Lance Conrad's Blog

Lance's Adventures in Dating - Part 3

   Anyone who has read the last two posts on this subject has, by now, been able to determine the common link in all these horrific failures: me.   Clearly, if I could remove myself from the whole dating process, I think the whole thing would go much more smoothly. (All in favor of going back to arranged marriages, say aye!) So it was, thinking that I might be able to at least approach this idea, I agreed to a blind date, doubling with the couple who set me up.   Granted, this doesn’t entirely remove me from the picture, but it seemed like a good start. Unfortunately, I realized too late that any date is going to include one particular element that is all but guaranteed to get me into trouble…   Conversation.   That’s right, boys and girls, no matter how you might try to steer things or fill the time with activities and/or chewing, there’s eventually going to come that moment when they ask you a question that can’t be answered with a nod or grunt.   With any luck, you’ll be able to give an answer that will make some kind of sense (instead of nonsense), an answer that makes you seem like an interesting person (not a raging moron and/or psychopath), and an answer that will make your date look forward to meeting you again (instead of looking wildly toward the door every few seconds).   Still, even if you can’t manage all of that (heaven knows I did not…), at the extreme least, you should avoid giving lectures on how lasers are made that start with “Light can act like a particle or a wave…”   This should be incredibly obvious. Everyone knows that you NEVER go full nerd on a girl, preferably ever, but certainly not on the first date.   Now, if the girl has not fled by the end of that informative little tirade, she is an incredibly patient human being. This is an admirable trait. You should not abuse this trait. You should absolutely not double down at this point. I guess what I’m saying is that, under no circumstances should your very next topic of conversation be…   Home surgery.   I mean, I imagine we all have our little stories. That one time you pulled out your little brother’s tooth with a pair of needle-nose pliers; or that other time you took care of that pesky wart on your finger with a red hot nail wrapped in a sock. These are just the usual hi-jinks everyone falls into, I’m certain. I’m not judging, I’m just saying that these things are NOT suitable anecdotes for a first date.   Now, I would be thrilled, just bloody ecstatic, if I could say this was a one-time occurrence. Of course, I cannot, at least not with a straight face. Worse, there's no way around the problem. You see, the whole point of conversation is to get to know each other better. For someone with my past, present, and future, having a girl get to know me better is a sure deal-killer. Avoid if at all possible.   So there you have it, folks, some rock solid dating advice, learned the hard way, as usual. In parting, I’d like to share with you some actual quotes from that evening. And if you’re thinking these probably made more sense in context, you’re wrong…   “But it was getting really frustrating because I couldn’t see what I was doing because of the blood…”   “Hey guys! Check this out! It really is a murder room, it’s got a drain in the floor and everything!”   “I’m liking the shotgun. Much more effective.”   “And now I will take a turn at Dance Dance Revolution.”

