tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67784242659119586702024-03-14T02:27:33.837-04:00GreenbeansFresh, never frozenAlanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.comBlogger196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-73715730352461953642011-05-08T08:27:00.000-04:002011-05-08T08:27:09.621-04:00Flying Squirrels...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d4ynExY1VlY/TcWr5IgZaFI/AAAAAAAAAx8/uJPubEMrsRA/s1600/IMG_1207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d4ynExY1VlY/TcWr5IgZaFI/AAAAAAAAAx8/uJPubEMrsRA/s320/IMG_1207.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>...are not uncommon in SC, but due to their shy demeanor and nocturnal nature they are rarely seen. Except if you happen to wander in my backyard, where if you peek in any number of "bird houses" you may find this mother and her babies. She's been moving from house to house each night after she has been discovered by me or one of the kids.<br />
And what's the easiest way to tell that she's nocturnal? Check out the size of those eyes.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-670Dm2TVhGo/TcaL_EDapSI/AAAAAAAAAyA/Z8GXjarabA4/s1600/IMG00038-20110408-1311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-670Dm2TVhGo/TcaL_EDapSI/AAAAAAAAAyA/Z8GXjarabA4/s320/IMG00038-20110408-1311.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-54678830594633622262011-05-02T14:05:00.000-04:002011-05-02T14:05:52.612-04:0019 Years Ago......today, I married my wife right about now- 2:00pm. It was then, and remains, the best decision of my life.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-45693123741723310312011-04-24T21:11:00.003-04:002011-05-01T14:28:09.588-04:00(Part 2) Leslie And I Had A Night Without Kids...... recently, so we decided to try a local restaurant for the first time in quite a while. Now <i>Lexington Arms Restaurant and Lounge </i>has been serving food to locals since the 1970s. In fact, the place still looks like 1975 and the only things missing are lava lamps, a couple of beanbags and a cigarette machine at the front door. The clientele too are generally silver haired and have put in an extra bit of Super Poligrip in celebration of Prime Rib Friday.<br />
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Leslie and I looked around and for a moment thought about leaving, but we were already in the door and seated. We were sort of trapped anyway because as we were being hurriedly whisked to our seats, the waitress had given us the "...it's kinda slow tonight" routine, which basically is like saying I need your paltry tip so that my 4 children can eat. Besides, I do love prime rib.<br />
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As I sat buttering my bread, I looked at Leslie and said, "We are our grandparents". And, at that moment, we really were, sitting there in a totally outdated "lounge", surrounded by groups of chattering retirees. We were soon all heartily eating our medium rare prime rib, sipping a small glass of wine, munching our bread. I pictured us also eating congealed aspic salad, some warm prunes and finishing it all off with a cup of decaff, perhaps a small slice of hummingbird cake.<br />
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"Did you enjoy your meal, dear?"<br />
"Darned tootin', Sweety, that was one peach of a meal. Now let's go home and get ready for bed- decaff is kicking in and it's almost half past 8. If we hurry, we can catch a 60 Minutes rerun." <br />
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Another night without kids wasted. My sciatica was acting up anyway!Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-80661239331716176812011-04-24T12:18:00.000-04:002011-04-24T12:18:15.340-04:00Happy Easter!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rnz3h4eS1aM/TbRNH4CLthI/AAAAAAAAAxk/cgTHTv22YJk/s1600/The+Greens%252C+Easter+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rnz3h4eS1aM/TbRNH4CLthI/AAAAAAAAAxk/cgTHTv22YJk/s320/The+Greens%252C+Easter+2011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rNsizqKdNA4/TbRNKTJf93I/AAAAAAAAAxo/EXOcXCXttvE/s1600/Alan+and+Leslie%252C+Easter+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rNsizqKdNA4/TbRNKTJf93I/AAAAAAAAAxo/EXOcXCXttvE/s320/Alan+and+Leslie%252C+Easter+2011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Wishing you all a happy and joyful Easter. The GreensAlanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-39023268234991717902011-04-20T22:21:00.001-04:002011-05-01T14:25:56.714-04:00(Part 1) Thus Begins......several new blogs on Greenbeans concerning Growing Older. I'm taking on this challenge for a couple of reasons. The biggest reason being that several of my childhood friends are beginning to look rather... worn. I use the word "worn" because I'd like to start a movement to actually lose the word "old" as a description of a person. In my mind, "old" seems to signify that the value of that person is declining and the end is in sight, while "worn" seems more of a description of a favorite pair of tennis shoes- a bit frayed and not as crisp as they once were, but nonetheless worthy of a few more washings and a jog around the neighborhood. <br />
