The rewards of doing "the manly thing"

It's that time of the year, and I didn't even think about it until a class discussion this evening on Lance Armstrong and the effect of his fall from grace on his Livestrong Foundation.

I don't remember the exact date except that it was a Tuesday evening in September 2004. I'd just crawled into bed and was doing what I refer to as "the manly thing" -- scratching and adjusting (yes, young people, romance can stay in your relationship).

And sometimes, you just know. My right testicle felt as hard and large as a pecan (a good-sized pecan, of course). A double-check, a calm-down deep breath, and I turned to my wife in the dark and said, "Feel this." Misunderstanding my motives, her response: "I'm already asleep."

I didn't know anything about testicular cancer, but I just knew; and I spent half the night on the Internet. Risk higher in tall men. Risk about five times higher among white men than Blacks or Hispanics. Oh, crap. Family history ... none, so okay there, except that only about 3 percent of men diagnosed have a family history of testicular cancer.

Good news! "About half of testicular cancers occur in men between the ages of 20 and 34." Bad news -- "But this cancer can affect males of any age, including infants and elderly men." I'd always been immature, but to get a young man's disease in my late 40s? Survival rate -- 95 percent. What about that other 5 percent (I'm an optimist until ...)?

The next few days were a whirlwind. Called my family doctor Wednesday morning. His receptionist was going to schedule me for the following week. When I told her why I wanted to see the doctor, she put me on hold to talk with the doctor; and when she came back on the line, she asked, "How soon can you get here?"

My family doctor scheduled me for a sonogram on Thursday. When he saw the results, he referred me to a urologist, who I saw on Friday.

We weren't active in a church, and I hadn't learned of God's gift of Grace yet, but I called my sister -- the one I'd referred to as a "holy-roller" for years -- and asked for her prayers. I remember thinking, "I need the A-Team on this one."

My visit with the urologist wrapped up with "I can't do the surgery tomorrow, but let's get you in first thing Monday morning."

What!!!? Can't do the surgery tomorrow? How urgent is this?

Longest weekend of my life. The doctor never used the word "cancer," but talked about a seminoma. I told my wife that I didn't really understand, but that we were getting up at 4 a.m. Monday to get "something" cut off.

I thought about my kids growing up. I thought about how Kim and I always talked about growing old together. I thought about harems I could guard as a eunuch (sometimes it's hard to shake a maudlin sense of humor). And I thought about standing waist-deep in waste materials and trash when I worked at the DuPont refinery the summer after high school graduation.

Three distinct memories of the surgery:

Handing me a pen, the prep staff asked, "Mr. Bowden, will you put an X by the testicle we're supposed to remove?"

"Mr. Bowden, I'm your anesthesiologist, and this will help you rela..."

And then Kim trying to sleep in a straight-back, recovery-room chair next to my bed. I'd look up, giggle and go back to sleep ... several times. I was enjoying the best sleep of my life.

Following my surgery, I went through radiation treatments, and I almost felt guilty for being able to walk in and out of the surgery center knowing that all would be well. Many of my fellow patients weren't so lucky. Many had to be wheeled in for what must've been the last-attempt chemotherapy treatments. Others stopped showing up, and even in the age of HIPPA regulations, the technicians' sad conversations hinted at the inevitable.

I even thanked people in stores who I saw wearing the yellow Livestrong bracelets.

A few years later, I started reading Lance Armstong's "It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life." Lance failed to read the signs. His testicle grew to the size of an orange before he sought a diagnosis (how can you bicycle with a testicle the size of an orange?).

If I remember correctly, Lance's cancer metasticized into his lungs and then his brain. I thought about how quickly my week went from my Tuesday-night doing "the manly thing" to Monday-morning surgery. And I almost passed out. I was so grateful for the receptionist who asked, "How soon can you get here?" and the surgeon who said, "first thing Monday." But I still couldn't finish Lance's book.

Lance Armstrong 'fessed up to using performance enhancing drugs during his Tour de France victories when he appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show in January. NPR broadcast an interview with Livestrong Foundation CEO Doug Ulman the following day, prior to part two of the Oprah interview.

PR professionals should take notes. Ulman was brilliant in his responses to queries about Armstrong's lying about his drug usage. He stayed the course. 

