Leaking Mind Juice

Bug Juice

2010-05-10T16:14:00.003-04:00

Every parent has heard it. “Dad, I’m soooo bored!”

Yes, as summer fast approaches, the onslaught of my children's pleas for me to supply some escape from their tedium increases. Actually, I have to take part of that back. My oldest, who is a girl, has already entered the “I hate anything to do with parents” stage and entertains herself by texting, painting her nails, and any other activity wherein she doesn’t have to speak to an adult. Given the choice between being bludgeoned repeatedly with a rotting ham hock and going to do something with the family (where someone might actually see her in public with parents), I suspect she would choose the former.

However, my boys have not yet entered the parent- loathing stage, and therefore, come to me for entertainment. Sadly, some of the old tricks don’t work anymore. When my wife and I suggest “Why don’t you read a book?” or “go play with your brother outside?” we get looked at as if we had just asked them to go help their sister paint her toenails. Another challenge lies in the reality that our oldest boy is a science freak. We could suggest bowling, or a night at the movies, or a hike up the mountain, and he would rather read something by Hawking or watch a documentary on how the Leonardo DaVinci had another secret sketchbook wherein he devised a time-travel machine and cure for cancer, politicians, telemarketers and how to get out of eating your vegetables. Finding a fix for my son’s intellectual pursuits has put me into uncharted territory. When his age I was trying to memorize lines from the latest Pee Wee Herman movie, or conjuring the least conspicuous, yet efficient way to torture the neighbor’s cat (which I have repented of and can’t stand to think of hurting any of God’s creatures…cough cough. Mental Note: Start blog under an assumed name to share the 101 best ways to tell your neighbor you don’t know where their cat is without cracking a smile.)

So, a few months ago, we started collecting insects. Yes, I know, keep laughing. Get it out of your system. Once you’ve wiped the tears away from your face, I’ll keep writing…

Yes, we started a bug collection.

We started by hunting around the yard, under stones, in the grass, in the garden, for bugs that we could see. We were a little “iffy” about touching this or that with our bare hands because we didn’t know if it would poke or sting or spit. We’d throw our catch into a jar, and freeze the buggers for about 30 minutes, which would generally send our catch into the life beyond. There is something very satisfying about hearing your wife scream “Why is there a Praying Mantis in my freezeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh, It’s still moving!!!!” and being able to share a silent grin with each of the accomplices.

When pinning dead trophies into a cork lined cigar box, I started to hear “Dad, what’s that one?” Before I snuck out one night to the local Barnes and Noble for an entomological field guide, I had to wing it.

Me: “Well son, I’m pretty certain that our specimen is a Larger Eastern Dung uh Crawler, known by its Latin name, Cluelessimus Insectoridae Crawlsalot”

Son: “Hmmm. Interesting. I’ve never heard of a Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus or Species that has the name Cluelessimus in it….however, we could probably find sufficient justification to label you as such.”

Busted!

Now I’ve got the field guide to back me up, and I’ve never seen so many pictures of insects. There are insects that bite, that fly, that dig, that sting, that shoot snot out of their butt to attract the female counterpart. You name it, they do it.

Now that we have been collecting for a few months, our techniques of capture are growing more strategic. We have a professional net now, we’ve used drop traps, bait, and I’m currently trying to convince the wife to cash out our retirement for a laser guided zapper that kills anything that moves within a two block radius. I’m not getting much traction on that…maybe I’ll tell her that it works on Cat’s too…heck, that’s reason enough to buy it. I digress……..

The other night I let the boys stay up late and hang out in our backyard to see what we could attract with a blue-ish light on our porch. It was great. We caught enough insects to feed an Old Testament Prophet for life. The highlight of the evening was watching my youngest son go into convulsions when a beetle the size of my thumb landed on his neck. He was shaking worse than Lindsay Lohan coming off of speed.

It’s been a fun hobby, and I’m hoping the experience will pay off when I am forced to have the dreaded “Birds and Bees” talk with the boys as they get a bit older.

Clearing his throat: “Son, when a female specimen and a male specimen really love each other there are certain pheromones which cause the ovipositor to…….”

A little fun with the boys after school!

2010-04-30T19:09:00.000-04:00

Coming up short....

2010-04-02T12:35:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I went to our new doctor for a checkup. Our last doctor moved from Rome to Summerville. I’m still trying to convince myself that his move wasn’t spurred by his reluctance of seeing me naked again during the next year’s physical. Nonetheless, recognizing that we needed a new Doc., we found one who was highly recommended by our neighbor. The good news is that his office is a few minutes away from our house. My wife had already visited his office, and liked him. I, however, was more skeptical.
So, after adhering to a pre-visit fast request, I arrived at the doctor at 8 am.
During first few minutes with him I explained the moving of our last Doctor, and then engaged in the regular chit chat. Then, after looking over the information that I had provided in my chart, he looked at me and said,
“So son, why are you here?”
I felt like telling him, “Well Doc, I guess during your countless hours in medical school, you missed the class on deductive logic, because my gut is the size of a small nation. Maybe you could start there.”
But instead, I told him I was there for my regular check up.
Going to the doctor is a strange thing. Where else can you go to pay someone to insult you? In what other conversation would you accept someone saying, “You know, you’ve got a wicked looking mole right back here that’s pretty scary.” Or, “You could stand to lose a few….hundred pounds.” Or “Have you ever paid someone for sexual intercourse?” Or my personal favorite, “ What did your last bowel movement look like?”

It would be interesting to throw something in return. Maybe the conversation could go a bit like this:
DOC: “Mr. Monson, I’ve noticed that your most recent blood work shows that the cholesterol levels came back rather high. Have you ever been educated about the importance of reducing your fat intake?”
ME: “Well Doc, maybe I can answer that with an observation and statement of my own. I’ve noticed that the last few breaths that have come out of your mouth have burnt the eyebrows off my face and that while I am sitting here smiling, I am really wondering how long I can hold my breath before passing out. Have you ever been educated about the reality of Halitosis and it’s direct correlation to return visits to your office?”

Or this:

DOC: “So, Mr. Monson, I instructed our staff to have you fast before the visit. Did you comply with that directive?”
ME: “Does your finger stink after checking someone’s prostate?”
DOC: “I’ll take that as a yes….”

Anyway, I digress. At the end of the visit, he asked me to provide a urine sample. Keep in mind that I had fasted the night before, and that my appointment was at 8 am. I had already drained the surplus, so to speak, after waking up, and yet he wanted me to produce. Add that to the unspoken pee phobia that all men suffer from, and I was in the can for 15 minutes. (“Pee phobia?”, you ask. Trust me, it’s real. Take a walk into any restroom and watch the urinal etiquette. There will always be an empty urinal next to a “pee’er” because people need their space. How many times have you been in a vacant bathroom, had someone stand in the urinal stall right next to you, and been able to produce…..awkward! Equally phobia creating is the need to pee into a cup while four elderly nurses dressed in white are awaiting your specimen like Gollum waiting to get back the ring.) Yes, 15 minutes in the bathroom! I tried every mental exercise I could imagine to encourage a few drops. I was thinking of waterfalls, rivers, oceans. I ran my hands under warm water for 5 minutes…..The ladies in the office probably thought I was either OCD or that I was taking a shower. BUT TO NO AVAIL. So I had to take the walk of shame, carrying my empty specimen bottle to the desk to inform them that I was squirt-less. The whole time I was praying that they wouldn’t say, “Did you try this…..” and then illustrate tricks and strategies to induce “PEE-DOM” in front of the onlooking waiting room. Thankfully they didn’t. Rather, the lady taking my payment simply said, “I understand, sometimes it’s hard.” That was equally embarrassing….I wasn’t asked to balance a budget, or perform open heart surgery, or solve the health care crisis….just, pee in a cup. So in an effort to not feel like a failure, I quickly explained, “Uh, I’ll be back in a month…I’ll fill up your whole damn water cooler then, Missy!”

The Happiest Place on Earth?

2009-07-03T11:07:00.004-04:00

Yes, yes, I know it's been a while since I last wrote. I'm sorry, please forgive....blah blah, etc. Get over it.

As one may have surmised by the embarrassing pictures posted without my approval on my family's blog, we recently spent some time at Disney World with the family. It was great to see Grandparents from back west, Aunts and Uncles from around the country, and the little cousins running here and there. It was fabulous to see the kids have a great time on the rides, etc. and it was very pleasing to be away from work for more than a nights rest. We were very grateful for everyone that made it happen.

However, at the end of the day, this trip was an eye opener for me. I realized that this trip was exactly 30 years too late.

When I was younger I went to Disneyland with my folks. It was a great trip. Mind you, on the way there we got lost on L.A.'s cluster of highways and this was after too many hours of driving through a barren wasteland. The batteries to my new Sony Walkman died about halfway to Las Vegas, which meant I actually had to listen to my parents singing primary hymns in their effort to make the trip go by quicker (hint to parents: primary hymns sung by parents in car to unsuspecting children unable to escape is a guarantee for future rebellion). Once we got to Disney, the park was hot enough to make me sweat like a whore in church. On the way home my brother got sick enough to fill the backseat with every color of the rainbow. But despite all the negative, it was the best vacation ever. Why? Because the thrill of experiencing The Pirates of the Carribean or the Haunted house or Space Mountain had obliterated anything bad.
So, when I heard of Disney World, I used to imagine that it would be my childhood vacation multiplied by 10.

Indeed, I felt that only bliss would bubble forth from such an undertaking...I was wrong...and I'm too old.

Maybe I need to be sprinkled by Tinkerbell. Heck, maybe I need to capture tinkerbell and wear her around my neck...because for me, Disney isn't the happiest place on earth. For a 36 year old pessamist, like myself, there is little appealing about trying to push your way through a throng of me-centered people focused on beating their neighbor to the next attraction. We were packed tight enough in each of the parks that I felt like I was being smuggled across the border in the trunk of a Hyundai.

Because my daughter had recently undgergone the knife for knee surgery, I had the pleasure of pushing her around in a wheelchair, which was no problem. That is, unless you take into account the fact that trying to push a wheelchair in Disneyland is like trying to merge into Atlanta traffic on a tricycle. Conversely, once I finally was able to merge, and was priding myself at being able to keep up with the flow of people, there was always a family that would stop in the middle of the path to talk about where they would eat, or what ride was next, completely oblivious to the 30,000 people that had to stop behind them. I was smiling during times like these, not because I was happy, but because of the various types of torture that I mentally administered to those that stopped in front of the wheelchair.

Being out in the sun generated quite a thirst, of course. Consequently, I learned that if you want to buy a drink in Disneyland, you can get one anywhere. But finding a drinking fountain was a task equal to finding integrity in Washington D.C....difficult, if not impossible! When a fountain was found, the water was as warm as, and flowed as slowly as the pee of a man with prostate cancer. It is little suprise, then, that when I asked for a drink at the concession stand and the attendant questioned, "You mean the 15 dollar 3 oz Coke?" I said eaglerly, "Yes, that one...give me two."
When I was younger, the cool rides outweighted the negative. The rides on this trip were still great, but not enough to destroy my cantankerous attitude. Is there a ride capable of such a task? I don't know, but when I find it, that's where I'm going on my next vacation.

I think I'm starting to understand why Michael Jackson needed a personal anethetist...he had to LIVE in his own Neverland. I've got one word....NEVER.

All in "the family"

2009-03-20T15:57:00.004-04:00

When I was younger, I used to adhere myself to the T.V. screen when a “mafia”-related movie was aired. I don’t know why I liked them so much. Seeing the shows in the theater was really not possible because the likelihood of my parents letting me slip into a film where people were getting their brains blown all over their canoli was pretty slim. Consequently, whenever such a morsel came on the t.v., I was glued. Yes, I’ll admit it now, I was a Godfather junkie. Sure, the versions I watched were watered down. Cussing was replaced by a low paid actor doing innocuous voiceovers. We all know that a hit man for the Corleone’s likely wouldn’t say “Well Golly! You gosh darned traitor, I’m going to hunt down your family and feed them to the flipping fishes!” Some of the scenes were so poorly spliced after removing the juice that you would see someone reach for a gun one second, and then a second later see the same guy driving off with 3 people dead in a street! Despite the cuts, I loved it!

I’m a bit older now and don’t really get into the violence and cussing, and frankly, haven’t seen a good “mafia” flick for a while…but ol’ Corleone has still been on my mind. In my church, it’s the Bishop’s job to encourage people to live in such a way that brings happiness to them and their families. One of the perennial problems in the church is encouraging people to live and do the things that they profess to know is right and true. The other day I decided, while reminiscing about those good ol’ days in front of the movies, that our church’s Bishop’s would probably fare better, and achieve far greater results, if they could employ some “family” style organization.

In my church, we do “home teaching”…..er,….uh, were supposed to do “home teaching.” Which means that as members of the church, we watch over other families that also pertain to our congregation, we visit them regularly, and do all we can to support them in this life. One of the things that we report on is whether or not we have seen and helped the various families that we are responsible to look after. I’ve decided that it’s probably time for the Bishop’s to try some other ways to “persuade” the brethren to accomplish this task.

For example, Instead of two counselors to serve with the Bishop, he should hire two very large gentlemen with broken noses, and who have “baby face” or “knuckles” inserted in between their first and last names. Think about it, peoples planners would be opening left and right, pencils would be writing feverishly the names and numbers of their assigned families if the following were announced during a reorganization of a ward:“We have called the following brethren to serve in the bishopric at this time. If your name is read, please stand and remain standing until voted upon. We have called Brother Jimmy “The Whip” Fettuccine as first counselor and Brother Jack “lip-splitter” Malone as second counselor. The focus that we have asked them to implement is HOME TEACHING…“ These said “consigliores” would stand behind the Bishop, one hand in their suit pocket during the various interviews that he would have the pleasure of performing. Miracles would happen.

Or, what if the problem lay in a particular family being too busy to permit their home teachers to come over regularly? No problem! Send the “consigliores” to the door of such a family, sunglasses neatly worn, to say something along the lines of: “I’ve got a couple of brethren that are supposed to be seeing your family, and you know what…” (while tapping on the bulk behind his lapel) “I believe they have a message you can’t refuse. When can they come?”

Yes, I believe it’s time to start a new “family” focused ministry.

Foresight?

2008-09-26T23:31:00.003-04:00

Tonight I sat on the couch and watched the Presidential debates with my family. This is always an interesting activity due to the bi-partisan household that I live in. There is, however, reaching across the aisle my home, especially when the gravy is on her side of the table.....

Nonetheless, as I watched each candidate bicker and deepen the divisiveness in the political discussion, it was interesting to me to see each candidate boast of their foreknowledge of the economic woes now facing the nation, and of their prowess in solution finding if or when elected to office. One candidate praised himself for his previous decision making, the other blamed the current administration for what has happened thus far...and so went the discussion.

As I watched, I couldn't help but remember sitting in a dark, yet friendly gathering of gentlemen all convened to hear counsel. They weren't rallying behind a candidate at the time, or trying to spin his or her comment to best match their political views; rather, they were gathered to listen to someone that they respected.

It was October of 1998, almost 10 years ago. The timing is somewhat important, based on the nature of the comments. Please read, as I believe the counsel was timely. Interestingly, there was no boasting, nor has there been since, of "I knew it first" in order to gain public approval or to sway a vote....

Here's what was said:

"I wish to speak to you about temporal matters.

As a backdrop for what I wish to say, I read to you a few verses from the 41st chapter of Genesis.

Pharaoh, the ruler of Egypt, dreamed dreams which greatly troubled him. The wise men of his court could not give an interpretation. Joseph was then brought before him: "Pharaoh said unto Joseph, In my dream, behold, I stood upon the bank of the river:

"And, behold, there came up out of the river seven kine, fatfleshed and well favoured; and they fed in a meadow:

"And, behold, seven other kine came up after them, poor and very ill favoured and leanfleshed. . . .

"And the lean and the ill favoured kine did eat up the first seven fat kine: . . .

"And I saw in my dream . . . seven ears came up in one stalk, full and good:

"And, behold, seven ears, withered, thin, and blasted with the east wind, sprung up after them:

"And the thin ears devoured the seven good ears: . . .

"And Joseph said unto Pharaoh, . . . God hath shewed Pharaoh what he is about to do.

"The seven good kine are seven years; and the seven good ears are seven years: the dream is one. . . .

". . . What God is about to do he sheweth unto Pharaoh.

"Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt:

"And there shall arise after them seven years of famine.

". . . And God will shortly bring it to pass" (Gen. 41:1720, 2226, 2830, 32).

Now, brethren, I want to make it very clear that I am not prophesying, that I am not predicting years of famine in the future. But I am suggesting that the time has come to get our houses in order.

So many of our people are living on the very edge of their incomes. In fact, some are living on borrowings.

We have witnessed in recent weeks wide and fearsome swings in the markets of the world. The economy is a fragile thing. A stumble in the economy in Jakarta or Moscow can immediately affect the entire world. It can eventually reach down to each of us as individuals. There is a portent of stormy weather ahead to which we had better give heed.

I hope with all my heart that we shall never slip into a depression. I am a child of the Great Depression of the thirties. I finished the university in 1932, when unemployment in this area exceeded 33 percent.

My father was then president of the largest stake in the Church in this valley. It was before our present welfare program was established. He walked the floor worrying about his people. He and his associates established a great wood-chopping project designed to keep the home furnaces and stoves going and the people warm in the winter. They had no money with which to buy coal. Men who had been affluent were among those who chopped wood.

I repeat, I hope we will never again see such a depression. But I am troubled by the huge consumer installment debt which hangs over the people of the nation, including our own people. In March 1997 that debt totaled $1.2 trillion, which represented a 7 percent increase over the previous year.

In December of 1997, 55 to 60 million households in the United States carried credit card balances. These balances averaged more than $7,000 and cost $1,000 per year in interest and fees. Consumer debt as a percentage of disposable income rose from 16.3 percent in 1993 to 19.3 percent in 1996.

Everyone knows that every dollar borrowed carries with it the penalty of paying interest. When money cannot be repaid, then bankruptcy follows. There were 1,350,118 bankruptcies in the United States last year. This represented a 50 percent increase from 1992. In the second quarter of this year, nearly 362,000 persons filed for bankruptcy, a record number for a three-month period.

We are beguiled by seductive advertising. Television carries the enticing invitation to borrow up to 125 percent of the value of one's home. But no mention is made of interest.

President J. Reuben Clark Jr., in the priesthood meeting of the conference in 1938, said from this pulpit: "Once in debt, interest is your companion every minute of the day and night; you cannot shun it or slip away from it; you cannot dismiss it; it yields neither to entreaties, demands, or orders; and whenever you get in its way or cross its course or fail to meet its demands, it crushes you" (in Conference Report, Apr. 1938, 103).

I recognize that it may be necessary to borrow to get a home, of course. But let us buy a home that we can afford and thus ease the payments which will constantly hang over our heads without mercy or respite for as long as 30 years.

No one knows when emergencies will strike. I am somewhat familiar with the case of a man who was highly successful in his profession. He lived in comfort. He built a large home. Then one day he was suddenly involved in a serious accident. Instantly, without warning, he almost lost his life. He was left a cripple. Destroyed was his earning power. He faced huge medical bills. He had other payments to make. He was helpless before his creditors. One moment he was rich, the next he was broke.

Since the beginnings of the Church, the Lord has spoken on this matter of debt. To Martin Harris through revelation, He said: "Pay the debt thou hast contracted with the printer. Release thyself from bondage" (D&C 19:35).

President Heber J. Grant spoke repeatedly on this matter from this pulpit. He said: "If there is any one thing that will bring peace and contentment into the human heart, and into the family, it is to live within our means. And if there is any one thing that is grinding and discouraging and disheartening, it is to have debts and obligations that one cannot meet" (Gospel Standards, comp. G. Homer Durham [1941], 111).

We are carrying a message of self-reliance throughout the Church. Self-reliance cannot obtain when there is serious debt hanging over a household. One has neither independence nor freedom from bondage when he is obligated to others.

In managing the affairs of the Church, we have tried to set an example. We have, as a matter of policy, stringently followed the practice of setting aside each year a percentage of the income of the Church against a possible day of need.

I am grateful to be able to say that the Church in all its operations, in all its undertakings, in all of its departments, is able to function without borrowed money. If we cannot get along, we will curtail our programs. We will shrink expenditures to fit the income. We will not borrow.

One of the happiest days in the life of President Joseph F. Smith was the day the Church paid off its long-standing indebtedness.

What a wonderful feeling it is to be free of debt, to have a little money against a day of emergency put away where it can be retrieved when necessary.

President Faust would not tell you this himself. Perhaps I can tell it, and he can take it out on me afterward. He had a mortgage on his home drawing 4 percent interest. Many people would have told him he was foolish to pay off that mortgage when it carried so low a rate of interest. But the first opportunity he had to acquire some means, he and his wife determined they would pay off their mortgage. He has been free of debt since that day. That's why he wears a smile on his face, and that's why he whistles while he works.

I urge you, brethren, to look to the condition of your finances. I urge you to be modest in your expenditures; discipline yourselves in your purchases to avoid debt to the extent possible. Pay off debt as quickly as you can, and free yourselves from bondage.

This is a part of the temporal gospel in which we believe. May the Lord bless you, my beloved brethren, to set your houses in order. If you have paid your debts, if you have a reserve, even though it be small, then should storms howl about your head, you will have shelter for your wives and children and peace in your hearts. That's all I have to say about it, but I wish to say it with all the emphasis of which I am capable..."

The speaker was Gordon B. Hinckley, then President of the Mormon Church, to which I belong. Certainly, I am biased to his counsel, and will not try to hide it, but the more I read that particular message, the more I see the wisdom in following it, regardless of the religious affiliation.

Tonight, amid the contentious exchanges amongst aspiring candidates, I am particularly grateful that there are voices out there which also genuinely desire to safeguard and help, but not in order to please a constituency.

No Words...

2008-07-13T20:51:00.002-04:00

My wife sent me an email the other day with this video embedded. As I watched, I couldn't help but think about my relationship with diety and how I feel that he carries me, despite my weaknesses and my inability to do for myself in so many areas.

Here is the information surrounding the clip:

A son asked his father, 'Dad, will you take part in a marathon with me?' The father, despite the fact that he has a heart condition, says 'Yes'. They went on to complete the marathon together. Father and son went on to join other marathons, the father always saying 'Yes' to his son's request of going through the race together. One day, the son asked his father, 'Dad, let's join the Ironman together.'
To which his father said once again, 'Yes'.

For those who didn't know, Ironman is the toughest triathlon ever. The race encompasses three endurance events of a 2.4 mile (3.86 kilometer) ocean swim, followed by a 112 mile (180.2 kilometer) bike ride, and ending with a 26.2 mile (42.195 kilometer) marathon along the coast of the Big Island

Father and son went on to complete the race together. View this

Wii Fat?

2008-06-14T21:11:00.007-04:00

A couple of weeks ago my wife brought home a new game for our Wii console called Wii Fit. In a nutshell, it is Nintendo's attempt at getting pudgy gamers moving while escaping into virtual reality. When we first hooked it up, it was fun watching the kids making their characters, doing the exercises and the games, and actually jumping on the little wii gadget for hours at a time. The virtual trainer has them doing yoga, strength exercises, balance exercises and all sorts of other things.

Today I found myself alone with my youngest while the rest of the family went out to a museum in Atlanta. Knowing that there were not going to be any onlooking adults, I decided to try this Wii Fit gadget for myself. My 4 year old navigated me through the process of setting up a character, getting my information entered, and showed me how to begin play. He seemed genuinely interested in spending a couple of hours playing with his Dad. There were even comments of encouragement after certain activities like, "Good Job, Dad!" and as I advanced through various stages, he would add, "I haven't been able to pass that one yet."
Despite my wobbly stance on the small motion sensor, my confidence grew and I even gave my son a few complimentary "flex poses" and the white man's overbite to punctuate my prowess.

That is, until, I chose the Yoga portion of the game.
Through regular game play you end up unlocking various poses and activities as you progress in your skills. Eventually, I unlocked a yoga pose entitled the dancer or something like that. It should have been called, "Death by Charlie Horse."

Here is the screenshot of the trainer going through the demonstration.
Despite the fact that I haven't been able to reach the bottom of my feet since I was an infant, I was still emboldened by my advancement in some of the other activities. "Yoga Shmoga," I thought to myself, and then created a mental picture of my ability to whip this baby out as well. This is how I appeared in my mind's eye:However, when the clocked ticked down, and the trainer began to give instructions such as "reach down with your left hand, keeping your knees unbent, and secure your left foot...." I realized that my ability to complete the pose would have been the same as if she had said, "Lift your left leg behind your back, wrap it around your neck twice like a scarf and let it rest on your right shoulder....that's right, now breathe..."

I stretched and fidgeted, still clinging to my mental picture of yoga skill. My 4 year old son who was bubbling with compliments just minutes before suddenly burst uncontrollably with laughter and collapsed on the couch next to me. I realized at this point that he wasn't seeing the same yoga master I was envisioning. Instead, he was seeing something like this:
I don't believe that I have seen my son laugh this hard before. Gasping for breath, tears streaming down the side of his face, he had to turn his head away from his flailing father because it was actually physically painful for his little body to continue to laugh.

I was devastated, but as I saw the joy that I was bringing to my son, I began laughing as well, which, in hindsight, was a lot less painful than continuing to attempt the pose.

There will be other days for the Wii fit yoga section...but I'll be doing it when everyone is in bed and the sound will be muted.

The Chosen

2008-06-12T23:47:00.002-04:00

A few minutes ago I finished reading once more "The Chosen" by Chaim Potok. I read it when i was younger, and probably ingested a small fraction of what was offered, yet even when young was able to relate and value the lessons taught therein. Now that I am older, am a father, and have lived a few more years, the insight this book provides seems priceless.

There is a passage which details a conversation between an ailing father and the main character, Reuven. Reuven grows frustrated with his father because he won't slow down despite his illness, and this is the response that ensues...

"You are no longer a child, Reuven, . . .It is almost possible to see the way your mind is growing. And your heart, too. . . .So listen to what I am going to tell you. . . .Human beings do not live forever, Reuven. We live less than the time it takes to blink an eye, if we measure our lives against eternity. So it may be asked what value is there to a human life. There is so much pain in the world. What does it mean to have to suffer so much if our lives are nothing more than the blink of an eye? . . .I learned a long time ago, Reuven, that a blink of an eye in itself is nothing. But the eye that blinks, that is something. A span of life is nothing. But the man who lives the span, he is something. He can fill that tiny span with meaning, so its quality is immeasurable though its quantity may be insignificant. Do you understand what I am saying? A man must fill his life with meaning, meaning is not automatically given to life. It is hard work to fill one's life with meaning. That I do not think you understand yet. A life filled with meaning is worthy of rest. I want to be worthy of rest when I am no longer here. Do you understand what I am saying?"

What a powerful statement. It has caused me to look inward and ask myself "Is my life worthy of rest?" We so often get distracted by focusing on those things that are fleeting. My father once admonished me to be careful of pursuing that "tinkling nothingness that fades." What wise counsel! I fall short of the expectations that I put upon myself, but it is so wonderful to be gently reminded by parents, friends and even novelists that "a man MUST fill his life with meaning...meaning is not automatically given to life."

Darth Vader Feels Blue

2008-05-28T01:07:00.001-04:00

I happened across this tonight after a grueling day at work. I was tired and "slap-happy." When I saw this video I laughed so hard that I woke up my children and almost peed all over myself. I hope it brings as much satisfaction to you as it did me. Only a true die-hard Star Wars fan will truly savor......

Why so "Cock"-y?

2008-05-25T22:29:00.003-04:00

For some reason I have recently become enamored with the idea of building a chicken tractor for our back yard and raise our own chickens. I spend most of the day after church surfing the web, learning everything I could about raising chickens, getting eggs, etc. I was imagining me burying the neighbors in gifted eggs, blessing our neighborhood with the rooster's call, and feeling that sense of pride that comes from being a little more self-sufficient.

When I told my wife, however, she first laughed and then vigorously thwarted my chances of building a such a "coop." The conversation went something like this:

Me: "So, I've received inspiration regarding our next project. You'll love it, I know, because I love it, and since we are 'one in all things,' there won't be much of a discussion....keep that in mind. Were gonna start raising chickens in the back yard! WOOHOO!"

Her: "Dream on Chicken boy. You can't raise your arm, much less a chicken."

Me: "No, I'm serious, I've already picked out blueprint for a chicken tractor that will take little time and little expense to put together."

Her: "I'm sorry, but I don't want chickens running all over our yard, much less, our neighborhood."

Me: "Alas, that's where the genius of my idea comes in, they will be in a chicken tractor, or a pen that you move around on the ground to keep them eating, they don't get out!"

Her: "That's cruel! I wouldn't feel right keeping an animal cooped up without being able to roam around like God intended.

Me: (Pointing sarcastically to her aquarium and the fish inside swimming around and around) "Yeah, I guess you're right, it would be horrible to even conceive of such a thing."

Her: "That's different"

Me: "O.K., we'll have free roaming, and turn our neighborhood into a Georgian Tijuana!"

Her: "It's not going to happen. Our neighbors wouldn't like hearing the chicken crowing in the mornings, it would be a nuisance."

Me: "You're referring to our single neighbor that has a dog who's incessant bark wakes the dead as well as half of the city? Who's the nuisance?"

Her: "Why do you want a chicken anyway?"

Me: "Eggs. Responsibility for the kids. Meat"

Her: "I trust you mean OUR kids, right? The very children that we have to bribe in order for them to do their chores? The very children that are interested by nothing unless it is attached to the television with a joystick?"

Me: "The kids would love it. Who wouldn't be interested in an animal that runs around your yard for a half hour after you chop it's head off?"

Her: "No way, I will not eat anything that you kill."

Me: "Oh, so you are going all 'P.E.T.A.' on my now? I told you when we got married that there would always be room for animals in our house, right next to the mashed potatoes. How is this different than the steak that you had last night?"

Her: "I didn't have to feed it before it fed me."

Me: (Recognizing that I was not making any headway...) "Please, pretty please, I'll be your friend..."

Her: "Not a chance, if you want to be around animals, go spend some time with the children."

So, I either need to stage an angelic visitation commanding my wife to raise chickens (one that she will actually fall for), or the closest I'll get to chickens is the painting that I did tonight to console myself...

Seven Years...

2008-05-02T23:59:00.004-04:00

It's been seven years since Dad passed. Tonight I spent a few hours sketching some feelings and remembering how I journeyed through the challenges following his passing. For the first year after his death I found that the only way that I could explore my feelings, find understanding and healing was to write him letters every day for a year. I've spent the last few days reviewing those letters. Most of the commentary is of such a personal nature that to post it might prove unwise. Nonetheless, I think that snippets from the last letter that I wrote would be illustrative of the journey.

May 1, 2002

Dearest Dad,

One year...I'll skip the "cliche" phrases about how it seems like a day and an eternity all at the same time...even though that's how it feels.
I'm sitting in my car about 20 paces from your headstone. I still see in my mind's eye the family and friends gathered here, placing flowers tenderly upon your casket, and looking at each other with strangely somber and final expressions.
My feelings, while the pen moves across the paper, are complex. The best way to describe them is by imagining that I am standing upon a precipice looking into a valley. I've been on this ridge repeatedly, too many times, since you've passed...and am scared to be standing here again. Afraid, because so often before, I succumbed to the pitiful desire to descend into the valley, the valley of grief, discomfort and of despair. Although my previous journeys through that valley, particularly short after your passing, may have proven necessary and insightful, I wanted to linger there. The longer I lingered, the more cloudy became the pathway that led up and out.
I'm out now, but my head turns often to look towards the valley, almost longing. But I fear to go there again. I fear that visiting that valley of grief too often, and a frequent reflection of how bad the separation pains me, will erase my knowledge that the separation is not definitive. By dwelling in the valley, Dad, I forget the truth that ensure our future camaraderie. And so, today, as I sit feet away from your final resting place, I'll let your body rest, but not mine. I cannot.
Instead, I will continue higher, knowing that you're not in the valley...but rather, waiting at the crest of the mountain ahead and hoping that I and others will continue the climb in patience, in perseverance and faith.....
I miss you horribly still, yet, I will continue to climb. I have to, because I almost lost myself in the valley, in the woods of sorrow and self-pity. I doubted things that I'm afraid to admit. I shook my fist in directions that a fist should never be shaken. And so, watch me as I climb Dad. I'm going to make it...watch for me.....

Love Your Son,

Justin

The race is on....

