pushed down

Would it be a shame to push Mark from his perch of prominence by blogging today?

Dilemma

I’ve never been cursed with that photogenic look. That’s why it’s fortunate that I’m usually on the back side of the camera.

My kids are not so lucky. They must take after their mother. Son number two is now faced with a large collection of great shots taken at Proex Studio in Minnetonka. They took 142 pictures, and we couldn’t find a bad one in the bunch. (Do I sound like a brand new parent, or what?) He needs to pick only one for his senior picture, the one that will make it in the yearbook. We can’t decide, so we thought we would enlist the help of some family and friends.

Would you care to vote? We’ve narrowed down the selection (which was hard enough), but can we get some of your feedback?

Thanks in advance.

gettin' down 

Pace Pax Peace 

guitar man 

dream boy 

on Walden Pond

David Cassidy 

standing tall

A Picture WOULD have been worth 2000 words

So often I sit here at the computer ready to blog without the foggiest notion of what I will write. However, today I knew by about 2:30 what I had to say. This story must be told. No one will appreciate it as much as my brother Jeff, but I hope all can benefit from this hopefully adequate narrative.

I should start by saying that in an ideal world I would not have had to write anything, a simple picture would do. The scene that my cousin and I saw will forever be etched in our beings, half way between our funny bone and our armpit.

I had my camera. I knew that I had to shoot this experience. But I had a strange feeling that I would not be able to take the picture.

My cousin and I were on a mission to find a larger computer monitor to sit upon my desk. My birthday was yesterday, and the Warden agreed this would be an appropriate gift for someone reaching MY age. (If my memory was better, I’d tell you what that age is.) She agreed that I needed a larger screen. So off we went to visit three office/electronics stores situated only blocks from each other. As we raced from store to store we squeezed my full-size pickup into tight parking spots close to the door. The middle store that we visited placed us next to destiny. Parked only inches from our passenger door (such that my cousin had to take advantage of his slender physique) was a rusty (make that extremely rusty) 1980s something Chevy Blazer with faded paint and balding tires (at least I can empathize with that part of the vehicle.) It would have made an ideal candidate for the TV show “Pimp My Ride.” As we walked past the front of that vehicle our jaws dropped as we noticed something that we hadn’t seen in years—A CLUB. You know the thing that was over advertised for years on those cheesy commercials. “Protect your vehicle from auto theft with the Club, accept no imitations.” I think I only saw ONE actually used on a vehicle, and that was on an expensive convertible (with its top down) parked on a city street downtown at night. But today we were in the middle of the tony suburb of Minnetonka, former home of basketball great Kevin Garnett. And it was in the middle of the day. The parking lot was well lit by the scorching sun, and besides almost no one was out shopping on such a lovely day. But there it was THE CLUB, small capital T, small capital M (trademark), on a vehicle whose value was probably less than that theft-deterrence device.

It is a shame. This picture is permanently etched in our minds and I only hope that all readers of this blog, but especially my brother, will be able to likewise store it for safe keeping.

I should have gone back to my truck immediately and taken the shot, but I didn’t. Instead, we went inside to look at the monitors, found none to my liking, and then quickly left the store. As we walked out the door we were relieved to see that the vintage SUV was still gracing the lot. I sprinted to my truck and reached into the back seat to grab my camera. But I got this sinking feeling, thinking to myself, “what if the owner shows up just as I take the picture?” I took the camera out of its case. And I started to move into position. Just then a middle-aged woman walked through the doors of the store. Could this be the owner, I thought. The lady moved our way and then stopped. Sure enough, she was waiting for us to squeeze back into my truck and pull out; giving her the room she needed to hop in her ride. With her standing there, I didn’t have the heart, or gall to take that very important picture.

In addition to having similar senses of humor and similar vibes as to what seems odd, we also came to the conclusion that we should not try to judge this individual and probe into why she would conduct herself in such an unusual fashion. We decided to let the issue drop and not make any more fun at her expense. Not knowing her situation or condition it would not be fair or right to laugh at her expense.

