Horn Bar

the kiss

2010-07-18T06:49:00.000-04:00

the Shoe fits

2010-04-11T01:51:00.006-04:00

I've never been a teacher, but I would imagine that there is no greater satisfaction than hearing
that a former student credits that teacher for some success or accomplishment in their adult life.
I'm not sure that this is that story for Dr. Toni Shoemaker, but I enjoyed stumbling into this story this afternoon in Lapel.

Debbie and I were working hard on the year-long remodel of her 120 year old home in Lapel on this beautiful Saturday afternoon, when I heard a car pull up out front. I walked around to see that it was Debbie's younger oldest brother, Steve Gibson and his wife Cheri. Steve has been lovingly restoring a 1966 Corvair Coupe, and they were out for a sunny joyride, when they happened by.

My Dad had Corvairs for most of the late 1960's and most of the 1970's. I learned to drive in a convertible Corvair, so I have a soft spot in my heart for this little Chevy. I especially enjoyed it when Steve took me for a quick ride through the Lapel countryside, and around a few scary turns that I never imagined a Corvair could navigate at 60 MPH. Come to think of it, I didn't even realize Corvairs could get up to 60 MPH.

After we returned from our drive, and my heartbeat returned to a normal pace, the four of us stood in the front yard and talked for some time. At some point, I asked what year Steve graduated from Anderson High School, and he told me it had been 1982. We played the game of guessing names of classmates, and I remembered that Steve had been a gymnast in high school,
as had his two younger brothers, so we talked about some of the Edgewood gymnasts I remembered, like the Poore and Bish brothers, or Mark Howenstine. Steve mentioned a couple others, including a Degitz, who lived across from the "New" Edgewood School, so I asked if he had known Joey Shoemaker, son of Anderson High School teacher, Dr. Toni Shoe.

This is when Steve told me that Toni Shoemaker is the reason that he and his wife Cheri are married today. This made no sense at all to me, so Steve went on to explain how Mrs. Shoe had affected the adult lives of Steve, and even his two younger brothers, Don and Troy.

As the story goes, Mrs. Shoe had decided that her son Joey needed to try out for the gymnastics team at Anderson High School, so Joey grudgingly obliged. His friend Troy Gibson wanted to continue to hang out with Joey, so he went out for gymnastics, as well. Not to be outdone by his little brother, Steve tried out for the team, and younger brother Don eventually followed suit.

I'm told that Joey did not stay involved in gymnastics for very long, but the Gibson boys got hooked, and turned out to be naturals. So much so that the three brothers all became gymnastics coaches in their adult lives, which is where Steve met fellow coach, and future wife, Cheri. Steve no longer coaches, but he is still quite fit and agile, and looks like he can still perform a proper "L-seat", if not an "Iron Cross". Troy and Don are full-time gymnastics coaches, and Don is married to Kim, another gymnastics coach. One of the girls that Don coached over the past few years performed on the 2008 United States Olympic Gymnastics Team, until she badly hurt her leg, just before the Gold Medal Finals.

I have always credited Dr. Toni Shoemaker for nurturing, and inspiring a passion for creative writing, which I enjoy today. If you are still reading this entry, you can thank Dr. Shoe that I didn't put you to sleep.

I don't know that Dr. Shoe had the opportunity to inspire the Gibson boys from the classroom, but she did inadvertently inspire the career choices of at least two Gibson's, and her choices for her son Joe just happened to put Steve on the right path to find his wife.

And as if to bring the story around full circle, Debbie had always wanted to be a teacher, and over the years, as she raised and home-schooled four great kids, although she had managed to get halfway to her Teaching degree, time and opportunity had kept that dream just out of reach.
Three years ago, Steve's wife, Cheri, called Debbie out of the blue, and referred her for an interview for a teaching position at Interactive Academy, which features academic programs for pre-schoolers, as well as, a world-class gymnastics facility.

Debbie has been teaching two year olds and pre-schoolers there for three years now, and is loving every minute of working her true passion. And she would not be there, if not for Cheri,
therefore, you could say that Joe and Toni Shoemaker share an indirect responsibility for Debbie reaching her dream of becoming a teacher of children, and ironically, in an academy that features
a world class gymnastics facility. Coincidence? I think not!

Call it six degrees of separation, coincidence, destiny, or all in a day's work for a great teacher.

Whatever it is, I'll go ahead and thank Dr. Shoe for all the lives she has inspired and affected.

Even if i was just to get "Little Joey" out of the house late that summer......

.

things I learned at the root beer stand

2010-03-09T15:12:00.005-05:00

Dad and I went to Gene's Root Beer Stand for dinner last night. I thought it was early for them to be serving frosty mugs of old fashioned root beer, but apparently they opened on March 1st, and we were not the only ones aware of it. A week into their season, this iconic Drive-in was packed, and for 15 minutes, we had to idle awkwardly in the parking lot, and jockey for position to claim the next open slot, and the opportunity to hang a tray off our driver-side window.

Once we got parked and served, our perseverance and our appetites were rewarded, and we consumed our fair share of Spanish sauce laden hot dogs, washed down, of course, with their fabulous frosty mugs of Root Beer.

As we sat in Dad's Pontiac Vibe, awaiting our meal, we chatted, and he mentioned Tom T., one of his best friends from his days growing up in Lafayette. I had always been amused that one of my dad's best friends went to Indiana University, as Dad has always been an avid Purdue alumnus.
Knowing that they went to different Lafayette high schools, and different colleges, I realized that I did not know how they had met, and gotten to be so close. So I asked.

As it turns out, they did not meet until they were both in college in 1952, which seemed odd, since they were at opposite Big Ten schools. Dad said that Tom had continued to date his high school sweetheart Ruth Ann after he went off to Indiana, and Dad had begun to date Janie G. while at Purdue.

I had never been aware of Dad dating anyone except Mom, but as he explained, there were periods of time when Mom would not date Dad, so he wasn't going to just sit around.
Not to spoil the story, but Dad did eventually end up with Mom....But I digress.

In 1952, Ruth Ann and Janie wanted to attend a Presidential campaign rally for Dwight Eisenhower at Butler University, and they asked their boyfriends to escort them. Tom and Dad had never met, and were not all that interested in seeing or hearing Ike, but they were interested in seeing and hearing their dates, so they agreed to attend the rally.

It was a little like the Happy Days episode, when Richie volunteers for the "1956 Adlai Stevenson for President" campaign in order to date a cute blonde Stevenson supporter. Howard Cunningham was a supporter of Ike, and not at all amused, but Marion was very supportive. Fonzie even gives his support to Ike.
"I like Ike. My bike even likes Ike".
But enough about Happy Days.....

In 1952, Dad and Tom accompanied their dates to see Ike, and at least one life-long friendship was born from that campaign. They probably fared better than Ike and Nixon.

I asked Dad if he and Tom had both moved to Anderson right out of college, and he further explained that, while Dad had begun working at Delco-Remy (GM, for those outside Anderson, Indiana), Tom had returned to Lafayette to join his father and brother running the family lumberyard. It didn't take long for Tom to realize that the lumberyard was not big enough for all three men, so he called Dad to see if they were hiring in Anderson. They were, and they did, and
Tom eventually progressed up to the position of Plant Manager of several GM plant locations.
I'm guessing that at some point, Tom bought my dad a cold case of Blatz to say thank you.

I'm not sure when Tom and Ruth Ann stopped dating, or if it had anything to do with Ike, but he eventually met his current wife, Mary, in church, and they are wintering in Florida as I type this.
I had never heard of Ruth Ann and Janie before last night at Gene's, and I don't know that this foursome double-dated again, but I am glad for Dad and Tom that the brief intersection of these four lives yielded such strong, life-long friendships.

I am also glad that Gene's was busy enough that Dad had time to tell me this story.
It was almost as good as the root beer and hot dogs....

.

Things you learn at the Fish Fry

2010-02-19T10:25:00.009-05:00

Grandpa Ora Hornocker....1918

Last Friday evening, Debbie and I went to the Shriner's Fish Fry in Anderson with my Dad.
It was "All-you-can-eat", and the fish portions were huge. They may have
lost money on me. Good thing I didn't team up with brother Kirk.

We were updating Dad on the slow progress we are making on the total
renovation of Debbie's 120 year old house in Lapel, and I mentioned that
I was becoming fairly handy, learning from Debbie and experience.

Debbie commented on how she had learned so much about cars and construction
at her father Larry's elbow, and Dad mentioned that as handy as his dad was,
for whatever reason, he never gained that experience from his dad.

Grandpa Ora was a farmer in Southern Indiana, until he married Grandma Etta,
and they moved to near Lafayette to work on Purdue Farms. Grandpa worked
hard there, but in 1940, while he was in the Lafayette hospital for his third hernia
operation, Grandma decided that he was done with the hard farming life, and she
packed their things and moved them in town to 27th Street.

When Grandpa was released from the hospital, per custom of the day, they summoned
an ambulance to take him home. When the ambulance stopped in front of the house on
27th Street, Grandpa was irritated and confused when the driver told him that his wife
had told him that this was where he lived. I'm not sure how dinner went that evening,
but eventually they bought and moved into the house across the street, and lived there
until after Grandpa died, and Grandma moved in with Aunt Rosemary in 1993.

As Dad told us this story at the Fish Fry, I was amazed at at least two parts of the story.
First, I couldn't believe that Grandma just moved them into town without consulting
with Grandpa. Another dimension in time and relationships, I suppose. I guess it worked
out, as they lived there for another 50 years.

But I was also amazed that I had never heard this story in all my 49 years. What this told
me was that my dad has a plethora of life wisdom and stories that rarely gets tapped into,
but often times it only takes a simple conversation to draw it out.

I remember Grandpa George on my Mom's side, and being aware of his rich life history
of fighting the Nazi's in Germany in World War II (I have the trophy Nazi flag to prove it).
I always imagined that he had a million facinating stories to tell, but unfortunately, his hearing
was awful, and it was very difficult to carry on a conversation with him, so I guess I didn't
try hard enough. I regret that now.

