If I had to choose which of my 62 Winters were the toughest, I pick 2003/'04, and not have to give it much thought. It was my first (and only) winter in Spokane, WA, and I was one year past a stroke, still finding out about lingering after-effects of the stroke, and got rudely introduced to the one I hate the most... I can no longer tolerate real cold conditions. Not that Eastern Washington was all that cold, but it was for this California-raised boy.
My physical reaction to cold is difficult to explain, because "normal" people don't go through this. It's like muscle contractions that go through my entire right side, and then don't go away. I begin to walk funny; I could do a decent "Chester" (from "Gunsmoke," a Dennis Weaver character who had a limp. OK, it's dated, but valid.) impression. OK, in today's terms... Captain Barbosa on a peg leg? Someone with palsey? I run like Charles Barkley hits golf balls.
There, I've finally said it. I think everyone who knows the name "Charles Barkley" know that he is a terrible golfer with a herkey-jerkey golf swing. That's the way I run. It bothers me, because when I have to hurry in the cold, people start looking at me like I'm an escapee from a day program, any time it gets below freezing. I gimp-up a little at 40-degrees, but at freezing or below, I am quite a sight. That Winter, it never got above 35-degrees, was frequently in the "minus-" category, and on one memorable January morning in 2004, I left for work in 24-below.
That wasn't the only problem... I suffer from a Seasonally Affective Disorder; I get a little wierd from a lack of sunlight. For nine months of the year, Spokane was a great place; for three months it was pretty horrid. Add to the crippling nature of the cold, the fact that it was dark when I left at 5:30 in the morning, and dark when I left for home at 3:30 in the afternoon. From mid-November until April what little sunlight we got was filtered through a depressing gray overcast. We left on Winter's Day 2004, it had been cloudy for almost two months, and my solar batteries were pretty low. We came down to the Colombia River, heading into Oregon on our way back to Vacaville, and the clouds stopped at the river. On the Oregon side there was bright sunlight and scattered clouds; on the Washington side, gray, grayer, and more grayer. Perhaps an omen?
Monday, December 10, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
An Odd Recollection
It was just one of those passing thoughts. A memory from the 1950's, when we were returing from Hawaii. We spent some time with my grandmother, my great-aunt Georgia, and my great-uncle Henry in Long Beach, CA, and we were on our way to San Diego, for my dad's new assignment. I can remember the "highway" that ran through Camp Pendleton from Capistrano to Oceanside. It wasn't the multi-lane freeway back then, parts of the old highway are used as frontage roads, so you can still see them. When we were on the road, it was two lane blacktop with very few places allowing passing, but the young Marines, emboldened by alcohol, would always take foolish risks.
I was in the "way back," the cargo area of a 1956 Ford station wagon. It was '56, or '57. so I was five or six, and my older sisters were in the back seat. Cars didn't have seat belts back then, so we were all "loose" inside the car. I was looking forward, and only just caught the headlamp of another car bouncing off the rear quarter panel of the wagon. Suddenly, the car tilted to the right, my dad was steering the car on the right two wheels, and he yelled, "Everyone lean left!"
I clamored ove some luggage, trying to wedge myself between the bags and the left rear wheel well. My sisters screamed, but tried to get as far over as they could, and just as suddenly, we were back on four wheels, my dad braking for the accident that had occurred a few cars in front of us. The car full of young Marines had hit a number of vehicles as it careened down the highway, cars traveling in both directions, mostly fender dings, but a couple of harder impacts until it launched over the trunk of a stopped vehicle, and came down on its top some 100 feet further down the beach. We were briefly detained as witnesses, and duly gave our statements to a CHP officer. The only damage to the station wagon was a paint smudge and a chip, so we were on our way pretty quickly.
I don't know why that came back, but it woke me up a couple of days ago.
I was in the "way back," the cargo area of a 1956 Ford station wagon. It was '56, or '57. so I was five or six, and my older sisters were in the back seat. Cars didn't have seat belts back then, so we were all "loose" inside the car. I was looking forward, and only just caught the headlamp of another car bouncing off the rear quarter panel of the wagon. Suddenly, the car tilted to the right, my dad was steering the car on the right two wheels, and he yelled, "Everyone lean left!"
I clamored ove some luggage, trying to wedge myself between the bags and the left rear wheel well. My sisters screamed, but tried to get as far over as they could, and just as suddenly, we were back on four wheels, my dad braking for the accident that had occurred a few cars in front of us. The car full of young Marines had hit a number of vehicles as it careened down the highway, cars traveling in both directions, mostly fender dings, but a couple of harder impacts until it launched over the trunk of a stopped vehicle, and came down on its top some 100 feet further down the beach. We were briefly detained as witnesses, and duly gave our statements to a CHP officer. The only damage to the station wagon was a paint smudge and a chip, so we were on our way pretty quickly.
I don't know why that came back, but it woke me up a couple of days ago.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Some Random Thoughts
A old friend recently asked me to "spill my guts," and offer up something that people don't really know about me. I admitted to being a classical music affectionado, although everyone who knows me thinks I am a classic rock-guy. I also admitted to attending a dozen (at least) symphony concerts before ever going to a rock show, and that is true.
My parents bought their first house in 1957 for something like $8,500. It was a "3BR/2BA, Ranch," located at the top of a small hill, on a circle in Vallejo. At the time, Vallejo had a fair symphony orchestra, and they would have a "concert season," during which they would perform at the Hogan Junior High Theater, every other week, doing Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and my favorite, Motzart. My parents bought season tickets for both the symphony seasons and the play season put on by the local players. I was too young to be left in the care of my 14 and 10 year old sisters, so I had to get dressed up; sports coat, slacks, white shirt and tie, to go with my folks to the symphony and the theater. Six years old.
That's how people appeared in public back then. Look at some of the old live-audience shows back in the late '50's and early '60's, all the men have ties, all the women have their hair done, and are wearing nice dresses. One simply did not appear in public unless properly attired. I blame my generation for the changes that followed.
Yeah, the graduates of the late 1960's and early 1970's. We are the ones who fought all the battles, and never got credit for making a change. Worse yet, by the time the changes got enacted, we were all 21, so it didn't matter to us. We fought the fights; we did the civil disobedience thing and got arrested; we took the backlash of a society that feared change worse than anything, and we got nothing. Yes, we got the voting age lowered, we got out of a war we never belonged in, we got society to go beyond conformity and the associated "-isms" that accompany that line of thinking, and to start looking at the value of "different," rather than to what harm it could bring. So what came next, logically, was all our fault.
It seemed to center around "different," and the argument that different wasn't a moral judgement... it was just... different. Pretty soon, we have casinos in California, and cities that can no longer protect the lives of its citizens. OK, neither has anything do do with each other, but that's the situation out here in the West. Just over in Dodge City... oops, I mean Stockton... there was a double homicide on Sunday, bringing the number of murders in the city to 53, 55 if the ones in critical condition fail to improve. People are not even safe in their own homes in Stockton. It's a war, and the "good guys" are losing. Losing badly.
I hope people are watching Stockton. The city's decent into Hell is a forecast of the future in California. Our governor want us to raise our own taxes. He's so convinced that we'll do it, he's put it to a vote. Spending in the Golden State is out of control. The Governor and Legislature keep writing checks for money we don't have. What happens when the one-time "fourth largest economy" goes bankrupt? The international effects will be devastating, and it will cripple any economic recovery in the US. Proposition 30, the "I want to raise my own taxes so the government can say they didn't do it" Act. I already pay the highest over-all taxes in the Nation, I don't think I'll choose to raise taxes with my vote. Of course, this is California: Land of Fruits and Nuts... I can only pray that there are enough people who tell the State "NO!"
My parents bought their first house in 1957 for something like $8,500. It was a "3BR/2BA, Ranch," located at the top of a small hill, on a circle in Vallejo. At the time, Vallejo had a fair symphony orchestra, and they would have a "concert season," during which they would perform at the Hogan Junior High Theater, every other week, doing Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and my favorite, Motzart. My parents bought season tickets for both the symphony seasons and the play season put on by the local players. I was too young to be left in the care of my 14 and 10 year old sisters, so I had to get dressed up; sports coat, slacks, white shirt and tie, to go with my folks to the symphony and the theater. Six years old.
That's how people appeared in public back then. Look at some of the old live-audience shows back in the late '50's and early '60's, all the men have ties, all the women have their hair done, and are wearing nice dresses. One simply did not appear in public unless properly attired. I blame my generation for the changes that followed.
Yeah, the graduates of the late 1960's and early 1970's. We are the ones who fought all the battles, and never got credit for making a change. Worse yet, by the time the changes got enacted, we were all 21, so it didn't matter to us. We fought the fights; we did the civil disobedience thing and got arrested; we took the backlash of a society that feared change worse than anything, and we got nothing. Yes, we got the voting age lowered, we got out of a war we never belonged in, we got society to go beyond conformity and the associated "-isms" that accompany that line of thinking, and to start looking at the value of "different," rather than to what harm it could bring. So what came next, logically, was all our fault.
It seemed to center around "different," and the argument that different wasn't a moral judgement... it was just... different. Pretty soon, we have casinos in California, and cities that can no longer protect the lives of its citizens. OK, neither has anything do do with each other, but that's the situation out here in the West. Just over in Dodge City... oops, I mean Stockton... there was a double homicide on Sunday, bringing the number of murders in the city to 53, 55 if the ones in critical condition fail to improve. People are not even safe in their own homes in Stockton. It's a war, and the "good guys" are losing. Losing badly.
I hope people are watching Stockton. The city's decent into Hell is a forecast of the future in California. Our governor want us to raise our own taxes. He's so convinced that we'll do it, he's put it to a vote. Spending in the Golden State is out of control. The Governor and Legislature keep writing checks for money we don't have. What happens when the one-time "fourth largest economy" goes bankrupt? The international effects will be devastating, and it will cripple any economic recovery in the US. Proposition 30, the "I want to raise my own taxes so the government can say they didn't do it" Act. I already pay the highest over-all taxes in the Nation, I don't think I'll choose to raise taxes with my vote. Of course, this is California: Land of Fruits and Nuts... I can only pray that there are enough people who tell the State "NO!"
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Perfection
During the TBS broadcast of the Reds vs. Giants, Game 5, or perhaps in the wrap-up show after the game, someone made this comment:
"You only have to bat 1.000 in two things; flying and brain surgery. In everything else, you can go four for five."
I liked it the moment I heard it, and asked Mary if she had heard the comment. I like it so much, I intend to steal it, like a good public school teacher, and make it my own.
"You only have to bat 1.000 in two things; flying and brain surgery. In everything else, you can go four for five."
I liked it the moment I heard it, and asked Mary if she had heard the comment. I like it so much, I intend to steal it, like a good public school teacher, and make it my own.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Welcome to My World
I have had a pulled muscle in my back since June, when I played "Good Samaritan," and got hurt for my efforts. I don't blame the old guy; it was my choice to stop and get involved. I actually kind of laughed about it, kind of; I recognized the humor, even my original doctor chuckled when I told him how I hurt myself. After a while, it pissed me off, a little, that every one's first response to my pain was to laugh. Laughter may be the best medicine, but it was pure voodoo at that point. I really did hurt myself, doggone it, and I'm in a lot of pain.
I got sent to a physical therapy clinic not far away, and would get heat, muscle stimulation, and a massage, then exercises. It was working OK, I was feeling better, but on my last visit, the masseuse hurt me, possibly tearing some additional muscles in my back. I don't want to sue her; I don't want her fired; I just want to get my back fixed, so it won't hurt in that spot, too. I got my last ESI on July 30th, so pain-wise I was doing as well as I can, and somewhere around the latter part of August, I did something to re-aggrivate that injury. I've been in some pretty incredible pain since we got back from Yosemite the week after Labor Day.
I don't blame camping. It may not have been the best thing I could have done, but it certainly didn't hurt me. I actually noticed the pain had returned on Labor Day weekend, so it definitely wasn't the camping. Too many good things came out of that trip to wish we hadn't done it. Since that time, however, it has gotten worse and worse, to the point where I am losing my appitite, and sleep only in short bits because of this stupid torn muscle.
I have decent pain meds, and never take anything close to the maximum daily dosage, so I have room to up the meds a little. Whirlpool baths help for a little while, as do heating pads, Icy/Hot, SalonPas, lidoderm patches, and the usual topical stuff, but it's at night that things get really bad.
Sleeping in my bed is impossible. It turns out that it is actually an ancient torture device covered with memory foam. For all I know, that may actually be the case, as I haven't been able to get comfortable in it for weeks. On the few occassions I do fall asleep, I usually turn over wrong, or sleep in an awkward position, and I'm almost crippled from it by morning. Fortunately, we have a very comfortable reclining couch, and I can create the support points to at least get some sleep. Tonight I'm going to try a "Zero-Gravity Recliner" that we bought last year. It has a small pillow on it that is a perfect lumbar support, so I'm going to try that tonight.
Meanwhile, I do what I can to try to get through it. My dad, who wasn't a religious person, once told me that he would become a thithe-paying Mormon if I could answer one question for him. "If life is so wonderful, why does it have to hurt so much at the end?" At age 61, I think I'm able to answer that question, it's just my dad passed three and a half years ago, so I can't share it with him right now. I will, though, someday.
Mankind was given one perfect person. His name, on Earth, was Jesus of Nazareth; He is the Son of God. He came to us to teach us, by example, how to live our lives in such a way that we may return to His presence someday. Time and time again, we are given examples of how He lived His life, and we are told to do what He would do. At the end of his Eartly life, Jesus experienced enormous pain in Gethsemane, to the point where he bled through every pore. Mere men could not survive that experience, so we are given, as promised, sufficient to our needs, but not enough to kill us. Plus, we get to have it longer; we do not know how long He suffered for us, but it certainly didn't encompass his "Golden Years". Maybe we can't survive bleeding from every pore; we can certainly carry our pain for a long time. Suffering over the decades what he experienced for us in an instant. I'll take the long-term payments, thank you very much.
That would have been my answer. Maybe if I'd found it sooner, his last words wouldn't have been, "Oh Shhhh..."
