Madman Mumbles - Life is Crazy. Heaven help us!

Past Imperfect/Future Tense

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Sat, 28 Mar 2026 08:04:00 +0000

I'm writing a book ("Hunter's Moon"), and this chapter is inspired by a YouTube short of Matthew West's.

The setting, time-wise, is in the nineteen-eighties, in the Colorado Rockies just south of Wyoming, mid-winter high country. Rugged, unforgiving, but beautiful country.
Levi is Minerva's dad, and also son to Mordechai (who isn't present here). There is a friend, named Matt Williams, who helps out.

Past Imperfect/Future Tense

Dana Hansen

(With thanks to Matthew West, whose YouTube Short inspired this chapter.)

(Levi)

I’m standing in my boots and parka, at the beginning of the biathlon trail. There’s no biathletes training today, and we’re dressed more warmly than usual, Min and me. Today’s exercise will be slow walking, rather than running, since we’re outfitted with the bearpaws instead of skis. Snow is coming down, but lightly. It shouldn’t affect my plans by much.

I look over at Min, snowflakes dusting the hood of her parka. She’s also wearing her dark brown skier’s headband, like I asked her to. She looks back at me.

“So what’s the plan, Dad?” she asks, smiling. Besides the bearpaw snowshoes, we have our day packs and ski poles. We’re outfitted for an easier day than usual, and she recognizes this. Smart girl.

“We’re just going to walk easy today. We’ll take the spectator’s track instead of running the race trail. We need a rest, and I need to reset the targets anyway.”

She laughs, “Funny way of resting.”

I chuckle, “You know how it is by now, we rest by—”

“—by working less hard. I know, Dad.”

“Well then, no surprise, right? We gotta keep the muscles moving so they don’t forget what they’re for.”

“Well, I’m getting cold. Don’t you think we oughta get moving?”

A small shiver runs over my shoulders, “Right as rain, er, snow, as always. You go ahead and set the pace for the first bit. Remember, fast enough to warm, but not make us sweat.”

She leads off the march, “I know, Dad, for Pete’s sake!”

“I know you know. But you know me…”

“I know. Sometimes, you’re worse than Mom.”

“Heaven forfend! Not worse than your mother!”

Her laugh comes back over her shoulder, her breath are puffs of white smoke in the cold air. I find myself grinning just from the joy of being outdoors. As we settle into an easy pace my mind drifts to other times, other places…

The time Poppa and I walked this trail in autumn with bows and quivers, not intending to shoot at anything, just walking, letting my jangled nerves learn again the rhythm of the woods. The time I was alone, just me and my backpack, looking for a suitable place to make a camp for the night. I missed a trick that time, night caught me before I had a fire built. Another time, I was caught in a summer thunderstorm, and I cursed everything in the world. Then, any wood I found to build a fire with was soaked and my matches had got wet. I cursed the wood, the matches, the rain, the forest, the sky itself, for all the good it did.

A sudden swirl of wind brought me a faceful of snowflakes, not terribly hard, but enough to remind me of where I was.

Min had gotten farther ahead that I had expected. I picked up my pace to catch her up.

When I got close, I called, “Hey, girl child. If you’re leading, you need to look back over your shoulder to make sure you still have followers!”

Min stopped. “You don’t,” she called back.

“Yah I do.”

“Since when?”

“Don’t argue with your elders, young’un.”

“I will if I wanna!”

She sounded sassy, but so did I, and we both were smiling.

I made a note to in the future make sure my followers were where I thought they were; sauce for the gosling was sauce for the gander, after all.

“Behave yourself, before I wash your face with snow,” I replied.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oooh, wouldn’t I?”

She glared at me. I glared back. She broke into a laugh first, “You win.”

“That’s fine, Cublet. Tell you what, let’s slow the pace and walk side by side.”

“Sounds good. You want a cookie?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Here,” she held out a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

“Hold on a minute, let me get out of my mitts,” I pull off my mittens and let them dangle. I take the bag, open it, then hold it out, “You first.”

Min pulls off a glove, reaches in a hand, grabs a few cookies. I close up the bag to save the rest for later, tucking the bag into my parka, then taking my share of the cookies from Min’s hand.

Between bites of cookie, I tell Min the rest of the plan for this day: “In a moment we’ll start today’s lesson.”

“I thought we weren’t going to do training today.”

“Silly Cublet. There’s always lessons to be learned,” I take a bite of my second cookie, “Great cookies, by the way. That’s one lesson you’ve learned well.”

“Dad!”

“What?! A very tasty lesson learned, I’d say.”

We munched the last of our cookies. “Good thing we put those away, I’d want to finish the bag, then no more cookies.”

“Ha-ha! I brought two bags, Dad!”

“That’s another lesson you’ve learned: never hurts to be overprepared.

I continue, “So for today’s lesson, I want you to learn three things. One, I will never leave you. Two, you can ask and tell me anything. Three, listen only to the sound of my voice. Now, repeat those back to me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Do you need them again?”

“No. ‘One, you will never leave me. Two, I can ask or tell you anything. Three, only listen to your voice.’”

“Close enough. I’ll be quizzing you on those three things while we’re walking, so be ready.”

“Okay, Dad.” Minor eye roll.

“Let’s get going then. I’m getting chilly just standing here.”

“Your turn to lead off, Dad.”

“That’s fair. Be sure to call out, if I get too far ahead.”

“No problem of that, Dad!”

A challenge, well…, “We’ll see.”

I zip up my parka (cookies still tucked inside), and pull my mittens back on. Then I grab my poles and start stretching my legs.

Taken by surprise, Min yells, “Wait up!” I slow my stride until I hear her close behind me.

“You there?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m here.”

She’s annoyed. Too bad. The corners of my lips twitch upward, “Let’s go, then. Stay close, but don’t dog my heels.”

“Right here, Dad.” Again the verbal eye-roll.

I set off again, snow blowing in my face. The wind should be at our back when we complete the loop. I set my pace to be steady, just fast enough to keep us warm, but not so fast as to break a sweat. I unzip the parka a little, anyway. I hear Min’s trudging steps behind me; with these bear-paws, it’s easy to step on a body’s heel if you get too close.

“Dad! Look!”

“Whichaway?”

“Left, in the bare tree.”

I look left, and sitting in the aspen is an unlikely sight: two bald eagles. “Glory! You’ve got a good eye, Min! I haven’t seen an eagle in years!” They’d been endangered for a couple of decades, “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

If there’re two, then they’re likely a mated pair. If they manage to winter over, then hopefully we’ll have eaglets. And then… I smiled at the thought. Nature is bouncing back, part of the way, anyway.

After a few more ups and downs we reached the far side of the loop. Here, there was a forestry picnic table for the spectators, covered in snow.

“Let’s break for lunch. I’ll clear the table,” So saying, I move my arm across the end of the table; the snow fell to the ground with a flumph! I continued down the table, leaning over the bench to do so. I then cleared off the bench. Loosening the straps to my ruck I swung it off my shoulders.

“I’m ready for it.” Min had loosened the straps to her rucksack as well, setting it on the table.

I brushed the snow off my arm, unzipped my parka, took out the bag of cookies, “Here’re your cookies, by the way.”

“Nah, they’re your cookies. I’ve got another bag, remember?”

“Thanks.” I got out my thermos out of my rucksack, “I packed coffee. How about you?”

“Earl Grey, extra sweet.”

“Yeey.”

“What? It’s better than your coffee.”

“Blasphemer! NO-things better than my coffee!”

“Dad, you can float nails on your coffee.”

“That’s how you know it’s ready.” I took out a sandwich and started munching. Between bites I asked, “So. What are the three things?”

Min mumbled past a bite of her sandwich, “Row?” Gulping, “I mean, now?”

“No better time.” I took another bite.

She swallowed, “One, you’ll always be there.”

“So far, so good.”

“Two, I can tell you anything.”

“You left out something.”

Thinking, “Oh, yeah, right. ‘ASK and tell...’.

“Yup. And?”

“And I should always listen to the sound of your voice.”

“That’s true, but not quite.”

“Huh? What’d I leave out?”

“ ‘Only.’”

“ ‘Only?’”

“ ‘Only,’” I confirmed, “ ‘Listen only to the sound of my voice.’”

“If you say so, Dad.”

“I say so. For this lesson, anyway.”

We munch our sandwiches and drink our tea and coffee. The forest was alive with sounds, muffled as it was by the snow. A raven made its slow way, changing course a little to check us out, gave a croak and continued its journey. I saw it swing towards the aspen with the eagles, then away, apparently thinking it was above its pay-grade to challenge the two majestic birds. There was a chattering in a pine about fifty yards away, then a racket of jays scolding at the bushy-tailed intruder.

Just as I was considering whether to save some coffee for later, I heard someone call, “Hello the camp. Can I come in?”

I looked up to see Matt Williams, a relative newcomer to our high country community. He’s been here only about ten years. Only ten years. “Hey, Matt,” I yell back, “Sure, c’mon in.” When he gets closer I ask, “Wanna cookie? The Cub made ‘em.”

“The cub?”

“Y’know, Min. She’s getting to be a fair hand around a stove.”

“In that case, I don’t mind if I do.” I open the bag and hold it out. He takes a couple. “Thank you.”

“Most welcome. What brings you out on a snowy day?”

“The usual stuff: critters, and the things they do.”

It was then I noticed the camera slung behind him. “Did you catch the eagles back a ways?”

“I did! I was able to maneuver to a spot where they were backed by a pine, made them stand out more clearly.”

“I wouldn’t mind a print of ‘em, if you’ve a mind to share.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Matt replied, “By the way, what’re y’all out and about for?”

“Kinda the same things as you. And training.”

“ ‘Training?’”

“Always. Just ask her.”

Min answers without being asked, “He’s always training me on something.”

“Okay, cool. What’s up today?”

Min looks at me. “I’m not sure, Dad hasn’t told me yet.”

“He’s one for surprises?”

“Not usually, but today he is.”

Matt finished his last cookie. “Well, don’t get too cold. I gotta get these feet moving. Thanks again for the cookies!”

So saying, he hit the trail.

“We’d better get moving, too, kid.”

“Okay, Dad.”

We repack our bags, including the wrappers. I have a bit of coffee left, though it will likely be cooled off, despite the thermos, the next time I want a drink.

Min asks, “Who leads off this time?”

“I will,” I reply, “At least to where the trail bends back to the trailhead.”

“Sounds good.”

I settle my rucksack on my shoulders and arrange my poles in my hands. Min does the same, I look back to see if she’s ready and she give me a nod. I set off.

We shuffle down the trail in silence, letting the woods do the talking. The wind has died down, and it’s no longer snowing. The clouds are getting brighter, and we might just have some sunshine at our backs as we finish today’s hike.

The sun peeks out a bit just as we get to the eastward bend in the trail, and I call the halt. “Cookie break.”

“It’s kinda early, Dad.”

“You’re right. I’ll leave it up to you: cookie now or cookie later?”

“Later.”

“Great. Here’s where we’ll start today’s lesson. You still wearing that head band? Yes, I see that you are. What I want you to do is to pull it down over your eyes.”

“WHAT!?”

“Do you trust me, kid?”

“Yeah, Dad, but …”

“Don’t worry. Just pull down that head band, and tell me the three things again.”

“But … Okay. ‘One, you’ll always be here. Two, I can tell you and ask you anything. Three, listen only to your voice.’ Is that right?” she asked, as she finished adjusting the headband and pulling up her hood.

“Exactly right. What we’ll do is walk the next bit of trail together, my hand on your shoulder.”

“Okay. This is crazy, but okay.”

“Now we begin,” I say, placing my right hand on her left shoulder, “I’ll keep my steps short.”

I step off, she follows. She feels my rhythm and calls cadence under her breath. We continue this way a hundred yards or so.

(Min)

This is crazy. It’s been a fun walk so far, I don’t mind the cold. And spotting those eagles before dad did was cool! I’ve gotten used to his weird way of teaching me things, but now, in the cold, with my headband over my eyes, I’m nervous. ‘I’ll keep my steps short.’ he says. He steps, and, with his hand on my shoulder, I step, too.

He says, “Now, I want you to keep your eyes covered until I say otherwise. Understand?”

“I understand.” I didn’t, but whatever.

We walk on. I know this trail when there’s no snow, so I know…no, I think there’s nothing to trip us, me, in the next section of trail.

I ask, “Are you sure about this, Dad?”

He answers, “Of course I’m sure,” his voice sounds steady; I trust it, “I trust you to come through this practice just fine.”

