Nothing...Hopefully.

Today is a good day. At least it looks as though that will be the case. Why, you ask? Well, it appears that my wife is going to the big bad Wally World. Now, normally, I would not be excited about my wife going off, checkbook in hand, with visions of winged dollar signs dancing in her head. But she and I have an agreement. She can go to Wally World and I can go to Wally World, (although I only go when I am in the big truck and then only to replenish some supplies.) But we do not go to Wally World together.

Again, I here you asking why. Be patient.

You see, at Wally World, we have two different agendas. My agenda is to walk in, find the various items on my list, and walk out. I do pay for them though. I guess I should add that little note. I do not interact with others in that store more than to bump them out of my way, or ask where the Smooth and Slick Head shaving cream is located, or knock the little kid off the demo display of Guitar Hero so I can do a wicked rendition of "Sweet Child of Mine". I get my stuff and I go.

My wife, on the other hand, goes to Wally World to take inventory. Not of what she needs, but of what they have. She walks down each aisle, counting each item, picking them up, reading the labels, checking the fat content, counting the carbs, perusing the level of niomathianicide in each and every item. The question "Is this something that I need?" is running constantly through her head and each item is held up to this justification. Many items appear to fall into that category while she is in the store, only to be discovered later to carry the label "what was I thinking?". But she keeps the receipts and some of those "what was I thinking" items end up going back to grace the shelves of the almighty conglomerate. Thank God for small favors.

So the good news is that if she is going to Wally World, I am not. What, you may ask, will I be doing all day. If the Lord is a good Lord, which I believe He is, then I will be doing very little. Nearly Nothing, if I can get away with it. That was my goal for yesterday, and it was not accomplished. Not even close. I drove 120 miles yesterday going to a water park I couldn't play at, right next to an amusement park that was closed, only to eat fast food once again. Oh too much fun.

So, if all goes according to Hoyle, I will be squatting right here, in front of this beast of electronics, searching the vastness of the world for items of interest.

Wish me luck.

Unusual

I usually don't have the time to write in this blog more than once a week or so, but this week has given me more opportunities. Like now. I'm sitting in an independent truck stop in Mt Vernon, IL. I left St Louis this morning, about 3 1/2 hours ago, and was headed to Louisville with two, count them, two bay window frames to drop off and then the plan was to head home from there. This means that my trailer is nearly empty, which means no weight, which means lousy traction in bad weather and strong winds. Well, best laid plans of mice and men and all that. It looks as though I will not be going to Louisville after all. You see, I love to drive, and I don't mind driving in bad weather. But I WILL NOT DRIVE ON ICE!! Nope, Ain't gonna do it. Wouldn't be prudent. If I wanted to drive on ice I would move to Yellowknife. As a matter of fact, I won't even skate on ice. That wouldn't be prudent either, but for different reasons. The last 20 miles, before I reached Mt Vernon, I saw about 10 cars off in the ditch in various states of orientation. Meaning some were on their tops and others were on their side and a couple even were still on their wheels. I was doing about 25 or 30 that last 20 miles and had one fool lose it right in front of me.

Now help me out here. You're driving down the highway and all the traffic, this means everyone, is in the right lane doing about 25 or 30. The road just looks a little wet. But wait, what's this? There is no spray coming off of anyones tires. It must just be a temporary suspension of one of the rules of physics for my benefit. Great. This will allow me to travel at a high speed in this light misty rain without getting my windshield all gunky from those mean old trucks throwing up spray. It couldn't be ice though. Everyone knows that the freezing temperature of water gets much lower if I'm driving down the road. This will allow me to travel faster than everyone else.

But the sad thing with this scenario is when you suspend one law of physics, another one usually gets suspended as well. Like the one concerning friction. Friction is that mysterious law that keeps your tires from going off the road whenever you turn the wheel. Did you know that on a dry road your car will actually lose speed if you turn the wheel? Friction, force, thrust; they all play together in there. But some folks skipped physics class. Like that fool who thought everyone was just driving slow to watch the deer on the side of the road and that 60 was a good speed for him, cause he had places to see and people to be. That same fool that lost it about 50 feet in front of me and spent the next half a minute trying to get control back, put his Blackberry back in it's case, set his coffee down in the cup holder, and fill his shorts, all at the same time. Did you also know that the wake-up or rumble strip on the shoulder will help you maintain traction, a little bit?

