A Father Reflects

After my run Sunday, I walked my poor old dog. He still likes to be taken around the block when I finish my run. It always worked out. I could cool down, while Hobo got to sniff, pee, and otherwise check out his domain.



Sunday was a beautiful day. The temp was in the 70's, the sky was a brilliant blue and the sun felt warm on my skin. It is funny how places hold such memories. Hobo and I stirred some memories as we walked, happy times that are gone. I remember the "happy" and feel good then I think of the "gone" and feel a touch of sadness.



No matter how mature we are and understand life, each day is new. I am 46 years, 8 months, and 1 day old. When I glance over my shoulder at life or talk to someone younger I can be pretty wise. I have been there and done that as they say. Still I am a traveler going through a land for the first time. Much of life is once. You get one glance, one touch, one turn, one taste - then it is gone. If we missed our glance, or touch, or turn, or taste we might feel cheated. If we missed out because we chose something else, we might feel regret.



My son is 18, but when I passed the football field he played at in junior high school I saw a lanky 13 year old dash across the line, scoop up a fumble and return it to the 1 yard line. I remember walking out of the stadium with him that night. He was getting recognition for a great play and his grin was from ear to ear.



Further back in time, I remember Barbara and I walking past the same stadium with Hobo. John had run away from home about 5 minutes earlier. Our rules were too demanding for his liking, so at age 8 he decided to venture out into the world on his own. "Did ya'll come looking for me?" a little voice wafted down from the top of the bleachers. "No," I said, "we are just walking Hobes." He continued, "this is my new house." To make a long story short, he decided to give us another chance and joined us on the walk.



Across the street from the stadium was a vacant lot where we played baseball and football. A building has since been built there. John, Hobo, and I would go to the field and I would bat balls to him for fielding practice. We leashed Hobo to a picnic table and he barked the whole time we were there.



I will miss the little person my son was. Each day I enjoy the man John is becoming. It seems to have happened so fast. I was told it would be like this. Memories do so many things. I suppose in the back of my mind part of my sadness and uneasiness is knowing that I am getting closer to that ledge. I am part of a procession - so are you. We were born, we went to school, we are raising a family - then there is retirement, nursing homes, old age, and death. I don't want to go! Damn it! But I will and so will you.



I do not really think of this as morbid and depressing. I think these feelings serve as a nudge or a kick in the pants. They remind us that life is finite and short. Do not wait to live - live now. Enjoy yourself and your loved ones now.



High school basketball season is near. Since John was 7 years old we went to practices and games and sat on bleachers until our rear ends hurt. Now I do not have to do that - but I want to. I hate to think it is over. Screw it, I am going to a few games anyway. I will adopt a kid whose parents don't go to the games. I may even tell people sitting next to me - "Do you see number 25 - that's my boy!" Maybe this is an adequate compromise.



I guess what I am saying is this:

• Life is now - live it.



• Things you do today may not be available tomorrow - enjoy them.



• We are all headed toward the ledge - live your life today so you won't feel cheated tomorrow.

Until the next time

John Strain

Three Signs - Three Stories

Deaf Children at Play: I have lived in this community for about 13 years. One of the first things I noticed was this sign. It makes sense. Children who are deaf are apt to run out in front of a car. The sign serves to warn motorists to be watchful. Now, I would guess that parents of a deaf child would not let him / her play unsupervised until they were at least 7 or 8. We do live in a quiet neighborhood. If those kids for whom the sign warns us were 7 when I first noticed it, they are about 20 years old now. I need to call this to the attention of the city administration. We have way too many signs now without unnecessary signs. Perhaps I am missing something. Maybe this is where deaf children come to play. Parents load them up and bring them to play near the sign - I suppose it would be safer.



When my son was about 8 we walked by that sign and after reading it to himself John said, "Dad, that sign is kinda scary." "Why do you say that," I replied. "It's talking about ghosts, isn't it?" "No son, that would be "death children", "deaf children" are alive, they just cannot hear," I said.

