After numerous attempts to find the Pixar movie at the local rental shop, I finally came across an unrented copy of Cars. Mollie and I had long suspected that Andrew might really enjoy this movie and finding it was the final piece in the evening I was planning.
I picked Andrew up from daycare and we headed off to our first stop, Aldi. On the way there, I told him what we were looking for, tomato sauce and biscuits. The biscuits were for a future meal and the tomato sauce was for tonight; Andrew and I were going to make pizza.
After a quick stop at County Market, as our pop corn kernel supply had run its course, we were home and began the baking process. Andrew so loves to help dump things into the bowl that it is often difficult to keep his hands off until the scoop is ready. He helped mix the batter, prepare the sauce, knead the dough, flatten the crust, spread the sauce and load up the toppings. He helped put a few Canadian bacon slices on the pizza, then added some pepperoni by placing each small circle directly on top of a slice of Canadian bacon. Daddy filled in the gaps, completely covering the pizza with pepperoni. By the end, my main difficulty was keeping him from eating the toppings right off the pizza.
The pizza went in the oven and Andrew played with his animal matching magnets on the fridge. Twenty-some minutes later, we were all sitting on the couch enjoying the pizza and watching Cars.
Andrew did enjoy the movie, though well past half way through, his attention began to wane. I tried putting him to bed once, at which he cried, but he eventually stopped and politely asked to sit on the couch again. How could I resist? As the movie drew to a close, our hero racing towards the Piston Cup, there was a spectacular wreck behind him, sending ‘The King’ flipping over and over through the infield. Andrew, with a whimper in his two-year old voice cried out, “Blue car fall down. Daddy, blue car fall down.” I could hear the pain and worry in his voice and quickly reassured him that the blue car was alright, but he wasn’t convinced. Our hero stopped short of the finish line, stricken by the very event that had my son so worried. Lightning turned around and drove back to the ‘blue car,’ pushing him across the finish line. “See, the red car is helping the blue car,” I told Andrew. Seemingly convinced, Andrew watched the rest of the movie in relative peace.
Morning came, as expected, and Andrew’s voice echoed through the baby monitor beside our bed. He was asking for his blanket. I went downstairs, hoping that his covers would buy me a few more minutes of sleep, but it was to no avail. He refused his covers, only allowing Elmo to be wrapped in blankets. With him still in his bed, I laid down on the guest bed. Andrew, now fully awake, began to talk. “Daddy, blue car okay!”
I’m not quite sure my story has a moral, but I once again find myself amazed by my son. At his young age, he is able to empathize with another ‘being,’ be it only an animated car. Yet it brings to mind images of a much younger Andrew crying out in angst when something he perceived as bad happened to his mother or me. At the least, I am sure that images from the movie stuck with him throughout the night and he found solace in my reassurance that the blue car was okay.
Andrew found his ticket to the bed-free world by asking to “Watch Cars.” We got up and turned the TV on, while Mollie and Anna came down stairs. I resigned to my study to share these thoughts while the other three members of my family relaxed in the living room. I have long ceased to be surprised when Andrew remembers some event from the day before, a week ago or even months past, but am yet amazed by the feat. A few paragraphs in to my blog, I was interrupted by my wife. She was relaying the wishes of my eldest, “Daddy, Andrew wants pizza.”
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Hodge-Podge
After a week of writing reprieve, I expected to find myself brimming with ideas to share with the world. While I am not left disappointed, I am lacking any one major topic to pick out of my brain and peck onto my keyboard. Instead, I have a few topics which have had their shoe laces untied for quite some time.
First and foremost, I finished my chain mail! A few locals have seen it, as I have been bringing it to impromptu show-and-tells everywhere I go. I took it to school to show it off and ended up wearing it for most of the morning, as I had discussions with each class about the history of armor and how to make it. I briefly donned it in St. Louis after a church service, which brings me to my second mini-topic.
Mollie and I spent the weekend visiting friends in St. Louis. She met up with two friends from Cedar Rapids (yes, I know it is weird to go to St. L to see people from CR . . .) while Andrew and I visited some friends from the Zoo. Taking him to the zoo is always fun, but this time was a little stressful. Perhaps it is because I was trying to take a few pictures, perhaps it is because I didn’t put him on his monkey-backpack-leash. Perhaps it is because we walked around for half an hour trying to find the giraffes. We followed the signs in circles, never passing an empty habitat, but the directions to the giraffes kept running out. I even looked at a map and found nothing but ostriches where the giraffes should have been. I would have just forgotten about them, but Andrew had specifically asked to see them! How could I let him down? Finally, I remembered that the Giraffes lived with the Ostriches and that they had likely been moved inside to warmer climes.
Perhaps the best part of that day was the time spent right after parking the car. We found a spot near the fountain in Forest Park and took some time to climb the hill and take some pictures. Which brings me to my third mini-topic . . .
I have had two or three people ask for pictures of ‘The Girl.’ I had intended to spend my morning sorting through what I’ve taken and posting them to Photobucket, but it seems I haven’t downloaded any new pictures off my camera, which is inconveniently in Mollie’s car. So I can give you nothing but the promise of a future posting of pictures, perhaps Wednesday when I am home once more. (There are so many pictures I need to share, pictures of Annaliese, of my chain mail, of Andrew’s weekend adventures and perhaps even a lone picture of my final mini-topic.,)
Me thinks it is time for breakfast . . . which brings me to my final thought of the day. (As it is only 9:21, I am likely to have another thought throughout the day, but none are likely to be of any interest to the outside world.)
I received a medium sized box via the USPS the other day. They had received it from the Canadian post office, who received it post marked Toronto, ON. I had previously received a package from Toronto, an autographed photo from Frank Thomas, but this was much larger and much less flat. Picking up the box, it sent forth a rattling noise with every turn. Does anyone remember what I was expecting, what candy I had overpaid to receive? (see the second half of this post.) It was my Tart n Tinys, perhaps the World’s last existing stash of my favorite candy! I have since eaten one box. The candies are showing visual markings of their age, years of sitting unfettered seems to have bled their colors together in small spots, but their taste is still pristine.
There you have it, a hodge-podge of loose ends, all tied up in a neat little package. Okay, it may be neither neat nor little, but at least it is tied up. So I leave you all and set off in search of my next topic. What will I write about tomorrow? Sweet muse please visit soon.
First and foremost, I finished my chain mail! A few locals have seen it, as I have been bringing it to impromptu show-and-tells everywhere I go. I took it to school to show it off and ended up wearing it for most of the morning, as I had discussions with each class about the history of armor and how to make it. I briefly donned it in St. Louis after a church service, which brings me to my second mini-topic.
Mollie and I spent the weekend visiting friends in St. Louis. She met up with two friends from Cedar Rapids (yes, I know it is weird to go to St. L to see people from CR . . .) while Andrew and I visited some friends from the Zoo. Taking him to the zoo is always fun, but this time was a little stressful. Perhaps it is because I was trying to take a few pictures, perhaps it is because I didn’t put him on his monkey-backpack-leash. Perhaps it is because we walked around for half an hour trying to find the giraffes. We followed the signs in circles, never passing an empty habitat, but the directions to the giraffes kept running out. I even looked at a map and found nothing but ostriches where the giraffes should have been. I would have just forgotten about them, but Andrew had specifically asked to see them! How could I let him down? Finally, I remembered that the Giraffes lived with the Ostriches and that they had likely been moved inside to warmer climes.
Perhaps the best part of that day was the time spent right after parking the car. We found a spot near the fountain in Forest Park and took some time to climb the hill and take some pictures. Which brings me to my third mini-topic . . .
I have had two or three people ask for pictures of ‘The Girl.’ I had intended to spend my morning sorting through what I’ve taken and posting them to Photobucket, but it seems I haven’t downloaded any new pictures off my camera, which is inconveniently in Mollie’s car. So I can give you nothing but the promise of a future posting of pictures, perhaps Wednesday when I am home once more. (There are so many pictures I need to share, pictures of Annaliese, of my chain mail, of Andrew’s weekend adventures and perhaps even a lone picture of my final mini-topic.,)
Me thinks it is time for breakfast . . . which brings me to my final thought of the day. (As it is only 9:21, I am likely to have another thought throughout the day, but none are likely to be of any interest to the outside world.)
I received a medium sized box via the USPS the other day. They had received it from the Canadian post office, who received it post marked Toronto, ON. I had previously received a package from Toronto, an autographed photo from Frank Thomas, but this was much larger and much less flat. Picking up the box, it sent forth a rattling noise with every turn. Does anyone remember what I was expecting, what candy I had overpaid to receive? (see the second half of this post.) It was my Tart n Tinys, perhaps the World’s last existing stash of my favorite candy! I have since eaten one box. The candies are showing visual markings of their age, years of sitting unfettered seems to have bled their colors together in small spots, but their taste is still pristine.
There you have it, a hodge-podge of loose ends, all tied up in a neat little package. Okay, it may be neither neat nor little, but at least it is tied up. So I leave you all and set off in search of my next topic. What will I write about tomorrow? Sweet muse please visit soon.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Mask part 6: The Chase
When I met up with Brent and Ryan, we had a fairly large lead on the men, but it was closing fast. "Keep right behind me!" instructed Brent. "I don't want you falling into one of our traps."
I took off after him, trying my best to keep up as he wove through the trees. The sound of the other men rushing through the forest echoed behind us. This was shortly broken by the helpless scream of two of them, apparently victims of our first trap. "We got one!" Ryan yelled. He sounded so excited I thought I could see the edges of his smile from behind him. "We got one!"
That did not stop them for long, though. Nor did the next two or three traps. They kept after us. Suddenly, Brent dove into the brush and hid. Ryan and I followed him. "Stay low," he whispered. As I lay there, I could hear feet pounding past us. They continued on for a while, and then stopped. At the same time, there was a huge commotion and they all began cursing and yelling. I looked at Brent and then Ryan. A big smile spread across each of their faces.
"That one was Ryan's idea," Brent said.
Ryan was just brimming with pride. "Yup! That was mine."
We got up and ran until we were sure they were far behind us. "Wow, we made it. Now, tell me. Did we do all that running for a good reason?" asked Brent. "Did you get the mask, or did you just get caught?"
Now it was my turn to smile. "I got both of them!"
"All right, now we have to destroy it." Brent said as he took an ax from his pack. "Set it there on that tree stump."
I took it out of the bag and set it on the stump. The pale gold glittered through the dust that covered it. In the dim morning light, I could see the intricate designs covering the mask. Small lines curved across the face, before spiraling into the eyes. But the pattern did not stop at the eyes. It seemed to continue on, deep into the oval holes that formed the eyes. Even the slightest movement would send the lines running, flashing across the mask in a dusted rainbow of color. "It's beautiful, isn't it." I could feel the same pull on my mind, but even stronger than before. "Can't we just keep it?"
"No, that would be asking for trouble. Greed has a way of getting you into trouble. What happens if someone steals it from us? Then all this will have been in vain. We must destroy it." He walked toward the stump and raised the ax over his head.
"Mike," came a voice from a distance.
"What, who's that?" I spun about.
"Dinner's ready!" the voice finished.
"Already? Sorry guys, I have to go," I said as apologetically as I could.
Brent set the stick he held above his head down on the stump in front of him. He picked the chunk of bark off the stump and threw it back into the small grove of trees that made up the boundaries of my yard. "Man, we never get to finish. Well, I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"Yeah," said Ryan as he took off his backpack and emptied some rocks out of it. "I'll see ya."
I watched them until they disappeared behind the third house down the street. Then I picked up the sword that lay across the stump. "Well," I said to my trusty steed as I grabbed it by the reins, "I guess it is up to you and me now," and we started toward the castle.
