Weather in the 'Ville the last couple of weeks has become worthy of writing about.
I've had the mysterious little cold-like thing going on since the day after Thanksgiving. I can't seem to get rid of the thing. Every time I think I've turned a corner I wake up the next morning with gook up to my ears, literally. (Sorry if that's gross, but hey, it's descriptive!).
For awhile I thought it was something in the house, so I politely petitioned Jeannie to see if we could maybe do something like wash the bedsheets. Or scrub down the bathroom, or maybe fumigate the entire house. Nothing major. I just want to feel better.
Then it hit me Monday morning, as I was coughing up another lung shortly after wakeup.
It's this unbelievably inconsistent East Texas weather.
I'm not one of those guys. You know, the guys who have to begin every conversation with "Man this weather is somethun' else." The guys who couldn't have a conversation without that weather kick-start, you know?
Matter of fact, I have never been accused of needing any kind of kick-start to a conversation. Just ask my wife. Or any one of my three friends on earth.
But the temperature here over the last month has ranged anywhere from upper 20s to upper 70s, sometimes on a 24-hour basis. For example, I woke up Sunday morning to a miserably mild upper 50ish temp on the outside. We had the Christmas choir concert at church and my sinuses were raging. Battled through it but the exertion knocked me out Sunday afternoon, literally. I didn't watch a single NFL game really Sunday afternoon, I just went to bed.
Back to church in upper 50sh weather Sunday night. Got home, set up for the Cowboys-Giants showdown and about late second quarter I posed the question to Jeannie: "Is it just me or is it BLAZING hot in this house???"
She readily agreed, and rather than sweat through the evening we decided to do the unthinkable, which was turn the air conditioner on. In the middle of December! Ten days before Christmas, and we have to spend Lord knows how many kilowatt hours on the A/C!!
I felt better instantly. I went to bed and slept like a baby, finally. But I got up Monday morning with the same symptoms that have been plaguing me for a month. Shortly following my lovely wife's first "Good morning," came this warning -- "It's freezing cold outside."
Yep, an Arctic front had pulled a sneak attack overnight and invaded the land of perennial summer. Gone were the shorts-type weather of the past couple of days. I had to bundle up and pull out my heaviest coat.
My body, at nearly 40 years old, can still take a lot of things. I can still punish it with as much basketball, racquetball and occasional mud-wrestling (not really) as the next guy. But it can't take a daily 50-degree drop in temperature anymore. So my immune system is constantly asking for reinforcement, and I can't keep up.
The temperature hasn't risen out of the 40s since Monday morning here. Three days of actual Christmas-type weather. But I saw a forecast that had us back to the 70s -- yes , THE 70S! -- by the weekend. Then same forecast predicted another cold blast late in the weekend that would have things back to the 30s or so.
Welcome to East Texas. So, man, this weather is somethun' else...
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A Breath Of Fresh Air
I am one of the thousands -- maybe millions, who knows -- of Americans who sleeps peacefully most nights because of a wonderful invention known as Continuous Positive Air Pressure (CPAP) machine.
A little over two years ago I was diagnosed as having obstructive sleep apnea. That's a long, official-sounding name for loud snoring. Oh, and during the snoring, I stop breathing periodically during the night. Dozens of times. I took one of those sleep tests and was told in the morning that I had stopped breathing, on average, nearly 40 times per hour.
Basically what happens during sleep apnea is that the airway and nasal passages close. Snoring is actually the body's defense at waking you up. What's really bad is that sometimes the snoring has to become downright violent, and in my case, it's more of a snort. I wake up, and thereby never enjoy a full night's rest because I am constantly waking up and slipping off to doze throughout the night.
Enter the CPAP, which consists of a machine, air hose and mask that fits over my nose. I strap it to my head and turn the machine on, and it blows a soft breeze through the mask and into my nose, keeping my nasal passages open. Then I don't snore, snort, or do anything else to wake up. I sleep peacefully throughout the night and get tired the next day only rarely.
That's the great thing about CPAP. The bad thing is...sometimes you might rip the hose or break the mask, which means you have to get a replacement. That takes time, either ordering or waiting to go to the local CPAP supply store.
Two weeks ago I came home from a basketball road trip in the middle of the night. I don't go on trips without my CPAP, so it was with me. Rather than wake Jeannie up I decided to go without the mask for one night.
No problem, she was so conked and tired herself it didn't matter. I was coming down with a cold, so I decided to clean the mask and hose before hooking it up again and turning it into a germ trap. I soaked the equipment in warm soapy water and then when I was attaching it to the machine the hose ripped.
Not a good thing. I told Jeannie and she gave me this "it'll be okay" but what her look said was "good grief, now I gotta sleep with the pigs again." Meaning the snorting.
I tried calling my supplier but couldn't get hooked up. That would take a week or so anyway, so I retreated into my shell -- meaning I just tried to ignore the problem. Besides, it's quite comforting sometimes to sleep without an air mask strapped to your head, making you look like one of those stormtrooper pilots from Star Wars. I was free, unfettered, breathing normally...
Until I went to sleep. Then the racket broke loose. You know snoring and sleep apnea is bad when the sounds wake you up. I got punched, prodded, poked, downright beaten to a pulp by my suffering wife who had to listen to the large chain saw in the bed that ran all night. I was told one morning that Melody came into the bedroom in the middle of the night, from her room down the hallway, and begged Jeannie to make me put my mask on.
It's quite embarrassing, keeping your family awake because you can't breathe. It's also quite burdensome, and a sore spot as the days go on.
Jeannie threatened me. She was going to sleep in Coby's bed if I didn't get the hose replaced. Go ahead, I said, I like sleeping in king-size beds all by myself. Problem was, I wasn't doing much sleeping. The constant snoring and snorting was making me angry because I couldn't do anything but doze off most nights.
Long story short, I finally broke down and visited a local CPAP supply place yesterday. My machine now works fine and I'm back under the mask. Just in the nick of time.
But I can feel another cold coming on, so...who knows what might happen.
A little over two years ago I was diagnosed as having obstructive sleep apnea. That's a long, official-sounding name for loud snoring. Oh, and during the snoring, I stop breathing periodically during the night. Dozens of times. I took one of those sleep tests and was told in the morning that I had stopped breathing, on average, nearly 40 times per hour.
Basically what happens during sleep apnea is that the airway and nasal passages close. Snoring is actually the body's defense at waking you up. What's really bad is that sometimes the snoring has to become downright violent, and in my case, it's more of a snort. I wake up, and thereby never enjoy a full night's rest because I am constantly waking up and slipping off to doze throughout the night.
Enter the CPAP, which consists of a machine, air hose and mask that fits over my nose. I strap it to my head and turn the machine on, and it blows a soft breeze through the mask and into my nose, keeping my nasal passages open. Then I don't snore, snort, or do anything else to wake up. I sleep peacefully throughout the night and get tired the next day only rarely.
That's the great thing about CPAP. The bad thing is...sometimes you might rip the hose or break the mask, which means you have to get a replacement. That takes time, either ordering or waiting to go to the local CPAP supply store.
Two weeks ago I came home from a basketball road trip in the middle of the night. I don't go on trips without my CPAP, so it was with me. Rather than wake Jeannie up I decided to go without the mask for one night.
No problem, she was so conked and tired herself it didn't matter. I was coming down with a cold, so I decided to clean the mask and hose before hooking it up again and turning it into a germ trap. I soaked the equipment in warm soapy water and then when I was attaching it to the machine the hose ripped.
Not a good thing. I told Jeannie and she gave me this "it'll be okay" but what her look said was "good grief, now I gotta sleep with the pigs again." Meaning the snorting.
I tried calling my supplier but couldn't get hooked up. That would take a week or so anyway, so I retreated into my shell -- meaning I just tried to ignore the problem. Besides, it's quite comforting sometimes to sleep without an air mask strapped to your head, making you look like one of those stormtrooper pilots from Star Wars. I was free, unfettered, breathing normally...
Until I went to sleep. Then the racket broke loose. You know snoring and sleep apnea is bad when the sounds wake you up. I got punched, prodded, poked, downright beaten to a pulp by my suffering wife who had to listen to the large chain saw in the bed that ran all night. I was told one morning that Melody came into the bedroom in the middle of the night, from her room down the hallway, and begged Jeannie to make me put my mask on.
It's quite embarrassing, keeping your family awake because you can't breathe. It's also quite burdensome, and a sore spot as the days go on.
Jeannie threatened me. She was going to sleep in Coby's bed if I didn't get the hose replaced. Go ahead, I said, I like sleeping in king-size beds all by myself. Problem was, I wasn't doing much sleeping. The constant snoring and snorting was making me angry because I couldn't do anything but doze off most nights.
Long story short, I finally broke down and visited a local CPAP supply place yesterday. My machine now works fine and I'm back under the mask. Just in the nick of time.
But I can feel another cold coming on, so...who knows what might happen.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Phasing Out Pappy
My wife has decided it's time to get rid of our security blanket at home. This of course means it's time to break our nearly two-year-old baby girl of the "Pappy" habit.
It's not going to be easy, especially when Jeannie's not around. As Dad, I can tell you there's no better babysitter sometimes than the good old mangled pacifier. I'm about a week behind on the "get rid of Pappy" campaign, but I was forced to adhere to the new rules around the house over the last weekend.
Up until now it's not been unusual for Abby to have Pappy in her possession or in her mouth, I would estimate, probably 23 hours out of a 24-hour day. And that's rounded off. Pappy is her best friend, and she has several friends -- her favorite thing is to have one Pappy in her mouth and several others in both hands, just to know that there's always a friend close by.
We've found Pappys everywhere in the house. Toy box, TV cabinet, fireplace, under the bed, in clothes drawers. Because of a lack of counter space, we keep our toaster oven when not in use in a cabinet near the refrigerator. Abby's thing has always been to open cabinet doors, and once she found the toaster it became the thing to play with the door on the toaster. Yes, we find Pappys in the toaster oven now.
We're phasing out Pappy in an effort to help Abby speak. And for the most part, I'd say it's been a rousing success. She talks non-stop now, and a few words are actually understandable. Her favorite phrases the last week or so post-Pappy have been things like "Sanka Coz," "Oh min" (that's oh man -- she's picked this up somehow and says it all the time, out of the blue, quite hilarious) and her personal favorite, "Oss." Oss, of course, means "Oz," as in The Wizard of Oz, which is now forever on our DVR because yours truly thought it would be great for the kids to have. Abby loves it, and we watch the Dorothy Chronicles at least twice a day, or parts of it, anyway.
Oh yeah, she can say "Care cro" too, courtesy of Oz.
So the chatter has picked up considerably with Pappy out the way. We've come to an agreement with the baby, however. She can have Pappy only at naptime and bedtime, and any other time she gets a hankerin for her friend it's with the understanding that a nap must take place as well. That usually settles the issue for a few moments, anyway.
A week or so into the experiment, Abby's now playing games. It was just me and her yesterday in the living room, and I of course was caught up in the early part of the Cowboys game. That's about all I say about that debacle -- the Cowboys, I mean.
I look up at some point and there's Abby, somehow with a shiny green pappy in her mouth and another multi-colored one in her hand. I said something to the effect of get rid of the Pappy, and she grinned from behind the friend. I reached out to get it and she pulled back, grinning larger. Then we got into this playful little chase around the furniture, which fortunately I won. Both Pappys were removed and placed out of sight, I thought, and therefore out of mind.
No chance. Two minutes later, I look up and she's retrieved them, and we're off to chasing again. This went on for two or three more times before I finally had enough and the Pappys were safetly put out of reach. Game effectively over, she moved on to the next project with not a single word of protest.
Yes, Pappy isn't dead around the house, but the funeral arrangements are in the works. Once Abby realizes she can indeed fall asleep and sleep peacefully without Pappy in the same room, we can all breathe a little easier. Maybe then we'll get rid of the nighttime bottle-before-bed routine, too.
It's not going to be easy, especially when Jeannie's not around. As Dad, I can tell you there's no better babysitter sometimes than the good old mangled pacifier. I'm about a week behind on the "get rid of Pappy" campaign, but I was forced to adhere to the new rules around the house over the last weekend.
Up until now it's not been unusual for Abby to have Pappy in her possession or in her mouth, I would estimate, probably 23 hours out of a 24-hour day. And that's rounded off. Pappy is her best friend, and she has several friends -- her favorite thing is to have one Pappy in her mouth and several others in both hands, just to know that there's always a friend close by.
We've found Pappys everywhere in the house. Toy box, TV cabinet, fireplace, under the bed, in clothes drawers. Because of a lack of counter space, we keep our toaster oven when not in use in a cabinet near the refrigerator. Abby's thing has always been to open cabinet doors, and once she found the toaster it became the thing to play with the door on the toaster. Yes, we find Pappys in the toaster oven now.
We're phasing out Pappy in an effort to help Abby speak. And for the most part, I'd say it's been a rousing success. She talks non-stop now, and a few words are actually understandable. Her favorite phrases the last week or so post-Pappy have been things like "Sanka Coz," "Oh min" (that's oh man -- she's picked this up somehow and says it all the time, out of the blue, quite hilarious) and her personal favorite, "Oss." Oss, of course, means "Oz," as in The Wizard of Oz, which is now forever on our DVR because yours truly thought it would be great for the kids to have. Abby loves it, and we watch the Dorothy Chronicles at least twice a day, or parts of it, anyway.
Oh yeah, she can say "Care cro" too, courtesy of Oz.
So the chatter has picked up considerably with Pappy out the way. We've come to an agreement with the baby, however. She can have Pappy only at naptime and bedtime, and any other time she gets a hankerin for her friend it's with the understanding that a nap must take place as well. That usually settles the issue for a few moments, anyway.
A week or so into the experiment, Abby's now playing games. It was just me and her yesterday in the living room, and I of course was caught up in the early part of the Cowboys game. That's about all I say about that debacle -- the Cowboys, I mean.
I look up at some point and there's Abby, somehow with a shiny green pappy in her mouth and another multi-colored one in her hand. I said something to the effect of get rid of the Pappy, and she grinned from behind the friend. I reached out to get it and she pulled back, grinning larger. Then we got into this playful little chase around the furniture, which fortunately I won. Both Pappys were removed and placed out of sight, I thought, and therefore out of mind.
No chance. Two minutes later, I look up and she's retrieved them, and we're off to chasing again. This went on for two or three more times before I finally had enough and the Pappys were safetly put out of reach. Game effectively over, she moved on to the next project with not a single word of protest.
Yes, Pappy isn't dead around the house, but the funeral arrangements are in the works. Once Abby realizes she can indeed fall asleep and sleep peacefully without Pappy in the same room, we can all breathe a little easier. Maybe then we'll get rid of the nighttime bottle-before-bed routine, too.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Tag Team
Okay, CDJ, I can play the game.
1. Two Names You Go By: Daddy and Dream. Daddy is obvious, and my wife calls me all kinds of things based on the mood and situation of the moment. Dream is a nickname given to me by a good friend, referring to Dreamweaver. Or my likeness with Hakeem Olajuwon.
2. Things You Are Wearing Right Now: Work slacks, a Tigers coaching shirt, and a blue windjacket because a cold front just blew in overnight.
3. Two Things You Want Very Badly At The Moment: A warmer cup of coffee and Christmas tunes. A playoff spot for the Cowboys would also be nice.
4. Two people who you look up to: My wife and...a handful of my friends who shall remain nameless.
.5. Two things you did last night: Went to choir practice and suffered through it with a raging cold that I hope I've knocked out overnight...feeling a little better this morning.
.6. Two things you ate yesterday: Chinese food for lunch and three Taco Bell tacos for dinner.
7. Two people you last talked to: My bosses, Mike Midkiff and Lea Hall.
8. Two Things you're doing tomorrow: Work and hopefully take my wife out on a date.
9. Two longest car rides: Birmingham, Ala., and Rogers, Ark.
10. Favorite Holidays : Thanksgiving and Christmas, duh.
11. Favorite Vacations : Destin, Fla. -- twice.
12. Last trip: Last weekend to Alpine, Texas, and Brownwood, Texas, for ETBU basketball. Nearly 2,000 miles round trip on a bus at all hours of the night -- hence the cold.
13. Two favorite beverages: Sweet tea and Diet anything.
1. Two Names You Go By: Daddy and Dream. Daddy is obvious, and my wife calls me all kinds of things based on the mood and situation of the moment. Dream is a nickname given to me by a good friend, referring to Dreamweaver. Or my likeness with Hakeem Olajuwon.
