Going, Going, Gone!

Here we are at the end of another year. Each year seems to pass with even greater speed than the one before. Two-thousand-thirteen has been no exception.

Much has happened this year; most of which will remain meaningless for anyone other than me as we move ahead. This year, like all those that have gone before, will soon be nothing but a collection of memories; the new year awaiting with all of its promise.

I have developed a special celebration to say goodbye to the old year and welcome the new one. Tonight I will hopefully get to do what I have done for the last dozen or so New Year's Eves. I will go to bed around my normal time and greet the new year when I get up Wednesday morning. I'm not a night owl to start with, and Sadie is still going to be up bright and early in the morning. She really doesn't care if I go to bed at a normal time or if I stay up until Midnight. She will want her breakfast and morning attention without regard for how much, or how little, sleep I may have gotten.

For those of you who choose to stay up tonight, I wish you a Happy New Year! Please don't bother calling or texting me with your New Year's greetings. I will, if I'm lucky, be snoozing my way through the Midnight hour.

I Saw That!

There's an old saying that says, "When all you have is a hammer; everything looks like a nail." Well, you can imagine what that means when I say that I got two new saws...

My boss gives each of us and each of our wives gift cards as a Christmas bonus each year. I used my card this year to buy some tools that I needed to complete some projects around the house that I had previously been putting off with the convenient excuse that I didn't have the proper tools. Well, my Christmas bonus this year destroyed my last excuse for putting off Diane's project list by allowing me to buy a miter saw, a Sawzall, a pneumatic finish nailer and some associated goodies.

Well now I have saws and everything looks like something that needs to be sawn.

The trim job in the kitchen and dining room became the first project to be checked off. Diane finished painting the rooms several weeks ago. Continuing the project required me to cut and install a lot of wood.

Suddenly, there was a bunch of stuff that needed to be cut and nailed! The pile of freshly stained and sealed lumber awaited me in the basement.

I was going to saw it.

I had to saw lots and lots of wood!

The angled cuts required for the cathedral ceilings allowed me to put my new miter saw to the test. We'll tackle the same tasks in the living room next before I move on to the next stage of building faux box beams across the cathedral ceilings in both areas. Then I'll be using the new Sawzall to cut out a short wall next to the stairs so we can replace it with a railing, newels and balusters!

We have one by fours.

I saw that.

We have one by sixes.

I saw that.

We have railings, balusters and newels.

Yep, I saw those, too.

So many things to saw and so little time...

Take it or leave it.

Some that know me refer to me as the "cold hearted orb" from the Moody Blues song. Others claim that my analytical/clinical nature leaves me emotionless. While it is certainly true that there are very, very few things that bring a tear to my eye; I'm not the emotionless Vulcan that I have been accused of. I just tend to be very private; keeping my emotions largely to myself.

It's not that I'm some tough guy who won't be seen shedding a tear. It's just that few things pierce my heart enough to draw tears. There are some, though.

For example - even after seeing it at least a dozen times - I still cry at the end of Field Of Dreams when Ray Kinsella gets to play catch with his dad. Perhaps it's because I, too, wish I had just one more chance to have thrown a ball in the yard with Dad.

I still tear up when the command module appears under the canopy of its parachutes at the end of Apollo 13; even though I distinctly remember watching it happen in real life and I know exactly how the movie will end - each of the many times I have watched it.

Mostly, though, it is "real life" that brings a tear to my eye.

I cried as I held each of our sons for the very first time; amazed that God had entrusted me with those two amazing little human beings.

I cried when the Diane was wheeled away for her breast cancer surgery; and I cried again when the doctor came to tell me that she was out of surgery and doing okay.

I cried when each of the boys walked across the platform after receiving their degrees; filled with pride at what they had accomplished.

As a general rule, though, my tears are private; a lump in my throat and an ache in my chest that reminds me that I'm not a "cold hearted orb," even if no one else recognizes it.

I've never been one for New Year's Resolutions, but perhaps I should reconsider. Maybe I should try to be more emotive. Maybe I should try to be less clinical and analytical.

I expect that, like most people's New Year's Resolutions, it would not last. After all, I never set out to be a "cold hearted orb," it's just who I am.

Take it or leave it.

Merry Christmas!

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."

(Luke 2:11)

Where are you on this Christmas Eve?

Another Christmas Eve is upon us. I will, unless something drastic intervenes, grill some bacon-wrapped venison loin for dinner followed by our family Christmas celebration. The boys will read the Christmas account from the second chapter of Luke's Gospel as a reminder of what we are celebrating before trying to decide whose turn it is to pass out the gifts. They will ultimately settle on one or the other and they will pass out the gifts from under the tree.

One at a time, each gift will be handed to its recipient to be opened. It seems there are fewer gifts under the tree each year as the boys use their Christmas money toward some large ticket item they want. This year, for example, Joseph replaced his computer with a new MacBook of some ilk and Matthew applied both his birthday and Christmas money toward a new deer hunting rifle and scope. We wrap up our time of celebration together as a family as we eat shrimp and other finger foods.

I am always reminded, though, of those people who can't share in that celebration with their family because they are helping my family to celebrate together.

There are the police officers who will continue their solitary patrol to ensure that our celebration is safe;

the firefighters who sit together in their home away from home ready to beat back the flames that may endanger us;

the prehospital and facility-based medical providers who treat the sick and wounded in an attempt to hold off the effects of trauma, disease, violence and old age;

and the service men and women who stand between us and those who would seek to destroy us.

Those men and women are missing out on the celebration with their family tonight. I'm sure they would much rather be at home with their loved ones like I will be, but they remain on duty.

So tonight I will remember those whose sacrifice forces them to be somewhere else while we gather in our living room to celebrate the reminder of Christ's first coming to the earth.

A Golden Day!

I don't know where the term ever started, but somewhere along the way someone decided that the birthday on the year you turn the same age as the date of the month is your Golden Birthday. I'm not sure what makes it golden, but it is somehow a more special birthday than any other.

Today marks Matthew's Golden Birthday. It seems that he made his appearance into the world only yesterday. Certainly it couldn't have been twenty three years ago that I first held him. I still remember those diapers as if they were just this morning.

Much has transpired in those twenty three years. Matthew has become a man. Diane and Joseph insist that he is exactly like his old man, but I beg to differ. While Matthew may display some of my traits; he is certainly not exactly like me. He lacks many of my rough edges. He has become a man we are quite proud of. 

And, at least for today, he is golden.

Happy Birthday, Matthew!

It Used To Be So Easy

Shopping for Diane is probably one of the most difficult tasks I undertake. It wasn't always that hard, though. In fact, it used to be easy.

Of course - I cheated.

Confession time...

My shopping routine used to entail surrogate shoppers at one of several stores Diane liked. I would go the the Land's End store in Brookfield, for example, and look for a woman who appeared to have taste similar to Diane's.

It was a bonus if she was shopping with one or more friends.

It was a double bonus if she also happened to be about Diane's size.

I would approach the ladies and tell them that I was shopping for my wife whose taste in clothes seemed very similar to hers/theirs. I would explain that I am color blind and, like most men my age, rather ignorant when it came to fashion. Then, I would ask for their help.

I was never rejected. I suppose it is many women's dream to shop with someone else's money!

I would give them an approximate budget and then I would go sit down on one of the comfortable chairs the store provided. The women gleefully went through the store selecting sweaters, blouses, etc. that they would select for themselves. They brought back clothes and ensembles to display for my approval.

When they were satisfied with the selections, I thanked them and took the items to the register to check out. The funny thing was that the women always profusely thanked me for letting them help. I'm sure some of them are still telling stories about how they had to rescue this poor, color blind soul who desperately needed assistance in shopping for his wife.

It was easy; and I don't recall that Diane was ever disappointed when I presented her with the gifts.

Life changed, though. Whether because of the effects of Diane's cancer treatments that destroyed her body's ability to regulate its temperature - making fabric selection a touchy task, at best - or the fact that Diane has become more particular; that shopping method is forever lost for me.

The results have often proven to be rather disappointing when I am left to my own devices, I'm afraid. There has been a wandering trail of attempts through the years that somehow fell short. Every once in a while, though, I still hit a home run. I got all of the components to build a small pond/watergarden in the back yard a while ago; and then got all of the components to triple its size a few years later. Those were big winners.

There have been a few stinkers mixed in, too. I won't get into the specifics on those.

So here we are just a few days from Christmas and I'm faced with my annual dilemma - what can I get for Diane that she will want/use/enjoy.

I continue to draw a blank.

It used to be so easy.

My Own Golden Pond...

Today marks twenty-six years since I somehow managed to trick Diane into saying, "I do."

I've changed much in those twenty-six years. My hairline is slowly receding and what hair I have is mostly gray instead of nearly black. My joints don't work as well as they used to and I couldn't squeeze one leg into the pants I used to wear.

Somehow, though, as I have suffered the effects of the years Diane has just grown more beautiful.

Even as a young man I knew that there were rare, timeless beauties. After all, as a man in my early twenties I was captivated by the then 74 year old Katherine Hepburn as Ethel Thayer in On Golden Pond.

I never dreamed that I would one day marry a woman even more graceful, elegant and beautiful.

I remember our wedding day as if it was yesterday even though it feels like we have been together forever. We've been through a lot together; with raising two boys, battling cancer and just growing to love each other more with each passing day.

Every day God gives me with Diane is a gift.

