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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Dark Cloud

Sometimes, do you ever just feel like there's a dark storm cloud hovering over you, or following you around?

I don't believe in luck per se. That's because I believe God is in full control of my life, good, bad or ugly. It's part of the deal. He saves us by his grace and in return, I don't have to worry about anything that happens in my world because I know He's there watching over me and running things.

But there are times when I have to chuckle when I look back and see how things play out in life. It's part of the fun, actually, of being alive. It also really gives me the sense that God does have a great sense of humor...

Take for instance this weekend. Coby's baseball team had the honor of being invited to play at a one-day, four-team tournament at the Dr Pepper Youth Ballpark in Arlington, which sits just next door to the big Texas Rangers ballpark. That now sits next door to the even bigger new Dallas Cowboys stadium. What a parking nightmare that is going to be in a little over a year.

Anyway, we were guaranteed to play three games Saturday and then would be treated to a Rangers game against the Phillies Saturday night. Haven't been to a Rangers game in a couple of years -- I don't play major league ticket prices to watch minor league baseball -- but with the freebies given to coaches and players and a discounted family price, and seeing as we'd be there all day anyway... we decided to stay for the game.

First, the Stix won both of their pool games to advance to the championship game. Then in the title game, we battled back from being down 4-0 to tie it at 4-4. The Flower Mound Rattlers, who we'd beaten 3-1 in the first game of the day (Coby pitched the first three innings of that one and struck out nine), then scored a couple of unearned runs in the fourth for a 6-4 lead before we brought Coby back into the game.

He shut them out the rest of the way, but we went 0-for-7 with runners in scoring position over the final three innings -- including not scoring with the a bases-loaded, no out situation in the last inning. We lost 6-4. And we don't like to lose, especially championship games.

So that didn't exactly create the best of moods. The championship game went long, so by the time we let Coby change clothes and put on his just-purchased Josh Hamilton jersey, and then walked the short distance from the youth ballpark to the big one, it was the bottom of the first inning.

I should have seen it coming. There had been some dark clouds off to the north about the start of the championship game, around 4:45 or so. The wind started gently, then got stronger as the game went on. I've been to the Metroplex area enough to know that storms blow up all the time, but also can miss you entirely despite putting on a fantastic light show.

Apparantly the Rangers know this too. We finally get up to our seats in the upper deck -- freebies come with a price, you know -- just after Michael Young has put one in the seats for a quick two-run homer for the Rangers. We're there about 10 minutes or so before the noise starts to hit us.

Not quite sure how to describe the noise, but it sound like a a freight train in a wind tunnel. The protective fencing at the very top of the upper deck was rattling in the wind, and the steel beams in the overhang clanged and rattled as well. The breeze was now what best could be described as a medium-to-light gale.

Monty and Nona cut out in the second inning, along with about half of our team. Storm was coming, they said, courtesy of the fancy phones they carry with Internet service. My ETBU-issued phone doesn't have those kinds of features, so I'm stuck.

Plus I'm very cheap, thanks to living with Jeannie Beth for what will be 15 years in less than two weeks. That means if I pay a discounted 20 bucks for two Rangers game tickets, I will brave a flash flood or tornado in order to get my money's worth. I was getting the nervous looks too, but I was calm. Maybe a rain delay, in which case we'd go underneath, grab something to eat and enjoy the ballpark. But we'd get this one in. Besides, the patriotic fireworks were part of the package Saturday night, and I don't miss fireworks. Especially, again, since I've already paid for the ticket.

But I also don't enjoy paying six bucks for a ballpark cheeseburger, or five for french fries. So despite the fact my family was bordering on starvation, I urged them to try and hold out for a few innings. My reasoning was simple: if indeed we do get that storm brewing just over our shoulders, we can save money when the game is cancelled and just grab something on the way home. Much, much cheaper.

Along about the fourth inning, I caved. It was slightly sprinkling a few drops, but the lightning appeared to have moved off toward downtown Dallas. Mel-Mel and I went for a concession run. I ordered three cheeseburgers, some cheese fries for Melly and some nachos for Coby, along with a bottle of water. Cost me 33 bucks.

And I kid you not -- I give the lady the money, she hands me our food, I turn around... and a wave of people is streaming for the escalators. The Rangers folks were evacuating the upper deck because of the threat of high winds. One problem for my daughter and I -- I had left by cell phone in the car, and we had no idea where the rest of our family was.

We got lucky and found Jeannie and Coby at the bottom of the escalator, but by then our food was somewhat soggy. Problem with evacuating the upper deck is that the lower decks are covered, meaning there's nowhere to sit. We ended up spending the next four innings or so at a crowded picnic table, watching the game on television. Which I could have done from the nice, dry comfort of my own living room.

Then it rained. And rained. And rained some more. Lightning and thunder were all over the place. But they didn't call out the tarp. They played through the rain. And we continued to watch it all on TV.

About the eighth inning or so -- well after the allotted time to receive a rain check on the ticket -- we ventured back up to the upper deck. The wind had died down enough and they were allowing those remaining who wanted to go back up. Only problem was, they did not switch the escalators back up. We walked up the ramps -- about 10 flights of them, actually -- to get back up to our seats. Jeannie's Achilles tendon has been barking at her for over a week, thanks to her new commitment to marathons. But she pushed through and made it to the top.

We watched the final two innings and saw the Rangers leave the tying and winning runs on base in both frames. Lost 8-6. The Phillies' closer, and former Astro, Brad Lidge, got the save, striking out Hamilton and Milton Bradley on seven pitches to end the game with runners on. It didn't appear to affect Lidge one bit that I was screaming "Albert Pujols" at the top of my lungs from just under the awning of the upper deck, a good 300 yards away. Darn it, now he's mentally tough!