2. Things You Are Wearing Right Now: Work slacks, a Tigers coaching shirt, and a blue windjacket because a cold front just blew in overnight.
3. Two Things You Want Very Badly At The Moment: A warmer cup of coffee and Christmas tunes. A playoff spot for the Cowboys would also be nice.
4. Two people who you look up to: My wife and...a handful of my friends who shall remain nameless.
.5. Two things you did last night: Went to choir practice and suffered through it with a raging cold that I hope I've knocked out overnight...feeling a little better this morning.
.6. Two things you ate yesterday: Chinese food for lunch and three Taco Bell tacos for dinner.
7. Two people you last talked to: My bosses, Mike Midkiff and Lea Hall.
8. Two Things you're doing tomorrow: Work and hopefully take my wife out on a date.
9. Two longest car rides: Birmingham, Ala., and Rogers, Ark.
10. Favorite Holidays : Thanksgiving and Christmas, duh.
11. Favorite Vacations : Destin, Fla. -- twice.
12. Last trip: Last weekend to Alpine, Texas, and Brownwood, Texas, for ETBU basketball. Nearly 2,000 miles round trip on a bus at all hours of the night -- hence the cold.
13. Two favorite beverages: Sweet tea and Diet anything.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Blues and Burnt Orange
I'm not having a great weekend.
As I write, I am sitting in the coldest building on the planet, the Brownwood Coliseum. That's Brownwood, Texas, where ETBU plays basketball Monday. I am currently sitting and watching our women's team practice, and I'm running out of things to do to pass the time. Plus, my fingers are literally going to fall off from frostbite -- this is a dump of a building, affectionately known to the locals as the "Brownwood Mausoleum" -- and apparently doesn't have a working heating system.
I am also fighting a weak cold at the moment. Sinuses are a constant problem for me and when I get a cold you might as well have given me flu pills. I hate colds; just break my arm or leg and let me deal with that instead.
I also haven't seen my family in three days now, and I'm having withdrawals. Abby has gotten on the phone three times this weekend and said "hi dadda" and "i uv u" and all I can do is listen. I miss my wife and children terribly and won't see them again until Tuesday morning, maybe. Supposed to get back home early Tuesday morning, so I don't know when our paths will actually cross.
I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm lonely, and I'm sick. And, on top of it all -- my Longhorns got royally dumped on today. There are billions of dollars spent every year on big-time college football and the best way anyone can come up with to crown a national champion is to go by what a few computers say.
Forget head-to-head matchups. 45-35 doesn't mean a hill of beans. So why make such a big deal of the Red River Shootout between Texas and OU anymore? Makes no sense in a million years.
I hope everyone in Sooner Nation goes around wearing ski masks now, because they are nothing but a bunch of thieves who just flat-out stole something from the 'Horns.
Oh well, enough of ranting. Practice is wrapping up and it's time for dinner -- at least I can fill my tummy and take care of that!!!!
As I write, I am sitting in the coldest building on the planet, the Brownwood Coliseum. That's Brownwood, Texas, where ETBU plays basketball Monday. I am currently sitting and watching our women's team practice, and I'm running out of things to do to pass the time. Plus, my fingers are literally going to fall off from frostbite -- this is a dump of a building, affectionately known to the locals as the "Brownwood Mausoleum" -- and apparently doesn't have a working heating system.
I am also fighting a weak cold at the moment. Sinuses are a constant problem for me and when I get a cold you might as well have given me flu pills. I hate colds; just break my arm or leg and let me deal with that instead.
I also haven't seen my family in three days now, and I'm having withdrawals. Abby has gotten on the phone three times this weekend and said "hi dadda" and "i uv u" and all I can do is listen. I miss my wife and children terribly and won't see them again until Tuesday morning, maybe. Supposed to get back home early Tuesday morning, so I don't know when our paths will actually cross.
I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm lonely, and I'm sick. And, on top of it all -- my Longhorns got royally dumped on today. There are billions of dollars spent every year on big-time college football and the best way anyone can come up with to crown a national champion is to go by what a few computers say.
Forget head-to-head matchups. 45-35 doesn't mean a hill of beans. So why make such a big deal of the Red River Shootout between Texas and OU anymore? Makes no sense in a million years.
I hope everyone in Sooner Nation goes around wearing ski masks now, because they are nothing but a bunch of thieves who just flat-out stole something from the 'Horns.
Oh well, enough of ranting. Practice is wrapping up and it's time for dinner -- at least I can fill my tummy and take care of that!!!!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Call of the Wild...Right
I've been attending a men's Bible study the last few weeks entitled "Spiritual Outdoor Adventures." I get up at the crack of dawn, literally, the last few Thursdays -- me and a handful of other guys who couldn't make the other two sessions offered at normal human hours.
The study focuses on Biblical principles from outdoor activities, namely hunting. We watch a 20-minute or so video and then spend the rest of the time discussing aspects presented in the video. So far there have been sessions involving deer hunting, caribou hunting and, this morning, duck hunting.
It's all great and I love the fellowship and discussion, but... the videos are like a whole new world to me. That's because I don't hunt. I don't own a gun, actually -- although I do believe it's my American right to own one if I want to for all you liberals out there!!!!
Whew. Glad to get that out of the way. Back to the story. There once was a time in my life where I actually wanted to hunt. I actually craved sitting out in the cold woods watching nature live its life around me and hoping that an unlucky stray buck might wander into my sight line.
That's the problem, though. The only deer I've ever seen up close are the ones who graze on the side of the highway on my way home. That's a huge problem for a deer hunter, by the way. The deer are supposed to be in the woods, not out by the road laughing at the trucks that go by on the way to a deer lease.
The last time I hunted was on Jan. 1, 1983. I'll never forget that day because I remember going home and watching the Cotton Bowl. A friend from church had offered to let me go hunting with him. My dad never had an interest in it at all, and as I grew up there was some kind of interest at some point but I never could understand Dad's total indifference towards hunting.
Now I know. I had sat in a handful of deer stands before and had never seen one single, cotton-picking deer. Nothing. Not one! On this New Year's Day in 1983, the friend took me to a deer stand on his lease and set me up all by my lonesome with a 30.06 (I believe that's what it was) and left me there to kill.
One big problem, however. Two actually. He left me there in a temperature of about 30 degrees or so, at least with the wind chill. And he left me there in a steady, pouring rain. Cold rain! Great deer hunting conditions, I was told.
I'd have had more luck on a snipe hunt. For those who might not know, snipe don't really exist. You take some loser on a snipe hunt, give him a trash bag or something and stick him in the middle of a field. Then you tell him you're going to go over in the woods and rustle up some imaginary ground bird called a "snipe," and said imaginary bird will magically fly toward the bag in the middle of this large, empty field. You then calmly walk into the woods and leave the poor sap in the darkness, waiting on a fowl that will never, ever appear. It's a great, great way to have a huge laugh at someone else's expense. Trust me, I've been on both ends of it.
Anyway, a snipe hunt is like every deer hunt I've ever been on. I don't think a deer exists, at least when I'm the one sitting in a stand in the middle of a freezing rain. I froze my tootsie off that day in '83, and at some point while the rain soaked my layers of clothing I made a somewhat audible prayer to God.
I promised that if God would allow me to get out of those woods alive and not suffer frostbite, I'd never, ever be foolish enough to sit out in the middle of the thicket and hunt deer. As always, He provided, and I have kept my end of the bargain. I've never been in the woods on a hunt since, and I don't plan on starting.
But I see these videos in Bible study of these guys having all this fun, and I wonder -- how long did it take to actually shoot the film, because every scene has something dying in it. It's like, did you ever wonder why you didn't catch the same amount of fish as someone on those fishing shows? It doesn't happen like that, folks. You don't catch a fish every time you throw the line into the water.
And for me, hunting is like that. There's too much other stuff I could be doing than sitting out there wondering if Bambi is going to grace me with his presence today. Or tomorrow. Or anytime.
All I ask is that he stay off the road when I drive by.
The study focuses on Biblical principles from outdoor activities, namely hunting. We watch a 20-minute or so video and then spend the rest of the time discussing aspects presented in the video. So far there have been sessions involving deer hunting, caribou hunting and, this morning, duck hunting.
It's all great and I love the fellowship and discussion, but... the videos are like a whole new world to me. That's because I don't hunt. I don't own a gun, actually -- although I do believe it's my American right to own one if I want to for all you liberals out there!!!!
Whew. Glad to get that out of the way. Back to the story. There once was a time in my life where I actually wanted to hunt. I actually craved sitting out in the cold woods watching nature live its life around me and hoping that an unlucky stray buck might wander into my sight line.
That's the problem, though. The only deer I've ever seen up close are the ones who graze on the side of the highway on my way home. That's a huge problem for a deer hunter, by the way. The deer are supposed to be in the woods, not out by the road laughing at the trucks that go by on the way to a deer lease.
The last time I hunted was on Jan. 1, 1983. I'll never forget that day because I remember going home and watching the Cotton Bowl. A friend from church had offered to let me go hunting with him. My dad never had an interest in it at all, and as I grew up there was some kind of interest at some point but I never could understand Dad's total indifference towards hunting.
Now I know. I had sat in a handful of deer stands before and had never seen one single, cotton-picking deer. Nothing. Not one! On this New Year's Day in 1983, the friend took me to a deer stand on his lease and set me up all by my lonesome with a 30.06 (I believe that's what it was) and left me there to kill.
One big problem, however. Two actually. He left me there in a temperature of about 30 degrees or so, at least with the wind chill. And he left me there in a steady, pouring rain. Cold rain! Great deer hunting conditions, I was told.
I'd have had more luck on a snipe hunt. For those who might not know, snipe don't really exist. You take some loser on a snipe hunt, give him a trash bag or something and stick him in the middle of a field. Then you tell him you're going to go over in the woods and rustle up some imaginary ground bird called a "snipe," and said imaginary bird will magically fly toward the bag in the middle of this large, empty field. You then calmly walk into the woods and leave the poor sap in the darkness, waiting on a fowl that will never, ever appear. It's a great, great way to have a huge laugh at someone else's expense. Trust me, I've been on both ends of it.
Anyway, a snipe hunt is like every deer hunt I've ever been on. I don't think a deer exists, at least when I'm the one sitting in a stand in the middle of a freezing rain. I froze my tootsie off that day in '83, and at some point while the rain soaked my layers of clothing I made a somewhat audible prayer to God.
I promised that if God would allow me to get out of those woods alive and not suffer frostbite, I'd never, ever be foolish enough to sit out in the middle of the thicket and hunt deer. As always, He provided, and I have kept my end of the bargain. I've never been in the woods on a hunt since, and I don't plan on starting.
But I see these videos in Bible study of these guys having all this fun, and I wonder -- how long did it take to actually shoot the film, because every scene has something dying in it. It's like, did you ever wonder why you didn't catch the same amount of fish as someone on those fishing shows? It doesn't happen like that, folks. You don't catch a fish every time you throw the line into the water.
And for me, hunting is like that. There's too much other stuff I could be doing than sitting out there wondering if Bambi is going to grace me with his presence today. Or tomorrow. Or anytime.
All I ask is that he stay off the road when I drive by.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The Silent "Minority"
I received an interesting email last week forwarded to me from a friend I trust, so I am fairly certain it wasn't one of those hoax things. Besides, it sounds just too real considering the state of our nation these days.
Here is the text of the email:
Jim Neugent is a coach in Childress , Texas
Jim writes: My name is Jim Neugent. I wrote to ABC (on-line) concerning a program called 'THE PRACTICE.' In last nights episode, one of the lawyer's mothers decided she is gay and wanted her son to go to court and help her get a marriage license so she could marry her 'partner.' I sent the following letter to ABC yesterday and really did not expect a reply, but I did get one. My original message was: ABC is obsessed with the subject of homosexuality. I will no longer watch any of your attempts to convince the world that homosexuality is OK . 'THE PRACTICE' can be a fairly good show, but last night's program was so typical of your agenda. You picked the 'dufus' of the office to be the one who was against the idea of his mother being gay, and made him look like a whiner because he had convictions. This type of mentality calls people like me a 'gay basher..' Read the first chapter of Romans (that's in the Bible) and see what the apostle Paul had to say about it..... He, God and Jesus were all 'gay bashers'. What if she'd fallen in love with her cocker spaniel? Is that an alternative life style? (By the way, the Bible speaks against that, too.) --Jim Neugent
Here is ABC's reply from the ABC on-line webmaster: How about getting your nose out of the Bible (which is ONLY a book of stories compiled by MANY different writers hundreds of years ago) and read the declaration of independence (what our nation on is built on), where it says 'All Men are Created equal,' and try treating them that way for a change! Or better yet, try thinking for yourself and stop using an archaic book of story's as your lame crutch for your existence.. You are in the minority in this country, and your boycott will not affect us at ABC or our freedom of statement. Jim Neugent's second response to ABC: Thanks for your reply. From your harsh reply, evidently I hit a nerve. I will share it with all whom I come in contact. Hopefully, the Arkansas Democrat Newspaper will include it in one of their columns and I will be praying for you.
The same day I received the email, I was watching a TV show with my wife when a commerical for a daytime soap opera on ABC -- All My Children, to be exact -- promoted a storyline in which a scene of two young women locked in a passionate kiss showed up on the preview. It sickened me to no end. These were two beautiful young women, not the women-dressed-up-as-men types you associate with this kind of stuff.
The ABC reply says people like Jim Neugent -- aka Christian people -- are in a minority in the United States. I want to believe this unnamed person is terribly wrong on this point. However, I will agree that in a lot of instances we are in the "silent" minority, because we keep our mouths shut like good little church people and only speak out against such things within the privacy of our own homes or church buildings, maybe.
Or maybe we don't even do that. The most recent election is an indication of this. There are millions and millions of people who profess to follow Christ in this nation yet millions of them voted for the homosexual/abortion/atheist agenda earlier this month. How do I know that? Because I look at election returns. This election could not have played out in the fashion that it did without some believers voting for that agenda, in all areas of the country.
But I digress. The purpose of this blog entry is to serve notice that I, for one, will remain "silent" no longer. I detest homosexuality because God, in his archaic book of stories, calls it sin. Period. You can profess love and tolerance all you want, believer or not, and it's still called an abomination in the Bible.
The gay agenda is being pushed more radically and loudly now more than ever before in the history of our nation, and that's because they are emboldened by the results of the recent election. Results that say a lot of Christians voted for such an agenda! How sad and terrifying that is.
I am most terrified for my children. Jeannie and I have tried as hard as we possibly could over the years to insulate our children from this kind of thing, which I believe falls right into the enemy's hands. They will find out one way or the other, whether its from the world or from us as parents. I trust my ability to explain the sin versus the sinner part much more effectively, rather than the jaded opinion the current movement can give.
And I am incensed with the fact that network television feels the need and the purpose to blatantly promote such an agenda. I don't watch ABC much anyway, but I have watched my last minute of television on this network. I would urge anyone who might possibly read this to join me in this. We might be a "minority," but there are still a lot of us who can put pressure on this out-of-touch entity within our society.
It's a small shot, but one I'll fire anyway. And I'll continue to pray for our nation -- prayer is our biggest weapon anyway -- and that God won't totally turn His back on us because of the sin in our land running rampant because His followers, including myself, have had their heads buried in the sand.
Here is the text of the email:
Jim Neugent is a coach in Childress , Texas
Jim writes: My name is Jim Neugent. I wrote to ABC (on-line) concerning a program called 'THE PRACTICE.' In last nights episode, one of the lawyer's mothers decided she is gay and wanted her son to go to court and help her get a marriage license so she could marry her 'partner.' I sent the following letter to ABC yesterday and really did not expect a reply, but I did get one. My original message was: ABC is obsessed with the subject of homosexuality. I will no longer watch any of your attempts to convince the world that homosexuality is OK . 'THE PRACTICE' can be a fairly good show, but last night's program was so typical of your agenda. You picked the 'dufus' of the office to be the one who was against the idea of his mother being gay, and made him look like a whiner because he had convictions. This type of mentality calls people like me a 'gay basher..' Read the first chapter of Romans (that's in the Bible) and see what the apostle Paul had to say about it..... He, God and Jesus were all 'gay bashers'. What if she'd fallen in love with her cocker spaniel? Is that an alternative life style? (By the way, the Bible speaks against that, too.) --Jim Neugent
Here is ABC's reply from the ABC on-line webmaster: How about getting your nose out of the Bible (which is ONLY a book of stories compiled by MANY different writers hundreds of years ago) and read the declaration of independence (what our nation on is built on), where it says 'All Men are Created equal,' and try treating them that way for a change! Or better yet, try thinking for yourself and stop using an archaic book of story's as your lame crutch for your existence.. You are in the minority in this country, and your boycott will not affect us at ABC or our freedom of statement. Jim Neugent's second response to ABC: Thanks for your reply. From your harsh reply, evidently I hit a nerve. I will share it with all whom I come in contact. Hopefully, the Arkansas Democrat Newspaper will include it in one of their columns and I will be praying for you.
