Simple Rules

I don't normally use my blog to do this, but today I want to advocate for a conscious change in the way you operate. The way we all operate. I think this change will make everyone, in general, happier and only requires the application of a couple simple rules. These rules are not new, but between my own children this morning and Facebook in general, I feel inspired. So, without waiting any longer, here they are:

No Jerks! No Drama!

When children break these rules, we are annoyed. Additionally, we feel justified by our annoyance. This morning I am downstairs and I hear two of my kids harping on Nick, their cousin who is with us in the morning, As I listen, they are chiding him about his toothbrush and they are making him upset. So, climb the stairs to get closer to the action and I see Nick is at the table, eating breakfast, not even in the bathroom. This means, they have made a special effort to tease him just because. They are, to use the language of my rules, being jerks. I ask the first one I see, because she has left the bathroom what the problem is and she gives me a long explanation about the bristles on Nick's toothbrush, which causes me to ask a few questions, such as do you use Nick's toothbrush, and finally I let her know that I wasn't going to have her teasing him about that anymore. I then handled the second offender in a similar fashion.

At this time, most of you that have kids old enough to speak, know exactly the exasperation I was feeling. You have had that thought of, why would they start that fight? I know. I also know, it won't be my last time. For whatever reason kids love to take a weakness or difference and use it to torture each other for no good reason. Verbally punching each other just to see what will happen. The problem is, adults do this to. We might hide it, or be more subtle, but everyday you see someone who, for no good reason, decides to be a jerk to someone else. They yell at the waitress or highlight your failings or tell their spouse they always or never do something.

The problem with those jerks out there, is they start to make me a jerk, start to make me feel justified in being a jerk. I can't let that happen, and you shouldn't either. So, take the rule number one pledge with me, No Jerks, this means you won't let yourself become a jerk and you won't let those around you draw you into jerky behavior. If it makes you feel better, the next time you see something jerk, just slap a "No Jerks" comment on it.

Now, as you probably know, jerks are only one half of the equation. See, once the no jerks rule comes out, a whole half of the population sees jerkiness where none exists. They victimize themselves, because they can get attention that way. I guess that's why it is called drama.

Children love this tool to get others in trouble. I can remember an incident in my backyard over the summer, when a bunch of kids were playing on the plastic playscape. It appears to be the base for a very complex, rules shifting game of tag. Kids slide into the small spaces, cramped by other kids. They tug on each others arms and play fight. Suddenly, a stray leg hits a kid who is squatting by the slide and here come the tears. The crying one tells us how the other kid kicked her and she gets mad a balls up her fist. We explain, what happened but she wants revenge. She feels wronged, even though it was just an accident. No drama. We see what happened and as adults we even know why in that moment she can't understand, but no drama.

Again, this is a lesson we don't quite learn in our childhood. It drives me crazy when I look on Facebook and read some comment about feeling left out or some other expression of hurt feeling at someone else's good time. Do you really think they did that on purpose? Or, are you just the kids tying his shoe in the wrong place. Look, when your friends are having a good time, celebrate for them, enjoy that they got to have a good time. No Drama. Don't tell them how mad you are that you got left out, don't try to justify your feeling, just send them a private note that tells them it looked like fun and, if it worked out, you would love to be invited in the future. You are not important enough to invite us all to you pity party. No one is.

I would add, that this is not the only kind of Internet drama you will see out there. People post things just to get others stirred up, they will challenge you just to challenge you and they will take personal comments which were not meant for them. Somehow, they still want to lash out when their pride is endangered. You don't want to be like this, do you? So, if we are in agreement, let's take the second pledge, No Drama. You can't change those around you, but you can change you.

This is not a recipe to make everything perfect, but it is a stepping stone to make them better. Make you happier and help you to more quickly recognize those that you shouldn't waste your time on. So, with a final charge, I say, "No Jerk! No Drama!".

Pass it on.

