In Memory: Patrick Swayze

Now this is a guy I'm going to miss.

I _so_ wanted to be like him when I was in high school. He had all the girls drooling over him, and his movies just seemed to make them melt.

I remember watching his movies, and wanting to be the hockey player, or the post-apocalypse freedom fighter.. The dance instructor, the ghost..

He's going to be missed.


On a different note:

Kanye West interrupted Patrick Swayze's funeral to tell everyone that Michael Jackson's funeral was the "Best of all time!"

I return you to your normal broadcasting..

Now for something completely different...

With all of the drama that has been going on, I'm going to step completely away from it all, and recall something from my past.

Because of my mood, it's going to be something fun, and also has to do with shooting.


Back in my High School days, a friend of mine got me hooked on Paintball.

Once a month, we'd save up enough cash to buy some gas, paintballs, CO2 and some spending money to go out for a weekend and play around.

There were 8 of us in this group. I'll give you nicknames, since a couple of them could potentially read this, and assume that I'm talking smack about them and their "game".

There was B-dawg. He was the Alpha of the group. He had the suburban, the guns, and the drive. We were all really along for the ride, and he was willing to drag us along with him. Not a great shot, but he more than made up for it in enthusiasm.

There was NJ. This dude SCARED me. He was sneaky, he was crafty, he was thin, and he was quiet. If you had him on your team, you won. If not, you lost. Nothing else needed to be said.

There was "Pops". This is my brother, and he was enthusiastic, but he made a better target than a shooter. We'd usually send him out to get folks to chase him so we could sneak up on the ones hunting him and his loud sounds. Sad, but quite effective.

There was Egg. My best friend in school, he didn't even know the business end of the pistol from the stock, but once he learned, he got quite good. The consummate nerd, he insisted on keeping his gear so that he could "tweak" things, and he was always tinkering with things to get the most performance out of it. He's since moved on to become quite proficient at World of Warcraft, so you can see how well he's doing for himself.

There was Bubba. Bubba was something of an anolmaly. He was HUGE. I mean it. As a sophomore in school, he stood an intimidating 6'8" tall. However, he was sneaky and quiet. There wasn't much of a chance of sneaking up on him, and somehow he'd get the drop on you if you thought he wasn't looking. He usually found a way to be on NJ's team, but on the off chance he wasn't your team wouldn't lose as badly as it could have.

There was Loafie. So named for his bathroom prowess. This guy was usually placed in an out-of-the-way place so that when his gastular explosions took place, there wouldn't be as many affected home team players. Other teams would be in for a shock, but we'd know where he was, and would steer clear of the area. We also liked to call him "Biohazard".

Deuce. Yup. Deuce. He was the second of a set of twins. His brother didn't like to play, so he'd come along just to see about shooting a few folks, and get his aggression out. Not the best player, but good enough to give a couple of folks some serious pause.

And then yours truly. I was decent, but I preferred to snipe at folks instead of going out and trying to make them find me. I'd usually get killed off by NJ, but only after he'd taken down the rest of my team. On most days, he and I would be the last two standing, unless Bubba had a good day, and then it would be 2-1 against me.

Anyway, we'd usually split into teams by drawing numbers. Then we'd pass out the ammo and reloads, let one team take off for 10-15 minutes, and then head out. We'd play wherever we could find woods. Being in the Pacific Northwest, that meant someone's backyard. Usually Bubba's or NJ's.

The time I'm going to relate is when we actually went out of state, and found an out-of-the-way spot. It was just outside of an Air Force training area, and we were given the "green light" to play to our heart's content up there.

We climbed into B-Dawg's suburban, and took off for a weekend of fun and mayhem.

Little did we know how much competition would be out there.

For those of you who DON'T know about paintball, there are folks who are experts, and those that play for fun.

We played for fun.

Because of this, a couple of us had pneumatic guns, but the majority had these little pistols that would compress air when you "cocked" the gun, and were loaded with tubes of paintballs.

Now, the "real" folks who played had the CO2 cartridge guns, with hoppers FILLED with paintballs. No hand-fed loading, no mess, just serious firepower.

Well, we got to our destination, and were having a serious blast. Folks were shooting and getting shot, bases were captured, and fun was had all around.

Then something happened.

Another group showed up.

With 8 guys.

Apparently this was the place they came to regularly to practice. They were two squads of 4 men teams who would play in local tournaments and such for cash.

Yeah. They were serious players.

And we stupidly challenged them to a round.

I have never been bruised as badly as I was that day.

Arms, legs, chest (even with the padding) my head and ears were even bruised.

Sure, a face shield pretects you from getting stuff in your eyes and mouth, but it doesn't do much for your ears or back of the head or neck!

Fingers and hands were a favorite target as well.

Well, after two rounds of getting just beaten down by these guys, our group came together, and made a decision.

We were going to play NASTY.

These guys were actually getting pleasure out of inflicting pain on us, so it was time to return the favor.

Bubba and NJ made up one small squad.

I was teamed up with B-Dawg.

Pops and Loafie made up another group, and Egg and Deuce made up the last squad.

The idea was to lure these guys into chasing one of the group, and have the other just destroy them. By destroy, we're talking pumping them FULL of paintballs.

Usually, on a kill, you use one shot, and if it hits, they're down.

We were going to show no quarter, and keep firing until we were happy with the painting result.

Each team had one person with a airgun, and one with the "play" handgun.

Handgun folks were the bait.

I had a handgun.

I wasn't happy about the deal, but I went along with it because I wanted revenge, even if it was played through someone else's trigger.

So we started.

I slithered through the wood and brush, listening for any kind of action.

Suddenly, I heard breaking branches, and I stopped. There, just 15 feet away from me were two guys from the "other" side.

They hadn't seen me, because they were actually tailing one of my other groups.

I waved to B-dawg, and we moved quietly to flank them.

I didn't know what kind of impact I'd be able to make with my "toy" gun, but I was determined to at least make one of them feel this big when I got through with them.

B-dawg got in a good spot, and nodded for me to move.

Getting ready, I aimed, and shot the nearest fella right in the groin. Yeah. The nuts. The family jewels. You come up with an analogy, that's where I hit him.

I've never heard a squeal quite like his before, and I'm not sure I'll ever forget it. Falling over, his partner kept his eyes on him, wondering what had happened.

That's when B-dawg took his shot.

Yeah. The butt. Poop chute. Hershey highway. Et all.

It was mean, it was underhanded, and totally unfair.

But we were enjoying the revenge rush.

We found Egg and Deuce, who were the pair being chased, and got our bearings. NJ and Bubba were nowhere to be seen, but we could hear some serious shots going on just past us. We decided to stay in small groups, and see about flanking the action.

We came onto a scene that would've made me laugh if I'd been of a mindset to chuckle.

Pops and Loafie were pinned next to a fallen gargantuan tree, and were trying to find a way to get a shot off. However, the two guys on them had them flanked, and weren't going for the kill shot, they were trying to see who could wind up with the head-shot on them. I know, I heard them talking about it from 10 feet away.

I was livid.

That was my brother.

That was my friend out there, and they were getting picked on.

I took aim, and put a paintball in the nearest one's ear. Deuce started in on the guy on the opposite side. We then stood and pounded paint on these two until we were tired of holding our guns up.

Neon green, Orange, Yellow, Blue and Pink covered the ground, and I'm sure there were two very hurt guys under it all, but from the way they'd treated us, I didn't care. I wanted the rest of the group.

Suddenly, like a ghost, NJ and Bubba were next to us, and telling us where the other two groups were.

Pops, Loafie and Deuce went with NJ, and B-Dawg Egg and I followed Bubba.

We found our group keeping an eye out for a small path that our group had been using. We waited, and soon enough heard the screams from close by as the other group got the drop on the amushers that were left.

The two in front of us decided to move.. Right into our path.

