Uncle Tilmer's Story Hour

My newest novel, Talisgate, is LIVE!

2023-11-10T11:23:00.002-05:00

It’s autumn 1976 in Bradenton, Florida. Troy Cooper is no ordinary eleven-year-old boy. He’s smart. Just ask him. He’ll tell you. His best friend is the ever-faithful, pragmatic, and unflappable Molly McPherson, who lives one street over. Together, they’ve been rummaging around in the old, abandoned Muldoon place for a long time. They’re about to find something in that dilapidated house, something that will change their lives, and forever change their view of the world.

Armed with a magical talisman and guided by a mysterious stranger named Sojourner, Troy and Molly confront evil, both human and supernatural, while traveling to multiple worlds. Along the way, Troy finds out he still has a lot to learn, while Molly proves stronger, smarter, and more resourceful than Troy ever imagined.

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Talisgate - A new novel, coming soon!

2023-08-12T22:15:00.001-04:00

Talisgate - Coming Soon!

2023-08-03T10:45:00.001-04:00

I am currently in the initial editing phase of my newest novel, Talisgate. Watch this space for announcements and more information.

Meet Sojourner

2023-05-25T09:30:00.001-04:00

This is a chapter from my upcoming novel, Talisgate. Troy Cooper and Molly McPherson have just met a strange, thin, mysterious man. Chapter 20 of the book covers the first significant conversation with Sojourner, but it doesn't completely reveal who (or what) he is. You'll have to wait for the rest of the book to be completed before you find that out. I hope this sample piques your interest. Keep in mind this is in rough draft form. Changes and corrections are inevitable.

Chapter 20

“Who are you?” I demanded, trying not to sound as nervous as I was and shuffling to get between Molly and the stranger. “Where did you come from? How did you get in here?”

“What do you want to know first?” the man replied. He slowly and casually leaned back against the wall, crossing one foot over the other and lightly touching the brim of his hat.

“Tell me who you are,” I said, gritting my teeth and striking my best no-nonsense pose. I had a lot of practice at this. It was my go-to posture when I felt I needed to repel the bullying attempts of a bigger, less sophisticated schoolmate. My arms were as straight as arrows, tight to my sides. My fists were clenched so tightly I could actually feel my knuckles turning white.

“I am a sojourner. Yes. Sojourner. That is what I am called.” The man said this in such a way that I thought he must not be used to anyone calling him anything. It seemed like a foreign concept to him.

I pressed. “Sojourner? Is that your name or your job?”

Before he could answer, Molly piped up. “Did you say you are a soldier? It sounded like you said, ‘soldier-er’.”

“No, silly,” the man chuckled. “Sojourner. Say it like this. Repeat after me. First, say ‘so’.”

“So,” Molly complied.

“Right,” the man continued. “Now say, ‘ger’ like the first part of ‘geranium’.”

“Ger.”

“Perfect! Now say ‘ner’ like… well, I don’t know any words that start with ‘ner’ so just say ‘ner’ and let that be it.”

“How about ‘nervous’, like I am right now,” I said.

Molly ignored me. “Ner.”

“Right-o,” Sojourner said. “Now, put them all together and you get ‘Sojourner’, and that’s me!”

“Sojourner,” Molly said, nodding slightly with self-satisfaction. She seemed oddly at peace with this weirdo, but I still wanted to know more about him. I mean, he just kind of appeared out of nowhere. I didn’t even hear him come in.

I lowered my brow and crossed my arms. With my best attempt at sounding tough, I asked, “Name or occupation?”

The stranger cocked his head sideways a bit and slid the fingers of his left hand underneath his hat, giving his scalp a gentle scratching. Sounding genuinely perplexed by my idea of the simplest question anyone could be asked, he said, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Is your name Sojourner or are you employed by someone as a sojourner?” I was dimly aware of Molly asking what the heck a sojourner was, but I mentally pushed the question away and kept my gaze fixed upon the strange, skinny man in the hat.

“I certainly do sojourn. I am a person who sojourns. Employed by someone? Ah, yes. I suppose you could call it employed and I suppose you could call it someone, but I still don’t understand your question.”

I was getting frustrated. “Listen,” I said. “Are there other people like you? People who sojourn, as you say, where you come from?”

“Where I come from? Come from? From? You ask strange questions indeed. But yes, there are others like me. Well, they are somewhat like me in that they sojourn like me.” The stranger continued to look confused. I got the sense that he was trying to answer my question, but it was like I was speaking in terms he couldn’t comprehend.

I tried another approach. “OK,” I continued. “There are others who do as you do. When you meet one of them, how do you greet each other?”

“Oh, why didn’t you ask that to begin with?” His face brightened.

I could feel Molly tapping me on the shoulder. She still wanted to know what sojourning was. I absently brushed her hand away. “I guess I just didn’t,” I answered. “Go on.”

“Well,” the man went on, flashing a grin and looking much more at ease now that he felt he could fully take part in the conversation. “I would say something like, ‘Greetings, Sojourner!’”

“And what would he say?” I prodded.

“He? Might be a she, you know.”

“Whatever. How would he or she respond?”

“Fair greetings in return, Sojourner!” A beaming smile covered the lower portion of the man’s face when he said this. He was so proud that he had the right answer.

I crushed his hubris by snapping back, “That tells me nothing! You both just call each other ‘sojourner’? That’s like everyone going around calling each other ‘man’ or ‘woman’. Don’t you have names?”

“Names? Heavens, no. Names are for people and pets and streets and buildings and such. A sojourner needs no name.” This last statement seemed to be a point of pride for him. He narrowed his eyelids and tilted his head slightly back, elevating the angle of his nose.

“People? So, you’re not a person?” The stranger just blinked at this question and broke eye contact with me. This was apparently a touchy subject. I decided to get back to my current line of questioning. “How do you tell each other apart?” I asked.

“We know ourselves. That is enough,” he replied and offered no more.

“Well, we’re going to have to call you something if we’re going to talk to you, and I have a bunch of talking to do. I will speak to you as if your name is Sojourner, OK?”

“It will result in none of the epidermis being removed from my posterior regions,” Sojourner said, fluttering the fingers of both hands in the air near his head, just outside the perimeter of his hat’s ample brim. “Suit yourself.”

“What?” I spat.

“It’s an old saying here in this culture, no? It refers to something being of no trouble or causing no inconvenience. I’m sure of it. I’m certain I’ve heard it here before.”

I thought about what he had said and mulled it over. “Oh, you mean it’s no skin off your back?”

“That’s what I said,” he replied.

“No, it isn’t. You said something similar, but you used a lot more words and made it hard to understand.”

“I only want to be clear,” the sojourner offered. “Clarity is important.”

“Too much clarity darkens,” I said, sounding as grave and important as I could.

“What does that mean?” the man asked. Molly was rolling her eyes. I could feel them. She knows me.

“It means,” I said, “that by over-explaining things, you made your point difficult to understand. Too much clarity darkens. That’s a quote from Blaise Pascal.”

Sojourner’s eyes brightened. “Did you say ‘Blaise Pascal’? France? Seventeenth century?”

“Y-yeah. Blaise Pascal.” Sojourner’s burst of enthusiasm rattled me.

“Oh, yes! Bright fellow! I loved him. I remember him well.” Sojourner turned his gaze upward, as if picturing a scene from his memory. After a brief pause, he looked at me with a veil of sadness lightly covering his face. His eyes drooped along with the corners of his mouth. “He’s gone from everywhere now, you know.”

“What are you talking about?” I shot back. “If Pascal were still alive, he would be over three hundred years old. So yeah, he’s gone. Are you trying to tell me you met Pascal personally? You’re that old?”

Molly forced her way into the conversation and kept me from pursuing my line of questioning. “Look. I’m fine calling you whatever you want, and I’m not as impressed as Troy that you know about his all-time historic hero, but can one of you please tell me what a sojourner is?”

Sojourner opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to the punch. “A sojourner is someone who doesn’t stay in one place very long. It’s kind of like a traveler without a home.” I glanced over at the nodding Sojourner.

“That’s essentially accurate,” he said. “Of course, there’s more to why I’m here and more to what my purpose actually is, but as far as a dictionary definition, that will do. It doesn’t really do me justice, but it’s the closest thing to a one-word description.”

“OK, so now you’ve hit on it. That’s exactly what I want to know,” I said, punctuating each word with a jab of my index finger in the stranger's direction. I didn’t touch him, but I was feeling particularly brave at the moment and wanted to establish my ground. I’m not sure where my courage was coming from, unless it was adrenaline. This guy had really startled me with his sudden appearance, and I was riled up—at least as riled up as an eleven-year-old boy can get. “Why are you here? What gives you the right to barge in here and scare the snot out of me and Molly? You’d better not try anything. I’m tougher than I look and I’m no stranger to a fight.” I bowed out my chest and tried my best to look threatening. I glared at Sojourner and, through teeth clenched so hard I could hear their surfaces grinding against each other, I said, “What do you want with me?”

Taking a deep breath and trying very hard not to laugh at my belligerent display, Sojourner simply said, “It’s not really about you, Troy. I’m here because of Molly.”

New Covers!

2023-04-17T16:31:00.000-04:00

Both my novels have new covers! I should have posted these here earlier, but as usual, I'm very lazy about this blog. Check out the cool new artwork.

Click here to see this book on Amazon: https://a.co/d/jjIGrVA

Click here to see this book on Amazon: https://a.co/d/e73gkIF

Legacy

2022-11-08T13:38:00.002-05:00

I wrote this little story in response to an online prompt. The prompt said that you were an adult dragon who comes upon a human toddler that has been abandoned in the forest. Write about what happens next. Here's what spilled out of me.

=========================

I really wish they would stop doing this. They’ve been doing it for years now. It’s getting old. I’m half inclined to just let this one hang there. But in the end, I know I won’t. I never do.

Years ago, someone, probably a goblin, told the humans in Port Mullek that they needed to appease me with an offering from time to time or else I would rain fire down on their town and kill them all. I suspect goblins for two reasons. First, they always try to get to the offering before I see it, so they can take it for themselves. Second, I know it’s a big joke to them to spread rumors about fire breathing. Humans are afraid of us enough as it is. Add the threat of flaming breath to the equation and they feel obligated to hire foreign armies to come wipe us out. They’ve just about done it, too. Of late, there’s been a lot less of that kind of thing because the towns are poor, and kings don’t like to lose a bunch of perfectly good soldiers fighting some dragon in a faraway land in exchange for a few bushels of grain or a couple of broken-down donkeys.

Of course, I don’t have fire. It’s not something we are born with. As a matter of fact, no one knows if we can do it at all. None ever have to my knowledge. Oh sure. There are the old legends. My great-great-grandfather used to tell me stories about the mighty Krovonik, also known as the Inferno Worm, who would reduce entire towns to ashes in a single breath. I know. Hard to believe. It might be true, but my guess is it’s been highly exaggerated over the centuries. I know I’ve never seen a dragon breathe fire. I’m pretty sure great-great-grandfather never did either. It’s just something to fuel story time for the young.

Back to the bag. Yes, it’s a bag, hanging from a tree branch about twenty feet off the ground, right in my line of sight. It’s wiggling, as always. It’s got some kind of cryptic writing on it, as always. The humans always paint weird symbols on the bags. I don’t know why. It’s probably part of the goblins’ stupid lies. They think they are communicating with me. They aren’t. The symbols are meaningless. Surely, they know dragons have mastered the common tongue, as well as dozens of other languages and dialects. They could just speak to me like they do one another, but they rarely try. Most of the time, they just scream and fall all over each other trying to get away from me. Their screams drown out anything I might try to say to them like, “Hey stupid. What’s wrong with you? Stop leaving little humans in bags for me. I don’t want them.”

Yes, that’s what I always find in the bags. Little humans. They’re not exactly babies, but they are small. Times I have let them out of the bag, they get up and try to run away, so they’re old enough to walk. Baby humans can’t even crawl for several months. They have to be about a year or more along before they can try to walk.

I guess the goblins told the humans that dragons like to eat small human children. That’s not true. Dragons won’t kill anything that can talk, unless they are being attacked or seriously threatened by the something in question. We have ethics. Mostly, we get all we need from elk, deer, and the occasional wild pig. We’ve certainly killed humans, mostly knights and other mercenaries, sent to exterminate us, but we don’t eat them. I’ve killed my share of goblins as well, but they were all asking for it, gouging at me with their nasty spears or trying to hack my legs with their crude swords. But there’s nothing a young human child could do to provoke me to kill it, and I certainly would not eat a dead one should I stumble upon it. That’s one thing the goblins must be telling the truth about when they try to get the villagers to give me their children. Dragons only eat live prey. We’re not vultures.

Generally, I open the bags out of curiosity and then just wrap the kid back up and drop it off just outside the town, close enough that the villagers will find it before the goblins do and far enough away to keep the more zealous townsfolk from getting brave and charging at me with spears and axes. I don’t know what happens to the bags after I leave them. I guess the villagers assume I refused their offering for some reason. They probably think I keep the ones the goblins get to first, so that’s enough to keep them at it.

So, this little bag is just hanging there, its contents wriggling and squeaking. I sigh and trudge heavily toward it, my exasperation on display for no one. I reach up and snap the branch off the tree. I’ve learned that’s safer for the occupant than ripping the bag open with a claw or trying to untie it. They don’t do well with twenty-foot falls. I put the bag down on the ground and slice the knot holding it closed with the tip of a claw. I wonder what the deal will be with this one.

I say “what the deal will be” because it’s always something. Usually, it’s a birthmark, an unusual hair color, eyes that are too close together, too far apart, or an uncommon hue. I guess they’re looking for some kind of sign that would indicate the sacrifice would be worthy of my attention. Honestly, I have no idea what they are trying to do with this exercise. If only I could find out what the stupid goblins were saying to them. I hate goblins. Did I say that already?

