Minnesota is Green

Spring arrives. Minnesota, the land of sky blue waters, is green. It is a naturally green place, it gets enough water to keep the various trees and grasses watered and green, lush, vibrant. A lush vibrant place with wetlands and mosquitoes and soil that is ripe for growth, and willing to grow to sustain life and nurture fully functioning Minnesotans and others from around the world. Evidently there is a need to enhance this green beyond nature?

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Summer sets. Minnesota turns yellow. With sunflowers and corn and canola and black eyed susans. Some in the fields, some in the garden, some along the highway downtown. Why then does my lawn look yellow as well, for yet another summer? Like a straw matted yard, crisp and dry, as if water from the spring had never come.

Fall beckons. Minnesota turns... pumpkin? They may start out green, but by Fall they then turn orange. Then they turn dead... and brown or grey, like the squirrel that eats their innards. Red? Like Sumac, which was green, sometimes practically yellow. Maroon and Gold? Like the gopher hunting for the last kernel of... Indian corn. Is that correct (politically speaking)?

Winter comes. Minnesota turns white. White, like that scene at the beginning of Fargo, which is in North Dakota, which often turns white as well. Whitewashed like a bleached rag. Like it or not, Minnesota turns white in winter, usually, except for snirt.

Soft-Served Discernment

I have started to believe that a person’s will can be sensed through their eyes, somehow.  When we look into someone’s eyes we may either see their will or sense it and not even realize it. There are also those folks that can see it and sense it and bend it at their whim – bending someone else’s will, not taking over their thought processes like Dr. Xavier, but realizing a weak will through someone’s eyes and then setting them in a different direction.

As this school season has started I have sensed the will of my three children through their eyes and must stay strong, dishing out the soft-served discernment as a parent - not a friend.

I don’t want to be friends with my three boys, I don’t want to be friends with my three boys, I don’t want to be friends with my three boys. I am their parent and want to be their father – their mentor. So, I need to act like it, and set a good example, which for me is a whole ‘nother step up on the hierarchical scale – because it is soooo easy to slip down to their cognitive level (and even lower).

As a parent, I think I have some patience, when push comes to shove I can bark, but I'm generally soft, in a rigid sense. When doling out punishment (justice?), I much prefer to make them understand by essentially bending their will in a verbal manner, rather than a tactile one (New Testament to Old?) – to make them see, realize and understand that I am right and they are not. I prefer to use short little sentences aka instructions/directives: Do your reading. Eat your carrots. Don’t peel the bark off the tree. Put your pajamas on. Go to bed. Stop. Stop it.

The trouble I’m finding is that I believe one is supposed to explain the reasoning for the short directive: Do your reading so you can grow up to be smart. Eat your carrots because they are good for you. Don’t peel the bark off the tree because the trees are stressed due to a general lack of precipitation and removing their bark makes them more susceptible to bugs infiltrating their defeneses therefor opening the tree up to premature death. Go to bed, because I want to play my mature rated X-Box games.

Do they understand this reasoning? Do they care? As school has started and they are essentially working through their day - they are more tired when they come home (especially the new kindergartner). So, as I attempt to bend their will using the patented directives approach, and they plead with me through their tearclogged eyes.... I stand my ground. I am rigid, like a rock (with soft moss growing on it).

As these examples, er boys are tired, their will seems to be more evident – through their eyes. Though this doesn’t seem to be of benefit because their will seems all rubbery and elusive or stubborn and determined. This is where it can get difficult, because of the tears – but this is where I need to be a parent and not their friend. “Take a nap, because you will feel refreshed” vs. “Oh all right, don’t take a nap, in fact here have some cotton candy to enhance your jumping and running and wrestling and bickering all over the house.”

Gotta stay strong, lay down the line and serve it up hard, er soft – the positive long term effects will far outnumber the short term easements. Thy will be done.

{And all the Grandparents chuckle at such grand hopes - while the parents-to-be whisper to each other how they will raise their kids to be model citizens and whatzhernutz rolls her eyes with slight consternation.}

Doldrums

noun

°A part of the ocean near the equator, abounding in calms, squalls, and light, baffling winds, which sometimes prevent all progress for weeks; -- so called by sailors.

°the state of boredom, malaise, apathy or lack of interest; a state of listlessness ennui, or tedium.

