Fiction Friday: Chapter Thirteen

It didn't take long for Sarah to get used to driving the Flex. Soon the five girls were on the expressway trying their best to go the direction their parents were headed. Sienna and Shelby were asleep in the "way back" as they called it. It had been a long draining night.

"Hope he is not going to airport," Sierra said, a thought triggered the the Metro Airport sign rushing by them as the travelled south on I-275.

"He wouldn't be taking them to the airport. The security would be a huge problem," Sarah said. She was trying to just focus on driving because if she thought about what was happening she would be crippled with fear. She wasn't so worried about herself, but she really didn't want her cousins to get hurt.

"I don't think he's on this road anymore," Savannah said. The blue lines in her vision suddenly were moving further and further to the right. In a couple minutes, signs for 94 appeared in green and white over the expressway.

They didn't know how they had gotten so close to the man and their parents, but according to the things Savannah was seeing, they were only about a half hour behind him. They didn't know that the man had finally talked to Mr. Li and they were taking their bargaining ships to a safe location. They didn't know that the man had, had his plan changed, but it had.

In a few moments, the Flex was moving away from the airport, going west on 94, toward Chicago. They were about an hour and a half from the safe house, where the Mr. LK was going to meet the man, outside of Kalamazoo.

"We need to rest," Sarah said, her sleepiness was causing her to lose focus.

As the got close to Jackson, they started to see exits that had clusters of hotels and motels they could stay at. She pulled into the first one, a Quality Inn, which looked nice enough. After explaining that she didn't have a credit card and a little arguing back a forth, she convinced the front desk to let them stay with some substantial money paid up front. This was a clear violation of their policy, but the tired girls and a couple thousand dollars was enough to make the manager find a way to make it happen.

They tumbled into the room and slept heavily, at least until the savannah's phone rang, waking them at ten o'clock in the morning. It was the man.

Family Secrets

A couple weeks ago, I was contacted by someone who wanted to know details of someone on my family tree. I am one of a few people in my family to do genealogy for the family. It is a hobby that I enjoy and it has given me a good vehicle to ask about family stories and connections. It has been a bond I share with my Aunt Brenda, who has put far more work than I have on it, and most of what I have came from her work.

An area where the work has been mostly mine, is with Shelly's family. There are people in her family who have done some work on the family tree, but I haven't had the access to their work in anywhere near the same fashion I have with my Aunt. So, people using ancestry.com to find information on the Smith family will often go to my Aunt or the handful of others doing this work, but people looking for information on the Kiesters of Wollesens will contact me. This was just such a case.

I am always excited when I get a contact asking for nformation on someone I have done some research on, it pretty much always means, even if in a distant way, we are related. This was no different, this person identified themselves as the wife of the son of Violante Olsen. You wouldn't know this, but this is a problem.

I didn't know Vi, as they called her, but this Shelly's grandmother. I do, though, know all of Vi's children and she does have a son. The problem is Ted's wife, Ruth, does not do genealogy, I am fairly certain. If she does, she has been awfully stingy with this bit of knowledge un the face of my questions. So, I'm certain the person I had just got a message from was not her. Violante, though, is not exactly a common name.

For those of you not putting this together, let me layout the scenarios of how this could be, based on the frantic texts and phone calls that passed between my wife and I. Perhaps Uncle Ted has had a far more wild life Pathan we imagined, and I am talking to his second wife. Or, maybe it was his Mother who had kept a family secret. A son no one knew existed. Or maybe this was Ruth or some other explanation. As you can imagine, the calls were going out. Houston, we have a problem.

I wrote the inquirer. Shelly called her Aunt and her Mom. We were stumped.

A couple hours later, we got our answer. As it turns out, in Shelly's family, the name Violante was not as rare as we suspected. Vi's mother, Bertha, had a brother George. Quick note, they seem to be much better at finding names for the men in this part of her family. Anyway, George married a Violante. This Violante had given her name not only to Shelly's Grandmother, but also a daughter of her own. It was the wife of this Violante's son I was writing back a forth with. That plus a little name confusion and we almost start a family scandal.

Once it was all worked out, we had a little chuckle and talked about what we knew of the family back then. I now have information on a whole part of the family I didn't know anything about before.

Time Warp

Our apartment was not that big. It was a two bedroom the was decorated in a color palette of browns and beiges. The kitchen was tiny, with almost no counter space and just enough room between appliances and cupboards to open them, but no place to stand if they were open. The walking space was as wide as a dishwasher door and maybe three times as long. This opened into the combination ion living and dining room. The dining section was identified by the low lamp, which told you where to position the table. The living room was actually decent sized and had a sliding door to a balcony, which we rarely used. If you walked the dingy carpet down the hall there was a bathroom on the right. This was the one room I felt we really took control of, I should say Shelly really took control of, it was complete done in Mickey Mouse. Past that, on the left hand side of the hallway was our room, it was Shelly's before we got married. At the end of the hall was the computer and storage room, which was mine before we got married.

Recently, though, we had to make some changes, this was the place we would be bringing out children home to, and so, things needed to be shifted around. The storage room had been cleaned to the point a crib could be set up, which is was. It was a dark brown, wooden drop side crib, that had previously been the sleeping place of our nieces. Also, the computer had been moved to the closet across the dining room table from the kitchen. This created a workspace which we could close behind the closet when company was over, but could make use of without ne of us being secluded away.

As I think about, I realize we moved this computer here long before we did the other changes to the storage room, because it was here Shelly as sitting, in the kitchen chair we turned around to make use of the space, playing her game when I asked her to marry me. Just for the record, she said, "Of course I will you big stupid head!". This space was also a space of time travel.

The game, like many in that stage of my life, came from the discount shelf at Target. In those days, the electronics aisle had a computer game section, and one of this shelves was full of five dollar games. This was way before Humble Indie Bundle, which is where I get my cheap game fix these days. Anyway, this time, the game was Cyber Empires. It was a strategy game, where you were taking over a map using a robot army. Imagine Risk combined with Robotech.

I start the game confused about rules. I'm physically setting in the closet of my dining room, the space I asked my wife to merry me, but those facts are completely gone. I am the commander of a technically advanced nation. I make a series of bad moves at the beginning of the game, because I don't really understand some of the weapons and rules on overheating, I also disn't know how to actually fight the wars, rather than letting the computer fight them for you. Little by little this changes and my empire starts to regain ground.

I look at the map and take a long pause considering my strategy. Shelly is in bed, drained because of the twins. I warm coffee in the microwave. It is eleven, so I think ok, I'll play for an hour or so more. I return to the command module and take the next region. This lefts me start a new factory, which I do, then I take the next kingdom, then the next. Suddenly, I have the resources to build larger mechs, but I have to decide if that is more worthwhile than continuing with the little flame guys, which have made up the bulk of my army.

I start production on the new mechs and a suddenly fall out of virtual space. The air in the room seems cold. My coffee cup has been empty for I don't know how long. I realize my eyes are burning. I check the time, it is almost three o'clock.

My mind has a flood of thoughts. This is a great game. Tomorrow is going to be rough. I need to go to bed, right now.

I save the game and shut down the computer. I dream of victories and lost time.

Dress for success

Walking onto The campus of Weetern Michigan University for the first time was not what I had hoped it would be. I carried something with me I hated. I was shy and didn't want to talk in front of people I didn't know. I didn't know anyone. I tried to be social with those around, but I wasn't good at starting conversations and there was nothing about me that made them want to start conversations with me.

I feel so different about these things now, but I remember giving a speech in High School on Stonehenge and I rushed, I didn't make eye contact and otherwise work to get out from in front f the class as quickly as possible. There were people n there I called my friends. This was a topic I liked. I just didn't like being infront of them talking. It felt like I could ruin my life with one wrong word. Additionally, I knew that this was something I could be good at, if I could just get over the fear.

I did not like being this way. In fact, I denied that talking in front of people bothered me, because I knew it shouldn't. I thought I would grow out of it, but in my first few days of college, I realized a more proactive move wuld need to be taken.

