[(sound of radio hum and persistent static) We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this Special Announcement. Please do not attempt to adjust your screens. The problem is not with your monitor.]

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A Big Announcement

First – the BIG Announcement: Today’s entry marks post number – wait for it – 1,000 here at the Middle Zone! (sound of vast crowd cheering enthusiastically; roll out the proverbial red carpet; cue the band; cue the fireworks)

I mean, who woulda thunk it? Not me, that’s for sure!

To be honest (something we always strive for here at the Zone), I really had no lifelong aspirations to become a world-famous millionaire blogger/writer, I’ll tell ya. That’s right: zip, zero, nada. In fact, ‘way back in June of ’06 (practically pre-historic days in Internet time) when I posted my first profound thoughts measly chicken-scratchings, the ONLY reason I did it at all was simply to “try this weird, crazy bloggin’ thang out”, if you get my meanin’.

(Er, as to that “world-famous millionaire blogger/writer” bit… I think I can say with confidence that over the last 4.5193 years of blood, sweat and tears, working my fingers to the bone and the little ol’ gray cells into exhaustion, I’ve managed to achieve at least two out of those three descriptives. It should be obvious to all exactly which two have been accomplished.)

So how does one celebrate 1,000 posts, anyway? Why, by doing something special of course!

Now for me, “something special” usually involves, well, pie – preferably with a big ol’ scoop of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream right up there on top. However, today I decided to do something completely different (miraculously involving no calories whatsoever) and submit an entry for Joanna Patterson’s group writing project instead. All month she’s been running her “The Gift of Blogging Confidence” group writing project over at Confident Writing. Since I haven’t participated in a GWP in quite some time, I thought this would be a great opportunity to jump back into the fray.

[We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming. (sound of static fades away) And what the hey; why don’cha go have yourself a Slurpee?]

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Look, Ma; I’m A Writer!

Well, I’ll tell ya; blogging over the years has certainly been the source of some surprising turns of events. I’ve had the opportunity to meet some really fantastic folks, read great thoughts on practically anything you care to name (and let’s face it; “one or two” not-so-great thoughts, too), and gained exposure to some truly amazing, well, stuff. I mean, there’s practically no end to the things there are to learn “out there” these days, is there? You know.

As for yours truly, well, blogging has given me a remarkable measure of confidence I never knew I had. After all, when it comes to recording your own thoughts and sending them out to the world… well, it takes a certain level of chutzpah, don’cha think? Why, the very idea that someone else out there would conceivably care what I think – about anything – I mean, sheesh, who knew?

The thing is, writing is something I always thought I’d be good at, even back when I was a kid. It’s just that, up until a few years ago, I simply didn’t actually, y’know, do it on a regular basis. Howsomever, once I began writing more-or-less regular-like here at the Zone, well, the rest is, as they say, history.

But if there’s one gift blogging has given me – and believe me when I say it’s one I never saw comin’ – well, that would have to be (sound of drumroll and rimshot) poetry.

Look Ma; Now I’m a Poet, Too!

Yep, now I’m not only a writer – I’m a poet, too; a statement to which my mind can’t help but respond: Uh, now how heck did that happen? Truth be told, I can barely even relate to most poetry out there. So why on earth would I start writing any of my own, much less publishing it “out there” for anyone to see and (sound of terrified scream) critique?

Not to mention, as this photo illustrates, the sheer, unmitigated agony of the bane of existence of poets everywhere: “the search for the perfect word”. (With apologies to Joyce Kilmer. – Ed.)

So how did it happen, you ask? Well, in a word – confidence! Yep, it’s that confidence I picked up from practicing what I normally do. And after doing it long enough, I finally began to think outside the box and try something different.

Oh, don’t get me wrong – I very carefully make no claims to bein’ a good poet. But I honestly think I’m learnin’ a thing or two every time one falls out onto the screen. Hey, who knows; maybe my feet really do show it? *

Poetic Moments at the Middle Zone

So for your reading pleasure torture edification whatever, here are the links to all my (insert appropriate descriptive here) poetry posts that appear here in the Middle Zone. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know how you liked them. I’d truly like to know!

First of all, here are five very short poems (written in *ahem* free verse – which, let’s be honest, is just a fancified way of sayin’ “Hey, there ain’t no rhyme or reason to this stuff!”) for a writing project sponsored by the inimitable Liz Strauss wherin each entry is limited to exactly 25 words:

• Watched
• They Were Wrong!
• Horizons
• Somersault
• Clueless

Then, since it’s poetry after all, I decided to try my hand at, y’know, actually rhyming something. (Yes, I know all poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. Still have trouble thinking that way. Just sayin’.) Interestingly enough, it seems my own photos turned out to be my greatest resource when it comes to the ol’ Muse’s poetic ramblings. Thus, my photo of a pair of spiky sycamore tree seed pods inspired this poem about my childhood days:

• Spiky Balls

Oddly enough, my two latest poems were inspired by photos of the same subject: the morning dew:

• Morning Dew
• Fallen Starlight

So what’s next, you ask? The Great American Novel? A Nobel-Prize-worthy essay? The next volume of The Toilet Time Reader? Heck, who knows? My advice is (for you and for me), let’s make sure to remain open to the possibilities. Hey, you never know what surprising little gift might next come down the pike!

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[* By the way, on the remote chance you have no idea what that sentence refers to, it’s a little rhyme I learned years ago (and therefore assume most folks have heard in one form or another), to wit: “Hey, he’s a poet! He didn’t know it; but his feet show it – they’re Longfellows!” (sound of rimshot)]

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Of Boats and Anchors… and Hope

One of the great things about the Easter season, particularly in the Christian world, is that it delivers a wonderful promise of hope. Hey, it’s the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, after his death on the cross over 2,000 years ago.

Jesus had just claimed victory over one of those things we all face sooner or later: death. Now that’s something worth celebrating, wouldn’t ya think?

But as I contemplated that blessed event this past week, I found my thoughts unexpectedly snagged on that little four-letter word, ‘hope’. I began to wonder: is my definition of ‘hope’ the same as yours?

Call me crazy, but I think it’s a very important question – critical, almost. After all, one of the main problems with any given communication is the words used may not necessarily mean the same to the speaker as to the hearer (or in this case, the writer to the reader).

So, let’s think about the word ‘hope’ for few minutes, and I’ll start with this simple question: What does the word ‘hope’ mean to you?

Common Definitions

I’ll tell ya; we’ve certainly heard it tossed around quite a bit these last few years, haven’t we? As a matter of fact, it became the mainstay of a certain politician’s political campaign as far back as three years ago. (Ironically enough though, these days it’s become the rallying cry of the opposition as well – but I digress.)

Just for fun, I checked several online dictionaries and came up with a few definitions (italics added by yours truly for emphasis):

• a specific instance of feeling hopeful; “it revived their hope of winning the pennant”
• the general feeling that some desire will be fulfilled; “in spite of his troubles he never gave up hope”
• promise: grounds for feeling hopeful about the future; “there is little or no promise that he will recover”
• expect and wish; “I trust you will behave better from now on”; “I hope she understands that she cannot expect a raise”
• be optimistic; be full of hope; have hopes; “I am still hoping that all will turn out well”

One of the things you’ll notice from all of these definitions (and there were many, many more, all of them pretty much in a similar vein) is the uncertainty in all of them. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about it or not, but most of the time when folks use the word these days, hope is actually nothing more than a wish – albeit possibly a very powerful one.

Now I don’t mind tellin’ ya; I have a real problem with that. Why? Well, it has to do with this particular passage from the Bible – Hebrews, chapter 6 to be exact. Here’s a portion of two verses, 18 and 19:

“…we who have taken refuge would have strong encouragement to take hold of the hope set before us. This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast…” (NASB) (emphasis mine)

(Note from the Proprietor: this section is part of a much longer discourse the writer of Hebrews gives regarding the promises of God; nevertheless, they illustrate the point I want to make.)

If you’ll think about it for a bit, you’ll notice that word ‘hope’, as used by the writer (most folks think it was the Apostle Paul, but we don’t know for sure), is described as “an anchor of the soul”, right? Now, I don’t know about you, but that certainly leads me to think that ‘hope’ is certainly a lot more than just a fervently-held wish, wouldn’t ya say?

In fact, when I think of the word hope, I’m always reminded of… this boat. Is that weird? (Don’t answer that!)

Allow me to explain.

A Quick Boating Lesson

Some years ago, during a moment of insanity (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it), Mrs. MZM and I bought a sailboat. Oh, she was a beaut, I’ll tell ya! She was a cute little 25-footer, complete with a trailer so we could take it to different lakes near where we lived at the time. (At least, that was the plan.)

