Can I get an "Amen"

 I cried in church today.  Not a blubbery, making a scene, look at me cry. The tear on my cheek and bum a kleenex from mom kind.  And for the record, I wasn't the only one.  There I sat, near the back, in Trinity Episcopal Church,  Mackinac Island, watching and listening to my dad preside over his final service as an Episcopal priest ... ever.  Fifty two years of doing precisely what he was placed on this earth to do, coming to an end before my teary vision, as if witnessed through antique glass.

 Sharing the hardwood bench with my mom was as meaningful and emotional as seeing dad do his thing before us.  You see, and he would be the first one to say this if I didn't , the fifty two year ministry has very much been a team effort. Indeed hers too has been a unique and important calling, if often unappreciated.  In addition to all the love, attention, beauty and grace she shared with many flocks over the decades, there were the thankless challenges of being the clergy spouse too.  The cowardly comments, stage-whispered just within her earshot, but meant for another.  And bearing the burden of keeping more of it than we'll ever know to herself.  Then knowing how best to share the rest to a man who just spent the night at the hospital with a family in crisis and probably isn't getting a day off this week.

 Which brings this to mind - if you'd ever like to test my diplomacy and restraint, simply comment that clergy only work on Sunday.  And maybe say it clear of my wingspan.

 After a lovely service, having received holy communion for the last time from dad, we walked a  couple blocks for a more physically filling meal where we talked and laughed, and didn't once talk about the end of anything.  Mom and dad will continue to be a blessing to me, my family, and everyone they know and yet encounter.  That's their truest calling, and the one with the greatest legacy.  It's a calling we can all practice, and without need of vestments ... because that would be kind of weird and inconvenient at the beach or while biking.

 Congratulations and well done dad and mom.  And if you ever feel like just sleeping in on Sunday morning, God knows you've earned it. I'm pretty sure He'll give ya a wink and a pass.  But not too often, you'd be missed at coffee hour.

Lesson from a prodigal puppy

 I'm no stranger to my day starting off on the run.  Countless times I've risen to an early alarm, suited up and headed out for a morning run of anywhere from 30 minutes to a few hours.  Today was a different kind of running start.  There's no time to warm up or mentally prepare for the dash that ensues when a gust of west wind blows the front door open and our blond bombshell of a golden retriever makes her break.

 As I zig to intercept her zag all around the neighborhood, an adrenaline fueled cocktail of emotion starts getting shaken not stirred behind the pounding pulse in my head.  Concern for Sophie's safety, as she is not at all street smart and prone to dart in any direction, along with simmering anger that this debacle is going to make me late for Saturday coffee n bagel with my folks, mixes with the inescapable knowledge that this is all my fault.  Exhibit A - I have a golden retriever who has never been actually trained to do anything, and I mean anything that a golden retriever wouldn't do if raised by other untrained golden retrievers.  Exhibit B - I haven't been taking the time out of my day to walk her and burn off some of that desire to experience life and smells outside the property lines.  And finally, perhaps most damning of all , Exhibit C - Hey dumbass, it's really windy outside, maybe bolt the front door?

 So the really challenging part of all this comes after the catch is made and we return home.  None of the anger and anxiety that dumped into my system over the previous ten minutes can be unleashed, nor should it be, on this panting, frolicking doggy.  Dog's, even trained ones, aren't too bright.  And even though I'm no dog trainer I do know a thing or two about conditioning.  You don't punish a dog for returning home.  So it's all "good girl" and strokes and rubs and treats in the hope that it reinforces in her the desire to not venture too far from home where all the strokes, rubs and treats are.

 This got me thinking about the well-known story of the prodigal son in the 15th chapter of Dr. Luke's part of the Bible.  After years of rebellion and the squandering of his inheritance, the prodigal son is not only welcomed home to a wide embrace by his father, but they throw a party to celebrate his return.  Now in the case of humans, this isn't simply conditioning.  After all , we're somewhat brighter than golden retrievers and can in many cases be reasoned with.  No, this is just a great example of how we should treat eachother.

 I've been on the receiving end of this - and it's both humbling and perhaps the greatest gift one can receive from a friend or family member.  My heart still swells when I recall those moments when a tearful look in the eyes or a tight embrace conveys the message better than any words, that I'm forgiven, the past is the past, and we again have a future together - as a friend, a father, a husband, a son.  It's not always about deserving, it's about making the most of the short time we have with all the other flawed yet beautiful people in our lives.

 At this moment, Sophie is contentedly snoozing next to me on the rug, I'm contentedly finishing up a blog entry, and speaking for myself at least, very content to be done with all the ziging and zagging that thankfully led both of us back home.

Digital Man

 There's no denying that each and every generation has it's own particular view of the changing world in which we live.  I sometimes wonder what it must have been like for people who remember both the first cars and the first moon landing.  Imagine going from memories of a horse-drawn milk wagon to "One giant leap for mankind"  My generation certainly can't compete with that continuum of progress, but I've mused countless times about the very unique relationship my mid-60's-born peeps and I have always had and continue to have with the birth and evolution of digital and computer technology.

 What sets today's 50 year olds apart from other age groups today is the timing of technological advances in relation to our stage in life.  It seems to me that I've always been right on the heels of it, with a first row vantage point, but yet inches from grabbing hold.  For example, I remember the very first Texas Instruments calculators.  Not quite pocket size yet, but small enough to hold in your hand.  Red digital numbers appeared as you clicked the buttons to complete simple equations.  They weren't inexpensive either.  I only recall seeing them here and there during my elementary school years.  So there I was, there we were, witness to a new digital technology, able to see it, hold it, maybe fiddle around with it, but too young to have a practical use for it yet.  So maybe by sixth or seventh grade I had my first pocket calculator, and I'll bet it set my folks back quite a few dollars even then.  Certainly not the disposable, and really, now obsolete thing they've become.  Meanwhile...computers that can fit on a table top are about to hit the scene...

 But when they do, and by the time they make their way into the public schools,they're there, but also so few in number that only the National Honors Society students could even take a computer class in high school. To students today that sounds preposterous, but in fact, I could not have taken a computer class to learn how to operate a desktop computer even as recently as 1982.  So again, I'm there, but not really with access to the technology.

 I attended a state university after high school and had not a moments problem meeting all the requirements with nothing more than an electric typewriter.  While personal computers were starting to become somewhat more common, printer quality was in it's infancy, and professors would not in a million years accept a paper printed in early dot-matrix.  So there I was, a twenty-two year old college graduate who quite literally had never used a computer.  But consider that at the same time, computers were becoming quite common in schools and very soon would be found in every classroom right down to the kindergarten room at the end of the hall.

 Eventually I sat down and used a computer. Probably played a game or two.  But we were well into our twenties before most of us considered buying a home computer, and that new, almost inconceivable internet thing didn't come along till we were almost thirty.  I'll never forget the rapt attention of three or four people huddling around a thirteen inch screen, watching in utter amazement as a color picture appeared, line by line from...from where?  From the internet.  whoa.  And we didn't even complain that the download took, oh, about two minutes or so.  That's right kids.  And it was AWESOME!  Also, it was probably something really constructive, like a picture of Kathy Ireland.

