June 2004 Archives

knock knock

This evening I found out that local personality Toddzilla keeps an online journal of his hopes, dreams and desire for comments. He also likes music and isn't afraid to let everybody know.

These ads are supposed to be context sensitive. Google must think this is a blog about swimming. Maybe it is because I mentioned a natatorium a while back.

I wonder what happens if I mention the word TiVo. Will Tivo ads appear now? Or maybe DirecTV, cable television, DVD or satellite ads will appear.

As you can see above, I've been playing with Google AdSense. I hope my dear readers don't take offense to the commercialization of this space. This is just a phase I'm going through. Ignore the ads for long enough and they will go away. Better yet, click on them and I could make a few cents.

A scene from our back yard this afternoon. Zoe got a toy roller coaster from the Boltons for her birthday. We gave it to her this afternoon because it looks like it will rain for the next few days. I hope the rain is gone before her birthday party on Saturday.

UPDATE: If DVC sees this, I want to know how I could have handled the first edit better. It doesn't look natural, but I don't quite know why (aside from the obvious reason that I only used one camera)

Nine days since the last post on this blog. Something must be awry.

Zoe and I went swimming at the Y(MCA) yesterday. After giving the outdoor pool all we had, we went inside so I could show Zoe the jacuzzi. A note on the wall forbade us from turning on the jets. Presumably, they were in disrepair, so the jacuzzi was just a hot tub. Zoe liked it anyway. We also swam briefly in the indoor kids' pool, but it couldn't match the excitement of the outdoor pool.

The point of this is that I learned a new word that I want to share with you. The door to the indoor pools was labeled "Natatorium". I consulted OED to learn that a natatorium is "A swimming pool, esp. an indoor one; a complex containing one or more such pools."

God has no list of thoughts or actions that are sins.

I just realized this yesterday, and it seemed pretty important. Of course, I knew it before, but I didn't realize the impact of it until yesterday.

People, especially religious people, are so into making and discerning rules, that they give the impression that to sin is to perform an action that is on their list of sins. Murder, theft, lust and littering are on most people's list, but they aren't on God's list. Remember, He doesn't have a list.

To sin is to live or act outside of the will of God. I don't know for sure, but I don't think it is God's will for anybody to spend his life avoiding actions that are on a list of sins. If that is the case, spending your life avoiding sin is, in itself, a sinful way to live. On the contrary, he who spends his life trying to discern and follow God's will without regard to a list of forbidden activites is not living a sinful life. The man who spends his life seeking God will probably not murder, steal, lust or litter, but that is of no importance to him.

Mom recently asked me an insightful question. She asked whether this blog would be around in any form for Ava and Zoe to read in the future. The answer is yes, in one form or another, this blog will be around for years. Thanks to archive.org and similar services, nothing on the Internet dies anymore.

So, I address you, Zoe and Ava. I hope you enjoy this insight into your father as I am in the early 21st century. Remember that a lot of what I write here is tongue in cheek*, but my words about you are all sincere.

*Tongue in cheek is a contemporary expression meaning ironic or facetious.

P.S. If I'm in a nursing home when you read this, please bust me out. Or at least visit me regularly.

I started to load the family into the minivan for the great one's funeral. I decided to pour out a 40 for the fallen instead. I think he would want it this way.

Now seems like a good time to list my Reagan autograph on ebay. I wonder if the inspirational words "Hi Will!" will add or subtract from its value.

I just came from a company wide meeting called by the CEO as a rememberance of D-Day. Pat and Jane presented the story and account of one soldier who was in the Blue and Gray division in the 0700 wave on Omaha Beach.

Hearing a personalized account of just that small portion of the battle made it much more real. Out of 240 men he landed with, only 17 survived past Normandy.

I am lucky to work for a company that pays me to take history lessons.

UPDATE:

Before she read this, I told Sarah about Blue and Gray. She knew immediately that they landed at Omaha Beach. Her knowledge of military history once again leaves me in awe.

Just look at that face. Isn't she cute?

Marcus and baby boy Alex Merrell.

Another blog linked to Pictures from the 101st Airborne in Iraq. Some excellent photos.

I was pleasantly surprised last night when Zoe wanted blueberries for dessert instead of our usual candy. Maybe breaking our habit of eating candy for dessert every night will be easier than I thought.

My golf bag contained my seven iron and five wood along with my father's putter. Per the rules of golf, I was limited to fourteen clubs. If I happened upon eleven clubs along the course, I could slip them into my bag without violating the rules of the game. That didn't happen.

Before work that morning, Dad gave me some pointers about playing in a tournament. He told me about how Grampa Red had caddied Dad's first tournament. Dad was eager to do the same for me, but he had to work. He would take over bag duty when he joined me shortly after tee off.

When the pro shop attendant asked if I had played a tournament before, I meekly admited that, at the age of six, I had never tested my metal in a golf tournament. He gave a rundown of how a junior tournament is run, and spoke it loud enough for my mother to hear.

Like Dad, Mom couldn't stay for the whole tournament. My cousins, Claire and Matt, were coming to stay with us that afternoon, and she had to go get the house ready for them.

I walked with Mom and the junior pro to the first tee where I was introduced to the seven-year-old I was paired with. Immediately I compared his golf cleats to my tennis shoes. His glove bettered my bare hand. Most of all, the fourteen clubs in his bag, signified my imminent defeat.

I wasn't eleven clubs shy due to financial hardship. Dad gave me one club at a time as I mastered them. It is better to have one club you can hit well than fourteen you hit poorly. I had mastered the seven iron, and I was getting pretty handy with the five wood. Next would be a pitching wedge, then a long iron. My opponent had already earned all fourteen of his clubs.

Dad didn't use a glove, so neither did I. At the time, most of the touring pros agreed with us that a glove takes away from your feel of the club. There was certainly no need for a six-year-old to wear golf cleats. When my swing had enough power to slide my feet out of a proper stance, Dad would happily give me golf cleats. How powerful was this seven-year-old that he needed cleats?

My opponent chose a three wood for his first tee shot. His ball sailed past the cart path in front of the tees, touched down and eventually rolled to a stop in the middle of the fairway.

I opted for my five wood. After I lined up my shot and addressed the ball, I brought my club head back and let my nerves take over from there. I shanked it. My ball hit the base of a tree about ten feet in front of me to the right of the tee. With the other player's conscent, the attendant offered me a mulligan. I switched to my more familiar seven iron, and topped the ball. It rolled off the front of the tee box into the long grass.

The attendant suggested that I play the second ball. I had another idea. I cried for my mother and demanded to go home. That was the end of my first tournament.

I don't know if Mom got in touch with Dad before he got to the golf course, or if he had to come to the pro shop to find out that his son ran away from defeat in tears. We didn't talk about it after that.

That was the only solo golf tournament I ever entered, but I did enjoy playing in the annual father/son golf tournament for several years after that.