Beautiful Lake Alice

"Professionally guided hunts from box pits surrounded by hundreds of decoys bordering beautiful Lake Alice"  That's how the first few words from the brochure described your possible goose hunt in northeastern South Dakota.  

I had no intention of ever paying to hunt geese due to the ample road ditches, public land and the fact that land owners would almost pay you to run the geese off of their fields when I lived in the glacial-lakes area.  There is, or was at least one hunting lodge that offered the previously mentioned goose hunting opportunity.

Before choosing a career in the auto business, I had owned and operated an independent vacuum store.  The pay was poor and the benefits were few, but it kept me off of the streets in my mid and late twenty's.    I was fixing a vacuum for one of the bigger hunting lodges and instead of collecting the $75 for the repair, I agreed to let them treat me to a "Professionally Guided" goose hunt.

At that time in my life goose hunting was not only my passion and main focus in my less than perfectly balanced life, it was my obsession plain and simple.  Thoughts of hunkering down in a plush pit with fellow wing-shooters, being pampered by guides, feeling the excitement and anticipation of approaching flocks of giant Canadian geese and the adrenal rush of hearing, "cut 'em boys" were too much for me to handle.  I was at their lodge nearly an hour before I was expected.  I wasn't about to let a flat tire or other mishap ruin my golden opportunity.   

Like nearly everything in my life, I let expectations grow in my mind to the point of inviting bitter disappointment if anything other than amazing results come to pass.  This was certainly no exception.

My first hint that something odd was transpiring was when a fella' in a wheelchair appeared with the boss of the lodge.  At first I was impressed that they catered to everyone.  He entered his own vehicle  Then the lodge commander approached my car and told me to get in that vehicle with the other guy and by ourselves we would drive to the main street of a nearby town where we would meet our highly skilled and well qualified guide.  That was the second notion that something wasn't kosher as "Beautiful Lake Alice" was literally a few yards from the lodge itself and we drove in the opposite direction to meet our guide.  "Have faith Kirk. These people know that they are doing," I told myself.

Not longer than 30 minutes went by after arriving at the dark and isolated main street of this small town when headlights appeared and the excitement level began to grow.  It was the owner of the lodge.  He drove the 15 miles from the headquarters to tell us the guide was running late.  Why do people use that term, "running late"?  It seems to me there is really no "running" going on when you are behind schedule.  

Eventually the guide showed up in an old sedan that looked like it was less of a hunting rig than a sports car or even a bicycle would be.  He directed us to follow him to the hot spot.  I don't remember either of the names of my hunting party members.  The nice guy in the wheel chair was from Wisconsin so I'll call him "Tex" and the guide who only had one arm I will call "Lefty" for obvious reasons. It wasn't until Lefty told us we would be pass-shooting geese in a road ditch (the way I always hunt geese) rather than over decoys that it dawned on me, hunting from the ditch means mobility and a lot of it, to get to the right place where geese are flying and I was with a one-armed guide and a larger man in a wheelchair.

Lefty deposited us by a corn field a few hundred yards from a lake that I can assure you was not "Beautiful Lake Alice" and told us he would return shortly as he needed to "check something out" back in town.  I am sure what he was checking out was hot coffee and breakfast of eggs-over-easy, bacon, toast and hash browns as Tex and I shivered in the dark windy ditch of a country road.  

I could imagine the conversation between Lefty and his morning regulars sitting at their own "round table of truth" in their hometown cafe.  It went something like, "Fred you wouldn't believe these two morons I have out at Cooters pond.  They're giving me fifty bucks to make these guys think they are gonna shoot geese, amazing I'm telling ya" 

At first light, fog appeared and was as thick as my head is hard.  Geese generally don't like flying in terribly thick fog and wind for much the same reasons airplanes are grounded in those conditions.  With the morning light I began to recognize the area as the same lake and road I had been hunting for the last week.  I collected my thoughts and realized that my dream hunt of harvesting geese in a pit over decoys and being treated like royalty as I imagined "pay hunters" are, had turned into something else.  I can't put it into words for print, but part of it would include the word "cluster"

Finally the fog lifted enough for geese to begin their morning flight.  It happened to be their flight was a few hundred yards north of our location and our guide was nowhere to be found.  Tex had never shot a goose before and that became my motivation for being a gentleman and trying to get him in position to be able to shoot one instead of throwing a tantrum like I've been known to do in the past.  He did eventually get a decent shot at one and the bird sailed a quarter of a mile before disappearing in the fog.  After retrieving it for him, Tex was more than a little disappointed with the guide and the hunting lodge itself and offered to pay my fees for the hunt.  I didn't tell him it was taken care of by barter and trade. 

