Aliens can do that?

I am such a liar. I have complained that summer was kicking my butt the last few weeks, and that is why I haven't been getting the blogs done at a decent hour on Sunday nights or at all. But summer hasn't kicked my butt this weekend. It has been a very leisurely weekend. Friday evening was spent. . . . It was so relaxing that I can't even remember what we did Friday evening. Thank goodness, Bev and Grace can't remember either. No need to call the Alzheimer’s ward yet. I guess that we could have been abducted by aliens and had our Friday night memories erased. Who can remember?

So okay I don't think that the aliens kicked my butt. I don't even think that they have legs that are articulated in the same fashion as ours are. I imagine that they have the same articulation as a donkey. Surely, I could move out of the way as an alien made the decision to kick my butt, turned around, took aim with his evolutionarily selected rear-facing camera and lashed out with fury.

Saturday, was non-derriere punting also. We got up at 5:30 a.m. to get Bev and Grace to Waffle-House with our friends Sherri, Dave, and Josh so that Bev, Grace, and Sherri could carbo-load before their premier mudathalon. 3.5 miles of grueling athleticism though the Indiana countryside facing mud, obstacles, and beer. Dave, and I were carbo-loading to support our wives and in my case my daughter. Josh was carbo-loading to drown the embarrassment he felt having his mom act this way. Actually not, Josh seems like a well adjusted teenager that likes and supports his mom. I was just channeling my own Neanderthal teen years. I would have died if my mom would have done that. Actually, she might have died too - high blood pressure.

The women had fun. The support crew did its job and supported the women as they went through the woods and the weeds. And since the objects of our affection have world class hearts and less than world class athleticism, I was able to sit down beside the track and write Ben his snail mail letter.  I would keep an eye on the track and as I saw our intrepid band slogging through the mud, I would jump up. yell some words of encouragement and snap some pictures. Everyone had a good time, and is very proud of their aches and pains this morning. "My arms and legs are good but my core is a little sore." I, too, get a secret pleasure when I wince as I flex my shutter snapping index finger.

We got home in time to take a thirty minute nap (the morning's activity had left me exhausted) before my sister's family arrived. They are great. They have adopted three boys, that started young, and as boys will do, have maturated into their teen years. It is always good to have them at the farm. They are very good workers and we have some cool toys; so getting them to do my work is easy. James jumped on the zero turn radius mower and peeled off across the yard. He effectively knocked two hours off of my chore time. Then John and I went off to the woods to cut some fire wood for the fall; condensing a five hour job to three. It is always good to see a young man swing an axe with all his might with joint numbing, blister raising, results and then taking the axe out of his hands and with a few well place strokes, reducing the block to kindling. It is good to see the strength and exuberance of youth at work, and somehow comforting to know that it is wasted on the young.

A good day's work deserves a good meal with conversation at the FortGrille. I know horrible name. They were trying to cleverly combine Fortville with Grill. It just doesn't work. I will give them credit. They could have taken their second choice of GrillVille; just not much to work with there. I do give it two big thumbs up though. They do not just open up the Cisco can and pour the contents into a warmer and wait for you to show up. It is good food. They have way too many people on the wait staff so you feel a little hovered over.

Back to the conversation, as middle America is want to do, we sometimes start to obsess and start talking about the things that will kill us; cigarettes, lack of seat belts, texting and driving, dipping your onion rings in Ranch dressing. At this point, I saw my opening. I have several beliefs that many people think are odd, or strange, or they just don't get. But I have found that many of my nieces and nephews are more accommodating in their acceptance of Uncle Roger's big ideas. This is truly a testament to their parents and the strict regimen of politeness they have forced on their off-spring.

Seeing my opening, I said "well if the government really wanted to protect us from the things that will kill us, they would close down all of the nursing homes." They look at me with slack jaws. Huh?

My voice rising; "You go to a nursing home and you are going to die." "Sure cigarettes will kill 70% of smokers in 40 years or so, but a nursing home will kill 99% of their occupants in 5 years."

I can see that I am starting to persuade. I start to gesticulate with my hands.  "Sure you’re 10 times more likely to get into a fatal accident while texting and driving but a million times more likely to die if you go into a nursing home; whether you text or not. What is the government doing by not protecting us from this national disaster?"

I had lost them. All three silently sitting noncommittally nodding their heads like three nephew bobble heads.  Probably thinking, I like Uncle Roger but I think sometimes he's had his butt kicked by aliens.