Listen to the interview, but here are a couple of his responses related to knowledge of the doping and the impact of the scandal on the foundation:

 "You know, Lance obviously founded the organization. And his story, his cancer journey, resonated with millions of people. And the Livestrong Foundation and Livestrong Movement is now at a point where it is moved beyond any one individual, and it's about literally millions of people who, unfortunately, are facing or have faced this illness themselves."

And later ...

"Well, I'll definitely watch (the interview with Oprah Winfrey) because it's important to me and to the organization. And I think it's going to take a while for people of all walks of life to process this. But ultimately, come Tuesday, this foundation is going to be, again, 100 percent focused on fulfilling our mission of serving those with cancer."

Awesome responses.

So, for me, I don't give a (insert your own point of emphasis) about what Lance ate, drank or injected. I'd like to tell him to keep his jerseys, kind of as a gift from me. I just want to say, "thanks."


Follow me on Twitter: @FWgib

(flying) Machine I Loathe to Fly

I thought it was just me. My wife, daughter and I flew Spirit Airlines for a spring-break trip to Florida, and I hated it. The cattle-car atmosphere and the I'd-rather-be-anywhere-but-here in-flight staff were only topped by the guy driving the tractor that pulled luggage carts up the plane. He ran into the front tire of the plane!

They herded us off the plane, and apparently the airline's relationship is so bad with other airlines that if the damage would've grounded the plane, no other airline would honor Spirit tickets and accept its passengers. Spirit offers so few flights that we'd have to wait until the following day to catch another flight.
 
I hate Spirit Airlines and have now vowed to never fly it again. NPR featured a story on Spirit's MILF advertising campaign ... that would be "More Islands. Lower Fares." for any of you porn-seekers whose search found the acronym. For the "culturally" deprived, MILF was popularized in the movie "American Pie" (warning: graphic description of MILF).

It does get worse: following the Anthony Weiner uproar, Spirit ran an ad with the tagline "The Weiner Sale: With fares too hard to resist."

I'm committed now. These people are so grossly offensive that I'll swim to Florida before I attempt to sit in one of their 3/4-size mini-seats again.
 
So I thought it was just me until I began looking for Spirit employee survey results to learn how this crass approach to marketing and promotion affected employee morale and retention. It certainly seems to have affected employees' driving abilities.
 
Instead, I found several sites with customer-survey results. I think the Facebook site, Boycott Spirit Airlines, pretty much sums up the customer sentiment I found on other websites. Check out these holiday postings:
 
"Sorry kids. The Easter Bunny was coming this weekend to hide eggs, but Spirit Airlines canceled his flight for no reason."
 
"If your mom's flying Spirit this Mother's Day, you might want to send the flowers to the airport.... There's a good chance they will cancel the flight for no good reason. Spirit, you suck."
 
"Its Memorial Day. I'm sure Spirit's busy screwing over a vet."
 
And between holidays: "If dog poop had a spirit... It would be called Spirit Airlines."
 
The MILF campaign was an email effort directed to existing customers who had signed up for Spirit's distribution list. Spirit's Director of Communications acknowledged that the airline had received some letters of complaint; however, he also said, in an interview with ABC News that "most found the connection amusing rather than offensive and that customers are responding to the airfare deals."

You have to give Spirit's public relations people credit. They've trained their President Ben Baldanza. In an interview with hard-charging Bill O'Reilly on Fox News' "The O'Reilly Factor," Baldanza snagged some free ad time with his response to O'Reilly's attack on the MILF ad. Baldanza replied, "Our consumer feedback has been positive, and the only thing we think is obscene is the fares that most of our competitors charge."

All I can say to Spirit is "Your mama is SO ugly that she'd never be on anyone's ..." well, never mind.


Follow me on Twitter: @FWgib
 

Buzz roll ... two beats and (sniffle)

I cry at high school football games. More specifically, when the announcer asks everyone to stand, the drums start their buzz roll and a couple of beats later, the rest of band launches into the Star-Spangled Banner. Hand over my heart, feeling my pulse kick up a few beats and, on rare-breeze Friday nights, my eyes focus on the fluttering Stars and Stripes. And then the lip-biting starts ... anything to contain the tears.

Sound like I'm a zealous Yankee Doodle patriot? No, not really.

The tears started September 15, 2001, the first Keller ISD high school football game following the 9/11 attacks on the New York's Twin Towers. I was the Communications Specialist in Keller ISD and that game capped a week of on-the-fly crisis communications.