I smile a little at his confidence in me, but I relax as we keep a steady pace, falling into the rhythm of the hike. I even start counting, ‘You had a good home and you left…’ under my breath. That helps calm me as well. We go on like this for a while, then Dad says, “I need my hand for a minute. Don’t worry, though, I’m right here.”

“Okay, Dad,” I reply. But I’m not sure I’m okay. But I continue counting cadence.”

“You’re veering off the trail. Come back left a little bit.”

I correct, “How’s that?”

“Better, but not quite so much.”

I make what I think is a smaller correction to the right.

“That’s better. Now keep straight on.”

I smile to myself. I can hear Dad’s breathing, and that helps.

“You’re slowing down. Are you okay?” Dad asks.

“I’m fine,” I answer, though I’m feeling the edge of panic, despite hearing his voice.

“That’s good,” he replies, “Remember Rule One.”

“I will.”

“Great. Now walk straight the next hundred feet. I might get a little ahead of you, but I’ll be here.”

“Okay, Dad.” A little ahead of me, what’s he playing at? I continue walking, trusting his voice. But I can’t hear his breathing anymore.

I go what I think is a hundred feet. My normal pace is about five feet, and I’ve counted twenty ‘left’s. “I think I’m there, Dad.”

You’re doing well, but you’re short the distance by about twenty feet.”

Twenty feet? “Uh, Thanks.” I do some quick mental math, and I take another five steps. “Where am I now?”

“Just about right. I’ll lead off the next few steps, then you follow my voice to get your bearing.”

“When will I ever use this?”

“You’ll have to trust me that there’s a purpose for this. I won’t play tricks on you or steer you wrong. Alright?”

“All right.” I shiver. I hadn’t really been feeling the cold, but without my sight, I’m feeling every little thing.

Dad says, “Okay. I’m about ten feet ahead of you. C’mon ahead.”

I’ve been sort of feeling my way, with the toes of my snowshoes and with my poles. I’m starting to feel bold enough to start taking bigger steps, back to my normal stride. I counted off twenty paces, and I’m beginning to feel comfortable when I manage to stub my toe on something. I don’t go down, but only because my poles were planted. Dad’s ahead of me, but he must have heard me stumble. I listen, like he’s taught me, but all I hear is a raven flying overhead. I feel I should call out for him, but … I think this must be some sort of test. I try to remember which cheek I last felt the breeze on and turn my face to match the memory.

I turn my body to match my face and confidently put my left foot forward and I feel a branch on my face. Startled, I take a couple of steps back. And bump into something.

“Oof!” I hear someone say. Turns out I backed into a someone, not a something.

“Sorry,” I say automatically.

The voice says, “Can I help you?”

I recognize that voice, Dad’s friend, Mr. Williams.

“I seem to have lost the trail. Can you help me find it again?”

“I might be able to do that for you. But you seem to have something over your eyes.”

“That’s part of the test.”

“Surely you can take … whatever it is, off of your eyes.”

“I’d better not.”

“Suit yourself. But tell you what, I’ll get out of your way. Then you can take about five steps back along your track, and take a right from there. Then you’ll be back on the trail.”

I remember that this was a friend of Dad’s, so I say, “I’ll give it a try.”

I do what I think is an about-face, and take five steps, then take a right. Now I’m stopped by tree.

Mr. William’s voice again, “Sorry, I should have said five of my steps.”

I’m shaky and about to cry, but I don’t dare, not in this cold. Then I remember:

“Dad!” I call.

“I’m right here, dear.” Sounds like he’s just a couple of feet away.

Relief crashes in like a flood. “Dad! Help?”

“Certainly. Take a step back.”

I do.

“Now turn to your left.”

“Can’t I push my headband back?” I plead.

“Not yet. Walk forward three steps.”

I do.

“Now make your right turn, and take just one step.”

Once more, I do so.

“Great. You seem to be pointed right. Now go ahead, carefully. I’ll be right here.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I’m still shaky, but my confidence is coming back.

“You’re welcome, Bear Cub. Let’s get back to the truck. I’m ready to eat another bagful of your cookies!”

(Matt)

I watch the two of them walk off down the trail loop, back to the entrance. I follow at a distance, still on the lookout for anything photogenic. I snap a picture of them snowshoeing together, framed by two tall spruces, one on either side of the trail. I’ll include it with the print of the eagles.

Meanwhile, I sling my camera across my shoulder and stretch my arms wide. Then push off. The Golden Hour is coming up, and, if the clouds cooperate, I might get few more shots of the countryside before I pack it in for the evening.

I wonder what the special at the Dew Drop Inn is.

(Levi)

At the truck, we’ve taken off our rucksacks and tossed our bear-paws and poles in the back. Min’s in the cab of the truck and firing up that big block Ford V-8. It’s making its normal sound of a camel slurping water before it catches, then settles down to a slow lope of an idle. I pull our thermoses from the rucks and root around for that second bag of cookies.

As a last thing before climbing in, I look around at the snow-covered forest. Cold, it may be. Forbidding, I’ll allow that some may think it so. Beautiful? Without question.

I kick the running board to knock the snow off of my boots, then open the driver-side door, “Slide over, Cublet! This big ol’ bear’s comin’ in!”

“I deserve to drive!” she says, softly, but with gritted teeth.

“Maybe so, but I’ve got your cookies! If you drive, I’ll eat ‘em all myself!”

“DAD! I’m mad!”

“At what?”

“At YOU!”

I should have anticipated this.

“You shouldn’t drive mad.”

She just glared at me.

I ask, gently, “Are you gonna slide over?”

“I’m not done being mad at you.”

“All right. I’ll take shotgun for now.” I close the door and walk around to the passenger side, open it up, toss in the bag of cookies and, more carefully, set the thermoses down on the seat. Then I haul my butt in, settle a little, and pull the door closed.

I look over at Min; she’s looking out the window at nothing. After the motor warms up and the idle is about twice as high as it needs to be, she taps the gas to unset the choke. When it drops to low idle, she angrily flips the heater switches and the fan roars to life. Min is not usually like this. She turns her head to glare at me, then back to staring out the windshield. I wait.

It took a while. The slanting sunlight shadows started walking their way up the pines.

About the time the sun disappeared from the top of the tallest pines she spoke, “I’m mad at you, Dad.”

I started to ask why, but she made a shushing motion.

“I’m mad. I trusted you. I was scared!”

There it was. I stayed silent, waiting.

“Dad, I know it was for some important lesson, but I was SCARED!” Her voice catches, then she says, “I thought you had disappeared, gone someplace!”

This was not some academic lesson at this point. I gave her more room to talk.

“I just… OOOOOOH!” She raised her right arm and thumped me several times on my shoulder. It hurt; She meant it to. I gritted my teeth and let her beat on my shoulder until she ran out of steam. It took a while. When she was done, she rested her head on the steering wheel. I could tell from her shaking that she was crying, but doing her best to not show it.

The truck had gotten very warm by then, so I turned the heater fan down. I asked, “You want a cookie?”

She looked up, sniffed, reached for a tissue from the bunch we keep in the glove box, and said, “Sure.”

I opened the bag, held it out. She reached in and took one. I find her thermos, pour her some of her Earl Grey tea. It’s even still warm. Sort of. “Here ya go.”

She takes her tea, and I repeat the motions with my coffee. It’s not as warm as her tea, but there wasn’t as much left to hold the heat. I take a sip anyway. I take a cookie as well.

Between munches, Min asks, “Dad? What was this all about?” Smart girl, she knows this wasn’t something random.

I take a sip of coffee. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure. I think you were testing me.”

“Oh? In what way?” I’m not giving anything away. Not yet.

“You wanted … to be sure that I’d follow your directions.”

“Maybe. What else?” I can see the thoughts chase around skull by the faces she makes.

“You wanted to see if I’d listen to just anyone else’s voice.”

“Rule Three.”

“Yeah. Rule Three. Was Mr. What’s-his-name supposed to be here today?”

I catch a movement out the window, in the dusk I see Matt walking towards his Jimmy. “You could ask him.”

Min sees where I’m looking, sees him as well. “Nah. I’d rather ask you.”

“Alright, Min, yes he was. It was a cunning plan, well executed. He played his part perfectly.”

She squinched her face at me, “What was his part?”

“He was supposed to lead you astray.”

“But I thought he was a good guy, you didn’t yell at him to stay away or anything. You even offered him a cookie.”

I smiled at her, “For the record, he is a good guy. He was playing the ‘red team’ part in the exercise.”

“Red Team?”

“Yeah. We’re the blue team and he was on the red team, the ‘opposing force’.”

“Yeah, but, you didn’t treat him like the enemy.”

I took a breath, let it out slowly. I asked, “Why do you think we played it that way?”

She finished her cookie, found the bag and got another. Eventually she spoke, “It was supposed to be like normal people. A normal day, except I was lost.”

“That’s part of it. Tell me more.”

“I’m not sure I trust you.”

“I can see that, but why?”

“Because you set me up to fail, in a dangerous place!”

I sighed. “I know this is going to sound like I’m blaming the victim, but what were you tasked with?”

“Huh?”

“Give me the three rules.”

“Dad!”

“No, really. What were the three rules?

“Okay! One. You’ll always be there!” I noticed the heavy sarcastic stress on ‘always’.

“Wasn’t I?”

“You were, then you weren’t!”

“I assure you, I was never more than ten feet away.”

“You were? But I couldn’t hear you!”

“A flaw in my character, I tend to go jungle quiet in the woods. I was there, in any case. What’s the second rule?”

“I can ask and tell you anything.”

“Correct. When you called me by name, didn’t I answer right back?”

Min nodded, “Then the third rule, only listen for your voice.”

I nodded, “And hearing my voice, we had the conversation that got you back on track.”

“So it was a test. And I failed.”

“No, Min, it wasn’t a test. And you didn’t fail.”

It was getting dark. Even so, I could tell that Min was very perplexed. I continued, “It wasn’t as much of a test as it was a demonstration. What was I demonstrating?”

Min’s face did that squinch thing again. “You were demonstrating that the best thing to do is listen for my guide, and follow the guidance.”

I nodded, then realized she probably couldn’t see me very well. So I said, “That’s right. And how easy it is to hear a nice-sounding voice and follow it instead.”

“So, in a way, I did still fail.”

A Bible verse went flitting through my head just then, but I couldn’t catch it. I did catch its flavor, “You made the same mistakes that we all do. This exercise just showed them to you.”

She munched on her cookie. I took one as well. We sat in the truck in the gathering night.

Finally she said, “I expect we ought to head home.”

“I expect you’re right. One more thing?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

I could hear the smile in her voice.

She reached for the driver’s seatbelt. I stowed the cookies and thermoses on the floor, and put on my own seatbelt. She turned on the lights, and gently put the truck into first gear, the gearbox thumping with a quiet authority.

The next chapter will be ‘After Action Report xxx’ (number to be filled in later), beginning with:

(Levi)

I cooked supper that night.

We’d left the snowshoes and the poles by the door next to our skis, and brought in our rucksacks. Min had taken hers to her room, then came back to set the table. Poppa read the room and kept his thoughts to himself.

The meal was subdued. Poppa kept his contributions to a minimum as we worked through the meatloaf and succotash. We finished off the last of a loaf of sourdough. I’d have to do some baking tomorrow. I told Min that I’d take care of the dishes. She fixed herself some cocoa and curled up in the big chair by the fire. Poppa said his good-nights and went off to his room. I finished the dishes, wiped them dry, put them away, and hung the dishtowel by the stove.

I fixed myself some cocoa as well, pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat down.

Minerva was staring into the fire, a distant look on her face.

“A peppermint penny for your thoughts,” I said, holding out a peppermint lozenge.

She blinked, then said, “I was thinking about today, going over the stuff we did. What you did.” She unwrapped the peppermint, and dropped into her cocoa.

I nodded. “Have you come to any conclusions?”

She continued her silence. I let it continue, contemplating the flames myself. When she spoke, it was with a steady voice, “You were trying to teach a bigger lesson, I think.”

The Socratic Method would have had me nod encouragingly, but stay silent. I’m not Socrates; I said, “You’re right. Any ideas?”

“I don’t want to say it aloud.”

“Kind of like, ‘as long as you don’t say it, it won’t happen’?”

“Yeah. That.”

I nod, still gazing into the flames. “That’s a form of childhood magic. We never quite lose that magic, no matter what happens. What if I say what I think you’re thinking. You can tell me if I’m right or not.” I glance over at her.