(according to Ninjawords.com)

Doldrums ensnare and control via the disguise of calmness.

There is nothing that makes a lasting splash or a gusty wind.

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Sitting in the afternoon of a hot humid day, afraid to lose energy through moving muscle of glass to mouth.

Was the second grade teacher right? – Does it take more energy to fan yourself than reeling the effects of the fan?

The birds handle their business at dawn, the mosquitoes at dusk, various rodents at night  - why on this earth do we scuttle about during the peak of day to pick up kids and trim lawns and cook in the kitchen…?

The economy even coasts at a pace reminiscent of the decay of french fried potatoes.

Are we lost at sea, devoid of meaning, recluse of wonder... waiting.... for what?

As we head into another political season - someone cast a vision that has teeth and grit, someone rock the boat and make waves of beneficial balance, rather than detrimental fracture.

That Sweet Spot

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On my head. Not the chicken pox scars created fresh from ancient scratch, but the pinkish colored mound (speed bump?) located somewhat off-axis, just where my part could be parted if I wanted a Republican haircut. The thing that blinds Google Maps from their satellite view of my upper cranial region. Or does it protect the rest of my body lightening’ rod’ like from the radiation emitted from Fukushima? Anyway, when you control me there, with your touch - that is where I know that you know that I like it when you like me and are relaxed and comfortable enough to comfort me while we watch some show (your show) about a very attractive White House consultant - consulting a President in the sweet spots all over the White House...

A "Kid" is getting old

A Kid is getting old. The kid inside fights vibrantly to remain relevant, but when viewing the outside world through the eyes or hearing the pop sounds through ears of an aging body, a realization occurs. Ya' gettin' old. Becoming older.

It's a feeling, like the lightning spikes down the spine that you wake up with and can't reach in and correct or adjust. It's a realization, like watching a pro baseball game and realizing none of the players are your age any longer. It's a matter of fact, the facts state the matter - you've been around this earth for forty years - that's two cats lives or three or four dogs'. It's the fashion, yes the shirts you wore eight years ago were the top of the pop, the cream of the crop... eight years ago; and even though they are still in good shape today, because you don't wear them as regularly - they are still not in fashion, they aren't tight, like the jeans or the form fitting t's.

Who'da thunk that when you showered and washed your hair that the hair that gradually came out with the wash was yours and didn't magically replace itself over time? It's the lack of urge - or urgency to get the new cd... (do you hear the cricket in the deserted music aisle at the store) as it comes out on radio, really radio? Besides, the paid-for auto you drive, (which is now over 10 years old) practically still plays tapes (mix tapes, not mixed). And who wants to go to concerts when its these whippersnappers playing with their upright bass and fiddle and anything you want to hear is labeled as some "reunion tour" or "20 year anniversary" and to wrestle with finding a babysitter in advancia to get to that concert... sigh.

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Yup the kid is getting old. You have your own kids and don't even fudge when a song comes on with cuss words any longer - you fight off a belly that takes in what your mind says is good - like the kids leftovers that they won't eat, but that can't go to waste because you paid for it. Really, the toothbrush I use is too firm? - So, I've been brushing correctly, but the brush is too firm and wearing away my enamel (as I age)? That's now nice to know. What's that? You can tell I had braces when I was younger because there is the possibility of root resorption... there's a term for that?

We get older, each day and it isn’t the end of the world. Perhaps at some moment, one makes the realization that they are satisfied. Their cornucopia has been maxed out and the simple things bring that genuine internal smile, everything else is just the cherry on the icing on the cake. Eventually all kids reach an age-point that they need to fend for themselves – you’ve done what you could – let the little boats find their wind and sail off.

Unfortunately there is a reel -to- real tape clicking inside my head that's mixing Fred Savage up with Northern Exposure - sweet, now I'm making shit up. Despite my internal kernel calls that I'm still young - my outer shell says something different, so much for unity. But, there's still time... however what happened to the kids? Weren't they just toddlers?

Fish Bottom Dock

Like the fish at the bottom of the dock, we wait. Hanging around, ready to pounce, but waiting – for better bait, for real bait, hungry for something but not sure what will be tossed down our way. What do we see? It isn’t perfectly clear – there are differing combinations of combined particles superseding our vision, it’s muddied, it’s wavy, it’s not certain. We look up and see light spliced apart into rays of motion. Hunger leads us to the bottom of the dock, within eyesight of the fisherman, not the safety of the shadows or weeds like our older, larger brethren.

