#69 Thunderstorms

Gavins Point Dam on a day that looks eerily
similar to the one described in this post.
Photo: U.S. Army Corp of Engineers

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

We both thought it would be best if Jim drove the little fishing boat, although, neither of us was the most experienced. Okay, I had no experience since I was a young boy sitting on my grandpa’s lap on a lake in Minnesota. That probably doesn’t count.

The boat puttered painfully slow – no more than five miles per hour. As we went across the choppy waves at Gavins Point Dam in South Dakota, the boat we rented would rock back and forth. Jim, one my best buddies from high school, was in total control though. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he steered the boat with one hand while straddling the back seat so he could see where we were going.

We traveled several miles up the shoreline, found what appeared to be an ideal place to fish and dropped our lines in.

Neither of us are great fishermen, but that didn’t matter. We were there for a weekend of fun and fishing. No tents for us either. We stayed in a hotel. And we certainly were not dependent on what we caught for dinner. Thankfully.

As is typically the case for me when I go fishing with friends, we had our share of bites as the morning wore on, but no success in landing the big one.

Me (left) and Jim (right) on the night before he
shipped off to Iraq for a year-long tour of duty in 2007.

A huge storm front was moving in and appeared to be nearing the dock where we rented the boat. Fishing is supposed to be better in the rain – at least that’s what real fishermen say, right? What’s a little water among friends? We decided to keep fishing.

A few minutes later, the waves began to get more violent. Our choices didn’t thrill me. We could do nothing and try to wait out the storm. We could pull to the shore, out in the middle of the boonies, and try to wait out the storm, but there was nowhere to take cover. Or we could try to putter our way back to the dock, driving straight through the storm.

Keep in mind that The Perfect Storm had not yet been released. If it had been, we may have chosen one of the other two options.

No matter which option we took, we were going to get soaked. So, we pulled in our lines and headed for the dock in the slowest boat in the history of the world. I wasn’t even sure if the motor could navigate the increasingly choppy waves.

Rain began to fall shortly after we headed for the dock – which we couldn’t even see yet. Then the heavens opened up and I was expecting to see Noah’s Ark come floating by. Thunder rumbled overhead. This could get interesting.

The rain stung our faces as the boat fought against the waves. A third of the way into our trek, a much larger boat with official lettering on it sped by us in the opposite direction, and one of the men on board pointed us back toward the dock.

Yeah, we figured that one out already buddy. You want to give us a hand?

They must have had more confidence than we did in the boat because they kept going.

As the dock came into view, Jim and I laughed – partially out of relief and partially out of the silliness of the situation. Our clothes were stuck to our bodies. All of our possessions were drenched. And we both knew that if you added up our experience with boating on such a big body of water, especially in conditions like this, it would still equal nothing.

We made it back safely, pretending like it was no big deal, but happier than ever to see wet land. We drove back into town and had a nice meal, talking about the storm the entire time and knowing this would be a story for the ages.

And even though this happened a good twenty years ago, it really was one for the ages. But the funny thing is, I still love a good thunderstorm.

#70 Jokes

Laughter leads to a joyful heart, and a
joyful heart is medicine for the soul
Photo: kidsire

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

What do you call a deer with no eyes?

No-eye deer (as in “I have no idear”).

You sort of need to shrug your shoulders and tilt your head sideways when you give the punch line for the other person to get the joke, but once it sinks it, most people laugh hysterically.

I told it to one of my sisters years ago and she texted it to her boyfriend, who, I’m told, nearly lost it during the middle of a business meeting when he read the text.

That’s the magic of a good joke.

A few days ago, I had this exchange of text messages with a friend:

Friend: Hulk Hogan turns 59 today. What you gonna do when hulkamania runs wild on you?

Me: I am gonna rip off my shirt, body slam him and then give him the ole’ leg drop for the 1-2-3! Or, I will just stay inside and enjoy the AC. Haven’t decided yet.

Friend: Early results in the polling I have conducted has AC in the lead.

It was my turn to laugh.

Not long after that, I saw something that was so funny I had to put it on Facebook: “Not a good sign when you pull up to an ATM & the person in front of you is standing next to her car, smacking herself in the forehead.”

One of my cousins, who lives in Florida, saw it and said, “LOL! I’ve had a rough day at work, and I work for a credit union, but regardless this is just a perfect picture in my mind! Thanks for the laugh!!”

I don’t have a great sense of humor, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to develop it. Laughter eases tension and it can make a bad day seem like not such a bad day. And it can make a mediocre bad day seem like a good day.

Memorize a joke or two and use it as salve on somebody who is hurting. You might not have all the answers he or she needs, but your joke might lead to laughter, and laughter leads to a joyful heart, and a joyful heart is medicine for the soul.

#71 Routines

A routine double play is only routine
because the shortstop and second
baseman have been turning them for
so long that they look routine
Photo: U.S. Navy by Ensign Caleb White

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …
 
Last Saturday was a nearly perfect day.