What that would be was jumping in with both feet. I needed to force myself to be infront of my classmates, even be a little foolish. I needed to prove to myself that this really was nothing to worry about. How?

Dress in such a way you will get attention, then don't run from it. Laugh at yourself and talk intelligently. Get attention with the look, but keep them with the talk. The idea was frightening and invigorating.

The morning after I made this decision, I selected what I would wear. The jeans with huge hole, held together with safety pins. Tee shirt covered by not one, but two flannel shirts; the top flannel being so worn you could see the second through its holes. A bright striped, Rastafarian style hat, the kind with a string tying one end of a long tube of cloth. The colors where red and gold, green and blue. It looked crazy. I added to this purple sunglasses, there the lens were squares turn up like diamonds in round silver rims. I looked at myself in the mirror and laughed, both out of nerves how I looked.

I stepped foot on campus with a different confidence. I was looking for people who where looking at me. I waved and said hello. In class, I talked to people and tried to answer every question I could. There was something changing in me. There was no downside to this, I wasn't rebuked, I could make a mistake and no one cared, it was like opening a a box I could never reclose. Over the weeks, I grew to like the attention, speaking to strangers and speaking in front of people. I learned the the fear was for nothing. There really was nothing to fear. To this day, I love speaking in front of groups. I still get nervous, but I like the charge of it.

As a foot note, I kept the hat and jeans far longer than I needed them, because I kinda liked them.

First Night at Lumiere's

It was the second night of my first cruise. I'd like to tell you how awesome everything was, how perfect it was all going, but that would leave out what made this night so memorable. It would also leave out how I discovered one of my wife's super powers. I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yesterday, we had boarded the magic, a truly amazing ship. We sat in Port Canaveral on the top deck at a buffet restaurant called Topsiders. The food there was just a hint at was to come. While Shally and I enjoyed the company of our friends, Larry and Dixie, and tried a small selection from the dessert part of the buffet, the large ship pulled out of the protection of the port. The blaring horn, playing the first seven notes of "When you wish upon a star," seemed to be the last thing we heard before the waves.

The first evening was a blur. We saw our first show, got checked into our rooms and at at our first dinner restaurant, Parrot Cay. I remeber wondering if feeling the waves would be a normal part of cruising, because it was messing with my stomach, then when the four of us sat at our evening table, you could smell the engine, which somewhat ruined the eating portion of the meal. We met the four others we would be dining with that week, who were also cast members and their family. For the uninitiated, cast member is Dinsneyese for employee. They were great.

I should also add a note, that I'm not sure I actually smelled the engine, there was no sign of technical difficulty for the duration of the trip. The difficult on board was completely in the endurance of the people.

After going to bed a little early, we were looking forward to our first full day on the ship, it was a day at sea. I actually am a fan of the days at sea, they tend to be lazy days. Additionally, we would be going to Lumiere's, the fancy French restaurant on the ship. We explored and hung out. We found the location if all the clubs and lifts and lounges. We sat and talked, but the weather was steadily getting more and more violent. The whole day we were bouncing from wall to wall, but at some point it got rough enough you had to stop to regain your balance.

As we dressed in our stateroom for dinner, I was turning green. I was not going to miss this, I would feel better. It was a battle of stomach verses will. Shelly didn't need to battle at all. She told of her grandfather, who as she told it I imagined as a yellow raincoated captain Nemo, who would take her out on the great lakes in waves that would frighten a lesser man. She told of fishing trips and nautical rescues. By both nurture and nature, her sea legs were stong and sure. I listened as good as I could while I steadied myself on the door of the bathroom with my shoulder, while I tied my tie.

The four of us talked on our way. Larry made room for his meal in a trash can as we went, we kept our distance, but Dixie encouraged Shelly to be comforting, as she was not good at that. She would be adding to the mess. He was not alone, we saw not only dozens of sick passengers, but even a sick crewman. A the point a cruise ship staff person is seasick, you know you are in for something special. In spite of this we, like heroes in a walking montage, made our way to dinner.

The place was beautiful and we got to see all of it because, only about twenty five percent of the patrons even showed up. Our table was the most highly populated, with six. The women from the other set of four did not make it. I would like to say I took everything in and fully appreciated it, but most of the time I was thinking, Look casual and don't think about how sick you feel. This lasted until shortly after we ordered. I didn't want to be the first to go, but I really didn't was to rediscover what I had eated at Topsider's here. Dixie, losing her own struggle, said she was going to be going back to the room. I said I would walk with here because I wasn't feeling well either.

I know I lost it before I made it back to the room, but I'm actually not sure where, I think it might have been intone of the fancy porthole seats near the faux cityscape. I know Shelly brought my meal to me, but while I was thankful, I didn't dare eat it. I also know that my wife had precisely zero effects of seasickness. She completely enjoyed her meal. Her and the two guys from the other group made it to the end and she had a lovely time. Impressive.

I rocked to sleep impressed with my wife and hoping the weather would get better, or at least I would get used to it.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Twelve

It only took about a half hour, but it seemed like forever before Sarah made it out to the girls. They had waited quietly for her to emerge from her house. They tried to figure out what needed to be done.

The man had their parents, and as going to call tomorrow with demands. Also, he seemed to be driving far out of town. All he wanted was the feather, but if they gave him the feather they not only would loose their powers, but he and his evil friends would have them. That seemed like a really bad option. No one in the police department would believe them, unless they proved they had powers, which would cause them to be taken by the government. Savannah had pointed that out. Lastly, police and firement were swarming around their house, making going home a problem.

When Sarah arrived, they explained what had happened since she had gone home. She listened quietly.

"We can't wait for him to call," Sierra said.

"We can't go home," Savannah said.

Shelby and Sienna both talked about how they missed Mom and Dad.

Sarah asked if they could follow the man, Savannah said she could keep them on the right path. She them pointed out that they wouldn't all fit in her little purple truck.

"We should grab a few things from your house and We'll take your Mom's Flex." Sarah said and they made a plan.

In the dark, Shelby walked back into the neighbirhood and took the long way around to the empty house where the man had been hiding. Nobody was inside, now she just needed to give the signal and get into position. She used the little flashlight Sarah had given her to point to to where Sarah was hiding across the street. She did it twice just to be sure, then ran to the meeting spot.

Sierra walked down the street confident in her invisibility. She hopped the fence and went into the house through the window they had crawled out of just a few hours before hand. She grabbed the stack of money, left right where Sienna had left it and started looking for the Flex key. She found it and went back out the window. Sticking to the side of the house she moved back up to where the flex was parked. She didn't dare get near the people working or open the door while the stood around so close.

Savannah, Sienna and the feather walked through the woods, taking the long way to the meeting spot. Savannah asked lots of questions, trying to keep Sienna distracted. She held her hand as they walked. Absentminded, she thrust her hand not her pocket, as they walked, inside was a fresh twenty dollar bill that hadn't been there before. When they arrived at the meeting spot, the sign by the front of their neighborhood, they both had small collections of bills. They got there just a little after Shelby.

Sarah saw the signal from Shelby, then waited. When she saw the tree at the corner of the house rustle, she knew it was time. Lighting came from the sky, blowing shingles off the roof of the empty house. The police and firemen in the yard were stunned at first, but when they saw the fire spreading through the house, moved down to start work. Sara, see it had worked, ran to the meeting spot. When they were completely distracted, Sierra slipped into the Flex, awkwardly started it up. No one seemed to notice the car that just started, or the fact that it ran over the curb trying to get into the road. Sierra had never driven before and she swarved all over the road.

When she got to the meeting spot, Sarah made her slide over and everyone else piled into the back.

"He's going south," Savannah said, and they were on their way.

What's moving in the hay?

I can't say for sure that it was the joy caused by remembering Aunt Cy's tribal dance, but afterwards, throughout my childhood, I kept rubber snakes around. I kept all sorts. I had the small brightly colored where the rubber was so hard they had no realistic motion. I remeber a neon orange one that existed for a long time. My favorites, though, were the long soft snakes that coiled naturally. They usually have fairly realistic scales and they were durable enough to swing around your head without breaking. My love of these toys lasted throughout all my school days.

