View from Valhalla

Category: Reflections

  • How are you feeling?

    Earlier tonight I was talking with my wife and I had an epiphany.

    I, like everyone else, have of course heard the old stereotype that men are more logical and ladies are more emotional.

    Although I have seen the reverse of this true on more than one ocassion, most people I know, of both sexes, would agree with it. So, maybe my epiphany is unique to me and everyone else recognized this long ago.

    While talking with my wife this evening I realized that she thinks about her feelings quite often. She will often analyze in great detail how and what she is feeling.

    I on the other hand, don’t think about how I’m feeling at all. Not a bit. If I’m sad, I’m sad. Happy, I’m happy. I don’t think about it at all. Nope. Not at all. I of course want to know the reason, but that is a bit different, finding the cause is not the same (to me) as contemplating the emotions themselves.

    Of course I ponder why I think about things, and I don’t think my wife really does that as much. Metacognition. Thinking about thinking. I sometimes get hung up on why I have my hang ups. Or will get lost in the meaning of why I thought a certain thing at a certain time.

    Of course this all could be because I’m thinking about thinking at 2:00 A.M.

    Anyway, I would love to know what you think. Does my hypothesis that women think more about feelings (their own and others) while men think more about thinking (maybe including the reasons, but not necessarily wishing they could go back and change things) ring true to you?

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  • Who said you can’t have it all?

    Have you ever found yourself in a reality that you never dreamed of?

    In 1998, I went through a nasty divorce. Enough said, other than I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

    Afterwards, I wasn’t much fun to be around. At that time I had a day job, but I also owned and operated my own martial arts dojang.

    Every day I would go directly from my day job to my dojang and hang out there, primarily because it was less depressing then going to a barren apartment. Once there I would generally run through my katas (prescribed pattern of steps and offensive/defensive movements) and work out for a bit. Then I would go into my office and, generally, read. As before mentioned in black jelly beans, I will read almost anything, and once started, rarely ever give up.

    This went on for quite a while, with day following day, and week following week. I had been through multiple science fiction and fantasy novels, some Mark Twain, some pulp westerns (remember, I grew up in Wyoming, lol), all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, and quite a bit of Shakespeare.

    At the time this vignette takes place, I had been working on Russian literature. (Funny aside, I mentioned this to a friend at the time, and he was ego bolstering-ly impressed. His follow up question though put it in perspective. “When did you learn Russian?” LOL) I had read some Dostoyevsky, namely Crime and Punishment and the Brothers Karamazov and was in the midst of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. (I have to admit, to this day it is the most depressing and aggravating of the lot. Definitely a black jelly bean.)

    One day one my students that I had hired to do light housekeeping for the dojang came in to clean up. I had been laying on the middle of the dojang floor reading. (I know, hardly proper etiquette.) When she came in I got up and was on my way to my office when she asked me what I was reading.

    Being the guy I am, I probably puffed myself up a little and replied something on the lines of, “Anna Karenina by Tolstoy. Have you heard of it?”

    Now let me explain a little. I don’t really think of myself as being a snob or the such. However, I do love intelligent conversation, classic literature, poetry and theatre, and movies with real story lines.

    The area that I live in frowns upon this type of behavior even worse than if I were a drug dealer. (Hmmm…. I wrote that in facetiousness, but it might be true.) So, quite often I get ready to be a bit defensive from the moment of engagement.

    That said, any intellectual posing I might have been trying to pull off was quite quickly shot down when the lass replied, “Really? Where are you at in the story?”

    I’m not sure my lower jaw hit the floor, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that it did.

    “Are you familiar with the book?” was my natural reply.

    “Yes, I’m reading it currently as well.”

    I’m sure she could hear the psssshhhhhhhh as the rest of the air left my over inflated ego.

    To my credit, rather than feel threatened by this, I was overjoyed! I had never expected to run into someone at that point with whom I could discuss literature. Brains body both indeed Mr. Hrab.

    This creature was amazing. She was as beautiful as any porcelain doll. I had known her for several years at this point and although we were friends, I never anticipated becoming anything more. She was a bit (sarcastic emphasis inserted here) my junior and drop dead gorgeous. She had long wheat blonde hair and exquisite brown eyes, and the slightest little elfish lift to her ears! Her dedication to her training was without equal among any student I have ever had. Her goal was simply perfection. (She is the most technically perfect black belt that ever gained their ranking from me.)