She thinks a moment, then says, “That works.”

“It goes without saying that you can choose not to answer, with no blame or penalty.”

She nods in agreement.

I nod as well, “You know that I won’t always be here, right?”

“A fact of life. I know.”

I glance over again, and see the tightness in her jaw. “Not to worry too much, kid, I’m not planning on leaving this world any time soon.”

“That’s good. I don’t know if I could stand it if you did, Dad.”

I nodded, “It’d be rough, but you’ll manage. Especially when you remember today’s lesson.”

Min’s staring at the flames, her brows knitted.

“You see,” I continue, “Mine’s not the voice you should listen to, ultimately.”

“You’re meaning God’s voice.”

“Yes.”

“How do I make sure which voice is his?”

“You do something I’ve never been too good at. You read the Bible.”

I see her look over to me. “But I see you read your Bible.”

“I’m glad you’ve noticed. I’m making up for lost time.”

Her curiosity makes her ask, “How do you mean?”

I look back to the fire, seeing the past in my mind’s eye, not wanting to. “ 'Nam beat a lot of any idea of God out of me.”

I feel her eyes on me, “What was it like?”

“You don’t really want to know,” I say, and I really don’t want to tell you. That thought stays unspoken. Thankfully, she lets it go. But I know she’ll ask again.

“Anyway,” I continue, “Remember to always listen to His voice, you can tell Him anything. And ask Him anything. And know that He’ll never leave you.”

We both stare into the fire, sipping our cocoa.

“I’m not sure I can believe that, Dad.”

“A Centurion had the same problem.”

She’s looking at me again. “What’re you talking about?”

“Yeah. I forget what was going on, exactly, but he said: ‘I believe. Help me with my unbelief.’ ”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means God will help us stretch, and meet us more than half-way.”

She turns back to the fire. I take the poker and stir it up, then throw another log on.

She says, “I’m still not sure I believe that. But I’m willing to take a chance.”

“ ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’ ” I say.

“Is that from the Bible?”

I smile, “Naw. Confucius, I think. But, you can’t say he’s wrong.”

I hear the smile in her voice, “No, Dad, you’re right; he’s not wrong.”

I try to puzzle out the positives and negatives in the grammar, give up, and say, “It’s been a long day. Soon as I’m done with this cocoa, I’m off to bed. How about you?”

Min says, “I think I’ll stay up a little longer. I have some thinking to do.”

“All right, but don’t stay up too late. ‘Tomorrow is another Day,’ remember.”

“I won’t.”

(Minerva)

“I won’t,” I tell my dad. Then I go back to thinking about what he said, that’s he’s not going to be here forever.

I don’t want to face this. I especially don’t want to face the thought of Poppa not being here. Death seems all around me. The eagles were a good thing, though. It was a lucky thing to see them; I just happened to glance that direction, and there they were. Majestic. Dad said that he hadn’t seen an eagle in years, that they’d died out almost. Having seen them, I couldn’t imagine not seeing them sometime in the future.

And there it was again. Death. Maybe the eagles dodged death for now. But not forever. I didn’t want to think about it, but it kept popping up.

I take another sip of my cocoa, and realize it’s almost gone, too.

I almost throw the mug in the fire, but catch myself.

I think back to earlier today, and the three Rules.

They make no sense, if they’re not about Dad. But then, they make no sense if they are about Dad.

Mom never talked about religion much. Then again, she was always so busy, and never seemed to have much time for me. The restaurant kept her busy. If she wasn’t cooking, she was cleaning. If she wasn’t cleaning, she was waitressing. I tried to help out, but I was always out of step, I could never get the rhythm of the café. The day I was going back with a bin of dirty plates, glasses and silverware she came rushing out with a big tray of plates in the middle of the lunch rush. We crashed, I can still hear one of the plates doing the spinning coin thing as it spun down. There were broken plates, lunch specials, broken glasses – it was a mess. Mom was so mad she couldn’t talk.

The next day one of her friends took me up Poudre Canyon to Jeremiah Township and dropped me off at the Conoco at the south end of town.

I blinked. That was a memory. My mom hadn’t exactly said she’d never wanted to see me again, but … it’s been a few years now.

But Dad… We didn’t hit it off at first, but, we got caught in a rainstorm, me and him and Poppa. We tried to take shelter in one of the privies the forest service set up in the woods, but it was locked. So we huddled under the eaves until the storm let up, me wearing my Dad’s oversized field jacket.

After that, we just sort of clicked.

It scares me that these two strong men won’t always be there for me.

I take one last sip of cocoa, or try to. I’d hit the bottom of the mug a minute ago, and hadn’t noticed. Time for bed, then. I’ll leave the heavy thinking for tomorrow, I’m done for the night.

(this may continue some more, but we’ll see)

That's it for now.

"Once Upon a Time ..."

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 09:47:00 +0000

This is a “Once Upon A Time…” story. But the events happen to be true.

Once, we were visiting my wife’s folks of a weekend. We had our granddaughter with us, and with her came a great number of school supplies which were carried in plastic boxes with lids that clipped on. On those lids were carrying handles. I’m not sure why I’m going into such detail, but my mind must think that it’s important.

Of course, all good things come to an end. So, while everyone else were finishing up Sunday night activities, I was taking things out to the car, which was parked in the back.

It was nighttime, and it must have been winter, for there was snow on the ground and it was cold. I was carrying out two or three of the school-stuff boxes when I tripped. Not able to catch myself, I fell flat on my face. I was a bit shocked, to say the least. I called for help, then realized that I’d shut the kitchen door against the cold, and, since everyone was in the front room they weren’t likely to hear me.

So, it was all up to me to pick myself up, dust myself off, and continue. With some difficulty, I rolled to one side and was able to draw my legs up and get one foot, then the other, under me.

I got to my feet, and did a status check of myself, then of the boxes I was carrying. I was shaken, but not hurt to speak of. One of the boxes lids had popped off, and some of the contents had spilled. I put that to rights, gathered the three boxes (it had been the top-most box under my left arm whose lid had come off), and proceeded to the car. I loaded them into the back seat, locked up the car, and headed back in.

I don’t remember if I ever bothered to tell anyone about my trip-and-fall. I most likely went into the front room, found a place to sit, and joined in with the conversation.

Fast-forward a few years. D__ and J__ are staying at her folks, helping Dad take care of Mom. They have the car, so I take the bus to work. It was really handy, the bus stop for where I worked was right outside the employee entrance, and the stop at the home end was right around the corner from our house. In all, a sweet arrangement.

Except for Saturday shift.

At that time, I was working the graveyard shift Tuesday to Saturday, which meant I came in on a given day for my start of shift at ten pm, then left the following morning a little after six-thirty. That was fine most days, except the busses didn’t run on Sunday. Every Sunday I needed to walk from the north end of town, to the south end, pretty much a straight shot, just like the bus.

That was fine, I needed the exercise. A few blocks from home was a strip mall, and in the strip mall was a buffet-style Chinese restaurant. Having just walked most of five miles, I often chose to kill some time in the modern five-and-dime store until the restaurant opened at eleven-thirty.

This was fine most weeks, but inevitably there would be weather. One Sunday morning we had a fine mist, and dew point was just below freezing, and the ambient temperature was just below dew point.

Now I love misty days. If I have nowhere to go and can grab my camera and walk around, fog and mist lend an air of mystery to otherwise familiar surroundings. Great enjoyment.

This kind of mist, however, was more of a gentle sleet, than a friendly cloak. I knew the sidewalks would be slippery; I also knew my sense of balance had been going south on me.

Nothing for it, though. I drank some break-room coffee, pulled my coat’s hood over my head, and set off. I found that if I kept my stride a bit shorter than usual I tended not to slip. With that in mind, I sallied forth.

About a half a mile into the walk, past the bridge over the Cache, it happened. I strode a little too long, my left heel slipped in front of me and I did the splits on the icy sidewalk. I was down, and no mistake. Like my stumble in my in-laws’ back yard I was alone. The only other people were the occasional pedestrians, easily hundreds of yards to the nearest one. Yelling for help was pointless.

I rolled onto my back and brought my legs together, and took some time to catch my breath. I started feeling the cold seep through my coat, into my body, the chill causing my body to stiffen. I couldn’t let that happen.

I had to move, so I rolled further onto the grass, pushing myself up onto my hands and knees, then straightening up, and getting my left foot flat on the ground, knee bent. Straightening my left leg, and bringing my right leg into action, I walked beside the sidewalk on the frozen grass until I got near to a post to lean on and catch my breath.

Still another four-and-a-half miles to home, but it’s got to be done.

Later that morning I had hot tea at the Chinese restaurant.

Sometimes the only one you have available to depend on is yourself and your own strength. When that happens, you may not be at the height of your powers; for whatever reason, the bounce you had when you were young is no longer available. Don’t give up. You still have strength.

Decide to find that strength, find it, and do.

One step at a time.

Yes, you can.

Where There's A Will ...

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Thu, 11 Dec 2025 07:00:00 +0000

... The Tax-Man Cometh.

(which is a great blog-post title in its own right, but I digress...)

The Left (use your own definition, it'll get you close) seems inordinately interested (not to say nosey) about the average Joe's money, and how he spends it. It seems the Federal Government (especially under Democrat leadership, but not exclusively so) agrees. To wit, the previous Administration arranged to expand the workforce of the IRS by a number uncomfortably larger than eighty thousand (80,000) bodies. Feel free to search for the references, they're there.

Thankfully, that idea was quashed, along with mandatory reporting of any expenditure to a particular recipient larger than $600 in a year's time (that amount tracks your UTILITY payments, folks). The IRS already requires tracking of amounts larger than ten thousand dollars. It (the government, et. al.) has done this in the past under the idea that We The People have been underreporting income, and what we did with it, in order to make sure we give the Government its fair share.

Fair Share.

What is our 'Fair Share'?

Before I continue, it is important to note that we did not always pay an income tax. It wasn't until the ratification of the 16th Amendment that we did so. And the common person was not in its sights; the amendment was passed under the slogan, "Soak the Rich" The One Percent, of the day, if you will. And, envy, in the hands of a democratic (a.k.a. "mob rule") vote, the 99% envious majority voted predictably and Income Tax became the law of the land.

But did it stay just the 1%?

I'm afraid not.

It has crept down the brackets to the average Joe, and even the below average Joe. We each must put in our 'withholding' amounts every paycheck, and hope to get a fraction back at tax time. We call it a 'refund'. Technically, that's what it is. But it is good to remember that this 'refund' is in actuality our own money that we overpaid.

It wouldn't bother me so much if the Government would stick to its original mandate, and paid attention to the needs of the country as a whole, defending the nation, mediating interstate commerce, and other such things. But it got into the generosity business. And, with the common sense of a prodigal child, it has spent this country's income prodigiously.

But has it come to it's senses? If it weren't so painful it would be laughable. Thus we come to Randy Cassingham's nugget below.

The nugget comes from Randy Cassingham's web-paper, This Is True (tm), from his archive section (click here to see the original).

Stanley S. Newberg fled persecution as a Jew and came to America. He did well, and when he died, his estate was valued at $8.4 million.

He was also grateful to the country that took him in: his will left $5.6 million in cash to the U.S. Government.

Based on 1994 spending rates, the money will last just under two minutes.

Randy adds the tag line of, "And we thank you for the six wrenches and four vinyl binders from the bottom of our hearts," (because we all know how well the government spends other people's money).

(From Randy's letter code on the original posting, the article came from Associated Press, and he, himself, wrote the nugget. This, and the links already included above, should cover any 'fair use' requirements.)

Back to the diatribe. Many of you readers (heh, who am I kidding? My 'readership' is the equivalent of whispering down a well.) As I was saying, many of you readers will yell at me and say we need things like roads, bridges, a capable military, basic research, etc. To which I say, "You are absolutely right!"

I am not against the things listed in the Constitution as a mandate: protect our shores from invaders, our people from criminal harm, insure that we have a country worth keeping, help fund basic science, the stuff that often slips through the cracks. The Government, Federal, State and Local, has a job and duty to its citizens in making sure our country and the communities within have access to the means to 'pursue happiness'.

Then to get the heck out of the way.

Various things have been added over time. The 'not-tax' of Social Security and the 'not-tax' of Medicare, being a prominent two. If Social Security had remained the trust fund that it was originally intended to be, it would be solvent, and contributions would be less onerous for those currently paying in. They (that's 'You', folks), like my parents, would be paying in for their own retirement. Medicare ~~tax~~ payments, likewise. Instead, it's a Ponzi scheme, and young adults today are rightly bothered by it.

