Mark A. Davis

A Break for Thanksgiving

2011-11-17T03:50:00.000-08:00

I write this poem for a friend a few years ago.

"Aubade of Autumn”

by Mark A. Davis

The vigorous, crisp, softness of the harvest,

A bounty bought to the table ripe-ready.

Rocks were fought,

Equipment rose up in protest,

Ox and horse struck against the hand of the master,

And the dry heat of deep summer

Plotted to ruin, rot, raze, the tender branches,

The tender buds, the tender fruit.

Inferno and gust, drought and machine,

Earth and kine in concord

Fought the course of the master

(The master whose plan said the seed will grow,

The vine will produce its fruit)

And so it is at the rich table rounded

With stews and fragrant vegetables,

Their aroma thick in the air,

A lullaby to the senses,

We gather among friends

With friends and embrace with

A word of Thanks.

Samuel: An Awkward Moment

2011-10-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

I've decided to write this story as a series of vignettes. Follow along, and feed-back positive or negative is welcome. This story will have adult themes/language on occasion. Call it PG-13. Also, the introduction has been altered to correct a few inconsequential setting details. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

February, 1994

Sam's hand plunged into the ice chest whose ice was not melting and grabbed another beer. He had lost count and he could care less. He had three sheets to the wind, as the pirates would say.

He staggered his way back up the steps of a little cabin in the middle of nowhere. He and his buddies were celebrating something. He didn't really care what at the moment. He was tired of drinking beer, but he couldn't drink whiskey without several under his belt. An open fifth was on the table in the kitchen so he made his way over to it. If he didn't know what a hangover was before tonight, he would know in the morning. He took a pull from the bottle of cheap whiskey and chased it down with an even cheaper swig of beer. The party was nearly over anyway.

Some of the boys decided to head back into town to pick up someone's girlfriend. Sam was at least smart enough not to try to drive anywhere himself.

“I think I'll just stay here and drink,” he said quoting a familiar Merle Haggard lyric, “I mean I'll crash here, man, if you don't mind.”

“No, dude, you need to sleep it off, man. We'll be back in a couple hours.” Brian took Sam's keys without him knowing it. He didn't want Sam dying tonight. They had always looked out for each other. Good friends do that.

The boys took off and Sam, bored with drinking and getting drunk, pondered the results of this binge of drinking. Laboriously he calculated the volume of liquid he took in and multiplied by 30% the amount of liquid he evacuated. “If dehydration caused hangovers, then damnit, I'll drink a bunch of damn Dr. Pepper so I'll even it out.” He cussed a lot when he drank. He drank more and more now that football and basketball seasons were over and his senior year was racing ever more quickly to its end.

At about 2:30 in the morning the door to the cabin creeped open as Brian, his girlfriend, Donny, and two other girls slipped in. They had a fresh supply of drinks- girl drinks, and it was apparent the cabin was about to be transformed into the “Love Shack.”

Sam had climbed up to the loft and had fallen asleep with his beloved 2-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper close by. The motion and pressure of the pretty girl who had ascended to the loft and was now straddling him woke Sam up. Surprise showed in his eyes as he asked, “Who are you?”

The girl replied, “The girl who's gonna fuck you, that's who.” And with that she laid down upon Sam and began to kiss him. Sam thought that this was a whole lot easier than he ever imagined. Losing his virginity, that is. He had not carried that condom in his billfold in vain.

He became aroused, despite the large quantity of alcohol he had consumed that night, but something held him back. He couldn't articulate it. Not to her or to anyone. He couldn't do it. It wasn't right. It seemed as if time slowed down and he was watching this scene unfold from outside his body. He and this young woman, naked to the waist, on this mattress on the floor. The words slowly dripping from her lips and the sloppy kisses that followed. The theater of the surreal continued when he imagined, one right after the other, his two options and their effects on his immediate future. The one, while visually and imaginatively gratifying to him, left him spilling his seed through a broken, heat damaged condom into this girl whom, he imagined, was not on any sort of birth control, had recently ovulated and was as fertile as South Dakota's black soil. The other scene, which played out in a similar fraction of a second, did not "end" so happy as the first, but did have him graduating high school sans the prospect of being a father years before he was ready.

Below them the moans and grunts of the two other couples rose to the loft, while the girl, who had exposed her breasts for naught, was dealing with the rejection of her body, and it was a fine body by most folks account. Awkward doesn't begin to describe the moment. Thankfully, it was just a moment. Sam, astoundingly sober now, sat up and leaned back to the cabin wall, while the girl- did she ever give her name?- made her way to the ladder and climbed down. Sam thought she looked shocked, like this had never happened to her before. Sam didn't know who was more shocked. Everyone else left him alone for the rest of the night. It was a long night.

Samuel

Samuel: Bloody Alley

2011-09-05T05:47:00.000-07:00

I've decided to write this story as a series of vignettes. Follow along, and feed-back positive or negative is welcome. This story will have adult themes/language on occasion. Call it PG-13. Also, the introduction has been (will be edited ) to alter a few inconsequential setting details. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

August, 1991

"Ready..."

A whistle chirped loudly in Sam's eat. It was his cue to rise from a prone position, gain footing, and run to meet another boy running full speed ahead in a drill known, and for good reason, to this group of boys as "Bloody Alley."

Fate would have it that he drew a senior, and not just any senior, but Gary Schooley. Gary was a kid who transferred into Sam's small rural school from South Dakota. He was built like the granite mountains that pierce the sky in the Western part of that state. Gentle as a lamb off the football field, though. Gentle as a lamb.

Sam was sure of only one thing, and that was that he and Gary would collide. Two things, actually. It was going to hurt like hell, too.

The chirp of the whistle signaled a lightning fast response in Sam's nervous system. His only hope was that he reach Gary before he reached full speed. He had been carefully watching the other boys. Two steps after the runner got the ball was two steps too late. He was going to have to be fast, and he was going to have to hit him on the move.

His cleats dug into the dirt of the practice field and, like a gear meshing with another gear, he propelled violently toward Gary with out slipping. One small victory, he thought. His lithe frame accelerated towards the ever enlarging "87" on Gary's jersey. The ball was extended and Gary opened his arms to receive the hand-off. Just as his arms began to close around the ball, Sam's helmet made contact with Gary's arm. Sam drove his feet into the ground as the impact, like a collision of tectonic plates forming a new mountain range, caused them both to straighten in a upright direction. The greater mass belonging to Gary overcame Sam and they made their journey back to the earth from which they sprang. But Sam noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

"Ball!!!, Ball!!!, Ball!!!" Thirty-five young men shouted simultaniously. Sam had not only done the impossible, but he had knocked the ball loose from a senior who had notoriously sticky hands.

Sam tumbled to the ground with the weight of a six-foot three-inch senior pressing him ever firmly to the ground. A mad scramble was about to ensue. There was no thinking. Sam scrambled out from under the massive upperclassman in the direction of the bouncing oblong ball. He pushed his body upward just enough to let his feet gain traction for a five yard leap.

It was enough. His fingertips touched the laces, and he pulled the ball un his chin just as Gary pounced on top of him. The whistle chirped again. Sam's fellow tenth-graders were amazed. The seniors were pissed off. The coach, well, the coach noticed a kid with some hustle in him . "He's too scrawny to play with the big boys. They'll kill him. Hope he gets bigger by next August." the assistant said to the head coach after practice.

Sam laid on the ground for a few moments after Gary rolled off. His ears were ringing from the earlier contact, his neck muscles were racked with pain, and his lungs felt as though they might burst. The pain was real and intense, but so was the feeling going through his mind. "I just tackled and knocked the ball loose from last season's best receiver!"

Sam spent a lot of time on the sidelines that season.

Samuel: To the River

2011-08-24T04:50:00.000-07:00

I've decided to write this story as a series of vignettes. Follow along, and feed-back positive or negative is welcome. This story will have adult themes/language on occasion. Call it PG-13. Also, the introduction has been (will be edited ) to alter a few inconsequential setting details. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

June, 1990

"Sam!" a boy's voice called out again, "Sam! I think it's over here!"

The two boys scurried over a rise and looked down to see an outcropping of rock hanging out over the river. They looked at each other and grinned. No one had to say a thing. They were about to get wet. This spring was late in bringing the warmer temperatures that brought the local waters up to proper swimming temperature, but this would do. Off went their shirts and shoes and then began the short, silent test to see who would go in first.

Sam, after a split second of deliberation, rocked back on his heels and took off with a sudden burst of energy punctuated by a piercing yell. A rebel yell. His body sailed off of the bluff, and accelerated at 9.8 meters per second squared toward the cold waters of the Buffalo River. Time slowed down, it seemed. The yell enduring Sam's entire plummet into the water. Flailing arms and legs full of energy and without a moment's hesitation in them dancing their way to the water below in a raw and strange cadence that makes mothers wince and father remember.

This leap of forty feet lasted scarcely over a second. Sam's rebel yell was still piercing the valley in an ever softening echo as the spray from his awkward leap kicked back high into the air. His feet dug deep into the gravel bottom of the river, and he made a second leaping motion. Only this time he was in search of the air that he had recently expelled from his lungs. Sam had hardly sucked in a fresh supply of oxygen when he let it back out again with a loud whoop.

Brian was still standing on the outcrop looking down in amazement at his friend. "You knocked the river dry! I'm coming!" Brian disappeared momentarily and then proceeded to mimic Sam's descent, yell and all.

It was a good way to celebrate the end of their eighth grade year.

"Ya know, Brian," Sam began as they hiked their way back to their camp, "I want to live like this forever."

Yeah, man, me too!"

"I just can't understand why my dad never wants to go out and do stuff, ya know," he added with a vocal pause, "like this. He just sits on his ass all weekend and watches baseball or football or basketball. If he likes sports so much, why the heck doesn't he play something. It ain't like he's old or something yet."

"I don't know, man. My dad is always saying, "Brian, lets go do something." but I'm kinda tired of doing stuff with him. I mean, it's like a miracle that we got to come out hereby ourselves this weekend."

"Well, at least he wants to be with you. Sometimes I think my dad wishes I was grown up and gone already. And to be honest, I starting to wish that, too. Crap! It's getting dark and we haven't set up the tent yet!"

And like that the two boys were sprinting the 1/4th of a mile to their campsite. Racing the sun. Racing the sun.

Samuel

2011-08-07T06:47:00.001-07:00

This is the introduction to a larger story. It will be published in serial.

Samuel was nearly in the drive of his barber when he, almost without thinking, flipped the indicator light of his very sensible car off and accelerated past the entrance. He felt relieved. He also felt like he was neglecting a sacred tradition. He had maintained this monthly ritual for the last 15 years. For those 15 years he had walked into the same nondescript barbershop, placed himself in the same chair at the appropriate moment, and pickup up where he left off the last time he was there. He hadn't told the barber what to do to his head since he couldn't remember when. He really couldn't remember when.

Today Samuel would keep his $11 and his just-starting-to-look-shaggy head of hair for another day. Maybe longer. Maybe much longer. He vaguely remembered an old Crosby, Stills, and Nash song. Or was it Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young? He couldn't say for certain. He hadn't listened to his old records and CD's in ages, or at least as long as he there had been passengers in the back seat of his car. This he did remember. His older child was nine two months ago. His listening pleasure consisted of the two chatterboxes in the back seat mixed with either Morning Edition, All Things Considered, or Fresh Air on the way to or coming back from somewhere. He was always going somewhere.

This morning he ventured down to a local coffeehouse and ordered his standard drink, an Americano. His hope was that the exceedingly hot bitter black liquid inside the recycled paper cup with a lid and a stupid red straw sticking out of it would help clear his mind. The red straw just nearly altered his mind enough to wreck his intended goal of mind-sweeping that he was so intent on engaging in. He prayed silently that he would not be dropped in on by a friend or neighbor. God must have heard Samuel's prayer. He recognized no one in the little coffee shop. His coffee was very good, by the way. Rich but not overpowering with a subtle complexity most putzs wouldn't appreciate. Samuel did know his coffee even if he didn't exactly know what was going on.

What had he became? He quickly figured his age. He was an LP. Almost. 33 and 1/4th years old. One more month and he would spin at that beautiful, magical speed of 33 and 1/3rd RPM. Aside from being an LP, and feeling nearly as obsolete, Samuel calculated that he had became the shmuck from so many of the movies his wife loved. "I"m bored with life, disappointed with myself, I don't recognize myself in the mirror," his list got longer, "I've got no hobbies that I do and no guy friends to do them with, and little, if any, respect from virtually anyone I contact on a regular basis." He thought of how the shmuck from the movies always founds someway to redeem himself and get his life back. If only real problems could be sorted out in 90 minutes. He didn't feel like he was in a date night comedy. He thought his life more closely resembled a Coen brother's film where some psychopathic drug cartel boss sums up a man's life two minutes before he coolly liquifies his vital organs with a single blast from a 12 gauge shotgun. If only his life were that exciting. Getting a coupe de grace execution by a guy with fucked-up sense of principles didn't seem life too bad of a way out at this point.

It was that that he wanted. Out, that is. Out of the mendacity that his life had become. He used to be human, he thought. He used to laugh, have fun, exercise, read, jam out in the car. He didn't know what he was now but he was pretty sure that he wasn't the same Samuel he was 15 years ago. Pretty damn sure, really. He was ready, he thought, to take a step on a journey whose end he could envision. The most troubling thing was, while he did have an idea of who it was that he was searching for, he had no conception of what the road back to himself looked like. If he did, he might not have taken a step. He would have gone to the barber like the shmuck he had become.

1st Thing, Poet, Have a Plan

2011-07-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, while chasing down my highly irregular garbage man, I spotted a t-shirt on a neighborhood walker that caught my attention. It read, "A goal without a plan is only a dream." I let that thought sink in throughout that day and visualized its application in several areas. Specifically it brought to mind what happened in Joplin. What would we do if a natural disaster of that scale happened here? Would we be helpless, waiting on someone to rescue us? What if that someone was in need as much as we are? I had intended to write a blog entry on that angle, but I'm afraid that is putting the cart before the horse. Let us look at the plan itself first.

