This is the computer age.  The vast amount of the accumulated human knowledge and history is stored in the computers of the world.  It is decided as a last-ditch resort to link them and search them for a solution.  This is a monumental task.  Time is of the essence and searching thousands of years of history on thousands of computers could take months, perhaps longer, and there may not be enough time before hostilities boil over.  Tensions continue to mount as the computer experts link these super computers. 

Finally, it is time to begin the search.  The question is entered and the button is pushed and the machines begin to hum.  The seconds begin to tick off when suddenly the linked computers stop the function.  The computer gurus are stunned; the process ended as quickly as it started.  Those gathered around the screens are totally mesmerized, the solution to allow the peoples of this world to live in peace lights up the screen.  It is but twelve simple words. 

“Do unto others what you would have them do to you.”

Back in 1963 I took a public speaking course at the University of Baltimore.  One of my classmates was an older man (perhaps in his 40s) with a pleasant smile and a deep, baritone voice.  The above is the short speech he made as a one of our class assignments.  I do not recall what the assignment was or the theme or what we were to convey, but here I am forty-nine years later remembering the gist of an impactful two minute speech wondering if the ills of the world could be that simply cured, all the while knowing they could but won’t.

Rodney King asked this question in March 1991, “Can’t we all just get along?” Apparently we cannot, but the solution is as simple as those twelve little words.

And that is all I have to say about that…

As this very moment I am holed up at the far end of the Orlando airport waiting to board my connection to Pensacola, Florida.  The connection is delayed so I get to hang out here for another two hours, three totaled.  I suppose I don’t mind the wait, but it does throw off my consumption plans by couple of hours (the conference doesn’t start until tomorrow morning).  As it stands, I get to rent a car once we arrive in Pensacola and drive for 30 or 40 miles to my final destination, the Perdido Resort, where I will get to spend three glorious nights all by myself.

The “myself” point is the troublesome part.  I have become so used to being near The Nancy 24/7, this alone thing bothers the hell out of me.  I have, to come to the point, become a homebody, a momma’s boy of sorts.  When I leave The Farm, in almost an instant I long to be back there.  I miss it.  I am now a farm boy.  There is just something magical about that old house sitting a half-mile off the paved road in the middle of an old 120-acre farm.  If West Virginia is “Almost Heaven” then The Farm must surely be Cloud 9.  Perhaps I should add The Nancy is my angel, just in case she reads this.

I will muddle through the next three days and serve as eye candy for the masses.  After all, that is what consulting is all about.  Now all I need is a plane to get on and all will be cool.

And that is all I have to say about that…

September 11, 2001 put the kibosh on our plans, we felt terribly uneasy about air travel, so our plans were put on the back burner and the fire went out...almost.  From time-to-time over the years The Nancy or I would mention it, but the trip plans were never really resurrected until about a month ago.

We were sitting at the bar in one of our favorite haunts in Winchester, VA.  A couple sat beside us and as we chatted we learned they were from Ireland and had recently visited there.  We got the bug again, in a fashion, but the plans kind of hung out there as I ruminated over the cost of such a venture.  We are looking at about $7000 for an eight-day visit with all the trimmings. 

That is a bunch of money, a huge expense considering I am a senior citizen living on a fixed income.  I used it as an excuse to one of our daughters as the reason for my waffling.  Said daughter quickly gave me hell for thinking that way.  She actually shamed me into completing the plans, and once The Nancy cleared it with her boss, I did the appropriate “clicking” and the trip was planned, the flight was planned and all of it was paid for via American Express (the bill hits next month).

As daughter Meredith so aptly put it, if I didn’t make the trip I would regret the decision for the rest of my life.  And, she is probably more than correct.

So, with just a little over 60 days until we depart the US on a 10pm flight to Dublin, I am already anxious to “git-er-done.” I can picture myself sitting on a stool in an Irish pub, a pint of Guinness firmly grasped, singing “Danny Boy” at the top of my lungs.  A sight some of you can envision with a high degree of clarity.  I am only hopeful there is enough Guinness brewed and safely stocked awaiting my arrival.  Perhaps I should alert the media.

And that is all I have to say about that…

Last week while mowing grass (which here on The Farm can take up to five hours) I had the earphones of my iPod on so I could drown out some of the noise of the mower’s engine.  I was listening to “Romance for Violin” (Michael Hoppe – Solace), which I think is one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard, and just listening to it – for probably the 100th time – I got a little glassy eyed.  It happens a lot when I hear beautiful music, that is to say what I find to be beautiful music.  I find it transports me to a happy place.

Just a month ago The Nancy and I attended the very beautiful and moving wedding of the daughter of one of my favorite people in Indiana.  Weddings, for some reason, always bring me to the brink, and have for as long as I can remember.  And then there are funerals.  Let’s not even get into funerals. 

