Red Ribbon Week

            I admit to ignorance. Until I received notification from the school system, I did not know it was Red Ribbon Week. I did not know there was such a thing, or why. I am thinking that I am not alone.

            Red Ribbon Week is the oldest and largest drug prevention campaign in the country. It generally takes place the last full week in October. This year, Red Ribbon Week is now, October 20 - 28.
            Red Ribbon Week symbolizes a stand for the hopes and dreams of our children through a commitment, both public and personal, to drug prevention and education, with the goal being a drug free America. It also commemorates the ultimate sacrifice made by DEA Special Agent Enrique "Kiki" Camarena, who died at the hands of drug traffickers in Mexico while fighting the battle against illegal drugs.

            Special Agent Camarena grew up in a dirt-floored house with hopes and dreams of making a difference. He worked his way through college, served in the United States Marine Corps and became a police officer. When he joined the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, his mother tried to talk him out it. "I can't not do this," he told her. "I'm only one person, but I want to make a difference."
            Camarena's eventual assignment took him undercover in Mexico investigating a drug cartel believed to include officers in the Mexican army, police, and government. On Feb. 7, 1985, the 37-year-old Camarena left his office to meet his wife for lunch. Five men appeared at the agent's side and shoved him in a car. One month later, Camarena's body was found in a shallow grave.  
            Within weeks of his death, Camarena's Congressman, Duncan Hunter, and high school friend Henry Lozano, launched Camarena Clubs in Imperial Valley, California, Camarena's home. Hundreds of club members pledged to lead drug-free lives to honor the sacrifices made by Camarena and others. These coalitions began to wear red satin ribbons. Red Ribbon Week emerged from these efforts.
            Today, Red Ribbon Week is nationally recognized, helping to preserve Special Agent Camarena's memory and further the cause for which he gave his life. The Red Ribbon Campaign also became a symbol of support for the DEA's efforts to reduce demand for drugs through prevention and education programs. By wearing a red ribbon during the last week in October, Americans demonstrate their opposition to drugs. They pay homage not only to Special Agent Camarena, but to all men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice in support of the struggle against drug trafficking and abuse.

            This is a worthy cause, but how many of us do not observe it because we think drug usage is a problem that happens to other people? It got me to thinking, what constitutes drug abuse? Is this program only to fight illegal drug trafficking? What about legal drugs that are abused? We know of the horrors of alcohol, but what of others?

            I was in the library and heard two conversations among patrons. Both involved drug use. The first was between elderly women discussing the use of non-steroidal, anti-inflammatory drugs. One lady smugly said to the others, "I take four ibuprofen tablets, four times a day," then in a secretive tone, "sometimes I cheat, and take four an hour."

            I wanted to say something about the damage she was doing to her kidneys, but before I could, my attention was drawn to a group of men where I heard one say, "I have to have about twelve cups of coffee to get me through 'til afternoon." I thought to tell him of the damage caffeine does to his liver as it hammers the organ demanding the release of more sugar to provide that surge of energy, but they walked away before I heard anymore. The incidents got me to thinking about how much addiction is among us from everyday substances we consider harmless.

            I have admitted in this column my addiction to chocolate doughnuts, and I confess that I drink too many diet Dr. Peppers, but what is the harm in that? None, other than the fat and sugar in the doughnuts and the chemicals in the diet drinks. What a hypocrite I am, and perhaps many of us are.

            We celebrate Red Ribbon Week for the prevention of drug abuse and trafficking, but isn't that just one phase of the problem? There is alcohol, tobacco, and prescription drugs that are abused not to mention the examples above. I suggest that we should campaign against addiction of all sorts whether it be working out too much, eating, drinking to excess, or taking over the counter drugs. 

           All of us want to feel better. We can be stimulated, or numbed with little effort, and none of it illegal. After awhile, the buzz, or dulling isn't there and we increase our stimulation to the point that nothing works, then move on to something that does, which may lead to illegal means.  Addictions of all sorts are available to us.

           I suggest that these few days, as we focus our attention on drug abuse and trafficking, that we remember that there are abuses of all sorts of substances, and that addiction is a problem that I believe we all face at one time or another. Point; Red Ribbon week IS about all of us. We may not be trafficking, or abusing illegal drugs, but we are all affected by addiction. Wear your Red Ribbon, but let it remind you to look inward as well as outward.

A Penny for Your Thoughts, and a New Renaissance

          The Baldwin County School System is facing a financial crisis not of its own making. It is a result of what every family in America is suffering from, inflation and a struggling economy. The school system is simply running out of money. There is a solution, and it is a wholly American.  We can vote and solve this crisis. 

            The "Penny Tax", that was passed some years ago as a limited budget measure, expires May 31, 2013. If we do not vote to extend it, the Baldwin County schools will lose $28 million, resulting in drastic reductions. We will lose bus drivers, special education aide positions, janitorial and maintenance staff, along with a good number of administrators, and indespensible teachers.   

            There is an inverse relationship that occurs when teachers are lost. As the numbers of teachers shrink, the number of students per classroom expands. This will result in the high teacher/student ratio to go even higher, further resulting in decreased quality of teaching. There will not be as much time to spend with individual students and struggling, marginal students may be lost.

            It gets worse. For the lack of a few pennies, four schools in the county will have to close, which will exacerbate the crowding situation and again, the teacher to student ratio will rise, and quality will drop. We cannot allow this to happen when it will cost only a few pennies to fix. Our school system has made great strides in the past few years and losing this penny will set us back further than we have gained.

            It is being argued that this penny is a tax increase. It is not. We are currently paying this penny, and the proposal, Baldwin County Amendment 2, will pick up where the former penny leaves off. It is a well-spent penny for our future.

            Whenever there is a proposal to fund schools, there are those who say, "I don't have kids. I shouldn't have to pay the tax." True, but you do have a future, and the professions and trades that you will use in that future are going to have to be educated. If you are looking for a good return on investment, invest in your future. Invest in our children. It is only a penny, and will pay dividends for generations.

            Our schools' superintendent, Alan T. Lee, sent an e-mail to parents of Baldwin County students addressing the question as to how we can afford the put a laptop computer into the hands of every high school student in the county when the system is having a financial crisis. To answer, I quote from that e-mail:

            "Please allow me to put our Digital Renaissance in perspective. Digital Renaissance is one percent of our district budget (computers, software, wireless, etc.). Digital Renaissance is two percent of what we spend to educate a student each year. (Remember, this school system spends $540 per student less than the state average.) The dollars we've invested in laptops would not begin to fill the gap of revenue should the penny not be extended. So how did we pay for the laptops? We've eliminated more than 80 central office jobs and returned those dollars to the classroom to support Digital Renaissance. Also, at my direction, I redirected dollars we were already budgeting for other programs to Digital Renaissance. Some question the timing of Digital Renaissance. As one parent told me, there is never a good time to buy a house or for that matter, to even have a child; conditions will never be "just right" to make sacrifices for our kids. We're empowering students right now to compete for the best college and career opportunities."
            "To put Digital Renaissance in perspective, to place a computer in the hands of a student costs us $202 per year, a small amount when compared to what textbooks cost. Further, our students recognize that the laptops are a tool that will allow them to get the education they need to compete on a global scale. Most assuredly, we cannot continue to educate our students using yesterday's practices if we want them to land the best jobs."

            Pennies add up, and dollars are hard to come by, but the alternative is bleak. For example, when health issues arise, do we as a community want to have a scarcity of doctors because we wouldn't spend the pennies ten years earlier?

