Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak...

It only took six months to get this way!

I'm back.

Or at least, I'm back for this one post at least.

What in the world happened to me for the last half of last year? I wish I could point to monumental happenstances which prevented me from making entries here. Sadly, that is simply not the case. I've been at my computer almost daily, as is my wont, yet none of those days led me to this corner of the Internet. Part of me feels guilty about this, but a larger part of me refuses to beat myself up about it. Let's face it: most of what's put out here is just me screaming or whispering into the void in any case, so the person I first aim to please is, quite selfishly, me. And "me" has had other, mostly mundane, things going on.

So, let's spend a moment catching up with where I left off since my last entry in June of 2019, shall we?

Summer breaking

This summer saw Number Two Son moving in with us in order to begin his journey through college. It also saw us procuring a car for him, that car being involved in a wreck, and procuring ANOTHER, VIRTUALLY IDENTICAL car for him. If he hadn't actually been there when the wreck occurred, I'm not sure he would have believed the cars were different.

Number One Son was also involved in that wreck as well as an accident with HIS car that required repair. Thankfully, neither of the sons was hurt at all during any of the above. We're sincerely hoping that this has gotten both of them past the statistical portion of accidents while driving.

Fall beginnings/ends

Fall had Number Two Son enjoying his first semester of college. He says he enjoys it more than high school. I think it has to do with him being able to set his own schedule a little better as well as not having to get up early any day except Monday. He even went to a couple of social things, although I don't think he's actually hanging out with anyone regularly. I remember having similar experiences my first couple of years of college. Then again, I always had a girlfriend back home, so I didn't spend much time actually *living* while I was there.

Meanwhile, Number One Son finished his final semester, graduating with an Associates of Applied Science in Web Design and Development. Garrett was really worried that he wasn't going to be able to find a job, given the ratio of applications he was making to responses he was getting. Then, over the course of about a week, he set up an interview, had it conducted, and accepted a job with a company called Revature. He's now preparing to head off for their three-month-long coding boot camp in West Virginia, after which he'll be placed with a client to begin a two-year contract (with Revature, not the specific client). I'm all emotions wrapped together for him -- excited, proud, anxious, happy, sad, freaked are the most dominant currently. 

Mostly, I'm coming to grips with the fact that Garrett is, in fact, all grown up, and about to be off on his own. Gabriel is right behind, living mostly independently from Tanya and I even though he's right upstairs. It really does seem like the virtual blink of an eye since they were toddling around. I'm reminded of that daily by some picture or memory of them from the past, primarily via their Contact pictures on my phone (which are, of course, from when they were little bitty) juxtaposed with two men, both at least as tall as me, and sporting beards I could never grow.

I'll stop here, but encourage all of you to cherish EVERY moment of your life, especially those shared with people you love. Each moment is completely unique and will never occur again in all of existence. Ultimately, they are the sum total of who we are.

Autumn Vacacay

We took an Autumn trip to Minsk and Spain and have a zillion pictures. I REALLY considered blogging about those as they happened, but was very focused on other things at those times, like being *IN* those places instead of looking at them in third person. I'm glad I resisted the urge and remained (mostly) disconnected from reality for those days.

Suffice to say that I thoroughly enjoyed visiting Minsk in the fall, and was finally graced with some proper weather (gray, slightly rainy, and chilly). Leaving Minsk and arriving at Tenerife in the Canary Islands was a culture shock of another kind, and was breathtakingly gorgeous, marred only by the fact that driving (and parking) there is painful. A day in Barcelona wasn't enough, but we saw enough of the city to say that we've been there. It was a trip worth taking.

NaNoWriMo

I wrote another book. It was a return to the world of Aether, and I actually finished it, all the way through. Most of it is, as usual, crap, but there were at least a few scenes in there that make it worth editing. The next step will be to go back through it and start writing the first draft of a REAL book. I might not dump too much, as Tanya will be better than I am about identifying what things are interesting versus boring.

This makes for a total of four books I've written: one that went through a couple of rounds of revision, two that weren't worth finishing, and another that is to-be-edited. Add to that a handful of short stories and a ridiculous haiku collection, and I suppose I have to consider myself to have an actual hobby.

And before you ask -- no, I never picked up the other hobby (drawing/playing an instrument). I didn't have that much extra energy.

What's next?

• The year-end reading challenge review is in flight. I'm hoping to add a couple of interesting statistics to it this year, but we'll see how that pans out.
• I've already mentioned the first real draft/edit of the NaNoWriMo2019 book, so that'll happen.
• Supporting Number One and Number Two sons.
• Trying to maintain good habits in health, fitness, work, and play.

I make no promises, but as of now intend to create more content here as well. I'd tell you to stay tuned, but that seems self-serving as well as disingenuous. Tell you what -- check back every now and then, checking the monthly post totals. If any of them have gone up since your last visit, have at them!

And I sincerely wish all of you all the best for this year!

Hobby selection...?

Well, I've done it again -- I've gotten to a spot in my life where I feel like I should take on another hobby. The question is: what should the new hobby be?

Current Activities

For reference, the following is a list of my my current hobbies/regular activities. In order to make it onto this list, I have to spend time engaging in the activity at least once a week.

So, what kinds of things do I spend most of my time doing?

• Reading
• Writing
• Exercising
• Tabletop RPGing
• Video gaming
• Spending time/chatting with family and friends

Other nominal activities include:

• Household stuff (dishes, laundry, cooking, groceries, etc.)
• Working
• Physical Therapy (yeah, my shoulder is still wonky)

I also program simple games from time to time, but I don't do that often enough to call it a hobby or even a nominal activity. When it happens, it happens. It's kind of like NaNoWriMo in that I'm probably going to do it once a year or so, but it's definitely not something I do regularly throughout the year.

Potential Activities

There are two main potential activities that have appealed to me lately: learning guitar, and learning to draw.

Guitar

Oooo, look how fancy!

I've been enamored with the guitar for as long as I can remember actually liking music. Classical guitar especially, with artists like Andres Segovia and Karin Schaupp inspire me to be better at whatever I happen to be doing when I listen to them.

Beyond pure classical guitar, however, I find percussive guitar REALLY interesting. I always stop down when I stumble across someone playing it or find myself hearing it on a streaming music service. Rodrigo y Gabriela combine classical with some percussive techniques and are beyond fantastic. Recently, I've come across Petteri Sariola, who hammers, taps, and strums like a maniacal genius.

I've often thought of picking up the guitar semi-seriously over the years, so much so that I own both a classical acoustic and an electric guitar. The sad fact is that I don't know how to play either of them beyond tuning them. That is a travesty, a tragedy, a tryptophanic tradition that I should change.

Getting to where I could play at least a little something on the guitar seems like a great growth opportunity, even if I weren't looking to be able to play Eruption like Eddie Van Halen. 

Drawing

Now, draw the rest of the f***ing penguin!

Then there's drawing. I currently own no less than three books on learning to draw. Seriously, I own at least electronic versions of:

• You Can Draw In 30 Days
• Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain
• Composition

I also have a fantastically cool book of Hokusai art that Tanya and I were exposed to while in London. On seeing it, I distinctly remember saying to myself "I'd like to be able to draw like that." Something about his style (and the way it changed over time) really appealed to me. I've got other art books as well, including a fantastic collection of M.C. Escher.