Besides, right after seeing her, these two long-haired blond dudes drove up behind us in a 1950s Chrysler convertible (top down of course). They were beach bums if ever we saw one. They looked like they had just stepped off of Malibu Beach and were looking for their surf boards. They shuffled toward the store like they were riding waves. We looked around waiting for throngs of bikini-clad co-eds to clamor toward these two. They left a pretty sweet car sitting in the lot unattended, and I think I still hear the gurgle of that car’s muscular engine. Go figure.

Dumpster Diving

We were eating a late lunch as we sat in my cube van and soaked up the sun’s rays. I noticed that the dumpster sitting next to us was finally empty. The last week or so it has been bursting at the seams: full of busted sheetrock, scraps of lumber and plywood, pieces of tin and insulation and wire and shingles and siding and everything else you can imagine. Nothing looked too attractive, so I wasn’t tempted to rummage through it these past few days. But I did notice something different on today’s “new” dumpster. The sticker--it had a different message. Usually it warns people not to dispose of tires or cardboard or hazardous wastes and the like. But the message I stared at today, a little in disbelief (and probably as a result of the company’s legal staff), seemed odd. The first part was understandable. It said something about not digging through the dumpster. But the second part warned against residing in the dumpster. I think they used the word “occupy.”

My first thought was, ok, if someone is desperate enough to seek refuge in a dumpster are they really going to be talked out of such an activity by a warning label. I know if I see a good 2 x 4 or nice oak board in a dumpster, a warning label doesn’t keep me from leaning over the edge and grabbing it.

After giving it a few more thoughts, I mentioned the warning label to my son and cousin as they munched away on their lunch. This reminded my cousin of a high school friend of his whom he ran into at Teen Challenge this past year. He hadn’t seen him in decades and didn’t recognize him (probably due to too much hard living), but while talking they realized who each other was and went on to some great catching up. My cousin’s high school friend ended up at Teen Challenge by way of a dumpster.

Dumpsters became favorite night time sanctuaries for this guy. They would keep him warm and safe from predators. And he was usually too intoxicated to care about the down-side of such a living arrangement. But one morning he had a rude awakening (literally). He felt his dwelling shake and move and noticed he was sliding and wasn’t able to stop. A truck had come to retrieve the dumpster in which he lay. He was about to be tossed into the abyss of the garbage truck, but awoke in time to holler out “stop.” His quick thinking that morning can be partially attributed to the fact that this was one of the few mornings that he was actually sober. But that experience became his last straw, the event that made him turn himself in to Teen Challenge. He was finally ready to change. He has now graduated from the program, and we pray his life is on track for the long run. My cousin has not seen him since his graduation, but hopes to look him up soon.

So the fact that lawyers are busy covering the tails of their clients (by way of warning labels) brought forth an interesting lunchtime tale.

Be Fruitful and Multiply

a few branches of a very large tree

Can you find me? 

STITLAC (A piggyback on Tuesday’s Blog)

I dropped off my cousin at a non-descript corner in north Minneapolis early Friday evening so he could catch a bus back to the work house. As he’s standing there a car pulls up to the curb. My cousin does a double take. It’s Pastor Rich, the head honcho, the big cheese, the main man at MN Teen Challenge. The Rev. was driving by and noticed a familiar face. He stopped at the corner to get an update on my cousin’s situation. He told the cuz that he was looking forward to seeing him back in the program soon.

Just in case my cousin ever drifts toward discouragement, it seems that the One ultimately in charge is making some pretty awesome preemptive strikes with big doses of encouragement.

Send in the Clouds

Have clouds become more beautiful, more spectacular lately? Or have my senses been heightened? I think I’m developing a fondness, an affection, maybe even a keenness (or should that be kiihnness? Sorry, inside joke) for clouds. Maybe it’s always been there, but I definitely sense it growing. So many things come together to make a great cloud show. Not being a scientist, I mention only the obvious ones: the atmosphere and its moisture content, the prevailing winds brought about by the various fronts and pressures, and the position of the sun. Everyday the sun rises and sets, and everyday the barometric pressure rises and falls, and everyday the amount of moisture in the air varies, but the way things get mixed up works together in infinitely different patterns. And often the results are fantastic.

not a bad show

Playing Catch Up (Ketchup?) (Pictures that are now getting old) (Are they still worth posting?)

