Category: Uncategorized

Our five-year-old grandson, Tyler, is in kindergarten.

(Generic Kindergarten class of 1956. I’m not in this picture.)

I actually remember my kindergarten days pretty clearly. Back then, in 1956, the kindergarten teachers had two classes each day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I was in Mrs. Armstrong’s early class. It was an action-packed three hours of finger-painting, stacking giant blocks on top of each other, bouncing large, reddish-purple rubber balls on the playground and taking a nap on a cold linoleum floor with only a bath towel beneath us.

Now that I think about it I wonder why a bunch of five-year-olds needed a nap at 10:00 a.m.?  I can only guess that the first hour and a half or so of Mrs. Armstrong’s day was pretty brutal.

Barbara Billingsly as June Cleaver

We didn’t do anything even remotely academic. I think kindergarten in the 1950s was just intended to help us little tykes develop social skills. And, of course, it gave our moms, the June Cleavers and Margaret Andersons of our world, a little time to get a jump on their daily cleaning and cooking in their day dresses and pearl necklaces.

Boy, have things changed!

These days, as far as I can figure, kindergarteners don’t do anything that doesn’t have a clearly-defined educational purpose. I think it’s great. They’re still developing social skills but they’re also getting a head start on reading, ‘riting and ‘rithtmetic. Makes sense to me. In 1979 I taught my son to read two and three letter words when he was two. Now his son reads, speaks Spanish and is learning fractions at age five.

FIVE!

I wasn’t introduced to fractions until I reached the fifth or sixth grade.

Tyler’s sixth birthday is coming up soon. I talked with him about it a couple of days ago in the car.

Tyler Goold Williams,pert near, not plumb, 6 years old.

“Tyler, your birthday is just a little more than three weeks away!” I enthused. “Do you know how long that is?”

“Soon!” he answered precisely.

“That’s right! And, how old are you going to be then?” I asked, imagining myself the Art Linkletter of the 21st century.

“SIX!” He was really excited now.

“So, how old are you now?” I inquired, trying to help his elementary concept of mathematics.

“FIVE AND ELEVEN-TWELFTHS!”

Copyright © 2011, Dave Williams. All rights reserved.

We all want to leave something behind.

We desperately want to have mattered.

We want to believe that our lives were not coincidental and that somebody, a few years after we’re gone, might be grateful that we passed this way.

Most of us can leave our footprints in the sands of time just by leading good lives and enriching the lives of those who love us. Surely, that’s enough. We don’t crave fame.

And yet, it would be nice to be remembered for doing one small, unique thing that touches others; to leave something of a legacy, a personal thank you for the life we lived and loved and wanted to share.

Please meet my friend, Cheri Fuller.

Cheri is a passionate 60-ish wife, mother, grandma, friend and artist. The world is full of Cheris, of course, but this one is ours. She’s as uniquely gifted and personally delightful as nearly everybody whose name you’ll never learn nor remember, except for one difference:

Cheri paints Eyerocks and leaves them scattered about in the spirit of Johnny Appleseed.

If you occasionally wander the rivers, streams and the ocean beaches of Northern California, if you’re really lucky, you may stumble upon an original Eyerock by Cheri. They are individually simple and yet magnificently striking works of art found lying about, here and there.

Eyerocks by Cheri are nothing more than a human endorsement of the fragile beauty of nature and a statement, that we humans are also part of Mother Nature’s landscape.

We belong here and we matter in the grand scheme of things.

If you find one, turn it over carefully so as not to disrupt its canvas. You’ll see this signature.

Take a picture. Take two or three.  You’ve discovered a treasure that is, as far as I can figure, a unique gift to the world.

But, please put it back where and how you found it.

Copyright © 2011, Dave Williams. All rights reserved.

We all want to leave something behind.

We desperately want to have mattered.

We want to believe that our lives were not coincidental and that somebody beyond a few years after our death might be grateful that we passed this way.

Most of us can, of course, leave footprints in the sands of time just by leading good lives and enriching those who love us. But it would be nice to be remembered for something material, too.

Some of us try to leave our marks by stringing words together and/or by creating beautiful, memorable music. We write, we paint, we dream and hope.

Greatness is not defined by talent or the volume of one’s efforts, nor by the the number of people who remember our names when we’re gone. Statesmen and artists leave indelible impressions of their work but nearly nothing of their personal selves.

