100% of the profit from this shirt goes directly to Rissa Watkins, wife, mother, & writer, to support her fight against Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Design courtesy of Kelly Spies. Copyright 2010 - theBarefoot
100% of the profit from this shirt goes directly to Rissa Watkins, wife, mother, & writer, to support her fight against Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Design courtesy of Kelly Spies. Copyright 2010 - theBarefoot
If you’ve read me for any length of time, you probably know I like to garden a little. I enjoy digging in the dirt, planting flowers, watching them grow, and pointing at them to say, “I did that.” It’s quite satisfying. Something gardening will teach you is Mother Nature has a mind of her own and she tends to change it on a whim. The rules that applied last season may not apply this season. Mother Nature’s fickleness can be frustrating, but can also be an odd, little happy moment. The case in point, Forget-me-nots.
I’ve experimented with several plants and flowers to see what will survive and flourish in my soil and to see what adds ascetic value here or there. I usually choose annuals because if they don’t work out, they’re easily replaced next season. Last season I threw in some Forget-me-nots directly under the front bedroom window. Their height was perfect for their placement in the front bed. They also enjoyed prime watering treatment from the faucet that leaks a little. The Forget-me-nots drank right along with what ever else was getting watered at the time. Ironically, this season, I totally forgot about the Forget-me-nots, but Mother Nature had an odd, little happy to throw my way.
Though they are annuals and should have been gone this year, as soon as the temperature allowed, up came a jungle of entangled green, right where the Forget-me-nots were last year. Momma N. decided they needn’t be annuals. She wanted them to forget they were supposed to die off and instead, wanted them to act like perennials. That entangled mass of green now has lovely pink clusters crowning the stems.
Today’s post isn’t earth-shattering, but the odd, little happy seldom is. Most often, it is simply a moment in life where you remember to stop and smell the flowers, in this case, literally. Not having to plant under that window this season didn’t save me tons of money. It would have been no bother to plant something new there, but seeing those Forget-me-nots return when they were expected to die, was an unpretentious moment of odd, little happiness.
I’ve found that if you hunt the odd, little happy, it will elude you. You can’t force it to appear any more than you can turn an annual into a perennial. It must happen on its own and just be. The best we can do is to be open to it, to attune our mind and attitude to recognize it when it happens. The odd, little happy is happening all around us, all the time. We miss seeing it for a hundred different reasons. I challenge you to open yourself up to it. Start by thinking back over the last couple of weeks. What was the odd, little happy you saw or, now that you think about it, you missed? There’s a comment section below. I’d love to read what odd, little happy you remembered.
Last Sunday was the Stupor Bowl, that annual tradition where millions of fans vicariously exercise through the jocks on TV while stuffing nachos, buffalo wings, & pizza down their throats. Am I glad football season is over? You’re damned skippy I am! I’ve just never been a football fan. But if a picture is worth a thousand words, then this video is a novel in under four minutes.
May peace and tranquility reign until Autumn or late summer or July 4th or whenever football season starts again. They keep moving the start of the season up every year, don’t they?
And, yes, of the three thumbnails YouTube offered for the video, that was the most flattering. Please to enjoy my ramblings. There is no singing in this vLog like there was in last Saturday’s.
The shortened days of Winter have been scientifically proven to change your mood, not usually for the better. Today I stood in the long shadows, trying to pull the last, frail ray of heat from the setting sun. I pretended if I got in just the right sun beam, I’d warm up a few degrees. Alas, a childish game.
So I stood in the dying Winter sun, drew the toxic smoke from my pipe, and thought of David. I don’t know why, but David came to mind…King David…you know, the dead dude from the Old Testament. David’s life was anything but boring. He killed a lion. He killed Goliath. He out-witted Saul. He became king of Israel. The only thought I had of David was one lonely line from 1Kings 1:1 where, in the most poetical King James Version, it says, “he gat no heat.” The full verse is “Now king David was old [and] stricken in years; and they covered him with clothes, but he gat no heat.”
You see, no matter what great things David had accomplished in his life, he succumbed to the ravages of old age like any other man. There was nothing special about David. He had circulatory problems. He got old. He died.
