Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition

Earth Day

2009-04-23T14:46:00.000-07:00

I celebrated by finally cleaning up all those old tires in my yard.

No need to thank me, just doing my part.

From the vault

2009-04-19T23:11:00.001-07:00

"I'm a swinger, baby!"

And the topic is "Stupid things rich idiots say"

2009-04-09T10:08:00.000-07:00

I've been working on multi-entity, multi-state tax returns for about a week for a new client. This client engaged us because his last beancounter botched his returns and he got into hot water with the taxing authorities. Before he engaged us he emphasized, "I want it done right, no shortcuts. I realize it will be expensive but you have a reputation for being thorough and doing good work which is why I want you to do it. I'm going out of town on April 12th, if you can have the returns done before then I'd appreciate it."

The project was extremely complex and his supporting documentation was subpar. There were times I wished he hadn't engaged us. Nonetheless, I was able to finish the project last night (ahead of schedule!) . This morning he came into the office to sign the returns and get them into the mail. Upon seeing the stack of returns he exclaimed, "Holy *bleep*! What is all that?" I explained that the various entities each had multi-state filing requirements and failure to file would eventually subject him to the same problems he encountered with his prior CPA. He was visibly annoyed. After signing the last return he stood up and tossed the pen on the table. As he put on his jacket to leave he said, "You know, I don't think all those returns are really necessary, I hope you're not planning to bill me for them."

Has anyone seen my gun?

Chasing butterflies

2009-03-17T17:40:00.001-07:00

I spoke to Donna a short while ago and I asked, "what are the boys doing?" Turns out it's the time of year when the monarch butterflies make their migration north and the boys are running around the front yard trying to catch them. Probably sounds silly but one of my fondest memories from when they were little (2 years old or so) was chasing butterflies with them. It was a year of an extraordinary migration and they were thick as flies at a fertilizer factory. We collected them by the dozens.

But not today. Here I sit, looking longingly out the window and wish that I was chasing butterflies. *sigh*

Advice on women

2008-12-05T11:32:00.001-08:00

There's a little girl, Faith, in Jack and Joe's class. Joe has had it bad for Faith since the first day of school last year. And when I say he has it bad, I mean bad. We bumped into her at the school's carnival back in October and it was all he could do to say "hi" to her without throwing up all over himself. Poor lad, he inherited his father's skillz when it comes to dazzling the ladies.

Jack is a different guy altogether. He's got no problem chatting up just about any girl he comes across. At first I thought Jack simply believed that girls are just soft boys but I was wrong. He knows the difference and interacts with them on a totally different level. The kid has a confidence that just will not quit. If I could bottle that I could take over the world in a day.

Last night, an hour or so after putting the boys to bed, I wandered down the hall and found this drawing on the floor next to Joe's bed. To fully appreciate this drawing you must click it so you can see the detail...
At first I thought Joe had written it and I had a difficult time containing my laughter. But when Donna saw it she said, "This is Jack's book, I think he wrote it." Which made it a lot less funny because I'm not going to put up with him clowning on his brother over such a subject. So this morning I took Jack aside and asked, "Did you draw this?" He didn't get his usual guilty grin when he's been caught doing something he knows is wrong and simply replied, "yeah". I started to lecture him about making fun of his brother and hurting his feelings when he interrupted me and said, "Dad, I wasn't making fun of him, I was trying to help. How's he gonna learn if I don't help him?" My reply? "Touche, son."

Thankful

2008-11-11T21:19:00.000-08:00

(clicky for biggerness)

I realize this year has been very lean blog-wise. It's not that good, blogworthy stuff hasn't happened to me it's just that I've been busy. And anybody that blogs will tell you that lots of times you have to just be motivated to blog. Over the past year...

I watched my sons step onto the field at Dodger stadium, their image projected on the jumbotron, and heard the crowd go wild as they said, "It's time for Dodger baseball!"
I went snowmobiling in Mammoth with my family, Mema and Mike & Melissa.
I went with Donna and the boys to visit Nana & Papa in Georgia where we were absolutely spoiled.
I watched, teary-eyed as my son was wheeled into a surgical room and then I sat for what seemed like an eternity and forced myself to not think what life would be like without him.
I spent 5 days in Mammoth with Donna, Jack & Joe fishing, napping, hiking, laughing.
I walked with my sons to within 20 feet of a beautiful 5x5 buck.
I did a major overhaul of the bedrooms to give Joe his own Dodger room and Jack his own hunting room.
I took both boys with me to Arizona to shoot dove and we had the time of our lives.
I celebrated 12 years of being married to the only one I could ever love and the only one that could ever love me.
I took a fishing trip with my old best buddy that I hadn't seen in 6 years.
I went on my first ever duck hunting trip and actually enjoyed it, in spite of nearly drowning.
I watched Joe take the field and strike out 3 straight batters on 11 pitches, come back the next inning and strike out 2 more on 7 straight pitches and then proceed to bean the next 3 batters loading the bases. And when his teammates gagged an easy force out to end the inning on the next batter I watched as he kept his cool and got his team out of the inning by striking out his next victim with 3 pitches.

All that stuff happened and a whole bunch more. But what I had to share was this precious note from my son. It was totally unsolicited, I just happened to find it on my bed next to my pillow. And now here I sit feeling totally unworthy of the gift of being Daddy to two very special little boys and husband to an amazing wife and I find myself saying, "Lord, I am thankful for You are my Father."

Full of hopes and dreams

2008-08-11T11:59:00.001-07:00

2007 Part III, the wrap-up

2008-07-22T17:59:00.000-07:00

By popular demand (Steve, you’re popular!)…

Here we go, the end of 2007. I’m going to breeze through this relatively quickly because I have some neat stuff in 2008 to share and really, you’re probably not all that interested anyway.

So it was the beginning of October and we were invited by some good friends to join them at their cabin in Big Bear for the annual Troutfest. Since their kids are home schooled they planned to stop at Riley Farms in Oak Glen to take in the Revolutionary War Adventure. They graciously invited us to accompany them. When Donna first mentioned it to me I wasn’t all that wild about the idea but I figured “when in Rome” so I agreed. I couldn’t have been happier that I decided as I did. That was one of the neatest experiences I’ve ever had. If you haven’t been I highly recommend it. You WILL leave with a greater appreciation of your freedom and the price paid by others for it. Some pics of the experience.

I’m thinking of building one of these in the backyard for extracurricular learnin’ by the young’uns when they misbehave.

This guy was amazing, never breaking from character the entire time we were there.

This man is the owner/operator. He clearly sees this as more than a job, he sees it as a calling. Amazing man.

After our Revolutionary adventure we drove up to Big Bear. It was COLD. The wind was blowing and big, dark clouds came in. By 5:00 it was snowing. I’d like to remind you that this was the beginning of October. And since it was the beginning of October and we were in California we were not prepared for snow.

The next morning we rose early and got to the dock and boarded our iceberg, er… ice-covered pontoon boat. Did I mention it was cold? The clouds had moved out and left sparkling clear skies in their wake but it was still blisteringly cold. We cruised to the west end and anchored up. Notice the “smoke on the water” in the background. And the red noses in the foreground.

After an hour or so we had no suspects in custody so we tried another spot. Jack drew first blood for the men.

The ladies weren’t far behind.

Awhile later Pat landed a real hawg but I didn’t get any pictures. Sorry Pat, I’m a loser. After a little more time Jack caught another, Joe got one, I caught a little dink and then we called it a day.

Day number two was fairly uneventful fishing-wise but we did pretty good at the raffle. Jack and Joe both won kid tackle boxes with fishing goodies inside. I won a tackle box (with goodies inside) and a subscription to Western Outdoor News. I was especially happy about the WON subscription. I love to read that thing but I’m just too cheap to spring for a subscription to it (it’s like 40 bucks a year!). Knowing how much I loved it, Sally always got a subscription for me for Christmas. When I opened the envelope and saw the certificate I said to Donna, “Sally’s up in heaven pulling strings for me.” I miss that lady.

October brought Halloween:

November brought a new roof. American Cemwood, a POX on your house! Hey, wanna see what 20 grand looks like?

Before:
After:

Not too impressive, is it?

December brought a day pheasant hunting with the boys and Cabela. Cabela has had no formal training but that dog has the skillz. She locked onto an area and wouldn’t leave it, no matter how much I hollered at her. Suddenly she zeroed onto a scrub bush that the boys and I had walked right by several times. She started digging at it and out popped big rooster. I let it get a bit out and dumped it. She was on it before it even hit the ground and brought it back to me. Good dog!

Later that day Donna & I went to drop the boys at my mom’s house. The plan was for us to meet some friends for a date night out. But when I walked into the house… surprise! Donna and my mom had put together a surprise party for my 40^th birthday. It’s a little bit creepy walking into a house with a bunch of your friends and family (unexpectedly) standing there yelling something at you. My first thought – “Is this an intervention? I’ll go on a diet, I promise.” It was a great party and some friends that I hadn’t seen in a long time (even since high school) made it.

Party people

Check out this cake - shotguns & rifles to spell out my name. Awesome.

Later that month, as most red-blooded Americans do, we got ready to celebrate Jesus’ birthday. This includes spending a small fortune on a tree that barely fits inside our house. Yowzer, this year's was a big'un.

You know, I've gotten a lot of great presents over the years but He is by far the best present I’ve ever gotten. Here’s a few pics from His party.

Granny doin' her thing.My favorite Little Gal with her new dolly.
Jack & Joe with their first real noisemaker.

A week or so later we rocked in the New Year by going to Kiko’s house and feeding our tapeworms. I actually don’t think we rocked in the new year. If I recall correctly, we snored it in because, well, I’m 40 now and I’m old.

Stay tuned for some great stuff in 2008.

You should be so lucky.

2008-06-24T14:29:00.001-07:00

I haven’t blogged in awhile even though there has been plenty of neat stuff to share. I plan to get caught up in the next couple weeks. But in the meantime I had to share this special moment…

Yesterday was the first official day of summer, at least as far as the boys are concerned. No school for three months! After climbing out of bed yesterday morning Donna made her way down the hall to the kitchen. She was turned back by Jack who told her, “We’re bringing you breakfast, go back to bed.” Since we’ve been out of town for a week and the cupboards are pretty bare we waited nervously, wondering what was in store for us. Watermelon with relish? Cornflakes with ranch dressing? It turned out to be pretty darn good. Juice, cereal and toast (in massive quantities). To see them walk into our room carrying a tray full of their labors, smiling ear to ear was a wonderful gift. After handing a tray to me Jack raced to the kitchen and returned with a “bouquet of flowers”. See the picture below. Picked fresh from our backyard. And yes, that’s a tomato in there. I love my boys.

Is there an end to this week? This day?

2008-04-08T16:15:00.001-07:00

Is it just me or is this the longest day in the history of mankind? And then, as an added knee to the nutz I just realized that it's only Tuesday, not Wednesday. Like a highway in the desert this seems to drag on forever and ever and ever.

I just have to keep reminding myself I have this to look forward to...

He is risen!

2008-03-22T12:21:00.001-07:00

You are more than what we can sing
You are God and nothing we bring
Is fit for a King
So, search us and know deep in our souls
We praise You

You are infinite worth
When we’ve not the words
Our hearts will sing
We are here on the earth
And somehow we ‘re heard
When our hearts sing to You

You are more than words on our lips
We are poor, with nothing to give
But, we want to bring
More than the song we sing to praise You, we praise You

You are infinite worth
When we’ve not the words
Our hearts will sing
We are here on the earth
And somehow we ‘re heard
When our hearts sing to You

It’s You we engage
It’s You we embrace
When our hearts sing

You are infinite worth
When we’ve not the words
Our hearts will sing
We are here on the earth
And somehow we ‘re heard
When our hearts sing to You

I didn't write this but I could have...

2008-02-29T11:03:00.000-08:00

A couple was lying in bed one evening, when the misses felt her husband begin to fondle her in ways he hadn't in quite some time.

It almost tickled as his fingers started at her neck, and then began moving down past the small of her back.

He then caressed her shoulders and neck, slowly worked his hand down over her breasts, stopping just over her lower stomach.

He then proceeded to place his hand on her left inner arm, caressed past the side of her breast again, working down her side, passed gently over her buttock and down her leg to her calf.

Then, he proceeded up her inner thigh, stopping just at the uppermost portion of her leg.

He continued in the same manner on her right side, then suddenly stopped, rolled over and became silent.

As she had become quite aroused by this caressing, she asked in a loving voice, "Honey, that was wonderful. Why did you stop?"

"I found the remote," he mumbled.

2007, Installment II

2008-02-26T22:08:00.000-08:00

Here’s installment II and it’s not as soon as I’d hoped but I’ve been busy so don’t gimme a hard time. Since we returned from our roadtrip early we decided to hit the beach for a day. After nearly 3 weeks of 100+ degree heat it was a little bit of heaven to sit on the shore in 75 degree weather with an ocean breeze in our faces. I napped, the boys played in the surf, Donna read a magazine. Sweet.A family visiting from Kansas had laid their blanket out next to us and the lady kept trying to make small talk with me while a couple of their kids played in the water. I don’t really like people in general and I really don’t like small talk with people I don't know, even when I’m not trying to nap. I was wracking my brain for a way to distract her so I could move to the other side of Donna and get back to nappin’. As the woman droned on about their long drive to California I was thinking of a painless way to kill myself (gnaw through my wrists?) when I noticed a school of dolphins had come close to the shore.
I seized this golden opportunity and began shrieking, “Sharks! Sharks! They’re in close! Run! Save your kids while you can! Hurry! They’ll be eaten for sure! Do something!” The woman and her husband jumped to their feet and raced to the water, dragging their kids to the safety of the shore while I made my move to the safety of the other side of Donna, where sweet slumber awaited me.

Next came VBS week and that was fun but it was a lot of work and we were tired so the following weekend we hooked up the pop-up trailer and met Mike & Melissa up at Emma Wood for a couple nights of beach camping. It’s not really an ideal camping spot for the boys because it’s too rocky for their tastes but there’s something about going to sleep to the sound of crashing waves. Mike & Melissa

Here's me with my favorite little gal in the whole world, enjoying the morning on the beach.

At the beginning of August I set out on the annual “guys only” fishing trip to Mammoth. In the past a slew of guys went and it was a blast. This year the usual suspects fagged out for one reason or another – work, lack of work, mommy wouldn’t let them, whatever. So it was just me and Dean this year. I have to say, outside of the year Jason went I think this was the most fun trip in the 6 years of the trip’s history. There was zero pressure to do anything, I didn’t hassle planning a menu & grocery shopping (we just bought food in town), there was plenty of room to sleep and plenty of room to fish. And Dean is just an easygoing guy. The fishing was excellent, I scored limits both days. We slept in till 10:00 each morning, we took naps, had great conversation around the campfire, I spent time in the Word. It was just incredibly recharging.

At the end of August school kicked off yet again. First grade, these boys are growing like weeds. Time really flies.
This year Donna was asked to serve as the vice president of the PTF. She’s incredibly gifted in this area so she took the position. And it’s a pain in the neck sometimes but on the upside I get to call her “The VP” and I’m technically “Mr. Vice President”. Which is nice.

At the end of the first week of school Jack and I traveled to Arizona for the dove opener (as usual). The heat was oppressive which translated to excellent hunting. We got down there early and scouted our spot. It was a great spot, there were a TON of birds in the area. So the next morning we rose extra early and raced to the area. We parked the truck and looked at the clock. It read something ridiculous like 3:30 in the morning. Take a close look at that clock.

So we sat in the truck running the air conditioning and guarded our spot, prepared to jump out and defend it with extreme prejudice if necessary. Turns out it wasn’t necessary, we didn’t see another soul the whole time. The shooting was fast and furious, we were dumping birds left and right. The Eurasian Collared doves were in abundance so we knocked down a total of 10 birds before succumbing to the heat.
We retreated to the air conditioned sanctuary of the Super 8 for showers, naps, and pay-per-view movies.
I took this picture because it just reminded me how he's my little boy... and I know someday he'll think I'm a dummy but right now he wants to do everything like me, right down to lining up his boots the same as mine. I wish I was half the man he thinks I am. Around 3:00 Jack began prodding me, “Daddy, c’mon!! Let’s go hunting!!” I tried to tell him it was too early and too hot but he wouldn’t budge so we got dressed and went down to the truck. I can’t really explain how bloody hot it was. I have an outdoor thermometer on my truck that has a max reading of 122 degrees and the thing was pegged. As we drove through town I was looking for any excuse to delay so we pulled into Dairy Queen and I bought him an ice cream cone. I was pleased to see him take his time with it. But eventually he was done and we were forced to brave the heat. After a short drive we arrived at an alfalfa field where we’d had good luck in the past. We took our position along an irrigation canal and waited. As I had anticipated we were too early and it was too hot. I don’t recall ever being so hot in all my life. I was pouring ice water over both our heads and it wasn’t doing a thing. Now Jack is a die-hard hunter and he’s not going to complain about anything but I could look at him and tell he was miserable. When he said, “It sure is hot, isn’t it Daddy?” I knew he was struggling so I said, “Yeah, let’s get out of here.” It was obviously the right choice because he didn’t protest one word. We got into the truck and cooled off in the air conditioning and cruised the area. After an hour or so we found a field that we nicknamed “The Mother Lode.” The birds were thick as flies at a fertilizer factory. We didn’t give a rat’s fanny about the heat as we dropped bird after bird. I was one bird short of my limit when I looked over at Jack and noticed that he was doing his best impression of Bob the Tomato from VeggieTales fame.

His face was a deep red and he looked miserable. It actually frightened me. I quickly cased my gun and began pouring ice water over his head and body. Within a couple minutes he cooled down and was back to his old self. But rather than risk anything happening to my favorite hunting partner we just rolled back to the hotel where we cleaned the birds and took showers. We had an early dinner and then turned in early (we actually fell asleep watching The Sandlot). We learned our lesson from the day before and slept in a bit. We arrived at our spot just a few minutes before legal shooting time and got ready for another stellar day of shooting dove. We were not disappointed as they bombed in on us from all angles. By 7:30 our limit was in the bag and we were on our way back to the motel.
We got home from Blythe around 2:00 and it was still blazing in the valley. We had already made plans for a Labor Day swim party at our house and as fun as it sounded in the planning stages.... I was just freakin' tired and didn't want a house full of people. But they came anyway and it turned out to be plenty of fun. I have pictures of Dean in various stages of slumber on my furniture but I'll spare you the ugly details.

Later that month we took the trip to Independence with Dean and his kids. It's in the archives so feel free to dig it out. I'll just post this picture like any proud daddy would.
That takes us through September 30th. It's late and I'm tired else I'd keep going. I'll have the remaining 3 months up in a week. If it's not a week, it'll be two. Relax, it's not like you have anything better to do with your life.

Better late than never, the year 2007 in review. - Part ONE

2008-01-12T22:11:00.000-08:00

I’ve had a pretty severe blogging dryspell but I’m hoping to make up for it here. It’s the year in review, so sit back and get caught up on what’s happening in the lives of the jetsetting Hogskins. And remember, click on any picture for biggerness.

In January we celebrated Donna and Melissa’s birthdays. Look at this woman. I love her.

We had dinner at Mema’s, chicken casserole. My tapeworm was in heaven. Here’s birthday girl number 2 with her other half and Joey. It’s always nice to remind her that she’s 2 years older than me. Booyah!

Here’s my favorite little girl with her Daddy. She’s not really that small (and her daddy’s head isn’t really that big) it’s just the camera angle. This kid is awesome, I smile whenever I think about her.

February rolled around and Donna went away for a scrapbooking weekend. We had guy time so we threw a couple guns into the truck and headed for the hills. Jack and Joe decided they wanted to shoot a big buck so I gave them my rifle and told them to meet me back at the truck in a couple hours and I’d help them skin it out. Apparently their deer hunting skills are on par with their father’s because they came back empty handed.

The end of February brought opening day. They’re in the big leagues now, hitting balls from a pitching machine.

The boys celebrated 6 years of me not making good on my pledge to drown them if they didn’t buck up and behave by having a pirate/puppy party. Again, Donna threw a great party. I’m undeserving of that woman.

About this time I went underground and didn’t really surface for about 6 weeks due to tax season hell. This one was the worst in my 15 year career. I hated it. I considered going back to modeling. Donna seized on the opportunity to take the boys camping with Danny & Mary & kids to Leo Carillo. Judging by the pictures they had a great time. I wasn’t bitter that they were camping at the beach while I was doing taxes. Really, I wasn’t. Not that much, anyway.
For my Sioux Falls pal that come March will be enjoying a daytime high temperature of -3 take a look at this.
I know the way things are going someday you'll be governor or king or president or whatever it is you freezing crazies have but doesn't this make you want to move back here just a little?

Look at these two, a couple non-tax return preparing creeps if I ever saw any. Like I said, I’m not bitter.
Easter Sunday was kind of a bummer this year. The night before Joe was up to the wee hours empyting his innards via his mouth onto the hallway carpet. The next morning he sat on the couch and navigated his brother to the treats that the easter bunny had left him.

Eventually he decided, “This is for suckers, I’m gettin’ my own loot.”

I stayed home from church with Joe while Donna and Jack attended services. At some point he felt better, at least well enough to go to Mema’s house for the outdoor egg hunt. Looks like he’s feeling better, doesn’t it?

Here’s my favorite niece sporting the latest in fashionable headgear.

I can’t remember if I mentioned it but this tax season really sucked. So I decided to take the boys on a little weekend camping trip. The trip served dual purposes – besides the camping it gave Donna a little “me time”, something she hadn’t had in about 8 or 10 weeks. We went to Cachuma with Dean and his boys for a couple nights. We rode bikes, told guy jokes, scratched ourselves, fished. It was pretty much heavenly. Joe landed this hawg on the first evening.

Turns out it was the only fish to be caught. I cooked it up for Sunday’s dinner when we got home. Joe kept reminding us that he was the only one to catch a fish. “Isn’t this a good-tasting fish I caught?” “Aren’t you glad I caught this fish, because you guys didn’t and if I hadn’t caught this fish we wouldn’t have anything to eat?” “Isn’t this a good fish?” It was a big fish and a tasty fish but he was still a punk for reminding us like that.

At the end of May Joey participated in the school’s talent show. He did a demo of “stack ‘ems” in front of the whole school. I couldn’t get out of work but I watched the video of it. He was the only kindergartener to perform. I was so proud of him, he was clearly petrified but he choked it back and did great.

June came quick and we attended my nephew Ian’s wedding. Though I have a strict policy of not attending weddings there was no getting out of this one. Especially after I bagged on the last one. And I kinda wanted to go because I like Ian. So we went. It was a surprisingly good time and I was glad I went. But don’t tell my wife.

Alright, brace yourself because this is a long one. This is the vacation we’ve wanted to do for years but there was always one reason or another we didn’t. It was the mother of all roadtrips and months & months of planning went into it. The itinerary was planned with exactness, there was no varying. Except for when your wife is doubled over in pain two days before you’re supposed to leave. My wife is tough and this was no ordinary bellyache, this was something special. After much poking, prodding, imaging and hemming & hawing they said “You’ve got diver-something or other and you should cancel your trip. Today is Thursday. Take these pills. If you’re not better by Monday go to the emergency.” On Sunday (the day we were supposed to leave) she said, “I feel better, let’s go tomorrow morning.” Then she fired up her van to go do an errand and it sounded like a cat was caught in the fan belt. “Lord, are you telling me not to go on this trip because if You are, just come right out and say it by blowing up the engine because I don’t need this kind of stress.” The next morning the dealer took the car in pronto and had it back to us in a couple hours. We looked at each other and said, “Let’s do this thang” and loaded up. Within an hour the house was in the rear-view mirror and we were on our way. It’s kind of a creepy feeling leaving your house like that for three weeks. Fortunately I had Dean to check on it and mitigate any major catastrophe like a busted pipe flooding my living room. So we were on the road about noon and we drove straight through to Salt Lake City stopping just long enough for fast food in Vegas and to stretch our legs at a UT rest stop.

It was a marathon driving session. After 11 hours we rolled into Salt Lake and crashed at the Embassy Suites. We were dead on our feet.We slept so soundly that we didn’t move until about 10:00 and we missed the stellar breakfast we’d heard about so hit McDonald’s (I’ve started a petition to make it a felony to call that swill food) and then got on the road. Within a few hours we were in Idaho. This is about as much as we saw of it.

