I realise this song is a little old- some might say "outdated...
But sometimes as a father of "merely a five year old" I forget that my "Cinderella" won't be five all that long...
And the greatest mistake I could ever make is to refuse my Princess a chance to be in my arms- before all too soon...
Peace be with you, Steven Chapman- know that your daughter will still have that dance one day- and it will never have to end.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Friday, October 16, 2009
So Plainly Obvious
If this has already run its course through the 'blogosphere"- fine, so be it.
But the latest vulgarity given the Progressive Left's blatant elitist snobbery at the Nobel establishment leaves me posting a simple picture with regards to POTUS BHO's latest trinket [nominated for bestowal after only 11 days in office as POTUS]:
A picture's worth a thousand words- and much like a package of Cracker Jack- many of the Euro-Trash Progressive elites are air-fluffed corn chocked full of candy-coated nuts.
I continue to be;
Russ
But the latest vulgarity given the Progressive Left's blatant elitist snobbery at the Nobel establishment leaves me posting a simple picture with regards to POTUS BHO's latest trinket [nominated for bestowal after only 11 days in office as POTUS]:
A picture's worth a thousand words- and much like a package of Cracker Jack- many of the Euro-Trash Progressive elites are air-fluffed corn chocked full of candy-coated nuts.I continue to be;
Russ
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Of Lessons & Stories
Some of the greatest lessons I've learned in my life, came from my grandfather.
Oh, there were tomes read & lessons discussed in academia to be sure- but some of the greater ones; the ones that had/have a voice and a time and a place... No, those lessons were gifts from "Crappaw" to me.
Those people in the film/television/media industry know well, the old adage "A picture's worth..."
So too, is a simple story.
And I do mean simple in it's most base. Embellishment often comes in the retelling of a favored tale; in making a thing more of someone else's so as to add one's own essence to the yarn.
The media industry as a whole certainly takes a simple tale and often expounds on it a certain grandiose quality- in many cases, rightfully so; since 'larger-than-life' often needs a little help along the trail of auteur theory.
But this is about the humble "story". A tale, a yarn- that small colloquial misnomer that gives us all a realization that life's questions are sometimes- in and of themselves- their own best answer.
I heard a character story recently that gave me a moment's pause- not only for the brilliant use of simplicity- but because it took me back to days with my "Crappaw"... It went something like this:
The story, on the surface, could be one of perhaps a strained and tired father-figure who might have met defeat in his job prospects; or perhaps a gruff-yet-lovable curmudgeon we'd expect to know as a neighbor, relative or business associate.
But what if he was supposed to be "The Hero"?
By ignorance of the world around him, his one simple opportunity to be the greatest thing in 3 young lives came to a crashing end simply because he hadn't taken a look around himself.
The lesson learned is that often, our ability to explain or teach a lesson doesn't come from explaining the facts and putting them to rote.
It comes from telling a story.
I continue to be;
RusS
Oh, there were tomes read & lessons discussed in academia to be sure- but some of the greater ones; the ones that had/have a voice and a time and a place... No, those lessons were gifts from "Crappaw" to me.
Those people in the film/television/media industry know well, the old adage "A picture's worth..."
So too, is a simple story.
And I do mean simple in it's most base. Embellishment often comes in the retelling of a favored tale; in making a thing more of someone else's so as to add one's own essence to the yarn.
The media industry as a whole certainly takes a simple tale and often expounds on it a certain grandiose quality- in many cases, rightfully so; since 'larger-than-life' often needs a little help along the trail of auteur theory.
But this is about the humble "story". A tale, a yarn- that small colloquial misnomer that gives us all a realization that life's questions are sometimes- in and of themselves- their own best answer.
I heard a character story recently that gave me a moment's pause- not only for the brilliant use of simplicity- but because it took me back to days with my "Crappaw"... It went something like this:
One day, a man sat, waiting for a train to come, to make his long journey to some far-off place; when he happened to spy a mother & her three daughters skipping up the railway platform, obviously excited over some, as yet unseen prospect.
Listening further, the man soon realized that the ladies were coming to meet their father & husband, who had been gone for some time on a business trip.
The girls were ecstatic at the prospect of finally seeing their father after what must have been a very long time. They sang and danced around their mother and once the announcement came of the arrival of the train bearing their patriarch, they all stood frozen, transfixed in anticipation as they breathlessly awaited Daddy.
Even though there was the usual bustling crowd transferring to-and-from the train, it was soon evident who the father was, as the girls shrill giggles and scamper towards one particular face in the crowd told the story.
But, the man who would be the hero to 3 small girls simply by kneeling and hugging them- strode past them, noticing only his wife and muttering, "Didn't you bring my overcoat?"
Listening further, the man soon realized that the ladies were coming to meet their father & husband, who had been gone for some time on a business trip.
The girls were ecstatic at the prospect of finally seeing their father after what must have been a very long time. They sang and danced around their mother and once the announcement came of the arrival of the train bearing their patriarch, they all stood frozen, transfixed in anticipation as they breathlessly awaited Daddy.
Even though there was the usual bustling crowd transferring to-and-from the train, it was soon evident who the father was, as the girls shrill giggles and scamper towards one particular face in the crowd told the story.
But, the man who would be the hero to 3 small girls simply by kneeling and hugging them- strode past them, noticing only his wife and muttering, "Didn't you bring my overcoat?"
The story, on the surface, could be one of perhaps a strained and tired father-figure who might have met defeat in his job prospects; or perhaps a gruff-yet-lovable curmudgeon we'd expect to know as a neighbor, relative or business associate.
But what if he was supposed to be "The Hero"?
By ignorance of the world around him, his one simple opportunity to be the greatest thing in 3 young lives came to a crashing end simply because he hadn't taken a look around himself.
The lesson learned is that often, our ability to explain or teach a lesson doesn't come from explaining the facts and putting them to rote.
It comes from telling a story.
I continue to be;
RusS
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Not Just a Job- It's an Adventure!
Though I'm sure it's been quoted countless times; the old axiom:
"Life: What's going on while you're busy making other plans..."
Still rings true... Often and loudly.
Life's certainly played its part upon my mortal coil- the least of which is the current job market, the past election cycle and heaven knows any myriad of other things that includes everything from lawn mower mechanics to diaper changes.
Let's start with the last first...
Blissfully, thankfully, my daughter has just about made the hurdle from "princess panties" [Pull-ups are thusly named so in our house, it's the only way to get a hard-headed Irish red little girl to wear them. Wonder where she got that trait from- thanks Crappaw...] to real underwear- a cost savings as well as life savings to all including the pets who look at me like "Why can't we do that on the floor?!"
Lawn Mower Mechanics...
I hate yard-work. My wife knows it- now the rest of the world does too.
I really hate yard-work when the riding lawn mower decides to blow its one and only cylinder. I also hate having it sit for just under a year in a shop waiting for a [could be "hot" & I don't mean in the volcanic sense of the word] new/used engine & then getting the call that;
"The motor mount had to be modified slightly to get the thing to fit and incidentally, your throttle's gonna work backwards from the way it works now in order for the engine to fit- oh, & your headlights didn't work anyway but one of those had to be moved to make way for the exhaust..."
"Life: What's going on while you're busy making other plans..."
Still rings true... Often and loudly.
Life's certainly played its part upon my mortal coil- the least of which is the current job market, the past election cycle and heaven knows any myriad of other things that includes everything from lawn mower mechanics to diaper changes.
Let's start with the last first...
Blissfully, thankfully, my daughter has just about made the hurdle from "princess panties" [Pull-ups are thusly named so in our house, it's the only way to get a hard-headed Irish red little girl to wear them. Wonder where she got that trait from- thanks Crappaw...] to real underwear- a cost savings as well as life savings to all including the pets who look at me like "Why can't we do that on the floor?!"
Lawn Mower Mechanics...
I hate yard-work. My wife knows it- now the rest of the world does too.
I really hate yard-work when the riding lawn mower decides to blow its one and only cylinder. I also hate having it sit for just under a year in a shop waiting for a [could be "hot" & I don't mean in the volcanic sense of the word] new/used engine & then getting the call that;
"The motor mount had to be modified slightly to get the thing to fit and incidentally, your throttle's gonna work backwards from the way it works now in order for the engine to fit- oh, & your headlights didn't work anyway but one of those had to be moved to make way for the exhaust..."
"Whaaaaaaat?!"
Let's just say that The Family Unit here at "Rose Manor" has now nicknamed that Murray lawn tractor "Frankenstein".
And we're talking the Gene Wilder "Frahnk-un- Steen".
This damn thing is so mutated it looks like a Transformer that developed rickets half way from turning into some kind of robot or at the very least, it could be it's own "Teenage Mutant Ninja... "X".
Strange thing is- it purrs like a kitten and drives like a dream- let alone cut grass better than it ever did before.
Something to be said for being different- right?
The past Election Cycle...
I'm a staunch conservative, "Confused Zen Buddho-Taoist in Christ".
As I see it the current POTUS is no more interested in me than I am in him- I'll leave him alone simply clinging to my guns & religion while in turn, he can leave me alone by staving off his "new age fascist world order".
Here's a common sense point to ponder:
No matter which extreme of the political spectrum one can be- I've come to learn that the acting President can't "win" regardless what he does- by satisfying anyone, no-one's gonna be happy. The two warring factions on either side of the political spectrum are so diametrically opposite that they join each other at the opposite end of the primordial circle.
Now I know why Ronald Reagan used Grecian Formula... I'm sure his hair was white 5 days after taking office back in the 80s.
And then, there's The Current Job Market...
18 years working where I worked & it was over one dry March afternoon late in the month.
Perhaps I should have seen it coming- perhaps not... I had come off a one year high having worked for Walt Disney Imagineering on the Toy Story Mania attraction- sadly what I gave all to had me return to something i should have at least kept privy, if not absolute attention towards- which was my "day job".
Corporate means being what they are- and no one can fault them for being such- I was laid off along with a gaggle of about 1400 others. Cest la Guer. Some will fall so that others may live to continue the battle.
For me- perhaps life begins anew...
Unhindered with the want, need or desire to keep a position that [after Imagineering] I'd finally outgrown [or, most likely "finally figured out"] my adventure begins again.
As the character Yojimbo [in the self-same titled movie] had noticed as his wander took him to a fork-in-the-road; with a decision to make, he had yet more decisions to make.
With Yojimbo- there was no turning back.
So too will it be with me.
Much like Yojimbo- I have my tools of the trade- though perhaps in today's world it's a better plan to carry a sharp mind as opposed to a sharp sword- [though I can use both]!
Still, I'll be trying to hedge my bets- choosing a path that not only I can live with but will also allow my family to live right alongside me.
I continue to be;
Russ
Let's just say that The Family Unit here at "Rose Manor" has now nicknamed that Murray lawn tractor "Frankenstein".
And we're talking the Gene Wilder "Frahnk-un- Steen".
This damn thing is so mutated it looks like a Transformer that developed rickets half way from turning into some kind of robot or at the very least, it could be it's own "Teenage Mutant Ninja... "X".
Strange thing is- it purrs like a kitten and drives like a dream- let alone cut grass better than it ever did before.
Something to be said for being different- right?
The past Election Cycle...
I'm a staunch conservative, "Confused Zen Buddho-Taoist in Christ".
As I see it the current POTUS is no more interested in me than I am in him- I'll leave him alone simply clinging to my guns & religion while in turn, he can leave me alone by staving off his "new age fascist world order".
Here's a common sense point to ponder:
No matter which extreme of the political spectrum one can be- I've come to learn that the acting President can't "win" regardless what he does- by satisfying anyone, no-one's gonna be happy. The two warring factions on either side of the political spectrum are so diametrically opposite that they join each other at the opposite end of the primordial circle.