2008-04-20T22:49:00.003-04:00

As a family we decided recently to increase our attention to the scriptures and exploring the principles therein together. As part of that attempt, we kicked off a contest to see who could get through the Book of Mormon the fastest. We will likely continue this contest with other books like the Old and New Testament, etc. Surprisingly, my kids have been going at it with zeal. I have read this book numerous times and am fascinated with the principles that are taught. Instead of starting at the beginning, however, I decided to read it from the last book to the first and have enjoyed seeing the chronology in reverse.
One particular story hit me profoundly this time, however. There is an account of a people that is being led by the Lord to a different land, and are asked to cross the sea in order to get to the promised place. There are a few verses that became so symbolic of my life, of trials, and the purpose behind trials, that I was struck while reading. I decided to paint the image of what I saw when I read to further engrave some of the feelings that I had while reading. Here is the sketch, and a few verses of the story that were so meaningful:

2 For it came to pass after the Lord had prepared the stones which the brother of Jared had carried up into the mount, the brother of Jared came down out of the mount, and he did put forth the stones into the vessels which were prepared, one in each end thereof; and behold, they did give light unto the vessels.

3 And thus the Lord caused stones to shine in darkness, to give light unto men, women, and children, that they might not cross the great waters in darkness.

4 And it came to pass that when they had prepared all manner of food, that thereby they might subsist upon the water, and also food for their flocks and herds, and whatsoever beast or animal or fowl that they should carry with them—and it came to pass that when they had done all these things they got aboard of their vessels or barges, and set forth into the sea, commending themselves unto the Lord their God.

5 And it came to pass that the Lord God caused that there should be a furious wind blow upon the face of the waters, towards the promised land; and thus they were tossed upon the waves of the sea before the wind.

6 And it came to pass that they were many times buried in the depths of the sea, because of the mountain waves which broke upon them, and also the great and terrible tempests which were caused by the fierceness of the wind.

7 And it came to pass that when they were buried in the deep there was no water that could hurt them, their vessels being tight like unto a dish, and also they were tight like unto the ark of Noah; therefore when they were encompassed about by many waters they did cry unto the Lord, and he did bring them forth again upon the top of the waters.

8 And it came to pass that the wind did never cease to blow towards the promised land while they were upon the waters; and thus they were driven forth before the wind.

9 And they did sing praises unto the Lord; yea, the brother of Jared did sing praises unto the Lord, and he did thank and praise the Lord all the day long; and when the night came, they did not cease to praise the Lord.

10 And thus they were driven forth; and no monster of the sea could break them, neither whale that could mar them; and they did have light continually, whether it was above the water or under the water.

11 And thus they were driven forth, three hundred and forty and four days upon the water.

12 And they did land upon the shore of the promised land. And when they had set their feet upon the shores of the promised land they bowed themselves down upon the face of the land, and did humble themselves before the Lord, and did shed tears of joy before the Lord, because of the multitude of his tender mercies over them. (Ether 6:2-12)

A few thoughts on trials...

2008-04-02T23:02:00.003-04:00

There has been a recurring pattern in my life that once again I am experiencing. It is of yearning, learning, spurning and then a return to yearning. It is a thread that has been woven through my experience. The thread alone looks ugly, frayed, and unwanted in the cloth that I will call my life, but when I step back, I see it's importance and it's ability to tie everything together. The thread is trial. It seems that it is a certainty in everyone's life, unavoidable. Yet, most often as that thread is thrown once again into the loom, I fear it and have a tendency to question the artisan that is making the cloth. "Why not put in soft silky threads of pure white, or the warmth of golden fibers to fill up the pattern?" I ask. "Or why not a wealthy green filament to contrast with the unwanted fibers of a scarlet want?" Yet every time that thread, the thread of tribulation, is introduced again into the pattern, as painful as it may be to have it inserted, after stepping back I am able to see it's importance. It is the thread of difficulty that precedes the hairs of humility. Once the colors of humility enter the weave the loom grows full of the lustrous lengths of learning.

This last week I found myself again paralyzed with fears, false expectations, and was overwhelmed with a sense of inadequacy. Thankfully, I tried to turn to those sources of comfort and aid that have been ever fruitful. And, once again, those sources...or rather, The Source, has taken me aside and has beckoned, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest..."

Symbolically, and not coincidentally, I also found something this week which seemed an object lesson from on high.
Wedged atop a pillar on my porch I found the hard work of a small bird. Overnight this expecting animal took from the resources around it and made a home, a warm den into which it would introduce its young. I've been watching it intently, and today I found 5 tiny eggs deposited in the nest.

I wonder and am in awe as I peek out the window to this little bird. It is an inspirational example of resourcefulness, of practicality, of purposefulness, and of priority. This little bird, following instinctual impulses, made a home from scrap (and a beautiful one at that), keeps it warm, mothers her soon to be peeping chicks, and all this during thunderstorms, wind, beating sun and my screaming, curious children.

It seems oblivious to the challenges that it faces. It knows it must succeed in doing what it was meant to do, to fulfill its purpose, and doesn't or simply cannot waste it's time with worry. I am envious of this birds inability to become bogged down with circumstance.

This little bird has helped me to remember the truthfulness in a favorite quote:
"The great challenge is to refuse to let the bad things that happen to us do bad things to us. That is the crucial difference between adversity and tragedy." (Neal A. Maxwell)

The Life of Pi

2008-03-16T21:22:00.004-04:00

Over the past few days I have been reading a fascinating book for our book club. I must admit, at first, it took me a while to begin enjoying the read. For me, the opening chapters of the book were slow and laborious, however, the perseverance paid off and I am in the middle of a real thought provoking story of a little boy and his quest to survive on a small life boat with a tiger. The story is extremely interesting, but what is most satisfying is the commentary made by the main character of the experiences that he is having. There is a chapter that was brilliant about fear. I was so mesmerized by his description that I just have to post it.

Chapter 56 of "The Life of Pi" by Yann Martel

I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always. One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out. But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble. You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you. You are reassured. Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology. But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feel yourself weakening, wavering. Your anxiety becomes dread.

Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going on. Already your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like a snake. Now your tongue drops dead like an opossum, while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot. Your ears go deaf. Your muscles begin to shiver as if they had malaria and your knees to shake as though they were dancing. Your heart strains too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much. And so with the rest of your body. Every part of you, in the manner most suited to it, falls apart. Only your eyes work well. They always pay proper attention to fear.

Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you've defeated yourself. Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.

The matter is difficult to put into words. For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene: it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it. So you must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.

Masochism

2008-02-17T22:39:00.003-05:00

It's been a while since I last posted. There certainly isn't a plausible excuse other than the simple fact that I haven't been inspired to write much. It is, however, my youngest child's birthday tomorrow and so I have had the chance to reflect on parenting, on children, on masochism and other related topics. I'll share a few of my thoughts.

A few months ago we flew from our current residence back to Salt Lake City for a Christmas vacation. We were going to be gone for 2 weeks and the luggage for the 5 people in our family looked like we were smuggling half of our town to Utah. Most of our luggage was filled with food, technology, coloring books and sedatives; items we could use to keep the children entertained on the plane, and the latter to be used if the former didn't work.
I was proud of my two oldest children. They have learned that if they see Dad's forehead veins bulging sufficiently while I am looking at them then they have approximately 10 seconds before being escorted dangerously close to the afterlife. For the most part, however, they were pretty mellow about the entire experience.

My youngest, on the other hand, was every passenger's worst nightmare.

As parents, we are extremely aware of how our children's behavior effect other people. We must be masochists because we go to a church every week where the first meeting is intended to be reverently attended, and as a family we eat out rather frequently. During both of these activities we get stares that are hot enough to burn holes into our hair. Maybe deep inside we feel that self-punishment will bring some type of redemption in the future. If that is the case then our plane trip to Utah may have landed us into the highest spot of heaven.

The first challenge was strapping our car seat into the plane seat in a fashion that met FAA regulations. This is challenging when you have a car seat that seems to be 10 inches larger in every direction than the scant space available to a coach customer. Karen Carpenter would have a hard time fitting into coach, much less a car seat designed to cushion a child from potential death by impact. While my wife was trying to secure the car seat into position, my son was jumping on the seats, looking at the people behind him directly in the eyes, and pushing every button within reach...needless to say our little aisle looked like a discotec with the amount of times the light was switched on and off. Also, by the end of the flight there was no more carpet between our seat and the stewardess station because of the incessant button pushing. The first 40 times, I was impressed by the "Hi, may I help you" the uniformed ladies would offer. By the end of the flight it was, "Push the button again and I will smother you with the seat cushion that may also be used as a floatation device!"

Once strapped in, however, things were a little easier because he secured by a four point restraint. At least, we thought they were easier. Harnessing a bored child only transfers the motion of the legs and arms to incessant movement of the vocal chords. Hence, before the plane even moved on the tarmac, flight 459 to Salt Lake heard questions such as, "Mom, what's that?" "Mom, who farted?", "Mom, do you think we'll crash?", and "Mom, why does that man in front of me have spots on his bald head?"

It was then that My wife and I both realized that something happens to the time-space continuum when you are on a plane with a 3 year old for which you are responsible. Minutes seem like hours and a 4 hour plane ride sucks a decade of life from your health, sanity and well-being.

After being strapped in the car seat for about 10 minutes and after every strategy was attempted to be freed, my cunning son reverted to the only tactic that can get him out of his car seat. He turned to my wife, with an innocent look of discomfort and said, "Mom, I need to go potty."

My wife didn't see it as she pulled him out of the seat and down the aisle, but for a split second I saw a wicked smile and red eyes flash across my boy's face. He practically floated toward the joys that awaited in an airplane toilet.

After the 3rd toilet trip, and still no movement by the plane (or by my son), my wife looked to me with that expression that says, "If you don't do something, you won't wake up tomorrow morning." I've seen that look before and so I reacted quickly...I pretended not to see her and turned up the volume on my Ipod so that I had an alibi for not noticing when I got off the plane.

Thankfully, after an hour, the plane took off and we were bound for Salt Lake. And, like clockwork, as soon as there was movement and the noise of machinery, our youngest was out cold.

As for my wife, a devout Christian and one who strictly adheres to our faith's abstinence from alcohol and drugs, she ordered two mini-bottles of whiskey and used them to down a half-bottle of Nytol.

And they both slept happily ever after.

Tribute to Gordon B. Hinckley

2008-02-01T00:19:00.001-05:00

“Our lives are the only meaningful expression of what we believe and in Whom we believe. And the only real wealth, for any of us, lies in our faith.” --Gordon B. Hinckley

A photographed birthday present

2007-11-22T22:00:00.000-05:00

A few days ago I turned a year older. That morning I decided to treat myself to different sort of present. First, I took the day off, which isn't very normal for me. That was a treat in itself. Then I decided to take my new camera and just explore. I went up behind the college campus where I was teaching and headed off into the woods. As I walked and took photos, it was amazing what refreshing feelings I had by being somewhere alone, surrounded by beauty, and listening to the rustling of the leaves, the birds sing, the scampering of deer and squirrels through the brush, and mostly, the listening to my own thoughts.

A Robert Frost poem that I memorized when I was young kept coming to mind:

The Road Not Taken TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I have decided to post a few of the pictures that I took, in the chronology that I took them:

If you can't beat em, join em.

2007-11-03T18:18:00.001-04:00

A few days ago I spoke with a buddy and called him to repentance. You see, he writes a blog that I look at everyday, yet, he only updates it every once in a while. As we spoke, he deftly pointed out that I'm just as bad with this writing blog. So, in fairness, we promised to post at least once a week or submit ourselves to 72 hours of inescapable, uninterrupted melodies from "The Carpenters".
Needless to say, I'm choosing to write....

Rearing children is challenging, to say the least. We are going through the potty-training stage with our youngest boy and I do believe that he will be the poster child for teenage "pull-ups" someday.

A few months ago I chose to stay home with him all day and employ the 24 hour potty-training master course, administered solely by me. My desire to get him whizzing on his own was two fold. First, I wanted to prove to the wife that I'm not a complete imbecile when it comes to molding our children. Second, with the money we could save by weaning the little one off of diapers, we could buy a third-world nation.

My 24 hours paid off, because the next few weeks went by with all the "kiddie-poo" making it to the toilet without a parent having to scrape it off of our child's rear end. LIFE WAS GOOD, and I took every opportunity to remind my wife of my various skills.

But then something happened. About a month later, our little boy began whizzing around our house like an Alpha wolf who's territory has been threatened. He even seemed to be enjoying himself while trying to write his name on the wall without using his hands...or a crayon, if you know what I mean.

So it was back to the drawing board. "Alright professor Whiz-Master," my wife would tease, "Let's see you get your star pupil out of this."

I tried rewarding him with anything I could think of...candy, small pets, fame, power, prestige, crack, his own record label...but everything failed.
I tried punishing him within an inch of his life, selling him to Gypsies, installing a child-proof catheter...and still nothing.

Then, as I sat watching him use his Lord of the Rings action figures to reek havoc on a Lincoln-Log settlement, the answer came to me..."Somehow, I need to help him pee....WITH A VENGEANCE!"

So, the next morning, I put a cup full of fruit loops next into to the toilet and told him, "All right, the next time you need to go, pour the cereal into the toilet and then TRY TO SINK THOSE FLOATING DEVILS WITH YOUR PEE! And for even more destruction, you can DROP THE BOMB atop those floaters and revel in your destruction!"
I could see the fire in his eyes as he stared into the bowl and a diabolic grin slowly spread towards his ears. Heaven knows what scenes of terror were playing out in his mind.

Before I could turn to leave the bathroom I saw him wielding his weapon and focusing his concentration like a Jedi before battle. The cereal didn't have a chance.

I hustled out of the bathroom, grabbed my bride, and gloated while pointing to our child. He was intently screaming profanities into the toilet bowl and making the sound effects of a world war 3 movie.

"Just call me Proffessor." I smirked, and walked off with my head held very high.

The next morning I was abruptly torn from my sleep by an angry, pointing wife. She was scowling as she sharply hissed, "Professor, would you please accompany me to our pantry?" Knowing my life was hanging in the balance, I quickly obliged, and raced to the next room.

Standing on our kitchen table was "my student," with all the breakfast cereal varieties on the floor below him. Each box had been carefully opened for easy access, and the same chants of destruction bellowed from his mouth as he skillfully emptied his wet arsenal on the unsuspecting cereal subjects surrounding the table below.

Accepting my defeat, I dropped my pants and joined him.

Tomatos

2007-08-12T22:37:00.000-04:00

It's late. My little boy is cuddling next to me and warming my cheek with his sleeping breath. The rest of the house is quiet except for the steady blowing of our air through the vent above me, and the stylus taps on my handheld while I make this entry. An M&M buzz is preventing me from dozing off just yet and so here I am, making an entry on a blog that has been forgotten, or at least has played second string to other interests and demands.

My mind has been traveling lately; time travel, not forward,but back. The trips are instantaneous but after arriving, there has been a lingering and reluctance to return to present.

When I was a young man my family, mostly my parents, spent much of their free time in a well kept, frequently fertilized, annually tilled and (seemingly) incessantly watered garden. (I did a lot of the watering and wished for quicker saturation and longer periods between plant thirst.)

This little garden developed over the years. It started small, but grew to be framed by a greenhouse, compost pit and Mom's decoratve flowers. A few years later that little garden even neighbored a hallowed spot where we laid our family dog, Pepper, to rest.

One fall evening, late in the growing season, I remember being in the back yard under the majestic cherry tree. The evening breeze was starting to dance and I could hear the leaves above me whispering as they rode the wind.

A few feet away stood my father surrounded by tomato plants that reached his chest. Perched on his head was a red and white ball cap with the logo of the trucking company he once managed. It's net backing held his thinning brown hair except where it escaped through the hole above the hat's fastener. His shirt was a long-sleeved, plaid, flannel button up that permitted his elbows to escape from two worn holes. His pants were brown corduroy that were so thin that they no longer made the "swoosh swoosh" when he walked. Upon his feet were a pair of brown leather, rubber soled, tie-ups that were covered with everything between manure to paint blotches. They looked to be a hundred years old, but were used for all the years that I can remember after. Those were the work clothes, the gardening clothes, and the "put my arm around you and show you how to weed" clothes.

"Hey Just!" he sang when he recognized me watching his work. He smiled beneath the sweat and his eyes sparkled from behind his oval glasses.

