It's some 12 hours after writing my previous blog. I was pretty nervous about the upcoming gig at Pelunsky Prison. As is often the case in my life, many of my fears were not realized. Actually, the entire experience will go down as a good memory for Danelle and I.
First of all, Pelunsky isn't in Huntsville. Nope. It's somewhere near Coldspring and Livingston, out in the middle of nowhere. According to my wife, there was some sort of uprising in 1994 that led to some changes in the prison system, which is why Pelunsky came about. Apparently, the powers that be decided to put this unit as far away from a major population center as they could. It took over an hour just to get to the place. I guess that's what was in mind in putting the unit out there where it is.
Secondly, despite the fact that Pelunsky is home to "Death Row," our band of miscreants didn't come anywhere near that part of the population. Instead, it turns out that those who were under minimum security were the only ones allowed to attend public meetings. Low risk inmates in a minimal supervision setting. Our concert tonight was a function that is part of a ministry headed up by our keyboard player, Walter Bennett. He practically knew everyone who was in attendance and practically orchestrated everything we did. We were in the best possible situation we could have been in behind the walls of the TDCJ.
Now, death row was there and on our way out, our guide for the evening, the prison chaplain, informed us that the 3 blocks of buildings to the southwest of the Pelunsky grounds is the most secure, heavily guarded facility in the state of Texas. From what I understood, those therein do well just to see the light of day.
Lastly, I think the most memorable thing that I took away from the evening was looking at the faces of men from so many different backgrounds who shared a common place and time. It's weird, but it was almost like I could see the crimes that had been perpetrated in their faces. There were several that knew that had made a terrible mistake. Circumstances beyond their control pushed them to the brink and they crossed the line. Now they were left to pay with their lives. Others had committed unspeakable offenses against other human beings and were forced to be reminded of their sins when they wake up each morning in custody of the state of Texas. Still, here they were, all together in the same room, listening to our band - singing songs of hope and deliverance.
But for me, it was way more than that. When I looked these men in the face, I realized that I had committed sins of my own, maybe not the kind that would get me thrown in jail. I was also reminded of times when I was so angry that I could have crossed the line or made bad decisions just as quick and rash, just as they had. The only difference between myself and them was the grace of God, pure and simple. Sometimes, that's what it takes. Someone has to look us right in the eye to makes see what we might miss otherwise.
So, after an afternoon of anxiety, I was relieved to sit down with my cohorts and debrief over some ribs and fried catfish at Florida's (a pretty good bar-b-que place near the prison). It was awesome to see ourselves used by God's hand the way we were tonight. It seemed the guys were really blessed by our being there. We were even invited back.
I won't be as concerned about going back as I was today. I actually made some friends on the inside. More importantly, I was reminded that we're all basically the same. If but for the grace of God, there go I. Indeed.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
Pelunsky Prison Blues
I'm getting ready to leave work so my wife and I, along with 3 friends of ours, can go play music in prison. We'll be behind bars for 3 hours: 5-8 PM tonight. I'm guessing it will be something like Folsum Prison Blues, though I'm not sure if we'll be playing for a portion of the population or not. I thought we were going to a different unit, one that my wife and I had been to once before. It turns out we're going to the Pelunsky Unit, Death Row for male inmates in Texas, just north of Huntsville, Texas. I don't know why it made any difference, but when I found out we were playing "Death Row," the whole trip took on more significance. Death Row? The thought sends a chill up my spine.
Last night we had a short rehearsal and my friend Walter told us all the "do's" and "don'ts" for our visit: what to wear, what not to wear, what to bring, what not to bring. I'm playing the drums, which required a special security clearance because of all the metal in the kit (perfect for making shanks). Again, the idea of taking all this stuff to death row is a little freaky. I wonder what Johnny Cash was thinking when he went into Folsum Prison way back when. Was his drummer concerned about his kit, like I am about mine?
I had a cooky dream about the experience this morning. I don't remember the dream, but I woke up feeling uneasy about this whole thing. I'm thankful for the opportunity. I hope I'll be able to write about the experience in my blog tomorrow.
I'll end with that...
