Ever get in a discussion with a group of people and wish that one of the guys agreeing with you, wouldn't? Like if you were arguing that chocolate ice cream was the very best ice cream ever and all of a sudden Hitler walks up and agrees with you. Now I don't know how you wound up in hell with Hitler and that is not the point, although I can see how discussions of ice cream might be popular in a fiery pit. But you get my meaning, right? Even if you are firmly convinced of your argument, the fact that Hitler agrees with you might create the tiniest of self doubt or at the very least weaken your credibility with your audience. Hitler was, after all, a vegetarian and foodies routinely discount their opinions on great cuisine.
On a tangent, have you ever heard someone make an argument, agree whole heartily, only to have the absolute authority on the subject disagree with you both? You, like me, might want to change your mind and would only feel a slight embarrassment at being seen to be so wishy washy. But what if you found yourself still agreeing with the first guy even in the face of the one person who is the final say in all matters on the subject? That is hard to deal with.
Happened to me in church one Sunday. I was a kid and I have no idea how old I was. I think I must have been somewhere between 12 and 19. I don't know that on an intellectual level as a fact, but I trust that the emotional certainty that I felt had to be from that age. I have never, ever, ever been so sure of myself as I was from the time I was 12 until I was 19.
The preacher was preaching about a variety of people interacting with Jesus and the the reactions of those people close to them. There was one story of one sister who sat at HIS feet and listened to every word HE said while the other sister was rushing around making sure that everyone was fed and wined and comfortable. She grew frustrated in a way that I understand all to well and asked HIM to tell her sister to get off her can and help take care of everybody the way the hostesses of a good dinner party should.
This made sence to me. This was only right. The work had to be done and it was the polite thing to do. And it seemed patently unfair that one sister should just push it all off on another. I was waiting for the MESSIAH to come off the top rope with a full on elbow of righteous indignation about laziness and poor manners. Only he sided with the lazy girl that sat at his feet who listened to every word he said. That seemed wrong to me. And that is scary. Standing in opposition to GOD is the very definition of sin. But I still wanted her to get up and help her sister the way my dad had made me go help Mark clean the table after Sunday dinner.
The second story was about the woman that came into another dinner party with Jesus (is it just me or was there a time in HIS life when he was the social GET of the dinner party crowd?). Anyway, there was a woman that showed up and cried over HIS feet in shame of her sins and used her hair to wipe HIS feet clean and then took a vial of ridiculously expensive oil and perfumed his feet. Now this story has a twofer. It has the person who you wish was not on your side and the authority figure siding against you.
Completely ignoring the emotional purity of the moment of the woman cleaning HIS feet with her tears, a DOUCHE (not DIVINE but just a major league douche) pointed out that perfuming HIS feet with the oil had been an outrageous waste. If they had sold the oil at market it would have fed all the poor people in that area of ancient Israel until about 1972 (or thereabouts, Biblical scholars bicker over the exact time frame). Again, I found myself agreeing with the emotionally neutered douche. I thought that the emotional symbolism was an impractical bit of theatricality that over looked a pragmatic sacrifice that would have honored HIM while feeding the poor of the region until I was two years old.
Again, the MASTER disagreed. He called douche boy on his insensitivity to the pure emotional honesty of the woman's reaction to the one PERSON who could forgive all transgressions. HE also stated that she was right in the incredibly expensive demonstration of respect she made in spilling oil on his feet. I remember being so confused as a boy. And this was at a time when so very little confused me. I knewright from wrong better then than I do now.
Back then, I had no qualms with any actions I took when I knew I was right. If you are right, your rightness justifies your actions. Any compromise when you are right is only weakness and cowardice. In those days I stood firm in almost every petty example of rightness that I found myself in no matter the consequence. Hell, the better, or I suppose worse, the consequence, the greater the honor.
But to find yourself in opposition to Jesus. Now GOD proper? That I can understand. GOD proper is the ultimate authority figure and we have all found ourselves questioning HIM if only at funerals. I made that distinction really early on in my life. GOD proper scared me and loved me the way my dad did. I had complete faith in my dad to protect me from anything and to strangle me if I disrespected him.