Behind him was a row of tomato plants that were laying broken and twisted in the dark soil. I watched as he raised his old shoe as high as possible and then bring it down fiercely through a tomato stalk that was, moments ago, standing tall.

"What the heck are you doing?" I queried, knowing that it wasn't yet time to clear out the garden.

After a stomp down the next plant he replied, "these things have grown tall, but aren't bearing fruit. I'm helping them grow."

I walked away thinking he was crazy, or that he had a bad day at work and was venting on unsuspecting crops. "How do you help a plant by killing it?" I thought.

A few days later I found myself in the backyard again. I was tossing an old sock to Pepper and enjoying her showy growls and laps around the yard every time she got the sock away from me. Chasing after Pepper to increase level of play, I soon found myself standing under the cherry tree overlooking the garden. I was huffing to catch my breath and realized that the garden looked like a tornado had hit. The tomato plants were flat and spread on the ground. Some had even died. But in the midst of the green was red. Every living plant had produced in abundance.

Dad wasn't crazy after all.

Years have passed. Dad has too. I have children as old as I was when Dad was tomato stomping.

I recently have been experiencing some troubles; burdens that are heavy enough that I can hear my stalk breaking. I look heavenward a lot and wonder, "are you trying to kill me?"
When I'm quiet though, I hear the voice. It sings like the cherry leaves did in the breeze.
"Son, you've grown tall, but you haven't borne the fruit. I'm helping you grow."

And so here I lay, sprawled on the ground at times, feeling broken, but in it I see growth. There is fruit that is ripening. And deep inside grows a yearning, a tender anticipation for when the harvest begins and when I will see the gardener again.

Confidence, by Mark J. Monson

2007-07-01T16:27:00.000-04:00

Recently I have been thinking about self-confidence, identity, and the things that we permit to effect us. I couldn't help but remember something that my Father wrote before he passed away and shared with your literary group. I'll include it below.

CONFIDENCE
by Mark J. Monson

I must have been a boy prodigy for my first recollection of writing was in a magazine. No kidding! I don't remember the name, but it was one of the expensive ones printed on clay-based paper like the National Geographic. I must have been four or five! Ballpoint pens had just become available and I can still remember the feel of the slick flow of the ink pen floating across the surface of the plasticized page. I used to wish that the publisher had not covered up so much of the page with printed junk that forced me to use just the margins. Oh it was wonderful to do what adults did, at least until Mom discovered my creativeness and scolded me for scribbling in her magazine.

It was some time later that I learned that scribbling was not writing - but to me, what ever I was doing, felt wonderful. I loved the feel of the writing implement moving across the page. And I had plenty to say. It flowed freely. It wasn't until I started my formal education that the teachers helped me to realize that writing wasn't as fun as I imagined!

*****

I made it to the fifth grade before I learned that I was a poor speller. Talk about a slow learner. The year I also learned the mysterious relationship between being able to spell and everything else important in life. Succinctly put, the lesson was: IF YOU COULDN'T SPELL, YOU WERE DUMB.

Spelling, prior to the fifth grade, was something you prepared for weekly. It involved short term memory. (I didn't know what that was back then, but since learned that's what I was using.) It went something like this: on Monday the teacher gave us a list, usually between ten and twenty words. Over the week we were asked to do challenging things with these words like arranging them in alphabetic order, finding them in a word search, and using them in a sentence. (One of the rules for this last activity was that you couldn't use them all in the same sentence like, "Today our teacher gave us the following words to spell:...") Then on Fridays we were asked to spell them correctly as the teacher administered "THE TEST." I knew this was important because if I didn't score ninety percent or better, I missed afternoon recess and had to write each word missed one hundred times. Next week we would get a new list and I could clear my RAM (in the last few years I've been able to master the computer metaphor.) Once cleared, the words were gone forever.

Mrs. Jaramillo didn't play by the rules, those spelling test rules used by my former teachers. After lunch one day, without warning and right when all my thinking processes were on hold to accommodate digesting my peanut butter sandwich, she asked us to spell words that had previously appeared on spelling lists. Words that I had been able to regurgitate correctly on the weekly tests came out...well...creatively. The next day, as she passed back the tests, Mrs. Jaramillo complimented those that really could spell, encouraged those that had not done quite as well and then she came to me. Throwing my test on my desk like one would throw out the garbage, she announced to the whole class, "Mark was rather creative in his spelling." Then turning to face me directly, added, "Can't you spell? How do you expect to write? I don't want to see this kind of nonsense again!"

My eyes broke from hers and focused on the round hole in the upper right hand corner of my desk, the one that used to hold a bottle of writing ink. The temperature on the back of my neck increased and slowly worked its way to the back of my ears and eventually my whole head. Oh, to be able to escape into the ink hole.

As unpleasant as that was, I wasn't forced to miss afternoon recess and, once on the softball field, my confidence returned. I soon forgot the incident and had no idea of its significance.

*****

"You will each draw a slip of paper from this fish bowl," explained Mrs. Jaramillo. "On each slip of paper is printed the name of one of the states. You will do a written report on whichever state you draw."

I knew about states. We had seen a film strip on the forty-eight states that constituted the United States at that time and had been required to memorize the capitals of each. I remembered living in states other than Utah when I was younger. Boy, I thought, I hope I pick Arizona or Washington. I remember living in both. Even Wyoming would be okay because our family had recently visited there. (That's where my step dad was from.) They had cowboys everywhere, even on their license plates!

As we drew, we read out loud the results. Mrs. Jaramillo recorded our names next to "our state" on a large chart hanging on the wall of the classroom. It was an exciting event. By the the bowl got to me, Arizona and Washington had been drawn. I put my hand deep into the remaining slips of paper and swished it around. I closed my eyes knowing it would allow me to focus all the luck I needed to the tips of my fingers. I closed my thumb and forefinger on a slip of paper and began to remove my hand from the bowl, but decided to release it and dig deeper into the pile. This time I removed a slip. Slowly unfolding my choice I read the word "Wyoming."

"Wyoming," I bluted out, "Yes, Wyoming. I got Wyoming!"

"Thank you, Mark. Please...sit...down...and pass the bowl to Gary." The words slid out from behind Jaramillo's clenched teeth as she wrote "Mark M." next to the state of Wyoming.

Follwing the suggestion of our teacher, I immediately instructed Mom to write the state of Wyoming for information. She did, and within a couple of weeks I received in the mail all kinds of brochures and pictures. I spent hours looking at the pictures and reading the information. Mom and I cut out pictures and I even started to write "The Report." Then I stopped.

Mom saw my interest evaporate as quickly as it had come. She even offered to help with the report. Her help meant writing it for me. The report was finished by the due date. But I never handed it in. Jaramillo had a few verbal jabs for me and ome others in the class who hadn't handed in a report. She even told us we could hand it in late since we obviously hadn't got started like she had ordered three weeks earlier. Her criticism about not handing in the report hurt. I seriously figured it would keep me from passing the fifth grade. Bit I knew she was unable to say anything about my writing...or my spelling!"

*****

"What you do for a living?" inquired a little Japanese man as he wedged himself next to me on bus number 480. The bus was full and people were standing in the isle.

"I'm a teacher." I didn't give it much thought and looked out the window. My concern at the moment was whether I'd boarded the bus that would return me to the conference at Cal Poly University in Pomona.

"What you teach?" He was persistent. By now he had screwed his body around where he was looking at me straight on.

"I teach English."

He laughed. What an unusual response, I thought. Usually the response I get when I explain that I'm and English teacher is, "Ooh," when people are not too impressed, or, "That was my worst subject!" I'd never had anyone laugh before.

"Why you teach English?"

"That's what I got my degree in." What a strange man I thought. I wondered if he would be getting off soon. My attention shifted from the window to this inquirer. I now questioned him, "How far to Cal Poly University?"

"Cal Poly? Ten miles." He indicated his stop came after mine.

Oh Great! This little questioning oriental had me as a captive audience for ten more miles. If the bus continued stopping every couple of blocks, I wondered if I would be able to tolerate his endless questions.

"You learn to speak English?"

I explained that I was born in the United States and so I didn't learn to speak English in college. As I answered his questions I found myself gradually turning to face my interveiwer.

"What you teach in English?"

I didn't want to explain everything in the English curriculum so I answered, "Writing."

"You professional writing teacher?"

I pondered that one. "Yes, I guess I am."

"You teach me to write?"

"If we have more time, I suppose I could." Only eight miles to go, that let me off the hook, I thought.

"What most important thing in learning to write?"

Okay, now he had my full attention. What was the most important thing in learning to write? I'm not sure what I answered, but his question caused me to reflect deeply for the next eight miles.

I remember thinking about the first time I had heard that writing was a process. This was not taught while I was in school, but made so much sense to me. I remembered learning of the concept of revision and being able to change things before my writing was evaluated as finished. That had installed a great deal of confidence in me, not only to teach writing, but to write myself. That's what I should have told my inquiring friend. "WRITING IS A PROCESS AND YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE PERFECT TO BEGIN." Understanding this, EVERYONE can be confident in learning to write."

*****

I keep a picture of me as a four-year-old on the corner of my desk. As I write it helps me to keep perspective. In this picture I see a boy looking to the future of possibilities. He's confident, but seeks guidance. He's willing to try new things. He doesn't expect perfection at first because he knows he can keep trying until he gets it right. Looking at the picture makes me think that no one should be allowed to break that confidence. No one, not even the Mrs. Jaramillos of the world.

Missing Dad...

2007-06-05T01:29:00.001-04:00

With the fast approaching holiday in which we celebrate our fathers, I'm feeling a void. I'm sure that my mother is as well. It's been 6 years since my father passed away and although the sting of his absence isn't so sharp, the feelings that I have for him seem to be even more tender.
I have been pondering a lot lately about fathers, what it means to be one, and how to be a better friend to my own children. When I compare myself with what I see in my father, I feel grossly inadequate. Nonetheless, I'm grateful for the opportunity that I have to spend with my children.
Recently my wife has fallen ill for an extensive period of time. It has been difficult, yet, it has pushed me into a more intimate and active role with children. It has been fun step out of my "discipline" function and step into the shoes of "friend" and "playmate" to my kids. We laugh a lot more than we used to, and it is a refreshing, healing type of laughter.

In those quiet times of the night when I can't sleep I sometimes wonder what Dad is doing. Is he still able to see me, hear me, watch me. Is he proud of me and the decisions I'm making? Some questions, I suppose, won't be answered in the near future, but I'm patient enough to wait.

When my Dad first grew ill with his cancer, he and I had started a literary group that met often, and read and wrote together. I wrote a little piece of prose to explain what I was feeling at the time. I think it's appropriate to share now.

Swinging
Swinging. I can do it alone now, but not too alone. When others watch, they know I can do it, and so I know too. But, I don't pull the chains and my heels don't reach forward with Pap behind me anymore. I can do it alone now.
In the cold gravel beneath me is a ditch. It's in front now, now behind, in front, behind. Sometimes I grag my feet, making the ditch deeper until my toes feel the stone-dirt through my ked-soles. Then I pull the chains, almost to my armpits and my seat shoots to the sky. But only so far. Then my chest takes its turn, jumping forward, elbows bending behind me, as my bottom darts backward to take its turn again. My feet are always in the lead; either stretching to touch the leaves in front of me, or, with a swoof, racing my rear to the place where Papa used to push.
The chains that hold me, lunging, are seagulls, crying where they connect to the bar-arch above me. They sing and the wind dries my eyes as I go foward, backward, foward.
Swinging. Over the seagull chant, I hear it, "Go higher!"
"Papa?"
I pull the chain harder. My feet reach higher, past the leaves. But I rush back quicker too. For a moment time stops, between pushing and pulling, and I float.
"Papa?"
I can do it alone now, but not too alone. When others watch, they know I can do it, and so I know too. But not now, not today, "Please not today."
I am alone, not even the once watchful trees acknowledge me. Their limbs are numb skeletons, dangling.
Forward, backward, forward, backward.
My feet race my rear again and my back aches for Papa's push....back, back, back...
Nothing.
Just a long, empty, heavy float before forward.
"Papa?"

I'm in the gravel ditch now and a girl giggles as she works the swing chains back and forth. I push her pink sweater, body inside, delicately. Forward, back, forward back, until, over the seagul cry, I hear her.
"I can do it alone Daddy, let me do it alone." And then the floating pause before she moves forward.
"Oh sweet one," I whisper. "If you only knew, you'd let Daddy not only push you, but hold you tight, inseperable. Oh, little one, if you only knew. one day your back will long for Daddy, but just keep swinging back, back, and then...nothing. Let me hold you, precious one, tell me not to just watch, tell me to embrace!"

Duck, Duck, Goose.....

2007-05-17T20:20:00.000-04:00

Needing some time to ponder and relax, I decided to take my son over to the college campus where I have been volunteer teaching for the past 3 years. The grounds are beautiful and full of animal life. Here are a bunch of pictures that I took at a place called Swan Lake.

Enjoy

Up at night...

2007-05-12T01:13:00.000-04:00

I suppose that everyone has them; the nights that you stare into the darkness while the world around you rests, but your own soul seems unwilling to. You are exhausted, but your thoughts grow more lively as your own energy wanes. There are empty spaces deep inside that we hide through recreation, through busying ourselves with other seemingly important things. We know the spaces are there, but ignore them by poor attempts to fill them up with things that simply don't fill. But grace finds a way of intervening, during those hours that should be welcoming sleep, by providing a calm time where the poor attempts at "hiding" and "filling" seen in a clear light.
Nights like these, tonight being one of them, give that opportunity for introspection, and discovery.

It's 1:33 a.m. and in the distance I hear the intermittent train whistle warning the empty streets of its passing presence.

I've been bothered today, bothered by something I read. A friend, with one breath talked of tolerance, respecting belief, and allowing others the same liberty to believe that we all selfishly defend, and with another breath made light of something important and special to many. Throughout the day, I struggled because I wanted to stand on the pulpit and cry, "hypocrite!"

Why? Why did it bother me so? These past few hours has proven insightful. My desire to point at a friend was simply an attempt to shift the focus off of the rough places that are so prevalent still in my own self. There is so much work, inside myself, to occupy my time sufficiently without having to confess other's sins. I've become particularly apt at recognizing the need for change in others and this in order to subconsciously justify my lack of acknowledging my need to mend myself.

Ultimately, we hold grudges, we judge, and cause pain because we are hurting inside. When the sure way to "fill" those holes is to forgive (including yourself) and love.

Tonight, I listened to an address that made my evening a feast. I include it here, not to be preachy, but to better say what I've been trying to put into words the last few paragraphs.

Enjoy

Thick as thieves....

2007-04-28T10:32:00.000-04:00

Unavoidably, there comes the day in family life where Mom and Dad begin to see certain talents and aptitudes in each of their children and they begin to think of professions that would best suit those skills in the future. Many parents can see their children as doctors, dentists, engineers, and dream of their future success (not so much for the happiness of the children, but as a future nest egg for the parents themselves.)
Over the past few years as I've watched my children develop, I too, have determined potential professions they would excel in and make their contribution to the world. I've narrowed the list down to 3:
International Jewel Thief,
Computer Hacker,
or President of the United States (or any high ranking government official.)

You see, my children not only excel, but are masters at taking things that aren't theirs, eliminating any incriminating evidence, and generating sufficient suspicion that somebody else is entirely responsible.

Their skills, like any other, started off as being laughable. When my oldest was the sole "fruit of my loins" there were countless times when she would be found sitting in her diaper the middle of the kitchen floor, a half opened bag of Nestle morsels by her side, with chocolate all over her face and hands. When I walked in I would ask, "Did you get into the pantry and sneak some chocolate?" Her response, "No, Mama did it."

It was cute then; the lying, the attempt to blame it on someone else. It was cute like a baby's first turd. We should have realized then (following the turd analogy), that turd is turd and that it stinks.

Our kids, now, have become experts at sensing any type of sweet, unhealthy, edible food as soon as it comes across our threshold. It's like they have developed a sixth sense that subconsciously scans their surroundings for anything in it that has as much fat as calories. As soon as their "sensor" locates such an item, the theme music to mission impossible starts to play in their minds and a scheme is underway to get the most of it as possible.

Once, my wife and I tried to play a mind game with our children to lessen the appealing nature of such types of food. We decided to feed them all chocolate for 3 days straight, knowing that any reasonable human would grow ill after the first few meals. After the 3rd day, our chocolate reserves were exhausted, and we had 3 children bouncing off the walls, threatening us with knives, and telling us, "We not only want chocolate breakfast and lunch, but brunch and snacks as well!" It was like trying to stop a shark from feeding by giving it more and more bloodied flesh...

