Tom Petty sang "...the waiting is the hardest part." Mick and the boys sang that "...time is on my side."
Petty was right. Jagger was "maximizing the recreational pharmaceuticals" of the era.
As a person of faith, I know that "waiting on the Lord" is part of what we are called to do. I also know that we were blessed with brains, the ability (and the expectation?) to reason, and the skills, in some cases, to influence outcomes. All are, by design, in conflict, and I know that trust and wisdom are the keys to unleashing the best of the lot. Wisdom comes from getting kicked in the boys with an alarming regularity, and trust is the belief that someday, somehow, the kick won't come...if we are discerning and thoughtful in our "waiting." Trust. Wisdom. Patience. Discernment. Faith.
Balance is the problem.
Balance has always been my problem. I tend to have two speeds. "Go," and "Wish I was going."
These, I have learned are tools in God's arsenal for His own amusement. "Look," He says. "Heston is doing it again. He really cracks Me up." I've remarked in these pages and in countless conversations that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way He answered. I'm wondering if I can get a waiver on balance, too.
Balance is the challenge.
I tend to be either an all-world Dad, or a really crappy one, sometimes within seconds of each other. I tend to be either a really good spouse or an awful one, sometimes in the same second. I'd like to think I am a pretty consistent friend, but there are days when I can really feel that I "get it," and other days when I lament the letter I should have written, the phone call I should have made or the listening I didn't do. All or nothing. Balance has left the building.
The same goes in my hobbies. I once made an eagle and three birdies at Whistling Straits, only to shoot a 92. My caddie suggested I quit. I love him, but he's such a smart ass!
I once had a really awesome wine collection, which has evolved in to 65 bottles I can't drink yet and about 30 that I should have drunk months ago -- along with about 20 that no one should drink -- ever.
My lawn used to be my pride and joy. Now, my 15-year-old neighbor kid does it. Better than I did.
As life has dealt me some interesting hands the past four or five months, I find myself facing the same challenge. Balance. I find myself kicking it like Bill Buckner did that ground ball, or like Chris Webber did that time out in the Final Four.
Maybe I am getting better at it and don't realize it. Maybe I am getting worse at it and don't realize it. Maybe I'm just dumber than a bag full o' hammers -- and, I think I am starting to realize that.
It all really does work out the way it's supposed to, and I should be less surprised and offended that I have no idea how it's supposed to work out. I would be....if I could just get this balance thing down.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
"Choke" On This! Tiger Woods and Badger Suspensions
I wanted to be a sportswriter, English teacher and coach.
The more I see of sports journalism today, the more glad I am that a different path presented itself.
First, the term "sports journalism" should rarely be used. Frank DeFord, Rick Reilly, David Feherty and a few others "get it," and understand that the performers they cover play their games at a level that most folks simply can't relate to, and when I say "most" I mean all but one-tenth of one-tenth of one percent of anyone who's ever played whichever game is in question.
Jay Moriarti and others are offering their blogs, quips and shots this morning that Tiger Woods "choked."
I might throw up.
The same dorks say the Buffalo Bills choked. Granted making four consecutive Super Bowls is pretty rarefied air, but some dope who's never been able to run 40-yards, let alone a 40-yard-dash in under 5 seconds thinks he's qualified to call them "chokers." Some just say the Bills' kicker choked. These are the same guys who can't kick their dogs -- but who probably try -- out of frustration for the fact that they are wanna-be's who look for any angle to drag people down to make themselves feel better.
Phil Mickelson is not a choker. Greg Norman is not a choker. Bill Buckner is not a choker. And, while I am not a huge fan of one Eldrick "Tiger" Woods, I can guaran-danged-tee you he did not choke away the 91st PGA Championship yesterday. Y.E. Yang shot the best score of the day. He chipped in from off the green for an eagle. He hit a miraculous shot on 18, and then calmly rolled in the putt for a three-shot win over the world's #1 player. Tiger lost. He didn't choke. Y. E. Yang won. He played better. Tiger is still the #1 player in the world, and the favorite to win the FedEx Cup and any tournament he enters. He just lost once. End of story.
