The wife and I are moving, finally finding that nice house on the lake that we've been looking for for several years.
Having found a buyer for our present house, and with mortgage company giving their final blessing to our purchase, we have begun the chore of packing.
While sifting through stuff to throw away, stuff to give to charity, and stuff to take with us I was surprised to see how much stuff in this house belongs to our kids. K1 has been on her own for the last 18 months or so, K2 is living with her and has been out of our house for about a year. K3 is at college, so I consider her to be a part time boarder. Mostly she just is storing the stuff here that she doesn't have room for in her dorm room.
So, what this all boils down to that K's 1 and 2 have a significant pile of junk in our house that I do not want to move, and am tempted to give to charity. I would do so except for the wife. She says that some of this stuff the kids want to keep.
Fine, says I. The kids can come and get it.
But then I think back to when I moved out and my parents chattered incessantly about me getting my things out of their garage. They didn't give me any timeline to complete this project, but ol' Dad let me know that it wasn't an open ended timeline.
He proved it a short time later by selling my pickup for $25.00. And, even more painful, my childhood baseball card collection disappeared. I had some great cards that would be very valuable to someone, so I hope that whomever this family bandit was was smart enough to sell them, but I suspect that the thief (who I suspect was my Mom), just threw them away.
Family tragedy.
Now the shoe's on the other foot. There's nothing too valuable that my kids are storing here, with the exception of some prom dresses that K1 wants to loan to some of the girls she teaches who might not otherwise be able to afford a nice dress.
I now see the issue from my Dad's perspective. So, how justified am I in tossing all of this stuff?
What is the grace period involved, here?
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Letters from the past, and sausage
My family spent Christmas Eve with my sister at her house in McKinney. It was a full house and was a lot of fun.
It was the second Christmas that we'd spent without Mom, who had passed away in 2010. Our Dad has been gone for about five years, and our baby sister had passed away a couple of years before that, so our shrinking family makes these holidays a little bittersweet. Fate is picking us off, one by one.
(Side note, here...last year my wife wanted to take pictures of us assembled Moffetts. One of my girls squawked, and my sister commented that we should take pictures whenever we can, "because there's not as many of us left, anymore." I got a chuckle out of that last year, but it is true. Fate, Darwinism, or the Good Lord can thin the familial herd unexpectedly. That last family picture you took may wind up being the last family picture you ever take.)
During the festivities my sister disappeared into her room, and comes out lugging a big binder, stuffed with papers. She plunked it down in front of me and said that it contains letters that Dad and Mom had written back and forth when they were engaged and planning their wedding, in the early 1960's. Also thrown in was letters from their respective parents to each of them.
There are a lot of letters here, enough to fill a five-inch binder. They are mostly handwritten, but still quite legible, even after 50 years or so.
I skimmed them a bit, feeling kind like a creeper (to use my daughters' lingo), and the ones that I read seemed to focus a lot on the novelty of a nice Methodist small town Arkansas girl marrying a North Carolina Catholic. In the early '60's I'm not even sure that there were any Catholic churches in White County, Arkansas (where Mom was from). He might have been the first Catholic that my grandparents had ever met
I do know, from past discussions with my Mom and grandparents that my grandparents were very concerned about Catholics in general, and my Dad in particular. (I should note, here, that he won them over completely, which I think is a testament not only to the kind of man he was, but to their openmindedness, a characteristic not often seen in the early 1960's South).
Like I said, I skimmed these letters a bit on Christmas Eve, and a bit more last night. I can't bring myself to read them staight through, feeling a bit squeamish. I shouldn't be, I know, but I'm not sure that I want to discover intimate details about my parents from letters that they wrote when they were roughly my daughters' ages. Even though the incriminating documents were written some 50 years ago.
My wife is not so squeamish; she couldn't wait to get at these letters, and had them completely read by Christmas night.
This may be, for me, one of the final steps in seeing my parents not for the people that I thought they were when I was growing up, but for the people that they truly were. Most everyone goes through this, I would imagine, but it is (for me, at least) something similar to peeling back the layers of a person's personality.
I think it's a bit like sausage; the end result may be good, but the process may be a bit tough to watch.
It was the second Christmas that we'd spent without Mom, who had passed away in 2010. Our Dad has been gone for about five years, and our baby sister had passed away a couple of years before that, so our shrinking family makes these holidays a little bittersweet. Fate is picking us off, one by one.
(Side note, here...last year my wife wanted to take pictures of us assembled Moffetts. One of my girls squawked, and my sister commented that we should take pictures whenever we can, "because there's not as many of us left, anymore." I got a chuckle out of that last year, but it is true. Fate, Darwinism, or the Good Lord can thin the familial herd unexpectedly. That last family picture you took may wind up being the last family picture you ever take.)
During the festivities my sister disappeared into her room, and comes out lugging a big binder, stuffed with papers. She plunked it down in front of me and said that it contains letters that Dad and Mom had written back and forth when they were engaged and planning their wedding, in the early 1960's. Also thrown in was letters from their respective parents to each of them.
There are a lot of letters here, enough to fill a five-inch binder. They are mostly handwritten, but still quite legible, even after 50 years or so.
I skimmed them a bit, feeling kind like a creeper (to use my daughters' lingo), and the ones that I read seemed to focus a lot on the novelty of a nice Methodist small town Arkansas girl marrying a North Carolina Catholic. In the early '60's I'm not even sure that there were any Catholic churches in White County, Arkansas (where Mom was from). He might have been the first Catholic that my grandparents had ever met
I do know, from past discussions with my Mom and grandparents that my grandparents were very concerned about Catholics in general, and my Dad in particular. (I should note, here, that he won them over completely, which I think is a testament not only to the kind of man he was, but to their openmindedness, a characteristic not often seen in the early 1960's South).
Like I said, I skimmed these letters a bit on Christmas Eve, and a bit more last night. I can't bring myself to read them staight through, feeling a bit squeamish. I shouldn't be, I know, but I'm not sure that I want to discover intimate details about my parents from letters that they wrote when they were roughly my daughters' ages. Even though the incriminating documents were written some 50 years ago.
My wife is not so squeamish; she couldn't wait to get at these letters, and had them completely read by Christmas night.
This may be, for me, one of the final steps in seeing my parents not for the people that I thought they were when I was growing up, but for the people that they truly were. Most everyone goes through this, I would imagine, but it is (for me, at least) something similar to peeling back the layers of a person's personality.
I think it's a bit like sausage; the end result may be good, but the process may be a bit tough to watch.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Meanwhile, in heaven... (and from "Get Shorty)...
On the eve of the birth of the Christ, I received a vision from the Almighty...
I saw the Lord God, resplendent in robes of shimmering white, a golden goblet of wine, standing next to His Son. Jesus, ever a man of the people, was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and hiking boots (He had done a fair bit of walking when He was younger, and had come to like the boots). He sipped from a cold bottle of beer.
In my vision I saw Them peering down on Earth, watching the world before Them. They saw politicians lining their pockets at the expense of the people they govern. They saw the pedophile priests, and the televangelists victimizing their flocks. They saw parents bastardizing the holy scripture and using it to teach their children to hate. They saw us raping the planet without regard our kids and grandchildren who would come after us.
I saw the Lord God rubbing His temples in frustrated resignation. I saw Him turn to Jesus and say, "Son, exactly what did you say to these people?"
I saw Jesus take a sip of beer and sigh. He sadly shook His head and said, "Father, I know what I said, but I don't know what they heard."
