BrockBooherBlog

Sick Day

2012-01-22T15:17:00.000-08:00

The daughter coughed and moaned. “Tell Mom I’mnot going to school. I’m sick,” said the daughter to her older sister.

“Sure,” said the sister as she fixed her hairand put on her makeup.

Thedaughter rolled over in the king size waterbed she shared with her sisters and wassoon fast asleep.

Thedaughter sloshed out of the king-size waterbed and trudged down the squeakystairs of the farmhouse in her bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers looking forbreakfast. She was hankering for a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar. She wasabout to get a bit of excitement instead.

Themother sat on the edge of the bed with her back to the bedroom door and thechorded phone to her ear. She was talking with a local printing shop about anupcoming church project. Her morning had been full of getting children off toschool, feeding the cattle, gathering the eggs, and several other never-endingchores on the small family farm, and it was only ten o’clock in the morning.Her heart stopped when she heard someone come down the stairs and into thekitchen.

“I thinkthere’s an intruder my house,” she whispered to the lady on the phone.

“Oh mygosh! Do you want to me to hang up and call the police?” said the lady on thephone.

Themother had another plan. “Do you have another line? That way I can keeppretending to talk,” she asked.

“We suredo. Hang on!”

Thedaughter grabbed a bowl from the cabinet letting the cabinet door snap shut asshe rummaged through the large silverware drawer for a spoon. She pulled outthe bin of quick oats and spooned a few scoops into her bowl. As she coveredthe oats with water, her mother laughed from the master bedroom adjacent to thekitchen. It was a strange laugh, the kind of laugh you make when you’rewatching a scary movie and you don’t want your friends to know you’re scaredbut you’re really about to wet your pants. Whois Mom talking to? She shrugged it off. (Since when do teenagers understandtheir parents anyway?)

She slippedthe bowl of quick oats into the microwave and turned the dial. While themicrowave hummed along cooking her breakfast, she hunted for the brown sugar.

“TheSheriff should be there shortly,” said the lady on the phone.

“Oh yes,that will be wonderful,” said the mother. Her voice felt strained as she triedto keep up a cheerful appearance. When Ihear the Sheriff coming down our gravel lane, I’ll slam the bedroom door shutso the intruder can’t get to me. She kept up the verbal chitchat andcontinued the charade.

TheSheriff pulled the cruiser through the snakelike turns of the country road,entered the straightaway, and poured on the gas. He was almost five miles outof town hurrying to answer a frantic call about an intruder in a farmhouse. Heturned down the gravel lane and topped the small hill at breakneck speed. He sentgravel flying as he slid around the corner in between the big maple trees andskidded to a stop a few yards from the kitchen door. He threw open his car doorand jumped from the cruiser with his gun drawn.

Thedaughter in fuzzy pink slippers stood in front of the microwave with spoon inhand waiting for the timer to ding when she heard the roar of tires againstgravel. She looked out the kitchen window and saw the Sheriff’s cruiser skid toa halt. Her mouth dropped open when she saw the Sheriff jump from the car withgun in hand and run towards the house.

When shesaw the Sherriff’s car, the mother dropped the phone and sprang for the bedroomdoor. She slammed it shut in a millisecond and turned to make an escape out thefront door away from the impending clash between the Sheriff and the intruder.

Thedaughter stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, fuzzy pink slippers, dirtyrobe, spoon in hand, eyes wide as saucers. Whatis going on? Why is the Sheriff here? Her teenage mind began to race. The Sheriff is about to burst through thedoor with his gun drawn. I know I’m innocent, so he can’t be here for me. Mymother has been acting strange on the telephone this morning. What is she upto?

Just asthe Sheriff burst through the kitchen door with his weapon at the ready, thebedroom door slammed shut. The daughter jumped at the sound of the slamming door.And then it came to her. Oh my gosh! The Sheriff’s after my mother. My mother must be a drug dealer!

“Mom?!”she shouted.

Themother hurried for the kitchen when she heard her daughter’s voice. She called herdaughter’s name and yanked open the kitchen door. When the mother saw herdaughter standing in the middle of the kitchen – fuzzy slippers, dirty robe, spoonin hand, perplexed face – she went weak in the knees and sat on the kitchenfloor.

As soonas the Sheriff saw the mother rush into to the kitchen he understood, and putthe gun away with a sigh of relief. It was just a false alarm.

Nothing made sense to the daughter andshe stood like a statue in the middle of the kitchen. The timer dinged. Heroatmeal was ready.

“It’sokay. It’s okay,” said the mother to the understanding Sheriff. “I guess mydaughter stayed home from school without telling me.”

The wide-eyeddaughter came to life and insisted, “I told them to tell you!”

“Nobodytold me!” cried the mother.

The relievedSheriff grinned and pulled out his handcuffs.

“Do youstill want me to haul her in?”

Based on a true family story.

The Case for Compromise

2012-01-08T09:03:00.000-08:00

Going into politics is a lot like wrestling with a pig. Youboth get dirty, but the pig likes it.By nature politics is a dirty business, and it is impossible to get involved inthe process without getting a little dirty because politics demands compromise.

Compromise is often considered a dirty word. We are notproud of compromising our principles. We avoid compromising situations. Wedon’t want to compromise when it comes to value. We consider compromise somehowa weaker position. We often consider a politician that has reached a compromiseas a sellout. He or she becomes someone who has gotten dirty by wrestling withthe pig.

If rights, liberties, justice, and the rule of law are thestones we must use to build a sound representative government, then compromiseis the mortar used to hold that government together. A politician that isn’tskilled at using the mortar of compromise will find it very difficult to buildanything of lasting value.

We would like to believe that our nation was forged in thepatriotic fire described by Patrick Henry when he said, “Give me liberty, orgive me death!” It is true that a fervent zeal for freedom beyond the desirefor life itself was necessary for us to break the yoke of bondage, but it took morethan fire. It took compromise.

When the Articles of Confederation failed to provide thenecessary framework for managing and governing a nation such as ours, aConstitutional Convention was formed in 1787. Patrick Henry declined to attendsaying that he “smelt a rat.” As a representative to the Virginia convention,he voted against ratification of the United States Constitution.

Another famous Virginian by the name of George Washingtontook a different tack. As commander of the Continental Army he would oftenpropose a course of action to his council of war, but then change course basedon the urgings of his subordinate officers. He was elected as president of the ConstitutionalConvention and put his political clout behind the various deals that allowedfor the document to come into existence. Under his direction, delegates hammeredout several deals such as the three-fifths compromise, the commerce compromise,and the great compromise. Washington wasn’t afraid of wrestling with that pig,and went on to be our first president.

We often view our founding fathers as uncompromising pillarsof patriotism that never deviated from their positions in the name ofcompromise. Nothing could be further from the truth. They were men of greatpassion that risked their very lives for an idea. They pledged their lives,liberty, and sacred honor to a cause. They never compromised when it came totheir love for freedom and the right to self-government, but they were skilledcraftsmen with the mortar of compromise. They used the mortar of compromise andthe stones of principle to build a constitutional government that has stood thetest of time.

I am grateful for the Patrick Henrys of today that will laydown the gauntlet on an issue and rally us to a worthy cause, but I tend tolook for someone more moderate and willing to compromise when I vote. I lookfor someone that mirrors my values and principles, but I also want someonepragmatic and willing to incorporate good working ideas even if they come fromthe other side of the aisle. I don’t want a rigid, uncompromising robot unableto reach agreements or strike pragmatic deals.

Politics demandscompromise. I want someone that isn’t afraid of getting a little dirty bywrestling with that pig, but not someone that likes it.

Half-Hung Christmas Lights

2011-12-25T10:05:00.000-08:00

I’m alone again on Christmas day. I’m sitting in a hotelroom thousands of miles from my family waiting for their video call so I canwatch the kids open their presents. It doesn’t sound like much of a Christmas,but in some ways, the solitude has helped me reconnect with the real meaning ofChristmas.

When did we begin to expect so much from the Christmasseason? When did Christmas become a time to outdo your neighbor with synchronizedlights and oversize inflatable lawn ornaments? What happened to simplygathering around the piano with your family and singing Christmas carols?Nowadays simply putting up a tree and sending out a few Christmas cards isn’tenough. We have to decorate the house with hundreds (or sometimes thousands) oflights. We have to put up the perfect tree adorned with properly spaced ornamentsof matching colors. We have to erect an entire Dickens Christmas village that takesover the entertainment center. Wehave door hangars that make noise and jingles bells every time the door isopened. We have life-sized Santa dolls that dance and sing to popular Christmastunes. We even have costumes for our dogs. Decorating for Christmas is an eventunto itself.

Next, we bury each other in treats. We get plates of cookies,fudge, and toffee. We get cheese balls, popcorn, and homemade salsa. We getmuffins, cupcakes, and fresh bread. We get candy, fruitcake, and hot chocolatemixes. We are inundated with scrumptious morsels of all types. Every time thedoorbell rings, we all get excited to see what special treat our friends andneighbors are dropping off. Unfortunately, I can’t possible run enough miles tokeep from gaining ten pounds from all the goodies.

In return, our family makes Christmas jelly, a bright redcranberry/raspberry spread that makes even the plainest bagel look like aChristmas treat. We have to start stocking up on jars in October, and buyseveral pounds of sugar just to meet the demand. We set aside a night or two onthe calendar for production. We bring the mixture of juice and pectin to arolling boil, and then add a mountain of sugar. We fill jar after jar with thehot syrupy mixture until we have cases of little red jars stacked and ready fordelivery. Then we listen to the popping sound of the well-sealed lids. My wife putsspecial labels with holiday wishes on each of the lids. We have to guard thestuff so the kids don’t eat it all themselves.

Ah Christmas! It’s the most wonderful time of the year,right?

This year the frenetic pace of things didn’t put me into theChristmas spirit. The Christmas season is always a busy time of year in thetravel industry, and this season, I worked a lot. Because I was working a lot,and my wife was not at her usual superwoman strength, we struggled to geteverything done. We put up the tree and a couple of nativity scenes, but passedon the Dickens village. We passed on the Christmas card because we could neverfind the time to get a photo of the entire family. I never could find the timeto hang all of the lights and too cheap to hire professionals, I hired myfifteen-year old son to hang them. Due to several days of unusual rain, amyriad of broken lights, and his inexperience, the lights don’t quite look thesame this year. I had to be satisfied with half-hung Christmas lights.

Since I was going to be gone Christmas Eve and Christmasday, I hurried to finish shopping, wrapping, and stuffing stockings before Ileft for a four-day trip on the 22^nd. Instead of feeling a sense ofsadness as I left the house, I felt a sense of relief. I was leaving behind thestress of Christmas.

Now, in the solitude of my hotel room, I miss my family, butI have had time to reflect on the story of Christ’s birth and its significance.I have put aside all the worldly trappings that worry us and make the seasonstressful. I have reread the Christmas story found in the Holy Scriptures. Ihave enjoyed a friendly Christmas breakfast with coworkers. I have quietlyreflected on the love I have for my wife, my children, and my extended family.I have felt the spirit of Christmas.

When I drive home tonight Iwill no doubt see all the decorated houses aglow with fancy lights, blowupornaments, and synchronized electronic displays. They will make me smile andfill me with sense of the season. However, as I pull in my driveway and look upat the half-hung Christmas lights it will remind me that Christmas isn’t in thedecorations, the treats, the presents, the parties, or in the stockings hung bythe chimney with care. Christmas is found in a lowly manger and the miraculousbirth of the Son of God.

Homeless Santa

2011-12-23T21:30:00.000-08:00

This is a revision and reprint of a story I posted two years ago.

Merry Christmas!

“Look Daddy,it’s Santa!” said my four-year old daughter. I looked up from serving soup inthe homeless shelter and saw an old man with a bushy white beard holding a soupbowl.

I smiled andpoured him a large scoop of hot soup. “Did anybody ever tell that you lookexactly like - ”

“Santa Claus?”he said as he stroked his beard. “Yes, Because I am Santa Claus.” His face was blank. No jolly laugh. No twinklingeyes. No ho, ho, ho.

“Don’t worry,”I said to my worried daughter. “He’s not the real Santa. The real Santa livesat the North Pole and is a jolly old elf.”

“Ho, Ho, Ho,”he replied without enthusiasm. He took his soup and moved on.

I continued toserve the other homeless patrons, but couldn’t take my eyes, or mind, off ofthe Santa look-alike. He sat alone in the corner like a forgotten man sippingat his soup. As soon as I finished serving, I sought him out.

I slid intoone the cold metal chair across from him. “Feel better after the soup?” Iasked.

“Like a bowlfull of jelly,” he replied without smiling.

“You know," I started, "I’msorry that life has been hard on you, but you didn’t have to burst my littlegirl’s bubble. She still believes in Santa Claus.”

“Well, I am Santa Claus.”

“Iknow you look like Santa, but - ”

“Santa Clausis just a fictional character to help make Christmas magical,” he mocked. “Youdon’t even believe in Santa Claus, and yet you lecture me on not bursting your little girl’s bubble?”

My faceflushed with a touch of anger, and shame.

“Most peopledon’t believe anything they can’t see or touch anymore,” he continued. “How canyou believe in the miraculous birth of the Son of God if you can’t even believein Santa Claus when he’s sitting right in front of you?”

“I guessyou’ve got a point,” I mumbled as I stood to go. “Merry Christmas.”

Over the nextfew days my conversation with homeless Santa haunted me. He was right. Likeeveryone else in the world, I had become cynical, even hypocritical. Everythingin my life had to be proven or verified. I didn’t believe in Santa Claus, yet Iperpetuated the story with my daughter because I wanted to believe.

When my bossasked for volunteers to organize the office Christmas party, I got an idea. Itold everyone at my office about my encounter with homeless Santa and asked ifwe could sponsor him. We could take up a collection to buy him new clothes, anda few Christmas presents, and he could come play Santa Claus at our companyparty. I spoke with the director of the homeless shelter and made all thearrangements.

Homeless Santacame to our office party dressed for the part – traditional red suit, blackboots, and bag full of toys. He gladdened hearts with his rosy cheeks and hishearty “Ho, Ho, Ho!” He had a magical touch with children, and my daughterbeamed as she sat on his lap.

As the partyfinished, we gave him our gifts. He cried openly at our generosity, and wejoined him, but they were tears of joy. By the end of the night, we allbelieved in Santa Claus.

That ChristmasEve, my daughter put out milk and cookies for Santa before she hurried off tobed. The next morning the cookies were gone and the milk had been replaced witha note –

“Inasmuch as you have done it unto theleast of these my brethren, you have done it unto me.” Thank you for believing in me!

Santa Claus

(P.S. I moved back to the North Pole.)

Thanks for Race Sounds

2011-11-29T06:58:00.001-08:00

Most people think I have a screw loose because I like torun. Even other runners think I’m a bit twisted because I rarely listen tomusic when I run. It’s probably true. Anybody who enjoys waking up, lacing up,and running for an hour, is probably a half bubble off level. It comes with theterritory. Maybe I’m a little more twisted than most, because I like to think insteadof listening to things when I run. The voices in my head become clearer.

On Thanksgiving Day I ran a Turkey Trot. Well, actually, Iran a Fun Run and a Turkey Trot. My daughter went with me to the race andbegged me to run the two-mile fun run with her since she didn’t want to run italone. (Over two thousand people ran the fun run, so she was hardly “alone.”) Igave in. Consequently, I ran the two-mile run with her (in about eighteenminutes), and then hurried back to the starting line to run the 10K turkeytrot.

Decartes said, “I think, therefore I am.” When we engageourselves in activities that make us look inward at our thoughts , it makes usmore alive. As I ran that day, I looked inward and thought about all the soundsI would have missed that day if I had plugged headphones into my ears andcranked up my favorite songs.

I would have missed the conversation with my thirteen year-olddaughter. Teenagers have amazing, adaptable minds uncorrupted by the rigidthinking of the adult world. They are alive with wonder and insight that adultshave long since lost or surrendered to the perceived realities of life.

I would have missed the nervous chatter of the starting line– “Are you ready?” “How fast do you think you will run it?” “I’ve really got togo pee, but the line is too long.” “Dude, I can’t believe you drank all thatvodka last night.”

I might have missed the wail of the air horn as it signaledthe start of the race and the runners’ cheers, excited to finally start therace. A police siren announced the coming of the lead runners. During the firsthalf mile the street was lined with jubilant spectators coming to cheer onfamily members and friends. They shouted encouragement and called out names. Icould hear the clicking of cameras.

At the first turn one of the race volunteers was tellingeveryone to stay to the left. A police bullhorn commanded passing motorists toslow down, and I listened to the quiet hum of his BMW motorcycle.

Then as the crowd settled into its pace, it got eerilyquiet. I heard the shuffling of feet against the asphalt. I heard the frictionof fabric as running shorts rubbed against thighs. I heard the huffing andpuffing of racers striving to get air into taxed lungs. The sound of spittingrunners spewing their nervous spittle became evident. I heard the quiet hum ofpassing traffic. In the distance I heard the music at the finish line teasingme and urging me to hurry.

Just before the one mile point a father stood on the side ofthe course with three small kids and a boom box playing “Eye of the Tiger.” Iheard and felt the thumping beat, the encouraging words, and the wail of theguitar. I heard his daughter crying that she was cold. I heard him shoutencouragement and tell his daughter to look for Mommy.

At the one-mile point I heard things like, “We need to speedup,” and “We’re doing good.” I swore I heard the ticking of the clock as itmocked me, and my lack of speed, that morning. Just past the mocking clockvolunteers were passing out water. I heard water spilling onto the concrete asrunners tried to drink on the run and missed their mouths. I heard, “ThankYou,” over and over again as racers thanked the volunteers. I heard the hollowclunk of paper cups as they were tossed aside. I heard gasps for air as racersgulped down the last of their water and sucked in air.

As we turned and headed downhill for a stretch I heard acollective sigh from the crowd. I could hear other people’s headphones. Dogsbarked from the nearby neighborhood. Conversations started back up amongracers. “He was the Vice President of the company until…” “Yeah, I liked thatrace. It was fun.” “When is the next water station?” I passed a man pushing twoscreaming kids in a running stroller.

At the halfway point we passed near the finish line and thecheers of spectators came back. I heard the sound of the port-a-john doorsslamming shut. I heard my bladder calling. I heard the sound of my drainingbladder. I heard the sound of the air rushing in and out of my lungs as Istruggled to catch back up to my race pace.

One runner’s cough sounded like a shotgun going off, and hecoughed every ten to fifteen seconds. I hurried past, and gladly put that odd soundbehind me.

We turned uphill, and I heard a collective groan go up fromthe crowd. The ever-present habit of spitting got louder. I heard phlegmhocked up from somewhere deep in the thorax come spewing out through heavinglips and splat against the churning asphalt.

The passing traffic on the busy street got louder. I heardmyself going faster with an empty bladder. I heard the clock laughing at me,and my attempts to go faster.

The course turned the corner and headed downhill for thelast two miles. Shoes scraped against the course as tired legs lost their goodrunning form to fatigue. Some of the runners were carrying helium balloons. Oneof them popped.

With about a mile left, I could almost hear the music at thefinish line again. I looked up and saw a bright yellow sign that read, “DeafChild.” I thought about the child who lacked the ability to hear all the thingsI had taken for granted that morning. I gave thanks for my ability to hear, andall the sounds of the race became even more vivid.

I finished the race strong (for an aging fat guy), and savoredthe sounds of the race – the shuffling of feet, the huffing and puffing, thespitting, the coughing, the rubbing of cloth, the cheering of spectators, thecrying of babies, the humming traffic, the roaring crowd, the ticking of themocking clock, the music at the finish line. The best sound of the race? Mydaughter saying, “Good job Dad!”

For the record, I dolike to listen to audiobooks or podcasts from time to time when I run.

Land of Milk (and honey)

2011-11-08T09:33:00.000-08:00

The bestbiblical compliment given to any geographic location is a simple phrase - a land flowing with milk and honey.Having traveled a bit, I guess you could say that I consider the quality andquantity of a country’s milk a key indicator of its civilization.

Why milk? Milkis a highly perishable product that requires cleanliness, constant care, anddaily effort.

To get milk tomarket first you need keep cattle that you don’t plan on eating, at least rightaway. That in and of itself is an indicator that the agricultural capacity of alocation can support more than subsistence farming. Second you need a stableworkforce. Dairy farmers don’t take vacations. Third you need a sophisticatedtransportation system that includes refrigeration so that you can get the productto market before it perishes or becomes a health hazard for consumers. Last,you need an enforceable health code to ensure the quality and consumer safety ofthe product.

Yes, you cancall me a milk drinker. Having grown up on a dairy farm, you might say that Iam a connoisseur of the world’s milk. Since I don’t drink alcohol, I don’tfrequent the local bars and imbibe the local beer, wine, or liqueur when Itravel. Instead I head to the nearest supermarket and check out to the dairydepartment.

A lot oflocations produce the sterilized cartons of milk that don’t requirerefrigeration. I walk right by those shelves. I am looking for fresh moo juice.I don’t care if it comes in bags, bottles, or cartons, but it has to be fresh.Fresh milk lets me know that I am in a civilized place.

Drinkable Peach Yogurt
Yum!

Next I lookfor the range of varieties and brands. The more variety, like chocolate milk,whole milk, two percent milk, or any other variation of fresh milk, means moresophistication of milk production. More variety of milk means that thisconnoisseur has choices, and I like choices.

I also payattention to the quantity of milk available both on the shelf, and per averagecontainer. In the US we find shelf after shelf of gallons of the good stuff. Inother countries I might only find fresh milk in liter bags. Since I can drink aquart of milk for breakfast without breaking a sweat, I get a warm fuzzyfeeling when I find a dairy department stocked full of cold fresh lactatedliquid.

After samplingthe fresh stuff, I also look for the milk byproducts like butter, cheese,yogurt, or ice cream – especially the ice cream. Statistically speaking they have proven that people withmore education and higher IQ’s eat more ice cream. It doesn’t surprise me sinceice cream is the highest form of milk byproducts. I’m just not sure if smartpeople eat ice cream or eating ice cream makes you smart. I will have tocontinue my research.

Helado!

I recentlyreturned to Lima, Peru, after fifteen years. One of the first things I did washead to the nearby supermarket and check out the dairy section. I was pleasedto see that both availability and variety of milk have improved in my absence.I took great pleasure in sampling the various fresh milk products delivered inone-liter bags. I enjoyed the drinkable peach yogurt produced by Gloria. Ofcourse I had to sample the D’Onofrio ice cream that street vendors selleverywhere. (Based on the ubiquity of ice cream vendors in Lima, they must be some of the smartest people in the world.) After several days of assessment, I would say that Peru has madetremendous strides in the last few years. It has become a land flowing withmilk, and that is progress you take to the fridge.

Yes, I’m amilk drinker, a veritable connoisseur of cow juice, a maniac for moo-moo, a discipleof dairy. For me, nothing says “civilization” like a large, well-stocked dairysection in a grocery store. To say that a land flows with milk is a complimentof biblical proportions.

Dairy Section of Supermarket in Miraflores

(No offense meant to allyou fans of apiculture. I love honey too, but for me, milk is the bee’s knees.)

Once A Pawn

2011-10-21T13:37:00.000-07:00

I recently finished a writing class where I produced several short stories. So far none of them have been published, and I have returned my focus to novel writing. The problem with short stories is that there isn't a big market for them. Almost nobody gets magazines with short stories in them anymore.

As a writer, you work several hours on a story. You send it out into the world looking for a home. You deal with the rejections and tweak the story. In the end you might get a hundred bucks for your efforts. But they are still fun to write. So, I have decided to post this story for your enjoyment. Enjoy. Feel free to critique. Thanks for reading.

Once A Pawn

“I’minnocent!” shouted Jamil, but the sound traveled no further than thesoundproofed walls. He strained to see through the mirrored glass in vain. Heguessed it had been over an hour since they locked him up. “I’ve done nothingwrong! This is all just a misunderstanding!” He rapped his knuckles against theglass. “Can anyone hear me?”

Nobodyresponded.

Tiredof pacing the room, he sighed and sat down in the stiff metal chair. By now, hewas sure his flight home to Chicago had left without him. He wondered how hewas going to explain this one to his ex-wife. She would be furious when he didn’t show up for theirdaughter’s birthday party tonight. If they ever let him make a phone call hewould try and explain it to his daughter, but three-year old girls have a hardtime understanding the concept of distance.

Jamiljumped to his feet when he heard the door open with a squeak. A uniformedpoliceman walked in followed by a short guy in a suit. The uniform placed pen,paper, and two bottles of water on the metal table and left. The short guy inthe suit stood motionless with both hands in his pockets, staring at Jamil asif sizing him up for a fight.

Jamilknew he should say something, maybe introduce himself, but he froze withuncertainty. He just stood there, waiting for something to prod him intoaction.

“Hello,” said the guy in the suit as heextended his hand, “I’m Special Agent Conti.”

Tryingto show a measure of confidence, Jamil took the man’s hand in a firm grip andintroduced himself. “Jamil Tannous, Equipment Sales and Leasing with CommercialBanking Corporation, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Sitdown Mr. Tannous,” said Agent Conti as he took a seat at the table. “You’re ina bit of trouble today.”

“Please,call me Jim. And, yes, I do seem to be in a difficult spot,” responded Jamil ashe took his seat.

“Okay…Jim.” Agent Conti pushed a bottle of water across the table. “Do you know whyyou’re here?”

“Well,I know that I was selected for random screening at Kennedy airport as I wasgoing through security, and when they swabbed my briefcase sirens went off.After that, the TSA took me into custody. They held me for short time before Iwas transferred to NYPD and brought to this room.” He opened the bottle ofwater and took a drink. “Obviouslymy briefcase has alarmed a few people. I didn’t know leather could get you guysso riled up.”

AgentConti smiled at the weak attempt at humor. “Leather alone doesn’t excite me,but let me read you a list of things that the swab from your briefcasecontained.” He picked up the notepad and began reading the words with somedifficulty. “Cyclotrimethylene trinitramine more commonly known as RDX,polyisobutylene, and diethylhexyl. Are you familiar with those chemicals orsubstances?”

“No, but they don’t sound thatharmful,” he chuckled, “Only difficult to pronounce.”

“The substances are a lot easier topronounce if you just use the street name. Can you say C-4?” asked Agent Conti.“In addition to the traces of C-4 onyour briefcase, we found eleven-thousand five hundred and twenty dollars in your briefcase covered in the stuff.”Agent Conti paused. “Blown up anything recently?”

“Just my marriage,” retorted Jamil. Heran his hands through his hair. “Look, this is just a misunderstanding. I canexplain.”

AgentConti turned the page on his notepad and tapped his pen. “Do you travel toSpain often?”