Oh, before you feel sad for David, the solution his court came up with to keep him warm was to find a young maiden to lie next to him. Ironically, her name was Abishag. I say ironically because verse 4 tells us, “…but the king knew her not.” No shagging there. Just simple body heat transfer.
So there I stood in the dying sun thinking, “he gat no heat.” I couldn’t stretch a fraction of a BTU out of old Sol. I couldn’t gat me no heat either. So I rocked from one foot to the other, finished my bowl, and went some place warmer. I’m getting older. You see, I’m a birth-survivor and that’s what happens to us birth-survivors; we get old. I never killed a lion or a giant. I’m king in only a small plot of land in a small sub-division. One day I’ll deal with my days getting shorter just like this time of the year. My sun will set and I will gat no heat. I’m just thankful for central heating. I don’t think my wife would allow me my own, personal Abishag.
The forth video in my “Behind the Writing” series was released at YouTube today. The topic is “Constructing Great Web Article Titles.”
The title of an article is responsible for 90% of the article’s success. In this video, I offer practical advice on how you can create good titles. One side effect of following this advice that I didn’t highlight in the video is that it keeps you very aware of your article’s topic. By adhering to step one, you will remain focused on your subject matter and be less likely to wander off topic.
I put up the first three videos in a series I have planned called “Behind the Writing.” I discuss where the idea for a particular article came from and things I learned writing.
The second video uses one of my better performers, 33 Annoying Expressions, as an example to lay out three important lessons every on-line writer should know.
The third video uses five articles I wrote in a “Top 10″ format to explain three critical things you must do to create an easily digestible web article.
None of the videos are more than 3 minutes long, so take a few minutes and let me know if these are helpful. As always you can find the entire collection on my YouTube channel. Just look for videos with “Behind the Writing” at the front of the title. My vLogs all start with “vLog” so you can easily find what you need.
Thanks for reading, watching, and most of all, commenting.
EDIT: I’ve created a YouTube Playlist to hold the entire series.
My three-day bout with some sort of nasty bacillus-er-other has come to a close. Thank y’all for the many get-well wishes. What ever this thing or things was, presented a new symptom every day. I won’t go into the gory details, but to say, “For God’s sake, don’t Google your medical symptoms.” I did and it really messes with your head.
The body’s natural defenses have to get rid of all those nasty bugs so it’s natural that things smell differently at some point. I plugged in “odor” into Google and its handy “I’m guessing what you’re thinking based on things other people searched” feature filled out all sorts of weird guess. Just a side note, people who use Google, and that means everyone, are curiously dreadful people, including me.
After visiting a couple of the the top hits, I determined that I have one of the following:
Celiac Disease though I’ve never had it before and it’s a genetic disorder.
Advanced, Stage 3 liver cancer though you’d think I’d have noticed some other symptoms before now.
Any one of several heavy metal poisonings from eating large amounts of certain fish which I don’t eat.
Am possibly pregnant. Call the National Enquirer.
For now, I’m going with “it’s just my body getting rid of all the nastiness.” But all this got me thinking. It sure would be helpful if there were people out there who could make heads or tails out of all this mess. Sure, it might take a little more college to learn this stuff, possibly four years or more. In the end, these people would be able to help us figure out what’s ailing us and maybe even help us get well. They could even dress up in funny costumes like white coats and whatnot. Yeah, probably a pipe dream. Besides, when you’re sick, you don’t feel like getting out to see people anyway.
So kids, learn from my mistakes and stay off the Google for medical advice. If you believe everything you read on the internet, you’ll be doing surgery on yourself with a power drill and Swiss Army knife in your garage out of the fear that some ganglionic mass has taken over your pituitary gland. All because WebMD said you may have Nakajo syndrome. Well House, if you do have Nakajo syndrome, your parents were siblings and no amount of warnings will dissuade you from your self-surgery.
As for the rest of you, be well.
Oh, and if your armpits smell like tacos, the cure for that is “take a shower.” That’s a freebie from me to you.