Lance's Adventures in Dating - Part 2

  This next story follows closely on the heels of our last story. That Wednesday I decide to go out dancing. Nothing like a little country swing to liven things up. It’s quick, upbeat, and has a rhythm even white people can keep up with.  Now, I hear some of you saying: “Lance, you had a full-blown fever on Monday, why would you go out dancing just two nights later?”  Actually, this isn’t all that uncommon. I bounce back from most things surprisingly fast. If I healed any quicker, they’d have to fit me for sideburns and adamantium claws.  And abs…  Fine! And abs. Anyway, the point is that by Wednesday night I was fully back on my feet and ready to swing some women off of theirs.  The night actually goes pretty darn well. I work my way around the room, asking a different girl to dance each time, plucking wallflowers out onto the dancefloor like a jean-clad florist. I sit out the line dances to catch my breath and cool off. Besides, let’s be honest, a big guy like me has a 40% higher chance of looking ridiculous line dancing, and those odds weren’t good to begin with.  So the time comes when I’m not seeing many new faces left on the dance floor and I’m starting to feel a bit tired. So I decide to ask one particular girl to dance with me a second time for my last dance. She happily obliges as we danced very well together the first time.   We get out there and I start spinning her around and we are hitting every move in perfect sync like the pistons on a Formula One car. At one point, she does apologize for her hair, which is a little unruly at this point in the evening.   “Don’t worry about it!” I assure her. “It’s absolutely fine!”   That’s called foreshadowing, children.   We’re about two-thirds of the way through the song and we are well past the basic stuff. She is in the air as often as not and we haven’t missed a single beat for all the acrobatics. Then I spin her around, deftly maneuvering my leg around behind her. It looks off balance for only a fraction of a second before I lower her into an enthusiastic yet graceful dip.   Due to the counterbalance of the leg, I am able to lift my left arm into the classic Man From Snowy River pose. Don’t worry if you have no idea what I’m talking about, you only need to understand that it looks triumphant. It’s a pose that says: “BAM! Ya’ll seein’ this?”   And then I whip the girl back up into the next spin…   Or at least that’s what I try to do. Problem is, when her body starts to come back up, her head remains, whipping backwards in some kind of bizarre horizontal clothesline. You see, I had stepped on her hair while she was at the lowest point of the dip.   Now, I would have told you that such a thing was completely impossible. After all, my foot had to be planted before she even started the dip. Fortunately for the reader and unfortunately for the girl, the laws of physics can’t be bothered when it comes to making hilarious caricatures out of my dating life.   So it was, with the kind of dark magic level bad luck that only members of my direct bloodline can summon, this poor girl ended up playing the part of the rope in a tug-o-war between my feet and my arms.   It did not end well for me, the girl, her hair, or anyone unfortunate enough to be watching. Kind of like that falling scene with the girl towards the end of The Amazing Spiderman 2. Thunk. Hard to watch. You just can’t un-see that.   After helping the girl to the side, out of the way of the maelstrom of dancers, she assured me she was just fine. Her credibility in this claim was a little hampered by the fact that she claimed it while finger-combing copious amounts of blond hair onto the floor.   Naturally, I expressed my apologies profusely, but she assured me they were unnecessary and that she would even consider dancing with me again. She seemed like a bright enough girl, so I can’t quite believe that she meant that last part. More likely, it was her polite way of saying she wasn’t going to press charges.
   That’s all for now, folks. That brings us up to the present, but we’ll see what the weekend holds… ;)

