Run For Your Life

What do you do when you find yourself living with a sense of unfinished business? I’ve read stories of folks in the midst of mid-to-late adulthood who went to college for the first time to pursue a coveted degree only because in their youth they didn’t have the resources or the opportunity.

 

I read somewhere that the majority of folks live with a sense of regret, do so about the things they didn’t do rather than the things they did. I can’t say that I have a frame of reference for either. Maybe it is a lack of imagination on my part, but I’ve mostly enjoyed life and have been content with the status quo. I don’t live with a sense that I’ve missed anything that really mattered.

 

What’s true for me is not true for my daughter. She lives with a sense of unfinished business and she’s made her bucket list and plans to check the most important missed event off that list in October 2017.

 

Perhaps as you read this you can hear the sound of Ol’ Blue Eyes singing: “Regrets, I’ve had a few; but then again, too few to mention. I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption. I planned each charted course; each carful step along the byway, and more, much more than this, I did it my way”.

 

The year I graduated from high school there was a popular television drama that ran for three seasons. It was entitled, “Run For Your Life”. The episode starred Ben Gazzara who played attorney Paul Bryan. Bryan’s doctor tells him that he only has a short time to live. Actually, with the prognosis that death would come in nine-to-eighteen months, Bryan opted to do all the things for which he had never made the time. Each televised episode began with the voice-over of the physician telling him he will die in no less than nine months , but in no more than eighteen months. Consequently Bryan attempted to squeeze thirty years of living into one or two years. He was a man on the move. He literally was running for his life. Much like Route 66, each episode featured the main character in a different location encountering new people and building memories.

 

When I think of a man on the run, I’m reminded of a story my younger brother shared in a sermon he preached at my church. Larry Dean is always entertaining and he always has a good point. When it comes to preaching, he isn’t a three-point kind of guy, but he lives with the notion that any sermon worth it’s salt has to have a point.

 

Disappointly, I actually don’t remember his point, but I do remember the story he shared. It was about a trapper who crossed the continent to the Pacific Ocean with Lewis and Clark. The trapper’s name was John Colter. Colter secured permission from Captain Meriwether Lewis to stay and trap beaver. Of course, Captain Lewis had previously garnered hatred by a Blackfoot Indian tribe for killing a Blackfoot warrior who was trying to steal horses. In return, the Indians hated the white men and were intent on killing as many as possible.

 

John Colter stayed behind knowing all of this, but the lure of trapping was paramount in his life. I’d call that “really not being smart”, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. He and another hunter named John Potts opted to take the risk. I mean after all, the best beaver streams were in the Blackfoot hunting grounds. The two set their traps at night and hid during the day.  If you think they were living the good life, you could be mistaken.

 

Long story-short, the trapping expedition didn’t turn out like Colter and Potts planned. They found themselves in a canoe paddling up a creek and subsequently surrounded by hundreds of Indians on both banks. The Indians made signs for them to come to shore. Since they couldn’t escape, Colter turned the canoe toward shore. As they arrived at the shore, an Indian immediately took Potts’ rifle. Colter used his strength to wrestle the rifle from the Indian and returned it to Potts. Potts killed the Indian and then died with a seconds with a body full of arrows.

 

The Indians stripped Colter of his clothing and talked about how they would kill him. The chief decided to make a sport of it and asked Colter if he could run fast. Colter understood enough of their language and replied that he was a very slow runner. I guess when you’re facing a life and death situation, why bother to tell them you had a reputation for running really fast. It was his only chance of escape.

 

When my brother was sharing Colter’s story, he left few details untold. The chief gave Colter a head start as the Indians gave their war-whoop and started after him. Colter ran straight across an open plain toward the Jefferson River six miles away.

 

Do you remember the lyrics from the “Battle of New Orleans?” One of the stanza’s goes like this: “ Yeah they ran through the briers and they ran through the brambles And they ran through the bushes where a rabbit couldn’t go They ran so fast that the hounds couldn’t catch ’em On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.”

 

Unhindered by clothing because his had been taken, Colter literally streaked through the cactus and ignored the fact that his feet were filled with cactus thorns. Of course when you have hundreds of Indians wanting your scalp, that adds motivation to run like the wind.   The details of his survival are interesting, but you get my point. He ran for his life.

 

In October my daughter and son-in-law (poor guy, he doesn’t have a choice) are scheduled to run in the U.S. Marine Corps Marathon. Andrea had previously trained for and planned to run in the marathon with her brother the October following Craig’s return to Texas in conjunction with his retirement from the U.S. Marine Corps. The year before, Craig ran the marathon in Afghanistan.

 

Despite the fact that Andrea had requested leave from her employer months before to have the time away, when push came to shove, her leave had been cancelled. Consequently work won out and she had to forego the experience.  It was a disappointment that fell into the category of unfinished business.