Anyway, in order to learn proper seamanship Mrs. MZM and I decided to enroll in a local boating course (something I highly recommend for all boaters – if not for your own sake, then for the rest of us out there on the water with you).

We learned, among other things, the fundamentals of navigation (admittedly not too difficult when you’re on a small lake), and how to tie about a hundred different knots. (Do you know how to make a “bowline on a bight”? Hey, we do! Well, we did – I’m afraid it’s been a while). Finally, we learned about proper anchoring techniques.

OK, for that last one, although there’s all kinds of anchor types for different conditions, there’s an easy rule of thumb: generally speaking, you need an anchor rope that’s seven times longer than the depth of the water. Now, at first blush, that may sound like a lotta rope (small boats use rope; chains are reserved for the big boys) but trust me, it’s not.

See, it’s like this: once your anchor is firmly planted on the bottom of a lake, river or bathtub, that length of rope gives your anchorage a certain resiliency. That’s because as it stretches out to its full length, the line sags a bit between the boat and the ground. This lets the rope act exactly like a shock absorber, preventing the anchor from being pulled out every time your boat goes up and down on the waves.

Now here’s the important part: if the anchor rope is too long, your boat becomes unstable; if it’s too short it will probably pull the anchor from the bottom and cast you loose in a storm. Definitely not a good thing!

Anyway, when I think of ‘hope’, I always recall that lesson. See, proper anchoring technique boils down to this: to do its job properly, the rope needs to connect to the anchor in a way that provides enough flexibility to handle the stormy waves.

So how does that apply to ‘hope’, you ask? Hey, I’m glad you asked!

Four Key Elements

Recall with me those Bible verses I mentioned earlier, particularly the phrases I emphasized in bold: “take hold of that hope” and “an anchor of the soul”. Now let’s consider for a few minutes. Notice, if you will, four things: the phrase “take hold of”, and the words hope, anchor and soul. Also note the relationship between these four elements.

Now imagine if you will (warning: metaphor alert!), your soul is a boat, floating out there on the waters of life. Sometimes it’s smooth waters and clear sailing; sometimes it can get pretty stormy, right?

Now, when you’re caught out there on the water when things start to get a little rough, experts will tell you that if at all possible, the safest thing to do is throw out the anchor and ride it out. Tryin’ to get back to the dock in rough weather can lead to disastrous consequences. (I happen to know this firsthand, as a matter of fact – but that’s another story.)

However, if you don’t use the right length of rope to connect to (to “take hold of”) the anchor, well, you could just be wastin’ your time! As I said before: too short and it won’t grip the bottom; too long, and you still get tossed all over the place – and may even capsize!

I love the fact that hope is described as an anchor for the soul. It’s a  wonderful explanation of how the word ‘hope’ is actually much more than just a wish. In reality, ‘hope’ is something you can count on with complete assurance. What’s more; in order to be truly effective, we have to take hold of that hope, just as the rope connects the boat to the anchor.

What Does It All Mean?

So what does all that mean, anyway?

Well, take the followers of Jesus, for instance, specifically the Apostles (all except Judas, who at this point was “out of the picture”, if you get my meanin’) on the night of his arrest by the Romans. All during Jesus’ ministry on Earth, these guys walked with Him, listened to the stories and parables He spoke, and witnessed the miracles He performed. All told, they spent three years of their lives with Him.

Now, after all that time you’d think the hope they placed in Jesus would be pretty sure, wouldn’t you? So what happened? On that fateful night, instead of sticking around, they ran for their lives!

See, the problem wasn’t that the object of their hope that was flawed. After all, Jesus, the perfect Son of God, was (and still is, for that matter) the best of all possible anchors. No, the problem was they had failed to take hold of that hope. It was their connection to their anchor that was faulty.

Now, take a look at how the Apostles acted after Jesus’ resurrection. The Bible and history tell us every single one of them became men of such unshakable and formidable Faith that persecution, torture, and even death couldn’t sway them from their new life’s purpose: to tell the world what happened.

For them, their hope had indeed become “an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast”.

Hope, the Anchor of the Soul

Anyway, that’s why I have a problem with the way most folks use that word ‘hope’. As you can see, it’s not just a desire, a feeling, or a fervently-held wish. Nope; ‘hope’ is something solid and dependable; something you can count on.

That’s why the celebration of Easter offers so much hope – because Jesus is One you can truly count on!

Hey, a big ol’ tip o’ the hat to y’all, and have a great Easter, y’hear?

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I don’t know about you, but chances are fair to middlin’ at least some folks developed at least one or two false impressions about you (or your business) at some time in your life, right? Hey, it happens. Sometimes folks just flat out misunderstand what you said – or meant – or did – and the lines of communication get all snarled up like a fishing reel that’s gone haywire.

Hey, it’s bad enough when your customers get the wrong impression of you or your business. At least when you have a relationship with your customers, you might (at least, hopefully) get the chance to explain.

But what about when your customers give others the wrong impression? What the heck can you do then?

Bus Driver for Hire

Back when I was a starving student at Texas A&M, for spending money I drove shuttle buses around the campus. I’ll tell ya; that was one great job: flexible hours, good pay, and when you got right down to it, pretty easy work.

Probably the hardest part of the job was navigating through the sometimes narrow streets on campus. Generally speaking, that wasn’t too bad a problem – unless, of course, some bonehead parked their car where it shouldn’t have been. Many’s the time I wished we had a handy, er, dozer blade on the front of the bus. But I digress.

Anyway, one day my supervisor asked some of us if we wanted to earn a little extra income by working on an upcoming Saturday. Naturally we all perked up at that – until, that is, we heard what the job actually was. The task, he told us, was to drive the local Jewish elementary school’s children (about 200 or so of the little darlings) from College Station to downtown Houston. Turns out they had arranged a special showing of the stage version of Fiddler on the Roof for the kids, and the best way to get ‘em all there was using our buses.

Well, let’s see… on the one hand, the mental image of driving to Houston with 50 or so screaming elementary kids on my bus for approximately 3 hours – each way – was, well, a mite daunting. (For those of you familiar with the drive, what would normally take a little more than an hour-and-a-half or so would take at least twice as long for this trip because rules required us to drive no faster than 50 miles per hour.) Still, after due consideration, the lure of that extra spending money convinced four of us to finally throw caution to the winds and say, What the hey!

What’s This Got to Do with Beer?

By now you’re probably wondering just what the heck this image of assorted beer bottles has to do with this story. Hey, I’m glad you asked! The fact is, whenever I remember this particular day, it’s the only thing I can think of.

That’s because, for the entire 3-hour drive from College Station to Houston – and then again for the entire drive back – the kids sang what I consider to be the Worlds Stupidest Song: “99 Bottles of Beer”! Just in case you’ve lived under a rock your entire life and have never heard it (congratulations!), it goes like this:

99 bottles of beer on the wall,

99 bottles of beer –

You take one down,

And pass it around -

98 bottles of beer on the wall!

98 bottles of beer on the wall,

98 bottles of beer –

You take one down,

And pass it around –

97 bottles of beer on the wall!

97 bottles of –

Well, you get the picture, right? No kidding, y’all; they sang the entire stupid song down from 99 bottles to 1 – and then started over again. And again. And… again. I’ll tell ya; by the time we arrived at the Music Hall in downtown Houston, I was sorely tempted to let ‘em out – and then leave ‘em all there! Yeesh!

While the kids were inside watching the show, we four drivers found a coffee shop to hang out in. As I sat there, silently contemplating the trip back (with no small amount of dread), one of the other drivers finally broke the silence and asked, “Did your kids… uh, sing any songs on your bus?”

That was when the awful truth was revealed: it wasn’t just my group, but all of ‘em were singing that stupid song! What gives with that, we wondered. Just what the heck were they teaching those kids at that school, anyway?

Getting the Wrong Idea

After about 3.5 nanoseconds, though, I realized it wasn’t really the school’s fault their elementary-aged kids seem to have a fixation on, well, beer. Hey, kids are kids; they’ll do all kinds of things you won’t expect. Nature of the, er, beasts, if you follow me. And I reflected a moment or two on how easy it was to think of the school as bein’ the problem.

It’s really funny sometimes just what kind of impression your customers give of you, isn’t it? I mean, when you get right down to it, that’s something you really don’t have too much control over. Oh, sure; you can do your best to influence, mitigate, or even try to direct the conversation – but when you get right down to it, they’re pretty much gonna do what they’re gonna do.

If you were the principal of this particular school and just read this story, what would you be thinking along about now?

So the question is, how do you handle it when folks get the wrong idea about your business. Or even worse – what if the wrong impression is all about you?

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This is my entry for this month’s “What I Learned From Children” groupwrite project. Hey, you’re welcome to join us – all you have to do is follow this cute little link and read all about it!

