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2008-12-15T21:22:00.000-07:00

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The Sigh of a Weary Soul

2008-07-26T20:03:00.003-06:00

Can you hear the sigh of a weary soul?
The pounding fear of fallen dreams?
Where a new day beckons another goal.
From a dusk-lit moon the night screams.
Can you hear it?

Can you feel the hopes of a beating heart?
Drowning in a darkened sea?
Where one's lost dreams make a brand new start.
A sunken treasure finds a new man's plea.
Can you feel it?

Can you see the blow of a wind-crushed spirit?
The restless pulse of squandered passion?
Where hope-lit skies gleam depleted.
The enemies of joy dressed in submission.
Can you see it?

Can you taste a shadow of hope cast astray?
Through lazy tears of passing sorrow?
Swallowing a bitter pill named yesterday.
Finds the faithful promise called tomorrow.
Can you taste it?

The Most Humiliating Day of My Life

2008-07-12T18:25:00.004-06:00

It is probably fair to say that a couple of the most dramatic moments in my lifetime have occurred while fishing. It is odd that neither of these life-changing episodes have had anything to do with catching fish. It is also odd that I really never have fished that much either. In my 40-plus years of life, I always assumed that the worst thing that could happen while fishing is that I wouldn't catch anything. A few years ago, I learned that something much worse can happen and it has nothing to do with drowning in an overturned boat. Nor does it have anything to do with lightening, tornados or being instantly struck dead by a falling boulder. Granted, tragedies like these do tend to put a damper on your fishing plans, but they don't quite compare to the shame and embarrassment of the event I'm about to confess.

Today marks the 5-year anniversary of a vacation my family enjoyed together with some good friends of ours at Grand Lake. Earlier on that day, we enjoyed a boat ride in Grand Lake, and my friend, David celebrated his 50th birthday by jumping off the boat for an invigorating swim in the bitter cold water. You have to understand that David is the most optimistic, fun-loving guy I have ever known in order to appreciate the full meaning of what went on later that day. David has a zeal and appreciation for life that I've always envied, and I've never seen him discouraged by a little adversity. This day would be no different. It seemed there was no fish to be caught in Grand Lake, so we left for another destination, hopefully to find some trout, and enjoy one last night together, before heading back home on Saturday. It was his birthday and David was not going to spend the day without reeling in a few trout. Not on his 50th birthday. No way. He made this clear to all of us. On our way to the town of Winter Park we passed a nice little fishing pond. Oddly, the pond looked very quiet for a Friday afternoon. We'd have it all to ourselves. We booked a couple of rooms at the Hotel and while the family explored the town, David and I packed up our gear, got into his shiny-new forest-green Hummer, and headed towards the pond.