Well, God was merciful to that fellow today because he was somehow able to get his car straightened out and continued on his merry way, albeit at a much lower speed. Me? I knew Mt Vernon was close and figured enough was enough. I'm done til the temp goes up. The only problem with that is that by then I will probably not have time to get to Louisville before the customer closes and they will not be open the rest of the week.

The boss says to be safe and he'll reschedule the delivery for January 6th, which is when I'm due back on this run anyway. I've got a good boss.

So here I sit, fooling around on the laptop. Good news though. Another boss wants me back tomorrow at a decent hour so they can load my truck for next week so everyone can take off on Friday. That I can do. And on top of that, the weather for my run next week to Grand Rapids, Chicago and Milwaukee looks good. A little cool, but sunny. That'll work.

Well, ya'll have fun and if I don't see you again before Thursday, Have a Merry Christmas.

Update

Just wanted to post this photo of our Living Christmas Tree from church. We're all done with the program and as I write this, the tree has already been dismantled and put away til next year.


Merry Christmas Everyone!

Jesus is...

Just like Mom, I sing in a choir. Although one not quite as large as hers, and yet we have fun with it. This being the season for choirs to show their stuff, we have been rather busy. One thing out director asked of us this year was that we memorize the music. I've only done that for a whole choir performance a couple of times since college. But our director, ever vigilante, made it much easier for us by providing each part with a practice CD. Now with all the time that I have on the road, you would think that I would have it down pat.

But alas, I was not quite as successful in the memorization as I had hoped. I did have most of it down, but there were still a few spots that kept throwing me off.

During one of the songs we sing a line that says "He is King of Kings" and we sing another line that says "He is born in Bethlehem".

There is a term for it but I do not remember what it is, but it pertains to when you begin to say one word and switch to another word right in the middle of said word. This happened to me during practice on Wednesday and I was unable to continue since I was about wetting myself with laughter.

I started out sing "He is born..." and in the middle of "born" realized that I should be singing "He is King..." and so I switched. What came out was "He is Bong". It was here that I lost it. All sacriligousness aside, just the idea, Jesus as a bong, sent me over the edge.

It's a good thing our fine and skilled director is also so patient with us.

By the way, the performance was last night and again tonight, with about half the performance again on Sunday morning. We are performing in a "Living Christmas Tree". It's a huge contraption where we all look like ornaments in a tree. Looks good from the audience, but I get a little nervous up there. Good thing they didn't put me in the top. Maybe I'll send you a picture later, if I remember to take one.

The Ghost in the Red Scarf

I'm laying in bed (yes, at home) the other night, and Preston hollers at me.

"Dad!"

"What!"

"Can you come here for a minute?"

"Sure. Be right there." I climb out of bed, and shuffle over to his bed, he's in the same room anyway, and ask him what's going on.

"Are ghosts real?"

"What do you mean 'Are ghosts real?' Do you mean are there really ghosts or do you mean are ghosts real people?" Not that this distinction matters to an 8 year old at 11 o'clock at night.

"Are there really ghosts, I mean?" he says.

"Yes," I respond and head back to bed.

"Dad?"

"What, Preston?"

"How do you know there are really ghosts?"

"Cause I've met one," I answer.

At this he rolls over in his bunk and looks straight at me. "Really!"

"Really," I say.

Nothing...nothing...nothing...then..."Cool."

"Wanna hear about it," I ask.

"Yeah," he says and I tell him this story.

I was driving across Indiana about 3 years ago and I had been through Indianapolis already and I was on my way to St Louis. I was running behind because I was having some mechanical problems with the truck and it was already night time. It had snowed the day before and there was still snow on the ground, but the roads were clear and dry.

