My attitude is upbeat 99.9% of the time.  I am not stressed in any way that I am aware, and not sure if one can even have “subconscious” stress.  Either way, I don’t have it and my dreams, or lack there of, maybe a reflection of it; however, occasionally, once in a very great while, even I, the non-stressed one, will experience a dream of a value significant enough to remember in detail. 

Last night I had one of those dreams.  In it, I was to attend a meeting of some sort, but I don’t think the purpose for the dream was about this meeting.  As I approached the venue for this meeting, and I have no idea of the setting or the reason for the meeting, I took a wrong turn into what I thought was a parking area.  When I realized my error and in an attempt to turn my car around and drive out, my wheels began to spin as if I was on something very wet.  The more I tried to maneuver the car in a direction to get me out of whatever the hell I had gotten myself into, the more the wheels spun wildly.  I wasn’t going anywhere, in fact, I appeared to be sinking.  Actually, as the goop I was stuck in began to rise up to the level of the windows, I was immediately struck with the sense this was not a good thing.  I was in a very serious, life threatening situation…I might even die.

It occurred to me several years ago that no one dies until their purpose for being here is complete, and I firmly believe it is true.  I have no fear of dying because I know I am not in control of it.  My death will eventuate when my reason for being here is accomplished or complete.  At that moment of my demise, my spirit will be instantly reunited with the One Soul, the Soul of the Universal Presence some of us refer to as God, for my spirit is but an individuation of that Soul.

My car continued to sink in the muck.  I watched it completely swallow me as it closed over the car’s sun roof and obliterated the moonlight.  There was no escape, and I knew even if a was able to call 911 on my cell phone, there was no way I could be located and recued before the oxygen inside my car was depleted.  I was doomed.

When the realization hit me that I was about to die I couldn’t do anything but smile.  I was at peace; there was no panic, just an overwhelming feeling of euphoria.  I popped my Michael Hoppe CD in the player and adjusted it to the third cut, “Romance for Violin,” I put my seat back and closed my eyes.  The oxygen in the car was nearly gone, and as the music soothed me into a blissful state of mind, the thought struck me that in very short while I would one with God and this was, without a doubt, The Best Day Ever…

And that is all I have to say about that…

Brewing my own beer is something I have thought about doing for years; I just couldn’t muster the courage.  Now I am sorry I didn’t experiment with it years ago.  I am looking forward to brewing a second batch and maybe tweaking the recipe a tad, though at 5.9% ABV, this is a heady brew with depth and character.  Look at me sounding like I have a clue as to what I am talking about.  This stuff tastes good and I like it, and that is all need be said.

I really wasn’t supposed to drink the HOAG IPA for another six days, but I just couldn’t control myself knowing my home brew was in the basement aging and I was upstairs doing the same thing.  We met in the middle, and I succumbed to desire.

Suddenly, I have an almost uncontrollable desire to speak German.  Sprechen sie deutsche?

Und das ist alles was ich dazu sagen , dass…

As time passed I moved a couple of times, but in place after place my deck got smaller and smaller.  When I got to the first house I lived in here in West Virginia, my deck was the smallest I had ever had: my deck had shrunk to almost nothing. Neighbors referred to me as “the guy with the little deck,” and it was hurtful.  My deck was so small we could not even party on it.

The Nancy and I built a house in 2002 and I got my bigger deck, once again.  This house backed up to a golf course, the 16th hole to be exact.  At that house I know The Nancy took a great deal of pride in it when she sat on my deck and watched beautiful sunsets.  I was okay with it, but dreamed of having a really big deck, one you could really party down on.

The dream has become a reality.  This Hell of a Guy is happy again.  I have a crew erecting a huge deck for me, though a slow process, it’s one I know I will be proud of for a very long time and never embarrassed for people to see.  I just cannot wait to show it to all my friends.  I just hope they will come and see it when it is fully erected.  This will be The Best Deck Ever!!!

