Dear Tiger

 It was a special thing—seeing my dad with a cat. He was an animal lover. My dad had a great deal of respect and admiration for all animals, plants, and even insects. He had a very Zen-like way of looking at the world, even though he may not have been familiar with that term.

Shortly after my dad retired from Dobbins Air Reserve Base, he took up several projects in his tiny house. I think he would have called it his shop, but it was—and is—much more like a small cottage than a shop. He had a radio and a small TV out there. He also had his favorite rocker. It was the same rocker his mother rocked him in in 1928, when he was a baby boy, living out on Lowery Road in Rockmart, Georgia.

Daddy had acquired an old iron stove from somewhere—likely a teardown—and he would keep a fire going throughout the winter. If you were fortunate enough to know him well, you could step into his shop and have something like a religious experience. On the radio, Música Mexicana would fill the room. That was his favorite music, even though he rarely understood the words. It was the way it made him feel. Only when he spoke of his choice in music did it occur to me that one could “feel” a certain way in response to expression as it was intended. When I joined him in his shop, I could feel it too.

Adding to the ambiance, the stove would be going, with the slightest hiss and the most delightful wooden fragrance you can imagine. He’d rock in his chair occasionally, always with his right leg over his left knee. He would have a book, a letter, or a news article in his hands, and he would be happy to share the details with a great deal of passion.

Perhaps more unique than his choice of music or his interests in poetry and paintings was his deep love for all sentient life. I don’t think I could ever fully convey his respect for life the way I witnessed it. Without giving you all the details, I will tell you one story I have never forgotten—and included here, I think it will make sense when I introduce my protagonist:

We had rabbits. They were the most interesting creatures we had growing up. They were soft and cuddly, and they were always a big part of our little family. Daddy built really nice cages for them. They had rooms for living, rooms for sleeping, rooms for eating, and so on. It was as if he had designed a rabbit hotel, with a rabbit as his architect. Their comfort was his main concern, while we made pets of them.

The story I recall now concerns an expectant mother rabbit. Without warning, she passed just prior to giving birth to her brood. With the precision you might expect from a fine surgeon, I watched my dad attempt to save the unborn litter. It was too late. Daddy was quiet for a few days afterward. It was my first memory of seeing him deeply saddened.

Many years later, when it was time to retire, as I have mentioned, Daddy settled into his tiny house. At that time, he had no dog, and our rabbit family was but a memory. There were still some chickens on the old farm, but the remaining roosters were going blind and slowly losing their battle with time and coyotes. The last rooster was completely blind, except for the ability to see bright light. He would find a reflection and go to it and stare for hours.

One cool spring day, when all the animals were gone and all the children had moved into homes of their own, my dad noticed movement in the woods near his shop. It was a small yellow creature—a cat. The cat stood near the edge of the woods, looking at my dad with matching curiosity. Day by day, the yellow cat would inch closer to the man who was, by then, leaving treats near the spot where he had first seen him.

Over several weeks, the yellow tiger (as Daddy called the cat) came closer and closer. Daddy had too much respect for the tiger to call it a pet. He somehow knew the cat preferred to think of himself as the Great Tiger of the Woods, so while that may not have been his name, my dad honored him with that title: Tiger Woods.

Tiger and my dad were inseparable. Never a pet in any traditional sense, the cat enjoyed his time around the shop, inside and out. They ruled together. They walked in the woods together. It was the deepest love between an animal and a human that I have ever witnessed. It was perfectly mutual. Tiger was a reflection of my father. He shared the same respect for the woods, for privacy, and for the beautiful music playing on the radio.

My dad passed in 2009. Tiger had passed about two years prior. The old shop is still standing, almost exactly as my dad left it. The rocker is still there, having now survived for 100 years. The radio is still playing. It is on right now and has always been on. The stove is cool, but ready for a fire.

This morning, I woke up thinking about my dad. I was thinking about the many Easters when we were all together. I can still see Tiger there in the middle of the celebration, walking near my dad, still ruling with him as usual.

It will be a day for hiding eggs—at least once more. And it will be a day when people think about Easter and the resurrection it represents. Some people will even think about rabbits and their role in modern celebrations.

I looked outside, with these thoughts flooding over me, filling my head and heart with wonderful memories.

There, where Peter Rabbit will be placing eggs later today, stood a perfect replica of Tiger Woods. In the background, my neighbors were playing their lovely Música Mexicana. In the seventeen years since my dad’s departure, I have never felt more assured of his presence than in that moment.

Happy Easter.

The Wish Book

 

Well, let me take you all the way back. Way, way back. I was a tiny little boy, and I had The Wish Book. There were certain items I still actually want. There was a Red Ryder BB gun, a blue dune buggy, Dingo boots, a sleeping bag, and a lantern.

As little people do, I had it all figured out. Daddy worked for Dobbins and came home with C-rations sometimes. I can still taste that doughy bread that held the shape of the can it was in until it was consumed. There was some seriously strong instant coffee, two pieces of chewing gum, three cigarettes, some pot roast or something akin to it. There were even mashed potatoes. All in all, it was not terrible. I think there was even canned cake.

When Daddy would bring rations home, I took them out and pretended to be a survivalist. I might not be hungry, but I’d eat a bite of that bread anyway. It was survival. I even lit a cigarette or two. I drank that coffee like a grown soldier.

Mom got me a BB gun and a little, plastic, red lantern. Another year I got the Dingo boots and the sleeping bag. Those were not toys to me; they were gear. Daddy built me a dune-buggy-like go-cart, complete with big, deep-lug tires. That thing was a beast. Why there are no pictures of that prized machine, I shall never know. He gave it away after I moved out and got married. I wish I had it today.

The frame was made out of an old cast-iron bed frame. Uncle Fletcher cut those rails and welded them together in the shape of my buggy. Fletcher also welded a platform on the back; that’s where Daddy bolted the engine. The seat had a crude metal frame made of angle iron and bolted to the bed rails. But plywood boards, foam, and vinyl worked for upholstery.

The steering wheel was exactly half of a steering wheel from an old car. It had an actual transmission, too—off an older mower. It did have a clutch, but the shifter was only for engaging the clutch or freeing it. The transmission was connected to the engine via a drive belt. It was wonderful. It had only one forward gear and no reverse.

Can you imagine? There I was, on my powerful, all-terrain machine, carrying a gun, rations, a lantern, and a sleeping bag. I thought I could probably get as far as California. I usually made it down to the creek and camped there until it got dark. I’d turn on my lantern, and then I would hear a noise coming from just beyond its range. That’s when I’d start packing it all in.

 I was escaping.

Back inside the house, my mom and dad would be fighting. That was something I never got used to. It was not at all lost on me that we had plenty of food and comfortable beds, but I dreamed of sleeping on pine straw instead. I was glad the old gas heaters kept us warm, but I would have gladly traded that warmth for a night of shivering under the stars.

 Above all of the creature comforts combined, I wanted peace and calm at any cost.

 As I grew older, the desire for peace and calm only got stronger. By the time I got to high school, I was discovering several ways to accomplish this goal. I got a job at a grocery store, I bought a truck, and got a girlfriend—in that order. The grocery store was not a job to me; it was an escape. Buying gas for my truck was an escape. Hanging out with my girlfriend, or calling her on the phone, was an escape too.

Some of my methods were not very effective. School felt like another version of home life. I had no desire to sit in a chair and study for hours. That felt like punishment, so I started looking for ways to escape that as well. I looked for, and found, many ways to skip school. Everyone would suppose I was studying, and I would be up at Lake Acworth, sitting beside it, listening to the ripples as they crested near me. Once I experienced that, I could see no reason to buckle down the way everyone was suggesting.

Then my girlfriend had ideas about us being together and having our own home life. I tried it. But there were bills to pay and groceries to buy. I was supposed to make sure her car ran. I had to make sure my truck ran. And I needed to make more money because my wife wanted more than what we had. I did not like the arrangement from the very beginning.

 The rest has been summarized in many ways. But the truth is, I did not do the necessary things. I kept looking for, and finding, ways to escape anything that did not bring me joy.

 Of course, as I got older, I wanted a house, and I had to work for it. I finally buckled down. I wanted a truck. I worked hard for that too. I wanted guitars, and those cost money as well. So I’ve been doing my time for several years. My parents died, and I had to be even more responsible to help them transition.

 But now there is real talk of parole. Some people call it retirement. I’ve got about seven years left, and I am hoping I might be pardoned—or perhaps released on good behavior.

 I got a new wife ten years ago, and I learned that if you will be responsible for the sort of home life those creatures want, you can keep a wife indefinitely. This one is very adventurous, and she knew more about escaping than I did. In fact, she showed me how you can actually get to California.

 I’ve done more escaping since marrying this second wife than I ever did before.

