Where do we go from here...

It's 10:30 pm on Christmas night and I'm sitting upstairs, alone with my thoughts.  Miss Elizabeth has gone downstairs for a well deserved bath and bed as she is exhausted from the events of the past few weeks.  Not from the anticipation of the arrival of our family for the holidays, and not from the hustle and bustle of shopping, wrapping presents, and decorating the house.  No, this year the Holiday preparation has taken a backseat to more pressing needs.

When the parents' health begins to fail it changes everything, and it hits especially hard around the Holidays.

Everywhere you look there is joy and laughter, children anxiously anticipating Christmas morning, and all that goes with this festive time of the year.  But, when your own heart is laden with sadness, the festivities seem to ring hollow.

This year the concerns for Elizabeth and her sister, Donna, have been with her parents, both elderly, and both with the difficulties that often come with advancing years.  They are still in their own home, but recent events have impacted their ability to do the basic things needed to continue living there without assistance. The two daughters are both nurses and well qualified to deal with the medical decisions that are necessary, but they are also both daughters....who love their parents.  Where do we go from here?

Tough decisions await, and I've been there before. 

My mom passed away earlier this year after a long bout with Alzheimer's.....it was heartbreaking.

I've known my in-laws for nearly 45 years and they're like a second set of parents to me.  Selfishly, I don't want to go through this experience again, but I know God is in control and will guide us through what is to come.  On this day when we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, I pray to him for the strength to be there for Elizabeth and Donna.

The greatest pain one can experience is the pain of a loved one.

A sickness or a passion...you decide.

About twelve years ago I bought a 1969 Camaro for a Father/Son restoration project.  It was something my oldest son and I thought would be fun, and we dived right in.  Soon parts were strewn around the garage, old parts replaced with new parts, lots of modifications to the engine and drive train, and of course lots of canceled checks.

The car has been an on-again, off-again project for many years, with my son finally taking the reins to get it finished. And, now after three engines, completely new sheet metal, new paint, and new interior, it is nearing completion as a "brand new" 1969 Camaro.

But as they say, this wasn't my first rodeo, and I've owned many cars over the years. Just the other day I was talking to a friend about our first cars, and he asked me how many vehicles I had owned in my lifetime.....Don't know, never really thought about it.

Let's see if I can remember them all.

The first car I bought at age fifteen in 1967 was a 1957 Chevy Belair, and that's where the madness started.

1963 Chevy Impala SS 409CI, 4-Speed; 1964 Chevy Chevelle SS; 1967 Olds Cutlass Supreme; 1968 Triumph 650 Bonneville Motorcycle; 1971 Yamaha 250MX Motorcycle (yes, motorcycles count); 1972 Pontiac Ventura II; 1974 VW Super Beetle (first new car and first gas shortage); 1977 Chevy Scottsdale PU; 1978 Buick Regal Sport Turbo; 1967 Chevy Custom PU; 1981 Ford 4WD PU; 1982 Camaro Berlinetta; 1984 Buick Riviera; 1985 Jeep Cherokee; 1990 Nissan Maxima; 1992 Nissan Sentra SER; 1993 GMC 4WD PU; 1997 Toyota 4-Runner; 1969 Camaro; 2003 GMC 2500HD 4WD PU; 2007 GMC 4WDYukon; 2008 Polaris Ranger; and a 2008 Toyota FJ Cruiser!

Of course there were a few others during the time the boys started driving, a 1995 Jeep Wrangler, 1999 Mustang, then a replacement 1999 Mustang for the one that was wrecked.....all with my name on the title, but without my butt in the drivers seat.

As I look back at the list, each car or motorcycle elicits a memory about a different time or place in my life. The vehicles each had unique personality traits and quirks....and I suppose I do as well.  But, as I'm approaching the age of sixty, I think I've just about outgrown my passion for cars and motorcycles, but then again....I've had my eye on this really cool Porsche car.....you know like the Jerry Lee Lewis song Middle Age Crazy.

It may be a tough acquisition though as Miss Elizabeth has emphatically told me NO, something about it not being good on the gravel roads at the ranch.....but what does SHE know.

Integrity....it's a choice.

Tomorrow I will be attending an event where I will be introduced to a leadership program entitled Character First.  The program purports to teach companies, government organizations, non-profits, and even families how to introduce a "culture of integrity" to transform the decision making process.  Really!

I should probably wait until I've learned more about the program before commenting or making judgment regarding the content, however, one thing has me perplexed.  It's not that I don't wholeheartedly agree with trying to accomplish this feat.  In fact I think introducing the "culture of integrity" is a wonderful undertaking, and every business should operate with absolute integrity.

No, what has me perplexed is that any company, government organization, non-profit, or family should need to be taught such a basic tenet of life. 

Shouldn't integrity already be at the very heart and soul of every person, company, or family?  Shouldn't every decision we make already be based on whether or not it's morally and ethically correct?  And finally, if a person is not already living a life that's based on honesty, integrity, and trust can these traits be taught?  Most of us were introduced to these concepts at a very early age, and somewhere along the way made a conscious decision to either adopt them as our core values.....or not!

Successful businesses are built on relationships, and you cannot have strong relationships with your employees, your customers, your suppliers, or yes, even those who regulate your industry if they cannot have complete confidence that your word is as good as gold.  In other words, that you are a person of integrity, and your business operates in a manner that is beyond reproach.

It disturbs me greatly that in today's business environment we need to actually have a program teaching values that all of us should have acquired in kindergarten.....but as always, what do I know?

Simple pleasures...

Let's start with the premise that I see myself as a simple man.  It may or may not be true, but that's how I see it.  I enjoy the things that nature provides, like the playfulness of our two puppies, the mist rising above the pond on a frosty autumn morning, or when my horse nuzzles my jacket pocket looking for the apple wafer she usually finds hiding there.

I like coming inside with the aroma of chili or beef stew to welcome me home.  A fire crackling in the fireplace invites me to simply sit in the easy chair and let the stress of the day melt away. 

These simple pleasures bring joy to my life.

Relationships are also an important part of who I am, personal relationships, business relationships, lifelong friends, new found friends, and family.  Throughout my life it's those relationships that have nurtured and sustained me during the down times, helped me celebrate the good times, encouraged me to be the best I could be, and made me the person I am today....good or bad.

Valuable lessons were imparted not only by my parents, but also by teachers, coaches, bosses, subordinates, children, and of course Miss Elizabeth who has accompanied me on this journey for most of my life.  We met at age twelve, introduced by a mutual friend at the little league ball park, and have been together ever since.  Sometimes, there's just no reason to keep searching for the person who makes you whole, and she does that in every way.

Every now and then something happens that gives you pause and reminds you of just how fragile life is. Maybe it's the loss of a friend or family member, or maybe it's just a close call that gets you to thinking.

What if?

It's always been difficult for me to put into words how deeply I care for the people who are important in my life, so I rarely express those feelings.  Instead, I try every day to show it by my actions, even though I know that's not enough.

As we move toward Christmas and the anticipation of the New Year perhaps I can overcome that personal shortcoming.  No guarantee, but this year I'm going to strive to be a better husband, father, brother, and friend. Wish me luck on the journey......I think I'll need it.

The scent of money.....sorry Bambi.

In a couple of days this part of Kansas will be inundated with deer hunters from all over the country.  Southeast Kansas has become nationally known for its trophy deer population and hunters from far and wide will gather to test their skill, and luck, in taking home that perfect buck.  Not so good for the deer, but a real economic boon for my neighboring farmers and ranchers.

For years Chautauqua County has ranked near the bottom of the list when ranking the prosperity of the 105 counties in Kansas.  We have very little in the way of industry or other major employment possibilities.  Most of the 3000+ population survive by being entrepreneurs, and working a variety of jobs while striving to maintain a quality life in a beautiful area of rural Kansas.

The abundant deer population used to be nothing more than a nuisance to the farmers, then voila, supply met demand and a new industry was born.  For many years this resource was overlooked as a viable business opportunity, as landowners simply granted permission for folks to hunt on their land....no charge. Now it's a thriving segment of our rural economy and brings in a significant number of dollars.

Already this week I've visited with hunters from Arkansas, Delaware, South Carolina and Florida.  All of them require lodging, food, equipment, and places to hunt.  These are outside dollars being spent with our local merchants, landowners, and outfitters.  Some people have coined the word "agri-tourism" to describe  these new income producing opportunities, but it's basically entrepreneurs doing what entrepreneurs do, providing customers with what they want.

So what about the deer?  How do they feel about this whole "agri-tourism" idea?  I'm guessing they never had the opportunity to voice their opinion, and I suspect most would not have concurred.  I've seen a few majestic bucks this year, and I can only offer this advice......Run Bambi run...

Is this really Christmas??

Well, it's the day after Thanksgiving and it's the day the retail marketers, big box stores, and shopping experts have all decided is the day that all of America should be excited to join in the madness known as Black Friday.  Talk about a bunch of malarkey.....Who decided that this makes any sense at all, much less the way we should begin to celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ?

I can certainly understand it from the retailers' point of view.  They are in business to make money, and this shopping mania that has been artificially created helps to accomplish that goal.  For me, however, I absolutely refuse to participate.  Yes, the bargains are available, but so what?  You know, the best gift you can possibly give a person is not that item you rushed out to purchase at 4:30am on Friday morning, it's your love, your time, and your thoughtfulness throughout the year that really matters.