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And that's exactly how I feel about my "worn" friends. They still have great value to me, even in the face of their fading and fraying, sagging and graying minds and bodies. Through mutual appreciations and sometimes frictions, we have been worn in a way which makes each of us feel very comfortable, the rough edges smoothed by time. My friendships are now more about reclining and listening rather than posturing and building. My oldest friends and I built the foundations of these relationships many years ago, and everyone knows that those are the hardest years to weather. We have eroded in the some of the same ways and also frayed and frazzled in different areas that somehow compliment the other; that somehow serve to bolster and renew our longtime kinships.<br />
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Yes, my friends are in so many ways like my worn and comfortable tennis shoes. In fact, I think I'll take a few of them for a jog around the my neighborhood. But please, have the paramedics on speed dial.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-35832592284265997852011-04-11T09:20:00.001-04:002011-04-24T20:22:42.842-04:00Illness Does Not Affect Individuals.....but rather it also affects all those who love and care for the patient. While it is true that I have only been a patient a handful of times in my life, I learned first hand the challenges of a patient dealing with a chronic illness. <b>While some diseases can dramatically shorten a persons life, <i>all</i> diseases will alter the trajectory of a life in big or small ways. </b>That's true of both the patient and their family.<br />
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I was 8 years old when my mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. What started then as a strange numbing of half of her body and debilitating days of exhaustion eventually grew into more visible, permanent symptoms of the disease. The days of watching my mother run or me playing basketball with her in the driveway, slowly ended with the diagnosis of that disease. Throughout the course of more than 30 years her symptoms have progressed from a slight limp that slowed her down to her daily confinement in a wheelchair. She remembers much of her life in milestones marked by the loss of abilities or the complications of the disease- the day she could no longer drive; when she could no longer feed herself; the time she fell from her wheelchair and broke both of her legs. <br />
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As a patient, she has been poked and prodded, admitted and observed. Throughout her journey she's received competent care and beautifully delivered compassion. At times along the way, however, she has also been mismanaged, misdiagnosed and forgotten. She's been prescribed medicines which worked well to provide a better quality to her life and occasionally has taken medicines in which the benefits did not outweigh the side effects. In solemn conversations held in sterile examination rooms she's been given probabilities of life expectancy, predictions regarding her limited and shrinking abilities and in some rare instances, hope.<br />
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Having seen her live it, I sometimes wonder what I would be like as a patient with a chronic disease. Would I have the stamina and courage my mother has displayed through the years? Would I have the same deep-seated faith and hope that she lives by? I can only hope that I would. After all, I've learned much from her over the years and she remains the greatest example of how I should face challenges in my life.<br />
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As a longtime representative for a pharmaceutical company, I often try to envision the perspective of the patient. I attempt to look through their lens, modeling my behavior to be honorable to him or to her. I think that by providing the correct and balanced information to the patient's healthcare provider I can make a dramatic and positive difference in the life of their patient. And not only the patient's life, but the lives of those who love and care for them. That's the best kind of job. They may never know the role that I play, but that's alright. I know, and that keeps me going. And the life and hope of my own mother keeps me focused on the most important element of healthcare, the patient.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-55786310654543848702011-03-31T21:10:00.003-04:002011-03-31T21:12:56.631-04:00NASA's Messenger...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ihZsQEqM7lk/TZPIimk_9jI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/e3MaDjN_Jwc/s1600/Mercury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ihZsQEqM7lk/TZPIimk_9jI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/e3MaDjN_Jwc/s400/Mercury.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>...spacecraft has released its first image of Mercury -- the first ever glimpse of the innermost planet's dusty craters taken by a craft in orbit just over 120 miles from the planet's surface. Mercury has the greatest range of surface temperatures of any planet in the solar system. This ranges from -300°F on the dark side of the planet to 800°F in the late afternoon. A single day is represented by slightly less than 60 earth days.<br />
