It is pretty obvious to everyone, that word gets thrown around freely and without regard to the real meaning. There is really no point in giving Webster's definition, you can go and look that up for yourself. In my opinion, it takes many years to define a friendship.
Some of my friends are the result of proximity, some are the result common interest, some are the result of mutual predicament and some are the result of love and attraction. Occasionally, if I am really fortunate, a friendship results from all four.
I have friends who I do not see very often, but when we are together, we pick right up as if no time has passed. I have friends that would give me the shirt off their back, lend me money or drive all night to come help me out of a bind, with out asking any question beyond, "Where exactly are you?". I read the memoir of a Vietnam veteran who said, " once you have been in the s#!+ with someone, your souls are welded together for life". Now I have never been in combat but I have been through some really tough and painful times with some guys that I did not know very well when the trouble started but I now count them as some of my most treasured relationships.
I had a guy in college ask me about friendship and why I had so many and he didn't feel like he had any. He was an only child raised by parents who were very wealthy and reclusive. His folks were also much older than most parents with children his age, and they were worried that they would die and then someone would take advantage of their son. He was very selfish, self absorbed and paranoid. I told him this.
"You will never have a friend if you are not ready to put a relationship ahead of any material possession you might have. Be generous with your time, your possessions, and your interest in what others are doing in their life. Then everything should fall into place naturally. As long as you start every relationship with an underlying fear that you will be hurt or taken advantage of, you will never have a friend."
Thanks to all of you that count yourself as one of my friends, you are my most prized possession, When all hell has broken loose, I know you have my back and stand ready to defend me. You already know the reciprocal is also true.
I have found that as we age and our parents pass away, our friends become the family that chooses us.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
My Boys; My version of the "All Madden Team"
I know most of you know that I have two boys, but the reality is that I have a whole bunch of boys. I coached Little League Baseball and Greater Midland Football for what seemed like a zillion years. I don't normally mention names in my writing but I am breaking my rule and naming names this time. These boys are about to graduate from High School and this is my tribute to them.
Jack Bolger, no question one of the best athletes that I ever coached, more than that, no player I ever coached has more drive. He has always brought a great sense of humor to the field to go along with a blue collar work ethic. He is a ruthless competitor with a big soft heart. As a coach for both football and baseball, this is the kid whose hands I put a game in.
Jake Malone, the most clutch player I ever coached, football or baseball. One of those kind of kids that if you could clone him so that you had an entire team of "Jake Malones" you could win any game anywhere. Great hands and unbelievable timing, I started calling him "Airborne" because he was always making a diving catch on forth and long or with two outs and the bases loaded. I doubt if the kid weighs 140 lbs. soaking wet, and they have him playing inside receiver on a 5A varsity football team. He can take a hit, hold onto the ball and jump back up and trot to the huddle.
Conner Wilbanks, the heart and soul of every team that he has played on. The kind of kid you love to work hard with and then sit and visit with after practice. He was always picking up his teammates and keeping everything in the dugout or on the bench at the perfect pitch. Conner became an inspiration to his teammates and coaches after the untimely death of his father, he became a poster child for perseverance. I cannot even see Conner without having a grin and a tear at the same time.
Tyler Tatum, he only played football for me but he likely has the most God given talent that I have ever seen in one kid's body. The first year he played for me he was built like a bowling ball but his feet were so quick he had the second fastest 40 time on the team. He really wanted to stay home and draw pictures of Dragon Ball Z, but once he got a taste of competition he became a monster. He may likely be the only athlete I have ever coached who will end up playing on Sundays.
Jerome Ellis, If there ever was a kid built and programed to be a football player, it is Jerome. He loves football and he loves to compete. Jerome was the 4x4 monster truck version of a running back, you are going to have to throw some big stuff down in front of him to stop him. Jerome is the kind of kid that could carry the ball on every play of every series. He is also the kind of kid that would block every down of every series and he would be as hard to handle in the last 25 seconds as he would be on the first play of the game.
Michael Napolis, from the very first time I saw him step on a football field, he has been the consummate team player. He just wants to play football, knock somebody down and make a tackle. Confident and self assured on the football field without being cocky. His confidence in himself and his teammates has inspired many a goal line stand.
Luke Slentz, a fiery competitor in anybody's book. A switch hitter since T-Ball, I have watched him hammer so many extra base hits, I think of him as "Automatic". His artistry with a fielder's mitt in the middle infield was so pleasing to my eye that I have long called it "candy". More than that, I have watched this young man overcome his struggle to be perfect every time and develop a maturity and acceptance for the failure that is so much a part of baseball and life.
I could go on all day about the kids that I have coached and the fun that it has been to coach them. I was as passionate about coaching as I am about music or horses. The young men that I had the honor of being associated with over the years have been my greatest teacher, I grew up a little more every time we practiced or played a game.
Not every kid I coached moved on to play football or baseball in high school, but most of them have moved on to success in life. I am amazed by the bonds that were built by these teams. Bonds so special, it is like a culture within a culture. Even as these boys play Varsity Football and Baseball, they still think of themselves as "Eagles", "Mad Dawgs", "Angels", "Diamond Backs", "Twins" and "Indians".
They now laugh about the days of Sophomore GMFL,T-Ball and Texas League and how much fun it was in the beginning, before there were critics and reporters, scouts and recruiters. In the end, they will always be "My Boys".
Jack Bolger, no question one of the best athletes that I ever coached, more than that, no player I ever coached has more drive. He has always brought a great sense of humor to the field to go along with a blue collar work ethic. He is a ruthless competitor with a big soft heart. As a coach for both football and baseball, this is the kid whose hands I put a game in.
Jake Malone, the most clutch player I ever coached, football or baseball. One of those kind of kids that if you could clone him so that you had an entire team of "Jake Malones" you could win any game anywhere. Great hands and unbelievable timing, I started calling him "Airborne" because he was always making a diving catch on forth and long or with two outs and the bases loaded. I doubt if the kid weighs 140 lbs. soaking wet, and they have him playing inside receiver on a 5A varsity football team. He can take a hit, hold onto the ball and jump back up and trot to the huddle.
Conner Wilbanks, the heart and soul of every team that he has played on. The kind of kid you love to work hard with and then sit and visit with after practice. He was always picking up his teammates and keeping everything in the dugout or on the bench at the perfect pitch. Conner became an inspiration to his teammates and coaches after the untimely death of his father, he became a poster child for perseverance. I cannot even see Conner without having a grin and a tear at the same time.
Tyler Tatum, he only played football for me but he likely has the most God given talent that I have ever seen in one kid's body. The first year he played for me he was built like a bowling ball but his feet were so quick he had the second fastest 40 time on the team. He really wanted to stay home and draw pictures of Dragon Ball Z, but once he got a taste of competition he became a monster. He may likely be the only athlete I have ever coached who will end up playing on Sundays.
Jerome Ellis, If there ever was a kid built and programed to be a football player, it is Jerome. He loves football and he loves to compete. Jerome was the 4x4 monster truck version of a running back, you are going to have to throw some big stuff down in front of him to stop him. Jerome is the kind of kid that could carry the ball on every play of every series. He is also the kind of kid that would block every down of every series and he would be as hard to handle in the last 25 seconds as he would be on the first play of the game.
Michael Napolis, from the very first time I saw him step on a football field, he has been the consummate team player. He just wants to play football, knock somebody down and make a tackle. Confident and self assured on the football field without being cocky. His confidence in himself and his teammates has inspired many a goal line stand.