The mouth of the sack sighs open as the rope falls away. There’s more wriggling as the creature inside sees light and starts to move toward it. I wait, half annoyed and half curious.

Squinting in the light and raising a limb to shield its eyes, the occupant emerges. I cannot believe what I am seeing. I’ve never seen anything like this, certainly not among humans. I can’t be certain it even is completely human, but it looks mostly like one. The face is mostly human, except for the eyes. The eyes are large and golden. The pupils are not round, but instead they are horizontal slits, kind of like my own. Yellow hair, concentrated down the center of the skull, is silky and flowing, leading to a ridge running down the entire length of the child’s back and onto its tail. Wait! Tail? Humans don’t have tails. This little one does. Again, not sure if this even is human. The skin on its face, chest, stomach, arms, and legs is mostly the soft, pinkish stuff the rest of the villagers have, but the back side of the child is covered with iridescent scales, not unlike the ones that adorn my entire body.

What is this?

I don’t have any time to ponder my own question. In a flash, the child assumes a determined gaze, narrowing its pupils, lowering its brow, and leaping to my left foreleg, the one I had used to open the bag. Before I can react, it’s clambered up my leg, across my shoulder, and onto the back of my head. The speed of its movements is truly impressive. I’ve got to get this thing off me. Who knows what it will do?

***

I have got to stop eating those wooly mountain boars. They give me the worst nightmares. Sheesh, I feel really awful. Why is the sun so high in the sky? Have I slept that long?

“Four days,” a voice answers.

I spin around, shaking my stiff bones loose from their slumber. I shout out various warnings, insults, and unrepeatable slurs. I’m sure goblins have ambushed me.

“I’m not a goblin,” the voice assures.

Wait a minute. How does this thing, this voice, know I’m thinking about goblins?

“Because I’m part of you. Don’t you understand? Actually, it’s more than that. I am you.”

I am very far from understanding, and I loudly proclaim that fact to this unseen entity. I’m just about to panic, but a soothing wave of warmth flows through me. I’m actually kind of sleepy feeling. How can that be? I’ve just woken up.

“Shhh,” the voice whispers. “Relax. Let me fill you in.”

“I am you. Well, that’s sort of right. I’m part of you, but it’s that and more than that at the same time. Oh, dear. Now I’m rambling. Let me start over. There is much about our ancestry you do not know. Many thousands of years ago, our kind was much different. We ruled this world without peer and without challenge for millennia. It was a time of glory. Something happened, however. Something terrible. It’s a long story for another time but suffice it to say it interrupted our natural way of living. It changed us.”

I’m feeling groggy and relaxed, but this voice is not making a lot of sense. Why is it saying, “us”? I don’t see another dragon here. There was that little creature in the bag. But that was a dream. At least, I think it was. It cannot be real. The voice snaps at me.

“Pay attention!”

I stop my pondering to listen. I feel like I need to ask more questions, but I am compelled by this thing, whatever it is, to just listen.

“Yes, I said, ‘us.’ And yes, I know what you are thinking and why you are thinking it. Our minds are one because we are one. The ancient race existed not only of mating pairs of dragons who gave live birth, but also creatures that hatched from eggs. Yes, eggs. I know you have heard of some females laying eggs, but no one ever understood why. Actually, they just forgot why. They think it’s some kind of throwback to a time when we used to raise young from eggs, since the eggs never hatch. They just solidify into stone and are discarded. Well, most of them. Not me.

“I came from one of those eggs. Your mother’s egg, to be precise. I was left in our parents’ den when they were driven out by goblin and human mercenaries. You were too young to remember, but I know you understand mother and father were lost. Our grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents raised you, but they didn’t give the egg a second thought. It was just a dead stone in the back of the den. An oddity not worth going back for.

“Time passed. Eggs like mine wait. They wait until the other part of being matures to the point they can join it. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to work. Almost all eggs just turn to stone and die, but not me. I awoke and hatched. I knew immediately I had to find you, but I did not know where I was. I could feel you, but you felt far away. I came out of the den, which was just a shallow cave in a hillside, and was immediately spotted and bagged by a group of humans, who were out hunting pheasants that day. They crammed me into a nasty pheasant bag and hauled me back to their village. The humans there did not know I could understand their speech, but I could. They were very excited to find me. They thought for sure I would be the sacrifice the great dragon would want. It was quickly decided they should take me out to the edge of the forest and hang me from a tree. You know the rest, but you awoke thinking it was a dream. It isn’t.”

I stir from my fog and ask tentatively what this thing is exactly. I’m still pretty confused, and it’s not making a lot of sense to me what this voice is telling me.

“I already told you. I am you. I am a part of you. When you let me out of the bag, I instinctively merged my body with yours. Your head probably feels a little strange. It’s larger and heavier now that I am blended into it. So, again, I am you. I am the part of you that you and every other dragon living today has been missing their whole lives. Specifically, I am your Kindling.”

A thought awakens deep within me. More than a thought. A realization. A revelation. Knowledge. Joy. Completeness. Suddenly, I feel energized, free from the slumber that held me inert. I leap from the ground, spread my wings and flap into the sky. I climb higher and higher, rolling my body and finally leveling off onto a path heading straight over the town. Faster and faster I fly, feeling the strength and power of my being, finally complete, a feeling no dragon has had for thousands of years.

As I reach the edge of the village, I stall my flight, poised high in the air, giving as many townsfolk as possible a chance to notice me hovering high above their city gates. I throw my head back and open my throat in a mighty roar, enough to shake the villagers below in their boots. And now that I have their attention, I call upon my new, complete self, no longer a voice within me, but truly a part of me. I reach deep inside and summon the Kindling within. My nostrils flare and release a scarlet, blue, and golden flame that fills the sky above the town. I can only imagine the newfound terror and, hopefully, respect this display has yielded. I’m not going to hang around to find out. It’s time to put some goblins in their place.

Stephen

2022-03-08T14:45:00.001-05:00

I was six years old in the fall of 1971. I remember the first day of first grade in Mrs. Cartmel’s class at Sullivan Elementary School like it was yesterday. Well, I remember parts of it that clearly. Kindergarten didn’t exist at that time, or at least it didn’t exist for me. Despite my lack of formal education, I could already read, and I had a decent grasp of rudimentary math. This advantage was courtesy of the presence of two older sisters, Donna and Lisa. They found much joy in pretending to be teachers tutoring their baby brother in knowledge mined from the vast caverns of wisdom that made up their extensive elementary school experiences. I owe them a tremendous debt of gratitude for that head start. Elementary school didn’t really challenge me at all because of the sturdy foundation they provided.

Even though my sisters had already armed me with most of what I would be presented with in first grade, I didn’t know that, so I was nervous. All the kids were strangers. The teacher, who seemed really nice, was also a stranger. The room was big and loud. The smell of chalk dust mingled with that distinctive old building aroma hung thick in the air. I didn’t know what to expect.

I certainly did not expect Stephen.

I don’t recall Stephen’s last name; however, the memory of that little boy has remained ingrained in my mind and influenced the man I have become over the course of more than fifty years. Amazing, right? Yeah. I know. Let me share some stuff about Stephen. I don’t know a lot, because I was six, remember? Six-year-olds in 1971, just like six-year-olds now, had a short attention span and a limited scope of interests. For me, it was Hot Wheels, baseball, and Robert Conrad as James West in “The Wild, Wild West” on television. Not much else was going on in my little blonde, burr-cut head.

Stephen arrived a little late to class. Everyone else had gotten settled in. Mothers, my own included, had accompanied each child and made over them in all sorts of ways, the way mothers do. One by one, they reluctantly left their children to Mrs. Cartmel, looking over their shoulders as they departed. Finally, one last mother appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Cartmel met her there. This mother seemed even more nervous that the others. She had a kind of forced smile that didn’t seem all that happy. It was like a mask meant to disguise worry smoldering underneath. Behind her stood a little boy. He was tethered to his mother by her iron grip on his hand, but he was spinning left and right as he attempted to take in everything around him. He was obviously very excited to be at school.

He was also completely bald.

I had never seen a real bald kid before. Sure, I thought it was a little odd that Charlie Brown appeared pretty much bald in the funny papers, but he was a cartoon. Rules were different for cartoons. Real boys had hair on their heads. I did, even though it was buzzed down to about a quarter of an inch of yellow stubble, looking like a harvested wheat field. As Stephen made his way into the classroom, kids began staring at him. I couldn’t help it. I stared as well. Stephen didn’t notice. He had a desk reserved right at the front of the room, all the way to the left, near the door. He practically dragged his mother over to it and climbed into the attached chair, beaming with pride and anticipation. This kid was ready to learn.

Looking back on this day now, my heart breaks for Stephen’s mother. Even as a little kid, I was aware of the obvious, almost physical pain it caused her to leave the classroom that day. She tried to be brave, but her eyes and her body language spoke of palpable anguish. I know she must have cried for a long time outside in the hallway once she was out of Stephen’s line of sight.

I was bewildered, as were all my classmates. My desk was near the middle of the room, about halfway down the row. Stephen was at least three rows away from me. I saw a couple of kids sitting behind and beside him lean in and say something to him. I imagine they were asking about his hair situation. That’s what little kids do. They notice things like that and innocently want to ask why. I couldn’t hear the conversations, but I could see Stephen’s interactions. Every comment, every kid, was met with a beautiful smile and a cheerful response. I don’t know what he was saying, but he was happy to be talking to his classmates.

That night, at home, I found out why Stephen was bald. He had leukemia. Treatments for the disease caused his hair to fall out. My mother told me. Apparently, Mrs. Cartmel had communicated Stephen’s situation with all the parents of children in her class. The apparent aim was to allow parents to handle the subject at home, where they could explain what that might mean for Stephen. My mother did a good job with this, probably better than most, but my mother was pretty amazing that way. That’s a longer story for another time, but just know that she was a terrific mom and a great human being.

Mom explained Stephen had an illness that you could not catch from him, like a cold or chickenpox. It was OK to be around him. She stressed Stephen had no choice in his plight, and that he would need friends who would treat him just like any other kid, without drawing attention to his lack of hair, or the fact that he would likely miss a lot of school days because of the difficulty of dealing with leukemia and the associated treatments.

My mother was also honest with me. She told me that Stephen’s parents probably worried a lot about him because leukemia was a serious disease that could take Stephen’s life. I distinctly remember the feeling of absurdity this discussion aroused in me. It made absolutely no sense. Old people got sick and died. My grandfather, Mom’s dad, had died only two years prior. He had a heart attack. He was old, though. Stuff like that happened to old people all the time, but six-year-olds didn’t die. They just didn’t. But Mom never lied to me. She almost cried while trying to explain Stephen’s illness. I knew it was real. It still didn’t make sense, but it was real.

I resolved to make sure I followed my mother’s instructions regarding Stephen. I talked with him. I played with him at recess. I joked with him. We talked about Hot Wheels, baseball, and “The Wild, Wild West.” I got to know him. I learned Stephen was extremely intelligent and immediately able to understand and master any topic in the classroom. He was articulate and had a vocabulary that was much larger than any of the other kids in the class. He looked pale and fragile, but he had energy and life inside him that seemed to defy his obvious physical condition. He was out sick a lot, but he never fell behind and always came back eager to get back into the day-to-day routine of class.

I didn’t always understand Stephen back then. I understand a lot better now.

The last time I saw Stephen was in the spring of 1974, at the end of third grade. He had been homeschooled for the entire year. I had not seen him in what seemed like forever. His attendance was spotty during first and second grade, but third grade saw him unable to come to school with any regularity. It was better for him to just learn from home, or I suppose it was. It’s hard to understand that, given how Stephen just lit up when he was around other kids, but I don’t know all the details about the medical horrors he was going through.

Stephen appeared, out of the blue, at the end-of-year academic awards celebration. Starting with third grade, the school had Honor Roll awards. There was First Honor Roll and Second Honor Roll. I don’t recall the rules, but you basically needed to have high marks to make the cut. If you kept it up all year long, you got a trophy at the end of the year. That’s what the celebration was about.

I was sitting in a metal folding chair, waiting for the event to start, waiting for my shiny blue, white, and gold trophy, when Stephen walked in and plopped down in the chair next to me. I was stunned. My gaping stare was met with Stephen’s golden smile. He looked terrible, but he looked great. His eyes were sunk into his face, but they shone with Stephen’s ever-present glow. His skin was pale, paler than I remembered, but his lips stretched nearly ear to ear.

I remember wanting to hug him. I wanted to grab him and pull him close and tell him I had been worried about him. I didn’t do that, partly because it wasn’t something eight-year-old boys did and partly because I was still governed by Mom’s instructions to treat Stephen like I would any other kid, not drawing attention to his problems, allowing him to just be a kid among kids. I did, however, pat him on the back and tell him I had missed him. I will never, ever forget what happened next.

Two boys sitting behind us were giggling. Obviously, they had not shared a classroom with Stephen in first or second grade, like I had. One of them tapped Stephen on the shoulder and said, “Hey, why’d you cut all your hair off?”

I was never a bully. I never picked fights in school. I rarely engaged in any kind of pushing or shoving or fighting at all. I nearly went over my seat to throttle the kid who said that, but without saying a word, Stephen stopped me with what I can only describe as the grace of being Stephen.

Smiling broadly at the boy behind him, he said, “Oh, I didn’t cut it. It fell out.”

It’s hard to punch a kid who has just been replied to like that. The kid said, “Oh,” and just sat back in his chair. I didn’t go after him, but I gave him a look. I turned my attention back to Stephen.