Mystery

We are surrounded by mystery. Consider for a moment, everything you know. Colors which wear the labels cerulean and crimson. How a snake, hissing and rattling, will rear back before it strikes. How addition is like a line and multiplication is a square. The meal you ate this morning, perhaps eggs turned over slowly to preserve the yolk served beside wheat toast, the smell of which filled your nostrils in the toasting. Think about the color of sheets and how they feel cool when you slide between them at night. When turned this way, like a jewel in the sun, it seems we know so much, rainbow after rainbow causing us to gape with awareness. In that dazzle of colors and snakes, mathematics and eggs, we can forget that this is not all their is.

Now, consider the things we don't know. It is so hard to hold these ideas. They are coiling shadows in the dark created by questions in an empty room. The dark wraps around the things, what ever they are, tucked between the cushions of the couch. It consumes most of history, all those morsels which fall to the floor in undocumented places and times. Everything ahead of now is wrapped in this onyx cloth and as we die the lights of yesterday wink out. When you begin to contemplate all it is you don't know, it is like staring into the space between the stars and measuring how deep it is, how unfathomably deep.

Between this light and shadow hangs a veil, the shimmering curtain of exploration and learning. It is beautiful.

I stand looking at it's translucent structure holding the things I know of my great grandfather, his name and his place of death. I know what has been said about him, but these things swim from the side of the known trailing into the dark. I tug at them with the research I can do. I try to find out if he was a good man, who died trying to take care of his family, or if he was one who abandoned his family, leaving his children and wife struggling. I push back the veil, when I see his face push out of the dark, I reveal new facts, but not what I am looking for. I am enticed by the mystery and frustrated with the way it resists me.

When I started this lunch exercise, I wanted you to see the beauty of the mystery, the fun of pushing back the veil, and even just working to push back the veil. I wanted you to want to investigate those things you don't know, intentionally. I hoped you would appreciate all the things you can learn, all the ways you can grow. I don't think I got there. The seed of the idea, which started in the light has eluded my grasp and slipped back into the darkness and out of sight.

Coffee with Bobby

I had finished my time at Western for the day and drove straight to Arby's on Westnedge, where I worked. I arrive before the dinner rush, in time to relieve the day crew, some of which had been there since 6:00 AM. Kathy, the day manager, would be able to go home, home to the old grassiness trailer park on Cork street. Not a great place, but a place a fast food manager's salary, with no one else to help you, would pay for.

The night was already going to be an interesting one. I was scheduled to close with Chaquita, yes like the banana, who was an initially quiet, but outspoken once you got to know her, black girl and Jim, who was a practicing Wiccan who liked to play hacky sack in the lobby and kept a one hitter and a bag a grass in his car. This was not the best crew I could have, but they would certainly be entertaining. I would ask them crazy questions in the down time and go do dishes when I needed a break from the noise.

The dinner rush went smoothly and the remainder of the day people had been sent home. I'm wearing the drive thru headset, which is silent, Chaquita is running the front and Jim is on the slicer. There are a couple guests. I haven't seen them, but I can hear their chatter and the hear the racking sound of the slicer bouncing back and forth. I am arm deep in soapy water, water as hot as I can stand it, cleaning used dressing bins and dropped tongs. I have a towel nearby, in case someone pulls into the drive thru and I need to take their order.

I hear the slicer turn off and the brown swinging door, somewhat like a saloon half door, clatters open. "Jay," Jim says in his slow, serious way, "you might want to come out here." With nothing more said, he goes back up front. I finish the dish I'm working on, dry off my hand and step out, beside Jim in the sandwich making area. He points, where the few customers can't see his hands and tell me there is a homeless guy on the left side of the restaurant.

I don't want to have to deal with this. I'm certainly supposed to ask him to leave if he is not a paying customer, but it might cause a confrontation and more than that, he's probably not even doing anything.