The same day I received the email, I was watching a TV show with my wife when a commerical for a daytime soap opera on ABC -- All My Children, to be exact -- promoted a storyline in which a scene of two young women locked in a passionate kiss showed up on the preview. It sickened me to no end. These were two beautiful young women, not the women-dressed-up-as-men types you associate with this kind of stuff.
The ABC reply says people like Jim Neugent -- aka Christian people -- are in a minority in the United States. I want to believe this unnamed person is terribly wrong on this point. However, I will agree that in a lot of instances we are in the "silent" minority, because we keep our mouths shut like good little church people and only speak out against such things within the privacy of our own homes or church buildings, maybe.
Or maybe we don't even do that. The most recent election is an indication of this. There are millions and millions of people who profess to follow Christ in this nation yet millions of them voted for the homosexual/abortion/atheist agenda earlier this month. How do I know that? Because I look at election returns. This election could not have played out in the fashion that it did without some believers voting for that agenda, in all areas of the country.
But I digress. The purpose of this blog entry is to serve notice that I, for one, will remain "silent" no longer. I detest homosexuality because God, in his archaic book of stories, calls it sin. Period. You can profess love and tolerance all you want, believer or not, and it's still called an abomination in the Bible.
The gay agenda is being pushed more radically and loudly now more than ever before in the history of our nation, and that's because they are emboldened by the results of the recent election. Results that say a lot of Christians voted for such an agenda! How sad and terrifying that is.
I am most terrified for my children. Jeannie and I have tried as hard as we possibly could over the years to insulate our children from this kind of thing, which I believe falls right into the enemy's hands. They will find out one way or the other, whether its from the world or from us as parents. I trust my ability to explain the sin versus the sinner part much more effectively, rather than the jaded opinion the current movement can give.
And I am incensed with the fact that network television feels the need and the purpose to blatantly promote such an agenda. I don't watch ABC much anyway, but I have watched my last minute of television on this network. I would urge anyone who might possibly read this to join me in this. We might be a "minority," but there are still a lot of us who can put pressure on this out-of-touch entity within our society.
It's a small shot, but one I'll fire anyway. And I'll continue to pray for our nation -- prayer is our biggest weapon anyway -- and that God won't totally turn His back on us because of the sin in our land running rampant because His followers, including myself, have had their heads buried in the sand.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Missing The Missus
My lovely wife has left me.
No, nothing like that. It's just for the weekend. Jeannie and my sister, Nona, have taken a Thelma and Louise trip to San Antonio so Nona can have the pleasure of running in a half-marathon Sunday. Jeannie isn't running, just going as moral support.
That leaves me in charge of running the house, and as much as we might blow and bluster as men, we are usually grossly unequipped to handle such responsibility.
Even as I write this, I've retreated the comfort and warmth of my mom and dad's house. Coby is with Uncle Monty, playing baseball somewhere of course. I would be there too except for the fact it's ETBU's home basketball opener tonight and I have to work. So it's me and my girls -- plus cousin Kaylee -- spending the afternoon at my mother's.
Thankfully, "Nanny" enjoys shopping on Saturday with her granddaughters. So Melody and Kaylee are enjoying that particular benefit, while I sit here watching the 'Horns whip up on Kansas while waiting for time to go to the gym.
Abby you ask? She's taken care of, thank you. Fast asleep on Papaw's bed, after much protest about said nap. She didn't fight long, though. A couple of cruises around the house on Papaw's lap in his trusty scooter, and she was out like a light.
So everything to this point is pretty well taken care of, except...I miss Jeannie. I say that to her face and normally get the eye-roll, as though I'm setting her up for something. But it's true, I miss her.
I've tried to explain it to her in terms I could understand. Women will never understand how important it is for us men to feel the comfort of knowing the wife and mom is home, taking care of things. I'm all for Jeannie enjoying this time away and getting some down time for herself, because mommies and wives need it too. But my best days are knowing that I have Jeannie around and knowing that she's there when and if I need her.
And no, it's not because I don't enjoy the times when it's just me and my children. There's a certain moment in a kid's life when, yes, they need their daddy around and just daddy. They need to know that daddy cares and daddy enjoys spending time with them.
But there's nothing like mom. And there's nothing like my wife. Over the years she's become my best friend on the planet. We can enjoy intimate thoughts, share things that we would share with no one else, and kid each other most any time. When she's not around I miss the comraderie.
But she's also beginning to understand my needs, even when she's out enjoying her time. She wouldn't leave until she had made sure all the kids had clothes washed and put out for today and for church tomorrow. Could I have done it? Sure. You bet. It would have been extremely stressful, but I could have got 'er done.
But mommy took care of it, and now all I have to worry about is making sure they are fed and at church on time. Much, much less stress for dad.
And much less stress for dad's kids.
No, nothing like that. It's just for the weekend. Jeannie and my sister, Nona, have taken a Thelma and Louise trip to San Antonio so Nona can have the pleasure of running in a half-marathon Sunday. Jeannie isn't running, just going as moral support.
That leaves me in charge of running the house, and as much as we might blow and bluster as men, we are usually grossly unequipped to handle such responsibility.
Even as I write this, I've retreated the comfort and warmth of my mom and dad's house. Coby is with Uncle Monty, playing baseball somewhere of course. I would be there too except for the fact it's ETBU's home basketball opener tonight and I have to work. So it's me and my girls -- plus cousin Kaylee -- spending the afternoon at my mother's.
Thankfully, "Nanny" enjoys shopping on Saturday with her granddaughters. So Melody and Kaylee are enjoying that particular benefit, while I sit here watching the 'Horns whip up on Kansas while waiting for time to go to the gym.
Abby you ask? She's taken care of, thank you. Fast asleep on Papaw's bed, after much protest about said nap. She didn't fight long, though. A couple of cruises around the house on Papaw's lap in his trusty scooter, and she was out like a light.
So everything to this point is pretty well taken care of, except...I miss Jeannie. I say that to her face and normally get the eye-roll, as though I'm setting her up for something. But it's true, I miss her.
I've tried to explain it to her in terms I could understand. Women will never understand how important it is for us men to feel the comfort of knowing the wife and mom is home, taking care of things. I'm all for Jeannie enjoying this time away and getting some down time for herself, because mommies and wives need it too. But my best days are knowing that I have Jeannie around and knowing that she's there when and if I need her.
And no, it's not because I don't enjoy the times when it's just me and my children. There's a certain moment in a kid's life when, yes, they need their daddy around and just daddy. They need to know that daddy cares and daddy enjoys spending time with them.
But there's nothing like mom. And there's nothing like my wife. Over the years she's become my best friend on the planet. We can enjoy intimate thoughts, share things that we would share with no one else, and kid each other most any time. When she's not around I miss the comraderie.
But she's also beginning to understand my needs, even when she's out enjoying her time. She wouldn't leave until she had made sure all the kids had clothes washed and put out for today and for church tomorrow. Could I have done it? Sure. You bet. It would have been extremely stressful, but I could have got 'er done.
But mommy took care of it, and now all I have to worry about is making sure they are fed and at church on time. Much, much less stress for dad.
And much less stress for dad's kids.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
On History And Miracles
Long time no blog, but I figure what a better time to get back into the swing of things than following such an "historic" event as yesterday.
I will admit that I had been praying for months for an Election Night miracle. Not the miracle that everyone in Chicago was praying for last night -- geez, was that Obama or Elvis? -- but a miracle of an upset.
For the last week, I prayed hard. I just knew God was going to answer the prayer and part the Red Sea -- or the blue sea, as it turned out. But I was wrong of course. There was no miracle. There was only disappointment in watching the most liberal senator in the land give what amounted to a victory lap in front of the adoring masses.
I listened to the blah blah blah for as long as I could stomach it before going to bed. God had chosen not to answer my prayer for a non-Obama administration. I would find a way to adjust and live with it.
But sitting here today and reading the news, I've once again been reminded that God doesn't work on my timetable or on my whim. I'd prayed for a miracle specifically for my side to pull out an election that, quite frankly, we didn't deserve to win. See, Christians don't do anything anymore. When it comes time to elect someone president, for a couple of months or so we'll talk loud and pray hard and hope that God will make it work. Or, as many did this time around, we'll simply not follow Christ's teachings or the teachings of the Bible and vote with our pocketbook or our emotions.
No, the election was lost long before Tuesday night and long before Barack Obama ever thought about running for president. We can't expect things to go our way when we don't do the things God calls us to do except during an election cycle. We certainly can't expect them to go our way when the only time we want to fight for our beliefs and the things we hold dear is when we're watching the election returns.
But God nonetheless gave us a miracle. You see, I was praying specifically for a miracle and that His will would be done. My will was not having Obama and all he stands for as president. But the news that California -- yes, California! -- voted down gay marriage is a miracle! Lost in all the election night hoopla and fanfest going on was the fact that God shot down the ultimate threat to our families in its most hearty of strongholds.
Who on earth would have believed that gay marriage wouldn't pass in California? A state that's never in contention for any conservative? A state so full of liberals and wackos, and homesexual rights activists on every corner -- and yet its citizens, the same ones who voted yes for Obama who is openly in support of the gay agenda and who even mentioned them in the same breath as whites and blacks in his speech Tuesday night -- voted No to gay marriage.
Call me reaching if you want, but that's a miracle. And it's a start. I mentioned several months ago in this blog that I would give my vote to candidates who supported traditional family values. I will continue to do so. Seeing it struck down by the citizens of the most homosexual of states in the country on Tuesday gives me hope. And it lets me know that God still is in the miracle business and he's still in the business of answering prayer.
I will admit that I had been praying for months for an Election Night miracle. Not the miracle that everyone in Chicago was praying for last night -- geez, was that Obama or Elvis? -- but a miracle of an upset.
For the last week, I prayed hard. I just knew God was going to answer the prayer and part the Red Sea -- or the blue sea, as it turned out. But I was wrong of course. There was no miracle. There was only disappointment in watching the most liberal senator in the land give what amounted to a victory lap in front of the adoring masses.
I listened to the blah blah blah for as long as I could stomach it before going to bed. God had chosen not to answer my prayer for a non-Obama administration. I would find a way to adjust and live with it.
But sitting here today and reading the news, I've once again been reminded that God doesn't work on my timetable or on my whim. I'd prayed for a miracle specifically for my side to pull out an election that, quite frankly, we didn't deserve to win. See, Christians don't do anything anymore. When it comes time to elect someone president, for a couple of months or so we'll talk loud and pray hard and hope that God will make it work. Or, as many did this time around, we'll simply not follow Christ's teachings or the teachings of the Bible and vote with our pocketbook or our emotions.
No, the election was lost long before Tuesday night and long before Barack Obama ever thought about running for president. We can't expect things to go our way when we don't do the things God calls us to do except during an election cycle. We certainly can't expect them to go our way when the only time we want to fight for our beliefs and the things we hold dear is when we're watching the election returns.
But God nonetheless gave us a miracle. You see, I was praying specifically for a miracle and that His will would be done. My will was not having Obama and all he stands for as president. But the news that California -- yes, California! -- voted down gay marriage is a miracle! Lost in all the election night hoopla and fanfest going on was the fact that God shot down the ultimate threat to our families in its most hearty of strongholds.
Who on earth would have believed that gay marriage wouldn't pass in California? A state that's never in contention for any conservative? A state so full of liberals and wackos, and homesexual rights activists on every corner -- and yet its citizens, the same ones who voted yes for Obama who is openly in support of the gay agenda and who even mentioned them in the same breath as whites and blacks in his speech Tuesday night -- voted No to gay marriage.
Call me reaching if you want, but that's a miracle. And it's a start. I mentioned several months ago in this blog that I would give my vote to candidates who supported traditional family values. I will continue to do so. Seeing it struck down by the citizens of the most homosexual of states in the country on Tuesday gives me hope. And it lets me know that God still is in the miracle business and he's still in the business of answering prayer.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Dwelling In The House
"...surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." Psalm 23
We said good-bye to Grandmother yesterday.
It was really, by no means, a sad good-bye. The family is grieving, yes, as we all do during times of personal loss of a loved one. But Grandmother was 97 years old and had long been ready to go see Jesus and her long lost loved ones that had gone on before -- most of them several decades before. It was her time.
It was the first real touch of death of a loved one for Coby and Melody, and it was tough. I remember growing up -- I was probably about Melody's age actually -- when my great-grandfather died. I don't ever remember seeing him alive, but I will forever remember the thoughts I had when I saw him at the funeral home. It was surreal. But a few months later my grandfather passed away, and that really hit me hard, even at the tender age of nine or so.
Grandmother passed away peacefully last Wednesday night, in the nursing home where she'd lived the last few years. Up until about a month or so ago, you'd never have known she was three years shy of a clean 100. Actually, about 2 1/2. She was as strong and active as I'd ever seen from someone of that age, but the last couple of weeks her tired body just gave out. She was struggling the last couple of days of her life, and we were all dreading a long-drawn out, suffering type of passing, but when the end came, she simply relaxed and went on to heaven.
We fully believe Grandmother never knew she was gone. She was immediately taken up to heaven and greeted first by Jesus. That's what the Bible promises us, for people who are His children. And Grandmother was definitely that. She was as sweet as you could ever imagine, and she loved being who she was -- that is, a mother and grandmother.
Jeannie was very close to her, as were all her grandchildren. To others outside the family, she was Eugenia -- the country girl who was raised in a different time, a different era. As the pastor said at the funeral, life was different back then, and Eugenia came through that period and was now living in a world that, really, has changed so much it's hard to understand.
But to the family, particularly my wife and kids, she was simply Grandmother. All my blood grandparents passed away several years ago, but I was perhaps closest to my Mamaw, my dad's mother. When she passed, no matter that she was in her late 80s and had been stricken with Alzheimer's for years, which basically took the person we knew and loved for so long away from us, it hurt. There was the feeling of near-relief, but I knew that she was in a better place, a place she'd longed for for years.
Grandmother had become "Grandmother" to me as well. She treated me just like anyone else and was as good to me as gold. I will miss her personally, and not just because she cooked the greatest fish or hot-water cornbread or pot of turnip greens you'll ever taste. I'll miss her because she made sure I never wore a hat at the dinner table. I'll miss her because she always said what she thought, at any moment, and said it with conviction -- but never seemed to hurt anyone's feelings by doing it. I'll miss her because my wife loved her with every bit of her being, and now Jeannie's hurting and has to overcome the loss. I'll miss her because of who she was.
Grandmother is living forever, though. She will live in our hearts forever here on earth, but she will live forever in the House of the Lord. And somewhere up there, although it's been less than a week but seems like an eternity, she's already cooking deep-fried cornbread and turnip greens, and drinking a Pepsi.
Dwelling in the House.
We said good-bye to Grandmother yesterday.
It was really, by no means, a sad good-bye. The family is grieving, yes, as we all do during times of personal loss of a loved one. But Grandmother was 97 years old and had long been ready to go see Jesus and her long lost loved ones that had gone on before -- most of them several decades before. It was her time.
It was the first real touch of death of a loved one for Coby and Melody, and it was tough. I remember growing up -- I was probably about Melody's age actually -- when my great-grandfather died. I don't ever remember seeing him alive, but I will forever remember the thoughts I had when I saw him at the funeral home. It was surreal. But a few months later my grandfather passed away, and that really hit me hard, even at the tender age of nine or so.
Grandmother passed away peacefully last Wednesday night, in the nursing home where she'd lived the last few years. Up until about a month or so ago, you'd never have known she was three years shy of a clean 100. Actually, about 2 1/2. She was as strong and active as I'd ever seen from someone of that age, but the last couple of weeks her tired body just gave out. She was struggling the last couple of days of her life, and we were all dreading a long-drawn out, suffering type of passing, but when the end came, she simply relaxed and went on to heaven.
