Hooters, Coming Out And Reality Shows

So it's like this. I have found that I may be gay! I don't think I am but I found myself making comments as if I were one of my few gay friends while watching The Bachelor on television recently. I was aghast that the young man starring in this so-called “Reality Show” could not see the manipulative bitch in one of the girls on the show. I was commenting on the issue to my wonderful Fiancee (a woman) when it struck me that I sounded just like a gay male talking about one of his friend's lovers! I had to laugh and then asked my sweetheart if I sounded “gay” to her while making the comments. She looked up from the laptop with which she was using to play a computer game and said, “......No?.....” After which a huge grin crossed her face. She continued, “You are not, in any way, gay!” I must admit her comment did little to comfort me but served only to disturb my calm even more. Truth be told? I am not, in point of fact, gay. I only sound gay sometimes.

I admit to being addicted to certain reality based programming such as the aforementioned as well as things like Cops and Survivor. I don't like many of the other ones and don't understand why. I suppose you could say that I'm a little strange that way. My Fiancee tells me I'm strange in a lot of ways but that's beside the point.

Why does it have to be that a heterosexual male cannot display emotion as a rule? I was an only child and very close with my Mother. I learned from her how to stay in touch with my emotions. I learned from her that it was alright for a man to cry and to show that he was hurt emotionally. I learned from her that strength came from accepting and understanding my emotions. So what happened to the majority of other men in this world?

Most Blue-Collar men in this country hardly ever hug. A shaking of the hand is more than some are comfortable with doing for the most part. Hugs and kisses, some even on the lips, is an accepted practice in many other cultures. This type of contact does not make someone gay! Here, however, men as a majority tend to strut around as if they were the bantam rooster ruling the yard. No more than a hand-shake for no longer than a second is the routine. If you see one man hugging another and saying, “I love you” as they part ways, you assume they are related in some way or gay. This sort of practice is acceptable for females and is quite common.

I am a man who likes to fish, hunt, play golf and I also enjoy many other “Manly” activities. Here's the rub. I have male friends who I hug when I visit them. I hug them again when departing from their company then tell them I love them. I can find no shame in doing so. I do love my friends and don't mind touching them. I just have no desire to touch them “down there” and would have a cow if they did that to me! These are men who love to talk about the female physique and are rather the braggarts when it comes to their sexual prowess with the women. Me? I'm one of those guys too. I don't think a 'Gaynometer' would even move if any of us were hooked up to one. Let me interject a query here. Do you think I'd ever say, “No” to going out to Hooters? I think not! The food is great! (Being engaged; isn't this what I'm supposed to say?) The girls in their outfits make me want to stay and enjoy a nice long beer or leisurely cup of coffee after the meal!

Speaking of sounding gay. I once knew a young man in High School who was teased constantly about being “queer”. He was one of my better friends. He never complained or said otherwise but would only grin when someone teased him about it. I had been invited over to his house for lunch one day and afterward found myself sitting just inside his garage talking as we watched the traffic go by on the street. We both were enjoying the fellowship when he suddenly became very quiet and his smile faded to a sullen line harshly drawn across his face. He began to speak in almost a whisper with his head down and gaze on the concrete on which we sat. “You know?” he began, “I'm not queer. I just let every body think I am.” This unsolicited admission rattled me. I sat there with mouth open not quite knowing what to say. “I only act this way because I can get all the dirt on all the girls.” he continued “That way I know which ones put out!” I sat there both shocked and envious of him. He began to name a few of the girls he'd had physical relationships with and I found myself becoming angry because many of them were fantasies of mine!

It was at that moment I became a member of a very elite club. The few who knew he wasn't gay! I later had conversations with some of the girls he'd “known” and they confessed he was an extraordinary lover but had been sworn to secrecy as I had been. I cannot recall any other boys that ever knew my friend was not gay but I still remember the girls who knew! I decided back then to never pass judgment on any man or woman because they acted or sounded gay. My “gay” friend from school? He's been happily married to a woman for many years and has a family now. I spoke to him recently on the phone and he still does sound a little on the more feminine side of testosterone but I'll bet he still laughs about his conquests when he was younger.

The Moral of the story? Just because I may sound gay from time to time or hug my male friends and tell them I love them doesn't mean you should accept or assume that I am gay. Besides! I suppose occasionally sounding gay has certainly played a part in getting me close to certain women in my past. (It should be noted here that I wear a huge grin on my face.) Close indeed!

Post Script: I love you, Laurie!

Love, The Double-Nickle And A Sink Full Of Dishes

Today is my birthday and I'll be spending it in the office of a doctor. What fun! I've been putting this visit off for a while and I should be happy to be getting it over with.

Fifty-Five! I used to think someone this old was really old! Now it some how doesn't seem so old. At least I'll be able to get discounts at most of the places I do business with in the future. That will be great!

I currently have the mind of a seventeen year old and the body of a seventy-seven year old. So far over the last year I have survived quintuple by-pass surgery and later a body full of blood clots, which were discovered following a pulmonary embolism compounded by massive amounts of fluid in the chest, lungs and abdomen. I can't work. I can only play with the dogs for a couple of minutes at a time. Washing a sink full of dishes is a true chore. Vacuuming the floor puts me down for a few hours. I even get winded just walking to the mail box. In other words, I no longer can run a marathon. I used to say I'd get to see my one-hundredth birthday but now realize I'll do extremely well to see my sixtieth. Such is the result of a lifetime spent without care for one's own future.

Even with all the health issues, I can say I truly am happy. I know my place in this world and understand my journey here. I was put here for four reasons. I am here to get people to talk about me so they will leave all others alone. I am here to make people think and laugh. I am here to show a special someone that things can be better when you're with the right person. I am here to share a song; to make some people smile; to make some people cry; to make some people imagine, “What if?”