By early afternoon we were on the edge of Wyoming, looking over the Jackson Hole area. To say it is beautiful is an understatement.

We got down into the town of Jackson and went to the park with the four antler arches. They’re pretty darn cool.

But the town of Jackson (in my opinion) is a total tourist trap and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The traffic rivals the worst I’ve ever seen (since I drive the 405/101 everyday that should tell you something). There was a bunch of shops where you can pay $20,000 for a blanket or a picture frame or “I {heart} Jackson Hole” t-shirt but that assumes that you can find a parking space. We crept through town and finally made it north to our destination, the Flagg Ranch Resort.

The place is really nice, individual cabins about the property which is located in between the Grand Teton National Park and Yellowstone National Park. It’s nice because we were central to a lot of different stuff. We stayed there a handful of nights, making day trips to the Grand Teton park and into Yellowstone. We went to Jackson Lake, hiked to waterfalls, saw various critters up close. It was cool. Here we are at Jackson Lake watching a school of trout. Antelope

Buffalo
Two moose (mooses? meese? meeses?) The boys at a waterfall we hiked to. With the Tetons in the background

One day we stopped at a lakeside pizza place for dinner. We sat on the deck, ate pizza and just had a great time.We had just gotten back to the car and were heading back to our cabin when my stomach began turning over. I knew I needed a bathroom but I figured making it back to the cabin was doable. But the thing about these national parks is that they are HUGE and to preserve their national parkiness they are not littered with gas stations or rest stops or stores. Or bathrooms. When we were about 20 minutes away from the restaurant I realized that we still had about 30 miles until we were back at our cabin. And did I mention that the speed limit is 40 mph to keep you from running over the abundance of wildlife? The situation was getting terminal - squirming in the seat, sweaty upper lip, gurgling noises from my gut when a campground magically appeared. I tore into that place and found the only toilet for 30 miles. Thank God it was empty because I'd have pulled anybody short of the good Lord Himself off of that throne.

That night I didn't sleep well and I started to have some kind of worry attack. We were far away from home in the middle of freaking nowhere (which was the point of the story above, not to regale you with tales of my digestive gymnastics) and I just got this uneasy feeling that something bad was about to happen. The next morning the boys were up first, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was sitting on the edge of the bed with the camera in my lap and Jack walked up and stood in front of me with this big silly grin on his face. He didn't have a care in the world, it was like he knew that if anything happened his daddy would take care of it. I snapped a picture but I can still remember his expression without it.

At that moment I felt the Lord saying, "You need to have faith in Me the way this boy has faith in you." And I'm not some hocus-pocus type of Christian, I can only recall the Lord speaking to me in such a way one other time but I felt this total peace cover me and I just felt completely content and safe. It was a turning point for me. That day was a good one, we made a trip into Yellowstone and saw a lot of neat stuff.

Like this elk...And this incredible waterfall... We made our way over to see Old Faithful.Outside of Old Faithful, there is not a ton else to see at this location. There's a whole bunch of these...

They're little holes in the ground with bubbling mineral water that smells like somebody put my old football jock & a full baby diaper into a blender and ran it for a good five minutes.

Later that day we were back at the cabin for a wrestling match which ended up with one mild concussion when Jack fell off the bed and hit his head on the nightstand. I told Donna it probably could have been prevented if she had just said, "Knock it off!" but she didn't. She rebutted that she was screaming it the whole time, loud enough that the neighbors stopped what they were doing but we all know that my delicate little flower isn't capable of raising her voice like that.

The next morning we rose early and took a scenic float trip down the Snake River.

It was really cool. We shared the raft with these two 65+ year old English ladies who were a delight. They were very knowledgeable about birds and waterfowl, telling us in detail about each specie we saw.

At one point we were cruising along and I said, "Say, isn't that a bald eagle up there?"
The English ladies clasped their hands together and said, "Well DONE, Mr. Hogskin!" (say it aloud in an English accent, it's pretty funny).

Later that day we loaded up for our drive east to Cody. On the way we spotted this bull moose in a river...

I'd never been to Cody and only heard that it was a one horse town. What I heard was right. But it was one of the neatest places I've ever been, I suppose it just suits my redneck personality. I wouldn't want to live there but it's a great place to visit. We stayed at the Cody Legacy Inn (owned by Buffalo Bill Cody's grand-niece or somebody vaguely related). Couldn't have asked for a nicer place. The town is rich in history and character. Every year at that time they have a major rodeo invitational. We went to it both nights we were there and it was a blast.

There's a shop/mini-museum in town that has a miniature model of the history of the state. And I know you're thinking "lame" but it was actually pretty cool. I know what you're going to ask and the answer is "No, I didn't go to the Buffalo Bill Museum" because we ran out of time. And I was crushed about it but at least I now have a good reason to return. I did however hit the local fireworks store and did some damage. Donna & Joe were trying to harsh our mellow but Jack & I ignored them and went on a major spending spree. We bought a large assortment of felonious favors for the impending 4th of July.

The next day we headed east to South Dakota and traveled through the prettiest country I'd ever seen. There were deep green meadows that went as far as the eye could see and there wasn't a soul around. Heavenly.It was a very, very long drive but we finally arrived in...
We stayed at the K-Bar S Lodge and we had this view from our deck...
Which was nice. As excited as I was to see Mt. Rushmore I was more excited to see our friends Jason, Tracy and kids. We got settled in, fed our tapeworms, and then went to the monument.

Jason, being an artist and a history buff was a wealth of info about the monument and its history. He might consider adding "docent" to the myriad jobs he's doing right now.
The next day we visited a mine. The history of this area is rich and to see what some of these people went through in their quest for wealth is impressive. And crazy.

Safety briefing...You get to wear a helmet that's been warn by about 500 other people which is no problem for a germphobe like myself. I had the willies pretty much the whole time wondering what kind of yet undiscovered parasites were leaping from this stylish yellow bucket onto my dome but the helmet was a necessity due to the low rock ceiling. We went pretty deep into the mine and my claustrophobia was swelling. I was glad to get out. Yes - germphobia, claustrophobia, I'm nuts. I know. Thanks.
We spent the afternoon at the Black Hills National Forest having a picnic, swimming in the lake. That evening we visited Camp Judson, a nearby Christian Camp where Jason speaks regularly. After we grubbed we sat on the deck while the kids played in the field below. It's a great place. I like having friends in high places that can hook us up like this.

On the way back to the lodge we saw this group of democrats. I tried to do the world a favor and take a few out with the bumper but they got out of the way too quickly. Them democrats are sly! The next day we went east to Sioux Falls, Jason's home town. On the way we stopped at Wall Drug and if you've never been there I can't really describe it to you except to say it's the mother of all tourist traps and I LOVED IT. What you can expect if you decided to visit....
We pushed on and made it to Sioux Falls. We stayed at the Ramada because they have an indoor pool with a pirate ship. You know why they have an indoor pool with a pirate ship? Because it's so freakin' cold ten months out of the year that an outdoor pool would be solid ice. Anyway, it's cool and the kids (and adults) had a blast.We stayed there a night and then our buddies put us up at their place. It's a great place and I have some cool pictures of it but I can't post them because he's a bigshot in the state and it would be like posting photos of my last trip to Camp David, a no-no. On the 4th of July we visited the falls of Sioux Falls. Beautiful.
I love being an American.

Later we had a barbecue, bought a bunch more explosives and then went to Jason's buddy's place to blow them off.
If there were mountains nearby I'd move there in a heartbeat. I was in heaven. Another one of those benefits of having friends in high places kinda things.

The next day we packed the car and finally started to drive in the direction of home. I was a little sad because seeing Jason and his family was the high point of the vacation (for me, anyway). I miss them terribly. Anyway, we drove all day and ended up in Kearney, Nebraska to go to well, you know...I shot my wad (of money, that is) inside that place. It actually took two days to do so. We stayed at a motel overnight. I know, I accept your scorn.

We went south and into
We stayed with our buddies, Bruce & Melissa and Bryce & Corey. Our first day there we went to Red Rock Amphitheater near Golden. A visitor's center told about all the bands that have played there. The list is impressive.There's a river that runs right through Golden and we had a picnic right next to it. The local yokels grab any floating item they can find and float down during the summer. Looked fun but we weren't really prepared.

That night we visited the Adams family. No, the other Adams family.

And we got to celebrate Jeremy's birthday with them. Which was nice.

The next day we loaded up and hit the road. We had planned to overnight in Grand Junction but we were making good time so we planned to push through to Vegas. Little did we know that darn near all of Utah was on fire. So we got stuck about three hours outside of Vegas and had to get a hotel. A nice place but in the middle of BF Egypt. The next morning the fire danger was gone and we made it into Vegas. I have to tell you, I really hate that place. The heat was oppressive. Everything is way overpriced. There's women walking around with their girlparts hanging out at all hours of the day & night. The whole place is just a big steaming pile. But we had a voucher for two free nights so we stayed one. We played in the arcades, saw the M&M museum (colossal waste of time, trust me on this), and went to see a movie. We're the only family I've ever known that goes to Vegas to see a movie.We were on the road and headed home by noon on day 2. We were antsy to get home and sleep in our own bed. We pulled into the drive around 5:00, totally spent but thankful for a great time. The boys behaved perfectly and never once got whiney about being stuck in the car. I was amazed. I think I'd like to do that trip again but with less structure so we can be more flexible as to where we stay & how long.

PART TWO of 2007 to follow shortly, stay tuned.

Weekend getaway

2007-10-01T22:48:00.000-07:00

Last Friday the family unit & I headed to the eastern Sierras for a few days of camping with Dean and his brood. We camped due west of Independence, a few miles below Onion Valley.

I love the eastern Sierras at this time of year - the days are cool and crisp, the leaves are changing… I can’t really explain what I enjoy so much about it. I just feel like new life is being breathed into me. We arrived on Friday afternoon, set up camp and lounged around a campfire. It was a touch on the breezy side and when we turned in early (around 9:00 or so) I knew it was going to be a cold night. But I didn’t know it was going to be that cold. The next morning the thermometer in my truck read 38 degrees. And that was at 8:30 when the truck had been sitting in the sun for awhile. BRRRR!!! We had a traditional camp breakfast and then I was ready for a nap.

But the kids weren’t having any part of it so we went geocaching instead. Here’s a photo from the place our second cache was found.

On the drive back to camp we came across a small herd of muley does. They started to haul it out of there when they saw us watching them but I recalled having a deer call in my console so I took it out and gave it a few squeaks. They turned on a dime, stopped, and stared directly at us. A few more squeaks and they took a few steps toward us.

We watched them for awhile and then headed back to camp where we loaded up our fishing gear for an afternoon of drowning worms. We decided to hit Sabrina. I’ve never been there before and the beauty of that place is breathtaking.

We spread out along the shore and tossed in some lines.

As is often the case with kids, Jack and Joe started to get a bit bored after an hour or so of no action. They got to wandering around when Jack got a bite. I grabbed his rod and set the hook, all the while hollering at him to “get over here and reel this thing in!” It was his first fish and he was ecstatic.

It was just a little guy and I proposed throwing him back but Jack didn’t want to hear any of that nonsense. Rather than ruin the moment I helped Jack put him on the stringer and high-fived him on a job well done. With a fish under his belt there wasn’t a snowball’s chance that he would get far from his rod any time soon. And it was a good thing because not 45 minutes later he had one tugging on his line. “Get ‘im, Jack!!” I shouted. And “get ‘im” he did. This one was no dink but a very respectable fish that was a good pound and a half. Celebrations ensued.

With the tall peaks all around us the sun disappeared early and it got downright cold so we loaded up and headed back to camp. On the way back we came across a herd of Tule elk. I’ve been trying for nearly 20 years to pull a tag to hunt these beasts with no luck. If I ever do, I think I’d like to whack this guy.

Back at camp we fed our tapeworms bratwurst sandwiches, baked beans, and an assortment of treats. I fell into bed at 9:00 and didn’t move a muscle till the next morning. It was heavenly. While we broke camp the boys hammed it up for the occasional photo.

We even got a little bb gun target practice in, with Isabelle showing the boys how it’s done.

The drive home was uneventful (just the way I like it) and the boys were good helpers when it came time to unload. All in all a good trip, one I’m already looking forward to next year.

Practice, practice, practice!

2007-09-14T12:45:00.001-07:00

Here’s Joe practicing a skill that will someday qualify him to serve in a variety of positions. It could prove itself especially useful if he ever happens to become president of the United States and the issue of illegal immigration is brought to his attention.

Manly-man in training

2007-08-21T16:56:00.000-07:00

Today Donna took the boys to see “Hairspray”. I know, I know. Anyway, after they saw the movie I said to Joe, “So, how did you like the movie?” “Daddy, it was really, really good. You have to see it!” Jack just sort of rolled his eyes. Later, Jack and I were driving in the truck...

“So, Jack, what did you think of that movie?”

I thought it was really stupid.

“How come? What didn’t you like about it?”

The whole thing was just dumb. There’s the movies that I like, and there’s the movies that I don’t like. This movie didn’t have any of the stuff from the movies that I like, it had all the stuff from movies that I don't like. And I’m pretty sure that one of the ladies in the movie was really a man. That’s the kind of stuff they have in movies that I don’t like. There was no guns in it. You can see it if you want but it’s a waste of money.

Man, I love that kid.

I'm a lucky guy

2007-08-18T13:47:00.001-07:00

Cowboys

2007-08-16T14:45:00.001-07:00

Here's a couple pictures from Cody, Wyoming. We went to the rodeo the first night we arrived and we all had a blast. On the walk back to the car Joe said to me, "Daddy, I want to ride one of those bulls." The next day there was a "bullriders only" event with all the country's hotshot bullriders appearing so we decided to take it in. In the concession area this bull was tied up and a couple of bucklebunnies were charging $5 to have your picture taken on it. I told Joe, "Here's your chance, buddy, get on that bull!" He paused and said, "Okay... but you have to come with me." I wonder if Ty Murray's daddy rode with him his first time?

Good times

2007-08-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

Photo Friday

2007-08-10T16:29:00.000-07:00

Was going through some old photos on my office computer and came across this one from when we were moving into our house 6 years or so ago. They'll probably be in therapy when I show it to their girlfriends someday, but it always cracks me up so here ya go. Love those little monkeys.

Gone but not forgotten

2007-04-23T22:29:00.000-07:00

Some days it seems like yesterday but it was three years ago this past Thursday that one of God’s best & brightest went home to be with Him. She was like my second mother from the time I was 7 years old. This is the truth - in the 30+ years that I knew her I never heard her say an unkind word to or about anyone. I really believe that she was one of the kindest, most gentle people ever to walk this earth. If I were prone to believing hocus-pocus type stuff (and I’m not) I’d swear she was an angel sent to walk among us. She inspired me to be a better person. I think of her every single day and my heart aches as I grieve the loss of her. But if I close my eyes and let my mind drift I can imagine her approaching the Throne and I hear His voice, “Well done my faithful servant, come and share your Master’s happiness.”

Backordered - DANG!!

2007-03-09T16:33:00.000-08:00

Greatest .gif evah!

2007-02-16T15:30:00.000-08:00

Coming out of hiatus for this one...

2007-01-26T14:04:00.000-08:00

HER DIARY :

Tonight, I thought my husband was acting weird.

We had made plans to meet at a bar to have a drink.

I was shopping with my friends all day long, so I thought he was upset at the fact that I was a bit late, but he made no comment on it.

Conversation wasn't flowing, so I suggested that we go somewhere quiet so we could talk. He agreed, but he didn't say much.

I asked him what was wrong; he said, "Nothing." I asked him if it was my fault that he was upset. He said he wasn't upset, that it had nothing to do with me, and not to worry about it. On the way home, I told him that I loved him. He smiled slightly, and kept driving. I can't explain his behavior. I don't know why he didn't say, "I love you, too."

When we got home, I felt as if I had lost him completely, as if he wanted nothing to do with me anymore. He just sat there quietly, and watched TV. He continued to seem distant and absent.

Finally, with silence all around us, I decided to go to bed.

About 15 minutes later, he came to bed. To my surprise, he responded to my caress, and we made love. But I still felt that he was distracted, and his thoughts were somewhere else.

He fell asleep - I cried. I don't know what to do. I'm almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. My life is a disaster.

HIS DIARY:

Missed a big deer today, but at least I got lucky.

All about me.

2006-10-15T22:34:00.000-07:00

3 THINGS I DON'T UNDERSTAND
1. Statistics.
2. How Americans so gladly give away freedoms won at such a great cost.
3. Women.

3 THINGS MOST PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT ME
1. I love disco (go ahead and laugh, I accept your scorn).
2. I have a birthmark that looks remarkably like Richard Nixon in a very inconspicuous location on my body.
3. Apple vinegar makes me puke.

LAST...
1. Movie you rented: Donna does most of the renting. Last thing I rented was an old UFC match.
2. Movie you bought: Little Big League (for Joey)
3. Song you listened to: Fade to black (Metallica)
4. CD you bought: I don’t really buy CD’s anymore, just songs from ITunes. I think the last song I bought was My Chemical Romance's “I'm not okay”.
5. TV show you've watched: Denver Broncos work over the Raiders. (Is there actually such a thing as “Raider Pride” anymore?
6. Person you kissed: Jack
7. Person you were thinking of: Same.

DO...
1. You have a crush on someone: nahh.
2. You wish you could live somewhere else: Yeah, sometimes. Someplace with good fishing & hunting.
3. You think about suicide: For myself, no. For others, regularly.
4. You believe in online dating: Kooks gotta hookup somehow.
5. You want more piercings: Nothing I have is, or will ever be, pierced.
6. You drink: Soda. Sometimes milk.
7. You do drugs: Advil sometimes.
8. You smoke: Sometimes I smoke fish or venison strips.
9. You like cleaning: I like cleaning shotguns & rifles. Hoppes #9 is an aphrodisiac.
10. You like roller coasters: No.
11. You write in cursive or print: Print. I’m not sure I could write in cursive if asked to.
12. You like soap operas: Being married is all the soap opera I need.

HAVE YOU...
1. Ever cried over a girl: Yes.
2. Ever cried over a boy: My sons.
3. Ever skipped school: Yeah, more in college than high school.
4. Ever lied to someone: Yes.
5. Ever used something other than toilet paper for, you know: Yeah, my roommate & I used the yellow pages because we were too cheap to spring for the Charmin. We got all the way through “Landscapers” before we finally gave in.
6. Ever been in a fist-fight: Yeah. Won some, lost some. Now I’m a lover, not a fighter.
7. Ever been arrested: Detained, handcuffed, but not arrested. It was just The Man tryin’ to keep me down.
8. Ever been dumped: Yes, and number 10 followed closely after.
9. Jumped off a bridge: Yes.
10. Been drunk: Yes.
11. Ever fallen asleep at work: Yeah, when I worked for Huge Aircrash. I was in a union. “When in Rome” kinda thing.
12. Ever been told by a complete stranger that you're hot: yes, but this girl was really drunk. I mean, medically speaking, she should have been dead.

WHAT...
1. Shampoo do you use: Head & shoulders.
2. Shoes do you wear: Wingtips to work, sneakers or boots for yuks.
3. Is your desktop background: Sage flats outside Mammoth.

NUMBER...
1. Of times you have been in love: Three. Definitely three.
2. Of times you have had your heart broken: A couple.
3. Of girls you have kissed: I have no idea. Not that many.
4. Of drugs taken illegally: None.
5. Of people you would classify as true, could-trust-with-your-life type friends: 3. I was gonna say 4 but if my demise were imminent and Kiko was on his way to save me he’d probably stop for tacos.
6. Of people I consider my enemies: I don’t think I have any true enemies but none of my friends like me all that much either.
7. Of scars on your body: A dozen or so.
8. Of things in your past that you regret: Too many to count.

The more things change, the more they stay the same

2006-10-09T10:06:00.000-07:00

I gotta find something else to pay the bills

Great white hunter in training

2006-09-04T21:42:00.000-07:00

Friday was opening day of dove season. It’s become sort of a tradition to make the trip down to the CA/AZ border but all the usual suspects fagged out this year. I considered making the trip solo but decided it just wouldn’t be that much fun by myself. Awhile back I had even considered taking Jack and Joe with me but good sense took over (read: my wife helped me pull my head outta you know where) and I decided that having the two of them down there would be like trying to herd cats while I hunted. So it appeared as though I was going to have to miss it this year and, given all the experts' predictions of an opener to rival last year's, I was pretty disappointed. But a couple weeks ago Jack planted the bug in my ear that he was hankerin’ for some huntin’ and would do just about anything to go. Joe made it pretty clear that he didn’t have any desire to go down there and sweat his fanny off in 118 degree heat. So the idea of taking just Jack with me actually began to make a little sense. If only I could get his momma and his teacher to bite on it we’d be in business. And that was the rub, because Wednesday was the first day of Kindergarten and pulling him out mid-day Thursday seemed a bit unlikely. But a discussion with momma and the K-teacher was had and they said it would be fine. In fact, having this trip at this time proved to be valuable currency in the business of getting Jack to go to Kindergarten. The first day of school brought all sorts of screaming and kicking and resisting and wailing. Donna called me at the office, put Jack onto the phone, and I made it clear to him that no school = no hunting trip. Reluctantly, he gave in.

So on Thursday I loaded the truck with guns, ammo, camo, snacks, & Jack and we headed for AZ. About 20 miles outside Blythe the sky took on an ominous appearance – dust storms and thunderstorms abounded. Not good, this usually causes the birds to flee to Mexico. But there was no way I was going to turn back now, we forged ahead and made it to the hotel where we dumped our stuff and then went out to “scout” for some birds. “Scouting for birds” consists of driving the local ag fields looking for the proper flyways, food, and cover. It’s not rocket science and probably totally useless but it’s part of the tradition so we do it. We found a couple good spots, went back to town for dinner, and hit the sack. The alarm sounded about 4:00 but it needn’t have bothered – I was already wide-awake. I got Jack dressed, fed him a Pop-Tart, and we were out the door. On the way to our pre-picked spot I noticed a lot of standing water – evidence that it had really dumped the night before. Not good for dove hunting, but we pressed on and found our spot. I parked the truck and we began a short hike into an alfalfa field where I knew we’d be well-placed in a flyway. As we walked by flashlight in the darkness I instructed Jack to walk behind me and be mindful of his steps since there are plenty of rattlesnakes in the area. After about 20 yards I stepped on something “moving” and nearly crapped my pants. I stifled a scream and flew backward, nearly squashing Jack in the process. A large bullfrog hopped a few feet away and then stopped. I did my best to quickly re-don my manhood in the darkness and said, “Uh, hey, look at that, a frog.” Jack descended on the frog and nearly had it in hand before I could even call him off. We made it to our spot and the sun eventually rose. It was a good 40 minutes before we had any action. A set of triples came in fast from behind and I dumped one just before they got out of range. We spent the next 20 minutes searching the knee-high alfalfa for our kill but eventually gave up. After 20 more minutes of no action we pulled up stakes and moved to another spot. This spot was a freshly disced dirt field but it was a good flyway and had quite a few more birds in it. We’d only been there a couple minutes when a solo came bombing in fast. My shot was a direct hit and he went down hard. Jack smiled widely and said, “Did we get one?” I told him, “Yeah, go get ‘im.” He bounded across the dirt field for the bird. I wondered how he’d react when he saw that the bird was dead. I mean, really dead. But he ran right over, picked it up, and let out an enthusiastic “woo-hoo!!” This repeated itself over the next hour or so as I knocked down another six or so birds (except for the birds that we couldn’t find). Each time he’d retrieve a bird he’d set it down on next to the others, stroke the feathers, and talk to it. Um, can I just say… cree-pee! It was starting to get really hot and we were having a tough time finding some of the downed birds so we decided not to kill any more if we weren’t going to be able to find them. It’s times like that that I wish I had a bird dog. Here's Jack after the first morning's hunt:We packed it up and went back to the hotel for showers, breakfast, and naps. But before showering the business of cleaning the birds needed to be addressed. I pulled a bird from my game sack and made a cut under the breast. I jammed my thumb in and pulled up. Jack let out a shriek.
What are you doing? You’re gonna hurt it!
“Uh… buddy, it doesn’t feel a thing, trust me.”
I wanted to take it home and play with it.
“Uh… no.”

