s all I was worried about! Anyway, granny slammed those flowers down in a chair on her porch and went inside in a huff. Before long, here came the old dandydressed to the nines, every hair in place, what few he had, with a little carnation in his lapel and his hand full of more flowers for granny. He rang the doorbell and stood as straight as he could, waiting for her. He got more than he bargained for, far more. The old lady jerked the door open and proceeded to tell him she was not interested in having dinner with him! Not today! Not tomorrow! Not any day! Didn’t this fool know she was a Christian woman? Not some hussy? She felt moved to accent every word with a nice swing of her broom! She was whacking that poor old man with a broom! The old goat was trying to get back to his car in one piece while the old lady administered a stern rebuke of his advances. I almost felt sorry for him! She was flat laying down the law! My daddy heard me laughing and came to see what was up? I’ve never seen my father laugh so hard! We were hanging onto each other, and about to fall apart. My poor Mom was standing on our porch, with her hand over her mouth taking it all in. Granny got rid of that old suitor, and before we knew what was going on she was whacking daddy with the broom! ‘That will teach you! Laughing at me!’ Dad was helpless, all he could do was hold his arm up to try and keep the broom off his head and laugh. I was giggling and laughing myself, and when granny turned around,and saw me, she gave me a whack on the behind with her broom! I laughed, and she winked at me. She turned and told Dad, as she went back inside, ‘You’re going to get awful hungry for biscuits, boy!’ ‘I’ll make them for Donnie! But you ain’t eatin’ nary a one!’ It took Pop a few days but before long she was laughing right along with us about the whole affair. She was a beautiful lady, and I think of her often as I grow older. I hope my grandchildren think I’m half as wonderful as I thought granny was. Pop and I still laugh when we remember those long ago days, and granny yelling ‘get off my porch!’ with every swing of her broom.

'I Wonder?' A Tribute to Gold Star Parents

2006-08-29T17:22:00.000-05:00

Sitting alone in the dining room late one night I thought of all the parents who have lost their children in the War on Terror. As the father of a US Marine I have had the honor of becoming friends with some of these wonderful people. I am constantly amazed at their strength, their courage, and their loving concern for the ones who fight on. May God hold them in the palm of his hand, may the rest of us hold them in our hearts.

I woke to another beautiful morning, the sky was so bright and vivid! Each color stood out as the rays of the morning sun danced on beams of streaking light.I love it here, everyone's so nice, and goes out their way to make you feel welcome. Even so there are times I'd just like to sit with Mom and Dad for a few moments.I sure do miss Mom, she made the best chow in the world, and always teased me about drinking milk straight from the carton, or not taking off my shoes before I stomped in out of the rain. And Dad? Poor Dad couldn't let me out of his sight! I used his tools and didn't put them back. I drove his car on my first date. I fought with him, while all I wanted was to be just like him. They were wonderful parents, and I miss them so.I haven't been here long, only a year or so. It seems like I'll be here forever some days. That would be alright with me. It's good duty, a lot of my buddies are here and we laugh and talk about our old DI's, and how we didn't think we'd survive boot camp. Shoot, even a few of them are here! I guess nobody gets to be a DI forever.We talk sometimes about the war, places we served, places we can't forget, with names like Fallujah, Baghdad, and Ar Ramadi. Funny names for an American boy, but what happened there wasn't funny.We fought, we were scared sometimes but we fought hard, me and my brothers, my Marines. Some fell, some went home, some are still fighting. I pray for them every day. I am so proud to be a United States Marine, and I know they are too.I dreamed of my mother last night, it was so real I felt like I was holding her in my arms! It sounds crazy but I wondered if maybe Mom felt me hugging her from here? I hope so.Shoot! The CO is coming up the hill! I guess I got to get busy. I'm just kind of whiling away the day, hiding under this old shade tree. 'Good Morning, sir!' 'Yes sir! I'll get a few Marines to help me with that.' Well, I gotta go. We've got a new Marine coming in and the CO wants a few of us to meet him. 'Make him feel welcome, show him around a bit.' 'Aye Aye, Sir!'Ah', there's my buddies! They look like they're having a good day! Someone must have given them a heads up! Look at them in their Dress Blues! Those boys, they just love it when they can show the Blues and strut around.'Hey, Justin!' 'Matthew!' 'Byron!' 'Chris!', C'mon Marines, we've got to welcome a brother aboard!'I have to go now. If you see my Mom and Dad tell them I love them, I miss them, but I'm alright. Heaven's an awful nice place.

