writing – Page 2 – Angel Wheeler

In Memory of my dad—number forty something

The green spiraled journal draws me in.

It belonged to my dad.

The very first thing I bought when I became an adult was a storage building. It sits on my mom’s property (once upon a time it was my grandmother’s property) and my dad put a few boxes of belongings in there nearly twenty years ago. In one of the boxes was this journal.

On the cover he has printed:
The Journals of Robert Lee—-soldier, statesman, author.

It is filled with his thoughts, his hopes, his disappointments, his memories.
Stuffed between the written pages he has a few cards from loved ones, pictures of my sister and I, and bills from the IRS.

I love this journal, although it is mostly sad. He wrote when he was going through a very difficult time, of which I was completely unaware, but heck I was a kid then, barely out of high school, and completely wrapped up in my own life.

I discover that I didn’t really know my dad. But who really did?

He hurt more than I know, and I don’t mean physically.

Today is the 15th of April, 1996. Tax Time for most folks, but to me it is different. Today I join the ranks of the homeless. I haven’t learned a lot in my 53 short years aboard this planet, but I’ve learned this, we are just a short journey from this predicament that I find myself in right now. It’s a feeling that I don’t wish on friend or foe, but I’ll come out of the water bushed and gasping of air, out of breath and hoping for a low hanging limb from which this wrecked body needs just a minute to catch it’s breath. Then I’ll fight onward, searching for new friends, looking in familiar haunts for a few old compatriots, who’ll say—welcome ol’ shoe, come sit awhile and rest.

April 18, 1996—
It’s not good being homeless, but I have been getting reacquainted with my mother. Before I was always in a hurry when I went to see her, but now we are taking the time to talk to each other. Today we spoke of my grandparents, the last who died in 1975. I wish that I could have gotten to know them.

As I reread this journal, no as I pore over his words, I get the “missing my dad blues”. The “If only’s” The “I wish”. It doesn’t help that its a rainy day in July either. Much like my dad wrote on the page he titled, “July or is it June 27?”

I moved into my new digs yesterday. Went to the store and bought boloney and beer. It’s a cloudy, dismal day, in fact I’ll call this place “The Dismal Swamp” It’s a dump, held together with spit n’ glue, but at least the neighbor’s are nice—which means that they don’t bother me or even come out of their own hovels. I’m into Charles Bukowski, poet, short stories, novels, drinker extraiordinairre. Life is good as we let it be.

He was phenomenal with the written word.
Dawn comes on a silvery black flash that gently turns to a pale blue as the sun makes it’s ascent into the morning sky. Departure time is steadily approaching and I feel a twinge of excitement as the clock ticks onward toward the time of making my exit. My brother warned me about this happening, he said, “don’t let one year turn into ten” when I first moved here for just a year. Well, June marks the 10 year span that I’ve spent here in Green Country. I can see the changes here in Okla. that have occurred since coming here. Mainly, traffic flow, the driving here is atrocious. But that does not take from the few close friends that I have made here. I’ll always appreciate them.

He was funny.
“Guess I’ll go by leon’s house and see if he wants to go fishing with me n’ doc tomorrow—-it is the fourth of July and we do live in the bosom of democracy, so why not fish. Uh Oh. Outta beer. So I’ll take to task the advice of my ol’ mentor and friend, Horace Greely—-Go West—-about 2 miles—–the have Busch on sale.”

11-19-96
Keeping a journal and trying to keep sounding interesting is so boring.

Yes, dad I agree with that one whole heartedly! He continues…..

My life is boring, but the mundane way of life is peaceful. Living quiet has it’s own reward.

He got lonesome and had regrets.

Nov. 24, 1996
I dreamed of Jo and Angel night before last. They were small and cuddly and we laughed and played. I awoke all discombobulated and out of sync. It’s good to dream old dreams. I miss the girls so much. I hope Angel is doing all right out there in the west. She is so private it’s hard to find out anything from her. Joley has John so I don’t worry about her so much. Joley is my little mother. I know that she will see to it that I am taken care of. I hope that I never need it tho. I’m sorry now that I didn’t know how to love the girls’ mother. Hindsight has perfect vision. But I just didn’t know, and for that I am sorry.

