A Day in the Life of nutuba

Off Balance is here!

2011-07-23T10:21:00.002-04:00

Hi all!

It's been a while since writing for this blog, and I want to let y'all know that my new book is available!

Off Balance: Getting Back Up When Life Knocks You Down is on faith and dealing with setbacks (not just a chronic illness like Parkinson's Disease, but pretty much anything that comes your way).

If you want an autographed copy, you can order it from me directly at www.GennesaretPress.com. Otherwise, it's also available from Amazon or B&N.

The book is getting rave reviews -- it's poignant, it's funny, and it will challenge your attitudes.

Anyway, I hope y'all are doing well!
God Bless,
Joel Schnoor

Review by Pam Nelson at News and Observer

2009-12-21T11:20:00.002-05:00

You can read Pam Nelson is a grammar expert and book reviewer at the Raleigh News and Observer. She has graciously reviewed my book, I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head, and you can read the review here!

Book Review

What the Readers Are Saying

2009-12-16T10:30:00.001-05:00

Here's what some of the readers are saying about I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head. It's not too late to order it for your Christmas presents at www.AuntRuthGrammar.com.

What Readers Say

As a teacher and lifelong student of the English language, I am always looking for fresh material aimed at presenting the essentials in a manner that will be easily grasped. This book is a rare find! It approaches the subject with a fun, light-hearted style that is a joy to read. Using humor to get the points across, Joel Schnoor masterfully presents some of the most frequently abused grammar rules through comical short stories. Everything here is family friendly. I would guess that children as young as 4th grade would enjoy the humor and benefit from the lessons taught, but even an adult with a keen eye and love for the language will be challenged to catch ALL the puns and allusions hidden in this one.

To help drive home the grammar points, the book is equipped with an appendix that reiterates the specific rules presented throughout the stories by offering example sentences of correct and incorrect usage. There is also a very useful table of commonly used irregular verb conjugations. This is a funny book but it covers some serious grammar.

Anyone looking to avoid the pitfalls of the English language, or to teach others to do likewise, will find this book to be an entertaining and useful guide. -- M.S. Hahn

I taught English for Fairfax County (Virginia) Public Schools for 10 years, and I wish this book had been available then! It gives traditional English usage and grammar a shot of adrenaline and never lets up! My own children love the stories, and have had the added benefit of learning usage rules along the way. Adults, too, can benefit from the information (and enjoy the stories!). This book ought to be used by every school system in the country, home schoolers, and anybody else who wants to conquer the nuances of the English language, once and for all! -- J. Steinhauser

If you're like me, learning something and having it stick with you long term isn't always easy (or fun). I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head makes learning grammar rules so entertaining that you don't even realize you are learning grammar rules that we all should have learned long ago and that you will retain for life. But don't think of this book as a text book. If you want, you can read it for the pure enjoyment of following the relationship between Aunt Ruth and her "annoying" nephew. It's funny, and touching, and will keep you reading story after story wondering where Aunt Ruth will take you next. The back of the book has all of the grammar rules from the stories spelled out with examples which makes this book a handy desk reference as well. So this book works on many levels for a wide range of ages. It will put a smile on your face and make you a better writer in the process! Two thumbs up from me! -- K. High

Grammar has always been my least favorite subject.I laid an egg on Aunt Ruth's head, is the first and only grammar book that I have enjoyed reading. It is very easy to fall in love with the characters of this book. I am looking forward to more books from this author. This is a must book for any library. -- T. Anderson

My 10 year old fell in love with I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head -- and even begged for MORE Aunt Ruth stories! This is the first and only grammar book that I have actually enjoyed reading. The writing is clear and entertaining and the characters teach without preachiness. I am looking forward to more books from this author. This is a must book for any library. -- D. Jackson

The Bedbug Has Arrived!

2009-12-11T11:01:00.002-05:00

Friend and writer Athlyn Green's book, The BedBug Who Wouldn't Bite, is now available!

Discover the joy of the BedBug!

I encourage you to buy this delightful, well done book! Congratulations, Athlyn!!!

Drilling for Excellence

2009-12-10T00:17:00.002-05:00

Aunt Ruth Grammar Drills for Excellence, a set of worksheets that is a companion document to I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head, was released today and is available for purchase on www.AuntRuthGrammar.com. The worksheets, currently available on CD, comprise about 130 pages of questions and answers. It's perfect for the classroom or home school setting.

Preface

Communication is a funny thing, and it is important enough that we ought to take care to ensure that we get it right. Nearly every day, though, I find that I have made some blunder, and that reminds me of the fact that none of us is perfect. As one of my editors was reading the chapter on split infinitives in I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head, he found an unintentional split infinitive. Even when I try to be careful, I am capable of getting it wrong.

Mastering grammar is a lifelong process. For those of us who enjoy playing with words and writing as succinctly as possible, it is an enjoyable journey. For others it is no doubt dreary (at best) and perhaps embarrassingly cumbersome – the albatross that refuses to fly away.

Just as some will shout with glee when presented a math puzzle, and others will shriek and faint if they spy a fraction from a hundred yards away, so it is with anything that smells of an English grammar lesson. There are those of us in life who perk up when we sense a pun in the air or when we observe the turn of a phrase in a favorite piece of literature. We laugh; we weep; we rejoice; we despair. There are also those of us in life who could not care less that the proper phrase is “could not care less” and not “could care less.”

It is important to learn multiplication tables. Having an argument with the cashier at a grocery store when you are purchasing eight items at twelve cents each, because he or she says the total is ninety-six cents and you think the total should only be ninety-four cents, is not good for anybody.

So it is with grammar. Speaking or writing clearly is not a luxury. It is a responsibility. Granted, most of us learn to speak in a way similar to the rest of the inhabitants of the household where we were raised, for better or for worse. All of us, though, can improve from that point going forward. Sure, it can be tough trying to resolve dangling participles or catching the split infinitives, but we all should be able to learn how to match verbs with subjects and pronouns with verbs. This is he, not this is him. Each of us is capable, not each of us are capable. Its color is green and its back is scaly, not it's color is green and it's back is scaly. By the way, it's sitting on your shoulder.

Lessons (in nearly anything) can be fun and interesting, and that is the goal of these worksheets. It is my hope that these worksheets are useful to the student and teacher alike, and that the valuable lessons in I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head will become even more accessible through the effort to produce these drills.

There are many who deserve thanks for their efforts in helping me review and edit this book. My wife, Michelle, and my children – Alex, Nathan, Laura, and Aaron (the four charter members of the Grammar Police) – have offered correction, insight, and encouragement when I needed it most. My sister-in-law, Anita, and my sister, Jen, also found mistakes and saved me from embarrassment. And finally, a huge thanks goes to my friend and grammatical conscience, Mr. Scot Hahn, for his herculean effort in helping me hone this document into a work of art.

Well, whether it is a masterpiece or not, I promise that it will be a boatload of fun. Teachers will love me; students will curse me; and the earth may be a better place because of it. At any rate, it sure beats shoving bamboo chutes underneath your fingernails.

Joel Schnoor
December 9, 2009

A Great Christmas Present

2009-11-24T23:53:00.005-05:00

... for family, friends, and teachers, is this: I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head.

Why? The book is funny, the book is poignant, the book is breathtaking ... well, okay, one out of three ain't bad. The book is funny, all modesty aside.

Do you know someone who appreciates word play / banter? Do you know someone who appreciates the finer points of grammar? Do you know someone who has an Aunt Ruth who drives him or her crazy? Do you still have presents to buy?

If the answer to that question is yes, then consider the book. It is NOT a basic grammar book. It is a book of humorous short stories that help guide / mentor the reader toward correct usage of grammar in some of those hard to remember spots of the English language. Topics such as: lie and lay, hopefully, comprise, split infinitives, dangling participles, dropped infinitives, principal and principle, affect and effect, may and can, good and well, its and it's, comma usage, and many more are covered in this book.

Try it! I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head. You'll like it.

The Bedbug Is Almost Here!

2009-11-13T05:59:00.003-05:00

Author Athlyn Green has been working on this wonderful book, due out any day now. Watch this space for more info when the book arrives. You can find out more about the book at The BedBug Blog.

Athlyn is an award winning writer who not only writes books but has been active in online writing with various writing forums and blogs (a good bio is at her Triond Profile).

Athlyn, we're excited for you about your new book and we're excited about its upcoming arrival!

Aunt Ruth Does Do Run Run

2009-11-12T13:09:00.003-05:00

The latest Aunt Ruth grammar adventure is here! Visit www.AuntRuthGrammar.com or follow this link: Aunt Ruth Does Do Run Run

Aunt Ruth, the Superlative Super Relative

2009-10-23T23:28:00.002-04:00

Aunt Ruth rides again, but this time she's on a different horse. I've started up a new blog -- you can find it at www.auntruthgrammar.com -- for grammar and things Aunt Ruthish. I've written a couple of things thus far, including the following:

Aunt Ruth, the Superlative Super Relative

Hope you enjoy it!
Regards,
nutuba (Joel)

Coming Soon -- The BedBug Who Wouldn't Bite

2009-10-12T09:01:00.002-04:00

Prolific online writer Melody Rhodes (aka Athlyn Green) has a book coming out soon, The Bedbug Who Wouldn't Bite, and it would be the perfect gift for kids, parents (who want happy kids), and grandparents (who love reading to happy kids).

The book comes with a furry bedbug for children to play with and to love. This bedbug does not bite!

Visit The Bedbug Blog for more information and the latest status.

I have long enjoyed the author's writing on Triond and other freelance writing forums. You can find some of her work at her Triond site. Check it out!

Eastern Fence Lizard

2009-10-06T08:43:00.004-04:00

This past weekend I was playing with the chain saw, slicing up some logs that a local tree removal company had given us for free (they removed a neighbor's tree and we volunteered to take the wood off their hands), when I encountered this Eastern Fence Lizard.

The body was between 4 and 5 inches long. He was patient as I ran inside the house to retrieve the camera, and he posed for quite a while. It was nearly dark by this time, so it took a number of photo attempts to get the focus just right.

These pics were taken with my Nikon Coolpix (4 MP) that I've had for about 3.5 years. It continues to be a durable camera and I've been delighted with the quality of shots I can get from it.

It's the Game

2009-10-04T12:30:00.002-04:00

Not the Goal but the Game,
Not the Victory but the Action,
In the Deed the Glory

So say the words etched on Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, Nebraska. So say the words etched in the minds of Nebraska fans world wide. If you search, you can find article after article that describes the general behavior of Nebraska fans, the "greatest football fans in the nation," and the encouragement that these fans give to opponents before, during, and after the game, even a game in which the opponent defeats the Huskers. Of course the Huskers want to win, and usually they do. But the thing they understand is that the process is as (or more) important than the final outcome. It's how you grow; it's how you develop the character that can turn you into a better person in the long run.

Anyway, the Homeschool Football League in North Carolina is based on the principle of taking these young boys and young men and encouraging their growth and development as Christian men and leaders. It is stated up front in the HFL web site that football is the means, the vehicle, and not the end result.

And that is why, in the game that our Youth Warriors had last night against the Youth Panthers of Greensboro, boys on both sides of the ball were knocking each other down, then picking each other up and saying, "Good job, nice play, great try," and then knocking each other down again.

There were no negative comments directed by players on either side to *anybody*: not to refs, not to opposing players, not to the coaches, not to parents, not to anybody. The parents on the sidelines are encouraging the players -- on both sides -- and building the players up. There is no showboating when a TD is scored. The player hands the ball to the ref and runs back to the huddle or to the sideline. There's no dancing, no massive celebration, no anything like that.

The teams pray together before the game, and we pray together after the game. We also say supportive, encouraging words to each other after the game.

Now, if you think for one moment that the HFL games are not fiercely competitive, you've got another thing coming. These boys work hard in practice; we do everything we can so that we play at the very best of our ability.

But the leadership in the HFL understands something that is lost on the leaders, coaches, and parents involved in most other leagues. Winning is not the end goal.

Using the practices and games to teach and instill confidence, leadership, encouragement, team-play, sportsmanship -- and all based on Christian principles -- is what it's about.

Don't we need more of that today?

Goodness Gracious

2009-10-02T08:42:00.003-04:00

So I'll have to tell you this ... the self publishing journey was delightfully intense! I had to focus, focus, and then focus even more. I suppose the focus was self inflicted. I wanted the book to be perfect, and so I had numerous proof-readers / editors go through it, and I read through it forward and backwards (and upside down).

I'll make no claims to its perfection. It seems that even toward the final days before submitting the manuscript, I'd find an occasional missing quotation mark. But I do think it's in good shape.

When I began online freelance writing last winter, my blog writing slowed down; and then when I got serious about getting a book out the door, my online freelance writing slowed down. I'm still in book writing mode ... and have several things in progress.

I'm writing a juvenile historical fiction work about a boy who travels with his family via covered wagon from eastern Iowa to western Nebraska, based on letters and notes from my great grandfather (who was the boy). It's fascinating ... doing some research to get the right historical perspective. Actually, I was on the 3rd edition of the manuscript/draft when I decided that I may want to expand this into a trilogy ... and now I'm almost two-thirds done.

I'm writing a book on faith and chronic illness, how God provides the peace and joy that can't come from any other way.

I'm written (and need to edit) a collection of short stories / memoirs of growing up (some of those stories were originally posted on this blog).

I'm writing a book of short story fiction ... mostly humorous.

I've got a sci fi novel collection of short stories (or perhaps it'll migrate to a novel) started.

And I've even started a romance fiction piece (light on the romance, heavy on the fiction) that may turn into a mystery / adventure thing.

Don't look for those any time soon, but ... you never know.

Meanwhile, back to writing.
This is fun!

Coming Soon -- I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head

2009-10-01T09:05:00.004-04:00

Well folks, I've been away from online writing for a while as I've been focusing on the completion of the book, I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head: Conquering English and Its Ruthless Ways.

Wow, these is a lot of work involved in getting a book together! I knew that, of course, but I guess until one actually goes through the process it's not as obvious as it would seem (at least for me).

One local artist friend did the cover artwork, and it turned out beautifully. Another local artist friend did the interior artwork, and that is wonderful as well. I had many proof-readers and editors and commenters ... and I've read through it so many times that my eyes are spinning.

This has been an enjoyable and educational journey for me.

I am publishing this through AuthorHouse, and I've got to tell you that I am thoroughly happy and impressed with the quality of service I am receiving from them. They have been delightful and wonderful to work with every step of the way. Communication has been excellent -- the folks at AuthorHouse are consistently responsive, professional, upbeat, and courteous.

I'll send out information on how to order the book shortly. The bottom line is that it will be available in three weeks or thereabouts.

Thanks, AuthorHouse, for a great experience!

Stay tuned for a different kind of grammar book ... if you like being entertained while you learn, or if you like learning while being entertained, or if you just want to be entertained, this book is for you.

Husker Mania

2009-09-30T16:24:00.007-04:00

Memorial Stadium, Lincoln, Nebraska

The Third Largest City in Nebraska (on Game Days)
(picture sent to me by my father, sent to him by a friend)

It's that time of year, and the 2009 Huskers are rolling! Yeah, the loss to VTU was a heart breaker -- there's no way around that -- but what a magnificent game it was to watch!

You may recall the '94 Orange Bowl (to close out the '93 season), where the Huskers lost to Florida State, 18-16. That too was a near-last-second finish ... and you know what happened after that? We went undefeated the next two seasons ... and three out of the next four seasons ('94, '95, and '97). Remarkable, isn't it?

Bo's got the guys playing with passion and intensity. Go Big Red!

The Praying Mantis

2009-08-24T23:20:00.002-04:00

Praying Mantises are cool ...

Praying Mantis on hubpages

and I'm so glad they're not any bigger than they actually are!

How Does a Hen Know When She's Done?

2009-07-11T09:11:00.003-04:00

So I haven't been eschewing my escritoire -- in fact, that probably won't happpen until I am on my deathbed (no Mom, I'm not going to tell you the secret to the Invisible Card trick when I'm on my deathbed ... it's only when you're on your deathbed that I will reveal anything) -- but rather I have been writing like crazy these past few weeks!

What? How can I be writing so much and have so little out there to show for it?

I have been refining, rewriting, editing, reworking, massaging, and creating the manuscript for my upcoming book, I Laid an Egg on Aunt Ruth's Head, that I will be publishing through AuthorHouse soon.

The book will include the stories that I've published online at Triond and Associated Content -- each of those stories has been rewritten and improved -- but it also includes a whole new set of stories not yet seen by the human eye (other than by my reviewers and me). The best stories are the ones you haven't seen yet!

I'm thoroughly enjoying the process of honing this work for public consumption. The downside is that I've been doing more editing than creating for the past couple of weeks, and it's really the creating that I enjoy. Of course, I also find that I like taking an existing paragraph, realize that it's not quite there, and tune it so that it sings.

The question I have though is this: how does the writer know when he's done writing and is ready to turn in the manuscript? I think this manuscript is something I could refine forever ... maybe ...

On the other hand, I've got paragraphs, even whole stories, that I read and find myself thinking, "That's perfect." I guess when I can do that for the entire manuscript, I know I'll be ready.

Or ... the hen knows she's done when no more eggs come out. Maybe?

Anyway, as publication nears, I'll post information on where to buy the book.

If you're not familiar with the Aunt Ruth stories, you may want to take a look at a couple of them to see if they're interesting for you.

Here are a couple of samples (already published online) ... modified versions of these will appear in the book.

Enjoy!

On Apostrophes and Aunt Ruth
Aunt Ruth Comprises Surprises

Slow Down

2009-06-23T06:45:00.000-04:00

We have all heard the expression "The world is moving a lot faster than it used to." In some sense, of course, that's ridiculous. The world is physically moving at the same rate it always has; or if it is indeed faster for whatever physical reasons, the effect is probably imperceptible to us mere mortals.

On the other hand, we have so much more technology available to us today; we can go more places, do more things, and we have more data thrown at us than ever before. Maybe the world is not moving faster, but it sure feels as though it is.

We didn't have email when I was growing up. In fact, even as a computer science major in college in the early 1980's, I never saw email until my first job out of school in 1984. I sent hand written letters to people, and I received hand written letters from people. In fact, twenty-five years later, taking the time to write a nice hand written letter seems like such a luxury.

We have cell phones so that we can call people from wherever to wherever, whenever we want. Phone calls are a whole lot cheaper than they used to be. When I was growing up, it was a big deal to gather around the phone and talk to the grandparents. In fact, my parents would often make reel-to-reel tapes featuring "the grandkids" and stories about things going on in our lives, and they would send the tapes to the grandparents. The grandparents would record greetings and messages and send them back. We would gather around the tape player and listen and talk and have a great time as a family.

We have digital cameras that can take photos and instantly send them to whomever we select or we can upload them to the Internet for all to see. We can even make digital movies, put them on YouTube, and instantly they're available to everybody.

If you had asked anybody in the 1960's, 1970's, and 1980's whether this modern technology would draw families closer, whether it would make people happier, and whether it would enrich our lives, I'm guessing that the majority of people would have replied with a resounding yes to all those questions.

But in some sense, it feels as though the proliferation of technology has marginalized the value of the communication that we used to so highly treasure. I'm not sure that I can put my finger on it, but receiving an email doesn't carry the same thrill that getting a paper letter in the mailbox brings; taking more beautiful pictures than ever and posting them on one of the photography websites just doesn't bring quite the same delight that receiving that packet of photographs from the film developer used to bring; and talking on the phone has become so commonplace that it almost seems as though we call less because it's not as special to us as it used to be.

I don't know if anybody else is experiencing these thoughts or if it is something only I perceive, but I suspect it is widespread. The growing discontent isn't just inside of me, it's everywhere.

Maybe that's the issue. Maybe that's exactly it.

We are a society who always wants more. We need more money, we need more things, we need more security, we need a better position at work, and we need more love. We're never content with what we have, but we want more.

This would be a perfect segue into several possible Christian themes, but I'll save that for another article. The point is that we are a people who are not satisfied. In some sense, that drives progress. We always want to do better, improve things more, raise the bar in any field we can imagine.

The sad thing, though, is that we're sacrificing family and relationships.

Right now we're at a place where we could leverage our technology in written communication, in oral communication, and in visual / photographic communication, and bring families closer together than ever before.

But again, now that it's so easy to write an email; now that it's so easy and affordable to call; and now that it's so easy to take beautiful photographs and send them to those we love, we're doing all those things less than we used to.

I am not necessarily talking about you. Perhaps you are the exception. But it seems that society in general is less happy, less fulfilled than we used to be.

We're complaining that life is moving too fast, and yet everything we're doing is only making it go faster.

How long can we keep up the frenetic pace? Where will this shifting of lifestyles flatten out? Or will our society actually "revert" (which may not be a bad thing) and slow down as we go back to enjoying quality time together?

I don't know. It's something to think about, though.

If you have email, write some letters to those people to whom you would have written a paper letter back in "the old days."

If you have relatively cheap phone access, take the time to make those phone calls.

If you have a digital camera, look into things you can do with your photographs. Shutterfly has a nifty feature that allows you to make very nice albums with your photographs. I'm sure other sites have something relatively similar. I've used Shutterfly's capabilities numerous times and have been absolutely delighted with the results.