 Sometimes I still feel like I'm catching up.  Like tonight when my son laughed at my enthusiasm for throwback Thursday on Facebook by saying, "Dad, that started on Instagram like years ago."  Like I don't care, David, I've caught up to it now and I'm having fun with it.  Tonight I posted a picture of my sister and me from the summer of 1969.  Kids who had never seen a more advanced object than a Polaroid camera, and were pretty wowed by that, in fact.  How far we've come...well, almost - if we ever do catch up.

Bully X-1B

Searing comet of memory

Brings the blunt iron pain again

Your orbit around my spirit

Is long and longer now

But screams flaming by

Poison gravity pulling hard

Even suffering thus for now

I vow not to wall up my heart

For all the peace that intervenes

Hello boys and girls

It's been brought to my attention, and politely at that, by friends whose opinions carry weight, that my blog is kind of the Mr. Rogers Neighborhood of the Blogosphere. Lot's of "Let's just all get along" and "Guess what I did when I was a kid?"  Fair enough, and frankly, I was grateful for the feedback.  One thing I strongly believe about feedback - it should be received and allowed to soak in without rushing to respond with a defense or rationalization.  Don't say you welcome feedback and then shout it down. . . and most especially when it's right on target.

 I am not without opinions, and many fairly strong stances on subjects that often inspire spirited debate in the media, around the water cooler at work, or the few remaining text-free dinner tables.  What I don't aspire to do through my blog though, is to bring you over to my way of thinking.  Hell, I'm not really sure half the time what my percentage of full-of-shit is, much less whether my opinion bears sharing.  I'll enthusiastically continue to offer my thoughts and opinions on a variety of topics, but yes, I'll also continue to shy away from those I feel are particularly incendiary.

 There are topics I've toyed with developing here in IMHO, like bullying for example.  I was bullied as a child.  And yes, I can attest to the validity of recent studies showing that the impact is real, it is measurable, and it shapes and stays with the adult you one day hopefully become.  Every time I've tried to write about it I end up thinking that someday this blog entry will be used against me in a court of law.  My defense attorney would not be amused.  So just in case you're wondering, no, bullying results in not a hint of anger issues.

 I could offer my opinion about certain legislation that I'm opposed to.  For example, I could let all three of you who read my blog know how passionate I am about government staying out of the business of deciding who may or may not get married.  Here's a short blog entry on that topic - "Anyone familiar with the phrase Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?  Or was that something I read in one of my sci-fi novels describing some utopian society in another world?

 Without a doubt I could go on about the above topics or a number of others.  But as I've said before, in this post as well as previous offerings, I'm just not interested in having a contentious or controversial feel to this tiny bit of cyper property.  It's my lawn and I'll put out pink flamingos instead of campaign signs if I want to. So if you're sick of having a soft place to land once in awhile for a minute or two of whatever this is, I get it. And I also know there's more than enough of what you're looking for out there.  One thing the internet is not lacking is rant.

 What I'm finding funny right this moment is this - I know that those who know me well are thinking "it's just a matter of time before he goes off on something."  It's only funny because it's true.  I can rant with the best of 'em.  One day it'll happen.  I'll be a little too hungry feeling a little too pressured to produce a blog post, and a few of you, if you're still here, won't be disappointed...

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

 I'm equal parts amused and bemused as I look back on various things I undertook or did as a matter of routine that I would at a minimum hesitate to do today and more likely outright refuse to repeat with a dismissive snort. I shake my head in disbelief sometimes when I recall some of the nutty stuff that seemed perfectly normal when I was in the midst of it.

 As a boy of ten or so years old, for example, it was no big deal to get up on a summer morning, grab a random box from the garage or basement, and walk a half mile or so to my best snake hunting field.  There I would stalk, catch, examine, and sometimes bring home the finest garter snakes to be found in all of Genesee County.  On the rare occasion that one would reel and bite me, it was as much a curiosity as it was, oh I don't know... a snake biting me?  What makes it so amusing now is the way I know way down where I know stuff for sure that today I would just as soon not reach down and pick up a writhing snake for any reason, most especially a recreational one.  And furthermore, if you're the one bold enough to do so, don't be handing it to me. So how does one progress (regress?) from being comfortable with heading out for a snake hunt after a bowl of Alphabits to being real real ok with never coming within sight of a snake in the wild again?

 Fast forward to me as an adult in his mid forties.  Years of growing up to make increasingly better judgements under my belt, I make one of the most folly imbued, bafflingly defenseless decisions of my life.  And I can only hope it remains the biggest one of my life for all time.  The funny thing is, I remember the very moment - I could show you the specific location along my running route, when it seemed perfectly rational to enter a 100k ultra marathon.  Yup, I was going to spend the summer of 2011 training to race along a winding path from Gaylord to Mackinaw City.  Not once during that lost summer of training runs often lasting as long as five or six hours do I remember having a second thought.  I have to admit it was kinda fun playing the role of mad nutritional scientist, trying to figure out and dial in just exactly how you fuel yourself through such extremes of endurance.  In the end, it's not much fancier than not getting low on sodium, and consuming as many calories as you can hold down while staying reasonably hydrated.

 I had to take a week off work after that race.  It felt like I'd survived a train wreck in which I was found a hundred yards from the train.  There are people who take races like this and even longer ones in stride. No pun intended.  .  .  They may do a few of them in a given year.  I am not nor could I ever be one of these people.  When I reflect on this running accomplishment it's as if I'm spying someone else's memory.  I really can't believe I did it. And I don't mean that in a pat-myself-on-the-back way.  I mean it much more in a what-the-hell-was-I-thinking way.

  Don't think for a minute that these are the only two examples of dubious behavior I could come up with. But as you know if you've visited this kooky blog before, I try to mercifully draw each entry to a close after asking just a couple minutes of your time, understandably spent wondering why you again visited this kooky blog.  But I'm glad you did.  I'm hoping it won't quite rate up there with snake hunts and 62 mile runs on your own list of questionable acts.

This ... is PNN

 Would you watch PNN?  And of course much more importantly, would advertisers buy ad time.  I guess one goes with the other.  If enough people watch, the ad revenue will come.  But I'm getting way ahead of myself. Let me catch you up a bit.  PNN is a new cable news network I'm launching...in my head.  Positive News Network.  PNN would send it's talented and effervescent reporters on assignment to bring to our televisions, computers, and mobile devices the positive human interest stories that happen all around the world every day and are rarely given any media attention.

 The mission of PNN is not to unseat the existing news networks.  Nor is it born of the notion that conflict, politics, famine and legal tangles should not be reported.  But speaking for myself, both a consumer of media as well as the founder and benevolent overlord of PNN, I'd love a feel-good alternative that I could turn to on channel 764 when I needed a lift.
 
