Mr. Ed

When I was growing up, we lived on a street that had four-foot, chain-link fences around the yards.  It was easy to climb over them to get to the yard next door, which CC and I did all the time.  He lived next door to me, and we were like brothers, so there wasn’t a day that went by that we didn’t play together.  Our favorite game was to spy on the neighbors, and our favorite neighbor to spy on was Mr. Ed.

Mr. Ed was a bachelor that lived two houses down from me.  He was an awesome man that took time to talk to us like we were important, shared his Girl Scout cookies with us (he liked the lemon ones), and endured our incessant “kidness” with boundless patience.  But he also intrigued us, because he lived alone.  We couldn’t figure out why a great guy like that would be alone.  Oh we had some theories, like he was gay, but he never had anyone over to confirm or deny.  He was in his thirties and not bad looking, so why didn’t he have a family?  It made no sense to our naïve childlike minds.  We need more data.  So, we did the only decent thing to do in that situation…we spied on him.

One night, after it was dark, we crept into his yard behind the bushes and looked into his windows.  He was bustling around the house, doing normal things like eating dinner, washing dishes, or reading a book.  Nothing covert or newsworthy.  This went on for quite a while, when all of a sudden all of the lights in the house went off.  It was only around seven or eight o’clock, so we were stunned that he would be going to bed so early.  We strained our eyes to see into the dark, to make out shapes, movement, anything.  But there was nothing. 

We had just decided to abandon our post and head home when someone grabbed us from behind.  We let out two high-pitched shrieks and tried to flee, but our assailant held on firmly to our shirts.  I chanced a look back and stared directly into the grinning face of Mr. Ed.  He apparently had caught a glimpse of us staring into the windows and decided to reverse the tables on us.  So, he had gone along as if he didn’t suspect anything, then suddenly turned out the lights and climbed out his bedroom window.  We had been so absorbed with things inside the house, that we weren’t paying attention to dark figure stealthily creeping up on us outside the house.  He wasn’t mad or anything.  In fact, he seemed downright proud of himself that he had out “spied” us.  That’s just how Mr. Ed was.

Not long after, we found out that he was actually an engineer that worked at a petroleum company in Houston.  He was not gay, just taking his time, and he eventually got married and moved away.  That was a very sad day for us…and for him, I like to think.  The neighbors that bought his house were not nearly as awesome as Mr. Ed.  We lost touch with him after he moved, and I can only hope now that he found all of the happiness that he deserved from life.  I hope he had many kids that he could play with and share Girl Scout cookies with.  I suspect that he would make a great father.

Photos of Memaw

My Memaw did not like to have her picture taken.  In fact, she was notorious for her ability to dash out of the shot at the last minute or for covering her face, so that all that was recognizable was her famous flaming-red hair.  It actually became a game in my family to try to catch her on film.  People would sneak up on her.  They would try to catch her from multiple angles at the same time.  They would go all private investigator, hiding and taking pictures while she was distracted.  But somehow she still knew she was being filmed, and the pictures would end up blurry and unrecognizable or with a hand over her face (she could move that hand like greased lightning). 

Later in her life, when she wasn’t as spry, she gave up trying to avoid the pictures and just started making you regret trying to take it.  We have hundreds of photos with my grandmother sticking out her tongue or flicking off the camera.  But the best photos are the ones taken right after she did something like that, because they capture her beautiful smile, as she laughed at herself.  Sometimes, she was laughing so hard that she was crying, and she was just as beautiful in those as well.

For the Birds

I went to Texas A&M University for four of my five years of higher education.  For the first two years, I lived in a dorm on campus.  The parking for live-in residents was sparse and scattered all over the university grounds, so quite often I found myself having to park on the other side of campus near the Rec Center.  The long walk didn’t really bother me much unless I had groceries or had come back loaded down with stuff from a weekend with the parental units. 

No, the real issue with those parking lots was the trees.  Whoever had designed them had done so with hundreds of trees in rows throughout the entire parking lot.  They provided quite a bit of shade and made an otherwise ugly parking lot quite pretty.  So, why was this an issue, you might ask?  Because with trees comes birds, thousands of them.  And with birds comes bird crap, tons of it…literally.  To the university’s credit, after receiving a lot of complaints about the birds, they tried some creative methods to move the bird population along.

The first thing they tried was simply having maintenance people in trucks driving around the parking lot honking their horns.  This only had a moderate success rate, as the birds mostly just flew from one tree to another to get away from the crazy, honking humans.  So, that’s when the maintenance guys decided to up their game to a method with much greater success…firing very loud guns with blank cartridges at various points around the parking lot.  This imminent threat had the desired reaction as the birds fled in droves to other trees around the city.

What the maintenance guys could not have anticipated was the unforeseen side effect of firing off guns around flocks of birds.  They literally scared the crap out of them, which the birds let loose as they were fleeing, all over the cars below them.  I happened to have my car parked under a tree during this ordeal, so I got it worse than most.  Not to mention that I really only drove my car on weekends for the most part, choosing to walk anywhere I needed to go.  So, when I came back to my car after a week of them firing guns off at the birds, I couldn’t find it.  Where I had left my car, was a white, automobile-shaped pile of bird crap. 

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it was completely covered, every inch of it, in bird crap.  I had to get an ice scraper out to clean the windows just so I could drive it.  It was Sunday, and my girlfriend and I were on our way to church.  She took one look at my car, folded her arms, shook her head, and said, “It’s not going to happen.  I am not showing up to church in that literal pile of crap.”  But I couldn’t just leave it like this, because bird crap can be corrosive to a car’s paint job, so I convinced her to go with me to try to find one of those “free” car washes that high school kids were always putting on.