But Jesus? Jesus was always the friendly face of my faith. The one who was slow to anger and was actually cool. Learn your old English and go back and read HIS dealings with the political and religious leaders of his time. Our LORD and SAVIOR was the ultimate in disinterested, cool dude, smooth argument. HIS appeal to the teenage me was subversive as much as redemptive.
As much as I would like to be Paul (for you non-churched out there - Paul was Han Solo if Han had been Vader's right hand and then defected to the rebellion), I am much more like Peter (the closest I can come is Ben Kenobi who thought the chosen one was gonna be one thing but was another and then thought the son of the chosen one would kill the chosen one - the analogy really breaks down - maybe I should find something from Star Trek).
Peter thought that Jesus was going to destroy the Romans and establish an Earthly kingdom in which Peter was promised to be a cornerstone of the whole empire. Turns out it was nothing like Peter thought and after years of disappointing HIS teacher and even renouncing HIM publically, Peter became one of the most accomplished leaders in the movement. So maybe I am not SO much like Peter.
I just had ideas of how HE would react and HE had the infuriating habit of not reacting that way. The whole idea of those bracelets asking believers what HE would do always got me to smirk. WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? I have no idea. I wanted to take the oil and sell it and feed as many people as possible. And then I realized, it wasn't my oil.
Louis CK, a comedian, has a wonderfully bitter bit about how he does not need his Lexus. He could do everything he needs to do with his car in a Camry. He could pick his girls up from school, buy groceries, and go to movies in a shitty little Camry. He could take the money from selling his Lexus and he could feed starving people in Africa for two or three decades. "But I ain't gonna sell my damn car!"
He goes on to point out that he makes the decision to not sell his car and keep people from dying in Africa everyday, multiple times each day. I know. Funny, right. But it is the same kind of insight that haunts me. I would have hypocritically sold the woman's oil every single time, but I ain't selling my truck.
Oh, I happen to think that the only reason the self hating Louis CK is still with us is that he has custody of his two daughters and can't bring himself to check out on them. But that is just my opinion. I think he is like me in that he would like to make the world better in some grand way but not in a way that requires too much (any) sacrifice.
I do a small bit. I feed the hungry. I support others who have actually taken an oath of austerity if not exactly poverty and help others. I want to secure some sort of future for my wife and then I want to do more for those in need. I think that makes sense. The voice in my head says that makes sense. I wonder, though, if I am listening to the wrong man.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Just Not Nice
There is an impossible arrogance to writing. You take your thoughts and spill them out for the world to see. Prideful "artists" will maintain that it has nothing to do with the audience but I think that is a crock of sh.... stuff. Large pile of extremely smelly stuff. Even those who set out to demonstrate that they don't care what an audience thinks by putting out things that are designed to be off putting (see what I did there?) are still reacting to you people.
I think that I can turn a phrase and I can occasionally spit out the truth in ways that are palatable or toxic depending upon my mood or intent. I think that I can affect you folks and that is important to me. It is how I matter. Don't ask me where that realization comes from because I don't know.
As much as I like to clown around and cut up, I am not a very social person. I don't so much laugh with people as get people to laugh. I appreciate a good audience. See where the arrogance comes in? Why are my thoughts so important? Why do I care that I can affect you? It very well could be the exact opposite of arrogance. It could be that I don't value myself enough in and of myself and so I need to stir something in all of you to continue to prove that I have worth.
The people that I dislike most in this world are the people who have demonstrated or actually come out and said that I am not smart or don't contribute or matter. I am not so unique in that regard. Very rarely do you hear someone say, "See that guy over there? He hates my guts and thinks I am stupid. I hope I have a chance to do something wonderful for him someday." I just think that I might be more extreme in that regard.
The people I love the most are the people who have demonstrated some sort of appreciation for me. Again, not that abnormal at all, but I may be more demanding than most.