Luke Slentz, a fiery competitor in anybody's book. A switch hitter since T-Ball, I have watched him hammer so many extra base hits, I think of him as "Automatic". His artistry with a fielder's mitt in the middle infield was so pleasing to my eye that I have long called it "candy". More than that, I have watched this young man overcome his struggle to be perfect every time and develop a maturity and acceptance for the failure that is so much a part of baseball and life.
I could go on all day about the kids that I have coached and the fun that it has been to coach them. I was as passionate about coaching as I am about music or horses. The young men that I had the honor of being associated with over the years have been my greatest teacher, I grew up a little more every time we practiced or played a game.
Not every kid I coached moved on to play football or baseball in high school, but most of them have moved on to success in life. I am amazed by the bonds that were built by these teams. Bonds so special, it is like a culture within a culture. Even as these boys play Varsity Football and Baseball, they still think of themselves as "Eagles", "Mad Dawgs", "Angels", "Diamond Backs", "Twins" and "Indians".
They now laugh about the days of Sophomore GMFL,T-Ball and Texas League and how much fun it was in the beginning, before there were critics and reporters, scouts and recruiters. In the end, they will always be "My Boys".
Monday, January 18, 2010
Humility, A Rare Find.
I have a close friend that I have known for 25 years. We have hunted together for all of those 25 years and we have raised our kids together. We are indeed close friends.
We have spent a lot of time traveling by car together and we have sat around a lot of campfires talking about sports and growing up. A lot of the time, we talked about football, high school football in particular. Never in the entire time that I have known him have I ever even heard him discuss his high school football career.
A business associate of mine who played high school football with this man in a small town in the Texas Hill Country sent me a newspaper article published on the 25 year anniversary of a classic game between two small towns. It seems Uvalde and Kerrville had a bitter rivalry but Uvalde had prevailed over Kerrville each of the three prior meetings. In this most recent meeting Uvalde trailed by a wide margin at the half. My friend was a senior and a captain of the team as well as the middle linebacker. Like most teams of this size, pretty much every kid on the team was a backup for an offensive starter if they started on the defensive side of the ball, and vice versa.
This newspaper article chronicled the events of the Uvalde team in the locker room during halftime and then back onto the field. To make a long story short, my friend told his team mates that he had not been on a team that had been beaten by Kerrville up to that point and that he was not going to give into them now. He asked the coach and his team mates for the ball. His backup spot on offense was fullback.
During the second half of this game my friend played both ways and made a number of solo tackles on the defensive side of the ball while rushing for more than 100 yards and two scores on the offensive side of the ball. Uvalde won the game and he was named both offensive and defensive player of the week in the district. A feat not yet repeated up to the date of the article.
Now the point of the story is not what this man accomplished on the football field but the fact that in all the time I had spent with this man he never mentioned his high school football exploits. He had never made a peep.
I spend a lot of time talking to people in my work and I listen to a lot of BS. It is a rare day that I don't heart a story about the glory days of high school football exploits. I had a lot of respect for this man before I heard this story about him but I think a lot more of him now. I like the purity of this story doing the talking for my friend.
This hits me right between the eyes, because I do most of my writing about my own experience. I am far from being the poster child husband, father or friend. i make a lot of mistakes. I hope that I can honestly portray those short comings in what I write. I also hope that humility finds a place in what I communicate.
We have spent a lot of time traveling by car together and we have sat around a lot of campfires talking about sports and growing up. A lot of the time, we talked about football, high school football in particular. Never in the entire time that I have known him have I ever even heard him discuss his high school football career.
A business associate of mine who played high school football with this man in a small town in the Texas Hill Country sent me a newspaper article published on the 25 year anniversary of a classic game between two small towns. It seems Uvalde and Kerrville had a bitter rivalry but Uvalde had prevailed over Kerrville each of the three prior meetings. In this most recent meeting Uvalde trailed by a wide margin at the half. My friend was a senior and a captain of the team as well as the middle linebacker. Like most teams of this size, pretty much every kid on the team was a backup for an offensive starter if they started on the defensive side of the ball, and vice versa.
This newspaper article chronicled the events of the Uvalde team in the locker room during halftime and then back onto the field. To make a long story short, my friend told his team mates that he had not been on a team that had been beaten by Kerrville up to that point and that he was not going to give into them now. He asked the coach and his team mates for the ball. His backup spot on offense was fullback.
During the second half of this game my friend played both ways and made a number of solo tackles on the defensive side of the ball while rushing for more than 100 yards and two scores on the offensive side of the ball. Uvalde won the game and he was named both offensive and defensive player of the week in the district. A feat not yet repeated up to the date of the article.
Now the point of the story is not what this man accomplished on the football field but the fact that in all the time I had spent with this man he never mentioned his high school football exploits. He had never made a peep.
I spend a lot of time talking to people in my work and I listen to a lot of BS. It is a rare day that I don't heart a story about the glory days of high school football exploits. I had a lot of respect for this man before I heard this story about him but I think a lot more of him now. I like the purity of this story doing the talking for my friend.
This hits me right between the eyes, because I do most of my writing about my own experience. I am far from being the poster child husband, father or friend. i make a lot of mistakes. I hope that I can honestly portray those short comings in what I write. I also hope that humility finds a place in what I communicate.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Passion And Subtlety
Now I know what you are thinking, "There is nothing subtle about passion". You might be right on one level or another, but I am starting to think that the passion in my life is driven by an appreciation of subtleties.
I love to fly fish. It is a tedious, technical pursuit. It comes easy to no one, any success to be had is the result of subtle and delicate effort. Based upon the time and money expended and the satisfaction and happiness that I derive from it, I think it qualifies as one of my passions.
Horsemen judge other horsemen by the quality of their hands. Not their size and shape but the ability to send the minutest signal and create the desired result. The creation of a "horseman's hands" is a lifelong pursuit. It is the result of years and years of practice. "Good hands" are a delicate blend of timing, experience and instinct. The appreciation of the subtlety fires the passion.
Twenty seven years ago this coming New Year, I sat in my buddy's pickup truck and watched a girl standing in the parking lot of the Crested Butte Ski Area. Snow flakes, the tiny light ones that fall like down feathers, fell into her long blonde hair. That may not sound like much of a moment, but my life turned on it.
Eighteen years ago, last week, a tiny hand grabbed onto mine as we started across the street to walk into Midland Memorial Hospital and visit the postpartum unit to meet a new member of the family. The excitement of a little red haired kid and the trust that came with the clasp of that little hand stirred something in me that has waned little in time.
I have laughed with friends that I love like my own family so hard that I could scarcely take a breath. I have shed buckets of tears with the very same. I have seen with my own eyes the very essence of a deceased loved one embodied in the talent and manner of their child and grandchild. I now look for the subtle and delicate in anticipation of another wave of passion.
I love to fly fish. It is a tedious, technical pursuit. It comes easy to no one, any success to be had is the result of subtle and delicate effort. Based upon the time and money expended and the satisfaction and happiness that I derive from it, I think it qualifies as one of my passions.
Horsemen judge other horsemen by the quality of their hands. Not their size and shape but the ability to send the minutest signal and create the desired result. The creation of a "horseman's hands" is a lifelong pursuit. It is the result of years and years of practice. "Good hands" are a delicate blend of timing, experience and instinct. The appreciation of the subtlety fires the passion.
Twenty seven years ago this coming New Year, I sat in my buddy's pickup truck and watched a girl standing in the parking lot of the Crested Butte Ski Area. Snow flakes, the tiny light ones that fall like down feathers, fell into her long blonde hair. That may not sound like much of a moment, but my life turned on it.