I was hoping to get to Effingham where there was a garage that might be able to look at my truck and see if they could fix the problem. See, she would just shut down for no apparent reason. If I let it sit for about 2 minutes it would start back up again and run fine for another 30 minutes or so and then do the same thing all over again. I had checked my cables, my batteries, my alternator, the air in the tires, the milk in the fridge, and everything I could think of, but I was unable to find the problem.

So here I am, between Cloverdale and Brazil, and it happens again. Off to the shoulder I go, flashers flashing, tires rumbling on the rumbler strip, and soon I am sitting parked once again. I shut the key off and wait for 2 minutes to go by. After that, I turn the key again and voila! Nothing. What? Nothing! Nothing. Zip. Nada. This time it won't even crank. So I get out of the truck, pull up the hood and start looking again for anything that looks out of place. A mechanic, I am not. Everything looks just like it ought to, except the MOTOR IS NOT RUNNING!! Now I'm getting frustrated. After several attempts at starting it, and several smacks with a hammer, I realize that I am stuck.

But I think, there must be something I'm missing, and so I step out again to look. As I am leaning into the engine compartment on the passenger side, trying to warm my hands over the rapidly cooling motor, I hear a voice behind me. "Looks like you're having some problems."

I nearly jump out of my skin because I never heard her approach. Never saw a car come up behind me or pull over in front of me. I even glance towards the back of the truck and there's no car back there. Just the intermittent flow of traffic that is passing me on this cold lonely night.

"Yeah," I said. "It keeps shutting down for some reason and I can't figure it out."

The woman who spoke to me looks to be between 40 and 50, is dressed warmly for the weather and is wearing a red scarf around her neck. Also, in her gloved hands, is a large, green Stanley Thermos.

"There's a garage about 4 miles off the next exit. They might be able to come help you out," she says and hand me a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

"Thanks," I say and took out my cell phone and made the call. It was indeed a garage and they said that they would have someone out there in about 30 minutes. I said thanks and hung up.

I turned back to the woman and told her what was what and she just smiled and said that she had always heard they did good work. "Have you eaten yet? I've got some good hot stew here," she says as she holds out the thermos.

"Well, I have eaten but it's been a while. Hot stew sounds like it would be great right now," answer and she quickly unscrews the top and pours me a bowlful. It smells wonderful and the steam is rising off the bowl in the cold night air. She pulls a plastic spoon from her coat pocket and hands the dish to me.

"I hope you enjoy it. It was my husbands favorite recipe," she says. I dig into the stew and it is delicious. Just what I needed after a cold frustrating day. I have been wondering all this time though, exactly where did this lady come from and I ask her that question.

"From back there," she says, and points here thumb over her shoulder towards the woods. I glance over her shoulder and I can just make out a house about a hundred yards into the woods. She says "I saw you sitting here and I thought this was a bad night for a driver to be broke down. My husband used to drive a truck so I tend to keep my eyes open for you guys."

"Well," I say. "That's very nice of you. Again, the stew is great. I don't want to be forward or anything, but would you like to sit inside where it's at least a little warmer?"

"That's ok," she says. "Looks like your help is here anyway." With this she points to the back of the truck. I look back and see a wrecker pulling up in front of me, it's yellow flashers bouncing off the trees and the fresh snow around me.

I turn back to her, handing her back her empty bowl, and say, "Thanks again. I better go check in with him. I'll be right back." I walk up to the tow truck and the mechanic who is stepping out of the wrecker, and I fill him in on what's going on. He grabs a few tools and heads back to the front of the truck. When we get back to my open hood, I notice that the lady with the red scarf is nowhere to be seen. It appears as though she has gone back home now that my help has arrived. I shrug my shoulders and wait patiently while the mechanic starts going over the motor.

Soon he decides that the repairs are beyond his capacity and the truck needs to be towed in to their garage. He quickly hooks up and we are soon off to his garage.

As we arrive at his garage, he pulls through one of the open bays, drops my truck there in the warm building, and unhooks his wrecker. I go inside and check in with the head mechanic and the work soon begins. He tells me there's a restaurant next door if I want to go get something to eat. I told him I wasn't hungry but I might go get some coffee. I then told him about the lady who came to me on the side of the road and brought me some stew.