And as luck would have it, I found a free car wash near to campus.  When we pulled up, you should have seen the dejected faces, the “you’ve got to be kidding me looks,” and the scattering of kids to other cars to avoid the white monster.  But one brave girl sucked it up and came over to evaluate the effort needed to get it done.  All she asked in return was the opportunity to take a picture first.  Apparently, I was the winner of the worst car ever in the history of free car washes, and they wanted to document this momentous occasion.  After taking a picture, which my girlfriend refused to be in, they set to work hosing and scrubbing my car.  The bird crap…would…not…come…off. 

It was caked and dried on there so hard, that no amount of scrubbing or washing it would soften or remove it.  They tried rags, bristled brushes, and finally someone brought out steel wool.  The steel wool finally broke through with a lot of muscle and force, and slowly, slowly they were able to chisel away the bird crap.  It slid off the car in slabs of white crust, slamming into the ground and shattering in piles of odiferous rottenness.  What I didn’t realize until afterwards was that the steel wool also took off the first layer of paint, which I had to get repaired later.

Yes, those kids earned every penny of the $5 I gave them for washing my car that day.

Keeping Perspective

The last two weeks, the coastal cities of Texas have been ravaged by Hurricane Harvey.  The flooding damage has been unbelievable, as people have lost cars, houses, everything to rising waters.  Streets became impassable, so that many people who were forced to evacuate had to trudge through the waist-high water with only what they could carry on their backs or in their arms.  Knowing that whatever you leave behind could be lost forever, how do you decide what to take and what to leave?  How do you walk away and abandon an entire life that you have been accumulating for years?

I grew up in Houston, so almost my entire family is still there.  Most of them were lucky enough to avoid serious damage, but not all.  Some lost almost everything.  The last couple of days has been people assessing the aftermath and figuring out how they’re going to start over.  What can they save, what can they replace, and what is gone forever.

My wife and I are in the Dallas area, so we had no direct affects from the storm.  Life went on as usual here.  In fact, my week was so busy and my customers so demanding, that I’m ashamed to say that I hardly thought about what was going on five hours south of us.  Until one day, when I had endured one of my customer’s abuse for hours, and I was finally leaving work after a twelve-hour day.  I heard something on the radio about the storm, and it suddenly hit me how heartless my customer was being, and how they were making me into the same thing. 

In the midst of this devastating natural disaster, they acted like their stupid demands and wants were the most important thing in the world.  They had the gall to escalate on me for not turning their petty issues around in an hour, when people were watching their lives wash away in minutes.  And knowing that I was located in Texas, they didn’t even once ask if we were okay or if my family was okay.  They didn’t once think about anything outside themselves and their stupid deadlines.

And it was that wake-up call that made me realize that I had lost focus and perspective on the things that matter most in this life.  Work is not life.  We should not live to work.  We should work to live.  I applaud all of those that stepped up to help their neighbors, the rescue workers that put themselves in harm’s way, and the celebrities that used their influence to raise money to aid those that lost everything.  I applaud them for being better people than I am.  They knew what was important even when I lost sight of it.  People.  Life.

Never Stop Trying

We should never stop trying to look good.  We should never become complacent.  It’s possible that some of us will never reach that ideal body, and that’s okay.  We just need to keep trying. 

I realize that those statements might receive a negative response from many people.  You might be thinking that I’m just another man that has an unrealistic expectation for beauty, right?  Not so.  I just don’t like how hard we try to impress someone when we’re trying to woo them and then completely give up after we have them.  Why does being in a relationship mean that that other person suddenly doesn’t deserve our best anymore?  Don’t we want them to be attracted to us?  Don’t we want them to know that they are worth the effort?

I realize that as love grows, you fall in love with more and more of a person, until it’s not just their looks that you love.  But let’s be realistic, we still care what someone looks like, don’t we?  There is too much imagery in this world, tempting and tantalizing us, to not be aware of it.  And I realize that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  I’m just saying that we should keep trying.  Let your partner know that they’re important, and them wanting you…to chase after you like they did in the beginning…is still important.

Always Wear PJs

I work in the technology industry, and with customers spread all over the world, we regularly use WebEx to conduct meetings.  One day, while I was working from home, my manager asked me to have an impromptu one-on-one with her.  Now, it should be known that I rarely get dressed up when I work from home…sometimes I don’t even bathe until after lunch. 

So here I was in pajama bottoms and no shirt, dialing into a call, when all of a sudden my manager’s face pops up on my screen.  She had turned on the video chat feature.  Completely caught off guard, I saw a little picture of myself in the bottom corner of the screen, bare chested and hair sticking up in all different directions.  I could see her grin of satisfaction, as I scrambled to act nonchalant, even as I was crossing my arms awkwardly across my chest to cover up.  She kept on talking, but that evil grin never left her face.  Finally, deciding that she was enjoying this a little too much, I tilted the screen back so that only my face was in the camera. 

It was one of the worst surprises I have ever gotten at work.  I have since disabled the camera on my computer, and I always put a shirt on before starting work when I’m at home.

My Naked Adventures

When I was in high school, I had an obsession with being naked.  If you ask my wife, that obsession has really never gone away, but it was worse in high school.  I liked the freedom of it, but I also liked the excitement and adventure that came with the stigma that being naked is taboo and unacceptable in polite society.  It’s not like I went to nude beaches or flashed people on the sidewalk.  I was more of a secret exhibitionist.

I liked to go sans clothes when there was a chance people might “catch” me, but also when that chance was small.  For example, I started by walking around the house naked after everyone had gone to bed.  This graduated into venturing out into the backyard naked and doing what I liked to call “moon bathing.”  I have also driven naked from my friend’s house back to my house, but it was early in the morning and there were no cars out.  But it was like with any drug, with each successful “hit” I had to up my game to something more daring and bold.