But please, don't lay the blame at my feet. That decision was made in the Sixties, when I was still in grade school. I'll let you guess what president and congress made that decision. I'll help you out: it wasn't JFK. It wasn't Tricky Dick.

And, by and large, I'm not even blaming the Welfare State. Decisions there could be wiser.

What bothers me, is the idea of this enormous pot of money that we can grab out of, without the need to pinch pennies, or even gold pieces. It's as bottomless as a leprechaun's crock of gold.

What a crock!

And even if we reach the bottom of that crock we'll fiddle with the tax brackets, assess a new tax or fee (the secret work-around to 'No New Taxes'), find a new way to have each citizen pony up another buck, and by the time each citizen does so, that's another three-hundred-million dollars.

That's almost Real Money.

If the various levels of governments pinched the pennies as do you and I, choosing chicken instead of steak, tofu instead of chicken, beans and rice instead of anything else, We The Individual People would have a few more dollars with which to make our own choices.

Yet we have people saying that we don't deserve better than beans and rice. THEY do, but we don't. We don't deserve to make our lives a bit more comfortable.

Those on the dole can spend the money they get foolishly or wisely. Those who spend foolishly buy junk food and manage to buy cigarettes (it happens). Those who spend wisely manage better. And yet...

Those who are on the dole who want to get off have nearly impossible walls to climb: if they have a job and don't go over the limit, but manage to save the least little bit to maybe get out of state housing and into an apartment, then they are disqualified from the assistance. Yes they can save money, but (especially at the current housing market) by the time they get first month-last month-security deposit amounts of money, they no longer qualify for assistance and cannot make that leap. In other words, they can earn and save money, but not enough for the day-to-day of the Average Joe, or even the Below Average Joe to make the leap from net taker to net earner and tax payer.

That some do despite the hold-backs is truly miraculous. They truly have a will and determination to succeed. God bless them, and may they have continued success. And may they pay it forward.

I'm going to borrow from Chuck Woolery (you can laugh if you want to), and request that Congress refrain from spending money on metaphorical Albino Squirrels. Disregarding any malfeasance on the part of congress, I am sure there is an abundance of sympathy for those in need, and since we have this great big pot of money, and the American People are a generous bunch (and gullible, besides, what they don't know won't hurt them - except in the pocket book). And Congress puts it in the budget.

At first, this wasn't so bad, I mean, how many Albino Squirrels (metaphorically speaking) are there really? And, look, "Here's the Social Security fund just brimming full of money, surely we can use some of it for this or that, as long as we put it back."

(A Doonesbury story arc comes to mind, not going to search for it, but you go ahead: "The Union Retirement Fund Was Just Sitting There." or words to that effect.)

Two problems have occurred over the years: one, it didn't stop with just one squirrel, and two, the way it would need to be paid back was from taxes. And taxes came from? Yeah, you got it in one guess; us.

So, now we're paying into a fund that is being paid out to retired funders, but also to orphans and widows and disabled and ... out of work, and immigrants, and (I'm gong to use a hateful term here, but it fits) wetback immigrants.

It has gotten bad enough, that not only are the people who are willing to assimilate and become United States citizens taking from our hands, but people who only see the U.S. as a rich uncle with deep pockets have come, not wanting to assimilate, not even wanting to obey our laws (they've broken one law, what's one, or a dozen, more?), to take from our hands.

And it pains me to think that some of our government lawmakers are complicit in this, seeing in these smiling faces voters, or at very least larger districts, to allow themselves to stay in congress. We try to elect responsible men and women who look out for the general welfare of our nation. Instead, we have many of these people using the phrase 'General Welfare' to mean anything they want, to the point of placing the needs of Albino Squirrels (as cute as they are) above the real needs of the country.

Once upon a time our generous nature was expressed in the funding of non-profit organizations, or just simply giving to the person in need. We have deductions from our tax bite for that nowadays, but before the need for the bookkeeping to keep the IRS happy, we simply gave.

We gave to organizations such as The Salvation Army and The United Way. I've given to both, and will do so again. I'll also give what I can, where I can, when I can, to individuals. This includes the homeless; I make the judgement call and I make the decision, not a bureaucrat hired to do so.

But that's not what I was talking about. I could fill the need by creating a company to meet that need. I would sell something that someone else needed. Back in the day it was a barter economy: you had something I wanted, I had something you wanted. We haggled over how many these for how many those, and when we came to an agreement, the deal was struck and stuff swapped hands.

Nowadays I would create something that you might exchange some small green pieces of paper for. I in turn, would swap a number of those green pieces of paper for something I needed or wanted, maybe more raw materials or a machine to help me create the stuff I sell more economically. I might even employ someone to help me make more of the things I make, and give HIM (or her) some of those green pieces of paper so he (or she) can exchange them for things they may want or need.

In short, I could create a business.

In fact, having accumulated some of those green bits of paper into a fairly large stack, a certain Mr. Newman created a company for the sole purpose of giving. But he didn't just build a foundation, per se. He built a company, with himself as the brand, in order to fund, from its profits, his giving forever. Or, at least as long as Newman's Own salad dressing keeps turning a penny now and then.

He did this with a pile of his own money, earned in the movie business. I can do the same thing with whatever I've earned by whatever means.

However, if even the slightest bit of over-and-above a hand-to-mouth existence is removed from me in the form of a tax, then given to someone who doesn't even share my values, I cannot create this business. I cannot employ anyone. I cannot sell my whatsit to anyone, because I cannot make it, I cannot even buy the materials or the tools I might need to get the job done.

But, my government 'friend' will hand me enough to keep my belly filled, just as long as I don't aspire to anything higher than to be a drone, nor even a worker bee.

And I'll eat beans and rice, and like it.

But then, what of the Stanley Newbergs of our nation, the ones who fled persecution to settle in this land of opportunity? Or the ones born here, but dirt poor? Stanley Newberg did well enough to set aside $8.4 million by the time he died; he chose to thank our fine nation for the opportunity by giving two-thirds of that, or $5.6 million, to us, These United States, to spend wisely on his behalf.

And in 1994, it disappeared in under two minutes, flat.

We, as a nation, can do better. Our governance must do better. We need to go back to the speech that President John Kennedy gave back in the early sixties, and take his words to heart:

"Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country."

Not just by paying taxes, but by creating opportunities for others.

Zig Ziglar said it years ago:

"You can have anything you want as long as you help someone else get what they want!"

Not a hand out, but a hand UP.

Yes, We Can!

Real brief, for Doug Adams fans

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Tue, 18 Nov 2025 17:31:00 +0000

I know it's been a while, and this is real brief since I need to rush off, but,

Today's phone bots have yet to rise to the level of Sirius Cybernetics systems.
(And we ALL know how bad THEY are!)

Carry On in Spite of,

Yes You Can!

The Hulk is Dead, and I Don’t Feel so Well Myself

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Sat, 26 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Hulk Hogan has been a figure who has been hard to avoid over the years. He has been on the wrestling circuit for decades, starred in movies, stumped for politicians, and generally has been a force to be reckoned with.

Not being a wresting fan myself, the first encounter I had with his image was not a good one: he was being interviewed and the interviewer asked the question that many people were asking: “Isn’t this all just fake?” By way of an answer Hulk reached out with is right hand and slapped the interviewer on the left side of his head, and asked his own question: “That was an open-hand slap. Did that feel ‘fake’ to you?”

The interviewer was nearly knocked over and understandably backed away.

Before you start laughing at this, I saw that, and immediately said to myself, “That was undeserved.” Turns out Hulk had broken the interviewer’s eardrum, and the man ended up losing about thirty percent of his hearing in that ear.

Now I know that that question had been floating around for years, and I’m sure the Wrestlemania folks had gotten tired of the question, or assumption, that they just faked stuff for the camera. And Hulk Hogan was probably tired of hearing about it. But that moment, he lost any respect I might have had for him.

Over the years my feelings mellowed. In one movie 'Mr. Nanny', he was babysitting an unruly family of kids and got the usual 'Davids beating Goliath' treatment, including buckets of water, slippery surfaces, and a bowling ball on the high shelf in the closet rolling onto his head.

It showed that he could take a joke for the camera.

Good Times.

I tend not to take celebrity endorsements seriously, so when this actor or that sports figure says they’re voting this way or that, I usually tune them out. But I do occasionally get a kick out of their antics.

For those who don’t know, Hulk Hogan’s signature front-of-camera move is to rip off his t-shirt (sorta like the Big Green Marvel character), while yelling his defiance to any challenger.

It's fun to watch.

The last time I saw Hulk Hogan rip off his shirt, it was to reveal a ‘Make America Great Again!’ shirt underneath.

Whatever your politics, you should admit that that was cool!

Sail on, Sailor.

Every Now and Then ...

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Mon, 02 Jun 2025 14:03:00 +0000

Every now and then I find unusual things. Sometimes it's an odd item, sometimes an odd thought.

Sometimes it's an odd bit of archaic whatnot.

A lot of people have heard of the Anasazi, and the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings. There are some cliff dwellings in the Garden of the Gods area west of Colorado Springs. And, of course, Chaco Canyon.

RadioShack, when it was trying to be relevant to the (then) current shopper included an Alanis Morissette unplugged session in Chaco Canyon. Personally, I wasn't impressed by her, but hey, even then I was an old guy.

Just lately I learned of a site in southern Colorado that seems to be an extension of the Chaco culture: Chimney Rock, Colorado (go to this website: chimneyrockco.org). It sounds like an interesting place, and in all my sixty years in the state of Colorado I'd never heard of it. (I found out about it through this channel: TheRandallCarlson, the particular link: They Built This to Catch the Moonrise)

There are new things to be learned even in a place I have resided most of my life.

I am unsure if I'll be able to visit the site this summer, but here's hoping.

The biggest thing that stands in our way of learning new things, accepting new challenges, or taking new paths is our own short-sighted sophistication. It's that Dunning-Kreuger thing: 'I know something about something, so I know all I need to know.'

Novice confidence, gotta love it!

Novice confidence can be a good thing. It is what kept me on the ski slopes, learning without meaning to, that if you're skiing moguls it really does help to keep a bend in your knees.

With my Cognitive Field Theorist brain I try to learn a little (the world-at-large, as well as the people in it, is/are my teachers, though not officially), while showing/teaching people (again, not officially, but, everyone you meet is a student) how to do the same, filling in the 'Here Be Dragons' places on personal knowledge maps. The trick is to teach something without the learner realizing they are having their mind expanded. When you hear, 'Hey, that's cool!' or similar, you know a lesson has hit home. I've always tried to teach the wonder.

I'm at a stage in my life that I'm at the other end of the D-K process: I know enough about most things to realize I really don't know a lot about anything. So I try to keep an open mind, but also I test the new knowledge as best I can before redrawing the map.

That's a Mizpah I keep with myself.

So should you.

Yes, You Can!

Inspiration is Where You Find It

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Fri, 02 May 2025 07:58:00 +0000

Today has been a mixed day, and since I've crossed midnight, it's tomorrow already.

My leg hurts. My water retention has gotten bad enough that my left leg is swollen and leaking like a partly popped blister. And it hurts like blazes. I need to take my water pills, and take a walk, and find a bathroom and take a walk and take my water pills and take a walk ...

And when I walk I need to protect my leg. It's not infected, but I need to keep it clean so any opportunistic bacteria doesn't get a toe-hold. I measure my hydration/dehydration by the hoarseness of my voice: if I have a voice to sing with then I need to lose water.

That is aggravating. I love to sing, and if I cannot make music that's one more joy gone.

I have other joys, but as I have said, today (yesterday?) has been a mixed day. I ended up sleeping through most of it, which means I'm not likely to sleep well tonight. I'll put up my movie playlist, 'drop the needle' on something I like but can ignore, and wake up whenever. Usually at three or four A.M., and won't be able to go back to sleep until nearly noon, then ...

I have tried to make a point of going to bed by eleven, or even ten, and force myself up at six, if I've managed to sleep that late (see above), and start the day: light breakfast, meds, get washed and dressed, go out for a walk. Come home and do something or other for work.

That's the plan.

Stay active, stay alive. Don't sleep so much.

The movie I woke up to was "The Ron Clark Story."

Inspiration is where you find it. Still a mixed day. I watched the end of the movie an hour ago; it reminded me of why, ultimately, I wanted to teach.