Whatever you do and however you do it, stop and take the time for each other. If we don't leverage our technological advances to help improve things on a social level, then what's the point?

The Good Man

2009-06-13T23:42:00.003-04:00

Tonight the seven of us (six plus our Korean student) drove up to North Raleigh and saw, "You're a Good Man Charlie Brown." It was an excellent production! I had never seen this before and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Sean (our Korean kid) was laughing throughout most of the performance. He had a great time.

We also went to a wedding this afternoon -- it was an absolutely gorgeous ceremony, worshipful and very nicely done!

Sean and I went fishing in the late morning; before that, my wife and I moved a bunch of mulch into the garden.

The chicks are doing well ... boy it's been warm this week, but at least it's a moist heat. :-)

When an International Student Comes

2009-06-13T23:40:00.001-04:00

Over the past several years, my wife and I have played host for several international students and visitors, including four children from Korea, three from Belarus (including one of them four times), and one from France.

The experience of having children from foreign countries in our home has blessed us more than we ever anticipated. Not only have we established worldwide friendships, but my children have learned so much about other parts of this planet and have grown considerably in their acceptance of people from other cultures and with varied backgrounds.

To read the rest of the article on HubPages, see:

Hosting International Students

Fast Times and Kid Times

2009-06-12T16:38:00.003-04:00

I know I keep hearing this and I know I keep saying this, but BOY it feels like the kids are growing up way too fast. I don't mean necessarily in the "bad" sense where youngsters are exposed to a whole lot more these days than I was as a kid; I'm just talking about the fact that they're aging and maturing right before my eyes.

Where does the time go?

I try to get a ton of daddy time in with the kids ... but it's just flying by.

The oldest has graduated high school and will be off to college in the fall. The second oldest is taking on a lot more responsibility than a year ago, and he can outrun me in a dead sprint. He is finishing his soph year and knows what he wants to study and where he wants to go to college. The third is finishing 7th grade and she knows what she wants to do. And the fourth is finishing 4th grade and even he knows what he wants to do.

The kids have all become great helpers, more proactive in seeking out stuff that needs to be done, more caring and sensitive to the needs of others, and more delightful every day.

I loved the "little" years when I could carry kids around in backpacks, take them in the jogging stroller, play our favorite homemade chase game ("No Monkies"), and stuff like that.

But I tell you, I'm thoroughly enjoying the "growing up" years where we can talk about real things. My kids talk to me and ask me questions about anything, and I love it.

Father's Day is coming up sometime later this month. I've already gotten what I want, and that's a relationship with each kid where he or she trusts me, loves me, and isn't hesitant to be seen with me in public.

(My oldest son did ask me to promise to never wear a tutu again in public ... even though he wasn't at last year's Pops Concert at church, he's heard about it enough that he knows he doesn't want to see it :-).

I love weekends. I LOVE weekends, because that's when I can get the best quality family time. That means more than just about anything. Heck, it means more than Nebraska football (shhh, don't tell anybody I said that).

Patience and Fishing

2009-06-06T09:44:00.002-04:00

I used to always think that my dad took me fishing so that I would learn to be patient. As my four kids are growing up I've been taking them fishing ... and now I realize that it's really the parent who learns patience.

The reason my dad is so patient is because he took me fishing!

Fishing and the Art of Patience

Golden Anniversary: A Time to Celebrate

2009-06-05T08:01:00.002-04:00

My parents will celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary tomorrow (June 6, 2009)!

That's an amazing feat and one that is the culmination of years of hard work, patience, humor, respect, and a lot of faith.

Congratulations, Mom and Dad! Your example of what marriage should be like has been a role model for your kids.

Fifty Years

We Have Finished the Chicken Coop!

2009-06-03T07:51:00.000-04:00

We finished the chicken coop last night! You can read about it here:

Chicken Coop Completed

The chicks spent their first night in the coop last night, and they seem pretty delighted this morning. Their pen and coop are right next to the old pen and coop (containing six hens that are three years old), and the old and new hens are staring at each other.

When the new kids grow up, we'll join flocks into one.

Extracting Honey

2009-06-02T00:12:00.002-04:00

It's just about that time of year again, when the beekeepers of the family put all the rest of us to work with harvesting / extracting the honey. And oh my, it is some seriously good stuff.

This past weekend we extracted a little bit of honey, but not all the honey is capped yet, which means the honey is not ready for extraction.

Still, I took some pics and wrote about the honey extraction process.

Enjoy!

Extracting North Carolina Honey

My Grandma and Her Country

2009-05-30T00:37:00.002-04:00

At the age of 100, my Grandma has lived for approximately 42% of the life of this country!

For this article, I set aside my normally cheerful outlook and take a gander at where this country seems to be heading. It's disturbing.

A Centenarian and Her Country

Spring in the Heart of Carolina

2009-05-28T23:24:00.001-04:00

It's gorgeous around home this time of year! Enjoy the pics of our yard in a North Carolina springtime.

The Beauty and Bounty of a Carolina Spring

Parkinson's Disease with an Attitude

2009-05-28T07:09:00.002-04:00

What do you do when facing a chronic illness? What do you do when facing ANY kind of adversity?

You trust in the One who created you, and you wake up each morning ready to take on the day!

Parkinson's Disease with an Attitude

An Exciting Evening

2009-05-28T07:06:00.002-04:00

Last night wasn't exactly a normal evening in the household. First of all, the kids are at camp this week, so my wife and I had a quiet dinner. Then we went out and worked on various projects ... but hey, why am I telling you about it here, when I could just point you to this article I wrote last night.

Here, you can learn about our exciting evening!

Natural Predators and a Very Brave Wife

To the Graduate

2009-05-26T06:21:00.000-04:00

A Letter to All High School Graduates

Dear high school graduate,

Congratulations on finishing your first twelve or thirteen years of "official" education! This is a huge milestone, and I think that most of us who have gone through it ourselves recognize that such an achievement today requires a more herculean effort than it did back "in the old days."

What lies ahead may seem daunting -- indeed, it is -- but it is also laden with opportunity to truly make a difference (for the better) in the world.

The political, social, and religious turmoil that one hears in the news every morning is more heated and magnified, more prominent and more relevant than ever before. In this age of information overload and prolific social networking tools, the heightened awareness on any issue and the ability to reach the multitudes with personal opinion are coupled to form a powerful tool with which any individual can quickly "learn and respond" more effectively than even just five years ago.

For more, see the whole letter at:
To the Graduate

Jim Weiss, Storyteller Extraordinaire

2009-05-25T22:01:00.003-04:00

My family goes to the North Carolina Home Education conference nearly every year. When we're making plans to go, we always have the kids look through the program listing of the workshops and talks that will be given over the weekend, and we ask which talks they would like to attend.

Invariably, the first thing out of each of the kids' mouths is the same thing, year after year after year, and that is, "I want to hear Jim Weiss." And usually, that means that we hear him speak at least twice ... and regardless of what workshops and talks are happening concurrently, it would never occur to us to miss one of his talks.

Jim Weiss has an amazing voice, but more than that, he is a gifted storyteller. He captures the essence of a story; he weaves the stage setting, plot, and character development into one cohesive and delightful story.

This past weekend was no exception. Weiss had one session on the stories of G.K. Chesterton, and he told us Chesterton's first Father Brown mystery. I say he told us; that is, he had it memorized, and he related the story to us with wonderful voice inflection changes, facial expressions, and body language, and his timing was superb. He can build up suspense like nobody else; his voice can be loud; his voice can be soft; but his voice is always exactly where it needs to be to make the story the most effective it can be.

Weiss' second session was a series of stories dealing with the time from the building of the first Jewish temple in Jerusalem, through the destruction of the second temple. Weiss told a delightful story demonstrating the wisdom of King Solomon, and then he shared a great deal of the history of the area, who did what to whom, and all that. Even small children were absolutely riveted, wanting to hear more and more.

Jim Weiss has a talent, a God-given wonderful gift that he shares by telling stories. What a joy it is to hear him speak!

You can find more information about Jim Weiss and his products at the Greathall Productions website, Greathall Productions.

Also feel free to take a look at this article:

Jim Weiss, Storyteller

Chicken Coops

2009-05-25T21:57:00.001-04:00

The Chicken Coop Mansion (the Graceland of Coops I guess, or maybe it's the Biltmore) is nearing completion. The roof is on now. There's more to do, but the end is in sight.

The chicks are making their reservations now for the upcoming egg laying season.

Read more about it here ...

On Backyard Projects and Chicken Coops

Homeschooling and the Question on Social Development

2009-05-25T21:41:00.002-04:00

Our family went to the annual (in fact, the 25th annual) state homeschool conference this weekend, a great forum to find out about new teaching resources and to get re-energized for the next year.

Now, I know that homeschooling is not for everybody, but it does work successfully for many families. By now you've probably heard a fair bit about pros and cons, pluses and minuses, and all that. You may even know families who homeschool.

Well, we've been homeschooling our four, and our oldest daughter graduated this weekend! I'll write more about that in another post.

One thing I'd like to talk about here, though, is the question of the development of social skills of the homeschooled student.

First, let me say that at this conference, there were hundreds and probably even a thousand or more children ranging in age from 0 to 18. There were kids all over the place ... in the workshops and sessions, in the book fair (a massive room filled with dozens of vendors selling teaching aids, games, curricula, books, and tons more, lasting all weekend), in the hotel, in the restaurants, on the sidewalks ... and honestly, without exaggeration, I did not once see any child whine, complain, go into a tantrum, or be rude and disrespectful.

What I did see were older kids helping younger kids, kids of all ages being polite and respectful to adults, and kids being well behaved in general.

These weren't kids who were hiding behind the skirts or pants of Mom or Dad (respectively), but kids who were confident, outgoing, and a joy to see.

Speaking of confident ... we went to the talent show on Friday night, and wow the talent of these kids is absolutely amazing. Pianists, vocalists, guitarists, a couple sax players, a juggler, a video maker, and even a jump rope ensemble ... all of these kids just wowed the audience.

Anyway, here's a link to an article that explores the question on socialization a little further. This is not an attack on public or private schools; it is merely pointing out that in general, homeschooled students do fine socially.

And it makes sense. A homeschool better models the real world (where each individual interacts with people from multiple age brackets) than a school system where each student interacts only with people from the same age.

Without further adieu ...

Homeschooling and Social Skills

The Very First Award for A Day in the Life of nutuba !

2009-05-23T22:38:00.009-04:00

A Day in the Life of nutuba has been awarded My Most Favorite Award from New Scribbles From Glynis Smy !!!

Thank you Glynis, I am so flattered!

If any of you haven't read Glynis' writing, drop what you're doing right now and go read! You're in for a treat.

These are the rules in accepting this award: Deliver this award to eight bloggers who then must choose eight more and include the following text into the award.

“These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers.”

I would like to pass on the award to the following bloggers.

Bubble Dreams

Passions

Night Writing in the Morning Light

Tamela's Place

Notes from Around the Block

Journaling for Growth

John and Sun-Ling Wander the Earth

Placid Quake

Happy Reading!

Memorial Day, Fathers' Day, and Heroes

2009-05-19T15:33:00.001-04:00

In the United States, the month between Memorial Day and Fathers’ Day is an opportunity to reflect on (perhaps forgotten) heroes, people who were willing to set aside their own agendas – even their own lives – for the benefit of their families and society as a whole.

There are numerous definitions of what a hero is. The title of “hero” may be bestowed upon someone who wins the game at the last moment, or someone who finds the missing car keys beneath the seat cushion. Those are nice things, certainly, but that is not the type of hero that I have in mind here.

In a very real sense, a hero is someone who exhibits a characteristic that gives us a glimpse of what God is like, someone who does the right thing in some particular set of circumstances. A hero is a role model that helps us grasp a firmer hold on our belief in God.

To read more: Memorial Day, Fathers' Day, and Heroes

Amazing Days

2009-05-18T06:57:00.002-04:00

Our kids are at the ages where, with all the activities they're involved in, our days are filled with excitement, some unpredictability, and fun!

Yesterday was no exception.

Looking toward yesterday on the calendar, we knew it was going to be a busy Sunday.

First of all, Sunday was our oldest son's sixteenth birthday! This kid has turned into a responsible young man with an analytical mind, a love of laughter, a deep care for others, and gifts in many areas (including music and athletics).

My oldest daughter had scheduled the recital for her ten piano students, plus she scheduled her own senior recital immediately following. She took care of the details such as printing the programs, baking a ton of food for a reception, and all that kind of stuff.

My wife was on tap for teaching the Sunday School lesson at church that morning, and she prepared for that.

I had been asked by our music director at church to set up the music for two of our worship services, since the choir, the organist, and all associated music people were performing at Duke University that morning. I put together a quartet to play the hymns, a duet (trombone and tuba) for the prelude, a tuba solo for the offertory (accompanied by oldest son), and a piano solo for the postlude (performed by oldest son).

So all this stuff was scheduled to happen on the same day. In addition, we've been working hard on building a chicken coop in the back yard for our (now) eleven baby chicks (who are getting bigger every day), and we had an end of year celebration Saturday evening with the homeschool history co-op in which my kids participate.

Looking back on yesterday's activities, I'm amazed that we survived! We were all so exhausted last night it was almost comical ... and yet there was a sense of peace and a euphoria of having experienced such a wonderful day.

It's not that everything went smoothly.

My oldest son and I had decided to go to church early to get everything set up for the church services, and to warm up. We got to church shortly after 7am and ... well ... it had never occurred to me that the church wouldn't be open by that time on Sunday morning! I guess our music director is usually the first one there, and since she wasn't coming on this particular day ... Anyway, we got our instruments out and sat out in the courtyard (outdoors) playing duets until someone showed up to let us in. I hope the neighbors didn't mind being serenaded with a tuba - clarinet duet at that hour.

The church services went well. I really enjoyed playing the tuba solo accompanied by my son -- that's one of those golden memories I'm going to always treasure -- and he did a sensational job with is Beethoven piano solo for the postlude. And all the other music went well too.

My daughter's piano recital -- both that of her students and her senior recital -- were wonderful. She played brilliantly, and many in the audience who were hearing her play "the hard stuff" (not the music they usually hear her playing, accompanying the youth praise band at church) were stunned.

There's more to tell, and much more that we laughed about, but I don't have to "tell all" online.

Suffice it to say that the time spent together as family made it one of those special days that we'll always look back and cherish.

It was a cold and rainy day, but it was a happy day.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

2009-05-15T05:33:00.002-04:00

Today is the day!

My grandmother -- my dad's mom -- is now 100 years old!

I don't know what it is about the Midwest that seems to have given it a corner on the market of centenarians, but it's pretty amazing.

100 years.

Think about it. I'm not even half that old yet (though give me two years and a few days, and I'll be there).

1909 was when Robert Peary reached the North Pole.

The price of a first class postage stamp in the United States was 2 cents in 1909.

In 1909, Taft is inaugurated as President of the U.S., and star baseball players at the time include Ty Cobb, Honus Wagner, and Cy Young. In fact, Babe Ruth was only fourteen years old in 1909 and wouldn't start playing professional ball for another five years!

In 1909, the Army Air Corps was formed, and the Wright Brothers delivered the first batch of planes.

1909 was a long time ago!

Grandma, you've given us so much laughter and joy through the years!

Grandma, do you remember when you, Grandpa, and I were eating dinner in a rotating restaurant in a skyscraper in Los Angeles, and you put your purse on the ledge behind you, only to turn around a half hour later and find that your purse had "moved" to the other side of the restaurant (we were the ones that had moved)? You were laughing so hard that you embarrassed Grandpa!

Grandma, do you remember when you and Grandpa took your three grandkids to Gatlinburg for the week, and we three kids were practicing our animal sounds in the back seat as we drove to the mountains? Grandpa stopped the car and gave us a mild scolding, but you were laughing so hard you had tears in your eyes.

And on the way back from Gatlinburg, we had promised to not make pig noises. So instead, we pretended we were speaking Chinese, and finally Grandpa just pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the car, and walked across the street to a coffee shop. You told us that we needed to stop speaking Japanese, but we patiently explained to you that we were speaking Chinese. And again you laughed hard.

Do you remember the first time you visited us in North Carolina? You were prancing around the house singing a Christmas Rap that you made up as you went. "'Twas the night before Christmas (boom cha cha choo) and all through the house (boom cha cha choo), not a creature was stirring (boom cha cha choo), not even (pause) a mouse (boom cha cha choo)."

You were there when I was born. Mom was alone in Norfolk, Virginia, because Dad was in the Navy and his ship was out at sea when I was born, so you came to be with Mom.

You were there the weekend that Jen and I made the Iowa All State Band, and you rejoiced with us when we returned from the tryouts.

You were there when I graduated from high school, sitting proudly in the audience.

Over the years we've had so much laughter together, along with the tears. You've gotten to know each of my kids, and that means so much to me, Grandma.

They love you, Grandma.
Grandma, I love you too.
Happy Birthday, Grandma!

Good Night Shane

2009-05-06T06:35:00.002-04:00

Sadness befell the household a couple days ago.

My youngest son had given the name Shane to one of his baby chicks (the six of us each have two chicks). Why Shane? Shane is the name of my son's favorite cowboy movie, and, in fact, each night when my youngest goes to bed, he and I say, "Good night Shane" to each other, echoing a line from the movie.

Shane (the chick) was more or less the runt of the dozen, just a bit smaller and a lot cuter than the others, and he had taken a special place in my son's heart.

The twelve baby chicks were outside in the "chicken tractor," a 3-foot by 8-foot pen with a top, wrapped around on all sides with chicken wire to contain the chicks but also to protect them from predators. The chicken tractor is a movable pen in which the chicks can play on nice warm days.

We had seen a red shouldered hawk, also called a chicken hawk, hovering over the yard the past few days, and in fact two weekends ago when we had the chicks out in the chicken tractor the hawk swooped down and tried to get inside. He couldn't.

Well, two days ago ... the hawk again swooped down, and this time he was able to reach his talons inside the chicken wire and he managed to kill one of the chicks.

It was Shane.

My son is sad -- we're all sad.

I saw the hawk again this morning, circling above, looking for more. Sigh ...

Good night, Shane.

Ruby Red Slippers

2009-05-06T06:21:00.002-04:00

It was a dark and stormy night ... it truly was, last night here.

The skies were dark and the rain steady as I was preparing to leave work for the drive home. I got a call from my oldest son just as I was walking out of the office ... he was at church and wondered if I could swing by and pick him up. So I did.

As we left the church, I asked if we could stop at the music store first to find something to play for church in a couple Sundays from now (I was looking for something along the lines of a small ensemble (duet, trio, quartet)).

While we were there, my cell phone rang (well, buzzed, as it was in vibrating mode). My oldest daughter called from home to tell us that she heard there was a tornado spotted at Jordan Lake on highway 64 (not more than 5 minutes from our home). We quickly finished our purchases and headed home.

The drive from the music store to the house was difficult. That's the most rain I've driven through in many years, and it was windy.

We arrived home and were safe, and we found out later that 8 different tornado sightings were reported, including one that touched down less than a half mile from our house! Fortunately, that one just took some trees out, but there were other homes in the area that were damaged last night.

The rest of the family (who had been at church rehearsing the children's musical, to be performed tonight (my youngest son has the male lead, playing the role of Daniel)) had to huddle in the church basement, it turns out, when the tornado warnings were announced.

It was a dark and stormy night, indeed!

Oh, incidentally ... we found a couple nice pieces at the music store. One is an arrangement of Variations on Judas Maccabeaus, arranged by William Bell (the Jimi Hendrix of the tuba, more or less). This is a tuba solo with piano accompaniment ... we (oldest son and I) played it last night a couple times through, and I think it will work nicely for church. It's a beautiful piece. I was thoroughly impressed with my son's piano sight-reading ... he has far surpassed me!

Writings of Glynis Smy

2009-05-02T13:15:00.002-04:00

Hello all!

One of my favorite writers on Triond is Glynis Smy, a poet / writer who can capture thoughts with amazing eloquence and clarity. Glynis has also been an ardent supporter of my writing, and her comments have played a considerable role in helping my writing improve.

I encourage you to read Glynis' writings!

Glynis Smy's Triond home page

Page of Glynis Smy's works

Here are links to some of her latest works:

Settle on my Shoulders

A Mask of Many Faces

30 Years

Wild Flowers of Cyprus

Nightmare Dates

2009-04-29T21:15:00.002-04:00

I've got two stories for you. Both are entirely fictional and both were a LOT of fun to write. I hope you have as much fun reading these as I had writing them!

Clovis and the Philosophies of Werner Klemperer

Lingua Franca for Two

Enjoy!

Raising Chickens Part 3

2009-04-25T10:41:00.003-04:00

The next article on raising chickens has just been published on Triond. Check it out!

Raising Chickens Part 3

For the Eggs

2009-04-24T07:28:00.002-04:00

Haha, good morning all!

I just noticed that some of the Adsense ads associated with my blog article on the Fluffy Dozen are related to cooking and / or eating chicken.

We are not going to eat these birds. :-)

A new article will be coming out on Triond at some point, with updated videos on the little chicks. They are still adorable, but they're adorable in sort of a teen-aged way now. Boy they've got big feet.