Later that afternoon we hit an alfalfa field with some other hunters nearby. The combination of the location and the other hunters kept the birds moving and we had plenty of action. Here's the happy hunter with a coupla birds we whacked: And a picture of the day's sunset:It was a good time. As the sun set we cleaned our birds (with a repeat of Jack’s protestings that I was hurting the birds) and then we went to dinner. Since it was getting late we simply washed up and stayed in our camo hunting clothes (it’s not as dorky as it sounds, the town is loaded with hunters and that’s generally accepted behavior). Jack was the hit of the restaurant as a long line of diners stopped by the table to talk to him about how many birds he’d shot that day and how much fun he was having with his daddy. He really enjoyed the attention and I enjoyed the heck out of having folks tell me how adorable my son is. By the time we got back to the hotel it was getting late so we watched a little t.v. and hit the sack. The alarm buzzing at 4:30 the next morning felt like a bomb going off in my head. We dragged ourselves out of bed, limped out to the truck, and cruised to the spot we’d hit the night before. It was still black as pitch so we sat in the cab of the air conditioned truck (it was 85 degrees out) and told jokes to each other (I’ll always think of that trip whenever I hear another knock, knock joke). When the sun started to rise we took our place out in the field and the birds started flying. At one point a Eurasian collared dove came in directly above me but really high. I touched off a shot and that thing dropped like a boulder, making an audible thump when it hit the ground. That shot and the result was cause for great celebration between the two of us. We had decent action till about 8:00 and then it stopped cold. We entertained ourselves by blowing a couple of fire ant colonies to smithereens with 12 gauge shotgun blasts. To a 5 year-old boy there isn’t a whole lot that’s more fun than that. It’s pretty cool to a 38 year-old boy, too. Since birds and ant colonies were in short supply we decided to pack up and head back to the hotel to clean the birds and load up for the drive home. Here's a couple pics I snapped before we left the field:
When it came time to clean the birds, Jack asked if he could help me clean them. I gave him a pair of latex gloves and he jumped right in. I noticed he was first yanking the heads off the birds and stacking them neatly in a pile. I asked him, “What are you doing that for?” His matter-of-fact reply, “So that I can take them home and show Joey.” Again, cree-pee!

We finished cleaning our birds, showered, and loaded the truck. We were on the road and heading for home by 9:00. I was tired but I felt content and totally thankful for the quality time I got to have with my son. I think it was the most fun I’ve ever had dove hunting and I just know there’s going to be lots more trips just like it in the future. Thanks for the great time, little buddy!

Pulled the trigger

2006-08-23T21:57:00.000-07:00

Well, there she is, in all her glory. We selected her from a gang of six a little over a month ago. The pickins weren't easy. Initially, Jack & Donna had their hearts set on the brown one while Joe and I wanted the black one. Then, because Jack is my little minion and Joe just likes to be difficult they flipped. Eventually we settled on this little gal. We named her "Cabela" after well, you know, CABELA'S. I figure a sizeable portion of my disposable income already goes to them, might as well honor them with something more permanent. We picked her up from the breeder in Lancaster on Sunday evening. For the first 10 minutes of the 45 minute ride home she squealed and whined and barked and generally made me remember why I was so hesitant to get a puppy. She settled down pretty quickly, though. Until 11:00 or so when we put her into her crate for the night and she fired up the whine machine again. She finally dozed off but was bright-eyed & bushy-tailed at 4:00 the next morning. I considered eating the sizeable price I paid for her and submitting her as a candidate for animal research. But my kids would have been mighty disappointed so I kicked Donna out of the bed so she could tend to her, pulled the pillow over my head, and tried to go back to sleep. When I finally got out of bed I had a heart to heart with the mutt and let her know that her behavior had already put her on the edge of a crumbling cliff. She apparently took me seriously because her behavior has improved considerably. There's been a couple piddle on the carpet incidents (mostly due to our failure to put her outside when she needs to go) and some minor nighttime squealing, but I'm loving this dog more and more. Look at this little cutey, how can you not love a face like that?

2006-08-18T11:27:00.000-07:00

There really are heros in this world.

[Strongest Dad in the World From Sports Illustrated, By Rick Reilly, 6/13/2005]

I try to be a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay for their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots.

But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck.

Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars--all in the same day.

Dick's also pulled him cross-country skiing, taken him on his back mountain climbing and once hauled him across the U.S. on a bike. Makes taking your son bowling look a little lame, right?

And what has Rick done for his father? Not much--except save his life.

This love story began in Winchester, Mass., 43 years ago, when Rick was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain-damaged and unable to control his limbs.

"He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life;'' Dick says doctors told him and his wife, Judy, when Rick was nine months old. ``Put him in an institution.''

But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was anything to help the boy communicate. ``No way,'' Dick says he was told.

"There's nothing going on in his brain.''

"Tell him a joke,'' Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain.

Rigged up with a computer that allowed him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? ``Go Bruins!'' And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, ``Dad, I want to do that.''

Yeah, right How was Dick, a self-described ``porker'' who never ran more than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, he tried. ``Then it was me who was handicapped,'' Dick says. ``I was sore for two weeks.''

That day changed Rick's life. ``Dad,'' he typed, ``when we were running, it felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!''

And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly shape that he and Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.

"No way,'' Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair competitor. For a few years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then they found a way to get into the race officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made the qualifying time for Boston the following year.

Then somebody said, ``Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?''

How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick tried.

Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15-hour Ironmans in Hawaii. It must be a buzzkill to be a 25-year-old stud getting passed by an old guy towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you think?

Hey, Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? ``No way,'' he says.

Dick does it purely for "the awesome feeling'' he gets seeing Rick with a cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride together.

This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston Marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best time'? Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992--only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.

"No question about it,'' Rick types, "My dad is the Father of the Century.''

And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. ``If you hadn't been in such great shape,'' one doctor told him, "You probably would've died 15 years ago.''

So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston, and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland, Mass., always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every > weekend, including this Father's Day.

That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he really wants to give him is a gift he can never buy.

"The thing I'd most like,'' Rick types, ``is that my dad sit in the chair and I push him once.''

Click the play button in the middle of the screen and the video will play. Be ready for your spirit to soar.

Guy time

2006-08-16T21:36:00.000-07:00

Funny how four days can seem like an eternity at one time (like the first four days we had Jack & Joe home from the hospital) and yet feel like the blink of an eye at another. Last week's fishing trip fit into the latter category (thank God!). I snagged Jason from Burbank airport on Tuesday evening. He actually made it despite his flight being canceled and being cavity searched in Dallas before being allowed on the plane. We were on the road by 9:00 on Wednesday and pulling into our campsite by 3:00. What an incredible place. I'd love to be back up there at this very moment. Here's a few pictures for your amazement/amusement...

The whole crew:

We fished at Sotcher the whole time. First day at the lake Steve was The Man with a nice fish. Day two he had a near limit (sorry, no picture). I caught a single but both Jason and Milad put in a respectable showing with a couple fish a piece. Dean had one hit his line so hard that it darn near pulled his whole rig into the lake but he was busy scratching himself and it was gone. Which is a shame because that was all the action he'd get for the rest of the trip.

On day two we took a ride into town for some supplies. We stopped to have a look at the Minarets. They're the pokey mountains in the far distance.
After our trip into town Jason and Milad decided to go for a hike to see the postpile and Rainbow falls. Here's a picture of the Postpile that I poached off somebody's site (whoever you are, please don't sue me, just tell me to take it down and I will) Here's a picture of Rainbow Falls (ditto on poaching the picture).

The rest of us decided to go for a nap. I know what you're thinking, ladies, but forget it. He's taken.

Day three found some interlopers in our spot so we moved to the opposite side of the lake and found a real nice spot on a sandy beach.
Here’s Jason, giving the thumbs up after dropping a very satisfying deuce.
Here’s me & Jason on the shore.

Here’s Milad, full of hopes & dreams about the big one he’s about to catch.

Here’s Dean, full of donuts & Yoo-Hoo, and without any aspirations to actually catch a fish.

Here’s Steve, full of anger & resentment that Milad has stolen away his title as “The Man”.

Here’s Kiko, stuffing his piehole with various cardiac arrest inducing treats.

Here’s Kiko consoling Steve, “Eets okay, Esteeve, jou weel catch a feesh. Jou are steel dee mang!”

When Kiko's attempts at consoling Steve didn't work, he tried to distract him with various gymnastic feats.

Meanwhile, Milad was taunting us by catching fish both big and small.

The sun was setting and it was time to call it quits.

We stopped for a final photo of Milad with his haul. A fisherman has been born.
We broke camp the next morning and hit the road. That drive always seems to take twice as long when we're going home. I occupied myself thinking about next year's trip, though, so it wasn't all bad.

A dream fulfilled.

2006-08-04T23:16:00.000-07:00

VBS concluded tonight which means all the decorations had to be yanked down. Dean called me earlier in the day to tell me I could serve in a special way. Apparently a bunch of mylar balloons had come loose from their moorings and had floated the 50 or so feet to the top of the sanctuary. There’s no practical way to get them down and since they’re mylar (instead of the traditional rubber balloons) it would take a few months for them to make their descent unassisted. So I was charged with poking a few holes in them with my pellet gun. Hey, if something needs to be shot, I’m your guy. My new ministry, “Shooting things for Jesus.” Marksmen only need apply. I let everybody clear out (except my kids who thought it was the coolest thing ever) and took care of business. My two passions collided, God & guns. It was a blast, but I think I actually overloaded my redneck meter.

When preschoolers attack

2006-08-01T10:06:00.000-07:00

Our church’s VBS started this past Sunday evening. I’ve never been a really big fan of kids so I decided to leave the heavy lifting to an assortment of good people, sit this one out and have a little “me time” during the week. But as the saying goes, “The best laid plans…” Jack’s separation anxiety chose to rear its ugly head and about half-way through Sunday night’s session I had to sit in his class else he’d go into full meltdown mode. When I arrived at the preschool room there were probably 40 kids and about a dozen workers. I happened to show up at songtime. Music was playing and 35 or so of the kids were singing & gyrating. The rest were in advanced stages of hysteria and general tantrum-like behavior. Some of the adult leaders were enthusiastically leading the kids in song and dance while the others attempted to console the criers. It was, in a word, pandemonium. Just looking through the door I felt my BP tick up about 20 points. My palms got sweaty. I started to get a headache. My stomach gurgled and I felt like I was getting diarrhea. I wanted to yell at everybody to be quiet. If I’d had a noisemaker, I’d have been tempted to fire off a round into the air just to get their attention and tell them to BE QUIET. And yet, all the adults were smiling and energetic and just loving on those kids. I was amazed. By the time the night was over, I felt liked I’d been pulled through a knothole in a wood fence. Here’s an actual photo of me at the end of the evening:On the ride home I found myself just thanking God for such incredible people who are so faithful to His calling. People who don’t make a spectacle of themselves, just show up, serve, and go home without any fanfare. Our Lord must be so pleased.

Pssst.... you awake?

2006-07-29T00:56:00.000-07:00

It's pushing 1:00 in the morning and I'm sitting here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I brought home a briefcase full of work and I've been hammering away at it since about 9:00 last night. I'm doing a financial statement review and have been reviewing loan and security agreements. It's legal stuff that would normally have me sawing logs after 5 minutes. Not tonight, ...er today. On the plus side, I just found that my client is in deep violation of some of the covenants. That's probably not the plus side for them because it means their $4 million line will soon be called. It's a plus for me because it means I'm not going to get sued.

When I was younger I used to be sawing logs by 9:00 and up by 6:00. Now I can't fall asleep for the life of me and it darn near takes dynamite to get me out of the sack. Where's Steve's little diagram when I need it?

Crazy dreams

2006-07-22T21:32:00.000-07:00

Last night was a difficult night of sleep. I dreamt that Jason was back at our church and was preaching. He titled his sermon, “I’m not my hair.” Which to the totally uninitiated probably sounds strange but I imagine it’s some sort of subconscious reference to what I’ve been reading on Nathan's blog. In my dream, the entire church had been razed and a giant circus-like tent had been erected in the dirt lot. Kinda like those old-time travelling church revivals. Except without the hugging snakes and the occasional attendee falling over from being “slain in the spirit.” In the setting sun there were cars parked as far as the eye could see. A feeling of anxious anticipation filled the air as people streamed across the dirt lot and into the tent. Donna & I were walking with the crowd as we held our sons’ hands. We were all smiles and I felt very content. We entered the tent and, despite the throngs of people, took seats down in the front (hey, we’re the Hodgsons). Within moments, Jason took the stage wearing purple pants, a Caltrans orange shirt, and flip-flops. He set about delivering a blistering sermon. He walked amongst the crowd, Bible in hand, and engaged the people. I was riveted. It’s odd, there were bits and pieces from Jason’s dream sermon that I actually remember from non-dream sermons that he delivered some time ago. Like a discussion of communion and how, no matter what our station in life, we’re all equal when the cup comes to us. We received communion a short while later and then it was time for an intermission. My family & I stood at a table with punch and cookies, chatting with other folks. I felt as though I had been feeding at a heavenly table and the Lord was doing a tremendous work in my heart. I felt like I haven't felt in a long time. And then word began racing through the crowd that Jason’s mic had been unplugged and he was returning to South Dakota. I felt my spirit wilting and I began to weep. Softly at first and then uncontrollably. I woke suddenly, wet with tears.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

Woof

2006-07-11T23:32:00.000-07:00

We’re dog shopping. And not just for a dog, for a puppy. As much as I hate the idea of having a puppy, I know the boys will take great pleasure in having one so I’ve resigned myself to the idea. I’m about as neurotic as they come and about as flexible as an iron rod so this is a real act of selflessness on my part. It’s not that I don’t like dogs, I really do. I’d love to have a stellar hunting dog to take out dove, quail, chukar, and pheasant hunting. But the budget doesn’t really allow for a dog with such a skill set so I’ll just bite my tongue and let the boys choose. We’re hoping to have one by the end of summer. My neurosis and inflexibility aside, I’ll probably enjoy having a dog. I had plenty when I was a kid, some even long enough to get sort of attached to.

You’ve heard of a revolving door and no doubt you’ve heard of a doggie door but have you ever heard of a “revolving doggie door”? When I was a kid we actually had one. Well, not literally, but it would be understandable for somebody to think we had one. Mine was a single mom, working a full-time job, going to night school, dirt poor and trying to bring some kind of happiness to her kids. So we’d find a mongrel at the local animal shelter, bring it home, play with it, and eventually get bored with it. After awhile my mom would start hollering, “If you’re not going to play with that dog I’m going to get rid of it. I need another mouth to feed like I need another hole in my head.” Then we’d bring it back to the animal shelter, “Yeah, we don’t really want this dog no more, we petted the shine right off it.” If you’re feverishly searching for the “comments” button to tell me what an awful person I am save yourself some trouble - I already know, I’ve been told (and probably by better than you). My wife informed me before we were even married that recycling dogs would NOT happen in our household. And I guess I can appreciate the sentiment behind it, even if I don’t understand it. When contemplating lifelong marriage, growing old together, and caring for a needy companion it’s comforting to know her philosophy about unloading something that has become more work than pleasure. My philosophy on the subject, however, should probably give her pause for thought.

We probably went through a dozen or so dogs when I was a kid. One dug under the fence & disappeared. One died of some kind of cancer. Still another was run over by my mom’s car (accidentally). Twice. The rest went to the return window at the animal shelter for one reason or another – shedding, barking, digging, snoring (really!), etc. Looking back, that’s a whole lot of dogs. Now, you’d think that the guy who worked behind the counter at the dog pound would remember us after the 5th or so return and cut us off. But you should consider that the dog pound is staffed by government employees and denying us a mutt might require him to complete some sort of paperwork and file it with the appropriate department. Just the idea of that is exhausting to your typical government lackey. Probably a whole lot easier to just toss the offending mongrel in with the next batch of undesirables slotted for the gassing chamber. It’s actually a shame that it continued because there were a couple dogs that probably would have made a real nice pet for a normal family. They’re all gone, though, floating around in heaven with little doggie-angel wings. Most of them are just a little blip in my memory but there was this one that I really liked and I really wish it would have worked out. Her name was Sassy, a 40 lb. Sheltie mix. She had a body like an overstuffed sausage and short, wiry legs. But her looks were deceiving and that dog could jump an 8-foot block wall from a standing-still position. I’d put that dog in the backyard and less than 5 minutes later she was scratching at the front door. She never roamed too far and we guessed that she just got bored with the backyard scenery and wanted to do a little exploring so we didn’t pay her too much mind, just let her in when she scratched at the front door. But one of the neighbors got to complaining that Sassy was digging in her flowerbeds so we tried various methods of keeping her contained in the yard, all to no avail. My mom was nearing the end of her rope and was about to load Sassy into the car when she happened to mention the dilemma to my Uncle Jerry. He told us to hold tight and promised that he had the solution to our problem. The following Saturday my uncle knocked at the door with a large spool of silver wire, an assortment of fiberglass rods, and a box marked, “cattle fence controller.” He dumped the assortment on the dining table and said with confidence, “That dog has jumped that fence for the last time.” After a cold drink and some small talk, Uncle Jerry began lining the outer perimeter of our backyard with fiberglass rods, poked vertically into the grass and spaced at about 8-foot intervals. The rods were then connected by a continuous strand of steel wire which eventually ran back to the “cattle fence controller” in our garage. While Uncle Jerry proceeded with the installation, I studied the “cattle fence controller” box. “The Trident is ShockMaster’s most powerful fence controller. This unit produces a powerful 9,300 volts repelling even the most persistent livestock. The versatile Trident can power 3 separate fences of up to 50 miles - all at the same time! That's value and versatility!” I poked my head into the garage as Uncle Jerry was making the final connections of the wire to the controller box. “Can this hurt my dog?” He quickly replied, “No,” but then paused. “Don’t you ever touch it, though.” A few moments later the installation was complete. Before Uncle Jerry left, he said, “Just flip the switch to ‘ON’ when you put the dog in the backyard. She’ll only need to get shocked a coupla times and then she’ll learn to stay away from the walls. I bet it won’t even take a week.” Indeed.

That evening my mom instructed me, “Put Sassy out into the backyard so she can do her business, I don’t want her pooping on the carpet while we’re asleep tonight. And turn on that fence thingy that your uncle installed so she doesn’t get out.” Sassy followed me to the garage where I flipped the switch. The control box made an audible hum and Sassy’s ears suddenly perked. After I opened the door from the garage to the backyard, Sassy eased her way into the inky darkness and I retreated to the living room to watch t.v. with my mom & sister. I had barely sat down when the lights and the t.v. dimmed suddenly and the loudest, most blood-curdling wail came from our back yard. We leapt to the window and my mom flipped the switch to the backyard floodlight. Judging by the horrific animal shrieks, we all expected to see a giant monster disemboweling my dog. Instead, we saw Sassy doing something that resembles “canine breakdancing” next to the “fence thingy.” Her contortions were wild enough that one finally freed her from the clutches of the electric torture device and she made a beeline for the house, where she darn near scratched & clawed her way through a two-inch thick solid core door. I brought her inside and attempted to comfort her but the damage was done. In the matter of about 30 seconds she went from a really nice dog to an absolute lunatic. For the next couple weeks (until she made the second half of her round trip away from the dog pound) she wandered around the house with a bad attitude, mumbled to herself, and pretty much acted like the guy that lives under the freeway overpass. But she never jumped the fence.

So after considering my history with dogs, I think we’ll be happiest with a hairless, non-barking, non-digging, non-snoring, non-shedding, non-fence jumping dog that cleans up its own yuck. If anybody knows a breeder with a dog like that let me know, would you?

I am not worthy.

2006-07-08T23:05:00.000-07:00

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee;
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not;
As Thou hast been, Thou forever will be.

Refrain

Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun, moon and stars in their courses above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Refrain

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Refrain

My baby boy

2006-07-05T13:52:00.000-07:00

Hang in there, little guy, Daddy loves you!

Please wait outside while we sacrifice your character on the altar of self-preservation.

2006-06-27T23:12:00.000-07:00

Words fail me.

What a day.

2006-06-18T21:39:00.000-07:00

In spite of making mistakes that would probably put most kids in therapy for decades, my two little guys think I hung the moon. I love being a daddy. If only I could be half the man they think I am.

Insert foreboding music here.

2006-06-15T02:32:00.000-07:00

I usually have little trouble falling asleep. On the contrary, it’s usually staying awake that I find difficult. But here I sit at 2:30 a.m. exhausted and yet unable to find any rest. My mind feels like New York City at rush hour.

I worry about the chaos brewing in our church. I’m saddened over the lives that are being crushed, pastors and laypeople who have devoted their lives to serving. And there’s one casualty in particular that I learned of today that especially grieves me, a woman who has dedicated herself to loving the children of that church like her own. And her husband who stands by her side without a single gripe about the incredible workload that she shoulders, often sacrificing their limited family time to carry out her duties.

I worry about my mom, a two-time cancer survivor, who works for what may be the world’s biggest collection of jerkoffs. I worry about the agony they are putting her through and wonder if she will be weakened to the point that she has a relapse.

I worry about my workload – audit deadlines, tax filings, tax planning. Where I will find the time and energy to complete these projects is beyond me.

I worry about my son, who has recently developed a separation anxiety. A little boy who has always had a confidence and boldness that inspires me but now begs me to stay home with him every day. And I wonder if all the above has changed me so much that my son sees me, and is now fretting over me.

Matthew 11:29-30 – “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

Can somebody help me put this yoke on?

Here fishy, fishy...

2006-06-13T22:29:00.000-07:00

We (Donna, Jack & Joe, Mema, and I) drove down to San Diego after church on Sunday. My better half got us a Travel Agent “deal” on a room at the San Diego Best Western. If you haven’t stayed there, save yourself some misery and don’t. Spend a few dollars more for a bed that doesn’t implode when you lie in it, a room that doesn’t reek of Pine-Sol & hogfarts, and a location that doesn’t make you feel as if your bed is actually in the middle of the busy street instead of just next to it.

We arrived Sunday afternoon and decided to spend a little time at SeaWorld (since we got “twofer” tickets allowing us to visit two days in a row). We saw the dolphin show and the animal show (who knew that cats can be trained and that it’s actually somewhat entertaining to watch them?). We petted stingrays and starfish. It was fun. Around 5:00 or so we headed down to Seaport Village. We stopped for fish&chips at an outdoor restaurant. The food was pretty good but Joe kept freaking because there were pigeons congregating around his feet. They probably would have gone away if he had stopped dropping french fries. That night was one of the most sleepless (sleeplessest?) nights we’ve ever had. Around 2:30 a.m., Donna hopped out of bed and ran to the window. A car alarm was wailing away and she said, “My alarm is going off, someone’s breaking into my car!” She pressed the remote on her keychain a few times and then it stopped. I finally rolled out of bed and looked out the window. Nothing. We got back into bed and the alarm started up again. I sprang out of bed (quite a sight, I’m sure) and ran to the window to find that the alarm on a car far across the parking lot had been tripped. I fell back in bed, all wired at the thought that I was going to have to get messy with a creep trying to steal my kids’ DVD player. My wife had little trouble falling back asleep (as evidenced by her enthusiastic snoring). It was about that time that I remembered my wife doesn’t even have an alarm on her mini-van. I considered strangling her in her sleep with the lamp cord but I was too tired so I just went back to sleep.

The next morning brought blue skies, sunshine, and perfect weather. We hit SeaWorld as it opened and took in a few shows. The Shamu “Believe” show which they’re making such a big deal about on the commercials was “meh”.A large part of the show consists of those marine biologist nerds nattering about how they’re “living the dream” and all that pap. Then they “randomly” choose some 8 year old girl out of the audience and ask her what she wants to be when she grows up. Of course she wants to be a “whale trainer” and most of the crowd “aaaaahhhhh”s over her (except for the cynics like me who quietly throw up into their $9 Shamu souvenir cups).
After the Shamu show we took in SeaWorld’s version of Cirque de Soleil (and I probably didn’t spell that right but I don’t care because it’s really just a bunch of muscle-bound fairies hanging from wires with a little bit of slapstick comedy thrown in). My kids thought it was hilarious, though, and I got a kick out of watching them watch the show. And then there was the ring-trapeze girl who, with very little effort, could absolutely ruin my life. Lordy, the things that woman could do. I… just… oh forget it, you wouldn’t believe me and I’d only embarrass myself trying to convince you. We then saw the Haunted something or other, I don’t recall exactly what the name is but it was a fun 4-D experience. I was even spit upon by a catfish. Which has never happened to me before so I enjoyed it.