Thus ends the adventure known as The Mask. But new adventures always await one with such an imagination. Will we ever hear of them? Will we ever see such heroes in action once more? Such stories will always be found where children play, where children dare to dream.
I took off after him, trying my best to keep up as he wove through the trees. The sound of the other men rushing through the forest echoed behind us. This was shortly broken by the helpless scream of two of them, apparently victims of our first trap. "We got one!" Ryan yelled. He sounded so excited I thought I could see the edges of his smile from behind him. "We got one!"
That did not stop them for long, though. Nor did the next two or three traps. They kept after us. Suddenly, Brent dove into the brush and hid. Ryan and I followed him. "Stay low," he whispered. As I lay there, I could hear feet pounding past us. They continued on for a while, and then stopped. At the same time, there was a huge commotion and they all began cursing and yelling. I looked at Brent and then Ryan. A big smile spread across each of their faces.
"That one was Ryan's idea," Brent said.
Ryan was just brimming with pride. "Yup! That was mine."
We got up and ran until we were sure they were far behind us. "Wow, we made it. Now, tell me. Did we do all that running for a good reason?" asked Brent. "Did you get the mask, or did you just get caught?"
Now it was my turn to smile. "I got both of them!"
"All right, now we have to destroy it." Brent said as he took an ax from his pack. "Set it there on that tree stump."
I took it out of the bag and set it on the stump. The pale gold glittered through the dust that covered it. In the dim morning light, I could see the intricate designs covering the mask. Small lines curved across the face, before spiraling into the eyes. But the pattern did not stop at the eyes. It seemed to continue on, deep into the oval holes that formed the eyes. Even the slightest movement would send the lines running, flashing across the mask in a dusted rainbow of color. "It's beautiful, isn't it." I could feel the same pull on my mind, but even stronger than before. "Can't we just keep it?"
"No, that would be asking for trouble. Greed has a way of getting you into trouble. What happens if someone steals it from us? Then all this will have been in vain. We must destroy it." He walked toward the stump and raised the ax over his head.
"Mike," came a voice from a distance.
"What, who's that?" I spun about.
"Dinner's ready!" the voice finished.
"Already? Sorry guys, I have to go," I said as apologetically as I could.
Brent set the stick he held above his head down on the stump in front of him. He picked the chunk of bark off the stump and threw it back into the small grove of trees that made up the boundaries of my yard. "Man, we never get to finish. Well, I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"Yeah," said Ryan as he took off his backpack and emptied some rocks out of it. "I'll see ya."
I watched them until they disappeared behind the third house down the street. Then I picked up the sword that lay across the stump. "Well," I said to my trusty steed as I grabbed it by the reins, "I guess it is up to you and me now," and we started toward the castle.
Thus ends the adventure known as The Mask. But new adventures always await one with such an imagination. Will we ever hear of them? Will we ever see such heroes in action once more? Such stories will always be found where children play, where children dare to dream.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Mask part 5: The Thief
It seemed to get darker when they left, and darker still as the last rays of sunlight disappeared. I sat there shivering, watching, until the last of the campfires burned out. Slowly, I started creeping toward the camp. To my surprise, there was no night watch set up. 'Strange,' I thought to myself. 'They always have a guard in the movies.' Despite the oddity, this made searching the camp much easier. Loud snoring and jumbled sentences could be heard as I approached a row of tents. There were two rows of five, and then the boss's tent off by itself. I quietly stuck my head in the first tent. The odor of sweat and mud almost knocked me out. Quickly, I drew back to get a breath of fresh air. When my head stopped spinning, I ventured back in, this time prepared with a full set of lungs. 'Nope, not him.' I concluded, on to the next tent. 'Not him either.'
Four tents later, I found him. His tent smelled just as bad as the others, but I had grown accustomed to it by then. The man tossed in his sleep, turning his entire face toward me. His nose was bent this way and that. Above it, there was one huge eyebrow that was almost as tangled as his beard. His hair fell about him, like Medusa's snakes. 'Woh, if he did take the mask, I should let him keep it. He is so ugly.' I turned my eyes away from him, and looked for his backpack. Finding it, I started rummaging through it. A dirty shirt, dirty socks, dirty . . . ewe, yuck, I tossed them to the side. Beneath the underwear, I found what I was looking for. It was a small, gray, cloth sack. It edges were frayed and it was still caked with earth. Slowly, I opened it. Through the darkness shone a dim light. As I gazed into the bag, I felt my mind being drawn out of me and into the bag. A senseless mutter from the man quickly snapped my mind back into place. I quickly shut the bag and turned to leave. But as I closed the bag, some of the caked dirt fell and hit the man in the face. He mumbled again and brushed his face with his hand. Everything would have been fine, but I panicked. I was sure he had caught me. As I fumbled around in the darkness to find the door, I stepped on his hand. That woke him up. His yell woke the rest of the camp. I tripped through the door and started running for the woods. At the edge, I could see my two friends waiting. Behind me, tent flaps tore open and angry men stormed out, intent on finding why their dreams had been disturbed. They closed in on the man's tent, before seeing me. There was a shout, and the chase was on.
Here ends part 5 of The Mask. Will our heroes escape the onslaught behind them? Will they be able to destroy the mask before it’s too late? Tune in tomorrow for the exciting and unforeseeable conclusion of our story. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
Four tents later, I found him. His tent smelled just as bad as the others, but I had grown accustomed to it by then. The man tossed in his sleep, turning his entire face toward me. His nose was bent this way and that. Above it, there was one huge eyebrow that was almost as tangled as his beard. His hair fell about him, like Medusa's snakes. 'Woh, if he did take the mask, I should let him keep it. He is so ugly.' I turned my eyes away from him, and looked for his backpack. Finding it, I started rummaging through it. A dirty shirt, dirty socks, dirty . . . ewe, yuck, I tossed them to the side. Beneath the underwear, I found what I was looking for. It was a small, gray, cloth sack. It edges were frayed and it was still caked with earth. Slowly, I opened it. Through the darkness shone a dim light. As I gazed into the bag, I felt my mind being drawn out of me and into the bag. A senseless mutter from the man quickly snapped my mind back into place. I quickly shut the bag and turned to leave. But as I closed the bag, some of the caked dirt fell and hit the man in the face. He mumbled again and brushed his face with his hand. Everything would have been fine, but I panicked. I was sure he had caught me. As I fumbled around in the darkness to find the door, I stepped on his hand. That woke him up. His yell woke the rest of the camp. I tripped through the door and started running for the woods. At the edge, I could see my two friends waiting. Behind me, tent flaps tore open and angry men stormed out, intent on finding why their dreams had been disturbed. They closed in on the man's tent, before seeing me. There was a shout, and the chase was on.
Here ends part 5 of The Mask. Will our heroes escape the onslaught behind them? Will they be able to destroy the mask before it’s too late? Tune in tomorrow for the exciting and unforeseeable conclusion of our story. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Mask part 4: The Plan
The rest of the day wore on, and the calls kept the leader busy. Every time, I just knew that it was the mask, that we were all doomed. But every time, the artifact was thrown back at the person who had found it. Finally, the sun neared the treetops and the man called everyone back. Before heading back to camp, he promised that if they didn't work twice as hard tomorrow, he would personally shoot them all. There was a wave of grumbles from the men, but they were silenced as the man reached for his gun. "You were saying?" he asked as he slid his hand into his pocket. After that, they all turned and headed back to camp. Brent, Ryan, and I crouched lower in the brush as they passed by us. Through the shrubs, I could see their shoes kicking up the dusty dirt. Last of all, there was a pair of black boots. They paused momentarily, and then went on.
"Too close. Too close for comfort," said Ryan after they had passed.
e followed them at a distance, and then circled to the other side of their camp. After settling in, we started planning what we needed to do.
"So, all we need to do is sneak in and take the bag from that man. Then we just put the mask on and beat the heck out of everybody. Right?" I theorized.
"NO!" said Brent in a whisper loud enough to make us uneasy of being caught. "We cannot put the mask on. Legend also has it that the mask has power over the man who wears it. It will not allow them to take it off until they have conquered the entire world. If one of us put it on, they will become more evil than the man who is searching for it now. Anyway, we aren't even sure if the man has the mask. Maybe he just stole some gold for his family."
"We can't take that chance," I insisted. "If it is just gold, then we can leave it. But if it's the mask, then we will have it and can destroy it. If we don't check, we may not know until it is too late!"
"I see your point!" Brent conceded. "So tonight, you sneak in and see what the man has in the bag."
"Why me?"
"Why, because you know what the man looked like. Neither of us do. And secondly, Ryan and I are going to try and make it a little harder for them to follow us."
"Booby traps?" asked Ryan, a huge smile spreading across his face.
"Yes, booby traps. Well, it's getting darker. Ryan and I will go get ready. When everyone is asleep, sneak in and get that bag. We will meet you at the edge of the clearing on this side of the camp." As they left, I felt the night close in around me.
Here ends part 4 of The Mask. Will our hero be able to sneak into the camp? Or will he be caught, finding only certain death? Tune in tomorrow to find out. Same Mask time, Same Mask channel.
"Too close. Too close for comfort," said Ryan after they had passed.
e followed them at a distance, and then circled to the other side of their camp. After settling in, we started planning what we needed to do.
"So, all we need to do is sneak in and take the bag from that man. Then we just put the mask on and beat the heck out of everybody. Right?" I theorized.
"NO!" said Brent in a whisper loud enough to make us uneasy of being caught. "We cannot put the mask on. Legend also has it that the mask has power over the man who wears it. It will not allow them to take it off until they have conquered the entire world. If one of us put it on, they will become more evil than the man who is searching for it now. Anyway, we aren't even sure if the man has the mask. Maybe he just stole some gold for his family."
"We can't take that chance," I insisted. "If it is just gold, then we can leave it. But if it's the mask, then we will have it and can destroy it. If we don't check, we may not know until it is too late!"
"I see your point!" Brent conceded. "So tonight, you sneak in and see what the man has in the bag."
"Why me?"
"Why, because you know what the man looked like. Neither of us do. And secondly, Ryan and I are going to try and make it a little harder for them to follow us."
"Booby traps?" asked Ryan, a huge smile spreading across his face.
"Yes, booby traps. Well, it's getting darker. Ryan and I will go get ready. When everyone is asleep, sneak in and get that bag. We will meet you at the edge of the clearing on this side of the camp." As they left, I felt the night close in around me.
Here ends part 4 of The Mask. Will our hero be able to sneak into the camp? Or will he be caught, finding only certain death? Tune in tomorrow to find out. Same Mask time, Same Mask channel.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Mask part 3: The Search
A short while later the trees started thinning. Up ahead, we could see the group moving about, axes and shovels in hand. Finding a well-covered spot, we crouched and watched. A tall man who wore army green pants and a matching tank top pointed to one man. "You start digging over there," and to another, "Start breaking open those water basins, the bloody thing has to be around here somewhere!" Even though I had not gotten a clear view the night before, I knew this was the same man who had silenced his companions last night. There was something about him, the way he held himself and the way others reacted to him. It screamed that he was a powerful man, a man to be respected, and feared. Sending the last man on his way, he looked around, then kicked some dust up in front of him. At the top of his black boots, I could see the hilt of a blade sticking out. A little farther up his leg, the bulge of a small gun came into sight. He wandered around for most of the day, yelling orders and threatening anyone who stopped. Every once in a while, someone would yell out, "I found something!" and the man would come running over, gun in hand.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure, it's all dusty and . . ."