 

Not to be deterred, she plans to have the experience anyway. Since Craig can’t run this year, Kevin will fill his sneakers and the two of them will join thousands of others in what she hopes will be the fulfillment of a dream.

 

While I applaud her effort, it all sounds like a very bad dream to me. I can’t imagine walking twenty-six miles much less running. For me to do so, I’d have to be being chased by Blackfoot Indians wanting my scalp.

 

All My Best!

Don

A Community Service Transaction

It was dark outside and I was almost home. I had told the General I should be home before she got out of church last night, but I was running a little behind schedule. It was after 5:00 when I left the office at Miracle Farm. When I came through Brenham, I opted to stop at Second Chance. I’d never been inside the store before, but one of the silent auction items the General had placed the winning bid on at a fundraiser for the program on Saturday night had been donated from there. I guess I was still feeling a little guilty that I had done nothing for Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’d find something that would boost her spirits.

 

First let me say, Second Chance is the kind of antique shop and mercantile where you can spend a lot of time. I didn’t have a lot of time. The posted sign on the door showed closing time as 6:00. I only had twenty minutes to look. There was also signage on the door indicating that: “Your Pet Is Welcome. Please Don’t Leave Animals In Your Car”. Knowing the place was dog friendly was also a positive thing. I guess I was missing Barnabas.

 

Almost by the time I had taken three or four steps inside the store, I saw the display of hand carved swans like the General had purchased. The shop had donated a small swan for the silent action. My eyes gravitated to the larger swan. The price tag reflected a price of a little more that $1,100. I had the thought: “I can get a heart shaped box of chocolate candy for a lot less somewhere down the road.”

 

I quickly walked through the rest of the shop and found that the antiques and signature items were top quality and equivalently priced. I needed more time. I probably also needed more money. Consequently, I left the store without making a purchase, but I resolved to return on another day.

 

Like I said, “It was dark outside and I was almost home.” The flashing lights of a police car in the distance ahead perforated the darkness. I intuitively checked my speed. I don’t know why I did that. My car was set on cruise control. I was not speeding. I guess you could say that I have the ability to live and learn.  When I drive, I try to keep my car between the fence poles on either side of the highway and within the posted speed limit.

 

I intuitively pulled my car to the inside lane as I approached the stopped police car with the flashing lights parked on the shoulder of the highway to my right. There was not a stopped car in front of his, so he obviously had just completed a community service transaction. How’s that for putting a positive spin on giving someone a speeding ticket?

 

Looking in my rearview mirror, I noticed that the flashing lights were no longer flashing. That meant only one thing. The DPS car was now rolling and behind me. Looking back forward (that’s a strange expression), I noticed the green light at the upcoming highway intersection was now yellow. Luckily, I had time to stop, but barely. On another day I might have rolled on through, but why take unnecessary chances?  I am not certifiably crazy.

 

Moving forward through the intersection after the light turned green, I noticed the darkness was now perforated once again with the flashing lights of a DPS car. This time the lights were behind me but they were still moving. My eyes automatically looked down to the speedometer. I wasn’t speeding. I also noticed there wasn’t another car between me and the flashing lights. I obviously was the target (I mean recipient) of the next community service venture.

 

I pulled way over off the shoulder of the highway before stopping. I didn’t know if he’d approach me from the driver’s window or the passengers. I’ve seen it done both ways. Actually, I’ve experienced it done both ways. Did I mention, I never find the experience the highlight of my day or night?

 

I made a mental inventory of what I’ve learned about being appropriately stopped. I kept my seat belt fastened with both hands on the wheel. I was also glad that I wasn’t packing heat. Consequently, I didn’t need to mention the presence of firearms.

 

The young man walked to the driver’s window. “I’m stopping you because the clear light above your license plate is not working”. Did he then actually verbalize the question: “Did you know that” or was it simply implied? Regardless, it was a stupid question. How would I possibly know that?

 

I replied, “I was in a car accident on Friday. My car was hit from behind. I am putting the car in the repair shop on Monday”. “Who hit you was his next question?” I responded: “A guy driving a pickup”. He seemed satisfied with my answer even though I actually hadn’t provided a name. “Insurance” was his next statement or maybe it was a question? I didn’t know.  I asked for clarification: “Are you asking for my insurance documentation?” He said: “No, did the driver have insurance?”

 

I responded that the driver had insurance and that his insurance company called me the following day accepting full responsibility and giving me permission to get my vehicle repaired at a shop of my choosing. He responded: “You were lucky”. He then asked for my driver’s license.

 

He looked at my license and then looked back and me and said: “You look young for thirty-five.” I said “Thank you”. There is nothing like dividing the number in half. I thought it was a nice gesture. He then said: “This will take only a minutes, but I am going to issue you a warning ticket. This isn’t going to cost you anything.” That, too, was a good will gesture.