As was the usual occurance, our youth group was going to Real Life Farms. This would be my third or forth trip. We would sit around a fire and play in the barn and, if we were lucky, like the year before, we would see the Northern Lights. Perhap Johnney would drop an aerosol can in the fire, like had also happened in the past. The explosion launched wood forty feet in the air, sparks going everywhere. No one got hurt and as had happened every year, we had a good time.

For me, this brought a prancing challenge. In the past I had set kids out with snipe hunting around the horse barn. I had tied a youth leader that had fallen asleep to a picnic table. I had also done the more basic things with Sharpies and Shaving Cream. None of these things were as great as I had hoped. They were fun, but never worked out quite as well as you imagined. While I packed and thought about these things, I stumbled into one of my snakes. I packed it just in case.

The evening and night were going really well. The group got along so well it had that feeling of wonder why life can't always be that way. We ate and played and talked. It got to that part of the night when I needed to prank or it would be too late and I didn't have a set plan.

I fiddled with some string I had brought, but I could figure out how to make a trip wire work where no one would get hurt. I looked for someone who was vulnerable to some trick that plays on vulnerability, but it would hurt the moment. I didn't want to do that.

Then I came to the snake.

I knew just leaving it lay would either be missed or short lived, so I looped the string around the neck of the snake and looked at it. The string was too think to fool anyone. I needed it to move, if it was going to be convincing.

I placed the snake under the hay of the second floor, while no one was around. I then buried the string so it would end a good four feet from the where the snake was. Now it was just waiting for the right time.

It wasn't long before Johnney and Jeff joined me. They were closer friends to each other than they were me, but I stopped them t talk. Trying to get to a convicting spot to spot something moving in the hay. That didn't happen before Melissa, Liz and Angie came down the stairs to where we were all at. At this time, Liz and Angie were my friends, but I had a crush on Melissa.

As you would exect any reasonable teenage boy to do, I struck up a conversation with Melissa. I think I started something like this, "Did you see that?" Dramatic pause. "I think I see something moving in the hay.". Believe it or not, she didn't jump at the idea of discovering what beast was in the hay. So, because I wanted to impress her, I push her to look, probably mocking her lack of bravery.

So, here we are, me with my hand at one end of the hay with my hand on the string. Melissa, the girl I'm interested in, working unhappily messing around at the other end of the hay. She was not really digging and only casually looking. I think she wanted here friends to bail her out, but they were watching. I pulled the string a little, "Did you see that?". No, of course she didn't see that. We played this game until I could no longer take it.

She was getting bored, which would mean the moment was going to be lost, so it was all or nothing. At the sometime she gave one of her half hearted digs into the hay, I pulled the string. Hard. I should stop here to let you know, my plan was to startle her a little. i had no idea what was about to happen or how the ohysics would play on the large rubber snake buried in the hay.

She saw the movement in the hay this time. It was shocking in it's violence, not unlike an attacking animal. Her head snapped around just in time to see the snake leaving the hay. Somehow, when I pulled the string, the snake didn't just slide towards me under the hay, but launched into the air, out of its hiding spot. I should note that, at that speed, it looked fairly realistic. She raised her arm I fear, catching the middle of the beast and also causing it to complete wrap around her arm.

It may have been the loudest scream I have ever heard.

The string was pulled free from my hand as she took off in a dead run. I want to tell her to stop, but I'm laughing so hard I can't speak. For that matter, The tears make it hard to see.

It takes her only a minute to realize it is fake, but that was a long minute. Terror, laughter and a room filling up trying to find out who was getting killed.

Much like Aunt Cy, she was not impressed.

Listening for Clause

The room was filled with multicolored lights shining from the corner of the room, where the large Christmas tree stood. This was the moment I had waited for all day. Justin and I were on the floor, crawling around, not because we were young, but because we were trying to decide which present we would one tonight.

The square and rectangle packages with my name on them came in all sizes and colors. There were the mostly red ones with a pattern of Santa on them. He looked like a Rockwell Santa, but without the Coke as I so often see him this season. There were a few smaller green one with carton reindeer on them. Some had a simple bow. Others had ribbon that sompletely encircled them. I didn't care what they looked like, I was trying to tell by the shape and feel what was inside. An Atari game or a book? Is that clothes? I don't want to open clothes. I was narrowing my options down.

Justin had selected his, it was very clearly a shirt box. On the inside I was screaming, "Nooooooooo," but I had my own decision to make. Mom and Dad patiently waited. I turned back to the two I had left. I had a small one, which was either a book or a video game, and a much larger, mystery gift. This mystery gift was roughly the size of a shirt box, but larger and the weight was wrong for a shirt. It had a couple weird lumps in it, making me thing it was a disguised package. It was risky, but I settled on it.

Justin opened first, and as I expected, he got a dress shirt. I'd like to say I was kind in his mysery, but that's probably not true. The only thing that probably kept me from rubbing in the fact I knew he heap was going to get a shirt, was I had my own gift to open. I was up and I wasn't going to waste any time. Popped the tape on the bottom and quicky lift the lid.

Here it was, my Christmas Eve gift. The lumps, I learned, we rolled dress socks. These decieving items were on top of a dress shirt, not that unlike the one my brother just opened. This was n top of a pair of dress pants. I put the box aside in disgust. We had both been duped. Mom and dad were both smiling like Sylvester trying to convince Granny he doesn't know where Tweety is. They won this round.

The rest of the evening was all about going to bed, because bed meant Christmas and the good gifts would be coming soon. With pajamas on and teeth brushed, we went to bed. My new room was right off the living room, so I couldn't sleep. I lay in the dark listening.

My Dad was watching some Old movie, which made it hard to hear anything else. I could hear my Mom fiddling around in the kitchen, probably cleaning up from dinner or preparing something for tomorrow. It was both hard to tell and hard to ignore. I don't know what else she was doing, but there were loud noises in the hallway. I knew Santa's secret, but in my mind I was thinking, "Go to bed so the gifts will arrive.".

My Mom kept working, the sound of the movie filled my room and sleep swallowed me straining to hear what tomorrow would bring.

Why did it have to be snakes?

My brother and I loved going to Aunt Cy's house in Waterford. It was a big house on a big piece of land. Our Aunt would spoil us, letting us do things I suspect should wouldn't let Christina do when she was there without us. In the summer there was a lake we could swim in, in walking distance. In the winter, the woods behind the house had many slopes we could navigate our sleds down.

It had been a great visit. We had played a ton of VCR clue, which I loved. We had played outside with the hose, until we sprayed through a screen. We had gone swimming in the lake down the road. While at the lake, we started looking for fossils and strange creatures. In the murky water, while you were a little worried bout the fish, they were not easy to find. This made it more exciting when you found one.

We needed to head back to the house for lunch, but at lunch we made a plan. The woods behind the house would be full of things to find. There would be all kind of bugs and critter. The woods were big enough we had never explored all of them, so who knew what was waiting for us.

They were not disappointing. We found colored stones and rocks with little prints in them. We imagined they were ancient marks from plants. We found a dead tree, which yeilded a couple walking sticks, but also beetles and grubs. Every tree, rock and puddle held new potential.

Then Christina spotted the snake. It was small, probably a Gardner snake, but I was stuck. This was the biggest find yet, but I was too scared to act. So, I acted like I was going after it, but far enough away I was never going to catch it. Christina did not go after it at all, like her mom she had a clear fear of snakes. My brother, though, didn't have the same fear we did. I wasn't going to tell him, but he did something I didn't think I could make myself do. He caught the snake. He didn't run like our cousin. He didn't play at going after it like I did. With quick hands, he grabbed the beast just behind the head.

So, we did what every cat and little boy does when the catch wildlife, we brought it back to the house. Christina and I ran a head, getting a white bucket and telling Aunt Cy. Our Aunt really wanted us to let it go, but she gave in to our desire to keep it, if just for a little while. It really was amazing what she would let us do.

