STICKY DOORKNOBS

WARNING: Close eyes before reading this blog

So, we bought one of those sunshades for my wife's truck over the weekend, the kind that lowers the temperature inside to something less than the normal solar surface readings we know and love this time of year in West Texas...

I can understand the warning on the side of a coffee cup that tells me that the contents of the cup may exceed 150 degrees and that I need to be careful. And I can even understand, especially in today's world, why they would put a warning on the side of a blow dryer that warns people not to use it in the shower. But I can't figure out why the makers (attorneys) of the Auto Expressions Magic Shade Sunshade felt it necessary to include this warning on the back side of their product packaging:

Blue Man, Ugly Man

NEW YORK -- Forget for a moment that you are looking at the worst photograph ever taken of the guy on the right who suddenly forgot how to smile the same way Yankee second baseman Chuck Knoblauch forgot how to throw to first base several years ago, if you are EVER in New York and have a couple of hours, I strongly recommend you go see the Blue Man Group at the Astor Theater in Greenwich Village.

I refuse to believe that the face the guy on the right is making is because he is star struck over some blue-faced, drum-playing, toilet paper-throwing performance artist who looks like Jerry Seinfeld in bad makeup. But maybe. I suppose there's that chance. Gosh, imagine how I would look if I ever had my picture taken with the Pope.

Speaking of which ... PBXVI is next up on the agenda, followed by tonight's performance by the really groovy Midland High Orchestra at Carnegie Hall. And tomorrow's private audience with me, my family, and 60,000 others at Yankee Stadium.

Fly Like an Eagle: 7 scouts, 3 adults, 10 headlamps, a long walk and an honest day's work make for a memorable weekend

Pratt Cabin, 2.2 miles down trail in McKittrick Canyon, Guadalupe Mountains National Park.

There is something cathartic about a 2 mile hike into a West Texas canyon when the only natural light is from a quarter moon above and Orion in the southwestern sky, and when you, seven Boy Scouts and two other adult leaders are armed only with a handful of not-so-regulation headlamps, 99-cent water bottles  and imaginations that border on being waaaaay overactive.

The next time you need to clear the cobwebs from your emotional corners, take a long walk after dark in the middle of nature. The noises in the brush will keep you honest and the scores of mountain lions your clear-thinking head conjures up will make you feel like a giant at the completion of the walk.

We did this Friday night.

The Boy and I, six other Boy Scouts from Midland's Troop 152, Scout master Tim McKinney and volunteer dad Joe Lilly made the walk into McKittrick Canyon at Guadalupe Mountains National Park, bound for Pratt Cabin (above and at right), a historic lodge in need of some serious fix up. More on that later.

Hiking is a great enough experience when done in the daylight the way most sane people do it. When you take away the sun -- and you are the designated lead hiker of the group -- it can definitely be a Get-Close -to-Your-Maker experience.

As our fearless leader Tim (who brought up the rear, I might add) said, we wouldn't have any problems with mountain lions; they would be spooked by the sound of 10 people walking and long gone by the time we came anywhere near them. That was indeed the case, although with a dozen beams of light from everyone's headlamps and flashlights pointed in every direction imaginable, there were enough shadows moving across the path to make us all at least slightly apprehensive on a number of occasions

The Boy, who just turned 14 a couple of weeks ago, has been working on the planning phase of his Eagle Scout project for five months now. After his troop summited Guadalupe Peak last November, he noticed there were no mile markers along the pathway, so he inquired about installing them as his project. The park ranger denied that request -- the trail is a nature conservancy and a protected area, and caretakers of the land are duty bound to keep it as unaltered as possible.

The ranger at Guadalupe, Fred Armstrong, worked with The Boy throughout the planning process, and offered an alternative: the 32 window shutters at the historic Pratt Cabin were in a state of disrepair and badly in need of painting. The Boy jumped at the thought.

After weeks of negotiating on dates and hammering out details, we were finally able to load up three truckloads of teenage boys and head for the project this past weekend. After the 2 mile walk into McKittrick, bed rolls were unfurled and eight of the 10 campers slept under the stars. (It's probably not necessary to point out which two of us pitched a tent for a little additional warmth in the 30 degree overnight chill.)