 

He then disappeared with my license in hand. A brief time later, he gave me a warning citation for signature and a copy for my keeping. I was actually grateful for the notification that the license plate light was out. How else would I have known?  I now have better information to provide the repair shop.

 

I thanked the young man for his time and said: “Your kindness in providing a warning ticket promotes good will. Thank you very much.”

 

All My Best!

Don

I ATE CROW FOR DINNER

It is seldom that the General makes a written response to one of my blogs. For the most part, I often have no idea whether she’s read what I’ve posted or not. It is seldom a topic of discussion. Like I’ve said many times, “She’s not necessarily a fan”. Some would say that it is a matter of good taste! I married way above my pay group. Far be it from me to suggest to the General that she has her priorities in the wrong place. If she prefers a different literary approach, she’s got the prerogative to choose different material to read. I’m okay with that. I don’t understand it, but I guess that comes from tooting my own horn rather than being more objective.

 

Before you gather the wrong impression, I can assure you that the General doesn’t boycott my blogs because she is regularly offended by what I’ve written. If she were regularly offended, I would know it. Trust me on this one! It would be abundantly clear. Though she always presents herself as calm and collected, she has the ability to articulate her position or impression in such a way that there is no mistaking the point she is making. I’d call that effective communication. She is good!!!

 

Apparently my “Keep Calm And Ring Carson To Bring Tea” posting from Monday didn’t set particularly well with her. Actually, I have the propensity to laugh at my own attempts at humor, so I can truthfully say I had no idea that she’d find anything I’d written offensive. Yet, she invested the time to make a written response. A colleague at work read both my posting and her response and he said: “You’re toast!”

 

So how do I dance around this? It was not my intent to be offensive when I suggested that the General would like nothing more than for me to wait on her hand and foot. In case you’re wondering, the she carries her own weight in any conversation. I was shocked by her response to my blog:

 

“You clearly take so many things for granted. When have you ever opened your socks and underwear drawers and found no clean clothes? When have you come home to find the bed unmade and the house in total disarray? When have you opened the fridge or pantry and found them empty? When have you had to think about paying a bill or balancing the checkbook? How often do you feed the dog? Do you remember ever going to bed hungry? Do I need to continue this line of thought? Most of what you need is handled by someone other than yourself (as I see it)!”

 

I silently reread what she had written twice. I kept thinking: “Did my wife write this or did my mother?” On the other hand, maybe a better question is: “Has my wife become my mother?” Either way, this was a magnificent demonstration of guilt through the use of manipulation! My mother was the queen of guilt by manipulation. But, trust me, not even my mother was this good. The General had outdone herself.

 

Frankly, at some level, I was a little worried. What would I be in for when I got home? Seriously, from what she had written, I thought she was angry. Leave it to me, the quintessential jokester. Sometimes I just keep digging when I’d be better off looking for higher ground. I looked at my friend and said: “I’ve got it. Tomorrow’s blog will be entitled “My Smoking Hot Wife”. He laughed.

 

When I got home from work, the General was busy preparing our Blue Apron meal for the evening. I sheepishly asked: “So what are we having for dinner tonight?” She answered, “Mediterranean food”. There was not even a hint of anger in her voice. She didn’t appear to be upset with me at all. I was surprised.

 

I went into the house expecting to find ruffled feathers and discovered nothing of the sort. On the other hand, the General may have simply been following the Bible principal of not throwing her pearls before swine. (Oh, it really hurts for me to suggest that. I’m not even Jewish, but I don’t want to be thought of as a pig).  The General wasn’t angry. You could have fooled me from the content of her posting. Maybe simply the forum of expressing another point of view was all she needed. I might add that she did a bang-up good job of letting the other side of the story be shared.

 

When I read what she had written, I immediately felt like a jerk. Of course, she was 100% right. Despite my assertion that I don’t need a “wait person” to negotiate life, she has consistently provided that approach without calling attention to how she invests her time or the many ways she provides support. Truth be told, my living environment and daily experience at home is up-scale to any 4-Star hotel where I’ve ever stayed and I seemingly have taken it all for granted.

 

The General planned Mediterranean food for dinner, but I thought eating crow was probably more appropriate. In case you’re not familiar with the term, “Eating crow is an American colloquial idiom, meaning humiliation by admitting wrongness or having been proven wrong after taking a strong position. Crow is presumably foul tasting in the same way that being proven wrong might be emotionally hard to swallow.

 

One of the adventurous highlights of our life was an eighteen-day Mediterranean cruise we had the privilege of taking eight years ago. Consequently, I suggested to the General that the memory of that experience ought to put us in the mood for a Mediterranean cuisine.

 

She smiled, looking at the Mediterranean blue plate she’d set out for dinner and said: “Do you mean, ‘like the color of my plate?’” It was a nice evening.

 

All My Best!