Happy Grandson!

2006-08-29T09:22:00.000-05:00

Alisha stayed for a few moments of Brendan's first day of school. He was excited to discover he could take a backpack this year! He doesn't have one yet, but I strongly suspect he will this afternoon. As he told Mommy, 'This is so COOL! Last year I was a little kid and they don't have backpacks. Now I'm a big boy and I can!' Yeah buddy, you're a big boy.
Alisha said the teacher enlisted Brendan's help to get the new kids squared away since he knows the routine. He was pretty proud of himself! A few of the kids are assigned duties in the classroom. Last year Brendan was 'potty monitor'. I got so tickled at him when I asked what the 'potty monitor' did? He said, 'Papa, I check the bathroom after they go potty to make sure they wash their hands and didn't make it all messy!' Big job buddy, I'm sure you'll do fine. I can't keep from laughing at that boy. His big brown eyes are an open book, and I adore him.
He got his hair cut for school a few days ago, and went with his 'Unca Adam' high and tight. His uncle Adam is a US Marine and he's Brendan's idol. It's funny to see this big, tough Marine melt like butter when Brendan sits on his lap. When he comes home on leave they always make a pilgrimage to the toy section at Wal-Mart. That usually sets Uncle Adam back a few hundred dollars, but he loves to do it for Brendan. This Papa gig is pretty nice and I am so glad he and I are close. Happy first day of school baby, your Papa loves you very much.

Brendan Goes To School Today!

2006-08-29T08:10:00.000-05:00

My little four year old fireball heads off to Head Start this morning. This is his second year in the program and he just loves it! He has 'Miss Pam' again this year as his teacher and he's thrilled. He woke up last night about midnight, ran across the hall and climbed into bed with me. Shaking me, he whispered 'Papa, Papa', 'I'm going to school!' I laughed when he asked me to make him fish sticks before he went back to bed. Fish sticks! At midnight? You better just lay here with Papa and get some rest so you're ready for school in the morning, big boy.
He just left with Mommy for his first day. He's a wonderful little boy and a blessing in our lives. I love his innocence, his wonder, his happy smile. He has a knack for making Papa's day, every day.

'We'll Take You Home'

2006-08-28T09:19:00.000-05:00

This is one of my favorite memories of my Dad. It illustrates the kind of man he is, and reminds me of how very lucky I am to call him Dad. I love you Pop.