Jan. 13, 1997
I’m lonesome and being broke don’t help. I’d visit an axe murderer if he’d stop by my digs.

Although these notes are sad and some remorseful, I receive peace when I read them. I know how much my dad loved me. There was never a time I doubted that. He wrote of it many times. His heart was full of love.

I am the proud father of 4 children. Two boys and two girls. How this mixed blessing came about, I’m not exactly sure. It just came at me out of the blue, kinda like a fighter with a good left hook.

I also receive comfort knowing I’ll see him again.

Feb 7th or 8th
I know God is my friend and I hope he lets me hang around for a few years.

Thanks God for the years.

There’s more. There’s lots more. But I’ll leave you with that for now. I don’t think my old pop would mind me sharing this. It helps me, and I know there are family and friends who miss him terribly. I hope it helps them too. Sometimes we just want to hear from our loved ones one more time and this is the way that I do that. When I read these words, I hear his voice. I see the twinkle in his eye. I see him throw his head back when he thought something was funny, yet keeping his laugh inside and quiet.

I see him in my baby girl too, little bits of him. There are times I wish he could see her, but then I remember…..I’m pretty sure they’ve already met.

In Memory of My Dad #40—A Lizard Story with no Ending

I first saw him as I was putting my portable air tankup up for the summer. At first I thought he was a snake, “Omigosh! Mister no shoulders,” I thought. Then I saw it was a harmless brown lizard.

Since that time, we have become friends of a sort. Well, good enough friends that we don’t infringe on each other’s territory while drinking our morning coffee.

I named him Lucky.

Lucky is a sleek, fat, brown lizard who enjoys taking in the morning sun on my front porch. As far as I can tell a lizard’s age, I guess Lucky has been living here at Stonebroke Acres several years. I prefer to think of him as an old tenant and us, old friends.

Lucky is afraid of people. He lives under my front porch and comes out only to sun himself each morning, during the early hours. He lies there with his eyes closed until some sudden movement will send him scurrying back into the dark recesses from which he came.

He lies there on the porch awaiting the arrival of the many insects that come around my digs. He flicks out his rapier-like tongue almost too quick for the eye to see and he makes a quick breakfast of some unlucky gnat or fly that comes into his territory.

His reactions are instantaneous with insects and when I come too close he scurries away in a quick, brown flash. I like to think of Lucky as a bachelor or at least, a loner of some sorts. I’ve never seen him in the company of any female lizards. His chief pleasure seems to be laying there in the sun and dining on errant insect tidbits.

It’s impossible to tell if Lucky is happy or sad with the living conditions offered here. He has what some of my friends might call a poker face. His beady eyes betray no emotion. He just sits quietly with no expression. He would make a heck of a poker player.

But I am fond of Lucky. He’s much better than a pet dog. You don’t have to feed him or take him for walks. There’s no messy litter boxes to clean up, and he’s better company than a fish or a bird. He never pries into my affairs and he certainly doesn’t allow me to pry into his. And the best part, he never asks me where I’ve been when the

Yep, the same thing happened to me. I was enjoying that story too, typing away from an old newspaper from 1996, wrapping up the last paragraph of my dad’s story and that’s where it quit me. Right in mid-sentence. Right where I’m dying to know the rest. The story has no ending.

So I considered my options: abandon this story and never let others know what a great writer my dad was by the sheer fact that he can create a personality and 500 words for an average brown lizard. I decided against that. I looked through the rest of the paper for a continuation. Fail. I looked through the box of newspapers for the scrap piece from August 10, 1996 that might have the last couple of sentences. Fail. I thought I might just leave it “as is” and explain the problem to you my faithful readers. I considered making something up myself and pretending my dad wrote it, in turn deceiving you, my faithful readers, or I could ask my faithful readers to finish the story for me and my dad.

I have settled on the last option. So, show me your writing skills….how would you finish this line?

And the best part, he never asks me where I’ve been when the………………………….