Don

 

CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL

Have you ever done something really embarrassing and were then at a loss to understand how something so inapt could have happened? Sometimes I purposefully play the crazy card just for the fun of it. Why not have a good time? Better yet, why not attempt to orchestrate a good time for every one else? I’m typically not the life of the party, but I’d like to think I contribute life to whatever group or circumstance in which I find myself. Like Leo Buscaglia said: “If you act crazy consistently, you can get by with anything. Otherwise, they call the cops.”

 

I attempt to greet most days and everyone I meet along the way with a healthy dose of humor. People are too serious! Actually, I suspect that mindset is killing them. Personally, I’d rather die laughing. Of course you’re thinking, “What’s the difference? The outcome is the same”. I maintain that if you’ve got to go, mine is the better way!

 

Laughter is good medicine and most people you run across could benefit from lightening up. The way I see it, I’m at an advantage because I already know that. For one thing, I provide myself opportunities on almost a daily basis to laugh at myself. Honestly, you wouldn’t believe some of the things I do. On the other hand, maybe you would?

 

Probably most of you have heard the story of the lady in the ice cream store who notices that Robert Redford is standing in line behind her waiting to order ice cream. She intuitively swoons with ecstasy with the thought of sharing space with him. In order to camouflage that reaction, she attempts to portray a calm countenance. She purchases an ice cream cone and exits the store without making conversation. She doesn’t want to embarrass herself or invade her favorite movie star’s privacy.

 

After regaining her composure once outside the store, she notices that although she has her change in her hand, she doesn’t have her ice cream cone. She goes back inside the store to retrieve it. There is no longer a line and she walks directly to the counter and states: “I failed to get my ice cream cone.” The man behind the counter says, “I gave it to you.” Overhearing the conversation and seeing the puzzled look on the woman’s face, Robert Redford said to her: “Ma’am – If you’ll look, I think you’ll find your ice cream cone inside your purse. I was puzzled when I saw you put it there.”

 

Sure, most of you have heard the story or one like it. The stories are all familiar and all carry an identical storyline. Perhaps the names of the celebrity and locations are changed to protect the innocent. Every time I’ve heard the story, it is presented as a true story. According to Snopes.com, it is not. However, had it been true, most of us can imagine the level of embarrassment the woman would have experienced.

 

Let me say, first of all, that the story I am sharing with you this morning is a true story. You’ll not be able to substantiate its truthfulness by checking with Snopes.com. You’ll also not be able to find out anything about the individual in the midst of an embarrassing situation on Wikipedia. From the standpoint of name recognition, it is all a private matter. John Q. Public simply lives life with a sense of anonymity.

 

They say confession is good for the soul. I am one of the members of “John Q. Public” and I did something really stupid yesterday. When I came to my senses, I was really embarrassed. In my defense, it had been a very full morning. I had been to the barbershop in Austin and on my way home, I stopped and quickly darted into two different grocery stores looking for avocados. Avocados come in three different varieties. They are ripe, not ripe or ruined. Okay, so maybe there is a forth choice: “Just right”. Just right is the variety I was looking for, but instead I settled for ripe at the second store.

 

Making my way homeward, I had the thought it had been a long day and it wasn’t even noon yet. Did I mention that I started my day in Dripping Springs at the Hays County Office for early voting? I stood in line waiting to vote for over an hour. When I finally reached the voting booth, it was a lot like buying avocados. I couldn’t find “Just right”. I voted anyway.

 

Coming back through Dripping Springs, I stopped at H.E.B. After all, what’s one more grocery store? I had failed to purchase charcoal lighter the day before when I purchased steaks for Saturday night’s dinner. Once inside the store, I noticed orchids in the floral department. Why not take one to the General? I felt better about that decision than I did from either the avocados or the candidates I had selected when voting. I guess you could say, “I redeemed the day”. I felt good about the purchase of the orchid.

 

So where did I park? I don’t often enter H.E.B. from the Austin side of the store. Consequently, I didn’t park where I normally park. That in and of itself is a mistake. Much to my relief, I quickly found my car. I had charcoal lighter in one hand and the orchid in the other. There was a clear plastic sleeve around the orchid.

 

Once I got to the car, I had to turn the orchid sideways to get it inside the car. I gently tossed the charcoal lighter to the front floorboard (passenger’s side) and sat the orchid on the cup holders between the two seats. There was room inside the car to set it upright. As I was fastening my seat belt prior to pressing the brake and the ignition button to start the car, I had a horrifying thought. Looking around, I confirmed that my thought was accurate. I was in someone else’s car. It looked like my car, but it wasn’t my car.

 

Trust me, I got out of the car, orchid and charcoal lighter in hand, much faster than I had gotten inside the car. I was so embarrassed! I fully expected to find the owner standing three feet away wondering if I was a car thief. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. My car (a white Toyota Venza) was parked just on the other side of the white Lexus RX-350 that looked like my car.