Take Care

Roger

Counting Sheep?

As promised last night, the following is a recount of my most memorable Father's Day.

My disjointed dream was thankfully interrupted by an incessant knocking, no, pounding, on the front door.  I sat up groggily taking in the 7:00 on the radio and the early sun through the easterly window. Thinking that those were two sights that I had no intention of seeing before my waffles in bed, I hollered at the knocking that I was coming.  Stumbling towards the door dragging on my pants one leg at a time (for those who are in awe of my celebrity, one leg at a time for me too), I was wondering what the heck is going on.

We have been conditioned through many years of living on the farm that any knock on the door after 9:00 pm and before 7:00 am means that the cows are out. We had just quit farming and sold the beef herd in February. We were a cow free zone, and in the intervening 4 months, we had let our emergency cow chasing readiness slip to C.O.W.C.O.N. 1. (My expatriate farming fan base knows exactly what I am talking about.) The knocking had only slowed and not stopped in the few moments that all of this was going through my head.  I swung open the door and it was Felipe Reyes. What the heck? Felipe is a migrant worker who had worked our farm for the past 3 years. Never in a million years did I expect to see Felipe ever again. He had moved on to Chicago the fall before with full knowledge that the farm was kaput - el terminado. Sure his light blue $200 Cadillac still sat out in the hydrangea field sans radiator, but Felipe was long gone.

He wasn't gone though. He was standing on my front porch gesticulating and pointing to the west, telling me over and over ovejas escapar. To which I give the international hand gesture of palms up saying huh. Felipe, remembering that a gringos' comprehension abilities expand when the speaker slows down and enunciates clearly and loudly, tries it again. OVEJAS ESCAPAR!!! I get it. He's saying "look where I am pointing to stupid." I look and see the last of the renter’s sheep heading south to town.

I had never been prouder of my family. While we had slipped to C.O.W.C.O.N. 1, we immediately shifted into our prearranged battle readiness roles when the alert went out.  I jumped into the car.  Ben went out to the first scout position. Grace and Bev went to the field they escaped from to open the gate and get ready for the herd’s return. Leaving Felipe standing there dumbfounded by our crisis efficiency, I tear out of the drive hunting for a street where I can take a parallel track and get around them. I was starting to panic as the street numbers rolled down 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2. A flood of relief swept through me as I rounded

1st street

and saw that I could get around them with a burst of speed.

Tires squealing, I come to a stop, jump out, and stare down the marauders just as they entered the intersection. They turn and head back towards home.  On the way I notice that they were stopping at every bucket, birdbath, and mud puddle; they were draining every ounce of standing water in a 7 block area.  Once they were surrounded and had their thirst slaked they were easy to get back in.  We called the owners and suggested that they provide water. Chagrinned they assured me that they would be right on it. A roll of wire and some pliers and the fence was tightened up.  Finally, excitement past us, we were able to visit with Felipe.  It seems that he had brought the title to the powder blue Cadillac and presented me with a very fine junk car for father’s day.

It was off to church and the disappointment of going 0-3 in the father awards.  Not the oldest, didn't come the farthest, and thankfully not the youngest. Christians are sneaky like that.  "Let's offer a prize to identify all of the young fornicators out there." After those awkward moments, we came home, had a wonderful pork roast, opened my presents, and settled down for my late spring nap. And . . .

Knock, knock, knock, "excuse me sir. Do you own those sheep out there? They are out."

"Kids!"

We were off.  Once again once the lead sheep was turned it was easy.  We were just crossing the road into our yard and one was spooked by something. Who knows what? Maybe a butterfly, or cricket; through the years I have come to believe that the porcine gods communicated with the ovine gods to punish me for the wonderful lunch that I had enjoyed.

Whatever, it was I was facing the horns of a dilemma. I had 25 almost in. There was still a hole in the fence and only one out. So sending Ben after the one with instructions to just follow and not apprehend. We corralled the rest of the sheep. The van was parked in front of the hole. The owner was called for extraction, but he was taking his father's day siesta with his cell phone turned off. 