 Mom died in November, and since then things have been dramatically different. Most of all, I’ve discovered that I am not needed as often as I once was. I find myself resuming the direction of a survivalist. I’ve been looking for lanterns, sleeping bags, rations, guns, and fire starters. To me, my four-wheel-drive Tacoma is exactly what I circled in that Sears Wish Book over half a century ago. It is not a dune buggy—no, it’s much better than a dune buggy. It has reverse.

 I am gearing up to escape.

What will I be escaping now? There is tremendous calm in my home. It is a safe, sweet, comfortable place. There is nothing there I want to escape.

 My job is literally at a park, and that is exactly what it feels like every day.

I am just now learning that I am not trying to escape at all. I am trying to hold forever in the palm of my hand, and to see eternity in a grain of sand.

Spots

 Mom seems somewhat comfortable. She begs for constant attention at Ross, but honestly, Mom has literally always needed that kind of attention. This has been the hardest part of raising her. I cannot really point to where this behavior may have developed. She lost her dad when she was quite young. That may be a part of it. But her mom was clingy and needy as well. I love and miss Grandma Hillhouse, but it would be an incomplete record to only mention her laughter and her love of flowery prints. Grandma H was a big problem for a lot of people in her day.

She somehow found that the housing authority could provide her with apartment living. The people who made that commitment were nearly sorry when they met Myrtle Hillhouse. She was a good tenant in that she would keep a place clean, and she was very quiet. But she was literally never happy with any of the details. I could write a book about her dissatisfaction and how she would squeak until the proper grease was applied, but suffice it to say that Grandma H was literally never satisfied.

Without telling that entire story here and now, I will say that it must have been the work of a gene. It must have been pork in a bill that somehow got passed. It was an epigenetic tag that went right into the formation of the egg that held the embryo that would become my mom.

And, without telling you the whole story all over again, I will admit that I inherited that very gene, and it was turned on at birth. I have, however, been giving everything I’ve got to tripping that breaker for 61 years so far.

Dissatisfaction is a disease. By its very definition, the word disease means something less than ideal.

Very early in my story, examples of this disease include my dissatisfaction when my dad brought home a model airplane he’d been working on for days. He had hinted at the project without giving me many details. As a little boy, my imagination ran away, and I assumed my dad was building me an airplane I could actually board and fly. I can still remember the day he brought the RC-sized airplane home, complete with two carved pilots who perpetually stared straight ahead. Looking back, I cannot believe I was disappointed in what is now one of my most cherished possessions. The yellow NC47 hangs from the ceiling, over the fridge in our basement kitchenette. Every time I see it, I am reminded of the way I reacted to that priceless gift when I received it. I am ashamed of myself, and I have asked my dad’s ghost to forgive me a thousand times.

Fast forward to 1986, when I was researching the best cars on the road on behalf of my mom. I wanted her to be in the most dependable car in the world. I wanted it to be safe and comfortable too. At that time, I found this kind of quality in the Toyota Camry. I thought I had finally scored the best car in the whole world for only $6,500. I even bought it with my own money, but I had to put that right back in the bank—it was all I had. After getting the Camry all cleaned up, oil changed, and new tires, I finally drove it out to Mom’s to show her what I had been working on. I was so excited. This was my best purchase so far. It was a fine car.

Mom walked out and saw it from the porch at first. “It’s nice,” she said, but I noticed some caution, and I was not sure it was sincere. She went down the steps and to the driveway and walked around it. And then, Mom got in the car of my dreams—perhaps not hers.

“What is on the windshield?” she asked.

Barely noticeable, and only in the right light, you could see some effects of acid rain on the windshield. I noticed them too, but I’d hired a company to buff them with compound, and the glass was just about perfectly clear—perhaps even 97% clear.

“I see spots,” said Mom. “I don’t want it if it’s got spots on the windshield.”

I was in a predicament. I had miscalculated her response, and I was out my life’s savings. I will never forget the panic I felt. If Mom did not repay me for this effort, I was going to be in big trouble. I had no choice but to make a totally different case.

“Can you loan me the money I’ve got in it until I can sell it?” I pleaded.

“We’ll see,” she said.

With that, I drove that nearly perfect Camry back to K&W Auto Sales, where everyone seemed as surprised as I was. I called the windshield buffing company back and had them buff the glass again. This time, it was just about impossible to see any acid rain anywhere. After that, I drove back to Mom’s and miraculously passed this second inspection just in the nick of time. My mortgage payment and my car payment would not be late.

Mom was never cured of this lifelong disease. Yesterday, it was Bill who tried to calm her when her lunch was not salted to taste. Of course, there are medical reasons for this imperfection, but Mom’s policy is to demand what you want regardless.

Comcast found this out the hard way. They were very excited when we called to disconnect her cable. Until very recently, the folks at Comcast would get a call from a very angry customer whenever she was dissatisfied with any of their many services—and this was nearly every day. And Mom had a superpower she would use: “I’ll hold,” she would say. It was not unusual for Mom to be on the phone with Comcast for over an hour, just so she could finally talk to someone who could make the necessary adjustments. I actually felt sorry for the company. They tried. Whenever you enjoy your Comcast services today, my Mom had a lot to do with most of the advances they had to make.

I hate the fact that Mom will never be satisfied. She spent many of her last years in an electric recliner that did a lot of the hard work of getting up and sitting down. Of course, the La-Z-Boy Corporation has associates assigned to Mom as well. Market watchers who have considered the volatility of La-Z-Boy stocks (NYSE: LZB) will eventually discover that the company’s misses on earnings are a direct result of my mom’s dissatisfaction with a recliner they foolishly guaranteed for life.

While Mom never had a mortgage or a car payment, she found ownership just as troublesome. Tucked behind a pine forest, laden with homegrown azaleas, Mom became obsessed instead with the distant travelers on the highway and the sidewalk at the end of her estate-like gardens.

“I look out and I can only see trees,” she would say.

We finally had to hire a tree service to dispatch the private forest so that Mom could see the road instead. Turns out, the actual location of the paid-for home was the real problem. She seemed to want the house to be closer to the road so that she could tell more about the travelers as they passed. I know—it sounds ridiculous, but this was one of the complaints we never quite dealt with. But I am sure that at least one of us, her four children, has looked into the costs associated with moving a house.

We did learn to read her reactions and categorize them based on what we knew about her displeasure. We learned that if something was wonderful, her reaction would be, “It’s alright.” If we rented a cabin on a mountain in Estes Park, Colorado, we knew we’d hit the jackpot if she said, “It’s okay.” Luxury and extravagance were never enough to get Mom beyond, “It’s fine.”

Now, as she begins her final ascent on Earth, I worry about the mansions Jesus promised. I know He has had a couple thousand years to get things ready, but I know Mom. Can’t you just see the look on Jesus’ face when He learns that His job is that of the typical HGTV real estate agent when it comes to Mom?

“And here, we have the golden street you will be living on,” says Jesus.

“Oh no,” says Mom. “I never cared for gold.”

“Oh, okay,” says Jesus. “Well, your family will be living on this same street, and they all have new bodies and are in perfect health.”

“Where’s the Dollar Tree?” Mom will ask.

Mrs. Furr's Pond

 This is a story about a very long walk around a really small lake—but one of tremendous personal value to me.

The year was 1990, and I was a used car salesman. I was 27 years old, married, with two dogs and a small ranch house. My then-wife was already a career person and on her way up in her company. I thought I would probably sell cars for the rest of my life. The car business, however, is where the term “feast or famine” must have originated.

Still being trained by some of the more seasoned salespeople, I found myself at a tiny dealership on Austell Powder Springs Road, between Austell and Powder Springs. Across the street lived Mrs. Furr. She had a nice little house under some massive oaks, and behind it, a small lake—maybe two or three acres of water. It was a pretty lake; very serene and private.

Mrs. Furr would hire people to do various tasks around her little oasis, and on Saturdays, some of the workers would show up to fish as one of the perks.

I’ll never forget one such Saturday. I was already hard at work—making calls and trying to get a couple of deals closed—when a jalopy of an old station wagon pulled into Mrs. Furr’s driveway. All four doors opened at once, and four young men got out. They went to the back of the car, reached in through the open tailgate, and pulled out a cooler, several fishing poles, and a few small tackle boxes. Two grabbed the cooler, the other two grabbed the poles, and they headed down to the lake.

And I watched them—from a window across the street.

Staring out the window and doing absolutely nothing else, I caught the attention of my boss and trainer at the time.
“Look at them fools,” he said, breaking my focus. “There they are, on a nice Saturday, driving that hundred-dollar car and fishing, when they could be out making money so they could drive a nice car.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t pull myself away from the scene.

In fact, that moment was life-changing for me. I’ve never forgotten it, and I’ve written about it often. That moment was like being offered the red pill or the blue pill, and I chose the red pill. I completely understood the appeal of living in the blissful simulation, but I wanted to know what was real. And I believed those fishermen knew something I didn’t.