Last night, my wife breezed through the living room asking for something. I wasn’t really clear what it was. She has a tendency to start our conversations before she enters the room and finish them from the kitchen, usually all while I’m either writing, proofing (ha), or intensely playing poker. Normally, I hear, “Blah…Blah…So don’t forget to buy that.” Huh? What am I supposed to buy?
It turned out to be the September edition of National Geographic. Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. Where did that come from? But being the good and faithful husband I am, I stopped by Books-a-Million while out-and-about today and grabbed the September Nat. Geo. for her.
The woman ahead of me at the cash register was buying something from the tree-killing Twilight series, but the best part of her transaction was the gushing coming from behind the counter. This kid was way, way, way too into Twilight. Then he got all forlorn and misty when he said, “I probably won’t get to see the new movie since I’m going off to basic in October.”
As some of you know, I grew up Army. I have the greatest respect for our men and women in uniform. I wanted to give this kid some encouragement. I wanted to tell him I was proud of his sacrifice. I wanted to give him some sage wisdom to carry with him, maybe even onto some foreign shore some day. Something that might save his life. I wanted to, but this is what came out of my mouth:
“Kid, I want to give you some advice for boot camp. Keep that thing about liking the sparkly vampires under your hat. Trust me on this one. You’ll have a much better relationship with your drill sergeant if you just don’t bring it up. Just keep that to yourself, unless you want a nickname you’ll never shake.” He agreed that was probably the best course of action.
I hope that young lad starts the new phase of his life a bit wiser for meeting me. I hope one day he thinks back on a random meeting with a stranger in a book shop and thinks, “That guy really changed my life. In fact, he saved my life.”
I hope my words prevent him from letting it slip over evening chow in the mess one night, just how great he thinks Twilight is. I’ve got to tell you, once everyone in basic training knows you like sparkly vampires, you’re going to get the sparkly-vampire crap knocked out of you for the next six weeks.
And you’ll never shake the nickname, “Sparkles” or “Twilight Toes”. That crap will haunt you forever. No one ever wants to be in the thick of a fire-fight and hear, “Get Sparkles on the radio! We need fast movers!” or “Lay down some Willy Peter, Twilight Toes! We need smoke!”
So I think I did him some good. I may have save a whole platoon of men. You never know just what effect a butterfly’s wings will have.
Oh, and Nat. Geo.? Totally worth a peek this month.
My wife is a believer in dreams. I don’t mean she has lofty aspirations or inspirational goals. I’m talking about the fuzzy images her brain generates while she is asleep. Many the morning I’ve awakened to cold, peering eyes watching me from her side of the bed. Those are the mornings when I know, some how, some way, I’ve been up to no good in her dreams … and I’m about to hear about it.
A common scenario involves her dreaming that we are both back in high school, wherein my dreamy doppelganger is ignoring her and is putting the teenage moves on some other girl. On those mornings, my coffee is less tasty while I hear about what a cad I am … er … was in high school. Not the high school of 30 years ago, but the high school of 30 minutes ago when she was dreaming. It’s all very confusing for me.
I only know one thing. At some point during my shower that morning, the water will suddenly burst forth in a jet of steam when my wife exacts her revenge by flushing the toilet for no other reason than to scald me … er … my dream self … er … but my flesh self still has first-degree burns. It’s all very confusing for me.
My sly male brain concocted a plan. I would tell her I had a dream. Her strong belief in the validity of dreams would compel her to follow up on my dream. It was a perfect plan, until I put it into action.
I set it up one morning with, “G’morning, Dear Heart. I love you. Wow! I had a dream last night.” Step one. Interest piqued.
“What did you dream?” Her reply fell right into my trap.
“It was a wild sex dream.” Bait dangled. Of course, she must know if she was part of my dream.
“Was I in it?” Bait taken. Now to snuggle up close and seal the deal.
“Of course sweetheart. Who else would be in my sex dreams but you?” Get ready to call work and tell them I’ll be late…
“That counts then. We’re good for another week.” Damn you, twisting female logic! At least I could take my shower as cold as necessary after my failed plan.
