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...