“I didn’t expect you would be here, Stephen,” I said. “I didn’t think you would be able to make it.”

Stephen looked straight into my soul with those incredible, defiant eyes and said, “Wild horses could not keep me from coming here tonight to get my trophy.”

The rest of that event is completely lost in my memory. Nothing after that moment meant anything at all. I don’t remember going up to get my trophy. I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember Mom and Dad making a big deal about it and placing it proudly on top of the behemoth upright piano in the living room. I know all that stuff happened. It’s just that none of it mattered.

Stephen left this world that summer. He died peacefully at home. Maybe facing something like a horrible disease makes kids mature faster than they would (or should) otherwise, but I can tell you this. Stephen was mature far beyond his years. Maybe that’s because Stephen had something to share with me and the other kids in Mrs. Cartmel’s class. Maybe his response to the kid behind him at the awards ceremony two years later was something that kid would need as he grew to adulthood.

Maybe all of that worked together for a greater good, something no one close to Stephen could possibly understand when it happened. I was just a schoolmate, and I can’t understand it even now. Stephen was smart. Stephen was gentle. Stephen was good. The world was a better place with him in it. Maybe it’s a better place just because he passed through it. I know I am a better man for having known Stephen. I’m stronger. I’m more resilient. I look at challenges with a better attitude. I’m just better. I owe Stephen a lot.

Somehow, I hope he knows that.

Tech and War - A View from 1952's Player Piano

2022-01-20T09:35:00.004-05:00

I read a lot. (You should, too.) Right now, I'm reading Kurt Vonnegut's first novel, Player Piano. This book is 70 years old, yet it feels so relevant today. I'm an IT person. I have been for nearly half the lifetime of the aforementioned book. I live in technology. I am a promoter of technology. I put food on the table by bending technology to my will in order to serve industry. (Wow! That's a pretty grandiose description of "IT Manager", huh?) Anyway, I say that to say that I don't believe tech, in and of itself, is a bad thing. However, tech can certainly be applied in bad (or even evil) ways. It also can forever change how we think about fundamental facets of human existence, including warfare. Check out this passage from the 1952 book and think about how we plan for, and carry out, military exercises in the twenty-first century. Remember; this was 1952.

"There had been plenty of death, plenty of pain, all right, and plenty of tooth-grinding stoicism and nerve. But men had been called upon chiefly to endure by the side of the machines, the terrible engines that fought with their own kind for the right to gorge themselves on men. Horatio on the bridge had become a radio-guided rocket with an atomic warhead and a proximity fuse. Roland and Oliver had become a pair of jet-driven computers hurtling toward each other far faster than the flight of a man’s scream."

If you don't know those references (Horatio on the bridge and Roland and Oliver), take the time to look them up. It will help you understand the poetry in Vonnegut's writing.

Ice

2021-11-11T10:23:00.002-05:00

The ice is thinner here.

I don’t remember being on the shoreline, but I know I started out there. When I took my first few wobbly steps onto the ice, I didn’t think much about it breaking. No one did. It was so thick there, and a downy blanket of snow covered the surface. Sure, it was a little slippery, but there wasn’t much chance of anything bad happening.

Except it did sometimes.

Even though it seemed impossible, some fell through close to the shoreline. One slipped through right next to me. I heard the cracks. I didn’t believe them. I saw his face. He wasn’t afraid, but looking back, I think he heard more in the crackling surface beneath his feet than I did. I looked away for a moment. When I turned back to the place he had been standing, he was gone.

Mother was always a little further out than me. She could always see me. She wasn’t that far away. I could tell she was scanning the ice that lay ahead of me. She was always telling me to step with care, to shift right or shift left, to watch out for cracks, and to make sure of my footing before taking another step. She stood near Father, who was always trying to find the safest path forward, ever inching farther out away from shore.

Mammaw and Granddaddy were out past Mother and Father. Their steps were more measured, as though they knew there were thin spots around them. All the while, they kept encouraging Mother and Father to step with confidence. They shouted their support to me as well. It was harder to hear them than it was to hear Mother and Father. I didn’t always understand what they were trying to say, but they never took their eyes from those of us closer to land until, one by one, they slipped beneath the surface.

The ice slowly opened around Mother, long before it should have. Sure, she was farther out than I was, but I didn’t expect the ice to be so thin there. It didn’t seem that way at first. There were a few cracks around her feet here and there, but she was still standing just fine. It took a long time for anyone to realize that although the cracks were small, they were silently advancing all around Mother, weakening her position. She cautiously stepped onward, further from shore, but the spidery cracks advanced with her, slowly overcoming and encompassing her. Father did all he could, but the cracks were too numerous for him to patch, even if he had a way to patch them. He just had to be near her and love her. He could at least do that, and he did. He never took his eyes off her, even as the crumbling ice kept her from seeing him. Everyone had to just watch as she sank, finally disappearing into the water below.

My sisters were just a few steps ahead of me. I tried to walk in the pathways they had trod, thinking that if the ice was safe for them, it would be for me.

That was not a reasonable plan.

Large, fast-moving fissures suddenly appeared around the feet of one of my sisters. No one saw them coming. No one expected them. Not Mother. Not Father. Not my sisters. Not me. The cracks were ugly. They tore at the surface with angry pops and cracks. It was deafening. My sister didn’t panic, but she tried to leap from the area where the cracks were spreading to somewhere more solid. She managed to do that. Everyone thought she was safe. She wasn’t. The cracks followed her. Eventually, they surrounded her, and the ice gave way. I watched as she sank beneath the surface. I was too far away to try to pull her back. None of us could reach her. She didn’t cry out in fear or alarm. As the water rose around her, she seemed to be at peace. It was as if she knew the mystery of what lay beneath the ice, and it was somehow a source of solace rather than terror.

Now I am far beyond the place where my sister fell. The ice is thinner here.

Father’s fall through the ice shook me. He had no fear about his next step. The ice gave him no worries. It was what it was. It was the ice he was meant to traverse. He always tried to help everyone he met to step safely in ways that would bring them joy and satisfaction. He was always satisfied with the steps he took. He never looked back on his own path, but he always looked behind to help me choose the next place to plant a step. When he fell, it was like everything I ever leaned on to make sure I was OK had suddenly been taken away. I know Father would scold me for thinking that way. Faith was his buttress. It should be mine. That was a hard lesson to take to heart when I had Father out in front of me. He was seen. It was easy to believe. Suddenly, I had to rely on the unseen.

I can see the place where Mother fell. I don’t like to look at it. Not only does it represent a time of great pain for me, but it also is a source of fear and dread. What if the spidery cracks that surrounded her suddenly appear around me?

The place where Father fell is farther out, but I can see it. I don’t like it. There’s a lot of thin ice around that place and I seem to be getting closer to it every day. I can’t stop. My march is forced. No one can walk back toward the shoreline. No one can stay where they are. We must move forward. No one fully understands that, but no one can deny it. You can pretend you aren’t moving, but you do it anyway. You can fantasize about walking backward, but in the end, you can’t. If you don’t walk, you slip—always forward. Better to choose your path than have it chosen for you. So, I step.

Stepping can be hard. The ice is thinner here.

Sometimes, I see shapes beneath the ice. At least, I think I do. Maybe it’s my imagination. Sometimes, the ice appears to be more transparent. Most of the time, it’s completely opaque, but there are times I think I can make out something going on down there. A lot of times, it’s when someone ahead of me or behind me says something to me that generates wonder, rather than dread, about what could be under the surface. You would think shadowy shapes swimming under my feet would terrify me, but they don’t. Somehow, they comfort me. Somehow, they make the water seem less frigid. I know it doesn’t make logical sense to think this way, but sometimes I think that maybe the water is warm. Maybe it’s not an icy grave. Maybe there’s something more. Father’s voice joins Mother’s and my sister’s and those of my grandparents and shouts in my head, “Of course there is!”

It’s hard to trust the voices. I know it’s wrong not to, but it’s so cold here. The wind rips across my face, forcing tears from my eyes. I see and hear cracks opening up around me, more frequently as each year passes, taking friends, family, and strangers alike under the surface. They don’t come back. No one ever does. That makes trusting even more difficult.

Then there’s the guilt. I remember Father. I remember how his focus was on his family. He filled his days watching the ice for cracks and directing our paths. I remember his example. I have a family. I have a wife who is walking right beside me. I have children who are several steps behind, but still in sight. I can clearly see thin and cracking ice in their path. I have an obligation to all of them. My wife sees the cracks. She is more vigilant than I am, and she does a better job at ignoring the cracks at her own feet in order to keep me and her children from falling through. I lean on her while trying to watch her feet, but I feel inadequate. I sometimes fail to notice her peril due to peril I perceive to be my own. That’s selfish, and it’s definitely not the example I was given to follow.

The ice is thinner here.

I know that someday, I will take my last step on the surface of the ice and plunge below. Everyone does, eventually. Everyone will, eventually. Trepidation grips me in an icy clutch more terrible than the battering winds. When will that last step happen? Will I know I am taking it, unable to halt my progress? How many will I have to see fall around me before that happens? What if I take a step I shouldn’t? What if I don’t take a step I should? Even worse, what if I fail to direct a step taken by a family member? What if I suggest a step that leads them to thinner and thinner ice?

Paralysis. The ice is thinner here.

Father’s voice returns, “That’s God’s business.” Now it’s not the frigid wind that pries loose the tears. It’s a memory of faith. It’s a lesson taught, but not fully learned. It’s a life lived, but not fully appreciated. I fall to my knees under the burden of my own failure to understand the most important thing of all. Trust. Do your best. Trust God to do the rest. All humans fail. It is a part of our nature. No humans can see past the ice. It is a limitation of our place in the universe. The ice is cold. It clouds our vision so that we cannot see what is on the other side. The unknown is always scary. The key to it all is to understand that it’s not really unknown; it’s just unknown to those of us walking on it. We walk. We help others walk. We tread as far as we can, hoping that we are taking the steps we should. When the ice breaks, clarity comes.

Comfort. The ice is thinner here.

Talisgate - Chapter 1

2020-03-10T23:43:00.001-04:00

I am working on my third novel, entitled Talisgate. Here, for your reading pleasure (I hope) is the first chapter.

***

My name is Troy Cooper. I’m eleven years old and I live in Bradenton, Florida. I’ve got a story to tell you that you probably won’t believe. That’s OK. Most people never believe anything I say anyway. The way I figure it that means it doesn’t matter what I talk about. No one really listens. So, who cares if I’m always truthful? Mom says that just makes the problem worse because people hear me saying I don’t care if they believe me or not, so they just assume I’m always lying. That kind of argument just makes me care a little bit less about what other people think. If they think I’m lying all the time, then fine. It’s no loss of mine if they miss out on the truth when I lay it all out for them. When I first started talking about the stuff I’m about to tell you, nobody around here believed it even though some folks saw part of it with their own eyes. People believe what they want to believe. Anything that doesn’t fit what they think the world should look like just gets thrown away as a mistake, a misunderstanding, confusion, or a lie. Call me a liar if you like. I don’t care. I’m past all of that. I’ve seen things and been through stuff that most people can’t even imagine. I know the truth. If you want to hear it, then listen up.

I guess I need to back up a bit from where the story gets interesting to tell you a little about myself. It might help you understand why I did some of the things I did and where I’m coming from with all of this. Like I said, you’re not going to believe it. I guess that means I might be wasting my time here, but I feel like I need to tell somebody about it. I guess I’ll tell you even though you probably think I’m a liar already.

I’m a smart kid. No, I’m not bragging. It’s true. I read everything I can get my hands on and I remember most of it. I remember most of what I see and hear, too. That’s how I can tell you this story straight from memory and know I’ve got it all right. Reading is the best, though. If I read it and enjoy it, it’s locked away for good. I’ve been reading novels since the second grade and I go through a dozen or more thick ones every year. All that reading has given me a big vocabulary–bigger than most grown-ups. Sometimes adults think I’m being a smart-aleck when I speak in terms that fly over their heads, but I’m not. I’m just trying to communicate. It’s not my fault I’m smarter than most people. They should try to catch up. I’m not going back for them. I also like to write. You already know that. I’m writing this down for you now, right?

I’m tough, too. I have to be. I’m in the eighth grade. I know. Eleven years old usually puts you in the sixth grade, but I’ve skipped a couple of grades along the way. (I told you I was smart.) I kept getting in trouble in the early grades because my teachers couldn’t keep me occupied. I would fly through my work and then spend all my spare time in class thinking of new and exciting ways to torment my fellow classmates and teachers. They got tired of it. Parents complained. I complained.

During one of my many trips to the school office I told Mr. Lady, the school principal, that I was bored with his dumb old school and he could expel me for all I cared. After a lot of counseling time with my parents, Mr. Lady decided that I was worth keeping in the school and that the best thing would be for me to skip a grade. He didn’t fool me for a second. I think he hated me for all the trouble I was causing. He just wanted to keep me in the school because I absolutely roasted all those worthless standardized tests the state and county felt compelled to foist upon elementary school students. I brought the average scores of the whole school up a notch. Mr. Lady did not want to lose that benefit by kicking me out of school or even encouraging my parents to try putting me in a private school.

That all happened when I was in the first grade. I got moved to the second grade during the first quarter of that school year. That means that my novel reading I spoke about before began at an age when most kids are in first grade, not second. Second grade turned out to be just as unchallenging as first grade, so they had me skip third grade and go straight to fourth. After that I paced myself. I didn’t want to skip any more grades. Some of the other kids resented me for my talents and took out that resentment in the form of beatings. The more out of synch my age and current grade level became the worse that kind of thing got. That’s what made me tough. I learned how to fight when I had to. More importantly, I learned how to avoid fights when I could. The key was to do as much damage to the other kid as possible when cornered so that the next bully would think twice before picking on me. If I got trapped by a bully and was forced to fight, I fought viciously and dirty. Kicks to the crotch and fingers to the eye were not only justifiable but among my favorite moves in battle. I got black eyes and split lips on a few occasions, but over time the attacks subsided. I wasn’t worth the trouble. I was a mean little smart-aleck that most kids just avoided. At least that’s the reputation I built. I’m not really mean and I’m not really a smart-aleck, but I don’t have to fight to prove anything to anyone anymore.