It just feels right being together - kind of like the Thayers.

I've been compared to Norman Thayer many times through the years. Perhaps, except for the fact that my language is not as salty, it's an accurate comparison. After all, I share many of the same cantankerous qualities and could easily see myself saying to my lovely bride on the eve of my eightieth birthday, "Wanna dance or would you rather just suck face?"

Diane will likely just roll her eyes as she always does; perhaps even secretly thankful that I remain so in love with her. She might even say something like Ethel said to Norman with the words, "You know, Norman, you really are the sweetest man in the world, but I'm the only one who knows it."

With each anniversary I am reminded just how lucky I am. Someday, if God allows, Diane and I will be old and gray and as we look back on our lives we, too, may have a conversation...

Ethel: "Listen to me, mister. You're my knight in shining armor. Don't you forget it. You're gonna get back up on that horse and I'm gonna be right behind you holding on tight and away we're gonna go, go, go."

Norman: "I don't like horses. You are a pretty old dame aren't you? What are you doing with a dotty old s.o.b.like me?"

Ethel: "Well, I haven't the vaguest idea."

I haven't the vaguest idea why Diane's with me, either.

Happy 26th Anniversary to the love of my life.

Oh, Gag Me!!!

Several decades ago our family started a Christmas tradition called the Gag Gift Game. I don't remember how it got started, but it was the source of much amusement through the years. I understand that Debbie, Kim and Beth and their families continue the tradition to this day at the family Christmas dinner.

The rules to the Gag Gift Game are really quite simple; everyone finds (or purchases if they can't find something appropriately hideous) a gag gift that they then carefully wrap in such a way as to make it as desirable as possible. Each person places their gift in a designated spot early in the get together. Part of the game's strategy is to place your gift without anyone else seeing you so no one knows which person brought which gift. This is a VERY important part of the game because everyone wanted to figure out which gift was Nana's (she typically put cash in there) and, perhaps even more importantly, everyone wanted to figure out which gift came from the particularly unlucky person who had one of the gifts that make their appearance year after year.

The original - and still most famous - of those regular gifts is a gym suit. Young people probably have no idea what a gym suit is nor why it is so hideous.

Allow me to explain.

Decades ago someone, in their great wisdom, decided to create a special outfit for girls to wear during gym class that would prevent any boy from ever having an improper thought about any girl seen wearing it. The girl could be the most beautiful girl in the school, but she would simply be just one more bland, figure-less form when adorned in the "beautiful" one-piece gym suit.

They were hideous when the girls wore them and they seem to grow more hideous with each year of separation from those days.

One year Mom dug out her old high school gym suit, carefully wrapped it and added it to the gift pile. (Why Mom would have kept that hideous gym suit is beyond me, but she had and it became legend.) Little did we know that some unsuspecting soul would be "rewarded" with what may be the worst (best?) gag gift ever when the game ended.

At game time, several people collect all of the gifts from the gift pile and put them in the center of the table. Everyone takes turns shaking two dice. Rolling doubles allows that person to select a gift from the middle or steal a gift from someone else who then must select or steal another gift, and so on. There were usually several sets of dice running simultaneously so the selecting and stealing happen very rapidly; with a person selecting a gift and having it stolen virtually instantly.

This routine goes on for a set amount of time. The pace grows more frenzied as the timer approaches zero because each person has typically targeted a gift they want to hold at the end so they stealing becomes intense. Whatever gift a person is holding when the timer goes off is the one they keep.

At this point, the participants went around the table opening their gifts; usually to much laughter and discussion of who brought what and why. Sometimes the gift was so bizarre that the discussion had to include a description of what the item was.

The year Mom included the gym suit was a Christmas that will, to steal a phrase, live in infamy. I don't even remember who got the lovely gym suit that first year, but whoever it was opened the package when it was their turn and stared at the hideous apparel that we all knew so well.

A gym suit.

The lucky recipient held on to the gym suit for an entire year before returning it to the gift pile the following Christmas to be won by the next lucky recipient.

This started a trend. Each year, the person holding the gym suit would try to come up with the most creative way possible to package it so the players would be unable to guess which package contained it.

It was sealed inside a tin can one year.

It was hidden away with only a note informing the lucky recipient that they were now the proud owner of the gym suit another year.

As if it wasn't hard enough to try to guess which package contained the gym suit so you could avoid it, Kim made it even harder by adding her old high school gym suit one year - forcing the players to attempt to identify and avoid TWO packages each year.

While there have been many great gag gifts in the Gag Gift Game through the years, none can ever live up to the aura that surrounds the gym suits.

You'd Think I Would Know Better!

Diane and I will celebrate our 26th wedding anniversary in just a little over a week. I love Diane with all of my heart and I can't imagine my life without her. You would think that after 26 years I would understand all of Diane's moods and thoughts and emotions.

You might think that, but you would be wrong.

Perhaps nothing better exemplifies my cluelessness than a discussion we had over Thanksgiving weekend. Diane was exhausted; and when Diane is exhausted she sometimes is not very tolerant of my slightly sarcastic nature.

You would think that I would know better than to joke around when she's really exhausted.

You would, of course, be wrong again.

Through the years, it has been my habit to tell Diane, "I love you more!"

After years of hearing that, Diane decided that she would rebut with, "Well, I love you most!"

I normally replied with the simple words, "I still love you more!"

For some reason that night, though, I decided to say something different.

Diane had been falling asleep on the sofa as we watched television. She had finally reached the point of exhaustion where she said she was just going to head to bed. I kissed her and told her I loved her more, as always and she replied as she always did.

So, instead of my normal, "I still love you more," I decided to say, "No, you don't."

You'd think I would have known better.

You would think that I would have known to just bite my tongue and not try to say anything cute. But NO, that wouldn't have entered my mind. In fact, much of my sarcasm seems to leap from my tongue without ever pausing anywhere near my brain.

I thought I had a lighthearted and fun way of saying the same thing that I always say. I didn't even think that Diane, in her way too tired state, would take that poorly. She immediately broke into tears and asked, "Just what is that supposed to mean? Do you think I don't love you?"

I was taken aback!

What had I done?

I explained and it was smoothed over.

You'd think I would know better...

Mrs. Foreman's Wig

Wigs in the early 1970's were not nearly as natural looking as they are able to make them today. In fact, some were so obvious that one wondered just how bad a woman's natural hair must be for her to choose to wear a wig.

Mrs. Foreman was one of those women.

Mrs. Foreman was a teacher at Busch School. She was out on the school playground pretty much every day as we played before school, during recess or after eating lunch. Her "spot" was normally near the playground markings that designated our kickball spot.

I don't remember if it was during my fifth or sixth grade year that two of the older boys, Chris and Joe, started a little private contest to see which of them could "accidentally" hit Mrs. Foreman with the ball and knock her wig off. I'm pretty sure every student at the school knew of this contest, but somehow Mrs. Foreman remained unaware and stood in her designated spot each day.

A number of balls came close over the period of several days, but neither of the boys was successful. Eventually, though, their persistence paid off and one of them - I don't remember which - hit Mrs. Foreman to partially dislodge her wig. I'm pretty sure the entire student body quietly celebrated the victory.

A number of years went by and my sister Kim started dating a boy she met in the church youth group. His name didn't ring a bell with me at first, but his face did the first time I met her boyfriend. My sister was dating none other than Chris Amos - the Chris of the Mrs. Foreman's wig conspiracy!

Chris's face conveyed a dire warning to me as I mentioned the little incident from the school playground; making it obvious that Kim was, as yet, unaware of that event in his past. She, of course, learned the whole story at some point and it became a source of entertainment for us all when it was discussed.

I found myself wondering through the years if Kim and Chris would have found it as entertaining if their son Bryan had undertaken a similar challenge.

Love At First Sight

I can still remember the first time I laid eyes on Velvet. Not velvet as in the fabric; no, I'm talking about Velvet the wonderful dog we had as kids.

Somehow Debbie had finally begged, pleaded, cajoled and whined enough to convince Mom and Dad that she was ready to get a dog, so we headed off to the Humane Society on Macklind Avenue in St. Louis. Debbie carefully reviewed all of the dogs before selecting Velvet.

Velvet was a beautiful puppy; mostly black with a patch of white on her chest. She was energetic and playful. I will never forget watching her lick Debbie's fingers through the bars of her crate; her brown eyes sparkling with joy at the attention she was getting.

Debbie, like the rest of us, fell in love at first sight and Velvet came home to live with us.

Velvet was a great dog. She was a mutt of some sort; part lab mixed with who knows what else. The vet suspected she had some beagle in her, as well. Mostly, though, Velvet was just a bundle of love.

Velvet used to help Patches - our rather promiscuous, seemingly perpetually pregnant cat - carry her litters of kittens from one hiding place in the house to another. We'd laugh as we watched Patches walk by holding a kitten by its scruff in her mouth followed immediately by Velvet carrying another of the kittens by its scruff.

Velvet loved going for car rides, but quickly learned the route to the vet's office and would cry and quiver as we made our way to the office for an appointment.

Technically, Velvet was Debbie's dog, but she was a family prize. Velvet was always thrilled to see anyone and had a lifetime habit of urinating when she got very excited greeting guests. We tried to take her out shortly before we knew we were expecting anyone, but that didn't seem to make much difference. She still got excited and left us with a wet spot to be cleaned. I remember Warren Bless scooping Velvet up as she greeted his arrival for a visit. It proved to be a problem as Velvet wet the front of his shirt. In true Warren fashion, though, he just laughed and borrowed one of Dad's shirts.