At this news, his head pops up and he looks me square in the eyes. Then he asks me, "Was she wearing a red scarf?"

"Yeah," I said. "Do you know her?"

"Most people around here know of her, but only a few have ever met her." Then he asks me if I ate any of the stew.

"Yes," I said. "And it was excellent."

"I've heard that she makes a very tasty stew. But if I were you I wouldn't stray too far from the bathroom."

It was at that very moment that I felt an unsettling rumbling in my stomach. Sometimes, when you start to feel as though a restroom will soon be your best friend, you get some warning. Sometimes that warning is long with several rumblings, and sometimes it's short with a couple of quick cramps. This one smacked me in my gut and yelled at me in a loud voice, "NOW!!" And I was off in a run. I made it but barely.

I will not go into any details here as I am trying to keep this a family story, but let's just say...well...it was bad. Quite bad.

After I came back from the restroom, I started to ask the head mechanic about this lady but I was interrupted by another stomach doubling cramp and I was off for another dash. Twenty minutes later I was back. The head man, Billy, said, "At this rate, we'll have your truck done before you are." Very funny. Very funny.

"So tell me about this lady," I said and he started in on her story.

"Her name is Marcia Stillwater and her husband was a truck driver."

"She told me that," I said. "Did he pass away?"

"Yes," he said. "One month after she did."

"What?! You mean this lady is dead?"

"Yep. You are one of about two dozen truck drivers who have come face to face with the ghost of Marcia Stillwater."

Seems Marcia's husband, Tom, was a driver for a local company and he loved his job, almost as much as he loved Marcia. Marcia, on the other hand, hated his job because it took him away from her far more than she wanted. It was about two weeks before Christmas and Tom was on a run to California. He had left the night before and he and Marcia had had a bad fight. She was pregnant with their first child and was due to deliver in about a week. Tom figured he could get back home before the baby came but she didn't want him to chance getting caught out there or the baby coming early. She begged him to stay home but he felt they needed the money and so he went anyway.

Her worst fears were confirmed the next night when she started going into labor. It was cold and snowing and she could not get a hold of her doctor. She called her sister and she soon showed up with a friend who was a midwife. The labor was a bad one and the midwife was soon dealing with an issue well beyond her capabilities. Neither Marcia nor the baby would survive the birthing process.

This happened in the 1965 and her husband was beyond reach. He tried several times to call her over the next few days and grew increasingly concerned when he received no answer. He came home as fast as he could only to find his wife and child already gone. He was so distraught that he never left his house again. One month later he was gone too. The doctors say he died of guilt, thinking that if only he had been home he would have been able to do something to save his wife and baby.

So this was the story of Tom and Marcia, told to me between about 7 trips to the restroom and much laughter from the mechanics. By now I was sore, irritated, and totally worn out. I knew that even if my truck were finished, there was no way I would make to St Louis that night. But there were still some holes in the story that I needed filled.

"So what's the deal with the stew?" I asked. "Why would she do this to broken down truck drivers?"

And Billy told me. "The story is that her last words, spoken to her sister that night, just before she died, were 'Tom will pay for this. And so will every other driver out there.' Ever since then there have been about two dozen drivers or so, who have met up with Marcia Stillwater. Always at night, always near Christmas, and all but one spent several hours regretting eating her stew. And they all say she was wearing a red scarf."

"What about the one who didn't regret eating her stew," I asked.

"He didn't eat it," Billy said.

"And so, Preston," I said. "That's the story of the night I met the Ghost in the Red Scarf. What'd you think?"

"Cool," he said.

Yeah, I thought. Real cool.

I love stew. But some nights around Christmas... I just can't eat it.

I had to quit and some sad news...

Well, I had to quit my job as Mayor of Tick Ridge, WV. Seems they weren't real thrilled about my idea of knocking down the football stadium and putting in truck parking. Hey, parking is at a premium. I thought it was a good idea. But the town council seemed to think otherwise. Can you say Impeachment?

Sad news this week.

