Here's a bit of information about myself...
I must be an optomist because I'm always looking forward to, or hoping, for a turning point in my life. I know I've had them: times in my life when everything changed, one way or another.
Just a few...James Sprayberry coming to Malakoff High School as band director. Until he arrived, I planned to get out of band after the 8th grade year. James Sprayberry's death was also a turning point. Had he lived, I would likely have been a band geek from that point forward. The decision about where to go to college was a turning point. Deciding against going to LeTourneau and going to Evangel instead was huge. Then, the choice to go to Southwestern. I digress...
One thing I often prayed for as a young man was for a "spiritual" turning point. I was looking for a distinctive place where I knew that God intervened and everything was changed for the better. There have been quite a few of these in my life. Not very many in the past several years. Still, I've hoped for them though they have been hard to come by as of late.
I've written here - quite often over the past few months - that I've been in a rough spot. It's hard to put in words, but it's been like walking through a thick fog or a smoke screen of sorts. Perhaps this is the mid-life crisis that I've been told awaits every man at some point in the years between his 30's and 50's. I don't know. I've been coming to grips with the fact that things didn't go the way I would have liked and I've had to "make- do."
At this point it seems really pathetic as I re-read that previous sentence. Everyone has to do it - at some point. Realize that I'm not going to be a millionaire. That the city won't name the street where my parents still live - in my childhood hometown - after me. That a lot of those dreams about life, ministry, or whatever were little more than dreams or misconceptions about how things work. So, what am I supposed to do now? Such is the question that I've been faced with when I get up to make my hour-long commute from the outskirts to uptown Houston. Is this all there is? Will this be what I do for the rest of my life?
I think I've felt very justified in being in touch with these feelings. Afterall, it's taken quite a while to be able to verbalize what's been going on for what has been a long time. So as pathetic as it is - there's a point to it, to grieve for what hasn't been realized and what should be let go of and ultimately be given to God. That is where I've been. Enter the turning point.
Tonight, we had a guest speaker at our month-end evening service. Her name was Ms. Choi. She's a house -church leader/planter from China. She's been imprisoned 4 separate times because of her faith. She's also founded an orphanage and is responsible for the birth of hundreds more house-churches in China and literally thousands - perhaps millions - of believers throughout China and other parts of the world. During her imprisonment, she received unbelievable punishment at the hands of her captors. Yet, through it all her faith was strengthened and became more inspirational to the people around her. Her life is one of being given lemons and in turn planting an orchard. To explain her and her testimony could only fall short with mere words. The woman, who is only slight in stature, is truly a spiritual giant in the Kingdom of God.
As I heard her talk, I felt as if God was speaking to my own struggles with my place and role within my community and church. Honestly it seems that everything is being stripped away in one way or another. It's as if I've sort of entered a prison of sorts - without the bars. This isn't the work of a person, or a group of people, to put me in my place. It can only be the work of God Almighty.
Paul talks about the the work of a potter and then absurdity of the clay telling the potter how to go about forming it. Quite often, that is what we do. "God I want this or that." Or "don't make me do this or that." We envision ourselves doing all these great things for God and His Kingdom but we fail to realize He has plans for us because we fight Him at every turning point. This is where I've been lately. It's hard to go to church and participate because I'm no longer doing what I was formerly accustomed to. Dare I say that I know better than God? I say I don't, but my actions speak otherwise.
Ms. Choi said she had to stand for hours at a time while in a crowded cell in China. She could sit, stand or kneel, but could not recline or lie down. Such was the mistreatment of her captors. What did she do, how did she respond? She asked for strength from God. When she thought she was to be executed, she made peace with death. When she was not killed, she prayed for deliverance - which eventually came. Her life, in-turn, became an inspiration to millions while she did exactly what she could - she lived out her life.
It probably doesn't sound that awe inspiring. Just looking at a lady, who probably isn't more than 5' 2", who read her testimony to the church. She doesn't look like the type who would start hundreds of underground churches, but that is her legacy. Perhaps the word for me is to focus my energies on where I already am. She was in prison. I'm locked into a 1-hour+ commute and a high-rise office. Her last stay in prison was over 10 months. I've been where I am about the same amount of time. She didn't speculate on why she was there, but sought to make an impact where she was. Can I make an impact in my world? That's the question - at this point in time. "God, what would you have me to do?" I don't need to know the significance of what I'm doing right now. I just need to keep doing it I guess.
As we closed out the service, our pastor asked Ms. Choi to pray over our church. For almost 4 minutes, the lady fervently spoke to the Eternal God with a fervency I've not seen in quite some time. She spoke in her native tongue, which at times sounded like some of the syllables I've heard uttered by those who "spoke in tongues" in the church meetings I grew up in. She was praying for us and honestly, it felt that she had a connection with the Almighty that all of us present could only wish we had. I'm curious to know what she said about us and what she asked God to do. Then again, I might not need to know. I'm sure it will be revealed in time.
As for this being a turning point, I sure hope it is. I sure need one.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Friday, May 19, 2006
I'll Probably Regret This...
I've been going through an emotional rough spot lately. I've been thinking about a lot of things, wondering if things would have been better - or worse - if I had made different decisions. It can be dangerous territory , but everybody does it, right? I just had one that I've not thought about - ever - until now.
Cue Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days"...
I used to play baseball - until I wrecked my arm. One of my favorite pitchers was - and still is - Roger Clemens. In the 80's, Roger had his shoulder scoped and the procedure literally saved his career. I had developed a shoulder problem and thought my condition was similar. I went to a sports doc to evaluate whether or not to have the surgery. Since I still wanted to play, the doc encouraged it. Things didn't go quite right with the procedure and I was through with baseball just a few months later.
I've got 3 game balls at my desk - in my "feel good" corner - from 3 of the best baseball games I pitched during high school.
One is from my junior year. We beat Palmer HS 12-3 on April 25, 1986 on our own field. I had 11 strikeouts in a 7-inning game against the 6th-ranked team in the Texas in 2A. My old little league coach suggested to our coach that I get the game ball after the game. The two coaches agreed and gave me the ball. I had dominated the same team a few weeks earlier in a error-plagued loss.
One little tidbit from my baseball career - I had to get a lot of strikeouts every time out. If anybody hit the ball, I was in trouble - as was indicated by my win-loss record. I didn't know how to calculate my Earned Run Average (ERA) in those days, but I suspect it was very low. I don't think there was a game in which we failed to have an error in the 3 years I pitched. It's a pretty sad thing when a pitcher can't count on the players around him to make plays, as was the case with me and my team mates. To any of those guys that might be reading - if you're offended, you shouldn't be.
The other two balls are from my senior year.
One of those is from an 8-7 victory of our local rival, Mabank HS - at their place, in a game where I hit my first-ever home run in regulation ball. Mabank won our district title that year and went to the playoffs. Our team was the last to beat them in regular-season play (they were eliminated in the first round anyway). I had 12 strikeouts in 7 innings in that game. I had to convince the coach to let me pitch that game. I had pitched in a losing cause just days before and it wasn't my turn in the rotation. I just felt like we would win and begged him to let me go. After I got mobbed by my teammates when I walked off the mound at the end of the game, coach gave me a hug and told me I had proved him wrong. That was a great day.