We fully believe Grandmother never knew she was gone. She was immediately taken up to heaven and greeted first by Jesus. That's what the Bible promises us, for people who are His children. And Grandmother was definitely that. She was as sweet as you could ever imagine, and she loved being who she was -- that is, a mother and grandmother.
Jeannie was very close to her, as were all her grandchildren. To others outside the family, she was Eugenia -- the country girl who was raised in a different time, a different era. As the pastor said at the funeral, life was different back then, and Eugenia came through that period and was now living in a world that, really, has changed so much it's hard to understand.
But to the family, particularly my wife and kids, she was simply Grandmother. All my blood grandparents passed away several years ago, but I was perhaps closest to my Mamaw, my dad's mother. When she passed, no matter that she was in her late 80s and had been stricken with Alzheimer's for years, which basically took the person we knew and loved for so long away from us, it hurt. There was the feeling of near-relief, but I knew that she was in a better place, a place she'd longed for for years.
Grandmother had become "Grandmother" to me as well. She treated me just like anyone else and was as good to me as gold. I will miss her personally, and not just because she cooked the greatest fish or hot-water cornbread or pot of turnip greens you'll ever taste. I'll miss her because she made sure I never wore a hat at the dinner table. I'll miss her because she always said what she thought, at any moment, and said it with conviction -- but never seemed to hurt anyone's feelings by doing it. I'll miss her because my wife loved her with every bit of her being, and now Jeannie's hurting and has to overcome the loss. I'll miss her because of who she was.
Grandmother is living forever, though. She will live in our hearts forever here on earth, but she will live forever in the House of the Lord. And somewhere up there, although it's been less than a week but seems like an eternity, she's already cooking deep-fried cornbread and turnip greens, and drinking a Pepsi.
Dwelling in the House.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Just How Big Is A Mustard Seed?
"Then the disciples came to Jesus privately and said, 'Why could we not cast it out?' He said to them, 'Because of your little faith. For truly I tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you." Matthew 17:19-20
I had one of those moments again this week, for the trillionth time in my 39-year-old-and-counting life.
Nope, not a senior moment. I'm still a few years away from those I hope.
This was a moment that happens all too often in my life. It's a struggle I have to deal with almost daily, actually.
Faith. It's my weakness. I have started to learn over the years that it's part of my makeup, my personality, the way God Himself created me I guess... to want things done a certain way. What I really mean by this is simply that I want to control things. I like life to cruise along on the open highway, with soft music coming into my ears and no roadblocks or highway patrol ahead. I don't like traffic lights because they slow me down from where I'm supposed to be going. I don't like drivers who go below the speed limit because, again, I can't get to where I'm supposed to be going fast enough. That's just the kind of person I am.
That's why I was having a miserable start to the past week. It all started, really, with working Saturday night down in Seguin at an ETBU football game, then driving (or riding, actually) throughout the night and finally putting my head on my soft pillow at home around 5:30 a.m. or so on Sunday morning. That knocked out church, as it turned out, altogether, and I hadn't regained enough strength sufficiently enough to get up off the couch and go that night either.
So lack of sleep might have had something to do with my foul mood. It didn't help matters that Jeannie came home from church with the car smoking, literally, well, almost literally. The temperature gauge was all the way to the H and upon further inspection, there was a pool of water/coolant on the garage floor. Nothing was left in the radiator or coolant reservoir, a sure sign that something was amiss with the Camry.
Now, I know how to do one thing with a car -- put gas in it. That's it. So I began searching for a mechanic on Monday, which is like searching for a dentist to do root canal without anesthetic. You know it has to be done, but by gosh, you know it's gonna hurt something fierce.
That's when I had my moment. We were riding on empty in the bank account again, as always it seems, between paydays. Jeannie and I get fired up about two days before payday every couple of weeks because we know our purgatory is about to end if only briefly. Then a couple of days later reality sets in and we trudge on through to the next date circled on the calendar.
But with all things considered this weekend, I'd had enough. Hundreds of dollars, if not thousands, were going to be needed to fix the vehicle. We didn't have ten in the bank account. I was staying home from work for the day because Abby was enjoying another runny nose and cough. I had all kinds of work to do on Mondays, which is my busiest day in the office with paperwork and catching up from the weekend. And on, and on, and on --
Things weren't going according to my plan. And I don't like that. In no uncertain terms I mentioned this to God, quite loudly, in the comfort of my own home. Why can't we catch a break? Why can't we ever get ahead? Why does this have to happen to me, Lord? Why don't you ever let me in on what you've got going up there?...
I got no answer, again. I am battling with that personally now, and I ask for all my friends and family who might read this blog occasionally to remember me in your prayers. I know God is there. I know He listens to me. I just wish every now and then I could get something audible in return, something I can hold on to and know that everything is going to be alright.
But wait a minute. That's just not how God operates. You see, and I'm trying to learn this and hold on to it, but my own flesh -- my personality -- is screaming for something else, but God doesn't want us to know what He's doing because then it takes faith out of the occasion. God gives us every little blessing He has to offer, more than we will ever know, see or imagine. I am guilty of this as much as anyone, of taking God for granted and just expecting him to give me and my family our health, our home, any sort of measly little wealth we might have now or forever.
But he doesn't come right out and tell us this. Why? Because he wants us to trust him. He wants us to have faith in Him. It doesn't take much -- just enough to grow mustard apparently. In case you're wondering about the title, a mustard seed is pretty small. But Jesus went on to say that faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains.
A mountain got moved for me this week. Yesterday, I got a call from the mechanic and that problem I was expecting to have with the only vehicle we own that can transport my whole family at once -- water pump, oil leak, blown engine, for all I knew -- was just a leaking gasket and something called a freeze plug. Total cost: $169.17. And it just so happens that my lovely, popular wife was bringing home some extra cash this week from her gig at ETBU, so when you ring it all up, we've got a few hundred extra dollars to spare as of this moment.
I didn't see it coming Monday. Or even Tuesday, for that matter. But God never had any doubt. He's the Master Mechanic. And once again I feel as small as a mustard seed for knowing, but not believing.
Thank you Lord, for coming through again. That keeps the coming through ratio at 100 percent for life.
I had one of those moments again this week, for the trillionth time in my 39-year-old-and-counting life.
Nope, not a senior moment. I'm still a few years away from those I hope.
This was a moment that happens all too often in my life. It's a struggle I have to deal with almost daily, actually.
Faith. It's my weakness. I have started to learn over the years that it's part of my makeup, my personality, the way God Himself created me I guess... to want things done a certain way. What I really mean by this is simply that I want to control things. I like life to cruise along on the open highway, with soft music coming into my ears and no roadblocks or highway patrol ahead. I don't like traffic lights because they slow me down from where I'm supposed to be going. I don't like drivers who go below the speed limit because, again, I can't get to where I'm supposed to be going fast enough. That's just the kind of person I am.
That's why I was having a miserable start to the past week. It all started, really, with working Saturday night down in Seguin at an ETBU football game, then driving (or riding, actually) throughout the night and finally putting my head on my soft pillow at home around 5:30 a.m. or so on Sunday morning. That knocked out church, as it turned out, altogether, and I hadn't regained enough strength sufficiently enough to get up off the couch and go that night either.
So lack of sleep might have had something to do with my foul mood. It didn't help matters that Jeannie came home from church with the car smoking, literally, well, almost literally. The temperature gauge was all the way to the H and upon further inspection, there was a pool of water/coolant on the garage floor. Nothing was left in the radiator or coolant reservoir, a sure sign that something was amiss with the Camry.
Now, I know how to do one thing with a car -- put gas in it. That's it. So I began searching for a mechanic on Monday, which is like searching for a dentist to do root canal without anesthetic. You know it has to be done, but by gosh, you know it's gonna hurt something fierce.
That's when I had my moment. We were riding on empty in the bank account again, as always it seems, between paydays. Jeannie and I get fired up about two days before payday every couple of weeks because we know our purgatory is about to end if only briefly. Then a couple of days later reality sets in and we trudge on through to the next date circled on the calendar.
But with all things considered this weekend, I'd had enough. Hundreds of dollars, if not thousands, were going to be needed to fix the vehicle. We didn't have ten in the bank account. I was staying home from work for the day because Abby was enjoying another runny nose and cough. I had all kinds of work to do on Mondays, which is my busiest day in the office with paperwork and catching up from the weekend. And on, and on, and on --
Things weren't going according to my plan. And I don't like that. In no uncertain terms I mentioned this to God, quite loudly, in the comfort of my own home. Why can't we catch a break? Why can't we ever get ahead? Why does this have to happen to me, Lord? Why don't you ever let me in on what you've got going up there?...
I got no answer, again. I am battling with that personally now, and I ask for all my friends and family who might read this blog occasionally to remember me in your prayers. I know God is there. I know He listens to me. I just wish every now and then I could get something audible in return, something I can hold on to and know that everything is going to be alright.
But wait a minute. That's just not how God operates. You see, and I'm trying to learn this and hold on to it, but my own flesh -- my personality -- is screaming for something else, but God doesn't want us to know what He's doing because then it takes faith out of the occasion. God gives us every little blessing He has to offer, more than we will ever know, see or imagine. I am guilty of this as much as anyone, of taking God for granted and just expecting him to give me and my family our health, our home, any sort of measly little wealth we might have now or forever.
But he doesn't come right out and tell us this. Why? Because he wants us to trust him. He wants us to have faith in Him. It doesn't take much -- just enough to grow mustard apparently. In case you're wondering about the title, a mustard seed is pretty small. But Jesus went on to say that faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains.
A mountain got moved for me this week. Yesterday, I got a call from the mechanic and that problem I was expecting to have with the only vehicle we own that can transport my whole family at once -- water pump, oil leak, blown engine, for all I knew -- was just a leaking gasket and something called a freeze plug. Total cost: $169.17. And it just so happens that my lovely, popular wife was bringing home some extra cash this week from her gig at ETBU, so when you ring it all up, we've got a few hundred extra dollars to spare as of this moment.
I didn't see it coming Monday. Or even Tuesday, for that matter. But God never had any doubt. He's the Master Mechanic. And once again I feel as small as a mustard seed for knowing, but not believing.
Thank you Lord, for coming through again. That keeps the coming through ratio at 100 percent for life.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Eye Of The Storm
"And He arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea: 'Peace, be still.' And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm." Mark 4:39
It's been a long three days here in the 'Ville.
All over the area, actually. For the first time I can remember, we were directly affected by a hurricane. Ike roared ashore down at Galveston early Saturday morning and has just about redesigned the Texas coastline. The storm was so strong and so big that it was still packing quite a punch when it got up here to our neck of the woods Saturday afternoon.
I've seen some pretty powerful thunderstorms in my day here. That's kind of what our weather is known for in East Texas -- heat, humidity and some of the biggest, most violent thunderstorms you can imagine. It's like up in Minnesota where Ronnie and Erin are -- you expect the snow to start falling sometime in late October or early November, and it won't stop falling until April maybe. Here, it's those big thunderboomers. It's just part of living here and you get used to it.
I don't know how anyone can get used to this kind of stuff, though. Ike was a monster. The television coverage and pictures, I'm sure, don't do it justice. I was thinking Friday night as I sat watching TV, when the storm was blowing in, that there was a pretty good chance that Galveston was going to be wiped off the map. As it turns out, at least for a few days and weeks, that might not be so far from the truth. The bad thing is that most of the coastline down there is in the same predicament.
But up here in the 'Ville, we got a lot of wind and rain. Mostly wind. There are friends and family still struggling to live in the dark, three days after the wind stopped. The power crews are doing an admirable job considering the extent of the damage, but the fact remains that people are having to live without electricity.
Our lights went out Saturday afternoon around 4 or so, a good three hours after the first gentle breeze began to blow from Ike. An hour or so later, the trees in the neighborhood were bending over. It was quite a show from Mother Nature.
All things considered, we got off pretty easy. Jeannie had supper going in the oven -- chicken and rice, yummy -- when the power disappeared. Problem with that was that we, of course, have an electric stove, and an even bigger problem was that the meal still had a good 90 minutes or so to cook. I'm not real big on munching on undercooked chicken, so we were left with trying to find a suitable heat source, or have to deal with watching the meal go to waste.
Fortunately, Monty had thought way ahead as usual and had a generator running out at their place. It was running the lights, TV and other essentials, one of which was the stove and oven. So we packed everything up in the height of the storm, said a quick prayer and headed out into the gale.
We came home later that night and the house was dark. Abby had gone to sleep at Nona's, and she never knew we came home anyway, so she was sound asleep in her bed. We opened the windows and it wasn't bad at all thanks to the still strong breeze outside. We had a battery-operated fan we take on baseball road trips, and that was placed in mine and Jeannie's bedroom window. Coby and Melody slept in Coby's room, where the window was facing the breeze and made it quite cool there. So again, all things considered, Saturday night was somewhat restful despite the conditions.
Power came back on early Sunday morning, and went back off for a few hours late Sunday afternoon. Stu and Lauren came over seeking shelter, and we went out to eat in the 'View. Power was restored about nine or so that night, and it's been on ever since.
There are still folks around here living in darkness, but fortunately the cold front that whisked Ike out of here quickly Saturday night brought with it some December-like temperatures. So again, all things considered, it's not as bad comfort-wise as it could be if this had happened, say, in the middle of a traditional East Texas August.
The last few days are a reminder that God's power is far-reaching and, well, powerful. Hurricane Ike was a devestating part of nature that will happen again, sadly. The far-reaching effects of such an effect are felt everywhere, and it touched us here in the 'Ville this weekend -- several hours away from landfall. Ask New Orleans and the Mississippi gulf coast about Katrina. Hurricanes are deadly and very, very inconvenient.
But in the midst of the storm, God provided us some comfort. We had family with a generator, so we were able to eat a nice warm meal and spend Saturday night watching TV while the storm howled outside. Instead of oppressive heat in an un-air-conditioned home, we were able to sleep peacefully with a gentle breeze through the windows.
In the end, always, God takes care of us. In the midst of destruction and in the middle of the storm, he's the Eye watching over us. He is in control of the storm. That's the most comforting thing of all.
It's been a long three days here in the 'Ville.
All over the area, actually. For the first time I can remember, we were directly affected by a hurricane. Ike roared ashore down at Galveston early Saturday morning and has just about redesigned the Texas coastline. The storm was so strong and so big that it was still packing quite a punch when it got up here to our neck of the woods Saturday afternoon.
I've seen some pretty powerful thunderstorms in my day here. That's kind of what our weather is known for in East Texas -- heat, humidity and some of the biggest, most violent thunderstorms you can imagine. It's like up in Minnesota where Ronnie and Erin are -- you expect the snow to start falling sometime in late October or early November, and it won't stop falling until April maybe. Here, it's those big thunderboomers. It's just part of living here and you get used to it.
I don't know how anyone can get used to this kind of stuff, though. Ike was a monster. The television coverage and pictures, I'm sure, don't do it justice. I was thinking Friday night as I sat watching TV, when the storm was blowing in, that there was a pretty good chance that Galveston was going to be wiped off the map. As it turns out, at least for a few days and weeks, that might not be so far from the truth. The bad thing is that most of the coastline down there is in the same predicament.
But up here in the 'Ville, we got a lot of wind and rain. Mostly wind. There are friends and family still struggling to live in the dark, three days after the wind stopped. The power crews are doing an admirable job considering the extent of the damage, but the fact remains that people are having to live without electricity.
Our lights went out Saturday afternoon around 4 or so, a good three hours after the first gentle breeze began to blow from Ike. An hour or so later, the trees in the neighborhood were bending over. It was quite a show from Mother Nature.
All things considered, we got off pretty easy. Jeannie had supper going in the oven -- chicken and rice, yummy -- when the power disappeared. Problem with that was that we, of course, have an electric stove, and an even bigger problem was that the meal still had a good 90 minutes or so to cook. I'm not real big on munching on undercooked chicken, so we were left with trying to find a suitable heat source, or have to deal with watching the meal go to waste.
Fortunately, Monty had thought way ahead as usual and had a generator running out at their place. It was running the lights, TV and other essentials, one of which was the stove and oven. So we packed everything up in the height of the storm, said a quick prayer and headed out into the gale.
