Buy the poppies.
Muslims and Piracy
10 hours ago
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
And the Smell of Sunday Supper on the Table
I heard it before I saw it. It sounded just like a blow torch and not a sound you would expect to hear at the dinner table.
I was pretty young, probably under 7 and it was a Sunday afternoon. Mom was fixing dinner and I was in the kitchen with her. I don’t know where the rest of the kids were, but I’d make a bet they were off stirring up trouble somewhere.
Dad came rushing in from the garage where he had been working on a car. Having grown up in the 30’s with 10 other kids, he wasn’t exactly raised to be one of those “touchy-feely” fathers. Pretty much after the age of four, you didn’t get hugs and the first time I remember my father telling me he loved me (back) was on his death bed when I was 32 years old. He had finally started returning hugs only a month or two before that, knowing that the liver cancer was going to do him in.
So, Dad was the kind of man you would describe as being a strict parent. He believed in lectures and strong discipline when raising kids. That can be misinterpreted when you’re growing up and so it was with Dad. He wielded a strong hand or belt when he felt someone needed it. Or a lecture, if you were lucky. Mark was usually the “lucky participant” of the majority of the lessons, mainly because he was not smart enough to keep out of trouble or his mouth shut.
But I digress.
So Dad comes running into the kitchen and turns on the faucet and begins to vigorously wash his mouth with the well water. When he could finally speak he told Mom what had happened. Apparently while working on our car, he had siphoned some of the gas out into a BEER BOTTLE. Then forgetting that the beer bottle next to him wasn’t beer, he swigged a big gulp of the gasoline. I remember being a little afraid. I wasn’t quite old enough to know how serious it might be, but I could sense his bit of panic when washing his mouth out.
An hour or so later, the six of us sat down for Sunday dinner. Only mom and I knew what had happened with the gas/beer chugging. Dad didn’t like tomatoes or spaghetti, so I don’t really remember what he was eating, but the all of us grubby kids were slurping our spaghetti. Dad always finished eating before the rest of us and that day he did what he always did when he was done eating.
He grabbed a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it and then proceeded to blow out the match, breathing a three foot flame of gasoline fumes across the table.
Yep, THAT was the flame thrower sound. Mom and I knew why it happened, but the other kids thought it was that nightmare we all probably had after one of Dad’s discipline exercises. To them, I’m sure it seemed like he really WAS that fire breathing dragon. It was instant chaos. I think I started crying; Mark sat there in sheer terror, probably thinking Dad had figured out something Mark had done wrong (again) and he was about to catch holy hell. Helen stood up in panic, putting both hands down on the table, one in Michael’s plate of spaghetti, neatly cutting it all in bite-sized pieces for him. I don’t remember what Michael did, probably because Michael never seemed to do anything.
It was a Sunday dinner none of us will ever forget. You could say it has been “burned into our memory.”
I was pretty young, probably under 7 and it was a Sunday afternoon. Mom was fixing dinner and I was in the kitchen with her. I don’t know where the rest of the kids were, but I’d make a bet they were off stirring up trouble somewhere.
Dad came rushing in from the garage where he had been working on a car. Having grown up in the 30’s with 10 other kids, he wasn’t exactly raised to be one of those “touchy-feely” fathers. Pretty much after the age of four, you didn’t get hugs and the first time I remember my father telling me he loved me (back) was on his death bed when I was 32 years old. He had finally started returning hugs only a month or two before that, knowing that the liver cancer was going to do him in.
So, Dad was the kind of man you would describe as being a strict parent. He believed in lectures and strong discipline when raising kids. That can be misinterpreted when you’re growing up and so it was with Dad. He wielded a strong hand or belt when he felt someone needed it. Or a lecture, if you were lucky. Mark was usually the “lucky participant” of the majority of the lessons, mainly because he was not smart enough to keep out of trouble or his mouth shut.
But I digress.
So Dad comes running into the kitchen and turns on the faucet and begins to vigorously wash his mouth with the well water. When he could finally speak he told Mom what had happened. Apparently while working on our car, he had siphoned some of the gas out into a BEER BOTTLE. Then forgetting that the beer bottle next to him wasn’t beer, he swigged a big gulp of the gasoline. I remember being a little afraid. I wasn’t quite old enough to know how serious it might be, but I could sense his bit of panic when washing his mouth out.