Or are we still the fisherman, hungering for a catch? Wondering when that right fish will come along – or if that right fish will take the bait? Is it the right bait? Should we be fishing for the little fish at all?

Spring is...

Overwhelming – with tuning bikes and practicing baseball and cleaning windows and tangled kites and avoiding potholes and budding trees with allergies.

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Winter coat, spring coat, winter coat, spring coat, no coat, winter coat, spring coat, no coat, spring coat, winter coat, spring coat, no coat, no coat, no coat.

Dripping icicles and drizzled trickles to plush puddles to gushing streams, forcing rivers, flooded causeways, stressed levees and engulfed...

Chasing bunnies, easing squirrels, recurring robins, flocking geese, visiting mice and happy cats.

Opened windows, ignited charcoal, magnified sunlight, falling rain, cancelled Twins games, walking-to the coffee shop, dropping-in on garage sales, visiting open houses and graduating seniors.

Marathons and 10k runs; rides for life and walks for health (and avoiding crossing Mpls via Minnehaha Parkway and it’s intermittent Saturday morning closures.)

Driving to the range, putting to the green, hacking out the ruff, chipping off the fair, holing-out the birdie.

And even just a week of an overwhelming Spring is better than a year of mediocre musings.

But, what is normal...

Fleeting Fancy passed Hammerschmidt’s Guilt, eyes wide and bulging.

Shock had set apart all predisposed recommendations.

A day crept at similar pace with engaged depth encumbered beyond recollection.

Frantic, erratic, electric, erotic Surge protected but was absent this hour of engulfed strain.

Without altercation and exposed phonetically the weary stigmatized step bound beyond buoyancy.

All said was done to move without question, automatic, no longer a need, randomly a thread simply set into weave, dark and stuck, no hope for escape, simply engaged as a product for consumption not creation, the esoteric instance begged from within but bitstream overcome with pace, survival born to enact and kindness forgotten.

The rush, overwhelmed and underrepresented, torrentially rained denial of service - banked by upended prospects beneath the current and dragged by fiasco.

The string pulled, the sweater undone, contempt rusted as roots bound together deep within crust – the underworld aglow with black, a market but no rule nor system or bounds… a free range commune.

The portal closed and Fleeting Fancy made sense of the exposed injustice enacted to normalcy and welcomed by the absolute cleanliness of the kernel.

...and what is nonsense?

Reset

Being sick <----------------------------------------> Being American

At the back of the typical home router (the box thing that seems to distribute the internet throughout your home), there is this tiny little hole. It is so small barely a paperclip can poke through. This is probably the point, so that only the point of a tiny paperclip or pin, as a tool, can fit through and work its magic.

Which is to essentially “reset” the router. To reactivate the device so that it comes back alive in a completely refreshed mode, or mood. Refreshed to the brink of its creation – the username thing and password are reset to the “original factory settings.” (The benefit being that if a configuration gets messy and mucked up so bad, that you can simply reset it.)

Being sick, should be like that. Ya get sick and take a couple days off, reset yourself.

Individually we need to get reset every now and then. Like when my phone says, “hey big fella, you need to shut me down, or restart me, so that I can get and set the latest software into my system,” so that it doesn’t get caught with some virus or malicious mucus.  You should have that right as well, despite what your employer and their efficiency quota says. The guilt we in America seem to feel about getting sick is enough to make us sick. We’re human, we get sick.

It's fairly petty that someone breathed all over ya, or that you wiped some nanosized bacteria into your eye and caught your cold… Whether it comes on fast or slow, whether it peaks high or low, and whether it descends and moves on peacefully or not, you have been served. So take care of yourself and get reset. Don’t trudge through and be a man and spread whatever ails ya to the rest of the workforce, or schoolforce.

As a whole, it seems that being sick and spreading the sickness has been a benefit to humanity. Survival of the fittest, down with the weak – our people are the most fit remnants of millions of years of sick culture. But, whose benefit is it truly, that we get sick? The germ, or us? If the germs were all gone, would we humans just multiply to every square inch of space upon the planet?

