2024/25 Predictions

Here are my predictions for the future. I hope I'm wrong on most of these. Today's date is 4/3/2024.

Donald Trump will be reelected in 2024.

Joe Biden will bow out unceremoniously, but he will let the general population know what we're in for by electing Trump. AT LEAST PARTIALLY FULFILLED

Trump will eventually try to repeal the 22nd amendment, stating that he is too good for the United States to allow him not to be president more than two terms.

He will get a lot of support in this effort, and will almost succeed.

The constitution will hang by a thread because of abortion and the question of the 22nd amendment.

Within the next 12 months (by the end of March 2025), a major act of terrorism will again be perpetrated against the people of the United States, on US soil.

This act of terrorism will be perpetrated by home-grown terrorists, meaning US citizens.

This act will probably be pulled off AFTER the November elections.

An attempt will be made on a high government official's life by the end of April 2025. High. ABSOLUTELY FULFILLED

The Democrats will win the House AND the Senate in the November 2024 elections.

Persecution of those who believe in and worship Christ will noticeably intensify.

Some factions will try to pass laws limiting religious rights. But this will be done in such a way that it will appear otherwise. Example, passing laws where people HAVE to provide services for things they don't believe in.

Another war will break out, this one between China and Taiwan. The US will get involved and will make many enemies.

Ukraine will finally relinquish in their war with Russia. No one else in the world will do anything about it.

An avowwed anti-Christ will make himself widely known. He/She will vye for power.

The division between those who have and those who don't will widen by another 15%.

Many people who are now middle class will be considered living in poverty.

The border will continue to be breached by millions of people. This situation is going to cause a lot of violence in Texas and other border states. FULFILLED

A very prominent Hollywood celebrity will die in an airplane crash.

The new laws increasing the minimum wage will backfire, causing many people to lose their jobs and scramble to find other work. Many will lose their homes.

North Korea will find some muscle and will threaten Japan and the US with nuclear annhiliation. They will continue to do test launches, but one will go terribly wrong.

I think that's probably enough. I'm depressed now.

How I Got My Second Colonoscopy

This story is not for the squeamish. I'll say that right up front, or behind, as the case may be.

I guess colonospopies and their associated stories never are for those who can't take the sight of a little gore...or poop...as the case may be.

Wow, this is already starting off wrong.

My story, I'm afraid, will be a little more, shall we say, revealing than most. Not because I'm taking advantage of the situation, either.

My journey to a colonoscopy started when my dad was diagnosed with colorectal cancer back in 1999. It was just a few short months before the birth of my first child, and it was a world-crashing experience. He'd always been afraid of getting cancer, so much so that he didn't want me to build him a brick barbecue pit in the backyard. He was afraid the charcoal would give him cancer. Fortunately, it didn't. Unfortunately, something else did.

Thereafter, my siblings and I were always afraid enough of that type of cancer that we have all gone through the seemingly endless preps for screenings. For those of you who make up the great unwashed/uneducated, let me give you a heads up on what's involved.

For my first colonoscopy I had to drink some sort of really nasty-tasting liquid that, once inside my body, gave me what dad used to call Locksmith's Disease - every few minutes I was making a bolt for the bathroom door. This started after work at about 5pm and lasted ALL NIGHT LONG.

The next morning, we went to the hospital, they put an IV into me and gave me the best nap of my life while they fiddled around with my derierre.

This time, however, I'd gone to a new doctor who didn't use the liquids. He, instead, used horse pills.

The first dose was 12 of these nasty pills all taken with a "sip" of water. You're supposed to drink 16 ounces of water with these awful things, but I had at least 32 if not more. They simply would not go down.

Turns out they wouldn't stay down, either, but that part's still in the future attractions. Hold tight.

No more than 30 minutes after swallowing those 12 pills did I start to feel the effects. "Run to the bathroom!" my inner child demanded. So run I did, and glad of it.

Here's where those of you who are a little squeamish should stop reading. Fair warning. It doesn't get any better if you keep going.

To put it bluntly, it was straight liquid.

Like turning on a faucet.

I honestly didn't know I could hold that much. But it kept coming and coming and coming.

When it finally decided it was finished, I went back downstairs and sat on the couch. Within 30 seconds I was again running up the stairs while unbuckling my belt, unbuttoning my fly and upzipping.

Just in time.

I will spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say it was like this for the next three hours or so. By the time it had ended I was hot and sweaty from running up the stairs, and pretty sore behind.

Good thing our son gave me a bidet for Christmas one year. That thing really came in handy.

At 2:30AM the day of the procedure I had to get up and take 12 more of those awful tablets, only to endure nausea and the squirts all over again.

Except this time, the nausea was worse.