I guess I'm just tired today and anxious about what the Doc may say. I anticipate some not-so-good news but hope I'm wrong. Days like today serve to remind me how important it is to tell those around you that you love them. Take my advice and do just that today. You might never get another chance to tell them.

Fish, A Past Master, And A Song Called Corina

Sitting in my recliner and pondering in the silence of the moment, I began to recall things from my past such as people who are no longer with us. My Mother and my Grandfather are the two which are at the forefront of a great many of the good times I had while growing up. Those were happy times indeed. Let me tell you a little bit about my Grandfather.

I used to tag along with my Grandfather on Saturdays to help him work during the School Year and spent many days each week with him during the Summer months. As I look back on those days I realize just how much I learned from him and just how much "help" I may have been to him. He was a Heating and Air Conditioning Repairman and much of our time back then was spent crawling around under houses where the furnaces were typically installed. I was the one in charge of handing Papa, as I call my Grandfather, the right tool when he asked for it. I was also the runner. That job entailed crawling out from under the houses and running to the van to retrieve whatever else Papa found he needed to facilitate the repairs. It was an important job, according to Papa, and one which I took very seriously. There were instances where I couldn't find what it was I was sent after and would run back to tell him. He would then make his way out and I'd follow him to the van where he'd instantly lay his hands right on what he had sent me to get. He never complained about having to go to the van to find what I could not. I'm not sure if he deliberately taught me how to organize tasks and my time or if I just learned it by attrition while helping him. Either way I learned how to do those things as well as how to use some specialty tools.

Papa was an amazing man who was nearly always smiling. At least I remember him smiling more than anything. He was a quiet but quick-witted man and everyone loved him dearly and trusted him because of his honesty. He was well respected as a tight-wad but would give you the shirt off his back if you were truly in need. He was a musician just like most of his side of the family. This was because his father came to the United States, became a Citizen then immediately opened his first music store. All his family was constantly exposed to music and various instruments. Papa learned to play the guitar, piano, saxophone, clarinet, flute, drums, pump organs, and was a fine vocalist as well. His Sisters, Brother and Mother were all as well versed in varieties of instruments and singing.

Papa used to sit around playing his guitar and singing when he was young but played less after arthritis settled in his hands and fingers. There was one song he was quite fond of playing from the 1940's called Corina. I decided to learn that song one day in order to show him I could play it as well and maybe even play along with him as he played it. I spent weeks learning a finger-picking technique I created just for that song. I never got to play it with him because his fingers hurt too bad and had become stiff from the arthritis. I vowed to play the song for him at some point before he died.

I had bought into a studio in Georgia at ten shares and later acquired more and more stock to become a Majority Shareholder. Things were going well with the Corporation and I asked Papa if he might let me bring him to work one day to see what I did for a living at that time. Papa agreed and I picked him up on the date agreed upon. I was amazed when I picked him up. He was wearing a grey, pin-striped silk suit and carried a charcoal grey fedora in his left hand. I asked why he dressed up so and he replied, “Well. You wear a suit and tie to work. Don't you?” He went on to say he just thought it might look a little better for him to wear a suit because I used to dress in appropriate clothing to go to work with him. He said it was only fair.

We talked about music all the way from his house to my offices and studio in Georgia. When Papa walked into the main entrance, he paused to look around. We were busy with construction building more offices and adding on to the studios. The place was a mess. I took him in to see my office first as I laid my briefcase on my desk then gave him the grand tour. I deliberately left the control room of our A Room for last. The control room was a room, within a room, within another room. Each wall was isolated by sound deadening material between each floor, wall and ceiling and was totally sound-proofed from the studio and outside world. There were various sizes of speakers hung from the ceiling and walls as well as a couple of different sets of near-field monitors sitting over the Hill, J-5 board which sat under the main window. Several different recording machines were along the wall left of the main console and out-board equipment filled several racks along the right side of the console. Papa took a seat on the client couch along the back wall of the control room as I spooled up reel after reel of 2” tape to let him see how things were done.

I finally asked Papa if he felt like trying to play a little guitar for my partner who had joined us and he agreed. I gave him an easy playing Martin with a buttery timbre and he strummed and plucked it for a few moments to get used to the feel. He immediately broke into Corina as I knew he would. Papa began to sing and I picked up another guitar to strum along with him. Before he could finish the song he started to get stiff fingered from his arthritis but I continued to play for him until he finished singing the song. When done, I told him that I had a song I wanted him to listen to. I pulled an A-DAT tape out of my personal rack and placed it into the player. I cued up a song and began to push the play button. It began with four clicks and I started finger picking Corina to the rhythm track I recorded some time prior to his visit. The look on Papa's face was all I needed from him. I could tell he was proud as tears welled up in both eyes then began to leave their moist tracks down his cheeks. When I finished the song, Papa was speechless for a moment then asked how I knew that song. I explained to him that I had grown up listening to him and watching him play it and wanted to give him a different arrangement of it for him to sing along to. I handed him the tape which I recorded as I played along with the rhythm tracks and explained to him that I did all this for him. Papa wept openly for several minutes then told me he was indeed proud of his number one Grandson. Hell. I was his only Grandson! That was one of the most poignant moments I ever spent with him. He died years ago but I still miss him today.

