Moving

Might be moving.

oPad

So funny.

Child of Intention

Larry Finely was excited about this Mothers’ Day.
He woke up early and put his little bear slippers on and headed to the kitchen to make his mommy some delicious breakfast. He could still feel the cold tile through the rubber soles.
The stove clacked on, just like he’d seen his mommy doing thousands of times. He grabbed two eggs. He put the toast in the toaster. He pulled the bacon from the fridge and smiled. All the while he hummed to himself. “Mommy will be so happy! She will hug and kiss me, and tell me she loves me,” he thought putting the heavy cast iron skillet on the stove, “She will have the best mothers day.”

Larry was such a thoughtful boy and always had such great intentions.

Frank Namder was not excited about this Mothers’ Day.
He woke up early and put on his rubber boots and headed out of his kitchen, leaving on the table his delicious breakfast.
He walked through the wet ash. He could still feel the heat even though the fire was out. And even though he knew what to expect, his jaw locked tight as he saw the charred body balled next to the Finely’s gas stove. One by one he counted the bodies. Sister. Brother. Father. Mother. All still in the remains of their beds. All the while he sighed in himself. He went back the the kitchen and looked at the little 5 year old body of Larry Finely. “Mommy will be so happy! She will hug and kiss me, and tell me she loves me,” he thought Larry must have been thinking. He moved the heavy cast iron skillet off the stove.

Larry was such a thoughtful boy and always had such great intentions.

Little boy, smiles and joy,
Hands so small, heart too big to mention.
Your heart is placed so rightly
In your mind, intention.

Little boy, now nevermore
Hands so small, heart too big to mention.
Fires burn and ignite so brightly,
and burn with good intention.

Honest Man of Rhyme

This is article I wrote for The Henry County Times. But after asking me to write for them because I was “edgy” they denied it based on fact that I inserted myself in the article, and they implied that it had no merit, was not coherent, and was not interesting. But I had such a great time interviewing Dr. Crumbly that I wanted to post it anyway.

A feeling of calm excitement entered my head as I hung up the phone with the retired chiropractic doctor. We had just set up a time to talk about his latest book, “A Rhyme a Day Keeps the Devil at Bay,” and his smooth, aged, confident tone put me at ease.

The afternoon sun was playing hide and seek in the clouds as my wife and I pulled up to Dr. Gene Crumbley’s pleasant McDonough home. He was waiting for us in the glassed in porch. We sat down on comfortable wicker furniture and began chatting.

Since I am a hard-hitting journalist I started off with the most difficult question, “Did you get to golf this morning?” He shot me a toothy small and said yes, someone was able to look after his wife, Norma. With the hard stuff out of the way we jumped into his new book with takes passages from the Bible and puts them into poetic paraphrase, his book second which does this, his first to Bible stories.

“What made you continue writing in rhyme?” I asked.

“First of all, God gave me the talent.” He continued to tell me that before graduating High School on ’45 he would often make posters for school events, some of them containing rhyme. And then, when he and his wife started his chiropractic practice in ’58, he would write personalized cards to patients for special occasions, often containing rhyme.

When he retired at age 70 he was persuaded by family to write a book which we now know as “Bible Stories in Rhyme and Other Poems.” And he was done. Or at least he thought he was.

Not too long after his first Biblical rhyming book was out people started asking the question that every author gets, “When is your next book coming out?” and Dr. Crumbley shrugged it off. But then his daughter-in-law began to question, and he started to entertain the idea. Golf buddies’ wives started asking. People he never met began to ask, and finally he felt God was giving him the green light. But what kind?

When his family suggested that his next book be a rhyme for every day he thought that was a task too tall; that it would take years and years. But after nine months “A Rhyme a Day” was born, with almost every page, cover to cover, coated with encouraging paraphrased poetry. Like this one:

There is a time for everything

For everything there’s a season.

A time to be born and a time to die;

Only God knows the reason.

There’s a time to build, and tear down,

A time to laugh, and one to weep,

A time to throw something out,

And there’s also a time to keep.

There is a time to shut up

And bring a conversation to an end,

Sometimes that time to shut up,

Is before any talking begins;

Everything is beautiful in its time

And everything God does endures,

Nothing can be added or taken away

All gifts from God are clean and pure.

Reference: Ecclesiastes 3:1-14

I continued chatting with Dr. Crumbley, which I was glad for. He felt like a long lost relative, and I was catching up.