Last night we had a short rehearsal and my friend Walter told us all the "do's" and "don'ts" for our visit: what to wear, what not to wear, what to bring, what not to bring. I'm playing the drums, which required a special security clearance because of all the metal in the kit (perfect for making shanks). Again, the idea of taking all this stuff to death row is a little freaky. I wonder what Johnny Cash was thinking when he went into Folsum Prison way back when. Was his drummer concerned about his kit, like I am about mine?
I had a cooky dream about the experience this morning. I don't remember the dream, but I woke up feeling uneasy about this whole thing. I'm thankful for the opportunity. I hope I'll be able to write about the experience in my blog tomorrow.
I'll end with that...
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Givin' Up On Pro Sports...
Maybe I'm telling on myself, but I've always been a loyal fan of the teams of my choosing. I guess there's a childlike aspect about it. I grew up near the Dallas - Ft. Worth area and naturally, to me anyway, I was a Cowboys and Rangers fan. I cried when the Cowboys lost Superbowl XIII. I rejoiced when they won XXVII, XXVIII and XXX. I was watching the night that Nolan Ryan became the all-time strikeout leader in major league baseball. He was a Ranger then you know.
Now that we live in the Houston area, I've also become a fan of the Texans and Astros and follow them closely. As childish as I can be when sports are on the television, I'm no longer a child. As entertaining as professional sports can be, I'm at a point where I can't stomach watching them anymore. All the rivalries that were so real in my childhood are a distant memory, thanks to the free agency system of today. Despite all the claims that the superjocks are in it for the love of the game they play, it's pretty clear that it's all about the money. I was late to catch on because I hoped there might be some salvageable good still left in it. I'm now convinced that it's corrupt to the core. The love of money is at the heart of everything that is wrong with professional sports.
Case in point: Terrell Owens, the big-mouthed jackass who single-handedly dismantled the 2004 NFC Champion Philadelphia Eagles franchise barely a month into the 2005 football season, was recently signed by the Dallas Cowboys for a 3-year deal . What is Jerry Jones, the owner of the Cowboys' organization, smoking?!! Not only is the guy a discipline problem, he's a destructive influence on his OWN team. Who cares what he does to the opposition! It's ridiculous.
Those closest to me have heard me talk about getting out to see a real football or baseball game more and more lately. I don't want to bother with going to see "professionals" who are more interested with their health and marketability than in making a play. Instead, I'm planning to pick up a high school or college game instead. That is where real rivalries come alive and kids play to win because they love the game, not because they're getting paid to play.
Now that we live in the Houston area, I've also become a fan of the Texans and Astros and follow them closely. As childish as I can be when sports are on the television, I'm no longer a child. As entertaining as professional sports can be, I'm at a point where I can't stomach watching them anymore. All the rivalries that were so real in my childhood are a distant memory, thanks to the free agency system of today. Despite all the claims that the superjocks are in it for the love of the game they play, it's pretty clear that it's all about the money. I was late to catch on because I hoped there might be some salvageable good still left in it. I'm now convinced that it's corrupt to the core. The love of money is at the heart of everything that is wrong with professional sports.
Case in point: Terrell Owens, the big-mouthed jackass who single-handedly dismantled the 2004 NFC Champion Philadelphia Eagles franchise barely a month into the 2005 football season, was recently signed by the Dallas Cowboys for a 3-year deal . What is Jerry Jones, the owner of the Cowboys' organization, smoking?!! Not only is the guy a discipline problem, he's a destructive influence on his OWN team. Who cares what he does to the opposition! It's ridiculous.
Those closest to me have heard me talk about getting out to see a real football or baseball game more and more lately. I don't want to bother with going to see "professionals" who are more interested with their health and marketability than in making a play. Instead, I'm planning to pick up a high school or college game instead. That is where real rivalries come alive and kids play to win because they love the game, not because they're getting paid to play.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Stepping Out From the Shadow
I've been pretty introspective lately. I'd like to turn this subject into a song. I posted it on my My Space Music site. I've copied it here in case anybody wants to stay away from My Space altogether.
I've aluded in other blog entries that my wife and I are experiencing an epiphany of sorts. The channels of communication are wide-open. We've talked about things that have lurked under the surface of our lives for years on end. I've also chronicled what it's been like. It's been the most amazing thing I've ever seen - period.