    I had always found her attractive but had stayed carefully on the right side of the equation. With the awareness of her equally attractive intellect, I was a bit dumbfounded. Shall we say, deer in the headlights? I think so.

    We began talking about many of the different books we had read and music we both enjoyed, and truly, before I knew it, we had begun a relationship the transmuted itself into a marriage that has been the cornerstone of my existence.

    With her also came a renewing of my faith and a desire to protect the things that are the most important to me. (See perspective.)

    Yes, it is possible that some of this posting might be minutely fictitious. Heck, for all you know it might be total fiction. Regardless, this July we will have been married eight years and I don’t know how the time could have passed so quickly. Together we have a beautiful son and a joyous family. I am truly blessed. Occasionally, it isn’t first sight that is the most important, but rather the opening of your eyes to see what was all ready in front of you.

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  • life should be in black and white

    Do you like classic movies? No, wait a minute. I don’t mean movies made in the 80’s that are somehow now appearing on AMC. I definitely liked AMC better when it didn’t accept advertising. (However, they do provide entertaining horror reviews on the website thanks to Mr. Sigler.)

    No, I mean real classics. Movies made during an era where a story was needed and characters were rarely transforming robots.

    Now, don’t get me wrong. There are definitely movies that have been made during the last three decades that are classics. No doubt about it. Jaws immediately leaps to mind, simply because I have watched it with my wife so many times. (And I still love how she closes her eyes and gets closer and those perfect moments.) The original Alien broke new ground. So many really good movies. No doubt.

    Tonight however, I’m thinking about movies, that for the most part, were filmed in black and white and who’s stars were under contract to the big studios. I am talking about men like Cary Grant, James Stewart, John Wayne, Glenn Ford, Gregory Peck, Gary Cooper, Humphrey Bogart and numerous others. Women like Audrey Hepburn (who is almost as pretty as my wife), Grace Kelly, Ingrid Bergman, Katherine Hepburn, Lauren Bacall and many more. And don’t forget the master’s of the movie making art. Men like Howard Hawks, Anthony Mann, Frank Capra and the master of suspense, the incomparable Alfred Hitchcock.

    I’ve enjoyed so many of these movies over the years and can honestly say that I have been touched by more of them, in different ways, then all the movies made in the last two decades.

    Cary Grant in Mr. Lucky. Little known film, but an amazing study, full of warmth and light, cynicism and greed. Unfortunately, I’ve only been able to find it on VHS and my copy is getting worn. But wow.

    Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly in Hitchcock’s Rear Window. If you haven’t seen it, don’t bother renting it, just go buy it. Yes, it is that good. (I know Tee probably enjoyed Disturbia more, but the original is still the best.) (Yes, that was sarcasm)

    Another less well known movie I would have to recommend would be Rebecca. One of Hitchcock’s earlier with Joan Fontaine and Laurence Olivier. This one has a special remembrance for me and my wife. June, 2001. We had spent the whole day moving into our house. We had boxes everywhere, no real furniture and it was late. We were both exhausted. I set up the little 21″ TV and for some reason plugged it into the cable, although we hadn’t had it connected. Little blessings are sometimes the best. The previous owner hadn’t had the cable turned off yet, and we sat there in the dark, on the floor, holding hands and watched a movie that is amazing.

    There are many, many more I could write about, but instead I want to think about what made theses movies the treasures they are. Yes, the actors are handsome, the actresses beautiful, and the directors amazing. But it is the stories and the writing that made them what they are. Are today’s audiences too jaded to sit through a character’s development? Would they rather be fed pablum then eat steak? I don’t know, but I miss movies that are also really well told stories. That is probably why I am convinced Peter Jackson’s LOTR trilogy is among the best movies ever filmed (yes, I’ve read the series at least 15 times, but we all know I’ve got geek cred).

    What about you? Do you have favorite classic movies? What are they? Why should I watch them? Or do you think I’m wrong? Are current movies superior? Let me know what you think!

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  • A way with words… (part 2)

    As I mentioned in part 1, my father is also an amazing orator. He has a way with words that make people want to listen to him. It isn’t that he has a volumnous vocabulary or public speaking credentials. Like my grandfather before him, he has led a straightforward hardworking life. I think perhaps the reason people respond to my father so well isn’t because of the words he uses, but rather due to the sincerity behind those words. He knows how to make a person feel.

