tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35471238660864023662024-03-14T01:24:55.692-07:00For What It's Worth, Love DadThe Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-70609379862086842442012-10-31T05:32:00.002-07:002012-10-31T05:32:21.303-07:00Halloween
An Excerpt from "For What It's Worth, Love Dad"<br />
<br />
Holidays are the exclamation points that emphasize the otherwise routine
days of our lives. There are holidays like New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day
that mark old endings and new beginnings. And, of course, Christmas, when our
children share their joy and wonder with us, and in that sharing recharge the
spirit of the child that still lives within us. Holidays can be marvelous
memory makers. And then there’s Halloween.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
You just can’t make an eloquent statement about the nobility of man at Halloween.
It doesn’t inspire people to do charitable acts or to bestow blessings on
anyone. Quite the contrary! Halloween is for pranksters and tricksters and for
scaring the bejeepers out of any unfortunate soul who happens to let his guard
down. And, despite numerous protests and murderous threats from my wife, that’s
the tradition I’ve always tried to uphold in my family.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Now, in order to effect a truly notable Halloween memory, you need a few
very basic ingredients:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(1)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>pumpkin<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(1)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>dark night
(preferably with a spooky moon)<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(1)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>imaginative
child (add more as desired)<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(1)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>shameless
and sadistic father<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
It’s long been the tradition in my family that Dad and the kids go hunting
for “The Perfect Pumpkin.” Come to think of it, my wife <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> does this stuff. Makes you wonder who thinks up these <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">traditions</span>, doesn’t it? What the heck
does she do with all that free time while I have the kids out scouring the
markets for pumpkins and such? To be fair, though my wife certainly enjoyed
those periods of temporary peace and quiet, the kids and I always had a great
time and, while Mom’s acquisitions would be affected by budget constraints,
Dad’s purchases never had a limit. Where Halloween was concerned, there was no
price too high for the perfect pumpkin! This was a tradition that I used for
virtually every holiday, by the way. Hence, the perfect valentine, the perfect
Christmas tree, etc. But I digress.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So the kids and I would set out in search of the “Perfect Pumpkin.” This was
always a description and title that was subject to some interpretation. Each of
the kids would find what they felt constituted “perfect” and there’d be an
impromptu judging contest. We’d oh-so-seriously examine the characteristics of
each gourd, trying to visualize how the poor thing was going to look after we
hacked out its insides and carved some ferocious countenance on it. Eventually
we’d reach a consensus and hightail it back to the house with our prized, and
soon to be butchered, “Perfect Pumpkin” in hand.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The autumn sun was sinking rapidly behind the hills beyond our home as the
kids and I set about drawing pumpkin faces on scraps of paper. After several
attempts at a number of designs, we agreed upon the face that would scowl down
from our living room window at the hapless trick-or-treaters who dared come to
our front door. We copied the features from our drawing to the pumpkin and I
selected the largest butcher knife from the kitchen to do the deed. With my
eyes bulging as best I could, I gave my best impression of Boris Karloff and,
screaming for just the right effect, plunged the knife into the gourd! This
was, of course, met with a round of applause from the kids and a smile and
shake of the head from my wife. After completing the incision for the
unfortunate pumpkin’s craniotomy, we’d commence scooping its “brains” out.
(Always good for a <i>yechhh</i> or two.). Finally, all that remained was to
put the candle inside the head and place our jack-o’-lantern in the front
window. By this time, the “traditional’ side of me was in full swing and I
suggested that Richard go out front to make sure the pumpkin could be seen from
the road. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Now, I’m really not a bad father, <i>usually</i>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But it was Halloween and <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">tradition</span>
demanded a sacrifice. This year, Richard drew the short straw, so to speak.
Richard, of course, was ignorant of my adolescent adherence to arcane family
rituals. He was only six, going on seven. By now he knew there was no Santa
Claus, but chose to believe anyway, just in case. And at this moment, he knew
there was nothing outside that could hurt him, (but what if he’s wrong?). His
sister (the shark) smelled blood in the water and insisted she’d watch him
through the window to make sure he’s okay, and he reluctantly agreed to go.
This was as much a testimony to his gullibility as to her cold-bloodedness. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
By now, the sun had long since left the horizon and it was pitch-black
outside. Timing is everything with traditions, you know. And Richard, fearful
but trusting Richard, made his way slowly, step-by-cautious-step, down the back
stairs and around the corner of the house (where the shrubs and trees take on
monstrous shapes and it’s <i>really</i> dark), and finally to the front curb to
gaze upon the pumpkin as his wonderful, loving father, whom Richard adores,
suggested. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My son was no sooner out the door and cautiously heading down the stairs,
when I made a bee-line for the drawer where I kept <i>It</i>! <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i>It</i> was a full head, rubber mask that looked, at its best, like a
demented old man. At its worst, <i>It</i> was a demented old man that lived to
eat the flesh off the bones of six-year-old boys. <i>It </i>had craggy brows
over dark, deep set eyes and a shock of platinum white hair that rose like a
scream from the fringe of its balding top. And <i>It</i> was going to meet
Richard on the path back to the house. Realizing the benefits of special
effects and good lighting, I grabbed a flashlight on my way out the door.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
By now, Richard had made it to the curb, given a cursory glance to the front
window, just to say he did it, and confirmed that, yes, the pumpkin is visible
from the road. And now he was headed back to the safety and security that
waited for him inside his well-lit house, just past the trees and beyond the
dark and forbidding back yard. And there, in the backyard, <i>It </i>waited.
Richard, either sensing the danger or anxious to be back inside, was moving
much faster now. Gone was all caution as he rounded the corner of the house.