The six older chickens continue to do well. Their egg production had slowed way down during the winter ... with the six of them teaming for sometimes just one egg per day. They're back to 3 or 4 eggs per day (total, not each) and that's usually enough for us.

In other news ... we're looking forward to the annual honey harvest from our bee hives. We'll be doing that sometime in May or June or both. The beekeeper of the family (my wife) doesn't know if we'll be able to get as much as honey as we did last year (20 gallons last year).

There's high demand from our friends for the honey, though, especially from those who have allergies. Word of mouth has gotten around that this honey does amazing stuff for making pollen related allergies go away.

Last night I worked on the new grape trellis that we're putting in the orchard. These are muscadines, with a thick skin that makes them bug resistant. And wow they are sweet! There's still a lot more work to do on the trellis ... I need to set four more posts and then put up the support braces for running the cables. I think that's going to occupy most of the weekend.

But now it's time to shower and go in to work.
Later all!

The Fluffy Dozen

2009-04-16T07:22:00.002-04:00

Read about the chicks at one week old. They are fluffy and adorable! Oh, and to answer an often asked question ... yes, we are raising them for the eggs. We are not going to eat these birds.

Raising Chickens 2

A Glorious Easter

2009-04-13T07:13:00.002-04:00

I could write for days about the wonderful Easter Sunday we had here yesterday ... the church services were beautiful (and fun -- I love playing Hallelujah Chorus on tuba!), I put together a fun Easter egg hunt for the kids (with no eggs actually, but they did each get a chocolate bunny at the very end), the kids and I teamed together to make a delicious ham dinner, and the whole family played a fun game of (American) football in the backyard in the afternoon.

With all that excitement, who could ask for anything more?

Well, perhaps the highlight of the day for me was the conversation we had at the dinner table as we were finishing up our meal. It seems that we're so busy these days, and though we usually do eat our meals together, the meals are often rushed. Last night, though, we sat and talked at the table for more than an hour *after* we had finished eating. It was wonderful! We laughed and told stories and enjoyed each other's company, and it was such a delightful experience. I wish we could do that every day.

Later in the evening we did "family band" ... all 6 of us were playing some kind of instrument ... and we focused on one song, learning and getting better each time through. The song was, appropriately enough, "I Love You Lord."

What a wonderful day!

Nature's Spaghetti

2009-04-12T05:11:00.006-04:00

Yesterday (Saturday) was a beautiful day to be outside working in the yard and garden. We spent much of the day planning and beginning to work on making another grape arbor / trellis in the orchard. I say another because we have one already, but several new chutes have taken root and we'll transplant them to start a new vine.

We're growing muscadine grapes, both the purple muscadine and the golden bronze scuppernongs, and they are sweet and delicious. They are also thick skinned, marvelously resistant to bugs.

Anyway, I was digging post holes yesterday in the North Carolina clay, and as we usually do while we are outside working, we let our chickens (the big ones, not the baby chicks) out of the pen so they could enjoy running around a while. (We can't let them run free all the time because of the plethora of natural predators in our woods, including foxes, raccoons, and hawks).

As I was digging, I heard one of the kids yell, "She's got a snake!" I turned and saw one of our black chickens (a black Australorp) running across the backyard with a snake, perhaps a foot long, in its mouth. The other chickens were chasing it, trying to get a piece of the action.

My first thought was to try to rescue the snake -- snakes are good to have around (eating mice) -- but as I ran toward the chicken I realized the snake was already dead. Still, I figured it wasn't healthy for the chicken to eat twelve inches of snake, so my goal became trying to get the snake from the chicken.

My youngest son joined me in this escapade as we chased the chicken around the yard, snake dangling from its mouth as if it were a long pasta noodle. That chicken is fast! Eventually it stopped running, and just as I reached it, it took four big gulps and the snake was gone.

If chickens could smile, I'd swear that this one was smiling a victory smile at me. The hen seemed none the worse for the wear, and I guess she will survive her feast.

It's time to go cook breakfast. We'll have our usual Sunday breakfast of puffed oven pancakes and then we're off to church. We have to be at church early today (orchestra warm up is at 7:25am).

Happy Easter, y'all!

Good Friday

2009-04-10T22:37:00.002-04:00

Regardless of the weather; regardless of the busy-ness of the weekend activities; regardless of everything going on in the world around us -- Easter weekend is always my favorite weekend of the year.

We had church last night, we had church tonight, we'll have church orchestra rehearsal on Saturday morning, and then Sunday morning will be Easter ... and oh it's been awesome. We will finish the service on Sunday with the Hallelujah Chorus. It doesn't get any better than that!

Well, if you've never heard the organ piece, Variations on an Easter Theme by John Rutter, you've got to listen to it someday. It'll knock your socks off.

The baby chicks are doing great! They're already significantly bigger than when we got them just two days ago. I'll take more pics tomorrow.

It's Friday, but Sunday's comin'

2009-04-10T10:18:00.003-04:00

This just in from a friend (thanks Mister Murphy!) ...

Sunday's comin'

It's Friday. Jesus is praying. Peter's a sleeping. Judas is betraying.
But Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. Pilate's struggling. The council is conspiring. The crowd is vilifying. They don't even know that Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. The disciplines are running like sheep without a shepherd.
Mary's crying. Peter is denying. But they don't know that Sunday's a comin'.

It's Friday. The Romans beat my Jesus. They robe Him in scarlet. They crown Him with thorns. But they don't know that Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. See Jesus walking to Calvary. His blood dripping. His body stumbling. And his spirit's burdened. But you see, it's only Friday.
Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. The world's winning. People are sinning. And evil's grinning.

It's Friday. The soldiers nail my Savior's hands to the cross. They nail my Savior's feet to the cross. And then they raise him up next to criminals.

It's Friday. But let me tell you something: Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. The disciples are questioning. What has happened to their King. And the Pharisees are celebrating that their scheming has been achieved. But they don't know: It's only Friday. Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. He's hanging on the cross feeling forsaken by His Father.
Left alone and dying. Can nobody save Him? Oooh, it's Friday. But Sunday's comin'.

It's Friday. The earth trembles. The sky grows dark. My King yields his spirit.

It's Friday. Hope is lost. Death has won. Sin has conquered. And Satan's just a laughing.

It's Friday. Jesus is buried. A soldier stands guard. And a rock is rolled into place.

But it's Friday. It is only Friday.

Sunday is a comin'.

Featured Triond Writer: Kate Smedley

2009-04-08T11:11:00.002-04:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to one of Triond's shining new writers!

Kate Smedley has dazzled me with her poetry in the past few weeks, and you're in for a real treat. She has a tremendous command of word selection and imagery in her work.

I encourage you to check out her writing!

Kate's Triond page is:

http://www.triond.com/users/Kate+Smedley

Here is a sampling of some of her latest stuff.

You Complete Me

Say Cheese for the Speed Camera

Heavenly Heights

Mirage

Note that Kate also has a blogger blog! You'll find it at katesmedley.blogspot.com.
Enjoy!

DC in a Day

2009-03-31T21:03:00.003-04:00

First time visitors to Washington, D.C. will inevitably discover that there is more to see and do in this great city than their schedules can possibly allow. Indeed, the city is chock full of historical and political significance; couple that with a bevy of wonderful restaurants, and you will find metropolitan DC to be a veritable vacation paradise. Around every corner one can find something to watch or read or eat.

To read the rest of the article about our trip to DC last weekend, click here.

March Serenity

2009-03-04T23:51:00.003-05:00

Now there's a phrase one doesn't hear all that often: March serenity. We (at least around here in the basketball country of Duke and Carolina) tend to get all excited about March Madness. I think I like March Serenity better.

The snowfall we had Sunday night / Monday morning was spectacularly beautiful. I'm allowed to say that, since it'll all be gone in a couple of days.

Last Friday I called Mom and lamented that it was getting downright cold here, down into the 30's (Fahrenheit). Mom said, "Yes, it was on the chilly side last night here as well." My parents live in Minnesota.

So I took the bait. "How cold was it, Mom?"

"Twenty below," she replied (rather icily I think).

Yes, I like March Serenity.

I've been reading some of the writings of William Wilberforce lately. I wasn't surprised to discover that he is both an eloquent and a quite readable author. He made an observation in the chapter I read this morning that went something like this. God, in all of his compassion for us, gave us this beautifully rich text (the Bible) so that we might know him better, might understand our relationship with him better, and might serve him better. In too many homes, that book is collecting dust on a self somewhere.

Do you know where yours is?
When did you last open it?

Good Night, all.

Mothers and Fathers

2009-02-28T00:56:00.003-05:00

It's no secret that the success rate of keeping families together is dwindling. Dads, it's time to step up to the plate.

Unconditional Love: Calling Fathers to Action

And mothers out there, you don't get enough recognition for all you do! Here's to you ...

A Mother's Love

Good night, all.

Featured Writer: Alina Beck

2009-02-28T00:05:00.002-05:00

Hi all!

There's a fairly new writer to Triond who writes with a refreshing viewpoint; her writing is articulate, enjoyable, and informative. I encourage you to go and check out the work of Alina Beck.

Some of Alina's recent work includes:

Train Life

Five Notable Tower of London Prisoners

A Bad Name for a King

Romania's Orphanages: 20 Years on

Famous for All the Wrong Reasons

Purple and the Witch

2009-02-27T19:22:00.001-05:00

This is a funny story from teaching Sunday school many years ago ...

Purple and the Witch

A Rich Amber Hue That Reminds Me of the Grassy Plains of Western Nebraska as I'm Driving Into the Sunset

2009-02-27T19:19:00.001-05:00

Something funny happened on the way to breakfast last weekend.

A Rich Amber Hue

Preparing for Spring

2009-02-23T11:03:00.002-05:00

Hi all,

This was published on Triond this morning. Some of you have been asking about Triond ... it's a freelance writing site where authors are paid per page hit of their articles. If you're interested, I encourage you to check it out.

Preparing for Spring

Cheers,
nutuba

Agnes Was No Lady

2009-02-22T15:15:00.001-05:00

Hi all,

Back in 1972 my family took a trip down to the Florida panhandle, expecting fun in the sun. What we got was a lot more excitement than we anticipated!

Agnes Was No Lady

On Fishing, Moonshine, and Apollo 13

2009-02-21T10:10:00.001-05:00

One of the fishing trips that Dad and I took turned out to be more than just your run of the mill fishing expeditions ...

On Fishing, Moonshine, and Apollo 13

A Baseball Cap and a Father's Love

2009-02-20T08:17:00.002-05:00

Howdy all!

Here's a new article for you to ponder ...

A Baseball Cap and a Father's Love

Blueberries, Honey Bees, and a 401K

2009-02-17T19:33:00.002-05:00

Hey all,

Here are some recent articles that have been written for Triond. Hope you enjoy!

Swimming and Fishing in Blueberry Country

The Fascinating Art of Beekeeping

A Pragmatic Approach for Dealing with a Decimated 401K

Conner Prairie, Indiana: History Comes Alive!

2009-02-14T07:30:00.001-05:00

Here's an article I posted on Triond earlier this week. Last summer on our way to Michigan we stopped at Conner Prairie, a living history farm and museum just north of Indianapolis, Indiana. We liked it so much that we bought season passes so that we could stop there on the way back home a week later.

Conner Prairie

Featured Writer: Melinda McQueen

2009-02-14T07:13:00.002-05:00

Today I'm bringing to you one of my favorite Triond writers, Melinda McQueen. The imagery in her poetry is beautiful! I encourage you to read her profile listed below and to check out some of her writing. I think you'll enjoy it.

Her Triond homepage is here: Melinda McQueen's Profile

Some of her recent work:

Colors of the Rainbow

It's Cold Out

My Tears

Soft Feathers

The Sun Arose

Baseball and Dreams

2009-02-13T12:31:00.007-05:00

America's favorite past time, the game of baseball, was my favorite past time as well growing up. I loved watching it; I loved reading about it; I loved collecting baseball cards and memorizing statistics and reading the box scores in the newspaper every morning; but most of all, I loved playing the game.

My dream was to be a big league ball player. I wanted to be the next Hank Aaron, the next Nolan Ryan.

Dad and I would go out and play catch every night after dinner during the spring, summer, and fall months. Oh my, I loved that. There's something about the leather mitt and the ball that just feel right. There are few things as gratifying as tracking down a long fly ball, settling under it, and snagging the ball out of the deep blue sky. As soon as the snow melted each spring -- sometimes before it was melted -- we'd be out there throwing.

I played in Little League -- organized baseball -- after seventh grade and eighth grade. Dad tried to get me to be a pitcher, and I wanted to be one. We'd practice for hours; I'd pitch and he'd catch. I could throw hard, but I never quite achieved the desired accuracy consistently. Mostly I played center field, and I could throw the ball from deep center to home plate on the fly, pretty accurately most of the time.

I experienced an interesting physiological trait or behavior or characteristic, whatever you want to call it, in my first year of organized ball. While I was confident playing outfield, and I loved it when the ball was hit my direction, I wasn't as confident at the plate.

While I would bat well in practice and had no trouble taking big swings, during actual games I had a tendency to freeze up. I would watch the first pitch come in. Strike one. I would watch the second pitch come in. Strike two. I would watch the third pitch come in. Strike three. I wouldn't swing. I wanted to swing, and I told myself I was going to swing, and I would cock the bat back, but I wouldn't swing.

To this day I don't quite understand what was going on in my mind. Was it sort of a physical version of stuttering? I'm going to assume it had something to do with confidence, except that I thought I was confidently playing all the other aspects of the game.

Once in a while I would get lucky and face a pitcher who didn't throw strikes, and I'd get a walk to first base, but in the first three quarters of that initial season, I struck out more often than not.

The coach was bewildered, and soon I found myself sitting on the bench for most of each game. I think it bewildered my dad, too. He knew I could swing; he knew I could hit. He'd be there in the stands, cheering for me, but I wouldn't swing.

Toward the end of the season -- we had two games left before the playoffs -- I somehow told myself, "Okay, enough is enough. I've got to swing, no matter what." The coach put me in as a pinch hitter at the end of the game. The pitcher started his windup, I started my swing, and ... I fouled off the first ball! The pitcher again started his windup, I again started my swing, and ... I fouled off the second ball! The pitcher got ready for his third pitch, and he blew it right by me. I swung with everything I had and missed the ball. I struck out. A couple players on my team were clapping though. I had swung the bat!

In the last game of the regular season, the coach sent me to bat in the third or fourth inning. I had been watching the pitcher. He was fast, but he always threw straight down the middle. I felt confident. I had faced this pitcher before, at the start of the season, and he had struck me out two or three times. As I walked to the plate, he was smiling. But he didn't know what I knew. He went into his windup and winged the baseball over home plate. I swung and CRACK! I hit the ball on a line drive, over second base and into center field. It rolled past the center fielder and moments later I found myself on second base with a double!

I was thrilled! I had broken through the barrier.

In my next (and last) time up at the plate in that game, I hit a single into the outfield, going between the first and second basemen. That hit also drove in a run.

It was late in the season, but I had shown myself what I could do.

In the first game of the playoffs, I was itching and ready to play. It was a close game. Late in the game, the coach needed to put in a pinch hitter. There were two of us left on the bench, John and me. John had only gotten one or two hits the entire season, whereas I had "come alive" in the last couple of games. The coach sent John to bat. He struck out. Game over. I was disappointed at not playing, but I still relished the satisfaction of feeling I had overcome an obstacle.

The next season, I played pretty consistently. I was one of the starting outfielders. My batting was fine -- not stellar, but fine -- and going into the next to last game, I had mostly singles along with a couple of doubles. I hit a single my first time up. And then the second time up, for some reason I got a good look at the ball as it was coming in. Maybe it was the lighting (it was a night game), I don't know. But I swung and nailed that ball into deep center field. The center fielder turned and ran and ran after the ball. We were playing in a ballpark that didn't have an outfield fence. By the time the ball made it back to the infield, I had already crossed home plate for my first ever home run! I drove in three runs with that hit, and it forever will be the highlight of my baseball career.

After ninth grade, I played baseball for our school's junior varsity team. I thought I was doing fine in practice, but I found that the coach wasn't playing me much. I batted 8 or 9 times that summer. I still enjoyed going to the games, but I wanted to be out there on the field. And, maybe more important, I wanted to be working at the lumber yard because I knew I would need the money for college in a few years down the road.

One of the hardest decisions I had to make was saying no to baseball the following summer. In some sense I guess I was growing up and was ready to make decisions like that. I realized I'd never have the talent to make it to the Major Leagues. It's one thing to have to make a decision between two viable options. It's another thing to realize you just don't have what it takes to make your dream come true.

And of course, that's one way that God can help steer us so that we're in the places He wants us to be, at the times He wants us to be there.

I still play baseball with the kids in the back yard, and boy do we have fun. Maybe this is the real dream that God is allowing to come true in my life.

Featured Writer: Sarah Elizabeth Hume

2009-02-10T22:28:00.003-05:00

One of my favorite writers on Triond is Sarah Elizabeth Hume. Here's a link to her Triond page, along with links to some of her recent writing.

I encourage you to check out her work!

Sarah Elizabeth Hume

Love Story

Broken

Like the Sea

Winter

Twilah the Unicorn (written by Sarah's 8-year old daughter)

Thunder and Lightning and Whispers

2009-02-10T19:55:00.004-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night, and ... now wait, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm beginning the story this way for dramatic effect. Well, yes, that's true, but it really was a dark and stormy night, a night that featured a thunderous downpour and the most intense lightning display I had seen since I lived in the Midwest years before.

This was back in August, 1989, so long ago that it was even before my wife and I had kids. I think evolutionists (not me) call that the Parentnotyetoic Period. My wife was still working as a software developer, and she was at a conference in Boston. It was near midnight, and I was in the kitchen baking a Jefferson Davis pie. Specifically, I had baked the body of the pie and was finishing by baking the meringue topping on the pie.

Flash!
Crash!

I'd see a flash of lightning so intense that it would have left Ben Franklin smiling with glee, and a moment or two later I'd hear the thunder.

Flash!
Crash!

I was also cleaning up the dishes. Again, the crashing was following the flashing by a moment or two.

Flash!
Crash!

I checked the timer and peeked in the oven window. The meringue still had a couple minutes to go.

FLASH!
CRASH!

Wow, that one was close. The crash wasn't even a second behind the flash. I ran to the bay window in the kitchen and looked out. That lightning may have even struck somewhere in the neighborhood. I'll bet it ...

FLASHCRASH!

Every hair on my head (and I had a lot back then) stood straight up. Every hair on my body stood straight up. I was really confused, and there was something very wrong. At the same time, there was a loud high-pitched whistle; the answering machine was beeping; there was a loud buzz coming from the family room; and all I could think about was, "Oh no! I hope the meringue on the pie isn't ruined!"

I ran over to the oven. In retrospect, I'm not sure I knew what I was doing. I pulled the pie out of the oven though.

The next step was to run through the house and try to turn off or unplug everything that was making noises. I unplugged the answering machine. The smoke alarm was beeping, so I unplugged that as well. The stereo was buzzing. Uh oh, that's not good, I realized. I hadn't been playing the stereo. It sounded like I was listening to static on high volume. I couldn't get it to turn off with the switch, so I unplugged it. I went into the garage and flipped the breakers in the switch box back on.

My heart was racing and I was still feeling confused. It hadn't really registered with me yet what had happened. I just knew that something was really wrong.

I walked from room to room throughout the house, looking for anything suspicious. I didn't find anything else.

At some point along the way, it slowly dawned on me that either the house had been hit by lightning or that a nearby tree was hit and perhaps some of it discharged onto the house. I put on a jacket and went outside in the downpour. It was raining way too hard to determine anything, but I didn't see anything burning, so that was a good sign.

To wrap up the story, yes, the house had been hit by lightning. In fact, a two foot chunk of the eaves, two stories directly above where I had been standing in the kitchen, was blasted off of the house. Some of our appliances and our stereo were basically melted, and the ground fault interrupt was dead.

But the Jefferson Davis pie was perfect. In fact, it was awesome. I'll post the recipe sometime.

The raw power unleashed in the storm that night was frightening. And yet the very same God who can make the earth tremble also knows how many hairs are on your head (whether those hairs are standing up or not), and He knows when a sparrow falls.

The magnitude of his power is unimaginable, but so is the depth of his compassion. One soft whisper of his breath could wipe out out the universe if He so chose; but his whisper also called the young boy Samuel to serve him, setting the stage years later for King David in Israel.

God certainly gets our attention with unrelenting storms. Does He get your attention when He whispers your name?

Feature Triond Writer: papaleng

2009-02-10T07:36:00.002-05:00

Hi all,

I'd like to point you to the works of Triond writer papaleng, who originally is from the Philippines but is living in Canada now. I've been reading his work since I joined Triond back in December, and I'm thoroughly enjoying it!

Check him out at: papaleng

Some of his recent works include:

I Love You

A Child's Laughter

How Can I Stop Being So Angry?

Don't Let That Love Slip Away

Roses: What Color Should I Pick?

There's a lot more good stuff too that you'll find in his profile. I encourage you to read through the items above and then more if you'd like!

Exploring the High Country of the Blue Ridge

2009-02-10T07:33:00.002-05:00

Hi all,

The last couple of summers we have enjoyed exploring the area around Beech Mountain in the mountains of North Carolina. Here's an article featuring some of the pics from our adventures there. Enjoy!