We waited until someone spotted Bubba's shoe.

Then we opened fire.



That day wasn't the most proud day I've had, but it taught me a lesson that I've taken with me.

Never underestimate an untrained person. They might just surprise you.

See you all tomorrow!

Yes, I'm pathetic!

That's right.

Why?

Because I'm willing to do just about anything at times to get my way.

Want proof?

Fine.

Back around 1980, I was in the third grade, and was pretty thin for my height and age.

Seriously.

My mom thought I was some albino Ethiopian. I had a bit of a pot belly, was nearly 5'8", and barely 100 pounds.

It was during this time that my favorite aunt was seeing this guy that my brother and I _really_ liked.

He was funny. He took us fishing. He could cook. He took us camping. He was polite. Did I mention he took us fishing??

Anyway, he was the perfect man in our eyes.

We actually looked forward to the alternate weekend when my folks would drop us off at my grandparent's house, and take off on their "date night". Usually, my grandparents would go to some activity, so my aunt and her boyfriend would watch the two of us.

This was a perfect scenario for the two of us. Favorite aunt. Great boyfriend, no parents. HEAVEN.

Yeah. Pizza. Fast food. Candy. Treats. Ice Cream. No "real" rules, and at the end of the night, the two hyped-up kids were then returned to their "normal" home to burn off the serious sugar coma.

As happens in many relationships, my aunt and boyfriend came to a disagreement one week. As luck would have it, it was the weekend we were supposed to be watched. Depression set in madly with just the three of us there. Something fun was missing, and it was her boyfriend. We all knew it, so no words had to be spoken.

After that night, my brother and I agreed that we needed to get the two of them back together, and make it stick.

The next week, they started talking again, and mending seemed to be progressing smoothly.

Until the news that they'd had another argument.

No! Not the week of our date night! This can't happen!

So, I pulled a mean, nasty, and underhanded trick out of the "do not play" pile.

I got my brother to whine at my aunt, and ask the boyfriend over for some pizza. Faced with an "adorable" face, she couldn't say no, and allowed the call. He then proceeded to whine at the boyfriend until he agreed to come over for dinner.

With the plan in motion, we had a quick conference to set our plans into motion.

Here was the basic idea:

We'd impress them both with what we could do, and because they'd be so in awe of our abilities, they'd forget about their problems, and keep being with us so that they wouldn't miss anything later on.

In the mind of an 8 and 4 year old, this was PERFECT.

Because of my size, I was amazing at climbing trees. There were quite a few around my grandparent's yard, and I climbed them all. Big, small, medium, it didn't matter. If it grew, sprouted leaves, and had roots, I climbed it.

There was one tree that I loved to climb more than any other. It was a HUGE cherry tree in their backyard. It seriously towered over the house, and was a full, vibrant tree. There were endless possibilities in the branches. Thick ones for sitting on, thin ones to swing on, crooked ones to jump around on.. The list could go on and on.

For this night, I picked my favorite tree, and started my routine. I'd scamper up the trunk, swing into the lower branches, and then Tarzan swing up to the higher limbs.

Everything went according to plan. Perfectly still night, good grip, solid start.

Until I got to the upper branches.

You see, I was so light that I could honestly swing in the upper limbs without breaking them. This meant that I really had no fear of how thick or thin a branch was, I'd grab on and climb.

On this night, that habit got me into trouble.

The branches I'd been scampering through weren't as green as they'd used to be, and a couple snapped after I let them go. Not realizing the danger, I kept up, and eventually my luck ran out. The branch I was holding onto broke, sending me down to the ground.

Two things ensured that my life was spared that night.

One, was that I hit a VERY large branch on the way down, which flipped me over, and caused me to land on my back.

Two, the house was very close to the tree, and it didn't take long after the breaking branch for them to know that something was wrong.

After falling from approximately 50 feet, I hit the ground directly over an exposed root on my lower back. This caused my spine to compress, and fracture in three places.

The snapping branches and following thud let everyone in the house know that something was wrong, and my aunt and her boyfriend were immediately outside.

I couldn't breathe. I could barely stay consious. The one thing I _do_ recall was the face.

Concerned eyes looking me over. A gentle voice talking to me. A quick "call the hospital, we're taking him in". Strong but gentle hands and arms scooping me up like I was a feather. The musky smell of cologne.

I passed out on the way to the hospital, and woke in the exam room from smelling salts. I was placed on a backboard, and forced to lie straight so that they could get x-rays.

The film wasn't pretty.

Because of my age, my bones were still pretty pliable, and hadn't completely shattered under the force of the fall. However, they had crushed together, and were now one massive lump of bone that couldn't be discerned from one another.

I was given some painkillers, and given a room. My aunt and her boyfriend stayed with me all that night, even when my parents showed up.

The doctor came in to see us all that next morning. The decision was to NOT fix the bones, but to allow my spine to heal. This was going to be done by fitting me with a back brace, and forcing my back into the position it needed to be in when the bones healed. I would have to stay in the hospital for at least a week, and then I could be fitted and sent home.

Joy.

So, for the next week, I was in traction, and bed-ridden. My folks came to visit, but the one consistent visitor I got?

Yeah. You guessed it. My aunt and her boyfriend.

They'd come visit each and every day. They'd bring chocolate milk, and cookies, and some small hand-held games to play, and just sit and have fun with me in that boring sterile hospital room.

I got out, healed up, and got better. Things returned to normal.

Then, I was asked to be in the wedding, where my aunt married the man who showed so much compassion to a young boy.

Yeah. I got what I wanted.

Sure, it didn't go as I planned EXACTLY, but I still got what I wanted, now didn't I?

Rest in peace Gordon Eddy. You'll always be my favorite uncle.

Gordon Eddy. 1951-2005

Personal Viewpoints!

Today I'm going to try to express some of the thoughts and feelings I get, and see if you get these as well.

I never really claimed to be an excellent wordsmith. I know there are folks out there who can take a phrase, and make it completely meaningful to the person reading. I'm not one of them.

I'm just going to try to describe the scene, and the look, and maybe some of my readers will join in with comments, and give their opinions as to scenes and looks that really touch them as well.

OK. Here goes!

Each and every evening when I pull up to the house, I am greeted by the sight of my yellow Labrador named Sassy looking out the glass panes of my french doors for some sign of me. I don't know how she's able to tell what time it is, or how she even knows that I'm headed home, but the excitement she gives off really brightens my day. Her growling welcome and excited yips, the way she wags her tail so hard that her backside nearly knocks her over, the impatient prancing of her paws, and the deep sigh of contentment once she gets a good scratch behind her ears... Unquestioned love and devotion.

The bright look in my daughter's eyes each night as I go to tuck her into bed. We'll talk about the day she's had, and what her plans are for the next day. We'll maybe sing a soft little song, or tease each other about some silly thing we remember. The snuggle deep into her fluffy blankets, and the cuddle of a stuffed teddy bear. The tight squeeze of a hug, and the gentle smack of a kiss goodnight. These are the sights and sounds of safety and security in a scary world.

The happy sounds of my kids at play in the yard. The rumble and thump of clothes tumbing in the washing machine or dryer. The sound of running water in the bathroom. The drone of a TV show. The clink of dishes being washed in the dishwasher. The rustle of grass needing to be cut. These are all sounds of a home being lived in.

The open and waiting arms of my wife to give me a hug when I see her. The soft conversations over how the day went, and what happened. The sweet kisses and gentle squeeze of a happy hand. The shining eyes over some small gift or surprise. The laughter over a joke or funny accident. The contented sigh as we curl up to watch TV on the couch together. The proud beaming as we are complimented on the behavior of our kids. The excitement of a small trip to go play in the snow. The gentle laughter of a game of "Sorry". The cozy warmth of a shared mug of cocoa. These are the times when I feel love the most.