Debbie moved out to get married shortly after graduating from high school, but Velvet stayed. Velvet slept on my bed virtually every night - usually taking more of the bed than she left for me. I didn't mind, though. Velvet loved unconditionally and snuggled against me. She listened attentively as I talked about whatever was bothering me and always finished with an encouraging snuggle or lick.

I eventually moved out, too, but Velvet stayed. Velvet lived for a very long time. One of my more painful memories was the time I said goodbye to Velvet as I left from a visit. I lived hours away and knew that this would almost certainly be the last time I saw Velvet. She was old, and it showed in so many ways, but she still had plenty of wags in her tail as I stroked her hair and hugged her.

I stopped my car at the end of the drive and cried. I cried for a long time as I reflected on how much of my life I had shared with Velvet.

My suspicions proved to be true and Velvet died shortly after that visit.

Velvet is buried out on the farm, surrounded by other beloved canine companions that have also died through the years. While many of those other dogs held unique and special places in Mom and Ted's lives, none of their deaths impacted me the way Velvet's had.

My beloved pup Sadie reminds me of Velvet in so many ways. She snuggles up between Diane and my legs on our bed each night; taking as much real estate on our queen-size bed as we will allow. She always has a warm and loving greeting for me whenever I get home. She even resembles Velvet a bit; with her large, warm, brown eyes, black hair and small patch of white on her chest.

Sadie captured my heart the first time I saw her, too.

Just like Velvet; it was love at first sight.

And For That, I Am Thankful...

Thanksgiving is such a wonderful holiday. It's so much more than a day off work. It's so much more than a day to spend with family and friends.

Thanksgiving is a day to reflect on the many things we have to be thankful for.

So today, I am thankful.

I am thankful for the most wonderful wife in the world. The woman who loves me in spite of me. The woman who watches over me and completes me. The woman who took all that the cancer threw at her and can stand here today as a seven year Breast Cancer Survivor.

I am thankful for two wonderful, godly sons. Young men who work hard and have turned out remarkably well even in light of the many mistakes I have made along the way.

I am thankful for family and friends who care.

I am thankful for a job that pays me far more than I am worth as I sometimes struggle to get through a day.

I am thankful that I had almost 13 years with Dad and almost 49 years with Mom; both of whom left us too soon.

Most of all, I am thankful that I have a Savior who died on the cross to secure my eternity.

And for all of those things, and many more too numerous to list, I am thankful...

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Famous Last Words...

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known."

Those may very well be the most famous "last words" in history; even if they were merely a quote from a work of fiction.

Some may only recognize those words as a close approximation of Admiral Kirk's words as he reflected on Spock's death in Star Trek II: The Wrath Of Khan. Others appreciate their origin as Sydney Carton's final words to his friend Charles Darnay in Charles Dickens' A Tale Of Two Cities.

We all imagine ourselves to be like Sydney Carton, and utter profound words just before we die. Perhaps some even rehearse the words that they hope they will have the strength to speak as they draw their last breath. Others record their messages to be shared after they are gone.

Yet few of us will know when we may utter those final sounds or draw our last breath.

I don't intend for this to be a macabre writing; nor am I implying that there is an imminent issue in my life that may lead to me uttering my own last words sooner rather than later. Instead, I found myself reflecting on what people would say if they knew their words would be their last as I listened to radio reports of yet another untimely death in the early morning hours as I drove to work after dropping Matthew off at the airport.

What would that person have said if they knew they were truly saying goodbye to friends and family? What words would they desire to have ringing in their loved ones' ears for the rest of their lives as their final message to them?

I always say the words, "I love you," to each person in my family before we part; whether it be merely for the night or a time we will be apart. Those are the words I want them hear over and over in their mind as they think about the last time we were together; whenever that may be.

After all, we never really know...

The Measure Of Success

Each person has their own measure of success. Hunters are no exception. For some, only a massive buck will do. For others, any deer makes the hunt successful. I don't measure the success of a hunt by what is harvested, but by the memories we have created.

This season was the most brutal weather I have ever experienced for the deer hunt. The temperature was in single digits or, at best, teens throughout the hunt with winds gusting up to thirty miles per hour. The wind chills did not rise out of single digits all weekend. It was frigid and the winds kept the deer from moving very much.

But we were hunting. Life pretty much limits us to opening weekend for our annual deer hunting. You take whatever you get when you only have two days and you have to wait an entire year to have another chance.

Matthew and I retreated to our blind for shelter from the wind after only two and one half hours on the stand Saturday morning. The weather was tolerable once protected from the wind, but only barely. We heard almost no shooting from the surrounding farms; which is extremely unusual for opening weekend.

But we sat and we talked and we enjoyed hunting together for the first time in five years.

We made many memories, so this year provided great success and, oh yeah, Matthew got two deer, too.

It's Just Not For Joseph

Tomorrow marks Wisconsin's 2014 Gun Deer Season opener. Matthew and I will be in our stand well before the 6:38 AM opening; excited to be hunting together again after Matthew's four year absence for school. The forecast indicates that the windchill will probably be in the single digits all day. It will probably be quite breezy.

None of that matters. We will be in our stand anxiously awaiting the opening of shooting hours so the hunt can begin.

Joseph will still be at home in his nice, warm bed. This whole deer hunting thing just isn't for him. He's a trooper, though. He actually went hunting with me a couple of times in the past. Joseph loves to feast on the fruits of our hunt; generally, though, there are things about deer hunting that make it tough for Joseph.

A deer hunter must be still.

A deer hunter must be quiet.

A deer hunter must be patient.

A deer hunter must be out in the cold.

Joseph's really not too keen on any of those things. The whole idea of sitting quietly for hours in sub-freezing temperature just isn't for him. He feels the need to burst out in song without warning sometimes. His idea of "watching television" with us typically involves actually sitting and watching for a few minutes until he thinks about a song or a commercial comes on television with music that catches his attention, either of which requires him to immediately jump up and head to his keyboard to play and sing. This cycle repeats itself throughout the evening.

That doesn't work too well when hunting; particularly deer hunting.

So tomorrow, as Matthew and I brave the cold in anticipation of seeing deer; Joseph will be back in a warm house in North Prairie singing and talking and moving around and generally doing those things that would ruin a good deer hunt.

It's just not for Joseph.

My father's son...

Mom often used to exclaim - with great exasperation - that I most certainly was my father's son. I always took those words as a compliment; even if she didn't always intend it as such.

I was sitting in Mom's hospital room the morning of Bryan and Tess's wedding the last time I heard her say those words. I'm pretty sure she hadn't intended it to be a compliment that time, but I choked back tears as she spoke those words.

To understand the context of Mom's comment, you must first understand that Diane lovingly starches and presses the shirts that I wear every day. I can't think of anything more comfortable than a crisply starched shirt; one that would stand on its own if leaned against the wall. I used to take my shirts to the cleaners where I specified heavy starch only because they didn't offer extra-heavy. The cost of having my shirts cleaned and pressed gradually crept up to the point that Diane decided that she would do it, instead. So Diane washes, then starches (no spray starch for my shirts) and wrings out my shirts. She presses them and hangs them in the closet for me to choose from each morning.

I had worn one of those shirts to the hospital that morning. Mom reached out and rubbed the fabric between her thumb and fingers; reminded, I'm sure, of the many hours she had spent starching and pressing Dad's shirts. That's when she said, without prompting, "You certainly are your father's son."

My thoughts immediately went back to the memories of a now distant past. You see, Dad never changed out of his "work clothes" when he got home; he hung up his jacket and took off his tie, but he kept on his crisply starched shirt.

I remembered Mom with a shaker cap in the top of a Pepsi bottle filled with water to dampen his shirts as she pressed them.

I remembered sitting in Dad's lap as he taught me to manually calculate square roots in the margin of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

I remembered him holding me as I cried during Gayle Sayers' speech at the end of Brian's Song.

I remembered him sitting on my bed to tell me Tanda had died.

I remembered being snuggled against him as we sat in the emergency room at Cardinal Glennon hospital when I got a concussion.

I remembered the house on Mardel and the days when my biggest worry was a looming test.

I remembered the days at The Lodge.

I remembered being a kid again.

Mostly, though, I remembered the feeling of Dad's shirt against my cheek. I loved the feel of those shirts on my cheek as I snuggled against him in his chair.

I sat beside Mom's hospital bed as she continued to rub the fabric of my shirt; awash in the emotions of my memories and the grief of knowing that I would never hear her speak those words to me again. Perhaps she, too, was also thinking back to those days of starched shirts.

The silence was finally broken as we said, "I love you," to each other.

I suppose it was in that fleeting moment, with Mom's hand still on the sleeve of my shirt, that we really said goodbye.

Fat Chickens

We spent most of my vacation weeks at Mom and Ted's farm when the boys were young. They played in the creek, fished in the pond, ran through the fields, played with the dogs and cats and fed the chickens.

Matthew seemed to think it was his calling in life to make sure the chickens had enough to eat. He couldn't go outside without scooping up a bucketful of chicken feed; spreading it as he wandered through yard. The chickens quickly figured out that Matthew meant food and swarmed him as soon as he stepped foot in the yard.

Matthew was right at home among the chickens.