In Memory of My Dad #38—-Random Thoughts of Bob

It is 3:00 a.m. here in Stonebroke Acres. I sit at a small table, my trusty Smith-Corona paused on ready, a steaming cup of java waits for my first sip as my weekly stint at observing the world around me takes shape once more.

It is a good time, for quiet has descended. The night feeding animals have stopped their everlasting search for food, and the night birds have warbled their last refrain and my light is the only one in the neighborhood.

I have the same old shaggy feeling on awakening, a kind of inner warning says that if I don’t sit quietly for a few minutes then I’ll fall down. There’s a flicker of indecision as there seems to be nothing so important as to rouse me at this hour, yet for some reason, a compulsion pries me from the comfort of my crib and a second cup of hot coffee prepares me for the day ahead.

*****************

The highway that fronts Sequoyah High School is finally nearing completion. While you are motoring along, especially on highway 82 or scenic highway 10, death is just a few feet to your left.

The thought has occurred to me many times while driving out to the lake or up to Kanesland. I have often been conscious of what could transpire if the approaching car should swerve over the center line just a little bit. It is not a pleasant thought I assure you, but one that creeps into the thinking of us that traverse the highways frequently.

Motoring can of course be pleasant and reasonably safe, but the driver of an automobile should at all times have in mind the tremendous responsibility of his own safety and the safety of others. Drive defensively. It isn’t a pleasant thought but one well worth keeping in mind—-while you’re motoring along, death is just a few feet away.

*******************

My dog Gus was not a hunting dog, nor had he won any ribbons for show jumping or any of that other such nonsense that we hear so much about on TV.

Gus was a great brush hog of a dog, he was part Blue Heeler and the other part alligator. He lived in the back of my pickup for about 14 years, and woe be on the person who put his hands into the back of my truck while Gus was keeping watch.

Though he wasn’t a hunter, he was a pretty good fishing partner. He would lie there in the sun on some flat rocks while I played whatever game it was that I would play with the fish there in Lake McClelland. Every now and then he would raise his shaggy head, and the stump that served as his tail would thump the ground a couple of times, then he would return to his siesta.

One day I missed him while at the lake. I whistled and called for him several minutes and then got a good bite and forgot all about him. After a while, Gus sashayed on down to the edge of the lake, with that particular dog grin on his face. In Gus’ mouth was about a two-pound channel cat, alive and all wriggly. You didn’t want to fish much with Gus, he’d show you up.

I cried the day Gus died, my wife cried too.
Gus was a gentleman’s dog.

********************

Why is it that the line you are in at the supermarket or bank is always the slowest? The thing that makes it all the more trying is that no matter which line you choose, it is always the slowest one.

You enter the main banking room in any major banking institution in town. hopeful that you can walk right up to a teller and transact your business, receive your small pittance and be back on the street momentarily.

So, you eyeball the lines that you may join. Off to your left is a very long line, moving at a snail’s pace, while off to the right there are two or three people with a sharp, efficient teller dealing money like playing cards and all but pushing people out the door.

“Aha,” you say. “I’ll hook up with this short line and be out of here in a jiffy. I wish I’d left my motor running and the AC on.”

But in reality, you are four spaces from the teller. Naturally, that leaves three people in front of you. You wave to an old friend who is 9th in line on the left.

It’s almost your turn. The person in front pulls out a paper sack. The teller picks up the phone and hold a lengthy conversation with someone in the back. The conversation is over, the person in front of you produces more documents for the teller. The teller then leaves to confer with the powers that be in the banking room

“Kinda stuck in line there, ain’t cha?” It’s your old friend who used to be ninth in the other line.

You become desperate. You hop into another line, a faster line. It then slows down. Now the other line moves faster. You wished you’d stayed there but you’re too embarrassed to return.

Finally rescued, spying an empty teller’s cage, you transact your business. You look at your watch. A minute has passed.

********************

No matter what you may have heard in the past, there is no such thing as a friendly game of cards. Truer words were never spoken than, “Where gambling begins, friendship ends.”

People with first hand knowledge of such things know that the kindly, considerate man becomes an insensitive machine when you place those pasteboards in his hands. His face tells you nothing, and his eyes become as hard as stone. His entire demeanor changes and you no longer know him.