A plan is a great thing that is often greatly maligned. Some folks are intimidated by a plan. They think that a plan is nothing more than an overly complex way to do something. Other folks believe that plans get in the way of living "in the moment" They like the uncomplicated, easy-going lifestyle that allows for spur of the moment decision making. G.K. Chesterton once wrote that poets never go mad, but mathematicians do. He isn't saying that poets never go mad because they never plan and mathematicians do go mad because they are calculating their lives away, but rather that poets note the logical progression of things and duplicate that in their art and lives. They see the plan before them. They study it. They synthesize it. They produce based on the model they studied.

My kids came up to me early this spring with the desire to have a tree house. We've got a great backyard for it with several large trees and a gently sloping terrain. The mental wheels began turning. A tree house with a zip-line entry and fireman's pole exit. I didn't go out haphazardly and nail a bunch of lumber to the tree and tell the kids, "Here ya go!" That would be a plan for disaster. First, I studied the trees in my backyard and selected the best one for the job. Unfortunately, the tree I selected decided otherwise and died this spring. Not all is lost, though. For standing close beside it was a tree now know as Plan Bee. Plan Ay is scheduled to become fire wood, and Plan Bee has been trimmed for its new tree house.

So what does my plan look like? I designed the tree house on a paper plate. I'm no artist, but I did manage a rough sketch of the tree and what I wanted the tree house to look like. I also estimated how much lumber, bolts, and other such supplies I will need to complete the project. Right there in #2 pencil on a 5 cent plate is a plan for my kids' tree house. I've heard of folks drawing up house plans on a napkin so I'm sure that my paper plate will stand up to scrutiny at the liars' table.

In my garage I have a factory service manual for a 1992 Range Rover. Thankfully, the Range Rover is gone, but I did keep the manual as a reminder to carefully consider any vehicle before laying down the cash for it! Back to the manual. If you were to look through that manual, some 1000 pages, mind you, you could see a plan for that vehicle. Every major part of the car is exploded to reveal the little parts that make it up. The book tells you how to remove, repair, and re-install each of these parts in detail. This is a big, complex plan. But, when you get in tune (forgive the pun) with the manual, you can locate the part you are having trouble with and get it repaired by following the manufacture's plan.

Plans can range from the super simple to the overwhelmingly complex, but they both accomplish the same thing: they get you to your goal. When you think about it, taking the trash to the curb is a goal. In order for the trash to get from your garage to your curb requires a plan. Someone has to go to the garage, open the garage door, drag the barrels to the street, return to the house, and shut the garage door for this to happen. This is a task so simple that we don't write out the instructions. We simply decide to do the task and perform a series of steps to that end. This task went from dreamland to reality by following a series of logical steps in a pattern, or a plan.

If plans work so well for simple tasks, why do so many people have trouble applying them in other areas of their lives? People find themselves in all manner of trouble without the slightest clue as to how they got there or how to get out. As I said earlier, having no plan is a plan for disaster. With the trouble that God promised us we would have just by nature of being human, I don't need to compound matters further by inviting tragedy into my life as a result of poor or no planning. You wouldn't take off on a three day hike without a first-aid kit or a map of the area, so why do people journey through life without a plan to deal with emergencies or something more than a general idea of where they are heading?

There is no getting around this. You will have something happen to you (or someone you love) that you won't see coming. What do you do? The problem doesn't matter. Your response to it does. Can you get to money fast? Do you know where your important paper work is? Can you get to a place of safety? Do you have a place of safety? A good generic term for what I'm referring to here is insurance. Whether it is traditional life insurance policy, or getting your family to a place of safety, the problem is the same and it can be asked the same way- Do you have insurance?

When we were kids, my brother and I would make fun of the victims of smaller tragedies- especially those of the more ignorant variety whose domicile was a trailer park. Whether it was a tornado, fire, or ice-storm their inevitable response to the reporter's questions ran along this theme, "We couldn't believe it happened to us" and "I just don't know where to go for help." Not to excuse the fact that my brother and I were being quite tacky in our reaction to these people's problems, the fact remains that (1) anticipation of trouble seldom enters some people's minds, and (2) without a plan for trouble, its arrival is a debilitating event. People are stunned, unable to collect their thoughts, and handicapped by confusion. They are vulnerable. Very vulnerable.

Lesson number 1: have insurance in the form of life of one sort (a piece of paper that says your death gives money to your family), life of another sort (a skill set and equipment that helps keep you and your family alive in the event dog turds hit the fan), trouble of one sort (cash at hand to deal with storm damage, A/C, car, or plumbing failures), and trouble of another sort (you or someone in your household gets sick, you have a car crash, or house fire).

This type of planning comes first for a reason. A catastrophic event that might be assuaged could turn into something that totally upsets the way the things I address below turn out.

Where are you going? I mean, where do you envision yourself in 50 years? 30 years? 10 years? As my neighbor's t-shirt said, "A goal without a plan is only a dream." Am I dreaming that I'll be the president and CEO of my own business with a life membership to the country club and a vacation home in Aspen? The question this scenario begs is, "How are you going to get there?" If I'm too busy playing golf at Cedars and spending the capital that needs to be used starting my business now, I'll never be skiing with the rich and famous on Colorado's most exclusive slopes.

The best way to think about this aspect of planning is to start at the ultimate goal and work your way back. To get to Z, I'll need to stop by Y, but not before I go to X..... You get the picture. Call it reverse engineering or long range goal setting, it all works the same way. You set a goal and work toward it. You monitor and adjust along the way. You don't make compromises on principles, and you don't let the unexpected catch you unawares.

An example of planning for the long term might be something like an international vacation. Few people have the luxury of being able to travel across the globe on a whim. We have to plan and think forward for a long period of time to make this happen. What is it going to cost? How much do I want to be able to spend while I'm there? How do I get a passport? Does my health insurance cover me overseas? How long can I stay? How long am I going to save for this trip? I'm sure this is just the tip of the ice burg as far as those questions are concerned but the point is made. This trip is going to require a lot of planning in order for it to come to pass.

When a person has made the decision to pursue that goal, a road map of sorts needs to made with the end destination being the fruition of the trip. The first stop on that journey might be to the Post Office and an application for a Passport. Next, you might set up a savings account with an automatic deposit from your paycheck. Towards the end of that map you might have steps like making arrangements for your plants and pets to be watered. At each step along the way you get closer to the goal and can check the small steps you take along the way off of the road map.

This same method can be applied to any goal I can think of. Lesson number 2 is exam yourself. Answer the following question in regard to these areas: Family, Health, Passions, Education, Career, Travel- What do I want in the area of _____ XX years from now? Exam each of these areas in your life and decide what needs to be done so that you can achieve that goal. Break the journey down to small steps and begin checking those steps off in a steady and orderly fashion. Don't cheat! Especially on those goals you set for your leisure. If you need to save money for it, save the money! A vacation or third car that you have to borrow money to go on or get is an exercise in foolishness. You'll resent ever committing to either down the road when the memories of the trip dull or the car needs work. As my friend Lawrence says, "There is no such thing as buyer's remorse when you pay in cash." When you borrow, the same cannot be said.

Also it is must be stated that a good way to burn out on using planning is to begin too much too fast. I listed six areas where a person could use planning in the long run and many more catagories useful for preparing for emergencies under the term insurance. Taking it all on right away is comparable to jumping into the deep end without knowing how to swim. Even among your goals you should proceed in an orderly fashion. Beginning with that deep down desire to pick up your new Corvette in Bowling Green, Kentucky and ending with finally getting that life insurance policy is down right goofy. Take care of your insurance type stuff first, and begin planning for the long term stuff as they appear in terms of priority. My Passion for a new Corvette is overshadowed by the need for a Healthy body.

Like the Chesire Cat said to Alice, "If you don't know where you are going, it really doesn't matter which way you go."

The Awakening

2011-07-03T18:45:00.000-07:00

No, this entry is not critique of Kate Chopin's famous work of the same name, yet the plot line does have some similarities. One big exception is that at the end of this story I don't stroll out into the Gulf and drown myself to punctuate my frustrations against a patriarchal society.

What I'm speaking about here is an awakening of affections- those things that I have loved in the past and put away for one reason of another. Now there are things for us all that we leave behind, and it should be that way. I loved Lincoln Logs and Play-Do as a child, but they have little appeal to me today. There are other things that we do that give us deep satisfaction that we need to hold on to. They give us an outlet for stress, produce higher levels of pleasure, or just give us time to reflect on things. Our high speed, low drag society has taught us to go faster, and stay at it longer with the end result being whole generations of men and women burnt out, stressed out, and deeply dissatisfied with their lives. This should not be.

For instance, one of my favorite playtime activities as a child was to go out into the woods and walk around by myself. I would think about things, create stories, act them out, and sometimes, just climb up on a tree and sit there for hours. It should come as no surprise that I still love to go out into the woods alone and walk around or sit for hours. I don't create narratives and act them out anymore (perhaps to my own demise), but I do find, and probably for the same reasons now as it was then, that it provides for me deep satisfaction and a level of pleasure that all the Cappacino-Chunky Chocolate frozen yogurt in the world could not gain for me.

This last year has been one that has allowed me to notice those things that provide deep satisfaction to me. It is a constant battle to fight against a worldly system that would have me working sun-up till sun-down and hours into the night, eating terrible food, and missing out on any occasion to renew my mind. All of these things are contrary to scripture. Yes, man was cursed to work by the sweat of his brow, but our society doubles that curse with the poison of greed. And what is the world's fuel for all this work? In the South ( it's no accident that the Bible Belt and the Diabetes Belt wrap around the same folks!) we have the convenience of fried foods and buffet restaurants. I, ashamedly, have spent an inordinate amount of time at those fronts-for-the-Mexican-drug-cartels that permeate the landscape of NWA, eating refried beans (mashed beans with pig fat added), queso and chips (fat/corn/fat combo), and other "Mexican" delicacies. It has taken it's toll upon my body and given the drug cartels a way to launder the money from the other scourge that they are responsible for (Full disclosure- I have no evidence of this. It is only a theory, but with the ATF sending guns to Mexico, I don't think it is too far of a stretch.) So we are working too much and eating too much what else could go wrong? Oh, we fill up what remains of our time with stuff (George Carlin had a good skit on "Stuff"). I find my time wasted with poor planning, pleasing other people, and other people wasting my time. Some of the time, I can't do anything about other people wasting my time. I am learning, though.

Getting it Back

A couple of years ago I bought my wife a new stereo for her birthday. It had an iPod dock. You know what comes next. One orange iPod Nano with a lot of empty space on it arrived at our doorstep not too long after this. I had always liked music, but its expense, changing formats, combined with the demands of family life left me pushing music to the fringes of my life. I spent a few nights transferring what was left of my CD collection to the iPod and began to enjoy good vibrations in the house and even out and about again.

About the same time that this was happening my hippie friend Steve and I ventured down to Mulberry Mountain to catch the Harvest Fest. It had been years since I had gone to a concert so I was really excited about it and was not disappointed. There is just something about live music. You'll never, if the band is worth a hoot, hear "That Song" that way again.

In the succeeding time I have found new favorites and, with the lovely 20/20 vision that hindsight offers, missed quite a bit of good stuff too. The White Stripes, my favorite band, played out their entire career before my re-awakening to music. They played their last concert in 2009 while not announcing their break-up until February of this year. The Black Keys played the 2010 Harvest Fest, months before I even knew who they were. Oh well...

The point is I've got a decent library of music on my computer and iPod and I'm enjoying listening to great music during those moments that I can steal away.

As I alluded earlier, my body is not in its best condition. On the positive side the fact that at one time I was athletic has left me with a body that doesn't look too bad. I am not egregiously obese, maybe 15-20 pounds overweight. Looks can be deceiving, though. I had lost the stamina that I once had. My strength was diminishing and my pants getting tighter. The facade was about to fall. With this in mind I joined Cardio Studio about three weeks ago. What a difference three weeks makes. I'm running at least 1.5 miles and giving my body an orderly workout five times a week. The stamina is returning along with the strength and my pants are fitting better. And I feel better. I feel more like I did 10, 15 years ago.

Music is a done deal. Physical conditioning, a work in progress and progressing well. What is left? I want a Jeep. It has been 15 years since I've had a removable top Jeep. I've had a couple of Suzuki Samurais since then, but as they are a bit under-powered for daily driving activities, they could never fill that void. Why a Jeep? It is one way I can get out into the woods and tour the back country in a relaxing, reassuring manner. For this desire to come to pass I am waiting for God to move while trying to follow his instructions on handling money. When things look impossible or just really stinking hard, I've learned not to give up hope. So here's to an '03-04 Jeep Wrangler, lifted a little, slightly taller tires, traction aiding devices, and a tank full of petrol!

Things That (don't) Work: Sigg Steelworks Bottles

2011-06-12T05:28:00.000-07:00

I love the canteen. A durable, re-useable, highly portable water container. It shouldn't be all that hard to get it right. Apparently it might be harder than I thought. Last August I got a H2Go canteen while in Colorado at the Wild at Heart Boot Camp. The only thing that irritated my about that bottle was that it only had 24oz of capacity. I found myself draining the bottle before my need for water was quenched. I wanted a quart/liter sized bottle and after accidentally destroying the H2Go canteen, I began a search for a replacement that would fit my needs. Unfortunately, I didn't search long enough.