    Not only is he sincere, he is easy to talk too as well. Mom and dad still live in the relatively small town (population approximately 3500) that I grew up in, and yet I can not tell you how many times a trip to the grocery store (3 blocks from home) for a gallon of milk has ended up taking hours out of his day. Maybe it isn’t only that be knows how to talk, maybe it’s also that he knows how to listen.

    Listening to most of my dads stories is like reading a chapter of one of Patrick McManus’ books (I suggest The Grasshopper Trap). Kind of like a male wilderness Erma Bombeck.

    As with my grandfather, I can not tell you how many times my father’s stories have ended up having me holding my sides with the tears of laughter streaming away.

    One of the ones that always had me as hysterical as any madman is the tale of the yearly elk hunt that ended up a tree.

    When I was young, my father would make a yearly trip to Jackson Hole with my grandfather, my uncle and various other area friends. As well as a week out with the boys, this was the only way my dad was able to provide meat for the family. Hunting and fishing were a very vital part of my family’s food supply.

    Every October, my mother would help supply them by baking a large batch of cinnamon rolls and, if we were lucky, there would be enough left over ingredients to make a batch of cinnamon twists for us boys. Dad would load up our little camper and set it on the back of the pickup. Clean his 30.06, sharpen his belt knife and generally just get ready to be a mountain man.

    Well this particular year, I don’t remember any details leading up to the hunt, but I’m sure it was pretty much the regular routine. A friend of my father, Delmer, was bringing horses this year in order to help drag out any elk that might be shot. I don’t remember why, but for one reason or another, grandpa wasn’t able to go that  year.

    For those of you that might read this and are unacquainted with elk in the Rocky Mountains, suffice it to say, they are quite large and a bull of the species will provide a substantial quantity of meat, often ranging into the several hundreds of pounds.

    I remember that in that particular year dad also had gotten a license for a bull moose. Moose are even larger than elk and can be quite aggressive.

    Well, bright and early on a crisp Wyoming morning, the group caravanned up and left for the great northwestern corner of Wyoming.

    When dad returned a week later, he had the best ever hunting story for us.

    “Well, you see we’d been hunting all week and hadn’t had much luck. Delmer and I, well we just weren’t in the right spots at the right time. We’d go up, the elk and moose would go down. We’d be at the water whole at 6:00, signs would say they had been there at 5:00. Seemed to go on like this all week. It was pretty cold up in the those mountains and every day it was threatening to snow. It would make it easier to find the elk, so we were kind of hopin’ it would. But even that just didn’t seem to be goin’ our way.”

    “Well, by Thursday we were considering going ahead and packing it up, but we knew that wasn’t really an option, so we decided to get up early and walk up to the water where we knew they had been drinking every morning and see if we could find them. Unfortunately, they weren’t there that morning. We took off and walked over the mountain to hunt an area that we hadn’t been to previously that week.”

    “Good thing we did too. As we crested the ridge and looked down the other side, we noticed that there was a good sized stream at the bottom with quite a bit of timber. Was more a small river, really. Prime elk and moose day grounds. And we could hear something was in there. Something big.”

    “We decided that Delmer would set himself up on the side of the ravine, and I would go back and try to circle in from the other side and try to push whatever was in there towards him. If it was elk or a bull moose, hopefully at least one of us would get off a shot. If we only got one, we’d share the meat and at least the week wouldn’t have been for nothing.”

    “It took me a while to get around the edge of the ravine, it must have been a couple of miles, but I finally got there and I could still hear a movement so I knew something was in there. As I walked up I spooked a couple of elk out of the timber. Two cows. I was in position to get a shot off and got the slower one through the neck. I jogged behind the other one in case Delmer needed any help. He didn’t, he got her with his first shot too.”

    “Just like that we went from no luck to pretty good luck. We had our elk, and although we had seen signs of moose, we hadn’t seen any. We went ahead and field dressed both elk out. By that time it was getting pretty late, and wouldn’t you know it, the snow finally had started to fall.”

    “Well, with the snow falling and it getting dark, we decided to leave the dressed elk there and come back in the morning with the horses. With the snow and cold, we knew the meat would be fine. We walked back to camp and along the way realized we had walked out quite a bit further than we had realized. We decided to get up early, load up the vehicles, then take the horses and go quarter the elk and pack them out.”

    “In the morning we got up and there was beautiful powder everywhere. Everything coated in white in the mountains, it’s just beautiful. We got everything loaded up. We had a fairly light camp anyway, so we only really had to cleanup the campsite, load up the cooking utensils and pack the rifles.”