“Yes,”answered Jamil looking more puzzled by the moment. “I travel to Spainregularly. Why?”

AgentConti referred to his notes. “I see that you just returned from Spain,particularly Malaga, Spain. What hotel did you stay at?”

“Uh…the Malaga Palacio, as usual.”

“Do you know what happened at theMalaga Palacio about four hours ago?” Agent Conti leaned close enough for Jamilto smell the onion on his breath. “Jim?”

“No,” said a puzzled Jamil as he leanedback as far as the metal chair allowed.

“Somebodyused C-4 to blow up a couple of rooms.”

Theblood left Jamil’s face. The knot in his stomach came untied and unleashed awave of nausea.

AgentConti tapped his pen on his notepad. “It just so happens that the US Ambassadorand his family were in the rooms at the time of the explosion and severalpeople were killed… including the Ambassador.”

Jamilplaced his trembling hands on the table and looked Agent Conti square in theeye. “I am innocent!” He shook his head and looked away. “I had nothing to dowith that explosion!” He crossed his arms and clammed up.

AgentConti popped a breath mint into his mouth. “I want to believe you, but so faryou haven’t provided any explanation.” He propped his feet up on the table.“So, tell me how you ended up at JFK with traces of C-4 and over eleven grandin a briefcase about the same time a US Ambassador was being blown to bits in theforeign hotel you just returned from. It better not begin with, Once upon a time.”

Jamiltook a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, and began his story.

“Ijust got back from a business trip to Malaga, Spain. I landed in New Yorkyesterday evening on Iberian Airlines, but of course you already know all this.I needed to go by the home office this morning, so I checked into the CentralPark Hotel and went to bed early.”

“Sincemy body hadn’t adjusted to the time changes, I was wide awake at four o’clockthis morning. I’m a runner, so I decided to go for a run in Central Park downby the Bethesda fountain; you know the one with angel statue, and then on tothe Ramble. When I got to the halfway point, about three miles, I took a littlebreather and walked down to the edge of the lake.”

“Thereat the base of a tree near the water’s edge, I noticed this clear plasticbundle and took a closer look. As I got closer I could see that it was cash. Irecently got divorced, and the ex-wife took me to the cleaners, so I was prettyexcited. I looked around and didn’t see anybody. Since it was raining a little bit I had on a light jacket. Istuffed the money into my jacket and ran back to the hotel, nervous as hell.”

“WhenI counted the money, I noticed a white residue on some of the bills, but I wasin a hurry. So, I stuffed it all into my briefcase and showered for work. Aftertaking care business at the home office, I took a cab to Kennedy and here Iam.” Jamil let out heavy sigh and looked at Agent Conti for some sort ofreaction.

AgentConti rolled his eyes. “You expect me to believe that fairy tale? You found the money laced with C-4 inCentral Park while you were out for a morning jog? Please!”

“It’sthe truth!” shouted Jamil as he stood and began pacing the room. “Check withthe hotel, I’m sure somebody at the front desk must have seen me go for myrun.”

“Jamil…Jim, even if we see you on the hotel security footage leaving and returningwhen you said, that still doesn’t prove the rest of your story.” He tapped hispen on his notepad. “How about this? You gave terrorists access to your hotelroom in Malaga. They paid you with money that had been exposed to C-4. Youhandled the money and then with the residue still on your hands, you handledyour briefcase. You were selected for extra screening at JFK and, bingo, herewe are.”

Jamillooked up at the blank and patient stare on Agent Conti’s face. The smell ofonion and mint lingered in the air between them.

Agent Conti looked at his watch. “Takeyour time. I’ve got all day.”

Jamil fixated on the watch. “That’sit!” he shouted as he slapped his hand on the table. “My running watch has abuilt in GPS. It records my runs and downloads the information to my laptop. Ifyou let me download today’s run to my laptop, it’ll prove my story.”

AgentConti popped another mint and took in Jamil’s comments. After a moment, he looked at theone-way glass and nodded. “Okay, we’ll take a look at the data from your watch,but even if this backs up your story you’re not in the clear, you know.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” beggedJamil.

AgentConti stood to leave, and stopped at the door. “We’ll see.”

Jamilhad paced the room for hours trying to stay alert against the onset of jet lagand adrenaline letdown when Agent Conti opened the door.

“Have a sit Jim,” ordered Agent Conti.

“My story checked out didn’t it?” askedJamil in a calm voice.

“Wechecked the security videos, spoke with the hotel clerks, and verified theroute from your GPS. Your jogging story checked out, but that doesn’t meanyou’re not hiding something,” answered Agent Conti as he took a seat.

Jamilbreathed a sigh of relief. “I told you I was telling the truth.”

AgentConti leaned forward. “I’ve been at this game a long time, and I can usuallytell when someone is lying or not telling me the whole truth.” He pointed at Jamil. “You’re nottelling me the whole story. You’re simply telling me the truth you want me tohear.”

Jamillooked away from the accusatory finger.

“Do you play chess Mr. Tannous?” askedAgent Conti.

“I’veplayed a couple of times,” said Jamil with a shrug. “Personally I preferblackjack or Texas hold ’em.”

“Ihave a theory about people,” continued Agent Conti. “People are like chesspieces. Some people have the power to move their lives in multiple directions,like the knights, rooks, kings, and queens. Others are simply pawns in the gameof life. They have limited ability to move, and are usually controlled byothers. They have little power to change the game, and are easily sacrificed.In fact, many chess players make a clear distinction between chess pieces andpawns. Which are you Jim? Are you a chess piece in this game, or are you apawn?”

“Idon’t think of myself as a pawn.”

“That’sgood. Because one of my other theories about people is, ‘Once a pawn, always apawn.’” Agent Conti popped a mint. “It’s just a theory.”

Jamil stabbed the table with hisfinger. “Well, maybe I am a pawn, but I am nota terrorist.”

Agent Conti put a briefcase on thetable. “That’s what I told the DA’s office.”

“You’re not charging me with anything?”

“Well,you did try to pass through an airport checkpoint with explosive residue. We’reconfiscating your briefcase and its contents, including the money, but we’renot charging you with anything… yet.”

“Am I free to go?”

“Yes,but we need you to come in for more questioning tomorrow. Why don’t you get a good night’s rest,and come back in around, say, ten o’clock? You don’t mind spending a couple ofmore days in the city do you?”

“DoI have a choice?” asked Jamil.

“No, not really,” replied Agent Conti ashe opened his briefcase. “We haveto keep your phone for a bit. You know, check out the calls and messages.”Agent Conti slid a cell phone across the table. “The agency has provided you atemporary replacement. My number is programmed in under ‘Conti’ if you think ofanything else.”

Jamilwalked out of the precinct office a free man, even though he didn’t feel likeone. A throng of cameramen and reporters pressed down on him making it almostimpossible to get into the cab. He wanted to sleep, but knew he needed to losethe newshounds. After changing cabs several times, and a short ride on thesubway, he happened upon an out-of-the-way dive and checked in.

Theclerk didn’t seem to recognize Jamil and checked him in without fanfare. Aftergetting his room key, he slipped out front, found a pay phone, and dialed.Layla picked up on the third ring.

“Hello,” answered Layla with a touch ofcuriosity in her voice.

“It’s Jim. I need to see you. Tonight!”

“Jim? Are you okay? Did they releaseyou?”

“I’m fine, but I have a lot ofquestions. I need to see you!”

“Surebaby, tell me where you are and I will be there as soon as I can.”

“Be careful. I’m probably beingwatched.”

Jamilgave her directions and returned to his room. He was tired and irritated. Heknew he had been played, and he was determined to get some answers. Layla wouldhelp him.

Hehad just stepped out of a hot shower and was toweling off when he heard a softknock at the door. He wrapped the towel around himself and peered anxiouslythrough the peephole. A feeling of relief came over him when he saw Layla. Heunlocked the door and ushered her into the room.

Shehad her hair pulled up under a Yankees baseball cap and sunglasses on. In spiteof the warm weather she had on a light jacket and sweatpants. She sat her largehandbag on the bed, and tossed the sunglasses next to it. When she took off the baseball cap hatand let down her jet-black hair with a shake, the smell of her intoxicatingperfume filled the room.

“OhJimbo, I’m so glad your okay,” she said as she rushed into his arms.

“Do you think you were followed?” heasked.

“Idon’t think so. I think we’re safe,” she said as she kissed his neck.

Hepulled away from her and looked through the sheer curtains at the city lights tryingto keep his head straight. “Layla, I think those CIA guys played me.”

“Whatdo you mean?” She peeled off her jacket and pulled a bottle of wine from herbag.

“Thoseguys you introduced me to paid off my gambling debt at the casino in Malaga,and told me they wanted to bug my hotel room so they could catch a spy. Theysaid it was a matter of national security. Instead they blew up the USAmbassador and his family!”

“Hey baby, calm down.” She slipped upbehind him and started rubbing his shoulders. “I’m sure the CIA will clear upthe misunderstanding.”

Heshook free from her soft grip and spun to face her. “Misunderstanding! Theextra money they gave me was laced with C-4! They played me!”

Layla reached out and cupped his facewith her long fingers. “Oh Jimbo, I’m so sorry. You know it’s not your fault.”She kissed him on the cheek. “Did you tell the police about them?”

“No, I didn’t tell the FBI about thembecause I was afraid I would be implicated.”

“Heycome on baby, you’re tired and upset,” She said as she drew the curtains. Shepulled close and wrapped her arms around him leaning her head on his chest.“Let me pour a drink and ease your mind.” She looked up at him with her darkeyes.

Jamilpulled away and sat in the overstuffed chair across from the bed. He rubbed histemples and tried to think.

“Wecan clear up this mess, tomorrow. I’ll go with you and we can tell them thewhole story. Tonight just try and relax. Please?”

Shewas right. It wasn’t his fault. He’d had a long and taxing day and he needed adrink, a little fun, and a good night’s rest. Tomorrow they would get theirstory straight and talk to Agent Conti, but tonight he could unwind with a goodwoman.

Jamillet out a heavy sigh and leaned back in the soft chair. “Maybe you’re right. I’m letting myselfget all worked up.”

Sheperched herself on his lap and caressed his bare chest. “That’s my Jimbo. I’ll go with you tomorrow and sort thisall out.” She kissed his cheek and nibbled at his ear. “Let me pour you a drinkand change into something more to your liking.”

Jamilclosed his eyes and relaxed deeper into the soft cushions as Layla stood andopened the bottle of wine. Too bad my exdidn’t treat me like Layla. If shehad, maybe we would still be married.

“Hereyou go Jimbo. Drink this while I go transform into your goddess of love,” shesaid with a wicked look in her eye.

Jamiltook a long drink and began to unwind. His muscles began to relax. He could feelall the tension of the day leaving him. Then the room began to spin. Hestruggled to breathe. He tried to think, but it felt like his thoughts werestuck in quicksand.

Laylawalked back into the room, still fully clothed, with rubber gloves on.

“Layla!Help me!” His words slurred together. He struggled to remain conscious as theroom began to twirl.

Sheignored his pleas, and took his glass of wine with her gloved hands.

Hewatched her through a gathering fog, trying to understand why she wasn’thelping him. Like sounds echoing through a tunnel, he heard the hotel room doorburst open. Black-clad figures with guns rushed in. The fog faded to darkness.

Jamilawoke to a strong antiseptic smell, and beeping noises. He was in a hospital.He opened his eyes and saw Agent Conti sitting in the corner playing chess witha uniform.

“Goodmorning Jim,” said Agent Conti with a big grin. “We almost lost you there.Welcome back to the land of the living.” He moved his bishop and took a pawn. “Checkmate.”

The End

Fear of Morality?

2011-10-10T20:58:00.000-07:00

I read something going around in social media the other daythat certainly started more than one argument. “The human species is the onlyspecies that displays homophobia.”

I found the statement most interesting because of what ittried to accomplish even before the real debate even began. It labels anyonewho disagrees with a moral stance as having a phobia. For me, the statement wasa “non starter” because I won’t engage anyone in social media once they revertto name-calling, but I did spend some time thinking about the real argumentover what is considered morally acceptable, or legally acceptable, when it comesto sexual behavior, or perhaps the deeper notion that we as a species have amoral code at all.

Nietzsche said, “Fear is the mother of morality.” I’m afraidI don’t agree with him.

First, the idea that if you disagree with the behavior ofanother person on moral grounds that you must therefore have a phobia isludicrous and disingenuous. If I disagree with the behavior of a thief doesthat mean I am a cleptophobe? What ifI disagree with a buddy of mine cheating on his wife? Does that make me a malaxaphobe? If I have objections tosomeone setting buildings on fire, does that mean I suffer from arsonphobia? Maybe I shouldn’t bewriting about this because I am a catagelophobe,who knows?

One thing we know for sure is that the human species is theonly species with a codified moral code. Every law that exists on the books isbased on a moral judgment of some sort. We judge that public nudity is inappropriateand we therefore pass a law. We judge that taking property that does not belongto you is morally wrong and we pass laws against stealing in various forms. Weconsider it morally wrong to take the life of another human being and codify a multitude oflaws against the act ranging from negligent manslaughter to first-degreemurder. As a species we have passed moral judgment on a variety of behaviors.That is what makes us different than the rest of the animal kingdom.

It is true that other species display various types of moralbehaviors such as caring for their young, or division of duties, but we canalso find a variety of other accepted animal behaviors that we consider morallywrong. These are included but not limited to – eating your young offspring, killingand eating your mate after sex, pecking the weakest member of the group untilit is dead, beating or killing your rival because you want to be in charge,bludgeoning your sexual rival and taking their mate as your own. All of thesebehaviors are perfectly accepted among animals, but we humans frown on them andeven enforce laws against such behaviors because of our moral code.

We have set ourselves apartin the animal kingdom, not because of our phobias, but because we have dared toset a moral standard and even codify it with laws. Fear will not bring us tohigher moral ground, and name-calling will not win an argument. If we want torise above the behavior of animals, we must engage in legitimate moral debate,because after all, deciding individually or collectively if a sexual practiceis acceptable is a moral judgment, not a phobia.

Thursday’s Child

2011-09-25T11:10:00.000-07:00

It isn’teveryday I get approached by a young woman in the supermarket, especially whenI’m sporting three days worth of stubble, with a touch of gray, but this was aThursday.

I saw her asshe turned down my aisle. I was looking for some waffle mix and glanced up as Isaw her turn the corner. She looked like a skinny preteen in a yellow halter-topand white shorts. Other than basic awareness that she was walking down myaisle, I paid her little mind.

“Excuse mesir,” she said in a sad voice. She had stopped right beside me.

Due to yearsof training on situational awareness, or maybe an innate paranoia, I amnormally very observant of my surroundings. I didn’t realize she had stoppeduntil she spoke to me. I paused my comparison of Bisquick and Krusteaz andlooked up at her.

“Sorry totrouble you, but you wouldn’t be willing to give me some money for a hotel roomwould you?” she asked. She hesitated for moment after the request.

In that momentI took a good look at the human being in front of me. She was average build andthin with long spindly legs like a bird. She had the face of someone in theirlate twenties and the body of an early teenager. Her face had no remnants ofmakeup and she looked a bit haggard even though she was trying to smile. Herhair was up in a ponytail and frizzed out like she had just jumped out of bedand pulled it back away from her hollow eyes. She wore a yellow halter-top withher bra straps showing, but based on her figure, the straps weren’t working toohard. She wore white shorts and flip-flops. In her right hand she held a largeStyrofoam cup, apparently with soda still in it. She had a medium size purse inthe crook of her left arm. She looked like a forlorn waif, a veritableThursday’s Child personified.

She continuedwith a voice pleading and soft, “I need some money for a hotel room because Iwas traveling with a friend, and she stole all of my money, over $1200. Youwouldn’t be able to spare some money so I can get a room for the night wouldyou?”

I wanted togive her some money. I don’t like turning away anyone in need, especially awoman. All that is good in me wanted to help, and the pity I felt jumped up inmy throat. Here is one of God’s childrenin need. Help her! Cried the voice in my head.

Another voicewas talking in my head as well. Careful!This one is trouble. Nothing is as it seems. See the nice purse. See the sodafrom recent meal. Look at her eyes. Beware the nature of the thing she asksfor.

Cautionwon out and I smiled and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Okay,thanks,” she said without any apparent rancor and continued down the aisle.

Guilt-ridden,I turned away and stared at the boxes in front of me covered with brightcolored pictures of delicious waffles and pancakes topped with strawberries andblueberries and smothered with hot syrup. My stomach turned when I thoughtabout her condition.

Icalled out to her before she got too far. “Do you need any food?” I asked.

She stopped,turned halfway around, and finished taking a sip from her drink. “No, anothergentleman bought me lunch.”

Inodded. She turned and continued. Thursday’sChild has far to go.

Istared at the shelves of packaged food in front of me trying to make sense ofwhat had just happened, a conflict raging inside of me.

I should have given hermoney. Didn’t you see how skinny she was?

You idiot she was playingyou. Didn’t you see the hard look of a druggie on her face?

Who cares? She neededmoney and I could have spared a five spot.

You would have justenabled her. She needs a different kind of help.

I could have at leastgone to the hotel and paid for the room for her.

Fool! That is probablywhat she wanted anyway. She was soliciting you, you moron!

Oh my gosh! She mustreally be in trouble. Maybe she’s a runaway. I have to find her and see if Ican help her. Maybe I can get her the help she really needs.

Now you’re talking.

Isearched the store – nothing. I quickly checked out and searched the parkinglot – gone.

Myencounter with Thursday’s Child haunted me. I wondered how far she had come toget to her desperate condition. Even more, I wondered how far she had to go.

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child must work for a living,

But the child that's born on the Sabbath day,

Is fair and wise and good and gay.

(Old Nursery Rhyme, Author Unknown)

It's 9/12 and Life Goes On

2011-09-12T20:48:00.000-07:00

I took astroll down memory lane last week, but the truth is, I also sprinted part ofthe way not wanting to spend too much time lingering with some ugly memories. Ireflected on good times and on tragic times, but all the events had one thingin common – I had to keep moving. Life went on.

I took a tripto Provo, Utah, to drop off my second son, Cody, at the Missionary TrainingCenter for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. He will bepreparing to serve in the San Antonio, Texas, area, and will be speakingSpanish. The training center is adjacent to my alma mater, Brigham YoungUniversity. As we pulled off the freeway and drove up the street towards thecampus, the floodgates of my memory opened up.

I passed themall where I took my wife on our first date. We both swooned a bit at the memory and laughed. When westarted down the hill from the mall, I remembered how she used to stick her headout the window to dry her hair as I drove her to work. I started to tell thestory, but Cody had already heard about it so many times that he finished mysentence. We passed the stadium, places where we had lived, and old restaurantswhose names had long since changed. I remembered classmates, old girlfriends,Air Force ROTC, walking up the hill to work, and quiet snowfalls. Images passedacross the theater of my mind and filled me with nostalgia and joy.

In those daysthe cold war had reached a climax, and even though we didn’t know it, was aboutto end. We worried about thermonuclear war and the resulting nuclear winter. Terroristfrom Libya bombed nightclubs in Germany, and President Reagan sent a clearmessage of, “You can run, but you can’t hide.” We worried about the end of theworld in those days too, but life went on.

It was a nicestroll down that lane of mostly fond memories, and although I wanted to linger,I had to keep moving forward. Then as the week came to an end, I took a turn downElm Street, and repeated a nightmare – the tenth anniversary of 9/11.

We sat down asa family and watched a documentary about that fateful day and discussed how wefelt about the event. I wanted to race past those tragic memories and hauntingimages, but forced myself to slow down and remember.

Ten years. Iknow you’ve heard it. I know you’ve thought it. “I can’t believe it’s been tenyears since the attacks of 9/11.” Even though it was a tragic day, life movedon.

I wasn’t onthat road that fateful day. I was at home in Arizona and had just finished mymorning run. When I opened the door the Television was blaring. My wife met meat the door in tears. When I witnessed the graphic images on the TV, I couldn’tprocess the scene. As I stood there trying to make sense of it all, the firsttower collapsed, and so did I. My knees buckled and I felt like I was going tothrow up. We worried about the images our kids were being subjected to andturned off the TV.

I sat therestunned, unable to speak. Cody broke me from my trance. “Dad, we’re out ofmilk,” he said from the breakfast table. That simple statement put me back intomotion. His childlike perspective wasn’t calloused or cold. It was practical.My children inherently understood that time would not stop. Life would go on.

Theysay our world changed forever on 9/11, and in many ways it did. But life didnot stop. It rolled on, changing daily.

Airportsecurity became an exercise in patience, and continues to be a sore spot fortravelers. We became familiar with terrorist cells, Al Qaeda, and argued overthe spelling of Usama or Osama bin Laden. We watched video feeds from UAV’s andtheir smart bombs. We were relieved at discovering foiled plots like the shoebomber, the underwear bomber, and the Times Square bomber. We added words like “GITMO”and “IED” to our vernacular. We endured strip searches and roving wire taps.

In spite ofthe changes, the world moved forward. In Oct of 2001, the first Ipod wasreleased and revolutionized the world of music. Then came the smart phones withbuilt in GPS and multiple apps to make our life easier. Next came the Kindle,the Nook, and the Ipad. Airbus produced the world’s largest commercialairliner. Video conferencing, always a promise of science fiction, became areality of everyday life. Facebook and Google changed the way we communicateand interact as individuals, and as communities. In the last ten years theworld did not stop. In many ways it actually improved.

Now it is9/12/11. Life marches on. What goals are we striving for? What newaccomplishments are we seeking? What are we looking forward to?

It was a nicestroll down memory lane, and therapeutic to rush past the horrid scenes of tenyears ago. I will never forget the lesson of my son’s prodding that brought meback to the present. We should remember and learn from the past. It is properto give reverence to its memories both good and bad. But time doesn’t stop. Neithershould we.

Life goes on. Arewe going with it?

Transportation Troubles

2011-08-31T10:03:00.000-07:00

I noticed the small orange fuel light when I dropped my daughter off at school, but I couldn’t remember if it was on when I left the house. My son had been driving the truck for the past three days. Did he see the light come on? Why didn’t he put gas in it? Since my appointment was only a few miles away, and I assumed he light had just come on, I decided to press on to my appointment and stop at a convenient gas station along the way.

About half way there, I passed an old van stalled on the side of the road. The driver was putting gas into the vehicle with a bright red gas can. We made eye contact as I passed - like a bad omen of things to come. The tiny orange fuel light suddenly looked like a flashing neon sign.

I was almost there. I could see the gas station – a hundred yards to go. Sputter. No! Cough. Just a little further! Jerk. Aw crap! My truck ran out of gas. I whipped into an adjacent parking lot. The sign from the gas station taunted and laughed at me.

I took a deep breath and kept my cool. I called my appointment and told them I would be late. I grabbed my phone and wallet and walked to the gas station. Ten minutes later I was back at the truck with two gallons of gas in a bright red container and a half-drank forty-four ounce soda. I was cool as a cucumber.

After pouring the gas into the tank, I wiped my hands and slipped behind the wheel. I took a sip from the soda and turned the key. The starter kicked in and the motor turned over and over. Nothing. I paused and thought for a moment. Oh yeah, prime the pump. I turned on the key, waited a few seconds, and then energized the starter. The truck sputtered a moment and then droned through the motions of trying to start. I took a sip of my soda and try to stay calm and cool. I repeated the process. It started for a moment and then died again. I took another sip. It was getting warm. I was starting to sweat.

I tried for twenty more minutes. All I could get was a sputtering start, a rough idle, or the moan of a turning motor that isn’t firing. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. I wiped my forehead and called my son’s cell phone. He didn’t answer. He was still sleeping. I tried the truck again. Nothing. I called the house. No answer. I called my other son. He answered.

“Go wake up your brother and tell him to answer his dang phone!” I said.

A moment later we were talking.

“When did the gas light come on in the truck?” I asked.

“I don’t know… Sometime yesterday I guess,” he answered.

“When you saw the gas getting low why didn’t you put gas in the truck? You have a credit card.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that the light was on?” (I was looking for any excuse to shift at least some of the blame.)

“Sorry.”

“Okay, I need you to get up, grab another gas can from the shed, fill it with gas, and come help me.” I heard a long sigh.

“Okay.”

I hung up and said a short prayer. I prayed that the truck would start. I prayed that I wouldn’t blow a gasket of my own.

I tried the truck again. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I tried again, and all of a sudden, it started!

I called my son and told him he could go back to bed, and went on to my appointment. After my appointment the truck started right up. I went straight to the gas station and filled up. The truck started right up. I went to the bank. The truck wouldn’t start.

I tried to keep my cool, but the soda cup was empty. My frustration was reaching a fever pitch. After multiple attempts the truck finally started again. I roared out of the parking lot and merged onto the nearest freeway. I floored it and soon reached speeds in excess of the posted limit. When I was certain that the fuel problem was resolved, I headed home and nosed into the garage. I turned off the truck, and then tried to start it again - Nothing but a sputter.

When I walked into the house hot and bothered, my wife tried to console me, but I would have no consolation. A week earlier the air conditioning went out on our van. Out of the three vehicles I owned only one was working properly at that moment.

They used to hang horse thieves, and now I understood why. When you mess with a man’s transportation, they get testy and mean.

I wolfed down a lunch and did a couple of internet searches. I called a mechanic buddy of mine. The truck displayed all the symptoms of a bad fuel pump. Of course automotive engineers in their infinite wisdom place fuel pumps in the fuel tanks these days. Changing them requires dropping the fuel tank or lifting off the truck bed – neither of which excited me. It was all an evil plot to coerce me into taking the truck to the dealership so they could suck the dollars out of my pockets.

My calendar was full for the next day or so and I let the truck sit in the garage and drove our van with the broken air conditioner. I did try and start it a few times, but each time I got the same sputtering result. My wife put out a cry for help on Facebook asking if anyone wanted to help fix the truck in exchange for buddy passes. Our friend and neighbor, Geoff, said he could do it, but he wanted to make sure it was the fuel pump before we tore into the truck. He sent me a link from a forum discussing a recalled relay that could often show the same symptoms as a bad fuel pump.

Driving without air conditioning in the Phoenix summer heat can cause brain damage. It was time to get my transportation troubles solved. We decided to trade in the broken van, and I was going to diagnose the truck problem or haul it to the shop.

The next day we started early. First stop was the Nissan dealership. They could replace the recalled relay if I brought the truck into the shop, but they wouldn’t sell me the relay because of the recall. I was reluctant to bring it in until I knew it was the relay and not the pump – catch 22. We test drove some really nice vehicles, met the salespeople (not pushy thank goodness), and moved on to other dealerships.

