tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76980810997239532672024-03-18T23:00:35.887-04:00Looking aheadAndehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.comBlogger165125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-9860278863090612972015-10-09T12:02:00.000-04:002015-10-09T12:02:11.499-04:00A Crisis<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The police officers just left.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> They actually came to my home much
quicker than I would have imagined, but they didn’t stay very long. I guess
there is really not much they can do for me and honestly having a Fed-X package
stolen out of your garage is not what one would deem a heinous crime. But maybe
we could have speculated with them for a short time about the people who were
out to do me (personally) wrong, or perhaps the details of a recent rash of
delivery thefts, or maybe even the pros and cons of DNA evidence?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course I don’t mean to make light
of the police force.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
I really just called them because I wanted the theft of my package documented;
I wanted to be sure this didn’t happen to my neighbors. The two officers were
very nice, and honestly, what could I expect them to do? No more than they
actually did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I tell this story to myself quite often
these days.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I do so
to remind myself how to treat others. An emergency, a crisis, or even something
as monumental as a home purchase, has to basic sides-the side in need and the
side providing assistance. I’ve often wondered how emergency responders manage
to face another day, but then I answer my own question as I watch a man climb
inside a septic tank with a hose and a broom. Practice makes perfect-we can get
used to most anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But along the way we have to remember
that the side in need is often having one of the worst days of their lives.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> A litter of kittens left on your
doorstep; a low appraisal on the home that finally has a buyer; a crisis for
one, just another day for another. My reaction (often more than my action) will
set the mood and dictate the outcome. I will remind myself of this every day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-29674226724364187472015-05-02T11:21:00.004-04:002015-05-02T11:21:43.694-04:00Holding My Head Up<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The door opens for a third time, and
the young man walks back inside.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I knew that he was having trouble leaving, saying his
goodbyes, but this time he wears dark glasses. Without a word, he moves toward
the dog and kneels in front of him. I can see his mouth moving, but I don’t
hear a sound. The dark glasses do little to mask the emotion in the room and I
turn my back to both of them and take a few steps away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I hear the sound of the door opening
and closing again, and I close my eyes. I realize that I’m holding my breath as
I listen for the sound of the young man’s truck leaving the parking lot</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. I hear the engine roar to life and
it’s clear that the young man wastes little time fleeing the shelter. He’s
gone, but it’s not over. One of us still has to take the dog to Animal Control.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This sounds like the long goodbye of
lovers in an airport or the soldier headed overseas, but it is not.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This is a scene that unfolds daily
in the world of animal rescue. The young man saying goodbye is not even the
owner of the oblivious young dog sitting in the lobby of the shelter. The young
man is a college student who spends a great deal of his free time with the dogs
that we actually have room to take in at the shelter. This was the first time
he witnessed what happens when the shelter is full.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I would love to tell you the story of
a sad goodbye between this little dog and his soon to be estranged owner; I
cannot.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This little
dog was abandoned by his owner across the street from the shelter. Two students
found him standing in the middle of our busy street minutes after his owner was
told there was no room for him at our facility. This owner was not looking for help;
he was simply turning his problem over to someone else. There is a difference.
This man will sleep well tonight; I will not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Luckily this is not something that
happens to me every day. If it did, I’m not sure I could hold my head up; I’m
not sure anybody could.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> But what about the young man I mentioned earlier? Will he continue to
come to the shelter? It’s possible that he will become very busy elsewhere.
Maybe he just won’t have the free time he had last semester when his course
load was lighter. Perhaps he will volunteer somewhere that offers experience in
his field of study. He may go somewhere else where it’s easier to hold his head
up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-80877014839996479172015-04-21T09:10:00.000-04:002015-04-21T09:10:06.968-04:00Understanding<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the “<i>self-help</i>” world we live in today, it can be confusing to know who
we are and what we really want.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Book stores are flooded with written advice on how to
accomplish the most obscure tasks, and even my daily internet news feeds post success stories about things that I honestly have trouble qualifying as
positive…much less successful. I understand that most of this is simply advice,
but it often leaves me feeling like I’m the only person out there who is not
obsessed with losing weight or erectile dysfunction! I want to re-grow hair,
and now I can do so like a “<i>pro</i>”!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But as complicated as this all
sounds, I truly believe that we are all searching for one basic thing.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We seek to be understood. This quest
is further complicated by the notion that we are all more complicated beings
than our predecessors. Really? Of course; I’m the new Andrew 2.0! Throw in the
fact that with one click I can find thousands that seem to agree with me and I’m
now really on to something. I should write a book!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course there is good advice out
there</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. We are, if
anything, a more open society and few topics remain taboo. But have we traded
our skills to convince and persuade others with simply lining up a posse of
internet followers? This hit me hard a few months back when I ended up in (what
could have been) a huge argument with my eighteen year-old daughter. It started
innocently with her response to my commentary following a story on the morning
news. Maybe I didn’t realize that I was looking for a “<i>hell yeah!”,</i> but when I didn’t get one, I got mad. How could she be
so stupid?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Luckily this argument began when we
were both rushed for time</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. We stepped away from the altercation with our typical “<i>have a good day</i>” and “<i>be careful on</i> <i>the road”,</i> but I feel sure that the disagreement still bothered us
both. Okay, I’m sure that it still bothered me. But the longer I thought about
this, the less sure I became of my resolve. I was still as sure of my views on
the news story as I was a few minutes before, but my thoughts on her
understanding changed completely. I realized that I had placed the burden of her
understanding me on the wrong person. This was not her responsibility, it was mine.
If you want to be understood, the ball is in your court.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-31366483634999527052015-04-09T12:54:00.005-04:002015-04-09T12:54:40.904-04:00Hope<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sometimes I wonder why I am compelled
to spend so much of my free time at the shelter.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Okay, I never really wonder about
this; maybe I should have said that I wonder where all of my free time goes.
But I do understand that look people give me when I’m standing in front of
Petsense on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, holding a leashed dog, attempting
to strike up a conversation with anyone who will make eye contact! I’m selling
something-soap, salvation, home security systems; I am a salesman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“If you will simply
grasp the end of this rope, you will understand!”</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Not really; there’s none of that.