The boys began work at 8 Saturday morning, and 10 hours later, the 32 shutters had been scraped, sanded, primed, painted and painted again. There were times -- many, in fact -- when it looked doubtful that the job could be completed in just one day, but when you dangle a free Hunger Buster meal at the Kermit Dairy Queen on the way home -- if the work gets done -- boys do tend to get hoppin'.

Congratulations to The Boy and thanks to Justin, Brandon, Tim, Martin, Jarod and Scout, and to Big Tim and Joe for helping make it possible. And to the hospitality and friendliness of Guadalupe NP Ranger Cap'n Call. It was one of those weekends that stands a good chance of being remembered by everyone involved for quite a few years.

 

Unsecura Videus Camus de Auto Hoodeus Flyus Off Fastus. Or, farewell old friend.

I, umm, I'm not sure where to start. Maybe here: There is not a word in the English language that adequately conveys the feeling you get when you realize you have just done something horribly wrong and you don't yet know the final outcome but you are pretty sure it's not going to be good.

Panic. Shock. Gloom. Doom. Horror. Disbelief. All those words work to a degree and if they were all rolled together into one big word -- panicshockgloomdoomhorrordisbelief -- that pretty well does the trick, but it's way long and much too hard to pronounce.

Horrophobia. Videopanic. Cam-disorder. Those would be words we could invent to get us started.

Unsecura Videus Camus de Auto Hoodeus Flyus Off Fast would be the Latin origin of what happened.

It started Monday morning, this morning, so enough time really hasn't passed by yet for me to be sufficiently removed from the event in order to write objectively about it. Which means what you are about to read is stark, raw honesty.

There was a tank battery fire at the Alon plant in Big Spring today, thank heavens not nearly as horrific as the fire two months ago. I drove over and arrived about 9. I pulled up where the media staging area had been at the previous blast. I took a few frames of video with my Panasonic, but since I can't transmit that video back immediately, I laid the camera down on the hood of the car, picked up a second video camera, shot some video and sent it back to work so that it could be put up on our Internet site as quickly as possible.

When I was done sending the video back to the newspaper, I hopped in my car and drove off, bound for a location closer to the fire, which raged on as fires often do.

Five minutes later and much closer, I pulled up to an area just outside the fence that serves as the perimeter for the oil and gas plant. Several workers sat and watched the tank battery burn.

I slowed to a stop, put the car in park and reached across the front seat for my Panasonic camera.

And it was at that moment that that feeling crept in. That panicky shock, that gloom and doom, that horrified feeling of disbelief, that feeling for which there exists no appropriate word.

I turned the car around and headed back to where I had left only a few minutes earlier. Part of me actually hoped I wouldn't find it, but as I drove down the rural road east of Big Spring, a shiny object glared at me. I pulled up on it and picked it up. If you look closely in the photo you can see it laying there just at the edge of the pavement.

The camera was making sounds like R2DR and so it became immediately obvious that it was toast. And all I could think of was if my father were here, he'd say, "Cameras were not made to fly off car hoods at 50 mph."

The camera wouldn't shut, and it wouldn't open, even though the video tape had flown out like it had been unbuckled. And on the view screen, there was an eerie shot of the pavement, a sort of farewell picture, a way of saying, "This is the last thing I saw before your negligence cost me my life."

That camera and I have been through a lot together. Cracker Barrel Updates. Kinky Friedman. The great Midland Flood of 2007. We've done a lot. Seen a lot. I shot a lot of people with that camera. I get wistful thinking how it will no longer be a part of my work life.

Driving the 45 miles back to work with a dead camera and hardly any video to prove up, I knew only one thing for sure: I would not be turning in a mileage report for this trip.

Now the only thing left is facing the boss and explaining the look on my face. And asking him if he knows of the word that can convey that feeling of horror I was feeling. And hoping his response is not "Fired?"

If you can't laugh at yourself, who can? Turns out pretty much the whole world

Pictured: Former Dallas Cowboy safety Bill Bates, left, and Midland District Court Judge Dean Rucker.

I have had a wonderful, blessed life. Filled with goodness, exceptional family, beautiful children and a loving and understanding wife.

Which is not to say my life has been without its moments.