"Give it to me!" there was always a tone in his voice that let the person know his finger was on the trigger. Every time, he would look at the artifact, and then throw it back at the person who had found it. "That's not it, you idiot! Now back to work." He would spin around. "All of you back to work." The crowd that had gathered in anticipation would disperse, back to their jobs.
Every time someone yelled out, we tensed up and listened. Was this it? I secretly hoped it was, all the while hoping it wasn't. If it were never found, I really wouldn't care. But if it was found, we could be in a world of hurt. I just wished it were over.
As the day wore on, it seemed like the mask would never be found. Still, we kept a watchful eye out. One group of men had finished breaking open the stone basins hours ago. Now they were digging in an area about 100 yards to the left. Another small group was digging around the base of a primitive house. By a small table they had set up, the man in charge was looking at a map and drinking from a canteen. Behind him some way were small buildings the men were busy ransacking. As I watched those men, one stuck his head out of a doorway. His long, black hair hung down, covering half of his face. Still, it was not enough to hide his nose. Even from a distance, it looked like he had been hit by a Mack truck. He looked toward his boss as if to yell, but instead, he slipped a bag into his pants. Then his head disappeared back into the house.
"Did you see that?" I whispered to Brent.
"See what?"
"That man just put something in his pants!"
"What was it?"
"I'm not sure, it looked like a cloth bag. But it had something in it." This was too much. I could hardly contain myself. If that was the mask, we might be able to get it from him. I just hoped he wouldn't use it.
Here ends part 3 of The Mask. What did the man have hidden in the small sack? Was it the Mask? Find out tomorrow as our story continues. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure, it's all dusty and . . ."
"Give it to me!" there was always a tone in his voice that let the person know his finger was on the trigger. Every time, he would look at the artifact, and then throw it back at the person who had found it. "That's not it, you idiot! Now back to work." He would spin around. "All of you back to work." The crowd that had gathered in anticipation would disperse, back to their jobs.
Every time someone yelled out, we tensed up and listened. Was this it? I secretly hoped it was, all the while hoping it wasn't. If it were never found, I really wouldn't care. But if it was found, we could be in a world of hurt. I just wished it were over.
As the day wore on, it seemed like the mask would never be found. Still, we kept a watchful eye out. One group of men had finished breaking open the stone basins hours ago. Now they were digging in an area about 100 yards to the left. Another small group was digging around the base of a primitive house. By a small table they had set up, the man in charge was looking at a map and drinking from a canteen. Behind him some way were small buildings the men were busy ransacking. As I watched those men, one stuck his head out of a doorway. His long, black hair hung down, covering half of his face. Still, it was not enough to hide his nose. Even from a distance, it looked like he had been hit by a Mack truck. He looked toward his boss as if to yell, but instead, he slipped a bag into his pants. Then his head disappeared back into the house.
"Did you see that?" I whispered to Brent.
"See what?"
"That man just put something in his pants!"
"What was it?"
"I'm not sure, it looked like a cloth bag. But it had something in it." This was too much. I could hardly contain myself. If that was the mask, we might be able to get it from him. I just hoped he wouldn't use it.
Here ends part 3 of The Mask. What did the man have hidden in the small sack? Was it the Mask? Find out tomorrow as our story continues. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Mask part 2: The Legend
I was shaken from dreams of home and tables laden with stuffed turkey and cherry pie by my friend and companion Brent. Brent was slightly taller than I was, and he had light brown hair, which he always wore back in a ponytail. He was a gentle man, but seeing him looming over me startled me.
"Aaah . . ." I started. He quickly muffled my voice with his hand.
"Sssh! There leaving," he whispered.
Groggily, I stood up and packed my sleeping bag. It was even damper than when I had laid down the night before, soaked with dew. Picking up my few belongings, we were on our way. Brent led the way as we followed the men, and Ryan followed me. Ryan was the brawn of our group. He could pick up two full-grown men and throw them aside. I had seen him in a fight once. The man ran around Ryan and hit him from the left. Ryan turned to grab him, only to be hit from the right. The fight went on like this for some time, until the man made a mistake. He jabbed Ryan in the back with a left and them a right. Usually, Ryan had turned around after other similar attacks. But this time, he stood up and tried to think. The man danced around Ryan, right into his arms. Bam! It was all over. One hit. Ryan wasn't the fastest or the smartest man, but I sure was glad to have him on my side.
"They didn't break camp today," I commented. "We must be almost there."
"They only took their tools with them. Today should be the day," answered Brent.
"And exactly what have we been following these men for?" I asked.
"For the two-hundredth time," Brent answered with the patience of a father driving a car, "They are heading to the old runes. Legend has it that there are artifacts there that possess great powers."
"What kind of powers?" asked Ryan with a childish anxiety in his voice.
"No one is really sure. The power to turn people to stone, maybe, or the power to fly. One legend has it that there is a golden mask. Anyone wearing this mask has the power to lead an army of 15 men against the world. If these men get it, there may be nothing anyone can do to stop them!"
"So, if they do get the mask and they have all this power, how are we going to take it from them? And if we do get it, what will we do with it?" I ask, a queasy feeling growing in my stomach.
"We'll just have to take it from them before they use it. And when we do get it," he stressed the when, "we have to destroy it. The world cannot survive with that much power in it," Brent finished the conversation.
Here ends part 2 of The Mask. Will these evil men find the dangerous mask? And if they do, how will our heroes ever get it back before they use it? Join us tomorrow as our story continues. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
"Aaah . . ." I started. He quickly muffled my voice with his hand.
"Sssh! There leaving," he whispered.
Groggily, I stood up and packed my sleeping bag. It was even damper than when I had laid down the night before, soaked with dew. Picking up my few belongings, we were on our way. Brent led the way as we followed the men, and Ryan followed me. Ryan was the brawn of our group. He could pick up two full-grown men and throw them aside. I had seen him in a fight once. The man ran around Ryan and hit him from the left. Ryan turned to grab him, only to be hit from the right. The fight went on like this for some time, until the man made a mistake. He jabbed Ryan in the back with a left and them a right. Usually, Ryan had turned around after other similar attacks. But this time, he stood up and tried to think. The man danced around Ryan, right into his arms. Bam! It was all over. One hit. Ryan wasn't the fastest or the smartest man, but I sure was glad to have him on my side.
"They didn't break camp today," I commented. "We must be almost there."
"They only took their tools with them. Today should be the day," answered Brent.
"And exactly what have we been following these men for?" I asked.
"For the two-hundredth time," Brent answered with the patience of a father driving a car, "They are heading to the old runes. Legend has it that there are artifacts there that possess great powers."
"What kind of powers?" asked Ryan with a childish anxiety in his voice.
"No one is really sure. The power to turn people to stone, maybe, or the power to fly. One legend has it that there is a golden mask. Anyone wearing this mask has the power to lead an army of 15 men against the world. If these men get it, there may be nothing anyone can do to stop them!"
"So, if they do get the mask and they have all this power, how are we going to take it from them? And if we do get it, what will we do with it?" I ask, a queasy feeling growing in my stomach.
"We'll just have to take it from them before they use it. And when we do get it," he stressed the when, "we have to destroy it. The world cannot survive with that much power in it," Brent finished the conversation.
Here ends part 2 of The Mask. Will these evil men find the dangerous mask? And if they do, how will our heroes ever get it back before they use it? Join us tomorrow as our story continues. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Mask part 1: The Hunt
Last week, I had the audacity to share a story I had written. My raving success (at posting the story, not of people reading and enjoying it . . .) has left me with the desire to share another story, one that may be my favorite. It has been published in a local Springfield publication, “The Writers Block;” a monthly collection of writings and artworks by local residents. I was at first at a loss regarding how to share this story in my blog, as it is much longer than the last (which was admittedly too long for a blog). However, over the weekend, my mother suggested sharing the story as a serial. Pure genius! What better way was there to break up a long story, and simultaneously relieve me of writing duties for the next week?
So it is with great joy and anticipation that I present to you part 1 of The Mask.
The Mask – Part 1: The Hunt
The three of us ran through the dense forest, branches smacking us as we went. The sound of feet echoed through the woods behind us. There must be at least twenty of them after us. Why couldn't we have just left? What was so important about this mask anyway?
We had followed the party for about 20 miles that day. They moved at an amazing pace, despite the gear they toted, each carried a shovel and great pack on their back. Sweat was dripping down my face, pouring from my brow like a small river. The heat was unbearable. Even through the dense canopy of dark green leaves, the sun beat down on us. The last two days had been hot, but this was too much. Just as my legs began to give out beneath me, Brent motioned for us to stop. Relieved, I collapsed onto the ground, my back against a tree. Brent looked at me and shook his head, a frown of disapproval on his face. I couldn't understand it; the heat hardly seemed to faze him. But then, nothing did.
He motioned for us to follow him under a bush to get a better view of our prey. Hidden in the shrubs, we saw them stopped in a small clearing, gathered in a group. They talked amongst themselves, but when the one man began to speak, all the others were silent. As he pointed this way and that, the men spread out and began unpacking. Tents were pitched and fires kindled. Soon, the sweet smell of cooking meat found us. Still in the brush, the smell was overwhelming. I hadn't eaten since earlier that morning. All we had now was a few small sandwiches and wild berries. Hungrily, I devoured my portion and lay down to sleep. Despite the cold ground and wet leaves brushing against my face, I was sound asleep in minutes, the smell still overpowering my mind.
Here ends part 1 of The Mask. Why are our heroes tracking this expedition deep into the jungle? Who is the mysterious man that commands all the others? Tune in tomorrow as our story continues. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
So it is with great joy and anticipation that I present to you part 1 of The Mask.
The Mask – Part 1: The Hunt
The three of us ran through the dense forest, branches smacking us as we went. The sound of feet echoed through the woods behind us. There must be at least twenty of them after us. Why couldn't we have just left? What was so important about this mask anyway?
We had followed the party for about 20 miles that day. They moved at an amazing pace, despite the gear they toted, each carried a shovel and great pack on their back. Sweat was dripping down my face, pouring from my brow like a small river. The heat was unbearable. Even through the dense canopy of dark green leaves, the sun beat down on us. The last two days had been hot, but this was too much. Just as my legs began to give out beneath me, Brent motioned for us to stop. Relieved, I collapsed onto the ground, my back against a tree. Brent looked at me and shook his head, a frown of disapproval on his face. I couldn't understand it; the heat hardly seemed to faze him. But then, nothing did.
He motioned for us to follow him under a bush to get a better view of our prey. Hidden in the shrubs, we saw them stopped in a small clearing, gathered in a group. They talked amongst themselves, but when the one man began to speak, all the others were silent. As he pointed this way and that, the men spread out and began unpacking. Tents were pitched and fires kindled. Soon, the sweet smell of cooking meat found us. Still in the brush, the smell was overwhelming. I hadn't eaten since earlier that morning. All we had now was a few small sandwiches and wild berries. Hungrily, I devoured my portion and lay down to sleep. Despite the cold ground and wet leaves brushing against my face, I was sound asleep in minutes, the smell still overpowering my mind.
Here ends part 1 of The Mask. Why are our heroes tracking this expedition deep into the jungle? Who is the mysterious man that commands all the others? Tune in tomorrow as our story continues. Same Mask time, same Mask channel.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Real Quickly . . .
I have a few minutes before half time of the Bears game is over. My day has been busy, filled with gambling, repentance, gluttony and sleep.
My family spent last night at a hotel, joining Megan who was up from Texas for the weekend attending a wedding. We woke up early this morning and went downstairs for a breakfast in which my family ate most of a pig worth of bacon. We then jumped in a car and spent an hour sharing dollar bills at the local casino. Our time at the casino ran short and we had to hurry across town to make an 11:30 church service. After church, we drove back across town for root beer floats, then to O’hare, leaving Megan for her return trip to Texas.