I last got vomiting sick on December 31, 1999. Y2K. I believe it was the flu, or something akin to it, and I hadn't been sick since. I guess, to be more honest about it, I hadn't thrown up since that day.

Eight thousand one hundred and seventy-five days. Twenty-two years, four months and nineteen days. One of the longest vomit streaks in history. Eight years longer than Seinfeld's streak of 14 years.

Beginner.

Pretender.

Wannabe.

But there it was. Twelve nasty pills working together to get me to poop also forcing me to throw up. A lot.

Makes me want to wretch just thinking about it.

I didn't go back to bed that night, afraid what the bed might look like when I awoke. My appointment at the surgical center was for 6:30AM. I was dressed and ready to go by 4.

When my wife and I got there I was still making those bolts for the bathroom, but it had subsided a little bit. The only thing I could think of was that they were going to stick that scope in there and were going to get a face-full of something else. But I'd be asleep, so what did I care?

The nurse finally came and took me back. She put an IV in my arm and I laid there in the gown that no self-respecting person would ever wear. Open in the rear for easy access, I suppose.

When they finally wheeled me back into the OR, I was ready for the blankness. That's what I've come to call this best-ever nap. The blankness. It's just a period in my life I don't remember. My memory bank is blank. Not black. Just blank.

The anesthesiologist stuck the needle in my IV and squeezed.

Nothing.

I expected to enter the blankness after counting to 2, but no. No blankness. Just an anesthesiologist looking at me like I had horns.

And then it happened.

Please make no mistake. I'm the only one who touches my fanny. I realize that the doctor has to while I'm in the blankness, but that's it. NOBODY else.

Except today.

Without warning I felt a cold I can't describe. It was at the end of a finger that ran itself right through downtown Tushy Town.

In other words, the doctor put some butt lube on his finger and rubbed it where the sun has never shined.

And I was still awake.

Well, you can imagine that I did a little left-side-lying dance on that gurney. You would, too, if you'd felt what I felt.

"Oh! I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "Patients are usually already asleep when I come into the room."

I guess patients aren't supposed to move when he does that. That's what probably tipped him off.

And then it hit me.

The blankness.

The next thing I remember was my wife saying my name like I'd been gone for a long trip. I couldn't figure out where I was, until I did.

I laid there for a few minutes trying to gather my thoughts. The IV was gone and I was still lying on my left side. Thankfully someone had covered up my booty with a blanket.

And then the doctor came in and said the news was good. No polyps, no cancer, nothing bad.

"Do you have any questions?" he asked.

"I only have two," I said.

"Ok, shoot."

I looked him straight in the eye and said, "What the heck, man?"

He smiled like he knew that question was coming. "Yea, very sorry about that. I hardly ever come into the OR until the patient is asleep. They didn't tell me. I totally apologize for that."

Like that made up for it. Sometimes sorry doesn't cut it, man.

So, I rolled onto my back and smiled myself.

"What's your second question?" he said.

"I come from a pretty religious family," I retorted. "You know you're going to have to marry me now, right?"

Go Ahead, Billy Joe

I read in the newspaper this morning (newspaper? who reads those anymore?) that Billy Joe Armstrong, the lead singer for Green Day, is going to renounce his US citizenship because the US Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade.

In a concert in London he said, "There's just too much stupid in the world to go back to that miserable excuse for a country."

Can I just say one thing from the very outset?

Please do!!

Listen Billy Joe, I'm not going to get political. I'm not going to say whether or not I think the decision was good or bad. Frankly, I don't think it matters in this forum. What DOES matter is the fact that you're a miserable excuse for a Patriot, and honestly, we don't need you here. Let England have you. And good riddance.

If you're not as proud to be an American as most people are here, by all means, PLEASE move somewhere else. Anywhere is better than having you here.

What we REALLY need are people who are proud of the United States and are willing to roll up their sleeves and fix things. Let's be real. We have A LOT of problems here, but the biggest problem is that there are still too many people like you who breathe the same air as the rest of us.

Just listen to some of the complaining lyrics we get from you...

"Don't wanna be an American idiot / One nation controlled by the media / Information age of hysteria / It's calling out to idiot America."

Billy Joe, you are part of the problem here. YOU are idiot America if all you're willing to do is complain about the problems.

So, if you're willing to stay and HELP clean this place up, GREAT! We'd love to have the help.

If not and you choose to persist with this mindframe, please go, and the sooner the better.

And when you are all packed up and ready to go, waving your Union Jack, look around and box up all the others who share your crummy idea of what patriotism really is. Alec Baldwin comes to mind, as do several others who have threatened to go to Canada or England or wherever by renouncing their citizenship. Take your ball and go home. We won't care. In fact, we'll be happy for the extra space.

And when you're through with packing, I'll personally hold the door for you on the way out. But don't be surprised if I slam it in your un-patriotic face when you decide to come back.