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Slow School: Now this sign is down right insulting. It is by a private Catholic school which has a good reputation academically. It is not a "slow school" at all. I may gather some statistics about the students and present them to the city administration. When they see how smart those kids are, they will have to take down this sign and replace it with one which says "smart school." Someone has to speak out against injustice.

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Boudreaux and Clarence: This sign reminds me of a situation we had down here on the bayou. It was a personal conflict between two cajun fellows, Boudreaux and Clarence. The two had never met, but for some reason they despised each other. They lived across the bayou from one another. No one knows how the conflict started and I doubt those two knew either. Almost on a daily basis they would yell to one another across the bayou. They called each other names, they insulted each other's dogs, families, and abilities as sportsmen. They hated each other. Boudreaux would come in at night and tell his wife how much he hated Clarence. "If I ever get da chance, I'm gonna tar dat Boudreaux apart," he would say. His wife tiring of all the hatred would say, "Boudreaux, you shouldn't talk dat way about Clarence - he's probably a good man if you got to know him dar." Nothing convinced Boudreaux and the feud continued. Years later the Louisiana Highway Department began to build a bridge across the bayou that separated Boudreaux and Clarence. Boudreaux came running in dat shak one day and said to his wife, "Clotil, yer never gonna guess what day gonna do," he said gasping for breath. "Day gonna build a bridge over dat dar bayou. When dat bridge is finished, I'm finally gonna get to go beat up dat Clarence." By now Clotil just listened to Boudreaux. She knew he would never change his mind about Clarence." The big day came and Boudreaux told Clotil, his wife, that he was going across the bridge to beat Clarence up. After 5 minutes Boudreaux returned home. He did not have a scratch on him. He had not even been gone long enough to cross the bridge and come home. "Boudreaux, I thought you was gonna go fight dat Clarence?" Clotil inquired. Boudreaux was quiet and sheepish, "I know," he said, "but I started to cross dat bridge and I saw a sign dat said "Clearance 9'0". "I figure if Clarence is that big, I don wanna mess wit him."



Until the next time

John Strain

Another Leaf Story

A week ago I was pontificating about the beauty of the autumn leaves in Tennessee. This week I am spending my weekend raking up oak leaves in my yard. From breathtaking beauty to back breaking work it seems leaves are becoming my life. If I am not looking at them I am bagging them up and carrying them to the curb.



If leaves could talk they might say something like this to me:

You like the pretty ones, but what about those of us who annoy you. You have no tolerance at all. The "annoying" leaves are gathered up in various ways and set out on your curb for the garbage collector. Were those leaves any less useful? Were they not beautiful in function even if not in form? Are you so blind you cannot see beyond the surface and into somethings purpose? Do you define beauty so narrowly? What is more beautiful than something fulfilling its purpose? Sure they cover your lawn, but is that so much to ask for the year of work they gave you? Did you not enjoy the shade they provided? They shielded you from the summer sun and provided cover for the birds and squirrels you like so much. I guess your attitude is "what have you done for me lately?" Is it just a matter of color? Do the Tennessee leaves do any more than we Louisiana leaves do? Maybe we should grow on Tennessee trees. Would you appreciate us then? Would you? Tell you what, if you cannot treat us properly, why don't you just "leaf" us alone?

Even my leaves are sarcastic. I do not think I will write a reply to the above criticisms. To do so would put me in danger of being in my own hospital on the other side of the couch. At some point pressing irony can become evidence of mental illness - I guess.



Well, it is 6:30 AM. I am going to make a pot of coffee. Run 6 miles, then come back and rake leaves. I will take off 12 to 3 to watch the Saints game. Weekends like this one make weekends like last one special. The work and the fun are all necessary. I better get to the work.



Until the next time

John Strain

Me and Computers

This is my personal history of tech. I have always been interested in gadgets, tools, electronics, photography, stereos, cars - anything like that. When I was 9 or 10 I purchased a small tape recorder for $10 of birthday money. It was a small reel to reel machine and I remember planting it around the house picking up candid conversations. During my teenage years I graduated to messing with all manner of speakers, stereos, turntables, and cassette tapes. My friends and I would record songs off of the radio and record from each other's cassettes. FM was great because the DJ did not talk over the music.