Running at full clip, he broke into the clearing at the back of the house and
headed toward the stairs.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Suddenly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It</i> jumped out of the
bushes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aaarrrgggghhhh</i>!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And Richard screamed…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aaaaaiiiieeeeeeeee</i>!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
To get the proper effect, I held the lit flashlight under my chin so as to
cast shadows across the mask and make it more menacing. I needn’t have
bothered, really.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Completely frozen in place, Richard was still <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">screaming</span>…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
By then, I was behaving like a merciless mirthful ass, virtually collapsing
with laughter, and then I realized…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Richard was <i>still </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">screaming</span>,
and I was about to be in serious trouble!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Quickly, I removed the mask and shone the flashlight on my face so Richard
could clearly see me, but he kept screaming! And I heard his mother coming…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Hearing his terror, my wife had become a she-bear, bursting through the
backdoor to save her cub…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Downstairs, the grandparents have heard the commotion and come running…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
His sister, sensing a change in the atmosphere, is no longer the shark and
is now only concerned for her brother’s welfare… (The little traitor!)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Guardedly, I looked into his mother’s eyes, and suddenly, I knew what real
fear was…<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
With his mother’s appearance, Richard’s screams have finally subsided into
an incoherent muddle of sobs and gibberish, as his mother attempted to keep him
from going into shock or something worse. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Meanwhile, there I was, holding a flashlight and a scary mask, trying to
look innocent and not doing a very good job of it. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Eventually, Richard calmed down, and being extremely goodhearted, he forgave
me. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
His mother however, was not quite so goodhearted, and certainly not as
forgiving. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But by the time the Halloween had passed and that rotten smelly pumpkin had
been disposed of, we were once again a happy, reasonably well-adjusted family. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Finally, October was just a memory, Thanksgiving came and went. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And then the kids and I set out to find “The Perfect Christmas Tree.”<o:p></o:p><br />
The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-17488966919756003282012-09-15T13:55:00.004-07:002012-09-15T13:55:49.751-07:00A Discovery of Biblical Proportions
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have found the
Tower Of Babble!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Actually, it wasn’t that hard to find, really. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I work there every day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s the offices of the Federal Emergency management Agency in
Algiers, Louisiana.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And no, I didn’t misspell that. But with all due respect to
the Bible, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> discovery has striking
similarities to the Tower of Babel described in the book of Genesis.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For instance; the Tower of Babel was built by descendants of
Noah’s flood survivors. My Babble came to be because of the flooding caused by
Hurricane Katrina. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the story of Babel, the Lord God Jehovah (or Yahweh, if
you prefer) saw that humanity was getting pretty full of themselves and perhaps
distancing themselves from proper worship. So he (or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i> as I suspect) in yet another display of divine stand-up comedy
opted to make them all speak gibberish. And, for a final giggle, God had
everyone speaking different dialects of gibberish. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since the land of Gibber had not yet been discovered,
Gibberish made no sense at all to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone </i>and
thus, construction on the tower was doomed to failure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Really</i>? I mean… if
I wrote this into a sitcom I wouldn’t need to write a blog again…ever! By the
way, I may have also found the land of Gibber. It’s in southern Louisiana. But
everyone there calls their language Cajun. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In my modern day version, the Tower of Babble was
established to circumvent and overcome the impact of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hurricane</i>, commonly a force of nature or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Act Of God</i>. I suspect that there may be a direct lineage between those
original survivors of Noah’s flood and the world’s government agencies, which
would explain why said agencies are (like their ancestors) also full of
themselves. It would also explain God’s reaction which, keeping on a theme, was
to confuse communication. But in a rare stroke of efficiency, God had the
agencies confuse themselves.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This freed up God’s schedule to work on his advanced
logistical plan<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> (something involving the
Mayan calendar).</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so, granted a moment of God’s divine inspiration, the
government invented <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">acronyms.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay, it’s starts to get complicated here, so I’ll try to go
slow. But do try to keep up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I work with the Governor’s Office of Homeland Security &
Emergency Preparedness, (GOHSEP) as a State Applicant Liaison, (SAL). My office
in Algiers is located in the Louisiana Recovery Office (or LRO). I review
Requests for Public Assistance, (RPAs) that are submitted by Points of Contact (POCs)
at local agencies (with their own acronyms) and Private Non-Profit agencies or
PNP’s as we lovingly refer to them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ll pause here so you can re-read the previous paragraph 2
or 3 times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ready?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After they are granted eligibility to the Public Assistance
(PA) program, applicants document their damage claims via Project Worksheets
(PWs). If there is a problem with their claim, they can request information via
the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) or informally via a Public Assistance
Expedited Information Request (PAXIR). The Federal Emergency Management Agency
(FEMA) is also in the building. They assign a Public Assistance Coordinator,
(PAC) and Project Officer (PO) or Project Specialist, (PS) to work with the POC
of the agency or PNP to document the PW which includes the Damage Description
& Dimensions (DDD) and Scope of Work (SOW). To determine appropriate costs
of repairs, FEMA may utilize the Cost Estimating Format or CEF. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It helps if you’re sitting down while reading this….really.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once this is done, the SAL (me) and the PO and the PAC will
meet with the POC of the PNP to present the PW and discuss the DDD and SOW. We
then forward the PW to Quality Assurance & Control (QAQC). If the Katrina PW
passes QAQC it gets entered into the National Emergency Management Information
System (NEMIS), where it gets processed thru a queue of reviews including (but
certainly not limited to) Environmental & Historical Preservation, (EHP)
which will also include a signoff by the State Historical Preservation Officer
or SHPO.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And this is the condensed version. For sake of your sanity
(and mine) I’ve left out a multitude of other potential steps. But you get the
idea.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As you can easily see, it is quite possible, in fact an
almost daily occurrence that I can have a complete conversation without uttering
a single actual word. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somewhere in heaven, God & Daniel Webster are
laughing hysterically.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One final note, for anyone who doubts the logic of attributing acronyms to God’s wrath & warped sense of humor, I submit the
following;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">According to Wikipedia, the Tetragammaton transliterates the
Hebrew word & symbols for “God” into YHWH….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">(LMAO)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tetragrammaton"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tetragrammaton</span></a><o:p></o:p></div>
The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-22100938584503761572012-09-03T09:56:00.001-07:002012-09-03T09:56:09.157-07:00Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall...
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Call me slow, or maybe just blissfully unaware of the
obvious. But I just discovered today that my birthday suit doesn’t fit anymore.
Not sure when it happened, but somehow the damned thing got stretched out in
the front, sags in the back, and has so many wrinkles my steam iron just laughs
at me (hysterically).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Add to that, it hangs in places it shouldn’t and very
obviously doesn’t hang in places it used to (embarrassing). The feet now look
like a hobbit/duck cross-genetic experiment gone awry and the knees have
permanent Lewinsky pads…you may recall the whole Bill & Monica affair?
Shortly thereafter I was installing some ceramic floor tile and christened my
knee pads “Lewinskys”. My wife thought it was disgusting, of course. But my
kids thought I was pretty witty at the time. They’re a better (and more
forgiving) audience than my spouse, so I tend to believe them more than her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Making matters worse, I sneezed this morning…repeatedly.