The other is from my last HS game. It was against Forney HS on May 18, 1987 (19 years ago yesterday) at our home field. We played them just 3 weeks before this game and and I carried a no-hitter into the 4th or 5th inning before the errors took over. We also got into a full two-team scuffle after the game's last pitch and, on the way off campus, the other team threw rocks at our bus. When they showed up at our place, people were everywhere hoping we'd scuffle again. In the end, there was no need for a scuffle. I had 13 strikeouts that day and beat them 4-1. It would have been a shutout, had it not been for 3 errors that allowed the only runner that I allowed past 2nd base to score that day. The write up in the local newspaper described the performance as being overpowering. Forney also went to the playoffs that year and didn't get past the first round.
I'm writing all this stuff because I reminded myself what sort of gift I had as a teenager. I started pitching during the summer after 6th grade. My dad propped up an old tire against an old shed in our back yard for me to use as a strike zone. I practiced my pitches on that target until the wall behind it fell apart. When I entered high school, I tried out as an outfielder, because I didn't think I could make it as a pitcher. I was later converted to a catcher and made all district that season.
Toward the end of my freshman season, our baseball program began a 26-game losing streak that spanned 3 seasons. Our coach was looking for any and every way to break our skid early on. One day during batting practice, I asked if I could pitch. This coach - a different coach than the one's during my junior and senior season (we went through 3 coaches in 3 years) - didn't believe I could pitch. After batting practice, he scheduled me to pitch during an upcoming tournament. I didn't win in the tournament, but as an underclassman, I impressed both our coach and opposing coaches. For the rest of the season, I split time catching behind the plate and pitching in front of it.
I was selected to all-district and all-county teams throughout my 4-year HS baseball career and participated in 2 professional tryouts. Still, I was not signed to play college ball after high school. It was probably a good thing. The arm was virtually gone by then. Perhaps proper rehab could have helped what ailed me. I don't know. I later walked on at Evangel College in Springfield, MO and made the football team as a place-kicker. I spent two years there before returning to Texas. I grew up a lot during my time at EC. I also thought after I arrived back in Texas that I could make a comeback in baseball. Sadly it wasn't to be.
I say all of this because I remembered - just a few minutes ago - a phone call I received during my senior year of high school. It was from the head coach of the LeTourneau College (now University) wanting to talk baseball. I didn't get it then, but man, do I get it now. The guy was trying to recruit me. He talked about the school, what my future plans were and if I would consider LeTourneau after high school. For whatever reason, that I can't remember now, I turned him down - cold. He even called back again a few weeks later. I turned him down again. I was waiting on another phone call that would not come. Now that I think about it, I can't believe how short-sighted I was.I have no idea how LeTourneau's scholarship system was set up or what they would have been able to offer. What would've happened if I told the coach "yes, I'd like to talk about baseball and LeTourneau"? I guess it really doesn't matter anymore.
There are quite a few times that I've thought how nice it would be to pay a younger version of myself a visit at one of those crucial points in time and tell that goofball to make a different decision - like when Biff goes back in Back to the Future II to tell himself to use the sports history magazine to help him get rich. It probably wouldn't mean I would be rich or would even be playing professional baseball. But I wouldn't be wondering "what if" either.
That 18 year-old version of myself sure was a dumb kid. I should know.
Cue Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days"...
I used to play baseball - until I wrecked my arm. One of my favorite pitchers was - and still is - Roger Clemens. In the 80's, Roger had his shoulder scoped and the procedure literally saved his career. I had developed a shoulder problem and thought my condition was similar. I went to a sports doc to evaluate whether or not to have the surgery. Since I still wanted to play, the doc encouraged it. Things didn't go quite right with the procedure and I was through with baseball just a few months later.
I've got 3 game balls at my desk - in my "feel good" corner - from 3 of the best baseball games I pitched during high school.
One is from my junior year. We beat Palmer HS 12-3 on April 25, 1986 on our own field. I had 11 strikeouts in a 7-inning game against the 6th-ranked team in the Texas in 2A. My old little league coach suggested to our coach that I get the game ball after the game. The two coaches agreed and gave me the ball. I had dominated the same team a few weeks earlier in a error-plagued loss.
One little tidbit from my baseball career - I had to get a lot of strikeouts every time out. If anybody hit the ball, I was in trouble - as was indicated by my win-loss record. I didn't know how to calculate my Earned Run Average (ERA) in those days, but I suspect it was very low. I don't think there was a game in which we failed to have an error in the 3 years I pitched. It's a pretty sad thing when a pitcher can't count on the players around him to make plays, as was the case with me and my team mates. To any of those guys that might be reading - if you're offended, you shouldn't be.
The other two balls are from my senior year.
One of those is from an 8-7 victory of our local rival, Mabank HS - at their place, in a game where I hit my first-ever home run in regulation ball. Mabank won our district title that year and went to the playoffs. Our team was the last to beat them in regular-season play (they were eliminated in the first round anyway). I had 12 strikeouts in 7 innings in that game. I had to convince the coach to let me pitch that game. I had pitched in a losing cause just days before and it wasn't my turn in the rotation. I just felt like we would win and begged him to let me go. After I got mobbed by my teammates when I walked off the mound at the end of the game, coach gave me a hug and told me I had proved him wrong. That was a great day.
The other is from my last HS game. It was against Forney HS on May 18, 1987 (19 years ago yesterday) at our home field. We played them just 3 weeks before this game and and I carried a no-hitter into the 4th or 5th inning before the errors took over. We also got into a full two-team scuffle after the game's last pitch and, on the way off campus, the other team threw rocks at our bus. When they showed up at our place, people were everywhere hoping we'd scuffle again. In the end, there was no need for a scuffle. I had 13 strikeouts that day and beat them 4-1. It would have been a shutout, had it not been for 3 errors that allowed the only runner that I allowed past 2nd base to score that day. The write up in the local newspaper described the performance as being overpowering. Forney also went to the playoffs that year and didn't get past the first round.
I'm writing all this stuff because I reminded myself what sort of gift I had as a teenager. I started pitching during the summer after 6th grade. My dad propped up an old tire against an old shed in our back yard for me to use as a strike zone. I practiced my pitches on that target until the wall behind it fell apart. When I entered high school, I tried out as an outfielder, because I didn't think I could make it as a pitcher. I was later converted to a catcher and made all district that season.
Toward the end of my freshman season, our baseball program began a 26-game losing streak that spanned 3 seasons. Our coach was looking for any and every way to break our skid early on. One day during batting practice, I asked if I could pitch. This coach - a different coach than the one's during my junior and senior season (we went through 3 coaches in 3 years) - didn't believe I could pitch. After batting practice, he scheduled me to pitch during an upcoming tournament. I didn't win in the tournament, but as an underclassman, I impressed both our coach and opposing coaches. For the rest of the season, I split time catching behind the plate and pitching in front of it.