An hour or so later, the six of us sat down for Sunday dinner. Only mom and I knew what had happened with the gas/beer chugging. Dad didn’t like tomatoes or spaghetti, so I don’t really remember what he was eating, but the all of us grubby kids were slurping our spaghetti. Dad always finished eating before the rest of us and that day he did what he always did when he was done eating.
He grabbed a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it and then proceeded to blow out the match, breathing a three foot flame of gasoline fumes across the table.
Yep, THAT was the flame thrower sound. Mom and I knew why it happened, but the other kids thought it was that nightmare we all probably had after one of Dad’s discipline exercises. To them, I’m sure it seemed like he really WAS that fire breathing dragon. It was instant chaos. I think I started crying; Mark sat there in sheer terror, probably thinking Dad had figured out something Mark had done wrong (again) and he was about to catch holy hell. Helen stood up in panic, putting both hands down on the table, one in Michael’s plate of spaghetti, neatly cutting it all in bite-sized pieces for him. I don’t remember what Michael did, probably because Michael never seemed to do anything.
It was a Sunday dinner none of us will ever forget. You could say it has been “burned into our memory.”
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tornados all around Indiana tonight
And getting another wave of scary storms. WHAT THE HECK is going on with this scary weather for days and days on end?
Sunday, May 22, 2011
He Said - She Said - Of course SHE's RIGHT.
Thinking back, all I can tell you was that I was a precious child, full of love and sweetness, always willing to do anything for my brothers and sister. When I came along, my sister was six, one brother five, and the other four.
And they never let me forget it. They were abusive siblings, always picking on me, but I endured their torture graciously and never held their meanness against them. My parents tried to protect me, mainly from my brother Mark. Their method of protection was telling Helen (who was one mean girl) that if Mark hit me she could hit him. How did she handle her newfound authority? By saying (when my parents weren’t around), “Hit her Mark. Hit her.” If he even came close she could beat the hell out of him.
See? They all conspired against me. It’s sad really. Such a sweet child being so abused.
But I forgave them and ultimately won them over with my saintly demeanor.
Well, at least this is how I remember those years. I’m sure someone else might have a different opinion, but they would be wrong, of course.
Since there might actually be a differing account of the events in our lives, my brother (the meanest one) and I have decided to start a “He Said, She Said” series. We’ll post about events in our lives and see how different or alike our versions are.
So look for our series of He Said, She Said. But remember, that my recollection will be factual and Mark’s (Rumbles) might be skewed.
But to set the final record straight, my memory of the abuse I suffered might be just a bit exaggerated to gain the sympathetic vote. If I remember right, I was pretty good at using that when we were little.
Rumbles and I are blessed with a wonderful family. I rarely find others are so lucky. Sure we fought like other kids did, but every year all of us became closer and closer. We spend wonderful times together. But more importantly, we are there for each other, we stick together and we face hard times together and celebrate good times with gusto. No one has my back as much as the people in my family. And I have theirs.
I wish everyone else could be so lucky. So check out what “He Said” over at Rumbles from the Vent.
Just look at the love I have for my big brother. Even if he can't remember to keep his pants zipped.
The only thing I did wrong my entire life was ruining their Three Stooges routine.
And they never let me forget it. They were abusive siblings, always picking on me, but I endured their torture graciously and never held their meanness against them. My parents tried to protect me, mainly from my brother Mark. Their method of protection was telling Helen (who was one mean girl) that if Mark hit me she could hit him. How did she handle her newfound authority? By saying (when my parents weren’t around), “Hit her Mark. Hit her.” If he even came close she could beat the hell out of him.
See? They all conspired against me. It’s sad really. Such a sweet child being so abused.
But I forgave them and ultimately won them over with my saintly demeanor.
Well, at least this is how I remember those years. I’m sure someone else might have a different opinion, but they would be wrong, of course.
Since there might actually be a differing account of the events in our lives, my brother (the meanest one) and I have decided to start a “He Said, She Said” series. We’ll post about events in our lives and see how different or alike our versions are.