Since I knew quite well where we were, we decided to fix ol' Lefty and drove to town leaving no trace of ourselves or notification anywhere that we had left.  I wonder how long (or even if) lefty searched for us and what his explanation to the lodge owner was for misplacing two hunters. 

We delivered his goose to a taxidermist in town and then had lunch.  I invited him to my store where we spent the afternoon exchanging hunting and fishing stories.  Some of them may have even been true.  I would have loved to see the face of the lodge owner when Tex showed up after dark that evening with their repaired vacuum I sent with him.  Subtle little messages are sometimes the best, like the repair tag on it showing the repair cost of $1.98

Don't Swim After Eating Bread Crusts

I've never really thought of myself as a total pessimist. I am rather skeptical about some things however, such as fad diets, miracle supplements, urban legends, and other old wise-tales. My favorite being those parents that hammer on their children to eat the crust of the bread because, "That's where all the nutrients are" when in fact bread crust is simply burnt bread that is mostly void of nutrients. It's a science thing. Trust me. Another recently debunked fable that still makes the rounds is the whole, "Don't swim for a half hour after you eat because you'll get cramps and drown" thing.  An instance of drowning due to swimming on a full stomach has never been documented.  The American Academy of Pediatrics  and the American Red Cross has never made any recommendations about waiting after eating before going swimming.  Sorry, Just the way it is.   

The art of coffee-talk might as well be dead. With the ease of access to the internet, one can't even make up phony bologna stories or twist the facts of one they know to be true in order to impress the listeners. The minute I hear something that sounds like it might bea little tooconvenient of a story, one you don't want to ruin with any facts, I'm googling it on my smart-phone. After I depose the unwanted facts to the listeners, I often find myself feeling smarter than them, yet oddly setting by myself. 

I remember a buddy of mine up north that was famous for believing that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line in the opposite direction. This guy had family members scattered all over the upper-Midwest. When he would travel to see them he seemed to take the longest, slowest route possible, yet totally believe it was shorter or faster through some kind of wishful thinking disease because someone said, "Ya, so-and-so thinks it might be faster going this way.  (Maps, my protests and common sense be damned) Someone else went that way once and thought it was a good way to go".  That person might be thought of as the brains of the operation and everyone believes them at face value, so it becomes law.  I've often wondered how it's faster to go from Sioux Falls to Rapid City by traveling through Huron, Pierre and Philip .  My arguments as well as generally accepted common sense were finally redeemed when the internet became a useful tool. 

Ever hear this?  "Well I heard from a good source..."  Trust me, their source isn't good and they are probably embellishing or they would have used their sources' name.  When you hear something such as that assume you are hearing something that isn't true.  You will be right four out of five times.  I've heard stories about a lot of you that I know aren't true.  I've heard stories about me that are physically impossible to be true.  Never the less, I would love to see it become a crime to knowingly exaggerate about a person in a way that could be harmful to them.  Unfortunately, our courts are too busy.  Our jails are too small. There aren't enough lawyers to handle the workload.  Life is hard enough the way it is without the help of people that talk just to hear their head rattle.  I personally would never repeat gossip, unless I am absolutely sure I can get away with it.   

Easy fella, not everything in Minnesota is evil.

I'm not saying I am little more cautious and un-trusting when I'm in another town for a visit, but judge for yourself.  

I traveled to Minneapolis with my daughter to retrieve a seemingly discarded minivan that had quit running during the winter months.  I had a suspicion the cause for its demise was lack of fuel, but I was assured by her it was something else. 

I've always believed that if you run your vehicle on one-eight of a tank of gas or less it's hard on your fuel pump.  I don't know the science behind it, but it sounds reasonable.  I also believe when this particular child of mine is blessed with an extra five dollars and she has an empty gas tank on her vehicle, one dollar and 26 cents of gasoline goes in the car while $3.74 is needed for six ounces of sweet creamy iced coffee in a bottle.  That's just the way things are.  My thoughts were that she ruined the fuel pump with that type situation.  Never the less, I couldn't let the vehicle sit and become a ward of the state just because it was going to cost a bit of money to haul it home and fix it.  Heaven forbid I should make a phone call and get a local mechanic to do the honors.  He might charge me a little more than reasonable because I'm from out of town, right?  Nope, I had to dedicate my entire weekend, half a paycheck and call in a couple favors to get the flat-bad and truck I needed for the adventure.  

I picked up my daughter in Sioux Falls because I decided she needed to be part of the fun.  She had landed there after leaving Minnesota for reasons I can't remember or make up at the moment.  The father/daughter adventure began just before sundown that summer's eve.  She always was a fun kid to travel with on family trips.  That is if you consider traveling with an upset wolverine high on energy drinks fun.  

