ARCHIVES – 2012-2013
Thoughts, musings, rambles, nonsense . . .
Friday, November 15, 2013
As is often the case, Anne Lamott’s words were funny and yet convicting: “ ‘I’m waiting for inspiration’ is just another way of saying ‘I’m not going to write today.’ ”
We heard Lamott speak last night at Arborlawn United Methodist Church in Fort Worth, and while that quote was meant mostly as a warning to timid or procrastinating writers, herself included, she actually was hanging that indictment around the necks of anyone in the room who was putting off pursuing the creative spark that God has breathed into them. When a young woman stepped up to a microphone and revealed that she is an artist but has not created anything in a long time and wants to get back to it but isn’t sure how to get started again, Lamott told her and everyone in the room that it would be a shame to wake up one day at age 86 and find that you’d never worked as an artist.
The message for all of us – one that we’ve all heard before and we need to hear again – is that time is short, God made each of us for a special purpose, and we better get out there and pursue it while we can.
As I write this, I realize it’s been a full month since I’ve put something on this page.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
For years Thelma Kite has been telling us that when she turned 90, she’d quit worrying about her cholesterol and eat Blue Bell Ice Cream to her heart’s content from a big mixing bowl with a big serving spoon. She had her chance on Sunday afternoon, and she didn’t take it.
I should have known Thelma wouldn’t keep her promise, because while she’s well known for her sharp wit and straight-forward talk, she’s equally known for her generosity. So while 100 family and friends gathered to celebrate her 90th birthday and eat Blue Bell Ice Cream, Thelma spent two hours giving herself to those friends. She never sat down, she never stopped to eat or drink. By the time the last guest was gone, there wasn’t enough ice cream left to pile into that mixing bowl. She just got a taste, but by all accounts she went home full and satisfied.
It would be wrong to say that Thelma “is doing great for 90 years old.” While I didn’t know her at 80 or 70 or any year before that, I know with certainty there is no difference between the woman she is today and the woman she has been her entire life. As a daughter, sister, wife, mother, nurse, neighbor, friend, teacher and mentor, she’s been strong and steady her entire life.
Thelma grew up on the farmlands of North Texas at a time when strong faith and hard work were the keys to success. There was no time for whining or being lazy. The fruits of life were earned and not given. If you could work hard and achieve something, you expected other able-bodied people to do the same. And if someone truly needed help, you rolled up your sleeves and helped them.
Thelma has lots of stories about those early days, and one of my favorites is about how her father took her and her sisters to the jail house and walked them into the cells to show them where people go who don’t behave. She took that to heart, and she expects people to be as honest and straightforward with her as she’s always been with them.
Thelma’s parents took her to the church house too, and that’s been her second home all these years. She and her husband Perry are charter members of their church, and she is a pillar there in her own right. She’s a regular teacher in her Sunday School class, and two days a week she teaches little ones at Mother’s Day Out.
A visit with Thelma always includes a story or two from those Mother’s Day Out classes and that’s because she loves those kids so much. I’m looking forward to hearing about today’s session because I’m betting the kids were going to help “Ms. Thelma” celebrate her birthday. And like she did on Sunday, she’ll probably turn the tables on them and make sure they’re the ones having all the fun.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
It was a wonderfully incongruous moment: The Baylor Golden Wave Band playing “The Beer Barrel Polka.” Really? At Baylor, that bastion of all that is good and right . . . and Baptist?
Yes. But the rest of the story is that the citizens of West, Texas, were the special guests of Baylor on Saturday night at the football game. That included city dignitaries, costumed Czech dancers, first responders and others impacted by the horrific fertilizer plant explosion in April. And it especially included the West High School Marching Band. They sat in a section adjacent to the Baylor Band during the first half of the game, and then they joined Baylor on the field for the halftime show and led the way in the playing of the West High School alma mater. Beautiful!
But the real fun began in the second half when the West band members mixed their red colors throughout Baylor’s dark green ranks and played along with all the fight songs and spirit songs. And that’s when the “Beer Barrel Polka” broke out, complete with members of both bands bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the music.
One might say Baylor had rolled out the red carpet for its tiny neighbor to the north in a show of solidarity in the wake of what happened there in April. A stuffy, wrong-headed Baptist might hear that particular polka and equate it with Jesus sitting down to sup with all the wrong people of his day, as was the opinion of the Pharisees. But in my opinion, it was just the Baylor community paying back a small fraction of the generosity and hospitality that the little town of West has shown to Baylor students over the decades. Whether we were pulling off the highway for kolaches on the way in and out of Waco, going to WestFest on Labor Day for some early semester relief, or going to a country music dance on a Saturday night, the people of West were always generous and accommodating. I’m sure they held their tongues and kept their patience on countless occasions when college students blew into town and got out of hand.
So it was right and good for Baylor to roll out the hospitality – lock, stock and barrel.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
I have decided that I will not participate in Twitter. I will not open an account and I will not tweet. You will not see the Twitter logo on my web site, on my books, on my business card or anywhere near my name. The only blue birds I care about are the ones that come around our bird feeder.
I’m saying “no” to Twitter because I don't want anyone wasting a minute of their life “following” my life. The days we each have are far too precious to be wasted peeking at the inane minutia of someone else’s life. Why should you care what movie I am seeing or what kind of tacos I’m eating and who I am eating those tacos with. You should be enjoying your own tacos and focusing on whoever is sitting across the table from you. Likewise, I don’t care to know what you are doing or who you are doing it with at this very moment. I have my own life and you have yours, and we can share our highlights next time we talk or see each other face-to-face. All those little meaningless moments that feed the Twitter machine can remain where they historically have always been: nowhere, gone and forgotten.
I'm also going to stay out of the Twitter world because I have a long history of not participating in what I believe are fads. I survived the 1970s without ever having white shoes and a white belt, a leisure suit, puka shells, designer jeans or my hair parted down the middle. I never went disco dancing, and I didn’t buy the music. My only Bee Gees album is a collection of non-danceable ballads from the 1960s such as “Words,” “I Started a Joke” and “New York Mining Disaster 1941.”
I was on LinkedIn long enough to realize that nothing was happening other than people claiming links to each other. It was like, “now what?,” and when the answer was “nothing,” I got out. I got on Facebook initially because it was the best way to keep up with busy, distant family members. I check it once a day and do find some information of interest or import along with all the junk. Some of the businesses I work with have more useful information on Facebook than on their web sites. And, it’s a good tool for someone trying to sell books. But, I haven’t posted any pictures of the plate of food in front of me or videos of dancing kitties.
So, look for me at this web site or on Facebook. Or better yet, let’s see each other in person real soon. But don’t look for me on Twitter.
Friday, August 23, 2013
I was using a hot glue gun today to pin an irrigation drip line to a ledge up under the front porch, and when I over-squeezed the trigger, a big wad of glue started to drip off the ledge. Completely forgetting what I was working with, I pressed it back with my index finger and immediately remembered why they call it hot glue. That cord attaching the gun to the electrical outlet isn't just for show.
It hurt like fire, of course, but I kept my head and didn't shove my finger into my mouth until I'd wiped the glue off on my pant. I also didn't jump off the stepladder, and I was mindful of the lesson I learned a few minutes earlier when I backed my noggin into the ceiling fan. That's why I wear a ball cap when working on these projects.
Later, as I was putting the hot glue gun away, I looked at the metal tip and had a flashback to the wood burner I had as a kid. It looked like a thick writing pen with a cork handle and a steel tip with a beveled edge and an assortment of other tips that you could pop on. You plugged it into an outlet and after the tip reached a scalding temperature, you could burn words and designs into wood. It came with some pre-designed plaques that you could trace over, but of course when we got tired of drawing horses and daisies, we started looking for other things to "write" on. Random blocks of wood, hunks of driftwood, leather goods, perhaps the back of a textbook.
We had other creative toys that were equally fun – and dangerous. Like the Creepy Crawler kit, which was a little hot plate onto which you placed metal molds that you filled with some kind of liquid rubber. When you put it on the burner with the oh-so-safe wire handle, the hot plate would cook the liquid into a rubbery spider or centipede that you could pull out and play with when it was no longer hot enough to scald you.
We had fun with that for a while, but boredom eventually set in and we started looking for other things to cook. Such as plastic army men that we melted into grotesque, droopy battle scenes ala Salvador Dali. When we got bored with that, we went into the candle business. We melted fragments of old candles with the Creepy Crawler burner and poured them into Coke bottles that had been rigged with cotton string for wicks. When the wax hardened, we took the bottles out on the driveway and broke away the glass with a hammer. The result was Coke bottle-shaped candles of varying colors that put out a nice aroma or a bland stink, depending on the raw materials we had mixed.