Sunday The Nancy and I got to attend the Confirmation of a 13-year old nephew in Alexandria, Virginia.  Part of the service was devoted to the Baptism of two really beautiful babies.  I really have to hold it together when I get around babies, and these gorgeous ones really tugged at my emotions.  Several times during this part of the service I had to battle back the moisture.

But, I have to admit nothing tugs at my emotions more than The Nancy.  There are times when our eyes connect and I am overcome with her natural beauty and the realization of just what a lucky guy I am to have her as part of my life, and with that I always have reach for the handkerchief to dab my eyes.

I used to ask myself what the hell is wrong with me that I am unable to control my emotions, then I realized there is nothing wrong, it is just who I truly am, and that is more than okay.

And that is all I have to say about that…

Picture this, it’s the morning of Friday the 13th, 1973.  At that time I was an area sales manager for Crown Petroleum covering Crown’s gas stations in Virginia.  In those days prior to the proliferation of cellular phones meant that in order to communicate during the day when I was out of the office I had to use phone booths or office phones at whatever station I was visiting.  The office I worked out of knew where I would be during the day, they had my itinerary.  Early that morning whilst I was dutifully fulfilling my obligations to the company my boss, Joe Gilboy, called me at the gas station I was visiting with an invitation to meet him at an Arby’s for lunch.  He and I hooked up about noon.  We had a nice lunch (each of us having purchased our own), talked a lot of business and about families.  Just as we were about to leave the booth we were sitting in, he fired me.  Needless to say, I was in shock.  The reason given was that I had taken the test for and received a real estate sales license, though I had not used it, but it was a breach of company policy and I knew it.  Whatever!

I thought at first it was a devastating travesty that had befallen me.  Looking back over the past 39 years, I believe it was one of the best days of my entire life, for it preliminarily set the stage for me to become successful as time went on.  A few years ago I called Joe Gilboy to thank him for firing me…though, as my journey would have it this wasn’t the last time I would be fired.  It happened again a few years later (1980).  I am a slow learner afterall, and it proved to me there are no accidents and the universe was unfolding exactly as it was supposed to unfold.

For me, April the 13th has proven to be enormously lucky.  I even look forward to them.  In fact thus far, this has proven to be “The Best Day Ever,” and there is no chance of ever being fired again.

And that is all I have to say about that…

First of all, I wholeheartedly believe (actually, I know) people claiming to be atheists are searching for something to believe in, though they will never admit it.  These folks are lost, conflicted in there lust to not believe in a higher power, to which I say just take a gander around you.  Look to the heavens and to the earth.  People, this just isn’t happenstance, so, please, stop trying to sell us on it.

In his book “A Short History of Nearly Everything” Bill Bryson notes: “To begin with, for you to be here now trillions of drifting atoms had to somehow assemble in an intricate and intriguingly obliging manner to create you.  It’s an arrangement so specialized and particular that it has never been tried before and will only exist once.  For the next many years (we hope) these tiny particles will uncomplainingly engage in all the billions of deft, cooperative efforts necessary to keep you intact and let you experience the supremely agreeable but generally unappreciated state known as existence.”

He goes on to say that at the level of chemistry life is curiously mundane: carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, a little calcium, a dash of sulfur, a light dusting of other very ordinary elements – nothing you couldn’t find in any ordinary drug store – and that’s all you need.  The only thing special about the atoms that make you is that they make you.  This is of course the miracle of life.  He goes on to say that these atoms that so congenially come together to form living things on Earth are exactly the same atoms that decline to do it elsewhere.  The book is a great read and I highly recommend it.

The fact that life exists anywhere is truly a miracle.  This planet formed billions of years ago; scientists estimate the universe to be about 13 to 15 billion years old, and it is still expanding.  For this planet, of about 4 billion years, to support life some very exacting, complicated circumstances had to be met.  For instance, if orbit of the Earth around the sun was somewhat closer to the sun or somewhat further away, or if the core temperature of the Earth was slightly higher or slightly lower, the surface of it could not support life.  Life is not random, and it did not just occur naturally. 

Neale Donald Walsh’s book, “Conversations with God,” was a real eye opener for me.  While my personal relationship with God began anew in 2005, it really took shape after I read this book.  Did this epiphany send me in search of a church to join?  No!  I am not religious and don’t need religion for my relationship with God to flourish, but I will never attack anyone on their religiosity.  Black Elk, the Lakota medicine man, said, “Peace comes to the mind of a man when he realizes his ‘onenesses with the universe.” And so it was for me.

I am a spiritual person.  I have found my way.  I recognize we are all connected and connected to everything.  I see there is a Universal Presence, call it God or whatever you wish: It is the All of the All, the sum of all things, it is you and it is me.  To deny it is pure folly, for it is palatable.

