The old 2002 iMac, our downstairs computer, has finally given up the ghost. It's one of the last of the pre-nuptial possessions, so I guess it just never felt like it fit in. The little beast was a workhorse, as I must've burned DVDs in the hundreds on it, and then there were all those times I dragged it out over the ocean to that dusty desert island every summer. In its final days it served as an Email, Internet, and Facebook hub in the family room, as it could barely handle the processing demands of much else. It never could play a YouTube video without a thousand hiccups, but now that it's gone you realize how much you used it, how you miss it. *tear* *sniff*
We'll have to buy a new iMac then! As if. The reasons for buying a new computer are 1, whereas the reasons for not are a thousandfold. (Lord in Heaven, how will we survive?!) But if a thousand dollars drops out of the sky today, I might just go throw it at the Apple Store, though there are countless other stores clamoring for it to be thrown at.
Just got off the phone with the guys at the aluminum plant. I told them where their engineer can stuff these 38" square footings. He just laughed. Seriously, we're not building the Eiffel Tower, here. It's a patio cover, folks. "But it needs a lot of lateral support!" to which I would reply with a lateral faceslap if I was standing in the room with him. So, I'm still digging. Can't wait to see the look on the inspector's face. I just know he's going to shake his head and ask me just how many bodies I was planning on burying in there, exactly.
The customer is friendly about it. I'll be glad when this week is over. It's supposed to rain Thursday, which was the day I wanted to pour the concrete, and then next week's job will get backed up. Slow. Fast! Slow. Fast! My back hurts. My head hurts. My hands are blistered. It's Tuesday. Yesterday's toil diminished my camp high considerably, but that's how it goes. It's as if all the elements of the world conspire to remove you from a godly setting, leaving you like a fish on the sand, fins slapping, gills flapping. It's like that, but it's just Tuesday.
~
Monday, November 9, 2009
I was pleased to see, when I got there, that they had kept that old, high slide, up on that stainless scaffolding. It was always high and steep enough to scare the bejeezus out of a junior high kid, and yet thrill him all the same. Of course, it seems smaller now, but it retains a certain bold highness.
It's at Forest Home, where my church held their annual Family Camp this past weekend. A couple years ago, when we were auditioning churches, the simple fact that the church often chose Forest Home as the destination for their youth camps garnered high marks from me, and kept me interested in attending with my family. I wanted my kids to go to Forest Home, if only because it's where I went, and it worked for me. It was there one week in August of 1982 where I had an authentic religious experience. It was an experience that was real enough, moving enough, and convincing enough that it has never ended, despite its (often daily) fits and starts, doubts and ecstasies, overwhelming losses and profound moments of redemption. From that moment during that summer at that camp, I have been cured of my most loathsome regrets and given hope to my dying day. It was a religious experience that only began there, is ongoing, and hasn't let up since.
I went to camp at Forest Home year after year, and on several occasions as a leader -though then it wasn't the same. Eventually I ended up out at Camp Fox, where so much history and devotion lies for me today. But I was never a camper at Camp Fox, so it always comes as a shock to those Camp Fox devotees when I speak of another place, a better place -or at least every bit as good- where I grew up going. Mrs. Ditchman, whom I met at Camp Fox, is one of those. She'd never been to Forest Home, so I was a bit nervous taking her, as I hadn't been back in 15 years or so. It all turned out all right. She approved. We had an excellent time.
The camps are just locations, of course, and are soulless and lonesome wastelands without the people who make them special. Our time last weekend was a sweet one being together in the forest, meeting some of the people of our congregation, and getting to know some church staff. It's hard to put in words what happens at these camps, but it's essentially a time of renewal, a time away from all that mess and noise of life so you can hear some of the things God's been saying. We had a first rate speaker, which would not have been my favorite element of the weekend if they hadn't provided inspiring and reliable childcare. But they did, and it was.
On second thought, no. My favorite part of the weekend was just being there at the camp with my family. The kids loved it. The Little Ditchman got to sleep atop a bunk bed and the Little Digger got to ride in the baby backpack. Though the unforgettable chocolate chip shakes of my childhood are now half the size and twice the cost, and though the camp is today all zip lines and climbing walls, (stuff that didn't exist when I was a kid) the same buildings are there. It's amazing that you can have so profound a love for a place. Being there was like walking through some old home where you grew up, where you took your first steps, though there's a different family living in it now, all the while loving it every bit as much as you did. I moved between the cabins and through the clubhouses, past the campfire rings and lodges, and down creekside paths through the forest, and I felt so many kid memories washing over me, stuff I couldn't help but share with my wife, who humored me with her patience, (as if she needed another child to tend to this weekend.)