I got sent to a physical therapy clinic not far away, and would get heat, muscle stimulation, and a massage, then exercises. It was working OK, I was feeling better, but on my last visit, the masseuse hurt me, possibly tearing some additional muscles in my back. I don't want to sue her; I don't want her fired; I just want to get my back fixed, so it won't hurt in that spot, too. I got my last ESI on July 30th, so pain-wise I was doing as well as I can, and somewhere around the latter part of August, I did something to re-aggrivate that injury. I've been in some pretty incredible pain since we got back from Yosemite the week after Labor Day.
I don't blame camping. It may not have been the best thing I could have done, but it certainly didn't hurt me. I actually noticed the pain had returned on Labor Day weekend, so it definitely wasn't the camping. Too many good things came out of that trip to wish we hadn't done it. Since that time, however, it has gotten worse and worse, to the point where I am losing my appitite, and sleep only in short bits because of this stupid torn muscle.
I have decent pain meds, and never take anything close to the maximum daily dosage, so I have room to up the meds a little. Whirlpool baths help for a little while, as do heating pads, Icy/Hot, SalonPas, lidoderm patches, and the usual topical stuff, but it's at night that things get really bad.
Sleeping in my bed is impossible. It turns out that it is actually an ancient torture device covered with memory foam. For all I know, that may actually be the case, as I haven't been able to get comfortable in it for weeks. On the few occassions I do fall asleep, I usually turn over wrong, or sleep in an awkward position, and I'm almost crippled from it by morning. Fortunately, we have a very comfortable reclining couch, and I can create the support points to at least get some sleep. Tonight I'm going to try a "Zero-Gravity Recliner" that we bought last year. It has a small pillow on it that is a perfect lumbar support, so I'm going to try that tonight.
Meanwhile, I do what I can to try to get through it. My dad, who wasn't a religious person, once told me that he would become a thithe-paying Mormon if I could answer one question for him. "If life is so wonderful, why does it have to hurt so much at the end?" At age 61, I think I'm able to answer that question, it's just my dad passed three and a half years ago, so I can't share it with him right now. I will, though, someday.
Mankind was given one perfect person. His name, on Earth, was Jesus of Nazareth; He is the Son of God. He came to us to teach us, by example, how to live our lives in such a way that we may return to His presence someday. Time and time again, we are given examples of how He lived His life, and we are told to do what He would do. At the end of his Eartly life, Jesus experienced enormous pain in Gethsemane, to the point where he bled through every pore. Mere men could not survive that experience, so we are given, as promised, sufficient to our needs, but not enough to kill us. Plus, we get to have it longer; we do not know how long He suffered for us, but it certainly didn't encompass his "Golden Years". Maybe we can't survive bleeding from every pore; we can certainly carry our pain for a long time. Suffering over the decades what he experienced for us in an instant. I'll take the long-term payments, thank you very much.
That would have been my answer. Maybe if I'd found it sooner, his last words wouldn't have been, "Oh Shhhh..."
Monday, September 10, 2012
Surviving Yosemite
All we have heard, for the past few weeks, was about the virus at Yosemite, that was carried by the mice. Albeit early, I think my family survived pretty well. We were all tired last night after getting home, but everyone seems healthy (knocking on wood). Yeah, six people... six... died of a horrible disease, and that's tragic, but six out of what? One million visitors, two million? We figured we'd risk it. We weren't actually staying in the park; we had campsites (or is it a Kampsite) at a KOA about 20 - 25 miles west of the park, so we really didn't think much about it. Additionally, we were in our own (personally owned) tents, and ate over a fully covered table. Pretty much Camping 101.
As you can see, from the picture taken by my youngest child, we had a beautiful early September weekend, the weekend after Labor Day, and we were amazed at how crowded the park wasn't. Sure, there were still a lot of people there, the campgrounds were full, as was the Lodge, and the hotel just outside the West gate, but it wasn't really bad like it can be at times. It's the first time we've been camping (Mary, Tyff, Jacki, and I) in many, many years; like when we first bought the 13X12 screen-porch-tent we have, some where in the mid-1990's. It was also the first time we went camping with Peter and Victor, too. It would be a great weekend. Mister Victor learned about telling "spooky" tales at night with a flashlight. It was a lot of silliness, but he really got into it, and had a great time.
I found out a couple ofthings, however, that seems to be this Universal Truth, that I'm just getting too old for a lot of stuff, and that sleeping on an air bed on the floor of a tent is getting to be one of them. I've had worse beds, this was a Bed-in-a-bag that came out years ago, and was still in good shape, so as far as beds go, this was just short of a Select Comfort. Still, it was a mattress on the ground, and at 61, the ground is a long way down, and a lot longer getting back up. I'm going to have to look for a cot.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Growing Up Quickly
I guess I lead a sheltered life. It was common for the parents of "baby boomers" to try and shield us from the harsh realities of life; most of them survived the Great Depression, and never wanted their kids to have to want for anything. Prosperity was booming in the 1950's, but you wouldn't have known it in our house. Dad was still in the Navy, and we really didn't have much. We had what we needed, and very little else. It didn't matter, though, because there were millions of other kids going through the same things in their homes. The Greatest Generation knew what it meant to be poor, and so they buoyed away money whenever they could, "just in case..." I don't want to call them "cheap," because that wasn't it at all, they simply wanted to be prepared should the bottom drop out of the stock market again. This is all beside the point that our parents did a lot to shield us from the "ugly stuff".
I got through life pretty easily, trauma-wise, the most traumatic thing in my life, up until I was 20, was having to move from Vallejo to Vacaville after eight years, EIGHT years, in one house. We had moved so often before, and I finally had some friendships that spanned years rather than months, and we were moving again. But that was it. That was the most traumatic thing I had to deal with in my first 20 years of life. I lost a few acquaintances, and a couple of friends before I joined the Navy, but I never saw their bodies, so I was a little insulated. To that point in time, I had never seen a real dead person. That would change on a summer's evening in 1973.
I was on the carrier USS INDEPENDENCE, on deployment to the Sixth Fleet, headquartered out of Naples. I was working as an E-4, assigned to the ship's Intelligence Center. I had met a lot of people in a really short time, and became friends with some of the Boatswain's Mates, the guys who drive the Liberty Launches, etc. When we first hit port on this deployment, I spent some time learning how to be a Coxswain, or the absolute "last word" on that 100-man utility-boat when it was in motion. It was a lot of fun, and I even got to drive the boats, a few times, on supply runs, etc. I actually became quite skilled handling the 40-foot launches..
Some Arab group put a bomb on a Pan-Am flight out of Rome, and detonated it over the Mediterranean between Rome and Malta. The "Indy" was called into service for a Search and Recovery mission. It took us less than an hour to reach the "crash site," and within another half-hour had every boat on board in the water, and the ship was "drafting" volunteers to help recover whatever we could. I was actually working, at the time, we had just finished serving "mid-rats," and my crew was cleaning up in the aftermath. A call came in to the galley, and the Cook came out and told me to report to the Hangar Deck, to help man a boat. I found out it was one of the Boatswain's Mates I had trained with, and he asked for me because he knew I could drive the boat should it be necessary. I ended up holding a "battle lantern" (a yellow lantern seen almost everywhere on Naval ships), and a gaffe (a long pole with a little hook near the end), working the port-side.
My lantern hit something bobbing up-and-down in the dark waters, and I called out "Got something. Port side." Boats maneuvered the launch around slowly, expertly, getting us right next to the object, and allowing me to hook, what turned out to be a seat, with my gaffe, and draw it towards the boat. It seemed a little heavy, for a seat, as I pulled it close aboard. I unhooked my gaffe, and plunged it into the water near the foot of the seat, pulling upward to roll the seat over. A woman and her young daughter were still seat-belted in place, death attested to by the blueness of their complexions. I dove to the starboard-side of the boat, and deposited the contents of my stomach into the Mediterranean.
With the help of another boat, we managed to get the seat, and its gristly contents, onto a "collections" boat, where human remains were processed, tagged, and bagged. It would be a very grim morning on the Hangar Deck, as the remains of nearly 100 casualties, laying in body bags, in a corner of the ship's main deck. Still others were laying in bags on the other ships called to render assistance. Two hundred fourteen, if I recall correctly. Two hundred fourteen people just exterminated by a terrorist. I just couldn't get my mind wrapped around that. Hijacking, I could see, but bombing? To me, it was the worst day of my life. That distinction wouldn't last long.
Later in that same deployment, I had been working the "mid-shift," from 1930 to 0730, for our longest period out of port, brought about by the October War between Egypt/Syria and Israel. Some cute jokes came out of that, and we had some really close calls over a month at sea, but Israel prevailed, and earned it's right to exist. For most of that month, I rarely saw the sun, which can be done very easily on a ship the size of a small city. When the hostilities ceased, and it looked like we'd be able to duck into port somewhere for a little liberty, I went up to Vulture's Row, four stories above the Flight Deck, to observe the morning operations, take-offs and landings, the movement of planes around the deck, all just before sunrise.
It was going to be a glorius morning to be at sea, the sun, from below the horizon, colored them a bright yellow, it was chilly, but promised to be a fine southern Mediterranian day. I thought about spending some time on the weather decks that morning, just to break-up the daily "at-sea" routine. Just being on Vulture's Row that morning was a start.
Sitting below us, and forward of us, was an A-7 Corsair doing "low revs," sort of like idleing for a jet plane. The A-7 is a unique airplane, that kind of resembles a shark, with a wide, mouth-like intake for the engines. On normal occassions, an A-7 would not be started, for non-flight purposes, without a screen (for lack of a better word) that covered that grinning maw, and it certainly wouldn't do an "on-deck high-rev" evolution because the engines will suck down anything within a 25-foot radius of the intake, including a 180 lb. man. Three mistakes were made that morning, The last one, fatal.
I won't go into detail, it happened so fast, a guy was running across the bow of the A-7, and then he wasn't. The sound will haunt me to my dying day, as the blades of the turbines were introduced to body and bones. Worse, however, was that the young man had been reduced to "ground beef," and sprayed against the island of CV-62. Right directly at the six. The material was forced up and out, sprayint into the winds, and right into my face. That was the day I grew up.
I got through life pretty easily, trauma-wise, the most traumatic thing in my life, up until I was 20, was having to move from Vallejo to Vacaville after eight years, EIGHT years, in one house. We had moved so often before, and I finally had some friendships that spanned years rather than months, and we were moving again. But that was it. That was the most traumatic thing I had to deal with in my first 20 years of life. I lost a few acquaintances, and a couple of friends before I joined the Navy, but I never saw their bodies, so I was a little insulated. To that point in time, I had never seen a real dead person. That would change on a summer's evening in 1973.
I was on the carrier USS INDEPENDENCE, on deployment to the Sixth Fleet, headquartered out of Naples. I was working as an E-4, assigned to the ship's Intelligence Center. I had met a lot of people in a really short time, and became friends with some of the Boatswain's Mates, the guys who drive the Liberty Launches, etc. When we first hit port on this deployment, I spent some time learning how to be a Coxswain, or the absolute "last word" on that 100-man utility-boat when it was in motion. It was a lot of fun, and I even got to drive the boats, a few times, on supply runs, etc. I actually became quite skilled handling the 40-foot launches..
Some Arab group put a bomb on a Pan-Am flight out of Rome, and detonated it over the Mediterranean between Rome and Malta. The "Indy" was called into service for a Search and Recovery mission. It took us less than an hour to reach the "crash site," and within another half-hour had every boat on board in the water, and the ship was "drafting" volunteers to help recover whatever we could. I was actually working, at the time, we had just finished serving "mid-rats," and my crew was cleaning up in the aftermath. A call came in to the galley, and the Cook came out and told me to report to the Hangar Deck, to help man a boat. I found out it was one of the Boatswain's Mates I had trained with, and he asked for me because he knew I could drive the boat should it be necessary. I ended up holding a "battle lantern" (a yellow lantern seen almost everywhere on Naval ships), and a gaffe (a long pole with a little hook near the end), working the port-side.
My lantern hit something bobbing up-and-down in the dark waters, and I called out "Got something. Port side." Boats maneuvered the launch around slowly, expertly, getting us right next to the object, and allowing me to hook, what turned out to be a seat, with my gaffe, and draw it towards the boat. It seemed a little heavy, for a seat, as I pulled it close aboard. I unhooked my gaffe, and plunged it into the water near the foot of the seat, pulling upward to roll the seat over. A woman and her young daughter were still seat-belted in place, death attested to by the blueness of their complexions. I dove to the starboard-side of the boat, and deposited the contents of my stomach into the Mediterranean.
With the help of another boat, we managed to get the seat, and its gristly contents, onto a "collections" boat, where human remains were processed, tagged, and bagged. It would be a very grim morning on the Hangar Deck, as the remains of nearly 100 casualties, laying in body bags, in a corner of the ship's main deck. Still others were laying in bags on the other ships called to render assistance. Two hundred fourteen, if I recall correctly. Two hundred fourteen people just exterminated by a terrorist. I just couldn't get my mind wrapped around that. Hijacking, I could see, but bombing? To me, it was the worst day of my life. That distinction wouldn't last long.
Later in that same deployment, I had been working the "mid-shift," from 1930 to 0730, for our longest period out of port, brought about by the October War between Egypt/Syria and Israel. Some cute jokes came out of that, and we had some really close calls over a month at sea, but Israel prevailed, and earned it's right to exist. For most of that month, I rarely saw the sun, which can be done very easily on a ship the size of a small city. When the hostilities ceased, and it looked like we'd be able to duck into port somewhere for a little liberty, I went up to Vulture's Row, four stories above the Flight Deck, to observe the morning operations, take-offs and landings, the movement of planes around the deck, all just before sunrise.
It was going to be a glorius morning to be at sea, the sun, from below the horizon, colored them a bright yellow, it was chilly, but promised to be a fine southern Mediterranian day. I thought about spending some time on the weather decks that morning, just to break-up the daily "at-sea" routine. Just being on Vulture's Row that morning was a start.