Thirty-four years later, I found myself wrapping up a career filled with retail sales. I had good years and bad years, but I always kept that lesson in mind—and I tried to “go fishing” often.

Even within the past two years, I found myself in another retail position. In that time, I was called to the office three different times and offered three new positions—all with higher pay. But in the last of those roles, I found myself completely sold out to the job again, and Mrs. Furr’s pond felt further and further away.

That’s when Joey walked into the store. Ironically, I was also writing a book about joy, but found myself blocked—struggling to maintain it.

After several conversations over a few days, Joey said,
“You should apply at Jim R. Miller Park.”

I did.

That’s another story—but I got the job.

Yesterday, several people in various maintenance roles were working to get Miller Park back in order. We’d had our International Festival over the weekend, and the fair was coming soon, so it was all hands on deck—including me.

One of the jobs was to take down a big prop in the front lobby. We’d had a world map on a massive box and invited visitors to stick a pin wherever they’d been in life. The canvas came down first, then I disassembled the big box, leaving us with eight large panels to store for another day and another project.

I helped someone load the panels onto a trailer, and he said,
“Thanks for helping me load them, but I don’t know how I’ll unload them.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

We jumped into the big county truck and headed out. Left on Powder Springs Road, then another left onto Austell Powder Springs Road—I knew every mile. But I didn’t know where we were going.

Finally, we turned right on Oglesby Road. And just a few feet in, on the left, was a little paved path with a locked gate. We pulled in, unlocked the gate, and the next thing I knew—we were parking beside Mrs. Furr’s pond.

There was a metal building there, and Zack opened the doors.

I just stood there for a moment. I was there—by the pond—after all these years. That’s when it hit me: I had never even been there before. I had only seen it from across the street.

Now, standing beside the water, I looked up at the very window I had looked out of 34 years ago. The tiny car lot is still there.

And that’s when I realized—it was a homecoming.

The recent choices I’ve made in my career have brought me more in line with the dynamic I witnessed that Saturday, when four young men got out of a “hundred-dollar car” and fished.

What joy.

Tom Always Remembered

 Eighty years ago today, the body of a young American soldier was loaded onto a Jeep in Saint-Lô, France. A few of his belongings were placed in an envelope and shipped to Powder Springs, Georgia.

Two servicemen pulled up alongside Macedonia Road, got out, and walked into the field where the young soldier’s parents were working. There, they delivered the news: their son had been killed in battle. His mother fell to her knees in disbelief. Her heart was irreparably broken.

Across the field, two of the soldier’s younger brothers watched as the news was delivered. They saw their mother fall to her knees. They were young, but they knew exactly what had happened. They understood the message the servicemen had brought.

The elder of the two boys wanted to put on a uniform right then and there. He was only 16. But within two years, he, too, was off to war. His life’s goal became avenging his brother’s death.

This young soldier advanced rapidly and continued to work in military intelligence even after victory had been declared. While he was away, his father succumbed to grief and died of a broken heart. His mother, back home in Powder Springs, was left to cope with the loss of her son, her husband, and her father—all within a short span of time.

The young soldier returned home in 1949, a return that soon became permanent. He was working with W. R. Tapp when he heard about a farm near town. On the farm stood an old house—still in decent shape, though unpainted. Somehow, she managed to buy it.

When she wasn’t working the fields, the now-widowed mother would sit in a particular window, staring out until it was clear she had drifted to a very sad place. A single tear would often roll down her cheek.

The young soldier spent the next 24 years of his life trying to help his mother cope with the pain.

I happened to be born almost in the middle of that period. I was born into the reality of war.

The 16-year-old in this story was my dad. I live on this farm. I love my country. I’ve never worn a uniform. I have tremendous respect for our military, but I am not a fan of war.

I will be praying for peace.

War doesn’t end well—even when it ends well.

The Cabin

 

Have you ever heard the windshield wipers on a 1958 Chevrolet? Of course, I am referring to the lower setting. I am talking about the sound they make when you are driving on a country road during a shower and not a storm. There is no other sound like it. It almost has a breathing, vocal quality to it.

I have.

I know what this is like. We had a 1958 Chevrolet when I was a little boy. However, it was not until we sold it to my uncle that I finally appreciated the sound of the wipers. Uncle Howard and his wife Thelma, took Bill and I am to their cabin one morning. We hung around a while and even tried to fish in the little pond below the house, but a cool, spring shower ran us back to the shelter. It was an escape-day. Somehow, Bill and I were allowed to leave the chaos of our home-life for a day.

Back at the crude, little cabin, we sat out the rain a while. The roof was tin and there was no insulation or ceiling below the tin. So the sound of the rain was wonderful.

Finally, it was time to think about lunch and there was a new burger place in Dallas. We all ran to the Chevy and headed down Everett Mountain. The road was gravel in places where it wasn’t washed out to muddy ruts, but it was not terrible; it just meant that we’d need to go slow. I will never forget the way it felt, coming down that big hill. The rain was steady and Howard was careful to avoid the bigger ruts. The wipers kept up their swish-swash, but the sound of the electric motor was also coming through and into the car’s cabin. It had a pleasant, lady’s voice and it sounded like it was singing, “Love you. Love you. Love you.”

You could put your own words with it, but that’s what I made it out to be.

To this very day, over half a century later, I still love that kind of afternoon. I love a spring shower. To have a ’58 Chevy or a tin roof is as good as life ever gets.

Why do I mention this here? Why today? Why am I talking about this when I need to be getting ready for work?

Because I have escaped before. I have escaped an emotional prison that was far more fortified than I find myself confined to on this day. As a young boy, growing up in a dysfunctional home, escapes were all I had. From there, I learned how to skip school and I found out that a car could transport me to the lake in Acworth. I felt like I had found the holy grail when I would skip school and go sit out on the banks of Altoona. There, I would feel that feeling again. I would escape.

Today, I am afraid I must escape somehow. There are times when it does not really matter if you are ranked highest in the district; it means more to me to be ranked among those who know what the wipers on a 1958 Chevrolet sound like.

 

 

 

Joe Part II

Joe came to our family as a rescued stray, wandering down the middle of a road. He was scruffy, had fleas, a broken tail, a missing foot, and was blind in one eye. But Bill has never expressed a deeper love for anyone. Is it really love? Did Bill hold back this kind of affection from all other creatures and people, only to pour it all into such an unlikely animal? Does that even make sense?

Bill has always strived to be a good example, no matter the challenge. He’s always been keenly aware of trends. He wanted to be the best student in school—and he always was. He was the first to buy property in up-and-coming neighborhoods, turning neglected homes into vibrant spaces. In my opinion, Bill is singlehandedly responsible for revitalizing communities, being the first to invest in a house and spark change.

But I can also attest to Bill’s high expectations when it comes to the people he spends time with. If you’re unkind, bigoted, or neglect your role in keeping the community intact, Bill won’t waste his time. He’ll move on.

Bill wants a clean house, a clean car, and will drive an hour for the perfect haircut. But somehow, this scruffy little animal, who can barely see and struggles to chew, has captured the majority of Bill’s affection.

Having had dogs of my own, I get it. But Joe, somehow, takes the prize. Why? I could list reasons why Joe should be miserable. In fact, his hardships should have erased any trace of joy by now. But Joe is filled with joy. Despite being old, broken, and recently losing his remaining good eye, Joe remains as playful as the most spoiled puppy on earth. With his bad eye, he may see some light if it's bright enough—but let's face it, Joe is legally as blind as a bat. And still, within days of losing his sight, Joe was ready to play. He wagged that crooked tail, flashed those three good teeth, and barked.

No human could endure what Joe has been through, and even if they did, they’d never want to play again. Think about it: Joe hasn’t seen his family in years. He has no idea what happened to them. He was either abandoned or escaped. Consider the injuries he’s had to overcome. If Joe kept a record of his life, he’d be bitter by now. So what does this say about Joe? To me, it says his superpower is forgiveness.

What does Bill see in Joe? He sees the one being he’s ever known who can endure anything life throws at him without losing his joy.

Joe isn’t just a collection of misfortune. He embodies the ideal human spirit. As Joe often says: “I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.” That comes directly from The King James Bible—a book we read, but seldom follow.

Of course, it’s love. An unbreakable bond that will remain in Bill’s heart for the rest of his life. A few years with Joe will always hold deeper meaning for Bill than decades with the rest of us.

The Bat Bible

Thích Nhất Hạnh’s poem, “Call Me By My True Names”, asks the student to consider life’s journey as good, even in the face of the bad.

I’m simplifying it here, but many of the greatest thinkers throughout history have wrestled with sorrow as a way of questioning the existence of a benevolent God. The awakened Hanh understood the principle of opposites—an idea as old as recorded human thought.