Today’s lesson: reach for your dreams with an open hand in case you have to pimp slap a brother on the way.
This week three celebrities died, Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. They died in that order like Death was doing some celebrity countdown. Each one was a bigger celebrity than the previous. When the week culminated in Jackson’s death, hysteria filled the air and digital waves. Twitter and Facebook spiked with everything from the major networks stories down to the smallest “I remember my first kiss was to a Michael Jackson song” tribute on MySpace.
Do I mourn these people. Sure I do, in a John Donne For Whom the Bell Tolls sort of way, sure. But I didn’t know these people and neither did the 99.9% of the people who pretended their deaths were the end of an era. No matter what fond memories you have of The Tonight Show, Charlie’s Angels, or the Bad album, you didn’t know any of these people. All the internet equivalent of throwing yourself on their caskets does only one thing. It makes me sad…for you.
Over 140,000 other people died today. Their lives were just as important as Michael Jackson’s. They just aren’t in your iPod. Do you mourn their deaths? This year over 300,000 women died in child birth leaving 300,000 motherless children. Many of those same children died of malnutrition or curable diseases before their fifth birthday. In fact, 5.3 million children under five died this year alone. Did you mourn them? Did you even donate to a charity that was trying to prevent their deaths? 22 million abortions were performed this year. Less than 3% were done because the mother was at risk. That’s more than one abortion every 3 seconds. Did you try to help those girls in distress? Did you offer them an alternative? Did you just picket a clinic and make them feel worse about their predicament? More than half a million lonely people committed suicide this year. Did you do anything to reach out to any of them and try to prevent their deaths?
I’d venture to say, someone in your neighborhood had a family member pass away this year. Did you take them food or even send a condolence card? I was expressing these feelings to my sister-in-law this morning. A member of her church died this week. She didn’t know them very well, but she vowed to at least attend and help out with food or the nursery so others could mourn properly. That is how you deal with death. That is real. That is tangible. That is mourning.
Sappy, crappy, faux feelings for someone you never even met because you feel they touched your life doesn’t impress me. It makes me kind of sad. There are people on your street who could change your life in infinitely more meaningful ways than a few entertainers, if you would just let them. When was the last time your even spoke to your neighbor? Do you even know their names? If you got their mail, would you know where to return it without looking at the address?
Do us both a favor. Don’t post another stupid ode to Michael Jackson on your blog unless you meet a neighbor you haven’t met. No more fake feelings on Facebook about Farah until you visit a nursing home or hospice this week. Stop acting like you know these people when you don’t even know the names of the people you work with every day. Make death personal and deal with the people involved face to face. Then you’ll have something of substance to talk or write about.
You can check these and more statistics at the World-o-Meter.
Summer is officially here. The temperature is pushing triple digits (Fahrenheit) and the talking heads on the news casts are doing their summer heat precautions shtick again. If my digital weather station is to be believed, the humidity inside my house is 71%.
But that’s OK. After living 28 in Alabama, you learn a few things about how to beat the heat. My grandparents live 80 years in L.A. (Lower Alabama) without air conditioning. They pickup and passed on a few tricks for survival, too.
Rule #1: Water. Drink it. Drink it all day. If you want to change it up, drink decaffeinated iced tea. Because…
Rule #2: Lay off the caffeine and alcohol. They are diuretic and sap the body of water.
Rule #3: Take breaks. Take it easy and rest in the shade often.
This third rule is why Yankees characterized Southerners as slow. We’re not slow. We just don’t move too quickly because of the heat. We’re smart that way. Life goes on. Chores still need doin’. We just know how to work with the heat and not against it.
Just to prove how important water is, here are some before and after pictures of my Angel Trumpets. In the before shot, you can see how the leaves are curling and drooping. The after pictures were taken only five minutes after a good soaking with water, just plain old water.
Plant one. Before.
Plant one. After.
Plant two. Before.
Plant two. After.
My advice for beating the summer heat is simple. Be a plant. Don’t move around to much. Let the breeze move you when possible. Drink plenty of water all day long. However you choose to beat the heat, stay hydrated.