The fireworks show was awesome, as always. Then it was back to the car around 11 p.m., with a 2-hour plus drive ahead then Sunday School early the next morning. Problem was, we hit the remnants of Hurricane Andrew at Terrell, and I couldn't see in front of my headlights until Lindale. No joke. Drove no faster than 40 mph for almost two hours -- unless I was hydroplaning, which would then bump it up to about 90 for a few harrowing seconds.

The kids slept right through it, fortunately. Jeannie was my comfort through the storm, as always, even though she was dead tired and had to get up at the crack of dawn for early service at church. She actually ended up getting about three hours or so of sleep, while the rest of us got about five.

And where was little Abby during all of this, you ask? Spent two nights at Nanny's, and it seemed like two weeks. Not to mention the fact we saw about 100 little toddlers at the ballgame that ripped our hearts out every time we saw them. Loaded with guilt, we bought Abby her own little pink Michael Young jersey, which she'll grow out of by Independence Day most likely.

So we didn't have much luck on the field or in the stands Saturday. But we did make it home in one piece, and rested up somewhat on Sunday. The dark cloud has once again lifted, and the sun is shining.

Yard Work

One of the greatest things -- or downright advantages -- of moving to the 'Ville last fall was the opportunity for me to finally have a nice, decent yard to work with.

Most men know exactly what I'm talking about. A man's yard is almost like a mistress -- you want to keep 'er lookin' pretty and gourgeous, but you really don't want anyone to notice her.

Okay, bad analogy for a happily-married man such as myself. But you get the idea.

The yard at our old house couldn't really be classified as a yard. Or a mistress. More like a shaggy dog with mange that you want to keep away from your children at all costs.

We had at least twenty towering pine trees that created nearly 100 percent shade around the entire lot, which we found out much to our chagrin during the sale last summer was actually two lots, one of which we owned according to the trusty title company. Too bad I didn't start the blog back then -- wouldn't have been much positive to write about.

Shade wasn't necessarily bad, except when you wanted to grow grass. And pine trees, of course, shed pine needles. And twenty pine trees shed, well, LOTS of pine needles. It was a raking and leaf-blowing nightmare. Not to mention all the dust, roots and just plain-old nasty stuff you had to deal with.

Lived there ten years and went through four lawnmowers. I did break down and pay to have four of the trees cut down in the front yard, which led to a rebirth of sorts of some semblence of a front lawn. But that was it. Everything else was like clearing a path in the jungle. Pretty heavy, thick, nasty stuff.

Which is why moving to the 'Ville was so attractive. The house is smaller, and we are a bit more crowded inside the walls. But I have my mistress in the yard, so to speak. (Again, that's only an analogy!)

The back yard is nearly a perfect rectangle, enclosed on all sides by fences. There's one big, beautiful tree on the entire place. I can cut the grass in the back yard in nice, neat little rows or a big circle if I want. I thought about cutting a huge "W" in the back yard over the weekend, like you see on baseball fields. That way, pilots flying overhead would know the Weavers live there.

The front yard is almost picturesque. Got a row of hedges -- yes, hedges!!! -- along the front of the house, and bright, green, thick grass all over the front yard. Breathtaking.

After our much-anticipated camping trip over the weekend, I got home at about 10:30 or so in the morning Saturday. Yes, I know it's the middle of June, and the temperature was approaching about 120 or so I think, when I ventured outdoors to gently manicure the yard with my trusty Troy Built.

My newfound figure, thanks to a weight loss of nearly 44 pounds since New Year's Day and a renewed commitment to the weight room two or three times a week, has enabled me to comfortably work out in the yard shirtless. I get coated down with sunscreen, grab the IPod and go out with the mistress. (Analogy!)

The only drawback to my new yard is that it's pretty much an all-day chore to get her lookin' right. This past weekend, I had to make a concession to the brutal heat and turn it into a two-day affair. Did all the mowing Saturday, took the Sabbath off completely, and returned home after work Monday to finish the trimmings -- meaning, weed-eating and hedge trimming.

Bought a used gas weed-eater last summer, and got tired of smelling like gasoline every time I used it. So now I go exclusively with the electric trimmer, provided courtesy of brother-in-law Ronnie a few years ago. A thoughtful gift at the old house, but very ineffective. The electric trimmer practically hid from me when it was time to do yard work in the jungle. Now it waves itself at me and lights up in the 'Ville.

Clipped the hedges and trimmed the weeds, and everything is looking nice for at least another week-ten days or so. We've got these large hedge-bush things on the corner of the house that were very beautiful when we moved in, but I noticed I've got some sort of issue with both of them. A bird built a nest in one, which I disposed of, but now the leaves are turning some milky-white color and appear to be dying off. Not sure if it's a disease, some sort of fungus or just the fact a mother bird fed her young in the coolness of my hedge. I'll keep a watchful eye out.

The other has a wild vine that appears to have snaked its way up the corner gutter and is now worming along the brick. I can get that down relatively easy, but... not Monday night. The thing has a swarm of wasps, bees and dirt-dobbers around it, by the hundreds. Not sure if there's a nest in there or if they were just all out for wild summer insect party. But I didn't touch it last night. Bugs and I, especially the flying, stinging ones outside, have an agreement. I don't mess with them, and they don't mess with me, in the outdoors. If they come inside, then we fight. But out here, that's their turf.

Yes, a man's yard is his castle, and I've built my own little fortress in the 'Ville. At some point I will break down and purchase a riding mower, but now I just view it as a chance to workout. And I know that every bead of sweat keeps the mistress looking good.

And believe it or not, that makes the true love of my life -- my wife Jeannie B. -- extremely happy.