It also reminded me, tangentally, of Simon Sinek's TED talk: "How Great Leader's Inspire Action" If you are in a position of leadership, you need to watch it.

AS I SAY, it reminded why I wanted to teach. It also reminded me of the 1960's ads for the Peace Corps: "The Hardest Job You'll Ever Love." I never joined the Peace Corps, though my oldest brother did. He came out a bit changed. More importantly, he was alive, and didn't need to be drafted.

The why. I need a why or two. Why to not sleep the day away, but instead to do something useful and hopefully meaningful.

Remembering, per Mr. Sinek, the why is not to make money: the monetary gain is incidental to the why.

Why? To fill a need, to serve a cause, to put a smile on a face. I've lost my specific 'why'. Why let my leg heal, why get up and move, why take those hateful water pills?

Why teach?

Why?

Why try?

Okay. Look at 'The Butterfly Circus', a short film (not sure if it's findable any more). The message:

'The Greater the Challenge, the More Glorious the Victory!'

Okay. My leg still hurts.

Rise above it.

Yes, I Can.

The Prodigal

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Wed, 23 Apr 2025 07:44:00 +0000

Back in 2023 I rewrote a Bible story, and thought that I'd posted it here.

Musta slipped my memory to do so.

I'm not going to give much preamble. Instead, I'll just drop it in here. (Originally written the tail end of June, beginning of July, 2023.)

A man had two sons. The older did everything right (you might know an older brother or sister like this), and stood to inherit his share. The younger had stars in his eyes and asked to have his share of his father’s inheritance now, so he could live life on his own terms.

You get the picture? Dad, know-it-all perfect Big Brother, and Little Brother who wants to be out from under Big Brother’s disapproving eye.

Well, Little Brother converts his cattle to cash, spends like a sailor on shore leave, buying drinks for his bar buddies, and such. Predictably, he runs out of cash, and since he has not properly learned a high-paying trade, he has to take the lowest of the low poor-paying jobs out there in order to get even a bit of something to eat (all of his bar-buddy friends having dropped him, since he’s not buying drinks for them anymore, y’see).

One day, while throwing out the trash and picking through it to find something remotely edible, he has a thought: “My dad’s hired hands live far better than this. I’ll go home and ask to be a hired hand. At least I’ll have three hots and a cot. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Little Brother hitches a ride with a trucker headed the right way (Eddie Rabbit’s “Drivin’ My Life Away!” pouring out of the truck’s radio), and gets dropped off in town. He takes the long walk toward home, and says to himself, “I’ll tell my dad that I’ve sinned against him and God both, and I’ll throw myself on his mercy and ask to be allowed to be, not a son, but a hired hand.”

But when he turns in at the lane to the ranch, his dad, who has been watching for his son’s return, jumps out of the rocker and hoofs it down to where his second son is walking, and grabs him in a big daddy hug.

Younger Son kind of pushes him away and says his bit: “Dad, I’ve sinned against you and God. I don’t deserve to be your son, but can I, may I, be a hired hand?”

“None of that talk! Let’s get you cleaned up!" replies Dad, "Looks like you have more road on you that anything else! What you been doin', sloppin' hogs?” And his father walks him up to the house and the cook (who used to dote on him when he was a boy) exclaims, “You’re back! But, my goodness! Let’s clean you up! I want to see your handsome face without all that dirt on it! When you’re done I’m gonna make you your favorite meal!”

And Dad says, “Think bigger than that, Gertie! We’re gonna have us a barbecue! Have Lonnie find us a prime beeve to kill and prep for ribs and steaks and such, and get that pit hot for the roastin’! Can you make up a gallon or so of that sauce I like? And send a runner out to where his brother is working, get him in, too!” “Goodness, yes! I’ll have it ready before that pit is hot and Lonnie is done with that beeve!”

So Little Brother gets a steaming hot bath (the first in many weeks), and when he’s toweled down a bit and shaved and other whatnot, his Dad takes him into his own room, and pulls out HIS best shirt, HIS best suit, HIS best bolo tie, HIS best watch on a chain with the family signet on the other end, and the finest set of boots He has in HIS closet.

The Little Brother looks into the mirror, and sees a changed man, and doesn’t quite believe that it’s himself.

Dad asks, “Feeling better now, Son?”

The young man stands there speechless, but with a puzzled smile on his face.

“Is this how you see me, Dad?”

“This is how I’ve always seen you, Son.”

Side by side they leave the Father’s rooms and head back to the kitchen, and out to the back yard to a trestle table full of good things, including tea, lemonade, coleslaw, Texas potato salad, and sourdough bread, with space left over for the hot food to take up station when it’s ready. Those not directly helping with setting up the party are saying things to the Little Brother like, “We’ve missed you! We’re so glad you’re back!”

About sundown the Dutch oven full of baked beans, a platter of short ribs, another of steaks, and another of shredded brisket (and of course Gert’s barbecue sauce) are brought out to the table. Father says the blessing and people line up to load up their plates. Somewhere there’s a fiddler playing ‘Saturday Waltz’ from Copeland’s ‘Rodeo’.

Just as the party is hitting its stride, Big Brother comes in, dusty from working the back forty.

“What’s all this?” he asks. Father answers, “Your brother’s back! We’re celebrating! Get cleaned up and help yourself to a plate!”

“What do you mean, ‘my brother’s back!’? The son that took his inheritance and spent it on a riotous life? YOUR money?! And you’re throwing a party for HIM?! I’ve done EVERYTHING you’ve asked of me. You’ve never even let me take a goat from the herd so I could party with MY friends! This makes NO sense!”

His father replied, “My Son, you have been good and faithful, it’s true. Everything I have will be yours when you inherit. But your Little Brother! He was lost to the world, but now he is back home! Join me, join us, in the celebration of the fact your Little Brother was lost, but now has been found!”

But Big Brother, dignity insulted, would not join in.

The fiddler moved on to “Hoedown!” and those who’d finished their strawberry-rhubarb pie moved to the dancing area and started polka-ing and two-stepping.

And a great time was had by (almost!) all.

And there it is. If ever you wonder whether you can go back again,

Yes, You CAN!

A Compass Points North ... (Revisiting a Revisit: Foster and Adoption)

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Mon, 31 Mar 2025 13:38:00 +0000

First, a link to an earlier entry: Revisiting Foster Care and Adoption

Second, the videos, starting with the newest: ReMoved #3

Third, the original two: ReMoved, and Remember My Story: ReMoved Part 2

Fourth, What's it to you?

I really don't have a lot to add to the above today, and I admit to being pretty worn out. But I can say this: If you can find it in your heart to love someone who is hard to love, and give them a little something that they would not otherwise have, do it.

Just that: Do It.

Love is never wasted. Kindness is never wasted.

If you watch ReMoved #3 you'll get the title of this blog.

Spread some Love around.

Yes, You CAN!

"L'il Bit's Hug Song"

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Tue, 18 Mar 2025 09:13:00 +0000

It's been forever since I've posted here.

Our grand-nephew is having his fourth birthday. Well, actually, he had it almost a month ago. Everyone was set to visit Sis-in-Law's place in the middle of the back of beyond (no problem with that, she likes her space), and have a good time. It's not the first celebration, or even the first birthday we've held for the lad in this remote location. But, winter being what it is, and in spite of it being an excessively mild winter, chose that very weekend to throw us a slushy winter storm. And considering the travel requirements, it was thought best to reschedule.

It's been rescheduled (yay). The snow has melted, the roads are open spring is springing (almost) and it's St Paddy's Day, for the love of Mike.

For his birthday, I dug out something I'd written some time back that was hiding in my steno pad notes. I settled on steno pads as being the best thing for carrying around to write notes in, not too big, but big enough that I wasn't forever flipping pages on my shirt-pocket notepad to get what I had in mind written down. No wonder stenographers used them.

Yes, I know, everyone nowadays has a phone with voice activation to take notes with, but old habits die hard; I'd established this habit in the early nineties, and I've only had a fan-dang fancy phone for the last five or so years.

True fact, the newest iteration of a so-called 'smart' phone I made sure it had a stylus for writing things, and two of the apps I added were sketchpad and floorplan apps. Great!

The one problem is, the registration of where the stylus taps and what appears on the screen is an infuriating couple of millimeters off from each other. And not even Motorola lists a way to tighten up that gap.

Life is.

BUT, that's all just stuff and nonsense. The story's the thing, after all.

I wrote this "Hug Song" while having a breakfast at McDonalds a few years ago. I decided it was time to transfer it to the computer, and was (finally!) able to find the steno pad it was written in. I cleaned it up a bit, then tried to enlist my own bear-cub to team-read the story (she was unavailable). I read it aloud myself, and recorded it as a nighttime story for grand-nephew, and burned a CD (actually a DVD) of it and a few other things.

And finally I'll get to deliver it.

I thought you'd like to read it, so here it is.

               L'il Bit's Hug Song
The scene: LizaBeth (“Li’l Bit”) Behr’s bedroom. Cub-sized bed with a toy chest at its foot, pine cones carved into the tops of the bedposts. Li’l Bit is tucked in, holding her favorite stuffed toy, a bunny holding a carrot. The coverlet is a patch-work quilt, well-used and well-loved. The only light comes from the bedside table lamp, the ceramic base in the shapes of the three monkeys, ‘Hear no evil, See no evil, Speak no evil’. The room is cozy despite the wind making the pine trees shiver and sprinkling the window with snow. A bit of moonlight is sneaking in through the window, past the snowflake lace curtains.
Beside the bed, in a straight-backed chair, sits George Bear, story book open but forgotten on his lap.
“Papa?”
“What is it, cub?”
“I don’t want a story tonight. Can I sing a song instead?”
George smiled, “I suppose, Li’l Bit. Is it a song you learned in school?”
“No Papa. I made it up myself.”
“Those are the best kind. Go ahead.”

Li’l Bit’s Hug Song (with asides)
(The rhythm is a slow waltz time)

I have a family that’s nice, so nice.
They’re warm and fuzzy not cold like ice.
And do you know what else is right?
We all hug each other all day and all night. (“We do?”)
(“Yes. Now hush, Papa. This my song!”)
(“Oh. Sorry.”)

Mama hugs Papa, He Hugs her right back.
Ma hugs J.R. And he makes a big fuss. (“That doesn’t rhyme, hon.”)
(“It doesn’t hafta rhyme, Papa!”)
(“Okay.)
But when she’s not lookin’ he’s smiling so big.
But when she’s not lookin’ he’s smiling so big.

My Mama Hugs me, an’ I feel so safe.
Nobody can hurt me when she’s right there.
Papa is big, an’ he growls a lot, (“I do?”)
(giggling “Yeah, you do.”)
But I know he loves me, ‘cause he hugs a lot, too. (“Awww.)

I hug J.R. when he’s not looking.
He growls at me an’ says, “Hey Cub, what’s cookin’?”
He’s not meaning supper, that’s just his way
Of askin’, “What’s up, Cub? How is your day?” (“Hey! That rhymed!”)
(“Papa!)
(“Oh, sorry.”)
(“J.R. sometimes gives me noogies.”)
(“Is that bad?”)
(“No, that’s Good; s’long as he doesn’t do 'em too hard.”)

Sometimes I wake up and I’m scared at night.
I hug my stuffed bunny an’ say “It’s all right,
“Listen,” I tell her, “That’s Papa’s Big Snore, (“I snore?)
(“Yes, Papa. You sound like a big tree breaking. Shh.”)
“And Mama’s snore, too. And what’s more,”

“There’s that funny sound that J.R. makes … ("I’ve heard him, you’re right, it is funny.")
(“Papa, HUSH!”)
(“Sorry”)
“There’s that funny sound that J.R. makes,
“An’ the sound the house makes when it is asleep,
“It’s hugging us, too, to have an’ to keep.”

So I hug my bunny an’ snuggle back safe.
And smile to my bunny an’ smile to myself.
I go back to sleep with a smile on my face …
I go back to sleep with a smile on my face.
(“Are you finished?”)
(“Not quite, Papa.”)
(“Okay.”)

There’s soooo many smiles, an’ there’s soooo many hugs.
Sooo many ways to know I am loved.
Sooo many smiles and soooo many dreams.
So many everythings are making good dreams,
So many everythings are making good dreams.

(“… Now are you done?”)
( yawn “I think so, Papa.”)
(“That’s a good song. Thank you.)
(Love hugs for you, Li’l Bit. Honey Dreams.”)