I slept in, which felt nice.

After showering, I spent some time reading Psalms 142-144, focusing on these two verses: “I remember the days of old; I meditate on all that you have done; I ponder the work of your hands” (Psalm 143:5) and “Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love, for in you I trust. Make me know the way I should go, for to you I lift my soul” (Psalm 143:8).

It was a good combination of looking back at what God has done in my life while also trusting him as I move forward.

The heat wave finally subsided so I was able to take a walk outside, which reminded me how much I missed walking and that, coupled with a blood sugar that has been too high, sparked a renewed interest in a walking routine again – even if that means walking indoors due to the high temperatures. I have since set a goal to walk 100 miles before the end of the year and I’ve invited others to join me. So far, four others have.

As I walked, a couple played tennis in the park. I know they were a couple because they dressed alike (blue sweats, white t-shirts). They also played similarly – standing by the service line and dinking balls back and forth while gripping the rackets as if they were ping pong paddles. As unorthodox as their styles were, the back and forth, give and take, was still beautiful to watch.

From there I picked up a few tacos and took them to my mom’s for my routine Saturday afternoon visit. We watched the Olympics (water polo and men’s rowing) and talked about Mom’s cat. Before I left, I climbed on a latter and changed a light bulb that burned out above her garage.

On the way home, I tapped my left foot to the music on the radio, noticing a sense of contentment that has been missing for too long.

I picked up a friend and we went to the three dollar theater to see People Like Us, which led me to think about my relationship with my father and ultimately about how I interact with my nieces and nephew. And that led to multiple blog posts this week.

The word “routine” gets a bad rap. Just because it is a routine double-play ball or a routine checkup at the doctor’s office doesn’t make it any less important, or ultimately, satisfying, when the results are what you are hoping for.

A routine double-play ball is routine because the shortstop and second baseman have been turning them for so long that they make them look effortless. But if you or I attempted to turn a double play, it would look anything but effortless.

A routine checkup at the doctor is routine only if you have gone to see your doctor on a regular basis. Doing so offers the hope and confidence that you’ve done your part to catch any potential problems early enough to do something about them.

I am happiest when I follow a routine. Sometimes I allow the pressures of life to pull me out of those routines and when that happens, I drift. Not only do I drift, but I struggle. So I needed a day like I had last Saturday. It set the tone for the next several days and hopefully many more after that.

#72 Comfortable Clothing

Here I am bucking the trend and dressing
down at a writer's conference in Kansas City

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

Ties are for funerals. Dress clothes are for weddings and work days in which I will either be meeting clients or presenting to them. And every other occasion is made for comfortable clothing.

That is my philosophy.

I dress down one or two levels from the norm. Many men wear suits to church. I wear jeans during the cool months and shorts during the summer – exceptions occur, especially when I’m behind on laundry. When I’m invited to speak at writer’s conferences or seminars, I politely tell coordinators that I’ll be there in a polo shirt and dress pants. Most sports journalists wear dress pants or jeans to cover sporting events in the summer. I wear shorts.

Five years ago, I attended a speaking seminar in which all of us gave five minute presentations within our group on the last day. Staying true to my clothing philosophy, I wore dress pants and a polo short. We critiqued each other, anonymously, judging delivery, content and appearance. I received relatively good marks on delivery and content, but not so much on appearance. One person suggested I would look better when presenting if I were to wear a loose fitting suit. Others at least wanted to see a dress shirt and tie. I appreciated their honesty, even if I didn’t agree with their opinions.

For me, it’s not about looking better. I’m fighting a losing battle there anyway. Instead, it’s about feeling comfortable physically, so I can be at my best. When I’m speaking to a group or to an individual, my goal is to get to past the externals so I can get to the matters of the heart. I’m a co-struggler who simply wants to learn and to teach.  

This past Sunday, my pastor read Isaiah 53:1-3 and he asked us to take in the verses anew, especially in relation to the appearance of the Messiah. Here is what those verses say:

Who has believed what he has heard from us?
    And to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?
 For he grew up before him like a young plant,
     and like a root out of dry ground;
he had no form or majesty that we should look at him,
    and no beauty that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by men;
    a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
    he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Jesus would have no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He would be one from whom men would hide their faces.

Bible commentator Matthew Henry points out that, “Those who saw him could not see that there was any beauty in him that they should desire him ...”

In context, there doesn’t seem to be any hint that people hid their faces in reverence for the Messiah. Instead, the verses say he was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.

Maybe the weight of our sins and his coming rejection reflected in Jesus’ countenance. And maybe God, in his eternal wisdom, had no desire to adorn the gospel with a picturesque Messiah because he wanted to draw people with truth, not physical beauty.

If that is true, then outward appearance would seem to be a secondary matter.