            The school system has handled the money we've allowed them to have very responsibly, and have earned the right to continue to provide a competitive education for our young people. You ask, "A penny for future thinkers, and for a renaissance?" I answer, that is cheap when you compare it to the one that took us out of the dark ages and into one of the most creative periods of our history. Let's fund this one on November 6 by voting "Yes" to the County Amendment. I'll pitch in my pennies, and I'll win more than if I pitched them against a wall in a game of chance. 

It Ain't All It's Cracked Up to Be

     "When we were on the boat…" most often elicits comments about how wonderful such a thing must be, living aboard, cruising the high seas, and how that is life's dream come true.  I smile, nod, not wanting to shatter their happy wondering, but I'm telling you, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

After a little aimless chat about our three-year adventure aboard, the statement is made, "You're a writer," followed by the question, "why don't you write about it?"  I explain that every family who cruises has written about it to the point the market is flooded by such books, but the truth is, it ain't all it's cracked up to be, and folks don't want to hear that.

     I have succumbed.  I am writing about it.  If your dream is to sail away and live forever cruising the blue, calm waters of the Caribbean, or the world's oceans, visiting exotic ports, and even more exotic, secluded anchorages off tiny, uncharted islands, catching your own lobster which are cooked right out of the water, drinking your favorite beverage while dining and watching the sun set on another perfect day, as you listen to Jimmy Buffet, stop right now.  Do not read any further.  That is the dream, but a dream is not reality.  I'm telling you, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

     Sailing is hard work.  You see these idyllic pictures of a tanned couple standing at the helm of an immaculate sailboat, smiling, and saying something like, "Now, bring me that horizon," a 'la Captain Jack Sparrow.  That is not the reality. 

     A cruising vessel, if it has been to sea longer than a day is not clean and uncluttered.  There is all manner of gear lashed to the deck, all salt encrusted, and all a daily necessity.  The idyllic, smiling couple, after a week at sea, will both look as salty as the gear on deck. 

     If there are only two of you and you are making a several day crossing, you are likely to be sailing in four-hour watches, which do not allow for much sleep, and even basic personal hygiene is abandoned.  Showering on a pitching, rolling boat is almost out of the question even if you have the water on board to take one.

     After four hours of standing watch, the only thing you want to do is lie down, and as soon as you do, you're out…cold until the Admiral hollers, "I need you up here, QUICK!"  It is usually minor, sometimes not, but the adrenalin is surging, and sleep of any sort is now only a wish.

     Put two little girls, a dog, and two frogs into this mix, and there is no way you are ever going to capture the attention of the ad agency that took the idyllic smile photo.  You soon realize why sailors are characterized as surly, unshaven, and ill kept.  It is now embarrassingly clear where, and how, the term "cusses like a sailor" came about. 

     In your cruising dream, if you imagine hours of lounging at anchor reading a book, swimming, or resting, if you are the captain, forget it.  Your time at anchor will be spent repairing all the stuff that broke on the crossing while the Admiral and the Princesses do all the things they dreamed of…washing dishes, doing laundry, re-supplying, and handing me tools.

     As captain of a sailing vessel, you are ultimately responsible for everything.  You are plumber, carpenter, electrician, rigger, painter, mechanic, minister, doctor/nurse, meteorologist, navigator, hydrologist, sail maker, and all around encyclopedia.  Heaven help you if you ever say the words, "I don't know."  If you do, you might as well get off at the next port and give the boat away.  Your credibility with the crew is shot.   

     You have to be all of these things because, in the middle of the big, blue, wet thing, there is no roadside assistance or anyone likely to pass near if you break down.  You are on your own.  At sea, as captain, there is God, then you.  It is all on you.      

     There comes a point when you wear down and instead of settling in some exotic locale that you dreamed of, you end up in Fairhope, Alabama…never a sweeter place on all the globe.  

     "What made you stop here?"  I am asked. 

     "This is where the anchor fouled," I answer.

     "Really?  Tell me about it."

     I smile and will, but the truth is, it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

I Have a New Hero

            This past Sunday night, I found a new hero. It is not for his athletic prowess, although he is a wonderful athlete, it is not for his humility before the glaring lights of national scrutiny where he cried unabashedly, overcome with emotion in the face of terrible loss, and it is not for his displayed faith as he knelt and pointed skyward. All of those qualities contributed to my elevating him to hero status, but they are only hints who he is, and as to why I have placed him on a pedestal.

            James Torrey Smith was born on January 26, 1989, in Colonial Beach, Virginia, and grew up there, and in Fredericksburg with his mother Monica Jenkins. The oldest of seven children, Smith helped his single mother, who attended Rappahannock Community College in the day and worked at night, with household chores and earned honor roll grades in school, but that doesn't begin to tell the story.

            Torrey's father was not in his life, and other men fathered his siblings, but that did not diminish Torrey's sense of obligation to them. At the age of seven, Torrey assumed his role of older brother and became his brothers', and sisters' keeper. At that tender age, when most of us can't find the toilet, he was changing diapers, fixing lunches, and being a man. There are far too many grown men today who will not do either chore.

            As God will do, He gifted Torrey not only with a sense of responsibility, and maturity, but graced him with physical prowess, and intelligence, both of which he used to graduate with honors from a private high school while on scholarship, and to earn scholarships to college as well. He attended the University of Maryland where he set, and holds several Atlantic Coast Conferences records. He chose to forego his senior year and entered the NFL draft where he was the 58th pick by the Baltimore Ravens assuring him of being able to be located near his mother and siblings to provide financially, and be there physically as well. Torrey's assumed responsibility came crashing down on him on Sunday morning at 2:00 AM.

            His younger brother, a product of all that diaper changing and lunches, was killed in a motorcycle accident at the age of nineteen. Torrey, on the day of playing before a national audience on Sunday Night Football, received the phone call that all parents, and he is as much parent as brother, dread, that one of their children has been killed. He called his coach, got permission to leave the team and went to Virginia to attend to family matters.

            Most of us would be grieving to the point that any consideration of work would be a passing thought. We would turn inward, soothe our hurting souls, and let the love of family and friends wash over us to ease our pain. Not Torrey, not this man of responsibility, of loyalty, of commitment, no, he, when things were arranged, and he had taken care of the needs of his family, called his coach and told him he was coming back and wanted to play.

            Coach John Harbaugh told him it was his call, he could play or not. Torrey had already decided. He was going to play in that critical game against the Raven's archrivals, the New England Patriots. Monday morning, after the Ravens one point victory, coach Harbaugh said that he left the decision to play in the hands of Torrey, and, "That if it didn't work out, it didn't, but he had earned the right to play."

            It worked out. Torrey Smith caught six passes for 127 yards, two of those, touchdowns, and was awarded a game ball. It isn't too much of a stretch to say that the Ravens would not have won without him, but Torrey saw it differently. "I didn't want to be out there, just running around, doing nothing. If I was going to be out there, I was going to give it my all. You're on the lines, you just want to make the play."

            "Afterwards is when you can sit back and reflect on things. My teammates, I love them to death, and they helped me get through this."

            Before last Sunday, I didn't know Torrey Smith. Now, I wish I knew him better. I do wonder, did Torrey's teammates help him through this, or was it Torrey helping them?

            A team of men working and playing together is a very close-knit group, they, as Willie Stargel said of the World Series Champion Pittsburg Pirates, "We are family." Torrey Smith knows family.

            It doesn't matter to him if they are not of the same blood as he is, half is good enough. They are family. It doesn't matter to him that 60 men, making millions of dollars and are not reliant on, or related to him, they are close enough, they are family. Torrey Smith has a sense of family. He knows what it is like to provide, to support, to protect, and to defend those he calls family, but I bet that Torrey Smith goes beyond that.