I have struggled with certain issues, chief among which are life's moments of embarrassment. I have had four that stick out like Barney Fife singing in the church choir. Moments that say, "Look at me everyone, I am a major dweeb."

I think if we admitted our moments of embarrassment, it would be easier for us all to accept them, acknowledge them and then forge ahead.

To the next embarrassing moment.

Which just so happened to come to me last week.

But allow me to give you some background. As I said, I have had four such moments. Times so embarrassing they cast a bright red glow upon all who were nearby. Occasions that were so embarrassing others were equally embarrassed for me.

There was the time in 1977 when as drum major of the Irving Nimitz High School Band, I fell while walking UP a ladder to the platform upon which I was to conduct the entire unit in a piece by Tchaikovsky that was already difficult enough before 150 band members were faced with having to be conducted by someone who couldn't properly negotiate five steps upward.

Then there was the time in 2002 when, as co-emcee of the Midland Christmas Parade, I mistakenly referred to the "Citizens on Patrol" as the "Citizens on Parole," a term which does not give the remainder of the Midland citizenry the same comfort level as does Citizens on Patrol, a more accurate depiction of what these hard-working volunteers do.

(Note: You may have noticed the first incident came in 1977, the second in 2002. This by no means is to say that 25 years passed between embarrassments.  However, for purposes of brevity and so that I may continue to walk down the street largely unnoticed, I only provide for you these few high points low points today).

These first two moments of embarrassment are my milder mess ups. They can and often do serve as casual dinner conversation starters that can provide some light-hearted chuckles.

There have been two other incidents that are classified under the "Doozy" heading. Mishaps that would have sent me running for the hills had I had that option, and some hills.

Such as the time in 1993, when former Dallas Cowboy safety Bill Bates visited Midland to benefit a local non-profit. I along with a reporter from the Odessa American were given the opportunity to interview Bill in the same small setting. The Odessa writer walked in first, introduced himself successfully and sat down. I followed him in the room. Bill stuck out his hand and introduced himself politely by saying, "Hi, I'm Bill Bates." I looked at him and returned the introduction.  Literally. "Hi," I said, "I'm Bill Bates."

In retrospect I can say that 15 years later, it is still very painful. I can only hope now that there was no drool apparent during our brief encounter. I had no idea I held Bill Bates in such high esteem until I made a total idiot out of Jimmy Patterson. Nor did I ever envision having to remind myself that Jimmy Patterson was in fact my name. The other guy already HAD the name Bill Bates.

And then it was just this past Tuesday when I scored the coup de gras. The gravy upon all my other life embarrassments. The cherry on top. A moment for which I can be remembered in perpetuity.

I was in a room full of people. Important people. Police chiefs, sheriffs, educators, clergy, even judges. I had had the pleasure of meeting them all at some point or another during my career and everyone in the room had been nothing but gracious through the years, especially the judges. District judge Jody Gilles was there. So was Marvin Moore and Al Walvoord, two of our county court-at-law judges. In the middle of the program, another judge came in and sat down. He smiled and nodded knowingly at me, I returned the  smile and continued talking. I was at the podium as a sort of moderator during this particular occasion and I had made it a point of properly introducing all the dignitaries in attendance, especially those who are robed for the better part of their work days.

When the last judge arrived, I finished with what I was saying, turned and introduced him, and thanked him for coming. As I mentioned earlier, I've had the pleasure of speaking to this judge and all our other judges on several occasions through the years.

"I'd like to also thank the Honorable John Hyde, 238th district court judge, for being with us today," and I noticed as I was thanking him that he was trying to say something while I was introducing him and I thought how unusual and I leaned over and said, "Excuse me?" and he said ...

"I'm Judge Rucker. I'm honored to be thought of as Judge Hyde, but I'm Judge Rucker."

I can assure you that there are certain times in life where there is absolutely nothing that can be said that can ensure a proper recovery from some of life's more embarrassing moments. This was one of those moments. My moment to shine in the red glow of blood that rose from the base of my neck and covered every exposed patch of my face and head, inch by painful inch. It was my crowning achievement.

Until, of course, the next crowning achievement comes along.