Finally back in Oswego, I spent a few hours sleeping on the couch, fixed a major chink in my chain mail and fretted along with the Bears game.
Tomorrow promises to be exciting. Mollie, Andrew and Annaliese are returning from their weekend retreat and I will be picking them up from the Galesburg train station at some currently unknown time. Perhaps I should find that out!
My dad just questioned why the Falcons need to play in a dome when they reside in Atlanta, Georgia. That is a question I don’t know the answer to.
Ooh, the game’s back on.
See you all tomorrow . . .
Go Bears!
My family spent last night at a hotel, joining Megan who was up from Texas for the weekend attending a wedding. We woke up early this morning and went downstairs for a breakfast in which my family ate most of a pig worth of bacon. We then jumped in a car and spent an hour sharing dollar bills at the local casino. Our time at the casino ran short and we had to hurry across town to make an 11:30 church service. After church, we drove back across town for root beer floats, then to O’hare, leaving Megan for her return trip to Texas.
Finally back in Oswego, I spent a few hours sleeping on the couch, fixed a major chink in my chain mail and fretted along with the Bears game.
Tomorrow promises to be exciting. Mollie, Andrew and Annaliese are returning from their weekend retreat and I will be picking them up from the Galesburg train station at some currently unknown time. Perhaps I should find that out!
My dad just questioned why the Falcons need to play in a dome when they reside in Atlanta, Georgia. That is a question I don’t know the answer to.
Ooh, the game’s back on.
See you all tomorrow . . .
Go Bears!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Bulk Mailleing
Every once in a while, I realize exactly how much free time I have in my life. This weekend, it has become overly apparent, as Mollie, Andrew and Annaliese all headed North by Northwest to Minnesota, leaving me to my own devices. Faced with the stark prospect of sitting alone on the couch watching countless hours of television or parking myself at my desk and wasting the hours away on the computer, I had to find some sort of diversion. To my great fortune, I found an uncompleted project I had long ago set aside in lieu of other fleeting hobbies. With a likely 60-70 hours of work already invested in this craft, it begged to be completed.
So I took a drive to Big R and purchased two coils of 14 gauge, galvanized steel wire, packed up a couple tools I would need and headed to my parents for the weekend, for there I could find the occasional conversation amidst my monotonous task.
Arriving in the early evening, I set the dog aright in the kitchen, then toted my supplies to the basement; a clamp, a wood block, a metal doll rod, a drill and I was in business. It didn’t take long to coil the 200 feet of wire around the doll rod, creating long, tightly wound springs. The ensuing step, the most painful of the entire process, was to use a bolt cutter to clip the springs into individual rings. Next, the rings had to be either opened or closed, making my future work easier. This long task of gripping each tiny ring between two needle nose pliers is by the most arduous and least fruitful step in the creation process, but remains an unwelcome necessity.
With the rings prepared and waiting in small plastic containers, I could finally begin the construction phase, weaving the rings into my half-completed project. This weekend’s task was to complete the sleeves, an endeavor for which I had not been able to find explicit directions despite gratuitous time spent wading the internet. Through a trial by fire approach and after numerous revisions to my original ‘plan,’ the sleeves were fit and finished.
I realize that I have come this far without explicitly telling what I have been making, but have left the occasional clue to keep you guessing. Have you figured it out? Perhaps.
The finish line is now in site. I have added a few rings to the collar, making a more shapely neck line. I have a few rows of black chain to add to each sleeve and the collar for added detail and I have a few minor changes to make to the thunderbird inlay that adorns the chest. After that, I am simply awaiting my return to Springfield to purchase more steel for an adding additional four or five inches of length to the garment and a little girth to the sleeves.
It has been almost two years since I first began work on my chain mail shirt. I have spent a guessed 80+ hours of work intertwining an estimated 15,000 to 16,000 rings. With only 2,000 to 3,000 rings to go, I am growing excited; keep your eyes here, photos are sure to come!
Of course, if you live nearby, you may be just as likely to see me wearing my mail shirt about the town, at least for one day!
So I took a drive to Big R and purchased two coils of 14 gauge, galvanized steel wire, packed up a couple tools I would need and headed to my parents for the weekend, for there I could find the occasional conversation amidst my monotonous task.
Arriving in the early evening, I set the dog aright in the kitchen, then toted my supplies to the basement; a clamp, a wood block, a metal doll rod, a drill and I was in business. It didn’t take long to coil the 200 feet of wire around the doll rod, creating long, tightly wound springs. The ensuing step, the most painful of the entire process, was to use a bolt cutter to clip the springs into individual rings. Next, the rings had to be either opened or closed, making my future work easier. This long task of gripping each tiny ring between two needle nose pliers is by the most arduous and least fruitful step in the creation process, but remains an unwelcome necessity.
With the rings prepared and waiting in small plastic containers, I could finally begin the construction phase, weaving the rings into my half-completed project. This weekend’s task was to complete the sleeves, an endeavor for which I had not been able to find explicit directions despite gratuitous time spent wading the internet. Through a trial by fire approach and after numerous revisions to my original ‘plan,’ the sleeves were fit and finished.
I realize that I have come this far without explicitly telling what I have been making, but have left the occasional clue to keep you guessing. Have you figured it out? Perhaps.
The finish line is now in site. I have added a few rings to the collar, making a more shapely neck line. I have a few rows of black chain to add to each sleeve and the collar for added detail and I have a few minor changes to make to the thunderbird inlay that adorns the chest. After that, I am simply awaiting my return to Springfield to purchase more steel for an adding additional four or five inches of length to the garment and a little girth to the sleeves.
It has been almost two years since I first began work on my chain mail shirt. I have spent a guessed 80+ hours of work intertwining an estimated 15,000 to 16,000 rings. With only 2,000 to 3,000 rings to go, I am growing excited; keep your eyes here, photos are sure to come!
Of course, if you live nearby, you may be just as likely to see me wearing my mail shirt about the town, at least for one day!
Friday, October 16, 2009
But From Those Who Do Nothing . . . (NLT)
While driving North on I-55, I was struck with a desire for food. I made a last second decision to exit at McClain, being lured by the Golden Arches. I was long over due for my annual fall to the temptation of whatever menu item has the most Monopoly pieces on it. I pumped $30 worth of gas, then dropped another $7 on a meal. Living the life of a bachelor is grand. (Ooh wait, I haven’t yet blogged about Mollie and the kids spending five days in Minnesota. I guess I was saving it up for Sunday or Monday, when the absence will have made me the fondest.)
On my way out of Mic-e-D’s, I was approached by a man and his wife. His greeting from a fair distance quickly roused my senses; I knew I was going to be asked for something. Instantly, I felt myself directing my feet in the straightest path towards my car, as if I could will my self away more quickly than the man could approach. He opened with, “I’m not a criminal, but my wife, my child and I are trying to get to St. Louis. Could you spare some change for gas?”
This was an opportunity for me, a chance to live out what I claim to believe, that I serve a loving God and He has afforded me the freedom to share his love with others. This was my time to ‘be his hands and feet,’ to walk in the very footprints of every Christian cliché I have been brought up to believe. How did I accept this challenge of my faith? I couldn’t look him in the eye and I didn’t say yes.
It didn’t take the thirty steps back to my car to know I had failed. Confronted in the moment, I had become everything I hate; I was mistrusting, I was scared, I was hoarding of my own wealth. I knew what I should have done was invite him over to the pump and drop a paper dime in his tank. It would have been so easy and cost me so little, less than I had spent on fast food in the last twelve hours. But I had caved to my selfishness, wanting nothing less than to be rid of this nuisance, to be left to myself and left with my own.
This is not the first time I have failed so miserably to live a life worth living. I do not know if this most recent time will be one that sticks with me, haunting me in my self loathing, but I suspect it may. It will join the time an old man knocked on my door. His hair was combed, but still showed signs of being long unkempt. He wore a suit jacket that had long ago passed its prime and may have even surpassed its useful life. The breast of the suit was parted by a poorly knotted tie. He introduced himself and asked for work, any odd job that would help him support his family. While you already know where this will end, I suspect you cannot guess how far I fell from the path set before me. I huddled behind a half open storm door, as though fully opening the door might let more into my life than I was willing to accept, and sent curt responses through the narrow opening. When I shut the door behind me, the man safely on the other side, I had again fallen short of the glory of even my God’s most miserable servant, for one who served in any way was more than I.
Inside my house, I realized how much of a lie I had sewn. I had told the man we didn’t have any odd jobs for him to do. Lies! I hate mowing the lawn, I despise weeding, I rarely clean the house and even the garbage cans sit full for too long. Why am I so scared to let a stranger into my life, even for a moment? Should I be so scared of being ripped off, of someone lying to me, that I keep everyone at arm’s length and overlook those who are truly in need?
And then I think of my son. My mind focuses on him, instead of his little sister because I have begun to see the person he is becoming. How can I hope to teach him about my God, His love and compassion, if I cannot show it through my own actions? If I continue to fail so, I will rob my son of one of the greatest gifts I can lead him to, a love for those around him that is fed by the love of a God that surrounds him.
How easily and slowly life has consumed me. In college, Guffey and I heard a preacher talking about how people saw changes in his life that they thought were ‘excessively Christian’ would declare that he was “not alright.” He took it as a compliment, proudly proclaiming, “Twenty years later, and I’m still not alright!” Mr. Guffey and I strove to make sure that we too, and the life we lead for Christ, were not ‘alright.’ And then there was work, and a family and wasteful hobbies that fill my time. Much that is best has been squeezed out of life by things that are merely good, okay or filth. (Not to say that family is to be categorized as anything but best, but to spend any time at all merely existing within a family is far from excellence.) Now I live a life of the unchallenged Christian; I go to church on Sunday, I love my family, but I retreat from any true calling in my life in lieu of that which is easy, or that which entertains. Any onlooker would see a happy man, part of a good family, but little more. I have fallen so far; I am merely alright.
(NLT - New Living translation, Matthew 25:29)
On my way out of Mic-e-D’s, I was approached by a man and his wife. His greeting from a fair distance quickly roused my senses; I knew I was going to be asked for something. Instantly, I felt myself directing my feet in the straightest path towards my car, as if I could will my self away more quickly than the man could approach. He opened with, “I’m not a criminal, but my wife, my child and I are trying to get to St. Louis. Could you spare some change for gas?”
This was an opportunity for me, a chance to live out what I claim to believe, that I serve a loving God and He has afforded me the freedom to share his love with others. This was my time to ‘be his hands and feet,’ to walk in the very footprints of every Christian cliché I have been brought up to believe. How did I accept this challenge of my faith? I couldn’t look him in the eye and I didn’t say yes.
It didn’t take the thirty steps back to my car to know I had failed. Confronted in the moment, I had become everything I hate; I was mistrusting, I was scared, I was hoarding of my own wealth. I knew what I should have done was invite him over to the pump and drop a paper dime in his tank. It would have been so easy and cost me so little, less than I had spent on fast food in the last twelve hours. But I had caved to my selfishness, wanting nothing less than to be rid of this nuisance, to be left to myself and left with my own.
This is not the first time I have failed so miserably to live a life worth living. I do not know if this most recent time will be one that sticks with me, haunting me in my self loathing, but I suspect it may. It will join the time an old man knocked on my door. His hair was combed, but still showed signs of being long unkempt. He wore a suit jacket that had long ago passed its prime and may have even surpassed its useful life. The breast of the suit was parted by a poorly knotted tie. He introduced himself and asked for work, any odd job that would help him support his family. While you already know where this will end, I suspect you cannot guess how far I fell from the path set before me. I huddled behind a half open storm door, as though fully opening the door might let more into my life than I was willing to accept, and sent curt responses through the narrow opening. When I shut the door behind me, the man safely on the other side, I had again fallen short of the glory of even my God’s most miserable servant, for one who served in any way was more than I.