Before long, the snake was in the bucket with a little grass and a few sticks. Over the top of the bucket we had constructed a brown paper lid held on with oversized rubber bands. At first, it was outside on the patio in back, but, I think because of the heat, we brought it into the basement. This wasn't a dark basement, you like be imagining, it was a finished basement with a door opening up into the backyard. It held the TV we played Clue on, the fold out couch we slept on, the game shelf and downstairs kitchen. It was really more of a lower level than basement. It was don there the snake made its home for the next few hours. This should be clear, but Aunt Cy did not like this arrangement.

After dinner, we went down to look for our catch and, as you have probably guessed, it was missing. We didn't completely open the bucket, but we peeked through the slit in the paper lid and it was clear he was gone. When we told Aunt Cy we got the look that said, if I didn't love you, I would kill you right now. She got a broom from the closet and all of us went back down stairs.

We looked under furtinure, behind the washing machine and under the sink. The snake was nowhere to be found. Aunt Cy became convinced it was in the bucket. So, she decided to remove the lid with one hand, while she held the broom with the other. I guess the thought was you could sweep the snake off the edge of the bucket if it looked like it was going to crawl out. As it turned out, she was kind of right. The snake had not gotten that far, it had managed to get over the rim of the bucket and had coiled itself in the edge of the paper lid. This fact was revealed when it fell to the floor, inches for Aunt Cy's feet, as she was pulling the lid off.

It was at this point she commenced inventing her own tribal dance. The snake was fast, but not as fast as Aunt Cy. Instantly he feet were spaced like a Somoan warrior, never were both on the ground as she hopped from foot to foot. Each step was followed with a tribal, "Ahhh, Owwww, Lookout.". The broom handle went from bumping the ceiling to being held low, always just a little behind the snake. I watched the events unfold, while I stood on the couch. I think Christina went back upstairs.

I'm not exactly sure how we got the snake back outside that day, but we did. I suspect my brother caught it, since he seemed to be the only one I mine to the desire to flee from it. What I do remember was this. Once it was back outside, the tribal dancing and other commotion ended. Also, there was a new rule for the house. No more snakes.

Uncle Pat

The floors of the entranceway are marble.  It is overly ornate.  There are two pictures on the wall, with dates underneath them and arrows directing you to the right and to the left.  To left is some lady I don't know, but to the right is Uncle Pat.

The girls, Shelly and I walk into the large room.  There are couches and puffy chairs near the back, but most of the room is full of small wooden chairs, the kind with upholstered seats, facing the front.  There already enough people here, it is hard to make our way to the front.  One of his daughters, Kelly or Kerry escort us up, clearing the way.

I think to myself of this man, how a tribute would be so appropriate.  Many times at a funeral, everything is kept formal.  Nothing would dare be added to the casket.  Not here, that wouldn't have been his style.  I could see a liquor bottle, like one of the little ones he collected, or a Sparty, or a deck of cards.  Before we make it halfway through the room, I can tell I'm not alone with these thoughts.  The casket is draped in a Michigan State flag, in the casket, behind him is a little bottle and plastic hand holding some cards.  These are for us, not for him.

He doesn't look like himself.  He lost so much weight in his illness and his chin line is different.  It makes me want to believe it is not him, but I know it is.  Well, it is his body, but he is not there any more.  He lives on but not in the illness ravaged flesh and bones here before me, surrounded by things reminding me who this was.

First, he lives hearts and minds of his friends and family.  The ones who will keep telling the story of how fourteen kids, from various families waited for him to disembark a plane, while they waited with letters in hand, which spelled out, "Welcome Home Dad!". They will tell how the variety of hair and skin tones had other passengers just waiting to see who this man was.  They will tell of how they convinced this man, who did not like scary movies, to see Omen by telling him it was a musical.  They will continue to meet at the farm and play euchre in the tournament he started.  They will celebrate the traditions he was such a part of and eat at the Ruth dinner.  They will continue to say in never rains and there are no tears, at the farm.

Second, I believe he lives on in eternity.  This means while there will be moments of tears and loss, they are for us, here.  It is just for a little while, then we'll finish our race.  I can see him now, wondering around the farm grounds of heaven asking, with a wink, if we bought our park passes.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Eleven

There was a loud pop from the kitchen. In the living room downstairs, the girls were lit up by a bright light. The flash bang had gone off near their father, but you could hear and see it from where they were at. They were lucky to not be directly in the vacinity of it, it saved them from the temporary blindness and deafness.

The living room was long, along the whole back wall of the house, and sunk half beneath the ground. This meant the windows were along the top half of the wall and opened up onto the grass of the back yard. Normally, at this time of night, you could hear the crickets and various critters moving and signing in the night. They had all gone silent.

The girls mother was the first to snap out of her shock. She stood on the couch and opened the window behind her. Quicker than you would have thought possible she helped all of the girls out into the back yards. Sienna then Shelby, then the twins. Lastly, she handed the feather out to Sierra.

As the four of them moved away from the house, considering where they could hide in the neighborhood, a second flash of light came from living room, where they had just left.

They hopped the fence, into the little redhead girls yard and wound through the neighborhood. Sienna was scared, and crying. Sierra picked her up and in the moment they were both invisible. Shelby watched the man as he took both of her parents, packing them into his black card. The pointers in Savannah's vision told her they were getting further and further away.

The police were in from of their house. Police the girls thought would take them, if their parents were missing, so they moved to the woods around Newburgh Lake. These woods surrounded their neighborhood. They had been in them a few times, but at night, every noise was bigger. They imagined the man behind every tree. They could hear the expressway and the muted voices of police and firemen. It was a surreal game of hide and seek.

When Savannah's phone went off, they all jumped. The cheery ringtone seemed odd in this place, at this moment.

"It's Dad," she said, when his name came up on the little display.

When she answered a deep voice, the voice of the man came out at her. "If you want to see your parents again, you'll give me the feather. Don't talk to anyone. Don't try to be little heroes. I'll call tomorrow with details."

"We're not going to wait for details," whispered Sierra.

She sent Sarah a text, "Meet us in the woods behind your house."

Change is Hard

"We have it in our power to begin the world over again." - Thomas Paine, Common Sense.

I sit in the small break area I need to move to when I take private calls. There is one other man, in a blue shirt, at another table. He is on a call as well. I set up my iPad, while I'm talking to Steve. From here I can look over the interior courtyard, which is relaxing when the phone call gets tense.

I guess we've be accountability partners for about a year now, and in that time we have both grown so much. This is one of the friendships that challenge and refine. Because of him, I am a better person and I hope he would say the same.

The call starts a little early and he calls me, which is normally a good sign. The call starts well enough, I help him set productivity standards and discuss a hang up from yesterday. It is no big deal, he is doing well. We then talk about a joint project we have going. It is not going well from his end, but I don't know. So, I shift the call to be one about effective communication, not in content, but in timeliness.

While I can't see him, the call changes. In my mind, I can see the pain on his face, the body squirms. He is owning the failure, but not moving forward. The dark thoughts of not being good Anouilh, not having time, not having his life in control consume him. This is hard for me. I know that what he feels is not helpful, but I have no right to disqualify his feelings. If I left him remain there, he fails quietly, if I push him, I have to do it in a way that gives him hope.

The man in the blue shirt leaves the little space, and I look over to the vending machines. I let my mind wander, looking for right thing. I pray for wisdom.

My mind shifts to Thomas Paine, a man who liked to shake things up. I think about Common Sense and this one line, on the power to start the world over again. He had this thought because everyone could see the problem with the old system and the number people unhappy we're enough to shift the way we opperated. This was an early statement of rebellion in what would be The United States of America. His main point was this, if you are unhappy, failing, beat up in the world you live in, change it. If you have the power, you should make the change.

I am back to Steve. In all honesty, he doesn't have the time to do all the things he is trying to do. He's added to all the things he wants to accomplish at the same time he is dealing with all the responsabilities that go with being a soon to be first time father with a wife who is stuck in bed. For anyone, this would be overwhelming.