‘We’ll Take You Home’
In the early afternoon of a hot, muggy summer day, my dad and I were driving down Main Street on the way to Flat River to pick up our order at Lead Belt Auto Supply.
Pop had been working on putting a new motor in a lady’s car. He’d run into a lot of problems with this one, and for one of the few times I can remember my dad was in a foul mood. He didn’t have much to say, and was in a hurry to get our stuff and get back home.
I was around ten or so, call it 1971. The war in Vietnam was raging but I didn’t know much about it. I watched the news with Mom and Dad, and I felt sorry for the poor soldiers who were getting hurt.
As we drove, I looked up and there, walking along the shoulder of the road, was a soldier. He looked tired, wrestling with that big old duffle bag. Pop pulled over and waited for the soldier to reach our truck. He sure was hot! His face was streaked with sweat, and he looked plumb worn out.
I remember thinking how young he looked. I figured he was 18 or 19. That surprised me! I thought soldiers were older than that? ‘Where you headed, son?’ Asked my father. ‘Potosi, sir. I’m headed home.’ the soldier replied wearily. ‘Hop in. We’ll take you home.’ Well, that soldiers face lit up like a firefly! He smiled the brightest, happiest smile I’d ever seen. He thanked Pop, tossed his bags in the bed of the truck, and climbed up into the cab.
I scooted over next to dad and listened as they talked. I was surprised to learn this baby faced soldier sitting next to me had been in Vietnam. He was too young! He was far too young! He was just a kid himself! They spoke softly and every so often the soldier would look out the window at the pastures and hills rolling by like he couldn’t believe he was there.
They talked a little about the war, the soldier said it had been rough, and several friends of his had died. He told Pop they’d got some pretty mean treatment from some folks on the way home. I sure didn’t understand that? Why would you be mean and hurtful to someone willing to fight for you? That didn’t make any sense to me at all. Looking at my dad, I saw he didn’t get it either, but he sure didn’t like it.
We were getting close to Potosi, and that soldier was sure getting excited. Dad asked, ‘where in Potosi, son?’ ‘You’ve brought me a good way, sir. You can drop me off at the city limit, I’ll find my way from there.’ ‘No sir,’ my dad replied, ‘you tell me where, and me and the boy, we’ll take you to your door.’
He thanked Pop again, and we found his street. We were just a few blocks from his parents home when I heard a funny sound from the soldier. As I looked at him I saw his chin quiver, and he bit down hard on his lip. I don’t know why, but it made me cry, and I scooted over and hugged him and told him I was glad that he was home. As he put his arm around me and hugged me back I felt his tears fall on my face.
I’ll never forget pulling up to his parents home. He shook Pop’s hand and tousled my hair. ‘I don’t have the words, sir’ he said, gripping my fathers hand. Dad smiled and replied, ‘welcome home son, and thank you.’
As he turned away we heard a yell, from someone looking out the window. We waited, the door burst open and a boy ran onto the porch. He was jumping up and down, yelling, ‘Momma! Momma!’ We saw the soldiers mother and dad, as they ran down the walk to their son. I cried happy tears as he lifted his mother in his arms and swung her round and round, held tightly to his chest. We saw him bear hug his dad, and kneel down to lift the leaping little boy high over his head.
As my father pulled slowly away, the soldier waved goodbye. Driving down the highway, headed home, I looked over at my father. His dark mood had lifted, and there was a slight smile on his face.
‘That sure was good of you, Pop!’ ‘Taking that soldier home like that!’ Laughing, I said, ‘Hey Pop. You went fifty miles out of your way to get him home!’ My dad looked at me, and after a moment replied, ‘yeah son, I guess we did. But he went 16,000 miles out of his way, for us.’ ‘Promise me son. You’ll never forget it.’ ‘I swear Pop. I’ll remember.’
To all the veterans of Vietnam who came home only to be called foul names, spat upon, and ignored. There were many like my Dad and I, who honored your service, and were glad you made it back. Thank you.
Welcome Home

Take His Keys!

2006-08-28T08:57:00.000-05:00

This is a little tale of my mother and I when I was a teenager.