            I bet Torrey Smith would not hesitate to help a traveler who had been beaten and left in a ditch, to pay for his upkeep, and to promise the innkeeper that he would check back the next time he was back that way to see if there was any further reimbursement needed.  Yeah, I don't think my new hero has any problem with knowing who his brother is, or loving his neighbor. Lead on Torrey Smith, I'm chasing you.

Presidential Debates: Reality or Variety Show?

            I watched the presidential debate, but only a little, maybe ten minutes that I caught during commercial breaks as I switched from the final regular season baseball game to the debate. I don't think I missed much. What I heard, and saw in those few minutes was two guys, well coached, using a lot of words to be sure they said nothing.            

            I remember the first nationally televised debate in 1960, which set the precedent for all presidential debates to come, pitting the photogenic John F. Kennedy against the visibly run-down Richard Nixon. Though radio listeners ruled that Nixon won the debates, the 70 million viewers who watched on TV thought that Kennedy won over the weary, recently hospitalized Nixon. The debates played a prominent role in Nixon's eventual loss.  

            What was so shocking was the precedent. It wasn't what the candidates said, it was how they looked when they said it.  That night, politics was dragged from substance to showmanship. Will Rogers would have loved it. The debate stirred the political game so much that it would be 1976 before presidential candidates would agree to another one.

            During that debate President Ford shot himself in the foot while debating Jimmy Carter when he declared, "There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe," a statement that surprised voters and Eastern Europeans alike. Moderator Max Frankel's reaction, "I'm sorry, what?" summed up Ford's stumble.

            President Carter, looking to put Ronald Reagan on the defensive, ended up walking into a trap in 1980. During the campaign's only debate, held just a week before election day, Reagan jumped on an opportunity presented by Carter's persistent attacks on his Medicare policies, laughing off Carter's argument, with the now famous, "There you go again."

            In 1984, at the age of 73, Reagan was up for re-election. The Democrats were questioning if he, at that advanced age, was fit to be president. In one debate with the 56-year-old Walter Mondale, Reagan, ever the showman, said, "I want you to know also I will not make age an issue of this campaign. I am not going to exploit for political purposes my opponent's youth and inexperience." Two quips, two terms.

            Candidate's words and actions are not the only things that can influence the debates. Moderators can alter the course. In the debate between then Vice President George H.W. Bush and Michael Dukakis in 1988, CNN correspondent Bernard Shaw asked Dukakis whether his staunch opposition to the death penalty would be waived were his wife to be raped and killed. Dukakis, calm and without much emotion, said no, and though the former Massachusetts governor stuck by his answer, his response to the atypical question did nothing to help his campaign.

            Vice-presidential candidates get into it too. In 1988, Dan Quayle claimed that he had, "as much experience in the Congress as Jack Kennedy did when he sought the presidency."

            He opened himself up for attack from Democratic Sen. Lloyd Bentsen who said, "Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you are no Jack Kennedy."

            "That was really uncalled for, Senator," Quayle replied.       

            "You're the one that was making the comparison," Bentsen said.

            There are more, such as when George H.W. Bush in the three-way debate with H. Ross Perot and Bill Clinton where he looked at his watch, then remarked later that he, "was glad when the damned thing was over." Al Gore tried to intimidate George Bush by leaving his podium and going over to stand next to him during their debate, making himself look foolish. 

            The Thursday after this most recent debate, Romney was declared the winner, but not so much for what he said, but for how he appeared while saying it. The critics said the President Obama appeared unprepared. I had to look hard to find out what they said, which when I did, was of little substance.

            I have two questions. The first, do the debates really sway voters? I have known for months how I am going to vote, and what issues made me go that way. I talk to a lot of people and I have not come across one who has said they would wait until the debates to decide. I am certain such are out there, but are there that many, and what are they deciding on, the issues, or the appearance?

            With the debates being more showmanship than substance, I ask my second question, why bother? Is America listening, or watching? I worry that our society has devolved into a state of "entertain me", don't tell me, show me. We want the candidate who looks presidential, is photogenic, and has a beautiful spouse. We want Camelot.

            I think America would rather have a Presidential Variety Show. Instead of being asked questions about unemployment, the economy, taxes, and health care that candidates have no intention of answering, why not assign them songs, dances, or musical instruments to play, and have a panel like American Idol decide who moves on and who doesn't? Maybe we could have a survivor like reality show where candidates could go onto some remote island and debate in tribes then vote each other off by snuffing out their torch.

            I don't watch those kinds of shows either, and if they were opposite the final regular season baseball game, I'd opt for the game, but you have to admit, it would be good entertainment. Entertainment is all we're getting now, but it isn't very good.

And Just Like That, it's Over

            "School starts next week," my parents would inform my sister and me in days of yore, or the Admiral and I to the Princesses modernly.

            "What," we/they exclaim, "summer's over?  Where did it go?"  It is the same every year, and I wonder at the shock.  We/you have known it is coming since May when school let out, but it does seem to come every year as a stunning surprise.

            Perhaps, because we have crammed so much living into three months, and we are shocked that life could go from being so full of doing things we want to do, to doing things we have to do.  The latter is a lot less fun than the former, and I was then, and some argue, still am, more about the fun than the "have to". 

            As the Princesses and Admiral lament their having to go back to work, I think it my duty to clarify the picture.  "It isn't as if you didn't do anything over the summer," I say, looking at the bills, and trying to figure a way to make them fit the budget that the summer's activities have busted.  "You've been on a choir tour, to two family reunions, a major road trip to Memphis with cousins, two major church camps, a drama camp, singing lessons, and when you weren't doing that, you were boxing, swimming, or going to the beach, not to mention, parties, movies, and about a dozen other things that drain the bank."  I am glad summer is over, the credit cards need to cool off, but I don't say that out loud.

            "School starts next week," still brings a shudder to me, but for different reasons.  When I was a kid, it was issued as a warning.  First, that summer was almost over, and second, that I had better get my "do well in school" frame of mind in gear, and whenever I hear it, or say it, my gut involuntarily clenches with dread.  These days I am the declarer of doom for the children, but when I utter those dark words to the Princesses, it is also as a declaration of freedom, as in, things can now get back to a more ordered way.  There will be an added measure of peace in the house, because I know where they will be for at least six hours of the day, and I won't have to drive them all over lower Alabama. 

             "School starts next week," for the kids, declares that not every day is a holiday, as it was during the summer, which makes weekends, starting with Friday, more significant, and jam-packed with energy to get things done.  They are a mini-summer for the next nine months.     "School starts next week", brings to life for them, the adage, "early to bed, early to rise."  I never did get the rest of the saying.  I've always gotten up early, and go to bed at a reasonable hour, but I cannot say that either "early to", "bed", or "rise", has made my health better, my wealth increase, or my wisdom more profound.  It could be that I am maxed out on health, wealth, and wisdom, that this is all I get; in which case, those words of wisdom were not, so I will stick with just the first six of the saying.

            "School starts next week," has a much deeper meaning for us this year.  The Princesses are going to public school for the first time, which means that I, as a parent, who gets sick with the first whiff of a classroom, am going to public school too.  Why do I feel like I am hearing those words rather than speaking them?

            I was a terrible student in my youth, and still am.  I did not, and do not, like school.  I love to learn, and to teach, but not in the confining order of academics.  God bless, and more power to, those who do, but it ain't for me. 

            With the advent of our venture into public schools, I find that I am again subjected to rules and regulations similar to those I was forced, and I do mean forced, to live by for twelve years of my life.  The Admiral informed me, reading out of the handbook, that I cannot take my own child out of school for such events as book releases and signings, or doctor appointments without the principal's permission, and if I do, I, the adult parent, am subject to spending time in Saturday detention.  She probably didn't say that, but being in student-back-to-school mode, it is my interpretation. 