 Now you may say, and correctly, that major network and cable news stations often devote time during the broadcast day to highlight a positive, grab a tissue sort of story.  Yes, but it's such a small portion of the broadcast, you'd be lucky to catch it.  And in my opinion it's the broadcast news equivalent of an "image song."  A retired disk jockey once shared that concept with me.  He said that rock stations will insert the occasional obscure cut of Led Zeppelin, Yes, or Rush to remind listeners that their station is the more legit choice for "real" rock fans.

 PNN will leave the "If it bleeds it leads" approach to those who have raised it to an art form.  Our program will lead with a teacher in Roanoke who receives a report card from each student in her class after every marking period.  Next we go to Glen in Nashville who is interviewing musicians who won't allow you into the concert hall unless you're accompanied by a child ... who gets in free, by the way.  Then we check in with Gayle, who's tearfully both reporting on and witness to the reunion of 62 year old twins who never knew before this week that they had a sister.  Tearfully reporting you ask? Yes, automatons need not apply.

 Of course, there are a few remaining details to work out before the big launch of PNN.  There's the "voice" of PNN.  The voice of Darth Vader is taken, and probably not a good fit anyway.  I'm thinking more along the lines of Betty White.  Then there's the small issue of start up capital, recruitment, licences, ... yeah, it could be awhile before we appear in your coffee and salsa stained channel guide, but the dream won't die. On that I give you my word.  And so it goes.... wait, that's taken isn't it? Someone get with Linda Ellerbee's people. . .

Sure I could live without it, but...

 I was discussing comfort food the other day with my mom, who, along with being my perennial pick for mom of the year, is a fabulous cook.  So in reality, my chat with her was a cleverly disguised ploy to get invited over for the very definition of comfort food - her obscenely delicious and not at all heart- healthy oven fried chicken.  Later, I reflected on the idea of comfort food, along with other comfort stuff...

 I took a mental look around and came up with an eclectic inventory of things I  treasure, and take comfort in knowing they're around - even if I rarely use or as much as look at them.  The term "prized possessions" doesn't apply here, as I'm not referring to things like trophies or items of great monetary value.

 For example, you can have your pots and pans - your precious silverware and electric appliances, all the granite counters and sun catchers you like ... but it's not a kitchen worth walking into without Oreos. Original Oreos.  And a backup package if there's less than one row left.

 Leaving the kitchen for the bedroom, two things can be and I expect will always be found.  A pair of Chuck Taylor high tops with knots at the ends of the laces, because they never get tied.  Hanging in the closet, my thrice worn and memory washed "birthin' shirt.  Yes, the same shirt I wore at the birth of each of our three children.  I no longer ever wear it, but it would be the very last shirt I'd get rid of.  Comfort food on a hanger.

 Taking a listen to my music collection you'll notice a good sampling of Elton John.  Through all the changes in format over the years, albums to cassettes to cd to digital downloads, one musician has always been there...Sir Elton.  Sometimes there's just nothing to compare to the comfort found along the Yellow Brick Road.  There is plenty of music I listen to more often, but none has a more secure spot in my lineup of tunes.

 And finally we arrive at ( wait for it...) the bathroom. Saved for last so that my lovely wife can get in a good eye-roll just when she thought I was done with this bit of foolishness.  Indeed, my list of  treasures would not be complete without Bathroom Monkey.  Since I was small enough to swing my feet while seated on the toilet, Bathroom Monkey has been there to oversee things.

 I'd love to hear from others about their list of essential non-essentials.  I think the list can say a lot about a person...except for Bathroom Monkey...don't read too much into that.  He's a bit of wierdness passed along from mom of the year.  There's probably a story there, but some stones are best left unturned...

One more time with feeling...

 I'd love to fire up my blog every few days with abundant sun shining down on unicorns tracing the arc of a rainbow.  But alas, we're living real lives that sometimes hurt. And sometimes it's the hurt of a heart being ripped from your chest.  When the event that causes such pain is completely unexpected, well, there just aren't words... That being said though, I'd like to consider words.  The ones we don't always bother to say. The ones we'd give anything to go back and say - with feeling.

 We've all experienced or at least heard of a person trying to deal with a sudden, completely unexpected death of a loved one.  Perhaps a person who was young or in the so called prime of life.  One such heart wrenching loss recently touched the unprepared hearts of people very close to me.  The tears I have shed are for them and the suffering that I can only imagine.  I'm reminded once again though of the uncertainty of life, and all too often...of death.  And I'm reminded too of the importance of goodbye.

 How many times have I parted for the day from the people I love the most with a "yup" or a "don't forget to..." or nothing at all save the sound of the front door clicking shut?  She can't hear me anyway with the blow dryer going.  He's in too big a hurry to hold him up with a hug.  May I offer with not the slightest hint of delicacy, "Bullshit"

 Does an "I love you" or a hug stop unexpected awfulness from happening?  Of course not. Would it somehow soften the searing pain of loss? Not a bit.  But in the days we hope will come on the other side of the tempest of anguish, I think there would be a measure of comfort there, perhaps one less regret.  So in the end is this simply a selfish insurance against my own potential suffering?  In part, perhaps.  But in the meantime, on all the days that aren't visited by tragedy, it's a pretty good habit to add to the short list of other good habits I try to follow, and it may from time to time send a loved one into even a rainy morning with a moment of abundant sunshine.

Malignant Narcissism?

 Ok, I guess it's time to address the elephant in this blog.  Why did I decide to start one, and perhaps the better question, what made me think anyone else would care?  And what's with the title of the thing? In Mike's Humble Opinion.  What's even remotely humble about linking every published word you eek out to Facebook, Twitter, and wherever else it may show up in the interwebs.  Some of these questions and also the technical term interwebs come from a good friend James, who asked me quite directly about my thoughts and intentions as a newly minted blogger feigning humility.

 I do hope this comes off more as a simple response than a defense.  It's not like I'm trying to justify some reckless or unethical behavior.  But it's also my hope that at least not too many people view me as a completely ego driven hypocrite.  First the easiest answer...regarding the title I chose for my blog.  As most people who spend any time texting and social networking know, our language is slowly getting boiled down to a growing collection of abbreviations and acronyms.  One such is IMHO, which is often inserted just before responding to a question or issue.  It stands for "in my humble opinion."  As I sat in my favorite seat in my favorite coffee shop poised to release my blog into cyberspace - lacking only a title, it dawned on me. My name does in fact start with an M and my blog will probably be made up mostly of my opinions, so eureka, we have a winner!

 But there's still the problem of the H.  As I stated in my very first blog post, I'm doing this more for me than for you.  I enjoy writing. I'm not talented enough to do it for a living, or even for a meal, but I'd love to get better at it none the less. It's simply my nature to strive for improvement in my passions.  Be it writing, running or 'rithmetic. (not really 'rithmetic, but I'm an absolute fool for alliteration)... By maintaining a blog, I have a defined place to go play, which is also a place to keep my musings organized.  By posting to social networking sites, it is my hope that I'll receive some feedback along the way that could help me improve and grow as a writer.  Not a famous or influential writer, but a writer just the same, simply defined by the fact that instead of watching reruns on TV tonight, I'm writing. No big deal.