I don't remember who won the game or even who played, but the chaos and fear on that Tuesday morning, among other things, prompted do-we-play-the-games discussions that must've burned up phone lines among administrators and school board members and probably among school districts across the United States. Do we protect our children? Is it too much to expect students to focus on athletics and arts when they're scared and grieving? Is it safe? Should we have large gatherings in contained areas? Will anybody show up?

Keller ISD had an incredible emergency action and crisis communication plan. It was in place when I started with the district late in 2000. I'm sure the 1999 school shootings at Columbine High School added a few pages to the plan, and I know that the shootings at Fort Worth's Wedgewood Baptist Church later that year (a helluva year) prompted collaborations among school districts to share counseling and communications resources. The church shooting affected a huge number of students, and attracted unprecedented, international media attention that drained Fort Worth ISD's limited resources.

The plan was beautiful. Well-conceived and refined with professional input from counselors and emergency responders. Multi-colored with tabbed pages clearly labeled so that school personnel could easily find and implement an effective and approved response to every imaginable school crisis.

And then the unimaginable happened. Hijacked airliners torpedoed the World Trade Center, and the United States was at war. More importantly, the parents in our community and the kids in our schools were scared.

Driving to work on September 11, I heard on the radio about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center in New York City. I remembered a story my dad had told me about a plane hitting the Empire State Building in the '40s, and my initial thought was "what kind of fool can't avoid a building that big nowadays?"

The rest of the morning is a blur.

An American Airlines jet (Dallas/Fort Worth is the home of American Airlines, and Keller ISD is home to many of its employees) was hijacked and crashed into the World Trade Center. No, two planes have hit both Towers. What? Another plane has crashed in Pennsylvania and another into the Pentagon.

Parents want to pick up their kids. Are we releasing kids? Channel 5 wants to know if schools are closing. The Star-Telegram is asking how we're protecting students. Do we have a statement for the media? Do we allow teachers to turn on their classroom TVs? This is history. What grades can watch the news coverage? What about the kids with parents who work for the airlines? What about employees with family members who work for the airlines? How do we let our campus personnel know what's going on? How do we communicate with parents? Are we having school tomorrow?

Email communications with parents was in its tween years, and the district's website was still in its infancy. Text messaging as mass communications was ... well, never mind. The only guy who knew how to post information on the website wanted to leave and pick up his kids. What do we want to say? Have to say? Who do we say it to, and how do we say it to them?

Fortunately, Keller ISD was blessed with an incredibly talented (and calm), media-savvy Communications Director, a district administration that had full confidence in her judgment, and campus administrators and teachers who were thoroughly trained and could take the existing crisis plan and  apply it intelligently, as needed, then wait for further instruction from the superintendent.

So, back to the football game ...

Everybody showed up. I don't remember much about that evening except that the stands were full. Keller ISD's administration, like so many school districts, colleges and pro sports, recognized that the best way to help young people -- okay, just about everybody -- get through this crisis was to keep life as normal as possible. Kids and families needed to be there, needed the comfort of familiarity and the nearness of friends.

I drafted the "message." What was appropriate in a public school setting? Who do we call on for comfort and grief? Who do we offend if we ask for God's loving hand, and who do we offend if we don't? Do I remember? Of course not.

I stood at the top of the bleachers and ticked each step of our pre-game ceremonies off our checklist. It was a breezy night. The flags unfurled. Hand over heart. The drumroll started ... two beats ... the rest of the band joined in.

And then the dam broke. I've cried at every high school football game since.

Follow me on Twitter: @FWgib

In a Word: Black and White

I miss black and white. I just re-read Dalton Trumbo’s Johnny Got His Gun for the first time since high school, and it brought me back to those crystal-clear teenage years when decisions between right and wrong, left or right were as simple as … well, black and white.  

All the answers were right there on television, most of the time literally in black and white. My dad was Archie Bunker, and he and his blue-collar friends wanted to beat up hippies. Blacks in our town waited to join the riots in Watts. Out-of-town college students were tearing apart campuses (except for that poor young girl from Kent State, and older kids from our refinery town just seemed to disappear (by the way, my dad was very kind and caring, and his friends never beat up anybody. I kind of doubt if anyone from our town – black or white – really wanted to start a riot).