This is Princess.

Princess is a Cocker spaniel/border collie mix that was born off a dirt road outside of Lubbock, TX. She has lived in Texas, Colorado, Arkansas, and Ohio. She's a regular globetrotter. She's a real sweet lady. Quiet, and loving, and she's my daughters dog. She has a skin condition on her back, arthritis, and is nearly blind and deaf. She is also 14 years old. Which means she is drawing near the end of her years on this earth. Hana was almost eight when Princess joined us. They are quite attached to one another.

My daughter was giving her a bath the other day and came running down the stairs. "There's blood in the water, Dad!" I'm thinking of the curse of Egypt and wondering why there would be blood coming out of our taps, but I soon learn what she's doing. We both go back up and check it out and see that her skin has opened up on her back and she's bleeding a little on her back. Hana gets her cleaned up and puts some ointment on her and all is well. Princess already had a vet appointment scheduled and so on Monday, she went off to see her doc.

Dr. Sandy Carpenter is a great vet and takes the necessary time with her patients. I called my wife later in the day to see how the vet appointment went and she told me that Hana was given "the news". Seems the vet told her that we need to start thinking about the conditions under which we...how long will we...there's no easy way to say it. When would we decide to allow Princess to ease out of this life into one that's less painful.

Now my wife has always believed that animals will be with us when we get to heaven. And this makes it a little easier for my kids and their pets. But I still needed to have the discussion with Hana about what we needed to do and when we might need to do it. Not an easy discussion. But the good news is that this day will probably not be very soon. Probably before next winter though.

My family is very pet oriented. We now have three dogs and two cats. And pets have always been a big part of our lives, even when we weren't allowed pets. We've hidden the dog a number of times from the landlord. I don't say that proudly, just matter-of-factly. We've also had fish, rats, and an orphaned bird at one point. But buzzards don't make good house pets and their always getting in the trash, so that didn't last long.

So I had the talk with Hana. She understood, but that didn't make it easier. But the last thing I said to her was, "Maybe God sent you Edgar because He knew that Princess wasn't going to be around a whole lot longer."

Let me tell you about Edgar. About two months ago the 12 year old neighbor girl came over to the house crying because she found a stray kitten that was in real bad shape and her parents wouldn't let her keep it. Needless to say, I went about putting my foot down, quite firmly I might add, that we were not keeping the kitten either. I mean come on. You should have seen this thing. Filthy, covered in mud, one eye completely closed and dripping pus, the other nearly closed and dripping pus, skinny as a rail. Now I'm normally a kind fellow but on some things I figure, be firm at the beginning and ease up later if I need to. As far as this kitten was concerned, I had no plans to ease up at all. WE ARE NOT KEEPING THE CAT!!!

As I'm sure you know, we now have another cat. I put my foot down and my kids stomped all over it. I knew I was in trouble when the kitten was named before the discussion was even over. Edgar! What kind of name is that for a cat?

Well, Edgar has filled out nicely and his fur is quite soft. He is completely black with a stray hair here and there that is white. It makes him look like he's sparkling. He likes to climb up on the back of my chair and sit there. He is right behind me now as I tell you his story. A curious thing about Edgar. He's missing his right eye and his left eye is about half covered with that interior lid that cats have. He probably would not have made it as a wild cat, not being able to see much and all. But we have some fun with him anyway. And did I tell you my kids have a sick sense of humor.

We're painting right now in the dining room and my wife is not thrilled about company right now since the house is such a wreck, but Pastor dropped by for a visit last week. We quickly scooted him through the dining room, into the living room and we all sat around visiting and sharing about the upcoming church projects and visiting the elderly and the sick and Edgar walks in the room. Pastor loves animals as well and when Edgar strolled over to see if this new visitor would be so kind as to give him a bit of a rub, Pastor willingly obliged. He bent down and scooped him up and started stroking Edgar on his back. Edgar, as I said, is very soft and loves to be rubbed. Don't we all?

Soon Pastor turned him around to get a good look at him and saw his eye was missing. "What happened to his eye?" he asked. I started to answer that he was like that when we found him when Hana spoke up loudly, "What do you mean 'what happened to his eye?!"