Today kids spend their free time blowing things up in video games that may result in strained eyeballs or carpal tunnel syndrome if they play too long, but back in our day we were playing with real fire and molten materials that might melt all the way through to the bone. And we did it all at a work desk in our bedroom that was made of pressboard, which I believe is made of glue and sawdust and probably is flammable. And when we cracked the bottles, we squinted or turned our heads because we didn't know what safety glasses were.
We were tough for sure, and I'd tell you more but I've gotta stop typing now because my index finger hurts – the one that I burned with the hot glue.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
I was sitting in front of the computer Friday evening, looking at the last pages of a new novel I am writing while listening to the main theme from the movie “Castaway.” I felt small and unequal to the task of saying in words what can be spoken in the haunting melody of a great piece of music.
I watched “Castaway” again recently and I had forgotten how it so beautifully and quietly portrays the anguish of being left to die alone, the relief and disorientation of being found, and then the anguish of learning that the rest of the world had gone on without you. The music plays alongside the images to help describe that cycle of anguish, relief, and anguish – and finally, hope. But the music injects those feelings directly into the soul in a way that pictures and words can’t.
I’ve often believed that I am a writer because I can’t be a composer. I believe music is the greatest of our art forms because it paints pictures and provokes emotions and yet leaves the interpretation and visualization to the imagination of the individual listener. Words paint pictures too, but they often leave little to the imagination. And a writer’s attempt to express emotion can be crushed under the weight of words, especially if they are too specific, too forceful, too manipulative.
Whenever I have doubts that there is anything beyond death, it is music more than anything else that makes me feel certain about that future, because music stirs something in me that is not physical, is not mental, is not sensory, is not purely emotion. It is something beyond what we know.
Friday, August 9, 2013
I almost forgot my anniversary. No, not that one; I took care of that in July. I’m talking about my 32-year relationship with Sears. They just sent me some new credit cards, and I was startled when I noticed the words “Member Since 1981” printed on the front. Thirty-two years – that’s the longest relationship I’ve had outside of my immediate family and a couple of close friends.
It started in 1981 as I was getting ready to graduate from college. Sears was giving credit cards to fresh graduates like good neighbors give candy on Halloween. All you had to do was be alive and breathing and they’d gladly get you started on the long winding road of credit, interest rates, ballooning balances and late fees.
I got two other cards at the same time: Phillips and Conoco. Apparently there was stiff competition between the two Oklahoma oil companies, and I was pleased to accommodate them both. I quit using those two years ago when their locations in North Texas began to dwindle, and when everyone started accepting any kind of card with a magnetic strip.
But Sears has been a constant and steady companion all these years. I’ve used their card to buy tires and brake jobs, shirts and shoes, mattresses and pillows, dog food and lawn mowers. Our new kitchen has appliances purchased at Sears on the card.
When I was growing up we did a lot of shopping at the Sears at Valley View – when there was a Sears and no mall. We’d go there regularly to buy clothing, household goods, and often we’d get a burger at the restaurant and grill inside the store (they had great French fries). My father told me years later that we ate there because he could charge it on his card and pay it off after payday. I hadn’t realized that my parents, like me, had gone through their own account-shuffling days.
There have been a lot of other big-ticket items over the years that I might have put on the Sears card if other folks had accepted the card: dental work, vacations, minor surgery, automobiles. Thankfully, I got through all of that before Sears partnered with MasterCard. I might still be paying off some of those things.
Anyway – here’s to 32 years with Sears in my hip pocket!
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
I’m so weary of the “cancer treatment wars.” That’s what I call the television ads by large hospitals and treatment centers telling us how wonderful they are. The implication by some is that the other centers don’t have the scientists and the technology required to provide the answers. In short, they don’t have the cure. In fact, the others might not really care enough. They don’t actually say that, but that’s what I hear.
I think they probably mean well – and it’s great to have so many options – but these institutions that profess to care so much apparently don’t understand the emotional toll of these marketing efforts. At some point every patient (and family) diagnosed with cancer has to make a decision on who they trust to treat their disease, and then they have to hold on tightly to that decision and follow it wherever it leads. The health care system, insurance providers and just plain practicality don’t allow patients to jump from doctor to doctor.
So you make your choice and start your treatment, and then one of these ads comes on the television and makes you doubt your choices. What’s worse, years later you’re sitting on the sofa watching TV – alone – and one of those commercials pops up on the screen. The white-coated doctors and over-earnest patients make their pitch, and suddenly all the fear and confusion, the endless scans and blood lettings, the excruciating chemo and radiation sessions come back into view and good luck if you can keep from asking yourself, “did we make the right decisions?”
I say it’s time to stop this emotional harassment. I say it’s time for the hospitals and treatment centers to rethink their marketing, to listen more closely to the language they are using, and ask themselves, “are we hurting the people we are trying to help?”
Wednesday,July 10, 2013
It’s interesting how lives can just barely touch one day and then transform each other forever years later. LeAnn and I celebrate our second anniversary today, and if you check the charts you’ll see that the traditional gift for the second anniversary is cotton. That’s interesting too because cotton played a significant role in our first contact.
It was New Years Day, 1975, and Baylor was playing Penn State in the Cotton Bowl football game. It had been 50 years since Baylor had won a Southwest Conference Championship and the first time the Bears had ever been invited to the Cotton Bowl game in Dallas. With my parents being Baylor alums and long-suffering football fans, there was no way we were going to miss the parade or the football game. So on that bitter cold morning we drove downtown and stood on Commerce Street where we shivered and clapped as the dignitaries, floats and bands passed by.
I was a sophomore in high school and in my mind I had already chosen Baylor, so I took lots of Kodachrome slides with my dad's camera to capture the sights and sounds. I had no way of knowing that as Baylor’s Golden Wave Band marched just a few yards away from us, there was a freshman flute player from Garland in the ranks by the name of LeAnn Kite – who years later would sit in front of me in the Wilshire Wind Symphony, and some years after that would climb the chancel with me to exchange vows and start a life together.
So, on this second anniversary of our wedding, we are celebrating with the theme of cotton. We started with an early lunch at the Adolphus Hotel – on Commerce Street where that Cotton Bowl Parade marched by in 1975. And then we drove into the State Fair grounds and looped around the Cotton Bowl Stadium itself and saw where crews are updating and improving that venerable old structure.
From there we visited a couple of fabric shops where we are choosing new material – some with cotton in the weave no doubt – to recover furniture that we each brought into this home. The result is that what once was “his” or “hers” is now “ours” together.
And tonight we’ll dine at the Capital Grille at The Crescent in Uptown. Why the Capital Grille? For starters, they have wonderful food and service, but the main reason I chose it is just its name: Capital. Did you know that in the early decades of the 20th century Dallas was the largest inland cotton market in the nation and was the financial “capital” for the industry into the 1970s? In fact, the Cotton Exchange Building where all the brokering and trading took place was located just a few blocks away from the Capital Grill.
After dinner we’ll share gifts, and no doubt there will be some cotton there too. But the best gift has been these two years together.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Yesterday evening after a long and busy day, we made a snap decision to drive clear across town and eat dinner at Luna’s Restaurant. We made that decision because our day wasn’t nearly as tough as the Lunas’day. The evidence of that was next to the restaurant in the burned-out remains of Luna’s Tortilla Factory. We went to show our support, and in return we got a great meal and the Luna family’s signature hospitality.
We first went to Luna's by chance two years ago while shopping for granite countertop slabs nearby on Denton Drive. On that day we were greeted and seated by a young man who we learned was Fernando Luna Jr., the fourth generation in the business that was started in 1924. Further talk revealed him to be a Baylor grad. We made several more trips to dine and a year later I had the honor of interviewing Fernando for a short profile in the Baylor Line alumni magazine. That article follows below.
I just want to add that the Lunas are a class act in the tough world of restaurants and restaurant services. They've been successful for almost 90 years by treating their customers like family. It’s time we all return the favor. We can do that by stopping by for a meal. Offering a hug, a handshake, a word of encouragement, and a promise to come back as often as possible. And when the check comes, adding a little extra to the tip if we can. The employees are family too.
Baylor Line Winter 2013
Fernando Luna Jr. ’97
Growing a business by sticking to the basics
The sign outside says Luna’s Tortilla Factory, but for Fernando Luna Jr. ’97, the Dallas-based business is about people. “Sales—I can’t stand that word. We develop relationships,” he says.
Luna grew up around the business, which was started in 1924 by his great-grandmother, Maria. “She wasn’t a cook but was an entrepreneur at a time when women didn’t work. She started the business when she bought a used corn grinder,” he says.