Lance's Adventures in Dating - Part 1

   Ok, so I noticed some of my Facebook posts were getting a little long. So I decided to just go with it and write some of them up into blog form. This is one I already related, but I present it here again in expanded form.   For those who don’t know me, I am single. I am, in fact, laughably single. When I moved into my current accommodations a year and a half ago, I put an extra suitcase on a recliner, promising to move it to the closet as soon as I had a visitor show up. The suitcase remains… J   Now, I am not immune to the basic human social tendencies. It is well known that any adult human, being single, seeks to change that status or understand the reasons why. Once the reasons are understood, the next step usually involves ice cream. It’s a wonderful time to be alive, folks.   Lucky for me, the reasons are not only apparent, they are also pretty entertaining. And so, with an eye to share this personal journey with complete strangers on the internet, I share this little story, with likely a few more to follow as opportunity and wit allow…   So this story happened a few days ago on a rather lovely Monday evening. I was meeting the girl in question for a first date at a Thai restaurant. She gets the jump on questions and we start by talking about me. With my usual wry sense of humor, I describe myself as a wandering madman, which I still think is a pretty accurate description for what I actually do. Harmless, right?   She smiles politely at the little joke, but makes no comment and we’re distracted by ordering food and such. A little while later, I start shivering. This has nothing to do with nerves, the food, or the climate. Rather, a fever has struck out of nowhere. This surprise is not really all that surprising given my dating track record.   It may benefit the story at this juncture to point out that I have famously bad luck. That’s why I don’t believe in luck. It’s a family thing. Our ancestral sword, along with its prophesied protections, was destroyed during the Civil War. Ever since then, members of my family have been able to conjure up circumstances that move down the bad luck spectrum right into: “Kinda hilarious when seen with a sick sense of humor.”   Anyway, so there I am, trying to enjoy a lovely noodle dish, trembling like an aspen leaf. The girl doesn’t mention anything and my fevered brain manages to hope that I am somehow being discreet, like there’s some way to shiver unobtrusively.   With some dinner out of the way, I take control of the conversation and direct it in the best way I know how: away from me. I ask her what she does for a living. This one I should have seen coming, honestly. She looks me straight in my bloodshot eyes and says: “I work in a psychiatric hospital.”   Of course she does.   The only thing that could have beaten that reveal would have been if she was an undercover narcotics cop. Clearly my best move at this point is to shove noodles in my mouth and think through the rest of the evening. Most notably, was there any point she was on her phone when she could have been calling in professional backup to our date?   So there I am, mouth full of noodles, shaking like a junkie, and looking around for the men in white coats like a paranoid schizophrenic.   Why would you bring that up?   What?   Schizophrenic. You know we don’t like that word.   I thought it added to the story. Besides, I don’t understand why you’re so sensitive. We’re not schizophrenic.   I know, I was clerk during the meeting when we decided that. Still, I think one of the voices might be.   Really? Which one? You know what, never mind. I’m trying to tell a story here.   Fine, but we’ll talk later.   Very well, where was I? Right, the psychiatric hospital. I decide to find out a little bit more about what she does. After all, it’s only polite to show interest in your date’s profession (not to mention it might help me calculate the odds of her having anything in her purse that rhymes with hypodermic meedle).   “I do some administrative stuff, but mostly I do marketing.”   At this point I’m pretty much out of noodles, which is bad news because I am nowhere near done with awkward pauses. This is one of the worst as my mind starts pitching possible TV and radio spots advertising for a psychiatric hospital…   Do you feel like the last sane person on Earth? Do people who never age or sleep keep you company? Are you feeling REALLY optimistic about any of the presidential candidates this year? If so, we invite you come visit us at Sunnyside Psychiatric Hospital! Come and enjoy the softest bathrobes in the business; on site animal care for all pets, real and imaginary; and skittles sorted by color and socks by thickness.   During the closing jingle, I tune back into the date and the awkward silence I left behind. I decide that I need better information and inquire what exactly she does for marketing.   “Actually, I mostly do internal marketing.”   Internal marketing. Now, there is an entire host of things that would make complete sense, but my mind reaches for none of those. Instead, only one word comes to mind and in that instant, I can’t think of any reason why I wouldn’t ask:   “So… propaganda?”
   Yessiree, folks. That’s how it’s done. 100% lady-proof! Tune in next time to hear how a sweet young blonde gave me a lock of her hair… involuntarily… on the dance floor.

A Storm Remembered

   There is a beautiful storm going on outside. The sun has given up the fight and the clouds have decreed darkness. While walking out to put the windows up in my car (because I don't learn), I was reminded of another storm long ago and a moment of pure magic.
   I spent my teenage years running around the mountains of central Utah, often with moccasins on my feet and a Bowie knife on my belt. Nothing is really left of that time, I no longer live in the mountains, I stopped wearing moccasins after I had to kick out a windshield wearing them (less effective), and I lost the Bowie while falling down a mountain. All good stories, but not the one I'm telling here. Back to storms...
   Mountain storms naturally possess a certain fury, as if they resent anything living where nature should stand isolated. The storm in our story was an extreme example. Regular descriptions simply don't communicate the rage the sky was unleashing. So rather than waste time telling you what it wasn't, I'll skip right to "wrath of heaven." This was the kind of storm that lead our prehistoric ancestors to imagine a clash of gods.
   Naturally, I went out in it. I have never claimed an abundance of good sense and my teenage self lacked even the traces with which I now make due.
   It was a short walk I had to make out to our old shop, but I walked slowly, as if under a heavy weight. This doesn't reflect on my mood, I was having the time of my life. Rather, the weight I felt was more literal. The mass of rain on my head and shoulders seemed to multiply on top of itself until it felt like I was carrying a yoke of buckets.
   So I walked with my head down, shoulders and hands drooping while water coursed down them in rivers that played and splashed off my fingers. Slowly I raised my arms, palms down, to both sides of me, feeling the water press along my full wingspan.
   Then, like a rubber band released, came my moment of defiance. In a snapping motion, my head and arms threw backwards, revealing my face and palms to the storm in the unmistakable pose of a madman.
   In that second, that moment, that exact instant in time that the first drop hit my face, the world exploded. As if triggered by the same insane impulse, the storm unleashed a bolt of lightning that split the sky right before my eyes and a simultaneous crack of thunder that rocked the ground and vibrated every nerve in my body.
   Now folks, the majority of my mental makeup is scientific and rational. I know full well that such timing could only be coincidence. And yet, at the time I felt an assurance, deep in my core, that I had summoned that lightning. To this day, echoes of that feeling remain and I still grin at lightning clouds as if sharing a private joke.

