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?