Johnny

John has been and always will be my friend.

My friend John is one of the best people who has walked this Earth. John was the first person who befriended me at church back in 1976. He took me under his wing and taught me the responsibilities of the Aaronic Priesthood and the ins and outs of preparing the sacrament. He made sure I went to and then felt welcomed at church activities. He was one of the popular guys but always made time for me. I was a very shy kid when I was in high school, but John’s friendship and attention I think brought me out of myself constructed cocoon and helped me to understand the difference between acquaintances and true friends. He was a year older and a grade higher than me, but he was a very good friend to me.

Happy Birthday, Texas... From Bum Phillips

Four years ago, I wrote some thoughts on being from Texas. But if I am to be truly honest, as much as I enjoy telling people that I'm from Texas, I would much rather tell folks that I am IN Texas.

Soon though... I'll be back home soon.

In the meantime, please enjoy some Happy Birthday wishes to the great state of Texas from Bum Phllips.

My Grandfather's Clock

Some of my earliest memories in life are of family functions in the home of my grandparents, Louis and Gladys Hassell. They lived in the Oak Forest area of Houston on Gardenia Street. They bought the house and moved there early in 1949. It was in June of that year – on my mom’s birthday – that they planted the grass much to the dismay of my mom. This was certainly no way to spend a birthday. My mother and her sister were raised in that house and my grandparents lived there until my grandmother died in March of 2004, one day before the eleventh anniversary of my grandfather’s passing.

There were many family Christmases that took place in that house. Easters, Thanksgiving dinners, birthdays, and many other celebrations filled the house with laughter and joy over the decades, but Christmas was always my favorite. Their house became the center of our family it seemed, because while not every holiday or event took place there, we certainly gathered there more than any other place partially due to the fact that the rest of us moved to different houses from time to time, but mostly I think it was because that was just where we all gravitated to. That house was literally and figuratively the center of our ever expanding extended family.

Microwave Oven Where it Should Be

There is a microwave oven in my bathroom. "Why is there a microwave oven in his bathroom?" is the question that I would assume most of you are asking yourselves right about now. The question that I ask myself when I walk past this appliance of modern convenience is "I wonder why it took me 50 years to realize I need a microwave oven in my bathroom."

There is so much I have learned in my 50 years of life. Being a fan of the game of golf, I think I'll start referring to the first 50 years of my life as "The Front Nine." This is neither original nor unique to me, but I like the sound of it so I shall adopt it as my own. This also assumes that I will live to be 100. In some ways I hope I do. I yearn to see what the next 50 years will bring to modern science, art, technology, and entertainment, just to name a few things that will undergo major transformations. On the other hand, I dread to see what will happen in these and other areas of our everyday lives.

And then there's the fact that I may not be in the best of conditions when I reach 100, if I'm still alive that is. I don't want to be a burden to anyone. I don't want to be scared because I can't remember where I parked my car, or where I live, or my own name. Living to be 100 seems to me to be a double edged sword… either a blessing or a curse. I guess I'll have to wait and see which it is for me, if I ever get there.

But anyway, back to the front nine. I've always told Rebecca that I may or may not be smarter than she is… she really is pretty smart in her own right. I've also told her that I have one thing that she doesn't have and cannot argue with, and that is 28 years more experience than she has. I've seen some incredible things in my life. I've been burned by people I thought were friends, and I've felt love from people I thought had forgotten me, either by will or by time. And I couldn't help but learn a few things along the way.

I learned pretty early not to stick my hand in the fire. That one was easy. It only took once for that lesson to sink into wherever things need to sink to so as not to ever be forgotten. I learned that gravity can hurt. That one probably took a little longer to learn. I know now that crawling across rough concrete with bare knees is not the wisest of things to do with my spare time, but I have moving pictures of a very young me doing that very thing, and not having too much concern about it at the time. I cringe and everyone else in the room groans every time we have "Home Movie Night" and we all see firsthand how I was not to be stopped by such trivial matters as rough concrete against bare knees. I was, after all, a toddler with places to go.

I know that just because something is on regular television doesn't mean that it's good for you. I used to watch Benny Hill's show on public television when I was a kid. That could be pretty racy at times, but nothing like the so-called reality we see on the tube these days. I used to think that if it was really all that bad, it would only be shown on cable or at a movie theater. Maybe it was that way once upon a time, but not today.

Yes, I've learned much in my time on the front nine. Some things I wish I didn't know. You know, the kinds of things that make people cynical or untrusting. I wish I didn't know firsthand how people who profess their love for you can turn around and hurt you and not seem to care. I have to admit that I have done that too, long ago, when I was a lot younger. I guess it's karma. I'm guilty and so I had it coming to me. I don't know, but that makes as much sense as any other reason, I guess.

I'm sure that as technology continues to advance at an ever increasingly alarming rate, there will be wonderful things to experience. I'm almost positive that someday in the not too distant future, we will be able to dine out or go on weeklong vacations without having to leave the comfort of our homes, and while such advances sound exciting and wonderful, they also sound horrible and even boring. Sometimes I feel that all these modern conveniences that we have grown so accustomed to have made us all weak and lazy. I dunno. Maybe I'm just getting a head start on the mindless babbling that I'm sure will take up most of my old age.

But here is one thing I know for sure… I will always have a microwave oven in my bathroom from now on. And why? Because I discovered the art of shaving with a shaving mug, soap, and brush many years ago when I was in the Air Force. The easy way for a guy to shave is to use foam out of a can. One can certainly get a decent enough shave that way. I started using hot tap water to create a warm lather with my shaving brush and mug. Then one day I thought about making the water hotter so I heated some water on the stove to use to create an even hotter lather, and that was better. Then I started using the microwave oven to heat water to the boiling point quickly and use that to shave. The natural progression of the thought process is a wonderful thing to behold, isn't it?

So now I need my microwave oven right there where it should be… in the bathroom. And it only took me 50 years or so to figure that out.

Necessity? Convenience? OCD? I'll leave it up to you to decide.

Christmas Ruined

Christmas was coming and as always when I was nine years old, Christmas couldn’t get here fast enough. That was years before I would feel any kind of stress from a rapidly approaching Christmas for which I was ill prepared. As someone who believed that he had become an adult and was therefore somewhat responsible, I began to feel that pressure in my twenties. Sometimes I would start feeling the dread of the upcoming Christmas as early as December 26th.

Man, that’s just wrong.

Most of the time these days though, I tend to barely suffer most of what our society has to offer beginning just after Halloween and all the way through the day itself; the commercialization of the season, black Friday, live nativities, to whose house are we are supposed to go and when and for how long, which new television specials I should contemplate and which to disregard, which parades will attract my attention, how many time I will watch “A Christmas Story” all the way through, or any other of the flotsam and jetsam that goes along with the temporal part of this sometimes maddening season.

I really do welcome the spiritual part of the season though. I enjoy my reflections on the true meaning of Christmas, the celebration of the birth of our Lord and Savior. I like to read the account of the birth of the Son of Man from the second chapter of St Luke. I feel the peace on Earth and good will to men when I hear Christmas carols. I welcome the feelings of love towards my family, my friends, and the people in my life and from my past that have had a profound influence on who I have become.

And I have become patient over the years when it comes to those packages under the tree, the ones that right after the word “to:” have my name on them. It’s not as though I don’t care what’s in those packages, or have no regard for the time and effort it took someone to pick out and then carefully wrap the item in question. It’s just that I would rather wait until the appointed time to unveil what was meant to be a surprise.

I have known people, and probably still know people today, who simply just can’t wait. They find gift-wrapped present with their name on it and it gnaws at them, it keeps them awake at night, it consumes their lives because they have to know and they have to know NOW. Rational thought becomes scarce. After ensuring no one else is in the house, they will shake this package and listen carefully for any hint of telltale rattling or clinking from within to indicate the contents. If that doesn’t work, they might carefully take note of the shape, size, and weight distribution in order to determine what’s inside.