==========================================================================
And now for something completely different...
I saw "Get Shorty" last night and laughed out loud when I heard the line, "Know what kind of writing pays the best? Ransom notes!"
I saw the Lord God, resplendent in robes of shimmering white, a golden goblet of wine, standing next to His Son. Jesus, ever a man of the people, was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and hiking boots (He had done a fair bit of walking when He was younger, and had come to like the boots). He sipped from a cold bottle of beer.
In my vision I saw Them peering down on Earth, watching the world before Them. They saw politicians lining their pockets at the expense of the people they govern. They saw the pedophile priests, and the televangelists victimizing their flocks. They saw parents bastardizing the holy scripture and using it to teach their children to hate. They saw us raping the planet without regard our kids and grandchildren who would come after us.
I saw the Lord God rubbing His temples in frustrated resignation. I saw Him turn to Jesus and say, "Son, exactly what did you say to these people?"
I saw Jesus take a sip of beer and sigh. He sadly shook His head and said, "Father, I know what I said, but I don't know what they heard."
==========================================================================
And now for something completely different...
I saw "Get Shorty" last night and laughed out loud when I heard the line, "Know what kind of writing pays the best? Ransom notes!"
Friday, December 23, 2011
My Grandad passed away 15 years ago today. He was one of my heroes and my thoughts turn to him this time of year, even after 15 years.
He was from humble means; his father was a farmer and carpenter. He spent his entire life in a small town in central Arkansas, about 30 miles north of Little Rock. He was a self made man, raised on a farm, attending what school he could, and then spent his adulthood as a storekeeper in his little town, as well as owning the town's movie theater.
He was too young for World War I, and health issues kept him from World War II, circumstances that he regretted all of his life.
He was of the generation that bridged the Old South and the New South, was a product of the former, and a building block of the latter.
Though The War of Northern Aggression, as he taught me to call it, had been over for some 38 years before he was born, it lingered still in the minds and hearts of his neighbors. My grandad knew men who had fought in the civil war. His own grandfather had fought in the Arkansas infantry, and he had an uncle who had been lynched by Yankee soldiers on his own land. When I was young he gleefully told the story of the Yankees botching the job. His uncle's family (who was hiding in the smokehouse, cut the old boy down before any permanent damage was done).
Thinking back, one of the few times that he ever got upset with me was when I was about 13, and had brought up The War at the supper table. He sternly told me that The War was not a subject for polite discussion, especially around women.
Though he was from the deep South during a time in our history when hatred and racism prevailed, he saw men only for their character, a trait that would cause him a great deal of trouble later in his life.
While he had his little dry goods store, in the 1930's, he would take a day off during December and deliver presents to the black families in his town. It wasn't much (he couldn't afford too much), but it caused quite the stir in a time when blacks were tolerated in the South, but certainly were expected to stay out of sight and keep quiet. My Mom once told me that he was threatened by others in the town for doing this.
Every summer I would go spend a week with him and my Grandmother, along with my sisters, and we'd be spoiled rotten. During the days I would walk the half mile or so to his store, on Main Street, and just spend the day with him.
At lunchtime we'd sometimes walk over to the College Inn and have our lunch. He knew everyone in town, and it seemed like it took forever to walk down the sidewalks; he would stop and talk to everyone he met.
As with everyone, though, time took it's toll, and he grew older. In 1996 he wound up in the hospital with chest pain, and my wife and I, with K's 1-3 in tow, made the late night drive from our home in Arlington, Texas to see him.
We found him resting comfortably in the hospital, having just found out that he had a thoracic embolism that looked as if it were about to let go, which would surely kill him. Despite this he was in a good mood and happy to see that my wife and I had brought our girls.
The next morning I found my Mom had beaten us to the hospital and was sitting with a middle aged nurse outside his room. Mom introduced me and said that she had known the nurse when she was little.
The story that Mom told me later was that in the early 1970's this nurse had been a high school drop out, unwed mother of two or three kids (I forget which) and was quite ostracized from the town. It was near the end of summer, and she had no money to buy her kids shoes for school.
Her good Christian neighbors had washed their collective hands of her (as many people who call themselves good Christians are prone to do, I've noticed), and she was in dire straits. Grandad found out about it, and sold her shoes on credit so her kids could go to school.
Over the years this young mother had built her life, finished school herself, and gone on to become a nurse. She was leaving the hospital late the night before after her shift and just happened to glance up to see my Grandad's name on the door. She remembered him and his generosity, some 25 years later. She noticed my Mom, and sat with her all night.
That's the effect my Grandad had on people.
I remember him as a quite, uncomplicated, kind man. He took care of his family, and did his part to take care of his community. I'm not sure that there's any better epitaph that can be written for anyone.
I miss you, Grandad.
He was from humble means; his father was a farmer and carpenter. He spent his entire life in a small town in central Arkansas, about 30 miles north of Little Rock. He was a self made man, raised on a farm, attending what school he could, and then spent his adulthood as a storekeeper in his little town, as well as owning the town's movie theater.
He was too young for World War I, and health issues kept him from World War II, circumstances that he regretted all of his life.
He was of the generation that bridged the Old South and the New South, was a product of the former, and a building block of the latter.
Though The War of Northern Aggression, as he taught me to call it, had been over for some 38 years before he was born, it lingered still in the minds and hearts of his neighbors. My grandad knew men who had fought in the civil war. His own grandfather had fought in the Arkansas infantry, and he had an uncle who had been lynched by Yankee soldiers on his own land. When I was young he gleefully told the story of the Yankees botching the job. His uncle's family (who was hiding in the smokehouse, cut the old boy down before any permanent damage was done).
Thinking back, one of the few times that he ever got upset with me was when I was about 13, and had brought up The War at the supper table. He sternly told me that The War was not a subject for polite discussion, especially around women.
Though he was from the deep South during a time in our history when hatred and racism prevailed, he saw men only for their character, a trait that would cause him a great deal of trouble later in his life.
While he had his little dry goods store, in the 1930's, he would take a day off during December and deliver presents to the black families in his town. It wasn't much (he couldn't afford too much), but it caused quite the stir in a time when blacks were tolerated in the South, but certainly were expected to stay out of sight and keep quiet. My Mom once told me that he was threatened by others in the town for doing this.
Every summer I would go spend a week with him and my Grandmother, along with my sisters, and we'd be spoiled rotten. During the days I would walk the half mile or so to his store, on Main Street, and just spend the day with him.
At lunchtime we'd sometimes walk over to the College Inn and have our lunch. He knew everyone in town, and it seemed like it took forever to walk down the sidewalks; he would stop and talk to everyone he met.
As with everyone, though, time took it's toll, and he grew older. In 1996 he wound up in the hospital with chest pain, and my wife and I, with K's 1-3 in tow, made the late night drive from our home in Arlington, Texas to see him.
We found him resting comfortably in the hospital, having just found out that he had a thoracic embolism that looked as if it were about to let go, which would surely kill him. Despite this he was in a good mood and happy to see that my wife and I had brought our girls.
The next morning I found my Mom had beaten us to the hospital and was sitting with a middle aged nurse outside his room. Mom introduced me and said that she had known the nurse when she was little.
The story that Mom told me later was that in the early 1970's this nurse had been a high school drop out, unwed mother of two or three kids (I forget which) and was quite ostracized from the town. It was near the end of summer, and she had no money to buy her kids shoes for school.