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I've always been fascinated with Astronomy and in fact I sometimes enjoy breaking out the family telescope. On a clear night when company has come over and joined me on the back patio I will sometimes set up that telescope, occasionally allowing guests to see their first view of the moon through the lens, shadowed craters and debris fields visible.<br />
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There's something about a dead planet or our own moon that makes the creation of this earth come alive for me. Earth is a living planet for many reasons. Water, atmosphere, the perfect rotation balanced by the perfect moon the exact distance from a perfectly energized sun. <b>While there are many coincidences in this world- our world is not one.</b><br />
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As Messenger and other satellites like it continue on their journeys, taking amazing pictures of lifeless planets, let's celebrate our own vibrant and living planet- always thankful of the perfect one who created her.<b> </b><br />
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</div>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-19161488434704138652011-03-28T15:39:00.000-04:002011-03-28T15:39:02.467-04:00Cotillion......is one of those words rarely used and not easily spelled. The traditional meaning is simply, "A ball used for society to introduce young ladies". In my house, it has become synonymous with "manners class" or that "embarrassing dance class" that occurs every few weeks. In any case, both of my daughters have participated and, I think, enjoyed it to a degree though they would never admit it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVq0MWhoKiA/TZDiRZHzGFI/AAAAAAAAAxE/IkBdlOTzD9Y/s1600/Cotillion+2011+Jenna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVq0MWhoKiA/TZDiRZHzGFI/AAAAAAAAAxE/IkBdlOTzD9Y/s320/Cotillion+2011+Jenna.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-73R8B3nP-0g/TZDifRqgW1I/AAAAAAAAAxI/zMdkhBbobNo/s1600/Cotillion+2011+Jenna2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-73R8B3nP-0g/TZDifRqgW1I/AAAAAAAAAxI/zMdkhBbobNo/s320/Cotillion+2011+Jenna2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Last night, I was proud to accompany my youngest daughter, Jenna, to a Cotillion Ball. She was lovely and so grown up looking. After the dance, we enjoyed dinner together and it was a special evening. She is growing up fast. And she's a great dancer to boot. Looks like those lessons are paying off.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2XnjBOWv098/TZDjGpZg7vI/AAAAAAAAAxM/I2kdtdU3Ssk/s1600/IMG_0942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2XnjBOWv098/TZDjGpZg7vI/AAAAAAAAAxM/I2kdtdU3Ssk/s320/IMG_0942.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Grant, George's son, was also there. Here he tells Melba to, "... put a little something in the punch to kick it up a notch, and be quick about it. I've got to get back out there and win a dance contest." Grant walked away with 2 dance contest recognitions that night.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-52285541030018726732011-03-17T17:33:00.000-04:002011-03-17T17:33:52.609-04:00A Few Weeks Back...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-GYmEwW3rZew/TYJ9Ngz4laI/AAAAAAAAAwo/MViOUsd1Fy4/s1600/powder+puff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-GYmEwW3rZew/TYJ9Ngz4laI/AAAAAAAAAwo/MViOUsd1Fy4/s320/powder+puff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>...I attended a funeral with my Father. It was the funeral of an old friend of my dad and his brother Warren. In health, Phil had been an energetic man with a keen wit, who could play a guitar like nobody's business. Long ago he married my Dad's first cousin Wanda, a talented singer and musician in her own right, and for many years they performed together as a duo or with a band. The last four months of his life Phil was frail and weak, battling small cell lung cancer with little hope of recovery; the music silent. <br />
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Wanda asked my Dad to give a eulogy and he was very honored to do so. As a part of the eulogy Dad read a letter that my Uncle Warren had written about Phil. Warren and Phil had been inseparable friends in the early years of life and part of the letter relayed a story from their childhood which I will attempt to paraphrase:<br />
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It seems that Warren and Phil were always getting into some sort of trouble back then and even at the age of 9 or 10 they tried to find ways to make a little extra money. While some boys that age might consider raking a yard or doing some light manual labor for a couple of dollars, Phil's ideas always seemed more centered around business to business propositions. The idea of selling something just seemed more appealing and from his perspective there was an endless supply of resources to fulfill the needs of the locals. For example, his grandfather had a beautiful garden overflowing with beans, cucumbers, tomatoes- perfectly free for the taking...should you <u>not</u> get caught. And they never did, creating a relatively lucrative business in the neighborhood. Demand was high- cost of goods low (free)- profits high and all parties happy. That is, with the exception of Grandpa who scratched his head in dismay at what must have been the worst infestation of rabbits and green bean eating deer he had seen in 50 years.<br />