Then if that fails, there may be a series of actions that goes something like this: There will be a second survey of the house and this time phone calls may be made to confirm the whereabouts of anyone who might suddenly appear through the front or garage door. There will be a methodical studying of the wrapping itself in an attempt to determine the reverse order of the wrapping process. This will be done several times before a cautious finger is ever so carefully eased under a corner the scotch tape. After taking a deep breath, the finger is painstakingly slid the length of the tape with surgeon-like precision in an attempt to separate one flap of delicate wrapping paper from another. As the anticipation grows, another look over the shoulder and a few moments of motionless silence is observed. Once satisfied that the coast is indeed clear, a slow and deliberate lifting of the newly liberated piece of wrapping paper reveals one end of a plain and nondescript brown box. A new strategy must now be formulated.

Meticulous removal of more tape will allow the plain and nondescript box to gradually slide through the opening in the fragile paper and out of the confines of its green and red prison to freedom. More tape is found on the box. More careful finger sliding and tape lifting is needed.

The treasure is finally ready to be revealed. The box is slowly opened and then it’s over. Just like that, it’s over. It is now known what is in store for the future. The surprise is over. No more anticipation. No more wondering. No more guessing. No more trying to catch the giver of the gift off guard and trick him or her into letting the cat out of the bag. It’s known and it can never be unknown again.

And now comes the cleanup. With crime scene attention to detail, there must be a careful retaping of the box, a cautious sliding of the box back in through the opening in the wrapping paper while fearing with every millimeter that one corner of the box will catch and rip the wrapping paper, a deliberate refolding of the paper and then trying to make sure that the tape is reapplied to the exact same position, and finally a placing of the package back under the tree so as not to alert anyone that any gift tampering has taken place. There may or may not be feelings of guilt or shame. There may or may not be sleepless nights worried that a reused piece of tape has lost its adhesiveness and is slowly coming undone. There may or may not be numerous hours spent in front of mirrors practicing reactions of shock and surprise for when the package is officially opened in front of family and/or friends.

Man, I’m exhausted. I need a nap and I need it right now. I personally have never done this so I can’t really imagine how someone who actually performs this procedure would feel afterwards. I’m not judging here. I know that every person makes decisions and has to live with the consequences of those decisions. I know that my way of doing things doesn’t have to be anyone else’s way. It’s just not my thing to let curiosity drive me to do such things as described above, and for me it is a rare thing that I know exactly why I feel a certain way about something. For one, I’ve never been one to handle such intricate details without ultimately making a mess of things.

Mostly though, I remember vividly how I felt when I was nine years old and Christmas was coming.

That was the year I campaigned unabashedly and without pretense for a chemistry set. I’m not really sure where such a desire originated, but I remember that I had to have one, probably to keep up with the Jones’ so to speak. It’s possible that one of my good pals, Randy or Barry or Payson, had one and so ownership of one would of course be required in order to remain in good standing in this circle of friends. I can’t remember. What I do remember however, is that I needed one as surely as my lungs needed air to breathe. Ralphie’s quest for an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot, range model air rifle was certainly pitiful in comparison. And “pitiful” may be one of the all time understatements in the history of mankind.

So I campaigned. I thought about hinting and quickly discarded such foolish thinking. Instead, I blatantly stated to anyone within earshot. I left catalogs lying around the house in conspicuous places opened to pages that proudly displayed pictures and descriptions of the kinds of kits in which I was interested. I did my best to convince Mom and Dad that a chemistry set was essential to my education and development, reciting the benefits of discovering compounds, mixtures, solutions, suspensions, and more. A world of possibilities would open up to me if only I were to know how to make plastic out of milk, a stink bomb, a smoke bomb, and colorful slime all while learning about the basics of elements, atoms, organic chemistry, electrochemistry, indicators, polymers, and much more. Subtlety would not do. This was no time to insinuate. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind what it was that I would be expecting come Christmas morning.

Now, in our house there on Sierra Madre in Austin, Texas, the family room was the center of activity. That’s where the television (yes, the ONE television) was. It’s where the sofa and reclining rocking chair and fireplace was. A few feet behind the sofa there was a window to the kitchen, a pass-through of sorts. The sofa faced the wall with the television of course, and on that wall to the right of the television was a door. The door opened into a small room off the family room and when opened fully, it was against the wall on the right that separated that room from the garage.

Sometimes that small room was a guest room. Sometimes it seemed to be Mom’s sewing room, though I think she did most of the actual sewing at either of the kitchen or formal dining room tables. It was more like her sewing gear storage room, full of materials and buttons and spools of thread that would someday become serviceable garments for her family. Sometimes the room appeared to be an office. I seem to recall that a desk might have been in there. Not really sure. I do remember that I often had occasion to go into that room for a variety of reasons. Mom might send me in there to grab something for her. Maybe one of my Hot Wheels cars accidentally rolled in there and I had to retrieve it with my Hot Wheels wrecker service. Maybe I was looking for a pencil with which to do homework, but that actually seems unlikely and perhaps a little farfetched upon further reflection.

One day as I went in to that little room for some reason I caught a glimpse of something behind the door. Now, I understand that most people who know me at all will think that I am being sarcastic and even dishonest when I say that I really wasn’t looking for Christmas presents. I must ask for a little faith and trust here. It’s not that I didn’t ever look for hiding places; this just wasn’t one of those times. Whatever I went into that room looking for was in no way connected to Christmas and was immediately forgotten when I spotted that shiny, unwrapped, white metal box hidden behind the door to that little room. I stood there frozen for what seemed like until the next Christmas, not exactly sure what I should do. Dad was at work and I could hear Mom in another part of the house doing some kind of mom-type thing. My little sisters weren’t a real concern either because even if they saw me they were too young to understand the implications of my actions.

I eased the door towards the closed position just enough to get a clear look at that box, and there it was. My chemistry set. It looked like a real cool one too. I remember the excitement I felt oh so clearly. I also remember that this happiness lasted somewhere around a second and a half. What took the place of joy and elation came as a surprise to me, and there were several emotions that came over me. One was guilt, but this was somewhat minor because I hadn’t actively sought out this hiding spot. One was fear that I might either inadvertently let it slip in casual conversation that I had discovered my present or that I might not be able to pull off the surprised reaction when I opened this gift and thereby ruin Christmas for everyone. I was able to easily discard this feeling also, but I would have to be careful.

The feelings that were the strongest were sadness, regret, and disappointment, and not for the reasons you might be thinking. It wasn’t the wrong gift. It wasn’t too small. It wasn’t a different kit that the one I wanted. I was very pleased and most appreciative of what I was to receive. I was sad and disappointed because I had indeed ruined Christmas. Not for everyone else, not even for anyone else, but for me. I had ruined the surprise. No one knew it but me, but I knew. I hadn’t initially done it on purpose, but when I saw that white shiny box I did peek behind the door to get a better look. I was disappointed in myself and I couldn’t truly grasp that concept at such a tender age.

I knew some form of disappointment, sure. I could become crestfallen and sullen when I didn’t get my way. Mom and Dad had been forced to deny many of my requests in the past such as wanting to bring home stray dogs, numerous attempts to spend nights at a friend’s house when we had school the next day, having my own car, or airplane … things like that. But this was the first time I can remember being disappointed in myself for my own actions. I’m sure it happened before that day, but this time it was profound. I hadn’t yet been exposed to much of the ugliness that the world is capable of showing to us so this made a real and lasting impression on me.

I was still learning much of the differences between right and wrong, but I knew perhaps instinctively that this was wrong. The fact that it was accidental didn’t really matter and was of little comfort because the bottom line of the situation was that I had discovered what I was getting for Christmas that year. Sure, it was cool that I was getting it, but I wasn’t supposed to know. This destroyed all anticipation for Christmas morning. I remember almost dreading its arrival. I wanted to forget what I saw, but of course that was impossible. It was done, it couldn’t be undone, and I was sad and disappointed, and I was sorry for what had happened but who could I really apologize to?