Sneezing by itself is an all-encompassing experience, but generally without
lasting impact. Unfortunately, I was shaving at that particular moment. So the
result is that I have a mangy looking beard to go with my decrepit birthday
suit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Continuing on the theme, I then scratched my eye while
putting in my bi-focal contact lens which promptly tiger-striped the white of
the eye a vivid red. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I forgot to mention, over the last few days I had sequestered
myself on the 9<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> floor of my hotel, safe from any rising flood
waters that may have been forthcoming as a result of Hurricane Isaac. Needless
to say, the flood waters didn’t happen, for me at least. But we did lose power.
Consequently, every trip for a meal was accompanied by a death march, (down
& up) 18 flights of stairs. Two days of this and I now kind of hobble from
one side of the room to the other, listing slightly to the left and correcting
the list with an occasional lunge to the right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The resulting combination of the sagging suit, mange-ridden
beard, blood-laced eye and stagger-lunge gait have left me looking not unlike
one of the walking dead I see in so many movies and TV series these days. So I
shouldn’t have been surprised by the horrified glances I received from
passersby on the street this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The good news is that only the tourists were horrified and, truth be
told, I may have hammed it up a bit with them just to get a better response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The other good news is the locals just assumed I was another
homeless wino. And in the short course of one hour, I had collected twelve
dollars and thirty-37 cents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At this rate, in a few more days I’ll have enough money to
maybe get a new birthday suit!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-51493208412583484582012-08-05T11:27:00.000-07:002012-08-05T11:27:06.874-07:00Blackjack<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For me writing is a Sunday drive with no specific direction
in mind. I cruise along, mindful of my intended passenger/reader (that would be
you), asking “Are we there yet”? But still, I selfishly enjoy the journey for
its own sake. I’m just in it for the moment and somewhere in the myriad of
left, right, and U-turns encountered on my keyboard, I chance upon that
intersection where that one feeling that’s longing to be expressed meets my
fingertips and…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I find the destination I didn’t know I was headed for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last January, my youngest and only son, Richard and his fiancée,
Lynn tied the knot. Richard, never one to rush into things, had taken 12 years
to figure out what Lynn had known in the first 12 minutes… that they were made
for each other. For a really bright guy, my son is sometimes a bit slow. But
it’s an inherited trait that I believe comes from his mother’s side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Deb will say it’s all my fault, of course. But she’ll have
to make that argument in in her own blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My somewhat global family arrived in various stages for the
wedding, with Jen & Phil from Tasmania just before Christmas and Cathy
& Sam coming in from Texas a week before the nuptials. It was a great, if
somewhat hectic, holiday season that I’ll always cherish. And, trust me; it
gave me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">scads </i>of new material to
write about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One evening I watched as Phil & Jen passed the time by
playing Blackjack with Jen’s grandmother, Gert. It was an especially poignant
moment for me and it took me back to September of 1985, when Hurricane Gloria
downed power lines across the state, leaving us without electricity for 11
days. It was during that period when Gert, in an effort to keep them engaged, first
taught Jen & Rich how to play Blackjack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She explained the rules and helped them shuffle and deal,
patiently waiting as they tallied the points in their hands. It was a simple
enough game for the kids to grasp with the objective of getting as close as
possible to 21 points without going over. More than 21 points meant you were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">busted</i> and you lost. Simple, to the point,
and no second chances like in draw poker. Blackjack meant you placed your bet
and played the hand you were dealt, made your choice to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hit </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stand </i>and let the
chips fall where they may. I didn’t realize then the significance of those
rules and how they would relate to our lives in general.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now I watched quietly as Phil & Jen set about to
teach her grandmother how to play Blackjack. You see, Gert had survived a
stroke a year or two back, and the result was she had lost some of her most
precious skills. Crosswords were now a struggle for her and simple arithmetic
was a total mystery. But somewhere inside, the significance of the cards
remained. And now it was Jen & Phil who worked to keep Gert engaged<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> They quietly coached as Gert would
struggle with the simple act of dealing the cards and they lovingly assisted
her as she counted the point values of her hand. And I wept a bit inside. Not
from sadness so much. But from the sheer magic of that moment, when a gift
given over a quarter century past was now being returned in such a beautiful
way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We all play the hands we’re dealt. And sometimes it’s not
about the winning, but the fact that we just keep playing, no matter what.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">(And yes, dear passenger/reader, we’re finally there!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-493565205956814622012-07-15T16:05:00.003-07:002012-07-15T16:05:59.382-07:00Maximum Love<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;">Maximum Love<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dad, are you feeling okay?” My father in-law was sweating profusely
and his coloring was off, not his usual florid pink….more gray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m fine”, he said, “just a bit tired this morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He wasn’t fine, though. Even as oblivious as I can be, I
could see he was in trouble. So I called Deb down from upstairs to have her
take a look at him. She was an E/R nurse and it only took her a minute to say “call
911”. Her father was in the throes of a full blown heart attack. Not surprising,
considering how active he was for a man of 75. Bill was a force of nature, a
bull of a man who somehow managed to navigate through our china-shop lives
without getting more than a bruise or a scratch, or maybe the occasional cold.
But today he was in trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could go into the details, but since this story isn’t
really about Bill (his tale comes later), I’ll just tell you that he managed to
make it to the hospital and went through the angioplasty procedure there with
flying colors. He was home a few days later and ready to resume his normal
rigorous routine of home repair and yard mowing. You’d be tempted to say “All’s
well that ends well”…..but you’d be wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dad, are you feeling okay?” (Deja-vu all over again). Once
again Bill’s coloring was off. But this time, instead of the healthy pink or
ashen grey, Dad was yellow. Not a yellow tint, but a blatant taxi-cab yellow.