An Open Letter to Vladimir Putin OR Открытое письмо Владимиру Путину

Vlad...

First, may I say "Mr. President" that you are a coward. A born and bred coward.

How can you sit on your Kremlin throne and bomb innocent people, killing women and children? You claim to be so macho with your shirt off all the time showing off those "enormous" pecs. Give me a break. Now we see the true "macho" in you. The macho that allows you to sit thousands of miles away in the relative safety of your throne and lob missiles at the innocents. You wanna be macho? Go over to Ukraine yourself and show your face there. THAT will show how tough you really are. Or better yet, STOP attacking innocent people!!

May I just say, there is going to be a special place in hell for people like you. Your next door neighbor will be Heir Adolf.

No matter what you say, the world knows you're a liar. All you want is the land. You're not on some stupid military exercise. You're not trying to rid the world of Nazis. You're not trying to save the Ukrainian people. You're just trying to bolster your legacy. Just another two-bit politician who's more worried about himself than he is about the people he represents.

The problem is, Vlad, that we all know that's just a justification for genocide. At least have the decency to tell the world the truth. At least be man enough to tell us that you want to reestablish the Soviet Union. At the very least, tell us that you don't care about those innocent lives you've ruined and that all you care about is yourself and your reputation. Instead of being the lying scumbag you are, tell us the truth, that you only care about yourself. We all know it anyway.

Listen, the world is openly mocking you. Your troops may have surrounded many of the larger cities in Ukraine. You may have control of many of the ports and cities you "need". But you should have had this wrapped up two weeks ago. Many of your troops are stalled and can't move anywhere. What a joke!!

One more thing before I stop writing. These "weak" Ukrainians are winning, despite your claims to the contrary. And you know why they're winning? Because they know something you obviously missed. You CAN'T defeat them! Sure, you may be able to take control of the country. But a country with your size and your resources should be able to take over just about any other country you wanted. But you'll NEVER defeat the Ukrainians. They're too strong mentally and emotionally. They love their country and they hate you.

Eventually, though you may conquer them now, they'll rise up and expel you from their homeland. Can't you see? All you're doing is making it more difficult on the person who takes your place when your head is on a pike like Mussolini's.

There, I said it. Now send your goons after me, too, you low-life, scum-sucking pig.

VERY Sincerely,

-The World

And just in case you can't get anyone brave enough to translate this for you, here you.

Влад...

Во-первых, позвольте мне сказать "господин президент", что вы трус. Прирожденный и воспитанный трус.

Как вы можете сидеть на своем кремлевском троне и бомбить невинных людей, убивая женщин и детей? Ты утверждаешь, что ты такой мачо, в рубашке все время хвастаешься своими «огромными» грудными мышцами. Дай мне перерыв. Теперь мы видим в тебе настоящего "мачо". Мачо, который позволяет вам сидеть за тысячи миль в относительной безопасности на своем троне и стрелять ракетами в невинных. Ты хочешь быть мачо? Езжай сам в Украину и покажись там. ЭТО покажет, какой ты на самом деле крутой. Или еще лучше, ПРЕКРАТИТЕ нападать на невинных людей!!

Могу я просто сказать, что для таких, как ты, в аду будет особое место. Вашим ближайшим соседом будет наследник Адольф.

Что бы ты ни говорил, мир знает, что ты лжец. Все, что вам нужно, это земля. Ты не на каких-то дурацких военных учениях. Вы не пытаетесь избавить мир от нацистов. Вы не пытаетесь спасти украинский народ. Ты просто пытаешься укрепить свое наследие. Просто еще один двуличный политик, который больше беспокоится о себе, чем о людях, которых представляет.

Проблема в том, Влад, что мы все знаем, что это всего лишь оправдание геноцида. По крайней мере, имейте порядочность, чтобы сказать миру правду. По крайней мере, будьте мужественны, чтобы сказать нам, что вы хотите восстановить Советский Союз. По крайней мере, скажите нам, что вам нет дела до тех невинных жизней, которые вы разрушили, и что все, что вас волнует, это вы сами и ваша репутация. Вместо того, чтобы быть лживым отморозком, которым вы являетесь, скажите нам правду, что вы заботитесь только о себе. Мы все это и так знаем.

Слушай, мир откровенно издевается над тобой. Возможно, ваши войска окружили многие крупные города Украины. У вас может быть контроль над многими портами и городами, которые вам «нужны». Но ты должен был закончить это две недели назад. Многие из ваших войск застряли и не могут никуда двигаться. Какая шутка!!

