Rodney Strange's Blog, page 14

'Holding My Tongue'

With author Rodney Strange

We worked our way through the crowded arena, eventually finding an opening we could push our way through and began our descent down fifty or so stairs toward the floor below. Early as we were, seats were filling up quickly. Our heads darted from left to right as we searched for two vacant seats. My daughter pointed in a two o'clock direction and glanced over her shoulder. I shook my head and excitedly motioned toward the left where an entire row of seats were vacant...just five rows from the floor. The two of us settled in and observed a stage crew putting final touches on the enormous stage rising before us. I smiled as I realized I hadn't been in this vast arena since the Eagles had come to town back in 2001. In fact, I thought to myself, I hadn't been to any concert since then, well other than down at the city park and that one didn't count seeing how no one overly famous was playing...just some hometown boy who had managed to get his song on a radio station.
A man appeared on the stage with a microphone stuck in his mouth and began instructing the crowd to please scoot in the fill all vacant seats so even more eager concert goers could scrunch into the sold out arena. I stubbornly refused to budge, clutching the bottom of the seat with a death grip. My eyes fell on a man standing on the floor before us and I watched as he ever so aptly relayed the announcer's message to the spectators in front of him using sign language.
"Ah, crap! We're sitting in the deaf section!" I whispered to my daughter.
She shot me an odd glance, waiting for me to continue. I held up my hands before me and continued.
"You know! The deaf section...we won't be able to hear the concert!"
"Oh, how rude! Shhh! You shouldn't say that about people!"
"It's not like they're going to hear me." My voice trailed off, "Why do deaf people come to concerts anyway?"
Now, it was just a joke then and it's just a joke now. I don't need the #DeafLivesMatter activists coming down on me. Just me trying to be funny...it's what I do. I don't specifically single out handicapped folks. I pick on everybody! After the concert, we stopped at a convenience store because we were starving and I had refused to pay fifteen dollars for a hotdog back at the concert. There was not a soul in that store but us and the clerk as we stared at the bare warmer in front of us where hotdogs had been once upon a time. Two women dressed in black entered the store and my eyes followed them as they made their way toward the cooler at the back of the store.
"I bet they are hookers," I whispered to my daughter.
She slugged me on the shoulder and gave me an evil glance.
"Those two women sat behind us at the concert. They are not hookers. Where do you get these crazy thoughts?"
I remained silent as I rubbed my bruised shoulder. They could be hookers, I thought. But probably not...I've never heard of any deaf hookers.
I admit I have a twisted sense of humor and I am well aware not everybody gets it. Sad, because from my point of view, I can be really funny. But I get it...not everybody gets me. In this super-sensitive world in which we live, there are many topics best left untouched and just as many people standing at full attention, prepared to go to battle with anyone who dares speak out of turn.
I am a quiet person until you get to know me. Many people don't get that. I'm viewed as odd, stuck-up, aloof, and even downright rude. But after years of chastisement over an ill-thought out sentence or a joke that nobody got except me, I made a conscious decision to take the safe route. And that was before all this butt-hurt became mainstream in our society. So I remain silent, entertaining myself with my own twisted humor.
Remember the crotchety Dr. House on the Fox TV series? He and I could have entertained ourselves for eternity with our off-the-cuff remarks. Remember Donald Trump? Duh! I get his bluntness and outspokenness. While I neither stand with nor against him, I get him. We are on the same page with our tendencies to shoot straight from the hip. Why take the chance of misinterpretation by mincing words?
I suppose if your goal is to become president, there are times when you must speak your mind. Me...I'm just an old washed up ex-Saturday night wanna-be cowboy. I don't have to speak my mind and truthfully, nobody wants to hear what I think anyway. Therefore, for the most part, I remain silent to avoid the possibility of offending someone.
So, if you and I ever get into a conversation and you see my eyes glaze over as you ramble on and on...chances are I'll hold my tongue and say something politically correct like, "Well gee, I've never thought of it in that way...where'd you say you came from?" And my own answer to that question will echo through the canyons of my mind...'not from this planet!'

'I Am Not An Electrician'