So if you stumble across one or more of my blog posts and have a thought or two about how I might have expressed something more effectively, or if you are offended by an affront to proper syntax, please feel free to let me know.  That's what I'm fishing for when I dangle my line in the waters of your news feed.  If you return not to comment, but just to again get a peek at the oddity of my thought process, that's fine too. We all need someplace to go for a little distraction, and sometimes reruns just don't do the job.

I remember when I was old...

 I think you have to live at least four or five decades before the full bittersweet reality of relative age perception, or RAP, firmly sets in.  And for the record, I just made up that acronym on the fly, but you have to admit, it added an instant sense of legitimacy to my opening...

 Who doesn't remember being a young child and thinking of an eighteen or twenty year old as being so grown up?  But how grown up does an eighteen year old seem when you're old enough to be their parent? Or even more so, if you are in fact their parent.  The easiest benchmark for gauging RAP (sorry, now I can't resist running with it) is to remember how you looked at your parents relative to their age when you were growing up.  Now as you attain those same ages, how does the person inside you compare to your memories?  For me, as for most people I'm guessing, it results in a whole re-calibration of RAP!  In other words, I'm not nearly as old at fifty as I thought my parents were when they were half a century in.  

 Lately I've had a  growing sense that I may never really feel old. The "me" inside my head is the same that I've been for quite some time now and I'm guessing the same goofball that I'm gonna carry into older age. What I'm really leading up to is sharing a poem that has circulated around the internet for some years now, but I only recently read for the first time.  It was written by a man in an Austrailian nursing home, and found by one of the nurses after his death.  Interestingly, that was probably his intention, as the poem was written to her and her colleagues. 

Cranky Old Man , by Dave Griffith

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?

What are you thinking .. . when you're looking at me?

A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,

Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food .. . ... . . and makes no reply.

When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you'd try!'

Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.

And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not . . . ... lets you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?. .Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse .you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will

.I'm a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet

Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he'll meet.

A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.

Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.

Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.

A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,

Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,

But my woman is beside me . . to see I don't mourn.

At Fifty, once more, .. ...Babies play 'round my knee,

Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.

I look at the future ... . . . . I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.

And I think of the years . . . And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.

It's jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.

There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,

And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells

I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.

And I'm loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.

I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.

And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.

Not a cranky old man .Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. .... . ME!!

Nobody's hero

 Every time I think I'm going to write about heros, I'm reminded of how confused I am by them. Or not so much by them as by our manifold uses of the word hero.  So the following paragraphs will perhaps contain more confusion than conclusion.

 What or who is a hero?  What qualifies one to be known as a hero?  And do we over use the word so as to dilute its meaning or is it just one of those silly putty words that can be shaped and stretched to mean different things provided we accompany the word with pertinent qualifiers and remember to keep it in its plastic egg when not in use.

 One thing that I muse about is the question of resume.  Someone who gives years of their life and indeed ultimately has their very life taken for the cause of civil rights...is a hero. We're not even debating that point. The person who sprints across four lanes of speeding traffic to scoop up an unattended toddler is also every bit a hero. Presumably though, this person hasn't spent every day of their adult life saving wandering tots.

 So who else do we have, and how many categories of heroes?  We can go way back to find countless historical and mythical examples of heroes.  Greek legend leaves us with stories of Hercules, Theseus, Odysseus ( who came up with the original Trojan Horse long before computers caught the first virus) and more.  Today we have Spiderman, Batman, Wonder Woman, and comic book stores full of many more.

 We have cultural heroes like the aforementioned Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mother Theresa.

 There are of course our famous war heroes like generals Eisenhower, Patton and MacArthur.

 We thrill to the stories of adventure heroes like Sir Edmund Hillary, Neil Armstrong, and Amelia Earhart.

 And let's not forget modern day heroes whose names may not be of the household variety. Men and women who work to bring clean water to Sudan , literally risk life and limb clearing land mines from Cambodia, or work tirelessly to develop new medicines for AIDS or cancer patients.

 We can bring it down to the neighborhood level if you like. There are still more heroes to be found.  No better example could be found than my neighbor Mark, who would be the first guy to offer a helping hand on a project, let you borrow a tool, or faithfully serve our country as he's doing right now, and not for the first time, in Afghanistan.

 One thing I'm sure of is that I'm nobody's hero. Not yet anyway. But who knows, maybe the main reason I was placed on this earth is to scoop up an endangered child who won't even be born for another decade. Or it could be you've just never seen me rip my shirt off to expose my cool superhero getup.

I'm here to help

 Last weekend I helped my mom and dad sign up for "that Facebook thing."  Now, my folks are not out of touch with modern tech, but this was to be their first foray into the wild world of social media.  Knowing this, I knew one other thing as well...they would also need some help after the fact.  As expected, my phone rang last evening, a couple days after the initial launch.  Lacking the unique skill set that would have me employed as phone support for Apple, I jumped in the car and within minutes was walking my dad through the finer points of liking, linking and lurking.

 What struck me as I was making my triumphant exit from their computer room was how apologetic they were about me having to come over to guide them through a couple cyber snags.  I laughingly brushed their comments aside by saying that I not only didn't mind , but was quite sure it wouldn't be the last such tech support visit.  By the time my two minute drive home was complete, my laughter had turned misty as I thought of how much some people would give just to be able to experience such an errand.

  So I've been wondering, what is it that makes us reticent to ask for help, or sometimes uncomfortable receiving it?  I think there are various reasons that can differ from one individual to another.  It can be pride, a need to feel or appear self-sufficient, or a stubborn independent streak that can be traced back to early childhood.  None of these tendencies are of themselves negative or hurtful, but I think a reminder is in order here.  It feels good to be helpful.

 When I receive help from you I'm also giving you an opportunity to feel needed.  I know I always feel an emotional boost after being of some assistance to another, whether it be a close friend, coworker, or stranger in need of directions.  As I've heard it said many times, "Reach out, for the life you save may be your own."  That's just another way of saying that I always benefit when I'm helping someone else.  So LET ME!  Really, it's ok.  Just think of it as a win - win proposition.  You get help, I feel helpful.

 I'm actually looking forward to my next trip over to mom and dad's to clear up some social media stumper.  After all, not only is it a reason to visit, but it's the only place on earth I get to feel like a computer expert.

Fly me to a moon

 I've had a fascination with the planet Saturn for as long as I can remember.  Both waking and in my dreams, I've imagined how frightful yet breathtaking it would be to get a live, close up look.  So now I've gone and written some semblance of a poem about it, and in doing so, have secured my nerd status for all time...