 

It was an embarrassing moment. I’m still not sure how something so inapt could have happened.

 

All My Best!

Don

How Bad Could It Have Been?

The friend who told me about the schoolteacher that orchestrated a “tooth for a tooth” and an “eye for an eye” management approach in retaliation for one student stomping on the foot of another student isn’t a candidate for teacher of the year. According to my friend, she isn’t the sharpest Crayola in the box. He thinks the school system could improve significantly if her name wasn’t included on the educational roster of teachers. He maintains that she does dumb things all of the time. From my perspective, he should be in a position to know. After all, they are neighbors and he is her landlord.

 

Of course, when he was rattling off information about the teacher, his reflections related to her character and carelessness could have had some relationship to her having recently driven her car over his dog. The mishap resulted in the dog’s death.

 

Attempting to establish some level of empathy with him, I suggested that her absence might be favored by the school system. I then referenced what I thought was the name of the Independent School District where he lived. He said, “Oh, no, we don’t have our own school district anymore. Things were so bad here that the Texas Education Agency ordered our school district closed. It was handed off to a neighboring town.

 

Can you imagine a town without its own schools? News of the ISD’s impending closure caught everyone by surprise. I guess they were oblivious to the fact that sooner or later, deficiency letter after deficiency letter, the other shoe was going to drop. After all, how many “academically unacceptable” ratings can a school district receive before folks figure out that spells trouble?   Throw in a few financial woes and a “substandard achievement” in financial accountability and you eventually figure out things don’t add up.

 

That could indicate that when it came to school administration, teaching staff, accountability and outcome measures related to academic accomplishment that most of the staff fit nicely in the same Crayola box. Unfortunately the box was populated with mostly dull Crayons. Perhaps my friend’s neighbor fit in nicely.

 

Twenty-six-years ago, my son graduated from high school in a very small school district in the Texas hill country. I had the thought when he started to school there in the second grade that it was like turning the clock back fifty-years. By the time he graduated in 1990, I was convinced that coursework and curriculum changes were needed. Actually, I ran for the school board once, but I didn’t get very far. At the question and answer forum I attended prior to the election, I articulated the changes I thought were needed. The opponent, who won the election, simply said he didn’t know what changes he’d endorse. While it may sound like sour grapes on my part, he actually said: “He hadn’t been inside the school in years”.

 

One of the strengths of the school was teacher dedication and competency. Because of its size, students had opportunity to participate in a myriad of activities and play almost every sport while at the same time being in the band. Even I could see the collective value in having multiple opportunities. In larger school districts, a football team still needs only 11 players from each team on the field at one time. Because of sheer size of the student body, a lot of students get eliminated from playing. Consequently, sometimes a smaller school district offers more opportunities for extracurricular activities.

 

My friend went on to highlight the amazing school bus debacle that occurred after the school district take-over. It happened the first day of school. Consequently, I’m sure people are still talking about it. I don’t’ remember the number of new buses that were purchased, but it was significant. The key to bus safety is pre-service training. In fact, the bus driving-instructor had done such an incredible job; he was scheduled to receive an award. Unfortunately, the first day of school changed all of that. One of the newly trained bus drivers failed to carefully calculate whether there was ample clearance from an overhanging tree limb. Apparently there wasn’t. The force of the impact literally took off the top of the bus. It was the bus driver’s first and last day of work. In addition, the bus-driving instructor who was set to receive an award was terminated from employment as well.

 

How’s that for forfeiting one’s right to be behind the wheel? When I was in college, I worked one semester as a quasi-houseparent at a boys ranch. On Friday nights, my regular routine was to drive the school bus to a run-down movie theatre and supervise kids while they watched the movie. Obviously, my guardian angels were working overtime. I had no idea that I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

 

The bus driving training I received was non-existent. In addition, I had no idea that a regular driver’s license wasn’t good enough to cover driving a school bus. When I think back to how young, naïve and stupid I was, I shutter with the thought of all the things that could have gone wrong. Fortunately, I never got closer than a near miss.

 

Can you imagine forfeiting the privilege of driving? I don’t anticipate I’ll ever get too old to get behind the wheel. For one thing, driving relaxes me. That’s kind of comical because most people who ride with me, bargain with God before the ride is over.

 

I was listening to a radio talk show yesterday morning where the assignment was to identify which one of the follow three statements was true:

 

• The President of the United States cannot receive gifts.
• The President of the United States cannot carry or discharge a firearm.
• The President of the United States can never drive on a public road during his term of service or anytime following having served.

 

Well, I’ve been to enough Presidential museums that I’ve seen a collection of gifts given to the President. Obviously the statement that he/she cannot receive gifts is false. I’ve also heard the LBJ Ranch story of Vice President Johnson hosting President Kennedy to a deer hunt. I surmise that they weren’t using bow and arrows. Consequently, that too, has to be false.