My aunt is losing her physical body to cancer as I write. To my knowledge, she hasn’t done anything wicked enough to deserve the suffering she’s enduring right now. So, I find myself feeling betrayed by God—the same God I pray to and ask for her comfort. “How could you?” I ask.

God never responds in words. But the other night, a tiny, helpless bat found its way into our house. I told the bat that it would need to relocate, and I gently pursued it to that end. When it landed on a foam panel in our studio, I covered it with a bucket and slid a stiff canvas between the open end of the bucket and the wall, trapping the winged intruder inside. I carefully walked outside, releasing the little creature onto a table, offering it water. I didn’t know how long it had been trapped inside. The bat opened its mouth, but not to accept my offer—its warning was clear. I knew better than to get too close.

In a way, my aunt’s suffering feels similar. God doesn’t want to hurt her. Like the bat, He’s trying to guide her, to relocate her. Once this event ends, she will be in an open, wonderful place, at peace. As we, too, are being relocated—from this story to the next—we sometimes make the transition difficult; and that's normal.

Why is there suffering? Teachers of awakening have always taught that suffering is necessary for us to know what is not suffering—pure Joy.

I rewrote a Bible passage from Romans so the tiny bat could understand what happened recently:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in you if I can get you outside again. As a bat, you were trapped by the walls and windows of our home; not willingly, I'm sure. You needed to be delivered from that bondage, to have the liberty of the outdoors. As creatures, it was necessary for us both to suffer together while we resolved the trouble. And just so you know, Mr. Bat, I am also waiting for the same kind of redemption—the redemption of my own body.” ~ Bat Bible, MCV

Boots

 

If what I’m about to say makes perfect sense, then I will have failed miserably. 

 

On Friday, January 3nd, Becca had gone home for the night, leaving Stick and Toodles with their mother, Boots. Beginning around midnight, both girls heard a voice in the room. Both of them initially thought the other had spoken. The voice said only one word: "Mama." It repeated this word four times. To Toodles, it sounded like Stick. To Stick, it sounded like Toodles. Both daughters denied having spoken. Both seemed unsettled by the voice. At that moment, a paranormal thought crossed their minds—was this Barbara? 

 

Barbara, another daughter, more affectionately known as "Chigger," had passed away many years ago. Yet, her name was one Boots mentioned frequently; especially when speaking of her transition: "I want to see my Chigger," she would say.

 

Martha “Boots” Nelle Sloan was born on August 6, 1937, to Benjamin and Elise Sloan in Cassville, Georgia.

 

But right now, I want to focus on Boots and the abrupt way in which she began her exit from this stage of life. In considering her transition, I will tell you upfront: I believe she will carry on. If this thought brings you comfort, then perhaps no further explanation is needed. But if you wish to hear my reasoning, I will try to provide that as well.

 

When we speak of a loved one, attempting to tell their story, we often begin by outlining their origins—where they were born, what day it was, who their parents were, where they fit into the larger fabric of society. But can a birthday truly capture a person’s beginning? Imagine, instead, that we knew more about the day Boots' parents met, long before her birth. Perhaps we could uncover the precise moment their paths crossed, setting the stage for her arrival. The story of Boots could begin long before August 6, 1937, or it could start when she, as a young girl, supposedly told a tall, young stranger to "shut up"—a memory that Wade, her husband, often recalled. Or maybe, the story could begin even earlier, with her ancestors—the Sloan and Griffin families.

 

If this makes it harder for you to find a starting point, then I’ve achieved what I intended.

 

The brand-new baby breathed in the warm August air for the very first time 87 years ago. She cried, missing the comfort of the quiet womb where she had been moments earlier. At that instant, she had not yet received the name Martha. She was simply a bundle of energy—a being with potential, just beginning its journey in the world. In those early moments, it is most likely that her mother, Elise, welcomed her into the world, holding her in her arms, as every newborn deserves to be held.

 

The moment of birth has often been called a miracle. It is difficult to explain the miracle, yet it remains remarkable and special, even when we understand the biological processes that bring a child into the world. In the case of Martha Sloan, that miracle was a tiny bundle of energy—an infant who would come to be known as Boots.

 

Let’s talk about that bundle

 

With two eyes, this bundle of energy began to see the world. She grew, matured, and eventually married that tall stranger on January 4, 1958. With arms and hands, she held her own children—her own miracles. And, in the last few decades, those children had children of their own. Boots, the bundle, would hold the next generation, and she even held two, great-grandsons, welcoming new miracles into the world.

 

Boots, the bundle, was once small, weighing only six pounds herself, but it would grow. It had flowing black hair, dark eyes, and a wonderful personality. Time inevitably brought change. Boots, like all of us, grew older and wiser, though not without slowing down. Her body was no longer as charged with energy as it once had been. However, her mind and imagination remained intact—until just a few days ago.

 

Now, back to the mysterious voice

 

The philosopher Ferdinand Canning Scott Schiller once said that 1+1=2—unless you’re talking about drops of water. This idea helps me make sense of the voice that Stick and Toodles heard. In this instance, imagine the drops of water as a helpful metaphor. Just as a drop is part of the ocean, Boots, in her passing, is a part of something far greater. Alan Watts once said, "You are a function of what the whole universe is doing in the same way that a wave is a function of what the whole ocean is doing." In this way, I believe Boots has become a part of the vast ocean of experience that surrounds us.

 

In that room, within the four walls of the facility, there were chairs, beds—furniture that grounded them in the physical world. But there was something else at play in that space. Boots lay on her bed, but her creative energy was already showing up in new ways. Like a wave crashing, her soul was expanding beyond the confines of her body.

 

Boots filled the room, still alive within the eternal soul. And in this moment, Chigger, her daughter Barbara, had returned. That voice that Toodles and Stick heard? It was Chigger’s. Not to frighten her sisters, but to welcome Boots back into the ocean of experience—the same ocean that once held the energy of all the people we know and love.

 

As Paul said near the end of his own life, "Even as I am being poured out, I am glad and I rejoice with you all; you should all be glad and rejoice with me."

 

Now, let’s return to Schiller’s words. His intention was to show how things don’t always reach the logical conclusion one might expect. In the case of water, a drop is part of the ocean, and the ocean is part of the drop. In the same way, Boots, whose soul has left her body, is now a part of the greater whole. She will rejoin the Ocean of existence, where the boundaries between individual souls blur, and all are interconnected.

 

On August 6, 1937, the birth of a new wave in the ocean appeared when Boots was born. But that same day, Ferdinand Schiller, the one who lent me these ideas, died in Los Angeles. One wave crashed, and another was formed. The Ocean, forever altered by Boots, continues on, as does the energy that once was her. 1+1 = 1. Boots is the Ocean. She has been poured out. If she could say anything to us in this time of grief, I believe she would quote Paul and say, "I am glad and I rejoice with you all; you should be glad and rejoice with me.”

In Memory of Boots  8/6/1937-1/5/2025

 

 

Joe The Dog

 

Only recently has old Joe lost his eyesight completely. His life story is untold, kept only in his little head. My sister, Myra, found him walking down the middle of a country road—beaten up, broken, missing part of one foot, with a broken jaw and most of his teeth gone. Even his tail was broken, and he was blind in one eye. At the time, I had a hard, somewhat cynical view of Joe. I thought he should be taken to a humane shelter, where they could care for him and do what they do for old dogs in such terrible shape. But Myra and my niece, Harper, opened the car door, scooped up the tiny, shaggy mess, and brought him home. They called my brother, Bill, and asked him if he could tend to Joe for the remainder of his life. Bill agreed, despite my skeptical attitude.

 

At first, Joe wasn’t sure about the new arrangement. He was given a bath and food, taken to a vet, and given a fluffy, warm bed. But Joe had been through so much cruelty in his life that he thought he was dreaming and would wake up in a trash heap as usual. Day after day, he found soft food to eat. He was carried over rocky paths—painful for Joe with only three decent feet. But still, he was treated like he’d won some kind of lottery. A sweater, a fluffy bed, toys, treats, meals, and clean water.

 

Finally, the broken tail began to wag. Joe started to realize he wasn’t dreaming. With his tongue dangling through his broken teeth, hanging to one side, he opened his one good eye wide and smiled the happiest, most grateful smile you could imagine. His response to every gift seemed to ask, “For me?”

 

He played games he’d never played before. He could bark, growl, and pretend to be a Rottweiler guarding a junkyard. Bill would go along with Joe’s adventures, pretending to be the thief or the robber. In every game, Bill let Joe win.

 

As I mentioned, Joe lost his sight in his good eye about three days ago. At first, he looked around and blinked, hoping that maybe the lights were just out. He bumped into obstacles, disoriented. But, like with his broken tail, lost foot, broken jaw, and missing teeth, Joe accepted it. This was just another thing to live with. I visited him last night. He barked when I walked in. I spoke, and his tail nearly wagged. “I guess you heard,” he seemed to say. “It’s no big deal. I can out-smell any bloodhound. Eyesight’s overrated.”

