Show your work.

Here's the first section or two of a story I'm writing.  It's called "The Queen", and I own all the copyrights, I think.  That's something people say, right?  Please enjoy.

The Queen

The fact that Becky is the assistant manager at the second largest restaurant in town is overshadowed by the fact that it is a Dairy Queen.  Her tenure there has been marred by altercations with customers, rudeness, and an overall lack of hygiene.  It is obvious to most that her attendance, rather than her attentiveness, is the driving force in her promotion from cashier.  Some might not consider six months a long engagement in any other industry; in Food Service it is, in fact, an eternity.

The angry customer’s bony finger jabs at Becky like a rapier.  Her dissatisfaction with her Steak Fingers, while obvious, seems misplaced to most patrons of The Queen.  They all silently agree that Becky cannot be held to account for the quality of a product that comes to them frozen, has the nutritional content of greasy cardboard, and is certainly not made of any naturally occurring substance.

“These fingers are disgusting!”  The final two syllables of her shout fall into oblivion so that the “g” rattles off the metallic napkin dispensers.  Her pronunciation of the word “fangers” causes Becky to smile and giggle.

“Listen here, missy.  I am never coming back here, I am writing a letter to your manager, and I will tell all my friends about this.”

“Again, ma’am, I am sorry for the quality of your Steak Finger Basket.  I’d be happy to comp you another meal,” Becky replies in an uncharacteristically calm manner.

“I don’t want your food.  A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be workin’ here anyway.  You must feel like a Grade ‘A’ loser!”

Becky hisses a perfunctory “Yes, ma’am” through clenched teeth.  The string of verbiage that follows is much more indicative of her usual demeanor.

“Becky, we have talked about your attitude way too often for someone only been here six months ”

Mr. Harding, the corpulent and balding manager, sits behind his comically small desk, peering at Becky over a substantial nose that supports drug store reading glasses.

“She was rude, and there’s nothing I can do about the stupid chicken fingers-“

“Steak fingers.”

“-steak fangers anyway.  So rather than afford her the courtesy that a normal human deserves, I gave her what she deserved.”

Exasperated, Harding continued.  “Becky do you really think that anyone, no matter how awful, deserves to be called a…what was it again?”

“A back-fat toting inbred harpy.”

“Good Lord, girl.  You read too much.”  Another deep sigh, one that spoke volumes of not only Harding’s job, but his life, his home, and the unyielding, nagging thought that if only he’d caught that touchdown pass back in high school…

“I guess you should just fire me.”

Hobbies.

Back when our wedding bliss was in its infancy, KB...let us use the word "suggested here, that I needed a hobby or two. It was when we had cable TV and I, perhaps, watched more than my fair share. I tried the classic "Why can't watching TV be considered a hobby?" trick. That was a lonely night on the couch. I've played guitar for years, so she added the tag "new" to her suggestion, and I debated until I lost. I did not see the point in developing a new hobby just for the sake of having one. I figured it should be something I enjoyed, was somewhat passionate about, and could partake in at any time.

It took six years, but I may have found a new hobby. I have always enjoyed quality short fiction. I think it is a classic art form that America has always supported. I mean, O. Henry (a Texan, I might add) even got a candy bar named for him. A really tasty one at that. The only other person I can think of with that distinction is, of course, Francis J. Whatchamacallit, inventor of the toilet paper holder. Look it up.

Some dear friends gave me journals this past spring for ideas to blog about (it should be noted that this was after a scolding for not updating with enough regularity). I must confess to not having used them yet, but I was inspired to start keeping a running word document on my work computer with ideas. Many of those were just thoughts ("Nay, profundities" - T.K.), and few were sentences that sounded good. Some were comments I had made that I thought especially witty (ok, so there’s only one of those). I realized that I could form story around some of these.

