Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
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.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Ginormous Deal
So ginormous is now an acceptable word. Big deal. I've been using unacceptable words for years, and no one ever noticed. Aren't new innovations often ignored until the passing of an age? Only years later, after some child genius bites the dust, are such gems discovered.
"Cootie" is an example of child genius never given its just due. My whole first grade class knew what it meant: some yucky thing on girls that rubbed off on boys. We knew enough to run away from girls who had them. But adults never learned the word. Look in a dictionary and it says a cootie is a body louse. Maybe first grade girls did have body lice, I don't know, but my point is the true meaning of cootie hasn't been recognized. Modern definitions simply lack the intimate connection of cooties to girls, and boys running away from them. If first graders can invent words, why can't we? Think of something that will make you famous, then write it down:
Snargle (verb):
1) to express disturbing feelings (Shesnargled at her husband all day long)
2) to trip over one's feet on the way to the bathroom at nighttime (Why don't you put your shoes in the closet where they belong, so I won't snargle all the time?)
Synonyms: dunkdraggle.
Until later.
"Cootie" is an example of child genius never given its just due. My whole first grade class knew what it meant: some yucky thing on girls that rubbed off on boys. We knew enough to run away from girls who had them. But adults never learned the word. Look in a dictionary and it says a cootie is a body louse. Maybe first grade girls did have body lice, I don't know, but my point is the true meaning of cootie hasn't been recognized. Modern definitions simply lack the intimate connection of cooties to girls, and boys running away from them. If first graders can invent words, why can't we? Think of something that will make you famous, then write it down:
Snargle (verb):
1) to express disturbing feelings (She
2) to trip over one's feet on the way to the bathroom at nighttime (Why don't you put your shoes in the closet where they belong, so I won't snargle all the time?)
Synonyms: dunkdraggle.
Until later.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
I Don't Like it When . . .
A . . . a person lies to your face -- and pulls it off.
B . . . someone tells you the brutal truth -- just to be brutal.
C . . . a pastor acts holy -- but is holey.
D . . . someone smiles in your face -- and pees on your leg.
Add your own comments; be bold, be ruthless. Might as well get it off your chest.
B . . . someone tells you the brutal truth -- just to be brutal.
C . . . a pastor acts holy -- but is holey.
D . . . someone smiles in your face -- and pees on your leg.
Add your own comments; be bold, be ruthless. Might as well get it off your chest.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
What Is Your Life Song?
Dear Readers:
Last night I finished this, only to find it wouldn't post. So goes life; we all navigate minor obstacles every day and, occasionally, major stressors. Currently, my wife and I are exploring new job opportunities. Though hopeful for better times, we are nevertheless stressed-out. At least, now, we have time to reassess what's important in our lives. It's such a rat race out there; I'm often left with little time to reflect on where I've been, and where I'm going.
This was not my concern as a high school student, until my senior year. I was at a loss to know what I'd do after graduation. Then a friend told me he was going to be a veterinarian, and I thought I'd found my future. I've always loved animals. Only thing is, I didn't become a vet; it wasn't in the cards. Instead, I went to medical school and became an ophthalmologist; then I went to theological seminary and became a minister; then I trained to become a psychiatrist. After all this training, you'd think I'd had figured out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Not so. It's a work in progress; I'm a work in progress. Not everyone finds one vocation to settle on forever.
Happiness is another issue to navigate. Chasing after your vocation is one thing, but the pursuit of happiness is even more elusive. My grandfather was a postal worker for forty years. When he wasn't delivering mail, he took lead roles in community theater. He was a happy man and found balance in his life. Everyone's different. Community theater wasn't my lot. It took me quite a long time to realize happiness came not only from pursuing a vocation, but from being with my family, loving, and being loved.