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On one occasion, Phil and Warren were walking along the railroad tracks and from the corner of his eye, Phil spotted an old, discarded commode laying along the wood-line. Hearing a train approaching in the distance, the boys decided to see what would happen should pieces of the commode be run over by a speeding freight train. Using large rocks, they began breaking the discarded crapper into hand sized pieces and eagerly piled it on the tracks. Soon enough the powerful train ran over the pieces of white porcelain creating a puff of dust, crushing them into a fine white powder. <br />
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This, of course, stirred in Phil an idea. His sister had a couple of lovely powder boxes sitting in the bathroom. Having "borrowed" the boxes, Phil and Warren filled them with the newly created white dust now piled on the railroad tracks. And you guessed it, a new door to door sales product was introduced to the unsuspecting public. Phil and Warren's Toilet Powder was born.<br />
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And both boxes sold by mid afternoon.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-45243696861051971192011-03-14T11:16:00.000-04:002011-03-14T11:16:30.859-04:00So I Get This Call......the other day from my friend Rickwell who says that he'd like to write about the Greenbeans Blog. Rick's opinion of my musings in this forum are particularly interesting to me because he, along with another longtime pal- George, got me involved in blogging in the first place.<br />
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Thanks, Rickwell, for the plug and for the encouragement. You have brought some added joy to my life with the introduction of posting my thoughts and for that I am grateful. <br />
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To see what Rick penned, click here:<br />
<a href="http://socialmediatoday.com/rick-stilwell/277765/your-blog-sucks-these-don-t-why">http://socialmediatoday.com/rick-stilwell/277765/your-blog-sucks-these-don-t-why</a>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-22933766489232039662011-03-10T18:44:00.001-05:002011-03-10T20:49:33.267-05:00I'm Feeling Sorry For Charlie Sheen......these days. He's gained far more notoriety as a nut-case than he ever did as a serious actor. Watching him slowly dismantle, while entertaining millions I suppose, serves as a stark reminder of how fleeting fame and the power that comes with it can be. And for that matter, how little a distinction there can be between being famous and infamous. While the world <u>likes</u> a "success" story, they <u>absolutely love</u> a "fall from grace" story. And when you are the sole author of your own demise, well that's just the makings of the best kind of tale.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-9x_3aPr24s0/TXlc-hhJoyI/AAAAAAAAAwk/a-ES3_mUQEQ/s1600/Charlie+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-9x_3aPr24s0/TXlc-hhJoyI/AAAAAAAAAwk/a-ES3_mUQEQ/s1600/Charlie+1.jpg" /></a></div>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-67863357000676657022011-03-01T21:00:00.000-05:002011-03-01T21:00:28.058-05:00"What Do You Mean It's March Already",...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Q9Bvoz8l5HM/TW2iMdi4lXI/AAAAAAAAAwY/ftg7uVz-vG4/s1600/Image39-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Q9Bvoz8l5HM/TW2iMdi4lXI/AAAAAAAAAwY/ftg7uVz-vG4/s400/Image39-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>...I heard myself exclaim. 1/6th of 2011 has been dedicated to annals of history and I haven't accomplished a dad-blamed thing! I'm doing more with less at work, which translates into the fact that it's sloooowly killing me. I haven't done the exceptional things I want to do as a husband, a father, a brother or a son. I'm getting fatter and lazier by the day and don't care as much as I should. To be honest with you, I don't even feel that good these days.<br />
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And to top it all off, I really don't even have a topic that goes with this picture. In a self-deprecating way I just thought it was funny.<br />
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Any takers for a caption for the above picture???Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-78584081350851078272011-02-19T17:59:00.000-05:002011-02-19T17:59:06.670-05:00I Was Just Wondering......why people with bumper stickers all over their car find it necessary to make public statements about their personal beliefs. I would equate it to someone in line at the grocery store looking in your buggy and making comments about how they think your life should be.<br />
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"I see you have a whole chicken in there. Hmmm, I would never support the massive, industry coordinated death of a living creature to feed my insatiable hunger for meat."<br />
