Today I am exactly the same age as my dad was when he died.
60 years, 9 months, 3 weeks, 4 days. Exactly.
Continue reading April 4, 2024
Dear Asher,
You are a complete joy to our family!
You were born during the COVID pandemic, a time when people had more fear and anxiety than intelligence and common sense. The day you were born, JJ and I met your mama and dad in front of the hospital at 5:00 AM. We took a quick picture, then JJ and I sat outside in the parking lot with an eye on the room where your mama would be after you were born.
It seemed like forever, but it really wasn’t very long before your dad texted. He came to the fourth-floor window of the hospital and held you up in his arms. It was too far away to see you, but we knew that both you and your mom were fine. Moreover, we loved you instantly!
Since that December day two and a half years ago, you’ve grown like a weed. Really, you’ve grown too fast, little man. One day you’ll look back on time and know what I mean.
Such is life, Asher. It is but a vapor, here today, gone tomorrow.
Some days, particularly when you are young, drag by. But if the Lord extends grace and you grow old, the same days will fly by. Treasure each one. Every day is a gift. Every moment is a living treasure.
There’s no way to say all I want to share, so let me whittle it down to just a few things I feel impressed to tell you.
Continue reading Dear Asher,
Keep the Wolves Away
There’s no telling how many times I’ve crossed Intercoastal Bridge on the way to Surfside Beach, Texas.
I grew up nearby.
I’ve crabbed the bayous, wade fished the surf, cast lines from the jetties, swam the waters, and all the while immensely adding to my chances of skin cancer.
This time the trip across the bridge didn’t go to the beach but to a marina. Deep sea fishing. 50 miles out on a chartered boat with my four sons and son-in-law.
It was Friday the 13th, maybe not the best day to go more than 50 miles out on the wild blue yonder with all my name linage, but that’s what we did.
We met the two fishing guides 30 minutes before daylight, swallowed more Dramamine, and set sail.
Continue reading Keep the Wolves Away
Lenora
Several years ago on a cruise ship, Janet and I met a hard-working young lady named Lenora.
She was cleaning tables and carrying away dirty dishes when we sat down for breakfast.
Lenora was from Ukraine. Janet’s been to Ukraine before, so someone who knew exactly where her country was, much less having been there before, seemed a genuine treat for Lenora.
Quick observation — most people vacationing on cruises don’t really see the people working on the ship. It’s like the workers are simply working movable fixtures, walking robots, not real people at all, as if invisible.
Continue reading Lenora
Sunday Lunch
“What does Sunday Lunch cost each week?”
My son’s question caught me off guard. I’d never really thought about it.
My mind slipped to money mode as I mentally scanned items on an imaginary grocery checkout line.
“About $50 to $75 a week, depending on the menu, and how many are here.”
Honestly, it doesn’t matter. It’s just money. It costs what it costs.
The big expense isn’t money. It’s energy. A normal Sunday Lunch includes menu selection, grocery shopping, group texts to see who’s coming.
There’s time to prep, cook and clean. There’s lunch time itself, dirty dishes, cleaning again, taking out trash, putting up toys inside and out.
Now and then, the physical and emotional energy tank is on empty while puttering on fumes. It’s an act of the will on those days.
Regardless, Sunday Lunch is a normal thing. It’s just what we do. Besides, you can be empty in energy, but full in the heart.
Oh, Joy!
Janet talked about getting a dog for a good while. She wanted a little one, a lap dog, about 5 pounds full grown.
Fine with me.
If I had another dog, I want an outside dog, a Golden Retriever, maybe a Rottweiler.
Sometimes wants aren’t practical. We have plenty of room for a big dog to roam, but our neighbors have 17 or 18 horses. The fence keeps horses in, but I have no way to keep a big dog out. I’m content with that.
So, when Janet started finding pomapoo puppies on line (half Pomeranian, half miniature poodle), I was que sera sera.
She settled on looking at one in a nearby town. They texted pictures of two puppies left, along with a video of a little monkey they have as a pet playing with the puppies.
The Pomeranian dad was supposedly 3 pounds with the mama allegedly an 8-pound miniature poodle.