And that is all I have to say about that…

In the home brewing process bottling is a critical stage, from what I hear.  Mostly what I hear is horror stories…bad ones about exploding bottles and beer geysers, and of rancid, nasty tasting end products.  I don’t like horror stories.

The instructions called out for approximately fifty-three bottles of beer from the recipe I made.  I followed the instructions to the letter, insofar as brewing the IPA (India Pale Ale) was concerned.  Everything in the Berkeley Springs Brew House connected with the brewing process was immaculately clean and sanitized.  I even wore latex gloves.  I will be surprised if the beer is spoiled or contaminated in any way, but to be sure I will have The Nancy try it first.

Back to the process: To make a long story endless, my bottling skills need improvement.  For a while I was getting more beer on the floor than in the bottles, but eventually managed to get forty-three bottles of this 5.9% ABV (alcohol by volume) liquid gold, filled and capped.

Oh yeah!  Capping is another skill I lack.  The first couple of attempts ended with caps bent in every direction, but not secured to a bottle.  My first capping near success resulted in a bottle mishap, as about one inch of bottle and cap remained in the capper.  Hmmm!  That particular beer is down the drain now and all evidence of the bottling mishap is neatly cleaned up and stored out of sight.  The filled, capped bottles are nestled in two coolers with the lids secured just in case there is an over abundance of carbonation forming in the tightly secured bottles.  I think the cinder block I placed on top of them should eliminate any large scale revolt.

Now all need be done is wait until the beer is perfected, and that, according to what I have read, will take about two more weeks.  Luckily, I have a vast supply of adult beverages in my beer fridge.  I should be just fine in the interim, so don’t be concerned for my beer consuming welfare, but do keep me in your thoughts and prayers.

And that is all I have to say about that…

This house is made for company.  It is made to have kids running through it and around it.  There is a pond on The Farm the kids and Grandpa can fish in.  There are trails in the fields for walking, and a Jeep Wrangler with the top down and the doors removed for cruising.  And, there is a porch filled with rocking chairs for relaxing and meditating.  Oh, and there is a fridge stocked with adult beverages for further mellowing, if the ambiance of the place doesn’t quite do it naturally?  Life is good here, it is The Best Day Ever.

This will be the third year for our little reunion here on The Farm near Beautiful Downtown Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, population 711.  It is a joy for Nancy and I to host this event; we love it when the house is full and wish the family could stay longer to enjoy this place with us.

You are invited to visit, too.  Come see us?

And that is all I have to say about that…

Cooking is a hobby of mine, an avocation: I enjoy every aspect of being in the kitchen.  Following a recipe is relatively easy if you can read, and I can read a little, so I thought what the hell, I’ll make some beer.  I bought a kit with a recipe that calls for the final product to be about five gallons, or, in terms of those of us who really enjoy it, fifty-three 12-ounce bottles, give or take three-tenths of a bottle.

I steeped the grains and made the wort.  I added the malt and started the boil.  I added the bittering hops for fifty-five minutes, and then the flavoring hops for five more.  I shocked the wort mixture to 70 degrees, and pitched the yeast.  I checked the O.G (1.050) – what ever the hell that is?  The mixture is now in my carboy fermenting away (I hope).  In 4 to 6 days I have to move the mixture to a secondary carboy, hopefully leaving behind any residue of grain and hop parts in the bottom of the fermentation bucket.  Ten days in that doohickey and then it’s time to bottle, and that I am told when the fireworks can begin.

If all goes well, in two weeks or so I will get to enjoy some of this initial offering of the Berkeley Springs Brew Works.  I will keep you posted.

And that is all I have to say about that…

My first night as I slowly sipped at my beer I noticed a small group of guys and their wives sitting the other end of the bar.  The guys’ clothing was nothing special but is was adorned with all things military, as was the very military looking caps they had on.  As they laughed and talked it was pretty easy to gather this was a Viet Nam vet’s reunion going on.