We had just about everything we needed: fishing poles, tackle, cigars, David's acoustic guitar and a full bag of sunflower seeds. As luck would have it, there was a liquor store on the way and we completed our list of essentials with a 6-pack of New Belgium Ale. Looking back at all my fishing trips, it seems obvious to me why beer is one of the top companions of fisherman: You can still feel good even when you're not catching anything. Of course, that was the last thing on David's mind. He wasn't going to get shut-out. Not on his 50th birthday. He was very clear about this. Having the place to ourselves, we were able to drive the Hummer right alongside the bank. We got out and rigged up our poles. I went to the far end of the pond, opened a bottle of the beer and looked forward to the relaxation of our surroundings, as much as the trout we were bound to catch. The water was calm. I wondered why the fish weren't jumping after flies on the water's glassy surface. I looked over at David, and he seemed unconcerned. They must be on the bottom. If not for the occasional car or truck headed down the highway, it was so quiet you could hear a fly touch the water. Yet, no flies, mosquitoes or gnats seemed to be bothering us. It really was quiet, I thought. I reeled in, checked the salmon eggs on my line and adjusted them with my fingers. I cast out my line again, dried my hands on my pants, and took a swig of my beer. I thought I heard something. Was it David? It sounded like someone in the distance yelling. I turned around and saw no one. Did I hear someone? Once again, it was quiet. Then again, I was pretty sure I heard a voice far off in the distance, but still couldn't see from where it came. I directed my vision towards the back of the pond and noticed a chain link fence surrounding the property alongside the pond. The voices seemed to stop and it was quiet once again. I followed the fence with my eyes and took another swig of beer. I noticed a big metal sign posted against the fence. Something didn't look right, as I examined the fence and the sign one more time. Hhmmm. Why couldn't I read the sign? There was something unusual about that sign, and I began to feel a little queasy. Hoping to calm my nerves, I gulped down my beer and gasped for air. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck and my veins turned cold with fear as I approached the sign. I realized in horror that the sign was not meant to be read from the side of the fence where I stood. I was supposed to be reading the sign from the other side of the fence. We were on the wrong side of the fence, but what was so wrong about where we were? I remembered that I did not see any gates blocking our entrance when we came in. I had to muster the courage to walk close enough to read the other side of the sign. Even my fearful imagination didn't prepare me for the big red letters that were printed on the sign from where I looked over the opposite side of the fence: DANGER: TOXIC WASTE SITE: KEEP OUT! Suddenly, I was nauseous and faint. I struggled to keep my balance and wobbled over to yet another sign which read, SEWAGE TREATMENT FACILITY: KEEP OUT. I gathered my wits, and drifted over to the Hummer to inform David of the bad news. I no longer felt fear, but incredible disgust, shame and embarrassment as I also remembered the voices I had heard earlier. Now, I felt like I was being watched and probably laughed at from a distance. As I got near the Hummer, David was comfortably sitting on the floorboard of the hummer, wearing his big, straw fisherman's hat, and cheerfully strumming his acoustic guitar. His fishing pole was at his side and his line was out in the sewage-toxic-waste water. He looked up at me and spit out a few sunflower seed shells. I thought about where his hands had been before he placed those seeds in his mouth. He looked at least 10 years younger than his 50 years of age, and quite honestly, if it weren't for the Belgium Brew, I might have believed I was watching a Coors beer commercial. How do you tell your most cheerful, optimistic friend on his 50th birthday that he's fishing in a sewer full of Toxic Waste? David looked up at me and said, What's up, bud!' I calmly said, "David, I just read the front of the sign over there, and it says we're fishing in a toxic sewer." David looked back up at me, laughed, and started reeling in his line. He says, "Well damn. That explains why we're not catching anything" I should have known him better. This is the guy that lives for fun. The reaction was nothing like my own, as his care-free reflection seemed to gleam off of the glassy, sewage water and smile back at me. We got back up in the front seat of his Hummer and David drove the dirt road over to the entrance, which I now realized was a fully open gate with big signs on each side facing inward that read, "SEWER: KEEP OUT". I would have vomited if I could. We muttered a few obscenities to each other about the !$&*ing so and so, who opened the #$&ing gates in such a #$&!ing way that we could not read them before we entered the $$&ing sewage facility. We took the highway back towards town. As we neared our Hotel, David, seemingly unaffected by it all, says to me, "I don't know about you bud, but I'm not gonna get skunked on my birthday! Wanna go find fishing river down the road?"
"Just drop me off at the hotel, David. I really want to take a shower", was my immediate answer. I must have been in the shower a full 30 minutes making sure that I had all of the sewage cleaned off of me. I kept trying to reassure myself; the water was just strong chemicals like bleach or ammonia; okay, maybe some raw sewage, but probably not anything too bad, could it be? Or, maybe it was radio active? Cancer. That's pretty serious. How long before I developed a malignant tumor? After my shower, I poured myself a big glass of scotch, and imagined how I would explain this to my wife when she got back to the Hotel. I was sure that her reaction would be horror and disgust. I was wrong. She laughed. And when I told her I had to know what's in that pond, she suggested I go ask the hotel manager. When I said I was too embarrassed to even bring it up, she laughed again. I had to know what was in that pond. Finally, she told me she would go ask someone, herself. As she left the room, I heard more laughter in the hallway as the kids approached her. They whispered to each other for a moment. There was more laughter. Moments later my wife returned with the information I anxiously awaited. The Hotel Manager said that we were not supposed to be in there.

"No $h*!", I said aloud. "Was he the clown that left the gate open with the signs facing the opposite way?" The good news is that he also said the water wouldn't hurt us it was just a holding pond. I took a big breath of relief and swigged down the rest of my scotch. I still wasn't feeling the effects, nor did I quite believe the Hotel manager, though I desperately wanted to. I wondered, "should I go ask him again myself, just to be sure? "

Later, we all gathered in one of our rooms for pizza and wine. David was back; once again unsuccessful in his attempt to locate fish. He was un-showered, un-phased, yet looking tan, and as fresh as a daisy. He did not appear concerned at all about the incident today. His reaction, more than the Hotel Manager's own answer about the pond, reassured me I was okay. I had a good time that night.

The next morning, I awoke with a dull headache and wondered what I would do about my contaminated fishing pole and line. I wondered how many times I would have to explain this story to people and hoped that someday I could put it all down on paper. The final motivation to this story was inspired by some new information my daughter provided to me just a few weeks prior to writing this. As I was retelling the events to family members, she interrupted me to let me know that I wasn't exactly right about David's reaction. Just before the pizza party, she had overheard from the hallway, David, in his room, yelling and sounding a little bit upset. Actually, he sounded a LOT upset. According to my daughter, his words to his wife went something like this, "Damnit,! I just went fishing in a !#$*ing sewer on my birthday!" I never laughed harder then when I heard my daughter explain this to me. It brought back the entire day from five years ago, and added a fitting end to what I thought was the entire story. My admiration for David grew even stronger after hearing this little tidbit of news. I think it has something to do with the way we look up to leaders. They pick us up with their positive attitude when things seem to be at their very worst. They don't flinch in the face of humiliation. Yet, a leader cannot be a hero unless they are human, too. We both had our day in the sewer, but David pulled me out of the toxic waste simply by showing it didn't bother him. I am thankful to David for doing that, and I am thankful to God that we didn't catch anything in the pond that day.

The Writer

2008-07-04T06:29:00.002-06:00

The Writer
by Rob Delisa

Oh, how he loved to write them off. Who needs friends? He'd laugh and scoff. The writer took his pen and shed their plight. With fate in hand there was so much to write.