Now that I’m in middle school, I’ve kind of dialed back on my attitude a little. Middle school is tough, but it’s tough on everybody. I’m finding out that it’s better to build up a bunch of allies than to make a lot of enemies.

I don’t have a lot of what you would call close friends. I only have one real friend. That’s Molly McPherson. Molly is in the sixth grade, but she’s my same age. We don’t have any classes together at school. I hardly ever see her there. She lives in my neighborhood and has lived there for as long as I can remember. She lives on the street behind my house. Our houses don’t line up exactly. By that I mean they’re not back to back. There are a few houses in between, but it’s easy enough to get from my house to hers without having to go in the street. When we were younger and not allowed to walk or ride our bikes in the road, that was important.

I met Molly in pre-school. That was before the grade-skipping stuff started. We were four years old. I’m not sure why, but we kind of latched onto each other right away and became best friends. Molly is really cool. She never gave me any grief about how much I loved to read as a little kid. She never got jealous when I got moved ahead of her in school. She was just always my friend. She still is. It’s not like a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of thing. We really are just best friends. I can tell Molly anything. If I ask her to keep a secret, she will. If I get upset and cry in front of her, she doesn’t make fun of me. If I’m worried or scared about something, she always knows the right thing to say. I trust Molly completely. I trust her more than anyone. She’s always there for me. She’s always on my side. Like I said, Molly is really cool.

Molly’s life at home has never been as easy to deal with as mine. Her parents are divorced. She lives with her mother and step-dad, Eddie Crawford. Eddie has never actually been mean to me when I’ve been over at Molly’s house, but he doesn’t go out of his way to be very nice either. I get the feeling he just tolerates me as an occasional annoyance to be ignored in the hope that it will go away–kind of like that mosquito you hear buzzing around in your bedroom just about the time you are drifting off to sleep. You don’t want to let it go because it will probably feast on your blood during the night, but you’re too sleepy to get up and launch a major hunting expedition to dispatch the critter. So, you just close your eyes and try to pretend it isn’t there.

I know it might sound stupid to think that Eddie thinks of me like that, but I believe he does. I think he considers Molly the same way. I never see him talk to her or even acknowledge her presence when she’s in the same room with him. I think he puts up with her as a part of the package that came with her mother. Molly doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. It’s just her, her mom and Eddie. I feel kind of sorry for Molly when it comes to family stuff. I mean, my family has always been pretty cool. They at least talk to me, and my parents have managed to keep their marriage together. When I think about how it is at Molly’s house, it makes me appreciate what I have at my home. I know. That sounds sappy, but it’s true.

There are other kids I hang around with. Some of them are in this story. I’ll tell you about them when we get to them. None of them are anywhere close to the kind of friend Molly is. They’re not bad kids. They’re just not Molly.

I have an older brother. His name is Andrew. He’s 16. I used to tease him by saying I was going to skip enough grades in school to pass him up. He didn’t like that very much. My left upper-arm was pretty bruised and sore for a few days the last time I brought it up. I got the message.

Andrew is a good student, but he has to work for his grades. It has never come as easy for him as it has for me. Looking back, I guess I really shouldn’t have given him a hard time like that. Andrew will still be in high school next year when I will be a freshman. He’ll be a senior. It can be advantageous for a freshman to have a brother who is a senior–especially when you are an undersized pipsqueak like I will be when I get there two years too early. I need to work on keeping him interested in my well-being.

Mom and Dad are OK I guess. They don’t have a lot to do with this story, but they are pretty nice considering they’re parents. They’re not mean. I know they love me. Mom can be overprotective. She treats me like I’m five half the time. Dad works too much. He’s not home a lot for dinner. His work keeps him late at the office more nights than not. He’s a good guy. He’s just too busy. That’s really all you need to know about them for now.

I like living in Bradenton. I don’t really have anything much to compare it to. It’s the only place I’ve ever lived, but I know I like it. I love to ride my bike and there’s no flatter place in the world than Bradenton. You can ride for hours and hours and never have to climb a hill. Wind and rain can be a problem. It rains a lot in the summer and wind in your face is no fun when you are riding a bike, but overall, it’s a paradise for a kid with a bike. The winters are really mild. I can ride my bike pretty much any day of the year. It gets cold sometimes in January and February, but not for a lot of days in a row.

The only bad thing about winter is the invasion of the Snowbirds. Snowbirds are people (mostly retired) that live up north in the summer and down here in the winter. It can get super crowded at restaurants and stores when those folks pour in. Mom complains that they make grocery shopping a nightmare. Dad always says we should be happy that they pay so many taxes while they are here that they keep us from having a state income tax. I don’t know about any of that. I just know that the lines at the Western Sizzlin’ are huge in the winter.

The other thing I like about living here is that there are people here from all over the place. I am a rare thing. I was born here. Most people who live here come from somewhere else. That means you get to meet a lot of people from a lot of different places. I think that’s cool. I already told you I don’t have a lot of close friends, but I talk to people easily. Mom says I’ve never met a stranger. I’ll talk to just about anyone. That can be a problem when you are a kid. It makes my mother worry a lot.

One of the people who are not from here is Molly. She was born in Scotland. It wasn’t long after she came along that her parents split up. It must have been bad. They moved here when Molly was just a toddler, so she remembers nothing about living in Scotland, but she goes back there sometimes in the summer for a week or so to visit her grandparents. They’ve visited over here a few times as well. I love to talk to them. They have an accent that never fails to amuse me. I get a hoot out of them saying “house”. It comes out like “hoose”. Molly’s grandpa might say something like, “Eddie, you really have a nice hoose here.” Hysterical.

Now that we’re talking about a house, I guess I should tell you about the old Muldoon place. You will want to know about that house if you are going to read the rest of this story. It’s about a mile or so from where Molly and I live. No one has lived there for as long as I can remember. I think it’s been abandoned for longer than I’ve been alive. The yard is all overgrown and the fence running around the front is broken down completely. The only real part of what was once a fence that’s left is a big old stone arbor right in the middle. I guess the fence once attached to it and I can only imagine that there used to be a gate of some kind in it. Now it’s just a grey, weather-beaten archway with overgrown stepping stones beyond it leading up to the door of the house.

The house itself is a mess. It’s not like the other houses in my neighborhood. Most of them are stucco and have kind of a Florida look to them. You know the kind–Spanish arches, barrel tiles on the roof–that type of stuff. The Muldoon house has siding on it. A lot of it has fallen off over the years and it’s lying around in what used to be mulch beds before the entire yard transformed itself into a giant weed farm. There’s no paint left on the house anywhere. It kind of has a grayish hue all over that adds to the overall creepiness of the place. Several of the windows are broken and the front door is missing altogether. In the back there is a dilapidated in-ground swimming pool with a big horizontal crack running along one side all the way from one end to the other. It fills up part way when the summer rains come. It gets pretty gross. The water is all green and filled with slimy algae all the time. Mosquitoes love it.

There apparently used to be a screened-in cover over the pool area, but that’s all broken down and lying in pieces in the backyard. In the back corner is a doghouse. It looks like someone made it to match the house. It has remnants of the same siding on it and the roof shingles match. Over the door of the doghouse is a wooden nameplate. It’s all worn and hard to make out, but I traced it by putting a piece of paper over it and rubbing it with a pencil. Once I did that, I figured out it said “Sandy” on it.

I’ve been to that house many times. Mom keeps telling me to stay away from it, but it’s just so tempting. Molly and I have foraged around that place dozens of times playing hide and seek and imagining we were archeologists digging up lost civilizations.

To Mom’s credit, it probably is dangerous. It’s a one-story house so there are no stairs to fall down, but there are plenty of other ways to get hurt there. The floor is on a concrete slab so there’s no fear of falling through it, but the roof is sagging, and it would be bad to fall into that old pool. Besides, the whole property looks like a perfect hangout for snakes of every kind imaginable. I definitely do not like snakes. Molly is always teasing me whenever we go to the Muldoon house by pretending to see snakes about every five minutes while we are there. She thinks that’s hilarious–never gets tired of it. Sheesh.

I know I should have obeyed Mom and stayed away from that place, but if we hadn’t kept going there I wouldn’t have this story to tell. It’s a doozy. I told you that you would not believe it when you read it. I probably wouldn’t believe it either if a stranger just walked up and told it to me. Believe it or not, here it is.

The Price

2019-09-24T07:53:00.000-04:00

The following is a small piece I wrote in an attempt to give birth to a character for one of my books. She never panned out, but she still haunts me, years after I penned her story. I'll share it here with the hope that she taps you on the shoulder now and again to remind you that integrity comes at a price. It's a steep fee. The return on the investment may be fleeting. In the end, you may not find happiness, but knowing you have lived a life true to yourself is reward enough. Right?

***

She was always caught between doing what was right and what was profitable. There had been many opportunities to get wealthy, obtain power, wield influence, and make the way generally easier, but they had always been at odds with her personal integrity. It was a price she refused to pay. The stress induced by her struggles had accumulated and manifested itself as lines, wrinkles, grey hair, and a fair amount of resentment. Others had prospered at the expense of those around them while she fell behind. In her idealistic youth she had taken comfort in the fact that she could always say that she had moved ahead on her own merits. She was sure that in the end she would be on top. Now the end had arrived, and she was not on top. She was actually very near the bottom.

It was a bright, sunny morning that greeted her one Saturday in October. The autumn chill hung lightly in the air. It should have energized her, but she had not noticed. Nature’s benevolent greeting had gone unheeded. She walked past her bedroom window and went into her small, tidy bathroom. She winced with each stiff step across the cold tile and cursed the ravages of age. On her way to the toilet she paused at the sink when her reflection cast by the chrome-framed mirror caught her peripheral vision. At least ten percent of the silver had fallen from the back of the glass over the course of countless mornings she had consulted it to arrange her hair or adjust her makeup. As the glittering flakes fell from the mirror, they collected in her ever-graying mane. She didn’t want to, but she turned to face herself in glass. Who was this woman? Her skin was once creamy and smooth with no noticeable imperfections. Her eyes were once bright and seemed to carry a smile all their own apart from the rest of her face. Plump and full, her lips could catch the attention of any man without even a hint of gloss or lipstick.

For a long time, she had held age at bay. Her beauty was resilient and the confidence it gave her lasted well into her fifties and to a certain extent her sixties as well. Then it all seemed to catch up. It was sudden, or so it seemed. She blamed it on the mounting stress of her work. She started her career as a journalist for a newspaper in a large city. Over time, she had become known as a beacon of truth that never shied away from political thin ice. The truth was the truth and would always stand. This was her motto and it made her a trusted source for all things newsworthy. As her popularity among the local population soared, she became increasingly in demand for her insight and opinions regarding people and events that were shaping her community and the world. This led to an opportunity for a radio talk show and eventually the television news anchor desk at the top station in the city. In addition to her anchor duties, she would also be asked to do investigative reporting into local businesses and politicians. This is where the trouble started.

Bribery, threats, slanderous attacks, and personal confrontations with the city’s elite began to take their toll. The mantle of truth-bearer became heavier and heavier. It became harder and harder to maintain integrity in the face of relentless attacks and temptations. She managed to stick to her guns, but the cost was high. Health – both mental and physical – deteriorated to a point of criticality that tore at her appearance. Worry, mental strain, and constantly being in a mode of defense eroded her previously ever-present smile – first into a thin line and finally a grim frown of despair. Her eyes lost their sparkle and took on more of a teary, weeping appearance with prominent crows’ feet and drooping lids. Her once glowing skin became ashen and crisscrossed with bluish veins and cross-hatched lines.

The almost alien face with all its wear and tear glared back at her from the bathroom mirror. In it she saw something. It was a spark of life. It was the last vestige of fire from her youth that drove her to stand up for what she believed in now and to count the cost later. Out from under the layers of fatigue, anger, bitterness, and dissatisfaction it challenged her. It was the dying embers of a life that refused to be snuffed out without a fight. It stirred her. She would not quit now. She finished her trip to the toilet, hastily brushed her teeth and hair, and threw on some clothes. (It didn’t matter which ones.) Stepping into her shoes on the way to the door, she confidently strode across the living room of her apartment. She grabbed the doorknob in her hand and gave it a determined twist. Boldly – almost defiantly – she threw the door open to reveal the outside world to her recharged mind and body. The cool air brushed against her face and swirled around her feet. Her knee began to ache, and she went back to bed.

My Newest Novel - The Bit Dance

2017-10-19T14:53:00.000-04:00

The Bit Dance is now live on Amazon! Check it out...

Buy The Bit Dance Now!

The Bit Dance - Chapter 1

2017-03-04T22:51:00.001-05:00

I am working on a new novel entitled The Bit Dance. Below is the first chapter in early draft form. I am about 80% of the way through the first pass of this story and wanted to share it with anyone who might be interested. This is a very different story from my first novel, Motes. There are no aliens and no deep musings into perspective or theology. It's just a story. I would put it in the "Technological Thriller" category with a dash of marginal science fiction thrown in for fun. At the heart of the story is the concept of hive intelligence as exhibited in nature by common honeybees. My uncle, Fred Ingram, kept bees in order to provide pollination services for his fruit trees. He had no formal training in beekeeping, but he was a real genius in that field. He understood the workings of the hive on a personal and almost intimate level. I remember sitting at the dining table at my father's house talking to Uncle Fred about bees. I was nearly hypnotized by his description of how they work together.

