Mans' Physical Journey

With slight variations, all men make the same physical journey. The difference comes in how we choose to relate to our creator, God. Just because you profess not to believe, doesn't mean God isn't real. All men have within them a carnal and spiritual nature. Our spiritual natures separate us from the rest of creation and make us unique. The picture of Fall leaves, and the series of three Haiku deal with the physical journey. I will follow this post with an explanation of the spiritual journey tomorrow.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Green, it moves with limb and twig
youth has strength to spare.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Red, it leaves its lofty perch
color to be seen.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Brown, it’s blown from place to place
no one knows it’s there.

Dennis Price

Almost Wordless Wednesday

A citizen of America will cross the ocean to fight for democracy, but won't cross the street to vote in a national election. - Bill Vaughan

Leanin' into the wind

The hot air from all the news and weather sources has caused former Tropical Storm Dolly to stall near the coast and intensify to a Class 2 hurricane. We are awaiting the big blast any time now. I pumped my pool down a little over a foot while we had power and I decided to post one more time. I did get the sign up in front of my house, and if you are a looter who also blogs, you had better pay close attention. I will keep you posted as I get real information and not the overblown redundant banter of the talking heads. I cooked a great breakfast before the first power surge and I have a fresh pot of coffee in my thermal carafe. As Buffalo says, "Life is sweet as long as the water stays in the street." Have a great day. Pappy

Life Passages

It's summer and everything is for the most part green or brown. One of the interesting things about blogging is getting to share in another's life. I am amazed at the variety of ways people share their existence with others. Photos, stories, poetry, art, and even daily accounts give us a window into life both past and present. The presenter cannot divorce his past. So, as hard as we try to disguise ourselves, we still leak through in the things we create. It is also interesting to post something and have others comment on it. Even in comments on the same item we find a variety of ways to look at the content. I wrote a series of three Haiku some time ago each starting with the same first line. Some of you contest poets may even remember the name of the poetry form, I can't recall it just now. It is a fairly transparent theme, but I'd be interested in your take when you read it.


Twisting leaf in wind.
Green, it moves with limb and twig
youth has strength to spare.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Red, it leaves its lofty perch
color to be seen.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Brown, it’s blown from place to place
no one knows it’s there.

Everything is vague to a degree you do not realize till you have tried to make it precise. - Bertrand Russell

Jay Baby's Harley

I think I have mentioned this before, but some of my childhood, including my early teens, took place in south Mississippi. My family moved around more than most from this area, so I had some knowledge of life outside the county lines. I lived in town (although town was not what it is today) and many of my relatives still lived on what was left of small family farms. The era was mid to late fifties, and early sixties. I loved my trips to the country. I explored the woods, hunted, fished, swam, did farm chores, and experienced life in more ways than any "city boy" ever would. People from the rural South were for the most part poor, and even people with money rarely travelled as they do today. I was coming of age, and many of the lessons I learned about life involved asking questions about what two farm animals were doing. My parents recognized my curiosity, but they responded in more veiled terms than those used today. I was cautioned not to pay too much attention to any female relatives closer than third cousin. I required more explanation on this point since I had some pretty good looking ones in the first and second cousin range. But, I eventually got the idea and any future introductions to relatives I didn't know came with a statement of their relationship to my root stock. I was also cautioned that any serious consideration of a mate should not include Catholics, Yankees, or Republicans. So, when I say Jay Baby was my third cousin you will understand why I was conscious of that. Now, most of us were poor by today's standard of measurement, but Jay Baby, the youngest male in the family of Joe May and Vergie, was poor. I remember going to his house down a sandy lane that ran off the only paved road in the area and seeing his mother sitting on the front porch in her sun bonnet, probably resting from an early morning trip to the vegetable garden. The house was a small wood frame structure and it was very sparsely furnished. Jay Baby slept on a mattress on the floor with no sheets. There were no other furnishings in his room. The house had electricity, but no running water or indoor plumbing. So, it was a big surprise to everyone when Jay Baby came up with an old war surplus Harley Davidson motorcycle. He was older than I was by several years, but he was small in stature, probably in the neighborhood of 135 pounds. The Harley did not have an electric starter and required a pretty stiff jump on the kick starter to turn the engine over. Jay Baby had some visible bruising from being thrown by the kick starter into or over the handlebars. However he was mighty proud and totally fearless on the big bike. We, heard the roar of the Harley before we caught brief glimpses of Jay Baby flying down the paved road clinging to the handlebars with his stringy hair pushed straight back in the wind. He looked like a dragon fly riding a Buffalo. Everyone worried for his safety. The roads off the main road were gravel. In between times when the county road grader smoothed the ruts, the auto traffic would form tracks with a hump of gravel in the center and raised gravel humps on either side. The gravel in these humps was loose. A car could loose traction and slide when it hit these humps at the wrong angle. I have seen Jay Baby flying down the gravel roads with the back end of the big Harley swishing back and forth like a horse's tail. The bridges over the small creeks along these roads were wooden with no side rails. Two wooden tracks were laid across the cross members to accommodate the wheels of a car. It came as no surprise to anyone when we received the report that Jay Baby missed the bridge while trying to regain control of his big Harley and went airborne into the water. We were relieved to learn that his only serious injury was to his pride. A week or so after the accident we heard the big Harley's throaty rumble once more and watched the curve for Jay Baby to appear. However, when we saw the bike it had kids sitting on every available surface. Jay Baby sold the bike for fifty dollars to a family down the road with a bunch of teen and pre-teen boys. I never saw him on a motorcycle again.