Another dash to the hospital confirmed that somehow, during his angioplasty he
had contracted Hepatitis C, a nasty blood borne illness. The hepatitis was
attacking his liver and throwing his blood chemistry off, causing his skin to
have that yellow glow. The bad news was, except for the heart attack, he had
been a perfectly healthy man. However, this hepatitis was incurable and would
eventually kill him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The weeks and months that followed were nightmarish for us
all. Dad, who was normally the life of the party and raring to get going on any
new project, had overnight become a frail old man, unable to navigate across
the room, or sometimes not even able to dress himself. He endured the cruelty
of his condition as best he could. And as we cared for him at home, we all did
our best to deal with the level of care he needed, choking back our outrage at
the injustice of his being saved from his heart attack only to have contracted
this horribly debilitating disease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The days stretched into weeks, and months as Dad’s condition
continued to deteriorate. With his liver under attack, his blood chemistry
would swing violently one way or another, and this began to affect his ability
to think clearly. This marvelous man, this husband and father, would forget how
to dress himself. Never at a loss for words before, Bill couldn’t find the
words he wanted anymore. And so, was often unable to express his thoughts or
needs to those of us, his family, who now cared for him night and day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My own efforts were mainly limited to emotional support for my
wife, her mother, our kids, and yes, for Dad too. Dad and I would sit together
as he tried to describe his day, his feelings, or the details he wanted me to
handle after he died. The lion’s share of Dad’s care fell to his wife of
fifty-five years. Gert began and ended her days taking care of Bill, helping
him dress, bathe, eat and move from bed to chair and back to bed. When Deb
returned from work at the end of her shift at the hospital, she’d fill in for
Gert as best she could and more than once provided her mother a shoulder that
Gert could lean and cry on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As time dragged on, our days became a never-ending series of
Dad’s mishaps as his mind and body gave way to the ravages of his disease. Each
day was a replay of the previous one, with his condition worsening in an excruciating
day by day manner. And over time, the pace and quality of our existence slowed
to match that of Dad’s. So much so that we all descended into a hellish depression
and it became a struggle to console each other anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I realized then, that as Dad’s condition was only going to
get worse, something would have to be done to change our focus and (hopefully)
his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so I now come to the subject of this story (finally).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was the 1<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">st</span></sup> Christmas since Dad’s diagnosis
and the dark cloud of his condition had kept any light of the holiday season
from warming our home. I arrived one night after work and walked into my in-law’s
living room where Dad & Gert were seated. Their inability to deal with
their situation (or each other) anymore was palpable. How do you deal with your
life or your loved one’s life when there’s just too much pain and not enough
hope?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I was going to give it a try anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Unzipping my jacket in showman-like fashion, I presented
them with the tiniest ball of fur they had ever seen. The little Shih-Tzu puppy
was all of 8 weeks old and weighed about a pound and a half. Two large Marty-Feldman-like
eyes peered out of the little ewok face, taking in the new surroundings with a
very serious gaze. I had belabored my decision about getting a puppy, knowing
that everyone already had their hands more than full with taking care of Dad.
But my instincts told me that if we were going to pull out of our depressions, all
of us (including Dad) needed to focus on life, not death. And there are very
few things in this world that say “LIFE” more than children and puppies. Since
another child could not be arranged (at least not quickly), I figured a puppy
was just the ticket. And it would have to be a puppy that was so immediately
loveable that no one would be able to object to my new family addition. Hence,
I chose this little champagne & white Shih-Tzu. And it was obvious from
everyone’s reaction….I was right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gert, who had been sitting with a deadpan expression,
pretending to be watching some TV program, suddenly broke out into a huge smile
and started gushing baby-talk at my little companion. Dad, who had spent the
last several days in a silent depression, sat up, grinning from ear to ear, and
started chattering away about the size of our new family member. And in that split
second, that’s what he had become, our newest family member. The puppy was
unimpressed with the adults in the room and while they gushed and ooh’d and ahh’d,
he commenced perusing the room, sniffing this and that. When he was satisfied
that our home was marginally acceptable, he expressed his satisfaction by
squatting on the carpet and having a pee, this much to the delight of my mother
in-law. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was amazed! This from a woman who fussed over every little
spill or coffee cup ring, and she was positively in love with this miniature
mutt who had just whizzed on her floor. (Go figure)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Deb determined that our new addition would be named
Maximillian, “Max” for short. Although I argued at the time that we should call
him Murphy since he never barked, but just “mrrphd”. Max didn’t seem to mind
though and took to his new moniker like it was meant to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And suddenly, the world changed for us all. Dad was still sick
and still facing death. He still required the same level of care. But somehow,
our focus (and Dad’s) was no longer his care. We were all too taken with life
with this little charmer. Max of course was fine with all this attention and
was quite happy to be the recipient of the occasional doggie treat or piece of
cheese. Dad would gleefully watch as Max displayed his prowess at hunting down
and terrorizing the multitudes of stuffed toys he began to accumulate. Max
would “grrrph” and “mrrrph” and Dad would cackle with laughter as Max pounced
on a fuzzy squirrel or his favorite, a little white sheep. But when Dad began
to tire, Max was more than happy to curl up in his lap and take the occasional nap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It wasn’t all fun and games for Max, though. It’s not an
easy task, being a micro dog in a macro world. When he was fully grown, he didn’t
weigh over 3 ½ pounds and only stood 8 inches high. The winter after we got him
brought snow 2 ft deep. To help the little guy out I dug a random track through
the back yard to accommodate his basic needs. Stubborn as he was though, he
would try to go off the track to do his business somewhere his nose said would
be more appropriate. Introduce 8 inches of dog to 24 inches of snow and you get
the idea…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Likewise, he had “socialization” issues. Being king of the
hill at your own home doesn’t mean squat to the other dogs in the neighborhood,
i.e., the boxers, labs, etc… Max must have had bad eyesight, because he would
invariably bark warnings at the neighbor’s dogs, only to have them approach in
all their massive girth and send him into a yipping panic attack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s tough to have a lion heart in a chipmunk body, I guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Max, Gert found a friend that she could give and receive
affection…something that sadly, had become a rare event since Dad’s diagnosis.
It’s hard to open up to love when it’s accompanied by so much pain and regret. So
most of us will end up walling off the bad things not realizing that the bad
things are the cost of admission for all the good we could receive if we just
allowed ourselves to accept what life gives us. And finally, Dad was able to
focus on life and love in its purest form. Cause that’s what dogs give us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then came that day in June of 2003, when Dad had finally
had enough, when he just couldn’t fight it anymore, and we all said goodbye.
And though we were all saddened by our loss, we were thankful for the time we
had with Dad. And even more thankful that Max had been able to bring our family
together prior to Dad’s parting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Max helped carry us through some very tough times. Dogs do
that for us, don’t they? Somehow, their love transcends everything. That
wonderful, unconditional love is the gift they bring and we gratefully accept.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That July, less than 2 months after Dad’s death, Jennifer was
married in our backyard. Max was there, embarrassingly dolled up for the event.
He endured the indignity of it all with his usual aplomb. And he was quite
willing to defer much of the attention to the bride, seeing as it was her day
after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the months that followed, however…we began to notice Max
wasn’t moving quite as well or as often as he usually did. His scampering
gradually reduced to a slow walk and he tended to list toward one side or the
other. A trip to the vet showed that Max had a degenerative bone disorder. His
hips had never fully formed as a puppy and now were getting worse. He was
slowing down because he was in a lot of pain. So we gave him the pills the vet
prescribed and took him home to care for him as best we could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now that Dad was gone and Max no longer had to look after
him, it was our turn to take care of our little guy. And this we did gladly.