Devotees of a game known as penny-ante poker have known people who were fast and true friends to leave a card table never to speak to each other again after a night of friendly poker playing. They say that the size of the wager doesn’t mean anything, but the competitive urge to win over your fellow-man is there whether you are playing dime limit or table stakes.

So the more you look into a friendly game of cards, the more convinced you become that there is no such animal and anyone that thinks he is getting into a friendly game should have his head examined. There’s an old saying, “Winners talk and losers yell, deal the *&@# cards.”

Written by Bob Briggs on July 27, 1996

Why I Blog

I began blogging in November 2008 for reasons unexplainable. It first began as a place to journal my unprivate thoughts and to catalogue my days.

I blogged six days in November of 2008 and then didn’t blog again until January of 2009. After that it was hit and miss for a season or two.

It’s hard to blog and I believe anyone who has attempted to be consistent with a blog can attest to that fact. Some days you succumb to the evil angel at your shoulder who tempts you with napping and sitcom watching instead of writing. Heaven knows I do. Succumb is my middle name.

My blog has evolved from short little paragraphs of how I spent my day to longer narratives of jibberish. These days, I feel more free to write my innermost feelings. I have a pretty good idea of who my audience is. And I can take chances a bit more. Blogging is a type of medium for me. Somedays it’s therapy when I feel my life is sucking. It’s a way of remembering stories that have happened to me and to others. It’s a way to express my feelings and my opinions. And I’d like to think it’s a form of entertainment or at least brings a smile to someone once in a blue moon.

One of the best parts of blogging, however, is getting to know my readers better. Especially the ones I’ve never met. Take Lenore for example. Lenore is a blogging buddy who blogs over at http://lenorediane.com

She’s got two adorable sons, a devoted husband, and is an excellent writer. But the main thing about Lenore is she hearts Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream. Especially Phish Food.

Now me and ice cream don’t have a love affair so much. I’m more of a Sara Lee pound cake kind of kid. I have never to my recollection sampled any flavor of Ben & Jerry’s. So when I read about Lenore loving on her Ben & Jerry’s, I decided to try some. On a scale of one to 10, I found the flavor I chose to be about a 7. I commented on her post and told her about my experience and that I’d have to try another flavor before I completely knocked the whole B & J experience.

And then, lo and behold, I received a card from my friend Lenore with a coupon for a free pint of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream included along with a sweet note. It made my day.

So go over to http://lenorediane.com/2011/07/01/the-lovin-spoonfuls/ and read about her obsession with Phish Food and show her some love on my behalf.

And tell me, what flavor should I purchase with my free coupon?

Why I’m Keeping My Day Job

I’m a daydreamer.
My mind is my playground.
While others live in reality, dealing with real problems and situations that arise, I stick my head in the sand and daydream.
At work, I fantasize about home.
At home, I fantasize about vacation.
On vacation, I fantasize about looking great in a bikini.

One of my recurring daydreams involves me being a writer. You know, someone who actually gets PAID to write. I envision a leisurely workday of steaming coffee on the desk, sitting at a computer, not interacting with people unless I choose to, while beautiful, moving, riveting stories flow from my fingertips and land right smack dab on the bestseller list. I usually have this fantasy during the school year when I have a class full of darlings pulling on my skirt tails, tattling because someone cut them in line, while their forefinger is buried in their nose up to its knuckle.

But I must say, this summer alone, I have learned that I do not think I have it in me to be a writer or anything else that doesn’t require punching a clock and a puposeful task to complete. I am unmotivated. I cannot make myself do anything. Shaving my legs is a chore these days. I realize my blog has been rather quiet and I offer this explanation. My life is boring and I’m lazy. There.

I yearn for interaction. I haven’t left my house in days. I doubt my car will start on Sunday when it’s time for church.

My days oscillates between watching the Casey Anthony trial and working jigsaw puzzles, with lots of lying on the couch and eating in between.

One constructive task I do each day is the evening chores. But two days in a row, I left the door open to where the alfalfa is stacked and the horses wandered in and were having a hayday (no pun intended). After running the horses out, and shutting the door, my husband gently reprimanded me. “Are you firing me?” I asked hopefully. “No,” he replied, “if not for the chores, then you really would do nothing all day.”