Don't get me wrong, I think we all should celebrate the Christmas Season and exchange gifts with our loved ones.  It's a tradition that can, and does, bring much joy to our lives.  There's nothing like seeing a child's eyes light up with excitement as they open that special gift. But, I've also seen the true tears of appreciation of someone opening that unexpected hand-knitted scarf that a friend made just for them.  Somehow we need to remove some of the crass commercialism that has invaded the very heart of the Holiday, and replace it with more of the Holy Spirit.

Living in a very rural part of the country, I can easily avoid the hordes of shoppers who flock like lemmings to the stores in the city.  It's much easier for me to shop in some of the local shops for unique gift ideas, and that's exactly what I intend to do.

My old arthritic hands could not begin to hand-knit a scarf, but perhaps I can take the kids out for a very special walk on Christmas night where we can look up at the clear skies, point to the brightest star we see, and tell the true story of Christmas.....something that seems to have fallen from grace in today's society. 

Sometimes it seems like this old cowboy is out of step with the rest of the world, but you know what?  I kinda like it that way.....but, what the heck do I know anyway.

It's all about trust...

I've been a jock just about as long as I can remember....at least I was until I got too old to perform anything even remotely close to athletic activity.  Since then, I've become more adept at appreciating the feats of the superb athletes on the tube.

There was a time, however, when I was in the fourth grade and a teacher called me aside during recess and said "Jack, you know you're really fast." and suggested that I run in the all city track meet. I did, and won a bright blue ribbon. How cool is this I thought to myself, and a new passion was born.  From that time forward I was proud to be known as a "jock".

What started as simply running fast turned into playing football, basketball, track and baseball.....looking back I have to think, how crazy was that?  Crazy yes, but great fun.

Last week, I was visiting with an old friend with whom I had shared high school exploits on the football field, and who I have known since the fourth grade.  In fact, my dad was our football coach when we first started to play.  Larry and I ended up playing on the same football teams from the fourth grade until our freshman year of college. 

We were, and still are very close....I was a running back and he was the fullback who cleared the way for my runs.  That forges a very special relationship, one of absolute trust and appreciation on my part, and for the fullback, the pride of knowing that without his key block, the touchdown never happens.  We had played together so long that he knew exactly when I was going to cut, and I knew exactly when he was going to throw the block.  I used to lay my hand on his back, knowing that he would sense it and take care of that inside linebacker who wanted nothing more than to take my head off.  He rarely missed the block.

For all of you out there who can't understand why "old jocks" seem to never tire of reliving old games, and never tire of seeing their old teammates, try to think of it in terms of a relationship that has endured the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Once you've given someone your absolute trust, and they have accepted the responsibility, the bond is hard to break.

Being a "jock" teaches a lot about responsibility, trust, teamwork, winning, losing, sportsmanship....and life. Some people look down on the "jocks" of the world, but some of the finest people I know wear that label, and one of them is my old fullback.  Many thanks Larry. 

It's more than winning games...

In 1969 I was a freshman in college and playing football for a not so very good team at our local college. Sometimes a coach can put all the pieces together and a team will meld into one that will over-achieve, winning games they shouldn't win and baffling all of the so-called experts.  And, while we had our share of small successes, we were most certainly not an over-achieving team!

Our coach was dealing with some "off the field" legal issues that came to light much later, and all of us were aware that for some reason he had lost interest in a team that was struggling.  Regardless of our dismal season my teammates were a great bunch of guys, and there was no quitting in any of them. If anything, the adversity helped to unite us both on and off the field.

After a particularly disappointing loss about midway through the season, we had to endure the dreaded film review where every play was dissected and discussed.  Run it forward at regular speed, rewind it to look at it again in slo-mo, then pick it apart piece by piece, player by player.....a really thick skin helped to endure the painful process, but typically there was no place to hide.

On this late October evening three of us were gathered outside the building, sitting on a wall and licking our wounds after a scathing review of our inept play, when we heard a scream from across the street. A real scream, from someone in trouble. 

Now remember, we were in a small Kansas town at a time when this would have been a very rare occurrence. In fact, I'm not sure I had ever heard a real scream, and it took all of us a couple of seconds to react.  We saw someone running away and someone lying on the sidewalk.

Suddenly all of the aches and pains disappeared, the sting of our coaches' sharp words were forgotten, and we became that well-oiled machine that we rarely experienced on the football field.  We were off the retaining wall in a flash, making decisions and shouting directions as we ran, "Tommy, you check on her!  Bill and I will go get him...."

All we had seen was a young man in a red jacket running down the alley, but there was never any doubt that we would catch him.....We didn't.  He was gone.  Disappeared somewhere into the dark recesses of the edge of downtown.  Lucky for him, for I feel that a lot of pent up frustrations would have found there way to the surface that night.

We finally gave up the chase and trotted back to where our teammate Tommy was still trying to comfort the elderly lady, who was now sitting on the sidewalk, unhurt but minus her purse and her dignity. Other than a few scrapes she was fine, and very thankful for our efforts.

For the first time in a long time we felt good about ourselves.

The local newspaper did a nice article about the football players who came to the rescue of the victim and  tried to chase down the culprit. 

For a little while, we were more than just teammates on a losing football team, we were a few guys trying to do the right thing.  I've forgotten most of the details about that football season, but I still have a warm feeling when I think about helping someone who was in trouble.....I think it showed the true character of the players on that team, but what do I know.

Mardi Gras, the rest of the story!

Okay, so maybe I wasn't entirely forthright when writing one of my previous blogs.  It has been brought to my attention that I left out some of the more "relevant details" of the infamous Mardi Gras road trip.  People who know the entire story, but who shall remain nameless, have threatened to suspend my literary license unless I come clean and inform my readers of "the rest of the story".

Let's pick it up where five very tired and somewhat cranky young men from Kansas are approaching the outskirts of the Big Easy.  It's late afternoon, we're all sober, unbathed, unshaven, unfed, and really tired of each others company after fifteen hours in the car.  We have very little money except for our ringleader who wisely thought to "borrow" his daddy's credit card.

Someone finally said "Let's find a motel and grab a shower before we hit Bourbon Street".  "That sounds like an excellent idea, 'cause the smell in this car is making my hair curl....Hey, there's a Howard Johnson right over there on the left" came directions shouted from the back seat.  I'm driving and cut across two lanes of traffic to make the turn.....Oh crap, four lanes of traffic with all the cars going the same way.....except me!  Horns blasting, tires screeching, and we make an "emergency exit" into a service station on the right.

We regained our composure and made it to the Howard Johnson where we showered, donned our same old dirty clothes, and headed out to see the sights.  By now it's dark outside, and as we've already exhibited, our navigational skills are suspect.  But, we made our way down to Bourbon Street....hmmm lots of hot spots to explore.  Hey, these folks are serious about being twenty-one to gain entry....what's that all about!  Remember, none of us are even remotely close to being the legal age, so all we were able to do was peek through the doors, and that soon lost its appeal.

Despite all of our bravado, we were unnerved by some of the more "unkempt" gents who seemed to appear whenever we turned a corner.  Time to give it up and go home. 

We had driven about two blocks when a car pulled in front of us and blocked our way, then another blocked us from the back.  Once again, "Oh crap".  Suddenly, there were blue lights flashing from both cars and we were being ordered out of the car...not gently, I might add.  Those same "unkempt" fellows were all over us, "Up against the car!  Spread em!"  This was a first for me, and it was really scary.  Then, they started searching the car....no search warrant needed....probable cause?  Not a peep of objection from us.

Suddenly, one of them jumps out of the car and says "Okay, where's the gun?" as he waves a small leather pouch filled with .22 shells.  I think this is where we started to cry.  "Sir, we don't have a gun, I just keep those shells in the console for when we go target shooting back home."  "I don't believe you son, where's the gun?" he growled back.  Finally, after much groveling and pleading, the undercover cops began to soften up.  After all, who could make this stuff up, and before long we were all joking and laughing about our predicament.

Now, it really is time to get back to the motel for a little sleep before heading home. "We're lost aren't we?  Do you know where you're going?"  Two hours later, and a few close encounters in the more unsavory parts of New Orleans, we found our way to the good old Howard Johnson motel.

So now you know the rest of the story, or at least most of it.  There are still a few odds and ends that will always remain locked away, Especially some of the harrowing experiences on the drive home....too fast, too tired, and too young to know better.  By the Grace of God we survived to see another day.  I'm still glad we did it, but road trips are for the young at heart....aren't they?  Oh well, what the heck do I know anyway.

There are simply no words.....

I penned the following piece three years ago after learning of a friend's tragedy.  Each autumn, as I watch young people going about their lives, I often think of just how abruptly things can change, and offer a small prayer on behalf of all the Nathans in the world.


We were new to town and didn't really know anyone. A job transfer had taken us from Oklahoma to Kansas City, and we had settled in a small community a few miles south of the metropolis. It was quite an adjustment for all of us, kids trying to find their place in new schools, me trying to move the career forward, and my wife trying to cope with it all.

As with many families, especially ones with two athletic boys, we began to make new friends with those of similar interests......sports. The boys were involved with baseball, football, and basketball, so we had a lot of opportunities to interact with members of our new community. Soon I was involved with the local Athletic Association, and later served on the City Recreation Commission. We enjoyed the community and made many friends.