Exploring Beech Mountain

The Biltmore Estate

2009-02-07T13:11:00.001-05:00

Hey all,

This was published this morning on Triond. This is an amazing place to visit!

The Biltmore Estate: Not Just a Pretty House

Connemara and Clingman's Dome

2009-02-06T17:18:00.002-05:00

Hi all,

Here are a couple of travel articles I wrote recently.

Clingman's Dome in the Smoky Mountains

Connemara: Carl Sandburg's Paradise

Clingman's Dome is the highest point in Tennessee, just over the border from North Carolina. We have been there twice in the last couple of years -- once in the late fall and once in midsummer -- and the views are stunning.

Connemara, the estate where Sandburg spent the last 22 years of his life, is in Flat Rock, NC. We stopped there almost on a whim and were so glad we did. It's beautiful!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the articles and photos.

Cheers all!

Zone 26

2009-02-05T08:28:00.002-05:00

Hi all!

I know I haven't written as much on this blog as I had been writing last fall, but I am still writing! I've been doing a lot of writing on the Triond site, trying to build up a base of work to see if I could start getting a little income flowing.

Anyway, I've written a short story! It's in two parts and here are the links to both parts:

Zone 26, Part I

Zone 26, Part II

I'd be interested in feedback, of course. I've already gotten some good feedback, like, "You can't end it there!"

Hope you enjoy it!

Featured Triond Writer: Darren Goad

2009-02-02T21:49:00.002-05:00

I have started writing on Triond recently and besides finding that it's great practice for writing, I'm also discovering that there are some outstanding writers in this world. Some (many) of the writers at Triond have been there a while and have a good following already. There are new writers -- or writers new to Triond -- who are equally as excellent but haven't gotten much exposure yet.

I'm going to attempt to share some of those names in this blog, hoping that you, gentle reader, will take the time to go and look at some of their works.

There's no way I'll get everybody who deserves a read, but if I can get some of them, so much the better.

I'm also not going to do a bio or anything like that. I'm just going to point you to their Triond home pages, where you will be able to see lists of their works. I may also include links to their most recent stuff.

First up, I want to introduce you to Darren Goad, whose writing has really impressed me. His most recent works include:

The Scrivener

The Willow Cries for Me

Rabbit-rage

Shall We Sing This Wondrous Life

Count Your Blessings

I encourage you to take the time and check out Darren's writing! It's great stuff.
Cheers all!

Chickens and Genies

2009-02-01T17:59:00.001-05:00

A new article (on raising chickens!) and a new poem (limericks actually). Enjoy!

Raising Chickens

The Genie Was a Meanie in a Yellow Bikini

I Trust His Hands

2009-01-29T21:36:00.002-05:00

Here's a poem I wrote last night, inspired by our Wednesday night chapel service.

I Trust His Hands

Limericks

2009-01-29T21:29:00.002-05:00

All right y'all, check out these limericks if you'd like. The first one listed features a piece of art work from Son Youngest.

Hope you enjoy them!

There Was a Young Man from Kadish

There Once Was a Lass With a Bonnet

I Asked a Young Girl from Milan

There Once Was a Man with a Tuba

articles on fatherhood and management

2009-01-28T07:38:00.002-05:00

Hey all, here are a couple of articles I've written recently. Hope you enjoy them!

Fatherhood: What I Want My Kids to Say About Me

Behaviors of a Successful Manager

My Belly Button Goes Ding Dong

2009-01-25T15:15:00.001-05:00

Hey all! I wrote a fun poem last night. Hope you enjoy it!

My Belly Button Goes Ding Dong

Fence Posts (A Tribute to Bud)

2009-01-22T21:51:00.003-05:00

I worked at Berry Lumber Co. in Onawa every summer between seventh grade and my junior year in college, and it was at the lumber yard that I learned the value of a hard day's work. I didn't work in the office, I worked out in the yard, stacking lumber, cutting boards for customers, building trusses (rafters), and hauling sheetrock, shingles, bags of cement, etc., to construction sites. I worked hard for every dollar I earned, and I was hesitant to spend even a penny after putting so much sweat and muscle into it.

It took me all of five minutes to go on my bike from our house to the lumber yard, so I'd often ride home for lunch. That first summer, as a thirteen year old, I was absolutely exhausted from the physical work and I'd come home, take a nap, then drag myself back onto my bike and go back to work.

It was a good job -- it was a great job -- and I loved it. I loved waiting on customers, I loved being outdoors, I loved sweating and having the feeling at the end of the day that I had earned my pay.

And I loved working for Bud.

Bud was the foreman at the lumber yard, and even though Dad was the manager of the place, Dad made it very clear from day one that I reported to Bud, and to Bud only. Dad did managerial things and ran the company (and did an outstanding job, I might add), but I rarely saw him during the typical workday. Bud was my boss.

Bud was the type of guy who commanded respect. He didn't do it with a loud voice -- on the contrary, he had a very soft voice. The way he carried himself, you knew he was in charge, and he didn't need to prove it. Bud was organized, methodical, smart, and fair, and man he was a hard worker.

I'll never forget a story Bud told me during my first week on the job. He was taking a load of shingles on a delivery, and he took me with him. The story goes like this.

As a young man, Bud applied for a job with a farmer who had posted a job opening. The farmer wanted Bud to work for one day, and then he would determine whether Bud had what it took to work on the farm.

Bud arrived at the farm early in the morning. The farmer greeted him, and said, "See that stack of fence posts over by the barn? I want you to carry all of them over across that empty field, and put them next to the bean field."

It was a big pile and a big distance, but Bud tackled the job and by noon he had completed the task. The farmer came out with a glass of cold water as Bud was returning from moving the last post.

"You finished?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Bud replied, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "What's next?"

"I want you to go out to that pile you moved, and move every one of them posts back to the barn."

"Yes sir," Bud said, not questioning the farmer. He finished the glass of water, handed it to the farmer, and started off across the field toward the posts.

He had gone perhaps thirty feet when the farmer shouted, "Hold it right there. You're hired. You can leave the fence posts where they are."

The farmer then went on to explain that three other guys had applied for the job, and the farmer had them all do the same thing. Bud was the only job applicant who didn't question what the farmer wanted done. Bud got the job.

And I got the point. Bud expected hard work and no whining.

Somehow that really sat well with me, and I wanted to prove myself to Bud, and maybe to prove myself to me as well.

There were a couple of high school seniors who were working at the lumber yard at the time, and they were both muscular and on the football team. I was a scrawny kid at thirteen, just over six feet tall and almost one hundred twenty pounds.

I remember the older guys snickering under their breath as I'd try to lift a bundle of shingles or a bag of concrete, but I kept at it, and by mid summer they weren't snickering any more. They knew I was working as hard as I could, and by the end of that first summer I had muscles in places I didn't even know were supposed to have muscles.

All through this, Bud was patient with me. I may have been a thin kid, but I had a big heart and a great attitude.

There were a couple of times that summer when three or four of us guys would be working on a task, and one or two of the guys would be slacking off a bit. Bud noticed it and came and chewed out the whole group, even those of us who were working hard, but then as he'd leave he would give me the slightest of winks, meant for only me to see, but it was his way of letting me know I was doing all right.

Under Bud's wing, I gained confidence and I thrived at the lumber yard. That place felt like home to me; I was proud of the yard and I was proud of the job. I loved driving the big trucks on delivery; I loved driving the fork lift and the tractor; I loved it when Bud gave me a slip of paper with a big order that needed to be delivered, and I'd get it done.

There are a few anecdotes that better illustrate who Bud was.

Like I said earlier, Bud had a soft voice, and very rarely did he raise it. Because of that, those occasions when he did raise his voice were extremely effective.

One particular day, I was doing one of the less glamorous tasks at the lumber yard, taking a load of trash to the dump. The dump was out in the country, perhaps ten miles away if I remember correctly. I used the tractor to scoop up the trash from our big trash pile out back, and I loaded it into one of our big trucks. After finishing that, I put a tarp over the top and tied it down well so that no trash would fly out.

As I was driving toward the dump, I saw scattered debris on the road, and it looked like lumber yard trash, but I knew it wasn't ours. I kept driving, but after a couple miles I saw blue flashing lights in the side mirror. Uh oh.

I pulled over, and a police officer approached me, carrying a piece of the debris (a broken shingle).

"This yours?" he asked.

I took it from him and looked at the back. It wasn't our brand of shingle.

"No sir, we don't carry this kind of shingle."

The officer, nicely but firmly, said, "I'd like you to go back along the highway and pick up all the debris you find."

I knew it wasn't my trash, but I also knew better than to argue with a policeman. I've always had nothing but respect for law enforcement.

"Yes sir," I replied. And I did what he asked. I probably got that highway cleaner than it had looked for years.

Now, this was back in the day before cell phones, and we didn't have a CB Radio in the truck, so I had no way of calling back to tell Bud why I'd be late.

I showed up two hours later than I normally would have. Bud walked up to me and asked, "Get lost?"

I told him what happened. Bud didn't say anything, but turned around and headed toward the office.

A few minutes later, while I was working on an order for a customer, I heard Bud's shrill whistle. I turned and saw Bud standing at the back door of the office, motioning me to come in. I obeyed.

Inside the office I was surprised to see the sheriff there, talking with Bud. The sheriff turned and asked if I was the one who picked up all the trash. I said yes, and then he apologized that I had been put in that situation and he thanked me for doing such a fine job picking up the debris.

I found out later that Bud had called him up and had "given him a blistering" over the phone.

Bud had so much respect in Onawa and the surrounding towns that even the sheriff knew not to argue with him. I really appreciated how Bud went out of his way for me.

In my final summer at the lumber yard, we had a couple weeks where the temperatures were scorching, with highs between 105F and 107F each day. There was also a storm projected to come in at the end of the week, and we knew we needed to put some roof sealant on the office building because it had started leaking recently.

That was going to be a hot job. Bud asked for a volunteer, and my hand went up. Bud asked if I really wanted to do it, and I said sure, and then he asked if I could come in extra early that next morning and start work on it then, before the sun got too hot. So I did.

I think I started around 5:30am, but it took a lot longer than I thought it would. I went as fast as I could, but I had to make sure I got the coating in all the right places too. At 11am, Bud climbed up the ladder to see how I was doing, and he asked if I wanted a break. I was more than three-fourths done, so I wanted to keep going. At noon he called up to see how I was doing. Fine, I told him.

At 12:30, he called up, "Joel, get down here." He said it in a stern voice, sterner than usual.

I quickly climbed down.

"Come with me," he said, still stern.

Uh oh, I thought to myself. What's going on? I followed Bud to one of the lumber yard pickups. He got behind the wheel. This wasn't like him, because usually he let me drive whenever the two of us went anywhere.

He didn't say a word, and I knew better than to ask what was going on.

He stopped in front of the Chalet Cafe, a great place to eat but also one of our frequent customers. I was trying to think back on the orders we had filled for them recently. Had I messed up on something?

Bud walked quickly inside. I followed. He sat down at a table, and he motioned for me to join him. I complied.

Then he looked at me and said, "You weren't gonna come off that roof until you were done. It's 107 degrees out there, son. Let's have a lemonade."

And Bud ordered two lemonades, one for him and one for me.

Then he asked me, "Think you'll ever amount to anything?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm just moving fence posts."

Preparing for Next Christmas

2009-01-22T00:01:00.003-05:00

We took down our Christmas tree on Saturday night, January 17. There's some debate as to the latest date we've ever taken down the tree, but it certainly was later than January 17. A couple of my kids claim that we had the tree up in February on one or two occasions, and I suspect that they are right.

Part of the deal is procrastination, gathering up enough momentum to overcome inertia and to bring down the six boxes from storage so that we can put all the ornaments back into storage until next Christmas. Part of it, though, honestly (saying the word "honestly" helps me to believe that this is really true, and that procrastination isn't the sole reason) is that we enjoy the Christmas season so much that we don't want it to end.

I realized, though, that it was time to take down the tree because there were only 341 shopping days until next Christmas! Forget about this past Christmas, it's time to start preparing for the next!

Clearing the tree of its ornaments, and putting the ornaments back in their little boxes and bags, and then into the larger boxes, is a time of celebration. We play Christmas music, we sing songs, we reminisce about the holiday that has just finished, and we enjoy the time together.

After taking the ornaments off, I carried the tree out onto the back porch. I always take the tree out into the woods behind our house, to provide shelter for birds or anything else that needs it. I could walk you out there right now and show you last year's tree, and the tree from the year before, and the year before that, and two or three more beyond that. It's amazing how long a Christmas tree will sit there without totally decaying.

As I was sweeping up the little needles that had fallen from the tree, I was softly singing to myself, "Hark the Herald, Angels Sing," not thinking anyone was listening or could hear me. I sang the first half of the first verse. I stopped singing for a couple minutes when one of the kids came in to ask me a question, and then I forgot I had been singing and didn't finish the song.

A minute or two later, Daughter Youngest, who was in the kitchen washing dishes, started singing right where I had left off. She has a beautiful singing voice, and I enjoyed hearing her. As she was finishing, I joined back in, though quietly so I could still hear her singing.

I had many "Christmas Moments" during this Christmas season, times when I was just so grateful for all that God has done in my life. And this particular moment, finishing up a verse of the song together, was one of the sweetest moments.

From Father to Child, the love of Christmas -- more specifically, the worship of Jesus Christ -- continues.

"Glory to the newborn King!"

Life's Mosquitoes

2009-01-20T22:11:00.003-05:00

The United States of America is an absolutely beautiful country, coast to coast and North to South. There are more breathtaking scenic views than I can count, and if you can't count more than ten, then I dare say that you just haven't gotten out much now, have you?

Of course there are the obvious places that immediately come to mind -- the Grand Canyon perhaps being at the top of the list. Up to this point in my life, I've been to forty-eight states in this marvelous country (missing Alaska and Oregon), and I'm pretty sure that I could name something scenic and beautiful about every state in which I've had the good fortune to travel.

In the name of progress, man has taken away some of the natural beauty in this country -- pollution and rampant construction have both reared their ugly heads at times in the past few decades. Honestly, though, it seems to me that it's reasonably manageable now, and while it may not totally be under control, I think it's better than it used to be.

Anyway, besides problems caused by man, there are other problems that are more nature oriented. Let me give you a hint where this is going. When you think of Minnesota, what insect comes to mind?

Yes, I'm talking about the mighty mosquito. I've taken several trips to the Boundary Waters in northern Minnesota, and while we've caught some nice fish up there, we've seen mosquitoes that were almost as large.

There's another state that, in my mind, deserves the moniker, "Great Mosquito State" -- North Dakota.

Several summers ago, we were driving from Seattle back to North Carolina, and we passed through North Dakota. We didn't have to, but none of us had been through that state before and we wanted to add it to our list.

We spent a beautiful day in the western part of the state, exploring the North Dakota badlands and Theodore Roosevelt National Park. This was every bit as impressive as the South Dakota badlands, stunningly beautiful and inspiring. We learned a lot about Roosevelt and his stay in North Dakota; we saw buffalo; and saw spectacular views all around us.

After loading up the car to continue on our way, we decided we'd head for Fargo on the other side of the state. It was almost dusk by the time we got going, and we grabbed a bite to eat and headed out.

As soon as we got on the interstate, a steady patter begin hitting the windshield. I turned on the wipers and didn't pay too much attention to it. The kids fell asleep quickly from the exhausting day, and I drove in silence other than the patter on the glass in front of me.

The patter got heavier and louder, finally loud enough that my oldest daughter opened her eyes and looked out the side window of the minivan.

"Wait -- I see stars and the moon. How can it be raining?" she inquired.

"It's not raining," I stated.

"It's not raining? What's that noise then?" she asked.

"Mosquitoes."

Mosquitoes had been pelting the front of the car!

Daughter Eldest's response was, of course, "Ewwwww."

We made it safely to Fargo and had a good night's sleep. The next morning, I went out to look at the car. The entire front of the minivan, other than the windshield, was caked with a layer of mosquitoes, about an inch thick!

Isn't life kind of like that? Things go so well for so long, we get so comfortable, and then for whatever reason God sees to it that we get bumped out of our comfort zone. We see the beauty of nature, and then we see the mosquitoes that come right along with it.

And you know what? I'm thankful for those mosquitoes; I'm thankful for hot weather or humid weather or cold weather; I'm thankful when stuff comes up in life. I'm lazy enough that if I didn't get bumped around with a little bit of life's turbulence now and then, I'd just sit back and get moldy.

Ewwwww.

The Day Daddy Fell into the Pond

2009-01-16T23:28:00.002-05:00

Ever had one of those days where you feel so good that you find yourself wondering how long it's going to last? Or more skeptically, you wonder when the roof is going to collapse?

Glorious days that seem to come to life from a Norman Rockwell painting, postcard days that could have been in the background when that cowboy in "Oklahoma" was singing, "Oh What a Beautiful Morning," days that might someday be featured in ESPN's Top Ten Days Ever -- days like that are rare, far and few between.

When you wake up smiling, the ache you had yesterday is gone, your spouse feeds you breakfast in bed, and the kids are singing selections from Sound of Music while they're cleaning the house, and then Ed McMahon comes to the door to announce that you won the Sweepstakes (which might actually be scary since I believe he passed away a few years ago ... if that happened I guess I'd take the money and close the door as quickly as I could) ... those are days that you cherish.

And so it was, one fine spring day shortly after I moved from Schenectady, New York (yes I know what you're going to ask, and yes I did work for GE for three years up there) down here to the Old North State, I was having one of those kinds of days. At least, the first half of the day had been glorious, and all I had to do was to hang on for the remaining few hours and it would be one of the better days in my then still young life.

The sky was blue, I loved my job (working for Data General, the company featured in Tracy Kidder's Pulitzer Prize winning book, "Soul of a New Machine"), and I was still feeling the newlywed glow -- it was just a day where I felt great. I hadn't won the lottery or anything like that, but I could walk into my office and yell, "Wheeeee," because I was having so much fun.

You would be hard pressed to find a better thing to do on a day like that than to go with your colleagues on a picnic lunch at the breathtakingly beautiful Duke Gardens! The azaleas were in full bloom, the bluebirds were whistling on my shoulder, and Mary Poppins was singing that supercalifrejilestickespyalidocious song (hmm, my spell checker doesn't like that word). All was right with the world.

After lunch, my manager Scott suggested we take a longer lunch and throw the frisbee on the large open field at the Gardens. I had brought my frisbee just in case, so I was ready for some fun. Scott, Ben, and I were playing, making beautiful long throws that were highlighted by the sunshine glinting off the frisbee as it whirled against the deep blue Carolina sky.

I threw to Scott, Scott threw to Ben, Ben threw to me, and then again, I threw to Scott, Scott threw to Ben, and Ben threw ... way over my head.

I was in pretty good shape in those days, so I turned and ran, determined to show off my speed and athletic prowess by chasing down the spinning disk. I saw it ahead of me, moving quickly but staying aloft, and I knew with confidence I'd be able to track it. I kept my focus on it in case it wanted to start drifting to the left or right.

The frisbee and I were converging! I lengthened my stride a bit to make sure I would get there, and the frisbee slowly began lowering from the skies. I ran and ran and ...

WHOA!

There, immediately in front of me, was the big goldfish pond. I was still running full speed and this pond was not more than five feet from me. I slammed on the brakes and stopped right on the very edge of the pond. My toes were over the edge.

And here came the frisbee. At the same moment I stopped, I also reached up and whisked the frisbee out of the air, stretching as far upward as I ...

UH OH!

I had stretched perhaps a bit too far. I was leaning forward just an iota, just a smidgen, but just enough that I knew I was headed for some water.

In that fraction of a second before I hit water, I made a mental calculation that the water looked like it may be two feet deep at the most. Not bad. So my feet and legs locked into position, anticipating a landing about two feet below the water surface. Of course, in the murky goldfish pond I couldn't see the bottom. The two feet was just a guess, but I thought it was reasonable.

I was wrong.

The pond was approximately four feet deep. I ended up tumbling all the way under water, completely submerged. What a shock!

I quickly climbed back out of the pond. And yes, I had caught the frisbee and was still hanging on to it.

My boss was doubled over in laughter. Ben was doubled over in laughter. And the man who had been on a riding lawn mower was off the machine, on the ground, laughing so hard that he was pounding the grass with his fist.

It was one of those moments when you try to laugh at yourself because everyone else is already laughing at you, but the self-laugh comes out as a sort of stilted, "Ha (pause) ha (pause) ha."

I spent the rest of the afternoon totally soaked and dripping in my office. Fortunately I had no meetings that afternoon. I don't think I got much work done ... I was pondering about how the day had been beautifully perfect up to that point. And I wondered ...

In Oklahoma, right after he sings the song about the beautiful morning, does he ride into a low-hanging branch and get knocked off his horse?

Or in Sound of Music, as Julie Andrews is running across the mountain meadow, I can picture her tripping and tumbling down a steep slope (and presumably colliding with the nun who is climbing every mountain).

I usually have an optimistic outlook on life, and I tend to enjoy most every moment. But when things are going too well, I start hedging my bets and looking around for that pond. If it's around somewhere, I'll find it!