Max was looked after and cared for and treated with all of the dignity and
loving care we could muster. Instead of Max running up for a treat, we’d have
to seek him out. We’d pick him up, oh so very carefully, because any movement
was painful for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But eventually we had to make that last trip to the vet. Max
had deteriorated to the point that we weren’t sure if he’d see another sunrise.
The vet offered little hope and said that she could put an end to his misery or
she could try one last time to turn him around, but it would be expensive. Deb
and I looked at each other, we didn’t have a lot of money, and Max was probably
too far gone at this point. But he was “family”. He had been there when we
needed him. And we couldn’t walk away without trying everything we could to
save him now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we gave the vet the go ahead, praying that whatever treatments
she had would be enough to bring Max home to us again….But in the end, Max had
to follow Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so we experienced Max’s “Maximum Love”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it came at a price.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A price that I’d gladly pay again…and again…and again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-43670924548394305342012-07-14T10:20:00.000-07:002012-07-14T10:20:30.524-07:00For Braxton's DadI'm a little late getting this entry posted. But it's still a nice read, I think.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Father’s
Day…(For Braxton’s Dad)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s raining in New Orleans this weekend. And I’m here on
yet another Disaster Recovery assignment to help Louisiana settle their FEMA
claims from hurricanes Katrina, Rita, Gustav and Ike. There’s not much to do on
the weekend when it rains, but watch TV, read….and remember. I compensate by
mingling with the hotel guests, observing their family dynamic. And, almost
without exception, I marvel at how so very much alike we families are.
Road-weary dads are all lugging bags full of God knows what, while moms run
herd on the little ones. There’s usually a bored looking teenage daughter with
a cell phone permanently attached. And maybe a pre-teen son magically
navigating the lobby with his eyes glued to the video game he’s playing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This morning I met Braxton, a handsome and well-mannered
young man all of two years old, though he looked almost four. I watched as
Steve (his dad) loaded their SUV with the bags, cooler, stroller, and more
bags, while mom Kelly set about making sure Braxton’s curiosity didn’t lead him
too far away. Nice people. Talking to Kelly, I learned about Braxton’s age and
about his soon to be little brother who looked to be about a month or so away
from his debut appearance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As Steve packed the car, Braxton was led by his inner
navigator to wander around like little boys must. It’s a purely male phenomenon
that boys must always be in a state of perpetual motion. I remember my own son,
Richard, sitting but never still, with his legs swinging back and forth,
frantically trying to move him… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somewhere… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anywhere… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But where he was supposed to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While his sister would sit with the immobility of the
sphinx, Richard would itch, twitch, sprawl and crawl, all within the 18 inches
of the chair seat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I envy Steve and Kelly. This year will be my 42<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">nd</span></sup>
as a father. Forty-two years of summer ball games, fishing, chorus recitals,
band lessons, trips to the doctor, and trips to the beach, and all of them were
magical. I remember having the presence of mind at the time to say, “I must
remember this moment”. Because I realized even then that those moments were
flying by more quickly every day. But for Steve & Kelly, their magical
adventure is just beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before they left for home, I ran back up to my room and
grabbed a hardcover copy of my book, “For What It’s Worth, Love Dad”, and
inscribed it to Braxton’s Mom & Dad. They thanked me and Braxton waved
bye-bye as they drove away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Happy Father’s Day Steve…<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-27125991320138871202012-06-15T22:09:00.000-07:002012-06-15T22:09:01.266-07:00Forty-Two Father's Days<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This year I’ll celebrate my 42<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">nd</span></sup> Father’s Day. Cathy, 42 has three kids of her own and Jen, who lives in Australia, will be
thirty-three. And Richard (the baby) just turned 30. He's as old as I was
the day he was born.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When did that happen?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wasn’t it just yesterday we were chasing each other through
the house with their mom yelling for us to “take it outside”? Didn’t we just
put that final coat of paint on Richard’s pinewood derby car? And it couldn’t
have been that long ago when Cathy received her high school award for sewing.
She’s still a domestic diva, by the way. And didn’t Jen just floor me and her
mom, announcing she was moving to the other side of the world?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Forty-two Father’s Days!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Damn!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old!</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But since the only folks that don’t get older are sx feet under, I guess being of advanced age isn’t so bad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was just 18 when Cathy was born…not much more than a kid
myself. Lucky for me she didn’t know what a novice dad she was getting.