And that's that. I couldn't get my drawing eye to work (it's out of practice), so no picture to go with like "Forever Family." Such is life. I'm practicing, so maybe I'll add an illustration later.

I'm gathering these stories to publish, hopefully sooner rather than later. Wish me luck!

IN ANY CASE, I hope you had a Happy St. Patrick's Day, and may the wind be ever at your back!

And until we meet (or meet again), may the Good Lord hold you in the palm of His Hand!

Begorra!

Wheaton's Law, Some Thoughts.

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Sun, 11 Aug 2024 05:05:00 +0000

This just came up.

Apparently, Wil Wheaton came up with this suggestion (perhaps not originally his; I've seen it on a t-shirt with stick figures, but we'll let it stand for now): "Don't be a dick." Kind of like Murphy's Law or Godwin's Law, it seemed something worth saying, and to get it into the Canon of the World, it needed naming, and who better...

So, Wheaton's Law.

Just so you know, I like Wil Wheaton; he did very well as the sometimes irritating know-it-all Wesley on ST:TNG. I'm a know-it-all, too, so I can relate. He's done other things since then ("Mr. Stitch" comes to mind), but I've not heard a lot since TNG went off the air. My TV broke about the same time, so there might be a causal relationship there. What I HAVE heard has caused me to bristle a bit, and makes me think that Mr. W should follow the law that's named for him. Not wanting to start a flame war; just wanting to let you know that my appreciation of him is not unmixed.

Now that that is (hopefully) out of the way, onward.

"Don't be a dick," IS, generally speaking, good advice. One should not be intentionally or unthinkingly rude or hurtful.

On the other hand, it has become well-nigh impossible to say or do something without offending someone. We used to say, "No offense [intended]," after making a statement that could perhaps offend, and get the reply, "None taken," and conversations and life went on. Sometimes offense was taken, usually because the speaker was being a dumbbutt. Sometimes, though, offense was taken because the offended was too thin-skinned to let something roll off his back. And nowadays we have people who are offended on your behalf (even if you, yourself, aren't), and are willing to demolish the offender to recover your honor. This takes on truly scary consequences.

Example (taken from Malcolm Gladwell's, David and Goliath): a man does a drive-by purse snatch in front of a Hard Rock Cafe in California, but because he thinks (purse in hand) the girl isn't respecting him enough, he sticks the muzzle of the gun he's carrying in her ear, and pulls the trigger.

An extreme example, you say? How about this for extreme:

A sixth-grade kid shoots a first grader for dissing him by stepping on his shadow! (I do wish I could give the reference for this.)

Never mind the tool used for retribution. Note instead the trivial level of offense that caused it. People are going nuclear on people for being offended by them. This has got to STOP!

First of all, because getting one's feelings hurt over such trivial things is nonsensical: it's just hurt feelings. If your feelings get hurt, understand you have no bruise otherwise.

Am I minimizing the effect that destructive words can have on a person, especially when delivered by a person who has authority over another? Maybe. Rather, I'm saying that maybe we should self-advocate more, if only by saying to ourselves that offender is wrong. It takes time to learn this, and, I must admit, the things that are said to us can last decades.

More to the point, though, is that we shouldn't go looking for something to be offended at, having our abuse radar set way too sensitively. As the neighbors to the guy with the overly sensitive car alarm can attest, it gets irritating (offensive?) to be awakened by a car alarm in the middle of the night, night after night, just because the wind blows.

Learn to brush off offense.

What does this have to do with Wheaton's Law?

In the normal give-and-take in society, and in the struggle to accomplish an overall good, conversation needs to happen. One shouldn't 'be a dick', as that gets in the way. However, sometimes things need to be said to point out a problem, or to give proper criticism to what is happening or how things are going (or not going). You may come off as a 'dick' in those situations, despite not intending to be so.

Do you not be a 'dick', and thereby allowing something broken go unfixed, potentially causing much greater harm than the original offense would have caused?

We've all done this a time or two, hoping someone else would pass the word. Other times, we've bit the bullet instead of our tongue and spoken into the discussion something we've felt needed to be said.

Myself, I've been bitten many times when I've stepped in like that that I've gotten quite gun-shy about saying my piece about things out in the open.

Hence, this blog, I suppose.

But, you have to say uncomfortable things sometimes. People will be offended, and they may even call you names. Names like: 'Dick'.

I guess what I'm saying is, if you can avoid being a dick, without compromising being a truthteller in the arena of ideas, do so. Sometimes, in some person's eyes, it will be unavoidable. Let integrity (not meanness) win out.

Like I used to say, you can call a spade a spade. There is no need to call it an 'Effing Shovel'.

(cue a Flip Wilson/Tim Conway comedy bit here.)

No offense intended.

The More I Learn, The More I Am AMAZED!

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Fri, 09 Aug 2024 13:15:00 +0000

The more I learn, the more my thought processes are informed by the information (that sounds circular; bear with me), the more I let the free association of ideas, dreams, facts, and 'What-Ifs', the more I let that stew churn...

The more I am AMAZED.

I could never understand people who thought science was BORING! Wonder and amazement lurk around every corner.

A sort of aside: I once read a story (One of Zenna Henderson's 'The People' stories, can't remember which one, they are worth reading if you can find them) where a boy would ask a dad a 'what?' or 'why?' or 'how come?' question, and Dad wouldn't answer him immediately, but days later without preamble would just give the answer. Maybe he didn't know at the time, or maybe it just needed thinking about, but he would just drop the answer in the boy's lap, so to speak, and leave him to his own devices. The boy was used to it; it was just the way his dad did things.

I know, TL/RD: the boy would ask a question, the answer would come later, sometimes days later.

My brain works that way.

When we were learning about cilia and flagella in junior high life science class, someone asked "how do they spin?" The answer was somewhat vague. I absorbed that as 'I'll get the answer later'; I, too, had by that time questions I couldn't get immediate answers to, so I tabled that question. Every now and then I'd get serendipitous answers, 'A-HA!' moments that would make me smile and say to myself, so that explains THAT!

Today one of those 'A-Ha's happened, trying up one thing, and borrowing explanations from things I already knew. Midway through the episode I found myself grinning.

Another aside: I have learned though experience that if I have a half-smile, whatever I am experiencing is pleasing either the left brain (logical, etc.) or the right brain (artistic, etc.), depending on if the smile was on the right or the left. A broad grin, therefore, involves the entire brain. (Try this yourself, your mileage may vary...)

So here I am, grinning to beat the band, and I ask myself, "Why am I grinning?" and I realized that this episode made my entire brain happy. People are different, so maybe for you this won't be the case, but here is the link:

"Nature's Incredible Rotating Motor"

From the SmarterEveryDay (no link) YouTube channel. I ended up subscribing. No requirement that you do so, though.

My life is full of these tabled questions. I'm sure yours is as well. Every now and then we get the wild hare and have to chase these answers down. Sometimes we are content to leave them on the list of "Life's Great Unanswered Questions," and get on with our day.

Sometimes we get a surprise answer to one of those tabled questions that makes us grin. Sometimes, the answer that we decide to chase down brings grins to other faces when we find it.

That is a good thing.

Each of us have the ability to put a smile on people's faces (resisting the urge to quote Oscar Wilde). However you do it, you can put a smile on someone else's face. if you can include Wonder and Amazement for yourself and someone else, so much the better.

Yes, You Can!

T-Plus Fifty-Five Years and Counting.

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Sun, 21 Jul 2024 20:10:00 +0000

It's about time.

I'm completely unsure whether this needs to be blogged on this page, but I don't care.

Fifty-five years ago today Neil Armstrong set his two feet on a place other than Earth, the first time any human being had done so. He was the first, but he was not the last.

Then the novelty wore off. just when we were getting the hang of getting there and back, and proving that we could even handle a space emergency of epic proportions, just when we were starting to do some serious science ...

We quit. We got bored. Space flight was no longer a 'new' thing. Ho-hum.

It's passed time we went back into space, and I mean not just messing around in the wading pool of Low Earth Orbit. Richard Branson and others want to make that the playground of the rich.

Well, early adopters always have been people that had money to throw at the newest thing. That's okay. When the costs come down, then us middle-class folks can enjoy.

To that end a certain Mr. Musk has been working on getting us back into space, effectively 'on the cheap' (as compared to how the government plan works), with the thought of moving out of LEO and onward back to the moon, then outward to mars and other places that might be colonized. His detractors (and distracters) of course are beating him up for being so bold as to be a non-government business to try to do so.

Too bad, so sad. More power to him, I say.

I ran across something ... Not true. I went looking for it. Chaos Manor, formerly a column in Byte magazine, then a website. Byte has gone away, but JerryPournelle.com is still present, even though both he and his wife Roberta have passed on. One of the pages that is still alive is:

How to Get to Space (https://www.jerrypournelle.com/reports/jerryp/gettospace.html)

where he details an X-program to get there. I encourage you to visit and see what else can be found. It is two decades or more old, but since it has only been fairly recently that there has been any sort of effort, it is still pertinent.

As it happens, Mr. Musk has followed much of it and has proceeded to create exactly what Dr. Pournelle had in mind, albeit with variations. With the result of Space-X and the various Falcon Single Stage to Orbit vehicles taking over what the Shuttle can no longer do. And doing it more cost-effectively.

And folks are kicking him in the teeth as he does it.

He has taken what he has been given and multiplied it. He started with nearly nothing and he has now made more than a name for himself. And he has proved the adage that if you're successful people will be doing their best to beat you down because you bested them.

Your turn.

All you who criticize these start-from-scratch successful folk, quit criticizing and do better, IF you can. At very least try to do as well. If you get even part-way towards a big goal, you will be far better off than you are by yelling at the successes out there. Be the ones the "Poor-Me"s yell at instead.

You can be bigger that they are. You can be more successful than they are. You can be in a better position to help others along the way than they are. You can be more generous than they are.

Yes, You CAN!

THIS is why you'll NEVER hear a voice like Judy's again.

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Wed, 08 May 2024 22:09:00 +0000

Today is a day for music. And AutoTune.

And, as long as AutoTune is being used, the natural voice will no longer truly be heard.

Yeah, I get it, it fixes out of tune voices and creates crazy effects (a la Cher's ' Do You Believe in Love After Love). But a couple of things are lost: the appreciation of voices of people who can really do their stuff, as well as the warmth and expression that a person with talent can give to a piece of music.

Listen to this fellow:

I think he makes a pretty good case for his hypothesis. Taking away nothing from Kelly Clarkson, perhaps the production crew in the sound booth might serve her better if they let her sing.

Along the way, I'm reminded that really good instrumentalists, and really good vocalists have this in common: they hear a phrase or read the music and it flows through their instrument, whether that instrument is a physical object they interact with, or their voice (or, in my case, my mouth when I whistle) automatically.

I hear 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow', and I can sing or whistle it with ease, only being limited by my vocal (or whistle) range. Well trained instrumentalists, well adapted to their instrument do the same. Their physical actions may be more involved, but it's the same thing.

And therein lies the beauty.

If you are a musician, keep on being one with your instrument, and your music.

Yes, You Can!

Uncommon Man

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Sun, 05 May 2024 03:38:00 +0000

I admit to being lazy. It has been a week of finding my feet and getting them underneath me, again. We've been back nearly two weeks, and I still have not gotten, or even started, getting the pictures organized.

Pictures not as good as seven years ago, and that disappoints me as well.

On the other hand, the sight was as beautiful as before. And it has inspired a jewelry piece that I'll try to put together soon.

Buuut, as I said I'm lazy today. so I'm going to post a poem that I heard, then searched for to make sure I got it right. Ironic, really, it's not a poem to inspire laziness. Rather the opposite.

My Creed

I do not choose to be a common man,

It is my right to be uncommon … if I can,

I seek opportunity … not security.

I do not wish to be a kept citizen

Humbled and dulled by having the

State look after me.

I want to take the calculated risk;

To dream and to build.

To fail and to succeed.

I refuse to barter incentive for a dole;

I prefer the challenges of life

To the guaranteed existence;

The thrill of fulfillment

To the stale calm of Utopia.

I will not trade freedom for beneficence

Nor my dignity for a handout.

I will never cower before any master

Nor bend to any threat.

It is my heritage to stand erect.

Proud and unafraid;

To think and act for myself,

To enjoy the benefit of my creations,

And to face the world boldly and say:

“This, with God’s help, I have done.”

All this is what it means

To be an Entrepreneur.