We went through the usual suspects – Toyota, Honda, Subaru, Volkswagen. In the modern information age most car salespeople are friendly, but no too pushy. They know that you are armed with a lot of information. The Volkswagen sales guy was the only old-school, what-can-I-do-to-get-you-in-a-car-today pushy type. We drove by the GM and Ford dealerships, but we just waved. By the afternoon we were sick of sales pitches, sticker prices, and standing in the sun and drove home without a new car.

After we got home I headed for the parts store and bought a repair book and a fuel pressure tester. Following the instructions, I removed the engine cover and found the “quick connect” fitting where I was supposed to attach the fuel pressure tester. The only problem was that it was a “quick connect” not a “quick disconnect” and I couldn’t get the thing to come off to save my life.

After multiple attempts and several Youtube videos explaining how to disconnect a fuel line “quick connect” fitting, I called another my neighbor Charlie that likes to work on old cars. He came over and together we tried to get the fitting to disengage without success. He remembered hearing that if the line still has pressure, it won’t be easy to disconnect. So we both listened for the sound of the fuel pump priming when we turned on the truck. Sure enough, we heard the small whine of the pump coming to life. At that point it was late, I was hot, and my brain was mush. We pushed the truck back into the garage and I called it a night.

Just before I went to bed I read the link Geoff sent me one more time. I had missed a step. There was a workaround to determine if the problem was the relay or the fuel pump. I knew that the next morning I would get one more shot at diagnosing the problem before calling the tow truck.

I got up the next morning and went for a run. I needed some endorphins. When I got back I swapped two relays as instructed by the workaround solution. I kissed the steering wheel for luck and turned the key. The truck started right up! I danced a jig to the sound of a Nissan Titan motor running like a top. My transportation troubles were over!

My wife interrupted my celebration. “Honey, can we go to the Mazda dealership before you go to work this morning?”

By the time I took off from Phoenix that afternoon, she had traded in our van and closed the deal on a new Mazda CX-9. I was just glad that my temporary transportation troubles were over, for now.

The Powell Perspective

2011-08-08T09:32:00.000-07:00

I didn’t want to go to Lake Powell. I wasn’t against spending a week on a houseboat with family and friends on one of the most striking bodies of water in the United States. I wasn’t against spending all day boating and playing in the water, or passing the cool evenings on the upper deck watching amazing sunsets while I ate barbecued chicken. I didn’t mind passing the night hours gazing up at the brilliant stars. I thought I didn’t want to go because of all the hassles of making the trip, but the journey revealed a deeper motivation.

Life can be a hassle. Money woes, health problems, family disturbances, and a host of other hassles can make your life miserable. The trail of life is a long slog of ups that elevate your perspective, to downs that blind your view. Although everyone’s road is different, no one’s road is easy all the time. In fact, I would argue that the more difficult roads could be the best roads. Lately my road has taken an unnatural emotional dip.

The night before we left I wasn’t feeling well – emotionally or physically. I went to bed stressed and angry, and my anger kept me in lugubrious darkness all night long. I can’t say if I slept or hallucinated. I passed the night in and out of a psychedelic dreams, and none of them were pleasant. I felt like I was drowning in strangeness and swimming in a drunken stupor. I don’t know if I really slept at all.

When my wife’s alarm went off at five thirty, I was already wide-awake. I lay there listening to her brush her teeth wondering if I would get out of bed or pull the covers over my head and hide. I didn’t move for twenty minutes.

I got out of bed.

Several hours later we were loading our things onto a houseboat on Lake Powell. We loaded up with food, fuel, and water toys (including two boats and a wave runner) and spent the night in the marina. The next morning we headed out into the channel and went in search of spot to anchor the boat for the next week.

I have flown over Lake Powell hundreds of times. From several miles in the air I have looked down on its blue water extended into the red and brown deserts of southern Utah and northern Arizona like the long fingers of some freakish hand. Sometimes my view was so good that I could see the wake made by moving boats and wondered what it was like out on the water. Now I know.

Lake Powell is like an ocean in the desert. It is mammoth in size, but it isn’t the size that impresses, it is the contrast. The water laps up against towering cliffs of red sandstone that look like they been hand carved by God himself in a moment of artistic fervor. Enormous buttes rise up from the water like nature’s cathedrals. I’m sure that the canyons of carved sandstone were spectacular before the lake was filled, but man has enhanced the beauty God created with the creation of the lake. The blue-green water pops against the various hues of reds and browns.

Describing the view as picturesque would be like describing the Mona Lisa as a painting. Even in a houseboat that will sleep twenty people, I felt small compared to the vastness of that ocean in the desert.

Contrast can enhance our perspective. Like the steep grades of life’s undulating path, sharp emotions impact us more than the mundane monotony of daily emotional interaction. The contrast in my emotions gave me perspective and insight. I was suffering from a bout of depression.

We cruised for a while and let my brother-in-law, Jared, do the driving. He pulled out his map of the lake and we discussed various possible sites to make our camp. We passed several spots – too exposed, too much rock, another houseboat already there. Then we found it. The wind had carved a sweeping curve into the rising sandstone cliff, and deposited a pile of earth at the end of the curve just for us.

We buried anchors deep into the sandy soil and tied anchor lines around large boulders to secure the boat against any wind or storms. It was a flurry of activity for about an hour as we put everything in its place, and then we were free to enjoy the lake. We relaxed the afternoon away with a little boating and sightseeing, and after dinner on the upper deck, Jared entertained us with a laser light show against the four hundred foot canyon wall beside the boat.

The next morning I woke up at 3:30 and tossed and turned until 4:30. I finally just got out of bed. I snuck to the top of the houseboat and sat down to watch the sunrise. The purple light crept over the top of the buttes and cast a mellow glow over our slice of watery paradise as bats swarmed the air around my head searching for unsuspecting insects. I was surprised at how awake I was at that hour.

We spent the morning alternating between wakeboarding, knee boarding, and trying to kill someone on an oversized four-person tube.

After lunch we headed for Dangling Rope to get gas and ice cream, and followed it up with a trip to Cathedral Canyon.

Cathedral Canyon is a must do for any avid boater. It is a channel of water that winds through a slot canyon getting narrower and narrower until you are almost scraping your boat against steep sandstone walls rising up so high that they filter the sunlight and cast a glow on the water like the stain glass window of some medieval church. The wakes of passing boats reverberate off the canyon walls making the pilgrimage treacherous, but you are blessed with deep pools of clear water ideal for cliff jumping at the end of your sojourn. The scene lifted my spirits, but then again, churches should do that.

I hadn’t chosen to be depressed. I simply felt it. Here I was spending time with people that loved me in a spectacular setting doing things that I enjoyed, and yet inside, my emotions were churning like the prop wash behind my boat.

That afternoon we surfed. With the help of two avid surfers, Jared and Chad, we dialed in a monster wave behind the boat and carved it up.

Unlike wakeboarding or skiing, wake surfing is easy on your body when you wipe out, but the ratio between fun and effort is much better. Balancing the board against the face of the wave and letting the power of the passing water push you forward is exhilarating and therapeutic. Unlike surfing in the ocean, the wave is endless, waiting for you to slip from its sweet spot and fall, or run out of gas with your boat. Riding the waves in the mellow light of sunset against red cliffs was iconic.

We passed the remaining days in similar fashion, and in spite of the serene atmosphere and uplifting company, the waters of my mind remained turbulent. I returned home as lugubrious as when I left.

From now on when I fly over Lake Powell and see the blue water contrasted against the desert colors, I will have a new perspective. I will remember the flying buttresses of its cathedrals. I will remember the brilliant sunsets and star-filled nights. I will remember the clear green water against the brilliant colors of the painted desert walls. I will remember the excitement and laughter of my company. I will remember that in the end, some journeys are worth the hassle. But perhaps, I will remember it most for clear the perspective it gave me of my mental condition and the unnatural emotions we all feel sometimes when we get depressed.

I hope this blog post has helped you understand that sometimes depression is not situational. Things around us can be spectacular and beautiful, but we can still suffer inside emotionally. Recognize it for what it is – an unnatural emotion. When you feel that way, take a step back, find a friend, and try to get a new perspective. In the end if you are still suffering inside for no apparent reason, seek professional help.

Wounds In Disney World

2011-07-18T07:28:00.000-07:00

My wounds from Disney World have finally healed. I scraped the skin off the last two knuckles of my left hand on the rough plaster of the lazy river at Typhoon Lagoon. It didn’t hurt too much, but it bled more than I wanted it to, and it took its sweet time to heal. Every time I saw the two circular scabs I remembered the incident. Every time I rubbed my fingers over the wounds, I felt the rough plaster ripping the skin off of those knuckles again. I relived the moment over and over again for more than a month.

I have other wounds that took years to heal, and although they aren’t as visible as the two circular scars on my left hand, they have impacted me and made me who I am. Some of those wounds were at the hands of strangers. Some, I came by because of friends. Others happened because of family members. I’m sure I caused a lot of them myself.

Just like Disney World, homes are supposed to be the happiest place on earth, but sometimes we get wounded in otherwise happy places. We long for a home environment akin to the Beaver Cleaver’s house, but it can sometimes end up more like the Simpson’s. Families are messy things full of passion and hope. The walls of our home become guardians of both happy celebrations, and ominous secrets.

Five years ago today the adoption of two of our daughters was finalized. They came to us unaware of the scars that had been inflicted on them. They came to us with a subconscious full of painful memories and flashes of love. We have struggled to heal the wounds. We have worked to help them understand their past whenever we could. We have encouraged them to let go of the pain and forgive. Adopting them is the hardest thing I have ever done.

They say you will never be truly successful until you can forgive your parents. Maybe you can never be truly successful until you forgive yourself as a parent. It’s not that you want to do damage to your kids. You want to raise them right. You want to enable them to succeed. You want to empower them and prepare them to go forth in the world and be happy productive adults. The only problem is that you are probably still trying to figure that out yourself. So, the end result is that you imprint your own fears, shortcomings, and weaknesses onto the very beings that you want most to protect, and the cycle starts all over again.

After five years our daughters still have an accent. The still say things that give away the fact that English is not their primary language. They will always be a product of their environment to a certain degree, but that doesn’t mean that their environment will determine their destiny. They, like all of us, have to make a choice at some point. We have to decide to quit blaming our parents and take responsibility for who we are.

I had wonderful parents who did the best they knew how at raising me, but they weren’t perfect. I am doing the best I know how for my kids. The truth is that sometimes our best isn’t good enough. Like wounds inflicted at Disney World, I leave psychological scars on my children. When I recognize that I have wounded them, it leaves even deeper scars on me.

I know some homes are truly hell on earth, but most homes are happy places where we have suffered from time to time. We get scrapes, bruises, and the occasional broken bone, but for most part we laugh and love one another. We occasionally raise our voices and shout hurtful things that we don’t mean, but most days we hear kind encouragement and soothing support.

The best place to learn forgiveness is at home. The pain is raw. The emotion of the moment is heightened by the proximity of the perpetrator. The memory is a lingering reminder that sits with us at every meal and plops itself onto the couch during our favorite TV show. We run our fingers over the wound and relive the moment of injury all over again. When we can learn to forgive in that environment, we can learn to forgive anywhere.

My wounds from Disney World have finally healed. They didn’t leave any permanent damage. I hope that my children won’t suffer permanent damage because of my incompetence and shortcomings as a parent and a human being. I pray that they will forgive me for scarring them with my idiosyncratic, and sometimes boorish, behavior. Maybe I will even be able to forgive myself for not ensuring that our home was the happiest place on earth, all of the time.

Oh, by the way… today is also my Mom’s birthday. Happy Birthday Mom! Thanks for warping me into who I am.

One Way Tickets to Tyranny Ville

2011-07-03T23:11:00.000-07:00

Recently the town council of Eugene, Oregon, faced a difficult and controversial vote. They struggled with a divisive proposal that threatened to incite the community and tear the council apart. One of the council members proposed that they say the Pledge of Allegiance before each council meeting.

Huh?

A few years ago I spent some time in Russia, part of the former Soviet Union. As an Air Force pilot in the European Theater I figured I might go there someday, but it wasn’t like I anticipated. I flew into the country as a passenger on an Aeroflot airliner, not as a combat pilot in the A-10. My wife and I made the trip to adopt the two girls that we have called daughters for almost five years now. Traveling into former enemy territory to adopt children is an eye-opening experience to say the least.

I found a land still reeling from the lingering effects of socialism and communism that barely operated at a level above the third world, and in some cases definitely performed below third-world standards. I saw the collectives, large utilitarian apartment buildings with crumbling facades. I traveled on roads in such need of repair that I was sure that the richest man is town had to be the mechanic that sold and replaced shocks and struts. I shopped in poorly stocked grocery stores with scarce and sometimes rotting produce. The experience reminded me of some of the South American villages I had seen. It certainly didn’t feel like I was visiting a former world power.

The most dominating relic of the communist reign was the over bloated bureaucracy everywhere we went. We spent hours in dimly lit hallways waiting for our turn in front of some obscure official just so we could get the rubber stamp and go on to the next official. We would enter agencies with our facilitator and find a jumbled mass of humanity waiting for a rubber stamp – no lines really, just a huddled mass of confused and bureaucracy-weary patrons with hollow eyes. A door would open and someone would press forward into the office, and then the door would close to a collective groan. As an outside observer the whole process appeared to be more like the Keystone Cops routine than a functioning government. I longed for the organization of the Department of Motor Vehicles with their please-take-a-number system.

The most notable cultural difference in the process was the lack of humor. No smiles. No friendly banter. No chuckling at whispered jokes. Russians frown on (literally) too much public frivolity. I surmised that it must stem from years of oppression. Why highlight yourself by smiling or laughing if you know they can haul you away in the middle of the night without just cause? Although public displays of happiness are taboo, Russians are very friendly and personable, one on one.

Through all of this I saw a light. Capitalism had taken hold, and it was growing. In Moscow, Saint Petersburg, and even smaller Petrozavodsk, modern stores were popping up. Small businesses seemed to be thriving. Technology was becoming the rage. Women’s fashion (a sure sign of coming prosperity) was a booming business. Economic freedom was invading deep into the heart of the former Soviet Union and setting up shop.

After several long weeks, the appropriate number of rubber stamps on our paperwork, and several thousand dollars (yes, new unfolded twenties and hundreds), we were going home with our two new daughters. We had one last bureaucratic visit – the American Embassy in Moscow. After passing the Marines at the front door, we found a slice of Americana. People smiled and laughed. The process was streamlined and organized. We even took numbers and waited to be called. We didn’t need a facilitator to grease palms so we could move past the mob. It was a welcomed sight.

When we touched down in Los Angeles I wanted to cry, but it wasn’t because of the smog. We were back in the USA! A black woman in a uniform smiled at us as we approached passport control. She chatted with us about our trip. She made jokes with the girls and tried to make them laugh (even though they didn’t understand). When she finished reviewing our packet of paperwork she took us over to another desk with three men behind it – an Asian, a Latino, and an All-American Anglo. They laughed and joked with one another. They teased each other. They helped each other.

I smiled and started to cry. “Can I tell how good it is to be back in the USA?” I said.

I explained that I thought they were the epitome of what this great nation stands for. Each of them came from different ethnic backgrounds and different cultural viewpoints, yet they worked together without evident problems. They laughed and joked with one another. They were efficient and professional. Their diversity was a strength, not a weakness. They carried themselves like a free people unafraid of despots and tyrants. To this day I still get choked up at the contrast between a free people and those suffering from the effects of long-term oppression.

In the end the City of Eugene, Oregon, compromised. They decided to say the Pledge of Allegiance four times a year at the meetings closest to four national holidays. Their courage and patriotism is underwhelming.

I am glad I live in a country where a city council can decide against saying the pledge, or pass resolutions that are intended to undermine federal policy without fear of the gulag. I will shed blood to protect those principles of the Constitution that afford us those freedoms.

BUT I have no respect for citizens so ignorant to the greatness of this nation and its founding principles that they have to debate whether or not to say the Pledge of Allegiance at an official government meeting.

Maybe we should start a fund to educate them. I even have a name for it – One-Way Tickets to Tyranny Ville. Maybe a few weeks in the former Soviet Russia or a month in Cuba would bring them a new perspective. They can pay for their own way back. Enjoy the trip.

Playing With Fire

2011-06-18T18:16:00.000-07:00

I knew I wasn’t supposed to play with fire, but I did it anyway. I was showing off to my younger sister.

I don’t remember the time of day, but I think it was early afternoon. I don’t remember the time of year, but it must have been summer because we weren’t in school. I do remember what happened, and to this day, I can remember the sheer terror I felt when I watched orange flames engulf an old Indian blanket and grow into a small inferno.

The massive milk barn was a farm kid’s paradise. It stood like a castle looming over the entire farm with gigantic domed tin roofs rising up into the sky that could be seen for miles. A tall concrete silo stood beside it like an impenetrable watchtower. The bottom floor of the barn housed cattle on one side, and two milking bays with a cooler room for chilling the fresh milk on the other. Every morning before going to his factory job, my dad rose early and herded the milk cows through one of the milking bays to be milked, but the other bay was used for storage.

Upstairs, the loft opened up like the ceiling of some gothic cathedral reaching heavenward. One side held several years worth of hay. The other side sported a basketball court with a thick rope for climbing and swinging that hung from the pinnacle of the dome. In a time when we only had three black and white TV channels, that barn became a fantasyland full of never-ending adventures.

When it finally burned to the ground, the glow from the fire could be seen on the other side of Simpson County.

That fateful day, I was at the barn with my younger sister Cameo. Somehow, we had grown bored with swinging on the rope, building forts in the endless stacks of hay, and shooting basketball. We went downstairs to check on the baby calves in the livestock area.

I don’t remember if I had the matches in my pocket, or if I found them lying around, but when our journey took us from the livestock area to the storage area, I decided to play with fire.

One of my dad’s hobbies (it was probably a money-making enterprise disguised as a hobby since he had a house full of kids, a day job, and a dairy farm to run) was keeping bees. He had stacked empty beehive boxes alongside a mountain of wooden honeycomb frames. All of these tinderbox materials were covered with an old tattered Indian blanket woven with rich threads of black, red, and tan. I thought the large stack would provide a good hiding place for playing with fire.

“I can light a match and blow it out,” I said after we hunkered down out of sight.

My sister watched with wide eyes as I opened the box of matches.

I lit a match and watched the red and yellow flame come to life in my hands. The smell of sulfur burned my nose. Cameo bit her bottom lip. I blew out the match with a heavy breath.

“See,” I said, “I can put the fire out.”

She smiled, but I don’t know if it was out of relief, or delight in the dangerous deed. Her smile spurred me on.

I lit another match and we stared at the flame as it burned towards my fingers. I waited until I could feel the flame singeing the skin on my fingers before I blew it out. My sister giggled, and I filled with an egotistical sense of power that only a young boy playing with fire can feel.

I noticed several pulled threads from the Indian blanket were hanging down. “I can light on of these threads on fire and put it out,” I announced. She drew in a sharp breath.

I lit another match.

Of course, the thick woven blanket covered seasoned wood, paraffin, and beeswax. I was lighting the fuse to a powder keg and didn’t realize it. I was too caught up in the excitement of playing with fire. I was heady with the emotion I evoked in my little sister’s eyes as I moved the bright flame to a hanging thread, and lit it on fire.

In an instant, the flame flickered brighter and hurried up the thread so fast that it startled me. My sister gasped. I dropped the box of matches.

“I can put it out,” I stammered. I began smacking the growing flame in an attempt to stop its upward climb. My swatting hands only provided the fire more oxygen and within seconds the blanket was engulfed in flames.

“Run!” I yelled.

My sister, no longer amazed at my fire skills, scurried away and out of the barn. I stopped and grabbed the phone on the wall. My fingers couldn’t work the old rotary dial fast enough. I didn’t dial 911. It hadn’t been invented yet. I dialed 777, the number for a direct access to the farmhouse about a hundred yards away. I could see the fire growing, and my sister Cameo standing in the sunlight just outside the doorway waiting for me to save myself from a fiery death.

I don’t remember who answered. As soon as I heard another human voice in the earpiece, I screamed, “The barn’s on fire! The barn’s on fire!”

They may have said something in response or offered some instruction, but I didn’t hear it. The fire had began to bubble the paint of the roof above it, and I was convinced that the entire structure was about to come crashing down around me.

In a panic I tried to think. What should I try to save? Should I try and get the cows out of the barn? Was anybody else upstairs?

I ran up the stairs and found the loft empty. As I came down the stairs, I saw my brother’s old toy John Deere tractor sitting in the feed room. In my mind, that was an article worth saving and I steered it out past the growing fire, into the other milking parlor, and hurried for the front door.

As I got to the door, my oldest sister, Carol, jumped off her bike and ran through the door.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked.

“Over here!” I shouted, as if it wasn’t obvious.

She hurried over, assessed the situation with one look, and picked up the water hose that lay just below the phone. Her hand spun the spigot full open in milliseconds. She pointed the spray nozzle at the base of the fire and unleashed a wet fury to battle the beeswax blaze. In a matter of minutes she had the fire under control.

I felt a sudden urge to hide. I was sure I was going to throw up. Maybe I could hide, and then throw up. I loitered in the background as siblings rode up on bikes or ran barefoot to the front door of the barn and gazed in at the scene of billowing smoke and blackened boards. I glanced at Cameo. One look from her told me she wouldn’t tell. I tried to blend into the background as older siblings and my mother took charge and assessed the damage.

I thought I might be in the clear, maybe even a hero since I had made the phone call, but then I heard a siren. A few moments later I heard the big tires of the fire truck come to a skidding stop on the gravel in front of the barn. My dad came roaring up on the old Allis-Chalmers tractor right behind the firetruck.

I knew that if I confessed to my nefarious deed of playing with matches, my life was over. Either my dad would give me the whippin’ of my life, or the firemen would throw me under the county jail until school started again. I was doomed.

I slithered back into the feed room and hung my head. I don’t remember if I cried. I think I was too afraid. Eventually, my dad found me.

“We found some matches behind the beehives,” he said. “Were you playing with matches?”

I hesitated and looked at the floor. After a long pause, I nodded my head. My face must have been as white as a sheet. I waited for him to take off his belt, or maybe explode with justified anger, but instead, he just let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m glad nobody was hurt and Carol was able to put out the fire,” he said.

He squatted down and looked me in the eyes. He must have seen the sheer terror on my face and decided that any further punishment would never come close to the punishment I had already given myself. He put his rough hand on my shoulder and lectured me. I’m sure his words were wise, but I was so relieved at not getting a whippin’ or getting thrown under the county jail, I don’t remember a word of it. I never played with matches again.

Life for a farm kid soon returned to normal. The fire made the local paper, “Booher’s Beeswax Burns Barn.” I wanted to laugh, but the best I could muster was an embarrassed chuckle.

We enjoyed the barn for several more years, but then my grandmother, a widow living alone in the other farmhouse, sold the place and moved into town. I was twelve when we moved across the county and said goodbye to a farm kid’s paradise disguised as an enormous silver-domed milk barn. We all moped around the new place remembering the long afternoons of fun under the big barn’s watchful rafters and loving roof.

One night later that fall, an orange glow lit up the moonless sky. Somehow we knew that the barn had finally met the demise I had almost given it years earlier. After one look at the collapsed roof and charred remains of that beautiful building, all desire to return to the old farm disappeared. Without our castle, Camelot was just another piece of dirt.

At family reunions we reminisce about the lazy summer afternoons we spent in that barn. My siblings still tease me about almost burning it down. I harbor another memory. I remember the look of a concerned father, and the whippin’ I didn’t get for playing with fire.

Failure Teaches Us More Than Success

2011-06-04T12:30:00.000-07:00

The other day I had breakfast with an old friend. We were in the Air Force together, back in the day, but we had another connection as well. We were also business associates in a multi-level marketing company.

I got involved in the business when a coworker approached me about an opportunity he was excited about and invited me to listen to a presentation from one of his “business partners.” At the time I was a little disillusioned with my military career, so I accepted the invitation. A few nights later, Tom rang my doorbell.

His soft-sell approach was smooth and convincing. He carried himself well, and exuded confidence. He was excited about his message. His excitement and delivery piqued my interest, and I agreed to investigate the opportunity more. In the end, my wife and I got excited as well and jumped in with both feet.

We plucked away for five long years with hope, determination, and perseverance. We went to lots of high-energy meetings, technique seminars, and long-winded presentations. We listened to lots of cassette tapes (remember those?). We spent a lot of time and energy trying to build our business. We made a lot of presentations. We met with lot of rejection. We lost sleep. We fought. We struggled.

Although we achieved a measure of success, it was a failure in the end.

Fast forward nineteen years. At breakfast I asked Tom if he ever regretted that whole experience. (He had achieved quite a bit of success in the business, but in the end he also met with failure.)

“Not at all,” he answered without hesitation.

He went on to explain how those years of struggle had changed his life. The books he read, the mentorship he received, the friends he made, had all changed his life. Yes, he regretted some of the foolish decisions he made, but overall the experience taught him so much that he didn’t consider it a negative. He reminded me that our friendship of almost twenty years had started because he rang my doorbell that night to give me a sales pitch. The opportunity itself had not succeeded financially, but it had taught him and prepared him for other opportunities that had borne fruit.

I fear one thing – failure. That overriding fear of failure has been the most powerful force in my life other than my moral/religious beliefs, and truthfully, the fear of failure in the spiritual realm has been a big motivator in my walk of faith as well.

Fear of failure can paralyze you. It can keep you huddled in a mass of nerves on the sideline of life while others play, and win, the game. It can keep you from happiness when you do achieve something because you fear losing it all. That very real fear can crush your dreams before they ever have the chance of breathing the first breath of opportunity. Fear of failure can suck you into the shallow cesspool of mediocrity and keep you drowning there even when you have the power to stand up and walk out of its filthy knee-deep waters.

Yet, failure is often the best teacher. Failure teaches you what doesn’t work. Failure teaches you perseverance and patience. Failure hones your ability to endure long, boring hours of monotonous labor. Failure teaches you about teamwork. Failure exposes hidden enemies, and helps you discover friends in the most unlikely places. Failure drives home each lesson like a sledgehammer pounding painful blows at your ego until it humbles you into submission and exposes the truth to you in a way that you can no longer deny with your arrogance or self-denial. Failure reveals your character. Failure teaches you to appreciate success.

I’m glad Tom rang my doorbell all those years ago. He shared a vision, a dream, of the possibilities that life holds. That vision motivated me (and still motivates me) to go out and fail my way to success.

Let failure teach you. Let failure motivate you. Let failure inspire you. But don’t let it stop you from dreaming. Don’t let it stop you from trying. Don’t let it sideline you in the game of life. Go on and succeed by failing.

Failure teaches us more than success, and without failure, we would never succeed.