Еще одно, прежде чем я перестану писать. Эти "слабые" украинцы выигрывают, несмотря на ваши утверждения об обратном. И знаете, почему они выигрывают? Потому что они знают что-то, что вы явно упустили. Вы НЕ МОЖЕТЕ победить их! Конечно, вы можете взять под контроль страну. Но страна с вашими размерами и вашими ресурсами должна быть в состоянии захватить любую другую страну, которую вы пожелаете. Но вы НИКОГДА не победите украинцев. Они слишком сильны умственно и эмоционально. Они любят свою страну и ненавидят вас.

В конце концов, хотя вы можете победить их сейчас, они восстанут и изгонят вас со своей родины. Разве ты не видишь? Все, что вы делаете, — это усложняете задачу человеку, который займет ваше место, когда ваша голова находится на пике, как у Муссолини.

Вот, я сказал это. А теперь пошли за мной и своих головорезов, жалкая свинья, сосущая мразь.

С УВАЖЕНИЕМ,

-Мир

Open Letters

Dear Former President Trumnp,

Your team is now in the process of trying to get the release of January 6th documents blocked by the Supreme Court. The House committee that's investigating that day and your involvement in it has made a sweeping request for your documents, and you've sent your lawyers in to block that release.

I have one question for you. If you had nothing to do with the invasion of the Capital that day, what are you worried about?

I mean, where there's smoke there's fire, right brother? Smoke and fire. Think about that and the message you're sending to the American people.

It reminds me of the little kid who got his hand stuck in cookie jar, and when his mom asked to see that hand he asked, "What hand?"

All it tells me is that you're guilty.

Prove me otherwise.

====================

Dear President Biden,

Your Press Secretary Jen Psaki said something this week with which I take great exception.

When speaking about Senator Manchin's decision to not vote for your Build Back Better program, she said, "If his comments on Fox and in written statements indicate an end to that effort, they represent a sudden and inexplicable reversal in his position, and a breach of his commitments to the President and the Senator’s colleagues in the House and Senate.”

Excuse me, Mr. President, but isn't Senator Manchin's FIRST commitment to his constituents? If he feels that your program spends too much money on the wrong things and would not be good for the people of West Virginia, don't you think that's more important than honoring some made-up commitment he has with his fellow Democrats? Those good people elected him and he's supposed to represent THEM, not YOU.

This is exactly what's wrong with our political system today. Too many of our ELECTED officials are in it for themselves or for their party. I personally respect Mr. Manchin for standing up for his ideals and the people of West Virginia. It's about time someone did. It certainly hasn't been you.

Rails

iron horse, a burst of blackness -
upward climbing,
clapper
chiming.

rigid rails are groaning, straining.
whistle chanting -
belching,
panting.

golden rays of ashen sunlight.
cinders falling,
blocking daylight.
sooty blackness blinding eyesight.

maples, oaks, and quaking aspens
passing fleetly,
swaying
sweetly.

rocking gently, tired, i'm sleeping.
yellow light is brightly beaming.
rattling, crawling,
perchance i'm dreaming.

Radio in the Snow

The snow fell briskly as Fran Tarkenton lined up behind center. Grabbing the towel that hung from the back of his center’s mud-stained uniform pants, he wiped his frozen hands as he barked out the signals. “Two-forty-five!!” he bellowed to his right. “Two-forty-five!!” he screamed to his left. “Ready!! Set!! Hut!!”

The center snapped the ball with a loud BAP into Tarkenton’s hands. Pads exploded in sound, spit, and blood as colossal men all around him flung themselves into each other, the Fearsome Foursome pushing with all their might to reach him as he dropped back to pass. He held the ball tightly with both hands as he took five, six, seven, eight steps back. Scanning from left to right, from right to left, he spotted Joe Morrison in the left flat. Cocking his arm, he threw a tight spiral that caught Morrison right between the numbers. Morrison grabbed it and scampered for a pick-up of 16 yards before being abruptly tackled.

“Tarkenton with another great pass!” the radio shrieked. Charlie could hear the bellicose roar of the Yankee Stadium crowd in the background as he picked himself up off of the freshly fallen snow. “Tarkenton is picking this Rams team apart!”

This was the first winter Charlie and his family lived in the company house on North Hillside Avenue. A cracker box three-bedroom on a quarter-acre lot, it was owned by the Hercules Powder Company plant up the street. Charlie’s dad got transferred there from a small town in upstate New York just before Charlie turned eight. That was early last spring. Now it was 8 months later, in the middle of winter, and Charlie had become a compact 9-year-old with colossal sports aspirations.

“The line held together pretty well that time, Frank,” Chip Cipolla, the Giants’ long-time radio announcer said, “but they don’t call him Fran the Scram for nothing. Eventually he’ll take off like a Chinese rocket.”