So, the next step was to create the fortress. Where once we left such treats on the regular pantry, now we store the items in question in strategic places in our room and walk-in closet. Who were we fooling? We are still finding wrappers throughout the house, but now the kids are smart enough not to leave them in places that are incriminating...rather, I'll find them underneath MY pillow, or under the bed of the baby (the only one NOT tall enough to reach the stash).

When we see these treasured items disappearing at an exponential rate, we'll pull the kids together, put a bright light in their faces, and attempt to get at the truth. Stroaking my thin moustache and straightening my trenchoat I'll tell them, "you know, children, ve have vays of making you talk..."

But, no matter how hard we probe, they all just look at us, steely eyed, and say in unison, "We did not have edible relations with that food."

It's official...

2007-03-28T23:40:00.000-04:00

It's official. Today marks the day that I have accepted the inevitable. I realized today that I'm getting old and stinky.
Here were some of the signs that finally forced me to accept it:
1)- I love listening to old "Styx" tunes.
2)- I remember the days when it was still cool to roll your pants up tightly around the ankles.
3)- I actually had a "perm" when I was in junior high school, and I survived.
4)- My kids laughed at me yesterday when I threw on my sandals with dark brown socks before heading over to Wal-Mart.
5)- I can see in the near future when my age and my waist size will meet (at least I hope.)
6)- My kids look at me cock-eyed when I talk about cassette tapes.
7)- Two days ago my oldest boy asked me if they had T.V.'s when I was young.
8)- My wife has finally come to terms with the fact that I snore and pushing me while I'm asleep doesn't do squat to calm the storm. (I thought this would take a life-time).

But the cool thing about getting old is you don't care when you kids laugh at you, because you know that in a few years, when they have kids, you and your silver-haired sweetheart will be able to laugh at them. Life is good.

Fear your children.....

2007-03-23T13:00:00.000-04:00

My children are smart, too smart. I say that not in a boastful way. In fact, I deeply struggle with some parent’s attempts to broadcast their offspring’s honor roll status via bumper stickers and t-shirts. It should be about the child, not about the parent. My announcement of the intellectual prowess of my children is certainly not bragging, rather, it is begging; begging for help.

The other day, my 3 year old took apart our upstairs entertainment center with a screwdriver. At first, I thought that I was being neglectful as a parent because I may have left out a pointy tool. Then I found a stash that he had pilfered from my toolbox every time that my wife had me put construct or put together a project.

Last week at dinner I asked my eight year old boy to share the last piece of cake with his sister. He obliged and I cut the said cake into two pieces. Upon careful examination of both pieces, my son said, “Dad, I don’t believe that you executed your cut down the true median of that cake. It’s not equidistant.” (no lie.) I just looked at him cock-eyed, wondered what he had just said, and looked at the clock to see if Jerry Springer was on yet.

My oldest child, a girl who is 10, has been offering foot massages to the family for a nominal fee. Strangely enough, I seem to be the only one taking her up on it after a long day at work. She does a good job. The other day she sent me a collection notice that calculated the various work that I had commissioned, the terms that were originally agreed upon, and a 3% daily increase on payment that hadn’t been received. It looks like I have had a few too many foot rubs in the past 60 to 90 days and now I’m going to have to take out a loan to pay her off.

I guess some may think that it’s all fun and games when your children do well in school and actually listen to what is being taught. Trust me, it’s fun for them, not the parent. They’ll actually come home and apply what they have learned. I got an email from my two oldest children a couple of days ago. THIS IS NO JOKE, it was a power point presentation enumerating the reasons why my wife and I should increase the amount of allowance that they are receiving. (For those non-believers out there, send me an email and I'll forward you the file.) It was painful to read. I look to the future a few years and figure that somehow I’ll end up driving an old, rusty pick-up truck wearing overall’s and know that they are driving a Lexus, at my expense. By then, they will be smart enough to convince me that somehow it was my decision, and that I’m happy about it.

A simple post...

2007-02-24T21:18:00.000-05:00

Go see this movie. As a dad, I find myself having to prod myself to act interested in cheesy kid's shows in order to enjoy quality time with my family at the movies. Disney has pitched this movie, with their special effects trailers, as something akin to Narnia, or Lord of the Rings fantasy. However, the movie has nothing to do with those things, rather, the meat of this movie comes from something much richer and more resonating. As previously stated...GO SEE THIS MOVIE.

Ever learning...

2007-02-11T19:41:00.000-05:00

On Thursday nights for the past two and a half years I have been teaching a volunteer religion class at the local college. Through that experience I have grown extremely close to the students and have recognized that although I have worn the title of "teacher", I have been the learner.
A couple of Thursday's ago, I realized something profound.
After class I had the chance to just talk with one of the students, one on one. The student opened up about her fears, her desires, and her joys. I listened intently, and was grateful that she would permit me to be a part of that conversation.
As I was driving home, something resonated. This human condition, I believe, was meant to be filled with sincere, human interaction, service, and finding contentment in relationships. This revelation might seem lackluster or obvious to some But the veracity of that concept struck me and caused me pause and reflection.
As a general manager of a large location, and as the one responsible to oversee all the interactions with our customers, employees, etc., I am in front of a computer, on the phone, and writing words all day long. Technically, I am communicating and "building relationships."
But in reality, I haven't really looked for the opportunities to connect.
In this age of technology, where we can send instant messages, check posts and comments on blogs, find a wealth of information instantaneously, I have found that the very technology that should be freeing my time for the "better things in life," if not managed correctly, could actually steal from the time that I'm supposed to be saving, the time in which I am supposed to be LIVING.
The conversation that I had with that student, wasn't typed on a keyboard. I didn't have to use an "emoticon" to see the sparkle in her eyes as we talked. When she, in the end, said: "Thanks Brother Monson," I could see sincerity, something that isn't transmitted through electronic script. The hug that she gave me was felt, and could never have been impactful if she just took a picture of her arms on her cellphone and sent it to me.

Yes, I admit, I am grateful for technology and what it permits me to do. Yet, I'm grateful also for the things that technology cannot do, and this week's reminder of the importance of real human relationship, palpable interaction, and seeing the actual light in a neighbors eyes. These are the staples we need for survival, and if we're not careful, we'll find ourselves feeding, but never being nourished, ever learning, but never coming to the knowledge of the truth.

The worth of a Mother

2007-02-03T12:43:00.000-05:00

I got an email from my mother today. This is why God creates mom's, I suppose. To keep us in line...she writes:

"I’ve been doing some pondering and thought I would share my musings.

Last night I was lying in bed reflecting back upon my life. My mind wandered to a time when I was about 3 to 5 years old. Our family was very poor although I do not ever remember my parents talking about it. They were having financial difficulties and my father was working at Kennecott. He was a carpenter. Each night on the way home from work he would stop at a little café at the top of our street. He liked to talk to the people. It didn’t take his children long to see the pattern and we would meet him there. Our interest was not so much in being with Dad as it was to have Dad buy us a candy bar. Dad was much wiser that his four children though. He knew that relationships were being built and when tough times during the teen age years would come, the relationships he was building while we were young would see us through the hard times. It wasn’t until many years later that I found out how my father went without lunch at work so he could buy his children a candy bar. He worked hard, harder than I ever realized to support his family. He sacrificed, and I loved him for it.

I began to get a glimmer of some understanding…..

My mind went to another man in my life, some 40 years later. In my mind I could see him outside, working in the hot August sun. We had just purchased a new home and we were both driven to get everything done they way we wanted it. We labored all day long building a cement retainer wall to house a flower border and then began to lay the sod. It was heavy, exhausting work. Sometime in the early evening we stopped to get a drink of water and as soon as my husband walked into the house he simply laid down on the floor and went promptly to sleep. Something was wrong. I knew it and he knew it. All week long he worked hard at putting things together, painting, building decorative shelves and laying in food storage. He worked long and hard until all was in order.

A week later I took him to the hospital. Eight months later I buried him. He knew that he was ill but he wanted everything to be just right for his wife when he was gone.

More understanding came….

My mind now turned to another scene, three years later. I am standing in a subdivision of town homes watching my son and his family leaving for Georgia. Their last year had been anything but easy. A lay off at my son’s place of employment had caused a catastrophic event in their lives. After a year of searching for a job in Utah and near to financial ruin, he finally found a job in Georgia. He didn’t want to go to Georgia. His desire was to continue to live in Utah and continue serving as bishop in his ward. He had grown to love each and every member and while he had been off work he had sacrificed hours of his time to serve them and to help them in their time of need. He sacrificed what he really wanted in order to care for his family and to be obedient to the Lord’s will, though he didn’t understand yet where the Lord was leading him. He only knew that he had to go.

As my mind reflected on each of these individual moments of personal sacrifice I began to reflect upon the love that had grown within me with each experience. So often the world thinks of sacrifice as a negative thing because it isn’t easy. My understanding of sacrifice has changed since last night. I now see the love, deep and abiding that comes when we sacrifice something of ourselves for the good of others."

a good read

2007-01-19T23:44:00.000-05:00

I have found that my increased responsibilites at work have not only increased my stress-load, but it has decreased the amount of time I had previously spent making posts, and reading the posts of my favorite blogs. A good friend who gave me the idea of posting some of my own stuff generated something hilarious and well stated the other day. His post was so good, that I'll defer my own and suggest a detour to his. Enjoy.

What happened to the good ol' days

2007-01-05T22:12:00.000-05:00

After an abysmal work at week, and feeling completely overwhelmed with the stresses associated therewith, I came home and plopped myself in front of the T.V. to watch a few hours of M.A.S.H.. Frankly, I believe it is the best television show ever created, or that will ever grace our t.v. screens. This post is probably dating me, but I don't care. There is something about the first few notes of the opening theme song that carries me back to my childhood. I remember staying up past the news. It would start at 10:35, end at 11:05, and it was synonymous with goodness. The people I loved watched it with me, and so, it was somewhat symbolic of my family. When I watch it, I don't see Hawkeye, instead, I hear my sweet grandmother laughing at his witty quips. I don't see Coloner Potter, but hear my dad chuckling at Klinger's attempts to escape the army. I don't see Frank, but remember a time when my mom, dad, brother and I sat in the same room, enjoying each other's presence and laughing.
I long for those days of innocence sometimes. When the bulk of my cares were focused on how I was going to pass the next algebra quiz, or how to hide that zit that just ballooned to the size of Manhattan. I yearn for those hours where it was nice and normal just to be a laughing kid in front of a television.

Some things, however haven't changed. As I mentioned, I have been struggling the last few days. I got a call from my mom today, and she told me that she was thinking about me, that I could get through the hard times, and that she painted a picture of myself that I haven't had the perspective to see. I've learned one thing. MASH is pretty good, but mom's are better.

turning scribbles into sketches

2006-12-22T16:37:00.000-05:00

I took some of the scribbles mentioned in the last post and tried to make something nice out of them. I have posted on my sketchblog the results. Check them out here.

3 for 1 special

2006-12-20T13:19:00.000-05:00

A year and half ago my family moved into a newly built home. Just before moving in all of our things, we toured the empty rooms that were perfumed by new paint and carpet. My daughter, seeing her new pink bedroom walls, exclaimed, "This house is beautiful!"
Oh how things can change in so little time.
I came home from work recently and while enjoying a cup of seasonal eggnog noticed my son's name, in cursive, written on the kitchen wall. Putting away that beverage of the Gods, I noticed the same name, same handwriting, just behind the fridge. Steam was likely exiting from my nostrils, ears, and any other orifices not worthy of mention as I contemplated the various forms of draconian punishment that I could inflict upon the offender. At first, I thought that the culprit had to be the son who's name was on the wall. However, during my search for a suitable blunt, pain inflicting object, I realized that he wasn't old enough to know cursive. Consequently, it had to be my daughter (the same daughter who was experiencing shock and awe at the beauty of our "walls" when we moved in.)
A few moments later, while determining how to succesfully enforce a 34 month house-arrest for my daughter, I spotted a Picasso-esque, sqiggly circle on the wall leading to my bedroom with a black, uncapped Sharpie lying on the ground beneath it. Recognizing that this was obviously the work of my two-year old, I wondered if the hospital where we gave birth to our child had any type of return policy.
Upon entering my bedroom, hoping to fall into worm hole leading to a childless, Sharpie-less, alternate universe, I came upon an uncapped green magic marker in the middle of a carpet now filled with scribbles and circles.
My thoughts began contemplating weapons of mass destruction.
I won't go into what transpired once I caught up with these juvenile vandals...but it is enough to say that if the Lord would have approached me then, like he did Abraham of old, to request that I offer up my firstborn, I would have said, eagerly, "You're in luck today Lord, I'm running a 3 for 1 special!"

Longing

2006-12-08T16:39:00.000-05:00

In years past, shortly after becoming the new driver of an old, beat up, yellow Volkswagon Superbeetle, I found myself exploring the world around me by just driving. I would go further than my previous world allowed me to, but when doing so, I found that I gravitated to a special place from my childhood. Something warm and reassuring would percolate in my soul as I realized that once again I had turned my wheels towards grandma’s house.

Without fail each arrival at her home brought a tender treatment. I knew, by arriving, that I was a part of something bigger, something that stretched far into the past, past grandma, past her parents, stretching deep into places that I didn’t know, but could feel. We would sit on the porch in the creaking wooden swing and make small talk. Nothing we said was important, sometimes nothing was said at all. She would sit doing crossword puzzles, I would sit with my arm around her shoulders, not saying anything, but saying everything.
Something happened each visit. There was a hole, an empty reservoir deep in my soul that, upon leaving, would be overflowing. I don’t fully understand what she put in it, nor do I know how to access that place to fill it myself, but she knew.

Last night I sat on the couch, feeling overwhelmed, and saw my little boy cuddled up on his mother’s lap while sleeping. He was peaceful. Nothing was being said, but his reservoir was being filled, and I marveled at how something so seemingly meaningless could mean so much. Likewise, while I observed, I wondered where a grown man, with a boyish heart, could find the same warmth, could reawaken the same percolation that I once felt.

This morning, after preparing for work and offering my thanks and petitions to a Heavenly Father, I started to walk out of my bedroom. The bed sheets where my little boy had come to rest in the middle of the night began to move. He stretched out of the little ball his body was while sleeping and wearily looked up at me. He said “don’t go to work Daddy.” Seeing me, he pushed his head into the pillowcase to hide his sadness. I put down my bag and keys and stood over his little body. I wondered what a father should say in such a circumstance. But knowing I was there, he stood up and hugged me, saying nothing, but saying everything.

I drove to work this morning, reservoir filled, hoping that his was filled as well.

Dr. No

2006-11-18T23:31:00.000-05:00

After incessant maternal pleading, warnings, and detailed explanations of my potential future death, I appeased my good mother and scheduled an appointment with my doctor to get a complete physical. I haven't had one since I moved to Rome from Salt Lake, and that was over two years ago. Before making an appointment, however, I had to first find a doctor who was taking patients, and who would pass my stringent expectations. I skimmed the white pages and the first guy I saw with an M.D. behind his name got my business.

The nurses were nice when I arrived, and I was optimistic that everything would go without any major problems, but my hopes of a trouble-free outcome began to wane the longer I stayed in the doctors office. The first indicator of problems arose when I stepped upon the scale. It was one of the "old school" scales that used weights to counter balance your weight until the needle arrives in the middle of the device through equilibrium. The nurse started moving over the "50 pound" weight increments until they were gone, the needle didn't budge. Then she moved over a few "100 pound" indicators, and still no movement. When all of the weights were gone, she wrapped her hands around the top of the scale, dropped to her knees, and lifted herself off the ground for another couple hundred pounds, and only then did the scale jump a bit. When I finally stepped off, I swear that I heard the scale exhale and whimper.

Next was the blood pressure cuff. The nurse wrapped that puppy so tightly around my arm that when she turned on the air and began writing her notes my hand swelled up to the size of the bear claw that I had for breakfast. Had the pressure lasted a few more seconds I'm sure that fine streams of blood would have shot from my fingernails like a lazer.