Tell me what gets you. What memories evoke special feeling for you?

Fessing up..

OK, time to give you a littel more of my twisted history:


Back just before I moved out of my parent's house, my brother and I were actually starting to get along better.

One week, my mom needed to go to a conference, and she and my dad decided to make it a kind of "getaway" and left the two of us home alone for that weekend.

Big mistake.

Huge, really.

Yeah, I was the "responsible" one, and could cook, clean, and keep house.

But when the taskmaster isn't there to crack the whip, do you really think that I'd do something like that?

Newp.

In fact, for that weekend the house became a kind of "anti" Jormengrund house.

All of the rules HAD to be broken. Not just by my brother and I, but by each and every person who came along to visit as well!

Toilet seats left up. Dishes piled in the sink. Laundry sitting in stinky piles all over bedrooms and utility room. Vauum sitting neglected in the hall closet. TV was left on, and dirty plates scattered around the living room instead of eating at the table... The list goes on and on..

However, the one act that took the cake happened the Sunday before they got home.

My brother and I are HUGE fans of boneless country-style cut barbecue ribs.

I've got a "secret" recipe that I break out at least once a year. The family literally waits every year for them, and I never get leftovers. They turn out delicious, and so tender that they fall apart before you can get them on your plate.

Add to this potatoes, and some kind of greens for those health-consious nuts, and you've got a perfect meal!

Well, because I had a job and income, I went and get a good size pack of ribs, and we set about to make ribs for ourselves.

During the cooking, I needed to add some barbecue sauce, because the basting didn't look "just right". While opening this sauce, I found out two things:

1. When air is trapped under a screw-top lid, the pressure doesn't release until the top's off again.

2. BBQ sauce flies much further than you'd think.

Yeah. It shot about four feet across the kitchen and splattered on my brother and the kitchen table.

Now this initial incident was a complete accident. I'm being totally honest here. I didn't intend for the sauce to shoot out, I didn't think of trying to splatter my brother with sauce for the fun of it, and I had no clue that there was air trapped in the bottle.

However, what followed became legendary for a few years to come.

Once my brother realized that he had sticky BBQ sauce on the side of his face and in his hair, he just _had_ to retaliate.

So, he calmly sauntered to the sink, and cleaned up, then surreptitiously opened the refrigerator, and grabbed the bottle of mustard.

I'll let you know that my mom insisted on keeping the ketchup and mustard in the restaurant bottles, so we had these little yellow and red squeeze bottles..

These made perfect "pistols" for condiments.

Yeah. We made a serious mess.

After about 15-20 minutes of mayhem, we calmed down.

That's when we started to look around, and notice the utter devestation that used to be the interior of our kitchen and dining room.

Ketchup, mustard and BBQ sauce over lights, on the ceiling, walls, pictures, carpets, hardwood floors, dog, fireplace, stove, etc...

It kind of looked like the inside of a "spin art" booth you can occasionally see at the fair, only not as pretty.

We spent the rest of the weekend cleaning up.

However, from time to time we'd come across another "strange" stain, and clean it up. When one of us would see the other, we'd fall into complete hysterics over it.

We finally came clean with them about two years ago, and my mom said something that I don't think I'll EVER forget:

"That explains the ketchup I found in the dishwasher! I wondered how it had gotten in there!"

Yeah.

Don't ask, just chuckle and enjoy!

Looking back: A glimpse of what the Year 2000 has been so far...

I've been thinking about how this new millennia has been, and there have been some seriously funny times, some very serious times, and some sad times..

Amazing how much emotion can be caught up in a memory, isn't it?

These last 9 years have seen the birth of my youngest son, my divorce, my grandpa's death, meeting my wife, getting married, losing my dog, and having to put my grandmother in an elderly retirement community..

And the first decade isn't even over with yet...

However, because of my last post, I'm going to make this one a bit more light-hearted.

Over at Father Muskrat's place, I told him about an incident that he said needed to be told here on my blog.

This story involves one of my good friends, I'll call him Thom, and my brother and I.

Thom had just celebrated his 30th birthday back in 2000. Because of this, we got together and celebrated the only way we knew how back then. We partied. HARD.

The day started out around 2pm after we'd all gotten off work. We met at my house, and piled into my car. Then we proceeded to the liquor store, and blew and insane amount of money on alcohol. After this, we went back to Thom's house, where we called around to see who all was going to make it to his party.

Once we knew how many folks were going to be there, we called up the local tavern where we hung out as "regulars" and made sure to let them know we were coming, and to order food for everyone.

Little did we know that my brother's girlfriend's dad was going to bring along the bikers that he hung out with.

In true biker tradition, once there, the entire group demaded to get Thom his "birthday hacks". This involved a 2' long and 3"thick wooden paddle, and Thom's butt.

Unwilling to let this go without being medicated, Thom insisted that he needed three rounds of drinks before getting the hacks. This was agreed to, and three rounds of drinks were ordered.

Feeling pity, I slipped my shots over to Thom, and he drank them with little more than a blink.

Needless to say, once the third round was over, Thom was feeling NO pain.

So, the group lined up, and broke out the paddle. Thom stood at the front of the bar, and bent over. Each person there then got one hack with the paddle.

I'm telling you the truth, Thom didn't flinch once, and even insisted on a couple of folks to "go again" because he didn't feel anything when they went.

Well, the party went on, and on, and on... Eventually, it got to the point where Thom couldn't even ORDER a drink, much less drink one, so we decided to take him home. I got my brother, and he and I took an arm, and dragged Thom out to my car.

Once in the car, Thom was seat belted in, but he insisted on keeping his feet on the dash, because "If we get into a wreck, I'd rather slam my head into my knees than into your dash and ruin it". So, we drove hom with my brother in the back, and Thom in his "crash position".

Once there, we found that the neighbors had taken up all of the parking spaces at Thom's apartment complex. This led to a massive tirade by Thom, with him then insisting that he needed to "poop" on his neighbor's car. He walked over to a Mazda RX-7, and said "This is his car.. It's a shitty car, and to prove it, I'm going to poop on it."

My brother and I rushed over, and grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him away from the car, and tried to get him turned to get up to his apartment.

This proved to be a bit of a chore, as during the 5 seconds of freedom he'd had he was able to somehow unbuckle and unbutton his pants, which were falling down around his knees.

Since my brother and I had his arms, he wasn't able to reach down to get his waistband of his pants, so he was trying to do the "penguin" walk to keep them from falling completely off.

The next big trick was getting him up his stairs to his apartment. You see, the stairs were only wide enough for two people, and there were THREE of us..

So I stood next to Thom, and he did the duck-walk right next to me. My brother, not willing to be too close, followed a safe distance behind...

At the second step, Thom decided that he needed to pull his pants up. After about 5 minutes, I reached down, and handed him his waistband to hold on to. This was a good fix until one of his neighbors walked out of their room for something, and Thom decided that a friendly "Hey!" and full-on two-handed wave was needed.

Yup. Two hands. Pants back down around the ankles. Female neighbor disappeared. Haven't seen her since that night.. Can't say I really blame her.

Anyway, then another minor scuffle happened to get his waistband back into his control. 10 minutes later, with pants in hand, we waddle his drunk butt up to his room.

By this time, Thom is really starting to feel his booze, and he proceeds to lean against the wall next to his door, telling us that he's "Resting here for a while."

We finally convince him to get into his house, and with some reluctance, he agrees to go get changed.

As we're walking by his computer/office room, we hear some music. Thom's roommate had downloaded some songs onto his computer, and Billy Idol's "White Wedding" was drifting down the hall. Thom asked where the music was coming from. I answered "Billy Idol's on the computer, Thom" to which he replied "Billy Idol's on the computer? Isn't he gonna break it?"