But as the days run together I often forget from exactly where my motivation
originates. Giving up rarely crosses my mind, but a little nudge is always
welcome. Let me describe the nudge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s almost dark and it has begun to
rain.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I would love
to walk outside and stand in the deluge, but I know that by doing so it will
make the smell of my clothes even more unbearable than it is now. Sweat, dog
urine, roach droppings…filth. I no longer noticed the smell of the house, or
the group of dogs we had just removed from the house, because I was a part of
it now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The 17 dogs we brought in were terrified.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> They were huddled in the corners of
their cages as we described to each other (and anyone who would listen) the
conditions they were removed from just minutes earlier. I think we were all
still in shock, and maybe a little sore, from crawling through the filth just
to be sure no one was left behind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I hadn’t really planned on going in
to much graphic detail about the living conditions that these dogs were just
removed from, and I think I will stop here.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <b>We had
reached a point where ran out of things to say to one another in the crowded
little isolation room and the air grew quiet.</b> Quiet, but for a thumping
sound in one of the cages behind me; the echo created by a dog’s tail hitting
the floor of a metal cage; the sound of a wagging tail. When I turned in the
direction of the noise, the thumping stopped. The room was once again quiet,
but the little brown dog that had made the noise was smiling; the tactic had
worked; she got a bite. I walked over to her cage and opened the door. I
removed her and held her to my chest. I could feel her tiny heart thumping in
her chest as she tentatively licked my hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve told this story to several
people and their response is usually that this little dog we now call Princess
was thanking me.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I’m
sure she was thankful, but that is not what I felt…and this is not what keeps
bringing me back to the shelter. This little creature, this tiny little spirit,
having minutes before been living in some of the worst conditions I’ve
experienced, had her head held high and was looking to make a connection. She
was moving on; she had hope. She gives me hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-89863531949842105002015-03-26T12:10:00.000-04:002015-03-26T12:10:06.603-04:00A Season Away<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After a great week of early morning
dog walks, winter chose today to remind me that he wasn’t going to leave
quietly</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. It was
cold! Having to get up and on the road an hour earlier probably didn’t help
either, but at least one of my dogs will never accept the notion that something
as common as weather could cancel her scheduled expedition. Makes sense to me
and it also makes me wonder how many people are killed every year sitting on
the toilet when the tornado strikes! “<i>Didn’t
hear a thing</i>” the survivor says as the television camera surveys his
demolished home, <i>“you know that fan is
really loud, but it saved my life this time”.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ll stop here with the endless
string of bathroom humor that flows through my head daily and talk about what I
had planned.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Spring is
on the way! My neighbor’s Bradford Pear trees are the perfect yardstick to
measure the season’s progression and they are the topic of our conversation each
morning as the dogs lead us down the street. One would think that after fifty
one years of watching the changing seasons the fascination would have faded,
but for me it has not. A few cold January mornings may have tested my resolve,
but deep down I knew it was just a matter of time before warm weather arrived,
and so far, it always has.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Spring is not my true season, no, I
prefer summer.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The
hotter the better! Trust me when I say that I’m not trying to convert you, I
understand that we all have our preferred weather conditions, mine just happens
to include sweat and biting insects. We all have our seasons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m told that the earth spins and
tilts on a predictable basis.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Sometimes we are close to the fire and sometimes we are
further away; we face the light during the day and we turn our back on it at
night. We go through the motions with the understanding that, like it or not,
the current conditions will change. If you happen to be in your season, enjoy!
If you are simply enduring your present conditions, understand that change is
just a season away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-16311850929532052242014-05-23T12:47:00.000-04:002014-05-23T12:47:09.332-04:00The DMV<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A few years ago I discovered that
putting my thoughts in print made me feel really good</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. I admit that I enjoyed sharing them
with others (and fielding comments), but the purge effect I felt after doing so
was amazing! Unfortunately, I also discovered that if I don’t write them down
during the first few hours of the morning, my thoughts become so commingled with
the day’s events that they really don’t come out as intended. Hopefully the
summer will allow me a few mornings to clear my head. I can start today!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hardly a day goes by that I don’t pat
myself on the back for choosing to live in a small town.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I guess the true award goes to my
parents, but I <i>have</i> been free to
leave this “<i>mean little Mayberry</i>” for
more years that I would like to own up to this morning. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t complain about
things like Friday’s traffic or a fifteen minute wait in the grocery store
line, but deep down I know it could be worse. This town is just large enough to
grant a small taste of anonymity, but it’s not too hard to make a connection
when I really need to. If you ask the right questions, everybody is always
somebody’s cousin that your brother’s ex-wife used to work with before Walmart
moved to its third location. We’re practically related!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Learning to use these connections has
been fun for me, but I recognize the all-to-familiar “<i>why don’t you just shut up and pay the cashier</i>” look my daughter
gives me when I talk to everyone in the checkout line at Kroger</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. I can only imagine how nervous she
was when the duty of taking her to the DMV for her driver’s license fell on the
shoulders of her long-winded father! Had she not been as nervous as she was, I’m
sure I would have been officially asked to “<i>be
quiet…just this once”.</i> Fat chance!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I feel sure that everyone reading
this has been to the DMV (now the DDS).</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Even in this little town, the wait can be long and the
employees are…serious? A tough crowd, even for Milledgeville! But anyone who
truly knows me can guess how it ended. Credit Taylor with knowing how to drive
well enough to get her license, but before we could get out of the building,
she got a hug and congratulations from the instructor, a written diagram of
what she needed to work on, complimentary key chain, and a visit from the clerk
that took our initial information! Okay, this clerk came back mainly to pick on
me, but the experience was one that we both will not forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It seems as though I have made this
all about me, and while that is one of my favorite topics, that was not my true
intention.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I learned
a long time ago that I come with a long list of faults and a longer list of limitations.
But luckily I also learned that while I can’t be everything, I can at least be friendly
and nice. The treatment we received that day made a difference in our lives,
and I like to think that the treatment we gave them made a difference in theirs!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-31618542126709755752014-03-24T21:48:00.000-04:002014-03-24T21:48:04.424-04:00An Accident Waiting To Happen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eVjb97xesjYxgQRnHUwpg7jep7wGFjZAllMemBdThYPvWlm3SondYPb-JDWiiVi3kaIs-aNBSp62b-J71acLZadz3HAtO2dnAqbRoYa36nqzEZ141EESjaNj3WntniWpk0PRUcINGeJQ/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eVjb97xesjYxgQRnHUwpg7jep7wGFjZAllMemBdThYPvWlm3SondYPb-JDWiiVi3kaIs-aNBSp62b-J71acLZadz3HAtO2dnAqbRoYa36nqzEZ141EESjaNj3WntniWpk0PRUcINGeJQ/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve always considered turkey hunting
a fairly safe sport.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
I understand that safe is a relative term, but at least the woods are not
filled with fellow hunters carrying rifles that could accidentally kill you
from a distance greater than the shooter could actually see you! For the
uninitiated, turkeys are hunted with a shotgun; a close range weapon. But for
some unknown reason, I can often find a way to hurt myself in the safest of
ventures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">March is a great time to be in the
woods.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The sub-zero
weather has graciously passed, and usually (early on at least), there are no
ticks or mosquitos. To hunt turkey, you venture deep into the woods in the
pitch-black dark, find a likely place to stop, and listen to the woods
creatures as they wake up. Of course you mainly listen for the sounds of one creature
in particular, but it’s always exciting listening to them all. Most of the
successful hunters I know already know where the turkeys are roosting, but I
usually just go when I have time. I hope to either stumble on one, or get lucky
and call one up! This is a trial and error sport, but I have been fortunate
enough to actually fool one a time or two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On this particular morning, after
calling, changing locations (and repeating this process several times) I
decided to call it a day.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> There were either no birds in my zip code or my rookie calling attempts
had them belly laughing as they headed for the hills; either way I was headed back
to my truck turkeyless. About halfway
back I came upon an open area with a big gobbler, standing squarely in the
center, doing his thing! He was fanning out his tail and his ugly head was
blood red, but before I could kneel down and try to make myself invisible…he
saw me. Okay, he kind of saw me. Had he fully recognized me for the armed
intruder that I truly was, the story would likely end here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My heart raced as he halted is garish
sexual behavior and stretched his neck for a better view</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. Not really sure what to do next, I
pulled out my call and started making girlfriend noises. This seemed to put him
somewhat at ease and he would dance for a few minutes before assuming the “you
know I can fly” posture. We played this game for what seemed like forever, and
I think he finally decided that any woman that could resist the display he was
putting on was probably not worth having anyway. Time to run!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Luckily when he decided to run I was
prepared to shoot</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.