And anyone that knows me is already aware of my adoration of Bob Ross. At some point, I'll talk about the fact that I created a Bob Ross Lorem Ipsum site when the one I commonly went to was down for a week. It's been a source of joy for me, since I had to watch a bunch of Bob Ross episodes on youtube to get quotes for the site. 

Sorry, back to the point. One of the very few pieces of art I've had commissioned in my life is a mashup of Bob Ross and M.C. Escher, drawn by the immensely talented Denise Najera (local artist), and presented here because I didn't realize I hadn't posted about it earlier. 

Bob Ross With Reflecting Sphere

Beyond those, I'm a big fan of Critical Role, for lots of reasons. One of the newer shows on the network is PubDraw, which teaches you to draw (character basics, at least through the episodes I've watched). If I were looking for signs from the universe, this (along with my persistent inspiration in that direction) might be counted as one.

Decision

I've got a decision to make. Should I start spending time learning to play guitar, with an eye on percussive guitar at some point in the future? Or should I dedicate some time to drawing so that I can have a creative outlet with something as simple as a piece of paper and a pen/pencil?

Or both? There's no reason I couldn't try out both and see if one is more appealing to me. The only thing I would sacrifice is a little practice in each, but the truth is that I don't expect to "master" either of them, ever. I think it would be fun to be able to sketch silly little things and have people know what I was trying to draw, or play some chords and sound out some melodies on the guitar when the opportunity arises.

OR... other options? If you've got hobbies that you enjoy that I should investigate, definitely leave a comment (in whichever social medium is convenient for you). I look forward to hearing your feedback, and will let you know once I've chosen a direction!

A(?) Post Per Month

Here we are thoroughly into the final week of January, and I have yet to produce an actual entry in this blog relevant to this year. That's not necessarily uncommon, but it would be the beginning of a disappointing trend.

Last year, I began to wonder if I actually had anything to say that merited having a full-fledged blog. On further reflection, I'm forced to admit that the answer *might be* "no."

The proof is in the pudding. Last year, I had blog entries that covered the following categories:

• Reading (1 entry)
• Work (1 entry)
• Exercise (1 entry)
• Vacation! (3 entries)
• Miscellany (1 entry)
• Short Story (1 entry)
• Thanks/Charity (1 entry)
• Writing (1 entry)

So, several topics were covered, just not a ton of content generated. The blogging was truncated because I didn't take a Fall trip as originally planned, and I didn't write a Christmas short story. As an aside, I *did* generate about 1000 words of outline for a Christmas short story, but I don't know if I'll write it next (or any) year.

But it still begs the question: does the content that's being produced actually matter? The obvious answer to that is: yes, duh. It matters to me at least. Even if all that's actually happening here is I'm typing words into a WYSIWYG editor just to hear the gently pleasant clacking of an Apple keyboard (yes, no mechanical beast for me), as long as it pleases me and doesn't hurt anyone else, it seems like an OK past time. And every now and then something amusing or insightful gets produced, I think.

With that said, expect to see more entries this year than last year. I might even fire up the book review posts again, although I'm not sure I'll use the Magrs Method as I've done in the past. The method tends heavily towards spoilers. For example, one of the questions you're supposed to answer is "What surprises did it (the book) hold, if any?" I think I'd like to be able to give a fair review without having to adhere to a prescribed form or give too much about the book away.

I do have some stuff coming up. This year's guest lecture at UT will be at the beginning of March, and then my company's semi-annual on-site will be a couple of weeks after that. There's also Valentine's Day, and St. Patrick's Day, and then Spring Break (the last one with a high schooler), and... apparently the list of potentially interesting writing things goes on and on when actually enumerated...

Heh, maybe all that's required to get me writing is a little excitement about it... :-)

Quite a year...

It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?

From Mother Nature’s gut-punches in the forms of wildfires, hurricanes, floods, and volcanic eruptions, there is no shortage of folks in want of basic needs -- lacking food and water, or clothing, or shelter, or some combination of all three. Beyond that, this has been a year that has seen an unprecedented level of scorn from one person to another, a seeming lack of compassion or empathy that I can’t remember seeing before.

And yet… and yet...

As we approach the holiday season, we are reminded of just how fortunate we are. We notice an innumerable set of things that we take for granted every day.

Our mere existence is miraculous. The sun rose this morning, and we all woke up at some point today. Every one of us that are reading this note possess a piece of modern wizardry in the form of a computer or mobile device that couldn’t really be imagined a hundred years ago, not to mention the ability to actually read. We still retain the desire to laugh at silliness, or enjoy a sunset.

And did I mention art? Music? Oceans? Weekends?

I have worked with Pat Tallman for five years now, helping with the Be A Santa campaign for Penny Lane. When I think of all of the suffering endured by so many people this year, I’m also reminded that these are the burdens the kids of Penny Lane carry every year. They will not be at home or with loved ones during the holidays this year. They will not have a stocking or tree, much less gifts waiting for them in either.

Unless… unless…

The desperation this year has brought about has also brought about great heroism. People giving of their time and other resources in order to benefit those around them and beyond their immediate sphere. That’s actually what Be A Santa is all about as well. Most of the donations come from folks that will never meet any of the kids, but that understand what it’s like to be in need of a joyful holiday season. These Santas sacrifice of themselves, taking a little of what might’ve gone to their own families and friends so that others can have a chance at the same joy they are sure to share. To every one of you that has donated this year or in year’s past, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart on behalf of all of us at Be A Santa and the kids of Penny Lane. And know that you are making a difference in this world, in the world of these children. You are a source of happiness for them, and I commend you for that.

If you’ve never considered volunteering during the holidays, I encourage you to do so. It’s one of the most rewarding things you can do -- it truly is the gift that keeps on giving. And it is my sincere hope that this note finds all of you happy and well during this special and wonderful time of year. Happy Holidays, everyone!

A quiet couple of months...

...is not a bad thing, provided your status quo is at least "good enough." Our summer has been full of idleness, aside from work.

OK, that's not quite true. The main regular summer activities so far have consisted of:

• Reading: I've finished about 5 books since summer began, which is below my regular pace. I'm not working very hard to get to "the goal" this year, instead reading for pure leisure.
• Writing: I actually put a few lines in a journal almost every day BY HAND. You might recall that I purchased a few fountain pens (although I've not actually made a blog entry about them, I don't think), and am putting them to good use. I've also managed to write a really silly short story for the annual gathering of my college buddies. It is quite ridiculous, so I obviously enjoyed writing it immensely.
• Gaming: D&D is on hold for now, but we gamed through June, and the Transformers game is still going strong. And then there are the other games, board and card, which we regularly play. Gaming is a bigger thing this year than in years past.
• Coding games: I've got a couple in process, although this one is probably as done as it's going to get: https://bitfarkle.firebaseapp.com/. Have a go at it and let me know what you think. 

There is a collection of other activities as well, but we'll leave those be for the time being. Suffice to say that we continue to be here and mostly busy.

And remind me to tell you about my sprained ankle, but let's wait until next week for that...

Current Reading Status

At the beginning of the year, I set a reading goal of 50 books. This seems like a low bar considering how many I read last year (65). When setting the goal for this year, I realized that I wanted to focus on diversifying my efforts a bit, to pursue some of my other interests with more gusto.

To that end, I managed to finish the first revision of my NaNoWriMo book earlier this month, and I'd like to keep writing more consistently (look for a future blog entry on my experimentation with fountain pens). I've started running again, and have kept up the habit fairly well so far. I also have a goal of necessity: I want to become more flexible. My muscles and joints tend to ache more now than they used to, and I think that increasing my flexibility (or at least focusing on stretching/warming down properly) will help mitigate that.