Now I know why Ronald Reagan used Grecian Formula... I'm sure his hair was white 5 days after taking office back in the 80s.
And then, there's The Current Job Market...
18 years working where I worked & it was over one dry March afternoon late in the month.
Perhaps I should have seen it coming- perhaps not... I had come off a one year high having worked for Walt Disney Imagineering on the Toy Story Mania attraction- sadly what I gave all to had me return to something i should have at least kept privy, if not absolute attention towards- which was my "day job".
Corporate means being what they are- and no one can fault them for being such- I was laid off along with a gaggle of about 1400 others. Cest la Guer. Some will fall so that others may live to continue the battle.
For me- perhaps life begins anew...
Unhindered with the want, need or desire to keep a position that [after Imagineering] I'd finally outgrown [or, most likely "finally figured out"] my adventure begins again.
As the character Yojimbo [in the self-same titled movie] had noticed as his wander took him to a fork-in-the-road; with a decision to make, he had yet more decisions to make.
- Simply choose a path and continue.
- Allow the fates/gods/god/ancestors choose for him.
- Figure out how best to let the [#2 dieties] broadcast this choice to him.
- Take that path chosen outside his control.
- Opt for the path not chosen outside his control.
- Ignore all of the above and turn back.
With Yojimbo- there was no turning back.
So too will it be with me.
Much like Yojimbo- I have my tools of the trade- though perhaps in today's world it's a better plan to carry a sharp mind as opposed to a sharp sword- [though I can use both]!
Still, I'll be trying to hedge my bets- choosing a path that not only I can live with but will also allow my family to live right alongside me.
I continue to be;
Russ
Sunday, January 06, 2008
The New Religion
Carbon footprint..?!
Okay- it's been around for a while.
I suppose there'll be those who'll say "Welcome to the party, Russ- glad you could join us!"
And yet, others that may be waiting with baited breath [pro and con] to jump at my rhetorical juggler vein just panting at what my next words will be.
I suppose in some ways I'll disappoint at one level and inspire or say nothing that hasn't already been said at the other.
I think 'global warming' is pure BS.
Oh, I can site my examples of researched study [not my own- The Good Lord knows what a bonehead I'd be as a scientist] and for every example sited there would be contrapuntal evidence against and then repartee'd with yet more examples of either side of this fulcrum called "Global Warming".
Al Gore got his Nobel for having made his junk science a reality to the world court- excellent.
And I mean "excellent" in all it's manner befitting a Nobel winner- I mean it with all humility and not even a speck of degradation or mock.
But where people may not understand the dichotomy of acquiescence to Al Gore and yet call his "research" "buffalo plop", let me also harbor this notion...
I also appreciate the Darwin Awards.
What do these two items have in even remote commonality to one another- ah! That's where the mind of the astute common-sensor comes to light!
The Darwin Awards are often bereft of old wives tales and mythological "facts" concerning some hapless buttcrumb who's managed to keep himself from rutting and infecting an already plagued gene pool based on the most eviscerating or heinous death imaginable. As I just mentioned- the DA's are often plagued with falsities and disproven myths.
The Nobel Peace Prize for Global Warming is no more "factual" than the Darwin Awards.
All the spouting and frothing and gnashing of teeth- whether at a 'green event' or some half baked hash induced rock concert where Gore makes his appearance having flown in on his "rented jet" reminds me of the "Diastase" character in AKIRA.
Both are archetypes of one another, both spouting words of imminent destruction through a gleeful grimaced smile as if resigned to their fate and more than willing to bring as many with him as possible.
Where the two analogies/similarities end is that at least in the film AKIRA, the police don their riot gear and start pelting the myopic mobs with teargas canisters [the one-shot of an armed riot officer popping a round of CS right into the chest of a hacking/coughing bystander gives me certain amounts of smirk-some glee if one imagines Al taking the shot in the gut...]
The facts are there- one side says we're doomed in the next 20 years the other says we need to sit back and breath a little bit and stop ourselves short of hysteria. Where both sides say they're using science as their motivator to their viewpoint- one does so to presume that there is a status quo- the other does so in hopes of a magnanimous return to utopia by way of human cleansing and an equally human method of resolution.
That- dear readers is the outline of a religion; oh, surely a man-based faith, mind you- but a religion none-the-less.
So, whether the earth ends some time around noon in the next 12 years or I continue along in my "educated idiot" method of plodding, I'll continue to be;
Russ
Okay- it's been around for a while.
I suppose there'll be those who'll say "Welcome to the party, Russ- glad you could join us!"
And yet, others that may be waiting with baited breath [pro and con] to jump at my rhetorical juggler vein just panting at what my next words will be.
I suppose in some ways I'll disappoint at one level and inspire or say nothing that hasn't already been said at the other.
I think 'global warming' is pure BS.
Oh, I can site my examples of researched study [not my own- The Good Lord knows what a bonehead I'd be as a scientist] and for every example sited there would be contrapuntal evidence against and then repartee'd with yet more examples of either side of this fulcrum called "Global Warming".
Al Gore got his Nobel for having made his junk science a reality to the world court- excellent.
And I mean "excellent" in all it's manner befitting a Nobel winner- I mean it with all humility and not even a speck of degradation or mock.
But where people may not understand the dichotomy of acquiescence to Al Gore and yet call his "research" "buffalo plop", let me also harbor this notion...
I also appreciate the Darwin Awards.
What do these two items have in even remote commonality to one another- ah! That's where the mind of the astute common-sensor comes to light!
The Darwin Awards are often bereft of old wives tales and mythological "facts" concerning some hapless buttcrumb who's managed to keep himself from rutting and infecting an already plagued gene pool based on the most eviscerating or heinous death imaginable. As I just mentioned- the DA's are often plagued with falsities and disproven myths.
The Nobel Peace Prize for Global Warming is no more "factual" than the Darwin Awards.
All the spouting and frothing and gnashing of teeth- whether at a 'green event' or some half baked hash induced rock concert where Gore makes his appearance having flown in on his "rented jet" reminds me of the "Diastase" character in AKIRA.
Both are archetypes of one another, both spouting words of imminent destruction through a gleeful grimaced smile as if resigned to their fate and more than willing to bring as many with him as possible.
Where the two analogies/similarities end is that at least in the film AKIRA, the police don their riot gear and start pelting the myopic mobs with teargas canisters [the one-shot of an armed riot officer popping a round of CS right into the chest of a hacking/coughing bystander gives me certain amounts of smirk-some glee if one imagines Al taking the shot in the gut...]
The facts are there- one side says we're doomed in the next 20 years the other says we need to sit back and breath a little bit and stop ourselves short of hysteria. Where both sides say they're using science as their motivator to their viewpoint- one does so to presume that there is a status quo- the other does so in hopes of a magnanimous return to utopia by way of human cleansing and an equally human method of resolution.
That- dear readers is the outline of a religion; oh, surely a man-based faith, mind you- but a religion none-the-less.
So, whether the earth ends some time around noon in the next 12 years or I continue along in my "educated idiot" method of plodding, I'll continue to be;
Russ
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
The Definition of Madness
We all know that rather old idiom about "madness", right?
If not- it goes like this:
"The definition of 'madness' is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result each and every time..."
I'm roughly 8 hours into the New Year, this '08.
Actually, I woke up to the sounds of fireworks, shouts of "Happy New Year" and my going-on-two year old's night-fright shrieks so the New Year and I are already acquainted. "Madness" in the sense of the idiom we're discussing is already a well embedded psychological trait- being a parent pretty much saw to that 6 years ago.
Still; stepping into this new year I had a chance to ponder this particular entry and what I'd say.
To be honest I hate the concept of "New Year's Resolutions". It's BS. Why would a person choose to wait for anything that would in effect help to better themselves?
Why wait to quit smoking?
Why wait to cut back on sweets?
Why wait to start even a daily five push-up ritual?
Anything that improves a person should wait for no man- even if that man is himself.
To me, a resolution is not a commitment- it's simply an affirmation to "give it the old college try".
Last time I checked- I never really "tried" all that hard in college- I was no gazelle when it came to the grades- but I knew how to "F" off and still pass with a better than average grade at the end of the semester. A "college try" is slightly better than the combination of a Kevin Smith movie slacker and a Revenge of the Nerds aptitude watching as your grade is determined by the actions of the student and the whims of an indoctrinated and entrenched Secular Progressive professor.
What this world needs is more promises. Real promises.
When I say promises- I'm talking about those types of promises that border on sepuku induced, honor crushing commitments to success if one fails. The world is so full of half-assed commitments it's little wonder we don't count the population by 1/2 as much.
Personally, my promises to myself and to this world will have to be for another time. I take my commitments seriously enough that I make no lists, make no affirmations and I most certainly will have success at them regardless how easy or hard.
For me, a purpose driven life means rewarding my family, my world and then myself- even if that self reward is nothing more than silent pride in a job well done: Increased self-actualization a strident goal that may or may not be complete at the end of my days.
If there's one thing I may state for you, dear readers- if one is just dying for something philosophical from 'Dear Russ'- so here's a 'hard one' from me.
I'll commit to letting go of those things that hold me back.
Letting go... Sounds so infantile in its simplicity- right?
Try this on for size...
And only once the commitment is made does one realize that the journey itself may in fact be the only possession- an intangible thing that becomes a reward/relic to the spirit. Something both my Grandfather and my Father-in-Law had shown me in their passing but where the grief and tribulation of the loss blinded me for the last 3 to 4 years, only now am I seeing the richness of that somewhat 'lopsided' gift and lesson.
So...
What commitments of honor are you willing to make dear readers?
What levels of "madness" are you willing to let go of so that you can accept something so much better?
A few forms of madness I'll continue to hold close will be my sense of humor and that I continue to be:
Russ
If not- it goes like this:
"The definition of 'madness' is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result each and every time..."
I'm roughly 8 hours into the New Year, this '08.
Actually, I woke up to the sounds of fireworks, shouts of "Happy New Year" and my going-on-two year old's night-fright shrieks so the New Year and I are already acquainted. "Madness" in the sense of the idiom we're discussing is already a well embedded psychological trait- being a parent pretty much saw to that 6 years ago.
Still; stepping into this new year I had a chance to ponder this particular entry and what I'd say.
To be honest I hate the concept of "New Year's Resolutions". It's BS. Why would a person choose to wait for anything that would in effect help to better themselves?
Why wait to quit smoking?
Why wait to cut back on sweets?
Why wait to start even a daily five push-up ritual?
Anything that improves a person should wait for no man- even if that man is himself.
To me, a resolution is not a commitment- it's simply an affirmation to "give it the old college try".
Last time I checked- I never really "tried" all that hard in college- I was no gazelle when it came to the grades- but I knew how to "F" off and still pass with a better than average grade at the end of the semester. A "college try" is slightly better than the combination of a Kevin Smith movie slacker and a Revenge of the Nerds aptitude watching as your grade is determined by the actions of the student and the whims of an indoctrinated and entrenched Secular Progressive professor.
What this world needs is more promises. Real promises.
When I say promises- I'm talking about those types of promises that border on sepuku induced, honor crushing commitments to success if one fails. The world is so full of half-assed commitments it's little wonder we don't count the population by 1/2 as much.
Personally, my promises to myself and to this world will have to be for another time. I take my commitments seriously enough that I make no lists, make no affirmations and I most certainly will have success at them regardless how easy or hard.
For me, a purpose driven life means rewarding my family, my world and then myself- even if that self reward is nothing more than silent pride in a job well done: Increased self-actualization a strident goal that may or may not be complete at the end of my days.
If there's one thing I may state for you, dear readers- if one is just dying for something philosophical from 'Dear Russ'- so here's a 'hard one' from me.
I'll commit to letting go of those things that hold me back.
Letting go... Sounds so infantile in its simplicity- right?