I also remember thinking of Mom and Dad and how excited they would be as I opened this awesome present. They should see amazement on my face and I was so scared that my reaction would betray what I knew in my heart… that I had cheated. I broke the rules. This was one of my earliest memories of actually thinking of someone else’s feelings instead of my own. Man, I was heartbroken, and this time it was me that had broken my own heart.

Christmas morning came as scheduled and I opened my presents and was truly happy and joyful when I opened that package that contained the chemistry set. It was the “big” present for me that year. And while the happiness and joy were real, I had to feign surprise. Maybe I pulled it off, maybe not. Even if I was transparent in my attempt to fake surprise, I doubt that anyone who was there that Christmas morning 40 years ago will remember anything that explicitly stood out about the incident. It’s probably no more than a very minor footnote from a Christmas long ago for everyone else, if even that.

For me though, it was a life altering accident and then error in judgment.

These days, Sheri will on occasion let me know that she has some kind of surprise for me. I do the same for her. It’s fun to surprise someone you love, especially if it’s a good surprise. I finally grew out of the kinds of surprises that involve such things as jumping out from behind doors. Those aren’t the good kinds of surprises. The kinds I’m referring to involve happiness, smiles, hugs, and maybe tears of joy. Over the years though, it’s become a fun game for me to try to get the secret out of her and the first few times we engaged in such a battle of wills she gave in too easily. I was disappointed all over again when that happened.

I think she knows now that it’s more the challenge of breaking her than it is actually discovering what she’s trying to keep from me. It’s a game. The real fun is watching her get frustrated at my attempts to trick her into revealing too much. I think she really knows how I feel and will sometimes spill the beans on purpose me just to teach me a lesson. Maybe it’s too dangerous a game to play even if the ultimate outcome may seem insignificant.

I truly do not want to know now what is meant to be a future surprise. I don’t even want hints. I love pleasant surprises and I will wait patiently until I am told I can uncover my eyes and look upon what someone has put much thought into. I prefer to not know the gift of a surprise that someone has taken the time and energy to create for me. I will be patient. I will not try to find out until you are ready for me to find out.

I’ll just wait, and then we can enjoy the moment together.

Roll On Life, Roll On

Lex II: Mutationem motus proportionalem esse vi motrici impressae, et fieri secundum lineam rectam qua vis illa imprimitur.

~Sir Isaac Newton~

I feel as though I have starting losing control of my own life. Some of this loss is of my own doing, but some is not. The illusion of control itself is an interesting concept to me as far as how much control we can really have. Consider the following strip from Bill Watterson:

As you can see, what we think of as control can become nonexistent in a hurry. I like this strip as a reminder of how things really are.

So what does this have to do with me losing control of my own life?

Back when I was in grade school, I learned (unwilling though that learning might have been) the three laws of motion. In simplistic terms, they are as follows:

1. An object at rest tends to stay at rest unless moved by an outside force.

2. An object in motion tends to stay in motion at the same speed and direction unless changed by an outside force.

3. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Recently, I have begun to view my life a little differently, not so much as a timeline, but as such an object that is subject to Newton’s laws of motion.

Let me explain.

My life will go on with or without my influence as long as it is supposed to. How long is that? I don’t know, nor am I supposed to know. I’m sure that my Father in Heaven doesn’t need my opinion on the matter, but I’ll give it anyway. I think it’s a wonderful idea for us not to know the hour of our departure from this life. If I knew, I could fill my life with sin, debauchery, and other vile habits, and my only responsibility would be to keep track of time so as to be able to make a full confession, repent, and turn my life around completely and totally five minutes before the appointed time of death. Good idea from the viewpoint of the sinner but not really what God had in mind for our test, right?

Anyway, back to the explanation. My life will go on in a straight line and at the same speed (Newton’s 2nd Law) unless outside forces change it. If we can agree on that, then let’s examine what some of those outside forces are. First and foremost is God. There’s an old saying that goes “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” I believe that we are allowed to make our own plans for our lives, and that we can implement those plans, but only so far as they don’t conflict with God’s plans. Illness, natural disasters, other people are but a few of the influences that can alter our plans. Remember Job? Here was a man who did everything right and he was full of faith and was prosperous, but God had other plans for him, at least for a while.

The opposing team can certainly alter our plans too. We can start to feel inadequate or undeserving of the fruits of our plans. Where does that come from? We can start to question our own faith in ourselves and in our plans, especially if those plans are in harmony with God’s desires.

OK… so setting aside for the time being those two forces that can change the motion of our lives, what else is there? Well, quite a bit I would say. Other people’s plans for their own lives can alter our motion. Someone else’s agenda can easily knock us off course, especially if we’re the kind of people who are content with just letting inertia carry us through life, and not exerting much outside force to either change the direction or speed of our lives, or to get ourselves back on course when some other force causes an unwanted change.

Sometimes our own lack of focus can change the direction we are going. We can make a plan, a great plan, to do this or that and we make all the necessary arrangements and get everything in place and maybe even put forth the effort required to set that plan in motion. Things are going great and the plan is working out wonderfully because we are monitoring and making adjustments (outside force) as needed and then something distracts us. A new idea spawns a new plan. Someone comes by with an invitation to join their plan. Maybe we just get bored because the plan isn’t moving as fast as we thought it would. With some people, this happens more easily than with others. We stop monitoring the original plan, other outside forces change the velocity and trajectory of that plan, things begin to go haywire, and before we know it the results of our original plan are disastrous and are nowhere near where we thought they would be when we made our plan. Sound familiar? It sure does to me.

Sometimes our own lack of monitoring (called sensory acuity) dooms our plan from the get-go. We make a great plan, prepare it, and then set it in motion only to believe that it will go along as planned without any further effort. Try getting your car pointed straight down the road and then let go of the steering wheel and see how that works out for you. Minor, and sometimes major, corrections will always be needed to keep your plan from drifting off into the ditch, especially in the beginning. Other plans may have to be included in this plan, then others, and then some will have to be monitored more closely than others, and you look up one day and see what was once one simple plan has become something that has taken on a life of its own with many plans intertwined and tangled up looks to be at first glance nothing more than a random unmanageable mess. So we might tell ourselves that we just can’t handle this anymore. Time to quit. Time to cut our losses or save our sanity and move on. Time to make a new plan.

Sometimes other people will sabotage our plans. They might do this out of jealousy or greed. Maybe they do it out of meanness or spite. Maybe they just don’t like me and want me to fail. Maybe we started out with the same goals so we combined our plans together and then they wanted to change their plan. When they apply a force to their plan doesn’t it affect our plan too? Maybe it’s done unwittingly, not knowing that their actions are causing an outside force to alter the inertia of our own plan. Maybe they just don’t care. Even as I write this it seems that I’ve become cynical and untrusting, and maybe I have. I can justify my cynicism though because these things have happened to me and my plans. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes even unknowingly, but they have happened. After a while it begins to wear a person down, you know?

Sometimes our plan just isn’t thought out all the way. Some people dive in head first before knowing how deep the water is. Unforeseen circumstances (outside forces) pop up and we aren’t prepared to deal with them and keep on truckin’, so we shelve the plan for the time being and then usually never get back to it. For every successful plan that achieves its intended fruition, there must be millions and millions and millions that never reached or even really came close to its desired outcome.