Her good Christian neighbors had washed their collective hands of her (as many people who call themselves good Christians are prone to do, I've noticed), and she was in dire straits. Grandad found out about it, and sold her shoes on credit so her kids could go to school.
Over the years this young mother had built her life, finished school herself, and gone on to become a nurse. She was leaving the hospital late the night before after her shift and just happened to glance up to see my Grandad's name on the door. She remembered him and his generosity, some 25 years later. She noticed my Mom, and sat with her all night.
That's the effect my Grandad had on people.
I remember him as a quite, uncomplicated, kind man. He took care of his family, and did his part to take care of his community. I'm not sure that there's any better epitaph that can be written for anyone.
I miss you, Grandad.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Thoreau and Mencken were both right!
While poking around on the Web yesterday I ran across a pretty cool site: brainyquote.com. While skimming through there I ran across two quotes from two different people. I've heard each quote, but never thought of them in tandem.
Most everyone has heard of that one, but then I ran across this one that I think is far more interesting, and far less well known.
These two thoughts are true because fairly often one sees the interview on the news, or reads it in the paper, where the neighbor of the guy who just ran amok with a machete at the farmer's market, professes disbelief. "I've know the guy for thirty years. I can't believe he'd do something like this! He (insert your favorite redeeming characteristic here)..."
My question is if, most men lead lives of quiet desperation and if every normal man must be tempted, etc, etc, etc...what percentage of the guys next door are time bombs waiting to go off?
More importantly, what is that trigger that will set these guys off? We can guess at what we think might be normal triggers, 14 year old junior wrecks the family Ford while drunk on underage booze, the wife runs off with his best friend, or that his local chapter of the Jackbooted Corporate HR Thugs request a meeting Friday afternoon at 3:00; or maybe his 12 year old little girl comes home and proudly announces that her due date coincides with her junior high graduation date.
The interesting (and scary) thing for me, though, is that as human beings we all tend to get worked up over all sorts of odd, and usually inconsequential, happenings throughout the day. Someone takes the last of the coffee at the office and doesn't make a new pot, or the Mega-Mart has a sale on just the widget that we're looking for, but is sold out when we get there, etc, etc, etc.
So I guess if both Thoreau and Mencken were right, then the people we should be on the lookout for are not the obvious murderers, but the ones who just seem to be normal, everyday people just going about their business.
Henry David Thoreau said: Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
Most everyone has heard of that one, but then I ran across this one that I think is far more interesting, and far less well known.
H.L. Mencken said: Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag and begin slitting throats.
These two thoughts are true because fairly often one sees the interview on the news, or reads it in the paper, where the neighbor of the guy who just ran amok with a machete at the farmer's market, professes disbelief. "I've know the guy for thirty years. I can't believe he'd do something like this! He (insert your favorite redeeming characteristic here)..."
My question is if, most men lead lives of quiet desperation and if every normal man must be tempted, etc, etc, etc...what percentage of the guys next door are time bombs waiting to go off?
More importantly, what is that trigger that will set these guys off? We can guess at what we think might be normal triggers, 14 year old junior wrecks the family Ford while drunk on underage booze, the wife runs off with his best friend, or that his local chapter of the Jackbooted Corporate HR Thugs request a meeting Friday afternoon at 3:00; or maybe his 12 year old little girl comes home and proudly announces that her due date coincides with her junior high graduation date.
The interesting (and scary) thing for me, though, is that as human beings we all tend to get worked up over all sorts of odd, and usually inconsequential, happenings throughout the day. Someone takes the last of the coffee at the office and doesn't make a new pot, or the Mega-Mart has a sale on just the widget that we're looking for, but is sold out when we get there, etc, etc, etc.
So I guess if both Thoreau and Mencken were right, then the people we should be on the lookout for are not the obvious murderers, but the ones who just seem to be normal, everyday people just going about their business.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Who is this guy, and where did that other guy go?
I have quite a bit more time on my hands these days, thanks to the Jackbooted Corporate Thugs (West Coast Branch).
As a result I have the opportunity to work on my second novel, which title is yet to be decided. Mostly I've been just re-reading and editing it, trying to get it knocked into shape and put on Amazon. I should mention that I wrote it actually about nine years ago, and it's been sitting in cyberspace since then, quietly waiting for me to work my way back to it.
The other day I was re-reading the draft and was surprised to see a character whom I hadn't seen before come wandering into the narrative. He only stayed long enough to get into an argument with the protagonist before strolling out of the narrative, and he doesn't ever show up again in the story.
Did I mention that I'm the sole author of this story? Seems like I would have known who this guy was, and what he wanted before I introduced him to the plot line, or so one would think.
After much head scratching and muttered curses I could not recall why I thought this joker should be in the story at all. It would seem to stand reason that at one point I had good intentions for the new guy, but for the life of me I cannot recall anything at all about him. Any notes that I may have had have been lost, so that's no help.
A particularly brutal editor I once knew told me that every sentence, every paragraph of a piece of fiction must advance the plot. This guy did absolutely nothing except show up uninvited and unwanted and cause a scene.
He argued his case for awhile, but I ended up just deleting him completely from the story. I have no illusions that my writing can stand up to having a character around who doesn't pull his literary weight.
This can be done, though, by writers who are good enough to pull it off. Robert Ludlum, in one of his later novels, I believe, introduces a character who engages the hero in conversation for quite a few pages before Ludlum runs him off. If I remember correctly he gets rid of the guy by getting him drunk an airport bar and putting him on a flight to some far off land.
Ludlum, of course, can get away with this because he could sell a million of copies of his grocery list.
My other problem is that while re-reading the story I discovered that a major character had wandered off on some errand, and the guy never shows up again. That's not nearly as problematic, from a writing standpoint; it's always easier to add to the plot rather than take from the plot. It is bothersome, though.
One would think that since I'm the puppet master of all of these characters I'd maintain better control of them.
As a result I have the opportunity to work on my second novel, which title is yet to be decided. Mostly I've been just re-reading and editing it, trying to get it knocked into shape and put on Amazon. I should mention that I wrote it actually about nine years ago, and it's been sitting in cyberspace since then, quietly waiting for me to work my way back to it.
The other day I was re-reading the draft and was surprised to see a character whom I hadn't seen before come wandering into the narrative. He only stayed long enough to get into an argument with the protagonist before strolling out of the narrative, and he doesn't ever show up again in the story.
Did I mention that I'm the sole author of this story? Seems like I would have known who this guy was, and what he wanted before I introduced him to the plot line, or so one would think.
After much head scratching and muttered curses I could not recall why I thought this joker should be in the story at all. It would seem to stand reason that at one point I had good intentions for the new guy, but for the life of me I cannot recall anything at all about him. Any notes that I may have had have been lost, so that's no help.
A particularly brutal editor I once knew told me that every sentence, every paragraph of a piece of fiction must advance the plot. This guy did absolutely nothing except show up uninvited and unwanted and cause a scene.
He argued his case for awhile, but I ended up just deleting him completely from the story. I have no illusions that my writing can stand up to having a character around who doesn't pull his literary weight.
This can be done, though, by writers who are good enough to pull it off. Robert Ludlum, in one of his later novels, I believe, introduces a character who engages the hero in conversation for quite a few pages before Ludlum runs him off. If I remember correctly he gets rid of the guy by getting him drunk an airport bar and putting him on a flight to some far off land.
Ludlum, of course, can get away with this because he could sell a million of copies of his grocery list.
My other problem is that while re-reading the story I discovered that a major character had wandered off on some errand, and the guy never shows up again. That's not nearly as problematic, from a writing standpoint; it's always easier to add to the plot rather than take from the plot. It is bothersome, though.