 

By the process of elimination #3 has to be the true statement. Can you imagine never driving on a public roadway again? For my part, that is totally unacceptable. Wait! I may have spoken too quickly. With the road construction currently underway, I wish I had a driver. Tuesday morning, I took Treva’s new car to the dealership to get a front license plate bracket installed on the grill. Her car has features that I find a little unsettling. For example, if the car senses you need more focus… well my experience was that a burnt orange icon appeared with three lines that looked that steam coming from a cup of coffee. The caption read: “You need to rest”.

 

Who knows? Maybe with my skillset I should be driving a school bus.

 

All My Best!

Don

The Sound Of Silence

It was still daylight when I got home from work yesterday. Saturday, Sunday and Monday were a different story. It was bedtime when I arrived at home on all three of those days. I guess you could say I enjoy seeing our home in the light of day. Today as I drove up, I was startled to see the number of weeds surfacing in our front yard.

I guess the formula is the mix of rain and warm weather. With little effort it is: “Gusto! You’ve got weeds!” How would the General express it? She’d probably say: “ It looks like we don’t care how it looks”. We’ve lived together long enough that I can script it to the letter. That’s exactly what she would say. “It looks like we don’t care how it looks”.

I can also mimic her facial expression as the words roll out her mouth. She’d then go into a subtle, but civil tirade (isn’t that an oxymoron) of how a man’s house could be his castle, but not if it looks like a slum clearance district. Just for the record, she can give you examples.

I think it is bi-weekly Lecture #219. It includes my need to get rid of a rusting wheelbarrow, a discarded and rusting metal table and several other items that she ALWAYS lists when she’s giving me the “what for”. You’d think I couldn’t do anything right. The same way my mother used to tell me: “There is no excuse to being dirty, soap and water are cheap”, the General has the pizzazz to make it sting. I guess the part that hurts the worse is my understanding that there is an element of truth to her criticism (okay, so it’s a 100% accurate).

I definitely had the thought when I arrived at home yesterday: “I guess I should be grateful the General is in Cat Spring taking care of grandchildren. If she were home, she probably would have eradicated the weeds in the front yard in the same manner she eradicated both the weeds and the grass in the back yard”. Honestly, there has to be a better way. She used RoundUP – Not Smart! Hopefully, I can get the lawn service out in the next couple of days. It really looks dreadful.

So the explanation plays out like this, the General has only been home one day in the preceding seven. For all practical purposes, I’ve been gone from home as well. Walking into the house in the light of day yesterday, I was startled to see a roly poly bug or two (okay, so there could have been more than that). Where did they come from and how did they get in the house? It is a mystery to me. Actually, as I looked around the house, it was all a mystery.

It didn’t exactly look like a storm had come through, but it didn’t look the way it normally looks. Do you remember the storyline from Goldilocks and the three bears? “Then Father Bear looked at his bowl of porridge and saw the spoon in it and he said in his great big growly voice, ‘SOMEBODY HAS BEEN EATING MY PORRIDGE’. Then Mother Bear saw that her bowl had a spoon in it, and said in her quiet voice: ‘Somebody has been eating my porridge’. Little Bear looked at his porridge bowl and said in his small squeaky baby voice: ‘Somebody has been eating my porridge, and has eaten it all up…’

Don’t mistaken what I’m attempting to communicate. Our home wasn’t cluttered. The General doesn’t do clutter with the exception of permitting it to surface in my office. She normally eventually brings that to my attention. Sometimes she takes a picture of it with the veiled threat that she is going to go public. Would she really do it? I can truthfully answer, “I hope not”. I am not about to double-dog- dare her. She’d have it posted before I could count to three.

Walking through the house yesterday, it didn’t look right. I went to the entry hall closet and removed the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed the front room, entry way, dinning room and kitchen.

I probably shouldn’t confess this, but there are days I come home from work, look around and wonder: “What did the General do all day?” Now I think I’ve figured it out. She’s cleaned the house. I’m not used to coming into the house with the sense that it doesn’t feel right. When the General is at home, it reflects her handiwork. There is something favorable to be said about the way it looks. If she’s here, it is clean. If it’s not clean, she’s cleaning it. It doesn’t ever feel the way it felt last night.

So how did our house get dirty with no one home? I don’t know the answer, but I got out the vacuum and attempted to restore order. It isn’t as good as the General can do, but at least I should get honorable mention for trying. Oh, I almost forgot, the General doesn’t do “honorable mention”. She operates on the premise: “Get it right or do it again.” She’s a no nonsense kind of gal.

Finally, the house was vacuumed, the lights were dimmed and now it was time to relax. It was then that I heard it. The sound was disturbing. The sound filled the house. It was the sound of silence!