One of the people I came to know well, and admire for his genteel manner was a neighbor named Ron. He readily accepted us and introduced us into his circle of friends, his church, and made sure we were invited to participate in civic events. He was a gentleman in all respects, and he and his wife Connie became good friends.

I remember sitting behind them in church and chuckling as he tried to control young Nathan, a toddler with way to much energy to sit still for the required church service. We used to laugh together as I gave both of them a hard time. It was just a few years earlier that we had dealt with the same dilemma with our two youngsters, but they were older now, and that time had passed us by. I rather enjoyed the boy's antics, and was perhaps just a wee bit guilty of providing encouragement from time to time.

We moved from Spring Hill several years ago, and Nathan grew into a teenager overnight. I would stop in and visit with Ron on an occasional trip to Kansas City and we maintained a long-distance friendship. We would both ask about the families, and exchanged condolences as we both had parents pass away.

This morning I heard the word about Nathan. It was stunning news, and I still can't quite get my arms around it.

Nathan died last night.....playing in a high school football game.


"Ron, I don't have the wisdom, nor the words, to help you cope with this tragedy. I'm at a loss myself as to how to deal with it. The best I can do is tell you that you and your family are in our hearts and in our prayers. You're a family of extreme faith, and that faith will be your solace as your heart has time to heal. Take care my dear friend."

Where does it end.....

Last week I received one of those letters from my Alma mater. You know, the ones that gently suggest that since you attended this school many years ago you should feel an obligation to send them even more money. I'm sorry, but my old school is doing quite well without my donation, and I guarantee you that I can have a bigger impact on someones well being by donating elsewhere.

Just for fun I went to their website to check on the current cost of attending this prestigious university. I was astounded! The current undergraduate hourly rate is a whopping $1007 per credit hour. For a part-timer, taking 6 hours a semester that's $12,084 per year. Full time tuition is $28,060 per year.....unbelievable. How does the average young person even begin to attend this university without being buried in debt.

I've always been a numbers person, and when I made the decision to attend this school I spent many hours figuring out how to afford the tuition, which at that time was $450 a semester. I was newly married, from a family of modest means, and the only option was to work my way through. I figured that by working full-time summer jobs, and part-time jobs during the school year, I could earn enough money to pay for tuition. That was the plan, and that's what we did.

Tuition increased every year I was there, and was $600 a semester when I graduated....debt free. By working a multitude of jobs paying $2-3 per hour I was able to pay for tuition, while my wife's wages covered our modest living expenses. Today, a young person would have to make $25 per hour working the same schedule just to cover tuition.....a virtual impossibility.

Somewhere along the way we have robbed our young people of the satisfaction of working and paying there own way because of the astronomically increasing cost of a quality education. Where does it end. No one ever seems to question these constant increases, we just assume it's the norm....I think it's time for some accountability, but what do I know.

A horse with no home....

"You know guys, I've just got too many horses. I don't know what I'm going to do, this market being what it is and all, but I know I don't want to keep all of 'em through the winter."

A good friend of mine was lamenting his bad fortune to the group of us who had gathered for our monthly breakfast. We all attended the same high school years ago, and have maintained a relationship that has survived the ups and downs of life. It's not always the same group, but regardless of who's there the conversation is always lively, the laughs many, and the sentiment heartfelt. I rarely miss the opportunity to enjoy their company.

We all sat around the table, sipping our coffee, and agreed that it was indeed a predicament for him. The ones with good sense left it at that, others offering a suggestion or two that might provide him with some relief, while others poked a little fun at him for not having the foresight to avoid the problem in the first place. It seemed to me, however, that surely "we" could find a way to help him out. "Jack, you've got that ranch out there, don't you need a horse?" "No, that's the last thing I need, another animal to take care of." Of course by then the ball was rolling, and to everyone it seemed that the solution was obvious. A horse needed a home and Jack needed a horse!

"Well, it's something I'll have to think about, and of course Miss Elizabeth will have a say in this decision." Breakfast adjourned, we all went home, and I put the whole idea on the shelf, thinking it would go away.....It didn't. One thing led to another and we eventually drove out to see the horse. Now, I know nothing about horses, but this pretty little mare that needed to find a home captured our hearts. The next day she arrived at her new home, and within twenty four hours Lucky Star was "family".

Every morning I take a long walk with our young Lab. She is only 3 months old and is full of mischief and energy. To see her bounding through the tall grass, chasing butterflies and grasshoppers makes me laugh out loud some mornings. Our walk meanders through the woods, down to the pond where she usually takes a dip, and back across the pasture to the house. It lets her run off some of that youthful energy, and it helps me to get my blood circulating and the creaky joints working.

I hadn't really given this daily routine much thought before the acquisition of Lucky, so the first morning after we brought her home I got up early and headed outside. Maddie, the wonder dog was more than ready for a run, and Lucky was standing calmly in the corral despite the ruckus we were making. As I swung the gate open and started for the woods, I noticed she had her head high, ears pricked forward, watching our every move. Oh well, I would take care of her feeding regimen when I returned.

Maddie and I hadn't gone fifty yards when I heard a snort behind us. There she was, falling right in line like it was something she did everyday. I'm sure we created quite a sight to behold, me in the lead, Maddie running here and there, and Lucky tagging happily along in the rear. I would have liked to have had a picture of the spectacle, but perhaps it's better that everyone just conjures up their own image of a great autumn morning walk with a man, his dog, and his horse.

After hearing this story, a friend of mine suggested to me that horses are made for riding. He's right of course, but I rather enjoyed the walk. Proving once again, what do I know?

"You ever been to Mardi Gras"

There's a not so old movie entitled "Road trip" which I've seen advertised from time to time. We don't get out to see many movies, and I can add this one to that long list of unseen cinematic marvels. From the trailer it's not something I would find particularly enticing, and Miss Elizabeth would most certainly disapprove of the content. Ah, but there was a time when the mere mention of a road trip had us ready to, as Steppenwolf would sing, "head out on the highway".

Oh yes, "lookin' for adventure" wherever we might find it. I had a very good friend when I was young. Good looking guy, great smile, and just a little bit on the wild side.

Everyone like me needs a friend like him to help "expand one's horizons". You see, I was always the level-headed one. The one who rarely got into trouble, made good grades, and the one who had convinced the parents of all my friends that I was someone to be trusted.....most of the time.

Payday at the grocery store was Thursday, and the usual ritual was to convert the check to cash, fill the car up with some 35 cent gasoline, and head over to the La Tienda for some enchiladas and beer. Back then, eighteen was the legal age, but seventeen was close enough. A few hours passed, and in pops my very good friend with another of his brilliant ideas..."Hey man, you ever been to Mardi Gras"? Now, we're all small town Kansas boys, and the answer was obvious, but we played along, "No, why"? "cause I think it would be a blast, and what else have we got planned for the weekend"? Good enough for me, and for the three others sitting at the table.

"After Midnight" was blasting on the radio as we hit the road for New Orleans at about that same time. "Does anyone know the way" someone thinks to ask. Stop at a service station, pick up a map, and plat the route...."looks like we can drive to Memphis and turn right"...good enough.

My car was a 1963 Impala SS with a 409 cubic inch engine and a 4 speed transmission....if it had wings it would fly! I'm not sure it didn't fly on occasion that night as we made our way to Memphis, where reality began to soak in. Phone calls to home, no answer at my house, nor anyone elses except for my very good friend's dad...."You're where? Headed where? With who? Let me talk to Jack"! "Yes sir, we're in Memphis, and yes sir we're headed to New Orleans." Then he says, "You got enough money? You need anything? and, Jack, you take care of those boys, you hear!"

Damn, so now I'm going to be held responsible for this lame-brained idea. Well, to make a long story short we drove on down to New Orleans to see the Mardi Gras, which just so happened to be occurring the following week!! Details, details. So, we made a pass down Bourbon Street, checked into the Howard Johnson Motel for some much needed sleep, got up the next morning and drove home.

You might say it was a big waste of time, but then again, you might not. It's become a legendary tale for the five of us, and the stories of the drive can still give me chills. Would I want my kids to do the same thing.....no way, but for all I know they maybe did.

Hello? Are you listening?

Since we've moved back to the area of my youth I find myself recalling those days with more frequency than before. It's not unusual to visit a place, see an old friend, or come across a piece of trivia that jogs the memory, with one thought leading to another and another until I become lost in the past.

Last Friday night was Homecoming at my old high school. I wasn't even aware of it until my wife was scanning through the radio stations in the car and happened upon the broadcast of the football game. We grew up in a community that was large enough to have a radio station, but still small enough for the townfolk to get excited about Friday night football. For as long as I can remember the games have been broadcast, so if you couldn't attend in person you could at least listen in on the action.

I didn't listen to many broadcasts back then, I was too busy playing the games rather than following along on the radio. A few times there were delayed broadcasts, and we would all get a hoot out of listening to the play-by-play of a game we had just finished. The one thing I do remember, however, was the professional way in which the radio announcers called the games. They were prepared. They knew the players and the opposition's players, and during the halftime break the time was spent delivering the stats and commenting about the game and the players.

Friday night we listened for an entire quarter, and didn't learn of the score until the half. The play-by-play consisted of reporting the result of the play, no names of the opposing players, no set-up of the formations, and no reason for me to stay tuned except to get the score. Well, I thought, perhaps the half-time activities would be announced along with a recap of the game, wrong again. The station cut away to air some national sports updates and scores instead. I turned it off.

