Gone Fishing

I'm vacationing in a land that's hostile to phones, computers, and cell phones. So I'm leaving mine here. See you in a couple weeks.

I've Finished My Novel

Sure you have, Doctor Rick. You've been saying that a lot lately. You finished your novel six months ago. Then, you finished it last month; and two weeks ago; and you tweaked it a bit this week. When are you going to learn? Your job is not to finish, but to write. Think of it like running on a treadmill; you're never going anywhere, but at least you're getting in shape. That's what finishing a book is like; never finishing, but at least it's taking shape.

Okay, uncle. I give up. I know that already. What I really mean is, I'm tired of editing my writing over and over again. It feels like I'm going around the house, looking for tiny bits of lint hiding in nooks, crannies, and corners. Not the most exciting job in the world. No sooner do I make a clean sweep of the area, but there's more lint to be found. I have a deep respect for editors who do this sort of thing every day. It's really tedious. Thank goodness, I'm graced with the determination to get the job done.

At least, my novel is completed. It feels good to have finished a marathon literary work. Maybe long distance running has something in common with endurance writing. Or being a doctor might help; physicians always talk about being "experts in delayed gratification." Who knows? The important thing is, I'm done. Now, for the next part of my journey. Time to look for a literary agent who likes my story. Pray for me, keep me in your thoughts, and don't send me anything to edit.

Until later.

Pin Toes

Dear Readers:

Okay, it's hot off the press, and I'm sharing it with the cool crowd -- you cyberspace fans out there. My daughter gave me permission to share this newsworthy event. She has pin toes. It all started when she was shadowboxing at her momma's home. My phone rings at the bewitching hour of three a.m., and I hear loud noises in the background. Middle daughter is whooping and hollering after spearing her big toe on a needle.

She's busy doing the drama dance, so is indisposed. Little brother jumps on the phone and takes command. He tells me she's having a meltdown. I tell him to tell her to pull out the needle. Tactical failure -- little brother resists fatherly advise. He tells Big Daddy to come over and take it out. Big Daddy resists. "It's three in the morning," he says. Little brother resists. "It won't come out. It's bent." Big Daddy calls a time out, then regroups. Action resumes: "So tell her to go to the emergency room and get it pulled out."

Little brother still resists. "You're awake, why don't you come over? You're her dad." Big Daddy's feeling the heat and comes up with lame excuses. Finally he hangs up and all is silent, but he's unable to sleep. He calls little brother. "Tell middle daughter to come to my house, and I'll look at it." Too late. Middle daughter's momma already took her to hospital. At the hospital, a nice doctor x-rays her toe to make sure the needle didn't hit the toe bone. Then he pulls out the needle, and all is well.

Now, little brother goes to sleep, middle daughter goes to sleep, momma goes to sleep, and Big Daddy stays awake. His mind's racing from all the drama, and his eyes won't close. Never mind the fact he's been working long hours and really needs his rest. Big Daddy asks himself this question, "How come my kids say shrinks aren't real doctors, but when they need a thorn taken out, I'm supposed to make house calls?"

Until later.

What the Sam Hill?

Dear Readers:

Something mysterious and strange happened to me recently. More strange than the look on my face after I've chugged a glass of milk and realized it was buttermilk. Nah, this was even better. My wife and I were taking in the sights at a Florida state park when, behold, she spotted it -- the rare thing! Our conversation went something like this:

Wife: "Get the camera! I can't believe it! It's a Sand Hill Crane."

Me: "What crane?"

Wife: "It's over there. Hurry! They're really rare."

Me: "What crane?"

Then I started to grow more excited after I realized she used the "rare" word. Something's riveting about rare things: steak, spare ribs(rhymes with rare), or"I rarely see you anymore; rare have you been?" Anyhow, because it was a rare bird, I was excited. Looking more closely, we saw there were two -- probably a mommy and daddy bird making rare baby birdies. We managed to sneak up close to snap the picture on the bottom left -- the crane's in the middle. We moved on and continued our nature hike until we started to melt from the Florida sun and had to head back. Sure enough, our birds were still there. My wife snuck up really close, to within five feet. It amazed us they didn't fly away. I felt for a minute God was in our midst, granting us this special glimpse of his glorious creation. It was a rare moment.