Money can't buy happiness. Celebrity status, getting rich, and flash in the pan experiences are newsworthy events, but pursuing such things only distance us from the most important life-giving aspects of our lives. Jesus said it best: "Where you heart is, there your treasure lies also." So my faith sustains me and keeps me centered on the most important things in life. Trying to live by Jesus's code is easier said than done, however. Work , family conflicts, and unwanted intrusions into our lives occur constantly.
I'll say this in closing. When I was a teenager, I took a job as a busboy. Low pay, bossy waitresses, and a lazy assistant manager (who also bossed me around) were highlights of that experience. What struck me as the most memorable occurred when, after work, I thumbed a ride home. An elderly man pulled over and let me in on that grey, rainy day. I remarked, "Lousy weather, huh?" His answer still haunts me: "Oh, I'm just glad to be alive another day." A poignant reminder of what's most important. A life well lived is a happy one.
Until later.
Last night I finished this, only to find it wouldn't post. So goes life; we all navigate minor obstacles every day and, occasionally, major stressors. Currently, my wife and I are exploring new job opportunities. Though hopeful for better times, we are nevertheless stressed-out. At least, now, we have time to reassess what's important in our lives. It's such a rat race out there; I'm often left with little time to reflect on where I've been, and where I'm going.
This was not my concern as a high school student, until my senior year. I was at a loss to know what I'd do after graduation. Then a friend told me he was going to be a veterinarian, and I thought I'd found my future. I've always loved animals. Only thing is, I didn't become a vet; it wasn't in the cards. Instead, I went to medical school and became an ophthalmologist; then I went to theological seminary and became a minister; then I trained to become a psychiatrist. After all this training, you'd think I'd had figured out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Not so. It's a work in progress; I'm a work in progress. Not everyone finds one vocation to settle on forever.
Happiness is another issue to navigate. Chasing after your vocation is one thing, but the pursuit of happiness is even more elusive. My grandfather was a postal worker for forty years. When he wasn't delivering mail, he took lead roles in community theater. He was a happy man and found balance in his life. Everyone's different. Community theater wasn't my lot. It took me quite a long time to realize happiness came not only from pursuing a vocation, but from being with my family, loving, and being loved.
Money can't buy happiness. Celebrity status, getting rich, and flash in the pan experiences are newsworthy events, but pursuing such things only distance us from the most important life-giving aspects of our lives. Jesus said it best: "Where you heart is, there your treasure lies also." So my faith sustains me and keeps me centered on the most important things in life. Trying to live by Jesus's code is easier said than done, however. Work , family conflicts, and unwanted intrusions into our lives occur constantly.
I'll say this in closing. When I was a teenager, I took a job as a busboy. Low pay, bossy waitresses, and a lazy assistant manager (who also bossed me around) were highlights of that experience. What struck me as the most memorable occurred when, after work, I thumbed a ride home. An elderly man pulled over and let me in on that grey, rainy day. I remarked, "Lousy weather, huh?" His answer still haunts me: "Oh, I'm just glad to be alive another day." A poignant reminder of what's most important. A life well lived is a happy one.
Until later.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
I'm Feeling Really Blue
Dear Readers:Which story is true? You decide.
For many years I'd asked myself this question: "Where, oh where, is Wonder Bird?" Finally, I located him (picture enclosed). Wonder Bird had control issues. As soon as I discovered him, he demanded we duel. So we squared off and stared at each other. Sometimes I crossed my eyes to gain advantage. He won of course (that's why they call him Wonder Bird), and I had to look away. But I did manage to give him something to remember me by. During our staring contest, the strain got to him, and he started to shake (I can cross my eyes for a long time). His veins were popping out all over his body, and he turned blue. I guess our fight did something permanent to his feet, because the blue never changed back.
Some people tell this story differently. They'd like you to believe my brother-in-law snapped this picture of a Blue-Footed Booby in the Galapagos Islands. That's one explanation, but it doesn't explain why his feet are blue. I think you'll agree my version is superior. My observations were studied under strictly controlled conditions and should pass muster with the scientific community. Also, my mine is the more pleasant one to read.
Until later.
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