We arrived at our destination a little after midnight, not stopping until we got to the correct address.  Her old roommates whom we'd known since grade school were delighted to see us... I think.  They lived in a cute older house so close to downtown St Paul you could hear the screams and gun-fire clearly.  They helped us get the van loaded on the trailer and bid us adiue with hugs and handshakes alike.  

My original plan was to drive straight through the night, but I could already tell that wasn't going to happen.  It had been somewhat stressful of a journey already and to be quite honest, I needed a beer. 

The plan changed to finding beer.  Nope!  Apparently in St Paul one does not simply go to the convenience store and pick up a "six-pack" after midnight at least not on this night which was now actually a Sunday morning.  After some frantic phone calls to her old roommates I learned my best bet was a 24 hour grocery store nearby.  They won't sell cold beer, but you can buy warm beer and put it on ice.  I guess the lawmakers figured if you want to go through all that trouble for your beer, you deserve it.  Grocery store beer there is also called 3.2 beer.  This means it's alcohol content is less than 3.2 percent by volume. 

Now, I realize we live in country of culturally diverse people.  Being the small-town un-worldly boy that I am,  I was a little taken off my game of being the in-charge big bad-guy I like to portray in public when I went into this inner-city grocery store at 1:00am.  Apparently, this area has a large population of people that are all four-foot-ten and look the same age and weight whether they are eight or 80 years old.  That's just my observation. 

What I found most odd was they acted like we weren't there.  No eye-contact or any sign that acknowledged my presence could be detected.  They walked up and down the aisles in large groups and I'm not exaggerating, they wouldn't move out of your way.  They would walk right through you if you didn't move for them.  It was very unnerving.  So, I made my daughter walk in front of me.  She knows the area.  Maybe she speaks their body language or something.  

By the time I arrived at the checkout line I was in full anxiety attack mode.  I didn't have my prescription along for that, but I did have 12 low alcohol beverages that were only seven minutes away from being cold enough to drink.  I sat the box of beer and ice on the conveyor belt of the check-out stand.  The tall blond fella doing the checking smiled warmly at me as I stepped up.  Usually guys look past me to my oddly dressed and overly made-up daughter to present their best smile.  Not Sven as his name tag proclaimed, he grabbed my stuff to ring up and said, "Oh, you look like my kind of guy"  My man defenses immediately went into survival mode and with as manly of a man voice as I could muster I replied, "LOOK BUDDY!  I AM STRAIGHT! I AM MARRIED AND YOU SHOULDN'T HIT ON CUSTOMERS NO MATTER HOW GOOD-LOOKING THEY ARE" 

"Oh, no sir.  I just meant Bud-Light is my favorite beer too", he replied.  

Never look a gift leg in the mouth

After my grueling bi-annual workout last Thursday night, I went home to find my buddy Duncan waiting for me.  He knew I might be hungry so he came over with a package of chicken legs.  So, I turned on my fryer and recipe'd-up my hot sauce that I use for hot wings.  That way we would have a drumstick version of hot-wings.  What could possibly go wrong? 

Once the fryer was ready, I dropped the legs in for their 12 minute bubbling oil-bath.  The fryer is in my garage, which serves as a fully functional second kitchen/dinning room with a big TV and recliners for ....well, you know ... man stuff.  Anyhow, I thought maybe the oil was a little old because there was a tiny hint of pungency in the area when I dropped in the legs.  I just changed the oil last weekend and only cooked a few chicken-strips and homemade fries, so I just figured it was an ambient aroma that garages can sometimes provide.

As the sauce hit a low boil, cooking time for the legs was over, along with the tasting of two tall grain and hops beverages which may have slightly dulled my senses.  I dumped the nine legs into the shake-bucket that I pour the hot sauce into, again picking up a slight stale smell wafted at me from somewhere.  No worries, perhaps the hot sauce was too hot and the vinegar in it had stung my nose a little. 

I mixed the sauce and legs in the bucket like I would the hot-wings I love to make for company and dumped them out on a plate for display and consumption.  Again, a strange smell that I was beginning to recognize hit me.  Is that bad-breath I'm smelling?   My own perhaps? His? It smelled just like nasty coffee/stale bologna breath.

The two hungry fellas began to dine on the feast of meat, hot sauce and blue cheese dressing.  It was cooked to perfection; tender, juicy and steamy on the inside.   But that smell still lingered.  After a couple bites of the chicken that had its flavor masked by a cayenne pepper sauce and blue cheese, I realized it actually was my breath.  At least now after swallowing it, I could taste in my empty mouth what I thought I was smelling earlier.  I was petrified that maybe my buddy had to endure my orally hygienic indiscretion the entire time, but didn't want to say anything.  You know how people are.

I went to the garbage can to throw my first bone away.  As I did, the empty package that the chicken came in was upside-down displaying it's grocery store specific label that I hadn't looked at yet.