#73 Writing for the Sake of It

Photo: H. Michael Karshis

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

Personality blogs don’t make a lot of sense for professional writers. Exceptions do exist, but topical blogs are far more popular. A quick look at the Technorati Top 100 blogs list will confirm that. Only Dooce.com cracks that list on any given day. This is why I tell professional writers who are just jumping into the blogosphere to write a topical blog, or, if they insist writing a personality blog, then limit the topics to one theme.

Little Nuances is a personality blog. I didn’t know that when I started it in 2005, but that’s what it is. And I’m okay with that. This has become my place to write about things I care about for the mere sake of it. It allows me to scratch an itch I wouldn’t otherwise be able to reach. And no matter how many books or articles I write, I’m always going to want the freedom to write about topics I cover here. I don’t know if this will always be the right medium, but it’s a good fit right now.

Ever since I was old enough to write, I have written for the sake of it. When I was young, I used my dad’s typewriter in his office to type newspaper columns and liner notes from albums. In my teen years I wrote poems and songs. In my twenties, I journaled. In my thirties, I began writing personal experience articles for publication. Now I have Little Nuances.

Little Nuances isn’t a consolation prize. It’s a labor of love. I’m always amazed and privileged when someone tells me they’ve read something here that means something to them.

#74 Neighbors

Photo: Sonja Lovas

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

I live in one of those old, established neighborhoods where you know everybody’s name if they are the type of person who wants to be known. And since I live in the same house I grew up in, I can tell you it has been this way since the mid-1970s.

Thinking back to those days, I can recall most of my neighbors names: Alice and her daughter Pam, Bisco and Sadie, a retired war veteran named Kaj, a widow named Germaine, Dennis and his family, a kid named Mike and his family, a man named Kazmir and his sibblings, a couple of kids named Tommy and Lori and their mother, Stan and Bernice, and Tom, Karen and their children. We had a few other houses on the block that multiple families lived in.

Thirty-five years later, some of those same neighbors live in the same houses. Some have moved, and sadly, some have passed away. But I’ll always remember little things about each of them. Today I want to tell you about Bisco and Sadie. Maybe it’ll prompt memories you have of a couple like this in your neighborhood growing up. If it does, I’d love to hear about them in the comments section.

Bisco worked in a packing house and he was a fun-loving guy who loved to tease my sister and I. Sadie was demonstrative when she spoke, often drawing out her words, as if she were in a perpetual state of surprise (Noooooooo. Reeeeeeeeeeally?!), and she gasped between sentences. She was also as sweet as they come.

My mom and my sister and I moved into the neighborhood after my parents divorced. I was eight and my sister was five. Mom had to go back to work so she needed a babysitter. Sadie came to the rescue. During the school year she walked across the street to make sure my sister and I got off to school in time. During the summer, we stayed at her house, which was always interesting.

Bisco and Sadie were Polish and once in a while Sadie would speak Polish. I always suspected she did that when she wanted to cuss, but I was never able to confirm my suspicions. Bisco was much less tactful. He actually taught me a few Polish cuss words.

Bisco brought home some of the craziest things to eat from the packing house – including pickled pigs feet, cow hearts and various other animal parts that should never be consumed in my opinion. Hearing me say, “Ewwww” just gave him more ammo for teasing me.

I don’t know how Mom ever afforded to pay Sadie, but I can remember Sadie denying money from Mom on multiple occasions because that’s just the type of neighbor she was. Even after my sister and I no longer needed a babysitter, we would go to Sadie's to visit her, or she would come across the street to visit with all of us – especially after Bisco died. She passed away quite a few years later.

I drive by Bisco and Sadie’s former house every day and in my mind I can still see Bisco out on the front porch reading his newspaper and Sadie sitting on the front steps with an iced tea in her hand, chatting with neighbors. And in the words of every Nicholas Sparks novel, replaying that scene in my mind makes everything seem right with the world.

# 75 Home Cooked Meals

Photo: Food & Spirits Magazine

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

As my relatives got caught up at the kitchen table, I walked by the stove. The smell was killing me – in a good way. I’d heard we were having pork chops and since my grandmother and I had traveled to the south to visit family, I fully expected the pork chops to be done southern style, but I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to see, or not see.

The flame on the stove licked the underside of the black cast iron skillet while the pork chops simmered in so much lard that I couldn’t even see the meat. How in the world had so many of these people lived past 80? Probably because they worked so hard when they weren’t eating pork chops immersed in lard. They worked hard and they played hard. Sounds like a good way to live.

My grandmother brought that same philosophy with her when she and my grandfather moved from Arkansas in the late 1940s. In her later years, she had my sister, my niece and I over for dinner every Thursday night. When she was feeling good, she made home cooked meals for us.

She made the best pot roast known to man. I would stick my fork into a piece of it and it would gently fall to my plate. And the smell ... I think you could get full just by smelling it. Many people have tried to duplicate her pot roast efforts and all have failed. Throw in her mashed potatoes, green beans and the occasional batch of cornbread, and I would put her cooking up against the best chefs in the country.