He was a little bit farther away than I would normally feel comfortable taking
a shot, but my quick reaction put him on the ground! Remember I said put him on
the ground…I didn’t say kept him on the ground! Before I could put my hands on
him, he jumped up and headed for the next county. He was moving pretty good for
a wounded bird, but I feel sure that it had something to do with the
overdressed, fat little old guy chasing him! Hunting adrenaline is a special kind
of drug, and with a borderline overdose flowing through my system, I caught
him! Okay…caught up with him. As I reached down to grab him, he decided to
fight back. This big guy rolled over on his back and did his best to bury the 1”
spurs in my hands or face!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before I go any further with this
story I should probably tell you that this hunting story, while absolutely true,
happened several years ago and has nothing to do with the picture of me with
the bandage on my face.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Actually, I went to the Dermatologist early Monday morning and had a skin
cancer removed. I come by this affliction honestly and that is why I posted the
picture of my face with the “old man” band aid plastered in the typical spot. The
hunting story sounds better, and I doubt many would have enjoyed a story about
my trip to the Dermatologist! But just so you know, I came away that particular
day unharmed and carrying a big Tom Turkey! What were you thinking happened?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-81242309456868945902014-03-21T10:53:00.001-04:002014-03-21T10:53:07.169-04:00The OSHA Instructor<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve been back in real estate now for
a couple of years.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I
guess somewhere deep down I knew that I would end up back here, and to at least
to some extent, I never left. I didn’t actively list property and take out
buyers, but I tried to keep up with values and with market activity. When I
think of it this way…I never left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The years I spent working with the
University Of Georgia were unlike any other I’ve experienced.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I basically had two jobs; work and
class. Toward the end I had an office in Milledgeville and Athens, but I spent just
as much time studying (both in class and online) as I did working. And I liked
it! I felt like I was moving in a positive direction and I was always thinking.
I’m not so sure that in today’s world this training is something that I will
base my career upon, but I use snippets of what I learned every day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It may come as a surprise to some
that one of the certifications I earned was through OSHA (The Occupational Safety
and Health Administration).</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> To some…the bad guys! I’m actually an authorized instructor and I can
issue ten and thirty hour safety certifications! I know you’re probably
wondering what a real estate agent does as an OSHA instructor, and quite
frankly I’ve wondered the same thing for quite some time. I have never taught
the classes (and probably never will), but this morning as I made my morning
stop at Animal Rescue I had my chance!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before your mind drifts off in to
frayed electrical cords and unsafe ladders, I’ll explain.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> One of our best employees cornered
me and asked for help. With a safety violation you ask? Well no, this was (in
my mind) much worse. This worker told me that when they were first hired, every
day was filled with mystery and <b>training</b>.
She had gone from feeling the euphoria of learning new things to the drudgery of
every day work! That was when one sentence I learned in the OSHA class popped
in my head. <i>“Watch one, do one, teach one”.</i>
The surgeon’s axiom! It is our duty as her employer to train her, and it is her
duty as a manager to train others. Keep it alive! Sharing of knowledge is, if
not the circle of life, the spice of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We all have much to share.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> If your friends see you as a “<i>know-it-all</i>”, the only problem is your
delivery…or possibly your audience. When you feel as though you have hit the ceiling
of you job, your hobby or even your personal life, I think you would be
surprised how renewed you will feel by simply sharing with others what you
know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-9779648035945164692014-03-05T09:54:00.000-05:002014-03-05T09:54:08.811-05:00A Young Man<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Eleven years ago my little brother
died suddenly.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I’ve
talked about this publicly for years, and I feel sure that even those who don’t
know me very well probably at least know this much about me. About me. I
understand that this seems strange to say that <i>his</i> death is something you would know about me, but he’s been gone
for years and I’m still here. It’s now something to know about me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I admit it felt weird when well-wishers
said how terrible it was that he died so young.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> He was thirty eight and I was forty;
that’s not young. I have many friends that were grandparents at forty! But as I
sit here writing this…eleven years later…I understand that we were both very
young. I still am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m too young to have seen my
daughter graduate from high school.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I’m too young to have had grandchildren. I haven’t had the
time to do everything I want to do. I am thankful for all I have already done
and seen, but I can only wonder how young I will realize I was eleven years
from today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I always felt that my brother was
fortunate to have died suddenly.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> No extended illness; no months or years of suffering, but really
don’t we all die suddenly? No matter how long it drags out, we are here one
minute and gone the next. That sounds pretty instantaneous to me! I’m left to
wonder if maybe a ‘slower’ death just gives us time to go over a few things. I
don’t really believe that all bases would have been covered, but I can think of
a few that I wish I had at least attempted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So today I will understand that I am
a young man.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Technically I will be older when you read this as I was when I wrote it, but I
will still be young man. There is still much to do, and if I haven’t told you
lately that I love you, I’m doing so now. I know that I forget to say it
sometimes, but I choose to write this off…I am young and inexperienced! I will
try harder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-49631093565984562892013-08-13T09:41:00.000-04:002013-08-13T09:41:41.239-04:00Routine Maintenence<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have always taken pride in my
ability to enjoy things that are not typically male.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I love to cook, iron and I’m a
laundry genius until some someone mixes up my cleaning agents! Okay, I don’t
read labels any better than I read directions. I love female authors, and while
I don’t exactly read romance novels, often my favorite books are pretty close
to exactly that. I don’t necessarily enjoy putting the hammer down (in the
middle of adding a room on my house) to cook supper, but I’ve done it many
times. I don’t consider myself exceptional; I just have a problem with gender
assigned roles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I understand that this is not always
a good thing, and I feel sure that my wife and daughter would agree.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I have worked them both like hired
help during construction projects and we have all gone to bed mad more than
once suffering from the backlash caused by my “<i>unrealistic”</i> expectations. I won’t say that I’m proud of this, but
if I’m going to be your mother at dinner time, you can be my man while the work
is going on!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But there is one instance where I
know that I am all male.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Please remember that this is a G-rated post as your mind begins to
wander. Welcome back. The time that it is most obvious that I am all male is
anytime a doctor is involved. My man’s version of needing a doctor involves
wrapping a severed body part in a wet towel for safe and healthy re-attachment.
