chosen

While sitting on my dad's patio way back in the days of yore, a Monarch Butterfly flitted in under the awning and sat his pretty orange and golden wings on my shoulder. I made a move to brush it away and my dad said DON'T. Why? I replied. I don't like bugs. No son, my dad said. That is not a bug. You have been blessed with a touch from God. You see son, the Monarch Butterfly is a messenger from God. When it lands on you it is a sign that your soul is one that God has chosen. Chosen?, I said. Chosen for what? I don't know son. That's between you and him. The next time you talk to him, just ask. I'm sure he will tell you. I never ask. I wonder what God wanted?

refuge

REFUGE Where is my place of refuge? Home would seem to be a natural choice. But home seems too simple. When I think of home it is not really a place of refuge. Even when you are relaxed there is always something nagging at you. The lawn needs mowing, the door squeaks or the sprinklers need to be fixed. Repairs never seem to get done. My home may be comfortable and warm but it is not my place of refuge, A place of refuge has to be somewhere your worries or cares are pushed aside. But where could that be? If not home, then where? What place or location? I do find some refuge in my writing. But writing is not easy and I am always fretting as to whether it is understandable.. Am I really saying what I mean? Will this word do the trick? Am I missing anything? Sometimes "spell check" can be more of hindrance that a help. Writing is a great outlet but it is not my refuge. As I pondered this dilemma, I decided to go for a walk. I decided a walk might clear my head and I could rethink my problem. As I walked I forgot about my place of refuge and began to enjoy the world around me. I sifted different ideas through my mind. I thought about my childhood, my life, and my family. My mind jumped from place to place. I dreamed. I won the lottery. I ran the marathon. I thought about my writing and I even decided a direction for a chapter of my "book". Then I realized that my place of refuge was in my mind. Planning, dreaming, fantasizing is my place of refuge. When I got home I did the dishes.

what the hell happened

garbage trucks and garbage men are meant for spurn and scorn. who in the hell would want to be a garbage man. a man's place is at the top with a job of power and money. no man worth his salt would drive a garbage truck, unless of course he was hungry. there are a lot of money and power men wishing they could get the job of a garbage man.. what the hell happened

the jacket

For some reason certain things stick in your craw. They never leave. I call them poppers. They keep popping up when you least expect them. They usually mean nothing. They are not harbingers of doom or bad memories that depress you. They are just poppers. Pop, there it is again. Why? No one knows. Certain things we never remember. Certain things we never forget. "Poppers" are those unforgettable things. The jacket is one of my poppers. It happened 52 years ago in the fall of 1956. I was seventeen, full testosterone and stupidity and I had five good buddies that were exactly like me. We were shopping for school clothes in Provo, Utah. Provo was not our home town. We were from Orem but in those years Provo was the place to shop. Provo was one of those quaint small towns with one main street going east and west and another going north and south. Both streets were lined with trees and parking was at a diagonal in front of the stores. 1956 was the year of the "Car Coat" and we all wanted one. However, they were quite expensive. They ran about $40.00 and by the time we had our Levis, dress pants and some different styles of shirts we didn't have much money left. We all went onto the jacket store and wandered around looking at the different car coats. I was trying on a gray wool one with a lapel collar. It was mid length and hung just below my butt. I walked over to the mirrors to check out the look and then I just wandered around the store wearing the jacket. One of the group said come on lets get out of here and they started to leave. I looked around and both clerks were busy and not paying any attention to me so I just walked out with the jacket. Oh my God, one of my buddies said. You stole the "effen" jacket. That's really cool. I "was" the "man". They all laughed and giggled and said how great I was to steal the jacket. I was elated and excited. I did it. Wow, I had a "Car Coat". As we were driving home it dawned on me that I couldn't take the jacket home. My mother would know that I stole it. I told that to the others and one of them said he could fool his mother and he would pay me for it. I thought boy am I stupid. I took the chance and if I had been caught it would have been my butt at the police station. Now I wasn't even going to get the jacket. He took the jacket and came up with a story about winning it in a drawing. I was the thief. He had the jacket and you know what, he never paid me a dime for the damn thing. I have never stolen another thing. Maybe "poppers" are really my conscience talking to me.