But for her, it was about more than the food. The food was the vehicle for conversation and laughter. When we paused from shoveling in the food, we told each other about our lives from our assigned seats. It wasn’t always roses and sunshine. Sometimes we fought. But mostly we did what families used to do. We made time for home cooked meals.

And while my grandmother had a television in her kitchen, she usually left it off during this time. We certainly never ate our meals in the living room on TV trays while watching a sitcom. 

I think Grandma was on to something.

#76 Dance, Dance, Dance

Photo: Aline Gomes

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

I’m glad smart phones weren’t around in the 1980s. Surely somebody would have snapped a photo – or worse, shot a video – of me moving my feet while swaying back and forth to the music of a live group on a lighted, checkerboard style dance floor in a night club called Fat Jak’s. During one stretch in the late 80s, one band played at Fat Jak’s 15 straight nights and me, my long hair, and my fake black leather coat found our way to the dance floor 14 of those nights.

After I wrote that paragraph, I was paranoid enough to check Facebook and YouTube, and guess what? Somebody started a Fat Jak’s page on Facebook even though the place hasn’t been in existence for 20 years and there’s actually a video of the band I danced to playing at Fat Jak’s during that time period on YouTube. I watched in horror, wondering if I would see myself on the dance floor. Thankfully, I didn’t. And no, I'm not going to link to it here.

I went to my high school dances and to my girlfriend’s high school dances in the early 80s and that’s probably when I realized how much I enjoyed dancing, even though I was never really good at it. It had more to do with somebody else wanting to join me on the dance floor than anything. As somebody who was always shy and overweight, it felt good knowing I wasn’t a leper. Once I got on the dance floor with someone, I just tried to blend it. There would be no twirls, splits or crazy hand motions for me.

Since my Fat Jak’s days, I haven’t spent a lot of time on a dance floor, with the exception of a wedding or two, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hop on the dance floor again one of these days because dancing is one of life’s simple pleasures and I miss it. Besides, Solomon said for everything there is a season – a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. Who am I to argue?

#77 Friendly Customer Service Representatives

Photo: bloomsburys

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

I dialed the number, knowing I might be on the phone with a DirecTV customer service representative for a while. The power went out in three quick spurts the night before and I couldn’t get past the blue screen on one of the televisions in my house.

The representative ran me through several lists she was reading from, including the infamous lines, “Are you sure everything is plugged in?” and “Can you check the cables please to make sure they are secure?”

“Everything is plugged in and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cables,” I said. “The power went out last night and now I can’t get past the blue screen. I reset my other TV, and it’s up and running again, but I can’t figure this one out.”

Once we got past the formalities, she had me try multiple other options, but none of them worked. The blue screen was winning. Finally, after maybe 30 or 40 minutes, she offered to send someone out to fix it, saying the service call would be free.

After we hung up, I disconnected the VCR from the set up since it was no longer needed anyway, and when I reconnected everything, the evil blue screen was gone. Even though the representative couldn’t fix the problem while I was on the phone with her, I was impressed by her patience and determination to make sure I was able to get back up and running as soon as possible.

The next day, I had to call my phone/internet company because the power outage wiped out my wireless connection and I couldn’t get it going again. I was on the phone for an hour with a customer service representative who again took me through the standard “Are you sure everything is plugged in” questions before deciding to help me set up the network from scratch. She too was patient and we got the network back up.

My problems weren’t really problems as much as they were time drains, but dealing with two friendly customer service representatives whom I didn’t have to battle made my life easier, and I was thankful for that.

#78 Helping Someone

Courtesy: Kansas City Royals

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

My uncle from Kansas City got me hooked on the Kansas City Royals when I was a kid. Every time he visited Omaha, we’d go out on my grandparent’s front porch and listen to the Royals game on the radio. He’d talk to the radio as if the players could hear him giving them advice or cheering them on.

Somehow, my mom scored enough tickets for our family to travel on a bus to Kansas City to see the Royals play one year. As I single mother, I have no idea how she pulled that off. But I sat in Royals Stadium (now called Kauffman Stadium) marveling over the fact that I could actually see my favorite team play in person.

Something magical happens between a parent and a child at a baseball game. The senses are already on overload – in a good way – with the crack of the bat, the smell of cotton candy, players sliding in the dirt, the potential of catching a foul ball as a fan. But having a parent place his or her arm around a child to point out all of these things cements a bond in a child’s mind.

In 2009, I saw a message on Twitter from someone who worked for the Royals saying they were having a Kids’ Day at the K (meaning Kauffman Stadium) and they were raising money so kids from local Boys & Girls Clubs and various other children’s organizations could come to the game. For every $10.00 that was donated, one child would get to attend the game. If $250.00 was raised, the Royals would match it so 50 kids could attend the game.