With author Rodney Strange

Tap...tap...tap. I pulled the covers further over my head. Tap...tap...tap. What is that most annoying sound, I grumbled in my semi-conscious mind. I peeked an eye towards the alarm clock. Six thirty-five! It's Saturday! Go back to sleep, I encouraged myself. Tap...tap...tap.
I screamed a silent scream deep within my chest. Why am I awake? Throwing on my clothes, I then trudged toward the kitchen and a coffee maker just standing by awaiting a push if its button. Rain! Rain against my window had disturbed my sleep, I realized as I peered out the window. Not just any Saturday, but a rainy Saturday and I was awake before daylight. Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I headed toward my chair in the living room, reaching for the laptop. If I couldn't sleep, I'd just zone out somewhere in the emptiness of the internet.
Some time later, as I reached for the now near empty coffeepot, I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Eight-thirty! Oh my! I had lots to do today! My dear old mama, who's been in rehab for five years...not that kind of rehab and really only two months, had asked me to swing by the CPA's office and pick up her taxes and run them up to the city for her signature. While I was there, I'd pick up a part for my lawn mower. I would surely need my mower once this rain passed. With a little luck, I'd be back from the city by noon and hopefully riding my mower around the yard. Okay, I struggled with my thoughts, no more coffee...eat something. I turned toward the fridge and...wait, there's no light in the fridge! The refrigerator isn't working, I panicked! The breaker box...check the breaker! Yes, a breaker tripped! I flipped it on and headed back down the hall...then pop. The breaker tripped again.
I am not an electrician. Electricity scares me. My mind searched for an answer. Bad breaker! I trekked into our little podunk town to the little podunk hardware store and bought a new breaker. Arriving home, I flipped off the power at the pole. Okay, I've done this before, I thought as I headed toward the breaker box with a flashlight and a screwdriver. After some difficulty, the new breaker was installed. I flipped the power back on and...pop.
What if it's the refrigerator, I asked myself? I dropped my head in my hands, close to tearing up. Not this month! House insurance, new tires for the pickup, and the usual expenses that one occurs with a teenaged daughter had tapped me out. I needed a heavy duty extension cord. Where did I leave it? I trudged through the mud toward the well house that sits the length of a football field from my house. Swinging open the door, I spotted the coiled cord in a corner of the building...with a bull snake coiled up beside it. Apparently he had fallen in love with it. I am deathly afraid of snakes. There is nothing I fear more...even more than electricity, but today I didn't have time to think about fear. Grabbing a length of PVC pipe, I viciously accosting the serpent.
"Get away from my extension cord, you sorry..." (Expletives allowed when battling evil serpents)
I whacked him with the pole, he obviously startled and visually upset that I had shown up in the middle of his courtship. As the snake slithered out the door, I grabbed the cord and headed for the house.
The refrigerator came to life as I plugged the cord into an outlet in the dining room. My ears strained to listen for any sound from the breaker box...none came. I breathed a sigh of relief. Pouring myself a glass of warm milk, I came to the realization that I'd have to call an electrician. Probably would have been cheaper to buy a new fridge, I reasoned. I shook my head. It is what it is, I thought.
It was after eleven when I finally headed down the road toward the city. I turned off onto the highway and set my cruise on seventy-five...passed the Vet Clinic, then by the big pecan orchard...and that's when it came to me. I turned back toward the house.
Reaching home, I dashed toward the toolbox for a screwdriver, glancing out at a pole at the edge of the yard, an outdoor electrical plug attached to it. Frantically I took the cover off an outlet on the outside of the house, loosened two wires, and dashed inside toward the breaker box. I flipped the breaker...it stayed on! I plugged the refrigerator into its proper outlet...it stayed on! I propped myself against the bar, eyes glued on the appliance...for thirty minutes...and it stayed on!
I am not an electrician. Have I already mentioned that? Where did this revelation come from? This is not the first time such knowledge has miraculously swept over me from 'out of the blue.' In fact, it has happened many, many times.
Guardian angels? Or does God Himself pause during His ever-so-busy schedule to help me with something so simple as an electrical problem? Well, this is what I know...I'm not an electrician. There is no way I would have ever thought about an outdoor plug shorting out in the rain. No way.
I say my prayers every night before bedtime. I ask the Good Lord to keep an eye on me, 'cause Lord knows, I need all the help I can get. I believe...yes, I really do believe those little prayers reach their destination.
Now about that lawnmower...I'm having some trouble with that and I'm really afraid I've used up this week's 'Heavenly Intervention Card.' So, I guess I'll just sit here on my broken lawn tractor and watch the grass grow!

'I Take A Lot Of Pride In Who I Am'

With author Rodney Strange

It wasn't more than a week ago that I stood in the shower with nothing in particular on my mind when the words came,
'Hey, I'm not braggin' or complainin',
Just talkin' to myself man to man.
This ole' mental fat I'm chewin' didn't take a lot of doin'.
But I take a lot of pride in what I am.'
As the tune danced through my head, I pondered the lyrics. I do, I thought...I do take a lot of pride in who I am. I made a mental note on that virtual sticky pad inside my brain to someday write about that song...hold that thought, I thought to myself.
And a scant week later, the words again replay over and over in my mind as the news of Merle Haggard's passing weigh heavy on my heart. I fought the urge to write about this. Every print publication, every online source, and every radio station will pay tribute to this legend. Why would a common, simple man such as myself spin his own tribute with common, simple words to one who has left such a mark on the music world? But the overwhelming gnawing within me goaded me forward...and so I write this to pay homage to a man who spent his life sharing common, simple words about common, simple people. For it was Merle Haggard who, perhaps more than anyone else in the history of country music, found it so easy to connect with the common man. It was that ability, through his music, that made him a legend.
How many Decembers did 'If We Make It Through December' play through my mind as I stressed over just how I would make Christmas special for my children on a shoestring budget? I think there were some Decembers that song played non-stop in my head. While I personally didn't turn twenty-one in prison, I knew there were so many times I let my mama down and yes, there were many times the bottle let me down. I sang the working man blues, mostly on Mondays most of my life. Perhaps this overwhelming patriotic rebelliousness I harbor was fueled by 'Walking on the Fighting Side of Me' back when I was a teen and even though I grew my hair long back in the day, I knew every word to 'Okie From Muskogee.'
Merle has always been there, and while I don't think I ever took that for granted, perhaps I took it for granted that he always would be there. Sure, I knew better. I've kept up with his recent health battles, his canceled tours...but I guess I just thought a man with such grit would always pull through the tough times, just as he taught us to do. Somewhere along the line in recent years, I'd made connections with his son, Ben, on twitter and just this ever-so-meager means of staying in touch meant so much to me. I have quite a number of online connections with folks in the music business, some you'd readily recognize and some that someday you will, but I believe it was this one...this single one that I cherish most.
I found the old record I had bought as a kid so long ago and dusted off the record player. The needle cracked and popped...and then that voice came through the speakers. In the darkness of the night, I sat on the edge of the bed, my head hung low...and I listened,
"Silver wings shining in the sunlight
Roaring engines headed somewhere in flight
They're taking you away, leaving me lonely
Silver wings slowly fading out of sight
Slowly fading out of sight..."