No Pantsing Allowed

2011-05-13T15:19:00.000-07:00

We recently got a call from the high school principal. He was suspending my son.

I was sure that the offense must be bad if a suspension was involved. I thought about the possibilities – fireworks, a knife in his backpack, fighting, or maybe destruction of school property. He is a good kid, but since he was getting suspended, I expected the worst.

I asked my wife what he had done to deserve such a significant punishment. “He ‘pantsed’ a kid in gymn class,” she said, unable to keep a straight face. I questioned her again, not understanding, and not believing, what I had heard.

She explained, “He ‘pantsed’ someone. You know, pulled their pants down so that their underwear showed.” She started laughing out loud.

Since she had a commitment, I was elected to go to the school and meet with the assistant principal.

As I drove to the school I remembered a story about my Grampy. He was a teacher and school administrator that knew how to deal with class clowns and unruly students. One day in Ag class he was teaching the students how to shear sheep. One of the students smarted off and asked if the shears would cut human hair. The smart aleck ended up with a buzzed head, compliments of my Grampy and sharp shears. According to the story, everyone in the class laughed about it, even the student with sheared hair. From then on they called him Turnip Head.

Today that would be a lawsuit.

When I saw my son in the Assistant Principal’s office, he was devastated. His head was hanging low, and he was on the verge of tears. He told the story, and admitted to the crime. So, open and shut, he was guilty as charged. He had indeed pulled the shorts of a classmate down during a coed gym class and caused an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.

I asked about the recipient of the prank. He had been trying to do the same thing to my son, unsuccessfully. He also felt bad that my son was being punished. That brought me some peace of mind. At least it wasn’t a malicious act, and the two boys could still be friends and laugh about it.

“How long is the suspension?” I asked. I expected a day or maybe two.

“Five days,” she replied. “That is the standard punishment for the offense.”

Five days! For pulling a guy’s shorts down around his knees during gym class!

I kept my cool and asked, “Was my son aware of the policy against such behavior?”

The policy had been clearly stated, explained, and emphasized at the beginning of the year, but my son didn’t remember it. This is where we explained that ignorance to the law is not a viable excuse. (This was really happening. My son was being suspended for five days over an innocuous prank.)

I don’t excuse his behavior. It was below the belt… er… out of line. I couldn’t fault the administrators (except for the complete loss of common sense). They had clearly communicated the expectations, and evenly applied the punishment for all perpetrators. However, I did feel a little like Rip Van Winkle. I had fallen asleep for several years, and when I awoke, petty pranks had become heinous crimes. How had we arrived at this point?

My wife, my son, and I met with the Principal. Not long into the cordial discussion, I got my answer. This particular prank had been played on an unsuspecting student a few years ago at a neighboring school district. The administration addressed it casually, as we would have in times past. The parents of the prank’s victim sued the school.

The moral of the story?

If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you can read this at a clean and efficiently run school, thank a good school administrator. If can read this and find it absolute maddening that we punish innocuous pranks so severely, thank sue-happy parents and their slimy lawyers.

Usama Bin Laden is Dead. Yippee... I Guess

2011-05-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

Usama Bin Laden is dead. Yippee… I guess.

It is difficult to celebrate the death of another human being, but in his case, I can certainly understand the desire to give a little shout for joy, or at least relief. He was, after all, a mass murderer hell-bent on our demise, indeed the very destruction of our way of life.

I’m sure you remember where you were on 9/11. So do I. But I also remember just as vividly the moment I learned that I had helped train one of the nineteen hijackers of 9/11.

The Monday after 9/11 I was driving north on the 101 approaching the intersection of the 202. I was on my way to teach a group of Australian pilots in the Boeing 737 simulator. I was listening to the news. When the name Hani Honjour came over the radio in connection with the attacks, my blood ran cold. I picked up my cell phone and called Julie at Jet Tech, a flight training school.

“Is it true about Hani Honjour?” I asked.

“Where are you? You’re not driving are you?”

I let out a string of expletives as she tried to calm me down. It was true. I had helped train one of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers, and my life would forever be connected to that tragedy in a bizarre connection of events.

Hani Honjour, born the fourth child of seven children, came to Tucson, Arizona, in October of 1991. His eldest brother Abdulraham helped him secure room and board. Between 1991 and 1998 he came to the United States to study on three separate occasions. On September 11^th, he was at the controls of American Airlines Flight 77 when it slammed into the Pentagon.

I was devastated. Guilt burdened me as I thought about my involvement with such a horrible tragedy. I replayed my interaction with Hani over and over again in my mind searching for some clue to his intent. I pondered my actions, and considered plausible alternatives, but the past was hard as stone, and I could do nothing to change it.

I remember well the day he walked into my classroom. He was average build, and wore a baseball cap over his thinning hair. He sported a thin dark mustache that accented a sharp nose. He was quiet, and every time I looked at him he reminded of a mouse timidly waiting in the corner for a chance at the cheese.

I administered the pretest to the class. He failed it. I told him that he probably wouldn’t make it through the course because he wasn’t prepared. He explained to me, in broken English, that he was only monitoring my class. He would start his official training the next week.

I would like to say that my innate ability for sensing danger kicked in at that point, but it didn’t. Something gnawed at me. Something didn’t feel right, but I certainly wasn’t afraid of a mousy, average-built foreigner in jeans and a baseball cap. During the first break, I walked into the manager’s office and closed the door.

Peggy sat behind her desk full of schedules, invoices, and student files. She looked up and asked, “What’s up?"

“What’s up with this Hani guy?” I asked. “He’s never going to make it through the course."

We discussed the issue mostly from a proficiency standpoint. We both wondered how he had even qualified for a flying license since his English proficiency was in question. We talked around the issue. Both of us felt something was amiss, but we couldn’t put our finger on it. We chalked it up to our concerns over his lack of proficiency and ability. Since he was our student and our customer, we pushed those feelings aside and strategized on how to help him get through the program.

Peggy did commit to one important task. She promised to call the FAA and raise the flag about our inept student. Our discussion and her follow up were the only things that helped assuage my guilt when the truth about our suspicious customer finally hit the airways.

Hani Honjour never did graduate from the B-737 type-rating course at Jet Tech. Peggy, his various instructors, and all the staff bent over backwards to help him. I bought him lunch. My wife even gave him a ride to a nearby restaurant. Imagine this future inflictor of terror and horror riding down the street in a minivan with my bubbly wife at the wheel and my two small kids tagging along. Who knew that he was a deadly snake just waiting for his opportunity to strike?

Years ago when I was a kid, a pack of wild dogs infested the woods on the back of our farm in Kentucky. They killed some of our chickens. They threatened our cattle. It wasn’t safe for us to go outside. My Uncle showed up with a large-caliber hunting rifle. He told my older brother, probably only about twelve at the time, to grab his twenty-two and some ammunition. They were going to get rid of that menacing pack of wild dogs.

We normally think of dogs as man’s best friend – loyal, loving, protective. We don’t like the thought of killing them, but these dogs were different. From our house on the hill I watched as my brother and Uncle followed the fence line down the hill and took up a position behind some brush. The wild dogs were lounging under a tree next to the pond. The shooting started. Several dogs went down and the others started to disperse, but one dog, the largest of the group and probably the leader, started up the hill and doubled back as if he knew the source of the gunfire. I was terrified as I watched the big black dog round the brush pile and bear down on my brother and Uncle. At the last moment my Uncle turned and shot the dog. It didn’t die on the spot, but it left mortally wounded and would never threaten us again.

I lamented the death of those dogs. It was such a waste. I must have said as much, because my Uncle took the opportunity to teach me a bit of homespun wisdom. “Some things just need a killin’,” he said.

Years later, as I tried to make sense of my own connection to 9/11, his words rang true again.

Hani Honjour, and several more of the original 19 hijackers, tasted of the best this country had to offer and then summarily rejected it. They freely traveled our clean and efficient highway system. They dined in our varied restaurants, and shopped in our sprawling shopping centers. They enjoyed our hospitality and were treated with respect, even kindness. In Hani’s case, we bent over backwards to help him achieve what we thought was his dream – becoming a commercial pilot.

The 9/11 hijackers were not sheltered soldiers ignorant to the lies propagated to foment their hatred. They saw the web of those lies unravel before their eyes, and then with malice, picked up the threads of those lies and reweaved the web themselves.

The hatred that fuels the terrorists should be fought on all fronts. We should promote the principles of freedom that make our country great at home and abroad. We should extend a hand of kindness and generosity to our enemies. We must strive to better understand the plight of misguided people around the world. We must build bridges into enemy territory through sacrifice and selflessness.

However, we cannot forget that in spite of our good intentions and best efforts, some hatred is insurmountable and just needs “a killin’.” We must remain vigilant and prepared for packs of wild dogs hell-bent on our demise.

Usama Bin Laden is dead. Yippee.

Traditional Publishing is Dead

2011-04-23T09:01:00.000-07:00

They say the traditional publishing model is dead. The buzz on the street is self-publishing, or even better “e-publishing.” Well after wasting several hours trying to self-publish and e-publish a short story with illustrations, I’m not so sure about the demise of New York publishing houses.

I wrote a simple, feel-good short story that takes you back to the first Easter morning via the viewpoint of the stone in front of the tomb. It may not be a classic masterpiece, but the message is very meaningful to me, and I wanted publishing it myself, or maybe just get it out there into the digital world for people to enjoy.

I hired an illustrator. She produced some simple pencil drawings that captured the essence of the story quite well. I bought them, scanned them, and inserted them into the story at just the right spots using Microsoft Word. I printed the story. It looked just like it did on my computer screen. My editorial staff (my kids) reviewed it and gave me the thumbs up.

Next, I went to a well-known self-publishing site and opened an account. According to their advertising, they offered turnkey solutions for printing the book. With a click of the mouse, I was on my way. (Take that you New York fat cats!) As instructed, I converted the word document into PDF, and uploaded it. I picked a standard size for my best seller, and fumbled through their cover design process, which was too elaborate for my small project. Finally, I got to the last step and the website began to convert my words and purchased sketches into a book! (It was like Christmas morning!) Wait… a message popped up. My book was too short and they couldn’t publish it.

I mumbled a few less-than-Christian things at my computer screen.

My wife overheard my ranting and had pity on me. She sent me a link for self-publishing that she heard was one of the best. I cooled my jets, resolved not let this setback be the end of a worthwhile story, and clicked on the link.

This site was better. It had better testimonials. I opened an account. They had a wizard button! (I spit in your face cruel traditional publishing model!) At step two I was trying to upload the cover and found myself restricted to a variety of vanilla options, but for a small fee they could help make my cover eye-catching and professional. Of course, I remembered the old adage, “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” and accepted one of the vanilla options. When I got to the end, I found myself in a quagmire of legalese about distribution, royalties, and ISBN numbers. It gave me a headache, and I went back to my ranting.

The next day, I remembered an email I had previously received about e-publishing. I combed through my various spam folders and found it. It offered a simple way to get your books out into the digital library using adjectives like “free,” and “easy.” Still longing to get my inspiring treatise in the hands of longing readers, I decided to give it one more try.

The account setup lived up to the advertising. I was ready in a snap. Then I uploaded the book and the website converted it. “Finally,” I thought, “I have found the holy grail of e-publishing and my story will cruise along the information superhighway to wonderful digital destinations all over the worldwide web.” The website informed that the conversion of my story was complete, and I clicked on the preview button.

“Why are all my illustrations out of order?” I wondered as I clicked through the preview. “Nothing is where I put it." My voice grew louder. "It doesn’t look anything like it does on my computer screen or my printed copy!”

Several hours and multiple attempts later, my wife found me screaming at the computer again.

“What’s wrong dear?” she asked.

“I just want to write! None of those self-publishing websites worked as advertised.”

“What do you mean?”

“They all claim to be easy, simple, and free, but the after several hours of trying, I still don’t have my illustrated short story any closer to being published than I did since I got my last scathing rejection letter.” I continued my rant for a few minutes. I ended it with, “I just want to focus my time on writing!”

She sensed my frustration (and having read the majority of everything I have written – she knew my writing needed my time… a lot of it), and offered a solution.

My wife is now my agent, publisher, and promoter in the self-publishing world. That should free my creative mind… but it will make the rejection letters a bit more interesting.

Stone - An Easter Story

2011-04-11T07:54:00.000-07:00

One night, a couple of years ago, I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts and images raced through my mind and pulled me out of bed. I didn’t want to wake my wife, so I grabbed my writing notebook and went downstairs. There in the dim light of my living room, I wrote a short story. It took me about twenty-five minutes to put the basics of the story on paper. It took me over two years to get it published

I let the story sit for a few weeks.

Then one afternoon at Scout Camp with my son, I was free for a couple of hours. I sat down among the pines of the Arizona high country, opened my laptop, and typed up the story. It flowed from my fingertips just as easily as it had come to me that sleepless night. I was excited.

I tinkered with the story from time to time. I trimmed it down. I changed wording. I tried to find the essence of the story and tell it in the most straightforward fashion possible. I let a few people read it. They enjoyed it, and I was encouraged.

Later that summer, I attended a seminar hosted by Orson Scott Card. I mentioned the story to him and asked for advice. He recommended a title change, and suggested that I find an illustrator. I began to think it might get published.

I started looking for a home for the story, but I really didn’t know where to start. I sent the story off to a traditional publisher and described my vision for its publication. A couple of months later, I got my first rejection letter.

The story sat, but I didn’t forget it.

As Easter of 2010 approached, I pulled it out and dusted it off. I reworked the opening and polished the prose. I gave it to a few friends to read for Easter, and everyone praised the story. But I still didn’t know what to do with it.

The story sat waiting for me to do something.

Another year went by and as Easter of 2011 approached, the story and its message haunted me. I pulled it out again and gave it another edit. I tweaked a few words and sentences, but realizing that story wasn’t commercially viable, I still wondered how to get the story out for others to enjoy.

Then, a friend sent me an article about self-publishing, and I wondered if I should try that with this story. After all, this story meant something to me, and I felt compelled to make it available.

Following the advice of Orson Scott Card, I emailed my friend Alexy Bikman who occasionally works as an illustrator. I gave her a copy of the story and asked her if she could produce some simple drawings to help bring it to life. She quoted her price, and started her work. A couple of weeks later she delivered a few simple drawings that I thought captured the vision of the story. I took those drawings and combined them with the words to make a nice illustrated short story.

I decided to publish the story digitally first, and then work on the hard copy format second. It took me several maddening attempts to get the formatting right, but I finally published the story using Kindle Direct Publishing. You can find the story on Amazon for ninety-nine cents. If you don’t have the Kindle, you can download the Kindle reader software for free. Then set up an account to purchase books, and download the book to your computer, Kindle, Nook, smart phone, or any other electronic reading device.

Here is the link to download it -

http://www.amazon.com/Stone-ebook/dp/B004VYS7GK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1302529014&sr=1-1

Here is the first paragraph –

Graves are often marked with headstones, because the dead, like stones, are cold and lifeless. They lie in the stony earth and return to dust, but I can tell you that the dead will remain neither dust nor stone forever.

If you enjoy the story, write a review for Amazon and tell your friends.

If you think a hard copy would be nice, post a comment here or email me.

Each story you write is important to you. After all, you gave it life. You brought it into existence. It is a part of you. This story, although small in scope and simple in plot, represents the best part of me – my core beliefs. I want others to understand how I feel. I want them to know what I know. That’s why I never gave up on “Stone.”

I hope you enjoy this Easter story.

The Slow Decay of a Heritage

2011-03-28T11:18:00.000-07:00

On the banks of the Cumberland River just south of Burkesville, Kentucky, sits an old two-story house. The front porch has fallen down. Most of the glass has been broken from the windows.

The sideboards are bare and weathered, and the old stone chimney struggles against the elements like a lone sentinel left to guard a treasury that has long since been looted by progress.

At one time the house was a bustling home of activity and commerce.

It sat next to Neely’s Ferry and travelers heading north and south out of Burkesville would pass over the ferry in a stream of commerce. No doubt riverboat traffic also stopped at the house.

A bridge has long since replaced the ferry, and riverboat traffic has been replaced by the railroad or the interstate – neither of which came to Burkesville. Today the house is nothing more than a relic, and a symbol of the slow decay of a heritage.

The geography of Cumberland County Kentucky gave it a distinct personality. The hills and bluffs broke up any continuity and isolated small groups and families. The Cumberland River gave it life, and at the same time also divided, and destroyed. The misty woods provided an ambience of mystery. The winding roads slowed the pace of life and change. Because of the geography, small semi-isolated communities with distinct personalities like Black Gnat, Judio, Big and Little Renox, popped up within a few miles of each other. They were usually centered around a one-room schoolhouse and a simple church. Independence and interdependence were a necessity of life.

The isolation forged the framework of a thriving local culture rich in sharp angular features, contrasts, and blemishes like the knotholes in beautiful hardwood boards. A strange mix of hard-working independent folks that were honest and forthright mingled with moonshining outlaws until an outsider couldn’t tell the difference.

They centered themselves around the church and school, yet arrogant scholars considered them backwards and ignorant. They were folks that understood the essence of life better than most well-heeled and well-spoken city folk. Maybe they didn't understand the danger of a dangling participle, but they knew a charlatan in a heartbeat.

Proximity forced them to learn to get along. Long heated squabbles were counterproductive because of their interdependence, yet their feuds were legendary. It was a place where everyone greeted one another, and knew each other’s dirty laundry. Most were genuine when they expressed concern or sympathy over your troubles. Some, of course, were glad of your bad luck, even if they had the decency not to say it to your face.

I recently travelled the hills of Cumberland County, and I don't know if I've ever seen so many old homes going to waste in such a small area. Old houses and barns stood like ruins of a lost civilization – abandoned structures left to rot and decay while the inhabitants moved on in the name of progress. As river traffic became a thing of the past, the flow of commerce shifted. People picked up and moved with it. My father and his family followed suit.

Cultures are not distinguished by the soft overtones of interaction, but by the sharp angular features that protrude and jut from the group psyche. Differences define a culture, not similarities. As societies become more interconnected and communication improves, these sharp features began to blur until we finally become one continuous mass of human ubiquity.

This is not always a good thing.

When I was nineteen, I left home in the name of progress and never looked back. Sometimes, when people made fun of me and treated me as if I was inferior because of my heritage, I was even ashamed. I spent years trying to eradicate any outward evidence of my southern country upbringing. I smoothed the rough angular edges of my cultural background. Like the abandoned house on the river, I sometimes neglected my heritage.

That was a mistake.

The Danger of Dinking

2011-03-03T07:29:00.000-08:00

A danger lurks at every corner. A danger we may not recognize or even know exists. It comes to steal productivity, damage our free time, and interrupt our hard earned rest. I’m talking about that notorious verb – to dink.

The verb dink (as I prefer to use it) comes from the sport of tennis and refers to a soft shot that drops just over the net. It isn’t a power shot that rockets the ball towards the opponent, or a cleverly placed volley shot that skips just inside fair play and then bounces out of reach. If you dink the ball, you hit it lightly over then net with little energy barely keeping the ball in play. This, of course, forces your opponent to rush forward and struggle for a shot before the ball is dead. Somewhere in the 1930’s this verb became symbolic of light action, or action without purpose.

Dinking means to fiddle around at unimportant things or waste time with light purposeless action. Dinking isn’t work, because work, by definition, is the effort expended with a specific purpose or result. Dinking isn’t rest, because rest, by definition, is the act of refraining from work or activity. Dinking isn’t exercise or sport (unless you “dink” the ball during your tennis game), because sports have rules and objectives. Dinking is not a hobby, because hobbies are something done during leisure time for pleasure. Dinking does not fit any of those definitions. Dinking is dangerous because it does not further our work, enhance our rest, or improve our exercise. It simply dinks.

Thanks to a variety of electronic devices, we have become professional at the art of dink in our day. We sit in front of the TV with no particular show in mind, pick up the remote, and began changing through the innumerable channels available in search of something captivating. Usually we find changing the channels more captivating than the content on the channel itself, so we dink away our leisure time without actually doing anything of leisure.

The computer is the perfect dinking tool. These marvels of technology come loaded with superfluous games to while away the time in between answering meaningless emails. When we are done racking up a new high score on World of Witchcraft or Somewhereville, we can dink the day away answering emails about free credit scores, magazine offers, regrowing hair, electronic cigarettes, and online sites to help our love life.

Of course the Internet is the ultimate dinker’s paradise. Online videos, chat rooms, blogs, games, social networks, twits, forums, misinformation, editorial content, and various other free sources of infotainment combine to form a veritable dinker’s black hole that pulls you into its grasp never to release you until your productive time has long been spent.

Earnest Hemingway said, “The time to work is shorter all the time and if you waste it you … have committed a sin for which there is no forgiveness.” Of course I found that quote while I was dinking around on the Internet with no intended purpose. I guess I will seek forgiveness in the next life.

Now, what are you doing dinking around on my blog? Get back to work!

Flying With Dale

2011-02-18T09:09:00.000-08:00

The day after Christmas 1986, Marine Corps pilot Dale Puhle walked for the last time. Decked out in his Marine Corps dress blues, he strolled over to a waiting military vehicle and climbed in. It was the last time he walked, and the last time he piloted an aircraft until Feb of 2011.

Dale had just finished his initial flight training along with his basic officer training. He was two weeks from being a commissioned officer and moving on to advanced flight training. A driver on drugs and a bus had other plans.

His impaired military driver sped through an intersection in Oceanside, California, and collided with a bus. No one was seriously hurt, except Dale. A police car, not far behind the speeding vehicle, was on the scene immediately. The officer pulled Dale from the wreckage and finding no pulse, resuscitated him. He died again in transport, and again at the hospital. Each time he returned to the land of the living.

Dale spent seven months in a coma. They operated on him multiple times. When he woke up, he was in a military hospital in Minnesota. He couldn’t walk, talk, or handle even the basic daily functions, but he was still alive. After more surgery, and four years of rehab, he was medically retired from the Marine Corps.

The sky was a crisp blue as we drove to Falcon Field in Mesa, AZ, so blue that it hurt to stare at it. The winds were light out of the southeast, and the nearest cloud was hundreds of miles away. At seventy-five degrees, the weather was perfect for taking a hop around the valley of the sun.

My friend Derek Miller met us at the gate and escorted us to the awaiting Cirrus SR-20 aircraft. I parked just off the tarmac, and Linda, Dale’s saint of a wife, pulled the van close to airplane. Linda helped him into his motorized wheelchair as Derek began the preflight. As soon as he got into his chair, Dale scooted over to the bird and started helping with preflight. He inspected the tail, the ailerons, and the prop as I helped remove the tie downs. He was anxious to get airborne.

“I want Starbucks on this flight,” said Dale in his unique manner of speaking. He relearned to speak, but he has to exhale the words from his mouth with force. We laughed and asked if he knew of a fly-thru Starbucks. He looked at me, the airline pilot, pointed his finger and demanded with a grin, “I want peanuts too.”

With the preflight finished, we took a few pictures and prepared to climb in and slip the surly bonds. We lifted him onto the wing, slid him over to the door, and then hoisted him into the seat. The excitement on his face was visible, and he gave me the universal aviator’s thumbs-up sign.

I strapped him in, got his headset situated, and climbed into the back. Derek settled in and began the preflight checklists as Dale watched and cajoled us even more about the Starbucks and peanuts. When Derek checked the CPAS (Cirrus Airframe Parachute System), an onboard parachute to be used in emergencies, Dale asked, “Where’s the ejection button?” He turned and looked at me, “For you!”

When the motor sprang to life and the prop began to turn we all felt that moment of reverence and revelry that all aviators feel at the sound of a healthy engine. We finished our checklist, called for taxi, and added power. It was my first time in a Cirrus aircraft. The visibility was impressive, and the flat panel displays with electronic checklists made me jealous. (I still fly 737 300/500’s with round dials.) Dale must have also been impressed because he stopped busting my chops and gave his full attention to the operation of the aircraft.

After our run-up, we were cleared for takeoff from 4R. We taxied onto the active runway, pushed up the throttle, and accelerated down the runway. We were airborne at 75 knots, and lifted nimbly away from mother earth. I looked at Dale and could see that he was engrossed with the sensation of being airborne, at the controls of an aircraft, for the first time in over twenty-four years.

You don’t understand the concept of freedom unless you have flown. Taking your craft into the blue and feeling the three-dimensional ability to move is an exhilaration that you never grow tired of. The elevated perspective breathes life into a tired soul, and you feel more godlike as the horizon expands in front of you. I imagine that after twenty plus years bound to a wheelchair, the feeling for Dale must have been euphoric.

His silence ended after we leveled off. He showed us that he still remembered his flying training when he asked about our groundspeed and the winds. His left hand doesn’t always work the way he would like it to, but in the right seat of the Cirrus, he could put his rind hand on the control stick. He placed his hand on the controls and forced out the words, “I want to fly.”

Derek and I had discussed safety precautions specific to Dale’s condition. He didn’t have complete control of his legs, so we made sure that his feet stayed clear from the rudder pedals. I sat behind Dale, prepared to restrain him from interfering with the controls if necessary. I hesitated when he asked. Derek glanced over his shoulder. We didn’t want Dale’s first flight in twenty-four years ending in tragedy because we failed to take important precautions. Finally, I responded, “Why don’t you put your hand on the controls and follow along?” Derek nodded in agreement. Dale stretched out his right hand and grabbed the control stick.

The unique bluffs of the Superstition Mountains lay just ahead of us with Four Peaks looming in the background. We steered out over the Salt River lake system and got a good look at Canyon and Saguaro Lakes. Weaver’s Needle jutted out from the rugged backside of the Superstitions rising sharply upward against the rough terrain. It was a gorgeous day to fly.

Derek relaxed a bit more and let Dale take control. The tactical military pilot in him was still alive and well. He wanted to yank and bank the tiny craft, but when he was too abrupt, I cautioned, “Easy big fella! I have a wife and kids.” He looked over his shoulder, pushed an imaginary button, and said, “Eject! Eject!”

We headed southeast over the valley floor making lazy turns and watching for traffic. Our chatter subsided and we enjoyed the blue sky, light winds, and watchful sun with the healthy drone of the engine lulling us into a calm bliss.

As we turned back towards Falcon Field and prepared for landing, Dale spoke up. “I want to land,” he insisted. I patted him on the shoulder and replied, “I promised Linda I would bring you home in one piece. Leave the landing to Derek.” He removed his hand from the controls, but then he pushed that imaginary button again. “Eject! Eject!”

Almost as if a tribute to Dale’s return to the air, we saw a formation of two Blackhawk helicopters pass by. I thought of the career he could have had, the time he could have logged unencumbered by the earth, the hours of sheer boredom punctuated by sheer terror that he had missed.