Inside my house, I realized how much of a lie I had sewn. I had told the man we didn’t have any odd jobs for him to do. Lies! I hate mowing the lawn, I despise weeding, I rarely clean the house and even the garbage cans sit full for too long. Why am I so scared to let a stranger into my life, even for a moment? Should I be so scared of being ripped off, of someone lying to me, that I keep everyone at arm’s length and overlook those who are truly in need?
And then I think of my son. My mind focuses on him, instead of his little sister because I have begun to see the person he is becoming. How can I hope to teach him about my God, His love and compassion, if I cannot show it through my own actions? If I continue to fail so, I will rob my son of one of the greatest gifts I can lead him to, a love for those around him that is fed by the love of a God that surrounds him.
How easily and slowly life has consumed me. In college, Guffey and I heard a preacher talking about how people saw changes in his life that they thought were ‘excessively Christian’ would declare that he was “not alright.” He took it as a compliment, proudly proclaiming, “Twenty years later, and I’m still not alright!” Mr. Guffey and I strove to make sure that we too, and the life we lead for Christ, were not ‘alright.’ And then there was work, and a family and wasteful hobbies that fill my time. Much that is best has been squeezed out of life by things that are merely good, okay or filth. (Not to say that family is to be categorized as anything but best, but to spend any time at all merely existing within a family is far from excellence.) Now I live a life of the unchallenged Christian; I go to church on Sunday, I love my family, but I retreat from any true calling in my life in lieu of that which is easy, or that which entertains. Any onlooker would see a happy man, part of a good family, but little more. I have fallen so far; I am merely alright.
(NLT - New Living translation, Matthew 25:29)
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Understanding
I told yesterday that I was putting off a topic until the morrow. Well the morrow it is and I am here to share that topic with you. Actually, it is less of a topic and more of a story. When I say story, I don’t mean some relation of events that happened to me, I mean story in its simplest terms. A story, which by the by, I happened to write.
I wrote this story some time ago, but spent much of an hour yesterday revising, rewriting, editing and creating paragraph breaks in this story. It is probably my second favorite short story I have written. Perhaps someday I will share my favorite, though it is much longer, pushing eight typed pages.
Of course, it now comes to my mind that I have previously shared a link to this story. However, given the edits I have made, which I esteem much to its improvement, I will share it again, this time directly in my blog. So grab yourself a warm cup of cocoa and settle down beside the fire. With out further ado, I give you . . .
Understanding
It was a hard concept to grasp when I was a child. My father often told me the stories, how they had all gone mad. I could hardly imagine a society so complex, so advanced. As a child, I was amazed my father could control fire. The thought of houses reaching the sky and humans made of metal was completely dizzying. But now I can see it was true. The entire land is littered with humongous heaps of twisted metal and stone. A few of these piles still rise up into the sky, like hulking, hollow trees. Buildings, the word races through my head, and streets. I had seen a few pictures and heard many stories since my youth. I can still remember my favorite picture. It was a towering building, hovering above all the others. The Sears Tower, I believe it was called. How many times had I climbed the trees and yelled down to my father, "Look daddy, I'm on top of the Sears Tower." But even a child's imagination fell short when compared to the monsters that lay in ruin before me.
As I walk among the rubble, I try to imagine how amazing and advanced this society must have been. Almost perfect. I shudder. Almost perfect, now reduced to ashes. How could a society create so much, and then completely destroy itself? It scares me so much I almost run back to the safety of my village. But curiosity still has me firmly in its grip.
Ahead, I see a small building, almost untouched by the devastation around it. While broken windows and crumbled stones litter the walls, it still stands sturdy, almost inviting. Over the broken street, I make my way toward the building. Nearer now, I can make out worn letters engraved above the doorway. LIB ARY. I read the inscription aloud, “Lib Ary.” What does it mean? I search my mind, trying to remember those words. My mind is still racing as I walk through the vacant doorway. A vast room rises up in front of me, much larger than I had expected to fit in the shell I had seen from outside. "Library!" I shout. My voice rushes through the long silent room, as if greeting every book on every shelf. The echo comes back, "Read me!" But even before the echo reaches my ears, I have a book in my hand. I pull it off the shelf, peering through the cloud fresh stirred dust. My excitement is unbearable. There are so few books for me to read back home. In fact, until my eyes gazed unbelieving into this room, I had seen less than twenty books in my life. But my elation quickly dies as the pages crumble in my hands. "No!" I throw the book aside and grab another. Hoping, I slowly open it. A few letters remain on the first page. " of two Cit by ar s D " Gently, I turn the page, dreaming of words unworn by the cruelty of time. Again my heart breaks as the page falls to pieces. I close the book and sadly set it back on the shelf.
Off I wander, trying different shelves and different books. Tears come to my eyes as every one murders my hopes of finding just one to read. Too quickly, the shelves dwindle in numbers, and the once far wall moves ever closer. But even the hours spent searching seem only minutes. So many books destroyed in so little time. Finally it ends and the back wall looms in front of me. I turn around and look past the shelves and shelves of broken dreams. All this beauty and art having survived the fires of its creators, now destroyed by the ravages of time.
But something new attracts my eye. Down the wall to my right, there is a flash of light, a reflection off something on the wall; it is a large window! I move to the window and look through it. It opens into a small room with a large table, littered with books. The walls around it are filled with books. I quickly open the adjacent door and almost run to the table. Hesitant, I reach for the nearest book, scared to find it as ruined as the rest. But there is a gleam of hope. These books are not covered with dust like the rest of the library. The whole room seems almost sterile. Daring to hope, I open the book. Words! Hundreds of words! The pages seem to turn themselves. I fly through the book, hardly stopping to read. I am in such awe of finding a whole book, let alone a whole room of them. With a childish glee, I dance from book to book, from the table to the wall and back again. My eyes dart through the books, seeing nothing but words. Right now I can care less what they say; all I care about is the existence of new found books.
As I move from one wall to the next, my senses are abruptly brought to a stand still. Sitting in the far corner is a small child. Startled out of my giddy state, I drop the book in my left hand. The thud of the book hitting the floor reverberates through the tiny room, but the chid does not stir. I stare for a moment, unable to discern if it is a boy or a girl, if it is alive or . . . there is something different about it. Closer, I can see the face. The head is tilted forward, eyes open. Tattered patches of hair fall across the right side of the face, half hiding a puzzled expression. Something about the expression catches my attention. Although lifeless, there seems to be a sense of confusion burned into the face. Then something else. Between the patches of hair, there is a glimmer. Metal? It begins to sink in. This is one of the metal humans, a mechanical man. But how could something like this die?
Moving still nearer, I notice a book in the mechanical man's hand. This book is not like the other books in the room. The others are well kept; this book shows wear surpassing even its unguessed years. I take the book from the man’s hand. Every page is worn and tattered, the corners are curled and torn, the words are faded beyond recognition; as though every page had been turned hundreds of thousands of times. Lying on the ground next to the mechanical man are a few pages ripped completely out of the book. I pick one up. It is in an even worse state than the others. It seems to have been mulled over in the mechanical man's hands millions of times. I pick up another discarded page. Small impressions litter its edges. I run my fingers along the pattern of dents, finding a match. The page had been held in such apparent frustration, the mechanical man’s fingers had left their marks on the page.
There are a few more spread around the mechanical man, some in stacks, others crumpled up and thrown to the side. Looking back at the mechanical man, my eyes again focus on his face, his wrinkled brow, his half open mouth. It seems frozen in a moment of confusion, bewilderment and frustration. What was it that confused him so? I leaf through the pages, hoping for a clue to what was so hard for him to understand. What was so important for him to learn that he spent untold hours trying to comprehend it, even dying amidst his struggle? But the pages leave only empty clues. For hours I search through the book, hoping time would make the past clearer. But noting comes of it and I begin to share the mechanical man's frustration.
As my eyes start to droop, I gathered up all the pages and close them into the book. Perhaps another day will shed some light on the book’s secrets. Taking one long glance at the mechanical man, I turn to am ready to leave. The thing that eluded him remains hidden from my eyes as well. I wish I could open the book and answer every single question he had. Even if he can't understand my anymore, I want the knowledge to ring through his once hearing ears. But there is nothing to tell. His quest for understanding had completely erased every trace of that which he strove to know. Saddened, I turn to leave, clasping the book in my hand. I walk out of the room, but pause; I am straddling the threshold of the tiny room, my free hand out, the other held back by some unseen will. I turn to look at the mechanical man one last time. My eyes are no longer drawn to his face. Instead, they come to rest on his empty hands. How could I so easily take away this thing that had so consumed him? The book grows heavy in my hand. I glance down at it, then back at him. I want so much to know what it had once contained, but something inside tells me I already know. It is something that all humans know, understand, feel, but would remain forever hidden from a mechanical man even though he sought it for all eternity. I walk across the room and place the book back in the mechanical man's hand. "I truly hope you find what you are looking for," I say, and walk out of the library.
I wrote this story some time ago, but spent much of an hour yesterday revising, rewriting, editing and creating paragraph breaks in this story. It is probably my second favorite short story I have written. Perhaps someday I will share my favorite, though it is much longer, pushing eight typed pages.
Of course, it now comes to my mind that I have previously shared a link to this story. However, given the edits I have made, which I esteem much to its improvement, I will share it again, this time directly in my blog. So grab yourself a warm cup of cocoa and settle down beside the fire. With out further ado, I give you . . .
Understanding
It was a hard concept to grasp when I was a child. My father often told me the stories, how they had all gone mad. I could hardly imagine a society so complex, so advanced. As a child, I was amazed my father could control fire. The thought of houses reaching the sky and humans made of metal was completely dizzying. But now I can see it was true. The entire land is littered with humongous heaps of twisted metal and stone. A few of these piles still rise up into the sky, like hulking, hollow trees. Buildings, the word races through my head, and streets. I had seen a few pictures and heard many stories since my youth. I can still remember my favorite picture. It was a towering building, hovering above all the others. The Sears Tower, I believe it was called. How many times had I climbed the trees and yelled down to my father, "Look daddy, I'm on top of the Sears Tower." But even a child's imagination fell short when compared to the monsters that lay in ruin before me.
As I walk among the rubble, I try to imagine how amazing and advanced this society must have been. Almost perfect. I shudder. Almost perfect, now reduced to ashes. How could a society create so much, and then completely destroy itself? It scares me so much I almost run back to the safety of my village. But curiosity still has me firmly in its grip.
Ahead, I see a small building, almost untouched by the devastation around it. While broken windows and crumbled stones litter the walls, it still stands sturdy, almost inviting. Over the broken street, I make my way toward the building. Nearer now, I can make out worn letters engraved above the doorway. LIB ARY. I read the inscription aloud, “Lib Ary.” What does it mean? I search my mind, trying to remember those words. My mind is still racing as I walk through the vacant doorway. A vast room rises up in front of me, much larger than I had expected to fit in the shell I had seen from outside. "Library!" I shout. My voice rushes through the long silent room, as if greeting every book on every shelf. The echo comes back, "Read me!" But even before the echo reaches my ears, I have a book in my hand. I pull it off the shelf, peering through the cloud fresh stirred dust. My excitement is unbearable. There are so few books for me to read back home. In fact, until my eyes gazed unbelieving into this room, I had seen less than twenty books in my life. But my elation quickly dies as the pages crumble in my hands. "No!" I throw the book aside and grab another. Hoping, I slowly open it. A few letters remain on the first page. " of two Cit by ar s D " Gently, I turn the page, dreaming of words unworn by the cruelty of time. Again my heart breaks as the page falls to pieces. I close the book and sadly set it back on the shelf.