Goodbye Merle...and thanks so very much for all you've given us. Perhaps it is because of you that I take a lot of pride in who I am.
(Here's the best of Merle courtesy of Rolling Stone: 30 Essential Songs)

'Mad Max For President?'

With author Rodney Strange

I know full well that this is not going to do a bit of good, but I am here to chastise the masses! Yes, YOU PEOPLE who are deluging my timelines on Twitter and Facebook with your incessant rants concerning your political opinions! Read my lips! I DON'T CARE! And neither do the other bazillion folks you are bothering like a horny gnat on Viagra. I beg you, please go gather your armies elsewhere. Go outside and play! You are annoying me to no end! Someone give me an Amen.
If we don't get this under control, we're going to have a full-blown episode of Mad Max of the real kind. It will be entitled, 'Mad Max Bernie on Cruz Sounds Trump on Hillary Road' or somethin' or 'nother. Geez, never in my half a century (maybe a bit more) on this planet have I ever witnessed such hatred toward our fellow Americans. Hells bells, you'd think there's a man in the women's restroom with all this hullabaloo going on. Oh yeah, that's okay nowdays. It's okay for a full grown man to tinkle all over the seat of a toilet in a ladies room, but when your neighbor puts a 'Vote for Trump' sign in his front yard...it's war, baby!
Let's get serious. America is America because each and every one of us has a right to cast our vote for whichever candidate we deem most worthy to lead our nation. And we all don't think along the same lines. (Boy howdy, that's an understatement.) If we collectively screw up and put the wrong person in the White House, it sure won't be the first time. We don't have to go too far back in history to see that. But we as a nation always survive and move on. Presidents, like seasons and bad bosses and ex-wives, come and go. Some of you haven't been on this earth long enough to understand that...someday you will. Ah, but I stray away from the topic.
When our current president makes his final drive down Pennsylvania Avenue, waving to the crowds from the cab of that U-haul truck as he disappears out of sight, a chapter closes and another begins. All that has happened during his tenure soon becomes just a memory (I still remember Jimmy Carter, BTW) and our nation turns its attention to yet another trying time. But what remains...is us. Our neighbor who planted that Trump sign in his yard is still your neighbor...maybe until one of you dies. Whether your candidate or his wins, nothing changes in your neighborhood. His dog still craps in your yard and your kids still climb over his fence. If your mom and dad praise Cruz while you firmly believe Bernie is the best choice, when one of you loses...is it worth damaging your relationship over? When that smokin' hot little gal you asked out starts touting Hillary over dinner at the Dairy Queen, do you really want to rock the boat? (Wait until after the third date just to see if it was worth your while to hold your tongue...just my advice.)
I don't talk politics and this isn't about politics. It's about civility. Not a single soul knows who or if I will vote for...not one. It's between me and God. I've said before that I personally don't need a lot of governing. I will survive no matter who moves into the White House. Whoever it is is bound to make lots of decisions that I won't agree with. It is the way the world is now days. But I'll likely keep my opinions to myself for the most part, and whichever way the pendulum swings...I'll adapt. Meanwhile, I'll not make enemies over something that neither of us had any control over. While I am a very stout advocate for utilizing our right to vote, I'm not foolish enough to believe that my one single vote will change the course of history...unless I'm voting for Queen of the Harvest Festival. When I cast my vote, whether I truly made any difference or not, it was the act of voting that gave me a voice. I don't have to waste space on twitter or facebook shouting my opinions to the world, nor do I have to stand on the courthouse square shouting at the top of my lungs...I just have to vote to be heard, no matter how still my whisper may be.
I am genuinely concerned with the roar resounding throughout our nation with this election year. It smacks of unrest and rebellion...it leaves a faint taste of unbridled vengeance. I can almost smell evil in the air. This is not the way it's supposed to be.
I may not talk politics but I do mention religion from time to time. I know that in itself is a sore spot with some of you...you can leave now if that's the case. But here's a thought, and it gets twisted often to suit the beliefs of some: "Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God." (Romans 13:1) It sort of sounds like no matter what WE think, the winner of this year's election is in God's hands. As it should be.
So, how about we leave all that politickin' to the politicians. They pay good money for advertising...they don't need us hollering at each other. Know what I want to see on my timeline? Cat pictures! Before all this election bunk, I used to see cat pictures. Or maybe some goat pictures...I really like goats!