So look for our series of He Said, She Said. But remember, that my recollection will be factual and Mark’s (Rumbles) might be skewed. But to set the final record straight, my memory of the abuse I suffered might be just a bit exaggerated to gain the sympathetic vote. If I remember right, I was pretty good at using that when we were little.
Rumbles and I are blessed with a wonderful family. I rarely find others are so lucky. Sure we fought like other kids did, but every year all of us became closer and closer. We spend wonderful times together. But more importantly, we are there for each other, we stick together and we face hard times together and celebrate good times with gusto. No one has my back as much as the people in my family. And I have theirs.
I wish everyone else could be so lucky. So check out what “He Said” over at Rumbles from the Vent.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Does this make me an Intellect?
At my new consulting position recently I've had two of the executives express their excitement about my work documenting processes. Both, in separate conversations have said that I'm creating "Intellectual Property" that is extremely valuable for the company.
Here's why this post is not boasting of my amazing ability. While my outward reaction to their compliments has been appreciative and humble, I am inside stifling a burst of laughter. If I was honest I would describe my job as picking up crayons and drawing colorful pictures with lines and geometric shapes. But I'm using Visio to do that.
Here's an example so you can see for yourself.
Click on the picture to be in awe of my work.
After I'm done coloring, I write down the process in such simple terms that they could hire my 9-year-old grandson to do the job and he'd be bored instantly. Things like this:
The injury process only begins when a patient is injured. The patient telephones the doctor's office and the Staff answers the telephone. The Staff schedules an office visit with the Physician and the Patient notes the date and time of the appointment. The Patient goes to the Physician and the Physician examines the Patient's injury. (See, if I'm not clear here, there could be confusion and the Patient might end up examining the Physician's foot. This may seem like a far fetched example, but believe me, I have heard of stranger things happening. Anyway, back to the Intellectual Property narrative)
The Physician amputates the foot and attaches a wheel. The Patient then rolls home.
When I get done coloring pretty pictures and writing the process in a third grade level, I hold a meeting to get the official executive approval of the document. I use words like "illustrate" and "narrative" and that makes me sound smart.
Don't you wish you had my skill set?
OK, now I'll add a little bit of explanation as to why this apparently IS a skill set worth paying for.
Obviously this is not the kind of process I am documenting. Some are very complex and I work with great people who have years of experience in their field and all of the processes and ideas are only in their heads.
My skill set isn't playing with crayons and writing in third grade vocabulary. My skill set is communication and extracting the years of knowledge the professionals have in their DNA out of their mouths and into my fingertips so I can break it down into simple tasks in plain English and present it all in a nice professional looking document. The professionals do not possess the skill set to take their vast knowledge and break it down into simple step-by-step processes. They can't look at the process from an outsider's view and since I know nothing about their business, I can only understand the process if I break it down to a elementary level. So, you could say my skill set is thinking like a grade schooler.
The executives then get to take that document, that "Intellectual Property" to the Board, to Investors and to the Clients. Ultimately, the document creates (or it should) an impression that the company is professional and organized. They know their business and they can prove it to you. While it seems funny to me, that really IS Intellectual Property.
You can bet I'm adding my ability to create Intellectual Property will be included on my resume from now on. Even if it does feel like I do nothing all day except color pretty pictures.
Here's why this post is not boasting of my amazing ability. While my outward reaction to their compliments has been appreciative and humble, I am inside stifling a burst of laughter. If I was honest I would describe my job as picking up crayons and drawing colorful pictures with lines and geometric shapes. But I'm using Visio to do that.
Here's an example so you can see for yourself.
Click on the picture to be in awe of my work.
After I'm done coloring, I write down the process in such simple terms that they could hire my 9-year-old grandson to do the job and he'd be bored instantly. Things like this:
The injury process only begins when a patient is injured. The patient telephones the doctor's office and the Staff answers the telephone. The Staff schedules an office visit with the Physician and the Patient notes the date and time of the appointment. The Patient goes to the Physician and the Physician examines the Patient's injury. (See, if I'm not clear here, there could be confusion and the Patient might end up examining the Physician's foot. This may seem like a far fetched example, but believe me, I have heard of stranger things happening. Anyway, back to the Intellectual Property narrative)
The Physician amputates the foot and attaches a wheel. The Patient then rolls home.