KB and I have tossed about ideas for books or stories before. I have made up a few stories to tell at bedtime. We've had many good conversations on the art of storytelling and writing. Once I finally put these puzzle pieces together, I started writing, and it has been quite a joy. I have no delusion that I will become some widely published author. Heck, I may only have one or two stories in my head at al, but the process has been enjoyable so far.  Michael Chabon has stated that he writes about 5,000 words per day.  I'm shooting for 100, and maybe half of them good.
 
We're taking a trip back to Austin this weekend, and I am itching to get at those journals. I imagine they will be filled quicker than I realize

Removed.

It is an odd sensation to know that you have multiple places to live, and yet feel homeless.  It feels like an after-school special in which the homeless guy on the corner turns out to be a millionaire with several homes, but in this case, it's a couple of rentals.  Also, when you're solidly middle-class, eccentric just comes off as "crazy", so...I try and tamp down the urge to make tin foil hats, I suppose.  (It occurs to me that this entire paragraph is become quite eccentric.  Rather than delete it, I will let it stand as a testament to my eccentricity gaining self-awareness.  Like Skynet)

KB and I are in Houston for the summer, and we have a fairly humble set-up at an apartment between our two work locations.  It's still a weird feeling to see her (almost) every day, but in an extraordinarily good way.  We both agree that it barely seems real; the routine of the past school year set in easily, and disrupting that has very much left us disoriented.  Pair the move and its challenges with a trip to Beaumont last weekend (the first time we've spent an entire weekend there in eight years of marriage, I think), and we don't quite know where we're living.  So we have more than one home, but still feel a little homeless.

While it is great to be back in Houston for a multitude of reasons, one of the weirder experiences has been driving past our old house.  We lived in the Heights for seven plus years, so there are a lot of very happy memories there.  In the last ten months, our former landlord has neither rented out our old place, nor put any care into it, so it's looking very run down.  Seeing it in such a terrible state was a sad moment for us.  Maybe we felt some sense of culpability (we were the only thing standing between that house and nature taking it back), maybe a sense of loss (we kind of just abandoned the place), but part of me thinks it's a glimpse into the future.

KB is in seminary, and in 2014 she will be an Episcopal priest.  It will be our lot in life to be moving on a somewhat regular basis.  It is rare that someone takes a position and then stays more than ten years, so we will be saying goodbye to people and homes more frequently than most.  This past year is the first big move of many more to come, and coping with that is all part of this process.

I'm comforted in a big way by the fact that we have tremendous friends (seriously, some of the best anyone could have) that will be anywhere we need them to be at a moment's notice.  We are lucky to have such anchors in our life; a cadre of friends and family that we can truly depend on is one of the greatest gifts in life. 

Requiem.

Consider the title of this post your only warning.  Besides this one.

Clancey, our border collie, died almost a week ago during our move from Austin to Houston (KB is a chaplain in Houston this summer, so this is only temporary).  Rather than give details of his passing and health, besides assurances that he did not suffer and that we stayed with him the whole time, I want to tell you about my friend Clancey.

I met Clancey on my first date with KB.  I was later told that he did not always take to larger guys, but he and I were instantly friends.  KB had him since he was a puppy, and when I met him he was a very spunky teenager.

Clancey loved people in general, and was always kind.  I think part of that was viewing everyone as sheep that needed herding and tender loving care (with the occasional nip at the heel).  He was friendly towards everyone, especially kids.  He seemed to know when someone was upset, and would sit next to anyone crying to clean up tears.  When toddlers or other little folk were around, he would simply lie down and wait for them to pet him, mostly so he could lick their (hopefully bare) toes.

Clancey was smart.  You could always tell that there was a spark of understanding.  One of my favorite memories is from a rainy day in our house in Houston.  The mud outside prompted me to leave a towel by the back door to muddy paws and feed Clancey inside to minimize that mud.  As I poured food in his bowl, he immediately knocked it over.  I looked at him exasperatedly and said "You better clean that up!".  He looked at me, grabbed the towel in his teeth, and dragged it over the food on the floor in order to cover it up.  How could I do anything but laugh in amazement and hug hm?