Even more tragic than that are the plans that were really awesome, well thought out, all the necessary arrangements and preparations were made, and then fear of failure (outside force) keeps us from giving the stationary object the needed nudge to set it in motion. We start to think to ourselves “Who am I to think that I can really pull this off?” or something of that nature. I’m sure that some plans just shouldn’t be put into motion, so ridiculous or evil or downright goofy are they that it would really be better off to set it aside and move on. More often than not though, it’s some kind of fear or self doubt. And the real tragedy is when those fears/self doubts come from other people who haven’t taken the time or spent the energy to learn all of the different aspects and nuances of the plan, and thus become nothing more than naysayers. We all have people in whom we trust lead us astray from time to time. It’s rarely of a malicious nature, but more likely stems from inadequate information or a lack of shared vision. For every successful plan that achieves its intended fruition, there must be millions and millions and millions that never really even got started.

There are also times when it is completely appropriate to let others tell us what we should be doing (apply outside force). Most of us work for someone else. It is up to that person or someone else that the boss designates, to let us know what our actions should be. When I went to work for my current employer, I agreed to let him apply the forces to the motion of my life that would help him achieve the goals of his plan in return for monetary compensation. That was the deal even though it was never really laid out in those terms. There is always a trade off though. If my boss tells me to do something that goes against my own set of beliefs or morals or personal standards, then I am free to apply my own outside force and either try to make a change in this person’s plan for me, make my own new plan and change jobs, or I can ignore my own rules and let this person have total control over the actions and forces that determine the path I travel, at least while I’m at work. I trust that he will not put me in a position to have to make that decision, or I would have never agreed to work for him. Isn’t that what we all do?

And so goes our lives, in motion, changing speed or direction only when some outside force is applied. When all of that force is from external sources, God, Satan, spouses, parents, siblings, children, in-laws, friends, enemies, bosses, customers, DMV employees, business associates, strangers on the street, members of our church congregations, those two ladies that are talking loudly while I’m in the library writing this, etc… then we have little or no control of our lives. But when we make an effort to decide who will or will not be able to apply an outside force to the motion of our plans and lives, then we can regain some or even most of that control. That having been said, it must also be noted that my faith and knowledge of the workings of the Kingdom of Heaven tell me that the will of God will not be controlled by me, and the whisperings of Satan, while able to be ignored, will not be silenced by me.

So how do we ever even get through a single day with all of these plans in motion, and all of the outside forces that alter our plans, and all of the forces that we must apply to the inertia of our own lives, and all of the decisions that must be made regarding those forces, etc…? I mean, it really sounds like a daunting task doesn’t it, especially when you stop and think that all of this activity goes on during every single waking hour, not to even mention all of the outside forces that continue to alter our lives while we are sleeping and unaware.

Man, I'm tired all of a sudden.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this over the last few days, and have made some decisions regarding outside forces.

I am tired of letting every little outside force have a major impact on my life. I’m tired of being bounced around like a rag doll on a trampoline, pushed along like a twig in a raging river, or perhaps held back from my desires as though I were mired in quicksand. More often than not though, I basically feel like a ball-bearing in the world’s largest and most frenetic pin-ball machine. Ding-ding-ding as I get bounced from flipper to bumper to bumper to bumper, up this ramp and through a tunnel and down that chute only to be bounced and flipped and bumpered more and more and realizing that I am powerless to stop it or even slow it down. I am done with this pinball life.

I am in the process of revisiting some of my old plans and desires to determine which ones I still wish to pursue. I am also in the process of reviewing my own life plan so I can live the life I was meant to live. There are so many things I want to accomplish in this life and I have allowed myself to become complacent, letting any and all outside forces push me from here to there and having neither the courage nor the strength to push them aside or even to make an effort to apply enough force to get myself back on track. Letting that happen is how I ended up in Missouri in the first place. And I have decided that most of the force that I will allow to change my progress will come from me and me alone.

Oh sure, there will be others who will have some impact, I’m not foolish enough to think that I can live in a vacuum, not affecting anyone and being affected by no one. Aside from God, Sheri will surely be able to apply more force than anyone to alter the direction of my life. My parents, my children, my extended family, my friends, etc… will also have some input, albeit a lesser amount than I’ve permitted in the past. There used to be things I wanted to accomplish in this life, and as I approach what could ostensibly be the halfway point in a 100 year long life, it’s time to take back control, and start monitoring the forces that can alter the body in motion that is my life.

Anthony Robbins says that real change is usually a response to one of two things, desperation or inspiration. Most of the time people will only make changes in themselves when they become desperate. For me, it seems to be more frustration than anything else, which I guess is a form of desperation in this context. I can look down the road and usually see where I’m headed. It’s increasingly rare that I’m happy about what seems to lie ahead. Then I look back and see the forces that have changed the way my life has gone, and as I said at the outset, some of those forces were self inflicted, and others were thrust upon me. I take full responsibility for those which I caused myself. I will no longer be at the will of other people’s plans for me, and I will correct a few wrongs along the way. They say that two wrongs don’t make a right, and I have always believed that, but some things need to be corrected, and some people will answer for what they’ve done.

Apply force when I must, respond wisely and swiftly to outside forces, control what I can control, accept what I cannot control, and keep God and Sheri around to let me know the difference.

It's Just Not Me

I’m still not quite sure how it happened, but once it happened the first time it was easier and easier to keep on going, so that’s what I did. As Bob Dylan so elegantly put it, “The only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keeping on.”

In hindsight it probably wasn’t one of my better decisions, but then who looks back at their good choices and thinks “You know, in hindsight that was a great move I made back then”? No, hindsight is best kept for those things we look back on with the clarity of a little more experience, and with the outcome and consequences in full and clearly focused view.

Then there’s the issue of Sheri’s thoughts about what I had done. She loved it. She’s one of those people who foolishly look back and thinks what I did was a great thing. She was happy with the outcome. She was thrilled with the new Lynbo. She wanted me to keep on keeping on and on and on. And that’s what I did for about three months.

Oh yes, it was easier to maintain. And yes, it was nice to be able to not obsess for those three months. It took quite a bit of getting used to, and I’m not entirely sure I ever did get used to it, but I was dealing with the ramifications like a good little soldier, a real trooper right up until I realized that the person I was seeing in the mirror just wasn’t me, no matter how hard I tried to make it so.

So I stopped. I don’t know if I will ever do this thing again, and I’ve started telling people this. I even had to have the dreaded heart to heart with Sheri to explain my current feelings on the matter, much to her dismay because she really did love it.

First, let’s back up a few months to the last week in August.

Sheri and I were in Michigan taking a break from the everyday hustle and bustle of our lives in Missouri and visiting her family who live there. When we visit, we stay in Spring Lake at a condo owned by her father and step-mother. It’s so nice to go there and have this wonderful place to hang our hats for a week or so. We always get lots of family time in, the nieces and the nephew usually come out and spent some quality time with Sheri and me, and it’s a very relaxing place to be. It doesn’t end up being one of those vacations where you’re just so busy going here and there and visiting this person and those people and having dinner with this part of the family one evening and then be expected for an early brunch with old friends or….. and on it goes until you feel like a vacation is needed from the vacation. No, these are really nice leisurely trips and we have always returned home feeling relaxed and rejuvenated.

Well, this last trip was shaping up to more of the same, which is good with Sheri and me. If it ain’t broke, you know. On our second night there, I decided I needed a haircut. My haircut decisions usually come to me this way. I never have been on a hair maintenance schedule of any kind except when I was in the Air Force, and even then I resisted and waited until my commander would make the decision (direct order) that it was time for a trim. I always wait until way after I start getting, and then stop getting, hints from family, usually from Sheri. Sometimes those hints would come close to the “hints” my Air Force bosses would give to me, but let’s get real here… I’m not in the military anymore, am I?

So anyway, back to the decision. I decided that it was time. Now here’s where things started to go in a different direction than all of my previous haircuts. I once allowed myself to be talked into a really short haircut, a buzz cut so to speak. No scissors, just those electric clippers that barbers use for trimming the back of the neck or sideburns. Some guys of course go for this kind of look all the time, but this was a first for me and I really didn’t dig it. It was quite some time before I got another haircut after that.

