ARCHIVES – 2011
Thoughts, musings, rambles, nonsense . . .
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
A couple of weeks ago we had our first book reading and signing. The book was
The Snowman Uprising on Hickory Lane, and the location was The Storiebook Café in Glen Rose, Texas. LeAnn did the reading because she knows how to capture the attention of listeners, and I did the signing because I did the writing. I’m pleased to report that we sold one book – to a woman who sat right up front with a dog in her lap. She said she loved the story and was going to read the book to her family that very night.
In case you’re thinking that selling one book makes the effort a bust, that is not the case at all. It was a fun day trip with LeAnn and her parents, Storie and her family and friends were wonderful hosts, and somewhere out there a woman with a dog named Isabella is sharing the story.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I love our new house, even though it’s not anywhere near being finished. And what I love specifically today is the attic and crawl space. Call it a “guy thing,” or perhaps more accurately “a guy who hasn’t grown up thing,” but I love these spaces that are hidden from view and feel like secret towers or caves.
My fascination with attics and crawl spaces dates back to childhood. Our suburban homes with their low-pitch roofs didn’t have attics to speak of, but my grandparents had friends with a big old house that had a pull-down attic stair leading to a big room that seemed to be a thousand feet above the earth and full of treasures and secrets. When we visited, we’d ask “can we go in the attic?” and they’d accommodate us. Imagine that .
Our suburban homes had slab foundations, but what they didn’t have in crawl spaces was made up for by a big, walkable storm water pipe accessible from a high railroad grade running through the neighborhood. I remember a few expeditions that felt like we were going deep down into the center of the earth guided by flashlights and vivid imaginations. (Kids, please don’t try this. Seriously.)
This thirst for adventure came around again in the spring of my sophomore year at Baylor, when a bunch of us guys from Kokernot Hall set out to explore the steam tunnels that connected a lot of the buildings. We found an unlocked door and steps that led down to the tunnels connecting the newer buildings on the northwest side of campus. We trudged down miles and miles (so it seemed) of clean concrete tunnels with pipes and cables bolted to walls and ceilings, only to find iron gates blocking our passage into the basements of buildings, including the girls’ dorms. When we’d spelunked all of the new tunnels, we crawled through a manhole in the middle of the old campus and into the ancient tunnels there, but we didn’t go far because it was dark and muddy. The tunnels in “The Great Escape” were more spacious.
But then one great night, a classmate and I walked through a door, climbed some stairs, scaled a ladder, opened a hatch, and found ourselves on top of the tower of Old Main. We sat up there for a few minutes and enjoyed a pigeon-eyed view of Baylor. (Students, please don’t try this – and certainly don’t talk about this – until you have transcripts firmly in hand. Seriously. I’ve waited 30 years to confess.)
Back to the new house: From a practical perspective, I love the freshness and cleanliness of our new attic because I know I’ll have to go up there to change filters and bring down Christmas decorations. And I may have to go under the house someday to check on whatever needs checking. My previous house, built in 1949, had an attic and crawl space that were apparently designed by trolls for the exclusive use of trolls. I dreaded the monthly climb into the attic to change the filter because I had to do the high hurdles over ductwork and the limbo under rafters – simultaneously – to get to the HVAC unit. What’s more, there were a thousand ways to get hurt up there with loose rock wool insulation, frayed wires and ancient building materials piled around. And the crawl space was well named because it required a belly crawl to get around, which I did a couple of times. It’s no wonder that the foundation repair company sent skinny boys under there to hammer in shims. And the two plumbers who crawled in one day with pipe and blow torches to fix a leak? They deserve medals for bravery and flexibility. And also for not burning down the house!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Once again the Christmas celebration began way too early in my opinion. I heard Brenda Lee singing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” at a store in mid-November. And Thanksgiving week I heard the radio commercial suggesting that I buy a loved one a star from the International Star Registry. I think I’ll pass, since nobody on the planet really has the rights to the heavenly bodies. (And if you believe they do, then perhaps you'd like to buy a grain of sand from my International Sand Registry. I've got all the best beaches covered!)
Now that's it actually December, there’s no need to hold back the holiday wave, but I can still be choosy about how I celebrate and what I recommend to others. And in that spirit, I’d like to recommend two concerts:
Classic Christmas Carols
Lakeshore Symphonic Winds with the Rowlett Community Chorale
Friday, Dec. 2, 7:30 p.m.
St. Mark the Evangelist Catholic Church, 1201 Alma, Plano
$5 Admission
Emmanuel Shall Come
Wilshire Wind Symphony with Wilshire's Pastoral Residents
Sunday, Dec 11, 6:30 p.m.
Wilshire Baptist Church, 4316 Abrams, Dallas
Both of these wind ensembles feature a unique blend of musicians: students, music educators, amateurs, professionals. And both groups are directed by James Feltenberger.
Come enjoy a night – or two – of great holiday music!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
It’s a good thing that I like the sound of trains, because our current and future homes are in the middle of the action.
As I write this, every five minutes or so I hear a DART train arriving or departing from the Downtown Garland Station. It’s mostly a rushing sound with the occasional clatter of steel wheels on steel rails and a toot of the whistle. With the blinds open, I can see the trains gliding just 100 feet away. My job at DART headquarters in downtown Dallas prepared me for this because I sat at a fourth floor window right above Akard Station. The sound of the trains and their bells was constant, augmented by the occasional blast of the horn when a car or pedestrian was straddling the tracks.
When we move to our new house in the spring, we’ll no longer hear the DART trains but we’ll hear the freight trains on one of several rail lines that cut through downtown Garland. A neighbor there told me that the freight trains are not allowed to blow their horns at night, but I’ve heard them so apparently he is wrong or the railroads didn’t get the news. That’s okay with me because I like the sound of a locomotive horn wailing late at night – especially right after the horn stops when you can hear the echo hanging in the air. For that millisecond, it sounds like eternity.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The 30-year reunion of the Baylor University Class of 1981 wasn’t the big blowout celebration that it could have been, but looking at the other classes celebrating their 10, 15, 20, 25 and up reunions, that seems to be the way it goes. Folks are just too busy with their after-college lives to break away for a walk down memory lane. Case in point: Three people that I had extended conversations with were juggling the reunion events with the extra-curricular school activities of their children. So the decision for many people was between reliving their past, which they actually can do at any time, or witnessing the “right now” of their children, which happens just once.
Still, I’m glad we went even if just to have those few conversations. Interestingly, we didn’t talk about the way things were back then; we talked about what we’re doing now. That’s the thing about relationships: while they’re often forged during life-changing events like college, the good ones keep moving forward. And that’s important because you can’t live in the past even if you try.
Before I left Waco and moved to Dallas, when all the friends and camaraderie were gone, I took one last long stroll around the campus. I wanted to have that collegiate feeling one more time. I knew that as often as I might visit in the future, it would never be “home” again. As it happens, the university is in lock-down and you can’t visit most of the halls and corners that shaped your education and your friendships. I don’t know if that is just a post-9/11 reality or because the buildings are full of so much expensive technology. It’s probably a little bit of both.
This time we did get to visit the journalism department for a reception, and that allowed a peak into the newsroom where I helped produce the daily newspaper for two years. Except for carpet and more sophisticated computers, the room hasn’t changed much. The biggest thing missing is the black AP wire machine. It was a constant presence in the old days, clattering out the national news long before we had the Internet. It had a bell that rang when something extraordinary happened – like on March 31, 1981, when President Reagan was shot. Thanks to the wire machine, we got the news at the exact same moment that they did in newsrooms from coast to coast.