Dale sat with his hands in his lap as Derek made a flawless approach and landing to runway 4R. We decelerated smoothly and taxied back to the ramp. Dale thanked us over and over again.

As we turned down our taxiway, I could see Dale’s black wheelchair sitting empty on the edge of the tarmac. It sat like a good soldier waiting for orders, but it also reminded me of the physical limits the accident had imposed on a young Marine pilot. He would slide into the chair and go back to trudging around in motorized movement. He would continue to deal with his day-to-day limitations with the heroic courage of a good soldier. I was glad that for a short time this broken aviator had escaped his earthly physical limitations and enjoyed the freedom of flight once again.

God speed Dale, and good flying.

Today's History

2011-02-03T20:30:00.000-08:00

Understanding history is not always easy, especially if you are in the thick of things as it is being made.

I entered pilot training for the USAF in January of 1989 as part of UPT class 90-04. We would become the last of the cold-war warriors, but of course at the time we didn’t know it. We were a mess of egos and testosterone. The air of the flight room was thick with competitive vibes beating like the drum of a marching band. Unyielding. Dominant. Constant. We were competitors, peers, and wannabe warriors in the fight against godless communism. During the course of the year we lost half of our class. Some quit. Some were medically disqualified. Some couldn’t learn fast enough. We all started with hope and promise, but in the end the grinder made meat out of all of us.

We graduated in January of 1990, and headed out for follow-on training in our respective aircraft. During the summer of 1990 the cracks in monolithic Soviet Block expanded from tiny fissures to full-blown fractures. On August second 1990, Sadam Hussein invaded Kuwait, and the world would never be the same. By the time I reported to my duty station in September, the Berlin Wall was coming down.

The conflict I had trained for was irrelevant. Tactics became obsolete. Maps changed like the weather. I felt like I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. When the shooting started in the desert, I watched it on CNN from England and Germany.

In July of 1991 I deployed to Incirlik Turkey in support of Operation Provide Comfort. Our mission was to patrol Iraq north of the 36^th parallel and provide some relief for the battered Kurds. We were instructed to “…fly so as to make your presence known.” To a fighter pilot, that is an invitation to buzz Main Street. So, that’s what we did.

We launched our A-10’s from Incirlik with a combat load and flew the hour plus to the northern border of Iraq. We would hit the tanker and airborne refuel, and then push into the Area of Responsibility. We would fly around checking on villages, outposts, and the remnants of the dreaded Republican Guard. Then we would leave Iraq, hit the tanker again, and make our way back to the ‘Lik.

During my three months there, things were quiet. I never fired a shot, or dropped a bomb. I began to feel like the entire thing was a waste. On several occasions Turkish fighters would get gas from the same tanker we used. We would fly into Iraq to “protect” the Kurds. They would bomb the Kurds just across the border in Turkey. Same tanker. Same day. Same Kurds. Maddening.

All I wanted to do was go home to my wife and son.

In my search to find a purpose in my efforts and risks, I began to notice things. Crops were being planted. Homes were being built. Villages were growing. Roads were being repaired. Lives and communities were moving forward.

There in the cockpit of an A-10 over northern Iraq, I began to see the fruits of my efforts grow and ripen. It was small and difficult to see, but our efforts were making a difference. We had given some reprieve to a weary people, and they were trying to put their lives and communities back together.

Years later in a supermarket in Dallas, I noticed that several checkout clerks and bagboys were speaking a foreign language. Being the curious type, I asked them where they were from. They were all Kurds that had escaped the violence and made it to the USA while I was patrolling the skies overhead. We shared stories. We shook hands. I left with the feeling that maybe I had been a part of helping someone else find freedom.

Today we are in the midst of dramatic changes. We face a stateless enemy whose ideology counters the core values of our republic. We have difficulty understanding why they want to kill us. We struggle to find our way through this conflict, both collectively, and individually, because it has affected us all in some way. After almost ten years, we cannot claim an overall victory.

Understanding history is not always easy, especially if you are in the thick of things as it is being made. Sometimes it is years later before you understand and appreciate the history you were a part of and the lessons learned from the experience. I hope I live to learn the lesson of today’s history.

BTW, I'm the A-10 on the left.

Running and Writing

2011-01-18T18:29:00.000-08:00

The best training I ever did for writing a book was running a marathon. Both require long lonely hours of training and preparation. Both require discipline and sacrifice. Both can bring elation, and pain.

But writing a book is like running a marathon without mile markers or a watch.

You slave away at your computer trying to put words on the page that make sense, words that move the story forward, and words that captivate. Sometimes a scene flows from your fingertips like electricity. Other times its like squeezing blood from a turnip.

When you run a marathon, cheering crowds line the racecourse and encourage you along. Nobody cheers for you when you fiddle for hours with the opening sentence of a scene until you can’t see straight. No one is there to shout inspiring words to you as you grapple with plot structure. Writing is an art form that is both created, and enjoyed, alone.

But there comes a point where you have to get the manuscript out of the house. Your hours of effort need validation, even if comes in the form of negative critical feedback. Like the cheering crowds on race day, you need someone to say, “Keep going! You can do it!” (Or maybe, “Stop you idiot! You look like you are about to die!”)

So, here I go…

I am posting the tagline, the back copy, and the first few paragraphs of my manuscript, Donor’s Club. I WANT FEEDBACK, even the negative kind if you are so inclined. I am only giving you the first few paragraphs, because more likely than not, that is all an agent or editor will read before passing judgement on a manuscript.

The main question is – would you keep reading? Feel free to post below, or email your comments to brockbooher@cox.net. All I ask is that you speak up, and let me know that I’m still in the race.

Tagline

Julio fights to survive and care for his brother in the slums of Lima until a mysterious foreign benefactor comes to his aid. Then, the struggle to stay alive begins.

Back Copy

What is the value of a life?

Julio promised his dying mother that he would take care of his brother. In order to survive on the streets of Lima and fulfill his promise, he chooses to accept the help of Isak, a mysterious foreign benefactor. His life is transformed, but in ways he doesn't expect. He soon finds himself in a fight to survive, and must decide on the value of a life.

Chapter One

Julio wrung the cool water out of the stained rag and placed it on his mother’s feverish forehead hoping to ease her pain. He caressed her hand as he listened to her ragged breathing grow more shallow and strained. She was dying, and he felt powerless against her certain death.

“No me mueras, please don’t die Mamá,” he begged. “Raúl has gone for a doctor. He’ll be back soon.” He squeezed her listless hand. “Please do not die!”

His mother’s eyes struggled open and the corners of her mouth curled upward into a soft warm smile. “Julio,” she said in a raw and raspy voice. Her eyes were still fixed on the ceiling. “You are such a good son.” She coughed without covering her mouth. “You carry the name of your Papá. Do you know what it means?”

Julio reached up and turned over the cloth on her head. “Sí Mamá, I know.”

“Tell me.” She turned her hollow eyes to his. “Tell me what it means.”

Julio bowed his head, and dutifully recited what he had been taught many times. “You named me after Papá - Julio César. Like Papá, I was named for Julio César the Roman ruler. My father’s last name, Camino, means the way or path. My Incan mother’s last name, Pachacutec, means one who turns, or changes the world.”

-----

Now its your turn...

A Family That Fights Together

2011-01-04T09:26:00.000-08:00

I woke forty minutes before my alarm went off. It was the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice, and we were going to celebrate it on the field of battle.

Since it was the shortest day of the year, we watched the sun come up during the drive. The sky was cast in a brilliant orange and red as we left the house. We were all dressed in old military fatigues and armed with the latest weapons. The conversation buzzed with excitement and statements of bravado. We were going paintballing!

Somewhere along the way, the game of tag has evolved into a much more sophisticated, and expensive, game called paintball. You run around among the bushes and trees in some designated area and try and tag each other with a hurtling ball of dyed soap encased in a thick pliable shell. When you tag someone they are out of the game until the next round. When you get tagged, it can sting a bit, and sometimes leaves a welt. The measure of pain keeps you sharp and on your toes, keeps you honest, and sends the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The morning was brisk when we got out of the truck, perfect for keeping us cool in the layers of clothing and protective headgear. Our designated spot sported some small trees, several thick bushes, and a few bunkers made of tires.

We dropped the tailgate of the truck and began gearing up for the fight. The air was filled with the hiss of compressed carbon dioxide as the tanks were attached to the guns, the sound of the paintballs plinking against the plastic hoppers as the guns were loaded, and the dull ratatatat of the weapons being test fired. It was mingled with the active conversation about past battles and future boasts.

After everyone was kitted up and ready to play, we chose teams. For the first two games, the five members of my family were pitted against the other five. A family that fights together, stays together… or dies together. We stayed together – and cleaned up the opposition without a loss!

With the adrenaline rush of the first game starting to wane, we continued to pick teams and fight. Shouts of warning and shouts of pain were mingled with shots of paint hurtling through air searching for a mark. I got nailed in the leg. I shot my son between the eyes. We laughed. We screamed. We argued. We encouraged. We had fun!

With the compressed gas and paintballs all spent, we nursed our wounds and our pride. We boasted of our prowess and our courage on the field of battle. We laughed at our blunders that ended with the sting of paint. We cleaned up our guns, gathered our trash, and with broad grins on our faces, we climbed into the trucks and headed home.

Most sports are a microcosm of life. Entering a non-lethal field of battle with my kids taught us to work together, watch out for one another, and stand shoulder-to-shoulder against an enemy hell-bent on our demise. If I could only convince them to apply those principles when the time comes to clean and sanitize their bathroom…

Over the River and Through the Clouds

2010-12-23T22:47:00.000-08:00

This year two days before Christmas, I reported to work at the Denver International Airport and found the expected long lines, and hustling crowds. As I came up the escalator into the gate area, I saw something I didn’t expect. My older sister Brande was standing at the top of the escalator with a big grin on her face.

Every Christmas Brande and I (along with our numerous other siblings) would cram into the family station wagon and go over the river and through the woods to Granny and Grampy’s house for Christmas Dinner. When I say cram, I mean squeeze in so close you can barely breathe. You never heard the proverbial – “She’s touching me!” – because someone was always touching you. They were practically sitting in your lap!

Of course, this was long before the invention of portable electronic games, mobile TV, or portable DVD players. So, we had to invent games to keep us busy. One of our favorite games was counting cows (sounds like so much fun doesn’t it?).

To play the game you divide into teams based on which side of the car you were squeezed into. Then you started counting the cows that passed on your side of the vehicle. If you passed a church, you added two more. If you passed a school, you multiplied by two. But if you passed a graveyard, and your opponents from the other side of the vehicle actually saw it, you had to bury your cows and start from scratch all over again.

It doesn’t sound like much of a game, but when you are jammed into a station wagon like sardines, anything to take your mind off of the fact that your brother just passed gas, is a fun game.

As I got to the top of the escalator, I gave Brande a great big hug. As it turned out, she was going to Nashville and I was going to be her Captain. We visited until the aircraft arrived at the gate, and then I got to work preparing for the flight. Once my preparations were complete, I hurried up the jet way and boarded my sister first, thanks to the accommodating operations agent.

I put her in the First Officer’s seat, and we took a picture together. We sat there in the cockpit of the Boeing 737 and caught up on the latest family news. We discussed kids, grandkids, and the health issues of the day until it was time to board the rest of the passengers.

After everyone boarded, I made my usual announcements about the flying time and the weather, but I made sure that everyone knew that my big sister was on board. I didn’t embarrass her though. She knows too many things about me, and she has pictures.

The flight from Denver to Nashville lasted only a few minutes longer than our usual Christmas drive to Granny and Grampy’s house. We cruised in comfort at a smooth 35,000 feet and averaged over 500 hundred miles an hour because of a nice tailwind. Ironically enough, our flight path into Nashville took us almost over the top of Granny’s house.

I put a little extra effort into the landing to impress my sister, and we taxied to the gate. Since I had a little time before my next flight, I walked her to security. We embraced again, shared our affection, and said our farewells.

As she walked away, I was bummed that we flew too high to count cows during the flight. It was just as well. I passed a graveyard on my side as we approached the runway and she would have won.

Merry Christmas Brande!

Hawaii on a Whim

2010-12-06T11:11:00.000-08:00

The minivan’s check-engine light stared me in the face when I started it. It nagged at me and reminded me of all the things I needed to get done and all the reasons I shouldn’t be going to Hawaii for the week. I ignored it. It was probably just a bad sensor, and I wasn’t going to let it keep me from the spontaneous jaunt. With a couple of bags in the back of the van, we backed out of the garage and headed for Phoenix Sky Harbor in the dark December morning.

I saw familiar faces at the airport, and almost got off at terminal four where I go to work, but I didn’t. We went on to the Hawaiian ticket counter where I saw my buddy Veron, a New Zealander of Maori decent with a cool accent and a ponytail. He teased us as always, and told us the flight looked pretty good for space-available travel. We made it through security without a full-body scan or a groping, and onto the flight. We even got to sit together. As the Phoenix skyline disappeared in the soft morning light, I quit thinking of the check-engine light.

We landed in a beautiful Hawaiian sun, got the rental car, and headed for the North Shore – Sunset Beach in particular. David & Peggy, my wife’s cousins, live across from Sunset Beach and rent out part of their house to visiting surfers. They were kind enough to let us stay in one of the unused bedrooms, as long as we didn’t mind using the “surfer’s” shower and bathroom that was housed out back in the bathhouse and storage shed. It was rustic, but clean, and added to the whole north-shore-I’m-here-to-surf-not-be-pampered ambience.

We tossed our bags in the room, and I went for a run while Britt chilled. Then we headed for BYU Hawaii to see my son Cody. We had only driven a quarter mile when the car made an unexpected stop at Ted’s Bakery. Ted’s is a local dive that makes the best chocolate haupia pie, pineapple cheese pie, and Hawaiian plate lunches found in all of Oahu. It’s popular, so you might have to wait in line, or find that your favorite treat is sold out, but it is SO worth the wait. I recommend the pineapple cheese pie.

We made our way to campus and found Cody hard at work in the computer lab, reading a book. It was good to see him, and our spontaneous trip made him smile. When he finished work we took Cody and two of his friends to dinner. Each night of our trip we took him and one or two of his friends to dinner. In spite of their pre-purchased full-meal plan at the “caf” (their slang for cafeteria), they were always hungry. One night we went to the L&L, a local style food joint, just off the BYU campus. It is decorated with yellow stained paint, dripping air conditioning units, and faded oriental paintings. The food was typical L&L, but after Britt went to the bathroom, she swore she would have the place shut down for serious health-code violations. Nobody got sick, but we didn’t go back.

Each morning I ran along the Sunset Beach trail, and Britt ran/walked Chester, David and Peggy’s white labrador. The trail offers a unique running experience. It follows the shoreline just out of traffic with vistas of the Pacific tides and white beaches interspersed with squatty houses nestled among the trees. Local beach bums, school children, and vacationers frequent the trail. A canopy of tropical trees and bushes offer some protection from the spitting rain, the beating sun, and the noise of the passing traffic. Running is good for your heart. Running the trail along Sunset Beach is good for your heart, head, and soul.

A surfing competition was on hiatus at Sunset Beach for our first two days there, due to lack of surf. I watched the surfers on the beach. They stood genuflecting to their god. They gazed out at the incoming tides, staring at the undulating motion of the water hoping that some of the sea spray would rise up and sprinkle them like holy water, but their god did not offer up any tokens of faith that day. The surf was flat.

We snorkeled the calm ocean for shells in the gentle North-Shore surf without conflicting with the surfers. Shells are like relics of a lost civilization that remain to testify of the previous existence of a living creature. Britt found several small shells in the curling tide close to shore. I found a couple languishing in the small coral indentations further off shore. Both of mine had hermit crabs in them, so we threw them back. I found an old marine battery and dragged it out of the water for proper disposal.

The next afternoon the surf gods smiled and the competition began again in earnest. We headed over to snorkel Shark’s Cove (named for its shape, not the presence of sharks). The water was a bit rough, and we proceeded with caution out into to the cove. I was worried about the less experienced snorkelers getting injured on the rocks, but in the end, I was the only one that lost any blood (good thing there weren’t sharks). The churning sea reduced the visibility, but we still saw abundant marine life, and enjoyed the swim.

Our last day on the North Shore, we took Cody to Haleiwa, surf capital of the world. It is a quaint old town with art galleries, shops, and more shaved-ice stores per capita than anywhere else in the world. We ducked in to a couple of art galleries (after feeding Cody three McChicken sandwiches) and admired the art. We wanted to buy the stuff we admired, but our vacation budget didn’t allow for that.

We also checked out one of the surf clothing shops. They had a small shrine to Eddie Aikau, a big-wave surfer that was killed on the open ocean on his surfboard. The phrase “Eddie would go,” has come to symbolize the indomitable spirit of big-wave surfing and the inherent risk associated with flinging yourself into the jaws of the ocean’s fury. Based on the merchandising of Eddie’s tragic and courageous deed, if he had known how much money his name would bring in… he might NOT have gone.

We said our aloha oe to Cody, and made our way across the island to Waikiki for our last night. A light rain had passed over us off and on throughout the drive across the island, and it also invaded downtown Honolulu. We checked into the Aston Waikiki Beach Hotel and ventured out to Duke’s for dinner. Dinner at Duke’s is always good. We ended it with the Hula pie, and waddled out.

We stopped at another gallery and Britt was enthralled with the art of Brigette D’Anniable, whose art is a mix of throwback old-style posters and sexy figurines of wahines. Somehow we had more money than before, and my wife began discussing an actual purchase. I objected politely, out of personal reasons (I couldn’t afford it), and slinked to the front of store to wait for her to finish. Fortunately, she only made plans to purchase and didn’t pull out the credit card. I have a feeling that she will put art in the budget for the next trip.

The next day, we woke to a beautiful Hawaii morning complete with a rainbow. We ate breakfast in our room and watched the Waikiki scene from our balcony. On our way to the airport, we stopped at Leonard’s Bakery and bought malasadas for the flight crew (and a few for ourselves). We maneuvered our way through security and onto the eastbound Hawaiian 767.

When we landed in the dark, Phoenix seemed much as we left it. When I started the minivan for the drive home, the check engine light was still on.

Freedom's Torch

2010-11-11T17:31:00.000-08:00

I didn’t really want to go to the Veteran’s Day celebration at our local high school. I always considered Veteran’s Day was for men and women who bled and sacrificed, not for some spoiled jet jockey that spent the war buzzing officer’s clubs and wearing Tom Cruise glasses. My youngest son is in AFJROTC (Air Force Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps for all you civilian types) and he insisted I attend because he was helping out with the event. So, I went.

I showed up with my Ray Bans and my fighter-pilot jacket covered in multiple cool patches that would surely turn the heads of anyone important or knowledgeable. I was taken back as I strolled into the football stadium and saw the layout. The school had done the place up real nice with a large decorated stage, VIP seating, and displays from each of the armed services. They even had some civil-war cannons. I was directed to the veteran seating area at the base of the stage – it must have been the patches.

I took my seat behind a bunch of old guys with VFW hats and khaki uniforms. They nodded and smiled. A guy with a Vietnam patch and a walker shuffled on to the field and sat down behind me. I remembered why I didn’t like coming to these things. I always felt guilty for all the times I complained about my cushy time in the Air Force.

The guy behind me was named Paul. He had been injured in a vehicle accident and was left disabled because of it. He had a twinkle in his eye and as he told his story he punctuated the difficult parts with laughter. “You have to laugh and keep your sense of humor,” he said. “What else can you do?”

Grow bitter and become cynical, I thought to myself as I smiled back.

“I feel out of place,” I told Paul. “All the veteran’s I saw at Veteran’s Day celebrations growing up had beards, an American-flag bandana, and rode loud Harley motorcycles.” He laughed.

The program began with fanfare and they introduced the veteran’s from WWII and the Korean War by name. All the guys in front of me got introduced. Two of them had been eyewitnesses to the famous flag raising on Iwo Jima. Several of them had liberated concentration camps from the tyranny of the Nazis. A few more had been in the heat of battle on the Korean peninsula. I hid behind my Tom Cruise Ray Bans and pretended to be somebody important in the presence of heroes.

You can’t have a good military-related event without three things – the colors, pyrotechnics, and speeches. This event had all three in just the right amount.

The flags from each of the different branches of services were posted ceremoniously on stage one at a time. Next the Patriot Guard Riders roared into the stadium on their motorcycles with flags waving behind them. Several of them had beards and American-flag bandanas on their heads. Then skydivers with the POW/MIA flag, the Arizona flag, and United States flag dropped in from overhead and nailed their target in the middle of the football field. It was amazing to see Old Glory’s colors against a clear blue sky as the last skydiver came to earth. At last, the color guard formed from multiple ROTC units posted the colors to a rousing rendition of the national anthem, punctuated by fireworks. I was thankful for the dark sunglasses that hid the tears in my eyes as they beheld the majestic symbol of freedom and the rule of law.

The first time the fireworks went off during the program it surprised me. I teased the city councilman sitting next to me that getting approval from the city for the pyrotechnics must have been difficult. He just grinned, and then the civil war cannons went off. I was so close I felt the shock wave from the blasts. He spoke. I think he said, “We’ll approve anything for Veterans,” but my ears were still ringing. It seemed so real I was worried that some of the other members in the audience might have flashbacks, but from the grins on everyone’s faces it was clear that all of us soldiers loved watching things blow up.

Then the speeches began. I thought at first that I would end up playing with my new smart phone during some long-winded delivery of an overstated politician, but I never pulled the phone from my pocket. Each speech was short, passionate, and delivered with sincerity. From the politicians to the war heroes, the words were inspiring and reminded me why I joined the military in the first place. I was inspired once again by the greatness of the common man in our great country, or maybe I should say that I was inspired by how the common man in a country such as ours can aspire to and achieve greatness.

Being a former Air Force pilot, I feel that no military celebration should be without a flyby, and I was not disappointed. Towards the end of the program, a two ship of F-16’s from Luke AFB came roaring overhead just as they fired off a series of fireworks. (Let's see Unmanned Aerospace Vehicles do that!) The cannons roared again to accentuate the roar of jet engines. I never grow tired of the sound of jet noise – the sound of freedom.

As the event wrapped up, the Principal invited the students in the stands to come down and shake veteran’s hands before returning to class. It was an unexpected treat to have those young men and women reach out to me and thank me for my service. I took the opportunity to thank them, and the other veteran’s, for inviting me to the best Veteran’s Day ceremony I had ever attended.

I guess my attitude that day was similar to the attitude of most veterans when their country called them into military service. I was reluctant to go, but I went anyway, mostly out of a sense of duty. Once I got to my post, I was inspired by our flag and everything it represents. I enjoyed the red glare of rockets, and bombs bursting in air. I felt the camaraderie of my peers, no matter the era or difficulty of service. I felt sadness for those who never returned to celebrate the day with us. I was glad I had served, and I was hopeful that the rising generation would pick up freedom’s torch and carry it forward.

Change, Courtesy of the Philippines

2010-11-05T18:30:00.000-07:00

Travel should change you. It should broaden your horizons and make you question the status quo. Your experience should leave an indelible impression that becomes a part of who you are from that point forward. I was anxious to see how my oldest son had changed after two years in the Philippines.

Crossing multiple time zones shocks your system, and tosses the pieces of your daily rituals up in the air. That process allows you the opportunity to sift some of the chaff from your life, if you chose. It causes you to evaluate your habits and routines, and prepares you to accept the new surroundings as normal, even though they may be very different. Ironically, the quickest way to recover from the jet lag of crossing several time zones is to get yourself back into a routine as soon as possible.

Our first full day was Sunday, so after breakfast we ventured out and went to church. I found the closest LDS chapel, got the meeting time, drew a map for the taxi driver, and headed out into the crazy Manila traffic. Some things are universal the world over – children, LDS church services, and taxi drivers. Children are cute and loveable. LDS Church services follow the same basic pattern of worship. Taxi drivers try to rip you off. After our first day, I could confirm the universality of those three things in the Philippines.

The second day we did a little sight seeing and ended up in Intramuros, the old walled city built by the Spanish in the late 1500’s. A young man, Ricardo, harassed us until we conceded to take a tour of the old city by horse-drawn cart. His horse, Indian Boy, was a flea-bitten pony that needed some groceries. I was sure we were going to lift the poor creature off the ground when we sat in the back of the cart, but he managed to haul us oversized Americans through the streets.

During the tour we learned the history of the various stone buildings and the people of the Philippines. Ricardo cited dates and names with ease as he rambled on about earthquakes, typhoons, and conquering invaders. I detected a sadness in is voice as he expounded on the various battles that had left so many of his countrymen and women dead or wounded. I wondered if so many invaders had jaded the Philippinos and made them wary of visitors, but I soon had my answer.

If there is a group of people in the world more courteous than Filippinos, I haven’t met them yet. Everywhere we went we were greeted by warm smiles, and friendly greetings. From the hotel staff, to the security guard at the mall, everyone was courteous. I thought at first that I would find a difference when I left the plush tourist area and headed out into the barrios where my son had served, but I found the environment to be the same. People everywhere smiled and offered a greeting as we passed. If we needed help, total strangers would offer us assistance. Even in gnarled traffic that would have brought on serious cases of road rage here in the U.S., people still applied basic courtesy. I think we could teach them a thing or two about traffic control, but they could school us on courtesy.

We Americans are so lazy when it comes to learning foreign languages because we are insulated, and so many people abroad speak English. Because English is the language used in Philippine schools, most Filippinos speak basic English. I learned a few Tagalog phrases before the trip, but found that we could easily communicate in English. Tagalog flows from their mouths like a well-versed song, and their accent in English also carries a harmonic tone. I found their language pleasing to the ear.

The next day, we met up with the Smiths. They are serving a volunteer mission as Humanitarian Service Coordinators for the LDS Church. They gave us the opportunity to join them in service for the day. I always believed that any money I gave to the LDS Church for humanitarian aid was used properly, but now I KNOW that it is used well, and wisely. We visited Mabuhay Deseret, a facility much like a Ronald McDonald house that services children with medical problems such as cleft palette, clubfeet, and vision problems. We then helped deliver goods to a birthing hospital where a child is born every twelve minutes. In spite of the difficult circumstances we witnessed, people were happy. I was also impressed at how little it takes to improve the lives of our fellowman. Consider donating time and money to worthy causes. You will be happier as well.

Seeing our son for the first time in two years was an emotional experience, but maybe not what you think. We were overjoyed, but not the gushing uncontrolled kind of feeling. We experienced a warm embrace, and choked back a tear or two, but overall we felt a sense of pride in his growth and accomplishment. I never did feel sorry for him and his lot. In fact, I have been jealous of his experience. So, when we were reunited after such a long time, it was feeling of mutual comfort and a sense of a new beginning.