-- Dean Alfange

I think I'll put that on a poster, or a shirt. It'd be the first addition to www.cafepress.com/clubmushroom in a long time.

Be bigger than you are. Make something to leave a legacy. Live a life you will remember (thanks, avicii). Put smiles on faces. Help people get what they want.

Live as large as you can.

Yes, You Can!

A Slice From the Eclipse Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Fri, 03 May 2024 16:13:00 +0000

It's been something of a while.

We visited Texas for the 2024 Solar Eclipse, and it was great. More on that later.

On our way back we stayed in the town of Plainview, Texas. had supper at the Cotton Patch Cafe (highly recommended - I didn't finish my meal, but no fault of theirs - the waiter even managed to get the kitchen staff to scrape the bottom of the pot for the last of the jalapeno gravy for my chicken fried steak. Great stuff!)

But, more about them when I can do them justice.

The Next Morning, we were looking around for breakfast. Apart from a donut shop, there was nothing on this side of Plainview that served a real breakfast. Except McDonald's.

And the McDonald's was GREAT!

This is what greets you when you drive up:

And, true, it's the typical Micky Dee's breakfast menu, but these folks take pride in doing it right. Coffee was great. And they are not afraid to help a body out. When we went up to order seconds, the menu had just changed to Lunch, but they accommodated us by putting together two more breakfast sandwiches (plus hash browns) for us.

This handsome fellow was especially helpful (Corey, by name):

Corey (the Man!)

He was very helpful. He had a pleasant and sunny attitude in a job where, let's be frank, has more than it's share of cranky customers (I should know. Unfortunately, I can be one of them).

All in all, he and they made breakfast a wonderful experience.

And you gotta love a place that doesn't take Ronald too seriously!

McRib on the hoof

If I'm ever again in Plainview, I will definitely look them up!

(Their address is 815 N I-27, Plainview, TX 79072.)

If you are ever down that way, you should look them up. too!

Yes, You Can!

Colorado HR 24-1292 Assault Weapons Ban

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Thu, 14 Mar 2024 03:31:00 +0000

Folks, I don’t usually go political in this blog, but this is important for those of us living in Colorado.

For nearly a decade I have had the feeling that the folks in the statehouse really don’t have Colorado citizens’ best interest at heart, certainly not from the standpoint of citizen autonomy and freedom.

They have taken measures that make internet commerce difficult (my AdSense ads became pointless, so I removed them).

They have added punishment in the form of fines for things as minor as missing the registration renewal of vehicles and/or trailers by a day, instead of merely letting the renewal fee stand for itself.

They have limited the autonomy of Home School families, insisting that someone in the family either holds a teaching certificate or under the authority of a certified teacher, thus limiting the content and methods of teaching available to Home School parents.

There are other things, but this will do for background.

With HR 24-1292 Assault Weapons Ban the statehouse wishes to restrict gun ownership, and NOT just banning AR-15 or AK-47 –style rifles.

It does call out these rifles particularly, but also many other similar firearms. Specifically, it mentions that any firearm that has a detachable magazine falls under the ban (other firearm features are banned as well).

In other words, your great granddad’s war relic Luger P-08 pistol from World War I is now an ‘Assault Rifle’.

Let that sink in.

Any firearm with a detachable magazine (not just external magazine) is now an 'Assault Rifle'. That's a bit sweeping; it includes semi-automatic pistols of every variety down to the .22 caliber Colt Woodsman that granddad learned to shoot with, back in the day.

(It sounds like if they could find a way to make any sort of revolver, bolt action rifle or lever action rifle, or even a muzzle-loader into an ‘assault rifle’, they would.)

Any firearm that falls under the ban that you currently own would be grandfathered. But that just postpones the ban: when you die, there is no provision for passing your banned firearms down to your heirs. Nor is there any legal way to sell them.

And with the laws that went into effect last year, we cannot even buy a gun, then hand it to my wife or daughter for their own defense.

Our elected leaders have their backs guarded, why not sauce for the gander as well. It’s not that I begrudge our Governor his protection by the Colorado State Patrol. But I DO begrudge this notion of ‘Yes for me, but none for thee’ attitude.

I cannot afford to hire security personnel; I must needs take the defense of my person and of my family into my own hands. This means having the equipment in my own hands, and in the hands of my family members.

Furthermore, there are legitimate reasons for responsible gun owners to own these firearms, beginning with (just like owning a particular kind of automobile), “I Want One.” The last I checked, if you had the money you could buy a Ferrari, no questions asked.

"You don't need an AR-15 for hunting." Beside the point. If I want an AR-15 or similar, I should, dollars permitting, be allowed to purchase one. It’s not about hunting, it’s about self-defense. Coyotes come in both four-legged and two-legged varieties.

It’s also about tyranny. A government that does NOT trust its upstanding citizens with the tools to defend themselves from tyranny, is by definition tyrannical.

This government has shown its disregard for its citizens, from the laws it passes that affect its citizens daily lives, to the edicts it hands down that limit the citizens' freedoms, but not the freedoms of its special ruling class (the COVID-19 travel ban famously ignored by our Governor for his Christmas trip, as an example).

Our rulers do not deserve this law to pass.

We The People wish to keep our rights intact!

This citizen does, at very least.

Playlists: The Good, The Bad, the Sublime! (though hope is frail it's hard to kill)

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Sun, 21 Jan 2024 16:03:00 +0000

Hello, Folks,

Usually I write these posts in Word, transfer them here, and clean up any little flaws. That way I have a permanent record in my Documents list.

Not today.

In my many playlists I have one that is a catch-all, "Movies", where if it's a movie, it goes there. If it's a short it goes there. If it's a documentary, it goes there. I try to sort them out later but some always get left behind.

So last night I was playing the Movies playlist and dozed off, leaving it running. My 'Go to sleep' section of the list starts with 'Just You and Me Kid', 'The Magic of Belle Isle', '84 Charing Cross Road' (read the book 50 years ago as a Readers Digest condensed book), 'Marilyn Hotchkiss' Ballroom Dancing and Charm School', and dozed off somewhere in the bunch. The playlist played and I woke to 'How the US Won the Space Race' (required: find the documentary and watch it. I mean it.), then on to short subjects and bits of movie/theater related show tunes.

Which leads to the sublime.

The first was an excerpt from the movie 'The Sound of Music', "Climb Every Mountain", which was a musical version of the advice "Don't cloister yourself away, follow your destiny." Listen to it. I give you the link: "Climb Every Mountain"

This was followed in my list by: "The Prince of Egypt Orchestral medley"

If you haven't watched "The Prince of Egypt" lately, don't wait until Easter/Passover, watch it now.

Anyway, I'm facing challenges in just moving around, and the first clip left me in tears. Then the second one began playing, and me, knowing the movie, did a quiet sing along. When it got to the point where they would sing, "Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill." I lost it completely. The orchestra was feeling it, too. Seeing the trumpeter trying not to break a joyful smile and ruin her embouchure proved the point.

This is the message to me: don't give up. Even if I'm weary to the point of quitting (and I am), DON'T GIVE UP!

You can do miracles (so can I). Get close to the Maker of Miracles, He'll give you the strength. He'll also give you rest.

And since this is Sunday, take a rest, watch 'Prince of Egypt', appreciate miracles, grab your copy of the Scriptures and talk to God, and thank Him for the miracles in your life.

Yes, You Can!

Good Christian Men, REJOICE!

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Mon, 25 Dec 2023 16:57:00 +0000

Good Morning! Merry Christmas!

Good Christian men Rejoice! With heart and soul and voice! Give ye heed of what we say: Jesus Christ is born today! Ox and ass before him bow and he is in the manger now! Christ is born today, Christ is born to day!

I’m going to start with something not typically thought of as a Christmas activity: Holy Communion.

I’m not a stickler for wafer and wine, so if you have even a stray Cherrio and some breakfast juice that will be fine. The references will be from Matthew’s Gospel, chapter twenty-six

‘While they were eating, Jesus took the bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat, this is my body given for you.”
‘Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, “All of you drink from this; this is my blood of the promise poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sin.”’

And there you have it, the thumbnail of God’s gift to us. All of you know what happened next, Jesus was arrested, tried, then crucified. Three days later he arose fulfilling the promise of life.

Merry Christmas!

Santa Claus

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Fri, 15 Dec 2023 23:19:00 +0000

This fell into my email in-box about twenty years ago, and I trot it out for inspection every now and then. Since I haven’t done so recently, this year I’ll abuse you with this.

A CHRISTMAS STORY

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her. On the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" she snorted...."Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.

"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through it's doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "And buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping.

For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he had no good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby. Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes.

That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95

Author Unknown

@@@@@@@@

If anyone knows this author, please let me know as well.

I would normally draw something up in the Critters of Habit style to go with; not this year. Later maybe.

Melanie, you may remember sending this out back in 2004, or not. In any case this chicken has come home to roost.

Dana “Madman” Hansen

“Honk If You WORSHIP the DEVIL”

noreply@blogger.com (Dana "Madman" Hansen) — Tue, 05 Dec 2023 09:05:00 +0000

Bumper stickers.

The rolling Burma Shave signs of our existence.

To those who’ve never heard of Burma Shave, they predate me, even. Burma Shave was something like Barbasol, Gillette and Schick, shaving soap. Their idea of advertising was to put a series of signs along the roadside, just big enough to contain a line of doggerel, like, “Does your husband / Misbehave / Grunt and grumble / Rant and rave? /Shoot the brute some / Burma-Shave”

You get the idea.

As long as it can fit into something roughly twelve to eighteen inches long, and about five inches tall, you can say something meaningful (or not) and display it to the world. Everything from voter preference to food affiliation to (harking back aways) “Native” on a Colorado license plate background.

A recent prank I saw on the doomscroll: the bumper sticker read: “Honk if you WORSHIP THE DEVIL”, and when someone did, the trunk would open up and reveal someone dressed as Jesus.

Guerrilla Theater at its finest.

Click the link above for a sample.

In other news, …

In other news I’ve been watching old movies starring some of my favorites. I say ‘old movies’, but I’d never seen them before. Peter Sellers in ‘The Mouse That Roared’. Well, I’d seen that one a long, long time ago. George Martin’s ‘In My Life’, which included a pairing of Robin Williams and Bobby McFerrin on the song ‘Come Together’. ‘From Time to Time’, starring Maggie Smith (think Professor McGonigal or what’s-her-name’ from ‘Downton Abbey’), Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman in ‘An Unfinished Life’, and again Redford in ‘Lions for Lambs’, … And Paul Newman in ‘Fat Man and Little Boy’. I’ve not yet finished watching this film.

Unintentionally, many of these films have dealings with end-of-life, which is somewhat top-of-mind just now. I think I’m being overly concerned. What happens, happens.

The other things these films have in common is the taking our imperfect selves and rendering, not perfection necessarily, but the good, the best we are capable of. Of taking our good points, and even our flaws, and turning them into good results, of being a force for good, resisting evil, making the world a better place. Sometimes, even rendering minor miracles.

The overriding theme of this little stab in the dark, is ‘Yes, You Can!’

It is a lot of me taking what I have, or, in this case, what I have left, and stabbing at the world with the bludgeon of encouragement, the sword of love, the shield of faith (Paul had that right) to ward off the discouragements that are out there. I do not have a lot of strength left; all I can do is encourage, will my strength into those who follow.

Occasionally, like now, I take a break to eat a can of soup.

And listen to the Bear Cub dance and sing her heart and her joy. I love that kid!

It’s the small things that keep us going.

Good night.

Fiday funnys: Typos

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Sat, 02 Dec 2023 06:40:00 +0000

That should be: “Friday Funnies”, but typos are the name of the game today.

With that in mind I’m recalling something from a book by Norton Mockridge[1], who was City Editor of the New York World Telegram and Sun. The book’s title is: A Funny Thing Happened …, and (Mr. Mockridge) recounts a story where a new restaurant had sent to the printer an order for menus, advertising matter, and other whatnot with its name, The Pink Pantry. This was about the time of that Blake Edwards film, “The Pink Panther”, and they were perhaps trying to capitalize on the name similarity.

When the material came back from the printer, however, instead of The Pink Pantry, it was The Pink Panty!

My Kingdom for a proofreader!

One hopes their Grand Opening was a great success, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the printer error.