We took in the seal & walrus & otter show. Very cute, the girls that put on the show seemed to really enjoy themselves. Lots of laughs. It was getting toward time to leave so we headed for the gate. We noticed that “Journey to Atlantis” (the park’s only water/rollercoaster ride) was back in action and Joe begged us to ride it. So Donna & I took the boys while Mema waited patiently. It was a blast and the car hadn’t even stopped when Jack & Joe started hollering, “We want to go again!”. When we stepped out of the exit Mema saw the smiles on our faces and started waving us to go back for another ride. What a great grandma. The second ride was even better. And wetter, thanks to some jackhole that paid an extra $.25 to blast us with a shot of water. The boys wanted to go a third time but the line had more than tripled so we called it a day and drove home. I enjoyed the time talking to my mom about work, church, life. I laid down in bed last night and replayed the past 2 days in my mind. I truly am blessed!

The Village People, the early years...

2006-06-09T21:41:00.000-07:00

Finally, a doctor with some common sense

2006-06-08T21:22:00.000-07:00

Q: I've heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life; is this true?

A: Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that's it... don't waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that's like saying you can extend the life of your car by driving it faster. Want to live longer? Take a nap.

Q: Should I cut down on meat and eat more fruits and vegetables?

A: You must grasp logistical efficiencies. What does a cow eat? Hay and corn. And what are these? Vegetables. So a steak is nothing more than an efficient mechanism of delivering vegetables to your system. Need grain? Eat chicken. Beef is also a good source of field grass (green leafy vegetable). And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of vegetable products.

Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake?

A: No, not at all. Wine is made from fruit. Brandy is distilled wine, that means they take the water out of the fruity bit so you get even more of the goodness that way. Beer is also made out of grain. Bottoms up!

Q: How can I calculate my body/fat ratio?

A: Well, if you have a body and you have fat, your ratio is one to one. If you have two bodies, your ratio is two to one, etc.

Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?

A: Can't think of a single one, sorry. My philosophy is: No Pain...Good!

Q: Aren't fried foods bad for you?

A: YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!!! ... Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil. In fact, they're permeated in it. How could getting more vegetables be bad for you?

Q: Will sit-ups help prevent me from getting a little soft around the middle?

A: Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should only be doing sit-ups if you want a bigger stomach.

Q: Is chocolate bad for me?

A: Are you crazy? HELLO Cocoa beans! Another vegetable! It's the best feel-good food around!

Q: Is swimming good for your figure?

A: If swimming is good for your figure, explain whales to me.

Q: Is getting in-shape important for my lifestyle?

A: Hey! 'Round' is a shape!

Kids say the darnedest things

2006-05-26T19:46:00.000-07:00

Joe just came into the office and said, "Daddy, I had gas bubbles in my tummy and now my underpants smell like fishbait."

Awesome.

For my derelict hunting buddies...

2006-05-25T22:25:00.000-07:00

A few more critters from the sage flats

Back to the grind

2006-05-23T21:23:00.000-07:00

Despite our best efforts to get the boys to sleep in, Jack was tapping Donna on the end of the nose at 6:00 a.m. Tuesday and asking, “Is it time for our fishing trip yet?” Even the threat of great bodily injury wasn’t enough to make him go away for long. We eventually resigned ourselves to getting up and getting the ball rolling. The house was in the rear view mirror by 9:30 and we were on our way. We stopped in Bishop at Schat's Bakery for some lunch. If you haven’t visited this place you really don’t know what you’re missing. Schat’s has made me wonder if man might actually live on bread alone. They’ve got it all – Sheepherder bread, sourdough, garlic cheese bread, chili cheese bread (my personal favorite) and a host of other doughy goodies. Usually the place is packed but it was a Tuesday afternoon and we were 4 of about a dozen customers. I had a turkey sandwich that was a true work of art. After lunch we dropped our stuff at the condo in Mammoth and went out to drown some worms. The lakes that I usually fish are still iced over so we decided to give Convict Lake a try. We parked the truck and took a walk along the west edge and settled on a small opening in the bushes. Four rods were soaking within about 5 minutes. Within minutes of our arrival, the skies darkened and it began to rain. Not a lot of drops, but they were big, fat ones. But we’re fishermen er… fisherpeople, and we weren’t going to let a little rain chase us out. After 30 minutes or so we had one bumping my rod. I set the hook and stuck the rod in Joe’s hands. He reeled like crazy while I hollered, “Get the net!” With the benefit of hindsight, the net probably wasn’t really necessary. Joey held his prize and declared matter of factly, “He’s a whopper.” The rest of the evening proved to be fishless. We packed it in and headed back to the condo for some zzzz’s. The next morning found us back at Convict Lake. The fishing was s-l-o-w. But we had muffins and hot chocolate so it wasn’t a total loss. I had one fish nibbling my bait but I was distracted pouring Joe some hot chocolate. The fish pilfered my bait and was long gone before I could hook him. After that, nothin’. Not even a nibble. We theorized that our late arrival (6:45 am) ruined our chances so we packed up with the intention of returning early the following morning. Back to the condo for a snack and some swimming in the complex’s pool that was equal parts chlorine and water. After swimming we planned to go out for an early dinner. But before we could get out the door Joe began some enthusiastic whining and belly rubbing. A few moments later he blew some chunks. Maybe it was just the power of suggestion but I soon began feeling cruddy. So Donna took Jack into town while Joe & I lounged at the condo. Later that night brought more chunk-blowing by Joe so we scrapped the plans for an early rise the following day. The next morning found Joe still feeling lumpy so Jack and I jumped in the truck and went “exploring”. We went off-roading out into the sage flats and saw some deer. We went fishing in one of the streams. We went to the park and played on the swings. It was fun to give one boy all the attention. When we got back to the condo Joe had made a miraculous recovery. The boys colored while Donna & I lounged. We later took a trip into town and saw some of the local sights – The Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, Twin Lakes, Mammoth valley. Around 4:00 it was time to head out for an evening fishing excursion. This time we tried our luck at Crowley Lake. I had high hopes as I used to fish there many years ago with great success. We even went to my old spot. But the fishing gods frowned on us. No matter, the boys shot slingshots, we ate peanuts, we laughed, it was a great time. On the ride out I said, “Keep your eyes open, we might see some deer down here in the sage flats. This is where they winter.” With that Jack hollered, “I spied some deers. They’re right up there. They ran across the road.”I was doubtful, but we cruised up ahead and there they were. A whole herd of them. We snapped pictures. Lordy, why can’t I get this close to them during deer season?The next morning we rose at 4:30 and were back at Convict Lake by 5:00. I tried darn near everything in my tackle box to catch a fish for Jack, all to no avail. The lack of fish was wearing on me and I think Donna could tell. I really wanted the boys to catch some fish. But they didn’t seem all that phased by it. Instead, they entertained themselves by feeding peanuts to a chipmunk.

After another fruitless fishing trip we went back, packed up the condo, and headed over to Aunt Melissa & Uncle Mike’s condo (they blew into town the night before). Mike put together a grubbin’ breakfast for all of us. Then we jumped into the trucks for some fun. We went up to Rock Creek Lake (one of my favorite fishing lakes). It was still iced over so we hiked around and threw snow at each other. . Then we came down off the mountain and fed the fish at the Hot Creek hatchery. There are some real hogs in those broodstock ponds.
Next we stopped at the hot springs. I was too bushed to make the hike so Mike took the boys down into the valley to see them. To my amazement, my wife made the trip too. Back at the condo we decided that Donna & Melissa would go into town to shop while Mike, the boys & I went offroading. While we were loading into the truck I heard a loud thud and Mike holler. It didn’t sound good. And it wasn’t. My sister (who is 6+ months pregnant) had done a full gainer down the condo’s steps and landed on her chest. I do believe that it was one of the scariest events in recent memory. She was in quite a bit of pain so we called off the plans and brought her inside. I think everybody was wondering how Plankton had faired in the fall. Mike called Melissa’s sawbones who instructed her to go to the hospital & get checked out (just to be safe). The 90 minutes that they were gone was agonizing and full of prayer but she returned with a good report. Aside from the scrapes & bruises she was fine and Plankton was no worse for the wear. Maybe it was nerves over my sister or maybe it was a touch of Joe’s stomach bug but I felt lousy. Which was a shame because Mike braved a windy, rainy storm and grilled some steaks for dinner. That guy can cook. They ate steak & corn & salad. I had water & crackers. I was bitter.
The next morning dawned clear & sunny. So everybody decided to ride the gondola to the top of Mammoth Mountain. Except me. I have no desire to plunge 500 feet to my death when the cable breaks. But apparently they had a good time. While they tempted fate, I loaded the truck.

The ride home was nice. I stopped at Schat’s again for some goodies and then drove straight on through to the house. The boys slept most of the way

and I got to have uninterrupted conversation with Donna. All in all, a good trip.

I'm outta here

2006-05-15T21:22:00.000-07:00

I'm taking the family unit to Mammoth for a few days. We're staying in a condo like civilized humans and plan to do some fishing. I've been looking forward to this trip with great anticipation. I hope to return with some (happy) blogworthy adventures to share. Until then, all you unlucky suckers... get back to work!

And I thought I was having a bad day.

2006-05-10T13:46:00.000-07:00

Clicky for biggerness

A day without immigrants.

2006-05-01T21:24:00.000-07:00

I rather enjoyed it. I don’t know if it’s because they decided to actually stay at home or if it was simply because the stars aligned but I was presently surprised. The normal two-hour commute only took about an hour and ten minutes. I’m going to recommend that they next try “A week without immigrants.” It may not have the affect they intend, though. If everybody’s experience is as mine, construction on the world’s largest catapult to fling them back over the border will soon be underway.

Fish out of water

2006-04-24T15:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve never really been the guy who makes friends easily and just gets a kick out of being around a lot of people. Which is probably surprising to many because let’s face it, nothing says, “Life of the party!” like Certified Public Accountant. Mostly, I just want people to leave me alone and stay out of my way. Don’t bother with the small talk, I’m not interested. In fact, should we ever meet just go ahead and avert your gaze so that we don’t have to share an awkward moment. Curiously, my wife is the exact opposite. We could walk together into a room of 25 strangers and, after spending an hour with them, have an entirely different experience to report. She would tell all about her 25 new friends, how she’s organizing a playdate for the other moms & their kids, how she’s invited several of them to our church’s family camp, how she’s going to have a scrapbook night at our house the following week, all the women are coming. I would report that I’d just lost an hour of my life that I’ll never get back and that I could live a full life never seeing any of those people again. Apparently, opposites do attract.

So it surprised me to no end when I instantly took a liking to Jason and his family. Jason now resides in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. A couple years ago he moved his family from South Dakota to SoCal to take a job as an associate pastor at my church. He stayed for about two years but moved back to South Dakota because he was offered a dream job. It probably didn’t hurt that his then-current position had turned into the job from hell. Their leaving was a bitter pill to swallow, I had become so attached to them. I sometimes drive by his old neighborhood and it still stings to know that he’s gone. But we keep in touch and whenever I get a call or an email from him I’m reminded of the great times we shared. I miss the guy for several reasons. He isn’t just a great friend, he’s a great leader, a great pastor. He’s passionate about pointing people to Christ in a very down to earth way. Just a regular guy with a “real” faith. The world would be a better place with more folks like him.

I laugh when I think about the small town boy in the big city. He was kind of like a mole that crawled from a dark cavern and wandered around in the bright sunlight. We were hanging out one afternoon and with wide eyes he told me, “Last night I could see a couple miles away and there was a police helicopter circling around for like ten minutes! It musta been something big going on!” He was a real fish out of water. Doing things that we take for granted every day seemed like a real adventure to him. One Saturday morning we had a class over at church just for the dads. Afterward a bunch of us went for some southern bbq near downtown Los Angeles. Since it was a Saturday and the traffic was lite, we made it in about 30 minutes or so. His wife later told me, “He said, ‘the food was good, but it took forever to get there!’” That’s right. It took 30 minutes to go from the west valley to downtown LA and this guy was complaining. Awesome. One of the benefits of living in the valley is its proximity to the beach. There were many days that we loaded our families into minivans and headed for Zuma. After a few trips Jason mentioned to me, “You see all those guys out there on boogie boards? Those things look cool, I’d really like to try that.” It had been well over 15 years but at one time I was a pretty avid boogie boarder. Forgetting that I was now 15+ years older and far from my old fighting weight I decided to pick one up for our next beach trip. Jason & his family rolled into the parking lot when I’d been riding waves for a good two hours. He hopped right into the water and started body surfing. I pushed the board over to him and told him to, “go for it.” I began giving a few instructions when a sizable wave presented itself and Jason decided that further instructions about the waves coming in 3’s & that he should try for the third wave weren’t really necessary. He began paddling furiously and found himself riding high on the crest of this very large wave. He bore a look of absolute euphoria. Right about that time Jason was introduced to what is commonly called a “shorebreak.”For the uninitiated, a shorebreak is a wave that crashes very close to the shore in very shallow water. This was the mother of all shorebreaks. The crest lurched forward and Jason was drilled into about 1 foot of water. His introduction to the shorebreak now complete, wave number 2 put in its appearance. Without even giving Jason a chance to stand up, this one slammed into him with all the force of a freight train. My buddy looked like a bath towel in a washing machine. I was actually becoming a bit concerned when his head finally popped up and he gasped for a much-needed breath. Right about that time wave number 3 added insult to injury and took him on another trip through the grinder. When the tidewaters receded Jason sat on his hands & knees, coughing & puking saltwater out of his lungs. And I’ll tell you, I didn’t even laugh. It was more of a chuckle. In between pukes he pushed the boogie board toward me. “Your turn.” We spent the rest of the afternoon burying our kids in the sand.

As much as I’d love for him to still be here, having a buddy from a small town and living in LA is a great reality check. It’s cool hearing about what’s happening in a small town and I love hearing that the LA experience is not universal. When he visits this summer we’re going to do some fishing & camping. I’m looking forward to it with all the excitement of a kid on Christmas eve. Maybe I can get him to come out early and we can go to the beach. Yeah, probably not.

Spent

2006-04-19T12:36:00.000-07:00

At the risk of being a whiner, I have to say that I really feel like I’ve been pulled through the wringer. As if Monday wasn’t agonizing enough I thought I was getting a kidney stone. I went to the urgent care on Monday evening, peed in a cup and was told there was no blood in it so it’s probably just muscle spasms. Which doesn’t really come as a surprise because I’ve had a backache for about 3 weeks. Certainly the result of sitting in this chair 13 hours a day for 33 days straight. And the fact that I’ve been getting no exercise and have been packing on some more lbs. Anyway, I crawled across the finish line and I’m alive to tell about it. I had every intention of coming into the office yesterday but just couldn’t do it. So I took the day off to spend with Donna, Jack & Joe. We went to the park, fed the ducks, took a long walk, took a nap, took another walk, and just loved being with each other. It was great. As much as I didn’t want to come back to the office today I had to in order to bill clients for the work I’ve done. I was pleasantly surprised to receive an email from my South Dakota buddy saying he’s in for my annual fishing trip. I’m pretty much on cloud nine. So billings are done, emails been checked, fires have been put out, and I think I’ll get out of here until Monday. Goodbye, all!

Overheard outside the sandwich shop today

2006-04-12T12:33:00.000-07:00

Then why do she start grippin’ onto her purse like that?

Because she’s old and frail and scared of her own shadow. She grips onto it whenever she sees me, it’s got nothing to do with you being black.

Naw man, it’s ‘cause I’m black. I could say to her, “Lemme tell you ‘bout Jesus,” and all she’d hear is, “Gimme yo f—kin’ money.”

It's a sad day...

2006-03-29T16:01:00.000-08:00

Hooters calls it quits
All is not totally lost as the airline will continue to run private charters out of Winston Salem, N.C. but regular service will cease April 17th. And me never having flown on it, the horror!

In honor of the greatest airline in the history of the world I present to you The Top 11 Differences on Hooters Airlines...

11. Seats and tray tables aren't the only thing in an upright and locked position.
10. "Layovers" not necessarily a bad thing now.
9. Wood detectors now installed at all gates.
8. New flight attendant job description has a "maximum IQ" requirement.
7. "You can now see the Grand Canyon to your left, if you can manage to pry your eyes off the flight attendant for five friggin' seconds."
6. "The captain has turned off the 'Fasten bra straps' sign. The flight attendants are now free to jiggle about the cabin."
5. Since when do they have a seat 38DD?
4. Passengers no longer complain about it being too cold in the cabin.
3. Male passengers pray for turbulence, especially during the beverage service.
2. "Should there be a loss in cabin pressure, a plate of hot wings and a pitcher of Bud will drop from the ceiling, and Misty will sit on your lap while you watch 'SportsCenter' -- heck, if you're gonna go, might as well go in style."
1. Everywhere you look: Flotation devices!

Listen up

2006-03-27T16:33:00.000-08:00

To all you people making demands of me – I don’t care who you are. Do NOT give me a hard time about taking Sunday off. Do NOT tell me how stressed you are that you can’t get the $#%^ service tech from Sears to fix the washing machine so we’ll just have to spend $600 to buy a new one. Do NOT try to guilt me into spending time (or my own money) to solve your school’s financial hardships that YOU had a part in creating (especially when I was sounding the alarm two years ago and you chose to ignore it). Do NOT show up at my office unannounced and expect me to drop everything to meet with you, I frankly don’t care how much you paid my firm last year. Do NOT, Do NOT, DO NOT DO ANY OF THE ABOVE OR ANYTHING SIMILAR UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO INTEGRATE MY FOOT WITH YOUR ASS.

As you were.

What’s a matter with you, it’s too soon for John Denver.

2006-03-15T18:07:00.000-08:00

Years ago my buddy Rob and I used to take extended fishing trips into the eastern sierras. We tent-camped along a specific river, fished a number of lakes. It was glorious. I look back and I think it was among the last of my carefree days. Anyway, we’d make the long drive up the 14 & 395 through Mojave and then through Bishop. About ½ way up Sherwin grade the desert melts away and you find yourself in God’s country. I don’t know when or why it started, but reaching a very specific landmark during the climb required that we start listening to John Denver’s “Sweet Surrender” followed by “Rocky Mountain High”, singing along in a tone and volume that would cause dogs far and wide to howl with vigor. And this little ritual could only take place when we had reached a certain landmark. If one of us were to pop in the cassette say, just outside of Bishop, the other would immediately assert, “What’s a matter with you, it’s too soon for John Denver.” To this day when I hear those songs I’m transported back in time to the cab of that truck and I feel like I’m almost there.

Rob is married with a family now and has moved out of the area so we don’t fish or hunt together like we used to. But I still take a trip or two up there every year. The highlight trip is with a few buddies when we all leave our wives & kids at home and have the “annual guys only fishing trip”. It usually takes place in August. I’m already getting a little bit antsy about it because there’s a possibility that I’ll have a couple of new players involved. My buddy Jason is hoping to make the trek out here from South Dakota. Plans are still in the works but I’m hopeful. I’ll believe it when I see it, but I’m hopeful.

Tax season is here and in full swing. In a normal year the real insanity doesn’t get underway until April 1st or so. Today is the 15th of March and I’m already getting hammered. I’m tired. I’m cranky. I want people to leave me alone. I want to be dry fly fishing the upper Owens River. I want to be sitting around a campfire with my buddy from South Dakota and some other friends.

As I type this I’ve got “Rocky Mountain High” playing on my iPod. I know, “it’s too soon for John Denver” but I can’t help myself.

More elevator hijinks

2006-03-02T12:52:00.000-08:00

While riding down in the elevator a few moments ago a guy pulls out his cell phone and makes a call:

“Hello? May I speak with Thomas please?”

*pause*

“Yeah, Tom. It’s Jerry. I’m coming to get you. Bye.”

I started cracking up. A few other people snicker. The guy has this “is my zipper down?” look on his face and asks, “What’s funny?”

I said, “Are you going to drop an anvil on his head?” A few more snickers. The guy stared at me blankly.

“My kids love watching you on Cartoon Network, by the way. You’re a lot taller in real life.” The laughs from the other passengers were starting to pick up when a lady added, “And not as furry.” Everybody lost it at that point. Unbridled hilarity. Except for Jerry. The joke had completely escaped him. When the elevator car hit the ground floor Jerry exited first. He paused for a moment and then turned, exclaiming, “F*** you!!” before storming away. Greatest elevator ride ever.

Good times

2006-02-12T23:30:00.000-08:00

Donna got a weekend away for some much deserved rest & girltime so I got the boys to myself. The boys thought their friend’s mom was taking them home for the afternoon until I got off of work so it was a big surprise when I walked into their classroom at 12:30. They immediately shouted, “Daddy!” and engulfed me with hugs. Their teacher told me that they had been talking all morning about how their daddy was spending the whole weekend with them. As they each clung to a leg, I looked down and saw tremendous love, affection, excitement, contentment… in their faces. It was among the greatest feelings I’ve ever felt. One of Jack’s friends approached and asked, “Is it really true that you’re shooting rockets and going hiking in the mountains and going to the park and playing baseball all weekend?” I broke into a wide grin and said, “yep!” His head bowed a bit and he said softly, “My daddy never does fun stuff with me…” I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Oh, that’s just because you’re daddy doesn’t love you.” It was sort of quiet in the room and I think I actually heard his little heart breaking.

We ran a few errands and then came home for a siesta. We later went over to their grandma’s house for a long game of Wiffleball-over-the-line, fireworks (yes, you read that correctly - the coolest grandma evah!), grub, and 3 Tivo’ed episodes of “My name is Earl.” Saturday morning we rose early, hooked up with some friends, and drove out to Lancaster (aka BF Egypt) where we spent a few hours shooting model rockets. Around noon their buddies had to hit the road in order to make it home in time for a party so we jumped into the truck and headed for the forest. Even though it was the middle of the day, there was a few deer out feeding on a burn. The doe on the left had a bum leg. It’s a shame I didn’t have my rifle & a doe tag, I’d a made her into sausage. But that seems to be the way my deer hunting luck goes – in season they’re like hen’s teeth. Out of season they’re thick as flies. (clicky pictures for biggerness)

We hit a dirt turnoff and began our ascent into the mountains. The view of the valley below was spectacular.
We did a little hiking, the boys played with their new slingshots, we collected pinecones, we laughed. The sky was blue, the air was crisp, and it was perfect. By the time we got back to the highway, both boys were sleeping soundly. We pulled into the driveway around dinnertime so we ate a pizza while watching a tape of the Ultimate Fighting Championship. It was filled with some especially gruesome fights, so we turned it off and watched Spongebob Squarepants. He’s a sponge, he lives in a pineapple under the sea, there’s nautical nonsense, it’s awesome. The boys crashed out around 8:00 so I watched a DVD of “Lord of War” and then hit the sack. We made it to church this morning and I enjoyed another installment in our Pastor’s series on the book of Daniel. This series has been really good and I can feel the Lord prodding me in some areas. More on that in a future post. After service I talked to a friend about his aspiration to start a new ministry that will minister to community, and how I can assist him with the formation of an exempt organization that will help accomplish that. It’s an interesting idea and I think it would be a real opportunity to minister to people who would otherwise blow off the traditional church thing. We spent the rest of the afternoon making progress on our bathroom remodel until Donna came home. It’s been a real treat having the boys to myself, especially since the ol’ work schedule is about to get hectic and soon I will probably be seeing the boys only on the weekends. But I missed my wife and it’s good to have my family all back under the same roof.

Elevator confessions

2006-01-26T12:33:00.000-08:00

The building in which my office is located probably has the slowest elevators in all of the state. They’re so slow that I actually would sometimes prefer to take the stairs to my 7th floor office (I’m saved from this awful fate by the fact that the fire exit stairwell doors are locked from the parking garage). Anyway, the long wait oftentimes allows me to eavesdrop on some interesting conversations. Like this morning. A large woman on a cellphone was having a conversation with her friend and it went something like this:

The judge said we gotta go to these stupid parenting classes for bad parents or he’ll violate us and we’ll both go back to county. Darius’s mom is watching DJ & Lawanda while we go and she’s like, “you better be makin’ some food before you go ‘cuz I ain’t cookin’ for them kids and I wanna eat too,” so I took a pot roast outta the fridge but the dog got ahold of it when I wasn’t lookin’.

pause

Naw, I wrestled it away from him but he already ate part of it.

pause

Hell no, that thing cost a lotta money!

pause

I don’t care if that mean ol’ woman gets sick eatin’ it, she deserves it. She should get sick & die!

pause

Oh yeah, I didn’t think about them kids.