And for the first time in years, I got to go inside Kokernot Hall where I lived in the same first-floor room for two years. I was hoping to be able to knock on the door and take a peek, but when I walked down the hall and turned the corner, the rest of the hallway was blocked off. The entire wing had been transformed into a faculty residence. It’s just as well, because without turning the corner and seeing Ken, Brett, Keith, Toby, Russ, Houston, Roy, David, Kirk and Blake, it would have been an empty experience.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Everyone in North Texas can thank LeAnn and me for the nice rain we’ve been getting. After two months of severe drought, it rained two inches on the day that the foundation company was scheduled to begin drilling piers for our new house. After letting things dry out – and pumping 10 inches of water out of the middle of the lot – they got the work done. Then framing for the foundation beams began, and we got another inch or two, along with hail and high wind (or was it hell and high water?). We figure that building a house is like washing a car to the 1000th power in terms of attracting rain. So, you can thank us for that. In fact, we already have a mailbox at the lot where you can send your thank-you notes. We’ll post the address as soon as the mud dries so that we can get to the box.
Speaking of rain, here’s some interesting trivia: Seattle, famous for it’s damp weather, gets on average 36.2 inches of rain per year. Dallas, known for its hot and dry summers, gets 34.7 inches of rain per year. The difference is that in Seattle the rain is distributed year-round by misters, while in Dallas it’s delivered a couple of times a year in buckets.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Miscellaneous notes from moving:
• Today is the first day in two weeks that I haven’t built a box, filled a box, lifted a box, carried a box, opened a box or nudged a box. It’s a great day!
• There’s a reason most moving companies employ young, 20-something-year-old men to do the heavy lifting. Every bone and muscle in my body aches. Most notably, I’ve stretched the tendon behind my right elbow. It hurts when I do simple things like bend my arm to brush my teeth. And when I lift a cup of coffee, I have to use both hands to get it to my mouth. I know it will heal because I messed up the same tendon in June when I moved my own house into storage.
• In the rush to vacate LeAnn’s house, we left behind her refrigerator and had to go back and get it. I’ve said more about that in my Sept. 27 submission to the Wilshire Blog (click it on my home page).
• One of the final acts of our move was taking two loads of trash to the city dump. To borrow from a TV ad for Six Flags amusement parks: “Going to the dump . . . no fun, NO FLAGS!!”
• We’ve been beset with mosquitoes in the new apartment, and I believe they came in with the house plants we brought with us that had been on LeAnn’s back patio. While it was still cool out this morning, I walked a couple of blocks to Roach Feed and Seed and got some indoor bug spray. That seems to be working. Then I walked to the bank to make a deposit, and from there I could see two blocks over to the street where we’re building our house. On the way back to the apartment, I stopped at a sandwich shop and picked up a biscuit and sausage for breakfast. I’m liking this walkable lifestyle.
• Right outside our apartment windows, we can see the Garland Public Library, where LeAnn had her first full-time job, and the DART Rail tracks, where I had my last full-time job. Life does cycle in interesting ways!
• As I did when I moved out of my house in June, LeAnn put her keys and garage door openers on the kitchen counter, then she pressed the garage door button one last time and raced out into the driveway as the door came down. There was no going back inside. She was leaving a past full of memories. But I was standing there, ready to receive her in my arms as together we make new memories.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
How many times can a person move in a 12-month period? They can move as many times as they wish. There are no legal limits. The bigger question is how many times can a person move and retain their sanity. I'm aiming for four: selling my house and moving in with friends while waiting to get married - check!; getting married and moving in with LeAnn - done!; selling LeAnn's house and moving into an apartment - that's what we're doing this weekend; and moving to a new house when it is built . . . stay tuned.
All of this moving is not without stress . . . but it also holds opportunities to prioritize, downsize, exercize, even philosophize. Hopefully we won't have to hospitalize!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
You could almost hear the drumrolls building recently as North Texas got closer to breaking the record set in 1980 for 69 days of temperatures at 100 degrees or higher. We fell short at 68 days, and we haven’t broken the record as of this writing. Pete Delkus on Channel 8 keeps reminding us that with the latest recorded day of 100 degrees being in mid October, the 1980 record is still not secure. In fact, he says – with tongue in cheek – we actually have until December 31. Surely not!
I hope we don't break the record, but even if we do the summer of 1980 will always be special to me. That is the summer when I became what I am today: a reporter and writer.
I spent the summer of 1980 as an intern at the Sherman Democrat, the daily newspaper in the same-named town 60 miles north of Dallas. The job had special meaning because I had historic ties to the paper: My grandfather was the advertising manager there once upon a time, and my dad had a Democrat paper route when he was a kid. But me? I had risen to the lofty post of reporter. Summer intern, actually, but at a small town paper interns get to do real work right away.
Case in point: My first assignment on my first day was to cover commencement at Sherman High School. Simple enough, but editor Perry Flippin put the weight of the world on my shoulders when he said, "give it good coverage because this may be the biggest day some of these kids will ever have.” The next day my story and a large photo were on the front page above the fold.
For the next two months I eagerly covered a wide range of topics and events: Rotary meetings, public agency boards, tractor pulls, political speeches, interesting local folks. And then when the heat wave of 1980 began to smother the region, I joined the all-out effort to document the history that was being made. When wild fires broke out across the hay fields, I risked the tires on my new Chevy Malibu to drive out onto the ash and cover it. Kids cooking eggs on the sidewalk? I was there with a camera. And when the thermometer passed 100, I took a photo of a bank teller standing in the shade under the temperature sign that read “111.” The picture ran on the front page the next day with the caption, "Hottest Sherman Day . . . ever.”
The same heat wave brought what may have been the lowest moment of my career . . . ever. I was sent to the airport to cover the inaugural flight of a new commuter service from Grayson County Airport to DFW International. Two small planes would make the trip, one packed with dignitaries and the other with media. It was exciting to say the least, and I celebrated with a pre-flight lunch at my grandparents' house. A big bowl of beef stew. Big mistake.
Somewhere high above North Texas I found myself in the perfect storm of hot cabin, full belly, and airplane tossed like a leaf by violent convection currents. By the time we landed at DFW, I had made a mess of myself and the cabin around me. The only thing that mitigated my total embarrassment was that the mayor had been stricken in the other plane – so badly that she inquired about renting a car for the trip back to Sherman. Instead, we all took pills for motion sickness and flew back to Grayson County with no problems. The mayor and I were already empty anyway.
When I got back to the paper, I walked into Perry Flippin’s office with stained clothing and immediately confessed that I had represented the paper poorly. He looked at me, laughed, and said, “you’ve got an hour to get your story in.” It was on page 2 the next day with a photo I took of the mayor and a travel agent standing in the shade under the airplane wing.
Like that little airplane, the summer flew on with more news to cover. Before long the temperature dropped and I returned to college with a satchel full of experiences and memories that the heat wave of 2011 can never burn away, new record or not.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
When we failed recently to surpass 42 consecutive days of over-100-degree heat, weathercasters and lay people alike said “we almost beat the record.” I even heard several people complain that as long as we were going to endure the heat for so long, we might as well have at least set a new record. Almost scorched for 43 days? I’d rather we didn’t remember this summer that way. I’d rather we remember it for something more important than that.
People use “almost” a lot to describe near misses – with failure, and with success. And in almost every case, “almost” is a dubious distinction.
Often it is associated with potential calamity, such as “they were almost killed” or “he almost went bankrupt.” You hear people say it years later, and I think it’s a “glass half empty” mentality that is troubling. Someone who was “almost” killed is someone who actually wasn’t killed at all. They’re alive and well, and that’s the good news. That should be their focus. The only way obsessing about “almost” is useful is if the near-miss was due to ignorance or carelessness and it provides motivation for not making that mistake again. But unless one is writing a self-help book about how they pulled themselves up from near disaster, this “almost” should be kept to one’s self. Better yet, toss it aside and enjoy the success and life that is your reality.