    “It was a beautiful morning for a ride in the mountains. It still took a good couple of hours, but eventually we got there. We ground reined the horses and took the meat saw over to start on quartering the elk up. With the cold night, the meat had gotten pretty hard so it was some slow going, but we were making decent progress. The horses had been kind of nervous for awhile, so we were looking around a bit, but when that big bull moose came charging out of the timber we were both still pretty startled.”

    “All I can say is that it was probably a pretty good thing that he charged the horses first, because by the time he chased them off we had had time to recover ourselves a bit. At least we had straightened up and were looking at each other when he gave up on the horses and decided to come at us. Well we looked at each other realized, that neither of us had any idea how to make that moose change his mind and decided to scamper up that tree as quickly as any two scared squirrels.”

    “That moose came barreling in and for a moment I was worried that he was going to try to knock that tree down. As big as he was, I’m not sure that tree would have held. Thankfully, I guess, instead of hitting it, he came to a stop underneath it and looked up at us like we were the strangest thing he’d ever seen. And he stayed there. For a long time. So here we are, two hunters, one of us with a moose permit, sitting in a tree with a BIG bull moose underneath us…. and not a gun in 5 miles.”

    “I swear that moose must have been sent to test our patience. Because test it he did. We sat there for several hours with that moose trotting around and stopping to look up at us. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure thankful for that tree branch, but at the time, it sure felt like I was sitting on a whole nest of pine cones.”

    “Finally that ol’ boy decided he’d had enough of those two strange squirrels and trotted off. I looked at Delmer and asked him if he wanted to go first, he looked at me and told me he’d give me the honor.”

    “We decided sitting there for another 1/2 hour wouldn’t hurt anything.”

    “When we finally crawled, or fell, out of that tree, it took what seemed like forever to get the blood flowing back into all of my limbs. From the way Delmer was moving, he wasn’t fairing much better. Thankfully we had almost finished with the meet before our big friend had arrived. I left Delmer to finish that chore while I went to gather up the horses. Thankfully, they’d only gone about a mile before they found some sweet grass and they had been content there while we had been watching the birds from their level.”

    “Well, the rest of the trip was pretty uneventful, but if effort makes the food taste better, that was the best tasting elk I’ve ever had.”

    I swear to you, this is a true story in the details. Not long after that, Delmer had a birthday and his wife wanted to through a party for him. My dad went down to a local artist and described the event and had a caricature drawn up with two hunters in a tree with a moose underneath. Although I must have been about six at the time, I still remember Delmer’s face when he opened that present. He looked at my dad, muttered an explicative and then they both started laughing until they were red faced and out of breath.

    As time went by, my older brother was included in my dad’s and grandfather’s elk hunts. I remember hardly being able to stand the anticipation when it would be my turn. But somehow, it never ended up being my turn. Oh, I was invited, but I always had an important test or something else going on. Then I moved 1500 miles away. I always thought that someday I’d get back there to hunt elk with my dad and granddad. They’re yearly hunting trips were just an indication that fall was really here. Then came the year when my grandpa gave away his rifle. I never had gotten to go elk hunting with him, and that still bothers me. A right of passage I’ll never know. I had determined at that point not to let the same thing happen to me with my dad.

    This last November, my wife and I packed up and took the boy back home for Thanksgiving. This was the first time I had been back in the winter since I left in 1990. When wehunting-20131had planned the trip, I had intended it to be just a relaxed time with my parents and a chance to see my grandparents as much as possible. But a couple of weeks before, when my dad called up and asked if I wanted to try to go get an elk while I was there, I jumped at the chance.

    Wyoming Mule DeerWe had the opportunity to hunt two of those days, and I had the time of my life. Saw a few deer. Some elk tracks. Some coyote (pronounced ky-oat, thank you very much, lol) and not asingle elk. Never fired a shot. And you know, I couldn’t have been happier. The prospect of shooting an elk had never been high on my list of priorities, but going on the hunt with my dad had. And if I get the chance, I will jump at it again.

    No. Let me restate that, I will make sure that I do go again. Today, I’m happy to be remembering my dad.

    —

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  • A way with words… (part 1)

    I was reading an article yesterday about New Zealand’s ANZAC Day, and it struck me that I have my own fair share of special remembrances. I come from a long line of verbal people. If you’ve been reading this blog, that really shouldn’t surprise you.