My mother was deathly afraid of going fast in a car. Why I don’t know, it just kind of went along with her fear of everything. When I say ‘fast’, I mean over 20 mph. My poor Dad would putt along in his old Dodge with traffic lined up for three blocks behind them, flashing their lights and honking their horns. I don’t know how he did it. I couldn’t, as this little tale shows.
We were working in the shop getting a car ready to paint. It was hot and I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. Pop would just look at me and chuckle, ‘what’s the matter Luke?’ ‘You don’t feel like working today?’ I just stared at him and didn’t say a word. I wasn’t telling him the girl I was dating wanted to go swimming and was mad because I couldn’t go. ‘I don’t know why you have to work?’ ‘None of the other boys are working, maybe one of them would like to be with me?’ Go for it! I hope you both drown. I was not in a good mood.
About this time, Mom stuck her head in the door and yelled ‘Bill’ at the top of her lungs. It didn’t matter that Pop and I were only ten feet away, I guess she wanted be sure she was heard. She was heard all right, I think old Mr. Womack across the road heard her. Mom had a voice that Grandma said, ‘carried’, it sure did. You could hear that woman for five blocks when she yelled, and she yelled a lot.
‘I need to go to Pop N’ Quik, Bill.’ Pop N’ Quik was a little country store about 2 miles from our house. Pop looked up and said, ‘damn Mary, I’m busy, I’ll have the boy take you.’ ‘What?! Me?! Awww, I don’t want to take Mom! She’ll drive me nuts! ‘Slow down, you’re going too fast!’ Hell, I ain’t even out of the driveway yet! Well, as usual Pop won and I headed for the car with Mom chattering all the way. ‘You better not go fast, I’m telling you now, I’ll have Dad take your keys if you don’t drive just like I tell you.’ ‘Yes mom, I’ll go 2 miles an hour, just like you want.’ I knew this was going to suck.
We hopped in my 1969 Plymouth GTX and took off. The GTX had a blown, balanced, and blueprinted 440 Magnum engine. It got 6 mpg highway, 3 city, and it ran like a scalded dog. That old car shook when it idled from the power and it did not like to barely move. It was hard on it you see, to dog it around. Made carbon build up and it didn’t run right at less than full throttle. I made it to 15 mph before Mom started talking, ‘I told you not to go fast!’ ‘Fast? I’m barely moving!’ ‘You better slow down boy, or you’re gonna’ be walking wherever you go!’ Ohh, I knew this was gonna’ suck! Well, I slowed down and we were chugging along at about 10 miles an hour when a tractor trailer got right on my bumper. I looked in the mirror and all I could see was grill. I thought ‘oh boy, this ain’t good’ and I sped up a little to get him off me. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘I didn’t tell you to speed up boy!’ ‘Mom, there’s a big truck right behind us, if I go your speed he’s gonna’ hit me!’
I was going 25 mph by this time, and Mom was going berserk! ‘Slow down!’ ‘That’s it, your keys are gone when we get home.’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Why?’ ‘For going fast when I told you not too!’ Fast huh, fine, you want my keys for going fast do you? Well By God, let’s go fast. I decided I wasn’t going to Pop N’ Quik! I was going home and I was going express! I hit the floor with the accelerator and that old GTX came to life! We hit the parking lot of that old store, and I spun the damn car around and went right back up the road, with poor Mom screaming her head off. We hit our road at 105 miles an hour and I was going for more. Mom had her nails dug into the dashboard and was still screaming. I gave that car all it had, and didn’t slow down until I slid it sideways into Mom and Dads front yard.
Mom was running around the car with her arms in the air, still screaming, when Pop came to see what was going on. ‘Take his keys, take his keys!’ Pop said, ‘Donnie? What the hell?’ I told him the whole story and tossed him my keys. ‘I can’t go 5 mph, I ain’t ever taking that woman anywhere again, and I ain’t sanding no damn car today neither!’ ‘Don’t get too full of yourself boy.’ Mom was in the house by this time, calling down every curse she could think of on my fool head.
My Pop looked at the house, listening to Mom, then looked back at me. ‘So, how’d she take it when you floored that thing?’ ‘Not good, I thought she was gonna’ jump out!’ ‘Luke, you know better than that.’ ‘Yes sir I do, but Pop, she was driving me nuts.’ ‘Hell boy, I’ve been there! I have to take her everywhere!’ My Dad started laughing, and said ‘you best get your ass in the shop, where I can protect you when she comes calling, and she will when she calms down.’ Made sense to me, and I decided I’d better do what Dad said, seeing as how I’d pushed my luck enough for one day.
A few minutes later my Mom charged into the shop with a flyswatter, and she wasn’t hunting flies neither. My Dad laughed his butt off while she wore me out with that flyswatter. I was laughing too, I couldn’t help it! Poor Mom smacked me with every word! ‘If you ever do that again I’ll kill you in your sleep!’ I was 17 when this happened. My mom never rode with me again, if she could help it.