Off I wander, trying different shelves and different books. Tears come to my eyes as every one murders my hopes of finding just one to read. Too quickly, the shelves dwindle in numbers, and the once far wall moves ever closer. But even the hours spent searching seem only minutes. So many books destroyed in so little time. Finally it ends and the back wall looms in front of me. I turn around and look past the shelves and shelves of broken dreams. All this beauty and art having survived the fires of its creators, now destroyed by the ravages of time.
But something new attracts my eye. Down the wall to my right, there is a flash of light, a reflection off something on the wall; it is a large window! I move to the window and look through it. It opens into a small room with a large table, littered with books. The walls around it are filled with books. I quickly open the adjacent door and almost run to the table. Hesitant, I reach for the nearest book, scared to find it as ruined as the rest. But there is a gleam of hope. These books are not covered with dust like the rest of the library. The whole room seems almost sterile. Daring to hope, I open the book. Words! Hundreds of words! The pages seem to turn themselves. I fly through the book, hardly stopping to read. I am in such awe of finding a whole book, let alone a whole room of them. With a childish glee, I dance from book to book, from the table to the wall and back again. My eyes dart through the books, seeing nothing but words. Right now I can care less what they say; all I care about is the existence of new found books.
As I move from one wall to the next, my senses are abruptly brought to a stand still. Sitting in the far corner is a small child. Startled out of my giddy state, I drop the book in my left hand. The thud of the book hitting the floor reverberates through the tiny room, but the chid does not stir. I stare for a moment, unable to discern if it is a boy or a girl, if it is alive or . . . there is something different about it. Closer, I can see the face. The head is tilted forward, eyes open. Tattered patches of hair fall across the right side of the face, half hiding a puzzled expression. Something about the expression catches my attention. Although lifeless, there seems to be a sense of confusion burned into the face. Then something else. Between the patches of hair, there is a glimmer. Metal? It begins to sink in. This is one of the metal humans, a mechanical man. But how could something like this die?
Moving still nearer, I notice a book in the mechanical man's hand. This book is not like the other books in the room. The others are well kept; this book shows wear surpassing even its unguessed years. I take the book from the man’s hand. Every page is worn and tattered, the corners are curled and torn, the words are faded beyond recognition; as though every page had been turned hundreds of thousands of times. Lying on the ground next to the mechanical man are a few pages ripped completely out of the book. I pick one up. It is in an even worse state than the others. It seems to have been mulled over in the mechanical man's hands millions of times. I pick up another discarded page. Small impressions litter its edges. I run my fingers along the pattern of dents, finding a match. The page had been held in such apparent frustration, the mechanical man’s fingers had left their marks on the page.
There are a few more spread around the mechanical man, some in stacks, others crumpled up and thrown to the side. Looking back at the mechanical man, my eyes again focus on his face, his wrinkled brow, his half open mouth. It seems frozen in a moment of confusion, bewilderment and frustration. What was it that confused him so? I leaf through the pages, hoping for a clue to what was so hard for him to understand. What was so important for him to learn that he spent untold hours trying to comprehend it, even dying amidst his struggle? But the pages leave only empty clues. For hours I search through the book, hoping time would make the past clearer. But noting comes of it and I begin to share the mechanical man's frustration.
As my eyes start to droop, I gathered up all the pages and close them into the book. Perhaps another day will shed some light on the book’s secrets. Taking one long glance at the mechanical man, I turn to am ready to leave. The thing that eluded him remains hidden from my eyes as well. I wish I could open the book and answer every single question he had. Even if he can't understand my anymore, I want the knowledge to ring through his once hearing ears. But there is nothing to tell. His quest for understanding had completely erased every trace of that which he strove to know. Saddened, I turn to leave, clasping the book in my hand. I walk out of the room, but pause; I am straddling the threshold of the tiny room, my free hand out, the other held back by some unseen will. I turn to look at the mechanical man one last time. My eyes are no longer drawn to his face. Instead, they come to rest on his empty hands. How could I so easily take away this thing that had so consumed him? The book grows heavy in my hand. I glance down at it, then back at him. I want so much to know what it had once contained, but something inside tells me I already know. It is something that all humans know, understand, feel, but would remain forever hidden from a mechanical man even though he sought it for all eternity. I walk across the room and place the book back in the mechanical man's hand. "I truly hope you find what you are looking for," I say, and walk out of the library.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I'd Like to Apologize in Advance . . .
I find myself torn today as to what I should share with the waiting world. For the first time in quite a while, I find myself with numerous ideas bashing about inside my tiny brain. The noise is deafening. Each topic is of itself, of some value to me in the present, yet each would do well to stand alone on some future day. One, though could provide the spur for both today and some future day in approximately seven to ten business days. Then, of course, there is the temptation to simply share all in one uber-long blog.
I suspect that for once, wisdom has gotten the best of me. I will narrow my course and save what I spent the last hour working on for tomorrow, allowing me to follow up on yesterday’s blurbs.
First of all, thank you to a faithful reader for pointing out what my mathematically inclined brain failed to notice, mainly that my Haiku’s were merely poor replicas of that fine artwork, lacking in both style and meter. (Or was it just the number of syllables that was off?) In light of his revelations (which I do truly appreciate, despite my comical tone, thank you), I take back all claims of having written any Haiku, and rather announce the creation of an entirely new mode of English poetry, the Haik-me.
Now that’s enough of that! You go to your room this instant! But Mommy, I was trying to be good, honest. Ooh, you wait until your father gets home, young man. He’s not gonna like what I have to tell him. How many times have I had to reason with him just to save your life? Well, no more. Not this time. No more mother stepping in to save your hide. Mommy . . . Yes? Mommy, can I please have a piece of cake?
Sorry, all. I have no idea what that was, but it sure was fun!!!
In yesterday’s lecture, I made mention of my doubt one could find Tart n Tinys in even the most remote corner of the internet. I was wrong. After searching countless websites, sending numerous e-mails and calling two countries, I found some! You will all be pleased to not that at this very moment, the Canadian Post Office is transferring a package containing sixteen boxes of my favorite candies across international boundaries, leaving it in the safe hands of the USPS, who will deliver my prize to me in the afore mentioned seven to ten business days.
But at what else have I learned, you ask, and at what cost have I found the means to acquire such an antiquitous dessert? I learned that these delectable treats were discontinued in March(?) of 2007, though the man at the Willy Wonka Candy Factory (a.k.a. Nestlè Chocolate) agreed with my discernment that this type of candy would likely be unmarred by time. I also learned that shipping from Canada and Canadian taxes exactly doubles the original price of each $1.10 box. I have yet to learn how my cell phone company treats international calls, even if they are just across our northern boarder. I have also learned that my brother is also willing to shell out cold, hard cash to share in this prize. Perhaps if he mentions this add, I’ll give him a discount.
There it is, the germ of yesterday’s, today’s and some future blog. Who knew a tiny candy could cause such a stir, or bore so many readers. By the by, if you want to read my alternative solution to the Haiku ‘problem,’ read the comments to yesterday’s blog!
I suspect that for once, wisdom has gotten the best of me. I will narrow my course and save what I spent the last hour working on for tomorrow, allowing me to follow up on yesterday’s blurbs.
First of all, thank you to a faithful reader for pointing out what my mathematically inclined brain failed to notice, mainly that my Haiku’s were merely poor replicas of that fine artwork, lacking in both style and meter. (Or was it just the number of syllables that was off?) In light of his revelations (which I do truly appreciate, despite my comical tone, thank you), I take back all claims of having written any Haiku, and rather announce the creation of an entirely new mode of English poetry, the Haik-me.
Now that’s enough of that! You go to your room this instant! But Mommy, I was trying to be good, honest. Ooh, you wait until your father gets home, young man. He’s not gonna like what I have to tell him. How many times have I had to reason with him just to save your life? Well, no more. Not this time. No more mother stepping in to save your hide. Mommy . . . Yes? Mommy, can I please have a piece of cake?
Sorry, all. I have no idea what that was, but it sure was fun!!!
In yesterday’s lecture, I made mention of my doubt one could find Tart n Tinys in even the most remote corner of the internet. I was wrong. After searching countless websites, sending numerous e-mails and calling two countries, I found some! You will all be pleased to not that at this very moment, the Canadian Post Office is transferring a package containing sixteen boxes of my favorite candies across international boundaries, leaving it in the safe hands of the USPS, who will deliver my prize to me in the afore mentioned seven to ten business days.
But at what else have I learned, you ask, and at what cost have I found the means to acquire such an antiquitous dessert? I learned that these delectable treats were discontinued in March(?) of 2007, though the man at the Willy Wonka Candy Factory (a.k.a. Nestlè Chocolate) agreed with my discernment that this type of candy would likely be unmarred by time. I also learned that shipping from Canada and Canadian taxes exactly doubles the original price of each $1.10 box. I have yet to learn how my cell phone company treats international calls, even if they are just across our northern boarder. I have also learned that my brother is also willing to shell out cold, hard cash to share in this prize. Perhaps if he mentions this add, I’ll give him a discount.
There it is, the germ of yesterday’s, today’s and some future blog. Who knew a tiny candy could cause such a stir, or bore so many readers. By the by, if you want to read my alternative solution to the Haiku ‘problem,’ read the comments to yesterday’s blog!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Ode to the Pixy Stix
Sugar stick
So sweet to eat
Consume me
Yes, I realize that is a Haiku and not an ode, but in researching how to write an ode, I was presented with more of a task than I was willing to tackle.
There is a red Pixy Stix sitting on the counter in our kitchen. It has been there, uneaten, for the better part of a week. Upon seeing it this morning, I realized that despite being one of my favorite candy creations, the Pixy Stix is a dish that cannot be eaten on a whim, but must rather be savored in a moment all its own. While that seems vague yet poetic, what I really mean is that a Pixy Stix is not something that can be eaten at any time, in any mood. There seems to be perfect times in life when their consumption and the ensuing high are most desirable and eating one at any other time would just be a waste.
While the Pixy Stix was the muse for today’s blog, it is not what I truly desire to write about. Perhaps a better title would have been ‘Loss of a Friend’ or ‘Ode to the Tart n Tiny.’ Those tiny, pill shaped candies were truly my favorite. I fondly recall walking around summer camp, a bag full of the sugary sweets in my hand, a cheek full of the same, and a straw in my hand. In their original, uncoated barrel shape, they could be enjoyed for a moment, then shot over amazing distances with a simple blow through a straw. In the latter days of my youth, the Tart n Tiny was given a makeover, it’s chalky substance was given a candy coating, changing its shape from a barrel to more of a ball. This new form was just as delicious, if not more so, but the salivary erosion patterns were different, uneven, and the days of shooting them through straws was gone. Yet they remained for my enjoyment and I would always look forward to a trip to Galena, IL, where I knew I could find them in bulk.
And then they were gone. Mr. Andthechocolatefactory and his board of advisors had discontinued the tiny treat in lieu of other, more shapely creations. Now in their place, I find tiny baby binky shaped candies of similar consistency and taste, but filled with much less enjoyment.
It has been years since my favorite candy has gone the way of the apothecary bird (a distant relative of the dodo? or just some nonsense I made up?). I expect that by now, it would even be difficult to find some lonely stash for sale on the internet, though I trust that any such cache would have survived the savages of time, being unrobed of their tiny goodness. And I am left to mourn my loss, like the passing of a good friend.