Try this on for size...
- I'll let go of the trappings of what others- which subsequently become 'me- consider "wealth".
- I'll let go of the limiting fears of what a job entails, demands or expects.
- I'll let go of those things that seem so important "for-the-moment" and thusly tenaciously hold on to those things that truly are worthy of importance.
- I'll let go of my Crappaw- who's death has brought me closer to my own recognition to everyone's mortality.
And only once the commitment is made does one realize that the journey itself may in fact be the only possession- an intangible thing that becomes a reward/relic to the spirit. Something both my Grandfather and my Father-in-Law had shown me in their passing but where the grief and tribulation of the loss blinded me for the last 3 to 4 years, only now am I seeing the richness of that somewhat 'lopsided' gift and lesson.
So...
What commitments of honor are you willing to make dear readers?
What levels of "madness" are you willing to let go of so that you can accept something so much better?
A few forms of madness I'll continue to hold close will be my sense of humor and that I continue to be:
Russ
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Classically Trained- Currently Adjusting...
It's been a while, good and valiant readers...
I've taken notice that there's a few in the Blogosphere who've included me in their own writing repituar- for their prescience and favor, I'm greatly humbled- hopefully I'll continue to be a contributor to their sites as I hope they will be to mine.
There's an old saying- who exactly made it, I'll ask you to help me remember; it went something like this:
"A man can truly consider himself old when his regrets far outweigh his aspirations."
I'm not "old" yet- but there's days when I doubt my age.
I've looked reflectively on my life this holiday season- patching together fading memories of younger days- wondering where the time had gone and perhaps this first Christmas without my Grandfather's well-wishes stinging worst of all.
As my earlier entry would have you presume, I thought the greatest of things concerning my Grandfather- both of my grandparents actually.
Do I wish for another chance to say some monumental thing that I can know will fill my remaining decades with the pride of a man who's love for the familial patriarch would be forever resounding..?
Who wouldn't.
The thing is, though- I'm not going to regret having not had that chance.
Oh, I'm still stewing over it and moping from time-to-time; this particular holiday season being the most notable exception. As much as my Crappaw would express earlier in life that he'd "want us all to get along in our lives- no sense worrin' about his carcass" no man wants to be trivialized, nor forgotten.
So- though rather belated- Merry Christmas, Crappaw!
I couldn't think of anything I could give you this year, seein' as you're all "Halo'd" and all... Never could figure out what went good with wings and a halo- 'cept for maybe a silly grin and a warm welcome.
And to you- my readers, my online friends- to you a Merry Christmas and/or any other belated form of holiday merriment your heart desires.
To the rest- who have no desire or intent to the holidays [and I actually knew a few very wise individuals who's ideals of what was and was not a "holdiay" in the true sense of the word were quite remarkable] I wish you good tidings- no more or less tied to the trappings or rituals of a faith you neither want nor percieve- simply "peace on earth and good will".
To those venomously opposed to anything even remotely akin to what you might call my "neandertal beliefs in a fairytale legend of mythological faith and redemption" who nearly recoil with the kind of revile befitting a Romero Zombie; I still offer you the hand of friendship.
But feel free to kiss my ass all the same.
"Still Adjusting" and continue to be...
Russ
I've taken notice that there's a few in the Blogosphere who've included me in their own writing repituar- for their prescience and favor, I'm greatly humbled- hopefully I'll continue to be a contributor to their sites as I hope they will be to mine.
There's an old saying- who exactly made it, I'll ask you to help me remember; it went something like this:
"A man can truly consider himself old when his regrets far outweigh his aspirations."
I'm not "old" yet- but there's days when I doubt my age.
I've looked reflectively on my life this holiday season- patching together fading memories of younger days- wondering where the time had gone and perhaps this first Christmas without my Grandfather's well-wishes stinging worst of all.
As my earlier entry would have you presume, I thought the greatest of things concerning my Grandfather- both of my grandparents actually.
Do I wish for another chance to say some monumental thing that I can know will fill my remaining decades with the pride of a man who's love for the familial patriarch would be forever resounding..?
Who wouldn't.
The thing is, though- I'm not going to regret having not had that chance.
Oh, I'm still stewing over it and moping from time-to-time; this particular holiday season being the most notable exception. As much as my Crappaw would express earlier in life that he'd "want us all to get along in our lives- no sense worrin' about his carcass" no man wants to be trivialized, nor forgotten.
So- though rather belated- Merry Christmas, Crappaw!
I couldn't think of anything I could give you this year, seein' as you're all "Halo'd" and all... Never could figure out what went good with wings and a halo- 'cept for maybe a silly grin and a warm welcome.
And to you- my readers, my online friends- to you a Merry Christmas and/or any other belated form of holiday merriment your heart desires.
To the rest- who have no desire or intent to the holidays [and I actually knew a few very wise individuals who's ideals of what was and was not a "holdiay" in the true sense of the word were quite remarkable] I wish you good tidings- no more or less tied to the trappings or rituals of a faith you neither want nor percieve- simply "peace on earth and good will".
To those venomously opposed to anything even remotely akin to what you might call my "neandertal beliefs in a fairytale legend of mythological faith and redemption" who nearly recoil with the kind of revile befitting a Romero Zombie; I still offer you the hand of friendship.
But feel free to kiss my ass all the same.
"Still Adjusting" and continue to be...
Russ
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Did You Hear the One About the Travelling Salesman..?
As most burly jokes start:
There was once a travelling salesman who drove the 'undriven' lanes and highways of America looking for opportunities to sell his wares outside the mainstream.Running low on fuel, the salesman stops at what one could only term the quinisential 'ramshackle' gas station with the tatty roof, off-set screen door and old cylinder style gas pumps with "regular" and "ethyl" in stark, faded print on their faces.
As our protagonist steps from his vehicle and waves to the old codger on the front porch of the ancient petrol oasis, he waves and imparts a congenial 'hello'...
"Howdy, old timer!" exclaims our hero,"I'll pump if you'll be kind enough to grab me a Coke?"
The old man waves back and knods, slowly lifting himself to saunter into his ramshackle store and produce a frosty bottle [!?] of Cocoa-Cola...
Once the salesman has finished fueling his car and popping the pop-top off his drink, he takes a moment to make small talk and pleasantries with the native he's newly met. During the course of his chit-chat with his new-found elderly friend, he notices an old hound-dog laying next to his ancient master.
What makes the dog even more noticable is suddenly, the canine belts out a blood curdling scream that truly only those falling to hell could possibly summon.
The old codger no more than taps on his pipe and continues his story, completely noplumed concerning his seemingly haunted pet. The dog then licks its chops and places its head back to the rickety floor and lays still, blinking placatively.
A pregnant pause later and the conversation picks back up, the salesman looking to gleen a possible lead to his next sale- the least of which might be his conversational partner.
About 10 minutes into a heated conversation, the crecendo of which sounds like a dubious sale- the hound SCREAMS as if it's had every pound of meat stripped from its bones.
The salesman looks dumbfounded to the dog as it yet again licks its chops and settles back to its undisturbed original rest.
"Um... Old man?" stammers the salesman.
"Yes?"
"Just what in the hell is wrong with that dog of yours?!" he exclaims. "I've never heard a dog scream: Bray, moan, grunt, bark, howl and even yodel- but never scream!"
The old man looks down near his feet where the dog lies- never having moved. "You mean Boe there?" asking as if he'd just noticed the canine.
"Boe? Yes I mean BOE! He's the only dog within miles of here!"
"Screaming?" quizzicly the old man knods.
The dog belts out another ice inducing, vein shrinking screech.
"YES! That! That, right there!" exclaims the salesman.
"Oh! That! Yeah, ole Boe's sittin' on a nail." states the old codger.
Every bit of color falls out of the salesman's face. How could it be such a damned simple thing?
"A nail?"
"Yup"
The salesman points at Boe, who simply lays where he's been since...
"Nail..?"
"Yep."
"Great googly Moogly, old man- is that dog so shit fired stupid he doesn't know he's laying on a nail?!"
"Nope. Quite intelligent that one..."
"Then how do you explain all the screaming?"
"You see son- there's two sets of mind in this world..." starts the old fellow. "Boe here is a perfect example of those two minds."
"Okaaaaay..." waits the salesman.
"You see... Ole Boe here knows the nail hurts- but it don't hurt 'enough'..."
"It doesn't hurt enough?"
"Nope- doesn't hurt enough to move." tisks the aged store owner. "That's the 'two minds' in this world. Lotsa people come past me buyin' gas, drinkin' a Coke and they tell me their stories of their travels and then grouse about having to go back to sittin' on that nail in their lives."
The light goes on in our salesman's brain...
"How many lives gone by; how many people have come by here that even though they have the freedom to get up and walk away from the one thing that pokes them into misery... How many of them realize how much their nails hurt before they're uncomfortable enough to get up and move?"
So...
Granted it's a long way to go to make such a simple point, but much like our older gentleman in our story, sometimes it's the pause in the music that is part of the music itself...
What kind of nails have we been guilty of sitting on and just how uncomfortable do they have to be before we're willing to get up and do something about them..?
I continue to be...
Russ
There was once a travelling salesman who drove the 'undriven' lanes and highways of America looking for opportunities to sell his wares outside the mainstream.Running low on fuel, the salesman stops at what one could only term the quinisential 'ramshackle' gas station with the tatty roof, off-set screen door and old cylinder style gas pumps with "regular" and "ethyl" in stark, faded print on their faces.
As our protagonist steps from his vehicle and waves to the old codger on the front porch of the ancient petrol oasis, he waves and imparts a congenial 'hello'...
"Howdy, old timer!" exclaims our hero,"I'll pump if you'll be kind enough to grab me a Coke?"
The old man waves back and knods, slowly lifting himself to saunter into his ramshackle store and produce a frosty bottle [!?] of Cocoa-Cola...
Once the salesman has finished fueling his car and popping the pop-top off his drink, he takes a moment to make small talk and pleasantries with the native he's newly met. During the course of his chit-chat with his new-found elderly friend, he notices an old hound-dog laying next to his ancient master.
What makes the dog even more noticable is suddenly, the canine belts out a blood curdling scream that truly only those falling to hell could possibly summon.
The old codger no more than taps on his pipe and continues his story, completely noplumed concerning his seemingly haunted pet. The dog then licks its chops and places its head back to the rickety floor and lays still, blinking placatively.
A pregnant pause later and the conversation picks back up, the salesman looking to gleen a possible lead to his next sale- the least of which might be his conversational partner.
About 10 minutes into a heated conversation, the crecendo of which sounds like a dubious sale- the hound SCREAMS as if it's had every pound of meat stripped from its bones.
The salesman looks dumbfounded to the dog as it yet again licks its chops and settles back to its undisturbed original rest.
"Um... Old man?" stammers the salesman.
"Yes?"
"Just what in the hell is wrong with that dog of yours?!" he exclaims. "I've never heard a dog scream: Bray, moan, grunt, bark, howl and even yodel- but never scream!"
The old man looks down near his feet where the dog lies- never having moved. "You mean Boe there?" asking as if he'd just noticed the canine.
"Boe? Yes I mean BOE! He's the only dog within miles of here!"
"Screaming?" quizzicly the old man knods.
The dog belts out another ice inducing, vein shrinking screech.
"YES! That! That, right there!" exclaims the salesman.
"Oh! That! Yeah, ole Boe's sittin' on a nail." states the old codger.
Every bit of color falls out of the salesman's face. How could it be such a damned simple thing?
"A nail?"
"Yup"
The salesman points at Boe, who simply lays where he's been since...
"Nail..?"
"Yep."
"Great googly Moogly, old man- is that dog so shit fired stupid he doesn't know he's laying on a nail?!"
"Nope. Quite intelligent that one..."