Later on, I did some research on my own about bees and, in particular, the "Bees Algorithm". I'll let you look that up on your own, but the combination of my conversation with my uncle and my subsequent research launched this story. I hope this chapter makes you want to read more. It's not very deep with regard to the plot because I use it to introduce my main protagonist and her family, but maybe your interest will be piqued anyway. And yes, a young person is at the center of my story once more. This is not a YA novel, but I really identify with youth and I have a lot of fond memories of a really terrific childhood. I guess that's why characters in that stage of life tend to dominate the landscape of my art.

So - without further delay, here's the opening chapter of The Bit Dance...

***********************************

Present Day

“Go!”

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“Stop!”

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“STOP! STOP! STOP!”

Bang. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“Man! Stupid Bluetooth! Can't believe this. Stupid thing won't listen!”

Kayla Henry stomped sock-footed down the hall from the open doorway to her bedroom toward an overturned toy monster truck. The truck's drive wheels were still spinning, its controls oblivious to the juxtaposition of the surface of the wheels and the floor. Kayla unhooked the Bluetooth earpiece from the side of her head and placed the microphone directly in front of her mouth.

“STOP!” she yelled. The little electric motor continued unabated. Kayla growled and made a halfhearted and failed attempt to stuff the earpiece into the pocket of her jeans, resulting in it tumbling onto the carpet. She snatched the toy from the floor and flipped the power switch on the bottom of the truck to the “off” position. Bereft of electric power, the motor whined to a stop and the wheels finally ceased their fruitless spinning.

The truck was no ordinary toy. Sure, it started out that way. It began its existence as a Chinese-manufactured, radio-controlled prize found under the Henry family Christmas tree five years prior. It was a gift for Kayla's older brother, Seth. After about six or eight months, Seth’s enthusiastic play habits had managed to render the toy inoperable and it had gotten tossed into the trash along with its wireless controller. Seth's trash, like so many other battery operated offcasts from the Henry family, became Kayla's treasure.

Kayla’s treasure chest was a large cardboard box in her closet. The top edge was ragged all the way around - evidence of the hasty removal of its lid. It had once contained a twenty-five inch television from the era of cathode ray tubes. In its new life, it was a bin for anything Kayla thought she might be able to turn into something else someday. There were old remote controls, broken radios, electric motors salvaged from myriad toys and small household appliances, wire, battery compartments, light bulbs, LEDs and even circuit boards. Over the span of the most recent years of Kayla's young life, a remarkable parade of amusing inventions had been brought to life from the scraps in that box. Most of them involved battery power and sported lights of some kind. Without exception, they moved in some way.

Kayla’s creations started out pretty simple. A wind-up motor from a music box was repurposed to drive a little plastic car. No batteries or lights - but pretty impressive for the then nine year old Kayla. She was almost fifteen now. Each successive invention over the years had been more sophisticated and more complex than its predecessor. At thirteen, Kayla had discovered computer programming. It was a small leap from there to the understanding of embedded systems that controlled things like DVD players and mobile phones. She took to programming in the same way most young people take to basic skills like reading and simple mathematics. It was all intuition for her. She absorbed syntax rules as easily as she had memorized the alphabet as a preschooler.

The monster truck experiment was a foray into hacking into a specific embedded system, that of a discarded mobile phone. Kayla had modified its functionality so that it could be hard-wired into the directional and drive controls of the toy. Input came via Bluetooth. If she could have figured out how to pair the phone with more than one Bluetooth device, she could have avoided the soldering required to get the phone to communicate with the truck. In the end, she gave up on this. Bluetooth could support up to seven slave devices connected to one master, but Kayla had not developed the skill to make this happen. Next time, maybe.

A solder joint turned out to be the culprit responsible for the current technical difficulty. Patience was not a virtue that Kayla possessed in great quantities. Her solder joints tended to be haphazard and insecure. A particularly insufficient joint had given way as the toy had sped along the carpeted hallway, bouncing on its knobby rubber tires. The phone had received Kayla’s simple command to stop the toy. Her software had recognized it thanks to the phone’s built-in voice recognition routines that Kayla had accessed. The problem was that the software had no way to get its message to the toy’s on-board controls. As a result, the last command received continued to be carried out. That command was telling the truck simply to go forward.

Kayla sighed and drooped her shoulders when she discovered the failed solder joint. She groaned with self-disappointment. She hated making mistakes like that. They plagued her. It was never enough to make her a more careful builder, however. The cycle repeated itself over and over. A seemingly brilliant plan would crumble under the weight of carelessness or be thrown off course by a weakness introduced by a shortcut. The ragged television box held remnants of dozens of partially successful, but ultimately useless inventions. Ninety percent there, ten percent from victory, doomed by self-inflicted discouragement.

And so the monster truck debacle became one in a seemingly endless line of near triumphs. Even though the project may have been salvaged by a half hour or so with a soldering iron, Kayla gave up on it and tossed the Frankenstein toy into the television box. Maybe she would scavenge it for parts later. It wasn’t good enough. Nothing was good enough. Not for Kayla. Certainly not for her father.

Alan Henry was Kayla’s father and a senior product engineer for Icarus Innovations, Incorporated, or I3 as everyone called it. I3 was the world-wide leader in the development of high tech toys. As the holiday season approached each year, reporters and stock analysts would speculate about what new wonders would emerge from the skunk works at I3. For over a decade, they had never been disappointed. Year after year, toy after toy shattered the previous season’s sales records. Just when you thought I3 could not come up with anything new or more innovative than what had already been produced, they outdid themselves again.

Alan was a big reason for this long string of successes. He was not only brilliant, but driven. It was no secret that he wanted the world to recognize him for his gifts. His dream was to have a research facility at a major university named in his honor. Fame and fortune were his goals - very much in that order. Riches would be nice, but fame would last forever. This is what drove Alan Henry.

Part of leaving a lasting legacy involved the production of high quality progeny. It was clear that Alan’s firstborn, Seth, was not about to follow in his footsteps. Seth was an average student who was more interested in sports and girls than books. Kayla, however, was different. She had an engineer’s spirit and a healthy dose of Alan’s intellect coded deep into her DNA. She was where Alan would invest so that his work, his name and his fame would live on. His obsession with molding Kayla in his own image bordered on psychosis, but fell shy of full-blown megalomania. It was probably best described by Kayla herself when she called it a case of severely annoying narcissism.

So, while Seth plodded through adolescence and the teen years largely ignored by his father, Kayla received a steady diet of scrutiny, pressure and unrealistic expectations. Even though Kayla was clearly an exceptional kid, she never moved fast enough for Alan. Every time she came up with a newly invented creation or conquered some new programming hurdle, Alan would find a flaw and dash her enthusiasm against jagged rocks of derision. After a while, she stopped sharing. Someday, she hoped to come up with a genuine home run - a breakthrough or discovery or creation that would be so perfect and so amazing that even her father could not find fault with it. She promised herself that she would someday make her father proud. Someday, she would prove herself worthy to call herself the daughter of the incomparable Alan Henry.

***

Seth, on the other hand, could not have cared less about Alan’s approval of his accomplishments, modest as they were. He had managed to pass every grade in school so far without being held back, although there had been some close calls. He had pitched a two-hitter in Little League and had run for a fifty-seven yard touchdown as a running back on the junior varsity squad in high school. He had also successfully talked his mother into allowing him to get his learner’s permit to drive. He was especially proud of that one. It had been almost a year now that he had been practicing by taking his mom to the grocery store, the bank, the mall and any other place she needed to go. He was sixteen and old enough to get a real, unrestricted driver’s license. That was next on his list.

Alan thought all of these things were mundane and wholly unremarkable. They were mere necessities of life or meaningless competitions that anyone could conquer. He felt this way even though he could never master throwing a ball in any direction other than wildly off target and had barely triumphed over bike riding at the ripe old age of nine. Only academic pursuits amounted to anything in his ledger. Seth had nothing to offer in that area so he was essentially a lost cause.

Alan’s wife, Marie, had a much more even-handed attitude about her children. Both were equally precious and equally deserving of her love and attention. She attended all of Seth’s sporting events and cheered him on when he brought home a passing grade in a particularly challenging subject like algebra or world history. She tried to compensate for Alan’s dismissal of Seth by encouraging him whenever she could.

Marie felt compassion for Kayla’s plight as well. She saw the hurt in Kayla’s eyes whenever Alan would tear at her self-esteem. It cut her deeply that Alan seemed unable to see past his own arrogance and recognize the true value of his daughter. She knew that he would regret it someday when Kayla was grown and out on her own. The world would appreciate Kayla as an adult even if her father could not appreciate her as a teenager. Alan was missing his chance to walk alongside his child and relish in her growth and development. This situation was a source of no small amount of sadness for Marie. On more than a few occasions, she had attempted to reach Alan and change his attitude about his kids, but these efforts always ended in arguments.

***

So Seth trudged on, making the best of his relationship with his father and leaning on his mother to keep him from spiraling into depression borne of rejection. Kayla wallowed in self-doubt and tormented herself trying to think of a way to finally live up to her father’s unrealistic expectations. Marie prayed for strength and for the right words to salve her children’s psyches.

Meanwhile, Alan poured himself, body and soul, into his work at I3. Better. Faster. More advanced. More appealing. Higher sales figures. Work was everything. The holiday season was over half a year away, but six or eight months could fly by in what seemed like a heartbeat. I3 was frantically working on yet another blockbuster hit. Alan was right at the heart of it.

Unfollowers?

2016-11-21T15:22:00.000-05:00

I have recently discovered that a few of my Facebook friends have decided that they no longer wish to see my posts in their feed. They have “unfollowed” me. Technically, we are still “friends”, but they just don’t really care about anything I have to say. Meanwhile, they are still keenly interested in my validating their every move with a “Like” or some kind of “attaboy!” comment.

I’ve been trying pretty hard to figure out what I have done to deserve this level of ignorance, but I am at a loss. I have, however, determined a pattern. All of the “unfollowers” are people who have political views that range from slightly to astronomically different from my own. This makes me sad. I treasure my friends with opposing viewpoints. They keep me honest. They challenge me when I stray too far from simple truth and into areas of emotional minefields. I learn from them. I hope they learn from me. In all cases, I am respectful of everyone’s opinion. I never name-call. I never belittle.

I went back through my posts. I found some with political content. I re-read them. I re-re-read them. I read the comments and discussions attached to them. I found no hate. I found no vitriol. I found no ardent support for one or the other divisive candidate. I did find some criticism of both candidates and one former president. None of this was hurled hatefully, but rather in response to a news article or posting by some other person. I also found some historical references that really didn’t take a side, but that sparked some lively conversation. In none of this, however, did I find any disgust, disrespect or even any overly sharp, unresolved disagreement.

All I can say is that it appears some of my associates cannot take even the slightest measure of disagreement without running for a “Safe Place” far away from my stinging monologues. (Tongue firmly in cheek.) I’ll say it again. This makes me sad.

I first joined Facebook years ago in response to an invitation from an old college buddy. I was thrilled to catch up with so many old friends from my past. Some were schoolmates. Some were colleagues. Some were family. It was all good. I celebrated with them when they shared their joys. I placed my virtual arms around them when they shared their grief. Facebook was a good place to be. I was among friends. All of that changed in 2016.

You might wonder how I know who has “unfollowed” me and what made me even think about it. It really hit home this past week. My family experienced a horrific tragedy. All of my relatives close to me huddled together to support one another – as families are supposed to do. I thought of my Facebook circle and craved the comfort of the friendship I have so often found there. I posted a few updates. Support poured in from dozens of really terrific people offering condolences, support and prayer. It was a good thing. But then something started to dawn on me. As I scrolled down the list of people who had reacted to my posts, a few names were conspicuous in their absence. There were names missing - names I had followed for years and cheered on when they got a new job, were given some kind of reward, had a child accomplish a milestone or garnered some kind of praise. There were names missing that I had whispered in my prayers so that they may receive divine comfort or blessings – names I numbered as blessings of my own as I counted them among my friends.

I told myself that I was being foolish. It’s ridiculous to think that every acquaintance will see every post I make on Facebook. It’s even more ridiculous to expect them to step up and chime in on every single event in my life. It is. It really is. I miss tons of them myself and hope my friends are not hurt by it. I’m not making that kind of point. With hopeful optimism I scanned down my timeline. With each entry I read, my heart sank. The same names were missing each and every time. No post had unanimous responses, of course. But, the same few names were among the missing going back months.

I then decided to look at the timelines belonging to the missing friends. Without fail, these were people who figuratively rain posts down onto Facebook and who must spend countless hours watching their notifications mount up. They are also the ones who appear countless times on other, mutual friends’ posts with gleeful contributions to conversation after conversation.

This kind of narcissism is not what Facebook is supposed to be about – at least not for me. It began as a wonderful place for me to share a laugh, share a cry, and share the moments of my life with people I care about. Yeah – I sometimes brag about my kids on Facebook. I sometimes rejoice at my own accomplishments. I sometimes even have an opinion about something. I expect my friends to do the same. This is not the only thing that defines a friendship, but it certainly is a cornerstone. People who only want a one-sided friendship are being victimized by their own selfishness and insecurity. I feel sorry for them – but I don’t need them in my Facebook circle.

So – for those of you who still bother to keep up with what I am doing and what happens to me, thank you. If you should get the urge to “unfollow” me because of something I posted, here’s an idea. Talk to me about it. Imagine that! If your feelings are just too hurt to open that dialog, do me a favor. Don’t “unfollow” me. Just drop me altogether.