Lucky for me I had no idea that there was a car out there somewhere, waiting
for her to turn two years old… and then cross its path.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I gained a few years that day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I gained a few more years later, when a pickup truck
broadsided Jen in her little Plymouth. But those are stories for another day....not today.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yep, forty-two Father’s Days can include some pretty scary
times.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But in between those horrors there were so many more
moments of magic. Every year brought 3 birthday cakes, complete with gifts & smiles,
photos of 42 Christmas’s with tree hunting, trimming (and taking down afterwards),
3 kids, each having their first day at school, each learning to ride a bike, 2
learning to water ski, 1 learning to snow ski. Three graduations and 3
grandchildren!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Three lifetimes for me to share!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How blessed am I? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Forty-two times (so far)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads and soon-to-be Dads out there!<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-60315273270097892282012-06-11T08:40:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:40:36.707-07:00Father's Day....(Seriously)<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My son, bless his heart, credits me with the wisdom of
Solomon, so much so that he has dubbed me “The Bruce”. For him, whatever “The
Bruce” says must be the gospel. The truth of course, is that whatever insights
I may have, didn’t accompany my birth certificate, but were learned from a
lifetime of my mistakes. I guess the wisdom part is that over that time, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">learned</i> from my mistakes. Maybe that’s
what he sees.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The irony of fatherhood is that while we are teachers to our
children, we are all students of parenting. And while I didn’t get any wisdom
with my birth certificate, I also didn’t get the manufacturer’s instructions
that should have accompanied my children. And together my wife and I learned
about the “some assembly required” aspects of building each one’s character.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We learned how to focus on each child according to their
need, to be as honest with them as we expected them to be with us. To be fair,
to wield authority without being an authoritarian, to judge without being
judgmental, to counsel but never preach, to be ready to scold when it was
called for, and to be equally generous with praise when it was deserved. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">According to my kids, we did this reasonably well. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Looking at the adults they’ve become, I’d have to agree.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Personally, I’m still working on many of those traits I
tried to instill in my offspring. But in order to be a success as a father, I
had to lead by example. And in setting that example, I ended up learning a lot
about life… and myself. In the end, I’m proud of my children and the adults
they’ve become. And I’m almost as pleased with the man they’ve made of me.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This Father’s Day, I’ll celebrate every moment with my kids,
every laugh, every smile, every memory revisited, and be thankful for the time (and
the love) we continue to share.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For What It’s Worth,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Love,</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dad</span></div>The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-61253183435743110532012-05-06T13:12:00.000-07:002012-05-06T13:12:27.886-07:00Living With Bill...The Ups & Downs<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Affixed to the cabinet alongside our refrigerator, secured
by a small Velcro patch, sits an innocuous little gray box. It’s the remote
control for our electric garage door opener, not very imposing or even notable
to the casual observer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yet… this little battery operated device opens more than
the door to our garage. For me, it’s a key to a treasure trove of happy
memories…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our raised ranch home was shared by my brood of 5 living
upstairs and my in-laws who occupied the lower half. I’ll give my wife’s
parents credit; Bill & Gert were the picture of patience when it came to
adapting their September years lifestyle to the often chaotic activities that came
with raising three children and an infinite series of pets that included dogs,
an albino boa constrictor, two cats, and numerous hamsters…not to mention a bat
(the flying kind) that my children brought home one afternoon. Richard,
pounding out an overabundance of teen hormones on an 80 pound punching bag,
would cause seismic reverberations throughout the house. Gert was famously
phobic about snakes and Jen’s boa constrictor caused no end of lively
discussions. And then there were the doggie deposits that seemed to gain a
whole new revitalized fragrance when Bill would inadvertently run over a hidden
pile of poo with the mower. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I was talking about the remote control, wasn’t I?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bill & Gert’s prior home, the one that they had
blissfully lived a solo existence in, had come equipped with an electric garage
door opener, a feature that was painfully lacking in the home we now shared. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone who has ever attempted to open their
garage during a torrential summer thunderstorm, or one of our New England-style
winter nor’easters will attest that an electric garage door, while it may not
be a “necessity”, is certainly highly desirable. At least until you have a
power failure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But that’s another story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So Bill and I agreed to split the cost and installed a
Craftsman opener we had purchased at Sears. The whole installation process went
remarkably smoothly considering Bill was left-handed where I favored my right.
To those of you who are not experienced in multi-dexterous interaction, I can
tell you that left-handed people don’t think the same way as right-handed
folks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not that they’re wrong, mind you, just… different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Add to that, Bill was one generation removed from being
British, with his parents having come across the pond just a year or two before
he was born. As for me, I was born and bred in Kentucky (the land of beautiful
horses and fast women) from a mongrel line of Scot/Dutch/German descendants
(all of which have a disagreeable history with the Brits). Bill was of course,
a member of what journalist Tom Brokaw referred to as “The Greatest Generation”.
While I had my questionable coming of age in southern California, not
Haight-Ashbury mind you, but still, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>
the 60’s. Needless to say, where Bill would select a crescent wrench, I’d be
grabbing a socket wrench. When I tried to finesse a part into place, his idea
was to use a bigger hammer. And yet, somehow we managed to not only refrain
from killing each other, but to become fast friends in the process… despite my
wicked and shameless sense of humor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was only a week or so after the opener’s installation
that it began to malfunction. Press the remote button and the door would start
to rise only to stop halfway up. Try to close it, and the darn thing would come
half way down only to pause in its descent and then go back up. We figured out
that the seasonal temperatures had changed, causing the metal door runners to
expand or contract. This put too much tension on the opener and triggered its
safety switches. Not a big thing and easily adjustable. So I left Bill to do
the adjusting. Dragging out the ladder and an assortment of wrenches,
screwdrivers and other paraphernalia, Bill spent about 20 minutes tweaking and
adjusting the guides and the sensors until he was satisfied that all was
operating smoothly. From my kitchen window, I watched as Bill put the tools and
ladder away, walked to the front & center of the driveway, about ten feet
outside the garage, raised his hand with a flourish, aimed his remote control,
and pressed the button.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With a motorized whirr and a metallic clatter, the garage
door obliging descended to the closed position. Bill, eminently pleased with his
handiwork, began to turn and was in mid-stride back to the house…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I reached out to my remote, (remember the one velcro’d
to my cabinet by the fridge? Yep! That’s the one!), and I pressed the button.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The door, which had hit bottom and appeared to be happily at
rest suddenly reanimated itself, rising like Dracula from the grave, apparently
of its own accord.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bill, who you’ll remember was in mid-turn and mid-stride
back to the house, almost tripped over his own feet as he spun about to watch