When 8 track tapes came out, I had an 8 track recorder. Do you remember the term "double tracking?" That is when the two tracks were being played at once. The remedy for this was a simple adjustment with a screwdriver.



In the 80's the first home computers became available. The first one I was aware of was the Timex Sinclair 1000. I did not have one of these, but I was interested. The next computer I knew about was the Commodore 64. The C64 was the first computer I actually played with. My friend Dean in New Orleans, who was an engineer, had one. Whenever we got together at their house for dinner he would hook the C64 to his TV and demonstrate BASIC. No disk drive, no programs - you had to write your own programs so it had no practical value. I did not get one, but I was drooling by this time.



In 1983 we moved to Rock Island, IL and I was working for a church. The minister purchased an Apple II. The Apple II could do word processing, but without an 80 column card, you had to deal with 40 columns. The output was 9x7 dot matrix. What was cool was printing the letter, looking at it, and making a change without having to retype the whole thing. Before the advent of mail merge, were printing, changing the address lines and printing again - a huge time saver. I remember riding the bus one day to the church and I made sure the floppy disk I was carrying was in plain view. Sure enough someone on the bus asked me about it and I got to tell them about me using a computer. I admit it, sometimes I brag.



My first computer purchase was in 1984 (George Orwell are you listening) and it was an Apple IIc. I used this mainly for word processing, but my first online experiences came through this computer and a 300 baud modem. The text was green against a black background. Apple sold a mouse as an accessory and I got one. I made some simple graphics and was able to combine them into documents. My first steps into desktop publishing.



Now things were getting interesting. I was in a doctoral program at the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary. Needless to say I had to do a lot of writing. This justified a better computer. I looked at what was available and at the time is was either MS DOS, CPM, or Apple. When I saw the Macintosh my decision was made. In 1986 I bought a Macintosh Plus. This baby made word processing a snap. While my IBM friends churned out bland papers, I had graphics, charts, italics, different sized type and different fonts. My documents were always complimented, but there seemed to be a snobbery that Macintosh is not a REAL computer. "Who cares," was my attitude, "the proof is in the pudding." I became aware of the rift between Mac and PC.



The Mac Plus was a real work horse. I used it until 1992 which is an eternity for a computer. I was able to by peripherals to increase the computing power. For instance, my first hard drive cost $600 for 20 MB. I purchased a Laser Writer II NT which made my output great. I learned how to use Page Maker and did a lot of work for the hospital marketing department.



My first color computer was a Performa 475. This computer was faster and had a larger hard drive. i continued doing desktop publishing. I also computerized the intake / admissions office at our hospital. Using database software I could track who called, who referred them, and what happened to them.



I began online activities in ernest when I signed up with AOL in 1990 or so. Email was fairly new and I cannot over emphasize how amazed each advancement made me feel. I guess I am easily amazed. I would work for hours to get something to work. I refused a work around, I wanted it to work the right way.



The Performa served me well and in 1999 I bought an iMac. Lucky for me in 2001 lightning fried it and I got to get a new computer so I purchased a Power Mac G4 which is what I use today. I am about to purchase a dual processor upgrade for this one.



The G4 enabled me to get into making videos. I use Final Cut Pro and iDVD to make videos and DVD's. I have created several videos I am proud of. One is a summary of my son's life from birth through high school graduation. I have made some family videos for some friends. The combination of video, stills and music grab the emotions. I cry making the darn things. It is a wonderful vehicle for expression. I have had to learn about audio, video, aspect ratios, color correcting, digital photography, codec's, and rendering. It is a good thing I like to learn.



I also have a wireless network at home. A guy gave me an iMac that needed some work. I got it fixed and added an Airport card so we have two computers on a wireless hub and share an Epson printer. Blogging has introduced me to HTML and web design. What will the future hold? Probably a laptop and wireless internet - "I hope you are reading this blog Santa."



I remember each computer very well. I still have them all except the Apple IIc. I wonder if you remember your computer history like I remember mine. I love tech and cannot wait to see what they'll think of next.