I walk to the front, to help Chaquia at the same time I eye the guy Jim is talking about, I have seen him walking the street before. His face is a surrounded by crazy, yellowed white hair, nappy and dirty. The winding bristles end in leathery skin with deep creases caked in dirt. Dirt ground in for months or years. He looks in all directions, addled or twitchy. His lips are nearly invisible and he is missing teeth. It was like his whole person was a dying husk of who he used to be except his eyes, which were bright blue and alive. The old man was a costume for the child peeking out of the mask.

I did the only thing that occurred to me to do in this situation. I made two cups of coffee, one for me and one for the man who had wondered into my lobby. I grabbed creamers and sugar, in case he wanted them, and walked onto the lobby.

I sat the coffee, creamers and sugars in front of him and asked if I could sit down. He nodded that I could. I asked his name, Bobby. I asked what brought him here, it wasn't real clear. He began to tell me of loosing his family, his job, his ability to work. I let him talk, offered sympathy, but mostly listened. I felt for Bobby. I felt helpless to do anything for him, except listen and give him a cup of coffee.

I sat with him for fifteen minutes before the drive thru went off. I apologized and took the car's order. I moved back behind the counter and went back to work. I dropped the fries, took the money, packed and delivered the food. While doing that another order, then another order came in. We have a mini rush.

Half a dozen orders later, the rush is done and I figure it is time to which Bobby well and send him on his way. When I look, though, he is gone. The table was completely cleaned off, like he was never there. He never came back and I never saw him on the street again. Today, though, I listened to a Hearing Voices on homelessness and I am thinking about Bobby, wondering what happened to him.

Evangelical Atheism

I check Facebook everyday. I am not on their constantly and I miss lots of stuff, but I recognize that this is the way we have chosen to share personal news. In addition to that, though, it has become a collage of bumper stickers, spam, political rants and shared internet content. I make comments on the picture of my sister in law with Mike from American Pickers. I hide shared pictures from people who flood my feed with pictures of angels and kittens with bile raising, peppy sayings. I ignore political posts and angst ridden adults whining about how bad their life is. I never repost anything, even if it makes me part of the 97% that doesn't care and I am not going to like anything, just to read a joke or see a stupid video. When I post, it nearly always is a like to this blog. I have a routine.

This routine, though, gets broken by evangelical atheist posts. For a long time I have had friends who would qualify as either atheist or agnostic. But for most of our history together, this facet of their being was not brought to the front. It wasn't the defining attribute of who they were. Kids, friends, family, even entertainment choices were discussed more than their lack of belief in God. This, though, seems to be shifting, and I am not sure what to do with it. More and more, these friends are posting to Facebook with aggressively anti Christian jokes or news articles, which places me in an odd position. They have left the realm of listening to the Dawkins and Hitchens of the world and taken to the pulpit themselves.

So, what is a Christian man to do?

I could hide these posts, but in doing so, it feels like I would be pretending someone is something they are not. I would be intentionally not looking at the very things this person desires to be identified with. This might be the best course of action, but it feels like it misses the mark.

I could take up refuting the outrageous claims, which seem to be the supporting structures of these things. Not that long ago, one of these friends made a point of writing on creation and dinosaurs with feathers, but in his argument, which wasn't well founded, he made not attempt to see what the word of God actually said, nor did consider the variations of how this scientific discovery easily could align with God's word. I thought for a moment about highlighting this on his post, but I realized I don't know why he is even posting this.

If he is a troll, posting to stir up the Christians who might read it, I would just be adding fuel to the fire. You never feed trolls. At that point it is an emotional game, where the reaction is more important than the truth. On the other hand, if he is seeking a genuine confrontation, the most I could hope for is to prove him wrong, which doesn't draw us any closer, nor does it make him a believer. The closest he would get would be an understanding that he can't support this argument. It is in substantial to the abundance of things he has to believe to get to this point.

So, I can't support his posts and it seems misguided to work to refute them. So, what do you do?