'A Dirty Little Story'

With Author Rodney Strange

Spring is definitely in the air, or as we like to call it out here in west Texas...dirt. The rest of you are admiring your daffodils and blooming tulips while red-breasted robins hop through your green lawn in search of an elusive earthworm. Meanwhile, out here we're busy dodging tumbleweeds the size of John Deere tractors in zero visibility. As you admire the beginning of a golden tan on your cheeks, we're digging dust and dirt out of cracks and crevices we didn't even know existed while marveling at the power of nature and its ability to get dirt that deep in our belly buttons. While you arrange your dainty wicker furniture with those flowery cushions on your patios, we're cranking up the welder, determined that this year, we will build an iron bench that won't blow away with the next wind storm. You're hanging your baskets filled with potted plants on the front porch and we're frantically dashing around armed with bungee cords and tie-down straps, cinching down everything we own to a shade tree or the propane tank in hopes it all will still be there when the dust settles. Aw, that smell of a morning dew on the grass...we smell dirt, baby...dirt. You should see what comes out of our noses after a good dust storm!
I've chased down more lawn furniture than I can remember...and remember, our lawn furniture is heavy! I had a hot tub for several years and can't count how many times I had to fetch the cover out of the pasture and haul it back to the yard. Finally, it blew so far away that I never found it. I had an eighteen-foot trampoline take off like a flying saucer, clipping the corner of the house and pruning the tops of several trees before disappearing out of sight. After the storm, a neighbor from a half mile away called.
"You missin' a trampoline? I've got the remnants of one in my front yard."
"Yep, you missing a swimming pool?"
"How big is it?"
"About the size of that trampoline in your yard."
It's like a swap meet after a dust storm. We all scurry outside to see what treasures blew up in our yards. Just like a Chinese Christmas.
I have my favorite dust storms. The wind blew out of the west at eighty miles an hour...sustained, mind you, one Saturday morning for three hours. I had six inches of sand between the double pains of my patio doors. I lost the riding mower in that storm...didn't blow away. Sand blew so hard that it filled the crankcase and I threw a rod when I started it up. Then there was a Wednesday afternoon when the entire west side of the carport came loose in a seventy mile an hour wind. Like a fool, I climbed up a ladder with baling wire and rope. As I leaned my upper body against the metal roof, a gust picked it up, me along with it and slung us in the air like a rag doll...that was more fun than Six Flags! My favorite wind storm though was the day my barn blew away. It sounded like a beer can crushing underfoot. The insurance paid off really well on that one, mainly because there was no barn for the adjuster to evaluate and all he had to go on was my description of what kind of barn it was before it blew away. I tend to embellish now and then...I am a storyteller, after all.
I've been here in west Texas for over twenty years and I don't know why. Apparently the only way out is to die. It's been said that this spot of Texas has the most severe weather anywhere in the United States, including Alaska. It's severely cold in the winter with those same winds howling out of the north at a steady gait of thirty to forty miles an hour. The old timers say there isn't nothing between here and the North Pole but a barbed wire fence and it's down most of the time. Just as winter leaves, spring blows in. By the time June arrives, we're weather weary. But the good news is, summer always comes!
While the rest of you are hunkered down under an air conditioner, sweat dripping from your armpits, we're out mowing the lawn in the evenings beneath a most awesome sunset that, believe it or not, only blesses west Texas. As you stand beneath cold water in your shower in a futile attempt to find refuge from a hundred degree temperature at midnight, we're sitting on our patios watching a huge sky full of twinkling stars that, believe it or not, only blesses west Texas. We'll stay outside until the temperature drops so low that it forces us inside with a shiver and a giggle as we think how lucky we are to be in west Texas. The humidity pegs out at around fifteen percent in the summer...so while you make a mad dash from the house to your car, busting into a sweat in your ninety percent humidity...think about us.
I met a man a few years ago who had moved here from Houston and he commented that, according to the weatherman, the humidity outside was thirty percent.
"Thirty percent! That's unbelievable! Thirty percent!"
"Yeah," I drawled, "It is a bit humid today."
I didn't mean it as a joke, but he is still laughing about that conversation to this day.
And then there's autumn...yes, fall! Now I remember why I've been here for twenty years...those awesome west Texas autumns. Believe it or not, only west Texas is blessed with an autumn so awesome! Come on down and catch a west Texas dust storm. Once you cough up all that mud out of your lungs, it's smooth sailing into summer!

 

'Whose Name I Can't Recall'