In the course of these late night talks, we brought up something that has been a pretty big piece of baggage for us throughout our married life. I'm writing about it now because it really has been a source of much frustration and pain for us. I won't go into it specifically because of the personal nature that is involved. Suffice it to say it was a decision to do what I thought was the right thing to do at the time, but it was a decision made at a time of vulnerability. I felt I had no friends that I could turn to, or so I thought. Despite evidence to the contrary, I was told at the time "this is for the best." You'll look back on this one day and see it as a good thing." Yeah, whatever.
That decision has loomed like an enormous shadow over our lives, our relationship to each other and others and now, our family. It has overshadowed every subsequent decision that we've made since that day. It's as if we've been haunted by it. If only I had talked to someone else. If only I could have known that I could have talked to somebody else. Regret hangs like a stinking carcass in a meat locker. It sure would be nice to rip the thing down and throw it in a trash bin someplace or better yet, bury it!
Somewhere along the way though, something changed, hence the epiphany. Instead of being hounded by the shadow, I discovered that I can step out from under it. The shadow is full of other people's expectations. All the predictions that people made about our success. All of that unreached potential - which can be a horrifying thing to look at face to face - can be left behind, just by walking out of the shadow and into the light. I'm not saying that the shadow will ever go away. It will probably stay just where it is. The fact is I don't have to stay in it or under it. I can walk away and I don't have to look back.
So, I guess we're "walking on sunshine" or in it anyway. It's kinda weird to look at the new scenery. It's a little frightening because it's really new, challenging and inviting. Is it for real? It most definitely is.
I've aluded in other blog entries that my wife and I are experiencing an epiphany of sorts. The channels of communication are wide-open. We've talked about things that have lurked under the surface of our lives for years on end. I've also chronicled what it's been like. It's been the most amazing thing I've ever seen - period.
In the course of these late night talks, we brought up something that has been a pretty big piece of baggage for us throughout our married life. I'm writing about it now because it really has been a source of much frustration and pain for us. I won't go into it specifically because of the personal nature that is involved. Suffice it to say it was a decision to do what I thought was the right thing to do at the time, but it was a decision made at a time of vulnerability. I felt I had no friends that I could turn to, or so I thought. Despite evidence to the contrary, I was told at the time "this is for the best." You'll look back on this one day and see it as a good thing." Yeah, whatever.
That decision has loomed like an enormous shadow over our lives, our relationship to each other and others and now, our family. It has overshadowed every subsequent decision that we've made since that day. It's as if we've been haunted by it. If only I had talked to someone else. If only I could have known that I could have talked to somebody else. Regret hangs like a stinking carcass in a meat locker. It sure would be nice to rip the thing down and throw it in a trash bin someplace or better yet, bury it!
Somewhere along the way though, something changed, hence the epiphany. Instead of being hounded by the shadow, I discovered that I can step out from under it. The shadow is full of other people's expectations. All the predictions that people made about our success. All of that unreached potential - which can be a horrifying thing to look at face to face - can be left behind, just by walking out of the shadow and into the light. I'm not saying that the shadow will ever go away. It will probably stay just where it is. The fact is I don't have to stay in it or under it. I can walk away and I don't have to look back.
So, I guess we're "walking on sunshine" or in it anyway. It's kinda weird to look at the new scenery. It's a little frightening because it's really new, challenging and inviting. Is it for real? It most definitely is.
Carl Tapley Stories
My wife and I have been doing a lot of talking lately (see my previous post). One of the things we have talked about has been how my writing seems to be blooming lately (in large part as a result of keeping up my blog). Unlike so many blogs on the web, I've tried to make mine less about current events - though they have popped up here and there - and more about matters pertaining to East Texas. Hence the whole slant of this blog.
An indelible part of my affinity for East Texas is my experiences while growing up there. I'm sure people from a big city or a large town would have plenty of things to write about. As action-packed as such stories might be, I sincerely doubt they could rival stories I have of my friendship with one Carl Tapley. As I write this, I'm a little apprehensive of putting such personal information on the web, but I'm more apprehensive for myself than for Carl. He's the kind of guy that would likely Google himself every now and then to see if there's anything new out there about him. So, Carl, if you're reading this, you reserve the right to correct me on any of these accounts, because quite honestly it's been a while and my memory might be doing funny things.