Yahoooo!!

2006-01-18T21:12:00.000-08:00

A week or two ago my sister and her husband sprung the news that Jack & Joe are going to have a cousin. There was much laughing, hugging, handshaking & backslapping at the news. They really are in love and I just know this baby will be a blessing to them. They’re going to be great parents. This is extra special to me because this will be "my" first nephew/niece. I got a ton of them by marrying Donna but there's something cool about having one from your own blood. Anyway, Melissa went for her first ultrasound a day or so ago. Here’s the photo:
I was amazed at the development of the little fellar even at this early stage. The transformation from a glob of baby batter & an egg to a real person living in my sister’s belly in just a few short weeks is, in my humble opinion, one of God’s greatest miracles. I can’t wait for this little guy or gal to be born. I’m sure he/she will be handsome/beautiful. However, I do believe that he currently bears a striking resemblance to “Plankton” of Spongebob Squarepants fame (Melissa if you’re reading this and are unfamiliar with Spongebob, stay tuned – you’ll soon be humming, “he lives in a pineapple under the sea…” while in the shower). Also, looking again at the ultrasound picture it appears that my sister has a freakishly large womb. Seriously, that thing is like the penthouse suite of wombs. She could easily fit another 3 or 4 kids in there. That was very considerate of my sister to provide such spacious living quarters for her child. Already thinking about the kid and it hasn’t even been born yet. Didn’t I tell you they’ll be great parents?

Congrats to Mike & Melissa! You are so blessed and we’re so happy for you!

Till death do us part

2006-01-04T10:47:00.000-08:00

Note: names in the following entry have been changed to protect the identities of the parties.

Last week I got a voicemail from a client of mine. I’ve been preparing tax returns for Elvis & Ginger for seven years or so. They were friends before they were clients. Not the kind of friends that we hang out with a lot because schedules and geographical challenges make it too difficult, but we see them at events and keep in touch with them through family. They’re the kind of friends that you don’t see for awhile and then, after seeing them, walk away and think, “Man, it’s been way too long. We’ve got to hook up with them more often.” So last week Ginger called and left me a voicemail that she would appreciate it if I could fax her a copy of her return. She’s got some student loans she’s wanted to refinance for awhile and I figured that was the impetus of her call. We exchanged a couple voicemails but finally connected. Usually Ginger has a bounce in her voice but this time it was conspicuously absent. I told her I’d emailed a copy of her return to her. She was appreciative and then paused. I asked, “So how’s everything?” “Well…. Elvis and I are going to be separating.” And when she said, “going to be separating” it just didn’t have the vibe like it was temporary. It had a permanent tone to it. I felt like I’d been sucker-punched. Elvis and Ginger always seemed like the couple that would go the distance. My heart breaks for them and their family. After considering the whole mess for awhile, I realized that I needed to advise both of them (as their cpa) that if I provide info to one of them, I need to advise the other what info I’d given and when I’d given it (it’s required by our malpractice insurance). I called Elvis but got his voicemail so I left a message. “Hey Elvis, I spoke to Ginger and she told me you’re going to be separating. She requested a copy of your 2004 return and I’ve provided it to her. FYI - if I ever provide info to one party, I’ll be notifying the other. Hope you guys are able to reconcile. I’ll be praying for you.” A short while later, I began to wonder… did Elvis just find out from his beancounter that his wife is giving him the sack? Whether he did or not, 2006 is not starting off well for him.

Meet Kaleb

2005-12-07T15:43:00.000-08:00

He’s got “a congenital bone marrow failure syndrome of anemia and neutropenia requiring a hematopoietic stem cell transplant.” I don't know what that means, but I know it's not good. He’s currently undergoing treatment at Duke University. You can read the whole story HERE.

There are so many needs in this world and so many stories of difficulty that it’s easy to become unmoved by them. I don’t even know Kaleb or his family (I was made aware of his plight by a friend) but his story was especially difficult for me to swallow. Maybe it’s because he’s such a cute little fellar. Or maybe it’s because I’m a daddy and I know I would lose my marbles if something like this were to happen to Jack or Joe. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. I’ve purposed to pray for this family every day. I hope you’ll join me. You might also consider visiting his site. There you’ll find a link that will direct you to a page where you can assist the family financially in covering the cost of his care. It’s Christmastime and you probably have a bunch of expenses that are straining the ol’ budget. But let’s not forget that the Birthday Boy ought to get a few presents, too. And I can’t think of a better one than caring for one of His little angels.

The pen is mightier than the sword.

2005-12-06T12:46:00.000-08:00

ST. PARIS, Ohio - Steven Zorn had put the pen gun to his head and clicked before, apparently thinking it was jammed and would not work.

But on the third try, the tiny silver pistol went off as the 22-year-old budding rap artist was drinking to celebrate an impending record deal. He died at a hospital.

The Nov. 18 shooting at Zorn's home in this rural village of 2,000, about 50 miles northeast of Dayton, is believed to have been accidental, according to family, friends and law enforcement officials.

"Steven had a career and his dreams all ahead of him," said Zorn's mother, Lisa McCoy-Horn. She said she wants lawmakers to outlaw pen guns, which are small-caliber, single-shot weapons that resemble pens.

Zorn had taught himself to play the keyboard and record tracts using inexpensive software on his home computer. He tracked down rap artist Miracle in Georgia and urged the crunk artist to listen to a CD of his original recordings.

"The lyrical content was awesome," Miracle said. "He had a lot of skill. I took a liking to him, took him under my wing."

Three times. I must say, I admire his persistence.

Thanks, Veterans!

2005-11-11T21:01:00.000-08:00

If the sparse traffic didn’t alert you that today is a holiday, I will. Today is Veteran’s Day. I celebrated by being stuck in a room with 107 other beancounters discussing recent pronouncements in the auditing world. I’m sure you don’t have to be told what kind of a party that is. The instructor was making his introduction to the group and he mentioned surprise at the promptness of the participants. Somebody remarked that the holiday probably contributed to the lite traffic, allowing everyone to be on time. The instructor was caught a bit off guard and had to ask what holiday we were supposed to be celebrating. He was informed that it’s veteran’s day. “Huh!” he said. “I’m a veteran. How many other veterans do we have here?” With that, maybe 4 or 5 men sheepishly raised a hand. There was a moment of awkward silence and then I rose to my feet. I began clapping loudly and nodding my head. If you don’t know me, I should tell you that I’m not a “life-of-the-party, make-a-spectacle-of-myself” kind of guy so this was uncharted territory for me. I risked making myself look like a total ass. These guys are worth it. After about 5 seconds of clapping by myself (which felt like about 5 hours) I said loudly, “Get up you bastards and give these men a hand! Go on! Get outta your seat! I see you over there… Don’t make me come over there and get you outta that chair!” A few folks started clapping and then a few more. A few rose to their feet and before I knew it, the entire place was on its feet in raucous applause. It was a wonderful experience and I have goosebumps sitting here typing about it. The men who served sat humbly with beaming grins on their faces. I began shaking the hand of an old veteran next to me and patting him on the back. A few others followed my lead and did the same. It was a very strange experience, almost surreal.

At the first break a feeble old man approached. With tears in his eyes he said to me, “Young man, I’d like to shake your hand. While driving in today I wondered if anybody would remember what today was. It looked like it wasn’t going to happen. You’ve given an old man a wonderful gift. Thank you.” The others stood in a line waiting to shake my hand. Each told me how moved they were to be honored by such a simple gesture. I was completely humbled and awed. These men, who gave so selflessly, were moved by simple applause. We truly have the best of the best in America.

Good luck, George!

2005-11-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

There is a medical office next door to my firm’s office. One of the doctors is a neurologist and the other is an oncologist. The folks that go in and out of the place are usually old and nearly all of them are in bad shape. I think these doctors are in the business of handling the hard cases. I found this note on the floor of the lobby while waiting for the elevator today. I don’t know what news George got, but I’m glad he has Fran by his side. I feel the same way about my wife. I wonder if she knows that?

(Click the image to embiggen it.)

Pacifism is for sissies.

2005-10-21T12:59:00.000-07:00

Last year Donna took a trip to Georgia to visit some friends. While she was away I took Jack and Joe over to a local park. It was midweek and school was in session at the time so we had the whole place to ourselves. The boys went on the swings, we dug in the sand, flew a kite. It was a great fun. Toward the end of our time while Jack and Joe were playing on the jungle gym, a pair of Hispanic nannies showed up at the park, each with two white kids. Each of the kids was 3 or 4 years old and they jumped right onto the play equipment while the nannies sat on a bench talking. Jack was delighted at the arrival of the other kids because there’s no such thing as a stranger to him, just a future friend. The kids rode down the slide and then climbed to the top of the structure for another ride in rapid succession. The new arrivers weren’t well versed in the whole “taking turns” concept, pushing their way in front of my sons as they pleased. But Jack and Joe weren’t too put off because at least they had some new playmates. Things proceeded relatively smoothly until one of the boys (I’ll call him, “The Creep”) decided he didn’t want Jack and Joe on his slide. With arms outstretched and blocking the slide, he let out a deep and loud, “AUUUGGGHHH!!” each time they attempted to make it past him. At first Jack and Joe simply ignored him but then the boy pinched Jack on the arm. Jack looked at him and said, “Hey, that’s not berry nice. Please don’t do that.” The Creep responded by “AUUUGGGHH!”ing in his face again. Jack slipped by him and made his ride down the slide. Next, The Creep took a swipe at Joe. My sons gathered around me.

“Daddy, that boy is being mean to us. He’s yelling at us and he pinched me and he tried to hit Joe-Joe.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Did you tell him to knock it off?”

“Yeah, but he keeps doing it.”

“Well, maybe you should go place on something else… like the swings.”

“What if he hits us when we’re swinging?”

I pondered that for a moment. The kid had a point. We moved in close for a huddle.

“Alright, you tried being nice, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you told him to stop, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And he still tries to hurt you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then you’ve done all you can do. You gotta stand up for yourself.”

“Yeah,” they nodded in emphatic agreement. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it means that if he pushes you around you have to push back and show him that he’s not the boss of you. Can you do that?”

With a frightened look on his face, Joe gave a slow and uneasy nod.
Jack broke into a wide grin.

“Yeah, daddy, I can do that.”

“Alright, get back up on that jungle gym and have some fun!”

Somewhere in the future, a therapist is profiting from my parental failure.

The boys raced for the ladder to the jungle gym, Joe arriving first. After climbing the first rung, he paused for a moment and then climbed down.

“You can go first, Jacky.”

Jack made a mad dash up the ladder and headed for the slide. I sat on the park bench, my heart racing and palms sweating. The Creep jumped in front of the slide and let out a bellowing, “AUUUGGGHHH!” in Jack’s face. Before he could even complete his howl, Jack let fly a hard right, catching him squarely on the end of his nose. The Creep wailed satisfyingly and fell backward down the slide. When he sailed off the bottom of the slide and landed in the sand his nose was bleeding like a stuck hog. Jack then hollered at him to, “get out of the way so I can go down.” Now emboldened, Joe chimed in, “Yeah, get outta the way! We wanna go down!” I sat on the bench, my mouth agape in shock. The other playmates stood in stunned silence. The Creep, bloody and wailing, sought comfort from one of the nannies.

On the drive home from the park, Jack spoke.

“Daddy, after I punched that mean boy in the nose the other boys were nicer to me and Joe-Joe.”

“Yeah, I noticed that too. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I think it’s because I showed them that the mean boy isn’t the boss of me. I’m gonna tell mommy all about what happened when she gets home from Georgia!”

“Daddy, did anyone ever punch you in the nose?”

“Not since I was a little boy… but I have a feeling that’s going to change when Mommy finds out how I handled this.”

I don't care

2005-10-03T17:59:00.000-07:00

In case you haven’t filed yet, October 17 (two weeks from today) is the final filing deadline for your 2004 individual tax return. This is the worst deadline (far uglier than April 15) for me because there’s no more delaying, it’s gotta be done. These are always the most complex returns and they’re required by the most derelict clients. My patience for these wankers ran out about two weeks ago.

“Listen, there is no depreciation recapture on the sale of your rental property but depreciation taken in past years does reduce your basis in that property. Accordingly, you have a capital gain of $1,118,000 and there is a total balance due with your return of $257,000.”

“blah, blah, blah…”

“I don’t care that you won’t be able to visit your father’s final resting place in France next summer. I don’t care that your daughter has to continue driving the 2002 Saab convertible instead of getting a new BMW. And I don’t care that the big “art purchase” your wife has her heart set on will have to wait another year. I don’t care. I really don’t care. Is there anything, ANYTHING I can do to even begin to make you understand how much I. Do. NOT. CARE.?”

I’m not sure I can take much more of this. Deer season opens this Saturday and, like the past several Saturdays, I’ll be sitting in this office, banging away on this computer, doing tax returns and auditing pension plans for the same whiner clients that have been engaging me for the past 12 years. I wonder if they know what low esteem I hold them in? They probably don’t care either.

Holding onto it like it's money.

2005-09-26T14:59:00.000-07:00

My sister and brother-in-law had the mother of all bbq’s on Saturday to benefit hurricane victims. Good times. They roasted a whole pig and fried a henhouse full of chicken.

There were a ton of accompanying fixins – cornbread, beans, tater salad, tamales, devilled eggs, pea salad, baked taters, and the list goes on but I won’t. I made a concerted effort to feed at least a sampling of each item to my tapeworm and I believe I was successful. It was good. All of it.

That was Saturday evening and here I sit on Monday afternoon still paying for it. I’m so backed up I feel like I’m 16 months pregnant. With twins. I’ve been powering down the fiber all day with no results. Very likely it will knock loose while I’m sitting in the 405’s bumper-to-bumper traffic today at 5:15. Before I leave today I’m going to see if I can fashion some sort of diaper out of a Hefty bag. Cut a few holes for my legs and I should be golden.

In case you're wondering... the grub was worth the present misery.

Quote of the day

2005-09-22T12:11:00.000-07:00

The Creator has not given you a longing to do that which you have no ability to do. - Orison Swett Marden

Can't say why, but this one really struck me. I did a little bit of research on Orison Swett Marden as I'd never heard of him. In addition to being a Harvard brainiac he was a motiviational writer/speaker and the founder of Success Magazine. Kind of the 19th century version of Tony Robbins.

As you were.

God bless me and those like me.

2005-09-15T21:25:00.000-07:00

One of the few benefits of travelling the 405 through the Sepulveda pass each day is that the stop & go trip affords me the opportunity to do some people watching. I’ve been making this commute for over 12 years and I’ve seen just about every type of behavior you can imagine. And I’ve seen just about every bumper sticker under the sun. Some of my favorites are:

Ray guns don't kill Zerbonians,
Zerbonians kill Zerbonians.

Impotence...Nature's way of saying, "No hard feelings,".

Indians had bad immigration laws.

Now that food has replaced sex in my life, I can't even get into my own pants.

Bambi makes cute sandwiches.

And then there are those that drive me crazy and make me wish that my truck was equipped with a .50 caliber mini-gun:

"My child is a Super Student at Hootenanny Elementary!" - I suppose they had to make these because the underachievers need to feel good about themselves the way the Honor Students do. But is this what the country needs, another celebration of mediocrity?

"One day at a time" - Really, what is the purpose of this? If you’re going to advertise the fact that you're a drunk, do so only if you’re an active drunk. That way I’ll I know to give you a wide berth.

"It will be a great day when the military has to have a bake sale and the schools..." - These are usually driven by some Berkeley-educated battle-ax in a Volvo. I could go on here, but I won’t.

"The road to hell is paved with Republicans." - I thought those godless liberals didn’t believe in hell?

And the one that jumps up and down on my last nerve:

"Jesus is my co-pilot." – I can’t say for certain why this drives me crazy. It just seems so, "Jesus is my boyfriend!!" that it makes me want to ram them with my truck and push them over the side of the freeway. Listen, if Jesus were really your co-pilot, I think He’d tell you to get out of the fast lane if you’re going to do 50mph. And He’d probably draw attention to the fact that you’ve been driving the last 4 miles with your left turn signal flashing. I happen to know Jesus and He told me that you should take the bus whenever I’m on the road. The other day I saw an obvious jab at the above-mentioned sticker and it made me laugh. I felt guilty laughing, but I did anyway:

Jesus was my co-pilot... Then we crash landed in the mountains and I had to eat him.

Angel got her wings

2005-09-12T13:31:00.000-07:00

Back in June I posted about Susan Torres. She was the pregnant woman on life support and whose husband was struggling to keep her alive with the hopes that the child would survive. It was a race between the fetus' development and the cancer that was ravaging the woman's body. The race was won and Susan Anne Catherine Torres was born about two months premature on August 2 weighing in at 1 pound, 13 ounces. Mommy went home to be with the Lord shortly after Baby Torres’ birth. Victory!

I was saddened to learn that Susan Anne Catherine died today after emergency surgery to repair a perforated intestine. My sister emailed me with the news and it felt like a knee to the hairy gumdrops. As a daddy, I can only imagine the crushing sadness that Jason Torres must be feeling. It really takes the wind out of my sails just to think about it.

On the other hand… I can’t even begin to imagine the reunion that baby and mommy are having. I feel warm and fuzzy just thinking about it. And when Jason reunites with them… holy smokes. THAT is going to be a party. I cannot, for even a second, get my head around that one.

Jason, wherever you are, know that your brothers and sisters are praying for you. I don’t understand why God brought you to this place but your faith inspires me. Hang on till the reunion, it’s going to be a good one.

Beretta Pintail 12 GA. – Flight cancelled!

2005-09-09T13:45:00.000-07:00

Took the annual trip to Arizona for the dove opener this year. With all the rains that occurred from 10/04 – 4/05 I was hopeful that it would be a good year. There was plenty of water and food out in the deserts, enough that some of the birds were able to achieve three successful hatches. I crossed my fingers and said a prayer that the thunderstorms we seem to get every August wouldn’t chase the birds down to Mexico. My buddy Joe and I arrived the day before the opener and scouted that evening. We found an alfalfa field with literally hundreds of birds in it. We vowed to return the next morning. The anticipation of the next morning made it difficult to sleep that night. We rose at 3:30 am and made it to our pre-scouted field by 4:15 only to find it adorned with signs reading “NO HUNTING NO TRESPASSING”. To say that I was both disappointed and ticked is an understatement. I was disappointed that the landowner chose to post his field, although I certainly understand why. I suppose hunters have brought this on themselves. My experience down there is that guys leave spent shotshells and trash all over the place, so if I had land I might be inclined to post it too. More likely, though, I’d leave a sign that said, “Call this number for permission to hunt this land. Violators will be shot on sight and fed to the hogs.” Or something to that effect. I was ticked because the guy waited until late in the evening before the opener to install his signs. It’s no secret that a lot of folks are down there looking for a place to hunt and it takes a real tool to post after folks have done their scouting. Anyway, we searched and found an alfalfa field a ¼ mile away and had the shoot of our lives. The hunting, where we were, was absolutely epic. I easily shot a limit within an hour and could have taken three more if I had been inclined to break the law. Even Joe, who couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat, shot a limit. Later in the day while back in town we talked to a lot of other hunters. Very few limited and many didn’t even get any shots. Most were green with envy when we showed them the load of birds we’d shot. I’ll tell you, that smug feeling of superiority is satisfying.

"Flight 704 to hell, now boarding at gate 13"

2005-09-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

During our college years, my buddy Rob and I spent the majority of our free time (and a fair amount of our classroom time) daydreaming about the excellent fishing and hunting trips we’d take when we’d earned our degrees and were making fat salaries. By the time I graduated, I had hunted elephants in Africa, caribou in Canada, and caught salmon & halibut off the coast of Alaska. All without leaving the comforts of the back row of the university’s Economics lecture hall. While my knowledge of even rudimentary economics didn’t exactly flourish, I did become a well-respected hunting and fishing guide. I might even go so far as to say I became a legend… in my own mind.

In April of 1991, I was riding my dirt bike out in the desert. I got to showing off a little bit while taking a jump and I ended up riding off a small cliff. Fortunately, there were some sharp rocks below to cushion my fall and I only suffered a broken collar bone, 6 broken ribs, a cracked sternum, a lacerated kidney, a punctured lung, road rash, and a collection of bruises. Since my injuries prevented me from working my usual job as a furniture mover, I spent the next nine months suckling on the government’s State Disability Insurance teat. The excruciating pain aside, it was a pretty sweet gig. I had plenty of time for screwing around and I got a tax-free payment in the mail every two weeks. That’s a good setup if you can get it. Since Rob was a child of privilege and didn’t need to work, we spent the better part of that summer lounging in the shade of some large oak trees while fishing a local lake.

Rob is number five in a family of eight kids. The whole family is like something you’d see on a Hallmark made-for-tv movie. Rob’s dad, Russ, is a retired commercial airline pilot. His mother is the classic homemaker, right down to the frilly apron she wears around the house. Each of the children is making a mark on this world as a banker, business executive, pilot, or some other respectable profession. They’re all a great bunch of people, although they welcomed me with open arms right into their family so they’ve obviously got some issues. But I like ‘em.

At the end of June, Rob received a call from a friend. Roger had been Rob’s next door neighbor for several years but he picked up his wife and two daughters and moved them to Las Vegas the year prior. We were plenty disappointed to see Roger go, and it wasn’t because he had a 26-foot SeaRay cabin cruiser on which we had many great fishing trips. It was because Roger was a good guy and… he… always… oh, forget it. It was because of the boat. Anyway, Roger called and said that he had been taking his boat out into Lake Mead pretty regularly and had become a pretty accomplished striped bass fisherman. He invited us to come out on the 4th of July and spend a few days fishing with him. We eagerly accepted his offer and told him we needed to find a way to get there since both of us drove belchfire cars but, one way or another, we’d be there. We were just about ready to lower ourselves to riding a Greyhound bus when Russ volunteered to fly us out to Vegas on his airplane (the one in the picture). Before we knew it, Butch (Rob’s younger brother who is also a pilot) invited himself along. Roger graciously told us, “the more the merrier” and that he’d meet us at the airport at 6:00 on July 4th.

On the day of the 4th the rest of Rob’s family was bbqing and eating watermelon while we loaded our gear into the car. Both Russ and Butch had instructed us to be mindful of what we were taking because there are strict weight limits on small craft and exceeding the limits can be extremely dangerous. Rob’s mom, ever the doting hen, fretted that we would be hungry on our flight so she made each of us a couple chili dogs. These were some gooood chili-dogs. Loaded with cheese & onions, they were a work of art. We pounded the chili dogs and hit the road. Thirty minutes or so later, we arrived at Camarillo airport. With our luggage and fishing gear in a very large pile outside the airplane, Butch began hoisting each item attempting to assess its weight. He recorded the weight of each item in a small spiral notebook. He crunched the numbers in his head and determined that the total weight put us just “below gross” and pronounced us safe to fly. After performing the pre-flight routine, we were soon in the air and headed toward Vegas.

The airplane we were riding in was a vintage Beechcraft Bonanza. The plane had been meticulously maintained and upgraded with new electronics. A new, oil-cooled powerplant was capable of generating a steady cruise of 210 mph. In short, she was the envy of just about any small-craft pilot who laid eyes on her. She did have one failing, though. The craft was not equipped with any sort of air conditioning or vent to the outside which meant hot, dead air inside the cabin. To make matters worse, the Bonanza is not a top-wing aircraft, which means there is virtually no shade from direct sunlight. This didn’t usually pose a problem, however, because Russ ordinarily flew in cooler climates, such as up and down the coast. And if a desert flight was necessary, a significant gain in altitude was usually sufficient to lower the cabin temperature dramatically.

However… on this particular day the stars aligned and we hit the trifecta. Our flight took place in the middle of a hot summer day while the sun burned with full intensity. Our journey took us directly across the desert. And Butch, our boneheaded co-pilot, had failed to include the weight of his passengers in his load calculation. Each of the four passengers was within a biscuit of 250 lbs. On the whole, we were about half a ton “over gross”. The effects would soon make themselves clear.