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If I could choose to rise anywhere I like 

I'd awaken on a moon of Saturn

Given one day in an extraordinary place

Set me under that transcendent halo

More frightening or beautiful I could not say

Though I think I would fear to stand

Till I'd gazed for hours unblinking

Along creation's multi-ringed crown

Only a part of me could ever return

Though I'd seem to be home again

And the wisdom to know the difference

 Recently during a casual conversation following a tasty dinner, my lovely wife was commenting on some small thing she had done by saying " I don't like that about myself".  In the next moment she looked at me and asked "Is there anything you don't like about yourself?" My immediate response was a chuckle, feeling as though the question were certainly rhetorical. I mean, of course there are things I don't like about me.  The questions I started silently asking myself were "which are things I can do something about" and "why the heck aren't I doing something about them?"

 When it comes to personal flaws, defects, and shortcomings, I've no dearth of material.  But short of involving a plastic surgeon,  I'll ignore such things as asymmetrical nostrils and one ear that sticks out more than the other.  And I'm just not going to the trouble of covering up the grey.  But what of the things that I could change without need of a health plan or medium brown hair dye?

 The first thing that comes to mind is impatience.  This would be a great one to tackle because I can and do aim this defect at both myself and others. I am quick to get down on myself when struggling with or confused by my circumstances.  On top of that, I can be far too time conscious and schedule driven and have little tolerance for others who are not similarly wired.  Looking back, I am saddened to realize that many roses that could have been smelled we're instead trampled along my hurried way.  Sadder still, I may well have deprived you of the rich aroma as well.

 Growing and improving as a husband, dad, friend, and self involves differentiating between those things I can and should work to improve and those that we'll all just have to live with.  It's not too late I think to slow down and ease up a bit on myself as well as those I'm tapping my foot waiting for.  Perhaps I should put on some music in those moments and give my foot a better reason to tap. Ironically, that music would likely be a selection by RUSH.

 . . . you just can't make this stuff up.

So we good?

 Philosophers, psychologists and cultural anthropologists have for generations wrestled with and debated the question "are humans fundamentally good or evil?"  I neither have an answer nor am I convinced it's an answerable question. First, how do we all agree on a definition of good, evil, or any of the space between? And even if we somehow, for the first time in history came to such a consensus, it would still only be the definitive answer for our corner booth within our own diverse culture.  If small pockets of people in other parts of the world also came to agree on these terms, you can bet their definitions would read differently than our own.  Indeed, some of the greatest villains in human history were not even breaking the law in their homeland.

 But that being said, I'd still like to put my two cents out there regarding the relative goodness of my fellow earth dwellers.  My primary motivation for this is simply that I don't think the goodness of people gets trumpeted nearly enough and certainly not in proportion to the magnified missteps and ugliness that we're bombarded with every time we click the remote or flick open the newspaper.

 A teenager shoveling the driveway of an elderly couple or an anonymous dinner tab being  paid for the table of soldiers may garner some Facebook likes, but it's not THE story that makes the news anchor's desk.  But there are countless examples of human kindness for every isolated story of corruption or cruelty.

 Think of all the people you know and associate with in the course of a normal week.  For most of us that list would be hundreds of people.  Now make a mental subset of all the people on that list who are defined by traits that are hateful, hurtful, and mean.  I know for me, the original list is many many times larger than the subset.  If this isn't true for you, let's talk over coffee about where you're hanging out...

 Much like the aforementioned skewed media coverage, when we have a run-in with one of the individuals on the "short list" it tends to dominate conversation and even our own private thoughts for an inordinate amount of time.   As I stew, I've forgotten all the examples of courtesy, generosity, and good humor that I experienced throughout the very same day.

 As the Dalai Lama has said "Out of 6 billion humans, the troublemakers are just a handful."

As we strive to be the best person we can be, for our own benefit as well as others, let's also recognize the good that already resides in and is daily displayed by us and the goofy collection of basically pretty darn good folks all around.

I Love Flint

 Yes, Flint, Michigan.  I had to say it right up front because it's been said so little in recent times.  No, I'm not taking a break from packing up the glassware for a move back to Genesee County.  The fact is though, that I love my memories of the Flint of my childhood, which run through the summer of 1976 when my family moved north a few months before I turned thirteen.  Until that time, we lived just a couple miles outside the city, in Swartz Creek.  Over time I'm sure many memories of Swartz Creek will appear in my blog, but for today I'll stick to mother Flint, which is what the city was to Swartz Creek in those days...

 Garage doors in Swartz Creek opened a half hour before the next shift started at the GM plant in Flint. Most all of my friends had at least one parent employed in the auto industry.  Once as a five or six year old, knowing my dad didn't build Buicks when he wasn't home, I asked him why he didn't have a job.  Jobs...yes there were a whole lot of them back then.  Making Chevys and Buicks and parts for Chevys and Buicks.

 But as to my fond memories of the City of Flint - here are just a few...

 My dad and I took frequent trips to downtown Flint to visit an eye doctor who must have been some sort of specialist or maybe an experimental mad scientist, I wasn't quite sure.  But as a kid who started out almost blind in one eye, never had natural depth perception, and had a lazy eye that practically looked back at my brain, I guess I needed some special help.  Anyway,  there was much to enjoy about these excursions into the city. Lunch at the original downtown Halo Burger - a tiny place squished between bigger places, with jukeboxes at your table and damn good burgers and fries.  I remember the corduroy sound of passing cars along brick streets, and gazing up at the Citizens Bank building, with that mysterious globe on top.

 I enjoyed numerous trips into Flint over the years to visit such cultural gems as the Sloan Museum, which was an incredible walking tour of the history of the automobile.  The Flint Institute of Arts, which included a cool kids area where you could actually be in a museum touching stuff and doing things! But for me the best offering in this arts campus area of the city was the Longway Planetarium.  I recall actually being quite frightened the first time I went there for a star show, but over time and to this day I appreciate any opportunity to take in a planetarium show.  And there was the time my mom took me to see a stage production of one of her favorite musicals, Fiddler on the Roof.   That would also be the night she was the target of a barrage of scornful glares from Jewish mothers sitting nearby as I asked in my best stage whisper, "Mama, ... what's the Sabbath?"  I remember enjoying the show ... probably more than she did...

 And how could I speak of my fondness for Flint without mentioning the Genesee Valley Mall?  A trip to the only mall in the area meant new clothes, new shoes, and of course climbing on the frog.  I'm not going to even explain that last bit.  It's there for those who share the memory...

 It seems I always left Flint feeling better than when I arrived. Sometimes quite literally.  For Flint's McLaren Hospital was our destination  when I would have to be rushed in at one or two in the morning with a severe asthma attack. I'd receive a shot of something that made my lungs work again. Panic driving in, relief driving back.  Thank you, Flint.

 Yes, thank you Flint, for still being at your best when I needed you most.  And also for taking care of my mom, a Flint girl, until she met and married my dad.  If you hadn't done a good job of that, well, let's just say there'd be no me to be typing this thank you.  Better days ahead my friend...

 

A kinder flapping of wings.

 Sorry gamers, this is not a blog post about Angry Birds, Flappy Bird, or any other game app. Although I suppose it could be in the end, as I think this topic can apply to pretty much everything we do.  I'll go ahead and admit too, that this is a topic that I've had to make my own peace with.  Find a way to both ponder it and  accept it . . . without losing my mind.  I'm quite sure you've also heard of and pondered - the butterfly effect.