I remember talking to Mom over lunch one day six months before she died, and asking her about her experience of her mom sending her to live with her friend Bernice during the Great Depression. (click there for the link to the story of Toots).
I'm glad I asked Mom about Toots.

I'll have to ask my dad more probing questions about our family past, and his own life
experiences, so I don't miss any more good stories.

I wonder if there are any good stories in your family that you've never heard?

What will you talk about the next time you have dinner with your parents?

.

hair day

2010-01-25T00:33:00.006-05:00

I got my hair cut today.

I'm a guy, and I'm nearly 49 years old, so it's not really a big deal.
It's not like my hair style changes much, and five or six weeks
between haircuts isn't ever going to give me much time for a
radical new look, unless I change something, and go for a new look, which I did about a year ago. My stylist (my niece Ashley) finally convinced me to give up the out-dated, hard spikey,
and the wet, combed back looks. I finally gave in, and started wearing my "bangs" pushed forward, like the kids are wearing it these days. Or were.

Guys have always had it pretty easy with hair styles. There's only so much we can do, unless we're in a rock band. I guess, I've really only had four definitive hair styles in my lifetime. Well, five, if you count those few months in the late 1980's when I sported the Night Club Manager Mullet.

From birth until about 3rd grade, I wore it high and tight, like a proper 1960's kid.
1969 marked a radical transformation on the American landscape, and Edgewood Elementary School was not spared the movement, as our bangs began to reach our eyebrows.
I blame Peter Tork from the Monkees for this development.

I hit Junior High in the mid 1970's, and of course, that meant long, feathered, middle-parted hair, which just barely covered the back of my 101% polyester flowered Disco shirt.
I think that I wore my hair long through High School and College, and probably didn't go short again until the mid-1980's in Chicago. This would be when I started using gels, paste, and mousse for the wet spiked look, which eventually gave way to the hard and straight Gordon Gekko comb-back. "Greed is good". Turns out the hair style was not.

But I'm much more hip now.

As I brushed my teeth tonight, I had a moment in the mirror when I remembered that I had gotten the haircut, and that I would look different to others tomorrow, and for just a moment, I wondered if anyone at work would notice, and comment on my different look. I know that this is an odd and needy thought for a 49 year old man, but just as the thought passed through my newly coifed head, I dismissed it as a silly and insecure thought. But before I could move on, I flashed on a memory from my youth that had taught me to adapt with my environment, and grow past a childhood insecurity. And it started with a haircut.

I have some fairly distinct memories from Third Grade of getting a haircut, and being very self-conscious about it when I walked into Mrs. Harper's classroom the next day. In fact, I think I even lingered out in the wide, tiled hallway after the morning bell, afraid to enter the classroom, until Mrs. Harper pulled me in. I imagined that every kid was snickering at me as I walked down the aisle to my desk. I'm sure that someone must have said something at some point to trigger this, and I don't remember a specific comment, but I do recall being so embarrassed that morning that I opened the lid to my desk, and closed it on my inserted head, so that no one could see me. I don't remember how that was resolved, but I don't imagine Mable allowed me to spend the entire school day with my head in my desk.

I don't believe I had an extreme reaction to every haircut of my youth. I know that I was always self-conscious about it, but that all changed one Monday morning when I saw Scott Vance calmly stroll into Mrs. Benham's 5th Grade class, clearly sporting a short, new, weekend haircut, and yet, he he didn't seem at all bothered by it. He just brazenly walked right in, and confidently went about his 5th grade business. I remember thinking that he almost had a swagger about him, and a little thing like a haircut was not going to put him off his game. I decided that day that, if Scott Vance could handle a haircut with so much cool, then I could too. At this moment, it sorta reminds me of an old favorite Country song...."If Bubba can dance, I can too..."

The very next time I came to school with a fresh, new bowl cut, I thought of Scott's air of confidence, and I confidently strolled into class, and took my place at my desk, and amazingly, not one kid made fun of me, or even commented on my hair. Maybe they never had, but I imagined they might, and up until that day, I had allowed it to haunt me. But I learned that day to adapt and build my self confidence by watching how a peer handled a similar life situation, and model his positive, confident behavior. It was a life lesson in 5th grade that I clearly have not forgotten.

I just wish Scott Vance had been around in the late 1980's to talk me out of that mullet....

.

cordless

2010-01-14T22:04:00.008-05:00

Dad reminded me yesterday that Frosty is still out on the front porch.

We had put away all the Christmas decorations the day after Christmas, but I had stubbornly left Frosty out in the brick flower box, hoping that he could experience at least a little snow.
I am no fan of leaving up Christmas lights and decorations after New Year's, let alone, after the 26th. However, I've always thought it was kind of a shame that all the pretty colored lights typically get packed away before any real snow arrives to provide the perfect complimentary backdrop. It's a tricky thing; neighborhood Christmas lights that look beautiful on December 24th, begin to look tacky by the 27th. And even more so on June 27th.

So earlier today, I was more than ready to begin taking down and packing away the displays of Christmas lights and decorations on sale for 50% off at my Menards. As we reach the mid point of January, the lights seem a little sad and needy, flickering above the newly merchandised patio furniture, where the artificial Christmas trees used to be, and a few rogue tree needles remained.

But I did stop to ponder the bright yellow banner I was removing that had touted a
"New Cordless Christmas". This was for our new line of battery operated Christmas decorations. The banner proudly proclaimed, "Turn it on once, and it lasts all season long!"
I had been working under this banner for the past 45 or so days, and something about the concept had been nagging at my sub-conscious, and it didn't really hit me until I was taking the banner down today.

The products were clearly marketed as convenient and easy to use, but with a limited life span; they were only meant to get you through the holidays. Eventually, the batteries would lose power, and the lights would fade, until they were dark and forgotten. Cordless is nice in the short-term, but will not sustain in the long run.

Maybe I'm just old school. I'm truly a sucker for the long green strings of vintage C9 ceramic Italian Christmas lights, like Dad used to hang from our gutters. Red, green, blue, orange, and white. I loved laying in my bed, and glimpsing the blue and green lights through my drawn curtains. They were connected to the wire that plugged into the front porch light switch, which I sometimes got to turn off or on, if I was lucky.

I have to say that there were many times this past December that I felt like I was running on cordless, and not really connected to anything substantial. I was running and working, but my power and spirit were limited, and I felt very disconnected.

By Thanksgiving, I had finished my Manager Training, and though I was working in the Hardware department in the Anderson store, I was really just an extra body, taking up someone else's hours, while I sought my own home store. So I felt very disconnected from our store team.

Debbie and I struggled with the demands of the holiday season, and though we talked on the phone, and saw each other a little, we didn't share quality time, and we felt disconnected.

I was working every Monday and Tuesday night, as well as every other Sunday, so I was missing my Bible study and Sunday church services. I was feeling disconnected from the fellowship of my Men's group, and I was missing the reassuring hugs I get from God at church.

And this was my first Christmas without my Mom, so I was feeling disconnected from her.

Thinking back on my December of disconnection, I know that I did not enjoy running on limited power and spirit. But I also know that I have the choice to change that. I know that soon I will be a part of a new store team. And Debbie and I are making wedding plans, and committing to plan and be intentional about quality time together.
I'm going to do better at not missing my Men's group, and Sunday church. And my faith assures me that my Mom is always with me, so we are never really disconnected.

I will make every effort to reconnect, and stay plugged into the people and the things that truly power my soul and my spirit, and make me a happy person.

I remember thinking under the yellow banner today that I don't really want my Christmas lights and spirit to be limited to the 45 days of the Christmas shopping season, so rather than be cordless, I would rather be connected to a permanent power source that will sustain me all year.

That being said, Frosty is going back into storage this weekend.

.

Waffle House Christmas

2009-12-26T00:46:00.006-05:00

Dad and I had a Waffle House Christmas this morning.

My only plans for Christmas Day this year were to get over to Debbie's house between 10am and noon for a relaxing day of eating leftover turkey and watching movies. My day started when I got a "Merry Christmas" text from my brother at 6am. I groggily replied back, and ask him why he was up so early. Clearly, I don't have kids of my own. Kirk probably wasn't the only parent of small children up at 6am this Christmas morning. I did manage to roll over and get back to sleep, until my next text at 9:17am, declaring that someone now has that Wii game thing.

I decided to get up at that point, and get in some laundry and a shower, before heading over to Lapel. At a little past 10am, I was probably 15 minutes away from leaving for Debbie's, when Dad came back, and asked if I wanted to go to Waffle House for breakfast, which was a little random, and unexpected.

He explained that we had been out of eggs since my sister was in town last weekend and did some baking, and now that he had a taste for eggs, and Marsh was closed, an omelette at Waffle House was sounding pretty good. He had called to confirm that they were in fact open on Christmas Day, and they were. What he didn't mention was that Mom went into the hospital a year ago on the Christmas Eve, and Dad slept in the hospital for the next seven nights, until Mom died in hospice. He was going to be home alone all Christmas Day this year, so when he asked me to go to Waffle House, I knew it was a good idea for both of us, and I could still get to Debbie's house by noon, about the time her 17 and 26 year old sons got up. No 6am wake up for them.

I was a bit surprised to pull into a nearly full Waffle House parking lot, but we got a decent spot without using the handicap tag, and though the House was rockin', we quickly settled into two stools at the end of the counter, and were soon sipping coffee in good, heavy mugs. I've never seen so many people working behind the counter of a Waffle House, nor have they ever been so festive and friendly, and they refused to let the grouchy Manager/plate set up man bring down their holiday spirit.

The sign on the door mentioned a longstanding Waffle House tradition of being open 24 hours on Christmas and New Year's Day. A sign on a counter card further explained that Christmas Day was traditionally the busiest day of the year for most Waffle Houses. As I surveyed the room, I saw a variety of folk. I saw the expected road weary long haul drivers, but I also saw some older folks, perhaps grandparents or empty-nesters, for whom the notion of opening presents at 6am is a far distant memory. Everyone seemed pleased that Waffle House is always open on Christmas, but still, none seemed as festive as the counter team. I was impressed, especially as an old restaurant manager myself.