I have said for years that humanity is amazing - people are stupid. I think I like the idea of people more than actually being around people. If left to my own devices, I would more often than not be alone with a book or a pen (computer now a days) and not interact with most people. I don't have many deep, personal friendships because deep down, I don't want that many. I see some of you with 432 friends on Facebook and even that much sanitized, electronic intrusion makes me wince a little.
But I love to write stories that are not all that much fiction. I see some of you who grew up in horror and have somehow managed to not be a horror and I want to write about you. I see some of you who went off to war and became a warrior and then a minister and I want to write about you. I see some of you who have pledged your lives to the poor of this world and I want to write about you. I see some of you who have survived things that scare me when you talk about them and I want to write about you.
I admire you. I tip my hat to you. I toast you and I will buy you a drink. I think the wonder of God's imagination sparkles in your eyes. I tend to find value in my ability to make you mad, make you cry, make you laugh, or make you think.
I.... I just don't want to hang out with you.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Freedom
I saw an episode of a television show where this patient slipped into a coma and even though she had been in a committed relationship for over 30 years, the love of her life could not make her medical decisions because they were not married and did not have power of attorney. Her brother, that she had not spoken to in twenty years, was in charge because she had failed to plan ahead and because she was a lesbian.
I can't fault her too much on the planning ahead thing. I don't have a will or life insurance even though my wife and I have talked about it for a couple of years now. Thirty years of someone sleeping beside you and arguing about Hawaii 5-0 (the original), laughing at Sam and Diane, groaning about George and Jerry, and debating the finer points of Lost and then being a passenger while someone else takes control of the life you have built for yourselves - no.
I know a lesbian couple who have been together for 20 years. That is only seven years short of the time my parents were together. The only thing that separated my parents was the fact that my dad died. I think that might be the only thing that will ever separate my friends. The best compliment I can give them is I hope Priscilla and I look at each other 14 years from now the way that they do now.
Why does my government consider Priscilla and me to be more important than them? Why should my govenment care?
It's sin. It is unnatural. It is wrong. Okay. Why does the government care? Divorce is a sin. Lying is a sin. Working on Sunday is a sin. Should all of that be against the law too?
I support gay marriage. If pastors, imans, rabbis, and whatever the hell Kwanza has don't want to do it, I support their stance too. But those that want to do the ceremonies and those that want to be married - more power to ya!
Besides, can you imagine the fun of gay divorce? We could sell tickets!
I can't fault her too much on the planning ahead thing. I don't have a will or life insurance even though my wife and I have talked about it for a couple of years now. Thirty years of someone sleeping beside you and arguing about Hawaii 5-0 (the original), laughing at Sam and Diane, groaning about George and Jerry, and debating the finer points of Lost and then being a passenger while someone else takes control of the life you have built for yourselves - no.
I know a lesbian couple who have been together for 20 years. That is only seven years short of the time my parents were together. The only thing that separated my parents was the fact that my dad died. I think that might be the only thing that will ever separate my friends. The best compliment I can give them is I hope Priscilla and I look at each other 14 years from now the way that they do now.
Why does my government consider Priscilla and me to be more important than them? Why should my govenment care?
It's sin. It is unnatural. It is wrong. Okay. Why does the government care? Divorce is a sin. Lying is a sin. Working on Sunday is a sin. Should all of that be against the law too?
I support gay marriage. If pastors, imans, rabbis, and whatever the hell Kwanza has don't want to do it, I support their stance too. But those that want to do the ceremonies and those that want to be married - more power to ya!
Besides, can you imagine the fun of gay divorce? We could sell tickets!
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Fish Fry
A friend of mine had a fish fry Tuesday night. The oil has to be kept at just the right temp and it has to be kept clean or the fish will taste burned even if cooked properly. What we in South Georgia call tater logs are a great potato compliment to the fried catfish. It is a riff on fish and chips that is so popular with the Brits. Cole slaw has always been a welcome side to any fried dish. And good hush puppies are an art.