"Then how do you explain all the screaming?"
"You see son- there's two sets of mind in this world..." starts the old fellow. "Boe here is a perfect example of those two minds."
"Okaaaaay..." waits the salesman.
"You see... Ole Boe here knows the nail hurts- but it don't hurt 'enough'..."
"It doesn't hurt enough?"
"Nope- doesn't hurt enough to move." tisks the aged store owner. "That's the 'two minds' in this world. Lotsa people come past me buyin' gas, drinkin' a Coke and they tell me their stories of their travels and then grouse about having to go back to sittin' on that nail in their lives."
The light goes on in our salesman's brain...
"How many lives gone by; how many people have come by here that even though they have the freedom to get up and walk away from the one thing that pokes them into misery... How many of them realize how much their nails hurt before they're uncomfortable enough to get up and move?"
So...
Granted it's a long way to go to make such a simple point, but much like our older gentleman in our story, sometimes it's the pause in the music that is part of the music itself...
What kind of nails have we been guilty of sitting on and just how uncomfortable do they have to be before we're willing to get up and do something about them..?
I continue to be...
Russ
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Re-Born on the Fourth of July
The usual rounds on the forums always has a flair for somebody at some point asking the ubiquitous [and often cyclical] question- obviously this one baited to this month:
"What's your favorite 4Th of July memory?"
Chalk my answer up to age. Chalk it up to melancholy. Put whatever label, impetus or chronicle you'd like to my choice but my choice today may stem to something different a day, week, month or year from now...
Memory is a fickle thing. Perhaps molded by the exhuberance of youth, the temperance of age or the ire of hard lessons or experience earned.
My 'perfect' memory itself is actually quite simple;
It was 1971, I was 6 years old, I was spending a two week stay with my grandparents.It was my first time with sparklers that holiday evening...
If one can reach to the vestiges of such past ghosts; imagine the awe of such glittering pyrotechnic splendor as the flint and saltpeter mixed wires spark, lighting wherever your little feet could carry you...
I was given the possibility of self mutilation. But it was also the first big responsibility of entertaining myself with something far more dangerous than the blunt helmet of Major Matt Mason swung in anger over my brother's head.
I remember my grandmother questioning each and every wire being lit by my grandfather that "it wasn't a good idea" or that "this seems to dangerous for a six year old"- all the while my grandfather consoling her worries and repeating with each new sparkler the need to "be careful or you'll light yourself on fire or melt your fingers off..."
It was my Trial By Sparkler.
I remember the day; perhpas not "as if it were yesterday", but as a tenaciously held memory I pray never escapes me...
I remember my grandfather had to go to work in the mines for the day, and my grandmother watched over my twin and me between gulped-down breakfasts and lunches. Within bites of whatever was passed in front of me [nothin' beat Gran-ma's cookin'- who cared what it was, we knew it was good!] I can still recall the desperate, innate need of little boys to get back to the immediacy of a giant cardboard box or GI Joe exploration of the 'lunar surface' of the local dirt mound.
I even remember "quiet time" naps to the sound of the droning window mounted air-conditioner and constantly asking where Crappaw was and when he'd be returning...
Now- where I'm going with this long-winded rendition of past experiences, one has to understand where I am today. I've seen firework displays to end all in Washington- even in my hometowns; I've been the part of massive displays that have been the conversations of many all over the world; to be a part of something bigger truly one seldom forgets- but that which stands out greatest in our minds are those things most tangible and most intimate to who and what we are to become...
So, times change; notions evolve and memories one would pray remain fluid begin their inexorable and damning fade. My time now is vastly different and gone to me from my yester-years- leaving a space that only etherial images and vaunted smells and sounds tantelize me with it's inconsiquential nature then- now made so much more desirable; as well as bittersweet.
My grandfather; he's gone now.
Age and health having given way to the spirit roughly 2 months ago...
My grandmother's health these days is stoic, but I gather questionable; a nursing home and a body unwilling to bend to will and desire rending her time away from her beloved home, usually full of talkative adults and squeeling children.
That home I desperately couldn't get enough of- the squeeking floors, sticking doors and the real wooden blinds- now stands a sad and screamingly silent vigil...
Yes, perhaps by some personal laconic need for identifiers of my past I'm so nostalgic- perhaps the still-recent loss to my family entreats the selfish portrait I wax poetic...
Still, for this time- this 'now'- nothing may yet beat the intimacy of my grandparents' undivided attention and the flittering lights and acrid smoke of those first tiny flares of magnesium and flame...
Even at that tender age of six, I cherished that day, that evening- those weeks. I knew my time was special with my grandparents. I want to think that my observations then lend character and credance to the bittersweet notions of this '4th' I feel today
I look back, perhaps with the hope that my six-year-old will one day remember me, like I did those who molded me so long ago.
This will be his first Trial by Sparkler...
I continue to be...
Russ
"What's your favorite 4Th of July memory?"
Chalk my answer up to age. Chalk it up to melancholy. Put whatever label, impetus or chronicle you'd like to my choice but my choice today may stem to something different a day, week, month or year from now...
Memory is a fickle thing. Perhaps molded by the exhuberance of youth, the temperance of age or the ire of hard lessons or experience earned.
My 'perfect' memory itself is actually quite simple;
It was 1971, I was 6 years old, I was spending a two week stay with my grandparents.It was my first time with sparklers that holiday evening...
If one can reach to the vestiges of such past ghosts; imagine the awe of such glittering pyrotechnic splendor as the flint and saltpeter mixed wires spark, lighting wherever your little feet could carry you...
I was given the possibility of self mutilation. But it was also the first big responsibility of entertaining myself with something far more dangerous than the blunt helmet of Major Matt Mason swung in anger over my brother's head.
I remember my grandmother questioning each and every wire being lit by my grandfather that "it wasn't a good idea" or that "this seems to dangerous for a six year old"- all the while my grandfather consoling her worries and repeating with each new sparkler the need to "be careful or you'll light yourself on fire or melt your fingers off..."
It was my Trial By Sparkler.
I remember the day; perhpas not "as if it were yesterday", but as a tenaciously held memory I pray never escapes me...
I remember my grandfather had to go to work in the mines for the day, and my grandmother watched over my twin and me between gulped-down breakfasts and lunches. Within bites of whatever was passed in front of me [nothin' beat Gran-ma's cookin'- who cared what it was, we knew it was good!] I can still recall the desperate, innate need of little boys to get back to the immediacy of a giant cardboard box or GI Joe exploration of the 'lunar surface' of the local dirt mound.
I even remember "quiet time" naps to the sound of the droning window mounted air-conditioner and constantly asking where Crappaw was and when he'd be returning...
Now- where I'm going with this long-winded rendition of past experiences, one has to understand where I am today. I've seen firework displays to end all in Washington- even in my hometowns; I've been the part of massive displays that have been the conversations of many all over the world; to be a part of something bigger truly one seldom forgets- but that which stands out greatest in our minds are those things most tangible and most intimate to who and what we are to become...
So, times change; notions evolve and memories one would pray remain fluid begin their inexorable and damning fade. My time now is vastly different and gone to me from my yester-years- leaving a space that only etherial images and vaunted smells and sounds tantelize me with it's inconsiquential nature then- now made so much more desirable; as well as bittersweet.
My grandfather; he's gone now.
Age and health having given way to the spirit roughly 2 months ago...
My grandmother's health these days is stoic, but I gather questionable; a nursing home and a body unwilling to bend to will and desire rending her time away from her beloved home, usually full of talkative adults and squeeling children.
That home I desperately couldn't get enough of- the squeeking floors, sticking doors and the real wooden blinds- now stands a sad and screamingly silent vigil...
Yes, perhaps by some personal laconic need for identifiers of my past I'm so nostalgic- perhaps the still-recent loss to my family entreats the selfish portrait I wax poetic...
Still, for this time- this 'now'- nothing may yet beat the intimacy of my grandparents' undivided attention and the flittering lights and acrid smoke of those first tiny flares of magnesium and flame...
Even at that tender age of six, I cherished that day, that evening- those weeks. I knew my time was special with my grandparents. I want to think that my observations then lend character and credance to the bittersweet notions of this '4th' I feel today
I look back, perhaps with the hope that my six-year-old will one day remember me, like I did those who molded me so long ago.
This will be his first Trial by Sparkler...
I continue to be...
Russ
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
WWWD
It’s times like these in life when I’m often reminded of the cottage gospel industries acronymic moniker “WWJD- What Would Jesus Do?”
My guess is that he would be laughing, praising All Mighty God and welcoming Russell Woodrow Rose into his arms. In that same breath, I would think that with a morose and empathetic nature, his hand would also touch the hearts of those who have awakened and begin to mourn Woodrow’s passing this morning.
Most people called Woodrow “Russell”- it was, after all, his first name. Having been named after the 28th president of the United States and arguably one of the greatest presidents of his time, perhaps it would have led to another form of greatness within the Rose clan- one will now have to leave that notion to both histrionics and to his son’s and grandson’s verbal legacy...
If I reach to the furthest reaches of my memories- pushing past birthdays, holidays, school-times and those “fertile years” when the conquest of women was more the stuff of self gratification than fulfillment, I remember my grandfather by his blessed moniker. A name he refused to let go of for all his days once uttered by his cherubic twin grandsons- a name he wore with the tartan pride of a Midwesterner who’d just been knighted- certainly “Woodrow” being that of “lesser stuff”...
Crappaw!
My mother was incredibly embarrassed by our inability to call him “GRAND” pa. My grandmother was quoted as saying, “Yeah- those two are definitely your grandbabies!” and Woodrow/Crappaw? He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The name stuck to him like the excremental element that his nickname developed from and he absolutely relished the aroma of it!
The coal miners whom he worked with absolutely roared when they learned of his grandbabies bestowal to his already lengthy name- but as they’d chide Crappaw, they were also inwardly jealous as hell that their grandkids weren’t as ‘inadvertently clever’ as Woodrow’s...
As of this writing, he’ll have been “gone” no more than 12 hours ago; though it could be said that in the week of his declining health, perhaps he’d left all of us much earlier than my self imposed timeline would suggest.
Russell “Crappaw” Rose worked for 60 years [yes, I said “sixty”- no stuttering here] in the coal mines of Illinois. He was the only boy in a gaggle of 8 children and by the tender age of 13. His mother having died far long ago, his father was both sole provider and ‘mother hen’ to 7 girls and one boy in the foothills of the Ozarks. With the Great Depression looming over most everyone at that impressionable time in my grand-pa’s life; the best way to keep a single parent house warm in the winter was to either pick up coal off the railroad tracks, or go to work for the coal company. He chose what made the most sense even though that meant missing out on a high school education.
Never shirking responsibility, inevitably he would go on one day to get his high school diploma- at 40 years of age he was the first man to do so in the nation. He didn’t stop there though- he went on to attempt his doctorate only to miss it by one thesis paper. His “failure” was not because of lax time, attitude or ability... Crappaw’s professor, who would have inevitably [and by his own admission] aced the paper, pleaded that Crappaw simply “slap the damn bibliography on this thing and get your diploma!” The paper wasn’t good enough for Crappaw though- invariably it was never ‘finished’ in his eyes.
With this notion of “business left unfinished” perhaps that sums up the passing of Crappaw. He planned well in advance for his own demise- no illusions of immortality or some fantasized Fountain of Youth. But there’s the most troubling for me personally his written [and verbal- as he’d told me more than once some time before] that he have no funeral. He wanted no words spoken on his behalf and he refused any manner of wake or memorial. One could chalk up this requirement to his generation- practical, pragmatic and matter-of-fact. Or perhaps there’s some martyrdom left untapped.
Perhaps his refusal to all the trappings of death was his last life lesson to teach not only his son, but his grandkids as well...