 

I held him and pet him for a few minutes, then took him outside. I let him brush against me as he walked in a small area. Every time he touched me, his broken tail wagged. He didn’t seem bitter. “Bear with me,” he seemed to say. “It takes me a little while to figure out where I am.” And then he wagged his tail and smiled, his tongue hanging out through the big gap between a few teeth in his lower jaw.

 

Joe is old—probably between 12 and 15 years old. Joe is frail, and it takes so much just for him to get around and get comfortable. He has to gum his soft food, but Joe is happy. He has the assurance that Bill will be home, that he will have a good meal, a warm bed, a bath, and a big, fluffy towel. He may not see, but he has visions. He has peace.

 

Joe’s life, once marked by neglect and cruelty, is now full of kindness. He may not understand everything around him, but he knows love when he feels it. Joe would say what Fanny Crosby once said:

“The merciful God has put His hands over my eyes, and shut out from me the sight of many instances of cruelty, bitter unkindness, and misfortune.”

Fanny went on to write “Blessed Assurance”—perhaps Joe’s favorite song.

\

Thank You Bill

 

My Song, Thank You Bill

Bill? He is a rather complicated subject. Like all Coker’s, when mixed with Hillhouses, there is a tendency to be an a-hole. However, a-holes can be the best people as well. Bill falls into that category. He can be so incredibly concerned about an individual that he will get deeply emotional about their overall condition, but he also has the famous, Coker-switch. I’m afraid we all have this too; it is when you have finally had enough of someone’s BS and you completely cut them out of your life forever. Bill is really rather Zen-like. He can be happy regardless of his surroundings. He does not require any stimuli. He will indulge on occasion, but he can have just about as much fun with or without comfort. Of course, I love my brother. No human has ever tested me more than Bill. But, as one might expect, he has also put forth a tremendous effort to partner with me and make things happen as a team. The only way to deal with Bill is to get yourself a bull-rope and some rosin and pray your grip can keep you in the saddle. Being with Bill can be the wildest ride you’ve ever had and it can throw you further than you’ve ever been thrown. The term, “Never a dull moment,” had Bill in mind when it first came out. This is why he attracts fun people. Nearly everyone who is into having fun will be drawn to Bill. To people who want to have fun, Bill is the right kind of flame for their marshmallow. He projects the environment for comedic relief. He is not so much a deep thinker as he is a storer of thought. He doesn’t meditate or dwell on anything, but he photographically stores complete works in some sort of massive, vault-like unit in his brain. He can pull up information he stored in his library years ago. Therefore, do not – I repeat – do not get into an argument with Bill; you cannot win.

Bill has pretty much ran the family show and/or business, for his entire life. Mom calls him “The Boss” when she isn’t accusing him of being ill. Management always has this kind of reputation. However, upon reflection, our family could not have made it without his leadership. During our childhood, we faced some incredibly difficult situations. Dad had a really bad drinking problem and we somehow, almost ended up in a cult-like church-environment. Without having Bill around, steering us out of those situations, we may have ended up on Jerry Springer or as the subjects of a scary docudrama.

Bill had a Yoda growing up. Aunt Mable taught him “The Force”, and equipped him with all of the necessary weapons he’d need to get through life. If you want to know what Mable was like, see Bill. They were two peas in a pod. These details make his story interesting. Like all heroes (See Joseph Campbell), he was called away from his village. George Lucas borrowed from Campbell’s monomyth to tell the story of Luke Skywalker, and the reason it is called a monomyth is due to the fact that it is always the same for all heroes. When Bill was called away, he made Florida his home. Of course, there were other galaxies, like Corning, New York, but Luke – I mean Bill – had to go far, far away in order to become a Jedi. All heroes return to the village where they started; from Dorothy to Harry Potter, this is the part where the hero comes back to the village and brings the boon home. They renovate the old home-place and they renovate the entire neighborhood and they take care of their elders. Bill has been doing the most in this area lately. He has been good company and a lot of good support for mom.

Today, his age matches the traditional age of retirement in The US. This seems fitting as it coincides with Bill’s completion of the typical, hero’s journey. Of course, there is always a sequel.

Thank You Bill.

Thank You Bill

KISS

 

On August 29, 1976, Bill and I went to see Kiss at The Atlanta, Fulton County Stadium. Some guy named Bob Seger opened the show, early in the afternoon. It was a very hot day. The show was general admission and coolers and blankets were allowed. Apparently, nearly anything was allowed. The only thing I could compare it to would be Woodstock. We had 40,000, out-of-control fans and a handful of security guards who just tried to stay out of our way. Imagine having every rebellious teenager from Georgia, in one location, for one day.

Let me back up to the wait. Before the doors opened, the crowds gathered outside. We had a decent spot, near the gates. The midday heat was relentless. It was August in Atlanta; need I say more? People were passing around cold drinks of whatever they had in their coolers. At first, I thought to myself, “I’m not gonna drink after total strangers.” The heat was so unbearable; I finally took a sip of something as it passed by. I was only 12 and I probably should have inquired about the contents, but it was cold, so I continued to take sips as cold drinks came around.

When the crowd appeared to swirl, I started feeling nauseous. But the doors opened and it was time to run. Bill was carrying a huge, red cooler and we had blankets too. We ran and were followed by the crowd. In retrospect, it was a dangerous moment. But we made it. We ended up just to the right of the pitcher’s mound. Had there been actual rows, we might have been on the fifth or six row, just to the right of the stage. It was perfect. To our right, behind a row of four-foot-high, chain-link fences, was a massive tower of speakers. I’m going from memory, but the speakers were about 30 inches each and the tower must have been 30 feet high. Georgia State University has images of that day in their archives. The images were taken by an Atlanta Journal Photographer.

Bob Seger, and his newly assembled, Silver Bullet Band took the stage around 3:00 PM. Audience members who could not take the heat were excused. The mob would carry them overhead and dump them over the fence in a grassy area beside the massive speaker-tower. Several people took “naps” over there for the rest of the show.

38 Special took the stage. The crowd was rowdy for their entire set. I remember some parts of their set, but most of it was drowned out by the crowd noise. Johnny and Edgar Winter was just a little louder, but it was getting hotter and muggy. It was miserable by the time they got on stage.

Finally, Blue Oyster Cult took the stage and the sun started going down. Before the band started playing, Buck Dharma threw an entire six-pack of Bud into the crowd and told us to enjoy it and cool off. He immediately regretted it, saying, “I hope that didn’t hit anybody on the head.”

After they played their hit, The Reaper, the crowd was finally paying attention to the stage. The stage, meanwhile, was being prepared for Kiss.

Finally, after about thirty minutes of prep, the band emerged and walked on stage while flames and smoke lit the entire stadium. Lights were flashing and the gigantic speakers started buzzing loudly. When I say loudly, I mean it shook the ground. The vibration of the initial hum was the result of Ace Frehley’s Humbucking pickups and Gene Simmons’ low E, string, left open and vibrating for effect. I could see the speakers pulsing with the sounds. I was actually worried about our “seats”. We were very close to those speakers.

“You wanted the best, and you got the best, the hottest band in the world; KISS!”

As soon as those words shot out across Atlanta, Kiss went into Detroit Rock City and I don’t know how the entire stadium didn’t go up in flames. Explosions, fire, smoke, lights and drums! The music was so loud that when Bill tried to say something, I had to try to read his lips; but it was no use. After the first song, Paul Stanley came to the microphone and said, “They don’t call this Hotlanta for nothing.” And Peter Criss beat the drums for emphasis.  

Nevertheless, the show went on. It was, and remains, the best show I have ever witnessed. I was deaf for a few days afterwards, but it was worth it. Explosions, fire, smoke, lights, cables, drums, burning guitars, smoking guitars, elevating drums, sirens. I’ll never forget the beginning of Firehouse, when Paul Stanley came out, wearing a fireman’s helmet, with fire and smoke covering the stage’ sirens going off, red lights and flashing lights.

After that song, Gene Simmons breathed fire, shooting it all the way across the huge stage. Ace did a long solo. Peter Criss sat on a drum and sang Beth. There was everything a 12-year-old could ask for. There was blood, fire, smoke, loud guitars, loud drums and so much more.

I’ve lost count of how many Kiss shows I have been to since that show in 1976. I have never been disappointed at a Kiss Show.

In fact, 45 years later, Bill and I returned to the scene of the crime and saw them one last time on October 10, 2021. Believe it or not, it was better than the show in 1976.

Kiss hasn’t just been my favorite show; it has been a part of my life. I’m grateful for having had the experience of Kiss. Bill took me to my first and last Kiss show; he gets it.

As I write, the very last stage is being set for the final Kiss show. They play at Madison Square Garden at 7:30 PM tonight. The band has been doing these shows for 50 years and it is time.