Earlier that morning, as his kid brother watched complacently out the round window drawing, little pictures with his finger in the breath-induced fog, Charlie made large piles of snow just to the left of the tin-roof garage. All about hip-deep, Charlie took great care as he piled handful after handful in the same place he’d stood with his siblings two months earlier while their mom took pictures of them in their Halloween costumes. After finishing two or three piles, Charlie’s mom called him in and offered him a cup of hot chocolate, which he slurped just cautiously enough to avoid burning his tongue. Wrapping his fingers tightly around the Smokey Bear mug, he shook the hoarfrost from his soul and warmed his innards.

A day or two after his family moved, Charlie uneasily anticipated his first day in his new school. Somewhat of a timid boy, Charlie worried a lot about it. But his mom assured him that everything would be fine. “Listen, honey,” she said in her naturally reassuring way. “I moved when I was 15, and I know it’s not fun. But I made friends, and so will you. I promise.”

“I know,” Charlie muttered, halfheartedly.

His mom usually knew exactly how to make Charlie feel better. Her formative years were spent in a small town in which everyone knew everyone else. She’d cared for lots of small animals and learned the healer’s art. Then her dad, a state road foreman, took a new job in the big city and they moved far away from that idyllic setting.

“Oh, come on,” she teased. “It will all work out. Trust me.”

But nothing would soothe Charlie today. He put his hands in his pockets and hung his head as he headed out the door and started the one-block walk. Other kids were ahead of him, and some others behind, talking, laughing, one girl even singing.

Charlie walked alone.

“Good morning, class,” said Mr. Catcavage, Charlie’s new teacher. A huge, hulking man of six feet four and two-eighty with hazel eyes, a full shock of brown hair, and a physique made perfect by free weights in his garage, he was the love interest of every grade school girl at Jefferson Elementary. “We’ve got a new student today,” he said. “His name is Charlie, and I want you all to make him feel welcome in our class.”

Charlie sat in the last seat of his row. Every kid in the class turned in their desk and looked at him blankly. Charlie looked at each face, nervous to his core, and smiled.

But none of them smiled back.

Tarkenton knelt in the snow and called the next play in the huddle. “Ok, we’ve got ‘em,” he said. “We’re going to run I-Right 26 Power, ok? I-Right 26 Power on one, ready, BREAK!” All of the other Giants clapped as one and ran toward the line. Tarkenton could hear the snow that had turned to sleet hitting his shoulder pads as he lined up behind center. “Four-Eighty-Seven!” he shouted, “Four-Eighty-Seven! Set! Hut!” Again, the ball instantly slapped into his hands, making them sting just a little. It was a pain he’d learned to love. Fading back, he abruptly handed the ball to Tucker Fredrickson who jumped effortlessly over the line and landed on his back in the deepening snow. It was now at least two feet deep.

“Fredrickson gets the first down!” yelled Cipolla. “It will be first and ten Giants on the Rams 26-yard line!”

During recess that first day, Charlie walked out into the blazing sun. “It must be 95 in the shade,” he thought, wiping his brow, and looking around at the kids shouting and screaming as they played kickball or played tag.

“Hey, meat!” someone shouted from his right, above the din.

Charlie blinked as the sun sent shining stilettos into his eyes. Squinting, he turned with his hand on his forehead like the brim of a baseball cap. A huge kid with a yellow t-shirt and black shorts was looking straight at him, tossing a football thoughtlessly into the air. He was flanked on three sides by sneering toadies, each with his hands on his hips and blowing bubbles with his gum. Yellow Shirt sported ten thousand freckles on his cheeks and nose, and he was almost twice as big as Charlie.

All four of them were non-smilers.

“You wanna throw the football, meat?” Yellow Shirt yelled.

Charlie played one year of Pop Warner football in the Mitey-Mites division back in New York, and he was actually pretty good. Despite being the smallest kid in his class and the bowed shape of his legs, he was fast - really fast – and he could cut on a dime. Some of his teammates started calling him The Galloping Ghost. Charlie liked it. Consequently, football became everything he thought about. But on this day, there was no interest, so he shook his head, turned without a word, and went back into the building. Yellow Shirt threw the football to the ground and swore.

The small, black transistor radio sat on the rabbit hutch Charlie’s dad made behind the garage that Autumn. They’d kept two rabbits in the hutch for a while until Charlie’s mom went out one day and only found clumps of fur. They never found out what got those rabbits, and Charlie didn’t really want to know. Today the hutch was filled with snow, and Charlie pushed some of it off so he had somewhere to put the radio.

“Tarkenton comes to the line again facing third and six from the Rams’ twenty-two,” Cipolla bellowed, like this game meant something. The Giants, perennial losers, were in last place again this year, but to his credit, Cipolla always tried to make it sound like the Super Bowl. “Fredrickson’s the lone setback. He’s got Morrison in the right slot and Homer Jones out to the left. There’s the snap! Tarkenton drops back! Merlin Olsen has him! NO! Tarkenton escapes and runs toward the left sideline. Fred Dryer is there, and Tarkenton is…WAIT! He got free!! Tarkenton circles and runs back the other way! He’s got Jones at the 10 and fires! Jones makes the catch and falls to the nine! First down, Giants!!”