I asked Duncan, “Where did you get these legs?”

He replied, “Out of my freezer.  I started thawing them at lunchtime”

“Duncan? WHEN did you get these legs”, I inquired sarcastically.

“I don't know. Not very long ago. They were on sale”, he added. 

I took a deep breath and told him that perhaps the grocery store's label maker was either on the fritz, OR the sale on the package of legs had ended around the time the label indicated: Sell by June 14, 2009.  I didn't feel so good for a few days.

Do onto other peoples cats as ...

With my house being short a couple of cats and cooler weather setting in, I currently find myself in direct need of a new mouser.   I think a cat is a cat.  It shouldn't matter what kind, color or sex, right? 

Several years ago, one of my cat-loving daughters was able to prove my theory wrong.  At the time, she was living in Lawrence, Kansas.  I don't know if you've ever been there, but if you are thinking about going, take your Birkenstock sandals, healing crystals, John Lennon style sunglasses, peace-sign head-bands and any other 70s memorabilia in order to fit in because that town is so oddly hippie-like I nicknamed it "The Berkeley of the mid-west"  It's been a little over seven years since I've been there.  Due to a statute of limitations, I'm now able to return to Kansas after a small misunderstanding one summer involving my reaction to a perceived late night mugging.  Thankfully, no one was permanently injured.   

Sara showed up for deer season with a pet cat named Saugua in tow.  I can only describe it's physical attributes as hideous.  This little rat-cat was beyond ugly.  It was like a cross between a mutant Siamese and an albino demon-cat.  It was rescued from an animal shelter raid of an abandoned farm.  This particular beast was three quarters-starved and less than properly hygienic at rescue time.  It's skin was missing hair here and there, along with several nicks and scars likely from fighting over what little food was available to the horde of cats it resided with at the farm.  As bad I felt for this unfortunate little creature of God, it didn't change the fact that it was one unsightly critter. 

What this cat lacked due to aesthetic constraints, it unfortunately could not make up in personality and charm.  Sara was able to gain some measure of favor with it, but when it came to anyone else,  it was like trying to hold a porcupine/Tasmanian-devil hybrid.  I hate to be judgmental.  You all know that, right?  Anyhow, there was just no other way to describe its personality than "psychotic"   That's actually what we called it,  "psycho-cat"     

Five minutes before she had to leave to go back to Kansas, the miniature feline decided to escape into the nether regions of our laundry room.  It found a small opening by the dryer vent to slither through and disappear into the darkness under the basement stairs.  Sara could not stay any longer and we decided to try to capture it and take it to her a couple weeks later, as we were heading there for Thanksgiving.

We never heard a sound from it for at least ten days, but we left water and food out for it at night and it would at least take advantage of that.  Finally, we had to use a live-trap and sardines as bait to catch it.   Once that happened, we had to transfer it to a box for the eight hour trip.  This was by no means an easy task.  Apparently, cats with a minor to severe mental pathology do not like being placed in a box and have a lid put on it.  You learn something new every day, don't you?  It's hard to really describe the carnage of that process accurately, but I hadn't bled that much since the 80s.  The scene ended with me poking a hole in the box for Saugua-the-cat to breathe.   The hole started as the size of a butter-knife poked in and turned in a circle.  As soon as the knife was pulled out, precious little Saugua's head came bursting through the small hole like an alien through an actor's abdomen, biting my hand with all the vengeance it's troubled soul could muster.  The fleshy part of my hand between the thumb and index finger received battlefield first-aid by my 15 year-old son Bobby while I was making new air-holes with the tip of a pencil with my other hand, being "ever so careful" not to strike the Lord's tiny blessing with one of my gentle thrusts of the pencil into the cardboard box. 

At the point we were ready to leave for the trip to deliver this incubus, my blood pressure had lowered enough to safely drive.  I allowed for one bathroom break only on this 509 mile trip.  Driving the posted speed limit the entire time of course, we arrived in just under six hours.  I can only assume google maps has their mileage miscalculated somehow.  Never-the-less, the darned cat never quit screaming the entire time. 

Sara met us outside her house as we arrived with an anxious and hopeful look on her face.  Her countenance changed quickly when she saw the box of screaming cat being taken out of the back seat and greeted us with an unenthusiastic, "Oh I guess you found it, huh?"  

Thinking outside the box

There's nothing more special than the relationship between a father and son. Anytime I want to make my wife cry, I'll say something like that. There are actually many things just as or more special than that relationship, but for the purposes of this story you'll need to play along. 