I was selected to all-district and all-county teams throughout my 4-year HS baseball career and participated in 2 professional tryouts. Still, I was not signed to play college ball after high school. It was probably a good thing. The arm was virtually gone by then. Perhaps proper rehab could have helped what ailed me. I don't know. I later walked on at Evangel College in Springfield, MO and made the football team as a place-kicker. I spent two years there before returning to Texas. I grew up a lot during my time at EC. I also thought after I arrived back in Texas that I could make a comeback in baseball. Sadly it wasn't to be.
I say all of this because I remembered - just a few minutes ago - a phone call I received during my senior year of high school. It was from the head coach of the LeTourneau College (now University) wanting to talk baseball. I didn't get it then, but man, do I get it now. The guy was trying to recruit me. He talked about the school, what my future plans were and if I would consider LeTourneau after high school. For whatever reason, that I can't remember now, I turned him down - cold. He even called back again a few weeks later. I turned him down again. I was waiting on another phone call that would not come. Now that I think about it, I can't believe how short-sighted I was.I have no idea how LeTourneau's scholarship system was set up or what they would have been able to offer. What would've happened if I told the coach "yes, I'd like to talk about baseball and LeTourneau"? I guess it really doesn't matter anymore.
There are quite a few times that I've thought how nice it would be to pay a younger version of myself a visit at one of those crucial points in time and tell that goofball to make a different decision - like when Biff goes back in Back to the Future II to tell himself to use the sports history magazine to help him get rich. It probably wouldn't mean I would be rich or would even be playing professional baseball. But I wouldn't be wondering "what if" either.
That 18 year-old version of myself sure was a dumb kid. I should know.
Friday, May 12, 2006
My Favorite Pic of Myself
I'm just posting this so I can add this to my profile. Still, you gotta like the hair, huh?
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Asking Yourself the Right Questions, Pt. 2
I'm up, way before I'd like to be. Here lately, I've had trouble sleeping - for various reasons. Yesterday, Wednesday morning, I was awake around 2 AM. My mother was scheduled for surgery. She's almost 77 and I was a little nervous about the "minor" procedure that was going to be done on her. Nothing is minor for a 77 year-old. I didn't find out until almost 8 AM yesterday that this "minor" procedure wasn't minor at all. The very same lady, who can't seem to keep a secret when it counts, kept our entire family in the dark for nearly 5 months about a serious medical condition. My own father didn't know what was going on until Monday. I guess it was good that I didn't know until yesterday or I would have been waking up early - for weeks on end by now. At least I know she is in good hands. When I left her yesterday, my sister was there with her. She was resting comfortably. Dad was with my brother-in-law. Our family will be going back this weekend to make sure she's alright upon her return home.
I've been meaning to write some more for several weeks now but have been too busy to get back here to it. Since writing the first part of this thread, I've found myself in quite a dilemma. A month ago, I was on path of self-discovery and it seemed everything was clicking on all cylinders. I had read Wild at Heart and had been genuinely challenged to seek out the things that gave me passion in life again. Even more-so, I heard from several friends from years gone by and had really been encouraged. I saw pictures of myself from a time when I had been very passionate about everything in my life. I don't believe in coincidences and thought that all of this was coming together for a reason. John Eldridge, the author of Wild at Heart, also talked about receiving the "wound" that causes us to retreat from our passions. I had defined the wound and I thought I was on my way to my passionate rediscovery. Things were SO looking up!
Somewhere in there I must have missed something. Where I was so hopeful and optimistic just days ago, I've been discouraged and frustrated since. In the cosmic scheme of things, that guy, the one that had been so passionate and determined in years past - the one I was trying to rediscover - made a lot of choices along the way.
Some of those choices were good ones - like starting a family. I still pinch myself sometimes when I spend time with the 4 most important people to me. They are good, intelligent people that offer me so much encouragement and strength. I really don't know where I'd be without them.
The decision to come to Houston 8 years ago was another good decision. It wasn't my idea really and I originally balked at it. It was a new start for us and, now, 8 years removed, it seems like one of the most important decisions that we got right.
We made other good decisions, too. For some reason though, it just seems that the bad ones weigh awfully heavy on those good ones. The weight of the bad decisions - even those from 8, 10 and nearly 15 years ago - still seem to have bearing on the decisions we're making now. Maybe that's just how it works, but it's getting really old now.
I've talked about this at length with my wife and with my friend Raymond. It seems to me that with every moment of clarity, a stinging blow to the head or to the gut is just waiting around the corner. What was so clear just days before is swallowed up in dense fog. Is this the lingering consequence from mistakes from long ago? Is it just how life is? I wonder if somewhere along the way if I've done something to have pissed God off.
It's hard to talk about things like this with most people. Generally, folks want to be helpful and encouraging. If I hear one more person say "you're right where God wants you," I'm afraid my first reaction would be to punch them square on the jaw. I do think God is at work - somehow. It's not anything special that tells me so. It's the result of all the theology classes I've had over the course of my life. I'm not content with my book knowledge of Him however. I'm still hoping for one of those "burning bush" moments, where I have that life-altering encounter, though I wonder if it will ever come.
So, to get back to the original thought that started this thread, what are the right questions to be asking? I suppose the biggie is "what is it that God wants from me?". That would be first, to which the answer would be "everything." The second would be this "how do I give him 'everything'?" That answer is a bit more complicated.
I'm sure there will be more thoughts to follow on this topic. .
I've been meaning to write some more for several weeks now but have been too busy to get back here to it. Since writing the first part of this thread, I've found myself in quite a dilemma. A month ago, I was on path of self-discovery and it seemed everything was clicking on all cylinders. I had read Wild at Heart and had been genuinely challenged to seek out the things that gave me passion in life again. Even more-so, I heard from several friends from years gone by and had really been encouraged. I saw pictures of myself from a time when I had been very passionate about everything in my life. I don't believe in coincidences and thought that all of this was coming together for a reason. John Eldridge, the author of Wild at Heart, also talked about receiving the "wound" that causes us to retreat from our passions. I had defined the wound and I thought I was on my way to my passionate rediscovery. Things were SO looking up!
Somewhere in there I must have missed something. Where I was so hopeful and optimistic just days ago, I've been discouraged and frustrated since. In the cosmic scheme of things, that guy, the one that had been so passionate and determined in years past - the one I was trying to rediscover - made a lot of choices along the way.
Some of those choices were good ones - like starting a family. I still pinch myself sometimes when I spend time with the 4 most important people to me. They are good, intelligent people that offer me so much encouragement and strength. I really don't know where I'd be without them.
The decision to come to Houston 8 years ago was another good decision. It wasn't my idea really and I originally balked at it. It was a new start for us and, now, 8 years removed, it seems like one of the most important decisions that we got right.
We made other good decisions, too. For some reason though, it just seems that the bad ones weigh awfully heavy on those good ones. The weight of the bad decisions - even those from 8, 10 and nearly 15 years ago - still seem to have bearing on the decisions we're making now. Maybe that's just how it works, but it's getting really old now.
I've talked about this at length with my wife and with my friend Raymond. It seems to me that with every moment of clarity, a stinging blow to the head or to the gut is just waiting around the corner. What was so clear just days before is swallowed up in dense fog. Is this the lingering consequence from mistakes from long ago? Is it just how life is? I wonder if somewhere along the way if I've done something to have pissed God off.