The good news is that I'm making progress along all of the above fronts, and am enjoying doing them as well. But reading... Reading might have been a catalyst to help me figure out that I needed to spend a little more time doing things that expand my mind and make me happy, especially in light of so much that might cause distress day-to-day. (insert politics/economics/other miscellaneous worries here)

It's the last day of February, and I have managed to finish reading eight books so far this year. They are:

1. The Backwards Mask, by Matt Carson
2. The Heart of What Was Lost, by Tad Williams
3. Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman
4. The Hero With a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell
5. The Plot Against America, by Philip Roth
6. Tales of Pirx the Pilot, by Stanislaw Lem
7. Side Jobs: Stories From the Dresden Files, by Jim Butcher
8. Saving Capitalism: For the Many, Not the Few, by Robert Reich

I liked all of the above very well, and encourage you to pick them up if you haven't. 

I think it's interesting to see the distribution as well. Two of these are non-fiction (one philosophy, one political economics), two are sci-fi, four are fantasy (with two urban and one alternate history). Additionally, two of them are collections of short stories (Side Jobs and Pirx the Pilot).

Strangely, my to-read list never seems to decrease, despite a consumption rate of one book a week. My long-lost love for reading has definitely been rediscovered, and is being pursued passionately.

Whatever inspires you, I hope you get a chance make the time to do more of it in the days to come. :-)

Prose Variation on a Hallowe'en Poem

(for your Hallowe'en edification)

---

She awoke from her evening dozing with a slight start. It hadn’t happened in years, but tonight she felt as if he’d been calling to her. How odd it was, after all this time, to be drawn out of the comfort of her well-worn rocking chair for a midnight walk. She couldn’t remember the last time it had happened, but she immediately recognized the urge for what it was.

She glanced around the room for her walking stick. She’d need it to get to her destination. As with so many things these days, she couldn’t remember where she’d left it. The light given by the gently crackling fire was dim, and certainly not bright enough to light the room. As the shadows cast by the flames’ dancing spun around the room, she glimpsed a dull, oily shimmer next to the front door. As she had been many times before, but especially this evening, she was glad for the ornamentation he had added to the stick: an opal collar, just under the curved handle. The dark wood from which the rest of the cane was made blended in with the darkness, but she could see the shimmer of the collar if she squinted.

Slowly, carefully, she leaned forward and urged the rest of her body out of the chair. The one good thing about her advanced age was that she weighed next to nothing at this point. In fact, she was practically all skin and bone, but she knew she had enough strength left in her remaining sinew to take this walk. 

Hobbling forward on unsteady legs, but gaining more strength for the motion, she reached the front door. Her shawl hung from the hook where it always was — that habit had never altered. She placed it around her shoulders. It didn’t hang the way it used to, when she was a younger woman, more broad of shoulder (and truth be told, of hips as well). Still, it covered her well enough, and should be proof against the briskness she expected awaited her beyond the door. She took the walking stick from where it leaned against the wall, and a moment later was outside.

The night was clear and colder than she’d expected. While it wouldn’t happen immediately, she knew that before too long her bones would start to ache from the chill. At least the moon was out and almost full, and the sky was decorated by the same stars she’d always seen. The moonlight would be enough to walk by. She had gotten accustomed to not seeing clearly years and years before.

She straightened her back as much as she could, extended the walking stick, and stepped forward. One foot, then the next, she slowly progressed down the narrow path from her front door to the slightly wider lane that passed by the front of her house. No one had trod either path in a long while, it seemed, but her steps grew more sure and quick as she moved. A right turn on the lane would take her toward the village. Tonight, her walk mandated a left turn, toward the church and its graveyard.

A moment later, or so it seemed to her, she was walking amongst the headstones. The way was familiar to her, even after all this time, her cane finding its way amongst the stones without conscious direction. The stone she wanted to see was in the middle row, back by the half wall that marked the far boundary of the graveyard. Even in the dim moonlight she could tell that the wall itself was crumbling in places, so much so that it cast a strange shadow over her destination. As she drew closer, she realized it wasn’t actually a shadow, but a mound of earth, as if there were a newly covered grave adjacent to the one she sought. She didn’t recall there being enough room around the grave for a new burial…

As she drew up to the neatly piled dirt, she realized the source of her confusion. The mound wasn’t covering a new grave; it had been removed from an old one — the one that she had come to visit. She realized she was trembling now, and not because of the cold. Her breath puffed out of her body in little clouds of small gasps. The coffin in the unearthed grave was open, and empty.

She suddenly felt faint and realized that she had to either move or fall forward into the grave. She took a staggering step to the side, thrusting her cane out for support, wrenching her gaze away from the gaping maw of the six-foot-deep hole. Doing so cast her glance to the church house adjoining the graveyard. She hadn’t taken note of it at all on her approach, being intent as she was on the graveyard itself. Even now, the church house was only barely visible, lurking in the shadow of the church. 

Now that she was looking, she noticed a supremely dim light emanating from one of the two windows on the front of the rectory. No wonder she hadn’t noticed it earlier; it couldn’t have been lit by more than a single candle. Fear swept through her in a way she hadn’t felt in many years. The owner of that candle must be responsible for this desecration, or at least know something about it. She gripped her cane in both hands until they were only slightly trembling, then, leaning heavily on the stick, she willed her old body to move toward the church house. 

The rectory was small, but then again, so was the church and graveyard. Even so, the dread in her increased with each step she took. Her cane made almost no noise in the loose gravel as she made her way cautiously up the house’s walkway. Nearer to the door, the loose gravel spread out into a small rock garden, bordered by petrified wood of various shapes and sizes. Approaching the door, she took a quick glance through the window with the bleak light. The window was covered with grime both inside and out, preventing her from seeing anything but the dull gleam she’d noticed earlier. As she turned back to the door, she thought she caught sight of a shadow passing in front of the flame.

Reaching for the door as if to knock, her brow suddenly creased, drawing the feeble remnants of her eyebrows together. Her lips formed a grim horizon across her wan face. She grasped the doorknob and gave it as abrupt a twist as it had ever know. The door opened easily revealing the darkness beyond, broken only by a single candlelight suspended from the far wall where a lantern should have been.

She crossed the threshold of the house and took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the new dimness. Outside, everything had been a silvery white. Inside the rectory, it was an inconsistent yellow. The candle was indeed mounted on a lantern hook on the far wall. Its soft light illuminated a small section of a writing table, and she could just discern the outline of a man hunched over the table. The broken-rhythmic scratching noise coming from that direction reminded her of long ago days, where letter-writing was still considered an art form, and sharpened points dipped in inkwells skittering lightly over vellum pages were her heart’s delight.

She wasn’t sure how long she stared, but eventually realized that she was needlessly clutching her cane with both hands in front of her again. She shifted the cane back to one hand and took a step forward. A soft tap from the cane’s tip seemed to grab the man’s attention, as the scratching suddenly stopped. His shoulders straightened, and he turned very slightly towards her.

“I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time,” said the man. His voice was almost familiar — a voice not unlike one from her youth, one that she’d enjoyed listening to countless times, yet more sepulchral. Her heart fluttered in both fear and anticipation.