Aren't there World War II stories of the Russian Army, short on rifles, but long on soldiers - sending two fellows out with one rifle and once the lead soldier got shot, the other person would follow and pick up the rifle and carry on? Or as American soldiers took and claimed various islands in the Pacific, a group of guys carrying the American flag up the hill, king of the hill style, bullets whizzing by, just keep following the mates ‘till at least one was left standing at the top, with the flag.

This is where the American workforce seems similar and perhaps this is why we don’t call in sick. We’re too afraid of losing our job because there is some other fellow behind us, licking his chops, ready to take over with the slightest misstep, be him a neighbor down the street or some fresh faced kid. To whose advantage is this... you? your employer? the germ? Don’t get sick, it’s a sign of weakness. Don’t reset, you may catch a breath and come back refreshed and ready to enjoy your work.

And here I am justifying my newfound annual sick event using a router, my phone and WW II veterans (God bless'em).

They Come from Pockets

What fine aspirations one has for their offspring.

To subconsciously think beyond oneself, thirsting for moments of intense pleasure to create beings that have similar genetic makeup. Naturally, one is provided the opportunity to carry forth the new being through a fairly lengthy process, until the bun in the oven is ready to breathe on it's own and spread it's sweet and salty signature out to the world.

Out comes the mite, reliant on parent(s) for daily upkeep and providing said parent(s) with an organically cyclical process of intake, outtake and rest.

Eventually offspring springs forth and creates havoc for grandparent(s) who have begun to struggle to keep up themselves, let alone with a tiny sputtering capsule of their own DNA.

The child takes in immense amounts of data (and milk) from two feet, three feet, four off the ground. Eyes, ears and mouth receive bits and begin to process while sputtering out garble to babel to jargon to balderdash.

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Many of these little people come from pockets. Secret lairs of comfort, perhaps a home or a shire, some set deep within the urban jungles, others an outer fringe or wilderness (all of which have their own "wild things", "secret gardens" and "haunted forests".)


Eventually, they venture off, resilient little vessels of innocence, replicated clones with varying degrees of differences that expand slightly outward with nourishment. The gaps to be infilled with new experience, then perhaps capped or sugarcoated with nonsense.

The parents watch with awareness for how their aspirations are playing out. As kids begin to be influenced more-so by each other than the parents themselves. Yet the folks see what may or may not be and wander towards wonder…

For these little aspirations, the human race has already begun, too bad it soon starts to get overly focused and so darn serious.

The Comet's Tail

At what point will the “Little Guy” want to stop being called the Little Guy? As he trapes his blanky around (to a lesser extent) throughout the rest of the house, it seems he is growing up too...

Too fast and too cute and too quick and too clever.

It is such close agony to get him ready for bed and all pottied up, and changed into pajamas and just about tucked in, when the realization succumbs to fruition that - the blanky is missing! The yellowish colored blanky that has proceeded him around the house like the tail of a comet for the past couple years. It regularly gets left behind and lost down the stairs through the day, amongst the grown up mess of rooms and pillows and cushions.

There was a time, years back now, when the oldest was caught sucking down chocolate early some morning following Easter like a fly attracted to something sweet.  Or when the older brother could be heard quietly retreating down the stairs at 5 AM overanxious to test out his computer skills. Each becoming as independent as Will Smith on the set of some movie about aliens or zombies or alcoholic superheroes. Now the "little guy" is not quite so little.

He is coming into his own, making the jump from instinct to some loose form of premeditated decision making.

The Little Guy is the comet's tail and what a responsibility that is, offering up occasional flash and elemental basics. It's the tail that provides trace of existence in an overwhelming universe of expanding space. A signature flare, like the tail of a peacock, proud and bright and odd - different, existent. The comet’s tail has nothing to do with the direction of the comet, but the solar wind pushes it so that it always points away from the sun. All too often our relativity here on Earth makes "normal" sense - a good reason to think big and beyond.

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So, "Little Guy", don’t become too independent too fast. Stay short and little and feel free to take naps in the middle of the floor a little while longer. At least until dad gets over being sick and mom gets her weekend/bookend sleep-in completed.

Then we will get you some milk and watch the comet circle the sun and race off to places only 3's are supposed to go – but you will still be the comet’s tail to us, though surely at some point, “the little guy” will lose its luster.