Eighteen years ago, last week, a tiny hand grabbed onto mine as we started across the street to walk into Midland Memorial Hospital and visit the postpartum unit to meet a new member of the family. The excitement of a little red haired kid and the trust that came with the clasp of that little hand stirred something in me that has waned little in time.
I have laughed with friends that I love like my own family so hard that I could scarcely take a breath. I have shed buckets of tears with the very same. I have seen with my own eyes the very essence of a deceased loved one embodied in the talent and manner of their child and grandchild. I now look for the subtle and delicate in anticipation of another wave of passion.
The Radio
I moved to Midland half way through the fourth grade, it was traumatic to say the least. I struggled with school because I was struggling to find my place in the complex social hierarchy of Thomas J. Rusk Elementary School. I charted the one and only "F" of my long and distinguished academic career in Mr. Anderson's 5th grade Math class. My punishment was the grade school equivalent of the NCAA's "Death Penalty" for recruiting violations. For 6 weeks I was in total "Lock Down". I went to school and I came home and was restricted to my room to complete homework and practice long division. No playing outside and no TV except on Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays until 6:00pm. I was in my room with books and a radio that my brother Jeff smuggled in for me.
My mom was smart enough to know that I was going to need something other than math problems to keep me occupied as I served out my sentence. So she would take me to the Midland Public Library where I could check out 20 books at a time. My taste ran the gamut of young adult literature, lots of non-fiction primarily adventurers and the history of the west. So in addition to being shaped by the rugged individualists who settled the west, my soul was being awakened by the Carpenters, Gordon Lightfoot, Three Dog Night, Carole King, and Crosby Stills & Nash. I caught these tunes through a single ear phone off of a Chicago AM pop station that I could only get good reception on late at night. Sometimes I could get the station during daylight hours because of a phenomena called the "Skip" .
I was lying in bed last night talking to Deanna and one of those old Gordon Lightfoot tunes came on and I was beamed right back to those days, I swear i could feel the frustration of being confined just like I was there again. That is what music does for us, it TRANSPORTS US across time and space, it awakens memories and passions. I also get the same miracle from smells. I swear, if I get a whiff of the right perfume, I am right back to the point where I first encountered it. Too Cool!
My mom was smart enough to know that I was going to need something other than math problems to keep me occupied as I served out my sentence. So she would take me to the Midland Public Library where I could check out 20 books at a time. My taste ran the gamut of young adult literature, lots of non-fiction primarily adventurers and the history of the west. So in addition to being shaped by the rugged individualists who settled the west, my soul was being awakened by the Carpenters, Gordon Lightfoot, Three Dog Night, Carole King, and Crosby Stills & Nash. I caught these tunes through a single ear phone off of a Chicago AM pop station that I could only get good reception on late at night. Sometimes I could get the station during daylight hours because of a phenomena called the "Skip" .
I was lying in bed last night talking to Deanna and one of those old Gordon Lightfoot tunes came on and I was beamed right back to those days, I swear i could feel the frustration of being confined just like I was there again. That is what music does for us, it TRANSPORTS US across time and space, it awakens memories and passions. I also get the same miracle from smells. I swear, if I get a whiff of the right perfume, I am right back to the point where I first encountered it. Too Cool!
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Music Teacher
The music teacher has many forms, band director, strings teacher, choral conductor, accompanist, elementary school music teacher, minister of music, piano teacher and vocal coach. I started thinking about this species and the special relationship that the folks that follow this calling create with their students. As I recently had a front row seat to the miracle of this mental and emotional synthesis, I realized that I had to expose the wonder of it all.In the early years the music teacher is a planter of seeds, plowing the fallow ground of tender hearts and fertile minds. As young children, we were exposed to the great classics ( Mozart, Beethoven & Bach) as well as modern music (Ellington and Gershwin). The recording of “Peter and The Wolf” introduced our generation to the mystical instruments of the orchestra. A few years and a hormone awakening later and we were on to Steppenwolf. I started out playing the “Tonette” and then graduated to the “Recorder”. I am sure I am the greatest “Blues Recorder" player of all time (see my note “The Radio” and you will know why). "Baby Boomer" children were given a healthy dose of piano lessons. I was always amazed that my Sunday school class had at least one hundred years of combined piano lessons in attendance and no one could play “Jingle Bells”.The junior high school where I attended was blessed with a band director with the most incredible and unorthodox sense of humor. He had an ability to fire the creative furnaces of countless acne faced kids. I still remember him pleading with a thirteen year old oboe soloist to play the passage with "Sex Appeal". Now tell me, how is she going to do that?I have been shaped by every music teacher that I have ever encountered. Early on, in carpenter like fashion, they work with grinder and lathe. As we matured, their works became hand finished and polished. When you really think about it, these teachers are at such an incredible disadvantage; teenagers have so little life experience to draw from in the interpretation and expression of the music.
I had a friend who begged me to try out for the Chorale at my high school. This was a very prestigious group and it required an audition for the director. I played a horn in the band so I could read music, I knew a good bit of music theory and I sang a lot at my church. I was selected for the group but I think it had more to do with gender and music theory than vocal ability. I was blessed to have been a part of that choir and it was so special that only a very few things I have experienced in my lifetime compare to what happens when an assembly of naive hormones and emotions come into vocal focus. I can tell you that every time I walked out on the stage to sing with that innocent assembly of God given talent, I was always in awe of the beauty of the those blended voices. The talented people that stood next to me during that year will always have my respect and admiration. The man who helped to create it was rewarded with the chance to stand in front of that otherworldly sound. The friend that prepared me for that audition gave my spirit a chord and a key.
I have friends who count their high school band director as the only positive male role model in their lives. I have a friend, the most accomplished of professional musicians, who has worked with legendary conductors throughout the world and she names her high school choral director as her most important musical influence. I recently sat and watched a vocal recital with the performer’s teacher, I was inspired as I witnessed a teacher illuminated, as if it were her own child performing. They (the teacher & the student) own a singular piece of each other’s lives and no one else on earth could possibly enter that sacred space. They are melted into one in those mystic moments when all the tones find their proper place in the air and become a glimpse into the realm of the unseen and yet believed.I have stayed up half the night banging out tenor harmonies with my vocal teacher, I have spent summer days trying to march and memorize a long list of band music, I have sat in the back of a bus and attempted to duplicate the intricate harmony of beach boys tunes on the way home from a choral contest and I have played a pathetic rendition of a class one trombone solo for the UIL Solo and Ensemble contest (thank God for my blessed accompanist, she did everything she could to help me). Far beyond any of those things, I have been moved to tears by tapestry sound created by my peers. For many of us, the gifts given by our music teachers are the brush strokes of color on what would otherwise be a blank and flavorless soul.
Dedicated to Mrs. Everett, Scott Lewis, Dan Green, Ike Nail, Robert Mays, Doug Brown, Doris Bruce, David Campbell, Paula Edwards, Carol Hall, Ruth Ann Griffin and Susan Lowery.
I had a friend who begged me to try out for the Chorale at my high school. This was a very prestigious group and it required an audition for the director. I played a horn in the band so I could read music, I knew a good bit of music theory and I sang a lot at my church. I was selected for the group but I think it had more to do with gender and music theory than vocal ability. I was blessed to have been a part of that choir and it was so special that only a very few things I have experienced in my lifetime compare to what happens when an assembly of naive hormones and emotions come into vocal focus. I can tell you that every time I walked out on the stage to sing with that innocent assembly of God given talent, I was always in awe of the beauty of the those blended voices. The talented people that stood next to me during that year will always have my respect and admiration. The man who helped to create it was rewarded with the chance to stand in front of that otherworldly sound. The friend that prepared me for that audition gave my spirit a chord and a key.