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 Mathematician and meteorologist Edward Lorenz of MIT, loved to study and predict weather.  One day in 1961, while doing just that, he made the slightest of slight changes in a number about four digits to the right of the decimal point and found that even such a tiny divergence made a world of difference in the final outcome of his calculus.  This observation led to a phenomenon known as "sensitive dependence on initial conditions", or as we've come to know it, "the butterfly effect".  This better known moniker comes from the chaos theory concept of a butterfly flapping it's wings in South America ultimately effecting the weather in Venice, Florida through a long string of connected actions.  And any Ray Bradbury fans may be interested to know that he actually touched on the idea almost a decade before Lorenz in a short story titled "A Sound of Thunder" in 1952.

 But enough background, back to more important stuff, at least to me.  That whole thing of not losing my mind.  I've been known to be - from time to time - a tad obsessive compulsive.  Concepts like this one lead to over-thinking my next move, second guessing the most trivial of decisions, and getting hung up over whether or not to talk to the complete stranger behind me in the coffee line.  In short, for someone wired like me - the stuff of nightmares.  ( I'm not even kidding about that, but that's for another blog post )

 So I had to make peace with the butterfly.  Not deny it's existence, or even the validity of the concept.  I don't think there's any denying that the contacts we have with each other and our surroundings have effect. And that effect can alter other happenings down the line.  But this is absolutely true regardless of my decision in the now.  No matter what I decide to do now, there will be a ripple.  And here's the key to the strand of sanity I swing from - the only part of the effect I have any control over is the act I choose right now.  The rest is up to the universe.  And by extension, whatever happens is the universes damn fault too. So I ask myself in moments of indecision, what's the kind thing?  Which choice would seem least harmful, to a person, to the world around me, indeed to my own perception of self.

 As a result, I tend to talk to the stranger in line behind me.  I flash smiles to people who seem to be glum. And even bigger ones to those who smile first at me.  I'm working at being more spontaneous and unpredictable in the small stuff.  Like trying a new ice cream flavor for God's sake.  How much Superman can a person ingest in a lifetime anyway?  In short, I am trying not to obsess over what my contact with you may mean to your great grandchildren's college choice, but rather how it might affect your day...today.

I could not count the ways

 Tonight during dinner, which I was delighted to be sharing with my lovely wife, I was asked what was on my mind.  Undoubtedly my gaze had become distant and unfocused and that often leaves the other person at the table wondering....fair enough.  Instead of shaking my head or otherwise waving off the question, I decided to answer with the simple truth that "I was reflecting on the things I love about you."

 It turns out there are way worse things you can say to your wife than that.  In fact, my statement was well received indeed.  Ah, but it can't be left there, nor did I want it to be.  These things should be said from time to time I think.  Out loud. On purpose. And not to some other semi-disinterested party.  

 And it's interesting to discover that my love doesn't spring from the big stuff.  Not from profound, sweeping, or indefinable traits, accomplishments, or abilities.  It's the curve of your nose.  Your unmistakable giggle that can speak paragraphs in a second.  My love springs from the way you so often know exactly what I'm going to say, but  patiently wait for me to form the words.  And that knowing look you give as I arrive at my wordy conclusion.  

  My love for you is reborn like a new star every time you nestle in and remind me that I am your counterpart.  When your soft kiss so often takes me back to the very first one, which is the last memory I'd ever give up.  From your shuffling, blinking, grudging start to the new day to your astounding night-owl energy beyond day's end, you give me countless reasons to love you.  Little things to love about you.  

 You, my love, have accomplished many grand things in your lifetime.  Earned degrees and awards, and the respect of many people along the way.  But tonight when I think of what I love about you, behind my distant and unfocused gaze, I think of how you knew I'd love some steaming apricot jell-o water for my cold, and that it's so damn sexy the way you're looking at me over the top of your reading glasses right now... xoxx

Aim high, but wear your armour

 Haters gonna hate. It's just what they do.  Detractors abound whenever greatness rears it's ugly (threatening?) head.  But why this tendency?  What is it about success that gets our hackles up?

 During my Sunday morning doughnut run today I tuned in to sports talk radio because they were discussing recipes on NPR and the "rock" station was again exploring an alternate definition of rock music.  The comentater was in mid-rant about the possibility of Phil Jackson becoming the next coach of the hot mess also known as the New York Knicks.  The next couple minutes of air time were filled with emphatic commentary like "When he fails with the Knicks, people will finally realize he was never as great as his record" and "Anyone could have coached Jordan and Pippen to a title" For the record, I'll insert just a couple facts about Phil Jackson's basketball career.  He has been a part of thirteen NBA titles (a record), eleven as head coach (a record), two as a player.  He has an overall winning percentage which is , wait for it....(a record) over .700  But many talking heads and NBA fans hold fast the idea that they could have coached Kobe and Shaq to titles.  Yes, because pro athletes are such a cohesive, inherently coachable, respectful lot. . .

 I've noticed though, that this despisal of the accomplished among us is not limited to the sporting arena. Scorn for success is often directed in other areas as well.  Take popular music as an example. Why is it when a group or solo artist becomes widely popular and buys a big house on the ocean, they are criticized for becoming commercial, and or "selling out"?  Memo to fanboy - this is their job! It's what they do for money.  The whole point of "paying your dues" in dive bars and the drummers garage is to become more widely known as a talented group who's fans can no longer all fit into a dive bar.  And seriously, if that "sell-out, commercial" third album had actually been the debut offering that fanboy discovered before everyone else, then that would be the sound that "they totally need to get back to".

Maybe one reason this negative tendency is so pervasive is the example our government sets with regard to a tax code that  resembles a punishment for business success.  And no, I'm not just talking about big corporations who's tax payments or lack of are so often in the news.  Ask a small business owner sometime how they think the government feels about a small business turning a profit.  It's as if success in business is a scourge which must be stamped out using any of a variety of means.

 Another contributing factor to this disfavor with success and those who rise above the rest, is the "everyone's a winner" approach that's been promoted for over a generation now with everything from youth sports to the arts.  The adult world where we spend the majority of our lives is competitive.  Three people don't get hired for one job opening just because they all made the effort to apply.  But if all three people were brought up in an "everyone gets a trophy" environment, then two of the three people will resent the success of the third.

 There will always be people who are better than me at every single thing I do.  But if I am doing my best it gives me a level of appreciation for their talent and effort.  And maybe if we directed more accolades and fewer jeers toward those who achieve true greatness, then over time the bar would be raised to levels we can't even dream are possible.  And as the bar goes up, we benefit as a society, or even just as a screaming fan in a cavernous concert hall.

Let's hang out

 I'm not big on being alone. Like anyone, I enjoy occasionally having a day to myself to do as I wish....but I don't wish to hang out with me myself and I all day long.  And really, I'd have to say my limit is about an hour of pure solitude, then I'm out the door.  But even if I'm already out the door, I'd rather be with you than just me.  A walk along a wooded path sounds delightful for us,  not so much for me and the rag-tag bunch in my head.