Here we were now on a Sunday evening in the condo overlooking the lake and I decided that this would be a good time for a haircut. Sheri had been after me ever since the clippers experience a few years before to try it again. She suggested it again on this night as the moon shone down happily over the lake, and this time I relented. Yes, the buzzing was about to take place again.

I positioned a chair in the middle of the kitchen and went in search for my beard trimmer. That’s right; it was to be by beard trimmer this time. Then she and I thought about the mess we were about to make, and started looking for a broom. No such luck. We had to find another way to keep from walking across a hairy kitchen floor every time we wanted something out of the fridge. In the end, I ended up sitting in the chair and leaning over one of those big throwaway aluminum roasting pans while Sheri stood behind me, then beside me, then on the other side of me, then in front of me, then back behind me again, all the while buzzing away at my hair.

I couldn’t even look.

When she was done and I opened my eyes, there in front of me in the pan that I was holding was what was once my hairdo. As a guy who has been losing his hair steadily for most of his adult life, I was surprised to see how much hair there was in that pan. I decided immediately and resolutely that what I was looking at looked better on my head than it did in that pan. I hated what I was looking at. But there it was in front of me whether I liked looking at it or not.

Now this is the way I think sometimes. I thought for a few brief moments about going down to the market in town and buying some of that candle-making wax, melting it on the stove, pouring it over my head, and sticking all that hair back into it one hair at a time, only a little more spread out so as to cover up the thinning spots and bring the hairline down my forehead just a little. Then I’d have the best of both worlds, right? Good hair when I wanted it, and just take it off when it got too hot for all that hair.

For a precious few seconds, this was a viable and intelligent option, obviously not taking into account some very important details. For that short amount of time I didn’t consider that pouring melted wax over my head probably wasn’t the greatest of ideas. I also hadn’t pondered how I was going poke in one hair at a time in the exact location and at the exact angle to create this wonderful Michael Douglas hairstyle before the wax hardened. It also hadn’t occurred to me what would happen when I went outside feeling all great and confident about my new look and the hot August sun started doing its thing on the wax. Ever leave crayons out on the sidewalk in the summertime? Ever see the movie “Teen Wolf”?

So, no wax, no poking in hairs, no Michael Douglas coif.

Instead, I had another idea, and this was the “looking back in hindsight” idea spoken of earlier. A few months earlier, in a restaurant in Springfield, I spotted a guy a few tables over who shaved his head and had a goatee to kind of off-set things, and I thought it looked good. Looked manly, you know. My brother-in-law Robert had this same look when we went out to California for my daughter Jessica’s wedding, and it worked for him as well. OK, so some guys can pull it off. I would never know unless I tried it, right?

So I put a pot of water on the stove, and once it was boiling, I took the pan into the back bathroom and proceeded to put to use all of my shaving experience. I prepped the head with a towel soaked in the boiling water. I used some of that same water to whip up a rich and hot lather with my shaving brush, shaving soap, and mug. I applied this hot lather to my head and spent the next 30 minutes shaving my head completely and totally bald. Yep, that right boys and girls. Telly Savalas, Yul Brynner, and Lynn Henry. (or Vin Diesel, Bruce Willis, and Lynn Henry for the younger crowd.)

It worked.

It was slightly pale under there but all in all it wasn’t bad. A couple of days in the sun and a little of that instant spray on tan in the meantime fixed it right up. Sheri loved it. She said I had a good shaped head for it, and I think she was right. I looked at it over and over, sometimes with two mirrors so I could see the back, and it wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be. I even had the goatee to go with it.

I took a photo of my new look and sent it to some family members and a couple of close friends. The following are a few of the text responses I received back.

From daughter Rebecca: Omg! What, did u, do!?

Then 17 minutes later: Its not bad! Surprising but not bad

From my friend Lee: Yikes skinhead

From my friend Paul: What happened to you?

From my friend Dave, who keeps his hair really short: Wow! That’s less than
mine! I love it!

From my niece Mary: You’re so bald!

From my daughter Jessica: What up baldy? ^_^

From my friend Melinda: Nice do! What’s the occasion?

Over all, relatively good support.

Then my mother called. The first words out of her mouth when I answered the phone were “it WILL grow back, RIGHT?” I knew there would be those who would be shocked at what I had done, but Mom clearly was not going to be a fan. I kind of knew this going in, but she really didn’t like it all. I knew Dad would love it, but Mom was going to need time to adjust.

Once I had sent out the photo and received some replies, some of the sensations hit. Men who have had a beard for years and then shaved it off will understand. Walking, even walking in the confined space of the condo, became distracting. Just the act of walking created a gale force wind sensation on skin that hadn’t felt so much breeze since it was… well, in gale force winds. Just by walking across the room caused my head to move through still air which created this feeling of standing about 3 or 4 yards away from a F3 tornado. It was most disconcerting.

And that was just inside. Going outside for the first time was even more discombobulating. And all of this new breeze was cold, even in August. The sun beat down and warmed my head, and the breezes blew and froze my head… this was way too much new sensation for me.

I bought a hat.

Over time I became accustomed to the breezes and to the way those breezes cooled my head, because it was summertime and it really was comfortable being outside and feeling the wind in my… scalp. There was one thing however that I could never get used to, one thing that drove me into near convulsions every time it happened. Rain! Rain on my shaven head totally freaked me out. And it wasn’t just the first time either, it was every stinking time it rained and I was out in it.

It was also a few weeks before I could take a shower and go through my post-shower routine without getting to the part when I go back into the bathroom and grab my comb. When I did this then looked in the mirror, I would usually say out loud to my reflection, “What an idiot!” That was always funny to me when I did that.

The actual act of shaving got easier too. I got it down from my initial half hour to somewhere between 5 and 10 minutes. I also started browsing websites for guys who shave their heads, my favorite being www.slybaldguys.com and picked up some shaving and head care tips. It was a new life for me, to be sure, and I wanted to make sure I did it right and enjoyed myself along the way.

As time went on however, that guy looking back at me in the mirror wasn’t right. Somewhere deep down, I have this idea of who I am, and that guy isn’t bald, at least not by choice. That guy was a child of the ‘60s growing up in Austin, Texas. That guy is, and there’s really no way around this, a hippy at heart. OK, maybe not a full blown pot smoking flower child VW van driving peace-sign waving hippy, but at least a guy who prefers longer hair (and ok, I’ll take the VW van too if I can find one.)

So, I have retired the head-shaving razor. I still have the microwave in the bathroom for face shaving and I still use the mug-brush-shaving soap-boiling water method of shaving, but I just stick to my face from now on. This morning, I even shaved off part of the goatee, the solid white part that was on my chin, and am left with the old Lynbo standard Fu Man Chu mustache and bottom lip whiskers, the soul patch. Sheri likes the facial hair better this way, and especially likes the white on the bottom (at the jaw-line) of the FMC stache, she says it looks like I dipped it in milk, but I know she would prefer the sly bald guy she was married to for a few brief months. She would even take the full goatee along with it.

Sorry Babe, it’s just not me.

"The Americans Who Risked Everything"

Written by: Rush H Limbaugh, Jr. (Father of Rush Limbaugh, radio talk show host)

"OUR LIVES, OUR FORTUNES, OUR SACRED HONOR"

It was a glorious morning. The sun was shining and the wind was from the southeast. Up especially early, a tall, bony, redheaded young Virginian found time to buy a new thermometer, for which he paid three pounds, fifteen shillings. He also bought gloves for Martha, his wife, who was ill at home.

Thomas Jefferson arrived early at the statehouse. The temperature was 72 and the horseflies weren't nearly so bad at that hour. It was a lovely room, very large, with gleaming white walls. The chairs were comfortable. Facing the single door were two brass fireplaces, but they would not be used today.