Allong (oops) along similar lines is this example from Thoughtco.com[2] (12-feb-2020). As above, this is an atomic typo (a single letter difference, leaving behind a correct, though inappropriate, word):

"The Typo of the Year award went to Reuters for this in 2005: 'Quaker Maid Meats Inc. on Tuesday said it would voluntarily recall 94,400 pounds of frozen ground beef panties [emphasis mine] that may be contaminated with E.coli.' (Read 'patties,' presumably.)"

Another ‘ooops’; the 11PM alarm has just sounded, and I need to be in bed if I expect to get up in a timely fashion tomorrow. So I need to finish this up quickly.

“Tomorrow” gives me a clue. There’s a song by the Kingston Trio called “To Morrow”[3], and it revolves around the town of Morrow, and the confusion between a traveler and a ticket agent about ‘tomorrow’ and how to get ‘to Morrow’ and back.

I’ll let you chase down the song: To Morrow

Good Night, Folks!

@@@

Oh, and anything you've a mind to tackle,

Yes, You Can!

[1] Along the way I discovered much I never knew about Norton Mockridge, including his being part of an interview/discussion on Richard Heffner’s “Open Mind”, discussing a free press in relation to trial by jury, and how the rights of the accused might be abused thereby.

In my opinion, of late much has been going on to sway the courts for this person or against that person, letting the court of public opinion effect jury nullification. The television program was: “The Courts and a Free Press” aired on NBC Television, Sunday, May 4, 1958, on the program THE OPEN MIND https://www.thirteen.org/openmind-archive/government/the-courts-and-a-free-press-part-i/

[2] Nordquist, Richard. "Typo: Examples of Typographical Errors." ThoughtCo, Jan. 17, 2021, thoughtco.com/typo-definition-1692479.

[3] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qp88oumRQvs

Rancor

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Fri, 01 Dec 2023 15:09:00 +0000

This should have been posted yesterday. Sorry about that.

This’ll be short. This Thanksgiving our ‘Lustrous Potentate said that we needed to tone down the, and I quote: “Rancor.”

As I recall, I’m not the one who called half of the voting population ‘Terrorists’. So I say:

“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

‘Nuff said.

Have a great day, folks.

Be Thankful For Seventeen-Seventy-six (1776)

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Fri, 24 Nov 2023 07:36:00 +0000

This is for Wednesday, November 22, 2023. But actually, it’s Thursday, Thanksgiving, and I’m down in the man cave.

The really did start yesterday, though. On the movie rotation came “1776”, which is a musical rendering of the events culminating in the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and was produced a few years ahead of the Bicentennial of 1976. Last summer we celebrated the 247^th anniversary.

I admit to having discombobulated thoughts - I've been dealing with Social Security and Medicare and that's enough to drive a saner man than I straight out of his skull. Come six a.m. this morning, or ten minutes 'til, I finally gave up and gave in to the need for sleep and went back to bed. Then I woke, and we did stuff, and now I'm finishing my thoughts of the day and the season.

Some people who think they can perfect Socialism want to convert a republic into a commune of three-hundred-thirty-odd million people, and all will work for the common good with only such reward as their new government may see fit to provide.

Hogwash!

So, find the movie (1776), it’s on Tubi, and also on YouTube movies. Watch it. Some of you of a certain age will see a familiar face or two.

Yeah, it’s long, not quite three hours, full of silly songs (and I like songs). But ignore all that seems silly, and hear the STORY!

It takes liberties with history, as all dramatizations do, but it sticks as close to the truth as it can without making it too dry.

Make a bowl of popcorn, take a seventh inning stretch and make another bowl of popcorn, refill the Sprite and Fanta, and settle back to watch some history.

Pay special attention to the song sung by South Carolina’s representative regarding slavery (2:05:00), and see how close we came to failing to win a consensus to make the grand attempt. For if the Carolinas had not joined, the consensus would have been lost, and with no consensus, then our bold statement would not have been made, and without that bold statement of us taking our rightful place among the nations, …

We wouldn’t have.

What would we have had instead?

A collection of colonies, subjects to the British crown.

Not free citizens.

And these people tempting us with ‘free stuff’ think they can buy their way into power and control using money stolen from the rich. Margaret Thatcher was correct: the only problem with Socialism is, eventually you run out of other people’s money.

Good Heavens, people! Think of all that has been done to wrest this nation from careless hands to be held in our own careful hands. With freedom under the rule of law, with checks and balances arranged under the Constitution, with ..

Did I say ‘our careful hands’?

I daresay we have become as careless our parent nation ever was.

We spend money we do not have to gift to people who care little for us apart from what they can take from us. We have a segment of our populace who think that work is a four-letter word, who would rather be given bread and circuses than opportunity, and our rulers, eager for voters in their pockets, provide the same. We have a minority segment who would rather do away with free speech lest someone is offended by an improper pronoun.

So-called ‘Hate’ speech is merely speech you do not like, and to certain people the paragraph above simply reeks of it.

Yet, I have not written a single hateful thing; I have merely stated obvious facts.

We are a nation of laws, not of prior restraints. Or we were, once.

We should be free to say what we mean, and mean what we say. If we say the wrong thing, let the right thing be said and have it argued out in the arena of ideas. We should be free to do all that we are able, to use what we can to bless our nation, and our culture, showing our willingness to be ‘E Pluribus Unum’, Of Many, One Unity.

That, our motto, is marked on our coinage and currency, lest we forget it. We are many people, of many ancestries, forming one unified whole. Despite our problems this whole, this body, this nation can be the best nation on earth again.

Or we can settle, stare at our screens, eat another slice of microwave pizza.

Do we really want to settle?

On this Thanksgiving we should respect and honor those who planted the seeds of a new nation, thank the peoples of this land who welcomed and supported us, as well as the spirit of the Divine that watched over our young sprout and sapling of a … well, what can we call it but a new community struggling to stand, making use of the resources provided by Providence itself, to form itself a new nation to stand among so many other powers of the globe.

And this is what some of us in our nation wish to swap for ‘free stuff’?

Remember those fifty-odd signers of our Declaration, men, no more, no less, who pledged, and I quote: “Our Lives, Our Fortunes, and Our Sacred Honor.” Remember them, and thank them, on this Thanksgiving Day November 23^rd, 2023.

Remember their gift two-hundred and forty-seven years ago of a nation of freedom and opportunity, where you can start from nothing and end up among the stars.

With the help of Divine Providence (damn, I cannot help tearing up when that bell is rung),

Yes, You CAN!

Coming Out Party/Homecoming Party Manifesto

noreply@blogger.com (Dana The Madman) — Tue, 27 Jun 2023 19:39:00 +0000

I’m outing myself.

I am a Christian.

This is ‘Old News’ to a lot of you.

Some of you now automatically hate me, thinking that I am a hateful person. Those who know me from work, please remember how I interacted with you. I am flawed. But am I hateful?

I believe that Christ died for my (and your) sin, and conferred to each of us (who are willing to accept it) His righteousness.

As a Christian, I do my best to show you the love you deserve as a person. However, I cannot say that all choices are good choices and I may advise changes. You, of course, are allowed (in fact, expected) to give me feedback as well.

If you do choose Jesus’ salvation, He will start a conversation with you, personally, about what needs to change for you to become a healthier person, spiritually and physically.

As it is written: “There is now no condemnation for those who follow Christ.” If you are a follower, you know you are a sinner, but not condemned. You are free to heal and grow.

The above is the first Bible reference that I’ve used here; most people have been beaten about the head with other Bible verses, and I want to avoid that.

God loves you.

That, in a nutshell, is my manifesto.

As best as I can, as an imperfect person, I love you, too.

God hates sin. God will ask you to give up sin.

That doesn’t mean you have to toe the mark, first, to be accepted, because He already loves you. What it does mean is, if you accept this love, you are also allowing yourself to accept His help in getting you clean. He wants the best for you.

The best comparison I can come up with is this: say you have a friend or family member who is hooked on heroin or meth, and this addiction has seriously messed up their life. You, with the help of others, want to do an intervention. Your friend can still walk away and let themselves continue to spiral downward, even to the point of death. Or they can accept the assistance, and then get on with the program of getting clean and healthy.

That is what coming to Jesus is all about: being welcomed into the family, then getting healthy. He gives us the choice; He does not force us to choose the way He thinks is best. After all, a choice coerced is not a choice.

Another story: this from Jesus, paraphrased by yours truly:

You get the picture? Dad, know-it-all perfect Big Brother, and Little Brother who wants to be out from under Big Brother’s disapproving eye.

Little Brother hitches a ride with a trucker headed the right way (Eddie Rabbit’s “Drivin’ My Life Away!” pouring out of the truck’s radio), and gets dropped off in town. He starts the long walk toward home, and says to himself, “I’ll tell my dad that I’ve sinned against him and God both, and I’ll throw myself on his mercy and ask to be allowed to be, not a son, but a hired hand.”

But when he turns in at the lane to the ranch, his dad, who has been watching in the evenings for his son’s return, jumps out of the rocker and hoofs it down to where his second son is walking, and grabs him in a big daddy hug.

Younger Son kind of pushes him away and says his bit: “Dad, I’ve sinned against you and God. I don’t deserve to be your son, but can I, may I, be a hired hand?”

And Dad says, “Think bigger than that, Gertie! We’re gonna have us a barbecue! Have Lonnie find us a prime beeve to kill and prep for ribs and steaks and such, and get that pit hot for the roastin’! Can you make up a gallon or so of that sauce I like?” “Goodness, yes!" Gertie replies, "I’ll have it ready before that pit is hot and Lonnie is done with that beeve!”

So Little Brother gets a steaming hot bath (the first in many weeks), and when he’s toweled down a bit and shaved and other whatnot, his dad takes him into his own room, and pulls out HIS best shirt, HIS best suit, HIS best bolo tie, HIS best watch on a chain with the family signet on the other end, and the finest set of boots He has in HIS closet.

The Little Brother looks into the mirror, and sees a changed man, and doesn’t quite believe that it’s himself.

Dad asks, “Feeling better now, Son?”

The young man stands there speechless, but with a puzzled smile on his face.

“Is this how you see me, Dad?”

“This is how I’ve always seen you, Son.”

Side by side they leave the Father’s rooms and head back to the kitchen, and out to the back yard to a trestle table full of good things, including tea, lemonade, coleslaw, Texas potato salad, and sourdough bread, with space left over for the hot food take up station when it’s ready. Those not directly helping with setting up the party are saying things to the Little Brother like, “We’ve missed you! We’re so glad you’re back!”

Just as the party is hitting its stride, Big Brother comes in, dusty from working the back forty.

“What’s all this?” he asks. Father answers, “Your brother’s back! We’re celebrating! Get yourself cleaned up and join us!”

But Big Brother, dignity insulted, would not join in.

The fiddler moved on to “Hoedown!” and those who’d finished their strawberry-rhubarb pie moved to the dancing area and started polka-ing and two-stepping.

And a great time was had by (almost!) all.

There’s the story (the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 15).

So many of us are the Little Brother in the story above, and so many ‘Proper Christians’ are the Big Brother, missing the point of love and forgiveness that the Father extended to his lost son. Remember, please, the Lost Son didn’t get cleaned up before he went back home; that happened afterward. Remember, also, that when the Father saw him coming home, he met his son half-way, and they walked in together.

Doubtless we Younger Brothers have faults and habits that need to be fixed. They will be fixed in time. The big thing, the important thing, is that our homecoming happened. And there was MUCH rejoicing!

And doubtless the unforgiving self-righteous Older Brother will continue to self-righteously proclaim their view from their moral high-ground. They will cut off their nose to spite their face, and stand in the path to block those who see the need to come home by saying: “You’re not clean enough!” forgetting that NO ONE is clean enough.

We all have sin in our lives, sin that makes us sick, sin that insists the best way to care for ourselves is to act a certain way, do certain things, live a certain life in order to be accepted by someone. Let me personalize this: I have sin in my life; I act in a certain way to be accepted, do some things, avoid other things, all to be able to fit into my community, my workplace, or even my church. Ultimately, instead of getting the help I need to be better, I cover up my sin in order to fit in.

Or, I cover up my affiliation with an institution that has gotten (some of it well-deserved, but not all of it) criticism as being unfriendly at best, hateful at worst.

For better or worse, I am uncovering that affiliation.

If you wish to unfriend me, I understand. For as long as I am alive, I’ll still be here. My door will always be open.

In any case have a good life.

God has done all the truly hard stuff, all we need to do, all I needed to do, is decide to walk through the door He has opened into a richer life.

Come home, be forgiven, and get cleaned up. The party is starting soon! :)

Yes, You CAN!