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"Well, I would and it's delicious. Now please move along- don't you have some candles or soap to make?" I would say this as I unloaded my sausage and steak onto the conveyor belt.<br />
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"Coexist"? I thought I was. "Cat on board"? I prefer babies. "Don't Blame Me, I Didn't Vote For Him"? Now I'm just confused. Who are we talking about and who cares anyway? If you feel so compelled to spout your beliefs on the back of you car, then please allow me to say what I would to any common loudmouth in the grocery store line- "Thanks for your opinion but I'll form my own thank you. Oh, and "Have A Nice Day"!Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-36959969661741298012011-01-24T22:23:00.001-05:002011-01-25T07:15:02.488-05:00(Part 4) In Conclusion......I lay on my back in the snow, battered and bruised, staring at the moving gray clouds above. The charge had been a disaster and my brother, finally coming to his senses, sat whimpering behind an oak tree. Into view, standing above me suddenly appeared a giant smirking face and my former friend, Timmy. "You want some more of that, chump?", the giant said, Timmy nervously laughing by his side, snowballs still in his hands. I couldn't respond. I fought the urge to tear up; the time for heroism was gone.<br />
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The two victors began to slowly walk away, but not before the goon kicked some loose snow in my face and Timmy lobbed another snowball as Scott. It was a final show of power and a mortal blow to the Green boy's egos. As Timmy and the giant walk back home we could hear them laughing, relishing in their triumph.<br />
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My sadness over the situation began to turn to anger. Those turds had cheated for one thing and they had hurt my little brother for another. As the two figures laughed and walked further away, my anger grew. Laying in the freezing snow didn't seem to cool me down. I found myself being picked up off of the ground, snow in each hand. I felt that snow being packed tightly in my gloves, forming the perfect projectile for exacting a bit of vengeance. The two cheaters, now quite small in the distance, laughed again. Something popped in my head and I felt my arm cock back and my vision hone in on one key area; the top of the giant goon's head. All else in the periphery had gone fuzzy. The top of the boy's crew-cut may as well have been a target as I felt myself take a hopping step forward, exacting my full weight behind a lunging heave of a throw.<br />
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The snowball left my hand and swinging arm which looked something akin to the minute hand of a clock in fast motion with a perfect release at 1 o'clock. This created a wide arcing lob, the zenith reaching some 30 feet high. The snowball gained speed as it fell, reaching terminal velocity as its downward force of gravity equaled the upward force of drag. Timmy and the giant continued to walk farther away, laughing, unaware of the approaching frozen projectile.<br />
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I have sometimes felt that God physically intervenes in my daily activities. And as a 10 year old child, I felt as if God Himself directed that snowball. As an adult, looking back on the situation, I am certain of it. The snowball crashed into the unprotected head of the bully, exploding, sending him prostrate onto the pavement. He was out. Timmy turned around stunned, his crooked bangs swinging, and I am certain to this very day he can't figure out how I hit his friend at that range. Sometimes there is no explanation for these things, and who would need one anyway? As for me, I'm just content knowing that the Green boys won in the end. And the bad guys lost a little dignity that day.<br />
<br />
Things were never the same after that. It would be the last time we sought out Timmy on one of our visits to Spartanburg. After the snowball fight we finished the day in the comfort of Grandma Harris' living room, nursing our wounds, sipping hot chocolate and listening to adult political commentary. Enjoying every minute of it.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-84150416705863366082011-01-22T09:02:00.003-05:002011-01-25T07:19:26.754-05:00(Part 3) Snowballs......began flying, the blur of ice in combination with speed heavy in the air. I saw my little brother collapse under the impact of a bullet thrown by the boy-giant across the yard. Scotty's teeth made a clicking noise as his stocking covered head was forced one way by the impact of the flying snowball, his lips the other way- suspended for a moment where they had once been in perfect alignment with his red face. My tiny comrade was down for the count.<br />
<br />
I had three choices at that point. Stand my position and fight it out (impossible as I was running out of "ammo" and far short on defensive positioning); fall back to the safety of grandma's couch (I liked this thought more and more but it would come with a lifelong stigma); or charge the oppositions bunker. Now I'm not a war strategist, but I thought the third option could at least buy me some time for Scott to pull himself together and help a brother out.<br />
<br />