Today Luna’s cranks out seven hundred dozen tortillas per hour to supply more than two hundred restaurants, cafeterias, and other customers in the DFW area and beyond. They also sell tamales and other Mexican food products.
Luna attended Texas A&M and then Baylor, where he played baseball in 1996-97. He earned a bachelor’s degree in education and taught high school English in Dallas for one year. Still interested in baseball—as a coach or in the front office—Luna earned an MBA from Dallas Baptist University. But even with the degree, he learned he’d have to start at the bottom in baseball. “I didn’t realize it was going be at $9,000 a year,” he says.
After excelling in medical and construction staffing in California and Arizona, he finally joined the family business.
By that time, encroaching development had forced the tortilla factory to move from downtown to the Brook Hollow area. It was still going strong, but Luna saw opportunities for growth. He launched a website and a Facebook page, computerized invoicing, and started taking orders by e-mail.
The biggest change was the 2011 opening of a Luna’s Restaurant adjacent to the tortilla factory. “Dad didn’t go to school, but he got a great education in the business. The biggest business lessons I can learn are from watching him,” he says. “My dad takes care of his employees just like he does his customers. We’re very hands on.”
Friday, June 14, 2013
LeAnn and I are transitioning from Dell to Apple computers – she with a laptop and me with a desktop. During this time of transition, I’ve found it necessary to have both systems running. Some functions I am finding very easy on the Apple, but I need to fall back on the Dell for others just to keep up with deadlines. (For the record, I had an Apple back in the mid-1990s so I’m not a total neophyte, but the Apple world has changed tremendously so there is a learning curve.)
The biggest problem I’m having right now is that with two keyboards and mouses (mice?), I keep attempting to write or do something with the wrong device in hand. For example, I’m looking at the Mac screen and typing away but nothing is happening. And then I realize that I’m totally shredding a document on the Dell screen because I’ve been hammering on the Dell keyboard.
This has led me to an all-new level of respect and appreciation for Jeff Brummel and Bill Jernberg, our wonderful organists at Wilshire Baptist Church. They not only make beautiful music with their flawless hand navigation of multiple keyboards, but they also move their feet across what amounts to another giant keyboard. Amazing!
So, thanks gentlemen for sharing your talent. Now . . . if I can only get this posted on Facebook and my website with the right . . . 0;sjdfkljsdf . . . oh da . . . 2e9fn847*hdi&^98908 . . . . .
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Jesus on a stingray bicycle. That’s what I thought when I first saw Jimmy Puckett zipping across the Baylor campus around 1979, his shoulder-length hair blowing behind him, a big grin visible through his beard. I didn’t know Jimmy then, but I got to know him later as I got into my journalism major. He was a good writer – and a thoughtful, principled thinker.
I found out recently that Jimmy died in January, but not after giving so much to so many people. After Baylor he attended Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary and taught high school in Fort Worth. He married, had three sons and several grandchildren.
But my connection with Jimmy was at college, where he had the unusual place in Baylor history of helping fuel the fire that shut down the student-run Lariat newspaper in the winter of 1980. Playboy magazine was coming to campus for a pictorial feature on “The Girls of the Southwest Conference,” and on February 19 the Lariat ran two editorials under the heading, “Playboy? To pose . . . or not to pose.” On one side, the three Lariat editors wrote that Baylor coeds should make their own informed decisions rather than just responding to political/theological fundamentalism.
On the other side, Jimmy wrote about how Playboy contributes to negative and twisted male attitudes about women. He asked, “would a real Baylor woman contribute to this twisted attitude? Would she not have any social concern for how she affects others?” But then he put his own gender on notice: “What really concerns me is whether Baylor has any real men. Men who care for women for who they are instead of what their bodies are.”
A few days later, as the student editors continued to defy the administration and poke at the issue under the rallying cry of “freedom of the press,” Baylor President Abner McCall said “freedom of the press is freedom of the publisher,” and as publisher he fired the editors. Most of the rest of the paid staff quit, and the paper ceased publication for a month.
Jimmy not only stood on the right side of the conversation, but the sweeping out of the blindly idealistic editors (McCall’s claim of “freedom of the publisher” has been true everywhere I've worked) paved the way for some of us who had been squeezed out of those jobs to have our chance. I was editor the next year, and that’s when I got to know Jimmy. He was a good writer, a hard worker, and his energy, optimism and big grin helped keep us all going on many late nights.
I last saw Jimmy in 2006 under a 25-year class reunion tent at Baylor Stadium. Jimmy’s hair was short. He could barely walk from the effects of a crippling disease. But that big grin was still etched across his face. Speaking was difficult but we shared a few memories. Later when I found a reunion picture of him and his family on the internet, I emailed it to him.
I wish I had known Jimmy better, but I’m glad to have known him even just a little.
Friday, April 26, 2013
It took 22 months but I finally found the cordless remote telephone set from my old house.
I’d boxed it up in late June 2011 during the flurry of selling my house, moving, and getting married. I’ve wanted to find the set because LeAnn’s phone set has two stations, while mine has four, which means less running through the house when the phone rings.
I found the phone set sealed tight in a small cardboard box labeled “I Believe.” That’s the name of one of my brother’s Gospel CDs, which is ironic because I did not believe I would ever find the phone set. In fact, I was convinced that I had dumped it at Goodwill with a lot of other stuff. But I found it today by accident. I was digging through the lawn and garden section of our garage in search of the cordless grass trimmer I bought LeAnn for Christmas. (Before you convict me of being an unromantic bum, I’ll tell you that LeAnn specifically asked for that, and she recently specifically wondered out loud where it was.) So I found the phone set where the trimmer should have been, and I found the trimmer where the phone set might have been.
I’ve since plugged in the trimmer to charge it up, and I’ve done the same with the phone set. It jumped to life with the digital display indicating I had five messages waiting – from June 2011, of course. As any curious person would do, I listened to the messages.
One was a robo-call from former Dallas Police Chief David Kunkle, asking me for his vote for mayor, and another was from the Fraternal Order of Police asking the same. I did vote for Kunkle, but Dallas elected another good man instead. Another call was from Ruth Glady, a dear friend in Atlanta who said “please call me.” I remember returning that call, and she told me she couldn’t come to our wedding. Ruth was the first person I met at the Dallas Chamber when I interviewed there in 1983.
Sadly, one of the messages was from Bob Stone, my previous health insurance agent. Bob was a good man with a kind heart who was struggling with cancer when we first met several years ago. He has since passed away. It’s sobering to realize that insurance agents are not exempt from the same ailments that they help us insure ourselves against.
And the final call was from a man asking if we were still selling the lot of land that we now live on. He was obviously confused back then because we had just bought the lot and weren’t flipping it or anything like that. And now that we’ve built our dream house, there’s no way we’re selling and moving. In fact, next week we will have been here a year, and as today’s saga underscores, we still have pockets of disorganization that need to be organized.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Over on the "Wilshire Blog" I’ve posted some thoughts (dated April 12) about being chosen, or not, and the mystery of God’s will and how it’s best not to know everything. I want to say a few more things about that, because someone I know is disappointed that they didn’t get the job they wanted, and I have some pretty good experience with that.
In the winter of 1983, as our wedding date approached, Debra and I were hustling to secure jobs that would get our marriage started in the same city. We both were journalism grads, so we needed to be in a media market that offered opportunities for both of us. Still, our resumes were different – I had worked two years at a small city newspaper while she had earned a master’s degree – so we brought different capabilities to potential employers.
One day on a whim I made a call and found out that a large city newspaper was interviewing, even though they said they weren’t hiring. I made an appointment for myself and then coaxed Debra to do the same. As it happened, our interviews were back-to-back. While she sat in the car, I went in and interviewed, which took about 30 minutes, and then I went back out to the car and it was her turn.
And then I waited, and waited, and waited – for at least an hour if not longer – and within a couple of days Debra had a job offer, which she accepted. I was proud and happy for her, but my own ego was badly bruised. The rule of thumb in journalism was that nobody got hired at the big city paper right out of school; you had to pay your dues and get some experience first. I had dutifully done that but I was bypassed while Debra got a job. Understand: We weren’t competing for the same job, because they had told us there were no openings. They had given us the courtesy of a visit. My experience was fine but was typical, while Debra brought a masters degree in international journalism to the table, and that led to the creation of a job. It helped that she had a totally random and unexpected hometown connection with the man who had interviewed us both.