Carl, or Tap-bone - T-bone for short, moved to Malakoff, Texas from Conroe - ironically where my family currently resides - when we both were in the 5th grade. He was always a tall, lanky sort of person. He was care-free from the time I first got to know him. We seemed to hit it off right away. He often would ask to spend the night and never seemed to want to go home the next day. Sometimes he would stay over two or three nights at a time. When he wasn't spending the night, he would often call me up and want to talk. When we ran out of things to say, rather than hang up like people usually do, I often had to pretend that something was wrong with the phone to get him to hang up. Even if I was successful getting him off the phone, he often would call back.
We played football and baseball on the same teams from elementary through high school. Both of us weren't very good early on and usually kept each other company on the bench. In the summer after our 5th grade year, our baseball team made the area playoffs and had to trim our roster by a few players. I made the team and Carl didn't. I really felt bad for him. He was a good sport about it and even came to the games to root us on. I never forgot that. He was team player if there ever was one.
But, Carl's "take one for the team" player attitude was often overshadowed by incidents that could only be described as "Carl being Carl." Here are just a few of Carl's priceless and memorable moments:
In the 7th grade, our coach was recruiting for an upcoming track meet. Our school didn't have a track, but our coaches wanted to make a strong showing at the meet. I was selected to run both the mile and 2 mile runs and to throw the discus. The faster guys were selected for all the running events, but nobody volunteered for the hurdles. I guess Carl saw this as his moment. He volunteered, though he'd never hurdled a thing in his entire life. The track meet was only a handful of days away, so none of us were able to prepare for any of our events. I'm not sure that any preparation would have helped Carl. On his first event, the 110 high-hurdles, Carl didn't clear the first one. Instead, on that first hurdle, he managed to hook his right foot under the hurdle rail and fell over the hurdle. As funny as the sight was, it was a painful event for him. He broke his wrist in two places, falling over the hurdle there on the track. Afterwards, that same coach was always quick to say, in reference to Carl, "I'll do it coach" and get a laugh out of everybody. The truth was that Carl would always volunteer to do anything and the team had to brace ourselves for the outcome.
That summer, during baseball season, we were playing a local rival, Kerens. They had a team pretty much like us, except for one player, Scotty Bryant. He was a super-athlete. He was outstanding in every sport, including baseball. He was a pitcher, not because he could necessarily pitch. He could throw incredibly hard around the strike zone which was more than enough in our league. On this particular day, we had not gotten many hits and were losing, but somehow we were still in the game. It came time for Carl's at-bat. He drew a 4-pitch, 2-out walk and proceeded to first base. When he got on base, he decided to do more than just "chatter" the pitcher (talking baseball trash at him). He started jumping and juking around in a way that I cannot describe with words. It was so ridiculous that the entire opposing team was laughing, including Bryant. It distracted Bryant just enough that he could no longer find the strike zone and walked two more batters. Carl moved from 1st to 2nd and from 2nd to 3rd base. Meanwhile, Carl kept up his goofy dance, but as was often the case, he took it just one step too far. His family was screaming "Carl Allen, you stay on that base!" Our coach was getting angry and ordered him to stop. More importantly, the opposing team wasn't amused anymore and I think they figured out how to stop him in his tracks. Just as Carl was getting his lead and beginning to shake his feet and hands, Bryant turned and threw to 3rd base. Carl froze in his tracks. He was tagged out with very little effort by the 3rd baseman. It was the end of inning and of our only legitimate scoring threat of the entire game.
Carl and I were in the 8th grade band. In our school district, our high school band would also use 8th grade band members to beef up the numbers on the field. Carl & I both played the trumpet and sat and marched by each other in the band. During rehearsals he was always joking around and often got us both in trouble. One particular time, before school had even started, Carl was joking around and some of the upper-classmen got upset. They took us to the far end of the Ag building and were ready to beat the literal crap out of us. They told us they wanted us to take things more seriously. I could see how grave a situation this was and I really didn't want to have to endure a beating, so I just went along. For some reason unknow to me - Carl couldn't keep his mouth shut. He proceeded to mouth off and summarily got us both knocked around. I didn't get the worst of it, but the whole time I was thinking "look what you've gotten us into!" Afterwards, those same guys didn't bother me, but they always had something for Carl.