Fight or Flight/Going on a Bear Hunt

The other week my wife explained to me, a workshop she attended. The workshop essentially revolved around the natural body hormone - cortisol, and how the role for cortisol in our bodies has changed. Though it still pumps through our stressed bodies we aren't necessarily fighting for flighting (fleeing) something that is straight-up physical in nature. So the cortisol causes weight gain.

Yes, cortisol is the cause for all my weight gain.

She reiterated to me that cortisol is a part of us, naturally released by our bodies when we feel stressed.  Its' purpose seems to involve stimulating us into fighting or fleeing through a tough situation. As in, there is a saber toothed tiger that is snooping around the cave looking for a little snack. The cortisol starts pumping and you find yourself choosing between fighting or fleeing.

Or perhaps you are on the front line of some invading army, running with a sword and shield and perhaps a bit of body armor, but mostly bare-legged, crazy-eyed and blue-faced. Heading for the glory of battle - cortisol motivating you throughout as you make your way for the enemy, slashing and fighting to some dream outcome (or at least an evening meal).

But now, these days, 2013, what are we physically fighting for or fleeing from? Not much. We don't too often find ourselves chasing a purse snatcher down some alley. Or meeting some wildebeest head-on in the WC.

And we're still stressed. Searching for work, navigating morning traffic, paying for health care, maybe even trying to avoid losing your home - and what about your body? Still pumping that cortisol as you sit reading that ER bill or maybe this stressful blog. (What is he talkin' about?)

So where does that cortisol go to if it isn't being "worked out?" Are you physically doing something about it? Perhaps not. I know where mine goes - they're called love handles and no they aren't loved.

Got me wondering about a new way to work out - occasional bear hunts, complete with periodic bursts of terror in between, causing me to overreact to dangers unseen, beyond the horizon. Of course fighting, not fleeing my way through dangerous forest and over raging rivers.

Yes, it reminds me of a little story... I once heard - or told - or tried to tell; about bear hunting -

Fight or flight on a bear hunt...

Winter Babies

We have winter babies. As in, children that were born in the winter.

When I awoke this morning from a rough night of sawing logs, sore and groggy and maybe not looking forward to moving too fast – I was thankful for these wintertime siblings, because they brighten even the coldest, darkest and snowiest of nights or days.

The babies were not planned for winter, they just happened to happen this way. They join a long line of other great people, that we all know, who were born in the depths of the winter as well – planned or not.

Yup, for us the babies came in winter, though not immaculately, there was work involved and there is still work involved as we trudge through this season. These guys require assistance with boots, jackets, scarves, mittens; help into the car and with the seat belt; and still need that bedtime book to cozy into beds, slow their little hearts down and set the stage for winter dreams.

These babes of winter meet the longest night head-on. They coast through in deep slumber, the long nights providing for elongated dreaming, as the snow falls outside, with muted softness.

And these bros are strong as a Russian winter. They will probably be as stubborn as well –

Come April, we are almost at a loss – with what to do. From Christmas through January, February and then March we pop with kids whose birth days offer opportunity to engage with the cold rather than hide from it – even into that cabin fever, late February/early March time. (Garage sale-ing anyone? or not...)

They keep us cheerful, the winter babies, even through sub-zero temperatures - though they are no longer really babies (more like really hungry chipmunks). Even the little guy is growing somewhat independent and on the verge of being completely diaper free.

Of Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces our future is dependent.

Fond memories of little *sleeping* guys.

The First Kiss...

The first time I kissed my wife was…. not great - and I am glad she is still with me. I am more than a lucky guy. We recall that kiss, together sometimes, though I personally would prefer not to, but looking back it may have been a sign...

Many people dream of that first kiss. Or, at least some people dream of that first kiss? I don’t know. I never dreamed of my very first kiss, I just sort of thought of it as just happening, no sweat. Perhaps I was more concerned with the mechanics, the mechanical form, perhaps the engineering of that first kiss?

Think of the mechanics of a pitcher delivering a pitch… or the mechanics of a golfer hitting a ball, heck maybe even the mechanics of a landing airplane (approach, address, delivery, follow-thru). I could elaborate… but probably not.

To dream of that first kiss versus to simply put it out there and let it happen...

Is it odd that I never dreamed of first kissing my wife? I think not, because I surely looked forward to it, but probably in some awkward way.