Anything less is like taking a perfectly good car to a mechanic, leaving a
blank check, and asking him to find something to fix! Not really, but when I
went this week to be checked for a suspicious spot on my face and the doctor
told me to take of my shirt…let’s just say I wasn’t surprised. “<i>We’ll find something to remove!”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Understand that I mean everything I’ve
previously said about doctors as a joke</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. I want to be better at this and luckily I am about to have
my wish. Anything that sits in the sun for fifty years has (if not an
expiration date) a definite need of maintenance. I will do better. I love my
family and I plan to live long enough to thoroughly annoy my daughter. Luckily
the doctor made an appointment for me to come back in six months to be checked
again. We’ll call this something that every real man understands; routine maintenance!
Take the whole family and we’ll call it fleet maintenance! Ahh oomp! But I
really did like the doctor, he was a nice guy. Maybe I’ll take him a batch of
homemade yeast rolls on my next visit!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-72822335302486189482013-07-31T14:01:00.002-04:002013-07-31T14:01:37.594-04:00A Cobbler's Son<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“A cobbler’s son has no
shoes”</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I’ve been
aware of this saying for what seems like most of my life, but until recently I’d
never given it much thought. Honestly I think the primary use of this saying is
to let someone off the hook for not doing something that they should have long
since done; so let’s just say it makes a good excuse. Because if you really
think about it…this is a really stupid phrase!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Have you ever seen a pawn shop owner
that didn’t wear a lot of jewelry; or a hardware store owner using a hammer
with duct tape on the handle?</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Antique dealers with a particle board entertainment center
standing proudly in the living room are about as common as an accountant with
tax problems. I’m not so sure cobblers really exist in modern times, but I all
but guarantee you that the owner of a shoe store has an exceptional (if not embarrassing)
collection of footwear! Trust me; the cobbler’s son would have had plenty of
shoes if he hadn’t spent so much time with that damn budget-killing puppet! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think of this today as I sit in my
recliner typing on the computer</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. This is without a doubt my favorite spot in the house and
it’s where I do some of my best thinking. But today, instead of kicking back
comfortably while writing, I am sharing my space with a massive 6 ½ pound
chair-hogging Chihuahua! Dog number two; pet number four. The cobbler’s shoes
are beginning to stack up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As a family we have discussed the
merits of owning one dog at a time on many occasions. </span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This had to be spoken aloud when we started
volunteering for an animal rescue group, otherwise we would quickly become a
satellite location! The best way to spot the new guy at the shelter is to count
his animals. But I really don’t intend to have too many and I tell myself that
if the new dogs wasn’t the polar opposite of my old one, I would not have taken
her home. I tell myself lots of things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think I will sign off now and maybe
go and change my shoes</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. I’ve had this one pair on since breakfast, and while they are very
comfortable, I really have some others that I want to wear today! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-5599821821457371902013-07-15T11:42:00.002-04:002013-07-15T11:42:52.850-04:00Smile<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the best parts of getting a
new pet is choosing the perfect name.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Of course this is just a technicality for me because I’ve
always been of the school of thought that a really good pet deserves a dozen
names! I often call them by a secondary name for so long that I forget what their
given name really is! It’s probably a good thing my animals don’t have a Social
Security card or I could be charged with identity theft!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Imagine for a minute the volume of
names that must be chosen by an animal rescue group.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Some do come already named, but the
vast majority of them come in with no name. I have been amazed how quickly they
learn the names they are given, but in an atmosphere as crowded as this, they
really seem to long for an identity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve recently started volunteering at
the shelter again after a 25+ year absence.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> My younger brother got me started back then, but
honestly I had my feelings hurt pretty early on and was unable to stay. I always
admired him for possessing a gene that I obviously lacked; he was a diligent and
dedicated volunteer and I feel sure that he helped choose many names for the
animals over the years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have to admit that I think of my
brother often, but when visiting the shelter I think of him constantly.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> My brother Gus was the type of guy
that a dog would approach without hesitation. Okay, they approach me the same
way, but it is sometimes with a growl and fangs bared! Gus told me that the
reason this happened was because I needed to smile more. He said that the look
on my face (the one I deemed <i>concentration</i>)
was a little scary to dogs and people. More than once, when I passed him
driving down the road, he would call me and say one word; “<i>smile”.</i> I would look at my reflection in the rearview mirror, smile
as wide as I could manage, and do my best to hold it for the rest of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Okay, I have gotten way off course on
the subject of naming pets.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> After all this time I still enjoy talking about my brother as much as
ever and I still give myself the old rearview-mirror-check more than you might
imagine. But as I rode home Saturday afternoon from a long ARF adoption event
at a local business, I had no need to check my smile. I was very tired, but it
had been a good day. Two dogs that had just met that day found great homes;
Turtle and…wait for it…Gus! I hope you smiled too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-25880502634515529352013-06-27T15:44:00.002-04:002013-06-27T15:44:32.179-04:00Vacation Pictures<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Okay, there is nothing quite like a
brand new computer!</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
It still has that new computer smell and jumps around as fast as lightning. But
I have to admit that I become really attached to one after I’ve had it for a
while. It’s kind of like your favorite shoes or a well-worn baseball glove; a
part of the family. But when something goes wrong…I have to stop myself from
throwing it out the window! I’m glad I don’t have such a volatile relationship
with my family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The latest near-miss episode involving
my virtual best friend happened last night.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Granted I had no business even being on the computer
given the fact that I had just driven the six hours that officially ended a
four day beach vacation. I should have been unpacking or cleaning up the dinner
dishes, but what I really wanted to do was scroll through my vacation pictures!
Milk it just a few more minutes!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I took the card out of the camera and
slipped it in my card reader as I have done a million times before.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I scrolled through the thumbnail
images and chose several to email some friends we had met there on a fishing
trip. I leaned forward slightly for a closer look and the laptop moved just
enough to bump the USB connection of the reader with my freshly suntanned leg.
The computer made the <i>“new hardware”
sound</i> and the images disappeared. When I tried to open them back up...that
damn loose USB port! Now it said that the SD card needed formatting! I had well
over one hundred pictures that would be wiped out by this function.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I immediately looked online at
several SD card repair programs that claimed to be absolutely free, but that
was only to look at the pictures.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>“Oh, you mean you
wanted to save them? Well that will be $39.95, you should have said so before
you loaded all the software”.</i> Luckily my wife stopped me before I
downloaded a direct link to a Russian boiler room. Under direct orders to “<i>leave it alone”</i> I went to bed and promised
to visit Office Max the next morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Luckily the clerk at Office Max had
no idea what I was talking about.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “<i>Why don’t you just
format the card yourself” </i>was the best she could do. Wow, I never thought
of that! Can I just throw my camera in the trash here or do I need to take it
home and put it in the recycling? Sorry, the impatience returned there for a
second. To make this story simply too long instead of way too long, I’ll finish
up here. After a desperate plea, a Facebook friend sent me an article that
mentioned a program called <a href="http://www.cgsecurity.org/wiki/PhotoRec%E2%80%8E" target="_blank">PhotoRec</a>. It was absolutely free and it not only
retrieved my vacation photos, it brought back about 200 more that I had long
since erased from my camera! It runs in a DOS format that I don’t begin to
understand, but it can’t be too hard because I saved <i>my</i> pictures! I may just keep that old baseball glove a little
longer!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-91790507057408968642013-06-13T09:36:00.002-04:002013-06-13T09:36:39.912-04:00Pompous Grass<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I traded my home and 80 acres in
the country for a subdivision inside the city limit, I saw no need to keep my
tractor.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Of course
my wife didn’t think that was the best of ideas, but I was really kind of tired
of trying to keep it running anyway. I don’t know the exact acreage of my
current yard, but the little push mower I owned seemed to be adequate to preen
what little lawn I was now charged with maintaining. I must have forgotten what
dragging around a lawnmower in 100 degree heat really feels like!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the best ways to combat the
pain of outdoor work in this type of heat is to only work early in the morning
and late evening.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Unless you are retired, or independently wealthy, this leaves the evening as
the only option for weekday maintenance. Get off work, eat supper, drink a
couple of beers, and see if you can have a heart attack before bedtime! Wait a
minute…it sounds like I’m complaining about summertime. I’m better now; I just
slapped myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I thought of one such summer evening
this morning as I read a friend’s Facebook post about a battle waged with a
clump of Pampas Grass</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.