Though it's just a camp, Forest Home is quite a place. In the picture above (click it to embiggen) you can see a cross and a tall rock in the right of the photo, on the far side of the lake. It's a nice, inspiring spot that overlooks the valley. There's a marker on that rock that mentions Billy Graham. The story goes that Graham was having a crisis of faith just as he was about to embark upon his historic evangelical ministry. Someone whom he respected had called him out on Darwinian evolution, among other things, and had accused him of committing "intellectual suicide" by his claiming that the Bible was the infallible word of God. Graham was at Forest Home at the time, just weeks before the launch of his famous crusade. He went out one night, threw his bible down on a stump, dropped to his knees, and prayed...
"O God! There are many things in this book I do not understand. There are many problems with it for which I have no solution. There are many seeming contradictions. There are some areas in it that do not seem to correlate with modern science. I can't answer some of the philosophical and psychological questions Chuck and others are raising."
I was trying to be on the level with God, but something remained unspoken. At last the Holy Spirit freed me to say it. "Father, I am going to accept this as Thy Word by faith! I'm going to allow faith to go beyond my intellectual questions and doubts, and I will believe this to be Your inspired Word."
When I got up from my knees at Forest Home that August night, my eyes stung with tears. I sensed the presence and power of God as I had not sensed it in months. Not all my questions were answered, but a major bridge had been crossed. In my heart and mind, I knew a spiritual battle in my soul had been fought and won.
-from 'Just As I Am: The Autobiography of Billy Graham'
He almost quit. But he didn't, and soon after that he became BILLY GRAHAM, eventually #7 on Gallup's List of Widely Admired People, just behind Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King Jr., and John F. Kennedy (#8 is the Pope.) He changed the world for millions.
So some places are just special, with all their thrilling, bejeezus-scaring moments. Even my mom went to Forest Home when she was a teenager, and at about the same time that Billy Graham was there, and now my wife and kids go. No intellect can honestly explain it away, but my faith makes sense of it all, and easily so.
~
Friday, November 6, 2009
Oh, thank heavens, the weekend has arrived. It was something of a week of FAIL, but at least I lived to dwell on and regret it. Next week, it's back to digging, so there will be plenty of time for my low self esteem then, as I race to the bottom of a hole, digging deeper, if not to China, then at least to the Great Wall of China footings, which none consider. (I can only imagine how deep they run.)
There is no time for that forlorn sense of self this weekend, however, as I indulge with the family in a time of escape and renewal. I'll blog about it on Monday. My phone is off. My email is off. Please don't try to contact me. No, please! My wife needs me! My children need me! And no more can we can bear the heady distraction of the usual weekend routine!
Happy November.
~
There is no time for that forlorn sense of self this weekend, however, as I indulge with the family in a time of escape and renewal. I'll blog about it on Monday. My phone is off. My email is off. Please don't try to contact me. No, please! My wife needs me! My children need me! And no more can we can bear the heady distraction of the usual weekend routine!
Happy November.
~
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Does your home have a door that sticks? A door that leans open, if left unlatched? Is there an amalgam of dirt, insect corpses and hair from neighbor dogs and the cat that died last year piled in the slider track? If so, then your home is like mine.
Nearly every door in my home has something small wrong with it. The pains are too small to warrant a half hour fix, with most of that time devoted to fetching tools and cleaners, but seem too large to ignore and let me live my life. I move through customers' homes and find their doors sliding and swinging like oiled gears in an airtight factory. In my house, the doors are collected from every decade since the eighties, and exhibit the wear-and-tear of their years of service right through the fresh coats of paint.
My front door is painted black on the outside, and collects the hot morning sunlight on one side in such a manner that by 11:00 it is warped to the point that it's impossible to lock or unlock, such that, in the afternoon, you're better off going through the garage. And my back door has a screen slider on it that I have walked through enough times to know that buying a new one would be like throwing $70 out onto the Interstate on a breezy day, but the damn thing sticks when I shut it. There seems to be nothing I can do about this, short of outright replacement, which is when I would walk right through it again after barbecuing in the evening twilight.