He turned toward her more fully, casting half his face into the light of the candle. His pallid, decomposing face was covered in maggots, crawling in and out of an eye socket whose contents had turned to a greenish jelly. The corpse face smiled at her, and the jaw came unhinged, falling partially onto the man’s chest. 

She shrieked, stumbling backwards and out into the walkway. But her cane… she’d dropped her cane inside the church house. She took a single step backward, but lost her footing on the loose gravel. As her feet and balance gave way, she fell sideways. She managed to turn her head just in time to see a jagged looking piece of petrified wood rushing up to meet her.

                                                                                                    

The church caretaker was up early on All Saints Day. He didn’t have much to do today except make his semi-monthly trip to the old church for maintenance. He needed to ensure the doors to the church and rectory were secure, that none of the windows where broken, and then do some quick trimming of the weeds in the graveyard. A short jaunt from his abode at the edge of the village, doing the chores, and he’d be home in time for lunch.

The walk down the lane took him by the old widow’s house. He thought he should check in on her, but then thought better of it. This, also, was part of his semi-monthly routine. He noticed that there was no smoke coming from the widow’s chimney, which was odd given the crispness of the morning. The old bat was probably sleeping in after a raucous Hallowe’en night of witchifying the countryside. He chuckled to himself as this jest, impressed as always by his wit.

Arriving at the church, he immediately set to work. As expected, the doors to both the church and the rectory were locked tight. The gravel on the church house walkway seemed slightly disturbed, but he accounted that to a fox or some other nighttime vermin. He also thought he caught the faintest scent of burned wick and candle wax near the rectory door. He took a quick glance through the window, realizing as he did so that he wouldn’t be able to see much. He could make out the vague shape of his shadow on the floor, but nothing seemed amiss.

Shrugging, he made his way down the gravel walkway to the graveyard. He wandered up one row and down another, looking for weeds that needed pulling. As he got to the far end of the middle row, he noticed that something was different about the old parson’s grave. It looked like the dirt had been turned over. And what was that near the headstone? A cane of some kind with some paper wedged underneath…? 

The cane was made of a lovely dark wood, and looked to have a little Mother of Pearl inlaid collar. No, not Mother of Pearl… that other stone that makes the iridescent colors when you shine light on it. Opal! That’s what the stone is… opal! Isn’t Opal the old widow’s name? He couldn’t remember off the top of his head.

He picked the paper up, which almost blew away as a sudden sharp breeze blew at him. It was folded neatly, and the paper seemed extra thick. Well-made paper… they don’t make it like that anymore. Opening the fold, he saw that there was a poem of some kind written there. The ink was slightly splotchy, as if someone had written on the paper using a pen and old inkwell. The poem read…

There was an old woman all skin and bone

Who lived near the graveyard all alone.

She thought to go to church one day

To hear the preacher sing and pray.

And when she came to the graveyard stile

She thought she’d stop and rest awhile.

And when she came to the old church door

She stopped to rest a little more.

But when she turned and looked around

She saw a corpse upon the ground.

The worms crawled out, the worms crawled in,

From up his nose down to his chin.

The worms crawled in, the worms crawled out,

Across his eyes, his ears and mouth.

The woman to the preacher said,

“Will I look like that when I am dead?”

“You already do,” the preacher said.

“You’re skin and bone because you’re dead!”

The woman fainted with the shock

And split her head on a sharp rock.

They buried the woman all skin and bone

But from the grave they heard her moan.

“I’m not yet dead” the woman cried.

“You will be soon,” the priest replied.

---

Author’s note: The poem above was copied from http://www.scaryforkids.com/old-woman/. The inspiration for this spooky story is actually a Hallowe’en song from my childhood, which you probably also sang and remember now that you’ve been reminded. Just in case you still don’t know what I’m talking about: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOhYGxg460k

A Memory from Seven Years Ago

Ah, Facebook... you taunt me with your robotic ability to recall things that I've completely forgotten about. Case in point: this morning's Memory prompting...

Facebook never forgets...

I'm typically not so cryptic in my Facebook posts, but this one has thrown me for a loop. I have no recollection of the context of this post. Those of you that know me understand how uncomfortable this kind of thing is for me. For those that are wondering, I tend to obsess about little ridiculous mysteries that ultimately don't matter at all to anyone but me.

With regard to this memory, the main issues are that a) I don't like the thought that there are details of my life that I can't easily recollect, and b) I now want to thank someone for something that happened seven years ago but I don't know whom to thank or what to thank them for. This annoys/bothers/upsets me now, even though I clearly (or more precisely, vaguely) did the thanking seven years ago.

If we were hanging out at all seven years ago, go ahead and assume this is about you and remind me of the purpose behind this post. Do that, and I'll owe you yet another debt of gratitude. Hey, at least seven years from now we'll stand a better chance of remembering how we got into this vicious cycle... :-)

Summer Interlude

I'm not sure what it is about summer that lends itself to me *not* writing more.  Maybe it's just the feeling of being busier, of the days being packed with more activity, but I find that I have less energy to devote to a proper blog entry than I should.

I'm reading more this year than last, certainly, which is taking up some of my free time.  Goodreads.com has an annual book-reading challenge.  This year, I signed up to read 50 books, which is about 15 more than last year.  "Wow," you might be saying to yourself.  "That seems like quite a bite to chew!"  As it turns out, there's a method to (or at least a reason for) that madness.

I've been enamored with the idea of writing seriously since high school, but have never been passionate enough about it to make it a full-time focus.  Despite that fact, I still study the craft (in passing) regularly.  Recall last summer's family vacation to Colorado.  Recall also that one of the books I read/finished on that trip was "On Writing" by Stephen King.  One of the things he emphasizes, and which is echoed by every other reference on the craft, is that writers need to read -- a LOT.  In fact, from that point on last year, I *did* read a lot (proof).

The result of all the above is that I've been reading quite a bit more this year, and have been enjoying it immensely.  So far, I've completed 32 books this year (4 ahead of schedule for the Goodreads challenge).  It's possible I'll hit 60, which would be pretty phenomenal.  Regaining a love for reading is well worth the effort.

All of this to say that despite the knowledge that I should be blogging more, and about more interesting things, I find myself making choices in favor of reading instead.  Maybe my passion is actually in consumption rather than production...

The Importance of Seven

Seven.  Apparently this is the minimum number of times a person has to try to do something before said person actually succeeds in doing it.

Of course, that’s not true of all things in general.  For example, stumbling.  Typically, a person can succeed in stumbling on the first or second try.  This includes most variants of stumbling, especially toe-stubbing and its most common tripping derivatives (step-tripping, curb-tripping, cracks-in-sidewalk-tripping, etc.).

Or saying the wrong thing.  Most people would agree that saying the wrong thing at the wrong time requires almost no thought or focus at all and therefore can be done within a few tries.  An example might be:

Wife: “Does this outfit make my butt look big?”

Husband: “No, your butt makes your butt look big.”

As you can see, the husband said exactly the wrong thing on the first try, even though it only appeared in the second part of his response.  The resultant smack across the face from the wife confirmed it was the wrong thing to say.  The husband should be satisfied with his effort there.

No, seven is the fewest times a person will have to try to do something worthwhile before succeeding.  Things like getting out of bed.  How many times have you tried to get out of bed and utterly failed?  A very typical sequence is listed below.



ATTEMPT 1: Slap at the annoyingly screechy alarm.  Note: attempting to interact with the alarm is not counted as a separate action for the purposes of this discourse, although it is acknowledged that this is a hotly contested classification.