But that is not the joy of a fish fry. I remember being a kid and being LOUDLY chastised by my mother for running and playing with friends of mine and coming within 300 yards of the rapidly boiling oil. I remember sitting on the tailgate of my pick up with my dad on the steps of our house watching catfish dance in the oil and talking and laughing about things new to me and ancient to him. The fellowship of the cooking matched the companionship of the meal. I miss the idea of a good fish fry.
My friend and his family sat around the pot tonight laughing and talking about his father. Friends and former neighbors brought pictures of his dad that my friend had never seen in 41 years of life. Like all of us, he found it hard to imagine that his father had existed before that time he let his dad hold him in the hospital following his own entry to this world. That younger man gave way to a progessively older man that was more and more infirm and yet remained the epitome of MAN.
Over several beers I once told another friend that I was not half the man my father was. He agreed with me by saying, "None of us are" and looking at me like I was stupid. My friend Paul and I have not sat around and had a fish fry before, but we have shared beers and a church pew (on separate occasions of course) and talked about how our fathers tried to shape us into men. We laughed more than once over the things they had warned us about that we had blundered into any way.
Paul's dad passed away suddenly on Saturday. They bury him on Thursday. They had a fish fry Tuesday night. The catfish were crispy and the tater logs were hot and the cole slaw was cool. And a family loved and laughed together. Wish I had been there.
Love you guys. Praying for you guys. Planning on a fish fry this Saturday. All of ya are invited.
But that is not the joy of a fish fry. I remember being a kid and being LOUDLY chastised by my mother for running and playing with friends of mine and coming within 300 yards of the rapidly boiling oil. I remember sitting on the tailgate of my pick up with my dad on the steps of our house watching catfish dance in the oil and talking and laughing about things new to me and ancient to him. The fellowship of the cooking matched the companionship of the meal. I miss the idea of a good fish fry.
My friend and his family sat around the pot tonight laughing and talking about his father. Friends and former neighbors brought pictures of his dad that my friend had never seen in 41 years of life. Like all of us, he found it hard to imagine that his father had existed before that time he let his dad hold him in the hospital following his own entry to this world. That younger man gave way to a progessively older man that was more and more infirm and yet remained the epitome of MAN.
Over several beers I once told another friend that I was not half the man my father was. He agreed with me by saying, "None of us are" and looking at me like I was stupid. My friend Paul and I have not sat around and had a fish fry before, but we have shared beers and a church pew (on separate occasions of course) and talked about how our fathers tried to shape us into men. We laughed more than once over the things they had warned us about that we had blundered into any way.
Paul's dad passed away suddenly on Saturday. They bury him on Thursday. They had a fish fry Tuesday night. The catfish were crispy and the tater logs were hot and the cole slaw was cool. And a family loved and laughed together. Wish I had been there.
Love you guys. Praying for you guys. Planning on a fish fry this Saturday. All of ya are invited.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
August 25th, 2005
I am not sure exactly what I was doing on August 25th, 2005. We had opened the Baytown Walmart Distribution Center in April of 2005. We received freight from the port of Houston and we were probably already shipping by August. It was a stressful time for me but a fun time as well. It was a new building, but it was doing a type of receiving and shipping that I had done for seven years. And I had a number of friends that were there to open the building too.
Those of us that already knew each other were joined by a few other Walmart managers who were all a little strange and a whole lot of fun. We spent 27 days working 7 days a week and 12 hours or more each day when we finally started receiving boxes. We were training another company to actually hire the staff and run the building. We Walmart folks were just there to train their people and to make sure they did things to our standards.
Like I said, we were a hard working bunch. But we were a hard partying bunch too. Our 10 to 12 hour days were followed by several nights of excessive drinking that always made the next morning more painful than it needed to be. We were either at a wing place drinking beer and daring each other to eat the insanity wings or we were over at Foozie's playing pool (badly in my case).
I still remember a good friend (who will recognize himself here but I will not call his name) deciding to try the insanity wings. They will bring you one wing to sample for free because it is such great entertainment
for everybody else. I told my friend in a loudness that only comes from having too much beer," Dude, wait until your beer gets re-filled before you try it. And bite down with your teeth so that your lips are pulled back. You don't want it to get on your lips," and I bared my teeth like a 5 year old smiling for his class picture so that he could see what I was talking about.