Dad and I both had the Toddle House special, although I subbed in sausage instead of ham for my omelette. I'm pretty predictable. Our bill was $18.25, and though Dad insisted on paying, I insisted on leaving the tip. I got the confused look that I expected from Dad, as I slipped a $10
under the salt shaker. I simply said, "It's Christmas, they're working, and they did great."

We got in and out pretty quickly, and we were back home by 11:30am. Dad and I talked for a few minutes about where we were last year at this time, and we had an emotional moment, before I wished him a Merry Christmas, and slipped away for a relaxing day at Debbie's.

As I drove home from Debbie's tonight, and reflected on my day, I was thankful for many things, but perhaps I was most thankful that Waffle House was open today, and Dad asked me to join him for a very special Christmas breakfast.

I think I'll always remember my first Waffle House Christmas.

.

2009-12-18T00:43:00.002-05:00

dead air

2009-11-29T10:39:00.002-05:00

I haven't posted in awhile. This working full-time really cuts into my creative writing time.
I have one thing I didn't quite finish writing a few weeks ago, and an idea written in my head
for something else. I just need to have/take the time to clear my head, and hit the keyboards.

soon.

Toots is dead

2009-10-12T21:00:00.006-04:00

Toots died over the weekend.

Toots was not the family dog or my grandmother's parakeet.
(Actually, my Grandma's parakeet was Tweety-bird, but T-bird died in the early Seventies.)
Toots was, and will always be Bernice Luttrell, and she probably hadn't been called Toots
since the 1940's, and probably mostly by my Mom's Mom, Hilma Miller Schofield Bailey Campbell, who was her best friend as they grew up in Colburn, Indiana.
Bernice Wolf Luttrell was 96.

Grandma Hilma and Bernice were still very close when Hilma married Lowell Schofield. Lowell was out of the picture by the time my Mom had turned two years old in 1935, and Hilma worked hard at surviving as a single mother during the Great Depression. Shortly after Mom turned two, Hilma made a difficult decision of family survival; She asked Bernice if she could take in my mom, and care for her, while Hilma worked at least two full-time jobs, and kept the family afloat.

Bernice Wolf had married Bronson Luttrell in 1933, and they gladly stepped forward, and took Mom in, and helped raise her as if she was their own for over a year. The bond grew strong, as my mom would often call them mommy and daddy, and Bernice told me in a letter earlier this year that it broke their hearts when Grandma Hilma remarried in 1936, and brought Mom back home. Naturally they wished for Mom to be with her mother, but they never forgot little Jeanette, and Bernice later named her first daughter Jeanette, after my mom.

I was unable to miss work and attend the funeral service today, but Dad made the drive over to Lafayette to pay his respects. This evening, he told me that there had only been a handful of people at the Monday mid-day visitation, and he did not see a familiar face. However, before he left, a lady had approached, and asked if he was Al Hornocker. She introduced herself as Jeanette, and said she remembered Dad from her parents' 60th Wedding Anniversary party in 1993. Dad gave her the envelope I had sent along, containing a few recently discovered and identified black and white photos of Bernice and Hilma from the 1920's.
Jeanette told my dad that her mom had very much enjoyed the letter I had sent her in January, shortly after Mom had passed, as it had brought back so many fond memories.

It has only been in the past two years that I have become aware of Bernice, and her role in my mom's life. In the summer of 2008, I asked Mom if she would like to drive over to Lafayette and visit with Bernice in the nursing home. She didn't say no, but I could never pin her down on a time. In retrospect, I now realize that Mom's health had already begun to deteriorate, and she just hadn't been up for the trip. Even after Mom died, I had thought of visiting Bernice on my own, but I never made it happen. I would like to have thanked Bernice in person, but I will have to be satisfied with the letters she and I exchanged in January.

I was telling Debbie this story over the weekend, and I had commented that it is a story from a bygone era. I suggested that a situation like Bernice taking in Mom to help Hilma just wouldn't happen these days. But Debbie reminded me that her parents had taken in and adopted a teenage neighbor girl in the mid-1970's, when a terminal medical situation had fractured the family of the girl. And another close friend had stayed with Debbie's family for several months in the aftermath of the divorce of her parents.

Debbie told me of the many close-knit families in Lapel, whose parents look after the other kids, and in some cases, will bring them into their homes to provide a safe and stable environment during some rough teenage patches. And I thought of kids who have been taken in by my
Aunt Rosemary, and by Mrs. Sauer, and other good people I have known.

And then, at church on Sunday, Pastor Dave talked about unreserved compassion for others, and the story of the Good Samaritan, and he told many stories about good people stepping out of their comfort zones to show compassion to others. And I realized that the act of compassion that Bernice had shown my mom and my grandma in 1935, was in fact a timeless act, and not a vestige of a bygone era. It just seems that way, thanks to the Great Depression and the black and white photos.

Bernice Wolf Luttrell died over the weekend at the age of 96, and though we never actually met, her act of compassion nearly 75 years ago causes me to pause, and be thankful for her life.

I wonder if anyone will be thankful for my life when I die in 2057......

Go rest high on that mountain, Bernice.

.

lake day

2009-10-06T18:14:00.010-04:00

Dad and I drove up to the lake cottage this morning to put the finishing
touches on closing it up for the winter.
Actually, Dad has been gradually closing the cottage for several weeks now,
so the only remaining tasks were to put the boat cover on the pontoon,
and take out the battery to bring home.
We drove a little under four hours to do about 50 minutes of work, but
I got a nap on the way home. I don't think Dad did.
He was driving.

Putting the boat cover on is always a challenge, because it's a tight fit,
and in some places difficult and awkward to reach with dry feet.
The last few snaps of the fading red canvas boat cover were hard to get
snapped from the dock, so I changed into shorts, and snapped the rest
from the knee deep water. October lake water is a bit chilly,
but the feeling in my toes is slowly returning.

After buttoning up the cottage, we stopped at the Oakdale Dam Inn for lunch.
As we walked in past the ice machine in the parking lot,
I looked up at the giant catfish sign, and thought of the classic picture
Kirk, Kristin, Mark, and I took atop the ice machine in 1996. Ironically,
Kristin and Mark were just dating, and my ex-wife snapped the picture.
Somebody knew something. I think it was Mark.

We had a nice lunch in a bar area full of off-season locals. I thought about
getting a burger, but decided to follow Dad's lead, and get their famous catfish,
which they claim is the best by a "Dam" sight. I thought about ordering the
Cheese Weasels for an appetizer, until I realized that they were the featured
Saturday night band listed on the "Specials" calendar.

I've never taken a picture with my new phone, so I made Dad stand in front
of the ice machine, and I took his picture. It was sunny with a glare, and I couldn't see
my phone screen well enough to see that I was too far away from his pose, but if you
look really close, you can sorta tell it's dad....and my thumb.
I tried to take a candid shot inside the Oakdale, but the lighting wasn't good.

I didn't get up to the lakes as much as I would have liked this summer, but
I am really glad I made the trip today with Dad.
It was a nice, productive day trip, and one I'll probably always remember.

Much like the picture we took on top of the ice machine in 1996.

Mom moment

2009-09-28T08:52:00.002-04:00

It happened again.

Debbie and I went to the 9am church service yesterday,
and when we ended our service singing "How Great Thou Art",
I started thinking about Mom, and I had a good cry.

After the service, I tried to gather myself, and figure out
what triggered that, and Debbie said she had welled up as
soon as she realized the song, which we sang at Mom's funeral service.
I started crying again, and then a couple stopped by and asked if
they could pray with us, and it turned into a whole thing.

I knew the guy from a men's group I attended there recently, and
when I could talk, I tried to explain that I was just having a "Mom moment".
We talked for a bit, and they invited us to their couple's Bible study.
Not sure we can fit that in at the moment, but it was nice of them.

Two things I learned at church today today:

1. When you cry at the end of the church service, concerned persons
will come to your side and lay hands on you.
(That's a God thing)

2. Little (or big) things still make me think of, and cry about Mom.
(That's a Mom thing....and maybe a God thing, too)

I guess I'm ok with both those things.

text

2009-09-17T20:34:00.010-04:00

I was really hoping to get my hair cut today.

I had an entire Thursday off, and though I don't exactly have the nine inches of hair needed to donate my ponytail to Locks of Love (click for link), the edges of the bowl are getting a little ragged, so I called my niece this morning to see if she could fit me into her schedule. My niece is a twenty-five year old single mom, working full-time as a professional salon stylist, as she works hard to raise my nearly two year old nephew. Or is it my grand-nephew? How does that work again?

So I sent her a text from my cell phone this morning and asked if she was working. She seems to have a history of changing phones, so I included "from Uncle Jay" in my text, in case she didn't recognize my number, which has happened in the past. The response I got threw me a little bit. The reply said she was on her honeymoon until Tuesday.

I stared at my phone for a full minute, and tried to process this information. My niece, by her own admission, hasn't been in a relationship for some time now, so the idea of a honeymoon seemed unlikely, or even a secret elopement. I decided that, surely, she must be making a joke, so I replied back, "Honeymoon?", and continued on a confusing exchange.

"Yeah, that trip you go on after you get married! LOL"

"Married?!?"

"Uh, yeah!"
(long pause from me...)
"Ok, I'm very confused. I was just hoping to get my hair cut by my lovely niece."

"Well, I've never cut hair, but I could try."
(another long pause by a further confused me, until she replied again...)
"I just got this phone a month ago, and I don't have an Uncle Jay. Who is this?"

This is when I finally remembered that my niece had told me last time she cut my hair that she had a new cell number, but I had been too busy to write it down, or put it into my phone.
I sent one last text to "random texting honeymoon girl", explaining that I had an old number,
and that I was sorry for bothering her. She didn't seem too bothered.