Sometimes he would spot a chicken moving about in the yard as he looked out the kitchen window. He immediately informed everyone that he needed to go out and feed the chickens because they were looking for him.

And out he would go.

Once on the porch, he would scoop up a bucket of feed; which was the equivalent of calling every chicken in the yard to race toward the porch to greet him as he came down the steps. I'm sure he was as thrilled to see the chickens as they were to see him.

Mom used to laugh as she watched him; exclaiming that, for the week Matthew was there, she had the best fed chickens on Earth.

I'm pretty sure she was right.

Camping

As a kid, I never realized that one of the reasons we went camping on our family vacation each year was that we really couldn't afford to do much else. I always thought we went camping because camping was fun!

We spent many days at Meramec State Park; catching tadpoles and crawdads, digging holes in the sandbar and playing in the Meramec River. Nightfall brought a campfire and lightning bugs.

The campground was its own little community, with new "neighbors" on each trip; all there to share in the fun and camaraderie that made camping unique. As a general rule, the people were friendly and respectful of those around them.  

I loved our camping trips. We didn't have anything fancy; just a simple, canvas tent. Dad had built a wooden box that held all of our standard camping supplies. We had to haul water in a large, plastic jug from the spigot the campsite provided. Mom cooked on a Coleman campstove or, occasionally, over the campfire. 

We scrounged around for just the right stick for roasting marshmallows. 

Yes, camping was fun. I thought camping was the most wonderful vacation possible. It wasn't until I was an adult that Mom told me we camped because we couldn't afford to do some of the other "vacation" things. It wasn't that we all (Kim excluded, of course) didn't LOVE to camp; just that we didn't have many other options.

We couldn't afford to do "real" vacations with our kids, either. Most of our vacations when they were young were spent at Mom and Ted's farm. We took a couple of weekend "trips" when the boys were older, but mostly we just stayed home. The only "real" vacation we took with the boys was when we spent a week in Northern Wisconsin with some friends. 

I regret that we couldn't do more with the boys, but we enjoyed the things we did. I hope they look back on those trips someday with the same joy that I do about our camping trips.

Just A Few Words

It's amazing how much can be conveyed with just a few words. Sometimes a short phrase, or even a single word can change our lives forever.

My life changed (for the better) when Diane uttered the single word, "Yes," on a warm June night in 1987.

That one word led to her bringing great joy to my life with the words, "I do."

Twice, Diane changed my life forever with the simple words, "I'm pregnant," and twice the doctors followed that up months later by saying, "It's a boy."

Just a few words.

Not all short phrases have brought me such joy, though. For example, hearing the words, "He's dead," as a twelve year old boy changed the entire course of my life, and the words "You have breast cancer," opened the door to a dark and difficult six months for Diane and me.

How much can be conveyed with just a few words is a constant, and sometimes stark, reminder of just how powerful words are; not because of their dictionary definition, but because of all the connotations those words have when they make their appearance in our lives.

The Station

I have been captivated by Space since I was a small boy. I would jump without hesitation at the chance to go into space if it was ever a possibility. I have even been known to put on the NASA Channel when no one is around merely to watch the astronauts on board the International Space Station. I have been among the few people who tuned in to watch the Shuttle launches and landings long after the mainstream media became bored with man's quest to reach out beyond our planet.

I find Space, and its exploration, to be phenomenally interesting.

I cannot even count how many times I have watched the International Space Station as it soars through space. There are a number of other satellites whose orbits make them visible to the naked eye periodically, as well. My early morning walks with Sadie have given me many opportunities to watch them pass by - and to dream.

Diane saw the International Space Station for the first time yesterday morning. We had excellent viewing conditions with perfectly clear skies. The pass came about an hour before sunrise so the sun reflected off the station brightly; making it very easy to see. Diane was like a child; giddy with excitement as she watched it soar silently overhead. 

It was beautiful.

I am reminded of how much I would love to be up there looking down on the Earth below each time I see it. I catch myself wondering just how much more beautiful Space is from the vacuum that is Space than the view through our atmosphere that I am limited to.

It is Space.

The Final Frontier.

NASA makes several tools to alert you to visible passes of the International Space Station and other satellites if you are interested in seeing it for yourself. The easiest to use, if you live near a relatively big city, is their SpotTheStation site. You can even have it send you emails to alert you to visible passes in your area. The times listed are not precise unless you happen to live in one of the cities they list, but it's not hard to figure out how much time to add/subtract and determine how the appearance and disappearance locations will vary based on your actual location.

NASA's SkyWatch application provides a lot more information and sightings for the International Space Station and numerous other satellites are listed based on your latitude and longitude. You can print out a table of every pass of every satellite if you want, and the times and appearance/disappearance coordinates are very precise since it is calculated using your actual location. It is a bit more complex to use, though.

There is also a low cost app available that allows you to use your phone to pinpoint the International Space Station as it soars overhead.

I continue to be mesmerized by the sight of an orbiting craft no matter how many times I have seen it. After all, it is in Space.

On Being Different...

I'm different. Some people seem to feel the need to remind me of that fact on a regular basis. It's not like I don't already know it. It also doesn't bother me to be thought of as different. The last week has brought out a long line of people who are ready and willing to tell me how odd I am.

You see - I love winter.

Short days.

Long nights.

Cold.

Wind.

Snow.

I love it all.

Maybe part of it is because winter lets everyone else get a glimpse of how the world looks to me every day; a collection of grays and subdued colors. Maybe part of it is because I love a fresh covering of pure white snow blanketing the landscape. Maybe part of it is because I find few things more beautiful than glistening ice clinging to tree branches - dazzlingly beautiful as it refracts and reflects the sun's rays.

Most people think of winter as something to be endured. I think of it as something to be embraced.

I know that somehow makes me different, and that's okay.

The Downs and Ups

I thought I hit a milestone one day last week when the scale actually showed that I had lost some weight. I was close to ecstatic.

My joy was short-lived, though, when I got on the scale several days later and my weight was exactly (to the tenth pound) where it has seemingly been stuck for weeks.

I expected some fluctuation when I decided to get serious about my weight. In fact, I consciously decided that I wasn't going to get on the scale every day because the minute changes back and forth over the short term could prove to be discouraging.

What's proving to be discouraging is getting on the scale week after week and not seeing any results.

I am at a loss. Well, that's not really true. I would LOVE to be at a loss, but I seem to be stuck in the same place.

Makes me wonder why I am even trying...

We Owe Our Thanks...

Many people have what we often refer to as thankless jobs. In fact, most of us would, at times, claim that we are under-appreciated. We have somehow gotten the idea that people don't recognize the importance of our contributions.

The reality, though, is that our nation and our world would continue on unabated if we just disappeared. Perhaps others would step up to fill a role we once had, or maybe those things we thought were so important would just end up going undone; largely unnoticed by all but a few.

There are some, though, that truly are under-appreciated. Some whose actions have impacted the lives of others; many of whom they will never know. 

Many of whom will never appreciate them.

So today, I think of those people; the ones who truly have had an impact on my life and that I have never truly thanked.

I sit here today and write this blog. I can write about anything I want. I could choose to criticize the government or I could choose to praise it. I could choose to ramble on about any topic I want; taking whatever position I feel like taking.

And for that, I thank our Veterans.

I can go to any church I choose, whenever I choose, without fear of government forces arresting me for my faith.

And for that, I thank our Veterans.

I can buy and sell in a free market.

And for that, I thank our Veterans.

Most of all, though, I can put my head on my pillow each night knowing that men and women have been willing to sacrifice all so my family can rest peacefully in our home.

And for that, I thank our Veterans.

It is to our shame that we grow impatient with the aged Vet who shuffles slowly in front of us. He wasn't always that way. 

No, he was once a frightened teen who charged through enemy fire to protect our freedom. 

He isn't that way by his own choice.

He was once willing to give all; and many of his friends did.

And for that I owe him my undying gratitude.

Thank you, Veterans!

One Man's Trash

I imagine pretty much everyone, upon reading or hearing the phrase, "One man's trash," finishes it with the words, "is another man's treasure." Perhaps nothing makes this more obvious than the days leading up to the first Tuesday of each month in North Prairie.

The first Tuesday of the month is Large Item Pickup in our little village. People put all manner of "trash" down by the road in the days leading up to the pickup. This is rapidly followed by people who drive slowly through the village looking for piles of trash to pick through. 

I have been on a "Fall Cleaning" binge over the past several weeks. I have largely finished a major cleaning out of both the garage and basement. It's amazing how much stuff accumulates in these places over the years; stuff that we probably once thought we would use again or would have some important sentimental value in the future. Time gives us a totally new perspective on such stuff. 

We have created several piles as we cleaned our way through the garage and basement. There's the Save pile for those things that we truly want to keep. There's the Goodwill pile for those things that might truly have value to someone else; and then there's the Trash pile for the things that will make their way to the street for Large Item Pickup. 

The Trash pile seems to grow at an exponential pace; causing me to wonder why we really ever kept much of this stuff in the first place. 

I took last Friday off to use up a remaining vacation day. This allowed me to take Sadie to the vet and work on the basement. Diane and I began the process of hauling items from the Trash pile to the street during the afternoon. The pile had not been down there for an hour before someone pulled up in a pickup to begin the process of picking through our Trash. Based on what disappeared from the pile, I can only assume that they were looking for any metal they could take to the scrap yard.