The best car safety device is a rear-view mirror with a cop in it. - Dudley Moore

Songs and Such

Last evening, the boys and I were all down at the local saloon talking about the world as a whole, and since we seemed to have a shortage of women present, the conversation naturally turned in that direction. The piano man was playing away on some old Don Williams tunes and we started musing on why more women didn't join us every evening. Much of my career was spent watching people interact in the world of smoke and neon. There were all kinds represented in the world of the night people, but some just seemed to be ordinary folks searching hard for someone to love. Many were ladies who showed evidence that life had not been kind to them. They always seemed be drawn to guys with a big "L" tattooed on their foreheads. I was always tempted to break cover and go over and ask them if they knew what that tattoo meant. Instead I wrote a song back in the early eighties that describes the scene and allows for a little advice to be given. It would probably be banned today because of my repeated use of the term "Pretty Lady". I always thought Willie could probably do a good job singing it.

PRETTY LADY

The dreams she had are fading
And her love is slowly jading
For her heart she freely gave with no return
Now her smile hides her sorrow
And her soul longs for tomorrow
When perhaps she’ll find a love that will be true

Pretty lady, pretty lady I sing this song for you
For I know your heart is aching for a love that will be true
And with time will help to heal the wounds
From the loves that you once knew
Pretty lady, pretty lady I sing this song for you.

But with uncontrolled desire
This lady plays with fire
Knowing full well that someday she will get burned
Oh the lady needs a lover
Who will put no one above her
And will love her like no one has done before.

Pretty lady, pretty lady I sing this song for you
Seek an uncontested lover who will pledge his love to you
If he cannot now be faithful, he will not be true to you.
Pretty lady, pretty lady don’t break your heart in two.

The time to stop talking is when the other person nods his head affirmatively but says nothing. - Henry S. Haskins

Looking for that Pot of Gold?

I don't know how many times I've tried to grab the brass ring on the Merry-Go-Round and missed. I've played the lottery. I've prayed the highly spiritual prayer, "Lord just let me see those six numbers today, and I promise I'll tithe my winnings." I've tried to get excited about interactive marketing opportunities, and I've invested with the best money managers my money can buy. I still abide in the middle of the pack. I've read all the inspirational books and repeated the success mantras, but somehow I still am just an ordinary middle classed citizen of these great United States of America. The older I get, the more I realize I did get the brass ring. I read stories of those who have amassed great wealth, and for many it has been a big disappointment. Their lives have been wrecked. The pot at the end of the rainbow is just what you see in the picture above. I have a wonderful wife, children, and grandchildren. I live in a comfortable home, and all my needs are met. I still have my health, and my mind is still operating at near mediocre levels. I am at peace spiritually, and I live in the greatest country on the face of the Earth. I wrote a poem to try and describe the problem with our perceptions, and real life. I hope you enjoy it.


Little Pleasures

We plan.
We work.
We save.
We dream.
But, life is seldom as it seems.

A germ,
a gene,
a wayward act
can throw perceptions off their track.

A hug,
a kiss,
a tender word
can let us know we’re not alone.

Life is life.
So, on we go
not so sure of what’s in store.
But, fearing less that great unknown.
Enjoying “little” more.