I wrote about it on my Royals blog (on a site no longer active, but I do cover the Triple-A team on a site called Omaha Baseball 360), trying to raise support for 10 kids. The most popular Royals blog, Royals Review, joined in, really fueling the effort, and within a few weeks, people had donated enough money for more than 100 kids to see the game. I’m not exactly sure how it all worked out, but from what I understand, many of the parents came as well.

Afterward, the team sent me several photos of the recipients of the tickets, showing parents enjoying the game with their kids (see one of those photos above). I smiled and remembered my own experiences as a child at the ballpark.

In my previous post in this series, I wrote about a neighbor who helped me even though he was experiencing a trying time in his own life. It was an act of kindness I won’t forget. I don't care if the kids who attended the game in Kansas City that day remember or even know about our efforts to get them there, but I do hope that 20 years from now some of them are still talking about how attending a baseball game with a parent on a hot summer day in 2009 is something they will never forget.

#79 Receiving Help

Trees were pulled up by their roots (Photo: Jo_n_1970)

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series ...

On June 27, 2008, around 5:00 pm, the sky got dark in Omaha – so much so that I turned on the television and heard we were in for a doozy of a windstorm. The weatherman was trying to get viewers to warn people who were outside, saying they needed to find cover quickly.

The sky turned black. Debris slammed into my house. And I took cover with my cat in the basement. The storm didn’t last long – a couple of minutes maybe, but I couldn’t believe the devastation. Trees were pulled up by their roots. Power lines were down. And the city was a mess.

Neighbors flooded out of their homes to inspect the damage. I joined them. We chatted, shook our heads, and pointed to the damage. I walked across the street to check on an elderly neighbor to see if he still had electricity. Thankfully, he did. Most of the rest of the block didn’t.


[This YouTube video is a good representation of what the city looked like.]

Later I heard winds were estimated to have reached 80-90 mph and 126,000 people were without power around the city. The power company said it may take a week before the power was restored to all of its customers. Candles, batteries and flashlights became a premium at local stores. I had a hard time finding any of them, but I had a few candles and I was able to find one flashlight that came with batteries at a nearby Kmart.

One of my next door neighbors said he was going to try to find a gas generator. If he did, he said I could tap into it. My roommate and I spent the night at a friend’s apartment and the next day, I went to visit my mom. Knowing all of my food was spoiled and wondering where I might crash that night, I called my neighbor to see if he had been able to track down a generator.

He sounded anguished on the phone, but he said he found one and I was welcome to plug into it when I got home. As I approached my neighborhood, police cars blocked my street so I parked quite a ways from my house. As I walked toward my house, police officers were spread out all over my neighbor’s yard.

My neighbor saw me coming and said he couldn’t talk about what was going on, but he helped me run an extension cord from the generator into my house. He said he and his family had overloaded it already a couple of times, causing it to shut off, so he was cutting back on his usage. And he asked me to minimize my usage to one lamp – two at the most. I plugged in one lamp and it was plenty to make the house livable again.

The next day, my neighbor told me his son (who was an adult) had died and that’s why the police were there the day before. I’m not going to go into details here, but no foul play was involved. I cried with my neighbor over his loss. We embraced. And then it hit me. He not only took my call and agreed to help me during one of the darkest moments of his life, but after I got home he actually took time while the police where there to help me plug into the generator he had found.

It was an incredible act of kindness that moves me more every time I think about it. I couldn’t offer him anything in return, other than a heartfelt thank you. And that was enough because sometimes, people like my neighbor simply want to help another neighbor.

There is beauty in that.

#80 Weather

Photo: Dave Morrison

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

If you are from Nebraska, you learn to adapt to changes in the weather. Temperature can change as much as 50 degrees or more from one day to the next. One day it might snow and the next day, the sun might shine. We joke about the drastic changes, but the truth is, I sort of like adapting to the weather.

As a kid, my friends and I used to shovel the basketball court at the park just so we could shoot some hoops. We bundled up in our coats, stocking caps and gloves and played the game as if it were mid-July.

Of course, in July, we never had to deal with slipping on the ice while driving to the hoop or having to dribble the ball harder because it didn’t want to bounce, but we had the benefit of never having to chase the ball too far during the winter because the snow around the perimeter of the court would stop it. In mid-July, the ball often bounded away and someone would have to chase it for a country block.

The practice of shoveling the court carried over to my backyard where a couple of my friends and I would shovel the small slab behind my house so we could shoot some hoops when we didn’t have a big game going at the park.

In my 20s, I used to go fishing pretty often with a couple of friends. We were never very good at it, but we enjoyed it anyway. We believed the old adage that fish tend to bite more frequently during the rain. So rather than running for cover, we’d sit on the bank in a heightened sense of anticipation. I don’t ever remember catching more fish during the rain, but I always attributed that to us having no idea what we were doing.