In those years during and immediately after the Vietnam War, young people knew that war was bad. We saw the photos of a young girl scorched by napalm and Buddhist monks igniting themselves in downtown traffic. Thankfully, few draftees returned to small-town Southeast Texas because we’d heard they all became child killers and dopers … our English teachers had us read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness -- which gave birth to the 1979 movie, Apocalypse Now -- just to prove how easy it was to succumb to the evils of the jungle.

Saddest reality is of those soldiers coming back to the United States alone to “welcomes” of spit and taunts. An entire generation of veterans mislabeled, abused and neglected.

Vietnam was a “living room war” during the ‘60s and ‘70s, and its images and casualty scorecards on the evening news haunted my childhood (fortunately, we always seemed to kill more of them than they did of us). I dreaded the day that my first trip away from home would take me straight to the Hanoi Hilton (my imagination skipped all the middle steps and took me straight to prisoner-of-war). I was scared to death and scared to die.

Johnny hit bookshelves two days after the start of World War II in 1939, but it’s set in the earlier 20^th century during World War I. The book was banned in 1941 following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, although Trumbo wrote that he wasn’t aware of it, and it was “out of print” during the Korean conflict of the early ‘50s. I first read it in the early ‘70s after Trumbo added an addendum to the introduction, where he outlines an equation for figuring the impact of casualties in Vietnam: “40,000 dead young men = 3,000 tons of bone and flesh, 124,000 pounds of brain matter, 50,000 gallons of blood, 1,840,000 years of life that will never be lived, 100,000 children who will never be born.”

Yes, Johnny Got His Gun is that kind of “let’s take this outside” (except that we’re pacifists) book.

Johnny focuses on Joe Bonham, a critically wounded, young soldier, who wakes up in a hospital to the step-by-step reality that he’s lost his hearing … and his arms, and his legs, and his mouth, nose and eyes. He is unimaginably alone, and his story is written in a saddening and thought-provoking, stream-of-consciousness ramble that only a desperate insomniac can appreciate.

Just a relevant as ever, two points disturbed me as I re-read Johnny Got His Gun.

·         Somewhere between a quick victory in Gulf War I and the tragedy of 9/11, America re-gained its identity as a confident, collaborative nation. Unfortunately, we also made ourselves prime targets for the mindless sentiment of songs like Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” and the hate-breeding machismo of Toby Keith “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.” Disagree? Find a copy of Wag the Dog  with Robert DeNiro and Dustin Hoffman. You’ll love Willie Nelson’s character.

Trumbo has Joe examining the concept of “liberty” and the messaging that sends people to war. Joe considers the opportunities men have to say “no” when asked to run an errand or buy a car, but wonders why no options are available when he’s asked to die.

He asked about those who are ashamed to say “no,” and ponders, “What the hell does liberty mean anyhow? It’s just a word like house or table or any other word. Only it’s a special word. A guy says house and can point to a house and prove it.  But a guy says come one let’s fight for liberty. He can’t prove the thing he’s talking about so how in the hell can he be telling you to fight for it?

“No sir anybody who went out and got into front line trenches to fight for liberty was a goddam fool and the guy who got him there was a liar.”

No one deserves our genuine support and appreciation more than military personnel and emergency services providers. However, I was embarrassed when I found myself critically measuring Joe’s honesty against the currently accepted norms that pit patriotism against tolerance, and require “undying loyalty.”

·         Then I became angry … angry with the further bastardization of American values that preys on fear and mock pride to shut down cooperation on reasonable gun laws while children are being killed, to label homelessness and desperation as lazy and unmotivated, to brutalize families for the sake of a homogenous society, and to cast-aside veterans after the parades have stopped and the music has changed.

And all for the sake of a word.

Follow me on Twitter: @FWgib

Old Trucks and Road Trips

High-mileage, early-model truck. Perfect for work or weekend projects. Some scratches and dings, no serious damage. Cranky starts, needs lots of TLC, but reliable. AM/FM radio with after-factory 8-track player. Still works!

Some people write their own obituaries. When I hit my early 50s, I drafted this classified ad as a favor to my wife, just in case she was inclined to put me on the market. The prompt was a visit to my doctor, whose evaluation changed from “You know, Mr. Bowden, you’re in pretty good shape for a man your age” to “You know, Mr. Bowden, it’s not unusual for a man your age to … (fill in the blank).”