What I found was a very visually appealing canteen. The bottle got my attention based on its description and its name, Sigg's Steelworks. It sounded like something a guy named Sven hammered out of hot iron. The canteen has a thick ring at the top where the threads are and seemed to be build from robust steel. The twist cap had easy to grip surfaces and a think aluminum ring that would be easy to attach to a carabiner or lanyard. The canteen looked tough. Very tough. Maybe I would get years of rough service use out of it. Maybe I would have discovered a truly great water bottle that my friends would be envious of. Maybe.

Disappointment began upon arrival. It looked like it had been hit lightly with a ball-peen hammer about a dozen times. Hmm. An eyebrow raised. But I was still excited and promptly washed it out and filled it up for first drink. I took off the twist cap only to discover that the cap had very fine threads on it. I began to sink into buyer's remorse. These fine threads require careful attention not to cross-thread upon closing the canteen. The prospect of having a rough use and durable water bottle was beginning to fizzle out. This canteen was more at home at the mall than a trail.

I imagined myself mowing grass on a scorching summer day. I've stopped for a quick swig and hastily re-stopped the bottle, cross-threading it along the way. The bottle tips over as I resume edging my driveway and its contents, the life sustaining water, the restorative nectar for physically depleted lifeforms all over the earth, drips slowly, but constantly out of the bottle. I return later, parched, to find an empty bottle lying next to a rather smug looking dandelion. Is it possible for a weed to laugh at you?

This was three months ago. Have I destroyed the bottle in that time? Not entirely. I have, with considerable respect for the fine thread of the cap, made a religion of re-stopping the bottle (No, no, no, my son. You must do it this way. Focus. Breathe deeply. Relax. Slow down. Gently twist the cap. It must feel smooth. If it fights you, you are out of sync with nature.) . After sacrificing a spotless black kitty-cat and following the above procedure to the "t", I've managed to keep the bottle alive for the time being. It does look a little worse for the wear, though.

It has been dropped a few times. The first major drop left a big ding on the bottom edge of the bottle. It looked like a reinforced area, but, rest assured, it's not. The second drop occurred at my daughter's tee-ball game a few nights ago. It must have landed on the (wait for it........) twist cap. I quickly picked up the bottle to get out of some other folk's way only to discover later that the "thick aluminum ring" had parted company with the bottle. Whatever their differences were, I was indignant about their separation and sought reunification post haste. After searching for about ten minutes, I found the aluminum part in the dust, but the carabiner that was attached to the ring was by then in the possession of some tee-baller or an older sibling. I wish they had taken my bottle instead. That carabiner was a good one...

After thinking about this bottle for a while now, I've concluded that it must have been originally designed to carry something besides water. It looks more like an MSR or Optimus white gas bottle than a water bottle. I'm not so sure that it wouldn't work better as a fuel bottle anyway. If I find out later that the threads are the same for an MSR bottle, I'm going to be ticked!

Verdict: Run far, far away from Sigg's Steelworks canteen. They do make other bottles, however. Hopefully they have nothing in common with this particular bottle. If I gave "stars" for my reviews, this product would get 1 out of 5. It does look cool, and it holds a lot of water, but it has none of the toughness that its name implies. I'll sell you mine really cheap...

Stihl Stuff

2011-06-05T06:10:00.000-07:00

When it comes to outdoor power equipment for those O so manly tasks of weed trimming, blowing leaves and grass clippings off the driveway, and felling mighty trees, it is not uncommon to see the name Stihl and its ubiquitous orange encased trimmers, blowers, and saws performing the task. The Stihl folks have been in the business of vegitation anihilation for a long time and have managed to saturate the globe with their presence. In my region when one sees a lawn care truck en route to a job there is about a 75% chance that it will be carrying Stihl products. But why?

I would have to speculate that the reason is they work. Not much else to say. I guess I could speculate as to why 25% of the lawn care professionals around here use Echo, Shindiawa, or some other brand, but why waste that time?

I'd rather write about why Stihl convinced me to buy in and why I keep buying in. When I began looking for a new weed-wacker four years ago to replace the Weed-Eater that I thrashed while cutting weeds I had borrowed my wife's uncle's Stihl. It was the FS72 model, about 5-7 years old, and a curved shaft homeowner unit too boot. It also did the bulk of the work on the 1/2 acre brushy hillside job that managed to kill my Weed-Eater (after only one day!) To say that I was impressed would be an understatement.

I couldn't keep Uncle Doc's trimmer forever, so I saved my mowing money and began the search for my own trimmer. I looked in the local mower shops and checked out the brands they carried. What I discovered was that some manufacturers made only trimmers and blowers and they tended to be stupidly expensive. Some manufactures made complete lines of products, but their "tech data" was a bit hard to locate (i.e. they either didn't state how much power the device made or didn't tell you at all). Since Stihl made a full range of products in each catagory I began to lean in that direction. As I did more research on the topic I discovered that when you buy a Stihl product, it comes fully assembled and ready to go. They even fill out the warranty card and send it in for you. Not to mention that my dealer has been selling Stihl as long as I can remember and is an authorized service center. I was sold on Stihl.

So when I had saved up my money and selected the model I wanted I went down to Yeager's True Value to talk to Lance. Thirty minutes later I was the proud owner of an (now discontinued) FS80R. It is important to note here that Stihl and other manufacturers are working to comply with emission regulation that has crept into the small motor world. They are making very small 4-cycle or hybrid motors that do not have the characteristics of a good old 2-stroke. My FS80R is a true 2-stroke. Currently Stihl makes a few models that are 2-stroke and several models in what they call 4Mix. Talk to your dealer to get a feel for what you would be most comfortable with.

The FS80R is a straight shaft trimmer with a 1.27 hp motor. Most trimmers in this price range of less than $300(when I researched them) were hovering around 1hp or not listing the power figure at all which is code for "we cannot tell you how little power it makes because you would buy something else if we did." The el-cheapo factor for this particular trimmer is that it has a cable driveshaft (like all curved shaft trimmers) instead of a solid steel shaft. This means that the trimmer cannot safely use a brush cutter blade. After seeing what its little brother did to that gnarly hillside with regular line, I had no problem conceding this point. It would be appropriate to mention here that the powerful motor this thing possesses is reason enough to don plenty of protective gear. I never operate this trimmer without safety glasses and hearing protection. And sometimes that is not enough. I would rather have a full face mask- rocks and trigs flung from the head of this trimmer hurt when they hit you at the speed of sound! It goes without saying that denim pants and boots are a good idea too.

I've used this trimmer for three full seasons now and we are working on a fourth. I've never had to pull more than three times to start it (even in the dead of winter on stale gas). I've lubed the cutting head and used real gas at the proper mixture. It cuts as good now as it did on day one. End of story, part I.

At the beginning of last season my hand-me-down Weed-Eater blower gave up the ghost. What to do, oh, what to do. Well to be perfectly honest, I did shop around, but not for too long. I wanted a blower that had vacuum ability as well. Stihl had two and I selected the more expensive one. It was more expensive because of a rubber mounted engine for less vibration and it had a more powerful motor than the other model. Once again this machine is easy to start, does what it's supposed to do, and is easy to maintain. End of story, part II.

One of the things I like most about our new house was the Man-cave located downstairs complete with a fire place. You can see where this is going. MUST HAVE CHAINSAW!!! Chainsaws are just cool. I guess one could postulate that the chainsaw is the modern equivalent of an axe or a sword. Whatever the theory is, or the technology level is, a man (or woman, I suppose) needs something to cut dead branches from trees or cut them down when they get in the way or die. And unless you just like paying someone to cut your firewood for you, it just makes sense to do it yourself with your own saw.

This being the case, I made my pilgrimage to Yeager's to check over their selection of saws. The conclusion I came to was that I needed two saws. I had one saw's worth of money so a tough decision was made. I went with the traditional MS250 with an 18 inch bar. It has a 45.4 cc, 3 horsepower motor and slices through blackjack oak like a knife through butter. My debate was between a lighter arborist's saw designed for limbing trees and a traditional saw. This type of saw is much lighter (while still powerful) and has a different handle arrangement than a traditional saw. I'll get that one down the road. I'm strong enough still to use the MS250 overhead so I think I can wait. End of story, part III.

The result is that I've got three pieces of equipment from the same manufacturer, one gas can, and a dealer that knows me by name and has yet to service any of the equipment he has sold me. I've got what I paid for and, anymore, that is saying something.

Is Stihl expensive? Yes, initially, it is. To compare Stihl with a brand like Echo, which is found in stores like Home Depot, but is also sold in professional mower shops, one finds that they have similar models and are priced similarly. By buying a machine in a Home Depot, or Lowes you give up getting a factory trained salesperson and the ability to get the machine serviced where you bought it. If it is not worth the stores time to make that investment to insure that I'm not getting a lemon and that it was properly assembled, I'm not willing to spend my money on that tool with them. Color me Stihl orange.

"34"

2011-04-05T08:09:00.000-07:00

I just used a highly scientific method to determine the topic for my blog post today, my birthday, my 34th year. I took the book of the Bible that is the same as my name and looked up the chapter by the tens place and the verse by the ones place. This verse (Mark 3:4) happens to read, "Then Jesus asked them, 'Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?' But they remained silent." Oddly enough, it worked out to be an appropriate starter to this post. It fits my state of mind. "[T]hey remained silent."

My pastor and best friend said to his congregation last week that the number two problem in America, behind renegade males who renege on their responsibilities, is people who know what is right and don't do it. Willful disobedience is different from disobedience out of ignorance. Willful disobedience comes from the the self-centered nature of people. "[T]hey remained silent." "They" knew what was right. They knew that the Sabbath was created for man, not man for the Sabbath. They chose to ignore what God said was right and went along polluting and corrupting the worship of God.

The Wizard of Oz had everyone wear green glasses when in the "Emerald City." These glasses filtered everything the people there saw. Things that aren't green appear green when you are wearing green glasses. Things that are right appear to be wrong when you are wearing the wrong metaphorical glasses. Our paradigm of the world can be really messed up and we don't even realize it.

Since I've broached the matter of self-absorption, I'll continue down that path. The self-absorbed don't see the wrong they commit to other people. "What? Why is she so upset? What is her problem?" It never occurs to this person that they are the cause of this person's offense. I'm certain that we are all, to some extent, plagued by self-absorption to one degree or another. I certainly cannot claim immunity to this scourge. But, like anyone else, my heart breaks when the self-absorption of others has an effect on me. My pastor said in that same sermon that the miracle of salvation is not being saved. It is becoming others-centered. Self-less. Your soul is the easy part.

He Was Made That Way

2011-02-28T10:19:00.000-08:00

Shlomo Weisel cautioned his young son Eliezer that he should not study the mystics until he was thirty, He survived the Holocaust and went on to be one of the great minds of our age.

Pablo Picasso's close friend committed suicide and he entered into his "Blue" period which was succeeded by his "cubism" period and he changed the landscape (pun intended) of art to this day.

Then, there is me.

This year, the 34th one of my life, has been one of great upheaval. This tumult has been good and bad. As my birthday approaches it will put one calender year of time between the beginning of my journey to recover what was lost and now. How have I done? Like I said above, there has been good and bad. It's not an easy question to answer.

To save you some time by short-cutting to the end I'll say that I have discovered why I became the man I was. I realized the peril that I, my children, and my marriage were in as a result of this state. I took steps to remedy this area. I found out that the world is not receptive to a man being a man and that there are no short-cuts.

The Industrial Revolution really did a number on Western Civilization. In making great conquests in technology and comfort we gave up culture and pleasure. For the convenience of quantitative production we became specialists in skills that are, for the most part, incapable of sustaining life. The result of 200 years of moving away from a culture whose main attributes were tradition and subsistance is that we now have no tradition and self-indulgence as a collective goal of life.

Nearly everything has became industrialized in our modern lives. As I write this I am sipping on a Dr. Pepper. My workplace? In a "factory" school. The clothes on my back were made in Southeast Asia and my car in Japan. Our culture is based on things and absent of meaningful traditions.

The one corporate activity I am involved in that is scriptural, and, in my opinion, is as close to what the church was intended to be as any church I know of is still plagued on occasion with institutional thinking. How could it be otherwise? Our parents, their parents, and their parents before them have been increasingly lulled into mass institutionalization.

It is who we are now.

So I am sitting here in the middle of the most civilized nation on Earth, a civilized man.

Robert Bly in his book Iron John proposes that in the fairy tales, specifically the little known tale of "Iron John," we see archetypal (universal truths that transcend language and borders. Example: A doorway represents a transition to the unknown) truths about mankind. These archetypal truths are still evident in the "heathen" societies. We have forgotten them.

Paraphrasing Bly, he says that women have something inside of them that is innately feminine. Girls become women by simple maturation and being around other women. Boys, however, do not become men in the company of women or even other males within their age range. They must leave the woman- the mother- and enter into the active presence of older men. He goes to the father. He goes to uncles, grandfathers, tribal elders. Bly writes about societies where the boy goes to work with his father. He learns a trade and those things that, were we mountain lions or armadillos, we would know instinctively, and we have found to exist in the collective knowledge of human experience. The time the boy spends with men builds up to a crescendo of initiation. The boy ceremoniously becomes a man.

In most cultures this happens around the age of thirteen. What happens to our young men at thirteen? No, we can't ask that question yet. We have to look at how our society is working from the cradle onward. Dads-daughters.com cites 36.3% of children live without their biological father in the home. Derek Prince in his study on the issue concluded that the worst problem facing our nation is "renegade males." Not the deficit. Not any war we are engaged in or the economy but, as he put it, "renegade males."

By thirteen years of age a young man is likely to have a poor male role model or maybe not one at all. Even if he has a good father, he most likely doesn't have a father who takes him to work with him each day. Our life's work is often a mystery to our sons. We can't even explain it to them. So what does he do for initiation into manhood? John Eldredge says he turns to women for sex, brute strength for manliness, or checks out altogether into passivity. None of these offers any sort of validation or initiation into manhood. Oh it might feel manly to make love to a woman but she cannot initiate you into manhood. Remember, she can make a young lady into a woman and can identify manly characteristics in males, but her formative abilities stop there. Likewise a brute of a young man my learn to love the taste of blood and the feel of bone against bone, but the ability to fight well is possessed by all manner of beasts. That a man loves violence for the sake of violence is an indictment on the degraded state of manliness.