Clancey was fast.  So fast.  At the dog park, he would run after a thrown ball with a speed that was awe-inspiring.  On a bad day, he led the pack.  On a good day, he could outstrip all but the greyhounds, a black and white streak dashing for a ball in a moment of unbridled joy.  Once he got to the ball, he never seemed to mind if another dog took it, because...

Clancey was, above all, desirous of pleasing the people he loved (which was pretty much everyone).  Whether it was by sitting and staying, coming when called, playing, caring, or cuddling, Clancey wanted the people in his life to be happy, and the best way he could do that was by doing what they wanted.  He was the epitome of utter selflessness.

I know that many of the qualities I attribute to Clancey can be written off as anthropomorphization, or projecting qualities I find noble onto a blank slate, or even part of grappling with my own mortality.  Those things may well be true, but I also know that he was an example of living a life in perfect communion with how one is Created.  He was perfectly himself, if that makes any sense.  There's a trite saying (probably on a bumper sticker) that goes something like "I hope I can be the person my dog thinks I am."  I would much rather be the person my dog was; someone who loves unconditionally and fiercely, and who seeks to make the people around them happy.

Clancey was a good boy, and I miss him terribly.

On music.

Most people that know me (even just a little) know that I have a deep love for music.  More precisely, I have a very deep love and knowledge of popular music that is derived from traditional American blues and falls into the "rock and roll" category.  I also love the blues, jazz, traditional, and older country music, but rock and roll (and most of its ancestors) is what I really love.  I could write page after page, but I thought I would focus on a very specific moment: the song that changed my life.

Obviously, that phrase is hyperbolic, but hearing it really opened my ears to music for the first time and stirred my love for music.  It was fall of 1992, and I was right around the age of thirteen, what seems to be the perfect age to fall in love with music.  My dad was driving me home from soccer practice, and Eric Clapton's "Layla" (the "unplugged" version) came on the radio.  I was instantly slack-jawed.  The rhythm, the tone of Clapton's voice, and the lyrics hit me with Road-to-Damascus-level force.  I instantly demanded that my father relinquish every bit of knowledge he had on the song and its artist on the double-quick.  After finding out just who the Eric Clapton was, I set about hearing anything and everything I could.

It should be said that I was not some kind of pubescent hermit; I'd heard music before.  I loved Michael Jackson's Thriller years earlier, but this was the first time that hearing a song made me not only want to hear more, but everything else by a particular artist.  It was not just a desire to hear, but to know.  Where was he from?  What other bands was he in?  What made him want to play the guitar (because he made me want to play the guitar)?  I was driven by a distinct need to know and to hear.

So off I went.  "Unplugged" by Eric Clapton was the first CD I bought for myself after Christmas 1992 (when I received my first CD player).  From there, I bought Cream, Derek and the Dominoes, and Blind Faith.  I stretched beyond Clapton to the Who, Hendrix, the Rolling Stones.  The Band, The Beatles (how the heck did I miss them?!), Elvis, Muddy Waters, Leadbelly, Howlin' Wolf.  The CD collection grew.  While friends dove into Nirvana and Pearl Jam (they came a few years later for me), I was devouring everything I could by Pink Floyd, Steely Dan, and Stevie Ray Vaughn. 

My Clapton obsession led to the making of a list for my own personal records; a list of every Clapton album available for sale (fine, it was a checklist).  I soon found myself not only scouring through the CD section of any store I went into, but memorizing the title and release year of every Clapton album I found.  I had a Wikipedia-worthy list compiled within one year of purchasing “Unplugged”.  Through about 1995, my list was pretty comprehensive.