My first impression of this group was not wholesome; I thought of them as a bunch of blue-collar types who just couldn’t get beyond the past.  I couldn’t understand how a group of guys dwelled on what was and not what is or could be?  Truth is now very clear to me.  Much like the recent revelations of Shirley Sherrod (the NAACP speaker) and her transformation from racist to humanist, my epiphany regarding these guys was realized rather quickly last night when I engaged them at the bar.

I, too, was in the military during the Viet Nam (1963-67).  Though I didn’t make it to Viet Nam, many of the guys I served with did, and some did not make it home.  These guys made it home, but as I listened to their stories I found many of them left a lot of themselves there.  I was on the verge of tears as one guy’s wife described how he was when he returned home.  Her husband wouldn’t discuss the war with her.  Often he got home from work and immediately began to drink, at times consuming an entire case of beer – 24 of them, until he passed out.  He had nightmares and night sweats.  He began to confront this when he hooked up with the buddies who had formed a group they called the “F Troop.”

He didn’t tell me the entire story, but one part involved him as a “minesweeper” walking out in front of a convoy detecting mines buried by the Viet Cong.  One day he missed one and a jeep following him hit it and was blown to pieces killing the three GI’s in it – his buddies, all guys he knew.  That is a hell of a lot of pain for a twenty-year old to bear, and a lot of guilt to hold on to for all those years.

My mother used to preach to me “Judge not, lest you be judged.” My cynicism got the best of me, but just for a little while until some guy from upstate Wisconsin handed me my comeuppance.

And that is all I have to say about that…

Living in the Present

One day at a time,
This is enough.
Do not look back and grieve over the past.
For it is gone. . .
And do not be troubled about the future.
For it has not yet come.
Live in the present, and make it so beautiful.
That it will be worth remembering.

Not long after reading this I saw a commercial on TV showing a lady walking a path in slacks.  I have no idea what the commercial was for or about, but my brain almost instantly flashed a picture of my mother into my consciousness.  It was triggered by the slacks.  My mother never wore them that I remember, and I was fifty-three when she passed away in 1997.  In fact, I do not have any memory of her at all other than in a dress.  She called them “house dresses.”

My mother was a proud person, very proud.  She took great pride in my dad and in their near 68-year marriage.  She took great pride in her more than average children, elevating us to a level reserved for the spectacular.  She took pride in her Christianity and in her lengthy Christian roots.  She took pride in her own mother and father and her two brothers and three sisters.

I know she had pride in who she was and what she was about, though one would not guess it from her appearance.  She rarely wore makeup other than some very lightly applied lipstick.  Fashion was totally unimportant to her, but I thought she always looked nice and never unkempt or messy.

I believe she had great pride in her station in life; quite happy with what God had provided for her and her family.  She never had a job outside of the home, but did a whale of one raising five kids and keeping a happy home for my dad when he got home from work.

She wasn’t the greatest cook in the world, not even close.  She loved plain, country cooking.  She threw a slab of fatty meat in just about everything she did cook, and most of the time cooked vegetables beyond recognition and meat to the leather stage.  She referred to spaghetti and as nice side dish, and her idea of a truly great meal was a Filet of Fish Sandwich, an order of fries and a cup of coffee at McDonald’s.  I clearly remember her watching soap operas at noontime, and sitting on the sofa in our living room eating a slice of bread folded over a chunk of sharp cheddar along with some leftover morning coffee.

Those are fond memories of the lady who wrote beautiful poetry and short stories that I passed off as my own for school assignments.  The lady who dragged me to church every Sunday, but always had paper and crayons in her purse to keep my little brother and me occupied – meaning quiet – during the service.  She was amazing.

The last years of her life were a living hell, a test of her resolve, I suppose.  Thinking that softens the blow for me.  Perhaps this was her path to Heaven?  I do not know, but I know she is in a better place now.  And I know I miss those dresses.