First kisses don't have to be strange, but they may have their own stories.

For me, I recall other first kisses that led to longer, protracted affairs/engagements. Yearly or seasonal events that may have been no more than exploratory science – enacted to simply get one accustomed to the varying possibilities in life. Living your life with someone else, sharing your stuff with someone else, realizing that there is more to it than you and your singular self. In this example, imagine that the first kiss happens – but then you aren't so sure about it, but you still go with it and you are lead somewhere and its fun for awhile - but then...? blah

There are also first kisses that led to absolute shut downs. As in - you went out, you made the kiss, you made things weird, you progressed way too quickly and regret (somewhat) your decision. Something didn't flow or mix right. There is the vague recollection of making those first kisses and during the process – telling myself “nope, that shouldn't have happened, what road are you going down? Get this over with… quickly!” Instinct going nuts saying "wrong time, wrong place, wrong person."

But, was it a decision? Or was it automatic payback… for a good date, for being friendly, to almost test for that spark, or chemistry (because, otherwise, something seemed more wrong than right).

Where am I going with this? A sign of things, our first kiss may have been a sign of things, good things, and this may sound terrible but, isn't there something to be said about imperfection? Probably not to NASA or to some elite combat unit, but surely there was something good about that bad first kiss. The kisses could only get better from that moment – as compared to that first kiss being it - the one quintessential liplocked bond from which all others would have to measure up to…

So, I guess I know how I think of that kiss... an important launching pad - an act that I had to put out there to get something started beyond the friend/acquaintance threshold (despite it's initial flaws).

Now, what my wife thinks about that first kiss may be different...



Note to our boys: when it comes to first kiss mechanics – think of  K-I-S-S (keep it simple stupid) and - you'll do just fine.

Going Postal

The other day, I received a simple dose of efficiency.
The package delivery lady was evidently running late - or perhaps on time - and hopped the elevator and left me hanging.
So, I had to wait for the elevator to come back up and as I did, I began thinking... about going postal.

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You know, I feel for the Post Office. This semi-governmental agency (which is not funded by taxes) seems to be in a pickle. As budgets and cuts are discussed through the year 2013, like a sore that never heals... the Post Office will probably come up for discussion. Sure it needs some changes and realignments... actually, one of the first realignments should be who the Post Office reports to.... Congress.

The Post Office gets it's hand slapped for many reasons, one of which is asking to stay afloat. They (Congress) haven't allowed it to cut out non-essential offices. So the P.O. has to deliver to far off places, on Saturdays, that other package places won't. They (Congress) haven't allowed it to use funds it has been required to pay for its pension, (thereby overpaying) to cover it's losses (since it has no say in whether it can raise it's rates to cover said losses). They (Congress) also haven't allowed the USPS to become more efficient, for instance, reducing delivery from six days to five. I tell you, that postal person delivering on Saturday afternoons seems so lonely.... As an agency or a business or whatever it is, the Post Office seems to have it's hands tied.

Is there really a need to to gut this institution? Prefund their pension? Are you kidding me? Who else has been required to do such a thing?

The Post Office seems to be behaving just as one could expect with the Congressional "relationship", "leadership" and "parental guidance" it has grown under.

Post Office = P.O. = United States Postal Service = USPS

And since this is a family blog, I'm gonna make it personal.
How many folks do you know that work or have worked at a local Post Office?
I can name quite a few - but will focus on just one that is special to me.

My dad/father has worked for the Post Office since 1988 - so yes, I am really biased. He is the kinda guy that likes to work. He was raised on a farm, he went to a war and served his country, came back and tried to find consistent work with private businesses, but kept getting laid off. So he eventually used his veterans' points and got a steady job at the P.O. And through this economy, he is the one person I know with a job, that hasn't blinked, he has had steady work - and is busy - as are how many other veterans and casuals working there?

My father works hard, as does the Post Office, generally speaking. Sure there are some Neanderthals, slouching around dragging their knuckles, gettin' in the way of things. But, there are also effective postal workers, delivering the mail, dry calloused hands from handling paper - mixed with dry wit - getting fit, often enough with some smile on their face. Though far from perfect, I wouldn't call other package delivery places perfect either. In fact, don't many of them rely on the USPS for much of their service?