With Author Rodney Strange

I found the photo on an old phone I had tossed into the junk drawer in the kitchen. Just a bad picture taken in a dark bar with...well, I can't remember the girl's name. And it bothers me to no end. I remember the exact night and I remember we had lots of fun and I remember she thought she was in heaven dancing with me. When I invited her to sit at my table, she insisted some drunk cowboy who called himself 'Shorty' take the pic, which he did. I remember Shorty and I recall he was pretty short...and his hat was way too big...but I can't remember the girl's name.
She was one of hundreds, maybe a thousand or more that I spun around the dance floor on so many Saturday nights. I recall some of their names. I can almost smell the sweetness of their perfumes as images of them in my arms beneath the lights of a dance floor flash through my mind. I'd always take one last smell of my shirt as I took it off in the wee hours of the morning before crawling into bed...alone, and allow the memories of the night to flood my mind as I lay down to dream of a time that was sure to come...someday, when I'd not be alone.
But the girl whose name I can't recall, she was the last. It was after midnight on the night that photo was taken that I ventured across the parking lot toward my pickup. I picked up my phone and saw a missed call. Had I not missed that call, the photo with the girl whose name I can't remember would have never been taken, for the call I missed would have changed the course of the night. I had shirked my biggest responsibility and neglected to be there for the most important person in my life in their most dire moment of need. I hastily called the number, but there was no answer at such a late hour. I drove through the night toward my house with thoughts not of the girl I'd danced with, but of the responsibilities I had neglected. It was a sleepless night for I knew I'd never gotten the call had I not been needed.
For the next six months, I would watch from a distance as a family slowly and painfully unraveled at the seams, always ready at a moments notice for a call I knew would someday come. I no longer spent my Saturday nights in the glow of neon lights. There were no more women's names to try to remember, and my shirts smelled only of fabric softener. My phone rang occasionally or a text would come from some female friend or another, "Come dance with me?" I'd make one excuse or another, dutifully remaining at my post for the call that was sure to come. And one night, it did...and I was there.
Over two years have passed and I've not failed to be there for that one most important person in my life...not once. I am a proud single parent who takes his responsibilities very seriously. I cook and clean and do loads of laundry. Happy Hour now means half price sodas at the Sonic. Instead of ironing a shirt for a Saturday night, I iron blouses for Sunday church services. My stress is no longer from how many drinks will I have to buy for some blonde...it's how much will four years of college cost. My prayers are not 'Hope I make it home,' but 'Hope I don't fail.'
I've not failed. All is well as this change in life nears its third year. I've not missed the glow of neon and I don't dwell on the dances I've missed. But this adventure nears the home stretch as my child nears the time when she will assume her rightful place in a society of young adults. I find myself wondering...'What's next?' As her social circles blossom, my responsibilities become less and less. I find time on my hands that I'm not accustomed to having, and I find myself struggling to find my rightful place in a society that seemingly has passed me by. I occasionally find myself depending on memories to entertain myself, while yearning to make more...just a few more memories to fall back on in years to come. I've come to accept a fear that gnaws at my very being...a fear that my most challenging time is yet to come. A time when I am no longer needed. A time when some young man will come along and relieve me of my responsibilities. What then?
But with the time I have left, I vow to make the most of it. There are memories to be made. From the thrill of reliving prom night through the eyes of my daughter to the sure to be emotional graduation ceremony that comes in one very short year, there are surely many, many memories to be made. I cherish the thought of every one of them! I will be there, proudly clinging to my responsibilities as a parent every step of the way!
Every so often, one group of giggly teenaged girls or another, while tromping through my living room, will pause just long enough for me to share a story or two about those Saturday nights from another life. I'll tell them about Psycho Sherry, or the school teacher who forgot to mention she was married, or the blonde who forgot to mention she was a lesbian. If I can hold their attention long enough, I'll start remembering more women I've met throughout my adventures. They usually laugh and listen intently to my every word, for they haven't yet been where I came from...and I pray they never do. Their eyes widen as I tell the tale of 'The Black Widow' or the night a girl from the western store got in a fist fight with a woman from New Mexico...all because of me. I tell those tales fondly, but there's one story I've never told them...of the night I met the girl whose name I can't recall...

'I Don't Belong Here'