A Father's Smile

A Father’s SmileGive me a man who smiles when he fights, for this is the bravest of all.
A man who can chuckle in full dark of night, undimmed when his back hits the wall.
But what is this madness, this bloody-toothed grin? Such a man is surely insane!
For life is all treachery, burdens, and sin. No saint could find joy in such pain.

But perhaps we’ll gain wisdom if we widen our vision, now what is this man fighting for?
For the cause fails early that pursues selfish missions, something else must put steel in the core.
Maybe his smile’s not a sign of vain glory, but perhaps he is watched by young eyes.
My respect’s for the man who shapes his own story, makes reality form to the guise.

Not for himself. No, that’s just not enough. The focus must shift to be pure.
You see, it’s a father who smiles when times get tough, His innocent ones to assure.

The Difference Between Mothers and Heroes

“I can imagine no greater heroism than motherhood.”                -Musings of the Historian
   Let me take a moment and give a further interpretation of that. I think I’d like to do that by giving three things that all heroes have in common, and how mothers exceed them in every possible way.#1: Heroes answer the call…   The princess has been kidnapped, the world is in danger, or the machines have rebelled and everyone is counting on you. Every hero gets this call at some point and they step up, leaving all else behind to go out on this great quest that will restore harmony to the natural order if they can win the day.The call for mothers is never-ending, often trivial, and comes in a variety of high pitches that scratch on the nerves. The world isn’t in danger, but diapers are full, knees are scraped, and homework assignments are suddenly remembered. These calls don’t come once, they come every day. This avalanche of small troubles, enough to bury anyone, must be answered. For while world safety might not be at stake, the world’s future certainly is.…mothers answer every call
#2: Heroes have what it takes…Intelligence, strength, determination, fortitude, bravery, and any number of other key elements factor into a hero’s make up. Something sets them apart, made them the one and only person who could have pulled off their ultimate task. We have even created an entire modern mythology of heroes that have superhuman abilities that allow them to battle greater odds than any mere mortal ever could.I have traveled far and seen a great many wonderful mothers. While this might be the day to paint them as perfect, there is a higher point that must be made. Every mother I have ever met had an entire smorgasbord of failings. They weren’t strong enough to change their own flat tire, they weren’t educated enough to figure out that particular homework assignment, or weren’t brave enough to meet all of life’s challenges with a laugh and a smile.More often, I have seen mothers who cry themselves to sleep, and can barely drag themselves out of bed in the morning to meet the new day. I have seen them break. Mothers despair and complain, they fail and bleed. Therefore, no one is more surprised than the mother herself to discover, when all is said and done, that what they have said and done was enough.…mothers usually don’t, but they do it anyways.

3: Heroes are willing to die for their cause…Isn’t that the ultimate sacrifice? Isn’t that what we demand from our heroes? Perhaps it might not end that way, and we cheer loudest when they manage to survive the day, but we would not respect any hero who wasn’t willing to make that jump, to risk ending it all. All of their possible future experiences and joys placed on the altar so the greater good might be served.I have made no secret of the fact that I dream of such a thing, one glorious moment of reckless valor, my life traded for someone else’s. For this reason, I leave my house every day with the undercurrent of hope that today will be the day I push a little boy out of the way of a careening bus or save an old lady from the attacks of a vicious gang of thugs. But I want one thing made abundantly clear: this is not bravery. It is, if anything, an admission of my cowardice. The thought of one moment and done scares me far less than the crushing weight of years, an entire lifetime of anxiety and pain.In this arena, mothers surpass me effortlessly. Many of the things we fear to lose in death are often lost to them already. Fulfilling careers, vibrant social lives, a good night’s sleep, great adventures filled with laughter and safety nets, and even the occasional night out on the town are part of what a woman gives up when she opts instead to feel a helpless hand gripping her finger.Worst of all, every mother must carry in her heart the fear that, for everything she can do or give up, she can never be sure her child won’t be taken away. The universe loves its tragic coincidences, and every mother must acknowledge the possibility of one day standing graveside, surrounded by people who cannot possibly understand, and all her sacrifices paid only for fading memories. I think this is one reason why mothers are so much closer to God. After all, what prophet has ever prayed more than a mother?…mothers live for theirs.