Gene, Paul, Peter and Ace, thank you for these years of rocking all night long and partying every day!!

 

May The Force Be With You

 

Jennifer and I made our way to Piedmont Hospital and the usual prep began. Eventually, I was rolled into the operating room where I met the Da Vinci Robot, who was going to partner with the doctor during the surgery.

 

Being sedated, I think I asked the robot how it was doing.

I dozed off, opened my eyes and learned that six hours had passed.

At the time, I remember some discomfort, but it was somewhat manageable with the help of Sister Morphine.

Here I lie in my hospital bed

Tell me, Sister Morphine, when are you coming round again?

Oh, I don't think I can wait that long

Oh, you see that I'm not that strong ~ The Rolling Stones

 

 

 

And I rested.

When I would awaken, a nurse, or Jennifer, would usually be standing by my bed, trying to get me up and walking. I wanted no part of that.

On the second day of this surgical journey, I met a nurse named Joel Bond. I will never forget him, or the mystical experience his visit became. I only connected with Joel for that brief stay at Piedmont, but his effect on me completely changed my life.

Joel was often very busy when he’d drop by to check on me, but he’d still take a moment and pull a chair up beside my bed and chat for a couple of minutes. He’d joke and he’d give me some encouraging words before he rushed away again; always promising to check on me in a while and always keeping his promise.

I had some minor complications that kept me in the hospital for a few days, but Joel was there every day. And on the third day after my visit to the cave (Hero’s Journey), Joel came in smiling. He pulled his chair up and said, “I’m so happy.”

I had no idea what he was referring to. “About?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve seen your path,” he said, “You are going to live a long time.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. But I did not have time to ask him to clarify; my doctor walked in.

“We’ve got your pathology report back Mark.” Said Dr. Wong.

Joel put his hand over his mouth, “I thought you knew. I let it slip.” He said.

Oh… Okay, path is short for pathology. Right.

“We got it all and we won’t need to do anything more.” Said Dr. Wong, “We are just going to monitor your PSA a while. You’ll die of something one day, but not prostate cancer.”

With that, Dr. Wong walked out and Joel said, “I am so sorry. I thought you already knew.”

I told Joel I had no idea that “path” meant “pathology” and we had a laugh about that.

“I may not see you anymore.” Said Joel, “This is not my floor. I’m upstairs if you need me. After I met you, I asked them if I could stay on this floor until I knew you were going to be okay, but I’ve got to get back now.”

Joel gave me a pat on the arm and said, “It has been fun. You are going to be fine.”

I’ve not seen him since.

As soon as Joel walked out, it was easy for me to believe I’d just had a mystical experience, based on a true story.

The name Joel comes from the same source that gives us the word “jewel” It means: The Lord is God.

The word “Bond”, Joel’s last name, means: uniting power or influence; or a method of laying bricks.

The path? It is not really short of pathology in this story. It is Joseph Campbell’s path of a hero; which we are all called to travel on from time to time. It is the journey which every life-story is based on, for every individual. George Lucas wrote Star Wars based on The Hero’s Journey. To me, it seems clear that Lucas uses Luke to tell of his own journeys. Whether you see it or not, you’ll be called out on a journey. You won’t want to go. You’ll meet others, the way I met Joel Bond, and you’ll find yourself in a cave, where you have to deal with your fears. Your Joel, or your Yoda or your mentor, will help you to discover your strength.

“My ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us, binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.” ~ Yoda

 

The Journey's End

 

Today would have been my 40^th anniversary if Lori. I miss Lori on some strange level. I suppose I remember the shy little creature I dated 40-44 years ago, predating the beginning of the end. In that smaller window of my story, I can still see a rather cheerful period; an experience I enjoyed very much. In those years, I was in need of a miraculous rescue. From ages 0-14, I was developing and living in a story of complete anxiety. I was a wild Mustang of a horse. I hid behind hills and drank from streams and foraged in that wilderness of unhappy isolation. I could not really fit in anywhere. I would go to school and I was an outcast, making friends with the unruliest students I could find. I only made such friends because I could not identify with anyone who fit in socially. When The Universe introduced Lori as a supporting actress in my story, I found myself playing parts I had never played. I found out that dating would require a trip to a restaurant; something I had only done once or twice in my life. I did not know about these buildings where food was offered and servers would ask me difficult questions like, “Would you like some fresh grated parmesan cheese?”

It may sound like a simple question, but questions like that produced such uncomfortable feelings within me. “If I say no, will I offend this person? Does the cheese cost more? Does the server really have time to bother with such a selfish request?”

These imponderables would cause my heart to race and a bead of sweat would appear on my forehead. I stammered and sent the friendly server away, wishing I could have enjoyed the cheese I just refused.

To say that I was an awkward teenager is as much of an understatement as saying the ocean is wet.

Lori was not my girlfriend or a permanent fixture in my life; that was never the intention. Of course, my desire was to keep her on as my mate, but a Greater Mind knew that she had a limited role. Lori was a door into an adventure. When I was 19, and finally stepping through that door, I saw Lori and I as joint-protagonists. But later that day – this day, 40 years ago – I was given the clue of a lifetime and it was a literal sign, with two words on it and those two words captured the essence of the entire story of Lori. I did not realize this then, but the two words on that sign were there to reveal the title of the play in which Lori and I were costars. The two words? Journey’s End. That night, the epilogue was printed and the hardcover edition of the very first book of The Chronicles of My Life was bound.

It seemed unusual to begin a series of books with the first one being referred to as The Journey’s End, but it was the end; not of my life’s story, but of the story a complete adventure, where I was as wild as a Mustang and broken by a little, redheaded girl.

So today still marks an anniversary for me; it’s the anniversary of the end of book one. Without the first book, The Journey’s End, I would not have been prepared to accept the call we read about in the second book. Lori appeared in the first few chapters of the second book, but only to set up the characters who would help me over the threshold and back into the special world. Every Hero’s Journey begins in a mundane, ordinary world. Shortly after I stepped through the door of perception, which was introduced in the first episode of my life, I found myself in a very ordinary state. At that point, I could ask for parmesan cheese without the slightest delay. I was in this ordinary state for eight years into the second book, but the phone rang, and it was Lori. “Meet me,” She said, “and let’s say, ‘goodbye.’”

I agreed and we met at a middle school, located almost exactly in the middle of where we began and where we ended up. From that meeting, I watched her drive away and then I turned and answered the call back into the special world.

 

They Call Us Flippers

 

You would not believe how often we uncover a patch that completely shocks us; and I don’t know why it still shocks us. In so many cases, a floor is just one bounce from falling through, a wire is just one jiggle away from burning down the house, a wall is just one good push away from falling in or out and this list goes on forever.

Some real examples:

1.     1. In one house, the add-on laundry room was leaking and the drywall had fallen in, and the renter was behind on rent so they did not even call the landlord; instead, they tried to patch the ceiling from the inside. I kid you not. They took a bucket of tar and slathered it to the exposed decking; INSIDE THE LAUNDRY ROOM. This probably would not have even worked if they’d gotten a ladder and tried to patch it from the roof side, but the odds would have been significantly better.

2.      2.  On one house, some siding had rotted and fallen away from the house. No problem: the homeowner found some decent cardboard, cut it out bigger than the hole, attached it with duct tape, and actually painted his patch to match the house. I swear, someone should make videos of repairs like that. It is sad and funny. The sad part is that the person who makes such repairs spends a lot of time doing so and they actually think it will work.

3.      3. We bought one house and it was actually a decent house; except the homeowner was a “handyman”. He had a lot of silicone and several boxes of drywall screws in assorted sizes. This demo was the hardest one we’ve done. For decades, the homeowner had been squeezing silicone and screwing anything he added or repaired. Nothing was level or cut properly, but it was securely in place; FOREVER. Pipes were literally all coated in a half-inch layer of silicone. I’m still not clear on what he was thinking here. It may be that he was thinking the silicone would insulate the pipes, or maybe he thought the outer-layer of silicone would prevent leaks? I am not sure, but the pipes had to be rescued from the silicone before they could be removed.

I could go on. But don’t get me wrong; this is why I have a job and I love it.

During the boom we’ve been experiencing, we’ve been watching our competition. There are some flippers out there who know what they are doing. I usually go and check out their work whenever I can. Some people just go in and renew everything. Those are usually the best examples of a renovation, but they often cover up beautiful hardwoods and they’ll just throw old, wavy-glass windows in the dumpster and replace them with off-the-shelf, vinyl windows. While I agree that the house will often function even better, giving up the charm to achieve that goal is not always the best idea.