One would think that since I'm the puppet master of all of these characters I'd maintain better control of them.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Victimized by technology...
<...pounding the keys in abject rage, spewing foul invective...>
In a black mood right now, having been victimized by Apple technology. I was just about to finish a post, and had only to do a quick spell check, when all of a sudden my screen went blank. My incicive, withering prose disappeared into cyber space without a trace.
I think it was a good post, too.
Brutal, just brutal.
More to come, though...
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Thanks to Snooki I will neither be fired up, nor blasted
I was struggling for a post this morning, after Kid 2 threatened to "fire me up and put me on blast" for not posting anything yesterday. I am not completely sure what all that means, but I know it is bad.
However, the firing and blasting was fortunately postponed. This morning I was watching the news here in the Arlington area, and was surprised to see that this Snooki person had visited Lewisville, Texas this week.
This wasn't didn't really bother me, seeing as Lewisville is somewhat north of Dallas, a fair distance from me, and I rarely venture out that way, preferring to stay out of that side of the Metroplex.
Snooki was apparently, from what I gathered, in the area to promote some sort of tanning/body spray. I was just casually watching the story, waiting for the broadcast to get around some real news (the war in Iraq/Afghanistan, the Republican presidential debacle, state high school football playoffs, etc), but since I was watching the local Fox outlet, Snooki is what passed for news this morning.
Anyway, like I said, I was only casually interested until the story switched to an interview of some lady, conducted on the location of Snooki's visit. I was jolted to absolute fascination when this lady mentioned that Snooki was such a good role model for the kids.
I was certain that I had misheard that, but she chattered on for what seemed like an entire minute on the positive role model that Snooki is for today's youth.
I have to be missing something.
From what I can tell, the Snookster may be a role model for orange-hued public drunkenness, but so far as I know that is the extent of her contribution to society.
If any of my three girls ever claim her as a role model I reserve the right to run amok.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Darwinism Comes to the Toy Store
Back about 20 years ago Kid 1 made it known that for Christmas she would like a doll. Not just any old doll, though. This doll crawled, turned her little head side to side, fell down, and then cried.
This was back when the wife and I were just starting out, and had a small Christmas budget. We crunched the numbers, consulted the stars, and decided that it securing this doll would not break us.
The ensuing psychological trauma has caused me to be unable to recall the doll's name.
As Kid 2 was just around one year old, I decided that I'd skip church one Sunday and leave my wife with Kid 2 while I went forth to seek out this doll. Little did I know that this decision would imperil not only my life, but my very soul.
The next Sunday we rose and I had a bit of coffee, then set out to do my shopping. Knowing that this was the season's "hot" toy I was proud of myself for deciding to get to the toy store before opening. I figured that if I got there 15 minutes early I could get the doll, make my escape and be back in time for the football pre-game show.
When I pulled into the parking lot I was surrounded by what the kids now call "old lady cars." There was a congregation of little old ladies, and some obvious grandads at the front door, restively awaiting the opening bell. I calmly took my place at the back of the crowd.
Presently a young man appeared on the inside, flew open the doors, and then fled for his life in face of the oncoming horde. Being raised a gentleman, I waited for the seniors to go ahead of me. Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't have been so gracious. My fellow shoppers all smiled at me and seemed like a pleasant bunch.
The day was crisp and cool, bright and sunny, but as soon as I went into that store it was as if I passed into some sort of shadowy nether world. These little old ladies, all of whom looked friendly enough outside the store, had been transformed by some unseen force into a lawless rabble, all of whom were rushing towards a display at the back of the store.
That display was a pile of boxed up dolls...the very doll that I was, myself, seeking.
I noticed a knot of older men; they looked at me with pity and contempt. As I passed by one old boy crossed himself.
Drawing a deep breath, I entered the fray.
Because I was 40 years younger, and was bigger and (I thought) stronger than any one of these old gals I figured I would just work my way through the pack, grab a doll, and bolt for the door.
It was a bloodbath. These kindly old grannies were snarling at each other, and me, they were waling away with their canes and walkers. One lady whacked me in the shins with her cane; her eyes were bright with the granny madness. I'm pretty sure one old girl tried to lift my wallet.
Height, bulk and youth seemed to prevail, though, and working my way to the front of the crowd, I reached in and grabbed a box. Lifting it up I turned and tried to make my way out of the mob. I got almost to the edge of the riot, but to avoid a little old lady trying to slant through the crowdand I had to hold the box up.
Which turned out to be a dumb thing to do. I took several shots to the ribs, and one to the kidneys. I fumbled the box and it was swept up by two elderly ladies who cackled something at me and then began to fight over the toy; their little granny claws tore at the box and they both vented such vile profanity that I blushed.
With a new understanding of how the game was played I charged back in, shrugging off the kicks and canes, and came away with another box from the rapidly dwindling stack.
Rather than forcing my way against the stream to escape, I just kept pushing forward, trying to break through the crowd. I emerged with my prize, and veered off towards the box games. I skirted the stuffed animals, did an end-around the My Little Ponies, and cut through electronics. I took a hard right without looking where I was going and paused to catch my breath. My heart sank when I realized what I had stumbled into...the Barbie aisle! Two grannies looked up in surprise, then shrieked when they saw what I held. They rushed me.
I beat a hasty retreat and stormed out of that death trap, took a quick left by the soccer balls and plunged into the next aisle. Air rifles; I was safe! A kindly old man looked at me; we were the only two on that row. He regarded me silently for a moment, then stuck his head out and looked left, and then right. Looking back at me he nodded. The coast was clear! I nodded back in thanks, took a deep breath and broke cover. I never saw him again.
Emerging from the air rifles I could see the checkout stand. I forced myself to walk calmly and confidently up to the girl at the register. I slammed down my cash in triumph and collected my receipt. She bade me Merry Christmas and I limped for the door.
I passed that same knot of older men. Where a short time ago they held me in pity and contempt I now saw nothing but respect in their eyes. I had been tested in hand to hand combat and had emerged with my trophy. I was now one of a select club; Dads and Grandads of Little Girls.
The big day came, the old man in red did his duty, and Kid 1 was ecstatic to see this doll. Imagine my horror, though, when she immediately grabbed the doll in a hammer lock and spun its head completely around. She turned on the damn doll and the little hag (the doll, not my daughter) crawled away from us, watching us, then tumbled over and started crying. It was a cross between Christmas and the Exorcist.
The morale of the story, friends, is that choosing crass commercialism over church imperils your soul as well as your body.
PS--Kid 1 is now dating a fine young man who we all hope will marry into our family. I look at him, though, and wonder if he has what it takes to fight the Christmas granny madness. The poor bastard.
This was back when the wife and I were just starting out, and had a small Christmas budget. We crunched the numbers, consulted the stars, and decided that it securing this doll would not break us.
The ensuing psychological trauma has caused me to be unable to recall the doll's name.
As Kid 2 was just around one year old, I decided that I'd skip church one Sunday and leave my wife with Kid 2 while I went forth to seek out this doll. Little did I know that this decision would imperil not only my life, but my very soul.
The next Sunday we rose and I had a bit of coffee, then set out to do my shopping. Knowing that this was the season's "hot" toy I was proud of myself for deciding to get to the toy store before opening. I figured that if I got there 15 minutes early I could get the doll, make my escape and be back in time for the football pre-game show.