My friend did not listen. He bit into the chicken wing drumette with his lips wrapping around it like it was corn on the cob and with maybe a finger of liquid left in his beer glass. Now, I have never seen anyone go into anaphylactic shock, but this must have been a pretty close impression of the event. His lips swelled and they turned a light purplish pink color. His eyes and nose both became incredibly athletic - they were running like they stole something. I gave him my beer after his little swallow proved totally inadequate. The rest of the gang gave him beers too as he struggled to regain the ability to talk. Our waitress got one hell of a tip, by the way.
We had fun at work too. I remember getting chastised for referring to one of my trainees in a derogatory manner. I was charged with training the four desk clerks for day shift. Three of them were amazingly sharp people that I would have wanted on any team that I was forming. Smart people who were quick on the uptake and eager to do a good job. And then there was this one young lady who had long blonde, curly hair with an amazingly curvaceous body and an Angelic face that just may have been the dumbest human being I have ever encountered in my life.
Now we had told the company responsible for actually running the building that we needed the best of the best for the desk clerk job. On a receiving and shipping dock, a good desk clerk is like having another supervisor on the dock. They decide which loads to put into what doors when the days starts. A bad desk clerk can just cripple an operation.
I sat there with the other 3 clerks who were absorbing everything I had to teach them and watched them grow tired and bored as I was having to spend time teaching this absolutely gorgeous woman how to log into the system for the 239th time. I sat and looked at her with her perfect hair, model body, and blue eyes, and pouty lips, and slender fingers, and long legs, and ... What was I saying?
Oh, yeah, I found myself wondering why her male supervisor and male area manager and male operations manager and male assistant genereal manager had put her forward as a candidate for desk clerk. It still remains a mystery to me to this day. I began to refer to her as "Sack of Hammers". I did this in front of my bosses once. They each asked why I called her that. I told them it was because she was a dumb as a sack of hammers. That was when I got chastised.
My operations manager (a dear friend to this day) and I made a deal that I would start training the unloaders after lunch and he would start with the desk clerks since I had made so little progress. I made a point to watch how long Sack of Hammers spent at the computer versus the other three and to see how often my boss put one or both of his hands on the top of his head. When my old boss/buddy puts both hands on top of his head, he is trying to keep his head from exploding.
At our last break of the day he came up to me. "I am sorry son. You were right."
"About what," since I can't let ANYTHING lay where it is.
"She is as dumb as a sack of hammers."
Our entire team knew who Sack of Hammers was and you could tell who had worked with her personally and who had not. The ones who had, called her Sack of Hammers. The ones who had not, thought we were horribly unprofessional. Until they worked with her. Then they hung their heads and said, "You were right." We still talk about Sack of Hammers and how beautiful she was and we wonder if she did drugs and they impacted her that way or if her mother had done the drugs and she was born that way or both.
We were successful though. Within months we were number one on the Operational Index that Walmart uses to track its buildings and within a month or two of that we were number one on the Profit and Loss rankings that are even more important. We pulled together as a team and sacrificed and worked hard and we achieved. We were all very proud of ourselves.
Some of that had to be happening around August 25th, 2005. I wish I could remember exactly what I was doing on that day, but I do not. I am pretty sure that I was not thinking about the fact that we had soldiers overseas fighting and dying. I know that even then I would pick up the tab at a bar or restaurant when I saw military people in uniform, but those folks didn't hit my radar too often. Still don't if I am brutally honest.
Whether you agree with the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq or not, you have to appreciate the sacrifice of the people who are away from their families for months or years and who put their lives on the line in extremely hostile areas. My personal view is that our push overseas has kept the bad guys on the run so much that we have not had a single attack here in over ten years. That proves its worth and what we owe the people who have chosen to serve over there.
I think to all the hard work that was really a lot of fun and all the fun that was really a lot of hard work and I smile. It was a great time with great friends doing great things in our chosen profession. It was just a lot of fun. I was able to live my life without care or worry and have fun. That did not come free.