Don't get me started on the shower door, which insults and offends from every angle. There are pieces so decrepit that they defy cleaning. It is perennially disgusting, and we detest it. The thing hurls insults at you on your way in and out of the shower, reminding you that its replacement would incur thousands of dollars in costs replacing the entire shower stall, fixtures, bathroom, et al. One innocuous, tearless day it will shatter into oblivion upon my opening, taking my bank account with it, but it denies me this moment of grace, and continues to mock, suggesting daily that I will emerge from the shower soiled, tainted, and infected if I touch it on my way out, which I have to.
The pantry door in the kitchen has the hinges on the wrong side. The closet doors in my bedroom slide off their tracks, defying anyone to close them fully. All the exterior doors are drafty, and even the garage door openers work intermittently, requiring multiple presses of the buttons, or a careful wrangling of the keypad so that the cover doesn't break off. Again.
The sum of all these tiny nuisances amount to a category of ignored, neglected, tolerated, and, eventually, unnoticed pains. There is no time for the recurring idiosyncrasies, since that time is more wisely spent making dinner for the family, or tickling the children at work day's end. They are like tiny scars on an aging body, old wounds and sores never properly healed, but a collection of which paint a perfect, unique history. A Character. But these doors, with all the safety and security and privacy that they offer and provide, function well enough and, like all the people who open them, enter them, slam them, and move silently behind them, stave off replacement forevermore.
~
Nearly every door in my home has something small wrong with it. The pains are too small to warrant a half hour fix, with most of that time devoted to fetching tools and cleaners, but seem too large to ignore and let me live my life. I move through customers' homes and find their doors sliding and swinging like oiled gears in an airtight factory. In my house, the doors are collected from every decade since the eighties, and exhibit the wear-and-tear of their years of service right through the fresh coats of paint.
My front door is painted black on the outside, and collects the hot morning sunlight on one side in such a manner that by 11:00 it is warped to the point that it's impossible to lock or unlock, such that, in the afternoon, you're better off going through the garage. And my back door has a screen slider on it that I have walked through enough times to know that buying a new one would be like throwing $70 out onto the Interstate on a breezy day, but the damn thing sticks when I shut it. There seems to be nothing I can do about this, short of outright replacement, which is when I would walk right through it again after barbecuing in the evening twilight.
Don't get me started on the shower door, which insults and offends from every angle. There are pieces so decrepit that they defy cleaning. It is perennially disgusting, and we detest it. The thing hurls insults at you on your way in and out of the shower, reminding you that its replacement would incur thousands of dollars in costs replacing the entire shower stall, fixtures, bathroom, et al. One innocuous, tearless day it will shatter into oblivion upon my opening, taking my bank account with it, but it denies me this moment of grace, and continues to mock, suggesting daily that I will emerge from the shower soiled, tainted, and infected if I touch it on my way out, which I have to.
The pantry door in the kitchen has the hinges on the wrong side. The closet doors in my bedroom slide off their tracks, defying anyone to close them fully. All the exterior doors are drafty, and even the garage door openers work intermittently, requiring multiple presses of the buttons, or a careful wrangling of the keypad so that the cover doesn't break off. Again.
The sum of all these tiny nuisances amount to a category of ignored, neglected, tolerated, and, eventually, unnoticed pains. There is no time for the recurring idiosyncrasies, since that time is more wisely spent making dinner for the family, or tickling the children at work day's end. They are like tiny scars on an aging body, old wounds and sores never properly healed, but a collection of which paint a perfect, unique history. A Character. But these doors, with all the safety and security and privacy that they offer and provide, function well enough and, like all the people who open them, enter them, slam them, and move silently behind them, stave off replacement forevermore.
~
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Look! It's a werewolf cupcake! (And the one astride it is an owl.)
My neighbor, the architect of the brilliant Halloween cupcakes, was no doubt
Dammit. I just got up in the middle of writing that sentence, returned, and now I have no idea where I was going with it.
Anyway, she befriended me on Facebook yesterday, saw the blog, and then sent me the pic, justifiably proud of the accomplishment. I thought I'd round out my postings by putting it up, mindful that THE NEIGHBORS ARE WATCHING and I should be cool about what I put on the blog.