I’ve heard “almost” used a lot in business, such as “he almost blew the deal” or “she almost didn’t make the deadline.” That’s often said by people competing for attention or who can only achieve by promoting the failure of others. But their use of “almost” is a false negative, because the person actually did not blow the deal and did not miss the deadline. They achieved the goal. When the client or boss reads the proposal, it’s not stamped with “We Almost Blew This.”
And then there’s the flip side of “almost” – when it is used to speak of a totally admirable, worthwhile goal that was not achieved, such as “he almost passed the test” or “the Rangers almost won the World Series.” Again, “almost” is a dubious distinction, because nobody remembers who “almost” won a competition – except for in the Olympics where they give three medals for each event. But even then, nobody remembers who “almost” medaled.
The only way “almost” is good in these cases is if it is used as motivation to work harder next time. But it should be a private, internal marker and not something to boast about. Nobody is listening to those boasts anyway because in most cases the public has moved on. Nobody is talking about the “almost World Series champion Rangers” this year. Everything started new in the spring, and baseball fans only care about who is in contention now.
All of that just to say that I think “almost” is a bad place to live – as bad as enduring 43 days of 100-degree heat. It serves no purpose at all. And in case you're wondering, I don’t want to “almost” break the 1980 record of 69 total days of 100-degree heat.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
I recently attended a meeting at the Grief and Loss Center of North Texas to brainstorm a video that will help spread the word about this wonderful new resource in our community. Led by Laurie Taylor, the GLCNT is helping people of all ages find their way out of the darkness of loss and into a future that is bright with joy.
The timing of the meeting was interesting for me because it was just a couple of days before the three-year anniversary of Debra’s death. In the year leading up to that day, dozens of people prayed steadily for Debra’s physical healing. Many of these same people have prayed since then for the easing of my grief. Debra was not healed – at least not physically – but we both were healed spiritually. She went on to that better place, and today LeAnn and I celebrate our one-month anniversary.
And therein are the mysteries of life and love, God and prayer, grief and recovery. Five years ago I never imagined that cancer would take away the life I knew. Three years ago, I never imagined that I could ever be happy or whole again. Two years ago, I never imagined that a new friendship would grow into love and, as of four weeks ago, joyful marriage. Today, I can’t imagine my life without LeAnn.
Grief is still out there, because I will always miss the sweet friend that I had for 28 years. But just as I miss my sister Martha, high school buddy John, my grandparents, my great aunt and uncle, and others I have known, the quality and quantity of grief has changed. Tears have turned into sighs; aching has become soft missing.
If I think too hard about some things, I can work myself back into tears of sadness. But I can just as easily work myself into tears of thanksgiving for the way God has brought me forward to new life and new joy. In the early stages, grief is inescapable. This far out, grief is a matter of personal choice, and so I choose to focus on the joy of today and the hope of the future.
I’ve done some writing about this and hope to put it all in a book some day – a collection of essays written at different points along the journey. I’ve posted three of these writings under the heading of “Promise These Three," in “Essays” on this web site.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
“Feeding frenzy,” a term often used to describe everything from sale shoppers to reporters and paparazzi, is the perfect description from what has been happening on our driveway the past couple of weeks.
The fig tree next to the driveway has produced more figs than ever before. We don’t know if that’s due to a wet spring, an especially hot and dry summer, or a little of both, but not only are there more figs than usual but they have ripened earlier too and were falling faster than we could pick them.
That is, until the birds arrived. With the record hot temperatures and not rain in weeks, every bird on the block, perhaps the neighborhood, is making a pilgrimage to the miracle fig tree. We can hear them from inside the garage, and we see evidence of their feasting in the form of fig fragments and bird droppings everywhere. When we back out the car or put the trash out, the birds jump up into the upper branches and fuss at us until we are gone. Worse yet is when we dare to go out and pick a few ripe figs for ourselves. They shriek and cry out as if to say “how dare you!”
That, my friends is the key issue. How dare us? Because there are more than enough figs for us and every bird and squirrel that wants to partake. And worse than their chattering at us is their fighting with each other. Watching them through the garage window, we’ve witnessed how the birds that pluck the figs rarely end up eating them. The figs are too heavy for most of the mockingbirds, robins and sparrows to fly away with, so they usually drop them onto the pavement, which attracts scavengers that have been too lazy to go get their own fig. A fight breaks out between the workers and the slackers and then there’s more arguing and posturing than eating.
And if a bird finally gets going on a good chunk of juicy fig and then another one falls near them, they abandon the one they had to chase after the new one. That leads to more fighting, and lots of wasted scraps everywhere.
I’ve never seen such a mess of selfish, lazy, wasteful ninnies! Then again . . .
Friday, July 29, 2011
A recent column I wrote for The Dallas Morning News (see “Recent Articles”) in which I advanced the need for term limits at all levels of politics was met with a flurry of shocking e-mails: people who want to talk about it further because they think I’m an expert on the subject. The truth is that I’m not. I’ve never been a political junkie and I’m not planning to become politically active now. Nor do I want to join or form a group to advance the cause of term limits.
This was my blanket response to the e-mailers:
“I’m not an expert on term limits, and I’m not as passionate about term limits as I am just about people with power running amuck. In the case of politicians, term limits seems like the logical solution, but of course the only way that can happen is if the politicians themselves vote to limit their own terms. That’s not likely with the current generation, but perhaps future generations of politicians will see their roles differently if we keep talking about it. Certainly we can ask them their intentions when they’re running for office, and we can vote them out when they’ve been there too long. That requires a whole different mindset at the voting booth.”
One reader called me “naïve,” and I think that’s close to the truth. But a good idea, no matter how naïve, still should be voiced. Saying nothing is easy.
In my own career I have backed up my words with action. I left my last full-time job after seven years when I could easily have stayed 15-20 years as some of my coworkers had done. My reasons for leaving included wanting to do my own thing, but I also believed I had done all I could do there. It was time to let someone else contribute their ideas and energy to the organization. That has happened, and they’ve gotten along fine without me.
I believe if politicians would set aside their egos for a moment and look at the big picture, they’d probably come to the same conclusion. But then the idea of a politician who doesn’t have a huge ego may be naïve too.
Meanwhile, the political posturing and lack of action in Washington regarding the federal budget, deficit and spending has hit me personally. The financial markets have fallen, and with them my funds for retirement, career aspirations and a new house. Oh yes, they’ll recover in time, but my anger will remain. And I’ll express it at the polls when I vote against every long-serving incumbent I see on the ballot. I'm not just naïve. I'm vindictive too.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
A few quick notes from a few days of zig-zagging through central Texas on a honeymoon road trip:
• Blue Bell Ice Cream is great at 11 in the morning, especially when you’ve been watching them make it for an hour at the plant in Brenham.
• The creeks are dry and stock tanks are low as Texas continues to endure a historic drought. The Inn on the River in Glen Rose has no river at the moment, and shops and cafes in small-town squares are struggling as the drought and poor economy keep tourists at home.
• There’s no age limit on the chutes and slides – and the fun to be had – at Schlitterbahn in New Braunfels. But a little sunscreen on the tops of the feet is recommended as you float like a turtle on your back. And better hold tight to your sunglasses before you hit the rapids.
• The old columns of the original Baylor campus at Independence stand tall like an ancient Roman ruin. Many thanks to all of those who have ensured that Baylor still stands tall in Waco.
• Hospitality lives at the old Stagecoach Inn at Salado, where they will readily recite and prepare a meal from their traditional menu all the way up to closing time.
• Sitting on the balcony at the Lodge at Fossil Rim after sunset, you can hear the whippoorwill call to each other across the hills while deer tear and chew grass on the lawn just below.
• The extreme July heat can cause normally sturdy explorers to wimp out from taking the walking tour of Washington on the Brazos where the Texas Declaration of Independence was signed in 1836. Kind of pitiful compared to the hundreds who gave their lives that year for our freedom and eventual statehood.