Bly says these males lack "the ability to shudder means feeling how frail human beings are, and how awful it is to be a Titan [Cronos, who castrated his own father and later ate his own children except for Zeus.]" To shudder is to be able to feel grief associated with the human condition.

The last group of males, those who check out of life and into a prison of multi-faceted atrophy, spend their lives with a growing numbness possessing them. The can't feel, love, or fight. They experience the world through other people's terms. Bly writes:

During the last thirty years men have been asked to learn how to go with the flow, how to follow rather than lead, how to live in a nonheirarchal way, how to be vulnerable, how to adopt consenus decision-making. Some women want a passive man if they want a man at all; the church wants a tamed man-they are called priests; the university wants a domesticated man-they are called tenure-track people; the corporation wants a team- worker, and so on. (Iron John, 61)

Males go to the woman to seek validation, males kill each other sans any emotion, males totally checked out of life. As my mentor said to me the other day, "[t]he man is the Christ figure [in the family] and he is the one who is attacked by the enemy." As military leaders the world over know, a wounded soldier requires more money, time, and manpower to deal with than a dead one. So our demonic adversary knows this as well. Wounded men require a tremendous amount of resources to deal with, heal, or put away.

My goal in writing this is not to come off as a misogynistic neanderthal- quite the opposite rather. Our society has been bent from its archetypal intent by a great scheme and a great number of us have been influenced by this scheme unawares. The extent of the damage is, to borrow Elie Weisel's statement, "on the level of creation." There is a reason that God made us distinguished by our sex and those differences are our strengths. A man is the leader of the house not by his will or that he is physically stronger than the woman, but because it is God's plan that he be the leader. He was designed that way.

John Eldredge proposes that he was designed to first be the Beloved Son, a cherished boy in whom his father takes great delight . He next grows into the Cowboy-an adventurer learning how the world works. As he enters manhood he becomes the Warrior. Literally he is the age of the soldier, all spit and vinegar and ready to take off on a grand adventure at a moments notice. At some point around thirty, he begins to settle down, to focus on the woman-winning the woman-the Lover it is called. As children come and his influence increases he becomes the King of his domain. As the kids grow up and leave and he approaches retirement he enters the stage of his greatest influence, the stage of the Sage.

The man is designed to be complete. He is designed to take risk, to lead men, to teach children, to fight for his family. He is not designed to be a servant to his base desires, nor to be a career pugilist, nor a doormat for the world to wipe its feet on. As I wrote in another post, he is a figure, who like God and state troopers, doesn't have to earn your respect. It is due him.

A Flexible Reading List

2011-02-12T19:15:00.000-08:00

If you have noticed a common thread in the stack of books in the above illustration, you have got my drift. About five years and one month ago I picked up a copy of Edmond Morris's The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt in the lobby of a Houston, Texas Hotel. I knew virtually nothing of the 26th president. Morris opened my eyes. Roosevelt was a sickly rich kid who grew up to be a man of the world, a man's man, a man that was truly exceptional. I read the first book, hanging on every word, followed in short succession to Theodore Rex, chronicling Roosevelt's Presidential years. By this point I was enamored with Roosevelt and anxiously awaiting the release of third volume which I now have in my possession, Colonel Roosevelt.

Also in this stack is John Eldredge's The Way of the Wild Heart. I've read and been greatly influenced by his book Wild at Heart. This particular volume deals with the six stages of the masculine journey. It is fascinating to see these stages of men's lives carved out and explained. A boy needs to be the Beloved Son. He grows into the Cowboy and from there into the Warrior. As an adult, he becomes the Lover and progresses from there to the King. The last stage in the masculine journey is the Sage. Why is it important to know these things? Because as a father it is good to recognize where your son is at a given time. Becoming a man is not something that one can buy, not something that one can pass time and receive. Manhood is earned and it is bestowed by the company of other men. As an adult it is good to see where you may have been wounded on this journey. And best of all, it provides a way to restore what was lost, no matter what stage you are "supposed" to be in.

One of the books Eldredge cites with high frequency is Iron John, by Robert Bly. Bly is a scholar who is well versed in the genres of fairy tales and poetry. He analyzes the tale of "Iron John", a story where a "wild man" is found at the bottom of a pond, is captured, imprisoned, and released with the aid of a young man. He has researched the traditions of cultures throughout the world in the raising of boys into men. Western society has razed young men while the "primitive" cultures have young men who earn their manhood. It is a riveting account from a secular point of view that faults Western society and the Christian Church in the destruction of manliness as a virtue.

Also on the topic of gender roles are the two books on the bottom of the pile, The Daring Book for Girls and The Dangerous Book for Boys. These two books are full of history, activities, experiments, and advice- all geared for young men and women in the vein of cultural literacy and adventure. My impression of them so far is that they are a survival guide, in both a social and natural sense and a reference manual of great import for the elementary and middle school age child. I am anxious to see my kids explore these books.

I have made a pledge to read daily this year from Oswald Chambers' My Utmost for His Highest. This work is a daily devotional compiled from the devotionals Mr. Chambers delivered at the University where he worked. The devotionals are laden with meaning and well seasoned, if sometimes hard to swallow, bits of Biblical counsel. It is teaching me much in its daily application.

The only works of literature in the stack is the Elie Weisel Trilogy of Night, Dawn, and Day.

Night, the autobiographical account of Weisel, is his sickening tale his family being marched from the ghetto in Sighet, Romania, the separation of the men from the women (and the implied nearly immediate deaths of his mother and baby sister), the work and experiences of life in the camps, and his long road to liberation. I read this account to my sophomores to satisfy their non-fiction requirement. I hope they are as moved by it as I am. The two other works, Dawn and Day are works of fiction. Weisel says that to write about the philosophical and ethical issues brought up by the Holocaust lead one to write about the camps and he has already written Night... In Dawn he examines the role of the executioner. The executioner, who is a Holocaust survivor, is a part of a resistance movement in Israel who must execute a British soldier. It is a tale told in an abstract fashion and uses name allegory to make certain points. Clever, thought provoking, and sincere. Day takes the Holocaust survivor to post-war America and pits him once again in a struggle between life and death and uncertain future without the ability to trust people.

Not in the picture, but it should be is Abraham Joshua Heschel's The Sabbath. I've read the introduction (by Susannah Heshal) and the preface so far and can only describe the book in the terms that Heschel uses to describe the Sabbath, a sanctuary in time. Each sentence is pregnant with meaning and the hand of God. I've decided to read this book when I'm free of distraction so that it's counsel can be better absorbed.

I've got a lot of reading ahead of me. I feel sort of like I've enrolled in a 4000 level non-fiction course at the University- sans the pressure, plus the excitement of growth. Check out your local bookstore or Amazon if any of these intrigue you!

Metaphorically Speaking...

2011-01-21T12:41:00.000-08:00

It is easy to talk about something in terms of a metaphor. It is sometimes difficult to give that metaphor real feet.

We often hear of the relationship with Christ and the church spoken of as a marriage. The Bible uses that very term to describe "supper-time in heaven." We are the bride of Christ, His reward when the Father says go get your bride.

Back to the metaphor part of this. If we are a "bride" how, pray tell, are we supposed to conduct our business? And, if this is the case, does this really apply to husband/wife relationships, too?

Paul, I agree, this is a profound mystery. When I look around to see people putting "feet to the Word," I see people who feel led to go to the (growing/trendy/spirit-filled/fill-in-the-blank) church across town. I see people who vote their pastor out on a whim. I see people who, when the preacher says something that offends them, they stop paying their tithes.

I see people who are treat their marriages the same way.

Is it any wonder that people attend the same church for about the same amount of time their marriage lasts? Some would say that the latter has a good deal to do with the former. I say that we (myself included) have a great deal of distance to go before we get to the point where we realize the full import of what Paul wrote in his letter to the Ephesians.

God is not going anywhere. We have to learn to deal with that. We have to learn to feel the weight of that statement. God doesn't divorce his bride. He doesn't contort and mangle Himself to draw his rebellious bride back to Him. He stands. We learn from him. We humble ourselves to admit our fault. We seek reconciliation and accept His terms.

Men are fallible. Your preacher is not perfect. Your husband is not perfect. But this no one can change: the responsibility for the congregation, and by extension, his family lies solely upon his shoulders. If he is in error, it is his fault and not yours. The church has methods in place to correct preachers who are in error and those methods apply to husbands as well. In other words, if what he is doing is not in line with The Book, there is an action plan to take.

"[A]nd his sheep follow [their shepherd] because they know his voice." (John 10:4)

The sheep don't select their shepherd. They don't rove about looking for a better shepherd, trying this one and that. They listen for his voice. They follow him to water, to food, to rest.

In doing so the shepherd is made happy. And he is even more delighted when one who was lost is found.

Like God, a man is a force to reckon with. He needs to stand. His weight needs to be felt by those around him. He doesn't need to be a bully. He needs to know what direction he is leading his family. He needs to make sure his family is safe and protected along the way so those who would hurt them will feel his weight in the most appropriate manner.

We have to learn to deal with this.

Too bad it wasn't God's idea.

2011-01-18T09:07:00.000-08:00

My pastor tells the story of a famous minister

who had a great idea. The idea was revolutionary, highly effective, and not God's idea. Talk about taking the wind from your sails. God told him, "That is a great idea, too bad I didn't give it to you." Permission to proceed denied. Start over. Go back to the drawing board. Or, he might avoid the drawing board altogether and check with God as to what he should be doing. Now there's a novel idea.

Jesus said, "Seek me first." Gulp. What we humans typically do, as my pastor's wife pointed out, is dot all the "i's" and cross all of the "t's". Our inner narrative goes something like this:

"Ok, I want to make 6 figures so I need an MBA- preferably from a good school. Once I work my way into a good company, I'll need a trophy wife, to live in the right neighborhood, join the right church/country club/civic organization...."

And we will not once ask God where he wants us. We implore His intervention when the house of cards we have built comes crashing down. We are in the emergency room needing marriage counseling, financial help, and a real relationship with God. No doubt He will be there to help you, but His best is not the "miracle". His best for us is to listen to what he has been saying all along.

Yes, we should seek God when we have a choice to make. Think of all the marriages you know of that have failed. Might it be said that those couples entered into that contract ill-advised?

To quote Dr. Phil, "How's that working for you?"

God began to speak with me concerning a decision I had made (to be clear, He was speaking the whole time). I had taken action on what I thought I should be doing. As it turns out those actions were going over like the proverbial lead balloon. "Too bad it wasn't my idea," God said to me.

It never feels good to admit that you were wrong and this was no different. I had to admit to myself that I had not sought first the Kingdom, I had to admit that I had lost valuable ground and time in not going the direction God wanted me to go. Like a lost hiker, I had to retrace my steps and unearth the trail. I'm seeking what God wants as opposed to what I want.

To put the verse that I'm alluding to in context I quote Matt 6:25-34

^"25 “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? ²⁶ Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? ²⁷ Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life^{a]" style="font-size: 0.75em; line-height: 0.5em; ">[a]}?

²⁸ “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. ²⁹ Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. ³⁰ If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? ³¹ So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ ³² For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. ³³ But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. ³⁴ Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

Jesus tells us that so long as our intent is to seek and do His will, our needs will be taken care of. I'll have what I need (more than enough, I'm sure) and I'll have nothing to worry about. If I have the faith that He's given me salvation, is it too much of a stretch to believe that He wants to guide me and in that guiding He will take care of me?

Not Safe

2011-01-14T12:42:00.000-08:00

This video has been floating around on the internet for a while. If you've not seen it, well, now's your chance.

What was your first thought when you watched it? Mine was, "Damn, I wish that I was one of those guys!" I know. Stupid, huh. But then again, maybe not.

There is a lot to say about good shot placement when dealing with dangerous game. They are, afterall, dangerous. And that they are dangerous is reason enough for man to persue them. What is a deer going to do to you? I know that people have been killed by the docile Whitetail before, but I don't think that risk of being gored comes to the top of most deer hunter's list of reasons why they hunt.

Dangerous game must be hunted by a sufficiently powerful rifle and cartridge. It is usually hunted in fairly close quarters by hunters on foot. The margin of error for hunting dangerous game is fairly slim. You want to hit your mark. You want a guide or professional hunter with you to back you up if you miss. You don't want to be too close.

So, this crazy blogger says, "I wish that was me." Not shooting a lethal 1st shot? Not even a lethal 2nd shot? Yep. I have some crazy idea that having a wounded (i.e. extremely pissed off) lion charging me from less than 50 yards is fun. You might think suicidal. I think primal.

The truth of the matter is that I may never get to hunt dangerous African game. But also true is the fact that so many men are walking around as mere shadows of what they are meant to be. We are so much more than what we've become. This lion hunt is a metaphor for life. There are a few men out there taking on challenges, risking it all for the hope of a return, but the vast majority of men are shirking away from this. We wake by the alarm clock, report to the job and have someone tell us what to do for that day and return home. Day after day. Year after year.

What is my desire for this year? It is to come alive, to have some sort of lion come charging after me. As President Roosevelt said,

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

"When a Man is Needed"

2010-11-15T09:31:00.001-08:00

And now for something completely different...

the Short Story now makes it's debut on the pages of my blog. Forgive any sophomoric tendencies of the author.

It was raining and a sad, dejected little boy sat down at the table to a breakfast he did not want to eat. He had been waiting for his father to return home from yet another business trip and the news from Mother this damp morning was that his father would not be home until Monday. A weekend wasted. All he wanted was to feel the stubble of his father's unshaven face scrape across his cheek as he embraced him and for he and Father to spend the day roughhousing together.