We had been in the air for perhaps 30 minutes when the excitement began wearing off and I became aware of the interior temperature. Another 30 minutes passed and things became downright uncomfortable. A dial thermometer in the center of the cabin read a toasty 112 degrees. To this day, when I walk through Costco’s meat section and see the rotisserie chickens I have flashbacks. Each of us was sweating so profusely that I thought it probable we’d flood the cabin and short the avionics. Russ attempted to gain altitude to cool things off but with each attempt the engine’s oil temperature climbed. As if the conditions on the inside of the cabin weren’t miserable enough, we noticed thunderclouds forming across the horizon. And with the thunderheads came some pretty severe turbulence. A discussion was had where we weighed the options of forging ahead or finding a local airport and waiting for the unstable air to pass. We finally decided to press on. We made it to about 20 miles outside Vegas and we could go no further. The horizon looked like something out of the movie “Twister”. Thick, black clouds. Driving rain. And lightning bolts cracking through the sky. The control tower at the Vegas airport picked us up on their radar. Russ conversed with the traffic controllers via radio about the weather and was told that the storm looked like it was going to hang around for awhile. We could either “fly the pattern” and try to wait it out or we could head back. Russ and Butch started making some fuel consumption calculations and they quickly determined that flying the pattern was not an option. In addition, the engine’s oil temperature began to tickle the red line. It was not a good situation. I glanced over at Rob and he was making the sign of the cross and he appeared to be mumbling the Rosary. I found this especially disconcerting because Rob is not, nor has he ever been, a Catholic. I suppose he wanted all his bases covered. While Butch took over the controls of the plane, Russ pored over a map of the area, searching for any airport with a strip long enough for us to land. There was an abandoned airport about 20 miles east of our location but it had no gas pumps and no telephones. Assuming the strip was in a condition that permitted a safe landing, we might be stuck there for a couple days before being found. The next possibility was Daggett airport in Barstow. It was considerably further but at least there were phones, gas pumps, and live humans. Russ and Butch argued over the wisdom of each choice. Russ, being the senior pilot, commanded that we would forge ahead to Daggett. As we banked around we hit a sheer wind that sucked about 200 feet of altitude from us. The craft shook violently and then we were weightless. . I screamed, I wailed. My life flashed before my eyes. I knew at that moment that I was going to die. I was going to die and my last meal was a plate of chili-dogs. Oh yes, the chili-dogs. Like nuclear waste they sat at the back of my throat threatening to burn right through my skin and contaminate the entire plane. I turned to Rob just in time to see him yank a “sick-sack” out of the back of the seat in front of him and empty the contents of his stomach into it. I stayed strong until I caught a whiff of the purge and then I folded like a house of cards. I retrieved a sick-sack of my own and promptly began filling it. “Hey, look! There’s the chili-dogs! Hey, look! There’s my dinner from last night! Hey, look! There’s an Abba-Zabba candy bar I had when I was a kid!” It was ten minutes of violent wretching like I’ve never experienced, before or since. I evacuated my entire abdominal workings, from my sphincter to the back of my throat. And then an absolute serenity enveloped me. I knew I was going to die. I accepted it. I embraced it. I even prayed for it. I began to dream, for how long I do not know. “Perhaps I’ll go to heaven and be greeted by my Maker. That will be so wonderful! Or perhaps I’ll go to hell where I can at least cool off! Either way, it will be glorious!” Russ rudely interrupted my nirvana. “Hang on, boys, we’re taking her in for a landing,” and a couple minutes later we were safely on the ground at Daggett airport.

As the craft rolled to a stop, Butch flipped open the door. Although the outside temperature hovered well above 90 degrees, it felt like we had stepped into a blast freezer. We emerged from the plane and it was as though we were being born again. We were covered in an afterbirth of sweat, tears, and vomit. Immediately, we peeled our soaking shirts and began to wring the considerable amount of sweat from them. We made good use of a nearby hose bib to cool ourselves. It was paradise.

The small airport, which on a busy day wouldn’t exactly be described as a booming metropolis, was eerily quiet. The 4th of July holiday had transformed the place into a ghost town. We tested every door of every building on the grounds and found a single unlocked door. It happened to be the entrance to an employee lounge of some sort and the room sported a nice selection of vending machines full of ice-cold, refreshing beverages. A quick inventory of our finances revealed that nobody had any coins for the machines. Butch finally reached his limit and picked up a chair, raised it over his head, and prepared to smash a hole in one of the appliances. I stopped him before he could do any damage, not because I felt any particular moral responsibility to the owner of the equipment but because I knew that the way our luck was running he'd somehow end up injuring himself and we’d be down one pilot. We wandered out of the building, cursing our luck, when we noticed a telephone booth. A placard displayed the name and telephone number of the airport’s FBO (that’s pilot talk for Fixed Base Operations, the guy that refuels your airplane). We put in a call and, surprisingly, a gentleman said he’d be there shortly to refuel us. True to his word, the man arrived a couple minutes later and began fueling our craft. A few checks of the engine, a top-off of the oil, and we were soon climbing back into the cockpit. The sun was setting, the air was cooling slightly, and we all had a renewed excitement. Vegas, here we come and pity the striped bass population because we’re taking no prisoners! The engine roared to life, we taxied from the fuel stop, and we were soon rolling down the runway. Our demons must have been “flying the pattern” around the airport waiting for us because we were scarcely in the air when the needle on the engine oil temp gauge began to noticeably move toward the red line. Russ and Butch traded looks of concern while I feverishly searched the corners of my mind for my “happy place”. Each attempt to gain altitude increased the oil temperature a couple degrees and it wasn’t long before we were sitting on the red line again. We circled the airport for nearly an hour, attempting to “step climb”, a process where small altitude increases are achieved followed by a resting of the engine to allow a modicum of cooling to occur. We were mildly successful, but Russ was still concerned. At length he concluded that we should turn back and head for home. His conclusion was met with generous shrieks of protest and anguish. Had we endured such suffering for nothing? How could he so cowardly throw in the towel? He finally tossed the map onto the dash and stated that he’s, “not going to burn up my engine and crash my plane so that you two idgits can fish!” With the plane pointed back toward Camarillo, Rob and I sat back into our seats, arms folded, wearing scowls of disappointment and anger. Looking back, it was shameful. How any man’s priorities can get so out of whack is beyond me. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand a man who places an airplane above fishing, but he’s the one who has to live with himself. The remainder of the ride was fairly uneventful and was made in total silence. That is, until we were just a few minutes from landing. Butch suddenly exclaimed, “We’re over gross! That’s why we’re running so hot, we’re over gross! We didn’t take the weight of the passengers into account! We’re over gross!” He said it with incredible glee, as though he’d just found the cure for cancer. It didn’t go unnoticed that he said, “We didn’t take the weight of the passengers into account!” Russ, Rob and I discussed the idea of jettisoning Butch and all his gear on the spot, and then making another run for Vegas. We were sure that things would improve dramatically without the dead weight. However, Russ was concerned that while falling from the plane, Butch and his belongings might tangle in the ailerons or the rudder and damage the craft. It was a risk that Rob and I were willing to take if it meant that we might still get to fish, but Russ overruled us. I’m telling you, the guy is obsessed with that airplane. It’s just not healthy.

Back on the ground and with the plane safely tucked away in its hangar, we hit a local greasy spoon for some pizza and a couple pitchers of beer. We remained there until the wee hours, attempting to convince Butch that, for the safety of travelers everywhere, he ought to give up on his hope of becoming a commercial airline pilot. The entirety of his rebuttal to our arguments consisted of this little gem: “Commercial pilots don’t even have to do load calculations.” I’d like to tell you that we were successful in our attempts to convince Butch to abandon his dreams but, alas, we were not. His dream has become a reality and he is now a pilot with a major U.S. carrier. I’m sure he’s perfectly safe and I’m sure that “Commercial pilots don’t even have to do load calculations.” So if you’re flying from Burbank to San Francisco on a Monday through Friday on a certain well-known southwestern U.S. airline, I’m sure you’ll be fine. On the other hand, I hear Amtrak is running a special… $99 from LA to San Francisco. I understand it’s a beautiful trip and you get to see a lot of breathtaking country that you’d miss if you were 10,000 feet in the air. And I know for a fact that the train engineers don’t have to do load calculations.

“Maybe you’re my seed after all.”

2005-08-20T12:20:00.000-07:00

The X-rays were given the once over and the docs noticed a distinct absence of toys. So, either he didn’t actually swallow the Magnetix marble or he already passed it. Come to think of it, I thought I heard a *clank* when he was taking a dump the other day. At any rate, there are no foreign objects in his abdominal workings and we’ve eliminated that as a possible cause for his stomach ache and general feeling of yukkiness. While waiting for the X-rays at the hospital Donna got to talking to one of the ER nurses. The nurse said that her granddaughter had been displaying the same symptoms (except for the consumption of toys part), stomach ache, lack of appetite, emotional outbursts, etc. The little girl’s mother finally determined that it was a severe case of nerves due to the upcoming start of pre-school. Apparently, this is not uncommon. So with some careful questioning, we began to poke and prod at Joey’s emotional guts. It didn’t take long for him to spill the fact that he is, indeed, extremely anxious about beginning preschool. I told him of all the great fun he’s about to have. I tried to explain to him that I would never put him in a place where he would be hurt or unhappy. That I would go with him the first few days of school until he got used to it. Still, he had a look of fear and sadness in his eyes and insisted that he wants to come to work with me.

Like I said, my son’s feelings are not uncommon among children his age. And yet I can’t help but feel responsible. All my life I’ve been a worrier. In my Christian walk I’ve really struggled to remember that I have a loving Father that walks beside me, wherever life takes me. I don’t know where this seemingly constant sense of worry originated, but I know I’ve had it since I was a kid. I remember being seven years old and going to school a few blocks from our house. Each night, before going to sleep, I’d ask my mom if she would be there when I got home from school the next day. After school the following day, I’d run home to make sure she was there. On occasion the house was empty because an errand or something had delayed her. That was pretty much enough to put me in meltdown mode. Several months ago I was cleaning out some old boxes of junk and I came across a bunch of my schoolwork from that time. I opened a neatly folded piece of paper with a list of days. Next to each day I had printed, “Mom will be home.” I had forgotten about that. I had made a list that I carried with me during school. At times during the day, I'd look at that paper to reassure myself that she'd be there when I got home. I felt a sense of despair because I realized that in some ways, I’m still that frightened little kid.

A couple months ago I posted some thoughts on Ezekiel 34:6-7. I concluded that my sons are subjected to punishment for my sins because they mirror my bad behavior in their own lives. I can understand that and I can appreciate how that would happen. But this struggle with fear and worry seems to be a different animal. Firstly, I’ve got twin boys. They both pretty much witness the same behavior and Jack does not have these issues. And secondly, Joey has been a tender-hearted, sensitive “thinker” since he hit the delivery room table. Honestly, I’ve really enjoyed cuddling and talking with him in what seems like a very intimate friendship. But I’ve also wondered, since the time he was maybe 6 or so months old, would he have the same failings as me? At the risk of being a fatalist, it appears that’s the way he’s headed.

A friend once told me, “I know that you really struggle with worry and sensitivity. And I know that if you could snap your fingers a lot of things would be different. But you ought to remember that while your struggles and defeats are probably more crushing and bitter, your accomplishments are far more gratifying and your victories far sweeter.” Is it an equitable trade-off? I don’t know, but I still can’t help but feel a tinge of guilt over what I've passed to my son.

"You are not my seed"

2005-08-19T13:39:00.000-07:00

My son Joe (who I am considering renaming “Dingus”) started complaining of a bellyache on Monday. He awoke completely fine, played with his brother, ran around, played with his toys. After a few hours, he started crying uncontrollably. My wife kept asking him, “What’s wrong?” and he replied over and over, “I don’t know.” He’s been behaving this way on & off all week long. At times, he acts as though he’s on death’s door. At other times, he’s like the Engergizer Bunny. Weird. On Tuesday evening he started throwing up a little bit. We tried to console him, my wife by telling him, “It’s okay honey, you just have a little bug in your tummy. You’ll be fine in a couple days.” A few minutes later he puked into a bucket and really studied its contents. After a moment he said, “I think I see his wings in there.” His symptoms continued so Donna took him to the doctor on Wednesday. The doc did a full exam, drew blood, the whole schnitzel and concluded he had a virus (I think 90% of medical school is teaching students how to say, “It’s a virus, you’ll be fine in a few days. Drink plenty of fluids and get lots of rest.”). So that’s what we’ve been doing and he seemed to be getting better.

Until this morning.

Out of the blue he began some enthusiastic wailing and tummy-grabbing. Donna started in with the, “What’s wrong? What hurts?” routine and he finally volunteered that he “thinks [he] maybe swallowed one of the shiny balls.” Yep. My braintrust of a child was playing with his Magnetix set on Monday, put one of the magnetic balls in his mouth, and then swallowed it. My wife, after a small (and completely understandable) freak-out said, “Well, let’s call Dr. Sanghvi.” Joe responded by hiding his face behind his hands and saying he didn’t really swallow it. A whole lot of “Did you or didn’t you??” ensued. Finally, Donna called me at the office. She sounded a little bit at the end of her rope. I told her to put Dingus on the phone.

Hi, Daddy.

Hi, Bubba. Listen, you need to tell Daddy… did you swallow the metal ball?

I don’t know.

I need you to think, buddy. Did you swallow the metal ball?

I’m not sure. I think so. I was looking at it and it accidentally went in my mouth.

Okay, well, we need to know so we can tell the doctor.

I don’t want the doctor to cut me open with a big knife to get it out!

Don’t worry, they’ll just take a picture of your tummy and then give you some medicine to make it come out of your booty if it’s still in there.

Okay. Bye.

I told Donna, “Well, looks like he swallowed it. Better call Dr. Sanghvi. Or maybe just hold a piece of metal up against his belly and see if it sticks.”

I just got a call from Donna a few minutes ago. The doc sent them over to the hospital for an X-ray. X-rays have now been completed and we're awaiting the results. Seeing as how the X-ray tech was laughing while looking at it and then said to a co-worker, "You gotta see this..." I'd say it's more likely than not that it's still in there. I’ll update when I hear something.

On the plus side, I can tell my son, "Boy, you've got balls of steel."

Summertime!

2005-06-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

I mentioned before that my parents divorced when I was a youngster and as a result my mom was forced to take a full-time job. That meant that over summers my sister and I were left to our own devices all day. Fortunately, I was a level-headed boy and always showed good judgement. Always.

Funny how when you’re a kid in elementary school the last couple weeks of school pass slowly and painfully, like a peach pit out of a dog’s hind end. And then, when the last day of school has finally come & gone and you’ve gargled in the fountain of freedom known as “summertime” the days quickly seem to stretch and become…*gasp* boring. So it was for me and my neighborhood chums. It was July 1979, our thirst for school-free days had been quenched, and we were settling into the boring phase of summer. Greg McGuire’s pool had been emptied because it was being re-plastered, leaving us to bathe in the oppressive heat of the San Fernando Valley. Greg and I lounged at the Twangers’ house. The Twanger brothers - Danny, Dickie, and Doug – lived a couple streets over from where I lived. Mr. Twanger was in construction and Mrs. Twanger was a secretary. The buzz was that Mrs. Twanger didn’t have to work but she elected to so that they could save money and take the family on an annual trip to some foreign land. While Mr. & Mrs. Twanger were out pursuing the almighty dollar, the brothers stayed home looking for new ways to cause trouble. Looking back, I wonder if Mr. & Mrs. Twanger ever had a moment of peace on a workday knowing that their three sons were at home unsupervised.

As was typical, we were lounging about the Twanger house, watching Bonanza and The Rifleman re-runs when we finally cracked. We just couldn’t take it anymore. We became so desperate for some other form of entertainment that we braved the heat, threw a leg over our BMX bikes and hit the road. We rode without purpose or direction and eventually found ourselves at a strip mall where we hit the 7-11. We shot our wads on Fun-Dips, Slurpees and Space Invaders and then wandered around the strip mall until we stood outside Grouper’s Fish Emporium. A thick layer of filth on the storefront’s glass obscured the view into Grouper’s. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that old man Grouper hadn’t cleaned the windows since he opened the store when he was a young man. The store’s front window wasn’t the only thing lacking in cleanliness. Upon opening the front door to Grouper’s we were hit with a foul odor that was like having a dump truck full of warm, moist fertilizer and fish parts back up and unload on us. Even Doug, who had earned the nickname, “Crud” was impressed by the stench. Mr. Grouper, a grizzled shell of a man, sat hunched over his newspaper at the cash register, and alternated taking long, hard drags on a cigarette and drinking what appeared to be used motor oil from a dirty stein. He glanced up from his newspaper just long enough to tell us, “Don’t stick your hand into the tanks and don’t bang on the glass. I’m running a special today only, free guppy with any purchase over $5.00. Now, don’t bother me.” With that admonition, he left us to peruse his inventory. We wandered through the store, dazzled by the many aquariums full of exotic fish. We laughed and pointed, sucked in our cheeks to make “fishlips”, and generally had a grand time.

By the time we had seen the last of the fish, a solid two hours had passed and we were convinced that having an aquarium of our own full of the critters was critical to our existence. Never mind the fact that none of us had money to buy a single fish, let alone an outfitted aquarium. We huddled together at the rear of the store, discussing a plan to acquire what we needed to make our fantasy a reality. We knew that our parents had foul senses of priority and asking them to spring for this necessity would be fruitless. We had to do this on our own. We decided that we’d search every place imaginable for bottles & cans, exchange them for their deposit value, and put together the coolest aquarium ever. Mr. Grouper, I suppose thinking we were filling our linty pockets with live fish, hollered to us to, “quit dallying back there and get outta my store.” Our huddle scattered and the elder Twanger, Danny, approached Mr. Grouper.

“Sir, if we come back tomorrow, will you have any specials?”

Mr. Grouper’s scowl softened slightly. He sat back, scratched his bald, bony head and said, “Hard to say. With the special I’ve got going today I’m selling so many of these fish that I may not even have any tomorrow.”

I may have been eleven years old, but I knew when my chain was being yanked. Not a single customer had entered the store the whole time we were in there. Most of the inventory would probably die of old age long before taking the coveted ride out of the store in a clear plastic bag full of water. Still, Danny was no brain trust and he bought it hook, line, & sinker. He swallowed eagerly and said, “But there are no other fish stores around here that we can ride our bikes to and we really need some fish!”

Mr. Grouper broke into a wide, crooked smile and told him, “Well, I’m expecting another big shipment any day now, so I imagine I’ll have a few that I can make a deal on. Don’t you fellas worry.”

A collective sigh was heard. We thanked Mr. Grouper for letting us look at his fish, and then set about the work that would fund our capital campaign. The rest of the day and all of the next were spent collecting every stray can and bottle in a 2-mile radius. And when I say every, I mean every. We dove through dumpsters, we rifled our neighbor’s trashcans, we scoured the sidewalks and gutters. We even used a length of garden hose to lower Crud into a few storm drains to retrieve some spent containers. Finally, we were satisfied that we had mined every potential nugget from the region. We had accumulated six large trash bags in our hunt. It would surely yield enough cash to buy the granddaddy of all aquariums. We slept peacefully that night, confident that the following day would bring the satisfaction that only comes from owning fish.

The next morning we congregated in front of the Twangers’ house. A nervous excitement coursed through us. We loaded our bags full of loot onto a couple of old wagons and dragged the mountain of trash two miles to Dirty Ernie’s Recycling Center.

Dirty Ernie came by his name honestly. He was a foot shorter than an average man, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in girth. His grimy T-shirt stretched across his breadbasket and his hairy belly protruded from underneath. His skin had taken on that special appearance that a bum gets when he’s so dirty that he actually becomes shiny.

As we pulled into the recycling yard Dirty Ernie called out, “That’s a good load you got there, boys.”
We puffed out our chests with pride.
“Let’s make us a deal.”
Ernie sorted our wares, counted them, weighed them and crunched a few numbers.
With a few pokes at his cash register we heard the glorious, “Cha-ching!”

“There you are, boys, four dollars and ninety-two cents.”

“FOUR DOLLARS AND NINETY-TWO CENTS??”

“That’s right, boys… you had 41 pounds of scrap at 12 cents a pound. That’s four dollars and ninety-two cents.”

An hour or so later, we sat glumly in the Twanger living room. All that work for five measly bucks. It was enough to buy a fish or two, but with nothing to put them in, we were as good as sunk. That’s when I hatched a brilliant plan. Why not build our own aquarium? Mr. Twanger had a whole pile of ½ inch thick plexiglass in the garage. With a bit of cutting and gluing, we’d have a tank in no time. And we could make it huge so that our fish would have plenty of room to swim around. We were back in the game. We worked quickly but deliberately. All measurements and cuts were exact and I must say, for a bunch of kids, the finished product looked pretty darn good. We put clamps on all the corners and joints and had a cold drink while the glue dried. When we were satisfied that all joints were secure, we lined every seam with clear silicon to be sure that the tank was watertight. We stood back to admire our creation. It was a true work of art. Not only was it pleasing to the eye, it was huge. The youngest Twanger boy could comfortably lie inside of it without bending a limb. The day was wearing on, so we threw a painting tarp over the tank, cleaned up the mess, and called it a day. The next morning found us wrestling the behemoth up the stairs, around the corner and down the hall into Doug & Dickie's bedroom. The move was kind to neither the walls nor the tank, but eventually it rested in the middle of their bedroom floor.

Thirty minutes later we dumped our bikes in a pile in front of Grouper’s Fish Emporium.

“Well, looky who’s here! I was beginning to give up on you boys.”

“We had to earn some money to buy some fish! Are there any specials today?”

“As a matter of fact, there are some specials today. How much do you have to spend?”

“A little under 5 dollars.”

“Just so happens that any 15 fish from any tank along that far wall is on sale for just under 5 dollars. Have your pick, gentlemen.”

We made a beeline for the “sale” fish and commenced with the, “We need two of these…and one of those… and three of those.”

Mr. Grouper, net in one hand, plastic baggie in the other, stood behind us wearing a wide grin. I think it did that old codger’s heart good to have some excitement in his store. His good humor began to fade, however, when it came time to actually net the fish. Each time he’d successfully capture what he perceived to be a good candidate, we’d scrutinize the captive and then tell him, “No. Not that one, that one,” while pointing at the tank. By golly, if we were going to spend $4.92 on something, we wanted our money’s worth. A short hour later (well, short to us anyway) we had selected fifteen fish for our new aquarium.

After paying for our fish, Mr. Grouper gave us a few instructions.

“When you get home, just set the bags into the full tank so that the fish get used to the temperature. After about an hour or so you can let them out.”

“Thanks, Mr. Grouper!”

“Make sure to put clean charcoal into the filter once every two weeks until the fish are settled in. Then do it once a month.”

We stood and stared at him blankly.

Crud finally offered, “Well, we don’t have a filter. We figured we’d just change the water everyday.”

Mr. Grouper barked, “You can’t do that, the tank will fill with bacteria and those fish’ll be dead in a week! Wait here, you lunkheads.”

He walked to the back of the store grumbling to himself and emerged a minute later with an old cardboard box.

“Alright, listen here, this old filter here works just fine but it’s a bit noisy. I’m feeling generous so I’m gonna give it to you. Here’s how it works…” and he went into a long explanation of how to hook it up.

We thanked him profusely and told him that as soon as it was set up we would invite him over to see it. He softened a bit at our invitation and told us that it was his pleasure and that he appreciated the offer.

As we headed for the door he called out one final instruction, stopping us dead in our tracks. “Make sure your pump is going when you let the fish out of the bags, they’ll be plenty stressed and they’ll need plenty of oxygen.”

We slowly turned around. “Umm… we don’t have a pump.”

“NO PUMP?? Those fish’ll be dead in two days! How do you expect them to live with no oxygen in the water??”

“Well, we figured that in the morning and at night we could just stir the water real fast with a ping-pong paddle and that would make plenty of air bubbles for them to live.”

Mr. Grouper’s face turned red and it looked like his head would come shooting off his shoulders any moment. He removed his bifocals and rubbed his face with both hands. “Wait here you nincompoops.”

He walked to the back of the store, this time grumbling a bit louder and using some of the very same words that Mr. Twanger used the time that Mrs. Twanger backed his new car into a telephone pole. He emerged with yet another cardboard box, this one containing a pump.

“Alright, listen here. This old pump is on the noisy side, too, but it works just fine. I’m going to give it to you if you promise that you’ll do all your future fish shopping at Scales ‘n Tails. Do ya promise?”

He shoved the cardboard box into my arms and said, “There’s instructions in the box. Now get outta here.”

We hustled for the door as he sat down behind the cash register. He’d probably deny it, but when I turned for one last look at him I think I saw him crack a smile.