    Some of my earliest memories are of my father and grandfather telling detailed stories of their past. It might be a simple tale from their childhood, or something more recent, such as the latest elk hunt. One and all, these tales would at some point have you holding your sides and have tears streaming down your cheeks.

    My grandfather moved to my hometown when he was a young boy and grew up with his family there. He married my grandmother and made a home in which they raised my father (the oldest), my uncle and my aunt. My father married my mother and they bought a small house a block from my grandparents. That house is where my brothers and I were raised and where my parents still live.

    It was a wonderful experience growing up in a small town in Wyoming, a block from grandparents that were honest, hardworking people. They might not have had a lot to give, but time and love were never in short supply.

    My father was born in 1942. At the time of his birth my grandfather was all ready over seas having been drafted to serve in World War II. Even this simple event had a story behind it.

    “When my draft card arrived in the mail, I went down to the place where they were inducting the men, and since it was fairly early on, they asked me which branch of the military I would like to go into.”

    At this point, I can still see my grandfather, look down, give a little sardonic laugh and shake his head.

    “Well, having grown up in Wyoming, I didn’t know much about the ocean or boats. Planes were pretty new at the time and I had never been anywhere near one, let alone up in one. But, I had grown up with a rifle on my shoulder walking all over these plains, so I figured the army couldn’t be that bad.”

    Depending on the mood at the time, grandpa would either look down, and say the next line under his breath, or elbow you in the ribs and chuckle it out. Either way, it was always the same statement.

    “Dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life. You see, guys in boats have beds and food wherever they go, and a guy in a plane, or working on a plane, they even have at least temporary unmoving homes, but a guy in the army is going to sleep in whatever slop he’s in when they stop, eat whatever he has brought with him and pray to go through it again tomorrow.”

    My grandpa is the kind of grandfather any boy would have been proud to have. I’m not saying he was perfect. Who is? But he worked hard and he instilled in my father a work ethic that I am proud to have inherited at least in part. I’ve never known two more simple, kind hearted people then my grandparents.

    My grandfather served as part of the 506th. If that rings any bells, it is probably because it is the unit that the famed Band of Brothers miniseries was based off of. Grandpa missed all of the major engagements of the war, but still saw plenty of ground fighting in Europe. He came back from the war on furlough and met my father for the first time. At the time my father was two.

    I can honestly say that the stories I’ve heard from my grandfather concerning the war could be numbered on one hand. It wasn’t something you could often get him to talk about. He, to this day (yes, thank God he is still with us), will not watch a war movie or mention that he was even in the military to those outside the family.

    One of the few stories he tells always reminds me of the scene in Private Ryan where Vin Diesel tries to rescue the little French girl and is killed. It seems like my grandfather’s unit had been ordered to take some German occupied town. Many of the buildings had portions of the walls missing, and as the men knew that the town was still being occupied by Nazi snipers, they were playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse flitting from building to building.

    Grandpa tells it like this, “Well you see, it was coming on dusk and the light was starting to fail, which was good for us, but it also made the shadows strange and made it a bit hard to see. We would run into one building, the four of us, and then after we decided where we were headed next, would go zig zagging across open ground until we could dive into cover in the next building. We had been dodging sniper fire for the last half hour and the smack of the bullets always seemed to be closer when it was your turn to take the lead. Well, we’d seen this building across the way and I had picked my route. I was the lead this time and I knew that the sniper was just waiting for one of us to show his head. I strapped on my helmet, took a deep breath, and took off at a dead run, moving left and right and keeping my head down. There were a couple of shots that hit the ground near me. You never even hear the crack of the rifle until well after the bullet hits. If the bullet passes you by you can hear the whine as it passes. Anyway, as I’m running across this deserted street heading for the building down the way, all I’m doing is concentrating on not tripping over my own feet. As I get closer to the building, I’m peering from under the edge of my helmet and I see the hole that had been blasted in the side of that building and I know I’m almost there. A bullet smacked the ground beside me and I dove for that hole. All of a sudden it felt like a cannon had gone off in my head. My vision darkened and I remember wondering if I’d been hit. The next thing I knew, the rest of the squad was picking me up out of the mud of the road and pulling me into an alley. I asked the guys what had happened. As it turns out, the hole in the wall that I had dove head first into, wasn’t really a hole. It was just a dark shadow on the brick wall. With my head down and my helmet on, I hadn’t been able to tell the difference and I dove head first into a brick wall!”