In addition to a bruised ego and hurt pride, I was anxious because we were getting married soon and we now had jobs 100 miles apart. I interviewed at other newspapers and magazines in the city and was turned down right and left. But on the Tuesday before we got married, I interviewed and landed a job at a local business magazine. I arrived at our wedding relieved but still disappointed. I had a job, but it wasn’t the job I had wanted.
And that proved to be a blessing. Instead of working at the newspaper until I retired – and perhaps growing lazy and moldy in the process – I’ve had a variety of jobs in publications, communications and marketing that have added up to a richer and more varied career. Along the way, I’ve been outsourced and downsized into freelance and contract jobs that have sparked my entrepreneurial spirit and taken me to locations from coast to coast, and from England to Canada to South America. Most important, I’ve been stretched as a writer and a thinker, and I’ve gained lifelong friendships that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.
All of that because I didn’t get the job I wanted in 1983.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Ever since I announced that Grandpa Jack is being published, I’ve found myself defending the book as NOT being self-published. Interestingly, the defense is not with the casual reader – who just wants to read a good book – but with other writers and authors who have published books or who are trying to publish books. They ask “did you self-publish,” or they make a comment such as “well it’s good that self-publishing is available.”
I use the word “defend” because there is a bias in the marketplace that a self-published book is a lesser product than a traditionally published book. The implication is that if a publisher doesn’t swoon at a manuscript and snatch it up in exchange for an advance payment and royalties on sales, then the manuscript is not worthy of printing. Some who feel that way go so far as to refer to self-publishing as “vanity publishing,” which further brands it as something sleazy – as in, “he had to pay someone to print it.” I would argue that any and all publishing that bears an author’s name is “vanity” publishing; putting your name on the cover of a book is an exercise in vanity.
My experience tells me that traditional publishing has become so competitive and clogged with celebrity memoirs and tell-alls that self-publishing is the only way for many good authors to get their books into print. Most royalty publishers won’t look at a manuscript unless it is recommended by a literary agent, and most agents won’t talk to non-published authors unless they are known for something else – politics, sports, business, crime.
Thus the rise of self-publishing, which has been helped by technology that has lowered the expense of typesetting, design and printing. It should be noted that self-publishing is a great option for writers with a ready-made audience and distribution network, such as public speakers that hold seminars and conferences.
Still, if self-publishing has a negative reputation in the marketplace, we writers/authors bear some responsibility for that. There are companies that will take our money and our manuscript and wrap a cover around it without any attention given to editing, proofreading or even design. They survive because writers/authors continue to do business with them. The best thing we can do is not do business with the worst of these charlatans and instead seek quality companies that provide real editorial and graphic services. That does tend to cost more, but there’s nothing wrong with paying someone for those services. After all, royalty publishers get paid for those services through their share of the sales receipts.
Now that I've defended self-publishing, I’ll tell you that while Grandpa Jack is not self-published, it’s not strictly a royalty project either. I was on the verge of going the self-publishing route when I discovered Tate Publishing, a small but busy company that is reaching out to authors who have not been published before. They are not hiding behind agents peddling celebrity authors. They are looking for ordinary people with great stories to tell.
With Tate there is a “partnership” element to their process – a modest marketing fee that is reimbursed with book sales. They also expect me to do my part when it comes to getting the word out to people I know – people they don’t have contact with. Meanwhile, they are working with distributors and bookstores – people I don’t know and who wouldn’t give me the time of day. Seems to me like a fair division of duties.
As for the actual publishing process, my experience so far is that Tate employs good, professional editors and designers who have helped me improve what I believed was already a clean, well-written manuscript. They didn’t just snatch and print what I sent them, nor were they heavy handed in their editing. There was thoughtful give and take, feedback and discussion on both sides.
Some observers will read the words “partnership” and “marketing fee” and say that is code for "self-published." Really . . . because I accepted some of the risk and the responsibility? If I don’t believe in myself enough to do some of the heavy lifting, why should I expect total strangers to do it? That would be the height of vanity to think I'm that important.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
On Sunday night Hollywood slogged through another round of patting itself on the back, and once more I find myself asking: Why do they do this, and why does the public – prodded to a large degree by the rabid entertainment media – go along with this escapade and elevate it to something akin to a coronation of kings and queens?
I enjoy the movies as much as anyone. In many respects motion pictures are the pinnacle of our creativity as a species because they combine so many other arts and technologies into one package: literature, music, photography, acting, sound, set design, costumes, etc. It really is a fantastic medium, and when it is done really well it can bring us to tears, roil us in anger, make us fall down with laughter, and cause us to think, wonder, doubt and ponder our existence and the meaning of life.
All of that is great and should be applauded, and we should enjoy and even learn from the stories and philosophies that are depicted on the big screen. But we don’t need to faun over the people who create the movies. We don’t need to pay them fantastic amounts of money for really just doing a job – playing make believe, creating make believe worlds – and we certainly don’t need to get all wrapped up in their lifestyles and antics when they are not on the screen portraying characters.
After all, aren’t they just people like us? Aren’t they just working and making a living like us? Is what they do so much more special than what is done by the rest of us – doctors and lawyers, mechanics and teachers, bakers and plumbers, builders and salesmen – that they require that the world come to a stop on a Sunday night to watch them climb out of limousines and pose for pictures and then go inside to see who they have deemed to be the best?
I realize that I am asking these questions just a few days ahead of two book signing events for my first published novel. That means that I too am involved in the make-believe world. (As I’ve warned LeAnn: She’s married to a man with imaginary friends.) We’ve invited a lot of people, and many have said they are coming. Some have congratulated me and I do appreciate that because writing a book is no small thing, nor is getting it published. The writing is done mostly in isolation, and the publishing involves plenty of rejection followed by trusting people that you don’t know so well. But none of that is more difficult or more special than teaching a child to read, transplanting an organ, building a house, or any number of valuable jobs that people devote their energy and lives to.
So, please do come to a book signing, but come because you want to buy and read a good story about some interesting characters that may inspire you, make you think, or at least entertain you for a while. The book is the attraction. I’m just the guy who did the work.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Two early signs of spring over the weekend:
We planted the spring garden.
It started Saturday with a trip a couple of blocks away to Roach Feed Store to buy planting potatoes, purple shell peas, lettuce and onions. Then we tilled up the sections of the garden that weren’t still occupied by broccoli and carrots, we hoed out rows, fertilized and planted what we bought. Because a couple of rabbits in the neighborhood ate the tops off the okra last fall, we surrounded the garden with a chicken wire fence. Unless they are fancy “jumping bunnies” or persistent “burrowing bunnies,” the vegetables should be safe. Still, we’ll be watching for signs of invasion.
While at Roach we also visited the laying hens. No, we’re not going to go into the egg business. But, never say “never,” right? On the other hand, the three hawks that we saw soaring high above our house might not make our home safe for chickens. But I welcome their presence if they keep the rabbits out of the garden.
We took a bike ride.
On Sunday afternoon we cleaned up and aired up the bicycles for a roll through the neighborhood. Keep in mind that I haven’t ridden since my bike went into storage in June 2011. And LeAnn says it has been “years” since she has ridden but she hasn’t specified exactly how many years. So we started with some practice laps across the street at the church parking lot. I got the feel again of my great Trek that LeAnn helped me buy back in 2011 for my birthday. And LeAnn got the feel of the Raleigh that she has gamely adopted. (I bought the bike for Debra some years back.) Both bikes are relatively low mileage and in great shape. We wiped them down and oiled the chains and sprockets and were good to go.
After gaining our balance and confidence on the smooth pavement of the church parking lot, we rode down our street and then into Central Park where we meandered down the roadways, through the parking lots and onto the sidewalks around the baseball diamonds. Then we rode back through the neighborhood where we met some neighbors walking their dogs. We ended with a few final laps on the church parking lot. When it was all over, we had ridden 3.6 miles, according to my odometer, with no spills or mishaps. (We were wearing helmets, of course.) What’s more, we got the good feeling of riding again. We’re looking forward to more rides together in the neighborhood and downtown Garland and over to the DART station for excursions to White Rock Lake and the bike trails that spread out from there. And I’m looking forward to getting back into some serious longer distance riding for exercise and for general mental health and feeding of the soul.
In retrospect, these two activities were not really early signs of spring, because February is one of our coldest months and we still have plenty of chances for cold and even frozen days. So maybe I should say these were signs of our desire for spring. We're definitely ready!
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
We've finally reached homeowner nirvana: We have both cars parked in the garage!
It’s been a nine-month process, not because we had so much junk, but because we’ve combined two households and it took time and discernment to see what we had and decide what we needed and what we wanted. Adding to the timeline was the fact that we had everything in storage for nine months during which we couldn’t readily review or sort through the collections of two middle-aged adults.