Throughout history and in nearly ever society the first-born son in a family was considered the blessed one. He was placed with extra responsibility as well as gaining the family treasures as a man. It's almost non-existent in our current society. At least to the point of being noticeable anyhow. It's just my opinion, but it seems like whichever child is the most charming, the most fun, or the one that gains the most favor of the mother tends to be the blessed one. Right or wrong, I take no sides. I have enough trouble figuring my own family out than to be analyzing anyone else's.  

I remember learning about a society in a faraway land. I don't think it was the country of Greece, but I have envisioned the people to be similar. In the past Greece is sort of known for some deep thinkers, inventors, philosophers and teachers. The only person I have ever met from Greece stayed at my house for 30 days and like most of my family and other people that met him, I wanted to kill him by the time he left. Apparently, Europeans think they are all superior in intellect to us 'muricans that only breath in and out through our mouths. People from Greece believe that too, but they also think they invented everything. Seriously, EVERYTHING! Ben Franklin, Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, Jack Kirby and Ajay Bhatt apparently all stole their ideas for their inventions from lessor know Greek scientists. What are the odds? 

Another funny thing he told me that he honestly believes is that there is a yearly military special-forces tournament held in Greece (shocker).  Teams from all over the world come to showcase their special deadly skills. Wouldn't you know it, Greece comes in first place every year! Lithuania and France are always in the top five. The USA? Nope, they rarely place in the top ten. That's the point I decided not to believe another word that came out of his olive-oil drinking, baklava eating mouth. I could rant for hours about Mr. Greece, but I'll save it for later.

The society of people I was previously referring to believe strongly in traditions. That's usually a good thing unless the traditions are sacrificing virgins to volcanoes, stoning women for as little as being accused of something with or without proof, throwing a child off the boat to learn how to swim or many other ill-advised acts that were somehow thought to be the right thing to do by whatever genius was in charge at the time.

One tradition that held through the ages in that land was when the old became too weak, too frail or otherwise a burden to the family the oldest son would construct a box big enough for the aging father to sit or lie down. They would put several personal items of the father in the box along with dear ol' dad. The son would then tie a rope on the box and after a few goodbyes with the rest of the family, he would begin to pull the box on a long trek upwards into the hills. Not an easy task to be sure.

Once they arrived at the top of their favorite hill, the son would give his father a customary kiss on the cheek. He would then turn and leave, never looking back. The old man would stay and rest peacefully until he expired. Something like that seems unimaginable to us, but there's stranger things on Earth, I can assure you. 

The story I heard about what happened once during this traditional send-off should make all of us think a little harder about how we treat our old.

As the son turned to leave, the father spoke up. "Son, please come back. I have a favor to ask"

The son returned to his father's side and asked what he must do. The Father said, "Son, remove me from this box and set me beside that rock behind us."

"But father, why?" said the good son, "It's not our way"

"I want you to leave and take this box back with you" The father answered. 

"Why must I do such a thing, father?" He objected. 

The old man replied, "Because your son will need it to bring you up here one day"

Unhappy Joes

My friends in college used to hate it when I'd start out a tale by saying, "Oh, and another amazing yet true story..." I had a tough time convincing any of them my stories were either.

For an entire year before I turned fifteen I was fourteen. Shocker, right? Fourteen year old boys are one of the worst organisms nature has been able to throw at humanity. The sudden surge of testosterone is scientifically proven to tear down the connective fibers between the right and left hemispheres of the brain making it more difficult for males to multi-task and among other things, make decisions based on emotion and logic together. Basically, testosterone causes brain damage is what I'm trying to say.

When I was fourteen I thought I was seven foot tall and bullet proof. I was pretty sure I could do anything and even more sure of my immortality. So when I had the chance to take a challenge, I rarely declined.

My mom took me to the State High-school wrestling tournament that year. I didn't qualify to participate. So, as most wrestlers do, it was time to pig-out. A four-month period of starvation to cut weight during season can cause a binge-eating period when it's over. It had been a week since I began my gorging of food, so my stomach was ready for the challenge that awaited.

We ended up at a pizza joint called Happy Jo's. They had a specialty challenge. It was a large dessert. If you could eat it in less that 30 minutes, you would win a t-shirt, your name on a giant board of victorious challengers, and the dessert was free.

At that time I was 5'8" and around 150 pounds. That is 18 pounds more than the previous Saturday's weigh-in. It's a wrestling thing. I looked like a stick-man with a Volkswagen Beattle under my shirt. I told the waitress I wanted to try the challenge. She went to get the manager and he came out to explain the rules. It was simple. They bring the concoction of soda, ice-cream, whip-cream, chocolate, fudge, peanuts, cherries, and sprinkles. Eat it by yourself in 30 minutes and you win. Oh, did I mention it was a container the size of an extra large mixing bowl? I was actually intimidated at first.