I tell him the little above quote from Paine, although I'm pretty sure I messed it up. I tell him there are a lot of things he doesn't have to do. I point out that he is accoutable to God, but his life is his. I don't know if I pierce the veil of momentary depression, but I hope I do. I tell him that I can't make him feel any better, but the getting control and having success will make him feel better. This mean he'll have to act when he is not feeling it. He'll need to build his world over again.

I pauses for a moment then give him a little homework. He follows my lead and makes agreements. It's hard to tell if he believes this is the right way, or if he is just feeling too beat up to resist.

I want to know this is going ok, so I ask him if he trusts me. He gives me the only answer he can.

To Hit Armor Class 0

The labyrinth is row after row of black obsidian walls. Lit torches are in bronze holders fastened to the walls every 30 feet or so. They cause the black stones to look wet and slick. You are here because the Minotaur has one of the seven golden keys. There are three tunnels before you, which one would you like to take?

I look up from my notes, from where I am sitting in my Dad,s chair. Tim is under the table looking at his character sheet, he doesn't play as often as the others, so I had to prepare his monk for him. Scott is lounged out on the couch, character, as usual, is insane. Beside him is Justin, my brother, who was playing a were tiger and often partnered up with Larry, who was playing a thief. Eric was playing a cleric with a mean streak. We were friends, and as weak as this story was, it drew us together.

Scott wanted to roll to choose the direction, Larry and Justin told him, as they did with many his ideas, that this was stupid. Soon, the conversation got louder and louder. I love passionate disagreement in my D&D games, but my parents are not so happy when it takes place at one in the morning while they are trying to sleep. We here the door open between the back of the house, where we are, and the front of the house where my parents are trying to sleep. My Dad tells us if we can't keep it down everyone will have to go home. When he leaves, the argument continues, but in harsh whispers.

So, I do what I think every DM does to add harmony to the party I attack them.

From above you drops what, at first, you think is a black cape, but you soon realize is a living creature. It is a Cloaker, a beast that completely envelops it's prey and digests them while they struggle to escape. I pass Justin a note card letting him know his character sees two more.

It's then the table is knocked over. The remaining pizza is saved, but one of the two liters spills on the floor. We pick it up quickly, after the books and papers are rescued and start to clean the mess. We do, but the volume is creeping up again. So, Justin has a towel on the mess, Tim is working to get himself outfrom under the table. The others are waiting for me to draw the map, while I'm shushing everyone. There is excitement and joy which must be restrained.

In the surprise round, the cleric gets engulfed and the were tiger points out where the other two are going to drop down at. The heroes have a plan. They will free Eric's character and try t get the three croakers in position for a fireball. There is no thoughts of homework or popularity. We don't care about who is going to what party. Here, in this moment, I am a storyteller and my friends are all heroes.

Roll initiative, I say. 20 sided dice of a variety of colors roll on the table.

"Alright, what is the monk going to do," I ask. Tim looks confused for a moment. "What's thAC0 mean?" he says.

Christina, Act III

In some ways, ten years is a long time ago. If I walked back into that hospital, I couldn't find that room. I've added two daughters to my family since then. The job that was new then, feels like part of me now. Something I've always done. In ten years the world has completely changed.

In other ways, though, ten years is not that long ago. The same picture of Christina hangs on the wall of my parents house. It doesn't feel aged. When I think of the time in the hospital, the words, the crying, it still feels fresh. This is not what happened, but what is happening. You don't want to let go of the pain and loss, because that is what you still have.

The head and the heart wage war in this space, trying to come to a compromise, so you search for a fragment a reminder of the past that still exists today.

I did an Internet search today, as I have done many times over the years, to see what remains, what I can find out about the hidden portions of my cousins life. Maybe get to know her just a little more. I learn she lived 7806 days and in 15 days it will be the annevesery of her passing. These don't help anything. I see some memorial websites, which tell me people have posted simple thoughts, such as "You were on my mind today," as recently as a year ago. While this doesn't make the war any better, it tells me I am not alone.

In my office, no one knows I've been trying to figure out why this is so important to me. Why it feels like a war and why I want to find that remnant. Then it occurs to me. Christina may have passed on, but the life she lived we still hold. Her mom and dad, me, Dave and Rainbow. We each know the story of Christina, at least the portion she shared with as, and the remnants we hold belong together. I want to find the remnant because it makes the thing I know more valuable, for a moment brings her back. She can make us smile and laugh and worry and cry. I'm not going to find that in memorial web pages, or old address links.

Today I wrote a few people who might be able to share a memory with me, and who might be interested in the memories I hold.

Christina, Act II

"So, we didn't know until the next day, but it worked. From the top of the hill, you could look down and see the pond we had created. Our little dam...." a loud beeping the the hall interuppted the story. We all looked for a moment, but it wasn't for us. "The little dam we and Christina built made a pond a couple feet deep and as wide as a small swinging pool."

I paused and looked at my audience, I couldn't believe what brought us here. Around us were Christmas decorations, snowmen and Santas. Cardboard images and fake snow. It didn't conceal the fact we were in a tiny University of Michigan Hospital waiting room. We were out of the hospital room so others could visit.

Just a few days ago, we had adjusted sleeping arrangements at my parent's house. Christina was coming in from Tennessee, where she had lived for the last year or so. It was just going to be for a few days, and we hadn't seen her since last year. We made space for her in what used to be Justin's bedroom and what is now the kids playroom.

When she arrives she is happy to see us, but sick and exhausted from the trip. She is lethargic and not quick to respond. It is hard to tell if the journey was that bad, or if she really is coming down with something bad. She briefly talks about other things, but she is misrible. Head throbbing, body aches, weak, and generally ill. I would like to talk more, but she needs sleep. There is talk of going to the doctor, but sleep first.

The next day, while I am at work, I learn that Christina is taken to the hospital by ambulance. She was not acting right for a little while, then had some kind of seizure. I heard it looked serious, but I tell myself it will be OK. She is hear for Christmas and it has to be OK.

I haven't told Dave, who everyone calls Pip and Rainbow about these things, but they know. They have been here even longer than I have. Instead I've told them of stories from our childhood. They, in turn, have told me stories from high school and after. We are bonded because of my cousin, who lays in a coma, a few doors down. We hang on every word we hear, looking for hope. When it is in short supply, we tell stories from better days, each filling the gaps for the other. Then it is time for us to go.

We know it is over, before it is over. On the day, I work a partial day before I head to the hospital. My mind runs through all of the history Christina and I shared, while I drive. It is not enough. It seems we shared so little and she hasn't even really started to live. I pray. I plead with God. My heart is all wrong and selfish and unfocused.

I don't stop at information. I know every turn, every elevator to get there. I walk in a daze.

Pastor Jeff meets me at the door of the room, as I'm about to walk in. "She just passed," he whispers.

Ham Stand

In this Christmas season, I thought I would share a cherished Smith tradition.

We are all at my parents house. The kid are in he playroom, making a disaster of the floor. Toys everywhere. Aunts and uncles are in the family room, enjoying in ice tea and coffee. Shelly is there with them, too, crocheting. The food is almost done, so Mom, Dad and I are running around the kitchen.

Dad is adding butter to the top of his pepperoni rolls. Mom is adjusting everyhhng on the counter, making sure there is enough space when we make a buffet line. I, though, may have the most important kob of all. I am master of the ham stand.

Two years ago, as a result of this tradition, adn perhaps the overabondance in zeal the men in the family have taken with it, we all relieved a ham stand for Christmas. I'm embarrassed to say, I don't know where my stand is. I'm past the days of making it a center piece, or trying to figure out how you can gt a turkey propped up on it. So, it is missing. I hope that doesn't call into question my bility to serve.

Then last year we had a near catastrophe. The ham stand was missing, completely gone. Perhaps my mm, too, had relegated hers to the back of some cupboard. The was her tradition, how could he o easily dismissi. I ran the house, every cabinet, until the glorious, shiny piece of pig supporting chrome was found. With.victory, I held it above my head s I marched it into the kitchen. Christmas was saved.