Sitting below us, and forward of us, was an A-7 Corsair doing "low revs," sort of like idleing for a jet plane. The A-7 is a unique airplane, that kind of resembles a shark, with a wide, mouth-like intake for the engines. On normal occassions, an A-7 would not be started, for non-flight purposes, without a screen (for lack of a better word) that covered that grinning maw, and it certainly wouldn't do an "on-deck high-rev" evolution because the engines will suck down anything within a 25-foot radius of the intake, including a 180 lb. man. Three mistakes were made that morning, The last one, fatal.
I won't go into detail, it happened so fast, a guy was running across the bow of the A-7, and then he wasn't. The sound will haunt me to my dying day, as the blades of the turbines were introduced to body and bones. Worse, however, was that the young man had been reduced to "ground beef," and sprayed against the island of CV-62. Right directly at the six. The material was forced up and out, sprayint into the winds, and right into my face. That was the day I grew up.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
My Children, and My "Chidren"
I was blessed with four children, Tyffany, Cory, Amy, and Jacklyn. Unfortunately, Amy was a "placenta previa" baby born way too early, and returned to God after a few brief hours of life. If I haven't written about this, I think I may need to, as this incident rippled through much of my life. I am very proud of my children, Tyff has a Masters in Marriage and Family Therapy, and walks the walk, talks the talk, and is a vocal advocate for children in foster care. Cory is an MA1 in the Navy, and has decided to make it a career, making three consecutive generations of career sailors in my family. Jacki is the Office Manager at the Animal Care Center here in town, and looking to move somewhere outside of California in the near future. She doesn't know that I will have a really hard time with it, but I am willing to bear it if it is best for her. I would do anything for my children.
My "children," on the other hand, are a group of special souls who have been friends with my kids, and always felt like part of the family. These are too numerous to name, because I know I would forget someone, and possibly hurt their feelings because of the omission. There have been dozens of them over the years. I believe it was due to the fact that we had rules in our house, they were firmly enforced, and they didn't change with the seasons, so to speak. They were simple, easy to remember, and violations were dealt with in a loving and respectful manner. Mary always called it the three R's of discipline, the three R's were, "Related," "Reasonable," and most of all "Respectful". At least for the ones we "adopted" as our children grew up, before they left home.
There haven't been many since we became "empty nesters," although we've had a few. One young woman in particular, and you know who you are, has been especially close to our family, and has attended family activities, the whole nine yards. She's leaving for Newfoundland at some point soon, and as much as it pains me to do so, I'm going to have to really say good-bye, knowing it will be the last time I see her in this life. I guess the old addage is true, in order to really love someone, you have to let them go. Good-bye my little Canknucklehead. Have a great life.
My "children," on the other hand, are a group of special souls who have been friends with my kids, and always felt like part of the family. These are too numerous to name, because I know I would forget someone, and possibly hurt their feelings because of the omission. There have been dozens of them over the years. I believe it was due to the fact that we had rules in our house, they were firmly enforced, and they didn't change with the seasons, so to speak. They were simple, easy to remember, and violations were dealt with in a loving and respectful manner. Mary always called it the three R's of discipline, the three R's were, "Related," "Reasonable," and most of all "Respectful". At least for the ones we "adopted" as our children grew up, before they left home.
There haven't been many since we became "empty nesters," although we've had a few. One young woman in particular, and you know who you are, has been especially close to our family, and has attended family activities, the whole nine yards. She's leaving for Newfoundland at some point soon, and as much as it pains me to do so, I'm going to have to really say good-bye, knowing it will be the last time I see her in this life. I guess the old addage is true, in order to really love someone, you have to let them go. Good-bye my little Canknucklehead. Have a great life.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Our Favorite Picture
I've just added a "new" picture to my blog. The black-and-white photograph was taken by a Photographer's Mate, who's name I've completely forgotten, as we were preparing to deploy on my final Med Cruise on the USS INDEPENDENCE(CV-62), in early July 1974. We had been married for less than five months at the time, and I did everything I could to get out of having to go for less than half of the six months-long deployment, but got screwed by this young Ensign, and had to stay until the morning of October 1, 1974, before I could execute my transfer orders, a grand total of 84 days aboard ship, and 6,000 miles further from home.
All of that is irrelevant, the fact of the matter is that this is our favorite photograph of the two of us. No wonder, we're almost 40 years younger, but it's pretty symbolic of what our life together has been, saying good-bye for periods of time. That may sound pretty sad, but the "welcome home's" were always extremely nice, so it evened out, so-to-speak. It's actually my second favorite of her, my favorite being a full color, studio portrait she had done in 1973 for me. She's so beautiful with long hair! Not that she isn't beautiful with her hair worn short, but I really loved the long hair. I don't have many pictures of her with her hair long, so I kind of treasure the ones I do have.
OK, back to the tale of Steve vs. The Ensign. The guy was a "Yalie," a little rich-kid, playing "navy" with some new kids he got to boss around, because he hung around school long enough for Daddy to buy him a degree in something totally stupid. I was 22, had made E-5, and was a Shift Supervisor for the Intel Center; he was 21, and he had just graduated, sent through OCS, and then to the Indy. Shortly after he came aboard, I didn't see him out on the pier, and didn't salute, and he got all over me about it. Seriously, I didn't see the little SOB, and it was all a mistake, but he made such a big deal out of it, I made a vow to never salute the little sh*t if I saw him out in town, screw the consequences.
It was about a month before I found out about a Sixth Fleet regulation that would allow sailors in deploying units a chance to execute orders early, as long as the orders didn't have a "NET" (no earlier than) date, and had less than 90 days left before transfer. I was on the pier, and sure-enough, here comes the young Engign, and I suddenly had to repair a shoelace. When I stood back up, there he was, waiting for me to salute him.
I refused.
The Ensign informed me that it was appropriate for an enlisted man to salute his "superior" as a sign of respect.
There was something about the word "superior," maybe the snotty way he said it, or the fact that he used "enlisted man" as though we were some sort of sub-species, but that part of my brain that keeps my mouth shut was suddenly paralized.
"Excuse me, Sir." I addressed him appropriately. "As far as I know, I have no superiors, and damn few peers. Sir!" One thing I learned in the Navy, always have a wittness. Two of my shipmates heard him use the word "superior," and knew that the Navy was, at the time, trying desperately to NOT give the appearance of any form of "class distinction". Both saw and heard my reply, and would attest that it was done with all courtesy, I walked away.
A month later, I find out about the Sixth Fleet-thing, and submit a request to transfer early, since I would have 84 days left aboard when the Indy deployed. Somehow, it ends up in the Ensign's hands, and he says "No". Department Head: "No." XO: "No." CO: "No."
The little bastard had the balls to hand it to me saying, "You're too valuable to the Division. We need a contact-relief, and he won't be here until October. By the way, you're value to the Division is to fill a TAD spot on the mess decks, as a Master-at-Arms. You go tomorrow." He walked away, smiling back over his shoulder. I was screwed, no doubt, but he thought he had the last word. I love it when the smug ones think they've had the last laugh; they're so confused when they find out that they're wrong.
Oh, yeah, I went to the mess decks. They tried to make me move in to what amounted to transient quarters, but I declined to move, and my supervisor told them to back-off. It was ninety days of Hell. The only good thing was that the time went by really fast. I was even released a few days early from my 90 day sentence, ironcially serving 84 days as a Mess Deck Master-at-Arms. In truth, I learned a great deal about myself in that 84 days in Hell, and had a positive influence on a group of young men who didn't understand why they had to spend time "mess cookin'".
I was the Starboard Section Leader, and in charge of 50 these confused young men. We worked pretty hard, one day on; one day off if we were in port, 12 hrs on; 12 off at sea. We had meal hours that overlapped, at sea, to where there was always some place to get a meal, 24 hours a day for as long as the ship was out of port. When the spaces weren't used for meals, they were used for bomb assembly and transfer to the hangar deck. In between, my people cleaned. They cleaned during meals, too, grabbing a tray at some point, and then back to work. My Section, when I took it over, had the worst rate of Unautorized Absence (UA) in the Supply Department. My "boss," a grizzled E-5, who was just waiting to retire, told me that I would have to "ride these [people] every... moment." I told him I didn't work that way.
On my first day back in the Intel Center, I was greeted warmly by everyone, and shocked everyone by seeking out the Ensign, and publicly thanking him for sending me out to the mess decks. I was, actually, somewhat sincere in my gratitude to this Ensign, I offered to take him to dinner at the NCO Club in Naples, and to see Morey Amsterdam's show on our last night in Naples. We drank, we ate, he had a whole bunch of drinks, I sipped two beers the whole night, he had a few more drinks, and I ended up with this seemingly boneless mass of Ensign, trying to catch a cab back to the Fleet Landing before the expiration of liberty at 0400. Somehow, I made it on to one of the last boats back to the ship; the Ensign didn't. I don't know what happened to him, but the CO was pretty hard on guys who missed ship's movement; he'd be less than enthused about an Ensign missing movement.
All of that is irrelevant, the fact of the matter is that this is our favorite photograph of the two of us. No wonder, we're almost 40 years younger, but it's pretty symbolic of what our life together has been, saying good-bye for periods of time. That may sound pretty sad, but the "welcome home's" were always extremely nice, so it evened out, so-to-speak. It's actually my second favorite of her, my favorite being a full color, studio portrait she had done in 1973 for me. She's so beautiful with long hair! Not that she isn't beautiful with her hair worn short, but I really loved the long hair. I don't have many pictures of her with her hair long, so I kind of treasure the ones I do have.
OK, back to the tale of Steve vs. The Ensign. The guy was a "Yalie," a little rich-kid, playing "navy" with some new kids he got to boss around, because he hung around school long enough for Daddy to buy him a degree in something totally stupid. I was 22, had made E-5, and was a Shift Supervisor for the Intel Center; he was 21, and he had just graduated, sent through OCS, and then to the Indy. Shortly after he came aboard, I didn't see him out on the pier, and didn't salute, and he got all over me about it. Seriously, I didn't see the little SOB, and it was all a mistake, but he made such a big deal out of it, I made a vow to never salute the little sh*t if I saw him out in town, screw the consequences.
It was about a month before I found out about a Sixth Fleet regulation that would allow sailors in deploying units a chance to execute orders early, as long as the orders didn't have a "NET" (no earlier than) date, and had less than 90 days left before transfer. I was on the pier, and sure-enough, here comes the young Engign, and I suddenly had to repair a shoelace. When I stood back up, there he was, waiting for me to salute him.
I refused.
The Ensign informed me that it was appropriate for an enlisted man to salute his "superior" as a sign of respect.
There was something about the word "superior," maybe the snotty way he said it, or the fact that he used "enlisted man" as though we were some sort of sub-species, but that part of my brain that keeps my mouth shut was suddenly paralized.
"Excuse me, Sir." I addressed him appropriately. "As far as I know, I have no superiors, and damn few peers. Sir!" One thing I learned in the Navy, always have a wittness. Two of my shipmates heard him use the word "superior," and knew that the Navy was, at the time, trying desperately to NOT give the appearance of any form of "class distinction". Both saw and heard my reply, and would attest that it was done with all courtesy, I walked away.
A month later, I find out about the Sixth Fleet-thing, and submit a request to transfer early, since I would have 84 days left aboard when the Indy deployed. Somehow, it ends up in the Ensign's hands, and he says "No". Department Head: "No." XO: "No." CO: "No."
The little bastard had the balls to hand it to me saying, "You're too valuable to the Division. We need a contact-relief, and he won't be here until October. By the way, you're value to the Division is to fill a TAD spot on the mess decks, as a Master-at-Arms. You go tomorrow." He walked away, smiling back over his shoulder. I was screwed, no doubt, but he thought he had the last word. I love it when the smug ones think they've had the last laugh; they're so confused when they find out that they're wrong.
Oh, yeah, I went to the mess decks. They tried to make me move in to what amounted to transient quarters, but I declined to move, and my supervisor told them to back-off. It was ninety days of Hell. The only good thing was that the time went by really fast. I was even released a few days early from my 90 day sentence, ironcially serving 84 days as a Mess Deck Master-at-Arms. In truth, I learned a great deal about myself in that 84 days in Hell, and had a positive influence on a group of young men who didn't understand why they had to spend time "mess cookin'".
I was the Starboard Section Leader, and in charge of 50 these confused young men. We worked pretty hard, one day on; one day off if we were in port, 12 hrs on; 12 off at sea. We had meal hours that overlapped, at sea, to where there was always some place to get a meal, 24 hours a day for as long as the ship was out of port. When the spaces weren't used for meals, they were used for bomb assembly and transfer to the hangar deck. In between, my people cleaned. They cleaned during meals, too, grabbing a tray at some point, and then back to work. My Section, when I took it over, had the worst rate of Unautorized Absence (UA) in the Supply Department. My "boss," a grizzled E-5, who was just waiting to retire, told me that I would have to "ride these [people] every... moment." I told him I didn't work that way.
On my first day back in the Intel Center, I was greeted warmly by everyone, and shocked everyone by seeking out the Ensign, and publicly thanking him for sending me out to the mess decks. I was, actually, somewhat sincere in my gratitude to this Ensign, I offered to take him to dinner at the NCO Club in Naples, and to see Morey Amsterdam's show on our last night in Naples. We drank, we ate, he had a whole bunch of drinks, I sipped two beers the whole night, he had a few more drinks, and I ended up with this seemingly boneless mass of Ensign, trying to catch a cab back to the Fleet Landing before the expiration of liberty at 0400. Somehow, I made it on to one of the last boats back to the ship; the Ensign didn't. I don't know what happened to him, but the CO was pretty hard on guys who missed ship's movement; he'd be less than enthused about an Ensign missing movement.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Out of My Comfort Zone
I'm really not a very good Latter-day Saint, or Mormon to those of you who choose to go that way. I believe in the Church, the Book of Mormon, and having a living prophet on the Earth. I believe that families can be together forever (and yes, I chose to say it that way), and that it is possible for us to perform the rituals required for salvation (baptism, etc) on behalf of our ancestors who have passed on. I believe that God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit are three separate entities, who together form the Godhead, otherwise the Bible begins with a lie that God made man in his own image. I despair at the ministers of other Christian churches who call my religion a "cult," or deny that we are really Christians because we don't recite the "Apostles Creed" or "Nicene Creed," oaths of allegiance written by men, not given by God. I pay an honest tithe and make a "fast offering," I wear my garments day and night, I am honest in my dealings with others; I just can't deal with the concept of "Every member a Missionary".