It was probably my second season in the new house, and I was doing my best to
finish cutting the scorched summer grass with what little daylight remained. The
main part of the yard was done and I was trimming the little strip that touches
the street. After pushing the mower all the way to my neighbor’s mailbox, I
turned to drag the screaming beast in the opposite direction. If the heat was
stressing my heart, what I turned to face almost stopped it! Every one of those
awful English horror movies I watched as kid had just come true; I was locked
in a death gaze with Count Dracula!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Okay, it wasn’t an actual vampire,
but my heart was a little slower at figuring this out than my head was.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This stoic demon I faced was actually
my dark-headed, dark featured Romanian neighbor that I really didn’t know very
well. The fact that he was offering the use of his “sit-down” mower calmed my
nerves a touch, but I was still shaken as I relayed the evening’s events to my
wife and daughter. Of course they thought this was pretty funny, and once I sat
down and stopped stripping cloves of the garlic bunch, I enjoyed a pretty good
laugh at myself as well. I knew what his real name was, but from that day
forward he was referred to (in private of course) as Boris.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Fast-forward a couple of years and I’m
sitting on his back deck having a taste of his favorite scotch.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> His English is not perfect, but
after a couple of drinks we seem to understand each other pretty well. But alcohol
also has a way of relaxing the tongue and after I slipped the first time and
called him Boris (he didn’t notice) I decided to just pack up and go home
before I did it again. I walked through the dark mumbling his real name over
and over; doing my best to bring the truth to the forefront!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That was a long story to explain my
grandmother’s love of pompous grass!</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> But what I do know is that she knew (at some point anyway)
what the real name of this plant was. But she had used her pet name for so long
I doubt that she remembered anymore. Her name for this plant was so etched in
what she knew that I feel sure it sounded funny to say the correct name. If you
say, or think… or hate something for a long enough period of time it becomes
the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-25953197947594105622013-06-12T10:49:00.001-04:002013-06-12T10:49:27.119-04:00A path<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Buried in my list of unpublished
blogs are three drafts, written about the same subject, that I just can’t seem
to finish.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I think I
know what I want to say, but each time I begin I end up spiraling in several (often
unrelated) directions. How could a subject so simple lead my mind in so many directions?
I’ve made an executive decision to just lay it out there and see where everyone
else’s mind wants to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The subject in question is a small dirt
trail carved neatly into the thick green grass of my lawn.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This path winds around the side of
my house from the garage to the back steps and is as neat and smooth as any
made by man or machine. Both of my cats and my current dog use this path on a
daily basis and I have even witnessed the propane delivery guy drag his hose around
back using the trail as though it was made just for him. At only a few inches
wide, I have always been amazed at how permanent this trail has become.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The machine that carved this path was
a little 35 pound border collie.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Even though he has been gone for almost two years, the trail
is as neat and smooth as the last day <i>he</i>
used it. As I was cutting the grass last weekend, I have to admit that my heart
skipped a little when turned toward this side of the house and noticed the path;
he was a good guy and a great companion. But I also understand that he created
this trail simply because it was the shortest distance between to places he wanted
to be; he wasn’t carving a monument to honor his existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But as we go about our day to day
lives, how do we know exactly <i>when</i> we
are creating something as permanent and lasting as this faint little trail?</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Maybe we should just assume that we
always are. Speak as though someone is listening; act as though everyone is
watching. You never know, one of those little trails you are carving may be one
that will still be here long after you are gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMrxbK75g8VdQvXWwfoRr3M7TxypZLewoZvjIZzmlmTn4sNkqnvBXXnMx9hwomWBc3i_F-r0KrUr-sY3jQ5MP_eIZJzn6a9GDVS1yoo_OXZZCHyBeiwQNjbcMspoOEne35IyEBt4gZPQkf/s1600/trail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMrxbK75g8VdQvXWwfoRr3M7TxypZLewoZvjIZzmlmTn4sNkqnvBXXnMx9hwomWBc3i_F-r0KrUr-sY3jQ5MP_eIZJzn6a9GDVS1yoo_OXZZCHyBeiwQNjbcMspoOEne35IyEBt4gZPQkf/s320/trail.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-509019645240927202013-06-04T09:30:00.005-04:002013-06-04T09:30:52.360-04:00The World is Round And I Can Prove It<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The ink on my marriage license was
probably still wet when I began looking for a good spot to build a house for my
wife and I.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Of
course I was a rookie husband and didn’t understand (yet) that all I really
needed to do was put my wife on the task and it would be solved. Once she was
on board we would go from simply looking and wishing (man style), to actually
purchasing (woman style). Though this was almost 25 years ago, I can still remember
it like it was yesterday; <i>“What do you
mean you need to think about it? This is what you said you…we…wanted. Just sign
the damn papers!” </i>I did; she was right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course I needed a second push not
too long after we moved on to the property.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The trailer we were temporarily (this is a relative
term…as decisive as kind of or probably) calling home was the complete package;
cozy, mine and paid for. I had my pre-planned share of responses to the
I-though-you-said-we-were-going-to-build-a-house music that had become the
soundtrack of my life, but the one I usually settled on was our lack of money. <i>“What do you mean you need to think about
it? You said if you…we…could get the money we would build a house. Just sign
the damn papers!” </i>I did; she was right again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If I sat here and continued to tick
off the timeline of my life it would end pretty much with the same few
sentences as the previous paragraphs.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I have no doubt that most successful relationships are
fairly similar even if the roles are reversed; somebody fattens up the hog and
the other makes food out of it. I’ve lived long enough to know that the history
books left out the part where someone (Mrs. Columbus?) said <i>“You said the world was round and if you had
the money you…we…could prove it. Just sign the damn papers! </i>He did;
somebody was right, again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We all need that little push of
validation and we rely on it whether we realize it or not.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> It is so easy to accuse others of
back seat driving and second guessing your well-laid plans, when the real problem
lies with our ability to have our good ideas perfected. Credit is both fleeting
and worthless; too much is harmful. To throw the dart and hit the bullseye on
the first try is, and will always be, luck. You can be really good, but you will
never be a champion alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-69743908678934223492013-05-28T16:39:00.000-04:002013-05-28T16:39:34.028-04:00Last Day Of School<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The last day of school came and went
this year for my daughter with little fanfare.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We did go out for lunch that last
half day day (if you know me that is somewhat of a big deal), but I do miss the
grammar school days and their end of the year parties. Sometimes I think I
actually became more attached to her school buddies than she did, but really I
was just looking for a chance to have some fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My daughter is an only child. I don’t
mean to inflect any type of tone into this, it’s just the way Mother Nature
planned it for us. </span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When
the OBGYN wants to discuss birth control on the first post-delivery visit…you
just know it’s time to leave well enough alone and enjoy what you are fortunate
enough to already have. Having grown up with two brothers, I have to admit I
have kind of liked the idea of having only one child. I can both take her to
school and pick her up, and we have plenty of alone time to get to know each
other. She may argue too much time, but I kind of like it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the bad parts of having only
one child is that I wouldn’t dream of her riding the school bus without
siblings.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> She did
ride some when she was a little kid, but this was mainly because she wanted to
and we lived in a county with a tiny school system. I knew the bus driver and
most of the kids she rode it with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> But when I was a kid the school bus was <i>the</i> place to cause trouble!</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We (okay I) found plenty of trouble
on a regular basis, but the last day of school called for plans of epic
proportions. Something to laugh about all summer! I feel sure we discussed
several potentially lethal scenarios, but at the last minute we decided
something involving water guns…and the bus driver. Okay, I never thought about the fact that we
would have to ride next year, same bus-same bus driver; miscalculation number
one!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Somehow we managed to keep the water
guns in our pockets until it was our time to depart the bus.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Living very close to the county line
meant we were among the last to leave the bus, but there were still enough kids
to laugh at the bus driver and maybe he wouldn’t be <i>as </i>pissed with only a few watching him get hosed down. Another miscalculation!