Here’s to summer!
But when does school start?
I need a job.
And a bunch of kids pulling on my skirt tails.

In Memory of my Dad #14

Gremlins sit at my elbow, grinning inanely at me as I try to work. Try to be interesting and hold the reader by the hand, leading him or her through a myriad of words.

Sometimes I think writing a column is the hardest form of work there is. Certainly, it’s harder than laying pipe. It’s harder than working on a drilling rig. It’s even almost as hard as the stoop labor that the nurserymen do.

Believe me I know, having done the aforementioned things to earn my daily bread. Suddenly and without warning these small imps can evolve into full grown demons that make me want to do nothing except stare out the window at the trash bins.

Is that a fly I hear?

It’s early in the year for flies and I spent the whole of one day during the warmest days of late October ridding McClure Avenue of its sole remaining fly.

Yet that is the unmistakable drone of a fly. I try to ignore the droning, but this one has the sound of a Huey gunship. Loud and annoying.

I rise and stalk the fly. As usual it vanishes and cowers in silence. Just as I’m getting my thoughts back in some semblance of order, here comes the droning again. Still loud and annoying, and the gremlins are still lurking, keeping me from my work, so it went this fine, almost spring day in March, 1996.

I figured, what the heck? All God’s creatures need a break from each other “mas o meno”, so I’ll just take a little break from the invisible fly and go to the post office.

I notice two small grayish birds just outside my window, the bigger and more gaudy of the two, I surmise to be the male. The female has a small bit of feathery fluff in her beak. Some sort of soft flooring for the nest they are going to construct. I suppose that is what will happen, because the male of the species has a whole beak full of grass, twigs, and a brightly colored ribbon. I talk to the birds, you know, so I’ll just ask them what type of bird they are on the way to the post office.

The female seems to have the bit of feather stuck in the side of her beak. Hung in her eyeteeth, as it were. All she would have to do is put one of her tiny bird feet on the feather, rear her head back and she would be free of the bit of clinging fluff. The male, impatient to begin construction on the nest mutters under his breath, trying to hurry the female along.

False spring is the sort of weather we have been having. False spring is when it is unseasonably warm and then turns off cold once more. I think I heard that in an old John Wayne movie, The Shootist, or something like that. Do these birds then know something that the weathermen have not hit upon? It looks as if they do, because now they have elected to build their nest in a neighbor’s abandoned boat.

It is getting close to noon now, and the gremlins have field day in my head. I try to think of an idea that will fly (pun intended). I walk around the town trying to come up with an idea. Fathers, sons, mortgages, responsibilities, anything. But now the fly has returned droning louder than ever.

I sneak another quick peek at the birds. The female is taking her own sweet time about selecting a spot in the boat where they will build the nest, while her mate scolds and hops all around. I’m amazed at how the human aspect enters into this little drama, but right now I have trouble of my own and cannot stop to commiserate with the birds.

Besides there is no difference in their predicament. The female still has the bit of feathery fluff hanging from the corner of her beak, while the papa wren still carries the load of grass, twigs, and bright ribbon. The little imps that were once gremlins by now have grown into full-fledged demons, and the day is fading into eternity as I sit here and try to tap something out on the old Smith-Corona.

It has now been about five hours since I first started to observe the male and his ditzy mate with the feather hung in her beak. I see the tail feathers emerge from under the power trim section of the boat, and I’m glad that the male has finally began construction on the nest without his companion who can’t even get rid of a tiny fluff of feather.

But wait, that’s the female emerging from the recesses of the boat, her beak as clean as a whistle.

The male still hops around importantly with, you guessed it, a beak full of grass, twigs, and a bright bit of ribbon.

~Bob Briggs

Angel vs. Life

The Postaday challenge that I unofficially signed up for on January 1st is kicking my butt right now. I’ve managed to post a blog everyday for 109 days. Some good, some awful. I fear I’m boring my readers to tears with chicken antics and doggy drivel.