In our school system, we were allowed to be in both band and athletics through Jr. and Sr. high, so Carl and I played football together, as well as baseball and other sports. One time, our 8th grade football team was playing Rusk Jr. High and had just scored the go-ahead touchdown on an incredible kick-off return in the closing seconds of the game. We're jumping up and down on the sidelines, celebrating the win. But, there on the field was a piece of yellow satin laundry, known in more proper terms as a penalty flag. "Personal foul, clipping, on number 80." Number 80? "Who the hell is that?" On the far side of the field is number 80. It's Carl - like the kid with his hand still stuck in the cookie jar - saying it wasn't him. He was guilty of clipping - making a block in the back of a defender, on his only play on the field that night - which garnered a 15-yard penalty. The touchdown came back and like so many times in our athletic history, we had just grasped defeat from the jaws of victory. Still, as bad as it was it's not the worst part. The block that Carl made was away from the play and had no bearing whatsoever on assisting the score. It's a good thing we played at home that night. Had we been away, I don't think Carl would have been allowed to ride the bus.
I could tell more stories, like the time I was nearly knocked unconscious by a baseball he threw when I wasn't ready while playing catch, or when we got into a fistfight at a youth event at our church, or when we got into a fight during baseball practice in high school. Such stories are endless. We had our share of fights, like any siblings or best friends are capable of. Now that I'm a grown man I treasure those experiences just because I had a friend like Carl. I've only seen him twice in the 19 years since we graduated high school. The last time I saw him was 3 1/2 years ago. He's hardly changed at all. I'd have to say that's a pretty good thing, too.
An indelible part of my affinity for East Texas is my experiences while growing up there. I'm sure people from a big city or a large town would have plenty of things to write about. As action-packed as such stories might be, I sincerely doubt they could rival stories I have of my friendship with one Carl Tapley. As I write this, I'm a little apprehensive of putting such personal information on the web, but I'm more apprehensive for myself than for Carl. He's the kind of guy that would likely Google himself every now and then to see if there's anything new out there about him. So, Carl, if you're reading this, you reserve the right to correct me on any of these accounts, because quite honestly it's been a while and my memory might be doing funny things.
Carl, or Tap-bone - T-bone for short, moved to Malakoff, Texas from Conroe - ironically where my family currently resides - when we both were in the 5th grade. He was always a tall, lanky sort of person. He was care-free from the time I first got to know him. We seemed to hit it off right away. He often would ask to spend the night and never seemed to want to go home the next day. Sometimes he would stay over two or three nights at a time. When he wasn't spending the night, he would often call me up and want to talk. When we ran out of things to say, rather than hang up like people usually do, I often had to pretend that something was wrong with the phone to get him to hang up. Even if I was successful getting him off the phone, he often would call back.
We played football and baseball on the same teams from elementary through high school. Both of us weren't very good early on and usually kept each other company on the bench. In the summer after our 5th grade year, our baseball team made the area playoffs and had to trim our roster by a few players. I made the team and Carl didn't. I really felt bad for him. He was a good sport about it and even came to the games to root us on. I never forgot that. He was team player if there ever was one.
But, Carl's "take one for the team" player attitude was often overshadowed by incidents that could only be described as "Carl being Carl." Here are just a few of Carl's priceless and memorable moments:
In the 7th grade, our coach was recruiting for an upcoming track meet. Our school didn't have a track, but our coaches wanted to make a strong showing at the meet. I was selected to run both the mile and 2 mile runs and to throw the discus. The faster guys were selected for all the running events, but nobody volunteered for the hurdles. I guess Carl saw this as his moment. He volunteered, though he'd never hurdled a thing in his entire life. The track meet was only a handful of days away, so none of us were able to prepare for any of our events. I'm not sure that any preparation would have helped Carl. On his first event, the 110 high-hurdles, Carl didn't clear the first one. Instead, on that first hurdle, he managed to hook his right foot under the hurdle rail and fell over the hurdle. As funny as the sight was, it was a painful event for him. He broke his wrist in two places, falling over the hurdle there on the track. Afterwards, that same coach was always quick to say, in reference to Carl, "I'll do it coach" and get a laugh out of everybody. The truth was that Carl would always volunteer to do anything and the team had to brace ourselves for the outcome.