Also, my kids seriously enjoy fighting each other to get to the mailbox to see whether they have mail, or to see what is new. I do too. And it's good for us. We have to move and get up off our butts to get the mail, rather than sit, with bad posture, eyeing some screen, awaiting a message via email or some social whateveritscalledupdate (are we Neanderthals too?).

I know this is controversial, and I know everybody is an expert, just like the politicians that make up Congress, right?

But, the way I see it, is that if the economy were the human body, the Post Office would be the internal bones. Solid, there forever, built to assist movement and enhance structure. Something to fall back on. An agency of sorts that provides jobs to veterans coming back from war, (or they could work at Walmart), maybe. Did you know the Post Office is the largest employer of veterans and one of the largest employers of all minorities? It seems to be an answer to folks who want steady work.

It's just too bad everybody treats the P.O. like a bad cavity.

The Post Office has helped my folks: have homes, have food on their tables, assist their children to follow their dreams, and has offered solid retirement - taking the immediate burden off of me to assist.

Yes, I will continue going Postal, though I hope some changes are made. I see value in decent paying jobs for people whose skills don't completely line up with the current trends and hip innovations.

(Plus the "efficient" private package company lady didn't hold the elevator for me...)

Stupid Conundrum

Lately we have been in a stupid conundrum. Our youngest has learned the word “stupid”, from his older brothers, who evidently learned it from others, perhaps us.  The term “stupidhead” has been used around the house a little too often lately – between the boys and as we are entering the cabin fever phase of winter, hearing "stupid" has gotten too commonplace.

I seriously believe it is one of those that came out from the great elementary school melting pot… and this is probably just the beginning. Other various terms of endearment will probably be coming down the pipe soon enough - ugh.

As our youngest begins to speak more fluently and picks up vocabulary from around the house – it is difficult to not relate the situation to a gutter. As in a gravity fed, potty open mouthed system, directing mass its way, picking up everything that is washed into it… good or bad.

Our third isn’t a gutter, but he does pick up various things that the rest of the family does or says - with seemingly more influence from his older siblings than his parents. And it seems fairly difficult, as busy parents, to direct only good things, "pleasant thoughts" (where is Glinda when you need her?) into their heads.

I’ve been trying to get him to say “Scooby” as in “scoobyhead” instead of stupid. It’s a halfhearted battle and there isn’t much coming out of it. And as we all know, the intent is the same.

Although when he says it at this point, he only truly means it negatively 50% of the time as compared to just stomping around saying stupid. Which seems to start relaying to that term “stupid is as stupid does”….

We have also, as of the past week, started an attempt at scrubbing the word from our household’s existence. Saying “don’t say that word!” as soon as it is said – by anybody in the household. But, this reaction seems to be procuring more “stupid” action. As in, I believe this is only enabling it to get used more often – perhaps as a means for attention….? Maybe eventually we will scrub with soap...

Is that it? Is he looking for attention? After we have spent all this time together over the holidays? But how productive was the time? Much of what came from the elves made for such selfish pleasures… perhaps. Perhaps we should just ignore it is being said… stupid word.

I look forward to MLK weekend – a true bonus weekend. A longer winter respite away from almost every want and crafty, consumer-driven, attention-grabbing, endeavor. And in honor of a great man, from who's mouth flowed words that others weren't in agreement as well...

Hopefully stupid will be in the rearview mirror by then.
Suddenly feeling the urge to go bowling.

Zombie Sledding

Bursts of snow about

Sub frozen weather surrounds

The three glide swiftly over moguls and ridges

Like missiles launched across a no-mans’ land

The tracks left behind offer trailings of continuity from one end to the other

Chased by racers who also want that champion run

A complete glide, straight-away to the edge of the landing pad

At the bottom there is little rest for the weary… they must begin the march

The trek back, against the wind, avoiding the falling flakes

Back up the hill, step one, step two

Instrument of mischief dragged behind

Initial urgency begins to slow

Cheeks red from exertion and not yet frostbitten

They’ve reached the top! What a feat! But who cares?

Must keep going, back down for the next round across the frozen tundra

Before their feet get cold and toes stiff

But they are getting tired, their march up has turned to waddle (like penguins)

In a zombie-like trance weathered and weary but thirsting for the next go

Too bad dad said its time to go home.