On the last day of July we joined some good friends out on Lake Minnetonka (the “Great Lake”). We spent a couple hours relaxing and checking out the scenery from the vantage point of their boat. The houses seem to grow ever larger each time we visit. The cabins give way to castles and the mansions give way to mega-mansions. Well, I suppose the wealthy have to have hobbies too. Maybe it keeps them out of trouble.

The weather was perfect that day out on the lake. And I think we enjoyed it even more than any of the residences of those places. The Warden of Swansmith is provided for evidence.

an existing house on eastern side of Lake Minnetonka

another single family residence

a new single family with a boat house in the foreground 

Is this proof or what?

What Was the Real Reason Mark went to Moldova?

Was it to give skateboard lessons or see how he would look with a purple purse?

Something There Is that Loves a Coincidence

The title of this blog is one that I’ve pondered for many moons. I’ve filled in the details, written the text, provided examples, argued for its veracity many times, but always in my head. It’s never made it to paper or electronically charged bits or bytes (unless you count the ones in my head.) Until today. This appears to be as good a day as any to finally let the thoughts swimming around in my head spill out and fill up a page in my blog.

As I’ve mentioned previously, I’ve had the privilege of working with my cousin these past many days. I've been employing him for a short time and it may continue for a while. He has spent this summer at the Anoka County work house, where they have a special program that allows residents to look for employment outside of the place.

About a year and a half ago he started a year-long program at MN Teen Challenge, a local drug and alcohol treatment program. Breaking some rules got him kicked out, and eventually landed him at the work house. But it looks very promising that he’ll be back at Teen Challenge this fall. He’s very much looking forward to that.

Last Friday we were picking up materials at Drywall Supply in Plymouth. It was the middle of the day and the place was dead, only about two other customers in the place. But lo and behold one of those customers was the head of maintenance at Teen Challenge. He spotted my cousin and they both shared how thrilled they were to see each other. The director was able to give my cousin some encouragement and update him on all the ongoing projects at the “new” building. It seemed like a divine appointment to keep my cousin looking forward to what lies ahead.

Now this morning we were ordering sheetrock at another building materials place in another city and who do we run into but the assistant head of maintenance at Teen Challenge, Willie. This was the guy my cousin was directly responsible to this past year, a towering man that provided much spiritual guidance during my cousin's initial stay at TC. Willie also gave my cousin a huge dose of encouragement to keep pressing on and then got both of us excited about what’s going on at the new place.

The Anoka County work house can be a depressing place, but Someone is making sure that my cousin keeps his eyes on the goal which lies ahead. In less than a few months he’ll be back in the program which has dramatically changed his life and given him a new lease on life. And when he gets there, I know there will be two fine devoted servants of Christ to welcome him back.

Fun Be Cuz

Today was the third day in a row that my cousin Terry joined me at work. He is in between jobs this week and managed to devote these five or six days to giving me a hand. He’s been a welcome hand to help me catch up at work. Although he’s never worked officially in the “field of mud,” his wide range of past hands-on activities made him a quick learner. After an early (but not too deep) quick slice of his thumb on Monday, he navigated the sharp knives and trowels pretty well.

But more than just helping lighten my work load (especially on these humid, oppressive, August days) he’s been a worthy and thoughtful discussion partner. We’ve reminisced and philosophized and encouraged one another. Our paths have not crossed as often as cousins' paths should, but we’ve done well playing catch up. He’s got a life full of stories and victories and it’s been great to hear them firsthand.

The Eighth Month

As a believer that most good things begin in August, today’s special day is a testimony to that conviction. Early on I knew that August was good. August is the month when I first got to experience fresh air, fresh milk, and a gentle touch. August is the month when the average daily high temperatures begin to fall. And August is the month we get to send the children back to school. It’s definitely a good month. But Augusts have not only been great since 1958. My life has been immensely enhanced by a union that began on this date even prior to ‘58. That union brought forth a treasure which has deeply enriched my life. My wife’s parents tied the knot back when Elvis was king and went on to devote their lives to raising four great kids. Their finest achievement, though, came second.