The thing is, I’d rather deal with all the wacky weather than live in a place where it’s always 70 degrees and sunny. I like making due. I like the funny situations it creates and I like the memories it makes. I’m not as quick to shovel a basketball court or fish in the rain now (although, now that I think about it, I’d still do that), but I’m making due in other ways when the weather changes.

A good snow storm is the perfect reason to forget about all of the appointments and meetings and other obligations to settle in with a good book.

Brutal heat tends to drive me indoors – anywhere the air conditioning is cranked on high. That usually leads to more conversations with people.

We had a windstorm a couple of years ago and were without power for a couple of days. That lead to neighbors leaving their homes and that lead to neighbors talking to one another and that lead to them helping one another. One of my neighbors stepped up big time and helped my roommate and I (more on that in the next post in this series).

Changes in the weather often leads to a change of plans. And sometimes that’s a good thing.

#81 Completed Goals

Photo: Horia Varlan

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

The idea of writing an 80,000 to 100,000 word novel seemed unattainable to me when I attended my first writer’s conference in 1998. Thankfully, I wasn't the only person thinking that.

I took a comprehensive novel writing course at the conference taught by Nancy Moser. Somebody in class asked her what her writing schedule looks like – how does a person go about writing 100,000 words?

Her answer was pretty simple. She looks at the total word count she’s shooting for and she divides it by the number of writing days she has on her schedule for her first draft. That number becomes her daily writing goal. That made the process seem a lot more doable to me.

A couple of years later, while working at a bank, employees had a chance to work a flex schedule. I re-arranged my work schedule to have Mondays off. That gave me 52 full writing days available that year. My goal was 90,000 words. That meant I had to write 1,700 words a day. I could do that.

By the end of the year, I wrote 85,599 words – 371 pages. That's where my story ended so my goal was complete. Hitting my goal gave me the confidence to write a second novel. I didn’t sell either of them. But by the time I had a marketable idea for a non-fiction book, I knew I could write it if a publisher gave me a contract (non-fiction books do not need to be written before pitching them to publishers, but novels do need to be written if you are a first time novelist).

In 2004, a publisher did offer me a contract for my non-fiction book idea – a book called Single Servings. I put my formula to work and completed the book on time. I still use that formula, depending on the project.

A Christmas book I wrote in 2005, called The Experience of Christmas, was supposed to be in the 33,000-35,000 word range and it was broken down into 31 devotions. So each devotion needed to average a tick over 1,000 words. I wrote one devotion a day and was able to complete the book in about five weeks.

Slow and steady wins the race for me because it keeps me from straying when I’m writing a book. It answers questions for me. Do I have time to take on an article due next week? I look at my word count spreadsheet and see that I’m barely staying on schedule and the decision has been made. I’ll have to pass.

I really need to carry this practice over to the rest of my life though. The mountains of unfiled paperwork that sit by and around my desk could be handled if I just did 15 minutes a day. My laundry might actually be caught up if I did one load a day. And so it goes. But, like you, I’m a work in progress.

#82 Radio

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

A long time ago, in a galaxy very close to home (okay it was my home), there lived a teenager who didn't have cable TV (because it was invented yet). His TV only had three channels, plus something called PBS that seemed quite stuffy. As a sports fan, he sat at his kitchen table with a radio, a notebook and a pencil and he jotted down stats as he listened to the Creighton Bluejays play basketball and the Kansas City Royals play baseball. And some nights, he inched his way across the radio dial trying to pick up sports from across the country.

Cable TV eventually found its way into his living room and he loved it. But there was always something missing – a certain intimacy that only exists between a radio announcer and his or her audience. All of the stats were on the screen and the calls made by the announcers were still exciting, but the myriad of announcers coupled with the medium of TV just never made me feel as if I knew the announcer. I simply heard him make the call.

Steve Brown had a radio talk
show in Omaha called "Talk of
the Town" (Photo: KKAR)

As I got older, I worked in several office environments and they all allowed employees to listen to the radio at their desks. I branched out from sports to local talk shows and then to Christian radio. A couple of years ago, I wrote about one of the local radio show hosts named Steve Brown who became part of my life during those years. Here are a couple of paragraphs from that post:

One of Brown’s claims to fame was introducing the Beach Boys to the Beatles back when he was a concert promoter. He had programs on three of the largest and most well known radio stations in Omaha over the years. He was a fisherman. He was good friends with Ted Nugent and Senator Ben Nelson. If you follow politics, then you know that Nugent is a staunch conservative while Nelson is a middle of the road Democrat.

I heard Brown tell a story once about a barbeque he had at his house in which Nugent, Nelson and his family, Congressman Lee Terry and his family, several musicians, and a number of other people sat around on his deck for five hours enjoying each other’s company. Brown had a way of moving past partisanship and really listening to people—even if he disagreed with them—maybe even especially if he disagreed with them. More than once, I heard him change his mind on the air while speaking with somebody.