He had come into this world unknown- one day his mother only a scant few years gone and his father remarrying not once but twice. With such historic events as The Great Depression, WW II, Vietnam and man landing on the moon, the only thing he ever mentioned that he felt newsworthy was his grandsons coming into this world.
Now, with his time spent, his job long since done and his grandchildren safely and competently fending for themselves- like the robin of spring one day falls to the earth, it’s soliloquy that of his progeny taking flight; he passes on from this mortal coil, his legend more than satisfactorily secure on the wings and song of his children.
“What Would Jesus Do?”
Most likely Jesus would ask in return:
“What Would Woodrow Do?”
I have missed my time with Crappaw. I’ve missed him based simply on homesickness- now I have moment to pause and realize that truly there is no going home anymore.
Though heartbroken today...
I continue to be...
Russ
My guess is that he would be laughing, praising All Mighty God and welcoming Russell Woodrow Rose into his arms. In that same breath, I would think that with a morose and empathetic nature, his hand would also touch the hearts of those who have awakened and begin to mourn Woodrow’s passing this morning.
Most people called Woodrow “Russell”- it was, after all, his first name. Having been named after the 28th president of the United States and arguably one of the greatest presidents of his time, perhaps it would have led to another form of greatness within the Rose clan- one will now have to leave that notion to both histrionics and to his son’s and grandson’s verbal legacy...
If I reach to the furthest reaches of my memories- pushing past birthdays, holidays, school-times and those “fertile years” when the conquest of women was more the stuff of self gratification than fulfillment, I remember my grandfather by his blessed moniker. A name he refused to let go of for all his days once uttered by his cherubic twin grandsons- a name he wore with the tartan pride of a Midwesterner who’d just been knighted- certainly “Woodrow” being that of “lesser stuff”...
Crappaw!
My mother was incredibly embarrassed by our inability to call him “GRAND” pa. My grandmother was quoted as saying, “Yeah- those two are definitely your grandbabies!” and Woodrow/Crappaw? He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The name stuck to him like the excremental element that his nickname developed from and he absolutely relished the aroma of it!
The coal miners whom he worked with absolutely roared when they learned of his grandbabies bestowal to his already lengthy name- but as they’d chide Crappaw, they were also inwardly jealous as hell that their grandkids weren’t as ‘inadvertently clever’ as Woodrow’s...
As of this writing, he’ll have been “gone” no more than 12 hours ago; though it could be said that in the week of his declining health, perhaps he’d left all of us much earlier than my self imposed timeline would suggest.
Russell “Crappaw” Rose worked for 60 years [yes, I said “sixty”- no stuttering here] in the coal mines of Illinois. He was the only boy in a gaggle of 8 children and by the tender age of 13. His mother having died far long ago, his father was both sole provider and ‘mother hen’ to 7 girls and one boy in the foothills of the Ozarks. With the Great Depression looming over most everyone at that impressionable time in my grand-pa’s life; the best way to keep a single parent house warm in the winter was to either pick up coal off the railroad tracks, or go to work for the coal company. He chose what made the most sense even though that meant missing out on a high school education.
Never shirking responsibility, inevitably he would go on one day to get his high school diploma- at 40 years of age he was the first man to do so in the nation. He didn’t stop there though- he went on to attempt his doctorate only to miss it by one thesis paper. His “failure” was not because of lax time, attitude or ability... Crappaw’s professor, who would have inevitably [and by his own admission] aced the paper, pleaded that Crappaw simply “slap the damn bibliography on this thing and get your diploma!” The paper wasn’t good enough for Crappaw though- invariably it was never ‘finished’ in his eyes.
With this notion of “business left unfinished” perhaps that sums up the passing of Crappaw. He planned well in advance for his own demise- no illusions of immortality or some fantasized Fountain of Youth. But there’s the most troubling for me personally his written [and verbal- as he’d told me more than once some time before] that he have no funeral. He wanted no words spoken on his behalf and he refused any manner of wake or memorial. One could chalk up this requirement to his generation- practical, pragmatic and matter-of-fact. Or perhaps there’s some martyrdom left untapped.
Perhaps his refusal to all the trappings of death was his last life lesson to teach not only his son, but his grandkids as well...
He had come into this world unknown- one day his mother only a scant few years gone and his father remarrying not once but twice. With such historic events as The Great Depression, WW II, Vietnam and man landing on the moon, the only thing he ever mentioned that he felt newsworthy was his grandsons coming into this world.
Now, with his time spent, his job long since done and his grandchildren safely and competently fending for themselves- like the robin of spring one day falls to the earth, it’s soliloquy that of his progeny taking flight; he passes on from this mortal coil, his legend more than satisfactorily secure on the wings and song of his children.
“What Would Jesus Do?”
Most likely Jesus would ask in return:
“What Would Woodrow Do?”
I have missed my time with Crappaw. I’ve missed him based simply on homesickness- now I have moment to pause and realize that truly there is no going home anymore.
Though heartbroken today...
I continue to be...
Russ
Thursday, February 15, 2007
But for the Want to Forget...
I'm a "contributor" for Gather on many occassions- think of this one mention as a shameless plug for Gather if you wish.
The site is actually an excellent source for those who want the immediate gratification of their posts being reviewed and/or interpretated by their readership. I'll admit to a certain 'whoring' aspect in my personality that wants to see if what I write earns the merit of understanding I'd want from my readers...
In this instance though, someone going by the moniker "JJack Midnight" postulated a question that just screamed reflection on my part. He simply asked that if science had developed a pill that would allow you to remove one memory for each pill taken, and the memory would be removed so perfectly and completely you'd never know it had ever taken place, would you be tempted to use the drug?
I don't know what I found more prophetic: The almost total response that everyone [except the two most shallow] wouldn't do it- or the reasons why.
The most base of reasons given was the ubiquitous "I am the sum total of my memories..." line- and that's entirely [universally?] true; but the ones that struck me the most were the ones that delved into a piece of their souls- myself included.
I could wax poetic about my life and the rights and wrongs perpetrated on me, by me or for me- but that's a banal assault on you dear readers into my own self gratification and need for exhibitionism.
No- I'd simply pass this question on to you, dear reader...
Given the original hypothetical: Science has the ability to let you specifically and perfectly remove memories [no matter what type] would you be willing to take it?
Where some might stop at a yes or no- I am far too iron fisted to let you off that easily- not only would you have to express what you'd want removed, you'd be required to reason why it's desirable and for what specific reasons.
The want to forget can be overwelming- especially in the realms of pain, grief and horror. I won't deny that.
But if we truly are the sum of our memories and the vessels of crude flesh we weild are nothing more than those vessels to thoughts, ideas and memories that are fleetingly here one day and gone the next- should we dare to remove even one piece if it means removing apiece of who we truly are?
I continue to be,
Russ
The site is actually an excellent source for those who want the immediate gratification of their posts being reviewed and/or interpretated by their readership. I'll admit to a certain 'whoring' aspect in my personality that wants to see if what I write earns the merit of understanding I'd want from my readers...
In this instance though, someone going by the moniker "JJack Midnight" postulated a question that just screamed reflection on my part. He simply asked that if science had developed a pill that would allow you to remove one memory for each pill taken, and the memory would be removed so perfectly and completely you'd never know it had ever taken place, would you be tempted to use the drug?
I don't know what I found more prophetic: The almost total response that everyone [except the two most shallow] wouldn't do it- or the reasons why.
The most base of reasons given was the ubiquitous "I am the sum total of my memories..." line- and that's entirely [universally?] true; but the ones that struck me the most were the ones that delved into a piece of their souls- myself included.
I could wax poetic about my life and the rights and wrongs perpetrated on me, by me or for me- but that's a banal assault on you dear readers into my own self gratification and need for exhibitionism.
No- I'd simply pass this question on to you, dear reader...
Given the original hypothetical: Science has the ability to let you specifically and perfectly remove memories [no matter what type] would you be willing to take it?
Where some might stop at a yes or no- I am far too iron fisted to let you off that easily- not only would you have to express what you'd want removed, you'd be required to reason why it's desirable and for what specific reasons.
The want to forget can be overwelming- especially in the realms of pain, grief and horror. I won't deny that.
But if we truly are the sum of our memories and the vessels of crude flesh we weild are nothing more than those vessels to thoughts, ideas and memories that are fleetingly here one day and gone the next- should we dare to remove even one piece if it means removing apiece of who we truly are?
I continue to be,
Russ
Monday, September 11, 2006
Of Dorks & Dogs...
The linked blog entry I've included with this entry pretty much says it all for the Liberal Elitist and what has changed from the day after 9-11.
Are we safer today than 9/11/01..? Yes- "but..."
There-in lies the crux of the Elitist's braggart for our war on terror.
"Yes- But..." to them means "We're not safe at all."
Funny thing that Ryan Singel's article takes into account many and varied forms of US governmental data on health, disease and highway/product safety data- but therein is where his Liberal ideology shines.
1st off- "launched a pre-emptive war on false pretenses"?!
Okay, you half baked Libby Sci-Hippy. Let's not forget that you're using selective memory and you pretend to only remember what you wanted to hear and that everybody in Congress near-unanimously voted FOR the invasion; no, no! Let's also confirm something here... Define "what" pretenses you seem so wanton to illude to- if you're so damned smart, how about some facts?
2nd- "But despite the never-ending litany of warnings and endless stories of half-baked plots foiled..."
"Half baked?" Again- for a scientifically minded portfolio of information, your vaguarity just boggles my mind. Define "half-baked" you indolent turd. 5 years ago, "half-baked" was the idea that 4 planes could be commandeered with only box cutters and a little religious zealotry.
And then, my favorite. 3rd and finally...
Mr Singel's vaguary knows no bounds because he never takes into account [single mindedly and myopically self indulgently so] that the "silly" color coded warning is not just for American soil!
He mystically seems to forget that federal codesses are used wherever Americans may be. Sure- if you only apply American terrorist deaths to American soil- his analysis [though blisteringly dim and short sighted] is minimally correct.
Let's consider ALL deaths to Americans related to Islamofascism. And let's do it from the very start of this threat- let's say some time around 1960.
[Yes- I'm taking this opportunity to call a spade a spade- something our cowardly Mr Singel seems unwilling to do as well- Islamofascism is what's killing Americans and un-Muslims alike; and guess what- "Terrorism" as a tactic has been with us for many- many years...]
http://www.army.mil/terrorism/index.html?goto=menu
Total CONTEMPORARY deaths related to terrorist tactics? 20.X MILLION people.
Related to cancer? Hardly a dent. Won't even argue that point.
What makes this little pendantic Liberal Agenda ploy so obvious is that to make your point, you have to use only 10 years of data. Go back any more than 20 years- using both societal as well as military data and the answers are far more skewed- almost even in many of the catagories.
How about AIDS though? You realize that Terror as a tactic has helped to further the disease of AIDS more than any other disease known to man, right? Rats are probably the only vermin besides man that have surpassed the transfer of death disease and pestulance. Problem is, rats pass plagues by virtue of their nature- man does it by virtue of his hatred or ignorance.
Party politics and hatred for the standing administration are what keeps this war on terror from being just another sentence or two of footnote in a textbook.
All the items mentioned are analogous to all falls, all disease, poisonings, flu and electrocutions- military or otherwise. Raw military data configured to Terror activity going back to 1960 puts it on-par with "yellow" designation quite easily.
Our literary and statistical charlitain [Singel] may have a legitimate rant to the banality of our existance after 9/11- truly we all should because of the leathal proclivities of Islamofascists- but to place that rant on the residing administration smacks of the same partisan politics before 9/11. It's analogous to screeching about not being allowed to borrow the car on a Saturday night because Dad stands 4 inches taller than you.
"It don't add up".