Wielding a pen of many swords, He'd cut their hearts with the sharpest of words A tale here, a tattle there, maybe a stretch, but never a lie. Leaving out what was truth's reply.

With his weapon aimed high, he reached for glory. Cutting his words just right to make a story. When he put down his weapon he was left to imagine. Was there anything left of anyone's sin?

As his stories grew old and days turned to night. His weapon felt heavy, and his pen, too light. His words cast the shadow of a stranger's disguise. Not of the same one they came to realize.

The writer took off his mask and put down his weapon. He shrugged off his past and took up a new one. Choosing nice over naughty and happy over sad. He softened his words to make them glad.

Wielding a new pen of musical phrase. He'd lift their hearts by singing their praise. A jingle here, a jangle there, maybe a chorus, but never off key. Leaving out what was falsehood's decree.

With his voice held high, he aimed for fame. Rounding his words to reclaim his name. When the music stopped he was left to wonder. Is there anything left of anyone's splendor?

As the music grew old, the writer lost his rhythm His voice grew hoarse and the pen, too numb. His words rang hollow of his own refrain. Not of the same they came to disdain.

The writer learned they all thought he lied. There was no one there to stand by his side. When he wiped off his tears, he let out a cough. He had no friends, he wrote them off.

Summer's Last Stand

2008-07-03T06:34:00.002-06:00

Summer's Last Stand
by Rob Delisa

The air feels brittle under a deceptive blue sky. Aspen leaves turn fragile at the invitation of September's lie.

The color of life has yet to surrender summer's final stand. Warmth and freedom cling stubbornly to its changing hand.

Rushing water from mountains of spring, tire in its seasonal race. Those weary streams, now lazy and pure, flow obediently towards autumn's grace.

While under the influence of its own casual fate, summer fails to quicken its casual Pace.
Time closes in on warmer days, chilling the air with destiny's face.

Autumn sheds no tear for summer's demise. Summer knows of no surprise.
If peacefulness is the daughter of truth, Change, is its brother. We embrace them both, knowing one needs the other.

Whether it is the color of fall that makes the season so profound, or the falling of leaves on the cooling ground, the beauty of it all is disguised in colors of red and gold. Its meaning is lost in days of cold.

While the appearance of fall can be revealed in just one sentence, its true meaning needs only one word: Acceptance.

A Parade Rained-Out

2008-07-02T06:39:00.002-06:00

A Parade Rained-Out

by Rob Delisa

Things became very unsettled when that first bolt of light seared the calm, muggy sky. Rowdy, menacing clouds laughed as the surrounding air roared back in joyful thunder. A lazy, afternoon sun tried dozing beneath the mocking gray skies, keeping a watchful ray above the cast, in case things should get out of hand too quickly. Hoping to join the parade, but a bit too shy to make an abrupt scene, the rain politely shed its first few drops of water on the dry, heated surface below; and waited for approval. The clouds giggled and the sky snapped back with reckless abandon. Disturbed from its nap, the sun glared a few more rays; threatening to put an end to the hopeful party. When the white and gray balls of cotton gasped back in defiance; the mischievous skies rumbled in joyful agreement. The rain timidly revealed a few more of its playful drops, before being severely reprimanded by the sun's awakening gleam of dissaproval. Still, the skies showed no sign of surrender. There was more laughter, followed by a series of cracks, bangs and pops. Then, an arrogant newcomer joined the scene: With hopes of blowing things even further out of order, the wind let loose a hot, puff of air, and the ensuing laughter was deafening: Crack, Boom...Crackle...Pop...Now growing increasingly annoyed with each bolt of fractured light and crack of thunder, the sun pushed more of its light beams above the gray skies, threatening to put a complete stop to the afternoon melee that was about to ensue. The wind blew back, but it was all hot air, as another heated lightening bolt struck the sky. The clouds laughed and the skies roared, as the arrogant wind enjoyed its blowing endorsement. With each breath turning cooler, the whooshing of the wind, made the trees shiver in fear. Yet, the rain said very little, producing only a few more drops in reply. As a result, the sun seemed to mellow, realizing perhaps, that rain was not up to the task today. Emboldened by the sun's passiveness, the laughter of the clouds grew more boisterous, and the wind cooled its breath to a late fall chill. For a moment there was silence as they all waited in unison for rain's reply. "Drip, drop, drip drop...drip...drip..." The rain couldn't quite muster the courage, and when the sun showed its head once again, the lightening and clouds cackled back like disobedient school boys. Growing weary and tired of the fracas, the sun settled back down beneath its covers of gray. Things grew darker and the clouds became bolder as the bolts tickled them more furiously with each flashing strike. The wind howled. The rain backed down, and the rest of them became suddenly discouraged. The wind whistled, whirred and whooshed. The rain said not a word. With the clouds now hysterical, and the wind turning more ferocious with each burst, the rain could only manage a few more lonely drops of sympathy. The hopes of a full-fledged storm were beginning to waver in the wind. Silence fell over the impatient cast, as they all wondered how long the sun would sleep. Restlessness turned to impatience as open holes formed inside the flinching clouds. Thick, billowy, white shapes began to drift away, making only sporadic chuckles as they left the wind and rain to quarrel with each other. "Whirrrr. Drip...drop...drip...drop...drip...drip...whirrrr" It wasn't much of a parade. Having scared the rain into dry submission, the wind went on its way to join the rest of the cast. The sun was now rising from its nap, and casting a newness of light upon the skies and earth. Now, feeling a little friskier with the wind's departure, the rain tried to make a late return. As if to say, 'come back, come back, come back...look at me, now!' the rain unleashed its final, and greatest effort. In the light of the sun, glistening drops came down bigger and faster than before: "drip drop drip drop drip drop drip drop...drip....drip..." It was too little, and too late. The others were gone, and the sun was awake now; far too energetic to allow any further distress for the afternoon. The rain had missed its chance. What remained was not a parade, but a sunlit encore of an afternoon matinee. Another summer day was gone and weather's cast had moved on. A rainbow formed a colorful, smile across the empty sky, teasing and telling onlookers what might have been.

