“Foul! Foul!” was the cry!

Finger pointing is a nasty business; good people get seduced to it when opportunities to misdirect attention with a well placed opinion present. When success is envied by bitterness, when the wounded are easier destroyed than rescued, or when the cowardly act of an under achieving moral ballast is allowed to rule the moment, finger pointing is an aggressive tailgater.

In the midst of an important election year new accusations greet me each night on the evening news. In fact, entire programs are devoted to some of the tidbits tossed about. Even more note worthy are the specialists hired to provide ‘spin’ when their bosses are the targets. It seems to be of little importance if the information is accurate, I want to hear what the candidate has to say. I even admire a well spun explanation.

Curious, I think, how living in a country built on Christian principles is fraught with this age old poison. I actually think finger point is the root of original sin. The fall of man was not in the disobedience, the true fall came when accountability was bullied into silence by finger pointing.

Recently I’ve been on the receiving end of finger pointing, this time from a family member. An event easily resolved by a phone call would have avoided all the ugliness, but quick fingers pointed in my direction. “Foul! Foul!” was the cry! Nearly a week passed with my guilt spoken of as fact, the sentence was being carried out when I discovered the misunderstanding. Had I been Moses my name would be removed from all the family pillars and never uttered again.

Sadly, the truth about the “unspeakable act” for which I’m accused, (“turning off the dial-up internet account in retaliation” for an email sent to me earlier on the that same day) will never be heard, finger pointers merely cover their ears and sing “la la la la I can not hear you la la la la it happened the way I see it la la la la la…”

Like most of our behaviors, a finger pointer is afraid of something. I couldn’t say exactly what that is for most, but in the case of my relative, he had an adopted child that rejected him during that boy’s teenage years. Very hurt from the experience he shut off the pain as much as he could and determined it would never happen to him again. Thus, when our misunderstanding happened he reacted by shutting off and distancing himself from what was a fine relationship. Fearful of further pain, he quickly moved to strike my name from his kingdom’s pillars.

Some say to remove such fears a bigger fear must be installed to replace it. I agree with that determination. The concept may rub others wrong, but they do not understand the fundamentals that drive human behavior. (We are controlled by our fears, not our comforts.) When his fear of rejection became too big, it replaced his fear of losing a relationship with me. Well adjusted people will fear the loss of a relationship and seek out reconciliation.

Sidebar: I’m reminded of a lesson I taught my children about mending relationships. It has to do with the ‘timing’ of an apology when you’ve hurt someone. First, be careful to NOT apologize too quickly because they may feel forced to offer forgiveness at a point in time they were never really ready to give it. Sometimes a person has to stew about it and wallow in their pain. You walk away thinking it’s all in the past and nothing could be further from the truth. Next, be sure you fully express the pain you caused them, and your part in it all. In doing this the person will know that you understand their pain. Never allow the word ‘but’ the enter your apology, it’s like taking it all back. For example, “I’m sorry I hurt you, BUT you hurt me too!” You aren’t really apologizing are you? It’s a not-so-subtle way of deflecting responsibility. Lastly, NEVER apologize if you did nothing wrong. To do so means you will be guilty of the infraction or a liar, be neither if it’s the truth.

It’s astonishing how my kids can tell when someone is genuine about apologizes now.

I couldn’t say exactly how this situation will resolve, he is old and in failing health due to emphysema. Since I have nothing to apologize for I can only provide a graceful path for him to reconnect with me, it was a pleasant relationship after all. For now, I will allow him his angst since an olive branch at this point would begrudgingly be accepted. Not the outcome I want.

Finger pointing is a nasty business.

Thanks for reading this far.

Soiled Animal Skins and Spent Bones

Spring cleaning, I’m not sure exactly when the practice began but I can be reasonably sure it had to do with getting rid of old things with lingering odors from long winter months spent inside. Once the fortunes of bad weather faded and it was safe to come out of the caves, I’m sure even cave men had to endure their women tossing soiled animal skins and spent bones from the cave.

My own mother embraced the yearly ritual by bringing rugs outside to air out, pressing each of my sisters and brother (me included) into washing the walls of tell-tail finger prints that built up during the long snowy winter months and shampooing the carpets. Mom usually wasted two of our precise spring weekends on this effort.

I married the first time in my early twenties, we had a June wedding. Little prepared me for the enthusiasm with which the little woman embraced spring cleaning some nine months later. It must be part of female DNA, usually two weekends each spring were offered up to the gods of cleaning. At church you could tell that spring cleaning season had arrived from the increase in donations of soiled animal skins and spent bones from our homes. The husbands were tasked with bringing the spoils in, most pretended to be happy but once the wives were off having coffee we all shared manly groans that spoke more than words.