When I get done coloring pretty pictures and writing the process in a third grade level, I hold a meeting to get the official executive approval of the document. I use words like "illustrate" and "narrative" and that makes me sound smart.
Don't you wish you had my skill set?
OK, now I'll add a little bit of explanation as to why this apparently IS a skill set worth paying for.
Obviously this is not the kind of process I am documenting. Some are very complex and I work with great people who have years of experience in their field and all of the processes and ideas are only in their heads.
My skill set isn't playing with crayons and writing in third grade vocabulary. My skill set is communication and extracting the years of knowledge the professionals have in their DNA out of their mouths and into my fingertips so I can break it down into simple tasks in plain English and present it all in a nice professional looking document. The professionals do not possess the skill set to take their vast knowledge and break it down into simple step-by-step processes. They can't look at the process from an outsider's view and since I know nothing about their business, I can only understand the process if I break it down to a elementary level. So, you could say my skill set is thinking like a grade schooler.
The executives then get to take that document, that "Intellectual Property" to the Board, to Investors and to the Clients. Ultimately, the document creates (or it should) an impression that the company is professional and organized. They know their business and they can prove it to you. While it seems funny to me, that really IS Intellectual Property.
You can bet I'm adding my ability to create Intellectual Property will be included on my resume from now on. Even if it does feel like I do nothing all day except color pretty pictures.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Indy's Busy Weekend
This weekend it's all about this.....
Qualifications. Which, to be honest has lost it's fanatical appeal of bygone days. The split between the IRL and and CART in the mid '90s left the race with quite a bit of fall out. Most of the recognizable names were no longer racing at Indy. Only A.J. Foyt was loyal to the organization that made racing.
Arrogantly, Mario Andretti, splitting with CART had the nerve to say that the Indy 500 was world renown because of HIM.
Although the organizations have long ago reunited, Indy will not forget Mario's traitorious comments. Indy made household names of these racers, not the other way around.
Also flying overhead this weekend are the best of the best.
These guys are amazing. The sound of the jets as they fly mere inches from wingtip to wingtip will make your heart stop. Don't worry about your little ol' heart though, because the electrical shock to make it restart will happen when you get a quick glimpse of them flying at breakneck speeds and so low that if you stand on your tiptoes you could swear you could touch them. But do it quick, because they are flying so fast you'll miss them if you blink.
Nothing beats the thrill of hearing them just before they appear. I run out of the front door at the first sound and watch them from my front yard. There have been dozens of times that they have flown so low over our house that if the pilots could take their eyes off their instruments, they could wave at me when I'm out front waving my arms like I'm trying to flag them down to stop in for a cup of tea. Or a beer after their done flying.
It never gets old.
Qualifications. Which, to be honest has lost it's fanatical appeal of bygone days. The split between the IRL and and CART in the mid '90s left the race with quite a bit of fall out. Most of the recognizable names were no longer racing at Indy. Only A.J. Foyt was loyal to the organization that made racing.
Arrogantly, Mario Andretti, splitting with CART had the nerve to say that the Indy 500 was world renown because of HIM.
Although the organizations have long ago reunited, Indy will not forget Mario's traitorious comments. Indy made household names of these racers, not the other way around.
Also flying overhead this weekend are the best of the best.
These guys are amazing. The sound of the jets as they fly mere inches from wingtip to wingtip will make your heart stop. Don't worry about your little ol' heart though, because the electrical shock to make it restart will happen when you get a quick glimpse of them flying at breakneck speeds and so low that if you stand on your tiptoes you could swear you could touch them. But do it quick, because they are flying so fast you'll miss them if you blink.
Nothing beats the thrill of hearing them just before they appear. I run out of the front door at the first sound and watch them from my front yard. There have been dozens of times that they have flown so low over our house that if the pilots could take their eyes off their instruments, they could wave at me when I'm out front waving my arms like I'm trying to flag them down to stop in for a cup of tea. Or a beer after their done flying.
It never gets old.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Like a Rock
Twenty years ago tonight I slept in my newly built house with so many of my relatives that most of them slept on the floor. Several more were sleeping at my parents' home getting ready for the next day's events.