I have friends who count their high school band director as the only positive male role model in their lives. I have a friend, the most accomplished of professional musicians, who has worked with legendary conductors throughout the world and she names her high school choral director as her most important musical influence. I recently sat and watched a vocal recital with the performer’s teacher, I was inspired as I witnessed a teacher illuminated, as if it were her own child performing. They (the teacher & the student) own a singular piece of each other’s lives and no one else on earth could possibly enter that sacred space. They are melted into one in those mystic moments when all the tones find their proper place in the air and become a glimpse into the realm of the unseen and yet believed.I have stayed up half the night banging out tenor harmonies with my vocal teacher, I have spent summer days trying to march and memorize a long list of band music, I have sat in the back of a bus and attempted to duplicate the intricate harmony of beach boys tunes on the way home from a choral contest and I have played a pathetic rendition of a class one trombone solo for the UIL Solo and Ensemble contest (thank God for my blessed accompanist, she did everything she could to help me). Far beyond any of those things, I have been moved to tears by tapestry sound created by my peers. For many of us, the gifts given by our music teachers are the brush strokes of color on what would otherwise be a blank and flavorless soul.
Dedicated to Mrs. Everett, Scott Lewis, Dan Green, Ike Nail, Robert Mays, Doug Brown, Doris Bruce, David Campbell, Paula Edwards, Carol Hall, Ruth Ann Griffin and Susan Lowery.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Angels Might Walk Upon This Earth
I met a guy on my very first day at college, August 1978, Tulsa, Oklahoma. He had on cowboy boots and he was from Texas. We had that in common. He was just a regular guy from Deer Park, Texas. His hometown is a suburb of Houston that is mostly famous for being downwind to a bunch of oil refineries. I don't remember the details of his high school experience, but he was the kind of guy that would be elected team captain of the high school football team or a big shot at "Boy's State". We were friends across our entire tenure at college. He was a pre-med major and over the years he spent a lot of time studying with my roommates. I gave him a nickname that included a reference to the word "Obnoxious". That couldn't have been farther from the truth. He was a really solid guy, I remember how he used to cringe when I would use my sharp tongue to put someone down. He had a way of making me not want to be a jerk without becoming a jerk himself. He was no angel, but I always thought he was a little better than the rest of us.
I had a job in college working for the Student Housing Department. My duties involved sitting at the front desk of the various campus dormitories. Somehow I managed to spend a good bit of my work time answering the phone at the girl's dorms. That job fit me pretty well. I was working the front desk one Friday evening during my sophomore year. A girl came into the lobby that I knew from various dormitory social and spiritual activities, but this was one of those moments you don't easily forget. She had been out for the evening at some sort of function and she was dressed very nicely. She had a beautiful head of other worldly blonde hair and she was a very pretty girl. At that particular moment, her beauty and her personality were blended in such a way that she appeared angelic to me. I remember thinking, "There is nothing in heaven more beautiful than this girl". In the time that I was in school with her I never saw anything in her conduct or demeanor to change my belief that she was indeed, an angel.
Well, my friend married that coed angel and ultimately became a physician.
I got a Christmas card and a letter from them this year, the result of my finding them on Facebook. I generally shy away from reading Christmas Letters, but after looking at the picture that came with the letter, I needed more information.
I have stated on a number of occasions that Deanna and I did not have the courage to make the transition from a man to man defense to a zone defense, so our brood never exceeded two. I am looking at this family photo, there are eight children in the photo, and then there is a photo of their newest addition taped to the back. So NINE children in all! I cannot even begin to imagine the logistics involved in running a household that contains nine children. I don't know the story on the entire group of children, but It is a safe bet that the majority of this family is not related by blood.
My friends, who are the parents of this group of children, no doubt have been called by God and are anointed for this task. So I sat and thought about them and how they must live. I thought about the organization and planning that must be required just to take care of things that I don't give a second thought about. Meals, grocery lists, dental appointments, clothes and shoes. Then what about music lessons, soccer practice and prom? I guess the older children help with the younger ones but there is no way it gets easier, it just changes. They have to be the parental equivalent of a division one college football quarterback, they have to check off and audible just about every down.
Here is how my mind works, how much more tragedy is one exposed to by having nine children versus having two? It is my sincere hope that the joy and love that one receives from a parenting endeavor of this magnitude is multiplied well beyond nine fold.
I'm sure that this couple would scoff at my idea that they are more angel than human. They were never the kind to take themselves very seriously. In my mind, I can only see the vision of my friend married to an angel whom he helps to raise nine children, each an individual piece of God's love and grace in tangible form.
So I still like to think, angels might walk upon this planet and pick up the slack left by others. Their job here on earth is to see that where there is a child, there is also a family and a home life where someone cares.
Peace and Mercy to those that take on this most noble of roles; Mommy and Daddy to those who have neither.
I had a job in college working for the Student Housing Department. My duties involved sitting at the front desk of the various campus dormitories. Somehow I managed to spend a good bit of my work time answering the phone at the girl's dorms. That job fit me pretty well. I was working the front desk one Friday evening during my sophomore year. A girl came into the lobby that I knew from various dormitory social and spiritual activities, but this was one of those moments you don't easily forget. She had been out for the evening at some sort of function and she was dressed very nicely. She had a beautiful head of other worldly blonde hair and she was a very pretty girl. At that particular moment, her beauty and her personality were blended in such a way that she appeared angelic to me. I remember thinking, "There is nothing in heaven more beautiful than this girl". In the time that I was in school with her I never saw anything in her conduct or demeanor to change my belief that she was indeed, an angel.
Well, my friend married that coed angel and ultimately became a physician.
I got a Christmas card and a letter from them this year, the result of my finding them on Facebook. I generally shy away from reading Christmas Letters, but after looking at the picture that came with the letter, I needed more information.
I have stated on a number of occasions that Deanna and I did not have the courage to make the transition from a man to man defense to a zone defense, so our brood never exceeded two. I am looking at this family photo, there are eight children in the photo, and then there is a photo of their newest addition taped to the back. So NINE children in all! I cannot even begin to imagine the logistics involved in running a household that contains nine children. I don't know the story on the entire group of children, but It is a safe bet that the majority of this family is not related by blood.
My friends, who are the parents of this group of children, no doubt have been called by God and are anointed for this task. So I sat and thought about them and how they must live. I thought about the organization and planning that must be required just to take care of things that I don't give a second thought about. Meals, grocery lists, dental appointments, clothes and shoes. Then what about music lessons, soccer practice and prom? I guess the older children help with the younger ones but there is no way it gets easier, it just changes. They have to be the parental equivalent of a division one college football quarterback, they have to check off and audible just about every down.
Here is how my mind works, how much more tragedy is one exposed to by having nine children versus having two? It is my sincere hope that the joy and love that one receives from a parenting endeavor of this magnitude is multiplied well beyond nine fold.
I'm sure that this couple would scoff at my idea that they are more angel than human. They were never the kind to take themselves very seriously. In my mind, I can only see the vision of my friend married to an angel whom he helps to raise nine children, each an individual piece of God's love and grace in tangible form.
So I still like to think, angels might walk upon this planet and pick up the slack left by others. Their job here on earth is to see that where there is a child, there is also a family and a home life where someone cares.
Peace and Mercy to those that take on this most noble of roles; Mommy and Daddy to those who have neither.