Perhaps nothing is as eerie or as unsettling as the sound of silence. Do you remember Simon and Garfunkel? Do you remember the lyrics to “the sound of silence?”

“Hello darkness, my old friend

I’ve come to talk with you again

Because a vision softly creeping

Left its seeds while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone

Narrow streets of cobblestone

‘Neath the halo of a street lamp

I turned my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed

By the flash of a neon light…”

The silence throughout the house cried out. I heard it before I saw it. The sound was deafening. Then I saw it and understood. It was the clocks. All three grandfather clocks had sounded their last chime. All three clocks needed to be wound. They had run down.

Carefully and methodically, I wound them again and recovered the tick-tock and sporadic chimes of the grandfather clocks that fill our home with something other than silence.

All My Best!

Don

Be Careful What You Write

Ben Franklin is credited with saying: “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” It is said of Ben Franklin that he was a smart man. It is probably too late for me to earn that same kind of reputation. Actually, most would think that I’m not even in the line-up to get honorable mention when it comes to being smart. I am more closely attuned to what someone thinks of at the mention of Wile E. Coyote. How many Looney Tune cartoons did we watch as kids where Wile E. Coyote attempted to catch the Roadrunner through the use of a contraption of his own making that backfired in his face causing injuries?

Apparently stuff like that happens all the time in real life as well. It seems like I saw something on the news yesterday about a man in Georgia shooting his lawn mower. That puts a totally new spin on target practice. What was the man thinking? Riding lawnmowers are expensive. Whether by happenstance or otherwise, the lawn mower was also laden with explosives. If you’ll pardon the pun, there is no way to put a positive spin on this story. Perhaps it goes without saying, “It was explosive!” Rumor has it that the man firing the rifle also lost his leg. Very sad and not very smart!

Okay, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones! By my own admission, in my blog yesterday, I made reference to the fact that I needed to be very cautious in how I coined my blog. “Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!” are the three magic words that some of you may have thought when you read my blog from yesterday. I obviously did not carefully take my own advice. That was also not a smart move!

Actually, at least one person saw it differently. She wrote only two words, but the two words confirmed I had achieved my goal with at least that one reader. She wrote: “Very Funny”. She later telephoned to re-enforce the fact that the blog was hilarious. She thinks the General and I could vie for prime time television in a sitcom exchanging playful banter with one another. Sure we could! Talk about delusional thinking! Actually, she described the General and me as having the potential of being regarded by the viewing audience as a classy “Archie and Edith Bunker.”

Okay guys, do you ever do or say anything to your wife that gives you pause for concern that maybe you should have done something differently or expressed it in some other fashion? As I was making my way home from work yesterday, I had this sneaking suspicion that maybe everything wasn’t well in Denmark. On the other hand, that had to be irrational thinking on my part, wasn’t it? I had laughed all the way through my own blog. Yes, I know what they say about folks who laugh at their own jokes. Like I said before, I’m not all that smart.

I stopped for crushed ice on the way home from work. Why not get a cup for the General as well? No pun was intended in that statement. I didn’t really think the General would need to cool off.   In fact, when I got home from work, she didn’t give me the cold shoulder. She couldn’t have seemed more pleasant. At least that was my initial observation. Did I mention I’ve been wrong before? My not being all that smart seems like a consistent behavioral pattern.

Actually, I telephoned the General before I got through Dripping Springs to ask if she had picked up the mail at the post office. Since she had not, I volunteered to stop. She playfully said, “Okay, See you in a bit.” Getting back in the car, after walking out of the post office, I breathed a sigh of relief. It may have been by the fraction of an inch, but I had glided by without her taking offense at anything I had written earlier yesterday morning.

When I arrived at home, I didn’t walk through the door thinking the General would be saying my morning blog was exceptionally well written. More accurately, I thought there would be no mention of the blog at all. I was correct on that part.

Her countenance was relaxed. The General looked as though she didn’t have a care in the world. In fact, she was so calm and laid back, that it took me a moment to fully process what she was saying. Consequently, I can’t provide the exact script she used. It was something closely akin to: “I haven’t fed the fish. I quit. I’m done. I’m finished”.  So, what exactly was she saying?  I wasn’t quite sure, but I had enough sense to know I was in a heap of trouble.

She paused long enough for me to let her soft spoken words sink in.  Then she continued: “Don’t ask me to do anything in the yard. I’m not watering plants. I’m not doing this. I’m not doing that. I don’t like being outside when it is hot. I never have. I’m done. If you want the yard to look nice, I’m sure it will. If you don’t care how the lawn looks, that too, will be abundantly clear. It is all up to you.”

It may not have been as poignant or memorable as the Gettysburg address, but it was impressive. Was it a carefully rehearsed speech? It could have been, but I don’t think so. However, I will say the General is a persuasive and effective communicator. With the prowess of the pied piper she had me hanging on to every word spoken. It wasn’t a long address, but it was powerfully delivered.   Her poise and dignity never faltered.