I still believe that there is an aura of "local radio" that needs to be preserved. Promote your local businesses, highlight the local events, and make Friday night football broadcasts special.

My grandmother lived 60 miles away, and could pick up the games on her radio. She didn't drive, and rarely left her house. The radio was her lifeline to the outside world, and to her grandson's football exploits. I know she never saw me play, but she listened to every game on her trusty radio. One week during the halftime break the announcers sent out a "big hello" to my grandmother, and let everyone know that she made a point to listen to every game. It made her day....not national news....but great local radio.

I have to believe that even in today's world there's a grandmother or grandfather out there listening to the radio in hopes of hearing more than just the score. But as always, what do I know.

Windows down and eighty miles an hour....

Periodically I feel the need to just get away from the hustle and bustle of the daily grind. Evidently there are many people who fall into the same category, thus the advent of the "annual vacation". My wife still laments the fact that when we were younger, and our two boys were home, that we were remiss in carving out those two weeks in the summer to "hit the road". But, I was busy trying to "make it", and the boys were both involved with summer baseball. Not very good excuses, I know. We just didn't get away as often as we should have.

It's not that we didn't take vacations occasionally, we did, but they were not regular events that the whole family planned and anticipated each year. Now, I too, regret that we didn't take the time to create some lasting family memories.

When I was growing up my family rarely took vacations, so I guess it never became entrenched in my DNA. My wife's family, on the other hand, took regular vacations including a six week trek to Alaska and back - In a truck - And a camper - With 16 year old Miss Elizabeth in tow. I've heard the stories of the trip many times, but somehow I think time has mellowed the memories of a six week trip to the wilderness with a teen-age daughter and her sister.

So, while Miss Elizabeth's trips were long, arduous journeys across the States, my vacation experiences were far different, and far less frequent.

My dad was a construction contractor, and summers were the busiest time of the year. No time to get away, especially for more than a few days at a time. Therefore, the few vacations we took, were whirlwind affairs....throw a few clothes in the car....lock the front door to the house (the only time the house was ever locked)....grab a road map, and hit the open road.

We drove big cars with big fins, but no air conditioning. So, we rolled down all four windows, opened the vents, and Dad would drive eighty miles an hour to Texas to see the newly constructed Astrodome. We all marveled at that "8th Wonder of the World", caught a ballgame, drove to Galveston to see the beach, then drove home. Short and sweet, that was my dad's idea of a family vacation....and I suppose that I am more like him than not.

I don't think our family has ever vacationed for more than a week at a time, and I'm not sure we ever will. I may be proven wrong though, since Miss Elizabeth has an itch to take the whole family to St. Thomas, and she usually gets what she wants. I'm just hoping she doesn't want to go in a truck....with a camper....surely not....but what do I know.

It's just business ma'am.....

"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday".....Except that it's actually a Wednesday....so my best laid plans for using the Billy Joel title won't work. It is, however, nine o'clock and the usual crowd is here at the ranch, Miss Elizabeth, me, the new puppy, and fourteen wailing mama cows. And they ARE wailing mama cows tonight.

It started early this morning, and they suspected something was amiss when I gathered them all into the pens for inspection. I usually just head out to the pasture, throw out a few range cubes to entice them to gather up, and use that as my opportunity to look them over. Sometimes I'll mix up some fly spray and take care of that little task as well, and for the most part everyone cooperates. But, this day was going to be both different and traumatic....for them.

For the last six months or so, these cows have had constant companionship. Their calves started arriving in late February, and with the exception of one straggler who didn't show up until May, they were all on the ground by the end of March. I'm still not sure about that straggler...or her daddy who must have sneaked in and taken advantage of one of my cows when no one was looking. Note to self.....better fences needed along the East pasture.

Anyway, today was the day the calves were loaded up and hauled to a neighbor's facility a few miles away where we vaccinated, branded and tagged each and every one of them. From there they will matched with other calves, separating the steers and heifers, and getting all of them ready for either the sale barn, or retained as replacement heifers. I have a three that will be returned after weaning, for a life of raising babies here on the ranch.....but not tonight, and tonight I'm paying the price.

All afternoon, the cows have been walking the fences searching for the missing calves, and all the while bellowing like it's the end of the world. I guess for them, it might seem like that, but they don't talk much to me about those sensitive subjects. We'll have a few days of this until they finally settle down and get on with life....and I can get on with an uninterrupted night's sleep.

It's just the business cycle we go through each year. The cows have all been bred back and will, in all likelihood, have new calves in the spring when we will start the process all over again. I much prefer the calving season to the weaning season....seeing the new calves nursing for the first time, and taking those first few faltering steps is far more rewarding than separating the mamas and babies. I think the cows might agree....but what do I know.

Just keeping the conversation lively...

In 1983 my oldest son was four years old and wanted a dog in the worst way. Well maybe it wasn't so much him as it was his parents who decided that a dog was needed for the family to be complete. Of course every little boy wants a dog, and once the possibility was being discussed he was all for it.

It's a big decision, acquiring a pet of any kind, but especially a dog. They have a way of entwining themselves into your lives and truly do become a part of the family. And, so it was with Max. After a fair amount of research and perusing the classifieds, we piled into the car and went in search of puppies. All puppies are cute, so you might as well plan on bringing one home if you reach the "looking" stage, and these little Basset Hounds were irresistible. It didn't take long for boy and dog to find each other and the deal was done.

We had Max for 10 years before he succumbed to old age and disease. By then, we had two sons who had come to love that dog, and it was a tough decision as to whether we would try to replace him with another. We had recently moved and the boys were facing a new school, new friends, and all that goes with a relocation. But, soon it was evident something was missing, and we were on the hunt again.

This time, we went to look at a Labrador Retriever, and came home with two. The last two of the litter, and I'm not sure who was happier, the boys or the pups. We were living in the country, and there's nothing quite like seeing boys and dogs running across the pasture, exploring the woods, or just sitting on top of the hay bales in the sunshine. They were inseparable, and those were very good years.

Both of those dogs are gone now. Old age took its toll, and they died within a year of each other a few years ago. They were good dogs and we miss them. The boys are gone now as well, all grown up and with families of their own. Our home has become a quiet place.....a place of old folks, set in their ways, and without the hustle and bustle of a household filled with pets and boys. Too quiet......

Yesterday, I made an "executive decision", and came home with a new addition. Nothing like a new puppy to liven things up, right? I'm just hoping that my wife sees it that way when she returns from Kansas City......I'm sure she will......right??? Once again proving, what do I know?

He was a big, big man....

In the late 1980's this country was facing a financial crisis not unlike the one we're facing today. No, the job losses were not as severe across all industries, but if you were working in the energy or financial segments you were suffering. Layoffs were significant in both areas, and I had many friends who were affected. We were living in Oklahoma City at the time, and were not immune to the troubles either.

The problem was caused by free and easy credit offered by the Savings & Loans and Banks. Easy money was available to energy companies and commercial real estate developers, who then over-drilled and over developed, while borrowing more and more money on over-valued collateral. When the bubble burst, much like the current housing bubble, the house of cards collapsed. The similarities to today's problems are eerie.

Once again, the point of this story is not the state of our country's financial struggles, those details just set the stage for a story within a story.

I was afforded the opportunity to help open the Tulsa office for the Agency established to oversee the restoration of the nation's financial credibility. To accomplish the task at hand would require a staff of dedicated and capable professionals, and we began to interview and hire people at a furious pace.

Interviews are sometimes interesting, sometimes challenging, sometimes surprising, and sometimes all of the above. I was talking to a very qualified young man one day, trying my best to impress upon him the urgency and importance of the work we were doing. He continued to slouch in his chair, obviously disinterested in the whole process. But, when he looked at me and said "Let's face it, it's the government and if it doesn't get done today it'll still be there tomorrow." I was astounded.....astounded, but not impressed.

A couple of days later I was awaiting another applicant who had peaked my interest. Again, a well qualified person, CPA, MBA, and a great work history in the west Texas oil business. He arrived a few minutes early, and when my secretary showed him in, I was astounded....again.

A shadow darkened the room as he filled up the door to my office. He was a big, big man, and he was black. I don't know what I was expecting, but I can assure you the mental image I had conjured up was not that of a black man. As I got up to greet him he stepped forward to shake hands, offered up a big smile and in a deep bass voice said, "Good morning, I'm Jim." I immediately liked him, and the more we visited about the job, his qualifications, and my expectations, the more I knew he was the one for the job. I hired Jim on the spot and he proved to be a great asset to our organization. He was also one of the smartest people I've ever known, and we became great friends.

However, I learned something about myself that day. For as long as I can remember I've had many friends, Black, White and Hispanic. I've always taken pride in accepting people for who they are, and not how they look. Judging people by their actions. But, that day I had read the words on a resume, read of the many accomplishments, and made an assumption before ever meeting the person. An assumption that Jim would look like me.

It was my lesson learned, and something never to be repeated.....That's my pledge, and in this case I know it to be true.

Working hard to win the race....

It was the spring of 1967 and life was about as good as it could possibly be for a young lad of fifteen. I mean really, what's not to celebrate when your days are filled with friends, fun, and the anticipation of the lazy summer days lying ahead. After all, the summer before had been filled with days of baseball, fishing, swimming, and chasing girls....this summer was going to be a blast!