The epitome came one night when I decided to streak down my entire street.  My street had the distinction of being different from every other street in the city in one regard.  It had a line of trees down the middle of the road that split the street into two parts.  So, one night right around supper time, I headed out to the middle of the street naked and hid behind a tree.  When nobody seemed to be raising the alarm, I darted to the next tree, and then the next.  With every tree, I gained more and more confidence, until I started to take the trees in twos and threes.   Finally, I was running buck naked down the street without stopping. 

It was exhilarating and exciting in a way that I could never describe to you.  The air was cool against my skin, which shone a pale, bluish-white in the full moon.  The adrenaline was pumping through my veins, even as my legs were pumping down the street.  The leaves and dirt were soft under my bare feet.  I have never felt more alive and free.  That is until a car turned onto my street, and I found myself fully-exposed in their headlights.

I quickly darted behind a tree and hoped that they hadn’t seen me, but I was not to be so lucky.  In fact, the car slowed down and inched past me in an interminable crawl.  It was only after it was a little ways past my hiding place that I saw that it wasn’t just a car, but a police car.  As the police made their way to the next turnaround to u-turn and come back, I dashed across the street into someone’s yard and hid in the bushes.  The police shone their search light on every tree and into several yards, but I was too well-hidden.  After a few passes, they gave up and continued on down the road in the direction they were originally headed.

Even after they were gone, I waited several tense moments before deciding that this had to be one of the stupidest ideas I had ever come up with.  With a lot less excitement and with the adrenaline pumping through my body for a completely different reason, I slowly made my way back home, taking cover behind every single tree along the road.  As I dressed again in the backyard, I decided that I probably should cool it on the naked adventures for a while.  I would pick them up again later in life, but nothing so bold and daring as streaking down the street and hiding from the police.

Renewing Our Vows

I have actually married my wife three times.  We didn’t get divorced or anything, we just kept getting married again and again.  I guess you could say that I have already renewed my vows…twice.  I know that people usually wait until later in their marriage to go through the ceremony again, but my wife and I have never been orthodox.  So, we just decided to get it over with right at the beginning…the very next day, in fact.

The 3 Amigos Lawn Service

Today is my brother’s birthday.  So, in honor of my brother, I want to reminisce about the “3 Amigos Lawn Service.”  When he was in high school, my brother was looking for various ways to make some extra cash.  One of his bright ideas was to start a lawn service.  That was right around the time when “professional” crews of Hispanic men were revolutionizing the lawn mowing industry and pushing the neighborhood kid’s summer job out of business.

But my brother decided to make a go of it, and with two of his best friends, he started the “3 Amigos Lawn Service.”  If you are a movie buff or just into the old cult classic, you probably picked up on the reference to the movie by the same name.  He actually asked me to design a logo, which featured three guys wearing sombreros, just like in the movie.  But I digress.  The point of the name, besides the obvious that there were three of them and that my brother loved that movie, was that he was hoping it would lend some credence to them being serious professionals, just like all of these upstart lawn businesses.

Never mind the fact that only one of them was actually Hispanic.  Or that one of them was so pale white and freckled that even after an entire summer in the sun, he wouldn’t be able to pass for Hispanic.  My brother was betting on the fact that nobody would know until they actually showed up, and then they’d wow them with their lawn sculpting abilities.

The “3 Amigos Lawn Service” didn’t have a long tenure under my brother’s management, maybe around a month before he grew tired of the venture.  But my next door neighbor and I picked up his customers and continued the legacy.  Despite there only being two of us, we kept the name, and the business went off and on for over two years after that.  We finally went under when the overwhelming number of professional businesses could do it faster and cheaper, making our feeble attempts completely obsolete.

Bags with Bags

For some reason this entire month at work has been really rough.  Not only am I constantly exhausted, but I’ve seen the affects of the daily beatings starting to show up in my physical appearance as well.  From the extra weight to the silver streak in my beard.  I’ve actually been under so much stress lately that the bags under my eyes have bags now.  It’s like they’re packed and ready to go.  I really think they’re about to leave me.  Even they are tired of this crap.

Standing for the National Anthem

There is a phenomenon in our country, which I am totally against, in which black, professional athletes are refusing to stand for the national anthem.  They are doing it supposedly to protest against the unfair treatment of black people at the hands of white police officers.  I have been trying to stay out of this topic for many reasons, but this past weekend, I saw something that made me want to say something.

My wife and I were at the Highland Village Balloon Festival, and we had gone out in the evening to watch the balloon glow.  We were standing behind a quite large Indian group that consisted of several families from little children to older grandparents.  The older grandparents were all sitting in fold-out chairs, while their children and grandchildren were sitting on blankets.  Before the balloon glow, they played the national anthem.  Everyone slowly rose and faced the American flag on the building across from us…including every single one of those Indian people.  It touched me that they showed such respect for a flag, a song, and an ideal that was not their own.  That they honored a country that was not their own.

When I put this in the context of what is happening in this country, it just makes me sicker.  I am not a proponent for social injustice or unfair treatment.  I do not condone treating people violently or inhumanely, regardless of the color of their skin.  But I also do not condone disrespecting this country, its fundamentals and principles, or the freedoms that we enjoy.  I do not believe that disrespecting the national anthem or this country will bring awareness to social injustice.  It will put the spotlight on that particular person, but not on the issue.  The cause is not newsworthy, but the outrage at the act is. 

But I also do not believe that racial tensions in this country are caused by the accused, but by the accusers.  I'm sure you could (any many black people do) make the argument that racism exists in this country.  But the funniest part of that statement is that racism apparently only exists against black people.  Black people are NEVER racist against white people.  Black people NEVER get special treatment that is not equally given to white people.  Are you kidding me?!