In warfare, charging is generally a last resort. It is most likely necessitated by a critical shortage of resources in combination with a lack of a fall-back option. It is the equivalent of football's 4th quarter, final seconds "Hale Mary" where you will either take the field in victory as a gutsy s.o.b., or you leave the stadium in shame- in war, dead. There are songs about heroes who, in desperation, beyond all reason or possibility muster the courage to chance it all. Grabbing handfuls of snow as I went I began to run toward to onslaught. For a moment the ploy worked. Timmy and his goon, stopped to look at each other briefly before throwing snowballs with more fury than before.<br />
<br />
I knew the charge had been a mistake from the beginning. For one thing, I'm not very fast. For another, I was the ideal target- stunned and enlarged by a super puffy red coat, waddling toward (not away) from the enemy. Timmy and goon were delighted, licking their chapped lips as I approached.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TTrfd5qRxjI/AAAAAAAAAv4/BUWtr4shVGc/s1600/platoonElias4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TTrfd5qRxjI/AAAAAAAAAv4/BUWtr4shVGc/s320/platoonElias4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>If you enjoy war movies at all, Platoon was one of the all time best. There is a classic scene where Willem Dafoe, thought dead, emerges from the jungles of Vietnam. His men helplessly watch from the helicopter above as his body is riddled with enemy bullets, shaking and lurching violently (though dramatically in slow motion) with each point of contact. This was me that day. Broken and defeated, but perhaps with one last opportunity for glory and revenge.<br />
<br />
To be continued and concluded...Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-91054911456874608662011-01-20T22:00:00.002-05:002011-01-25T07:14:33.509-05:00(Part 2) Timmy had a friend......with him that fateful day that we, the Green's, rolled into town. After having kissed Grandma Harris and wishing her a happy new year, my brother Scott and I headed back into the snow, running as fast as we could to see if Timmy wanted to build a snow fort or something. We knocked eagerly on his front door. But instead of the familiar crooked grin and botched bangs, the boy who opened the door looked like a linebacker. He was freakishly big. He had hands like catchers-mitts and a melon sized head sporting a perfect brown crew-cut. It wasn't my friend and I instantly hated him.<br />
<br />
"Is Timmy home?", I said, standing on my tiptoes to try and catch a glimpse over his massive left shoulder. In my memory he answered something like, "Who's askin?", though I doubt that ever really happened. Chances are good that he said yes and that Timmy soon came out on the front porch. The big kid was perhaps his cousin, though the details of the relationship have been lost in time.<br />
<br />
To make a long story a bit shorter, suffice it to say that Timmy and his giant crony challenged me and my younger brother to a snowball fight. Even in the ignorance I my youth, I knew that Scott and I had several things working against us.<br />
<ol><li>We were unfamiliar with the local terrain</li>
<li>We hardly knew how to make a snowball, much less throw one with any accuracy</li>
<li>My only wing man in this endeavor was 7 </li>
</ol>"You're on", I said with a cracking voice, feigning confidence. Lines were drawn and 5 minutes were given for each side to create a stockpile of ice grenades and dig in. As I was doing so, I felt something cold and hard hit the back of my puffy coat- a snowball. The big kid had begun the offensive without warning; while we were still under the gentleman's white flag agreement! It was evident that I would be on the field that day with a foe not limited by the boundaries of human decency. For me, everything went into slow motion.<br />
<br />
To be continued... <br />
<ol></ol>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-40442200755508434422011-01-16T18:57:00.003-05:002011-01-25T07:14:18.222-05:00(Part 1) The Final Leftovers......of the Carolina snowfall are slowly disappearing. Puddles have formed in the low spots while the last of the white patches trickle and fade into but a memory. It's the stuff of stories.<br />
<br />
<br />
The whole event has reminded me of a childhood "snow story", taking me all the way back to about 1978 or so. The upstate of SC had gotten a pretty good snowfall that early January, but despite that Mom and Dad were intent on loading up the burgundy LTD for a trip to Spartanburg to visit the great-grandparents (I had 2 complete sets of greats until I was 8). I was personally very excited, not so much to hang with the old folks that day, but because I had an acquaintance who lived next to Grandma Harris. And who knows what kind of loot he had gotten for Christmas. His name was Timmy.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TTOlNUaQ_nI/AAAAAAAAAv0/CFI2v1ZtqEU/s1600/snowball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TTOlNUaQ_nI/AAAAAAAAAv0/CFI2v1ZtqEU/s320/snowball.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Timmy was about my age and someone that I occasionally hung out with when visiting Grandma Harris. He was a weird kid with crooked teeth and a bad haircut, but it beat sitting on the living room floor listening to the old folks talk about taxes, arthritis and the downfall of humanity as evidenced by Threes Company. Little did I know as I stepped out of the warmth of Dad's giant car and onto the crunchy white of Grandma's driveway, that on that very day I would make history- as the most insanely accurate snowball thrower that Timmy (or anyone else in Spartanburg, SC) had ever seen. Or ever would again.<br />