It's hard to talk about things like this with most people. Generally, folks want to be helpful and encouraging. If I hear one more person say "you're right where God wants you," I'm afraid my first reaction would be to punch them square on the jaw. I do think God is at work - somehow. It's not anything special that tells me so. It's the result of all the theology classes I've had over the course of my life. I'm not content with my book knowledge of Him however. I'm still hoping for one of those "burning bush" moments, where I have that life-altering encounter, though I wonder if it will ever come.
So, to get back to the original thought that started this thread, what are the right questions to be asking? I suppose the biggie is "what is it that God wants from me?". That would be first, to which the answer would be "everything." The second would be this "how do I give him 'everything'?" That answer is a bit more complicated.
I'm sure there will be more thoughts to follow on this topic. .
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Asking Yourself the Right Questions...
For folks who know me well, they likely know that I'm not much of a reader. My whole family are readers, but my kids take after my wife. There's only a couple of books that I've ever ventured to read more than once: Celebration of Discipline and Ragamuffin Gospel. I do well to read a book or two in a year.
Recently, a group of guys that I was meeting with suggested that we all start reading Wild at Heart and discuss what we read when we get together. One of my friends, knowing that I was not a reader, bought the book on CD and made copies for me to listen to along my commute. After listening to the first 2 or 3 chapters, I decided I needed to buy the book and read it for myself. Man, I'm so glad I did, too.
I've written here recently that I've had a very difficult time over the last year. Marital, family, monetary and employment problems - all at the same time. I honestly believe that if it wasn't for the support of our friends my family and I would not have made it. I've made it a point to thank most of these people. If someone is reading and wondering if you had a hand in our survival, go ahead and pat yourself on the back and accept my gratitude. It's wonderful to have good friends to count on.
Anyway, over the past several weeks since I started listening to and reading Wild at Heart, it has coincided with an epiphany and a renaissance that's been happening with me personally. Someone told me a long time ago that life is too short to go through it being miserable. I've written here that my wife and I were living in the shadow of a bad decision I made 15 years ago. I understand that life can be brutally hard at times, downright unfair, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. Still, it's possible to be able to enjoy the ride. For me, the last 15 years have been about surviving. If I'm anything at all, one thing I am not is a quitter. Not quitting is commendable where I'm from. However "hanging in there" just to prove that I don't want to quit can really get old. Part of the epiphany over the past few months has been this: if I'm only surviving, I'm still missing out on what life still has to offer. There is SO much more to life than just getting by.
That brings me to the questions we ask ourselves. So often it's about what the world needs. "What does the world need?" It's the stuff of great business plans. New businesses are started all the time because a guy is walking around looking for a way to meet a felt need in the world. If there's a market for it, it will sell. It always does. Of course, such things aren't about really meeting needs but exploiting that market, wherever it might be.
When it comes to people, it's a little more complicated than just trying to meet a need in the world. If that's what we're trying to do, it's a good way to get chewed up and spit out - real quick. Maybe you've seen those articles about the hottest jobs in the market. If we go after a vocation just because it is in demand we might find ourselves at some point on a ladder that is leaning against the wrong wall. I know. It's happened to me. There's nothing more demoralizing than putting so much time and effort into a profession only to find it's completely wrong.
Instead, as quoted in Wild at Heart, the right question is this: Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.
In all honesty, we all have dreams that, for one reason or another, we're afraid to chase because of a list of reasons. They're not necessarily the same reasons, but you know what they are. Where will the money come from? What if I can't do it? Fill in the blank. Those questions only serve to keep us in the same spot we've been getting accustomed to being in for who knows how long. If we want to get out of there, that place of misery and hopelessness, we have to pursue those things that we've wanted to all along. This isn't an excuse to run out on responsibility. It's an opportunity to do what we've been created for and be what we were created to be.
Recently, I found a friend of mine, Travis Meadows, in My Space. Travis was our worship leader in our youth ministry in Jackson, MS 10 years ago. During that time, Travis was peddling songs in Nashville. He made several demos and independent recordings during the two years we were there. In the years since, Travis moved to Nashville and has been doing the same thing he was 10 years ago. Recently, on his website, Travis posted this on his blog:
Well, it's official! I am now Staff writer at Universal. I have been writing with some of the best writers in Nashville as well making some great new friends. I signed yesterday the 14th of March at 10:45, that same day I got my first cut, "Open Ended Heartache." It was recorded by an artist from Australia named Adam Brand. He did a great job. The next day he cut two more of my songs. So I'm one day into my deal and have three cuts. That's a good start. I'm hoping for a few more cuts. The more cuts the more money for the Meadows family. This truly is a dream come true. Here is a little irony for you. I tried for close to 15 years to make it as a christian artist, but no matter what I did it just didn't work out. Universal hired me as a country writer, too funny. So there you go Travis Meadows is a writer for Universal and loving every minute of it!
My brother-in-law, Aaron, has been in the process of starting up a coffee business. He quit his job with Starbucks and moved his family from Pennsylvania a few months ago. Why? Because the guy is passionate about coffee - of all things. But, I'm telling you, when you taste his coffee you will know the guy really loves doing what he's doing. I'm probably embarrassing him by writing this (he actually reads my blog every now and then), but he's an inspiration to me. He's pursuing the dream.
Of course there are excuses why we shouldn't be so bold. I'm too old. Travis is in his 40's and has been at this a long time. I'm not good enough. I don't know how to get started. My brother-in-law put in a lot of time in research before he launched his company. It's likely those excuses are the reason we've been sitting where we have been for so long. Life was meant to be an adventure. It's time to go after the things that stir passion. Life is too short not to.
So, what does it for you? Think about it and go after it. There's no better time than the present.
Recently, a group of guys that I was meeting with suggested that we all start reading Wild at Heart and discuss what we read when we get together. One of my friends, knowing that I was not a reader, bought the book on CD and made copies for me to listen to along my commute. After listening to the first 2 or 3 chapters, I decided I needed to buy the book and read it for myself. Man, I'm so glad I did, too.
I've written here recently that I've had a very difficult time over the last year. Marital, family, monetary and employment problems - all at the same time. I honestly believe that if it wasn't for the support of our friends my family and I would not have made it. I've made it a point to thank most of these people. If someone is reading and wondering if you had a hand in our survival, go ahead and pat yourself on the back and accept my gratitude. It's wonderful to have good friends to count on.
Anyway, over the past several weeks since I started listening to and reading Wild at Heart, it has coincided with an epiphany and a renaissance that's been happening with me personally. Someone told me a long time ago that life is too short to go through it being miserable. I've written here that my wife and I were living in the shadow of a bad decision I made 15 years ago. I understand that life can be brutally hard at times, downright unfair, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. Still, it's possible to be able to enjoy the ride. For me, the last 15 years have been about surviving. If I'm anything at all, one thing I am not is a quitter. Not quitting is commendable where I'm from. However "hanging in there" just to prove that I don't want to quit can really get old. Part of the epiphany over the past few months has been this: if I'm only surviving, I'm still missing out on what life still has to offer. There is SO much more to life than just getting by.