I’m 54 years old and beginning work on a master’s program, which might also be a bit unusual for a man my age. Unfortunately, the first few steps have prompted some additional disclosures for my ad:

Subject to misfires. Shifts gears without warning. Needs LOTS of TLC. Owner’s manual lost.

I’m not sure if unintentionally cancelling my GRE after responding to the first question generated the ad re-write; but I do know there’s at least one young GRE monitor who was kind enough not to say, “You know, Mr. Bowden, it’s not unusual for a man your age …”

I loved earning my bachelor’s degree in mass communications. Learning the “tools of the trade” and actually seeing my work in print was thrilling. Now, as a 30-year marketing and communications professional returning for my master’s in journalism, I can’t wait to use those same tools to craft something spectacular. Maybe even give the ol’ truck a tune-up.

But the process is aging me. It began with studying for the GRE, where I found my old friends English and Math referred to as Verbal and Quantitative. My inner-Dorothy was warning me that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. I floundered through the e-application process, each step asking, “What do I do next?” And each time hearing, “The website explains it all to you.”

I am too old to be back in school. If the application process is this difficult, how am I going to do the course work? This is a young person’s game. Let’s put this ol’ truck back in the garage.

Cheap or best offer. Spare tire included. Will deliver.

In fairness to all involved … a few years ago, I found my elementary school report cards, and “Needs Improvement” appears as a consistent theme for “Listens to and follows instructions.” Unfortunately, I haven’t changed. I now approach projects with the joyous, decades-honed disdain of a man who amuses himself with his best bandito accent (stealing loosely from The Treasure of Sierra Madre): “We don’t need no stinkin’ instructions.”

One of the joys of reaching 54 is learning that stuff happens, and that it’s only stuff. It’s not the end of the world (like it might’ve been when I was 18). Pay attention, read the instructions, listen to that helpful person from the school who’s trying to save you from yourself, and make it happen (I hate having to give myself the same advice I give my kids).

So, here I am, typing my Introductory Reflective Essay on my new laptop. I laughed when I explained to my wife that it’s the same 12-point, double-spaced, serif-font format that I pounded out on a manual typewriter when I was learning to write for the University Press.

Back then, I was picking up new communications tools, marveling at the creative ways they could be used, and loading them into my truck (1977 Chevy step side pick-up, three-on-the-tree) for the welcome-to-rest-of-your-life road trip. Three decades later, I’m sharpening those tools, still marveling at the craftsmanship they allow, and, once again, loading them up for the road trip’s next leg.

And I love to drive!

If you have to have one ...

If you have to have one, this is it. A favorite obituary of one of my friends:

Wilma Katarina Molbert, 74, of Baytown died peacefully in her beloved apartment on Wednesday. Loving family members and devoted friends surrounded her bedside. Wilma's last hours were filled with laughter, sweet stories, prayer and singing.

What a wonderful way to die ... enjoying your final moments sharing in the joy of life with loved ones. I haven't seen Wilma in more than 30 years, but she passed away exactly like I remembered her living it.

What if everlasting life is simply the legacy that we leave behind ... and heaven is composed of the joyous memories and the laughter your descendants share when they tell stories about you. And hell ... well, nothing; everybody just forgets.

At my dad's funeral, everyone had a 'George story' to share, and now I wonder if that's how friends and family help create a heaven for the loved one they've lost. My mother's funeral went the same way, and there were even some stories that portrayed my mother in a gutsy manner that I'd never recognized.

I admire my friend Wilma's family and how they helped her face her passing as a celebration of a wonderful life. And, without words, they told her that her heaven is secure. Sharing moments of joy while facing the loss of a close friend or family member takes courage, faith and selflessness. Tell your loved one that he or she how special they've made your life and how they'll be remembered.

What a wonderful way to die ... except for maybe the 84-year-old softball teammate of a friend who had a heart attack rounding third base ... or, to paraphrase a crusty former co-worker, 'to die at 99, shot by a jealous husband.'

I promise to be a better person (fingers crossed!)

On my honor, I promise to be a better person. Can I stop there? Here are my 2009 resolutions (and since this is the end of January, I guess 'stop procrastinating' should be #1) . . .

1. Blog at least once a week. I've gotten out of the habit (and nothing ever sounds quite right). Current status: it's the end of January, and this is my first blog.