We came home later that night and the house was dark. Abby had gone to sleep at Nona's, and she never knew we came home anyway, so she was sound asleep in her bed. We opened the windows and it wasn't bad at all thanks to the still strong breeze outside. We had a battery-operated fan we take on baseball road trips, and that was placed in mine and Jeannie's bedroom window. Coby and Melody slept in Coby's room, where the window was facing the breeze and made it quite cool there. So again, all things considered, Saturday night was somewhat restful despite the conditions.
Power came back on early Sunday morning, and went back off for a few hours late Sunday afternoon. Stu and Lauren came over seeking shelter, and we went out to eat in the 'View. Power was restored about nine or so that night, and it's been on ever since.
There are still folks around here living in darkness, but fortunately the cold front that whisked Ike out of here quickly Saturday night brought with it some December-like temperatures. So again, all things considered, it's not as bad comfort-wise as it could be if this had happened, say, in the middle of a traditional East Texas August.
The last few days are a reminder that God's power is far-reaching and, well, powerful. Hurricane Ike was a devestating part of nature that will happen again, sadly. The far-reaching effects of such an effect are felt everywhere, and it touched us here in the 'Ville this weekend -- several hours away from landfall. Ask New Orleans and the Mississippi gulf coast about Katrina. Hurricanes are deadly and very, very inconvenient.
But in the midst of the storm, God provided us some comfort. We had family with a generator, so we were able to eat a nice warm meal and spend Saturday night watching TV while the storm howled outside. Instead of oppressive heat in an un-air-conditioned home, we were able to sleep peacefully with a gentle breeze through the windows.
In the end, always, God takes care of us. In the midst of destruction and in the middle of the storm, he's the Eye watching over us. He is in control of the storm. That's the most comforting thing of all.
Friday, September 12, 2008
A Day Remembered
I posted this on a blog I do for work -- thought it was appropriate to copy and pasted here.
Pearl Harbor Day in December is a day that will always "live in infamy" for Americans. But there are those out there who can't remember the exact day the Japanese invaded.
Dec. 7, 1941 -- for anyone who's wondering.
But we just passed another date on the calendar that also is infamous, and I'd daresay that every American remembers it.
Our memories fade with time for most things. For example, I can't tell you what I got on my fifth birthday, but I'm pretty sure at the time I was pretty excited about it.
But memories such as Sept. 11, 2001 never fade. I can remember exactly what I did that morning, where I was at when the news was breaking, what I was doing throughout the entire day.
Sept. 11, 2001 affected the ETBU campus as it did everywhere they day. The world was forever changed because of it. I remember running late, as was normally the case in those days with a four-year-old and two-year-old in the house. But if I hadn't been running late, I would have missed the news on the radio.
I, like most sports fans, am hooked on talk radio. I don't hardly ever agree with what's been said on sports talk shows, but I listen nonetheless. I was listening to a local sports talk show that morning, and when I turned on the radio I knew something was happening -- because the host wasn't talking.
He was ooing and aaahing, and later I guessed he was watching a TV set. It was about this time that the first plane was crashing into the World Trade Center North Tower (yes, I can remember the North was the first tower hit because I thought it incredulous that the South Tower could be hit second and yet be the first to collapse, later. I have never forgotten that.)
It was then that I knew something bad was happening. I got to the office and immediately went down to the Communications Services department. Back then, I was still officially in the Athletic Department on campus, but would be shifted over to Public Relations, which is now an arm of the Enrollment and Marketing division here at ETBU.
But Communications Services back then was, effectively, the PR department. For those who don't know, the Communications Services/PR offices used to be in what is now Carlile-Howell Fieldhouse, but as part of the renovation of that building for football, was housed in the new Herrington Service Center with our Physical Facilities department. The office is now used by ETBU's IT department, and we are now on the third floor of Marshall Hall.
But back to the memories. I went down to Communications Services because I knew my good friend and then-Director of Communications Services, Mark Dimmitt, would know what was going on. Mark is a former member of the Air Force and had a radio and TV on in his office, as all good PR and news folks do. I watched a little of the carnage there and then stopped by Dean Healthplex on my way to my old office -- in the new football field house.
There was a huge crowd standing around the TV in the Healthplex, and I realized it was one of those days where everyone was going to be glued to a TV set somewhere. I went down to my office and tried to follow the news on the Internet, but every major news organization's website was down. The usage volume apparently was just too high.
There were frantic phone calls, messages, you name it. The world was turning upside down. Coach Ralph Harris met with the Tiger football team early that afternoon and there was a team discussion about what was taking place. There were a couple of team members back then who actually had relatives up in New York for various reasons, and there was some concern about their safety.
Eventually, of course, one of the team members that year -- a freshman middle linebacker named Greg Washington -- would put ETBU on the national stage a couple of years later by being called to active duty in the middle of the Tigers' playoff run in 2003.
Most of our athletic events that week would be postponed or cancelled, as I remember, but there was the discussion about the football game scheduled for the following Saturday, Sept. 15. Most colleges or conferences immediately cancelled games. Ours left it up to the individual schools. We were scheduled to play Mississippi College in the conference opener that week, and our officials got with their officials and courageously made the decision to play.
I say courageous because we knew we were going to be the only game in town that weekend, at least within a 600-mile radius or so of Marshall. There were no high school games, nothing -- but ETBU was going to play Mississippi College. We didn't know what to expect in terms of backlash, but our university felt it was important for us to play and try to do what the President George W. Bush was urging -- return to some sense of normalcy.
We decided to play nothing but patriotic music in pregame warmups. We handed out flags to everyone who attended. And it was a good afternoon of football -- American-style. The Tigers lost in overtime, but everyone who attended that game that day felt like a winner.
I went home that Tuesday, Sept. 11, night and wept on the way home. I felt like our country was falling apart and at that time we didn't quite know what we had to do. I wanted to get home and take care of my wife and two small kids, because that was the one part of the world I could understand.
We ate dinner in silence that night, turning the TV off. I wanted to keep the kids away from news as much as possible. But as I would find out during the course of the meal, my son Coby had already seen enough.
I don't know if it was the look on my face, or what, but Coby wanted to say the blessing -- at four years old. He said his typical "thank you for this food, dear God," prayer but then he closed it by saying this:
"And please take care of the people in the buildings. Amen."
The tears welled up again. And that was the spirit that I think all Americans were trying to muster that day. We were wanting to take care of each other, and saddened when the stories came out that some of us didn't make it. We were attacked collectively -- not just in New York, or Washington, or Pennsylvania -- but right here in Texas, Marshall, Texas. Right here at East Texas Baptist University.
We honor those people whose lives were snuffed out on Sept. 11. May we continue to honor them by never forgetting that terrible day, no matter where we are or what we are doing.
Pearl Harbor Day in December is a day that will always "live in infamy" for Americans. But there are those out there who can't remember the exact day the Japanese invaded.
Dec. 7, 1941 -- for anyone who's wondering.
But we just passed another date on the calendar that also is infamous, and I'd daresay that every American remembers it.
Our memories fade with time for most things. For example, I can't tell you what I got on my fifth birthday, but I'm pretty sure at the time I was pretty excited about it.
But memories such as Sept. 11, 2001 never fade. I can remember exactly what I did that morning, where I was at when the news was breaking, what I was doing throughout the entire day.
Sept. 11, 2001 affected the ETBU campus as it did everywhere they day. The world was forever changed because of it. I remember running late, as was normally the case in those days with a four-year-old and two-year-old in the house. But if I hadn't been running late, I would have missed the news on the radio.
I, like most sports fans, am hooked on talk radio. I don't hardly ever agree with what's been said on sports talk shows, but I listen nonetheless. I was listening to a local sports talk show that morning, and when I turned on the radio I knew something was happening -- because the host wasn't talking.
He was ooing and aaahing, and later I guessed he was watching a TV set. It was about this time that the first plane was crashing into the World Trade Center North Tower (yes, I can remember the North was the first tower hit because I thought it incredulous that the South Tower could be hit second and yet be the first to collapse, later. I have never forgotten that.)
It was then that I knew something bad was happening. I got to the office and immediately went down to the Communications Services department. Back then, I was still officially in the Athletic Department on campus, but would be shifted over to Public Relations, which is now an arm of the Enrollment and Marketing division here at ETBU.
But Communications Services back then was, effectively, the PR department. For those who don't know, the Communications Services/PR offices used to be in what is now Carlile-Howell Fieldhouse, but as part of the renovation of that building for football, was housed in the new Herrington Service Center with our Physical Facilities department. The office is now used by ETBU's IT department, and we are now on the third floor of Marshall Hall.
But back to the memories. I went down to Communications Services because I knew my good friend and then-Director of Communications Services, Mark Dimmitt, would know what was going on. Mark is a former member of the Air Force and had a radio and TV on in his office, as all good PR and news folks do. I watched a little of the carnage there and then stopped by Dean Healthplex on my way to my old office -- in the new football field house.
There was a huge crowd standing around the TV in the Healthplex, and I realized it was one of those days where everyone was going to be glued to a TV set somewhere. I went down to my office and tried to follow the news on the Internet, but every major news organization's website was down. The usage volume apparently was just too high.
There were frantic phone calls, messages, you name it. The world was turning upside down. Coach Ralph Harris met with the Tiger football team early that afternoon and there was a team discussion about what was taking place. There were a couple of team members back then who actually had relatives up in New York for various reasons, and there was some concern about their safety.
Eventually, of course, one of the team members that year -- a freshman middle linebacker named Greg Washington -- would put ETBU on the national stage a couple of years later by being called to active duty in the middle of the Tigers' playoff run in 2003.
Most of our athletic events that week would be postponed or cancelled, as I remember, but there was the discussion about the football game scheduled for the following Saturday, Sept. 15. Most colleges or conferences immediately cancelled games. Ours left it up to the individual schools. We were scheduled to play Mississippi College in the conference opener that week, and our officials got with their officials and courageously made the decision to play.
I say courageous because we knew we were going to be the only game in town that weekend, at least within a 600-mile radius or so of Marshall. There were no high school games, nothing -- but ETBU was going to play Mississippi College. We didn't know what to expect in terms of backlash, but our university felt it was important for us to play and try to do what the President George W. Bush was urging -- return to some sense of normalcy.
We decided to play nothing but patriotic music in pregame warmups. We handed out flags to everyone who attended. And it was a good afternoon of football -- American-style. The Tigers lost in overtime, but everyone who attended that game that day felt like a winner.
I went home that Tuesday, Sept. 11, night and wept on the way home. I felt like our country was falling apart and at that time we didn't quite know what we had to do. I wanted to get home and take care of my wife and two small kids, because that was the one part of the world I could understand.
We ate dinner in silence that night, turning the TV off. I wanted to keep the kids away from news as much as possible. But as I would find out during the course of the meal, my son Coby had already seen enough.
I don't know if it was the look on my face, or what, but Coby wanted to say the blessing -- at four years old. He said his typical "thank you for this food, dear God," prayer but then he closed it by saying this:
"And please take care of the people in the buildings. Amen."
The tears welled up again. And that was the spirit that I think all Americans were trying to muster that day. We were wanting to take care of each other, and saddened when the stories came out that some of us didn't make it. We were attacked collectively -- not just in New York, or Washington, or Pennsylvania -- but right here in Texas, Marshall, Texas. Right here at East Texas Baptist University.
We honor those people whose lives were snuffed out on Sept. 11. May we continue to honor them by never forgetting that terrible day, no matter where we are or what we are doing.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Soaring Above The Clouds
"But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint." Isaiah 40:31
Whew! It's been a busy couple of weeks in and around the 'Ville. It's put a serious chink in my blogging time, too.
But I'm catching my breath, slowly and surely, as is the family. I had a great weekend. It always is a great weekend when the NFL kicks back up. It's even better when the Cowboys win on opening day. Can't get much better than that.
But this one was more special because I got to spend some time with Ronnie and Erin up in Minnesota. We were playing a football game up there against St. John's, which is about 90 minutes or so from Ronnie and Erin's place in Prior Lake, outside Minneapolis. I spent a couple of nights with them and wished I could have had more. We miss you guys.
The thing about the trip was, of course, the plane. I will never ever be a comfortable air traveler because I just don't do it much. The toughest thing for me personally is going through security. Glad those guys are there, because if they weren't I just wouldn't get on a plane. That's the kind of world we live in. Security checkpoints at airport are a necessity, and like I said, I'm glad they are there.
That doesn't make me comfortable going through them, though.
But once you're on the plane, well, it's too late. Just sit back and enjoy. No use getting all uptight. Enjoy the exerience.
And I did. There's something beautiful and serene about being up there at 35,000 feet or so, soaring miles above the clouds. In a very strange way, it's as peaceful a thing as you could ever experience anywhere on solid ground.
God is up there, somewhere. It is up there in an airplane where you can truly feel something different. There's all kinds of hustle and bustle down here on earth, in our everyday lives. But up there, well, we are soaring around like eagles.
The view is always spectacular, whether it's a clear day or a thunderstorm. I've flown through those too. But to see God's sprawling creation, the world he has given us, from that vantage point -- His vantage point, I'd like to think -- well, it's just a neat thing.
We lost the game, but we got everything else out of the trip that we needed. The game was close, so we know we can compete against anybody we play. That creates optimism. There were no glitches in the airport at any time, and that's saying something when a football travel group of about 65 or so can make it through with no problems.
But for me, the most peaceful moments are up there in the air. And with some things going on right now, it was definitely what I needed. Thank you, God, for the peace.
Whew! It's been a busy couple of weeks in and around the 'Ville. It's put a serious chink in my blogging time, too.
But I'm catching my breath, slowly and surely, as is the family. I had a great weekend. It always is a great weekend when the NFL kicks back up. It's even better when the Cowboys win on opening day. Can't get much better than that.
But this one was more special because I got to spend some time with Ronnie and Erin up in Minnesota. We were playing a football game up there against St. John's, which is about 90 minutes or so from Ronnie and Erin's place in Prior Lake, outside Minneapolis. I spent a couple of nights with them and wished I could have had more. We miss you guys.
The thing about the trip was, of course, the plane. I will never ever be a comfortable air traveler because I just don't do it much. The toughest thing for me personally is going through security. Glad those guys are there, because if they weren't I just wouldn't get on a plane. That's the kind of world we live in. Security checkpoints at airport are a necessity, and like I said, I'm glad they are there.
That doesn't make me comfortable going through them, though.
But once you're on the plane, well, it's too late. Just sit back and enjoy. No use getting all uptight. Enjoy the exerience.
And I did. There's something beautiful and serene about being up there at 35,000 feet or so, soaring miles above the clouds. In a very strange way, it's as peaceful a thing as you could ever experience anywhere on solid ground.
God is up there, somewhere. It is up there in an airplane where you can truly feel something different. There's all kinds of hustle and bustle down here on earth, in our everyday lives. But up there, well, we are soaring around like eagles.
The view is always spectacular, whether it's a clear day or a thunderstorm. I've flown through those too. But to see God's sprawling creation, the world he has given us, from that vantage point -- His vantage point, I'd like to think -- well, it's just a neat thing.
We lost the game, but we got everything else out of the trip that we needed. The game was close, so we know we can compete against anybody we play. That creates optimism. There were no glitches in the airport at any time, and that's saying something when a football travel group of about 65 or so can make it through with no problems.
But for me, the most peaceful moments are up there in the air. And with some things going on right now, it was definitely what I needed. Thank you, God, for the peace.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
On To More Positive Things
My apologies out there to anyone scared off the blog by the previous post and previous photo.So in an effort to make up for any hard feelings, I thought I'd post something a little more positive today (see photo at right).
Yes, it's the photo of our next Vice President. Mrs. Vice President, actually.
You want to know how popular Mrs. Palin is right now? My nine-year old daughter sat down last night and watched intently as Sarah Palin began her speech at the RNC. Melody is at an age where she at least knows what's going on on television, anyway, and let's face it, having Palin on the Republican ticket is history.
It got way past Melody's bedtime, so we had to put our foot down and send her off to her room. But she requested that we set the DVR to record the rest of the speech and -- guaranteed -- she'll watch it some time in the next couple of days.
I never ever want this to be a political blog, but it is that time of the, well, year. And more than any other election cycle, perhaps, this one is all about family and family values. To be quite honest, I don't know enough about John McCain to know whether he's a Christian or not. Most politicians these days, sad to say, don't want to broadcast such information because it's not politically correct.
But I do know he's pro-life, and he's pro-family. That's all I need to know to get on board. The fact he's been one of the most courageous men to ever wear the uniform makes him that much more attractive.