No Key

It didn't happen very often, but on that day I was walking home to an empty house. I had been told this was going to happen. I had been given a key and instructions and expectations. There were things I needed to do once I opened the door, both before and after my brother got home from school. He wouldn't get home from Smith Elementary for about 45 minutes. The problem was, when I dug my hand into my dark blue Wranglers I realized, I did not have my key. I was walking home to a house I couldn't get into with a list of chores I could not do.

In the short walk home I checked every pocket, in my jeans, in my jacket, even in my backpack. My pace slowed, as I realized their was no point in rushing. Eventually, though, I did get there and face of the house smirked at me.

I wasn't going to sit on the steps waiting. I needed to get in. I tried the front door, which was mostly used just to get mail, but it was locked. I tried the main door on the side of the house, and it was locked too. The big sliding door in back, locked. The last door was on the fourth side of the house, it was an old door, which hadn't been opened in probably two years. As I approached, though, my mind started to make other plans. I began to hear spy music in my mind.

A few months ago, the family had been locked out of the house. I don't remember how that had happened, but I remembered we broke in. My Dad had pulled out a ladder and took it to this side of the house near the old door; directly beside the window of my brother's room. He climbed the ladder and in just a few moments was handing the screen down to me. Then, using the ends of his fingers he pushed up the heavy glass window, using the top of the thick frame. Then, with just enough space to wiggle through, he had me climb through the window and go around to unlock the door.

Now, alone, I stood looking up at the window listing to the phantom beats in my mind and I thought to myself, I can do that. I crouched and looked around to see if I was being observed, No one watching. I toe dashed to the garage and pulled the ladder out and dragged it to the place I needed it. The screen came out more easily than I would have thought. I let it drop to the ground. I put my hands on the pane of the window and tried to lift. It didn't move.

I dropped down and moved to the back of the house where I could think unobserved. I looked around for a tool. I dismissed a hammer and a pry-bar, thinking I might accidentally break the window. I found a stick, which was strong, but had a narrow edge I could lift the window using the top frame, but stand on the ground where I could get more leverage.

I walked in the shadows back to the window, with my improvised tool in hand. I propped it against the window and lifted. I could only get it to move half an inch, but it was a start. I got a second, small, stick and used it to keep the window from falling as soon as I removed the lifting stick. I then climbed the ladder, listening for traffic on our street, wedged my fingers into the small opening I created and lifted as hard as I could. With a few tugs I got the window half open. It would have to be enough.

Head first I dove into my brother's messy bedroom floor. As I dragged myself across his dirty socks, pulling my legs and feet through the window, I knew my skills as a spy or cat burger had been secured and I couldn't have been happier.

Bard's Tale

Outside the winter was starting to melt away, but inside we were still wearing bulky jackets to class and trying to keep track of our mismatched gloves and hats. The chaos and stupidity of East Middle School was not normally where I wanted to be, but today was going very well. Yesterday, I was talking to Larry about computer games and he told me about Bard's Tale, which sounded fantastic. An evil wizard, a damaged world, opportunity for legends to be written about the characters.

My mind raced about this all day long. Every time I would see Larry I would ask him the questions that occurred to me. I asked my other friends if they had played. I considered how I could get my mom to drive me to a store where I could pick the game up. I ended the day empty handed, weaving the story in my head.

Today, when I saw Larry, I immediately started asking him the questions that had occurred to me since we last talked. He was slow to answer my questions because he was drawing something out of his back pack. There it was, the game, plus a book of photocopied maps of the important locations in the game. A rulebook, a disk, a dial, which would give you the password you would need to start, it was all there. He said I would borrow it for a couple days, until I could get the game.

My classes for the rest of the day became places I read the rulebook, sneaking it behind textbooks, under my paper. I would try to look busy, which I was, just not doing Math or English. I was deciding on what six characters I would build. A paladin or a rogue, a wizard or a bard. I figured you would have to have a bard, since, you know, Bard's tale. Elf wasn't a class, like original dungeons and dragons, but I didn't read anything about races either. It didn't matter, I would be slaying monsters and getting magical swords soon.