* Do we have scholarships solely for white people?  I implore you to even try doing this, and see how many black people come out of the woodwork to protest about the unfairness of it.  But it's okay the other way.
* Do we have an entire month devoted to the history of white people, or anyone else other than black people for that matter?  But February is completely devoted to black history month.  Again, just try to do this for other races and ethnic groups and see what happens.
* Do we have an ESPN sports column devoted to telling the stories of white athletes?  That's The Undefeated, in case you’re wondering.  That's right, only stories about black athletes and how they're changing sports for the better.
* Was "affirmative action" equal and fair to everyone, or just black people?  Well, I guess the answer to that question is seen in the fact that they had to revoke it because it was causing "reverse discrimination."

The division of race is constantly thrown in our faces and kept alive by people whose words suggest that they are supposedly seeking to remove it.  But really it's a double standard.  Racism is good, as long as it benefits black people, but bad if it benefits anyone else.  We will never have racial equality in this country as long as people keep being reminded that we have racial differences.

I think the only true path to racial equality is racial amnesia.  We need to stop thinking and looking at people by the color of their skin or the culture they come from.  We need to start seeing people as people.  There is only one race…the human race…and until we all believe that, there is no hope for this country.  If these athletes were protesting the unfair treatment of people, then I’d support them wholeheartedly.  But the moment you bring race into it, you’ve lost me.

God's Detours

Yesterday, we were traveling across town, and we set the GPS to guide us.  As we were traveling down the freeway, the GPS suddenly said, “I have found a route that will save you 4 minutes, would you like to take it?”  I clicked to accept, and she led us off the freeway.  Both my wife and I thought this was going to be a mistake until we saw the traffic on the freeway backed up right before the ramp we were now exiting.

I think this is a good metaphor for how we need to trust God.  Sometimes, He will ask us to do things that seemingly make no sense or seemingly are going backwards, but that’s because we don’t understand the end game.  We can’t see even two or three steps ahead, much less the entire journey.  We just have to trust and believe that God’s detours are faster than our freeways.

And you can’t open up the details and see the journey in its entirety, as much as they might seem appealing, because if you saw how complicated it might be or what you might have to endure, you might decide not to go or to turn back altogether.  You just have to accept getting one step at a time.  Go here.  Turn here.  Turn here.  Merge here.  The destination is on the right.  We can handle one step.  That’s not too overwhelming.  So, that’s how God speaks to us.  In single sentences, not paragraphs.

Cameron

When I was in high school, my brother got a Pit Bull/Rottweiler puppy.  He named her Cameron, because he was really into his Chevrolet Camero, and that was the most creative name he could come up with in tribute.  Cameron was the best of dogs.  Definitely, sweeter and more loyal than my brother deserved.  I spent more time with her than anyone else, playing with her, chasing her around, and training her, and just generally being a dog with her.  But in the end, she only had one father, and that was my brother.

There were some nights and weekends when my brother would stay out at a friend’s house.  Cameron would follow him to the door when he’d leave and sit there staring at it long after he’d gone.  I would find her laying on the floor, facing the door, waiting for him to come home.  On those nights, I would let her sleep with me, so she wouldn’t have to be alone.  I’d come in there, stroke her side, and say, “Let’s go to be, sweetie.”  She’d reluctantly raise herself up, give me the most pitiful look of sadness, and then relent.

While she slowly traipsed into my room, I’d go brush my teeth.  When I’d get done, I’d find her standing next to my bed with her front paws on the mattress and her back paws still on the floor.  I had hardwood floors in my bedroom, so she found it difficult to get enough traction to get up on the bed.  I’d lift her the rest of the way, and she’d walk around to find her spot.  Her spot, it turns out was lying with her back against the wall, legs sticking out completely across the bed, and head on my pillow.

Now, I had a twin bed at the time, and Cameron was a good-sized dog, so she pretty much covered the entire bed.  I would go push her to the end of the bed, which was always met with growling, before climbing in myself.  Since she took up all of the end of the bed, I inevitably would find myself in the fetal position, tugging on the blankets to get enough to cover me. 

At some point in the night, usually about five or six minutes after the lights were off, she would stealthily (or as stealthily as a dog that size could muster) inch her way up alongside me until her head was once again on the pillow.  Then, with her back once again against the wall, she’d jam her paws into my back and slowly push outward until I fell off the bed.  I would pick myself up in disgust and shoo her back to the end of the bed.

This would go on two or three times, before I gave up in exhaustion and let her sleep against the wall.  I would grab her legs and lay them on top of me, so they weren’t jamming into my back, and we’d fall asleep in a sort-of cease-fire.  Except for the snoring, she was a pretty good sleeping companion…especially in the winter, when her added body heat would warm me up.

The Young and the Hungry

My freshman year of college, I went to the University of Houston.  I didn’t go there because I really wanted to go there, but more because I had gotten my application in late for Texas A&M University, and my only option was to go somewhere for a year and transfer.  This actually is a slight lie, as I could have gone to Texas A&M that year if I had joined the corp of cadets.  However, after hearing about the things they had to do, I decided that a year at another university was preferable.

That entire year at U of H, I brought my lunch every single day.  My girlfriend and I had different lunch schedules, so I generally ate alone.  It was somewhere around the second or third day on campus that I wandered into the satellite student center.  And there, set up just inside the door, was a gigantic TV.  In front of the TV, every seat, bench, and open floor space was occupied by a girl.  All ages, all colors, all cultural backgrounds had come together for one purpose…to watch the daily soap opera.

At first, I thought this was stupid, but it was cool inside, and I really didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I stayed.  Day after day, I found myself slowly getting sucked into the stupid storyline.  I started to need this hour every day, so I could find out what was going to happen next.  I swear that I was the only guy in there, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone.  I was eagerly accepted into the fold, and I was quickly entrenched in conversation with girls around me about who was going to date who next or which character was going to fall down an elevator shaft and never wake up from the coma.