There are 5 Jims living in my cul-de-sac, (Okay, 4. I made one up.) so if I ever make a reference to a neighbor, he will be called "Jim". That way, if he doesn't like what's written about him, we can always claim it was one of the other Jims. If we are at a party with all 4 Jims in attendance, all denying what I wrote, I will blame the 5th Jim whom no one has ever met. The 5th Jim owns the house that is seemingly always empty. He lives in another state or country or on the road and has asked me to turn the lights on and off and mow the lawn every so often to throw off potential burglars. He sends me a check every month. I buy beer and iPhone apps with it. The 5th Jim is a helluva guy; smart, clever, impeccably dressed. He's a jet-setter. He has untold adventures. He will not be crossed. But he does not have a wife who bakes bitchin' cupcakes in the shape of werewolves, and because of this he is incomplete, insecure, jealous, and lost. I feel sorry for him, which is why he tells me he will never publish any of my work, even though he has untold millions in the bank and connections with every major publishing house in North America. He humors me.
Oh, hell, it's Hump Day, which never lives up to its name in the manner that you are thinking. I went to bed so tired last night, and I woke up this morning so sore, and I can't seem to explain myself since I did not work particularly hard yesterday. Nor can I complain about it, since my Mrs. Ditchman was up somewhere between 4 and 5, again. I have tons of stuff to do today, and I mean that literally, since I have to figure out what to do about these Hoover Dam-sized footings I have to dig, pour, and set at that house in Encinitas. Curses to the engineers! Curses to the inspectors! I long for just a small, simple cover to build and be done with, but, oh wait, I have one of those today, too.
I sat down this morning to give you a review of what I watched on tv last night, which was V. Here's my review: it was good. I don't feel like writing a review now because I just read the funniest review of a movie I've read in a long time. It's by Charlie Jane Anders and it covers Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen:
Anyway, have a good day. You can do it. "Yes we can," as President Obama said, even though he couldn't yesterday in New Jersey. I guess some days... we can't.
~
My neighbor, the architect of the brilliant Halloween cupcakes, was no doubt
Dammit. I just got up in the middle of writing that sentence, returned, and now I have no idea where I was going with it.
Anyway, she befriended me on Facebook yesterday, saw the blog, and then sent me the pic, justifiably proud of the accomplishment. I thought I'd round out my postings by putting it up, mindful that THE NEIGHBORS ARE WATCHING and I should be cool about what I put on the blog.
There are 5 Jims living in my cul-de-sac, (Okay, 4. I made one up.) so if I ever make a reference to a neighbor, he will be called "Jim". That way, if he doesn't like what's written about him, we can always claim it was one of the other Jims. If we are at a party with all 4 Jims in attendance, all denying what I wrote, I will blame the 5th Jim whom no one has ever met. The 5th Jim owns the house that is seemingly always empty. He lives in another state or country or on the road and has asked me to turn the lights on and off and mow the lawn every so often to throw off potential burglars. He sends me a check every month. I buy beer and iPhone apps with it. The 5th Jim is a helluva guy; smart, clever, impeccably dressed. He's a jet-setter. He has untold adventures. He will not be crossed. But he does not have a wife who bakes bitchin' cupcakes in the shape of werewolves, and because of this he is incomplete, insecure, jealous, and lost. I feel sorry for him, which is why he tells me he will never publish any of my work, even though he has untold millions in the bank and connections with every major publishing house in North America. He humors me.
Oh, hell, it's Hump Day, which never lives up to its name in the manner that you are thinking. I went to bed so tired last night, and I woke up this morning so sore, and I can't seem to explain myself since I did not work particularly hard yesterday. Nor can I complain about it, since my Mrs. Ditchman was up somewhere between 4 and 5, again. I have tons of stuff to do today, and I mean that literally, since I have to figure out what to do about these Hoover Dam-sized footings I have to dig, pour, and set at that house in Encinitas. Curses to the engineers! Curses to the inspectors! I long for just a small, simple cover to build and be done with, but, oh wait, I have one of those today, too.