The moment the door was shut, and it was always kept locked, the room became an oven. The tall windows were shut, so that loud quarreling voices could not be heard by passersby. Small openings atop the windows allowed a slight stir of air, and also a large number of horseflies. Jefferson records that "the horseflies were dexterous in finding necks, and the silk of stocking was as nothing to them." All discussion was punctuated by the slap of hands on necks.

On the wall at the back, facing the President's desk, was a panoply--consisting of a drum, swords, and banners seized from Fort Ticonderoga the previous year. Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold had captured the place, shouting that they were taking it "in the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!"

Now Congress got to work, promptly taking up an emergency measure about which there was discussion but no dissension. "Resolved: That an application be made to the Committee of Safety of Pennsylvania for a supply of flints for the troops at New York."

Then Congress transformed itself into a committee of the whole, The Declaration of Independence was read aloud once more, and debate resumed. Though Jefferson was the best writer of all of them, he had been somewhat verbose. Congress hacked the excess away. They did a good job, as a side-by-side comparison of the rough draft and the final text shows. They cut the phrase "by a self-assumed power." "Climb" was replaced by "must read," then "must" was eliminated, then the whole sentence, and soon the whole paragraph was cut. Jefferson groaned as they continued what he later called "their depredations." "Inherent and inalienable rights" came out "certain unalienable rights," and to this day no one knows who suggested the elegant change.

A total of 86 alterations were made. Almost 500 words were eliminated, leaving 1,337. At last, after three days of wrangling, the document was put to a vote.

Here in this hall Patrick Henry had once thundered: "I am no longer a Virginian, Sir, but an American." But today the loud, sometimes bitter argument stilled, and without fanfare the vote was taken from north to south by colonies, as was the custom. On July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was adopted.

There were no trumpets blown. No one stood on his chair and cheered. The afternoon was waning and Congress had no thought of delaying the full calendar of routine business on its hands. For several hours they worked on many other problems before adjourning for the day.

Much to lose...

What kind of men were the 56 signers who adopted the Declaration of Independence and who, by their signing, committed an act of treason against the Crown? To each of you the names Franklin, Adams, Hancock, and Jefferson are almost as familiar as household words. Most of us, however, know nothing of the other signers. Who were they? What happened to them?

I imagine that many of you are somewhat surprised at the names not there: George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, Patrick Henry. All were elsewhere.

Ben Franklin was the only really old man. Eighteen were under 40; three were in their 20s. Of the 56, almost half--24--were judges and lawyers. Eleven were merchants, 9 were land-owners and farmers, and the remaining 12 were doctors, ministers, and politicians.

With only a few exceptions, such as Samuel Adams of Massachusetts, these were men of substantial property. All but two had families. The vast majority were men of education and standing in their communities. They had economic security as few men had in the 18th century.

Each had more to lose from revolution than he had to gain by it. John Hancock, one of the richest men in America, already had a price of 500 pounds on his head. He signed in enormous letters so "that his Majesty could now read his name without glasses and could now double the reward." Ben Franklin wryly noted: "Indeed we must all hang together, otherwise we shall most assuredly hang separately." Fat Benjamin Harrison of Virginia told tiny Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts: "With me it will all be over in a minute, but you, you will be dancing on air an hour after I am gone."

These men knew what they risked. The penalty for treason was death by hanging. And remember: a great British fleet was already at anchor in New York Harbor.

They were sober men. There were no dreamy-eyed intellectuals or draft card burners here. They were far from hot-eyed fanatics, yammering for an explosion. They simply asked for the status quo. It was change they resisted. It was equality with the mother country they desired. It was taxation with representation they sought. They were all conservatives, yet they rebelled.

It was principle, not property, that had brought these men to Philadelphia. Two of them became presidents of the United States. Seven of them became state governors. One died in office as vice president of the United States. Several would go on to be U.S. Senators. One, the richest man in America, in 1828 founded the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. One, a delegate from Philadelphia, was the only real poet, musician and philosopher of the signers (it was he, Francis Hopkinson--not Betsy Ross--who designed the United States flag).

Richard Henry Lee, a delegate from Virginia, had introduced the resolution to adopt the Declaration of Independence in June of 1776. He was prophetic is his concluding remarks:

"Why then sir, why do we longer delay? Why still deliberate? Let this happy day give birth to an American Republic. Let her arise not to devastate and to conquer but to reestablish the reign of peace and law. The eyes of Europe are fixed upon us. She demands of us a living example of freedom that may exhibit a contrast in the felicity of the citizen to the ever increasing tyranny which desolates her polluted shores. She invites us to prepare an asylum where the unhappy may find solace, and the persecuted repose. If we are not this day wanting in our duty, the names of the American legislators of 1776 will be placed by posterity at the side of all of those whose memory has been and ever will be dear to virtuous men and good citizens."
Though the resolution was formally adopted July 4, it was not until July 8 that two of the states authorized their delegates to sign, and it was not until August 2 that the signers met at Philadelphia to actually put their names to the Declaration.

William Ellery, delegate from Rhode Island, was curious to see the signers' faces as they committed this supreme act of personal courage. He saw some men sign quickly, "but in no face was he able to discern real fear." Stephen Hopkins, Ellery's colleague from Rhode Island, was a man past 60. As he signed with a shaking pen, he declared: "My hand trembles, but my heart does not."

"Most glorious service"...

Even before the list was published, the British marked down every member of Congress suspected of having put his name to treason. All of them became the objects of vicious manhunts. Some were taken. Some, like Jefferson, had narrow escapes. All who had property or families near British strongholds suffered.

Francis Lewis, New York delegate, saw his home plundered and his estates, in what is now Harlem, completely destroyed by British soldiers. Mrs. Lewis was captured and treated with great brutality. Though she was later exchanged for two British prisoners through the efforts of Congress, she died from the effects of her abuse.

William Floyd, another New York delegate, was able to escape with his wife and children across Long Island Sound to Connecticut, where they lived as refugees without income for seven years. When they came home, they found a devastated ruin.

Phillips Livingstone had all his great holdings in New York confiscated and his family driven out of their home. Livingstone died in 1778 still working in Congress for the cause.

Louis Morris, the fourth New York delegate, saw all his timber, crops, and livestock taken. For seven years he was barred from his home and family.

John Hart of Trenton, New Jersey, risked his life to return home to see his dying wife. Hessian soldiers rode after him, and he escaped in the woods. While his wife lay on her deathbed, the soldiers ruined his farm and wrecked his homestead. Hart, 65, slept in caves and woods as he was hunted across the countryside. When at long last, emaciated by hardship, he was able to sneak home, he found his wife had already been buried, and his 13 children taken away. He never saw them again. He died a broken man in 1779, without ever finding his family.

Dr. John Witherspoon, signer, was president of the College of New Jersey, later called Princeton. The British occupied the town of Princeton, and billeted troops in the college. They trampled and burned the finest college library in the country.

Judge Richard Stockton, another New Jersey delegate signer, had rushed back to his estate in an effort to evacuate his wife and children. The family found refuge with friends, but a sympathizer betrayed them. Judge Stockton was pulled from bed in the night and brutally beaten by the arresting soldiers. Thrown into a common jail, he was deliberately starved. Congress finally arranged for Stockton's parole, but his health was ruined. The judge was released as an invalid, when he could no longer harm the British cause. He returned home to find his estate looted and did not live to see the triumph of the revolution. His family was forced to live off charity.

Robert Morris, merchant prince of Philadelphia, delegate and signer, met Washington's appeals and pleas for money year after year. He made and raised arms and provisions which made it possible for Washington to cross the Delaware at Trenton. In the process he lost 150 ships at sea, bleeding his own fortune and credit almost dry. George Clymer, Pennsylvania signer, escaped with his family from their home, but their property was completely destroyed by the British in the Germantown and Brandywine campaigns.