Operators of Delta Force Killed in Action in Iraq on August 25, 2005.
Those of us that already knew each other were joined by a few other Walmart managers who were all a little strange and a whole lot of fun. We spent 27 days working 7 days a week and 12 hours or more each day when we finally started receiving boxes. We were training another company to actually hire the staff and run the building. We Walmart folks were just there to train their people and to make sure they did things to our standards.
Like I said, we were a hard working bunch. But we were a hard partying bunch too. Our 10 to 12 hour days were followed by several nights of excessive drinking that always made the next morning more painful than it needed to be. We were either at a wing place drinking beer and daring each other to eat the insanity wings or we were over at Foozie's playing pool (badly in my case).
I still remember a good friend (who will recognize himself here but I will not call his name) deciding to try the insanity wings. They will bring you one wing to sample for free because it is such great entertainment
for everybody else. I told my friend in a loudness that only comes from having too much beer," Dude, wait until your beer gets re-filled before you try it. And bite down with your teeth so that your lips are pulled back. You don't want it to get on your lips," and I bared my teeth like a 5 year old smiling for his class picture so that he could see what I was talking about.
My friend did not listen. He bit into the chicken wing drumette with his lips wrapping around it like it was corn on the cob and with maybe a finger of liquid left in his beer glass. Now, I have never seen anyone go into anaphylactic shock, but this must have been a pretty close impression of the event. His lips swelled and they turned a light purplish pink color. His eyes and nose both became incredibly athletic - they were running like they stole something. I gave him my beer after his little swallow proved totally inadequate. The rest of the gang gave him beers too as he struggled to regain the ability to talk. Our waitress got one hell of a tip, by the way.
We had fun at work too. I remember getting chastised for referring to one of my trainees in a derogatory manner. I was charged with training the four desk clerks for day shift. Three of them were amazingly sharp people that I would have wanted on any team that I was forming. Smart people who were quick on the uptake and eager to do a good job. And then there was this one young lady who had long blonde, curly hair with an amazingly curvaceous body and an Angelic face that just may have been the dumbest human being I have ever encountered in my life.
Now we had told the company responsible for actually running the building that we needed the best of the best for the desk clerk job. On a receiving and shipping dock, a good desk clerk is like having another supervisor on the dock. They decide which loads to put into what doors when the days starts. A bad desk clerk can just cripple an operation.
I sat there with the other 3 clerks who were absorbing everything I had to teach them and watched them grow tired and bored as I was having to spend time teaching this absolutely gorgeous woman how to log into the system for the 239th time. I sat and looked at her with her perfect hair, model body, and blue eyes, and pouty lips, and slender fingers, and long legs, and ... What was I saying?
Oh, yeah, I found myself wondering why her male supervisor and male area manager and male operations manager and male assistant genereal manager had put her forward as a candidate for desk clerk. It still remains a mystery to me to this day. I began to refer to her as "Sack of Hammers". I did this in front of my bosses once. They each asked why I called her that. I told them it was because she was a dumb as a sack of hammers. That was when I got chastised.
My operations manager (a dear friend to this day) and I made a deal that I would start training the unloaders after lunch and he would start with the desk clerks since I had made so little progress. I made a point to watch how long Sack of Hammers spent at the computer versus the other three and to see how often my boss put one or both of his hands on the top of his head. When my old boss/buddy puts both hands on top of his head, he is trying to keep his head from exploding.
At our last break of the day he came up to me. "I am sorry son. You were right."
"About what," since I can't let ANYTHING lay where it is.
"She is as dumb as a sack of hammers."
Our entire team knew who Sack of Hammers was and you could tell who had worked with her personally and who had not. The ones who had, called her Sack of Hammers. The ones who had not, thought we were horribly unprofessional. Until they worked with her. Then they hung their heads and said, "You were right." We still talk about Sack of Hammers and how beautiful she was and we wonder if she did drugs and they impacted her that way or if her mother had done the drugs and she was born that way or both.