I saw several changes in my son. He spoke English with a beautiful Philippine accent, and struggled to find the right words in his native English tongue. His Tagalog made Filippinos stop and gawk since he is very fair skinned with blond hair. Apart from learning the language and culture, he was not the young teenage boy that left our home two years ago. He exuded a deep-seated confidence that comes from building your life on a firm foundation. Gone was the selfish and sometimes undisciplined teenager. He had become a capable and outward-looking adult worthy of our emulation.

We passed through areas of extreme poverty. If I used the word “squalor” I would be too generous. I thought of my rich blessings, and like most of us wondered why I was so blessed, and they were not. I never have an adequate answer for that question, but each time I see such disparity I count my blessings and feel compelled to be more charitable and giving. Likewise, I am reminded of how little we humans require to survive.

We visited the houses of several people Rian had taught, and felt their deep sense of gratitude for our son. His love for the people was obvious. Their reciprocating love was also evident in their faces. They laughed and talked about their mutual experiences, and how their lives had been changed because of each other. We sat in their humble homes feeling grateful to them for treating our son with such affection. I was reminded of the universal goodness that is still available in a world of ever-increasing evil.

As our visit ended, and I boarded the Boeing 747 bound for Tokyo and eventually Los Angeles, I felt fortunate to have visited the Philippines. I was glad I experienced first-hand the sights and sounds of such an industrious and vibrant people. Their warm and courteous spirit moved me. They say travel should change you. As I returned home after a week in the Philippines, I knew that my travel experience had accomplished its task.

Black, White, and Gray

2010-10-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

They say we dream in black and white. We also try to live our lives in black and white. For me, age has sharpened those colors. Blacks have become blacker. Whites have become whiter. Gray has grown.

Over the years I have watched as Black has sharpened its intensity and deepened its hue. Those shades of black that were perhaps in the background years ago, have come boldly into the full light of day. Black shimmers and entices more than ever before. Black beckons and invites like a black hole waiting to suck all other colors into its immense gravity until it consumes them. Because of its bold push from the shadows, Black, along with its nefarious nature, is easier to recognize. Black has become blacker.

As Black has become bolder, White has become more radiant and pure. In spite of Black’s attempts to tarnish White, it has remained untainted and continues to cast a brilliant light wherever it is invited in. White reflects the good in all the other colors around it. White has become more inviting, and I am more certain of its goodness than ever before. White’s intensity has taken on a depth that mirrors eternity. White has become whiter.

As a younger man, it was simpler to deal in Black and White. I avoided Gray. Maybe Gray made me uncomfortable because of my lack of experience. I wasn’t confident enough in my understanding of Black and White for me to pass through Gray without losing my way. Gray scared me.

As my understanding of Black and White increased, I found that Gray was not so bad. Gray allows for more personal expression. Gray is perfect for discovering how you really feel about something. Gray can allow you to interact better with others. In fact I see that much of life is lived not in the stark colors of Black and White, but in the Gray, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable there without a deeper understanding of Black and White.

I am more certain today that White is white, and that Black is black. Because of that knowledge, I am no longer afraid of Gray.

Someday, I might even understand orange.

An Ill-lit Section of Highway

2010-09-26T11:11:00.000-07:00

It isn’t everyday that you swerve your car to miss a dead body in the road, but then again none of my days were ordinary as an embassy worker in Lima, Peru.

In July of 1996 I boarded an airplane in Dallas, Texas, bound for Lima, Peru. My Air Force records indicated that I was fluent in Spanish. So when the Air Force needed a pilot, fluent in Spanish, for an assignment in Peru, the computer spit out my name and two weeks later I found myself in the back of an airplane headed south.

Lima is a vibrant colonial city ringed by several shantytown barrios that sprang up during periods of civil and economic unrest. More than a million people live without running water or electricity. At night, those shantytowns, and the sections of the Pan American Highway that run through them, can become dangerous. The ill-lit sections of highway allow for numerous accidents and intentional crimes.

One night I confused my turn and got on to the Pan American Highway headed into one of those shantytowns. Realizing my mistake, and not wanting to fall victim to a crime, I varied my speed, and changed lanes often. As I crested a dark hill my high beams shone on an overpass. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small crowd of people huddled at the side of the road. In the middle of my lane I saw a body.

I jerked the wheel. I slammed on the brakes. The car spun around and I almost lost control. I came to rest along the side of the road facing oncoming traffic. I loosened my death grip on the wheel, and saw the crowd coming my way. I wasn’t sure of their intentions. Sometimes highway bandits would use events like this as a ruse to lure you to stop. Believing the best of these people, I cracked my window to speak with them.

“Did you run over him?” asked an old man in Spanish, apparently the informal leader of the group.

“No,” I replied, “But he looks dead.”

“He was drunk and stumbled into the road. He has been run over several times, but you are the only one that stopped,” commented the old man as the crowd nodded their heads and moaned in agreement.

With the adrenaline still pumping, but not exactly sure how I could help, I rolled down my window the rest of the way and offered to call someone with my cell phone, but no one knew what number to call. I suggested they take some newspaper and light a fire to prevent other motorists from running over him again. Within a few minutes the fire prevented another collision. While I was on the phone with the embassy trying to figure out the best course of action, the flashing lights of a police car topped the dark hill I had crested several minutes earlier. As the police car came into full view, the crowd ran back to the scene to observe the spectacle, except for the old man.

“Get out of here!” he yelled. “They will blame it on you!”

No further prodding was needed. I slammed the car into gear, quickly spun it around, and hurried along the ill-lit highway on my way home, grateful that I had missed the dead body, and any blame for the poor man’s demise.

Cody Goes to College

2010-09-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

It isn’t everyday you send a son away to college, especially to a far-away place like Hawaii, but then again Cody wasn’t born on just any day.

Sometime around 2:00 am two days before Cody was born, a young gate guard from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, pulled out his sidearm and shot himself in the head while on duty. At the time we were living in a two-bedroom apartment in Wichita Falls, and I was assigned to the Services Squadron while I waited for a cockpit to open up for me (post Gulf War drawdown). One of my many duties at the time was Mortuary Officer. My phone rang around 3:00 am.

With the death of the young airman, my life went into overdrive. If you think the military controls your life while your alive, you should see how much they control things when someone dies. Long detailed checklists are initiated by several agencies when someone dies on duty, especially if it is a suicide.

When the body had been properly prepared for burial, I had to go through a checklist with the mortician and the funeral home. It was sad to see a life with so much promise terminated early by its own hand. It is even more tragic when you learn that he took his life over a couple hundred dollars in bad checks. It amazed me that someone valued their own life so little, or saw no way out of such a shallow hole, but then again we humans can be quite frail at times, even after exhibiting great strength and tenacity in other situations. I completed the obligatory checklists and went home troubled.

That night around 3:00 am, I made a call of my own. My wife Britt had gone into labor, and I called a family to help watch our oldest son Rian while we headed for the hospital at Sheppard Air Force Base. After several hours of difficult labor, Cody was born. Within twenty-four hours I had been a witness to both death and birth. I had seen the hope and promise of tomorrow snuffed out prematurely, and I had seen new life come charging forth in its mortal glory, all in the same day.

Now Cody is grown. He is a mature man ready to cross the threshold and venture into the world full of that same hope and promise. I don’t know what his future holds, but I hope he never stops believing in himself. I hope he will always value his life. I pray he will never find himself despairing in some shallow hole he might have dug for himself, wondering if he can go on. May he never forget that life, with all its happy moments and tragedies, is meant to be lived.

It isn’t an ordinary day when you send a son to college, but then again Cody isn’t an ordinary son. God speed, and as they say in Hawaii – Aloha nui loa, a hui hou kakou.

The Captain's Corner

2010-08-30T18:06:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog Readers,

Thanks for reading. A few months ago I had an idea for a magazine column that could answer questions about flying. I posted something on Facebook and asked what you would ask your Captain. With that feedback, I developed the voice and style of the column. I wrote three articles and had them reviewed by my writing coach. Of course, as soon as I got feedback, I found out that USA Today had just started a similar column.

I haven’t given up, and I am actively seeking a magazine, but in the meantime, I wanted feedback from my blog audience. So, here is the first article.

Since the days of Icarus, we mere mortals have dreamed of flying. Today, thanks to modern technology, that dream is a reality. We streak across the sky in marvelous flying machines cocooned in modern comfort. Uncommon men and women deftly manipulate the controls to carry us up into the blue yonder, and return us safely to earth.

Captain Brock,

Do cell phones really interfere with the airplane’s systems, or is it simply a big hoax intended to keep people from loudly discussing their personal problems among total strangers at 35,000 feet?

Curious in Columbus

Dear Curious,

It is true that nothing is more annoying than listening to would-be Casanova loudly ramble on about his love life in the overcrowded line at Starbucks, but the ban on cell phone usage in flight does serve a higher purpose.

The Boeing 737 is equipped with several radios for communication and navigation that operate at bandwidths similar to cell phones. Communication devices, such as cell phones and radios, are susceptible to electromagnetic interference – when the signals compete or interrupt each other. Because of concerns over electromagnetic interference with aircraft communication and navigation radios, the FCC placed the ban on in-flight cell phone use in 1991.

In addition to the FCC, the FAA also requires that any communication equipment used on a commercial airplane be tested before use. That isn’t a blanket application. That means that each time a new phone is released, the testing for that individual cell phone model would have to be completed all over again, a cost prohibitive venture. (As usual it comes down to money.) Simply put, restricting cell phone usage is the safest course of action, and it costs too much money to prove that it isn’t the safest course of action.

Several airlines have begun equipping their airplanes with WiFi, and you will soon be able to Google and Facebook as we slip the surly bonds over Kansas. That equipment has been tested. Just to keep the flight friendlier, we have restricted the use of VOIP (Voice Over Internet Protocol).

So, to ensure the safest possible flight, since your particular new smart phone has never been proven not to interfere, turn off your cell phone. It is still the safest course of action. Besides, nobody wants to hear you blabber on about your trip to the dentist. Turn to the person next to you and start a conversation. Heaven forbid you make a new friend by talking to someone face-to-face.

Sit back and enjoy the ride.

Captain Brock

The Race

2010-08-16T20:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a recent short story. Enjoy.

The Race

I had no idea how much running across the street would change my life. The accident happened so fast. One moment I was rushing to beat the traffic light, and then, suddenly, I was in the back of an ambulance on my way to the hospital - antiseptic smell, rushing medical personnel, anesthesia-induced sleep. I awoke with a pounding head, and a cast on my left leg from heel to hip.

After a few days in the hospital, they sent me home to recover, but after working on the road for most of my seventeen-year marriage, my hospital room felt more inviting. I guess all the nights of separation had subdued the signs of trouble in my marriage, but now that I was home everyday, and depressingly dependent, they lit up like neon.

Cynthia, my wife of seventeen years, feigned a smile as she set the lunch tray on my lap. “Don’t forget to take your medication,” she insisted with a cheerful, yet condescending voice.

“I’m feeling better. I don’t want to take it today. It makes me dizzy,” I complained. “Besides, I thought we could play a game or something.” I tried to sound inviting, but came across more like a pouting child.

“Now Dom, you know the pain makes you irritable. Take the medication so you can sleep the afternoon away, and be in a good mood when Caleb and Ceci get home from school.” She waved her hand as she sauntered out of the den.

I grumbled and picked at my food. I did want to be in good mood when my teenage kids got home, but her dismissive and dodgy attitude annoyed me. I slipped the pain medication into the half-eaten salad and covered it with wilted lettuce. Probably out of habit, I fell asleep in the wheelchair, but instead of sleeping the deep chemical sleep of a drugged patient, an itch under the cast roused me from my slumber.

As I came to, I heard the shower running in the master bathroom – a little odd for two in the afternoon. Since I couldn’t find the coat hanger I had been using to scratch beneath the cast, I wheeled myself to the master bathroom, but instead of finding a way to relieve an itch, I found my wife in the shower - with another woman.

The painful process of the divorce took less than three months to finalize. In those three months, my physical wounds healed nicely, but my emotional wounds deepened and spread. The pain in my left leg was replaced by a dull ache that seemed to pulse in my bones. My casual belief in God evaporated into hopelessness. I ambled listlessly through each day shrouded in a thick haze of guilt, insecurity, and anger. Thoughts of failure ran circles in my head until dark depression overcame me. One night I found myself curled up on my bathroom floor with a gun in my mouth.

I never knew how bitter gun oil tasted until I stuck the barrel of my snub-nosed Glock against the roof of my mouth. The bitterness drenched my taste buds, and lingered like the aftertaste of stale coffee. I gingerly slipped my finger over the trigger.

As my finger warmed the cool black metal, an image flooded my mind. I saw Caleb and Ceci standing at my grave. I witnessed their somber, anguished faces as they watched my casket lowered into the darkness of the earth. I felt their inquisitive teenage hearts cry out and ask me – why?

I pulled the gun away from my mouth, and spat the bitterness onto the bathroom floor. I decided that in spite of my own personal misery, I would not burden my children’s journey through life with the millstone of my suicide.
The next day at breakfast, they threw me a lifeline.

“The school is sponsoring a fun run to raise money for its sports programs, and we are all going to participate,” said Ceci. It wasn’t a request. Caleb gave a forceful glare and nodded in agreement. “It’s only a 5K, but we need to train,” said Caleb. He handed me a piece of paper. “I have a training schedule right here. We start tomorrow morning.” I took the schedule and complied with a quiet nod.

At 6 AM the next morning I heard a loud knock at my bedroom door. Ceci and Caleb were dressed, and ready for the run. I rolled reluctantly out of my bed, stumbled to my closet for my running gear, and shuffled to the living room. They quietly waited as I tied my shoes.

After the accident, I thought I would never run again, but my injuries had healed, and I found myself plodding along the trail, grinning with each step. I was out of shape, but an odd sense of euphoria enveloped me as I struggled to keep up with my kids. The early morning sun, the silent togetherness, the protective green trees that hovered over us along the trail, the daily new beginning transformed our running into therapy. Each day we traveled a little further. Each day we traveled a little faster. Each day I finished the run feeling a little more whole.

As the day of the race drew near, my muscles felt strong, tight, and ready to run. Thanks to our daily time together, my relationship with my kids was on sure footing. Hope had become my running partner, and I was ready to continue life’s race, but I was still avoiding any trail that would lead to companionship. That emotional trail was still grown over with weeds of bitterness, tall grass of anger, and prickly bushes of self-doubt.

The race scene was like a carnival - lines for T-shirts, various booths advertising their running wares, and loud upbeat music blaring out over the crowd of energetic runners and spectators. As I milled about at the starting line, a woman about my age caught my eye. It wasn’t her long brown hair in a ponytail, or her lean legs exposed by the running shorts that captured my gaze. It was the look of private pain I discerned on her face. I knew that look. I saw it every day in the mirror. She glanced at me and saw me staring. I gave her a weak smile, and a manly nod.

The gun went off. I started fast, but then settled into my pace. Caleb pulled ahead, and Ceci fell behind. Spectators cheered and encouraged along the course. At the end of the first mile I was ahead of schedule, and began to slow down, but then I saw her out of the corner of my eye - she was passing me. Our private race began. She pulled ahead at first, and I fell in behind her. When she slowed down, I passed her, but I could feel her on my heels. As we approached the last half mile, she pulled up beside me. I gave her a sideways grin and sped up. She matched my speed and grinned back.

About 100 yards from the finish line we were neck and neck. The crowd of cheering spectators grew thick along the sides of the course. It felt like everyone was now focused on our private race. She pulled a few steps ahead as I sucked air over my teeth and fought for more speed.

A bright pink ball bounced out of the crowd and on to the racecourse in front of us. She must have been so focused on the finish line that she didn’t see it. Her churning feet hit the bouncing ball. She tumbled, and frantically tried to catch herself, but sprawled across the grassy course on her stomach. I heard the air rush out of her lungs even over my own breathing. I stopped.

“Are you all right?” I asked between gasps. She moaned and rolled over onto her back. “I think I’m okay. Nothing hurt but my pride.” I extended her my hand. “Let’s finish this race.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled herself up. She winked. “Race you to the finish line!”

The crowd let out a roar as we crossed the finish line together. We both laughed. For just a moment self-doubt, bitterness, and anger melted away, and I extended my hand to her again. “I’m Dom, short for Dominick.”

Her pale green eyes sparkled as she extended her hand for the second time that day, and I knew that I was ready for another race.

A Rock Through The Window

2010-08-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

I saw someone get threatened last week. It wasn’t pretty. When I cam to their defense, I was also targeted. It all happened on Facebook.

A Facebook friend of mine had vented his feelings on a particular political issue and drew the ire of one of his friends. His friend called his post “hateful” and “factually incorrect”, threatening to defriend him. When I came to the defense of my friend and to the defense of healthy debate, I was told, “I don’t know you and I don’t want to.” Ouch!

Years ago I fought against a particular proposition that had been placed on the ballot. It did not seem like good policy to me, and I spoke out against it. In the end, I was in the minority, and the proposition passed. In my angst over the loss, I wrote a clever letter to the editor expressing my disappointment in the outcome of the vote. To my surprise, they published it. A few weeks later a letter arrived. It was in a business-size envelope and had been addressed by hand. It carried no return address.

When I opened the envelope, I found a hateful and ridiculing form letter. It basically called me an imbecile and a jackass for my position. It made no argument to counter mine. It carried no facts to support another position. It did not appeal to any higher logic, or sense of justice. It was simply a venom-filled, one-way correspondence meant to make me feel small and stupid. It was anonymous. It might as well have been a rock thrown through my front window with some sort of threatening message because it displayed the same level of vitriol and cowardice.

At first the letter stung, kind of like a slap across the face, but as I pondered the letter, the slap lost its sting and I felt pride instead of pain. I had lost the vote, but in the battle of wits with faceless smear-letter writer, I had won the fight. I kept the letter as a reminder that at least once in my life, I had bested a mudslinging coward.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was elected to the local school board. She diligently went about her duties, and soon found herself in the middle of several controversial issues. I openly disagreed with her on one of the issues, and argued against her position. During that open disagreement, she visited our home on several occasions in a different capacity. Neither of us raised the issue of our disagreement. She never called me names or tried to belittle me personally for my difference of opinion. I followed her lead. In the end we never came to an agreement on the issue, and she proceeded with the course of action that I had openly disagreed with. She voted her conscience, and I lost. To this day, she commands my utmost respect because she courageously stood her ground and disagreed without being disagreeable. It was a lesson I will never forget.

It is seldom that we humans agree on anything. Disagreement is more likely the norm in our daily life. We all believe that we are right on certain issues, and it is impossible for all of us to be right. It behooves us all to learn to disagree agreeably, and not let our differences of opinion degenerate into cowardly personal attacks, or petty name-calling. We should counter arguments with facts and logic. Give our opinion politely and without rancor. Engage in civil debate. For heaven sakes, don’t threaten others with defriending because you disagree with their position. You might need that friend someday to help you repair a window.

Family Frames

2010-07-19T11:25:00.000-07:00

An old weathered barn on my parent’s farm struggles to remain standing. The tin roof is rusty and full of holes. The siding is pitted from the elements and graying from age. The beams are warped and sagging. Once a proud and capable structure, each day that passes makes it less useful, and more dilapidated. It has outlived its usefulness and moved beyond its days of storing hay and protecting livestock from the elements. Its days are numbered.

Every two years my siblings and their families converge on the family farm for family reunion. Our ten-sibling family is like a large gangly ten-legged octopus whose tentacles grow longer and stronger each year. We are a prolific bunch – a lot like the rabbits that escaped from their hutches years ago and took over my Granny’s garden.

As we gathered for our recent reunion, Dad informed us that the old barn would soon be demolished because it was considered unsafe. My three brothers and I decided to salvage some of the wood and make picture frames that each family could take home as a reunion memento.

What is ingrained in our nature that sends us back home again like salmon swimming upstream? What deep human need do we fulfill by dragging our spouse and children to some long forgotten place so that they can listen to stories of old family dramas and moments of fraternal joy? What compels us to seek out our roots? Are we individuals, or do we simply exist as a part of something bigger?

The barn gave us a wary eye as we approached with tools for removing boards. Afraid of falling through the floor, we gingerly snuck into the hay loft and looked for wood that could still be used – wood that, although weathered, still had integrity. We found a few floorboards not too warped or worn. We pulled a few boards from around the corncrib. The planks groaned and fretted as we pried out the nails and extracted the selected boards.

We have long since outgrown my parent’s house, and much to my mother’s dismay, we all stayed at a local hotel. She still wanted to feed us all, but we compromised on meals. She hired a cook to prepare food from the farm, and we all chipped in to pay his fee. Our compromise allowed my mother to fill her emotional need to feed us, and allowed us to visit more instead of preparing the next meal, or cleaning up after the last one.

As we plopped the boards onto the table saw and began ripping them to a standard width, my mind turned to the hours I had spent in the barn milking our cow, stacking hay, and shelling corn in an old hand-cranked sheller. My brother and I joked that if we got the right boards, the frames would carry the smell of the barn’s history right into the living room – kind of a “scratch-and-sniff” frame.

Picture time is always the most chaotic at family reunion. Imagine taming this multilegged monster long enough to get a picture of it – with a smile on its face. Invariably parents find themselves yelling for some wayward child that has decided that the zip line installed a few yards away looks more interesting. Without fail at least one well-dressed toddler will have a complete meltdown. Miraculously, we somehow manage to document our existence for posterity one more time. This year the old barn was prominently fixed in the background.

Although aged and worn, the old barn wood proved to be hard and unyielding. The miter saw complained a bit each time I asked it to cut through a board. The wood still maintained an iron-like integrity. Its twisted shape, old knotholes, and pitted saw marks gave each frame a unique look and personality. It was as if the barn, knowing its fate, had imparted some of its spirit to the frames and could speak to the beholder from the great beyond for old barns.

We ate until we were popping at the seams, and while the kids played at various activities organized by my sister, we sat and told more stories, caught up on news, bragged about embellished accomplishments, mourned the passing of loved ones, and complained about the government. New bonds were formed. Old bonds were strengthened. Like the tough old barn wood, we spoke of the marks life had left on us, yet we also had imparted a bit of our spirit into the frame of life.

We ended with fireworks. The old barn watched as the sky flashed a phosphorous red, white, and blue. It seemed to smile upon us as we sat and watched the crescendo. The old tired timbers let out a sigh with the explosion of the last mortar. The old barn has served well, and through its work, it has left a legacy. The grain of its wood will frame a large picture of a vibrant living organization called family.

An Island Affair

2010-06-29T18:52:00.000-07:00

They say that every man has a mistress, and I guess that I am no exception. What makes my affair different, however, is that I started it a couple of days before I got married, over twenty years ago. I really never stood a chance against her intoxicating perfumes, and heart-catching looks. I was seduced by her strange and subtle ways, and her passion washed over me like the tide. When I came to Hawaii to marry my wife, I started a love affair with the Hawaiian Islands that I have never been willing, or able, to break off.

I met my wife on the mainland. Although a haole girl, she was born and raised in the islands and was as local as poi (a thick edible paste made from taro root). She spoke of her home with zeal, and often used superlatives. I would sometimes roll my eyes as she talked about the breathtaking beaches, strange and delicious foods, and the Hawaiian ohana - family.

When you think about the Hawaiian ohana, you think about food. Hawaiians love to eat. They load their tables with everything from traditional foods such as poi, rice, pork lau-laus, and lomi-lomi salmon, to more modern dishes such as Huli-Huli chicken. You can also find sumptuous Asian cuisine, various fusion dishes that combine the tastes of several cultures, and local-style meals like the loco-moco (a gravy-drenched hamburger patty on a bed of rice and topped with a fried egg). Hawaii even has its own version of the doughnut – the malasada (a fried dough ball covered in sugar and sometimes filled). For one of the most isolated islands in the world, they know how to eat.

Although remote, the islands offer a wide variety of activities to entertain you. Tourism is the number one industry in Hawaii, and there’s no shortage of tourist attractions. For a walk through history, visit the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor, or the Bishop Museum. For a taste of the island culture, visit the Polynesian Culture Center. With miles of beckoning beaches positioned against ridgelines covered in lush rainforest, Hawaii offers something for every traveler. You can skydive, or scuba dive. You can learn to surf, or learn to swing your hips and hula dance. You can hike to a secluded waterfall, or read a book on a secluded beach.

The most famous beach in Hawaii is Waikiki. Even though it is crowded by tall condominiums and hotels, this crescent beach still maintains its iconic beauty with Diamond Head rising at its east end. You can play in the sand, soak up the warm tropical sun, or take a ride in an outrigger canoe. If you want to try your hand (or foot) at surfing, the long rolling waves of Waikiki offer the best place in the world to learn how to surf. On any given day a beginning surfer with no experience can walk up to one of the surf shacks, and learn to ride the waves within an hour.

When you’re done learning to surf, a short walk will take you to the international marketplace for spectacular shopping. The marketplace offers a variety of souvenirs and gifts that you can haggle over and bargain for. If you’re shopping budget allows for finer tastes, there are numerous boutiques and name-brand shops that offer a wide range of finer goods. At night the Waikiki shopping district is also crowded with street performers that will entertain and amuse you. Just be prepared to shell out a few bills if you do more than look at them in passing.

Snorkeling is a great way to get a passing look at another world without too much trouble. Hanauma Bay, a short drive from downtown Honolulu, is an excellent spot to view brightly colored reef fish, squid, and even green sea turtles in a safe and comfortable environment. It gets crowded, so arrive early. The entrance fee is five dollars for adults, and you will be introduced to the park with an informative video about the park and its sea life. Since the bay was formed when the ocean eroded one side of a volcano, as you enter the park from above you have a spectacular view of the entire bay and the sparkling blue water below, but the lofty view also means a steep walk up and down. Take a few extra dollars to pay for the tram ride up and down. It’s worth the money.

Cost is what keeps most people away from Hawaiian Islands, but there are several ways to reduce the overall cost of your trip. If you can, try to travel during the off-season months, such as May or October. You will find the prices cheaper, and the beaches less crowded. Look for package deals that include airfare, hotel, and rental car. Since food is your biggest expense while there, try to find accommodations with a kitchen or kitchenette, and prepare your own meals. To save on airfare, save up your frequent flyer miles. You may even consider a credit card that gives you frequent flyer miles. If you enjoy beach activities, your entertainment costs while there will be minimal.

They say that every man has a mistress, but they never tell you the true cost of such an affair. Make your affair an affordable one. Take your spouse to Hawaii, and start an island affair of your own.

I Am Not a Tree Hugger

2010-06-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

I am a conservative. I vote for conservative candidates. I am not convinced that the science of global warming is solved, nor do I support a government cap-and-trade system to stem carbon emissions. I am not a tree hugger.