The time ticked on, and I started filling notebook paper with plans. I checked my ideas with Larry, but we both knew I was just biding my time. When the bell rung I practically ran home. I told my mom I didn't have any homework. I pulled up the chair to the Commodore 64 and put the disk in the drive. The room I was in gave way to the Inn, where we adventurers gathered, and I was on the path to being a hero.

The Birds

I don't watch them anymore, because my wife hates them, but I have always liked scary movies. Turn down the lights. Watch some crazy situation get made worst by bad decision making. Then music that grabs your subconscious and you know something dramatic is going to happen. Scream. Then you look at the person beside you on the couch, just to be sure they are more terrified than you are. There is something fantastic about fear in the faces of your friends and family. Yes, I have been told I am sick because of this.

Sometimes, though, letting the movie do its work is not enough. Sometimes, you need to bring a little of the movie into the real world.

We sat on the couch watching the Alfred Hitchcock movie The Birds. It was a classic, my dad had said, and he had deemed it a reasonably safe movie for us to watch. Justin and I, of course, we're there, but in addition our cousins were on there summer visit with us.

Bonnie and Patricia were always targets to mess with, a subtle word about the ghost in their room, a mention of how chocolate chips were made out of octopus eyeballs, a certain look when they eat something, which makes them uncertain about what it was they had done. Now, these girls who seemed to fall for everything, sat beside us soaking in the images of rows of blackbirds ready to do harm to the people below. They sat tense, sometimes looking away. I checked the room for something bird like.

My dad always carried cloth handkerchiefs, like the kind that are used as bandanas on westerns. One of these had been left on the table beside his chair, a dark blue one. In the dim light from the TV, it almost looked black. Raven like. I slid off the couch and when looked at I said, I think I see something flapping outside the back door, the big sliding glass door not far away. Patricia and Bonnie looked at the door with some fear. Justin eyed me with suspicion. He would not be fooled, but he wouldn't ruin the fun either.

I walked to the glass, parted the blinds just a little and stare through them and into the dark backyard. "There is something moving," I said. "Maybe a lot of somethings.". I stepped back slowly and sat in my Dad's chair. "Have a look for yourself," I offered. Nobody moved. They watched the door, then the woman on the ground being pecked by birds, while I palmed the handkerchief and then tied it into a knot. I small body and broad wings.

Suddenly I acted like I could see something. I hopped out of the chair and went back to the glass. "Quit," Bonnie said, but their was no certainty in her voice. "Woah, it's coming right at me," I yelled. Then a fell back, tossing the cloth bird over my body and directly into the chest of my cousin. She screamed, jumping up to get away from the beast. I lost it. My laughs, though, let her in on what I had done. Which caused a chase, a fake bird getting whipped back and forth and finally, my dad coming from the front of the house and telling us to keep it down.

Where I was..

Data Constructs had moved into a new building a few weeks before. It was an open floor plan. From the owners desks, which were empty more than occupied, to the student who was here just temporarily, you could see everyone. In addition to the handful of employees, you could see the number of empty seats. We had not yet grown into the space. It was like they meant to create a fun open space, where you could ride a scooter between the desks, but oppressive attitude killed it. An abandoned theme park.

I had made coffee in the kitchen, at the opposite end of the building from my desk. The part of the building where the light weren't turned on because on one was there yet. It gave me a short reprieve from the JavaScript and Flash I was working on, developing a fun computer based training for a large, high end, hotel company. I was working out all the pieces so they would pass the owners identity between the pieces and them limit the permissions based on that. I liked the problem solving and I learned a lot, but I was being stretched constantly.

April, the receptionist, heard me digging for a new sleeve of filter and clipping the edge off the ground coffee, and she stepped back into the kitchen where I was. She had a strange look on her face. "Did you hear what happened?" she asked. I had been too head down, trying to catch up, to be aware of much. In the morning she answered the phone and surfed the net, so she always knew more about what was going on in the outside world than I did. "No.". "A plane crashed into the world trade center.". I was stunned. What a weird accident, I thought. "A little one?". "I don't know."