Sharp and sweet
No solace for my sorrow
Long gone
So sweet to eat
Consume me
Yes, I realize that is a Haiku and not an ode, but in researching how to write an ode, I was presented with more of a task than I was willing to tackle.
There is a red Pixy Stix sitting on the counter in our kitchen. It has been there, uneaten, for the better part of a week. Upon seeing it this morning, I realized that despite being one of my favorite candy creations, the Pixy Stix is a dish that cannot be eaten on a whim, but must rather be savored in a moment all its own. While that seems vague yet poetic, what I really mean is that a Pixy Stix is not something that can be eaten at any time, in any mood. There seems to be perfect times in life when their consumption and the ensuing high are most desirable and eating one at any other time would just be a waste.
While the Pixy Stix was the muse for today’s blog, it is not what I truly desire to write about. Perhaps a better title would have been ‘Loss of a Friend’ or ‘Ode to the Tart n Tiny.’ Those tiny, pill shaped candies were truly my favorite. I fondly recall walking around summer camp, a bag full of the sugary sweets in my hand, a cheek full of the same, and a straw in my hand. In their original, uncoated barrel shape, they could be enjoyed for a moment, then shot over amazing distances with a simple blow through a straw. In the latter days of my youth, the Tart n Tiny was given a makeover, it’s chalky substance was given a candy coating, changing its shape from a barrel to more of a ball. This new form was just as delicious, if not more so, but the salivary erosion patterns were different, uneven, and the days of shooting them through straws was gone. Yet they remained for my enjoyment and I would always look forward to a trip to Galena, IL, where I knew I could find them in bulk.
And then they were gone. Mr. Andthechocolatefactory and his board of advisors had discontinued the tiny treat in lieu of other, more shapely creations. Now in their place, I find tiny baby binky shaped candies of similar consistency and taste, but filled with much less enjoyment.
It has been years since my favorite candy has gone the way of the apothecary bird (a distant relative of the dodo? or just some nonsense I made up?). I expect that by now, it would even be difficult to find some lonely stash for sale on the internet, though I trust that any such cache would have survived the savages of time, being unrobed of their tiny goodness. And I am left to mourn my loss, like the passing of a good friend.
Sharp and sweet
No solace for my sorrow
Long gone
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Monday, October 12, 2009
Life As I Know It
It has been seven short weeks since Annaliese Elizabeth Tinúviel graced us with her presence. And as she surpasses her fiftieth day here on Earth, I am reminded of how much has changed, even as life once again begins to take on some semblance of normalcy.
First, I would like to point out that the word normalcy is a very strange looking word! I was totally expecting MS Word to flash its red, zig-zag, hey-idiot-you-can’t-spell, underlining marker at me. I am led to wonder how many other words in the English language end in ‘lcy.’ Perhaps another day . . . . while we haven’t gotten Annaliese weighed in about two weeks, we reasonably guess that she has passed the six pound marker. But more than that, she looks bigger. She fits in newborn diapers and fills out most newborn clothes. Someone the other day told me she looks like, well, a newborn! I figure that to be an amazing accomplishment for one who originally looked like a miniature model of a new baby, who could never have been mistaken for anything but a preemie.
But size of our newest alone doesn’t provide for normalcy. For our life to regain that, other changes had to be restored. Friday, one major change came one step closer to how it was before ‘The Girl.’ Another brief (perhaps) aside . . . if any of you have spent a gratuitous amount of time watching The Simpsons, you will have heard Homer’s reference to Bart as ‘The Boy.’ For some strange reason, I have found solace and amusement in so referencing Andrew in blog form. I do believe, however, that this is my first use of ‘The Girl’ to replace the lavish and long name of my daughter. Now where was I . . . oh yes, The Boy is again regularly attending day care and Mollie has rejoined blue collar America (is a P.A. blue class???). What I basically mean to say is “Mollie’s working again.” She is only working three days a week so she can be home on the days I work, but life it seems has restarted in spite of the additional tiny mouth residing in our house. The tiny girl who has been the root of so much change in our life is becoming part of our regular life. As the major and temporary adjustments fade away, how life seems to get put on hold for a baby, she remains and is finding her place in life as we know it.
First, I would like to point out that the word normalcy is a very strange looking word! I was totally expecting MS Word to flash its red, zig-zag, hey-idiot-you-can’t-spell, underlining marker at me. I am led to wonder how many other words in the English language end in ‘lcy.’ Perhaps another day . . . . while we haven’t gotten Annaliese weighed in about two weeks, we reasonably guess that she has passed the six pound marker. But more than that, she looks bigger. She fits in newborn diapers and fills out most newborn clothes. Someone the other day told me she looks like, well, a newborn! I figure that to be an amazing accomplishment for one who originally looked like a miniature model of a new baby, who could never have been mistaken for anything but a preemie.
But size of our newest alone doesn’t provide for normalcy. For our life to regain that, other changes had to be restored. Friday, one major change came one step closer to how it was before ‘The Girl.’ Another brief (perhaps) aside . . . if any of you have spent a gratuitous amount of time watching The Simpsons, you will have heard Homer’s reference to Bart as ‘The Boy.’ For some strange reason, I have found solace and amusement in so referencing Andrew in blog form. I do believe, however, that this is my first use of ‘The Girl’ to replace the lavish and long name of my daughter. Now where was I . . . oh yes, The Boy is again regularly attending day care and Mollie has rejoined blue collar America (is a P.A. blue class???). What I basically mean to say is “Mollie’s working again.” She is only working three days a week so she can be home on the days I work, but life it seems has restarted in spite of the additional tiny mouth residing in our house. The tiny girl who has been the root of so much change in our life is becoming part of our regular life. As the major and temporary adjustments fade away, how life seems to get put on hold for a baby, she remains and is finding her place in life as we know it.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Sabbatical
It has been a full week since I have had anything near a cohesive thought. Such a jumble of misfiring neurons has made it difficult to even contemplate blogging. Each time I began to mull a topic, I never made it past the first sentence . . . which strikingly is how I began today, though the time frame had changed with each passing day.
Again today I find my brain has less coherent thoughts than a worker bee who has been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of a . . . what is that thing they did to Jack Nicholas in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest . . . a lobotomy. Almost as if to prove my point, it took me at least a minute to remember that wonderful word . . . lobotomy. I also find myself having to Google the movie to make sure I have named the slushy-brained actor and not the golfer . . . as I expected, I was wrong . . . Jack Nicholson is the Academy Award winning actor who had his brain blended in a movie while the golf club swinging Jack Nicholas’ brain may or may not have been so damaged
My stream of consciousness was interrupted by my wife, perhaps for the best, who requested my presence in the dining room where our son was putting on a ruse worth seeing. He had his spoon laying on his arm, which he held before him at about shoulder level. He proudly proclaimed, “My spoon up high sky on arm!” I laughed, then attempted to burn another word into his lexicon, “Are you balancing your spoon on your arm?” then returned to my study with the express intent of sharing the event.
Having thusly done so, I find myself almost late for church and still wearing my orange footie-pajamas. As I bounded down the stairs this morning, these homemade, hunter orange, fleece givers of winter warmth were to be my brag, but now I must un-don them and don something more appropriate for public ocular consumption. Too bad it’s not wear your pajamas to church day.
Again today I find my brain has less coherent thoughts than a worker bee who has been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of a . . . what is that thing they did to Jack Nicholas in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest . . . a lobotomy. Almost as if to prove my point, it took me at least a minute to remember that wonderful word . . . lobotomy. I also find myself having to Google the movie to make sure I have named the slushy-brained actor and not the golfer . . . as I expected, I was wrong . . . Jack Nicholson is the Academy Award winning actor who had his brain blended in a movie while the golf club swinging Jack Nicholas’ brain may or may not have been so damaged
My stream of consciousness was interrupted by my wife, perhaps for the best, who requested my presence in the dining room where our son was putting on a ruse worth seeing. He had his spoon laying on his arm, which he held before him at about shoulder level. He proudly proclaimed, “My spoon up high sky on arm!” I laughed, then attempted to burn another word into his lexicon, “Are you balancing your spoon on your arm?” then returned to my study with the express intent of sharing the event.
Having thusly done so, I find myself almost late for church and still wearing my orange footie-pajamas. As I bounded down the stairs this morning, these homemade, hunter orange, fleece givers of winter warmth were to be my brag, but now I must un-don them and don something more appropriate for public ocular consumption. Too bad it’s not wear your pajamas to church day.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Mike Hofner Presents The Uncanny X-Blog
My family spent last night watching Race to Witch Mountain. While I thoroughly expected a miserable and droning film, I was surprised to find myself engrossed, laughing along and anticipating just how they would find their way in the end. I was particularly struck by the movie's use of the alien children's powers. While they did a great job not making the abilities too powerful, I could not help but compare them to how the X-Men’s' powers are portrayed.
My X-Men exposure consists of the 1980's cartoon series, with the modern movies adding depth, taken with a grain of Hollywood salt, and a few of the original comic books thrown in for good measure. It was the cartoon series I first fell in love with. After renting and watching a four part mini-series titled Of Good and Evil, I was hooked. There was something about the characters that drew me in, made them somehow real. I think the best I can describe it is like this. When I was younger, I watched He-Man. He-Man was just strong. There really wasn't much else to him, no truly discernable underlying personality. But Wolverine, now he has character. He is angry, confused, his mind drawn in two different directions; but at the same time he is fiercely loyal, proud and sacrificially protective of his friends. He and all the other X-Men characters have built in histories, tensions that haunt them as they confront their past and fight for their futures.
A scene from Witch Mountain piqued my interest. It was not some major battle scene in which the 'children' were displaying the prowess of their powers, it was a scene in which they were beginning their five mile hike to the mountain. Here was a girl who could control matter and she and her friends were walking. Images flashed in my mind of the group sailing over the terrain, each standing on a slab of rock which followed her bidding. At least that's what Magneto would have done (allowing that his rocks would have contained veins of iridium of ore, thus allowing him to manipulate them).
Stan Lee, the creator of the X-Men, and all the others who over the years have contributed to them have done a spectacular job of finding creative ways to use the mutant’s powers. While they sometimes use brute force to get a job done, they often use subtler, more simple ways to find a solution to their current predicament. From Colossus using his metallic form to bash through a wall to Wolverine touching a badly hurt Rogue’s skin, allowing her to ‘steal’ his regenerative powers and survive, the creative uses of their powers is seemingly limitless.
I recently watched a cartoon episode where Morph, a mutant who can shape shift into the form of any other person and who had previously been one of my least favorite characters, was facing the demons of his past, made real in the present in the form of the Sentinels, giant robots whose sole purpose is the elimination of all mutants. Morph has missed the last 40+ episodes after almost being killed by the same robotic threat. In this episode, as the other X-Men were fighting a losing battle, Morph, who’s mutant ability to mimic other people amazingly includes the assuming their powers, singlehandedly used a myriad of other mutants’ powers to defeat the Sentinels. He then again faded out of the series, citing the fact that he needed to continue his mental recovery, saying “I came through today, but what about next time?” Even in his triumph, the writers have built in enough character depth for Morph to admit his continued struggles and gracefully bow back out of the series.
As I come to the end of today’s blog, I find myself in a strange place. While I have most successfully imparted all I had originally hoped, I seemingly had no directive other than to share my thoughts. Thus I find myself without a clear lesson or thought to wrap all my ramblings into a cohesive ending. So I will leave you to draw your own conclusions and I will set the computer aside and turn my full attention to this week’s Bears game.