By the time she finished, I had the sense that somehow I had inadvertently played out the role of Wile E. Coyote and my attempt at humor had detonated in my face. I know what some of you are thinking. That, too, is patterned behavior. After all, I am one of three that got a little too close to dynamite in school. I guess that I should thank by lucky stars that I was still intact.

Eating crow is a lousy diet.

All My Best!

Don

Hold Your Horses

The past four or five days have been interesting. The General has been in Odessa visiting her mother. Consequently, I’ve been home alone. A friend at church told me it would probably serve me well to stay in a hotel while the General was away. He naturally assumed that I’m a slovenly pig and that the place would be in shambles when the General returned. Consequently, the only logical approach was for me to vacate the premises. Otherwise, there’d be… (How did he express it? – “A penalty to pay”). That’s pretty close.

I don’t think an obsessive-compulsive disorder is contagious. However, there is enough German in the General’s heritage that she can at times resemble a neat freak. In addition, she also has Cherokee Indian in her DNA. Either way, her coming home to a cluttered house could result in her going on the warpath.

Just the thought reminds me of the Scripture: “Or suppose a king is about to go to war against another king. Won’t he first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand?” Trust me, it is easier for me to keep things tidy than it is to pay the consequences. Besides that, my mother taunted, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”. Truth be told, or at least my version of it, I was half grown before I learned that the shortest Scripture was “Jesus wept.” For years, my mother taught us that the shortest Scripture was “Be neat”. Consequently, I fell into the trap of an obsessive-compulsive persona long before the General was on the radar screen. I didn’t catch it from her.

The General came home yesterday, but she didn’t return to squalor. Okay, under the guise of reporting the facts, based on my perception, there is one glitch in my story. However, I’m drawing a line in the sand and I’m not accepting ownership for the problem. For the past five days the glitch has made me a crazy person (symptomology related to my OCD). Okay, I get it. I understand no one can make me anything; I have to choose to let it happen for it to be an issue. I’ll own that. It is an issue.

Last Thursday, a woman’s group from our church met at our home. I’m not sure who came up with the “service project”, but the group apparently busied themselves making artificial corsages for ladies at the nursing homes in Dripping Springs and Blanco. I’m not sure when they are going to be delivered; however, I can tell you where they are stored.

Actually, to say they are “stored” would carry with it the concept that they are neatly put away and placed out of sight. That would not be an accurate reflection of reality. They are scattered (yes, that’s a good word) all over the dinning room hutch on top of several pieces of Waterford crystal. Did I mention, “It is not a good look?” The minute my eyes laid hold of the image, I almost went into coronary arrest. What was the General thinking? When I offered the protest: “That can’t stay there”, the General rolled her eyes and said: “Hold your horses. They will be gone next Thursday.” She left town the next morning.

So the out-of-place artificial flowers on top of the crystal have made me a little crazy. My first thought was that our home now resembles a funeral home. I then had a flashback to a small country church were I served as pastor well over forty years ago. There was a lady in the congregation who routinely found plastic flowers at the cemetery and brought them to church. How convenient! That, too, was not a good look! I’m also fairly certain that the family members, who placed the flowers at different gravesites, had no idea they would eventually wind up in a bouquet at the Baptist Church.

The past two or three nights, I have mostly boycotted going into the room where the ladies’ corsages are on display. Instead, I’ve sat in my office content to hear the sounds of Patsy Cline and Adele coming through the Gramophone from another room. Great music! Monday night as I sat at my computer with the sounds of Patsy Cline in the background, I thought about a neighbor from the first place I lived in Austin.

Actually, it was an efficiency apartment. I rented it until the General and Craig joined me in Austin. It was a month-to-month rental and there was nothing about it that would resonate with an OCD persona. Okay, so I’m cheap. It was certainly nothing fancy, but it was clean. At the time I was working very long hours (so what’s changed). At any rate, there was a much older lady who lived next door. Each evening when I got home from work, she’d be standing on the second floor shared balcony drinking a beer with the sound of Patsy Cline blaring through the open door from inside her apartment. The only variation to Patsy Cline was the blaring sounds of religious music with a guitar accompaniment. Somehow it struck me as strange.

I guess you could say I went cold turkey. I didn’t need a beer to facilitate enjoying the sounds of Patsy Cline. However, the sounds of the music sounded better when I wasn’t looking directly at the collection of corsages scattered (yep- there goes that word again) all over the dining room hutch.

On Sunday morning during announcements at church, I affirmed that the Thursday morning meeting would be at our home again. I also expressed my strong desire not to find a collection of corsages scattered across the hutch when I get home. I guess it all gets back to the General’s expressed mandate that I hold my horses. Maybe she’s right, but it violates my sense of order.

All My Best!

Don