Golf

If you spell it backwards it spells, FLOG. I once heard it was an acronym based on a sign found over the door in the locker room at one of the early Golf Clubs that stood for Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden. I really don't know. I was introduced to the game almost by accident in Mobile, Ala. My dad wasn't the golfing type. At our income level, golf was not on the weekend menu. However, some of my buddies heard you could make some good tips going to the nearby Country Club and caddying. So, I went. I knew absolutely nothing about the game. The Club pro felt sorry for me because I was the last available caddy on the bench outside. He told me he would teach me the ropes. I think he realized I probably wouldn't argue much when he took nine strokes and told me to put down a four. I was in college before I ever really played the game. In my Senior year, I had a number of electives left to take and so I chose Golf. That was a great class. Every session was held at the golf course and I managed a fairly decent grade. Later as an adult, I spent thousands on clubs, training equipment, green fees, cart rental, lessons, and snacks at the Country Club. I had game, but I couldn't get my short game and my long game going in the same round. I was a pretty good instructor. I knew by watching what you were doing wrong, but I couldn't get it going when I had to address the ball. I am left handed, but I learned to play right handed. I've always thought that had an effect on my swing thoughts. I never learned the thousands of rules that go along with the game. I played fair, however I never counted an extra stroke when adjusting my lie with my number 12 foot wedge. I could drive a ball 400 yards; 200 out + 200 to the right. I was usually in a fairway, but not always the one I teed off on. Some might think golf a sissy sport, but I've been to the emergency room on at least two occasions for stitches. Both when trying to teach my daughters how to play. My younger one was trying to learn in high school, and I was working with her at the driving range. She was having trouble keeping her head down when she swung. I stood behind her and put my hand on the back of her head to hold it down through the swing. She had learned my lesson on follow through and caught me right behind my left ear with a nine iron. Nice shot, great follow through and a trip to the ER. Later when my older daughter was an adult, I took her and her mother to a small nine hole course to teach her as we played. The first hole went well, it was a long par four with plenty of room. The second was a par three with a large oak in front of the green. I teed off first and laid up in front of the tree. The limb of the oak ran all the way across the fairway, so I took out my three wood and hit the ball like I was putting. The ball ran along the ground and up onto the green. I lined my daughter up and told her to use the same shot. I stepped back to watch the shot. He back swing was low and slow, but she also remembered the lesson on the first hole on the importance of follow through. I heard it more than felt it, but I knew it wasn't good. Her three wood hit me just over my left eye at the hair line. I remained conscious, but I scared several golfers on my way to the club house when they saw the bloody towel pressed against my forehead. The people at the ER asked how I got hurt and I told them I was giving a golf lesson. My ER doctor was also a ring physician and had sewed up several boxers with similar wounds, so he did a fine job putting in the six stitches. If I had listened to an old man at the driving range early in my golf career, I would look less like Frankenstein today. He said if you want to stay married, never try and teach you wife to drive or play golf. I could add to that, "or any other family members." I still play, but I've over built my body and I am a little too thick to swing around my torso. I still have clubs, and occasionally I will go if someone has a free pass, but now I spend most of my golfing energy on designing golf helmets.

There is no game like golf; you go out with three friends, play eighteen holes, and return with three enemies.

Remembering Who We Are

It is Sunday morning, dark outside, and I'm the only one up. The ambient noises are really part of the silence because I've tuned them out. Throughout the week we share scenes captured by camera, or memory and sometimes comment on their significance. Or, we rant about things over which we feel we have very little control and draw some comfort in knowing that others have similar thoughts. I know some of you who come and read here do not share my faith in Jesus Christ, and I know on my most eloquent day I could never convince you otherwise. Just know when you feel like there has to be more to life than what you know, there is. In Psalm 46:10 we find these words; Be still and know that I am God. Words for both the believer and the non believer.
When you have exhausted all your earthly strength in trying to make sense of all you see and hear, that's when you'll find God. The difference in the message of Jesus Christ is, it calls for worship of the Creator. All the other religious messages throughout time have called for worship of some aspect of creation. So today just be still. Quit fighting life. Let yourself go. God has always known who you are, and where you are. My prayer is for all of us to have a peace filled Sunday.