And that is all I have to say about that…

A “future” administration wants to get legislation passed to encourage (force) the development “clean” energy, of course this story is purely fiction.  The desired result of this new law is be accomplished by charging co-called atmospheric polluters, as described by the government, with huge fees based on the amount of carbons their manufacturing operations and processes release into the air.  This program, as proposed, will probably cause the loss of thousands of jobs, not to mention large increases in the cost of energy to American families and businesses.  The president, due to the overall costs and wariness of the program, doesn’t have the votes in congress to get this legislation passed, so one of his aides comes up with a covert plan to cause an accidental oil spill at an off-shore drilling rig, one big enough to cause the public to cry out for regulating the oil industry, but not large enough to cause any real environmental damage.  The administration believes this incident, along with the vilification of the coal industry, will sway public opinion to support passage of its program.  Unfortunately the execution of the plan goes awry when the oil rig explosion causes a huge loss of life and results in the rig sinking to the Gulf’s floor.  The planned oil spill turns into an environmental disaster with oil gushing into the Gulf at an unprecedented rate nearly a mile below the water’s surface causing billions of dollars worth of damages to the local economy and environment.  The novel would be a story about how the government manipulates the real truth and constructs a cover up, with a “Jack Ryan” discovering it and exposing the truth. 

Sound a little far out?  Perhaps, but the government has done this kind of thing before.  Are you old enough to remember Viet Nam and the Gulf of Tonkin incident?  It was distorted by the government and Lyndon Johnson used it as a basis to garner support to attack North Viet Nam.  While this story would be a work of complete fiction, one has to wonder exactly to what degree that might be.

I can visualize this being made into a film.  We could use some “conspiracy theorists” as cast members: Danny Glover will play the President, with Sean Penn as the VP.  Janeane Garofalo, because she is such a people person, could be the first lady, and Rosie O’Donnell, with all her infinite wisdom, could be the Secretary of State.  We might also cast George Bush as the oil company’s inept CEO, along with Katie Couric as the irate governor of gulf-coast state affected by the oil spill.  The film would have to be directed by Mel Gibson, but only when he is not having one of his dramatic break downs.  We might even find a part as a religious fanatic for Sarah Palin.  Oh, I forgot one character…the part of the “Jack Ryanesque” hero extraordinaire could only be played by Alec Baldwin, since he played this part before. 

I am thinking Oscar, for sure!  Perhaps, a Pulitzer, too?

And that is all I have to say about that…

I remember being in the hospital in 1971 for another procedure.  I was incarcerated there for a couple of days, and I can remember a number of guys on the floor that were there for hernia repair.  They, too, got to spend a couple days in the hospital as they mended.  Not so these days, I arrived at 7am and was on my way home around 11am.  Even with a stop at the local pharmacy for pain meds, I was at home before noon. 

The site of the incision is a little tender, but no real pain.  On a scale of 1 to 10 my assessment of the pain is maybe a 2, perhaps a high 1.  Truthfully, when I attempt to stand it is a little painful, but not too bad.  I can deal with it; afterall, I am a man.  When I fart it really hurts, but the screaming helps to subdue it.  I suppose without the meds I might it might be in a little worse, so I am diligently following the doctor’s instructions and taking them as prescribed.  I took a Percocet and an 800mg Ibuprofen at noon and was amazed at how quickly the pain was reduced to almost nothing at all.  There are, however, some side effects.  The colors throughout the room are so vivid, and I discovered a Unicorn grazing in the field west of the house shortly after the swarm of locusts devoured my garden.  I discovered flying is not that difficult if you flap your arms really quickly, and sleeping is really quite easy.

You know, this surgery things does have its up side?

And that is all I have to say about that…

I believe it was February 1992 when I first heard “Quietude,” my former wife and I were visiting beautiful Sedona, Arizona.  Sedona is full of gift shops and galleries and the town is surrounded by some of the most truly unbelievable scenic venues.  While tooling through one of the shops I heard the most wonderful sounds coming from the speakers throughout it.  It was this CD and it was this song.  I thought it to be the most beautiful music I had ever heard.  It lifted me up and transported me into another dimension, into another world.  Some years later I found the CD in a store and scuffed it up.  I have had it well over ten years and have enjoyed it countless times, and each time I can feel the emotion creep over me – it is that beautiful.  Even now as the notes enter my ears for the third time since I put the earphones on, this utterly magnificent piece has me on the verge of tears of inconceivable joy.