As I was growing up, Papa and I had become expert fishermen. Of course, he always was able to out fish me and it was our competition, of sorts, that kept us in good humor the whole time we would fish. It was Papa that taught me how to tie blood knots and many other fishing knots all the way up to the Bimini Twist. I still know them all today. We used to go night fishing under the old I-85 bridge on Lake Hartwell before they built the concrete structure that remains today. We would tie up on the crossbeams under the wooden bridge and fish until daylight. The fishing was good back then. We stopped our night fishing for some years after the new bridge was built until Papa bought a boat that had a stove, a sink and a refrigerator. The only thing missing was a head. We'd anchor out in the middle of the lake and again fish the entire night. A couple of the things that made it better is that we could cook something to eat like a fish we had caught when we got hungry instead of having to eat cold sandwiches brought on board before shoving off. We also could percolate fresh coffee which was much better than coffee from a thermos type bottle.

Papa was never a trout fisherman so I never learned to operate a rod and line for trout fishing streams and rivers until I moved to Wyoming. I told him about one of my adventures in learning how to cast fly line over the phone one day. He laughed as I told him how many times I snagged my vest with a fly while trying to cast properly. He would tease me a little then tell me to keep practicing. He told me I'd get the hang of it and I did.

Papa always encouraged me to be myself and not listen to negative banter from anyone. He never told me how proud he was of me until the day I played Corina for him but I always knew he was proud. He never discouraged me from trying to beat him on the fish count. He hugged me often and told me he loved me each time he did so. He never stopped telling me to use my head and figure out new or alternate ways to do something because maybe I'd come up with an easier or faster way to do it. Some of you will understand what I mean when I say that Papa, a Past Master several times over, raised me in the Masonic Lodge. What an honor for me. He told me afterward that it was more an honor for him. Yes. I learned from Papa. Yes. I miss him. Yes. It was my honor to have him as my Grandfather. Yes. I will miss him forever. Moreover, I will forever carry a piece of him inside me. When I cross over to the next world, I will remind him of how my time in this world has been positively augmented because of his teaching and encouragement all those years. There in the next world, I will hug him, thank him and tell him how much I love him and how much I've missed him. If there are guitars in the next world, I'll play Corina again for him and maybe, just maybe, he'll play along with me.

  

Whipper-Snappers, Dangerous Chemicals And A Crotchety Old Fart

I suppose I finally turned into that crotchety old fart I used to poke fun at so many years ago. He was a grumpy bastard who complained about how stupid the young whipper-snappers had become over the years. I never understood much of what he griped about but being a Facebook user for several years now, I'm beginning to see his point(s). I hazard a supposition if you are one of my Facebook Friends, you might recognize this Status Update from yesterday. I went on to use a direct quote from the post I read made by someone else. The resulting comments put me in mind of the proverbial “Shit-Storm” everyone always mentions at some point in their lives. Though my post was not intended to be directed at any one person by using the quote, the post was taken personally by its author as a direct and vicious attack on their educational background. This was so far away from the original purpose that the comments which poured in shocked me into a realization. That being, I shouldn't post certain things on Facebook but should just keep on scrolling on down the page. I presume the comments about my character will continue on for many days.

The post was meant to enlighten some of the younger folks awareness of what they type is simply too incorrect to be understood properly by the rest of the folks speaking English in this world today. Most incorrectly used words are proliferated via text messaging and so-called social networks. Both have contributed to making our children lazy about Grammar and Spelling. Math, too, may be listed as another subject payed ill attention. The words, “yore, your, you're” all three seem to be interchangeable containing the same meanings. Others, such as, “then” and “than” share the same or similar contemporary fate.

Another thing that confuses me is why do people re-post things that have long since been debunked and comment on how awful it is that this could be happening this day and time. The additional comments regularly ramble on and on about the shame of it all even after someone posts the fact that the subject is a hoax and even list a hyperlink which exposes the hoax. It just goes to show you the old saying is true. “There's one born every minute.”

After great consideration, I decided to put to the test a common misconception regarding the younger generations typically believing without questioning. That is; “It has to be true if it's on the Internet.” As many of you may already know, this is far from the truth. Un-Truths are proliferated daily by the folks less willing to learn or find out things for themselves. Most people today have become sheep in a global environment populated with too few shepherds. They will most often believe what they are told and most of what is heard and read without trying to verify a single fact. These sheep feel our politicians and news media are infallible, without bias and as honest as eternity is long. I have toyed with the idea of creating a cult to glean wealth from such individuals in the world but haven't been able to bring myself to take advantage of such persons who are obviously sorely in need of so much compassion and guidance. At least I haven't been able to bring myself to do it..... yet!

What I did was post a rather lengthy note to one of my Social Networking sites entitled, “A Simple Experiment In Human Nature". The subject matter was a re-post of a college prank that went viral on the Internet years ago and has surfaced occasionally to strike fear in the hearts of sheep world wide over the years. That subject being, a petition to ban the use, storage and production of Dihydrogen Monoxide in the United States Of America! (H2O for all the non-chemistry sheep). I haven't gone back to check since the posting but I had already gained one 'Like' before I could even get off the page. Here's the hyperlink if you wish to go and check it out.

My Simple Experiment In Human Nature

The experiment is a simple one. Of those who read the post, how many will have already seen the subject matter or heard about it prior to my posting it again? Of those, what percentage will believe it to be true? What percentage will post negative comments and what percentage will believe it to be so because it is posted on the Internet? Finally. How many will actually “get it” and have a good laugh over it?