And his pick for VP is absolute genius. Sarah is just like us -- a big family with all kinds of daily problems vying for our attention. She's from Alaska, which Jeannie commented the other night is hard to remember as an actual state. Her husband is somewhat athletic and works hard, apparently, as a union worker and fisherman. They have five beautiful children of varying ages, and yes, when you have kids, you have problems of all kinds.
And she's pro-life and pro-family, which makes her a double plus. She's a breath of fresh air in a political atmosphere that, most of the time, smells like rotten garbage.
So if my daughter is interested enough to watch, and learn something, and maybe one day draw inspiration from -- I'm all about Sarah Palin. McCain-Palin. Whatever.
That's pretty positive stuff.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Lord Of The Idiots II
"Gustav is proof there is a God in Heaven." Michael MooreIs there anyone out there -- ANYONE -- surprised that these words would come out of this idiot's mouth?
Talk about stupid human tricks... living proof as to why you SHOULD vote Republican.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Home Is Where You Are
The first day of school was Monday in the 'Ville. And as first days of school go, it was rather uneventful around the house.
The crankiest people in the house were probably Abby and Daddy. Abby was battling a cold, and I was battling the fact it was Monday. But the actual school kids -- that being Coby and Melody -- were actually getting ready for school quietly and with little argument or disappointment.
Later at work, a thought crossed my mind that I just have to mention here. It was one year ago, on the first day of school, that Coby and Melody first started attending school in the 'Ville. We were in the midst of our nightmare move that included the absolute nuclear waste mess that was our previous home's survey. It's a long story, and those of you close to us know pretty much what happened. If you don't know, trust me when I say -- don't ever buy a home without getting a survey done.
Bottom line was, we were in the midst of selling out old home and moving to the 'Ville, with one of the main reasons being the opportunity to get our children in what we think is one of the best school districts in the state. We signed a contract on our house in the 'Ville, when we hit the snag with our old home in the 'Shall. On faith we decided to go ahead and let our buyers move in and effectively rent from us while the mess was being settled.
The bad thing with that plan was that it left us with no place to live right before school was about to start. Since we had a signed contract on a home in our hands, we were able to get our kids enrolled in the 'Ville. But that didn't stop the fact we had absolutely, literally, nowhere to hang out hat as a family.
Aunt Donnis and Tony opened up their home for a couple of weeks, but eventually that had to end. They were in the process of getting their own home ready to sell, and that's not easy with one family living in it, much less two.
We were down to very few options, when with all my heart I believe God stepped in. At a very low point in my day at work one day about a year ago, I got a call from Stu, my good friend from church. He offered and pretty much told me it was time for my family -- all three kids and the wife included -- to move in with he and Lauren. I honestly tried to resist, but I didn't have much fight in me, I must admit. He was insistent, and, well, we needed a place to hang out.
We moved in with the Musicks in their new home in the 'Shall, and it turned out to be about a month-long sleepover. I am sure that, more than once, Stu and Lauren would lie awake at night wondering what the heck they'd gotten themselves into -- especially when Abigail might make her presence known at 4 or 5 in the morning! But they never muttered a word and made us feel as welcome as we could possibly feel as we were taking up half their home.
I say all this because my kids started their first day of school last year in the 'Ville with Jeannie having to drive them the 20 minutes or so to school, from Stu and Lauren's home. This went on for a month before we were able to close the deals we had hanging over us and eventually move into our own new home here. I can't express to you the despair I felt personally during this time, not knowing where my family would eventually end up permanently, and especially not knowing whether or not at some point I was going to have to yank my kids out of their brand new school and put them back in the same old thing we were trying to get away from in the first place for several reasons...there were some very dark days for me, some of which I can't even begin to express. Not even to my wife.
But God stepped in and provided us with our friends. And I will be eternally grateful to Stu and Lauren for their show of love during this time. We make jokes about it all the time -- the front half of their home is now referred to as the "Weaver Suite" -- but for a month, there was really no joke about it, it was a place we called home.
That was a year ago this week, and we've settled in nicely with our new surroundings. To commemorate the anniversary, I just wanted to express my gratitude and heartfelt thanks as much as I possibly can -- meaning I have to do it in writing because I don't speak such things well.
Thanks Stu and Lauren. Your kindness and friendship will never be forgotten. And if you guys ever need a roof over your head, well...Abby will gladly give you her corner of the room in the 'Ville!
The crankiest people in the house were probably Abby and Daddy. Abby was battling a cold, and I was battling the fact it was Monday. But the actual school kids -- that being Coby and Melody -- were actually getting ready for school quietly and with little argument or disappointment.
Later at work, a thought crossed my mind that I just have to mention here. It was one year ago, on the first day of school, that Coby and Melody first started attending school in the 'Ville. We were in the midst of our nightmare move that included the absolute nuclear waste mess that was our previous home's survey. It's a long story, and those of you close to us know pretty much what happened. If you don't know, trust me when I say -- don't ever buy a home without getting a survey done.
Bottom line was, we were in the midst of selling out old home and moving to the 'Ville, with one of the main reasons being the opportunity to get our children in what we think is one of the best school districts in the state. We signed a contract on our house in the 'Ville, when we hit the snag with our old home in the 'Shall. On faith we decided to go ahead and let our buyers move in and effectively rent from us while the mess was being settled.
The bad thing with that plan was that it left us with no place to live right before school was about to start. Since we had a signed contract on a home in our hands, we were able to get our kids enrolled in the 'Ville. But that didn't stop the fact we had absolutely, literally, nowhere to hang out hat as a family.
Aunt Donnis and Tony opened up their home for a couple of weeks, but eventually that had to end. They were in the process of getting their own home ready to sell, and that's not easy with one family living in it, much less two.
We were down to very few options, when with all my heart I believe God stepped in. At a very low point in my day at work one day about a year ago, I got a call from Stu, my good friend from church. He offered and pretty much told me it was time for my family -- all three kids and the wife included -- to move in with he and Lauren. I honestly tried to resist, but I didn't have much fight in me, I must admit. He was insistent, and, well, we needed a place to hang out.
We moved in with the Musicks in their new home in the 'Shall, and it turned out to be about a month-long sleepover. I am sure that, more than once, Stu and Lauren would lie awake at night wondering what the heck they'd gotten themselves into -- especially when Abigail might make her presence known at 4 or 5 in the morning! But they never muttered a word and made us feel as welcome as we could possibly feel as we were taking up half their home.
I say all this because my kids started their first day of school last year in the 'Ville with Jeannie having to drive them the 20 minutes or so to school, from Stu and Lauren's home. This went on for a month before we were able to close the deals we had hanging over us and eventually move into our own new home here. I can't express to you the despair I felt personally during this time, not knowing where my family would eventually end up permanently, and especially not knowing whether or not at some point I was going to have to yank my kids out of their brand new school and put them back in the same old thing we were trying to get away from in the first place for several reasons...there were some very dark days for me, some of which I can't even begin to express. Not even to my wife.
But God stepped in and provided us with our friends. And I will be eternally grateful to Stu and Lauren for their show of love during this time. We make jokes about it all the time -- the front half of their home is now referred to as the "Weaver Suite" -- but for a month, there was really no joke about it, it was a place we called home.
That was a year ago this week, and we've settled in nicely with our new surroundings. To commemorate the anniversary, I just wanted to express my gratitude and heartfelt thanks as much as I possibly can -- meaning I have to do it in writing because I don't speak such things well.
Thanks Stu and Lauren. Your kindness and friendship will never be forgotten. And if you guys ever need a roof over your head, well...Abby will gladly give you her corner of the room in the 'Ville!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Lord Of The Idiots
Thought I'd wow you with the title of this entry, seeing as its been close to a month since the last post.
But I'm still here, churning it out from the 'Ville. A lot has happened -- this is typically the most nightmarish month for me personally. Always has been. As a kid I hated -- ABSOLUTELY HATED -- the thought of going back to school. I hated the end of summer. Now, its the busiest for me at work. Four media guides to publish. Meeting new athletes and getting to know them sufficiently so I can answer questions if needed. A new school year with new challenges and deadlines.
Blah, blah, blah -- and no time for blogging.
So I'm making time this morning. I draw my inspiration this morning from the big news event of the week -- the almighty Democratic National Convention.
In celebration of the DNC, the Democrats' flagship station -- CNN -- had the almighty idiot Bill Maher on as a guest of Larry King Sunday night. Don't ask me how I happened to find the channel, because I never watch CNN usually. Just one of those dips in the wave of channel surfing I guess.
I also normally couldn't tell you what Maher says or believes because whenever I see him on TV, it takes about a half-second to get him off the channel. There are a lot of idiots out there in this world, Republican, Democrat, or somewhere in-between. The world is full of them.
But this guy has to be lord of the idots.
Again, I don't have a whole lot to say about his appearance on Larry King Sunday, but I saw enough to tell you this. The guy is delusional. If you want to know what Bill Maher stands for, go as far left as you possibly can, then shoot a missile even farther left and go out there where it lands. Then drive several hundred miles farther left and you'll find his little mud hut out there somewhere I guess.
The main thing that is hard to stomach on TV is that this guy never misses a chance to bash God. Bill Maher is an atheist apparently. He refers to God always with an "if" in front of it, as though there's a question.
But here's the thing, Bill. The great thing about God is that he still loves people like you. And me, for that matter. No matter what you say or do, no matter how much money you make bashing him over the airwaves, God still loves you. No matter how big of a coward you are, God still loves you.
That's because God is Lord of all -- and yes, Lord of the idiots like you.
It's good to be back... more this week, hopefully, on more pleasant subjects like the first day of school. Wow, never thought I'd say that.
But I'm still here, churning it out from the 'Ville. A lot has happened -- this is typically the most nightmarish month for me personally. Always has been. As a kid I hated -- ABSOLUTELY HATED -- the thought of going back to school. I hated the end of summer. Now, its the busiest for me at work. Four media guides to publish. Meeting new athletes and getting to know them sufficiently so I can answer questions if needed. A new school year with new challenges and deadlines.
Blah, blah, blah -- and no time for blogging.
So I'm making time this morning. I draw my inspiration this morning from the big news event of the week -- the almighty Democratic National Convention.
In celebration of the DNC, the Democrats' flagship station -- CNN -- had the almighty idiot Bill Maher on as a guest of Larry King Sunday night. Don't ask me how I happened to find the channel, because I never watch CNN usually. Just one of those dips in the wave of channel surfing I guess.
I also normally couldn't tell you what Maher says or believes because whenever I see him on TV, it takes about a half-second to get him off the channel. There are a lot of idiots out there in this world, Republican, Democrat, or somewhere in-between. The world is full of them.
But this guy has to be lord of the idots.
Again, I don't have a whole lot to say about his appearance on Larry King Sunday, but I saw enough to tell you this. The guy is delusional. If you want to know what Bill Maher stands for, go as far left as you possibly can, then shoot a missile even farther left and go out there where it lands. Then drive several hundred miles farther left and you'll find his little mud hut out there somewhere I guess.
The main thing that is hard to stomach on TV is that this guy never misses a chance to bash God. Bill Maher is an atheist apparently. He refers to God always with an "if" in front of it, as though there's a question.
But here's the thing, Bill. The great thing about God is that he still loves people like you. And me, for that matter. No matter what you say or do, no matter how much money you make bashing him over the airwaves, God still loves you. No matter how big of a coward you are, God still loves you.
That's because God is Lord of all -- and yes, Lord of the idiots like you.
It's good to be back... more this week, hopefully, on more pleasant subjects like the first day of school. Wow, never thought I'd say that.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Name Game
I made a "mistake" last night with my oldest daughter, Melody.
You see, of course, for eight years or so "Mel-Mel" was the only little girl in the house. She was the baby. Forget the fact she's just 18 months younger than the heir to the throne, Coby. She was the baby.
Then Abigail Grace was born, eight years after Melody. We were all joyous at her arrival, of course, including big brother and big sister, but that created a titanic tidal wave in the structure of the household. No longer was Mel the baby. She became the middle child.
For eight years I'd refer to Melody as my "baby girl." Actually, it was more like "babygirl," one whole big, all-inclusive reference. I'm sure all parents have little pet names for the kids, and that was mine for her. I'm happy to say she rather enjoyed it as well.
Anyway, at some point close to Abby's birth, Melody and I had a deep conversation about daddy's moniker for her. Melody was concerned that she no longer would be "babygirl," and quite honestly, she wasn't quite sure she wanted to be. After all, she was eight now, and Abby would definitely fall under the category of The Baby Girl when she arrived.
But I wanted to hold out. As I'd told her every day of her life, almost, Melody would forever be my babygirl. The day she graduates high school, she'll be babygirl. The day she gets married (gulp!) she'll be babygirl. And so on.
But then Melody was concerned: what would I call Abby? It was an explosive question. I finally settled her mind on something like Abbygirl. Things would move on from there.
Of course, I'm not that smart. So for 19 months I've referred to the both of them as "babygirl." This was the situation last night at home in the 'Ville. I made the mistake of calling Abby "babygirl" as I was put in the position of having to get her ready for bed. Jeannie was busy making some delicious, fat-filled alfredo for a late supper around 9 or so, and Abby was ready for both supper and bed at the same time. The Perfect Storm.
I tried various ways of calming her, including use of the term babygirl. This worked, except for the fact that Melody -- from her perch in the bathtub -- heard it. I was told in no uncertain terms -- reminded, actually -- that she was, in fact, my "babygirl." I responded with something to the effect that I have two babygirls, to which she responded, no, I have just one. And it's not Abby.
This went on for a few long minutes before I finally hit the mute button and went into ignore mode. Melody eventually lost interest and went back to singing in the tub. Coby, for his part, never stirred from the couch while watching the Rangers beat the Yankees for the second night in a row. Yessir.
Nicknames are one thing, but pet names for your kids, that's something totally different. Now I'm forever tied to this one little phrase for both my daughters, and it's going to become quite confusing apparently.
Abby is into the act as well. I'm now a cross between "daddy" and "day," which she says at least 300 times a day. Along with several other new words such as "hot" while pointing to the refrigerator.
And Mel-Mel? I'm just Daddy. And she's still -- and forever will be -- "Babygirl."
You see, of course, for eight years or so "Mel-Mel" was the only little girl in the house. She was the baby. Forget the fact she's just 18 months younger than the heir to the throne, Coby. She was the baby.
Then Abigail Grace was born, eight years after Melody. We were all joyous at her arrival, of course, including big brother and big sister, but that created a titanic tidal wave in the structure of the household. No longer was Mel the baby. She became the middle child.
For eight years I'd refer to Melody as my "baby girl." Actually, it was more like "babygirl," one whole big, all-inclusive reference. I'm sure all parents have little pet names for the kids, and that was mine for her. I'm happy to say she rather enjoyed it as well.
Anyway, at some point close to Abby's birth, Melody and I had a deep conversation about daddy's moniker for her. Melody was concerned that she no longer would be "babygirl," and quite honestly, she wasn't quite sure she wanted to be. After all, she was eight now, and Abby would definitely fall under the category of The Baby Girl when she arrived.
But I wanted to hold out. As I'd told her every day of her life, almost, Melody would forever be my babygirl. The day she graduates high school, she'll be babygirl. The day she gets married (gulp!) she'll be babygirl. And so on.
But then Melody was concerned: what would I call Abby? It was an explosive question. I finally settled her mind on something like Abbygirl. Things would move on from there.
Of course, I'm not that smart. So for 19 months I've referred to the both of them as "babygirl." This was the situation last night at home in the 'Ville. I made the mistake of calling Abby "babygirl" as I was put in the position of having to get her ready for bed. Jeannie was busy making some delicious, fat-filled alfredo for a late supper around 9 or so, and Abby was ready for both supper and bed at the same time. The Perfect Storm.
I tried various ways of calming her, including use of the term babygirl. This worked, except for the fact that Melody -- from her perch in the bathtub -- heard it. I was told in no uncertain terms -- reminded, actually -- that she was, in fact, my "babygirl." I responded with something to the effect that I have two babygirls, to which she responded, no, I have just one. And it's not Abby.
This went on for a few long minutes before I finally hit the mute button and went into ignore mode. Melody eventually lost interest and went back to singing in the tub. Coby, for his part, never stirred from the couch while watching the Rangers beat the Yankees for the second night in a row. Yessir.