I sat down this morning to give you a review of what I watched on tv last night, which was V. Here's my review: it was good. I don't feel like writing a review now because I just read the funniest review of a movie I've read in a long time. It's by Charlie Jane Anders and it covers Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen:
'Transformers: ROTF' is so long, you'll need to wear adult diapers to it. But the movie's pure celebration of the primal urge, and unfiltered living, will make you rejoice in your adult diapers. You'll relieve yourself in your seat with a savage joy, your barbaric yawp blending in with the crowd's screams of excitement... And yet — and here's the part where I really think ROTF approaches "art movie" status — the movie's id overload reaches such crazy levels that the fabric of reality itself starts to break down. Michael Bay has boasted about how every single shot in the movie has so much stuff going on in it, it would take your PC since the dawn of time to render one frame. After a few hours of this assault, you feel the chair melt and the floor of the movie theater becomes an angry mirror into your soul. Nothing is solid, nothing is real, everything Transforms...
Anyway, have a good day. You can do it. "Yes we can," as President Obama said, even though he couldn't yesterday in New Jersey. I guess some days... we can't.
~
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Busy day. But I can stop and point out to you the vast global conspiracy to hide the truth that STAR WARS WAS REAL. It's all documented at www.iswwr.com. (IfStarWarsWasReal.com)
Don't believe me? Check out the site's photo archives. The stuff on Palpatine Oil I found especially compelling. Why the forces of darkness want to keep us, er, in the dark, is beyond me. Here are some samples:
The truth is out there.
I mean, sometimes it's really out there.
~
Don't believe me? Check out the site's photo archives. The stuff on Palpatine Oil I found especially compelling. Why the forces of darkness want to keep us, er, in the dark, is beyond me. Here are some samples:
The truth is out there.
I mean, sometimes it's really out there.
~
Monday, November 2, 2009
Tired of the mire of unaccomplished things, I was going to make a TO DO list for November. I keep putting it off. I begin, but I pause, and consider the things this month that will get in the way of the list: Christmas decorations, Thanksgiving, unexpected burst water mains and wrecked or broken transport vehicles. The calendar already shows every weekend filled, and I don't know how it happened. I mean, who's skipping ahead and writing stuff in? I should just write the list anyway, and title it "TO DO: FAIL" Because then I'll at least have done something.
It's November 2nd, already, and, if you needed someone to sledgehammer it home, we've got Daylight Savings Time for you. It's so friendly-sounding: "daylight savings!" like an open-door, summer sale at JC Penny's, but I don't know what we're saving. By the sound of it, you'd think by now we'd have scores of daylight that we could just cash in on one glum, dim day when we needed a vacation, but, no, it just feels like another government tax. Whether springing forward or falling back, somehow we all lose sleep over it. Especially if you have kids.
Halloween was a spooktacular fun-fest of paranormal proportions in our cul-de-sac, even moreso than last year. 2009 will be the year that the Little Ditchman "got it", since she was saying "trick-or-treat" and "thank you" and rehearsing the cute routine for weeks in advance. (She got it last year, to be sure, but we had to walk her to the doors mostly, with the prompting of her lines, and then, after a few houses of receiving treats, the look on her face was -Hey! Free candy! This is easy!) We waited for some of the neighbor kids to arrive, and joined up with them on our doorstep.
And then we were off! The hoppy dads hung in back, strutting up and down the block with treats of their own.
(Missing, is Rod, who was an uncanny Praying Mantis. Wish I had him in the shot.)
We strolled the length of the street, saying hi to all the neighbors and pausing at the bottom of the block for cupcakes. It should be noted that the cupcakes were in the shape of werewolves, which is a feat I would not have believed if it was told to me. They actually were in the shape of werewolves. My camera went bad just as I tried to take a pic of them, so it was a bummer, but I did get a shot of the person who baked them, dressed as a Land Shark.
One suspects that she did not bake the werewolf cupcakes dressed as a Land Shark, but with Kendra, you never know.
Then, after much discussion, we all got in minivans to drive across the intersection to the main artery of our tract, a block away, where untold horrors awaited: people caravaning in from miles around to join our neighborhood in The Event of the season. Evidently this has been going on for years, but since we live in the appendix of the tract, separated from all mainstream suburban happenings by a busy multi-lane boulevard, we are sheltered from our own magnetizing celebrity.