That brings me to the questions we ask ourselves. So often it's about what the world needs. "What does the world need?" It's the stuff of great business plans. New businesses are started all the time because a guy is walking around looking for a way to meet a felt need in the world. If there's a market for it, it will sell. It always does. Of course, such things aren't about really meeting needs but exploiting that market, wherever it might be.
When it comes to people, it's a little more complicated than just trying to meet a need in the world. If that's what we're trying to do, it's a good way to get chewed up and spit out - real quick. Maybe you've seen those articles about the hottest jobs in the market. If we go after a vocation just because it is in demand we might find ourselves at some point on a ladder that is leaning against the wrong wall. I know. It's happened to me. There's nothing more demoralizing than putting so much time and effort into a profession only to find it's completely wrong.
Instead, as quoted in Wild at Heart, the right question is this: Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.
In all honesty, we all have dreams that, for one reason or another, we're afraid to chase because of a list of reasons. They're not necessarily the same reasons, but you know what they are. Where will the money come from? What if I can't do it? Fill in the blank. Those questions only serve to keep us in the same spot we've been getting accustomed to being in for who knows how long. If we want to get out of there, that place of misery and hopelessness, we have to pursue those things that we've wanted to all along. This isn't an excuse to run out on responsibility. It's an opportunity to do what we've been created for and be what we were created to be.
Recently, I found a friend of mine, Travis Meadows, in My Space. Travis was our worship leader in our youth ministry in Jackson, MS 10 years ago. During that time, Travis was peddling songs in Nashville. He made several demos and independent recordings during the two years we were there. In the years since, Travis moved to Nashville and has been doing the same thing he was 10 years ago. Recently, on his website, Travis posted this on his blog:
Well, it's official! I am now Staff writer at Universal. I have been writing with some of the best writers in Nashville as well making some great new friends. I signed yesterday the 14th of March at 10:45, that same day I got my first cut, "Open Ended Heartache." It was recorded by an artist from Australia named Adam Brand. He did a great job. The next day he cut two more of my songs. So I'm one day into my deal and have three cuts. That's a good start. I'm hoping for a few more cuts. The more cuts the more money for the Meadows family. This truly is a dream come true. Here is a little irony for you. I tried for close to 15 years to make it as a christian artist, but no matter what I did it just didn't work out. Universal hired me as a country writer, too funny. So there you go Travis Meadows is a writer for Universal and loving every minute of it!
My brother-in-law, Aaron, has been in the process of starting up a coffee business. He quit his job with Starbucks and moved his family from Pennsylvania a few months ago. Why? Because the guy is passionate about coffee - of all things. But, I'm telling you, when you taste his coffee you will know the guy really loves doing what he's doing. I'm probably embarrassing him by writing this (he actually reads my blog every now and then), but he's an inspiration to me. He's pursuing the dream.
Of course there are excuses why we shouldn't be so bold. I'm too old. Travis is in his 40's and has been at this a long time. I'm not good enough. I don't know how to get started. My brother-in-law put in a lot of time in research before he launched his company. It's likely those excuses are the reason we've been sitting where we have been for so long. Life was meant to be an adventure. It's time to go after the things that stir passion. Life is too short not to.
So, what does it for you? Think about it and go after it. There's no better time than the present.
Monday, April 03, 2006
...and now, the Back-peddle
A few weeks ago, I was a little steamed up at the announcement that Jerry Jones and the Dallas Cowboys had acquired Terrell Owens. For me, a life-long Cowboys fan, that was treason - second only to the debacle Jones created when Jimmy Johnson resigned in 1994.
In case anyone wasn't paying attention or didn't care, Jerry was jealous of the attention being heaped on his successful head coach. In a drunken stupor, Jones commented, to a pretty good-sized group of people, "this team can win - regardless of who the coach is." Oh, really?! Despite winning, the super bowl 2 seasons later, the Cowboys, as a franchise, was no longer among the NFL's elite teams. The team still isn't to this day. But, signing Terrell Owens after two tumultuous seasons in Philadelphia it tells me that Jones is desperate to win again and take the team out of Jimmy's shadow.
Now, having said that, I must confess that, after spending the entire day in training, the first thing I did upon being released from the class was to check the baseball scores. Yep. The Astros will throw out the first pitch in their first regular season game of 2006 in just a few minutes from now. And you know what? I wish I could be there. In fact, I'll probably listen to the game in my car on my way home. I wish I could stick to my boycott, but it's hard to turn my back on the national past-time.
Granted, the ballplayers are spoiled, the rivalries hardly exist (except for if you're a Red Sox or Yankees fan) and the game isn't as fast paced as those at the college or high school levels. But, when one goes to a big- league baseball game, they know what to expect. Win or lose, they usually get it - and pay dearly. Still, they get the show and really, that's what it's all about. Right?
Maybe I should have written before that I was giving up on the Cowboys. I'm sure there are many in my family who wish I would - and maybe I will. One thing is definitely clear tonight as I get ready to leave work for the night...I'm ready to hear the umpire yell "play ball!"
Ya-hoo! Go Astros!
In case anyone wasn't paying attention or didn't care, Jerry was jealous of the attention being heaped on his successful head coach. In a drunken stupor, Jones commented, to a pretty good-sized group of people, "this team can win - regardless of who the coach is." Oh, really?! Despite winning, the super bowl 2 seasons later, the Cowboys, as a franchise, was no longer among the NFL's elite teams. The team still isn't to this day. But, signing Terrell Owens after two tumultuous seasons in Philadelphia it tells me that Jones is desperate to win again and take the team out of Jimmy's shadow.
Now, having said that, I must confess that, after spending the entire day in training, the first thing I did upon being released from the class was to check the baseball scores. Yep. The Astros will throw out the first pitch in their first regular season game of 2006 in just a few minutes from now. And you know what? I wish I could be there. In fact, I'll probably listen to the game in my car on my way home. I wish I could stick to my boycott, but it's hard to turn my back on the national past-time.
Granted, the ballplayers are spoiled, the rivalries hardly exist (except for if you're a Red Sox or Yankees fan) and the game isn't as fast paced as those at the college or high school levels. But, when one goes to a big- league baseball game, they know what to expect. Win or lose, they usually get it - and pay dearly. Still, they get the show and really, that's what it's all about. Right?
Maybe I should have written before that I was giving up on the Cowboys. I'm sure there are many in my family who wish I would - and maybe I will. One thing is definitely clear tonight as I get ready to leave work for the night...I'm ready to hear the umpire yell "play ball!"
Ya-hoo! Go Astros!
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Pelunsky Prison Blues, Pt. 2
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.
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.
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?
Sunday, February 26, 2006
A Highlight of My Life Just Took Place
Every now and then, something happens that sort of brings life in to a different perspective. I guess it's something like when retrospect collides with the here and now and stirs up emotions that were once thought dead. If that last sentence made sense, then I might be able to put into words the experience of seeing Maynard Ferguson, live in concert last night. I'm writing this barely 8 hours later just to make sure I don't forget what I just experienced.
I first heard about him and his band coming to town in the middle of this last week. Nonchalantly, my daughter showed me a flyer she was given at her intermediate school. It read something like "The legendary Maynard Ferguson will be performing live at the Conroe High School auditorium..." My daughter and I were definitely going to this show!