After all, she spent 20 minutes texting me from her honeymoon.

I called my sister later and told her the story, and she didn't seem too happy with the idea of a surprise wedding by her daughter, and I had to remind her that it wasn't actually her.

As I thought about it later, it occurred to me that this sort of textual confusion could quite easily become embarrassing, if one thought they were texting a loved on, only to find out that they had been hitting the wrong contact. Perhaps even worse, if that contact was actually known to you.

Fortunately, I had only been in search of an honest haircut, so I managed to hang up with my dignity intact. Unfortunately, I never did connect with my niece, so I never got that haircut. Funny thing though.....when I finally got her new number, her voice mail said that she was out of town for a few days.

Wait a minute......

.

Can I help you?

2009-09-10T10:57:00.005-04:00

I'm a little over a month into my new job/career as a manager (trainee) at Menards, and I continue to learn something new, not just every day, but with every guest interaction I have, as I walk the hard concrete aisles of the # 3 U.S. home improvement retailer.

At first, it felt a little odd approaching store guests, and asking if I could help them, while my inside voice was pointing out that I most likely would not have the answers they sought. But I have fearlessly walked into these interactions, confident that I could either find the answer, or find someone else who did know, and could actually help.

Retail is a funny dance for the customer, and the customer service associate. I know from my own personal shopping experience, that I'm uncomfortable being "pounced on" too soon in a retail environment. But as soon as I have questions, I get really frustrated if I can't find help.

As a perfect example, I've been shopping for a particular shoe to buy, and wear at work, and I was in the Mounds Mall yesterday, where The Finish Line shoe store might have carried the shoe. As I approached the store, I could see that the only person in the store was in uniform. I really just wanted to stroll in, take a quick look at the selection, consider my options, and walk out when I was done. I almost didn't go into the store, because I didn't want to deal with the salesperson.
It's nothing personal. I'm weird, and I have this unfounded sense of guilt when I leave a store without a purchase, as if the bottom line financial fate of that business depends on me contributing a sale. Earlier this summer, I browsed a new used book store that seemed starved for business, and I bought two paperback books I didn't need, because I felt bad if I didn't support them. I had envisioned the owners' slumped shouldered, frustrated look of desperation, if I walked in and out of their business without a purchase, especially after I had engaged them in conversation about how a small business was surviving in a tough economy.

I guess I got too emotionally invested. I never have this feeling when the store is busy, and I avoid customer service interaction. There have been times that I've actually waited until another customer went into a store, before I entered. Is this a case of extreme, but misplaced empathy for the business owner, or just the fellow worker? But I'd rather have this attitude, than the rude, dismissive, "It's their job" attitude toward sales people that my ex-wife used to unleash on hard working associates, left standing outside the dressing room with an armload of unpurchased garments, and a look of deflated exasperation.

But I digress.....

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, the retail dance.....I noticed early on at Menards that I would often initiate and offer assistance to customers, who were very quick to give me the "no thanks, just looking" gesture, but then, within minutes, they would seek me out with questions, and we would ultimately work together for a resolution to their search. Maybe it's a control thing. Customers hate to get sold to, so they would rather have a sense of controlling the conversation, especially at the outset.

These interactions have been especially interesting as I continue to learn and navigate a new world of information and wisdom. Some wise customers know exactly what they want, and I just have to translate their request, and find their item in the store. Others have an idea of what they need, but do not have the language or wisdom to paint the picture, and that is a different translation altogether, especially as I am just learning the language myself.

But in all instances, I am quick to let my guest know that I may be new in this department, but I will not leave them until I have either found their answer, or I have handed them off to someone who can better serve them. I am constantly amazed at how understanding and patient people are, when you are vulnerable about your wisdom, yet willing to help. More often than I can count, a guest I have helped has commented that, "Now we both learned something new today."

Wisdom comes from experience, and it grows with every interaction.

Maybe I am more wise than I realize....

gutter ball

2009-08-25T23:57:00.008-04:00

Couple of days ago, I was working at my new Menards job, and my training at the moment was to check, reset, and inventory the gutter aisle, which turned into a six hour project. But it looked great when I was done. I had warned my training manager that I might take longer, because I'm kinda meticulous about getting it looking right. He said, "That's why I'm having YOU do it."

About four hours into it, I saw a familiar face round the corner, and he began appraising the polycarbonate roof panels. I called out, Hey Coach Miller!", but he didn't seem to hear me.
I said, "Mr. Miller!", but still nothing. So I got up off my knees, and walked toward him, and
tried again. He looked up, and I was met with a perplexed look of confusion, as Coach tried to process why a smiling man in a blue vest was approaching him. I gave him the easiest way out I could think of, and I visibly pointed to my name tag, and said, "It's Jay Hornocker!". I waited a beat, and finally the recognition came, and he exclaimed, "Horn!!".

Harold Miller was our Phys-Ed teacher at North Side Junior High School back in the mid-seventies, and he was our basketball coach when we won the 9th grade City Championship back in 1976. I was a second or third stringer, and was really on the team for height, more than talent, but the height wasn't helping me that much either.

As I stood next to the polycarbonate roofing panels, Coach chuckled, and told me that he had just thought of me the other day. He asked if I remembered running "Death Valleys" after basketball practice. For the uninitiated, this was, and may still be a common ending to the basketball practices of most young players. Each player takes his turn stepping to the free throw line to shoot two free throws, as his teammates face him on the near baseline. If he misses, everyone sprints forward and back, from the baseline to the free throw line, the mid-court line, the far free throw line, and the far baseline. If he makes it, everyone rests. Practice typically isn't over until the last guy has hit two in a row. Which brings me into the story.

Coach Miller laughed as he asked, "Do you remember how all the guys groaned every time you stepped to the free throw line for Death Valleys?" I may have blocked out that particular memory of Junior High peer pressure and frustration. But I did remember that I wasn't nearly the best free throw shooter on the 1976 North Side Braves 9th Grade team.
In fact, I may have been the worst. This may have been one of the reasons I was the Indian Mascot, and not the Indian power forward once we arrived at Anderson High School.

However, Coach did recall that I never seemed to tire when I was running at basketball practice, and he may have been the one who suggested that I run track in the Spring. I did run, and managed to make a nice little high school career out of the 880 yard run, with a couple trips to the State Meet in Indy.

Unfortunately, I did not qualify for the finals of the "Death Valley".

Coach is now a full-time farmer, and we talked for a spell about this year's crop prospects, and I reminded him of the one summer day that Macy, Funk, and I baled hay for him on a sunny, 90 degree afternoon. Hardest days work I've ever done.

Eventually, we both had to get back to work. Coach, or rather, Farmer Miller had to get back to his farm on West Eighth Street, and I had to finish sorting my Menards gutter aisle.

We shook hands, and I helped him get a twelve foot roof panel off the rack, and he was on his way. But as he walked away, I recalled what a positive influence he had been for us, and how he had helped mold our character and values, and I was thankful that he had stepped up in our lives back in 1976.

And I felt just a bit less guilty for missing all those free throws after basketball practice.

stall

2009-08-19T22:15:00.003-04:00

For this new school year at Interactive Academy, Debbie has taken on a new responsibility, as the primary teacher for the newly offered two-year old class. I'm not sure I agree with a two-year old being away from Mom, and at school from 8am till 4pm, but I guess Debbie wouldn't have a job if all the Moms home-schooled their young children, instead of working 9-5.

But Debbie is so good at knowing what they need and perceive of the world at this ripe young age, and she absolutely loves the challenge. And often the funny moments overshadow the challenges. And naturally, the first one happened in the bathroom.

Most of the "twos" are in the process of being potty trained, and may be wearing pull-ups, or straight diapers. Yesterday, Deb had a little boy in the class who insisted that he knew how to potty, and did not need Miss Debbie to help. She let him try the first time, and was impressed when he crawled onto the seat in the stall, did his business, flushed, and washed his hands, as he had presumably been taught at home. When he came out, Miss Debbie said "Good job!", and the boy returned proudly to the classroom.

Later in the afternoon, it was time for him, and another boy to potty, and the first boy once again claimed his potty independence. However, the other boy called for assistance, and Miss Debbie was there in the stall to help him out. As she stepped back from this boy's stall, she caught a curious sight through the crack into the independent boy's stall. He had once again dutifully crawled up onto the seat, and had done his business, however, Debbie now realized that on this trip, and most likely on his first trip, the boy had never bothered to take off his diaper, and he was sitting on the toilet seat dutifully doing his business, just as he had been trained at home.

Except, he was doing it right into a full diaper, as he sat on the seat, and even flushing afterward.

Debbie spoke with the boy's mom when she came to pick him up at day's end, and they had a bit of a laugh over it. Seems that he is on Pull-up's at home, but Mom was nervous about how he would do at school, so she sent him to school in the non-removable diaper.

I'll be curious to hear how it gets sorted out tomorrow.

remembering the season

2009-08-11T23:51:00.007-04:00

relax.

Sometimes, after a long day, it just feels good to sit on the couch and enjoy some quality television programming. For many a night, Debbie and I would watch the back-to-back broadcasts of "House" on the USA Network, and we were especially happy when they ran a Sunday marathon.
But it eventually got to the point that we had both seen nearly every "House" at least once, so we dug out the first season of "Grey's Anatomy" from a box, and began watching that. I'd never seen it, so it took awhile to figure out who McDreamy was. Or Grey.

I'm not sure why, but a few months ago, we switched our viewing desires to the half-hour sitcom,
and we rented Season One of "Will & Grace". Actually, we borrowed it from the Lapel library.
We've continued through Season Three, and currently have Season Four on reserve at the Anderson Public Library. I think we may have borrowed and watched the first season of
"Two and a Half Men" recently, and while we are awaiting the arrival of W&G4, I remembered that I had borrowed the first season of "How I Met Your Mother" on DVD from an old Starbucks friend last December, just before I got downsized out. Guess I better get Joe's address, and mail this back to him. After we get through Season One.