There were throngs. So many people, that it appeared that years ago the whole, knock-on-the-door-and-trick-or-treat thing was abandoned for lawn chairs in the yard next to tubs of candy, just to accommodate the crowds. Residents had transformed their properties into cemeteries and haunted houses. And by "haunted houses" I mean a few folks actually constructed legitimate haunted houses, complete with twisting, turning dark tunnels, mirrors and mayhem, and creatures of the underworld peering from the shadows. Really something. One garage was all light and smoke effects, with spooky footage projected into the ether with all the detailed flair of a Disneyland parade. One neighbor had crafted a ten-foot-tall homunculus, operated by a man in back, who moved balanced 2x4s and pulleys to manipulate the eerie arms and head. Amazing.
It was a nice night. Everyone was cheerful, happy, enjoying the scene. I can't abide the ultra-religious who abhor the holiday, as there was nothing evil about any of it. Halloween is an easy, sugary American tradition, and what are we celebrating? Dressing up. Being silly. Acting out, and seeking out the awe and wonder of childhood, whilst diminishing the fears of life and death in this world, and especially that greatest fear of all: the fear of growing up.
~
It's November 2nd, already, and, if you needed someone to sledgehammer it home, we've got Daylight Savings Time for you. It's so friendly-sounding: "daylight savings!" like an open-door, summer sale at JC Penny's, but I don't know what we're saving. By the sound of it, you'd think by now we'd have scores of daylight that we could just cash in on one glum, dim day when we needed a vacation, but, no, it just feels like another government tax. Whether springing forward or falling back, somehow we all lose sleep over it. Especially if you have kids.
Halloween was a spooktacular fun-fest of paranormal proportions in our cul-de-sac, even moreso than last year. 2009 will be the year that the Little Ditchman "got it", since she was saying "trick-or-treat" and "thank you" and rehearsing the cute routine for weeks in advance. (She got it last year, to be sure, but we had to walk her to the doors mostly, with the prompting of her lines, and then, after a few houses of receiving treats, the look on her face was -Hey! Free candy! This is easy!) We waited for some of the neighbor kids to arrive, and joined up with them on our doorstep.
And then we were off! The hoppy dads hung in back, strutting up and down the block with treats of their own.
(Missing, is Rod, who was an uncanny Praying Mantis. Wish I had him in the shot.)
We strolled the length of the street, saying hi to all the neighbors and pausing at the bottom of the block for cupcakes. It should be noted that the cupcakes were in the shape of werewolves, which is a feat I would not have believed if it was told to me. They actually were in the shape of werewolves. My camera went bad just as I tried to take a pic of them, so it was a bummer, but I did get a shot of the person who baked them, dressed as a Land Shark.
One suspects that she did not bake the werewolf cupcakes dressed as a Land Shark, but with Kendra, you never know.
Then, after much discussion, we all got in minivans to drive across the intersection to the main artery of our tract, a block away, where untold horrors awaited: people caravaning in from miles around to join our neighborhood in The Event of the season. Evidently this has been going on for years, but since we live in the appendix of the tract, separated from all mainstream suburban happenings by a busy multi-lane boulevard, we are sheltered from our own magnetizing celebrity.
There were throngs. So many people, that it appeared that years ago the whole, knock-on-the-door-and-trick-or-treat thing was abandoned for lawn chairs in the yard next to tubs of candy, just to accommodate the crowds. Residents had transformed their properties into cemeteries and haunted houses. And by "haunted houses" I mean a few folks actually constructed legitimate haunted houses, complete with twisting, turning dark tunnels, mirrors and mayhem, and creatures of the underworld peering from the shadows. Really something. One garage was all light and smoke effects, with spooky footage projected into the ether with all the detailed flair of a Disneyland parade. One neighbor had crafted a ten-foot-tall homunculus, operated by a man in back, who moved balanced 2x4s and pulleys to manipulate the eerie arms and head. Amazing.
It was a nice night. Everyone was cheerful, happy, enjoying the scene. I can't abide the ultra-religious who abhor the holiday, as there was nothing evil about any of it. Halloween is an easy, sugary American tradition, and what are we celebrating? Dressing up. Being silly. Acting out, and seeking out the awe and wonder of childhood, whilst diminishing the fears of life and death in this world, and especially that greatest fear of all: the fear of growing up.
~
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