What I'm attempting to convey with this Blog Post and the experiment mentioned above is indeed simple. We, as a global society, need to get back to questioning everything. How else are we to learn? Where would we be if people such as Newton, Einstein, Hawking, Bell, Washington, Lincoln and so many others had not questioned the things and situations around them? We may begin by learning how to properly communicate with those around us. Get back to what used to be considered basic education in the subjects of Math, Science, Spelling and Grammar. We need to get involved with the education of our children and not depend on others to teach them the basics. Make sure you know what your child is being taught! What your child learns may be taught to them by a teacher that doesn't care that your child can't spell or knows how to effectively count money. Not all teachers passively teach and pass them on to the next grade just to get rid of them. Some teachers actually care but find it difficult to compete with the lack of care some parents seem to display about education at home. Parents these days believe that some of the games their child plays on that expensive game system are really educational ones. Some may be but I feel kids can learn a great deal more and will find it much easier to learn if the imagination is first utilized. Further. Parents are too busy playing with their own toys to see their child being sucked down into the black hole that is literate ineptitude.

I'll come down from my lofty altitude which is the top of my soap box and close with these few words. There are parents who monitor their child's activities and educational progress. There are teachers who make sure no child goes on to the next grade without being prepared. There are politicians who give a rat's ass that our country is going down the tube. There is a large slice of society which is as alarmed about the same things I am worried about. We are not alone! If you are not with us but would like to be, all you have to do is grab a paddle then climb aboard that canoe we so desperately need to navigate along Shit Creek. We'll welcome you without fail! If my words confound you or confuse you, I'll leave you with something I left at the end of one of my posts on a social network site this past week. It plainly reads as follows:

“IF I PIST U OFF WIT DIS POS, than your part of tha prollem!”

Post Script:  Be sure to check back next week when I'll be talking about the joys of fishing!

Golf balls, A Full Life And A Couple Of Beers

Prelude:

I am writing this post while not feeling well. Those of you who are my Facebook Fans probably know of some of my health issues. Let us just say that today has not been a good day and I currently am distracted by my difficulty in comfortably breathing right now. I mention this only because this post will be short and may contain grammatical errors. Please understand that this is not me.

Now let's get on with it. I was looking through some of the funny, sorrowful and unique stories I have on file and came across the following story filed away on my external hard drive. I posted it here only because of its relevance to my Blog post today.

The Wise Professor

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was. The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous, “Yes”. The professor then produced two Beers from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

“Now”, said the professor as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things - your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions - and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car. The sand is everything else - the small stuff. If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Spend time with your children. Spend time with your parents. Visit with grandparents. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18 holes. There will always be time to clean the house and mow the lawn. Take care of the golf balls first - the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the Beer represented. The professor smiled and said, “I’m glad you asked. The Beer just shows you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of Beers with a friend.”

I have enjoyed the frustrating and relaxing game of Golf for almost as long as I can remember. I didn't start playing the game until I was about eight. At least I learned how to swing the club then. I used to caddy for my Dad more than anything and later, I caddied for other golfers. I was always finding golf balls that had been lost or simply let lie because of such a bad shot. I'd pick them up and put them into a canvass bag I always kept for such a find. I'd clean all the found balls before taking them home to put into my gallon sized jar. It was one of those jars you used to see at the neighborhood store that contained pickled pigs feet, pickled eggs or pickled sausages. I kept only the good golf balls that looked new so that I could use them later as I couldn't afford to buy my golf supplies. I'd hit the scuffed ones or the ones with a slice on them into the woods behind my house as I practiced my swings with different clubs. I suppose I was an fair shot for my age.

As I got older, I hardly ever played golf. I had discovered girls! My golf stuff went by the way-side and I had placed my big jar full of golf balls on the pea-sized gravel next to the basement door outside. I hardly ever played in the yard after girls were discovered and it wasn't long before I'd forgotten about my golf balls altogether. One day one of my Mother's friends came to visit with her five-year-old boy. I was told that I would be the one to “entertain” and watch after the young boy while Mother's friend visited. You can imagine my enthusiasm at being given this task. I showed the youngster out to our back yard and started to try and interest him in some things I liked to do. I quickly discovered looking after him would be no easy task. He was all over the place throwing rocks and sticks, running and trying to climb trees. I couldn't keep up with him even in my youth. He found the jar and started to put some of the gravel into it. I kept my mouth closed because he found something to keep him busy for a while. I watched as he packed the jar as full as he could get it, shifting the golf balls and shaking the jar from time to time as he progressed. At last the jar was in fact full and he raced off to find something else to interest him. I figured I could empty the gravel out later and once again, forgot the jar where it sat.

Many years had passed and my parents had made the decision to sell the house I grew up in. They had moved into a house nearer a lake and only a few miles away from my Dad's business while I was still a Sophomore in High School. I had lived there for the last two-and-a-half years by myself and kept the house and lawn in good repair. (I kept the house full of girls and parties as well, but that's a whole novel all by itself so we'll just leave that subject alone! Sorry about my ellipsis. Allow me to continue.) As we began to pack things up, the jar of golf balls and pea-gravel was found to have sand from the bottom to the brim. The wind had blown the sand into the jar over a four year period and it had settled in between all the gravel and golf balls and was also water laden which made it very heavy. My Dad wanted to just throw it away but I insisted I was going to keep it. I packed it into my car as carefully as I could with the rest of the things which were important to me and which I didn't trust anyone else to move for me.

I came across this stupid jar again many years later and wondered why the hell I had kept this thing. Being somewhat of a ponderer, I began to hold the jar up turning it and studying it for some time. I remembered my Dad complaining about the jar I had “filled” with golf balls. I remember thinking that the jar was certainly “full” after our little visitor had “filled” it with all the gravel. It occurred to me while studying the jar, however, that it never was “full”. It wasn't full as I studied it. The water had long since evaporated and even if water were poured into the jar, it would hold a great deal of liquid and still, the jar would not be totally “full” ever! If you consider the microscopic and atomic levels, there are always places where more and more substance may occupy space. I'm sorry. That's just the way my thought process has always worked. The jar can never be “full”. This is why I saved the story about the wise Professor for so many years. It reminded me of my revelation regarding whether the jar could ever be really filled.