We finally got him into the bedroom, and into bed. He told us he needed his glasses, which were still firmly on his face, so we showed them to him, then walked out to let his roommate know we were headed back to the bar to drive other folks home.

While walking down the stairs, we made a "small" discovery.

During his penguin walk, Thom's wallet and keys had fallen out of his pants, and were laying at the foot of the stairs.

These were gathered up, and taken back to his apartment. When the door opened, a completely drunk Thom greeted us, and was so excited that we'd gotten him a wallet and keys that looked exactly like the ones that he'd lost.

We helped the roommate get the drunk birthday boy back into bed, and then started back for the bar.

My brother's cell phone rings.

It's Thom, still looking for his glasses. My bro reminds Thom to feel his face. Glasses are found, disaster averted.

Just before getting into the bar's parking lot, another call.

It's Thom's roommate. Thom is headed down the stairs because there's a car in the parking area that needs pooped on, and Thom isn't listening to anyone.

We turn around, and push some speed limits to try to get the problem stopped before Thom figures out what car to violate.

Pulling into the parking garage, my brother and I see Thom stumbling around the parked cars, looking for the numbered spaces. Luckily, he's got space 115, and Thom had only made it to space 45!

We pull over, and Thom greets us like we've been gone for years instead of minutes.

After catching up, we are able to convince him to head inside.

Big. Mistake.

In order to get Thom to his apartment, we walk past the offending car.

Snarling in righteous fury, Thom declares his need, and drops trou.

Giving up, my brother and I turn our backs, and hear the sounds of defecation as Thom shows his displeasure with neighbors that park in his vehicle spaces.

Beaming with pride, Thom returns, and allows us to take him up to his room.

Because of the actions, my brother and I avoided Thom's place for a couple of weeks.

The next time we visited, Thom had about four new neighbors, as the offending neighbor moved, the flashed girl had moved, and a couple of folks who lived below Thom's apartment had moved as well.

It's nice to know how much of an impact you can make on a small commune just by throwing a kick-ass party!

Happy New Year folks!

New Year's memories....

This time of the year brings back one of the hardest things I've ever had to deal with.

As I've stated before in my blog, I was basically raised by my grandmother and grandfather, as my parents both worked, and didn't have the scheduling needed to be able to see me or my brother on a daily basis until I was old enough to watch the two of us myself.

Because of this, I developed a very close relationship with my grandparents. Not only were they willing to dote on me and my brother the way only a grandma or grandpa can, they also taught me how to be a responsible person, and one who was able to function well in today's society.

When I got older, I moved back to the small town, and in the course of time moved into my grandparent's house to help them. My grandpa was well into retirement age, and his health wasn't the best. My grandma was fighting her weight, and couldn't get around to get things done like she used to, and needed the extra hand in keeping the house clean not only for herself, but for my grandpa, too.

Living with them like this opened my eyes to some things that were going on with my mom's side of the family that I really wish I hadn't seen or heard about. I could have gone through life not knowing who was being a complete ass to my grandparents when they thought nobody else was looking, or who was stealing from them while claiming to be helping one of their kids, etc., etc..

I was having a hard time of it myself, really. At that point in my life, I was dealing with a divorce, custody of my three kids, a part-time job with no real possible full-time work on the horizon, and parents who preferred for me to stay away from their house, and be someone else's problem.

Into all of this mess came the light of love and life that were my grandparents. They needed the help, and in exchange for a place to stay and a warm meal, I would help them with the daily chores that needed to be done, and work my part-time job.

This ended up costing me something fierce.

In the winter of 2001, my grandpa's health took a rapid fall. He became more unsure of his surroundings, and everyone he met, including myself and at times my grandma, were strangers. His body was gradually shutting down, and he was doing everything he could to fight it off.

Enter New Year's Eve.

I had to work that night, and there were problems that I couldn't deal with. My grandpa was just returned home from his last trip to the hospital, where he'd dealt with a minor stroke. He was recovering pretty well, and able to get around the house, but he was even more disoriented and confused. I had to work, and there was no way to get someone to cover the night shift I was working, as everyone was planning on playing around that night.

So, in true fasion, I made sure that my grandma and grandpa were good before I left for work. Then, I left them alone at the house so that I could get my "real" work done.

Coming home at 2am means that if there aren't lights on in the house, everything is normal. I mean, who in their right mind would be up when you're supposed to be asleep? Because of this, I went into my small room, and went to sleep.

It wasn't until 6am the next morning that I got the news. My mother walked into my room, and woke me up to help her get some things for my grandma.

While I'd been at work, my grandpa had another stroke, this one combined with a heart attack. He and my grandma were at the hospital, and it didn't look like he was going to be coming home.

I showered, dressed, and grabbed things I knew my grandma would need, and we drove to the hospital.

The man I saw in that bed when I entered the room was not the man I knew. He was small, emanciated, wrinkled, and looked dead. He was not the vibrant, laughing, happy, and confident man I had come to know and love.

Monitors beeped from around his bedside, and my grandma sat next to him, holding his hand, and talking softly to him.

A young doctor came in around 9am, and told my grandma that he wasn't sure why my grandpa was still alive, but that he would never really regain enough strength to return home.

After hearing those words, my grandma waited for the doctor to leave, and she spoke the most touching and heart-wrenching words I've ever heard.

"It's ok. You don't have to stay here for me. I'll be fine. I've got your grandson here to help me."

With those words, something in my grandpa's face lightened, and within 5 minutes he was gone.

I'll never forget him, and as long as I live I'll miss his smile, his laugh, and his love for life.

I miss you grandpa, and I swear this year, as I do every year since you've gone, that I'll try to live like you always wanted me to.

2-Fer confession #2

I don't know what it is, but because of my last post, I've gotta say something here..

Recall that I don't like confrontation?

Well, because of the comment, I've gotta point out that if I'd GONE to the doctor, I'd have been regarded as being overly dramatic because of my cold..

Since I haven't gone, I'm being stubborn, and just plain silly.

How do I make the two work here? Where's the defining line?

I dunno..

ANYWAY....

I just love playing volleyball. Don't ask me why, I really couldn't tell you, I just enjoy it.

There's lots of activity, plenty of time to talk and have good conversation, and if you want to get competative, it's there for the taking as well.

I'm going to relate to you five of my favorite memories from playing, one that's quite recent, and others from my heyday of playing, which was about 4 years ago.

First, the most recent one.

I've just started playing again, and I've been trying to work the kinks and rust out of my game. I still have problems with my serve, because it's been so long since I've actually HIT a ball! My bumps are needing work, because I tend to skew them just a bit to the right, and my sets aren't all that bad, becuase I was quite a good setter.

This last weekend, my buddy came out to play, and we didn't have enough folks for full teams, but we decided to play guys against girls. This meant 5 girls, 3 guys. No problem, the guys would wipe the floor with them! (yeah, right!)

Anyway, we're into the middle of our second match, and I set the ball for my friend. Beautiful set. No spin, about a foot off the net, and right in stride for his jump.

The sun shines, angels sing, flowers bloom, the whole nine yards.. A true thing of beauty.

Then comes the magic moment. He winds up, gives a grunt of effort, and swings..

WIFF.

Wait.. That's not the end.

Yes, he did miss the ball with his striking hand.

However, he didn't miss it with his head.

Yup. Complete fan with the spike, but one grand headbutt to make David Beckham proud!

I tell you, it took me about 10 minutes to compose myself and be able to play again. Heck, just thinking about it makes my sides ache just a little..


Fond memory #2:

Back when I was voraciously playing volleyball, I was in a competative men's league. Three hits, blocks, traps, sets, fakes, the works! I loved playing this, because I learned so much about the strengths and weaknesses of tall guys, short guys, fat men, skinny ones, etc..

It was during this time that a friend and teammate of mine showed me "the serve". This monster could make the most hardened player pale with the speed and accuracy. I mean, he'd hit this thing, and you could hear the wind whistle past the ball as it headed for your body.