Hug a Veteran weekend

Harold 'Pat' Patterson

Tailgunner, Navigator, Captain

U.S. Navy

World War II

South Pacific Theater

1924 -

We fall down, we get up

Karen and I have talked a lot recently about stumbling. Not literally, of course, but the spiritual and emotional stumble. She feels bad when she feels the urge to not be quite so healthy on a particular day and so she'll trip and order some nice, juicy, gooey, cheesy enchiladas at a Mexican food restaurant and then she'll spend the rest of the night wondering if the stumble is long term or only a fleeting break in what has otherwise been a wonderful self-improvement journey for her. And I consider my own issues and how I try to battle them daily. They are there. And then they are not. And then they are there again. And I wonder what will it take to finally get over those issues? What will it take to have total self-control for the rest of life? To do good every day for ever?

   But one day recently it finally dawned on me: that perpetual goodness that we all wish we could achieve may or may not ever happen. We confront our demons, our challenges, our issues, whatever, every single day. We crawl out of bed and put our game face on and we go out and show ourselves to the world and we have no idea what the day will bring and how we will respond and often all we can do is try our very best and hope for the best.

   After this bombshell epiphany dropped on me (it took only 48 years, understand), I told Karen that we can't really see ourselves as failures. If we have that chimichanga and beer after 30 days of Weight Watchers dinners and bananas and walking two miles a day, it's not a failure. At least it doesn't seem like it should be considered a failure to me. Life to me seems like a series of days, weeks and months of doing good followed by, hopefully, shorter periods of falling down. We fall, we pick ourselves up again, brush off the dirt and the leaves and whatever else has caked on us and we keep on. And then we do well for a while again and we feel good again and then one day we wake up after a bad day at the office and we don't feel like doing so good so we fall again. But then when we fall, God gives us that feeling of guilt, or the desire to do better again, and so we do.

   The cycle repeats itself ad infinitum for many of us. I doubt seriously that any of us set out to do good in life and accomplish that task for the remainder of their lives every single waking moment. But it's not for lack of trying.

   The good and the not-so-good cycle applies  regardless the aspect of your life you've decided you need improvement. It doesn't matter your vice or your bad habit, you try to do better and then one day you wake up feeling like today's not the best day for doing good and so you don't.

   There is a wonderful song that was released in the late 1990s by Contemporary Christian singer Bob Carlisle called "We Fall Down." It's about a man, miserable with his life, who walks to the store every day and each time he does he walks by a monastery. Thinking about the holiness inside the monastery only makes him feel more miserable about himself and his dead-end path. One day, a priest walks out and the man asks the him what it is that they do every day beyond the marble walls of the beautiful, sacred place. And the priest tells him, "We fall down, we get it up. We fall down, we get up ... The saints are just the sinners who fall down ... and get up."

   The man, or maybe the listener, suddenly realizes that men and women do fall down, but by the grace of God they get up. And get up. And keep getting up.

   As a boy and younger man, I often found myself looking judgmentally at others who I knew were going out Saturday night and drinking and carousing and then showing up at church on Sunday and I would think to myself how hypocritical they seemed.

   But you know what? How wrong I was. These people are not hypocrites. They just fall down. And then they get up. The saints are just the sinners. And so are we all.

   If you fall down frequently, don't despair. It is not the falling down that is our failure. It is only in the failure to get back up.
 

Instantaneous

I feel horrible for Kevin Everett, the Buffalo Bills tight end who lined up like every other time he'd lined up and seconds later was on the turf unconscious. A helmet-to-helmet hit rendered the Port Arthur, Tex., native motionless and with the diagnosis of a severe neck injury. He went from promising newcomer to "Hopefully he will be able to walk again" in a split second.

Two Fridays ago, a carload of Midlanders were headed to Odessa, stopped at a red light, when they were plowed into from behind by a truck-trailer going at a high rate of speed. The front seat occupants were injured; the woman in the backseat, Julie Jones, known to many Midlanders, is in a coma with a bruised heart and a severe head injury.

In both cases, these two people I would imagine were living wonderful, healthy lives and ... a second later, they were changed forever through nothing of their doing.

On the way to work this morning, I was preparing to turn left onto a major street from another major street. I was first in the left turn lane. The light cycled yellow and I pulled out thinking I could turn after oncoming traffic had stopped. The light turned fully red and after a second or two of it being red, a truck ran through the red light. Then, another truck, a full 3-4 seconds after the light turned red.