Football and Life - Part III

The day soon came when the lineup for the first game was announced. Roy was chosen to play first team offensive guard. His mother rued the day when she had agreed to let him play. She believed he would probably quit before the first game. His dad on the other hand was quite proud. Central Jr. High was the largest in the division and they had won every game they played in the last several years. They were Golfview’s first opponent. During the week before the game the coach passed out the new purple game shirts with the gold numbers. Roy wore number 69. The Golfview Gators were ready to play.
The game was played under the lights at the high school stadium. Most of the Gator squad had never been there before, and most had never played under the lights. Their practice field didn’t have any markings on it. The referees had to line them up before the first kick-off. The Central squad looked huge. They won the toss and chose to receive. Coach Mays gathered the Golfview players in a big huddle and gave them a pep talk.
“Men, their return man is named DeAngelo and he is wearing number 32. All of you look for number 32. He is very fast. Hit him low, and hit him hard.”
Coach called Roy’s name for the kick-off squad. All of the team joined in a cheer that started low and got louder as they broke the huddle. “Gator bait, gator bait, gator bait….”
Roy ran onto the field. He looked at the other team and found number 32 near the goal line. He saw himself shedding blockers and plowing DeAngelo into the turf in front of the cheering masses. The referees whistle blew and Golfview’s kicker hit the football. It sailed toward number 32. DeAngelo got the football and started up field. Roy could see nothing but number 32. He was going to hit him untouched. Just as he took his angle, Roy was hit by a crushing cross-body block. He fell to the turf and caught the top of DeAngelo’s sock with one finger. The running back high stepped and jerked free. Roy watched as he crossed the goal line at the other end of the field. They made the extra point, and the score was seven to nothing in favor of Central.
The Golfview team lined up to receive the kickoff. Ronnie Massey, the scat back received the kick and ran it out to the thirty yard line. On the first play from scrimmage, Golfview fumbled the ball and Central recovered. On their next play, they scored another touchdown. They missed the extra point. The score was now thirteen to nothing after three plays. Coach Mays called a time out and the Golfview team ran to the sidelines. He didn’t call them men.
“I didn’t bring you here to have you lie down in front of the other team. You either get out there and stop them, or I’m going to forfeit and take you home.”
The team ran back on to the field. Roy and his team mates played an inspired game after that. They even scored. At the end of the game, the score was Central 13, and Golfview 7.
The rest of the season was a dream. Every team that the scrubby little Golfview team played lost. Central and Golfview met in the championship game. The scene was very similar to their first meeting except that Golfview had something to prove. Roy’s dad and mom had attended every game. Roy even had a girlfriend who ran on to the field and hugged him when the final gun sounded. The championship was a battle from the first whistle. The ball went back and forth between the two teams. At the end of the final quarter, the score was Golfview 14, and Central 7. The clock continued to run during the final two minutes. Central possessed the ball and drove to Golfview’s five yard line. The play gave them a first down. The big Central full back pounded the center of the line. In three plays he was at the one yard line. A defensive guard for Golfview fell and had to be carried off the field. Coach Mays looked to the bench and called for Roy.
“Get in there and seal off that gap. I don’t want anyone to make it through. Is that clear?” “Yes sir” Roy said as he buttoned his chin strap.
Roy got down in the awkward feeling four point stance of a defensive lineman. The center and guard across from him looked huge. He watched the center’s hands and moved when he snapped the ball. Roy lowered his butt and pushed his body upward with all his strength wedging himself into the gap. Through the mass of grunting, pushing flesh he could see the thighs of the big fullback coming straight for him. Roy lowered the crown of his helmet and strained forward with everything he had. The knees of Central’s big fullback hit Roy’s helmet and the runner fell just short of the goal line.
Roy could not hear the cheers or remember what happened on the play. He awoke minutes later on the sideline with his dad looking down at him and his girlfriend standing near by. His mother had already gone to the car. She just couldn’t stand to watch. Later he learned that he had held his ground. Golfview won.
Roy’s dad, who was gravely ill, didn’t live long enough to see another season, but sometimes one is enough.

Football and Life - Part II

He was at the practice field early. The Golfview physical training area was a large sandy expanse covered with sand spurs and bounded on three sides by palmetto, cabbage palms, and other scrub plants. The guys from Golfview subdivision were all wearing matching shorts and tee shirts. Some of the group from South Gate drifted into the brush on the other side of the fence for one last cigarette. Roy and his friends stood in between them. They watched and waited for instructions. The coaches held a clinic on how to properly put on the uniform. They told the players where to buy their cleats and other gear not provided by the school.
The practice started with fifty and one hundred yard time trials. Roy ran as fast as he could, but when the players were assigned, he was told to report to the offensive line coach. . He didn’t know the difference between offense and defense. He was just happy to be there. The rest of the afternoon was spent running. He had never run so much in his life. His lungs hurt, his legs shook, and his gym clothes were soaked and sticking to his body. Over the next few days they ran until they collapsed. The loose white sand made footing difficult. Roy hoped he wouldn’t give out. Some guys threw up across the fence at the edge of the practice field. The heavier smokers gave up on football altogether. Roy stayed. His mother was disappointed.
After a week of running, push-ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, and agility drills the coach told them to report to the field in pads. Roy saw the world for the first time from inside a football helmet. The curved nylon face mask looked like a small ladder just below the level of his eyes. The pads and other gear made him look like quite a physical specimen. On the other hand it made the really big guys look like giants. Roy lumbered from the field house with the rest of the team. The metal tipped nylon cleats made an awful racket as they ran down the concrete runway. The coaches and some of the football dads made a wooden seven-man blocking sled. It was a behemoth. Seven players lined up in a three point stance in front of the blocking pads attached to its front. On the coach’s whistle they lunged at the great wooden beast slamming their shoulders into the pads and driving their legs with short choppy steps. Because the field was sand, and because the blocking sled was homemade, it rarely slid. The runners of the sled tipped forward and dug into the loose turf. The linemen continued to drive with their legs until the coaches’ second whistle. A large deep hole formed beneath their cleated shoes as they strained against the immovable object. Roy’s calves cramped and his thighs burned but he continued. He wasn’t going to quit. His pads got heavy as the cotton backing soaked up the sweat.
The offensive line coach showed them how to make a proper block on a running play. He showed them how plays were diagramed with X’s and O’s, and where they were to block based on the play called. After that, they learned pass blocking, keeping their butts low and getting under their opponent. They practiced these moves over and over again. Then the coaches called the entire team back together for fumble drills and tackling practice. Roy thought he was going to die. Every time he thought it was time for practice to end they would start something else. In the early stages, they practiced everything at half speed concentrating on their form. The coaches taught them to tackle with their heads on the same side of the ball carrier as the ball. The wet pads picked up the grit from the sandy field and rubbed them raw. Just when Roy thought he could go on no more, the coach blew his whistle and lined them up at one end of the field. They were five or six abreast and on the coach’s whistle they ran one hundred yard wind sprints. At the end of the field they got back in line and repeated the drill. Before practice was over, players were stumbling and falling down. Roy drug his spent body to the showers and stood under the soothing blast. He left his equipment in the compartment with his name on it and headed home. He went to bed early that night.
The following days passed with the same intensity. The strong stench of ammonia and body odor filled the locker room and increased with each passing day. Roy thought they could probably win if the other team had to smell their pads before the game.
During the second week, the coaches picked up the speed. They added tackling drills at full speed. Bull in the ring and head on tackling introduced Roy to the physics of two large objects meeting helmet to helmet. He dreaded tackling their big fullback, Mike Rains. Mike weighed 180 pounds and had a beard as heavy as that of any man. Roy got up after some tackles looking out the ear hole of his helmet. If the offensive linemen missed a block, the coach would make them run the ball with no blockers. Several times the coaches pulled up on the belt of Roy’s football pants as he lay sprawled on the ground trying to regain his breath after a collision. He was playing football. Roy was put into the lineup at Guard. He was the smallest man on the line. He often pulled away from the line on an end run called to his side and led the running back around. Most of the players on the offensive and defensive interior line were over two hundred pounds. Roy had to try and hold them out on pass plays and block them on running plays. His battered and bruised body was evidence of his tenacity. He had been run over, stepped on, cleated, kneed, poked, jabbed, and flattened, and this at the hands of his own teammates. He wondered what playing against other players might be like. The players from South Gate were the toughest. They played dirty, and they enjoyed a good fight. Some had earned nicknames; Benny the biter, Knees Orton, Walrus, Scat. Benny would bite the nearest leg or arm in the pile after a tackle. Once, in the tangle of the pile, he bit himself, and spent the rest of the game trying to figure out who did it.