When we finally moved into our new house in April, what didn’t go inside was left in the garage. (We left nothing in storage, which was no small feat in itself.) Then, over several weeks, we picked and pulled at the pile until we were able to get one car inside. After that, it was a slow slog of sorting, discarding and donating. We sent a good bit of furniture and household items off to college with young friends and gave a car-load to the church youth garage sale. The Christmas holidays brought more relief as we combined and collated decorations (we both had a lot), with much going to Goodwill afterward. Also during this time, we carefully decided what would go into three different attic spaces. (One has been dubbed the “Christmas Attic” because that’s what’s mostly up there. The white foam insulation on the walls and ceiling add to the wintry look.)
The final resolution came recently as our great friend and former neighbor Gerald built shelves on two walls of the garage on which to store everything from party dishes and Sunday School materials to tools and garden supplies. And these aren't just shelves; these are heavy-duty structural compartments that we could load up with engine blocks and transmissions if we wanted to. They’ve been designed, engineered, built, leveled and painted to perfection and we’ve loaded them with bins and boxes of things that we don't need regularly but will need at some point in the future.
So now when the next hail storm, winter freeze or summer boil comes, we’ll have both our vehicles tucked neatly inside. Which means that if you’re thinking about visiting and drive by to find the driveway empty, that doesn’t necessarily mean we are both gone. Ring the doorbell and we’ll come greet you if we’re home.
Seeing is believing: Check out the photos from January 22 on my "Feels Like Home" page.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
We've flipped the calendar, torn the page, turned the corner, jumped the chasm . . . or however you prefer to describe the change from 2012 to 2013.
In many ways it really is just a flipping of a page to the next day on the calendar. The world doesn’t look or smell any different, the weather is the same today as yesterday. Up is not down, right is not left, front is not back. No big deal, huh?
However, if you're one to look at the changing of the year as a time of renewal and purposeful change – if you’ve decided that 2013 is the year in which you are going to do something new, big and different with your life – then “jumping the chasm” may be an appropriate way to describe it.
Still, whether making big plans, little plans or no plans at all, one thing is certain for all of us: We don’t know what will happen over the next 12 months. Consider the year just passed: some of those we knew and loved are no longer with us; jobs, addresses and family compositions have changed; there have been unimaginable tragedies and unexpected joys. It’s enough to make even the sturdiest and bravest of us cower behind our doors and hold fast to the status quo.
But, if we keep our faith and trust in the God who gave us life and who numbers our days, we can go on and face this new day, and the one that follows, and, if given another, the one that follows that. We may still be afraid and uncertain, but with faith and trust we can keep living.
One of the story lines in the new film “Lincoln” is about this type of trust. In the fight between those who were for and who were against a constitutional amendment to end slavery, there were some who were against the amendment simply because they were afraid of the unforeseen changes it might bring to society and life as they knew it. Lincoln’s contention was that while they couldn’t predict the implications for the future, they at least had to do what they knew was right at that very moment.
So it is with our lives. We don’t know what the future will bring, but we know what is true and right today. We can act on that, and trust the future to God.
In previous centuries, a year was often described with the prefix, “in the year of our Lord . . .” We’ve dropped that for the sake of brevity and informality, but perhaps it should be an unspoken truth to always keep in mind as we move from day to day and year to year. After all, it’s not really our year; it’s God’s year.
P.S. I started writing this on New Year’s Eve for posting on Jan.1, but I woke up to the new year with a good case of the bug. A couple of days of fever followed by a stout cough. I got out of bed at 5 a.m. today (Jan. 5) to finish this and give LeAnn a little peace and quiet. She’s been a great nurse, and she deserves some time off on a Saturday morning. All of that to say that we really don’t know what we’ll wake to each day, but there’s peace knowing we don’t face it alone.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
I went to the grocery store today to buy a birthday card, and while I wasn’t surprised to see the Christmas cards already gone off the racks, I was disturbed to see the Valentine’s Day cards being loaded in. Really . . . on December 27? Can’t we let the Christmas spirit linger just a little bit, perhaps till New Year’s Eve?
Monday, December 24, 2012
Last night while wrapping gifts and baking cookies, LeAnn and I watched an old movie we’d never seen before: It Happened on 5th Avenue. It’s a 1947, black-and-white story about Aloyisius T. McKeever, a hobo who every year sneaks into the 5th Avenue mansion of Michael J. O’Connor, the world’s wealthiest man who has gone to Virginia for the winter.
McKeever enjoys the good life – the warmth of the house, a comfy bed, hot baths, clean clothes, fine cigars – but he keeps everything in order and always vacates before O’Connor returns. However, this particular year he is joined one-by-one by an assortment of folks who are down on their luck: veterans of WWII who can’t find jobs, a couple with a new baby, and a young runaway named Trudy. We learn, but Trudy doesn’t reveal to McKeever or the others, that she is O’Connor’s daughter and is a refugee of her parents’ divorce and their inability to let her create a meaningful life for herself.
McKeever hears each of their stories and lets them join him in the house, but he lays down strict rules that keep the house clean but that ultimately also promote their dignity and value as people. The twist comes when Trudy lures her wealthy parents back to the mansion where they become homeless in their own home and must live by McKeever’s rules. Doing so, they realize all that they have lost and rediscover what is important.
The story ultimately is about family – the blood kin we have and the family that becomes ours through our common dreams and struggles – the value and dignity of all people regardless of income or station, and the inborn desire of everyone to have a meaningful life and a positive impact on the world.
There are so many great lines and fine thoughts – too many to mention here – but at the end, as they watch McKeever walk away down the snowy sidewalk, O’Connor tells his wife that they need to have the hole in the fence fixed, but not to keep McKeever out. Instead, “next year, he’s coming in through the front door.”
So my question for each of us is: Who or what are we keeping out of our lives – or holding at a distance – that deserves the opportunity to be welcomed through our own front door, whether it’s the door to our home or the door to our heart?
My Christmas wish and prayer for the New Year is that we can find a way to break down our barriers, let down our guard, and open up our hearts to each other and to all that is possible through God’s love, grace and mercy.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
With Christmas upon us, I’ve been wondering why it is that we put so much time and energy into this holy holiday and then quickly brush it aside. I’m particularly curious about how quickly we toss aside the music with the wrapping paper.
I’ll be the first one to say that the holiday music begins way too early, often before we’ve even stabbed the Thanksgiving turkey, and then it’s all day every day at shops and the mall and on TV and the radio. And then the day after Christmas, retailers begin pushing their year-end sales and follow quickly with their Valentines Day jingles.
But what if . . . Christmas music didn’t start until the first Sunday of Advent (it was December 2 this year), and then it continued on until January 5. Why then? My good friend Paul Manglesdorf reminds me every year that the 12 days of Christmas actually don’t begin until Christmas Day, so “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and other such songs are sing-able through January 5. And if we want to be chronological with the Christmas story itself, any songs about kings or wise men could be held back until just before Epiphany Sunday, which this time around will be January 6 – the 12th day after Christmas.
And after that? Winter doesn’t begin until December 21, and it doesn’t end until March 19, and somewhere between those dates is when we should be hearing all those songs we hear before Christmas that really are not about Christmas at all but instead are about winter: “Jingle Bells,” “Sleigh Ride,” “Walking in a Winter Wonderland,” “Frosty the Snowman,” “Let it Snow,” “Jingle Bell Rock.”
Okay, I know that March 19 is stretching the winter holiday vibe beyond reason . . . but you get the idea.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
“You chosen by the Lord.” The subject line on the email this morning was intriguing, and when I opened it, I got the same message but with additional instructions:“View the attached file pls.”
Of course I knew that means I’d been chosen to receive a totally bogus offer that would result in identity theft or a computer virus or both. The only “Lord” the email was referring to was “Lord So-And-So,” commander general and deposed potentate of some third-world country who has chosen me to collect $1 million if I’ll open my bank account to a deposit of $100 million for his safekeeping until he gets out of the country and into exile. So of course I didn’t open the attachment and instead trashed the email.
Still, the subject line stirred my thoughts because on its face it is true. We all are chosen by the one real Lord, and we just have to figure out what we are chosen for. Usually that means we are chosen to be exactly who we are, doing what we do in the best possible way. Sometimes that can mean being chosen to do something that we might consider impossible or extraordinary – especially for us.
But we’re all chosen for something.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Yesterday in church we sang the carol “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” and my eyes and ears were drawn once more to the words “keep silence.”
