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.

You never forget your first time

I thought I had run out of stories to write about dumb things I've done in the past or minor tragedies that happened simply because I was involved.  A short consultation with a few of my childhood and early adult friends proved that idea to be far from the truth.  After being reminded of many accounts of past blunderings, I believe I have enough raw data to last until May 4th, 2064.  I don't know where I'll be on that day, but I know I won't smell very good. 

For Ralph, the best hunting guide I've ever known.  

A huge rite of passage in our area, as well as most of rural America for a boy or girl is the bagging of their first buck deer.  Every story is unique and memorable. Mine was no exception.  

My father and I drove into the ranch owner’s yard early in the morning and met with Ralph while he was finishing chores.  He told us he knew where a deer was I might be interested in taking.  I didn't understand that because to be honest I wasn't picky about what deer I was trying to harvest.  One polished six inch antler would have been a victory for me.  We got into his pickup and he drove us out to the mammoth sized pasture he owns.  Though the ride was bumpy it was perfectly fine, due to the anticipation of what might happen during the hunt. 

I had been riding along during deer hunts with dad and my brother since I was in diapers.  I kind of knew what was going on, but this time it was my turn.  As we approached the first big draw, Ralph told me that the deer may be at the bottom so, “Be ready”.  They weren't.  They weren't over the next hill either.  I was beginning to wonder if he knew where this herd of deer actually were. 

We drove a bit further and he said, “Here, I'll show you an old deer hunting trick”  We began to peek over the edge of the hill and sure enough the small herd of mule deer were lounging out of the high wind near the bottom of the opposite hill-side.  Being an inexperienced hunter and a very experienced hyper-active child, every move I made for the next few moments were the opposite of what they should have been.   

The one buck deer in the herd stood out like a sore thumb.  It antlers stretched to the sky like a tree trying to reach the clouds.  Well, at least from a 13 year old boys perspective they did.  I threw open the door with a burst of adrenaline and started to bolt out of the truck.  The door bounced back at me with the help of the strong wind blowing from our front and nearly knocked me and my gun to the ground.  The deer all stood up looked at us as if to wonder what all the commotion was about.  I put my gun up and tried to get the big deer steady in my scope.  Nope, that wasn't going to happen.  I leaned against the open door to help steady the gun from my shaky hands and blowing gusts of winds.  The wind was moving the pickup a lot, so that wasn't going to work either.  I dropped to a prone position thinking that was the answer to this dilemma, but all I could see through the scope was grass.  I stood back up and my dad calmly said, “They aren't going to stand there forever, you know”  That's when I just shouldered the gun, noticed the deer happened to be in the scope and fired off a round to see what would happen. 

Judging distance has always been one of my strong points.  I am able to accurately tell the distance of almost anything by estimating how far I could throw a football, hit a golf ball or things of the like.  This deer was 770 yards or 120 yards depending on whom in the hunting party you tend to believe. 

When my eyes opened from flinching, the deer was on the ground motionless. I ran down the hill like my pants were on fire.  The few seconds it took to get there calls in question one person's estimated distance, but we'll get past that eventually.  

As I came to within a few feet of the downed animal, I noticed a trickle of blood between it's antlers.  My thought was that I had broken the skull and the antlers were going to be all floppy and unable to mount as a trophy.  They appeared to be in place, so I sat down my gun and grabbed both sides of the antlers to check their structural integrity.  After a gentle squeezing motion, I could tell they were fine.  But, it also told me the shot had only grazed him and knocked him out.  It wasn't until the deer began to stand up right underneath me that I figured that out.  This caused the quickest and most violent “horsey ride” I'd ever been involved in personally.  After thinking, “No time for that cowboy” in my mind, I crawled the short distance to my gun.  I figured it was better than standing up and taking a possible antler enema.  In the meantime dad and Ralph were watching the show from on top the hill and we're likely taking bets on the eventual outcome. 