A Political Lance

   You might expect from the title that I am going to launch into some tirade against the Democrats, the Republicans, gay marriage, abortion, or even Obama. I'm not going to do that, and for one simple reason:
   I'm not an idiot.
   There's enough of those on the internet to choke a horse, along with the brain of every thinking individual who was careless enough to get drawn in to that crap-slinging contest. Frankly, I wouldn't change a single mind. I would succeed only in making those who agree with me feel more validated and those who don't feel more angry.
   Instead, let me make two very strong pleas that I hope might actually sink in somewhere. I imagine I'll still manage to anger some people, but let's be honest, they were already angry.
Plea #1: Please stop making fun of the President of the United States of America.
   To clarify, I am talking only about the man and the office. His policies and decisions are free game and can (and should be) attacked with vigor and eloquence. Our founding fathers would expect no less of us. However, from the beginning, we still respected the office.
   The man who sits in the oval office is a symbol of our country and what we stand for. That thought might make you feel a little sick, but stick with me. Like it or not, that's how it is, and when he looks ridiculous, our whole nation looks ridiculous to the world. And yes, that includes you. That being the case, why would we be the first ones in line to throw that stone?
   We're breaking down our own house and cheapening the dignity of the office for everyone who comes after. It is a short-sighted political tool that backfires horribly when your boy gets into office and the public you got riled up about the last President is still in the tomato-throwing mood.
   Seriously, stop. I agree with almost nothing Obama has done and some of it makes me downright angry. Still, if I were to meet him in person, I would shake his hand and call him Mr. President, because that's the leader of our nation. And when I see posts and memes criticizing something personal or having him dance around in a dress, I don't laugh or like, I roll my eyes and scroll on.
I invite you to do the same. Let's try to return some dignity to our political environment.
Plea #2: Consider the career and teach our youth the same.
   Politician. What feelings does the word inspire in your mind? If you're anything like me, it's a mixture of derision and contempt. The political world as a whole is corrupt and slimy and no honest man or woman will touch it with a ten foot pole. That's how we all see it. So why are we so surprised when all we have to vote for come election time is Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?
   I'm sorry, folks, but the old wisdom holds true: crap in, crap out. If the honest, fervent people of the world won't enter the political arena, then our country will continue to be run by those who get into it because they have an axe to grind, an agenda to pursue, or couldn't succeed at anything else!
   Think of what we teach our kids to aspire to, maybe little Johnny will become a scientist, an engineer, or a doctor. All fine things, but there was a time when good kids wanted to grow up to be President!
   Maybe we need to find our way back to that.