While my nerves in that arm slowly regained consciousness, she jabbed a needle into the curve of my arm and twirled it around under my skin until she hit something that finally produced juice. I could see the liquid slowly moving up the connecting tube. She poppped a glass collection vial onto the tube, and I watched as it filled up with my blood. I was wondering if it was normal to have the grease in my veins sink immediately to the bottom half of the vial when the nurse suddenly yanked out that bottle, and popped in a new, larger one. This one filled quickly, but in spurts, because chunks of half-digested french fries would intermittently clog the needle until the pressure built up sufficient to push them into the bottle. The second container, when filled, looked more "gelatinous" than what I had remembered, but I reassured myself by thinking, "every 3 months I put oil into our car to keep it running correctly...the same principle has to apply somehow here."

The visit continued, I spoke with the Doc. He had me get naked so that he could laugh uncontrollably, and then he checked me out as if looking for ripe tomatoes. Thankfully, that lasted only a few moments before he let me get dressed again. The most comforting thing he said was, "I don't normally check the prostate until around 40." A choir of angelic voices could not have sounded better to me.

A few weeks later, when the bloodwork came back from the lab, the Doc. called me in and explained that my arteries were the consistency of Redvines, the sugar in my blood was more concentrated than Karo-Syrup, and that I had enough fat in my blood to deep fry a turkey. He then said that he would be gracious enough to grant me 3 months during which I needed to drastically drop weight, my cholesterol level and my glucose levels. If, after those 3 months, there was no improvement, he would put me on medication and have a guy named "Vinnie" follow me and my family, placing heads of horses secretly in my bed anytime that I freqent Wendy's.

He then suggested 2 books as inspiration for changing my diet. They were entitled: "Pencil Shavings, Kindling, and other great dietary supplements," and "30 steps to lowering your cholesterol by sucking wood chips." I couldn't believe what I was seeing and humbly queried my doctor, "how can anyone eat like this and be happy?" Visibly offended, he rose from his stool, scratched a few things on my chart and said, "That's nothing, I'm a 10th level Vegan. I don't eat anything with a shadow."

And so, I have 3 months to make a change. Any suggestions?

Binky Dependancy

2006-11-04T15:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I witnessed the most discouraging thing a father should see. My two year old boy, strung out on pacifiers. I've decided that whoever created the pacifier had to be a retired Columbian Drug Lord trying to unload an inheritance of latex. The title "pacifier" really doesn't do it justice. There should be a Surgeon General's warning stating that a pacifier could also be referred to as a toddler tranquilizer, adolescent analgesic or a baby barbiturate.
My addicted son is almost 3 now, he's running around and playing like the other kids, but he carries around 4 binkies everywhere he goes. He has names for each of them, "Whitey, Ol' Blue, Other One, and Lellow."
My wife and I have tried to wean him off of his pacifier dependancy, but it is fruitless.
I walked into my bedroom yesterday and found him watching his daily dose of "Incredibles" while trying to hold 3 binkies in his mouth. He looked as satisfied as someone who had just won the lottery, said goodby to his despised employer, and who had just lay down to begin the rest of his life in front of a t.v..
"Three binkies?" I asked him. He lifted up his hand that was clutching "Whitey", not taking his eyes off the screen, and said "No Papa, Four."
What is next? What happens when when 3 binkies in the mouth just doesn't satisfy?
My wife and I are planning on staging an "intervention," because we are concerned about his dependancy. But, whenever we take them away his head starts spinning around, his eyes roll back until only the whites are exposed, and he begins spewing forth profanities and quoting scripture backwards in a grainy baratone voice.
I fear that 20 years from now I will get a call late one night from the police. They'll have me come over to the local Wal-Mart, walk me to the infant section, only to see my boy laying in the middle of the isle, with a glazed, distant stare in his eyes, legs twiching intermittently, while surrounded by hundreds of half-open pacifier boxes.

Kill me now, please.

2006-10-29T10:51:00.000-05:00

You know you have a problem when you are popping Ibuprofen and Tylenol like they were M&M candies, when you're walking around work stiffer than C-3PO, when you keep looking at the hot-pad controls and wondering why there isn't a "sear the pain out of my soul" setting, and when you feel like Caesar had it easy when the whole senate gave him a "Caesarean Section"(so to speak). When I was younger, I adopted the thinking that the two worst pains are those that come from your teeth or your back. I, since Thursday, have been dealing with the latter.

It started somewhat mildly, as if I had slept incorrectly. But by Friday, when it came time to leave work, I was fantisizing about how good it would feel if somebody would rip my spine out and replace it with a pvc pipe. My office is at the top of about 20 stairs, and as I peered down the staircase on Friday night, I wondered if it would be less painful for me to just throw myself over the mezzanine. It took about 10 minutes for me to get down the stairs, and by the time I made it, my entire plant stood watching me as if I had just descended in thong underwear singing "76 trombones." But, at least I was on the same level as my car, and would soon be homeward bound.
Getting into the car had me crying like a child that has lost his binky, and the pain in my back scorched a map of every hit road bump deep into the annuls of my mind.

Once at home, I went straight for the bed. I was so rigid now I felt like one of the enchanted brooms in Disney's Fantasia, and once in bed, I was a stone. The rigidity in my body, for fear of intense pain, made Han Solo in a carbon sleep look like Rush Limbaugh doing the Lambada. So intense was the pain that I even began the breathing technique that my wife and I learned (but never used) before the birth of our first child.
Wondering what has wrong, my wife popped her head in to our room and queried lovingly, "What's your problem?" I was reluctant to speak for two reasons. First, just the thought of forcing air through my vocal cords to make speech brought pain to mind. Second, I have learned through almost 13 years of marriage, that it is impossible to convince my wife that my pain is more significant than anything that she has experienced. There have been times when I though I had her beat, but she would use her "trump", by saying, "that's nothing, try squeezing a child out of your netherlands and then talk to me about pain!"
Instead of answering, I just whimpered.
Thankfully, my wife offered to go to the pharmacy, pick up a heating pad and a year's supply of Doan's pills.
While she was gone, I stared death in the face, and he looked like my two year old boy. Customarily, my little boy is excited to see Daddy come home. Wanting to see his dad, he climbed onto the foot of the bed, and leapt into the air towards my chest. Time stood still, it seemed, as I watched this child, this ball of potential pain, hovering over me. Every muscle in my body constricted in anticipation of his landing, and caused roaring pain to shoot through my back. I was as tight as steel. In fact, so powerful was the constricting of every muscle, that I'll probably be crapping party string for the next two months.
Frame by frame I saw his airbound approach to my chest. In his eyes I saw excitement, and in my eyes, I'm sure he could see his father praying that nationwide nuclear annihilation would occur before he could land on my body. Unfortunately, no atomic destruction deterred his landing, and that afternoon while mom was off buying drugs for dad, our home was filled with more screams than pediatric dentists office. All of which were coming from me.
After my walk through the shadow of the valley of death, my wife made it home, drugged me up, and helped me to my only source of sympathy...a bath that was hot enough to dissolve my skin. It was heaven.

Paradigm Shift

2006-10-24T12:04:00.001-04:00

When I was younger I remember reading a book about the importance of paradigm shifts in one's life. I still can't pronounce the word, and I had to look up the correct spelling of it before making this post, but I veritably had a "shift" episode the other day. A paradigm (for those readers who are as dense as the writer) is defined thusly: A set of assumptions, concepts, values, and practices that constitutes a way of viewing reality for the community that shares them, especially in an intellectual discipline.
I have three kids and have been carrying around the assumption, or have been living in the paradigm, that, despite many weaknesses, my wife and I were doing fairly well in the "kid-raising" department. It's a very important part of my life to be a good parent. Since I was young I have been reminded about my "heritage" and my need to live up to their standards, which isn't exactly easy because I come from a line of people that wen't through anything imaginable in support of the values that they espoused. "Pioneer stock" is the phrase I heard a lot while growing up, which means that I came from people that walked thousands of miles with no shoes, socks, feet, or legs to escape religious persecution. It means that some of my ancestors got so hungry coming across the plains that they could suck on a leaf, thank the heavens above for it's the bounty, and keep walking for 7000 more miles, without sleeping, in 22 feet of deep snow, without even being tempted to eat the arm of their sister (even if the sister continually sang "Pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked and walked...."). So, needless to say, there is a lot to live up to. But, until a couple of days ago, I felt that I was doing a sufficient job as a father. Sure, my wife and I aren't perfect, but it seemed that any gross error that we might have made could be easily rectified by providing large quantities of ice cream and cake.

The other day, however, that all changed. It had grown relatively quiet in our house (which, with a 2 year old in the house, is the first sign that something is wrong, somebody is dead, bleeding, or seriously maimed, or that the child has escaped from our abode). In a panic, I ran to the bedroom to find the little one, and this is what I saw:

There was my boy getting his daily fix of "The Incredibles" wondering why I was in there interrupting his ritual. All I could do while looking at him, technologically more advanced than his father, was "What would my pioneer ancestry think?" Visions of pioneer children crossing the plains, happy to be playing with a dolls made out of buffalo turd, singing while their hair fell out, and skipping while being stalked by starving mountain lions kept coming to mind. And there was my boy, only a few generations later, completely comfy in his "incredibles" dreamland. My "pioneer stock" was likely turning in their grave fast enough to generate sufficient energy to light Manhattan.
I don't know the solution., nor do I know where my kid's are getting the poor influence.
It's something I definitely need to ponder the next time I'm in my bubble bath, with my hamburger, candles, and M&M's.

Terrorism

2006-10-14T14:14:00.000-04:00

In my last post, I boldly stated my feelings concerning a good hot bath. So strong are my feelings about the benefits of a blissful bathing, that I proclaimed it to be the solution to world peace.
The other day, however, I realized that a bath, not properly executed, could indeed be the impetus for WORLD DESTRUCTION. I'll explain.

I came home from work the other day after it seemed as though the entire world was placed upon my shoulders. After having a bite to eat, I moved anxiously towards the bathroom where I imagined the room fool of steam, the sound of HOT running water, and my naked self neck deep in that water being stewed.

As I turned on the water my wife popped her head in and said, "If you're geting in the tub than you need to let the baby get in too." This posed somewhat of a problem, because every cautious parent knows that you have to bathe a toddler in water no hotter than PEE! But, being patient, I consented, knowing that when he was finished, I could re-fill the tub and enjoy temperatures similar to that needed to melt metal.

My boy and I played in the bubbles, made bubble beards, bubble afros, bubble shoulder pads, and all the other usual bubble bath sculptures, and then it was time for him to get out. Mom dried him off, and alas, I was left to CREATE BATHING HEAVEN.

I drained the water (now colder than Georgia's last winter) and turned the faucet all the way the "H." I watched the "H" as the water began to flow, and I thought of all the wonderful bath related things that "H" could stand for; Heaven, Hot, Heat, Hallowed, Hibernate all came to mind. My creation of "H" words came to a violent halt when I discovered that only cold water was leaving my blessed faucet. I turned off the water, and could hear not only our dishwasher but our clothes washer BEGINNING their cycles.

There I was, in a half inch of freezing water realizing that my good "H" words were transforming; Hell, Harm, Hit, Hang, Hate, Hostility, Horror, HAMAS. There it was, within seconds I was turned to terrorist thoughts because I was unable to successfully execute my blissful bath.

Recently we have heard of Iran not bowing to the American led pressure to stop their pursuit of nuclear power. Maybe President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran is just wanting a really hot bath. In fact, I'm kicking around the idea of starting my own worldwide political party that focuses on the benefits of those delightful dips in the tub. I think I'll call it the Bath Party...wait, that's already taken.

solution for world peace

2006-09-23T16:40:00.000-04:00

My morning was blissful. Saturday mornings are usually pretty sweet by their very nature. You see, "sleeping in" is a blessing in itself. But that's not what made this morning wonderful. Not having to go to work is always a bonus that most Saturdays offer. But that too was not the reason behind my joyous Saturday. Today, while my wife watched the kids, I stripped down and soaked in a bubble filled tub until I looked like one of the california raisins. It was wonderful.
Not just any bath will bring that type of satisfaction, however. There are certain elements that have to be present in order for a "plain" bath to turn into a "perfect" bath.
First, as previously mentioned, there musn't be any distractions ("distractions" being a synonym for children.) Second, you have to have enough time to really enjoy it. "How much time is enough time?" you ask. As much time as it takes to turn your skin into a wrinkly, pasty, coverning that hangs from your body. As a parent, it is almost impossible to find the first two elements without seriously bribing your partner with large amounts of chocolates or money to watch the kids for that long...but it is worth it. I had to promise jewelry, a car with air conditioning, and a live-in maid, but I had my fingers crossed without her seeing.
The third element is temperature. Not only should your faucet be turned all the way to the "hot side", but before turning on the water, you should go to your hot water heater and turn the thermostat to "hot enough to burn the sin out of satan" setting.
If, when you put your vulnerable, naked foot into the tub, your toes don't curl back in a recoiling motion from the heat, it's not hot enough. It should be hot enough that any sane person would need at least an hour to cautiously put his body, centimeter by centimeter, into the steaming contents of the tub . Another way to tell if it is hot enough is by standing up halfway through the submersion stage. If your legs are completely red and throbbing, while your belly (the unsubmerged portion) is still pasty white, then you are in business.
The fourth element is SIZE. It seems that tubs are shrinking over the years. (I say that to avoid facing the reality that I am growing.) It is imperative that you have a tub that, when filled, you can at least cover yourself up to your chest without having your legs popping out into the air next to the shower head. There is nothing worse than getting into a tub, and realizing that you have filled it up, before putting the water in (so to speak).
The fifth and final element is bubble bath. Yes, I know, it sounds childish. Maybe I didn't get enough bath time in my younger years, but there is nothing better than seeing if you can get the frothy joy thick enough to envelope you up to your nose.

Yes, my Saturday was blissful. So blissful, that I was emboldened enough to proclaim that I have the solution to bring about world peace. The answer, give everyone a good, hot, long bath with their favorite bubbly concoction, and all the hate, fear, jealousy and contention would melt away. If it doesn't, the water isn't hot enough.

2006-08-30T21:58:00.000-04:00

I laughed my head off...

O.K., I'm not much for posting other vid's, because I figure, if you are in the mood to see funny vid's, then you will just go to a site with plenty of funny videos on it. But I will make an exception here and there. THIS ONE IS DEFINATELY AN EXCEPTION. I must be sick, but I laughed almost unto the point of cardiac arrest. I hope you enjoy.

Am I losing my mind?

2006-08-22T14:23:00.001-04:00

As indicated in the last post, I have been watching the kids for the last couple of days SANS WIFE. While the two oldest are at school, I have been tuning all of the t.v.'s into kids shows, have been placing food strategically throughout the house, and have been trying to stay out of the way of my two year old terror.
I wake up every morning with this pirate song in my head...is that bad?

Child Repellent

2006-08-21T16:24:00.000-04:00

My wife's grandmother passed away a few days ago which precipitated a quick journey by my better half back to our homeland, Salt Lake City, to attend the funeral. She was frantic as she prepared rapidly for the trip, making lists, getting everything packed, buying quick and simple things for me to prepare for the children to eat so that they wouldn't have to be sustained by a steady diet of ramen noodles, Coke, and doritos. She was in such a hurry, however, that she forgot to leave the talisman.
I have never seen it, but I'm sure it exists.
You see, when she is around, the children are children. They play, eat, and all the other normal things that children do, but since she left, my children are...well, I don't quite know what to call them. She must have something that she wears around her neck as an amulet, or on her finger like a ring, that increases positive nature of the children's behavior. Where she got it, I don't entirely know. Maybe they slipped it to her at the hospital with child number one when I was out of the room, but she's got something.
All I got from the hospital was a bill, and devil spawn.
I took said devil spawn to church on Sunday by myself. As a family, we go weekly to church to improve our spirituality, and commune with our higher power. The first meeting we attend at church is a very quiet one, where nice families sit next to their children, cuddling them close, smiling at each other, and enjoying the encouraging and uplifting messages from the speakers. At least, that is what happens normally. My experience was somewhat different this Sunday. Instead of quiet, my 2 year old thought it would be fun to yell at the girl across the room during the administration of the sacrament. As I placed my hand over his mouth, his agitation grew...as did the decibal level of his scream. He squirmed his way loose and began to dash for the pulpit in an escape attempt. I was lucky enough to grab an arm before he made it far, but upon capture he roared like a banshee in a bear trap.
It was time to take him out...but what about the other kids?
I walked past the pew where they were sitting as I carried my youngest to the foyer and gave them my best "if you make any noise or do anything besides sit and breathe, you will die" look.
Hoping that would work, I proceeded to the foyer.
I could hear the congregation singing "Where can I turn for peace?" in the room I just left, and contemplating the amount of money I could get by selling the three kids, my answer to the congregations melodic query was, "EBAY."
Shortly after my exit to the foyer, both of my other children came screaming through the halls saying, "Dad, he drew all over me."
and "She was spitting and kicking."