It was a strange way to spend lunches during my freshman year, but surprisingly not as bad as I would have thought it would be.

Superhero or Just Blind

MR was telling me the other day that I looked completely different without my glasses.  He said that he almost didn’t recognize me when I walked by.  I didn’t think I looked that different without my glasses on…more tired and older, maybe, definitely blinder…but that’s all.  I stood in the bathroom for five or six minutes just pulling my glasses off and putting them back on again.  I could still see me looking back at me.

But MR insists that I look different.  So, maybe it’s just because I’m so familiar with my own face.  Maybe “outsiders” can’t see what I see.  Do you think that’s why nobody could tell that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person?

Attrition: I do not think that means what you think it means…

The latest buzzword at my company is “attrition.”  The dictionary defines this word as “the action or process of gradually reducing the strength or effectiveness of someone or something through sustained attack or pressure.”

My company keeps incorrectly using it in the context of someone leaving the company, either voluntarily or involuntarily termination.  We actually had a presentation today, where one of the managers said that his team had 11 people leave through “voluntary attrition.”  Voluntary attrition?  Who would voluntarily choose to become less effective or weaker from sustained attack or pressure?

The worst part is that people are so ignorant of the English language and too lazy to actually look up a word that they don’t know, that this misuse of the word will get perpetuated throughout other meetings, conversations, and presentations.  So, voluntary attritions will continue at our company.  This reminds me of a t-shirt I have that reads, “Beatings will continue until morale improves.”

The Hummingbird

There's a hummingbird that's been coming to our feeder all morning.  He gets a good, long drink, and then he flies off to explore the world around our house.  Every once in a while, he comes back and gets another drink, and then he's off again.  It's like every time his battery gets below 20%, he comes back for a recharge.

Just for grins, I decided to film him with the slo-mo feature on my phone.  Even in slo-mo, you could still barely see his wings flapping, just his body slowly jerking around the feeder.  They are such amazing creatures.

The Birds and the Scarecrow

I have a hay bale on my back porch that I use to practice my spear toss.  It's wrapped in plastic to help hold the hay in and keep it from going everywhere.  Today, I noticed several birds sitting on top of it, shoving their beaks through the holes torn by my spear, and pulling out the hay.  I think they're using it to make a nest somewhere, but I can't be sure.  They may just be messing with me.  Watching them rip the hay out of my bale was like watching the flying monkeys dismantle the scarecrow.  There's pieces of him everywhere.  I guess I'll have to try to put him back together again when they're through.

Life in an RV Trailer

When I started this blog, it was to find a way to connect with my wife, while we were apart.  At the time, she was living in Missouri, working on her PhD, and I was stuck alone in Bryan, Texas.  I had been having a hard time finding a job in Missouri, so I satisfied myself by working as a software developer for Brazos County.  In order to save money (although it was really so my wife could live in the lap of luxury), I decided to move into an RV trailer in a trailer park on the edge of town.

The trailer park was located next to a goat farm, so every morning, I was woken up by the sounds of goats eating the tree next to my trailer.  That’s right, eating the tree.  One morning, I came out to find one goat standing on the back of another, so he could reach the higher branches.  But I digress…

The experience wasn’t all bad.  Okay, I’m lying, the experience was all bad.  Everything about living in a trailer is smaller.  The living room/kitchen/dining room/office was a single room and was still only about eight feet wide.  I could almost put my feet on one side and touch the other.  The bed was only about five feet long maybe, so my legs hung off the end of it every night.  Oh, and the bathroom!  The shower was so short that you had to bow your head to keep from hitting it on the ceiling.  For some strange reason, they didn’t put the nozzle at the top of the wall, so it ended up hitting me in the chest, so I had to bend almost in half to wash my hair every morning.  The toilet was so small that I couldn’t do both of my businesses at the same time.  So, there was a weird pelvic dance that took place as I alternated immediate needs.  Sometimes I was too tired to perform the dance and just peed in the shower, which was crammed up against my knees.

My favorite part, though, was the propane tanks [sarcasm implied].  The stove, hot-water heater, and A/C heater all ran off of propane, and I had no way of knowing when it would run out.  So, there were mornings in the middle of winter when I’d wake up to find the trailer at 35 degrees.  There were the showers that turned ice cold right in the middle, followed by blood-curdling screaming.  And the chili that ended up half-cooked as it heated up on the stove.

Also, for some reason, the lawn mower guy kept tearing up my sewer hose with the weed-eater.  Nobody else’s, just mine.  I never met the man, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything to him personally, but he seemed to have it out for me.  I went through four sewer hoses over the course of a year.

But the worst part, by far, was the solitude.  It was so lonely.  I dreaded going home every night, because at least at work, I had people to talk to.  All that awaited me at home was hours of job searching, half-cooked Frito pie, and a bed made for dwarves.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, that year and a half apart from my wife nearly broke up my marriage.  It was by far one of the lowest parts of my life.

And yet…God found a way to talk to me more and show me more of life during that time than ever before.  Without the distractions of life and the nonsense that we strive for, I was able to see things clearly.  I was able to have my weird thoughts, take in the overlooked moments, and appreciate all the things that everyone else takes for granted.  I would never want to live in an RV trailer again, but it makes the life I have now all the more sweeter because I did.

The Left-Handed Bandit

Have you ever noticed how all slot machines are right-handed?  Or I guess, how they used to be when they actually had functioning arms?  Now, everything is electronic, and if they have an arm, it’s just for show.  I wonder why machines were only ever made with right-handed arms.  I know that statistically more people are right-handed than left, but I would think that from a purely physical standpoint, this seems short-sighted.  I mean if you’re going to spend hours yanking on a machine’s arm, aren’t you only going to be working out the muscles on one side?  I can just picture all of these people leaving Las Vegas with a puny left arm and a huge right arm.  Everyone would instantly know what you’d been doing on your vacation.