His father was not an exceptionally strong man, not exceptionally anything to speak of, but the boy indeed cherished every moment spent with his father. Father, equally disappointed, longed to be home with his family. He needed rest. He needed the beauty and comfort of his wife and the life that his son inspired in him. Too often he was away while his family arrived at new milestones. Last year, he missed his son's birthday so that his company might increase their bottom line. He was growing weary.

The morning dragged by and the child pondered Mother's offer: a jaunt into town for a matinee with dinner at his favorite youth centered restaurant. This prospect was not too desirable in the boy's eye, but better, he supposed, than watching the rain beat down upon a yard too sodden to play in. He conceded to Mother's offer and the two went off into the garage, keys jingling in Mother's hand.

As the pair drove down the country lane toward the town the boy thought of his hopes for this weekend. Of course he fancied it sunny and warm and in his dream he and Mother were in the back yard enjoying the Father's regal return to his throne. How appropriate the rain was. It was as if all heaven was weeping at the boy's misfortune.

The boy was now began to fight a feeling of anger, not towards his father, but at his absence. "Surely there were other boys whose father's were away sometimes," he thought. "Perhaps he likes to be away." The boy winced at that thought for he knew it to be a lie. Every time Father was away he came back hungry for time with his son and Mother. Bedtime was always extended with ample grace on those blessed evenings when his father returned home.

As the boy pondered this his mind wandered to Father's display of delight with Mother. He would lift her in his arms and spin her around the kitchen floor. There was, of course, the obligatory kiss and the lengthy embrace that accompanied it. He would then sit down at the table and patiently let her fill him in on all the preceding days' notables. The boy would lose his patience and crawl up in Father's lap just to be close to him. The scent of his father mingling with that morning's dose of cologne, the feel of the rough chin occasionally scraping across his youthful, tender forehead, and the firmness of Father's shoulders and chest are all things that the boy sensed. In addition to this his perception of time would go completely haywire. It would be as if he had only just crawled up into Father's lap when drowsiness would overtake him and he would fall asleep there supported gently by the man who loved him most.

He saw that Mother was as sad as he. She spent the better part of the morning in the same gloom that he was in. Mother dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief and on several occasions and looked into the mirror to regain her composure. She pulled her shoulders back, smiled, and, on at least two occasions, said, "Only two more days," to the reflection looking back at her in the mirror. In a moment of forced elation, she made her proposal to the boy in the hope that the trip into town would elevate their spirits, even if just a bit.

Mother's sad face belied her smile on a particular stretch of their journey and, as he noticed her sorrowful expression, it took the boy rather by surprise at his accompanying thought. He had always been sensitive to other people's emotions, but this time he felt compelled to act. Before he even realized the depth of his thought, he spoke to his mother.

"Mother," he boldly stated, "I don't want to go to the matinee." Before she could protest he continued, "Can we go to the University," he hesitated, "to the library?" He had often heard Mother and Father mention this place when they talked to each other in hushed tones.

Mother, a bit shocked at her son's question, paused for a slim moment before returning an answer. "What do we need to do at the University library?" she asked instead of the more obvious questions that passed into her mind.

The boy, not quite sure what to say, once again referred to those hushed words Father spoke to Mother. "To get to know each other?" he asked more than stated. He was now in new territory. His mother, sensing something out of the ordinary, did not seek to retire the boy's subject. "I just want to be somewhere that makes you think of Father," he said finally.

Her eyes moistened once again, though this time for an altogether different reason. She guided the car onto the street that led them to the University. There was no difficulty in finding a parking space this drizzly Saturday afternoon. Before the car had stopped completely the boy had unfastened his seat belt and was racing around the car to open Mother's door. He had seen his father do this all of his life. The smile on his mother's face told him why. Mother was quickly in sync with her son. Delight spread across her face, washing away all of the disappointment and gloom in an instant.

They folded their hands together and directed themselves to the path that led to the library. By the time they arrived at the grand doors they were practically skipping! Mother smiled as she took her son to the fiction study nooks- the very place she and Father met not all that long ago. She explained a few details of her attraction to the boy's father and the boy, who was bursting with excitement reached up to Mother's hands. He knew no dance steps, but did his best to improvise Father's routine there on the carpet of the University's library.

These two went on to enjoy a splendid afternoon together. The boy, aware that something inside of him had changed, was enjoying the charm he had on his mother, yet he missed his father all the more. The smile on his face never revealed it, though. He took Mother on a date. They danced in the library, they went to eat at a grownups' restaurant, and had hot tea (with lots of honey and milk) together afterward. The sun was very low in the sky when they made their way back home. Both were beginning to feel that familiar loneliness of Father's absence.

It was nearly dark by the time their car settled in their drive. Mother noticed that several lights were on in the house. "Son," she said, "why are all of those lights on? Didn't we turn everything off when we left?" The boy was sure they had and bravely suggested that they call on the neighbor to open the house with them. But before Mother could get the car into reverse the front door opened. The cause of the door's action stepped into the faint light. Excitement burst through the air as Mother and child exited the car each racing to Father.

By: Moshe E. Weisman

The World is Too Much With Us; Late and Soon!

2010-11-05T10:07:00.003-07:00

2nd Timothy 2:4 Reads:
"No soldier in active service entangles himself in the affairs of everyday life, so that he may please the one who enlisted him as a soldier." (NASB)

William Wordsworth wrote:
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

We have given our hearts away? Really? To whom and for whom? I would propose that noise is a possible answer to this question. Noise is cacophony, discord, unrest, business, work, leisure, new toys, achievement, passivity, and loneliness. It is a lot of other things, too. In fact, it can be nearly anything you want it to be. Noise, in the auditory sense, is what distracts our attention from something or makes it hard to hear clearly. In terms of oral communications (i.e. Speech Class) it is anything that is going on that takes your attention off of the speaker. This can be literal noise like microphone feedback, crying babies, or a neighbor's sneezing attack, or it can be non-auditory things like how (good, bad, poorly, splendidly) someone is dressed, the temperature in the room, the stature of the speaker, etc. The end result of noise is that it can cause a person to lose focus on what is important. The good news is that it doesn't have to.

Humans have to be taught nearly everything. We are taught to be distracted. Yes, on the desk of our enemy is this mandate, inlaid in gold under a sheet of glass, "Endeavor to lead the chaotic life, attend to everyone's business, and give up the work or your hands." "How?" you ask. Look around you. Look at yourself. Spend more time looking at yourself. How do I get myself going in the morning? How many hours a day is my TV on? How many hours do I spend online? What do I do to wind down? Does any of this involve silence or meditation? When I ask myself these questions, I find the answers troubling. My students are amazed when I tell them I don't watch TV. I always clarify that we have a TV, we just don't pay for or receive any broadcast transmissions. But, I would be kidding myself to think that I don't waste too much time on the internet, or reading, or listening to music. I seldom, if at all enjoy good, quite, alone time.

I have been taught that it is a bad thing to be without something to occupy my time. When did it start? Early in life. There was the TV and those Saturday morning cartoons. Then there was sports and practice during the week with games on Saturdays. There was music with hit after hit pouring out of the speakers of my Magnavox ghetto-blaster. There was the endless pile of FourWheeler magazines that littered my floor, worn out and covers long ago lost. There was the computer with its access to all manner of knowledge siphoning off countless hours of my life. From the time I was a little boy to now I have been trained to occupy my time and waste away. Ouch! This is damning. I was missing the point the whole time and was too busy to notice it.

I suppose it needs be said that these things I'm enumerating are not bad things. Playing competitive sports, watching some TV, listening to music, surfing the internet, or reading magazines can be very appropriate ways we can relax or enjoy ourselves. Temperance, however,is the key concept in not allowing these things to become a burden in our lives. These things become problematic when they take a foremost priority in our daily lives. When I can't foresee anything other than sitting down in the recliner after supper to watch __________ like I do every night or turning the radio on in the car before I pull out of the drive-way I am placing this thing between God and me. John Eldredge said that worship is whatever you dedicate your heart and time too. I believe he is right.

So I turn on the noise without even thinking about it. I check myself out. I drift off into the realm of the impotent. I am neutralized.

Paul tells Timothy that this should not be so. Timothy has his hands full and Paul, speaking with analogies, tells Timothy that soldiers are trained to ignore those everyday things that tend to distract us civilians. Think back to any good war movie of your choosing. I'm thinking about Saving Private Ryan. Omaha beach is bathed in blood and Tom Hanks' character is leading a group of men around a bunker. A machine-gun nest is raining down fire upon them. Let's think about what these men had running through their minds. "Keep the sand out of the action," "Keep covered," "Watch my buddy's back," "Objective- take out machine-gun nest." There probably wasn't too much contemplation going on about the fact that they were wet, or their boots were a tad to big or small, or that what-his-name has a prettier girlfriend waiting on him back in the states.

Paul does not use this analogy by accident, and its intent is not to be taken lightly. When we get weighed down by earthly crap we are guilty of gross dereliction of duty. We have lost sight of our number-one goal as Christians: to exalt Christ, evangelize the lost, and edify the saints. When we are preoccupied with distractions of our own making or lost in the drama of others we cannot possible perform our orders with any authentic sense of allegiance to Christ. Our lives become a shell game. As Shakespeare wrote in MacBeth, "Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing." We put on our Christian suit and go to church. We scurry around one-hundred and sixty-six hours a week with our own agenda on our minds and expect a two hour church service get our senses and sensibilities restored.

We know that God has our hearts in mind. We know that He won't ask us to do what we can't. But how will we ever know if we never give Him time to speak to us?

Lord Alfred Tennyson wrote in "The Charge of the Light Brigade",

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

This is us. We are surrounded (whether we know it or not) by an enemy that is in full war against us and our families.

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:

We have orders, simple orders to follow. Take Tennyson's plea to heart along with me, knowing that in God's economy "do" is backed with the full authority of heaven and our "die" is the consummation of our commitment to the covenant He made with us (We get to go to heaven!).

Fathered by God

2010-09-11T19:13:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back I got the chance to go to Ransomed Heart Ministries Wild At Heart Boot Camp in lovely Fraser, Colorado. I had been trying to go to this for several years and it would seem like one thing or another would keep me from going- we were short on money, I couldn't take off from work, you name it and it kept me from going. This year was looking no different than the past few years. With the help of my wife's cousin, Jonathan, I got accepted into the camp. I got out my planner and marked off the days in question and worked a little extra this summer to pay for the trip. For some reason, the email notifying me that I needed to send payment didn't show up and at three weeks before the camp I was making frantic email and telephone requests to Ransomed Heart hoping to get my spot back. God intervened on my side (yet again). With my reservation in the bag the only thing left to do was pack. And then...

The night before I was to leave, Natasha's dear Uncle "Doc" Torsten Seubold passed away. I was torn, but at the same time I knew that Uncle Doc would rather I go to receive something from God (that I badly needed) than to stay here. Natasha refused my pleas to stay and do what I could for the family. Grass needed to be cut, houses cleaned, and, of course, I wanted to be there to weep at the loss of our family's patriarch. I was weak, feeling compelled to stay and compelled to go. I got up at 4:00 AM and started driving to Tulsa. At the airport I called Natasha and pleaded again with her that I would come home in a heartbeat if she would say the word. She batted away my complaint and urged me to go. So, at 8:00 I boarded my flight and left the rest to God.
The Boot Camp was invigorating and I came home refreshed and filled with revelation about who I am and what I am meant to be. This feeling was so much in this direction that I haven't really talked about it with anyone yet. I wanted what I received to soak in and become part of me, and that had not happened in the few days after the camp. I'm now getting to that point.
With this in mind, it was tonight as I was mowing Uncle Doc's office lawn that I think the import of one of those lessons began to hit home. In fact, the lesson began before the camp. It was the night that Uncle Doc passed away. Like I said earlier, I felt both compelled to go and compelled to stay. Natasha and I talked about what I should do and she wanted me to go. "We'll be fine," she said. Alright. OK. This is what my wife was telling me. I believed her. Kind of.
For the last 6 years of our marriage I had been a whole lot closer to being an LPN than a husband. And for a good deal of that time, this is in fact what Natasha needed. But once a guy, and a hard headed guy at that, gets into some sort of role, like "nurse", he might find it difficult to let go of. I did. And to be perfectly honest, I've not completely relinquished that role of nurse just yet, but I am getting better.
Natasha tells me to go and trust that everything would be OK. So I boarded my flight in Tulsa with the suspicion that the my little bunch wouldn't fall apart without me there. Not a belief, just a suspicion or maybe it would be better to say a dread.
The dread is not that I wouldn't be missed, but that I'm not needed. Someone else will be there to hold my wife while she is crying. My kids will shuffled between the grandparents as needed and they will be fed and loved on. Someone will cook dinner and clean the kitchen and haul the trash out to the curb.
There comes a point where we fathers need to realize that we can't be there for every situation that arises for our family. There are areas where my knowledge and skills will have played out and my son will have to go to someone else for help. For fathering. I am not a one-stop never ending resource fatherly wisdom on all subject areas. If my son comes to me ten years from now needing to know how to wire a light with two switches, I'll have to send him to my neighbor down the street. I'm not an electrician.
So what happens when a father is gone? Or when you had no father or a very bad one? You find fathering in other men, and if one of those men is wise, he will teach you that God is your father. He will point you to Ephesians 1:4,5 to show you that you (all mankind) were chosen before the Earth was formed to be adopted as sons by God, and teach you the full import of this idea.
I have been very fortunate in my walk in this earth-suit to have had some very good fathering done by many different men. Doc Seubold, the man whose bedside I had just been weeping beside a few days ago, was in so many ways one of those men who I considered a father to me. Whatever sonship I feel pales in comparison to what his children feel at this moment, and the loss I feel is infinitely minuscule to the loss Josh, Jonathan, and Jordana feel in these days, as well. But in his going on to be with the Father, I have lost a father as well.
The lesson I have learned, with the help of Morgan Snyder of the Ransomed Heart team, is that I need fathering from other men, but mostly, I need it from God. When I get in a bind on some project that I am not qualified to do, I need to ask my Father for wisdom and assistance.
Morgan said, speaking to his son, "Son, I've tried for three years to be your father." He realized that he was grossly unqualified for the task of fathering a son. At my church, Cornerstone, we have an axiom, part of which says, "If it's all about me, then it's all up to me." I, like Morgan, am grossly unqualified for the position of father to my two children. What I should be teaching them is something I learned some time back but didn't have the term to express the concept. What I need to be teaching them is to let God be your Father. Let God be our Father. Morgan's son said to him that he (Morgan) was his brother really, if God was his father. It is an idea that is so simple that a child can latch right on to it. In my fatherhood to my kids, I need to be showing them my reliance on the Father. Because, if it really is all about me, then it really is all up to me. And I am becoming more cognizant everyday that I am in as much need of fathering as my kids are.