RESULT 1: Fall asleep again after only managing to hit the Snooze button.



ATTEMPT 2: The alarm goes off again.  Repeat attempt #1 with the same result.



ATTEMPT 3: The alarm goes off AGAIN.  This time it is turned off.

RESULT 3: Since the alarm was disengaged by virtue of it being thrown across the room, it is probably off forever.  However, the person hasn’t actually gotten out of bed yet, rendering another failed attempt.



ATTEMPT 4: The person places his or her arms outside of the covers.

RESULT 4: The person typically considers this an achievement worth celebrating with a little rest and relaxation, and almost falls asleep again.  Obviously they are not out of bed yet, and in fact almost failed utterly.



ATTEMPT 5: The person pushes one foot and/or leg off of the bed.

RESULT 5: The leg dangles over the edge of the bed, steadfastly refusing to touch the floor.  This time, the person realizes that they have to make another attempt immediately.



ATTEMPT 6: The person pushes the other foot and/or leg off of the bed.

RESULT 6: The second leg joins the first.  The first is glad to see the second again after such a traumatic experience.  Dangling over the edge of the bed is no more fun for a foot than hanging by your fingertips over the edge of the Pit of Despair would be for you, gentle reader.  The author shudders at the thought as he types the words.  Regardless, the person has still not achieved exit from the bed.  Attempt must be counted as a failure.



ATTEMPT 7: The person uses their groaning muscles to lever themselves toward the edge of the bed.  Note: “groaning muscles” are defined as all muscles whose use makes the user groan, not the muscles actually required to emit groaning sounds.

RESULT 7: As soon as the person’s derriere has cleared the precipice, gravity and the resultant inertia pull the rest of the person’s body onto the floor, where the person lays panting at the exertion of the effort.

Technically, the person is out of bed after the seventh attempt.  Other actions that fall into this category include but are not limited to:

  • Not burning toast but still being able to call it toast
  • Vacuuming up that pesky piece of white string
  • Finding something good on television

Perhaps the most difficult thing to achieve, which is the main subject of this paper, is telling someone that you love them and having them understand it.  This will always take at least seven attempts, so a person should not be discouraged when the object of their affection does not respond in the appropriate manner on the first six tries.

Sequestered

For regular readers, you might've begun to worry that I wasn't paying attention to the blog anymore.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  In fact, I've considered blogging about several really interesting topics.  Work, home, changing jobs (not me, Tanya), acquiring new automobiles (again, not me -- Tanya), vacacay wrap-up, what I've been reading lately, what video and board games I've been playing lately... These are all topics that I wanted to touch on in varying detail.  Unfortunately, all of that had to wait.  As much as I would like to elaborate, I must refrain.  Why, you might ask?  As it turns out, I recently received the piece of mail that most registered voters dread more than anything else.

I was summoned for JURY DUTY!

The process was actually pretty interesting.  In Texas (at least, in Denton County), you receive the summons in the mail.  You then go to the website and fill out a form that will tell you whether or not you qualify for an exemption or disqualification.  I did not, and received a friendly message at the end of the questionnaire to that effect (and a follow-up email, just in case I missed the closing message).  Since I wasn't automatically counted out, I was required to show up at the county court house on a certain date at a certain time.

Showing up that day, I actually thought my chances of not being called were pretty good.  There were about 250 prospective jurors in the room, of which the courts needed 116 people to fill out panels for the various courts for that week (from which actual jurors would be chosen).  Jury duty in Texas is (generally speaking) a week-long commitment at most, with most cases that actually go to trial lasting from 1 to 3 days.  There are three levels of courts in Texas as well: district, county, and small claims/Justice of the Peace.  Three panels (all for the county courts) were quickly selected, pulling about 60 people out of the pool.  Then a small claims court came up, and my name was called to be a panelist.  The jurisdiction was my local one, so at least I didn't have far to drive.

I reported for the panel the following day, as instructed.  A total of 16 people were on the panel, of which the court needed 6.  Again, I thought my chances were good of not being needed, until the judge explained that the way the selection process worked.  Each litigant (plaintiff and defendant) got to "strike" (remove) up to three potential jurors from the list.  After that, the jury would be made up of people from the top position down.  I was in position 5.  At that point, I resigned myself to spending some time on a jury.  If I'd been in position 13 or beyond, I would have been automatically eliminated from the list.  I wonder what the sort algorithm for that list is... ;)

It's not cool to admit this, but I was actually a little excited to be part of the process.  I'd never served on a jury before, and was really looking forward to participating.  Silly, silly, romanticizing-the-system me.  The bailiff let us know that we would probably be finished by lunchtime.  Considering we were starting at about 9:30 a.m., this seemed like a really great prospect.  If you have to participate, better to do so quickly and close to home, right?

This being a small claims issue, the litigants were representing themselves.  If only they had focused on the facts and not tried to make it into a legal drama, things might've gone more smoothly for everyone.  As it turns out, neither side knew what they were doing nor how they were supposed to do it.  Instead of being done by lunch, we managed to get out of there by about 4:30 p.m.  Most of the case was argument between the litigants instead of presentation of evidence through testimony and physical items.  Cases in point: 1) the plaintiff brought a folder full of receipts that were relevant to the case, yet never tried to introduce them into evidence.  2) The defendant prepared a PowerPoint presentation that he wanted entered into evidence that contained at least 81 slides, but didn't bother to print out a single copy.  How in the world can we examine the media on your external drive?  We aren't allowed to have our cell phones on, much less computers.

All that we actually got to work with was a handful of pictures, an unopened letter, and a one-page irrelevant police report from the plaintiff, and *nothing* from the defendant.  The evidence itself was not very helpful.  For example, one of the complaints made by the plaintiff is that the defendant damages some property.  The plaintiff included a picture of the property, but didn't take the picture from an angle from which you could see the damage.  Given that, I felt like neither the plaintiff nor the defendant had proven anything with a preponderance of evidence, because neither side presented compelling evidence, even given hours of testimony.  If you think you have a hard time doing your job, imagine that someone has asked you to decide what's just and fair between two people you don't know, neither of whom are at all endearing, using the meagerest possible contextual clues and your own knowledge about life in general.

I found the responsibility to be pretty uncomfortable in actuality.  I tried my best to only include things that were mentioned during testimony or were on the table in front of me. In the end, I think we came to a fair decision, but it wasn't nearly as simple as it should have been.

Still, I'm glad I did it.  I'm also glad I don't have to do it again for 3 years (unless I move out of the county).  I think Forrest Gump said it best:

Tomatoes

I wish I could adequately express in words how much I loathe the tomato.  Unfortunately, I have neither the vocabulary nor the space to properly convey how hideous and abhorrent these mistakes of nature actually are.  However, for posterity’s sake, I will endeavor to point out their largest sins against existence.

Let’s start with their classification.  Are tomatoes a vegetable or a fruit?  As it turns out (scientifically speaking, at least), they are definitely a fruit.  That is to say, a smart person knows that a tomato is a fruit.  However, a wise person knows better than to put a tomato in a fruit salad.  If you have to be both smart and wise in order to properly place the thing, it implies that the thing is not worth placing.