I continue to be:
Russ
Are we safer today than 9/11/01..? Yes- "but..."
There-in lies the crux of the Elitist's braggart for our war on terror.
"Yes- But..." to them means "We're not safe at all."
Funny thing that Ryan Singel's article takes into account many and varied forms of US governmental data on health, disease and highway/product safety data- but therein is where his Liberal ideology shines.
1st off- "launched a pre-emptive war on false pretenses"?!
Okay, you half baked Libby Sci-Hippy. Let's not forget that you're using selective memory and you pretend to only remember what you wanted to hear and that everybody in Congress near-unanimously voted FOR the invasion; no, no! Let's also confirm something here... Define "what" pretenses you seem so wanton to illude to- if you're so damned smart, how about some facts?
2nd- "But despite the never-ending litany of warnings and endless stories of half-baked plots foiled..."
"Half baked?" Again- for a scientifically minded portfolio of information, your vaguarity just boggles my mind. Define "half-baked" you indolent turd. 5 years ago, "half-baked" was the idea that 4 planes could be commandeered with only box cutters and a little religious zealotry.
And then, my favorite. 3rd and finally...
Mr Singel's vaguary knows no bounds because he never takes into account [single mindedly and myopically self indulgently so] that the "silly" color coded warning is not just for American soil!
He mystically seems to forget that federal codesses are used wherever Americans may be. Sure- if you only apply American terrorist deaths to American soil- his analysis [though blisteringly dim and short sighted] is minimally correct.
Let's consider ALL deaths to Americans related to Islamofascism. And let's do it from the very start of this threat- let's say some time around 1960.
[Yes- I'm taking this opportunity to call a spade a spade- something our cowardly Mr Singel seems unwilling to do as well- Islamofascism is what's killing Americans and un-Muslims alike; and guess what- "Terrorism" as a tactic has been with us for many- many years...]
http://www.army.mil/terrorism/index.html?goto=menu
Total CONTEMPORARY deaths related to terrorist tactics? 20.X MILLION people.
Related to cancer? Hardly a dent. Won't even argue that point.
What makes this little pendantic Liberal Agenda ploy so obvious is that to make your point, you have to use only 10 years of data. Go back any more than 20 years- using both societal as well as military data and the answers are far more skewed- almost even in many of the catagories.
How about AIDS though? You realize that Terror as a tactic has helped to further the disease of AIDS more than any other disease known to man, right? Rats are probably the only vermin besides man that have surpassed the transfer of death disease and pestulance. Problem is, rats pass plagues by virtue of their nature- man does it by virtue of his hatred or ignorance.
Party politics and hatred for the standing administration are what keeps this war on terror from being just another sentence or two of footnote in a textbook.
All the items mentioned are analogous to all falls, all disease, poisonings, flu and electrocutions- military or otherwise. Raw military data configured to Terror activity going back to 1960 puts it on-par with "yellow" designation quite easily.
Our literary and statistical charlitain [Singel] may have a legitimate rant to the banality of our existance after 9/11- truly we all should because of the leathal proclivities of Islamofascists- but to place that rant on the residing administration smacks of the same partisan politics before 9/11. It's analogous to screeching about not being allowed to borrow the car on a Saturday night because Dad stands 4 inches taller than you.
"It don't add up".
I continue to be:
Russ
Friday, September 01, 2006
Name Five
Here’s a small quiz- see how many answers you can come up with…
1. Name the last 5 people to get the Nobel Peace Prize or a Pulitzer.
2. Name the last 5 Miss Universe Pageant winners.
3. Name the last 5 Heizman Trophy winners.
4. Name the last 5 people to win an Academy Award for best actor or actress.
5. Name the 5 wealthiest people on the planet.
6. Name the last 5 teams to win the World Series.
Rather tough questions, perhaps?
Sooner or later, none of us will remember the “headliners” of yesterday.
All of the questions above mention people that weren’t slackers by any means- they’re all “top dogs” in their professions… Sadly, with all things, no matter how great- the applause eventually dies, awards begin to tarnish- achievements soon forgotten.
Eventually, accolades and certificates are buried with their owners…
Now, try this small quiz:
1. Name 5 teachers that fostered or encouraged your best potential.
2. Name 3 people who helped you through a difficult time.
3. Name 5 people who taught you something worthwhile.
4. Name 5 people who you felt appreciated and special by.
5. Name at least 5 heroes whose stories have inspired you.
Now it’s not nearly as tough a quiz this time, right?
The people who make a difference in your life wind up being the ones without the most credentials, money or awards…
Though it could be said that your personal inspirations will fade in due time, consider this; it’s usually the ones who had the passion, courage, and drive- basically; the ones who cared, that make the greatest contributions to this world- no matter how grand or small.
There's a saying about the dropping of a pebble begins the ripples in a pool that eventually crash to a distant shore as a mighty wave...
What pebbles have you dropped into the sea of life along the way..?
I continue to be...
Russ
1. Name the last 5 people to get the Nobel Peace Prize or a Pulitzer.
2. Name the last 5 Miss Universe Pageant winners.
3. Name the last 5 Heizman Trophy winners.
4. Name the last 5 people to win an Academy Award for best actor or actress.
5. Name the 5 wealthiest people on the planet.
6. Name the last 5 teams to win the World Series.
Rather tough questions, perhaps?
Sooner or later, none of us will remember the “headliners” of yesterday.
All of the questions above mention people that weren’t slackers by any means- they’re all “top dogs” in their professions… Sadly, with all things, no matter how great- the applause eventually dies, awards begin to tarnish- achievements soon forgotten.
Eventually, accolades and certificates are buried with their owners…
Now, try this small quiz:
1. Name 5 teachers that fostered or encouraged your best potential.
2. Name 3 people who helped you through a difficult time.
3. Name 5 people who taught you something worthwhile.
4. Name 5 people who you felt appreciated and special by.
5. Name at least 5 heroes whose stories have inspired you.
Now it’s not nearly as tough a quiz this time, right?
The people who make a difference in your life wind up being the ones without the most credentials, money or awards…
Though it could be said that your personal inspirations will fade in due time, consider this; it’s usually the ones who had the passion, courage, and drive- basically; the ones who cared, that make the greatest contributions to this world- no matter how grand or small.
There's a saying about the dropping of a pebble begins the ripples in a pool that eventually crash to a distant shore as a mighty wave...
What pebbles have you dropped into the sea of life along the way..?
I continue to be...
Russ
Friday, June 23, 2006
"Do I Make You Proud?"
Taylor Hicks - Do I Make You Proud
If the olde addage "a picture is worth..." holds true:
Here, dear readers, are a billion words expressing the love and admiration for those who have risen to the cause of freedom and those who have fallen for its protection...
To say much more, would only cheapen such a wonderful work.
Enjoy.
If the olde addage "a picture is worth..." holds true:
Here, dear readers, are a billion words expressing the love and admiration for those who have risen to the cause of freedom and those who have fallen for its protection...
To say much more, would only cheapen such a wonderful work.
Enjoy.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
So; What Are You Afraid of..?
At some point in time- especially in our youth this question would inevitably come up.
Most often it was a rhetorical postulate by nature, simply testing your resolve to either join the clique or to surmise whether you had grown beyond the reach of your teddy bear outside of the comfort and safety of your home.
Now though, is the time to ask that all too familiar question...
Indeed- what are we afraid of?
Is it terrorism? Outside of the North-Eastern states; I really doubt it. The Communist Left of San Fran have left little if any doubt as to the dubious fantasy land they live in- one of their "leadership" professing no need for an American military- I suppose we could do as the Romans and let mercinaries protect us- until the price becomes too high even for them and they turn on the very masters who might once have fed them...
Our own demise? Seems to me the world is far too busy- collectively as well as individually- to contemplate our navels and the forces of the here-after to really account for anything meaningful.
Hell- at one point I feared having my testicles cut off- by "The Potty Monster" back during the potty training formative years and then some years later in some god-forsaken shithole of a place...
Oddly enough- it only took a vasectomy where the local antistetic wore off 15 minutes into a 20 minute proceedure to make me a believer that you may feel like the world is gonna end- but besides a few month's trauma- you [or I in this case] can endure and live through it.
So.
"What are you afraid of..?"
The known? The unknown? The pain of 'loss' or is it 'pain' in its most base form?
Think of this as simply a contemplation exercise- something to convince me [or most importantly, yourself] that you're very much alive and a part of this world!
I continue to be
Russ
Most often it was a rhetorical postulate by nature, simply testing your resolve to either join the clique or to surmise whether you had grown beyond the reach of your teddy bear outside of the comfort and safety of your home.
Now though, is the time to ask that all too familiar question...
Indeed- what are we afraid of?
Is it terrorism? Outside of the North-Eastern states; I really doubt it. The Communist Left of San Fran have left little if any doubt as to the dubious fantasy land they live in- one of their "leadership" professing no need for an American military- I suppose we could do as the Romans and let mercinaries protect us- until the price becomes too high even for them and they turn on the very masters who might once have fed them...
Our own demise? Seems to me the world is far too busy- collectively as well as individually- to contemplate our navels and the forces of the here-after to really account for anything meaningful.
Hell- at one point I feared having my testicles cut off- by "The Potty Monster" back during the potty training formative years and then some years later in some god-forsaken shithole of a place...
Oddly enough- it only took a vasectomy where the local antistetic wore off 15 minutes into a 20 minute proceedure to make me a believer that you may feel like the world is gonna end- but besides a few month's trauma- you [or I in this case] can endure and live through it.
So.
"What are you afraid of..?"
The known? The unknown? The pain of 'loss' or is it 'pain' in its most base form?
Think of this as simply a contemplation exercise- something to convince me [or most importantly, yourself] that you're very much alive and a part of this world!
I continue to be
Russ
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
It's Been A While...
Far be it from me to state that I'm a 'frequent' blogger- obviously I'm not...
In the time since the last jotted post, I've managed to do all manner of "nesting" to make way for a new baby girl and all the accoutrements that go with a new infant.
As a doting parent, there'll be time enough for me to post a picture or two- so yes, those that truly despise such things will have fodder to add to their desparagement of doting parents and their ill sent coos and gaffs of their children.
Let this stand as a simple note that I am indeed still alive and that with the lack of sleep of the truly parentally damned, I may or may not get much writing done in the next month or so- right now I seem to have a problem with my feedburner links, so thus I have something else to add to my list of ebb-n-flow problems that make up life.
Peace be with you, gentle readers- Russ will be back in the saddle before you know it.
I continue to be:
Russ
In the time since the last jotted post, I've managed to do all manner of "nesting" to make way for a new baby girl and all the accoutrements that go with a new infant.
As a doting parent, there'll be time enough for me to post a picture or two- so yes, those that truly despise such things will have fodder to add to their desparagement of doting parents and their ill sent coos and gaffs of their children.
Let this stand as a simple note that I am indeed still alive and that with the lack of sleep of the truly parentally damned, I may or may not get much writing done in the next month or so- right now I seem to have a problem with my feedburner links, so thus I have something else to add to my list of ebb-n-flow problems that make up life.
Peace be with you, gentle readers- Russ will be back in the saddle before you know it.
I continue to be:
Russ
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
What We Do, Here & Now...
I sent this story to Lee Cockerell Back in the winding fall days before winter and the inevitable Christmas rush. It was the story of my father-in-law, Robert Holman and what his life represented during WWII. It may be a little out of place in the scheme of things as I post them- but his was a story I wanted to share with teh world- and with it, the continuation of his story into my own... The story is/was as follows:
I continue to be
Russ
I wasn't sure where to send a magical moment of this type, as this became a "moment" in time that a person doesn't realize has come to fulfillment until almost a year later- and certainly, this is a Magical Moment where the whole of experiences combines into a flood of emotions only brought to the surface from that point of picturesque clarity that hindsight represents...