Later that first day, Charlie stood toward the back of the line of boys who were doing timed wind sprints during gym class. The boys in front of him were joking around, slapping each other on the back, and laughing. Charlie closed his eyes halfway and lowered his head, letting out a long, deep sigh.

He longed for that type of friendship again. He had plenty of friends in New York, friends he’d known most of his life. But they were there, and Charlie was here.

He tried to remember his mom’s words from that morning, but as he took a step forward, Charlie felt someone lightly push him on his right shoulder. Raising his head and turning, he saw Yellow Shirt behind him, laughing. “Hey, meat!” he crowed. “Why wouldn’t you throw the football with me? You too good for me?”

Charlie turned back toward the front of the line and hung his head.

“I don’t think he wants to play, man,” one of the sycophants chortled.

“What’sa matter, sissy boy?” Yellow Shirt chuckled.

Charlie felt the ire rise first in his shoulders. It was always thus. It started there and crept - slowly sometimes - into his neck, up his cheeks and through the top of his head. His lips tightened and his fists clenched almost involuntarily. But the sensation didn’t last long today. It never did, but it always felt like an achingly hot wasabi sprinting through his blood. Charlie sighed and stared at the floor.

Until.

A small tap in the middle of his back let Charlie know that Yellow Shirt had just spit on him.

“Thirty seconds left in the 4th quarter, the Giants down by 5 and a first down at the nine!” Cipolla sounded a little guttural today, Charlie thought, but still in fine voice. “Tarkenton fades back! Everyone is covered! Tarkenton scrambles, fakes to Jones in the corner and lunges for the goal line! TOUCHDOWN, GIANTS! TOUCHDOWN GIANTS!! With seven seconds left, the Giants lead by one!”

Opening his eyes widely, Charlie turned to face his challenger. “What’er YOU gonna do?” Yellow Shirt taunted, as he pushed Charlie to the floor. “Stay down there, meat! I’m warning you! DO NOT GET UP!!”

If Charlie’s dad had taught him anything it’s that champions never stay down, but instead they always rise to the occasion.

So, deliberately, and slowly, Charlie rose until he stood nose-to-chin with Yellow Shirt. “Don’t do that,” he said, “and don’t call me meat.”

Yellow Shirt snorted, displaying buttery teeth that matched his shirt. “And you gonna stop me, meeeeaaaaatttt?”

Almost instinctively, the ire rose again. This time, however, effortlessly, and dangerously closer to the denouement. Before he knew it, Charlie’s fist crashed into Yellow Shirt’s cheek, causing spit and blood to sail carelessly across the gym floor like a crimson summer sprinkle. Yellow Shirt hit the floor like a sack of old, rotten potatoes, and didn’t wake up until the gym teacher arrived and put a smashed packet of smelling salts under his nose.

“Honey!” Charlie’s mom shouted out the back door. “It’s almost time for the game to start!”

Since the day Charlie first played football, his mom kept statistics and newspaper clippings of the Giants. She was a Giants fan from long ago. But more importantly, to her at least, she knew Charlie was, too.

“Ok, mom!” he said as he raised his hand and waved. “Thanks!”

Charlie threw the ball in the air and caught it before leaping one last time and landing in his piles of snow.

His offensive line.

His touchdown.

“It’s an unbelievable come-from-behind victory for the Giants!” he boomed, as the cheer of the crowd roared from the back of his throat. “It’s a story for the ages!”

Charlie picked himself up and dusted the snow from his trousers. Walking to the rabbit hutch, he grabbed the broken radio and headed inside after another tough-fought battle.

“How’d your game turn out this week, honey?” his mom asked as she took the kettle off the stove and poured his hot chocolate, adding three marshmallows as a special treat.

“The Giants win again, mom!” Charlie boasted.

“The Giants win again!”

I Believe

I believe in brittle Autumn leaves that crackle under my feet, cool, crisp air,
mended fences that lie between the homes of brothers, hiking a steep trail,
family, books, exotic birds I've never seen before, cold water, long walks
with her hand enveloped in mine, hard work, black-bottomed
thunderheads on a summer's day, truck drivers, vaccinations,
fingernails, sports on tv, going to bed late and getting up early,
podcasts that make me think, snow-covered mountains that cast shadows on
all other existence, taking off my boots after a long day of
skiing, learning new things, the love of a good woman, children laughing,
old-time Westerns, wrestling with a good dog, a stiff breeze when
it's too hot. Indian summer when it lasts into October, scripture,
a God who loves me and wants me to come home.