Going Home

2009-01-12T19:46:00.002-05:00

They say that you can't go home again, not after you leave and establish roots somewhere else. Oh, you can drive to the geographical location, but it's not the same. Still, I tend to ignore that advice when I'm traveling with my family and wanting to show them the old haunts.

A few years ago, we intentionally diverted our route from the most expedient path as we made our way across the country on a long family vacation, and we very deliberately targeted Onawa, Iowa, where I had spent many years growing up.

I knew Onawa would have changed some ... after all, I hadn't been there for more than a decade. Still, even though Onawa was the county seat for Monona County and with a population of 3000 making it the largest town in a 35 mile radius, deep in my heart I knew that Onawa probably didn't change all that much.

And as I took the exit off of I-29 and headed into town, I saw the familiar gas stations, a farm implement store, and a pizza place where twenty-five years earlier I had my first taste of ham-and-pineapple pizza.

The first thing I wanted to show my kids was where I had lived, on Fourteenth Street. Our house originally had been two small houses, each on its own lot, and the houses had been connected and refinished to become one larger house. It still wasn't a huge house, but it was comfortable for our family of five.

I turned onto Fourteenth Street and pulled to a stop in front of the house. It was different. The color had changed, the wood fence in the front yard had been replaced with wrought iron, the hedges in front of the living room windows had been removed, and the oak trees in the front yard (which we planted after Dutch Elm disease had destroyed all of our big trees) were giants that reached over the street, forming a canopy with the trees on the other side.

There was a bicycle in the grass on the front lawn, and a couple of kids' play toys in the driveway.

This wasn't my house any more. My bedroom, down in the basement, was probably inhabited by someone else or had become a storage room.

Something inside me was urging me to run through the front door and yell, "Mom, I'm home," but something else inside me was pushing me back, saying, "Son, this isn't yours."

I wanted it to be mine. It had been mine. It had been my grandmother's house, years earlier. This was the house I used to play in when we would come to visit Grandma, years before we moved here. The basement had marvelous treasures, old games and toys and books. We discovered more treasures after we moved into the house, including a couple of hidden storage areas behind small access panels in the bedroom closets.

We explored, we played, we marveled, and we grew up in that house.

So years later, sitting in the car and looking across the street at the old house, I had an empty feeling, a feeling that part of my childhood had been compromised. It was at that moment that I realized how much Onawa had really felt like home back when I was living there. Even though I had lived in La Crescent, Minnesota and Clarksville, Tennessee before moving to Onawa, and even though I had gone to school in Lincoln, Nebraska and then spent three years in Schenectady, New York before getting married and moving to North Carolina, it was Onawa that really had felt like my hometown.

My house was gone.

Yonder Spouse asked me if I wanted to go up and ring the doorbell and see if I could look around inside, but I was afraid (of what I might find, perhaps) and I said, "Naw, that's okay."

I started the car back up - we had stopped in front of the house for perhaps a full two minutes - and said, "Let's go to the lumber yard."

The lumber yard was where Dad was the manager while we lived in Onawa, and I had worked there for eight summers and many other Saturdays between junior high, high school, and part of college.

On the way to the lumber yard, we passed homes and businesses that I recognized and that didn't look like they had changed a drop, not an iota, in all the years I had been away.

I pulled into the parking lot at the lumber yard. We walked in the front door, and ... I didn't recognize the place. It was different. Oh, the walls were in the same places, but the aisles had been reconfigured and everything was in a different place. The people behind the counter didn't know me and I didn't know them. Oh, I recognized some of the names after I introduced myself and they told me who they were ... but the cast of characters that I had worked with years before were gone.

Then Jimmy walked in through the back door.

Jimmy had been a lumber yard employee for years, and we had always enjoyed each other's company. He was perhaps ten years older than me - old enough that he had served in Viet Nam - and he had always impressed me with his can-do spirit and willingness to work on whatever needed to be done. He saw me, I saw him, and we hugged each other.

A hug is not something that you see in a lumber yard all that often, but I didn't care.

Jimmy said, "Can I show you around? Do you want to see what we've done to the yard the past few years?"

"Let's follow Jimmy," I told the rest of the family, and out the back door we went. He showed us around the big sheds where we kept the sheetrock and shingles and plywood and bags of concrete. He showed us the changes made with the saw shed (and its huge DeWalt saw). He showed us what trucks the lumber yard had. He showed us everything.

But the best part was hearing his voice. It hadn't changed. And the jokes and puns he told, and his laugh, and his smile - everything was the same.

We reminisced about old times, going fishing together, going to movies together, driving up to Sioux City once so that we could go to an all-you-can-eat spaghetti place. We talked about the old days.

As we got back into the car when the visit was over, I realized that I had indeed come home. Oh, it wasn't my home any more, but it had been my home. And it felt like home.

Home is not the house where I lived; home is not the trees that are or aren't in the yards; home is not the business where I worked. Home is the people, home is the relationships, home is the bonds we form. Home is the laughter, home is the tears, home is the stories that happen to us that we can tell our family years later.

Home is where you find a kindred spirit and you pick up the conversation right where it left off a dozen years ago.

Sal's

2009-01-12T19:13:00.004-05:00

I get excited about things; I get excited about life. I mean I really get excited about life. I'm much better about this now, but back in the day it was typical of me to think that something was the best something I had ever experienced.

This is the best movie, that is the best book, this is the best restaurant, etc., that I've ever seen.

And that's fine and dandy except in those cases where I would build something up with so much enthusiasm that it never failed to disappoint the person who was trusting my judgment.

"This is the best movie you'll ever see," I would say. I would hype it up. And said person would go to the movie, expecting great things, and while indeed the person may have enjoyed the movie, it never met expectations because I had set the expectations so high.

I've tried to tone it down a little in my old age, but that backfires too.

"Oh, the movie is okay," I now might say about a movie that I love.

Then the other person would say, "Oh, if he says it's only okay, then it must really be awful," and he wouldn't go see the film.

With my kids, though, I have a captive audience. I can tell them, "This is the best bowling alley you've ever seen," and it doesn't matter if it is or isn't, I'm dragging them with me.

And so it was, on our family trip across the country a few years ago, we decided to stop in Lincoln, Nebraska, so that I could show the kids where I went to college and together we could experience the great city of Lincoln.

When I was in college, I had a favorite pizza restaurant. I won't name it here, so let's call it Sal's. Now, Nebraskans love Sal's. Nebraskans around the country will order pizza to be delivered (frozen) from Sal's. I've even ordered Sal's Pizza out here in North Carolina.

Naturally, my kids grew up hearing me extol the virtues of Sal's Pizza. Sal's was amazing pizza, Sal's was the best pizza in the known universe.

It didn't surprise me, then, when we pulled into Lincoln at dinner time and the kids said, "Hey Dad, let's eat at that pizza place you like."

We went to Sal's.

I knew something was slightly amiss when we walked in at dinnertime and there was only one other table occupied. Granted, it was still summer and school wasn't in session, but Sal's had always been packed, day in and day out, every day of the year. But not this night.

Maybe it was because a tremendous storm had blown in while we were setting up our tent on the outskirts of Lincoln. This was the Mother of Downpours, and we got pretty soaked just running twelve feet or so from where the car was parked to the front door of the restaurant.

We ordered two large pizzas, enough for the six of us, and I was telling the kids stories about college. Sitting across from me was Daughter Youngest.

I'll never forget the look on her face when she said, "Look," pointing toward the cash register. We all turned and looked.

The ceiling tile directly above the cash register was starting to bend downwards, a little stream of water started running onto the register, and then two adjacent tiles began to bend downwards, and suddenly WHOOSH! All three tiles and a waterfall rushed down from the ceiling!

Two Sal's employees ran out from the kitchen and stared at the ceiling, and then they stared at the counter with the cash register, and then they stared back up at the ceiling.

Our pizza was delayed a little, but they did manage to cook it and get it to us. They had messed up the order and brought us something quite different than what we ordered, but there were two large pizzas, there were six of us, and we were hungry. We ate what they brought.

The pizza was good, but not as good as I had remembered. I was about to apologize to the kids that the pizza was only "fine but not awesome," but as we were leaving the restaurant the kids were pointing again to the hole in the ceiling and gleefully commenting how much fun dinner had been.

Sal's didn't impress them for the same reasons that it had impressed me years earlier, but they sure had a lot of fun that night at the restaurant.

I should add here that I've heard that Sal's had a slight downturn right around when we were there, but that they've bounced back and the pizza is back to its awesomeness. I can't wait to go there again, and I'll be sure to build it up so that the kids are feverishly anticipating the delectable pizza pie.

Of course, the kids might be expecting another theatrical comedy involving ceiling tiles.

I hope next time, though, that it's the pizza that impresses them. I hope the rest of the restaurant stays kind of boring.

Shining Through the Dark Clouds

2009-01-11T23:02:00.003-05:00

My maternal grandmother -- Mom's mom -- like my other grandmother was a picture of grace, the epitome of elegance. Whereas my dad's mom developed her spiritual strength and refined her faith through the fires of daily life, turning into a powerful witness, I believe that Mom's mom had come to a deep relationship with God before she faced her toughest foes in life, and it was her response to life's tests that was a tremendous witness to her faith.

Grandma was adored by her siblings, her cousins, and everyone in town. Growing up in Beaver City, Nebraska, and then eventually ending up in Onawa, Iowa, she was educated, sophisticated, and beautiful, but she never let her own talents and attributes get in the way of her relationship with God.

Grandma lived life with a smile on her face and she raised four marvelous children who excelled in so many facets of life. Yes, she would discipline her children, but she had the temperament that would allow her to laugh to herself internally while externally she was reprimanding one of her kids.

I had the privilege of living with Grandma after we moved to Onawa in late summer of 1972. Grandma by that time was deep in the throes of Parkinson's Disease, a chronic illness that was just beginning to be understood, but the neurological community didn't really have a clue as to how it should be effectively treated.

In the two years we lived with Grandma, she pretty much lost the ability to walk, her speech became very difficult to understand, she couldn't feed herself, and her sense of balance had all but disappeared.

And yet, as her body was being drawn and quartered by this insidious illness, the joy emanating from her presence was nothing short of amazing. Though her face had the Parkinson's masque, a smile would break through occasionally, like the sun shining through a gap in the dark clouds. When we could understand her words, she was singing praises and telling funny stories from her childhood; she was laughing and enjoying her memories, masterfully handling her rapier as she fought off one move after another from her chronic challenger.

Grandma loved to read, and the two books most often found on her night stand were the Bible and GASCOYNE, a humorous novel by Stan Crawford She would draw her inspiration from the Bible and her laughter from GASCOYNE. And oh did she love telling stories. We kids would volunteer to stay home with Grandma on Sunday mornings so that we could listen to her tales. We'd be in tears laughing together as she told stories about her pet rabbit and the time she gave a bag of "raisins" to a schoolboy who had been pestering her.

The doctors had given Grandma a massive amount of medication, not fully realizing the harsh impact it would have on her body, including the loss of most of her hair. She wore a wig. One Sunday morning, after standing up for a minute to stretch her legs, she fell backwards into her chair and her wig went flying across the room.

There was silence for a moment as we kids, aghast, weren't sure how to react. A moment later, Grandma burst into laughter. We were relieved. We retrieved the wig for her, and she let us each try it on in front of the mirror, and oh did we laugh and laugh.

Grandma enjoyed watching sporting events on television with me. I realize now that she was doing it to spend time with me; she didn't really care who won what event, except of course for Nebraska football. She cared about that a lot.

The first time I watched a Nebraska game with her, the broadcast was showing the singing of the National Anthem. I had been sitting on the floor in front of Grandma; she was in her chair, behind me. I heard a clatter and looked back. She had pulled herself up to a standing position and had her hand over her heart. I stood up and joined her in singing.

She and I watched the Kentucky Derby when Secretariat set a course record with a time that still stands, and to this day I enjoy watching the Derby because it reminds me of Grandma.

And on April 8, 1974, on a cool spring Monday night, Grandma and I watched Hank Aaron hit his 715th career home run. She watched the whole game with me, and that's something I'll never forget.

Through all of her pain, through all of her struggles, she never lost sight of who was really in charge, and she never forgot that she was created by a God who loves her.

One Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1974, I was sitting in the den reading, and I saw Grandma slowly moving down the three steps from the hallway to the living room. I didn't think much of it, but a couple minutes later I heard a beautiful song coming from the piano in the living room.

Who was playing? Mom and Dad were gone, and my siblings at that time couldn't play that well.

I walked out of the den and looked around the corner into the living room. It was Grandma!

She had been a wonderful pianist for years. She used to play at church, and she would play the piano in theatres back in the days of silent movies, but I hadn't heard her play anything for over a year.

I listened for two or three minutes, and then she stopped.

"That's beautiful, Grandma," I said.

She looked up and smiled. "Isn't it?" she said, with a quiet confidence, a self-assurance that defied Parkinson's Disease. The disease might be breaking her body, but it wasn't breaking who she was.

On September 6, 1974, I came home from watching our junior high football game and found Mom and Dad sitting in the living room. The lights were low. Mom was crying.

And I went to my room and cried.

That night I had a dream that to this day is crystal clear in my mind. Grandma was in a beautiful white lobby of a seven story hotel, and she walked -- without the aid of a walker -- up to the desk and said, "I'm here to check in."

The man behind the counter replied, "Yes, He has a room ready for you. And you'll love it. It's up on the Seventh Floor."

She walked to the elevator. The door opened. She got on. And she turned around. I saw her face just before the elevator doors closed. She had the most peaceful smile I had ever seen.

The Frail Warrior

2009-01-09T22:51:00.003-05:00

My grandmother -- my dad's mom -- is my one grandparent who is still alive, and if she can hang on until May 15th she will be 100 years old. Her older sister passed away this fall at the ripe age of 101.

Grandma is a gem. She's a fighter -- I come from a whole line of tough and rugged pioneers who crossed the plains in covered wagons and settled in western Nebraska and in the Dakotas, some living in sod houses -- and she had a dogged stubbornness that helped her survive some tough times growing up.

In the early years, she was a schoolteacher in a one room schoolhouse. Each morning she would trudge through the snow on the way to school, fire up the stove, melt the ice to make water, and teach a full day.

My grandfather had to quit school in eighth grade because his father had left home, and Grandpa was the only boy in the family and needed to work to support the family. He eventually started an appliance store in McCook, Nebraska.

When my grandparents were married, they started with almost nothing. The pioneer spirit rose up in them, though, and they were able to make ends meet.

After Dad graduated from the University (that would be "of Nebraska") my grandparents moved out to Santa Barbara, California, and settled in a beautiful ranch-styled home way up in the hills overlooking the valley. I have fond memories of spending a few Christmases out there while the Midwest back home was buried in snow. Grandpa would take me for rides in his little red MG convertible. This was long enough ago that I remember stopping at the gas station and filling up at 25 cents / gallon.

But this story is about Grandma.

Grandma was and is elegant. She had her house decorated beautifully, she always looked presentable, even fashionable, and she made the prettiest and most delicious Christmas cookies every year. Grandma played the organ and the violin and she had a beautiful singing voice. She had a sense of humor, but being of predominately Norwegian ancestry she was always prim and proper. And though she loved life, she had what I guess could be called a sort of skeptical optimism, as in, "Yes Joel, it's a beautiful day, but I want you to wear this jacket while you play outside or you might get sick and die."

I remember a long discussion I had with Grandma when I was in high school. I was concerned about her relationship with God. It didn't seem to be a personal relationship, which I felt was important. Grandma would talk about going to church and reading the Bible, but that was it. Dad explained that the Norwegian heritage is one where people tend to keep to themselves more and don't talk about things like faith as much.

Looking back on it, too, I wonder if the pioneer spirit could sometimes have been at odds with God's desire for us to rely solely on him. If you grow up in an environment where you're depending on yourself for survival, it's got to be mentally and emotionally tough to not also try to rely on yourself for your own salvation.

But, at any rate, she did love life and she loved her grandkids. She and Grandpa were visiting in Onawa the weekend that my sister and I both made the Iowa All State Band in high school, and she rejoiced with us. She stood up and applauded at my graduation when I received my diploma.

And my senior year of college, when I had a job interview with a Los Angeles based company, she and Grandpa drove down from Santa Barbara and spent four wonderful days with me. They took me to dinner in a restaurant at the top of some skyscraper. The restaurant slowly revolved in a full circle, but the window ledge didn't rotate. During the dinner, Grandma reached back for her purse, and we discovered it was missing. It was on the ledge where she had put it, but the ledge was clear on the other side of the restaurant! We had a good laugh over that.

We also talked more about the importance of faith when I was visiting them on that trip. And again, I wasn't able to get them to talk much about it.

Shortly after my grandfather passed away in 1984, my grandmother started experiencing eye trouble, and by 1990 or thereabouts she was totally blind. Life was hard for her for a few years. She really missed Grandpa, and she really missed the independence that was compromised with her blindness. Somehow that pioneer spirit worked its way back into her mindset, and she became the same plucky and spunky grandmother that she had been.

She moved to Omaha to be nearer to my parents and she gained a whole new set of friends who went walking with her everyday at the mall. Life was good again for a few years, until she was about to turn 86.

In 1995, I got a phone call from Dad, who explained that Grandma's heart valves were failing. The doctors were giving her two weeks to live if she didn't go through surgery, and they gave her a 10% chance of surviving a valve replacement surgery. Grandma decided to not do the surgery.

I flew out to Omaha to spend a long weekend with Grandma. We talked, we laughed, we cried, and we prayed together. I noticed that her faith was much stronger than I remembered, and though she was scared she also knew that God was in charge. When I said good-bye to her that Sunday evening, I knew it would be the last time I saw her.

A few days later, Dad called again and said that Grandma had decided to try the surgery after all.

The day of the surgery came. And it went. And day after day, Grandma's heart grew stronger, and within a few months she was walking one mile three times each week!

Fast forward to 2007. I received another call from Dad, who said that Grandma had gotten the flu and was in bad shape. The doctors said she wouldn't last more than a few weeks.

But she survived.

Fast forward to 2008, a year ago as I write this. Dad called. Grandma had fallen and broken her hip. In addition, she was sick and had all but stopped eating. The doctors said it was definite this time. She wouldn't make it through the spring. She had been on oxygen for several weeks, and the doctors decided to take her off that. They also disconnected the bags of nutrients that were being pumped into her body.

Two days later, on her own, she sat up in bed and asked for food. Dad said she was eating like a horse. Her weight came back, and she was able to stand up with assistance.

She said she's ready to go, but it's all in God's timing.

Her faith over time has been sharpened and refined like the weapon of a mighty warrior. Where she once had faith on her own terms, her struggles have brought her face to face with her Maker. The stubborn Norwegian woman had the sense to bow down to the One who created her, the One who knew her name before she was born, the One who loves her unconditionally.

Since then, this past year, her mind has been slowly drifting around. She wakes up some mornings and talks about being a fighter pilot and how she almost single-handedly won the war. She gets confused easily, and for the most part she doesn't know Dad and Mom any more. But her friends at the nursing home say she is so happy, so accepting of everything and everyone. Each morning, she proclaims that the cup of coffee she is drinking is the best coffee she's ever had in her life.

This woman who has been blind for nearly twenty years, this woman who was given new ten-year heart valves thirteen years ago, she gave her heart to the Lord when she was good and ready. It took time, but she did it. And now He is allowing her to forget her troubles in a warm foggy mist while He holds her, rocking her until He is ready to bring her home.

10 Creative Ways to Fight the Post Holidays Blues

2009-01-09T08:33:00.001-05:00

Here's something I wrote on things you can do to help combat the holiday blues ...

http://www.socyberty.com/Advice/10-Creative-Ways-to-Fight-the-Post-Holiday-Blues.441317

Winter Vacation on North Carolina's Outer Banks

2009-01-09T08:32:00.001-05:00

Here is an article I wrote about our vacation this winter on the Outer Banks (complete with pictures!).

http://www.trifter.com/USA-&-Canada/North-Carolina/Winter-Vacation-on-North-Carolinas-Outer-Banks.441771

Nine Guidelines When Hosting a Foreign Exchange Student

2009-01-09T08:31:00.002-05:00

Here are some practical tips in an article I wrote the other day:

http://www.gomestic.com/Entertaining/Nine-Guidelines-When-Hosting-a-Foreign-Student.441237

Reading and Telling Stories

2009-01-08T18:03:00.002-05:00

The more I write down stories of things that happened in my life as a child, a youth, and an adult, the more I’m understanding how my life relates to and impacts my kids’ lives. What started as a desire to record a few stories so that my children would be able to remember them has blossomed into a tapestry of life and history, with snippets of tales scattered throughout that provide glimpses into my heart and that somehow capture the essence of what I believe to be important in life.

My parents told me tales of their parents, and some of the tales they told had been passed down to their parents from their grandparents. My kids have heard some of these tales as they’re growing up, and they’ve heard some of my own tales. The more I write, the more I remember, and the more I remember, the more I appreciate my parents and the path to adulthood that they paved for me.

For my children, the stories are comforting; as they hear about some of the silly situations and tough times in which I found myself, they can see that there is hope even in times when they encounter adversity.

This past week, then, as my family was vacationing on North Carolina’s Outer Banks on the Cape Hatteras National Seashore and Daughter Youngest came down with some kind of a nasty stomach bug and she asked me if I could tell her some stories, I was delighted to have the opportunity. A parent finds great cheer in hearing his child say, “Please tell me a story from when you were a kid.”