Do I credit writers block?? No, I don’t think that’s what it is at all. I contribute it to a lack of time. Time to think. Time to sit and reflect. Time to be me.

Each day my blogging is becoming harder and harder.

I recently read an excerpt from a story in the New Yorker about writer’s block. It was entitled A Cure for Blocked Screenwriters and it told of a writer who had a case of writer’s block. After a year and a half of producing nothing, he went to visit a therapist named Barry Michels. The therapist gave him some advice:

Michels also told the writer to get an egg timer. Following Michels’s instructions, every day he set it for one minute, knelt in front of his computer in a posture of prayer, and begged the universe to help him write the worst sentence ever written. When the timer dinged, he would start typing. He told Michels that the exercise was stupid, pointless, and embarrassing, and it didn’t work. Michels told him to keep doing it.

Well of course you probably know how the story ends. In no time, this writer had a script written and a movie being filmed.

I haven’t ever set an egg timer, but I do pray. Not to the universe, but to a real, living God who hears me. I ask him to help me write words that are meaningful, that glorify Him, that will touch other’s lives. And after I hit publish on each blog, I try to remember to send up a very feeble thank you.

I tell you all this because what I really want to say, without sounding whiney, is that I’m struggling. Life has me beat right now. I’m sitting in my corner of the boxing ring gasping for air, blood is running down from the cut above my eye, my opponent named Life is pumped up in his corner opposite me, hopping around. He can’t even sit still. The last round was his. My trainer is squirting water in my mouth, towelling the sweat off my shoulders, and telling me to lead with my left, to keep my hands up. Except all I desire to do is crawl through the ropes of the ring and leave the fight. Forfeit. The only reason I don’t is because of the crowd. I don’t want to be booed.

I want to quit blogging and I don’t want to quit blogging. If that makes any sense at all. Writing gives me peace and joy and I really, really love it. But it is the last thing I do each day. Which sometimes, in my tired state, can feel like drudgery. It’s last not because I want it to be, but because so many other responsibilities take precedence. Except God. He actually is coming completely last in my day. I have it all mixed up I know. And I know how to fix it as well. But I need some help. If you pray at all, would you say one for me tonight? Would you ask for help with my fight?

My time out is over. The bell is sounding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. The next round is beginning. So I will rise from my seat, jump around a couple of times, walk to the center of the ring, and touch gloves with Life.

I may not come out the Champ, but at least I’ll come out.

You can read more of the New Yorker story mentioned above, below: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/03/21/110321fa_fact_goodyear#ixzz1K1UJLzqj

In Memory of My Dad #8

Good Saturday morning friends,

The wind has laid, finally. I feel like I can breathe now. It really has battered us, our homes, our fences, our shingles. But today is a good day and I have a story from my dad for you.

Hanging with Watoshy, in ’95

Sitting there playing with my bacon and soft scrambled eggs ,my roomie’s voice came to me as if in a dream.

“So what do you guy’s talk about on your Wednesday night boy’s night out?’ She asked slowly sipping her cup of java.

That question is being posed by countless hundreds of thousands of wives in as many countries as there are wives to ask the thing.

My mind goes back to the night before. There are five or six guys sitting around a too-small table that is covered with beer steins and ashtrays so that you can’t get comfortable.

What do we talk about? Banal chatter. Inane conversation. Most of these conversations would put the proverbial fly on the wall to sleep faster than a shot of Ny-quil.

One member of our group is halfway in his cups and he is talking incessantly about making an eagle on the 4th hole at Crosswinds Golf Club. His audience, a male nurse, nods his head and pretends to listen intently.

Another member expounds on the relative merits in the difference between East coast women and their counterparts here in Oklahoma. The rest of us listen half heartedly and try to decide, should I have another beer now or wait five or six minutes.

Looks are deceiving. We aren’t just sitting here getting stupid. We are male bonding. Getting in touch with the inner man. Getting in touch with that beetle browed individual that lives in all of the male species. That Cro-Magnon type that laughs a loud, raucous laugh that predates the invention of the wheel. That huge, hairy-chested, callous, double hauled man who laughs in the face of danger.