The ride home went quickly, despite having to stop every few minutes to take turns carrying the fish. We tore into the house and up the stairs, anxious to release our pets into their new home. But first things first. Each of us was assigned a task to ready the aquarium. Danny and I hooked up the filter & pump. Crud collected a bucket of pea gravel from the side yard and used it to line the bottom of the tank. Dickie and Greg ran a garden hose up the side of the house and through the window. In no time at all our tank was filling.

While the bags of fish bobbed around the filling aquarium, we rewarded ourselves with a tall glass of Yoo-hoo and an episode of The Incredible Hulk. It took a solid hour with the hose running full blast before the tank was filled, just enough time for the fish to become acclimated to the water. With both the filter and the pump buzzing loudly, we cut the knots off the plastic bags and released the fish into their new home. There was much celebration and backslapping at the display of what we had accomplished. Some of the fish darted wildly about the tank, others glided by passively. We surrounded the tank, lying on our stomachs with our heads resting on our hands. We were absolutely mesmerized by the sight before us. We all claimed a couple fish as our own and began thinking of a fitting name for each. About that time Mrs. Twanger rolled into the driveway after a hard day at work. At the sound of her slamming car door, the boys came a bit unraveled. Not only had they failed to ask permission to set up an aquarium in their bedroom, they hadn’t even mentioned that we had visited Grouper’s Fish Emporium. Mom and dad would sure be surprised. Dickie screamed, “We gotta hide this thing! Let’s put it in the closet!” Assuming that we could actually lift the 500+ pound reservoir, there was absolutely no way it would fit into the closet. It was simply too large. I suggested we push it to the side of the room and cover it with a blanket. We assembled on the same side of the tank and began pushing with all our might. We were unsuccessful at budging it even an inch. We were successful, however, at torqueing the plexiglass just enough to weaken all the joints we had earlier taken such great care to glue. Just as the front door of the Twanger house slammed shut, the aquarium let out a groan and an entire side separated from the tank. In an instant, well over 60 gallons of water, gravel, and fish covered the bedroom floor. We all shrieked simultaneously as water rushed out the bedroom door and down the stairs, alerting Mrs. Twanger that it was going to be “one of those days that she regretted not following her original childhood plan of becoming a nun.” Upstairs it was pandemonium. We were all soaking wet and scrambling wildly to save our fish. Our $5 fish. Mrs. Twanger appeared at the doorway with a look of absolute insanity on her face. We froze in our tracks. Time stood still. I looked at Greg. He looked at me. We both spoke in unison, “I gotta go” and dropped our handfuls of fish on the still squishy carpet. By the time Greg and I reached the first floor, the deluge of water had already begun seeping through the floor of the second story and had begun to drip through the first floor ceiling. I paused at the door briefly, turning to take a final look at the destruction we’d wrought. It was just in time to witness a large chunk of plaster fall from the ceiling and smash through a glass coffee table in the living room. After that I simply jumped onto my bike and pedaled for my life.

We didn’t see the Twanger boys for three weeks after that. They didn’t come out to play and we were too afraid to knock on their door. Turns out they had been grounded, and they spent most of that time standing up. They later said that their father actually levitated off the ground when he saw the devastation we had caused. Dickie said the visual was really neat, but the audio portion of the performance was a little scary. Pretty soon after that Mrs. Twanger quit her job to stay home and keep an eye on the brothers. What a shame. If the Twanger boys had been level-headed like me, they might have been world travelers.

Put your money where your mouth is

2005-06-21T14:04:00.000-07:00

www.susantorresfund.org

Susan Torres, a 26 year-old pregnant woman, collapsed early last month. She was taken to the hospital where she was diagnosed with stage four melanoma and pronounced brain dead. That's a tough, bitter pill for her husband to swallow. Besides loving the unborn child, he knows that his wife would want every measure taken to ensure that the baby lives. So Susan languishes on life support while her baby grows inside her. This is not a common occurrence and is not a slam dunk. The baby faces all sorts of challenges ahead. So does dad, as he faces the emotional, physical, spiritual difficulties associated with losing his wife, continuing to be a daddy to his 3 year-old son, and paying astronomical medical bills. Yes, there's insurance but not near enough to cover the $7,500 a day hospital bill.

As Christians, we're always preaching about the right to life. We "encourage" women to gut it out and carry the baby. We tell the pro-abortion crowd that "we stand behind the mothers". Well here's a chance to stand behind the daddy who is making the toughest decision he'll ever make. Let's stand behind Jason Torres in prayer... and in a tangible way. You can make a tax-deductible contribution via PayPal at the link above.

In the blood?

2005-06-16T12:31:00.000-07:00

Bad investment

God's country

"Paul, I'm considering a pretty significant real estate investment but I'm concerned about what the market will do."

“Well, all the experts say we’re in the 5th inning of a 9 inning game. So the prevailing wisdom is that you’ve got at least a few more years until you risk really being stung.”

“Yeah, I know what the so-called experts are saying, but I would like your advice.”

Good grief. I don’t have a crystal ball. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be spending my days stuck in an office rendering accounting, auditing, tax and investment advice. Instead, I’d be betting the ponies and squandering my winnings on various hunting and fishing adventures across North America. I wonder if this guy would be so insistent on paying me $280 an hour to speculate on real estate given my family’s history.

My grandfather was a railroader. He worked for Southern Pacific and didn’t spend a whole lot of time at home. I’m told he was a good man, though, and did his best to provide for his family. Soon after WWII ended and my father was just a nipper, his parents decided that a Russian missile attack was imminent. To safeguard his family, gramps decided that he needed a piece of property where his family could be entirely self-sufficient. Big enough for an orchard, alfalfa, vegetable garden, cows, chickens, pigs. But not so big that a couple of them couldn’t run it. A hundred acres or so ought to be just about right. But where to put this little farmstead? Gramps searched high and low. After a lot of searching, researching, examining, and anguish, the decision was narrowed to two locations – the Pacific Palisades or Lucerne Valley.

I’m told his reasoning went something like this:

“The Pacific Palisades has a nice view, but it might be a distraction and the last thing I need is my son standing around staring off into the ocean when he ought to be working. It’s awfully rocky, and it would probably take a year to just clear the rocks before you could plant anything. Sure it’s cool weather, but tomatoes thrive in a hot, sunny climate and I do love a good ‘mater. Besides, damp weather can cause real problems with the respiratory system.”

“Now, the Lucerne Valley is hot, but it’s a dry heat, and sweating is supposed to be therapeutic. And if a Russian sub decides to slip inside of Catalina Island and cook off one o’ them nook-ya-ler de-vices, we’d be sittin’ ducks there on the coastline. Sure, the land is a bit more expensive out there in the Lucerne Valley, but this is a long-term investment. I think my money is better spent on land with real potential. Land in God’s country. Land in Lucerne Valley.”

I suppose all those years sucking diesel fumes from locomotive engines knocked gramps off his nut. But I can’t fault him too much. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a great real estate clairvoyant, either.

In August of 1993, having just graduated from college with an accounting degree, I got a call from my friend Patrick. At one time Pat & I were dirt-biking buddies until one afternoon I was going faster than I ever went and then fell off, breaking various bones in the process. That put a very large period on my dirt-biking days, but our friendship continued for some years.

By trade, Pat was a custom appliance installer. He worked for a company that was contracted by major appliance retailers. If you bought a new dishwasher or some other appliance from Sears, Pat would come to your house and install it. Usually it was a slam-dunk pull-out-the-old-and-stick-in-the-new-unit process, other times it was true custom work that took a fair amount of fabrication. I worked with him frequently on the more difficult installs where he needed an extra set of hands or some extra muscle to get the job done. Occasionally a customer wanted a complete remodel - new stove, dishwasher, oven, the whole schnitzel. In that case, Pat and I would bring our friend Rod along with us. Rod was a pretty good finish carpenter and was a good compliment to our team.

Anyway, Pat called me one day with a business proposition. It seems that during his travels he had come across a little 3-bedroom house for sale. Structurally, the place was sound but the lawn was overgrown with rocks and weeds and it needed some moderate cosmetic work (paint, carpet, etc.). The residence had been owned by a hermit who croaked a couple years prior. The property was then put on the market where it sat for a good year with no interest. Pat’s Aunt Ginny was the real estate agent handling the property and she had it on good authority that the financier who held the note on the place was in a bind and just wanted to unload it. She told Pat that she had been instructed to accept any offers on the property above $60,000. Pat proposed that he, Rodney and I buy the place. With no money down and all closing costs included in the new loan, the monthly nut that each of us would have to cover amounted to about $280. The plan was to buy the place, rehab it, live in it for a little while, and sell it a couple years later when real estate values started to climb. I had mixed feelings. I told Pat that I would think it over and call him back the next day. Like any good accountant, I immediately went to work preparing a spreadsheet listing all positives and negatives, assigning a numerical value to each attribute based on its relative importance. When the analysis was complete, I compared the sum of the positives and negatives and reached a decision.

Positives:
Owning a house would help to cultivate the successful, playboy image I was putting out to the ladies. +15
Cool guys for roommates +10
Tax benefits from home ownership +5
Potential for return on investment. +5

Negatives:
Location – Tujunga – not only would this require a long commute, but Tujunga is the white trash/meth lab capital of Los Angeles County. -10
Derelict co-investors who would probably blow their share of the monthly mortgage payment on Coors Light and Slim Jims. -15
Potential for loss on investment -10
Time, energy, and $$ to rehab the place –5

I’m sure there were some other attributes but the above is a pretty good recollection of the original list. The bottom line: the negatives won out and my home ownership days were still far into the future. I called Pat the following day and told him to count me out of the deal. In an effort to change my mind, he ridiculed me unceasingly for a good hour until it became clear that I wasn’t going to budge. Eventually he resigned himself to a 50/50 ownership with Rod and they made the offer.

The deal was a slam-dunk and, after a 30 day escrow, Pat and Rod were the proud owners of their first home. On the day that the deal closed, Pat and I picked up the keys from Aunt Ginny and went over to the house. Upon opening the door, we noticed that the house was still packed with the hermit’s stuff. Pat was not a happy camper. He immediately called Aunt Ginny from his cell phone to find out what the heck was going on. Apparently the hermit had no relatives, no will, and nobody who wanted his belongings. Aunt Ginny told Pat to be cool for 10 days or so and she would take care of it. We locked up the place and hit the road. Two Fridays later we returned in the early morning hours with Rod, only to find that nothing had changed. Despite Aunt Ginny’s promise to empty the house, the place was still packed to the gills with hermit junk. Pat’s face turned bright red and I think I noticed smoke coming from Rod’s ears. I, on the other hand, stood smugly, feeling better & better about my decision to reject this investment opportunity. Aunt Ginny happened to call at that moment and was full of apologies. Due to a busy week, she was unable to have the stuff removed. She told Pat that they could keep whatever they wanted and sell the rest at a garage sale. In a very enthusiastic voice and with language I’m not comfortable repeating here, Pat told her he didn’t want any of the hermit’s stuff and it would be a cold day someplace that doesn’t get many cold days before he burned a weekend trying to hock this hooey at a garage sale. I think Aunt Ginny detected a hint of homicidal rage in Pat’s voice. She volunteered that she would personally pay for a dumpster to be delivered and would pay us $500 to relocate all the hermit’s stuff to the dumpster. This seemed to mollify Pat, at least enough that he stopped searching through the kitchen drawer for a knife with which he could slit Aunt Ginny’s throat. Later that day a giant blue dumpster was unloaded onto the driveway. While awaiting the dumpster’s arrival we managed to consume a significant number of Coors Lights and were in no condition to do any heavy lifting when it was finally delivered. We watched the hermit’s black & white t.v. (complete with tin foil balls on the ends of the rabbit ears) until the effects of the barley pops wore off and then drove home.

The next morning we were finally ready to purge the house of its offending contents. With bellies full of Winchell’s donuts, we dove into the work as though possessed. After a few hours the house was about ¾ empty when I carried a coffee table out the front door. Just as I hoisted the table over my head to pitch it into the bin, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a yellowed letter size envelope fall from the bottom of it. I tossed the table into the dumpster, wiped the sweat from my brow and picked up the envelope. Scotch tape, its adhesive long dried and decayed, suspended from its edges. Inside the envelope were fifteen $20 bills, perfectly crisp. Date on the bills… 1977. Very strange. About then Pat emerged from the house with a cardboard box full of debris atop his shoulder.

“What are you doin’… you loafing?”
“Man, I was just tossing that coffee table and this envelope was taped to the bottom of it. There’s 300 bucks in it!”
“Hey, Rod! Get out here!”

We spent the next several minutes discussing my find. It eventually occurred to us that perhaps there was more hidden booty in the stuff we had already discarded. What had taken about four hours to load into the dumpster then took about 20 minutes to relocate to a pile on the front lawn. Various tools (hammers, Sawzalls, crowbars, etc.) were retrieved from our trucks and we began dismantling each item before returning the remaining debris to the bin. The spectacle of three guys emptying a dumpster that they had just been filling, demolishing various items, and occasionally shouting, “whoo-hoo!” was out of the ordinary… even for Tujunga. It didn’t take long before neighbors began to wander over. There were numerous questions.

“You guys the new owners or just the hired help?”
“You know, Mr. Mulford, the old guy that lived here sure was a mean ol’ s.o.b. He’s probably spinning in his grave watching you bust up his stuff. How come you’re breaking everything like that?”
“You tryin’ to get revenge on ol’ man Mulford? He’s dead, ya know.”
“What’s all the hollering and celebrating about?”
“You guys want any help with that?”

Eventually they became bored watching the three crazy men break things and wandered back to their homes to drink Mountain Dew and watch NASCAR. We continued our treasure hunt ultimately collecting a considerable sum. Some of the places that the old codger hid this money were quite strange. Booty was found in places that you might expect – inside of mattresses & cushions, behind pictures, taped to the bottom of drawers, in a shoebox in the attic (where a rat had chewed up several $50 bills to make a nest – there’s a Matthew 6:19 lesson in there, for sure). But we also discovered stashes in unlikely places. There was a roll of paper towels which had been unrolled and then re-rolled with $100 bills meticulously placed inside. There was a seemingly new bag of cat litter which had been opened with a razor blade, a plastic bag of $20 bills inserted, and then re-sealed with glue. There was an umbrella, its handle removed, and the tube filled with painstakingly rolled $10 bills. And countless other bizarre attempts to safeguard the hermit’s wealth. All of which he left behind when he took a dirt nap.

The total cash collected from our day’s work… brace yourself… $18,680. My share - $0. The guys were kind enough to cut me in 1/3 on the $500 payment from Aunt Ginny, though. Cheap sons o’ guns. Over the next four months Pat and Rod painted the inside and outside of the house, replaced the carpet, and planted a new lawn. Just when the lawn had reached cutting length a guy knocked on the door and asked if they were interested in selling. Seems his daughter and grandkids lived just down the street and he was moving from back east to be near them. If they were interested, he’d write a check for $85,000 and cover all the closing costs himself. Pat actually had the nerve to call me later that day.

“Hey Hoss, we’re selling the place and making a big profit. We’re going to invest the proceeds in another property. Do you want in on this one?”

“Let me see, I need to make a spreadsheet with the positives and negatives, assign a numerical value to each…”

“Yeah, get back to me on that.”

"Someday, son, this will all be yours..."

2005-06-09T14:28:00.000-07:00

The very moment I laid eyes on my sons it felt as if a new, tender part of my heart was realized. When the doctor pulled them from Donna’s gut, I held my breath. My eyes grew wide at the sight of them and I felt my heart grow “ten sizes”. Even though they were covered in womb-bits and goo, I loved them immediately. When the nurse put Jack in my arms, I was overwhelmed by a flood of emotion… love, awe, joy, responsibility, fear. It was quite a cocktail. The four years since have been some ride. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I grow to love those little monkeys more and more every day.

There’s a passage I’ve often struggled with since the boys were born.
Ezekiel 34:6-7 And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, 7 maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation."

I’ve contemplated this verse as it relates to my sons and to my father. I’ve already got some anger issues related to my dad and this passage doesn’t do a whole lot to assuage them. (I have to be careful here. This isn’t a “poor me” lamentation. I’ve had a very blessed life and a mother that more than made up for my father’s shortcomings. Rather, this is a segue into what I’m trying to glean from this passage.)

I don’t think I would have ever described my dad as the ideal father. I didn’t fault him for never coming to a football game I played in. I didn’t fault him for birthdays and Christmases passing without receiving a card or gift. I didn’t fault him for divorcing my mother and re-marrying a troll. I blocked these things from consideration in my attempt to have a relationship with him. I was the one who called to talk. I was the one who asked to visit him for the weekend. And when I did, I got the impression that the whole thing was kind of a pain in the neck for him. I recall one specific instance when we went to a sporting goods store to buy some cots for a camping trip we were going on. He selected two different cots, one costing much more than the other. When the cashier rang up the sale, she mistakenly charged him the lesser price for both of the cots. I drew her attention to the error and she thanked me. My father’s eyes poked daggers through me. On the way to the truck, he muttered with disgust, “Thanks, you just cost me twenty bucks!” That instance was typical of how he lived his life – looking for the easy way, even if it meant lying and cheating. I don’t ever recall him giving me any kind of instruction on how to live life. He had an attitude of, “Just go and do your thing. You’ll grow up and be fine.” It wasn’t until I graduated college that he actually showed some interest in me. At that point I had become an asset (free tax return preparation!) instead of a liability. Unfortunately, I felt little connection and my interest in him waned. Cat Stevens’ “Cat’s in the cradle” is especially poignant to me.

After my experiences with my father, I concluded that being a father is just one more thing on a life’s “to do list”:
Graduate college – check.
Get married – check.
Buy a house – check.
Have kids – check.
Get old – check.
Always drive 18mph with the left blinker constantly flashing – check.
Take a dirt nap – check.
Life complete.

When the boys came along (and I hate to use this cliché but it’s true) my world was rocked. Being a daddy isn’t something you check off a list. It isn’t like adding another layer to a casserole where all the original components retain their identity and are relatively unchanged. It’s more like adding cocoa to milk. It completely changes (and improves) the original ingredient. Or it should. I have wrestled with the fact that I was just another layer in my dad’s casserole. After having Jack & Joe and realizing the treasure they are to me, I’m crushed when I contemplate the low value my dad put on me. I alternate brooding over this and avoiding the subject because it is fertile ground for growing resentment. But if nothing else, it has strengthened my resolve to be a father who loves his sons the way a father should.

Anyway… back to the original thought. So the Bible seems to say, in a nutshell that future generations will be punished for a father’s sins. I’ve pondered how this occurs. Does it arise via some supernatural generational transfer? Or does it happen in a more mundane manner – i.e., a child watching his daddy in action and learning by observation? I’m still uncertain, but I think it’s probably a combination of both. We know that alcoholism gene can be passed to future generations so I think that the “supernatural” method is certainly possible. But I think a more probable way for this to happen is the observational manner.

After dinner on Tuesday evening, I took the boys for a bike ride. Though the boys are strictly prohibited from riding in the street, Joe immediately rode out into the street as a car approached. I sternly reprimanded him for this most serious of transgressions. He was pretty uninterested in my lecture, though, and rode away while I was in mid-rant. Bad move, Lester. We promptly returned home and he was grounded from his bike for the rest of the evening. This punishment was met with sobbing and great shrieks of despair. Just when my patience for his wailing was about at its limit, Jack piped up and said, “Quit bawling like a baby and go inside the house, Joey.” Though he was certainly just repeating what he’d heard before and pretty much took the words out of my mouth, I was stunned. What sounded just fine bouncing around in my own head sounded pretty awful when it came from the mouth of my son.

So that’s a prime example of how I think the sins of a father are visited upon his children. My kids watch how their daddy behaves and mirror it in their own lives. Fortunately, that mirror reflects back my sinful tendencies to me and helps me to correct them. I just need to have open eyes, an open mind and an open heart to see them.

The reality is that every family has a few “issues” that seem to be passed from generation to generation. It’s up to us to say, “This is a legacy I’m going to break. I’m not going to be unrepentant about this and in the process saddle my kids with the same burden I carry. I’m going to be honest about my struggle, I’m going to confess it and I’m going to work on it.”

Now, the flip side of this observational process is that the boys will also mirror the admirable qualities and behaviors I model for them. When I display kindness and forgiveness, they are kind and forgiving. When I’m loving, flexible and affirming, they are confident, content and loving toward others. It’s a pretty good system.

When I was a senior in high school one of my football coaches took me aside. He told me, “You’re the big man around here, Hoss. All those younger guys watching you are a big responsibility. Don’t blow it.” He then gave me a little poem. As applicable today as it was then.

There are little eyes upon you
and they're watching night and day.
There are little ears that quickly
take in every word you say.
There are little hands all eager
to do anything you do;
And a little boy who's dreaming
of the day he'll be like you.
You're the little fellow's idol,
you're the wisest of the wise.
In his little mind about you
no suspicions ever rise.
He believes in you devoutly,
holds all you say and do;
He will say and do, in your way
when he's grown up just like you.
There's a wide-eyed little fellow
who believes you're always right;
and his eyes are always opened,
and he watches day and night.
You are setting an example
every day in all you do;
For the little boy who's waiting
to grow up to be like you.

Moving day

2005-04-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

I helped a friend move this past weekend. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I’ve had a sore back so my contribution consisted largely of sitting on the sofa to be certain that no rogue wind gusts would blow it away. And heckling those who were doing the real work. It’s not as easy as it might sound. The insults and criticisms need to be distributed in such a manner so as not to overwhelm any single worker while still maintaining a constant source of entertainment. But I’m never one to shy away from a challenge and I stepped up to the plate.

The week prior to the move Steve sent the customary blanket email to his entire address book pleading for help.

Hi everybody. We plan on starting our moving party at our soon-to-be-former residence about 8 AM this coming Saturday…. For your effort you'll receive a firm handshake, a hearty "Thanks", and some form of relatively inexpensive lunch to be decided upon by the group. A lot has been done already, and I'm thinking we'll probably be done by Noon. Thanks a ton: you're good people.

Steve

Noon. Noon. I’ll say one thing, I do admire his limitless capacity for apparently unmerited optimism. Also, it’s funny how he refers to it as a “party” as though folks will stop right there and say, “Party? I’m there!!”

The real workers (Tom and Tony) got an early start. By the time I arrived, they and Steve had the U-Haul half full. I’m telling you, if Tony and Tom hadn’t shown up, I have an idea that a good part of the summer would have been spent completing the move. I arrived in time to see the refrigerator pulled out from the wall. I’m… just… speechless. Wow. . It was kinda like a car accident – gruesome and morbid, but I just had to look. There was the usual collection of dirt, grime, and dust bunnies. Glued into this mung by a layer of grease was a collection of refrigerator magnets, utensiles, doses of medicine, dead bugs, and some other gunk that I’m afraid to recollect. Now, you’re probably thinking, “Jeez, what a creep, talking about his friend like that.” On the contrary. Steve and his family are not animals. The guy is an epidemiology (I couldn’t possibly have spelled that correctly and I don’t care so don’t bother to email me with the correct spelling) major and at one time was a health inspector. He’s a bit of a germ-phobe. He even brought his pocket meat thermometer on a camping trip to make sure the burgers I was cooking were bacteria-free. On previous visits the house was always neat and tidy. What strikes me so frightening is the fact that this guy is obsessive about germs and yet his fridge spot still looked like that. I’m now in fear of what has taken up residence behind my refrigerator. Whew, scary stuff.

The refrigerator was the last big item to be loaded into the now full U-Haul and Tony gave notice that it was about 11:00 and he had to leave. With the departure of Tony and the addition of Paul, Steve began to notice a distinct outbreak of lazy-ass on his team, starting with the largely inert Paul, who was apparently made from mild, soft cheese. Fortunately, what I lack in speed and energy, I make up for in abject defeatism. “Dude, you said this would be done by noon. We’ll be lucky if we’re done by midnight!” We spent the next 45 minutes or so loading oddly shaped items into my truck and Steve’s truck. The highlight of this was watching Steve nearly kill himself while retrieving his mountain bike from its perch in the rafters.

“Gimme a hand with this, would you?” as he attempted to balance the bike vertically.

“Oh, it’s all you, brother. You’ve got it.”

“Help… Seriously!!” as the bike crashed down onto his head. Comedy gold.