Now this year, the ham stand was present, ready and waiting when I arrived. My mom then tells me the ham is too big. I'll never gt it on the sand, she says. This is cruelty. She brings out the stand, the Han is almost done, then she says I can't do it. I will not be defeated. I will not have this tradition tread upon.

The ham is huge. It is like some something from the Fintsones, enough met to feed a small country. The ham and look insignificant to the task. I consider duct tape, but that won't do. I make sure he stand is level in a spot it win't slide around. A select the giant black forks, like little pitchforks, for maimum leverage. I lift the beast. I can feel the muscles in my back pull, as I move the non sliced end over the top of the stand. The angle is right and the balance is good. It is go time. I press the meat, with all my might into the hole of the stand. It squeezes into place and sticks. It looks like an ant apcarrying a sandwich, but it holds. I step away and admire the beauty.

Now we can eat.

Change Is Brewing by James Mitchell

I’ve never really liked coffee.  This is blasphemy to some people.  I have tried, though.   It has always been too bitter for my liking.  I’ve also tried to like Earl Grey tea, because you know, Captain Picard always ordered it.  That didn’t work either.  However, coffee has recently taken on some powerful importance in my life.

If there is a king of coffee drinking in southeast Michigan, it is my Dad (I’m sorry, Jason, you just don’t have the long-toothed resume in this game that my father has).  I have seen him finish a cup of coffee left overnight in the car cup-holder.  We could not go to the mall and pass the Coffee Beanery without a stop in.  I do not ever remember a time when he didn’t drink coffee all day and into the night.

He never pushed me to drink coffee.  When I tried it he was encouraging, but by no means pushy.  When I decided I didn’t like it, there was no recrimination.  All that aside, I knew there was something to this world of bean worship, but I’ve always stood on the outside.

I have come to enjoy coffee gradually.  This is due in part to a gentle reintroduction by Jason.  That evening was covered in an earlier post on this blog.  Here is my part of the story.

This summer, Megan, the kids and I went on vacation to Virginia with the Smiths, the McCunes and the Tiilikainens.  It was hectic, fun and educational.  The one thing that it lacked was a better connection with the people we spent time with.  Many of the interactions seemed strained, like we were trying to build an experience together that just didn’t seem to click.  I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but that is my final evaluation of the experience.  I spent a lot of money and time, but I didn’t feel our families were any closer.

Upon returning home, Jason and I resumed our accountability discussions in the morning.  There was some displeasure expressed about the conduct of my children during the vacation.  Messes were made and not attended to.  The kids were allowed to be a bit more unruly in discourse than they should have.

This was hard to hear in two parts.  Firstly, most of the time when our kids interact with adults, they get glowing compliments, and have ever since.  Secondly, I knew that the complaints were valid and that we had likely ruined any chance we were going to be invited to another gathering of this group of friends.  What could have been lifelong relationships made stronger had gone terribly awry.  I was heartbroken for two days and I moved on.

I was surprised to get a last minute call from Jason this fall.  All the same friends were in town for the weekend.  Would we like to come to dinner on Friday?  Stunned, but happy to see my friends, we went.  The story of the evening can be read here.

After dinner out, we retired to the Smith’s house.  I stood there with the cup of coffee that he had made for me.  Jason, as unsentimental as they come, was sharing something with me that was important to him.  He wanted it to be a drink I would enjoy.  It was very good.  It was a moment pregnant with meaning for me.  It will stay with me for the rest of my life.  Steve skillfully coaxing a song from a badly tuned piano.  Shelly singing beautifully and joyfully.  Megan and Amy talking about who-knows-what in the basement.  I sipped my coffee.

*****

My father is not dying.  He tells me this over the phone, but not in so many words.  He reports that his latest check-up for the return of cancer came back clean.  I am very grateful, but I don’t know what to say to adequately express to him how happy I am.

I know he is sitting in his chair in his living room.  Maybe the TV sound has been turned down.  There is a cup of joe on the end table.  The relief of the news has been his joy for a day now.  When he thinks about it, he wants to share it.  This moment, I am the one who comes to mind.  My joy in knowing that he wants to tell me is something else I can’t seem to express.

My grandmother is dying.  What has been a slow decline over years is now a steady decline.  The day before Dad’s check-up, I am visiting her.  She lives with her son, my Uncle Lauren.  While I am at their home, Aunt Sue offers me a cup of coffee.

This is stacked with powerful memories.  So many times we would gather at her house for family get-togethers and she never failed to offer Dad coffee.  At a point in time when so much in our family is about to change, I cling to that offer like a life preserver.  That cup of warmth and three sugars (to kill the bitterness) is just the thing to take the edge off my melancholy.  It is safe.  It is buoyancy.

I ask Aunt Sue what brand of coffee Dad likes.  She stocks for him what she knows he will like.  I am curious how close my tastes are to his.  Drinking Dad’s coffee is like wearing his big shoes as a child.

We talk about coffee very briefly and the topic turns, as it must, to matters of advanced age.  As we talk, she reminds me that Dad is 70 and that he may soon face some of the same problems that aging has brought to Grandma.  She wants me to soberly consider my responsibility to him when he can no longer care for himself.  It comes out a bit callously, but I understand why.  She is sorely taxed by the care and impending loss of Grandma.  The thought of taking care of her brother-in-law must be just too much to consider at a time like this.

Like parents to children, I don’t think our Aunts and Uncles ever fully see us nieces and nephews as adults.  While I haven’t been thinking of Dad’s end-of-life in an immediate sense, I have discussed with Megan the possibility that we may need to provide for all four of our parents at one time or another.  I assured Aunt Sue that it would be my responsibility.  I sipped my coffee.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Ten

The girls father looked out the window over the kitchen sink into the dark. The street light and the small lamp in front of the house were both burned out. Shadow swallowed everything. It was late and it seemed the right thing to do, so he had taken Sarah home. He wasn't going to risk her walking even the shirt distance. He heart had pounded in his ears since this whole thing began.

On the main road he saw the red and blue flares that told him the police were almost there. He had no idea what he as going to say. He couldn't even imagine how he would answer the questions they would ask. If you don't want to be locked up, you don't tell the authorities that your kids had super powers. Additionally, if you didn't what them to be researched you didn't show them. He needed help, but every choice seemed bad.

His wife, the girls mother, talked to the girls down stairs. On the footstool Sienna had piled stacks of money, enough to pay off the house. It was enough to pay off the house. The girls mother was in shock, between tears of joy and fear for the future. The others took turn showing off their powers. Shelby was counting seeds in an orange. Savannah was fining lost toys, a little disturbed about how many of them seemed to be far away. Thing she thought were in the garage. Sierra would disappear in one place and reappear somewhere else.

"You girls are going to have to rely on each other," their mother said, "The world is not going to be very understanding. You are going to have to work together, or this whole thing could become a big problem." She worried that they wouldn't understand and her words didn't come out right. "We need to keep this safe," she said lifting the feather.

"The police are here," Savannah said. The room went silent.

The officer had turned off his lights when he turned into the neighborhood. The sidewalks were empty and dark. Just how it should be. The cruiser rolled to a stop in front of the house. He turned the interior light on and began the paperwork, reporting he was making a visit. He took his time.

From the window, the father watched the officer go between his computer, attached to the dashboard, and a pad of paper. A black car rolled up beside the police car. Very close. So close, the officer couldn't open the door if he wanted to. In the inside light of the police car, the father watched the officer turn toward the black are and then roll down his window. Suddenly what looked like a black baseball flew into the floor of the passenger side if the car. The police yelled something, but it couldn't be heard through the kitchen window. Orange fire exploded. The grenade had shattered the stillness of the night.

The man pulled the black car into the front yard of the girls house. Stealth was gone, so now he needed to act fast. The police problem was taken care of, so now all he needed was the feather.

He slipped ear plugs into his ears as he walked across the yard now lit in flame. He pulled out a flash bang, then kicked in the front door.