Nowadays, everything is run by computers…some supposedly random number generator program, which every programmer knows is impossible to create.  But when you know that all casino games are going to favor the house, how can you possibly trust a game run by a computer?  It can be coded to do anything the casino wants, so of course, you’re never going to come out ahead. 

Oh sure, you might win small pots occasionally, because that’s what increases your time on device.  And the more time on device you spend, the more money the casino makes.  It’s psychology.  Like B.F. Skinner’s boxes, people are motivated by periodic rewards.  Too many, and you lose interest.  Too few, and you lost interest.  It has to be a game that is “unpredictable” so you keep playing…and paying.  And don’t think for one minutes that casinos aren’t using us as experimental mice, setting up varying degrees of payout on seemingly identical machines to test which machines have a higher time on device.  And with computers, all of this data is fed into the hands of the casinos, so they can constantly be doing analysis and adjustment to increase the amount of money they’re making.

With the old mechanical slot machines, you could give a fair argument to “predicting” when a machine would pay out.  Some people could tell by the configuration of the reels or the time between payout.  Although, some people still claim that it’s impossible for a machine to get hot or cold, because each pull of the handle is independent of the previous pull, it was more reasonable to “guess” correctly more often.  With computers, kiss it goodbye.  It’s all based on the programming now.  You’ll only win, when they want you to win.

And to think that all of this came about because of the recession in the 1980s.  The federal government was looking for ways to increase revenue, so they legalized gambling and then taxed the crap out of it.  So, the more addicted people got, the more money they spent, the more money the federal government made.  They also did one other move that was absolutely brilliant…small, subtle, and brilliant.  They changed the term from “gambling” to “gaming.”  So, people didn’t feel like they were doing anything wrong.  They were just playing a game.

So, if you’re planning to play one of the over 800,000 slot machines in this country, push the button with either your right or left hand, but know that more often than not, you’re still going to walk away a loser.  I guess you can be grateful to game designers for changing the way slot machines work.  Now, at least you can rest assured that both of your arms will be puny.

The Fort

When I was seven years old, a new family moved into the house next door.  They had an older daughter, a son, and a brand-new baby.  The son was my age, and we hit it off immediately.  That was back before people connected through electronic devices, so our time together consisted of playing outside, spying on the neighbors, and harassing our siblings.  CC was an odd kid back then.  I don’t think there was ever day that I saw him that he didn’t have long pants on, even in the sweltering Texas summers.  When I asked him about it one day, he said that he was embarrassed at how white his legs were.  I told him that he would never get a tan wearing long pants, but every day he busted out the long pants.  Nowadays, it’s hard to get him to wear long pants.  He even got a job as a PE teacher, so he could be in shorts all the time!  But I digress.

CC’s dad built him a fort in the back yard out of landscape timbers.  In reality, it was just a box with a door and no roof, but to us, it was a fort…our base of operations, from which we planned all of our spy missions, launched our assaults, and went to get out of the summer heat.  We drug some plywood over the top to give us some shade, and we even built a little refrigerator in it out of bricks.  I suppose you could say it was like a real-life Minecraft.  The refrigerator was a brilliant idea.  We cooled the bricks and then stacked them up in the darkest part of the fort.  Since bricks take a long time to heat up and a long time to cool down, they would stay cold practically all day.  We could put drinks and candy in there, go do our thing, and come back to cold refreshments.  Brilliant!

We spent almost every day in the fort, until a family of hornets decided that it looked like a good spot to make a home.  It was never quite the same after that.  Not to mention that over the years, we got too big to fit inside and our interests generally changed.  We cared less and less about planning make-believe spy missions, and more and more about girls and basketball.  But it was a good fort, and much more than most boys have as children.

One Woman…Ever

I think it’s interesting that people are amazed to hear that I have only had sex with one woman…ever.  That’s right, I saved myself for my wife.  She’s it.  Only one.  The looks on people’s faces are funny, as if they either don’t believe me or feel sorry for me.  I feel like a seven-headed hydra, or a unicorn, or something rare and mythological.  Like they can’t trust their eyes that they’re actually seeing it, but don’t want to blink because they may never see it again.  Isn’t it funny that as a society we have become so degraded that my chastity is the rarity instead of the norm?

Allergenic Punishment

Allergies suck, but they seem worse in Texas.  I had terrible allergies the entire time I was growing up, and then they mysteriously went away when I moved to Missouri.  Those were the best five years of my life!  Then, I came back to Texas, and I haven’t been able to breathe since.

I guess that’s not entirely true.  I get maybe one good sniff, right after I blow my nose, before it instantly fills up again.  I don’t know what it is about the state of Texas that seems to be missing from the rest of the country.  You would think that my body would have developed immunities to whatever is here after all of these years.  I think the plants here are mutating and adapting so that their pollen remains potent.  With all of these scientists out there mutating plants at a genetic level, you’d think someone would have been pumping millions of dollars into figuring out how to neutralize the allergenic effect of pollen.

JS said that he went on a trip to Alabama a few weeks ago, and the moment he crossed into Arkansas, he could suddenly breathe.  He said it was weird, like there was a defining line where the allergens stopped.  His theory is that when Texas joined the union and added the clause that we could secede at any time and become our own country, that the U.S. government got mad.  But they couldn’t not take Texas in, since it would instantly double the size of the country.  So, they decided to punish us instead by shipping all allergenic plants and substances to Texas.  Then, to pour salt in an open wound, they opened all the drug companies in the Northeast, so that Texans would have to rely on the U.S. for medicine.  If we ever try to leave, then they’ll just cut off our drugs.