Things That Work: Fenix Flashlights

2010-07-20T09:46:00.000-07:00

Flashlights have come a long, long way since my childhood. It seemed the coolest TV sleuths (Simon and Simon, Magnum P.I., and others) had a super bright and small flashlight to use on their nightly investigations. So the Mini Mag-Lite was obviously the solution for compact portable illumination. Well, maybe it was 15 years ago, but I would hardly call them state of the art today. The LED is king of the flashlight world today.
I appreciate fine tools that do a job and do it well, like a watch or a camera. For most people the watch and camera has been replaced by their phone and that is fine. I've yet to find a flashlight that was anything but a flashlight that was worth talking about and I still (for the moment anyway) prefer for my phone to be a phone.
Back to flashlights. Good LED flashlights are expensive. Some of them are really expensive. So the desire to have a powerful flashlight that was compact and didn't burn through expensive batteries in minutes rather than hours was being suppressed by the fact that I was not going to spend $150 or more dollars on a flashlight.
One piece of good news was that Coleman came out with their Maxx series of LED lights about a year ago. I selected their 115 lumen 2AA model ($26 Wal-Mart) and haven't regretted it. It is a fine flashlight, bright enough to render someone blind at night for several seconds which is a useful feature if the need should ever arise. What did I not like about it? It didn't offer a low power setting that could maximize the battery life. Who needs all 115 lumens all the time? I don't but for $26, I couldn't complain. Besides, the AAs seem to have a fairly long life in this light anyway.

About the same time I bought this flashlight my best friend began working for Fenix. Fenix is relatively new to the flashlight industry and they build high quality flashlights for consumer, military, and law enforcement. He introduced me to their products and I was thoroughly impressed with what I read about and wished that I had saved my money for one a Fenix light. Beside that fact that the Fenix lights were loaded with features, they were considerably cheaper than light from other manufacturers . So much cheaper that I ruled them out from consideration.
The light that I have ended up with is their PD30 model. Its highest setting is 215 lumens! Yes, that is bright. This is not a setting that you want to leave it on for it can damage the light if it is used on this setting for more than 10 minutes. Fair enough. The high setting is 115 lumens and is more than bright enough for most any situation. Fenix, I suppose, was showing off because they included two more lower settings and an S.O.S function and a strobe function as well. Cool. Very cool.
In fair disclosure I did not buy this light. It was a gift to me by my friend. However, comparing price to features with other popular lights it is easy to see that the Fenix lights are a bargain. This particular light's MSRP is $99. Another brand's comparable light is $150. Yes, I will be laying down my money for other Fenix products as need and generosity arises. I can't think of a better gift anyone could have given me and I can't wait to give one to some deserving guy-or gal.

Business is Good! or The World Belongs To Those Who Hustle

2010-07-11T20:54:00.000-07:00

How many times in the last two years have we heard how bad the economy is? Every day there is a report in the news about some company needing help, going under, or laying off workers. But is this really the truth? In some ways it is. I, myself lost my job this spring as a result economic conditions in rural Crawford County. There are tens of thousands of workers who have been laid off all over the country. Things are bad or are they?
For some folks the answer to that question is going to be yes. But, my friend, it doesn't have to be. Solomon wrote in the Proverbs that we are supposed to pay attention to the ants. A good friend of mine watched the ants one time and he got a unique insight to their resourcefulness and a really cool story to boot. Solomon said that the ants have no king to lord over them and tell them what to do. They just know. They know that to survive the winter, they need to store food while the food is available in the summer. In my buddy's story, the ants were caught in flood water. Thousands of ants linked their legs so that they became a buoyant ball of ants. Naturally some of the ants were under water, so they crawled to the top of the ball and let other "dry" ants take their place. The ants were working hard to survive in adverse conditions. They were doing what they knew to do to make things turn out for the best.
So what is really going on and what do ants have to do with it? I'm glad I asked. What is really going on is a carefully thought out marketing campaign by the media to ensure they have something to write and talk about. Other than that, it beats me. What I do know is that during the Great Depression there were people who retained their fortunes and people who made fortunes.
All we hear about are those who lost fortunes. Let me ask you a question, when you hear about a major sports event, for instance the recent World Cup of football, do you hear stories about the team that finished second? No, you don't. You hear about the victor, in this case Spain. The sports media will be interviewing the Spanish team, their coaches, and their fans, but you won't see to much about, who was it again? Hmm. I forgot. So why do we see news headlines about losers and sports headlines about winners? News "winners"don't sell newspapers. Winners are doing OK, their business is good, and their employees are happy. Sports winners have conquered a great obstacle; they've beaten the man! And more Americans are much more concerned over their sports teams than they are with what is actually going on. We are a perplexing herd who will believe almost anything the media will tell us.
So, who was it that made fortunes during the Great Depression? People who behaved like the ants in the flood. If they didn't make changes to accommodate the changing environment, they would drown like every other creature who couldn't get out of the way. These are people who are resilient and are ready to adapt to the market's changing conditions. By the way, this very thing is going on right now in the midst of our own economic meltdown.
Solomon goes on to admonish the seeker that if he should choose the path of comfort, the Lay-Z-Boy or Serta Perfect Sleeper, poverty and want would come upon his house like labor comes on the expecting mother. Fast and when she least expects it.
When we choose comfort over the things that give us life, things that exercise our faculties, we choose to fail. The failure often does not come right away but rather when we are good and asleep. The alarm is sounded in our depth of sleep and we are jolted out of bed with the house ablaze and no water in sight.
Was I caught off-guard? Not really. Now I do have certain advantages that a lot of folks do not have. I've actually had to depend on God to supply my needs a time or two in the last six years. So when my superintendent came to me and said I was the low man on the totem pole, I knew things would be OK. I would be where I needed to be at the time I needed to be there. Guess what? I still don't have the surety of a "main gig" and I'm not worried about it in the least. I've taken a lesson from the ants and have been more than willing to expand my horizons and exercise my talents. Who knows, I may come out of 2010 without the need for a "main gig" and that would be alright with me.

Seasons

2010-04-29T19:13:00.000-07:00

It was not all that long ago I chided my friend for not updating her blog. It's been well over a month now for me. Not that I have anything all that interesting to say, I have just been lazy. My mind has been going a thousand different directions at once while my fingers have left the keypad alone. Sound and fury signifying nothing.
What have I been thinking about? I've had questions- more than I care to answer, not that I can answer them to begin with. Yet not knowing what lies ahead and walking there by faith is one of those things that is easy to tell others to do. So, be it declared to all and singular, I am waking up tomorrow to do what needs to be done for that day and for all the days to come.
Artistically a statement by Jack White (of The White Stripes, The Raconteurs, and The Dead Weather) has been floating around in my head and I can't get rid of it. What's more- I think he's right! His statement was that when we have all the colors of the rainbow to work with, our creativity is stifled. Of course his application of this statement comes in his own medium, the guitar. His typical guitar is less than perfect, hard to keep in tune, bent neck, or some other defect. He doesn't toss it in the dumpster and pick up a made to order Whatever Ltd. brand guitar, he just picks up his old favorite and wails on it. This idea has caused me to question how I pursue my hobby/profession of photography. What parameters am I going to limit myself to so that the creativity will turn on instead of stagnate?
So that is what I've been thinking about. Well, not all of it. Nearly a year ago I found out that the University of Arkansas, Fort Smith was bring both Jesus Christ, Superstar and Garrison Keillor to town as part of their twenty-ninth Season of Entertainment. Without a great deal of consideration I picked up the phone and orded two pairs of ticket for each event. Finally the time has come for those events. In fact, Jesus Christ, Superstar played on April 15th to a packed house. We are awaiting An Afternoon with Garrison Keillor. We won't have to wait too long- it is this Sunday!
Superstar was and is an amazing story. For those who want to see blasphemy and heresy and decry its production and lambaste those who enjoy it as unsanctified godless heathens- knock yourself out! Savor every moment of your bundage to your grave. Rice and Webber simultainiously had their fingers on the pulse of modern day religion, present time angst and interpretations of the times, and history without the benefit of hindsight.
Modern day religion wants to see the show and know "when do we ride to Jerusalem" without taking into account the price that was paid for our ticket. Is the world troubled now? Oh, is it ever. Just like it was when Jesus ate, drank, sweated, and defecated with humanity. Some folks then and now are listening to the voice of the Shepherd. Most are blissfully unaware that we are really sheep and indeed we do need a shepherd. And some of us get so caught up in living for heaven that we forget that we are here on earth. Let us all not forget that Christian living is a direction, not a destination! Jesus in his time on earth did not have the luxury of two-thousand years in which man could contemplate his divinity and create doctrines by which He would be interpreted through. No, he walked and talked with people just like you and me, especially like you and me. Remember, the organized church kicked his butt out! With this in mind, is it really heretical to think that people didn't quite have a grasp on who He was? Hind sight is 20/20. We really do dumb things when we don't know how they will turn out. (So Peter told Jesus the one about the two rabbis and the priest that went into the bar...) Count yourself fortunate to seek and find beauty and art.

The Stoning of Soraya M.

2010-03-14T11:01:00.000-07:00

It seems I have immersed myself in all things Islamic this last two weeks. I have been reading my Koran, reading Is Fanatic Islam a Global Threat by Victor Mordecai, going to lectures on the subject, and watching films dealing with the general agenda of Islam- one specifically set to tell the human drama, the other to tell the bloody and troubling realities Sharia Law. The Stoning of Soraya M. is the true story of a beautiful Iranian woman stoned to death on the testimony of two men. That is all it takes. It doesn't matter who the men are; the fact that they are men is sufficient justification for any allegation they make. It's good to be a man, if you are a Muslim!
This story- and I hate to call it a story for it is certainly not fiction- takes place about twenty years ago, about 10 years after the Shah of Iran was ousted from power and the Ayatollah Khomeini's regime had forced its way into power. For Islam government and religion are the same thing, and the cards are stacked overwhelmingly in favor of the male members of society who have the authority to tell the masses what their religion demands, which is justice in its purist and most barbaric form.
Why was Soraya stoned? She was caught in the sin of adultery. Yeah, right. She was married to a sack of pig excrement who had eyes for a fourteen year-old hottie, the daughter of a man who was in Mr. Excrement's care in the local jail. Mr. Excrement was to delay the man's execution in exchange for a young piece of you-know-what. Obviously Mr. Excrement needed to get rid of his wife. Like many Western men who want to trade in a used woman for a new model, he didn't like the idea of using his money to prop up his ex and their two daughters (they had four kids, two and two). So the best solution for the muslim in a fix was to call AC/DC and have their "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" man give Soraya a jingle. No. Better than that, he calls on the local clergy to assist in his time of need. Brother Ne'er-do-well sees a way to help Mr. Exrement out of his tight spot. He must simply catch his wife in a compromising situation with another male. That is vague enough, right? Well, that is all it takes, and we aren't talking about Western male-female interactions here, either. All it takes for Soraya is a simple touch of the hand, a little pressure on the man whose hand she touched and viola, one Soraya M. is guilty of adultery.
I watched in a sickened frozen stupor as the kids of her village tapped rocks together in rhythm while her procession made its way to the designated place of her state and Allah sanctioned murder. She was led, wearing what appeared to be her pure white and intricately beautiful wedding gown down into a pit that had been dug especially for this holy occasion, placed on her knees, and buried up to her waist. No need in leaving any room for error. With dramatic diliberation, each man who, were his god not the sword, should have known that this whole event was a sham, threw baseball sized (plus or minus) rocks at the beautiful, wronged, and holy Soraya.
Having caught an elbow or two about the face while playing basketball as a youth, I should not have been shocked by the amount of blood that issued forth from her blameless forehead. I was though. You can imagine what this girl, whose dress bespoke of blessed union and now, as blood both running and splattered down upon it, told of the satanic, neurotic need to control even to death the one thing in society that should be cherished as the creative evidence of God on earth, looked like as the spark of life had nearly been completely extinguished from her eyes. With one more triumphant barrage of stones the unholy work was finished.
The story of Soraya's murder was taken by a brave French-Iranian journalist Freidoune Sahebjam, played in the film by Jim Caviezel. He wrote a book that chronicled Soraya's ordeal. and it was published in 1995.
I was initially mad at myself for not knowing about this movie, let alone the book until about three months ago. I do not want to deminish the significance of this film in its role of letting the world know about the kind of atrocities that are going on in the name of Allah in Islamic countries, but I feel that the lesson for those of us in the West is that Sharia law is not as far away as we would like to believe. Cultural Jihad is and has been underway in Western Civilization for 1400 years now. There has been an ebb and flow over time as power has shifted east to west and west to east. However, an incredible amount of wealth has flowed to the East during the last 80 years. Politicians have been telling us for years that we are running out of oil. That may or may not be true now, but the Islamists who have the money and the power to control the market for oil have an enormous advantage over the whole globe, the globe they want to see ruled under the flag of Sharia law. One decision to stop the oil flow or raise the price precipitously and the world's economy falters. Who has the real power now? We can bow to their wishes, wage war, or try to ride it out. In any case we will pay a tremendous price in terms of quality of life, lives lost in warfare, and the wealth of our nations. Jihad is upon us. The only question is whether or not it will be the sword or the law that cuts our feet out from under us.