<br />
To be continued...Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-39551268017102544212011-01-11T13:11:00.000-05:002011-01-11T13:11:12.558-05:00Wishing You All...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSyc3tIoX2I/AAAAAAAAAvw/hDtB3S1wkpU/s1600/Wii+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSyc3tIoX2I/AAAAAAAAAvw/hDtB3S1wkpU/s320/Wii+Me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>...a happy and fulfilled life, at 1:11 PM, 1/11/11. Now ain't that neat? :-)Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-58296415570586121802011-01-08T20:53:00.000-05:002011-01-08T20:53:23.592-05:00"Hey, Babe, What Did You Do WithThe Camera?", I Asked."What makes you think I did anything with the camera? I think you had it last", she says.<br />
<br />
"No I didn't. Maybe it's at your Mom's house. You know how cluttered it is there", I said.<br />
<br />
"If it was at my Mom's house we would not have been able to download the snow pictures. Think back to when you last had it", she says, in a manner which I view as quite condescending.<br />
<br />
"Well, I am thinking of where I last had it, which is why I am certain you had it last, smarty pants."<br />
<br />
(Pause) "Alan, did you leave it in the outside pocket of the cooler, which is where I last saw you with it? Hmmmm?"<br />
<br />
(Longer pause) "I suppose that's possible", I say.<br />
<br />
Upon my return, I took this picture. I hate it when she's right...and she's always right.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSkUYltkAWI/AAAAAAAAAvk/5k1OxIiAAng/s1600/IMG_0644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSkUYltkAWI/AAAAAAAAAvk/5k1OxIiAAng/s320/IMG_0644.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-38587070968136714412011-01-05T21:45:00.000-05:002011-01-05T21:45:26.227-05:00I struggle......from time to time with low self-esteem. Everyone does I suppose, some more than others. Am I really good enough to be a part of this group? Do I deserve to have someone special in my life? Does God really love me unconditionally? When is the other shoe going to drop? These are all legitimate questions. And they are also questions asked by someone struggling with their own personal value- struggling I suppose with a sense of worth.<br />
<br />
Some people have to really work hard at keeping their ego in check. They are by circumstance, by upbringing or just quite naturally- arrogant. Pride is their downfall and many battle hard to remain humble. I recall a time, I was around 15 or 16, when I went to a local family reunion with my parents. The reunion was attended by distant cousins, I guess, and I knew from the beginning of the event that they were not "my kind of people". Some were in straw cowboy hats of all things, big shiny belt buckles and dusty boots. Some men wore overalls, the women had their hair in buns and wore big flowered-print polyester dresses. They were poorly educated and obviously people of humble means.<br />
<br />
I remember clearly, at some point, turning to my dad and saying something like, "We're related to these yahoos? Has anybody hauled granny and the rocker down from Uncle Jed's truck, yet?" I will never forget his response. He looked me square in the eye and said, "These are relatives of yours who make an honest days pay with an honest day's work. They are poor but good people. You have no right to look down upon them." Wow. That exchange rocked me- I was ashamed and humbled- and I deserved every bit of it. On the surface, that wake up call from my dad may not seem a very significant exchange, but for whatever reason that single event transformed the way I looked at people then and today.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSUsk-wKlFI/AAAAAAAAAvY/DOuSYnjBWWE/s1600/han-solo-frozen-in-carbonite_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSUsk-wKlFI/AAAAAAAAAvY/DOuSYnjBWWE/s320/han-solo-frozen-in-carbonite_3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yes, Jesus was very clear on the subject. It's the meek (the humble, gentle and kind) that will inherit the kingdom of God.<b> </b>But stop for a moment and think of the far end of that spectrum. Think beyond meekness or humility. There are people, me and you at times, who are paralyzed by fear of failure. <b>Low self-esteem and self-doubt are as big a hindrance in serving God (and others) as is pride or egotism. They are two polar ends of a scale that serve to isolate you and keep you from your full potential as a person- and your full potential as a representative of Christ. </b>Pride is destructive, but a lack of faith or confidence in your own God given abilities will have the same outcome when you are allowed an opportunity to serve. And we all are called to serve. <br />
<br />