in wonder as this formerly inanimate object was seemingly coming to life on its
own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He stood there a moment, staring at the garage…thinking. Once
again, he extended his arm raising the remote with what I must admit was quite
an imperious manner. Pressing the remote’s button again, but this time with
that English air of authority, he commanded the door to close….and it did, (almost).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Until (grinning from ear to ear), I pressed the button on my
remote again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am SO going to rot
in Hell for this!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bill stood there in amazement as the door once again began
to rise. Holding the remote with one hand and scratching his head with the
other, he then looked up at the clouds doing that “God, why are you doing this
to me” prayer. In the kitchen, I’m laughing so hard that I can barely stand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now Bill’s wheels are turning in high gear. He looks at the
remote and briefly considers that it might be misfiring. So back into the
garage to get a screwdriver he goes. I watch him in the garage as he disassembles
and reassembles the remote, and then returns to his command spot in the
driveway, raises his arm, and once again commands the door to close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just for variety, this time I let the door come down only
half way before I stop it with my remote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If there had been any room for doubt, it was now more than
obvious that Bill was thoroughly pissed off. His eyes have bugged out to an
alarming level and his normally pale face was beet red. Storming into the
garage, he drug out the ladder once again and set about inspecting the door
runners on either side of the garage. Then, he proceeded to spray lubricant
over every inch of the runners.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, while still inside the garage, he hit the button
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the door descended those last few inches, I envisioned my
father in-law peering at the door mechanisms, trying to identify whatever the
malfunction might be should the door decide to rise again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So of course, this time I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> trigger my remote, leaving him standing in the garage was
just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too</i> tempting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It took a minute or two. But eventually, the door once again
began to rise. But since I had him trapped in the garage for the moment, I
figured, “What the Hell” and hit my remote again to freeze the door as it reached
the midpoint. This action was immediately followed by not so equal but opposite
reaction characterized by a prolific string of expletives emanating from the depths
of the garage. Then the door once again descended as Bill pressed his button again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having effectively extended his exile to the garage, I was
laughing so hysterically that I started to tear up and I was in serious danger
of becoming incontinent. Meanwhile, Bill had commenced crashing about in the
garage, doing God knows what to that poor innocent electric door opener.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, in a rare moment of charitability, I grabbed my
remote and stepped out onto the porch where Bill would be able see me. After an
extended period of banging around in the garage, Bill pressed his button and
emerged from the garage. It was at this moment… this oh so memorable moment, I
innocently asked, “Are you having problems with the door, Pop?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Exasperated beyond reason, Bill explained that he didn’t
understand what the problem was, but the door opener <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must be</i> faulty. And that we’d probably have to take it back to
Sears for a refund. To demonstrate, he once again raised the remote and pressed
the button.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dutifully, the door began to descend…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At that moment, Bill turned to look at me, just as I raised
my own remote and pressed its button, stopping the door once again at the
midpoint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bill just stared at me with this blank expression.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It took a full 10 seconds for him to grasp what I had been
doing and that I was the source of his last 30 minutes of insanity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“YOU SON OF A …” For the sake of his grandchildren, I won’t
repeat the words that poured from the mouth of this otherwise normally
agreeable, peaceful, pleasant man. But since I’m laughing (even now as I write
this), I have to admit I deserved every word of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As much as I treasure that memory, the crème de le crème
moment occurred about a week later when Bill figured out how he could get even
with me. Without telling anyone, he changed the code on the door opener and his
remote, (but not ours). Consequently, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he </i>could
operate the door but we couldn’t. He was in his element as he waited to take
his revenge. But the only thing he hadn’t considered was that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I didn’t park in the garage! </i>His
daughter did. So when the magic moment came, my wife, who was innocent in this
whole affair, was the recipient of Bill’s vengeance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So now I sit looking at that remote control… that otherwise
mundane little device and remember. I’d like to say that was the end of the
arguably juvenile pranks I played on my father in-law. I’d like to say that I eventually
matured and never again had a laugh at his expense. I really would. But then,
there’s always the tennis ball, an otherwise mundane little toy...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But that’s another story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-42237537376000207382012-02-21T16:24:00.002-08:002012-02-21T16:24:40.430-08:00An Excerpt from my book, "For What It's Worth, Love Dad"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 16pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">How
Did I Get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sitting here, I am painfully aware of just how much of a
cliché I’ve become. You could accurately describe me as several gray hairs past
middle-aged, warily viewing my midlife crisis through my Coke-bottle bifocals,
lamenting my thinning hair and a growing paunch that often blocks my limited
view of my large and rather unattractive feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>In short, I’m a babe-magnet! <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Actually, I think I may be morphing into one of those
blue-haired pear-shaped people I used to laugh about. The only possible way I
could be more ridiculous would be to buy a ’70s muscle car and take up with a
young bimbo. But one requires too much energy, and they both cost way too much
money to maintain. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Not to mention, your mom would want to drive the car, and
she’d expect the bimbo to help with the housecleaning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But I can handle getting older. It’s that other cliché that
hurts the most, the one that describes me as an “empty-nester.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As I look around my home, I can see remnants of you kids
everywhere. The house has weathered into a testimony of our time here, and the
yard is landscaped with memories. With every day that passes now, I find I spend
more of my time remembering our past, which leaves less time for envisioning
the future. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yes, all of you fledglings have long since flown. And to the
untrained eye, it might appear that this nest is vacant. But I can assure you,
any nest that has had you in it can never really be empty. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
If you look carefully, under several coats of paint, you can
still make out the pencil marks on the door frame in the kitchen where we
measured your height from year to year. Each of you would stand your tallest,
stretching your necks to gain that extra half inch. And Jen, you’d bemoan the
unfairness of life as your younger brother Richard began to catch up.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Behind the garage is a small plot of land, where you guys
used to help me garden, and where, later, we played baseball, horseshoes and
badminton.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Over by the rock wall planter is where Richard’s Cub Scout
troop assembled scarecrows for a merit badge, and it was also there that we
would place the arbor for Cathy’s wedding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In the grove behind the house I can show you where we built
a clubhouse with a rope bridge and where you and friends had your race track
set up to run your toy cars. The other day, I came across an unexploded
paintball from a free-for-all you had when you were about fourteen. Apparently,
paintballs aren’t very biodegradable. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Also in the grove was a dogwood tree that you used to climb.