            Whoa, and woe, woe to the principal who ever tries to tell me what I can, and cannot do with my own child, and triple-dog-woe to he, or she, who tries to put me in detention.  The Breakfast Club will seem like a lark in the park compared to what will happen in school that Saturday.  See what I mean about my not being a good student?  It all comes back now.

            "School starts next week," I said to the Princesses with all the emotions listed above, glee, anticipation, and dread, but not fear.  Not until they shouted with bright eyes and beaming smiles, "That means we get to go shopping!"  Oh goodness, will this never end?  And to think, the credit and bank cards had just cooled sufficiently to be handled.  They will surely melt this week.

            Please, excuse me; I have to rise early to work more.  What was it about this wealth thing again?

Bullying Painfully Remembered; Still

           I was small as a child. In the fifth grade, I weighed 45 pounds. In the seventh grade, junior high, I was up to 55 pounds. Because of my size, I was a target. I was the kid with the "Kick Me Hard" sign on his back, and many did, and often.

            In elementary school, it wasn't too bad. I got teased, and pushed around, but I was seldom in fights. In the 6th grade that changed. Boys my age were outgrowing me, and were flexing their muscles. The bullying escalated. I hated recess, and that was the only subject at which I was any good. Walking home was worse. I could always count on a fight, or having to run from one.

            I took my bullying problem to my parents. Their solution was, "Tough it out. Stand up for yourself."

            This was not what I needed.                                                         

            My father said, "Avoid fighting if you can, but if you're pushed or hit, fight back.  You have to defend yourself, and if you do, and get in trouble at school, you won't be in trouble at home. We'll back you, but we, nor your teachers, can fight your fights." 

           I would eventually recognize the wisdom of  those words, but at the moment, I was feeling abandoned.

           "Look," my mother added, "I'm tired of you coming home whining and crying about being roughed up. Next time, the blood on your clothes, had better not be yours."

           "Yes ma'am." You didn't argue with Mama when she got that look in her eye. I knew how to fight, but being small, I didn't. It hurt, but facing my mother would hurt much more.

            She continued, "Anyone who picks on someone because they're smaller, or different, is a bully, and bullies are cowards. Cowards are afraid to be hurt, and if you fight back, you will hurt them, then the bully won't mess with you. When they come at you, and you have to fight, go at them like a banshee from hell, and don't stop until they can't fight.  I promise, you won't be picked on any more."

            I had no idea what a "banshee from hell" was, but I assumed it wasn't any worse than facing Mom when she was mad, so I resolved to stand up to the bullies, and dish out what they served me.

            The chief bully in my life accosted me on the way home from school. I tolerated his knocking my books out of my hands, and the name-calling, but when he kicked me, I turned and charged with fists and feet flailing. He got in a punch or two, but when I kept coming at him, he turned and ran. He ran from little me!

            I was proud, and had some blood on me too.  I thought Mom would be pleased, but when I got in the house, beaming with triumph, she sat me at the kitchen table, and said, "If you ever bully anyone, know that I will be the one doing the beating on you." I had discovered a strength, and was being taught to use it correctly.

            I wasn't bullied anymore that year, and had no fights, but junior high, the next year, was where the problem got out of hand. 

            Over the summer, it seemed that everyone but me grew. On the first day of school, I knew how Jack of beanstalk fame felt in the presence of a giant, except he had only one to deal with. I had hundreds. The older kids looked like grown-ups, and one was. His name was Mike. He was the monster in my nightmare.

            Mike had failed the 9th grade so many times that he was old enough to drive to school. He was what we called a "hood". He was my first encounter with a bad man. He was a bully, and I was his pet hate. Up until now, the bullies in my life had been peers. Mike was no peer. He was a grown man. I was a pre-pubescent boy.

            The abuse at his hands graduated from name-calling, to pushing and punching, to beatings.  It went on for months, and in that time, I lived in terror. I could not make my parents understand that what I was dealing with was not the same as before. Their answer to my pleadings was the same, "Tough it out.  Fight back." How do you fight a monster? I was soon to learn.

            His abuse came to a head one day in the boys' locker room where he accosted me threatening to do horrible things. He had maneuvered me into part of the room that was little used, where my cries for help would go unheard. He backed me into a rack of heavy, wire baskets used to store our clothes. He reached for me, and something snapped. A rage rose in me that I did not know existed. Reaching over my head, I pulled out one of the empty baskets and used it as a weapon.  What I did to him wasn't pretty.

            It happened on a Thursday. Mike didn't come to school on Friday, but he was there on Monday telling all who would listen that he had been in a car wreck. Some believed him, but the truth spread faster, and I wasn't bothered again for a long, long time.

            I was thirteen when that happened, and today, over fifty years later, I am still hurting, not physically, but mentally.  The memories are vivid. 

           If you are in a position to stop, or prevent bullying, do it.  Don't let it go thinking it will resolve itself, or "it's just kids". Bullying leaves wounds that hurt...still. 

The Musings of an Olympics Junky

The Musings of an Olympics Junky

Published August, 2012

            The Olympics have been underway for a week, and I confess, I have watched at least half of NBC's projected 3,500 hours of broadcast.  I'm a sports junky, and the Olympics are the epitome of sport, and I, the junky, am mainlining the event.

            I had planned to work Friday night, but the opening ceremony with the Queen, escorted by James Bond, parachuting into the stadium was too much to miss.  It is so hard to work with the TV on and me in front of it.  What writing I am doing is during commercials, late at night, or early in the morning when there are no broadcasts, but as the week has progressed, even those windows of time have closed due to modern technology that allows me to watch around the clock, or record events when fatigue demands my nightly sacrifice to the sleep gods.

            If you do the math of dividing the broadcast hours by 24, you will find a result of 145.83 days, or 4.8 months.  How can that be?  Easy, there is the broadcast channel, three cable channels, television and cell phone apps, along with live, streaming of events over the internet.  I can watch events live in HD on my phone!  I bet I can get the Olympics over the microwave or refrigerator if I try.  How did I ever think I wouldn't be watching?

            I don't really care about equestrian events, but I watch.  I like the horses, don't care much for the people, but the Royals are in the stands, so that's cool.  Who's the athlete here anyway, the horse, or the rider? 

            Every four years, I swear that I am not going to watch such sports as curling in the Winter Olympics and badminton during the summer games, but when they come on, if there are no other options, I'm watching.  I even watched soccer before the other events started, and as much as it pains me to confess, I enjoyed it.

            We all have our favorites.  Most women and a good number of men love women's gymnastics.  I don't care for it.  I prefer track-and-field because I want an objective outcome as opposed to a subjective one.  I like a clear winner, not a judged one. 

            If you've followed this column, you know that I have written about two sports more than others.  One is in the Olympics, boxing, and one once was, is no longer, but should be, baseball.

            Boxing is subjective, and the scoring is done by people who are either blind, or are selected randomly off the street and are offered ring side seats if they will come in and punch some buttons.  I often wonder if they have ever seen a fight, or are watching the same one I am.  See what I mean about subjective? 

            Would someone please explain to me why air rifle shooting with contraptions that do not even remotely resemble an air rifle, and the shooter who is covered with so much gear you think he might be a Borg from a Star Trek movie, is considered an Olympic sport, and baseball, played by at least half the world, is not?  Really?  Something I did as a kid to break windows and aggravate my parents and neighbors is an Olympic sport, but the other thing that I did all day, breaking windows and aggravating my parents into the night is not in the Olympics?