A Christmas Argument

   Gerald sat in a worn recliner, his hand wrapped around a mug of cold hot chocolate, and contemplated murder.   He was not a violent man. In fact, he could not remember a time that he had raised his voice or his hand in anger. Deep into his golden years, it seemed a strange time to turn so savage, his head swimming with deadly thoughts. Still, he had run out of options. He was at the end of his rope. He had been pushed too far.   His guest would not leave.   It was Christmas Eve, the first since his Charlotte had died. His children had each in turn begged him to come spend the holidays with them and their families. He had refused them all, mollified them with stories of plans that required him to stay around home. Only his oldest son had been bold enough to keep arguing. Finally, Gerald had taken him to the side, looked into his eyes - the boy had been born with his mother’s eyes - and told him that he wanted to spend this first Christmas alone with his memories of his dear wife.  They shared a moment of understanding and his son had relented.   Still, that did not stop the Christmas Eve visits. It had lasted all day. Kids and grandkids, nieces and nephews, and even one great grandchild all wrapped up in fuzzy blankets, had come in a steady stream all day to wish him well and share their love. He had smiled through it all, thanking each of them in turn and giving the smaller ones tight hugs that left them grinning.   It had been pleasant enough, but he was anxious to have it be over. Always an introvert, the energy it took for Gerald to be sociable left him feeling drained. He had been closing the door on the last of them when one more hand rapped on the door as it attempted to swing shut on the world.   It was Jerry.   Gerald’s warm smile and words of welcome formed a sharp external contrast to the groan he felt inside. He had been counting down the relatives and had come to the end of his list. He had not counted on Jerry.   All of the children called him Uncle Jerry, and Gerald and Charlotte had spent the early years of their marriage with each thinking that Jerry was a relation of the other. One year, when Gerald asked her some trivial detail about him, she had looked at him puzzled.   “How should I know? He’s your brother.”   He had responded with shock of his own.   “I thought he was your brother!”   A quick investigation among the family was worthless. Everyone thought he was tied to someone else, but nobody could remember where or when he had come into the family. They finally all agreed that he must have been a friend of Charlotte’s father, who had died young. He was a gypsy fellow, only popping in every now and again at family reunions.   Now he sat entrenched on Gerald’s sofa, chatting away amiably as time crawled ever onward. Gerald had managed to stay friendly for an entire hour, his smile staying on his face like a soldier bravely manning his post.   Now they were deep into the third hour of Jerry’s visit and Gerald’s smile had abandoned him, running off into the night, hand in hand with his patience. He couldn’t blame them, he felt like his sanity would soon follow.   He had dropped every clue he could think of, but Jerry had been oblivious to them all. Even now, he chattered away like some pre-teen girl at a sleepover about all the pretty lights across town. Gerald seized on this opportunity. It was time for some tactical rudeness.   “Actually, I’ve never cared much for Christmas.” He interrupted Jerry coldly, feeling like a ship’s captain launching a broadside volley into his enemy’s vessel of vacuous conversation.  He leaned forward in his chair to watch the effect of his salvo. It would grow awkward now and Jerry would have to retreat.   Their eyes met and held, Jerry’s smile grew deeper. It was a devious, satisfied smile. Gerald felt tendrils of panic starting to creep into his brain. He didn’t understand it, but he felt like he had stepped into a trap. He felt a momentary sympathy with animals who chewed their own legs off to escape steel jaws. A part of his mind lightly contemplated what kind of self-harm he could inflict to get himself out of this.   “Why not?” It was not a true question, but rather a verbal hook, drawing him deeper into the trap. Gerald felt a surge of unexpected anger and responded with a lot more volume that he intended.   “Because it’s pointless!” He bellowed at his guest, though age had left his voice thin. Jerry was still smiling that spider’s smile at him. The sensible part of his brain told him that he should pull back, draw into himself. But he was in his fury now and let it all pour out in tirade.   “It’s a garish display of the worst parts of human nature. You like the lights, do you? They’re pathetic! People spend monstrous amounts of money to string them up everywhere, often risking their fool necks in the process, just to outdo their neighbor. It’s not a holiday, it’s a popularity contest, right out of some high school, the richest and the prettiest win.”   Gerald’s whole body was taught. His cane was by the door, but if he had been holding it, he would have shook it at Jerry. Still the man’s smile held, driving him to deeper depths of irritation and rage.   “It’s not all about the lights, maybe there’s some other part you like. The gifts, perhaps?”   “Gifts?! You expect me to get all wide eyed about gifts? I’ve got everything I need. I’ve had everything I needed for the last forty years!”   “You know, it’s better to give than…”   “Giving gifts?” Gerald interrupted the other man, rather than endure the whole trite aphorism. “I couldn’t give gifts to all of my family even if I were a millionaire, there’s too many of them now. Besides, they also have everything they need. Do my grandkids really need more toys? They already throw away more every year than I had my whole life! No, I can’t say I enjoy the gifts, giving or receiving. It’s fine and dandy that the economy gets a bit of a boost, but you can’t expect me to feel all warm and fuzzy because some corporation saves its bottom line in the last quarter.”   “What about the true meaning of Christmas?” Jerry asked softly.   Gerald had a grin of his own now. Jerry thought he was so clever, but Gerald had seen this coming from a mile off. He was ready for it.   “You mean the birth of Jesus Christ? You know, most Bible scholars now agree that He wasn’t born in winter at all. He was born in the spring.”   “Oh?” There was a sneaky innocence to Jerry’s question that should have warned Gerald that he was being played, but he was too caught up in the chase.   “Yes! He wasn’t born anywhere near to Christmas. In fact, I read on the internet that the only reason it exists is because Christians in olden times were trying to replace the pagan festivals held around that time. They couldn’t get them to give them up, so they just renamed them something Christian. They didn’t even change the traditions. Most of the Christmas traditions we celebrate are old pagan rituals.”   Gerald felt proud of himself, he felt like one of those college kids who always knew more than everybody else. He finished triumphantly.   “So if you think I’m supposed to tear up to celebrate Christ’s birth on the wrong day and by celebrating pagan stuff, you’re dead wrong.”   He sat back, folding his arms. He felt smug. He had seldom felt smug in his life before. He didn’t mind the feeling. Maybe he would try to spend more time being smug…   “That is fascinating.” Jerry mused. Gerald’s smugness faltered just a little. His guest didn’t sound defeated at all, as he should. He didn’t even sound fascinated, as he claimed.   “A pagan festival, you say?” Gerald nodded, confirming it. “Do you know what they were celebrating?”   Gerald’s smugness faltered a little more. He hadn’t paid that much attention to the article. One of his younger friends from work had emailed it to him. He had only skimmed it, and that had been many years ago, before he had retired.   “Oh, you know those pagans, I think it was some sort of sun thing.” He offered lamely.   “It was centered around the winter solstice.” Jerry spoke with authority, a man who knew what he was talking about. Gerald felt the last of his smugness slip away, joining his smile and his patience off in the darkness. “Or I guess it would be better to say it came just after the solstice. The winter solstice is the shortest day of the year.”   “I know what a solstice is!” Gerald snapped, feeling petty. Jerry continued as if he hadn’t heard.   “So all through fall and winter, the days got shorter and shorter and the nights got longer. To the primitive mind, this was the sun abandoning them. For some cultures, it was the forces of light being defeated, darkness and death taking over the world. At the winter solstice, it would appear that the battle was nearly lost.   “Then the days got just a little longer. It was still mostly dark, the days still frozen and barren, but even those primitive people could see the spark of hope in these signs. Even though it was still one of the darkest times, they knew that the light was coming back, that the forces of light were rising again. So they celebrated with candles and feasting, using light and laughter to help the sun push back the darkness.”   Gerald muttered under his breath. “Ignorant savages.” But his cursing had no weight behind it, he was just being bitter and he knew it. There was something of beauty in what Jerry was saying.   “This whole system of the planet’s motion through the heavens was designed by the Father of us all, and I can’t believe these months of darkness were a design flaw.”   Gerald grunted a grudging agreement and Jerry continued.   “I think He knew that life would take us through cycles of light and darkness, sorrow and joy, even righteousness and sin. I think He sent His Son to this earth to give us hope, a means to rise after we have fallen.”   A lump formed in Gerald’s throat and Jerry looked a little fuzzy to him through watery eyes, though he didn’t understand why. Maybe he was allergic to something.   “I expect He was born in the spring, as you say. He is the life, after all, and spring is the season of life. But I do not think we are wrong to celebrate that birth in winter. Winter is cold and dark. It is the natural symbol of death. Men and women have always tended to keep to themselves in winter, huddling and hoarding, trying to wait it out amid sickness and dwindling resources.   “Could it really be by chance that we celebrate Christmas at this time when people are most inclined to be isolated and selfish? Or could it be that we, like our ancient ancestors, feel the impulse to use lights and laughter to help the Son push back the darkness?”   A single tear glistened on Gerald’s wrinkled cheek and he nodded silently, not trusting his voice. He had somehow heard the difference in the last phrase, and he knew that Jerry was not speaking about sunlight. They sat together in a shared moment until Gerald gathered himself again.   “Are you saying that I should be with my family? With my kids?”   “No. They don’t really need you, do they?” Gerald was stunned by Jerry’s blunt answer. In spite of his new humility towards Christmas, he felt a bit indignant, his anger flaring.   “What do you mean by that? They’re my kids, they love me! They would be thrilled if I came and saw them.” He asserted forcefully.   “Of course they would, I never said otherwise.” Jerry defended himself, his hands raised in a mollifying gesture. “I only intended to say that there might be other people who actually need you more. A stranger on the side of the highway, out of gas. Or perhaps someone in a hospital, far from family. Surely, you could do much more for them than you ever could for your children, safe and warm in their own homes.”   “I guess I never saw it that way.” Gerald mused, thinking out loud. “I suppose I got used to Charlotte needing me all the time, especially towards the end. I haven’t felt that since then, I haven’t felt important. Are you saying that there are still people who need me?”   Jerry’s deep smile was back on his face as he stood and held out his hand to help Gerald from his chair.   “Come and see.”