The Woman

2008-07-01T06:44:00.001-06:00

The Woman

by Rob Delisa

Traffic was worse than usual, and the AC in my car was acting up again. The cold air would come on for a few minutes, then turn warm for a few minutes; cold, then warm again. As a result, my body and mind drove home in a constant state of indecision, not knowing whether I was cooling down or heating up. I arrived in my driveway a little after 5:30, and pulled into the garage, feeling that the heat had won the debate. As I opened the door, I noticed my coffee thermos had rolled onto the passenger side floor; I leaned down to get it, and as soon as I sat back up, the top rim of the car door swung back to rudely greet me in the back of the head just under my left earlobe. "#$%*ing, damn stupid door", I cursed in pain and rubbed tears and stars from my eyes. Now, weary and groggy from the drive and jolt to my head, yet still jittery from the coffee I had at the office two hours ago, I staggered into the house hoping to settle my nerves as quickly as possible with a drink - or two. My wife must be out shopping for some last minute dinner ideas, I thought, as my eyes hovered through an empty house. I looked forward to having a cold drink and waiting for the family to arrive. I decided to change into my cut-offs and a tee, then take a look at the swimming pool, and maybe test the water chemicals, before making a visit to the kitchen bar. It seemed like a very ordinary day, and a very typical hot summer evening. It was probably too hot to be in the back yard, without being in the pool, but I was in no mood for swimming. I just wanted to relax and unwind. My mood, the heat, the nervous energy from the coffee two hours ago, and the fatigue from driving in the car all seemed so familiar, and almost too routine and ordinary. Things seemed predictably boring. Or so I thought. Little did I know, my near future had very different plans for the evening.