• Sometimes a wrong turn will take you where you said you wanted to go before you decided that you didn’t have enough time to go there.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Today, on the day before the eve of our wedding, LeAnn and I found ourselves at the city landfill. The two young men that we hired to haul brush and branches from the vacant lot that we'll soon build a house on couldn't get through the gate because they didn't have the proper credentials. They needed to show proof that LeAnn and I live in the city, and the utility bill that we sent with them wasn't enough. So we drove out there and pleaded for special dispensation. The man in the glass booth made a copy of a driver's license, scribbled a note on it, and gave it to us to give to the guys to show every time they come with a load.
The brush and branches that we needed hauling are mostly from the clean-up job the city required for us to comply with their code. So we did that, but then the city wouldn't come haul away what they asked us to cut without us paying a hefty fee because we don't have a house with a water meter there yet. So rather than pay the city, we decided to hire our own guys because we thought they'd appreciate the work. But then then they got stopped for hauling brush to the same dump that the city would have hauled it to if we'd paid them to haul it.
We'd like to be good citizens and good neighbors . . . if the red tape doesn't get in the way.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Two weeks have come and gone since I’ve sat down to write something here, and in that time I’ve come and gone in many ways myself.
I’m gone from my home of 18 years – an event that was wanted and instigated by me, but was not without considerable pressures and stresses. Mainly it was a massive physical undertaking, and while plenty of people offered to help, I stubbornly did it all myself. I was the only person who knew what to keep and put into storage, what to throw away, what to donate. So most of the work was making those decisions and acting on them, and then making dozens of trips to storage and Goodwill – where they’ll take anything but wire hangers. By the time the movers came, there was little left except for large furniture.
My plan on the final night was to box up the few remaining items, clean the house good, and then sleep on the floor and leave the next morning. But projects have a way of becoming bigger than imagined, and I never had time to sleep. Packing the last items, including all my clothing, took longer than I imagined, and all of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies surfaced as I swept and mopped the empty house. The old Boy Scout in me was determined to leave the campsite better than I found it, and of course I did.
I was also determined to keep my weekly 7 a.m. breakfast meeting with the guys, and I rolled up to The Oasis Café at 6:50 with the SUV full with the final load. I should have gone to Goodwill and storage right after that, but instead I went to my new temporary home – a wonderful private room and bath generously provided by the Brookshires – and fell into a deep sleep until noon. At 1 p.m. I was at the title office to sign the house over to the new owners. I didn’t have the concentration one usually wants in those situations, but my realtor was there so I trust that everything was in order. The money landed safely in my account within 24 hours and that’s all I really needed to know.
For the next two weeks there’ll be more comings and goings as I drive between the Brookshire’s and LeAnn’s house. So far I haven’t made the mistake of heading back to my old house out of habit. It helps that my new travel route doesn’t take me near the old neighborhood. But it also helps that the process of selling and moving was so physically and mentally exhausting that it “soured” me on the old place. In my final moments there I did stop in the middle of the den to say, out loud, “thank you, house, for being a strong and loving home,” but I was on a tight schedule and I didn’t linger. I left all the keys and garage openers on the kitchen counter, and then I pushed the button in the garage and ran out as the door came down. I locked myself out. No going back.
I’m sure that in time I’ll look back with fond memories because it was a wonderful home in a great neighborhood. I was there 18 years – the longest I’ve ever lived in one location. If I’d spent the rest of my life single, I’d have been content to stay there, but God had better plans.
On July 10, LeAnn’s house will become “our” house until the new house we are building together is completed. LeAnn’s house really already is our house, and in fact it has felt like home for months. That’s because LeAnn has the gifts of generosity and hospitality, but more than that, it’s because my home is wherever she is.
Friday, June 10, 2011
As I write this I'm into the fourth hour of waiting for an air conditioning service company. Summer has come early this year and it’s way too hot, way too soon. But that’s not why I’m waiting for the AC man. I’m waiting because I’m selling my house and the buyer’s inspector says there’s only a 12 degree difference between the temperature of the intake air (80 degrees) and the temperature of the outgoing chilled air (68 degrees). The preferred differential is at least 15 degrees. So I’m spending half a day – and probably a couple of hundred dollars – to get the machine checked out and see if we can gain 3 degrees.
Meanwhile, I'm keeping busy while waiting. Doing a little writing, sorting through old documents and junk, deciding what to keep and what to throw away before I start packing to move. I took a break at noon to make myself a sandwich. I sat down at the kitchen table to eat and read the newspaper, but I had to move. The air was blowing on my head and I got cold. Sure hope the service man gets here soon.
Friday, May 27, 2011
I was in the band in high school and every year we’d close out the spring term by playing patriotic music at the Memorial Day observance at Restland Memorial Park. It was always blazing hot and sometimes it felt like one last big hassle to endure before finally getting off for the summer.
On at least one of those occasions (maybe two) my grandparents were in town and they came to Restland for the program. I knew then as I know now that they weren’t there just to hear the band play. They were there to honor and remember Jerry Walton Smith.
Jerry was the only son of Paul and Thelma Smith, family friends who shared their lives with my grandparents in Orange, Texas. Jerry was 11 years older than me, and I remember a visit to Orange when he loaded my brother and me in his car and we went to a hobby shop or Army surplus store where he bought a scale model of an army tank. My memory is a little fuzzy about the timing of that visit, but I believe he was already in the Army and on leave after boot camp.
And then one night the phone rang and my mother answered and there was hushed conversation, and then she called us into the kitchen to tell us that Jerry had been killed in Vietnam. It made me sad and scared and I remember crying. I don’t remember much more about that except that Jerry’s mother was a large, lively Cajun woman, and whenever we visited her after that she was more subdued and there was a shadow of sadness in her eyes. Years later on a business trip to Washington I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and found Jerry’s name carved on the wall.
Last week when asked by an editor at The Dallas Morning News to join other writers in answering the question, “who will you think about on Memorial Day?,” my immediate answer was “Jerry Smith.” That prompted me to visit the web site of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial where I found some details that I hadn’t known till now: Jerry was a PFC-E3, serving with the Army’s 101st Airborne Division. He was killed by hostile small arms fire on Feb. 22, 1968, in Thua Thien, South Vietnam. He was just 20 years old, and he was only two months into his tour.
I was nine years old when Jerry died, and with war news on the television every night I thought that some day I would have to go to Vietnam too. It scared me – the thought of being so far away in a strange place and perhaps never seeing home again.
Thanks to Jerry Smith and many others like him, I never had to go to Vietnam or any place else. All I had to do was go to the cemetery on a hot May morning and play the music of patriots. It was a small price to pay for my share of freedom.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
I went to work at the Arboretum this afternoon while potential buyers looked at my house. I was hoping for quiet in the gardens, but not today. I knew I was in trouble when I saw several yellow school buses parked out front, although school groups are frequent visitors. But what I really wasn’t expecting was the whining and grinding of heavy construction equipment.
I’ve known for months that they are building some new gardens, but somehow I expected the process to be more genteel in this little piece of paradise. At church we recently studied the early chapters of Genesis detailing the creation of our planet, the fall of humankind, and our banishment to the land “east of Eden.” We’ve been trying to regain paradise ever since, and my experience today reminds me that it’s a noisy endeavor.
After checking out several locations I did find a bench on a shady path beside a waterfall with a view of the lake through the trees. The sound of the waterfall didn’t quite cover the construction noises, so I put on my headphones and added some quiet guitar music by Pat Metheny.
Sitting, thinking and making notes about this and that, I had a surge of regret that I never did create the lush backyard garden that I always wanted, and with strangers walking through my rooms, peeking in the closets and hopefully thinking seriously about buying, it’s too late to start now. So I’m making a vow to myself – and to LeAnn – that we will do that in our new yard at our new house. We won’t put off and hold back on things like that. We’ll do it while we are able to enjoy it.