It would be the last night I spent the house that I had only moved into eight months prior.
I don't recall any great details of that next morning. Only getting dressed at the church, a few tears, my father walking me down the aisle. I'm pretty sure THIS time he was happy to be escorting me to my new life with Bob. I remember standing around the corner when dad pointed out that Bob could see me. I ducked back around. And even though it was not a Catholic church, the organist played Ave Maria while we waited. It struck a chord in my long-ago Catholic roots.
I remember it being a very short but very sweet wedding. And one where I had no doubt I was walking into my future.
The road between here and there had such unexpected turns. Less than a year later, my father lay dying of liver cancer. I spent our second anniversary at the funeral of what had once been my favorite aunt, the one I was named after.
Yes there have been terrific heartaches and yet wonderful highs. The good Lord has blessed us with wonderful grandbabies and sweet memories. We have great families who can lift our spirits and sweet friends that are more like family.
Last year we had plans to go away on a great trip for our 20th, but the timing was just not with us. So tomorrow, I'll head off to work, Bob will take his dad to the VA and we'll just keep on keeping on.
If someone flipped a switch and I was waking up in my old house, knowing today what I didn't know then..... Yes, I would do it all over again. Heartaches and disappointment be damned. We'll be soon settling into our "twilight" years and the future looks even brighter.
Happy Anniversary Bobby. The next twenty will be even better than the first twenty.
"Twenty years now, where'd they go? Twenty years. I don't know. I sit and I wonder sometimes, where they've gone."
It would be the last night I spent the house that I had only moved into eight months prior.
I don't recall any great details of that next morning. Only getting dressed at the church, a few tears, my father walking me down the aisle. I'm pretty sure THIS time he was happy to be escorting me to my new life with Bob. I remember standing around the corner when dad pointed out that Bob could see me. I ducked back around. And even though it was not a Catholic church, the organist played Ave Maria while we waited. It struck a chord in my long-ago Catholic roots.
I remember it being a very short but very sweet wedding. And one where I had no doubt I was walking into my future.
The road between here and there had such unexpected turns. Less than a year later, my father lay dying of liver cancer. I spent our second anniversary at the funeral of what had once been my favorite aunt, the one I was named after.
Yes there have been terrific heartaches and yet wonderful highs. The good Lord has blessed us with wonderful grandbabies and sweet memories. We have great families who can lift our spirits and sweet friends that are more like family.
Last year we had plans to go away on a great trip for our 20th, but the timing was just not with us. So tomorrow, I'll head off to work, Bob will take his dad to the VA and we'll just keep on keeping on.
If someone flipped a switch and I was waking up in my old house, knowing today what I didn't know then..... Yes, I would do it all over again. Heartaches and disappointment be damned. We'll be soon settling into our "twilight" years and the future looks even brighter.
Happy Anniversary Bobby. The next twenty will be even better than the first twenty.
"Twenty years now, where'd they go? Twenty years. I don't know. I sit and I wonder sometimes, where they've gone."
Monday, May 2, 2011
Billions
So we've turned over more than 18 BILLION dollars to a country that harbored America's # 1 terrorist and are wailing in the streets today that we killed their hero.
I say it's time we target more of their "heroes".
And time to cut the bastards from the payroll.
Quite frankly Musharraf, you can join your buddy as fish food.
Thank you Navy Seals. Thank you CIA Interrogators.
Yes, I WANT my President's administration to be taking this seriously.
And thank you President Bush. Today we learn this intell was collected during your administration, under the interrogation procedures used by the CIA that were viewed by many on the left as being a "war crime".
Welcome to hell Bin Laden. I'm sure Mohammad Atta has already let you in on that little white 72 virgins lie by now.
I say it's time we target more of their "heroes".
And time to cut the bastards from the payroll.
Quite frankly Musharraf, you can join your buddy as fish food.
Thank you Navy Seals. Thank you CIA Interrogators.
Thank you President Obama.
And thank you President Bush. Today we learn this intell was collected during your administration, under the interrogation procedures used by the CIA that were viewed by many on the left as being a "war crime".
Welcome to hell Bin Laden. I'm sure Mohammad Atta has already let you in on that little white 72 virgins lie by now.
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