I told her a few stories, some that I have already written down and some that have yet to see ink. That story time together didn’t cure her of her ails, but it brought a smile to a face that I hadn’t seen smile for the previous two days.

After a few stories, I asked her if she would like me to read to her. She nodded. I ran upstairs, where everyone else was playing a board game, and asked, “Hey, I need something to read to Daughter Youngest. Any ideas?”

Daughter Eldest spoke up immediately. “How about reading something from the Bible?” Now how cool is that, when a teenager suggests reading the Bible!

The Bible that I brought with me on the trip was The Message, and I grabbed it off my night stand and went back down to Daughter Youngest’s room. Her eyes sparkled when she saw that I was going to read from the Bible to her – I hadn’t seen those eyes light up like that for at least two days.

I started with one of my favorites, Psalm 63, and I was reading it aloud with feeling and compassion until I got to the line that Eugene Peterson translated as “prime rib and gravy” (the NIV says “richest of foods”) and as I was about to say it I could see Daughter Youngest’s face turning green. I ended up skipping that verse or saying something like “some good food.” Her stomach couldn’t have taken the phrase “prime rib and gravy” lightly.

As I was reading to her, I was stroking her hair, trying anything to make her comfortable. My heart ached for her, just as my heart had ached for Son Eldest earlier in the week when he was fighting a different but equally intense kind of bug.

There is something transforming in a relationship when time together happens, and its impact affects both people. As I was reading and telling stories to my daughter, I remembered times when one of my parents would take the time to tell stories or read to me when I was sick. I know that someday Daughter Youngest will have the opportunity to tell family stories or read to others who just need someone to be there; and I know that she will be blessed in the same ways that I was blessed in our time together.

And you know what? I don’t have to wait for one of my kids to be sick to be able to do this again. The opportunity is there almost every evening! What a privilege to be able to spend time together like this.

I guess then that this has come full circle. Telling stories is only partly about helping connect to the past and to see our lives in the context of where we came from and the heritage we’re passing to our children; telling stories is also about establishing and strengthening relationships now.

The next time you’re about to turn on the television, try this instead: “Hey kids, instead of watching TV tonight, let me tell you a story about something that happened to me long ago.”

Everybody’s got a story to tell, and the audience who will probably be the most interested in learning about what you were like as a child, or what your parents or siblings were like, would be your children or nieces and nephews.

Try it!

The Family That Jokes Around ...

2009-01-08T17:59:00.002-05:00

I grew up in a family that loved humor, whether it was the telling of jokes at the dinner table, watching slapstick comedy (I have fond memories of the five of us being the only people in a Sioux City movie theatre watching Airplane), or occasionally playing practical jokes on each other.

The tone of the jokes was never malicious and was always intended with the idea that the recipient would (eventually) laugh and appreciate it as much as the rest of us did. Some of the jokes were more or less minor things ….

We had one of those water pick machines, along with a wall outlet in the bathroom that was connected to the light switch. If you plugged the water pick into the outlet, pointed it at the door, and turned the water pick to the “on” position while the outlet was turned off, the unsuspecting soul who came in and turned on the bathroom light would be greeted with a blast of cold water.

Mom told us about one trick that she would play as a kid, and that was to place plastic wrap over the toilet bowl and then put the seat down. The unsuspecting soul would come in and not notice the clear plastic over the bowl. My brother was trying to play that prank on my sister, but Mom came in and used the bathroom before my sister did. I guess Mom got her reward for having given us the idea in the first place.

My brother once dropped a golf ball from the second floor landing as I was walking beneath him on the first floor. It hit me in the head. He ran quickly into his room, probably aghast at what he had just done. Mom, who happened to be just a few feet away when it happened, ran to the kitchen, came back with a bottle of ketchup, told me to sprawl out on the floor, and she proceeded to pour ketchup in my hair. She called for my brother, who came out and for a while thought I was bleeding profusely from the golf ball wound.

One night I came home late and heard Mom talking with my sister in her room upstairs. Mom said good-night and started walking down the stairs. All the lights were off and it was dark, so I just stood at the bottom of the stairs and let her run into me. Big mistake. I found out that my Mom packs a big left hook.

We had built a sauna in the basement in Onawa in what used to be the coal room for the furnace, and one thing we enjoyed doing was running from the sauna, up the stairs to the back door and then outside, diving into a snow bank, and then running back in the front door and back down to the sauna. On one particularly cold day my brother and I were taking a sauna, and we agreed to do the "roll in the snow" thing. I ran outside and rolled in the snow, only to discover that my brother wasn't right behind me. It was brutally cold, so I hopped back to my feet and ran to the front door. I reached for the knob – it was locked! I was certain I had checked beforehand to ensure it was unlocked. At that moment, my brother’s face appeared in the door window and he was laughing. Those were long cold seconds before he let me back in the house!

My brother’s and sister’s rooms were both upstairs, and they both took advantage of the proximity that the rooms had to each other. One evening my sister went to bed early; my brother followed a little later. I was downstairs reading a book, when suddenly I heard a blood curdling scream. I ran upstairs, as did Mom and Dad, and there was Little Bro sitting on the floor, shaking. From underneath his bed came the sounds of hysterical laughter. Little Sis had hidden under his bed, and as he was changing into his pajamas, she had reached out from underneath the bed and grabbed both his ankles.

Little Bro got even some time later, hiding in the bunched up sheets at the foot of our sister’s bed. When she crawled underneath the covers, he grabbed her feet, inducing a scream that was at least as loud as his had been earlier.

Along with having both their bedrooms upstairs, there was a bathroom in between. My siblings would frequently play tricks on each other such as taping a walkie talkie to the back of the toilet and then whispering, “I see you,” from the other walkie talkie. One of their favorite tricks involved sneaking up to the door of the occupied bathroom, softly grabbing the doorknob, and then whipping the door open and yelling, “WAAAAAAAAAAA!”

That door for whatever reason didn’t have a lock.

One fine spring day, we had company for dinner after church, a young woman who was a new schoolteacher in town. After lunch, we sat down in the living room for conversation. My brother disappeared to his room. A few minutes later, the story goes, he walked out of his room and noticed the bathroom door was shut. He tiptoed the rest of the way to the door, put his hand around the knob, and in one motion he turned the knob, opened the bathroom door, and yelled, “WAAAAAAAAAA!”

His yell was met with an even louder shriek!

It wasn’t my sister who had been in the bathroom. It was the new schoolteacher.

My brother was mortified; the schoolteacher was mortified; and my parents were mortified when they found out what happened. It was a long time before we had a guest over for lunch after church on Sunday.

College Roommates

2009-01-07T23:04:00.002-05:00

I had gone to college a week before classes started my freshman year so that I could try out for the marching band. This gave me the opportunity to settle into my dorm room and to get acclimated to the campus, plus it gave me ample time to stake my turf in the dorm room before my roommate arrived.

I'll never forget that fateful moment. I was sitting on my bed, practicing the tuba. Contrary to popular opinion, the tuba does not have to produce a loud booming sound every time it is played. It can produce light soft sounds, something akin to baby elephants leaping through a field of tulips.

So there I was, leaping through a field of tulips, when the door opened and in stepped a handsome muscular young man.

He stared at me.

I stared at him.

He stared at my tuba.

“I, uh, I was practicing,” I said, I guess restating the obvious.

The ball was in his court now. Was he going to shoot the tuba player? Was he going to run down the hall screaming, “No no no no no!” What was he going to do?

“I played tuba in high school. I'm Curt,” he said with a smile. I set the horn down, stood up and shook his hand, and we became instant buddies.

Curt was a gentleman and a rock solid friend – he still is – and he hailed from the town of Friend, Nebraska. I had the opportunity to meet Curt's family too, and they were genuinely warm and welcoming people.

I'm convinced now that your roommate can make a huge difference in a college experience, and I was certainly blessed in that regard. Curt became someone I could talk to, complain to, and do stuff with. We also held each other accountable.

Curt invited me home for a weekend, and we drove to their farm just outside of Friend. Curt introduced me to his pet. Now, even in the Midwest, most people have dogs or perhaps cats for pets. Curt's pet was a buffalo. Her name was Angel. Female buffaloes are smaller than male buffaloes, but smaller than huge can still be pretty big, and Angel was pretty big.

When I was growing up with my dog Max, Max would often come down into the basement at night and sleep on my bed with me. I was relieved to hear that Angel didn't sleep on Curt's bed.

After our freshman year, Curt and his dad went with my dad, my brother, and me up to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in northern Minnesota to fish for a week. One afternoon we were fishing the rapids from shore, and Curt's dad got his lure snagged in the middle of the rapids. Now, these weren't tame rapids. They were treacherous. Curt's dad fought the snag for a while but couldn't get it free, so he called Curt over.

“Son, I want you to walk out on the rocks and get that lure.”

Curt, always respectful of his elders, said, “Yes sir,” without so much as a drop of hesitation.

Fortunately, Curt's dad quickly rethought the situation and decided that Curt shouldn't go out there after all. It was far too dangerous. I'll always remember Curt's dad, fuming at losing that $5 lure in the rapids. We had a lot of fun together that week, though, and our families have gotten together a few times since then. Like I said, they're good people. That's the way they grow them in Nebraska.

It turned out that we only roomed together that first year. Curt received a scholarship from another school to play basketball, so he transferred just before his sophomore year. So there I was, sitting in the dorm room and practicing my tuba, when the door opens and this giant young man fills the doorway.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

I looked back at him.

He looked at my tuba.

“I, uh, I was just practicing,” I said, thinking this was kind of like deja vu.

“Oh, I, uh, I see. I'm Tim,” he said.

I stood up and shook his hand, and at that point I knew I had found a new friend. Tim was as big as a bear, as strong as an ox, and as gentle as a lamb. We ended up rooming together for four years and apparently got along well. Tim was fiercely loyal and he protected our friendship admirably. He also got along well with my sister, and he was like a brother to her.

With Tim's birthday in April and mine in May, we would celebrate by going out to an all-you-can-eat spaghetti place in Lincoln. The first time we went, we got a little excited at the possibility of really filling up with this great food and we went overboard. I had eight helpings of spaghetti. Tim had nine. As we each finished our last plate, Tim's eyes were glassy.

"We should go," Tim said. "But I can't move."

"I can't either," I slowly replied. We sat there for what must have been an hour before we could muster the courage to try to stand up and walk. I don't know how we did it, but we made it back to our dorm room intact. Tim crawled into his bed and I crawled into mine. Neither of us moved until the next morning.

Tim went home every weekend, or nearly every weekend, to hunt. His big thing was raccoons, and he put himself through school by selling the pelts.

One particular Sunday evening, Tim returned from home a little later than usual. As he was putting his bags underneath our bunk bed, he was explaining that he had seen a couple of raccoons from the highway so he stopped and was able to get one of them.

Later that week – Thursday, I think it was – I was studying at my desk and smelled something that didn't seem quite right. I didn't say anything to Tim because I figured it was his laundry, and he'd be going home in another night anyway.

A few minutes later, Tim turned to me from his desk and asked, “Have you done your laundry this week?”

“Yeah, last night. Why?” I responded.

“Something stinks,” Tim bluntly stated.

“I thought it was maybe your laundry,” I replied.

“No, I don't think so,” said Tim. There was a pause and then a look of horror formed on Tim's face.

“The raccoon!”

Tim reached under the bunk and pulled out a black plastic bag. He started opening it.

“Don't open it!” I shouted. I knew what was in there.

Anyway, I was always appreciative of the fact that my roommates didn't hit the local bars. They were studious and good friends, setting an example for me and helping me to be accountable. Somehow I was placed with the right people at the right times. Coincidence? I don't think so.

Peaches No More

2008-12-31T23:02:00.007-05:00

There used to be a peach orchard and a little white peach stand with a sign that read "Fresh Peaches For Sale" across the highway from us, and once in a while we would stop there, either on the way home from work or as we were returning home from doing weekend errands. They had some of the sweetest, juiciest peaches I've ever had in my life.

Yonder Spouse and I have always loved fresh fruit, and we've made several attempts to grow our own, sometimes successfully and sometimes not. We've had battles with a disease called Fire Blight the past few years and have lost some trees as a result, but we still have two peach trees, an Asian pear tree, a cherry tree, a couple of Bartlett pear trees, a couple of fig trees, several blueberry bushes, scuppernong grapes, and a persimmon tree that produces incredibly sweet persimmons about the size and color of large yellow tomatoes.

We've been in our current house nearly ten years. At our previous (our first) house we tried growing fruit trees too, with mixed success. This story occurred at that first house.

I should explain a little about the terrain of the backyard of that first house. We lived in one of those subdivisions where it was absolutely off limits to have a vegetable garden in the front yard; it would have been difficult to do so even if we were allowed to because the soil conditions in the front yard were absolutely lousy for growing anything. The soil was a dense clay that held water ("like forever," as my kids might say). I had tried planting a cherry tree in that front yard but the tree drowned because the water never drained.

We had a ravine going through the middle of our backyard, with a creek that emptied into a thirty-acre lake to which our property adjoined. There were tall trees around the house, too, providing a lot of shade and blocking out nearly every drop of sunlight that would dare to venture through the thick foliage.

Our first winter in the house, I built a sixteen foot bridge across the ravine so that we could get to the other side, which was a steep slope back down into the ravine. We also spent several weekends digging a three-tiered garden down by the lake and we planted a bunch (sixteen, if I remember correctly) of azaleas on that hill across the bridge.

Our second autumn at that house, we planted a peach tree on the hill. We tended it and nurtured it and took care of it as though it were a baby, probably because we didn't have any kids at that time. About the only thing we didn't do with that peach tree was to change its diapers and to take it on vacation with us. I talked Yonder Spouse out of having the tree baptized, but as a compromise we did name godparents for the tree and we included it in our will.

Okay, I'm kidding on some of this, but you get the point, which is this: Yonder Spouse loved that peach tree.

Fast forward two and a half years. Yonder Spouse was gone for the weekend. She had left with me a list of things she wanted me to think about doing. She's a very list oriented type of person -- she even writes on her lists, "Make a list" -- and that's okay with me because, if I didn't have the list to motivate me, I would probably sit and read all day long. Well, at least I would have back in the days before kids came along (that was on a list too).

When the azaleas were in full bloom on the hill across the bridge, it was absolutely gorgeous, especially when the bright sun would vividly make the colors come alive. Over time, though, some weeds and small saplings grew up on the hill as well, things such as small pine trees, tulip poplars, mimosas, sweet gums, and others.

Thus, it didn't surprise me to see "weed and chop down trees" on the list, and in parentheses was written a you-don't-need-this-on-the-list-because-it's-obvious remark, "don't chop down the peach tree." Yonder spouse must have chuckled when she wrote that, knowing I would chuckle too.

I started the task of taking out the saplings. I've always enjoyed that kind of mindless task where I can sing songs or think about things while I'm moving in a rhythm, a pattern of steps leading to some final accomplishment. And I've always enjoyed being outside. With this project, then, I had the best of both worlds. I don't recall what song I might have been singing, though likely it was my favorite outdoor yard work song, "Give Me Oil in My Lamp." My sister, brother, and I used to sing that song for hours while weeding the front walk or pulling dandelions or chopping down mimosas. It was my grandmother who introduced us to the idea of singing while we worked, and we soon discovered that not only was it fun to sing, it was fun to sing as loudly as we could. The neighbors only occasionally called to complain, but in general I think they were pleased to see the youth of America outside improving the beauty of the neighborhood.

Anyway, back to the saplings on the hill ... there I was, singing and chopping, chopping and singing, pleased that I was outside and doubly pleased that I, once again, was participating in a man-versus-nature battle.

This felt like a piece of cake. I'd chop down a sapling, take a step to my right, chop down another sapling, take a step to my right, and that's how it went.

"Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning, give me oil in my lamp, I pray (hallelujah!) ..." ... chop ... step ... chop ... step.

When I reached the other end of the hill, I stood up and scanned my progress. I had gotten every sapling in the hill along with most of the weeds too. I was done!

DON'T CHOP DOWN THE PEACH TREE.

Those words suddenly appeared out of nowhere, kind of like how the voice of God speaks to Noah in the old Bill Cosby skit.

"Who said that?"

It was my conscience, perhaps -- I'm not sure -- but at any rate, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that my plans for the day had just changed.

I scanned the hill again, hoping beyond hope that I hadn't really done what I was quickly realizing I had indeed done.

Ouch.

Peach tree, no more. There was none in sight. I had chopped down the peach tree.

I checked my watch. I had four hours to attempt to remedy the situation. I got on the phone and started calling area nurseries.

"Sorry Bud, we're out of peach trees."

"Nope, just sold the last one," said another.

A third nursery informed me, "Our peach trees arrive on Wednesday. Call back then."

You know how it goes, gentle reader.

I finally found a nursery that had a peach tree. It was a small nursery but probably the closest to our house, so I probably should have called them initially. I hopped in the car and drove to the nursery.

Their selection of peach trees comprised one meager little stick that had a remarkable resemblance to the Charlie Brown Christmas tree in that television special. If I had put an ornament on top, the tree would have bent over to the ground.

I looked at my watch and discovered I had three hours to go.

"I'll take it!" I exclaimed enthusiastically, to the astonishment of the store clerk.

"You will?" he exclaimed. "You're not going to ask for a discount or something?"

I didn't have time to barter.

"Nope, I'll take it. Gotta go. Thanks."

I raced home, grabbed a shovel, and in about thirty minutes I had the tree sitting nicely in approximately the same spot where its predecessor had enjoyed its short life in our backyard.

When Yonder Spouse arrived home, I explained what had happened. I knew that being up front and honest -- and demonstrating that I had thoughtfully provided a replacement tree -- was the only thing to do, and I knew that my loving and caring and forgiving spouse would be, well, loving and caring and forgiving.

And of course she was. I only had to sleep on the couch downstairs for a couple of months, and she began talking to me again after three months.

All right, it wasn't that bad. It would have been better though if the tree had survived. It didn't. Within six months it was dead, gone, ceasing to exist.

I'm not totally sure what the moral of the story is, unless it's to warn the reader of the dangers of "whistling while you work." Wives, if you ever put something like this on a to-do list, be sure to put a bright yellow ribbon around the tree, along with three or four flares and maybe a security alarm system that goes off if any sharp metallic object comes in contact with the trunk.

Or maybe I just need to learn to focus a little better.

At any rate, this whole saga intensely heightened my appreciation for great peaches, and I love them now more than ever.

Mario Andretti -- Not

2008-12-30T05:25:00.005-05:00

There are a few constants in life that, while accepted as truth by the status quo, remain a mystery to the general population as to why. The value of pi, for instance, is one of those things. Now, one thing about pi that you should know is this: it is an irrational number and it never ends. That is, pi is approximately 3.14159265358979323846... and it goes on forever. How do we know that it goes on forever? Well actually at one point in my life I could have told you why -- we learned why in one of my Abstract Algebra courses (I absolutely loved those classes) -- and there's at least one reader out there whom I am sure knows why pi is irrational ...

I used to have pi memorized to ninety decimal places. I don't know why, I just did. I even have a book about the history of pi on my bookshelf, and in the back it contains the first 10,000 decimal places. I guess if you're awake late at night and you find yourself wondering what that 9,496th decimal place is, you can look it up and be relieved and happy or both.

I used to have a great aunt who was irrational, and our family was worried that like pi, she too would go on forever. She didn't, but pi does. That's something you can bank on.

Hmmm, that's another constant. I guess this would be a personal constant, not a global constant. It drives me crazy when I see a sentence ending in a preposition, such as the phrase above, "That's something you can bank on." I should have written, "That's something on which you can bank," but that's not how Robert Blake used to say it on the TV show Baretta. This is a sad case of proper English being thrust out of the way by the influence of Hollywood.

Anyway, cutting to the chase, it occurs to me -- and this will be no surprise to you, gentle reader -- that one of the constants in life is a boy's fascination with the automobile. Whether a boy is inclined toward being interested in turning into an auto mechanic or not, every red blooded boy thinks certain cars look cool and enjoys seeing or thinking about cars going fast.

When I was a kid in the 1970's, my dream car was a Pontiac Trans Am, black with a golden eagle painted on the hood and a T-bar roof. I didn't have one, but I dreamed about having one. My first car was actually a 1975 Dodge Dart, and as a result my youngest son thinks that the Dodge Dart was a cool looking car. He even asked for a model kit of a '75 Dodge Dart for Christmas.

And that leads me to the actual point of this story -- the Pinewood Derby.

For those of you who aren't familiar with this event, the Pinewood Derby is a male adult's attempt to demonstrate his savvy in the automotive racing industry through the hands and eyes of his son. In other words, it involves a group of loud unruly Cub Scouts racing little wooden hand-carved cars down ramps, and the pride of both sons and fathers is at stake.

My first year in the Pinewood Derby was sort of an experiment for Dad and me, getting our feet wet in the process and getting a feel for the competition. We learned some of the basic tenets of car racing, like the fact that the car really does do best when all four wheels rotate. We also learned that the Pinewood Derby Race Staff takes the rules very seriously, especially the one that specifies precisely how much a Pinewood Derby car is allowed to weigh.