And while I’m most grateful for their gift of number two, I’m grateful for them too. They are by far the best in-laws I’ve even had. (With their heightened sense of humor, they even laugh at my bad jokes [does that assume that I have good jokes?]. And puns don’t even make them groan.) I admire their adventurous spirits, their vibrant faith, their thoughtful concern, their youthful attitudes, and mature insights. When I think that my better half might grow into what they have become, I get even more excited for our days ahead. (Besides, if it weren’t for my wife, I would not even be blogging.)

The common perception in comedy writing and on the small screen is that the farther away the in-laws the better. But in my case this is definitely not true. I wish the miles between us were fewer. For they have become more than just relatives to me. Thankfully the ever progressing advances of technology have softened the distances somewhat. And who knows, maybe in a few years, at the current pace of advances, they will be able to jump out of my computer screen.

Thank you for the fine example you’ve set. I’m hoping that your number two can also put up with me for 52 years.

where it began

Humbled

I read a comment on my blog yesterday. I was amused that someone would actually take the effort to comment on my quirky little photo of a piece of popcorn that I stole from my wife’s bowl. I said, “you can’t eat that one, it’s the Michelin man.” The more I stared at it though, the more I thought that it really did look like him. And although the temptation to eat him was very strong, I exercised enough willpower to set him on the table and shoot him first.

But then came the surprising part. Suzi approached me with much excitement this morning. “Did you see that Kudzu commented on your blog?” she asked. I laughed and discounted it. But she continued, “yeah, Shane Blake, Kudzu.” Then the light went on. The Shane who commented is the one and only Kudzu, master of the “two’fer tuesday.” The fact that a real photographer commented on my photo, a lame attempt at humor (and an out of focus shot at that), is a bit humbling. I will never be in his league, but I do check his blog regularly to glean some inspiration.

But as far as shooting popcorn, I probably have the advantage. Living in the South, Shane’s life may be filled with Kudzu; but up North (and especially in this household), what the Indians called “maize” flows freely.

Why Do I need another book, now that I've already listed my five favorites?

I think I mentioned in an earlier blog that Suzi, her sister, and I had the chance to hear from Brian McLaren at Cornerstone a number of times. He’s an engaging speaker and one that I tended to agree with a lot more than not. I glanced at his books which were on sale in the merchandise tents, but decided against buying any at the Fest (they were all full price.) Plus, the one that I really wanted was sold out by the time I went looking. That book is entitled, A Generous Orthodoxy, and has a super-long sub-title which you’ll have to go to Amazon.com to find.

This past week I was working in St. Paul (as well as St. Anthony Village, Minnetonka, Edina, St. Louis Park.) The job in St. Paul was only blocks from the world’s greatest bookstore (sorry Barnes & Noble.) This bookstore is in the basement of Luther Seminary. Not only is the selection extremely wide, but all books are at least 25 percent off retail! I’ve visited the place dozens (maybe hundreds) of times over the past 30 years, and I still love it. Well, two days ago as I was leaving the remodel job in St. Paul and sitting at a traffic light, waiting for it to turn green, the book and the bookstore came to mind. I’m sure they have it, I thought. So three right turns and a u-turn (mistake) later I pull in front of the building which houses the bookstore. Covered from head to toe in white mud, I run into the building a start my search. I find it in only 5 minutes without having to ask for help. It was in the “personal theology” section, the third area I searched.

So now I’m actually reading the book. And I’m struck by many things, but one thing stands out—his style (or lack thereof.) His writing is even more jerky and parenthetical than mine! As I read, I was struck at how his constant qualifying and lame attempts at self-deprecating humor sounded vaguely familiar. In the past I have read authors whom I knew personally, and in short time I would start hearing their actual voice as I turned the pages. With this Brian character, I start to hear myself. It’s not that I’m anywhere in his league of understanding or perception, but the style is familiar. He has a lot more to say, but I sometimes find myself laughing at how he says it.