Moving on to growth: tomatoes, as it turns out, are ridiculously needy and hard to take care of as a plant.  Headlines include but are not limited to:

• They are amazingly susceptible to a range of pests (aphids, flea beetles, tomato hornworm, whiteflies) and diseases (blossom-end rot, late blight, mosaic virus).
• If you’re starting a plant from seeds, it has to be grown indoors for 6-8 weeks before the last frost of the season before it can be moved outside.  Good luck predicting the future!
• They need at least 6-8 hours of good sunlight every day, but in our southern climate, they benefit from light afternoon shade.  It's a good thing we've got that automated patio shade!
• The soil they’re planted in should be slightly acidic, well-drained but able to hold moisture evenly, and rich in organic matter.  Get out your litmus testing kit!  I'm glad I learned all that chemistry in college just so I can take care of a stupid plant that I hate!
• If they grow too fast, their delicate skin will crack, rendering them even worse than terrible.  So, you should do a good job taking care of them, including messing with the soil and even watering and just enough but not too much sunlight, but don't do TOO good a job because then they'll just explode on you.

I could go on, but hopefully you get the picture.

Now we get to the heart of the matter: consumption.  The uncooked tomato is deceptively appealing, visually.  You can’t help but wonder if you could take a big bite out of one, similar to the way you would an apple (a vastly superior fruit).  Doing so will likely disturb you for the rest of your life, causing you no end of terrifying dreams and subsequent psychiatric bills.  Hey, at least you won't have to deal with those spider nightmares anymore.  Unless, of course, they morph into spiders with tomato abdomens!  Fangs dripping poisonous tomato juice!  GAH!  Where's my phone?!  I need an emergency counseling session!

The textural consumption experience is not unlike eating a grape (another vastly superior fruit).  The skin of both is thin, with meat that has a pleasant firmness without requiring much work from either molar or canine teeth.  That’s where the similarity ends, however, and you must deal with the fact that between the meaty parts of a tomato exist a slimy larval state that the tomato passes off as “juice and seeds.”  Seriously, if you think earthworms are disgusting because they’re slimy, you should refrain from inspecting the inside of a tomato.  It’s *just like worm guts*.  More on earthworms and tomatoes later.

The taste of an uncooked tomato is indescribable.  It’s as if Nature said “Hey, I’m done with the avocado and earthworms, but I’ve got some leftover guts and stuff.  What should I do those?  I know!  I’ll create a fruichtable just to mess with people!  Let’s see how many of them actually try to eat the thing!”  That’s right — you heard it here first: the tomato is that happened with Mother Nature mated an earthworm and an avocado.

That’s not to say that there’s nothing redeeming about the tomato.  I happen to quite like ketchup/catsup, tomato sauces with pasta and pizza, and throwing rotten tomatoes at bad comedians.  Beyond those uses, however, I’m not sure why you would bother with this travesty of growth.  

Do yourself a favor, hard-working farmer: plant tomatoes if you so desire, but don’t treat them any better than your other plants.  In fact, neglect them a little.  Perhaps we can natural-select them into a heartier and better-tasting fruit.  Otherwise, make better use of the space you would normally put a tomato plant in, and plant a DQ-Blizzard bush.

Christmas Traditions

Around our house and family, we don't really have many Christmas/Holiday traditions.  The season is very busy -- socially, work-wise, and involves lots of travel.  This year was no exception.

It all starts one of two ways.  During years where the boys spend Christmas with me, I pick them up and bring them back to the metroplex with me on the Friday when they get out of school.  This is the first of a couple of 3-hour road trips we take over the course of less than two weeks.

Regardless of when we pick the boys up, Tanya's birthday party occurs on the Saturday prior to Christmas (unless Christmas falls on a Sunday, when it will be up in the air).  We (almost) always host it at our house, and we typically spend the day preparing the food and house for the occasion.  This year, Igor and Anjelika's youngest sons came with them, so I split time between hanging with the adults and playing video games with the boys.

This timing coincides with my father's side of the family having a Christmas celebration somewhere near Abilene, Texas.  I get to hear about all of the shenanigans without having to be caught up in them, which is probably a good thing.  One of these years, we'll be able to make it out there.  Until then, keep it silly, Bentley Clan!

Work continues until a couple of days before Christmas.  This year, we managed to not be on call during the week, although I still acknowledged a couple of alerts and checked on the dashboards.  So yes, I took my work computer with me, in case you were wondering.  I promise, most of the time I was on it, I was just checking social media or working on Cartagena (which is done-ish... more on that in another post).

My parents have an anniversary two days before Christmas, and we like to take them out to dinner to celebrate.  We drive to Salado (second 3-hour road trip) to do so (picking up my boys on the way in years when they're not already with us).  When you've been together as long as my parents have, I think treating them to a meal which they didn't have to prepare or clean up from is a better gift than something coinciding with a yearly theme.

Christmas Eve is the time for opening gifts for us.  This is usually because everyone wants to do a little something in their own houses early on Christmas morning.  It's also relatively easy to get everyone together on Christmas Eve.  I was, apparently, a good boy this year, receiving headphones, a book, a day-hiking backpack, a Miyazaki movie, a t-shirt, CDs, candy, and cash.

Christmas Day, then, is for stockings.  More candy to be found in mine, along with an orange.  The orange is a Christmas Tradition, meant to represent prosperity (monetary, usually), that my mom always adheres to.  The irony is that I always appreciate getting it, but I rarely actually eat it.  Honestly, who wants to eat a piece of fruit that they've just pulled out of a musty old sock?

We then travel back home (3rd 3-hour road trip) in order to prepare for Russian Christmas, which takes place on the Saturday following Christmas (tomorrow, in this year's case).  In years where the boys start Christmas with us, they get dropped off on the way; otherwise, they come with us.  Russian Christmas is hosted by either Tanya G. or Anjelika.  Pictured here is goroshek (Russian pea salad), which we will be bringing.  This is another evening with the folks from Tanya's party, so time is spent playing with kids and adults in their turn.

The following week, counter to popular belief, is actually a productive work week for us.  We'll stop working early on New Year's Eve, however.  In years when we pick the boys up after Christmas, we will stay up playing board games or video games until midnight on New Year's Eve, at which point we'll watch the ball drop and drink grape juice of varying ferment levels.  The trip back to drop the boys off happens the next day at some point (although I'm not counting this 3-hour trip, since I counted the one where I pick them up first).

You know, I started off this blog post by stating that we don't have many traditions.  Upon further reflection, I'm forced to admit that is not the case.  Everything I've described above has happened in multiple years, and if it's not a tradition yet, it soon will be.

All of that to say, I'm very thankful that these traditions, and everyone involved with them, exist.  I hope that everyone reading this has had and continues to have very Happy Holidays!

Oops!

Oops, there I go again... not posting for a month or more...

I mean, uh, I MEANT to do that!  Yeah, that's it!  That's the ticket!  I didn't post ON PURPOSE so that life would have a chance to catch up with me.

A lot has happened in the last six weeks or so -- some good, some bad.  The bad is on a much larger scale than my day-to-day life, so you don't need to worry about me personally.  The good has been very and inexorably good.  Things like:

• My youngest son turned 15 years old.  Wow.
• Both of my sons made it through the classroom portion of drivers education.  One of them procured a learner's permit, and the other will have it once his documentation has been processed.  Double-wow.
• Tanya and I went to Philadelphia for a professional conference, learned a lot, and ran into a bunch of friends and former coworkers.
• Thanksgiving, and all that entails.
• beasanta.org raised over $20,000 for the kids of Penny Lane.  If you don't know what this is, you should check it out.  :-)

This is also the time of year when I'm most reminded that I have control of absolutely nothing in my life.  OK, that's not entirely true.  I have at least perceived control over little things, but I find myself struggling with things that were easier in the spring and summer.  If you're thinking "he's talking about his belly (or exercise in general), isn't he?", then you are as astute as post-Thanksgiving pumpkin-pie-reduced mental faculties allow for.  I find that, despite my "best" efforts, losing weight and/or staying in shape in the winter is hard.  I suppose there's a large set of biological tendencies working against me, but dammit! -- I'm an evolved human, capable of conscious thought and control of my impulses, aren't I?