That summer, during baseball season, we were playing a local rival, Kerens. They had a team pretty much like us, except for one player, Scotty Bryant. He was a super-athlete. He was outstanding in every sport, including baseball. He was a pitcher, not because he could necessarily pitch. He could throw incredibly hard around the strike zone which was more than enough in our league. On this particular day, we had not gotten many hits and were losing, but somehow we were still in the game. It came time for Carl's at-bat. He drew a 4-pitch, 2-out walk and proceeded to first base. When he got on base, he decided to do more than just "chatter" the pitcher (talking baseball trash at him). He started jumping and juking around in a way that I cannot describe with words. It was so ridiculous that the entire opposing team was laughing, including Bryant. It distracted Bryant just enough that he could no longer find the strike zone and walked two more batters. Carl moved from 1st to 2nd and from 2nd to 3rd base. Meanwhile, Carl kept up his goofy dance, but as was often the case, he took it just one step too far. His family was screaming "Carl Allen, you stay on that base!" Our coach was getting angry and ordered him to stop. More importantly, the opposing team wasn't amused anymore and I think they figured out how to stop him in his tracks. Just as Carl was getting his lead and beginning to shake his feet and hands, Bryant turned and threw to 3rd base. Carl froze in his tracks. He was tagged out with very little effort by the 3rd baseman. It was the end of inning and of our only legitimate scoring threat of the entire game.
Carl and I were in the 8th grade band. In our school district, our high school band would also use 8th grade band members to beef up the numbers on the field. Carl & I both played the trumpet and sat and marched by each other in the band. During rehearsals he was always joking around and often got us both in trouble. One particular time, before school had even started, Carl was joking around and some of the upper-classmen got upset. They took us to the far end of the Ag building and were ready to beat the literal crap out of us. They told us they wanted us to take things more seriously. I could see how grave a situation this was and I really didn't want to have to endure a beating, so I just went along. For some reason unknow to me - Carl couldn't keep his mouth shut. He proceeded to mouth off and summarily got us both knocked around. I didn't get the worst of it, but the whole time I was thinking "look what you've gotten us into!" Afterwards, those same guys didn't bother me, but they always had something for Carl.
In our school system, we were allowed to be in both band and athletics through Jr. and Sr. high, so Carl and I played football together, as well as baseball and other sports. One time, our 8th grade football team was playing Rusk Jr. High and had just scored the go-ahead touchdown on an incredible kick-off return in the closing seconds of the game. We're jumping up and down on the sidelines, celebrating the win. But, there on the field was a piece of yellow satin laundry, known in more proper terms as a penalty flag. "Personal foul, clipping, on number 80." Number 80? "Who the hell is that?" On the far side of the field is number 80. It's Carl - like the kid with his hand still stuck in the cookie jar - saying it wasn't him. He was guilty of clipping - making a block in the back of a defender, on his only play on the field that night - which garnered a 15-yard penalty. The touchdown came back and like so many times in our athletic history, we had just grasped defeat from the jaws of victory. Still, as bad as it was it's not the worst part. The block that Carl made was away from the play and had no bearing whatsoever on assisting the score. It's a good thing we played at home that night. Had we been away, I don't think Carl would have been allowed to ride the bus.
I could tell more stories, like the time I was nearly knocked unconscious by a baseball he threw when I wasn't ready while playing catch, or when we got into a fistfight at a youth event at our church, or when we got into a fight during baseball practice in high school. Such stories are endless. We had our share of fights, like any siblings or best friends are capable of. Now that I'm a grown man I treasure those experiences just because I had a friend like Carl. I've only seen him twice in the 19 years since we graduated high school. The last time I saw him was 3 1/2 years ago. He's hardly changed at all. I'd have to say that's a pretty good thing, too.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Life is Full of Suprises...
I never cease to be amazed. In the course of my life I have been so surprised by things that I thought never would happen or thought couldn't happen. It's like this...I have this idea about something and I think "there's no way in that dirty, dark place that my wife would ever go along with that." So, I don't tell her about it. I go along for days and finally mention it to her - because I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. She says "that's a great idea." I'm floored.