Nicknames are one thing, but pet names for your kids, that's something totally different. Now I'm forever tied to this one little phrase for both my daughters, and it's going to become quite confusing apparently.
Abby is into the act as well. I'm now a cross between "daddy" and "day," which she says at least 300 times a day. Along with several other new words such as "hot" while pointing to the refrigerator.
And Mel-Mel? I'm just Daddy. And she's still -- and forever will be -- "Babygirl."
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Life In The Show (photos from World Series)
Coby talking to his buddy Mr. Baseball.
Bone getting ready at second base.
Abby stayed in the shade and found all kinds of things to occupy her time.
Perfect pitching form.
Monty never saw a base he didn't want to steal.
The brain trust and top scout.
No, this one wasn't long gone, unfortunately. But that's a nice pose.
Bone sizing up the pitcher.
Coby sizing up the catcher.
Abby sizing up the pappy.
Throw strikes, look mean and intimidate.
No idea what Bone's looking at, but he's thinking about something.
That's my boy.Monday, July 28, 2008
Back In The Saddle
Okay, okay, I know it's been a while since the last post. You can stop throwing things at me through the computer screen.
But a guy needs a full-time break every now and then, and let me tell ya', we've taken a full-blown two-week vacation from ourselves in the 'Ville. Now I'm back at work, sitting through another of those long marathon working days in the summer just so I can have Fridays off. And it's time to blog again.
We've been on vacation since July 10, when Jeannie and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary by driving down to Natchitoches for an overnight stay at a bed and breakfast and some time with some old friends. Had a nice dinner at The Landing, pretty classy joint if I must say so myself, and I was able to keep the whole trip a surprise until we hit the 'Port. Yes, I'm pretty proud of myself.
Came back on Friday the 11th and got ready for the really good stuff -- the USSSA World Series in Southaven, Miss. Loaded everybody up on Saturday -- including Miss Abby -- and enjoyed some nice family time in the trusty Camry for the seven-hour drive to Southaven, which is just a stone's throw south of Memphis.
That started a week-long odyssey of baseball that saw Coby's team play nine games in six days -- and ending with a sixth-place finish out of 44 teams. Not bad, but we were all disappointed nonetheless. We won our first four games at the tournament before stubbing our toe with an all-around bad day against the Spiders from Franklin, Tenn., and that put us in the loser's bracket. We won three straight elimination games to make the final eight before the Spiders bit us again and sent us home with a 7-5 loss.
We came home that Saturday, deciding against spending another night in a hotel. We left Mississippi about four o'clock or so and headed home. Made a stop in Benton, Ark., just outside Little Rock, for dinner at one of my favorite places to eat on the road in Arkansas, Brown's Country Store. I've eaten there a lot on school trips and I've never had a bad meal. There's enough trans fat and cholesterol in the place to sink the Titanic, of course, but when you're on vacation you take chances.
Made it to worship on Sunday the 20th, a day we'd originally hoped to be playing for a national championship. But the Lord had other plans, and we got up with swollen eyes and tired bodies and went to church. But as always it was well worth it -- and refreshing. I'd missed the previous two Sundays and needed the toe-stepping pick-me-up.
Then came the extra week of vacation I take to decompress from the week of baseball, sweltering heat, and innumerable little human beings. Monday, I got to pay some much-needed attention to the mistress (see previous post on Yard Work), something the neighbors had to appreciate more than anything. But after that I spent much of the day catching up on video games and generally nothing nothing remotely productive.
I'd decided to take the family camping that second week, so we left for Martin Creek Lake Tuesday for a two-day camping trip. Word of advice -- it's not a good idea to go tent camping in East Texas in the middle of July.
It was miserable. First, a tent pole broke as we were assembling out shelter. Actually, it didn't just break -- Coby broke it about two minutes after I'd expressly told him to quit using it as a sword on his two friends -- Bone and PJ -- who'd come along on the trip with Jeannie, Coby, Melody, Abby and I. With my shirt already soaked and sticking to my bones because of the 200 percent humidity, I had a meltdown of sorts. After getting it off my chest so to speak, we were able to fix the broken pole enough to where we could actually use it and get our tent up.
Then came the swarm of flies. Then the nearly boiling hot lake water we went tried to swim in, thanks to the nearby power plant on the lake. Bone lost one of his favorite lures fishing, a lure I'd actually gone into the water twice to retrieve already.
Then came night time. Second word of advice -- no need to build a roaring campfire in the middle of July, either. And it doesn't scare off the biting insects.
The only good thing about the fire was that it gave us some light in the camp. We'd decided against purchasing something such as a lantern for this trip -- instead opting to take our flashlight as our only light source. Apparently we forgot that it gets dark around here.
Then there was little Abby. She's gotten pretty good about going to bed at night, but she's never done it outdoors. To say she was a little freaked out was quite the understatement. After tossing and turning with her for a couple of hours, at some point during the night, we all drifted off at varying times.
Needless to say, we didn't make it a second night. I high-tailed it back to the ranger station the next morning and got my refund. Nothing against the camp, it just didn't work out for us. Here's hoping I haven't ruined the experience for my family the next time.
Jeannie and I spent the rest of the week taking on a huge chore we'd been putting off in the new house -- organizing the garage. It was a two-day chore that still isn't quite the way we want it, but we can fit both of our vehicles in the garage now. And we did some annual rearranging of stuff inside to give us that new feeling again, so it was nice.
Now it's back to work, and I'm ready. Vacation is certainly a great time, and I'm refreshed and ready to go back to the work force. After a week in a hotel room, at a baseball park and in the sweltering campgrounds, my family is certainly ready for me to come back to the office, too.
But a guy needs a full-time break every now and then, and let me tell ya', we've taken a full-blown two-week vacation from ourselves in the 'Ville. Now I'm back at work, sitting through another of those long marathon working days in the summer just so I can have Fridays off. And it's time to blog again.
We've been on vacation since July 10, when Jeannie and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary by driving down to Natchitoches for an overnight stay at a bed and breakfast and some time with some old friends. Had a nice dinner at The Landing, pretty classy joint if I must say so myself, and I was able to keep the whole trip a surprise until we hit the 'Port. Yes, I'm pretty proud of myself.
Came back on Friday the 11th and got ready for the really good stuff -- the USSSA World Series in Southaven, Miss. Loaded everybody up on Saturday -- including Miss Abby -- and enjoyed some nice family time in the trusty Camry for the seven-hour drive to Southaven, which is just a stone's throw south of Memphis.
That started a week-long odyssey of baseball that saw Coby's team play nine games in six days -- and ending with a sixth-place finish out of 44 teams. Not bad, but we were all disappointed nonetheless. We won our first four games at the tournament before stubbing our toe with an all-around bad day against the Spiders from Franklin, Tenn., and that put us in the loser's bracket. We won three straight elimination games to make the final eight before the Spiders bit us again and sent us home with a 7-5 loss.
We came home that Saturday, deciding against spending another night in a hotel. We left Mississippi about four o'clock or so and headed home. Made a stop in Benton, Ark., just outside Little Rock, for dinner at one of my favorite places to eat on the road in Arkansas, Brown's Country Store. I've eaten there a lot on school trips and I've never had a bad meal. There's enough trans fat and cholesterol in the place to sink the Titanic, of course, but when you're on vacation you take chances.
Made it to worship on Sunday the 20th, a day we'd originally hoped to be playing for a national championship. But the Lord had other plans, and we got up with swollen eyes and tired bodies and went to church. But as always it was well worth it -- and refreshing. I'd missed the previous two Sundays and needed the toe-stepping pick-me-up.
Then came the extra week of vacation I take to decompress from the week of baseball, sweltering heat, and innumerable little human beings. Monday, I got to pay some much-needed attention to the mistress (see previous post on Yard Work), something the neighbors had to appreciate more than anything. But after that I spent much of the day catching up on video games and generally nothing nothing remotely productive.
I'd decided to take the family camping that second week, so we left for Martin Creek Lake Tuesday for a two-day camping trip. Word of advice -- it's not a good idea to go tent camping in East Texas in the middle of July.
It was miserable. First, a tent pole broke as we were assembling out shelter. Actually, it didn't just break -- Coby broke it about two minutes after I'd expressly told him to quit using it as a sword on his two friends -- Bone and PJ -- who'd come along on the trip with Jeannie, Coby, Melody, Abby and I. With my shirt already soaked and sticking to my bones because of the 200 percent humidity, I had a meltdown of sorts. After getting it off my chest so to speak, we were able to fix the broken pole enough to where we could actually use it and get our tent up.
Then came the swarm of flies. Then the nearly boiling hot lake water we went tried to swim in, thanks to the nearby power plant on the lake. Bone lost one of his favorite lures fishing, a lure I'd actually gone into the water twice to retrieve already.
Then came night time. Second word of advice -- no need to build a roaring campfire in the middle of July, either. And it doesn't scare off the biting insects.
The only good thing about the fire was that it gave us some light in the camp. We'd decided against purchasing something such as a lantern for this trip -- instead opting to take our flashlight as our only light source. Apparently we forgot that it gets dark around here.
Then there was little Abby. She's gotten pretty good about going to bed at night, but she's never done it outdoors. To say she was a little freaked out was quite the understatement. After tossing and turning with her for a couple of hours, at some point during the night, we all drifted off at varying times.
Needless to say, we didn't make it a second night. I high-tailed it back to the ranger station the next morning and got my refund. Nothing against the camp, it just didn't work out for us. Here's hoping I haven't ruined the experience for my family the next time.
Jeannie and I spent the rest of the week taking on a huge chore we'd been putting off in the new house -- organizing the garage. It was a two-day chore that still isn't quite the way we want it, but we can fit both of our vehicles in the garage now. And we did some annual rearranging of stuff inside to give us that new feeling again, so it was nice.
Now it's back to work, and I'm ready. Vacation is certainly a great time, and I'm refreshed and ready to go back to the work force. After a week in a hotel room, at a baseball park and in the sweltering campgrounds, my family is certainly ready for me to come back to the office, too.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Political Party
I hate politics. And politicians.
Hate is a strong word I guess. You know, hate the sin, love the sinner.
But I'm already on the verge of bringing up my lunch every day and there's still over four months or so until I have to step into the voting box. Already there's the blitzkrieg of lies and promises that will never, ever come to fruition. Everything being said now is for one thing and one thing only -- to get elected. Who knows, truly, what will happen then.
The big cry from both sides -- liberal and conservative -- against one another is to simply check the candidates' record. What does that mean? Anything on that record was done with the pure intention of staying in power. I don't trust a policitian's vote any more than I trust a politician. There are a few issues where a guy or gal pretty much has to state a case and leave it at that, or he'll get pummeled by the opposition when the next vote comes around. But by and large, they'll vote more with their eyes and ears than with their heart.
I'm already sick of it. Can't watch the cable news anymore because that's all that's there. Another great reason to curl up on the couch and watch a baseball game of any kind instead of Fox News or CNN. Or tennis. Or golf. Geez, curl up on the couch to watch curling. Anything but having to listen to the rattle of policians looking to stay out of the real world the voters live in.
I have a voter strategy I fully intend on using in the fall elections. Heck, I'll use it in any election. I base my vote on principles, and nothing else. I don't care who the candidate is or what demographic they come from. They will attest to these principles or I will not color that little Scan Tron dot by their name. It's as simple as that.
First of all, they must be pro-life. I will never vote for any candidate that favors abortion, of any kind. Period. The prophet Jeremiah praised God because God knew him in the womb, from the point of conception. You want my vote, you can't favor abortion. I don't care if you promise me a one-million dollar stimulus package every month.
Secondly, my candidate must be pro-family and pro-marriage, meaning traditional marriage. It's the obvious way God intended for things to be in his perfect creation. If you can't see that, go read the first few chapters of Genesis. Or go look in a mirror or an anatomy textbook, for crying out loud. I firmly believe we need a family amendment to the Constitution, which would lock down marriage between a man and a woman only. Period. End of story. If you think otherwise, go look somewhere else for a vote.
After that, then we can talk about issues such as security, the economy, health care, and whether or not Brett Favre should un-retire or not. Those are all up for debate. But the moral, family-foundational truths this nation was built upon are not for sale.
You see, I can live with tight security at airports and shopping malls. I can live with buying $4-per-gallon gasoline. I can live with paying $25 bucks for a $200 bottle of prescription medication and seeing my paycheck and insurance premium pay the rest.
But I cannot live with the fact that we as a nation have allowed millions of tiny babies to be butchered in the womb the last 30-plus years. I also can't live with the fact we've got a so-called social group running amok with a thirst for power and trying to do it all under the cloak of civil rights or tolerance while they practice a lifestyle that has been expressly forbidden by the Creator of all things.
And I will not tolerate that group trying to force their agenda in public schools, or anywhere else for that matter. It's already there in some places, and I will fight to my last breath to keep it away from my own children.
So to live means we have to stand up and fight for the things we believe in. And the way we fight in America is by voting. The main reason we are in the mess we're in now is because we didn't fight years ago. We tried to bury our heads in the sand and believe it wouldn't happen. And all the while the other side was firing shots over the bow, and now they've developed weapons of mass destruction.
So let the political saber-rattling continue. I won't watch. Come November, we can all fight back. I pray that God will allow us all to talk with our hearts, and with our right to vote. I pray that none of us make a vote in November, or any other time, because we fear a terrorist or because we've got nothing left in our wallet.
Hate is a strong word I guess. You know, hate the sin, love the sinner.
But I'm already on the verge of bringing up my lunch every day and there's still over four months or so until I have to step into the voting box. Already there's the blitzkrieg of lies and promises that will never, ever come to fruition. Everything being said now is for one thing and one thing only -- to get elected. Who knows, truly, what will happen then.
The big cry from both sides -- liberal and conservative -- against one another is to simply check the candidates' record. What does that mean? Anything on that record was done with the pure intention of staying in power. I don't trust a policitian's vote any more than I trust a politician. There are a few issues where a guy or gal pretty much has to state a case and leave it at that, or he'll get pummeled by the opposition when the next vote comes around. But by and large, they'll vote more with their eyes and ears than with their heart.
I'm already sick of it. Can't watch the cable news anymore because that's all that's there. Another great reason to curl up on the couch and watch a baseball game of any kind instead of Fox News or CNN. Or tennis. Or golf. Geez, curl up on the couch to watch curling. Anything but having to listen to the rattle of policians looking to stay out of the real world the voters live in.
I have a voter strategy I fully intend on using in the fall elections. Heck, I'll use it in any election. I base my vote on principles, and nothing else. I don't care who the candidate is or what demographic they come from. They will attest to these principles or I will not color that little Scan Tron dot by their name. It's as simple as that.
First of all, they must be pro-life. I will never vote for any candidate that favors abortion, of any kind. Period. The prophet Jeremiah praised God because God knew him in the womb, from the point of conception. You want my vote, you can't favor abortion. I don't care if you promise me a one-million dollar stimulus package every month.
Secondly, my candidate must be pro-family and pro-marriage, meaning traditional marriage. It's the obvious way God intended for things to be in his perfect creation. If you can't see that, go read the first few chapters of Genesis. Or go look in a mirror or an anatomy textbook, for crying out loud. I firmly believe we need a family amendment to the Constitution, which would lock down marriage between a man and a woman only. Period. End of story. If you think otherwise, go look somewhere else for a vote.
After that, then we can talk about issues such as security, the economy, health care, and whether or not Brett Favre should un-retire or not. Those are all up for debate. But the moral, family-foundational truths this nation was built upon are not for sale.
You see, I can live with tight security at airports and shopping malls. I can live with buying $4-per-gallon gasoline. I can live with paying $25 bucks for a $200 bottle of prescription medication and seeing my paycheck and insurance premium pay the rest.
But I cannot live with the fact that we as a nation have allowed millions of tiny babies to be butchered in the womb the last 30-plus years. I also can't live with the fact we've got a so-called social group running amok with a thirst for power and trying to do it all under the cloak of civil rights or tolerance while they practice a lifestyle that has been expressly forbidden by the Creator of all things.
And I will not tolerate that group trying to force their agenda in public schools, or anywhere else for that matter. It's already there in some places, and I will fight to my last breath to keep it away from my own children.
So to live means we have to stand up and fight for the things we believe in. And the way we fight in America is by voting. The main reason we are in the mess we're in now is because we didn't fight years ago. We tried to bury our heads in the sand and believe it wouldn't happen. And all the while the other side was firing shots over the bow, and now they've developed weapons of mass destruction.