Until the next time

John Strain

The Halloween Party

For about ten years running I had a big Halloween party at my house. Each year was bigger and better than the previous. I even took off work to decorate and I went all out. The entire house and yard was transformed into something resembling a horror movie set. Everything was right in those days for a good party. There were lots of willing party animals all eager to come in costume, drink, and act stupid.



Of all the Halloween parties, one stands out. It was the one I got in some real trouble with Barbara. Not the only one I got in real trouble with Barbara over, but the one I got in the most trouble with her.



If I remember correctly - memories are a little hazy due to shots of tequila - everything went well until the end of the party. The "hanger oneres" were on my front porch; Linda, Carol, Brian, Marty, Russell, and myself. It was 2:30 AM and we were in the process of dispersing. Linda was sitting on the porch and I grabbed the clamp holding her hair the way she wanted it. I was not going to take it off only make her think so. She turned around and without hesitation said, "let go of my hair you blind mother fucker." A new nickname was coined. Today my friends refer to me as the BMF. At the time her comment caused the remaining inebriants to break out in laughter and throw in a few words of endearment themselves.



All of this time, Barbara was in the house cleaning up. She was putting things in the refrigerator, picking up abandoned cups from tables and other places they had been left. A few comments had been made that I should be in there helping her. My friends were not seriously suggesting I brake off my hosting responsibilities and help her, they just pointed out she was working and I was not. Friends are helpful that way. They pointed out that if I did not help her I would be in trouble. They kept on making little comments about it. A man does not like to be told what to do. A drunk man really does not like to be told what to do. So against this backdrop I uttered the phrase, "Fuck Barbara! I'm not worried about what she thinks." Imagine that being said with a slurred voice and spastic hand gestures. They tried to shush me, but I was just getting started. "I can do anything I want - fuck Barbara! Sheeeeittt!" I thought nothing of it and eventually, the last person left and I went to bed.



When I got up the next day, Barbara seemed distant, maybe even angry, but I did not act like I noticed. Then Russell called me up. "Hey man," he said, "did you sleep on the couch last night?" "No, why?" I inquired. "Oh no reason," he said while laughing a bit. I started thinking, "I wonder what I did." I began to replay the party in my head trying to discover what I did to make her angry, but nothing came to me. Shoot, it could have been mistaken identity or maybe one of my friends said something to her that got her chapped. I will talk to her in a while and straighten everything out, I thought. Then Marty came over to bring Hobo home. In those days, Hobo would stay at Marty's for the party. I figured all of the commotion and costumes would freak him out. Marty asked me if everything was OK. "Well, Barbara is quiet, but I can't think of anything I did that would piss her off." Marty clued me in, "You told her to fuck herself you moron." He went on to explain that when I was saying "fuck Barbara," she had been standing at the door listening to the whole thing. "Oh," I said, "that's why she is angry." This last statement was in the Guinness book of world records for the biggest under statement ever made by a husband under the influence of tequila.



I hate the silent treatment and that is what I was getting. So I decided to enter the dragon's lair. "Is there something wrong?" I asked. The silence ended with that question. There was something wrong and she let me know about it.



After she vented a while, I tried to explain that I meant nothing by what I said and how it was more of a guy thing. I explained that if they had been talking about anything, the police, government, my fourth grade school teacher I would have responded the same. Tell a guy he is in trouble with someone, his first reflex is to say, "fuck 'em." I am generalizing my experience here, but I think it is accurate. My explanation was an attempt to say "I am wrong, but not as wrong as you are making it out to be." I was unsuccessful getting her to see my point. I guess when I said "fuck Barbara," she just took it the wrong way. Ha.



Thank God Barbara is a forgiving soul. This story is brought up every Halloween and lots of times in between. I still say she took it the wrong way, she shakes her head, and my friends laugh no doubt recalling their own marital episodes.



I guess the moral of the story is "don't drink and talk - it can be hazardous to the health of your marriage."



Have a happy Halloween and watch you do not over do it at the party.



Until the next time

John Strain