As he pulled to a stop and worked the lever to open the door, we sprang into
action. With all of the trouble there has been lately with schools and guns
this hardly seems funny now, but watching the screaming driver cover his face
with both hands as three little boys soaked him with water guns…well I don’t
care who you are; that’s funny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But the most memorable part of the day
was what was to follow.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Physics state that a bus driver shaped man would never be able to catch
three little boys on a good day, but our last miscalculation was the fact that
my father was walking down the driveway to celebrate with us the survival of yet
another school year. As we tore down the driveway, the fear in our eyes was
enough for him to know that what he really needed to do was run with us, and in
any direction other than the house! Till the day I die I will never forget the
image of three boys and a grown man, hiding in a ditch in the woods, listening
to the infuriated bus driver scream <i>“I’m
gonna tell your daddy!”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-74190150767795558062013-05-15T09:58:00.000-04:002013-05-15T09:58:59.133-04:00Old Photos<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I was a kid, my parents and
grandparents would often give me a family lesson by showing me boxes of old
photos.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “<i>This is my great uncle John; he’s my mother’s
uncle from the Taylor side. You know, they were the ones that moved from the country
before I was born. Doesn’t he look like your cousins in Dublin?”</i> I remember
thinking he really looked like the man that my fourth grade social studies
teacher told us drove the final spike in the transcontinental railroad, but to
say that would just be mean. Everyone in those old black and white photos
really looked like the only people they were related to were each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Those grainy old photos made everyone
look sweaty and sunburned</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. Their clothes were too big and if they were actually looking at the
camera, you would think all they really wanted was something to eat. But as detached
and indifferent as I was, the look on my relative’s faces when they viewed the
pictures was much different. These weren’t images of dust bowl farmers in a
text book; they were real individuals that my relatives knew personally. Loved
ones captured with the technology of the day. I didn’t want to be mean, but most
of the time I really didn’t feel much emotion and I had no Idea what to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As technology advanced, so did photography.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> There a few gray pictures (as my
daughter refers to them) of me as a child, but luckily most are in color. My
neighbor gave me an old camera when I was probably 10 years old, and while
color film was available, it was out of my price range. I wasn’t necessarily
the next Ansel Adams anyway and I stand by my parent’s decision not to pay good
money for the developing of pictures “<i>snapped”</i>
of the back of my brother’s head or vacation pictures of a car lot in North
Carolina. Pointing and clicking was cheap, but buying the film and having God
only knows what developed was not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Affordable digital photography has
been nothing less than revolutionary.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I can now take hundreds of photos and decide if I want them
or not in just a few seconds; I can re-take until I get what I want. I do feel sorry for those who have never experienced
the anticipation of driving to Revco to pick up a package of 24 unknown images
from a family vacation, fishing trip, litter of puppies and a few shots of the
nothing that it took to finish out the roll of film. But don’t get me wrong, I
wouldn’t go back to this for anything!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Since Facebook has become “<i>the box of old photos in the attic”</i> for
many, I can now anonymously scroll through thousands of old photos whenever I
choose.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> It is easy
to spot the digital photos from the scanned images taken from the real box, but
not necessarily in the obvious pixel count or color saturation. The old photos
are rarely perfect; someone is looking the wrong way; eyes are closed; the
group is off center or the lighting is wrong. “<i>Take two just in case”.</i> These photos were taken with the cross-your-fingers-and-pray-for-a-good-one
cameras of really not too long ago, but they are as real to me as the perfect
pictures of today. I knew these people and I love and miss them. Technology can’t
change everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-90104994397661142732013-05-10T11:09:00.000-04:002013-05-10T11:09:59.777-04:00Art<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Middle Georgia has enjoyed an
extended spring this year; what old timers refer to as a “<i>real spring”.</i></span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Fifty degree mornings in mid-May are unusual for this part of the planet
as we typically go from winter to summer without an in-between. I am a die-hard
cold weather hater, but I have to admit I have enjoyed the mild temperatures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A big bonus of a lengthy spring is
the amount of time we are able to enjoy blooming plants.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Flowers. The cool air has probably
slowed the growth of my vegetable garden somewhat, but I’ve lived long enough
to know that I will soon tire of dragging a garden hose and watching plants I’d
known since birth slowly wither in the heat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Having grown up in a rural area, most
of the flowers I was accustomed to were wildflowers.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> My parents were always slowing down (or
stopping) to positively identify some type of roadside plant that had gone
unnoticed until it bloomed and I learned the names of many beautiful plants. I’m
not saying that we had no store-bought flowers planted in our yard, but I will
say that we had more than a few native plants that were allocated from the
roadside. Many of these were wildflowers that, not having been manipulated by
modern science were not as ornate as their hybrid offspring, but I learned to
love and appreciate them nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Somewhere along the way I decided
that my family’s love of all things growing and blooming was unique.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I knew that I was probably one of
the only kids in Mrs. Bruner’s science class that knew what a host plant for
butterflies was, but I didn’t understand that many of the other kids (and their
families) loved flowers and plants for no other reason than that they were
beautiful. Simple aesthetic love; art for the sake of art. The realization that people who would never
attend an art show or buy a sculpture; those who could not pronounce the
scientific name of a sunflower (or care to even if you helped them) would spend
long hours and hundreds of dollars on something as frivolous as flowers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we back out of the driveway for
our morning commute, my daughter leans back to allow me to look for oncoming
traffic; I didn’t even have to ask</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. We make our first turn and she opens the console, takes out
two peppermints, and absently places one in my outstretched palm. She reminds
me that today is Friday and pick up will be the normal 3:15 as we come to our
last turn before leaving the neighborhood. <i>“Wow!”</i>
my daughter exclaims as I automatically tap the brakes expecting the usual
family of confused deer to narrowly escape my bumper. “<i>Look at that bush”.</i> When I look at the bright orange flowering
shrub that was (until this morning) a nondescript green ball of leaves, I
understand why we go to such great lengths to plant flowers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-45581948682021592382013-05-02T10:50:00.004-04:002013-05-02T10:53:59.430-04:00You Never Know<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was the type of kid that dreamed of
having a job long before I was old enough to qualify.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> My parents offered an allowance for
doing things around the house, but like most kids this just didn’t seem like a
real job to me. I often wonder why I was so impatient to jump out in to the
complicated world of busy adults, but I remember thinking that my life just
wasn’t happening fast enough. I’d been preparing for the launch for 13 years! I
wish I could have understood back then that at my current age life would happen
at lightning speed, but what teenager thinks they will actually live 50 whole years!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was able to find odd jobs here and
there, but of course transportation to and from was always an issue.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We didn’t exactly live walking
distance to town and the only bus that passed my house was the school bus. So let’s
just say that my options were limited. Picking up bottles beside the highway