He taught this technique to me, and I've used it to good effect, but not as well as he has ever done. I know this for a fact, because he puts me to shame each time we get to play against each other!

Fond memory #3:

I recall when I used to be able to play for hours on end.

We'd start playing around with some pick-up games about 6:30 in the evening, and there were times I recall getting done about 11 or so that night.

Now?

I'm kind of glad that we only play for an hour or so! I don't think my aging body would stand much more, since I refuse to admit to myself that I can't play like I used to! (while writing this, I'm rubbing my knees and back, since I still insist on diving for those "questionable" balls!)

Fond memory #4:

I miss a couple of the folks I used to play with "back in the day". There was the Jokester, Mike, who had a way of playing hard, but still cause everyone to laugh like no tomorrow. I hope he's living his dream of being that stand-up comedian he always dreamed of.

Then there's Hep. The Cambodian nightmare who taught me how to play defense. The man stood about 6 foot, but only weighed about 150 pounds! He'd jump for a spike, and seemed to hang there for a few minutes looking for that perfect spot. It was amazing to watch. Well, that, and his defensive digging, when it looked like he was break dancing to get to a ball! He'd do "The Worm" move, put one hand down, the rest would serpentine behind his hands, and he'd be back up and moving before anyone could tell he'd been down to get a ball!

Good times, missed friends.

Fond memory #5:

I recall the last time our "gang" got together to play. Three were going off to college, Two had gotten new jobs, and one was getting "too old" to play anymore. We started the games like we always did, slow and easy, working up to the level we'd become comfortable at. Jokes were passed around, teasing about some plays were made, cheers for good effort was given, and a grand time was had by everyone. We then went out and had drinks and ice cream afterwards, and remembered the good times we'd had over the years.


I still think on those times, and while I'm now playing, I often wonder what they are all doing now.

You know, I should call a couple of them, and at least invite them out. You never know what might happen!

Have a great day, and have fun this Thanksgiving!!

Thursday's Ramble..

Well, time for the mind to just wander, and say what it wants.. Enjoy!

I don't think I've ever told anyone this, but I've got a confession to make.

I was the reason my brother got his first ticket.

And because of this ticket, it's also the reason he wasn't allowed to get his license back until he turned 18.

Now, I know that your interest is probably spiked a bit, so I'll tell you all the story.

My brother is 5 years (well 4 1/2 according to him!) younger than me.

I was "living the dream" with a driver's license and a car when I was in High School.

I had that beater of a '71 Super Beetle, and I drove the thing to death.

Then, I got into college, and things were even better.

No set schedules, papers were due, but it wasn't required to be at the class in order to commplete them, or turn them in, attendance wasn't an issue, only the work for the specific subject mattered.

So much different from High School. There, you HAD to be in the class. Attendance made up about 1/4 of the grade. Not only that, but the teachers there HAD to know more than you about the subject, so they really took offense if you pointed out something that was lacking in their teaching cirriculum.

In college? Nah. The professors and instructors LOVED the challenge of coming up with new ideas. Pushing the boundaries was accepted and desired. Showing up for class? Not so much. If you made it, you got to listen to the lecture, and learn. If you didn't, well.. I hope you know enough to make the grade for this or that paper..

Anyway, I ramble.

So, while in college, I got to pretty much party and play while getting classes done.

One of the biggest play things I did was to drive around town with friends.

We'd drive out and cut cookies at the local beach, or see who could make the longest skid mark in the parking lot, or jump (see my post on "The Jump") stuff in my car..

The time finally came around when my brother finally got his permit.

After that, it was a short time before he got his license.

And brag about it he did!

I was kind of offended when I found out that he was getting a car even before he'd gotten his permit, let alone before he could really afford one.

My grandpa had told my brother that once he got his license, he could have his Pickup for his first car.

Now, the rules I'd been given to be able to drive were this:

First, I had to have a 3.0 or better GPA.

Next, I had to work, and earn the cash for my car.

Then I had to make sure that I was able to afford the insurance and gas and maintenance for said car as well.


Now, I was able to do all these, and for my trouble, I got one hell of a beater car.

Sure, it was a decent car, and I drove it until the wheels (literally) fell off, but it was MY car.

Now, I was kind of pissed when I found out that my brother was going to be able to cut corners.

First off, my brother NEVER made his GPA above a 2.5. He just wasn't into school.

Secondly, he didn't even bother to look for a job until after he'd dropped out of high school, so earning the money didn't seem to apply here, either.

Because of the no job situation, I highly doubt that he was going to buy and maintain his insurance, gas, oil, or maintenance for said car.

Who then, footed the bill for this?

Yup. You guessed it.

My parents.

The same folks who demanded that I take pride and responsibility for my work and vehicle were the same ones who basically told my brother to run off, and have a good time with their investment.

Well, I decided to see how far that would stretch...

The day after my brother got his license, I invited him to come out to a gig my friends and I were at.

After the band closed for the night, we went over to another friend's house, and partied until about 4am.

Seeing a window of opportunity here, I challenged my brother to an across-town race.

First person back to the house we started from after making each point won.

Before we left, seven folks left to camp out at the points I named as being places you needed to get to.

Then, we waited until we got calls from said observers, and we picked passengers for our cars, and headed out to get started.

I picked a close friend to ride with me, and my brother picked his best friend to ride alongside him.

Now, as you'll recall, I was in a VW Bug, and my brother was driving a Pickup.

His truck was a 1968 Chevy 1/2 ton monster.

So, we're talking about a little 4 cylinder toy going up against a solid steel V-8 moving machine.

I was at a severe disadvantage.

So I decided to let the acceleration and cruising speed of my car make up the difference.

My brother's idea? Shadow me, and beat me to each checkpoint.

So, we took off. I had a great feel for the city, and the lights and locations.

The only real problem I had was that my brother was following, and could overpower my little car when it came down to the last few miles to the checkpoint.

So, I started messing with him.

I increased my speed, and started really challenging lights.

Yellow? Bah, don't pay attention.

Red?

If it's been red, slow down a little, and hope it changes. If it's just changed, ignore it, and keep going...

After the first couple of run red lights, my brother decided that I HAD to be cheating, and he was going to beat me at this game, too.

We were headed to the last checkpoint, and I was running my little car for all it was worth.

The speed limit? Oh, 30 MPH.

My speed? 60.

I thought I had this last one in the bag, and then easy sailing back to the house.

Then, it happened.

The monster FLEW past me.

I mean it.

According to his admission these many years later, he was going about 75-80 MPH..

Yup. In a 30 MPH zone he was going FAST.

Well, time came to make the turn, and I jumped into the turn lane, and made the correct turn.

My brother, screaming along just ahead of me, saw that I'd turned, and decided to make a hairpin turn while still moving at full speed.

This, combined with his non-use of the brake, set him into a power slide that sent him into the middle of a very busy intersection.

Not only that, but he'd ran the red light as well.

Right in front of two city police cruisers, and a sherrif's patrol car as well.

He hadn't seen them, and once he regained control, he flew down to catch me.

I spotted his headlights just behind me, and thinking quickly, doused my lights, and ran into a side alleyway.

Unbeknownst to me, this spared me from the same fate, as the Red and Blue lights came on, and proceeded to chase my brother.

Me, in a minor state of panic, thought that they were after BOTH of us, as there were THREE cruisers in pursuit, not one.

I ducked down alleyways, through back streets, and even cut through a yard hoping to ditch the cars before my friend told me that there was nobody behind us.

I then did what any stupid racing brother would do..

I went back to see what was going on with my brother.

Well, the three cars had pinned my brother's truck, and they were busy patting him down when I drove nonchalantly by to see what was happening.