Last night, we had a productive evening of hanging two key pieces of drywall, and a few rows of insulation, as well as, completing some installing and wiring of outlet boxes in Samuel's renovation-in-progress room. Actually 75% of the house is a renovation in progress, but Sam's room is the focus right now, so he can have his bedroom back for at least some of his Senior year.

After we put our tools down, we popped some popcorn (real kernal-popped on the stove, not microwaved in a bag), cracked open a couple bottles of frosty beverages, and we turned on
"How I Met Your Mother". The last episode we watched for the evening was set on New Year's Eve in New York. The main characters were determined to make it the best, most fun NYE ever, complete with the midnight kiss. It was a funny episode, but what made it memorable for me, was that it made me stop and try and remember where Debbie and I had spent New Year's Eve earlier this year.

It took a moment for me to recall that we hadn't really celebrated New Year's, or any of the holidays, for that matter, because I had lost my job on December 22nd, and then Mom had gone into ICU on the 24th, and she never came home. On New Year's Eve, we were in the process of admitting her into Hospice in Indy, and she had died in her sleep the morning of January 2nd.
I know I spent the night of Christmas Eve, and most of Christmas day in the ICU waiting room, and I may have been with Mom on New Year's Eve in hospice, but I really don't remember.

All this hit me, as I watched the sitcom characters kissing at midnight, and I broke down and had my first good cry on Debbie's shoulder in at least a couple of months. I was reminded how difficult the 2009 holidays may be for the Horn family, but I was comforted knowing that I'll be spending them with Debbie this year. And as much as I'll miss Mom over the coming months, I know how much I'll treasure kissing Debbie at midnight on New Year's Eve 2010.

God willing.

I got a job

2009-08-04T18:05:00.003-04:00

Seven months after I was downsized out of my position of Starbucks Store Manager, I have been accepted into the Manager Trainee Program at Menard's, the #3 home improvement retailer in the U.S., behind Home Depot and Lowe's, but more impressive because Menard's is mostly Midwest regional, and privately held.

I haven't been the best of company in person, or on this blog for quite a few months, so I promise to improve on that, as I begin this new and exciting career journey. More later....

2009-07-11T14:16:00.002-04:00

breaking news...

2009-06-30T11:33:00.003-04:00

new guy in our Bible study

2009-06-23T00:00:00.004-04:00

I love my Monday evening Bible Study/ Men's small group.

I have really been enjoying our study of the Gospel of Luke, among other books, and learning how God speaks to us...well, me, though words written 2000 years ago.

And I also enjoy the back end of our evenings, when the four or five of us are able to share what's going on in our lives in a safe, non-judgmental environment. For the most part, if one guy is dealing with a particular issue, at least one other guy in the room has been there before, and can offer support and encouragement from experience.

We had new guy join us tonight. I think he sometimes attends the church where we meet.
We had an interesting discussion about Jairus and his daughter, from the first chapter of Luke.
Someone snuck a grab at the cloak of Jesus, and it turns out that the daughter was only sleeping.

When we transitioned into our personal sharing time, the new guy went first, and kept going for nearly an hour. He was clearly in some fresh, raw pain, and he had chosen to join us tonight to share and vent, instead of drinking at home. His life situation is complex, confusing, and painful, and we shared and encouraged as much as we felt our limitations would allow.

But I remember having a regrettable thought after the new guy had been talking for at least thirty minutes. I remember, for a moment thinking that this new guy was taking up too much of our Bible study time, and he was cutting into the time I needed to talk about MY stuff.

But about as quickly as I had that thought, I was struck with a moment of Spiritual wisdom.

I realized that God had a hand in drawing the new guy into visiting our group tonight, and it seemed clear that God wanted our group to give the guy our unselfish and undivided attention and support. No guarantees on how it all might turn out for him, but he was aching to be heard,
and it was much less important tonight for me to speak, than is was for me to listen.

And I did listen. And parts of his story were achingly familiar to me, and after I listened, I was able to share with him some insight on the time I had spent in that same hole.
He listened, and he heard, and he may have even taken some valuable nugget with him that will help him in his next vulnerable moment.

I have been struggling with some life issues recently, and I often ask God as I pray to show me what my purpose is supposed to be here on Earth. But I also have been asking Him to show me how I can be serving Him here on Earth.

Tonight He showed me a glimpse of His answer, and His Grace.

He asked me to be still, and listen.

it's in your blood

2009-06-14T22:22:00.010-04:00

This blog post won't really be my usual fun, cute, or poignant posting.
Ok, I hope they are at least cute. Usually.
But at least this one has a happy ending.

Debbie has two grandchildren from her eldest daughter, Angela. Abigail is 5 1/2,
and Jacob is 2 1/2. Abigail has some medication that she is given daily, which comes
in a small bottle of orange cough-syrupy kind of liquid.

Thursday evening, Jacob quietly climbed up onto the counter, grabbed the bottle,
and drank some of the medication, recapped the bottle, and put it into the silverware drawer.
No one was the wiser until a few hours later, when he appeared to be unusually groggy and
unresponsive at bedtime, which is when Angela and husband Graham called 911, and Jacob
was rushed to the PICU of a northside Indy hospital.

Unfortunately, the the liquid cause of his condition was not immediately known, so for over
12 agonizing hours, Jacob was treated for what was thought to be a seizure. On Friday, a new
doctor visited, and deduced through reasoning, questions, and blood work that Jacob had accidentally nearly overdosed on his sister's medicine.

I cannot imagine the mixed reactions and emotions of any parents, given this news.
On one hand, the accidental ingestion of medicine could be relatively easily treated and neutralized, hopefully with no permanent residual effects. And this also rules out what might
have been the onset of some new, or genetic and lifelong medical challenge.
So this is really good news, at least after the child gets home from the hospital.

On the other hand, in this situation, it is very difficult for the parents to not feel guilty for accidentally leaving medication in an accessible place to a young child. But judging by the many stories I've heard this past weekend about children getting into stuff, despite good parents doing their best to protect them, I'd guess there is only so much you can control.

I am told that the doctors and nurse that Angela and Graham spoke with were extremely
kind, capable, and even vulnerable. In addition to telling them several stories of children going to unexpected lengths to get into medicine and chemicals, each had a personal story of their own children creating similar medical situations. The doctor even told of the "poopy pill box".

It seems that the child of the doctor had found a small round plastic pill box on the bathroom counter, containing several pills. I don't recall how the doctor discovered that the child had swallowed the pillbox whole, but in the end, it was a waiting game, and eventually, the child pooped out the intact pill box, pills contained, unscathed, and undissolved. The doctor retrieved the pillbox, cleaned it up, and has kept it for a keepsake, and a reminder.

I don't know if it helped or not when Graham called his Mum in Liverpool, and told her the story.
She replied with her own story about how a very young Graham had found a bottle of pills in his childhood home, and convinced his younger brother, Bobby, to take two for every one Graham took. Fortunately, the hospital took care of them, and all turned out well.

After three days of PICU and prayers, Jacob returned home on Sunday, and has improved immensely. He will have a couple low-key days of DVD camp in the TV room, while he regains his footing, his strength, and full muscle control. The ice cream should help...so I'm told.

This might have been the feel-good end of my version of Jacob's story, except that Debbie called her vacationing mom today, who is out visiting Debbie's sister in Montana. When Grandma Dixie heard the story, it turns out she had one of her own to tell.

Dixie reminded Debbie that when she was very young, but still the oldest of six children, she had gotten into a bottle of children's aspirin, and not only helped herself, but she shared with her brothers and sister. When Dixie discovered Debra Jo's aspirin distribution, she called the family doctor, Dr. Kiely, who told Dixie to have the kids drink mustard water, which would make them all regurgitate the pills, and other assorted snacks.

Now that I think of it, I can't recall Debbie ever putting mustard on a sandwich.

Jacob, it's in your blood.

rounding third

2009-06-12T11:03:00.023-04:00

Last weekend, Debbie and I took a day trip up to the family lake cottage on Lake Freeman. It was a wonderful day, sitting on the dock, grabbing some sun and some nap time.
And we even took a long boat ride to the dam and back.

While we were there, Dad mentioned the answering machine message from 8 year old Zack, his grandson, and my nephew. And Kristin's son, as long as we're at it. I had a big grin on my big face listening to Zack tell Grandpa about pitching in his game, and striking two people out, and throwing two others out. I decided that I needed to see this in person, even if Zack does live five hours away, near Cleveland.

I'm going through some professional and personal struggles at the moment. I lost my job to downsizing last December, and I've since had difficulty deciding what my next career direction should be, as well as, how to get there. So I have some available time that I would not have with a regular work schedule. I've really tried to to embrace and recognize this time as a blessing.
I've had time at home with Mom, before she died, and I've been able to be here with Dad in the months that have followed, and we take turns leaning on each other, as needed.

There are many things that you can do for your friends, family members, and significant others, but there is rarely any gift more valuable than the gift of quality time spent together. So I've tried to be very aware of opportunities to take advantage of my available time, and share it with my loved ones. This would include several trips to Sweetser, Indiana to watch my brother Kirk's girls play Upward basketball and soccer. I've had the joy of getting to know my grand-nephew Jaylen better, when I helped out my sister, and niece by babysitting, and changing a diaper for the first time in my life (see blog post). Nevermind that I put it on backwards. I proudly wore my Lapel Bulldogs Track t-shirt at nearly all of Sam's high school track meets, and I attended Debbie's granddaughter, Abigail's Memorial Day Bike Parade. I enjoyed reading "The Monster At The End Of This Book" to Debbie's pre-schoolers recently. And Debbie and I have already been to the lakes twice as many times as we went all last summer, when my job schedule was jacked up, and I didn't have the time.

I certainly don't mean to suggest that I'm a Super-Hero for attending all the things that parents attend every day, and every week. I'm just saying that I appreciate having the opportunities to share in these memories at this time in my life.