When I pulled into the parking lot I was surrounded by what the kids now call "old lady cars." There was a congregation of little old ladies, and some obvious grandads at the front door, restively awaiting the opening bell. I calmly took my place at the back of the crowd.
Presently a young man appeared on the inside, flew open the doors, and then fled for his life in face of the oncoming horde. Being raised a gentleman, I waited for the seniors to go ahead of me. Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't have been so gracious. My fellow shoppers all smiled at me and seemed like a pleasant bunch.
The day was crisp and cool, bright and sunny, but as soon as I went into that store it was as if I passed into some sort of shadowy nether world. These little old ladies, all of whom looked friendly enough outside the store, had been transformed by some unseen force into a lawless rabble, all of whom were rushing towards a display at the back of the store.
That display was a pile of boxed up dolls...the very doll that I was, myself, seeking.
I noticed a knot of older men; they looked at me with pity and contempt. As I passed by one old boy crossed himself.
Drawing a deep breath, I entered the fray.
Because I was 40 years younger, and was bigger and (I thought) stronger than any one of these old gals I figured I would just work my way through the pack, grab a doll, and bolt for the door.
It was a bloodbath. These kindly old grannies were snarling at each other, and me, they were waling away with their canes and walkers. One lady whacked me in the shins with her cane; her eyes were bright with the granny madness. I'm pretty sure one old girl tried to lift my wallet.
Height, bulk and youth seemed to prevail, though, and working my way to the front of the crowd, I reached in and grabbed a box. Lifting it up I turned and tried to make my way out of the mob. I got almost to the edge of the riot, but to avoid a little old lady trying to slant through the crowdand I had to hold the box up.
Which turned out to be a dumb thing to do. I took several shots to the ribs, and one to the kidneys. I fumbled the box and it was swept up by two elderly ladies who cackled something at me and then began to fight over the toy; their little granny claws tore at the box and they both vented such vile profanity that I blushed.
With a new understanding of how the game was played I charged back in, shrugging off the kicks and canes, and came away with another box from the rapidly dwindling stack.
Rather than forcing my way against the stream to escape, I just kept pushing forward, trying to break through the crowd. I emerged with my prize, and veered off towards the box games. I skirted the stuffed animals, did an end-around the My Little Ponies, and cut through electronics. I took a hard right without looking where I was going and paused to catch my breath. My heart sank when I realized what I had stumbled into...the Barbie aisle! Two grannies looked up in surprise, then shrieked when they saw what I held. They rushed me.
I beat a hasty retreat and stormed out of that death trap, took a quick left by the soccer balls and plunged into the next aisle. Air rifles; I was safe! A kindly old man looked at me; we were the only two on that row. He regarded me silently for a moment, then stuck his head out and looked left, and then right. Looking back at me he nodded. The coast was clear! I nodded back in thanks, took a deep breath and broke cover. I never saw him again.
Emerging from the air rifles I could see the checkout stand. I forced myself to walk calmly and confidently up to the girl at the register. I slammed down my cash in triumph and collected my receipt. She bade me Merry Christmas and I limped for the door.
I passed that same knot of older men. Where a short time ago they held me in pity and contempt I now saw nothing but respect in their eyes. I had been tested in hand to hand combat and had emerged with my trophy. I was now one of a select club; Dads and Grandads of Little Girls.
The big day came, the old man in red did his duty, and Kid 1 was ecstatic to see this doll. Imagine my horror, though, when she immediately grabbed the doll in a hammer lock and spun its head completely around. She turned on the damn doll and the little hag (the doll, not my daughter) crawled away from us, watching us, then tumbled over and started crying. It was a cross between Christmas and the Exorcist.
The morale of the story, friends, is that choosing crass commercialism over church imperils your soul as well as your body.
PS--Kid 1 is now dating a fine young man who we all hope will marry into our family. I look at him, though, and wonder if he has what it takes to fight the Christmas granny madness. The poor bastard.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Meanwhile, in East Texas...
Our daughter has found her place in the world.
Yesterday my wife and I drove down to see Kid 1 direct her band in the annual Christmas concert. Note I said "Christmas." That was intentional; it wasn't a, "winter celebration," "Kwanzaa-fest," or "holiday concert."
In any case, as the lights dimmed and she stepped to the podium, I had a hard time seeing my daughter, the grown up woman. Who I did see was my little girl at age three, her hair in pig tails, who used to hold her arms up and conduct with the music on the radio.
Time marches on, though, and she has paperwork from the State of Texas and from University of North Texas that confirms that she is qualified to teach band to junior high and high school students.
It's hard to describe, but she was in her element, and as parent I'm not sure that her Mom and I could ask for anything more than that. It was as if all of the parenting, the years of helping with homework, the trips to concerts and football games, and the seemingly endless hours of college forms (not to mention the seemingly endless tuition payments) came to fruition on a small stage last night in a little town in East Texas.
(Side note: My wife gets most of the credit for all of that; she may be the most involved parent of all time. I was vaguely aware of some short people living in the house for several years, but my wife knew every detail of each of their days, every day.)
Our daughter has found her place in the world.
Will any of her students turn out to be a 21st century Benny Goodman, or a rising star on the jazz or classical music scene? I don't know. Maybe not. But that's not the point.
The point is that our daughter has shown herself to be a positive influence on the lives of a lot of kids in that little school district, some of whom, she tells me, don't receive a lot of positive influence in their lives.
Like I said, it's hard to explain, but last night revealed, to me at least, that the day to day parenting that's involved in raising a child can show up as a cumulative result in an unexpected place. As the stage lights came up and my little girl stood on the podium and raised her arms, it was as if the fates, or karma, or the Good Lord said, "this little one has found her place."
And friends, as a parent, that is powerful stuff.
Yesterday my wife and I drove down to see Kid 1 direct her band in the annual Christmas concert. Note I said "Christmas." That was intentional; it wasn't a, "winter celebration," "Kwanzaa-fest," or "holiday concert."
In any case, as the lights dimmed and she stepped to the podium, I had a hard time seeing my daughter, the grown up woman. Who I did see was my little girl at age three, her hair in pig tails, who used to hold her arms up and conduct with the music on the radio.
Time marches on, though, and she has paperwork from the State of Texas and from University of North Texas that confirms that she is qualified to teach band to junior high and high school students.
It's hard to describe, but she was in her element, and as parent I'm not sure that her Mom and I could ask for anything more than that. It was as if all of the parenting, the years of helping with homework, the trips to concerts and football games, and the seemingly endless hours of college forms (not to mention the seemingly endless tuition payments) came to fruition on a small stage last night in a little town in East Texas.
(Side note: My wife gets most of the credit for all of that; she may be the most involved parent of all time. I was vaguely aware of some short people living in the house for several years, but my wife knew every detail of each of their days, every day.)
Our daughter has found her place in the world.
Will any of her students turn out to be a 21st century Benny Goodman, or a rising star on the jazz or classical music scene? I don't know. Maybe not. But that's not the point.
The point is that our daughter has shown herself to be a positive influence on the lives of a lot of kids in that little school district, some of whom, she tells me, don't receive a lot of positive influence in their lives.
Like I said, it's hard to explain, but last night revealed, to me at least, that the day to day parenting that's involved in raising a child can show up as a cumulative result in an unexpected place. As the stage lights came up and my little girl stood on the podium and raised her arms, it was as if the fates, or karma, or the Good Lord said, "this little one has found her place."
And friends, as a parent, that is powerful stuff.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Facing down Rick Perry on the library steps
I won't ever vote for Rick Perry. Here's why...