Man's Disproportion - Blaise Pascal

2016-10-26T16:12:00.000-04:00

It is no secret to those who know me that I am a huge fan of 17th century philosopher, mathematician and towering polymath, Blaise Pascal. The excerpt below is from his collection of thoughts entitled Pensées. It is a large part of the inspiration for my novel, Motes. Read. Enjoy. Have your mind blown. Marvel at the genius that produced this nearly four hundred years ago.

***

Let man then contemplate the whole of nature in her full and grand majesty, and turn his vision from the low objects which surround him. Let him gaze on that brilliant light, set like an eternal lamp to illumine the universe; let the earth appear to him a point in comparison with the vast circle described by the sun; and let him wonder at the fact that this vast circle is itself but a very fine point in comparison with that described by the stars in their revolution round the firmament. But if our view be arrested there, let our imagination pass beyond; it will sooner exhaust the power of conception than nature that of supplying material for conception. The whole visible world is only an imperceptible atom in the ample bosom of nature. No idea approaches it. We may enlarge our conceptions beyond all imaginable space; we only produce atoms in comparison with the reality of things. It is an infinite sphere, the centre of which is everywhere, the circumference nowhere. In short it is the greatest sensible mark of the almighty power of God, that imagination loses itself in that thought.

Returning to himself, let man consider what he is in comparison with all existence; let him regard himself as lost in this remote corner of nature; and from the little cell in which he finds himself lodged, I mean the universe, let him estimate at their true value the earth, kingdoms, cities, and himself. What is a man in the Infinite?

But to show him another prodigy equally astonishing, let him examine the most delicate things he knows. Let a mite be given him, with its minute body and parts incomparably more minute, limbs with their joints, veins in the limbs, blood in the veins, humours in the blood, drops in the humours, vapours in the drops. Dividing these last things again, let him exhaust his powers of conception, and let the last object at which he can arrive be now that of our discourse. Perhaps he will think that here is the smallest point in nature. I will let him see therein a new abyss. I will paint for him not only the visible universe, but all that he can conceive of nature's immensity in the womb of this abridged atom. Let him see therein an infinity of universes, each of which has its firmament, its planets, its earth, in the same proportion as in the visible world; in each earth animals, and in the last mites, in which he will find again all that the first had, finding still in these others the same thing without end and without cessation. Let him lose himself in wonders as amazing in their littleness as the others in their vastness. For who will not be astounded at the fact that our body, which a little while ago was imperceptible in the universe, itself imperceptible in the bosom of the whole, is now a colossus, a world, or rather a whole, in respect of the nothingness which we cannot reach? He who regards himself in this light will be afraid of himself, and observing himself sustained in the body given him by nature between those two abysses of the Infinite and Nothing, will tremble at the sight of these marvels; and I think that, as his curiosity changes into admiration, he will be more disposed to contemplate them in silence than to examine them with presumption.

For in fact what is man in nature? A Nothing in comparison with the Infinite, an All in comparison with the Nothing, a mean between nothing and everything. Since he is infinitely removed from comprehending the extremes, the end of things and their beginning are hopelessly hidden from him in an impenetrable secret, he is equally incapable of seeing the Nothing from which he was made, and the Infinite in which he is swallowed up.

What will he do then, but perceive the appearance of the middle of things, in an eternal despair of knowing either their beginning or their end. All things proceed from the Nothing, and are borne towards the Infinite. Who will follow these marvellous processes? The Author of these wonders understands them. None other can do so.

Pronunciation Guide for Motes

2016-07-29T15:48:00.000-04:00

It has come to my attention that the pronunciation of some of the names and places in my novel, Motes, elude many readers. In an attempt to remedy this, I have created a list of character names, places and other words that might be troublesome. Most of these words are Darjian in origin. The language of the Mu’ahi is, of course, nothing like any language found on Earth. The way these words are expressed in the book are approximations as close as can be done using common English letters.

I hope this guide is interesting and useful for you and that it brings you more enjoyment from your reading. It is by no means exhaustive. If there are additional words from the book you would like me to expound upon, drop me a message here or send an e-mail to tilmerwrightjr@gmail.com.

If this post confuses you because you are unfamiliar with my book, you can find a nice review here... http://redcityreview.com/reviews/motes-by-tilmer-wright-jr/ Or - you could just bop on over to Amazon and buy a paperback or Kindle copy for your very own. (Hint, hint.) Also - if you have Amazon Prime and a Kindle, you can borrow the book for free from the Kindle Owners' Lending Library. Here's a handy-dandy link for you. https://amzn.com/1484855000

Enough marketing - on with the guide!

Names of Characters

Zhor Remmin – Daughter of Lah

“Zor” – Rhymes with “Four”

“Remmin” – Rhymes with “Lemon”

Lah Remmin – Father of Zhor

“La”, as in “Fa-la-la-la-la”

Axila Remmin – Mother of Zhor

“Axe” + “I” as in “Kitten” + “La”. Accent is on the middle syllable. Rhymes roughly with “Godzilla”.

Thom Finch – Son of Hugh

Pronounced like “Tom”. The “H” is silent, as in “Thomas”.

Nar Synna – Commander

“Nar” rhymes with “Car”. “Synna” is pronounced like the first two syllables of “Cinnamon”.

Kel Transik – Scout

“Kel” rhymes with “Tell”. Last name is pronounced “TRAN-sick”

Coe Bahrn – Scout

“Coe” rhymes with “Snow”. “Bahrn” is pronounced just like “Barn”.

Og Hassit – Scout Team Manager

“Og” rhymes with “Cog”. “Hassit” is pronounced “HASS-it”

Lum Ihtwal – Keeper of the Holy Scriptures of Ro’ini

“Lum” rhymes with “Gum”.

“Ihtwal is pronounced “IT-wall”

Sku Guytl – Engineer

“Sku” rhymes with “True”. “Guytl” is pronounced “GUY-tull” with a de-emphasis on the short “u” sound. Run the “T” and “L” together, just as it looks.

Ghama Ettinor – Linguist

“Ghama” rhymes with “Pajama”. “Ettinor” is pronounced “ETT-in-or”, pretty much like it looks.

Tya Habb – Linguist

“Tya” is pronounced “TIE-ah”. “Habb” rhymes with “Crab”.

Ymata Kalzor – Navigator

“Ymata” is pronounced “ee-MAH-tah”. “Kalzor” is pronounced “KAL-zor”. The “Zor” portion is pronounced just like Zhor’s name.

Ahrv Golzhin – Scout Khalana

The “H” is silent in “Ahrv”. The name rhymes with “Carve”. “Golzhin” is pronounced “GOAL-zin”. The “Zin” portion rhymes with “Pin”.

Dit Tanno – Scout Khalana

“Dit” rhymes with “Kit”. “Tanno” is pronounced “TAN-no”.

Xix Chronna – Mu’ahi physicist who was the first to propose “bending”

“Xix” rhymes with “Kicks” and begins with a “Z” sound as in “Zoo”

“Chronna” rhymes with the western name, “Donna”

Cuyt Mullek – Early pioneer in bending technology

“Cuyt” is pronounced “COO-eat”

“Mullek” is pronounced “MULL-ick”

Ro’ini – Deity to the Mu’ahi

Pronounced “row-EE-knee”

Lord Feynhardt – a hero of epic proportions

“Feynhardt” is pronounced like “FINE-heart”.

Duke of Ramshead – an evil grabber of things not belonging to him.

Pronounce the Duke’s place of origin as “Ram’s Head”. Some have thought this was “Ram Shed”.

The following names are pretty common so their pronunciation should be obvious.

Hugh Finch – Father of Thom

Barbara Finch – Mother of Thom

Ella Finch – Sister of Thom

Eliot Williams – Thom’s best friend

Jeff Stover – Professor

Max Highsmith – Reverend

Mae Combs – NSA Agent

Roger Bishop – Homeland Security

Edward Davison – Bishop’s partner

Beth Holbrook – FBI Special Agent

Evan Calabrese – Holbrook’s partner

Noah Weatherly – FCC

Maureen Clearwater – Technician

Doyle Winstead - CIA

Princess Elise – One to be rescued

Places

Darj – Home planet of the Mu’ahi

“Dar” alone rhymes with “Car”. Add a “J” sound like at the beginning of words like “Jealous” and run the two sounds together as one syllable.

Za’ahana – The Darjian sun

Pronounced “zah-a- HA-na”. All of the “A” sounds are the same – as found in words like “Car”.

Ammonarsik – Largest city on Darj

Pronounced “am-un-ARE-sick”

Other Words

Mu - A single being from the planet Darj
Pronounced just like the sound a cow makes

Mu'ahi - More than one Mu
Pronounced "MOO-ah-HEE"

Mullek – The largest harvest vessel ever built by the Mu’ahi – named after Cuyt Mullek

Pronounced “MULL-ick”

Eloni – The harvest ship previous to the Mullek

Pronounced “Eh-LOW-knee”

Khalona – A team leader

Pronounced “Kah-LOW-nah”

Now - go read the book again (or for the first time) and relish in your newfound knowledge!

Two Little Birds

2016-04-26T14:25:00.000-04:00

I am a man of faith. That does not mean I am superstitious, but rather that I believe in an Almighty God who is sovereign over all of creation. Superstition implies such things as “luck” and other random occurrences outside of the parameters of expected events. Faith, on the other hand, implies trusting in the nature of a loving Creator whose ways and actions are not always readily evident – but rather rely on belief for acceptance.

God’s nature is beyond our understanding and is therefore by definition “above nature” or “supernatural”. This is where many people confuse faith and superstition, but I will not labor on that point anymore or else risk making this post overly boring.

I believe that God is capable of speaking to us, His creation, in any form He chooses. I believe that this communication at one time was audible speech as recorded in the Holy Bible. I believe that while God certainly could speak audibly to us now, he chooses not to for reasons that His wisdom conceals. We may hear His subtle voice privately in our ears or we may receive messages from Him via sermons or music that He has inspired in other people. He may also choose to speak to us in myriad other ways, as situations demand and His decisions dictate.

I say all of the above in an attempt to lay a foundation for what I am about to share. If I were to read what I am about to write without some kind of context and without familiarity with the author, I would conclude that it was written by a deranged or possibly dishonest individual. I hope you think I am neither of those things, even after you read this.

Here goes.

I walk my sixty-pound mutt of a dog every day before dawn. As we approach the warmer months, the tail end of my walk usually sees the sun start to light the morning sky. It’s a quiet time and much of my walk takes me through a wooded area in my neighborhood bereft of houses on both sides. I always use the time I am walking in this area to conduct my morning prayers. I call out to God and thank Him for allowing me to live in His grace on His good, green earth. I thank Him for the privilege of approaching His throne with my petty, and sometimes selfish, petitions. I express my gratitude for His one and only Son who suffered, bled, died and rose again to give me the key to the throne room itself. I follow this introductory thanks with a simple outpouring of my daily concerns.

My prayers of late have been centered around direction. What does God want me to do with the remainder of my years? My kids are getting older. I need to help them make the transition to adulthood. How should I counsel them? How should I help get them ready for college and what lies beyond? How should I be investing my time so that my wife and I have a profitable and enjoyable life after the nest is empty? What kind of career choices should I be making? These are all questions that are too large for me to tackle alone. I ask for help. I ask for whispers in my ear from the Holy Spirit. I ask for discernment so that I can tell the difference between those whispers and the shouting of voices from the world. Such was my prayer today – April 28^th, 2016. I ended it with the usual invocation of the name of Jesus and continued on my walk.

As I walked, I became aware of a light rustling in the bushes to my left. Suddenly, a female cardinal fluttered out of the greenery, flew directly across my path (only inches from me) and landed in the street to my right. She cocked her head, emitted a light chirp and then flew away. “What a pretty little bird,” I thought to myself as I resumed my walk. I often encounter birds, deer, armadillos, opossums and other wildlife on my strolls, but this little bird practically brushed across my chest.

I arrived back at my house, put the dog away, got in my car, drove my daughter to school and then made my usual twelve-mile commute through Pinellas County to my office. I pulled into a space at the back of the parking lot and turned off the ignition. Immediately, a fiery red male cardinal landed on my passenger side window sill and thumped the glass with his wings. Startled, I looked over at him. He chirped softly and then flew to a tree right next to my car. He sat there for about a minute looking at me before flying away and out of sight.

So…

Is this merely odd coincidence or an attempt to get my attention? Sadly, I’m too thick-headed to readily grasp the meaning (or non-meaning) of these avian encounters; however, I have resigned myself to this much. I believe that these little birds did have a message for me. I don’t know if there’s more to their message or how deep it goes, but I’m convinced that at the very least my Heavenly Father sent me a feathered receipt for my prayerful deposit this morning. I spoke. He heard me. He then told me that He heard me in a way He hoped I would understand. For that I am thankful. I am hopeful. I wait upon His will in my life and I am ready to do my part in it.

And here’s the best part – for you at least. If Almighty God takes the time to send two little birds to comfort a lowly child like me, then surely He cares for you. He hears you. He listens. He responds. He loves you. Two little birds told me.

Republicans are Towering Idiots

2016-03-16T16:30:00.002-04:00

I am proudly registered to vote as an “Independent”. That’s right. No “R” or “D” on my card. It says, “NPA” – “NO PARTY AFFILIATION”. That’s because in my opinion, both the “R” party and the “D” party are full of nothing but self-serving, borderline megalomaniac idiots. I’ll save the ideological venom I have for the “D” clowns for now. I want to focus on just how mind-bogglingly stupid the Republicans are here in 2016. If you are reading this 50 years from now you might find it hard to believe. More likely, you will think to yourself, “Oh, so that’s how it all started” as you strain to read the text printed on yellowing, cheaply made paper through your generic, government-issued eyeglasses.