My oldest daughter began taking band this year and her band director told the class "this, kids, is a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity" to see a living legend. She actually just made the switch to french horn over the last few weeks. But the fact that her grandpa and I were also trumpet players fueled her interest when the school year started. She used both of our trumpets so she wouldn't have to carry one to and from school. Seeing her play the same horn I once played and carry the same case that I once carried stirred up emotions that I thought were long since dead.
You see, years ago, I was once a promising trumpet player. I started playing in the elementary school band in Malakoff, Texas in the sixth grade. I excelled early on, performing with high school band in the jazz band ensemble and earning first chair in my section during in my seventh grade year. In the eighth grade, our school got a new band director, James Sprayberry, an old alcoholic cajun, who had been band director at other area schools. He and I bonded very quickly and that bond ruined my plans to quit the band after my eighth grade year to get in to Agriculture whenever I entered high school. Imagine that, me as a cowboy or the FFA type! Thank you, Mr. Sprayberry!!!
After football season, I started taking private lessons with Mr. Sprayberry. He told me to listen to Maynard because he thought I could relate to his style. If you've ever played the trumpet, or know someone who has, playing in the upper registers, a Ferguson trademark, has instant appeal. I spent weeks on end with "Spray," as he was affectionately called at our school, perfecting my technique. I bought an Arban's Technique for Trumpet book and Spray worked me over. It wasn't long before it was time "chair tryouts," or whatever they were called, and surpassed two seniors for first chair. I also made 2nd chair at a district band competition that year, as well. My sophomore year saw similar success, only it was not quite as dramatic as the year before. I was also involved in high school sports which divided my attentions. Still, Spray was very quick to offer encouragement, even though sports kept me away from the band hall after school. That year, at the spring concert, Spray organized a Jazz Ensemble that played that night. We played a piece called "Dixieland Jam," a medley of dixieland favorites. We practically brought down the small-town house.
Three days into my junior year of high school (September 1985), Mr. Sprayberry died suddenly, stricken with a heart attack. Our school was devastated. Moreover, my mentor was gone. In the course of the year, I had personality clashes with his successor and lost my love for the trumpet. I won't go into what happened here because I've already written more of the background for last night than I wanted to.
The opening act last night was a tight area jazz quartet that I thought would set the tone for the evening. I simply was not prepared for what happened next. Before a short intermission, another quartet, part of Ferguson's band, was non-chalantly introduced. They played a couple of songs and their style was a much more aggressive form of jazz. It merely left the audience thirsty for more. After the intermission, we all got what we payed to see. The trumbone player, Reggie, spoke into the microphone "please welcome to the stage, the legendary Maynard Ferguson." The old, white-headed, heavy-set bandleader sauntered out to the middle of the stage, as the band played a song that reminded me of what used to be played on the Johnny Carson Show. He smiled, pointed toward the audience and winked, and then lifted a worn-looking Bb trumpet to his mouth. For the next hour and fifteen minutes, I and my daughter were mesmerized. Flanked by a world-class pianist, bassist, drummer, trumbone, two saxaphones and three incredible trumpet players who obviously have benefitted from his tutelage, Mr. Ferguson was the master of ceremonies in his own traveling, musical carnival. Playing songs like Bird Land and a medley, including the hit from Rocky, Gonna Fly Now, I was taken back to that side-room in the high school band hall where I had spent so much time over 20 years ago. I experienced a highlight of my life.
I first heard about him and his band coming to town in the middle of this last week. Nonchalantly, my daughter showed me a flyer she was given at her intermediate school. It read something like "The legendary Maynard Ferguson will be performing live at the Conroe High School auditorium..." My daughter and I were definitely going to this show!
My oldest daughter began taking band this year and her band director told the class "this, kids, is a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity" to see a living legend. She actually just made the switch to french horn over the last few weeks. But the fact that her grandpa and I were also trumpet players fueled her interest when the school year started. She used both of our trumpets so she wouldn't have to carry one to and from school. Seeing her play the same horn I once played and carry the same case that I once carried stirred up emotions that I thought were long since dead.
You see, years ago, I was once a promising trumpet player. I started playing in the elementary school band in Malakoff, Texas in the sixth grade. I excelled early on, performing with high school band in the jazz band ensemble and earning first chair in my section during in my seventh grade year. In the eighth grade, our school got a new band director, James Sprayberry, an old alcoholic cajun, who had been band director at other area schools. He and I bonded very quickly and that bond ruined my plans to quit the band after my eighth grade year to get in to Agriculture whenever I entered high school. Imagine that, me as a cowboy or the FFA type! Thank you, Mr. Sprayberry!!!
After football season, I started taking private lessons with Mr. Sprayberry. He told me to listen to Maynard because he thought I could relate to his style. If you've ever played the trumpet, or know someone who has, playing in the upper registers, a Ferguson trademark, has instant appeal. I spent weeks on end with "Spray," as he was affectionately called at our school, perfecting my technique. I bought an Arban's Technique for Trumpet book and Spray worked me over. It wasn't long before it was time "chair tryouts," or whatever they were called, and surpassed two seniors for first chair. I also made 2nd chair at a district band competition that year, as well. My sophomore year saw similar success, only it was not quite as dramatic as the year before. I was also involved in high school sports which divided my attentions. Still, Spray was very quick to offer encouragement, even though sports kept me away from the band hall after school. That year, at the spring concert, Spray organized a Jazz Ensemble that played that night. We played a piece called "Dixieland Jam," a medley of dixieland favorites. We practically brought down the small-town house.
Three days into my junior year of high school (September 1985), Mr. Sprayberry died suddenly, stricken with a heart attack. Our school was devastated. Moreover, my mentor was gone. In the course of the year, I had personality clashes with his successor and lost my love for the trumpet. I won't go into what happened here because I've already written more of the background for last night than I wanted to.
The opening act last night was a tight area jazz quartet that I thought would set the tone for the evening. I simply was not prepared for what happened next. Before a short intermission, another quartet, part of Ferguson's band, was non-chalantly introduced. They played a couple of songs and their style was a much more aggressive form of jazz. It merely left the audience thirsty for more. After the intermission, we all got what we payed to see. The trumbone player, Reggie, spoke into the microphone "please welcome to the stage, the legendary Maynard Ferguson." The old, white-headed, heavy-set bandleader sauntered out to the middle of the stage, as the band played a song that reminded me of what used to be played on the Johnny Carson Show. He smiled, pointed toward the audience and winked, and then lifted a worn-looking Bb trumpet to his mouth. For the next hour and fifteen minutes, I and my daughter were mesmerized. Flanked by a world-class pianist, bassist, drummer, trumbone, two saxaphones and three incredible trumpet players who obviously have benefitted from his tutelage, Mr. Ferguson was the master of ceremonies in his own traveling, musical carnival. Playing songs like Bird Land and a medley, including the hit from Rocky, Gonna Fly Now, I was taken back to that side-room in the high school band hall where I had spent so much time over 20 years ago. I experienced a highlight of my life.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Wanna Get Away? Try La Grange
Perhaps you're old enough that you remember when the story broke about the Chicken Ranch just outside the sleepy town of La Grange, Texas. If you're like me, the only thing you ever heard about the place was the song by ZZ Top.