With Author Rodney Strange

I don't belong here...in this time in which we live. In a time where billionaires, socialists, and people under federal investigation run for president. In a world where violence erupts at campaign rallies and protesters turn into assailants. I don't belong in a world where we welcome terrorists to live among us. Where we elevate religious beliefs foreign to us while suppressing our own Christian values this very country was built upon. I don't belong in a restroom with a person who questions their own gender, nor does my child. I am a stranger to this time of killing the unborn, of the trend of neglecting veterans and the elderly. I don't comprehend the legalization of drugs and the banning of prayer. I shudder at uninhibited talk of private body parts and worse, rampant exhibition of such to any and all, including our children. No, I don't belong in this time.
I stood on the line between puberty and adulthood in the era of the seventies. I know many of you weren't there. I am truly am sorry for your loss. The seventies was a decade which, just as I, teetered on the verge of a changing time. We protested then, too. When we had had enough of the Vietnam war, we protested peacefully with signs in front of the Washington Monument. When gas prices doubled, farmers drove tractors to the steps of the capitol in Washington DC. When inflation reached double digits, Americans protested in mass to the ones we elected to run our country. When a president failed in his job duties, we protested with our right to vote. Yes, the seventies were turbulent in their own way...but in, could I say, a wholesome way. When the seventies gave way to the eighties, our time was a better time because of our protests. We stood and raised our voices in a peaceful, yet forceful manner and changed the world in which we live.
But entertwined with the turmoil of those times was a rebellious goodness. The youth of that time fought for nothing more than the right to wear their hair long and to listen to what you consider classic rock in this day and age. The songs of that era had no profane lyrics nor did they condone killing cops, or anybody for that matter. A wild night in those days consisted of sitting on a bridge out on a country road, sharing a six pack and dreaming of times to come. We chased girls because we wanted to find one to marry...to settle down with and start our lives with. If we broke the law in those days, it was when we lined our cars up at the drive-in theater and raced to the city limit sign to see who's car was faster. If we found ourselves in trouble with our parents, it was likely because we didn't make our midnight curfew on a Saturday night. If we uttered a curse word, it sure wasn't around our daddy. Back in that time, a belt was our worst fear...because it was an effective way to raise a rebellious child.
No, I don't belong in this time, but since I find myself here...there is no other place I'd rather be than here. I live in a small town that still clings to the values of the seventies. A town that shuts down to watch our basketball team win its first state title. A town that still sees the value in it's youth and accepts responsibility to get them where they need to be in this world. My town worships...at church or with a prayer before a rodeo or a football game. Folks in my town still value lifelong friendships, a man's word, a firm handshake, and random hugs at the grocery store. We don't need politicians telling us about racial barriers, we see each other from the inside here. We recognize each others' cultural differences and respect them for it. We allow each other to believe in God as we choose. We don't choose our friends according to their political party. We appreciate our elderly and take care of them. We work hard. We don't think we're entitled to a free ride. We fight to keep our town alive and prosperous...and we fight to keep our values intact.
I've given up on the evening news. Not sure they're telling me the whole story anymore. My world doesn't revolve around what the government is doing. Personally, I don't see that I really need constant governing. Out here in west Texas we do just fine without it. We carry guns whether the government likes it or not. Shotguns for hunting doves, a rifle for any coyote that may threaten our livestock, and maybe a pistol for some Sunday afternoon target practice. We give birth to our young because we cherish the value of life. We try not to go into any restroon we don't belong in. Someone did remove the signs from the restrooms at the park as a prank...all in good fun. Our kids get pretty wild after dark with those forever ongoing basketball games at the courts, but the lights go out at midnight. Those who's curfew is a bit later may opt for a thrilling footrace through some farmer's cornfield or pile in the back of a pickup and race down Deadman's Dip.
There was a time when I contemplated leaving this town. It was a time when things were different...just a few years ago. But with times becoming what they are now, I think I'll just stay. The rest of you can have your Clintons, your socialists, and your billionaires. You can squabble over gay rights, guns, and Muslim religion. You can stress over conservatism all you wish. Here we don't put that name on it...we simply call it LIFE.
There was a time I didn't call this town my town. I proudly call Brownfield, Texas home now. Some of you wouldn't like it here. That's just fine with us. The way we see it, if you don't agree with our lifestyle...you don't belong here, anyway. I belong here, that's all that matters. In this time in which we live...

'Where Did You Hide The Money Honey'

With Author Rodney Strange

I read on Time.com that somewhere around 44% of all husbands hide money from their wives. Well, I don't blame them...and there goes 50% of my reader fan base. So, now that it's just us guys...y'all know what I mean, don't you! Sure, sweetie has her own job and her own money. We all know what's hers is hers and when it's gone, what's yours is hers. And that's just the way it is.
I'm not looking for a fight here. I don't recall whether the author of the articIe I read was male or female, but I'd bet on the latter. It was a man-slamming piece intended to enlighten women to the fact that we men are holding out on them. In fact, in a follow up article, our wives are tipped off to the revelation that 23% of husbands actually have a secret bank account, which from my point of view seems to be a smart move if we're going to hide our money from our wives in a secure manner. I do know of one man who just hides his money in the drawer his wife keeps her sexy lingerie in. He says he's done it for years and she's yet to find it.
We of the male gender are non-aggressive people. We really don't like confrontation especially with the opposite sex for there is no such thing as winning with them. It should be simple..
."Honey, this hundred dollar bill is mine. I worked hard for it all week. You can have the rest of my paycheck to do whatever you want with it....deal?"
Now come on guys, you know how that's going to go down. All that did was set the wheels in motion. She won't say anything but she's thinking it. Now she's convincing herself that you have a girlfriend on the side. A hundred bucks would buy your girlfriend some flowers...and lunch. Yep, you're probably spending your lunch hours with the new chick down in Human Resources. You sorry dog!
In reality, your wife's birthday is next month and you know how difficult it is to put back a little cash for her special day. If you could just stash a few twenties back from a paycheck or two, you could really surprise her with a steak from her favorite restaurant and maybe get her those diamond earrings she's been wanting. For deep down in your heart, you yearn to show her how much you love her.
Meanwhile, she is plotting your demise! How dare you so blantently take a hundred dollars of your own money! Yes, she is convinced you are cheating on her! She'll show you, buddy boy! When she's through with you, she'll have the house, the Subarban, and you'll be paying child support for decades! And so to avoid all that you do what I would do. You slip a few bills out here and there and tuck them away. You don't tell her and pray she doesn't find out, for there will surely be hell to pay. It's so much easier keeping it a secret, right?
I had a wife once...well, I've had more than one. But this particular wife (shudder) was the one who taught me a thing or two. For instance...how to hide money and yes, even open up a secret account to keep it in. This wife really liked money! I couldn't tell seeing how we never had any. It all started about this time of year, back in 1992, I think it was. It was a Friday evening and after supper, I decided I'd set down and start preparing my tax return. I gathered the necessary stuff together and stacked them on the dining table, hunted down my solar powered calculator, and stood staring at the task awaiting me. Glancing over at my wife, who was doing the dishes, I announced,
"Honey, I think I might run and get a six pack of beer before I start this."
She froze, her eyes staring straight ahead, in thought.
"Oh, I don't know if that's a good idea. This week is going to be pretty tight with the money. It would run us short."
I stared down at the W-2 form laying on the table...A hundred thousand and change in 1991. Back in '92 that was like a quarter million, right? My mind pondered the fact that it was Friday...payday...and we couldn't afford a three dollar six pack of beer?
So over the course of the next few days I started snooping and discovered I had credit cards I never knew I had. Every credit card known to man! Sears, J C Penny, Discover (gasp!) and of course the typical Visas and Mastercards. I also discovered most were overdue. In the course of my investigation, I'd occasionally gander around the house in search of a clue as to where the money was going. Nope, no clues. Perhaps she was hiding money from me?
Over two decades later I still don't have the answer. But within a week of my discovery back in '92 I had opened a secret bank account and began socking away my bonuses and every other spare dime I came across. Over the course of the next year I accumulated an impressive nest egg in spite of my wife's addiction to spending. To make a long story short, I kicked the wife to the curb a year or so later, paid off all her debts...and as luck would have it, wound up with another wife. But this time it was different. I made it clear to her up front that if we were going to get in it for the long haul, there'd be a few rules, number one: My money was my money and her money was her money, and if she ran out of her money, my money was not her money. Believe it or not, everything rocked along exceptionally well financially. Not once did we squabble about money. And we lived happily ever after for seven years...The End