Football and Life - Part I

This is a life story in three parts. While the story is told through a single season of freshman football, it is a story of life.

The Season

Sweat dripped off of Roy Bond’s oily teen face. It glistened in the bright September sun. The temperature was still in the high 90s in south Florida. The registration line stretched from one end of the school to the other. The hallways were open and ran along the exterior of the building. Roy was leaning out to see how much further he had to go when someone stuck a permission form in his hand. Turning, he stared at the slender man with the crew cut.
“Son, get you parents to sign this form, and report to the field house tomorrow for a football physical.”
“But…” His stammering response fell short of the back of the man’s head. The speaker continued down the long line with another man following close behind. They were dressed alike in Khaki shorts and matching purple shirts. Both had whistles hanging from cords around their necks. They sized up each male in the line. If they had any size at all, they repeated the short speech and handed them a form.
Golfview Junior High School opened its doors just two years before. Roy stood in line to register for the ninth grade. The school sat between an affluent golfing community, Golfview, and the infamous South Gate, a place where the railroad tracks literally marked the boundary between the fortunate and the unfortunate. A few kids, including Roy, lived in a semi-rural area near the school. Both of Roy’s parents worked and had no time for golf.
He stared at the form in his hand and wondered about the possibility of playing football. Roy weighed 165 pounds, but most of it was baby fat. Very few kids in his neighborhood ever played any organized sport other than baseball. Still, the thought of putting on a football uniform and running onto the field in front of cheering fans excited him. Sweat continued to streak down his cheek as he waited in the slow moving line, but Roy didn’t notice. He dreamed of stardom. In the past, only the well-to-do kids played football at Golfview. The school win/loss record was dismal.
That evening when his dad got home, Roy gave him the insurance card and permission form.
“Dad, can I go out for football?”
Before he could answer Roy’s mother said, “You’re in the band.”
“I could do both.” He countered.
“You’ve never played football.” She said, looking at her husband for some support.
His dad was an athlete: a champion boxer in the Navy. Roy could sense that his dad was on his side.
Roy remembered how his dad tried to prepare him for life. It all started in grammar school. He was too young to start. He still had his baby teeth. But there he was at school, back against the wall, trying to avoid contact with strangers. A large boy stood in front of him looking down at his upturned face. His stare was unfriendly.
“What are you looking at?” The large boy asked...
“Uh, you look sleepy.” Roy said.
Apparently he took offense at Roy’s retort and pounded him into a submissive blob. This was his first encounter with a bully. His dad later told him that crying and rolling into a ball was not an acceptable defense tactic. He tried to teach him the “sweet science”, but Roy was left handed, and a bit of a bumble foot, so he progressed slowly and avoided physical confrontation. By the end of elementary school he gained some confidence, but, just when he began to feel comfortable, Junior High School started. The process had to be repeated.
His dad looked at him and then back at his mother. “Let’s let him tryout.”
His mother turned away in defeat. Roy started in on the usual list of promises related to what he would do if allowed to play. Dad signed the form.
The next day Roy stood in front of the concrete block field house with a great host of other potential players. Three major groups huddled in separate areas around the front steps. The kids from Golfview community stood nearest the door. Most of them had played before. Another group from South Gate milled around in the shade of a nearby palm tree. This group smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and Vitalis hair tonic. Roy didn’t know the South Gate kids very well because he spent most of the last two years trying to avoid them.
The new coach stepped out of the field house and addressed them. “Men, line up and have your signed forms ready when you get to the door. After you pass your physical, report to the equipment room and check out your pads. Practice will start this afternoon at four. Bring your equipment when you come.”
He called them “men”. Roy felt tougher already. He rubbed his hand across his face to see if he could feel a whisker. He thought for a second that he did, but realized that it was only a pimple. Once through the door they were told to strip down to their shorts. Roy looked around to see how he measured up with the rest of the guys. He thought maybe he should order the Charles Atlas muscle building course after he got home. Once the poking and prodding behind the curtain was complete, they redressed and picked up their equipment. All were fitted for a helmet, pads, practice uniform and game pants. They had to provide their own jock strap. Roy had never worn one before. He left with a hefty load of armor stuffed into his football pants. He purchased a jock strap at the local drug store on his way home. That was embarrassing. Now he stood in front of a full length mirror and practiced putting it on over his pants. He had a horrible vision of standing naked and afraid in front of strangers and not knowing how to put it on. Once he mastered his most basic piece of equipment, he worked on figuring out the rest. The remainder of the day whizzed by as he dreamed of flying tackles and crushing blocks. All of these delivered by him, of course.