I never came close to owning all of those Clapton records, but my ears had been opened; I was now attuned to the lyrics and music coming form the radio.  I was always looking for the nxt obsession, the next life-altering song (which comes about two-and-a-half years later in the form of a music video), but my love of Clapton and the blues continued (and continues to this day) to grow.  It is one of the truest expression of the soul I have found in popular culture and music.  If nothing else, it tells the listener that they are not alone.  Someone else aches the way I do, someone else is overjoyed the way I am, someone else's feet are stomping, someone else's ears are opened, and someone else's life is forever changed,

Extra Ordinary Time.

If the church's liturgical calendar is suppose to mirror not only the seasons of the year and the lectionary, but the seasons of our lives (birth, celebration, death, resurrection, etc), I feel like the last several months have been very Pentecost for me.  Not in the "everyone wear red this Sunday!" way, but in the long stretch of time through the summer in which we simply carry on.  It is often called Ordinary Time.

Perhaps this is not the best analogy.  It's not like things haven't been busy or changing rapidly.  Plenty of curve balls have been thrown (Surprise! You're moving back to Houston for the summer!), but I don't feel the roller coaster ups and downs as much as I usually do.  Maybe I'm getting used to them, maybe they aren't as big as they seem.  Right now I feel like I'm in ordinary time; soldiering on, because that is just what you do.

I think a big part of my personality comes from my grandfathers; family men, consummate churchmen, and men with close friends that they loved.  A big part of both their personalities was simply doing what needed to be done without much complaint.  JUst pressing on despite obstacles, because that's just what you do.  I know it's a generational mind set common to many of the "builders" but it is something that really stuck with me.

The season of Pentecost is often symbolized by wheat or other growing things.  It is ordinary time, but it's a time for growth and renewal.  Since KB and I will get to spend the entire summer together, we're counting on some of that.  The last few weeks I have really felt the lack of hours together compounding like interest, and need very much to pay back some of that debt of time.  It will be good to have a season to be together, to grown and renew, and to find joy in the ordinary.  Thank God for extra ordinary time.

Editor's note: this post isn't as well written as I want, but I also want to be better about regular updates, so...take what you can get.

Uncle Travelling Nick

So to start with, it's one thing when people tell me to update my blog in person.  Now I'm getting texts that say "Either update you blog or just delete it."  Wow.  Come on, peeps.  I've been crazy busy for the last...OK, so it has been a while.  Sorry.

So where to begin?  I've been travelling a lot work (hence the Fraggles reference above; also I was, in fact, in the land of the Silly Creatures).  I've been to Louisiana, Mississippi, Arkansas, California, and Toronto in the last two months.  Throw a truly wonderful Boston trip in there, and I'm really racking up the frequent flier miles. 

The reason for my lack of updates is simply feeling that I don't have anything to say.  I try and write things to provoke thought or discussion, to draw out ideas, or to help form opinions.  I've been so engrossed in work that I have just not had any thoughts worth sharing lately.  It occurs to me, though, that the people reading this may not really care and are simply interested in what I'm doing or have to say.  Which is weird to begin with, but brace yourselves; here comes the engine stuff...

So let's talk tractors.  Like this one:



A John Deere tractor

 Tractors have what is called a "common sump" design, meaning that the fluids that lubricate the entire machine (except the engine) are in the same housing that runs the length of the tractor.  My company makes additives that go into the oils for those sumps.  We focus on parts like this:



Look kids! A piston pumps! And my desk!

Our chemistry helps maintain the integrity of parts like this piston pump.  It's made of a lot of different kinds of metals (note the yellow metal on top) that all have to be cared for.  Bad oils can be very detrimental:


Worn elliptical gear section

 The gear teeth above are worn down from being used in a bad oil.  This shortens the life of the tractor.  However, what we make...



Happy gears!

 
Keeps gears from spawling (metal shaving off), and extends the life of tractors and farm equipment.

OK I think that's it for now, my darlings.  You are all wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.  I'll make sure to send postcards the next time I venture out into the Land of the Silly People.