    Well, hearing this from the man with his animated gestures and that unsuppressed twinkle in his eye had me laughing so hard I was in tears by this point.

    He just shook his head and finished with, “The funny thing is, I’d probably be dead except I’m pretty sure that kraut sniper probably fell off his perch and wet himself when he saw that stupid yank plant himself into a brick wall.”

    I wish I could share with you all the many stories about and by my grandfather. I hope I never forget them.

    Unfortunately, grandpa has now been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and every time I get home to see him, which is regrettably only about once a year, I find a little more has slipped away. That twinkle still shows through occasionally, and he still looks forward to my visits, but he rarely remembers my wife or boys names and he knows how much he has forgotten and you can tell how angry this makes him.

    Today, I am remembering my grandfather and the many, many times I hung on every word falling from his lips. He truly does have a way with words, and I pray that I will, somehow, always be able to hear them.

    —

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  • Black Jelly Beans

    When I was in high school I had a friend that enjoyed jelly beans. They might not have been his favorite snack, but he had them enough that I noticed that he always saved the black ones for last. After a suitable time had passed he would proceed to eat the black ones as well, making a face indicative of intense pain as each bean was masticated and swallowed.

    Eventually, I had to ask why he continued eating the black beans when he so obviously did not relish the flavor. His explanation still strikes me as odd. It seems that since he had purchased that bag of jelly beans, and there were black jelly beans within that bag, he felt compelled to eat those black jelly beans, even though he detested them. They had been purchased after all. They had to be eaten. At least this is how I remember it being explained to me.

    Well, as strange as this reasoning sounded to me, it seemed to work for him.

    If the story ended there, it wouldn’t be much more than an odd anecdote.

    This friend and I also had a similar voracious appetite for literature. We had read many of the same books and enjoyed many of the same authors.

    We had been reading the same book and I had been finding the story less than titillating and had asked him how he was enjoying it. His reply stunned me.

    “I don’t have to eat the black jelly beans.”

    I don’t remember saying anything in reply, but I’m sure my stunned expression said it all.

    At least he was kind enough to explain. He had come to the revelation (some might say finally) that he didn’t have to eat the black jelly beans. He had paid for them. They were his to do what he wanted with. He could give them away, throw them away, or plant them by the light of the full moon and hope for sweet potato pie.

    He had then decided this was a philosophy he could adhere to in other areas of his life. Such as not finishing a book he wasn’t enjoying.

    Now I admit, my memory might not have been perfect in this retelling of history, and I might not have retold it with undeviating accuracy (poetic license, right?), but it still leads me to ask, do you eat the black jelly beans in your reading (I’ll leave the rest of your life unquestioned)?

    I admit to continuing to eat the black jelly beans. I do not remember the last time I put down a book half finished, not to pick it up again and finish it. My wife, God bless her, is constantly placing one of the two or three books that I’m currently reading back on the book case. I dutifully go retrieve them and continue with the story. I sometimes wish I could leave the black beans in the bag, but I just have to know how the story ends. Maybe I’m an optimist, but the story could always get better right?

    Well, yeah, I agree they usually don’t. But how would I know if I didn’t eat each and every last bean.

    What about you? Do you eat the black beans or leave them in the bag? I would love to hear!

    (Disclaimer: In accordance with the policies set forth by the owner of this blog, the author declares that in actuality he loves black jelly beans and licorice. If you don’t eat the black jelly beans, feel free to send them to the author.)

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  • I remember Joe

    For those of you who don’t know about Joe, I encourage you to visit http://teemorris.com/2009/03/31/i-remember-joe-2009/ and click on the link for the audio at the bottom of the post.

    In reality, I can’t say I remember Joe personally, but the overwhelming support his rememberance has stirred in the ‘verse has been phenomenal and encouraging.

    My father is a survivor of colon cancer. I can honestly say that I don’t know if people really can understand what it means until someone they are close to is afflicted with this terrible disease.

    I look forward to a time when cancer in all forms has been eradicated, and when it is, I hope we all still will be remembering Joe.

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  • Hypocrite or Actor?

    This post is definitely not meant to in any way make a statement about, well, anything. Rather, it is a simple etymological study.

    I love words. Do you have a favorite word? I do. Defenestration. Now that is a great word. Another word I’ve always enjoyed the sound of is “hypocrisy”.

    Recently I decided it would be fun to look up “hipocrite’s” word origins. (I know, another wild night for Odin.)