This year yielded an unexpected result from spring cleaning. True, my home was properly vacuumed and dusted, closets and garage all organized for another year, but during the process I cleaned out hidden emotional baggage
that had built up from the past 10 years.

Curiously, the elimination of ill fitting clothing unearthed the burdens. As I went through my closets with the purpose of only straightening them I saw a few sweaters that never really fit right. Then and there I decided to toss those soiled animal skins.

If such things as light bulbs appear over our heads as we ‘wake up’ to new information, surely mine would have illuminated a stadium. It went something like this…

“I bought that when I returned from working in California. That wasn’t a very good time. Soiled animal skins! Out of the cave they go!”

“I bought that while struggling with , I never wore that much either. Soiled animal skins! Out of the cave they go!”

“Ouch, what was I thinking when I bought that. More soiled animal skins! Out of the cave they go!”

Soon I’d built a pile of clothing, all purchased to coincide with bad personal experiences. It took two trips to the garbage can outside to eliminate the pile, but with each trip a lighter, freer feeling rushed over me. This year I stumbled onto a most unexpected lesson, that spring cleaning is more than merely dusting and vacuuming, it’s a chance to discard the trappings of failed situations.

What’s in your closet, soiled animal skins and spent bones?

Thanks for reading this far.

When I was a teenager the justification for one way streets was a hollow discussion, in my mind the need to turn around quickly, to change my mind, or simply have an “oops, missed the turn” moment, trumped all other arguments for them. My first awareness of “single minded streets” came as a seventh grader. The town in which I lived redirected north bound lanes of downtown traffic to the street my junior high school was located. From a sleepy, easy come, easy go existence, the school suddenly needed a NACAR pit stop just to drop off or pick up kids.

The normal maturing of any town seems to include turning busy streets to one way thoroughfares. I recall on one date being particularly embarrassed that I’d missed the restaurant parking lot, not once, but twice while my town ‘matured’ around me. She was wholly and completely unimpressed. Alas, it was a short-lived relationship despite my best efforts, perhaps the one way streets should have provided my first clue.

Relationships, like streets, can be one or two way affairs. We can choose to take the two way paths through town, with all of it’s opportunities to turn around, or commit fully to the one way street with its certain finish line on the other side.

My first marriage was marked by a two-way street approach. Whenever I thought wrong turns had been made I attempted to ‘right’ the ship by quick u-turns. When I reflect on that time in my life I discover it littered with “circular exercises” attempting to find my way.

The best advice I can give regarding relationships is to choose the one way path, and carefully watch the signs along the way. I made mistakes along the route, this is no secret, and with each missed opportunity I learned to watch the road I was on with more care. If you choose the two way approach of going back when challenges arise in your relationship you will find you are covering territory you should have left behind for good. Take a picture the first time, it’s easier, and really bad photos can be deleted.

I am recently remarried, my wife is from Canada and thus must apply for a permanent VISA to move to the States. I could not have married with the burden of separation in past years (i.e. government borders). Governments do not understand u-turns in these matters.

More than any other time in my life I recognize and appreciate the changes that are coming for my wife, she has fully committed. For her, it’s a one way decision without regret.

I conclude, all successful relationships will certainly recount passing the ‘One Way’ sign and deciding to fully commit, while the failed ones went the route of easy turn arounds.

Thanks for reading this far.

The Boy

My daughter wrote this essay while still in high school in 2004. She was recognized by the governor of the state in front of the state legislature as being the best writer in the entire state for 11th and 12th graders... she was in 11th at the time.


The Boy
A Children's Story to Honor Teachers
by Gina Hief
A little boy lived in a little house on a little street in a little state named Arizona. A little palm tree grew outside the little window of his little room. For five years, he was content with his little life. The day came, however, when the little boy felt that his world was too… little. The little boy was ready to grow.

On his first day of kindergarten, the boy was so excited to meet new people that he shouted clear across the room right in the middle of class. The Arizona teacher's kind eyes met the boy's, and with a soft smile she said, "Mind your manners." The little boy never spoke out of turn again and his nominal world grew a bit bigger that day.

Years later, when he was in 6th grade, the boy had a terrible time in math. It seemed bizarre that anyone could divide one number from another. Just when the boy was ready to give up, the Arizona teacher looked at him through her pointy glasses and said, "If you don't get it right the first time, always try it again." The boy kept trying until he found that math was his favorite subject. His world grew 2x3 sizes that year.