At what point did we lose sight of the fact that sometimes people win because they deserve to? At what point did we start considering sports figures to be some type of Messiahs and find it necessary to pontificate on their every swing, step, throw or tackle as if the world hung in the balance?
At what point did we fall out of touch with the idea that in sports, life and business, that someone wins and someone loses, and that the result doesn't, outside the context of that game or match, make them a winner or a loser?
At what point did we start to teach kids, young athletes in particular, that they're somehow above the rules and that they're entitled to the best of everything -- a condition that I see as an extension of the whole out-of-balance / out-of-context focus from people who report on and write about sports?
And, unfortunately, too many people apply the same flawed thinking to the raising of their kids.
Two University of Wisconsin football players got suspended last week, and their parents are running to the AD, hiring lawyers and trying to force their kids' way back on the team. One of the fathers made some smart-ass remark about "Maybe this is how they do it in Iowa..." (Coach Bielema began his career at Iowa, and still wears a Hawkeye tattoo...). My black-and-gold loyalties made me consider that the dad in question might be an idiot, but what proved the theory to me was the fact that he's throwing a fit to get his kid put back in to an organization that wanted him out, at least for the time being.
Wisconsin's liberal leanings permeate most of the activities in the state. Our 6-year-old played on a baseball team this year where there were no "outs," no score was kept and no matter how far you hit the ball, you could only advance one base. "We don't want the less talented kids to get their feelings hurt," one of the program organizers told me.
That program organizer "choked." The parents of the Badger football players are choking, and if the attorneys take this case, they'll be choking. If athletic staff at UW caves in and forces the team to take back two guys that have been suspended because they didn't do what's expected of everyone else on the team, then they'll be choking, too.
Now, if the two players say, "We screwed up. We'll take our lumps and try to earn our way back on the team," then they start to swing the universe back in to balance. Those guys will grow up a little bit this summer, and they'll be better prepared for the real world. Heck, if they do that, I know of a company that likes to hire people with that kind of maturity, just in case their dads can't sue to get them in to the NFL.
The more I see of sports journalism today, the more glad I am that a different path presented itself.
First, the term "sports journalism" should rarely be used. Frank DeFord, Rick Reilly, David Feherty and a few others "get it," and understand that the performers they cover play their games at a level that most folks simply can't relate to, and when I say "most" I mean all but one-tenth of one-tenth of one percent of anyone who's ever played whichever game is in question.
Jay Moriarti and others are offering their blogs, quips and shots this morning that Tiger Woods "choked."
I might throw up.
The same dorks say the Buffalo Bills choked. Granted making four consecutive Super Bowls is pretty rarefied air, but some dope who's never been able to run 40-yards, let alone a 40-yard-dash in under 5 seconds thinks he's qualified to call them "chokers." Some just say the Bills' kicker choked. These are the same guys who can't kick their dogs -- but who probably try -- out of frustration for the fact that they are wanna-be's who look for any angle to drag people down to make themselves feel better.
Phil Mickelson is not a choker. Greg Norman is not a choker. Bill Buckner is not a choker. And, while I am not a huge fan of one Eldrick "Tiger" Woods, I can guaran-danged-tee you he did not choke away the 91st PGA Championship yesterday. Y.E. Yang shot the best score of the day. He chipped in from off the green for an eagle. He hit a miraculous shot on 18, and then calmly rolled in the putt for a three-shot win over the world's #1 player. Tiger lost. He didn't choke. Y. E. Yang won. He played better. Tiger is still the #1 player in the world, and the favorite to win the FedEx Cup and any tournament he enters. He just lost once. End of story.
At what point did we lose sight of the fact that sometimes people win because they deserve to? At what point did we start considering sports figures to be some type of Messiahs and find it necessary to pontificate on their every swing, step, throw or tackle as if the world hung in the balance?
At what point did we fall out of touch with the idea that in sports, life and business, that someone wins and someone loses, and that the result doesn't, outside the context of that game or match, make them a winner or a loser?
At what point did we start to teach kids, young athletes in particular, that they're somehow above the rules and that they're entitled to the best of everything -- a condition that I see as an extension of the whole out-of-balance / out-of-context focus from people who report on and write about sports?
And, unfortunately, too many people apply the same flawed thinking to the raising of their kids.