How I Met My First Girlfriend

I’m glad it’s 47 years later. I can finally tell this story without being totally embarrassed. Just a little bit, but not totally.

It was the summer of 1973, and I was only 15-years old. A pretty stupid 15, at that. Donnie and I had just piled into my dad’s Olds ’98 on our way to our first church Youth Conference at Randolph Macon College near Richmond. That’s me in the passenger seat. Donnie’s in the back.

I’d met Donnie the first Sunday after my family moved from New Jersey, and he was also in Mrs. Pollet’s 7th grade class with me. We’d been fast friends ever since. Not that this has anything to do with the story, but it does introduce you to Donnie. He’ll play an important role throughout this story.

As I was saying, we were on our way to our first Youth Conference. I’d looked forward to this day for at least two or three years, ever since girls stopped being icky monsters. From what I’d gathered from my older friends who had been in previous years, Youth Conference was full of them. Girls, that is.

I’d never had a real girlfriend, being a dopey kid for the entirety of my existence. I’d mouth-kissed Iris Gerard when I was five, but I don’t think that counts. This conference, I hoped, would change all that.

After arriving in the late morning, Donnie and I went straight to registration, fully expecting to meet our wives.

Yea, that didn’t happen.

Who we did meet was a middle-aged guy, probably about 25, who gave us our name tags, the keys to our assigned room, and a hard time when we told him we wanted to meet some girls. I think we used the word “chicks”.

“You won’t meet any girls wearing those bellbottoms,” he said.

Donnie and I just looked at each other and laughed. What did he know? He was old and bellbottoms were cool. Every girl knew that. They’d be around forever!

Before we knew it it was time for lunch, so we wandered over to the campus cafeteria to grab a bite. That’s when this story really begins because that’s when I saw her for the first time. Long, dark, and wavy hair that kissed her shoulders. Brown eyes (my favorite) that played ballads on my heartstrings. Best of all, she was wearing bellbottoms. Take that, old guy!!

The only problem, and it was a big problem at that time in my life, was that I’d never talked to a girl before. I mean, other than my sister and her dumb friends. And surely not one as truly beautiful as this.

What was a budding Casanova to do? Should I walk over real cool and talk to one of her friends? Should I use the big ignore? Should I just catch her eye, smile, and wink? What would Tyrone Powers or one of those swashbucklers do?

Getting an idea of why I’d never had a girlfriend?

I had no clue what to do, so this hopeful did the only thing he could do. He asked Donnie to go over and talk to her.

The chicken way out? Yea. Yea it was. Without doubt. But at that age it’s the only card I held. Not too different from the hand I play today, but that’s another story altogether.

Donnie and I hemmed and hawed about it for a bit, and by the time we decided it was his duty as a wingman, she was gone.

Newman!

I didn’t see her the rest of that day, but our plan came to realization the next morning at breakfast. We already had the strategy in place, so as soon as we saw her, Donnie went over and fulfilled his responsibilities. He stayed over at her table for what I thought was a REALLY long time. There was plenty of rubber-necking and feminine giggling. All of her friends had to steal a peak at the would-be suitor.

When Donnie finally returned it was with good news. “She said she’s got classes this morning, but she’ll meet you at the campus pool at 3 o’clock,” he said.

“What? Really?” I replied between gasps for air. “You’re…you’re being serious?”

“Yea, of course,” he answered as he rolled his eyes, a slight note of exasperation in his voice. “There was one other thing.”

“Yea, yea?” I blurted out impatiently. “Come on, man! Let’s have it!”

Donnie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. She thinks you’re, uh, cute.”

That’s when it hit me.

I knew nothing about talking to girls.

In my head I was saying, “How hard could this be?” But the trembling in my fingers and knees was telling me this was a big mistake.

I should have listened to the joints.

The rest of that morning was spent in one-hour classes about scripture study, Church history, and classic books, all of which went in one ear and right out the other without finding terra firma. All I could think about was…all I could think about was…uhhhh. Hmmmm.

I leaned over in the 11 o’clock class and whispered in Donnie’s ear. “Dude, what was her name?”

“Who?” he questioned.

I looked at him as seriously as I could and shrugged my shoulders, holding my hands like I was asking for a handout.

“Oooohhh, her,” he said amusedly, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask her.”

I scrunched my eyebrows unbelievingly. “You didn’t ask her?” I shot back with just a trace of shock. “What the heck, man? Why didn’t you ask her? Don’t you think I’m going to need that?”

“Gentlemen!” said the instructor, loudly.

After he stopped looking at us, Donnie said softly, “I just didn’t think about it.”

Now you know one reason why Donnie had never had a girlfriend, either.