2. Run in the White Rock Half-Marathon. Thank God it's not until December. Daughter #1 and I talked about running it together. Fortunately, she's a worse runner than I am. Current status: I'm thinking about buying a pair of running shoes this weekend.

3. Lose 20 pounds: I started off the year about 206 pounds. Current status: Last week, I weighed in at 210 pounds.

4. Complete at least one home improvement project every weekend: I probably need to add 'finish painting the porch railing (started in 1997)' and 'finish trim on front porch (started in 2004).' Current status: I helped my wife re-decorate the living room by putting up crown molding and replacing the baseboards. Unfortunately, she said, 'while you have your tool belt out . . .' and I ruined my home improvement plans for the next three weekends.

5. Plant a garden. Actually this is my wife's idea, but I do all the grunt work. The evening sun fries our backyard, and our ground is like concrete. Other than that, it should fun. Current status: I bagged some leaves and hope they'll compost themselves.

6. Value time. This one's all encompassing. I can't even begin to estimate the amount of time I waste screwing around on the computer or not doing what I should be doing because I don't think I have time. Current status: See current status on most everything above.

7. Spend more one-on-one time with daughter #2. Daughter #2 is an attention sucker, but most of her earlier life was spent at her sister's soccer games and volleyball games and basketball games. We've been spending more time together on the weekends, and I've been 'forcing her' to practice her French Horn while I 'listen.' Current status: I'm blogging and she's watching TV.

8. Don't worry; be happy. I think I've aged more in the last 3-5 years than during any period in my life. Money, daughter #1, money, daughter #2, money, son and money. Probably need to adhere more to my WWJBD philosophy: What would Jimmy Buffett do? Current status: Just bought daughter #1 a new car. Company bonus is going to build a new fence (hey, see #4). Guess I better work on this one, too.

9. Join a church. Why do they have to meet on Sunday mornings? Or Saturday evenings? My wife and I need this for our own peace of mind, and daughter #2 needs it to build a stronger foundation, spiritually and socially. A friend describes our church life as flavor of the week. I grew up Catholic, my wife Southern Baptist (in Maryland?). We've attended Church of Christ, Methodist, Southern Baptist, Interdenominational, Non-denominational, and a few others. Current status: why do they have to meet on Sunday mornings?

10. Bring joy to others. This is the easiest one and the hardest one. It's simple to smile or say a nice word to someone, but what about someone who really needs it? And being needy, high maintenance and all about me, I love to be told that I'm a nice guy. Current status: I've shopped at the neighborhood WalMart the last two evenings after work. This one's going to have to wait.

Okay, check off #1 (at least until next week).

Walden: foreshadowing the Front Porch

Far out! John Denver was singing 'Rocky Mountain High,' the campus Ecology Club was stacking newspapers, and our English teachers had us reading Thoreau's Walden. We were going to live the simple life, peace would dominate the world (peace dominate?), and the planet would be saved. And the boys among us were ecstatic that the draft was over.

I still have my high-school copy of Henry David Thoreau's Walden and Civil Disobedience. In the early '70s, it was kind of like the bible for . . . well, for all those things I mentioned in the first paragraph.

I buy almost all of my books at Half-Price Books, usually 2-3 at a time; and if I run out before another shopping trip, I scrounge something around the house for something else to read. At least three times, I've resorted to Walden between Half-Price sprees, and I've gotten all the way to page 10 (Chapter 1 begins on page 7).

Thoreau's much more self-absorbed than I remember (my friend Laurie would call him a 'diva,' like she did me in my last blog), and I find the passages that our English teachers didn't have us underline to be much more interesting. Who really cares about most men leading lives of quiet desperation.

In the first LONG paragraph of Chapter 1 -- Economy, Thoreau anticipates blogging (at least my blogs):

I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew so well . . . Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would sned to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must be a distant land to me.

Not sure exactly what he said, but I like the justification for writing about myself, because that's really about the only thing I know. And that's what I love about others' blogs.

Then later in another LONG paragraph about northern overseers being worse than southern overseers (damn yankees!), he wrote:

. . . a prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinions. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.

Then he throws in something about Wilberforce, and I'm still trying to figure out who he is.

I agree with both Laurie and Cath's comments on my last blog (Cath is one of those 'kindred from a distant land'), and I'm impressed at how appropriate Thoreau's comments are to that blog and their comments (I was desperate for another trip to Half-Price Books before I wrote the last blog).

A couple of addenda . . .