Willpower is lower for me in the winter.  Maybe that's another reason blog posts are harder to come by... ;-)  I'll try to do better, gentle reader.  I'll try.

Right after I make these cookies.

Epitaph for Granny

My grandmother died yesterday morning.  She was the last of my surviving grandparents.  I went to look for her obituary in the Temple Daily Telegram.  It said:

“Mary R. Hughes, 89, of Salado died Thursday, Sept. 3, at her residence.  Services are pending with Dossman Funeral Home in Belton.”

It lacks verbosity, don’t you think?  To be fair, many of the obituaries were sparse, and follow the pattern of being an announcement first, then a proclamation later.  

I assume it will fall to my mother to write the final obituary, or she and her brothers together.  I wonder what epitaph they’ll give her?  If they ask me, I suppose I’ll have some things to draw on.  I’m not sure of the validity of any of it, since the sources were Granny or stories about Granny I heard from my mom, both of which are now filtered through the faulty sieve of my recollection.  Take anything factual in the following with a grain of salt. Trust that opinions shared are absolute truth from my perspective.

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Mary Ruth Hughes was born in Coleman, Texas, in February of 1926.  I want to say it was February 4^th, but that might not be right.  She had a sister, Theda, and a brother, Jerrol Max (and don’t quote me on the spelling of his name, as it’s always been pronounced “Jurl”).  They were raised by her mother after her father left them.  Despite the hardships of growing up fatherless and during the Great Depression, I was always left with the sense that Granny enjoyed her childhood.  Maybe she only ever told me the good stories on purpose.

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She married my grandfather when she was 16, so sometime in 1942.  You’ll notice that she was too young to get married without some kind of special consent.  Luckily for her and my grandfather, grandpa was already in the army, and quite wily.  He pulled some private in off the street to attest that “yes, he’s known Mary a LONG time, and of course she’s 18!”  Shortly after they got married, my grandfather went off to fight in World War II.  I’m not sure about the details of any of the scheduling, but my mother was born near the end of August of 1944.  You do the math.

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Granny and Grandpa and Mom moved around quite a bit, as many army families did.  I know there were stints in Camp Hood (before it was a proper fort) and El Paso.  Ultimately they ended up in San Antonio, where my uncles did most of their growing up and from whence my mom departed for college in Abilene.  All of my early Christmas memories involve long trips from Salado to San Antonio.  There were two houses involved, although I can barely remember the first one (the Harding house).  The more prominent one was the Glasgow house.

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When we were little, Granny would pay us a nickel to look for bugs in her hair.  I can’t remember ever finding one, but she kept offering the nickels every time we’d see her, and we’d keep looking faithfully, reveling in our new-found riches.  It wasn’t until years later, when I was having my own head massaged, that I realized what she had been doing.  CHILD LABOR LAWS BE DAMNED was probably her motto.  Crazy old lady.  

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When I finally caught the chicken pox, it was Granny that wound up taking care of me.  Both Mom and Dad had to work, so Mom drove me to San Antonio for a full week of hanging out with Granny.  I remember sleeping late every morning, and Granny singing me awake to the tune of “Lazy Bones… sleepin’ in the sun.  How ya ‘spect ta get your day’s work done?  You’ll never get your day’s work done… sleepin’ in the noon-day sun.”  I spent my time playing with Hot Wheels, my Millennium Falcon and Star Wars action figures, and watching Shirley Temple movies on the Classics movie channel.  I itched, but it was a pretty great week.  I don’t remember feeling lonely or homesick.  Granny had a way of making you feel like you were home.

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My grandparents moved to Salado in the early 1980’s.  My grandfather came up first, living in a camper while building an aluminum-sided barn with an apartment above it where he and Granny would live for a fair amount of time while I was in elementary school.  They subsequently helped build my parent’s current house and then built one for themselves.  The only years my sister and I rode the bus home from school on a regular basis was in order to stay after school at Granny’s until Mom or Dad got home.  After what seemed like an hour on the bus, we would arrive, climb the stairs to the apartment, and Granny would be there to greet us with an after school snack.  Those were some of the best snacks ever.  I watched Tom and Jerry cartoons, which Granny seemed just fine with.

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One of the last times I rode my 10-speed bike, I wiped out on some gravel about a mile from my house.  It was kind of a bad wipe-out, leaving me in a state where I couldn’t ride the bike very well.  I’d earned a pretty neat abrasion on my knee, and my left elbow had a gash in it deep enough to leave a lasting scar (which I still bear today).  Granny’s house is only a couple of hundred yards from my parent’s house, so I had walked the better part of a mile, trailing small drops of blood from my knee and elbow, when I decided to stop there.  I’m not sure why I did; I think I just wanted to rest a minute.  She made sure I was OK, and then asked me if I wanted her to take me the rest of the way up the hill.  I said no, that I was fine, I would just walk the bike the rest of the way.  It didn’t occur to me until after I became a parent myself that she might have wanted to take me up there.

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I used to practice my trumpet outside, typically pointing it down the hill toward Granny’s house.  She often told me that she liked to hear me playing.  That was all the encouragement I needed.  I kept doing it through the end of high school.

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My first car was a 1983 Thunderbird (which my parents generously bought for me).  It was originally my uncle Steve’s car, purchased for him by my grandparents.  I loved that car.  It was a V8 and could MOVE.  When it came time to get another car for me, I sold the Thunderbird back to Granny and Grandpa.  I can’t remember if I ever thanked them for letting me keep it as long as I did.

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Granny worked for years down at the Salado Galleries across from the Stagecoach Inn Restaurant.  I would visit her there from time to time, typically after some school- or church-related activity ended.  Truthfully, I was visiting to see if Susie Cosper was there, whom I had a fairly large crush on.  Oddly enough, my grandmother approved of the match, and never failed to remind me of the fact anytime Susie’s name came up in conversation.  Still, it was Granny from whom I bought stuff there, most notably the fireballs (hard cinnamon candy).  For the record, hard candy was a big winner for Granny.  Brach’s butterscotches were some of her (and my) favorites.

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Good grief, I haven’t mentioned food yet, or if I have, I haven’t given it nearly enough emphasis.  Granny was a tremendous cook.  Every holiday would find her slaving away in her kitchen, preparing feasts fit for royalty.  Everything that was worth making was worth making from scratch, and typically without the guidance of an actual recipe.  She simply knew how to make all of the foods she liked.  She made especially fine pies, of which lemon and chocolate were my favorite.  Each pie was topped with lightly browned but exquisitely fluffy meringue.  They were, in a word, delicious.

One quick aside about pies… one of my favorite stories from my grandparent’s early marriage involved pie.  My grandfather was ornery and a constant (but good-natured) teaser of my grandmother.  One time she had made a pie for him that she genuinely wasn’t sure about with regard to taste.  She asked him whether or not it was good.  He replied that it would have been perfect if it had had just had a bit more ketchup.  She promptly grabbed the ketchup bottle off the table and proceeded to dump a load onto the piece of pie my grandfather was consuming.  He ate the rest of it in silence.  Every.  Last.  Crumb.