Make no mistake, I like to talk to people, and enjoy the times I get to accompany the full-time Missionaries assigned to Vacaville Second Ward (our congregation, as it were). I really enjoy meeting people who are "investigating" the Church, because I can relate to all of the apprehension and doubts they may be having. I like to meet the ones who are "on the edge," but are hung up on some technicality. I love to teach, particularly when I know such a great deal about my subject, and have had personal experiences that are relevant. I am just no good at starting a "gospel discussion," because I am not confident of my scriptural knowledge. Certain passages stick out, and I can remember them, but I couldn't tell you where they were or anything.
I guess it should be easy, particularly with a Church-member on the verge of being a Presidential Candidate, so I should try to get involved with more people, and talk about the Church. We have been asked to look for "Missionary Opportunities," and to pray for them to happen. Our Stake (a collection of Wards) has been asked to dedicate our fasts on June 3 to seeking more opportunities to teach the gospel, and to kneel in prayer at 8am, as a sign of unity. It's just likely to work; I've seen it happen before. Maybe it's time for me to step out of my comfort zone.
Make no mistake, I like to talk to people, and enjoy the times I get to accompany the full-time Missionaries assigned to Vacaville Second Ward (our congregation, as it were). I really enjoy meeting people who are "investigating" the Church, because I can relate to all of the apprehension and doubts they may be having. I like to meet the ones who are "on the edge," but are hung up on some technicality. I love to teach, particularly when I know such a great deal about my subject, and have had personal experiences that are relevant. I am just no good at starting a "gospel discussion," because I am not confident of my scriptural knowledge. Certain passages stick out, and I can remember them, but I couldn't tell you where they were or anything.
I guess it should be easy, particularly with a Church-member on the verge of being a Presidential Candidate, so I should try to get involved with more people, and talk about the Church. We have been asked to look for "Missionary Opportunities," and to pray for them to happen. Our Stake (a collection of Wards) has been asked to dedicate our fasts on June 3 to seeking more opportunities to teach the gospel, and to kneel in prayer at 8am, as a sign of unity. It's just likely to work; I've seen it happen before. Maybe it's time for me to step out of my comfort zone.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
My Take on "Sherlock"
I will make no bones about it, I am a fan of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle's super-sleuth and his partner Dr. Watson. I have read all of the stories, I even transfered some to my Kindle, after I got it at Christmas, so I could, when the time seemed appropriate, re-read the stories. This was all before I found out about the series, simply titled Sherlock, that aired on BBC, and can be seen on PBS's Masterpiece Mystery on the next two Sundays at nine pm. My youngest child, Jacki, actually brought the series to my attention, giving me the DVD set for Season 1, for Christmas. Mary and I watched the first episode, A Study in Pink, and have been "hooked" ever since. The producers are making three 90-minute episodes per season, and we are currently getting Season 2 on PBS.
The series stars Benedict Cumberbatch (how's that for a Brittish name) as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq, and Martin Freeman as Dr. John Watson, who chronicles the exploits of the world's first "consulting detective," a position that Holmes proudly creates himself. The story lines are straight from the Conan-Doyle manuscripts, but that is where all similarities to the "old Sherlock Holmes" ends. Rather than dashing about 19th Century London, the writing team of Steven Moffat, Steve Thompson, and Mark Gatiss have brought the detective team into the 21st Century, making Dr. Watson an Afghanistan veteran (rather than India), who blogs about his amazing roomate at 221B Baker Street.
I'm not one to sit and nitpick, so I haven't compared things like dialogue against the original works, I'm not much of a purist in that regards. In fact I didn't even flinch when the famous Sherlock Holmes line, "The game is afoot!" was changed to "The game is on!" I noticed it, surely, but there probably isn't a person in the world who uses "afoot," so the adaptation seemed perfectly natural, to me. With Sir Arthur's stories as a framework, this new Sherlock is well worth watching.
One of the most notable features of this new series is the use of the digital technology that allows the viewer to "see" what the world's greatest detective sees. It doesn't give you what he observes, but it helps the viewer to understand how he collects clues. In the end, as Sherlock explains the crime, it seems logical enough to appeal to another fictional character, this one of Vulcan origins.
The acting is supurb. Cumberbatch is a delightful Sherlock, who is referred to by the people at Scotland Yard as "The Freak". He denies an accusation of being a psychopath by claiming, "I am a high-functioning sociopath, learn the difference." The dynamics between Sherlock and the often befuddled Watson is very engaging, and is often the source of much of the "dry Brittish humor" that many Americans find so delightful (me included).
I am a fan.
The series stars Benedict Cumberbatch (how's that for a Brittish name) as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq, and Martin Freeman as Dr. John Watson, who chronicles the exploits of the world's first "consulting detective," a position that Holmes proudly creates himself. The story lines are straight from the Conan-Doyle manuscripts, but that is where all similarities to the "old Sherlock Holmes" ends. Rather than dashing about 19th Century London, the writing team of Steven Moffat, Steve Thompson, and Mark Gatiss have brought the detective team into the 21st Century, making Dr. Watson an Afghanistan veteran (rather than India), who blogs about his amazing roomate at 221B Baker Street.
I'm not one to sit and nitpick, so I haven't compared things like dialogue against the original works, I'm not much of a purist in that regards. In fact I didn't even flinch when the famous Sherlock Holmes line, "The game is afoot!" was changed to "The game is on!" I noticed it, surely, but there probably isn't a person in the world who uses "afoot," so the adaptation seemed perfectly natural, to me. With Sir Arthur's stories as a framework, this new Sherlock is well worth watching.
One of the most notable features of this new series is the use of the digital technology that allows the viewer to "see" what the world's greatest detective sees. It doesn't give you what he observes, but it helps the viewer to understand how he collects clues. In the end, as Sherlock explains the crime, it seems logical enough to appeal to another fictional character, this one of Vulcan origins.
The acting is supurb. Cumberbatch is a delightful Sherlock, who is referred to by the people at Scotland Yard as "The Freak". He denies an accusation of being a psychopath by claiming, "I am a high-functioning sociopath, learn the difference." The dynamics between Sherlock and the often befuddled Watson is very engaging, and is often the source of much of the "dry Brittish humor" that many Americans find so delightful (me included).
I am a fan.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Getting Over Myself
I seem to be getting into my own way, lately. I'm not really sure what it's all about, but everytime I turn around, there I am (and no, that's not that old joke). I seem to be going in circles, getting very little done. It's like I've lost my energy, my drive. I don't like being limited in the things I can do, and completely resent the fact that the things I can do get fewer every year. It's all a part of aging, I guess. I played hard and fast as a young man; now I'm just pudgy and slow.
It isn't much fun, getting older. Don't get me wrong, I know what the flip-side is, and I'm not ready to have six of my friends... Do I have six friends?... cart me around by the handles. I am grateful for every day I wake up and my back hurts. At least that way, I know I'm still alive. At this point, if there was a therapy that could take away all of my pain, I'd be scared to death every morning. I know there are people out there who are in worse pain than what I am in, and they have my deepest sympathies, but when your "best days" still register on the "pain meter" every f-ing day, day-in; day-out; 24/7, 365 (or 366) days a year, for more than a decade, you have an understanding of pain that normal people just don't get.
When I was teaching at my old alma mater, I had a student tell me he would have liked to have been around Vacaville in the late '60's. I told him, "No, you don't." Indicating how much he'd be paying for it now. That was ten years ago. Darn I'm old.
I guess that will become my next Pastime, sitting around bitching about how much stuff hurts. I hope not, because I think I'm better than that. But, what do I know? I'm trying to write, and have at least three working drafts on my word processor, and a few blogs, letters to the Editor, that kind of stuff. Trying to keep my mind active; trying to focus on something other than pain. I play computer games, and Wii, anything to keep moving, and not think about pain.
I am supposed to be relatively "pain-free" a week after my ESI treatment, and normally I am, but there's now an arthritic pain that seems to be with me all of the time. I would take Motrin, or Alieve, or whatever NSAID's available, except I took them for so long, it would be like taking an M&M, and, frankly, M&M's taste better. I have been taking Norco for the last six months, and it helps to mask the pain a bit. I have had conversations with both my Primary Care Physician and an Interventional Radiologist as to the appropriateness of narcotics in my pain management therapy, and both of them think it is still on the good side. I take the medication in accordance with the instructions of the doctor, and sometimes not at all. If I am not in pain, I do not take the medicine. Thus far, there have been no apparent side-effects, nor do I attempt to abuse it in anyway.
It's not about me, though. Well, maybe it is; my own self-consciousness about my limitations, and a desire not to suffer in public, but I think of other's first. I ask myself if I was going to be able to be social, due to my pain, or if I am going to become an object of pity. I might stick it out as a social antagonist, but I will be pitied by no one. I don't want anyone to be "sorry," sorry doesn't help. I would like it if people could be a little more understanding of why I don't get out often. I can straighten myself up, and look kind of normal, but dig it, people, if you aren't looking at me laying in a box, I'm in pain and I don't want pity.
It isn't much fun, getting older. Don't get me wrong, I know what the flip-side is, and I'm not ready to have six of my friends... Do I have six friends?... cart me around by the handles. I am grateful for every day I wake up and my back hurts. At least that way, I know I'm still alive. At this point, if there was a therapy that could take away all of my pain, I'd be scared to death every morning. I know there are people out there who are in worse pain than what I am in, and they have my deepest sympathies, but when your "best days" still register on the "pain meter" every f-ing day, day-in; day-out; 24/7, 365 (or 366) days a year, for more than a decade, you have an understanding of pain that normal people just don't get.
When I was teaching at my old alma mater, I had a student tell me he would have liked to have been around Vacaville in the late '60's. I told him, "No, you don't." Indicating how much he'd be paying for it now. That was ten years ago. Darn I'm old.
I guess that will become my next Pastime, sitting around bitching about how much stuff hurts. I hope not, because I think I'm better than that. But, what do I know? I'm trying to write, and have at least three working drafts on my word processor, and a few blogs, letters to the Editor, that kind of stuff. Trying to keep my mind active; trying to focus on something other than pain. I play computer games, and Wii, anything to keep moving, and not think about pain.
I am supposed to be relatively "pain-free" a week after my ESI treatment, and normally I am, but there's now an arthritic pain that seems to be with me all of the time. I would take Motrin, or Alieve, or whatever NSAID's available, except I took them for so long, it would be like taking an M&M, and, frankly, M&M's taste better. I have been taking Norco for the last six months, and it helps to mask the pain a bit. I have had conversations with both my Primary Care Physician and an Interventional Radiologist as to the appropriateness of narcotics in my pain management therapy, and both of them think it is still on the good side. I take the medication in accordance with the instructions of the doctor, and sometimes not at all. If I am not in pain, I do not take the medicine. Thus far, there have been no apparent side-effects, nor do I attempt to abuse it in anyway.
It's not about me, though. Well, maybe it is; my own self-consciousness about my limitations, and a desire not to suffer in public, but I think of other's first. I ask myself if I was going to be able to be social, due to my pain, or if I am going to become an object of pity. I might stick it out as a social antagonist, but I will be pitied by no one. I don't want anyone to be "sorry," sorry doesn't help. I would like it if people could be a little more understanding of why I don't get out often. I can straighten myself up, and look kind of normal, but dig it, people, if you aren't looking at me laying in a box, I'm in pain and I don't want pity.
Monday, April 2, 2012
My "Real" Education
I fancy myself to be an excellent teacher. Not just as a school teacher, but I love to teach young people some of the important things about life, a portion of their education that is woefully lacking. I always joked about having taught Marines to program computers, like it was the hardest thing one could ever do (it pretty much is, too). I'd tell an interviewing Principal, "If I can teach a bunch of Jar heads to program a computer, I can teach English to teenagers." They'd laugh, but it would stick with them, and I'd get a teaching job.
My students, especially the Marines, always learned a lot from me, because my lessons were based upon my personal experiences, from programming computers, to riding motorcycles (I taught that in the Navy, too.), to relating to a piece of literature, I gave my students examples from my own life. It may have been a sort of "been there, done that," but students learn best from people that have more than just a knowledge of a certain topic.
Okay, I'm not going to make the claim of the Strother Martin character in Rooster Cogburn and The Lady, that "I've been everywhere; done everything; know everybody. That's why I can say people are no damned good." I love that line, but I haven't been everywhere, haven't done diddly, and have but a few friends, in all honesty. I sure as Hell can act like it, though, because I've been through enough, and at least went outside of the US several times. I've stopped in ports all along the southern European coastline, and a couple in North Africa. I lived on an US airbase in Japan for six months, and saw a little of that side of the world, too. Closer to home, I've been to a number of places in Mexico, and both ends of the Panama Canal, Cologne and Panama City, so I feel safe to say I've been a few places, anyway.
Everyone, now days, talks about their "bucket list," things they'd like to do before they die, but I can't. For one, it's too long to be just a list; an inventory, perhaps, but certainly more than a list. It's liable to stay that way, too, because I can't do certain things anymore, and I'm not in a financial position to do the rest. I've been able to do a couple of things, like visit the Acropolis in Athens, the pyramids in Egypt, the Colosseum in Rome, and see the Rock of Gibraltar, but that hardly scratches the surface. The best part of my visits to foreign lands was meeting the people, though, everywhere I went, I met wonderful people. My first visit to Europe was pretty much a "Pub Crawl," but I got to see how Europeans reacted to English-only Americans. Subsequent sorties beyond the US borders went a whole lot better, and I met the most wonderful people.