So when Kristin told me Zack had a game on Tuesday at 6:45pm, I decided that a road trip was in order. Unfortunately, my road buddy, Debbie, is Camp Director at Interactive Academy, and could not make the trip, so I headed east on I-70 solo on Tuesday around noon, and arrived in Wadsworth, Ohio in time to pick up the twins, Allison and Zachary, at their day care academy.

The jaw-dropping look from Allison was priceless, when she spotted me standing in the doorway of her classroom. She yelled, "Uncle Georgy!!!", and then ran to find Zack. Zack did his very best to play it cool in front of his friends, and I got a subduded "What's up?", and a leg hug from him.

We had time for a new house tour and some snacks, before we headed to the big game at a minimalist ball field behind the neighborhood elementary school. We arrived early enough
for the kids to play some pre-game outfield "catch", although it seemed that I spent quite a bit of time retrieving incoming wayward balls. I settled into my foldable lawn chair down the third base line with the rest of the Cub parents. Just before the little sisters of the ball players departed for the nearby playground, they hit up their parents for the snacks and juiceboxes
stashed in the many diaper bags and book bags. One Mom told us that, when she had asked her little girl to grab a snack from the pantry and put it in the bag, she had grabbed a
can of Spaghettio's, and the mom held up the can as proof. No one had thought to bring a Coleman
stove, so the Spaghettio's remained unopened, and uneaten.

The game itself was more competitive and entertaining than I expected.
There were the highs and lows that you might expect.
In this league, they let the kids pitch the first two innings, and then the coaches/dads pitched the rest of the game. It was a bit sad when the coach's son cried after getting pulled from the pitcher's mound 19 pitches into his mandated 25 max pitch count, after walking in too many runners. But he made up for it later with his three run home run.

Zack had a solid game playing catcher. As is the nature of this level of baseball, nearly every pitch was caught by the dad/umpire at the backstop. But it was amusing to see Zack peer into his catcher's mitt after every pitch pass him, always expecting to see the ball miraculously appear in the webbing. At the plate, he made decent contact, got on base a few times, and even scored a run, looking like a Serengeti Gazelle on the base paths.

Zack's dad, Mark, was the first base coach. He is very good about reminding the kids who reach base about their options, when the next batter makes contact. Mark related a funny exchange with one of the better players on the team, after the kid reached first, and Mark reminded him to
run on a grounder, and tag on a fly ball. The player looked at Mark, and said in annoyed voice,
"You tell me that every time!", to which Mark replied, "And I'll keep reminding you, until you can recite it back to me when you get here."

Despite surrendering an eight run lead in the last two innings, our Cubs managed to hold on and win the game, and after completing the high-five line, players from both teams celebrated with their post-game juice bombs and Rice Krispy treats.

Later at Kristin's home, after some local pizza, Zack and Allison fell asleep laying on top of their a Uncle Georgy on the big couch of the TV room. We carried them upstairs, tucked them into their beds, and said good night. Later, as I lay in the darkness of the basement bedroom, always the coolest part of the house in so many ways, I prayed in thankfulness for the opportunity to spend this kind of time, and create these kinds of memories with my niece and nephew. And it didn't seem like that much later that I heard them bounding down the stairs at 6:45am to wake me up.
We sat in my guest bed, and talked until it was time for my sister to take them to camp.

I was a little sad to pull out of the driveway at noon, and the five hour drive home didn't go nearly as quickly as it had 24 hours earlier. Anticipation and adrenaline are better than caffeine.
Someone once said that, a good companion is the best short cut to a long trip, and I really missed having Debbie in my passenger seat, but I did drive with the fresh memory of smiles and laughter, and several Diet Pepsi's in my cooler.

And in the end, I was much like Zack on third base....I couldn't wait to get home.

.

lawn boy

2009-06-08T22:16:00.008-04:00

I am NOT a lawnmower killer.

Toward the end of last summer, I was attempting to clean Dad's push mower after a dusty 75 minute cardio-burning, grass session.
I don't know why I decided to use the garden hose for the first time, but the next time I used
the mower, it ran like there was water in the gas line, or somewhere it should not have been.
Later, the lawnmower shop guy absolved me of my guilt, when he told me that something entirely different was broken, and parts and repairs would be more than a new mower.
So we finished the summer on Dad's John Deere rider.
Up until the flat tire.

Dad jacked up the Deere, removed the tire, and I had the tire guy downtown fix it.
After Dad reinstalled the tire, I fired the rider up for one last pre-fall mow and mulch.
We couldn't get the transmission to engage, and the John Deere sat dormant in the garage
until this Spring, when Dad called his friend Tom, who said he had a guy, and we called his guy,
who came and took it to his shop to look at the tranny, and give it a good Spring tune up.

When he brought it back, he told me that it had only been missing a small metal bar-like
key, that engaged the transmission, but must've fallen out in the garage or the yard.
He had replaced the missing key, and the rider was working fine.
I took three steps toward the driveway, and picked up a rusted piece of metal I'd spotted on the floor just the day before. "That would be the piece you were missing", he said.

I suppose we could have survived with just the riding mower, but I really prefer to push,
at least while I'm still able. I enjoy the exercise, and I think it goes quicker.
So Dad went to Sears and bought a new Craftsman mulching push mower, very similar to
the one we'd had before. The second time I used it, I pulled the rope completely out of....
well, wherever the rope goes when it's wound up inside the mower.
I took it back to Sears.

I was informed that they could not fix it on-site, but would need to send it to Cincinnati, but
we could just get a new one on exchange that day. I took a new one home.

On the first attempt with the new mower, I pulled the rope completely out again.

Now I've been going to the gym with Debbie recently, but I've really only done cardio on the bike and the treadmill, and I am probably in the worst shape of my life. So I refused to accept that I
was out-muscling the mower, as I pulled the ripcord.
So I took it back to Sears.

I was once again told of the Cincinnati option, and the salesperson was a little surprised that I
still wanted to stay with this model of Craftsman mower, despite the obvious model defect.
I noticed another customer browsing the lawnmowers, and I told him that the model he was looking at was the one I was trying to successfully introduce onto my lawn environment,
and it was a good model, as long as you didn't pull the cord out.

Meanwhile, my sales guy processed an exchange for me, and I went back to Merchandise Pickup to....well, you know, pick up my merchandise. After a brief wait, I was told that they were out of stock on that particular mower, but they did have a display model available. I said that was fine, and we walked out onto the sales floor just in time to see the customer I had talked to, paying for the display model of my mower.

Ten days, and two rider circuits later, I finally had a third Craftsman mulching push mower in the garage, and I was more than a little anxious as I pushed it into the driveway to attempt a start.
As Dad watched from the shade of the garage, I very gingerly gave it a gentle, twelve inch pull, and was relieved to see that the mower started, and the rope settled back into it's circular home.

We're nearly two months into the lawn mowing season, and since we brought home the third
Craftsman mower, I haven't had any problems with the rope, and I've actually turned it into a game to see how slightly I can pull the rope, and still start the mower. It doesn't take much.

Now, if all that weren't enough, I thought I killed Debbie's old mower a few weeks ago.
On her mower, the rope is permanently pulled to it's max, and you have to reach underneath
and twist the blade to rewind the cord, before you can attempt to start it. I'm not nearly as comfortable with the idea of sticking my hand under the mower to twist the blade as Debbie is,
so I tilted her mower on it's side, and used a stick to turn the blade.
It took awhile for all the black oil to leak out onto the mower deck, but it was obvious early on
that the 90*, on it's side tilt hadn't been a good idea, and after using three old rag socks to soak up the spilled oil, and having no back-up small engine oil, I abandoned the job with the middle half her back yard left higher than the rest. Sort of a mow-hawk. sorry....so bad.

Fortunately, when I was able to add new oil, and keep her mower upright, it worked fine, and I was once again absolved of lawnmower battery.

Debbie's brother John has a bit of farmland and horse pastures, and he is always looking for thrill-seeking city folk wishing to drive his tractor for fun, but who can actually be Tom Sawyer'd
into cutting down his expansive fields. As thrilling as that sounds, I'm afraid of what mechanical distress I might bring to a large International/Case tractor, with the six foot mowing deck.

I wonder if I could take that back to Sears?

Jericho

2009-05-11T11:04:00.008-04:00

"How I spent my Mother's Day weekend"

Now that the floor joists and foundation of Debbie's 125 year old house have been repaired, and the sub-floor has been replaced, the next phase of our on-going home project will be to repair
the walls where the 100 year old plaster cracked from the 3 inch lift adjustment to the middle of the house. Samuel's room took the most damage, so it was decided to pull down all the old plaster down to the original lathe-work, and freshly dry-wall the entire room.

So on Sunday, Sam, Kate, David, and I took turns whacking away at the plaster walls with hammers and prybars, and we got one and a half walls stripped of plaster. I'll have to spend a day over there this week and finish the rest of the walls. Five and a half year old Abigail was a big help picking pieces of plaster, so we'll have to contract her cleaning services, as long as she wears her mask. Wouldn't want OSHA shutting down the project.

The small white door in the pictures is the closet door. To the left of that is the bedroom entrance. We have decided that the wall in between those two doors could be cut open, to
create more of a walk-in closet, so after all the plaster is down, we will begin cutting out the space for the new closet opening, and framing that in, to fit perhaps a bi-fold closet door.

Sam graduates from Lapel High School in Spring of 2010, so we hope to be done by then.....

Mother's Day 2009

2009-05-11T01:18:00.002-04:00

resume life

2009-05-05T23:18:00.015-04:00

I haven't written in here in awhile, but I'd kinda lost track of it, until Debbie pointed out that, like, my last six posts have been photographs I pulled off the Web. Sorta like a rock band being in a creative slump, and tossing out a mediocre Live album to distract from the real creative process.

And then she challenged me by asking if anything interesting had been happening in my life.

So I stopped to think about it, as I was cutting Dad's yard last week.
Always a good hour for some good inner personal conversation, and introspection.
And cardio.