Of course there was another reason for my anticipation of the arrival of this summer, and in particular, that magical date in mid August when I would turn sixteen. Ah, sixteen, that rite of passage, that door to freedom, that open road lying ahead, and driving wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, legally. Yes, life was good at almost sixteen.

But, as always, reality has a way of sneaking in like a heavy fog to cast it's gloom on a young lad's dreams. You see, in my dreams I skipped over the parts that didn't fit. Like the part where we had two working adults in the family who both required transportation. Dad drove his old work truck filled with tools, ladders, and empty cigarette wrappers strewn throughout. Mom, on the other hand drove a big old Buick...truly an "old folks" car. Neither ride was suitable for a "player", not to mention the fact that neither was available to me anyway.

Oh man, what do I do now? A big dose of reality had just slapped me upside the head and I didn't much like it. I started pleading, in desperation I knew, because the dollars were few and far between. There was only one option that would get me behind the wheel this summer, and it meant sacrificing those glorious summer days and filling them with work. I didn't really mind getting a job, but I hated to miss all the fun with my friends.

I found a job with no problem, and as summer commenced I was selling shoes.......on commission. Actually, I was guaranteed $35 per week, OR the commission, whichever was greater. People who know me know two things, I'm very competitive and I'm somewhat stubborn. If you set the standard I'm going to do whatever it takes to exceed it. Did I say I was working on commission...oh yeah, I did. Commissions are great! I found I could really sell shoes.

In no time I had $350 in my pocket, and was on the prowl for a bargain. Unfortunately, so was my dad....looking for a bargain....for me! Dread set in, and so did my stubborn streak. It was a race, and I had to win 'cause I knew my dad's idea of a perfect car for me would be far different than mine. I was thinking '55-'57 Chevy, and let's just say, he was not! My only hope was that I find one first, and I lived in fear that he would win and I would be the proud owner of a '53 Rambler.

"Mom, can you take me to Independence today?" "Why?" "There's a car I want to see, and it might be sold if we don't go right now!" She relented, we headed north, and returned later that afternoon victorious....for me anyway. It was a beat up 1957 Chevy, "in need of a little TLC" the salesman had said. No problem, it had only cost me $95, and I had plenty of money left to pour into that labor of love. So I did. I spent it all to create the car of my dreams.

A lot of hard work and a few hundred dollars later, it had new paint, new interior, and chrome reverse wheels....life can be good indeed when you're sixteen, but what do I know.

Just another day at the ranch....

It's been one of those days. You know the kind, when everything you try to do is just a touch out of sync. It started out like any Saturday morning on the ranch....a few chores to do, then some time for a little recreation before settling in for the evening. But, today the curve balls, change-ups and sliders started early, and I wasn't on my game.

First chore of the day was to replace the battery in the truck. No rocket science required here, take out the old, put in the new.....on a good day! Today, however, was not a good day. Since this battery was the original, I had never paid much attention to it, so I had never noticed the diagonal brace that had to be moved aside to remove the battery. No problem, get the socket set, remove the bolt, slide the brace over and remove the battery. Oops, wrong socket, it's a metric bolt. Dig out my one set of metric sockets and complete the task.

Then, to the battery terminals to disconnect the cables from the side-mounted battery connections. No problem, it's a really tight fit, but I can just get the socket on another metric size bolt.....oops, there goes the socket. I hate it when that happens, and I especially hate it when the socket disappears somewhere into the depths of the engine bay. Did I mention that I have only one set of metric sockets....I'm from the old school, we don't use metric sizes in the good old U.S.A. Aah, but we do, and I am ill prepared to deal with it. The dropped socket is nowhere to be found, so like all "good" mechanics I improvised and got the job done. Not as easily as it should have been, but it's done, and the next chore awaits.

Again, a simple task, change the oil on the same truck. I don't know who was the engineer on the design of a 2003 GMC 2500HD truck, but I would like to have a little talk with him or her. It's a four wheel drive, so there's plenty of room for me to slide under it and work, but whoever decided to place the exhaust cross-over directly behind the oil drain plug is a moron. You have to be careful no to burn yourself on the hot exhaust, and the oil spurts right on the pipe as well.

Regardless of these inconveniences, I usually have little trouble with the task....usually. But, today the plug dropped into the drain pan and I had to fish it out of the hot oil. Then, the oil filter wrench slipped, busted my knuckle, and fell.....into the drain pan of hot oil. Could this go any worse? Of course it could! The oil filter came loose and fell......into the drain pan of hot oil, splashing oil all over the floor of the shop. Not my day!

Tell you what, let's skip the rest of the chores and go fishing. I have a one-man, inflatable pontoon boat I use to float on the pond and fish for bass.....usually. Today, one of the pontoons won't hold air, and the way this day has gone so far, I'm not about to venture offshore in it.

Okay, forget the fishing and forget the chores. Some days are just not meant for productive work, and this is one of those days. There's a current country song that comes to mind, and it's one that fits this day like a glove. It's about a guy who's not too good at any type of work, but he's "Pretty good at drinking beer". I'm getting ready to give it a try.....maybe I can get that done right, but as I've proven all day long, what do I know?

Glory days....

Today was the first day you could feel a hint of Fall in the air. It's been so brutally hot this summer that it may just be wishful thinking on my part, but I believe we will have an early Fall this year. It is my favorite time of the year, so I'm praying for an early arrival and a long stay. My wife on the other hand sees only the omen of old man winter, and dreads the change to colder weather.

When I was young I played football, so this time of year always conjures up memories of two-a-day practices in late August, followed by that first cool front about the time the season was to begin. Friday night games at the old high school stadium, where the cheerleaders, pep club, students and parents all turned out to root for the home team. Great memories for almost everyone, players and fans alike.

It seems like it was only a few short years ago, but the aches and pains of this old body tell a different story. It's been over forty years since my last high school football game. We still get together once and awhile, those of us who waged the gridiron battles, and who like to replay some of the more memorable moments of our glory days. Most everyone has moved on with life, made their mark so to speak, and just enjoy the camaraderie of old friends. However, there are a few who got stuck in time, and for some reason or another, never really graduated. They continue to live in those "glory days".

I treasure my old friends regardless of how they've coped with life's difficulties, and try to treat everyone with kindness and respect. It's not for me to judge why some achieve their dreams and others seem to be in a constant battle with demons of their own making.

The last game of the season was played in a cold drizzle, on a muddy field, and in front of a sparse crowd. It was a miserable night for all, and the teams had battled to a scoreless tie at the end of three quarters. The opponent was our arch rival and neither team was ready to concede defeat. With two minutes left to play, desperation was setting in, and our coach called a desperate play....halfback option pass....That's me! But this story isn't about me, it's about Wayne.

I see Wayne from time to time, riding his bike around town, head tilted to one side and having a conversation with someone known only to him. He's living in another world now, but he always makes it to our football reunions, and he always seeks me out to celebrate his one claim to glory. The days after high school have been cruel ones for him; Bouts with alcohol, drugs, and run-ins with the law. Finally, retreating into that semi-darkness where he finds peace.

But that night forty years ago Wayne was a hero. It was Wayne who streaked down the sideline, looked up into the lights where the drizzle obscured the ball, and made the catch of his lifetime. It wasn't pretty, the pass looked like a wounded quail, and the ball ended up between his knees after slipping through his hands, but he was in the end zone and it was six points...the margin of victory.

Today I sometimes cringe when Wayne grabs me around the neck and repeats every detail of that play. I'm not sure what else he remembers, but does it really matter? For one night long ago, a strapping young athlete had it all, but then let life slip through his hands.

We'll have another reunion soon, and maybe Wayne and I will replay "our" moment of glory before old man winter closes in on him. But, this is something only God knows for sure.

Divine Intervention

There was nothing miraculous about this birth, we all know that it happens every day. Sometimes it occurs in the happiest of circumstances, other times into lives of strife and hardship. Sometimes to single mothers filled with anxieties of how she can possibly cope with this new responsibility.

Bad choices have consequences, just as good choices have consequences. Either way we have to live with our decisions. If we've made a bad decision somewhere along the way, it doesn't mean that the consequences can't be reversed by a good decision made later.

In the fall of 1983 just such an decision impacted our lives and changed our family forever. My wife and I were struggling. We had one child, and like all young parents just assumed that another would be on the way soon. It didn't happen and seemed to be unlikely that it would. It was a test of faith, so we prayed for guidance. As we prayed and waited, hoping against all odds for a pregnancy, another door was opened. A pregnancy occurred, just not at our home.

Somewhere in the city a young girl and her boyfriend made a poor decision resulting in an unwanted pregnancy. Divine intervention? She was sixteen years old, scared to death, still in high school, with big plans for the future. Of course we don't know what thoughts were going through her mind, or what led her to make the decision she did - the one that changed all of our lives. Divine intervention?

What we do know is that we received a call from an acquaintance at a clinic, "We have a patient who wants to put up a baby for adoption". Divine intervention? "Are you interested"? Divine intervention? "We need to know right now, the baby is due in December".  Without hesitation we replied, "Of course we're interested, let's do it". There was never a doubt that it was the right decision for us, and that it was "meant to be". The details are unimportant, just suffice it to say that every aspect of the event was guided by God's hand, and we welcomed him as our own.