My brother's friend was already cuffed an in one of the cars, and before I got too much further, they'd slapped the cuffs on him as well.

Knowing that he was going to squeal on me for also racing, I headed home, hoping to partially secure an alibi for where I'd been while he was out getting caught.

This was not to be, as the cops drove him and his friend directly to my house.

Needless to say, my parents WEREN'T thrilled with the idea of us racing, and the held me mostly responsible as I was the older brother, and shouldn't have goaded him into racing in the first place.

Well, after the small hearing, my brother got his license taken away until he turned 18, and he proceeded to make my life a living hell by getting a ride from me whenever he wanted by reminding me of this night.

To be honest? I don't think I'd change a thing.

Yeah, I got in trouble, and I could have killed us both..

But damn, it was fun!

Two-fer Tuesday.

Yeah. I'm going to try some kind of "marketing" schtick, and see how it goes..

So Tuesdays I'm going to ramble about whatever takes me fancy, then come back later, and try something else!

Let's see what you all think about that one!

Anyway..

Back when I was in the service, I enjoyed going out on the cruises. I mean, life had this structure.

Up at 6am, Shit, Shower, Shave (now to be known as the 3S move), get to the duty station for work. Work 8 hours, duty-free until 6am the next morning!

Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner were all taken care of, there were movies and TV to watch, unless you preferred your radio or TV and video game system that you could smuggle aboard the ship.

Plus, you got to see some amazing ports and sights.

I was singularly lucky in that I got to go on two amazing world-wide cruises in my shortened time there.

First, after my schooling was done, my boat was slated to do a Caribbean run.

This isn't as posh as a normal cruise, but it's still an amazing area to see and explore when you've got the time. I'm a big fan of the whole swashbuckler era, so being around the seas where pirates once roamed free really brought some nostalgia home to me! I also got some GREAT souvenirs!

Once we got back from this cruise, we did some manatory down time, and then headed for our "sister" port over in Scotland. Once there, we did some shakedown drills, and I got a chance to find out that Scotland reminded me of my home state. Foggy, rain, and green. Made me a bit homesick for a while, but I loved the accents and scenery.

This immediately was followed by a posting for us to do a "Med Cruise".

Yup. You read right.

Mediterranean Cruise.

I got to see Italy, Greece, Egypt, Israel, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Turkey.

It was amazing.

And it was only overshadowed by one thing..

A trifle, really..

It was called...

Operation Desert Storm.

Near the end of the cruise, our battle group was activated, and we went down through the Suez Canal, and into the Indian Ocean to participate in operations in the Gulf.

Heck, I didn't mind. I was a bubblehead (aka submariner), and there wasn't much of a chance of someone being able to hit US underwater!

Being the rate and rank I was also gained me some airtime on CNN, as I was able to watch a few of my missle actions followed on TV! Sure, they tended to be a few weeks after the fact, but heck, I could still recall the entire operation! Now, my face wasn't shown, but you can still hear my calm, matter-of-fact voice repeating that litany of catchphrases during the live-fire.

The biggest let-down to all of this?

It was one man.

His name?

Bill Clinton.

Yup.

Clinton.

I was one of many servicemen who lost a job when he made his cutbacks.

Because of my age, and the time in grade for my position, I was going to basically be busted down from an E-6 position back to an E-3! And all I'd get for it was a campaign ribbon!

I politely refused to do this, and was given a partial retirement from the United States Navy.

Since then, my monthly stipend has given me some nice spending money each month, but thanks to this financial crisis we're having, I've been getting notices that even more of this partial pension of mine might be taken to help offest budgeting in the bank it's being held at!

Can you believe this? The US bank that I've got my military pension held in wants to charge me even more to keep my hard-earned service cash so that they can cover their own losses in this economic spiral we're in.

I don't know about you, but I'm really hoping for someone else to ask me to hold their money, so I can charge them more for what I'm losing!

More rememberance about jobs...

Now, for those of you just tuning in, yesterday I talked about my first job, and what I did and how I managed.

Today? I'm going to talk about some of the jobs that made me who I am today.

After leaving the glorious job at McDonalds, I took a little time to myself, and just decided to be a "free teen" with only the task of continuing my education.

However, that didn't cut it, and I had to get a job.

I was lucky enough to know a man who owned his own construction business, and he was willing to teach me what I'd need to know in order to get by, if I was willing to put in the work.

I agreed, and started my fascination with power tools and building stuff.

At first, I was relegated to cleaning up areas, and prepping new areas for work.

This meant picking up scraps, or sweeping out stuff, or running the "tamping" machine so that the ground was firmly packed, or taping off areas for painting, etc...

After about six months of this, he deemed me ready to learn some real stuff. That's when I learned about hanging drywall, and mudding and taping.

I then graduated to painting.

After that? Cutting lengths for framing.

Then reading plans, and putting up walls and stairs.

Then roofing, and finally installing electrical lines and plumbing.

By the time I'd hit 2 years, he'd gotten quite trusting of me, and gave me a small team of workers to oversee.

Basically, I was a foreman of an 8 man team. We'd go in, clear out an area, prep it, then put up the skeleton frame of the house he was working on.

Once this was done, then we'd head for the next spot, and begin work there while a new team would take over where we'd left off.

I made pretty good money doing this, and I actually loved the work.

It was at this time that I also had my near-death experience.

Once, while working a job, we were required to tear down an existing apartment complex before getting started with the new building.

The new complex was actually 6 stories, and was in poor repair, so the idea was to take down entire floors as quickly as possible. This meant basically gutting the inside of the building, and then dropping the exterior walls down towards the dumpster.

I was walking an inspector through the site one day, and we were talking about where we were going to be running the water and electrical from, because the old headers were bad, and needed to be replaced.

As we were talking, a support beam gave way, and the upper story (I think it was the 5th story wall) fell toward us.

The inspector didn't have any safety equipment on, and so I shoved him out of the way, and then got a 2 ton piece of wall dropped on me. I was knocked unconsious immediately, and I don't know how long it really took for them to get me out. I only remember waking up in the recovery room the next day. I'd dislocated my left shoulder, I had a major concussion, a slight fracture of my L-3 vertebrae, and four broken ribs.

Considering the height that wall fell, and the weight of it, I am one lucky man to be able to be writing to you today about this.

Anyway, because of that accident, I decided to change careers. Since I was still in college, I decided to see what else I could get into.

Information Technology was still HUGE at this point, so I decided to get my degree in networking administration. I also decided to get some programming experience, and maybe even some hardware knowledge.

However, while going to school, it's great to be an academic, but bills still need to be paid.

Because of this, I took up another job.

I became a Certified Nursing Assistant at a local nursing home.

This was a job that I loved. Not for the work, but for the people.

The work SUCKED. I don't know about you, but you really can't pay a person enough money to go wiping butts, or emptying urinals, or giving showers. There's just not that much money.

However, some of the most interesting and entertaining people you'll ever meet are the ones that know that you're there to help them in their hour of need.

Sure, some see you as Satan incarnate. But others look at and treat you like their own personal guardian angel.

Yes, it was (and probably still is) an unwritten policy to not get attached to your clients, as most were elderly, and destined to eventually die.

However, I don't think that's really possible with the amount of attention and care that you provide for someone in that situation.

Yes, I saw death. In many forms. But I also saw love. I saw peace. I saw contentment. And I saw laughter in the face of adversity.

That, more than anything taught me the strength of the human spirit. It also gave me an even stronger dedication to family.

Since then, I've gotten my degree, and my extra classes, and I've got my dream job.

Sure, the pay isn't what I want, but it still provides very well for me and my family. I'm sure I could go somewhere else, and make much more. However, would making more make me happy?

I don't think so.

As of now? I'm content with my life and where I'm at. I've done what's needed to be done, and now I'm focused on helping my kids get there.

Now that's a journey and tale well worth living, don't you think?