I met Brown a couple of times at functions around town and I wrote to him a few times too. Twice, he read what I wrote on the air. When he died in 2008, I felt like a friend died. I even went to his funeral. That's the type of bond that can develop over the radio airwaves and that bond is the reason I'm a radio guy.

#83 Teachers Who Inspire Us

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires. –William A. Ward

The day I received the letter, I hadn’t written anything in several years. I recognized my high school English teacher’s name on the envelope. I hadn’t seen or spoken with Mr. Martin in nine or ten years. It was hard to believe so much time passed since I sat in his classroom, drinking in his enthusiasm for reading and writing.

I’ve always been shy, but at the same time, passionate about what I think and believe. As he encouraged us to write about our thoughts, our struggles and our beliefs, I finally felt like I had an outlet to express myself.

After high school, I drifted for a while, but, thanks to Mr. Martin, I always had writing. I wrote poems, songs and essays as I processed my life. Then, I became a Christian and for several years, I didn’t write anything. As odd as it sounds, it didn’t make any sense to keep writing because I finally found meaning in my life. Losing my quest for meaning meant losing my muse.

Then Mr. Martin’s simple, handwritten, one-page letter arrived and changed everything. He wanted to know if I had quit writing. Somehow, he knew. He said he always enjoyed my writing and he encouraged me to pick up my pen again.

By the time I received his letter, Mr. Martin was teaching at a different high school and if he taught 150 students per year (5 classes of 30 students), then 1,500 students had passed through his class since I was one of his students. Yet somehow, he remembered me and my writing.

I began to write again and I haven't stopped. Somewhere, packed in one of my storage boxes in my basement, I still have Mr. Martin's letter. If I were more organized, I would have never packed the letter in storage. I would have framed it and posted it next to my computer so I could see it every time I sit down to write.

But I don't need the letter in front of me to be inspired by it. I received it 15 years ago and it is still working its magic on me. I often wonder how many other students Mr. Martin influenced. He publishes a journal called "Fine Lines" and on its website, he tells the story of a student named Jack who wouldn't speak in class, but eventually found his voice through the written word. If you have a few minutes, read the story. It's movie-worthy.

I don't know if Mr. Martin is the exception or not. I only know that I can name just a handful of teachers I had in high school and he is one of them. And I can name them because they inspired me. They made me care about something because they cared about that subject, and more importantly, they cared about me. Those characteristics should define teachers, vocationally speaking and otherwise.

#84 Maps

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

I traced my fingers down I-29, along I-435 around Kansas City and over I-70 headed east to St. Louis. I'd never taken a trip by myself, but how hard could it be to drive from Omaha to St. Louis? I was 17, fresh out of high school, armed with a cooler full of RC Cola and a plan to simply follow the map that led to the city Dad lived in.

As I left Omaha, southbound on I-29, my road atlas sat confidently in the passenger side seat. I consulted it often, especially as I approached small towns, wondering what life might look like on the average Saturday night. I learned that the exit numbers listed on the map worked in conjunction with the mile markers. Every lake and river on the map appeared right where the map said they would.

I had no problem finding the outskirts of St. Louis, but Dad was a little harder to find. You can read the rest
of the story here. Maps became not just a tool that took me where I wanted to go, but also a treasure trove of unexplored places. I still see maps as such today.

I have a GPS now and I've come to depend on it when I travel. I don't have to do so much pre-trip planning, but the funny thing is, I still bring an atlas along. I like to see the big picture, wonder about the small towns off the beaten path and see how close or how far I am to monuments, state parks, and bodies of water.

My current road atlas is ancient and one of these days I'll buy another one because I can't imagine taking a long trip without one.

#85 Windows

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

Max waits patiently for Latte to notice him

The window in my home office feels like my own TV channel. I sip my coffee in the mornings, trying to wake up enough to start my work day and I check out what's playing on my channel.

Fall is playing this morning.

The first thing I see is a rogue branch from the hedge bush in my front yard that blocks too much of my view. It sticks up defiantly knowing I don't have a saw or hedge clippers to keep it from doing so. But one of these days …

A squirrel sits in the barren tree in my front yard and munches on something. He appears to be a rebel squirrel. Somehow he's figured out a way to flip his tail all the way up his back to make it look like he has a Mohawk. I envision other squirrels walking on the other side of the street to avoid him. I pick up my camcorder and shoot a video of Mohawk squirrel. Who would believe me otherwise?

Across the street, a neighbor's tree is full of vibrant, red leaves – none of which have fallen to a nearly perfectly manicured lawn. Even though the lawn is well kept, the grass is green on one side of the lawn and mostly brown on the other side. It's a losing battle, but someone has to fight it.

The people in the house next to it have given up the fight. I feel their pain. Leaves are piled high and more continue to float downward.