“My other book?” he asked after I questioned him about another project he was working on. In a jiffy, he had bound from his seat and was off. When he returned he was carrying a plastic bound draft version of his book, “Birds, Butterflies, and other Critters.” As I turned the pages I saw hundreds beautiful photographs taken by Gene. And underneath each one was a clever informative poem about whichever critter was pictured, and all told from the perspective of what a little girl, peeking out her window, would see. It was amazing.

“What are hopes?” I asked, “For the wildlife book?

Gene thought briefly about his book of birds. “It would be great for education,” he said. Good for adults because the photos are fantastic and great for children because it’s graspable.

“And for Rhyme a Day?”

There was no hesitation this time.

“I hope that God would be glorified,” he said, “that it would spread all over the world. That someone sees it, and it doesn’t matter if they are Christian or not, and find it an awesome way to find encouragement.”

I was not surprised by the sincerity in his voice, the assuredness in his eyes, and the humbleness in his demeanor.

We took a few more pictures and began to wrap up.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “can I ask what your wife suffers from.”

“Norma has osteoporosis. She is not quite, but almost an invalid. It’s very hard for me, being a Chiropractor, and not being able to do anything. Her bones are too weak.” Too brittle. Too fragile.

And there it was. There he was. A man with a smile that will warm your heart, and a voice that will calm your soul. With every reason to feel bitter, and shake his fists at the irony of the Almighty, he simply smiled. “Find it an encouragement,” he said about his poetry. He is not spouting some gimmick to get rich, or get fame.

I was humbled.

I left then, and feel now, with that same feeling of humility. And I flip through the pages of “A Rhyme a Day” and I am encouraged.

Dr. Gene Crumbley is not a Dr. Suess, or Silverstein, or even a Prelutsky nor is he a Yates, or a blake or a Longfellow. He is simply a godly man of poetry. He is an honest man of rhyme.

Polars

I will not write with the intention of being great. I will write only because I have to. Only because if I do not a shaking calm of insanity will be overwhelming. My empty clacking and spewing out onto the world only serves as a release valve. And if perhaps someone does read this it may be their treasure and their trash much like right now it is the same for me. It is the whole. It is the paradox it is the polars.

Today a little boy left this world. At 10:08. And I guess at sometimes we are all forced to leave. Pushed out into the unknown, perhaps not into the unheard of, or the unrecognisable, but out of what we believe we know. Some are simply asked to leave, and do so without shame, without rage, without clinched fists that pound so heavily on what might as well be nothing. Perhaps the willingness comes from a lack of knowledge of what this world is. But it could be the lack of fear, that even though in a tiny conscience there is a voice that says, “The water is cold, and dark. But it is deep. And diving in, well diving in, that is the way to go.” Victory in death.

Today a little girl came into this world. 7 pounds and 7 ounces. And we are all pushed to enter. Sputtering to life. Kicking and screaming against what might as well be nothing. Wanting the confines of the womb’s tight embrace. Wanting to feel resistance.  And we find our way. Or we lose it. That may be it. Like Hansel and Gretel, the more time passes the more we get off the path. And the breadcrumbs are eaten up. But help will come. Victory in life.

On the cross hands were nailed down. Left and right. Polars. As if to permanently be a picture, a reminder, of who can find the path once they see it in the light. All those East. All those West.  And feet were nailed down, and on a head a crown was placed. The same crown that the cynics and critics have placed. Meant in mockery; shown as splendour. Polars. Feet that were planted, and walked, and held body upright on solid earth. A head that was higher than just in the clouds, but had knowledge of the highest heaven was now covered in blood. Blood in the eyes. Across the nose. Down the cheeks. And into a mouth as it cried out. “Victory!”

Living and Dying. Polars. The paradox is that we do them both simultaneously and equally well. We die yet we live. We live yet we die.

Victory.

It’s Cold

and I think I am leaving.

Snot

I had a post. It was a pretty good rant too. Oh well. Probably best that it didn’t get posted.

Not What I was Expecting

Let Go (The Space-Folk Version)

This is music for the space-folk version of  “Let Go,” a song Stacy wrote. It was my first attempt at Garageband which Stewie so generously let me use on her Macbook.

http://staticmag.liondrive.com/letgomusicver1.mp3?action=download/download

The final version will be more mellow, and not so sci-fi.

Opinion?

Ghostbusters vs. Ghostbusters

Some of you may recall that there were actually two totally unrelated Ghostbusters  Cartoons.
For your viewing pleasure, the intro to each.

So the real question is…

Feel free to discuss.