Actually, my wife and I have often driven through La Grange on our way to other places. It's a beautiful little town with some of the most georgeous scenery in all of Texas. Still, we never actually thought of it as a destination, that is until this past weekend.
We went, on a whim, just to get away overnight. On Sunday, at day's end we could hardly bear the thought of leaving. While we were in town, we discovered a great little eatery called Bistro 108, which combined the elegance of big city dining with the down-home hospitality you would expect from a "hole-in-the-wall" restaurant. We visited Monument Hill and the Kreishe Brewery which is now a state park, which combines history of Texas with that of a local man and his dedication to a community. If antiques are your thing, there are plenty of antique malls in town and within driving distance. The historic towns of Fayetteville and Round Top are just minutes away, with plenty of unique suprises and delights in either location.
I hope in the coming weeks to add more reviews like this one. Hopefully they will provide ideas for getaways all your own.
Actually, my wife and I have often driven through La Grange on our way to other places. It's a beautiful little town with some of the most georgeous scenery in all of Texas. Still, we never actually thought of it as a destination, that is until this past weekend.
We went, on a whim, just to get away overnight. On Sunday, at day's end we could hardly bear the thought of leaving. While we were in town, we discovered a great little eatery called Bistro 108, which combined the elegance of big city dining with the down-home hospitality you would expect from a "hole-in-the-wall" restaurant. We visited Monument Hill and the Kreishe Brewery which is now a state park, which combines history of Texas with that of a local man and his dedication to a community. If antiques are your thing, there are plenty of antique malls in town and within driving distance. The historic towns of Fayetteville and Round Top are just minutes away, with plenty of unique suprises and delights in either location.
I hope in the coming weeks to add more reviews like this one. Hopefully they will provide ideas for getaways all your own.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Yates Headed For Rusk State Hospital
Andrea Yates has been released from prison and has been returned to the Rusk State Mental Hospital to await retrial for the drowning deaths of her 5 children. I'm sure everyone in our country has heard about this case and has an opinion about it - either way. However, I wonder if anyone has thought about what is going on in regard to how this case has affected the members of her family. Of course there was the immediate impact on her children. They can't be replaced and her conviction will never bring them back. But, before we begin a discussion about how deserving of punishment she might be or what should be done to her, think about this...
When a crime is committed, the impact goes much farther than just those who were victims of the crime. Families of the perpetrator also bear the load of guilt and often have to pay their bills. Yates was released from jail this week and her family had to pay $20,000 in order for her to be released. The Kennedy family, Yates' parents, is not a well-to-do family and likely can't afford the price for their daughter's bond. Once she's released and remanded to the state hospital, the treatment she will receive in Rusk will have to be paid by family members, as well. If she happens to be re-convicted for the crimes for which she was charged, her family will likely incur more legal fees. If she is acquitted, by reason of insanity, she will likely be committed to the same state hospital for the rest of her natural life with her family left footing the bill.
Crime hurts everybody, doesn't it?
When a crime is committed, the impact goes much farther than just those who were victims of the crime. Families of the perpetrator also bear the load of guilt and often have to pay their bills. Yates was released from jail this week and her family had to pay $20,000 in order for her to be released. The Kennedy family, Yates' parents, is not a well-to-do family and likely can't afford the price for their daughter's bond. Once she's released and remanded to the state hospital, the treatment she will receive in Rusk will have to be paid by family members, as well. If she happens to be re-convicted for the crimes for which she was charged, her family will likely incur more legal fees. If she is acquitted, by reason of insanity, she will likely be committed to the same state hospital for the rest of her natural life with her family left footing the bill.
Crime hurts everybody, doesn't it?
Texas High School Sports News - UIL Realignment Announced
Every two years, the Texas University Interscholastic League announces a realignment of Texas schools and school districts all across the state of Texas. District alignments are arranged by school attendance and their proximity to other schools of similar size. In the past 20 years, the UIL has been able to track the trend of migration of families from rural and urban areas to the suburbs of Texas population centers: Dallas, Houston, Austin and San Antonio.
The times and traditions - they are a changin'...
The times and traditions - they are a changin'...
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
If He Wanted Attention, It Looks Like He Has Plenty of It
My friend Joel Stein likely expected to get some attention over his article that appeared in the LA Times this week. It looks like he has plenty. I guess my question is how to respond to such a guy. Beat him up and he becomes a martyr for the pacifists. Ignoring him can potentially add fuel to the insurgency against our troops.
What do we do?
What do we do?
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Where I'm From, Those Are Fightin' Words...But These Types Aren't Worth It
One of the things I love most about East Texas is the fact it's a salt-of-the-earth, grassroots kind of place. It's where one can find some of the most patriotic citizens in this great country of ours.
A long way from East Texas is Los Angeles, California, which we all know as a much different place, with very different values and concerns. Those conflicted ideas and perspectives might explain the viewpoint of this article. It seems the columnist Joel Stein is a self-described pacifist and has gone where spineless Washington democrats and other goof-ball wackos fear to tread: criticizing the military.
I'm not concerned about how people see our war in Iraq anymore. I don't care so much about the war on terrorism, either. I think discovering the truth about where we stand in this conflict is next to impossible. It depends on who might be telling the story. It's messed up, but we're there and that's the way it is. We can't forget about the hundreds and thousands of men and women who are on the battlefield right now. They may not want to be there. Then again they may. While we're busy bickering about the right or wrongness of this conflict, they're in it and pay the price daily.
I think the worst thing about this entire conflict is the fact that we have the resources to complete the job. But rather than use them, our politicians listen too much to guys like Joel Stein and are too concerned about what they might write about them.
What do you say to someone like Joel Stein? He admits he's well-to-do. He's never served in the military and probably doesn't know many who ever did. He's like so many in our country that haven't connected the sacrifices of our forefathers to the liberty and prosperity that is enjoyed today. He might just be a little too smart for his own good, too. In East Texan vernacular, he's a smart-aleck. He meant to say those things likely to get people who sympathize with him to rally around the cause. That's fine, too. He's got the right to say them.
As for how East Texans, and other salt-of-the-earth Americans, might see Joel Stein, they'd just as soon rip him apart, limb-by-limb as look at him. Then again, he's just not worth it.
I wonder who he's going to call the next time LA goes up in flames? It just might be one of those troops he doesn't support.
A long way from East Texas is Los Angeles, California, which we all know as a much different place, with very different values and concerns. Those conflicted ideas and perspectives might explain the viewpoint of this article. It seems the columnist Joel Stein is a self-described pacifist and has gone where spineless Washington democrats and other goof-ball wackos fear to tread: criticizing the military.
I'm not concerned about how people see our war in Iraq anymore. I don't care so much about the war on terrorism, either. I think discovering the truth about where we stand in this conflict is next to impossible. It depends on who might be telling the story. It's messed up, but we're there and that's the way it is. We can't forget about the hundreds and thousands of men and women who are on the battlefield right now. They may not want to be there. Then again they may. While we're busy bickering about the right or wrongness of this conflict, they're in it and pay the price daily.
I think the worst thing about this entire conflict is the fact that we have the resources to complete the job. But rather than use them, our politicians listen too much to guys like Joel Stein and are too concerned about what they might write about them.