I decided to walk down to the cool basement and check out the pool from the walk out patio. That's when an ordinary evening turned quite unordinary. That's when I saw her for the very first time: The woman. A rather pretty one, I thought, at first glance. She was sun bathing by my pool. My second glance proved that I had underestimated her on my first. From my position about 20 feet away, this appeared to be a very good-looking woman. A third glance proved that my first two didn't know what the hell I was thinking. This was not simply a good-looking woman. This was a remarkable looking woman in every sense of the word. In the late sun of the day, her hair glowed; golden and shiny. She had obviously not yet been in the pool as her lightly-tanned skin looked completely dry. It seemed as though daylight only existed to reveal her beauty. Her face was a story book painting - one that you didn't want to take your eyes from. She wore a solid, deep blue bikini that seemed made for her curves, yet not exploitive or brash. Her nearly-naked body was a breathless piece of art that not even a man's most vivid imagination could hope to recreate. The site of her at my own swimming pool was like the discovery of a priceless treasure at sea. Yet none of this added up. My pool was not a sea, and a treasure of this sort was not something for me to discover in my own backyard. I had to make a call before I startled this beautiful, unknown woman. She could notice me merely by turning her face towards the house and door where I stood. I was now only about 10 feet away. I slipped back inside the basement door. I attempted to tame my quickened pulse, but the conspicuous view of her feminine figure through the window, proved it was a fruitless idea. The mere site of her would never allow me to calm my own nerves. She got up from her recliner, and was now walking towards the water. She looked quite a bit too old to be a friend of my daughter's, yet a little too young to be an acquaintance or friend of my wife's. Maybe it was a student teacher or a friend from the school where my wife taught. I dialed my wife's cell phone. The phone rang, and rang ... and rang. Then, the unknown woman pulled herself back out of my pool. I hid myself from her view as I watched her dripping, slinky, curving figure reach for her own pink cell phone lying by her towel. She looked at her phone and made somewhat of an odd expression as if she missed an unexpected call. She toweled off, and lay back down on the reclining lawn chair. I had to say something to this unknown woman, but felt uncomfortable letting her know that I was seeing her in such glory as I was. I felt some misplaced guilt, as if I were spying on a woman taking a private shower in the nude. Funny I felt that way, considering I was at my own home, in my own backyard, at a perfectly ordinary time of day. I would be expected at home at 5:50PM on a Friday afternoon, wouldn't I? Still, it was impossible to confront her knowing that she held full awareness of the fact that she was a rather unordinary treat to any man's ordinary eyes. I decided I would simply tell her, hi. I needed to open the door without startling her. As luck would have it, the cat gave me the perfect opportunity. I opened the door and called him in, "Carson. Come on! Just as I hoped, she heard me and looked towards my direction. It was my chance, now, to introduce myself and settle this mystery once and for all. I shifted out the door towards the pool, and before I had the chance to announce myself she greeted me with a friendly nod. She rested her sunglasses on the top of her forehead, revealing a set of sparkling eyes that seemed to absorb the brilliant-blue, crystal reflection of the swimming pool. She gave me an expectant glance and greeted me by name. Her soft-looking, glistening ruby lips seemed to gnaw fondly over my name when she spoke it, and she said no more. She knew me. Was I supposed to know her? Did I want to know her? Was I in danger of knowing her? What in the blazes was going on, here? My mind went back to the drive home; the hot car; the traffic. It was all too familiar until just seconds ago. Could I ask this beautiful woman who she was, or would I be doing something stupid? I can imagine how my wife would give me such a hard time for being dense about something I was supposed to know; or for not remembering that she invited a friend over, and then insulting her by not even knowing her name, despite the fact she quite comfortably seemed to know me and expect me. Would I not have been told if my wife had a friend coming over that looked like one out of every 5 million women in the universe? She would have said something about this. So, now what? With her reply and knowledge of my name, I felt trapped. I could not introduce myself without the risk of looking either rude or incredibly naive. How, do you casually ask a beautiful woman who is sunbathing nearly naked by your pool, "Sure is hot today - and by the way, who in the hell are you?'" Thenbefore I had the chance to consider any more ways I could make an ass of myself, this unknown, supermodel of a woman asked me if I would like to join her for a swim. I nearly fell over, but I knew I had to say something. I calmed myself. I would just play it cool; stalling her until my wife got home. Whoever this woman is, I could not imagine it looking too good if she got home and saw us in the pool together. I suppressed a nervous laugh at the thought of this. "No thanks", I replied, "I think I'll make myself a drink", and then I pretended to reach for my cell phone to answer a call. As I backed inside the basement door, I was nearly certain that I heard her reply, "I'll join you in a minute" At that thought, my heart didn't know whether to sink or swim, but joining her in the pool was out of the question. I dialed my wife's cell phone again. As I peered back towards the swimming pool, I noticed her picking up her phone again ... and she answered my call. I hung up. Cold blood rushed into my veins at once, and then quickly warmed as her smiling, feminine face gleamed back at me over the sparkling, blue water. When her sensational figure bounced back into my full view, a battle of my own wits began. What was cold, then warm, now felt like hot lava flowing through my entire body. She bent over, reaching for her towel, and as more of her delightful curves were revealed to me, my fear and confusion were rebuked by suspense, mystery and desire. I helplessly tried to push my fear aside, knowing that I was now clutched inside the jaws of temptation. I could not get away from this gorgeous woman, who had the most perfect body; who had the most intoxicating face; who answered my wife's call from her own phone; and who now wanted to join me in my house for a drink.

I have always been curious about amnesia. Could those afflicted know they are experiencing it when it happens to them? Can the absence of memory reveal the pleasure of discovery? Or does the loss of what you have, seek to destroy any pleasure in what is realized? Can a man enjoy what is truly his, through the mystery of not knowing that it belongs to him? As I walked away from the pool, I began to question the familiar surroundings of my own house. I did not have the courage to explore, so I walked up the basement stairs feeling comforted by the knowledge of where the liquor was kept. Greeting me on the kitchen bar were a couple of chilled martini glasses, and an unfamiliar, but unmistakably pleasant, feminine scent. My familiar, stainless-steel shaker was placed next to the glasses, and the martinis were already poured, waiting for ice cubes; then to be shaken. The olives were not of the kind I normally would buy, yet they were my favorite: The large ones, without pimentos. They sat in a bowl between the glasses and shaker. I reached through the icemaker door, grabbed a handful of ice cubes and placed them into the shaker. I shook the gin for a good minute, and then removed the ice water from one of the martini glasses. I poured slowly; watching the frothy gin fill the glass, then settle near the top with just enough room for two olives. I placed the olives in one at a time, watching the frothy liquid as it transformed back into its desirable transparent state, leaving round shadowy shapes of steam around the rich green olives. I took satisfaction in remembering the ritual of making my favorite drink and sat and waited for my guest; or wife. Taking a seat at the table by the bar, I took my first sip. I heard the sound of gentle footsteps coming up the stairway. She would be here in seconds.