It is a gorgeous day to fly.  It is The Best Day Ever.  The vast blue skies are filled with huge cotton-ball shaped clouds, the earth lay below them, and it is “Quietude” for the fourth time.  This music has to have been inspired by God (much to the chagrin of some non-acknowledgers of the Universal Presence some of us refer to as “God”), the spiritual aspect of it is beyond what I can imagine any human capable of creating alone.  I so wish I could share it with you as you read this, for this music will bring piece to your heart.

It is time to finish this and hit the replay button one more time.  I want to enjoy every note, every key stroke.  I want to suck it in as I commune with the Universal Presence some people refer to as God.

And that is all I have to say about that…

There is a tenet in Murphy’s Law that reads, “There is never time to do it right, but always time to do it over.” That pretty much describes how I have always conducted my life and more likely will continue for the rest of it.  God only knows why I am this way, but it is what it is, I don’t screw around with nature.

If I had to guess, I highly suspect I am a visual learner.  I have never had a high level of reading comprehension, perhaps because in my youth I did not read anything other than comic books.  In the seventh grade I was placed in a remedial reading class taught by Mrs. Mills, a teacher who looked more like Olive Oyl than Olive Oyl.  Her looks were a distraction for me, and, very frankly, as an under-achiever I didn’t care about my reading comprehension level, and I have no idea whether or not it improved.  I can, however, vouch that through periodicals such as Playboy my visual learning skills are much improved; I am a keen observer of the feminine form.

All of this leads me to where I wanted to go when I began to type this.  You now have an idea of who I am.  You also know this is leading to something totally meaningless, inane and silly.  So here it is.

I took delivery of a 2009 Jeep Cherokee in December 2008.  It came with a GPS system with Sirius radio capability (which I use) and a crap load of other gadgets built in it (which I do not use).  If you have seen the ignition keys to one of these Chrysler vehicles you know they are really funny looking, and loaded with a number of buttons.  You also have probably guessed the vehicle’s manual is still wrapped in the plastic bag it was shipped in.

Sunday morning The Nancy and I were leaving Suffolk, Virginia.  As she was finishing her two-hour daily routine to prepare herself for presentation to the masses, I toted some items to the car.  As I approached it I took my key ring from my pocket, and as I looked at it to locate the button to unlock the doors I noticed one I had no idea what it was for, so I pressed it.  Please, try to imagine my utter shock and surprise when some seventy-five feet from where I stood the horn tooted twice followed by the engine starting?

I have had this vehicle for a year and a half, and the time period includes two winters.  I don’t think I could count the number of times in both winters and now into the second summer when I trudged outside to start it to warm it up or cool it off.  To think I could have merely pushed this particular button from the comfort of my home to arrange for a heated or cooled car is mind boggling.  The Nancy has had great fun teasing me about this (though she hasn’t read the manual either) and both of us wonder if the other Jeep Cherokee I had for three years prior to this one had the same feature: I pray it did not.

One might think this has taught me valuable lesson?  I can verify unequivocally this has not occurred.  That adage about the old dogs and new tricks seems to fit yours truly nicely, and if need be, I can always fall back on Murphy’s Law.

And that is all I have to say about that…

My wife loves to tell people to make sure if I ask what time it is when we are attending an event or a get-together of some sort, just to tell me it is “9:30.” She obviously thinks it is enormously funny.  The issue at hand is simply this, my built in alarm clock does not allow me to sleep in past sun rise very often, and on the few days each year when this happens I feel as if I should thank God and praise Jesus. 