Two University of Wisconsin football players got suspended last week, and their parents are running to the AD, hiring lawyers and trying to force their kids' way back on the team. One of the fathers made some smart-ass remark about "Maybe this is how they do it in Iowa..." (Coach Bielema began his career at Iowa, and still wears a Hawkeye tattoo...). My black-and-gold loyalties made me consider that the dad in question might be an idiot, but what proved the theory to me was the fact that he's throwing a fit to get his kid put back in to an organization that wanted him out, at least for the time being.
Wisconsin's liberal leanings permeate most of the activities in the state. Our 6-year-old played on a baseball team this year where there were no "outs," no score was kept and no matter how far you hit the ball, you could only advance one base. "We don't want the less talented kids to get their feelings hurt," one of the program organizers told me.
That program organizer "choked." The parents of the Badger football players are choking, and if the attorneys take this case, they'll be choking. If athletic staff at UW caves in and forces the team to take back two guys that have been suspended because they didn't do what's expected of everyone else on the team, then they'll be choking, too.
Now, if the two players say, "We screwed up. We'll take our lumps and try to earn our way back on the team," then they start to swing the universe back in to balance. Those guys will grow up a little bit this summer, and they'll be better prepared for the real world. Heck, if they do that, I know of a company that likes to hire people with that kind of maturity, just in case their dads can't sue to get them in to the NFL.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Iowa
Last week I was back in Iowa for a day or so. Somehow, no matter how long I live away, it will always be "home."
Granted my trip was to deliver a eulogy for a beloved uncle who, at 86, succumbed to cancer and re-joined his wife, daughter and son-in-law, as well as my parents and other family members in Heaven, but still, I was home.
There was a time when weddings brought us together. Festive but hectic times that seemed to pass too quickly, and involve too much hub-bub. Now, funerals are the gathering call, and they're coming too quickly. Still, the pace at times like these allow us to talk; to be together and to celebrate the lives that many of us left in a hurry, but that some of us miss more each day. Yeah, I was home.
It's been dang near 30 years, but most of what I saw was as it should be -- a lot like it was 30 years ago. The only big change was that the highway through town has been replaced by a highway around town. But all the locally-operated stores had started to disappear when the big box stores came in, anyway.
My Little League coach, who runs the funeral home, is still the same great guy he was when I was ten-years-old. My basketball coach sounds the same. The farm looks the same; taller trees, worn buildings, but it's all there, right where it should be. My sister and brother-in-law were there, and all my cousins. Through the tears of loss, there was the comfort of being together. Of being home.
It's funny how I didn't worry about a bank failing, or about a revenue forecast, or about expense measures while I was there. I worried about the great-grandchildren, who didn't understand why "Papa" had died, but I also relished in their ability to bounce back, and the wide-eyed wonder that kids that age exhibit at some things we think are routine. It's funny how I didn't keep reaching for the BlackBerry, and how we sat up Friday night until 2 AM talking about family stuff, not once thinking, "Man! I gotta get to bed so I can be at the office by 6:00!"
There are places on this earth that order is the rule, and where comfort is the standard condition. There are places on this earth where the people are as good and honest and trustworthy as the day is long. There are places on this earth that just feel "right."
Iowa is one of them.
It was good to be home.
Granted my trip was to deliver a eulogy for a beloved uncle who, at 86, succumbed to cancer and re-joined his wife, daughter and son-in-law, as well as my parents and other family members in Heaven, but still, I was home.
There was a time when weddings brought us together. Festive but hectic times that seemed to pass too quickly, and involve too much hub-bub. Now, funerals are the gathering call, and they're coming too quickly. Still, the pace at times like these allow us to talk; to be together and to celebrate the lives that many of us left in a hurry, but that some of us miss more each day. Yeah, I was home.
It's been dang near 30 years, but most of what I saw was as it should be -- a lot like it was 30 years ago. The only big change was that the highway through town has been replaced by a highway around town. But all the locally-operated stores had started to disappear when the big box stores came in, anyway.
My Little League coach, who runs the funeral home, is still the same great guy he was when I was ten-years-old. My basketball coach sounds the same. The farm looks the same; taller trees, worn buildings, but it's all there, right where it should be. My sister and brother-in-law were there, and all my cousins. Through the tears of loss, there was the comfort of being together. Of being home.