I learned, on that first "Med Cruise," that when one approached a Greek in Athens, and pretty much demand that he speak English, one of two things happened: either the Greek was more interested in taking the Americans money, or he'd claim "No Engleesh," and walk away. When one approached a Greek in Athens, and inquired (in Greek) if he spoke English, almost everyone did, and all appreciated the courtesy. One taxi driver in Athens (and one in Istanbul, too), would have us schedule times to meet him, and he would drive us for the entire day. We got to meet their families, and shared food in their homes. It was like we were part of their families for a day, something every sailor abroad really enjoys. It makes us feel... normal. None of those people would remember me now, most likely, so I can hardly claim I know them.
I tend to get along okay in almost any group of people, and I've done it in some rather diverse groups, too. Once, on the Caspian Sea side of the Dardanelles, we drank vodka with, and learned Russian folk songs from a group of Soviet Navy guys because our Turkish driver wanted to show us the inland sea. We had an outrageous time, swapping insults on our Presidents, and doing normal "guy in a bar" stuff. All under the watchful eye of the KGB, which was probably the funniest thing of all. The KGB-guy didn't speak English. Two of the Russian sailors did. He tried to break us up, but the senior Russian sailor basically told him to mind his own business, in a rather profane Russian way. We all left with new-found "friends," who just happened to be our enemies, but we were watched the entire time.
By the time I got to college, at age 40, I had sufficient knowledge of everything my instructors covered, to the point where I feel that I really didn't learn anything in college. I struggled a little in the literature studies, until I realized I knew most of the periods, common themes, and styles from my own reading. The rest, the Liberal Arts crap, was way too easy. I was dealing with teachers who had not been outside of an academic setting since they were five. Every single one of them (well, with the exception of one) was a screaming, bleeding liberal. Idealistic as all hell, but never having had to face life in the real world, they were easy prey. In one class, a fellow student I knew from some of the morning coffee house discussions asked me how I did it. "How do you, knowing what you know, being the conservative person you are, put up with all of the liberalism around you?" I basically told him that I visualize the instructor's point of view, throw in a hand full of unicorns and rainbows, and see it for the cartoon it really is. After he got done laughing, he wrote it down.
While I still maintain that I didn't actually learn anything at college, I freely admit that it gave me an opportunity to look at what I did know from several differing viewpoints, but even that wasn't new to me. By the time I got to college I'd been married 17 years, had three kids, done a 20-year career in the Navy, and experienced things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I've looked at a lot of things, from a number of perspectives many times. As I said, only one of my instructors understood the world as I did, a retired Army Colonel, who taught Editing, mostly. Fortunately, I caught him in a Lit class, and we got along from Day One.
On a warm May afternoon in 1997, at the age of 46, I was bestowed by the Regents of the State of California a Baccalaureate Degree in English - Language and Literature. Having played all of the games, jumped through all of the hoops, I had the piece of paper that said I actually knew all of the stuff I knew. Tell that to the student loan people.
My students, especially the Marines, always learned a lot from me, because my lessons were based upon my personal experiences, from programming computers, to riding motorcycles (I taught that in the Navy, too.), to relating to a piece of literature, I gave my students examples from my own life. It may have been a sort of "been there, done that," but students learn best from people that have more than just a knowledge of a certain topic.
Okay, I'm not going to make the claim of the Strother Martin character in Rooster Cogburn and The Lady, that "I've been everywhere; done everything; know everybody. That's why I can say people are no damned good." I love that line, but I haven't been everywhere, haven't done diddly, and have but a few friends, in all honesty. I sure as Hell can act like it, though, because I've been through enough, and at least went outside of the US several times. I've stopped in ports all along the southern European coastline, and a couple in North Africa. I lived on an US airbase in Japan for six months, and saw a little of that side of the world, too. Closer to home, I've been to a number of places in Mexico, and both ends of the Panama Canal, Cologne and Panama City, so I feel safe to say I've been a few places, anyway.
Everyone, now days, talks about their "bucket list," things they'd like to do before they die, but I can't. For one, it's too long to be just a list; an inventory, perhaps, but certainly more than a list. It's liable to stay that way, too, because I can't do certain things anymore, and I'm not in a financial position to do the rest. I've been able to do a couple of things, like visit the Acropolis in Athens, the pyramids in Egypt, the Colosseum in Rome, and see the Rock of Gibraltar, but that hardly scratches the surface. The best part of my visits to foreign lands was meeting the people, though, everywhere I went, I met wonderful people. My first visit to Europe was pretty much a "Pub Crawl," but I got to see how Europeans reacted to English-only Americans. Subsequent sorties beyond the US borders went a whole lot better, and I met the most wonderful people.
I learned, on that first "Med Cruise," that when one approached a Greek in Athens, and pretty much demand that he speak English, one of two things happened: either the Greek was more interested in taking the Americans money, or he'd claim "No Engleesh," and walk away. When one approached a Greek in Athens, and inquired (in Greek) if he spoke English, almost everyone did, and all appreciated the courtesy. One taxi driver in Athens (and one in Istanbul, too), would have us schedule times to meet him, and he would drive us for the entire day. We got to meet their families, and shared food in their homes. It was like we were part of their families for a day, something every sailor abroad really enjoys. It makes us feel... normal. None of those people would remember me now, most likely, so I can hardly claim I know them.
I tend to get along okay in almost any group of people, and I've done it in some rather diverse groups, too. Once, on the Caspian Sea side of the Dardanelles, we drank vodka with, and learned Russian folk songs from a group of Soviet Navy guys because our Turkish driver wanted to show us the inland sea. We had an outrageous time, swapping insults on our Presidents, and doing normal "guy in a bar" stuff. All under the watchful eye of the KGB, which was probably the funniest thing of all. The KGB-guy didn't speak English. Two of the Russian sailors did. He tried to break us up, but the senior Russian sailor basically told him to mind his own business, in a rather profane Russian way. We all left with new-found "friends," who just happened to be our enemies, but we were watched the entire time.
By the time I got to college, at age 40, I had sufficient knowledge of everything my instructors covered, to the point where I feel that I really didn't learn anything in college. I struggled a little in the literature studies, until I realized I knew most of the periods, common themes, and styles from my own reading. The rest, the Liberal Arts crap, was way too easy. I was dealing with teachers who had not been outside of an academic setting since they were five. Every single one of them (well, with the exception of one) was a screaming, bleeding liberal. Idealistic as all hell, but never having had to face life in the real world, they were easy prey. In one class, a fellow student I knew from some of the morning coffee house discussions asked me how I did it. "How do you, knowing what you know, being the conservative person you are, put up with all of the liberalism around you?" I basically told him that I visualize the instructor's point of view, throw in a hand full of unicorns and rainbows, and see it for the cartoon it really is. After he got done laughing, he wrote it down.
While I still maintain that I didn't actually learn anything at college, I freely admit that it gave me an opportunity to look at what I did know from several differing viewpoints, but even that wasn't new to me. By the time I got to college I'd been married 17 years, had three kids, done a 20-year career in the Navy, and experienced things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I've looked at a lot of things, from a number of perspectives many times. As I said, only one of my instructors understood the world as I did, a retired Army Colonel, who taught Editing, mostly. Fortunately, I caught him in a Lit class, and we got along from Day One.
On a warm May afternoon in 1997, at the age of 46, I was bestowed by the Regents of the State of California a Baccalaureate Degree in English - Language and Literature. Having played all of the games, jumped through all of the hoops, I had the piece of paper that said I actually knew all of the stuff I knew. Tell that to the student loan people.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
The Greatest Thing Ever Heard
My three year-old grandson, Victor, is not what you would call a talker. He understands words, and can say things, it's just been easier for him to use ASL signs, and some that he made up himself, rather than to form the words and say them. I believe that this is the last obstacle he needs to overcome as a result of the set-backs from his first year of life. That has been discussed before, so I won't waste the time re-hashing things.
Every time he goes to one of his many doctors, therapists, and whatever-ologists, they validate his being a "normal, healthy boy," something I was pretty sure about, but it's nice to hear the experts confirm it. I admit, at first I wondered if he might have some developmental challenges, but as time went on, Victor has blossomed into this wonderfully loveable little three year-old boy.
I've talked about his being such a social critter, too, so I won't spend a lot of time on it, he's just so darned adorable. People who don't like kids love Victor. Maybe it's his blue eyes, or the wrinkle on the bridge of his nose when he smiles at you, or possibly that he has absolutely no fear of anyone, but he's almost irresistable. He is, actually, the exact opposite of my granddaughter, who is very chatty, but very withdrawn.
Victor loves his "Gmpa" (me) very much. He had not actually said it, but I know it from the way he reacts to seeing me, from the way he likes to cuddle with me, and a host of other behaviors. I would have to be pretty dense not to understand. Still, I take the opportunity to say, "I love you Victor," as often as I can. Imagine my reaction, when I hugged him on Monday, and told him, "I love you Victor," and he responded, "I love you Gmpa."
At first I didn't know if I'd actually heard it, but then I knew I had. I had to quickly excuse myself, and run out to my car before the tears started flowing. I didn't want to burden the babysitter with that sight. It was a few minutes, before I could collect myself enough to drive home, but I was a very happy grampy.
In my life, I have heard some great things, said by great people. With my own ears, I heard JFK's inaguration speech, MLK's I had a dream... speech, Reagan's "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" I've watched men stepping on the moon, and heard, "That's one small step..." I have heard many important and historical things in my life. All of that pales in comarison to four words spoken by a three year-old miracle, "I love you Gmpa."
Every time he goes to one of his many doctors, therapists, and whatever-ologists, they validate his being a "normal, healthy boy," something I was pretty sure about, but it's nice to hear the experts confirm it. I admit, at first I wondered if he might have some developmental challenges, but as time went on, Victor has blossomed into this wonderfully loveable little three year-old boy.
I've talked about his being such a social critter, too, so I won't spend a lot of time on it, he's just so darned adorable. People who don't like kids love Victor. Maybe it's his blue eyes, or the wrinkle on the bridge of his nose when he smiles at you, or possibly that he has absolutely no fear of anyone, but he's almost irresistable. He is, actually, the exact opposite of my granddaughter, who is very chatty, but very withdrawn.
Victor loves his "Gmpa" (me) very much. He had not actually said it, but I know it from the way he reacts to seeing me, from the way he likes to cuddle with me, and a host of other behaviors. I would have to be pretty dense not to understand. Still, I take the opportunity to say, "I love you Victor," as often as I can. Imagine my reaction, when I hugged him on Monday, and told him, "I love you Victor," and he responded, "I love you Gmpa."
At first I didn't know if I'd actually heard it, but then I knew I had. I had to quickly excuse myself, and run out to my car before the tears started flowing. I didn't want to burden the babysitter with that sight. It was a few minutes, before I could collect myself enough to drive home, but I was a very happy grampy.
In my life, I have heard some great things, said by great people. With my own ears, I heard JFK's inaguration speech, MLK's I had a dream... speech, Reagan's "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" I've watched men stepping on the moon, and heard, "That's one small step..." I have heard many important and historical things in my life. All of that pales in comarison to four words spoken by a three year-old miracle, "I love you Gmpa."
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
What Would Jesus Do?
It's kind of a nice thought, what would Jesus do? Faced with a tought choice or decision, some people ask the question as a guide, as though any normal human being, particularly one in this day and age, is capable of either knowing what the Savior would choose, or actually doing anything Jesus did. In that regard, the question takes a bit of a turn towards humor, in my thinking. For example, I pulled into the parking lot for WalMart, and a woman was trying to get one of those huge-screened TV's into a very compact car. I took my time getting out of the car and locking it up, to see what would happen. As I turned to walk into the store, the woman says, "What would Jesus do?"
I laughed to myself, and thought, "He'd get a bigger car, or a smaller TV. You're probably going to f@#& this up badly." Hey, I'm allowed to entertain myself...
Stop and think about it, though. I know we are, as Christians, supposed to emulate the examples set by Christ during his time on Earth, but the WWJD folks are setting the bar a little high. Better the question "What is the right/proper/helpful thing to do?" Those are choices I can wrap my mind around. Knowing the mind of Jesus Christ is something no one can do. And yes, I know I'm being petty, it's just a phrase, and people never think about what they are saying, anyway... blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum.
All the more reasong to stand up; people need to think about what they are attempting to do, before they go blowing-off their mouthes, or looking like idiots when they "pray".
OK, that's something else that bugs me, and this is a "ramble," anyway, but the folks who stand with their arms streached upwards, staring into the heavens, supposedly praying get my goat. Show me where, in any Scripture, where it says that we may be so brazen as to attempt to look God in the eye? Show me where it says that prayer should be done in such a way as to be apparent to everyone in the vicinity. I know where it mentions "humbly," and where it references "private" prayers, I just can't seem to find those other teachings. Could they be "the teachings of men..."?
Going back to my original topic, WWJD, we are commanded to pray to know God's will for us. With that thought in mind, the question of what anyone else would do becomes irrelevent. It doesn't matter what Jesus did, or the apostles, or even your parents. God's will for you may be a whole lot different than what you, or anyone else may want for yourselves. Ultimately, God's will for us is to be able to return to him, but we will not walk the same pathes. Living is a series of choices, and we all face the same choices, it's just not at the same time in our lives. The path that each of us takes may have similarities to the path of others, but each is unique, driven by the choices we make, and how well we recover from the mistakes we will inevitably make.
Rats in a maze is an ample metaphor for life, only in a laboratory maze, a wrong choice is never lethal. I picture being born and raised to a point where we each have to make a choice, basically we are facing three doors. The first is the "Right" choice, and opens on a hallway of doors, with only a few that are closed to you. The second is the "Wrong" choice, and opens on a hallway with only a few doors open to you. The third door is easily overlooked, as it is a narrow opening leading to a straight passage where every door is opened to you. The third door is what God wants you to do and, positioned between Right and Wrong, can be missed entirely. Right and Wrong are labled, the other is not. It can only be seen by one who humbles himself/herself before God and asks for guidance, and still one may miss it if he/she isn't looking.