I am not a tree hugger because of the hypocrisy of the environmental elitists. Their do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do attitude has kept me from being as “green” as Kermit the Frog. They fly around on private airplanes drinking bottled water accepting awards for their groundbreaking “documentaries” demanding us to save the planet - So much for leading by example.

Hypocrisy aside, we do face some serious environmental challenges that threaten other species as well as our way of life. We have been poor stewards of a glorious world bursting with resources that have enhanced and enriched our lives. We have failed to care for Mother Earth and have treated her like an aging and senile mother that only deserves to be locked away in a retirement home and visited occasionally with token gifts of appreciation.

If we don’t do a better job, she is going to write both liberals and conservatives out of her will.

I am not a tree hugger, yet I care deeply about our planet and the health of our environment. I believe that conservatives can save the planet.

In the North Pacific Gyre a huge mass of debris and trash floats along swirling like some large cosmic galaxy of garbage. The currents of the North Pacific act as a gravitational pull that cause the planets of refuse to be sucked into this black hole of trash. The Great Pacific Garbage Patch is estimated to be larger than the state of Texas, and it is growing.

Who is responsible for this trash catastrophe? We all are.

On average, each person generates almost 500 kilograms of waste per year. This river of rubbish is not always controlled or contained and ends up as flotsam in our streams, rivers, and eventually our oceans. Some of that litter will end up as a constellation in that galaxy of garbage in the Pacific.

As a conservative, I don’t think the problem can be solved by government decree, or through some fancy new cap and trade scheme, but it can be solved by the very people that created it – Us. Since we created the problem, we can fix it. We may not relate to saving the rain forest or feel empowered enough to stop global warming, but each of us has the power to control the trash of the world in three easy steps – Control, Reduce, and Inspire.

Our first step is to take personal responsibility for our own trash and control its disposal. The Boy Scouts have a camping policy – Leave no trace behind. We should adopt that policy in our daily lives when it comes to trash. We make sure that we leave no trace of trash behind us in our daily activities. We must control every single item of debris that we generate, right down to the smallest candy wrapper. We must never litter.

Next we should examine our daily habits and reduce the amount of waste that we create. How many things do we send off to the landfill that could be reused or recycled? If each of us recycled at least ten percent of our waste, we would reduce the amount of waste by over 15 billion kilograms of waste each year in the United States alone. Every piece of trash that we recycle is one less star in that swirling cesspool in the Pacific.

More important than regulating, reusing, or recycling, is our attitude. A conscientious attitude is contagious. If we display a genuine caring attitude towards our Mother Earth, others around us will also become more aware. We don’t have to preach some self-righteous doctrine of environmental elitism. We don’t need to browbeat our neighbors into to ecological submission. We simply need to start with our own individual actions and make our attitude contagious. Some will follow our example.

We can clean up our yard. We can clean up our street. We can clean up our neighborhood. We can clean up our city. Every piece of trash that is left to blow in the breeze or float along a waterway will eventually end up spoiling a vista or damaging a habitat. If each of us were to pick up one errant piece of trash a day, our world would be more beautiful and livable. It doesn’t take a mandate from the United Nations, it only takes the courage of one individual to act.

Future generations deserve a healthy world to live in. We owe them that much. Hypocritical environmental elitism will not accomplish the task. Individual responsibility will.

Before we set out to save the rain forest, let’s try cleaning up our own backyard.

A Quiet Breakfast

2010-05-24T11:27:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had to order food in a foreign country where you didn't speak the language and they didn't speak English? Here's a short segment I wrote for an exercise that shows how much you can communicate without talking. Please feel free to share any similar experiences, or explain some other nonverbal ways of communication. Just keep it clean : ).

A Quiet Breakfast

It was our first day in Brazil, and after a long sleep, Mike and I were starving. “I hope somebody speaks English in the restaurant. I’m starved,” I said as the elevator door closed.

“Who cares if anyone speaks English? You can get by without words in most places,” answered Mike. He had traveled all over the world, and this was my on-the-job training. “In fact, I’ll bet you breakfast that I can get us in and out of the restaurant without saying a word,” he said with clever smile.

I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, “You’re on.” We shook on it.

The bell rang and the door opened. Mike looked at me, winked, motioned with his head, and led the way to the hotel restaurant. As we approached the restaurant a young woman smiled and asked us something in Brazilian. Mike smiled in return and held up two fingers.

She nodded, grabbed two menus, and ushered us to a table with a motion of her hand. I took a seat across from Mike as the waitress served up a menu to each of us. Mike held up his coffee cup and smiled. The waitress nodded and looked at me. A little unsure, I hesitated in surprise, but then realized why she was looking at me and turned over my coffee mug. I’m not a coffee drinker. She nodded and scurried off in search of coffee.

Mike looked over the menu with the furrowed brow of a librarian and pursed his lips. I looked at the menu and saw the reason for his intense focus – the menu was all in Brazilian. He brought a finger to his lips and looked up as if he was searching for a translation to appear somewhere in the air above his head.

Just then the waitress appeared with a pot of coffee and began filling his cup. When the cup was two-thirds full he motioned horizontally with his hand, and she stopped filling. She held up a small ceramic pitcher with her left hand and motioned with her right hand. Mike smiled and gave a big nod. The waitress poured cream until the mug was almost full. Mike gave her a thumbs-up, took a sip, and let out a satisfied sigh. The waitress smiled and held up a pitcher of water to me. I raised my glass with a smile and she filled it with ice water.

Mike rotated the menu on the table towards the waitress and pointed to one of the dishes listed. He put his thumbs in his armpits and flapped his arms like wings. Then he made an oval shape with his fingers and nodded with questioning eyes. The waitress let out a chuckle, and nodded. Mike tapped the dish listed on the menu definitively, and gave a coordinated nod. The waitress wrote it down and looked at me with questioning eyes and pencil poised. I simply tapped the menu on the same dish hoping Mike was ordering us eggs.

The waitress took our menus and orders and headed for the kitchen. We sat like two kids playing the silent game as we waited for our food.

About ten minutes later the waitress brought two plates loaded with thin sliced ham, scrambled eggs, and some rolls with cheese melted on top. Mike gave her a big toothless grin and rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and then readied his silverware and napkin. Getting into the spirit, I motioned to my glass for more water. She nodded and filled my glass with water and recharged Mike’s coffee cup.

We ate in quiet satisfaction, only breaking our silence with the tinkling of silverware. Mike finished before me and placed his silverware on his almost empty plate, put his napkin next to his plate, and pushed his chair back slightly. He slouched his posture and sipped at the remainder of his coffee looking like the cat that ate the canary. I just shook my head and finished my breakfast.

When I tossed my napkin on the table, the waitress approached with the bill. I reluctantly reached for my wallet, but Mike held up his hand in protest and smirked. He pulled out some Brazilian money and paid. You could tell from the waitress’s eyes that the tip was more than sufficient.

Advice to Graduates

2010-05-17T10:46:00.000-07:00

In honor of my son graduating from high school next week, I want to share a some gems of wisdom I stumbled upon.

This list is the work of Charles J. Sykes, author of the 1996 book Dumbing Down Our Kids: Why American Children Feel Good About Themselves But Can't Read, Write, Or Add, and the 2007 book 50 Rules Kids Won't Learn in School: Real-World Antidotes to Feel-Good Education.

Here are fourteen of those rules.

Rule 1
Life is not fair; get used to it.

Rule 2
The world won't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something before you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3
You will not make 40 thousand dollars a year right out of high school.You won't be a vice president with a car phone until you *earn* both.

Rule 4
If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss. He doesn't have tenure.

Rule 5
Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger-flipping; they called it opportunity.

Rule 6
If you screw up, it's not your parents' fault so don't whine about your mistakes. Learn from them.

Rule 7
Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way paying your bills, cleaning your room, and listening to you tell them how idealistic you are. So before you save the rain forest from the blood-sucking parasites of your parents' generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.

Rule 8
Your school may have done away with winners and losers but life has not. In some schools they have abolished failing grades, they'll give you as many times as you want to get the right answer. This, of course, bears no resemblance to anything in real life.

Rule 9
Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you find yourself. Do that on your own time.

Rule 10
Television is not real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.

Rule 11
Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one.

Rule No. 12: Smoking does not make you look cool. It makes you look moronic. Next time you're out cruising, watch an 11-year-old with a butt in his mouth. That's what you look like to anyone over 20. Ditto for "expressing yourself" with purple hair and/or pierced body parts.

Rule No. 13: You are not immortal. (See Rule No. 12.) If you are under the impression that living fast, dying young and leaving a beautiful corpse is romantic, you obviously haven't seen one of your peers at room temperature lately.

Rule No. 14: Enjoy this while you can. Sure parents are a pain, school's a bother, and life is depressing. But someday you'll realize how wonderful it was to be a kid. Maybe you should start now. You're welcome.

Good advice to both high school and college graduates.

Feel free to add a few rules of your own.

Brock

The Notion of a Nation

2010-04-30T09:52:00.000-07:00

What makes a nation a nation? Is it the borders that enclose and define it? Is it the language or languages spoken by its citizens? Does a specific culture determine nationhood? What makes a nation a sovereign entity or does a nation ever really rise to the level of sovereignty? Perhaps the notion of a nation is simply something we invent in our minds to help us better classify and organize our perception of the world. What makes a nation a nation?

It is true that language, culture, and geographic borders are characteristics of a nation, but characteristics do not a nation make. The Hawaiian Islands have a unique language, culture, and clearly discernable borders, yet they exist as a part of the United States of America, not an independent nation.

Only one thing can give birth to a nation and sustain its existence – Law - clear, enforceable, binding law.

A few years ago a member of my church drove into Mexico in search of shopping deals. As soon as he crossed the border, the Federales stopped him. They politely asked to search his vehicle, and he, being unfamiliar with the laws of Mexico, consented. During their very thorough search they found a small amount of ammunition in the glove compartment of his vehicle (a crime in Mexico). It took him several months to get released from a Mexican prison and return home to his anxious family.

Harsh you say? He broke the law in Mexico, and he suffered the consequences of a clear, enforceable, and binding law. That is what makes a nation a nation.

Another friend of mine was taking pictures of the subway in Moscow, clearly a heinous crime worthy of punishment. A Russian “Barney Fife” wrote him a ticket, and except for the quick talking of my friend’s interpreter, the official would also have taken his camera.

Ridiculous you say? He broke the law in Russia, and was punished by clear, enforceable, and binding law. That is what makes a nation a nation.

In 1994 Michael Fay pleaded guilty to vandalizing cars and stealing road signs in Singapore. He was sentenced to four months in jail, fined 3,500 Singapore dollars, and six strokes with a cane.

Cruel and unusual you say!? He broke the law in Singapore, and was sentenced according to clear, enforceable, and binding law. That is what makes a nation a nation.

Every nation in the world has as system of laws in place that dictate the requirements for entering and leaving its borders. Such laws dictate the required paperwork, points of entry, period of stay, and often include such minute details as the size of the rubber stamp and ink color in the inkpad. Nations that don’t control the movement of foreigners within their borders may soon find themselves in peril. Without those laws would a nation really be a nation?

We need only look to the history of the State of Texas as an example of what can happen if a nation fails to control the influx of foreigners. After winning its independence, Mexico encouraged and allowed organized immigration into Mexican Texas, but in few short years immigrants from the United States greatly outnumbered the Mexicans. This disparity fomented the flames of rebellion within a few short years, and the rebellion soon resulted in the formation of the Republic of Texas. Remember the Alamo? The Mexican nation was unable to enforce its laws in Texas, and a new nation rose up in its place.

We face a similar dilemma.

We as a nation need the “huddled masses” of immigrants. We rely on the influx of both talent and manpower to enrich our nation. Our immigration laws are structured to control that influx. But if our government simply ignores those who defy immigration law, then it is officially aiding and abetting criminals, and will not long stand as a ruling body.

Under the Constitution, our legal system clearly allows for freedom of speech, including speech that runs counter to our own established laws. Therefore, people that are here illegally are free to speak out against the very laws that they are breaking, without consequence. We should not change the law to eliminate freedom of speech.

However, if WE, as a governing body, wish to continue as a nation, WE must enforce our clear and binding immigration laws. If we consider our laws to be inappropriate or unenforceable, then we must work to change them. We cannot simply look the other way and pretend that the law will change. We must not be duped into believing that no consequences will follow our failure to enforce our immigration laws. The rule of OUR law is what makes US a nation.

We face a crossroads as nation, if we wish to remain a nation. Will we enforce our clear and binding immigration law, or will we cease to be a nation?

A Man of the Earth

2010-04-16T20:05:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote this small segment as an exercise and wanted to share it. It expresses my personal perceptions of my Grampy, Charles Talley.

A Man of the Earth

I can still remember the smell of the tall green grass as I crawled through the field behind my Grampy’s house. My older brother and I would spend hours stealing through the pasture as we hunted each other with “guns” made from tobacco sticks. They were memorable days, but not as memorable as my Grampy himself.

“You boys put your guns away and come in for dinner,” said Grampy as we crawled out of our own private jungle. He spoke with a deep baritone voice that didn’t match his small frame and seemed to reverberate right through us. It was like hearing the horn of a large truck come from a small car, or the foghorn of a large cruise ship singing out from a tugboat.

I never heard him raise his voice, but then again, he didn’t have to. His voice was accustomed to being obeyed, and willed you to do as he commanded without changing in volume. Its rich, solid tones penetrated you clear to the bone, and took away your will to do anything other than what he directed.

In spite of his commanding voice, he was terse and chose his words carefully. He would engage in deep conversation by listening intently, and then speak a few carefully thought out sentences of substance.

A man of the earth, most summer afternoons you could find Grampy in his beautiful garden tending to the soil and nurturing his tomato plants, green beans, and corn. He loved to make things grow, and would carry the smell of freshly turned soil to the dinner table.

His face was often expressionless, except the eyes. His misty hazel eyes seemed to penetrate and look deep into a problem or a person. They also carried a slight measure of sadness, deposited there by the many hardships he had faced.

He had contracted typhoid fever as a child, and the disease had hindered his growth, leaving him shorter than most men and of small build. He had a slight, almost imperceptible limp or shuffle that resulted from the disease, but his size only disguised his strength and quickness. When we playfully challenged him we would feel his vice-like hands clamping down on a shoulder, or feel the playful slap of his soft palm across our cheek. We would laugh as he utterly manhandled us and gave a resonating chuckle of delight.

Charles Talley, my Grampy, was a rock. He courageously faced the adversities of life without asking for quarter. Even as I stood watching him on his deathbed, I sensed that he was a man of substance, not easily swayed by the winds of calamity. In my mind, I could hear his strong baritone voice calling me to dinner, and smell the green grass and soft moist soil.

My Piece of the Wall

2010-04-01T08:29:00.000-07:00

Fighter pilots sometimes classify other pilots as follows - There are fighter pilots and pilots that fly fighters. I must admit that after a couple of years in the A-10 I still considered myself the latter. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy flying fighters. I loved the flying immensely. It does mean that I never felt completely worthy to classify myself with the first group.

The other night I was helping my son with a school project about the Cold War and the Berlin Airlift. He shrugged off my suggestions, like he so often does, leaving me feeling a bit rejected. I wanted to shake him and let him know that I was there when the Berlin Wall came down. I had taken a piece of the wall, and bought old East German military trinkets at Brandenburg Gate. So, I went in search of my piece of the wall.

I pulled out some old boxes of memorabilia and started digging. I found all my old Air Force awards officially describing my accomplishments. I found old photos of a younger me daring the world to put me to the test. I was able to share a bit of history with him and bring his assignment to life, but I never found my piece of the wall.

I found some old journals, back from when I kept a regular journal like I should now. As I opened the dusty pages of bad handwriting, I recognized that same self doubt that keeps me from classifying myself with the first group. Line after line of self-effacing emotional drivel. No wonder I never felt adequate. No piece of the wall here.

My kids were a little surprised at my awards and decorations. To them I’m just the guy that goes to work and comes home complaining that the house isn’t clean. They asked why I didn’t hang them all on a wall to show them off. They asked me to explain what I had done to be honored with each one. Each time I simply smiled. No piece of the wall here.

Past personal accomplishments hold little value for me. Today is a new day, and demands new achievements. I would rather be trying and failing today than reliving the few successes of yesterday. Yesterday is just a lost piece of the wall.

Fighter pilots may never classify me as one of their own, but I’m ok with that. Today is a new day.

Hollandaise Sauce and Health Care

2010-03-20T21:38:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of taking my sister and her husband to breakfast the other morning while on an overnight in Los Angeles. He found a nostalgic diner nearby complete with walls of stone, wood paneling, and cozy u-shaped booths covered in red vinyl. The staff was very friendly and the menu inviting - except for the eggs benedict. The waitress informed us that they couldn’t serve hollandaise sauce with the eggs benedict because it contains high levels of trans fat, and that is against the law in California.

According to the Los Angeles Times the law requires restaurants to use oils, margarines and shortening with less than half a gram of trans fat per serving and is punishable by a fine of up to $1000. "California is a leader in promoting health and nutrition, and I am pleased to continue that tradition by being the first state in the nation to phase out trans fats," Schwarzenegger said. "Consuming trans fat is linked to coronary heart disease, and today we are taking a strong step toward creating a healthier future for California." (July 26, 2008Patrick McGreevy, Times Staff Writer)

Of course this begs the question, what other self-destructive activities should the government outlaw in the name of personal health? After all if the government is footing the bill for health care then they should be able to outlaw activities that are harmful (or potentially harmful) to our health. You can just hear your parents saying, “As long as you live under my roof, and I pay the bills…”

What will be outlawed next? Motorcycle riding? Unprotected sex? Surfing large waves? Twinkies with chocolate milk? Running with scissors?

Our personal liberties are directly linked to our level of personal responsibility. If we are willing to accept the consequences of our actions, then we should be free to make those decisions, provided they do no harm to others. If we wish to be protected and cared for at every turn, then we will eventually give up all of our personal liberties in the name of comfort or protection. Any risky activities will be outlawed or severely restricted in the name of health and safety.

We all make intentional personal decisions that sometimes carry harmful consequences to ourselves, or even others. But making those choices and suffering the consequences is what freedom is all about. No risk – No reward.

The questions is do we really want the government so deeply involved in our personal daily decisions? I guess that depends on whether or not your want hollandaise sauce with your eggs benedict.

PDF - Public Displays of Faith

2010-03-15T16:23:00.000-07:00

If you were about to board a transcontinental flight and several Muslim passengers from your flight knelt in prayer in the boarding area would you feel uncomfortable? Would you feel the same way about a group of Orthodox Jews with yalmurkas and long traditional beards gathered in prayer? How would you feel about a group of Nuns or maybe even Mormon missionaries? How do you feel about public displays of faith?

As an airline pilot, I see public displays of faith everyday. I guess more people are afraid of flying than care to openly admit. I see Muslims praying in the boarding area. I see Catholics crossing themselves just before they step on to the plane. I see people kiss their fingers and tap them on the plane for good luck. One Bible-carrying passenger stopped and told me how she said a prayer every time she took her seat on the plane. I just grinned and said, “You too!?”

Faith is the motivating force behind all of our lives. I don’t care what you believe about God, if you didn’t have faith that the sun was going to come up, you wouldn’t get out of bed. Unless you have knowledge of the future, your every action is driven by faith. Every accomplishment beyond our simple existence of the moment requires faith.

Various religions require overt acts of faith. These acts include everything from silent prayer, to bathing in the Ganges River. Each public display of faith demonstrates to the world, and to the intended god, that the believer has faith strong enough to evoke action. Action, the highest form of faith, is required to demonstrate one’s level of faith.

But what if these acts of faith interfere with or even harm the lives of others? A suicide bomber in the name of Allah, car bombings to resolve a dispute between Catholics and Protestants, Sikh assassinations to end perceived religious oppression, all have the same thing in common – violence committed in the name of faith.

Clashes between good and evil sometimes do escalate to the level of violence, but I don’t believe that the fight against evil requires the willful taking of innocent lives. The battle against evil requires that we change lives – starting with our own.

So the next time you board a flight, go ahead and display your faith in public. Maybe your overt act of faith will inspire someone. We only hope that it inspires others to do good - not wet their pants in fear.

The Poignant Truth

2010-02-16T10:13:00.000-08:00

Years ago while living in South America, I became a fan of a Spanish singer, Jose Luis Perales. His song, “Cómo Es El”, was one of my favorites. The song is poetic, as most of his songs are, and speaks of stolen love as the couple separates. Cómo es el literally means ‘how is he’ or more clearly translated, ‘what is he like?’ The forsaken lover painfully and pointedly questions the departing woman about the nature of the conquering rival, and where exactly did he fall in love with her. I always considered it a poignant and moving song. And then the other day I found out the real meaning behind the song, and it deepened my understanding of the song making the poignancy downright visceral.

I found out that the ‘forsaken lover’ was a father questioning his daughter as she announced her betrothal. With the new information in mind, I played the song again. Since I now have three daughters, an entirely new wave of emotion overcame me as the old lyrics played, and I must admit that I cried. It was, as they say, a significant paradigm shift.

How often does new information completely change our outlook, our feelings, or our understanding of something? Perhaps it doesn’t happen enough.

We often trudge along in life from one event to another without opening our eyes, ears, and minds to other possibilities. We entrench ourselves in our mindset and fight off any new information as if it were an invading army hell-bent on destroying our way of thinking. In the end, like the trench, our thinking becomes narrow, monotonous, and goes nowhere productive.

If, however, we build our house of thought on the rock of truth, then we can gladly welcome in any new idea or thought into the walls of our home for examination without fearing the outcome. If it is truth, we gladly give it space and welcome it as we would a new member of our family. If it is not truth, then we can confidently and cordially show it to the door. Because the foundation is strong, the house can withstand any paradigm shifts.

Truth needs no defense. We need not hedge it or protect it. We need simply learn it, proclaim it, and ally ourselves to it.

My paradigm shift deepened my admiration for a beautiful song, but now when I hear the words, my emotions will be different than before. The song is still poetic and poignant, but the truth about its meaning made me feel its emotional message more deeply than before – perhaps because I now have three daughters that are growing up too fast.

True Love

2010-02-03T19:09:00.000-08:00

I recently wrote a small segment about love as part of a writing exercise that I wanted to share. BTW, don't forget about Valentines Day!

Why Should I Let You Live?

“Why should I let you live?” said my captor. His accented delivery was smooth and even, but his voice had the quality of wrinkled sandpaper.

I paused. I could smell my own breath as it tried to escape from the coarse bag over my head. The mind is a funny thing, especially under panic. One thought dominated my mind – a line from a movie.

“True Love,” I said simply and clearly.

Silence dominated. No motion. No breathing. Awkward silence. The seconds sped away until the grit from his voice scraped away the silence. “Tell me about her and why you love her.”

In the darkness, I closed my eyes that I might see more clearly the images of her. I took a deep breath and began.

“I began to love her many years ago. Her unabashed smile and unmistakable zest for life attracted me from the first moment I laid eyes on her. She was laughing and talking with a buddy of mine and her bushy blonde hair gleamed in the sun. She smiled with gusto, not some half-hearted reserved smile. It was the kind of smile that starts somewhere deep in the heart and bursts across the face like the sunrise. Her blue eyes sparkled and her laugh was contagious. We dated and everything felt so natural – no jealously, no drama, no weirdness. We became inseparable friends. It was a warm spring afternoon in the mountain canyon when I first knew that I was in love with her. As we drove down the winding canyon road she suddenly made me stop the car so that she could pet some cows in a field beside the road. I laughed! But as I watched her in the afternoon sun gently coaxing the cows to the fence with her delightful voice, my affection for her bubbled up inside of me making me tingle inside. I knew I was in love with her.”

“You speak only of young love or, how do you say, infatuation. That is not true love,” said the captor skeptically.

I continued.

“We were married a few months later in the summer. The hot summer nights were filled with passion and yearning desire. We drank deeply from the sumptuous waters of sexual intimacy. We discovered the previously uncharted country of giving each other guiltless sensual pleasure as a husband and wife that had become as one flesh. Nights filled with sweet sweat, wet lips, skin to skin, and synchronized scintillating motion. Our love…”

“Now you speak only of sexual desire!” interrupted the voice. “Surely you are not trying to convince me that such emotions are true love!”

I continued, increasing the pace of my words. “The romantic passion gave way to the ebb and flow of two lives combined in the fight to win at the daily grind. We locked arms and focused our efforts on common goals and worthy horizons. We started a family – one…two…three…four children. Each time she stared death in the face and endured great pain to bring our children into this world. Her life became an endless battle against dirty diapers, snotty noses, and cluttered carpets. My life became a balancing act of earning a living and raising children. We adopted two more needy children and brought them into our circle of love. Our family…”

I could almost hear my captor shake his head and roll his eyes as he interrupted again. “Now you bore me with details of family life! Do you expect me to believe that true love comes from raising children?! Bah!”

I continued, even faster than before. “We set off in new directions as our children grew. We encouraged each other and took up new hobbies together. We…”

“Drivel! Love is not learning new things together!”

I continued at a panicked pace. “We grew old together and learned to support each other through sickness and injury. We cared for each others needs by…”

“Enough! Any nurse can do that! Since when is that TRUE LOVE?”

I stopped and sobbed softly to myself not knowing what to say.

After a long pause, I felt the captor’s mouth close beside me. His scratchy voice raked softly across my ear. “I have your wife in the next room. One of you must die. Will you die for her?”

“YES!” I shouted without hesitation.

I heard the legs of the chair squeak roughly against the floor as my captor stood. “THAT is true love!” he said.

I heard the hinges moan as the door opened. I heard the sound of metal against metal as the door swung firmly shut. I prayed for the safe release of my dear wife, and I waited happily to die.

------------

Happy Valentines Day! May you find TRUE LOVE!

You Can Never Go Home Again

2010-01-20T08:39:00.000-08:00

Growing up in a big family we had one black-and-white TV, and limited space on the couch. If you got up to go to the bathroom you had to yell, “Seat back!” or when you returned you would find a brother or sister sitting comfortably in your coveted spot. It was our way of laying claim to our place in the family.

“How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. You can never go home again.” (James Agee; “A Death in the Family”)

It is an adage that rings true over an over again. As soon as we cross the childhood threshold in search of our own life, we are forever changed. Our childhood home changes in our absence, and can never be reclaimed.

I recently enjoyed an overnight visit with my parents who still live on the family farm in Kentucky. Amid the discussion of kids, good books, and politics, I felt the usual nagging regret that the choices I made have led me far away from my parents. I mean that in a geographical sense not an emotional one, but sometimes one follows the other.