I am writing this little rant on Wednesday, March 16, 2016. It is one day after the Florida primaries. What is left of the Republican party is in a panic. They started out with seventeen (yes, seventeen) candidates lined up to run for the office of President of the United States. At the outset, the projected nominee from the Democrats was a filthy liar (at best) and probable felon, Hillary Clinton. (Sorry. A little venom dripped out there.) The presidency was ripe for the picking given this pitiful offering from the left. As a result, a plethora of candidates lined up to take their stab at it. Now that we are oh so deep into the primary season, it has become clear to everyone except the mental midgets running the Republican Party that pretty much everyone hates them all. They are hated because they are self-absorbed liars, hypocrites, and cowering wimps. Most of the current Republican Congress population got elected by claiming to be fiscally conservative and dedicated to fixing all of the cronyism and corruption in Washington. They pretty much were unanimous in lying through their teeth the whole time they were saying these things. People got mad. Meanwhile, the Democrats mumbled to themselves about how mind-bogglingly stupid the Republicans were acting when they had been given a golden opportunity (and a mandate from the people) to do pretty much anything they wanted. But hey! The debt-fest could continue unabated. Corrupt anal pores on the left could take comfort in the fact that the sphincters on the right were just as black-hearted and selfish as they were.

But they all forgot about the people.

The people came out and started voting in the primaries in large numbers. They decided that the one thing they could do that might make a little bit of a difference was vote. And, since there were two candidates in the race that all politicians seemed to universally hate, they got most of the votes. Ted Cruz, even though he was an elected Senator from Texas, got votes because all of his enemies tried to denounce him by saying he could not get along with anyone in Washington. Ding! The people said, “Great! Neither can I!” The other vote-getter, and currently the front-runner, was Donald Trump. Trump stormed onto the stage with rhetoric that was loud, obnoxious, foul-mouthed, and bombastic. He may be mentally ill. He hates all politicians equally (or at least claims to) and they all universally hate him. (No claim there. They do hate him and are proud of it.)

Since none of the “good old boys” can win the nomination, all of them are banding together and actually seriously considering circumventing the will of the people and contesting the nomination at the RNC. I do not like Donald Trump. I don’t trust him because I have seen him on two sides of too many issues in too short of a time. I don’t know who he is. But – and here’s the important part – if he is the top vote-getter, then he wins the nomination. If he gets the most votes in the general election, then he is the President. That’s how it works. You can’t just change the rules because your guy didn’t win. This is not schoolyard dodgeball we are playing here. I didn’t vote for Barack Obama. I do not agree with many of his policies and ideological beliefs. But – again – he was duly elected so he is the President, whether I like it or not.

If the dumb-as-a-turd-sandwich Republicans scuttle the voting process and just nominate an establishment candidate against the spoken will of the people, they will be destroying themselves. I suspect the party will never recover from it. People hate stuff. People hate feeling like they are being swept under the rug more than most other stuff. Millions come out to vote in primaries. They go out of their way. They make themselves late for work. They stand in line. They vote. The ones who do vote believe in the process. Step on that belief at your peril.

All of this should be screamingly obvious to even the most obtuse dullard, yet my gut tells me that the Republicans will continue on their death march. I’m going to go all Nostradamus on your butts here and formulate my own prediction. Tune in come November and see how I did.

Trump continues to steamroll opponents in the primaries despite a valiant fight from Ted Cruz.
Kasich, in his mania, remains in the race until the bitter end, hoping to be the guy who gets tapped by the “Good Old Boys” at the convention, even though he waltzes in with fewer than 200 delegates to his name.
Cruz drops out once he sees that the math cannot work anymore. I think he’s the smartest of the ones left so he will know when he’s beaten.
Mitt Romney and the rest of the Robo-Republicans wring their hands with self-righteous angst and announce that they are going to have to “consider” how things have fallen out and how best to beat the Democratic competition.
Meanwhile, on the “D” side, Hillary Clinton collects enough delegates to win. The FBI mysteriously delays any decision about the ongoing investigation into her e-mail server. At least one witness associated with this investigation ends up dead – a suicide victim with two bullet wounds in his head. Bernie Sanders cries and smokes a joint to calm his nerves. Close examination of ballots would reveal that he actually beat Clinton, but nobody beats a Clinton and lives to tell about it. So – Hillary wins.
The RNC is a joke – and not a funny one. Trump supporters, outnumbering establishment butt-heads two to one, protest loudly. Kasich beats his fists on his knees in despair as the party nominates Paul Ryan – who wasn’t even running. Ryan picks Romney as VP. Trump people storm out of the convention, possibly starting a fire or two on the way out. They, along with all of the Cruz voters, vow to never vote for a Republican again.
Trump forms a third party campaign and splits the Republican vote in the fall. Conservatives hold their noses and vote for him while the hypocritical posers vote for the establishment candidate Ryan.
Hillary Clinton waltzes into office essentially unopposed.

Heaven help us.

The Blues

2016-01-29T10:08:00.000-05:00

The Blues

An old friend of mine gave me this years ago. It's not my original work. If someone knows who deserves credit for this, please let me know and I will append this post accordingly. It really hits my funny bone so I thought I should share with you. It's not a "story" but it's still entertaining.

***

After decades of academic research, the following has emerged as a codification of the blues.

1. Most Blues begin, "Woke up this morning."

2. "I got a good woman," is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line: "I got a good woman with the meanest dog in town."

3. The Blues are simple. After you have the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes ... sort of: "Got a good woman with the meanest dog in town. He got teeth like Margaret Thatcher and he weigh 500 pound.: "

4. The Blues are not about limitless choice.

5. Blues cars are Chevys and Cadillacs. The Blues cannot travel in Volvos, BMWs, Toyotas, or any sport -utility vehicles. Other acceptable Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train; jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools are out of the question. Walkin' plays a major part in the blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die.

6. Teenagers can't sing the Blues. Adults sing the Blues. Blues "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.

7. You can have the Blues in New York City, but not in Hamilton, Ontario, or Vancouver B.C. Hard times in Saskatchewan or Nova Scotia is just depression. Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City are still the best places to have the Blues.

8. The following colors do not belong in the blues:

violet
beige
mauve

9. You can't have the Blues in an office or a shopping mall. The lighting is wrong.

10. Good places for the Blues:

the highway
the jailhouse
an empty bed

Bad places:

Ashrams
gallery openings
Ivy League institutions

11. No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, unless you happen to be an old man, and you slept in it.

12. Do you have the right to sing the Blues? Yes, if:

your first name is a southern state-like Georgia
you're blind
you shot a man in Memphis
you can't be satisfied

No, if:

you were once blind but now can see
you're deaf
you have a retirement plan or trust fund

13. Neither Celine Dion nor Anne Murray can sing the Blues.

14. If you ask for water and Baby gives you gasoline, it's the Blues. Other acceptable Blues beverages are:

wine
whiskey or bourbon
muddy water
black coffee

The following are NOT Blues beverages

any mixed drink
any wine kosher for Passover
Snapple (all flavors)

15. If it occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die. So is the electric chair, substance abuse, or being denied treatment in an emergency room. It is not a Blues death if you die during a golf tournament or while undergoing liposuction.

16. Some Blues names for women :

Sadie
Big Mama
Bessie

17. Some Blues names for men:

Joe
Willie
Little Willie
Big Willie

18. Other Blues names (starter kit):

name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame, etc.)
first name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Kiwi, etc.)
last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, etc.)

For example, Blind Lime Jefferson, or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc.

19. Persons with names like Sierra, Sequoia, and Rainbow will not be permitted to sing the Blues no matter how many men they've shot in Memphis.

Check out my groovy novel - Motes

2013-10-02T15:20:00.004-04:00

If you stumble upon this lowly blog in your travels about the ether, please take a moment to consider this lovely novel created by yours truly...

http://amzn.com/1484855000

Economic Relief from Burger King

2012-08-20T12:11:00.000-04:00

You know, this recession thing has just dragged and dragged and dragged on. I don't care what the talking heads on the TV are saying these days, it's still rough out there. You've got to pinch every penny you can. I mean it. If you're gonna make your mortgage payment, you can't be frittering cash away on anything that's not only unnecessary but also overpriced in the least. Gas, food, clothing and seems like everything else is through the dang roof!

And nobody cares.

Nobody, that is, except Burger King.

As a rule, I avoid Burger King because I'm not a real big fan of explosive diarrhea or clogged arteries, but man they make a mean breakfast. Those croissant things - they oh so cleverly call them "CROISSAN'WICH" are awesome. Those are not my upper case letters - they're theirs. Shout it out BK! Those are some seriously good breakfast fast food eatin'. Yum.

Now - another tasty breakfast treat at this establishment is the treat known as "French Toast Sticks". What a terrific invention. So, you say you like French toast, but you're on the go. You're texting with one hand and holding your Starbuck's with two fingers of your other hand while trying to keep a grip on your steering wheel with two more - saving the fifth for the occasional obscene gesture. Tradition French toast on a plate just won't work. Up steps BK with the culinary masterpiece - French Toast Sticks. Man, you can just grab these at the drive thru and dump them out on your passenger seat, fishing for one from time to time while gripping your iPhone in your teeth, then dunking it in what Burger King calls "sweet syrup" on their web site. The little syrup cup can sit in your cup holder - you're not using that for anything else. Finally, you execute the deft maneuver of grabbing your phone from your mouth and replacing it with the dripping, sugary log of goodness that is the French Toast Stick.

Hey and those will really stick to your ribs (or something inside you). They're loaded. The BK web site says that a 5-pack sports 500 calories, 18 grams of fat and 30 grams of sugar. Awesome.

So it's a no-brainer. You can enjoy the delicacy of a French toast breakfast without actually having to use a table, a plate or even a fork. What a great country! The only real decision is which do you want, the 3-pack or the 5-pack?

Fortunately, the good folks at Burger King, keeping our current economic situation in mind, have made this easier for us. Sure, you're hungry enough to eat a 5-pack, but you're not sure you can afford it. You dig frantically in the cracks of your seats, your floorboard and your cup holder to try to scavenge up enough dough. How much are these things anyway? Cheap! See the sign?

OK - so I can buy 3 for $1.00 or 5 for $1.99.

Thinking, thinking, counting change, calculating tax, rubbing empty tummy, thinking...

Hey! Wait a minute!

Suddenly you spy a reward for the sharper minded patrons at the BK! Ha! You can buy TWO three packs for $2.00! That's only one measly cent more than the five pack and you get one more whole stick of who knows what (actually) than if you bought the 5-pack. If your math is right, you score 100 more calories for that penny. You become slightly giddy at the realization that you are quite possibly a genius. Surely, you are in the upper echelon of Burger King diners because you have discovered the prize - you have solved the puzzle, cracked the code, opened the secret door to breakfast Nirvana. I mean, seriously. The only way BK can afford to toss in that extra stick for one penny is by scamming the dumber customers into buying that $1.99 5-pack. Suckers.

No longer thinking - thinking is done, thank you very much. Now you dig for that change. Ha! There's a quarter, a couple of dimes, some pennies, a nickel or two. Dig, dig, dig. There you have it. Confidently, you bark your order into the little speaker box at the drive-thru. "I'll have two 3-packs of French Toast Sticks," you say with confidence and no small amount of swagger. You imagine the order taker with a slight, knowing smile on his or her face - you can't determine gender - the speaker is way too static riddled for that. Maybe a bell rings inside. Maybe the manager begins a little dance in tribute to the mental giant coming around the building to acquire sustenance for their towering intellect. You imagine that several workers will crowd around the pickup window, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the rare specimen of humanity who has ordered the breakfast bonanza of the extra French Toast Stick for the ridiculously low price of a penny.

Your joyously smug daydream is interrupted by a shower of static partially obscuring the voice of your order taker. Of course, they have to tell you how much to pay, right? You listen. "Pardon me," you say. "What was that?" The numbers repeat. This time you hear them, but something is wrong. "How much?" you ask, only the slightest wavering noticeable in your bravado. The man/boy/woman/girl repeats the number. You glance horrified at your palm. You are a penny short.

Frantically, you dig for another penny. No! A penny short? It can't be.

"Please pull around," the speaker intones. Horns begin to honk behind you in the line. Slowly you realize the position you are in. You clear your throat. You speak into the box. "Excuse me," you say. "I would like to change my order."

"Sure, the voice says. Go ahead."

You find it hard to speak, but somehow you manage to choke out, "I want one 5-pack of French Toast Sticks" instead.

There is a static filled pause, followed by, "Are you sure?"

You imagine the scene inside. The looks of incredulity on the faces of those who were once your admirers, but who now must think you are the dumbest thing to wander through their drive-thru in years.

"Yes," you manage to say.

"OK," the voice replies and announces your total. You have enough - to the penny. "Please drive around."

Sadly, tentatively, and with your face burning and flushed with embarrassment, you idle up to the window. The smiling teenage girl takes your handful of change and hands you your bag. "Thank you," she says. "Have a nice day!" You manage a weak smile and say, "You, too." Odd. It's almost like she didn't notice how stupid you are. Oh, well - move on.

You take the container out of the bag and just as you imagined you would do, you dump the carbohydrate laden goodies all over your passenger seat and begin to prepare the syrup for dunking. Hey, cool - looks like they gave you two tubs of syrup. That's nice. Reveling in this bonus and attempting to arrange two open syrup packs in your cup holder, you glance over at the random scattering of breakfast on the seat next to you. Hey! What's that? One, two, three, four, five, SIX. There are SIX sticks, not five. Fate has smiled upon you. You will not be punished for your lack of an extra penny! Six glorious sticks. Haha! The world is right again. You are rewarded for your genius despite the economic issue that would have deprived you of your prize. Triumphantly, you seize a stick, squeezing it a little too hard and feeling the greasy interior escaping through the crusty outside and lubricating your fingers. With gusto you dunk the stick into one of the little tubs of syrup. Too much? Hardly. You have two tubs, remember? Besides, you are going to relish in the spoils of your cerebral victory. Eat it up.