It is the path between Right and Wrong because it encompasses more than just being one or the other. Simply being right is not enough, and being wrong can be forgiven. It has to do with the content of our hearts, our intents, our reasoning. Wherever we go, Right or Wrong, we eventually face three doors again. Doing God's will for us enables us to look beyond the distractions of living, and focus on what is most important, getting back to His presence, and to hear Him say, "Well done, O good and faithful servant!"
I laughed to myself, and thought, "He'd get a bigger car, or a smaller TV. You're probably going to f@#& this up badly." Hey, I'm allowed to entertain myself...
Stop and think about it, though. I know we are, as Christians, supposed to emulate the examples set by Christ during his time on Earth, but the WWJD folks are setting the bar a little high. Better the question "What is the right/proper/helpful thing to do?" Those are choices I can wrap my mind around. Knowing the mind of Jesus Christ is something no one can do. And yes, I know I'm being petty, it's just a phrase, and people never think about what they are saying, anyway... blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum.
All the more reasong to stand up; people need to think about what they are attempting to do, before they go blowing-off their mouthes, or looking like idiots when they "pray".
OK, that's something else that bugs me, and this is a "ramble," anyway, but the folks who stand with their arms streached upwards, staring into the heavens, supposedly praying get my goat. Show me where, in any Scripture, where it says that we may be so brazen as to attempt to look God in the eye? Show me where it says that prayer should be done in such a way as to be apparent to everyone in the vicinity. I know where it mentions "humbly," and where it references "private" prayers, I just can't seem to find those other teachings. Could they be "the teachings of men..."?
Going back to my original topic, WWJD, we are commanded to pray to know God's will for us. With that thought in mind, the question of what anyone else would do becomes irrelevent. It doesn't matter what Jesus did, or the apostles, or even your parents. God's will for you may be a whole lot different than what you, or anyone else may want for yourselves. Ultimately, God's will for us is to be able to return to him, but we will not walk the same pathes. Living is a series of choices, and we all face the same choices, it's just not at the same time in our lives. The path that each of us takes may have similarities to the path of others, but each is unique, driven by the choices we make, and how well we recover from the mistakes we will inevitably make.
Rats in a maze is an ample metaphor for life, only in a laboratory maze, a wrong choice is never lethal. I picture being born and raised to a point where we each have to make a choice, basically we are facing three doors. The first is the "Right" choice, and opens on a hallway of doors, with only a few that are closed to you. The second is the "Wrong" choice, and opens on a hallway with only a few doors open to you. The third door is easily overlooked, as it is a narrow opening leading to a straight passage where every door is opened to you. The third door is what God wants you to do and, positioned between Right and Wrong, can be missed entirely. Right and Wrong are labled, the other is not. It can only be seen by one who humbles himself/herself before God and asks for guidance, and still one may miss it if he/she isn't looking.
It is the path between Right and Wrong because it encompasses more than just being one or the other. Simply being right is not enough, and being wrong can be forgiven. It has to do with the content of our hearts, our intents, our reasoning. Wherever we go, Right or Wrong, we eventually face three doors again. Doing God's will for us enables us to look beyond the distractions of living, and focus on what is most important, getting back to His presence, and to hear Him say, "Well done, O good and faithful servant!"
Monday, February 13, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Some Friday Afternoon Thoughts
It's been a busy week. Things have been moving along fairly quickly, and, seemingly, pretty well. We've taken some steps to lower our mortgage payments a little, a re-fi for a half-percent drop in interest. It doesn't change things all that much, but it helps. Only 18 months more of having to deal with tight finances, then Social Security kicks in, and I start making more money. That's a good thought for a Friday, there is, unmistakably a light at the end of this tunnel. Now if the Nostrodamus/Mayan/Whoever-is-the-current-Doomsayers have gotten it wrong, I could actually live long enough to see the "good life". To be honest, I'm kind of living the "good life;" it just doesn't have a whole lot of "style".
I want to talk about life for a while. Thoughts about life, living, my life, etc. have been on my mind all week. Like the concept of "the good life," for example. I have come to believe that all life is good, despite the fact that bad things happen. It is, in some estimations, a pretty naieve way of looking at life, or perhaps overly optimistic, but I'm postive I wouldn't like the alternative. I've grown to dislike the people who whine about their "hard" lives, and never see a positive thing in their pasts. No one, No One, NO ONE, ever lives a totally negative life. Even Hitler had a "good day," considering what a monster he was, it was probably over something sick, but still...
When I was a kid, we watched Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and Ozzie and Harriett, I don't know about anyone else, but none of those ever represented my family life. My dad was not one to sit down and calmly explain what I had done wrong; he was the profanities at maximum volume, who you hoped you could stay away from long enough for him to tire out kind. I never felt fear around my father, it was more like terror. He was strong, faintly literate, and had a short temper, particularly when something was not going his way, and quick to make it physical. I was never beaten by my father; I landed a rather effective defensive punch before it could escalate to that, and he never tried physical discipline again. I was thirteen.
He caught my seventeen year-old sister and me smoking. He didn't see the cigarette in my hand, so I could have dodged it, technically, but he'd been telling me that "things always go better when you tell the truth," so when he asked, I told him I had been smoking too. He took a swipe at Pat, and commenced to slapping the shit out of me, until I stepped back, and threw a punch, a hard overhand right, that broke his nose. He stood up, wiped some blood from his nose, took one last swipe at Pat, and stormed out of the house. He got in our car, and drove off for over an hour. The whole time, Pat is telling me I should get out of the house, because he's going to kill me when he gets home. I knew that, but I also knew it would be even worse if I made him look for me, so I was screwed. When he got home, he was calm, and we had our first real father-son talk. I'd say, despite the dread of waiting to die, that was good living.
We lose a child, our relationship is streached to the brink, we separate, that was a lousy 20 months, but so much good came out of it, at the end and beyond, it's difficult to think of it as a "bad" time. We learned how to communicate again, as people who love each other. We re-discovered something that had been missing for a while, our friendship, which was our whole reason for getting married, anyway. What came out of that is more than 30 years of being able to hang out with my best friend every night, and a deep appreciation for each other's feelings. I just don't see the bad anymore.
I spent thousands of dollars, and more than five years of my family's life getting an education, so I can teach English. I work, across an eight year period, for six years, have a stroke, and get the short shrift three times. I was lied to, had my tenure revoked, through no fault of my own, and my union didn't care. In that six years, I helped my students get on the road to being adults. I see some of them now and again, and they are all doing well. A couple have become teachers, and I feel for them. What was bad about that?
Life is good. Tomorrow will be...
different. If you thought I was going to say "better," you're a bigger optimist than I.
I want to talk about life for a while. Thoughts about life, living, my life, etc. have been on my mind all week. Like the concept of "the good life," for example. I have come to believe that all life is good, despite the fact that bad things happen. It is, in some estimations, a pretty naieve way of looking at life, or perhaps overly optimistic, but I'm postive I wouldn't like the alternative. I've grown to dislike the people who whine about their "hard" lives, and never see a positive thing in their pasts. No one, No One, NO ONE, ever lives a totally negative life. Even Hitler had a "good day," considering what a monster he was, it was probably over something sick, but still...
When I was a kid, we watched Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and Ozzie and Harriett, I don't know about anyone else, but none of those ever represented my family life. My dad was not one to sit down and calmly explain what I had done wrong; he was the profanities at maximum volume, who you hoped you could stay away from long enough for him to tire out kind. I never felt fear around my father, it was more like terror. He was strong, faintly literate, and had a short temper, particularly when something was not going his way, and quick to make it physical. I was never beaten by my father; I landed a rather effective defensive punch before it could escalate to that, and he never tried physical discipline again. I was thirteen.
He caught my seventeen year-old sister and me smoking. He didn't see the cigarette in my hand, so I could have dodged it, technically, but he'd been telling me that "things always go better when you tell the truth," so when he asked, I told him I had been smoking too. He took a swipe at Pat, and commenced to slapping the shit out of me, until I stepped back, and threw a punch, a hard overhand right, that broke his nose. He stood up, wiped some blood from his nose, took one last swipe at Pat, and stormed out of the house. He got in our car, and drove off for over an hour. The whole time, Pat is telling me I should get out of the house, because he's going to kill me when he gets home. I knew that, but I also knew it would be even worse if I made him look for me, so I was screwed. When he got home, he was calm, and we had our first real father-son talk. I'd say, despite the dread of waiting to die, that was good living.
We lose a child, our relationship is streached to the brink, we separate, that was a lousy 20 months, but so much good came out of it, at the end and beyond, it's difficult to think of it as a "bad" time. We learned how to communicate again, as people who love each other. We re-discovered something that had been missing for a while, our friendship, which was our whole reason for getting married, anyway. What came out of that is more than 30 years of being able to hang out with my best friend every night, and a deep appreciation for each other's feelings. I just don't see the bad anymore.
I spent thousands of dollars, and more than five years of my family's life getting an education, so I can teach English. I work, across an eight year period, for six years, have a stroke, and get the short shrift three times. I was lied to, had my tenure revoked, through no fault of my own, and my union didn't care. In that six years, I helped my students get on the road to being adults. I see some of them now and again, and they are all doing well. A couple have become teachers, and I feel for them. What was bad about that?
Life is good. Tomorrow will be...
different. If you thought I was going to say "better," you're a bigger optimist than I.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
There Are Some Stupid People...
I am engaged in an exercise in futility, a one-man war against granting the freedom of speech to people who are too fracking stupid to use it appropriately. Today it was a letter to the Editor, the other day it was the news about how Obama wants to reward people who were stupid-enough to be talked into buying houses they couldn't afford. Surprize! The housing bubble burst, and your ARM matured, and you lost your house. Now, Uncle Obama wants to give you $20K, so you won't feel so bad about being a FUCKING IDIOT!!!! That's one word, no hyphen.
At this point, I wish to appologize for the prfanity, there just wasn't away around it.
I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.
It's been called The Dumbing of America, students are not doing well in an education system that hit it's peak 40 years ago. I have but one thing to day... DUH! I've been both student and teacher in California public schools, decades between, but nothing changed in more than 30 years. OK, textbooks, maybe, but some of the maps were, I checked, the same ones used in the late 1960's, listing the USSR, and Yugoslavia. Methods have progressed glacially, Hell, there were some of the same teachers, 35 years later. Kids are graduating from high school, dumb as a post. Teachers, due to union entanglements, are forbidden to teach kids, either what they want to be taught, or what the need to learn before they graduate, basic skills that have been determined to be racially biased. You know, things like: how to make change for a ten, how to give directions, how to take directions, how to fill out job applications, all of that Klan-backed stuff.
I tried. God knows I tried to give my students the basic skills needed to succeed beyond high school. Most of my colleagues could care less. Another year, another 150 or so kids, teach the test, and let them discover, for themselves, that they've wasted four years of their lives. I couldn't do it that way. For my efforts, I got the short-end three times, and it was enough for me. Over six years, more than 1,000 kids learned how English was important, and how they were limited only by their own competance with language. Sure, there were a few I always wondered about, but most often they turn out to be people who needed what I taught, and how I taught it the most. People who knew me from my crazy Navy days would be surprised at how different I'd become because of my committment to my students.
I'm not bitter (well, anymore) about the way things happened in my teaching career. It was an unfortunate set of circumstances, for which I must assume as much blame as my employers for letting things happen the way they did. I did six years; I made a difference in dozens of lives; I've helped a few find "a voice," by which to express themselves; best of all, I've helped them become contributing factors in their communities. Seeing some of them now, a few years later, I realize that to me, it was all worth the effort, and I have no regrets.
At this point, I wish to appologize for the prfanity, there just wasn't away around it.
I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.
It's been called The Dumbing of America, students are not doing well in an education system that hit it's peak 40 years ago. I have but one thing to day... DUH! I've been both student and teacher in California public schools, decades between, but nothing changed in more than 30 years. OK, textbooks, maybe, but some of the maps were, I checked, the same ones used in the late 1960's, listing the USSR, and Yugoslavia. Methods have progressed glacially, Hell, there were some of the same teachers, 35 years later. Kids are graduating from high school, dumb as a post. Teachers, due to union entanglements, are forbidden to teach kids, either what they want to be taught, or what the need to learn before they graduate, basic skills that have been determined to be racially biased. You know, things like: how to make change for a ten, how to give directions, how to take directions, how to fill out job applications, all of that Klan-backed stuff.
I tried. God knows I tried to give my students the basic skills needed to succeed beyond high school. Most of my colleagues could care less. Another year, another 150 or so kids, teach the test, and let them discover, for themselves, that they've wasted four years of their lives. I couldn't do it that way. For my efforts, I got the short-end three times, and it was enough for me. Over six years, more than 1,000 kids learned how English was important, and how they were limited only by their own competance with language. Sure, there were a few I always wondered about, but most often they turn out to be people who needed what I taught, and how I taught it the most. People who knew me from my crazy Navy days would be surprised at how different I'd become because of my committment to my students.
I'm not bitter (well, anymore) about the way things happened in my teaching career. It was an unfortunate set of circumstances, for which I must assume as much blame as my employers for letting things happen the way they did. I did six years; I made a difference in dozens of lives; I've helped a few find "a voice," by which to express themselves; best of all, I've helped them become contributing factors in their communities. Seeing some of them now, a few years later, I realize that to me, it was all worth the effort, and I have no regrets.
Monday, February 6, 2012
A Super Super Bowl
Back at the start of the playoffs, I called it. "Watch out for New York." I told people, particularly when they ousted the Champs. Nooooo. Every one around here was, "Go Niners. We're going to the Super Bowl." The overlooked the Giants, as did Green Bay, and New England. The Giants, because of my personal boycott of both the 49ers, and the Raiders, over the fighting, and shooting at the preseason "rivalry" game. My guess is that those games are gone, now...
To be honest, and I am always honest in my blogs, I was rooting for the Giants, at the beginning of the season, and after their mediocre start, I stopped keeping track. Since I was a Fan-at-large, so to speak, I was pulling for Green Bay to go undefeated, but when that streak was ended, lo and behold, the Giants are 7 and 7, and getting healthy. We don't get many Giant games out here on the Left Coast, I did see one of the two final games, and of course, all of the playoffs, but the Bay Area Faithful never saw it coming. It was a thing of beauty, the game at Candlestick. Any gunfire that erupted after that game was the Niner fans committing suicide... the Monday after, people acted like someone had died. I had a blast, watching the suffering.