If you consider yourself an atheist or an agnostic, do it, but I know the truth.  You are, deep down, searching for something in which to believe, and because you have not found it you deny it.  You cannot explain the science of life or of the creation of the universe other than to say it just happened.  I know your path for I walked it for over forty-five years.

To those who paid to put these commercials on TV, I think you are wasting your time.  Words in the wedding ceremony come to mind, “What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” Funny how these words ring true when it comes to creationism.  I am not a huge believer in the veracity of Bible stories, but I wholeheartedly adhere to the fact we are not here by chance.

And that is all I have to say about that…

I have made an art of doing nothing, and when people ask me about what I do with “all my extra time.” I just have to smile and answer them with a big “nothing at all.” The follow-up question is typically something along the lines of what would I like to do, and the answer is still the same…nothing.  Do I do stuff?  Of course I do stuff, but not much stuff.  I no longer have to do anything…and, if I might add, I love not having to do stuff unless I choose to do stuff.

My days still begin relatively early even now.  I suppose I am destined to arise before Sol lifts her sunny face over the mountain, though I would dearly love to open my eyes in the morning and see daylight streaming through the bedroom windows.  Getting up has never been a chore for me, I have been an early riser as long as I can remember, especially Saturday mornings in the fifties.  Hopalong Cassidy movies came on at seven, and I couldn’t miss them, and back in the days of 13” TV screens broadcasting in black and white we couldn’t hit a record button to watch a show later.  Fast forward sixty years…now after getting out of the bed my day begins by getting a pot of coffee going and fetching clean water for the cat (she immediately goes to her bowl, sits and stares at me then her at water bowl verbally expressing her need until I refill it with fresh water).  Once these strenuous chores are completed I head for the family room and my chair and the morning news, and there I sit until it is time to make the first attempt to get The Nancy moving.

Waking The Nancy is about the toughest chore I have each day.  Is my job to make sure she is up, showered, dressed, and fed and to work on time, which is the easy part once I have tormented her until she rolls out of rem stage and slides out of the bed.  It really is the only responsibility I have these days.  Basically, once The Nancy is in her office my day is officially done.

Officially done may be a stretch, though not a big one.  The Nancy gone off to earn money to keep me living in a manner to which I have become accustomed, I return to my chair to plan the rest of my day.  I grab a pen and a pad and I hold the pen in my left hand (lefthanders are supposed to be creative) as I begin to make a mental list of all I might like to do to fill the seemingly endless hours until The Nancy returns.  The problem resides somewhere between my rapidly atrophying medulla oblongata and the nerves and muscles in my writing hand.  The list has yet to be codified, so therefore nothing of great measure gets done, and thus is the alpha and omega of my The Best of Day Ever.

Please know this; doing nothing is and truly an art and this Hell of a Guy has completed an outstanding collection using this medium.

And that is all I have to say about that…

A friend reminded me just last week how each year I begin the garden process with great anticipation only to cuss the hell out of it as the spring moves into summer…but this year will be different.  What that difference might be is unknown at this juncture, but the season is young.

For my birthday my dear wife got me a four-foot grow light just so I can get a head start planting seeds indoors.  I can visualize helicopters flying overhead inspecting the source of the heat signature just prior to the SWAT team knocking down the doors of the house when they raid it only to find 36 tomato and 24 pepper seedlings bathing in light and warmth of the lamp.  I will keep you posted.

This year I bought seeds from a catalog house rather than Lowes, Home Depot or Food Lion.  I have found these purveyors cannot always be trusted to put out fresh seeds.  I have been told ordering from a seed catalog pretty much insures the purchase of fresh seeds – if that is the proper term for them.  Anyway, I have almost $50.00 worth of “fresh” seeds, and a 1000 seeds more than I can conceivably plant, even if I had an acre or two tilled and ready.  I will just count them as spares, just in case.

Yesterday, since the weather here in Beautiful Downtown Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, population 711 was 35,000 degrees above normal, I fired up the tiller, another one of those contraptions I never would have thought I would own, and worked over the soil in the garden space.  If you have never operated a garden tiller, you should.  It is a definite experience of a certain “je ne sais quoi.” By the time I was done every bone in my body ached, every mussel stretched and sore.  I thought when I bought the damn thing all I needed to do was to guide it.  I really missed the mark on that one.

Most of this past winter’s bio-degradable, compostable waste is now turned under in the garden plot.  Hopefully it will add nutrients to the soil and grow the crap out of some whatever I end up planting there. In addition to the tomatoes and peppers I have several kinds of beans, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, squash, chard, beets and a host of other stuff.  One item I am excited to plant just to see if I can get them to grow is hops.  Yes, hops, as in beer, and I am very excited about them. I love me some beer.