And I’ll have good incentive to keep that vow because we’ll be farther away from the Arboretum and the lake and won’t be able to visit as often. We’ll want a piece of Eden right outside our doors.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Yesterday afternoon LeAnn and I met with our pastor to sketch out the order of service for our wedding ceremony in July. It will be a blend of the details that are typical for our church and for these occasions in general, but with features that are expressions of our personal preferences and especially our faiths. The scriptures, hymns, processional music, and other elements will be symbols of who LeAnn and I have become and will be together.
Then, late last night, I finally dug into that one last closet and pulled out the few items of Debra’s clothing that I had saved. I hadn’t given them any thought for months until Monday when the phone rang, I answered, and it was an organization sending a truck around this weekend for donations. I can’t explain even to myself why I had kept them, except that Debra’s personality was expressed so vividly in her wardrobe and I guess I wanted to keep a few reminders, even if they were hidden away in a closet.
As I folded a jacket to place it in the donation bag, I checked the pockets and found a small square of light blue paper with the printed words: “THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST, St. Joseph private showing, Wednesday March 3, 2004, 6:15 p.m., ADMIT ONE.”
That ticket, more than the clothing, is an expression of Debra’s personality because it is a reminder of her faith. It was a faith that I shared with her for many years, and a faith that I am now blessed to share with LeAnn.
The vows that LeAnn and I will recite in a few weeks include the gritty phrase “till death do us part,” but the reality is that our faith – along with hope and love – will bind us together forever. And in that mysterious and miraculous way we’re all bound together as brothers and sisters.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Finally, I did it. I bicycled all the way around White Rock Lake!
Okay, making the full loop is nothing new. I’ve circled the lake countless times. I used to ride 10 to 30 miles every Sunday afternoon without fail, but life got busy, and then it got gritty. My good bike got stolen and my next bike was a cheap replacement. It was so bad that two years ago I planted it in the flowerbed and let the vines turn it into a topiary of itself.
A few weeks ago, I finally gave in and bought a new pair of wheels, thanks in large part to encouragement and a gift card from LeAnn. It also helped that my neighbor works at Bike Mart. I didn’t feel like I could “just look” and then leave. So I left the shop with a new bike and I took it out immediately for a five-mile ride just to get the feel of it. It felt great. And then on a sunny day I made the 10-mile loop around the lake for the first time in several years. It’s true what they say: Getting back on a bicycle is as easy as . . . getting back on a bicycle. You never forget how to do it.
It didn’t take long either to remember the one thing you can always count on when cycling around the lake: wind. No matter what time of day or what time of year it is, the wind is always blowing somewhere. Depending on the season and where you enter the trail, you may find the wind at the beginning of the ride, somewhere in the middle, or not until the end. Following the shoreline around the lake’s inlets and peninsulas, you often will ride in and out of the wind multiple times. Sometimes it’s at your back, sometimes at your side, sometimes in your face.
The wind is inevitable, and the only real preparation you can make is to always know that it’s out there waiting for you. And then when you hit it, you have to be ready to shift gears so that you can keep your momentum and maintain a steady pace to avoid muscle pulls or cramps. But, you can’t shift all the way down; you have to keep one last gear in reserve in case you hit one of those solid walls of wind that can bring you to a halt.
There are plenty of metaphors, allegories, conclusions to draw from this illustration: We all live life at different speeds, we’re all on different paths, we all face the wind at different times on the journey.
Just something to think about on a stormy spring afternoon when there'll be no riding at all.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
There’s something dark and unsettling about the death of Osama Bin Laden. It challenges my understanding of sin and forgiveness, judgment and mercy, heaven and hell. As evil as he was, did we have the right to take his life?
The question looms large especially during this season of Easter when we reflect on the death of Jesus Christ for the sins of all people, and yet there are those whose actions we deem unforgiveable and who themselves are unredeemable.
Like most people I’ve waited 10 years to see Bin Laden brought to justice. I’ve helped elect officials who would keep the heat on Bin Laden and send our uniformed men and women to chase him and hunt him down. The word “relentless” has been used to describe it, and no doubt it has been.
I’ve thought about what I’d feel on this day when we hear the words, “we got him.” I thought I’d feel relief and victory, and actually, there is some of that. But I also find myself puzzling over the fact that we’ve killed another human being made of flesh and blood, just like us. With a conscience and a soul, just like us. With parents and children, just like us. As bad as he was, do we have that right? Had God given us that right?
I’ll admit that I’m very much a hawk when it comes to law and order. I don’t like bad people, I don’t like crimes going unpunished. I’m not grieving for Bin Laden or his family – other than having a notion that there may be someone who knew him as a child with great promise. I can’t imagine the grief and horror they feel. For them, Bin Laden died years ago.
I didn’t experience a personal loss on 9/11, but like so many people I lost a sense of security and peace. I was working on the 30th floor of a Fort Worth high rise and after that day it never felt as safe and strong as it did on 9/10. It changed the way we live and especially the way we travel. We’re not as free as we once were. No more hugs and kisses at the gate. We’re content to drive up to the curb and drop our loved ones off. It’s all very sterile and efficient. We have children who will never know the long weepy goodbye at the gate, or the thrill of reunion when a familiar face comes up the jetway.
And all of that we put at the feet of Bin Laden, and we chased him for 10 years until we ended his life. By our votes and directions we’ve dispatched another human being’s soul to the far side of nowhere and left it for God to sort out in the end. We’ve closed the chapter on Bin Laden as we know it, but there will be new chapters with new villains. And more questions to be raised with no clear answers.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
I wrote the following for the Wilshire Baptist Church Facebook page, but after the break you can read . . . the rest of the story.
Sunday morning we learned a new song to sing during next year’s Palm Sunday procession. It was introduced by a child in the kindergarten Sunday School class in the following way:
Marco: “I know a song about Hosanna!”
LeAnn: “Okay, why don’t you sing it for us.”
Marco: “Oh, Hosanna, oh won’t you marry me, ‘cause I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee!”
LeAnn was able to get out a “well . . . that’s VERY interesting” without bursting into laughter, and I turned my face to keep from doing the same.
The ditty was on my mind the rest of the morning as I pictured the traditional scene of Jesus riding a donkey into Jerusalem, with palm fronds falling before him and the air full of the sound of plucked banjos. But then it wormed into my mind in a more serious way – and on several different levels – as the words of children often do.
First, the scene that is painted enhances the sense of just how chaotically triumphant that ride into Jerusalem may have been. People waving and shouting, clapping their hands, making noise with whatever they could find – including a banjo if such an instrument had existed back then. Heightening the excitement of the moment helps to intensify the rejection, anger and torture that came later. Have any of us ever experienced a turnabout that dramatic and horrific? I certainly haven’t. People will grow cold or indifferent, but it’s rare for adulation to turn 180 degrees to total disgust and hate.
Then looking at the song as a whole, it almost has the ring of a Psalm to it – like the ones where David implores the Lord with lyre and lute to come to him and be with him, and using “marriage” as a metaphor for the most intimate and infinite of relationships. And isn’t that what God wants with us: A marriage of our souls?
And then there’s just the sweet innocence of a child who hears a big word like “hosanna” and mistakenly injects it into another phrase or song that he’s heard. I somehow think that our adult faith would benefit from making those types of haphazard connections – putting Christ into places where we don’t usually expect him to be.
So, thank you, Marco, for giving us a Palm Sunday smile. And thank you, too, for reminding us that God indeed wants to be close – so close that he sent his son down a street ringing with “Hosannas” (with or without banjos) to a death on a cross that marries us to his love forever.
* * * * * * *
I call this kind of innocent communication gaffe an “O.J. Simpson moment” because of my own mistake.