I’ll call him Watoshy for the sake of conversation. Women don’t understand Watoshy, but then women aren’t supposed to understand. Women are here to jerk on that spade bit when Watoshy starts to roar. Women are here to help us up when we get to drunk to dance. Watoshy likes women, he just doesn’t bring one out with him every time he decides to go to Ned’s.

Anyway, it takes a lot to waken Watoshy. He lives in every man that you know. He is sleeping, just waiting to be awakened by some pointless male chatter, or by some sports activity such as a rousing game of eightball, or a spirited game of ping-pong. Maybe a night of poker playing or just a lot of beer drinking.

Suddenly one of our group says that he put his boss on a plane to Pittsburgh earlier that day, and now his boss wants him to work all weekend, uncompensated.

Watoshy stirs and grumbles in his sleep. An imperceptible moving of the shoulders goes ’round the table as we watch the speaker out of the corner of our eye, wondering how he will take this bit of news.

Beast that he is, Watoshy comes awake, shakes his head. He is hungry and begins to feed off this emotionally charged bit of information.

Another of our group says that he and his main squeeze, a buxom blonde named Stella, are no longer a twosome. Serious trouble. So we all make noises in support of him.

Watoshy is fully awake by now. He looks around the rapidly filling room, he has made male contact and Watoshy feels good.

Val springs for another round of brews. We all watch the last speaker, his face is white and his hands squeeze the now empty beer glass as he conveys this last bit of information.

Watoshy rises and makes a full circle of the room, stopping at a table filled with college men, he joins them in a rendition of an old drinking song.

Later…..much later, outside the lounge, my brother and a lifelong friend trade friendly insults and pummel each other around. Nothing is meant by it, it’s just Watoshy flexing his muscle knowing that he has the rest of the night and that it belongs to him.

“Remember those girls from college?” says one friend, “you could tell them anything and they’d believe it. I sure miss the seventy’s.”

“Yeah, they were gullible,” says my brother. “The military girls were my favorites though, talk about gullible.”

“Gullible girls,” someone ought to write a song about that.

“Worked half the time though,” says my brother with an evil grin.

I stared at the sky hoping to witness a supernova when I heard J.R. say why don’t we adjourn to his house for any unfinished business or an unopened bottle of Jim Beam.

Watoshy is feeling 18 and slim once again, and the mood is infectious as I hurry to my pick-up.

We’ll all feel bad in the morning, but what the heck. We’ll live. All of us. Besides, you gotta play hurt sometime.

Bob, on the left.

In Memory of My Dad #7–Golf

My dad was a golfer. There was usually a set of golf clubs in the back of his work truck, just in case. As a little girl I remember times when he’d suddenly remark, “Let’s go hit some golf balls.” Oh the joy I would feel. I was going to get to golf! So he’d grab his clubs and that handy little golf club picker-upper and we’d head to large park or walk across to the empty field across the street. I quickly learned I wasn’t there to golf with my dad, but I was sent to get the balls after he’d hit them. He’d holler at me, “There’s one to your left, or farther, go farther.” I never even got to swing the club.

Here’s a story written by my dad about golfing:

You may hear women complain of being a golf widow. Big Deal. It’s you the golfer who is hurting. It’s your hands that are numb and bleed at night, it’s your back that aches and twitches. Your legs are sore and your neck is sunburned almost black from hours of standing over the golf ball. You are in a mortal panic, it’s you who is one of the walking wounded.

When you play a good round of golf, you are deathly afraid that you can’t repeat the swing your next time out. When you play badly you think, “why couldn’t I have been born a mule, then I could get some use out of all this green grass.”

You say to yourself, “I don’t need this kind of suffering,” but you know that you’ll be back tomorrow and that’s what makes the wonderful world of golf so exasperating.

Golfers like to wear shirts with small animals emblazoned over the pockets. Penguins. Alligators. The small Polo horse and rider. I have many shirts with the alligator logo. Once playing in South Texas I hooked a ball far into the left rough. When I went into the jungle grass looking for the ball, I spied an alligator with a shirt that had a little golfer over the pocket. I don’t even think he was a member of the club either.