The smaller, calmer one was the one Janet picked. It was December 13, before Christmas, so she named it Joy for the season, and for the fruit of the spirit.
I’ve since wondered if Satan, or maybe Little Lucifer, for thorn in the flesh, would’ve been a better name.
Anyway, life at our house changed, a lot.
Joy only weighed 2 pounds when we got her, but was “expected” to be about 5 or 6 pounds, at the most. She’s 10.2 pounds now and growing.
Janet keeps asking the vet how big Joy will get. The vet just shrugs and kindly smiles, “We’ll see”.
Continue reading Oh, Joy!
For the Birds
It started as a little quiver, a passing thought that somehow nose dived into an idea, then exploded on the runway into all kind of notions.
I don’t mean for them to, but some ideas just keep growing. A simple idea takes on the persona of a cute, tiny green yard lizard, which promptly blows up into a huge heap of ideas that look like an angry T-Rex on a Jurassic Park rampage.
It’s happened before.
Happened again.
I was just going to make a few plain bluebird houses to go with the standard design half dozen already out on trees.
Then there was the little lizard idea to make a birdhouse like the church where Janet I got married.
That’s when Jurassic Park started. The little green lizard metamorphosed into big, cumbersome dinosaurs.
Before I knew it, I’d sketched twelve different birdhouse ideas! Soon I was adding cutouts, individualized painting, and attaching unique perches.
It ended up being the one for Janet, plus eleven more, one for each of our eleven kids and their respective family units.
Continue reading For the BirdsApril 4, 2024
It’s the day I’ll be the exact same age as my dad when he died.
I figured out the date 10 years ago. It’s been on my work bulletin board ever since.
Now it’s less than a year away, 47 weeks to be exact.
It’s not a day to worry about, just be aware of.
Maybe I’ll take off.
Maybe I’ll go fishing at a nearby lake at the dam, a place where the turmoil of the released water churns up choppy white waters until finally slowing to a gentle roll farther downstream.
Maybe the day itself will feel like that. I don’t know.
Is it any coincidence my thyroid is acting up now? Possibly the beginning of a hypothyroid with a plausible diagnosis of Hashimoto Thyroiditis.
That’s what’s on my dad’s death certificate. The doctors tell me Hashimoto’s doesn’t cause death.
Continue reading April 4, 2024
Selling Fire
I sorted the large stack of mail on the counter: Jeff. Janet. Janet. Junk mail. Jeff. Junk.
My eyebrow raised involuntarily on the last piece. Janet, or junk mail?
Janet.
I was wrong. Junk.
She opened it, shook her head, and laughed while tearing it in two.
It was an invitation for a free Italian meal at a local restaurant! Of course at first, I thought cheap date.
The catch though, and there’s always a catch, was you had to listen to a pre-pay your own cremation sales spiel!
No joke!
Cremation is both a legit, and best option, for many. Recent studies show 50% of Americans and 70% of Canadians opt for cremation. In fact, it’s usually one-quarter to a third of the costs compared to a traditional funeral. I’ve had family members cremated. You probably have too.
But selling cremation over a free meal, well that burns me up!
They even included the menu of “free” Italian entrees!
To keep in step with the delightful cremation dinner conversation, 6 of the 8 meals were “sauteed”, and a 7th was fried. Kind of figures, huh!?
Continue reading Selling Fire
Blue Plastic Egg
Saturday I was on a mission to pick up Janet at the end of the day at a Houston airport.
I stopped to get her dinner and sat in front of the second Chick-fil-A drive through line waiting on my order.
It’s always the same, no matter where you go. They bring it out and ask your name to confirm the order while handing it to you. I say, “Thank you.” They say, “My pleasure.”
Normally, I’m itching to get it and roll on. This time though, I wanted to just sit and watch.
A guy walked out of Chick-fi-A with a coke in his hand. His pants were a size too big, his belt missed a loop or two, and his shirt peculiarly looked like it was from the 1960s.
He didn’t have on ear buds, and he wasn’t on a phone, so he was definitely talking to himself.
He stopped at the crosswalk talking away, as if an imaginary person was sitting on his shoulder. He didn’t bother looking either way. He just stepped out in the drive area, staring at the ground.
Continue reading Blue Plastic Egg
RabBits 