Another trip down memory lane...

Ok, time to reminisce a bit..

Back when I was in High School, my dad told me that if I wanted something, I was going to have to EARN it.

This meant that I was going to need a JOB.

Now, since Junior High, I'd been going out each summer to get extra spending cash. Picking strawberries, picking beans, and picking blueberries.

Usually, by the end of the summer I'd have about 1,000 or more, depending on the crops and my willingness to enslave myself.

Then, I'd fly out to Minnesota for a couple of weeks to my uncle's farm, take care of his stuff, and come home with another $700.

So, by the time school would start, I'd have about $1700 for clothes, books, and tuition. (Books and tuition for college, because I was taking college courses at the same time that I was going to High School!)

Well, things weren't working out so well in the "I need a car!" department, so I got my high school counselor to give me a "emancipation" document that my parents could sign so that I could get a part-time job to work at along with my schooling.

My dad agreed, and signed this.

My first employer? McDonald's.

Yes, I worked the greasy fast-food job for four years while plugging away at schoolwork.

Now, I didn't mind the work. My problem was the definition of part-time.

My school schedule went something like this:

6am. Get up, shower, eat some breakfast, get to school.

6:30 am-2pm High school and related classes.

3pm-5pm College courses.

5:30pm-10pm Work at McDonald's.

10:30-?? Home for homework, then eat a little something, and hit the sack. Usually about midnight.

Now, this wasn't really a problem, since I pulled a 4.0 GPA while in High School, and I also earned a 3.8 with my college courses.

The problem was when I'd get called for extra shifts while I was IN school!

My answering machine would usually be chock-full of messages asking if I could come in for some extra time. Or if I could cover this or that shift.

Did they not know that I was in school? Or did they just not care?

I don't know, but I do tell you that it was the reason that I quit, eventually.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I would be working the night of my High School graduation.

I calmly looked the manager in the face, tossed my hat and apron in their face, and said "F-you. I'm going to graduate."

I still don't think they'd rehire me if I was desperate for a job...

Anyway, thanks to that job, I was able to get my first beater of a car.

My cherished 1971 Volkswagon Super Beetle.

I paid all of $300 for it, and it abused the HELL out of it. (refer to a previous post about it, and you can see just how hard I was on it!)http://jormengrund-yetanotherdayinparadise.blogspot.com/2008/09/teen-escapades.html

Anyway, this was just one of the small joys I was able to get in touch with because of the added financial freedom!

Another?

I moved out when I was 15.

I was able to get in with a friend of mine, and we lived in a two bedroom apartment just across the way from my school. I paid half the rent, and half of utilities.

This would only cost me $250 a month, which wasn't bad!

So then I tried my hand at something else..

I decided to start saving for buying my own home.

Now, I don't know many teens who think this far ahead, but it gave me brain cramps when I'd decide how much of each paycheck I was going to put into my nest egg account at my bank.

I mean, I had gas to pay for, insurance, food, rent, and utilities. Plus, if I wanted to go play at some point during the weekend, I had to foot that bill as well.

I learned how to budget FAST. Plus, it seemed to work for me.

Thus, with some hard work, some dedication, and a little luck, I was able to put aside a nice big chunk of change when I graduated.

Add to that all the bonus cash I got for being in the service, and I was sitting pretty when I decided to buy a home!

But that's for another day..

Do you recall your first job?

Was it as glorious as mine?

Time for some reminiscing!

Well, I've been too serious these last couple of posts, so it's time for a bit of levity..

I don't think I've recalled the tale of how I nearly killed my brother, so I think I'm going to relive that small bit of my "glory days", and see how you all like it.

Back when I was nearly in Junior High, my brother was getting ready to enter the big wide world of School.

Now, this was a monumental step for him, because not only was he going to school, but my mom had a really hard time cutting the apron strings, and he actually entered school a year later than most kids. This meant that while I was about the same age as everyone else in my class, my bro was going to be OLDER. This would eventually lead to massive amounts of merciless teasing from other kids, but my mom didn't care.. He was her BABY.

Anyway, suffice to say that my brother and I were close, but it was more of an antagonistic relationship type of close than anything else.

If he succeeded, then I would try to find something that I could out-do his accomplishment with, and vice-versa.

One day, my mom came home early, and came to get us kids from our grandma's house. We would go there after school because both of my parents worked from 6am until about 5pm, this left little time for any socializing with the parental units at all, and seeing them before it was time for dinner was a special treat.

On this day, my brother found out, but he was about 15 steps behind me in getting into the house to see her. Making sure I knew that he was about to "out-do" me in greeting her, he proceeded to shove past me, and take a running leap for her lap.

Now, my mom's not that big, and my brother wasn't the smallest kid in school. She did what any normal person would - She flinched.

This usually wouldn't be so bad, but the fact of the matter was that she was sitting in a bent-wood rocking chair that my grandpa had made. Not only that, but it was still fairly new, and the corners of the edges were still quite stout.

My mom's flinch happened to take her legs out of direct contact with my brother, which ended up with him slamming his forehead against the leading edge of the rocker, splitting it open.

Well, about 30 minutes and 25 stitches later, everything was back under control. My brother still laughs about that incident to this day, and you can't usually see the scar, because it's hidden in the laugh lines on his forehead.

Well, about a week or so later, we were in seventh heaven because of a nice rainstorm that had hit around our house, making the backyard a bit of a mud pit. As the oldest, I usually came up with various ideas of how to amuse myself during the weekends. This particular weekend, I'd found a couple old pieces of pipe that used to be in a wind chime. Finding them hollow, I'd jam one end down into the mud, pull it out, and then fling the pipe at the wall with some amount of force to make an awesome mud splatter on the garage.

I did this for about an hour or so, when my brother came along, and wanted to join in.

*Enter in the William Tell theme*

I got the great idea to try and outline his body with mud. So I convinced him to stand against the wall, and I'd outline his body with the mud that I was flinging from the pipes.

The biggest problem that I hadn't factored into this scenario was that I had NO control over where the mud flew.. In fact, I was only hitting the garage about once every three tries or so, but I didn't tell him that!

My brother agreed, and stood against the wall. I took careful aim with my first tube, and made a lucky strike, hitting next to his left arm.. Thunk.

He was cheered by this, and shouted a couple words of encouragement to me.

Feeling cocky over this success is what led to the next one.

Thwap! Mud from a poorly aimed tube struck my brother just over his left eye! Not only that, but it also had the added gift of a small rock, and had given him a bit of a cut, in addition to the nice shiner he was going to have!

Now my brother, being like most kids, did what they all do. He cried for mom, and went running towards the house.

Me, sensing the inevitable punishment, tried to ward off the impending doom. So I did what I thought was reasonable and rational.

I pushed him down.

Now, this was also poorly thought out, as by this time, he was crying, and unable to see well because of this. Add to that the decreased vision because of the mud and blood in his left eye, and you've got a BAD combination.

He fell.

Face-first onto the cement steps leading to our back door.

Now, as I'd pointed out earlier in the Blog here, he had stiches..

They broke like a cheap pane of glass.

The thing that went into the house bawling and covered in mud and blood resembled more of something from one of my Scooby Doo cartoons than my brother.

My mom (who is a nurse) acted quickly, and get the bleeding stopped, and my brother taken back to get his head re-stitched, along with a couple more added to just above his left eye. (you can't see these, either.. darn it!)

When they got home, I got the best part of it all.

He'd gotten ice cream, and I got NOTHING.

*sigh*

Oh well, he always was mom's favorite!

Trips down memory lane....

Today, I'm going to recollect something that I used to do back in High School..

During the summer months, when school was out, I'd get a plane ticket, and travel to Minnesota to help out my uncle on his farm.