My Wind Blown Mind
One of few threads that has run the entire length of my life is wind. I have lived most of my life in West Texas, where wind and dust are a big part of being outside. Dirt in the corner of my eyes and grit between my teeth are no longer all that uncomfortable. The hours I have spent listening to the wind whistle through doors and windows that don't completely seal are uncountable.
The big problem with never ending wind is that it makes people go crazy.
You want proof?
I have seen little league baseball games, soccer games and football games played in forty mph dirt filled winds, I saw a coach insist that a baseball game be played in such conditions, he had equipped his entire team with ski goggles.
I watched a man at the park near where I live assemble two kites one afternoon. It was a dusty spring day and the wind was out of the Northwest at forty gusting to fifty. In town, the wind at the surface is not always indicative of what is really going on. With all the trees in town, the "jet stream" is about 60 feet off the ground. Well, the dutiful daddy gets the kites launched with no incident. Once those kites hit the altitude where they got the full force of wind, they were history. "Gone in 60 seconds."
I once bought an oil and gas lease from a lonely old lady who lived alone forty-five miles from a town and twenty miles from her nearest neighbor. I asked her why she chose to live out there in the wind and dust. She told me " My parents moved me into this canyon when I was eleven, I married the top hand when I was seventeen, I birthed three babies here, buried two of them before they lived two years. My son made it to twenty-five and got killed by a young horse. He is buried here as well. My Husband lived to be sixty-three, worried himself to death, it stayed dry for about ten years and he wouldn't go to the doctor. The grave yard up behind this house is home to everyone but me. I hear crying babies, my sons laughter and the whisper voice of my husband in that wind. I moved to town once and I missed it. It was too quiet there and I couldn't feel anything but alone."
I often wonder if she is still out there, in the soul of the wind.
When Deanna and I first started dating, we used to go to her parents ranch in Reagan County. It was dry and dusty and the wind blew a lot of the time when I was there. The old frame house at the headquarters had a whistle, creak and groan to it, all courtesy of a constant wind. My father-in-law loved that place, he likely loved it so much it killed him to leave it. The wind still blows across that miserable piece of mesquite covered short grass prairie and I am crazy enough to think that his soul rides upon that wind. Some days he rides an easy lope, other days a full gallop, but pretty much every day, he rides.
The big problem with never ending wind is that it makes people go crazy.
You want proof?
I have seen little league baseball games, soccer games and football games played in forty mph dirt filled winds, I saw a coach insist that a baseball game be played in such conditions, he had equipped his entire team with ski goggles.
I watched a man at the park near where I live assemble two kites one afternoon. It was a dusty spring day and the wind was out of the Northwest at forty gusting to fifty. In town, the wind at the surface is not always indicative of what is really going on. With all the trees in town, the "jet stream" is about 60 feet off the ground. Well, the dutiful daddy gets the kites launched with no incident. Once those kites hit the altitude where they got the full force of wind, they were history. "Gone in 60 seconds."
I once bought an oil and gas lease from a lonely old lady who lived alone forty-five miles from a town and twenty miles from her nearest neighbor. I asked her why she chose to live out there in the wind and dust. She told me " My parents moved me into this canyon when I was eleven, I married the top hand when I was seventeen, I birthed three babies here, buried two of them before they lived two years. My son made it to twenty-five and got killed by a young horse. He is buried here as well. My Husband lived to be sixty-three, worried himself to death, it stayed dry for about ten years and he wouldn't go to the doctor. The grave yard up behind this house is home to everyone but me. I hear crying babies, my sons laughter and the whisper voice of my husband in that wind. I moved to town once and I missed it. It was too quiet there and I couldn't feel anything but alone."
I often wonder if she is still out there, in the soul of the wind.
When Deanna and I first started dating, we used to go to her parents ranch in Reagan County. It was dry and dusty and the wind blew a lot of the time when I was there. The old frame house at the headquarters had a whistle, creak and groan to it, all courtesy of a constant wind. My father-in-law loved that place, he likely loved it so much it killed him to leave it. The wind still blows across that miserable piece of mesquite covered short grass prairie and I am crazy enough to think that his soul rides upon that wind. Some days he rides an easy lope, other days a full gallop, but pretty much every day, he rides.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Sacred Ground
Is there a place that you can go and feel that you are right with the world? Everyone needs to find a place like that from time to time. I have been fortunate to have been able to find several different locals over the years where I knew my efforts and emotion were working in concert with my environment and I was fulfilled.
I never really put my entire effort into anything I ever did in my life until I entered graduate school. I spent my life up to that point hedging my bet with success by always holding something back. That way if I did fail, I could always tell myself that I didn't really fail because I could have done better if I had used my reserve tank. What I realize now, it was more like a reserve parachute, if you need it, only an idiot would try to save it.
My commitment to coaching was the place I first found my sacred ground. I put together what I learned in graduate school about putting everything you have into an effort and believing that you can do things you have never done before. I combined that with the teaching methods I had learned as an undergraduate and I became a successful coach primarily because I believed in my kids and I kept them very busy. At one time I would have wanted my ashes spread on the infield at the Mid-City Little League park or the Greater Midland Football League fields. I don't feel that way now, the kids I coached there have moved on and so have I.
Now days my sacred ground is more mental than physical. I can't really point to a place, it is more about a mindset. I am there now whenever I have my horses and my family together and we are training or showing the horses. I also go there now when I am able to write something that creates a response of some kind. I also go there in my work life when our team is able to accomplish something meaningful together.
The simple truth is, I find my TierraSanta everyday when I can effectively communicate with man or beast and we can create something better than what we had before we started. I don't think my friend Susan Graham, a professional Opera Singer, or my friend Jason Nix, a professional baseball player, or my horse trainer Tom Dvorak would disagree with this simplification. Each day needs a vision, passion and hard work, the gratification may not be there everyday, but it will come.
I never really put my entire effort into anything I ever did in my life until I entered graduate school. I spent my life up to that point hedging my bet with success by always holding something back. That way if I did fail, I could always tell myself that I didn't really fail because I could have done better if I had used my reserve tank. What I realize now, it was more like a reserve parachute, if you need it, only an idiot would try to save it.
My commitment to coaching was the place I first found my sacred ground. I put together what I learned in graduate school about putting everything you have into an effort and believing that you can do things you have never done before. I combined that with the teaching methods I had learned as an undergraduate and I became a successful coach primarily because I believed in my kids and I kept them very busy. At one time I would have wanted my ashes spread on the infield at the Mid-City Little League park or the Greater Midland Football League fields. I don't feel that way now, the kids I coached there have moved on and so have I.
Now days my sacred ground is more mental than physical. I can't really point to a place, it is more about a mindset. I am there now whenever I have my horses and my family together and we are training or showing the horses. I also go there now when I am able to write something that creates a response of some kind. I also go there in my work life when our team is able to accomplish something meaningful together.
The simple truth is, I find my TierraSanta everyday when I can effectively communicate with man or beast and we can create something better than what we had before we started. I don't think my friend Susan Graham, a professional Opera Singer, or my friend Jason Nix, a professional baseball player, or my horse trainer Tom Dvorak would disagree with this simplification. Each day needs a vision, passion and hard work, the gratification may not be there everyday, but it will come.
The Saddle Shed
For as long as I can remember, I have always been fascinated by anything made with leather.