Dr. Benjamin Rush, also from Pennsylvania, was forced to flee to Maryland. As a heroic surgeon with the army, Rush had several narrow escapes.

John Morton, a Tory in his views previous to the debate, lived in a strongly loyalist area of Pennsylvania. When he came out for independence, most of his neighbors and even some of his relatives ostracized him. He was a sensitive and troubled man, and many believed this action killed him. When he died in 1777, his last words to his tormentors were: "Tell them that they will live to see the hour when they shall acknowledge it [the signing] to have been the most glorious service that I rendered to my country."

William Ellery, Rhode Island delegate, saw his property and home burned to the ground.

Thomas Lynch, Jr., South Carolina delegate, had his health broken from privation and exposures while serving as a company commander in the military. His doctors ordered him to seek a cure in the West Indies and on the voyage he and his young bride were drowned at sea.

Edward Rutledge, Arthur Middleton, and Thomas Heyward, Jr., the other three South Carolina signers, were taken by the British in the siege of Charleston. They were carried as prisoners of war to St. Augustine, Florida, where they were singled out for indignities. They were exchanged at the end of the war, the British in the meantime having completely devastated their large land holdings and estates.

Thomas Nelson, signer of Virginia, was at the front in command of the Virginia military forces. With British General Charles Cornwallis in Yorktown, fire from 70 heavy American guns began to destroy Yorktown piece by piece. Lord Cornwallis and his staff moved their headquarters into Nelson's palatial home. While American cannonballs were making a shambles of the town, the house of Governor Nelson remained untouched. Nelson turned in rage to the American gunners and asked, "Why do you spare my home?" They replied, "Sir, out of respect to you." Nelson cried, "Give me the cannon!" and fired on his magnificent home himself, smashing it to bits. But Nelson's sacrifice was not quite over. He had raised $2 million for the Revolutionary cause by pledging his own estates. When the loans came due, a newer peacetime Congress refused to honor them, and Nelson's property was forfeited. He was never reimbursed. He died, impoverished, a few years later at the age of 50.

Lives, fortunes, honor...

Of those 56 who signed the Declaration of Independence, nine died of wounds or hardships during the war. Five were captured and imprisoned, in each case with brutal treatment. Several lost wives, sons or entire families. One lost his 13 children. Two wives were brutally treated. All were at one time or another the victims of manhunts and driven from their homes. Twelve signers had their homes completely burned. Seventeen lost everything they owned. Yet not one defected or went back on his pledged word. Their honor, and the nation they sacrificed so much to create, is still intact.

And, finally, there is the New Jersey signer, Abraham Clark. He gave two sons to the officer corps in the Revolutionary Army. They were captured and sent to the infamous British prison hulk afloat in New York harbor known as the hell ship "Jersey," where 11,000 American captives were to die. The younger Clarks were treated with a special brutality because of their father. One was put in solitary and given no food. With the end almost in sight, with the war almost won, no one could have blamed Abraham Clark for acceding to the British request when they offered him his sons' lives if he would recant and come out for the King and parliament. The utter despair in this man's heart, the anguish in his very soul, must reach out to each one of us down through 200 years with his answer: "No."

The 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence proved by their every deed that they made no idle boast when they composed the most magnificent curtain line in history. "And for the support of this Declaration with a firm reliance on the protection of divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor."

The Big Green Monster

This little story was written by my neice, Megan. With her permission, I am posting it here for all to read.

Please feel free to post comments, and I will forward them to Megan.

Thanks.

THE BIG GREEN MONSTER
BY MEGAN NOORDEWIER
(Officially finished on Dec.19, 2009)

Molly grabbed a glass of water, galloped up the stairs, tucked herself into her warm, cozy bed and turned out the bright light. She gingerly shut her eyes. Suddenly, the closet creaked opened.
“AHHHHHHHHHH!” screeched Molly!

Molly was 9, and attended Pine Forest Elementary. She loved chocolate, sledding, and being the center of attention. She was an only child. Her favorite sport was dancing. And she was known for being an incredible, obnoxious, dirty, liar.

Molly lay breathless in her bed. She couldn’t believe what she saw before her. In front of her stood a BIG GREEN MONSTER! “Mo…Mo…Monster!” she stammered. She dashed downstairs. “Mom there’s a hideous monster in my room!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Sweetie, there is no such things as monsters, now stop fibbing and go back to bed, mommy has work to do and she can’t afford to loose any valuable time. Now come on I’ll tuck you in.”

“Yes,” thought molly “now I’ll have proof.”

But to her disappointment he wasn’t there. She checked under her bed and in her closet but he was nowhere to be found! Molly, dumbfounded, turned to her mother who had a disapproving look in her eye.

“Mommy, it was here I swear!”

“Honey, I thought we agreed, no more lying.”

“But mom I’m not lying, it was here, I promise!!!!”

“I am done with this discussion, one more word about this and you’re grounded!!!!”

Molly, knowing she had been beat, climbed into her bed and prepared for a long, spooky night. But to her favor, she didn’t see any more of the monster.

For that night anyway…

Exactly a year from that date, Molly had another run in with the monster. This (Molly soon found out) happened every year on the exact same date. And in her mothers mind it was the date for the annual fib.

MANY YEARS LATER…

By now Molly had grown up, married, and had a child of her own. She finally had stopped thinking of the monster when yes, it happened, he came back. But this time for the first time in her life she heard him speak…

“Molly do you know why I’m here?!” he boomed in the lowest voice she had ever heard.

“No” Molly squeaked in shock.

“I’m the monster of lying, whoever lies has to go through me, and decide if that’s what they really want to go through their whole life. All these years you’ve been lying but you didn’t know that that’s why I’ve kept coming back.”

“I promise if you leave I’ll never tell another lie!”

“Ohhhhhhhhh, but that’s not how it works, you’ve wasted my valuable time, which means now you must give me something valuable of yours…….. like maybe you’re CHILD?” he said with a sly grin.

“NO!!!!!! I WONT DO IT!!!!!!!!” Molly screamed.

But now there was nothing she could do, because she had lied and now there was no way to take back what she had done. Whether she liked it or not she had to deal with the consequences.

Molly looked and looked and soon realized she would never find him but then she thought up one final idea… NOT TELL LIES!!!!!!!!!!!

Two years passed and Molly didn’t tell one lie for hope of the monster bringing back her child.

“POOF” in zapped the BIG GREEN MONSTER! Molly was overwhelmed. It really worked! In the monsters arms was her baby!

“Molly you have learned the valuable lesson I was trying to teach you!” said that familiar low voice

“So this was your plan! Take my baby to see if I would stop telling lies!!!!!!!”

“Yes, it was for your own good Molly!!!! Look at how much easier life is now that one lie doesn’t lead to more and more!!!!!!!!!”

“Maybe my life is better in general, but now I’m childless!!!!!!!!”

“YES!!!!BUT MOLLY I’M GIVING YOU BACK YOUR CHILD!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Molly, speechless, just stared in astonishment at the monster. “Thank-you!” whispered Molly.

But the monster was no longer there, he had disappeared!


FROM THAT MOMENT ON MOLLY NEVER TOLD A LIE… AND NEVER AGAIN SAW THE BIG GREEN MONSTER!!!!!!!

THE END

The Night I Saw Santa Claus

I never really saw mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe like that song says, but I did in fact see Santa Claus once. When I told my friends, neighborhood kids somewhat close to my age, they laughed and howled and teased me mercilessly. My cousin didn’t believe me either when I told her, but she was much kinder in her retorts, and her teasing was much gentler. I don’t know why they didn’t believe me, for I was indeed telling them the absolute truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I still remember the first Christmas that I was really aware of Santa. I remember waking up on Christmas morning and not knowing exactly what to do. Should I wait for Mom or Dad? Should I go out to the living room where the Christmas tree is and see for myself if there is anything for me? What if he didn’t come? I decided to play it safe and woke up my dad and we walked out to the living room together. When we rounded the corner and got our first look at the evidence that Santa had indeed stopped by sometime during the night, Dad did this silly and exaggerated double take that made me giggle, and then I ran and started enjoying the toys that were left behind. I think Dad went back to bed.