I walked a back to my desk and it seemed time had warped a little. In the time we chatted, a few people had shown up. I sat down at my desk, minimized Textpad and Flash and pulled up CNN. I drew in the heat of coffee at the same time I tried to draw in the information. I vaguely remember thinking, isn't Joe, the owner, in New York. They didn't know what plane it was, but it was a big one, a giant passenger plane.

I clicked refresh and CNN now reported a second plane. I ranged from thinking how bad the reporting was, because that couldn't happen, to thinking about the odds of two planes hitting the twin towers, thinking it must have been a rescue helicopter, to it dawning on me this was something else. Something much worse.

I looked around the room, everyone here was staring at new sites, trying to get all the details they could. I called Shelly. She didn't have more information than I did, a terrible mystery.

Either Dave or Brian ran home t get a TV and we set it up on one of the empty desks. We turned on the local channel and it was broadcasting from New York. They knew the plane that hit, but more had been hijacked. Terrorists. We stood, stunned, watching, listening, feeling like the work we were doing was so small. I tried to go back to my desk to get more done, but I couldn't focus. This wasn't something I could turn out. April came in once after the phone rang and reported that Joe wanted us to get back to work, but we looked at here with a glazed look. Work on what, materials for a hotel, while one of their major hotels was in sight of a burning national monument?

When the first tower collapsed, I packed up. I stood wanting to know what would happen to the next, watching the depressing news from the TV, but also just wanting to be home. A few minutes later, I started my short drive home. I wanted to know every detail and I wanted, even more then that, to forget.

Winter visitor

My grandmother sat peacefully in her chair. It was the moment in the day when the laundry was in the washer, the dishes were all put away, the kids were at school and my grandfather was at work. It was the perfect time to take just a few to rest her eyes. In the quiet of the room you could almost hear the snow falling outside and the ticking of the clock in the next room.

She leaned back in the brown recliner, letting her breathing get deep and her thoughts wonder. In her mind she thought about the stereo behind her, where recordings had been made of my mom and aunt singing, recordings that had the voice of a stranger on them. It was a woman who seemed oblivious to the singing girls. A voice no one present had heard. This thought was not enough to bother her, her whole life had been filled with these kind of happenings.

She thought of the dining room in her last house where voices were so often heard it fell into disuse. She remembered how my grandfather got home late in those days, after an afternoon shift, and he would come into the house by the kitchen, to prepare his snack and then walk around the outside of the house to get to the living room. He would rather the inconvenience than risk hearing the invisible visitors chatting. She smiled at the thought of him balancing his plate while fiddling for his keys.

She thought of the walking man upstairs, who paced from one end of the upstairs to the other. You could here him stop at the top of the steep stairs before turning and walking through the bedroom to the window n the opposite side of the house. He wore hard bottomed shoes, which would fall silent as soon as you touched the stairs leading up. She had heard him earlier, but for now he let her rest.

Bang, bang bang. My grandmother lifted her head, shaking the spirits from her thoughts and came to the realization someone was at the door. Perhaps, she had dreamed it, she didn't want to stir too much if it was just the mailman dropping off a package or someone. She tuned her ears to the little mud room where the door opened into the house.

She could hear the creaking of the screen held open. One foot was causing the metal at the bottom to pop as the wind caused it to gain and loose pressure. She could her the rattling of the door knob. There was someone there, someone close enough to open the door after one knock.

"Anybody home?" the voice came from out of sight. It sounded vaguely familiar, but my grandmother couldn't quite place it. "Be right there."

She released the foot stool of the recliner and hoisted herself to her feet. She walked around the corner, so she could see through the dining room and the kitchen into the mud room and who ever it was had stepped back. The door was closed again. She got to the door quickly, noticing only casually that it had been pulled tight.