So let the political saber-rattling continue. I won't watch. Come November, we can all fight back. I pray that God will allow us all to talk with our hearts, and with our right to vote. I pray that none of us make a vote in November, or any other time, because we fear a terrorist or because we've got nothing left in our wallet.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Growing Pains
We completed our "regular" season baseball schedule this past weekend by winning a final tuneup tournament for the World Series. Coby's team overcame a very disappointing loss in the first game of pool play on Saturday to win four straight, including an extra-inning, 5-4 win in the championship game Sunday against a team that had beaten us in a championship game at Dr. Pepper Ballpark the week before.
Everything worked out great for us Sunday. Coby's our ace, but we had several other guys step up and pitch well throughout the weekend. That allowed us to save Coby until the championship game, and he kept us close against a very good Rattlers team that battled him tooth and nail all day. Coby had dominated them the week before in two games, allowing just a couple of hits in a total of 8 innings or so, and the Rattlers were a little better prepared for him this time. The put a few balls in play, and fouled enough off to work some walks. But after six innings with Coby on the hill, we were tied 4-4 and won it in the seventh when Coby led off with a single and scored what would be the winning run.
That's the baseball part of the story. But something else happened during the game that, looking back, gave me both some pride and some embarrassment.
I like to win as much as the next guy. Doesn't matter if I'm playing baseball, coaching, or watching the Cowboys on TV. I want to win. Losing makes me feel bad. It stinks. I've been that way all my life, and it's had its good and bad moments for me. Sometimes my competitiveness takes a lot of fun out of it, and I've tried working on that aspect of my personality for several years.
I have to admit, I've gotten a little better at controlling my emotions now that I'm approaching 40. I am ashamed to say that sometimes I've taken my competitive streak too far and taken out frustrations verbally on my son. Nothing abusive, I don't think...just frustration. Now, I want to push him to be the best he can be, whether it is athletically, in the classroom or just life in general. Competition is healthy, and I'm proud to say that my only son has also worked on his competitive streak as well and is much better prepared to handle disappointment during the tough times than I was at his age. That's part of his mother coming out in him I guess -- he can take some things in stride much better than even I can now.
I made a vow to myself and to him at the beginning of the year that there would be no outbursts of frustration. We were going to work hard and have fun and accept whatever happened on the field, good or bad. For the most part, and he'd vouch for me on this I think, I've done pretty good as a baseball coach-dad.
But for some reason on Sunday in the championship game, I had one of those "uh-oh" moments. You know, you do something really stupid and then realize it about five seconds later.
I don't know if it was the 100-degree heat we'd been playing in, or maybe just an overall lack of sleep, or maybe the fact that I as a 39-year-old, grown man really wanted to win this game between a bunch of 10 and 11-year olds. Yeah, I know, that sounds really, really dumb.
Coby's been in a little bit of a batting slump lately. When he's on he can hit the ball as far as anyone his age, and it's fun to watch. But -- and I've been telling him this since he started playing in t-ball -- baseball is a game of failure. You succeed 3 out of every 10 times at bat, and you are a Hall of Famer. The other seven times can make you look and feel really bad.
We've been working at it, and I've been calmly trying to help him through it. But the results haven't shifted to the playing field the last three tournaments or so. We were in a tight situation Sunday and had a couple of runners on, looking to take our first lead in the championship game. And Coby was batting. He took a very weak swing, his mechanics were way off again, and he tapped a little dribbler right back to the pitcher for the final out.
I stood up off my bucket and before I realized it, yelled something to the fact that I wish you could hit the baseball. I don't really know what exactly was said, but it was loud enough for everyone in McKinney to hear. And I really wasn't yelling it to anyone in particular -- you know, one of those things you want to just think about saying but don't actually say. Only this time I said it, very loud, in the heat of the day and moment.
My 11-year-0ld son, who puts more pressure on himself than I or anyone else could put on him, heard my outburst. He got to the entrance to the dugout, looking for his glove to go back out there and battle them from the mound. Then I hear "Stop yelling at me!"
I heard it, and briefly thought of pulling him aside and giving him the what-for. But then a strange sense of pride came over me and I just continued walking down into the right-field corner.
He wasn't sassing me or talking back to me. I deserved the response. I'm not about my son or any of my children talking back or yelling at me or their mother or any adult, for that matter.
But there's a certain point in a young boy's life where he will develop a little bit of, I don't know, some moxy I guess. Up until Sunday, any time I'd had one of those uh-oh moments of competitiveness around Coby, he'd wilt and shrink into a shell sort of. Start looking for his mama to help, you know, something like that.
But not this time. He knows how competitive his dad is and that I don't mean one word of what I say sometimes on the field in frustration. Nothing ever profane, now, just pure old meanness and being loud. But he would shrink away anyway.
Sunday, he didn't shrink away. He said what he was thinking -- "stop yelling at me!" and he meant it. You know, that kind of makes me proud now. He knew he was in one of those little battles on the field, he had a goal, and he didn't want some immature old man ruining it. So he said what he had to say and after that everything was cool.
In a strange way, it helped to calm me down a little bit and I was able to enjoy the rest of the game with no frustration. I'm a little ashamed that it took my 11-year-old son to snap me back into some sort of respectability, but then again, I'm proud he's reached a point in his life where he can help me, too.
Now if he yells at me or his momma for no good reason, or gets a little bit of that sassiness going, we'll have problems. But when I'm being a jerk and he can see it happening, I think it's okay to stand up for yourself and take care of things. I think it shows a little bit of maturity on his part, that he can understand what's going on in the big picture.
We'll spend an entire week in Mississippi starting this coming Saturday, playing in the USSAA World Series. We think we have a team that can win the whole thing if we play like we are capable of playing. We've played in 10 tournaments this year and made the championship game in six of them, winning four. The other four tournaments were either 10-year-old "Major" tournaments (our level is officially "Triple A," a step below major), or against 11-year-old teams.
We've been looking for some leaders on the team to step up. Based on what I saw from my son Sunday -- his pitching, his finding a way to get on when we needed to score a run and then getting home with the winning run, and especially his way of putting his old man back in his rightful place -- lets me know we have at least one.
Everything worked out great for us Sunday. Coby's our ace, but we had several other guys step up and pitch well throughout the weekend. That allowed us to save Coby until the championship game, and he kept us close against a very good Rattlers team that battled him tooth and nail all day. Coby had dominated them the week before in two games, allowing just a couple of hits in a total of 8 innings or so, and the Rattlers were a little better prepared for him this time. The put a few balls in play, and fouled enough off to work some walks. But after six innings with Coby on the hill, we were tied 4-4 and won it in the seventh when Coby led off with a single and scored what would be the winning run.
That's the baseball part of the story. But something else happened during the game that, looking back, gave me both some pride and some embarrassment.
I like to win as much as the next guy. Doesn't matter if I'm playing baseball, coaching, or watching the Cowboys on TV. I want to win. Losing makes me feel bad. It stinks. I've been that way all my life, and it's had its good and bad moments for me. Sometimes my competitiveness takes a lot of fun out of it, and I've tried working on that aspect of my personality for several years.
I have to admit, I've gotten a little better at controlling my emotions now that I'm approaching 40. I am ashamed to say that sometimes I've taken my competitive streak too far and taken out frustrations verbally on my son. Nothing abusive, I don't think...just frustration. Now, I want to push him to be the best he can be, whether it is athletically, in the classroom or just life in general. Competition is healthy, and I'm proud to say that my only son has also worked on his competitive streak as well and is much better prepared to handle disappointment during the tough times than I was at his age. That's part of his mother coming out in him I guess -- he can take some things in stride much better than even I can now.
I made a vow to myself and to him at the beginning of the year that there would be no outbursts of frustration. We were going to work hard and have fun and accept whatever happened on the field, good or bad. For the most part, and he'd vouch for me on this I think, I've done pretty good as a baseball coach-dad.
But for some reason on Sunday in the championship game, I had one of those "uh-oh" moments. You know, you do something really stupid and then realize it about five seconds later.
I don't know if it was the 100-degree heat we'd been playing in, or maybe just an overall lack of sleep, or maybe the fact that I as a 39-year-old, grown man really wanted to win this game between a bunch of 10 and 11-year olds. Yeah, I know, that sounds really, really dumb.
Coby's been in a little bit of a batting slump lately. When he's on he can hit the ball as far as anyone his age, and it's fun to watch. But -- and I've been telling him this since he started playing in t-ball -- baseball is a game of failure. You succeed 3 out of every 10 times at bat, and you are a Hall of Famer. The other seven times can make you look and feel really bad.
We've been working at it, and I've been calmly trying to help him through it. But the results haven't shifted to the playing field the last three tournaments or so. We were in a tight situation Sunday and had a couple of runners on, looking to take our first lead in the championship game. And Coby was batting. He took a very weak swing, his mechanics were way off again, and he tapped a little dribbler right back to the pitcher for the final out.
I stood up off my bucket and before I realized it, yelled something to the fact that I wish you could hit the baseball. I don't really know what exactly was said, but it was loud enough for everyone in McKinney to hear. And I really wasn't yelling it to anyone in particular -- you know, one of those things you want to just think about saying but don't actually say. Only this time I said it, very loud, in the heat of the day and moment.
My 11-year-0ld son, who puts more pressure on himself than I or anyone else could put on him, heard my outburst. He got to the entrance to the dugout, looking for his glove to go back out there and battle them from the mound. Then I hear "Stop yelling at me!"
I heard it, and briefly thought of pulling him aside and giving him the what-for. But then a strange sense of pride came over me and I just continued walking down into the right-field corner.
He wasn't sassing me or talking back to me. I deserved the response. I'm not about my son or any of my children talking back or yelling at me or their mother or any adult, for that matter.
But there's a certain point in a young boy's life where he will develop a little bit of, I don't know, some moxy I guess. Up until Sunday, any time I'd had one of those uh-oh moments of competitiveness around Coby, he'd wilt and shrink into a shell sort of. Start looking for his mama to help, you know, something like that.
But not this time. He knows how competitive his dad is and that I don't mean one word of what I say sometimes on the field in frustration. Nothing ever profane, now, just pure old meanness and being loud. But he would shrink away anyway.
Sunday, he didn't shrink away. He said what he was thinking -- "stop yelling at me!" and he meant it. You know, that kind of makes me proud now. He knew he was in one of those little battles on the field, he had a goal, and he didn't want some immature old man ruining it. So he said what he had to say and after that everything was cool.
In a strange way, it helped to calm me down a little bit and I was able to enjoy the rest of the game with no frustration. I'm a little ashamed that it took my 11-year-old son to snap me back into some sort of respectability, but then again, I'm proud he's reached a point in his life where he can help me, too.
Now if he yells at me or his momma for no good reason, or gets a little bit of that sassiness going, we'll have problems. But when I'm being a jerk and he can see it happening, I think it's okay to stand up for yourself and take care of things. I think it shows a little bit of maturity on his part, that he can understand what's going on in the big picture.
We'll spend an entire week in Mississippi starting this coming Saturday, playing in the USSAA World Series. We think we have a team that can win the whole thing if we play like we are capable of playing. We've played in 10 tournaments this year and made the championship game in six of them, winning four. The other four tournaments were either 10-year-old "Major" tournaments (our level is officially "Triple A," a step below major), or against 11-year-old teams.
We've been looking for some leaders on the team to step up. Based on what I saw from my son Sunday -- his pitching, his finding a way to get on when we needed to score a run and then getting home with the winning run, and especially his way of putting his old man back in his rightful place -- lets me know we have at least one.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Lowe's
Lowe's is great.
I don't want this post to become a commercial for Lowe's, but it's like a giant candy store for men. I go in and my eyes blow up like basketballs, there's so much good stuff in there. You got your lawn care stuff over there (see previous post about m'lady in the yard), your tinker tools over there, your paint over there, your lumber over there....aaahhh.
I could go into a Lowe's anywhere and spend a fortune. Sometimes when I go just for fun, I leave the wallet at home or in the truck. Can't stand the temptation.
Got a tip yesterday that Lowe's was marking down all their patio furniture. The good ol' clearance sale. Jeannie and I have been lusting after some patio furniture for nine months now, ever since we acquired a home that had, well, a patio. It's a concrete slab out the sliding glass doors, but has become a gathering point for various sporting goods -- baseballs, basketballs, volleyballs, all kinds of bats, both wood and aluminum, badminton junk, you name it. It has been placed on my new patio at some point or other, right next to the grill.
Seeking to restore order, Jeannie and I couldn't let the sun go down any more. We hooked 'em over to Lowe's in my trusty 13-year-old Nissan, affectionately monikered "Ol' Blue Eyes," with Abby in tow, Thursday night. Coby isn't a shopper at all -- you can't get him in a video game store without needing some cheese for the whine -- and Melody, while enjoying shopping for girl stuff most of the time, wasn't in the mood to spend an evening out with mom and day and little sister. So with Aunt Nona's pool readily available as always, they elected to stay behind while we went looking for a deal.
After a quick dinner at McAlister's Deli, we hooked it over to Lowe's. The tip was that the swing we wanted was regularly priced at something well over 100 bucks, but it was going for around 85 or so during the clearance. We quickly grabbed one and got to the cash register and -- bam! -- the price came up at 62 American dollars!!!! I couldn't pay fast enough, fearing some kind of mistake. But hey, the customer is always right.
Loaded it up, got it home, and my lovely wife put it together this morning. (Hey, one of us has to work.) Now we have a lovely swing to go on the patio when the temperature actually gets to the point again sometime in November when you can actually sit out there and not melt.
The toughest thing about last night was that she wouldn't allow me to look for anything else. I made the comment about taking a man into the toy store but not letting him touch anything. That's what it's like shopping at Lowe's, you know.
One more thing about greatness -- I got home last night and my front yard was neatly clipped. My help mate had decided to, well, help me out and she trudged herself out in the yard yesterday and completed about one-fourth of the yard work. That's a lot.
So yes, Lowe's is great. But the man's superstore can't hold a candle to my wife.
I don't want this post to become a commercial for Lowe's, but it's like a giant candy store for men. I go in and my eyes blow up like basketballs, there's so much good stuff in there. You got your lawn care stuff over there (see previous post about m'lady in the yard), your tinker tools over there, your paint over there, your lumber over there....aaahhh.
I could go into a Lowe's anywhere and spend a fortune. Sometimes when I go just for fun, I leave the wallet at home or in the truck. Can't stand the temptation.
Got a tip yesterday that Lowe's was marking down all their patio furniture. The good ol' clearance sale. Jeannie and I have been lusting after some patio furniture for nine months now, ever since we acquired a home that had, well, a patio. It's a concrete slab out the sliding glass doors, but has become a gathering point for various sporting goods -- baseballs, basketballs, volleyballs, all kinds of bats, both wood and aluminum, badminton junk, you name it. It has been placed on my new patio at some point or other, right next to the grill.
Seeking to restore order, Jeannie and I couldn't let the sun go down any more. We hooked 'em over to Lowe's in my trusty 13-year-old Nissan, affectionately monikered "Ol' Blue Eyes," with Abby in tow, Thursday night. Coby isn't a shopper at all -- you can't get him in a video game store without needing some cheese for the whine -- and Melody, while enjoying shopping for girl stuff most of the time, wasn't in the mood to spend an evening out with mom and day and little sister. So with Aunt Nona's pool readily available as always, they elected to stay behind while we went looking for a deal.
After a quick dinner at McAlister's Deli, we hooked it over to Lowe's. The tip was that the swing we wanted was regularly priced at something well over 100 bucks, but it was going for around 85 or so during the clearance. We quickly grabbed one and got to the cash register and -- bam! -- the price came up at 62 American dollars!!!! I couldn't pay fast enough, fearing some kind of mistake. But hey, the customer is always right.
Loaded it up, got it home, and my lovely wife put it together this morning. (Hey, one of us has to work.) Now we have a lovely swing to go on the patio when the temperature actually gets to the point again sometime in November when you can actually sit out there and not melt.
The toughest thing about last night was that she wouldn't allow me to look for anything else. I made the comment about taking a man into the toy store but not letting him touch anything. That's what it's like shopping at Lowe's, you know.
One more thing about greatness -- I got home last night and my front yard was neatly clipped. My help mate had decided to, well, help me out and she trudged herself out in the yard yesterday and completed about one-fourth of the yard work. That's a lot.
So yes, Lowe's is great. But the man's superstore can't hold a candle to my wife.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)