Christina Act I

Act I

Christina, Justin and I gathered the stones from all around the small ravine behind the apartment building. They ranged in size from as big as we could manage by rolling them, because they were too big for us to lift, down to baseball sized stones. We made a pile beside the small stream. It was probably just a drainage ditch, but that didn't matter to us. The warm air seemed to carry us.

Christina was not sure about the project. She was scared we would get in trouble. That she would be in trouble. My brother and I didn't share that fear. It wasn't a big deal, we were just seeing if we could stop the water.

First we rolled the big stones in. The made the water flow a little faster over the top of them, but they were quickly swallowed. We got into the water and filled the cracks with mud and more stones. Christina ran through the tall grass looking for sticks and more stone. It was great to spend the week with her. I didn't see her much anymore because she lived in New Hampshire. It was easy to forget most of the time, but in this moment, while we were actually together, I missed her.

With the addition of the sticks the submerged structure became larger and larger throughout the day. Eventually, the three of us were putting mud in the cracks where the water was still punching through. The top row of stone was a few inches above the water line. The problem now was the size of the pool of water one side of the dam was growing quickly. We only worked a little on it before the three of us were called for dinner.

Aunt Cy was finishing up dinner. Christina was supposed to set the table with Justin and I helping. Uncle Dave would home soon. It would be an understatement to say Justin and I didn't help. We chased her around, jumped out and scared her and were otherwise a complete distraction. She was trying to work, but vulnerable to our particular brand of torture. It was fun right up until the point she backed up into the already partially set table. Somehow she clipped the plate sat for her Dad at it fell to the floor shattering.

At first, you would have thought she was cut. It was a cry that immediately stops the commotion. She was not hurt, but scared. Her dad would be home soo and he wasn't going to understand. She would be punished for our foolishness. It was hard for me to grasp at that time, Uncle Dave had never been mean to mean. The two of them, my Aunt and Cousin made it clear I didn't understand.

We hid the broken plate. The shards went into a brown paper bag, which were buried in the kitchen trash. Christina was told to go upstairs and dry the tears from her face. My uncle's plate was replaced and when he walked through the door he had no idea of the events of the last few moments.

Over dinner we talked about the dam we had built.

One Godly Act

If you are going to have any kind of enduring accountability with someone, it needs to evolve overtime. This is one of the truths I explore in the book I'm writing. It is a cycle. You start with coaching, have the important discussion on what need to be done. From that conversation comes goals, those things yo will hold someone accoutable to. If you are doing it right, accountability will lead to rewarding successes. These successes cause two things to happen. First you develop a deeper relationship, which become an opening to talk about deeper things. Second, you establish that you can help them be successful, which leads to a desire to be successful at other things.

As you might imagine there are a ton more details that can be discussed about the steps above. I just wanted to set the stage for the blog today.

My day is packed, I have meetings on top of meeting from 8:30 until I leave. This means my Phone calls become very short, or become texts. This is great for accountability, but I haven't figured out a better way to work it. My 8:30 meeting runs until 10:00 and opens up into my longest break of the day. A little less than an hour. I'm not more than five minutes in when I get a text from Matt. He sending me his biblical truth, early, like it has been everyday this week.

I'm really happy to get this text. I am closer to him than I ever heave been before and it is largely built od accountability and spiritual development. Additionally, he has been so successful, it it time to evolve into something deeper. The success is his, but I can't help but enjoy it. I text him seeing when he has time to talk.

My day is packed, so outside of God's hand we will not likely be talking today. Over the last two days, he's been considering how to take his biblical truths and develop them into an action. If we can't talk, this is a way to say I think it is time. He has the next twenty minutes. Sometimes God is so clear.

I find an unclaimed conference room and call him back. The call is good. We talk about the challenges between action and heart and about how this development is difficult to measure. We talk about some of the truths he has written up from his bible reading, many of which are quite good. I read them and think how he is advising me and doesn't even know it. I don't tell him all that, I want him to do this for him.

What to do next?

We talk about it for only a little while, we don't have much time today. Not nearly long enough to coach, but it's all the time I have. We try ideas, see how they sound, see what will work, see what ipgets a little closer to the core of Matt, or at least what he wants to be. We settle on finding a way to do one Godly act every day. This isn't lifting cars or saving babies, but showing love joy and peace in situations where it is hard. Being Godly, not when you have a special circumstance, but n the everyday. Converting those normal moments.

When I hang up the phone, it occurs to me, While these moment might have been for Matt, it was for me too. So many times in my day I'm all logic, all work, all process. It is easy for me to forget compassion and joy. It is so easy for this mindset to overtake you. I can even do my Bible reading in this way. I don't like that. I don't know how quickly I can change my constant attitude, but if I do nothing, I won't I prove at all. So, just as Matt has committed to, I too will commit at least one Godly act everyday.

Moving Day

I am not enjoying my day today. It seems to me to be a colossal waste. It is moving day.

My new office is worse than the one I came from. It is smaller. It is in a higher trafficked area. It has busy people on every side of it, so I can't use it for meetings or phone calls. Yes, my new office is closer to my staff. Yes, my new office makes it easier to do some quick visual management. My heart, though, is struggling to see the good things.

Currently, I am in a nearly empty office. My white board and boxes of project binders are not here. They are still sitting in 11 cardboard boxes downstairs. My phone did arrive just a whole ago, but my headset is still missing. I do have my laptop, but my docking station, monitor, keyboard and mouse are not with it. Working is like working in mud.

As I'm writing this, the guy who is moving my computer stuff has it all in a cart. I'm happy he is here. He is friendly, but it is another interupption in a day of interruptions. I am nice to him and make conversation. He has no idea he just appeared in this blog.

If my boxes get here soon, I'll be able to get a few them unpacked before it is time to go. Perhaps I'll even be able to figure out how to make the most of this workspace. I've got a space where the white board can go. I've got ideas on developing a project display with Reuben, who is now right beside me.

Actually, this new space has evoked some new ideas. Plans of things I can do here that I couldn't do from downstairs. Answer more questions face to face, build better relationships and communicate more clearly all the things my area is doing. The lack of
Rivacy has the advantage of transparency. While the office is smaller, there are more than enough conference rooms near by. I just got to help a couple of my staff, which before would have taken a while.

I still hate moving, but it is possible that this one is not that bad.

First Day

I couldn't believe it. After too long being out of work, I was getting ready for to go. To a good job. They had sent me a package and a starting contract for me to sign. It was for more money per year than I had made up to that point. I selected the blue suit, with a white shirt and tie. This seemed to make sense at Blue Cross.

I felt really good. I could now, on the other side, acknowledge how worthless I had felt. I had lost my job. The three hundred dollars you get from unemployment not only is not enough to take care of your family, but it never feels like you earn it. It is charity given to an able body man, someone who should not need charity. I had made it. Those days were done.

I walked into the bathroom so I could look in the mirror to tie my tie. The last time I had wore this tie I had been in Dallas training client of Data Constructs. This had been my last job. I had gotten the tie from Deb, my first Boss at Pharmacia. Both of these jobs had vanished overnight. I wasn't going to let this tie be tainted by that, it needed a new start.

The drive to Southfield took longer than I thought it would, but I still got their early. I wouldn't be with my area for the first couple days. It was all training.

They took us all into a big room with twenty or so tables. Each of the tables had a couple well dressed people at it. They were young and old, male and female, black and white. The speakers were enjoyable. The people here who already worked at the company looked bored. I loved it.

They talked about how they had been hiring so there would be a lot of new people and also lots of opportunity. I breathed in relief. A hiring company is usually a safe company. They needed me, I wasn't going to squander that.

Then they brought up Rose. At that point, she had worked for the company for 47 years. She was the longest serving employee in the company. Her speech, though, was how she wasn't alone. There were other not far behind her. People who came to Blue Cross stayed. Sure sometime, some people left, but they almost always came back when they realized how good it was to work here. In a world that was less loyal, here there was loyalty.

My good feeling became a feeling of being very blessed.

On Saturday I will have been at Blue Cross eleven years. I still think about Rose, who has since retired. I still wear that tie sometimes. I still feel blessed.