(aluminum cans were yet to be invented) and farm work were really my only
options, and trust me when I say that I met very few self-made millionaires in
this line of work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One summer a neighbor with a very
large farm planted watermelons.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This particular fruit doesn’t lend itself well to mechanical
picking and I had high hopes for a good late summer job. I knew I would be
perfect for the job because by the end of the summer I had stolen so many of
them for personal consumption that I could run the 100 yard dash with one under
each arm in less than ten seconds! As luck would have it, me, my brothers and
several other kids that lived close by got hired for the job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I quickly discovered that running
with two melons in no way compared to picking up, lugging and tossing melons
for eight hours a day.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This was real work! I was pretty tired by the end of each day, but I still
looked forward to late afternoon when we actually loaded them in to the eighteen-wheeler.
At this time I was able to talk to the truck driver and I guess I kind of felt
like a big-wheel loading a product for over the road travel! An important cog
in the wheel of interstate commerce! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have never forgotten the day, as we
finished loading the last of the trucks with melons, the truck driver came up
to me and said “<i>you are a really hard worker;
you’re going to make somebody a good man one day”.</i></span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> At this point I would have worked
for free! In hindsight this driver could have paid all of the workers this
compliment, but I didn’t even consider this at the time. I knew that I had
tried really hard and someone had noticed. This lone comment fueled my ambition
for many years and in many ways it still does today; if you try hard, others
will notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I won’t pretend that I thought of
this exact moment last night as the 4-H awards presentation we attended came to
a close, but the spirit was with me. </span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My wife and I made small talk with the parents of the club
members and gave a pat on the back to many of the award winners. But as the
crowd began to thin and everyone headed for the exits I motioned for one of the
younger club members to come closer so I could tell her something in private. “<i>You are a good speaker”</i> I told her, “<i>Keep at it and you will be better than most
of the others who spoke tonight”.</i> You never know what will stick with
someone…for fifty years!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-62142259429699455202013-05-01T10:28:00.000-04:002013-05-01T10:28:16.564-04:00Hate?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I joined the military with high hopes
that some discipline would straighten out my life.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This was during peacetime, but given
my state of mind at the time I probably would have joined even if our country
had been at war. I know this is easy for me to say now, but as I sit here reflecting
on my 20 year old decision making ability (or lack thereof) I think I would
have. I joined simply to get away from my town and my bad habits. I needed a
little “<i>Leave the driving to us</i>”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I guess you could say that jury is
still out on military discipline putting me on the straight and narrow.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I had a looking-for-trouble state of
mind back then and I found plenty of trouble in the military. If you expect it,
you will find it. So while I was not a model Navy man, my experience did help
me point my life in a much needed new direction. At least I learned something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But enough about me!</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> What I really want to comment on is
simply the <i>why</i> of my joining the
military. I wanted to grow up. I don’t necessarily think everyone joins for the
same reasons I did, but I wasn’t alone. A portion of my recruiting class had
attended a military school or had ROTC training in high school; these guys were
looking for a career. Several were from military families and were following in
the footsteps of a familiar life. But there were many just like me. I knew who
the president was, but that was about the depth of my political knowledge. I
had no cause and little care; the only ship I was truly interested in was the
USS Ande.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think of this today after reading
an article about removing the carving from the face of Stone Mountain.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The images of mounted southern Civil
War icons Davis, Lee and Jackson loom large in the saddle as they look straight
ahead with their hats placed over their hearts. A salute to the South and a
tribute to those who lost their lives in a war that happened over 150 years
ago; a war that changed the face of this country forever; a war that made it
official that all human beings (at least in the Unites States) are created
equal. Even though I was born a raised in the South I feel like a winner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So what in the world do this carving
and my infamous military career have to do with one another?</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Everything. Wars are fought, won and
lost by people just like the confused 20 year old boy that was me in 1982; boys
that need a paycheck; boys that need to get away from their hometown; boys that
have little idea of what the war is even about; boys that, during the Civil war
era, would have been killed by their own had they chosen not to fight. Many of
these boys and men from both sides never made it home and right or wrong, their
ultimate sacrifice should never be forgotten. The carving is not a tribute to
division and hate; it is a memorial to the process of defeating it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-1788037470922662912013-04-26T09:03:00.002-04:002013-04-26T09:03:39.475-04:00Just Another Day<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just another typical weekday morning;
we could do them in our sleep, and often that is really not too far off of how
they start.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Eat breakfast,
walk the dog, brush your teeth and load up in the car; sometimes I think we
really don’t even need the clock. We may run a minute or two late, and believe
it or not, sometimes even a few minutes early, but we’re always close! We have
developed such a routine that we could be mistaken for a family of robots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we reached the halfway mark
between our home and the school, the traffic begins to get heavier and slow
down, and eventually we came to a complete stop. </span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t think for a minute I am trying
to compare the traffic of my micro-town to real city traffic, but remember I
said we were a family of almost-robots. Even my passenger daughter could tell
you approximately what time we should pass certain landmarks along our morning
commute. “<i>Oh no”</i> she says, <i>“must be another wreck”.</i> I’ve noticed
that the closer she gets to driving age the more attention she pays to even
little fender-bender accidents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The closer we get to the intersection
of our road and another main highway, the slower and thicker the traffic
becomes.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We can see
flashing blue lights ahead, but there is no sign of an accident. When we
finally reach the intersection there is a police officer detouring traffic away
from our preferred route and all lanes are attempting to merge in to one. “<i>How late am I going to be now?”</i> my
daughter asks, “<i>I’ll get detention if I’m
tardy.”</i> I know that even if there are no more delays she will be at least
fifteen minutes late, but I decide not to mention this and attempt to change
the subject. “<i>Why don’t you check my
Facebook and see if you can find out what the problem is”.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think we both thought that we were
the victims of another all-to-common-lately bomb threat, but were surprised to
learn that a pedestrian had been hit and the driver had left the scene.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> A big crime for a small town. We
were a solid thirty minutes late getting to the school, but with the large
number of busses and cars I saw arriving late, I assured my daughter that she
wouldn’t get detention. I laughed and told her that now her day would be thirty
minutes shorter as she climbed out of the truck and headed for the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have to admit that my initial
reaction to this morning’s delay was one of irritation; this was messing up my
routine.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> But as I
headed for the office I was struck with how easy it was to throw a monkey
wrench in to our normal everyday life<b>.</b>
Not to say that a fellow human getting struck by a car is a small thing, this