When the basement door opened, I got a view of her up close for the first time. She was still in her blue bikini, but with a beach towel wrapped around her waist. The covering of the towel afforded me the opportunity to concentrate on her body from the waist up for a few seconds, which like the rest of her, was perfect. Her smile, though electric, somehow calmed my nerves. That feeling was short-lived however, when she removed the towel and walked up the stairway, giving me yet another glorious view; this time from the back. She slipped out of view, and seconds later, I heard the shower water running up in my bedroom's master bath. My mind was a battlefield of uncertainty, guilt and confusion, mixed with a nearly uncontrollable fascination and wanton desire. Her presence made it seem that just one night alone with her would be worth an entire lifetime of guilt, regret and eternal condemnation. Yet, in a strange way, I knew that even an entire lifetime with her would fall short of the reality I once enjoyed. Suddenly, I was feeling very alone. I wondered if the woman could change that, and if she tried, would I allow it? Did the answer to my loneliness rely on discovering who this beautiful woman was, and if it did, would it be the first time it happened with her? And when it happened, could the benefit of reality triumph over the fantasy of getting to know her, both physically and emotionally, for the first time? A part of me didn't want to know who I was. I didn't want to spoil the surprise. Can there be true pleasure in the deceit of one's own conscience? And was I willing to find out? I sipped the ice cold gin and looked forward to the alcohol's attempt to tame my uncertainty.

She came back downstairs in a black tank top, and soft-looking denim shorts. She looked just as good as she did in the bikini, but with a touch of softened, feminine class, previously overshadowed by the generous shape of her figure. I grabbed the shaker and asked if she was ready for me to pour her one. She looked down at my hands and nodded, as her lips formed an approving smile. Her eyes gave me a flirtatious wink as I placed the glass beside mine at the table. She sat down next to me so close that our elbows touched. I felt like kissing her dreamy looking lips, but still not knowing who she was made it seem too risky. Or was that just an excuse? Why wasn't I able to do what any man would so badly want to do with a wife that looked like 1 in a billion? She took a couple of quick sips and looked at me as if she were studying the back of a wine bottle. In her magical gaze, reflected the look of acceptance for everything I was, yet denial of everything I was not. The gaze of her soft blue eyes seemed to whisper to the loneliness I felt inside, and in return I shared no knowledge of the woman. She was a stranger, and her voice was a whisper; too quiet to be taken in consciously. Yet, she was a woman to admire, physically. I sensed that a kiss might capture a small part of what was missing from my memory of her. Yet I feared that once I did, I would be crossing a bridge; a bridge that pulled me into a different life; one that could never be as rich and meaningful as the one I thought I knew before I saw the woman gracing my pool deck for the first time just moments earlier. Once I went there I could never come back. I took another sip of the martini and tasted nothing. I felt nothing, but a distant ringing sound. I tried to push it aside as the woman looked into me again, this time as though she were looking into an empty water glass, turned upside down. Her inquisitive glare chilled my soul with the emptiness of all that she could see. She said something to me, but I couldn't make out the words. Was she speaking? There was more ringing in my ears, and I felt nothing from the martini. Just ringing...ringing; and becoming more distinct. The pretty woman's face began to fade with my own realization that she didn't know who I was. There was more ringing, and some pain; then more loneliness. I was empty, and afraid of the bridge. I must avoid the bridge. I could never come back. The ringing was more intense, and the pain almost comforting from the awareness of the reality that began to emerge with my drifting, pseudo-conscious state. I picked up the martini glass, and it fell from my hands. I let go. There was no longer a bridge before me, and just as simply as she came, the woman was gone.

I opened my eyes my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. My left arm dangled over the couch and a coffee thermos and car keys lie on the floor alongside the coffee table. "You were out cold and I let you sleep", said the woman. She came back into my view, this time with silky brown hair, and radiant emerald eyes that instantly rekindled my soul. Her appearance, more beautiful and truer than before, instantly recharged my consciousness with the recognition and memories I thought I had lost. Her face was no longer a story book painting, but truth's own version of astonishing beauty. This woman was the most attractive thing that I had seen all day. It was no contest. She bent down to kiss me, and when her lips touched mine, reality never tasted so sweet. With my head aching dully, and ears ringing in truthful discourse, I was deliriously happy. The woman led me up from the couch and towards the kitchen where she had saved a dinner plate for me. My drowsy eyes peered through the kitchen window where the evening sun gracefully revealed the call of day's end. Under darkening hues of burnt orange and through groggy eyes, I cast one glance at the swimming pool below as it blended into the fiery orange sky and disappeared into the night. What was left of the day was the memory of an extraordinary woman. Yet, one that fell short of my dreams: The woman I already had.

Fishing In all the Wrong Places

2008-06-01T09:49:00.002-06:00

When I was a kid, my brother and I loved to go fishing with our Dad. He loved to fish too, so he was more than happy to take us for a ride to a mountain lake or river whenever we asked . My brother Vince, who is three years younger than me, was a bit of a pain in my Dad's rear, as I'll explain later, but other than that, we had a great time on these fishing trips, just the three of us. Part of the enjoyment for my Dad was the relaxation in the fresh air of the beautiful Rocky Mountains. The other part of course, was the thrill of possibly catching some trout. My eight year old brother and I had much bigger, greater aspirations than merely relaxing and catching a few measly fish . We wanted to see how far we could cast our lines and possibly see if we could skip a few rocks across the lake. My brother wa s very skilled at throwing rocks, but didn't fare so well with accurately casting his line, and my poor Dad was the one always bailing him out of trouble; untangling knots, jams, and snags from his line and reel. When I think back on it, Dad's patience was amazing considering how little time he had for himself when Vince was fishing with us. There would come a day that I learned the limits of my Dad's patience.