As a senior in high school, the boy was almost a man. He, now, had a difficult decision to make: "What should I do with my life?" In his darkest hour, the new Arizona teacher on campus offered the boy some advice. He said, "You can do anything you set your mind to." From that moment on, the boy's world expanded continuously until it transcended all boundaries and became an endless field of opportunity.

Years passed and the boy, who was now a man, became especially interested in a beautiful woman whose aura flooded the room with joy. The man took the beautiful woman out to dinner one evening. He was very nervous; however, his fears were silenced when he heard the voice of his first teacher echoing in his brain. "Mind your manners." The night passed perfectly for the man, and eventually they married.

The man, very qualified, now needed a job; however, he kept getting rejected. When at last he was ready to give up, he remembered: "If you don't get it right the first time, always try it again." The man, inspired by his 6th grade teacher's words, applied himself once more, and received his first position as a teacher.

At last, the man had a little house and a little boy all his own. One night, while the little boy sat on his father's lap as a child sits on Santa's, he asked, "Daddy, can I be an astronaut when I grow up?" The man smiled affably and, quoting his favorite teacher said, "You can do anything you set your mind to." The little boy's world opened up that night, and he began to grow.

Gina is absolutely amazing. She is also a publish poet at this point. I'll try to find the poem and reprint it here too.

RANDOM SPANISH WORDS

Before moving across the country in 1970 my family lived in Kensington, Maryland, a few short miles from Washington DC. I grew up in the shadow of the center of the political universe, oblivious to its significance; 11 year olds have no business with inconvenient truths. My mother was able to manage a nice three bedroom place at University Boulevard West Apartments, just south of the Wheaton Plaza. Last I checked this complex was ‘repositioned’ in the market as condos.

Curiously, my last visit to the old haunt in 1996 brought me face to face with how time marches on for people and buildings, our lovely apartment was actually for sale as a condo. Thoughts of purchasing it entered my mind but were dismissed as foolishness; I had no plan to relocate from Seattle to the certain busyness of the nation’s capital. Still, seeing our family’s last abode on the east coast, with all its fond memories, took me back in time.

Meeting kids from far away countries was normal, in fact, a secure high rise called, The Helenwood Apartments, bordered our apartment complex and was home to families whose parent(s) worked at one of the hundreds of embassies in the area.

My best friend and soccer mentor, Paul, was from England, another close friend, Victor, was the son of the Ambassador from El Salvador. In the summer of 1969 I met Philippe, he was from Peru.

Philippe was ready to embrace all that neighborhood kids had to offer, he learned games we played with baseball cards and dice, Monopoly, court yard games like kick-the-can, and of course pool side flirting, our version of Love American Style! Paul and Victor were both very different from Philippe. Both were good looking boys and had that foreign mystery about them that always grabbed the attention of the girls. Both were always in competition with each other, somehow I managed to balance friendships with each.

Unlike either Paul or Victor, whenever Philippe would get angry he would speak loudly in his native flavor of Spanish. It all appeared to be random words and phrases, probably relevant to only him, I’m not even sure Victor (from El Salvador) could follow. Most of us would look confused, scratching our heads in disbelief while he vented. Philippe’s outbursts were preceded by simple language miscues, easily smoothed over because at his core he was gentle. Just the same, we all made efforts to figure out his angst and do our best to accommodate.

This was my first lesson in speaking ‘random Spanish Words’ loudly to get attention and accommodation.

In the largely bilingual city of Phoenix, a place I lived for 16 years, this ritual played out many times. Unlike the innocence of youth, most knew their tirades would produce attention and accommodation.

This past week I was on my own Winter Break, the kind that only middle age couples decide are necessary. My wife arranged for a hasty retreat to Puerto Vallarta for a week of sun, swimming, sleeping, shopping and a few other ‘s’ words. (Don’t make me spell it out, ok!) Our resort of choice was actually seven miles south of Puerto Vallarta in the small town of Mismaloya. We braved the local bus system twice to experience the local color of the bigger port city to the north. It was on the second trip I met up with the same language frustrations that surely plagued Philippe.

You’d think that bargaining for colorful t-shirts would be a simple matter, but on this day the language miscues bested me. It was late afternoon, while we walked amongst hungry street vendors in the river flea market, we came upon a vendor with shirts that finally interested me. Even while showing obvious enthusiasm at the prospect of a deal, their prices changed up and down with out explanation. I couldn’t tell weather business had been good for them or bad, they refused to be pinned to a final price unless ridiculously high. The markets seem to have their own bargaining language which serves everyone well… but not for me on this hot afternoon. I started to walk away they protested and dropped the price. I was likely more annoyed than angry, at that moment I remembered Philippe and 'random Spanish words'. I began to yell 'random Spanish words' back in their general direction as I lost myself in the crowd.