I’ll conclude with one humorous example from chapter zero (the warning that one might want to return the book before one jumps into the actual first chapter.)

Even as an English major I’m a failure. My sentences are too long. As you’ve already seen. I overuse parentheses, which many readers find highly obnoxious (and having been told this, I still yield to almost every parenthetical temptation that presents itself). And the book is laced with overstatement, hyperbole, and generalizations. . . which, as the self-refuting saying goes, always must be wrong. At least I could have footnoted reputable scholars who make the same generalizations I do, to add some aura of credibility. All good English majors know how to do this. But I seldom do so, leaving you to wonder whether I am even aware of the scholarship, or whether I’m just too lazy or ornery to give sufficient documentation, or whatever.

Besides all this he doesn’t waste his hormones growing hair either. I think I’ll enjoy the book.

Practicing to be the "Bodyguard"

A Younger Mark and David

The Michelin Man

Is it a sign? Do we need new tires? Now I have to go eat this critter.

My Achilles’ Heel

It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. I hate it. Sure I know that without moisture in the air we in Minnesota wouldn’t enjoy as many wonderful lakes. But I hate it. And I know that our lawns would be a lot browner. But I still hate it. And I know that we’d have to buy a lot more skin cream (well, you can count me out there), but I still absolutely despise the heat when it’s linked with an oppressive humidity. As the dew point rises my good-natured-ness starts to disappear. I become a real tyrant. I get grumpy and irritable and cranky and mad and discouraged and grouchy and depressed and angry and annoyed and short-tempered and sweaty. I can’t wear my glasses as the sweat drips onto the lenses; and even if they didn’t, they would fog up anyways.

I suppose if I were sitting by a lake, the humidity wouldn’t bother me. But as the humidity becomes oppressive, my workload always mounts and I try to push myself. To no avail, though, I still get further and further behind. So I curse the saturated air and wonder why I travail through it, when it should rather properly be cut with a knife. Did I mention that I really, really, really hate the heat and humidity of July and August? Whine, whine, and more whine. I can’t help myself. I hate it.

Right now as I type this in an air-conditioned office, I have trouble engaging the passion that I felt earlier today. The words I write are tame and mellow compared with how I felt earlier today and yesterday and the day before yesterday and the day before that and so on. I’m sick and tired of having to work in this unbearable weather inside enclosed spaces with no A/C and no chance for much air movement at all.

But enough said. If I continue the rant, I’ll probably say what I really think. For now I should be grateful that I have an escape. I get to come home at the end of the day. And I have a home which has A/C. And the house comes with a wife that loves me and usually has supper ready for me. And I have a shower with hot and cold water. And if I use it after becoming really smelly during the day, the WTLM will even sleep next to me.

So in the grand scheme of things, I’m very blessed. I should count my blessings, show some gratitude, and quit whining. I could be off far from home, serving our country, or working for some impersonal corporation, having to endure airplanes and airports, etc.

So pardon my whine, but I hope it helps me this January as I munch on my cheese and crackers, and try to keep my self from frostbite. And maybe as I dream of blizzards (the real ones), I’ll protect my feet and keep my Achilles’ heel from becoming an Achilles’ hell.

Diet DQ

From the realms of Blobdom came some concern about my rapid consumption of medium French Silk Pie Blizzards. A concerned gentleman graciously provided the actual DQ site where my jaw fell open as I got the official nutrition facts about my weakness. I think it boasted a whopping 980 calories per medium FSPB.

So last night I ordered a diet one, i.e. a small. Let me tell you, it was hard. Not because I was necessarily that hungry, but because I value value. We all know, of course, the bigger the size, the more bang for the buck. Or in this case the more calories for the cash.

And now, in an even more surprising development, I really wimped out today. I ordered an Arctic Rush, which is basically a slushy, crushed ice with a little sugar water added. The 95 degree weather helped with my decision. But if I continue on this trend I might have to start looking for my belt again.