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“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

As most of you know, it is indeed possible to find treasure in the most unexpected places. Especially when you’re willing to take the time to really look.

One Man’s Trash

Quite a few years ago Mrs. MZM and I temporarily moved to Kalamazoo, Michigan so I could take an engineering job in a chemical plant for a few months. Since we knew we’d be there only a short time (maybe 6 months? who knew?), we decided to keep the apartment furnishings to a minimum. I mean, why spend money we’d never get back, y’know?

Anyway, after moving in, we drove around town, just sorta getting’ the lay of the land, so to speak. Suddenly Mrs. MZM pointed off to the right and said, “Pull up over there!”. I immediately executed a tire-screeching Bat-Turn safe, totally legal and non-life-threatening u-turn to the indicated spot.

Right in front of us was a large dumpster. I looked at her in disbelief and thought to myself, surely she couldn’t mean–?

But I was wrong.

Years ago I knew a guy who rode a trash collection truck to earn money for college. He used to regale us with tales of the many treasures he found every day – bowling balls, stacks of records (you remember vinyl LP records, don’t you?), perfectly good clothes of all sorts – you name it. I was always amazed at what folks will throw away, y’know?

Well, memories of that fellow came back to me now as I realized Mrs. MZM wanted me to take a look at something in that dumpster. Now, had I still been a kid, I’d have no problem, y’know? But hey, I’m an adult now! Adults don’t do this sort of thing! (Besides, it was probably filled with all manner of icky stuff, not to mention little creepy crawly critters, to boot!)

All this and more scampered briefly through my brain as I climbed out of the car and approached the rusty metal behemoth. It was one of those enclosed types with a partially opened sliding door in its side. That’s where Mrs. MZM pointed. “There’s a lamp shade right there close to that opening. Just reach in and grab it – let’s see what it looks like.”

Poised to make a quick getaway (just in case a rat, a snake, or y’know, a slime-covered tentacle reached for me), I tremulously latched onto the aforementioned shade and gave an admittedly hesitant little pull. It didn’t budge. I tried again, a little bit harder this time, and felt it give a bit. Finally I took a deep breath, threw caution to the winds, and grabbed it with both hands. Exerting a mighty heave, I stumbled backwards with my hard-won prize and was rewarded with – an entire lamp!

Another Man’s Treasure

And wow, what a treasure! Well, it’s not that it turned out to be genuine Waterford crystal or anything, but it certainly was pretty. I was astonished somebody would throw away a perfectly good and serviceable lamp like that. (And yes, it worked perfectly!)

As I returned to the car with my loot, Mrs. MZM couldn’t help the lightly smug “I told you so” expression, and rightly so. Our little treasure turned out to be far better than either of us had expected.

Funny how that saying can be so true, isn’t it: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Over the years, I’ve encountered countless instances just like this of how a piece of junk turned into something wonderful. In fact, we have a perfectly good antique clock on our shelf to prove it. Sometimes you have to clean things up a bit – but sometimes not.

To tell you the truth, the only difference between an object’s being trash or treasure is not necessarily in where you find it. Nope; it’s in how you look at it. So it sorta begs the question, doesn’t it?

What surprising little treasures have you been missing because you haven’t taken the time to really look?

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Sometimes the urge to say what’s on my mind can get me into big trouble.

- Likely epitaph for Robert Hruzek

(hopefully a long time from now!)

OK, for those of you who’ve spent any time at all here at the Zone, that statement above will come as no surprise whatsoever. The trouble, though, is that knowin’ that little datum doesn’t always prevent me from, well, saying stuff anyway.

See, the thing is, what with this brand spankin’ new year and all, I really racked the ol’ brain to come up with a post that would sorta capture the essence, the nub of the gist, the je ne se quois for 2010. (In case you don’t know, je ne se quois is French for “duh”.) And finally it hit me (sound of dull thud) – this year, it’s gonna be all about words.

Therefore, I’m declaring the year 2010 to be the Year of the Words. An attorney friend of mine keeps reminding me, “words are important” (a heckuva understatement if there ever was one), so this first post of the year is going to be all about, well, carefully considering everything you say.

And trust me; this is experience talkin’.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s Summer Camp

Never was the importance of thinking about your words more true than one time back in 1978, when I was a counselor at a children’s summer camp deep in the woods of East Texas, smack in the middle of Huntsville State Park.

The way this camp worked, see, is parents would drop off their kids each Sunday afternoon (about 125 or so boys and girls, aged 8-12), then pick ‘em up again the following Saturday morning. Then this process was repeated with a different set of families for seven weeks in a row.

So far as I know, we always had the same number of pickups as drop-offs, so I guess in the large scheme of things you would consider our efforts a success. Still, every week produced its own set of unusual “situations” that had to be dealt with, plus a few challenges that spanned the entire summer.

One of those “all summer long” challenges, for instance, centered around breakfast, of all things. See, every morning we trooped our campers into the dining hall for their morning supply of energy. With the full days we routinely planned for the kids, their energetic little bodies needed to be well loaded with fuel. And what a breakfast it was!

Every morning’s menu was different. One day it was a selection of cold cereals, milk (plain and chocolate), about a billion kinds of muffins, assorted juices, etc. Another day it was scrambled eggs, bacon and assorted toast (including my favorite: cinnamon raisin bread).

Best of all, the food was, like, amazingly good, too, and there was always plenty for all. No one ever left the breakfast table hungry, that’s for sure. I’ll tell ya; those sweet ladies who cooked for us every day really outdid themselves.

Except, that is, on Wednesdays. See, on Wednesdays we had (sound of terrified scream) oatmeal.

Wednesday’s Child is Full of Woe

Now, I just want to go on record as sayin’ I personally have nothing – nothing against a big ol’ steamin’ bowl of oatmeal! Especially when topped by a thick pat of rich butter, maybe a little brown sugar, and a handful of fresh blueberries. I’ll tell ya; that’s something that really hits the spot with little ol’ me!

The problem, as it turned out, was an incident that had happened several years before. See, the thing was… well, they sorta accidentally, um, burned the oatmeal. Oh, not so you could tell by lookin’ at it, mind you. But when tasted, you could tell it was definitely “off spec”, if you follow me.

I don’t know about you, friends, but if you’ve never had the, er, joy of slapping a spoonful of burned oatmeal onto your taste buds, well Bubba, you simply ain’t lived! It sorta brings to mind that horrible, acrid smell of popcorn that’s been overcooked and burned by a microwave oven. You know how that awful odor kinda lingers in the air… well, it ain’t something you’ll ever forget, that’s for sure.

Nothing Travels Faster Than a Rumor

The thing was, quite a few of these kids had attended camp year after year, with the inevitable result that word had gotten out about the infamous Day They Burned The Oatmeal. So by the time Wednesday rolled around, well, you can guess can’t ya? Yup; even though it had happened several years previously (and had never happened since) the very sight of a big ol’ bowl of oatmeal on the breakfast table was enough to cause every kid in the building to run screaming into the woods.

To be sure, we heroically tried everything to head it off at the pass, so to speak. The staff heaped our own bowls with gobs of oatmeal, loading ‘em up with as many tasty extras as we could find. We loudly proclaimed the virtues of the stuff. One guy tried lathering his with gummi bears, but alas, to no avail. We even tried contests and other incentives. Alas, it was all for naught. It seemed nothing could overcome the dire tales of disaster and woe already passed down to the younger children by The Grapevine.

I mean, it was bad enough the kids had blown this thing all out of whack. But the stories! By then they’d pretty much reached, well, epic proportions. “Whatever you do, don’t eat the oatmeal,” they’d say. “It’ll make you grow a third eye right in the middle of your forehead!” Or, “Don’t eat the oatmeal; you’ll never ever have children.” (That one was for the girls.) And then there was my personal favorite: “Don’t eat the oatmeal, it’ll turn you into a blood-sucking zombie!”

But even more serious, since there was always so much oatmeal left over, it caused the cooks to waste perfectly good food. (You’d think they would’ve taken the hint and prepared less – but I guess hope always springs eternal, y’know?) Leftover food was definitely not a good thing, though. As with any camp, money – and the wise use thereof – was always a primary issue.

Lightning Storms on the Brain

Finally, the Camp Director had had enough. Determined to resolve the situation once and for all, he called for a Council of War later that evening after all the kids had gone to bed and settled down for the night. We left our Assistants in charge of the various cabins and gathered in the dining hall with the Director and the cooks.

“OK, you all know the problem,” he began without preamble. “Let’s brainstorm some ideas on how to solve it.”

Within minutes, quite a few ideas had been proposed. The most popular was kinda obvious: serve something else. Unfortunately this simply wouldn’t do – for a couple of reasons. First of all, the food for the entire summer had already been purchased. There were no funds for an alternative breakfast; somehow they would just have to make do.