Meanwhile, back in the drive-thru, the teenager smiles to herself, knowingly.

Uncle Tilmer's Late and Ranting Review of "Love Wins" by Rob Bell

2012-03-16T11:25:00.000-04:00

This post is actually part of an e-mail I sent to a local pastor after sitting in on a Sunday School class meeting at his church. The topic of study was a book by Rob Bell entitled "Love Wins". Now - I have learned that I am way out of the loop on this book and there have been countless reviews of the book in the past and I really don't have much to add to the conversation - but I'm adding it anyway. I've said it before and I'll say it again. This is my blog. Don't like it? Get your own and rant about me on it.

Anyway - here's the letter mostly how I sent it originally. It read like a book review in the end so I'm plagiarizing myself and making it one here. Enjoy.

***

My wife and I sat in on a Sunday School class yesterday. The people were really nice to us and made us feel welcome. The Sunday School class did, however, raise an important question regarding church doctrine. The class is studying a book called "Love Wins" by Rob Bell. I knew nothing about this book when I entered the class, but I have spent a fair number of hours since the class studying this book and its author. What I have learned has troubled me a bit.

Don't get me wrong. I welcome an intellectual challenge and I believe that as sentient creations we are given powers of reason and curiosity by our Creator so that we will seek to learn more about Him and understand His will for us in our lives as individuals and our society as a whole. However (and you had to hear that "however" coming) everything must be held in the light of Holy Scripture in order to discern what is truth and was is either mere mistakes made by mortal men or deceptive schemes hatched by our nefarious adversary. Both are plentiful in this world and both must be exposed and turned from.

Pastor Bell's book is full of hope and love. These are central themes of the Christian faith and are certainly to be embraced, espoused and preached. Our God is a god of love, but His love is a holy love - beyond the understanding of mankind. A. W. Tozer wrote a fascinating book entitled "The Attributes of God" in which he paints a fully scriptural picture of who God is. Chief among God's attributes is His infinite holiness. He is not just "a little holy" - he's infinitely holy. This puts a gulf between God and man that no human can cross on their own. Only the blood of our precious Jesus can bridge the gap. Only the sacrifice of the Lamb gains us admission beyond the veil and into the presence of the Holy God. Only the infinite love of God can provide this sacrifice. Only a love as deep as that of our Heavenly Father can go so far as to not only provide us with salvation, but also provide us with the freedom to choose or reject that gift. Love is not love if it is dictated. God could have made us creatures who would simply love Him due to instinct. It could have been easily pre-programmed into us - but He, in His infinite wisdom and knowledge knows that coerced love is not love at all. The only real love is love that is freely chosen and freely given. It's often quoted, but Joshua 24:15 cuts right to the bottom line. "...choose you this day whom you will serve..."

We have a choice. Good or evil. Flesh or spirit. Salvation or damnation. It is my opinion that Pastor Bell misses the gist of God's love for His creation and waters down His holiness by dealing with the subject of Heaven with a universalist approach. I can't judge Bell's heart. That is the job of the Almighty and Him alone. I do have many issues with the doctrine he is putting forth. Scripture doesn't seem to back him up - even those scriptures he refers to. (That, of course, is my humble opinion based on my own feeble grasp of the Bible.) In the end, I fall back on a kind of variant to Pascal's famous wager. Blaise Pascal argued (and I'm paraphrasing here) that the wise person will believe in God because if you do and you turn out to be mistaken, then you have essentially lost nothing. On the other hand, if you fail to believe and are wrong, then you have lost everything for all eternity. Belief is a pretty easy choice to make in that light. Now, suppose we take that thought to universalism. (Bell is on record denying that he is a universalist, but this book is clearly in that vein.) If we as the Body of Christ preach universalism to the lost then we are in essence telling them that they do not need Christ in order to be saved. They can live their lives either in opposition to Christian principles or simply in ambiguous apathy and they will all be rewarded in the end with Heaven - just like those who have accepted the gift openly and freely. To me, this is incredibly dangerous for the souls of the lost and a heretical insult to the Cross of Calvary.

We do need Jesus. We are lost without Him. We are separated from the Father without the blood of Christ. The Cross opened the door - tore the veil - granted us entry into the Holy of Holies. I will never accept any doctrine that denies the power of the blood or the price that was paid for me at Calvary. It pains me to even think of such a thing.

Pizza Joint Fail

2011-04-26T14:35:00.000-04:00

There is a little delivery/carry-out pizza place near my house called Marco's. It's a chain. You might have one of these in your neighborhood too. The pizza is really good and they are a nice bunch of folks over there. We go there pretty often - especially now that I am knee-deep into a kitchen remodeling project. (That's a story for another time.)

I was at Marco's to pick up an order this past weekend. I got there a little too early so I killed some time checking out the decor in the place. There's an LCD TV on the wall that usually is tuned to ESPN. There are two small tables you can sit at while waiting for your pizza, a candy machine in case you are too hungry to wait for your food to be prepared and a large cooler containing two-liter sized bottles of various kinds of soft drinks. The walls are pretty sparse, but there is one area covered with a collage of newspaper articles, photos and glowing reviews submitted by local patrons. Here's what that looks like...

Since I had a few minutes before my pizza would be ready, I read some of the items posted on the wall there. I had to read one of them twice. I was sure I had misread it somehow - but no - I didn't. Read the first paragraph carefully...

Tell it like it is, Michael C! There's no denying the veracity of your statement there my man! But I'll bet you say that about every pizza you eat, huh?

Now - since I have had some fun at Marco's expense, I'll give them a free plug here. Check out this web site. If there's a Marco's near you somewhere, give them a try. It'll be some of the pizza you ever had - I promise.

http://marcos.com/

A Golden Opportunity

2010-06-23T15:18:00.000-04:00

Here in the United States our new president is not so new anymore. The honeymoon is over, so to speak. Mr. Obama is struggling with real world issues that require real solutions rather than easily dispensed campaign trail promises and feel-good speeches. The rubber is on the road and he needs some serious traction control.

I’m not a huge fan of most of the policies and positions this president espouses; however, he is the duly elected president of my beloved country. It is in the best interest of the country – and therefore me – that he succeeds rather than fails in his job. Therefore, I sincerely hope he is successful, despite my own misgivings. It is in that spirit that I want to point out a missed opportunity to President Obama. Maybe he follows my blog. Do you think? Well, maybe it will get to him somehow. If you are reading this and know Barry, ping him on Facebook or something and clue him in.

I’m going to tread lightly on this subject because it touches on a topic that people get skittish about – race. Barack Obama is a black man. Well, at least he looks like a black man. That’s the gist of my discussion. Obama has physical characteristics shared by humans of African descent. He has dark colored skin, dark hair and dark eyes. He looks like a black man. Under the covers, however, he is genetically only half black. His mother is a white woman. Here’s where the golden opportunity comes in. To explain why I think it is so golden and such an opportunity, let me back up a little to my own upbringing.

I was born in a small town in upper eastern Tennessee. Nearly everyone in that town in the 1960s and 1970s was white. The only time I ever saw a black person they were on TV. Flip Wilson and Redd Foxx were my windows into that part of the world where black people lived. In short, I was ignorant. I stayed that way for a long time. Don’t get me wrong. My parents were good, loving people who taught me to avoid prejudice and treat everyone fairly. I was not raised by Klansmen or outright bigots. We all just suffered from a lack of education about people outside our cultural bubble. My guess is that many Americans suffer from this same lack even today.

It’s important to point out that ignorance is no respecter of persons. In other words, it works both ways. Anyone who has seen the excellent film “Crash” has been enlightened to the fact that bigotry and prejudice know no color. Humans bearing any combination of melanin, hair color, hair type, eye color, eye shape and any other racially influenced physical attribute are susceptible to racism – both as a victim AND as a perpetrator. It all stems from familiarity and the fear that flows from the lack of familiarity. If I perceive you to be like me, then I am less threatened by you and more likely to accept you and your viewpoints. That’s just human nature when it is allowed to roam freely without knowledge and truth.

This phenomenon was exceedingly apparent in the 2008 presidential election in the United States. According to data reported by The Guardian newspaper, 95% of black voters voted for Barack Obama. Only 43% of white voters did. While I am sure there are some legitimate political reasons for part of this data, it appears obvious that some people voted either for or against Mr. Obama based on the color of his skin. I am of the opinion that the Democratic Party and the vast majority of the American media really did the country a disservice by magnifying the race issue in this election. What they should have been doing is pointing out that a candidate of mixed ethnicity like Mr. Obama could unite the two major racial groups in the United States by bringing a unique perspective to the whole topic of race relations. Obama’s mother is white. His father is black. He grew up having to deal with whatever consequences his genealogy carried with it. Things are somewhat better nowadays, but when I was a kid, being a mixed race child would have definitely been a disadvantage from a social standpoint.

Barack Obama could have taken “The Dream” of Martin Luther King and carried it to Dr. King’s ultimate goal – a world where people of all colors could live and work side by side without even thinking about skin color. He could have magnified his overall humanity while downplaying his physical appearance as a black man. Humanity is more important than race. Unity is more important than separatism. Red, white and blue are more important colors than brown, tan and pink (or whatever color Caucasian skin is.) It was a golden opportunity. It could have truly united this country. As I said before, I am no fan of President Obama’s ideals. That’s just a difference of opinion. However, if he was going to become president, it would have been great to get a side benefit of racial harmony in the bargain.

You blew it Mr. President. It’s not too late, though. There’s still time to leverage your racial heritage in a positive way for this country. I hope you somehow eventually stumble upon this little essay and decide to do just that.

Multi-Purpose

2010-01-20T17:04:00.000-05:00

My wife was recently in the hospital for a whole week. This post is not about why she ended up there. That’s a whole other story that I will likely share here at some point, but it’s long, drawn out and a little too recent for me to find any humor in it so I’m just going to write about something else. Well – it’s kind of related, but not really. Here goes…

The hospital Ellen was imprisoned in has a cafeteria downstairs just around the corner from the Emergency Room. I found that juxtaposition a little troubling, but during a whole week of eating three meals a day there I didn’t have to bolt to the adjacent wing at any time. So maybe it’s just a coincidence that the two facilities were so close together. Or maybe it was just forethought on the part of a hospital architect who had been victimized by bad cafeteria food. Either way it was inconsequential. The food was tolerable and not overpriced.

All over the hospital (including the cafeteria area) there were little hand sanitizer dispensers. They had signs on them that said something about a germ-free hospital and how these little dispensers would help insure that condition. That gave me a bit of a pause. “Germ-free” hospital…” OK, that’s interesting. There are a whole lot of sick people in the hospital. And we know, thanks to advances in science, that illness can be caused by germs and not a small dwarf living inside your stomach as once posited by the SNL character Theodoric of York – Medieval Barber. To get to the condition of a germ-free hospital you would need to kick all of those sick people out onto the sidewalk. Get outta here you bunch of germ infested vermin! Injured people only from here on out. Broken leg? C’mon in! Fractured skull? Pull up a gurney! Meningitis? Sorry, you and your germs need to find some place else to foul up with your microbial infestation.

Sorry. I got on a tangent there for a moment. Back to the cafeteria. In their never ending quest for a germ-free environment, the hospital installed utensil dispensers for plastic forks, spoons and knives. I have to admit these are pretty nifty. You pull a lever and a single utensil pops out for you to take. No grubbing around in open bins of forks and spoons with your (that’s right) germy mitts. You only touch the utensils you are personally going to use. Cool.

These dispensers were grouped up into three units installed side by side on top of a wire shelf. There was one unit for each of the three common cafeteria implements. Each unit was clearly labeled with what it contained. This is where I became the most amused by the whole utensil dispensing arrangement. I was so amused I took a picture of the dispensers. See?

Now, hopefully you are immediately seeing the amusement factor in all of this. The dispensers are labeled “forks”, “knives” and “multi-purpose spoons”. Apparently, forks and knives have one and only one purpose for their existence. Spoons? Now that’s a different story. You can do all kinds of stuff with spoons! Why, the possibilities are endless! Forks are for stabbing food. Knives are for cutting food. That seems pretty cut and dried, right? Hey! Maybe these utensil dispenser engineers have stumbled onto something. I decided to try to think of all the things I could do with a spoon. Here’s what I came up with (so far!)

1. Eating (OK – That one is obvious, but it’s so far-reaching! Think of all of the things you can eat with a spoon!)
2. Drinking very small portions of a beverage
3. Taking medicine (Now the hospital connection is becoming clear to me!)
4. Stirring stuff
5. Measuring recipe ingredients
6. Covering one eye for a vision test
7. Breathing on it and making it stick to the end of your nose to amuse a small child
8. Launching peas (You can do this with a fork, but it’s way more dangerous.)
9. Playing rhythm on your knees (You need two for this.)
10. Smearing cake icing (You can use a knife for this, but a big spoon works better.)
11. Gazing at your distorted reflection
12. Collecting (The decorative kind of course)
13. Tunneling out of prison
14. Making snowshoes for squirrels or other small animals
15. Hiding very small packages
16. Scraping out a jack-o-lantern

Quite a list, huh? And I’ve only just begun. Spoons are awesome! Spoons – the tool of the future! There’s no end to the utility of the ingenious, multi-purpose spoon! It will never be equaled in the annals of utensil history. Nothing will surpass its usefulness.

Except maybe…the SPORK!!!