Sadly, the tree got diseased and had to come down. But the stump is still
there. I can show you… <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And there in the grove, not far from that dogwood stump, is
where Jen eventually said her “I do’s” with her new husband. And here in
Cathy’s room , which then became Jen’s room and is now my office, I can still
make out a few of Jen’s damned self-adhesive glow-in-the-dark stars on the
ceiling…I thought I’d gotten them all off, but they keep showing up. Wanna
see…?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There in the enclosed porch is where you discovered that the
dead bat you’d brought home wasn’t dead, but just sleeping. And then you had to
capture it before your grandmother came home. It was on that same porch where you
first got a look at the German Shepherd puppy I brought home and you named him
Champ. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I wasn’t always this way. I mean, as much as you kids have
been my life, I had another life before you came along. Back then I was Peter
Pan, a loveable flake with no intention of ever growing up and certainly no
plans for ever growing old. I was a kite, driven by the wind and in love with
the exhilaration of it all. It didn’t matter then that the winds sometimes
dashed me to the ground. I’d pick myself up again and throw myself into the
next gust, anxious for the thrill of the flight. Never worrying about where or
how I might land next time. There were places to go and things to do and I was
mid-stride in my step to take on the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And then I met the woman who would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">become</i> my world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I met your mom... <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And somehow, looking into those green eyes of hers, I saw a
future that I hadn’t envisioned before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Now, this book is not about my love life. (You kids couldn’t
handle it.) If it were, I’m sure you’d have found something else at the
bookstore with a red-hot cover and a lot more pizzazz in it, something with a
photograph of a bare-chested Adonis and tempestuous beauty with a significant chest
of her own. But, in deference to your mom I feel obliged to digress for a
moment here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There have been countless descriptions of women penned by
the men who loved them. And I am not so accomplished an author as to compete
with the millennia of those artful phrases. Let’s just say that all the things
that have ever been written by men in love, about the women they loved, are all
very true and accurate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
And they all describe my Deb. <o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I shudder to think where I might have ended up without her
by my side. Remarkably, she never <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">seriously</span>
tried to change who I was and let me remain my kite-like self. In fact, she has
almost always celebrated my occasional flights of fancy. The only difference for
me, now, was she held the string that guided me, and helped keep me aloft so I
didn’t come crashing to earth as much. And on those infrequent times when I did
crash, she was always there to pick me, dust me off and launch me back into the
sky. It’s a rare woman who can do that for a man and continue to do it time and
time again for a lifetime. I had, to quote yet another cliché, found my soul
mate. But, she’s more than that. Your mom <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">completes</i>
me. She’s the yin to my yang, the night to my day, and somehow she manages to
accomplish all this and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> be the
pain in my neck. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She says much the same about me, by the way, but she
describes her pain at a much lower point on the body.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Okay, so enough about that! The point is, I wasn’t always
“Dad.” Like most dads, I started out as a kid. And like some of the luckier
dads, I stayed a kid, at least on the inside, anyway. The problem I have now is
that all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> kids grew up and left me
here with no one to play with anymore! (You ungrateful wretches.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So it’s up to me, I guess, to try to figure out: do I
resurrect my Peter Pan self and coerce my wife into playing Wendy? Or do I
accept the inevitable and do as so many men do…fading away into obscurity,
spending my time in rocking chairs and gardening? Not much of a choice, really.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yep…<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Next stop, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">third star
from the left and straight on till morning!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
</span></b>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Something I Always Meant to Tell You:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>The secret to a happy life is…<o:p></o:p></em></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>
</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>
</em></span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Choose
something you love and dedicate your life to making it the best it can be.<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>
</em></span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>
</em></span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 3in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>I chose you.<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-24117746102678364862012-02-14T18:57:00.000-08:002012-02-14T18:57:14.981-08:00Finding Willoughby<br />
In one of his signature "Twilight Zone" episodes, writer Rod
Serling gave us a glimpse of Willoughby, a small Ohio town where a man could
slow down and "live life its full measure". In the story, Dan Daly
plays Gart Williams, a harried advertising executive who struggles daily with
the battles of the cutthroat Madison Avenue ad business, but all the while
longing for a Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn existence.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I believe we are all Gart Williams. We all want the same things… love,
peace, security, a family, Sunday Frisbee tournaments with the kids at the park
or the beach. But we don't do that, do we?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Instead, we join the vast buffalo herd and stampede ahead, never really sure
where we're going or when we're going to get there. And never being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> sure just where "There"
is.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It’s a uniquely American phenomenon, this herd behavior. And in many cases,
maybe we’re not buffaloes. Perhaps lemmings would be a better comparison. After
all, aren’t they the ones who are notorious for running off cliffs? I’ve been
to Scotland, England, Thailand, Mexico, and my favorite place, my Willoughby,
is the little village of Strahan on the west coast of Tasmania in Australia.
The people there seem to have it figured out. They work, of course. But they
work to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i>. Nobody lives to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">work</i>. And everyday they go about their business,
the business of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">living</i>. We Americans,
we can-do types, scoff at the Aussies and the Europeans because they really don’t
“have any ambition”. But the sad truth is, we’re the ones that aren’t getting
it. If you don’t believe me, just look at the stats on anti-anxiety drug sales
in America, the divorce rate, the number of troubled kids.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
If you’ve been struggling to “get ahead”, stop and consider if “ahead’ is
where you really want to be. Look at your boss, your supervisor, your manager.
Do they really look happy? Probably not. They’re saddled with a job that
demands too much of their time, energy and integrity. And because they bought
into that philosophy, they can’t really understand why anyone else would choose
not to. They started out just like you, though….wanting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i>. Do you really need that promotion? Will working more hours
for what will ultimately be less pay and less time with your loved ones really
make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> happy? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Of course, you don’t have to travel the world to find Willoughby. It’s right
there. Right where you are now. All you have to do is stop running around
trying to get more so you can enjoy life, when all you really need to do is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enjoy life more</i>.<o:p></o:p><br />The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3547123866086402366.post-27490902966280970982012-01-25T06:59:00.000-08:002012-01-25T06:59:55.290-08:00I'll Be Happy When...."<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>E</strong></span><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>veryone,</strong> says it, almost every day..."I'll be happy when...". I'll be happy when this week is over, when this report is done, when I get through this semester, when this baby finally gets here, when Friday comes, when I get my life back together, etc.. I just can't wait... for this week to be over, for the holidays to end, for the kids to be grown and out of my hair.</span><br />
<br />
Life can be a roller coaster ride, to be sure. You start off with a little excitement and apprehension, followed by some increasing anxiety as you ratchet up the first climb. You know that climb? The one with the highly visible tracks that seem to go up,and up, and up into infinity, ending abruptly just at the end of your line of sight? I mean, you knew it was going to be there, right? After all, that was one of the reasons you chose to take this trip. Logically though, you know the tracks continue on. But your instincts keep asking, "What if you're wrong this time?".<br />
<br />
As you reach the crest of that first climb and you see the path ahead, you're suddenly aware that maybe this time you've bitten off more than you can possibly chew. But there's no where to go now, so you hang on and try not to scream as you begin to fall. Momentarily weightless and picking up speed, you plummet down at an ever increasing (and terrifying) rate. <br />
<br />
Over the next few minutes (that seem like hours) you're whipsawed back and forth, more climbs and gut wrenching falls, all the while cursing yourself (and probably the friend sitting next to you) for ever having taken this ride in the first place.<br />
<br />
And then, just when you think you're about to have a sudden and intimate reunion with the lunch you consumed a half hour ago...it's over.<br />
<br />
You glide into the end of the ride, the lap bar lifts away and you shakily step out onto the platform. As you regain your composure, everyone, and I do mean everyone, experiences that elated and crazy moment when you think; "That was FUN!... Let's do it AGAIN"!<br />
<br />
I believe our lives are just like that.<br />
Some of us choose our paths, others let other people do the choosing for them (which is really just a different kind of choice, I think). But the point is, you're on the ride you chose! It may not all be fun and games. There will certainly be some peaks and valleys and numerous hairpin turns when you least expect or are able to deal with them.<br />
But when it's over, and it will be someday...you don't get to take that ride again (unless maybe your Hindu).<br />
For What It's Worth...<br />
Your time on earth is yours to kill...or spend. It's really up to you now, Isn't it?The Bruce Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14961982229633436045noreply@blogger.com4