My Thanksgiving Message

The secret to happiness is low standards.
   I throw that out every once in a while as a thought experiment. For example, a bare, one-bedroom apartment with a shared bathroom down the hall might not seem like luxury; but if it's for a homeless man who has been living in a cardboard box, that apartment is incredible.
   It makes people think. With a bit of fast talking, I can usually convince most people that I'm right about that, but I'm really not. It's the shadow of a deeper truth. Low standards are not the key to that insight, gratitude is. The problem is, if you start talking gratitude, people's minds shut off, because they've heard it all before. They miss the big picture.
   We're all here on Earth scraping and scrambling for some amorphous horizon we've named Success. Problem is, most people have no idea what that even means. We're pretty sure money has something to do with it, but we've seen enough Disney movies to know that can't be all of it. I would like to suggest a definition:
   Success is a life of deep connections and lasting happiness.
   I am basing this definition off of the common traits I've noticed in the men and women I most admire in this world. They have deep and meaningful connections with their families and friends. They also have an optimistic and happy view on life, even when events in their lives get very bad.
   Let's go to the studies for a closer look...
   There was a study done on college students where they measured initial happiness by various indicators, then split the groups into two sections. One section changed nothing, the others had the task of recording five things they were thankful for every night in a journal. At the end of six months, the people with the thankful journals were 60% happier. All good stuff.
   The study was immediately criticized. These were college students! What the devil do they have to be sad about? We could have got even better results with free pizza!
   So they ran the same study again using patients with terminal illnesses and chronic pain as their study sample. These new subjects were literally the suffering and the dying.
   As expected, the results were different. The 60% increase in happiness did not happen over six months...
               ...it happened in two.
   Let's take a quick look at the darker side of the equation. By a significant margin, the most common complaint of people in failed marriages is "He/She doesn't appreciate me."
   Dale Carnegie, that great student of human nature, said that after the basic physiological needs are taken care of, a person's greatest need is to feel important. So if someone in a relationship doesn't feel like they matter, it's a safe bet they aren't going to stick around for long.
   Could it be that even with all we've done to encourage gratitude, even having a national holiday for it, we still haven't even scratched the surface?
   Gratitude keeps us in the present, focused on the good things around us. It frees us from the guilt of the past and the worry and anxiety of the future. Gratitude gives us hope and the resiliency to try again when life has knocked us down. Gratitude makes us believe in people and their potential, so we reach out and lift them up.
   With such amazing powers, surely gratitude can change the world. But first...

   Let it change your life.

So That Happened...

I'm going to take a wee break from deeper musings and political commentary to share with you a story of how I was assaulted in my own car.
I was driving to the library because... I don't need a bloody reason, it's the library! Anyway, there was a slight tickle on my chest, the faintest whisper of sensation. My brain and I settled down to analyze the situation, mulling the thing over for countless milliseconds. Little did we know that there were other members of the body who were not so prone to deliberation.
My left arm, it turns out, is quite impatient, and had no intention of waiting for my brain and I to decide that there was, in fact, a bug on me and that it should be swatted.
No, sir! My left arm is an arm of action! Breaking rank, it flew of its own accord to see that the problem was dealt with swiftly and decisively. Sadly, when it acts independent of the brain, my left arm doesn't have any sense of level or restraint.
It wasn't leaving anything to chance.
So it was, from the vantage point of me and my brain, that there was a slight tickle on my chest, followed immediately by a rib-cracking thump delivered by my own left arm.
Not wanting to offend my left arm, I congratulated him on his swift reflexes and decisive nature. Still, in these quiet moments, my brain and I exchange loaded glances. Heavy eyebrows carry deep worry about a house divided against itself...
I'm not saying I'm a danger to myself, but for the sake of caution, I might sleep tonight with my left arm held securely under my stomach.