 Now I'll sit contentedly as hell alone at a table in a coffee shop till they won't have me.  It's not that I necessarily need someone knocking knees with me at the table but it's people around me that make the moment right. I don't listen in on conversations, but I'm somehow comforted by the cloud of murmuring all about.  Revisiting the wooded path imagery, it's like pointing out that I'd prefer the sound of the cool water in a stream rushing over stones to the utter silence that some nature walkers seem to prefer.

 Don't worry, I'm not getting ready to get all self analytical here.  And while her rates are very reasonable, Lucy is not behind her booth, so I'll leave it at what it's not.  It's not plain, tangible fear, as in fear of the dark or of a toothy beast lurking behind a tree.  As far as deeper seeded, more subtle fears ... again, Lucy's in school or something.

 It's also not self loathing, conscious or otherwise.  Surprising as it may be to some, I'm really pretty darned ok with me.  Sure, I have faults, goofy quirks and an ever-expanding forehead, but I'm not looking for anyone else's shoes to schlep around in.  Maybe it's just that I like me better when mixed with you.  I'm the chip and you're the dip. No offense.  Also, see what I did there? I'm a CMU grad.  Anyway....  Yes, I think that's it. There are things I like about me that only you bring out or activate.  A cool reaction in the petri dish of the coffee shop, public transit, or just slightly populated path - complete with just enough conversation that we can't hear that werewolf stir just ahead.

Thank you big afro guy, whoever you are...

 If you keep coming back to my blog, from time to time you're gonna get running stuff.  I'll try, over time, not to over do it.  Today's one of those days however, as I give credit to the many and varied people who help marathoners cross the finish line.

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  Hillary Clinton once said "It takes a village to finish a marathon" or something like that.  She was right.  Running a bit over 26 miles isn't easy.  To run it as fast as you possibly can requires all kinds of help.  I know - I've run a few of them and couldn't have done it without three distinct types of assistance.

The Cheering Section:
   Unless you've been on the runners side of the cheering spectator / runner interaction, you just can't imagine the turbo boost of energy those yells and screams of encouragement provide.  And by encouragement, I include such exclamations as "Pick it up buttercup!" I'll never forget the time my whole family surprised me eighteen miles into the Grand Rapids marathon by appearing in neon yellow "Go Hempy!" shirts and colorful wigs.  If that's not love... and at that moment, yes, this buttercup picked it up.

The Aid Volunteer:
  Remember, a marathon is a race.  When I'm in marathon shape, I can run 26 miles without help.  But going all out, running for time - different story.  The body of even world class marathoners has hydration and calorie requirements that must be respected to avoid disaster.  Every mile or two during a well run marathon the runners pass through aid stations where volunteers hold out cups of water or Gatorade and still others offer anything from a gel pack to half a banana to keep the engine firing.  Incidentally, random spectators have offered me everything from beer to popsicles along the way.  Twenty miles into a marathon, it's amazing what you'll eat from the hand of a total stranger.

The Distraction:
 Marathons hurt.  I don't care how high your level of conditioning may be, running as fast as you can for hours on end involves sometimes high levels of discomfort.  If packing it in at mile 22 isn't part of your race day strategy, then nothing helps to cope with severe muscle distress better than a good distraction.  Something or someone to claim your mind and attention for even a couple minutes can truly save the day.  I could fill an entire blog post just recounting some of the awesome distractions that have helped me endure late-race suffering.  I'd love to tell you all about kissing a Wellesely girl or running with Wonder Woman, but I can't think of heaven sent distractions without recalling big afro guy.  With about a mile to go at Boston '09, I was a hurtin' unit.  Running seemingly slower by the stride, I realized that this runner with a huge, I mean like four feet across, afro wig was about thirty feet ahead of me.  I was actually able to focus on picking up my pace to that glorious left onto Boylston with one thought in mind.  Big afro guy is NOT going to be in my finishing photo!  Vain? Perhaps.  But I finished stronger than I had any right to.

 So if you've ever cheered on a marathoner, gotten splashed with Gatorade while trying to hand the cup to a runner, or held a funny sign over your head like "Your feet must hurt from kicking so much ass", thank you.  Thank you for being part of the effort. Indeed for making the glory of finishing the race possible. And thank you big afro guy, for not trying to match my finishing kick.

Let's tesser to Camazotz

 I was going to title this post The Best Book I Ever Read.  As you may have already guessed by the title to this post, that book is A Wrinkle In Time, by Madeleine L'Engle.  Granted, L'Engle won the Newbery Medal, among other awards for this her best known and beloved novel, but to say it's the best book I've ever read not only isn't really accurate, it's not where I'm going here either.  It would be more accurate for me to say that it's the book I'm most glad that I read.

 I read for at least a little while every day.  And sometimes, on a day off or an evening if no one else is home, I'll read a hundred pages or more.  I read fiction.  Science fiction, fantasy, some horror - but don't hold your breath until you see me curling up with a presidential biography, the history of any war, or anything that includes a black and white picture of men driving railroad spikes home with big hammers.  I feel like A Wrinkle In Time set me on the path to becoming a future fan of Star Trek, the X-Files, and avid reader of authors such as Orson Scott Card, Gene Wolfe, Brian Lumley, Patrick Rothfuss, Justin Cronin, to name just a few who have transported me elsewhere with their gift.

 As I recall, it was the the first full-fledged chapter book that I read just for the fun of it.  And despite that it was nearly forty years ago, it was an experience that remains vivid in my memory.  I mean, this is a book that has it all for a young reader.  Space/Time travel via tesseract ( which is, in effect, a wrinkle in time ), shape-shifting characters, winged centaurs, good vs evil, and ultimately, ... triumphantly, Meg's incredible capacity for and expression of love winning out over the evil mind control of IT, and thus freeing her brother from IT's grip.  The interstellar travel includes visits to various planets including Camazotz, a world of forced conformity and home to IT, another planet with only two dimentions and one other in Orion's belt that's home to an ally known as the Happy Medium. ( a play on words I totally did not get as an eleven year old )

 So anyway, if this has seemed like a commercial for A Wrinkle In Time, I apologize.  Heaven knows it needs no further promotion, having sold north of ten million copies to date.  I guess I just wanted to take a few minutes to carve out a little niche in my blog to give credit where it's due.  Many of the interests and viewpoints I hold today can be traced back to the early influence of this book.  That makes it, if not the best, probably the most important book I've ever or will ever read.

Bitter words indicate a weak cause.

 The title I chose to use is a portion of a Victor Hugo quote.  Another quote I've chosen to set the stage for today's post is from Ernest Hemingway, who said "All our words from loose using have lost their edge."

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 My friend Deb posted a thought provoking question this morning on Facebook.  "When did the word "Liberal" become a slur?  It got me to thinking about this and other perfectly good words with perfectly good meanings that we have attached negative connotations to and made to mean something, well ... mean.