Off I ran to the house to get my bike to find Ben.  Just three blocks away I found him and his quarry.  To this day I can see the following sequence vividly in my mind. I had spent numerous hours chasing animals in my previous 44 years; many of them under the harsh tutelage of Lloyd Sharritt. Life and his verbal barrages had taught me well that driving an animal is all about spacing. And inch here or there, a verbal prod at the right instant is the only difference between success and failure. I can close my eyes and see that ewe running down East street towards the train track and the busy state highway just beyond. I am on my bike trying to swing wide to make an outride that will get me between she and certain death on the tracks or the road and there is a chain link fence that kept me too close. I sped up as she sped up. We were racing for the same spot at the intersection of 1st and East streets both knowing instinctually that it would be decided at that spot. I had to swerve around a crotch destroying (44 year old on a bicycle) pothole and both of our fates were sealed.

She got by and into the thickets around the train tracks. I couldn't find her. Ben and I picked up the bike and walked back home to find Grace and Bev fighting to keep the sheep in. It appears that once they have seen gay Ingalls it is hard to keep them down on the farm.  We shored up the fence and a neighbor came driving up with a sheep sighting. Thinking that she is on the right track, she was heading West down the middle of the tracks.

I go trotting off to jump in their car and Bev hollers at me to throw her the keys to the van. I pull them out of my pocket and in an adrenaline charged throw, they go sailing through a maple tree that was between us, and they never came out. Stuck up there in the crotch of two limbs, later that evening I would throw a basketball at it for a half an hour, to no avail.  It stayed up there for 3 months before a zephyr strong enough to dislodge it would come along. I found it in September. It's acrylic "best dad ever" busted to pieces. Oh the irony.

I know what you’re thinking "what about the sheep." She was still heading down the railroad tracks.  I jump in my neighbor's car and off we go.  At the west edge of town, I she her tail bouncing along, and a crowd was gathering to see the drama. I hop out of the car and take off after her. I am starting to wonder about trains. The tracks, that we live near, are some of the busiest in the nation. Sure enough, I look up and see the white eye of rage about 4 miles away and about 100 yards away is the sheep obliviously heading for her doom and destruction. I remember thinking to myself. “At least it would be over.”

I run back to the neighbor’s car and tell him to drive down the road and I will try to get around her. We do and I scramble up the railroad bed to find the sheep about 300 yards from town and the train closer but not dangerously so. I take off running after her. We are heading back to town making pretty good progress. As we are running,  I see all of the town folk gathered on the North side of the train tracks jostling for front row seats for sheep meets train. “Hon what do you want to do for father’s day? You want to watch NASCAR in a wife beater and drink beer?” “Nah. I got a hankering to watch the Sharritt’s chase a sheep over hells half acre. Who knows maybe it will get hit by a train.”

There must have been thirty people there on the North side of the track trying to be helpful. If that sheep ever got there, they were going to drive it North. If you are good at directions you will have realized that we wanted to head south back to the farm. So I am screaming at them, waving for them to get on the south side of the tracks which they mistook for get really close to the tracks because I want to drive this sheep into on coming traffic on SR 67. The closer they got. The louder I yelled whipping the sheep and the crowd into a frenzy. The situation was reaching a crisis point when the sheep cleared the under brush along the tracks and bolted south behind the post office into the middle of SR 67. Cars honking and dodging. The crowd ooohing and aahing. One wife beater clad hill jack came up to me and said “that sheep sure can run.”  No shit Sherlock I thought; channeling my father in homage to the little sayings he used to shape and sculpt my future alliterative skills.

By this time my neighbor had to leave; Bev and the kids had found me, and we started a grid search on the south side of the tracks. There was one sighting to keep us energized, and we found some tracks in a corn field over the next three hours. After three hours of hopeless searching, I decided that when Christ told the parable about the lost sheep, He didn’t know what he was talking about, or the scholars got the Greek translation wrong. It actually said after 6 hours the good shepherd got tired of hunting for that stupid sheep and decided that 99 wasn’t too bad and went home for some father’s day homemade ice cream. There was a message on the phone about a month later. They had spotted our sheep south of town. I didn't call them or the owner. You know we never saw that sheep again.

I was remembering this story yesterday and sharing it with Grace. She told me that she had been telling friends at an ice cream shop at Ball State this past year. When a man approached them and said “I’m sorry but couldn’t help over hearing. Was that farm down by Ingalls? I wasn’t there but I heard that story.”

See I knew there is an award for leaving your kids with good stories.

Take care,

Roger

Good communication starts with listening?

Quick blog this evening. Full blown my most memorable father's day ever later today. Stay tuned.