Another idea was disguise it with more toppings – more fruit; more sugar, M&M’s, snails, whatever. Unfortunately, that one wasn’t working too well. No amount of fruit could hide the fact that it was, y’know oatmeal, and too much sugar was, well, pretty unhealthy, to say the least. As for the M&M’s and snails… well, never mind.

After about 20 minutes, we managed to narrow it down to two possibilities: One was, call the kids’ homes and have their parents make the kids eat it. Unfortunately, there were too many parents to easily reach, and cell phones hadn’t yet been invented. So scratch that one as too impractical. Besides, we kinda wanted to handle this one internally, if you know what I mean.

The other idea was to find a way to stop those ridiculous stories. To which the following question then applies: Have you ever tried to stop a rumor?

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

Yep; that’s about the size of it. Here we were, the best and brightest of the entire camp organization (at least, we liked to think so), and this was the best we could do. Pretty sad, I’ll tell ya. Nevertheless, we all decided there might be some merit in that last suggestion, so we concentrated on it for a while.

As I heard idea after idea (not to mention some pretty profound silences), that’s when it began to happen – the apparent gravity of the situation seemed to give rise within me to say something silly, just to lighten the mood. Now please understand, this was serious; it was a genuine problem that needed a genuine solution, no mistake about it. But I just couldn’t help it – inside I was doing my best to stifle the ingrown chuckle that was steadily sneaking up on me. There we were, wrestling with the ramifications of serving oatmeal for breakfast. I mean, fer cryin’ out loud!

But I knew; if I were to say the thing that was desperately trying to break out into the light of day, it would not only ruin what little headway we’d made, but it might possibly irritate the Director or, even worse, the cooks. And believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was get them mad at me!

Still, it kept on building up inside me, ready to burst out into the open like a grape in a microwave. I squirmed and squiggled, got up and then sat down again, tried to count to 100 backwards, but alas, nothing helped. Finally, as everyone else was in the midst of trying to figure out ways to keep those stupid stories from spreading around, and I couldn’t stand it anymore and the following fateful words escaped my lips:

“Well, you could always threaten to glue their mouths shut with the oatmeal!”

I’m tellin’ ya; you could probably have dropped a live hand grenade – without the pin – in our midst with less effect. There was at least a full minute of shocked silence while everyone sorta looked up, then down, then pretty much everywhere except at me. The Director had a stunned look on his face, then quickly turned to look at the cooks to see what their reaction would be.

I think everyone sorta “braced for impact” as we awaited the Head Cook’s no-doubt righteously indignant reaction. And I distinctly remember thinkin’ to myself, “Self, we’re a long way from civilization; I wonder if they’ll ever find my body?”

Great Moments in History

For a moment, all she could do was stare at me with wide-eyed incredulous disbelief. Inwardly, I cringed, waiting for the boom to be lowered upon my unprotected head. But then… a miracle!

She suddenly put her head back and began laughing so loud, and so hard, she very nearly fell off the stool! You’ve heard of folks laughing with their entire body, right? Well, she did that, and before long every one of us was rolling on the floor with gales of laughter I’d swear (if my Momma hadn’t taught me not to) you could’ve heard in Dallas!

It was one of those genuinely memorable moments, y’know? We all laughed, tears in our eyes, for about 15 minutes until finally the Director raised his hands for silence. “You know what?” he told us. “I was reading in my Bible this morning from Proverbs, and I saw something that definitely applies here.” He opened his Bible up to chapter 11, verse 14 and read this verse: “Where there is no counsel, the people fall; but in the multitude of counselors there is safety.”

“I want to thank you for coming tonight to help us resolve this unusual and strangely thorny challenge we’re facing. Although I’m not sure we’ve quite solved it yet, it gives me great comfort to know that with the multitude of Counselors we have here tonight,” – and here he looked straight at me, and with a big smile, no less – “well, it’s good to know you guys are on the case!”

The Proof is in the Pudding Oatmeal

To tell you the truth, although I can’t remember if we ever did solve that “thorny little problem”, I look back on that event with a great deal of nostalgia. Besides, for the rest of that summer we were stuck with the oatmeal anyway, so what the hey, right? The cooks continued to serve oatmeal every Wednesday and, at least as far as I know, nobody turned into a zombie or grew another eye or anything.

That was the last summer I spent as a Counselor (no, I wasn’t barred from returning, smarty pants; I just got too busy after that), so I don’t know if they still serve oatmeal on occasion. My guess? Probably not. Sometimes ya just gotta bow to the inevitable, y’know?

But as I look back on that memory, I still can’t believe I said what I did. I mean, c’mon! What if those fine ladies who slaved over a hot stove all day to feed us incredible food had been angry instead of tickled by what I’d said? What if the Director hadn’t been the kind-hearted understanding fellow he was? What if my careless words had hurt some feelings? It was a risky thing I’d done, and to tell you the truth, I hadn’t really thought it through.

Still, I like to think I’ve matured a bit since that day, y’know? After all, not every situation can be rescued with laughter – nor is it appropriate to do so. Oh, with enough time and distance humor may come to the fore anyway. But that’s not always the case as a given situation is happening.

I admit it; I was pretty lucky that day. If the other folks hadn’t been who they were, things might have turned out very differently. Come to think of it, they might not have ever found my body! My name would have become the stuff of legends, whispered around campfires as yours truly, The Wandering Dutchman of Summer Camp, would still be wandering around that lonely, isolated camp on damp misty nights, forever doomed to search for that elusive perfect bowl of oatmeal…

Anyhoo, this story and thought seemed like an appropriate one with which to begin this brand shiny new year, y’know? The lesson is this: Be aware of your words! After all, if you can’t learn that, you just might not make it to next year, if you get my meanin’! I’m just sayin’.

Happy New Year, y’all!

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Memory Walk, CC by Robert Hruzek

Notes from my Brazil Travel Journal:

Having been privileged (or cursed, depending upon how you choose to look at it) enough to travel so much, flying domestically has become rather humdrum to me. Usually I simply pass the time with a good book.

For some reason, though, this time I struck up a conversation with the nice lady in the seat next to me. It turned out she was on her way to Madrid, Spain, to meet her husband, who is working somewhere in Africa.

Before too long, we found ourselves sharing stories about the different places we’d been, and it struck me anew how literally everyone has a story to tell, don’t they? The thing is, some folks have the remarkable ability to be able to recall ‘em at the drop of a hat. Others (like little ol’ me) need some kind of “tweak” to drag them out into the open.

As for me, it usually takes an image, a word, or even a factoid in someone else’s story to open up that dusty file cabinet in the ol’ memory banks and pop out a file folder I’d completely forgotten about.

Wouldn’t it be nice if our brains had a sort of Google application to find specific memories? Wow, how would that work, anyway? After all, with an entire lifetime of memories, it would take even the fastest computer chip to search that many bytes of information.

Anyway, in the meantime I’ll just have to rely on the only sure method – using one memory to find another. Alas.

What about you? Do you find it easy to recall stories from your own past? Or are you like me – you need a crowbar to pry ‘em out? What technique would you suggest to improve that ability? I’d love to know!

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I’ve really been busy the last couple of weeks, what with this and that looming large on my horizon (more on that Monday). So I thought I’d just take a minute to point you to last Friday’s post, Solve the Mystery, in which I posted a photo of a strange sign I found in a hotel not too long ago, and then asked if anyone could interpret it.

I still can’t believe how many folks stopped by and left a guess! As of this writing, there have been 26 guesses so far – some of ‘em quite hilarious – and one correct answer. Yep, that’s right, a big ol’ tip o’ the hat goes to Kevin E. Blake for figuring it out. (I’d pop in a link to Kevin’s website – but he didn’t leave one! Missed an opportunity there, Bubba! Just sayin’)

In case you’re wondering, I won’t keep you in suspense; it means “Ticket Counter”, and he even found the complete listing of international signs. Way to go, Kevin! Now, if you happen to see that particular sign in the future, you’ll know what it means.

But… there’s still a mystery here. If I’d stepped back and photographed the whole area, you’d see what I saw – there’s no ticket counter anywhere within sight of this sign! So I’m not sure it’s all that helpful. But maybe that’s just me, bein’ picky.

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[Warning: Slight political rant here today.]

Light.

It’s one of those things we can’t do without, y’know? Over the centuries of human existence, light has become culturally synonymous with enlightenment, clarity, and all things positive.

Darkness, on the other hand, is equated with fear, obfuscation, and secrets.