There was one house we really wanted. We made an offer but were outbid by another company. The house was absolutely gorgeous. It was old and neglected and it needed a lot of work, but we dreamed of bringing it back the way it was designed. It was filled with old-world character you just cannot find anymore. Naturally, we watched the renovation. We were hoping the flippers would have the same vision we had and that they’d bring it back to its original, stunning character. Everyone was talking about this particular house; and they still are. It’s all done now, and if you like the modern version of an old, farmhouse, you’d like this renovation. But it’s as if the old, Victorian charmer was never even there. So far, everyone I’ve talked to wishes that we’d gotten it. In my opinion, taking an antebellum-style home and making it look like the houses you’ll find in every new subdivision is kind of backwards.

Bill and I are presently renovating a village home in The Goodyear Village in Rockmart. We are basing everything we do on maintaining the character of the old village. Sure, we could make the cottage stand out by creating a farm-house there on the corner; but it would be as out of place as I was, when I wore a brown suit to a Harry Norman Christmas party.

The last house we did was one that our aunt built in 1955. So what did we do? We found pictures of homes built in 1955 and we redesigned it to fit the original style. Bill furnished it with midcentury-modern furniture. If you go there now, it’s like stepping back in time, to 1955, and walking around in a new house from that period. Where the floor needed patching, we found old wood. Everything we did, we tried to keep the original charm in mind.

Flipping is hard work sometimes. This is why you’ll find plenty of houses where the demo is either underway or complete. I can almost understand why these houses are often offered for sale at that point. This is when we look around and feel overwhelmed. To be honest, this stage can be difficult for anyone. You’ll always find something you weren’t expecting. This is the only thing we seem to have in common with the popular HGTV shows; someone is always going to say, “You may want to come in here and have a look at this.”

Only we don’t get to cut to a commercial. And this will happen almost daily. We’ve learned to deal with it. You cannot let these things get to you; putting a sign up at this point will result in a loss.

Speaking of dealing with it, Bill has learned how to estimate any job and his method is the most accurate method there is. We’ll look at a project and Bill will ask me to come in and give him my estimate on the total costs. He nods and says, “Okay, I got it.” He doubles my guestimate and that has proven to be almost exact in every case. This is where having a good ol’ boy and a business major from UGA works out great.

I wish I had known to do this when Susan and I built our own home. It ended up costing almost exactly twice what I said it would; I didn’t know to double it back then.

The Upside

 

Experts are saying that inflation has hit Americans harder than expected; if someone did not see this coming, I don’t know why we’d call them an expert.

The feds are definitely going to pull back on bonds in the coming weeks. And in the summer of 2022, interest rates are going to start going up. Houses will be selling like hotcakes through the month of June and then it will begin to slow down. Prices, however, will not be going down. Prices only go down when money is worth as much as the printed value on it; that’s not the case post-inflation.

Incomes will be greatly improved by the summer. This has nothing to do with policymakers pushing for higher, minimum wages; it’s going to be fueled by the demand for workers. Employers who want to survive this transition are going to have to pay much higher wages and give up a lot of their bottom line. The upside to doing so will be the ability to remain viable until inflation catches up with the reset. Absolutely everything is going to cost more; much more. Every retailer or service provider will have to make rationing decisions and slow their own growth so as not to become kindling for the changes in the markets. Wages and prices will need to go up. Any employer who refuses to raise wages will not recover their workforce and without a workforce, they’ll fail.

Home prices will continue to go up. So will everything else. As wages are increased, affordability will meet the new prices. Personal, fiscal growth is still going to be doable, and small companies could capitalize by hiring the best workers while the huge, super-retailers refuse to give up massive profits they typically enjoy by paying very little for products, and paying very low wages.

This could be the end of huge department stores and the beginning of a new kind of opportunity for startups. Quality is key. Hire the best workers and pay them well. Sell the best products and provide the best services and build a strong, small company while the mega-stores struggle to find people who will work for almost nothing.

Just a few years ago, most mom-and-pop companies had to sell out or give up under the pressure of super-chains. I think we may see the opposite scenario taking place soon. Workers are holding out for better wages and consumers are looking for higher quality and better services. These ideas go against everything that makes a mega-store or a monopoly.

This is not gloom and doom… unless you are a Superstore that was doing really well when you could buy really cheap products and have them shipped for very little, while paying your workforce just enough to buy some of the junk you were peddling.

 

 

Navigating

 

I am so thankful to be here. After an illness last week, my entire perspective was jolted. It came just as my dear friend David, was being lowered into the earth. Those events, when coupled, caused a spike in my awareness. While the events are dreadful, I hope I can keep the energy of this spike. It feels so wonderful in my soul.

I think it is a good idea to give the self some things to do. Many of today’s teacher’s call the self; ego. For some reason, I have yet to embrace that. It carries a connotation that maybe the self has to be selfish. This may not be so. I think we may be able to train the self.

When I think of the self now, I think of it as my thing. The self is a subordinate to The I AM. What has only just come to light for me is that the self is very unaware of its status as a servant. The self is not a power-grabber, but all of its thoughts assure it that it is doing everything own its own. One way to think of this is to consider other people you know. Do you feel a separation from yourself and those other selves? You probably do. I know I do. But then, let us consider the category, Life. Are those other people a part of Life? Are you are part of Life? Somehow, while we think of ourselves as individuals, at the same time, we accept the fact that we are also a small part of a bigger picture; whatever that picture is. I am not Everything, but I am a part of It. With this understanding in mind, let us come back to the self and simply observe any self at all. As an Observer, it is very easy to see that every self has its uniqueness. One characteristic present in every self, is the mind in the mechanical room of each self. To say that the mind is unaware is not really fair. It is extremely aware of the functions of itself. However, it is not the duty of the mind to grasp what is “out there”. Think of the self as having been trained to operate the machine that gives it life. It is not unlike legs, hands, eyes and so on. If you have two legs and if you are familiar with walking on them, you can see that it serves you best if your legs only concern themselves with the body perched above them. Can you imagine trying to make your legs aware of other bodies that may also need mobility? Your legs would lose track of their mission and, in their confusion, they’d fail you in order to see what they could do for others. So the self, running all of the controls in the mechanical room of your individual machine, constantly works to keep the machine running. One by one, it will solve problems without worrying about what may exist aside from its machine. In fact, it will actually attempt to put everything in a logical, local category. Give it a word and watch what it does. This can be entertaining. The self in every individual is a decorated soldier. This soldier is trained to be extremely disciplined. The self does not cry. The soldier in you can tell when you are crying; he rolls his eyes and causes your hand to reach for a towel. He sends commands like, “Stop. Focus. Regroup. Straighten up. Get a grip.”

That is his duty to the machine. The self does not care what it is that is making you cry. This proud, decorated soldier calls it a storm and he starts yelling commands to every hand on the ship of your experience. With every surge, the soldier says, “Stay with me; we’ve got to get through this.”

Throughout your life, you will find yourself in waters like this and, if you will observe carefully, you can see the work of the soldier in real time. Your eyes may fill with tears and you may feel tremendous heartache and you may hear yourself saying, “I don’t know why I cannot stop crying.”

In such a moment, you can see two distinct characteristics present within you. One is filled with grief or sympathy or empathy or love. One is building a resistance to these categories as quickly as possible. You’ll notice that there is something about yourself that says, “We cannot remain in this dreadfully raw place and function in this real world.”

At the same time, you will probably notice The I AM saying, “Fine, but the feelings will remain. I’ll just try to spare the self from as much exposure as possible.”

In every case of grief, the self eventually emerges. He has saved his ship. Oftentimes you will hear someone say, “I am still standing!”

When someone says this, they are not saying that they’ve overcome the sadness; they are saying that the machine has been refitted to carry on with the new information.

That’s right; to your soul, it is not just information. Your heart has broken. Your life has changed. There is sadness. But to the self, a few new boards are brought in and a wall is thrown up to hold back the emotional part of this new situation.

You’ll see this in your own experience when a loved one dies. At first, it has the capacity to cripple your ship, but you know you mustn’t allow the situation to take you to the bottom of the sea. In most cases, day by day, you’ll find yourself engaging in routine events again; in spite of the fact that the loss is still very real.

As The Observer you are, you can hover over this situation with The Light of Awareness and you can see how both sides are getting on. Shining the light on the self, you’ll notice new safeguards and supports in place. The self may gather friends and ask for support in order to regain the ship and this is a very good idea. Then if you take the same Lamp and shine it on The I AM, you’ll see that the feelings are all still there. The emotions are there. The I AM is also relying on the support of friends, but It needs and wants to get to The I AM in them. The pain and rawness of the event recolors the water around your ship and it may even appear red to your Awareness. You see this color changing the very Ocean of your own existence and you know it has begun to reshape the entire Ocean forever. The waves will be different now. The tide may be different. Your “I AM” has affected the entire experience for yourself and everyone else; forever and throughout all space. In a case where you’ve lost a loved one, the very buoyancy of your own ship will likely increase; making navigation easier on the self; that determined soldier in your wheelhouse.