Please meet my friend, Cheri Fuller.

Cheri is a passionate 60-ish wife, mother, grandma, friend and artist. The world is full of Cheris, of course. But this one is ours and she’s as uniquely gifted and personally delightful as nearly everybody whose name you’ll never learn nor remember, except for one thing:

Cheri paints Eyerocks and leaves them scattered about in the spirit of Johnny Appleseed.

If you occasionally wander the rivers, streams and the ocean beaches of Northern California, if you’re really lucky, you may stumble upon an original Eyerock by Cheri. They are individually simple and yet magnificently striking works of art found lying about, here and there.

Eyerocks by Cheri are nothing more than a human endorsement of the fragile beauty of nature and a statement, that we humans are also part of Mother Nature’s landscape.

We belong here and we matter in the grand scheme of things.

If you find one, turn it over carefully so as not to disrupt its canvas. You’ll see this signature.

Take a picture. Take two or three.  You’ve discovered a treasure that is, as far as I can figure, a unique gift to the world.

But, please put it back where and how you found it.

I slept until almost 7 a.m. this morning.

That’s two hours later than usual. When I do that my body feels a bit lighter and less achy but it takes awhile for my brain to engage. I feel a little foggy-headed. But I’ve done this long enough to proceed with my early morning routine on cruise control.

I took the dogs outside and waited for them to finish their morning ablutions. Upon my return, my 8-year-old grandson presented me with my morning mental calisthenics:

“Grandpa, do you have a crane?”

My brain does a quick search through my mental file cabinet:

“Crane” – noun:

1. any large wading bird of the family Gruidae, characterized by long legs, bill, and neck and an elevated hind toe.

2. a device for lifting and moving heavy weights in suspension.

I know the word, don’t understand the question.

“A what?” I ask, blowing out the cobwebs as quickly as I can.

“A crane,” he repeats patiently, “You know, to hold up your leg.”

I know Isaiah very well and I know that when this conversation ends I will be slapping my face with Oliver Hardy-like consternation.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I tell him, perfect straight man that I am.

“You know,” he explains again patiently, but with a growing sense of exasperation, “A crane to lean on so you don’t have to put your weight down on your leg.”

BOING!!

“You mean a CANE??” I ask, like the idiot I clearly am.

“YES!” he says, the exasperation arriving. “My leg hurts.”

May God forgive me, I pulled rank on him. “Your leg is fine, go get ready for school!”

It never ends.

Copyright © 2011, Dave Williams. All rights reserved.

I’m watching our girls as they sleep off their stress.

I picked them up an hour ago from the groomer. They cried when I left them and they cried even louder when I returned.

They were thrilled that I had come back for them.

Home again, I let them out of their carriers and they smothered me with frantic, tail-wagging kisses even though I’m the guy who had left them in cages with a stranger.

Cricket and me.

I really don’t think they even remember that. I   can’t know for sure, of course.

These girls need Carolann and me for their very   existence. We know that, but they don’t. They   don’t think about how they would find food or   warmth or safety if Carolann and I weren’t   around.

They just snuggle between us in bed.

They lick us their good-night kisses and go   straight into a deep stress-free sleep, believing that they are in Heaven. It’s enough for them. It’s everything.

I think God gives us dogs to tell us how completely, selflessly and unconditionally He loves us.

Copyright © 2011 by David L. Williams all rights reserved

I have never understood why people make a big deal out of the arrival of a new year.

It’s not a grumpy old fart thing. I’ve just never seen the significance of celebrating the arrival of another new day. It happens every 24 hours. But once each year it happens and people go crazy drinking and hugging and kissing each other and often total strangers. I have nothing against drinking or hugging and kissing. It’s the occasion that stumps me.

Some people suggest New Year’s Eve is just an excuse for a party.

Maybe, but I think there’s something deeper going on here, something meaningful. Mortality, perhaps? I want to understand, to “get it.” So, today I began looking into the holiday and I started by researching the song that defines the event and the spirit:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?

 For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup o’kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

 

That’s the first of several verses and choruses of the original poem written by Robert Burns in 1788. Literally translated, the Scottish “auld lang syne” means “old long since,” but in context, “For auld lang syne” is loosely translated to mean, “for the sake of old times.”