I used to think the phrase was “keep silent” until I was working on a script with actor/writer friend David Marquis who used the words “keep silence” rather than “keep silent.” I didn't argue with him because he’s the type of person who would know, but mostly because I liked the sound of that better – and the perceived meaning too.
“Keep silent” has a negative edge to it, like “be quiet,” “hush” or even “shut up.” It sounds demanding, commanding – like what an irritated parent might say to a bothersome child.
On the other hand, “keep silence” has a feel of responsibility and purpose, like being asked to do something important – a sacred trust to take silence and hold it, protect it.
And the “silence” to be kept? Perhaps it is a reverent pause, a moment of meditation, a time of quiet communion with God.
That certainly seems to be the point of the carol, which points to a posture of reverence:
Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
and with fear and trembling stand;
to put aside our everyday distractions and concerns:
ponder nothing earthly-minded,
for with blessing in his hand
and consider something far more significant:
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
our full homage to demand.
The phrase “keep silence” also has an air of expectation about it, as if in that time of silence we may experience something mysterious, unique, unexpected, even miraculous.
Christmas is a time of hustle and bustle to be sure. Much of the noise is joyful and wonderful – parties with friends, Christmas pageants, kitchen clatter as we prepare the annual feast – but we shouldn’t forget to seek silence as well. And not just seek it, but hold it and keep it for a while.
Monday, November 26, 2012
I heard a radio commercial today where Chevrolet announced that their 2013 Malibu is “the best Malibu ever.” I Googled it. It looks good, is well-priced, has great fuel efficiency and lots of techno-gadgetry. Still, the best Malibu ever was the 1979 Malibu. Specifically, my 1979 Malibu.
My ’79 Malibu had an automatic transmission, a fuel-efficient V6 and a catalytic converter. It was “camel metallic” with a gold stripe down both sides. It had two doors, sport wheel covers, AM/FM radio, air conditioning, a spacious trunk, ample back seat, and a front bench seat. The auto industry lost its soul when it gave up on the bench seat.
My ’79 Malibu was special because it was totally unexpected. I was a sophomore in college and had started to eyeball cars but I had my sights on something less, perhaps used. I hadn’t talked to anyone about it, but I had been thinking about it. I was 20 years old, after all. Then that summer I spent five weeks with my brother on a ranch near Tucumcari, New Mexico, and didn’t give it any more thought when my parents and best pal Ken picked me up at the airport. I was tired, dirty and sunburned. When Dad turned down our alley instead of our street where he usually parked, I thought maybe he wanted me to go in the back so I wouldn’t dirty up the house. But then he pulled into the driveway and there it was – the brand new 1979 Malibu. That’s why Ken had come to the airport to help fetch me home, and he was crazy with excitement for me, which was good because I was totally speechless. (I don’t think I ever told my parents thank you in a proper way.) Whatever, as soon as the shock subsided, Ken and I jumped in it and spent the next hour or so driving around. I think I even drove him home.
My ’79 Malibu came at the perfect time because I had spent the first two years of college hitching rides with Ken and other roommates and friends. Now, I went back to Baylor as a junior – with wheels. No longer did I have to make a date and then figure out how we’d get there. I was in full control of my own destiny.
My ’79 Malibu got me through my last two years of college – including driving across Waco at 1 a.m. on most weeknights. As editor of the Baylor Lariat, my final duty every night was to deliver the pages for the next day’s paper to the printer. We didn’t have digital files or email back then.
I dated, courted, and got married in the ’79 Malibu. Those bench seats weren’t there for nothing. I got my first traffic ticket in the ’79 Malibu. I was stopped for speeding in Highland Park, Texas. Going 33 in a 30 mph zone. I was reckless, out of control, back then!
I launched my career in the ’79 Malibu, driving all over Waco and the Heart of Texas as a reporter for the Tribune-Herald. I was in a rush in those days; I ran out of gas once and locked my keys in the car more than once. I did that at the Waco VA Hospital and used a hangar to unlatch the door while a host of psychiatric patients in hospital robes and slippers stood around me and watched.
In 1983, my ’79 Malibu pulled a trailer with all my belongings to my first apartment in Dallas and then to a condo near downtown. But somewhere along in there she started to give out, her pistons rattling in the valves, her gaskets oozing oil. A friend in the mechanic business said those early V6 engines wore themselves out, and I guess that’s what happened. I tried to keep her going with a rebuilt engine, but she was never the same and I had to let her go. I traded her for a little green Subaru – with bucket seats. I haven’t had a bench seat since 1985.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Saturday night we watched amazed as our Baylor Bears beat up on top-ranked Kansas State. It was a historic night and one of just a handful of times when we’ve witnessed Baylor fans storm the field after the game. It happened twice last year – when Baylor beat TCU, and especially when they beat Oklahoma on the last play of the game. We joined that party. But before that . . . if it happened, I wasn’t there.
This time Baylor dominated the game from the first play, and while everyone in the stadium knew that Kansas had the strength and talent to come back and win, they didn’t. Our guys held them back, confused them, turned them upside down, out-played them at every position. The win was no fluke, so there was plenty of reason to celebrate.
It’s no wonder that while the public address announcer told fans to not go on the field, the stadium crews opened the gates anyway. They knew the fans wouldn’t be denied, and if they were coming anyway, they were at least going to make sure nobody got hurt. However, they did draw the line at a good old-fashioned goal post teardown, forming a human barrier around the base. Those things cost money, after all, and I’m glad our fans kept their heads and didn’t do any damage.
I don’t know what’s planned at the new stadium, but I believe it would be appropriate that when it opens in two years, the old goal posts that have stood tall over so much history these past few years should stand as gateways to a new era on the new field. If not, I’d like to plant one in my backyard.
Friday, November 16, 2012
The front page of yesterday’s Dallas Morning News had an advertising sticker on the upper right corner. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, which is only slightly less disturbing than printing an ad on the front page, which they have done a few times and which I find cheep and tawdry.
But what really got me going yesterday was that the sticker announced that if you visited the advertized assisted living center, you would receive a free pie. Really . . . a pie? Is that all it would take to induce someone to go tour a facility that most of us would like to avoid as long as possible? Is the offer of a pie enough to encourage you to go look at a potential residence for yourself? Or for your parents? I’m sorry, but it’s going to take a lot more than a pie to get me to make that visit.
On the other hand, I joked with LeAnn that we don’t need to worry about Thanksgiving dessert. We’ll just go take the tour and get a pie and we’ll be all set.
Friday, September 28, 2012
It started as a joke on June 22, the longest day of the year, when I declared that the days would start getting shorter and it would soon be time to decorate for Christmas. I've touched on that theme several times since then, prompted by the fact that while LeAnn loves to decorate for the holidays, I cringe at the work involved.
Lest you think I’m a Scrooge, I’ve always loved the sights and sounds of Christmas. As a child I loved it when the decorations started appearing after Thanksgiving, and I felt sad when they disappeared again, signaling the start of the long cold slog of winter. I still love the season, but as an adult I’ve grown weary of dragging out all the boxes to decorate, and dragging them out again to put everything away. I’ve been especially wary this year as the combining of two households has led to an entire section of our attic devoted to Christmas decorations.
My most recent joshing on the matter came last weekend. We were getting the house ready for a large gathering of church folks – a major undertaking in itself – and when LeAnn said it would all be over by Monday night, I said, “yes, and then on Tuesday we’ll need to start decorating for Christmas.” HA!
And then I did it: While LeAnn was at work on Tuesday, I wandered into “the Christmas Room” as I call that section of attic and pulled out three Santa decorations and put them out for LeAnn to discover when she got home. It took a while for her to notice but she shrieked with laughter when she saw a Santa head with jingle bells hanging from the inside of the front door. And then I couldn’t wait any longer and had to point out the two-foot-tall Santa standing on the hearth, and later, the Santa pillow on my desk.
We enjoyed the joke, but now I think the joke is on me, because I’ve unwittingly started decorating the house for Christmas.
Misplaced thoughts
Here are some thoughts that wrote over the past six weeks but failed to post:
It was a jolt to open the newspaper on August 7 and read about the death of Marvin Hamlisch. The article didn’t say much except that he died after a brief illness. We’d seen him conduct the Dallas Symphony Pops in June – in a salute to Cole Porter featuring Michael Feinstein – and he was his usual witty and enthusiastic self. It was probably the sixth time we saw him conduct and as always he managed to wear multiple hats very well: he led the orchestra, introduced and joked with Feinstein, talked to the audience, and sat at the piano and played. He wore each of those hats better than most people might wear just one. We’ll miss him for sure.