Reflections

Another week of business is past. It seem to fly with greater speed than other weeks have flown. I did most things I always do with very little change, and yet at week's end there was a subtle difference. I had aged. Not so much that anyone would notice, but one more week of experience was added to my allotted days. And in that week of sharing and interaction, my perceptions on life were honed, or dulled if measuring by physical standards. On this Sunday, the beginning of a new week I just want to be quiet and reflect on how this subtle change will affect the way I see my world. Last week, I proffered arguments and offered advice to those who asked, or not. Will I stand by my own advice, or must I alter it ever so slightly? Some standards are not mine to alter, but set by God. Will I see these in a different light? Are they my unmovable center, or will I waffle with every wind that blows? I know life is colored by our own perception of how it should be. Our joys and disappointments are also measured by this rule so I must be careful. I must examine life's reality as it plays out week in, week out. I wrote this poem to speak to life and the things that affect the way we see it.

Little Pleasures

We plan.
We work.
We save.
We dream.
But, life is seldom as it seems.

A germ,
a gene,
a wayward act
can throw perceptions off their track.

A hug,
a kiss,
a tender word
can let us know we’re not alone.

Life is life.
So, on we go
not so sure of what’s in store.
But, fearing less that great unknown.
Enjoying "little" more.

The Season - Part II

Part II - The Practice

He was at the practice field early. The Golfview physical training area was a large sandy expanse covered with sand spurs and bounded on three sides by palmetto, cabbage palms, and other scrub plants. The guys from Golfview subdivision were all wearing matching shorts and tee shirts. Some of the group from South Gate drifted into the brush on the other side of the fence for one last cigarette. Roy and his friends stood in between them. They watched and waited for instructions. The coaches held a clinic on how to properly put on the uniform. They told the players where to buy their cleats and other gear not provided by the school.
The practice started with fifty and one hundred yard time trials. Roy ran as fast as he could, but when the players were assigned, he was told to report to the offensive line coach. . He didn’t know the difference between offense and defense. He was just happy to be there. The rest of the afternoon was spent running. He had never run so much in his life. His lungs hurt, his legs shook, and his gym clothes were soaked and sticking to his body. Over the next few days they ran until they collapsed. The loose white sand made footing difficult. Roy hoped he wouldn’t give out. Some guys threw up across the fence at the edge of the practice field. The heavier smokers gave up on football altogether. Roy stayed. His mother was disappointed.