            Another sport I don't get being in the Olympics is ping-pong, oops, excuse me, table tennis.  Are there more countries in the world that see this as sport rather than baseball?  The game is nothing like we play in the garage unless you have a very large garage, and body armor.  Forest Gump should have run in the Olympics anyway.

            ESPN Sports Science did a piece on table tennis that reported that the ball, when served, arrives at the end of the table in less time than it takes to blink an eye.  To be able to see it, players stand eight feet behind the table to return serve of a tiny, plastic ball that is moving at over a hundred-miles-per-hour.

            I can hear my mother now, "Y'all stop serving that ping-pong ball at over an hundred-miles-per-hour!  You're gonna' put someone's eye out!"  This is the same ball that my dog used to crush in his jaws when we didn't get to it first, and it's going to put my eye out?

            I do believe that doing anything during my childhood, except eating vegetables, was capable of putting out an eye.  Maybe they should have a running with scissors game as part of the Olympics.  It would make as much sense as air rifle shooting with all its fancy visors and mirrors, and scoring would be clear-cut, (get it, scissors, clear-cut), but I am rambling.

            I guess if they had vegetable eating in the Olympics, I'd watch it.  I don't care what the sport is, even team handball which I had never heard of before this year, I want team USA to win, and when we don't, I hurt.  I feel it to be my patriotic duty to cheer our country in every sport, even those that do not make any sense to me.  When I make the sacrifice to watch and cheer, and not work, or stay up too late to work the next day, and get up before dawn to watch more games on four channels, my computer, and my phone, those gals, and guys, had better be winning.

            Oh, excuse me; I must stop.  The commercial is almost over.  Happy obsessive watching to all y'all.

How to Survive a Public Shooting

How to Survive a Public Shooting

Published July, 2012

            With the increasing frequency of public shootings, such as the ones in Tuscaloosa, and Aurora, Colorado, I have become concerned for the safety of my family and myself at crowded, public gatherings.  I have always envisioned these scenarios, wondered what I would do, and have formulated a plan of action.  To me, that is not paranoia, but being prepared, which is key, as any Boy Scout will tell you, for success in any of life's circumstances.

            The possibility of being involved in a public shooting is virtually nil, but these events are happening.  I am going to give you some tips, not as an expert, but as a common sense guy with a strong penchant for survival.

            The first one is something I have hounded the Admiral and Princesses with for years; be aware of your surroundings.  Do not wander about ignorant of what is going on around you, for such makes you a victim.  Observe the people and the place. 

            Note exits wherever you are.  They instruct you on airplanes to "make a note of your nearest exit", for a reason.  Make it a habit.         

            While making note of exits, observe any obstacles that may slow you getting out.  It may be faster, and safer to take an exit that is further away.  When a life-threatening event occurs, time is critical, and seconds can mean the difference between being a victim, or a survivor.

            In a crowd, keep your head up and look around.  Observe the people, particularly those observing you.  Make eye contact with them and let them know you see them.  Don't be confrontational, but criminals are cowards and are looking for weakness.  If they know you are watching them, you have communicated that you will not be an easy mark. 

            Look for people acting different than the situation would dictate.  At a late night movie premier, the atmosphere is loud and boisterous with lots of smiles, laughter, and costumes, whereas at a church or worship gathering, the behavior will be quiet reverence.  If you see someone in either situation not blending, acting nervous, or agitated, watch them.  They may be having a bad day, or are nervous in new surroundings or crowds, but whatever the case, forewarned is forearmed, and if necessary, take action. 

            What action do you take?  Above all, don't panic.  As they teach in scuba classes, when something goes wrong, stop, think, then act.  A person in full panic, running, waving their arms, screaming wild eyed for an exit, may as well have a target painted on their back.  You only have split seconds when something like a public shooting happens, and again, what you do in those precious moments can be the difference between being a survivor, or a victim.

            If you are near an exit, and far enough from the shooter when gunfire breaks out, and you can get out with those who are with you, get out.  How far is far enough away from the shooter?  That is a judgment call.  If I am more than five steps from an exit, there is a crowd between the exit and me, or I cannot get those I am responsible for out with me, I am not going.

            The thing they drill into you in infantry training, and in combat, is, "Get down, and stay down!"  Running routes are easy for a shooter to figure out especially if you are in a panic.  The human eye is attuned to motion, so once down, and concealed, stay still!  Unless you can get yourself, and those with you unobserved to a safer point, you are better off where you are. 

             When you go down, get as low as you can, and seek solid cover, something that will stop a bullet.  If you are caught in the open, lie flat and make yourself as small a target as possible, and DO NOT MOVE!  If possible, keep your eyes open and watch the shooter.  You may have the opportunity to take further action.

            There are exceptions to the not moving rule, but they come with risk.  If you are secure, call the police.  There may have been a hundred calls made, but you may be the person who is calm enough, and in a place where you can make observations that will be helpful to first responders.  Making this call can save the lives of those within, and without.

            If you and those with you are safe, aid the wounded.  Do what you can with what you have.  This is where first aid training will save lives.  Take a course, now.  Be prepared.

            At some point, a shooter will have to stop to reload, or to draw another weapon, or he may turn his back to you.  You will have a second or two to act when their attention is diverted.  If you need to move, now is the time.  If you have the training, or a weapon of your own, attack the shooter.  You will be in a crowd, and if you act, so will others, but above all else, you are to survive and to save as many around you as possible.  If you cannot eliminate the shooter, or don't want to take the chance, the aid you render to those near you is just as valuable. 

            Your chances of survival are much higher if you will use the one weapon we all carry with us, our brains.  If you will stop, think, then act, not react, your chances of survival in any disaster are significantly higher.

            Some of you may be thinking to stay home rather than risking exposure in a large gathering, don't.  When you do, the bad guys win.  Go forth, enjoy life, but as you should in every situation, be prepared.

Reflections on the Clothesline

Published June, 2012

            I remember "laundry day" from when I was a little boy, and I don't miss it.  Monday was the day to do the dreaded chore, and that seemed the norm for most families.  Oh, how we prayed in church on Sunday for rain on Monday, because if it rained, we couldn't do laundry, because you see, we had a clothesline. 

            My sister and I were POLs, Prisoners of Laundry, for the entire day.  Washing of the clothes was well under way before us kids got out of bed, and as soon as breakfast was done, we were outside getting the clothesline ready to accept the hanging.  We got the clothespins down from the wall on the back porch where they hung in a bag sewed from mattress ticking, and carried them out to the line.  This was a misnomer, because it wasn't a line, it was several.

            Our clotheslines, four of them, were strung between two "T"s made of welded, three inch, pipe.  They were at least eight feet tall.  It was my job to take a ladder and a wet rag and wipe the wires used for lines.  In west Texas, where sand storms were the norm rather than the exception, this was a necessity, or you would end up with brown strips on whatever you hung on the line.  I enjoyed this job.  When I had reached as far as I could on the wire, I would grab it with both hands and swing like Tarzan to the ground, and then move the ladder.  My father, who had to tighten the lines, frowned on this, so I made sure that mama wasn't looking before I did it.

            As I grew older, so did my involvement in hanging the clothes.  My sister and I would carry #10 washtubs of wet laundry to the lines, and, under the direction of mama, we would hang clothes.  There were rules to this, and they were precise.

            Clothes were hung in a certain order, and to this day, I do the whites first.  Sheets and towels were hung on the outside lines so that the neighbors, or a stranger passing by, could not view the unmentionables hung on the inner lines.  Heaven help us if anyone knew we wore underwear.