It was the spring of 1969 and Mrs. Babb’s fourth grade class was putting on a tumbling show. We practiced and practiced, learned routines that were set to patriotic music, and the whole school was going to come and watch on a Friday afternoon. But I overheard that there was going to be a very special guest as well: O.J. Simpson.
At that age I didn’t follow the sports news closely, but I’d heard people talk about what a great athlete Simpson was and I knew he was someone special. I recently rechecked Simpson's bio and found that in the spring of 1969 he had just completed two record-setting All American seasons as a running back at USC, he’d won the Heisman Trophy, and he was destined to be the first pick in the pro draft. No wonder I was so excited to know he was coming to see us – so excited that I told everyone I could tell: “O.J. Simpson is coming!!”
The day of the big tumbling show arrived and as the gym filled up with students from every grade, Mrs. Babb came to where I was standing with my classmates and said, “come with me.” For a moment I was terrified because I thought perhaps I had done something wrong. I followed her to where a tall, middle-aged man in a business suit was standing, and there she nudged me forward and said, “Jeff, I want you to meet
Joe Simpson.”
The name entered my ears and rattled around in my head and I’m sure I turned bright red as I realized my mistake: it wasn't O.J. Simpson, All-American running back, but rather Joe Simpson, director of athletics for the school district. I remember the two adults laughing and him extending his hand for a good-natured handshake before I was sent back to join my classmates. If any of them asked me "who was that?," I'm sure I just shrugged.
Friday, April 22, 2011
This week I did something that perhaps no person in human history has ever done before:
I Febreze’d a dead squirrel.
It started Monday when I found the squirrel on my sidewalk. It had either been tagged by a passing car and crawled onto the sidewalk to die, or it had plunged from the pecan tree above. Regardless, I needed to discard it so I scooped it up with a shovel, lowered it into a trash bag and tossed it into the big gray city-issued garbage can next to my garage.
Tuesday morning when I went out into the garage, I was overcome by the odor. Even with the door down, the stench had seeped into the garage. To quote singer-humorist Loudon Wainwright III’s song about a dead skunk, it was “stinking to high heaven.” The big city-issued garbage can is supposed to have a lid, but it was ripped off by the city garbage truck several years ago. So without any way to cover the can, I held my breath and rolled it around the side of the garage away from the door.
Wednesday morning when I went out to get the newspaper, the smell had been carried by the wind up over the house and into the front yard. With the garbage truck not coming until Friday, I was desperate for relief. There was nothing I could do to physically cover or remove the source, so I brainstormed chemical solutions. When I looked under the kitchen sink I found the answer: a large, full bottle of Febreze. Initially I sprayed it liberally into the can, but as I began to run out of breath, I twisted the top off the bottle and poured it all in.
It worked. Thursday morning I couldn’t smell anything, and Thursday night I thought I smelled flowers as I rolled the can down to the curb for the Friday pick up. And today, there’s probably a little spot of fresh air at the landfill.
Maybe someone else has Febreze’d a dead squirrel, but I doubt anyone has written so much about it. I could also write about the best solution for fire ants in clothing – washing machine or deep freeze? – but I'll save that for another time. Till then, Happy Earth Day!
Monday, April 11, 2011
Last night LeAnn and I had dinner on the grounds. That is, we had a picnic on the lot where we hope to begin building a house soon.
We probably were an odd sight, but most of the people who drove by smiled and waved. I think that’s a good sign of a friendly neighborhood. I told LeAnn it would be a bad sign if boys on bicycles with BB guns came and chased us away. (It may just be a sign of an over-active imagination because I don’t think boys with BB guns roam neighborhoods like they did when I was growing up.)
As we munched on chicken and salad and fruit – what else on a picnic? – we counted and identified the trees around the perimeter and watched as robins, mockingbirds and doves danced around the yard and trees. We noticed that the coos of doves seemed to come from every direction, and that’s a sign of a good neighborhood too.
And then we imagined where we might be sitting in the house some day when it is finished. We don’t have a final plan yet but we’ve looked at dozens and we know where we want things to be. We have a big corner lot so we want a long porch across the front and running down the side. We want lots of open space for entertaining on the first floor, a big kitchen with a big pantry and windows over the sink looking out on a garden, and a master suite on the first floor so we don’t have to climb the stairs when we’re old. Upstairs we want more bedrooms for visiting family and friends and an office for us both. And windows – lots of windows everywhere. That’s a sign of a good home.
After we ate – and after a fun visit from LeAnn’s parents – we packed up our dinner and then walked the lot and picked up some stray trash. We don’t live there yet but we're already trying to be good neighbors. It is, after all, going to be a good house in a good neighborhood.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
I have an update to give. On March 12, I wrote in
The Dallas Morning News about my experience as a victim of identity theft. You can read the column in the "Recent Articles" section of this Web site.
The update is that I received a letter over the weekend from the U.S. Department of Justice Victim Notification System stating that the perpetrator was sentenced to four years in jail followed by two years of “supervised release,” which I take to mean probation. He also must pay a “special assessment” of $100.
It seems to me that four years in jail would cause someone to take stock of themselves and maybe seek a better way. But I may be naive about these things.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
"What’s happened?"
That was the question raised by my neighbor yesterday evening when she stopped to ask about the "For Sale" sign in my yard.
I told her I’m getting married and we’re building a house elsewhere and she congratulated me and recalled that I’d been through some tough times. She also recalled meeting LeAnn a year or more ago when I was having a Saturday garage sale. That's when I first met my neighbor and learned that she is the senior pastor of a Christian Church and is single.
But not for long, because after I’d brought her up to date on the latest developments in my life, she shared her own good news: “I’m getting married too!”
And then we compared notes: We’re getting married in July; they’re getting married in August. We met at church; they did too. She hasn’t been married, and neither has LeAnn. Her fiancé has been married before, and so have I.
And then she stated the obvious: “God’s been busy around here!”
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
“Nobody has pockets in heaven.”
During the Christmas holidays I was watching an episode of the sitcom “The Middle” in which the grandfather (Jerry Van Dyke) used that line to explain to his daughter (Patricia Heaton) why he showered his grandchildren with gifts when she was trying to go cheap on Christmas under the guise of teaching them to be less materialistic. It was a throw-away line, but it’s been on my mind as I try to be a good steward of what I have and what I no longer need.
It was on my mind Sunday afternoon as I did some long-overdue garage cleaning. This is the week each month when the city sends their trucks to pick up brush and bulk trash. I have a lot of junk that doesn’t need to go with me when I move sometime later this year.
Even so, I find that it’s always hard to let go. For example, I came upon every issue of a twice-monthly airline finance magazine I worked on in 1994-95. The last time I went through that pile, I held them back because I thought I might need them again some day for an interview or whatever. But this time I found my interest and need for them had expired and it was time to throw them out. At the same time, another collection of publications from more years created that tug of needing to hang on, so I boxed them up. No doubt I’ll see them again in a few years and time will have diminished my interest and need for them.
Meanwhile, I did manage to make a pretty good pile of junk down by the curb: two sheets of drywall and a partial role of pink insulation, an old washboard, an old iron floor lamp and a wobbly old wooden ironing board, a small black and white TV from my college days in Waco, some empty paint cans, a dilapidated cedar chest, broken flower pots, miscellaneous steel rods and lumps of plastic. As I added to the pile, it got smaller because a procession of pick-up trucks came by to shop, each one looking for their specialties: iron and metal, wood, useable household items.
As I get ready to move, I’ll have plenty more to dispose of through garage sales and thrift stores or by giving to family and friends. Nobody has pockets in heaven, and I’m pretty sure they don’t have garages and storage sheds either.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Friday afternoon I had an interview. The outcome would have a big impact on my future, so I prepared for it all morning. I was nervous because I knew that things weren’t perfect. Age brings flaws and there’s always something fresher out there that may get more attention and be more desirable. But then there’s something to be said for maturity too: staying power, experience, standing firm against the storms.