Maybe that’s because light is so useful in revealing that which is not clearly seen. For instance…

Early Morning in Downtown Houston

I was downtown Houston a few weeks ago for a seminar. It was on the 4^th floor in a rather nice hotel next to the Convention Center (that unusual-looking building you see in this photo).

Since the traffic situation was a big fat unknown to me, I decided to go fairly early. (I live in Tomball, a small town on the outskirts of NW Houston – a drive of about 40 miles.) As usual, leaving earlier meant ‘way less traffic, so that was good. On the other hand, I got there so early it was still about an hour and a half before the seminar started.

To kill some time I spent an hour or so watching the sun rise and shooting a few photos in Discovery Green Park, a small park right across the street from the hotel. (You’ll no doubt hear more about the Park in future posts, but if you’re interested, you can check out some of the photos I took here.)

Anyway, just before the seminar started, I was helping myself to something from the breakfast buffet (don’t worry; it was healthy stuff – promise!) when I happened to glance out the window. Or to be more painfully accurate, I glanced at the window.

Yuck!

I mean to tell ya; it was disgusting! It looked like… well, forget the descriptive; you can see for yourself. The morning sunlight had dramatically illuminated the dirt on this window to the point where it was almost all I could see!

Needless to say, if you folks from the hotel staff are listening, I think you might want to invest in a bottle of Windex and a big ol’ bucket of elbow grease. (There’s even a convenient ledge upon which to stand – just, um,  don’t step back to admire your work! Just sayin’.)

The Power of Light

Yep; no doubt about it, light can be a pretty powerful tool when it comes to revealing stuff.

You can use light to find something lost. The other day, Mrs. MZM dropped a tiny little pill on the rug in our bathroom. Now, you’d think something like that would be pretty easy to find, right? I mean, the rug ain’t that big! But no, because of its color, it simply blended into the rug. So I turned on a flashlight and held it down low, parallel to the floor. Sure enough, the shadow of the pill gave it away! Voila!

Have you ever tried to convince someone to do something – but it was based on, perhaps, shaky logic? No need to raise your hand, my friends; we’ve all done it, haven’t we? I mean, from childhood (it wasn’t me, Mom!) it’s been a long succession of attempts to convince folks I knew what I was talkin’ about.

And what about (sound of terrified scream) politics? How many times has one politician after another made a statement – or ten – that simply didn’t hold up under the application of a little light on the subject? I mean, what’s with that, anyway? And what’s even sillier – they actually get upset when you do it, too! As if they were tryin’ to, y’know, put something over on us…

I mean, take the fracas over Health Care that’s goin’ on here in the U.S. (please!) You’ve got folks on both sides talkin’ as loud as they can, tryin’ to convince you they’re right and the other guy is wrong. Hey, I say we drag out the light and let’s take a look at it!

Does it do this, or that, or even that other thing? With just a little examination, we can find out for ourselves just what it says. Why be afraid of reading it, y’know? And why do they object to us reading it, I wonder?

All I’m sayin’ is, light can be a most powerful tool when it comes to discovering something fundamental – like the truth. And when folks start objecting to its use, well Bubba, don’cha find yourself wonderin’ just what exactly they’ve got to hide?

I’m just sayin’.

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Too Close For Comfort

Sometimes important lessons lurk in the most innocuous places, y’know?

Take a look at this photo, for instance. Don’t worry; no marauding alligators lurking in here this time! Nope, this time it’s just a… (sound of terrified scream) spice rack.

Let’s see… ya got your ground cinnamon, a large can of sea salt, one of those rectangular cans of nutmeg, a little tiny (yet somehow, ridiculously expensive) bottle of vanilla extract…

But here’s the deal. Right next to the ground cinnamon on the top rack there’s a bottle of chili powder. Anyone see the danger? I mean, it’s a bottle of cinnamon (ooh, sweet!) right next to an almost-identical bottle of (aack!) chili powder!

Can you say “catastrophe”?

They Say It’s the Thought That Counts

Let’s say, as a surprise for my beloved Mrs. MZM, I decided to make a nice, hot batch of chocolate-chip cookies. (Unfortunately, thanks to the diet we’re on, this is only an imaginary scenario. *sigh*) Now I ask you; what’s the absolute best thing to top a big ol’ plate of fresh-baked cookies? You guessed it – a light dusting of ground cinnamon! (I’m tellin’ ya, folks – even as I write this, my tummy is doin’ somersaults!)

But lemme ask ya: What if I were to accidentally grab the chili powder instead of the cinnamon? Hey, it’s not so far-fetched – they’re right there next to each other, y’know? Can you picture the potential for disaster?

An Evening Filled With Promise

Now, imagine the Mrs. and I are parked on the bear skin rug in front of the fireplace for a nice, romantic evening. (By the way, we don’t actually have a bear skin rug. But it makes a nice scene, don’cha think? Besides, I don’t think I could stand having the thing stare at me accusingly, y’know?)

Anyhoo – the lights are low; there’s a candle or two lit for ambiance. A couple of glasses of chilled sparkling water fizz quietly on the table, their gently rising bubbles catching the candlelight provocatively. The sweet sounds of gentle jazz on the sound system soothes the day’s stress away.

Now for a final surprise, I bring out my just-baked batch of cookies for that little extra “somethin’special”. Mrs. MZM’s eyes light up in delight at the unexpected treat. She smiles delightedly as she reaches for a still-warm golden delight and gently places it upon her tongue.

- then her eyes grow wide in shock as she begins to violently choke! Do ya think the accidental use of chili powder instead of cinnamon might, well, ruin the mood? Yup; pretty much like that iceberg sank the Titanic!

Pay Attention!

Anyhoo – my point is, there’s little surprises like this one all over the place. I mean, life if full of ‘em, y’know? So what’s a body to do? Hey, there’s actually a pretty simple solution: you just gotta pay attention.

How many times have you suddenly discovered you’ve been on autopilot for the last 10 minutes while your brain took a short holiday and wandered around on its own? It usually happens when you’re doing something you’ve done a thousand times before, like driving to work, or watching the weather. (Here’s a typical conversation at our house immediately after the weather forecast: “Dear, what did he say the weather was going to be like tomorrow?” “I don’t know, Honey, my mind wandered off for a minute and I missed it.”)

So consider this a friendly little reminder, y’all! Pay attention to the stuff around you – especially the small stuff! Hey, you never know when a seemingly insignificant detail could make a really, really BIG difference! Just sayin’.

What About YOU?

So when was the last time you narrowly avoided a disaster of epic proportions by noticing a seeming “small” detail? What was it, and how did you manage to catch yourself before something, um, undesired happened? Did you learn anything from it?

Enquiring minds want to know!

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I’ll tell ya; I was watching the national (U.S.) news last week, and I couldn’t help but stare in awestruck wonder (sorta like the same way you just can’t tear your eyes away from a train wreck) by the absolutely ridiculous linguistic gyrations being paraded out for us by a supposedly smart woman. Now c’mon, y’all; wasn’t that the most insultingly convoluted attempt at circumlocution you’ve ever seen? (It’s funny how dangerous things always travel in packs, ain’t it? Lessee… there’s a pack of wolves, a pack of cigarettes… oh, and a pack of lies..)

Why is it, I wondered, when we do something dumb, the very first impulse always seems to be something along the lines of ‘at all costs, avoid responsibility and deny everything’?

But forget about U.S. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (who has now managed to usurp Bill Clinton’s spot as the poster child for that sort of thing) and the big, giant pickle she’s gotten herself into, I actually asked that question because of something that happened to yours truly the other day.

In fact, the reason this subject comes up at all is, well, I guess the best thing is to go ahead and confess to it right up front: My name is Robert, and I’m a (sound of anguished scream) cookie-killer. Go ahead, bring on the handcuffs; I’ll go quietly, officer.

See, it was like this…

It’s Snackin’ Time!

The other evening, Mrs. MZM and I were winding down from a rather strenuous day of… well, whatever the heck we do all day. Now, we’d just snuggled into our favorite spot on the couch when she looked up at me and said “Want something?”

I knew what she meant, of course. After all, when you’ve been married for 27 years, spending that much time together means at least some of our conversations have been honed down to a nub, if you get my meanin’. My stomach, knowing exactly what she meant, immediately perked up and gronked in reply.

After a brief discussion of the options (no need to repeat it here; our brand of shortspeak probably wouldn’t make all that much sense to you anyway) the judge’s decision, by a considerable margin, was: cookies!

Now don’t get me wrong, y’all; “having” cookies around our house ain’t that easy! I mean, it’s not like our pantry is loaded up with the things. And we’ve never been a big fan of those store-bought packages, either – none of those pre-baked, vacuum-bagged pretenders for us! (Mrs. MZM requires me to mention one exception: Girl Scout Thin Mints.)