After a week of running, push-ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, and agility drills the coach told them to report to the field in pads. Roy saw the world for the first time from inside a football helmet. The curved nylon face mask looked like a small ladder just below the level of his eyes. The pads and other gear made him look like quite a physical specimen. On the other hand it made the really big guys look like giants. Roy lumbered from the field house with the rest of the team. The metal tipped nylon cleats made an awful racket as they ran down the concrete runway. The coaches and some of the football dads made a wooden seven-man blocking sled. It was a behemoth. Seven players lined up in a three point stance in front of the blocking pads attached to its front. On the coach’s whistle they lunged at the great wooden beast slamming their shoulders into the pads and driving their legs with short choppy steps. Because the field was sand, and because the blocking sled was homemade, it rarely slid. The runners of the sled tipped forward and dug into the loose turf. The linemen continued to drive with their legs until the coaches’ second whistle. A large deep hole formed beneath their cleated shoes as they strained against the immovable object. Roy’s calves cramped and his thighs burned but he continued. He wasn’t going to quit. His pads got heavy as the cotton backing soaked up the sweat.
The offensive line coach showed them how to make a proper block on a running play. He showed them how plays were diagramed with X’s and O’s, and where they were to block based on the play called. After that, they learned pass blocking, keeping their butts low and getting under their opponent. They practiced these moves over and over again. Then the coaches called the entire team back together for fumble drills and tackling practice. Roy thought he was going to die. Every time he thought it was time for practice to end they would start something else. In the early stages, they practiced everything at half speed concentrating on their form. The coaches taught them to tackle with their heads on the same side of the ball carrier as the ball. The wet pads picked up the grit from the sandy field and rubbed them raw. Just when Roy thought he could go on no more, the coach blew his whistle and lined them up at one end of the field. They were five or six abreast and on the coach’s whistle they ran one hundred yard wind sprints. At the end of the field they got back in line and repeated the drill. Before practice was over, players were stumbling and falling down. Roy drug his spent body to the showers and stood under the soothing blast. He left his equipment in the compartment with his name on it and headed home. He went to bed early that night.
The following days passed with the same intensity. The strong stench of ammonia and body odor filled the locker room and increased with each passing day. Roy thought they could probably win if the other team had to smell their pads before the game.
During the second week, the coaches picked up the speed. They added tackling drills at full speed. Bull in the ring and head on tackling introduced Roy to the physics of two large objects meeting helmet to helmet. He dreaded tackling their big fullback, Mike Rains. Mike weighed 180 pounds and had a beard as heavy as that of any man. Roy got up after some tackles looking out the ear hole of his helmet. If the offensive linemen missed a block, the coach would make them run the ball with no blockers. Several times the coaches pulled up on the belt of Roy’s football pants as he lay sprawled on the ground trying to regain his breath after a collision. He was playing football. Roy was put into the lineup at Guard. He was the smallest man on the line. He often pulled away from the line on an end run called to his side and led the running back around. Most of the players on the offensive and defensive interior line were over two hundred pounds. Roy had to try and hold them out on pass plays and block them on running plays. His battered and bruised body was evidence of his tenacity. He had been run over, stepped on, cleated, kneed, poked, jabbed, and flattened, and this at the hands of his own teammates. He wondered what playing against other players might be like. The players from South Gate were the toughest. They played dirty, and they enjoyed a good fight. Some had earned nicknames; Benny the biter, Knees Orton, Walrus, Scat. Benny would bite the nearest leg or arm in the pile after a tackle. Once, in the tangle of the pile, he bit himself, and spent the rest of the game trying to figure out who did it.

You don't stop laughing because you grow old. You grow old because you stop laughing. - Michael Pritchard

Daylight Saving Time

I know some of you are like my friend here this morning. The government is once again messing with our internal clocks by continuing the practice of moving the clock around when it suits them. My granddad refused to cooperate. He said he was on God's time. Of course he was a farmer, and didn't have to make a commute or punch a clock. I am enjoying my second cup of Leroy Hill coffee at the same time I always do. The difference is the clock. It is one hour forward of where I usually see it. I'll survive it. I worked in a large office, and we affectionately called one of our secretaries "Duh-nise" because of her frequent displays of, "failure to grasp life as it is." About two days after the change to Daylight Savings Time, she announced that she was really tired of having to work an extra hour everyday. I hope you don't miss any important life events because of the change. I think a little home spun poetry might be the ticket for the day.

White rain,
water chain,
to spring,
then lake,
lazy moon to take
from sky to mist.

AMERICA

Out of revolution,
the grip of monarch’s rule.
Driven by freedom.
Necessity.
Founded on values
from God’s holy book,
the glue that binds,
in trust,
its varied masses.

America

Through fire of war,
without,
within,
was forged in strength
a strong republic.

America

And though the vision dims
in her prosperity,
she rises to the challenge
when tyrants seek
to quell her voice.

America

Blessed by God,
we must hold those
values close
that bound
our loose knit colonies
in their infancy.

America

If I give you a pfennig, you will be one pfennig richer and I'll be one pfennig poorer. But if I give you an idea, you will have a new idea, but I shall still have it, too. Albert Einstein

On Life and Leaves

It's not autumn, but I have been watching leaves these past few days as they hung tenaciously to branches, enduring gale force winds. Sights and smells stir our memories and bring to mind images imprinted there. Beth posted the image of a huge snowwoman and it seemed everyone had a comment. The wind died during the night and the temperature dropped. All is quiet in the pre-dawn and I am able to concentrate once again. I used leaves in a series of three Haiku held together by a single theme. The poetry form has an official name, but I can't remember it. It is a comment on the stages of life.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Green, it moves with limb and twig
youth has strength to spare.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Red, it leaves its lofty perch
color to be seen.