A few weeks ago, I offered the insight that nuns can't be marinaried so be careful the sauce served at your spaghetti dinner at the church social it could cause a scene. This is the second of many hopefully helpful blogs that will provide insight to being all that you can be. (Without enlisting in the army)

Lately, I have been listening to a book on tape about stonger communications skills. I was struck how improper listening skills can cause disaster. Consider the idiom "putting your neck on the line." Then imagine that you are a fire brand democrat from New York and aspire to greater things. You go to a career counselor who tells you "if you want to be governor some day you need to put you neck on the line." Well you don't always listen well and you hear "you have to get neckid on line." You can imagine the disastrous consequences.

Just some advice from a friend.

Take care

Roger

American Pie?

I missed you again. Summer is kicking my rear end. There are so many things to do on the weekend that suddenly it is 8:30 on a Sunday and I still have not sat down to do the blog. A during-the-week blog is definitely out of the question. I get home a little after 6:00, meet Bev in the den for a martini; kiss her on the cheek, compliment her on her dress and pearls. I comment about the kids and wonder aloud where the paper is and what time supper will be ready. It takes its toll. Then there is the little bit of gardening and I am off on my bike ride which has become a bit of an obsession. That is a lot to get done and get into bed by 9:00 for the 5:00 am alarm. I do need my eight hours of beauty rest.

So with that busy schedule, I will continue to do the best that I can. delivering the blog with the knowledge that, before I know it, September will be here; the grass will stop growing and the days will become shorter and I will have more time to write.  I love summer.

A You-tube video of a lip dub in Grand Rapids Michigan has also been consuming vast amounts of my time the past two weeks. It is so cool. In three weeks it has gotten 3.129 million hits. Actually 3 million are unique. I have watched it 129,000 times. I just cannot get enough of it. The whole idea came from a 20 something named Rob Bliss who took umbrage when Newsweek said that Grand Rapids was one of America's top ten dying cities.  I didn't know you could be the top ten of a negative. I suppose Lizzie Borden had to be one of the top ten axe murderers. Adolf Hitler a top ten genocidal megalomaniac. Anthony Weiner a top ten tongue twister repeater. If Tony typed a peck of twitter tweets how many tweets did Tony Weiner twitter.

Rob Bliss was not impressed by Newsweek declaration. I was reading an interview with Mr. Bliss and he had the greatest comeback in the world. "Newsweek declaring that Grand Rapids is dying is like visiting Lenin’s tomb and having Vladimir sit up in his sarcophagus, point at you and say, ‘you look a little pale.’" Simile and irony all rolled into one.

So Mr. Bliss had an idea. Let's put a call out to the greater Grand Rapids population and have them come downtown and we will use them to film a lip sync of American Pie. On May 22, 5000 of Grand Rapids finest gathered and sang and frolicked their hearts out. The scope is what amazes me. They have a parade float, a marching band, a concert, wedding, and pillow fight. Over a course that runs five or six blocks; people come in and out of the frame in almost perfect synchronicity. One singer comes on with his tableau of people; does his part; veers off to the side, and then their replacements come right in.

Waldo is there. . .Three times. I like the pillow fight and love the green pickup truck with a couple riding in the back in blatant disregard to OSHA's safety rules. As the segment is finished she leans over and plants a peck on his cheek. The football scene is ballet on asphalt. They did not reach perfection which is one of the things that makes it so great. There is the old guy in the convertible who loses his place in the lip sync and gets behind and struggles to keep up. Then there is the band kid who is so self-conscious that he has all of the ease and fluidity of a 2 by 8. It isn't pretty but they didn't try to hide him. He is right out there in front.

My favorite? Without a doubt is when this Satan character (my description; most of my family doesn't see it, but they’ve watched it only 2 times) flips his wrist and a wall of fire goes up 600 yards away on another bridge in perfect time with the lyrics. Then he follows the camera across the bridge but stops just as he gets to the seam of the bridge like he can't go further. Like he can't intrude on the raucous joy of the swing dancers that come into the frame as he turns away and stomps off. I love that. Like danger is close but we are going to bar its way with our robust participation of life.

And it goes on. For nine minutes it goes on. From the imagination, through the will and into the camera, it is a testament to people who enjoy life and don't pause to think that it can't be done, or it is too hard or too complicated.

I like to think that at our finest we can listen to the Nannering Naybobs of Negativity and say nuts to them.  We have the faith to start down a long and complicated road, hoping that others will come along side us.  The next thing you know, you have yourself a parade. At our worst? I suppose we just twitter our lives away.

Take care.

Roger

PS link to the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPjjZCO67WI