So, essentially, Texans can’t breathe because the rest of the country is jealous that we were smart enough to give ourselves a way out.  Petty…just petty.

The 38-Point Turn

Today, I watched MR display a tutorial on the 38-point parking method.  He kept pulling in and out of the parking spot, trying to get his huge truck perfectly between the lines.  He’d adjust a few inches one direction, only to find out he’d gone too far.  So, he’d move it back the other direction and over-correct that way.  Back and forth he went.  The sad part is that when he finally gave up, his truck was in the same place as he’d started.

Drinking Jameson in Your Underwear

I was in Derry, Northern Ireland back in November of 2015.  I was there to conduct a training class for a group of new hires in our brand new office.  JM and his wife came over at the same time, as JM was supposed to be taking over the office and getting it established.  His wife only stayed a week, but JM and I stayed two. 

During that second week, we were inseparable.  We dined together, went to the movies together, went shopping together…you name it, we did it together.  There was one night that we were supposed to be going to dinner, and I went by his hotel room to pick him up.  When JM opened the door, he wasn’t wearing any pants!  From the waist up, he was impeccably dressed, as always.  From the waist down…underwear and socks.

I felt a bit uncomfortable and asked if he needed more time.  He replied that he was ironing his pants, and he’d be ready in a few minutes.  He asked me to come in and share a drink with him.  I’m not a big drinker, but he laid it on thick when he told me that he had gotten a bottle of his favorite whiskey, and he didn’t have anyone to share it with.  I took a small glass, which I sipped sparingly, and he jovially talked about his day while he stood there in his underwear...glass of Jameson in one hand, iron in the other!

14 Years on the Couch

My wife and I were set to be married in October.  At the time, I was working in Houston, and she was in College Station starting her PhD.  We planned to get married and for me to find a job as soon as I could in College Station, which didn’t offer a lot of possibilities.  However, in August of that year, I unexpectedly secured a job in College Station, and I needed to start immediately. 

Being a devout Christian, I didn’t want to live with my fiancée before we’d tied the knot, so I appealed to my pastor for assistance.  I didn’t hold out a lot of hope of him knowing someone that could put me up for a few months, but God in His infinitely, amazing love came to my rescue.  A few hours later, my pastor called me back to tell me that he’d found me a “home.”  He was currently doing pre-marital counseling for another young guy in our church, who was a firefighter and paramedic for the city.  He was rarely home (doing back-to-back 24-hour shifts), so he offered to let me stay on his couch.  For him, it would give him someone to be at his place to look after things.  For me, it would give me a place to crash.

So, I called him up, not knowing what to expect from this complete stranger.  He seemed like a nice-enough guy on the phone, and we agreed to meet at a coffee shop, so he could give me a key.  When I asked him how I’d recognize him, he said, “I’m wearing a blue shirt, and I’m bald.”  I laughed that he had chosen those two particular things to describe himself, but it turned out that it was a perfect description, as he was the only bald guy, wearing a blue shirt, in the entire coffee shop!  I liked him right off the bat.  He was funny and easy-going, and you could tell right off that he had a huge heart. 

All told, I spent around two months sleeping on his couch.  I tried to respect his space, picking up my bedding every morning and stuffing it in the back room, and rolling it out every night to sleep.  I kept one gallon of milk and one box of cereal in his house, and I didn’t eat any of his food…even though he offered constantly.  He got up before me, and we easily fell into a routine of him using up all of the hot water in the shower and leaving me with the cold.  He was usually gone before I got out of the shower, so I hardly saw him, except for a few hours on his day off.

Despite that, we remained friends after I got married.  I even attended his wedding, which was three months after mine.  We started a Bible study together, I visited him at the fire station, we went to each other’s houses for dinners and parties.  I've helped him chop down trees.  I've suffered with poison ivy with him.  I've been there to see both of his kids born and grow up.  I've seen him struggle through a rough first marriage and find unbelievable happiness in a second.  I have grown to see him like a brother, and I love him like he’s family.

This month marks 14 years of friendship with JK.  An unexpected friendship that started with God moving a man’s heart to let a stranger sleep on his couch, and a man being faithful enough to listen.  We never know how or when people are going to come into our lives, and we never know how long they’ll stay there.  To have someone withstand the test of time is a whole other level of blessing.  I’m grateful to know JK, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend.  Despite the fact that we now live almost four hours apart, we always manage to find a way to see each other, and every time it’s like we’ve never been apart.

The Alky

We went to a happy hour with some friends last night to do a little social drinking and socializing.  I’m not a drinker AT ALL, but I was telling HR earlier in the day that I was going to get smashed for the first time.  She giggled and asked if that meant I was going to have a half a glass of wine.  Not to be made fun of, I replied that I probably wouldn’t need that much to get smashed.  I could probably just smell the cork.  The half a glass would be to enjoy myself after that!

True story.  I was walking through the store the other day and made eye contact with a bottle of Jack Daniels, and I swear I got tipsy after that.  True story.

Find an Open Chair

A group of us gathers each day around noon in the cafetorium (yes, my company made up this stupid word to describe the open area where we consume food).  It’s roughly the same group with some outlying revolving members, and we’re all from the same team.  Other members of our team see us, but don’t stop, heading out to eat instead.  Still more see us, and choose to sit somewhere else.  A few will even sit by themselves rather than sit with us.  A larger group chooses to eat at their desks every day, whether with food they brought from home or with food they went out and acquired.

I find it fascinating that we have so many anti-social people on our team, so I started breaking down some statistics.  Not counting the managers, who never eat with us (something about keeping the separation between management and peons), we have 25 people that regularly come to the office.  Of those 25, we have 10 that will gather together.  That’s more than half of our team that is anti-social. 