What has been going on in my life, and why haven't I been writing about it?

Have I not been writing because it hasn't been interesting, or because I don't want to broadly share my current and personal insecurities and vulnerabilities? Perhaps both.

Generally speaking, the past fives months have been a bit of a challenge, since I lost my job,
and my Mom died in the same week, between Christmas and New Years.

I was pretty slow out of the gate making any attempt at a new job search, mainly because I
didn't want to jump into the same type of job, especially in the food and beverage industry.
But, of course, that begged the question of "What DO you want to do?" Great question.
The only thing that has seriously come to mind since the Fall of 2008 has been a job in the home improvement industry, and I've targeted Lowe's as the company I want to work for, and Department Head as the appropriate level of entry for me.

I have been personally networking with the Store Managers of four Lowe's, and I have developed relationships with them, such that, when a Department Head position opens up, and they are able to interview externally, I will be on a short list for consideration.
And as encouraging as each Store Manager interaction has been, job searching and interviewing in any economy can go slowly, but because I have narrow-cast my search so tightly, this particular interview process has felt exceptionally slow in progress. And the time in between the positive conversations cannot be fully kept afloat in hope by the buzz of a once-weekly affirmation that I am on the right path.

And it is during those in-between times, that I am currently living my life, and trying to make it interesting, while fighting the insecurities that vie for my spirit.

Debbie asked if I'd done anything interesting (read "blogworthy") lately.
I haven't written much, if anything, on my search for my next career until now.

However.....

I may have written a bit about the massive home improvement project we've undertaken at Debbie's 120 year old house, removing 75% of the floors down to the crawlspace dirt, replacing the floor joists and foundation, and rebuilding from there. I could update to say that we are currently walking on new OSB sub-flooring, and slowly bringing the function of the house back together. The ultimate plan is to re-use as much of the original hardwood as we can, which could/should be 85-90% of it. I'm not sure how this will progress, but Debbie feels good about it.
Personally, I don't see how it can be harder than the deconstruction!

There are two walls in the middle of the house that will need some major work. The floor joist
leveling lifted that part of the foundation three inches, and the old plaster cracked rather badly.
We'll probably pull all that plaster down to the original lathe work, and put up fresh dry wall.

Meanwhile, we will be slowly reconstructing the function of the house by bringing back most of the items we temporarily put into storage. Like beds, dressers, sofas, clothing, TV's, and more.

So is that interesting? It's fun to dream, plan, and be a physical part of the process of change.
But it's also work, and it's not exactly Spring Break on the beach. Sometimes, you just need to get away. So we did just that last Saturday, but it's late, and I think I will leave our Ikea road trip for the next post. Suffice it to say, it was rather interesting, and a good getaway for us.
I hope this post isn't my throwaway Live album.

almost summer

2009-04-28T22:12:00.002-04:00

2009-04-20T01:18:00.001-04:00

driving rain

2009-04-18T00:35:00.002-04:00

looks like rain...

Vintage Easter

2009-04-08T12:04:00.002-04:00

Easter card sent to my Great-Grandmother, circa 1916.

bite

2009-04-04T18:13:00.002-04:00

gentleman's beach

2009-04-01T11:49:00.002-04:00

Happy Spring Break to all you beach-bums...

hard times and hard wood

2009-03-30T11:58:00.004-04:00

I am deeply touched by the many heartfelt and genuine offers I have received to help me beat my
"depression" (probably more of a recession, or to put a finer point on it, an economic downturn).
Like most Americans, I don't need a bailout;
I need to get out there and get a job. Don't give me fish; give me a fishing pole. You get the idea.
Well, maybe the Democrats don't.....

I had noted that I needed to feed my psyche with some positive feelings of productive projects, and accomplishments. And while I can certainly feel good about painting farm houses, mucking stalls, or hanging basement drywall, I am reminded that there is work to be done much closer to home.
Specifically, Debbie's home.

Just in case there is anyone outside the Gibson, Foust, or Horn family reading this, Debbie's house in Lapel is at least 120 years old, and we are currently walking on the original floor joists, as well as some original hardwood flooring, at least in the main front room. It has been professionally noted that the floor joists are rotted and sagging, and need to be replaced. This means that, in all but one added-on room, and the bathroom we will be deconstructing the hardwood floors, attempting to salvage the hardwood as we go, and stripping the house down to the crawlspace dirt, before reconstructing new treated floor joists, replacing sub-flooring, and then, hopefully, recycling the original hardwood flooring, as much as possible.

Now, when I saw we, what I mean is, Debbie has contracted a professional builder to do the job, but he's a family friend, and we are going to help along the way. Maybe defray some costs by doing the deconstruction. Or I can bring him sandwiches.

All that to say that, when I'm not working on getting a job, I will be busy working on Debbie's house, which someday, I hope to share. Call it sweat equity. Or love.

By the way, Debbie's son, David, has put forth the brilliant idea of installing an in-floor spiral wine cellar, as long as we're down to the crawlspace dirt. Not surprisingly, there is a company, Spiral Cellars, that specializes in such extravagance. We aren't so much wine drinkers as beer snobs, so we could keep an ample supply of good Hacker-Pschorr Weisse Bier, and Deb's favorite Sam Adams White Ale down there. Least we could do, since it is her house. I suppose we should ask her, before we start excavating.....

Then again, it's not cheap to dig out, and build a wine/beer cellar for your kitchen.

Maybe we should wait until the Recession passes. I'll drink to that.

five stages

2009-03-23T00:30:00.006-04:00

I might be depressed.

I really thought I had been handling my holiday losses pretty well, after losing my job, and my Mom in an eight day stretch, from December 22, 2008 to January 2nd, 2009. And then, we postponed our February 14th wedding.

But I think I had a breakthrough last week, that may have pushed me out of the Denial I was in denial about feeling, and straight into a brief episode of Anger. Not a violent, raging anger, but more of a pouty, "Take my ball, and go home" anger.

I'm not really sure how the Bargaining phase works, but I've probably been there.

And now a triple whammy of Life is revealing the truths of reality, guilt, and insecurities, and these truths have rendered me a bit wobbly. And I may be depressed. Not desperately, or clinically depressed, but certainly sluggish.

But the good news is that I have identified this in myself, and I recognize that I must create positive activity for myself, and re-energize myself through positive and productive behaviors.

I suppose that one positive behavior would be to not stay up until 1:00am, and sleep in until 9:00am, even if the sleep math adds up to 8 hours. So I'm going to go to bed, and pray in thankfulness for all my blessings, and the promise and expectations of a new day.

birth day

2009-03-12T11:58:00.005-04:00

I had a bit of a cry last night.

I wasn't really surprised, since I knew I'd been pushing this one down since my 48th birthday
earlier this week.

Debbie and I were at her house watching "Braveheart". No, I wasn't crying over "Braveheart", although it does have one of my all time favorite quotable lines;
"They may take our lives, but they will never take...OUR FREEDOM!!"

We had actually paused the movie, because it was late, especially on a school night for a teacher, and I was getting ready to leave. Debbie commented on the red cotton cardigan she was
hugging around her, and reminded me unnecessarily that it was one of several I had cleared out of my mom's closet after she died earlier this year.

I started to say that I had thought of Mom on my recent birthday, but I couldn't get the words out, and got choked up. It took me a little while on Debbie's shoulder to gather myself, but when I did, I was able to explain to Debbie what a mother of four probably already knew.

Whatever I've thought of birthdays for the past 48 years, I always thought of them as mine alone. I could choose to share them, or allow others to celebrate for and with me, but it was always a personal day. Until this year.

On my birthday, I remembered thinking that it would be the first one without my mom, but I was initially thinking selfishly that it would be the first that my mom wouldn't be there to wish me a Happy Birthday. It took me another day for it to sink in that my birthday was her day, as well, because there is no one else in this world more intimately involved and responsible for my birth day than my Mom. She was there. For all of it, but certainly at the actual moment of my birth into this world.

So while I had been celebrating 47 birthdays of my own, it had never occurred to me that I should have been more consciously thanking my mom, not for the new blue sweater, or the Tonka Toys, or the Cubs cap, but rather, I should have been thanking her for my birth, and for being the only one from this world who was there at my first one. And every one after.

After all, we had always shared it, and been in it together. Until this year.

So even though I couldn't bring myself to face it on the 10th of March, I did face it on the 11th.
And last night, as I laid my head down to sleep, and prayed the Lord, my soul to keep, I also thanked God for my Mom, and I thanked Mom for being my Mom.

And I wished her a belated Happy Birthday, for both of us.

cake

2009-03-09T23:39:00.005-04:00

Well, it's nearly my birthday. Twenty minutes from when I started typing this. Maybe well into it, by the time I finish. I suppose at 48, I'm not as excited or expectant about birthdays as I used to be. I think that part of that could correlate with the notion that, as we get older, we tend to enjoy the giving more than the receiving. At least it really seems that way at Christmas time.

Many adults do not embrace birthdays, because it is a mortal reminder of getting older.
I do not share this sentiment. Or lack of sentiment. I suppose the biggest factor is simply that,
birthdays are days for cake, ice cream, party hats, games, and colorful and fun presents.
These don't really seem like adult pleasures, but even the "adult pleasures" from young adult birthdays, like going out to the bars, begin to seem childish, or at least uninteresting, once you reach a certain age. And I have.

And presents.....How many people are really insightful enough to purchase a gift that the receiver
really wants, and will really enjoy? I'll speak for myself, and say that this is why I give away gift cards for most of my gifts these days. Then again, the right gift card can provide a quality experience for the receiver. Like a Target gift card for a child. The Mom creates a shopping experience, that includes the child getting to actually, with some filtration, pick out their gift.
Or a good restaurant gift card can provide the impetus for a date night of shared quality time.