            You hang socks by the toes, not the tops, pants by the cuffs, not the waistbands, and you never, never hang a shirt by the shoulders, always by the tails.  If you didn't, you would have to go back and re-hang them so that there wouldn't be pinch marks showing on daddy's shirts.

            We were required to be efficient in our use of clothespins.  We always overlapped an item with the previous one, and used one pin to hold both.  This also had rules.  You never hung a colored item with a white one.  You hung reds with reds, and all the other colors together.  Dante, and Milton haven't a clue as to what hell is like until you hang a red sock with one of daddy's white, dress shirts and it bleeds a pink spot onto it.  Hell smells like bleach as you scrub the stain out, and the odor is in your skin for days.

            It mattered not a hoot to my mother if it was freezing out, we hung the clothes anyway.  I think she preferred it.  On those days, I learned the phrase "freeze dried".  We would take the clothes off the line, shake them out to get rid of any ice crystals, and lay them neatly in the tubs to carry back in the house.

            Folding the sheets was mama's job, because we were not tall enough, but we were warned, "Your day is coming, watch how I do it," and it was magical.  The sheets were hung over the line length wise, and she would fold the sheet on the line back on itself, and continue to do so until it was a perfect, folded square, and it never touched the ground.

            Laundry day rules required that all the clothes be off the line, folded, ironed, and put away before dinner.  The pins were not to be left on the lines.  That was considered very tacky.

            Looking at a neighbor's clothesline was almost as good as looking through their window.  There were no secrets when you hung out the clothes.  If there were more sheets than usual, or they were out on a day other than Monday, mama knew someone was sick, and would take over some soup, and bring back a load of laundry for us to do.

            Diapers or tiny clothes announced the birth of a baby.  Hanging the fancy sheets and towels told that company was in town.  You could tell the ages of the children by looking at the clothesline, and mama, when house shopping, would always go on a Monday to find a neighborhood with children the same age as my sister and I.

            A bare line on Monday meant that the family was out of town.  When they came back, it was sagging with the weight of all the clothes dirtied while they were gone.

            I miss the clothesline…almost.  I don't miss the work, but I miss the tradition, and playing hide-n-seek, and tag, up and down the rows as mother struggled to hang stuff while we played.  It makes me smile and laugh to remember.  I also miss the smell of sun and wind dried clothes.  I loved to run head long into a dry sheet and take a deep breath as it wrapped around me.

But clotheslines now are of the past,

For dryers make work much less.

Now what goes on inside a home,

Is anybody's guess!

I really miss that way of life,

It was a friendly sign 

When neighbors knew each other best...

By what hung out on that line.

                                    Author Unknown

A Fine and Pleasant Misery

Published April, 2012

            I have borrowed Patrick McManus' title to his book on the joys of camping because I couldn't think of a more appropriate phrase to describe what I have been through.  I spent three days and two nights in the woods of Blakeley State Park with the Princesses and thirteen of their closest friends for a church girl's camp.  From the moment of temporary insanity when I agreed to be the male presence for this activity, I began to dread it.

            I am no new-kid-on-the-block when it comes to camping.  If you added up all my days I've spent in the out-of-doors, sleeping in the woods, deserts, and mountains of our earth, they would total more than a couple of years, but I have never spent one like this.

            Some camping trips are pure misery, while others are fine and pleasant.  This one was both, and they all may be, but this campout is worthy of note.

            This trip represented the first time in almost nine years that I had put up a tent.  It had never bothered me to throw down a sleeping pad and sleep like a baby on the ground, but that was almost a decade ago, and things about my body don't bend and fold like they once did.  Getting down isn't much of a problem since it is aided by gravity, but please, explain to me what made that same gravitational force multiply in the night to where it takes a crane to get me off the ground?  I get ahead of myself.

            The weather for the day of the trip called for rain in the morning, clear for afternoon departure, which caused great jubilation in my heart, as there is nothing more miserable than setting up camp in the rain.  My rejoicing was premature.

            We arrived in great, beaming sunshine.  Everyone, even I, the curmudgeon, was delighted.  We took all the gear off the truck, spread it out in preparation of setting it up, and the rains came, soaking everything.  My heart and several other organs sunk.  Let the misery begin.

            My mistake was that I helped set up the other tents first.  Guess whose was the only one on the ground, flat and open, when the sky opened up?  Yep, mine.

            Wet and I do not get along, especially while attempting to sleep.  I threw down my tent poles in disgust and went to sit in the cab of my truck.  To their credit, the Princesses tried to help, but wet is wet, and no amount of youthful exuberance will dry me out physically, or spiritually.  I pouted until the rain stopped.

            I attempted to back my truck, with the tailgate down, closer to my campsite.  The windows were fogged, at least that is my excuse, and I backed the truck smack into a tree, ruining the tailgate.  I put my head down on the steering wheel and tried to imagine the trip getting any worse, and tried to think of a plan by which I could go home.  I came up with no plan, and things got worse.

            I was soaking wet from sweating in my rain gear, which I opted to be out of to be soaked from the dripping trees, but at least I was cooler while being miserable.  I managed to get the tent up, the floor mopped up with the only towel I brought, and get my bed set up.

            For this campout, I was going to sleep four inches above the ground.  I brought a queen-sized, inflatable mattress.  At least I would be sleeping damp on a soft mattress, rather than on the hard ground.  The added height would aid me in rising in the morning.  I could roll over and fall to my knees instead of struggling up from flat on my back.

            When it came time to turn in, I was quite smug, knowing the other leaders would be envious of me.  I didn't say anything, but I felt superior, and was anxious for a good night's sleep.  I undressed, unzipped my damp sleeping bag, and started to lie down.  I didn't make it.

            The mattress had deflated since I had set it up.  It had a leak.  I wasn't feeling so smug as I calculated that it was near 11:00 PM, and the mattress had deflated over a period of near eight hours.  If I reinflated, I would have a like number of hours of comfort.   As dawn approached, I would once again be on a squishy cushion of air, I figured it wouldn't be too bad.  I figured wrong.

            With my added weight, air was forced out of the leak, and by 2:00 AM, I was sleeping with my torso on the ground and my feet elevated, the remaining air being squeezed to the lighter end of the cursed mattress.  I determined that sleeping flat on the hard ground was preferable to this, and pulled the plug to let the remaining air out.  Again, I was wrong.  I was damp, cold, and aching.  It was a fine and pleasant misery.

            The morning dawned bright and beautiful.  I cooked my blueberry pancakes and sausage over and open fire, and started a new day.  I was tired, my truck was broken, and I had only the hard ground to look forward to, but the sun was out, the girls were happy, and I was to lead a hike of over five miles.

            When we got back, the Admiral had sent another ground pad, the tent and sleeping bag were dry, and things were looking up.  I was tired from the hike, but the girls had enjoyed it, no one was lost, or broken, and not many bitten.

            The campout had shifted its focus from "misery", to "fine and pleasant", and I was reminded of something I had preached during our travels, "The only difference between an adventure and an ordeal is attitude."  I need to work on the "fine and pleasant" within me for next decade's campout

The Day Has Come and Gone, and I Am Still Here

Published 7/20/12

            I have quirks and eccentricities, as we all do.  I have never denied or hidden mine, but some I have not acknowledged except to those closest to me.  Herein, I celebrate the passing of one such quirk, or, some might say, phobia.  It has been with me for almost twenty-three years, but it has run its course, expired, is no longer valid or useful.  It is gone, over, finished, and I am done with it.  Well, sort of.  July 11^th marked its end.  On that day, I had been alive on this earth, one day longer than my mother was.  That day has haunted me since she died.