I started by playing with whipped cream and mixed it into the soda. It disappeared for the most part. Then, I began to eat the ice-cream. I could feel my tummy cooling off from the spicy pizza I'd just ate. Soon the ice-cream was gone and freeze-brain sat in with vision doubling effectiveness. The fudge, peanuts and cherries were all delightful and finally all that was left was a gooey, cloudy, sweet liquid of soda, whipped cream, and other remnants of the original recipe.

I had a straw that was supplied by the establishment. It was a bigger straw than I was used to. That straw was the star of the show in my opinion. That made it easy to suck hard and gulp big. Never mind the pain in my head and stomach. I could see the level of liquid go down with every sucking action of my lips. Eventually, I noticed that the amount of soda left was less than inch or so. I wasn't even fifteen minutes into the challenge. Witnesses, that had numbered around three or four at the start had grown to nine or ten by then. So, with no effort, I took the last few sucks on the straw and it was gone. There were a few peanuts left at the bottom. I scooped them up and ate them with a grin like a cat that just ate the family bird. I had won.

So, now was the time to receive my just rewards. I summoned the manager. He came out of the kitchen area with a look on his face like, "What the heck is going on?

"I did it. I ate it all!" He looked at me, then at the many people standing around me and said with a sarcastic smirk, "Ya right, sure you did. They helped you!"

I said, "No they didn't. I did it all myself"

He rolled his eyes as if he was a teenager told to clean his room. He said, "Look, I know you didn't eat it all by yourself, so just quit acting like you did"

My new friends all looked at each other like they couldn't believe what they heard. I boldly said, "Hey man, I did do it all myself"  He just shook his head and walked away. Now frustrated, I stood up and yelled as he disappeared to the kitchen area, "I did do it, you big jerk!

I asked the waitress, "Didn't you watch this? You saw me do it right?" She shrugged her shoulders as if to let me know that she didn't dare stand up against the manager.

Even though I had beaten the challenge, I had lost in a big way.  Because at that moment, I realized that the world was not perfect. I found out that people who ran this world in positions of power were perhaps jaded and corrupt. Never again would I trust someone in an authority position just because they are bestowed the Label of "manager", a position they received by being smart enough to kiss the bottom of what it takes to make it to the top. 

*Disclaimer: This depiction of management does not include my current boss of course!

Analyzing everything all the time may lead to madness

I've always got a kick out of how science and religion don't get along together. I don't understand either very well, but I've spent much of my life trying to make sense of both. How's that for good use of time?

In one we are asked to believe in something we can't see. In the other we are told to accept theories by people that didn't make the football team. There is so much in the world that our small brains don't have the ability to understand that it's no wonder we choose sides on everything and get angry with those who choose the opposite of us. I just think there's a lot more to the universe than what's taught in science class or Sunday school.

One of those concepts I've never been able to grasp even a little bit is fate. The word gets thrown around a lot, but basically it's synonymous with destiny or a pre-determined course of events. I don't believe in either. I don't think that fate has intelligence nor should people try to rely on it for any help. Make your own destiny or future. If you expect a word or other people to do it for you, I can assure you, you won't be happy with the results.

I have recently been blessed to become a grandfather for the fifth, six or seventh time. I'm not sure which. I had forgotten how much easier it is to hold seven pounds of child as opposed to the current 45 pounds I'm used to.

Our family was sitting around talking and baby worshiping this last weekend when I began to think (here we go again) about the circumstances involved for this new baby to have made it here. Of course the circumstances are different from everyone else's points of view, but mine are the only ones that matter... to me.

I asked the mom how she met the father (my son). She said she had met him through one of my daughters where my daughter was working at the time. Then, it hit me. She wouldn't have been working there if I wouldn't have been working there and encouraged her to do the same. I wouldn't have been working there if not for the influx of pheasant hunters to the area that requires the people here to work a little extra to serve them from time to time. Those hunters wouldn't be here if not for someone importing pheasants from China like a hundred years ago or something. So basically, a decision from over a century ago is what led to this new baby girl that I instantly fell in love with and will now drive halfway across the state to listen to cry and poop whenever the opportunity arises.

Whether or not you believe in, rely on or otherwise define a chain of events as fate, One small decision or action can and will unwittingly determine a lot of outcomes for numerous people in the future. Hopefully all with divine guidance. 

It's not the size of the cut, it's the story behind it.

I wouldn't call myself a great cook. Others would, but that's their choice.

Cooking as a hobby or passion can be expensive. Whenever I have a new idea to try or if family is in town, it usually exercises my wallet a little bit. It's well worth it when my victims, I mean guests are fully satisfied with my offerings. Mostly, I just get joy out of feeding and taking care of people.