All of this brings me to a wonderful enlightened revelation. There is always some time for everything. Our chore has become making the decision to fill the empty spaces in our worldly time-line with the things that are important first, then the other big things and finally with all of the lessor things no matter how small they may seem. There will always be room for my Family. There will always be time to fix something or do the dishes. There's still time enough to write a new song, play another round of golf, go hiking, take a nap, read a book, or spend time with the kids, parents, or grandparents. With all the things going on in my life, I still have time to share a couple of bottles of beer with a friend. As the saying goes; “Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things.” Enjoy a long life as full as you can make it because there are some folks who wish they could fill their lives a bit more. Like me.

I hope the year, 2013 will bring you many wonderful memories and few bad ones. I hope you will find your checking and savings accounts grow a little more than in the years past. Most of all. I hope this coming year will bring you health and many more close friends with which you find pleasure in just spending time and sharing a couple of bottles of beer. I dare you to try to fill your jar this year.

Scars, Theoretical Physics And A Dead Rancher

Since the world as we know it did not, in point of fact, come to a grand apocalyptic finale as many believed earlier this month, I decided to get in some much needed relaxation by reading a good book.  The Christmas Holiday had kept me busy spending time with some of the family at least and I wanted some "Me" time.  What follows is a description of my most recent epiphany which came to me as I was reading about M Theory.  I trust some of you will find my aforementioned epiphany enlightening.

I was reading an old book about Theoretical Physics just the other day and noticed how tattered the binding had become over the years from reading and re-reading its contents.  The corners of the leather bound cover were worn to rounded on both the front and the back covers.  The spine barely holding the contents together from opening and closing countless times over the years.   I closed the book once I had marked my place with a short length of twine and thought about how I nearly didn't open it.  The book appeared too old to contain anything of consequence or value within the fragile pages.  I studied on the worn leather and noticed how rough it felt beneath my fingers.  In the quiet of the room you could barely hear the stridulant whispers from the cover as my fingers brushed across its surface.   How could something so decrepit in its appearance hold knowledge so vastly important or relevant?  It was at that point where realization struck me.   This book, with its tattered binding and its pages too delicate to turn without care, was in many ways like myself.

My body is old and displays its fragile condition from the many scars and wrinkles acquired over my short time here on this world.  I got up to look at that man in a mirror who is me and studied each and every line furrowed deeply into my once smooth and supple skin.   I looked into the eyes which once boasted sharp, crisp vision and struggled to observe the intricacies of each iris to little avail.  I could see the two scars, one under each side of my mandible where surgery was required to reconstruct my jaw following an automobile accident that nearly ended my time here so many years ago.   Another look and I saw the gaps between my remaining teeth where other teeth used to reside.   I stepped back a little to see the bright pink line running down the center of my chest from the quintuple by-pass surgery I had undergone earlier this year and my eyes welled up with tears.

You see?  When I was a young man, I was handsome, strong, sharp of wit and could out play many of my contemporaries on several different instruments.  I was an avid hunter with keen vision and was known to be a deadly accurate shot with handguns, shotguns, rifles and with the bow.   I had been invited twice to join the elite Mensa organization but never did.   I began to teach guitar and study Theoretical Physics on my own when I was but nine years of age.   I won all the talent contest I ever entered but one and was signed by a management company when I was age twelve.   I made a living playing music for many years locally and on the road.  I was also known to be somewhat of a “smart-ass” (or so everyone claimed).  I've owned and sold several successful businesses during my later years.  Somehow in the midst of all of the things going on in my life I was able to squeeze in a Masters Degree in Music Education and attain a Black Belt (Dan) in the ancient art of Aikido.  I have long studied the art of the warrior called Bushido and strive to bring honor to the Bushido Code.  I was full of vigor during most of my earlier years and possessed somewhat of an attitude.  I was....young.

I miss the man I once was even though I embrace the man I have become.   I am much wiser though you'd never know it from looking at me.   My short-term memory leaves a great deal to be desired but the long term recollections are fine.  It would be safe to say that my anamnesis is fair for my age.  The knowledge contained within the confines of my cranium can be irritating to some at times for I share it freely, as it would seem, without hesitation.  There seems to be little on which I cannot comment.   I enjoy conversing with similarly educated folk at times but find comfort in the more common colloquialism shared with friends and family.  I enjoy the nearly forgotten art of writing though my eye sight wanes and all the while continuing to wrestle with dyslexia.   I can be compared in some ways with that old book resting where it was so carefully placed on my table.   My binding is tattered and worn.   The pages of my mind are so very fragile.   If you were to sit with me and gently open the binding, you would find a great deal of knowledge contained within the pages of my aged mind.   Knowledge attained not only from reading but from experiences unique to my life's journey.   I've made many mistakes over the years and have done my best to learn from them so I might recite the experiences for others so they, too, may learn from my errors.

I remember an old rancher and friend from Wyoming who passed away some years ago.  I visited him as often as I could because he was such a pleasure to listen to and observe.  He was a self-educated individual who could have held a Doctorate had he chosen to go to school and acquire the coveted title.   Most of his wisdom came from experience and worldly observations and his knowledge came from his vast library of old and new books.   He constantly was reading and learning.  I treasure the many talks we shared and time spent just watching the world go by in silent admiration.  I never got the chance to tell him how much the time spent with him meant to me.  He died in his home, surrounded by family and friends with the biggest smile across his wrinkled, sun-weathered face resulting from the joke he'd just told with his last breath.  That smile is still frozen in my memory of him.   I would give anything to have known him longer.  I wish he were a book nestled between others on the shelf of my library so as to permit me to visit him as often as I choose.