Sometimes the circumstances are much different, the new addition is welcomed by two sets of doting grandparents, a warm and loving family, and plans for a bright future. But somewhere out there is a frightened young woman who's made a poor choice, but still has the opportunity to reverse the consequences for not only herself, but for a family anxiously awaiting the chance to be parents. I would like to think that it's the first option, however, 3000 times each day the decision is to end the pregnancy by snuffing out a life. It's a sad ending for what could have been a storybook ending....but what do I know...

Whatever happened to Mayberry?

Today, the town where I grew up is not the same place that exists in my memory. Like many communities of it's size in Kansas, it's struggling, the population has declined, businesses have closed, and jobs have evaporated. Then, to add insult to injury a major flood ravaged the east side of town, leaving little for the families living there to salvage, so they didn't....they left. Houses were razed, lots were cleared, and now only a few foundations and driveways litter the landscape.

There was a time, however, when this little community was a vibrant hub of activity. A shopping mecca for the region, a home to many manufacturing and service industries, and a really great place to raise a family. My memory, I'm sure has blurred over time, and it's easier to relish the good times than it is to relive the bad. If I'm accused of having "selective memory" then so be it.

What I recall is a time when the kids in my neighborhood would gather for all-day games of baseball, basketball, or football depending on the season. And guess what? We had co-ed teams long before it was fashionable, or before it was some sort of political statement. If your team needed a player, it made no difference the gender....okay maybe a little, but no one was excluded. Were the games competitive? You bet your britches they were! We all wanted to win....winning was/is important, and the losers didn't get a "consolation or participation" prize.

Were we scarred for life if we experienced losing a game? I suppose we were, if you consider a scar to be a badge of courage, or a lesson learned. For tomorrow was another game, with a different winner and a different loser. We learned to have short memories regarding altercations, wins, or losses, for the next day we all had to reconvene for another round. It still mattered to us whether we won or lost, but we experienced both....and survived without the assistance of adult intervention. We experienced life.

It was a time when parents expected the kids to have an occasional squabble, but had the common sense to let them work it out for themselves. It was a time when getting into trouble at school meant additional punishment at home, not an irate parent ranting to the school board about unfair treatment. It was a time when a high school of nearly 1000 students could be administered by a Principal, Assistant Principal, and a couple of Counselors, because students were expected to perform and behave in accordance with the rules. We learned responsibility.

I look back fondly to those times, and I don't feel at all like we were underprivileged for living in a little slice of Mayberry. In fact, I feel just the opposite. It was a privilege to have had the experience, and I'm sad to see the continued erosion of that lifestyle. That's partly the reason for what I do today, working to revitalize those small communities and sustain the rural way of life.

You see, my childhood home was one of those homes on the east side. It's gone, never to be rebuilt, and I'm saddened by the loss. I now know the old saying is right, "you can never go home again", and in my case it's literal.

There are a few people who are still fighting the good fight, and who hope to rebuild their town. I applaud their efforts and suspect it will be an uphill battle, but what do I know.

Play Ball

I've a had a life long love affair with baseball. Really, I have. From the first time I picked up a ball and glove I've been enamored with the intricacies of the game. Well, maybe it was later in life that I became aware of the "game within the game"; prior to that it was simply trying to master the art of throwing, catching, and hitting. To the casual observer, baseball can seem to be nothing more than that, throwing, catching, and hitting. But, to the student of the game it's much more.

At the tender age of nine, boys in our small town became eligible to sign-up for Little League Baseball, and it was a much anticipated rite of passage for most. I can still remember showing up at that dusty field on a Saturday morning for try-outs and team assignments. In the sandlot games in my neighborhood I could hold my own, but this was kids from all over town, and I was petrified that I would be an embarrassment, not only to myself, but to anyone who happened to be watching. As it turned out, it was an uneventful morning, we fielded a few ground balls and pop-ups, took a turn at hitting, and threw a few pitches, all without too much damage to my fragile ego.

My dream was to be a member of the illustrious team sponsored by Hall's Sports Shop, and my prayers were answered when the team assignments were announced. Our team was blessed with not only nice equipment, but with wonderful Dads, who did double duty as coaches. Little League coaches have a unique opportunity to make a huge impact on young, impressionable kids and can be the difference between creating a life long love of the game, or turning the experience into something entirely different. My own little league days were filled with wonderful experiences and great memories, and I've always tried to remember to "pass it forward".

I coached my first baseball team when I was only fifteen years old....too young to do it the justice that the game, and the kids, deserved, but I learned from the experience. While in college I umpired little league games for a league that included a team from the Boys Home, a facility for underprivileged and "difficult" boys. Again, I learned from the experience, and tried to be a positive influence to a few boys who needed a break. It was both rewarding and heartbreaking.

Some of the most treasured baseball memories I have, however, occurred while coaching and teaching the game to kids several years later. There's nothing as rewarding as watching the progression of the basic skills, throwing, catching, and hitting, especially when a youngster is not blessed with the natural physical ability. Ryan was just such a kid, a little chubby, slow afoot, terrified of the ball, but with a smile that could out-shine the lights . A coaches challenge to be sure.

Slowly but surely we made progress, but Ryan had yet to get a base hit, or to catch a ball in a ballgame. He was a trooper though and kept that smile through all of his trials. One night, playing right field, Ryan had his opportunity.

"It's a high fly ball to right field, Ryan drifts to his left, (actually he didn't have to move, but humor me) reaches his glove high into the air....closes his eyes (literally), and makes the catch."

At first, he just stood there dumbfounded at what he had done. Then, realizing he had actually caught a ball, he broke into that huge smile and headed for the dugout to celebrate with his team mates, who were just as happy for him as he was for himself.

I don't know if our team won or lost, doesn't matter. What I do know is that the memory of that catch will stay with me forever. Whether Ryan remembers it or not, I'll probably never know. But, if he does, perhaps he will be reminded to "pass it forward" when he has the opportunity. I like to think that he will, but what do I know?

The Mechanic

Several years ago on a cold February morning I pulled into the driveway of small, but neatly kept house on the outskirts of town. I have a habit of always taking notice of the little things around the houses of the people I visit; are there toys in the yard, what kind of shape are the vehicles in, does the house need painting, etc.? I've found that it gives me insight as to the conversation I'm about to have with the people inside. People who have pride in their homes and possessions tend to take pride in other aspects of their lives as well, and that's something that's important to me.

On that day, however, I drove past the house to a small metal building at the back of the lot. Here again, a neatly kept tin building, with several cars of various makes and models parked in a neat row outside. Not just a few cars, but ten or twelve cars that had been driven, towed, or otherwise delivered to this little tin building where The Mechanic worked inside.

I pulled up close to the building and opened the car door to face a bitter blast of cold winter wind. Then, I grabbed my note pad and ducked inside to meet this mechanic who had called earlier with a simple question, "Are you that guy who helps people with their business?" I've come to be known as "that guy", so his comment did not offend me. It's what I do, help people who need it.

I'm not really sure what I expected to see when I stepped inside, but to this day it's still vividly entrenched in my mind. The first thing I noticed was that it was as cold inside as it was outside, except that the tin walls blocked the wind. Then there was the floor, it didn't exist except for a few sheets of plywood strewn about over the dirt. But, it was neat and orderly with the tools arranged in a fashion that facilitated the work being done. As I was taking all of this in a voice from underneath a car said, "Just a sec, and I'll be right with you". It was then I saw the legs protruding from under the front end of car that was balanced precariously on a couple of jack stands on one of the sheets of plywood.

A couple of minutes later, The Mechanic rolled out from under the car, pushed himself to his feet and shook my hand with a grip that only comes from years of turning wrenches for a living. He was dead serious as he looked me up and down, decided that I would be the one that he would trust with his predicament, and asked me to sit down at the desk. Step one is always building a level of mutual trust.

As he opened up about his work, his life, and his desire to run a legitimate business, I was drawn in by the sincerity of his words. He had worked for years as a mechanic and had a huge following, but his business was like many that I see, disorganized, no books, no income statement, and no real understanding of how all of that is supposed to work. But, things were different for him now. He had a new family, a young son he adored, and he wanted to "do things right". I have a lot of clients who go through the motions, yet don't really want to hear what I have to say, and others who never follow through.

The Mechanic was different. He was a smart man, just not educated in the ways of business, and especially not in the financial intricacies expected by bankers, vendors, and even customers. Interest rates were just numbers to him that meant little as long as he could make the payment required by the various vendors charging him 21% for the tools he bought on his revolving line of credit. He listened intently to the suggestions I made and asked "So, what do we need to do next"? Step two is to get the client to recognize the need and be willing to take action.

We set up an appointment with an accountant to help complete a review of his financial situation, establish a basic set of books, and agree to act as his financial advisor. Shortly thereafter, a proposal was made to the local bank to completely refinance both his business and personal debt, making a huge difference in his monthly payments. You could see in his eyes the appreciation for what was happening....he felt good about his life.

A few weeks ago I received a call from my friend, The Mechanic, who asked me to stop by. As I pulled into the drive, past the neatly painted house with toys in the yard, past the new Dodge truck and trailer, I thought back to five years ago. Much has changed since then. The shop now has a concrete floor, heat and air, a hydraulic lift, and the latest in diagnostic equipment. The Mechanic is doing well and wants to discuss his plans for an expansion....Step three is the personal satisfaction I get when I see someone living their dream.

To my way of thinking, this is the way life should be, people helping people, neighbors helping neighbors, and all of us making new friends along the way, but as always, what do I know?

Just a touch of color...