August 28, 2006

2006-08-28T07:36:00.000-05:00

Just another day in a neck brace! Take it from me folks, breaking your neck in two places is not fun. Thank God I'm not paralyzed and will, hopefully, recover to nearly 100%. Doc isn't certain if I'll ever be as strong as I was, but as I told him 'you put me together, I'll do the rest'. I truly believe attitude is everything in regards to healing.
All I really want is to be able to lift and hold my grandchildren again. That part has been very hard for me.
One day at a time, one obstacle at a time. The end of the tunnel is drawing nearer and I am getting very anxious for it's arrival.

Best Ride of my Life

2006-08-27T16:15:00.000-05:00

I love to ride motorcycles. It's just something about the wind in your face, the roar of the engines, the closeness of the bond with the other riders, and the beauty of our nation seen from two wheels that seems to carry away your worries for just a few moments and allows you to recharge and face what life throws at you.My cousin Rick is a wonderful, happy guy. Always smiling and can't wait for the next baseball game to come on. He does love his Cardinals with a passion. Ricky took me for my first motorcycle ride when I was nine years old. He had a Kawasaki 900 that I thought was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and from him I discovered the sheer joy of riding.Not long after Rick got married he was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy and began to suffer greatly. Despite all efforts his body failed him and he found himself committed to a nursing facility where he would spend the rest of his life. I went to see him a time or two and it always brought tears to my eyes to see him lying there, still smiling, still looking for the joy in life wherever he could. It always tickled him when I wore the leathers to see him. He used to kid me about keeping the shiny side up when I left. I knew Rick would love to ride again, and I was determined to make that happen.Speaking with his administrator at the nursing home, I asked if I could take Rick for a bike ride if I could find a sidecar. The lady got very excited and said 'Oh', Ricky would just love that!! Of course it's ok, I know you'll take care of him.' I got together with a few buddies and we started asking around about a sidecar. In a matter of days we found one and began planning on the next Saturday for our ride date.As I talked with my biker buddies about Rick and his struggle I saw many of them get quiet and ask if I minded a few extra riders? No brothers, the more the merrier. The word spread of what I was trying to do for my cousin and a lot of good people determined they would just come along and see what happened.The day of the ride the weather was perfect, clear and sunny with just a touch of humidity. I went by the nursing home at 10:00 a.m. with a few friends, and walked into Ricks room to find him propped up and sad looking. He looked puzzled at the goofy grin on my face as I asked if he wanted to go outside? 'No, I'm a little tired, I'll just stay here.' 'No, you want to go outside!' and smiled at him. The nurse and I got him into a wheelchair and off we went. Little did Rick know that just a few yards away nearly a hundred motorcycles sat waiting for his arrival. When the nurse held the door and I pushed Rick out every bike there fired up at once. It sounded like thunder fell from the sky. Rick was amazed and trying to clap his hands as I pushed him over to his ride, a big RoadKing with a sidecar where Cornfed stood waiting. Cornfed is a huge biker, and he just leaned down and lifted Rick like he was nothing and sat him in the sidecar. I strapped Rick down and put his helmet and shades on and asked if he was ready to ride? His only response was to try and wrap his arm around my neck as he smiled. I grinned back at him and said 'this days for you cuz, enjoy it.'We spent nearly five hours on the road that day, stopped for lunch and a cold drink a few times along the way. Rick was a huge hit with all the bikers and his smile was going full power all day long. My cousin Rick started my love affair with motorcycles many years ago. I'm glad the Good Lord allowed me to continue his on this memorable day. Thanks Rick, for giving me the ride of my life.