I used to play a pretty decent round of golf, but since having this stroke, anytime that I don’t fall out of the golf cart is a good round. I could play the game with a broom stick and a road apple now and still score as good.

You’ve got to look good to play the game halfway decent. I have a pair of green canvas golf shoes and an oversized Reebok Sweatshirt, and a pair of wide shorts that end just below the knee. Billy Brewski calls it my grunge look. I may play to a thirteen, but I look like a three out there.

Shoes are more important than “top of the line” golf clubs. Especially if you are just starting out in golf and walking a lot of holes. You need to invest in a good pair of golf shoes if you are going to take the game seriously. Cheap golf shoes have crippled more men than Madonna. I first started to play the game of golf with a pair of shoes bought from Sears-Roebuck. They were a putrid black and red check against a cream background. I liked to have crippled myself before investing wisely in a pair of Foot-Joys.

Better yet, take an already broken-in pair of shoes to the cobbler and have them converted into a pair of golf shoes. Say to the cobbler, “I’m giving these shoes to a friend, the lucky stiff. He don’t know how lucky he is getting to play golf everyday while I’m at work.” This may get you a price break from the cobbler. Now he may only charge you $17 instead of the $20 for the $9 job that he is doing on you and the golf shoes. Also you won’t feel so bad when you throw the shoes away and swear off the game for good after shooting a light running 85.

To have a good time on the golf course it is imperative that you get to the course bright and early. You can’t have much fun on the golf course at night, unless you are accompanied by a blonde and a blanket, and are waiting for a Drambuie front to move in. Of course this kind of stroking and putting isn’t recognized by the USGA.

The first order of business when you arrive at the course is to order a Slo-Gin fizz. This will steady your nerves and stop the churning of your stomach from the night before when you made the golfing date show up bright and early to have a good old-time. It will also help relieve the pressure on your sternum so you can make at least a partial shoulder turn without tearing something loose deep inside of you.

Next move. Find out who you made the golf date with the night before. Greet everyone you meet with a big smile and a huge “Hi there.” Soon you will see someone else with a puzzled look on his face, saying, “Hi there” to everyone he meets. It’s 8 to 5 this is who you made the date with the night before.

Get on the first tee and follow tradition, lie about how you are playing. Say “my handicap is a thirteen, but I’m playing to a nineteen.” Then the other golfer will tell a couple of lies himself and the games are ready to begin.

Forget about playing even close to your regular game. It’s the deal you make on the first tee that counts. Keep the bets small, never more than a $2 nassau. Then lose about $6 or $8 bucks maneuvering your opponent into the unenviable position of buying lunch. On a good day you can come out ahead by $8 or $10 using this ploy.

Advice is always prevalent on a golf course. The best I ever heard was when a guy came in after shooting about 150. He asked the members of his foursome what he should give his caddy following the round. “Your clubs,” was the answer he got.

So go on out on these unseemly warm days we are having. Remember these few rules and you’ll have a good time. And if that don’t work, say to heck with the USGA—-grab you a blonde and go at night.

S.O.A.P. #3

Today I’ve been convicted. Not of a crime, but of a wrong.

Yesterday I blogged about the joy I felt when finding my dad’s writings in my storage building. The anxiousness and excitement I felt to read them.

It was a treasure, how someone who had passed on could still speak to me. And then God was like, “Hello, Mcfly!” tap*tap*tap on my head (Back to the future reference in case you’re wondering.) “Anybody in there?”

And he continued to speak to me and show me that He too is my Father who is not physically with me but has left me his words and his writings. Why am I not as anxious and excited about His book and words? Why do I not immediately sit and pore over them like I did my dad’s journal.

In the same way I entered a dark storage building and it was flooded with light, so our dark lives can also be illuminated by the Words of God.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” Psalm 119: 105

I must confess that since my dad died, I have not been spending time reading my Bible. And I must. I must make a priority of it.

Dear Father, Thank you for loving me despite my shortcomings. Thank you for my dad, his life, and his writings. Help me to find your words riveting and captivating. Show me understanding and discernment while I read your Word. Forgive me for not making time for you. In Jesus name.