When she turned the knob and pulled hard, because the door often would stick in the cold, she was surprised to discover her guest had disappeared. Odd. Perhaps they had walked around to the back door, or moved on. The heat of the house steamed up the window on the screen door, so she opened it to have a look around. The door was heavy, pushing through the couple inches of snow that had collected outside. It was then she examined the snow. No foot prints. From her door to the road lay a crisp, smooth, blanket, of fresh snow.

We didn't throw that away

We still owned a house in Kalamazoo. So, because we couldn't afford to pay two house payments, we lived with my in-laws. This, of course, had its benefits and problems. One of the benefits I enjoyed the most was their back yard. I could walk through the sliding glass door, close the chaos behind me and enjoy.

I stepped out onto the deck, which was nearly as wide as the back of the house. The area just behind the door had the grill, where many a meal was cooked, a table with high chairs you could eat at and it looked out onto the bird feeders m father in law kept stocked. To the left, you could take a few steps up to glass patio table covered by an umbrella and surrounded by cushioned chairs, which was nicely positioned by the crystal blue pool. It was peaceful. A momentary sanctuary.

I had stepped out here for nothing more that to net a few stray leaves out of the water and sink into a more relaxing part of the day. The sound and smell of the cool water was easy to get lost in.

I breathed deeply and slowly through my nose and was immediately hit by a strange smell. It was like something nearby had gone bad, rotten meat maybe, or something dead. So, I start looking for the source. I've moved from the relaxation of pool maintenance to finding the offensive material. I walk the deck trying to breath in the location, summon my inner bloodhound. I move away from the pool at the glass table. I move back by the barbecue grill and the sliding doors and industrial sized quantities of bird seed kept in steel 55 gallon garbage cans.

I'm getting closer, I can tell by the strength of the smell, so I begin opening everything around me. I open the grill, nothing. I open the first garbage can, it is full of bird seed but nothing else. The lid is upside down on the second one, probably meaning it is empty, but I am not sure. I grab the edge of the lid, pull it back and am greeted with a loud hiss, a rattle of the can and the sight of a large white, maybe diseased opossum curled in the bottom of the can. The sound and the movement cause me to just back and drop the lid. I have visions of the beast coming after me. with all the bravery I can muster, I walk into the house.

I tell the kids who are watching TV to not go out there for a minute and go find my father-in-law. I guess I figure, he's going to be the expert on how to get a opossum out of a can and not have it eat your face. He's puttering the the garage and he wants to see it. Look wouldn't you? Anyway, we collectively go back into the back yard, me stepping out after I spend a minute looking through the glass to assure it is not out there waiting for me. I point to where it is, peeking just over the lip to I can see the now still critter. "Is it dead?" "No, it is certainly not dead.". "It looks bad". "It kind of smells dead."

That is about the extent of the talk. My father in law grabs the handle of the can, clearly not having seen enough Tru TV to know how this will end. He hoists it to the middle of the yard and flips the can completely over, trapping the nightmare underneath it. Then, in a fairly quick move, he knocks it over and gets back up to the deck with me. Perhaps he does realize how close he came to certain doom.

Seconds later, the animal bolted out of the yard. Perhaps I could work with the pool tomorrow. Today, TV seemed a little more relaxing.

Feeling Dumb

The tan Escort had been getting louder and louder each time I drove it. It sounded like it have some kind of hole in the exhaust, it was so loud. Additionally, it seemed to have difficulty regulating heat. It was quickly deteriorating, but I was sixteen and couldn't be bothered.

So, I walked to the front of the house where my car, "The Grassy Gnoll" to my friends, hopped into the hot, front seat and turned the key. The engine made the click of the starter, a loud clunk and then nothing. I tried again, nothing. I popped the hood and immediately saw the problem, a hole in the side of the block with a piece of metal, a rod, sticking out of it. As bad as it was that my car was ruined, that I couldn't go pick up my friends, worse was the fact that I knew why this had happened. Every time my dad heard my car, or the mood struck him, would ask me if I got the oil changed. I hadn't. I had never gotten the oil changed and I figured if I just added a little fresh oil into the reservoir I could put it off. Now I had a hole in my engine because I was wrong, just as wrong as my dad inferred with every question. Dumb.