It's funny how I didn't worry about a bank failing, or about a revenue forecast, or about expense measures while I was there. I worried about the great-grandchildren, who didn't understand why "Papa" had died, but I also relished in their ability to bounce back, and the wide-eyed wonder that kids that age exhibit at some things we think are routine. It's funny how I didn't keep reaching for the BlackBerry, and how we sat up Friday night until 2 AM talking about family stuff, not once thinking, "Man! I gotta get to bed so I can be at the office by 6:00!"
There are places on this earth that order is the rule, and where comfort is the standard condition. There are places on this earth where the people are as good and honest and trustworthy as the day is long. There are places on this earth that just feel "right."
Iowa is one of them.
It was good to be home.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Normalcy, Schmormalcy!
The countdown to normalcy has begun. By Wednesday, I should be driving short distances. By August 3rd, I'll be back to work. By Labor Day, back to full duty, including airplanes and hotels, although hopefully in more manageable doses. So, that's what "normal" has begun to look like through my particular set of filters.
All this has got me thinking about the whole concept of "normalcy," and I have decided there just "ain't no such a thing," as Dad would have said.
Maybe normal is what we get used to. The Three all say I "look different" without the cervical collar I've worn since breaking my neck three months ago. The Three say that it will "be different" when I can play catch with them or do more than walk stiffly along the street with them while they dart this way and that. My wife, God bless her, has likely begun to think that me being no help at all around the house is "normal," and I can't wait to disprove that theory, now that my lifting limit is a whopping 20 pounds, and now that I might be able to drive myself a bit by later this week, after 13 weeks of the "Smokin' Hot Wife Taxi Cab Service" being my only means of being any where other than right here in The 'Burg.
Maybe normal is what others expect. Actually, since this is me, let's not even consider that, since the thought has simply never, in my memory, crossed my mind. I really couldn't care less what someone else thinks, so we'll blow right past that one...
Maybe normal is what society imposes. I hope not, especially in light of where society is headed. Explaining to The Three that college is going to be really hard 'cause Daddy and all of Daddy's generation are in the process of being taxed to hell and back isn't, and shouldn't be, normal. Or should it be? No where is it written that life will be without trials, or that those trials might not be inflicted by those to whom power has been entrusted. (Hmmmmm, perhaps a post on "power" lies in the future...?)
Maybe normal isn't really normal at all. Remember Pleasantville or The Truman Show?
So, with our six-year-old defending his club championship this week, our 9-year-old auditioning for one of America's top children's theatre programs and our 3-year-old convinced that The Potty still deserves Jelly Beans and that every day calls for her prettiest dress -- maybe my job as a dad....as their dad, is to listen, and to let them know that all they can do is all they can do. Maybe "normal," as The Three will define it, should come to be defined as doing their best, every time, and being completely at peace with the outcome -- as long as they did their best. Maybe my job is to create a "normal" where Daddy's more tolerant than he usually is, and to make sure that they are comfortable in their own skins, doing their own things.
Maybe normal lies within the confines of each family's interaction with each other, and with their God. And maybe that's more than ok -- more than "normal."
Maybe that really is the best that we can do.
All this has got me thinking about the whole concept of "normalcy," and I have decided there just "ain't no such a thing," as Dad would have said.
Maybe normal is what we get used to. The Three all say I "look different" without the cervical collar I've worn since breaking my neck three months ago. The Three say that it will "be different" when I can play catch with them or do more than walk stiffly along the street with them while they dart this way and that. My wife, God bless her, has likely begun to think that me being no help at all around the house is "normal," and I can't wait to disprove that theory, now that my lifting limit is a whopping 20 pounds, and now that I might be able to drive myself a bit by later this week, after 13 weeks of the "Smokin' Hot Wife Taxi Cab Service" being my only means of being any where other than right here in The 'Burg.
Maybe normal is what others expect. Actually, since this is me, let's not even consider that, since the thought has simply never, in my memory, crossed my mind. I really couldn't care less what someone else thinks, so we'll blow right past that one...