That day came one fateful summer morning. Vince had snagged a tree on the shore for the seventh or eighth time in the first 45 minutes since we arrived at our favorite fishing lake along the Pouder River, and for the first time I could sense a little of Dad's patience wearing thin. As I stood alone on the opposite side of my brother, slinging my own line in the lake, I overheard Dad getting a little frustrated. There was never more than a couple of minutes of peace and silence before he was interrupted by my younger brother's feeble word, "Dad?". My brother's voice became quieter and more reluctant each time he was forced ask him to fix a snag or untangle a knot. "Dad?......Dad?.....Dad?........Dad?........ Dad? ......"
Meanwhile, Dad's own reaction became disproportionately more hostile with each of my brother's shrinking pleas for help. Finally, after removing Vince's hook from a tree branch for the seventh or eighth time, Dad gave my brother one last ultimatum. He said, “Vince..That's it!. No More! (He was yelling, now) If you snag your line one more time, I don't want to hear about it!!. I've had it! You're on your own!" Dad was serious, and we knew he meant what he said. Vince would either have to be really careful, or just do something else besides fish the rest of the day. One thing was for sure. He could NEVER again interrupt my Dad. That was out of the question. At least that's what we thought. On his very next try, Vince proceeded to find the one and only spot in the entire lake that he had not snagged with his hook up to this point, my Dad's rear-end. The moment might not have been so painful for us, had my Dad actually felt the hook himself, but it didn't find any skin, only the seat of his pants, as he was crouching over the tackle box addressing his own line. Dad was completely unaware of the fact that the very same fishing hook that he had untangled from trees, shrubs and rocks for the last 30 minutes was now lodged firmly in his britches. I looked over at Vince and cringed. He looked back at me as if to ask me, 'now what do I do? Dad warned me not to interrupt him again'.. I walked over and whispered to him, that it's probably better he say something than to let Dad find out on his own. So, in my brother's most reluctant, scared and tiniest voice ever, he repeated our father's name for the last time that day… "Dad?"… Dad nearly lost it. He jumped up from his tackle box, still unaware of the fishing lin e which was now dangling from his pants, and 10 feet down the shore where Vince was still holding the attached fishing pole. Dad was screaming, "Now where is it?!!"… We were both speechless, as my brother fearfully pointed in the direction of the hook. When my Dad reached around and felt where it was, his face instantly changed tones, from furiousness to homicidal rage. A few seconds later, he did the one and only thing a blood-thirsty, enraged father could do. He laughed. He laughed his butt off, hook and all. We both joined him. To this day it seems ironic to me. It wasn't until just seconds after my brother faced what seemed like certain death, that we truly started having fun that day.

Indian Summer Sunset

2007-11-30T08:41:00.000-07:00

An Indian summer sunset is the warm, loving smile of a very old man. Through his twinkling eyes, the colors of fall reveal their greatest glory. His smile brims with desire from the summers he's known, yet shows no regrets for where they've gone.

An autumn sky glowing with color and lasting warmth is the kindness of a very old man. Shimmering in the lines of his face is a landscape lit with passion and wisdom.His peaceful smile reflects a heart filled with thanks and knowledge made of substance.

The magic treasure found on a rare fall day is the generous nature of a very old man. With admiring eyes and lips, he sips on beauty, feeling the buzz of an afternoon cocktail. His face gleams in approval with an expression most grateful.

The calm surprise of a late, autumn day is the gratitude of a very old man. His generous grin absorbs its beauty, while he repays nature with his lasting joy. Indian summer's smiling grace is the reflection of thanks on an old man's face.

When the sun falls low, October's breath chills the air and the soul of a very old man stirs. Like so many leaves still grasping to the trees, he has so many breaths. Whether he will see the return of such a season, he clings to hope for another reason.

When a very old man's thoughts turn from the earth's orange horizon to his creator, his heart tingles with anticipation. He silently wonders, is it of no surprise that he saved his most beautiful work for last?' The sun replies with a sky of unearthly colors, and his hopeful eyes agree. An Indian Summer Sunset is but a glimpse of what's to be.

Marshmallow Goo

2000-10-13T08:16:00.005-06:00

I used to think that real fun meant staying home on Sundays and watching football games.
But there are times when we must abandon our instinctive ways and experience a broader taste of life and re-establish what it means to be Dad and do things with our families - even if it means sacrificing the 2nd half of a good football game. So, my son’s scout pack, thinking they are bigger and better than the Denver Broncos, took us away from our homes this one Sunday afternoon and led us to a place called Cowboy Meadows for dinner and a hayride. I wasn’t entirely unfortunate we got lost along the way as I was able to capture a good 7 minutes of the 3rd quarter on the radio before we arrived at our destination in the lovely countryside of Louisville, Colorado. Nestled among sprawling horse-property, Cowboy Meadows was pretty much nothing disguised as something that someone might mistake for a real Cowboy Ranch.

Sometimes during these events you’re having so much fun, you wish you could have recorded it all and played it back when you got home. This was not one of those times. There are other times when you’re having such fun that you’re glad you forgot the camera. The good news is that we really DID forget the camera. The bad news is that we really didn’t have that much fun because there was not much to do. We could have used the camera.