Nope; around our house, when thoughts turn to cookies, we have to actually, y’know, bake ‘em ourselves. Well, to be honest – something we always strive for here at the Zone – we use those pre-made cookie dough things you keep in the fridge and just pop on a cookie sheet. Hey, we’re not total purists around here; too much work.

Anyhoo – hey, we have cookie-preparation down to a science around here: preheat the oven, carefully place the little doughballs (chocolate chip for the Mrs., and Oatmeal Raisin for me – both enhanced with a touch of cinnamon) on a cookie sheet, pop ‘em in the oven, set the timer, and… wait.

(That last is always the hardest part, isn’t it? The delicious smell of cinnamon quickly grows so powerful, by the time they’re actually ready to eat you’re practically gnawing on the furniture.)

The Call of the Wild (Cookie, that is)

Finally (!) that little timer thing on the oven lets off with it’s characteristic (and by the way, quite annoying) electronic signal. C’mon, admit it – it’s sorta like the Call of the Wild, ain’t it? And just like Pavlov’s dogs, at the sound of the tone my mouth instantly began watering in anticipation as I catapulted outta the couch like I was launched from an aircraft carrier calmly stood up and went to the kitchen to retrieve our little golden delights (surreptitiously smoothing over those unsightly chew marks on the sofa).

Here’s where the crucial event occurs. (Better gird your loins for this, folks; it ain’t pretty.)

I picked up a hot pad, opened the oven door (while inhaling the sweet, delicious aroma of hot, fresh-baked cookies – YUM!), grabbed a corner of the piping hot cookie sheet, pulled ‘em out of the oven, and proceeded to dump the whole shebang – cookie-side down, mind you – smack dab on the floor!

WHAP!

The sharp metallic sound of metal on tile reverberated around the kitchen for a few moments, then… a stunned silence filled the void. (Insert moment of stunned silence here.)

Yeah, I know; you’re probably as shocked I was at this appalling turn of events. I’m tellin’ ya; my heart just about stopped! It was an absolute travesty. It was criminal. It was… like in that movie The Day the Earth Stood Still, when the Earth, y’know, stood still. I half expected to look up and see ol’ Gort shaking his big, metallic head in dismay as he prepared to laser me into oblivion.

After about 5 seconds of this, Mrs. MZM’s voice wafted gently in from the other room, an ominous tone clearly detectable: “Did what I think happen – just happen?”

Uh-oh.

My panicky brain started to flounder as the connection between it and my tongue momentarily broke down. For a few seconds, the recurring phrase sense of impending doom was the only thing that circled through my poor befuddled mind. The flight reflex instinctively rose from its deep, dark lair, while sweat began to bead upon my troubled brow.

To top it off – and I kid you not – I distinctly remember thinking, Now, how can I plausibly claim, ‘It’s not my fault’?

Time to Pay the Piper

OK, rhetorical question here (which does not mean something Rhett Butler would have asked):

Have you ever done something stupid? Oh, I’m not just talkin’ about murdering a tray of poor, defenseless cookies; I mean, have you ever done something dumb and then immediately thought to yourself, Now how on Earth could I have ever done such a bone-headed thing?

No; no need to raise your hand or anything. I’d say the chance of anyone NOT pulling a boner at least once in their lifetime is roughly on the order of, well, that of ol’ Adam and Eve convincing God it “wasn’t them” who took the apple off that Tree of Life . After all, who else could it have been, y’know?

But what surprised me most was that little reflex thought that scampered through my brain. In spite of the clear and undisputable facts, right? I mean, there was no way I could deny that it was, y’know, my fault. The evidence, after all, was right there on the floor for all to see. (OK, it was just me and Mrs. MZM – and no, there is no, er, surviving photographic evidence.) There was absolutely no way to credibly deny it was me, and me only, that did the low-down dirty deed.

So what did I do? Well, own up, of course! Hey, I just never quite got a good grip on the edge of the cookie sheet as I lifted it out of the oven, with the inevitable result. End of story.

Almost.

The Rest of the Story

OK, by now you’re probably wondering if I’ve been sent up the river to do hard time by a jury of my peers, and I’m writin’ this post with a little tiny stub of a No.2 pencil on a long sheet of toilet paper smuggled into my dingy cell. So what sentence, you’re sayin’ to yourself, did Mrs. MZM throw at you for ruining a perfectly good snack?

Actually, she was remarkably cool and collected about the whole thing. (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: What a woman!) In fact, after collecting the bodies of the dear departed and sharing a moment of silence (not to mention a tear or two), she even helped me clean up the mess. Later, humor – and practicality – won out, of course: we immediately baked another batch.

This time, I offered to let her retrieve ‘em from the oven, but she just shook her beautiful head and smiled. “Ya gotta get back on that horse,” she said with a smile – and a hint of steel.

But I have to say, it was a remarkably interesting lesson. And if – no, make that when – you do something like I did – something that just ain’t right – c’mon, just admit it and move on! I mean, how hard a lesson can it be, right? It’s a simple one, to be sure; easy to say, too. And after all, you’d think anyone with even an ounce of sense woulda figured that out before the age of five.

But I’ll tell ya; every time I watch the news these days, it becomes obvious there are some folks – folks who definitely should know better – that just don’t seem to get it. The truth is, they ain’t foolin’ nobody.

All I can add is, don’t you choose to be like that. I’m just sayin’.

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[Warning: Lengthy post - not because I got long-winded - that sorta goes without sayin', if you get my meanin' - but because of a long image lower down in the post. Just sayin'.]

You ever get the feeling you’re bein’ watched? It’s sorta like that creepy-crawly feelin’ between the shoulder blades when nobody’s around. Like bugs crawlin’ around back there. Ick.

How about when you know you’re bein’ watched, like when you get up in front of a room filled with people?

OK, how about this one: What if you suddenly realized a whole herd o’ folks were watching your every move? Does it make you think twice about what you were about to say? Or not? Kinda makes you think, doesn’t it? Oh, sure; some folks thrive on that sortof thing. But not me – and I daresay, not most of us, either.

That thought struck me the other day (sound of dull thud), bringing back a particular memory…

It Started Out Innocently Enough

A few years back, during a regrettably long period of unemployment, I was invited to sign up for a two-week-long jobs program run by the Texas Department of Labor. (Not that I expect great things from anything the Government does, mind you; it just seemed like I wasn’t getting anywhere with the usual job-hunting methods and figured any help would be a good thing. Besides, it was free! I like free.)

Right at the beginning, folks who sat at the same table were grouped into teams. Well, it was no big deal anyway since we didn’t know each other to begin with. Interestingly enough, though, the six of us at our table somehow seemed to “mesh” almost right away, and before too long were cracking jokes and trading insights with each other like the best of friends. I guess shared trials really did help us there; we were all in the same leaky boat and lookin’ for a bucket, y’know?

Well, things went fine for the first week. At the start of the second week, though, our instructor announced that over the next couple of days we’d all be conducting mock interviews in front of a video camera, and the class would then offer (hopefully) helpful critiques.

Now at first, I must admit to feelin’ a tad nervous about that. I mean, I’d never been videotaped before (except by accident at a wedding, or something), much less done it in front of millions. (Well, maybe about 30 – but it seemed like millions!) After a few minutes discussing it with my friends at the table, I managed to put my fears back down into that little box where I usually keep ‘em.

After all, I said to myself, how bad could it be? (He said, blithely.) I mean, you sit down, answer a few questions honestly and forthrightly, maintain eye contact, smile, don’t pick yer nose – heck, I could practically do that in my sleep!

V-Day

Finally, the day came. Each interview lasted about 5 minutes; then for about 15 minutes we played the tape while different folks pointed out, um, “helpful observations”. Actually, they really were helpful. Really. It can just be a bit overwhelming when everyone is trying to, y’know, help you.

One by one, each of us did the deed. By a quirk of fate, our table was one of the last ones, so we had plenty of time to observe how the whole thing was going. In part, it helped allay some fears. Folks were actually contributing helpful advice. Of course, in part it simply caused a slow buildup of, y’know, other fears…

Again, I thought to myself, I can do this, no problem.

Finally, my turn came. I’m tellin’ ya; you’da been proud of me! On the outside I was as calm as a mountain lake. But on the inside… ah, but on inside I was just a giant bowl of shiverin’, quiverin’ jello. Nevertheless, I stood up, calmly moseyed up to the front and took a seat – then proceeded to make a total hash of the entire interview! (sound of heart dropping through my shoes)

Yep; it’s true. In fact, by the time it was over, you could hear this unbelieving hush fall across the entire room. Embarrassment seemed to reign supreme, especially on the instructor’s part as she struggled to come up with something – anything – positive to say about my abysmal performance.