            Losing a parent, or any loved one for that matter, is not an easy thing.  Such an event serves as a glaring reminder of our mortality.  Even if we are familiar with death, due to war, sickness, accident, or any form of demise, the death of a parent signals to us that the previous generation is expiring, and shouts, "Hey, you're next in line." 

            There is no logic to my unusual attachment to the time of my mother's passing.  I am an educated man of some intelligence, although there are those who would argue otherwise, thus it is assumed that I could, or would, reason that my mother's death is uniquely hers, and mine is in no way attached to, or influenced by her passing.  That would be reasonable, but emotions often rule my thinking.    

            It is observed by the family that I favor my mother.  I was slight of build as a child, as was she, fair, not dark like my father, Germanic, not English, aggression from both sides, and the list goes on.  If I favor her in life, why not death?      

            I am attached to her, as well as to my living father who will be 89 this year.  I share twenty-three chromosomes from each.  It is logical and reasonable that I could live to be as old as my father is, or older, but emotion allows me to think that the things that have happened to them, could, or will happen to me.  If we inherit all we are, eye and hair color, stature, intelligence, predilection for diseases, and longevity, why not timeliness of significant life, or death events?

            So it is, that with all this reasoning, whether intellectual, or emotional, that I have both anticipated and dreaded my sixty-fourth year.  It has come and gone now by a month, a week, and several days.  I have overcome the genetic tendency on my mother's side, where the females' lives are notoriously short, and now look forward to becoming an octogenarian…at least.

            What does all this mean?  I don't know.  It isn't logical to think that anyone of us is attached that closely to another, yet, I wonder.  Do we inherit addictive tendencies such as drug and alcohol abuse, or anger as opposed to passivity?  Are those traits inherited, or learned, or some of each?       

            Some have proposed that we inherit fears and attitudes.  In a book by a prominent minister, the story is related of a boy who had an unreasonable fear of school.  He had been a well-adjusted child with normal growth and learning, but when it came time for him to start school, he was terrified beyond the normal fear of going into a new situation.  He could not make it through a day, and often, could not even get to school.

            The parents and teachers, along with counselors and psychiatrists worked for months with no improvement.  All were baffled until one day, the father of the boy was relating to his own father the problem they were having.  The grandfather then told the family of an incident in his early childhood related to a school bully, which caused him great fear until it was resolved.  With this information, the mental health professionals were able to treat the boy who went on to have a successful school experience.  Was this fear of school passed on, skipping a generation, and if so, how?

            I do not know the answers to any of this.  You can see where reason and logic have gotten me.  I am sure that my time here is uniquely mine, and although tied somehow to those who have gone on before me, I cannot add to, nor diminish it by any thought or action on my part.

            I saw a phrase on a t-shirt in the gym long ago.  It read, "Eat right, run far, lift heavy, die anyway."  There is great truth in that comedic effort.  We can prevent some diseases by proper diet and exercise, and by taking care of our bodies, maybe prolong our days, but the message was not concerning quantity of life, it was about quality.

            None of us knows when we are going to depart this world.  I have spent twenty-three years with this nagging little doubt, far back in my mind that I would not live longer than my mother.  I haven't belabored it, or been obsessed with it, but it has been there.  I have learned one thing from this that we all already know, and that is that any day, any moment, could be our last.  That, combined with the saying on the t-shirt, have made me realize that it is the quality of our days, not the quantity, that we should focus on, and that I should live every day as if it were my last by pouring everything I can into it. 

            That sure puts the twenty games of Solitaire I played before, and during the writing of this piece in a different light, doesn't it?  Live on, and live well, for life is before you, not behind.

An Evening with Mark Twain

This is an old one, but one of my favorites.

I was asleep; at least it felt like sleep.  I was awake too.  I was not dreaming. 

I sat up and standing at the foot of my bed was a man dressed in a white suit with an unruly head of hair the color of the suit.  He was smallish, and had a mustache that covered his upper lip.  I could smell cigar smoke.  Training and practice dictated that I reach for a weapon, but something stopped me.  It didn’t seem right to shoot Mark Twain.

I laughed at the thought of shooting a dead man.  He smiled at my laughter as if we had shared a joke.   I then thought, “What do you do with a dead man in your room?”  I laughed, and again, he joined me.

Since it was clear that killing him was futile, I determined to talk to him.  “What are you doing here?”

“You invited me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye that told me he knew more about the situation than I did.

“I did not,” was my brilliant retort.

He smiled again, reached into his right suit pocket, and took out an apple.  I watched as he turned it in his hand.  It looked solid.  I couldn’t look through it and see his hand as if it was a ghost apple, nor could I see the apple through his fingers. 

Mr. Twain, then put his left hand into his pants pocket and took out a small penknife.  As he opened the knife’s blade, he spoke, “You were reading Letters from the Earth, and you called me.”  I did not speak, having sounded dumb enough with my first attempt.  He nodded, “You said, ‘I wish I could meet the mind who wrote this’, so here I am.”

“Nice to meet you.”  I said, “Nice to meet you”!  How lame?  I embarrass myself.  To recover, I added, “I love your War Prayer.”  Another smile.   

My attention was drawn back to the apple because his was.  I watched as he started to cut it.  I had always seen and cut an apple on its north-south axis, into slices, removed the core and ate them.  Mr. Twain was cutting the apple around its girth.

The apple spun deftly in his hands as the small blade incised an arc through the heart of the fruit.  He split it, and held two halves, one in each hand.  I smelled fresh apple in the room over the fading cigar smoke.  He held the two halves, fruit side out for me to see. 

There were two stars, one in either half.  I had never known that splitting an apple that way would reveal stars and was delighted with the discovery. 

I looked at him smiling.  The twinkle in my eye matched his as he said, “Look beyond what you know and see the stars.  Things are not as they seem.”  He then took a bite of one-half and held the other toward me.  I reached for it, but as I did, he faded and was gone. 

I got up, raced to the kitchen and grabbed an apple, ran back to my room, got my knife and cut the apple as Mark Twain had done, looked at the stars, laughed, took a bite and swore I smelled cigar smoke. 

You may say the visit was not real, and you may be right, but I know this, things are not always as they seem.  If you look into the heart, you might find stars.

A Writing Class

I am taking a writing class.  Some of you reading this are saying, "It's about time."  Others of you are asking, "Why?"  In answer to both the statement and the question, I offer this, I am taking it to learn. 

I do this once, or twice a year, take a class, or attend a writer's conference.  It is great fun when I speak, or teach, because I learn by doing so, but I always try to attend other sessions because in my experience, everyone, and I mean every individual in that class, or session knows something I do not.  If you think about it, that is very exciting. 

In a previous life, I taught automotive technology, and I had done the same classes so many times, I could do them without notes.  I really knew the stuff, and it had become a challenge to teach these classes because it was becoming mundane.  There was a point that I thought I just might know it all.  Wrong, I knew very little.  If I listened, the individual in class who had the least experience always knew something I did not, or had forgotten.  The key word is, listen.

If there are ten people in the class, then there are ten things in that room that I do not know.  The trick is to get the things I don't know out of the ones who do.  How, do you do that?  You get them to talk, but since it is a writing class/conference, you first get them to write.  Writers love to write, or they wouldn't be writers.  The saying is that writers live to write, while authors write to live.  I guess I am both, but whichever the case, I need to learn.

A writing class is to write, so this column is part of the class.  I will turn it in as an assignment, killing two birds with this stone.  You will see what the class gave me, and what I learned in two days.

Dr. Kevin Rabas was the guest lecturer for, as he labeled it, the Intensive Creative Writing Workshop, offered by the University of South Alabama, Baldwin County, and I do mean intensive.  The term "lecturer" is a real misnomer.  Kevin was more of a masterful drill instructor as he led us from one creative exercise to another.  There was much time allowed for sharing and discussion, but when it was time to move on, we moved.