I promise not to get grumpy (as in bitch) about the garden when the weeds attempt to take it over in June.  I won’t complain about the amount of hours I have in it or the money I spent on seeds, peat moss or any equipment or supplies purchased when the rain doesn’t come in July and everything dries up and rots on the vine.  Won’t do it!

And that is all I have to say about that…

The title: The other day I was driving from Beautiful Downtown Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, population 711 to Hershey, Pennsylvania, the chocolate capital of the universe, to work an educators’ conference for my former company as a “consultant,” which is how we old-timers describe being paid for doing some part-time work.  Along the way I made a brief stop in Chambersburg, PA to visit a home-brewing supply store that I found out about on the internet.  The shop would not to be opening until 11:30am and it was just 11when I got there, so lunch seemed like a plausible means to kill the thirty minutes, and there just so happened to be a Brother’s Pizza (as in hand-tossed by scruffy-looking guy of Italian descent – though he may have been Hispanic for all I know) just across the street from the brew shop.  I dropped in and ordered one.

Pizza consumed, brewing shop visited, I continued my journey, just to make a long story endless, I headed back toward the interstate through Chambersburg and was stopped at a traffic light awaiting it to change; a lady crossed the street being led by an ugly dog, a very ugly dog.  Did you ever hear that at some point dog owners begin to assume an appearance much like their pets?  Bingo!  Both she and her dog were howlers and thus the source of this title.  This part of the post is over, ‘nough said and the end of this inane explanation.

The conference: I haven’t always enjoyed attending conferences where I had to stand in a booth for hours on end.  These things can be more than boring, and very quickly reach that point.  Time passes very, very slowly as you stand there pretending to be visible to an unseeing public.  The longer the conference the slower time passes, sort of like time-lapse photography, especially if the people passing by view you as invisible, and they do.  Fortunately, as a retired person working PT, I have nothing to lose by ignoring them back.

This time I didn’t get to ignore anyone.  The people came.  They still did not stop, but at least they saw me.  I was eye candy for the masses, and I had fun.  I must have had fun.  I weighed in this morning at home, as The Nancy and I do every Friday, and the scale shouted back letting me know I was 2.8 pounds heavier since my last confession just seven days ago. 

I should have known my waistline expansion was forthcoming as I consumed my entire mass in beer, loaded nachos saturated with a ton cheesy goodness and other junk, and several truckloads of French fries, all in a 48-hour period, and I enjoyed every morsel and drop and topped them all off with some of Milton Hershey’s finest. 

I have suddenly developed a sweet tooth.  Well, not really suddenly.  It has always been there, but prior to retirement I had a modicum of control over it.  Now, not so much, I have succumbed to weakness of the palate. 

I suppose the suddenly part is merely because I don’t care as much these days. At 68 I have no one to impress with my collection of abs (I only have one), my biceps have atrophied – one doesn’t need them for 12-ounce glasses of brewed delights – and jalapenos don’t stink up your breath like garlic.

The moral of this part of the story is simply this; I should have stuck to ugly women and dogs.

And that I all I have to say about that…

Harold and I are similar in many ways, and while reading about his growth in his formative years, I got to thinking about my own.  It is kind of funny to me how the mind works.  I was doing my daily routine on the treadmill and got totally lost in thoughts about my year in the ninth grade (1958).  Now that was a year I would redo in a heartbeat.  Loved it…well, I love it now, it was totally embarrassing then.

I can only refer to it as the year of the boner, as in erection; I was 15, and apparently going through more than normal hormonal changes that left me unable to control the rise and fall of genitalia, as if we guys ever have control of it.  These erections occurred many times every day that year, mostly at inopportune times, and mostly right before the bell rang ending a class.  These unwanted, untimely products of male adolescence nearly drove me insane.  These inconvenient moments actually forced me to purchase the largest binder I could find that year to use as a shield to disguise the malformation below my beltline as I made my way through the hallways of Hamilton Junior High School to the next class.  Awkward, you bet, but these moments of involuntary stimulation allowed me to hone my skill of blending in a crowd getting as close the middle of a group as I could manage.

I cannot imagine I was alone in this predicament (no pun intended).  Others had to share this bodily awakening as I did.  I wonder if those of the female persuasion had any kind of similar sexual awakening.  If they did, they never let on to it or exhibited it.

Now I don’t want to convey the idea this condition was perpetual.  It was not, though at the time it sure seemed to be.  I made it through the year nearly unscathed and a tad more mature, at least physiologically.  I moved on to high school the next year and the problem was abated, but then it was an all-male high school.  I still had a lot of growing up to do and I am not so sure I ever did.  Now that I am an official senior citizen and getting ever closer to the big 70, and recognizing changes in my bodily behavior patterns, desires and functions, I miss the crap out of the good old days.

I sincerely hope I have not offended anyone with this post.  If you are a guy you probably understand, if a female, oops, now you know.

And that is all I have to say about that…