So I had the interview and it went much better than I expected. Some of the things that I was afraid might be negatives turned out to be okay. The interviewers were impressed, and while there are never any guarantees, the feeling was that we could be successful working together. We’ll get started soon.
Okay, the interview wasn’t for me; I wasn’t sitting across a desk interviewing for a job. The interview was for my house. I met with a realtor to discuss the prospect of selling my house.
The house is 61 years old. It’s small at just under 1,500 square feet, but it feels cozy rather than cramped. Clad in white stone, framed by large pecan trees, sitting up high on a nice corner lot, it has great “curb appeal.” Inside, it has beautiful maple floors and large open rooms with lots of windows. The den has knotty pine paneling, built-in cabinets and shelves, and a real brick fireplace. The kitchen was completely remodeled a few years ago but with lots of nods to the 1950s. The house is in a great neighborhood and walking distance to shops and White Rock Lake.
I’ve lived here 18 years – the longest I’ve lived in one place – but I’m anxious to hand over the keys to someone else. New adventures and memories await in a new home and a new life with LeAnn. I can’t wait. I’d be there tomorrow if I could, but there’s lots of work to do. Good homes and good lives take lots of preparation.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
There have been many times over the past year when I’ve wondered and worried whether or not I have the discipline it takes to be a serious writer. I don’t seem to have taken up any of the
writerly ways that I’ve heard other writers describe. But then I look back over the paragraphs and pages and pages that I’ve produced and I realize that what I do have is my own way of doing it.
I don’t have to get up at dawn to let the sunrise touch my shoulder and coax out the prose or the verse. I don’t have to seclude myself in a shanty studio behind the house and grind out the words. I don’t have to strip a room bare of all distractions and stare into the blinking white light of a Word document page. I don’t have to climb Kilimanjaro or go deep sea fishing and wait for the muse to leap into the boat with me. I simply have to live my life attentively and open to the notion that anything and everything has a story, and the best stories will weave their way into my heart and find their way onto the page.
Thursday, February 23, 2011
I like my dentist. I like going to see my dentist. I like him because he’s refreshingly calm and low key. He must have missed the Alarmism 101 class that some medical practitioners, auto mechanics and plumbers seem to have taken. You know, the ones who say, “you need to fix it now or else!” or, “it’s not broke now but it’ll probably fall apart as soon as you get down the road.”
Not Milvern Harrell. He never sounds the alarm falsely or prematurely. He has a calm “we’ll keep an eye on it” attitude. He’s not careless or naïve, and he’s not setting me up for bigger problems and a bigger payday. I’ve been seeing him for at least 20 years and he’s helped me get through almost every possible oral ailment a person can have: cavities and fillings, root canals and crowns, implants and gum grafts. But everything has always been taken care of in its proper time.
I went to see Dr. Harrell last week for a regular cleaning, and when the hygienist told him that I have a mobile bicuspid and wisdom tooth (it’s old news, by the way), he reached into my mouth with his gloved fingers and gave them a good shake. Expecting to hear the worst, I piped in, “I suppose I better do something about that soon.” But he calmly replied, “my feeling is if it ain’t broke then don’t fix it, and it ain’t broke. But you do have some movement, so we’ll keep an eye on it.” And then he tapped me on the shoulder and said what he usually says: “My prescription for you is to go out and have a great day.”
I left $126 poorer but the price was well worth what I got: clean teeth and a good dose of encouragement. There are so many prophets of doom and gloom out in the world. So many people who want to scare us out of our minds if not out of our money. It’s so refreshing to come upon a calm, sober soul who says, “You’re human, you’re not perfect, but you’re okay.”
Friday, February 4, 2011
“Where are all the snow plows?” Howie Long, football-player-turned-analyst who is in town for the Super Bowl, was incredulous Tuesday evening on the local news.
We don’t have snow plows – a token few maybe – because we don’t get much snow here. We get ice, and snow plows are useless against ice. What you saw earlier this week was ice, and today what you see is snow on top of ice.
Snow plows? Heck, we rarely get to use our window scrapers, and I was glad I found mine under the front seat of the SUV where I put it 12 months ago after the last big ice and snow event. Glad I had it to scrape the snow off the windows this morning before attempting to drive the Hyundai up the icy hill and into the garage. I left it parked down near the street last night because I couldn’t get any traction; my back wheels kept trying to pass my front wheels on their way to the garage.
And only two or three times in the past 17 years have I needed to wear the John Deere mud and snow boots that I bought in 1994 while covering a construction equipment convention in San Antonio. I didn’t buy them because I needed them often; I bought them because I thought I might need them once or twice in my lifetime and they looked like they’d last that long. So far they have.
I wore the boots today while chopping the ice on the concrete that I couldn’t drive up last night. I wore them because I hit the ground hard when my Nikes slipped out from under me while walking up the hill. My left arm and shoulder are sore, but I evened that out today by giving my right arm and shoulder a workout. I chopped and scraped the ice with a flat concrete tool that a contractor left at my house in 2002 and that I haven’t used but once since then, and not for concrete but for ice. Certainly not for snow.
I used it to cut and shovel the ice because I don’t have kitty litter or rock salt, and I don’t have those items because I don’t have a cat and I don’t make homemade ice cream, and because we rarely have ice or snow storms.
And that, Howie, is why you haven’t seen any snow plows on the streets of North Texas this week.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
It's ironic: Folks in Dallas-Fort Worth have been falling all over themselves for more than a year to get things ready for the Super Bowl at Cowboys Stadium. It’s been especially frantic in the past few weeks, but then we get pounded by a winter storm just as the party begins.
The Pittsburgh Steelers, Green Bay Packers and their die-hard traveling fans are probably laughing because the storm today is nothing like what they get at home on a regular basis. Still, it’s not the Sunbelt warmth and sunshine they were expecting to enjoy. But then that would have been expecting too much. Anyone who has attended more than one Cotton Bowl Classic on New Year’s Day can recall a game played in bright sunshine, and another one played in cold rain or worse. And my childhood birthday parties in late January seemed to alternate between kite flying in the park and indoor roller skating while it sleeted outside.
Not to worry. It will likely be sunny and mild on game day, and the stadium is enclosed so good field conditions and fan comfort are guaranteed. Hopefully the game will live up to the hype, because that's the only thing that anyone will care about come Monday.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Today is my birthday, and thanks to astronomers with time on their hands, this is my first year to celebrate as a Capricorn.
Yes, for most of 52 years I’ve been an Aquarian, but then the news came out on January 13 that the Minnesota Planetarium Society has found that because of the moon’s gravitational pull on Earth, the alignment of the stars has changed by about a month, and so that has caused everything to shift. Aquarius was Jan. 20 to Feb. 18, but now they say it’s Feb. 16 to March 11. Capricorn is now Jan. 20 to Feb. 16.
With all the shifting, the Minnesota astronomers even squeezed in a new 13th sign: Ophiuchus, based on a constellation that is in the sky from Nov. 29 to Dec. 17. The astronomers say the entire apparatus – created 3,000 years ago – has been slipping out of alignment since at least 130 B.C. That may explain why some people have been feeling a little
off for the past few centuries or so.
The news has caused a lot of confusion and even some bickering between astronomers (the serious star people) and astrologers (the goofy Zodiac people). It’s likely upset retailers who are sitting on warehouses full of those cheap plastic Zodiac key chains. And what about the untold numbers of people who have their sign tattooed on their shoulder blade, lower back or locations known only to their common law spouse?
Let me be clear: I’ve never seriously cared about the Zodiac or my sign. The daily horoscopes printed in the newspaper are a bunch of rot. I don't have any Aquarius paraphernalia. However, I’ve always liked the sound of the word “Aquarian” because I like the sound of water. And instead of having an animal or a crustacean, Aquarians are symbolized by waves or a dignified dude carrying a jug of water. And Aquarius is the only sign that had a hit pop song, although nobody under 40 has ever heard of it or The 5th Dimension that made it popular.