I've noted your Main Street Diary since 1998 when I began my role as Ops Maintenance Administrator for the D/MGM Studios, and would only pleasantly glance over the guest compliments section as one letter or another might grasp my interest- not fully realizing the humanity that lie beneath mere printed words. Past notions of "a pleasant glance" are now replaced with a desire to learn more about the "who" as well as the "why" in a guest letter.
I have my own story to tell and it begins some time after December 7, 1941...
Before there's any mistake, I'm only 38 years old, the person "directly affected" by "Disney Magic Past" was my father-in-law Robert Holman, who joined the Navy just after the initiation of conflict that plunged the whole Earth into World War II. The unfortunate side effect of having made 4 shipboard deployments during his Naval career, Bob never came home on the same vessels he went out with. The first 3 deployments met with U-boat torpedoes; literally, he had the boats blown out from under him. The last deployment saw Bob swept off the deck during a squall where he tread water for almost 2 days until he was picked up by an English destroyer! Factor into this, enemy air attacks and battleship volleys, you could fully understand this man's desire to see nothing bigger than a pontoon boat ever again!
After the kind of conditions experienced by Bob, it's not hard to understand why he would never want to take a cruise, but you couldn't explain it to his wife or my wife [his daughter]... Shirley and my wife Suzanne seemed to be the Lucy and Ethel of the High Seas, always prodding and poking Robert to take them on a cruise since the 1950s. And always, the same answer- "I don't want to get on one of those renovated scows- too many nightmares, not enough memories".
Enter The Disney Cruise Line.
After my wife and I had taken an anniversary trip on the Wonder, everyone in my family (including the 1-year-old, go figure) managed to convince him to go. It took some doing, but eventually we were able to drag him onto the Wonder for his first voyage in almost 60 years! Though Bob could have pealed the tile off the floor to the gangplank going in, within the third day of the trip, while we were on Castaway Kaye, unprompted, we get a totally unexpected question "When should we take the 7 day cruise?"
Eventually, we took that cruise, right around the first of February (2003). My family, the "In-Laws" and my wife's brother and wife all took the trip- the only caveat being that Bob's health was faltering due to a harsh bout with cancer. As are all things Disney, the guest treatment was top notch, and any help with Bob's needs were always humane.
A couple of months prior was the family Christmas trip to the Magic Kingdom during the Cast Holidays. Normally, we're not a picturesque bunch and usually wave off the Main Street photographers, but since we had the option of a photo and The Castle to our backs, we posed all together with cheesy grins and eventually picked up the picture for a good laugh. Much like all the holiday photos and trimmings of the season, after Christmas it was put aside for the next year...
Unfortunately, Bob's health never got much better, even after the cruise. Eventually he was diagnosed terminally ill back around the end of February- the very same month as the cruise. With dwindling health and no positive prognosis, Bob and his wife of 50 years, Shirley, planned for what they knew to be inevitable. By the first week in October Bob and Shirl ventured up north to Massachusetts to take one last look at the falling leaves and to have amends with family and friends all with the idea of coming back to Florida for whatever time might be left.
Bob never made it back to what he considered "home". He passed away on October 14, [2004]due to the progressive nature of the cancer that had persisted for so long.
At that time, between moving into a new home, and reporting to Imagineering for a grand opportunity to work under their helm for a few months, things were already hectic in my family's household, and Bob's passing only compounded the frenetic nature of what one would call "life". Quiet moments after the funeral are- for now- sometimes spent with nagging quiet voices of regret and "things left undone or unsaid". Hardest hit of course was a wife and mother of 50 years, and a daughter who's only selfish motive for her father to stay alive was so his grandson would better remember his grandfather and not just some jumbled stack of pictures and grand stories.
This past Monday, I pulled decorations out of the Holman's attic in order to help Shirley have something up for the holidays- though things are melancholy this Christmas, we all agreed that we wanted things to be special for our toddler.
Being just over two years old, a toddler has a strong propensity for nosing into anything, and nothing sparks the curiosity of a little boy like a dusty box with greenery sprouting out of it... Lo and behold, in one of a dozen dusty boxes the baby had managed to pull out the picture of our family in front of the Castle, with the digital imprint of the Disney characters along the foreground edges.
The baby would point to each character and then burp out "Ickey", "Uto", "Inney", "Donnod"... Of course, we expected him to remember the characters- since he showed interest in Mickey all while we were on the cruise (as long as Mickey "stayed waaay over there"). But then came a Magical Moment- as fleeting perhaps as the time it took for the photo to be snapped and as quiet as the omnipotent voices of Pandora's box offering hope to the future:
"Daddy, Mommy, Gammy, Baby..."
"An Gampy..."
That Cast Christmas photo- the one we scarcely would have had taken- the one we laughed at ourselves for the chagrined nature of the moment since we had repetitively passed the opportunity time and again; is the last photo of our family together. That one photographic Disney moment is locked in time- we're all smiles- Bob is still with us and cognitive- the future was there to be had- and a grandson remembered his grandfather...
What happens in our future is anyone's guess. For those that subscribe to Zen koans, "Only the here and now are perfect- the past is a memory and the future is a lie".
Much like the proverbial pebble, onced dropped close by helping to create the crashing waves some place far from it's origins, my family and I, for now, will have rippled moments of perfection during this one difficult holiday season.
I've noted your Main Street Diary since 1998 when I began my role as Ops Maintenance Administrator for the D/MGM Studios, and would only pleasantly glance over the guest compliments section as one letter or another might grasp my interest- not fully realizing the humanity that lie beneath mere printed words. Past notions of "a pleasant glance" are now replaced with a desire to learn more about the "who" as well as the "why" in a guest letter.
I have my own story to tell and it begins some time after December 7, 1941...
Before there's any mistake, I'm only 38 years old, the person "directly affected" by "Disney Magic Past" was my father-in-law Robert Holman, who joined the Navy just after the initiation of conflict that plunged the whole Earth into World War II. The unfortunate side effect of having made 4 shipboard deployments during his Naval career, Bob never came home on the same vessels he went out with. The first 3 deployments met with U-boat torpedoes; literally, he had the boats blown out from under him. The last deployment saw Bob swept off the deck during a squall where he tread water for almost 2 days until he was picked up by an English destroyer! Factor into this, enemy air attacks and battleship volleys, you could fully understand this man's desire to see nothing bigger than a pontoon boat ever again!
After the kind of conditions experienced by Bob, it's not hard to understand why he would never want to take a cruise, but you couldn't explain it to his wife or my wife [his daughter]... Shirley and my wife Suzanne seemed to be the Lucy and Ethel of the High Seas, always prodding and poking Robert to take them on a cruise since the 1950s. And always, the same answer- "I don't want to get on one of those renovated scows- too many nightmares, not enough memories".
Enter The Disney Cruise Line.
After my wife and I had taken an anniversary trip on the Wonder, everyone in my family (including the 1-year-old, go figure) managed to convince him to go. It took some doing, but eventually we were able to drag him onto the Wonder for his first voyage in almost 60 years! Though Bob could have pealed the tile off the floor to the gangplank going in, within the third day of the trip, while we were on Castaway Kaye, unprompted, we get a totally unexpected question "When should we take the 7 day cruise?"
Eventually, we took that cruise, right around the first of February (2003). My family, the "In-Laws" and my wife's brother and wife all took the trip- the only caveat being that Bob's health was faltering due to a harsh bout with cancer. As are all things Disney, the guest treatment was top notch, and any help with Bob's needs were always humane.
A couple of months prior was the family Christmas trip to the Magic Kingdom during the Cast Holidays. Normally, we're not a picturesque bunch and usually wave off the Main Street photographers, but since we had the option of a photo and The Castle to our backs, we posed all together with cheesy grins and eventually picked up the picture for a good laugh. Much like all the holiday photos and trimmings of the season, after Christmas it was put aside for the next year...
Unfortunately, Bob's health never got much better, even after the cruise. Eventually he was diagnosed terminally ill back around the end of February- the very same month as the cruise. With dwindling health and no positive prognosis, Bob and his wife of 50 years, Shirley, planned for what they knew to be inevitable. By the first week in October Bob and Shirl ventured up north to Massachusetts to take one last look at the falling leaves and to have amends with family and friends all with the idea of coming back to Florida for whatever time might be left.
Bob never made it back to what he considered "home". He passed away on October 14, [2004]due to the progressive nature of the cancer that had persisted for so long.
At that time, between moving into a new home, and reporting to Imagineering for a grand opportunity to work under their helm for a few months, things were already hectic in my family's household, and Bob's passing only compounded the frenetic nature of what one would call "life". Quiet moments after the funeral are- for now- sometimes spent with nagging quiet voices of regret and "things left undone or unsaid". Hardest hit of course was a wife and mother of 50 years, and a daughter who's only selfish motive for her father to stay alive was so his grandson would better remember his grandfather and not just some jumbled stack of pictures and grand stories.
This past Monday, I pulled decorations out of the Holman's attic in order to help Shirley have something up for the holidays- though things are melancholy this Christmas, we all agreed that we wanted things to be special for our toddler.
Being just over two years old, a toddler has a strong propensity for nosing into anything, and nothing sparks the curiosity of a little boy like a dusty box with greenery sprouting out of it... Lo and behold, in one of a dozen dusty boxes the baby had managed to pull out the picture of our family in front of the Castle, with the digital imprint of the Disney characters along the foreground edges.
The baby would point to each character and then burp out "Ickey", "Uto", "Inney", "Donnod"... Of course, we expected him to remember the characters- since he showed interest in Mickey all while we were on the cruise (as long as Mickey "stayed waaay over there"). But then came a Magical Moment- as fleeting perhaps as the time it took for the photo to be snapped and as quiet as the omnipotent voices of Pandora's box offering hope to the future:
"Daddy, Mommy, Gammy, Baby..."
"An Gampy..."
That Cast Christmas photo- the one we scarcely would have had taken- the one we laughed at ourselves for the chagrined nature of the moment since we had repetitively passed the opportunity time and again; is the last photo of our family together. That one photographic Disney moment is locked in time- we're all smiles- Bob is still with us and cognitive- the future was there to be had- and a grandson remembered his grandfather...
What happens in our future is anyone's guess. For those that subscribe to Zen koans, "Only the here and now are perfect- the past is a memory and the future is a lie".
Much like the proverbial pebble, onced dropped close by helping to create the crashing waves some place far from it's origins, my family and I, for now, will have rippled moments of perfection during this one difficult holiday season.
My letter then ended detailing some things that I could take a life lesson from and apply it to business...
To try to sumerize it directly wouldn't make much of an impact to you, my faithful readers- but once paraphrased, is just as timely here and now as during that turbulent time in my family's history...
As an observation concerning the holidays- as self actualized individuals, sometimes we need a reminder that, though we see things differently than our fellow human beings, often through the eyes of repetition and the frenetic pace of the season's; sometimes the act of "just being there" for a moment that creates the moment.
As an observation concerning the holidays- as self actualized individuals, sometimes we need a reminder that, though we see things differently than our fellow human beings, often through the eyes of repetition and the frenetic pace of the season's; sometimes the act of "just being there" for a moment that creates the moment.
Those persons and personalities you'll come across in life will have their stories to tell, and whether you tell them or are told- there will be stories- ("ripples" from the very pebble we have just dropped into this "ocean" of our guests' expectations) in the not-too-distant future. What difference they make to you or that you will have made in a person's life may not be spelled out so clearly at the time of your meeting.
But soon enough, what will be the "here and now" of the future will tell...
I continue to be
Russ
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Blogger Widget Test...
I have to hand it to the folks at Gooooogle and Blogger...
Not everything has to be special for the Windows users, and the addition of the Mac Blogger Widget just might make things a little swifter for guys like me that have just enough time to do something other than post on their blogs...