One summer my wife and I had taken our girls to Fredericksburg, Texas for the weekend. None of us had ever been there, but we'd heard great things about it, so decided to give it a try. (Unsolicited travel plug...it's a great place for both kids and adults to spend a weekend. Here's their Website: http://www.fbgtx.org/).
That Saturday afternoon we were sitting on the library steps, reviewing the local travel guide, trying to decide what to do with the balance of the day. We discovered that Fredericksburg has a lot to do, so we were running out of time. (The art of plotting travel strategy with three small children is perhaps a topic for another post.)
We were startled to see a big tour bus, complete with blacked out windows, but otherwise unmarked, pull up right in front of us; it was flanked by two highway patrol cars.
This was several years ago when Mr. Perry was merely the governor, before he got imperial ambitions.
The bus ground to a halt and just sat there for a moment or two. Suddenly the the doors flew open and the great man himself, Rick Perry, came bounding down the steps onto the sidewalk just a few feet from us. The bus then spewed forth a coven of minions. You know the type, serious, sinister-looking people with pinched eyebrows and beady eyes, all huddled together. They were all looking at their Blackberries with great concern. No doubt a democrat had gotten loose in the capitol building and was threatening to introduce legislation that might help regular people.
My wife and I recognized him straight away; kids 1 and 2, as well, were old enough to recognize Mr. Perry, and were looking at him with wide eyes. Kid 3 wasn't old enough yet to recognize such an auspicious person and wasn't all that impressed with the developments.
In any case, being raised to respect our elected officials, the wife and I stood up in anticipation of meeting Himself.
Perry, trailed closely by his minions and two state troopers, walked right by without a hello, nod of the head, or a "kiss my ass."
So much for the humility of elected officials.
I was prepared to write this off as another asshole politician who forgot who he worked for, but my wife had other plans.
In a loud voice she sang out, "That sorry bastard didn't even stop! I'll never vote for him!"
My girl!
Governor Perry slammed on the brakes so abruptly that the minions piled into the back of him, literally almost knocking him over. Lord, God!
He reversed direction, pushing through the minions and walked up to us. The coven crowded around us and for a moment I wondered how my girls would react to seeing their daddy clubbed to the ground by Perry's evil posse. I wondered if the state troopers would help me, or join forces with the minions. Turns out that both troopers were smirking the whole time, which made me feel marginally better.
Rick tried to make amends, introducing himself to us and our girls and shaking all our hands, asking where we were from and what we were doing in town, but the damage was done.
After about 30 seconds of glad-handing he reversed directions and headed into the library, still followed by his minions, to conclude whatever nefarious business brought him to town.
Again, we were alone on the library steps. The wife and I looked at each other and started laughing. We decided to go have some ice cream to celebrate our delivering a dose of comeuppance to Governor Perry.
That's why I haven't voted for him since, and won't vote for him in the future. When an elected official considers it beneath him to even nod to the common man, he loses my vote.
One summer my wife and I had taken our girls to Fredericksburg, Texas for the weekend. None of us had ever been there, but we'd heard great things about it, so decided to give it a try. (Unsolicited travel plug...it's a great place for both kids and adults to spend a weekend. Here's their Website: http://www.fbgtx.org/).
That Saturday afternoon we were sitting on the library steps, reviewing the local travel guide, trying to decide what to do with the balance of the day. We discovered that Fredericksburg has a lot to do, so we were running out of time. (The art of plotting travel strategy with three small children is perhaps a topic for another post.)
We were startled to see a big tour bus, complete with blacked out windows, but otherwise unmarked, pull up right in front of us; it was flanked by two highway patrol cars.
This was several years ago when Mr. Perry was merely the governor, before he got imperial ambitions.
The bus ground to a halt and just sat there for a moment or two. Suddenly the the doors flew open and the great man himself, Rick Perry, came bounding down the steps onto the sidewalk just a few feet from us. The bus then spewed forth a coven of minions. You know the type, serious, sinister-looking people with pinched eyebrows and beady eyes, all huddled together. They were all looking at their Blackberries with great concern. No doubt a democrat had gotten loose in the capitol building and was threatening to introduce legislation that might help regular people.
My wife and I recognized him straight away; kids 1 and 2, as well, were old enough to recognize Mr. Perry, and were looking at him with wide eyes. Kid 3 wasn't old enough yet to recognize such an auspicious person and wasn't all that impressed with the developments.
In any case, being raised to respect our elected officials, the wife and I stood up in anticipation of meeting Himself.
Perry, trailed closely by his minions and two state troopers, walked right by without a hello, nod of the head, or a "kiss my ass."
So much for the humility of elected officials.
I was prepared to write this off as another asshole politician who forgot who he worked for, but my wife had other plans.
In a loud voice she sang out, "That sorry bastard didn't even stop! I'll never vote for him!"
My girl!
Governor Perry slammed on the brakes so abruptly that the minions piled into the back of him, literally almost knocking him over. Lord, God!
He reversed direction, pushing through the minions and walked up to us. The coven crowded around us and for a moment I wondered how my girls would react to seeing their daddy clubbed to the ground by Perry's evil posse. I wondered if the state troopers would help me, or join forces with the minions. Turns out that both troopers were smirking the whole time, which made me feel marginally better.
Rick tried to make amends, introducing himself to us and our girls and shaking all our hands, asking where we were from and what we were doing in town, but the damage was done.
After about 30 seconds of glad-handing he reversed directions and headed into the library, still followed by his minions, to conclude whatever nefarious business brought him to town.
Again, we were alone on the library steps. The wife and I looked at each other and started laughing. We decided to go have some ice cream to celebrate our delivering a dose of comeuppance to Governor Perry.
That's why I haven't voted for him since, and won't vote for him in the future. When an elected official considers it beneath him to even nod to the common man, he loses my vote.
Friday, December 9, 2011
That's not a stain; it's a memory!
We have decided to move to a little town in East Texas called Onalaska. I know you know where that is. Our immediate task is to sell our existing home in Arlington, TX.
I thought that I could remain somewhat detached during this process, but I fear that I'm going to turn into a big old crybaby before the deed is done.
We had this house built in 1996, and have lived in it since then. When we moved in Kid 1 was 10, Kid 2 was seven, and Kid 3 was three years old. Those are prime memory making ages, as all parents know.
The very first day in the house, while we were still moving in, in fact, Kid 3 squired Elmers Glue all over her new carpet. We weren't even finished unloading the truck yet! Rather than being mad, though, my wife and I just laughed. It was exactly like discovering that first ding in your brand new car; the suspense was over.
In any case this morning we had a man over to take a look at the house to try to determine how much it might be worth. As we were giving him the grand tour I was overwhelmed with memories in each room. The memories were mostly just of everyday stuff, but they all combined to transform a structure of brick and wood into an actual home. Very powerful stuff.
That doesn't happen overnight, of course. The memories build slowly, but steadily, over time until the sterile house that we move into becomes a home; a place where each room, each wall has a story to tell.
Anyone who says that they can sell their house without some sort of emotional turmoil is either lying or is a robot. The emotions may be good, or they may be bad, but they will be there. Emotional attachments to inanimate objects are one of the peculiarities of our makeup that separate us from other critters.
I thought that I could remain somewhat detached during this process, but I fear that I'm going to turn into a big old crybaby before the deed is done.
We had this house built in 1996, and have lived in it since then. When we moved in Kid 1 was 10, Kid 2 was seven, and Kid 3 was three years old. Those are prime memory making ages, as all parents know.