”Muy caliente!”
“Arriba!”
”Donde esta usted!”

I was quite a distance away when I heard a price yelled to me I liked. I continued…“Agua por favor!”

”Tiennes dudas!”
“Vaminos!”
”Bien, y tu!”
“Te quiero!”

Turning, I could see that tempers had flared a bit between the two men. I scampered back, and to the delight of one vendor we came to a quick agreement for the t-shirt.

My second lesson in speaking ‘random Spanish words’ loudly, if you don’t get their attention how will they ever accommodate you, or more to the point, WHY would they ever accommodate you.

I’m quite sure the t-shirt would still be in Puerto Vallarta had it not been for my Philippe-like tirade. I understand better the old saying, “The squeaky wheel gets the oil.” If you must leave the proverbial table at a negotiation, do it with flare and drama, try using 'random Spanish words' as you exit. You never know, it may get the t-shirt you really want.
Thanks for reading this far.

THE MATCH GAME

As an elementary school malcontent I was given to age-appropriate “slight of hand” strategies for begging off school. What I lacked in sophistication I made up for by sheer volume of attempts. In time the ‘sick day’ was my primary tool. I actually figured out that my chance of success was greater early in the week, say Tuesday or Wednesday, than later. Frankly, I needed Monday to survey the remainder of the week; school wasn’t all bad even at that age. Additionally, weekly attempts were of little value because the pattern was too easily exposed, hence a measured response worked best.

Match Game 101 – If it isn’t what you really want, winning is meaningless
Game shows were a marvelous way to escape the tragically mundane afternoons between morning cartoons and late afternoon reruns (i.e. Gilligan’s Island, McHale’s Navy, the Flintstones, etc.) on the days my dubious plot was successful. I could name all the biggies of the time, Let’s Make A Deal, Hollywood Squares, etc., but the game show that comes to mind is The Match Game. Like Hollywood Squares, this show had regular stars too, the most notable was Charles Nelson Riley. Riley, a lesser version of Paul Lind of Hollywood Squares fame, provided many afternoons of funny one-liners meant for adults but childish enough that I laughed out loud anyway. It was always great fun to see the contestants actually win money and prizes.

The really tough hours were after game shows ended for the day, leaving those oppressive 60’s era soap operas as the only viewing option, worse than medication-free dental visits for a preteen I can assure you. I soon discovered the expectation I had for ‘fun times on the lamb’ never matched reality.

Match Game 102 – Matches change with the times
Being a teenager in the 1970’s was exactly like trying to guess how the star panel would fill in the blanks of the statements read by Gene Rayburn. First, there is NEVER a right answer; second, if there is a right answer the panelists NEVER used it when you did! Matches were elusive.

In high school it was only the popular boys and girls that would pose in the main hall between classes and during lunch time. Pretty girls would cluster together whispering in low tones each time a school jock walked by. Any lustful glance back at the hens was rewarded with shy smiles and nervous giggles. The cool guys mostly spread themselves out along the walls just far enough apart that it was easy to hear their attempts at clever, sarcastic wit. I’m sure the likes of George Carlin, Sam Kinison and Robin Williams started out this way.

My place on the wall remained elusive despite being a wrestling jock and generally a class clown type. I never filled in the blanks correctly in high school for the ‘star panel’ of the wall, I didn’t drink, I didn’t sleep around, I didn’t smoke, and I didn’t cuss. At the time, I believed all of my “didn’t”s were the way to correctly fill in the blanks of life.

By the time my 30^th high school reunion came along I realized I hadn’t fared better than the wall posers at filling in the blanks to life. Some made out better, others worse. For all my moral high ground stances (didn’t drink, smoke, cuss, etc.) I managed to go through two wives, one bankruptcy, a few career changes, and one ugly IRS audit.

Match Game Final Round - The answer that always wins is the honest answer
I moved to Washington State in 1993 after spending 16 years in Arizona. My first contract job in Seattle lasted a full eight month before ending suddenly. Naively I believed my job shop would find me another job, after all, I was a captive consultant while my contract was viable. Wrong answer! So here I am suddenly without income, a struggling marriage, and bills to be paid.

For a month I submitted my resume to job shops for work, I even got submitted to a number of companies. All said I lacked the experience they were looking for! WHAT? My level of work was better than most consultants I’d worked with that were making much more than me. I had modestly raised my asking rate but when met with all the declines I lowered it again; still no success at finding work.

At the end of that fateful month in a moment of clarity I proclaimed, “I can be as unemployed at $30 an hour as $20 or $25 an hour!” I informed all the job shops my rate was now much higher. I realized my lower rate was the wrong way to fill in the blank, it indicated I was ‘entry level’ and didn’t match their expectation! At the new ambitious rate I had two contract offers a week later. I went from zero income to over $10k per month by finally filling in the blank with what I honestly believed I was worth as a software developer.