I felt like a piece of greasy food left on a plate that was about to be put in the dishwasher. Or like that target they use to test the effectiveness of the blast power of a Cruise Missile. It was awful. It was humiliating. It was – well, lemme put it this way. If I’da known the deep, dark secret to becoming invisible, well, I woulda done it right then, no hesitation – publicity be hanged.

The Eyes Have It

What happened, you ask?

Well, it’s like this. I was fine until I suddenly realized how many eyes were focused right on yours truly. Eyes belonging to folks I didn’t know. I mean, I was fine when swapping lies stories, conversing and laughing with folks at my own table – you know, the ones I was comfortable with. But bein’ out there in front of all the rest of the room was quite a different story.

Wow, was that ever a fun excruciating experience! Hey, it’s tough enough discovering things about yourself you didn’t know – and aren’t necessarily proud of. But it’s a frog of an entirely different hop when it happens right there in front of God and everyone, if you get my meanin’.

As it turned out, though, I did learn a few things that actually helped me out later on. Perhaps the main one was this: never to forget your audience – and the fact that no matter what you do, you have one! In fact, as I pointed out up there at the beginning of this post, that very thought came up the other day…

Ooh, Shiney! A New Toy: Twitter Mosaic

The other day I ran across this little web-based thingie called Twitter Mosaic.

What does it do? Hey, glad you asked! When you enter your Twitter username, it makes a nice composite of your choice of either followers or friends. (Note: Still haven’t figured out how to make it show all my enemies yet. Might be a handy thing to keep around… But I digress.)

Anyhoo, I have about 675 Twitter followers (give or take, depending on time of day, current season, and that particular day’s hat size). After deleting avatars that are obviously businesses, and turning it into an image (actually 6 separate images since it was so long) this is what the mosaic looks like (and I have no idea why they end up in the order they appear here):

Wow! Now that’s really sumpin’, y’all! Not only does it create a really cool image, but that’s quite a lotta folks, y’know? And to think I hardly have any followers compared to some.

Just think – all those folks are… uh… hmmm… well… Eek! They’re watchin’ everything I say! (suddenly jumps up and runs screaming from the keyboard)

Is it Gettin’ Hot in Here, or is it Just Me?

Now, why do I suddenly feel so very self-concious? I mean, it’s not like there’s any difference in now versus, say, 10 minutes ago, right? Not really. But the very idea that so many folks (potentially at least) are able to read my words (and slice and dice ‘em  too, should they feel so inclined)… well, it’s kinda sobering, for want of a better term.

I mean, like most folks, there’s a much smaller group I regularly communicate with, via blogs, comments, tweets, etc. They’re like those folks at my table – we laugh at each other’s jokes (and groan at the boners), edify each other, encourage each other to no end. But all those others – it’s like bein’ suddenly transported back to that chair in front of the video camera.

Uh, wow.

Oh, I’m sure a lot of those followers are simply there for numbers; hey, it’s a fact of life. Honestly, I don’t begrudge them that. The truth is, you get out of it what you put into it, y’know? But still, the idea that so many people can see every word I write does kinda make it a little more real, y’know? And, just for a brief moment, I had a flashback of that horrible feeling I had back in that workshop. But only for a moment.

I’ll tell ya; it should be a wake-up call for all of us, though. After all, the things we say out loud here on the Internet really are out there for all to see. And, like it or not, your words have power. Power to build, or power to destroy; power to obfuscate, or power to enlighten – hey, it’s up to you.

As that great American Philosopher Obi-wan Kenobi once said, “Choose wisely…”

Let’s Bring it Home

Now, lest you think I done forgot to bring this baby home (and thereby lettin’ you off the hook), let’s make this real and personal, shall we?

The fact is, whether you have a lot of followers or just a few, there are folks out there who actually read, think about, and yes, Virginia, sometimes even respond to your words. Now, knowing that to be true, does that:

1. Scare you to death, giving you a bad case of the heebie-jeebies every time you sit at the keyboard
2. Excite you beyond words and you just can’t keep it in any more but have to get what’s on your mind OUT THERE
3. Make you yawn because you don’t really think about it much, and hey, what I have to say doesn’t really matter all that much

OK, I made the choices extreme on purpose. Nevertheless (would a word like that fit the definition of “mashup”? uh, never mind) which continuum do you lean toward, and how does it affect what you do (and perhaps more importantly, say) on the web?

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Photo: Watched 2, by 35mm fanboy

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For today’s adventure you’ll have to take a little side trip to Scrambled Toast, the brainchild (or is it brain warp?) of fellow wordsmith Brad Shorr of Word Sell fame and fortune. Well, at least fame, anyway.

You’re familiar with the fact that culture, language, or even whether you’re a PC or a Mac can affect the way you perceive the world around us. Well, this time I contemplate how something as simple as one’s specific location can dramatically alter how we perceive a message.

Drop on by and join me, won’t you?

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OK; I admit it – I’m one of those people who exhibits the infantile behavior of snickering every time I write the word ‘but’. Sorry; I guess it’s just one of those things I never grew out of.

So you’ll be understandin’ – and hopefully forgivin’ – my bad pun (which, me bein’ me and all, was entirely intended) when you consider the image I just had to include along with it.

Anyhoo -

Have you ever considered how, um, BIG that tiny little word ‘but’ can be?

For instance, the other day, I had to turn down a truly generous offer from a good friend. I’ll tell ya; it truly pained me to do it, too. It went something like this: “Your incredibly generous offer touched my heart, but – I just have too many things going on that weekend and just can’t make it.”

The thing is, when you turn someone down like that, I find it’s usually a good idea to put something nice at the beginning of that sentence. That way the blow is somewhat lessened, if you get my meanin’.

Sometimes ‘but’ can actually be a relief – as in, “Y’know, Larry, I’d love to help you move on Saturday, but – my pet lizard has his birthday that day.”

I’ve actually used a variation of this one (it wasn’t a lizard – let’s leave it at that), and I’ll have to admit; it’s sometimes difficult to hide the, y’know, glee in my voice. Gotta work on that one.

Every now and then, it heralds good news: “Susan, we’re having to let go your assistant, but, the good news is your deadlines are still rock solid!”

It’s sorta the ol’ “good news – bad news” thing. Never have been able to decide which I’d rather have first, though. Maybe the bad news first. Or, maybe not.

So what about you? Found any creative ways to use the word “but” lately?

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Photo credit: Elephant Butts, by lukiffer

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So, I’m sittin’ at my local grocery store the other day, pumping gas for the ol’ jalopy (and meanwhile being extremely thankful that little price dial ain’t whirrin’ around like a fan, like it was a few months ago), when I happened to look up and noticed this little fellah up there in the tree above me.

Just before I managed to drag out my cell phone and snap this shot, he was waaaay out there on the very end of that limb. Although the little guy couldn’t have weighed more than a whiffle ball, that skinny little branch he’s on was bent over like a bow.

What could he have been thinkin’, I wondered?

I mean, there he was out there on that tiny little twig, risking life and limb, and for what? There weren’t any nuts out there (except, of course, himself).

I’m always amazed at the apparent fearlessness of these little critters; risking it all (like that little character, Scrap, from the Ice Age animated movies) for the Holy Grail of squirreldom, that one last juicy nut.

What makes ‘em that way, anyway? What is it that makes them – or anyone, for that matter – willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish what they have in mind?

The Wake-Up Call

The question is no longer an idle one. You may remember a couple of weeks ago I somewhat unexpectedly had to change companies due to cutbacks (sound of big surprise). More than once during these last few weeks, Mrs. MZM and I looked at each other and realized the hard truth: We had no Plan B!

Well… that’s not really true. To be more accurate, there actually IS a Plan B – and it’s been in place for well over a year – but we came face to face with the fact that we had failed miserably to do anything with it, if you get my meanin’.

See, here’s the thing.

I run a completely different business on the side. Not really that unusual, I know; lots of folks do something for a little extra cash, too. It’s just that to be successful in this business, it requires me to do things I’ve never done before. Like any business, in order to grow it, I have to… search for leads (not really all that hard), network my way into opportunitites (a little harder), and market myself like crazy (something I find very, very difficult).

Unfortunately, I haven’t been doing these essential things like I should have been – and thus, the business essentially languished. The result: now, when having that second income should have been a welcome safety net, well, it simply ain’t there – yet!

Hoo-eee! You wanna talk about your wake-up call!

Busy as… a Squirrel

OK, so for the last few weeks, I’ve really been doing what I should have been doing all along – all those, y’know, icky things I mentioned above – and more. But it ain’t easy, I’ll tell ya. Why? Because it requires me to kinda go out on that limb, so to speak, just like our little fuzzy friend up there.