That memory of a Christmas past was when we lived in Austin in a house on Syracuse Cove. Our last Christmas in that house was in 1965, and that might have been the one where Dad did his goofy little dance. I can’t be sure. But I do know that a few weeks before Christmas Day 1965, on my 5th birthday, “A Charlie Brown Christmas” debuted on television. As a child, the real message of this program was mostly lost on me because I was more interested in Snoopy dancing and Charlie Brown’s tree. It wasn’t until some years later that I began to appreciate his frustrations with the commercialization of Christmas.

Just this last week, I watched again as Linus answered Charlie Brown’s question of “Doesn’t anyone know what Christmas is all about?” by quoting from the second chapter of The Gospel of Luke, verses 8 through 14: "And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” I’m not ashamed to admit that this scene for some reason makes me cry, and last week was no exception.

We moved to our house on Sierra Madre sometime in 1966. That first Christmas in this new house was also the first one where we were treated to the other television event of the season in the form of Dr. Seuss’ “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” These became perennial favorites in our home each Christmas, as did (to a slightly lesser degree) “Frosty the Snowman” (1969), and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” (1964). There were other specials that we all enjoyed over the years, but those 4 animated classics remain the favorites from my own childhood.

These days, I also add “A Christmas Story” (1983) to my collection of “must see” Christmas specials. I have to admit that Kelley “got it” before I did, but now I get a never-ending kick out of Ralphie’s quest for an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, only to be told time and time again “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.” And as with Linus’ reciting from scripture, when Scott Calvin’s ex-wife realizes that he is really Santa in the original “The Santa Clause” (1994), those waterworks seem to want to turn on.

But back to my sighting. When I was about 8 or so, an age when some children start become somewhat cynical and start looking for the angle in everything, my bedroom in our house on Sierra Madre was between my parent’s room and the room my younger sisters occupied. My bed was along the wall that the hallway shared, which came in handy on most nights. Mom always left a light on in the hallway and also left my door cracked a little. On most nights I would move down to the foot of my bed, the end nearest to the door, and would read by the sparse light coming in from the hallway. These days I’m convinced that Mom knew that I was doing this, but I read books with characters like Tom, Huck, & Becky, Michael, Wendy, Peter, & Captain Hook, and Dorothy, Scarecrow, & the Wizard, and she was really good at encouraging me to read anyway. I really enjoyed reading as a child, and still do today, but somehow it was a little more fun back then when I thought I was really getting away with something.

On the night in question, Christmas Eve, I went to bed with no thoughts of reading by the light from the hallway. I was well familiar with what would happen if I tried to stay awake, and I had no intention of testing the Sandman’s abilities. I lay in bed trying to fall asleep with excited anticipation working against me, and at some point I drifted off into what was usually a peaceful slumber. This particular night, this Christmas Eve, I’m sure was no exception. While I was asleep, anyway.

At some point during the night, something woke me up. I don’t really know what it was, but I was most assuredly awake. I lay motionless for a few moments and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The light in the hallway was now extinguished, as it was after I fell asleep on every other night, but there was still a little light coming from somewhere else in the house. Or maybe there was a night light in the hall or bathroom that was right across the hall from my bedroom. As I started to make out some of the familiar shapes of the desk, my books, and other items in my room, I could also see some moonlight coming in through the window which was on the wall opposite the door, but up near the head of my bed. I usually liked looking out the window on nights like this, and still do to this day.

I wanted to get up to see if Santa had come, but I didn’t know what time it was. I slowly turned my head to the left toward the door to see if anything was visible through the door and there he was. Right there at my bedroom door, looking in. I froze. I froze like I never had before, and I froze like I never have since. I was petrified, scared beyond comprehension. I remained motionless as motionless can be in that position. I eased my eyes to the almost closed position so that I was looking at him through the tiniest of slivers, but I could still see him. He was only a silhouette because the hallway light was off remember, but he was definitely there. I could see one eye looking through the small opening of the door. I stared at that one eye and it looked back at me for what seemed an eternity. I closed my eyes completely and tried to fall back to sleep, like that was really going to happen. I was afraid to open my eyes again, because I knew he would see them open and take off without leaving me anything.

I was afraid to move.

I was afraid to breathe.

I was afraid to even roll back to my previous comfortable spot in bed and so I stayed in my awkward frozen position, eyes clamped tightly shut, listening intently for any evidence that he either was still there, or had moved into the living room where the Christmas Tree was in front of the big bay window facing the street. I heard nothing though, probably because, as I discovered the next morning, he had softly closed my bedroom door. Eventually I must have fallen back to sleep again because when I awoke again, warm sunlight had replaced the soft blue moonlight coming in through my window. I was still scared though. I wasn’t really sure what I should do. I mean, what if he saw me awake and left?

When I finally had the courage to get out of bed, I went out to the living room and saw that he had not only been there, he had left some really cool things for me under the tree. I was still somewhat shaken by the sighting during the night, but I started to feel that everything was going to be ok. I was even pretty sure that I hadn’t blown it for next year.

I couldn’t wait to tell everyone. Mom and Dad were totally understanding, saying that I was really lucky he hadn’t seen me awake. My younger sisters were amazed. Man, I had done it, I actually saw Santa Claus. What a lucky little boy I was.

And then there were my friends. When I tried to tell them what I had seen, I was ridiculed. We were all at the house of the brothers Randy & Barry who lived on the corner two houses down from mine, climbing trees and such. Payson, and brothers Tommy & Terry were also there and apparently not a single one of these friends believed in the big guy for some reason. They spun wild tales about our parents being the source of all those presents under the tree on Christmas morning. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? The howled with laughter and mocked me and called me names like “big baby” until Mrs. Barton came to my rescue.

The Barton’s lived between my house and Randy & Barry’s house and Mrs. Barton was a large German woman with a very thick accent. Being the immature children that we all were, we were prone to make fun of anyone different than us, and she didn’t escape our teasing, although every bit of it was done out of earshot and without her knowledge. Well, looking back now, she probably did know about it come to think of it… we could be a loud lot most of the time. Her name was Friedel, but we all called her “Frito Barton.” Nice, huh?

Anyway, she came out her back door and started to scold my friends rather harshly. She had a daughter named Lori who was a few years younger than we were and she obviously didn’t want Lori hearing the nonsense that my friends were spewing out. My relationship with her wasn’t quite so harsh after that. I knew then that I was right and my friends were flawed in their thinking, and Mrs. Barton knew the truth as surely as I did. My cousin Kelly, while not as loud and boisterous as my friends, also chose not to believe my story, telling me instead that I was probably dreaming. I knew better though… and still do. No Santa Claus? Not a chance.

I saw him. I saw him with my own eyes.

I only saw him that one time, but that was enough. I tend to sleep through the nights now and Christmas is no different. I don’t know if I could even pull it off like I did back then. I’m not 100% sure that if I opened my eyes and saw him peering in on me again that I wouldn’t give myself away this time. The fact that I snore now would probably prevent me from giving a convincing performance of fake sleeping, but then again, maybe Santa doesn’t know that I snore. Wait a minute, of course he knows! “He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake”, remember? Besides that, he’s looked in on me for almost 50 years now, and I’m fairly confident that I was probably snoring on most of those nights. He has to know.

Well, I can be happy with seeing him once, I mean that’s more than most people ever get, isn’t it? That silhouette image of the large bearded one in the red suit is permanently etched into my memory. No one, and I mean NO ONE, will ever convince me that it was anything but the real deal, that who I saw that night peering in on me through my slightly open bedroom door was anyone else… but Santa Claus himself.