Twisting leaf in wind.
Brown, it’s blown from place to place
no one knows it’s there.


This country has come to feel the same when Congress is in session as when the baby gets hold of a hammer. - Will Rogers



I sometimes write tongue-in-cheek in response to deep philosophical questioning in poetry too deep for my comprehension. If I don't get it - I usually don't enjoy it. I know some like to share their craft with a cloistered few and snicker at the rest of us when we leave with puzzled looks on our faces. I like it plain and simple.



Life Questions

Little Jack Horner
stands in a corner
and ponders,
all alone.

What if a room
is round?
What can a cat do
then?

Roam around
until he is tired,
then fall down?
Will he make a
sound?

Who would know
if he’s all alone?
An air mallet
beating a xylophone
won’t keep you
up at night.

A single thread will
never be twine.
If there is no
darkness
does light really
shine?

A solitary sentinel
with no one to guard.
So what if he stands
there stiff as a board?

Valentine's Day

CUPID’S AIM

Eros raised his little bow
and let an arrow fly.
It failed to drop as he had planned
so, hit me in the eye.
He notched another quickly,
but, this one too was high.
I’ve always heard that love is blind,
now, sadly, so am I.


Today we celebrate love. I hope you have prepared something special for someone you love. A young single told me she was celebrating Single Awareness Day or S.A.D. Whatever your take, it is a day to celebrate and acknowledge those who are special to you. I am unloading love poetry today. Some humorous, some allusive, some simple and direct. Go ahead, eat two pieces of chocolate candy.











LOVE SCAPE

Dancing in a dream world,
drunk on love’s sweet wine.
Moving without effort.
Lost to place and time.

Waves roll gently on the beach,
ever rising tide.
Reaching higher with each crest,
turning they subside.

Heartthrob rhythms,
music,
pulsing till the dawn.
Spinning in the dying shadows,
lovers dancing on.










Honor Love

This day we honor love.
I find my love in you.
The wonder in it all,
Is that you love me too.

Red Paper Wishes

I know it looks like
a heart cut from
red construction paper
pasted on card stock.

It’s more.

A thought,
a wish,
a memory,
a feeling.

Hold it close.
Think of me.

Characters

It's Sunday. I'm talking characters today. People and animals who are unique and interesting. You can find them everywhere if you look hard enough. Not just by the lines in their faces, but what you are able to read between those lines. Character is what remains in spite of changing circumstances. It is what a person or thing has ultimately become at certain stage of life. We love those who have been adventureous and those who have defied the odds. We sometimes find strength in their boldness, or inspiration in their perserverance. I have known many characters. I have embraced them in spite of their varied flaws. God used some of the most unusual characters ever born to deliver his message to us. I know he understood how other people would respond to them because they were imperfect, and how they would respond to Him because He was able to work through their imperfection. The world is a richer place because of the characters we meet.

T. TOM KITTY

T. Tom Kitty,
big headed cat,
lived by my backdoor,
or under my house.

Yellow striped coat.
Aloof attitude.
Proudly scarred, muscled.
No curfew.

Dog baiting warrior,
with panther’s meow.
Rubbing my leg.
Allowing a pat.

T. Tom Kitty,
“Mr.” to you.

Picking a good one - A sweet one.

OLD RODEO CHAMP

I saw an old pickup all loaded with melons
one hot summer’s evening not too far from Austin.

Sitting beside it, a graying bent cowboy
in faded blue Wranglers watching the cars pass.

I stopped, we spoke, he arose from his lawn chair,
struggled to stand, and walked to his truck’s bed.

“Good ones?” I asked. “Sweet ones?”
He nodded. “Three dollars a piece or two for a five spot.”

“Pick me a good one.” I said as we stood there.
He turned a few over, and looked at their skin.

“Rabbits won’t scratch the ones that aren’t sweet.”
He said nonchalantly, his blue eyes a’ sparkle.

I found a scarred one and placed it aside.
“I’m Dennis,” I offered.
“I’m Joe,” he replied

“Did you farm all your life?
He answered, “No”.
Then I stood there and listened for two hours or so.

“I’m a Rodeo Champ.” He smiled as he spoke.
“Or I was through the fifties, that’s a few years ago.”

“I did it all. Rough stock, ropin’.
“We had to back then - the purses were small.”

“Bulls were my favorite. Everyone liked them.
I got extra money when side bets were made.”

He told me about it, the good rides, the great ones.
Clay Bank, Poison Ivy, the rankest of all.

Each ride was re-told from cinching to buzzer.
The bucks, the twists, the bruising come downs.

I finally left. He was smiling and waving.
Three bucks and two hours well spent for us both.