This is how our loved ones remain with us forever. In the physical sense, we can observe the ship and notice their absence, but if we allow a look by The Observer in us, we will see our loved one’s impact on The Sea of Life. If we are honest with our mighty soldier, the self, we cannot ignore the changes in The Sea. The self has the data too. That’s why, if you consider the machine you are riding in, you’ll notice more resilience in certain, affected areas. A good soldier will guide you around your own ship and say things like, “See, I made it through that day without tears.” And later on, “I’ve been through a lot and I am stronger as a result.”

These are the words of your captain. Without him, you’ll go mad. Let him do his job. Let him reach for towels and let him have friends. It is not his job to file any kind of emotion at all. It is his job to stop those files from contaminating the machine. That’s healthy and normal. The captain will make yourself stronger.

 

 

 

The Honeybee

COVID-19 is the name of the nemesis. A virus has become the archenemy of the human race. This must be how bugs feel when a pest controller sprays their nests. I don’t know how many times I have sprinkled granules of some kind of poison on an anthill. Don’t you know that as that poison begins to do the trick, there must be panic within the mound? I don’t think ants are as savvy as humans, but I am sure each generation is getting a little closer to catching on to the warning signs of an angry homeowner. Typically, we have to change the method of control once the pests “learn” how to get around our poisons.

We’ve been fighting viruses for centuries. We have probably done our part by chasing them with all kinds of solutions, vaccines, antibiotics and other remedies. If you were a virus, wouldn’t you try to find the right kind of DNA to give your offspring in order for them to survive the stuff humans try to use for control? It’s a match that someone has to eventually lose.

Of course it is very premature to talk about what may come after COVID-19, but if we manage to find some sort of immunity with this virus, the next one may give us more trouble. Of course it could be decades away.

The reality we have yet to accept is that, as humans, we may not always be able to think our way out of something. This is the case with hurricanes and earthquakes. When we heed all of the warnings, we tend to survive many of these enemies, but when a human is blindsided by a storm, it may not be decided by who has the bigger brain.

During this uniquely stressful pandemic, I’ve watched the reactions of all kinds of people and most of our best guesses are not really winning the fight as quickly as we’d like. One with lots of money is accustomed to treating things with money and money does not really seem to solve the underlying concerns if you ask me. Someone with mechanical skills will often begin talking about machines that may help people breathe if they find their own ability to get enough oxygen is just not enough. Someone who cooks will talk about ways to keep people fed. Someone who sells toilet paper seems to fare pretty well for some reason. Scientists are looking for ways to accelerate tests that will get some kind of potential treatment out to humans sooner rather than later. And the tests are happening at an alarming rate, all over the world. Governments are trying to find ways to “flatten the curve”, which is another way of saying, “We may have just as many cases, but over a longer period of time so the hospitals can treat everyone instead of the just the most critical ones.”

Preachers are preaching as usual. Huge companies are laying off employees as a way to mitigate the effect of the virus on the bottom line. Doctors and nurses are doing everything they can do to keep people alive and safe. Teachers are having classes online. Some essential workers are literally risking their lives to keep food production going and shipping. Nursing homes are taking emergency measures to the extreme and people are not being allowed to visit loved ones for now.

We are all doing things differently in order to slow or stop this virus. The thing about COVID-19 is, it really did not seem to come prepared to kill all of its potential hosts. As with most bugs, this virus seems to want to live concurrently with humans. To coronaviruses, a perfect world is one where humans and viruses can live together. It can only be a serious player if it can survive. And this is the most likely scenario. COVID-19 will probably eventually find its way into so much of the herd that it will begin to have less effect. The fact that it is so easily spread seems to suggest that it is trying to pair up with as many hosts as possible in a short period. The effect this virus has on the elderly is extremely dangerous for this portion of our herd. And this is where we refuse to act like buffalo and leave our old ones behind. Thankfully, humans are far more empathetic than most other animals. We don’t leave anyone behind.

But if this virus finds its way into our communities and we’ve kept our elderly away, what is their defense when we begin to mingle again? If the virus learns to coexist with healthier, younger humans, then how will those healthier, younger humans not become lethal to the aged and unhealthy?

Herd immunity will eventually work, except many people will likely die as the fight has to be taken up by stronger, healthier humans. This pandemic is like a pack of wolves chasing our entire herd as I type this note. Way out front, you have those younger, healthier, faster humans running up and into the hills without giving out of breath. Behind them, you have some who are running, but are dealing with the dust from the younger ones and the fear of the wolves they see and hear behind them. Right behind that, behind people my age, you have those people who are over 60 and maybe not quite as swift. Right behind them, you have an enormous group of people who cannot outrun the virus. They are out of breath and many are too unhealthy to keep running. Some are giving up and some are being killed.

Amazingly, the altruism of the human race shows up in the nick of time. Some of the ones who could have outran this enemy have turned around to face it head on. You are seeing them in a staring contest with the virus.  We all have elderly or unhealthy loved ones. We are all determined that the virus can’t take them without a fight and everyone is preparing to fight now. How will this fight ultimately turn out for the herd and its nemesis, COVID-19?

As a senior in this very herd, with a mother who is 85, a father-in-law who is 85 and a mother-in-law who is 80, I’ve begun to stand between the virus and the elderly in my group. As a responsible fighter, I’ve agreed that I can probably risk a little more than my aged loved ones so I place myself a little closer to the frontline where food and necessities can still be had. I bring them to my loved ones and try to avoid any close contact. But I am deeply concerned that I can only delay this disease and not completely prevent it. The flattened models I have seen do not really show us saving the most vulnerable, it seems to show us delaying their infection and their fight. If the front lines do not find a way to kill this virus, it seems to me that the virus will kill some of our elderly population in a wave; now or later.

It may be that the new ventilators will save many of our stronger ones. If they survive it, the virus may be around for decades and it may kill millions as does the flu and cancer. It may be around for the rest of this human period. I may survive this and become somewhat immune to COVID-19 and die of something else later on. It may be that the only possible solution is to build our individual immune systems to fight this thing individually, but what about my mom, father-in-law and mother-in-law?

I think the only hope for them at all is a serum. Whatever the human immune system develops as a cure for this disease, will have to be administered to the elderly. This is the race now. This is the fight now.

Time won’t take care of this. Having the virus running freely within our community will only provide better health for those who are already relatively healthy and fairly young too. But for anyone with any kind of illness or already fighting the disease of age, this virus seems to be the one they cannot beat.

It’s our time to show creation what we are made of. Honey bees are a good example of what our best may well demonstrate during this crisis. We’ve taken note of this coronavirus and we feel threatened. We recognize the enemy’s desire to do harm to our hive, our tribe, our herd. When a honeybee has decided that its hive is being threatened, it finds the enemy and stings if possible. The honeybee does not take this lightly as it knows that it will die after it has stung the assailant. It will take this mindset to defeat this enemy. We will have to fight with a honeybee mindset. You are seeing this today. I am proud of the human race for saying, “No, you cannot take our old people and our unhealthy people without a fight.”

The entire herd seems to have stalled out and turned around to face this thing. It has been a beautiful moment to witness. At first, the youngest ones could not be slowed down. They are too filled with excitement and life. But they saw the middle group stopping and they eventually stopped to look back. We’ve witnessed the tragedy out back, where the oldest ones are being taken down by this enemy, but almost at once, others in the herd began to stand between the virus and the herd. Now it is a standoff. Right now, nobody knows what happens next.

Some people are calling for the herd to carry on. But there is too much love among humans for that. Most people know that if we carry on and do nothing, we will be thinned out and the ones we love will have died for us instead of having it the other way around. It’s a beautiful fact that most humans, when given the choice of dying for someone verses having someone die for us, we choose to die. It is not an easy choice. Life has always been our most valuable possession. I believe many people will be risking their lives in order to fight this disease on the front lines. Some will lose that fight. But I also believe the one thing this virus cannot withstand is a love so great.

This is not the first time this has happened. It happens in every generation. My uncle was on a tractor, in 1939, plowing a field. He had been hearing about the war and how the enemy wanted to take away American freedom. He stepped off of that tractor, walked by his mother and father, on his way to gather a few things and he was off to the train station where he joined 16 million others and became a soldier. His life was not at risk in that garden. But there was no way he was going to allow an enemy to have its way with America.

This is what we do. This is how we are naturally wired. Millions of people are literally risking their lives to save others right now. This is happening all over the world. If the enemy wants a fight, mankind will give it to him. The thing that no enemy is ever really prepared for is The Divine Wind. Today, we are seeing the evidence of this Divine Wind. When you see people risking their lives to save others, there is a Wind behind them and it is Divine. It’s the soldier, the nurse, the doctor, the honeybee and the caregiver.

To answer your question, Jack Johnson, “Where’d all the good people go?” take a look around.