 

The little light bulb has just gone on over my cartoon head!

 

New Year’s Eve isn’t really about the arrival of a new year, it’s about the passing of the old year! 

 

(Oh, puh-leeze, cut me a little slack. I’m often late to arrive at an obvious conclusion. Especially when people say the opposite of what they mean!) 

 

It’s not about the arriving future, it’s about the departing past? Well, Hell’s bells, then why don’t we make it about that and have an evening of nostalgia and reminiscence? Why don’t we just haul out photo albums and tell each other great stories from our personal pasts? Why all the expense, the travel, the fancy meals and too much booze? Why do we insist on making New Year’s Eve a big deal?

Maybe they’re right. Maybe it really is just an excuse for a party and kissing total strangers.

Still, in the words of Robert Burns:

 We twa hae paidl’d i’ the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin auld lang syne.

How can you argue with that?

As I type these words I am awaiting a knock at the door from the repo man.

He’s coming to get my beloved motor home. Unemployed for four months now, I must let her go. (I say “her” because men always give cars, boats and RVs women’s names. We love them, ya know? We really, really do. But at this point I’m glad I never named her.)

It’s just a thing. Just stuff.

Frankly, I’ll be glad to have it out of the driveway where it was a constant, nagging reminder of my income shortage.

Carolann and I had a couple of years of great comfort, relaxation and good times in and around our motor home.

The repo man can’t take away the good times.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I believe that. So, today I’m going to spare you  959 words.

Our five-year-old grandson is learning to spell. Doing exceptionally well, too. Right up to that last letter.

(This is an annual re-publication of my holiday warning I issue to friends and strangers alike every year at this time. Please take heed. Stay off the roof!)

December 8th is an anniversary for me. This time it will mark twenty years since the day I fell off the roof of our house while putting up Christmas lights.

I only fell eight or ten feet and I managed my fall. Knowing that I couldn’t prevent it I intentionally jumped and hit the ground with a tuck and roll strategy to minimize the damage. I shattered nearly every bone in both heels and ankles. After five hours of reconstructive surgery I spent a week in a hospital. I was in a wheelchair for the next three months while receiving painful physical therapy three times a week. And now, nineteen years later, I still walk with a noticeable limp and am in constant pain. If I spend a full day on my feet for some special occasion — a family outing at Disneyland, for example — the pain can be so excruciating I can’t sleep. On my best days it’s just a constant, nagging reminder of one really bad decision I made a couple of decades ago.

And I’m the lucky one. 

I could have easily broken my neck or back and been in that wheelchair for life, paralyzed from the waist down. I could have died. People do, even from a fall of just eight feet. The doctors at the ER told me ‘tis the season. They get many such cases every year between Thanksgiving and Christmas. And there is one thing all of us have in common: We’re all, every one of us, smarter than the fools who will take a tumble.

Absolutely none of us think we might fall off the roof when we go up there.

I know you. You don’t think so, either. You’ll be more careful than I was. “Thanks for the heads up!” you’re thinking. That was my attitude, too.

That morning, December 8, 1990, Carolann phoned me from a friend’s house to say she saw a sign in our neighborhood for a guy who would put up Christmas lights for $20 but I said, “Oh, no. It’s my job. I’m the dad!” It cost me thirty THOUSAND dollars and a lifetime of constant pain to put the lights up that year.

And there are the dreams.

You have occasional dreams of being able to fly? I have frequent dreams of being able to run again, to run like the wind in a baseball outfield as I did when I was young or just to chase after my grandsons at my current age. I can’t do that. I have to call after them and hope they run back to me.

All for the sake of Christmas lights.

I met my wife when we were teammates on a competition dance team. I haven’t been able to dance with her for nineteen years now. Oh, we can slow dance but we can’t do the show-off stuff, the fun spins and fancy twirls that brought us together in the first place.

Thanks to those damned Christmas lights.

Frankly, I get tired of telling this story so I’m not putting much effort into it.

Some of you have no plans to go on the roof so it doesn’t matter. The rest of you are going up on the roof no matter what I say.

Personally, I’m not going to fall off anything higher than a bed or a barstool from here on out. You all do what you like.

You’ve been warned.

Merry Christmas! (It’s a lot more fun without oxycodone.)