Maybe normal is what society imposes. I hope not, especially in light of where society is headed. Explaining to The Three that college is going to be really hard 'cause Daddy and all of Daddy's generation are in the process of being taxed to hell and back isn't, and shouldn't be, normal. Or should it be? No where is it written that life will be without trials, or that those trials might not be inflicted by those to whom power has been entrusted. (Hmmmmm, perhaps a post on "power" lies in the future...?)
Maybe normal isn't really normal at all. Remember Pleasantville or The Truman Show?
So, with our six-year-old defending his club championship this week, our 9-year-old auditioning for one of America's top children's theatre programs and our 3-year-old convinced that The Potty still deserves Jelly Beans and that every day calls for her prettiest dress -- maybe my job as a dad....as their dad, is to listen, and to let them know that all they can do is all they can do. Maybe "normal," as The Three will define it, should come to be defined as doing their best, every time, and being completely at peace with the outcome -- as long as they did their best. Maybe my job is to create a "normal" where Daddy's more tolerant than he usually is, and to make sure that they are comfortable in their own skins, doing their own things.
Maybe normal lies within the confines of each family's interaction with each other, and with their God. And maybe that's more than ok -- more than "normal."
Maybe that really is the best that we can do.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Anticipation
My wife calls me the "King of Anticipation." She does not intend it to be a compliment.
Now, look, not only is it hard for me to title a post after a freakin' Carly Simon song, let alone one that conjures up memories of an ad for ketchup, but to publicly acknowledge that my wife is correct in this critique, well...
I'm pretty sure it was Thomas Jefferson who said, "Our disappointments in life are almost always tied to our expectations, and almost never to our circumstances." (It was either him or one of my early dates, but I digress...)
Checking the list of circumstances: I know the surgery was "successful." I know the incision isn't infected. I know that I can't work yet, but that I can't play with the kids or swing a golf club either. My circumstances, candidly, aren't all that bad, despite all the incredible friends and family who keep sending their support, their well wishes and saying, "I am really sorry this happened to you..."
Perhaps, if my circumstances ain't that dire, some of the expectations ought to come under the microscope. My own expectations -- for a full, fast, complete recovery -- one that allows me to salvage not only some of the summer with the kids, but to give my wife back enough of her summer (they are danged short here, let me tell you) that she gets to enjoy some sunshine before the hectic school year starts back up. My kids -- "Daddy, when will / can you pick me up again?" "Daddy, when can we play golf together?" Daddy, when can we go to see Grandmas and Aunts and Uncles...?"
Other expectations, and some of the questions they beg, creep in to the anticipatory mind, too.
How aggressive can I be in addressing the changes that have occurred in the three months I've been away from work? How much of what I've envisioned as the industry has continued to change radically will I be able to implement, and how quickly? In general, both physically, culturally and mentally, how much will I have to pace myself? When can I travel again, and how much am I willing to be gone?
As my wife tells me, "you just don't know the answers, so let it happen." As my Faith tells me, it's all part of a plan, and the hard part for dopes like me is balancing the use of our gifts and talents within the plans of He who gave them to us in the first place. (I joke that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way God answered those prayers...)
All joking aside, I am comfortable with my circumstances. I broke my neck. Big deal. I could have died or been paralyzed. I could be in a dramatically more difficult place than I am, physically and in all other aspects. In short, I have it better than 99.9765% of the people on the planet so if I'm disappointed, them shame on me.
If our disappointments stem more from what we expect than from what we encounter, and I believe they do, here's to working harder to remember what blessings I have, and to applying the wisdom, ability and resources available to me to make the most of what comes next -- whatever it might be.
Now, look, not only is it hard for me to title a post after a freakin' Carly Simon song, let alone one that conjures up memories of an ad for ketchup, but to publicly acknowledge that my wife is correct in this critique, well...
I'm pretty sure it was Thomas Jefferson who said, "Our disappointments in life are almost always tied to our expectations, and almost never to our circumstances." (It was either him or one of my early dates, but I digress...)
Checking the list of circumstances: I know the surgery was "successful." I know the incision isn't infected. I know that I can't work yet, but that I can't play with the kids or swing a golf club either. My circumstances, candidly, aren't all that bad, despite all the incredible friends and family who keep sending their support, their well wishes and saying, "I am really sorry this happened to you..."