If They are Good Enough for our Soldiers...

2010-02-07T20:43:00.000-08:00

In the latter days of this past summer I found a good set of boots at a super cheap price. They were the Desert Tan Hot Weather boots. The same ones our soldiers who are deployed in less than hospitable regions of the earth wear. At first I was just glad to have a good set of boots. I knew they would come in handy while working around the house and for hikes into the woods, too. When I was a young teenager I had a pair of Vietnam era Jungle boots. I hated them. They were uncomfortable and.... well, just plain uncomfortable.
Since these boots were new, they required a break in period. I started to become frustrated when the break in period extended past a week of "light" duty wear. Were these boots going to be just like my Jungle boots of old? Thankfully, they weren't. After a few more days of wear, the boots were broken in. Over a few months time, I began to prefer wearing them. The more I wore them, however, the more I thought about the men and women who pull the laces taunt everyday and walk out into the sands of hostile lands to face the enemy of the civilized world.
Over time, the boots began to become an extension of me. Chances are that nowadays if you run into me on the street, in the woods, at the park, in my classroom, I will be wearing my boots. And, in the same manner, the boots have come to represent more than just "trendy" footwear, more than an article of comfort. They have become a way that I can say, "Thank you!" to all those men and women who have to wear them. I'm letting my accoutrements make a statement- a statement that I'm not at all ashamed to make. Merle Haggard sang in "Okie from Muskogee" that it was a place where leather boots were "still in style for manly footwear" and I'll have to agree. These are timeless boots, ones that any man (or woman) should be proud have on their feet. I'll have these on for quite some time.

Taking the sails down before the wind is taken from the sails

2010-02-02T14:41:00.000-08:00

Once in a while we receive news that takes the wind from our sails. It knocks us back on our heels, shocks us, drives us off course. Some surprises are certainly better than other, but really, as a Christian, one should never be truly surprised. It is all a matter of training.
Training prepares us for adverse situations, prevents failures in procedure, and refreshes our faculties. It is needed as we learn a skill, as we continue in that skill, and as we become professional in that skill.
Ask any figure skater about training and they will tell you that from the time they were pre-school age they have been on skates. “What about now? You are a professional, surely you don't train now?”
“Oh, yes indeed! I train more now than I ever have.”
So we train, we study, we hone our skills. Good. But what if we never rest from our daily labors and our training? How effective are we in doing our job? Whom do we depend upon? Can we listen to what our Boss is saying?
A close friend told me of a weight training program that has proven very effective for bodybuilders and athletes of all sorts. Without thinking about it, one might assume that working out everyday would bring about maximum benefit in both strength and muscle growth. While it makes sense, it is physiologically wrong. Working out certain muscle groups once, twice, or three times per week gives the muscles time to repair and grow while you are resting. Some people see maximum muscle and strength growth by working out just once a week.
Spiritually and intellectually we are just like the bodybuilder. We can immerse ourselves in doing the work of the church and have it become church work in a short time. What is the difference? The work of the church is done without regret for mutual eternal gain. Church work, on the other hand, is done at a loss and for selfish gain. Intellectually, we gain consummate knowledge and esoteric detail only to lose sight of the greater picture and become a slave to the wit of man. We fuss over the gnat in our brother's eye while ignoring the rhinoceros beetle that is lodged in our own eye. More importantly, we let our intellect take credit for the work of the Almighty.
Jonathan Edwards, while doctrinally unsound in his sermon “Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God”, said that “you find that you are kept out of hell and yet don't see the hand of God in it.” We are blessed with peace and prosperity and we say, “Man did this.” We are favored among men in all manner of ways and we say, “I'm the best man for the job.” We take credit for creation, for health, for prosperity- and never see the hand of God in it.
Thankfully, we are provided with a reprieve, a chance to let our muscles repair and grow. This chance lets us reflect upon the lessons we have been taught. It lets us see the beauty around us. It lets us realize how we fit into the greater picture without missing the forest for all of the trees. It is the Shabbat, or as we like to say in Christianity, the Sabbath. The word Sabbatical comes from this root. Most people hear the term and think that it is a time to work on something else, take a pause from your real job and get more education or pursue a new venture. In its truest sense, it means to cease work and acknowledge the one whose work you are a product of.
The world we live in is so much opposed to this idea that its true meaning is all but lost in our western society. This is no surprise. We have a great enemy whose main intention is to guide God's children (everyone on the planet) to distraction. When we are distracted, we have no time to think on the big picture or the artist who painted the picture. Americans in particular are lost in a sea of stuff. We have distraction upon distraction and we crave more distractions to insure our escape from the reality that we are not our own. We run and hide. We lose ourselves in whatever distraction that suits our fancy. We never stop and rest. We die early, in poverty and in a state of unrest.
The Jewish Shabbat requires no work to be done on from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. We, as a rule, would be driven crazy, with “nothing to do.” Yet, that doesn't mean that we can not benefit from installing in our life the practice of honoring a Shabbat. Folks we have to have it. It is not an option. Without it we will work ourselves to death and drive off the very people we love so much. We will lose sight of what God really wants for his children. And we will never maximize our growth spiritually or intellectually. Neglecting the principle of Shabbat ensures our works become church work which will be consumed with fire. Not the person, the works will be consumed. God wants the best for his children, not a second rate version of something that is good. That is why He required the Israelites to practice the Shabbat. He knows that with less us, there is more evidence of Him on earth.

Things That Work: Victorinox Swiss Army Knives

2010-01-24T06:26:00.000-08:00

Since I was a kid I have had an appreciation for the Swiss Army knife. I have memories of my fourth grade teacher, who was a giant of a man in my eyes, pulling out a gargantuan red handled knife with a gozillion blades on it for some trivial matter. Being a boy, it was natural for me to be fascinated by knives and this one was no different. How cool was a knife was a virtual toolbox? For some reason or another, I didn't get an actual Victorinox until I was 22 when my wife and then fiance brought one back from trip to Europe. It was one of the smaller knives but it did have the scissors and a few other essential tools. Unfortunately, it fell into the small knife category. Small knives have a way of working their way out of a pocket when seated. A larger knife has enough mass and heft that it will tend to fall to the backside of your leg instead of up your leg and out of your pocket.
As you have already guessed, this is what happened to my small knife. Not having a pocket knife is a hard thing to get used too, especially when you find yourself pulling it out of your pocket 4-5 times a day. That was exactly what I was doing with my little Victorinox. So I told my wife my tale of woe, and began looking for a replacement. And I found one, too. In the most unlikely of places, Casino Pawn in Van Buren. The knife they had was fairly close to a "Champ", the top of the line model. I lost the box and paper that came with it, but I do remember at the time looking up the retail value for the and seeing that it was in the $60 range. So I asked the guy behind the counter what he wanted for it and he said $15. I said I'll take it.

That was 5 years ago. I have seldom left my house without it in my pocket since then. I consider it as an extension of my hand; nearly always possessing the correct tool for the job in a pinch. Honestly, I hardly ever use either of the knife blades. The most used feature is most certainly the scissors. I am constantly trimming a kids fingernails, cutting a tag off of a shirt, opening a stubborn bag of candy, or an errant strand of hair with this device. Unfortunately, the little spring that returns the scissors to ready position often comes off track. A small grip to the greater usefulness of an otherwise very useful tool.
If I ever need to quickly amputate a limb, the saw blade should make quick work of it. I can cut through an 1 1/2" diameter bamboo trunk in about 30 seconds with the sharp teeth on this implement. Not that I'm chomping at the bit to cut my or anyone else's arm off- just knowing that I can if I need to is reassuring.
I'm always flipping out one blade or the other to fix something. The screwdriver blades, the can opener, the corkscrew (yes, no wine bottle is safe around me!), the bottle opener (nor is any bottle of beer!). All in all it is the best $15 I have ever spent on anything.

Escape from Flatland

2010-01-17T00:19:00.000-08:00

Escape from Flatland

Six of one, Five of another

2010-01-12T15:12:00.002-08:00

In the not too distant past I had the opportunity to shoot a revolver that I have been very curious about for some time. It is the Ruger SP101. A close friend of mine has one that is chambered in .357 Magnum with a 2 1/4 inch barrel and he was kind enough to let me shoot about 50 or so rounds through it.
I already own the SPs big brother, the GP100, and I am thoroughly impressed with it. It is simply a shooter's gun, able to take the hottest magnum loads all day long. My GP has a 3 inch barrel. I have carried it before, but at 36oz, it does weigh the hip down after a while. I have been eying the svelt SP to use as a CC gun because it is considerably lighter at 25oz and it's slimmer profile would make concealment easier. A side benefit that the Ruger SP101 has over similar small frame revolvers is that it, like it's big brother, can shoot the hottest .357 Magnum loads all day long, too.

Now, I'm not sadist. Other manufactures make light .357s, but the thought of shooting .357s or even hot .38 +Ps out of something that weighs close to nothing doesn't sound like fun to me. That being said, I don't plan on shoving Buffalo Bore 185gr Magnums in the chamber as a matter of course, but the piece of mind of knowing that I can is a comforting thought.
Both my buddy and I had plenty of Magnum ammo and we fired them all through the gun. Recoil on the small Ruger was not at all uncomfortable with any of the ammo we had. I still wouldn't want to spend all day shooting magnums in it, but for a short session it is just fine. I did shoot some .38 Special +P loads through it too. These had considerably less umph and I tended to place them on target a little better.

This brings me to my personal preference for revolvers. I've alluded already that the .357 is a versatile chambering. It is, in effect, 3 guns in one. Not only can it shoot .357 magnum, .38 Special +P, and .38 Special, it is not picky about what the type of projectile the powder is launching. I could grab 5 rounds with ranging in bullet weight from 110gr to 185gr and as much difference in the powder launching them and have no trouble whatsoever. Some automatics aren't so fortunate. I don't like to deal with uncertainties when it comes to firearms. When I pull the trigger, I expect to hear a boom no matter what ammo I happen to grab (not withstanding Remington UMC, I won't be grabbing that junk any time soon!)

The Ugly: I did have a little trouble with pulling the trigger all the way through the action. This was alleviated by adjusting my grip. No big surprise to me as the revolver is a smaller version of my own. I think a new set of Eagle grips would be good medicine for this problem. Awe, heck. A new set of grips are always in order!

Thoughts on Thermal Bottles

2010-01-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago I pickup up a cheapie Ozark Trail thermos bottle a my local Wal-Mart. I wasn't too impressed with it then, and for that matter, I'm still not all that fond of it. It has a push button lid that is prone to leaking, the occasional burn, and it leaks its heat off fairly quickly.
Fast forward to the last week of 2009. I'm at Academy Sports and they have the Stanley Classic Thermos (1.1qt) on sale for $17. Cheap enough, I thought, so I bought it. The "Classic" designation hearkens back to Grandpa's or Dad's old thermos bottle. My Dad had one once upon a time. I used to go coon hunting with him when I was a kid. It gets cold out in the woods at night, and if a boy wants to warm up, he had better learn to like coffee. I did. As I got bigger, I understood what hot really was. Camp coffee is almost exclusively percolated. My Dad's Stanley was really good at keeping its contents scalding hot for hours out in the cold.
I had high expectations for my new copy. Unfortunately, expectations are sometimes more of pipe dream than reality. I had a nostalgic remembrance of scalding my tongue on a cold winter night on coffee that was brewed several hours earlier. To be honest, the first use of this thermos was on an extremely cold day. The high was in the neighborhood of 25 degrees. At night the temperature fell down to the high teens. I used a pot and Maxwell House Filter Packs to brew the coffee. I am careful not to boil the coffee. Boiling it just ruins the flavor. I still like it as hot as I can get it, though. When it was sufficiently brewed I poured the coffee into the new Stanley and tested the results a short time later. This day I had to settle for warm coffee. It was probably around 140-150 degrees. I had no way of knowing for sure, I just knew that it was turning to ice crystals before I got to the bottom of my cup. Suspicions were raised.
Well, to satisfy my curiosity I tested the thermos this morning. The thermos itself had sat inside overnight, so it was at room temperature. The coffee coming out of my French Press was a toasty 190 degrees. I poured the coffee in and waited for an hour. After one hour the Stanley Classic had bled off 25 degrees of heat . My house was 68 degrees hardly cold enough to be a test for a thermos. Twenty-five degrees is a considerable heat loss, especially in just one hour. Stanley bills this thermos as being able to keep liquids hot for 24 hours. I'm not exactly sure what their definition of hot is, but I speculate that after 24 hours my coffee would be closer to iced coffee than hot coffee. I plan on taking the thermos back to Academy and trying another. If that one deliver similar results, I'll know that the first example was faulty and I'll modify the review at that point.

Stanley Classic 1.1qt Thermos Bottle: Junk.

Seubold Camp Out Report

2010-01-03T05:39:00.000-08:00

To be sure, I could not give a proper report on this event. I was only one person there and saw things, of course, from my own angle. The short answer to the question, "What was it like?" is we had fun. The Man type of fun. We sat around a hobo fire, ate food that was really bad for you, shot clay pigeons, soda cans, and each other, slept in the back of cars, on the ground, or wherever, and simply rebelled from behaviors and mannerisms that are acceptable in mixed company.