will be the worst day of their lives for several people. It is just humbling to
think how easy it is for a single event to change so much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We have all become so accustomed to
getting both our information and our entertainment from television that is sometimes
hard to tell the difference between the two.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> With a click of the remote we can go from live
footage of a mass shooting at an elementary school, to laughing on a road trip
with the cast of Family Guy as they head for space camp. From footage of a
flood that will kill and bankrupt many, to smiling as a fictitious handcuffed
suspect is lead to jail; the neat, hour long crime drama coming to a close. The
act of separating fact from fiction gets tougher and we become desensitized to
the real pain felt by the genuine victims. A morning, even like this one, makes
me happy to have the other 364 (often boring) days of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-77967909567738880892013-04-11T12:05:00.001-04:002013-04-11T12:05:11.287-04:00Hope<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I stepped down out of my vehicle and
stood beside it for a few seconds to test the air temperature.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Driving with the windows rolled up
on a sunny day will often give you a false sense of how warm it actually is,
and I’m cold natured anyway. After a few moments of indecision I reach back
inside the vehicle and grab my jacket; it’s one of those days that could go
either way, but I would rather lug around a kerosene space heater than be cold!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The parking lot is full of
vacationers with the same idea; it may be too cool for the beach, but it’s just
right for (never thought I’d say this; man card alert) putt-putt.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> A gust of cool wind hits me and I
silently pat myself on the back for bringing my jacket. We head to the kiosk to
pay for our game and I notice that most of the 18 holes are bathed in sunshine;
maybe this won’t be so bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The crowded course is speckled with players
in varying levels of dress, and as luck would have it we end up behind a family
with two loud teenage girls.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Two starlets wearing short-shorts, tank tops and sunglasses
that send and receive texts after every shot! If I didn’t think I would be
arrested I would walk over to one of them and warm my hands! Not really, but I
know they have to be cold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I will say that as I look around the
course it is not necessarily young people that are under-dressed.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I see a few guys my age in shorts and
tee shirts, but they do seem to be playing the game rather quickly. A couple of
them are probably being warmed by the beer furnace that stretches the tee shirt
beyond the manufacturer’s limits, and while I am not completely without fault
in that zone, my extra poundage doesn’t seem to be warming me at all! Honestly
some may have simply forgotten their jackets, but why would anyone choose to be
uncomfortable?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think it just how we have been
trained.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We plan
ahead and anticipate; we look over the shoulder of winter and wink at the pool
chemicals. Last minute Halloween shoppers must wade through Christmas
decorations and the best selection of coats are available in September. We
stand rooted in the middle of one season and pine for the next. We assume that
we will be here to enjoy the coming season as we have in the years before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I sat down to write this, my
initial thoughts were that we spend our lives forcing the seasons. </span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But perhaps this is not the case.
Maybe it is just <i>that</i> emotion that keeps us going; the desire to get out of bed
each morning and the will to live another day; another season. Its called Hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-17554296128934306802013-03-18T13:46:00.002-04:002013-03-18T16:32:25.340-04:00Joinery<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve heard it said that falling in love
with an inanimate object is not possible.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> That love itself is something that must be shared
with a creature that can offer love in return. I guess when I really think
about this statement I have to agree, but in my fifty years I sure have been in
<i>deep-like</i> with some objects and ideas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I do believe that my fascination with
all things made of wood could be described as love.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> When this obsession struck me I was in
my mid-twenties; a young man looking for something to do for a living that
would both hold my interest and get me out of the bed each morning. Of course I
wanted to make money, but at this time in my life I worried more about enjoying
myself. I made things out of wood all day for an hourly wage and I built things
in my own shop at night (and weekends) for fun. Sounds like love to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But naturally this fascination waned</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. It took over twenty years, but wane
it did…and ultimately we broke up. Maybe we spent too much time with one
another; it wasn’t the wood, it was me, I don’t know. But other businesses
caught my eye and I went for years without thinking of my first love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">During the break up I continued to
read articles and publications about woodworking.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I always admired things built by
others and I did my best to encourage and compliment. I always found it odd
when many of the elitist publications began to call woodworking joinery. To me
it was like calling driving <i>automobile
operation</i>, or eating was <i>consuming
nourishment</i>; just a fancy way to describe a simple task. Would I now refer
to myself a joiner?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But with each passing year the logic
of this term makes more sense. </span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Everything comes down to joinery. A piece of wood kept
indoors will last forever, but once you construct something from it, the
connections (if made poorly) will fail. The same can be said for how we live
our lives; if our connections with others are made poorly or not maintained,
they will also fail. Alone we are simply a piece of wood, but through joinery
we can become a beautiful masterpiece!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698081099723953267.post-45107512635919254552013-03-08T12:33:00.000-05:002013-03-08T12:33:46.331-05:00Forgetting<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I could iron clothes in my sleep</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. This is not something that I
necessarily want to brag about, it’s simply a fact of <i>my</i> life. Yes, I am domestically gifted, but there are many tasks
that each of us do daily that require little concentration or attention to
detail. I'm sure that some are much more important than my household chores,
but I use this time to plan my day and beat a few dead horses killed in the days
and weeks before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This morning I used the iron and its
hissing steam as white noise while I prioritized my day.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I’m no busier than the average
person, but most of what I was attempting to pull together today was an
exceptionally eclectic and random mix; multiple businesses, volunteer boards
and family woes. And then it hit me! A fleeting image of my forgotten homework
lying neatly on the dining room table; me, standing in the school lunch line
with no money in my pockets, loaded tray in hand; my daughter, standing in
front of the school impatiently checking her watch and looking down an empty
street. I had forgotten something major…but what?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When it finally hit me I had to
smile.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> What I had
allowed to sneak past me was a date that I had actually been trying to forget
for quite some time. How long I had been trying to forget is really not as
important as the fact that it had finally happened. I had forgotten to be sad
on the 10<sup>th</sup> anniversary of my brother’s death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I won’t try to tell you that I hadn’t
thought of this date at all in the previous months, but I will add that it had
not filled me with the same level of dread that it had before.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This was not a date that he and I
shared or celebrated, it was an anniversary created when he left. It was almost
like adding another birthday, but for all the wrong reasons. We only need one,
and I will happily dance on yours <i>again</i>
this year as I celebrate your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06725122158638033799noreply@blogger.com1