So now I’m a Capricorn, and I don’t know anything about it except the mascot is a goat. There’s never been a song about Capricorns or goats that I know of. Although there was a movie in 1978 called “Capricorn One” about a Mars landing that was faked in a TV studio (O.J. Simpson gets killed, by the way). I don’t know anything about Capricorns – what their moods are, who they like and dislike, what side of the bed they should get up on, what kind of food they prefer (don’t goats eat grass and garbage?). I don’t have any tattoos that need changing. I really don’t care.
I also don’t care if I go to my neighborhood Chinese restaurant and find that they’ve tinkered with their Zodiac too. Although I rather enjoy being a dog.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Last night LeAnn and I saw Randy Newman at the Bass Hall in Fort Worth. It was her idea – a birthday present to me – after she heard me mention once that I like Randy Newman, especially his wonderfully crafted lyrics. That’s one of LeAnn’s many gifts: She’s always listening, always paying attention to what makes people smile, what fills us up, what lightens our load, what makes us feel at home.
I was hesitant at first. It would be expensive, it would be on a Sunday night and we’d be out late after a very busy day with work in the morning. She didn’t push – LeAnn never pushes – but I said yes, and I'm so glad I did. It was a wonderful concert with just Randy Newman, his piano, and his songs. We had great seats. We could hear well, and that’s important because Newman has a difficult voice. And we were at just the right angle to see his hands moving across the keyboard and his feet tapping the floor. We leaned against each other as Newman treated us to his unique blend of satire and sentimentality. I'm so glad I said yes!
I'm even more glad that I said yes to LeAnn’s suggestion two years ago that we have a birthday dinner together. Again, she was paying attention. She had learned (perhaps I told her) that my 50th birthday was approaching. Her birthday is just four days before mine, so she said that we should celebrate together. I had already agreed to a quiet dinner with my parents and a few friends, but with grief in my heart and an empty place at the table, I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating.
Still, I said yes to LeAnn’s suggestion, not knowing what would begin that night for both of us. A good meal and slow service caused us to sit and talk much longer than we might have otherwise. We both left the restaurant feeling like we’d had a nice time – perhaps starting a new friendship – but neither of us expected anything more.
Over the next two years, friendship grew slowly and steadily, season after season, until love was planted in us. And now as we come around again to our shared birthdays, we find that we share so much more. It turns out God is paying attention too, knowing what makes us smile, what fills us up, what lightens our load, what makes us feel at home.
The high point of the concert for us both last night came at the very end – a lovely song called “Feels Like Home,” with the lines:
If you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch.
If you knew how happy you are making me.
I never thought I'd love anyone so much.
Feels like home to me
Feels like I'm on the way back to where I come from.
Feels like home to me
Feels like I'm on the way back where I belong.
So . . . Happy Birthday Sweet LeAnn! There’s no gift that I can give you that will ever equal what you’ve given to me, or what God has given us both: a love to share, a feeling of home.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The remarkable recovery of congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords puts me to thinking about miracles – how they seemingly come to some and not to others. Six others died during the shooting in Tucson, and Giffords’ injury likely would have been fatal had the trajectory of the bullet been just slightly different. Permanent disability might still be assumed, but so far Giffords is making huge strides toward a full recovery.
No doubt the families of those who died are wondering why Giffords survived while their loved ones did not. It’s a question that comes easily to anyone who reads the New Testament stories of how Jesus brought Lazarus and the little girl back from the dead. The latter is especially heartaching to anyone who has ever stood over a child or spouse and begged for God’s healing touch, only to be seemingly denied.
It’s a question I lived with for months after Debra died from cancer. Many with cancer are cured – even with the same kind of cancer – while many others are not. There’s a cruel randomness to it that can cause a borderline skeptic to doubt the existence of God, or at least doubt the personal caring of God that pastors preach about on Sundays.
But then something amazing happens: We trudge along with our routines and time goes by until we look up one day and are startled to find that we have endured the grief and the loneliness, we’re still living ourselves, and in fact we may be living well – laughing and loving again.
And that, to my thinking, is a miracle in itself. A miracle and a gift from a caring God.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Gretsch Country Gentleman needs a new set of medium metal strings, and the third string must be wound like the fourth through sixth. A plain third string just sounds too twangy on the Gretsch. And the Gretsch is long from the machine heads to the tailpiece, so the strings need to be long too.
That’s the conversation I listened to yesterday between friend and musician George Gagliardi and a salesman at The Guitar Center. George is presenting a concert of original songs on guitar and piano tomorrow night, and he wanted to get his classic hollow-body electric guitar outfitted just right.
George is a true artist, and he knows exactly what he needs to create and perform at his best. I think it’s that way with any musician, artist or craftsman who takes their work seriously. I bet the best painters and sculptors of our day have similar conversations about oils, canvas, brushes and clay. Heck, I’ve heard cowboys in long conversations about their preferences for saddles, spurs and other gear. There’s an art to what they do, and it takes the right gear to do it right.
I’m guessing there was a day when writers had preferred tools. Moleskine claims that its black notebooks have been “used by European artists and thinkers from the past two centuries, from Van Gogh to Picasso, from Ernest Hemingway to Bruce Chatwin.” I can see the utility: palm-sized, hard-bound, a pocket in the back to hold notes, and an elastic strap to hold it all together. No doubt those who preferred Moleskine also had a favored pencil or pen to go with it.
When I started as a newspaper reporter I used spiral-bound Gregg-ruled “reporter’s notebooks,” which are a modern spin on the palm-sized Moleskine. They’re still available at some stores, but I’m not sure that many reporters still use them. Watch any press conference on TV and you’re likely to see reporters holding up hand-held digital recorders, or they let their cameramen record it all. I still use a reporter’s notebook whenever I’m interviewing someone. I don’t trust the recording devices, and I find it more pleasing later to flip through the paper pages than to push the forward and rewind buttons on a machine.
That’s not to say that I haven’t been tainted by technology. Some people still compose with pen and pad, but I’m a keyboard man when it's time to write. That comes from my newspaper experience in the early ‘80s where tight deadlines and shared computers meant there wasn’t time to sit back and scribble out stories with pen and paper.
Writer and humorist Will Rogers was a keyboard man too. He never traveled without his portable Remington typewriter, and in 1935 when he and aviator Wylie Post died in a plane crash in Alaska, the typewriter was found in the wreckage. Sure, writers travel with laptops today, but so do accountants, lawyers and school kids. It’s just not the same.
So I envy George Gagliardi and other artists who can still take pleasure in standing across a sales counter to discuss the tools of their trade.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Last night we indulged our youthful memories and went to the Meyerson Symphony Center to see Chicago – the jazz/rock/pop band, not the Broadway show. Aside from looking at the audience around us and wondering, “why are all these old people here,” we had a great time. The band sounded great, with four of the founding members (now in their mid-60s) joined by a few youngsters in their 40s.
With no new music to peddle, Chicago put on a greatest hits show. I was pleased that they kicked it off with “Ballet for a Girl in Buchannon,” the 13-minute suite built around “Make Me Smile” from their breakout Chicago II album. Top 40 radio cut the life out of it, so it was great to hear it intact again. They hit other high points from their jazz-infused '70s albums and then played some of their less-interesting pop hits from the ‘80s.
They encored with “25 or 6 to 4,” which left us where we started, in 1970. And that left me sitting in the bleachers at Richardson North Junior High School, where we played that song among others in the pep band for junior high football games. I know now that we sounded horrible, but at the time I thought we were rockin’ like Chicago.
Copyright © 2011 Jeff Hampton