Once I had my gun in hand, I spun around and located the deer just a few yards away slowly walking up the hill.  His obvious headache was impeding his escape.  Three more wild shots later, it was over.  I walked up to my prize and laid down my now empty weapon.   In the valley the wind wasn't blowing and things were calmer when Ralph and dad drove up to the scene.  I didn't know what to say or do and I'm sure dad was as speechless as I was.  

I'll never forget what Ralph said though.  With a partial smile and total honesty he said, “Now, that is the wildest thing this ol' boy has every seen, and I've seen a lot!”

From bad judgements, come great stories

I don't think it was bad judgement for my brother to sell me my first car when I was 15 for $200. I don't think it was bad judgement for me to buy the car for what seemed like a small amount of cash at the time. As an active 15 year old boy, I was positive my parents were not using bad judgement by allowing me to obtain a driving permit. However, I do think it was bad judgement for the Universe to allow the union of this particular car and me as a 15 year old boy  to happen.
Those of you who lived in my neighborhood or perhaps the entire town of Winner, may remember the 1972 Ford Galaxy 500 with a large V-8 engine sporting a rather open exhaust system that had a tendency to rattle windows from time to time as far away as Colome or Hamill.
The car sported beautiful maroon paint with a white vinyl top as well white vinyl seats and black carpet. Being a two door car it was tricky getting in and out of the back seat. My driving skills, as well as social skills were such that there was not a long list of people clamoring to get in the back, so it wasn't much of an issue.
The car ran well, looked OK and sounded mean. The 8-track player was "iffy", but seemed to work more often than not. I'm not sure a boy could ask for anything more, except gas money. Cooking part-time at a local burger joint provided all the gas money I could burn up. We used to be able to know exactly how many "U's" we could flip in one evening on exactly $10 of gas, assuming we didn't get side-tracked and end up at Goat-man bridge or something, but I digress.
My friends and I drove this beast around the town so much that first couple months, we even discovered if you drove two miles per hour below the speed limit that you would hit the stop light perfectly going both east and west, putting the nose of the car at the edge of the intersection at the exact time the light turned green without letting off on the gas or applying the brakes. It drove other passengers, drivers and a cop or two nuts. Oh we thought we were the funniest guys in town pulling off stunts like that, but I'm guessing it was ONLY us that thought that way.
My sister had a nick-name for the car. She called it "The Shark" It was right after the movie "Jaws" came out and the car did have a small unexplained deformation in the left front fender that actually resembled a shark's tooth. That physical attribute and the fact the car never seemed to stop moving as if in a territorial prowl for victims made the nick-name suitable, I guess.
One day, The Shark's carpet needed vacuumed before the evenings activities. I turned on to the highway by my house from the alley. The previous night's rain provided a little mud-hole in that alley.  That's where my back tire picked up some chunks of sticky gumbo. I had put my two quarters for the public vacuum machine on the transmission hump of the floor of the car. Once the car was straight on highway, I heard and felt clumps of mud and goo knocking around the tire and wheel-well. That's when I decided to stomp on the accelerator (bad judgment one). I figured the big V-8 motor would break the tires traction and spin off the excess mud on the tire. That activity caused the quarters to fall off the transmission hump on the passenger side floor. I'm sure they were safe there, but I reached across and down to pick them up immediately (bad judgement two). The stretching and torquing of my body caused my foot to press down on the gas pedal even further.
I grasped the coins and sat up in my seat just in time to see the back end of a giant white Buick Electra 225. The 225 means "225 inches long". That's 18 and 3/4 feet of iron stopped in the highway waiting to turn in to the Dairy Queen when The Shark attacked it from behind. I've never heard a sound like that nor have been tossed about inside a car like that, except for one time when I called a girl the wrong name. When the smoke cleared and the cars had come to rest, The Shark was missing its nose and bottom jaw. The giant buick looked like a white turkey with its tail in the air. Nobody was injured and a small traffic citation was issued to the other driver for the infraction of "Driving in Front of an Idiot" Atleast, that's the way I remember it.