I’ve built a back patio of flagstone on top of crushed granite using a technique I’ve dubbed “relative level.” I started with a level string line running from the back step to the outer edge of the patio and then I set down a line of stones based on that level. But, realizing that crisscrossing the area with more string would be tedious as well as hard to work around, I started using my eyes and a carpenter’s level. At 24 inches, the level can easily extend over two or three stones, and as long as the bubble stays close to the middle, then the stones are relatively level in relation to each other. Stepping back and looking at it from a distance, it seems to have worked. The big test will come when it rains. If there are pools of standing water, then I’ll know I have some low spots that I need to raise. I also know that while “relative level” may work with flagstone, it probably shouldn’t be used with more serious activities. There are some things that you just want to get absolutely right.
Hollywood knocked on our door recently, and we were disappointed but also relieved that they didn’t come back. The knock was from a location scout looking for a house to film an independent movie called “Charlie: A Toy Story.” When I asked how much disruption there would be, he said “total disruption.” I let him come inside a moment and he said the house might be “too nice,” meaning “too new,” and that was fine with us. We didn’t like the idea of having a crew of actors and technicians knocking around inside our new house for a week or more. Instead, they shot the movie two doors down at a house that looks a little more broken in and homey than ours and that probably benefited from some fixing up and attention. Meanwhile, we were happy to let them park their dressing room trailer in front of our house, fill up water tanks with our hose, and plug in lights on our porch for a nighttime scene down the street. And, we enjoyed visiting with some of the crew – all local folks who still understand the concepts of hospitality and consideration.
Friday, July 13, 2012
This week LeAnn and I celebrated our first anniversary, and instead of going the traditional route and giving each other gifts of paper, we gave each other stone. Really. Two tons of charcoal flagstone and three yards of decomposed black granite. The gift charts say that paper is the gift for the first year and you have to wait 90 years to get to stone. With life expectancies what they are, we decided we better not wait that long to get to the heavy stuff.
The stone was for the walkway leading to our front door. Our neighborhood has extremely deep parkways (that strip of lawn between the sidewalk and the street). They are 12 feet, and when it came time to pave our sidewalks and driveway, we decided that we didn’t want more concrete crossing the parkway, so we opted for flagstone. While we had plenty of offers from landscapers to do the work, we decided to do it ourselves. We wanted to save money, and on top of that, we just wanted to do it ourselves. We thought it’d be a good project to do together.
We might have had an easy start of it because our landscaper put in grass everywhere except in that location, but time passed and the weeds came in and we spent the better part of three mornings digging out the area. On the third morning, we went to AAA Sand & Stone and bought the flagstone and decomposed granite. Amazingly, they delivered it that afternoon.
The next morning, Saturday, we spread the decomposed granite about two inches deep and picked through the pallet of flagstone looking for pieces that would fit just right. Some we could handle individually, but many we had to carry and set down together. While the digging of the previous week was drudgery, laying the stone was fun – like putting together a big puzzle as we looked for pieces that would fill out the space and interlock with each other to some extent.
We rested on Sunday, and then on Monday morning, we leveled the stones with me lifting the corners and LeAnn shoveling in small loads of granite. When we had it looking as level as we could, we dumped more granite into the seams and then swept it around until the gaps were filled. With rain in the forecast, we’re expecting the granite and stone to shift a little and even sink down, but we have enough granite left over to make adjustments. We also had enough granite and stone to create a walkway down the side of our house and to start a similar project on our back patio.
I’d be leaving out a big part of the story if I didn’t mention the help we got in this endeavor. On the first morning a neighbor came, unannounced and uninvited, with a shovel and helped dig out the area. She came again the second morning with her shovel as well as some stakes and yellow cord to help mark the level. For the record, I was going to do the same thing myself but she beat me to it. On the third morning of digging, she came again, and we were joined by LeAnn’s father who we invited to help dig as well as go with us to buy the stone and granite. We also had plenty of people walk by and drive by with vocal support if not actual help. When we got to the stone selecting and laying, we were left to ourselves. I’m glad for that, because that was the personal, subjective, aesthetic phase of the project, and it really was up to LeAnn and me to work it out.
And that’s the way it is with marriage. There can be some help and support as things are planned and developing, but the final design and success of the relationship is up to the two people who have joined their lives together. People still can offer advice, but it’s up to the couple to do the heavy lifting needed to make it work – whether in the first year of paper, or in the 90th year of stone.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Did you see the “transit of Venus” on June 5th, that rare celestial occurrence where Venus passes between the earth and the sun? It was partly cloudy and I was busy so I didn't even try to go out and see it, but the pictures I’ve seen are stunning. What impressed me most is that Venus, which is roughly the same size as earth, looked like a small black spot on the face of the sun, and that reminded me of how absolutely huge the sun is. In fact – and I looked it up – the sun’s diameter is 109 times that of the earth, and we are 93 million miles away from the sun.
It's easy to lose sight of that enormity during the course of an average day. We tend to treat the sun like a heat lamp that hangs from somewhere up over our shoulder as we go about our business. We welcome it’s warmth in the winter, and we wish we could find the off switch in the summer. We forget that without the sun, we'd all be dead.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
I have a red sore on the inside of my right thumb that means that I mowed our new yard for the first time last night. It felt good to get behind the plow again since I haven’t mowed a yard since last June and I haven’t had any grass to call my own since September.
I had a setback getting started because my mower wouldn’t fire up after being in storage for 11 months. After getting a new spark plug and checking the air filter, oil, etc., it still wouldn’t go. I grumbled as I took it to Garland Saw & Lawnmower because the last time I took a mower for service they kept it for a month, but these guys promised it back to me in a week , tops. Meanwhile, I borrowed my dad’s mower after he told me there were plenty of crews out there who could mow my yard, and after I explained to him that there was no way I was going to let someone else mow my yard for the first time. Or ever, for that matter. In the 18 years at my previous home, I hired someone else to mow it just four times that I can recall. Dad’s a longtime lawn pro so he understood my desire to do it myself.
Compared to my $150 mower that has no grass catcher and no self-propulsion, Dad’s mower is a beast. Heavy and powerful, it did a fine job on the lawn but I decided it was more mower than I want. As I got near the house, I recalled the feeling I had when I used LeAnn’s brush-action vacuum cleaner for the first time. It got away from me and took out a table and everything on it. Thankfully there were no breakable figurines on it. So when I got close to the house, I disengaged the propulsion and eventually did the whole yard that way.
I ran out of light last night so I finished the back yard early this morning. And then wouldn’t you know it, Garland Saw and Lawnmower called this afternoon and said my mower is ready to go. Had I been a little more patient, I could have mowed with my own mower, although Dad’s power was probably needed this first time since the grass had gotten tall and I needed to keep it tall to protect the newly attaching roots.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
I’m pleased to report that the first recipient has been selected for the Debra Wearden Hampton Memorial Scholarship in Journalism at Baylor University.
Kelsey Prenger is a student in Baylor’s Master of International Journalism (MIJ) program, which requires study and an internship in a foreign country. I received a nice letter from Kelsey describing her internship this summer in Kandern, Germany, with TeachBeyond, a non-profit Christian service organization focused on educational ministries. She explains that her parents are missionaries with Wycliffe Bible Translators and live mostly on donations, so this scholarship and others will help further her education.
In 1981 (has it really been 30 years?) Debra was a Baylor MIJ student, and her studies took her to Quebec City where she took courses at Laval University and worked at Le Soleil (The Sun) newspaper. I visited her for a week while she was there and I was amazed at how strong, vital and independent she had become – studying and working in the French language, making her way around the city on public transit, living in a small room in the basement of a host house, traveling into the countryside with other students.
I’ve sent Kelsey a short letter in response, congratulating her and encouraging her to learn and experience as much as she can while in Germany. Debra’s time in French Canada set the pace for her entire career, including helping her get her first job at The Dallas Morning News where she excelled for 15 years.
A blurb on the Baylor Journalism web site states that the department gives students more scholarship money than any other department in the College of Arts and Sciences because “we’ve had a number of graduates who have become successful – even famous – in the professional world. They’ve been generous in supporting our department.”
Debra wasn’t famous – she never wanted that – but she was successful in her career and even more so in the way she lived. She definitely was generous, and her stewardship of what she earned and what she was given made the scholarship possible.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Yesterday morning I turned on our new sprinkler system for the first time and made a list of all the locations as the system went through six-minute cycles in each of 12 stations. It's efficient and impressive and will be vital to the success of the new yard that is being planted at this very moment.
It’s also a huge improvement over the last sprinkler system I had, which I might claim dated to the dawn of the Industrial Age if it were not for the fact that the house was built in 1949. Still, it was circa 1960s or '70s, which is a lifetime in terms of technological advances. Instead of micro-circuits and digital readouts, it had metal sprockets, gears and toggle switches. I never learned how the timer worked, so I used the toggle switches to turn on different sections.