Needless to say, we didn't spend the regular amount of time at church, rather, I piled the kicking and screaming devil-spawn into the car and drove back home where I thought I could lock them into their rooms until mom returned, throwing sandwiches and water bottles quickly through their doors every few hours.

The talisman, that my wife must have failed to leave with me, surely has some rather magical qualities. Such as a 60% increase of resistance against puke spewing children, a plus 75 rating to a fathers patience when a child "whizzes" on the carpet, or 50% decrease in damage inflicted by hostile pre-teens. I could have used these, because my Sunday evening progressed with my baby vomiting all over the bathroom, my 7 year old boy urinating in a corner because he was too lazy to go downstairs, and my 10 year old girl ripping apart her room because I tried to enforce the 8:30 p.m. bedtime rule.

I have looked all over the house for that magical item. I can't find it, but need it desperately. I'll be watching the "Oxygen" network while the kids are at school. Maybe there will be an advertisement between Oprah and Rosanne that will give me the hotline number to get my own child repelling charm.

Potty Mouth

2006-08-01T21:29:00.000-04:00

My morning started by pouring a helping of "fresh berries and cream", and followed it with a healthy amount of a "mango peach" combination. Last week, I enjoyed starting with a nice amount of a "cucumber melon" mix followed with a "toasted vanilla and sugar" chaser. Next week, I'll likely break into the "milk and honey smoothie."
"Why are you explaining your breakfast?" one may ask.
My response...
"IT'S NOT BREAKFAST, IT'S A DESCRIPTION OF THE HYGIENE PRODUCTS AVAILABLE TO ME IN MY SHOWER!"
I don't quite understand it.
A few years ago my wife told me that she bought a new Shea Butter Cake to try out. I said "sweet!" and got a fork. I felt pretty foolish when she said, "It's for the shower, not to eat!"
Since then, I have noticed more and more body products with scents and names that are food derived.

When I was younger, we had one soap. It was a hard orange bar, seemingly eternal in it's life span, that smelled like you were in a room filled with industrial rat-killer while having 4000 marigolds shoved into your nostrils. The thing lasted so long that I believe the bar I used the night before I was married still had a my first armpit hair attached to it from 10 years earlier.

Needless to say, when my parents threatened to wash my mouth out with soap if I chose to hava a "potty mouth", I would shut up and listen. My fear stemmed not only from putrid taste, but because I didn't look too highly upon the prospects of coughing up a hairball afterwords.

The other day I caught my kids using a few too many adult adjectives in their conversation, so I, with as much bravado as I could muster, pulled all of them into my bathroom, grabbed the bar of soap from the shower, and proclaimed:
"THE NEXT POTTY MOUTH I HEAR IS GOING TO BE THOROUGHLY CLEANED WITH..." looking down, I read what was engraved on the green, creamy bar in my hand "MINT MEDLEY!"

The children stopped, looked at each other wide-eyed, and went whispering out of the bathroom. I felt emboldened by my new power to threaten the children. My pride was short lived, however, as I walked into the kitchen and found all three of the children, 2 year old included, sitting at the table, with a napkin tied around their necks and a spoon in their hands. The minute they noticed my entrance, they, in unison, recited every known cuss word, alphabetically, and then, while salivating, eagerly awaited my response.

Once I realized what was happening, I started wondering what had become of the orange bar of death soap that I used to lather up with. I think I'll call my mom, she's probably still using it.

Healthcare suggestions...unheeded.

2006-07-26T21:48:00.000-04:00

A few years ago my doctor put me on a medication for high blood pressure. I was fine with it, until one night I happened upon the instructions for the drug while looking for a q-tip in the medicine cabinet.

I don't remember the name of the drug, we'll just call it "Zolivispit", but the instructions read something like this:

What is the most important information I should know about Zolivispit?

• Rarely fatal, but profusely common cases of spastic colon, male lactation, the condition known as "hot-dog finger" and the ability to see dead people have been a result of the use of Zolivispit and other similar medicines. Contact your doctor immediately if you experience unexplained limb reproduction, numbing flatulence, tender feelings towards Democrats, or the unexplained hearing of unseen, singing Italian sopranos while having a bowel movement. These may be early symptoms of dependency on Zolivispit and will be treated by tripling the dosage.

• Do not take Zolivispit without first verifying that you have a mouth. If mouth is absent, do not take Zolivispit without talking to your doctor…or signing to your doctor, or writing him a letter of some sort....

• Alcohol and Zolivispit can both be damaging to the liver and may cause you to speak with a northeastern accent, give long-winded speeches in front of Congress and create a desire to have others refer to you as Teddy K.. Alcohol should be used only in moderation, unless you are trying to cope with the side-effects of the drug Zolivispit.

• Pregnant women, or women who plan to become pregnant, should avoid taking Zolivispit or handling broken tablets. Or intact tablets. Women considering some day becoming pregnant, who have ever been pregnant, who have had a pregnant friend or pet, or who have seen other pregnant women, naked or otherwise, should also follow these precautions: Do not handle Zolivispit tablets, containers, or related literature. If a Zolivispit product nears your field of vision, avert your eyes. Try not to say the word "Zolivispit." If you do happen to pronounce the syllables, spit thrice and soak your hands in iodine. If you hear the words spoken, live or via recorded medium, cover your ears and immediately see a specialist to try and staunch the bleeding. Try not to think too hard about Zolivispit. In fact, don't ever even think about it at all. Pretend you never heard of Zolivispit, and never will. Drop these instructions immediately, and flee as fast as you. Go on, get out of here. You'll thank me.

What is Zolivispit?

• Zolivispit is used to increase the total amounts of Zolivispit particulates in your blood. It is designed to increase the dependency on all Zolivispit products (such as the tasty Zolivispit and Bologna sandwich, Zolivispit cola, and Zolvispit mousse). Increase in Zolivispit use will directly effect the bankroll of the manufacturers of Zolivispit, Zolivispit Sandwiches L.L.C., Zolivispit Beverages INC. and their subsidiaries. Proper use of Zolivispit products may reduce the risk of shyness, social phobias, incontinence, q-tip dependency and other social maladies, but I doubt it.

• Zolivispit may also be used for purposes other than those listed in this medication guide, such as gluing them together to make a nice mosaic beverage coaster, or as really beady eyes for a snowman, or as a placebo suppository, etc. But should not be used as a physical aid to set a broken bone, as in the case of a splint, or as substitute for real human relationships; the tablets (and gel-coated caplets) are incapable of displaying any real emotion, and would prove to be dissatisfying friends or mates. Furthermore, Zolivispit should not be used to soak up spills or remove stains. This is disrespectful to Zolivispit. Do not taunt Zolivispit.

What should I discuss with my healthcare provider before taking Zolivispit?

• Do not take Zolivispit without first talking to your doctor and determining your current fund for the purchase of greater dosages.

• Before taking Zolivispit, tell your doctor if you

• Like his tie,

• Have ever recited the entire preamble to the Constitution of the United States while belching (that would be simply fantastic and worthy of admiration),

• have a chronic dependency on oxygen,

• have a blood disorder, such as the inability to get it off of your walls, carpet, refrigerator, kitchen knives, lawn-care equipment or wood-chipper.

• You may not be able to take Zolivispit, or you may require a dosage increase or special monitoring (by spectators whose laughter will be sufficiently muffled so you cannot hear) during treatment if you have any of the conditions listed above.

• Zolivispit is in the FDA pregnancy category X. This means that Zolivispit may cause birth defects if it is taken during continual roller coaster outings during the final trimester, or if it is used as the mothers primary source of food during the entire pregnancy.

• It is not known whether Zolivispit passes into breast milk. But it has been determined that powdered Zolivispit (when properly prepared) can pass for breast milk, and should be used as the beverage of choice for infants, toddlers, teens and any other addiction tolerant friend or neighbor.

How should I take Zolivispit?

• Take Zolivispit exactly as directed by your doctor. Unless, of course, you think he’s daft,…which he probably is anyway. In such case, you can do what you want with it, as long as it enters your system (Oral, anal, freebase, smoked, sniffed, heard, or simply admired and fondled for long periods of time.)

• Take each dose with another heaping dose.

• For the greatest effect, Zolivispit is usually taken upon awaking, while in the shower, while brushing teeth, after getting dressed, as a sweetener for your cereal, while driving to work, while at work, while at lunch, while wasting your time on the internet at work, while leaving work complaining about how much you had to do, while eating dinner, while dressing for bed, and intravenously while sleeping. Nine out of ten doctors voices will unavoidably fill your mind while using Zolivispit, follow their directions on dosing and usage.

• Your doctor may want to monitor your sleeping, showering and undressing habits every other weekend, while using Zolivispit, or at least while his family is away. DO NOT LET HIM.

• Gasoline and asbestos juice may interact with Zolivispit. The interaction could lead to potentially amazing light shows. Discuss the use of gasoline and asbestos juice with friends, as they may be desirous to witness the joy. Do not increase or decrease the amount of gasoline and asbestos products in your diet without first selling tickets.

What happens if I miss a dose?

• Take the missed dose as soon as you remember. However, if it is almost time for the next dose, triple the missed dose and take that tripled dose consistently for all regularly scheduled doses. Skipping doses, and the subsequent tripling of dosage is suggested weekly for maximum benefit of Zolivispit.

What happens if I overdose?

• Refer to instructions under “What happens if I miss a dose”, triple the dosage suggestions, and distribute Zolivispit to friends and neighbors.

Trade-in

2006-07-18T15:56:00.000-04:00

I was reading an article today whose headline read, “Group lets children trade in violent toys.” It went on to explain how some event was set up in a park to enable children to exchange violent toys, such as guns, swords, etc. for nonviolent ones. It is obvious that the administrators of this particular activity were either all single, non-parental adults, or just plain stupid.
As I read, I had to ask myself, “What is a non-violent toy?”
The casual, intellectually challenged reader, without child, may quickly retort, “a non-violent toy is something fuzzy, which engenders love, warmth and intellectual stimulation, instead of suggesting entertainment in the inflicting of pain!”
Little do they know, that any child, at least, any child that I have fathered, is capable of using the warmest, fuzziest, object in our house to bring any other occupant within one inch of his life.

For example,

Last week my two oldest children, under the guise of “taking care of the baby”, were pushing my two year old around in his oversized, orange plastic car. All was well during the thirty-two seconds that the older kids were actually interested in keeping the youngest entertained. Within moments, however, their eyebrows narrowed, their wicked smiles lengthened, and they whispered and giggled as they tried to determine how much velocity they would have to create in order to generate the most amount of “air” for the car and baby while going down the stairs. Thankfully, parents have a built in “silence sensor” which immediately warns them to check on the children if things are quiet in the house for more than 5 minutes.
The article suggested that the organizers would be handing out chess sets, to stimulate intellectual pursuits. Trust me, if my children are already aware that force=mass x acceleration, and are spot welding a ramp to get the exact amount of "lift" for my baby's final flight, I don't believe they are needing intellectual stimulation. In fact, I'm afraid to put a chess board in front of them, if indeed it stimulates the noggin, because next week I will likely find them shoving a plugged in curling iron down the baby's diaper, encouraging him to run through the sprinklers, and all this in an effort to create fusion...but I digress.

Yesterday my son thought it would be interesting to discover the reaction of a parent after using a “warm, fuzzy” pillow to bludgeon the said parent while he is half-asleep, watching “myth-busters,” and suffering from the orange Cheeto-finger from his previous 10 minutes of binging. Let’s just say, as my chin smacked the wall, and my eyes nearly burst out of their sockets from the pillow-force trauma, I didn’t rationalize my urge to slay that child by telling myself that “it was a non-violent object that he used to strike me, therefore, all is well in Zion.” Rather, after wiping my spit (orange tinted) from the wall, and after coming to grips with the fact that my son had just assaulted me, I put my arm around him and asked him if he’d like to go for a ride on my baby’s car.

I’m interested to know what type of reaction the organizers of the non-violent toy exchange experienced. I imagine that most parents were looking for the sign that read, “Group lets parents trade in violent children.”

Beef, it's what's for dinner.

2006-07-13T17:20:00.000-04:00

When I was a blooming adolescent trapped in an unairconditioned health class in the upper level my Junior High School, I was taught all sorts of things by a man everyone feared, Coach Jameson. The only thing that kept me awake during his lectures was the fact that he was a Viet Nam Vet., he growled as he talked, the hair he lost due to agent orange only emphasized the ripped muscles on his arms and legs, and because he would walk up and down the aisles verifying that we were taking notes. There was one thing, however, that I remember him teaching that has stuck with me. He said, on one long winded lecture about addiction, that addictive potential is hereditary. Hence, if grandpa puts away 3 kegs a night before beating all his children, little Billy the grandson, upon swallowing his first half ounce of scope mouth wash will likely turn into Ted Kennedy.
This was interesting to me, but not trusted and therefore disregarded by myself as fact.
However,

I have found proof that something similar exists...similar, but a true SCIENTIFIC BREAKTHROUGH, and in preparation for the deserved and likely future receipt of the top honors from the National Academy of Sciences, I am having my tux cleaned as we speak.

What is the find, you ask?

The unknown fact that comprehension of never before heard body related slang, I have found, is transmitted hereditarily from father to son.

I'll explain.
The other night while I was laying on my bed and sketching a thing or two, my son, who is seven, was standing next to me. He kicked something on the ground which sounded amazingly like well timed flatulence. (Men have an innate ability to hear anything that sounds like gas. Every man is hard-wired from the first time that he realizes the potential to make noise with his body that makes others laugh and wince simultaneously....but that's a different story, one I will explore for my second N.A.S. award).

When I heard the noise, I exclaimed, "Dude, did you just beef it?"
Now, it is necessary to understand that the phrase "beef it" has n'er been used to refer to ones flatus in my current home for many reasons, the greatest being the fact that I have a wife that threatens divorce and physical harm at the very thought of any reference to flatulence, much less the actual creation of slang to announce such a thing. (This is something I don't quite understand because men and women both emit an equal amount of flatulence, 0.5 to 2.0 liters of wind, a day. I suppose men just have more fun doing it. But because I love my health, I comply with the expectation of being "mums the turd", ...I mean "word." If you are reading this Honey, I was forced by a band of knife weilding men with masks threatening me to make this post.) Furthermore, my son, who barely knows that a hamburger comes from a cow, knows even less what BEEF is comprised of. So, when I said, "Dude, did you just beef it?" and then noticed his reaction, I was stunned, and eagerly called to my wife asking where my tux was.

He looked at me sheepishly and said, "no dad, it was my foot rubbing across the floor. " Never before had he heard someone refer to above said gastrointestinal function as "beefing it"...in fact, I firmly believe that such phrase was coined by my older brother and I on a hot afternoon quiet Salt Lake City garage wondering if bum noises were flammable.

This discovery with my son is amazing, I admit! In fact, I was so startled, I asked him, "Do you know what a beef is?" After giggling until unable to breathe, and then looking over both shoulders to verify that above mentioned wife was not around, he said, "fart" and then laughed hysterically on the ground. "Yeah, but where did you hear that said before?" I queried, strategically applying the scientific method. "I just knew Dad, geez" he giggled.

Case closed. Understanding of never before heard body related slang is hereditary.
Tonight, for my control group experiment, I'm going to sneak up on my little girl and ask if she's wants to pull my finger.

Addicted

2006-07-11T20:28:00.000-04:00

Caffeine, cigarettes, computers, eating, gambling, sex, shopping, substances, and work...all of these are defined addictions that I have read about. Thankfully, I don't think I'm addicted to any of the above mentioned things. But I've decided that I'm addicted to something that a program hasn't been created for yet. Recognizing that the first step in any good 12 step recovery progam is to admit we are powerless over our addiction, I have something to say...

"Hi..

tap tap tap

"is this thing on?"

"Uh...my name is Justin
and I am a Q-tip-a-holic."