This was done each and every year since I started High School, for the fact that my uncle paid me to come work there, and they also paid for me to fly out there as well. (My folks didn't have the cash for the ticket, and were more than willing to get me out of their hair for a couple of months on someone else's tab!)

Out on the farm, I'd get the honor of slopping hogs, feeding chickens, milking cows, foddering horses, goats and sheep, baling hay, and running the combine at harvest.

Near the end of my time, there would be a big "slaughter fest" where my uncle would butcher the year's meat. This would usually entail about 1000 chickens, 10 cows, 50 lambs, and 100 pigs. I'd also get to help with shearing each year as well.

One main event that I remember from my first year at the farm had to do with baling hay.

For those of you who have never done this, it's a dirty job. Hay sticks EVERYWHERE. You get scratches from the dead stuff, it weighs a bunch early in the morning while the dew is still settling in it, and it itches like MAD.

Sometimes we'd catch a break, and my uncle would pony up the cash for a guy to come out with his 1/2 ton baler, and we'd roll up 1000 pounds of hay into HUGE rolls that we would then take to season with the tractor. Others, we'd break out the two tractors, one with two empty wagons, and one with the baler and one empty wagon behind it.

The drive of the baler tractor would then follow the line of hay, which would feed into the baler. This would bundle the hay into that compact shape we all know about, and then fasten two wire ties around the bundle. the bundled bale would then travel to a small spring-loaded catapult which would flip the bale into the empty wagon being towed behind. There were two of us that would be in the wagon, stacking the bales into neat rows. Once the wagon was full, the lead tractor would stop, we'd unhitch the full wagon, and leave it where it sat. We'd then get the other tractor with the two empty trailers, unhitch one empty, and hook it behind the baler. Then we'd swap the other empty trailer and hitch it to the back of the full trailer, and set off to bundle more hay.

Once all three trailers were full, we'd take a trip to the barn, and the hayloft (or haymow, as my uncle called it). Two of us would climb up on the conveyor belt that would be raised to the opening at the top of the barn, and we'd get ready to stack bales as the others would start loading the conveyor with the bales from the trailers. My uncle would start the conveyor, and we'd ride to the top of the haymow, turn on a light (mainly because it'd be dark in there, and we needed to see where to stack the bales), and get ready for some fast hard work. By the time we would have our first barn run, it would be about 6am. (we'd usually start about 4:30 in the morning) so it wasn't too bad at first. The bales themselves weigh about 50-75 pounds each, depending on what type of hay, so the work isn't difficult, but it's very repetative and exhausting after a while. We'd then stack this out to the roof of the barn, my uncle would shut off the conveyor, and we'd ride it back down to the tractors, and go back for the next set of bales.

This particular day, we were working with the alfalfa bales. For early in the morning, this was a MAJOR downer, as these bales when wet tended to weigh about 80 pounds. We'd worked up a good sweat, and it took longer than normal for the first run to get done. Mainly because of the baler breaking down, and taking about two hours to fix.

Once we got the first full set of trailers done, we rode back to the barn to stack. I was with my cousin, and we were going to be the lucky two up in the haymow stacking. We got there, my uncle turned on the conveyor, and we rode up to the loft. I turned on the light, and we looked over the older stacks. There were a couple of broken-down bales that we moved to one side to use, but for the most part, everything was looking good. Then the bales started coming. We grabbed each one, walked it about five steps, and slammed it down on the bales to set it in. As we did this, we each noticed something. There was one section of the loft that was warmer and darker than the others, and there was a humming noise coming from that area as well.

Knowing how well my uncle repaired stuff, my cousin and I assumed that there was a faulty wire or breaker under the floorboards over there, so we resolved to try and leave that area for last, since we didn't want to run the risk of being shocked so early in the morning.

The three trailers were emptied, we scrambled down the conveyor, got a quick drink, and hopped back on the tractors for round two. By now, it was getting close to midday, and the sun was out in all of it's glory. We sweated, cursed, and got the second batch done. We then headed back to the barns to stack the next batch. My cousin and I rode the conveyor back up, and seeing the stacks, shrugged and made the decision to work on the side where we'd heard the nasty humming.

As the first bale hit the stack, the humming got a bit more intense. By the third bale, it got darker in the loft. He and I looked at each other, and then ducked and ran.

Unknown to us, a nest of hornets had set up camp in the hay bales there, and we'd just crushed over half of the nest.

Now I don't know about you, but I HATE hornets. They sting more than once, and those stings HURT LIKE HELL.

My uncle and cousins didn't know what was going on when they saw us scrambling down the conveyor, but they figured it out really quickly when the angry cloud of hornets filled the sky behind us. We ran for the irrigation sluices, and dove for the mud and water. We hid there for about an hour, until the mad things gave up and flew away.

My cousin and I both had a few stings from that close call, and we had to call a professional exterminator to clear out the nest. He said it was one of the biggest hornet nests he'd ever seen.

Since that time, I've really had a problem going up into dark dimly-lit barns. And I really get jumpy if I hear humming or buzzing noises.

But hell, can you really blame me?

Something Serious

Today is a day of rememberance for me.

I recall driving to work, and turning on the radio to listen to a newscaster become hysterical with fear and grief.

I recall getting to work, and clustering around the TV with everyone else to watch in shocked horror at the pictures that were being sent from New York.

I recall that NOTHING got sold that day, but many folks became much closer than they had ever been before.

I recall the solidarity of the entire nation as we grieved, rebuilt, recovered, and grew.

Now?

It seems like a bad dream to many.

But I refuse to forget.

Maybe it's because I was one of the many volunteers who went there to help clear wreckage. Maybe it's because of the selfless sacrifice of life that many of the police and fire fighters who gave willingly to try to rescue just one more person. Maybe it's the horrific sight of people throwing themselves hundreds of feet to their death instead of waiting to burn alive.

It could be all these, and more.

Now? I see presidential candidates using this day to try to further their own selfish goals. I see newspeople predicting "threat levels" for terrorism attacks. I see memorials built, and some undone. What does it all mean?

For one: NOBODY should have the right to take any political gain from the massive loss of life that occured on that day. To do so severely diminishes their stature in my eyes.

Secondly: Terrorist threat levels? Is there really such a thing? I mean, if you were to gauge terrorist threat levels before 9/11, would you have put the US into the "Categoy 5" massive red level? Terrorism thrives off of attacking when and where you least expect it to be. So to try to measure that is just an exercise in futility.. Quit trying to quantify religious zealots, and just take care of the here and now.. Thank you very much.

Lastly: Why oh why aren't the towers either built, or the monuments finished?
It only takes a year or so to fully construct a massive tower. Yet it's taken seven years to have a partially constructed memorial built where the towers once stood. And now? It looks like they might be delayed again.. because of politics! Sure, the one in DC is done. Great.. It didn't have as much of an impact as New York. Sure, it wiped out part of the Pentagon, but really? It hit a hardened bunker, and basically took out a wall. That's considered a minor scratch in the grand scheme of things. So sure, I can see that small memorial being completed. I just can't understand what took so long for it to be completed.

Now for the towers? I tend to agree with my blog friend The Nemesing One. Those towers should have been rebuilt bigger and better than before. A basic flaunt-it-in-your-face flip-you-the-bird screw off and die statement to any power that thinks that it can knock us down with a nasty show of force. What did we do? We cowered. We cried. We considered. We argued. We denied. And now we're undecided.

All this does is show the folks who thrive on dealing terror is that we're susceptible to their attacks, and that if they really want to make an impact, they've got to make sure that it puts on a really good show for the news.

I thank God for the men and women who serve our country. I also thank the men and women who put their lives on the line to rescue us in our times of need.

But I have to condemn our men and women who are put in positions of authority when they bicker, make deals, and downplay the sacrifice and dedication of these people if to do nothing but make themselves and their "careers" look better.

Do what's right.

Remember this day, and give it the respect it's due.