It all worked fine and helped us get Yard of the Month one blustery November when the winter rye grass came in especially thick. But that all changed one night when I toggled off the system and then I awoke in the morning to find that it had been running all night. The yard was soggy, there was water running down the street, and the next water bill was high. I flipped the switch back and forth until it finally turned off. Further testing showed it to be unreliable so I never used it again. Instead, I turned to the ancient practice of hose and sprinkler dragging, and that worked fine for the next 10 years. In fact, I discovered that I saw a lot more of the yard that way, and that made me more attentive to what was going on out there.
So, while we’ll enjoy our new sprinkler system and know that it will be a great help in getting the yard started and keeping it green, we won’t let it lull us into becoming disengaged lords of the manor. We’ll still go out regularly to “walk the estate" and see what’s going on. That will especially be true in the small section of yard that won’t be planted with grass but instead will have tomatoes, squash and okra.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
I long for ordinary time. I’m not talking about that long span of time on the church liturgical calendar between Pentecost and Advent. I’m talking about a time when there’s not so much excitement and major projects but just ordinary living.
The past year has been a race with a wedding and selling houses and new house building and moving three times with a fourth move coming. Don’t get me wrong, it’s all been wonderful, exciting stuff, and thankfully without the heartbreak of earlier times. But after this next move, and after we get unpacked and settled in, I want to get back to regular, ordinary life:
I want to work for long stretches, writing and creating, without having to shift gears to run an errand or make a decision about something other than what’s on the screen in front of me.
I want to exercise – cycling, walking, even working in the yard.
I want to spend more time in quiet prayer and meditation. I’ve forgotten what silence sounds like.
I want to watch a sunrise and a sunset – and not from a car windshield or rearview mirror as I rush somewhere.
I want to go somewhere I really want to go, and I want to stay at home when I really want to stay at home.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Last night when we left the house we made sure all the doors were locked. Yes, we finally have locks on the doors. That doesn’t mean that we’ve moved in yet, but it’s an acknowledgement that this is in fact a private home and soon will have permanent residents.
Up until now we’ve been open to the world and we know that we’ve had lots of people walking through. Last Saturday we were there to check on things and a man walked in to look around. After we got over being startled by each other, we introduced ourselves as the owners, and he said he was just curious because he has done a lot of renovations himself. He was amiable and courteous, so we gave him a quick tour. We’ve happily done the same over the months with friends, family, and future neighbors. One day a neighbor stopped by with a small dog in her arms, and at her request I gave her and the pup a tour.
I’ve done my share of walking into houses that are under construction. If the house was framed but there wasn’t a door, I’ve walked in to look around. The only time I ever walked into a house that was further along was when I was in the third grade. One day after school I rode my bike to a street where new houses were being built. I walked in the front door of a house and down the hall where I was stopped by a man working in the bathroom. “Hey, you can’t be in here, there’s gonna be people living here soon,” he said. I answered, “I know, and I’m one of them.” It was going to be our house in a few weeks and I was checking out my new bedroom.
Aside from that, I’ve waited for an invitation, including the ones on signs that say “Open House” or “Estate Sale.” I remember a time while I was growing up when my parents would make the rounds of open houses on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. They were just looking around, getting ideas, and even I liked taking a peek at the kinds of places other people lived, especially if there were stairs because we always lived in one-story houses. My interest in open houses ended after l took a tumble down some stairs on a late Sunday afternoon. I was shaken up a little but we went to evening church, of course.
Another incident ended my interest in estate sales. Debra and I walked through a lot of houses back when we were accumulating stuff, and one day we walked through the open door of a house in old East Dallas that had an estate sale sign in the front yard. The house was mostly empty until we walked into a back room where a woman was sitting in a chair watching TV. “What the hell are you doing in my house?” she shouted, and I answered, “we thought there was an estate sale.” She said “that was last week.” We apologized and quickly left, closing the front door on the way out. We should have taken down her sign too.
Anyway, our doors are locked now but that doesn’t mean we won’t be neighborly. We plan to entertain a lot, and we don’t mind people stopping by. That’s the kind of home we want to have. If you let us know you’re coming, we might even put out some cookies and iced tea. After all, LeAnn loves to cook and she has the spiritual gift of hospitality. Me? I have plenty of patience . . . and lots of good attic space where I can disappear when I get tired.
Monday, March 19, 2012
As I write this, a friend is spending perhaps his last day with his mother. It’s a heartbreaking time, but it’s also a very important time. A holy time.
I’m at an age when many people I know are going through this with parents, spouses, brothers and sisters. Having been through the death of a spouse, I know these are sad days, but they also are rich days. They are days of humble privilege and responsibility as you help your loved one move on.
Therefore, I have some advice: Be there for every moment that you can. Work and other activities will wait for you; this is too important to miss. Stay close, stay up all night if you must. Lean on family and friends for strength when the days get long and the emotional weight gets heavy. Most important, trust your loved one to God’s timing and mercy. And trust too that God will help you sort through the memories, softening the difficult ones and brightening the sweet ones.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Technology is killing customer service.
A case in point: A cable company sends an automated message by both email and phone warning that we’re overdue on payment and our service will be disconnected if we don’t get caught up right away. Our electronic bank records show that we’re up to date with our automatic payments. When we try to clear up the confusion, we’re encouraged to make an inquiry with an on-line chat tool because it is manned 24 hours a day, but after 45 minutes of waiting for someone to respond, we give up. The next day, we reach a live person who says our previous account has been switched to a new account and we should just ignore the service warnings on the old account. Finally, another automated phone call asks us to participate in a survey regarding their customer service. What customer service?
Contrast that with the young man at the department store who has gone out of his way to help us get the best deals on kitchen appliances for the house we are building. He’s clued us in on the dates for the best sales and helped us determine the best combinations of coupons to use. At times he has maneuvered around his own rigid computer systems to locate the items we want at the best price. In the process he has vented his own frustration with the barriers he must climb over to serve us.
Once in college, I went downtown to “the phone company” building to change my phone service to a new address. I sat in a booth and picked up a customer service phone and had a live chat with a real live person. Even then, there was some confusion. The operator at the other end of the line said, “just a moment,” and then I heard a door open, and around the corner walks a woman wearing a headset – the same woman I had just been speaking to. She sat down next to me and we worked it out. Now that’s customer service!
While writing this just now, the phone rang and it was the cable company with yet another recorded warning that our bill is overdue. The live person we spoke to recently told us to ignore those calls, that everything is okay, and so we’ll follow that advice. If they cut us off, well, I just hope they know that our new house has been wired to accept every possible kind of television/phone/internet provider. In fact, we’re even wired for an old-fashioned TV antennae.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Sunday in church I had one of those experiences where worlds collide and all I could do is hold on and experience it.
I was on the front row with the deacons to serve communion, and sitting on my left was LeAnn, my wonderful wife of six months and our new deacon chairman for 2012. I have rotated off the active deacon roster this year, but I purposely volunteered to serve on New Year’s Day so that I could serve with LeAnn at least once. And I requested a specific place in line so that I could sit next to her during the service. It was a sweet, special moment.
After communion the choir sang “I Want to Walk as a Child of the Light.” The arrangement is based on a beautiful hymn in our new hymnal. We’ve never sung it as a congregation at Wilshire, but I pointed the hymn out to our music minister last year because it was one of Debra’s favorite hymns and one that I chose for her memorial service in 2008. As the choir sang, I closed my eyes to listen. It too was a sweet, special moment.
However, it was, as I said, a moment when worlds collide, because for an instant I was living in the past, present and future all at once. I can’t call it a coincidence because I unwittingly created the moment, having manipulated myself next to LeAnn and having flagged the hymn months earlier.
Then came the scripture passage for the day, from Ecclesiastes 3: “For everything there is a season . . .” and all the couplets that follow: a time to be born, and a time to die, weep and laugh, mourn and dance. From where I was sitting, all those “times” had come all at once. Like I said, it felt like worlds had collided.
However, if we embrace the notion expressed by our pastor in his Sunday message that “we can live as if eternity has already begun,” then it’s not really a collision but more of a merging. And if we can see time and the big picture the way God does, then there’s no need to fret the death, weeping and mourning of Ecclesiastes because they are perfectly balanced by the life, laughter and dancing. That’s a big IF, because we’re not God. We may already be living in eternity, but understanding all of that probably won’t come until we’re in the next phase.
Copyright © 2013 Jeff Hampton