We continued building the pile Saturday morning. Again, it took only minutes before someone was picking through the pile seeking their Treasure. Who knows what will remain of the pile by the time the truck actually arrives on Tuesday morning. Much of our Trash having been magically transformed into someone else's Treasure.

Waiting on the Weight

Trying to lose weight can be extremely frustrating. It's made even worse when it simply doesn't seem to be working.

I have struggled with my weight for years - decades, even. Like most people, I tend to gain weight a lot easier and faster than I lose weight. What's really frustrating is when, despite my best attempts, the weight just doesn't seem to come off.

I decided several weeks ago to be much more diligent about controlling my caloric intake. I have been eating much smaller portions and not "going back for seconds." I have even shunned dessert which, for me, is very hard. While I have not increased my exercise; I haven't decreased it, either. I take Sadie for a relatively long walk early each morning and sometimes add another walk later in the day. I usually take at least two, and often three, walks with her on Saturdays and Sundays.

Why is it, then, that nothing seems to be changing? Diane claims that she can tell I'm losing weight when she hugs me; but my pants feel the same, I'm on the same belt notch and the fancy scale we bought a couple of years ago with our Christmas money from Ted shows my weight as unchanging - even to the tenth of a pound.

So I wait on the weight.

It is tempting, at times, to just chuck it all and say I might as well eat whatever I want in any quantity I want because it doesn't seem to make a difference. It's really tempting when Diane asks if I'd like more, or if I want some ice cream, to just say, "YES!!! Give me more food!"

But I continue waiting on the weight.

Maybe the scale will show some sign of success soon.

Maybe my pants will feel just a bit looser tomorrow.

Maybe I will be able to tighten my belt another notch next week.

Maybe...

Dinah's Evil Eye

Mom and Ted had a couple of horses for a while. I still don't understand why anyone in their right mind would actually want horses, but they did. One of them was a particularly evil beast named Dinah. Now Dinah had somehow hypnotized Mom into believing that she was just a loving old mare that wouldn't hurt a flea, but Mom was deceived.

Mom actually put my sons in grave danger by taking them out to the corral and allowing them to feed Dinah directly from their hands. She would also open a can of soda and tip it back for the horse to drink it; much to the delight of my two sons who were quickly sucked into Dinah's hypnotic trance.

I was too sharp to be caught up in Dinah's evil gaze.

Ted saddled up the "loving old mare" to let the boys ride during one of our visits to the farm. He lifted each of the boys in turn onto the saddle and led the horse around the yard. I watched from the safety of the porch. Dinah kept looking over toward me with an evil eye, but I'm sure she was afraid to act out on her plans because I was standing on the porch which put me in close proximity to several guns. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure she would have yanked the reins from Ted's hand and taken off across the field in an attempt to throw my sons from her back.

Mom just laughed at me, but what did she know; she was already brainwashed.

I actually rode Dinah one time. The horse ignored my commands and wandered off into the field in an attempt to sneak away to cause me harm. She pretended to eat, all the while plotting how to bring about my demise. She had no intention of going back to the house and barn until Mom called her back, at which time she raced off at full speed. I have no idea how anyone thinks they can control such a beast since it is impossible to hold onto the reins and the saddle horn at the same time. Given a choice, I elected to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands in an attempt to keep the horse from throwing me off.

It was just wrong...

Horses are the real reason that cowboys wear guns, you know!

I am amazed every time I see my nephew Bryan post pictures of them putting Liam, their young son, on a horse. They are allowing him to fall under the beasts hypnotic eye at a young age.

Liam will probably grow up deceived to believe that horses are fun.

Opposites Really Do Attract

They say opposites attract. While that is certainly true when discussing magnetic fields, I don't think most couples have nearly as many differences in their lives as they do things in common. Diane and I have many things in common. In fact, it was that vast area of commonality that brought us together in the first place. The Venn Diagram of our lives has a huge area of intersection; and we are normally not very far apart even in those areas where they don't intersect.

Differences add interest and, sometimes, intrigue to our life together. Sometimes, though, neither one of us can figure out just where the other person is coming from.

I speak of symmetry and order.

Symmetry and order are among the few things where Diane and I are total opposites. I positively adore symmetry and order. For example, I will actually measure (twice) when hanging a picture to ensure that it is precisely centered on a wall or over the object it hangs above. I would never dream of arranging furniture or hanging wall decorations in such a manner that could ever be construed as unbalanced.

Furniture must always be placed precisely parallel with - or at a right angle to - the walls in my orderly world. I carefully measured the distance between the rear posts of the shelving I installed in the garage last weekend and the wall studs to ensure that the three shelving segments would be exactly parallel to the garage wall over their entire eighteen foot run.

It must be that way or I would notice the variance every time I went into the garage and it would drive me nuts until I fixed it. It is better to do it right the first time than to have to take everything off the shelves to realign it later.

This trait drives Diane nuts. She loves to place pieces on a bias in a corner or even out in the main area of a room. A small hutch sits in the corner of our dining area. It is angled between the two walls. It is not designed to be a corner cabinet, which would be a different thing entirely, but Diane insists on having it angled rather than being (properly) aligned with either of the two walls. This is pretty much the standard for Diane.

Allow me to illustrate an example of how this trait drives me nuts. I am forced to watch television from a chair that is arranged at an angle to the television screen rather than perfectly parallel to it.

Why is that a big deal, you ask?

It's a big deal because it's not straight. I should be able to sit squarely in my chair with my line of sight directly perpendicular to the plane of the television screen.

It's just supposed to be that way.

Diane's arrangements of pictures or wall decorations can never have the edges aligned or be equally spaced across the wall space. Instead, they are arranged in a seemingly haphazard fashion that never allows the eye to settle on the beauty of alignment. I'm quite certain that she has never pulled out a tape measure when hanging anything on the wall. She also just levels things "by eye" instead of taking the extra moment to put a torpedo level on it to ensure that it is properly plumb and level.

Yes we are truly opposites when it comes to these important life issues, so I guess opposites really do attract.

Similes

Webster's Dictionary defines Simile as, "a figure of speech comparing two unlike things that is often introduced by like or as (as in cheeks like roses)." Understanding such nuances of the English language can be very important when dealing with one's uncle...

I think back to the summer of 1994. I remember it well because that is the year we were building our house in North Prairie. Kim's husband Chris had to come to Milwaukee for some fleet management conference or seminar. Kim and the kids came along. Our combined families did some fun things while they visited - like taking all of the kids to see The Lion King.

We also took the kids to the zoo.

Milwaukee has a wonderful zoo; with lots of animals, largely grouped by geographic region throughout the complex. There was also a small concession operation near the back of the zoo at that time. It is there that Similes became important.

I don't really recall what anyone else ordered for lunch that day, but I do recall that I ordered my standard of nachos with extra jalapeno peppers. Lots of extra jalapeno peppers. I basically order nachos strictly for the pleasure of eating jalapenos. Every bite must have one or more jalapeno peppers in it. I stop eating the chips and cheese sauce as soon as I run out of peppers. Chips and cheese just isn't that exciting to me. I love jalapenos. In fact, I find them to be quite mild among the peppers I eat.

But I digress...

I sat at one of the outdoor tables with the kids while Diane and Kim brought the food over. Sarah, who must have been around eight or nine years old at that time (I'm terrible with kids' ages), was curious about the jalapeno peppers on my nachos. (Sarah's parents had obviously not educated her on the fine delicacy known as a jalapeno pepper. They obviously had also failed to educate her on her uncle's sense of humor.)

She asked what they were.

I told her, "Jalapeno peppers."

"What's that," she asked?

To which I replied, "Jalapenos are a condiment; you know - like a pickle," as I popped one into my mouth, chewed it up and swallowed.

Let it be known that at no point did I tell a lie - in fact, I answered Sarah's question honestly and completely. (I refer you back to Webster's definition of simile at the beginning of this post if you don't remember what it said.) She didn't ask what it tasted like or whether it was spicy or... She merely asked what it was and I answered.

Kim tried to warn Sarah that she shouldn't trust her loving uncle, but Sarah's inquisitive nature took over and she decided that she must try it.

The look on her face as she bit into the jalapeno was priceless - to an uncle, anyway.

Her eyes watered and her face immediately turned red as perspiration broke out on her forehead. She spit out the pepper (wasting a good jalapeno, I might add) and began guzzling drinks to cool her tongue.

Kim was not happy that I had not warned her, but I still contend that Kim, herself, warned Sarah and Sarah chose to ignore it.

Perhaps I taught Sarah an important lesson that day in heeding her mother's advice. Who knows what sort of hooliganism she may have gotten involved in if I had not taught her how important it was to listen to her mother.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Never Taken Lightly

I love to hunt; especially whitetail deer. While it's a dream of mine to someday be able to hunt elk, caribou or moose, I get to live out at least a bit of my dream in the woods of Southwest Wisconsin each November. It is there that I get to hunt deer.

I'm not like the hunters you see on television. I don't hunt in high-fenced preserves and I won't pass up a shot on a healthy deer merely because the rack isn't big enough. No, I hunt for the freezer. While I wouldn't pass up a shot on a large buck, that's not why I hunt.

I also don't take the responsibility of hunting lightly.

While even most non-hunters recognize the importance of hunting as part of an effective game management and conservation program, the fact of the matter is that hunting requires us to kill. I head out to the woods each year in hopes of killing a deer. I normally refer to it as harvesting, because that's what I'm doing, but the reality is harvesting requires me to kill.