My wife took more pictures, and I waited by the picnic shelter when, behold, a second miracle! One of the birds moved ever so slowly in my direction. It was obviously under some sort of spell, because it continued in a straight line toward me. I've always loved nature's little creatures, and wondered for a moment if it knew I was safe to be around -- like it could trust me. I imagined how Dr. Dolittle must have felt, having all his feathery and furry friends snuggle up to him. I was deeply touched.

Years ago, I'd saved a raccoon from certain death. It was lying on the road at night when I drove by and saw it's eyes flash gold in the headlights. It unnerved me, so I turned around and pulled alongside. Sure enough, it was alive. A throw rug in the car served as the stretcher and papoose, and I nestled the raccoon somewhere in the back seat. To my amazement it started wandering around the inside of my car before sauntering up front and laying on my feet. (Now that was some ride. Try to drive a car while a racoon's snoozing on your feet.) By the time I got him to the after-hours crisis center, he was fully awake, snarling at the technician who reached at him with gloved hands. I found out later the little guy made it; a car struck, but only dazed him. I felt good.

Well, back to the bird miracle. Seeing this rare bird walk toward me also felt good. That is, until my wife broke the spell:

Me: "Look! He's coming toward me. I think it trusts me."

Wife: "I doubt it. It's probably just looking for handouts."

Great. Bubble pops. Duh, Doctor Rick . . . who's the bird brain here? Picnic shelter? . . . people food? . . . hungry munchkins dropping fries on the floor and shouting, "Mommy, can I feed the birds?" Oh well, it's still a special bird to me. So what if he's lost a bit of his wild edge and has become a couch potato. This was still one rare bird.

Until later.

The Fly in the Ointment

Dear Readers:

Ever heard that phrase tossed around? I like it; it aptly explains those minor obstacles in our lives we try to overcome. Another one is "burr in the saddle," for you cowpokes out there. Or how about "needle in a hay stack," for you farmers (Wait, that might mean something else). Anyhow, "fly in the ointment" is a good phrase and captures a lot in one pithy statement.

But what if you were the fly? Then your perspective would have to change. Landing on ointment is a major event in a fly's life. Flies try to avoid such things, like we try to avoid tornadoes. The little feller stuck in such a situation likely faced certain death; stuck for life, never to see his mommy or daddy again, only to become a fossil, and maybe end up in a museum here in Columbus. It was especially bad if he were stuck in a jar of petroleum jelly, or even worse, used petroleum jelly. That'd be like a human being falling into a giant tar pit that doubled as an outhouse -- not a pretty picture.

So before you say, "Oh, that was the fly in the ointment," to describe some minor obstacle in your life, be sensitive to the fact, that somewhere, unbeknownst to you, a fly lay marooned in a foreign place, hidden from his family in some petroleum jelly jar, never to see the light of day. The gravity of that situation alone, should give us pause. We need to think before we speak next time we've had a bad day, and be considerate to the little ones who might be listening.

Until later.

House Sparrows

Dear Readers:

They get a bad rap, house sparrows, that is; little birds that came from England, or thereabouts, and took over our planet. Well, not quite. But they do threaten local bluebird populations, and I've heard naturalists talk of the need to destroy baby sparrows if found in bluebird nesting boxes.

I don't have a heart for such treatment, even if they are aggressive buggers. It's true, they are aggressive. I'll often find one or two fleeing from my garage if I forgot to close the door. You'll never see bluebirds venture that close. I had fond memories of bluebirds flying overhead when I was a kid. We lived closed to a wooded area and a field, and they were plentiful.

House sparrows are cute in their own way. There's one in front of me right now. It's a male, looking for a handout. I happen to be sitting on a picnic bench, so he's probably learned to find good fixings here. It isn't his fault he's pushy, so leave him alone.

Until later.