OK, before anyone gets out a rope, although I did not support the Bay Area teams this year, the Conference Championship game was the only one I actually rooted against one of them. Look at it as going on a fan's injured reserve. Prior to that fateful game, I supported both teams, equally, as I could because of the Conference-difference. The idea of a SF - Oakland Super Bowl, to me, would be the best game ever. No matter who won, it would be the best. I was proud to be a fan of both teams, and to call myself a Niner-fan, or Raider-fan. That all ended this past pre-season.
I was injured by the eruption of violence at a sporting event in the US. It's bad enough to see it abroad, but in America? In the peace-loving Bay Area? It was a bit more than I could stand. I decided, that day, that I would not support either team, this year, and to keep an eye on their fans. At the end of this year, like now, I am supposed to make a decision whether to go back, or not. Yeah, I know, "Nobody cares." Well, I care, damn it.
I have been a loyal fan of the Oakland/LA Raiders since their first year in the AFL. Fifty-one years, up to the time of the "incident". The first professional football game I ever went to was a 49er - Green Bay game, back when YA Tittle QB'd the Niners, and Bart Starr the Packers. It's a long time invested; many more heartbreaks than rejoicings; but at the end of the day, they're my teams.
It's like rooting for both the Giants and A's in baseball. I did that for years, until my wife and daughters had to witness a violent act at the Oakland Coliseum after a preseason match-up between the Bay Area Teams. This poor guy, wearing a half-Giant/half-A's cap, never saw the punch that dropped him, delivered by a guy in a Oakland A's cap. Nope, sorry, I am no longer supporting the A's. EVER. Again, who cares? And again, I do.
It's a matter of principle to me. I am not a violent person. Sure, I have people I'd like to mutilate, but there's a big difference between hoping it happens, and causing it to happen. When it comes right to it, I haven't got the stomach for it. I no more want to be the cause of someone elses pain than I would want someone to inflict pain on me. My belief is that there is too much pain in just living. I don't wish to have more, neither does anyone else. There is always a way to resolve conflict without violence. If you must resort to violence to prove your point, you've lost the argument anyway.
"Football is a violent sport." People have told me this, in a futile attempt to rationalize what happened at that game, and it is true. However, the owners, and stadium people go out of their ways to make sure that injuries are kept to a minimum. As difficult as that may be, considering plays usually end with a crashing of two large, fast-moving bodies, it doesn't justify brawling in the stands, and gun-play in the parking lot. It cannot, not ever.
Most sports have a violence aspect to it, and I can think of few that do not. Wrestling. As odd as it sounds, wrestling is one of those few non-violent sport. I can hear the sputtering now, and anyone reading this is going to have a "Yeah, but...," and I will get to as many of them as I can think of. Since this started on football, let's compare wrestling to football.
Both have "offensive," and "defensive" aspects, but that does not make them violent. Agressive, perhaps, but not violent. Football has "attacks," air-attacks, ground-attacks, it uses blocks and tackles to fight for yardage. The object isn't just to win the game. It's to crush your opponent. To "beat the opponent to a pulp," massacre them, drive them into the mud. Wrestling, on the other hand has "holds," and "levers," and "falls." The object is to capture and restrain; not catch and kill. In wrestling, one is forbidden to cause undue pain, or do anything that might actually result in any injury. Points may be taken, warnings issued, or the match may be forfieted by anyone who does. That's why wrestling is a non-violent sport. Collegiate wrestling, that is. Not the WWE, or RAW, or any of that. Hell, that isn't even a sport.
To be honest, and I am always honest in my blogs, I was rooting for the Giants, at the beginning of the season, and after their mediocre start, I stopped keeping track. Since I was a Fan-at-large, so to speak, I was pulling for Green Bay to go undefeated, but when that streak was ended, lo and behold, the Giants are 7 and 7, and getting healthy. We don't get many Giant games out here on the Left Coast, I did see one of the two final games, and of course, all of the playoffs, but the Bay Area Faithful never saw it coming. It was a thing of beauty, the game at Candlestick. Any gunfire that erupted after that game was the Niner fans committing suicide... the Monday after, people acted like someone had died. I had a blast, watching the suffering.
OK, before anyone gets out a rope, although I did not support the Bay Area teams this year, the Conference Championship game was the only one I actually rooted against one of them. Look at it as going on a fan's injured reserve. Prior to that fateful game, I supported both teams, equally, as I could because of the Conference-difference. The idea of a SF - Oakland Super Bowl, to me, would be the best game ever. No matter who won, it would be the best. I was proud to be a fan of both teams, and to call myself a Niner-fan, or Raider-fan. That all ended this past pre-season.
I was injured by the eruption of violence at a sporting event in the US. It's bad enough to see it abroad, but in America? In the peace-loving Bay Area? It was a bit more than I could stand. I decided, that day, that I would not support either team, this year, and to keep an eye on their fans. At the end of this year, like now, I am supposed to make a decision whether to go back, or not. Yeah, I know, "Nobody cares." Well, I care, damn it.
I have been a loyal fan of the Oakland/LA Raiders since their first year in the AFL. Fifty-one years, up to the time of the "incident". The first professional football game I ever went to was a 49er - Green Bay game, back when YA Tittle QB'd the Niners, and Bart Starr the Packers. It's a long time invested; many more heartbreaks than rejoicings; but at the end of the day, they're my teams.
It's like rooting for both the Giants and A's in baseball. I did that for years, until my wife and daughters had to witness a violent act at the Oakland Coliseum after a preseason match-up between the Bay Area Teams. This poor guy, wearing a half-Giant/half-A's cap, never saw the punch that dropped him, delivered by a guy in a Oakland A's cap. Nope, sorry, I am no longer supporting the A's. EVER. Again, who cares? And again, I do.
It's a matter of principle to me. I am not a violent person. Sure, I have people I'd like to mutilate, but there's a big difference between hoping it happens, and causing it to happen. When it comes right to it, I haven't got the stomach for it. I no more want to be the cause of someone elses pain than I would want someone to inflict pain on me. My belief is that there is too much pain in just living. I don't wish to have more, neither does anyone else. There is always a way to resolve conflict without violence. If you must resort to violence to prove your point, you've lost the argument anyway.
"Football is a violent sport." People have told me this, in a futile attempt to rationalize what happened at that game, and it is true. However, the owners, and stadium people go out of their ways to make sure that injuries are kept to a minimum. As difficult as that may be, considering plays usually end with a crashing of two large, fast-moving bodies, it doesn't justify brawling in the stands, and gun-play in the parking lot. It cannot, not ever.
Most sports have a violence aspect to it, and I can think of few that do not. Wrestling. As odd as it sounds, wrestling is one of those few non-violent sport. I can hear the sputtering now, and anyone reading this is going to have a "Yeah, but...," and I will get to as many of them as I can think of. Since this started on football, let's compare wrestling to football.
Both have "offensive," and "defensive" aspects, but that does not make them violent. Agressive, perhaps, but not violent. Football has "attacks," air-attacks, ground-attacks, it uses blocks and tackles to fight for yardage. The object isn't just to win the game. It's to crush your opponent. To "beat the opponent to a pulp," massacre them, drive them into the mud. Wrestling, on the other hand has "holds," and "levers," and "falls." The object is to capture and restrain; not catch and kill. In wrestling, one is forbidden to cause undue pain, or do anything that might actually result in any injury. Points may be taken, warnings issued, or the match may be forfieted by anyone who does. That's why wrestling is a non-violent sport. Collegiate wrestling, that is. Not the WWE, or RAW, or any of that. Hell, that isn't even a sport.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Gaining A Granddaughter
I have a two-and-a-half year old granddaughter. Isabella (Bella) Nicole Martin, born September 1,2009, at Balboa Naval Hospital, San Diego. She is my second grandchild, my first by blood. I've seen her a few times before Angel and Cory moved into Vacaville, while Cory goes to Bahrain for a year. I've seen her a few more times since then, but we are still on very tentative terms. In her entire life, I have held her once, received two reluctant hugs, and three or four "high-fives". She acknowledges me as her grandpa, and has called out for me twice, so it's just a matter of time before we get close.
In contrast Victor, my adopted grandson is an extremely affectionate little guy, who likes curling up with "Gmpa," but he's known me for most of his three years. I'm hoping to build that kind of relationship with Bella, and who knows, that may not ever develop, but I'm a patient man, I can wait. I told her last night, "One of these days, you and I are going to be great friend, and you'll wonder why it took so long." I got a hint of a smile, and a look that said, "Yeah, we'll see," but it's progress, and I fully believe what I told her. Someday...
I've said before, I never really knew a grandfather. The only grandparent I can remember was my paternal grandmother. Other kids, as I was growing up, had grandpas, and loved them a lot. I envied that my entire childhood. I watched my dad be a grandpa, and he was pretty good, as far as it went, but Dad wasn't a "hugger," or much of a "cuddler". I found the "magic" of hugs years ago, and Mr. Victor has taught me to be the latter. OK, maybe that isn't exactly true, but he re-awoke the desire to cuddle, at least.
We progress at glacial speed, but we progress.
In contrast Victor, my adopted grandson is an extremely affectionate little guy, who likes curling up with "Gmpa," but he's known me for most of his three years. I'm hoping to build that kind of relationship with Bella, and who knows, that may not ever develop, but I'm a patient man, I can wait. I told her last night, "One of these days, you and I are going to be great friend, and you'll wonder why it took so long." I got a hint of a smile, and a look that said, "Yeah, we'll see," but it's progress, and I fully believe what I told her. Someday...
I've said before, I never really knew a grandfather. The only grandparent I can remember was my paternal grandmother. Other kids, as I was growing up, had grandpas, and loved them a lot. I envied that my entire childhood. I watched my dad be a grandpa, and he was pretty good, as far as it went, but Dad wasn't a "hugger," or much of a "cuddler". I found the "magic" of hugs years ago, and Mr. Victor has taught me to be the latter. OK, maybe that isn't exactly true, but he re-awoke the desire to cuddle, at least.
We progress at glacial speed, but we progress.
Friday, February 3, 2012
I'm On A Roll, So Call Me A Sandwich
OK, that one is bad. Even for me, but it came on all of a sudden, I couldn't help it. I could go back and change it, but don't feel like it. Yes, it's going to be one of those rambles. I've been slovenly, lately, and I blame it on my back. That problem, for the next eight to ten weeks, has been taken care of, so I've got to stop being lazy all the freaking time. The pain, for all intents, is gone, I have to get up and start thinking about stuff again. I have to keep writing, maybe a number of pages/words or something every day. Work on the craft. Tell some stories. Maybe, while I'm at it, I can solve all the world's problems... Don't hold your breath quite yet...
Twenty-twelve. A leap year, 366 days, more campaign stuff, oh boy! I mean, it's bad enough that you have to adjust your watch calendar (some aren't programmed), but children born on that day really only have a birthday every four years, and then, it has to be an election year. One more stinking day of "I will do this/that/the other in the first 100 days of my new administration." Both of 'em will do it; whomever wins won't be able to do anything because of a divided Congress, so we begin The Season of Lies.
I'll throw down, right now, and say I support Mitt Romney for President. I've been a Mitt-fan for a number of years. When a Republican became Governor of Massachutsets, it really got my attention. Watching him, at the begining of his term, I saw a man who was a Moderate, something you rarely hear about during an election, a man who could represent me. When his campaign fizzled in '08, I've prayed that 2012 would be his year.
We will stop, at this point, to state that my support has nothing to do with the fact that he is a Mormon, like me, contrary to popular belief, Mitt Romney will not outlaw coffee, tobbacco, or liquor, nor will he require everyone to convert. Yeah, I know, that one sounds stupid, but it's something I've heard from a young person. There are no intentions to move the White House to Salt Lake City, and the Church Presidency will not serve in his Cabinet (I've heard those, too). That's just stupid.
For me, it's all about what the man has accomplished in his life. He's taken companies that were failing, and made them profitable. He's also made himself a ton of money, and that's OK by me. He got rid of the things (and, unfortunately people, too) who weren't contributing cost-effectively, and streamlined organizations to do more, better, faster, and more efficiently.
I'm sorry, Progressivism, along with it's socialistic agenda, and secular humanist values does not represent me. It's not the direction this nation needs to go in now. Europe hasn't lead the world since the Renissance, really, I mean look at the Edenic conditions over there right not. WE CAN'T AFFORD IT. Spending at all levels of government need to be stripped to the barest essentials. Mr. Romney's philosophy of, "Is it worth borrowing from China?" is right on the money. Elected officials in all levels of government need to stop spending money they do not have. There just isn't a way to justify that.
First off, we need to get Barack Obama's name off of the checks. Next we need to do away with Obamacare. Third, we have to trim the fat out of government. To do that, we'll need a business man who has made a considerable fortune doing just that. We need Mitt Romney for President.
Twenty-twelve. A leap year, 366 days, more campaign stuff, oh boy! I mean, it's bad enough that you have to adjust your watch calendar (some aren't programmed), but children born on that day really only have a birthday every four years, and then, it has to be an election year. One more stinking day of "I will do this/that/the other in the first 100 days of my new administration." Both of 'em will do it; whomever wins won't be able to do anything because of a divided Congress, so we begin The Season of Lies.
I'll throw down, right now, and say I support Mitt Romney for President. I've been a Mitt-fan for a number of years. When a Republican became Governor of Massachutsets, it really got my attention. Watching him, at the begining of his term, I saw a man who was a Moderate, something you rarely hear about during an election, a man who could represent me. When his campaign fizzled in '08, I've prayed that 2012 would be his year.