I'm not big on fancy tableware or name-brand cutlery. Paper plates and plastic utensils are perfectly fine by my standards. It's what you put in your mouth that matters. As well, I don't go overboard on expensive knives. Anything that can be sharpened is good enough for my hand.

I tend to buy the cheapest cuts of meat as a challenge to see if I can get more out of it than expected. Ya, that's why. Oftentimes this requires a great deal of skill. Since that isn't likely, razor sharp knives can prove to be a powerful asset at mealtime.

Sharpening a knife is both an art and a skill that are passed down from generation to generation. Like some rare diseases, it unfortunately skipped a generation with me. It's not uncommon for my youngest son to be grimacing while watching me during my sharpening attempts and say something like, "Dad, I'm going to have to ask you to please step away from the knife" and take over the job. Once I have my population of rummage-sale knives sharpened, I'm good to go for at least one use on each of them before they require a touch-up.

Sharpening and using a knife are two different things. No, I'm not the worlds greatest sharpener, but I like to think I can whip a blade around like a culinary professional. There's something very manly about taking a big chunk of meat and carving it into portion perfection. On the other hand, do not believe them when they say, "A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one because you don't respect it as much" or some silly thing like that. It's an "old wives' tale" that gets repeated by people that don't work in the emergency rooms that I frequent.

While preparing and cooking meals I have been able to lower my emergency room visits to less than three times per year on average by using better knife control. It's been said that a person can tell how many meals I've served in the last week by the number of band-aids I have on my hands. I don't agree with this benchmark's accuracy, but I suppose it's not totally off-the-mark.

During my first ever cooking competition, I missed the judging and awards ceremony due to just such a circumstance. I was getting a rather nasty little wound sewn up by a doctor that hadn't had the opportunity and pleasure to work on me before, so it wasn't a total loss. I cut this finger while putting the finishing touches sharpening a knife rather than actually working on the meat. In this case, I apparently had it nice and sharp. I knew it was bad right away when I instantly became nauseated before I even looked at the wound. A trusted and well trained medical person was a couple booths down and agreed to give an opinion on whether it needed an emergency room treatment. When a seasoned professional like her says, "Oh good lord that's just terrible" I kind of figured it's time to pull out my tattered insurance card and find a driver that still had enough blood in their system to make the trip.  With another competition coming up, I hope there's not a repeat of last year's malfunction. My goal is to try to blend in with the real cooks in the area that actually know what they are doing and have fun doing it. This time I intend to see that only the swine and the beef suffer the blood loss.

I'm the guy they talk about on break

Quite a few years ago I had less than optimal eating habits. I didn't really pay attention to my nutritional needs because the enormous amount of food I took in assured me that I was getting plenty of nutrients. I'm sure it was flawed logic, but that's the way it was in my mind. Early in adulthood I discovered hot and spicy seasonings and sauces. They turned the ordinary into exciting and dangerous. It started out with a couple dashes of Tabasco here and there. Eventually, other hot peppers were given auditions on my beloved food. The interesting flavors of the spicy heat provided a side-effect I hadn't intended. I could eat twice as much because it tasted twice as good.

If one heaping plate of cheesy, meat-bally spaghetti smothered in garlic kissed marinara was good, two was better. When I went to a restaurant and ordered off the menu, my goal was to figure out the best way to get the fullest without appearing to be an obvious food addict. Maybe that's why I had four children. I would let them order adult size meals and then sacrifice my comfort and agree to finish their plates as well. To properly describe what used to happen when I visited an all-you-can-eat buffet would be best quoted by Herbert Morrison when he saw the Hindenburg going down in flames, "Oh the humanity!"

I knew at a young age eating like that was not healthy. Add the fact that I had smoked for 20 of those years and it's not so surprising what happened one spring morning that became my wake-up call to change my ways.

I woke suddenly just before 5:00am with a chest pain like I'd never experienced. It wasn't ambiguous like I could just ignore it or maybe make myself believe it would go away with time. I got up and put sweatpants on so when the paramedics came I wouldn't be embarrassed. I didn't wake up my wife because I didn't want her to fuss or be worried. To be honest, I didn't want a lecture while I was dying. I figured I'd just walk around the house and when the "big one" started, I would just yell for her and she could call 911. I did notice that while I was standing up the pain wasn't as bad.

Around 7:00 that morning my oldest son was up and ready to leave for his morning workout. By this time my wife was up and I informed her that I was experiencing some pain in my chest and it was serious. She asked me on a scale of one to ten what my pain was. I replied that it was eleven. I learned later through her admission that she was upset that my condition didn't wait for the clinic to open to be dealt with because it didn't cost as much.  Eventually she grudgingly told my son to drive me to the emergency room on his way to the gym and that she would be up after a while when she got the other kids to school. The concern was overwhelming.