Around noon or so (the time that this entire exercise was supposed to be completed) we rolled into the driveway of the new house. With the addition of Ray, (one of Kiko’s workers) and the promise of lunch being imminent, the unloading went relatively quickly. My back was cramping pretty good so I limited myself to unloading the small, lightweight boxes labeled “toys” and “Steve’s awards and accomplishments.” When the truck was about half empty we broke for lunch. Just as we finished eating lunch, Dean and Chris showed up. The team made quick work of the remaining junk and readied for a return to the house for one last load. I elected to stay at the new house to help Dean lay new carpet in the new baby’s room. The work was considerably less strenuous, but I was continually subjected to a bird’s eye view of Dean’s crack as he measured and cut the carpet. In retrospect, it wasn’t worth it. However, I have partially regained my eyesight and I expect the nightmares will subside in a month or so. The guys returned with a small load and, by 3:00, the move was complete. Steve returned the truck to U-Haul and dropped Tom at his car. Later that afternoon, Steve decided he’d acquaint himself with how refrigerator doors function by taking them off and then reinstalling them several times. While Dean finished laying the carpet (did a fine job, too) Steve took dinner orders. He eventually shot his wad at Dan’s Super Subs (nothing’s too good for his friends, I suppose - and I mean that with all seriousness as Dan makes the best Hoagies on the west coast) and we all ate ourselves into a coldcut induced stupor.

I’ve always hated moving, but this time wasn’t so bad… I wonder why? Was it the fact that I didn’t ever break a sweat? Was it because of the company? Nah, I think it’s because of Dan’s. I love a good sammich.

No worries

2005-03-15T15:50:00.000-08:00

A relative of the victim

Growing up in the valley was pretty cool. Though the valley was on the verge of making its transition to a wasteland of homes and mini-malls, there was still plenty of open lots, orange groves and even the occasional cornfield where a gaggle of boys could find an adventure. Despite the sometimes oppressive heat, summers were great. My parents were divorced when I was little, so my sister and I had free reign while my mom worked. It was sweet freedom to a ten-year old boy. If I close my eyes I can still picture the front-yard football games, the swim parties at Greg McGuire’s house, and Evil Knievel jumps we used to set up in the streets. What I’d give to go back to that time. Days spent without a single worry. Those really were the good old days. Well, most of them...

Gary’s dad had promised to take him and three friends of his choosing to the beach. I was fortunate to be among the chosen few. Matt Merkley and Wayne Zuko rounded out the foursome. It was going to be great – riding boogie boards while the unwashed masses sweated it out in the valley. Just as we were about to load into the van, his dad received a call from the office saying he had to go into work immediately. What a drag. We sat around the air conditioned house, moaning and complaining until his mother finally told us to go outside and play while she finished her housework. We had really gloated about our impending beach trip and our other friends were going to pay us back with interest. We couldn’t bear the shame of showing our faces. Rather than hang around where they might spot us, we decided to walk to the mall where we’d sneak into a movie and spend the rest of the daylight hours in hiding. It was a masterful plan.

To shave some time off our trek to the mall, I suggested we hop the Handyman fence and cut through their lot. A little background on Handyman stores... they were just like today’s Home Depot stores only without the incompetent, know-nothing employees. The place was huge and unfinished like a warehouse. They had pretty much everything you’d need to build and maintain a house. I sometimes wonder why Home Depot has thrived and Handyman went bust. Maybe if they had fired the conscientious, intelligent personnel, and hired the mouth-breathers that Home Depot employs they’d still be around. I don’t know. Annnywwaaaayyy…. Handyman had this huge sign in their lot, similar in design to the one in the picture, except much larger. It was made of plastic with fluorescent lights inside of it and it sat about 40 feet in the air atop two enormous pillars. At the base of the pillars was a rock bed with some flowers in it. Whoever decided to put the rocks at the base was obviously never a young boy. It was common practice for passing kids to test their manhood by attempting to punch a hole in the sign with one of the rocks. Many were successful as evidenced by the swiss-cheese appearance of the sign. Slinging stones at the sign had to be done relatively quickly and discreetly because the store manager was aware of this little ritual and watched the sign like a hawk, attempting to seize any vandals and holding them for the cops. Why he didn’t just remove all the rocks is beyond me, but it would have saved us all a whole bunch of misery if he had.

On this particular day, we were all feeling a bit adventurous so we made our way to the rock bed. Just when we had each selected a suitable candidate for the deed, Wayne remembered that he had some “smoke pots” in his pocket. You remember these things, you get them at the fireworks stand. You light the fuse and they make a big cloud of smoke. They are instrumental in the healthy development of the male juvenile. Wayne pulled out a smoke pot, I lit it, and he let it rip. His aim was true and the pyrotechnic sailed right into one of the holes. There were high-fives all around as we eagerly anticipated the great smoke-out. We were not disappointed. Within seconds gray smoke poured from the sign. We stood in awe, our heads tilted back, mouths open, marveling at the sight. This beat going to the beach any day. After admiring our handiwork for a few moments, we split for the mall before the evil store manager could get his hooks into us.

After our failed attempt to sneak into a movie and being tossed out of the mall, we sat dejectedly on the curb. We all thought the same thing: “Those other guys are probably going for a swim right now.” We decided we’d take our lumps from our friends, fall on our swords, and hopefully they’d let us join them for a dip. We were soon on our way. Just as we cleared the mall parking structure the Handyman store came into view. The sign, which had only been smoking when we left it, was now fully engulfed in flames. Thick, black smoke billowed into the air. Melted plastic oozed and dripped from the sign’s frame. Fire trucks surrounded the blazing structure and showered it with water. The manager stood to the side and conversed with a police officer, gesturing wildly with his hands. I nearly committed a hygienic indiscretion in my pants. I was speechless. Wayne started to whimper. Gary began stammering, “Nnnnooo, nnno, nnoo!!!”. Only Matt kept a cool head. "We didn’t do nothin’. We were at the beach. We’re takin' the long way home. Let’s go.” And the long way we did. I conservatively estimate that we walked five miles to make a one-mile journey. Nobody spoke the whole time. When we got back to our neighborhood, we all split and went to our own homes. I don’t know what those other guys did, but I locked the doors, closed the blinds, and hid in my room. I pondered my fate. Would I go to jail? Or even worse, would my mom find out? Whenever the phone rang or there was a knock at the door I was sure that they were coming to take me to the Big House. It’s really a burden bigger than any ten-year old boy should have to bear. I finally decided I’d play it cool. After all, I had only lit the smoke pot, I hadn’t thrown it. Just for some insurance, I stayed on my best behavior doing all my chores unasked. I didn’t backtalk. I didn’t feign illness on Sunday mornings to get out of church. I recall my mom saying to me one day, completely out of the blue, “I don’t know what you did, but it must have really been something.” She’s a smart woman. Over the next several weeks the fear slowly subsided. A new sign went up at the Handyman and the manager had all the rocks removed. My mom didn’t kill me, I didn’t go to jail. Life just moved on. A year or so later I even managed to sleep through the night.

Pals, part II

2005-03-14T23:13:00.000-08:00

I first met my buddy Joe when we were in a church college group together. I don’t even remember how our friendship began, I think we got into a small group or something and it started from there. He’s a guy that anybody would be fortunate to know, let alone call “friend”. There’s a saying that goes something like, “When everybody else walks out, friends walk in.” That saying epitomizes Joe. He & I don’t see each other near as much as we used to since we both had families but I know if I ever need him, all I have to do is pick up the phone. I named one of my sons after him, and I’ll be pleased if he turns out like my friend. Joe is probably the most easygoing guy you’ll ever meet. Whatever the plan is, he’s up for it, always anxious for a new experience and to just be with the guys. So I wasn’t all that surprised that he said “Yeah, that sounds cool!” when I invited him to go wild hog hunting, despite the fact that he’d never hunted and only shot a gun 2 or 3 times. Rob accompanied us on this trip but didn’t hunt because he had broken his hand the week before and couldn’t hold a gun in his injured paw. Only a sliver of the rising sun was visible when we arrived at the ranch and met our hunting guides Tom and Ed. They briefly talked over our hunt plan and then Tom said, “One guy goes with me, the other two go with Ed.” I looked at Joe and his face spoke a thousand words. His efforts to conceal his anxiety were valiant but totally ineffective. He even volunteered to go with Tom so Rob could go with me. What a cool guy. We hopped into the trucks and they took off in opposite directions. I asked Ed, “So are we meeting them someplace?” to which he replied, “Nah, they’ll go to the other side of the valley and we’ll meet up with them later.” I have hunted with Tom before and, while he’s a great hunter, he’s not the most gregarious guy you’ll ever meet. I felt a twinge of guilt because Joe was stuck with this cantankerous character. But at the same time, I grinned a little grin. Joe’s such a flexible, cool-headed guy… I knew this would test him pretty good. We cruised the hills for 30 minutes or so, scanning for signs of our quarry. We eventually found ourselves on the top of a ridge. The topography could best be described as a big “U”. We were positioned on the top of one side. Across the small valley at top of the other side were Tom & Joe. I peered through my binoculars and could barely make out Tom’s truck. They were maybe 800 yards away and it felt good to know that Joe was over there even if there was nothing I could do to help him. We glassed the area intently when Tom’s voice suddenly blared through the radio, “Alright, we’re into some pigs over here.” There was a pause that seemed like an eternity and then we heard a shot ring out. Moments later, another. A few moments more, yet another. Tom’s frustrated voice buzzed across the radio, “They’re coming your way.” After an eternity, we spotted a lone porker climbing a steep ridge perpendicular to the ridge we were on. I waited patiently and it when made it’s way to a small clearing I put him down for a dirt nap with a lead pill to his head. Rob and I started the long drag down the ridge while Ed worked his way around in the truck. About 45 minutes later, the hog was gutted out and we were swinging it into the back of the truck. Just then we heard a three more shots in the distance. Tom’s voice came over the radio that Joe had gotten one. “Alright!!” I thought, and a smile came across my face. Tom told Ed to swing over and pick up Joe while he went after a pig for himself. We made our way to Joe’s location and I saw something I’ll never forget. There stood Joe, in the middle of a huge field of waist-high barley with a look of both pleasure and panic on his face. He raced to the truck and asked me, “Do you have any more bullets? My gun is empty and I can’t find my extras!” I said, “Huh? What for?” Joe said in a panicked voice, “It’s not dead!” I laughed and gave him two bullets from my gun and we slowly approached the injured hog which was laying in the barley. At our approach, the hog jumped to its feet and ran. Joe leveled his gun and fired. The hog tumbled and then staggered to its feet again. Another shot knocked him down but he was still kicking. “Gimme another one!” I gave Joe my last round and he placed it behind the hog’s ear, finally putting it out of its now very apparent misery. Now for the fun part. I don’t mind dressing out a harvested critter, but the gutting out of this hog was especially bad. It had been shot several times, at least once through the stomach. With the hog on its back I took my knife and made a slice up the belly. Immediately stomach acids and half-digested barley spilled out of the abdomen. The stench was enough to give a hyena a case of the dry heaves from 50 yards and I was positioned squarely above it. Noxious fumes rose into my face and I began to turn green. Several times I wanted to puke but Joe and Rob eagerly stood by with cameras hoping to catch me in a moment of weakness so I choked it back and finished the job. Three years later (or maybe it just seemed that long)the job was done. After skinning and hosing them down at the barn we dropped them at the butcher where they would be made into some of the best tasting chops & sausage you’ve ever had. We returned to our hotel to clean up and then went to lunch at the barbecue shack. If you ever make it to Paso Robles, you owe it to yourself to eat at this place. It’s right off of Highway 46 and the 101. They have the best tasting tri-tip sandwiches I have ever had. They come with a side of french fries that would fill a large suitcase. Joe earned his nickname, “The Grubmaster” at this place by consuming a tri-tip sandwich, a side of fries, a side of 8 onion rings (each roughly equal in size to the spare tire on my truck) and a large DIET coke. We then returned to the hotel for some napping, ESPN, and lounging about in our underwear. The next morning we picked up our hogs from the butcher and headed home, stopping at the barbecue joint for an encore of The Grubmaster’s eating performance. It was a great trip, one that I will always treasure, along with the other fishing and hunting trips we’ve since taken.

Joe and his family are considering a move to Washington. Man, if that happens it's going to be a total bummer. I guess I should feel fortunate... most people live a whole lifetime without having a friend like Joe. I've been blessed to call him my best friend for 15 years. If he goes, I should wish him well and just treasure the good times. Nahh, I think I'll just be bitter.

Pals, part I

2005-03-13T23:06:00.000-08:00

It’s great to have pals. I’ve got two in particular that I don’t really see all that often anymore but I think we’ll always be best friends, no matter the distance between us.

I met my buddy Rob in an accounting class when we were at Pierce College. He and I worked on a class project together and things snowballed. We eventually became such good buddies that we shared an apartment – those were good times. Our apartment was on the top floor of a 4-story building. We had a big sliding glass door that led onto a balcony that faced the street. With all the lights in the apartment out, one guy would look out the bedroom window and holler when a car was approaching. At the signal, the other guy would toss a water balloon from the middle of the living room, out the open door and down onto the passing car (hopefully). It was unbridled hilarity. I know, it doesn’t sound like all that much fun. Consume a 12 pack of Coors Light, try it, and get back to me. I’m sure you’ll have changed your mind. I think one reason Rob and I are such good buddies is that we both have the little boy in us that refuses to grow up. The kid that likes to shoot rockets and guns, blow up things, build airplanes & fly them, etc. One time we were sitting around the apartment, fresh out of water balloons, bored and we decided to make a run to Vegas. Most guys in their early 20’s would roll to Vegas to gamble, get loaded, maybe check out a strip club. Not us. We drove there and back, staying just long enough to completely load the trunk of the car with illegal fireworks. The water balloon bomb game took on a whole new dimension with an M-80 taped to it. Those were good times.
One day he called me while I was kicking back at the apartment.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Nothin’ man, just watching t.v. Where are you?”

“I’m over at my parents’ house taking in the mail while they’re out of town. Say, you remember ‘Linda’ from my office? Her husband passed away a couple years ago. He was a real gun nut. Linda was cleaning out the garage and she came across this box that says, “EXPLODING TARGETS”. She gave 'em to me.”

“I’ll be right over.”

His parents didn’t live far and it probably took me all of about 6 minutes to get there. Apparently, that was far too much time for Rob. I guess he got to looking at those targets and just couldn’t help himself. I suppose he thought he’d cook one off himself and still have plenty to share with me when I arrived, me being none the wiser. Each target was a rectangular box the size of those little Kleenex packages your mom carries in her purse. On the back was a strip of 2-sided tape. Rob pulled off the backing, stuck the target to the block wall and, with his Crossman BB gun in hand, retreated to the other side of the yard. He took a couple shots but couldn’t hit it. So he closed the distance a bit. A few more shots, nothing. In a little closer. More shots, nothing. Impatience and poor shooting skills had now brought Rob not more than a few feet from the target. I parked in front of his parents’ house and had just closed the door to my truck when I heard a thunderous “KABOOOOMM!!!” And I can’t even describe how loud this was, it literally shook the windows on the house. Smoke from the backyard billowed into the air, over and around the house. I ran for the side gate to check on the condition of my imbecilic friend. The gate flew open and he staggered out, BB gun still in his hand, blood dripping from his forehead, hacking and coughing and a look of total shock on his face. “Those things are awesome!” was all he could choke out. Neighbors poured from their houses, “What the hell was that??” “Yeah, sorry about that," I covered. "We were trying to light the barbecue and there was a leak in the propane tank. It’s okay, just go on inside, nothing to see here.” When the smoke finally cleared and the neighbors were all back inside their houses we sat on the back patio eyeing the divot in the block wall where the target had recently resided. Rob sat pensively, caressing the bandage on his forehead. He finally spoke, “My dad has a welding helmet in the shed. You should wear it when you shoot the next one.” How can you not be friends with a guy like that?

Home on the range

2005-03-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

God has blessed me with the greatest family. My wife, man, I just can’t go on enough about her. They boys turned 4 on Wednesday so Donna had a party for them at the park. She got there early to set things up and before she even had the car fully unloaded Joey did a faceplant off the monkey bars and split his chin open. She took him to the hospital and got him sewn up and then went back to the park to clean up the party mess and go home. After hearing about the experience at the hospital I have to believe that I’d have a serious drinking problem if I had to live through that. She didn’t complain though, all in a day’s work for a mom. I can cut open a deer or a wild hog and have my hands inside it up to my elbows with no worries but my kid starts bleeding… yeah, I’m not really good in that. The way she juggles the boys and all the other home business, she's really quite amazing. Oh yeah, and she's HOT.

Most mornings the boys ask me, “Are you going to work today?” and on the weekdays the usual answer is “yes” which is usually followed with a “Whhyyyyyyy?” I tell them that it’s so we can have money to pay for our house, food, toys, etc. A few months ago as I laid in bed early one morning, staring at the ceiling I could hear them stirring in their bedroom. Their little voices were muffled but I could still hear them:
“Yeah, get that.”
“Here’s some more.”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“Is that enough?”
“No, we need more.”
“C’mon, let’s go.”
Then I heard the patter of their little feet as they came into our room and around to my side of the bed. Their jammy shirts had been stretched out to carry all the coins from their piggy banks. “Look, Daddy!” They stood beaming. “We have money so you don’t have to go to work today!” It was the sweetest, most tender thing I’ve ever witnessed and it was all for me. I sometimes wonder if we spoil our kids. Between their grandma, their aunts, and a few others those kids are floating in toys. It’s little events like the one above that make me think that they’re alright. (I’d like to say that I called my office and told them I wouldn't be in that day, but I didn’t. I did come home early, though. I’m not a total heartless bastard.).

This morning we had all just woken up so Donna and I went into the boys room to talk to them. Jack said to me, “Are you going to work today?” I said, “Yeah, buddy, I have to… it’s tax time.” He said sadly but with kind of a hope in his voice “Yeah, but we have enough money.” It’s pretty cool to be loved by your kids like that, even when you make mistakes with them. I suppose 10 years from now they'll remember every screwup I make, but I'm loving it right now.

Short memories

2005-03-04T14:43:00.000-08:00

"As Pharaoh and his army approached, the people of Israel could see them in the distance, marching toward them. The people began to panic, and they cried out to the LORD for help. Then they turned against Moses and complained, "Why did you bring us out here to die in the wilderness? Weren't there enough graves for us in Egypt? Why did you make us leave? Didn't we tell you to leave us alone while we were still in Egypt? Our Egyptian slavery was far better than dying out here in the wilderness!"" ~ Exodus 14:10-12
When I read this passage, I initially thought, "What a bunch of boobs those Israelites were. God had already demonstrated His power to them in amazing ways (plagues, etc.) and yet they still were unbelieving." But then I thought about my own life and I'm that way sometimes, too. God has demonstrated His power and rescued me so many times, and yet I'm not always faithful. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm alone in this. I think that lots of Christians struggle being faithful through the trials of daily life. I think part of the fix is immersing ourselves in His word and finding practical ways to apply it to our lives. We can't go into spiritual battle (trials) without any weapons. Knowing God's promises and His history of delivering His people will go a long way in helping us to be faithful. Any suggestions on ways that you do this?

It’s a small world

2005-03-04T14:31:00.000-08:00

Funny how you bump into people from long ago. This afternoon I went to the credit union to get a few frogskins for the weekend. As I walked into the credit union I saw this old Cuban guy standing in line and I just knew that I knew him from somewhere. He looks at me, I look at him, our eyes meet… and we both get that, “I know you from somewhere” look on our faces. I cruised on over to the ATM to make my withdrawal and as I waited for the machine to spit out my cash, it struck me. It was my good friend Les…

I worked for Huge Aircrash (Hughes Aircraft) as a summer hire while going through college about 15 years ago. I worked in the plant facilities department with some of the laziest sons o’ guns you’d ever have the displeasure of meeting. I mean, to call them lazy was to compliment them extravagantly. It was a union shop and most of these guys would take full advantage of it. There was a big, ugly painter who stood heads and shoulders above the other guys in the lazy department and it was just my luck to get paired with him regularly. His name was “Les” (short for Lester) and I often cracked when we were all sitting around eating lunch that his name was particularly fitting because he did “less” work than anybody I’d ever known. The other slackers thought that was hilarious and really rode him for letting the college boy get the better of him. We had a mutual disrespect for each other built on a firm foundation of distrust and the plant facilities manager (who resembled Harry from Harry and the Hendersons) thought it was hysterical to pair us up together. One day we were given the task of painting a machine room. The walls were in terrible condition, full of holes and cracks so our first task was to slather joint compound on the whole thing to cover all the walls’ imperfections. Les delighted in talking to me like I was an idiot and told me to liberally fill any crack I saw, demonstrating the proper technique with long, S-L-O-W strokes. One of the machines was particularly close to the wall and the small amount of space made it awkward to fill some of the cracks in the wall behind it. To make matters worse, there was a thick layer of hydraulic fluid and grime on the floor between the wall and the machine. Les ordered me to climb behind the machine and fill the cracks. Until that time I never refused an order to do work but this time I told him to do it himself. Being that I was a summer hire I didn’t have the company-provided Dickies that the regular guys had and there was no way I was going to soil my own clothes doing this job. After a lot of empty threats, he decided he’d show me how work is supposed to be done. As he got down on his hands and knees to climb behind the machine, his shirt rode up and his pants slid down, revealing a sizable portion of the crack in his large, hairy ass. Over the din of the running machine, I hollered that I could see a big crack and did he want me to fill it. He instructed me to fill it. Just to remove any doubt, I asked again and he enthusiastically confirmed that I was to fill the crack. Seldom one to disobey and order, I loaded my 12” drywall knife and slapped down that joint compound, generously filling the crack and a fair amount of Les’s britches. “MOTHERBLEEPER!!” was all I heard. I dropped the knife and mud bucket and ran for my life. I spent the rest of the day hiding in the bathroom. I needn’t have worried, though. In his haste to extricate himself from behind the machine, he hit his head and knocked himself cold as a mackerel, also opening a nice gash on the back of his melon. When I went to clock out that day, the plant manager was waiting for me. Behind closed doors he admitted to me that he had a dilemma. Apparently my low opinion of Les was shared by many (including the boss himself) and none of the other guys could stand him. They all firmly announced that if I got canned for my misdeed they’d quit (certainly empty threats, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless). So I got off with a verbal reprimand, a note to my personnel file and the instruction that I apologize to Les (which I did… afterall, I didn’t want to really hurt the guy, just have some fun). The bonus was that I finished out my summer job never having to work with Les again.

As I walked back through the bank, Les still stood in line and our eyes met again. He still had that puzzled look on his face until I called out to him, “Heya, Les! How’s your head?”

The Promise

2005-03-01T13:01:00.000-08:00

"Nevertheless, God's solid foundation stands firm, sealed with this inscription: "The Lord knows those who are His," and, "Everyone who confesses the name of the Lord must turn away from wickedness." ~ 2 Timothy 2:19

One thing for sure, the Word is not wishy washy. We certainly can't have it both ways. We can't have fellowship with Him and cling to the world. Also, I see that when you emphasize, "Nevertheless" you realize that in spite of the devil, demons, evil spirits, false teachers and false prophets, we have the promise of God that cannot be broken.

Lightening the load

2005-02-26T10:07:00.000-08:00

Matthew 11:28-30 - " Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke fits perfectly, and the burden I give you is light."

I really love this passage, I think it’s one of my favorites. It really became clear to me one morning as I was driving to work on Wilshire Blvd. There was an old homeless lady pushing a shopping basket. This shopping basket was filled with all sorts of junk. It was piled high with garbage, things tied to the outside of it. So much stuff that it was literally the size of a Volkswagen Bug. She couldn't see over it or around it. After stopping to rest, the old lady again began to push on the handlebar of the basket. It was obvious that she was straining under its enormous weight. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the mountain of trash began to move down the street. I sat at the stoplight in awe. Isn't that just like us? We have our shopping basket full of life's garbage and tasks that we obsess over, straining under the enormous weight. We can't see over it or around it, we just put our shoulder into it and try to keep it moving. This is one of my failings. It’s been one of those weeks for me. All this dang rain (I HATE RAIN!), traffic, leaking roof, termites in our house, taxes, personnel problems at work, kids misbehaving, “check engine” light glowing on my truck’s dashboard. I’ve got a full shopping basket and I need to stop obsessing over this garbage. “Lord, help me to walk away from this shopping basket and slip on Your yoke.”