Not everyone can deal with the necessity of killing. I remember Mom telling me the story of the one and only time Dad ever went hunting. He shot a squirrel that Mom then prepared for him. He was unable to take a single bite. He said that all he could see when he looked at his plate was that little squirrel lying dead on the ground.

That can never be taken lightly.

I won't shoot running deer; nor will I take a shot that I do not have 100% confidence will quickly and humanely kill the deer. Since buying my rifle now six seasons ago; I have pulled the trigger five times while out hunting and have harvested five deer. I refuse to take a risky shot merely to fill my tag. I have more respect for the animal than that. I would rather (and have) gone home empty handed than risk wounding and losing a deer or causing it to die a slow, agonizing death. We owe the animal at least that much.

It sickens me to hear accounts of "hunters" who just unload their guns on running deer in the hopes of wounding it enough that it falls over, or "hunters" who don't take the few minutes necessary to make sure their rifle is properly sighted in before taking to the woods; figuring it's "close enough."

Those are the hunters that give all of us a bad name. They are the ones who show no respect for the animal; the ones who take the responsibility lightly.

I take a moment as I approach a deer that I have shot to thank God for the privilege of taking the animal. I thank Him before I ever touch the animal. It is only after I have thanked God that I tag and field dress the deer. None of the animal will go to waste. The carnivores and scavengers of the woods will feast on the gut pile I leave behind. I butcher the deer to use every bit of the meat it provides; meat our family will enjoy over the coming year, bones the dog will devour.

I am reminded each time we eat of that deer how things have changed. It wasn't that many generations ago that families raised and butchered livestock to feed their families. For most people today, meat is something you buy at the local grocery store; with no real thought given to the animal that was butchered to provide the meal. Hunting requires us to personalize it - to think about the act of taking the life of an animal for our sustenance.

I would be lying if I said I didn't get a thrill out of harvesting a deer. It is a big thrill, especially when it is a fast and humane kill. But I also would be lying if I said I wasn't aware of what a privilege it is to harvest such a beautiful animal.

It is something we can never take lightly.

Better

There is a certain pride that comes with watching your children grow up. We parents always hope that our children will "turn out better" than we did. How we measure that is open for discussion, of course, but I think every parent would agree that they want their children to succeed, to be confident and poised, to be satisfied with their lives. To be "better."

It has been an eye opening experience as I have watched our boys become men. Both of them have jobs they love and have great opportunities before them as we close out 2013 and look at starting the new year. Both are turning out "better" than I did.

I suppose those without children may have a hard time understanding the pride that comes with kids turning out better than us. Perhaps, even, they would be jealous of their kids successes.

Parents know better.

I have taken far more joy out of watching Matthew harvest a deer than I ever have at harvesting one myself. I have been far more delighted with Joseph captivating the students while teaching the youth group at our church a few years ago than I ever have by teaching them myself.

Yes, it is a great feeling to watch my boys grow up to succeed; to be "better" than me.

I still remember when I no longer had to let the boys beat me at various games because they were able to beat me on their own. I wasn't sad that I couldn't win anymore. No, I was full of pride because they were "better."

As I reflect on the past quarter century, I am amazed at how fast the time has passed. I am amazed at what has become of those two little babies I held in my arms so long ago.

I am overjoyed that they are "better."

40 Days And 40 Nights

There is a lot of Biblical significance to the phrase 40 Days and 40 Nights. It seems to be a very, very long time when you are going through a particular trial or anticipating a particular event. Is sure seems like a long time now, too.

As of 6:38 AM we are 40 days from the opening of the 2013 Wisconsin Gun Deer season; that nine day period each year where hundreds of thousands of blaze orange clad men, women and children will take to the fields and forests in their annual quest for the elusive whitetail deer.

Matthew and I will join Mike and Scott for our traditional hunt on Mike's farmland in Southwest Wisconsin. I can already close my eyes and transport myself to the deer stand where I can see the slowly brightening woods as the sunrise approaches and I can imagine the sounds and smells of the awakening woods.

Forty days is a very long time, indeed.

When Sleep Doesn't Come

I have been blessed with a rather unique ability to sleep pretty much anywhere at any time. I can fall asleep when it's light as well as when it's dark. I can fall asleep - and stay asleep - amidst pretty much any level of noise and confusion. I can even fall asleep the night before deer season opens. I am happily snoozing away while my hunting buddies stare toward the ceiling in the dark; unable to sleep due to the anticipation of the coming hunt.

My son Matthew appears to have gotten a smaller helping of the same ability. Our hunting party of four headed out to the farm for a working weekend in August to clear any trees and brush that have fallen across our trails. Unbeknownst to us, the saloon about 1/4 mile away was hosting a massive festival that weekend. There were thousands of campers/bikers camped on the grounds behind the saloon with a large music stage pointing in the general direction of the barn where we slept. The music, if you could call the horrid entertainment they had booked music, blared at us until shortly after Midnight. Mike and Scott lay awake until the show finally ended. I was asleep within moments of climbing into my sleeping bag. It was reported that Matthew was asleep shortly after. It was also reported that Matthew inherited my gift for snoring, but that's not really relevant to this story.

I suppose I have come by this ability naturally, also, as Dad somehow managed to sleep through a tornado that destroyed part of our home's roof.

Being able to sleep any time any where is a gift; and one I don't take lightly. Nothing makes this more apparent than the rare occasions when sleep doesn't come. It is virtually always something gnawing at my mind that keeps me awake in those instances; a problem I am trying to solve or a plan I am trying to put together. It bothers me that, on those nights, I seem to be unable to "turn my brain off" and fall asleep. The harder I try to work at something that otherwise happens so naturally, the worse it becomes. After a while, frustration sets in and it begins a vicious cycle of futilely trying to sleep while growing more frustrated with each passing minute at my inability to do so.

Sometimes I seem to be able to trick my brain into thinking about some other mundane task; like soldering thousands of Christmas Tree Blocks when designing and installing sound systems, or driving through Illinois with its long, straight, flat stretches of highway. Occasionally even that doesn't work and I must resort to heading downstairs to read or watch television until my brain is finally overcome by exhaustion, thereby allowing me to finally fall into a restful slumber.

It is on nights like those that I am reminded once again how blessed I am that it is so rare to have nights when sleep doesn't come...

Gone Forever

There are moments in our lives that we wish we could take a mulligan and do over; whether because we made a great decision that we would love to relive, or we made a bad decision that we wish we could reverse.

But life doesn't give mulligans.

Instead, that moment is written in stone, unchangeable, gone forever.

There are times that I wish I would have turned right instead of left, or said no instead of yes, or...

I've often pondered if I would really do anything differently if I had the chance to do things over again. Certainly if I could retain all of the knowledge and experience I have now when I went back to that time I might, perhaps, make a different decision or go a different direction.

But, then again, maybe not.

Maybe Tony Arata had it right when he penned the words to "The Dance" for Garth Brooks and he said...

And now I'm glad I didn't know 
The way it all would end 
The way it all would go 
Our lives are better left to chance 
I could have missed the pain 
But I'd of had to miss the dance 

A Man With A Gun

I spent many hours working in the sporting goods department at the Sears store in Chesterfield Mall. It was a great job for a high school student in the 1970's. I started at a whopping $1.85 per hour and worked up to $3.15 per hour by the time I left the job after my Senior year of high school. I was thrilled to take home $48 on a big week during the Christmas Season.

Back then, Sears sold guns, pool tables and "cutting edge video game systems" in the sporting goods department. (I sold Dan Dierdorf a pool table shortly before Christmas one year. He was still playing on the offensive line for the St. Louis Football Cardinals at the time. I have never felt so small in my life as when I stood next to him.)

Sears hired off-duty police officers as security guards at the store. All of the employees knew them, of course, and they would often stop by to chat when the store was slow. One of the security guards was a very large man named Fraser who loved to come by the sporting goods department to talk about all things sports.

He was standing near the register chatting with me one evening when he suddenly stiffened as he heard a radio report of a large, black man with a gun in the sporting goods department. Now, seeing a black man at all in Chesterfield Mall in the late 1970's was a rarity; and a black man with a gun was certain to get a lot of attention from the entire security contingent.

A brief glance down confirmed Fraser's suspicions - the grip of his rather large handgun in its shoulder holster was clearly visible inside his open jacket. Apparently, a shopper had noticed an armed man poking around the register. We both laughed as he radioed in that everyone could stand down because the threat was, in fact, him.

He came by to chat many more times before I left that job, and almost every time he would make some kind of joke about a man with a gun in the sporting goods department.

First In Line!

Kim put a picture on Facebook of her grandson Thomas standing at a bridge railing over the train yard watching the activity below. Seeing the picture immediately took me back to my youth and the countless times Nana and I stood on various vantage points to watch the hustle and bustle of switching and building trains in the old Frisco yard near her house. I loved trains. I could - and did - spend many hours just watching the trains slowly move around the yard as the switching locomotives built the trains for their journeys off to unknown places.

Bob Ward, Nana and Papa's tenant, then neighbor, was larger than life when I was a kid. He was a Brakeman on the Frisco Lines, back when the railroads still had brakemen monitoring the train from the caboose that brought up the rear of every train. It was always a thrill when Bob was in the caboose of a passing train.