From all this I conclude, the best answers to fill in are the honest ones, the ones that are learned from life’s dispassionate lessons, the ones which don’t require climbing into someone else’s mind to figure out their folly or sense of fair play.

Winning one round of The Match Game of Life doesn’t mean I have it all figured out of course, those dispassionate lessons I referred too previously are still being taught. But armed with the right strategy, the prizes I win have value and meaning to me now.

Until next time, I hope all your Matches are the right ones!

Thanks for reading this far.

I AM SOLDIER, I AM CAT

On my best days I am the rock star, with all the swagger and bravado that you'd expect from public figures, on my worst I prefer the solitude only caves provide. Growing up in a household with four kids, with me at number three, family size was just large enough to require effort for my share of attention. Without going into 'family placement' psycho babble, I can only say that I likely fit the profile of the 'third child.' Never far from my ears were sibling protests to stop trying to be the center of attention. Jealous fools! I was a rock star in training and refused all attempts at social control.

In spite of all the verbal objections to my antics, the times I retreated to the cave to reflect on my existence were met with protests, and subsequent demands to return to my former agenda. Silence was only bliss at bed time; it would seem I was part of the family's natural order of things after all.

Like most people I know, age has brought balance. The center of attention is not the glorious existence I thought it once to be, nor is remaining in the cave. In the cave I am artsy, I create music and drawings and scribble stuff that I never show to anyone. Under the lights of the stage I am the show, or at the very least the best supporting actor.

I AM SOLDIER
Although I don't seek out such opinions, it has been offered to me on more than one occasion that I'm a very grounded person. The soldier in me likes to hear that review, as a soldier I am a piece of the solid universe that my wife, kids, and family rely. I enjoy the image of standing in the gap for those I love, putting it all on the line, being the standard barer when one is required. I recall occasions sacrificing my wishes for creating a better lot for my kids. I'm not alone in this, most parents could say the same. I married at age 21 (nearly 22 if you must know) and didn't have children for the first six years of my marriage. Surely that was the time to be care free and whimsical, yet, I endeavored to be the firm foundation from which to build safe home. In doing so my youthful dreams were cast aside.

Few of my adult friends really knew of the other me. They only saw the reliable employee, the steadfast associate minister, and the son that called home each week to talk to mom and dad. Except for the occasional story of my feline youth, their only frame of reference was of the soldier. But life in a perennial war zone of a marriage did not serve my kids well, I wanted them to see that love wasn't about controlling another or fighting about money and careers. The soldier in me determined a new declaration of independence was needed, even if it meant certain misunderstanding until the smoked cleared and the new country could be seen. I heard from nearly everyone that I was being suddenly careless and unpredictable, reckless even, when I divorced the first time. To them it was cat-like behavior, the view of the soldier was lost. In the end I had to ignore the view of an excitable 'citizenry', walking that path alone. I think this is the common ground between soldiers and cats, that journeys are often a solitary.

What I'm talking about here is of principles and character, not relationships that never lived up to their presumed calling.

I AM CAT
In my youth I was not one to languish on a singular idea for too long. I tried on my different career suits, tossing each aside for another course as the spirit moved. I was a baseball player leading the lowly Washington Senators to the pennant, a star football receiver with the Washington Redskins always catching the gaming winning touchdown passes, a skillful basketball play-making guard for the Lakers, a mercenary soldier willing to put myself in harms way for any cause I deemed worthy. All these gave way to being a world renowned lead guitar player, then a lead singer, and at times a minister that could change the world in Billy Graham-like fashion. The cat never really disappeared though over shadowed, hidding in the dark wings while the soldier (perhaps a variation of the cat's mercenary considerations) stood guard, faithful to his watch at night.

So here I am still the soldier, curiously acknowledging the cat again. Youthful dreams have mostly been replaced with those that could never have been imagined 30 years ago. Now the cat dreams of diverse website successes, radio talk show stardom, and even writing the next 'Spirit In The Sky' one-hit wonder. In true cat-like fashion the dreaming has returned to distract the soldier, even if for a brief period of time. Conceivably, the 'war' is at an end, the need to stand in the gap can be passed to others giving way to a vast new array of choices for me.

Next week I leave for my first out-of-country vacation. Perhaps I will put on my wealthy-beyond-description clothes to see how being an ex-patriot with unlimited resources feels. Anything is possible.

If you have any doubts let me be clear.... I am soldier, I am cat.

Thanks for reading this far.