The class was challenged to write in multiply genres including poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, flash fiction, play writing, and the writing of plays for the screen.  No genre was left unexplored.  I found myself, whose taste in poetry runs more to the, "Roses are red, violets are blue…" class, tempted into wanting to try my hand at free verse.  I have not, not yet, but I am tempted.

I did learn where a short story or two of mine could be adapted to ten-minute plays.  I've never considered such before, but now I am an aspiring playwright to go along with being an aspiring columnist, and novelist, and let us not forget poet.

There were eight in the class, which was a surprise to me that so few would take advantage of such a wonderful opportunity right here in Baldwin County.  The real surprise was that of the eight, four others were my age, or older.  I had expected a much younger crowd, but the vast and diverse pool of experience from those who have live life, loved, and lost, was something we all gained from swimming in.

The class being small was to my advantage, because it allowed for much sharing of written work and critique from fellow students.  These sessions were the real pearl of the oyster for me.  This is where I gained my desired diamonds of wisdom from everyone, and I did.  When I wasn't flapping my gums about my work, knowledge gained from writing and life's challenges poured from my fellow students. 

It is hard to write and not put some of you into every piece, it just kind of flakes off like DNA at a crime scene.  Our writing leaves bits and pieces of who we are scattered wherever we are read.  Souls were bared and experiences shared, and we were all strengthened by having come together and shared ourselves.  I came out feeling enriched and rejuvenated.

There were only two men in the class, which, I thought at first, said that women were more creative than men are, but as I re-think it, I'm guessing that women are more willing to share their life's experiences than men. That is such a shame, because we all have a story to tell.

My first novel, Where the Mockingbird Sang, exist because my great-great-grandfather kept journals.  He told his story.  If he had not thought it worth telling, our family would have been deprived of a wealth of family history, and our getting to know him. 

We ALL have a story to tell…tell it.  It doesn't have to be published, but it needs to be told.  Someday, you too will have great-great-grand children.  Will they know who you were?  Not if you don't write it down.  Tell us your story, enrich us…we're waiting.

My Life Revolves Around a Refigerator

An appliance controls my life.  I am so ashamed, but it is not because I can’t stay away from it, it is because I rely on it.

           Sunday afternoon, during a nice chin-on-chest nap in front of the television, the Norse god Thor with his hammer paid a visit to the internal workings of the refrigerator compressor.  It was a gosh awful racket that got the reposed Admiral off her favorite recliner to run to the kitchen, push me aside, grab the offending appliance, and shake it while yelling, "What's wrong with you?"   

       We say the strangest things when jolted from a deep sleep, and I only tell this embarrassing moment, which she will deny, because her actions and words set the tone for the coming week.  I did not know my life revolved around the refrigerator, but I was soon to learn.    

      The first thing to do was to get all the food out of the dead fridge's freezer.  The chest freezer is full to the brim, making me wonder how it is that we never have anything to eat around here.  Maybe if the Admiral bought more chocolate doughnuts and diet Dr. Pepper, and less good-for-you-stuff, we'd have room.     

     The freezer in the "Dr. Pepper" fridge (I don't drink, so it can't be a beer fridge) in the garage is stuffed too, so break out the ice chests.  We have two very good ones that keep ice and food cold for five days.  "We won't need that," I tell myself, "we'll have a new refrigerator on Monday, Tuesday at the latest."  Ha!  How can someone my age be so naïve?     

     Monday, I determined that fixing the old refrigerator, would cost an arm, but if I added only one leg, I could have a new one, so I started to shop.  I was confident that we would have a new refrigerator by Tuesday, and I could put my diet Dr Pepper back into its designated unit in the garage.  Hope springs eternal.  Ha!  I scoff at thee, thou gullible fool!

      I begin to shop websites.  You must be kidding me!  Whatever happened to the $500 ones?  To get one the size I want, with the features I am convinced are necessary for survival, such as through the door ice and water, I will have to pay an arm and a leg-and-a-half.  It took me a few minutes of ranting and raging, but the more I surfed, the more I knew that would be the price.  I was willing and still hopeful for Tuesday, maybe Wednesday.  Ha!  I declare again.     

       I found the one I wanted, so off I went to the store.  To my surprise, they had it, and the price was the same as the internet price.     

     "I want this one," I told the smiling, prepubescent clerk as I wondered how someone yet to shave could know anything about refrigerators, but then I've been shaving for over fifty years, and I don't know anything about most things.     

     "That's the first one you’ve looked at," he said.     

     "Yes," I replied, "this is man-shopping." 

      He looked at me funny. 

      "You see what you want; you buy it and go home."  I could tell he wasn't married.  "You'll understand someday." 

      He smiled weakly, and we went to check out.     

      As he was doing his magic in the computer, I asked, "Do you have one still in the box?"    

      "No, we'll have to have it shipped from our warehouse."     

     "O.k., I'll take the one on the floor."     

     "I can't do that.  If it was a close out item I could, but we're selling a lot of this model."     

     "How can you be selling a lot of this model, and not have one in stock?"    

      "We don't keep an inventory of large items.  They all come from our warehouse."    

      Tuesday isn't going to happen, and Wednesday is a fading possibility, but I ask, "Can you deliver it?"     

     "Yes sir, let me check a date for you."     

     "I can tell you the date, it’s tomorrow."    

      He reddened as he tapped keys, ignoring me.

      I sighed and groaned.     

     "What was that?"  He asked.     

     "That was the sound of hope for Wednesday leaving the building."  He didn't get it and I didn’t explain. 

     "We can deliver it Friday," he said, triumphantly.    

      I stared at him in shock.  It is Monday and I have to live until Friday without a refrigerator?  The gods laugh and mock me!  It was at that moment that I realized how an appliance controls my life.     

     The days until Friday were filled with longing, worry, and confusion.  I would forget, and go to the dead, empty unit with my glass for ice and water.  It's silence mocked me too.  Really, am I supposed to drink iceless, unfiltered tap water?  The indignity of it, and to top it off, all the diet Dr. Pepper was sitting on the floor of the garage, hot.  My heart aches for electrically generated, refrigerated air contained in a box.     

     Friday arrived and I sprang out of bed like a kid at Christmas.  The promised delivery time of 9:30AM was still hours away, but I was ready.  I had the mocking victim of Thor pulled out ready to haul off, the space for the new unit was cleaned and scrubbed, and a new water line was made ready.  I paced the floor.    

      I was so nervous.  It was like a first date.  "Will the new unit like me?"  I wondered.  "I hope she's as pretty as the pictures." 

      The designated time arrived.  The old unit was taken away, and the new one installed.  What a magic moment for me when the technician plugged it in and I could hear the quiet hum.  I nearly wept, I tell you.     

     Like a schoolboy with a new toy, I stood in front of it, running glass after glass of water through the filter to clean it out as instructed.  An hour or so later, I heard the first ice cubes hit the bottom of the tub and I shouted for joy.  Another hour passed and the wonderful sound of complete silence fell over the kitchen as my new refrigerator cycled off.  It was now cold enough to accept food.     

     I ran and emptied the bottom shelf of the garage refrigerator, rushed the stuff into the new one.  Next, the Dr. Peppers on the floor went into their proper place.  The freezer stuff in the ice chests was next, and the world began, once again, to go around in greased grooves. 

    What is wrong with me, why all this anxiety over a refrigerator?  What would happen to me if the car died?  Well, that's why I have two.  Maybe I should have three refrigerators.