Pastor is looking a little concerned now and he says, "Well, his eye...his right eye. It looks like it's missing."

Again I start to answer and Hana jumps up and is across the room in a flash. She grabs Edgar from Pastor and spins him around, looks him square in the eye (heh heh) and gives out a blood-curdling scream.

"What did you do!?" she screams. "Where's his eye? Dad! His eye! It's gone!"

"Hana..." I start.

"Dad, His EYE!" she screams again. And I see her sly wink as she turns her back to Pastor. And I think, you cruel little girl.

"Uh...what happened?" Pastor says.

"His eye!" Hana screams. "What did you do with his eye?!"

Pastor is looking totally flumoxxed by now and I'm sure he was wishing he had skipped our house on his visitation rounds. "Uh...I...Maybe..." he tries to mumble.

"Quick," Hana yells and drops to her knees. "Help me look. Maybe we can find it and have it put back in." And she begins crawling around on the floor, Edgar still firmly in her arms as she "searches" for his eye. No one else has moved and I'm sure Pastor was wondering why my wife had her face buried in her hands and why I sat still doing nothing as our daughter scurried around on the floor.

I figured it was about time to end this charade when I hear Hana holler out from behind the couch, "I found it."

Huh, I think. You found it. This I've got to see.

But she doesn't come out right away. And I hear her say, "Oh... oh...this is nasty...oh too gross...Dad, get me a tissue...sick, it's still got the string thingy hanging from it." At this point she begins to retch and heave behind the couch. I must admit, she sounded quite convincing. Enough so that Pastor stood up quickly and scooted across the room. Who knows, she might get some on him.

And here she comes, backing out from behind the couch, Edgar still in one arm, something in the other hand, scooting out on her elbows. She stands up and quickly crosses the room to Pastor, her hand extended, trying to show him the "eye" she found. "I got it," she says.

For such a big man, he was very light on his feet as he tried to get away from this mad little girl.

It seems that somewhere along the line, one of my sick kids decided that one of the green grapes they were eating was a little past its prime, and rather than getting up and throwing it away, they figured behind the couch was as good a place as any.

This is what Hana dragged out and waved under Pastors nose yelling, "Here it is! Quick! If we get to the vet now she can probably put it back."

I am sure that this was not in any of the curriculum that Pastor studied as he went through his doctoral studies in seminary. I mean, do seminaries have a class entitled "Wacko Children"? Just wondering.

He knew something was up when Sheila started laughing so hard tears were streaming down her face. I then quickly explained that Edgar had come to us without his eye and that all was well.

I think he'll come back some time. I hope at least. He's a good pastor. Meanwhile, Hana is still snickering about it. I really do have some sick kids.

To the Son of JB

This may seem a little weird to you, regular reader, but I must make a personal plea here since I have no other way to contact this gentleman.

Last week, son of JB posted a comment on my blog here concerning the pics I took on my trip to Texas last March. It took me some genealogical hunting, but I soon found out that the Son of JB and I are related and exactly how we are related. Seems his grandfather on his daddy's side is the brother to my great-grandfather on my daddy's side. Like most southern families, ours is so spread out that it is nearly impossible to keep track of who's married to whom and who's cousin that was and why Aunt Zelda has that bump on the back of her head, without a Cray computer and a GPS Navigator. But I found it intriguing, nonetheless, that a relative that I have probably never spoken with would come across my blog and choose to comment on it even. I mean, most relatives of mine usually hide their familial affiliation whenever I am around. Obviously, the fellow doesn't know me all that well.

So, son of JB, if you're out there and you come across this again, I would love to get in touch with you and see what all is going on with you and yours. Feel free to email me. You can find that address on my profile page.

For the rest of you, I will be back soon and fill you in on my new job as Mayor of Tick Ridge, West Virginia. "What?!" I hear you say. Yep. That's what I said. Mayor. Elected by a landslide at a pancake breakfast held in the elementary school of a town I don't even live in.

How's that for charisma?!

I'll tell you later.