What do you say to someone like Joel Stein? He admits he's well-to-do. He's never served in the military and probably doesn't know many who ever did. He's like so many in our country that haven't connected the sacrifices of our forefathers to the liberty and prosperity that is enjoyed today. He might just be a little too smart for his own good, too. In East Texan vernacular, he's a smart-aleck. He meant to say those things likely to get people who sympathize with him to rally around the cause. That's fine, too. He's got the right to say them.
As for how East Texans, and other salt-of-the-earth Americans, might see Joel Stein, they'd just as soon rip him apart, limb-by-limb as look at him. Then again, he's just not worth it.
I wonder who he's going to call the next time LA goes up in flames? It just might be one of those troops he doesn't support.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Sometimes Life Is Ugly
In this blog I've alluded a few times to the fact that I enjoy being a parent. I always wanted to be one. But, there's one aspect to parenting that I never really anticipated: dealing with death, in general. It's not a pleasant subject and I don't particularly like to talk about it in the first place. In this instance I'm not necessarily talking about the death of family or friends but an animal or a pet, which can be worse than the former - in some ways - for children.
As a kid, I experienced the death of pets quite often, now that I think about it and it was traumatic. I had a dog for a good part of my childhood to die from being runover by a car. I still feel sad about that. Another time, a couple of kittens decided to crawl into the engine compartment of one of our cars. I'm still squeamish about what happened then. Probably the worst was when our horse, Penny, was found dead. It's a little easier to arrange to bury a cat or a dog.
Throughout all of that, my parents were always so supportive. I never thought - before I had children - that I would have to deal with the death of a pet with MY kids - like my parents did with me. Well, I did this past weekend and it had quite an affect on me.
My youngest daughter decided she wanted to spend some of her change to get some gum. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, so we all decided to walk with her to the local convenience store a few blocks away. Our route was along a busy street into our neighborhood, but we didn't really think about it. Along the way, a chocolate lab pup we'll call "Brownie" comes out of nowhere and proceeds to follow us. We noticed she had a collar and tried to find where she lived. After an unsuccessful attempt at one place and not seeing anyone at another, we decided to continue the walk and allow her to tag along. We tried to coax her to walk in the grass as opposed to the street to avoid the passing cars. When we got to the store, the pup went right in with us. The store manager didn't seem to mind, but we decided to turn her out just in case she might decide to relieve herself or tear something up. We let her out and she waited at the door for just a second and then left.
After what was just a few minutes in the store, we started back home. I whistled for the dog, expecting her to pop out of the bushes or come from behind the store. We figured she may have taken up with someone else or just gone back home, so we started walking back, too.
In a matter of moments, after we hadn't seen her, I noticed something on the horizon that absolutely horrified me. I couldn't make it out, but it appeared to be a brown shape of some kind. I didn't say anything at first, but thought out loud "Oh God!" Of course the response from the girls was "Oh God, what?!" I said "there's something in the road." The girls looked and ran ahead. The next few minutes literally ripped my guts out. It was Brownie.
It was the most awful thing I'd ever seen (thank God she wasn't mangled). Only moments before Brownie was playing with us. We stood there on the edge of the street just looking at her. The girls cried for quite a while. Their mom and I were pretty choked up, too. Since Brownie wasn't our dog, we couldn't take responsibility for her disposal. We left her where we found her so that her rightful owners could find her. It was bad enough that she had followed us and gotten killed.
We walked home, arm in arm, consoling the girls. We spoke of how nice it would be to be able to turn back time. It would have really been nice if we could have right then. Eventually everyone calmed down. The owners apparently found their puppy and took her elsewhere.
That night before I went to sleep I was reminded of the fact despite the beauty we have in our world, there's also plenty of ugly to go around. It serves as a reminder that this world isn't all there is. There's another world where everything is beautiful - with no ugly. Until we get there, we'll likely see a lot more beautiful and some ugly, too. It kinda makes me wish and hope for that new world a little more. In due time, I'm sure I'll get there.
In the mean time, I look around at our pets and I think about our family members. I'm reminded in the short life of that puppy, Brownie, that life is precious. I need to enjoy them all while they're here.
As a kid, I experienced the death of pets quite often, now that I think about it and it was traumatic. I had a dog for a good part of my childhood to die from being runover by a car. I still feel sad about that. Another time, a couple of kittens decided to crawl into the engine compartment of one of our cars. I'm still squeamish about what happened then. Probably the worst was when our horse, Penny, was found dead. It's a little easier to arrange to bury a cat or a dog.
Throughout all of that, my parents were always so supportive. I never thought - before I had children - that I would have to deal with the death of a pet with MY kids - like my parents did with me. Well, I did this past weekend and it had quite an affect on me.
My youngest daughter decided she wanted to spend some of her change to get some gum. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, so we all decided to walk with her to the local convenience store a few blocks away. Our route was along a busy street into our neighborhood, but we didn't really think about it. Along the way, a chocolate lab pup we'll call "Brownie" comes out of nowhere and proceeds to follow us. We noticed she had a collar and tried to find where she lived. After an unsuccessful attempt at one place and not seeing anyone at another, we decided to continue the walk and allow her to tag along. We tried to coax her to walk in the grass as opposed to the street to avoid the passing cars. When we got to the store, the pup went right in with us. The store manager didn't seem to mind, but we decided to turn her out just in case she might decide to relieve herself or tear something up. We let her out and she waited at the door for just a second and then left.
After what was just a few minutes in the store, we started back home. I whistled for the dog, expecting her to pop out of the bushes or come from behind the store. We figured she may have taken up with someone else or just gone back home, so we started walking back, too.
In a matter of moments, after we hadn't seen her, I noticed something on the horizon that absolutely horrified me. I couldn't make it out, but it appeared to be a brown shape of some kind. I didn't say anything at first, but thought out loud "Oh God!" Of course the response from the girls was "Oh God, what?!" I said "there's something in the road." The girls looked and ran ahead. The next few minutes literally ripped my guts out. It was Brownie.
It was the most awful thing I'd ever seen (thank God she wasn't mangled). Only moments before Brownie was playing with us. We stood there on the edge of the street just looking at her. The girls cried for quite a while. Their mom and I were pretty choked up, too. Since Brownie wasn't our dog, we couldn't take responsibility for her disposal. We left her where we found her so that her rightful owners could find her. It was bad enough that she had followed us and gotten killed.
We walked home, arm in arm, consoling the girls. We spoke of how nice it would be to be able to turn back time. It would have really been nice if we could have right then. Eventually everyone calmed down. The owners apparently found their puppy and took her elsewhere.
That night before I went to sleep I was reminded of the fact despite the beauty we have in our world, there's also plenty of ugly to go around. It serves as a reminder that this world isn't all there is. There's another world where everything is beautiful - with no ugly. Until we get there, we'll likely see a lot more beautiful and some ugly, too. It kinda makes me wish and hope for that new world a little more. In due time, I'm sure I'll get there.
In the mean time, I look around at our pets and I think about our family members. I'm reminded in the short life of that puppy, Brownie, that life is precious. I need to enjoy them all while they're here.
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