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.

Camping and other such silly things

I'm sitting quietly, looking out the back window of my camper at the river and misty hills on the opposite side. In the gentle, but steady rain everything seems more calm. The rain freshens the air and along with the newly cut grass around the camp-site, the aroma is like heaven compared to the scent of the wet family dog and wet clothes and socks strewn about the camper. Since it's my first time camping in several years, I am quickly reminded of many of the ups and downs of such a recreational activity. 
First, was the parking and unloading of the new camper which ended with the total destruction of my pickup tail-gate. Details of that may be given in person with the right amount of liquid bribery. But, I'm in no mood to publish it at this time. Next was the amazement of how I was able to get most all the features to work on the rig without a terrible amount of taking the lord's name in vain. I still need to figure out how the TV antenna works, but that's a job for a 10 year-old kid to teach me at a later time.
Whether the weather is sunny or rainy, eating is apparently the main fixation of camping. Three large meals a day with adequate snacks in between have kept me properly nourished and ready for naps at a moment's notice. I'm not sure if it's the wet weather or what, but my shirts have all shrunk at least one size in just a few days. I'll work that out later, but for now, pass the cheese dip and Doritos please.
My sister and brother-in-law have one of those permanent campsites a few miles away. I'm not sure when that phenomenon began, but apparently half of east river buy campers and pull them to the "camper-town" above the mighty Missouri river.
Once there, a deck and awning are built, trees are planted, sewer system is installed and presto, a home away from home. Many of the residents travel almost weekly to spend time with their family and friends from over a hundred miles away. The same ones they see almost weekly at home. Ya, I don't get it either. Different strokes and all I guess. 
I was invited to my sisters for a camp fire. Shortly before sundown, I ventured her way in the pickup, dodging deer and horses like a seasoned professional. I almost missed a couple of them.
Once there, the fire was started and around 10 people began to enjoy the quiet and beauty of the sunset and good company. After a few libations were served and the sky darkened, the campfire began to blaze higher and higher. My brother-in-law who is a natural pyrotechnician was expertly moving logs around the fire-pit and adding certain sized ones to certain areas for maximum effect. The radiant heat of the blaze was warming our faces pleasantly.
One of the guys there who was quite a bit taller than the rest had been using the landscaping bricks that protect the inner ring of the fire-pit like an ottoman. Not long before I was ready to leave, another fella said to him, "Hey Rick, you might want move your feet off there. Your shoe looks funny like it's glowing or something" He pulled his foot back from the pit and the bottom of his shoe had indeed gotten a little too warm. There was a large white bubble on his tennis shoe that at first appeared to be a baseball sized roasted marshmallow, but was actually rubber from the shoe burning into a bubble. We had a good laugh and thankfully, he wasn't permanently injured.
My own campsite with its gorgeous view has provided some much needed rest and self-reflection. Getting here proved to be far less work in preparations than I had thought. I'm also a terrible liar. 
If I can figure out the right amount and type of food to bring and the right household supplies to have in the camper, I may just find this camping thing worth doing every now and then. Until then I'll keep washing the dishes with hand-soap, walking 200 yards to shower hoping someone left some shampoo in the stall, and sleeping on a mattress built by the lowest bidder.