As a young child living on a ranch in West Texas, I was completely captivated by the tack room. The saddles hung from the rafters in that dimly lit shed like they were rebel outlaws that had met their ends on a hangman's noose. These saddles hung on pieces of rope that had a small loop tied on the end. The rope was run through the gullet of the saddle and then the loop went over the saddle horn. The saddles lined up in rows under each rafter but they swung and swayed as you walked among them as if the life that they had once known had not quite left their bodies. The walls had lines of tin cans that were screwed in through the bottom of the can. Bridles were hung on these protruding cans. I imagined that the bridles were soldiers that stood vigil over the macabre saddle tomb.
I loved the smell, a combination of neatsfoot oil and equine sweat. I loved the feel and I loved the romance of that tack room. I remember wishing that the saddles could tell me all their stories.
My uncle and his father before him worked for the Swenson's SMS ranch before they ranched on their own. Their "home place' was west of Stamford on the way to the famed 'King Mountain" Division of the Swenson outfit. The "Home Place" tack room also had a lot of old harness hanging in it, My cousin told me that they used draft horses and mules on that place until WWII. Most likely that harness hung there in that tack room until it dry rotted and turned to dust. I could only imagine what it was like to shoe those big draft horses and break them to pull a plow.
The Swenson SMS ranch was a traditional outfit until it was broken up and sold by the heirs in the early 80s. They ran a wagon and they drug calves to the fire to mark them. That part of Texas produced a lot of good hands and I somehow knew that the saddles hanging there in that tack room had seen a lot of hard days horse back. If they could have talked they would have told me stories of weather heartbreaks, and painful bone breaks. Nothing smells as good as a new saddle but it has no soul, no experience. No inanimate object could know more about a cowboy's victories and disappointments than his saddle. Each and every mark in the saddle had a story to tell. If only they could speak.
Before the screw worm was eradicated, it was an unbelievable scourge for the ranching economy. A cut or scrape on any animal would soon be infested with the screw worm maggots and proper healing of the wound would become almost impossible. The problem was widespread throughout the brush covered cattle country of the Southwest. The cattle, sheep, goats and horses in this area had to be roped and doctored for every scratch or scrape they might encounter. Saddles got a lot of use during that time and my uncle used to say that the screw worm made more good horses and cowboys during that era than were ever made before or since. Every horse during that time was ridden through stock and roped off of daily, every one of them. Every saddle had a purple stain on it somewhere from carrying the worm medicine in a bag tied to the saddle strings.
Both my uncle and my father-in law smoked while they worked horseback. My uncle could roll a cigarette in one hand and hold bridle reins in the other. Both men had a burned spot on their saddles on the off side by the cantle. They put their butts out there and made sure that they never let a visible glowing ember from a cigarette hit the ground where it might start a fire.
Those old saddles hanging in that shed were al lot like the cowboys that rode in them. They were marked with experience, every wreck a visible scar.
As a young child living on a ranch in West Texas, I was completely captivated by the tack room. The saddles hung from the rafters in that dimly lit shed like they were rebel outlaws that had met their ends on a hangman's noose. These saddles hung on pieces of rope that had a small loop tied on the end. The rope was run through the gullet of the saddle and then the loop went over the saddle horn. The saddles lined up in rows under each rafter but they swung and swayed as you walked among them as if the life that they had once known had not quite left their bodies. The walls had lines of tin cans that were screwed in through the bottom of the can. Bridles were hung on these protruding cans. I imagined that the bridles were soldiers that stood vigil over the macabre saddle tomb.
I loved the smell, a combination of neatsfoot oil and equine sweat. I loved the feel and I loved the romance of that tack room. I remember wishing that the saddles could tell me all their stories.
My uncle and his father before him worked for the Swenson's SMS ranch before they ranched on their own. Their "home place' was west of Stamford on the way to the famed 'King Mountain" Division of the Swenson outfit. The "Home Place" tack room also had a lot of old harness hanging in it, My cousin told me that they used draft horses and mules on that place until WWII. Most likely that harness hung there in that tack room until it dry rotted and turned to dust. I could only imagine what it was like to shoe those big draft horses and break them to pull a plow.
The Swenson SMS ranch was a traditional outfit until it was broken up and sold by the heirs in the early 80s. They ran a wagon and they drug calves to the fire to mark them. That part of Texas produced a lot of good hands and I somehow knew that the saddles hanging there in that tack room had seen a lot of hard days horse back. If they could have talked they would have told me stories of weather heartbreaks, and painful bone breaks. Nothing smells as good as a new saddle but it has no soul, no experience. No inanimate object could know more about a cowboy's victories and disappointments than his saddle. Each and every mark in the saddle had a story to tell. If only they could speak.
Before the screw worm was eradicated, it was an unbelievable scourge for the ranching economy. A cut or scrape on any animal would soon be infested with the screw worm maggots and proper healing of the wound would become almost impossible. The problem was widespread throughout the brush covered cattle country of the Southwest. The cattle, sheep, goats and horses in this area had to be roped and doctored for every scratch or scrape they might encounter. Saddles got a lot of use during that time and my uncle used to say that the screw worm made more good horses and cowboys during that era than were ever made before or since. Every horse during that time was ridden through stock and roped off of daily, every one of them. Every saddle had a purple stain on it somewhere from carrying the worm medicine in a bag tied to the saddle strings.
Both my uncle and my father-in law smoked while they worked horseback. My uncle could roll a cigarette in one hand and hold bridle reins in the other. Both men had a burned spot on their saddles on the off side by the cantle. They put their butts out there and made sure that they never let a visible glowing ember from a cigarette hit the ground where it might start a fire.
Those old saddles hanging in that shed were al lot like the cowboys that rode in them. They were marked with experience, every wreck a visible scar.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Pharmaceutical Vengeance
I went to college with a sociopath. I had no idea what the word meant until years later, but there is no doubt in my mind that this would be the professional diagnosis.
Kav was from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the son of a mafia lawyer and the grandson of one of the Louisiana State Troopers that served as a personal body guard to Huey P. Long. He was about five foot five inches tall and built like a roman gladiator. He was a body builder, and his obsession with the food he ate was an interesting irony considering he smoked dope, drank whiskey and injected himself with anabolic steroids that he purchased from a crooked veterinarian. In the three years that I lived on the same dorm wing with him, I never saw him do anything but act. He didn't have an ounce of sincerity in that behemoth muscle clad body. If Kav had a scruple of any kind, I never saw any manifestation of it.
At a place like Oral Roberts University, Kav was a wolf living in a sheep filled sea of naivety. I was on to him the instant I met him. I was as amazed by the number of my peers that were taken in by him as I was by the shear boldness and arrogance of his method. This was the proverbial "steal your hat and then help you look for it " character. He bragged about charging his buddies $20 to let them hide in his younger sister's closet so they could watch her undress. I have to say that I am disgusted by the fact that I write of it here, but you must get a full picture of this human maggot lest you feel some pity for him as I tell you the point of this story.
Now why would a person like this go to a place like Oral Roberts University? Three years of tuition at LSU and only six credits, all of them P.E credits. Kav's dad wanted him to go to LSU law school, but with no progress academically, he searched out the place where he thought Kav would be isolated from all the temptations. NOT!!
My senior year, Kav roomed with a close friend of mine (Wood) because of a last minute change in housing policy. Kav was excited by the potential legitimacy he would gain from his newfound association with Wood. On the other hand, Wood was fully aware of Kav's full time manifestation of almost every neuroses described in the "Abnormal Psychology" textbook. Wood gave Kav this one stern warning before he moved in, "you may lie, cheat and steal from everyone around here, but if you do it to me, I will never say a thing to you, just know that I will make you miserable beyond your wildest imagination. You will never know that I am behind it". Kav responded with, "Um Bro, I can't believe your coming at me with this super negative vibe, Dude I'm your roomie, I'll always have your back".