At first I thought it might be cultural or racial, because the majority of our team is of Indian ancestry.  But it’s not.  Of the 10 people that eat together regularly, 4 of them are of Indian ancestry, 3 are black, and 3 are white.  So, a pretty equal mix and representative sample of what makes up our team.  Of the 15 people that choose not to eat with the group, 11 of them are of Indian ancestry, 1 is black, and 3 are white.  So, while not equal, it’s still a representative sample from every group on our team.

It’s not gender-related, because of the 10 people that eat together regularly, 2 are women and 8 are men.  Of the remaining 15, 3 are women and 12 are men.

I even broke down married versus single.  Of the 10 lunch buddies, 6 are married and 4 are single.  Of the remaining 15, 12 are married and 2 are single.

So, after all of this wasted time, all I can conclude is that those 15 people are just anti-social.  They have all been asked to lunch at least once and turned us down.  Everyone else knows that you don’t need a formal invitation.  The table is always open, and all you need to do is find an open chair.  If there is no room left at the table, then we will grab another table and drag it over.  There is never an excuse for someone to not feel welcome.  For now, I’ll just enjoy eating with them and enjoy the laughs.  They’re a great group of people, and I feel blessed to know them all.

Autumn Leaves

When we were first dating, my wife used to tell me what beautiful eyes I had.  She told me that she didn't like her own eyes, because they were just a "blah" brown, and she wished she'd had beautiful blue eyes like mine.  But I loved her eyes just as they were.  They suited her.  So, I told her that I saw more than just brown in them.  I saw a myriad of colors.  The following poem was the first that I ever wrote for my wife.


I see the colors dance together
Oranges, reds, and browns.
I see them play their airborne games
As they flutter to the ground.

I see the painted Autumn skies.
I see the changing trees
Swirled about by leaves of gold
As they dance upon the breeze.

The yellow rays of sunlight
Shine down upon the floor.
Filter through the barren trees
Who hold their leaves no more.

A thousand shadows upon the ground
Break the beams of light.
A shower of leaves pouring down
Hiding the floor from sight.

All this I see in her eyes
This dance of Autumn leaves.
A world of changing seasons.
A place of rest and peace.

The Dance of the Falling Rainbow

When I left college, I briefly moved back in with my parents, while I tried to find a job.  There was a lake behind their house that I walked around every evening.  The solitude and peace of those walks is what helped me get through the struggle of finding a job and then going to it every day.  It wasn't a great job, but it paid the bills and it would set me up for dividends later.  I had many encounters with nature during those walks that only served to strengthen my faith and admiration for God even more.  The poem below is one of those encounters.

I used to go for walks at sunset around the lake behind our house.  The sky was adorned in shades of the most magnificent blues, reds, oranges, and yellows.  I would watch the sky change with the setting sun...the Son perfecting the picture on the canvas before me.  Just before the sun would drop behind a line of trees on the horizon, I would make my way down the path to a little bridge at one end of the lake.

In the middle of the late there was a fountain, and from my vantage point the sun would set right behind it.  I could see a thousand drops of water tossed in the air, passing before the light.  Like tiny prisms they each captured a different color of sunset, and their dance looked like a falling rainbow.  They would plummet to the lake below, becoming sparkling drops of pure white.  So that the fountain was ringed in a shimmering circle of diamonds.

And if I listened long enough, I could hear the childish laughter that came from the drops as they were hurled through the air.  The high-pitched, "Weeeeee!", followed by the excited, "Do it again!"  I could help but smile at the Created dancing for the Creator.

Generations

In my final year of college, I lost my great-grandfather and great-grandmother in the same weekend.  I had never known them to spend a day apart, so I guess it was only fitting that they went to the next adventure together.  While we were driving in the funeral procession to the grave site, my father started to relate memories that he'd had of both of them.  I hadn't had a lot of interactions with my great-grandparents through the years, so I relied on my father to fill in the gaps for me.  His memories served as the basis for the following poem.

I ride in this procession of death and feelings of solitude and loneliness wash over me.
My thoughts drift back to the grandparents I am here to bury.
Oh, what I wouldn't give for one more conversation about the old days,
For one more tantalizing waft of one of grandma's irresistible catfish dinners,
Or just to see a smile on grandma's face as she laughed at grandpa's logic.

But I realize that I am here today to let them go.
I am here today to give these ones back to God.
And as much as I would like to just lie down in that grave with them
I know that I must go on; life must go on.
For God has not yet called me home; it is not my time to go.

There are those in this life that need me; that need me still.
For even as one generation is ending another is just beginning.
My son has come here today to support me.
He never truly knew my grandparents, at least not the way I did.
So, now it is up to me to carry on my grandparent's legacy to him.

Just as one day he will do the same for me and his children for him.
Until our lives become one continuous tale; one constantly changing journey;
Intertwined by the words that weave them together.
And we will live on in this life as our stories are passed down...

through the Generations.

Memories (The Stories of Me and You)

At the end of my college experience, my roommate (and best friend) were splitting up to go our separate ways.  We were going from being absolutely inseparable over the course of two years to completely unsure when we'd see each other again.  As we prepared for the next phase of our life and wrapped up the loose ends from school, I wrote the following poem.

I think back on your memories, the stories of me and you.
I cherish them all, because they were ours together.

Sometimes I feel so helpless, because there is no way
To go back to those times; to be those people again.

But I will not mourn or cry because they're over,
Because I had the pleasure to have them in the first place.

It is an unfortunate part of life that a friend as great as you
Should be taken from me before I was ready to let go.

There is no doubt that I will miss you.
For at this very moment...I already do.

But God has a reason for our paths turning the way they do.
I just wish that ours had traveled together a little longer.

But even now life does not stop for my broken heart.
Even now I find distractions averting my attention from you.

Until one day when I will have only memories,
Stores of the past...stories of me and you.