#1 -- I really didn't deserve my first true love. She was far more mature than I was and, fortunately, kind enough to not point that out to me. I was crushed when she left but grateful for the time we were together. And I regret some of the stupid, stupid jealousies that were such a waste of time.

She must've borrowed my copy of Walden. On the inside cover -- and I either missed it or didn't understand it at the time -- she wrote: Even love nods occasionally. If I would've noticed that at 17, she and I would be . . . well, probably on opposite ends of the state, carrying on our own lives and never having contact again . . . just like now. But at least I'd be smarter.

#2 -- My last blog, I wrote about wanting to tell old friends, 'You were important to me.' A long-ago friend sent me a note through the TJ Web site and sweetly wrote that she still has a gift -- an Instamatic, light-just-right photo of a Port Arthur landmark -- I gave her in high school.

There's nothing better than hearing, 'You were important to me.'

By the way, I still have the patch at the beginning of the blog . . . the jeans it was sewn on didn't make it. But I do have a T-shirt with it screened on the front.

Is it my breath? Old friends and odd reunions

The night of my high school graduation remains the loneliest time in my life. Picked up my diploma (they didn't trust us enough to pass out diplomas on stage), turned in my robe and went home.

Parents gave me money to go to Bonanza Steakhouse. Went to eat by myself and then back home.

No parties. No friends. Nothing.

Okay, now that I've set the scene for you, this is not about teen angst and whining. So I'm almost sure you're asking, 'What led to an overcooked T-bone and free refills of iced tea (and where am I going with this?)?'

This is a tough blog to write and not sound like a whine. I will anyway, because I have some questions about what happens to relationships.

I've been in contact lately with some high school friends (keeping in mind that I've been out of school for almost 35 years), and the results been . . . confusing? Someone in Port Arthur created a Web site for TJ (Port Arthur Jefferson) alumni -- the school no longer exists -- and it's already attracted more than 3,000 online participants. Amazing!

I've reconnected with some friends through the Web site, and visiting with them has been a real treat. In other venues, I've become good blogging friends with someone who was just an acquaintance in high school, and now she's been a wonderful re-connect with Southeast Texas. Some of these folks seem to be just like me and have picked up like we chatted over coffee just yesterday.

Unfortunately, there have been some 'odd' reunions -- odd as in 'what just happened?' -- with those whose friendships I valued. Any renewal of -- for lack of a better term -- childhood friendships just 'poofed' with an e-door in the face, and nothing was left but some cyber-dust. I've been really surprised . . . and sadly embarrassed . . . with who slammed the door. And, unfortunately, no amount of self-examination has given me an answer.

My wife says that I can carry on a meaningful conversation with a tree, and she becomes proudly frustrated when she hears business associates, hers and mine, say, 'Everybody loves George (her words, not mine).' I throw that in as some kind of evidence that I'm a nice guy and not somebody hanging out in an overcoat and black socks.

I guess it must be strange -- and maybe a little frightening, reason for apprehension -- to hear from someone after 30+ years, especially when I think of all the phases of life I've passed through (you should be happy that you didn't catch me in the admitted asshole phase) and assuming that others have changed just as dramatically during three decades.

So what's up? Is it my breath?

I mention my high school graduation because that seems to be a pivotal point in my life, when I packed my emotional and social bags and left Port Arthur behind (although I lived there another 3 1/2 years). My senior year sucked for a bunch of reasons (too awkward to explain here . . . if you were there, don't feel bad; it wasn't your fault . . . really!). It was a powerful enough experience that I've always warned my own children: never abandon your friends. I do believe all that revolved around those seemingly forever nine months resulted in a 1974 Bonanza-night out and a decades-long relationship void with those from my hometown.

I wrote in my very first blog that my wife must think I'm in the witness protection program because I have so few contacts -- well, really none -- from my childhood in Port Arthur. I've also blogged and asked about what happens to people during their lives that makes them grow from the same environment into 180s on the life-outlook scale.

As I've grown older, I've recognized the need to leave the 'witness protection program.' Now, I'm wondering: how do you say, 'you were important to me' to those who have just 'poofed?'

But to those who re-warmed yesterday's cup of coffee and just enjoyed the chat: THANKS!

Happiness comes in 3s

A near-perfect Sunday lunch . . .

Fajitas and beer in the middle of the after-church crowd

What a great day!