Obviously it was only a matter of time before Kav transgressed in the eyes of his room mate, We both knew he would, Kav knew it too, he just couldn't help himself. It was not in him to even try otherwise.
Wood was a few years older than the rest of us and we considered him a "retread" since he had already earned a degree from some small school in Arkansas. He was now a pre-med major, his goal was to attend medical school. It was Wood's more than casual interest in pharmacology that resulted in Kav's "payback of misery".
In that Kav ingested about 25 different vitamin pills each day, he was the perfect mark for what Wood had planned. Kav kept his vitamins in the kind of daily pill box used by senior citizens to keep their daily medications straight. This thing was as big as any tackle box a pro bass fisherman would carry. One of Kav's daily supplements was desiccated liver, which Wood replaced with a prescription laxative. So here is Kav, working out twice a day, taking this prescription laxative twice a day and eating like a field hand every chance he could.
So I run into Kav early one morning three days after Wood introduced his new drug protocol and he looks a little drawn. Kav looks at me and says, " Dude, I'm coming undone from the inside out. I have the runs so bad and my ass is so sore now, I'm just kinda dabbing back there." In that I was a little worried about the dehydration possibility, I cornered Wood the next day and asked him to ease up on the medication lest he do some real harm to Kav. Wood simply stated, "I guess it is time to change the prescription". I ran into Kav a couple of days later and asked how he was doing and he said that whatever the bug was that had plagued him for a week, it was gone now and he felt good. Unbeknownst to me, Wood had substituted another of Kav's supplements with a prescription drug that is normally prescribed for people suffering from Montazuma's Revenge, In this case it was "Wood's Revenge". The drug was Lomotil. It puts your bowels to sleep.
So here is Kav, working out 6 hours a day, taking two lomotil a day and eating like a field hand. Four days later I see Kav in the community rest room and he looks like a classic equine colic case. He has sweat pouring off of his face and he looks at me and says, " I think I am about to explode, I need to take a dump and I can't. Its like my my insides have quit working. One week I can't stop, the next week I can't start. I guess I got a bad batch of roids from the horse doctor." I went straight to Wood and asked him to ease up on Kav before he really messed him up.
His only words were "vengeance is mine sayeth the Wood"
Kav was from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the son of a mafia lawyer and the grandson of one of the Louisiana State Troopers that served as a personal body guard to Huey P. Long. He was about five foot five inches tall and built like a roman gladiator. He was a body builder, and his obsession with the food he ate was an interesting irony considering he smoked dope, drank whiskey and injected himself with anabolic steroids that he purchased from a crooked veterinarian. In the three years that I lived on the same dorm wing with him, I never saw him do anything but act. He didn't have an ounce of sincerity in that behemoth muscle clad body. If Kav had a scruple of any kind, I never saw any manifestation of it.
At a place like Oral Roberts University, Kav was a wolf living in a sheep filled sea of naivety. I was on to him the instant I met him. I was as amazed by the number of my peers that were taken in by him as I was by the shear boldness and arrogance of his method. This was the proverbial "steal your hat and then help you look for it " character. He bragged about charging his buddies $20 to let them hide in his younger sister's closet so they could watch her undress. I have to say that I am disgusted by the fact that I write of it here, but you must get a full picture of this human maggot lest you feel some pity for him as I tell you the point of this story.
Now why would a person like this go to a place like Oral Roberts University? Three years of tuition at LSU and only six credits, all of them P.E credits. Kav's dad wanted him to go to LSU law school, but with no progress academically, he searched out the place where he thought Kav would be isolated from all the temptations. NOT!!
My senior year, Kav roomed with a close friend of mine (Wood) because of a last minute change in housing policy. Kav was excited by the potential legitimacy he would gain from his newfound association with Wood. On the other hand, Wood was fully aware of Kav's full time manifestation of almost every neuroses described in the "Abnormal Psychology" textbook. Wood gave Kav this one stern warning before he moved in, "you may lie, cheat and steal from everyone around here, but if you do it to me, I will never say a thing to you, just know that I will make you miserable beyond your wildest imagination. You will never know that I am behind it". Kav responded with, "Um Bro, I can't believe your coming at me with this super negative vibe, Dude I'm your roomie, I'll always have your back".
Obviously it was only a matter of time before Kav transgressed in the eyes of his room mate, We both knew he would, Kav knew it too, he just couldn't help himself. It was not in him to even try otherwise.
Wood was a few years older than the rest of us and we considered him a "retread" since he had already earned a degree from some small school in Arkansas. He was now a pre-med major, his goal was to attend medical school. It was Wood's more than casual interest in pharmacology that resulted in Kav's "payback of misery".
In that Kav ingested about 25 different vitamin pills each day, he was the perfect mark for what Wood had planned. Kav kept his vitamins in the kind of daily pill box used by senior citizens to keep their daily medications straight. This thing was as big as any tackle box a pro bass fisherman would carry. One of Kav's daily supplements was desiccated liver, which Wood replaced with a prescription laxative. So here is Kav, working out twice a day, taking this prescription laxative twice a day and eating like a field hand every chance he could.
So I run into Kav early one morning three days after Wood introduced his new drug protocol and he looks a little drawn. Kav looks at me and says, " Dude, I'm coming undone from the inside out. I have the runs so bad and my ass is so sore now, I'm just kinda dabbing back there." In that I was a little worried about the dehydration possibility, I cornered Wood the next day and asked him to ease up on the medication lest he do some real harm to Kav. Wood simply stated, "I guess it is time to change the prescription". I ran into Kav a couple of days later and asked how he was doing and he said that whatever the bug was that had plagued him for a week, it was gone now and he felt good. Unbeknownst to me, Wood had substituted another of Kav's supplements with a prescription drug that is normally prescribed for people suffering from Montazuma's Revenge, In this case it was "Wood's Revenge". The drug was Lomotil. It puts your bowels to sleep.
So here is Kav, working out 6 hours a day, taking two lomotil a day and eating like a field hand. Four days later I see Kav in the community rest room and he looks like a classic equine colic case. He has sweat pouring off of his face and he looks at me and says, " I think I am about to explode, I need to take a dump and I can't. Its like my my insides have quit working. One week I can't stop, the next week I can't start. I guess I got a bad batch of roids from the horse doctor." I went straight to Wood and asked him to ease up on Kav before he really messed him up.
His only words were "vengeance is mine sayeth the Wood"
Marcelle
Words are like brush strokes on a canvas, they render a poor representation of who she was and how she effected my life.
I remember the first time I saw her; it wasn’t like she was a striking beauty, not the soda pop sweet cute looks that catch a teenage boy’s eye. She was a little matronly for eighteen. Her broad inviting smile still drew me in. She was prone to talking louder when she got excited and she had a goofy laugh. Coal black hair and olive toned skin betrayed her Cajun breeding. The eldest of what I think was near a dozen younger siblings, she was hell bent on becoming a nurse. She already knew how to take care of people, and maybe I needed a little taking care of. We went out a couple of times during our freshman year, but we knew quickly friendship not romance would connect us. I appreciated her sense of family and I asked her to tell me about them all the time. She loved her family and many times over the four years that we were in school together, I could see the pangs of homesickness come over her. She had a lot to miss.