The world has become a place of virtual friends and virtual libraries that few people peruse.  We are now a society of a most base functionality with fewer and fewer persons who find learning desirable or necessary.  We rely on computers, phone applications and pocket calculators to solve our mathematical calculations.  We tend to ignore the spelling correctors built into nearly every device and find it easier to just add the misspelled word to the virtual dictionary or simply not bother with it at all leaving the incorrect spelling for the world to see.  Grammar seems nonexistent as a whole.

I hope that our society will one day awaken and understand what it means to learn.  Learning can open up a mind to so much more than most of the populace realizes.   I would love to travel far enough into the future to a point where the personal drive to learn was again foremost on the minds of individuals.   Until the collecting of knowledge has become important once again, our way of life will continue down a path from which there can be no turning back.   Become, instead, as a book.   Don't worry that the binding becomes tattered and the pages yellowed and brittle.  Even your children will pick up the habit of learning from watching you.  They will learn by attrition if by no other manner.   Let the mind do what it yearns to do.  The mind craves learning and absorbs knowledge.   Give it as much as you can give it.  In this way, you may be able to pass your knowledge and volumes of wisdom on to the next generation.  Sit down with a good book from time to time.   A book which is the living, breathing kind of book, more properly referred to as a mature man or woman.  Enjoy some time talking with them, listening to them or just observing the world in silent reverence together.   You may be surprised at what that “book” may teach you.

I Didn't Forget. I've Just Been Busy With Holiday Cheer

I can see by the Traffic Stats that a number of you have been checking in to read my latest post.  I will be publishing a new post on Monday, December 31, 2012 and another the following Wednesday to get back on schedule again.  Thanks for stopping by to check.  

Toodles!

Tragedy, Imagination And Lessons Learned

FOREWORD:

I have thought much about my personal history this last week. My life's history as well as my fallible, old and weak mind is able to recall. I was going to begin writing about some of my life's funnier memories this past Friday, when tragedy struck an elementary school. I was paralyzed like many others upon hearing the news. My heart goes out to all those affected, whether directly or indirectly, by this shameful waste of our most precious commodities; our children. Children who were innocent, their minds full of wonder and with a future as bright as each child could achieve. Let us not forget these gifts to the world. We should also remember all the thousands of other children who are battling terrible, terminal diseases. Those who are dying from their illnesses and those who have already been removed from this world far too early and suffer no more. I ask if you are a “religious” person, remember all our children, alive, suffering and deceased, in your prayers. If you are not then simply take a moment to reflect on what these innocent minds may have brought to our futures. Thank you!

Some of my most favorite memories are the times I spent exploring my yard or the woods across the street. I would spend hours just walking around carrying a stick to poke things. I would poke the end of the stick into this hole in the ground then another and so on. One day I was hole poking with a long, narrow oak twig that had been my best stick for about a week. I stuck the end of the twig into a new hole I'd found after shooing away a few yellow jackets from near the hole. I poked and twisted the stick in and out of the hole several times when I noticed a bee was climbing up through the fresh dirt now filling the hole. My Mother treated my learning experience with several pieces of saliva-soaked cigarettes which seemed to calm the extreme burning cause by the many stings I received. Lesson learned!

At some point around this time I learned about electricity. A fascinating thing that made the lights and television work! One night I made the decision to find out what this “E-LEC-TRICITY” looked like. I searched around the house and found one of my Daddy's small screwdrivers. I sat down in the hallway near the plastic thing in the wall where Mother put the cord from the vacuum every week to pull out the power to run it. I began tediously inserting the screwdriver into one of the openings where that electricity was waiting in the wall. Nothing! I decided to try a different plastic thingy in the living room. I sat down and began to poke into one of the slitted holes again. Mother screamed so loud I almost peed myself. Daddy looked at her and said to leave me alone and that I would learn shortly why I shouldn't be doing that. I smiled and turned back to my task and decided to try the other hole because the first one there just must be empty. My Dad was laughing hysterically when I came to my senses halfway across the floor, hand and arm aching. I noticed a strange taste in my mouth. Metal! It was metal I tasted. I didn't remember seeing the electricity jump out and hit my arm as it climbed up and into my mouth but I knew to never again try pulling it out of the wall. Lesson learned again!

I used to love helping Daddy work on things. After raising two boys and enjoying over a year raising a Grandson, I discovered that I never really helped Daddy. He assigned me tasks that would make it appear as though I were helping but served only to keep me out of his way. After I had grown a little, my Dad wanted me to help him bleed the brakes on Mother's Rambler American. He wanted me to pump the brake pedal while he bled the brake lines. I couldn't quite get it right so he asked me to crawl under the car with him. I did and he began to explain to me what he was doing and showed me how it should be done. OK. This was going to be easy! Daddy climbed behind the steering wheel and I could hear him pumping the brakes. He yelled for me to go ahead, which meant loosen then tighten the fitting. The fitting wouldn't move. I pulled and yanked then brake fluid came squirting out. After Mother got me cleaned up and as much of the brake fluid out of my eyes as she could, she went outside and finished helping Daddy. One more lesson filed into memory.