Music of the Week

My homework was done, or at least enough I could complete it at school the next day.  I had pulled myself from my room at my Mom's all of dinner.  We all sat the the table, the giant wok of stir fry between us on a hot pad.  My brother, my Mom and Dad and I looked up when the prayer finished.  Suddenly, my Dad hopped up like he had forgotten something.

I looked at his vacant seat.  His large glass of ice tea was there.  The salt was near his plate.  Perhaps it was one of those last minute additions he loves so much, you know horseradish or Worcestershire sauce or exotic brown mustard.  Nope, the fridge didn't open, then it occurs to me, no music.

Before I go any further, let me explain.  My Dad has what may be the most exotic collection of music of anyone I know.  Back in those days it was mostly vinyl, he refused to give into the racket of this new technology of cassette tapes.  Those were for the car.  At home it was giant EP records.  It was not just the medium, but the artists that made it unusual.  It is strangely devoid of the major bands that had come and gone during the years my Dad had been collecting, you were not going to find the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, in fact even the popular one he liked, he tended toward the less known songs.  So, the music in our house would be of Stuart Hamblen, who you might know from his song "Mush", or Ray Stevens or a variety of Civil War Ballads.

This week was bagpipe week.  This might have been have of his conversion pieces, one that he had on cassette.  You know so you can play it in the car.  You never know when bagpipes are going to make a road trip go smoother.  As a note, these instruments of war, which I think derive their power by sounding like you are slowly compressing a cat under each arm in such a manner to make one shaken with irritation to the very core, never make a road trip go smoother.

One other thing they don't do well is put someone, perhaps a high school aged someone, in a good mood when they are used to waken that person by playing them loudly just outside their room.  I will tell you, once you realize that the bagpipe laden marching you are dreaming about, with confusion, gives way to the reality that that noise exists in your life.  Your real life.  In fact, it exist in your house.  Right now.  You are ready to either flee or punch someone.  I'm pretty certain it is against the law to wake someone up that way.

As soon as I heard the drone.  I knew.  Today would not be the day of change.  My Dad returned to the table, mouthing like he was playing a bagpipe.  The rest of us ate our stir fried chicken and vegetables quickly and hid until it was over.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Nine

You cound just barely see the burns on the man's face in the red dashboard lights of his car. He navigated it, like a wounded shark, out of the neighborhood. He scowled at the road in front of him. There was nothing about the next few days he was looking forward to.

Somehow his phone and headset had been blown out, so he would have to find a pay phone to call Mr. Li. He did not want to call Mr. Li. In fact, for a fleeting moment, the man thought about just driving far away from this place, but he knew that would only lead to him being hunted before being killed. He knew how the conversation would go. He would explain, as best as he could what happened, while Mr. LK would remain silent. Cold. Mr. Li never showed emotion. The man had once seen him torture a man to get some information, he kept the demeanor of an interested scientist, no sadness and no glee. He wished Mr. Li would yell or something when he called, but that wouldn't happen.

Nearest gas station the man thought, trying to engage his power, but it was gone. It felt like being blind. The one who had been in the shed with the invisible girl, must have used the fifth wish. No one in Li's organization had a gift anymore. He had been the last, and now he had lost his as well.

Additionally, there had been another project Li had wanted the man to do, once the feather was retrieved, but it required his special gift. If he couldn't get the feather back, he wouldn't get his power back and if he didn't get his power back, Mr. Li wouldn't need him. That wouldn't do.

He could see the blue and red lights from a long way off. Police were speeding toward him in the oppisite direction. This is going to be a problem. The more people who knew, the more difficult this would become. He thought about swerving into them, but there were too many house around. Noisy neighbors were always a problem. He watched the police go by.

He didn't have time to get to a gas station. He didn't even have time to call the boss. His gun was in the girl's shed. He wracked his brain trying to figure out what his options were.

On the right he saw a party store. It as closed and it didn't have any pay phone. Time is ticking he thought. He pulled into the lot and popped the trunk of his car.

He hopped out glancing quickly around and went to the back of his car. A plan was forming. Inside the back of the car were several silver cases. The first he opened was full of cash, he trew that aside, not what we was looking for. The second had some plastic explosives, wiring and caps. Maybe, but the set up took a little long. He could end this whole thing if he just has a second gun, why didn't he have a second gun. In the third case, he found a selection of grenades. He took out a couple flash bangs and some high explosives. He thought about smoke, burin a neighborhood, that's like saying, here I am.

Police and then the feather he thought. He closed the trunk and slid back into the seat of the car. He burned in both his body and his mind.

With a little more life, the black car made its way back to the girl's neighborhood.

The Flip Side

I walked as quickly as I could from my art class, on the far side of Salem, to my English class on the second floor of Canton. I made this walk every school day. Around me was a herd of students doing some variation of the same thing. They were a cloud of smoke and denim and flannel. When I walked with Art or Eric, like I did earlier in the day, I talked, but these people were just fellow travelers.

I watched them, so I could navigate, but I wasn't really paying attention to them. I was headed to English, but I wasn't really thinking about Enlish either. After English, I had wrestling practice and we were practicing with our rival, but school on the same campus, Salem. Yes, the same Salem I had art at. If you go or have gone there, you would understand, if not I'm not going t be able to describe it here.

I joined wresting because a friend of mine, Tim, was in wrestling and encouraged others to join. I wasn't as gungho as I showed to him, but I wasn't going to wimp out. We had a complex and often strained relationship in those days. I'm glad to simply call him my friend today, he is a Godly and compassionate man. In those days, though, he recognized my jerkiness, had the fortitude to call me on it and he didn't bend to my whims, like many others did. This distance he kept drove me to want to prove myself to him and wrestling was a place I thought I could do that.

English flashed by and I was in the locker room suiting up. The older and stronger kids were giving some other kid a pink belly, but I kept to myself and escaped the hazing. In the room, covered in red and white with a Chief on the wall, I spotted Tim, so I went to warm up and stretch out with him. He was strong and I was fast, so working out together was smart. He helped me gain strength and I helped him gain speed.

It was long before Salem arrived.

I recognized a couple of the kids, but I really only knew one of them, Ryan. He went to my elementary school, he was one of Louis's friends. Even though he was small, I equated him with my schoolyard defeat. Unfortunately, I was small too. We were both in the 125 weight class. I would need to lose both my legs and probably an arm to be in that class today, but I was a scrawny kids.

I was polite to him. It had been a long time since elementary school and he didn't seem to hold any animosity. We actually talked for a minute. His coach, was not as forgiving. He wanted Ryan to be angry, wanted him to attack, wanted him to win at all costs. While he barked orders at Ryan, he lazily plopped on the floor beside the white circle on the floor. In just the few seconds I had listened to this guy, I already didn't like him.

One of the few places in life where my minimal Judo training has had useful application was n wrestling. There is something about those throws and moves your body doesn't forget. Additionally, they are very different moves than are used in wrestling, but mostly legal and always surprising to someone who only expects a wrestling move. As a result, even though I was a complete rookie, I had moments of great success.

So, the coach was barking and I'm getting ready t start a new match with Ryan. Every bad feeling I had about him I now felt about his coach. He seemed a loud, bullying man. He was so close to us. The match started and we grappled each other. We grabbed arms and legs, but stayed on our feet. The coach directed Ryan move for move, eventually getting him to take a position behind me. This didn't bother me, this was a mistake. From this position, a normal wrestler usually starts working the legs, so when I dropped down a little, Ryan moved his legs away from me. I wasn't working the legs. I shifted his arm over my shoulder.

I knew exactly what needed to be done. I pivoted just slighty, pulled Ryan's arm and rolled quickly forward. His feet arched over my head and the coach watched with his mouth agape. Ryan landed half on the mat and half on his coach. Blundering, the coach backed away, complaining about me throwing Ryan on him. He was angry, but I was euphoric. He stood up and left us alone. I won the match, but that didn't matter. In that moment, I beat the red faced bully who was barking orders, who was trying to make me just a practicing dummy. In that moment, I was very happy to be me.