Lunch came and went and instead of getting closer, that three o’clock hour got further and further away, like watching a Goofy wristwatch. Time was going backwards. Three o’clock just would not come.

And then it did.

And I was terrified.

It was 2:30pm when Donnie suggested we mosey on over to the pool.

What? Now? You mean, go over, and meet this girl? What will I say? What will we talk about? Who invented liquid soap and why? All pertinent questions that popped into my head a half hour before tee time. I was not prepared. I’d left my golf bag at home.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say or anything,” I squawked at Donnie. “I don’t even know her name!”

“Relax, man!” he replied. “it’s going to be fine. Just ask her what her name is. That will get the ball rolling. See what a favor I did by not asking?”

I looked at the ground to be able to concentrate and the five-watt bulb in my head flashed on. Donnie was right! It was perfect! All I had to do to start a conversation was ask her her name.

Ok, I thought, I can actually do this! I’ve got one question for her and that will start the rest of my life with her!

Arriving at the pool, we pushed open the door and walked semi-confidently inside. She was sitting on the bleachers looking even more beautiful than I remembered. She hadn’t seen me yet, so I did one last breath-check, and with trembling hands, I looked at Donnie for some strength. Anything, man. Just a good word like, “You can do this” or “Go get ‘em tiger” or something like that.

Donnie winked at me and said, “Don’t screw up!”

Thanks, bud.

To this day I don’t know how I mustered the strength to walk up the bleacher steps toward her, but I did it. It’s something I’ve thought about for a long time, and I’m quite proud of it. At least once in my life I was strong. Stupid, but strong.

She looked at me and smiled as I walked over to where she was sitting. I could barely take the ten or so steps it took to get there, but I did it. And I smiled while doing it. Oh, yea! Casanova move on over.

When I reached her, I smiled and stuck out my hand, hoping she’d grab it and we’d have our first physical contact. All I had to do was ask her what her name was. Only it didn’t come out that way.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s my name?”

WHAT?

What’s

MY

name?

You IDIOT!!

What are you DOING?

Play like you’re dead!

Have a heart attack!!

Do something!

Anything! Don’t just stand there!!

Only, I did.

And it was ok.

She laughed and thought it was cute.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me down next to her on the bleachers. I stared into those hauntingly gorgeous eyes for about an hour and fell madly and inextricably in love. It seemed like 5 seconds. This was the most fantastic girl who’d ever been created.

When it came time to go to dinner we parted and went our separate ways, but not before sharing telephone numbers and addresses.

Turns out that she lived in Roanoke, which was only about 35 minutes from my house. We actually dated (I use that term very loosely) for about a year and a half. My dad had weekly meetings in Roanoke about a half mile from her house. So, every Thursday night I’d ride along, and she and I would visit while he was busy. We’d go over to the ice cream shop or go see a movie or something like that, always walking because we were both too young to drive. Sometimes we just sat around and talked. It took me about six months to kiss her, and even that was a mistake. I tried to kiss her on the cheek, and she turned her head at just that instant. Wham bang, right on the jaw! Iris Gerard, eat your heart out!

As I said, this lasted for about a year and a half. Then, one Thursday I went up with dad and walked over to her house. I knocked on the door and her brother answered. He told me that she’d moved to West Virginia to live with her grandmother. She just unceremoniously left town and I never saw her again. I never found out why she left, either. To this very day I don’t know.

Several years ago, I tried to look her up on Facebook, just to reconnect and answer that one nagging question. But I’ve never found her, and that question is still there.

And that’s ok. I’m happily and inseparably married to the love of my life with three beautiful kids, and those halcyon days are a speck in the rear-view mirror.

But they still bring a smile to my face when I look back, and sometimes I laugh. I hope I’m not as big a dope as I was back then. My wife would probably tell you otherwise. And so would my kids.

But I’m happy, and that’s all that matters.

And by the way, her name was Kathy.

Breathe

Breathe

just take a long, deep breath and
hang on.

wars. poverty. hunger. hate.
it's a hard world
to live in sometimes.
sadness. injustice. anger. death.
i see it on the news.
i smell it on the streets.
echoing,
drowning out the good.
a flat tire. a broken promise. the death of someone immeasurably close.
powerful, aching, overcoming.

i've felt it, too,
believe me.
but
to me
life is
STILL
a miracle.
a gorgeous, magnificent
miracle.
you can call me
naive.
you can think i just don't see.
you can look at me with a roll of your eyes.
and that's ok.

but keep this in mind...
everything
works
out.
trust me.
i've been there a hundred times.

dark nights, like the
sunny days...
they all end.
it will get better...eventually.
i promise.

laughter. singing. contentment. peace.
they're right there, too,
if you just look for them.
joy. trust. miracles. love.
just remember to

breathe.