Some memorable times were spent with my Mother in her later years walking the shoreline of Lake Hartwell. Mother was one of the very first women in South Carolina to have a quadruple by-pass done on her heart. The doctors informed her about a year after her surgery that she should expect to live roughly three years from the date of her surgery. She was devastated! She had only two more years at that point. Eight years after surgery, she was still kicking! My parents had a house on the lake and Mother enjoyed early morning and late afternoon walks along the shore searching for arrow heads and pottery shards. I followed behind her and walked beside her until I thought I knew what I was doing. She would always begin to hang back behind me and find things I simply walked over. Mother would snicker and chuckle to herself as she reached down and picked up the arrow heads I missed. Each time she did so I turned to see her wonderful smile. Mother had learned to appreciate the more simple things and she passed this knowledge over to me. A very important life's lesson learned and treasured!

Daddy is fairly old now and his health is rather poor. He still runs his business which is open five days a week. I love going to visit with him as he works. I carefully watch him dealing with his customers and marvel as much today as I did years ago when watching him. Daddy could have been an Attorney or even a Doctor had he been able to finish school and go on to college. He instead quit school to support his Mother, brothers and sisters which was not all that uncommon in his day. He instead became a rather savvy businessman who can read his customers like a book. He is extremely mechanically inclined. What he was not blessed with in “book-smarts”, as he calls it, he was gifted in other areas. He has the ability to understand how anything with moving parts works and how to make them work better. He has been known to figure out ways to make things run better and has fabricated the parts needed to do so. My mechanical skills come from Daddy as well as my business smarts and so called people skills. More cherished lessons taken to heart and successfully put into practice during my years on this world.

I trust everyone is having a wonderful holiday-time of year. Take time to really enjoy the little things. Ignore the things which you cannot affect as they truly do not matter. Hug your Parents. Hug your children as much as you can. Hug your friend and tell them you love them. Pull your significant other close to you and say, “Let's just cuddle for a while”. These are the most important moments and they will never come around again. You may be fortunate enough to have more of them but that particular instance is lost to time forever! That said. Have a most wonderful Christmas!

Post Script: With waning health and much more time on my hands these days, I contemplate all the “what ifs” along my life's journey. It seems to me the best times I've had are the moments I am still able to share with those who would spend time with me. I enjoy making them think! I suppose I'm trying to bring people back to the activity of thinking and using their endless imaginations.

Imagination is the fountain from which all reality is born.

My Life With Dogs

Okay. I've done two straight Posts that were geared more towards the Educational end of the spectrum. Let's get back to some non “Brain-Overload” type stuff. This one is dedicated to dog lovers everywhere.

I've had a few cats in my life and decided with the last one that I was not what you might call a “Cat Person”. There have been many dogs in my life and I must say I enjoy the companionship of a dog over any cat. Dogs just want to please you and they will all love you unconditionally if they receive love from you. Cats? They would just as soon scratch your eye balls out as to look at you, even though they want you to pet them by rubbing their backs all the freakin' time!

My parents had a Collie when I was still crawling around on all fours. Mother could place me out on the center of the front lawn and tell the dog to watch me, then go inside with no worries. Mother never had to worry about any one getting me or me crawling out of the yard and into the street, as long as the dog was present. As soon as I would get close to the property boundaries, the dog would come over and pick me up by the waist of the diaper and place me right back in the middle of the yard and lie down to watch me. This scenario, I'm told, would be repeated each time our dog felt I was nearing danger.

When I was a little older, we had the most lovable Basset Hound, named Girtie. Girtie appeared to be be a little clumsy due to her short legs and the fact that she was slightly over weight. She would often trip when coming up stairs and steps, but had no trouble bouncing down them. Her long, droopy ears were always dragging the ground as she tracked things after picking up a scent from one thing or another. When she ran, those ears would flap up and down like birds wings as she bounded across the yard or floor. Girtie was not allowed on the furniture at all, but she could always be found hopping down off the couch when we got home. Mother used to have to close my door after she tucked me into bed to keep Girtie out of my room. It never failed that I would awake each morning with Girtie curled up on my bed at my feet. I never figured out for sure how she was getting into my room at night, but I bet Mother had something to do with it. She knew Girtie loved me and would watch over me during the night and not let any monsters get me as I slept. I cried when a neighbor shot her and killed my dear friend, Gertie.

The next dog we had was a Dachshund. I can't recall her name because she was truly Mother's dog. She was a protective little cuss of the whole family, but had bonded with Mother and recognized her as Alpha Female. She was black with brown markings and a bit nervous around new people. She would pester you to death once she got to know you, however, and want to get up in your lap so you could pet her better. What a cute little pest she was. Mother cried when this little dog died.

We next got a female Weimaraner. She was adopted when she was about four years old. This dog was definitively my Daddy's dog. She loved Mother and me but she still was Daddy's dog. We adopted another Weimaraner, a one year old male, to be a companion for the female. These two were inseparable! When you saw one, the other was close by. They were a brilliant team of hunters and watchdogs. I used to marvel at how one would be quiet and still, while the other would keep your attention when a strange car pulled into the driveway. I would have enjoyed watching them in a real life protecting mode if someone had tried to break in or harm one of us. They hunted in much the same way. One or the other would distract their prey and the other would come in for the kill.

While these two were still around, Daddy bought Mother a dog she'd always wanted to have, a Harlequin Great Dane. It was a male and seven weeks old when Daddy brought him home to Mother. I'm sure if you've raised a large breed dog from a puppy, you know full well what happens whenever they are fully grown. They still want you to hold them on your lap like you used to when they were a puppy! The Dane and the Weimaraners got along wonderfully and became a pack of Holy Terrors. In a good way. They went through almost sixty pounds of food, per dog, per week. The trio was inseparable and with these mutts inside the home, we were a family of six.

Early one morning while I was at college and Mother was shopping, the dogs awakened Daddy who had stayed home a little later because he felt sick earlier that night. Daddy immediately noticed the smell of something burning. He went to the window and saw all three dogs barking like mad and looking up to his bedroom window. These dogs were truly heroes! They saved my Daddy's life that morning! Our house burned completely to the ground.