We were successful though. Within months we were number one on the Operational Index that Walmart uses to track its buildings and within a month or two of that we were number one on the Profit and Loss rankings that are even more important. We pulled together as a team and sacrificed and worked hard and we achieved. We were all very proud of ourselves.
Some of that had to be happening around August 25th, 2005. I wish I could remember exactly what I was doing on that day, but I do not. I am pretty sure that I was not thinking about the fact that we had soldiers overseas fighting and dying. I know that even then I would pick up the tab at a bar or restaurant when I saw military people in uniform, but those folks didn't hit my radar too often. Still don't if I am brutally honest.
Whether you agree with the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq or not, you have to appreciate the sacrifice of the people who are away from their families for months or years and who put their lives on the line in extremely hostile areas. My personal view is that our push overseas has kept the bad guys on the run so much that we have not had a single attack here in over ten years. That proves its worth and what we owe the people who have chosen to serve over there.
I think to all the hard work that was really a lot of fun and all the fun that was really a lot of hard work and I smile. It was a great time with great friends doing great things in our chosen profession. It was just a lot of fun. I was able to live my life without care or worry and have fun. That did not come free.
Operators of Delta Force Killed in Action in Iraq on August 25, 2005.
6-Sgt. 1st Class Trevor J. Diesing / August 25, 2005 / IED attack / Husaybah, Iraq.
7-Master Sgt. Ivica Jerak / August 25, 2005 / IED attack / Husaybah, Iraq.
8-Sgt. 1st Class Obediah J. Kolath / August 25, 2005 ( died on August 28 in Germany ) / IED attack / Husaybah, Iraq
I bet the families of these three men know exactly what they were doing on August 25, 2005. They were probably doing the same kinds of things that you and I were doing, right up until they were notified of something awful that changed their worlds forever. Please, the next time you have the chance to say thank you to someone in uniform, over come your shyness and say so. If you have the means to pay for their meal or their drink or their tank of gas, do so. And please, please live well and have fun and add value to life. They pay too much and are paid too little for any of us to do anything less.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Some of You Know How I Am
I have nothing to say. Not one minute after deciding that I was going to try to write something that was at least publishable, if not marketable. And I find that I have nothing to say. An awful thing for me. Here is what I understand about me: I am my thoughts. The greatest compliment came from my father who said that I did not see the world the way everyone else does and that I had a beautiful mind.
If I have nothing to say, then I am an empty vessel. I am all to familiar with the fate of empty wine and beer bottles. And I am not even being refilled. My wife asked me just yesterday why I am not reading any more. I have no idea. I am not depressed and yet I am more separated from life than I have been in ages.
Changes are on the horizon. Maybe they will lead me to plug back in. Maybe the new things will allow life to flow into me and then onto the page. I feel stunted. I feel like I am less than I was and less than I should be.
It will change. A strange thought will hit me and I will stream it onto this blog and those of you who read this will soak it up and laugh at the audacity or scratch your head at the funny or grow angry at the simplicity. Or you won't react at all. And the ones of you who are the least intelligent will not even wonder why the words have no effect or why the world is so small and colorless. The rest will be aghast at the arrogance here.
And then think, "Well, you know how he is."
If I have nothing to say, then I am an empty vessel. I am all to familiar with the fate of empty wine and beer bottles. And I am not even being refilled. My wife asked me just yesterday why I am not reading any more. I have no idea. I am not depressed and yet I am more separated from life than I have been in ages.
Changes are on the horizon. Maybe they will lead me to plug back in. Maybe the new things will allow life to flow into me and then onto the page. I feel stunted. I feel like I am less than I was and less than I should be.
It will change. A strange thought will hit me and I will stream it onto this blog and those of you who read this will soak it up and laugh at the audacity or scratch your head at the funny or grow angry at the simplicity. Or you won't react at all. And the ones of you who are the least intelligent will not even wonder why the words have no effect or why the world is so small and colorless. The rest will be aghast at the arrogance here.
And then think, "Well, you know how he is."
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