I still love trains.

One of the highlights of my time spent working in video production was a shoot we did in the GE Locomotive plant in Erie, Pennsylvania. I stood in the factory where the mighty powerhouses of transportation were born. I still remember that day with great joy.

I have written before about what ranks up there as one of my favorite Father's Day celebrations watching the mighty Union Pacific Challenger when it made a trip to Milwaukee.

I simply love trains!

I have many strange habits that drive people around me nuts, but perhaps none quite so blatant as my driving behavior when trains are involved. Whenever possible, I adjust my speed when I see the lights go on or see a train approaching a crossing in an attempt to time it so I am first in line when the train arrives. There are few driving experiences more fun than being the first car at a train crossing so I can see and feel the power as the locomotives rumble past, and watch the progression of cars; each carrying precious cargo that represents our economy in action.

I suppose the people in the cars behind me may be a little peeved at being "stuck" by a train, but I think it is wonderful! For those few minutes; it's just like I'm a little boy again.

Seeing Kim's picture reminded me that there is still something magical about little boys and trains - even when we become big boys.

The Special School...

I went to Busch School for fifth, sixth and seventh grades. I would have been there for eighth grade, also, but we moved out of St. Louis. Busch School was a special school, "For the Gifted and Talented." I don't know what made any of us there so gifted or talented, but many of us were quite special! The importance of that fact will become apparent in a little while.

Mom and Dad took us to Manchester to see our new house for the first time shortly before we moved in at the end of seventh grade. We walked around in the house and wandered around what seemed to me to be a massive backyard. A small creek ran between our new house and the house behind it. The family living in that house was out working in their garden as we walked around. They had a daughter who looked to be about Kim's age and a son who looked to be about my age. Mom lined us all up along the edge of the creek and they lined up on the other side of the creek for the obligatory introductions.

They were the Kilkennys. As I had guessed, Karen, their daughter, was just a little younger than Kim and Ron, their son, was a few months younger than me. Although Ron and I came to be inseparable, it almost didn't happen.

Mom introduced the girls and then introduced me. I'm sure she thought she was paying me a compliment as she introduced me and proclaimed that I went to a "special school." Now, special school meant something very different in Manchester than it did to Mom. Ron told me later that his mother had instructed him in no uncertain terms that he was to be nice to me since I had some sort of disability that required me to go to a special school.

Ron wanted nothing to do with the kid from the special school! He managed to avoid being out whenever I was in the yard for several days after we moved in. I suppose he figured that was the easiest way to deal with the kid from the special school.

Eventually, though, our paths crossed and we were forced together. We were playing catch in the yard when the conversation somehow turned to fishing. It quickly became apparent that fishing was a passion that we shared and Ron informed me that there were two small ponds within a short walk or bike ride that he fished regularly.

We quickly gathered our gear to head to the pond when Mrs. Kilkenny told Ron that he could not go fishing until the grass was cut. That edict caused us to team cut the grass at breakneck speeds. I'm sure the grass cutting job was somewhat less than perfect as we raced to finish quickly so we could go fishing. We finished, though, and quickly dug some worms from their compost pile and headed off to the pond in Glan Tai subdivision.

We sat and talked while waiting for fish to find our baits. The talk, naturally, turned to the special school. We had a great laugh as I explained what Mom meant by the "special school" and laughed again as he recounted his Mom's mandate that he be nice to the kid with whatever disability it was that I had.

A friendship was forged that day. Ron went on to be a jock in high school and I went on to be the kid with the calculator case on my belt, but we were friends. While time and distance have made that relationship less than it once was; I will always consider Ron to be one of my closest friends. And he, I hope, remembers those days with the kid from the special school with a special fondness, too.

So this is what $150,000 gets you...

I suppose $150,000 doesn't go as far as it used to.

In fact, I was recently pondering the question of just what $150,000 gets you these days. The answer was not what I expected.

It wasn't that long ago that $150,000 could buy you a decent house. In fact, we bought our land and built our house in 1994 for substantially less than $150,000. You certainly couldn't buy a lot like ours and build a house on it for $150,000 today.

I have come to the conclusion recently, though, that in today's dollars, $150,000 buys you a couple of pieces of paper.

I estimate that the boys' complete college experience cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $150,000. For that, they each received a beautiful diploma from Bob Jones University that proclaims them as honored graduates of that institution. They apparently completed the coursework necessary to have their degrees bestowed upon them. Based on the many stories I heard - and the many others that I can only surmise - they also had a lot of fun, made a lot of friends, grew up a little and became godly young men.

Those pieces of paper signified the completion of a lot of hard work; and I commend them heartily for it.

Those pieces of paper also signified the start of a lot of hard work that will last for the next four decades, or so.

Diane and I picked up the majority of the tab for the boys' education. I don't resent doing it, but it's rather eye-opening to look back over that six year span and realize how hard I worked - and how hard I will continue to work to pay off the loans I took to make up for what I couldn't earn - to put them through school. College has certainly gotten a lot more expensive than when I was in school.

So I guess that's what $150,000 got me. The boys benefited much more, of course, and will continue to benefit for a lifetime. As for me, though, I suppose I'll just watch my boys as they move ahead in their chosen careers and appreciate just how much $150,000 ultimately got me.

I suppose it's a better investment than my house!

Trade Show Travel

Now I know I can be a bit warped, at times, but work with me here...

Three of us from work are heading to the bi-annual ICUEE show in Louisville next week. It's a huge trade show with thousands of utility linemen, operations people and purchasers in attendance. We don't do a lot of trade shows, but we don't ever miss this one!

I drive the speed limit and I can drive to Louisville from my house in about six and one-half hours.  Rick and Todd both drive significantly faster than I do, so we'd probably make it to Louisville in well under six and one-half hours with one of them behind the wheel.Keep that number in mind, because it will be important later.

Now I would always prefer to drive on such a relatively short trip because it's far easier than the hassle of air travel. One of the other guys doesn't care how we get there. The third guy, though, insists on flying and, since he is the boss, we fly.

There are no longer any direct flights from Milwaukee to Louisville so we either have to figure out connections or fly out of Chicago. The solution this year was to fly from Chicago's Midway Airport to Louisville. Our flight is scheduled for Noon; which means we will have to be at the airport no later than 10:30. Because of the Chicago traffic situation, we have to leave our office sometime between 8:00 and 8:30 at the very latest. Figure four hours from departing the office until we take off, then another 45 minutes, or so, to get our bags and pick up the rental car after we land. We're pretty close to six and one-half hours either way.

Flying isn't really saving us any time and it is more expensive for three of us to fly and rent a car than it would be for the three of us to pile into one car and drive. We have to pile into one car to drive to the airport, anyway.

Oh, well...

Like I said; he's the boss.

The Stand

When I think of The Stand I don't think of the wildly popular Stephen King novel of the late 70's. No, the words The Stand cause me to think about an elevated platform in the woods from which I hunt deer.

That Stand!

The long saga of building our deer stand has finally reached its conclusion.

I meant to get pictures, but we got busy and forgot to take them. I'll try to get some when we go back up to clear shooting lanes.

It's All In The Details

I'm a detail person. Planning and analysis are two of my favorite activities. I am in my element when I can focus on organizing and planning down to the most minute detail.

I love getting lost in the details. Whether planning a trip or building something; I don't believe you can ever be too detail oriented!

One of the ways I feed my detail fetish is by creating checklists. I create Excel spreadsheets with packing lists for hunting trips, fishing trips, camping trips, business trips, etc. You name the trip and I have developed a checklist for it. I even have multi-level checklists that allow me to check off various stages of the preparations from buying a particular supply to loading it into a cooler or tote to loading it into my SUV.

There is no detail too small to be included on a checklist.

My obsession with details carries over to other projects, also. You've probably heard the old saying, "Measure twice, cut once." Well I take that quite literally when working on a project. I measure every cut, fold, bend, etc. several times before completing the work. I rarely end up with wasted materials due to incorrect measurements unless I am feeling rushed by pressure from other people. In fact, I ended up with extra materials while building our new tree stand platform. The plans I was using included a lumber cut list. I found that - with just a little time and effort - I could actually cut all of the pieces I needed from fewer boards than the plans called for. I managed to save an entire twelve foot two by six and ten foot two by four merely by paying attention to the details and measuring everything carefully before cutting anything.

I also tend to over-engineer everything I do. The playset I designed and built for the boys in the backyard nearly twenty years ago still stands strong and, I'm sure, could safely hold half the neighborhood should I invite them to a party in my yard. (I'm not going to, but it would hold them if I did.)

Now I realize that my tendency to plan and measure ad nauseum drives my family nuts. Diane usually does a pretty good job of pretending to be patient as I measure several boards and calculate the best way to get the materials needed with the least waste. She even feigns interest as I explain what I am doing and why I elected to do it a certain way.

The boys, on the other hand, do not feel the need to pretend to be interested or patient. They both seem to have a pretty good dose of their Granny in them. She is more interested in just getting something done than making sure it is done well, or even properly.

I'm never going to win one of those construction contests they show on DIY Network where the teams have eight hours to design and build a themed deck. I'm never going to win an award for elegant design. But I guarantee you that I will happily get lost in the minutiae of whatever I undertake.

After all, it's all in the details.

But They Are Only Words

We communicate in various ways; both verbal and non-verbal. Ultimately, the vast majority of our daily adult communication with other people involves words.