The Dane developed heart trouble, as is common among the breed, and subsequently died. My Mother cried. The female Weimaraner died of old age and the male just disappeared afterwards. My Mother, my Daddy and I all cried when the two of these dogs were gone.

After I was married, I had a few other dogs but the one that I remember the most from back then was a former hunting dog that had been used for breeding as well which I adopted from a good friend. She was a Yellow Lab and her name was Sugar. I built a chain link fence for her that was thirty yards wide by one hundred yards long so she would have plenty of room to play and train. I use to hunt with her and if you've ever hunted a dog, you realize you have to work them when not hunting. I had numerous birds for her to work with and several balls for play. When I had the dummies, she knew it was time to work. When I would pick up a ball, she'd go berserk! You could see it in her eyes. She'd wag her tail so violently that the inertia actually caused her back paws to slide to and fro across the ground.

One day while outside, I could tell Sugar wanted to play. I went into her run, picked up her favorite ball and threw it down the run. We repeated this for at least an hour without her tiring. I had become tired but picked the ball up which she always placed at my feet and threw it again. Oh, no! This time it was headed along the short angle of the run. Sugar always ran as fast as she could looking over her back and never looking ahead and would try to catch the ball before it hit the ground. As the ball went over the fence, Sugar plowed head-long into the chain link at full speed then yelped. Though I petted and comforted her for a good long while, she never played with me again. She would work well enough but never chased after another ball that came from my hands. Someone stole her right out of her run one night and once again, I cried over a dog.

While living in Wyoming, I had an AKC registered American Black and Tan Coonhound from a champion lineage and he had an impressive PRN. His name was Buford. He was my ex-wife's dog but bonded with me the strongest. There are many stories that could be told about this amazing dog but I'll limit it to only two.

Buford knew he was not allowed in the kitchen when I was cooking, so he would place both front paws about one inch onto the kitchen floor while the rest of him laid on the dining room carpet. I would talk to him as I cooked explaining every thing I was doing and he would listen to me intently. I always cooked him an egg on Sunday mornings. He liked eggs. I could tell.

I also grilled out a lot and would talk to him and explain every thing I did on the grill. One day I decided to go back in to watch a little more TV while my elk steaks were cooking. I looked at Buford and told him to let me know when the steaks were ready to turn over. He got up and came over nearer the hot grill and plopped his butt down on the ground and stared at the grill. I went inside and a few minutes later, the barking began. I went outside and Buford was standing next to the grill wagging his tail. I lifted the top and turned the steaks. I closed it and told Buford to let me know when they were done, then started back inside as he once again sat at his station beside the grill. Several minutes later, more barking. I grabbed a plate on the way outside and found Buford wagging his tail beside the grill again. The steaks were perfectly temped to the rare side of Medium Rare, just the way I like them. Buford could do this every time whether watching food on the grill, on the range or in the oven. I never figured out how he did it.

Buford was often found "Chillin' the boys".

Cletus.  My boy!

I wanted to get Buford a friend and went to Cheyenne to the Animal Shelter. There I found a Tennessee Tree Walker Hound that had been neglected and obviously abused. I named him Cletus. I found out that he had been adopted once and returned because the folks who adopted him didn't know how to deal with the dog's issues and how to take care of him. While I was filling out the adoption papers, I was told that this poor dog had been beaten over and over, had been burned with lit cigarettes and shot. One of the beatings he endured left him suffering from seizures, as we were to find out later. For a whole year he would not just come to me when I called him. He would run and hide if he saw any male, including me, wearing a ball cap. Finally, after long hours of loving him without expectations, he came over to me one day and just laid his head on my lap. I slowly began to scratch behind his ears and rub his neck then immediately reinforced his trust in me with one of his favorite treats. Over the next few months, he became a “Daddy's Doggy”. We were quite the pair!

Cletus and Buford.  Pals!

Buford began to get sick not long after he saw that Cletus, the Tree Walker, was going to take care of me. Buford succumbed to a virulent strain of cancer a few months later and I still cry for him today. Buford was missed but we got another friend for Cletus, another Black and Tan, who we named, Zeke. Zeke was adopted from a rescue outfit in Nebraska. Cletus and Zeke rapidly became buddies. I had to leave Cletus with my ex when I moved back home to South Carolina. He's another dog I still cry about when I'm depressed and begin to think about how much I miss him.

When I moved in with my Girlfriend turned Fiancee, she already had a dog named Wookie. If you ever see him you will surely understand how he got his name. He's a Shepard mix and one of the best outdoor dogs I've ever seen. He doesn't bark at things he shouldn't but will bark his head off if he sees some one or some thing come onto the property or if he sees something he views as a threat. He's also one of those grinning dogs and he cracks me up grinning all the time.

Credence, our new baby in "Protect Mode".

More recently, Credence came into our lives. She had been neglected and we could tell she just wanted some one to help her. We did. I'll tell you some stories about our new baby, Credence, in a few weeks. I think I've rambled on enough for now about some of the dogs in my life who became family. I hope you've enjoyed reading some things about these awesome K-9 personalities.

All I can leave you with is this piece of advice. If you decide to bring a dog into your home, adoption is certainly a wonderful route to take. I don't even consider getting animals from the pet shops or any breeding mill these days. I feel adopting a dog from a reputable breeder, shelter or rescue agency is the only logical choice when considering a pet. I've had good luck with reputable breeders but will stick to adoption from shelters and rescue agencies from now on. That way I know at least one more animal will avoid being put to sleep.

Until next week,

Toodles!