I arrived in the late afternoon with my Grand Cherokee full of mischief. I had enough ammunition to hold off a fairly strong advance, a pistol, .22 rifle, and a shotgun. Arrgh! My plan was to fold the back seats down and sleep in the back of the car if it was going to get really cold. It did. I unfurled my extreme cold military sleeping bag and had just enough room to stretch out my 6'2" frame. Foodwise, I planned with simplicity and manliness in mind. Drinks- water or coffee, food- deer chili, Fritoes, summer sausage, Ritz crackers, and a pair of apples.
That evening we rustled up some grub; Mr. Mike Scherer laid down some potatoes and ham, I made my chili, someone had a pan of cornbread, and that was all that was needed. With supper finished it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty. Time for a little Airsoft! The guys broke off into two teams and spent several hours pegging each other with hard plastic BBs. Jonathan probably took the hardest fall of anyone that night. The good news is that no one was seriously maimed and they all appeared to have a great time.
As the night wore on we turned our attention to stoking the hobo fire and telling jokes and anecdotes. Folks started turning in around 11:00PM. I held out until 11:30. I have no idea what the temperature actually was but I did recognize that it was "colder than the proverbial well digger's arse". No sleeping on the ground for me. I forgot any reading material so I turned on the radio and let Bob Wills, U2, Marty Robbins, and a few others sing me sleepy.
In the morning we slowly made some breakfast. I had trouble with my stove. Apparently small propane bottles don't work all that well in sub-freezing temps. We finally got a little coffee made and inhaled all the biscuits and bacon and whatever else hit the pan. From here we made our way down to the big pond for a little clay busting. I had never shot clay before so I was anxious to give it a shot. What a blast it was! I shot through a little more than a box of shells and let my father and brother-in-laws share another box. Unfortunately we ran out of clay, but everyone got a chance to bust some.

From here we moved back to the pistol range to spank some aluminum cans and old CPUs. We shot the guns that made lots of noise and had lots of fun doing it. When it was all said and done I walked away holding about 5lbs of brass.

All in all it was just what I needed. Guys need a chance to be guys once in a while. Like Brad Paisley says, "With all of these guys linin' up to get neutered, its hip now to be feminized. Well, what can I say, at the end of the day, Honey, I'm still a guy!"

Munich, Germany, 1972

2010-01-01T07:19:00.000-08:00

Munich, 1972. This was the year that Islamic terrorism was brought front and center to the world's attention. Then, it faded away from Western world for a time. During the '80s and '90s Islamic terrorist activity was strictly a Middle Eastern problem. Now it is not Israel who is the sole target of Islamic hatred. We in the West share their wounds and their frustrations.
Steven Spielberg's film, Munich, tells the story of Israel's handling of the the Munich massacre. Their secret service, Mossad, was activated employing a super secret band of agents who risked their lives to extract revenge from the PLO. Spielberg is careful to point out the ramifications of their retaliation: whenever one of the PLO planners was killed, the PLO found a way to strike back. It was a perpetual slaughter machine.
The point was made that after each PLO henchman was killed, six more would be standing in line to take his place. The Mossad director, Ephraim, noted that since his fingernails continually grow he continually cuts them off.

Avner-This is a dream. You can't take back a country you never had.
PLO-A-You sound like a Jew.
Avner- F*** you. I'm the voice inside your head telling you what you already know. You people have nothing to bargain with. You'll never get the land back. You'll all die old men in refugee camps waiting for Palestine.
PLO-A- We have a lot of children. They'll have children. So can wait forever. And if we need to, we can make the whole planet unsafe for Jews.
Avner- You kill Jews and the world feels bad for them and thinks you are animals.

So we are here, in the twenty-first century with a hungry and neglected Islamic population, who wants to kills Jews, who wants to kill Christians: a population that has grow unchecked for too long. This film ignores 99% of the reasons why the Islamic terrorists are doing what they are doing and planning to do. One might draw the conclusion that it is unnecessary to do so for their arguments are so patently weak and/or irrational. OK. I do. Spielberg is trying to show the human side of all the parties involved. That is fine. The Muslims are God's creation to. He sent his Son to atone for their sin as well as our own. Spielberg does propose the question of dealing with these people. Is the bullet and knife the only reason that they understand? I wonder.

Seubold Camp Out '09

2009-12-24T17:41:00.000-08:00

Ruger GP100 .357 Mag
Remington 870 12ga
Remington Nylon 66 .22
Ammo .357/.38- 200 rounds
Ammo 12ga- 105 rounds
Ammo .22- 500 rounds

Hearing protection
Eye protection
Orange hat/vest
Flashlight, uberbright
Flashlight, general purpose
Lantern, propane
Matches, strike anywhere
Stove, propane
Sleeping Bag
Tarp, blue
Rope, utility
box, insulated sanitary
Pants, cold weather
Coat, cold weather
Hat, Kones Korner
Boots, Summer tan
Shirt, flannel
Pants, men's standard issue
Knife, Swiss Army
Pot, coffee scalding
Pan, non-stick
Utinsils, various
Tobacco, loose
Tobacco, rolled natural wrapper
Pipe, briar
Tamper, pipe
Cutter, cigar
Soup, French onion
Steak, sirloin 2lbs
Potatoes, russet
Carrots, vegetable
Sundry seasonings
Cup, coffee
Plate, blue enamel

A camping trip is about so much more than the stuff you take. It is about the folks you go with. Josh and Jon Seubold are two of the greatest guys I know. That they've been kind enough to open their secret proving grounds up for what has become an annual camp-out/arms expo is well enough. That they are from one of the greatest, most generous families that I've ever been associated with is an entire other matter. I'm lucky. I married into their clan.
I'll have a camp report in one week.

A Face in the Crowd

2009-12-21T00:17:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I just like to watch a movie because I like an actor who is in it. That was the case with this one. I have always liked Andy Griffith. I also like films directed by Elia Kazan. Well, I perused Net flicks the other day and found this old film, relatively recently converted to DVD, and ordered it. Tonight I finally got to sit down and watch it.
The first thing I noticed is that this is not Andy Taylor. This is a professional method actor, who, for us young folks, we only know as a genteel and smooth southern father figure. He is neither of those in this movie. Yet, it was not his character nor his characterization that caught my attention in this film. It was it's themes; power and influence and the error of populism.
To be sure, there are some wickedly awesome quotes in this movie, and support work by Walter Mathau that was par excellance. These quotes, which undoubtedly must have been true when the movie was made in 1957, ring even more true in 2007. Here are a few:

"Politics have entered a brand new stage, the television stage. Instead of a long-winded public debated, the people want capsule slogans; "Time for a change.", "The mess in Washington." More bang for a buck. Punch lines and glamour. Yes, Mr. Purvis, even glamour." (Gen. Haynesworth)
"General, my papers have supported [Senator] Fuller from the first day he ran for public office. He is not a grandstander, a backslapper, or a baby kisser." (Purvis- newspaper man)
"That's exactly what he's got to become." (Gen. Haynesworth)

and

"My study of history has convinced me that every strong, healthy society, from the Egyptians on, the mass had to be guided with a strong hand by a responsible elite." (Gen. Haynesworth)

and

"You know what the public's like? A cage of full of guinea pigs. Good night, you stupid idiots! Good night, you miserable slobs! They're a lot of trained seals. I toss 'em a dead fish, and they'll flap their flippers." (Lonesome Rhodes- Andy Griffith)

Griffith rises to popularity from abject nothingness. A bum, albeit one who can play the guitar, is discovered in the county lock-up. His brief exposure- one where is opinion carries more weight than his singing- propels him to local celebrity and from there to regional and from there to the national stage. He is given money, fame, and influence. We know that these things combine to build the facade of power. His word is gold. Sponsors cash in on his blessing of their products, but also a presidential candidate as well. Rhodes advises Sen. Fuller on his image, all the while working on his own. Fuller pulls up in his ratings. Rhodes gets promised a cabinet post. The question for examination is is Rhodes a tool of the establishment and how do we define his power and influence?
Kazan presents Populism for what it really is; a political system based on the lowest common denominator. Rhodes, as he stated in the third quote, knows that his "constituency" is largely an ignorant and lazy group- one that seeks for entitlement in any way it can and specifically on the coat-tails of pandering politicians. If they can just reach this core group of "[r]ednecks, hillbillies, hausfraus, shut-ins, [and] pea-pickers" the election will belong to the corrupting and kniving Sen. Fuller. The people need an elitist thinker who can call the shots for them because they are too stupid to think for themselves. Sound familiar...
There is much more to say about this film, but I shall not do that at this point.
What do you need to do?
I'm glad you asked. Go find this movie. Buy it, rent it, borrow it, just watch it. While I would not classify it as noir, it does contain noir characteristics. Method actors rock. Elia Kazan rocks hard.

The Black Flag

2009-12-17T17:56:00.000-08:00

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One of my favorite persons in all of history, let alone American history, is Thomas Jonathan Jackson, the orphan who through divine providence was lead from the Shenandoah Valley to the halls of West Point. From there he proved himself with boldness and valiant deeds upon the soil of Mexico and against the Indians and elements of the the deep south. His fame, though, came from his boldness in the War of Northern Aggression, also known as the American Civil War. Here, on the soil of his native Virginia, he lead his foot cavalry on campaign after campaign, ambitiously pursuing the accursed Yankee invader of our “homes and hearths”. If his legacy and, in way of criticism of Confederate leadership, war strategy were to be summed up, it would be with the Black Flag. No mercy, no quarter, no parlance with the enemy until he indeed knows the depths of your resolve, the ferverence with which you hold to your cause.

This battle plan he learned not only at West Point, but from the Bible itself. When God gave orders for all the enemy, even their cattle, to be slain and the leader did as was he was supposed too, Israel was victorious, prosperous, and blessed. They also never had to worry about trouble from that group of people again.

General Jackson was not of sufficient esteem early enough in the war for his Biblical strategy to be given serious thought. He proved himself the faithful servant and performed the orders given to him with diligence. Thus, we have the legacy of an upright man, who in spite of his expertise in matters of war, was a very loving and tender man. He, like the patriarchs of old, prayed with his eyes open, and listened to the still small voice of God.

What we can learn from Jackson, from the Word of God, is that our enemy is as dead set against us as the usurper of the north was against the due process of law and the free republic whom he swore to serve. If we show our chief adversary mercy, let the battle be taken to us, surely we shall perish. I didn't say go to hell, I said perish. We can lead our lives by strong and courageous faith in the Word of God, or we can sit back in the comfort of our “life saving stations” and forget what the purpose of the life saving station was in the first place. Gentlemen, give not your enemy quarter, for you shall you receive none. We fly the Black flag in front of all our regiments, divisions, battalions, and platoons. Those who have not learned to wield the sword can still die upon them if we do fail. We cannot fail!

Holiday Entertainment

2009-12-15T14:16:00.000-08:00

If I had to pick three (Why three you ask? I don't know! It just sounded good at the time.) Holy day productions to symbolize the truth, the significance, and the realities of the Christmas season it would be Peanuts' Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown, It's a Wonderful Life, and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.

The Charlie Brown Special is a cultural relic. Today, it would not be made. Period. It is in no way politically correct. It offends at least half of the world. Jesus did, too. Linus gave his peers not only the humbling correct reason for the season, he gave them the Gospel itself: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” The gift of God to man was the lifting off of the burden of the Law, something that could never save us in the first place, and replacing it with the intimate fellowship of God once more dwelling within the heart of man- the war was over, the gulf of separation evacuated. Peace was made to come and dwell with us. God let us know that He was and is pleased with man. Now, some people like to make man an exclusive group. The curious thing is that it means man-kind. All man. Thank you, Mr. Schultz, for writing into your cartoon, an art-form that no adult takes seriously, the Gospel.

The second film, It's a Wonderful Life, is just a great Christ's mass movie. Jimmy Stewart's character is heroic and full of promise. On several occasions he saves people's lives, yet at a crucial moment it is he that needs saving. He is in jeopardy, his family will pay the price of his business's failure, and, in desperation considers suicide as the way to redeem his family of their troubles. It was not his life that was needed for ransom (Jesus did that for him already). The protagonist, who knew what it was to save somebody, now needed saving himself. It was folly to for him to think that such a pitiful thing as his own life would be sufficient to do the job. His angel prevented a redundant crucifixion. It is indeed a wonderful life when we realize the full measure Christ's gift to man.

Some folks might look at this list and shake their heads at the inclusion of the Lampoon. Well, like it or not, the film shows us what commercialism does to one of Christendom's most sacred days. Clark wants to give his family the best he has. He also has relatives from H. E. double hockey-sticks. How do we deal with the less than desirable? What do we do when we are faced with great disappointment? What is really important to remember at this time? Clark and his family deal with these questions with something less than grace. But what is important is that he does realize that materialism is not the point of Christmas- even if he does it in his own hilarious way.

We have made these films a holiday tradition at our house (well, the kids don't get to watch Eddie in his leisure suit with something hanging down his leg just yet...) We laugh, we cry, we reflect on what really makes our journey in life so much more meaningful than the nihilistic world we live in would have it.

A cold, dreary first day of the week.

2009-12-13T06:21:00.000-08:00

I can't help it. I am an unapologetic early riser. This does not set well with 1/4th of my household. 1/2 of the household is totally indifferent to my getting up at the butt-crack of dawn. What really makes the 1/4th mad is that I do this on vacation too. I've been know to grab my camera and take off on foot for a 3 or 4 mile hike before anyone is out of bed. Well, usually the kids are starting to wake up by the time I get back. The 1/4th gets annoyed by my romp through the woods, but all is forgiven when I make biscuits and gravy. I guess that deep down inside I have a dislike for wasting daylight. The photographer in me knows that the only scenic pics worth keeping are taken in the golden hours of the day. When I was a kid, I usually had something to do by 7 o'clock- like go cut firewood, mow grass, watch cartoons. You know good kid stuff. What can I say. I don't want to sleep my life away.