"Don't you think this room could use a little more pizazz?" says my wife as we are sitting at the breakfast bar a few months ago. Sip the coffee, stare straight ahead, work on the crossword puzzle which suddenly requires my undivided attention. "You know, maybe a fresh coat of paint with more color". I've been down this road before, and I know my role well. It's to put up a little resistance, suggest alternatives, but ultimately I get the lead role, The Painter!

I don't get to pick the colors, I don't have much of a say in which rooms or which walls get painted, I only get to apply the paint....alone and unaided. The best I can hope for is that she won't be able to decide on a new color scheme, and we will be forced to leave the walls as they are. But, deep in my heart I know that won't be the case, so I reluctantly say, "Well, go pick up some color samples and we'll see about it". She was happy, and I was off the hook....for now.

I have a long history of applying paint, coat after coat after coat of paint. All colors of paint, white ceilings, white walls, beige walls, green walls, and every other interior color you might imagine. Not that we've experienced all of those colors in our houses, but when I was younger I could always pick up extra money by painting houses, and I have painted literally hundreds of interior and exterior walls.

My dad was a contractor and I was a laborer, a child laborer, but that's a subject for a different story. The real story here is that my dad hated to paint. He could build a house from the bare lot to the finished product, but he hated to paint. I, on the other hand, always enjoyed painting and a partnership was born. Any job he had that required painting was a job for me if I was available. It worked out well for both of us, he didn't have to paint and I made some extra money while acquiring quite a talent for putting the paint where it was supposed to go.

One summer, I had a job painting a nice little white house on 4th Street. Before I was finished, the little old lady next door wanted me to paint hers, then another, and another. That's the way those things go sometimes, and I ended up painting almost every house on the block, including a huge Victorian that had me hanging from a rope in order to reach some of the ornate trim around the attic windows. But, the job of all jobs was the motel on the edge of town.

Everyone remembers those motels built in the late fifties or early sixties. The were usually built in an L-shape, two stories in height, with back to back rooms, some poolside and the others facing the parking lot. The other truly unique feature of those motels was the bright colors they used on the exteriors. Turquoise was a popular color, as was burnt orange, and sometimes a combination of the two. Dad was friends with the owners of the motel who thought it was time to add a little pizazz. Like a turquoise motel needed any more pizazz, but my dad sold them on the idea of painting all of the doors, and I was the man for the job.

I used to be able to tell you exactly how many doors were on the Townsman Motel, and I used to be able to tell you the exact color we used to "brighten" things up a bit, but I seem to have developed a mental block when it comes to recalling the details of that job. All I remember is staring at door after door, and applying some of the brightest colored paint imaginable. Mind numbing and monotonous work, painting doors as I worked my way around that motel to the "Oh my gosh!" the poolside rooms....."Thank you God!" Fourteen years old, and the best job in town.

Now, however, I've been relegated to painting dining rooms, kitchens and bathrooms. Yesterday I completed the task of adding some "pizazz" to those rooms in our house. When I paint, I start thinking, and often the thoughts end up at poolside of the Townsman Motel. Was it the best of times? I think maybe it was, but then, what do I know?

It's who you know...

"I'm sorry, but you're not old enough for the job". Today, I would love to hear those words, because at my age I'm considered too old for most everything. However, as a ten year old who desperately wanted a job delivering newspapers those words were tough to take. After all, I had a brand new bike, and I was almost eleven, which was just a year away from being the magical age of twelve, the minimum age to acquire a paper route.

So, like any budding entrepreneur, I looked for a way to break through the barriers. After all, I could ride a bike as well as anybody, and could I ever throw....oh yeah, I could throw a newspaper. What else was there to know?

I soon learned a lesson that has probably had more impact on my life than practically anything I've learned since. I had no idea what it was called at the time, but I soon figured out that it helped "break down barriers". Today it might be called "networking", or sometimes it might be referred to as "it's who you know". Either way, it's a way to get in front of the decision maker, a way to speak with the one who has the authority to waive some silly rule about a minimum age!

Come to find out, the Circulation Manager who hired all of the paper carriers, was a good friend of my older sister's boyfriend. Wanting to stay in my sister's good graces, her boyfriend offered to "put in a good word" for me at the newspaper office. A few days later I was called in, asked a couple of tough questions about my commitment, then "So, you're Darla's little brother". Done deal, hired.

I spent two weeks with the existing carrier who showed me the ropes, where to pick up the papers, how to fold and roll them, and of course the addresses of all 110 subscribers. I was fortunate to have the route in the same neighborhood where I lived, so I was already familiar with most of the people receiving the paper and it didn't take long to learn the route.

I delivered 110 papers every day of the week except Saturday, which was reserved for collecting from the customers. Collecting money was another learning experience, and one that taught me a lot about business. You see, with the money we collected we paid for the newspapers, bought rubber bands, carrying bags, plastic wrappers for when it rained, and then, we kept what was left, about a penny a paper. Of course that's if everyone paid their bill, and of course, not everyone did.

When you're ten or eleven years old you just assume that adults always do the right thing, so it was quite a disappointment when they did not. The cost of the newspaper was 35 cents per week, 70 cents for two, $1.05 for three weeks, then service was suspended. Amazingly, as soon as the paper didn't show up on the front doorstep, I would get an angry call and hear words that I shouldn't have learned until years later. I learned to be tactful, and explain that I could bring them a paper as soon as they brought their account current. In most instances that was all it took to collect my money.

As I mentioned earlier, I could really throw a newspaper. Blessed with a strong arm and the ability roll a newspaper really tight, I could put that paper just about anywhere I wanted. For those customers who always wondered why their paper was in the bushes, on the roof, or out in the ditch by the road, it's all about payback. It's not something I'm proud of now, but by golly if you made me work that hard to collect the money, then I made sure you worked just as hard to find your newspaper.

At the time it seemed to be the right thing to do, but I was only ten so what did I know?

Hungry, hungry birds....

I'm walking through the grocery store carrying twenty pounds of pure white, granulated sugar, and as Elizabeth and I approach the check-out counter with our purchase, we're met with a quizzical look and a raised eyebrow from our favorite checker. She's a friendly, efficient type, who always greets us with a smile and conversation as her fingers fly over the keys of the register. Today, however, it's easy to see that she has something she wants to ask, but is hesitant to say anything.

Being the ever observant one, I blurt out, "It's for the hummers". Again, the quizzical look, so I add "The sugar, it's for the hummers". You see, it's the third or fourth time this summer that we've checked out of there with twenty pounds of sugar, and I suspected that she was dying to know what in the world two people were doing that would require 60-80 pounds of sugar. "Oh" was all she had to say in response. I think I detected a subtle hint of disbelief, but it's hard to be sure.

But, rest assured that virtually all of that sugar was mixed with water and fed to the most voracious little birds on the planet. Every morning, either my wife or I check the multitude of hummingbird feeders hanging outside the dining room window, then proceed to mix three or four quarts of sugar water to refill those that are empty. Most mornings every feeder is empty or nearly so.

Several years ago, when we first built this house, before any landscaping was done, or flowers planted, we noticed hummers hovering outside this very window. It was almost as though they had been waiting for us to move in and take care of them. Immediately, there was a mad dash for the packing box that contained the bird feeders so we could encourage them to stay.
Well, not only did those few hummers stay, they went forth and multiplied. It's impossible to know how many hummers are on the dole at our house, but it would be a safe bet to say it's several dozen.

We are avid birders, and have bird feeders and houses of every possible variety scattered over our acreage. It's a fascinating hobby, watching the feeding and nesting habits of the purple martins, bluebirds, wrens, goldfinch, etc. But, it's the hummingbirds that are the most fascinating of all as they flit about, hover at the feeders, and fight each other for a spot at the trough. At times we've stood there, feeder in hand, and had the little boogers start feeding before we even hung it on the hook.

In the words of my grandson, they are "hungry, hungry birds drinking their water". I think he meant to say "hummingbirds drinking their water", but maybe his description is even more accurate, proving once again...What do I know?

Country Livin', It's the life....

My wife and I are entering our seventh year of living the "country life" and I must say it's been quite an experience. We both enjoy the solitude, although the Mrs. still has to make it to the city on a regular basis for a "dose of civilization". I actually think it's more about the shopping for the grandkids than anything else. But, when either of us return from our occasional trips to the city, we know why it is we've chosen to live in rural America.

Sitting on our front porch gives one the feeling of living in a dense forest as all we see are trees. Some of them were planted by us to add color and texture to the native landscape, but most are native scrub oak trees, or blackjacks, as they are commonly called. They are gnarly, rough looking trees that provide a dense canopy of green leaves, and harbor a variety of wildlife. We regularly see rabbits, squirrels, deer, woodpeckers, and an occasional owl, wild turkey, coyote or bobcat.

Most evenings, however, we spend on the back porch which offers a completely different vista. It has a southern exposure where the terrain slopes gently away from the house, and offers an expansive view, much different than the front. Watching the cattle graze on the lush grass around the pond as the calves chase each other and butt heads helps calm the soul, and is something I wish everyone would have the chance to see. On these evenings when the gentle south breeze makes the pasture grass look like waves, it's as peaceful and serene as any place I've ever experienced.

