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Morning is God’s way of gently shaking me awake with a smile and saying, “Get up, knothead. You’re not finished yet.”

I love mornings, by God. Always have. And by morning I mean a half hour or so before dawn. It’s the grand reawakening of my little corner of the world. Sunrise, birds, the dew; the works.

Sunrise outside my home in Southern California is always spectacular. Sunrise everywhere is spectacular, amid mountains, deserts and seascapes. Even urban alleys and poor, blighted neighborhoods are washed by a hopeful light at dawn regardless of weather and transitory human circumstance.

A new day. A thing of beauty and grace.

 

I’ll turn 60 in a few months. Though I’ve missed a few along the way I estimate I have had the thrill of experiencing nearly 20-thousand sunrises so far. I don’t mean to be greedy but I’d sure like to see a few thousand more.

And, isn’t there something extra special about a sunrise on the open road, away from home?

Whether holed up in a cheap motel, staying with family or, best of all, waking up in my RV in some exciting new place, daybreak feels like the Christmas mornings of my childhood: promises of wonder in yet unopened gifts.

I’ll take mornings wherever I find them.

I’m not finished yet.

I’m a dog lover. They not only make me happy, they inspire me to try to be a better man.

What other animal is always thrilled to see you, no matter how grumpy or mean you might be? Name one other creature whose only desire is to love and be loved in return?

I think dogs are God’s gift to us as a reminder of how He loves us unconditionally. (And yes, I know “dog” is “God” spelled backward but the etymologists assure us that’s just a coincidence.)

Cricket and me

I have loved a lot of dogs in my long life but none so much as the Yorkshire terrier I bought Carolann as a gift eleven years ago. Only a few weeks old at the time, we named her Cricket for the way she hopped through the grass of our front lawn, grass that came up to her tiny chest. Cricket, or, as we often call her, our “Baby Girl”, stole our hearts when we first laid eyes on her and she owns us, still.

When we first brought Cricket home we began the potty training. We’d take her outside in the back yard every hour or two and command her to “go potty.” She’s a smart baby girl and she would learn quickly.

Our Baby Girl

One evening, shortly after dusk, I took her into the backyard and we began going through the exercise. “Go potty, Cricket,” I said. Curious puppy that she was she ignored me and sniffed and poked around the yard while I continued to give the command, firmly yet kindly.

It was a lovely spring evening. A single cricket (the insect, not the dog) was chirping. I eventually became aware that our next-door neighbor was in his yard across the fence. The fence was tall enough that we couldn’t see each other but I was aware of his movements and he could hear me, of course.

Here’s what he heard:

A single cricket chirping.

And, me saying, “Go potty, Cricket! Cricket, go potty. Go potty for Daddy!”

Copyright © 2011, Dave Williams. All rights reserved.

These are the precise words we exchanged not five minutes ago:

Isaiah: (Hollering from downstairs.) “Grandpa!”

Me: “What?”

Isaiah: “Can we take the dogs for a walk and maybe go around the block or down to the park? I’m just asking.”

I half hear him, half-think for only a moment.

Me: “Maybe. That sounds like a good idea. Let me finish a couple of things. Then I’ll think about it.”

Isaiah: (Still downstairs) “Okay. I love you!”

Me: (Mindlessly, back to my writing) “I love you, too.”

Isaiah: “I’m saying that because I want to convince you to take the dogs for a walk. (slight pause) But also because I really do love you.”

And so it begins.

Copyright © 2011, Dave Williams. All rights reserved.

My dad, Don Williams, was born and raised in Wyoming.

About fifty-five years ago he and his dad taught me to fish swift trout streams in blinding snowstorms.

I fished the Yellowstone River for the first time when I was only four or five. It was January in the mid-1950s, a stiff wind and vicious, blowing snow stung my tender cheeks and scared me. I grabbed my daddy’s leg. He briefly caressed my head with his free hand just to let me know he was there for me.

Then he cast that Super Duper lure back upstream and continued reeling in the line.

A monstrous, lazy moose stood about fifteen feet away, knee-deep in the rapid, frigid Yellowstone, chewing on green river plants and looking at me with scant interest. The nearly-frozen river, the icy wind and snow, didn’t bother that moose in the least. Certainly, he had no fear of me.

My dad, Donald, and his dad, Lester Williams, fished with a religious fervor.

For one thing, it was the only way they could hope to enjoy fresh trout for dinner. More than that, though, they embraced God’s challenge that they provide for themselves and their families and be grateful for His bounty.

I loved my dad and grandpa. I wanted to be like them.

I’m a California kid just trying to hold onto family traditions. Yet, I occasionally have to jettison them when they no longer serve a practical purpose. 

My son liberated me from fishing nearly thirty years ago.

Jeremy was about six or seven. I took him camping into Northern California’s Plumas-Eureka Campground. He had caught his first fish there when he was just five, back when he was still anxious to learn from me and to please me with his effort. 

(He still is and does, of course. I’m just sayin’…)

By the early 80s — just a year or two after his fish harvesting experience — he was thinking for himself:

“Dad,” he said seriously and with no hint of sarcasm, “you know we can buy fish at the grocery store, right?”

He was right, of course, just as my dad and his dad were right in their time and place. 

We have all been right together, forever.

Copyright © 2011, Dave Williams. All rights reserved.

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?