Meek, humble yes. But frozen by your own fear of failure or perceived lack of unworthiness misses the mark. And perhaps it even misses the mark with a similar outcome as looking down upon others of lesser means or a different upbringing- your relatives or not.<b> </b><br />
<ol></ol>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-1896412064790297452011-01-04T07:40:00.000-05:002011-01-04T07:40:50.557-05:00Happy Birthday, George...I wanted to give a big shout-out to my pal, George who turned 43 yesterday. This marks the official entry into his mid-forties, though unofficially he has been an old man trapped in a younger body for 20 years.<br />
<br />
Also, he and his family are soon to occupy their new home where he will be known as the old guy who occasionally goes on his front porch in his boxers and wife-beater-T, yelling, "You kids get out of my yard".<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSMVOBDEn0I/AAAAAAAAAvM/fQtDuyHX46E/s1600/IMG_5254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TSMVOBDEn0I/AAAAAAAAAvM/fQtDuyHX46E/s320/IMG_5254.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1905957308">Happy B-Day wishes, Dook.</span>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-45554009941355211612011-01-01T22:21:00.000-05:002011-01-01T22:21:35.687-05:00Quote from my oldest daughter, today...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TR_vHzngEFI/AAAAAAAAAvI/5CpVa8VZXj0/s1600/IMG_0414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TR_vHzngEFI/AAAAAAAAAvI/5CpVa8VZXj0/s320/IMG_0414.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Dad, 2010 seems like only yesterday. (smile)Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-88732402450907033412010-12-28T18:28:00.000-05:002010-12-28T18:28:57.533-05:00I'm Dreaming, Of A White Christmas<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TRpyGyL-mUI/AAAAAAAAAu8/gck9Kld_Lq8/s1600/winter+at+grandjackies%252C+dec+26+2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TRpyGyL-mUI/AAAAAAAAAu8/gck9Kld_Lq8/s320/winter+at+grandjackies%252C+dec+26+2010.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And a white Christmas is just what we got in Florence, SC, though technically fully fallen and enjoyed the day after. Here, Jenna and Meredith have put the finishing touches on a snowman, all with the approval of Daisy, looking on.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-39476729280990673042010-12-25T10:09:00.000-05:002010-12-25T10:09:58.930-05:00Perhaps My Favorite Christmas, around 1982<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TRYHJWdOzHI/AAAAAAAAAu4/lX2inivqhXo/s1600/The+Greens%252C+the+early+years+168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TRYHJWdOzHI/AAAAAAAAAu4/lX2inivqhXo/s320/The+Greens%252C+the+early+years+168.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And so my love of the synthesizer began. I played this with my pal George until it fell apart and then I spent every penny I had saved for a Korg keyboard. I still occasionally play on a Korg when not at my baby grand. However, I now much prefer the feel and sound of actual hammered strings to the digitally sampled sounds of... well, hammered strings.Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6778424265911958670.post-3545862068878727062010-12-24T08:51:00.000-05:002010-12-24T08:51:13.827-05:00I Love Everything......about Christmas. Part of the reason is that everything about the season brings back fantastic memories for me. Memories of visiting my great-grandparents in Spartanburg, SC. I had two complete sets of great-grandparents until I was 10 years old. Memories of favorite Christmas meals and beautiful Christmas music. (Do you hear what I hear?) The smell of baking cookies and hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. Riding around in the family LTD looking at manger scenes and light displays in front yards, some of them pretty remarkable. Christmas movies with the family. The thrill of going to bed a tad early on Christmas Eve, awaiting a visit by the jolly fat man. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TRSlLUHtolI/AAAAAAAAAu0/kmErHrrtHxg/s1600/The+Greens%252C+the+early+years+076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ps55tzF5YdI/TRSlLUHtolI/AAAAAAAAAu0/kmErHrrtHxg/s320/The+Greens%252C+the+early+years+076.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Today and tomorrow I continue to build memories with my own children. I-Carly is having a very special "seasons greetings" episode on the upstairs TV. The kids will need to help us clean the house and straighten up for family visits tonight. They can also help me finish picking up a few last minute items for their Mom and the dog needs her teeth brushed (her breath could knock you over). While I'm at it I'll fuss at them for not cleaning their rooms. Merry Christmas, Bedford Falls!<br />
<br />
Could it be that the good memories override the cruddy ones- the downside of Christmases-past forgotten or repressed. For my kids sake, I hope so. Even as I sit here trying to write them down, good Christmas memories seem to flow pretty easily while the bad ones seem a bit more distant. And with time, maybe the bad ones are gone altogether; who knows. Maybe that's a Christmas gift in and of itself.<br />
Alanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08891371704169296422noreply@blogger.com0