'A Story Whose Time Has Come'

With Author Rodney Strange

I stretched my arms and tiptoed to reach the old cardboard box that rested on the top shelf in the closet of my spare bedroom. As I lowered it gingerly while attempting to maneuver through the narrow door, a multitude of random sheets of paper and worn manila envelopes deluged me, scattering themselves on the floor beneath me. I uttered a curse word under my breath and plopped the heavy box on the bed, then swooped up the fallen debris and laid it on the bed beside the box. As I write this, I do not recall what document of importance I was searching for at the time. Perhaps old tax records or some divorce decree or another, but as I raffled through the box I came across something long forgotten, something of no importance really, but yet the discovery of it sidetracked me. I took the stack of papers in my hand and sat on the bed, smiling as I read the first few sentences. What I held in my hands was an extremely rough draft of a feeble attempt to write a novel, my very first attempt somewhere back in time...I believe it was 1994.
Typed on a word processor in the days before Bill Gates put a computer in every home, the draft consisted of a mere seventy some-odd pages. The plot was solid enough, I thought as my eyes scanned the pages. The characters had character, I decided. Perhaps something could be done to bring this forgotten work back to life nearly twenty years later...it would take work, lots of work.
The draft was written during a time of turmoil in my life, and the story followed a vague timeline similar to my true life experiences. Having long forgotten what I had originally set out to find in that worn cardboard box, I sat and read the manuscript into the wee hours of the morning. Over the course of the next several weeks, my mind began to rewrite this story, page by page, and before the first keystroke, I knew how it would end. Much had changed in my life since that first manuscript and with numerous life experiences and the advantage of now being able to see twenty years past the era in which this novel plays out, I felt satisfied that this seventy page script's time had come. If I could only take the words of an inexperienced wanna-be writer and make them blossom... that would be the challenge.
I don't know how most author's minds work, how their ideas flow through their mind, or where they find their prototypes to form a character, but many of my ideas come to me as I first open my eyes with the first light of day. I was well into my rewrite when I awoke one morning with an idea so overwhelming that I truly felt it had been sent to me by God Himself. It would change to course of this story. It would give this frivilous tale substance. It might possibly change lives! With renewed energy, I wrote fervently as more ideas flowed and my creativity fueled my brain. With a primary plot accompanied by numerous subplots, the story began to take on a whole new meaning to me.
My original draft had subtle hints of the supernatural, of dreams and visions and a mysterious force that seemed to always lead the character forward. As I formed this story into what I hoped would be a literary piece that might contain something for a reader to take to heart, I began to realize that the reason I had never taken this writing any further than a cardboard box was simply because...I was not ready! This book needed a purpose, and in 1994 neither it nor I had one. It was not an accident that I stumbled across it twenty years later. It was no accident that it had never found its way into a trash can over the two decades it had sat in wait. It had waited patiently at the bottom of an old box waiting for me to grow. Waiting for me to find my own purpose. Waiting for me to find God.
What would have fallen to the bottom of the rank in cheesy romance novels, this book has evolved into a powerful Christian fiction novel. A character desperately searching for answers, a man who will never find what he seeks until he allows himself to give his troubles to his Creator. This novel sets its boundaries as far as one can go to escape God's plans for man and some may find it a stretch to call it a christian book. It details the temptations, the sins, and the flee from a God who is so willing to assist. Packed with action, suspense, unexpected twists and the supernatural, the book will entertain even those who would never consider indulging themselves in literature with a Godly twist. This book rolls cowboys and Indians, bad cops, drug dealers, a faithful dog, and a budding love story all together to create an edge-of-your-seat, nail biting tale that will hopefully leave a reader clamoring for more. And more is what you will get!
'The Chimera Parables' is the first book of a trilogy entitled 'Lives of Steele.' I am five chapters into the second novel, 'Saving Steele,' and I can't wait to get to the best part of this book...and I'm the guy writing it! I believe there may be a bit of Divine Guidance assisting me with this book as well. I believe that this too, is a story whose time has come. I'll leave you with a sneak peak of 'Saving Steele,' but I warn you...you need to read 'The Chimera Parables' before I finish writing this novel. And here's an excerpt of 'Saving Steele'
He lurched upright in his bed, his sweat drenched body trembling uncontrollably. Gasping for air, his eyes darted around the dark room. His shaking hands found his face, covering his quivering lips. His eyes became accustomed to the dark and he saw Elisha Dawn Ellis beside him, sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed, her hand on his knee.
“Why didn't you tell me?” she spoke softly.
“Tell you what?” he whispered, still panting for breath.
“Why didn't you tell me you are like me?”
Dawn rose up on her knees, her face inches from his. She stared into his eyes in the darkness.
“You have it, too. The gift...the curse, whatever it is! You know it!”
“It was just a dream.”
Dawn brushed the hair from his forehead gently, placing her cheek against his.
“It wasn't just a dream, baby. You know it and I know it.”
Steele allowed his head to sink into the nape of her neck, exhaling deeply.
“You are the missing piece of the puzzle. It's why God sent me here. You have the answers I've been searching for.”