This morning as I lay in the bed at the Hilton Garden even with the curtains drawn, I could sense daylight, and though a little groggy, opened my eyes.  At that point it was all over.  My day had begun, but not The Nancy’s.  My darling bride, you know, Miss “Don’t-tell-him-it-is-after-midnight,” is still in the bed.  As I left the room about 6:05, she was flat on her back with a pillow over her head snoring like a banshee. 

Now it may sound as if I am upset by this, but it couldn’t be further from the truth.  I am a morning person, and few things excite me more than watching a sunrise.  There is a special joy, an emotional exercise, in watching the sun break the horizon.  There is a glow preceding it, especially when it rises over a mountain top.  It is as if God is lifting the sun into position, the sky is alight with His majesty.  You might say the difference is night and day!

Speaking of majesty, it is time for me to go awake her, or at least begin the process.

And that is all I have to say about that…

PS:  Happy Father’s Day, Dad! 

Having said all of that, I must admit the bounty of the garden in 2009 far and away out weighed the stress I put on this rapidly aging body.  Last year I did acquire many scraps and bruises, bumps and cuts as a result of working in the cage I call “Hell’s Kitchen” (I stole that from a TV show).  It is nice to walk up there and walk around it when most of what I view is plants growing that will eventually provide us with sustenance and future epicurean delights.  At the same time I cannot help to think how tired we got eating zucchini this and zucchini that, and tomatoes this and tomatoes that, last year.  We ate tomatoes every day, along with zucchini and yellow squash.  We had so many peppers of various varieties we started tossing them in the trash; we gave away as much as we ate and we froze a couple hundred pounds of tomatoes right off the vine – they made some great marinara sauces last winter.  In October I deemed the garden a complete success and that is when I lost my mind and decided to enlarge it. 

The garden is as large as it is going to be, though there is at least another 1500 square feet of space left in the 40’X80’garden plot some former owner of the place had there.  Having said that, if you should ever read here I am considering enlarging it again, please, send out the men in white coats to cart me to that padded cell. This cannot be what God intended for me?

And that is all I have to say about that…

We were to depart Tampa 11:45 for the two-hour flight to Baltimore.  Since we just had our breakfast around 9am, and being a brilliant and keen observer of feedback given by this machine I call my body, I recognized very quickly I was not very hungry as we approached Chili’s Two near our departure gate.  After intensive discussion with my flying partner, we – meaning The Nancy – made the “unilateral” decision to just purchase a little container of cheddar cheese cubes, some carrot sticks, along with a few grapes and ranch dressing.  Just to add a little variety to this epicurean delight, we also purchased a yogurt and granola concoction and two Diet Cokes for the extremely fair price of a mere $15.79.  What a deal!  I told the lady that took my hardly earned money (that was a joke), I was glad we really weren’t hungry.

Anyway, BS aside, we had a fabulous visit with The Nancy’s sister and brother-in-law.  I think they are two of my most favorite people in the world, and we are looking forward already to plan another visit to Tampa to spend time with them.  They are both gracious to a fault and a hell of a lot of fun to spend time just talking and relaxing.  I could sit with them for hours.

I really like Tampa, but unlike Jane and Grey, have little desire to live there.  Don’t take this the wrong way, it is a beautiful area.  For a very long time in my nutty, youthful days, I always thought I wanted to retire to the coast of North Carolina overlooking the water, breathing in the salt-scented air and living the laid back lifestyle of a coastal retiree.  The problem with that, after living on The Farm amid the verdant hills and valleys of my beloved West Virginia, I think the boring flatness of the coastal terrain and the never changing blandness of the waterside would eventually drive me wacko more so than I am now.

There is just something about those hills that draws me back when I am gone.  While I love to go places and see things and visit with relatives and friends, there is an incomparable feeling that overcomes me when I see those hills and drive up that gravel road to The Farm.  Even as I write this my emotions run high in anticipation seeing the first of the mountains as I drive westerly from Thurgood Marshall BWI International on I-70 toward the West Virginia line.  This is truly The Best Day Ever.

And that is all I have to say about that…