Granny always claimed that the ketchup incident was an accident, that the cap must’ve been left loose on the last use.  I have my doubts.  I’ve often wondered if he was scared of her at that point or not…

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Granny was, in many ways, one of the wisest people I’ve ever known.  She was a pretty good judge of character.  She warned me about associating with certain people and encouraged me to associate with others.  She gave advice regarding what I should study in college (and where I should go to college).  She always claimed credit for me getting into computers, although I’m pretty certain that credit has to be shared with a lot of people.  Some of her advice I took, other bits I discarded.  I think she was right far more often than not, and I would be a better person if I’d been better at swallowing my pride earlier in life and heeded her wisdom more often.

She was also pretty smart.  She did sums in her head faster and more accurately than I ever could.  She did crossword puzzles practically every day of her life when given the opportunity.  She had an opinion on everything, although she often qualified it with “well, I don’t know…” just prior to launching into everything that she knew or felt on whatever the subject was.  She claimed to not be smart; I never really understood why, because she obviously was.  It’s possible that my grandfather was a genius, and perhaps she compared herself to him.  In any case, she was smart, and I enjoyed our conversations on pretty much anything, even when we disagreed.

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Granny had beautiful handwriting.  I wish I had letters or even Christmas cards with her script in them.  I’m hoping that my mom does.

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My grandmother was not an overly or overtly spiritual person.  We had a couple of talks about it.  My grandfather was a flat-out atheist.  He’d seen too many horrors in life to allow him to believe in a personal, benevolent, loving, caring, or even just god of any kind.  Granny, on the other hand, felt like there was something greater than us, although maybe not in a personal sense.  I can only recall her attending church with us a handful of times at most.  I think the idea of organized religion rubbed her the wrong way, since she saw the truth in most human-run institutions.  Still, she did believe that something happened after we shrugged off our mortal coils, and I’m glad she believed it.

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After the passing of my grandfather eight years ago, the life seemed to slowly drain out of Granny as well.  She had lived for a long time as his caregiver, and I think she might’ve felt purposeless afterward.  In the course of about a year, she had gone from fairly active to almost immobile.  Her back had gotten into a state where she couldn’t straighten up comfortably.  She moved slower and slower.  She loathed the thought of being a burden of people, and told me so on more than one occasion.  I think the truth of the matter was that she despised not being self-sufficient, but didn’t have the will to regain that state after Grandpa died.

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Her funeral will be on Tuesday at 10 a.m.  I’m not sure if the headstone will be there already or not, although I think it will.  I’m curious to see what it will say.  If it were up to me, I think I’d keep it simple, perhaps similar to what is on my grandfather’s:

Mary

Ruth 

Hughes

Feb 4 1926

Sept 3 2015

Beloved Wife

Mother

Granny

Sunday morning scattershooting

I haven't listened to The Ticket (KTCK) regularly in over two years.  The reason for this is quite simple: just over two years ago, I started working from home at a job where I spend almost 100% of my time working with someone else on the other end of a video conference, sharing a screen and talking a bunch.  Given that the shows that most interest me come on during drive times, those opportunities to listen were suddenly gone.  The only reason I bring it up is because every time I use the term "scattershooting," I feel like I should give credit to Junior Miller from the morning show there for popularizing the term.  "Friday Morning Scattershooting" was one of my favorite segments.

To be clear, I used the term "scattershooting" long before hearing it on the radio.  I had to.  I knew there was a single word or phrase that could succinctly describe my tendency to talk about whatever random topic popped into my head in fairly rapid succession regardless of whether or not people within earshot responded (which, by the way, they typically do, although it's mostly with "is this guy nuts?" looks).

So this morning I'm actually scattershooting on the topic of scattershooting... Is that too meta for a Sunday morning?  I suspect the answer is "no," given the general connotations with religious ceremonies and observances reserved for sometime on the weekend.

When I did an image search for "scattershooting," I was pleasantly surprised to learn that my favorite search engine didn't quite know what to make of the term.  Have a look at visual snippet of the result.

Yes, I do believe that is a picture of a fake pile of poo you can wear as a hat in the third row, just below and to the left of a contentedly chubby and cherub-faced Haley Joel Osment.

To verify this wasn't a fluke, I did the search again using my not-quite-favorite-but-really-trying-hard search engine.  Several of the same images came up, but the new entry that most interested me was this (used without permission, all rights reserved by current copyright owners):

In my head, I immediately heard these two characters speaking these two lines.  They still make me smile!  NARF!!

"Scattershot" itself has multiple meanings, ranging from the mundane to the absolutely captivating.  Immediately after the definition, my favorite search engine gave me the following link.  Scattershot is the name of an incredibly entertaining Autobot in the Transformers universe.  For those of you that aren't aware, I'm involved in a weekly Transformers role-playing game based primarily off of the RoleMaster RPG rules.  This is a game that had been running for three or four years before I was invited, and this coming week will be right at my one-year anniversary mark.

It's been a really interesting adventure, as I was only familiar with the property through the cartoons from the 80s.  Transformers as toys were always too complicated for me.  I was a pretty impatient kid and not the most dexterous guy around either.  There were comics as well, and several other animated series beyond the original.  Relatively recently, the franchise was reborn in the vision of Michael Bay.  I found the first movie to be pretty entertaining, but they quickly degenerated to the degree that I never saw the last installment.  I sincerely hope they don't make another.

Speaking of last installments, I did finally see the final Hobbit movie.  I wish I'd used better judgement there as well.  After the end of the second movie, I thought it would be a bad idea to continue.  I've decided to treat that trilogy as a kind of alternate history.  The Lord of the Rings seemed canonical enough to me to fully enjoy, but the three Hobbit movies are hardly worth the effort.

Tanya and I saw two movies that are worth the effort this past weekend.  My friend LonAnne's oldest son Thomas has decided to make movies for a living.  To that end, his high school senior project was a production of The Man Who Loved Flowers, a short story by Stephen King.  He and his friend Josh also made The Last Day Ever over this summer from the ground up.  They were both pretty fantastic, and I hope they do well at the festivals the movies are sent to this year.  They'll both be going to the Santa Fe University of Art and Design to study their craft more.

And speaking of going off to college, here's the final scattershooting topic for the day.  Both of my sons will be in high school starting tomorrow.  In less than four years, I will lose the ability to compel them to spend time with me.  On most levels, I'm really excited to see what they make of themselves.  I've tried and will continue to try to teach them to be skeptical and curious, to question and figure out, and to work hard at things even though they aren't necessarily interested in them.  I'm finding this latter lesson to be the hardest to teach, by far.

On a very small level, there's an irrational fear that neither of them will remember to call me, much less visit me.  I think I understand why my parents didn't warn me about this feeling though.  I suspect that they are scared pretty shitless of that possibility themselves, and don't want to upset the balance one way or the other.

Kids, call your parents this weekend, and every weekend you're able.  It may not seem like much to you, but it is a large part of the world to them.  And visit when you can.  Phone calls are nice, but hugs are nicer.

That's it for Sunday morning scattershooting.  Tune in next week when I return to something a little more focused, like cutting the cord with cable!  Or a deeper look at the movie Inception.  Or both.  Gah, still scattershooting, apparently... ;-)