The very first day in the house, while we were still moving in, in fact, Kid 3 squired Elmers Glue all over her new carpet. We weren't even finished unloading the truck yet! Rather than being mad, though, my wife and I just laughed. It was exactly like discovering that first ding in your brand new car; the suspense was over.
In any case this morning we had a man over to take a look at the house to try to determine how much it might be worth. As we were giving him the grand tour I was overwhelmed with memories in each room. The memories were mostly just of everyday stuff, but they all combined to transform a structure of brick and wood into an actual home. Very powerful stuff.
That doesn't happen overnight, of course. The memories build slowly, but steadily, over time until the sterile house that we move into becomes a home; a place where each room, each wall has a story to tell.
Anyone who says that they can sell their house without some sort of emotional turmoil is either lying or is a robot. The emotions may be good, or they may be bad, but they will be there. Emotional attachments to inanimate objects are one of the peculiarities of our makeup that separate us from other critters.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
The duality of man, and no, drinking milk will not dilute your blood.
While doing a bit of Christmas shopping with the wife yesterday I had sought temporary refuge between two toy displays while she cruised up and down an aisle of girly things, looking for something for K's 1-3.
While waiting for her I had two disconnected thoughts. "How come they never had any of these cool Nerf-gun rifles when I was a kid?" and then, "It's almost time to give blood."
Which brings me to today's subject; the duality of man. There is a streak of orneriness hiding just under the surface of all of us.
Back in the early '90's the company I worked for had several blood drives through the year. Since one of our girls had to have some blood transfusions when she was born I try to, "pay it forward." I donate as often as I can, which I hope suggests that there is some good in me. I do try to be nice to people, even if I don't know them.
As fate would have it we had a new administrative assistant who had just started with us, and since her cube was cattywampus to mine, so we chatted periodically throughout the day. This young lady was very nice, and a good administrative assistant, but she was the most gullible and naive person that I'd ever met...which is what led the orneriness in me to bubble up.
The conversation that day was along these lines:
Me: You giving blood today?
Her: Yes, it's my first time...are you?
Me: Oh yeah, I always try to. My little girl had to have some transfusions when she was born, so I try to return the favor.
Back to work for a few minutes, and then, out of the blue I started down that slippery slope.
Me: You didn't drink any milk today, did you?
Her: Well, I had some with my cereal this morning. Why?
Me: You can't drink milk before you give blood! It dilutes your blood and they'll have to take twice as much! Didn't anyone tell you that?
Her (with worried look on her face): No!
Back to work for a few minutes...
Her: Does it hurt to give blood?
Me: Well, it doesn't hurt a whole lot, but it is scary when they hold your arm over the bucket and you see the knife.
I know, I know; I'm going to have to answer for that some day.
Anyway, she bravely kept her appointment. I could tell that she was really scared, but I could not make myself own to up what I'd done.
But, oh man, when she came back from donating she was 40 kinds of pissed off at me. I had to volunteer to do her paper shredding for a month to get forgiven. (We had one of those old huge paper shredders that took 20 minutes to shred 50 pages. Shredding was everyone's most hated chore).
Anyway, a couple of hours later it was my turn. I strolled in, filled out the paperwork, answered the questions, and sat down with a paperback book to do the deed.
I heard one of the attendants talk about what this poor girl had gone through, and I started laughing. I ended up confessing my sins.
I discovered that the blood people did not appreciate my humor. The lady came at me overhand with the big square needle. Boy they squawked at me for the whole time I was there. "Do you know how hard it is for us to get donors?! How could you do that!? She was almost crying!"
Like I said, I know that I'm going to have to answer for this.
While waiting for her I had two disconnected thoughts. "How come they never had any of these cool Nerf-gun rifles when I was a kid?" and then, "It's almost time to give blood."
Which brings me to today's subject; the duality of man. There is a streak of orneriness hiding just under the surface of all of us.
Back in the early '90's the company I worked for had several blood drives through the year. Since one of our girls had to have some blood transfusions when she was born I try to, "pay it forward." I donate as often as I can, which I hope suggests that there is some good in me. I do try to be nice to people, even if I don't know them.
As fate would have it we had a new administrative assistant who had just started with us, and since her cube was cattywampus to mine, so we chatted periodically throughout the day. This young lady was very nice, and a good administrative assistant, but she was the most gullible and naive person that I'd ever met...which is what led the orneriness in me to bubble up.
The conversation that day was along these lines:
Me: You giving blood today?
Her: Yes, it's my first time...are you?
Me: Oh yeah, I always try to. My little girl had to have some transfusions when she was born, so I try to return the favor.
Back to work for a few minutes, and then, out of the blue I started down that slippery slope.
Me: You didn't drink any milk today, did you?
Her: Well, I had some with my cereal this morning. Why?
Me: You can't drink milk before you give blood! It dilutes your blood and they'll have to take twice as much! Didn't anyone tell you that?
Her (with worried look on her face): No!
Back to work for a few minutes...
Her: Does it hurt to give blood?
Me: Well, it doesn't hurt a whole lot, but it is scary when they hold your arm over the bucket and you see the knife.
I know, I know; I'm going to have to answer for that some day.
Anyway, she bravely kept her appointment. I could tell that she was really scared, but I could not make myself own to up what I'd done.
But, oh man, when she came back from donating she was 40 kinds of pissed off at me. I had to volunteer to do her paper shredding for a month to get forgiven. (We had one of those old huge paper shredders that took 20 minutes to shred 50 pages. Shredding was everyone's most hated chore).
Anyway, a couple of hours later it was my turn. I strolled in, filled out the paperwork, answered the questions, and sat down with a paperback book to do the deed.
I heard one of the attendants talk about what this poor girl had gone through, and I started laughing. I ended up confessing my sins.
I discovered that the blood people did not appreciate my humor. The lady came at me overhand with the big square needle. Boy they squawked at me for the whole time I was there. "Do you know how hard it is for us to get donors?! How could you do that!? She was almost crying!"
Like I said, I know that I'm going to have to answer for this.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Scratch that off the bucket list (shameless plug alert)!
It's been a long time goal of mine to write a novel and to have it published.
Over the last few years I've written, had edited, and revised a novel. It is that point that I discovered that writing the novel is the easiest part. Selling to a publisher, or finding an agent, is much more difficult.
Amazon.com to the rescue!
While browsing through their site I noticed a sign exhorting me to self publish with them. "Click, click, click, click," goes the unknown novelist.
Voila! Agent? Publisher? I don't got no agent! I don't need no agent! I don't need no stinkin' publisher!
Anyhow, scratch that off the bucket list...here's the link if you want to check it out; I think there's a few sample chapters you can read: Carlos Came Home
Over the last few years I've written, had edited, and revised a novel. It is that point that I discovered that writing the novel is the easiest part. Selling to a publisher, or finding an agent, is much more difficult.
Amazon.com to the rescue!
While browsing through their site I noticed a sign exhorting me to self publish with them. "Click, click, click, click," goes the unknown novelist.
Voila! Agent? Publisher? I don't got no agent! I don't need no agent! I don't need no stinkin' publisher!
Anyhow, scratch that off the bucket list...here's the link if you want to check it out; I think there's a few sample chapters you can read: Carlos Came Home
Congress can learn from a community of chimps and the Roman Catholic College of Cardinals
It is no secret to anyone that our "beloved" United States Congress, supposedly a collection of reasonably intelligent citizens elected by their peers to run the nation, is in reality a stagnant bunch sophomoric jokers, most of whom beat their breasts in the media screaming, "I'm the most conservative of all."