Perhaps, if my circumstances ain't that dire, some of the expectations ought to come under the microscope. My own expectations -- for a full, fast, complete recovery -- one that allows me to salvage not only some of the summer with the kids, but to give my wife back enough of her summer (they are danged short here, let me tell you) that she gets to enjoy some sunshine before the hectic school year starts back up. My kids -- "Daddy, when will / can you pick me up again?" "Daddy, when can we play golf together?" Daddy, when can we go to see Grandmas and Aunts and Uncles...?"
Other expectations, and some of the questions they beg, creep in to the anticipatory mind, too.
How aggressive can I be in addressing the changes that have occurred in the three months I've been away from work? How much of what I've envisioned as the industry has continued to change radically will I be able to implement, and how quickly? In general, both physically, culturally and mentally, how much will I have to pace myself? When can I travel again, and how much am I willing to be gone?
As my wife tells me, "you just don't know the answers, so let it happen." As my Faith tells me, it's all part of a plan, and the hard part for dopes like me is balancing the use of our gifts and talents within the plans of He who gave them to us in the first place. (I joke that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way God answered those prayers...)
All joking aside, I am comfortable with my circumstances. I broke my neck. Big deal. I could have died or been paralyzed. I could be in a dramatically more difficult place than I am, physically and in all other aspects. In short, I have it better than 99.9765% of the people on the planet so if I'm disappointed, them shame on me.
If our disappointments stem more from what we expect than from what we encounter, and I believe they do, here's to working harder to remember what blessings I have, and to applying the wisdom, ability and resources available to me to make the most of what comes next -- whatever it might be.
Friday, June 19, 2009
If Some Boxers Are Punch Drunk...
...Barbara Boxer might be the drunkest. And I'm not sure she's ever taken a shot to the chin.
(That long pause you're hearing is discretion making it's all too rare visit to my thought process... Rest assured that before this post hits, several hundred characters will have hit this page, been deleted, re-typed and been deleted yet again...)
"Could you say 'senator' instead of 'ma'am?' " Boxer (D-CA) remarked recently to Brigadier General Michael Walsh. Walsh was testifying at a hearing that Boxer was chairing on the levees in New Orleans. "It's just a thing," she babbled on. "I worked so hard to get that title. I'd appreciate it."
(Long pause again. Wondering if I shouldn't just pick a different topic.)
Oh, how I wish the Brigadier General would have gone all "A Few Good Men" on her sorry, useless behind and said, "Right, you arrogant heap who disgraces our very form of government, and why don't you call me General, because I actually did have to work hard to earn that title."
I grew up on a farm. I have first-hand experience with hard work. I've noticed that it is often preceded by hard and thorough thought. In fact, very few people who work hard do so without realizing it. All too many, Barbara Boxer among them, mistake hard work for things that oh, like, aren't hard. People like Barbara Boxer have mistakenly come upon the perception that they matter; let alone that they matter more than anyone else.
My greatest fear is that unless we somehow correct the trend we face today, that the Barbara Boxer's and Nancy Pelosi's of the world will unduly impact my children's futures. I know they've already spent the money I've worked so hard to earn to educate and provide for them; my fear is that they will lower the bar on decorum so dramatically that somehow one of these generations will get the idea that laziness and misinformation are adequate perspectives from which to govern, or simply from which to decide. Heaven forbid that one of my daughters will consider Barbara Boxer a role model.
At least I can use Boxer as an example of how not to display proper manners. We've taught our kids that "Yes, Ma'am," and "No, Ma'am," are terms of respect. Sadly, respect is a topic that Barbara Boxer can't relate to, understand or recognize, even when it's aimed in her direction. Perhaps she's just that uncomfortable due to the realization that she hasn't earned it...or much of anything else, for that matter.
(That long pause you're hearing is discretion making it's all too rare visit to my thought process... Rest assured that before this post hits, several hundred characters will have hit this page, been deleted, re-typed and been deleted yet again...)
"Could you say 'senator' instead of 'ma'am?' " Boxer (D-CA) remarked recently to Brigadier General Michael Walsh. Walsh was testifying at a hearing that Boxer was chairing on the levees in New Orleans. "It's just a thing," she babbled on. "I worked so hard to get that title. I'd appreciate it."