My X-Men exposure consists of the 1980's cartoon series, with the modern movies adding depth, taken with a grain of Hollywood salt, and a few of the original comic books thrown in for good measure. It was the cartoon series I first fell in love with. After renting and watching a four part mini-series titled Of Good and Evil, I was hooked. There was something about the characters that drew me in, made them somehow real. I think the best I can describe it is like this. When I was younger, I watched He-Man. He-Man was just strong. There really wasn't much else to him, no truly discernable underlying personality. But Wolverine, now he has character. He is angry, confused, his mind drawn in two different directions; but at the same time he is fiercely loyal, proud and sacrificially protective of his friends. He and all the other X-Men characters have built in histories, tensions that haunt them as they confront their past and fight for their futures.
A scene from Witch Mountain piqued my interest. It was not some major battle scene in which the 'children' were displaying the prowess of their powers, it was a scene in which they were beginning their five mile hike to the mountain. Here was a girl who could control matter and she and her friends were walking. Images flashed in my mind of the group sailing over the terrain, each standing on a slab of rock which followed her bidding. At least that's what Magneto would have done (allowing that his rocks would have contained veins of iridium of ore, thus allowing him to manipulate them).
Stan Lee, the creator of the X-Men, and all the others who over the years have contributed to them have done a spectacular job of finding creative ways to use the mutant’s powers. While they sometimes use brute force to get a job done, they often use subtler, more simple ways to find a solution to their current predicament. From Colossus using his metallic form to bash through a wall to Wolverine touching a badly hurt Rogue’s skin, allowing her to ‘steal’ his regenerative powers and survive, the creative uses of their powers is seemingly limitless.
I recently watched a cartoon episode where Morph, a mutant who can shape shift into the form of any other person and who had previously been one of my least favorite characters, was facing the demons of his past, made real in the present in the form of the Sentinels, giant robots whose sole purpose is the elimination of all mutants. Morph has missed the last 40+ episodes after almost being killed by the same robotic threat. In this episode, as the other X-Men were fighting a losing battle, Morph, who’s mutant ability to mimic other people amazingly includes the assuming their powers, singlehandedly used a myriad of other mutants’ powers to defeat the Sentinels. He then again faded out of the series, citing the fact that he needed to continue his mental recovery, saying “I came through today, but what about next time?” Even in his triumph, the writers have built in enough character depth for Morph to admit his continued struggles and gracefully bow back out of the series.
As I come to the end of today’s blog, I find myself in a strange place. While I have most successfully imparted all I had originally hoped, I seemingly had no directive other than to share my thoughts. Thus I find myself without a clear lesson or thought to wrap all my ramblings into a cohesive ending. So I will leave you to draw your own conclusions and I will set the computer aside and turn my full attention to this week’s Bears game.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Reason Be Not My Guide
It has been quite some time since Mollie and I made a spur-of-the-moment traveling decision. For the last few months, our travels have been many and planned, be it for family events or a weekend of baseball. But with our infant child steadily growing and our weekends free of other commitments, we had been mulling taking an impromptu trip to Cedar Rapids for Mollie's AOÏ€ reunion breakfast. With in minutes of deciding traveling to CR likely wasn't the best idea, and just before we committed to staying home, we had settled on a completely new destination, Oswego (near Chicago - home to my family).
While we have a varied and long history of making rash traveling decisions, there is one trip that stands out above all others. It was some three to five years ago, while we were unfettered by pitter-patter of tiny feet. The Fourth of July was a day away, or a day behind - I cannot remember, and we were in search of a firework show. Google found the nearest; it was down by the river in Alton, IL. Springfield, IL is not exactly near Alton, but despite the great distance and the mere 60 minutes until show time, we jumped in the car and were off like a bat out of some place where a bigger bat was flying around and trying to eat it. Fortune smiled on us, the explosives display ran for an extended time, and we arrived in time to watch fifteen minutes of fireworks. We parked and sat on the warm hood of our car, taking in the colors.
When the last shell had burst, we feared our trip would be much wasted if we only stayed for the fifteen minutes of flame, so we sought out other distractions before making our way home. And distraction we found in a nearby casino. Before we finally turned our headlights northwards, Mollie had worked her way through ten dollars, while I had mostly doubled mine.
On the casino floor, Mollie had found a discarded cash-out slip; someone had apparently seen little value in the four cents that remained to them. I took and held the four pennies she had cashed out, keeping them safe while an idea brewed in my mind. When the idea had finally rounded out, I turned a small, oak candle stick with the pennies secured into its side, as though Mr. Lincoln was peering out in each of the four directions.
That candlestick now sits above our television, or on the mantle as seasonal decorations dictate. It is a daily reminder of how spontaneity, in lieu of reason, can lead to great experiences and greater memories.
So where will you go this weekend?
While we have a varied and long history of making rash traveling decisions, there is one trip that stands out above all others. It was some three to five years ago, while we were unfettered by pitter-patter of tiny feet. The Fourth of July was a day away, or a day behind - I cannot remember, and we were in search of a firework show. Google found the nearest; it was down by the river in Alton, IL. Springfield, IL is not exactly near Alton, but despite the great distance and the mere 60 minutes until show time, we jumped in the car and were off like a bat out of some place where a bigger bat was flying around and trying to eat it. Fortune smiled on us, the explosives display ran for an extended time, and we arrived in time to watch fifteen minutes of fireworks. We parked and sat on the warm hood of our car, taking in the colors.
When the last shell had burst, we feared our trip would be much wasted if we only stayed for the fifteen minutes of flame, so we sought out other distractions before making our way home. And distraction we found in a nearby casino. Before we finally turned our headlights northwards, Mollie had worked her way through ten dollars, while I had mostly doubled mine.
On the casino floor, Mollie had found a discarded cash-out slip; someone had apparently seen little value in the four cents that remained to them. I took and held the four pennies she had cashed out, keeping them safe while an idea brewed in my mind. When the idea had finally rounded out, I turned a small, oak candle stick with the pennies secured into its side, as though Mr. Lincoln was peering out in each of the four directions.
That candlestick now sits above our television, or on the mantle as seasonal decorations dictate. It is a daily reminder of how spontaneity, in lieu of reason, can lead to great experiences and greater memories.
So where will you go this weekend?
Friday, October 2, 2009
Fair Maiden of the River
We begin with a little bit of good news . . . I got sleep last night! In fact, both Mollie and I managed to catch a reasonably sufficient number of winks. How, you ask, well, I have just the mind to tell you.
We think Annaliese was eating too much. She would eat and eat and eat and you get the picture. As best we can guess, her stomach was getting so full, it’d leak a little, right back up the gullet. As soon as we laid her on her back, she’d get an influx of ABC milk (okay, you don’t chew milk, but hopefully you understand the gist). Our, well Mollie’s, solution . . . don’t feed her as much! With less to bother her sensibilities, our tightly wrapped baby-burrito found herself aside Morpheus’ fairer river.
Which reminds me of a song:
Baby burri-to.
Baby burri-to.
You’re full of love,
And kindness,
And gentleness,
And joy and poop.
So it was that we passed the night, one in the comforts of our bed, the other on the relative ease of the couch, just an arms length from any stray binky that might cry out in the night. And long ere the dawn, we had reasoned an exchange, allowing each an undisturbed rest in the still night.
We think Annaliese was eating too much. She would eat and eat and eat and you get the picture. As best we can guess, her stomach was getting so full, it’d leak a little, right back up the gullet. As soon as we laid her on her back, she’d get an influx of ABC milk (okay, you don’t chew milk, but hopefully you understand the gist). Our, well Mollie’s, solution . . . don’t feed her as much! With less to bother her sensibilities, our tightly wrapped baby-burrito found herself aside Morpheus’ fairer river.
Which reminds me of a song:
Baby burri-to.
Baby burri-to.
You’re full of love,
And kindness,
And gentleness,
And joy and poop.
So it was that we passed the night, one in the comforts of our bed, the other on the relative ease of the couch, just an arms length from any stray binky that might cry out in the night. And long ere the dawn, we had reasoned an exchange, allowing each an undisturbed rest in the still night.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Pet Names
First of all, let me point out that the title ‘Pet Names’ does not refer to my dog, though I probably should someday blog about the origins of Samwise Fingolfin 3’s name (excuse me while I add that to my emergency list). I guess a better title would have been ‘Nicknames,’ but since I’ve already mentioned the given designation (the last word is courtesy of a more subtle use of the ‘synonyms’ feature) in the first sentence, I’ll let it be.
When Andrew was a wee lad (as if he is no longer wee), Mollie and I kept track of the many different names we called him; Andrew, Drew, Drewbers, the list is long and undistinguished. We have started a similar list for Annaliese, but it contains many less names than did Andrew’s; Annaliese, Anna and one that has become a staple in our household, Anna Banana.
I was first loath to refer to my daughter by that name, foreseeing the anguish it could one day cause her. But my worries were abated, or at least sated for a while, when Andrew heard Mollie call Annaliese by that name. Apparently he understood the humor and/or rhyme of the two words because he began laughing heartily. He then attempted to echo his mother; Nanabnanan, Anaannban, the words were mostly a jumble of a’s and n’s, mixed with a chorus of giggles and the occasional b thrown in for good measure.
He has continued to call her Anna Banana and has since come closer to the correct pronunciation. That is an accomplishment in and of itself, as before attempting this rhyme he could not pronounce either word on its own (Enna and Nana). That aside, I am struck that my two year old son understands and recognizes humor. We will occasionally have our attentions drawn to him as he laughs to himself, then proudly proclaims, “Andrew funny!” I have yet to see or understand exactly why at that moment he considers himself funny (or at least my reasons for thinking him funny are different from his), but I am convinced that on his own, he truly sees certain things as humorous.
I think that of all the things I would like to pass on to my son, humor is near the top of the list. It follows close on the heels of love for family and trails the pinnacle of fatherly instruction, love and service for God, by a solid margin. Yet being able to find and appreciate humor in all things (perhaps too many) has been a mainstay of my life. It is an enjoyment I hope to share with my son for many a long year; a pleasure I may be privileged to much earlier than I ever expected.
When Andrew was a wee lad (as if he is no longer wee), Mollie and I kept track of the many different names we called him; Andrew, Drew, Drewbers, the list is long and undistinguished. We have started a similar list for Annaliese, but it contains many less names than did Andrew’s; Annaliese, Anna and one that has become a staple in our household, Anna Banana.
I was first loath to refer to my daughter by that name, foreseeing the anguish it could one day cause her. But my worries were abated, or at least sated for a while, when Andrew heard Mollie call Annaliese by that name. Apparently he understood the humor and/or rhyme of the two words because he began laughing heartily. He then attempted to echo his mother; Nanabnanan, Anaannban, the words were mostly a jumble of a’s and n’s, mixed with a chorus of giggles and the occasional b thrown in for good measure.
He has continued to call her Anna Banana and has since come closer to the correct pronunciation. That is an accomplishment in and of itself, as before attempting this rhyme he could not pronounce either word on its own (Enna and Nana). That aside, I am struck that my two year old son understands and recognizes humor. We will occasionally have our attentions drawn to him as he laughs to himself, then proudly proclaims, “Andrew funny!” I have yet to see or understand exactly why at that moment he considers himself funny (or at least my reasons for thinking him funny are different from his), but I am convinced that on his own, he truly sees certain things as humorous.
I think that of all the things I would like to pass on to my son, humor is near the top of the list. It follows close on the heels of love for family and trails the pinnacle of fatherly instruction, love and service for God, by a solid margin. Yet being able to find and appreciate humor in all things (perhaps too many) has been a mainstay of my life. It is an enjoyment I hope to share with my son for many a long year; a pleasure I may be privileged to much earlier than I ever expected.
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