My car that first year finished in the middle of the pack, but we made careful observations and wrote them down when we got home so that we were well prepared for the following year. The list boiled down to this one axiom, which may as well be listed along with the other universal constants:

* The coolest looking car is also the fastest

Actually it makes sense. The kid (well, father and son, really) who spends the time required to turn a block of wood into a hot rod is also going to work hard at ensuring that his vehicle is a finely tuned work of automotive precision.

While my interest was still fresh from the excitement of that first race, I started working right away for the race the following year, and I stayed focused on designing the Dream Machine. Like with most things in a Third Grader's life, this focus lasted about a day, maybe two, and then I was on to other things and I pretty much forgot about it for nearly a year.

Then one day, with about two weeks to go before the big race, Dad said, "Son, you've got to get working on this car."

"Dad, I've been so busy with things."

"Such as?"

"I'm trying to find a Hank Aaron baseball card. You know how the Seven-Eleven next to the school sells these cards wrapped in plastic so that you can see what the top card is? I go there every day looking for a pack with Hank Aaron on the top."

"I see. You have been busy," said Dad, affirming my efforts.

"Yep, indeed."

"Well son, you need to work on this car, just the same."

"Okay, Dad."

And with a focus that was unparalleled in the Third Grade World, I designed and carved and sanded a work of art, a beauty of balsa (oh, I guess the wood is pine, not balsa ... I honestly hadn't thought about that before) that looked so cool that I cleared a spot on my bookshelf to make room for the trophy I was about to win.

The final step in this car creation process was to melt a piece of lead and put it in the bottom of the car so that the car would have enough mass to pick up speed as it ran down the racetrack. Dad helped me with that. Actually I remember Dad helping me with most of it. I'm pretty sure that I painted it, though.

The fateful day came. I anxiously awaited my turn, but I was confident that my car would be right there at the head of the pack. I eyed the big trophy sitting on the table. The race would just be a formality. The trophy was going to be mine.

Finally it was my turn. The cars lined up on the track, the countdown began, and ... swoosh they were off!

My car soared down the ramp and at the halfway point I had what looked like an insurmountable lead. I was several car lengths in front of the next fastest car.

In that moment, my mind was doing all kinds of victory dances and celebrations.

And then my car skidded to a stop. Right there, halfway down the track, it just stopped. The car that had been in second soon passed my car, as did the next car and then all the rest.

"Go!" I shouted. But my car didn't hear me. It just stopped. There went my trophy dreams.

Inspection by the racing team revealed that the lead weight had fallen out of the bottom of my car, dragging the car to a stop.

My dream was targeted by that virtual fly swatter known as Life and it was squashed like a bug.

That was one of the biggest tragedies that had occurred in my life up to that point, and I was expecting to see the headlines in the Clarksville Chronicle read something like, "Joel Gets the Lead Out," or "Joel Loses Weight," or something.

I guess life does go on, but boy, with victory so close I could almost taste it, this was surely a lesson that has served me well in the days since then.

There are very few things in life that are truly "sure things," and one of those is this: Don't lose your humility and keep it within easy reach. Chances are you're going to need it.

Soap Opera

2008-12-29T22:20:00.005-05:00

A big part of growing up is learning how to survive on your own, and I feel my parents did a good job in general with that daunting challenge so that by the time I went off to college I was able to deal with most things that came along.

Granted, I had a few goof-ups here and there, like paying for a burger at the Wendy's drive-through before my two hour drive home for spring break, only to get half-way home and realize I had forgotten to pick up the burger at the second window. I think the waitress is probably still there waiting for me to claim my food.

I grew up with a dad who still enjoys cooking and is good at it, and he taught me a thing or two in the kitchen. And it only took one episode of not reading a recipe carefully for me to learn how useful it is to follow directions. The first time I made pancakes for the family I had forgotten to add milk. The batter was moistened only by eggs and a little bit of vegetable oil. Boy were they thick. I remember my siblings laughing and walking out of the room, but I also remember Dad sitting down and eating the pancakes with me. I think he managed to eat two of them, but he didn't have to eat again for a couple of days.

Before I went to college, I even learned how to wash and iron my own laundry. I was so good at it that for a while I ironed my tee-shirts. I remember Mom telling me to always be sure that I used laundry detergent and to never ever use dish soap in the laundry. She didn't really tell me why.

I'll admit to washing a bunch of whites with one small red thing (okay, not too small ... it was a table cloth, but it had been in the family for years so I figured all the red that would wash out of it had already come out). I didn't know that Mom had dyed the table cloth before sending it to me. Every white shirt I owned turned a deep pink.

So it came to pass that I survived five years in college, I graduated, and I landed my first job with General Electric in Schenectady, New York. It was a great job in a great town, and I thoroughly enjoyed the three years I spent there. My second and third years in Schenectady, I rented a house and had a roommate named Jeff.

One Saturday Jeff had to go in to work to get some stuff done, and I played the part of the domesticated roommate for a while but I really wanted to get back to the book I had been reading. I tidied the living room, took out the garbage, and I washed some dishes and loaded up the dishwasher with the plates that were in the sink.

I was dismayed to find that the dishwasher detergent box was empty, and then I remembered I had used it up last time but had forgotten to buy more. Hmm. I really wanted to get back to my book, and I figured on a Saturday morning the grocery stores would be packed and I was thinking it would be at least a 45 minute proposition to go to the store and back. I looked around.

Ah! Dish soap. Then I heard Mom's voice in the back of my head, "Don't ever use dish soap for doing laundry."

But hey, I wasn't doing laundry. I was going to run the dish washer. And if you couldn't use dish soap in the dish washer, well hey, that just didn't sound right.

I filled up the little dispenser thing in the dish washer door, closed it, and turned it on.

Happy that the house was clean, I went back to the living room and continued reading.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that I heard a sound not too dissimilar from the Rice Krispies sound that used to be on commercials, the familiar Snap, Crackle, Pop. I put my book down a moment and listened, and then I heard the dish washer do its gurgle thing. Oh, I must have just been hearing water coming into or out of the machine. I continued reading.

Another few minutes later, I heard the sound again. It was louder. I was sitting with my back to the kitchen. The doorway to the kitchen had no door; it was an open entrance.

I turned around to see what might be happening. When I saw what I saw, a million thoughts passed through my head at once. It was something akin to what a parachutist might feel when he jumps out of a plane and pulls his rip cord, only to discover that he's wearing a backpack and not a parachute. I was in the midst of a disaster.

What I saw was a glacier-like layer of soap suds, maybe eight inches thick, oozing from the kitchen, through the doorway, and into the living room. Oh no!

I leaped off the couch and ran to the kitchen doorway. The entire kitchen floor was covered.

Taking my shoes off, I quickly waded through the soap sud glacier to the washing machine, turned it off, and pondered my next step. I ran down into the basement, found a bucket and the mop, and ran back up to the kitchen.

I dumped buckets of soap suds into the sink, but I did it too quickly and the sink filled up with soap and the soap wouldn't go down the drain. I ran water into the sink, but that only seemed to create more bubbles! So I took buckets of soap suds and poured them down the toilet, and then more buckets were poured into the bathtub and the shower.

There was soap everywhere and for a while I thought I would never be able to get rid of it. What's more, I was embarrassed about the situation, and I wanted to get it all cleaned up before Jeff got home.

For the next thirty minutes I was pouring soap suds down any drain I could find, and I was running water and flushing toilets trying to get this spectacular mountain of soap dissolved and out of the house.

At first I thought it was just a soap removal issue, which was bad enough, but it got a little more complicated because by the time I had gotten all the soap off the floor, there were dirt streaks all over from the dirt stains that loosened up during my cleaning. I ended up having to scrub the kitchen floor too so that it would look uniform in dirtiness (or cleanliness, rather).

I also had to scrub the toilets, the shower, and the bathtub. I never thought I was going to get done.

I knew how Lucille Ball felt with the conveyor belt of chocolates ... it felt like the work was building up at a torrid pace!

Jeff's car pulled into the driveway, and just before the back door opened I was back in my seat on the couch, acting deeply engrossed in the book.

The first thing he said when he walked through the back door and into the kitchen was, "Wow!"

I asked, "What?"

Jeff said, "Thanks for scrubbing the kitchen floor! I had been thinking about doing that. It looks great!"

All I could manage was a, "Thanks Jeff."

He went upstairs, and a moment later I heard another, "Oh man!"

"What?" I asked again.

"You cleaned the toilet. And the bathtub. And the shower!"

"Well, yeah, I ... uh ... I kind of had to," I humbly replied.

"Why?" he asked.

I told him the whole story, and he laughed and then I laughed. I don't know why I had been embarrassed about the episode, except that, well, I probably should have known better.

A few weeks ago, the kids and I were cleaning the kitchen. One of the kids was going to start up the dish washer and noticed that we were out of dish washer detergent. The question was then asked if we could just use dish soap.

I smiled and said, "I've got a story for you."

No Place

2008-12-28T18:46:00.004-05:00

College fight songs can be inspiring with words like "fight fight fight!" or nostalgic like anything that says, "dear old U." Sometimes they have both. You typically want college fight songs that can be remembered and sung by the fans and cheerleaders alike, and it's got to be playable by the marching band.

We were blessed at NU (University of Nebraska) to have several fight songs, but ask any Husker fan what the top two fight songs are and you will be told, "No place" and "Hail Varsity." The latter is the song that the band plays after every touchdown. The former is the nickname for, 'There Is No Place Like Nebraska," and it's played often throughout the year but especially on football Saturdays.

The words are inspiring and strike fear and terror into the hearts of the opponents.

There is no place like Nebraska
Dear old Nebraska U.,
Where the girls are the fairest
The boys are the squarest
Of any old place that I knew.
There is no place like Nebraska,
Where they're all true blue,
Yes we'll all stick together
In all kinds of weather
For dear old Nebraska U.

Now if that doesn't make the opposing team think about running away and leaving nothing on the field except the trail of their mass exit, I don't know what will. I can picture the opposing players talking before the game.

"Hey Gus, looks like these boys are the squarest we've ever seen."

"Bud, I know. And they'll all stick together in all kinds of weather."

"Man guys, this is gonna be a tough game."

No wonder the Huskers have had such a successful and storied program.

Well actually, before we were called the Cornhuskers and eventually the Huskers, there was a time back in the late nineteenth century when NU was the Bug Eaters. Now that will make an opponent sit down and think! I think the NCAA probably got together and decided it was unfair for Nebraska to strike terror the way they did with their Bug Eaters nickname. It was a happy day in the rest of the world when the Bug Eaters were put to rest and the Cornhuskers were born.

Our other main fight song, Hail Varsity, is inspirational but the lyrics don't quite fit with the music ... at least, you have to sing the lyrics at about a million miles per hour in order to get it to fit with the tune. It goes something like this:

Hail to the team,
The stadium rings as everyone sings for Scarlet and Cream,
Fight for a Victory
Echo our Loyalty
So on mighty men
The eyes of the land upon every hand are looking at you,
Fight for a victory
Hail the men of Nebraska U.

Now look at those lyrics again. The line beginning "The stadium rings" and the line beginning "The eyes of the land" are each sung with only 3 or 4 notes. OK, I'm kidding, sort of. But it's a whole lot of words compared to the notes that you get. But like I said, it's a fun song, and because we played it after every touchdown I ended up playing it a ton of times in school.

Fortunately, due to the advances in technology, not only can we send a man to the moon but we can have car horns, key chains, and other things that play "No Place." This is cool and good. Part of this story is about a key chain ...

Once upon a time it came to pass that a friend of mine at work gave me such a key chain. If I pressed the button, it played three verses of "No Place" and there was no stopping it.

Son Eldest appears in this story twice, but to protect his identity and reduce embarrassment I will call him Son Eldest I and Son Eldest II.

So, Son Eldest I , at a very early age in life, heard my siblings and I singing No Place during a football broadcast on TV. He looked rather inquisitive and concerned, and after the game finished he came to me and whispered, "Daddy, I have something to ask you."

"What is it, Son Eldest I?"

"I heard the song. Is there REALLY a place like Nebraska?"

Boy it was tough explaining that one.

All right, so back to the key chain. I should mention that, like any good key chain worth its salt, it could play extremely loudly and it wasn't easy to accidentally make it play. One had to press the button just right to active the recording.

So here we were (isn't the anticipation killing you? Are you sitting on the edge of your chair waiting for me to finish my story? I hear you ... FINISH THE STORY, JOEL)!

Anyway, it came to pass that one Sunday I was sitting in church with the two oldest kids. Yonder Spouse was sick and stayed home. We had just finished the last song before the sermon, and it was time for prayer.

Yes, you know where this is going.

As the prayer was getting started, Son Eldest II decided that he needed to sit on my lap. I'm not sure why, but it doesn't really matter why. I was happy he decided to climb up. I realized early on in my Dad life that those kinds of events don't keep happening forever.

Son Eldest II climbed up and hopped on my lap and inadvertently pressed the button on the key chain. At that moment, I heard the opening chord to No Place start on the key chain. I had to make a quick decision ... do I stay and wait it out, or do I get up, interrupt the prayer, and walk out until the key chain song is done ...

Meanwhile, Son Eldest II sensed something was wrong. His eyes were looking straight ahead. His body went rigid. He didn't move a muscle. He was frozen until the song was over ... I knew it and he knew it.

Still, he had the presence of mind to know the best way to respond. He sat there. I sat there. We sat there together through the whole thing. By the time the song on the key chain was done, the prayer was almost done too.

It took him all the rest of the sermon to be able to relax again. And I'll bet at that moment that he wished there was really no place like Nebraska.

Dreams

2008-12-27T23:41:00.005-05:00

What do you want to be when you grow up? That's a question we get asked frequently in childhood and perhaps early adulthood ... but we don't get asked that after we grow up because, well, we're grown up already.

So I guess another question to ask you adults out there ... when you became an adult, or when you got your first full-time job that would have been called your vocation, what happened to your dreams? Did they die with that first paycheck? Did they go into hibernation, on the back burner like that project that you always said you were going to do someday?

Remember the excitement of wanting to be something, somebody, and not really knowing how to get there? When you're young enough, you can have any aspiration and you won't get criticized just because it might not be feasible. Adults smile and nod and pat you on the head and say things like, "Of course you want to be a fire engine. Doesn't everybody?"

When I was little (five or six years old) I was going to be a cowboy when I grew up. The influence of shows like Lone Ranger, Gunsmoke, Maverick, and Wild Wild West of course played a major part in my horse-riding goals. Or maybe it was because Dad would take me on horseback rides now and then. I was going to ride a black horse named Lightning and be able to shoot with the best of them. I'd fall asleep at night dreaming about riding into town and saving the community from the bad guys.

A few years later, I decided I wanted to be President of the United States. I was particularly intrigued when I found out that FDR had a stamp collection. I had one too. So it seemed to make sense that since we had stamps in common, I might make a good president too. I'll never forget the day I came home from school and announced to Mom and Grandma that when I grew up I wanted to be just like Franklin D. Roosevelt. There are two things I remember about that day: the look of horror on Mom's face, and Grandma bursting out in a fit of laughter. I come from a long line of card carrying Republicans, and saying I wanted to be like FDR was something akin to treason.

My dreams were much more realistic after that. For a couple of years (Fourth and Fifth grade) I had my mind made up that I would be a professional baseball player in the summer and a brain surgeon in the off season. It never occurred to me that i would have to be good enough to try out and make a baseball team; I just figured if that's what you wanted to do, you signed up and you were in.

Those were giddy times. If I could dream about it, it was possible. There was no boundary really, no limit, no one saying you needed a certain level of talent or a particular GPA or whatever.

And then reality set in at some point, and I migrated to wanting to be a lawyer and then a minister and then a software developer. I was on this last one when I entered college, and it sort of stuck. I enjoy it thoroughly, but i don't dream about writing software. I dream about riding into town on a horse and saving the day.

My brother, at an early age, wanted to be an airplane when he grew up -- not the pilot, the plane itself. He was 17 years old when he realized he couldn't actually do that. His childhood had been quite happy up to that point.

My kids are going through those stages. Daughter Eldest is heading off to college in the fall and is leaning toward doing something with music. She's a wonderful pianist and I think she can do well. She's pursuing something she loves. When she was five or six, though, she and I had a talk about working hard and saving money for college, and she was thinking she didn't need to go to college because her job would simply be cleaning her room. Somehow she changed her mind and decided she wanted something challenging and rewarding.

Son Eldest's first dream was to be a zookeeper, but being pragmatic he realized he would first have to catch a bear, and he often expressed concern over how difficult that might be.

Daughter youngest wanted to be a vet and then a missionary.

Son youngest currently wants to play professional football, then go into acting, and then become the president.

Just as these kids are all unique, they also all have unique goals, independent aspirations, individual dreams.

I hope they never stop dreaming, never stop thinking that someday they can change the world.

As much as I want them to live comfortable lives, I don't want them chasing money. I want them chasing their dreams. Sure, I don't want them living in poverty either, but if they're passionate about what they do, they'll be successful enough to make a living with it.

Once upon a time there was a brilliant young scholar who was a Jewish man rising in the ranks of the elite; then one day on the road to Damascus he had an enlightening experience. He found Christ; well, Christ found him. The man was Saul, who was called Paul after that conversion.

Paul could have been a lawyer, doctor, or anything else he desired. Paul was a tent maker. He could have made big money doing anything, including preaching. Instead, his focus was on something different. He had a message he needed to share. He had dreams, aspirations, that were following something bigger than his own personal desires. Wow was he successful! Rich? No, not at all. But successful? You bet.

What do I want to be when I grow up? I still have dreams.

I hope I always will.

Chevy Impalas and Cherry Pies

2008-12-26T22:19:00.003-05:00

With Herculean strength and the balance of a Rockefeller checkbook I carried a stack of textbooks, notebooks, a 4-valve piston King tuba, and my marching band uniform, and with a combination of a huff, a puff, and two grunts ... STEP ... I had achieved the first step home.

By my calculations, I had only 2639 steps remaining and therefore at that pace I should be able to make it home within, oh, about 400 hours. That is, if a glacier didn't come storming through town due to the next ice age or I didn't get trampled under by a herd of snails rushing to the creek.

With another huff, puff, and two grunts ... STEP ... I was on step two! Only 2638 steps left, but who was counting?

My arms began aching and I started wondering if there were labor unions for students and shouldn't there be laws against this sort of thing and whose fault was it anyway, the teachers', my parents', or my own?

Zoom! A car passed me, going down Fifteenth Street in Onawa in a hurry. Pretty soon another zoom followed. I had little hope that any of the upper classmen who had cars would stop to offer me a ride home, but still, every time I heard a car approaching I put on an extra grimace and took another step forward, making sure any passers-by would see my plight, the struggles of the academic tuba player.

Huff, puff, grunt grunt ... STEP ... I was making progress.

Zoom! Another car passed me. Zoom zoom. Two more cars passed me.

I heard another car approaching. This car didn't zoom though. It slowed down. I looked over to the street and saw my buddy Jim with his window down.

"Hey Joel," he called out.

"Hey ... Huff ... Puff ... Grunt Grunt," I called out.

"You got quite a load there," Jim commented.

"Yep ... Huff ... Puff ... Grunt Grunt," I replied.

"Don't you wish you played the flute?" Jim laughed.

Before I could respond, he shouted, "See ya tomorrow," and drove off.

Huff ... Puff ... Grunt Grunt ... STEP ... another one.

This went on interminably. Soon I was near my sister's friend Mary's house. I thought about stopping there to see if I could have dinner and stay overnight before resuming my walk home.

At about that moment, I heard a car pull up to the side of the rode. "Need a ride?" I heard a voice call out.

"Sure Mom, that would be great," I replied.

With a few more huffs, puffs, and grunt grunts, I made it over to the car, a '75 metallic green Chevy Impala station wagon, the last of the big wagons (it officially seated eight but it had room for about forty). I put everything in the back, and then I walked around to the passenger side and hopped in the front seat.

"Thanks Mom for the ride. That stuff was getting heavy."

"Oh no problem, Son. You had quite a load there."

"Yeah, I was going to tell you that they got the tuba fixed and that I'd be bringing it home, but I forgot."

"How'd your test go?" Mom inquired. She always did a great job of keeping up with our schoolwork. I guess that came naturally for her, since she had been a teacher up until when I was born.

"Oh it went fine. I got mixed up on the lie-lay-laid thing again."

"Hens lay, people lie," Mom reminded me.

"So the prayer 'Now I lay me down to sleep' is really about chickens?"

"Well no, it's really a little more complex than that."

"That's what I was afraid of. Oh, I have another question. I took the test on Tale of Two Cities today, and I got stuck for a while on the first question."

"What was the first question?"

"What were the two cities?"

"You didn't know that? But you read the book."

"I loved that book!"

"But you didn't know the two cities in Tale of Two Cities?"

"Well no ... did Dickens really specify what they were?"

"How about London and Paris?!"

"Oh ... oh yeah, well that makes sense. I guess I was kind of distracted though."

"Distracted, how?"

"Leonard got sick during the test. He covered his mouth with his hands and ran toward he door, but, well, he didn't make it. He lost it all right there in the doorway."

"Oh no. That's too bad."