(Long pause again. Wondering if I shouldn't just pick a different topic.)
Oh, how I wish the Brigadier General would have gone all "A Few Good Men" on her sorry, useless behind and said, "Right, you arrogant heap who disgraces our very form of government, and why don't you call me General, because I actually did have to work hard to earn that title."
I grew up on a farm. I have first-hand experience with hard work. I've noticed that it is often preceded by hard and thorough thought. In fact, very few people who work hard do so without realizing it. All too many, Barbara Boxer among them, mistake hard work for things that oh, like, aren't hard. People like Barbara Boxer have mistakenly come upon the perception that they matter; let alone that they matter more than anyone else.
My greatest fear is that unless we somehow correct the trend we face today, that the Barbara Boxer's and Nancy Pelosi's of the world will unduly impact my children's futures. I know they've already spent the money I've worked so hard to earn to educate and provide for them; my fear is that they will lower the bar on decorum so dramatically that somehow one of these generations will get the idea that laziness and misinformation are adequate perspectives from which to govern, or simply from which to decide. Heaven forbid that one of my daughters will consider Barbara Boxer a role model.
At least I can use Boxer as an example of how not to display proper manners. We've taught our kids that "Yes, Ma'am," and "No, Ma'am," are terms of respect. Sadly, respect is a topic that Barbara Boxer can't relate to, understand or recognize, even when it's aimed in her direction. Perhaps she's just that uncomfortable due to the realization that she hasn't earned it...or much of anything else, for that matter.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The "Secretariat" of Spouses
There is a legend in sports that Secretariat's heart weighed 22 pounds. The "average" horse's heart weighs only about 8 pounds.
In other words, the legendary 1973 Triple Crown winner-by-a-rout had nearly three times the heart of most horses.
No one has weighed my wife's heart yet. I doubt they'll ever have reason to do so. For the record, though, just in case you're wonderin' -- actually, whether you're wonderin' or not -- my wife has about five times the heart of your "average" spouse.
One learns a lot about relationships in times of trial. One learns a lot about limits when limits are tested. One learns a lot about what makes them tick when the very "ticking" is drawn in to the gray area, as mine has been of late. After six weeks of caring for me in addition to The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed, and with seven more weeks ahead, including starting over tomorrow after a major surgery, not once has she wavered, not once has she complained, not once has she missed her stride. The kids are lucky to have her as their Mom, but not nearly as lucky as I am to have her as my partner, and as my wife.
Yesterday marked 11 years of marriage. Like most couples, there have been some bumps in the road during those 11 years, but the simple fact of the matter is this:
If I live to be 100 years old, no greater honor will be possible than the honor of being married to my wife.
With prayers for a steady hand on the part of my surgeon, and many years of good health to show my wife how much I appreciate her, I sign off this post knowing that Secretariat had nothing on my wife when it comes to matters of heart.
In other words, the legendary 1973 Triple Crown winner-by-a-rout had nearly three times the heart of most horses.
No one has weighed my wife's heart yet. I doubt they'll ever have reason to do so. For the record, though, just in case you're wonderin' -- actually, whether you're wonderin' or not -- my wife has about five times the heart of your "average" spouse.
One learns a lot about relationships in times of trial. One learns a lot about limits when limits are tested. One learns a lot about what makes them tick when the very "ticking" is drawn in to the gray area, as mine has been of late. After six weeks of caring for me in addition to The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed, and with seven more weeks ahead, including starting over tomorrow after a major surgery, not once has she wavered, not once has she complained, not once has she missed her stride. The kids are lucky to have her as their Mom, but not nearly as lucky as I am to have her as my partner, and as my wife.
Yesterday marked 11 years of marriage. Like most couples, there have been some bumps in the road during those 11 years, but the simple fact of the matter is this:
If I live to be 100 years old, no greater honor will be possible than the honor of being married to my wife.
With prayers for a steady hand on the part of my surgeon, and many years of good health to show my wife how much I appreciate her, I sign off this post knowing that Secretariat had nothing on my wife when it comes to matters of heart.
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