Just before they pulled through, blatantly running the red light, my foot had eased off the brake and onto the gas. Had I decided to accelerate, we would've been broadsided by one and possibly two pickups going 35-40 mph. The Boy would have been hit square on.

Something told me not to do it. That little voice that comes to all of us.

We were the fortunate ones this morning. And even though we survived, I could not help but shudder the rest of the morning thinking how close life came to being over or dramatically altered forever.

It is cliche when you hear the phrase life is precious. But it is also very true. 

Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace

Most everyone knows the first stanza of theologian Reinhold's Neibuhr's "Serenity Prayer" ...

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
the courage to change the things I can;
and the wisdom to know the difference.

Not as well known, perhaps, is the remainder of Neibuhr's meditation:

Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.

Certainly the first four lines have brought a lot of people a lot of peace through the years. In the second stanza, though, I'm struck by the meaning of the entire prayer. Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace speaks to me particularly.

If heeded, the line could probably help many people reduce their worry and anxiety improving life almost instantly. Dr. Gerald May, in his book, "Addiction and Grace," writes of the close link between those two subjects and how often addictions can actually lead to receiving God's grace, the thought of which I find fascinating.  Hardships bring not only peace, but difficult times lead to wisdom and not by mere coincidence, wisdom also brings peace.

Life's road has its bends, its limited site vision areas and its no passing zones. It's fascinating what the journey can dish out to us, and our major challenge is how we deal with the roadblocks on the way. And prayers like Neibuhr's can work wonders in helping dealing with life's potholes.

My Lenten Sacrifice, Pt. 2: My Two Left Feet (and the ladies behind me who were diggin' 'em)

So, umm, the most important thing to remember about the second week of ballroom dance instruction is this: when you walk in, if you are a guy, you will have forgotten everything from Week 1. There really is no getting around this. This is fact.

I stood next to some wise guy who said he actually practiced.

I told him I unfortunately didn't have time for that.

"I was too busy forgetting everything and had no time left to practice," I said.

But apparently I didn't need to. I mean, for most of the night I truly danced with the proverbially cliched two left feet, I will admit. But I should be honest here: When I danced with Karen, that's when I couldn't dance real gracefully. When I danced alone, as we all have to do before trying it with our partners, I was, well, how do you say, fabulous.

Hey, hey, those are not my words.

"Hey, this guy has GOT IT down."

"You go guy. You DO know what you are doing."

The voices were unfamiliar. I turned and saw that they came from two women who were standing behind me watching me, well, get down, I guess. Apparently I had been overcome by something like Prince's ghost. I don't know what came over me. But I was likin' it.

It was the mambo that I was doing that was so impressive. Mambo King, I guess you could call me.

I looked back at my lovely bride who was looking at the women who were propping my psyche up singlehandedly and, well ... let's just say Karen wasn't ready to jump on the dance floor to get a piece of the action I was offering.

She looked at the women and said, "Thank you so much. His head will now be so big he won't be able to get through the bedroom door, which is really fine since he snores anyway."

The women continued to watch me and I shimmied a little more for their benefit. I was feelin' good.

Karen eventually joined me. We began to stumble back and forth.

"Elbow up!" she pleaded.

"Who needs to worry about the elbow. My feet carry me, baby. I'm just goin' with what the feet tell me."

OK, I didn't actually SAY it, but I would have.

We stumbled and tripped over each other's toes until it was time to do the cha cha, which is frankly not a dance meant for regular clumsy white 40-year-old guys like me.

Give me the mambo any day -- eight steps up, eight back, eight to left and eight to the right, throw a little shakin' in... ooh, baby that's what I like.

That's dancing my friend. Anything beyond the 8-8-8-8 pattern of the mambo (including mamboing with a partner) and I'm fairly hopeless.

We went home, and Karen hardly spoke. Thank God we live just around the corner.

"I was on tonight, wasn't I?" I said.

She smirked. It was dark and I couldn't see her smirk. But she did.

"Yeah you were a regular Patrick Swayze or Emmit Smith or whoever it is you dream about at night."

"I got it. I think you're just lucky to have me."

I parked the car, got out and slipped on a patch of ice.

"Yeah. Lucky girl. That's what I'm talkin' about."