"Oh that's not the best part. George had to go to the bathroom, but Leonard's ... uh ... well the doorway was blocked. George decided to try jumping over it. He took a running leap and ... almost made it. He slipped and landed on his back."

"Oh my!"

"So I was kind of distracted. London and Paris, huh, who would have figured?"

At that point we were about a block from home.

"So where have you been?" I asked Mom.

"Oh, I went to the church bake sale."

"Oh cool. Did you find anything good there."

"Well, I bought that cherry pie for dessert tonight."

I turned around and looked in the back seat.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"You ... didn't see it when you got in the car?"

"Should I have?"

I had one of those sinking feelings, kind of like when you're balance on the back two legs of a chair and there's a moment when suddenly you realize you're going to tip over but there's nothing you can do about it.

As Mom pulled into the driveway, I lifted my bottom up off the seat and ... right there, beneath where I had been sitting, was a flattened cherry pie. Not only was it flattened, but it was the flattest I had ever seen a pie. And of course the plastic wrap covering the pie couldn't contain the pie filling from leaking ... there was cherry pie filling all over.

For dessert that night I got to eat a flattened cherry pie. There wasn't a lot of filling left in the pie, and nobody else really wanted to eat the pie that I had squished.

I'm not sure what the moral is here. Look before you leap? I don't know. But when moments like this come along, you may as well accept it with humility and appreciate it with humor. I was laughing about it by the time we were ready to start dessert ...

My brother and sister, who hadn't squished any pies, didn't get any dessert. They also didn't see the humor in it that I did.

Vanilla Steamer, Bud?

2008-12-26T17:55:00.003-05:00

Back in my carefree days of only three kids, there was a while there where I would try to take one kid out for breakfast each week ... sometimes we'd go to the Riz Raz Cafe, where the waitresses always greeted you with a yell across the room, "Mornin' Honey," and sometimes we'd go to a local coffee shop.

Son Eldest especially enjoyed going to the coffee shop and ordering a vanilla steamer, though sometimes he'd go exotic and get a raspberry steamer. The guy behind the coffee shop became friends of sorts with Son Eldest and always called him, "Bud."

The guy -- his name was Gus -- would see Son Eldest and would ask, "Vanilla Steamer, Bud?" and Son Eldest would nod and break out in a big smile. Gus would always deliver a perfect Vanilla Steamer to Son Eldest, with extra foam.

It came to pass that one morning for whatever reason we decided to go to a different coffee house. We walked in, and Son Eldest approached the counter cautiously. He's not one to embrace change easily.

I placed my order and then it was Son Eldest's turn. He looked up at me, and I bent down and whispered in his ear, "Do you want a Vanilla Steamer?" Son Eldest nodded. I then told him to tell that to the man behind the counter.

Son Eldest did just as I asked.

The man leaned over the counter and said, "One Vanilla Steamer, coming right up, Bud."

In a couple minutes our drinks were ready, and we sat down at a table. I could tell something was bothering Son Eldest.

We said a prayer first and then Son Eldest looked and asked, "Daddy?"

"Yes?" I replied.

"How did that man know my name?"

You know, wouldn't it be neat if everyone really knew your name? I'm always amazed when I'm sitting at a traffic intersection and I look around at the people in the surrounding cars and I discover that I don't know anybody. Numerous times I've told my kids that I'm astonished at how many people in this world I don't know.

It feels almost like we should have weekly gatherings -- maybe even daily -- so that we can get to know each other better.

But we know one thing for certain. There is someone who really does know all of our names. He knows the number of hairs on your head (or in my case the number that I used to have). He knows all your sorrows and worries and concerns; he also knows your joys and victories and dreams; and he knows your sins, as well as whether you've forgiven the sins of others who have wronged you.

He cares about you. Someday when you come face to face with him, He won't call you Bud (unless that's your name). He'll call you by your real name. And He'll look you in the eyes, He'll look you in the heart.

And that will be even better than getting a perfect vanilla steamer with extra foam from Gus.

TV or Not TV? That Is the Question.

2008-12-26T11:43:00.003-05:00

After dinner on evenings when our calendar doesn't dictate that we have to be somewhere, after our bellies are content and the dishes are washed, the table and counters wiped, and the floor swept, one of the kids will ask, "What do you want to do tonight?"

It pleases my heart to hear those words, for a number of reasons. First, it indicates that the kids want to do something with their parents. Second, it indicates that there are a number of choices of things we could do together, whether it's play a board game or go out and play in the backyard or (in summer) go to the pool. And third, it indicates that watching television is not an automatic event in our family.

Sometimes I'll feel out of it when I'm in a conversation with a colleague at work who talks about "their show," meaning of course the show that he and his wife faithfully watch every week. There are so many shows that I have not seen ... and I don't know who the characters are, what the themes are, and how the plots go ... and I really really don't care.

It's not that we don't own a TV set. In fact, Yonder Spouse does a wonderful job of ferreting through lists of documentaries and other educational films and shows, finding things that would be beneficial to watch. This past year we've watched shows on the Lewis and Clark expedition, the Trans-Continental railroad, Theodore Roosevelt, Benjamin Franklin, the Medici family, and others, and it's a great way to get exposed to some of the facets of American and world history.

And I'll have to admit that I do have a show, only it's not on regularly. Any time there is a Nebraska football game being broadcast, I'm there, and typically it happens three or four times each fall. But when I watch, I prefer to have my kids with me. And more often than not, if the game is being played during daylight, the kids and I will go outside at halftime and play our own football game in the backyard.

See, time watching television is time that could be spent doing something else, something worthwhile. And while I'm lashing out against this television time sink, I may as well throw video games into the mix too.

And again, I'll have to admit that sometimes, late at night, I'll go play some video games after the kids go to bed. I can call it mindless entertainment, but that's the problem with it -- first, it's mindless, I'm not really learning anything; second, it's entertainment, which in and of itself isn't really a problem, but it's a problem that our society believes we need and deserve to be entertained. But I'm doing video games a lot less than I used to.

For years, my kids thought that television was only for watching tapes and dvds of documentaries, Nebraska football games, and Veggie Tales. They've grown up watching "regular televison" rarely, and it's always a special event when we announce we're going to watch some movie or perhaps the Andy Griffith Show.

As a result, my kids spend more time reading or playing piano. I'd like to see more time spent cleaning and tidying too, but hey, two out of three is a good start. The reading and piano will serve them well in life, in my opinion, and the fact that they don't know the latest pop stars and teen idols doesn't bother me (or them) at all.

My kids watch a whole lot less television than I did as a kid.

Remember Dark Shadows? For those who aren't familiar with it, Dark Shadows was a sort of horror show and soap opera combined; with vampires and werewolves and a hand that floated in air by itself and an artist whose paintings would come to life, it had all the ingredients to appeal to little kids with active imaginations.

I would watch Dark Shadows every day after school when I was in Second grade, followed by Gilligan's Island, Beverly Hillbillies, Maverick, and Wild Wild West. Those were my shows. Then we'd eat dinner, and then Dad and I would play outside.

Imagine how much more productive that year would have been if I hadn't spent two and a half hours -- TWO AND A HALF HOURS! -- every day watching television. I don't know how much television you or your kids watch, but this sounds like an excessive amount to me.

So back to Dark Shadows for a moment. Besides the fact that I was burning up valuable minutes of my life watching TV, the content of the shows wasn't good for me either. I started having nightmares, and these dreams increasingly became scarier. What's worse, I still remember the dreams vividly.

My brother and I shared a bunkbed in those years, and a nightmare woke me up one night. I was so scared, I jumped out of the top bunk and stood in the middle of my room screaming. Well, I tried to scream, but I was so scared that no sound came out. I ran to my parents' bedroom and shook them awake, but I was so scared I couldn't talk.

I remember the dream, and it still scares me, even in broad daylight. I don't want to think about it.

My mom didn't have to be a trained psychologist to realize that Dark Shadows was causing problems in my life, so she banned me fom watching it. In fact, she put a hard limit on television time in general -- one hour per day.

One hour per day seemed brutal! We kids griped and whined. Back then, children weren't allowed to sue their parents or report them to the authorities, so my folks held firm. One hour of TV. And no Dark Shadows.

Well, what happened over time was that we discovered the great outdoors, and we discovered reading, and we discovered music ... and soon, by the time I had finished Third grade or around then, we found we could go a whole day or two days or sometimes three days without turning on the television.

We had discovered life.

Of course, there were those memorable moments in our family when we all gathered around to watch something. I remember watching the broadcast when Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon. Oh that was exciting!

And the night before the 1972 Orange Bowl, where Nebraska would be playing Alabama for the colleg football national championship, Dad went out and bought our first color television. Watching the game in color was absolutely amazing! Nebraska won, 38-6.

Anyway, my mother still apologizes to me to this day for allowing me to watch Dark Shadows and other shows when I was young, but I am so grateful that she realized the problem, took corrective action, and stuck to her guns with the television limits. That was the right thing to do.

And as I like to tell my kids, "See how I turned out?"

Do You Have the Time?

2008-12-26T07:45:00.003-05:00

Before my kids were born -- yes, back in the days before life really began and I had all my hair and it was all the same color -- I would see dads walking around with these contraptions that reminded me of something a kangaroo might use. I'm talking about the baby carrier, both the front type of carrier and the backpack.

I swore to myself that I would never ever carry a baby in one of those things. After all, how long does it take a baby to learn to walk? Just a few weeks, right? And how will the baby ever learn to walk if you carry him around all day long and don't give him a chance to learn?

When I thought about fatherhood, I thought about meaningful conversations with my son or daughter such as this, "Run a post pattern, right side, and I'll hit you with a pass," or perhaps, "Try casting just to the right of the lilly pads ... I'll bet there's a lunker in there." It didn't really occur to me that for the first two or three years of a child's life he wouldn't just "sit there and act pretty" while we parents waited for him to grow up.

Something in the male physiology changes after a baby is born, and the more I think about it the more I believe that a hospital nurse injects the unsuspecting dad with a Daddy Serum that makes him responsive and nurturing. At least, something changed in me with the birth of our first, and that something was recharged with the births of each of the next three as well.

The first morning after we came home from the hospital with our first newborn, I remember thinking, "I'm not going to wear a baby carrier. I'm not going to wear a baby carrier. I'm not going to wear a baby carrier." I opened my eyes and looked over at my wife, still sleeping, and right next to her -- in fact, right next to me too -- was this little bundle of wide awake joy, looking right back at me.

Her eyes were open! My first surprise was that I hadn't realized that babies aren't like puppies. Their eyes don't stay closed for the first three days or six weeks or however long it is. Babies are ready to rumble from Day One.

I sprang out of bed and ran to the closet, rummaging through a pile of stuff, and I found a contraption of cloth and straps and rings, and ... I put it on. I rescued our baby from the bed and inserted her into the carrier, and we walked downstairs to make breakfast. Less than twenty-four hours old and my daughter and I were making buttermilk pancakes together.

I was hooked.

This story isn't really about carriers though. I'm not trying to sell you any products. I'm not saying you have to carry around a baby like a kangaroo.

You do need to spend time with your baby / infant / toddler / young child, up and up and up as they grow.

The days of Ward Cleaver are over. A dad no longer has the luxury of coming home from work, sitting in his easy chair, patting the kids on the head and sending them off to bed. The world is far too busy a place to spend time being Mr. Cleaver.

But get this. Even if a dad had the time to be Mr. Cleaver, he shouldn't. It's wrong, all wrong.

Dads, if you want your kids growing up secure in the knowledge that you love them; if you want them to understand and appreciate your values and perhaps someday claim them as your own; if you want to raise a child who grows up with happy memories of home life; if you want to raise a son or daughter who isn't afraid to be seen with you in public at the mall or the swimming pool or wherever, then you need to spend time with your children.

It's not the school's place to teach a child that he is worth something; it's not the church's place to give the child a healthy self-image; it's not the government's place to teach the child how to treat others; and it's not Hollywood's place to teach the child moral values. All those things come from the home. And all those things take time.

I don't mean a token hour or token day scattered here or there, I mean spending so much time with them that their mom comes to you and says, "Hey when do I get a turn?"

Dads, teach your kid how to cook; teach your kid how to help out with cleaning or pulling weeds in the garden; read to your kids; listen to music with your kids -- point out when the tuba is playing; teach your kids to enjoy hiking and fishing; and if you must watch that football game on television, make it interactive and teach your kids what's going on there up on that big screen ... who the players are, what the rules are, the different plays teams are running, the whole nine yards.

I can tell you stories about each of the kids and things we did together with them in front carriers or backpacks. Bear with me a moment to get a taste of some of what the kids and I experienced.

With Daughter Eldest, we went Orienteering (this is a sport in the woods where, equipped with map and compass, you try your best to crawl through poison ivy, get tangled up in vines, and end up as hopelessly lost as you can) on a four or five mile course, with her in a backpack. Out in the middle of the woods, not quite lost but almost, we saw a deer, a male buck that was one of the largest deer I've seen in my life. We stopped in our tracks and looked at the deer. My daughter was pointing and trying all of the animal sounds that she knew, trying to get the deer to respond. The deer didn't respond, but those minutes together were magical.

Son Eldest loved the front carrier, and on Sunday mornings when I was teaching Daughter Eldest's Sunday School class, Son Eldest would be right there too, like an extra set of arms and legs facing outward and enjoying the class. He loved picking up things that I set down, and often I would go looking for that roll of tape or that pencil or that songbook, only to discover that he had picked it up and was carrying it in his little hands. After Sunday School, he and I would go to orchestra warm-up before the worship service, and he would sit on my lap while I got the tuba ready to play. There he would be, squeezed between my tuba and me, having a great time. Once in a while he would lean to the side and look out at the music director, but mostly he just liked to sit up next to the tuba, listening to the low rumblings and warm tones of the brass behemoth.

Daughter Youngest loved to cook with me, and like Son Eldest, the front carrier was her favorite hangout. She would help me measure the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and other things that we would put into the pancakes or the cakes we were baking. On more than one occasion, I would be trying to do too many things at once and not necessarily paying attention to what she was doing -- after all, she was attached to me, so how much trouble could she get into? -- when all of a sudden there would be a cloud of powder and I would look in the blender and some portion of the amount that I wanted in the blender would also be on the counter or on the floor. We ended up with some interesting concoctions for breakfast. But I guess that's all part of the game.

Son Youngest loved to go fishing with me in the front carrier or in the backpack, back before he was too young to hold a rod himself. He'd get so excited when I reeled in a fish. We moved to a house with a large yard right after he was born, and there are two ponds within walking distance. I think the time we spent together fishing is a big reason that he still enjoys fishing today.

Nighttime was always a special time with the kids, too, and for each of the kids a unique pattern of "daddy / child" time would develop.

Daughter Eldest, for the first year of her life, didn't like to be set down. "Up, up, up," she would protest. And I certainly didn't object to holding my little girl. She also didn't like to just "go down" and fall asleep at night, and that was fine with me. For nearly every night for the first year and a half of her life, she and I would dance to sleep. I tried dozens of different music CD's, some classical, some jazz, and some rock, and I found only one that she really liked. Stevie Ray Vaughann, thank you for putting together a CD that my daughter loved. We danced to that same CD every night ... sometimes she would fall asleep by the third or fourth song, but sometimes it wouldn't be until the eighth or ninth song. But it always worked. What's more, it often would put me to sleep too, and there were countless nights where I would wake up in the rocking chair, my daughter asleep in my arms, the music long since stopped, and the house would be silent. There I was with my first born child, savoring the moments together.

Son Eldest didn't really want to be danced at night. In fact, he didn't need to. He could fall asleep on his own, and the first time it happened he was sitting on the floor at night and he just closed his eyes and fell asleep. It scared us to death! No, he didn't need hours of dancing. What he liked especially was to be read to, so night after night he and I would bundle up on the floor or crawl into bed and read books, often with Daughter Eldest right beside us. We read through the entire Chronicles of Narnia together -- twice -- along with numerous other books.

Daughter Youngest was born right after Nebraska had just won the college football national championship, and I had purchased a video of the 1996 Fiesta Bowl game in which the Huskers annihilated the Florida Gators. And, for the first six months of her life, my daughter and I watched that video, over and over and over. She loved watching, even though she had no idea what was going on. I don't know if it's because she could feel my heartbeat racing or what, or if she sensed how much I enjoyed watching Nebraska football. But it doesn't matter why. It was time we spent together, and she would fall asleep in my arms.

Son Youngest and I somehow got hooked on Veggie Tales videos, and at night after all the other kids had gone to bed, we'd go into the room with the television and watch one of the three Veggie Tales videos we owned. We loved the Silly Songs along with the other skits, and even to this day when I hear a Veggie Tale song or see one of the episodes, I think about the time that he and I had together. And like with the others, often I would wake up in the middle of the night, asleep on the chair with him in my arms. Silent moments, sweet moments.

Housework, yardwork, playing outside, playing inside, talking, hugging ... if the child grows up knowing that you feel he or she is worth the time, his confidence and feelings of self-worth will tend to be stable.

My teen-age kids aren't shy about asking me to join them to play ultimate frisbee with their friends or to play a pick-up game of water basketball at our local swimming pool. They're not afraid to hug me in public or to say, "I love you."

And that's where I've wanted the relationships to be.

I guess it takes work to end up like this. And I've made mistakes, and there are times when I haven't been patient or loving or even haven't been around enough.

But I think it's true that in general, if you as a dad spend more time with your kids, the outcome will be more positive than if you hadn't spent the time.

Maybe it's kind of like how when you spend time with your heavenly Father, the more, the better. Funny how that works.

Mittens in July

2008-12-25T22:44:00.003-05:00

The sun beat down on the pavement with a relentless and unforgivable brutality that would make any bystander think twice before declaring that man was winning the war against nature. Heat was radiating from the black-topped streets in a blurry haze that blanketed the state for most of that month of July back in 1993.

The best part about the heat was that you knew it would be something you could talk about for years to come, maybe even tell your children and grandchildren.

But in all honesty, to me the heat didn't feel that oppressive. After all, I had grown up in the Missouri River Valley in western Iowa. Ask anybody who's lived there and who has also lived in central North Carolina, and he'll tell you that western Iowa is colder in the winter and hotter AND more humid in the summer. Perhaps the average temperature in North Carolina is higher, but Iowa has more days over 100F than Carolina does in any given year.

It shouldn't seem quite as odd, then, that on this particularly hot day in July I decided to go for an afternoon run. I used to participate in a lot of road races back then, and I loved training in the heat because I felt it gave me an edge in the races.

I had a jogging stroller so that I could take a kid with me, and we would even run road races in the jogging stroller category. But that's not really where this story is headed.

Yonder Spouse and Son Eldest were off running an errand, and I was home with Daughter Eldest. We finished our chores around the house, and Daughter Eldest and I had the following deep conversation.

Dad: Punky, wanna go for a run?

Daughter Eldest: Yeah Daddy.

Seeing that she was almost three at the time and I had just reached 32, that seemed like a pretty deep conversation for both of us.

I put on my running shoes while she got into the stroller.

I looked up at the sky. The sun was bright. Being fair skinned that I am, I decided to go in the house and get something to cover my thinning hair. I announced to Daughter Eldest that I was going to go in and get a hat.

I stepped inside the garage and entered the kitchen before running upstairs to my bedroom, found a ball cap in the closet, and ran back down the stairs two at a time. I ran through the kitchen to the garage, meeting Daughter Eldest who was also stepping into the garage.

She was wearing a stocking cap.

Dad: Punky, what are you doing with that hat?

Daughter Eldest: If you need a hat, I probably do too.

Dad: But it's 95 degrees outside.

Daughter Eldest: But you're wearing a hat.

Dad: Yeah, to keep the sun off.

Daughter Eldest: Me too.

So I made a deal with her ... if she got too hot with the hat on, she could take it off. And I told her I would do the same if I got too hot. She agreed to that.

As we started running up the hill and out of our neighborhood and into the next, I saw her reach inside her pockets. She pulled out a pair of mittens.

I sighed. Then I laughed. I was trying to picture this image ... it's a hot 95F day, early afternoon, and I'm running with this jogging stroller, pushing a two year old who's wearing a winter stocking cap and woollen mittens.

I kept running ... and running ... never mind that people were pointing and chuckling as we ran through the streets of our town. I was running with my kid, and every run with any of my kids was always a special event for me.

She knew how to encourage me on our runs. "Go zoom, Daddy! ZOOM!" And I would sprint faster.

Or on particularly long runs on hot days, I'd sometimes hear, "Daddy, are you running or just walking?"

Whatever the case, that run also was a reminder to me on several counts.

First, we have to remember that we set the example for our kids. We need to be as consistent and transparent as possible so that there's no question in a kid's mind what our motives and intentions are.

Second, we have to remember that God does things his way with his timing. We may think we know what God is doing, and we then respond by doing what seems to make sense for us, where in reality we sometimes totally miss the boat. My daughter thought she knew why I was doing what I was doing, and she tried to follow suit. Her actions seemed so outrageous to us adults, but to her it seemed logical.

How many times have I done something logical, only to look back and realize how wrong I was?

Anyway, that particular day, when all was said and done, we had run ten miles. She fell asleep for the last two or three miles, and when she did I removed her gloves and the hat.

It was a hot day, sure, but it especially was a day I would remember and cherish for a long time.