Marcelle Maria Marmande was her name, and the alliteration of saying it was a preamble to the uniqueness of her personality. I quickly recognized that Marcelle was beyond normal superficial dorm life relationships. Mature, practical and responsible Marcelle, her friends often joked that she looked and acted like she had just dropped kids off at baseball practice or a cub scout meeting. At first I thought she was a little naive, but her personality like a good gumbo was a combination of South Louisiana sensibility, catholic school manners, evangelical theology and Republican politics. She always appreciated that I knew how to cook and clean and do laundry. I’m pretty sure she had done her share. I think that helping her mother with all those younger siblings was the reason she was so careful and always planned ahead. By the time we reached our senior year, Marcelle was beginning to venture out. The maturity of the young men she encountered in her work at the hospital caught up with the woman she already was. She bloomed with the opportunity to create an identity beyond being the big sister.
I liked to get up early to eat breakfast at the university dining hall because it was the only edible meal that they served and I got more work done in the early morning hours than I could at night. During our senior year, Marcelle had to be at the hospital early in the morning so we ate breakfast together often. She would give me all of the details of her brothers’ most recent misadventures. She described a life in Houma that was certainly unique to me. She beamed as she described massive family gatherings for holidays, birthdays and weddings. It all had a harmonic ring to it, a coon ass version of a Norman Rockwell painting.
We managed to introduce our families at a dinner the night before graduation. I was set back by the depth of her mother’s beauty. She was a doctor’s wife, nurse, mother of a large family, and you couldn’t see it in her face. I don’t recall the color of her eyes, but they cut right through you, like she could see what was wrong with you, and go right in and fix it. Grace, confidence, surety of purpose, it all came through those eyes. She was striking and yet familiar at the same time, and now I realize that Marcelle had the same tools, she was just not yet as accomplished in their use.
Marcelle and I had our picture made together after the Graduation ceremony and that is the last time I saw her. We talked several times on the phone during the next year and we made plans to get together with our mutual friends. It never happened. I always knew that she had all the skills she would need to forge a successful life, marriage and family. She never got the chance.
Marcelle and her mother were killed on a July 4 weekend by a drunk driver while on their way home from a family outing at their camp south of Houma. I was too broke to attend the funeral; I will always regret that I did not get to share my memories of Marcelle with them.
I have missed her at every big event in my life since that day. She would have loved to meet the love of my life, hear about my kids and tell me about hers. I really miss that smile.
I have struggled twenty plus years to pen a fitting tribute to her; I always wanted her family to know that they were not alone in missing her. I'm thinking that if someone misses you, you are not really gone.
I remember the first time I saw her; it wasn’t like she was a striking beauty, not the soda pop sweet cute looks that catch a teenage boy’s eye. She was a little matronly for eighteen. Her broad inviting smile still drew me in. She was prone to talking louder when she got excited and she had a goofy laugh. Coal black hair and olive toned skin betrayed her Cajun breeding. The eldest of what I think was near a dozen younger siblings, she was hell bent on becoming a nurse. She already knew how to take care of people, and maybe I needed a little taking care of. We went out a couple of times during our freshman year, but we knew quickly friendship not romance would connect us. I appreciated her sense of family and I asked her to tell me about them all the time. She loved her family and many times over the four years that we were in school together, I could see the pangs of homesickness come over her. She had a lot to miss.
Marcelle Maria Marmande was her name, and the alliteration of saying it was a preamble to the uniqueness of her personality. I quickly recognized that Marcelle was beyond normal superficial dorm life relationships. Mature, practical and responsible Marcelle, her friends often joked that she looked and acted like she had just dropped kids off at baseball practice or a cub scout meeting. At first I thought she was a little naive, but her personality like a good gumbo was a combination of South Louisiana sensibility, catholic school manners, evangelical theology and Republican politics. She always appreciated that I knew how to cook and clean and do laundry. I’m pretty sure she had done her share. I think that helping her mother with all those younger siblings was the reason she was so careful and always planned ahead. By the time we reached our senior year, Marcelle was beginning to venture out. The maturity of the young men she encountered in her work at the hospital caught up with the woman she already was. She bloomed with the opportunity to create an identity beyond being the big sister.
I liked to get up early to eat breakfast at the university dining hall because it was the only edible meal that they served and I got more work done in the early morning hours than I could at night. During our senior year, Marcelle had to be at the hospital early in the morning so we ate breakfast together often. She would give me all of the details of her brothers’ most recent misadventures. She described a life in Houma that was certainly unique to me. She beamed as she described massive family gatherings for holidays, birthdays and weddings. It all had a harmonic ring to it, a coon ass version of a Norman Rockwell painting.
We managed to introduce our families at a dinner the night before graduation. I was set back by the depth of her mother’s beauty. She was a doctor’s wife, nurse, mother of a large family, and you couldn’t see it in her face. I don’t recall the color of her eyes, but they cut right through you, like she could see what was wrong with you, and go right in and fix it. Grace, confidence, surety of purpose, it all came through those eyes. She was striking and yet familiar at the same time, and now I realize that Marcelle had the same tools, she was just not yet as accomplished in their use.
Marcelle and I had our picture made together after the Graduation ceremony and that is the last time I saw her. We talked several times on the phone during the next year and we made plans to get together with our mutual friends. It never happened. I always knew that she had all the skills she would need to forge a successful life, marriage and family. She never got the chance.
Marcelle and her mother were killed on a July 4 weekend by a drunk driver while on their way home from a family outing at their camp south of Houma. I was too broke to attend the funeral; I will always regret that I did not get to share my memories of Marcelle with them.
I have missed her at every big event in my life since that day. She would have loved to meet the love of my life, hear about my kids and tell me about hers. I really miss that smile.
I have struggled twenty plus years to pen a fitting tribute to her; I always wanted her family to know that they were not alone in missing her. I'm thinking that if someone misses you, you are not really gone.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Bridle Rain, Why I Ride
I come from a long line of horseman, some were ranchers, some were cavalrymen. I was lucky to have spent some early childhood days stuffed between my uncle's lap and a saddle horn. I think my young mind was so empty that the neurological inputs from sitting up there in front of my uncle went straight into the area of my brain where all the defaults are stored.
I spent a good bit of my life away from horses, but they always made sense to me. I realized that when I began to ride again, much of my intuition about horses and communicating with them was exactly what today's modern equestrian clinicians were teaching. If this was taught to me I do not remember it. The validation that comes from having your basal instincts confirmed and endorsed is incredible.
I had a close friend in college that used to say that you have to go sleep outside in the cold every once in a while to remind yourself that you are alive. I never did that, but I baptized myself one day by laying down in a park in the middle of a rain storm and letting the rain fall on me. The steady percussion of raindrops and the water completely soaking my skin woke me up. I realized that I was not really alive unless I let my guard down and became a participant in the world whirling around my wet body. When I take a risk and survive, I am energized.
The great thing about horses is that everything about training them must be honest. You can not talk them into something, you can not trick them and you cannot dominate them. No shortcuts and no fool proof method.
Every horseman dreams of having a mount that can sense what he is thinking, assess the situation and act and react in concert with the rider. In the search for that kind of relationship with an animal, the horseman becomes a sculptor of muscle, hide and bone. The problem is the horse and rider age and change every day, the artwork is never finished and is always in pursuit of the unattainable. In the end, the failure to complete becomes the most interesting element of the work.
The effort reconciles the art to the reality of my life.
An Introduction to My Blog
Tierra Santa is spanish for Sacred Ground.
Tierra Santa is the place where the products of passion, vision and hard work, tear drops, sweat and blood, fall and mingle with the dirt.
I am a Husband, a Father, a Brother, a Son, a Friend, a Horseman, a Coach, a Writer and a Philosopher.
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