See, the thing is, I’m an introvert by nature. And it’s dang hard for me to up and market myself like that. It ain’t something that just comes natural to me. Besides, it’s a scary world out there, y’know?

I mean, what if folks don’t want what I have to offer? (Of course you do, I tell myself. I mean, who wouldn’t want to pay less for something they’re already paying for every month?) What if they think I’m nuts? (So what’s your point, I say. That ship already sailed a while back, I’m afraid.) What if they look at me and think Just who the heck do I think I am, anyway? (Hey, I’m nobody special; I’m just like you, I’d say.) What if… Hey, you know how it is, right?

But to be successful at this business – or any business, or any endeavor worth pursuing, for that matter – you pretty much have to get out there anyway, right? C’mon, nod your head with me here. (Sound of heads nodding) The difference between then and now, of course, is that little thing called motivation. And that’s the key element.

It’s actually easy to do the tough things – when you’re motivated.

Motivation Makes the Difference

So, now that I’m, y’know, finally motivated, it’s time for me to go out on a limb, folks. Time for me to willingly – and with a remarkable sense of growing enthusiasm – do things I’ve never done before! Yep; time to take the risk! That’s right, y’all – it’s time to spit into the wind! To (swelling sound of inspirational music) go forth where no man has gone before! To dang the torpedoes and go full speed ahead! To – ouch… (sound of dull thud as blunt object hits back of head)…

Er, sorry; got a little carried away there.

I mean, sure, it’s scary; especially at first. But I tell myself (there’s a lot of self-talk involved in this, don’cha know… which is perfect, since as you know, I talk to my Self a lot anyway) it’s the only way.

What About You?

So what is it that gets YOU motivated to do that thing you want to do? ARE you doing what you want to do? What will it take for you to DO the thing you, y’know, love to do?

Tough questions, I know. Think about it, won’t you? In the meantime…

Onward, through the fog! (sound of inspirational music, fading into the distance…)

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Photo: Out on a Limb, by Robert Hruzek

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[Note from the Proprietor: This is one of an ongoing series of posts called Scenes From a Sidewalk. Want to know what it's all about? Follow that link to read the series introduction.]

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When facing worry, fear and doubt; run in circles, scream and shout!

- A “less than optimum” formula for facing troubled times

First of all, lemme just say, er, sorry for the, um, slightly disgusting photo there. But it IS something I found on my daily trek on the sidewalk… Besides, it speaks volumes to me (not that I’m in the habit of, um, listening to dead insects… or dead anything, for that matter).

Anyhoo…

Show of hands: How many times have you ever felt like the unfortunate little critter in the photo here – when life has turned around and pretty much flattened you like a big ol’ ten-ton bag of steaming donkey poo? Yep; thought so. [Note from the Proprietor: I assure you, the use of donkey poo and its implied political commentary was entirely accidental! But I think I'll leave it.]

Hey, I know what it’s like; I’ve been there too.

A Thankless Job

About 8 years ago, I spent an entertaining three months on a project in Taiwan. Then upon my return, I worked for the same company at their office in Dallas, Texas for yet another three months before it finally ended. (When you’re a contract employee, in some ways it’s a thankless job because getting laid off is the usual way a project ends. In a way, you sorta get immune to it after a while, although it’s never exactly fun.)

Now, whenever that sorta thing happened, I’d immediately switch to “job search mode”. You know what I mean, don’t you? Update resumes, make phone calls, pestering everybody in contact your network – you know; throwin’ all the usual things up against the wall to see what sticks. To my surprise, though, instead of a few days off, followed by a new job – my, er, “utilizationally-challenged” days began to stretch out into weeks. Gradually, weeks turned into months, and the months (sound of despondent sobbing) turned into – you guessed it – years.

I’m not kidding folks, it was almost 4 years to the day when I picked up my briefcase (er, figuratively speaking – I don’t normally carry a briefcase to work) and headed back to work again! And trust me when I say, that was a loooooooonnnnnnnnggggg four years!

I’ll tell ya; countless times during those years I experienced more than my fair share of confusion, frustration, aggravation – not to mention quite a few other -tion’s as well. And more than once I felt exactly like our little buddy la cucaracha up there.

You know, the problem with this sort of feeling is – it often leaves you thinkin’ you’re the only one in the whole world. You know what I mean, right? The “poor me” pattern. The “why does this hafta happen to me” malaise. The “nobody knows the trouble I seen” sob story.

No doubt about it; bein’ on the receivin’ end of life’s unpleasant surprises is a sure fire recipe for self-pity, self-doubt, and loneliness.

Oh, Woe is Poor, Poor Me!

There once was this guy named Elijah. (Hey, that sounds like the start of a limerick, doesn’t it?)

Now, this guy was a relatively unique individual – an Old Testament prophet. He was a crusty ol’ fellah, and probably wore your typical prophet’s robe cut from rough cloth since he lived out in the wilderness. His job was to proclaim God’s word boldly and with fervor in the face of the bad guys – I mean, he was pretty much the epitome of what folks thought of when they thought of the word, “prophet”.

One time, while confronting a particular evil king and queen (Ahab and Jezebel – history tells us they were the absolute worst ones ever), he challenged their entire priesthood of the false god called Baal to a sortof “wild west” showdown, just to prove who’s God was the Real Thing.

So Baal’s priests built an altar – then Elijah built an altar. They put a sacrifice on theirs – and he put one on his, too. Then just for the heck of it, he had them pour water all over his altar’s wood to make it impossible to burn.

Then the priests prayed to Baal to call fire from heaven and prove their worth. (This is from 2 Kings, Chapter 1, in case you’d like to check it out.) Alas for them, nothing happened. (Musta had a wrong number?)

Finally, after several hours of this nonsense, Elijah prayed to God, and not only did fire come streaming down from heaven to his altar, it also consumed the stones of the altar, the water, Baal’s priests’ altar – and by the way, all of Baal’s priests, too!

Now, you’d think, with this kind of affirmation backin’ you up, you’d have a little confidence in your God, wouldn’t you?

Oddly enough, it didn’t – quite – turn out that way!

Immediately after this truly eye-popping event, Queen Jezebel got so angry that she turned several shades of red, then threatened the life of our hero Elijah (you know, the same guy who just totally, er, toasted the Queen’s private army of priests) and what did he do? Stand up boldly and call her out? Stride up to her and slap her silly? Spit in her eye?

Well… uh, not exactly! Instead of standing up to her, he turned and ran for his life, hiding in a cave as far away as he could get. Then he cried out to God that he was the only one to suffer as much humiliation as he, and to please take him to heaven now, thank you very much, so he wouldn’t have to face that evil whack job Jezebel!

Well, I don’t know about you, but that just seems too weird! Here he was, the genuine, bona-fide winner in the “my God is bigger than your god” contest, and this is how he acts? I mean, c’mon!

Well, God let Elijah stew in his own self-pitying juices for awhile, then told him that, not only was he not alone, but that there are over 700 others “out there” who followed God – and that he should stop feelin’ so sorry for himself. In other words, “You ain’t alone, Bubba, so get up off your sorry butt and get back to work!”

You’re Not Alone!

The fact is, no matter how you feel, you’re really not alone. And I wasn’t either. All I had to do was – turn my focus outward instead of inward in order to find other folks just like me!

Understand, now, I don’t mean, “there’s lotsa other folks sufferin’ like you are”. No, what I mean is, there are others out there with whom you have something in common – now go find them and see what you can do for ‘em!

The truth is, when I spend time thinkin’ about my own woes, well, it’s a sure-fire way to end up depressed. But when I focus on others – be the lovely Mrs. MZM, my friends, or whoever – hey, as long as it wasn’t, y’know, all about me, then things started lookin’ up.

Oh, don’t get me wrong; it still took four years to get another job. It’s just that, once I learned to think about others instead of myself, the time just somehow passed quicker. Amazing how that works – but there it is.

I’m just sayin’.

Bonus Round

p.s. For some strange reason, the idea of an actual limerick somehow stuck in my brain for a few days, and lo and behold, one actually materialized! So as an added bonus, I give you…

Elijah’s Limerick

God spoke through a guy named Elijah
To Ahab, said, “Just can’t abide ya!
I’ll call down the fire;
Roast your priests on a pyre;
And you’ll know, when I’m done, Who’s the Higher!”

(Note: To make it rhyme properly, you have to use a distinctive New York State accent. The words “fire”, “pyre” and “higher” are all spoken like this: “fi-ah”, “py-ah”, and “high-ah”.)

Hey, I never said it was a good limerick.

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Photo: Squished! by Robert Hruzek

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Note from the Proprietor: This is also an entry for this month’s What I Learned From… groupwrite project. If you’d like to join the fun, just click on that link and read all about it. Everyone is welcome – you may even win a free prize!

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