This area is defined on the Kansas map as the Chautauqua Hills, and true to the description we have hills that rise from the edge of the creek along the south edge of our pasture. The hills form a ridge that borders the south and east edges of our land, and the seasonal vegetation growing there offers a spectacular array of color from early spring until winter. I find myself anxiously awaiting the arrival of fall when the pasture grasses, sumac, and trees begin to fight for attention with the brilliant reds, yellows, and purples that each one provides.

Of course with the arrival of fall on the ranch, we must be prepared for the winter when things are not nearly as peaceful and serene. The cattle will expect to be fed daily, and that will require that we lay in plenty of hay and feed for the cold weather that will be here before you know it. As much as I look forward to the fall season, I know that it's a time to get ready for those cold, snowy mornings when the most peaceful place to be is snuggled under the quilts.

As with all things, we must learn to take the good with the bad since there are very few rewards in life that don't require hard work. I have friends in the city who say they would love to live as we do. To them, I say be careful what you wish for as I will soon be chopping through ice on the pond and sloshing through the mud, muck, and snow everyday. It's a lifestyle that I find to be very, very rewarding, but it's probably not for everyone. Then again, it may be 'cause it's been proven time and time again...... What do I know?

Good guys and white hats

A few weeks ago there was a news story that caught my eye. It didn't seem to grab much attention elsewhere in the media, but it was an important event to me. It was an announcement for an upcoming auction of Roy Rogers memorabilia, including the mount of his trusty horse, Trigger. I paused for several minutes and allowed myself to think back to a far simpler time in life, a time when there seemed to be far less strife, and a lot more agreement about what was right and wrong.

As children of the fifties, many of us would gather around the black and white television and cheer for Roy as he fought for all that was good and fair. Weekly, we watched as he was protecting those who were being threatened or oppressed by the evil doers in the wild west. And, how we would laugh at the antics of his sidekick Gabby, all the while knowing that, as good friends always do, he would come through in a pinch if Roy needed him. It was a good time of life, and the lessons we learned from Roy Rogers laid a solid foundation for making good decisions everyday.

How many of you were members of the Roy Rogers Riders Club? How many of you even remember it? I do, but I must admit that I was a little fuzzy on the Club rules so I had to do a little research to find them. They were ten rules that every young rider had to obey if they wanted to stay in Roy's good graces, and who wanted to be the one to disappoint Roy? There was nothing magical about the rules, but they were Roy's rules, not your teachers' rules, not your parents' rules, but straight from the mouth of Roy Rogers.

Roy Rogers Riders Club Rules

1. Be neat and clean.
2. Be courteous and polite.
3. Always obey your parents.
4. Protect the weak and help them.
5. Be brave and don't take chances.
6. Study hard and learn all you can.
7. Be kind to animals and take care of them.
8. Eat all your food and don't waste any.
9. Love God and go to Sunday school regularly.
10. Always respect our flag and our country.
    

Reading this list of rules, it saddens me to see how far we've strayed from what used to be considered the "mainstream" beliefs of this great nation. Ten basic tenets that offered children a standard to strive for in life. Is there really anything on this list that doesn't make sense today?

I see a lot of common sense in these rules, things we should pass along to our children and grandchildren. We may not have Roy Rogers anymore, but we have Moms, Dads, Grandpas, Grandmas, Teachers, and many others who can be the heroes to this generation. People who can instill the desire to "do the right thing" everyday, and in every situation. People who still wear the "white hats".

By the way, the winning bid for Trigger was $266,500, and the saddle went for $386,500. Evidently there's still quite a market for the symbols of virtue and goodness, but then again, what do I know?

I'm 58 years old, and in my mind I tend to think of myself as a "young 58". When I peer into the mirror, however, there is no denying the truth. I'm not all that young anymore. I've always heard that age is a state of mind, and I tend to agree with that, except when it comes to technology.

There is something terribly amiss in my brain when it comes to "modern" technology.....and now, we have what I like to call the age of "ultra-modern", totally beyond my comprehension, technology. You see, I have a point of reference that is much different than that of people just a few years younger than me.

My junior year of college we had a major debate in one of my finance classes. Now there's nothing wrong with a good healthy debate, right? About what, you ask? Well, we were debating the unfair advantage (my viewpoint) of the students who could afford the newly introduced Texas Instruments hand held calculator. A device that had the capability, with the punch of a button, to calculate square and square root problems. When one is faced with solving financial equations this tool was a major advantage that poor boys like myself just couldn't afford. Of course at a private university like Tulsa, there weren't that many "poor boys" around....I lost the debate.

At the time I was recently married, living on a shoestring budget, and scraping together money for tuition by working an assortment of part-time jobs that paid anywhere from $2 to $3 per hour. Fortunately my new bride had landed a full-time job that paid $425 per month. We were not exactly flush with cash, and the cost of one of these fancy new calculators was $199. To put it into perspective, that amount of cash would make three payments on our mobile home, or our car, or pay one half of the tuition for the semester. In other words, a very major investment for us.

To make a long story shorter, we scrimped and saved, worked extra hours, and made the decision to invest in our future. Like most technology it made my life easier, and we never regretted the sacrifice we made.

Since that time technology has exploded. They now give away those little calculators as promotional items at the bank, and $199 will buy you a basic computer with more capacity than was ever imaginable when I was young.

And for those "poor boys" that are now attending college, the debate is over, technology is in the classroom to stay. Virtually every student takes a laptop computer to class to view the lesson plan being displayed as a PowerPoint presentation on the screen.

I've always embraced technology, I just don't pretend to understand it, and at my age I doubt that I ever will. After all , what do I know?

Decisions have consequences

It was the winter of 1961, I was ten years old and driving my folks crazy for a bicycle for Christmas. No, it wasn't just any bicycle, I was fixated on the one I had spotted in the window of the local Western Auto Store. Shiny black, gold trim, skinny tires, and best of all, it had three speeds. What we called way back then, an English Racer! I wanted that bike more than anything I had ever wanted in my short life.

I don't remember the price, but I'm quite sure it was more than had been set aside for Christmas presents in my parents' modest budget. But, I was determined, and never, never underestimate the ability of a stubborn ten year old boy to wear down the opposition. Christmas was rapidly approaching, and my pleadings became desperate. Was I making progress? Were they relenting? It was hard to say, but then one day my mother said, "Why don't we go look at that bike at Western Auto"? I was euphoric on the drive to town, which seemed like an hour, but really took all of five minutes. As we pulled into the parking space in front of the store, I was out of the car in a flash and headed straight for the bicycles.

Little did I know that the tragedy of all tragedies awaited me in that store. "My" treasured English Racer was nowhere to be seen! To this day I'm not sure that my mother didn't already know what lay in store, as the salesman sadly relayed the news that someone had purchased "my" bike, and no, they didn't have another like it in the store. Devastated, I turned without a word, my heart broken and trudged back to the car as my mother continued to speak with the salesman.

As I sat in the front seat, slumped as only little boys can do, Mom approached the car, opened the door and said, "The man said they might be able to order one for us, but it won't be here by Christmas". Success! It was as good as in the garage, and so what that it wouldn't be here for Christmas morning. I'm sure there was further discussion about not having any other presents because of the expense of the bike, but I paid no attention....that beauty was about to be mine!

Christmas morning, laughter and giggles from my sisters as they tore into their presents, while I sat on the couch, stifled a cry, and endured the consequences of my decision. It was February before the squeals of delight were mine when that bicycle was finally delivered. Was it worth the wait, you betcha!

Looking back, I'm really proud of the way my parents handled that situation. They knew that it would be very hard for me on Christmas morning, but they stood their ground and made me suffer the consequences of my actions. I think it's important to remember that every decision we make has a consequence for which only we are responsible, but then, what do I know.

Passages and Lessons Learned

My dad died fifteen years ago this year, and my mom passed away in May. They were able to celebrate fifty years of marriage just nine months before dad died. Married at age sixteen, first baby at seventeen, eighth grade educations, they were ill prepared to be all grown up.

Born in Northeast Oklahoma when times were hard and the work was harder, they somehow survived, and while never prosperous, they were able to make their way through life. Working first in the zinc mines, then learning the carpentry trade Dad was able to provide for this young family as babies number two and three arrived. He worked various jobs, in various locations, but he always had that entrepreneurial itch, and like many entrepreneurs he didn't like working for someone else, so he started his own company.

Lately, I've caught myself reflecting on the things he taught me, and some of the things he didn't. But, most of all, I've been thinking about the way he lived his life, operated his business, and how it impacted my beliefs and actions. I find that many of the things that seem to come naturally to me, were actually lessons learned from him.

Dad lived by the credo that a man's word is as good as any contract, but unfortunately that's not always true. Like the time his business partner cleaned out the company bank account and skipped town, leaving our family with no recourse but to face years of financial hardship. I learned to be cautious in all business dealings and I advise my clients to do likewise.

We used to spend hours helping to gather receipts, invoices, sales slips and handwritten notes for the tax season. You see, he was a contractor and his office was his truck. Files were unheard of, and we found most things under the seat, on the dash, in the glove box, behind the seat, and in the tool box. It was an elaborate record keeping system for sure, but not one that I would recommend. It did, however, teach me the value of keeping accurate records, and I advise my clients to do the same.

Dad also did a lot of work for free. Not intentionally mind you, but because he was a procrastinator and would never quite get around to sending out that final statement at the end of a job. This taught me to pay close attention to the cash flow, and to never put off until tomorrow what needs to be done today. My clients hear the same story.

These are lessons learned that I think are important, but then again, what do I know.