I'm keeping an eye out for a cat I have named Max. He hasn't made an appearance yet this morning. He's a neighborhood cat who visits my cat, Latte, once in a while. He's into her. He'll lay underneath the window she is sleeping by, hoping she'll notice him. I'm okay if she flirts with him a little, but he looks sort of wild, so I always make an appearance just so he knows to mind his Ps and Qs.

I'm fully awake now. Time to get to work. But I think I'll leave my window television on. I like the background noise.

#86 Fireplaces

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

We had a fireplace in the first house I can remember living in. We lived in a wooded area, so periodically my grandfather and I would jump into his GMC pickup truck and drive down into the field to look for large branches that had fallen.

When we found some, my grandpa started his chainsaw and made quick work of the branches – cutting them into firewood size chunks. Then we'd fill the back of his pickup and head back to the house.

I only remember doing this a few times, so I have no idea how the firewood got there normally. Maybe my grandpa rounded it up without me. Or maybe my dad handled it.

During the winter, my mom drug the firewood in and to start a fire. The noise made more of an impression on me than anything. Is there a more soothing sound than the crackling of a fire?

The house I live in right now doesn't have a fireplace, but I think I'm going to order a fireplace DVD to play on my TV this winter. It sounds sort of hokey and city slicker-ish, but I found this fireplace video on YouTube yesterday and I let it play all the way through twice and it was calming.



I'm already imagining myself sitting down with a good book this winter while something similar to this video plays on my television in the background.

#87 Garage Sales

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series ...

Photo by eastlaketimes

In the late 90s, one of my sisters and I combined efforts to do a joint garage sale at her house. She has a two-car garage, lives on a busy street and has plenty of room for parking -- so it was perfect. My dad, my grandma, and my niece pitched in over the three day span. We sold a lot of stuff, but I think I enjoyed the time with my family more than anything else.

My niece was probably seven or eight years old at the time. She had two kitties -- a black one, named Blackie, and a blond one, named Blondie. They hung out in the garage with us during the garage sale, often snuggling up together in a pile of clothing we were trying to sell. Whenever a customer would see Blackie and Blondie together, they would fuss over them. We did too.

Dad opened the doors for us on one of the days since neither my sister or I could be there right away. I pulled up a couple of hours after he opened and saw him sitting in the garage behind the card table we had the money box on, sipping his cup of coffee and reading a book. It was rare to see Dad sitting around without a cup of coffee in his hand. We talked computers, family history, sports and weather like we usually did.

My sister helped customers, negotiated prices, and sold a ton of my niece's toys and clothing she had outgrown, prompting my niece to object because she just didn't want to let go. I felt her pain. I sold some items I didn't really want to let go either, but I didn't really have any use for them any longer.

One of the funnier moments happened when my niece opened the money box one day. Her eyes grew big as she tried to comprehend her cut of the wealth.

We made some money, did a ton of work, and had a great time as a family sitting together for hours at a time without any other agenda. Sometimes it's nice to step off the hamster wheel.

#88 Wall Art

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series ...

When I was a kid, my grandparents had a house on an acreage with a wooded area behind it. A small underground stream cut through it. My grandpa, and sometimes my dad, took me down into the woods on Saturdays and we walked the land. They told me about various animals and birds we saw and sometimes my grandpa pointed out subtle differences he saw in the land over the years.

When I got old enough, they let me bring me bring my BB gun and I’d shoot at cans or birds as we walked. I wasn’t the only kid enjoying the land though. Occasionally, we’d come across an area in which a kid had set up a mini-camping area and left behind traces of the fun he had. Grandpa seemed to make a mental note and I knew he would be keeping an eye on the area.

I was always drawn toward the little stream. It didn’t cover a lot of land, and best I could tell, it didn’t contain any fish. I just liked the sound it made and I was fascinated by its existence. One winter, my grandpa and I took a walk in the woods. For some reason, I picked up a long stick and used it as a walking stick. The stream was frozen over and I took a short jaunt over the ice. I slipped and fell, jamming the stick into one of my eyes.

Grandpa got me back to the house. He was more upset than I’d ever seen him. I think he was upset with himself more than anything, but I don’t know how you keep a kid from being a kid in a setting like that. I can’t remember what the doctor said at the hospital, but I do remember wearing a patch over my eye for quite a while. After it came off, my eye was fine.

During another trip to the woods, my dad pointed at what we thought was an owl in a tree. Then, as we studied it, we thought it might be a dove. I know, they looking nothing alike. Then we laughed about our lack of wilderness knowledge. But it didn’t matter, because we were hanging out in the woods together. What more could a boy ask for from his father on a Saturday afternoon?

After my parents divorced, my mom, my sister and I moved. Mom bought a painting for our living room of a meandering stream that cut through a patch of trees in the middle of fall. The leaves had already turned to orange, red and yellow. And, of course, the painting became a gentle reminder of those Saturday afternoons in the woods. 

I still have that painting. It’s hanging in my living room.