For starters, we decided we should eat first and take the hayride, second. So, we dined on plump Hebrew-brand hotdogs which were generously marinated in boiling water and served over a tasty, Costco-bought bun. Served with Kraft Relish and French’s mustard, they were nothing short of gourmet. I helped myself to two of them and might have made my way for thirds had my stomach not reminded me how one time I got sick on a 3rd hotdog when I was a scout-aged boy myself. After all these years, I learned. These events are a wonderful reminder of our past childhoods.

The hayride turned out being much better than I had imagined. Though the camera was forgotten, the transistor radio was not. I listened to the remainder of the Broncos game on my pocket radio with the sound turned down real quiet and was able to inconspicuously ignore everyone for the completion of the entire game. It was truly a magical event and the Broncos won. The unfortunate thing was that the hayride was only half over upon completion of the game. Without a game to watch, I noticed we were moving about as fast as a turtle with two broken legs and had only completed half the loop around the ranch. Our driver (old Texan-looking guy with cowboy hat), sensed nobody was having much fun and thought he would make up for it by taking us for a second lap.

After the dinner and hayride, the event picked up pace as these obnoxious and rowdy boys (clean-cut, American scouts fresh with mustard and ketchup still running down their chins), aged 6-10, stampeded towards a hot, open fire, armed with 18-inch long skewers, hoping to murder a few marshmallows, provided they could avoid goring each other to death along the way. Fortunately, the parents being older, wiser and more mature were smart enough to get the heck out of their way.

Most of the boys, as far as I could tell, made it to the fire with both of their eyes still in place.
For a while it looked like a Sumo wrestling event as the boys pushed and shoved for supremacy around the open fire. After threatening to position one another into the hot, glowing flames, they quite aggressively stabbed these white, fluffy cylinders into the center of the deadly fire and watched in naive wonderment at how something so soft and white could violently transform itself into a carcinogen-enriched ball of black, smoking goo. Watching so many boys stuff their chubby cheeks full of gooey-black soot gave me a new appreciation for candy bars and other desserts that we don’t have to burn-beyond-recognition to enjoy.

It was an evening I won’t soon forget as a souvenir found itself attached to me when I got home. One of those cancerous forms of marshmallow that didn’t quite make into a scout’s grimy mouth, found its home on the bottom of my shoe. The goo of Sunday Night is still with my shoe today. Among our home’s many arsenal of chemical cleaners, we have tar remover, paint remover, goo-remover, and on and on, but no marshmallow goo remover. I am convinced that there is NOTHING in anyone’s garage strong enough to remove marshmallow goo. If a company comes up with a successful solvent formula and names it, ‘Marshmallow Remover, they will have no peers.

I did learn something even better. That goo sticks to much more than your shoe. Marshmallow goo is in fact, the very fabric that bonds our American families. It is the glue that forces us to do things that we’d probably rather not do. Marshmallow Goo is what keeps families so close and makes Dads miss football games. As long as there is marshmallow glue, NOTHING can get between our families. Marshmallow goo is nothing to mess with.

Salad Critique

1998-07-13T08:15:00.002-06:00

I was dining with my wife and a slightly under-age, but otherwise fine bottle of Pinot Noir when the salad was first brought to the table. Upon noticing the articulate presentation I was somewhat excited at the prospect of delving in further and discovering the many virtues of this pending garden delight. Unfortunately, my joyful anticipation was short lived upon noticing the very compromising state of the romaine leafs which were left fighting for fresh air as they were crushed mightily under the weight of the much over-presented artichoke hearts. You just can't treat fresh roughage that way. The discouragement doesn't end there. The liberal dousing of vinaigrette left my palate in a distressful state of panic, groping for the water glass. Additionally, I found the over presence of cucumbers to be slightly comical, but not the least bit amusing. Cucumbers in this case, if anything, are a bit too pretentious and totally unnecessary. The carrots seemed rudely understated and left begging for attention amongst the overabundance of dressing and parsnips. The addition of black olives was a bit distasteful, but not entirely offensive for a salad with subtle shades of far-west overtones. However, when left to compete with the radishes, any good intentions were left behind. Furthermore, the Mid-Eastern sprinkling of sunflower seeds and alfalfa were in very poor taste and racially unbalanced. It was a noble gesture to mate pickled delicacies with fresh roughage; however all was lost with the conspicuous absence of poppy seeds. Nearly every aspect of this salad violated the natural laws of organic greens. I was further distraught by the mysterious omission of radish. Overall, the salad objected to my better sense of moral integrity. Salads of this stature do little more than aggravate a man's allergies. Honestly, I anticipated the enjoyment of a modestly prepared salad and instead got a garish assortiment of badly misplaced greens. It was a horribly offensive message that a dining establish should try to pass off a salad this way, and expect a customer to continue with the next course. If a salad can be violated in this manner, I can only imagine what they might do with a filet mignon! I was not going to give them the chance to offend my culinary morals any further that evening. With my palate insulted the way it was, it was fortunate that I ordered another bottle of wine and got good and drunk or I may have had to punch the chef right in the nose. Next week, we'll talk about the appetizers.