Everybody goes through rough times in their relationships. I've come to know that all too well. Sometimes, it gets SO bad that it seems it won't get any better. I have been surprised - again and again - by how something that appears so hopeless can be resolved just by taking the time to talk about it. I talked to a friend recently about stuff going on with my wife and I. "Have you said anything to her about any of this?" Nope. "Then how do you think it will get better?" No answer from me.
So, I take the risk and bring it up to my wife. We end up talking about this - and other stuff - for days on end. It's as if we've turned to a new chapter in our lives together. Surprised doesn't describe how I feel. Amazed. Stunned. It all works.
There are plenty of suprises that are bad. I think too often we go around bracing ourselves for bad stuff that we're afraid might happen and miss out on the good things that were a bit risky at the time. I like being surprised. I could use a lot more of the good kind.
Everybody goes through rough times in their relationships. I've come to know that all too well. Sometimes, it gets SO bad that it seems it won't get any better. I have been surprised - again and again - by how something that appears so hopeless can be resolved just by taking the time to talk about it. I talked to a friend recently about stuff going on with my wife and I. "Have you said anything to her about any of this?" Nope. "Then how do you think it will get better?" No answer from me.
So, I take the risk and bring it up to my wife. We end up talking about this - and other stuff - for days on end. It's as if we've turned to a new chapter in our lives together. Surprised doesn't describe how I feel. Amazed. Stunned. It all works.
There are plenty of suprises that are bad. I think too often we go around bracing ourselves for bad stuff that we're afraid might happen and miss out on the good things that were a bit risky at the time. I like being surprised. I could use a lot more of the good kind.
Check Out Friends on My Space
There's been a lot of bad publicity surrounding the site MySpace.com and with good reason. Teenie-bopper girls have hooked up with older, sicko guys through this service. It's true that thousands, possibly millions use the site to hook-up with whoever. (Let me say this - out front - to my darling wife, who will likely read this post...I haven't even looked around. I'm only talking from what I've heard about the site in the news) But, I've learned that there's a good side to MySpace and I've really been able to enjoy that side quite easily over the last few days.
It all started last month, when my brother-in-law, the coffee meister himself, asked us to take in 3 rock stars from the band Discover America for the night after their show nearby. We didn't get to take them in. It would have been out of their way. We put them up in a hotel, dropped some cash in their coffers and had a nice talk with one of the guys. During the discussion, he asked if we were on MySpace. I told him no, but we exchanged e-mail addresses, gave them directions to the hotel and went on home.
Later that week, I decided to look up DA on MySpace. When I found them, I wanted to post them a message, but discovered that I needed to sign up in order to proceed. So, I did. I thought it was cool and moved on. Within just a few days, I heard from a friend from high school, another person who was a friend of a friend from my home town, two friends from Mississippi and got in contact with people I had long since lost touch with years ago.
So, if you're interested in finding old friends, want to keep up with the friends you have, want to make new ones or even pretend that you're a rock star, you might want to give MySpace a once over. You can start by looking at my profile and the profile for me, the musician. How's that for shameless, self-promotion?
It all started last month, when my brother-in-law, the coffee meister himself, asked us to take in 3 rock stars from the band Discover America for the night after their show nearby. We didn't get to take them in. It would have been out of their way. We put them up in a hotel, dropped some cash in their coffers and had a nice talk with one of the guys. During the discussion, he asked if we were on MySpace. I told him no, but we exchanged e-mail addresses, gave them directions to the hotel and went on home.
Later that week, I decided to look up DA on MySpace. When I found them, I wanted to post them a message, but discovered that I needed to sign up in order to proceed. So, I did. I thought it was cool and moved on. Within just a few days, I heard from a friend from high school, another person who was a friend of a friend from my home town, two friends from Mississippi and got in contact with people I had long since lost touch with years ago.
So, if you're interested in finding old friends, want to keep up with the friends you have, want to make new ones or even pretend that you're a rock star, you might want to give MySpace a once over. You can start by looking at my profile and the profile for me, the musician. How's that for shameless, self-promotion?
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