Mother and Child

Silent night, holy night

He began singing as the injections were started.

All is calm, all is bright

He was guilty of murder. He had exhausted all of his appeals.

Round yon Virgin Mother and Child

Those were his last words.

Holy Infant so tender and mild

The state had committed another "legal homicide"

Sleep in heavenly peace

A mother had lost a child

Sleep in heavenly peace

he died singing "Silent Night"

Silent night as sung in Irish.

Listen to the beautiful lyrics

pray for the victims of the convicted and the victims of state

I'm on a Mission

No, it's not a religious mission. It's a crap mission. To be more precise, it's a mission to expose crap. Internet crap. E-mail crap. I am tired of getting BS passed along because someone is to lazy to check it out. The latest being "the postcard virus" scare. "Beware, do not open any email that says it is a hallmark card. You will get a virus that will burn a hole in your hard drive" Dam, I thought, Maybe that's what happened to the plane that popped a hole this week. Somebody left a computer upside down in the overhead and the virus burned right through the top of the plane But alas, the hole burning virus is another net hoax. I know because I "snoped" it. I am sure most of you know what "snopes" is. For those who don't, it is a site to check out the truth of the e-mails that go around. However, it seems that a lot of people do not like me "snoping" their emails and then reporting back that they are sending BS. I have come to be called the "great snooper". Hey GS, are you going to snoop this one? I find that interesting because I am tickled when someone points out a piece of bad info that I have been using as fact. Embarrassed but thankful. I certainly know how to apologize for being stupid. I have had enough practice. I have to believe that a lot of people do not like to be corrected. I guess it makes them feel stupid. It should, because they are. Well maybe they are just lazy. "Look at this. It's great. Can you believe this? No, I can't because it's BS. These things go round and round and round and never seem to die. So I'm asking you to check out the stories. Be like me, "Snope" them and if they are not true, delete...delete...delete. By the way, how do like the picture of my new pet? It's a "Dogakeet". I call it "Bowsolly" Please, whatever you do, do not "snope" my "Dogakeet"

Dog doo and writing

She was a grouchy person. She never seemed to smiled and her comments were usually surly and mean. She lived alone and I rarely saw anyone visiting her. "Oh, she said, how can you stand to pick up that dog poop?" "Don't those dogs drive you crazy?" No, I replied I love my dogs and I certainly wouldn't leave their poop for someone else to pick up."Well, she replied, I wouldn't have a dog, they're way to much trouble." I walked on with my 3 schnauzers. As I continued my walk I began to think about the dogs. Why do I have them? They are a lot of work. As I walked and pondered, it dawned on me that they bring me love and enjoyment. I love having them around. Yes they are a lot of work. But so is anything that is worthwhile. If you want friends, you need to work at it. Friends, unlike dog doo, don't just happen. She did not seem to have any friends and I felt sorry for her but I realized it was of her own choosing. Then a thought came into being. I'll write about it. I began to think about writing, my writing. What is it that makes a good writer, I wondered? What makes an article or story worth the readers time? The answer is easy. Good writing is not like dog doo. It does not just happen. You have to treat writing like a friend. You have to work at it and when it smells like dog doo, you need to pick it up, throw it in the trash and keep on walking.

Are you alive?

does your god live does your god exist in your heart does your god exist in your mind does your god exist in your soul are you one you and your god do you feel your god in your heart do you see your god in your mind do you find your god in your soul if you do not see your god in your mind feel your god in your heart find your god in your soul you will never be with your god you are already dead

"Bombs bursting in Air"???

I think a tradition is a bout to die. 4th of July "FIREWORKS".

They are gone in towns all over America. No Money. Damn....Damn...Damn. What could be more stimulating than our July 4th fireworks and we cannot afford them. I think "The Stimulus" people missed a great opportunity here. I heard that they have only managed to spend only 5% of all that money they had to have so quickly. They did not even take time to read what they were signing. What are they waiting for? Fireworks for America would have stimulated a lot of people and put put a lot of bucks into local economies. Hey, Los Angeles is stimulating their police by hiring hundreds of officers at $50 to $80 bucks per hour for the Michael Jackson Memorial and they are laying off workers and crying about being broke. Yes, President Obama, I think you missed a great opportunity to really stimulate America.