Between the building with the rooms and the conference center there was a long hallway. Matt, James, Steve and I walked this hallway multiple times during the D and D experience, always in conversation which ranged from gaming to guns to the political. Even though these were my friends, it still felt like I had something to prove. They probably had no expectations of me, but it didn't keep me from putting expectations on myself. Speak intelligently, make points worthy of note, jab and dodge the verbal jabs sent to me. The conversation of men, smart men,

I don't remember why, but the conversations rolls around to presidents. From there, which was the best president and making a case for them. I believe Matt took the position for John Adams and I took the position for Thomas Jefferson. I admit that he might have been a better man, than president, so we talk about over all accomplishment. Then I say, letting my tongue get ahead of my head, once of his great accomplishments was writing the Constitution. In another group, this might have been overlooked or even not caught. But this historical misstatement, substituting Declaration of Independence for US Constitution, was a beacon of wrongness. A colossal mistake. Not only did it deflate my point, but it left me open to verbal jabs I could not dodge. I could turn into them, but even then I knew that these two significantly different documents had been muddled in my mind. Dumb.

The sun was going down and so I had built the fire up. The smell of smoke and the growing blaze called the other campers over. Camp chairs were dragged around and every time people moved closer, I added wood. I wanted it to be hot enough to make a large circle. The breeze and the stars, the sound of the fountain in the pond and kids laughing near the edge of the corn field, it was beautiful. People moved up and smiled, told stories of the past and shared plans for the future. As time wore on the crowd changed and I began to be lightly harassed about all the wood I had burned, but that I didn't split any of it. I did what I do and made a smart comment and kept feeding the flames. This was my 14th or 15th Labor Day in a row at the farm and I have not only never split wood, but I have never been asked. Now these jokers were making a deal out of it. I went to bed not giving it much thought.

The next day started as usual. A single breakfast sandwich, a relaxing morning, then off to the Ruth dinner for lunch. It went well. When we got back, one of guys called from the area they were all hanging out in, ready to split some logs. It was like a cat call or a challenge. I said simply, but loudly, why. Why are you being a jerk? Why is it so important to you? Why this year but never before? I didn't ask those things, I just let the single word stand on its own. I went to the beach and played lifeguard for the kids. What I mulled over though, was this fact. For what ever reason, this was important to them, even though they were not making any effort to split wood themselves. Even though I would not have to do anything if I didn't want to, if the work was important, I should contribute. Also, if it was just a hollow challenge, about work they themselves didn't plan on doing, they could be silenced by me stepping up. Lastly, if I am to live like Christ, I need to learn to be a servant to all people. Besides, how hard could it be?

So, once Shelly came over to the beach, I had her take over with the kids, I walked into the circle of guys and said, "Let's go." I told them I had never split wood before, but I was willing to learn. Steve was probably the most experienced and showed me how. The idea is not complex. You set the log up, hit where you won't catch a knot, the now smaller pieces of wood travel to the right and the left. The ax felt awkward in my hands. It was hard to get my top hand to slide down the handle, to put the needed force of the head. There were time I completely missed the wood, or the just knocked the top. I tried to just learn and pretend everyone now standing around was understanding that I had never done this before. I couldn't do it though. Every miss, poor swing, difficulty the others didn't have, made me feel dumb. Dumb in a way I didn't have an excuse for. How hard should it be, I kept telling myself, to hit the end of a big log? When the blade came down, bounced off the right side of the log and buried in the ground about six inches from my foot, Steve asked if I wanted him to take over. I did. He split logs like a machine. I moved back to break brush down for the night's fire.