My parents and I have managed to stay quite close emotionally over the years and across many miles of road and sky, but I can’t help but feel a sense of loss when I let my mind wonder about what might have been - If only I lived closer… Interestingly enough, only two of my parents’ ten children still live nearby. The rest, like me, charted courses and made decisions that took us to far-away (and sometimes strange) places.

What made us all seek new horizons? For starters, we all got luggage as a graduation present. It was their way of nudging, or pushing, us out of the nest. The luggage symbolized our independence and encouraged us to seek new horizons. When I returned home after a lengthy stay in South America, my parents treated me differently. I was no longer a child, and although many unspoken expectations remained in place, a sense of freedom and independence was also prevalent. I could never go home again. It was time to make a home of my own, and I had been empowered and encouraged to do so.

I move forward in life not because I am fleeing from my past and all that it represents, but because I am grounded in it and all its good teachings. I don’t seek new horizons because old horizons have grown stale, but because they have motivated me onward in their grace and beauty. My parents taught me that life is a journey, not a destination. My journey has been good, and I don’t wish to hasten down the highway because the scenery wasn’t good behind me, but because it was so good that it made me anticipate the journey ahead with greater desire.

We are a family of strong-willed individuals, who, happily and surprisingly, have managed to stay close across the miles. Maybe you can’t go home again, but you don’t have to be a stranger to your family either. Just yell, “Seat back!” on your way out the door to save your spot.

Does God Set Goals?

2010-01-01T09:56:00.000-08:00

Well it’s that time of year again - time for New Year’s resolutions. You resolve to do or become something during the upcoming year. I like goals. They keep your life focused. They give purpose to otherwise empty days or moments. They give you a sense of accomplishment when you actually reach the goal you set. Goals are good… most of the time.

This past year I set several goals, and I even achieved some of them. I distinctly remember looking at my goals for 2009 after writing them down and realizing they looked similar to my goals for 2008, 2007, and several years in a row. I was setting similar goals every year. They were more like “to-do” lists than goals.

This year, some opportunities came along that I never anticipated or even dreamed about. I didn’t feel so bound by my written resolutions that I couldn’t pursue new opportunities. I marched off in new directions, and I am happier because of it.

As I thought about that experience, it made me wonder, “Does God set goals?” I think He does.

I think He has a purpose for all of His creations and therefore He sets “goals” to help those creations. If He sets the planets in motion and creates galaxies full of life and splendor, then He has purpose and knows what He hopes to accomplish. If a sparrow cannot fall without His knowledge, surely He has a plan for our lives both individually and collectively. If He commands us to be “perfect”, then He will provide a roadmap and a means of measuring the fulfillment of the stated objective. I think God is a goal setter.

Not only do I think God is a goal setter, but I also think He wants us to have worthy goals of our own. He wants us to be happy, and He knows that we cannot be happy by seeking only pleasure or by standing still. We must take the resources we have, and with our talents, skills, and sheer effort create “galaxies” of our own.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping we are becoming.”

I have felt the hand of the God I worship gently and lovingly nudge me as I strive to become, and to achieve, and I am happier because of it.

Homeless Santa

2009-12-22T17:34:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!

Here's another failed attempt to win a short story contest, but I enjoyed the story and think you will also. Comments and criticisms are welcome. Have a very Merry Christmas!

Homeless Santa

“Look Dad! It’s Santa!” said my four-year old daughter Rylee in a hushed tone of surprise and reverence. I looked up from serving soup in the homeless shelter and saw an old man with a bushy white beard holding a soup bowl. Santa was in a homeless shelter!
I smiled and poured him a large scoop of hot soup. “Did anybody ever tell that you look exactly like…”
“…Santa Claus? Yes, because I am Santa Claus,” he said finishing my sentence for me. His face was blank. No jolly laugh. No twinkling eyes. No ho, ho, ho.
I glanced down at my daughter and saw a look of concern come over her face. “Don’t worry. He’s not the real Santa. The real Santa lives at the North Pole and is a jolly old elf,” I said trying to comfort her.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” he replied with a deadpan look as he took his soup and moved on. I continued to serve soup to the others, but couldn’t take my eyes or mind off of the Santa look-alike as he sat and somberly ate his soup. When I finished serving, I sought him out.
“Feel better after the soup?” I asked.
“Like a bowl full of jelly,” he replied evenly without smiling.
“You know, I am sorry that life has been hard to you, but you didn’t have to burst my little girl’s bubble. She still believes in Santa Claus.”
“Well, I am Santa Claus.”
I chuckled. “I know you look like Santa, but…”
“…Santa Claus is just a fictional character to bring magic to Christmas,” he said mockingly. “You see, you don’t even believe in me, and yet you lecture me on not bursting your little girl’s bubble.”
My face flushed with a touch of anger and shame.
“Most people don’t believe anything they can’t see or touch anymore. How can you believe in the miraculous birth of the Son of God when you can’t even believe in Santa Claus even though he’s sitting right in front of you?” he asked earnestly.
“I guess you’ve got a point,” I mumbled as I stood to go. “Merry Christmas,” I said sheepishly as I walked away.
Over the next few days the conversation with the homeless Santa troubled me. What should I do? How could I help? He was right, I didn’t believe in Santa, but I did believe in helping my neighbor. So when my boss asked for Christmas party suggestions, I got an idea!
I told everyone at my office about my encounter with homeless Santa and asked if we could sponsor him. We could take up a collection to buy him new clothes, and a few Christmas presents, and he could come play “Santa” at our company party. Everyone loved the idea!
I spoke with the director of the homeless shelter and made all the arrangements. Everyone contributed generously and the company matched our efforts. We got him new clothes, shoes and a winter coat. We found a small private shelter and paid for three months rent. We bought a month’s worth of food and stocked his shelves. We were all excited about helping him as the day of the Christmas party arrived.
It was a wonderful night! Homeless Santa came dressed for the part with the traditional red suit, black boots, and bag full of toys. He was the life of the party as he gladdened hearts with his rosy cheeks and his hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho!” He had a magical touch with children, and my daughter Rylee beamed as she sat on his lap. By the end of the night, we all believed in Santa Claus.
As the party finished and we gave him our gifts, he cried openly at our generosity. We joined him, but they were tears of joy. Everyone called it the best Christmas party ever!
That Christmas Eve, Rylee and I put out milk and cookies for Santa and waited together by the fire in my big leather chair. Of course, we both fell asleep long before the clock struck midnight, and missed our chance to see Santa. But the next morning the cookies and milk had been replaced with a note –

“Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me.”

Gifts Not to Give Your Spouse

2009-12-10T09:40:00.000-08:00

I had an Air Force buddy that had an interesting arrangement with his wife. At Christmas time he would buy a present for himself and give it to her, and she would buy a present for herself and give it to him. One Christmas she got a shotgun and he got a sewing machine, and they were both very happy. I have always considered that an ingenious technique to keep you out of the gift-giving doghouse.

Since you are all probably reading this blog in between shopping online, or while you take a break from wrapping presents, I know you will appreciate my lists of gifts not to get your spouse.

A new lawnmower (even the riding type)
A new dishwasher (unless it comes with a lifetime commitment to do the dishes)
Any device for removing body hair
Exercise equipment (unless they ask for it more than five times)
P90X DVD’s (unless they ask for them more than ten times)
A book for your wife titled “Confessions of an Organized Housewife”
A book on anger management
A book titled “Become the Husband Your Wife Always Wanted”
Any apparatus used for cleaning up after others
An iron or ironing board (see note about dishwasher)
Any massage paraphernalia that they will be required to use on you
A wig or toupee
Any “regifted” gift that you received from your spouse
Gift certificates from Hooters
A one-way ticket
Any gift with the wrong name on it

Often gifts like these are loaded with subtle (or not so subtle) subliminal messages, and when the receiver of such gifts decodes the message, you may be in for some marital trouble. Feel free to add to the list and help keep us all out of the gift-giving doghouse!

May I Wish You a Merry Christmas?

2009-11-25T08:13:00.000-08:00

I recently wrote a short story for a contest, but then realized that it wasn't what they were looking for. I enjoyed writing the story anyway, so here you go...

May I Wish You a Merry Christmas?

Dan methodically entered the subway car and settled in for the thirty minute ride home almost oblivious to the passengers around him. He loosened his tie and began catching up on a few emails on his mobile device as the train lurched ahead. As he read the email titled “Holiday Observance Policies”, his jaw tightened, his temperature rose, and he felt a strong surge of indignation.

The email contained the usual legalese that cautioned employees to replace phrases like “Merry Christmas” with “Happy Holidays”, or “Christmas Tree” with “Holiday Tree”. He wanted to scream! Who are the idiots that come up with this nonsense? Why do we have to walk on eggshells when it comes to a declared national holiday? It is Christmas, and I should be able to say Merry Christmas to anybody I like! Great, he thought to himself, it’s not even mid November and I’ve already lost the Christmas spirit. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer.

As he raised his head he looked around at the other passengers as if really seeing them for the first time. The diversity of his fellow subway passengers reflected the diverse city it traveled through. He noticed a Jewish man, and a Muslim woman, and even though not all passengers displayed their faith openly, he was sure that various religions were represented in that small subway car as it hurried along the tracks.

The words “Love thy neighbor” echoed in his head melting any remaining anger. Instead of resentment for his “different” neighbors, he felt a desire to reach out to them and teach them about his feelings towards Christmas. Gathering his courage he walked carefully to the front of the moving train.

“Can I have your attention please,” he shouted with a big smile on his face. A few looked up, but most ignored his request and kept their attention on their phones, papers, or books.

“May I wish you all a Merry Christmas?!” He paused momentarily. “I know that it isn’t politically correct to say that, because according to some brain-dead lawyer it might offend someone. But I ask you, are you offended if I wish something good for you? Are you irritated because I hope for a better life for you? Do you feel insulted because I want to express my love for mankind to you by wishing you a Merry Christmas?”

Dan looked at the Jewish man who had put down his book and listened. “You sir, are you offended if I wish you a Merry Christmas?” The Jewish man shrugged and replied, “According to history, Jesus Christ was a Jew. I don’t believe he was the Son of God, but I certainly don’t take offense that you honor one of my ancestors. Happy Hanukah by the way,” he said politely. Dan smiled and nodded a thank you.

Turning to the Muslim woman Dan asked, “Do you take offense if I wish you a Merry Christmas?” The woman looked cautiously around at the group who at this point were listening intently. “Christmas is not a Muslim tradition, but the prophet Muhammad fasted along with the Jews on the Day of Ashura, so why can’t I celebrate a holiday that promotes peace on earth and good will to men?”

“How about anybody else? Whatever you believe or don’t believe, do you take offense when I wish you a Merry Christmas?” asked Dan loudly yet cheerfully.

“In Hindu we celebrate the birth of Lord Rama, so I view Christmas as a similar celebration,” said an Indian man in a business suit.

“Merry Christmas and Happy Kwanzaa man!” shouted one of the black teenagers in the back of the car with a big grin on his face. “It’s all cool!”

A businessman near the door put down his paper and said laughingly, “I don’t believe in God, but I get lots of gifts and treats from my Christian friends during Christmas time. What’s bad about that?”

Dan smiled as everyone laughed and several conversations began among people that before were strangers making their daily commute home. He went around the train and wished each individual a heartfelt Merry Christmas. As he sat down he felt the Christmas Spirit more than ever because he had followed what Jesus had taught – he had loved his neighbor, in spite of their differences.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Thank a Veteran

2009-11-09T14:20:00.000-08:00

While I was in the military I didn't appreciate Veteran's Day like I do now. While still on active duty it often meant a parade detail or some sort of official function while everyone else was enjoying a day off. I guess I became a little jaded. Perhaps I felt that way because I viewed my own sacrifices as light or nonexistent when compared to those who lost life or limb. I didn't, and still don't, feel worthy of the praise that we rightly shower down on those who sacrificed so much on our behalf.

As a nation we should be very slow to go to war. We should seek every possible avenue to avoid the bloodshed and carnage that inevitably is part of armed conflict. We should endeavor to persuade our potential enemies by all the means available to us, and even be willing to accept a few political "black eyes" to avoid the bloodshed.

However, when and if we do decide to wage war, we must wage it to win!

I have never been a big believer in "limited warfare". The concept seems irrational to me. If the cause is worth waging war over, then let us wage it in all earnestness and with the full weight of our conviction behind it. Once we cross the line from heated verbal exchanges to armed conflict, we should release the "dogs of war" until victory is achieved. Too often "limited warfare" leads to a "limited victory". Too often a limited response cheapens the lives of those who have volunteered to sacrifice on our behalf.

John Stuart Mill said,

“War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things: the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks nothing worth a war, is worse. When a people are used as mere human instruments for firing cannon or thrusting bayonets, in the service and for the selfish purposes of a master, such war degrades a people. A war to protect other human beings against tyrannical injustice – a war to give victory to their own ideas of right and good, and which is their own war, carried on for an honest purpose by their free choice – is often the means of their regeneration. A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. As long as justice and injustice have not terminated their ever-renewing fight for ascendancy in the affairs of mankind, human beings must be willing, when need is, to do battle for the one against the other.”
John Stuart Mill (1806-1873), “The Contest in America.” Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 24, Issue 143, page 683-684. Harper & Bros., New York, April 1862.

Right now a soldier is putting their life in harm's way for you and for me. They do it for Democrats, Republicans, and Independants. They do it for hippies, yuppies, and generation X. They do it for Wall Street and Main Street. They do it for the common working man, and the tycoon. They even do it for those who protest against them. But best of all, they do it voluntarily.

This Veteran's Day, let us give thanks to those who have sacrificed and continue to sacrifice on our behalf. May we be worthy of the gifts they purchased us with their blood.

One Hundred Years

2009-10-30T07:47:00.000-07:00

My daughter had an interesting homework assignment last night. She had to write a paragraph about what the world would be like one hundred years from now. A lot can change in a one hundred years.

The last one hundred years certainly brought a lot of changes. The automobile replaced the horse and buggy. The cellular phone replaced the telegraph. The high definition television replaced the radio. Email replaced the letter. Air travel replaced the train and the cruise ship.

Several deadly diseases no longer pose a threat. Vision can be corrected with a surgical procedure. The mysteries of the genetic code are being solved. The average life expectancy has increased by over twenty years.

Yes, a lot could change in one hundred years, yet a lot will remain the same.

I predict that in one hundred years, peace on earth will still be just as allusive as it is today. Because the lust for power, white-hot anger, and man’s inability to forgive a neighbor will still be with us. War will still be with us.

A hundred years from now diet, exercise, and taking care of yourself will still be the best way to live a long and healthy life. Because the temptation to overeat, drink alcohol, or ingest various other harmful substances will still be with us. Health problems brought on by personal choices will still be with us.

A hundred years from now crime will still plague society. Because lying, thievery, and murder will still spring from the hearts of humankind. Criminals and police will still be with us.

A hundred years from now the family will still be the most important part of society. Because the basic desire to love and be loved is an innate part of what it means to be human, men and women will find a way to build a loving relationship and produce offspring.

A hundred years from now truth will still be true. Truth will not change with changing times. The advice to forgive others their trespasses, love thy neighbor as thyself, and do unto others as you would have them do unto you, will all be true in one hundred years, one thousand years, one million years, and for eternities.

A lot can change in one hundred years, but the basics of human nature and the truths that govern our interactions with one another haven’t changed in eons.

Of Mice and Moms

2009-10-21T23:11:00.000-07:00

This week I reread the classic John Steinbeck story, Of Mice and Men. After reading it, I realized that a story I recently wrote had a lot of similarities, but then again we all experience similar things in life as time goes by. We all age. We all deal with sickness and imperfection. We all deal with the questions of life and death.

I had to deal with the question of life and death this week as well.

No, it wasn’t while I was flying. No, I didn’t stop an attacker at gunpoint. No, my dog did not need to be put down. I had to kill a mouse.

It seems that some mice thought our house was nice, and decided to take up residence in the wall behind the refrigerator and help themselves to food scraps in the nearby pantry. My seventeen-year old son, Cody, met them face to face last night around midnight when teenage hunger pains led him to the pantry as the mice were feasting on our food. To his credit he didn’t scream like a girl and wake us up.

So this morning I begin the process of cleaning out the pantry and looking for mice. At first all I found were mouse droppings, but as I pulled the last large can away from the wall a tiny mouse began running back and forth in the back of the pantry! I was startled at first (I didn’t scream like a girl either), and then I called on my two trusty Shitzu attack dogs to come and rid our domain of this disease-ridden rodent.

Kai and Kneesa came running, but instead of attacking, they watched the mouse with great interest as he ran behind the fridge. They seemed to be saying, “Wow! Would you look at that mouse! Man he sure is a fast little guy. I wonder if he would like to play with us? Hey little buddy, where are you going? Come back and play!”

Don’t ever buy Shitzu attack dogs.

After cleaning and disinfecting the pantry, I purchased some glue traps and put them in just the right spots to catch the invading vermin. Later this evening as I came in from Carson’s baseball game, Kati informed me that one of the traps had already nabbed a little furry felon.

Now the drama of life and death began.

My wife Britt hates the thought of killing anything, even little furry rodents. After she made me promise that I would not let the mouse suffer, she went upstairs in tears.

I carried the trap with the offending creature outside not letting my daughter follow me. I guess my wife’s tears gave me a twinge of guilt and I didn’t want anyone relishing in the death of one of God’s creatures. As I prepared to end his pitiful little life quickly, I could see the fear in his eyes and see the panic in his demeanor. As his little brown eyes looked up at me I remembered the Steinbeck story and the necessity of death and its inevitable outcome. We carry the powers of life and death within us everyday, but seldom do we exercise those powers. We certainly should never exercise them indiscriminately or without compassion. Life is a gift. Death is sometimes merciful.

I kept my promise. The mouse did not suffer... but he also did not live.

A Gemstone Called Friendship

2009-10-08T19:19:00.000-07:00

Amy Grant sings a Christmas song that puts “Every man would have friend”, on her grown up Christmas list. I must admit that a multitude of the world’s problems would be solved if that Christmas wish were granted. Friendship is a gem that is hard to find, difficult to mine, and must be painstakingly cut and polished over time to reveal the beauty within.

I am blessed with many friends. They make my life richer, my sorrows lighter, and my joys more pronounced. The lighthearted laughter, the kind words of encouragement, the unfettered sympathy offered by friends gives life a smooth and easy texture.

My “gypsy” lifestyle makes it difficult sometimes for me to keep up with friends and the important happenings in their lives. I find myself skimming across the surface of relationships because I am often in some distant hotel room when I have a friend in need. Like a skipping stone I cover a great deal of distance, but only lightly touch the surface. But unlike a skipping stone, a successful friendship is not measured by the number of times it can skip across the surface, but by the depth of the impact. A good friend is more like a big rock that drops deep into the pool of our life and sends happy ripples cascading across our soul.

I watched my Mom and Dad develop deep friendships over the years. It happened slowly. The friendship gemstone was cut and polished slowly by the joys and tragedies of their lives. They took time to carefully strike the stone at just the right time and at just the right angle. They lovingly polished rough spots to make them sparkle and shine. What started as a rough stone of acquaintance became a shimmering treasure of friendship that continues to brighten many lives.

Find a friend. Be a friend. Let us work together as friends to cut and polish the common treasure so that we can reveal the beauty of a deep and lasting friendship.

Parenthood - Burden or Bonus?

2009-09-25T08:10:00.000-07:00

Today is my oldest son’s twentieth birthday. I guess you are waiting for the comments where I sound like the “old guy” – “I remember the day he was born just like it was yesterday…” Well, I do remember it like it was yesterday, but that is not the point. Remembering isn’t the key. Reliving doesn’t make it special. Relishing in the relationship is what gives the memory and the hope of future memories deeper meaning.

It is hard to be a parent. Anybody who is a parent will tell you that. Since it is human nature to complain, when parents talk to other parents, it sometimes sounds like parenthood is made up only of selfless drudgery, never-ending control battles, and tolerating countless displays of ingratitude. Like most, I have been guilty of focusing on the negative aspects of being a parent and treating it more like a burden than a bonus.

David O. McKay said, “No other success can compensate for failure in the home.” Truer words were never spoken, yet the weight of the task doesn’t have to make it drudgery or burdensome. No greater happiness can be found in any other endeavor than the noble calling of parenthood. Healthy family relationships are a wellspring of happiness and fulfillment available to both prince and pauper, but only if we treat them as such.

Sometimes my kids tell me I’m a mean Dad, and sometimes they’re right. I focus too much on trying to “teach” and “correct” and not enough time trying to “touch” and “connect”. The burden of the parental responsibility and my fear of failure keep me from enjoying the relationship and drinking deeply from the wellspring of happiness found in the family. I try too hard because failure at home is the worst failure of all.

So to all the parents out there, next time you find yourself feeling the burden of parenthood weigh you down and you find yourself in a gripe session - consider the alternative. Stop. Instead, talk about the joys and the simple pleasures that are found only in the family. Talk about the funny things your children say and do. Share the times when they have lifted you up and taught you. Explain how you have felt as you quietly sneaked into their room and watched them sleep.

I have six wonderful children. They bring me immeasurable joy and happiness. I always look forward to seeing them after work – even when I come home from a trip and complain because the pool is green and nobody noticed. They make my life better, and I don’t tell them that often enough.

Happy Birthday Rian! I am sure you and your siblings will bring me joy for many birthdays to come.

Coming of Age

2009-09-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

Recently several young men in my neighborhood have returned home after serving as LDS missionaries for two years in various parts of the world. The change in their stature, demeanor, and composure was remarkable. They left as boys becoming young men, and returned as men.

John Steinbeck said, “A boy becomes a man when a man is needed.” These “boys” left the comfort of their homes and willfully volunteered to serve others – strangers in a strange land. They did it in an environment filled with structure yet very little oversight or supervision. The task required manhood and they grew to meet the requirement.

My oldest son is currently serving in the Philippines and I can tell through his emails that the tasks he faces daily require more than a boyish commitment. He, like the other boys, is meeting the requirements of the task at hand and will return a man.

This “coming of age” scenario takes place everyday in various different ways and by diverse means. Everyday girls and boys accept the challenges of adulthood willingly or as they are thrust upon them by circumstance. They become women and men because life requires it. Shielding them from life’s requirements only delays and hinders their journey into adulthood.

What do those of us who have accepted and fulfilled life’s adulthood requirement do to continue to “come of age”? Are we developing new talents or skills? Are we finding ways to give back to our families, communities, and country?

Once I visited a dying neighbor in a nursing home. She was sleeping when we arrived, but the woman in the bed next to her was knitting and welcomed us into the room. My wife asked if she had been knitting long, and she replied that it was something she had recently taken up. “I can still use my hands and I can still do something!” she said with a smile. She was still “coming of age”.

I think life is meant to be lived, and I hope I am always “coming of age”.

Sacrifice and Socialism

2009-09-04T22:15:00.000-07:00

This past week I met a very interesting limo driver in Pittsburgh. He had been a navy corpsman for several years and had worked with several injured veterans in his day. He felt frustrated that the current political focus was on the health-care crisis.

“Our real crisis is that we’re fighting a two front war, and nobody seems to notice!” he said.
Jim felt that our society has placed more value on celebrity, and less on value on sacrifice. I couldn’t agree more.

We must place more value on the individuals that are sacrificing on our behalf, or we will become a cynical and self-serving society. We may also find that fewer and fewer are willing to make those sacrifices. What will we do then? What freedoms, pleasures, and indulgences will we give up? The answer is simple – all of them. But we won’t give them up. They will simply be taken from us by those who are willing to sacrifice for their cause.

That begs the question – what causes are you willing to sacrifice or die for?

As he grabbed my luggage out of the trunk and I said goodnight, he had a pained and puzzled look on his face. He felt that there was little he could do to turn the tide. I couldn’t disagree more.

My seventeen year old son and I were having lunch together this week and talking about his Eagle Scout project. The conversation turned to ‘his generation’ and what it values. I told him that I might be an “old guy”, but I knew I could hold my own against his generation because they lack backbone (or initiative). Surprisingly, he agreed.

His generation has grown up “satisfied” (also read complacent) with life. Everybody got trophies. Everybody was a winner. Heaven forbid that anybody struggled with something and learned from the struggle. How can kids learn their strengths and weaknesses unless they are revealed in the struggle of life? How do you discover what causes you are willing to sacrifice for or die for unless there is a struggle?

So, friends, parents, and countrymen, lend me your ears. We can turn the tide if we allow the struggle of life to teach us and our children. Failure reveals character and talent.

That is the failure of socialism – it removes its members from the struggle and protects them from failure. It numbs its members to the pain of failure and the subsequent revelation of character and talent.

Soldiers will sacrifice themselves for the good of their unit. They will sacrifice themselves for their homeland. They will sacrifice themselves for freedom and liberty.

Would you sacrifice your life to establish or uphold a socialistic state?

Not me.

May we honor those who have honored us by giving their all.

To Blog or not to Blog - That is the Question

2009-08-29T23:09:00.000-07:00

When did it become necessary for us to share our emotional baggage, pigheaded opinions, and mundane experiences with the entire digital world to be considered “connected”? I know that many of you who have been blogging for years took offense to that sentence, but it is the question I have been asking unanswered since blogs began.

I keep a haphazard type of journal to record my experiences and the attached personal emotions that I connect to them, but I don’t really want anybody reading them until I am good and dead. You see I think that when we begin to share our “personal” feelings online, we sometimes are careful with our words and subconsciously hold back because we know that people won’t wait until we are dead before reading them. Hence the question – Do people really express their deep personal thoughts on blogs? Probably not, because if we really unloaded our emotions of the moment like we would in a journal we would inevitably be judged by that moment without the long view of our life’s history. Let me explain.

My wife and I recently celebrated our 21st wedding anniversary. I can honestly say that I love her more today than the day we got married (You are the best dear XOXOXO!) However, I could read you excerpts of my journal that would contradict my previous statement. In fact I once wrote a pointed (mean-spirited) letter to my wife while I was angry and depressed. When I calmed down and we discussed it (I apologized : )), she handed me back the letter and said I could reuse it since I seemed to get angry about the same things all the time (Ouch! But how true!) You see, she had the long view and did not judge me by the moment of temporary insanity (That’s why I love her!). I had the good sense to laugh and also recognize that the emotion of the moment did not carry the day.

Sometimes we need to have a constructive outlet for emotions that we know will not be judged by others until we have gone all the way of the earth. In my opinion that outlet is not a blog.

Blogs should be a place where we can tell our story, or at least our version of it. We should share those feelings that others can relate to and learn from, but without unloading our darkest emotional secrets. We should try to give people a window into our soul, and hope that others will feel more connected to us because we have done so.

That is what I will try to do with this blog.

Oh BTW, I still have the letter, but I haven’t had to use it since!