We will stop, at this point, to state that my support has nothing to do with the fact that he is a Mormon, like me, contrary to popular belief, Mitt Romney will not outlaw coffee, tobbacco, or liquor, nor will he require everyone to convert. Yeah, I know, that one sounds stupid, but it's something I've heard from a young person. There are no intentions to move the White House to Salt Lake City, and the Church Presidency will not serve in his Cabinet (I've heard those, too). That's just stupid.
For me, it's all about what the man has accomplished in his life. He's taken companies that were failing, and made them profitable. He's also made himself a ton of money, and that's OK by me. He got rid of the things (and, unfortunately people, too) who weren't contributing cost-effectively, and streamlined organizations to do more, better, faster, and more efficiently.
I'm sorry, Progressivism, along with it's socialistic agenda, and secular humanist values does not represent me. It's not the direction this nation needs to go in now. Europe hasn't lead the world since the Renissance, really, I mean look at the Edenic conditions over there right not. WE CAN'T AFFORD IT. Spending at all levels of government need to be stripped to the barest essentials. Mr. Romney's philosophy of, "Is it worth borrowing from China?" is right on the money. Elected officials in all levels of government need to stop spending money they do not have. There just isn't a way to justify that.
First off, we need to get Barack Obama's name off of the checks. Next we need to do away with Obamacare. Third, we have to trim the fat out of government. To do that, we'll need a business man who has made a considerable fortune doing just that. We need Mitt Romney for President.
New Picture; New Look
I felt like a change was due. The Disneyland pic with my girls was a lot of fun, but they have their own lives now. I went into My Pictures, on my computer, and couldn't find a single picture of myself that was anywhere near descent. Back to an earlier day, less than 10 years, and we both, mostly, still look like that. I'll have to get Jacki to do something for me.
Please, allow me to introduce, for those who do not know her, the most wonderful woman in the entire world, my wife Mary. Say "Hello." Mary.
"Hello."
OK, enough silly. I do, however, want to nominate her for sainthood, for putting up with my crap for almost 40 years. Other than that, we have absolutely nothing in common. We are polar opposites on so many things, we've stopped trying to count them. Separately, we're two people. Together we can damn-near do anything. Together we have raised three great kids, all contributors to their communities, all assets to their employers. We've weathered births, deaths, weddings, addiction, and even the loss of a child. Separately, it would have killed us. Together, we managed to live through it all, and grow even closer together in the process.
It's only right that she be with me here, she's with me everywhere else. Well, at least until I can get Jacki to take some good pics.
Please, allow me to introduce, for those who do not know her, the most wonderful woman in the entire world, my wife Mary. Say "Hello." Mary.
"Hello."
OK, enough silly. I do, however, want to nominate her for sainthood, for putting up with my crap for almost 40 years. Other than that, we have absolutely nothing in common. We are polar opposites on so many things, we've stopped trying to count them. Separately, we're two people. Together we can damn-near do anything. Together we have raised three great kids, all contributors to their communities, all assets to their employers. We've weathered births, deaths, weddings, addiction, and even the loss of a child. Separately, it would have killed us. Together, we managed to live through it all, and grow even closer together in the process.
It's only right that she be with me here, she's with me everywhere else. Well, at least until I can get Jacki to take some good pics.
Who Knows?
I've been writing again. I've had trouble concentrating on writing, lately, due to sciatica, brought on by a herniated/bulging disk at L-5/S-1, I've written about it before. Got an epidural steroid injection on Tuesday, 1/31/2012, so it's a lot better. My appetite is back, all of that, so I feel an urge to splurge, as it were, and start wracking the blog.
I've been maintaining a conversation with the Opinions page Editor (Hi Karen!) about column writting, and possibly a little freelance work. The local paper has nothing open, at present, but that could change, although it wouldn't, most likely, be a paying gig. She advised me to start a blog, so I told her about my "rambles," and she has been here reading some of my stuff. I hope she keeps reading, even that would be pretty cool.
I mean, face it, who knows? Who the frack knows? I enjoy writing; I've been told I'm pretty good at it; I guess I'll just have to "pay my dues," as it were. I like telling stories, some of them actually true, others are influenced my desire to create a moral point, or something like that. Physical labor is no longer an option; I can't afford to get my teaching credential renewed, and couldn't deal with the stress, anyway; I'm 60 years old, and have the time to write every day. I just don't do it, for some long periods, because of my health problems. I have many, and although none, on their own, qualify for any disability assistance, together they mean I am no longer part of the "working force, " per se. I'm not really "hurting," financially, we pay our bills, and all, so life is actually pretty good. Social Security is on the horizon, and things will get a whole lot better.
I've been maintaining a conversation with the Opinions page Editor (Hi Karen!) about column writting, and possibly a little freelance work. The local paper has nothing open, at present, but that could change, although it wouldn't, most likely, be a paying gig. She advised me to start a blog, so I told her about my "rambles," and she has been here reading some of my stuff. I hope she keeps reading, even that would be pretty cool.
I mean, face it, who knows? Who the frack knows? I enjoy writing; I've been told I'm pretty good at it; I guess I'll just have to "pay my dues," as it were. I like telling stories, some of them actually true, others are influenced my desire to create a moral point, or something like that. Physical labor is no longer an option; I can't afford to get my teaching credential renewed, and couldn't deal with the stress, anyway; I'm 60 years old, and have the time to write every day. I just don't do it, for some long periods, because of my health problems. I have many, and although none, on their own, qualify for any disability assistance, together they mean I am no longer part of the "working force, " per se. I'm not really "hurting," financially, we pay our bills, and all, so life is actually pretty good. Social Security is on the horizon, and things will get a whole lot better.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Hypocrisy
I knew what this word meant, but I looked it up anyway. I did it mostly to use my Kindle, but also as much as to refresh my memory about its meaning. It's been a word that has gets used when talking about the subject of religion. OK, as a former English teacher, it was good to confirm that the term, and it's various iterrations, are being used correctly. I just don't get the philosophy behind it's use with regards to a group of people.
My wife tells me that someone told her that they did'nt believe in Organized Religion because it is full of hypocrites, and they don't want to be associated with hypocrites, lest they be deemed by others to be hypocrites. At least that's what I got from my wife, talking about a conversation she had recently. I couldn't believe my ears! I looked at her and said, "What?" To say that this excuse is la caca de vaca on a number of levels, is being kind. How stupid, how ignorant, how self-idulged is that outlook?
First of all, we are only allowed to call ourselves "hypocrite," no one else. Very few people are given the authority to judge others, so the whole excuse is hypocrisy. If you're going to sit in my congregation, and put your judgements on me, I'd just as well that you stay at home, thank you. I fought that battle years ago, and it wasn't a whole lot of fun. I have no wish to go through it with anyone ever again.
Unfortunately, people pass judgement on others every day, it's almost become automatic. It's wrong, way wrong, but it's become a form of self defence. Yes, we make thousands of "snap judgements" every day, but when we start making them about other people, we need to consider by what authority we are acting as judge. "Judge not, that you be not judged." Matt 7:1. Personally, it tells me that I need to be more accepting of others; I've got my own stuff to account for. In other words, I'm only responsible for my self. Others may appear to be hypocrites, but who am I to make that call?
Yes, I'm probably as guilty as anyone; it seems to be a human social thing. Usually, however, the only one who gets hurt by my judgements is me. Its a sado-masochistic thing. I deprive myself of a possible friendship because of something said, or done, or beleved about the other person. When I think of how great life really is, how much better would it have been expanded by one more ally? So, yeah, I take the brunt of it.
I go to church because I want to. I go because my Heavenly Father says I'm supposed to. I go because I feel better, more uplifted, when I do. The last thing I care about, in church, is what someone else thinks of me. I am what I am, and I make no excuses for it. I have reached a peace with what I've done, relying on the Attonement to know that that part of my life is over, and that I have been forgiven for my past. The fact that I know this of a surity is testemony of how much better my relationship is with Heavenly Father. I am only responsible for me, I go to church for me. Screw everyone else.
My wife tells me that someone told her that they did'nt believe in Organized Religion because it is full of hypocrites, and they don't want to be associated with hypocrites, lest they be deemed by others to be hypocrites. At least that's what I got from my wife, talking about a conversation she had recently. I couldn't believe my ears! I looked at her and said, "What?" To say that this excuse is la caca de vaca on a number of levels, is being kind. How stupid, how ignorant, how self-idulged is that outlook?
First of all, we are only allowed to call ourselves "hypocrite," no one else. Very few people are given the authority to judge others, so the whole excuse is hypocrisy. If you're going to sit in my congregation, and put your judgements on me, I'd just as well that you stay at home, thank you. I fought that battle years ago, and it wasn't a whole lot of fun. I have no wish to go through it with anyone ever again.
Unfortunately, people pass judgement on others every day, it's almost become automatic. It's wrong, way wrong, but it's become a form of self defence. Yes, we make thousands of "snap judgements" every day, but when we start making them about other people, we need to consider by what authority we are acting as judge. "Judge not, that you be not judged." Matt 7:1. Personally, it tells me that I need to be more accepting of others; I've got my own stuff to account for. In other words, I'm only responsible for my self. Others may appear to be hypocrites, but who am I to make that call?
Yes, I'm probably as guilty as anyone; it seems to be a human social thing. Usually, however, the only one who gets hurt by my judgements is me. Its a sado-masochistic thing. I deprive myself of a possible friendship because of something said, or done, or beleved about the other person. When I think of how great life really is, how much better would it have been expanded by one more ally? So, yeah, I take the brunt of it.
I go to church because I want to. I go because my Heavenly Father says I'm supposed to. I go because I feel better, more uplifted, when I do. The last thing I care about, in church, is what someone else thinks of me. I am what I am, and I make no excuses for it. I have reached a peace with what I've done, relying on the Attonement to know that that part of my life is over, and that I have been forgiven for my past. The fact that I know this of a surity is testemony of how much better my relationship is with Heavenly Father. I am only responsible for me, I go to church for me. Screw everyone else.
Monday, January 30, 2012
An Important Election
I claim to be politically neutral, albeit a registered Republican. I'm in the middle on most things, as are most people, I would be presumptive and claim (not the party affiliation part). We are considered Moderates, Middle-of-the-road, "Joe Sixpack," and a host of others. Somehow, although we are reasonable people, we allow the extremists from both the Left and the Right to dictate to which extreme we wish to have. Obama on the Left, the far-Left; a host of characters who quote Ronald Regan, and try to step the furthest Right. What about the majority of us?
So far, on the Republican-side, Mitt Romney has been able to keep some of his Moderate plans for the country, things most of us want to see happen in government. Newt Gingrich gets weirder every day with stuff like settlements on the moon, and kids working at their schools. Ron Paul wins the "Candidate Who Most Resembles a Corpse" award, and works very hard at making himself irrelevant. Santorum? I don't know... he doesn't do much for me. I have trouble envisioning him as a leader, but that's just me.
I'm going to hang with my boy Mitt, pray that people can get over his religious affiliation, and move on. We cannot afford to give Mr. Obama a second term, and trust me, I mean "afford." Some how, our elected officials have to learn the basics of accounting, and who better to teach them than a buisinessman?
So far, on the Republican-side, Mitt Romney has been able to keep some of his Moderate plans for the country, things most of us want to see happen in government. Newt Gingrich gets weirder every day with stuff like settlements on the moon, and kids working at their schools. Ron Paul wins the "Candidate Who Most Resembles a Corpse" award, and works very hard at making himself irrelevant. Santorum? I don't know... he doesn't do much for me. I have trouble envisioning him as a leader, but that's just me.
I'm going to hang with my boy Mitt, pray that people can get over his religious affiliation, and move on. We cannot afford to give Mr. Obama a second term, and trust me, I mean "afford." Some how, our elected officials have to learn the basics of accounting, and who better to teach them than a buisinessman?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Voter ID Issues
Several states are requiring a photo ID to be presented at the polls. What is the problem with that? Is it because 50 years ago that was used as a tactic to prohibit people from voting? Those days are long past, it's time to move on.
Positive, photo-identification should be required in every state. The argument is weak, that college students would not be able to vote. If they can't figure out how to arrange for absentee voting, maybe they aren't smart enough to be in college in the first place. As for the racial implications, we've gotten way beyond the Jim Crow-days. Everyone, according to most local, state, and federal laws, is supposed to be able to positively identify themselves to any authorities when requested. What, I ask again, is the problem with that?
It's always the Democrats, screaming about disenfranchising people, and suspiciously quiet when it's reported that voter fraud is on the rise. Did we learn anything from the ACORN debacle? Hello? There are, literally thousands of registered voters who do not exist. If this, and this is only my theory, has been "business as usual" for voter registration over the years, there could be millions. What stops people from using them? Positive photo-identification.
Even then, it's a crap-shoot. People enter this country on fake ID's all of the time, it's just that TSA, and Homeland don't make a big deal out of it. My dad, a former correctional officer, said that most convicted felons had multiple ID's, mostly drivers licences. In California, we give State ID cards to illegal aliens, so they can get on State assistance programs. So, again, what's the problem with showing ID's? You get them to show to people, why not the nice folks at the polling station?
Positive, photo-identification should be required in every state. The argument is weak, that college students would not be able to vote. If they can't figure out how to arrange for absentee voting, maybe they aren't smart enough to be in college in the first place. As for the racial implications, we've gotten way beyond the Jim Crow-days. Everyone, according to most local, state, and federal laws, is supposed to be able to positively identify themselves to any authorities when requested. What, I ask again, is the problem with that?
It's always the Democrats, screaming about disenfranchising people, and suspiciously quiet when it's reported that voter fraud is on the rise. Did we learn anything from the ACORN debacle? Hello? There are, literally thousands of registered voters who do not exist. If this, and this is only my theory, has been "business as usual" for voter registration over the years, there could be millions. What stops people from using them? Positive photo-identification.
Even then, it's a crap-shoot. People enter this country on fake ID's all of the time, it's just that TSA, and Homeland don't make a big deal out of it. My dad, a former correctional officer, said that most convicted felons had multiple ID's, mostly drivers licences. In California, we give State ID cards to illegal aliens, so they can get on State assistance programs. So, again, what's the problem with showing ID's? You get them to show to people, why not the nice folks at the polling station?
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