(Excerpt from the upcoming novel, 'Saving Steele' by Rodney Strange)

'Jessica Rabbit Called'

With author Rodney Strange

Hello, Mr. Strange?"
My ears perked up at the sound of her voice coming over the phone.
"We met at a conference in Amarillo last August. You may not remember me...Jessica Rabbit?"
Well, of course her name wasn't really Jessica Rabbit, but for the sake of saving space and lots of unnecessary overly descriptive words, I'll just call her that and you'll get the visual. Anyway, back to the story...
"Yes, of course I remember you, Jessica Rabbit."
Do I ever remember! She had cornered me during a break and the two of us became engaged in conversation...perhaps engrossed would be the better word. I'm not sure how much time passed before I looked around and noticed the two of us were the only people left in the building. Me, being me, and her being...well, Jessica Rabbit, I graciously wound our conversation down and suggested we make our exit before the janitors locked us in. After accepting a warm and fuzzy rabbit hug from her, I walked her to her car in the dusk of a summer evening and as I turned toward my pickup, figured that was the end of that.
Girls, this may have slipped by you until now, but this is leap year. You can always tell by all the politicians leaping out of the bushes wanting you to vote them into the White House. It occurred to me the other day that some of you younger women may not realize that leap year is YOUR year. Yep, on leap year you are allowed, in fact encouraged, to chase the men. That was a big thing back in the day when I was going to school in that little one room school house. No, of course I didn't go to a one room school...it had two rooms. First through third grades in one room and fourth through sixth in the other room. Once you got to the sixth grade, you had it made...you were fixin' to graduate! I'll tell you that story some day. Back on track...when I was a youngster, on leap year the girls chased the boys and we ran like hell because we had no idea what to do with a girl in third grade. We did hear stories on the playground from those sixth graders, but it was all greek to us.
Judging by this past week, I don't think you girls actually have to consciously be aware of your leap year duties. It may be primal instinct, buried deep within your genes, spontaniously released every four years, rushing through your veins, bonding with those hormones you women are so famous for. I had never thought of the possibility until this week, and I'm no scientist. We didn't even study science in that two room schoolhouse, come to think of it.
It all started last Sunday at church during our 'meet and greet' that kicks off the mornng service. Usually us men concentrate on shaking each others' hands and give the wives a brief nod of acknowledgement. Last Sunday, there I was minding my own business when this woman appeared out of nowhere and scooped me up in her arms, squeezing me tight. I noticed her husband glaring at me through my bulging eyes and I whispered in her ear.
"I don't think your husband approves of this."
"No, he doesn't." she replied, tightening her grip on me.
Monday I was up at the grocery store standing in line behind a woman I'd met at the livestock show last year. We struck up a conversation and as we talked, I realized she had her hand on my arm, her eyes locked on mine. As the conversation pursued, I became aware that she was twining her fingers through my arm hair! I didn't say anything, but I was thinking, 'Lady, if you don't quit all that, my gallon of milk is going to clabber!' Thankfully, the little checker interrupted us, seemingly annoyed at our inattention in her checkout line. And wouldn't you know it...on the way to my pickup, some big ol' corn fed gal with tie dyed hair punched me in the arm and gave me a sultry glance. Took me back to third grade...she might have been there. I don't remember anyone looking like that, though.
There's not enough room here to tell you about all the women that crossed my path this week, but it had been bizarre! My nerves are rattled. I guess I see how you women feel those three years between leap year. I offer you an apology for all that. Anyway, as I said earlier, I'm pretty sure it's primal instinct and, like us men, you can't help yourselves.
Ah...Jessica Rabbit. We were fifty five minutes into our phone conversaton and I could tell she was beginning to struggle with finding more topics to conversate about. I also became aware that she was determined to keep talking until I said whatever she wanted me to say. But, by golly, it's leap year and I was determined to make her go the distance. The real Jessica Rabbit would! Did I just say that? A man my age infactuated with a cartoon character...OMG, I just remembered Holli Wood in 'Cool World!' Why couldn't she have called?
The point is...this is your chance, girls! Us guys love for you to make the first move! Go for it! Throw yourselves out there, get shot down! Pick yourself up out of the dust and move on to the next man. That's how we men do it. Somewhere out there is a man just waiting for his Jessica Rabbit to call. Just remember, the next time this opportunity comes along, Bernie Sanders will be up for re-election...did I just day that?