Granted, the widget doesn't provide all of the wonders of the full fledged Blogger Account- but for someone to simply jot a note that could easily be forgotten, this tool makes it much easier to get a person's thoughts down and into the microcosm that is Blogger.
Truly a wonderful addition to the Blogger line.
Now I can say that I'm a better integrated, and continue to be
Russ
Not everything has to be special for the Windows users, and the addition of the Mac Blogger Widget just might make things a little swifter for guys like me that have just enough time to do something other than post on their blogs...
Granted, the widget doesn't provide all of the wonders of the full fledged Blogger Account- but for someone to simply jot a note that could easily be forgotten, this tool makes it much easier to get a person's thoughts down and into the microcosm that is Blogger.
Truly a wonderful addition to the Blogger line.
Now I can say that I'm a better integrated, and continue to be
Russ
Saturday, February 18, 2006
The Difference Between Liberal & Humanitarian
All right- it's been a while... I could just whine about the time not spent installing entries as chocked up to "familial responsibilities":
Case in point- it's taken me 30 minutes to write this much...
It turns out that even getting up as 'late' as 07:00 means that all the pets [and we have acquired quite the zoo repository in this household...] want bread, fed, watered, walked and squawked- a hungry and QUITE pregnant mother wants to start "The Baby Room Project" and a son that just shat the bed full [damn virus/bacterium that's been going around the day care; Geez, I hate day care- just on that "merit" alone] demand immediate, simultaneous attention.
The interesting [or dare I say- 'funny'] part to this is that it makes for entertaining writing fodder at some later date when I can actually adjust my thinking to the humor of it all.
Back to matters at hand: Liberals and Humanitarians.
In order to piss off mankind's [hence: "My"] rivals and to solidify "correct" thinking in the shortest method possible, here's how I see things...
Humanitarian: Person dedicated to the just cause of humanity/mankind through action and 'good works' to produce results beneficial to everyone- if one should benefit, all should benefit.
Liberal: Person dedicated to personal cause[s] through action and discention to produce results beneficial to his or her personal beliefs- even at the restriction or cost of another's.
Yes, good readers of RussViews- my stance is that Humanitarians seek harmony and balance with everyone by striving for results that allow everyone to rise to a higher balance; Liberals seek the restriction and/or subjugation of others to create what they dimly percieve to be as "balance".
A Humanitarian will make mistakes and look inward to see what he or she may have calculated incorrectly in order to change themselves and thusly help change the world for the better.
A Liberal will make a mistake [their meer existance is often enough] and looks outward for the person, place or thing that needs changing to make their world a better place.
All this I've gained just by surfing some of the leftist and rightist blogs and forum sites...
There's all measure I could write concerning the subject- but I've a load of household duties to perform and it waits for no man- or, "woo-man" for that matter.
There'll be plenty more "slammage" to be made as the days, weeks, etc pass- until then, I have a baby to prepair for it's arrival and a son who needs extra attention while his tummy feels bad.
I continue to be:
Russ
Case in point- it's taken me 30 minutes to write this much...
It turns out that even getting up as 'late' as 07:00 means that all the pets [and we have acquired quite the zoo repository in this household...] want bread, fed, watered, walked and squawked- a hungry and QUITE pregnant mother wants to start "The Baby Room Project" and a son that just shat the bed full [damn virus/bacterium that's been going around the day care; Geez, I hate day care- just on that "merit" alone] demand immediate, simultaneous attention.
The interesting [or dare I say- 'funny'] part to this is that it makes for entertaining writing fodder at some later date when I can actually adjust my thinking to the humor of it all.
Back to matters at hand: Liberals and Humanitarians.
In order to piss off mankind's [hence: "My"] rivals and to solidify "correct" thinking in the shortest method possible, here's how I see things...
Humanitarian: Person dedicated to the just cause of humanity/mankind through action and 'good works' to produce results beneficial to everyone- if one should benefit, all should benefit.
Liberal: Person dedicated to personal cause[s] through action and discention to produce results beneficial to his or her personal beliefs- even at the restriction or cost of another's.
Yes, good readers of RussViews- my stance is that Humanitarians seek harmony and balance with everyone by striving for results that allow everyone to rise to a higher balance; Liberals seek the restriction and/or subjugation of others to create what they dimly percieve to be as "balance".
A Humanitarian will make mistakes and look inward to see what he or she may have calculated incorrectly in order to change themselves and thusly help change the world for the better.
A Liberal will make a mistake [their meer existance is often enough] and looks outward for the person, place or thing that needs changing to make their world a better place.
All this I've gained just by surfing some of the leftist and rightist blogs and forum sites...
There's all measure I could write concerning the subject- but I've a load of household duties to perform and it waits for no man- or, "woo-man" for that matter.
There'll be plenty more "slammage" to be made as the days, weeks, etc pass- until then, I have a baby to prepair for it's arrival and a son who needs extra attention while his tummy feels bad.
I continue to be:
Russ
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
You and Me and ELP
I was in a mad search for Emerson Lake and Palmer's work I Believe in Father Christmas for the longest time simply because I'd only heard it two or three times in my youth and then once again around 1995...
The odd thing was there seemed to be no end of blogs, lists, links and general music sites that had their tomes to tell, both pro and con, to the song.
What intrigued me while I searched through some of the sites was the level of dim stupidity of some of the writers that saw 'Father Christmas' as "anti-Christmas".
To tell the truth- like many a pop song; sure it has a resonance of a jaded individual fed up with "Jesus this" and "Manger that" but that shows the duplicitously closed mind of the religious right and the anti-religious's zealous notion that there was yet another Christian hating artist they could put on their Holiday playlist and feel triumphant at not having to listen to something with the heinous word "Jesus" in it.
I'd point to these people both pro and con and tell them to get a life- but then, here I am writing in my own blog ont he very subject... Let's have a look at the lyrics- bear with me, I promise to have a relatively fresh look for you...
They said there'll be snow at Christmas
They said there'll be peace on earth
But instead it just kept on raining
A veil of tears for the virgin birth.
I remember one Christmas morning
A Winters light and the distant choir
And the peal of a bell and that Christmas tree smell
Eyes full a tinsel and fire.
They sold me a dream of Christmas
They sold me a silent night
They told me a fairy story
Till I believed in the Israelite.
And I believed in Father Christmas
I looked to the sky with excited eyes
Than I woke with a yawn in the first light of dawn
And I saw him through his disguise.
I wish you a hopeful Christmas
I wish you a brave new year
All anguish, pain, and sadness
Leave your heart and let your road be clear.
They said there'd be snow at Christmas
They said there'd be peace on earth.
Hallelujah, Noel, Be it heaven or hell,
The Christmas we get we deserve.
Okay- now if we followed the most popular Google inculcation of the song, we'd all believe that ELP was a gaggle of Christian hating antisemitic rockers with a "moral" message assuaging the glories of the holiday. The particular entry even tries to point out the intonation of the song by comparing the lyrics to his/her interpretation of them...
Well, first off- the "child" that wrote his prose on the subject claims that every radio station in America plays this song every Christmas- if that's the case where have I been for the last 30 years? I remember when it debuted, and I barely heard it since.
One of the things that makes art what it is- is not only what it says "now" but what it says "later".
The first passage is actually an alliteration to the Vietnam war. A soldier would feel every bit the emotions of that first passage- there seems to be a lot of truth in it- change some of the lyrics to refer to sand and you might have today...
The second set of lyrics makes reference to the beauty of childhood and the experiences of cognizant realizations about Christmas- even if only in the mind of a child- but the passage is referential of the past- this is forlorning. Put another way, one could say "The remembrance of youth is a sigh".
The third phrase is that of a person that DISCOVERS Christ. He was sold the story of a man with a beard- which he believed until he learned of another "reason for the season" It melds into the fourth phrase which speaks of a new enlightenment that takes him from the world of a child to that of a cognizant person who understands the gift of this baby in a manger...
The fifth phrase is that of sincerity- previous authors that see this as chidedness or some form of sarcasm see it only in their own hearts- nothing you'd tell them would or will change that.
The last phrase is actually forshadow.
"The Christmas we get we deserve". Whether Santa, The Manger, or nothing but warm eggnog laced with rum or strychnine, we must choose to place ourselves in this world and the Christmas season bears us the privilege of hindsight, foresight and reflection on the here and now.
Whether profited, squandered, learned or ignored, we truly do get the Christmas we deserve...
I continue to be: Russ
The odd thing was there seemed to be no end of blogs, lists, links and general music sites that had their tomes to tell, both pro and con, to the song.
What intrigued me while I searched through some of the sites was the level of dim stupidity of some of the writers that saw 'Father Christmas' as "anti-Christmas".
To tell the truth- like many a pop song; sure it has a resonance of a jaded individual fed up with "Jesus this" and "Manger that" but that shows the duplicitously closed mind of the religious right and the anti-religious's zealous notion that there was yet another Christian hating artist they could put on their Holiday playlist and feel triumphant at not having to listen to something with the heinous word "Jesus" in it.
I'd point to these people both pro and con and tell them to get a life- but then, here I am writing in my own blog ont he very subject... Let's have a look at the lyrics- bear with me, I promise to have a relatively fresh look for you...
They said there'll be snow at Christmas
They said there'll be peace on earth
But instead it just kept on raining
A veil of tears for the virgin birth.
I remember one Christmas morning
A Winters light and the distant choir
And the peal of a bell and that Christmas tree smell
Eyes full a tinsel and fire.
They sold me a dream of Christmas
They sold me a silent night
They told me a fairy story
Till I believed in the Israelite.
And I believed in Father Christmas
I looked to the sky with excited eyes
Than I woke with a yawn in the first light of dawn
And I saw him through his disguise.
I wish you a hopeful Christmas
I wish you a brave new year
All anguish, pain, and sadness
Leave your heart and let your road be clear.
They said there'd be snow at Christmas
They said there'd be peace on earth.
Hallelujah, Noel, Be it heaven or hell,
The Christmas we get we deserve.
Okay- now if we followed the most popular Google inculcation of the song, we'd all believe that ELP was a gaggle of Christian hating antisemitic rockers with a "moral" message assuaging the glories of the holiday. The particular entry even tries to point out the intonation of the song by comparing the lyrics to his/her interpretation of them...
Well, first off- the "child" that wrote his prose on the subject claims that every radio station in America plays this song every Christmas- if that's the case where have I been for the last 30 years? I remember when it debuted, and I barely heard it since.
One of the things that makes art what it is- is not only what it says "now" but what it says "later".
The first passage is actually an alliteration to the Vietnam war. A soldier would feel every bit the emotions of that first passage- there seems to be a lot of truth in it- change some of the lyrics to refer to sand and you might have today...
The second set of lyrics makes reference to the beauty of childhood and the experiences of cognizant realizations about Christmas- even if only in the mind of a child- but the passage is referential of the past- this is forlorning. Put another way, one could say "The remembrance of youth is a sigh".
The third phrase is that of a person that DISCOVERS Christ. He was sold the story of a man with a beard- which he believed until he learned of another "reason for the season" It melds into the fourth phrase which speaks of a new enlightenment that takes him from the world of a child to that of a cognizant person who understands the gift of this baby in a manger...
The fifth phrase is that of sincerity- previous authors that see this as chidedness or some form of sarcasm see it only in their own hearts- nothing you'd tell them would or will change that.
The last phrase is actually forshadow.
"The Christmas we get we deserve". Whether Santa, The Manger, or nothing but warm eggnog laced with rum or strychnine, we must choose to place ourselves in this world and the Christmas season bears us the privilege of hindsight, foresight and reflection on the here and now.
Whether profited, squandered, learned or ignored, we truly do get the Christmas we deserve...
I continue to be: Russ
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