I walked into the quiet emergency room area. The short walk from the car had winded me, so I leaned against the door frame and tried to breathe. A short time later, a non-medical staffer walked by and said, "Excuse me" as she moved behind me to do something inside the room. I said, "Uh ma'am? I think I need to see somebody" She said, "Oh? Why is that?"

Let's set this scene. It's early on a Tuesday morning. There's a large sweaty guy leaning against the ER door, bent over slightly and wincing in pain. A hospital employee basically asked me to move out of her way so she could refill the tongue depressors.

"I'M HAVING CHEST PAINS, THAT'S WHY"

She picked up the house phone and rang the front desk. She said (with a confused look and shaking her head as if not to believe what she was saying, AND right in front of me), "Ya, there's some guy down here in the ER, says he wants to see someone and he claims his having some sort of chest pains or something? I don't know" Within a second I could hear nurses running down the hall, lights were beginning to flash on the phone system and I was on a table with machines and things hooked up to me before I knew it. Beeps and clicks and other sounds filled the room. I was starting to relax knowing that I was in great hands. As I relaxed the lights seemed to dim. Calmness filled the room and it was now clear to me that I was dying. The Doctor was convinced otherwise and after two and a half hours of tests and the best care imaginable, he told a nurse to, "Give him 60 cc's of Maalox and tell him how to deal with acid reflux"

At this point I knew I had to change my ways. No more jalapeno's on my foot long subs. Believe it or not that actually did make the difference and I haven't made a fool of myself at that hospital since. Well, that's not true either, but not everything is able to be told in a public forum like this.

I Should Not Have Said That... I Really Should NOT Have Said That

My ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time has rarely been equaled. My wife would add “every time” to the cliche.  She might have a valid point.

It's more of a disease, I think. I've tried out-patient services, isolation, superglue and even involuntary slap-therapy. Sure they all work for a short time, but nothing seems to be a permanent cure.

I never try to hurt anyone's feelings on purpose. It just seems to work out that way. One damage control method I've used in the past that showed some hope was what I call the “Drunken Duck”. When I say something over-the-top stupid, it's usually apparent instantly. As soon as the awkwardness hits, I'll slur a couple words to make it seem as if I've had too much to drink and then quack like a duck and walk away with a partial stagger. The situation works like this: “Hi Stacey, I haven't seen you in a long time... Me? I'm good. Looks like you are doing pretty good too. How far along are you?” (Stacey informs me she isn't pregnant) “Oh, well the bartledoo banana basin brackmire... QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK” See? I get away almost clean. It wasn't always that way though.

I've been at a few wedding receptions, where as the best man I was expected to make a toast. I hate weddings. By the time I get dressed, stand there for the ceremony, then eat poorly prepared greasy chicken, corn from a can and instant potatoes with not nearly enough gravy, it's time to say something odd. Apparently, the bride's family isn't interested in hearing about how I dated her first and passed her off to the groom. Nor, are they excited to hear all about how the groom and I “totally tore it up” at the week long bachelor party.

I love telling the story about the mess in the delivery room when we had our 4^th baby. My wife oddly enough, does not. Come to think of it, nobody that I told that story to liked it much. Must be a matter of perspective I guess. It probably isn't so much the subject matter as the descriptive details in which I find joy repeating.

In church I've been known to sigh very loudly when I didn't agree with what I was hearing or if the sermon was running a little long and the Viking’s game was dangerously close to starting. One time I thought I was whispering to myself, but I must have vocalized, “Would you JUST get to the point already?” loud enough to receive a “Holy Elbow of Justice” from my right. The bruise cleared up in a week or so. I usually pick up my “A game” of uncomfortable conversations around my church family. I assume it's because I try to be as careful as possible not to say something offensive or something that can be judged as off-the-mark. That is basically like wearing snowshoes in a mine field. The harder I try not to goof up, the more I do. What you call awkward silence, I call stunning them with brilliance.

As an adult I was told by my elementary and middle school principals that I was lucky to survive. It wasn't the other kids that were the danger, it was the teachers that wanted me dead. Back then there really wasn't any diagnosis or medication for ADD, ADHD or what I call being an energetic child. The doctor told my mother to make me drink two cups of coffee in the morning before going to school. I guess the idea was the caffeine would have an opposite effect on someone that was already two speeds ahead of the norm and perhaps calm me down enough to allow me to concentrate. The research supporting that therapy may have been a little faulty.  So every morning from about third grade on, I sat there and drank two large cups of heavily sugared dark coffee, sprinted the few blocks to school, bolted into the classroom and the fun ensued. When a nine year old is sitting in his chair bouncing up and down at 8:00 am on a Monday morning, the teacher can't be very optimistic about what will come out of his mouth.

Hey, it's not my fault the world isn’t keeping up with me.