 Connotation is the meaning we attach to a word beyond its standard definition.  The dictionary definition of liberal, for example, includes but is not limited to : favorable to progress, advocating freedom of the individual and their rights, liberties, beliefs and expression.  Tolerant, and free from prejudice or bigotry.  I'm not sure I can think of anyone who wouldn't want to be described that way.  And just to clarify, it does not mean atheistic, tax and spend anti-military hippie socialist.

 Maybe we simply don't have enough words...

 Turning perfectly good words into slurs, pejorative terms, attacks... Some current favorites for use in attempting to demean a person or group include "liberal", "corporate", "religious".  We've done such a good job of ruining the original meaning of liberal, in fact, that liberal folks themselves have by and large abandoned it in favor of the word "progressive" at least as it pertains to their world view.   Another perfectly good word, by the way.  Maybe we can leave that one alone.

 It seems a shame to see a positive word go dark. It's kinda like a good kid gone bad...except in this case it's not the kids fault.  They've been framed.

 Perhaps we should put our heads together and make some new words instead of twisting the meanings of words that were doing just fine conveying their original  definitions.  It's not such a radical idea. We've come up with plenty of new words just in our lifetime.  For example, what sort of look would you have gotten from someone in the mid 80's if you'd asked them if they had ever googled themselves?  Go back just fifteen years and ask the first person you see if they'd like to see your selfie.  Maybe they would also be interested in your blog post about fracking.

 New words are constantly emerging, and I'm not even talking about the whole additional collection of gems found in the Urban Dictionary... So let's keep the creativity flowing and generate some more original nouns and adjectives instead of treating existing ones like linguistic bonsai trees.

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 If you've read much of my blog to date, as the wise and discerning reader that you are, you've undoubtedly picked up on the fact that I'm not big on labels, generalizations & stereotypes.  I do understand that labels serve a purpose and are sometimes appropriate and useful. But I will always bristle at their use to demean or otherwise attack an individual or group.  Have I myself ever been guilty of this?  Regrettably, yes.  But I'll keep striving to upgrade my operating system.  Mike 50.1 out.

Still Morning Chill

 I'm not a poet, except perhaps by a technicality of having written what I'm calling a poem just now.  This idea and imagery was inspired by comments made over coffee this morning with my folks about the crisp and almost eerily still morning we all walked out into.  So I thought I'd try to convey the scene in a couple stanzas of verse.

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Still, so still

And quiet, but not just quiet

No sound at all

Bringing me to a halt

As my crunching footsteps

Seem blasphemous

In such a sanctuary

White, pure white

And unbroken, smooth undulation

Of pristine landscape

Bringing a teary squint

To slow-adjusting eyes

Freezing in place

Lest it crash to the earth

God and the X-Files

 I will continue to adhere to a policy of not getting overly political or religious in my blog posts.  But those are pretty big topic areas that we will inevitably brush up against from time to time.  That being said, I'll tell you right up front that the word God appears eleven times in this edition.  The number is big because I choose not to substitute the word God with gender pronouns.  Anyway, if you still care to, let's continue...

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 I've been told that as a collective, the various things I believe in are incongruous.  "How can you seriously believe in X when you claim to believe Y ?   Creation and evolution serve as a fine example of one such unthinkable dichotomy of belief.

 My understanding of God is that God can do anything anywhere and on a scale that would simply blow our minds.  Kindly, we're spared such a messy epiphany.  I guess I kinda like the fact that I don't put limitations on the possible scope and nature of what God created and is still creating in the vast universe(s).  Furthermore, whether God approaches creation like a methodical architect or a preschool finger painter, I'm quite sure of one thing...my level of comprehension is not a consideration.  God does not need me to check off on any stage of the process.  I am a molecule of fingerpaint.  Green, if it's not too much to ask...

 And could we please stop with "It's not in the Bible"?  Look, I believe that the Bible contains what we need to know to understand much of Jewish and or Christian history and belief, the life and teachings of Jesus, and the Christian understanding of salvation.  But it's probably just as well that God didn't inspire Paul to write about the thriving civilization of Zogworts on a planet 1,056 light years away who have been evolving for so long now that they can travel the cosmos via wormhole surfboards.  It just didn't need to be there somewhere between Acts and Revelation.

 I don't hope there is life elsewhere in the universe, I firmly believe it.  Same goes for ghosts, ESP, and sasquatch.  I get to do that, with or without empirical proof - just as I can believe in God every bit as much with just as little proof.

 You know that delicious moment when a small child is completely awed and excited at the same time?  Like when they first walk through the gates of Disney World, or while watching a skilled magician?  Isn't it fun being the adult taking it in? It's hard not to chuckle through a broad smile while witnessing the wonder in their eyes.  That's what I think God does when we get to know in heaven what we couldn't begin to know here.  A chuckle through a broad smile, and a big hug . . . despite the fingerpaint.

Yesterday's news

 I only subscribe to one magazine, and even that is a gift subscription to Runner's World from my thoughtful children.  I don't generally come home from the grocery store or the gas station with a magazine under my arm either.  But I sure get a kick out of cracking open ( sometimes literally ) an old issue of a magazine when I find them.

 I don't mean a two year old Vanity Fair, I'm talking a 30 year old Newsweek or TIME issue.  Maybe an even older LIFE magazine.  It almost seems there is more to take in when a magazine is decades old, because there is the backdrop of all the time that's come along since to hold it against.  And the question is, which is more intriguing, the ads or the news and society stories of the day?  Which hot new products from three or four decades ago are long forgotten and which lucky few have survived to become standbys today?  And what news was rocking the world then that we may or may not even have memory of now?  Or even better yet, what seemingly minor entertainer, politician, or news item of  forty years ago grew to become a very big deal?  Little did they know!

 And when all those areas are duly compared to our current enlightened age, there's always the laughable hair and clothing styles to review, or should I say ridicule?  We wore that?  Oh yeah, we wore it out!

 The last time I had the opportunity to flip through a crinkly, fading full-color time capsule, I think it was an old TV Guide I'd kept from the last M*A*S*H  episode.  I dusted off the cover on my jeans, and as I looked through it, was struck by the idea that looking back at an old publication is a lot like looking back over a life.  The big deals that turned out in retrospect to be pretty trivial.  The new aquaintence in 1979 that today is a close friend.  Or the best friend in that same year that I can't even find today on Facebook.

 How about that silk shirt with the big collar and the bold graphics that in 1975, when paired carefully with some platform shoes, made me cool as Cornelius.  (sorry youngsters, a Soul Train reference...Google it )
But there's one issue from September 1981 that I really should just rip the cover off and frame it for as often as I reflect on it.  That seemingly insignificant moment on the cold, muddy marching band practice field when the pics and tubas passed each other in the drill.  I bent down to yank on the tongue of my Chucks and looking up, there she was looking down.  Just a seemingly minor moment on a page buried in that months edition.

 Thirty years later we made the cover story, celebrating twenty five years of marriage, joined in the picture by our three great kids who renew dad's Runners World every year.