Words are funny things. They have no real value in and of themselves. They are, after all, merely a juxtaposition of letters that have come to be accepted by society as representative of something; whether animate or inanimate. We further juxtapose those words into phrases and sentences to form ideas, concepts and descriptions of our lives and the world around us.

But they are only words.

We use that collection of juxtaposed letters and words to interact with the world. My fingers glide over the keyboard; gently clicking various keys in a particular order to form the words used to share my thoughts and feelings with anyone who stumbles upon this blog. I use this collection of words, at times, to bare my soul. At other times, I use it to share memories from my past. Whatever the topic of the day, I use words to convey meaning.

But they are only words.

As kids, we used to chant the catchy phrase, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me." There is some truth to that. The same word may bring pain or joy depending on many things, so it's not the word itself that carries the weight. It is, after all, only a word. It is really not the words themselves, but how we use the words that bring healing or cause pain.

I've been guilty of both bringing healing and causing pain with my words at times. I can be so careful in my selection of words at one moment and so careless the next. It's easy to say that it's no big deal either way because they are only words, but I thrive on juxtaposing letters into words and words into phrases and sentences.

Writing this blog gives me an outlet, but it also provides a safety valve in that I can edit, rewrite or delete completely any word, phrase or entire blog entry that doesn't convey my thoughts as I had intended. For every blog entry that makes it to the publication point, there are several others that I am working on, have deleted or simply decided not to flesh out yet. I have the luxury of time to make sure I have chosen the right words.

Communicating is so much more than the words we use.

It is a reflection of the heart.

Even if they are only words.

Modern Proverb

I used to keep an old Ziggy comic on the wall over my desk. It merely said, "Do a little more each day than people expect of you and soon they will expect a little more."

I saw that as a bit of positive advice; although not everyone I came across agreed with me. I figured it was a great reminder to strive to exceed others' expectations of me and they would soon come to appreciate my work ethic and, perhaps even my abilities, as being greater than they had originally thought.

A friend of mine - who tended to have a darker view of life than me - argued with me many times over the "true" meaning of that little comic. She insisted that it was meant to be a warning that people would take advantage of you and just keep asking more and more of you if you went over and above their original expectations.

I elected to keep the positive spin on it, though, and do my best to do a little more than people expected of me. While there have certainly been some people (perhaps ethically challenged) who have taken advantage of me through the years because of my attitude, I figure that it's really their problem - not mine. Overall, I believe my desire to do more than the minimum required by other people's expectations has made me into a better person.

I would rather have people expect much of me - even if it means I occasionally fall short of their expectations - than to expect little or nothing of me and watch me eventually sink to the level of just that.

Disconnect

It has been nearly twenty years since I had the pleasure of spending two weeks in Japan on a business trip. The trip was a whirlwind that came about at the last minute at quite possibly the worst time imaginable.

We had just broken ground on our new home when my boss mentioned the possibility of a trip to Japan for one of our best clients. I had developed the framework for troubleshooting and diagnostic software for the client's field service engineers that enabled them to use their laptop instead of carrying dozens of systems manuals for each product in their line. The client wanted me to fly to their Tokyo division to teach their software engineers how to implement the framework on their products.

Nothing was set, though, so there really wasn't anything to worry about. All of that changed in the blink of an eye when, on Friday morning, my boss called me into his office to tell me that I was booked on a flight to Tokyo at 11:00 AM Sunday.

Sunday, as in two days away Sunday??? Yep. I had almost exactly 48 hours to have everything ready for two weeks in Japan in the midst of building a home.

I left work and raced home to break the news to Diane and begin preparations for the trip. There was so much to do and very little time to get it done. I was supposed to be applying the insulation to the poured concrete walls over the weekend, but that got pushed off on a contractor, instead.

Saturday morning started off wonderfully with my glasses breaking. Add an emergency run to an optical shop to get new glasses to the already exploding list of things to do.

We somehow managed to get everything done in time for Diane and the boys to take me to the airport Sunday morning where I boarded a flight first for Chicago and then on to Tokyo.

Tokyo provided what had to be the biggest cultural disconnect I could fathom. I had to take a train from my hotel to the town where my client's office was located. I boarded the train with my computer. The trains in Tokyo all seem to be packed all the time. I put my computer on an overhead rack and was gradually pushed further back in the car at each stop. I feared that my computer would be gone when I went to retrieve it, but there was nothing to fear. I made my way through the throngs of people on the train as we approached my stop to find the computer sitting on the rack just as I had left it.

The first cultural disconnect.

Each train car had Silver Seats, so named not so much for their silver color, but for the silver hair of the senior citizens for whom the seats were reserved. The riders could be wedged into the train cars like sardines, but the Silver Seats would remain empty if no senior citizens were in the car. Younger people simply would not sit in the empty seats.

The second cultural disconnect.

The work culture was totally foreign to me. The desks were jammed into double rows throughout the entire work area. I found myself staring into the face of another person if I looked past my monitor. I could reach out and touch the workers on my right and left; so close were the desks positioned.

The third cultural disconnect.

A bell chimed at 10:00 each morning, followed by a voice on the intercom talking the employees through stretching regimens. All work stopped throughout the entire facility as everyone stood behind their desk chair and followed the leader's stretching instructions. I did not know any Japanese, of course, so I used that time each morning to head to the coffee pot to refill my cup.

The fourth cultural disconnect.

Perhaps the biggest cultural disconnect came, though, on the weekend when my Japanese host offered to take me around Tokyo. We saw the Imperial Palace, the busiest train station in the world, Akihabara -also known as Geek Heaven - the electronics marketplace of the world in Central Tokyo and Tokyo's version of Times Square.

As we walked along a narrow street in a market district, I couldn't help but notice the presence of vending machines selling beer. This prompted a discussion with my host about a legal drinking age in Tokyo. He assured me that they had laws against underage drinking just like we had in the United States. This prompted me, of course, to ask, "What's stopping a 17 year old from putting his money into the machine to buy a beer?" I will never forget the ensuing discussion. He as shocked that I would even suspect such a thing. The young people wouldn't buy beer from the street vending machines because it was against the law. I continued to press the question of what was stopping them from doing so. We went around and around on the topic for several minutes before finally getting to the point where he said there was nothing other than the weight of Japan's traditions to stop an underage person from buying beer if they chose to break the law.

The fifth, and biggest, cultural disconnect.

Although I'm sure there were many underage people who bought beer from the machines and I'm equally sure that their culture has changed much in the past twenty years; I am still amazed when I think back on that trip and the cultural shock that accompanied those two hectic, yet wonderful weeks.

I would love to be able to visit Tokyo again sometime with Diane: to be able to share with her the joys of wandering the narrow, shop-lined streets of the neighborhoods surrounding Tokyo; to be able to eat at the seemingly ubiquitous small, family owned noodle counters throughout the city; to be able to laugh together at the disconnect of being an American in Tokyo again.

Fresh Ice

Today marks what should be a national holiday; the first day of on-ice activities for the St. Louis Blues Training Camp! This ranks right up there in importance with the start of the Blues' regular season, the opening of gun deer hunting season and the celebration parade down Market Street when the Blues win the Stanley Cup this year!!!

Okay, that last one is not yet a done deal, but I'm confident it will also come to pass.

There's something beautiful about fresh ice. The Blue Note is still vibrant and rich, the intensity of the colors in the lines popping against the pure, white background of the ice surface. Yes, this is truly the start of something wonderful.

Every September since 1967 has ushered in an excitement and passion for the start of the NHL season. This September is no different.

I wish I could be there to witness the Blues setting foot onto the ice surface at the Scottrade Center at Noon today. The offseason has been too long.

 I wish I could see the sights and hear the sounds of hockey today.

Instead, I will be at work; dreaming of that day in the no longer so distant future when I will watch the players take the ice for the start of the regular season. The day when the annual quest for the Stanley Cup begins anew; and brings with it all of the renewed hope for hockey fans everywhere.

Let's Go Blues!!!

Been There

Today marks another anniversary of the worst terrorist attack on our country. The nation came together - for a while - to help, to hold and to heal. Somewhere along the line, though, we gradually slid back to our normal routines and seemingly forgot about those things that bound us together.

For a short time, all Americans - regardless of their political position, religion, socioeconomic class or race - were joined in solidarity around those who had fallen and those who worked to rescue, recover and restore. We were Americans; bound together by our love of country and our care for one another.

I went to Ground Zero while in New York City a couple of years after the attacks. It was a horribly somber experience; one that I will never forget nor likely repeat. We stood at the fence surrounding the massive hole in the ground where the towers had once stood.

The hole marking the spot where thousands of Americans lost their lives.

The hole marking the spot where many of New York's Finest and Bravest made the ultimate sacrifice while serving the community.

The hole marking the spot where everything changed in America - probably forever.

My eyes welled up with tears as I read the countless tributes left at the site for loved ones who would never see them. I remember pointing out a neighboring building to Joseph in one of the photos of the site so he could grasp just how large the towers were.

I remember standing at the fence; struck by the overwhelming weight of grief for those left behind.

Today brings all of that to mind again. While it is good that our lives have returned to some level of "normalcy," I pray that we never forget all of the things that gaping hole represented: husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters who didn't come home; heroes who refused to stop looking even when looking seemed futile; leaders who, without regard for political party, worked together to bring closure and justice; and perhaps most of all, the day that changed America forever.