Yes, I am ashamed to admit it, but when I was living in Sao Paulo for a couple of years, I had a friend that always was cleaning out his ears. I guess you can call it peer pressure, I figured, "everyone is doing it...right?" But my first experimentations with cleaning out the ear soon turned to q-tip binging, and now I can't go a morning without experiencing the joy of a good q-tip exploration into the ear. If I could shove it through one ear and out the other without any fear of damage, (some believe in my case it's empty space anyway) I'd already have a q-tip thoroughfare straight through both of my temporal lobes. But it's not just the gentle cleansing of the ear, there's a technique that makes it the real deal. SPINNING the Q-tip! Yes, I know its hard to swallow, but then, addiction isn't a pretty thing. My wife keeps buying more q-tip packages, is that considered co-dependancy?

Here's my sketch for today....am I thinking about it too much?

Where did that seat go?

2006-07-08T12:25:00.000-04:00

Yesterday evening after deciding that we would take a walk as family, the kids enticed me into riding bikes with them while mom and the baby walked. I obliged, but saw a few tell-tale signs that I had better start laying off the deep-fry...

1. Once I got onto the bike I could hear each of the once inflated tires screaming in pain for mercy.
2. As I sat on the seat and began pedaling with my kids, it felt like within a few moments the seat would be enveloped and I would be the first one on Oprah explaining how they had to surgically remove a bike seat from my kidney.
3. While riding up and down the streets with my kids I felt like the guy in the picture next to this text...and remembered old pictures of fat guys on motorcycles in the Guinness Book of World Records that I read when in grade school.
Finally,
4. During a race with my children, they were able to stop on a dime, but my inertia was great enough that a wrecker-ball could have been stopped more readily.
If any of these things sound familiar, I suggest you join me in spending less time in the lazy-boy and more on the pavement.

A new friend, a new hero.

2006-07-07T16:25:00.000-04:00

I was traveling for the last couple of days. Such travel put me into airports on both ends of the trip. Yesterday while I was awaiting my flight back home, seven young men stood in the security line in front of me, waiting to get their things checked. I overheard them say to the agent that they were new soldiers, headed off to basic.
We continued through security, and I continued to watch them. They joked and played cards. They were dressed in the frumpy style of the teenager, half of their backsides and boxers exposed for the airport to see. Three of the seven had ear rings, nose rings and tongue piercings. Four of the seven wore hats lazily hanging on their long hair. One young man, the most boisterous, even took a wheelchair meant for disabled travelers and raced around the terminal until reprimanded by a worker.
I was fascinated.
Here were the newest seven that were willing to go to battle for me. I wondered what pushed them, what motivated them to put their lives on the front line for me. I didn't understand.

On the plane, I sat next to a straight-backed, tall, clean shaven, focused 27 year old named John Dietz. He was dressed in desert fatigues and headed back to Iraq after a two week leave with his family. For three hours I had the pleasure of interacting with this man. No doubt, he entered the army with the same jitters, possibly even dressed in the casual jeans and styles of his day, but there was nothing casual about him as we spoke. This gentleman, six years my junior, seemed to have lived ten lives more than I could comprehend. And yet, what once may have been boisterousness was now meekness, what once may have been fear, was clothed handsomely in a quiet dignity.

We talked about things he'd seen, his feelings about the war. We talked about the media, and his head dropped and he shook it sadly. "They don't understand what is going on over there, there is no reporting of the immense good that is being accomplished" he said softly.

As we talked, I could only wonder what pushed him, what motivated him to put his life on the line for me and for my family. I don't understand, but I am grateful. I am grateful that in such service a young boisterous kid can be given a steely resolve to defend. I am grateful that in such service a slumping slang-speaking boy can be given a voice, a voice that he can quietly, yet confidently share for those smart enough to listen.

When driving home from the airport I saw a sticker on the car in front of me. It said simply, "Support our Troops."
I knelt last night and thanked God for my new friend, John Dietz, and pleaded that he will return home safe, to enjoy the respect and thanks that our nation owes him.

Trouble at the pump

2006-06-27T22:51:00.000-04:00

By the title of this blog entry, one might suspect that I was about to extrapolate about how unfair gas prices are, how this world is coming to an end because of the U.S.'s demand for petroleum, etc. But, my blog today is simply a statement of suprise and bitterness.
There is a gas station down the road that I usually go to because of the proximity. The people there are usually pretty nice, and responsive. But as I was driving down the road I saw a sign in front of the station that caused me to pause. It simply said, "American Owned".
I was puzzled and began asking around at work. Most of the people I talked to let me know how people in town are frustrated that the "dot-heads" are buying up the gas stations and convenient stores.
I was saddened. I rode down there with my kids after work to take a picture of the thing. I pointed out that on the same property there are at least 3 advertisements for Christian churches in the area. I asked them if they thought anything looked out of place and they responded that the "american owned" sign seemed strange. I agreed. Here it is 2006 in rural Georgia, and we still haven't learned that the term "American" is multicolored. Needless to say, I'll be going out of my way to buy gas from a different vendor from now on.
Here is the picture that I took. Enjoy.

Worm Hole

2006-06-24T13:57:00.000-04:00

My oldest child turned 10 today. The only explanation is that there is something very wrong with the spacetime continuum.
I remember being 10 in Mr. Shockley's elementary class. We were talking about hair care products and I mentioned that I didn't care much about combs. He laughed and said "by the time you are in 7th grade, you won't be found without one."
"7th grade..." I thought, "I will be an old man before I get to 7th grade." I clearly remember sitting at my desk being very certain that Christ would have already come again, that people would have already colonized Mars and that the end of the entire world would likely happen before I would arrive at the "7th grade" age.
And now, here it is, only a few days later (it seems) and I've got a little girl who is 10.
I think that somehow, after having class with Mr. Shockley, I must have slipped unknowingly into some type of worm-hole. While in the hole, even though only seconds of time seemed to pass by, I got gray hair, I got much more round in the mid-section, produced 3 children (with a little help from my wife), am awaiting anxiously to see a movie entitled "Nacho Libre" and have ended up 1900 miles away from my home-town.
Christ hasn't come yet, people haven't yet colonized Mars, and, contrary to popular belief, the world isn't ending, yet.
Something must be wrong with the universe.

Pass the syrup!

2006-06-19T19:18:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning I found myself taking extra care observing my aging body after getting out of the shower. My mid-section seems to grow more and more vulnerable to the pull of gravity, my hair is beginning to be populated by unwanted gray intruders, and the bags under my eyes seem to be in a race to see who can make it to my chin the fastest.
I don't understand it. I'm not even 40 yet, and I feel sometimes like I'm gonna croak.
I was reading the other day how Methuselah lived to 939 before giving up the ghost. What was this guy doing to stay around so long?
Personally, I think it has something to do with pancakes.
Pancakes, I have discovered, are the fountain of youth, they have to be. Take a look at these pictures of the world renowned pancake connoisseur and creator, Aunt Jemima. She came onto the scene in 1893, that's 113 years ago! In her first picture,however, she's definately in her 30's or 40's. Which makes her at least 150 years old now. But have you seen her most recent picture. She looks stylin' and young, and appears to have dropped a few (hundred) pounds. It's got to be the pancakes. Heaven only knows what she'll look like in her early 200's. I can only guess, but maybe it'll be something like this:

PASS THE SYRUP, MAN!!

Who's in my blood?

2006-06-15T22:51:00.000-04:00

I find great interest in searching through my ancestry, but I haven't found what I'm looking for yet. You see, I know that I'm related, directly related, to Houdini. I have to be. Nothing else would explain my children. I'll explain by stepping backwards 4 years.
I came home to a wife in tears who, upon recognizing my presence, pointed menacingly at me and said, "Do you know what your son did today?"
I knew I was in for something. Whenever the children accomplish great and dirty deeds my wife's mind seems to believe that somehow I, a male, produced offspring imacculately. Hence the phrase, "your son."
I gulped, and paused, hoping that my choosing not to speak would be perceived as genuine interest instead of my sincere fear.

"I had to go to Home Depot today," she started "and your son, your three year old son, disappeared out of the cart while I bent over to pick up a pail of paint that I wanted to buy. He disappeared, completely, in five seconds."
She stopped and looked at me as if I had been secretly giving lessons to "my son" on how to correctly escape from a shopping cart unbeknownst to partents. I began to sweat, but still feared speaking.
"I looked all over," she continued "I called his name, I began running up and down the aisles asking the other customers if they had seen a little boy. I ran to the management and asked them to shut the doors of the building and help me to look for him. Within minutes everyone in the store was scouring the store calling out his name." Her arms were flailing, darting here and there, as she illustrated with body language how quickly she had ran from place to place.
"After a half an hour we called the police," she cried "we called the POLICE! Everyone continued to look, and do you know how I found him? DO YOU KNOW?"
Once again, I found myself at a loss, wondering if she thought that somehow "my son" and I had planned this routine, and were just waiting for the proper time to execute it.
"I was walking down the aisle where I lost him and I called out his name. And all of the sudden from clear up above me, I heard 'Mom.' YOUR SON had climbed up the pallets and the shelves until he was on the top of the boxes on the highest part of the aisle."
All I could do was sweat. Instictively, I said, "I'm sorry."
She continued to explain how the employees had to get a forklift to rescue him, how she had to thank the police and management even though she was horrified and embarrased, and how she was never going to take our children outside again, ever.
It was then that I suspected something wrong with my blood, some unknown predecessor.

Tonight, I came home to the same wife and the same question. "Do you know what your son did today." This time I knew she was refering to my youngest, only two years old. Like before, I just listened. "I went to put the laundry away and came back and he disappeared" she began. "I ran through the house and looked everywhere. I called his name wondering if he was hiding. I called louder thinking that he may have fallen asleep. He was gone. DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID?" I was afraid, but not stupid. I just listened and shook my head meekly.
"He pushed a hole through our screen in the front window, pulled himself over the ledge onto the porch, and ran around back to play in the sandbox."
She continued to explain the horror, how her nerves were completely unraveled and how she wondered what type of money we could get from the children on the black market, but I stopped listening after "sandbox."

All I could think about was my ancestry. I know that I'm related, directly related, to Houdini. I have to be. Nothing else would explain my children.

The Incredibles....again!

2006-06-14T09:08:00.000-04:00

Last night I watched Pixar's "The Incredibles" for the 274th time.
I hate the show now.
In fact, I'd likely enjoy an afternoon of exercise in Georgia's humid summer more than having to sit through another viewing (and for me, that is saying quite a bit.) The first time I saw it, I laughed out loud. The next few times I enjoyed the detail that was missed during my initial viewing. The next 30 were bearable, but now I've seen it enough times to catch the stuff that nobody wants to hear about. Like the fact that the logo for the new Incredible's super-suit is a hybrid of the old Elastigirl and Mr. Incredible logo. Or that the lady that Mr. Incredible helps before he gets married is the same lady that comes to him years later while he's working as an insurance peon. Or that the two guys at the end of the show that say a congratulatory "no school like the old school" are the very people that sued Mr. Incredible and started the litigous frenzy that drove the Supers into hiding. I hate the show, quite literally, I hate that I know so much about it, but before the day is over I will likely see the annoying neighbor boy say "that was totally wicked!" for the 275th time.
Why? You ask.
I have this 2 year old who loves to cuddle up with his daddy and watch "The Incredibles" before nodding off to sleep. We've tried other flicks but nothing seems to be as acceptable. But even though I'll hate it, I'll love it. You see, he'll use my shoulder as a pillow and will squeeze his little body as tighty between my chest and arm as possible. He'll hold my finger in his little hand and squeeze it when he laughs. He'll keep looking back to my face to get a smile and I'll look to his knowing I'll get one back. He calls me "Papa" and I've never had a title that makes me feel more fulfilled.

It's hard to describe what I experience every night in front of the movie that I hate.

I suppose you could say it's...incredible.

Wings

2006-06-09T16:24:00.000-04:00

As some that know me will testify, I fled my hometown in Utah a couple of years ago to live in Georgia. Prior to the Georgia thing, I never really had a craving for wings, because, simply stated, all the wings in Utah are too sweet, spicy and messy. However, a few weeks after my arrival, I chanced upon a little "hole-in-the-wall" blessing and have been hooked ever since. The name of the joint is simply "Jefferson's."
The menu is complete with fried dill pickles, fried oysters baskets, catfish, and all the trimmings of great fried comfort food, but the crown jewel is the wing. These little jewels are marinated in some kind of a vinegar-spiced sauce from heaven and once a bite is permitted, there is no stopping until you can force no more into your gullet, or until you can't find another one on your table.
I ate lunch there today, and was reading the paper before ordering. Pictures of dead terrororist leaders, reports of bombs, gas price squabbles and the like littered the pages. There was a little cartoon, however, which suggested that Pres. Bush's recent push to create an ammendment protecting marriage was simply a ploy by him to cater to or reinvigorate his right wing constituency.
What do I think?
When the lovely waitress asked what I was going to order, I said, "Wings....right wings." I felt invigorated.

BALANCE

2006-06-02T19:29:00.000-04:00

On the way home from work today my wife asked me to swing by Pizza Hut/KFC and grab her a personal pizza. I eagerly obliged, knowing that by so doing I would be afforded the oft-denied opportunity to put my hands on a nicely fried, golden brown, piece of joy (chicken).
While standing in line (a line filled with it's share of protruding waistlines) I scanned the walls of the establishment to pass the time. Just before the register was a little brochure pasted to the wall that boldly read "Keep it Balanced." Then, in small print, it read: "It's important to eat a well balanced diet, filled with variety..." I looked behind the counter scanning the offered dishes. I saw fried chicken, popcorn chicken, chicken strips, chicken fingers, chicken snacks and crispy chicken (now that's variety). I placed my order, and continued reading..."there's more to balance than just what you eat. Moderation, working out more and stressing out less are keys to good health..." My reading was interrupted by the clerk asking me if I wanted to biggie size my order and if I could sit down at the closest table to wait for it, she also informed me that it would take extra long to cook my order because my choice was just pulled out of the freezer, and still quite frozen. Seeing the frustration on my face, she apologized for the extra time and stress the wait may cause.

I sat impatiently waiting for the order, and wondered if that little brochure was out of place. It seemed to be about as effective as a reminder to live a chaste life might be at the checkout line of an adult book/video store. Before leaving, in a protest of the hypocrisy, I ordered a diet coke.

The Flood

2006-06-02T16:05:00.000-04:00

Two hours away from the new Georgia Aquarium is where my house sits. Since it's opening in November everyone in my immediate family had seen it except for me. This past weekend changed that. Admitting that I was excited isn't difficult. Here in Georgia, we have been bombarded with news stories, pummeled with incessant commercials, and innundated with billboards suggesting how amazing the place is. I went to their web site and saw this on their page:

"Georgia Aquarium opened on November 23rd as the World’s Largest Aquarium. With 8 million gallons of fresh and marine water, and more than 100,000 animals representing 500 species from around the globe, you’re sure to see things you’ve never seen before!"

I'd like to offer a brief revision to the statment on the website to insure accuracy:

"Georgia Aquarium opened on November 23rd as the World's Largest Aquarium. With 8 million gallons of fresh and marine water, the more than 100,000 animals have more space to exist in their tanks than the 172 million DAILY customers that will line our halls. Come in and enjoy ATTEMPTING to see things from around the globe. For example, you may notice the modest buddhist monk who, in response to his inability to see through the throngs of picture snapping, video making visitors, is in the corner planning a mass murder. During your visit to the aquarium you are sure to see things that you have never seen before. For example, the lice in the gentleman's head of hair who has been standing directly in front of your face for the past two hours, in the same spot, waiting, praying, pleading for a chance to see a jellyfish the size of a bottlecap. Enjoy the worlds largest accumulation of compact-car-sized baby strollers and your fruitless attempts to pass them on the tour. Conversely, you may not see things that you hope to see, like the fish, a restroom, a drinking fountain, or an inch of space without somebody occupying it. "

Above is the picture that I snapped when I heard an employee shout "does anybody need to use the bathroom?"

GENESIS

2006-04-28T16:30:00.000-04:00

A nice cyber location for me to deposit the juice that floweth over. Of course, in it's beginning....it may simply leak, you know...the juice, but depending on how comfortable this is....it may even become a larger flow...a trickle may turn to a stream of conciousness. That's an interesting little phrase isn't it...."stream of conciousness?" I have a friend who works the beat as a crime detective. He told me once about a guy who blew his head off on the can. He said had to be careful when taking pictures of the scene not to get the victims "stream of conciousness" all over his freshly pressed uniform.