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.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, October 28, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, October 25, 2013
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."
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."
Monday, October 14, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, October 11, 2013
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...
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...
Thursday, October 10, 2013
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
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
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
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.
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.
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