    This is what I found out. It seems that this word has it’s origins in Greek. No surprise there. What I found interesting was that the word comes from the theatre. Some of the first stage plays happened in ancient Greece. Many times the stage company consisted of a small number of men. The practice at the time was to wear a mask on stage. The belief was that the mask would allow the audience to be less distracted by the actors facial characteristics. Of course this practice also allowed a small number of actors to play a larger number of rolls. These actors were known as hypocrites. Hence, the idea that wearing a different mask allowed you to become a different person and behave in a unique manner.

    Who knew? (Well, quite possibly many of you.) You know this is the first time I’ve ever wished I was an actor. I can imagine the introduction going something like this, “Hi I’m Odin.”

    “Nice to meet you. What line of work are you in?”

    “Oh, I’m a hypocrite.”

    Sweet 🙂

    —

  • friends were to be had

    From time to time, I become a little introspective and look back on the years that make the totality of my life. This posting is meant to be neither morose nor overly sentimental, but I do reserve the right to be a bit nostalgic.

    I grew up in a small town. How small? Well, while not tiny, neither was it large. We’re talking of a standing population of around or less than 5000. The town was a typical rocky mountain small town. Almost 5000 feet elevation (I miss mountains). Two stop lights in the town. Popular pass times for the high school kids were sneaking out to one of the lakes, where it was inevitable that someone would have a brother/cousin/sister/aunt/friend, etc. that would somehow supply enough alcohol to inebriate the entire student body twice, or the ever present “cruising”. With the high teenage pregnancy rate, you might consider there was a third pass time, but I choose to consider it a by-product of the previous two.

    As a kid, I don’t think there was much doubt that most would have considered me one of those obnoxious “good kids”. I never really participated in the partying and cruising to me was just a waste of time and gas (though I have to admit to having done it out of shear boredom on more than one occasion). I had several good friends throughout my childhood that I was very close too. “Tim” I met in second grade and we still stay in contact to this day. I have many fond memories of hanging out at his house, riding our bikes all over the town and just generally being kids.

    When I was in my junior year in high school, I made a friend, however, that from that time forward has set the goal for what I feel a friendship should be. “Luci” was a year younger than myself, and had had a completely different upbringing. But two guys that enjoyed each others company and complimented each others personality more would have been hard to find. (As an aside, I do wish to state that all of these reflections are of course from my point of view, and while they might be shared, I don’t want to make any assumptions.)

    Luci and I became inseparable throughout the rest of my junior and throughout my entire senior year. He had a standing invitation to stay at my house whenever the urge/need arose, and for reasons unmentioned, those times were not rare.

    As I graduated and he moved to another state, you would anticipate that we would have grown apart, however this never happened. We would take turns calling each other and, more often, would write (back in the days before the ‘net) letters on a regular basis. Life takes strange paths. Luci and I lived in separate states for the next eight years. I moved to Texas and became a teacher. He lived in the land of the sun and worked at several (I felt) interesting and diverse careers. One thing I always admired him for was letting go of a well paying job to take a chance on a dream. The dream didn’t work out, but the pursuit is what counts. If one thing linked us, it would have to be the pursuit of passion we shared.

    That passion was shared in the form of books, movies, poetry (yes, poetry. You got a problem with that?) and life in general. While we didn’t always agree, we did more often then not.

    Well, amazingly enough, after all those years, we again ended up living in the same town. This time in south Texas. Credit where credit is due. This never would have happened if Luci hadn’t had moved his entire life to Texas in order to make it happen.

    The friendship continued uninterupted for the next four years. We started a business together and continued to enjoy dreaming our crazy dreams.

    Eventually, the inevitable happened. Luci moved away and we had a true separation of spirit this time. A parting of the ways. It was no ones fault or maybe it was both our faults. It doesn’t matter, and truthfully I don’t care.

    This friendship was special, and maybe it taught me how to be a better man. I know that it is the ruler I’ve measured all other relationships by. However, this isn’t a post ending on a sad note.

    You see, recently I sent a brief email to Luci. I don’t know if he’ll choose to write me back, if he’ll choose to ignore me or even if he’ll choose to curse me. But I know that in the end it will be okay.

    Why? Because in the end I’ve made peace with the situation.

    In closing, I would encourage you, if you choose to, to do a little introspection of your own, and if some past hurt is still spoiling your joy, excise it and find some peace.

    —