Meanwhile the good old USA is sinking further and further into a economic and social quagmire.
Everyone has seen, at one point or another, footage of a community of chimpanzees. Our distant evolutionary cousins occasionally are all roused from their normal routine and begin screaming and thrashing about in response to whatever gets them riled up.
It's eerie how much Congress resembles these chimps every time someone mentions the words, "budget," or "deficit."
The biggest difference I can see in a community of chimps and Congress is that at some point the chimps say their piece, get their point across, and then return to normal activity and resume their appointed rounds. Sadly, Congress doesn't seem to be capable of mastering this. Your representative, and mine, continue to beat their chests and point fingers at the guys on the other side of the aisle.
I vote we borrow a page from history. While Congress is in session let's sneak in, chain the doors shut, and send in only food and water until these erudite citizens, who we elected to get something done, actually get something done.
Meanwhile the good old USA is sinking further and further into a economic and social quagmire.
Everyone has seen, at one point or another, footage of a community of chimpanzees. Our distant evolutionary cousins occasionally are all roused from their normal routine and begin screaming and thrashing about in response to whatever gets them riled up.
It's eerie how much Congress resembles these chimps every time someone mentions the words, "budget," or "deficit."
The biggest difference I can see in a community of chimps and Congress is that at some point the chimps say their piece, get their point across, and then return to normal activity and resume their appointed rounds. Sadly, Congress doesn't seem to be capable of mastering this. Your representative, and mine, continue to beat their chests and point fingers at the guys on the other side of the aisle.
I vote we borrow a page from history. While Congress is in session let's sneak in, chain the doors shut, and send in only food and water until these erudite citizens, who we elected to get something done, actually get something done.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Is that your final offer? Is it?!
Forces beyond my control have conspired to cause our family to lose our health insurance. It's just one of those things; I bear no grudges. We are just victims of the economy.
These days, though, a family needs health insurance, just in case.
So over the past few weeks I've been calling around and investigating both coverages and prices. I narrowed it down to two, and then went with a nationally known company.
The application process was painless, and I was quoted a monthly premium of $537 for health and pharmacy coverage for myself, LW, K2 and K3. I thought that was an outrageous amount, but like I said, you gotta have health insurance these days.
Last week, though, not having received any correspondence or insurance cards, I called Nationally Known Health Care Company. After pressing 1 for English and sifting through four or five other options I finally was connected to a live person. Live person said that well, as fate would have it, my premium would actually be $632 a month for the same coverage.
I asked why that was so much more than the agent quoted me. The rep said that the agent's quote was only an estimate. (That information would have been helpful for budgeting how much we were anticipating spending on health insurance.) The rep also said that we'd have to answer a few questions before they would activate our policy.
"Ask away," says I. We need that coverage to be activated.
The rep said that she'd have someone call us.
A few days later someone did call us. The lady said that she was a doctor and proceeded to ask LW and I all manner of health related questions. When was the last time we'd seen a doctor? What for? What was the diagnosis? What was the treatment? How long did the treatment last? Had we been back go the doctor for this diagnosis.
Let me set the record straight, here. I, LW and Kids 2 and 3 are in fine shape. We have seen the doctor for just minor stuff over the last few years.
In any case the good doctor who interrogated us said that she'd have so speak personally to Kids 2 and 3 since they are over 18.
She did, over the following few days.
Yesterday we received an email from Nationally Known Health Care Company stating that our new premium is $720 a month. That, friends and neighbors, is two premium increases totalling $183 a month (a 34% increase) before we have even had the policy approved and activated! We can't even see a doctor yet, even if we need to!
Can anyone else think of a company that raises it's price twice before the service even starts?
Holy cow, this rivals even used car salesmen, cable companies and Congress for underhanded behavior.
Explain to me, again, why nationalized health care would be worse?
These days, though, a family needs health insurance, just in case.
So over the past few weeks I've been calling around and investigating both coverages and prices. I narrowed it down to two, and then went with a nationally known company.
The application process was painless, and I was quoted a monthly premium of $537 for health and pharmacy coverage for myself, LW, K2 and K3. I thought that was an outrageous amount, but like I said, you gotta have health insurance these days.
Last week, though, not having received any correspondence or insurance cards, I called Nationally Known Health Care Company. After pressing 1 for English and sifting through four or five other options I finally was connected to a live person. Live person said that well, as fate would have it, my premium would actually be $632 a month for the same coverage.
I asked why that was so much more than the agent quoted me. The rep said that the agent's quote was only an estimate. (That information would have been helpful for budgeting how much we were anticipating spending on health insurance.) The rep also said that we'd have to answer a few questions before they would activate our policy.
"Ask away," says I. We need that coverage to be activated.
The rep said that she'd have someone call us.
A few days later someone did call us. The lady said that she was a doctor and proceeded to ask LW and I all manner of health related questions. When was the last time we'd seen a doctor? What for? What was the diagnosis? What was the treatment? How long did the treatment last? Had we been back go the doctor for this diagnosis.
Let me set the record straight, here. I, LW and Kids 2 and 3 are in fine shape. We have seen the doctor for just minor stuff over the last few years.
In any case the good doctor who interrogated us said that she'd have so speak personally to Kids 2 and 3 since they are over 18.
She did, over the following few days.
Yesterday we received an email from Nationally Known Health Care Company stating that our new premium is $720 a month. That, friends and neighbors, is two premium increases totalling $183 a month (a 34% increase) before we have even had the policy approved and activated! We can't even see a doctor yet, even if we need to!
Can anyone else think of a company that raises it's price twice before the service even starts?
Holy cow, this rivals even used car salesmen, cable companies and Congress for underhanded behavior.
Explain to me, again, why nationalized health care would be worse?
Monday, December 5, 2011
To set the stage...
I have been married to the same wonderful woman for the past 25 years (high school sweethearts!), henceforth called Loving Wife (LW). I lucked out finding her. I am a firm believer that a marriage really only works if the man marries "up." Not monetarily, but a woman who's a better person that he is. She keeps him from evil companions and shady dealings. She keeps him, as my daughters say, "on the path of righteousness."
We have been blessed with three happy, healthy, beautiful daughters, each separated by three years. Kid 1 (K1) is a middle school band director in a little town in East Texas, where she tolerates no slackers. K2 is going to be a senior at Sam Houston State in Huntsville, Texas. K3 is a freshman at Texas Tech, but will be transferring to Sam Houston State this spring.
Living with LW and K's 1-3 has given me recurring opportunities to observe and to try to understand what makes girls tick. In this I have failed. I remain as cluless about this now as I was growing up with two sisters.
More to come...
We have been blessed with three happy, healthy, beautiful daughters, each separated by three years. Kid 1 (K1) is a middle school band director in a little town in East Texas, where she tolerates no slackers. K2 is going to be a senior at Sam Houston State in Huntsville, Texas. K3 is a freshman at Texas Tech, but will be transferring to Sam Houston State this spring.
Living with LW and K's 1-3 has given me recurring opportunities to observe and to try to understand what makes girls tick. In this I have failed. I remain as cluless about this now as I was growing up with two sisters.
More to come...
Initial posting...
My middle daughter once commented, when asked why she was not sharing her thoughts, "I don't want anyone to know my thoughts." I do not have that problem, so thought I would start a blog.
All comments welcome!
All comments welcome!
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