But we do like people to remember our birthday. I don't care how old you get, there is a feeling you get as you leave the house on your birthday, that everyone must know that this is your day,
and as you pass friends and co-workers in the hall, you sub-consciously brace yourself, and nearly expect people to wish you a Happy Birthday. There is an involuntary expectation, but sadly, it never lives up to the hype in your psyche. Ok, I'll admit that maybe it's just me.

I remember one year managing a Starbucks in Grosse Pointe, I had it in my head that it wasn't for me to tell anyone that it was my birthday, because telling would be self-serving. And I somehow believed that someone must know, so word would get out, and then, of course there would eventually be cake. So I didn't tell anyone all day. And there was no cake.
I seem to remember putting my coat on to leave, and on the way out telling a co-working that I couldn't believe nobody remembered my birthday. (I'm so weak...).

I think there was make-up cake the next day.

In the morning, as my birthday begins, my dad is taking me out for breakfast at The Toast.
I'm sure it will hit me that this will be my first birthday since my Mom died. So I'm glad I'll be with Dad. I told Debbie that we'll save a birthday outing at a favorite restaurant for the weekend, when we can relax and enjoy it. Last year, we went to the Outback.
Then again, I did get a gift card to Red Lobster from my sister. And Debbie really likes that.
I'll have to tell Kim that she did very good in the gifting department.

So now it's 22 minutes into my birthday. I have myself convinced that I'll have no expectations about it, and treat it like any other day.

Aw, who am I kidding. I may as well write "Birthday!!" on my forehead, and get it over with.

Happy Birthday to me. And I miss you, Mom....

Paul Harvey..........................Good Day!

2009-03-02T10:27:00.012-05:00

(group photo from 1951 Lafayette Jeff HS yearbook...
my mom at right in white sweater and corsage.)

Saturday was not a "Good Day".
Legendary and iconic radio news-guy Paul Harvey died at age 90.
It couldn't have come as a surprise at his age, but it is still an irreplaceable loss.

And, like many things this year, it brought back some fond memories of my mom.

My mom introduced me to Paul Harvey when I was a small boy.
Not literally. She introduced us through his long-running noon news broadcast on the radio.

In 1988, I had been living and working in Chicago for a few years, and I traveled back to my hometown to spend the weekend with my parents. On Saturday, as the noon hour approached, I told mom that it was almost time for Paul Harvey. I headed for the kitchen, sat down at our kitchen table, and I turned on the trusty family AM radio I had remembered so well, and I was hit with a wave of nostalgia, as I heard those familiar words that took me back so many years...
"Hello Americans....This is Paul Harvey....Stand by for NEWS!!"

I was instantly reminded of my childhood days, circa 1967, when mom would pick me up from kindergarten, bring me home, and fix my favorite peanut butter & jelly sandwich, just in time to hear that familiar voice. Although she did not realize it at the time, she had created a diehard Paul Harvey fan, just as my dad had molded a young Hoosier boy into a diehard Cubs fan.

After listening to Paul Harvey that day, mom mentioned that she had met him once in high school, when he had visited and spoken at Lafayette Jeff in 1951. She even pulled out her old high school yearbook, and showed me the picture of her waiting in a crowd to get his autograph.
I thought this was pretty cool, and took the yearbook to the library, and photocopied the picture.

After I returned to Chicago, I wrote Paul Harvey a letter, relating how I had listened to him on the radio with my mom as a child, and now as an adult. I even requested an updated autographed 8 x 10 photo of himself, signed for Mom. Within two weeks, he answered my letter,
with a note of his own, accompanied by an autographed photo for Mom, who had been known as "Jess" in high school. I was probably more excited than Mom, when I mailed these to her.

As sit typing in the "computer room" that was once my boyhood bedroom, I notice the "clock" in the lower right corner of my computer monitor, and I see that it is 11:52 am.

Less than ten minutes until Paul Harvey.

I want to tell this to Mom, but she is no longer here.
And I want to turn on my radio at noon to hear his comforting words.
But, for the first time in nearly 60 years, they won't be there.

But what I do have is a shared memory between the three of us that will never go away.

I am thankful for these memories that warm my soul, and I am encouraged that today will
in fact turn out to be a........................................................Good Day!

from the mouths of babes

2009-02-28T17:48:00.004-05:00

Debbie's youngest brother's wife's step-mom (since 1979) died last week, and we went to the visitation in Frankton on Thursday evening. John and Lisa have two children, Nicholas and Cassandra, although I've come to find out that we're actually calling her "Casey" now.
I don't recall how old they are, but I'm thinking he is around 7, and she is like 2 or so.

When Debbie and I got to the visitation, we saw Nicholas sitting and rocking in a non-rocking chair, holding his Tigger. We approached him, and Aunt Debbie asked how he was doing. Nicholas immediately told her that "That's Grandma over there, but she's not really there...She's with God."
He continued to explain:
"Grandma was sick, and her heart stopped working, but she's not sick anymore.
She closed her eyes and went to sleep, and when she opened her eyes, she was in Heaven
with Jesus."

John and Lisa clearly had been honestly preparing him for the loss of his Grandma, and he had been listening and taking it all in. On the morning of the visitation, they told him they were going to see her at the funeral home. When they got there, and he saw her body in the casket, he turned to Dad and asked, "Is this Heaven?"
(John wanted to say, "No, this is Iowa", but he resisted.)

Sometimes kids get it, and sometimes they don't. But you have to give them the benefit of equipping them with the truth. They seem to handle it better than we adults can imagine.

As I looked around the room set aside to memorialize Grandma Karen, I saw many family members talking, hugging, crying, reuniting, remembering, and loving on each other.
Loved ones gathered around.

Maybe Nicholas wasn't so far off after all.
Turns out, there was a little bit of Heaven in the funeral home, just like he said.

Lost

2009-02-25T13:28:00.002-05:00

I was intrigued by this article from kottke.org on the real Robinson Crusoe,
a Scotsman named Alexander Selkirk, who was actually left behind on an
uninhabited South Pacific island by his unhappy ship captain in 1704.

Daniel Defoe met Selkirk in a English pub in 1711, after Selkirk's return to
civilization, and upon hearing his island stories, Defoe went on to write
"Robinson Crusoe", celebrated as the first novel in the English language.

shoulder

2009-02-22T02:19:00.002-05:00

If you're scoring at home, my babysitting stint with my sister's
grandson went quite well, if not miraculous. As soon as my sister
walked out the door, Jaylen began wailing. I sat down and gave
him his bottle, which he consumed, and then continued to cry quite
loudly. I noted that this was going to be a very long, loud hour.

I held him in the rocking chair, and used the "blowing on the eyes"
trick sister Kristin uses, and although Jaylen wailed for most of a
minute, just as suddenly, his head dropped to my shoulder, and he
slept like a rock for a solid hour.

It was a lovely afternoon with my grand-nephew, or whatever he is to me.
I've lost track.

Other people's kids are so cool.

nervous

2009-02-20T12:17:00.004-05:00

I'm a little nervous.
I'm heading over to my sister's house to watch her grandson, Jaylen, for a few hours, while she goes to rehab.
(Relax; it's for her shoulder...)

I'm nearly 48 years old, and I've never changed a diaper. Never really even been that close to one. What if Jaylen poops while I'm there? I'll keep some phone numbers handy. I wonder if there are some laminated diagrams posted near the toy chest?

I'll keep you posted.

stick

2009-02-19T17:18:00.000-05:00

"123456789-10"

2009-02-10T23:43:00.002-05:00

1. Sesame Street: The Surprising Rocker Behind the Numbers

Sesame Street was sort of the MTV of children’s programming when it premiered in 1969. There were a few adult “regulars” in the neighborhood, but the true stars were the Muppets – Ernie, Bert, Big Bird, Oscar, et al – and the various animated shorts and comedy skits. I already knew my alphabet and numbers, so I was a bit older than the target demographic of Sesame Street, but I still watched it regularly because the A.D.D.-soothing, rapid-fire graphics were mesmerizing. Plus, the songs were catchy. One of my favorite recurring bits was the “Jazzy Spies,” which featured a frenetic musical background while a singer repeatedly intoned the particular numeral being highlighted. The vocalist was none other than Grace Slick (of Jefferson Airplane/Starship), whose then-husband, Jerry Slick, actually produced those segments.

(borrowed from Mental Floss)

Mom was in Church today

2009-02-08T23:53:00.005-05:00

I laughed, and I cried in church today.

Debbie and I went to church today, and we sat in our usual place.
Or at least, the usual section. In a church that seats 2000, you don't really sit
in the same spot in the same pew every Sunday, like my Mom and Dad did.
When Mom first started missing church, as her health began to fail, many in
the Congregation knew it immediately, because there was a gap in the pew
where Mom and Dad had sat for years. There was a time when most of the
family sat there, but that didn't happen so much in recent years.

Midway through the 11:00am service, chock full of late-risers, it was announced
that Communion was going to be offered. As the bread and wine (yeah, we all have
figured out that's it's grape juice) were being passed out, I was struck by some recent
memories, that ran me through a surprising ride of emotions.

On the weekend before this past Christmas, the extended Horn family gathered at Mom and Dad's house to celebrate our family Christmas early, so that we could all be back at our own
homes on Christmas Day. As is Horn family tradition, the enclosed patio out back is where
we keep the holiday cookies, pies, and extra bread, and such. At some point on Saturday,
seven and a half year old Allison had gone out to sneak a seven layer bar, and when she came back into the house, she walked a bagged Italian loaf up to her Mom (my sister Kristin), and
asked, "Mommy, is this the Body of Christ?"

Apparently Allison had received Communion fairly recently.

After my Mom died in January, Reverend Dave came by the house to talk with our family before he presided over Mom's service. We told many stories and testimonies about Mom and family,
and for some reason, Allison's story of "the Body of Christ" on the patio came up, and Reverend Dave got a nice laugh.

The Sunday after we buried Mom, I went to the 8:00am Church service with Dad. The Church parlor felt well comfortably full, with nearly 40 seats filled. Not quite the 2000 I'm used to seeing on Sundays, but certainly much more warm and intimate.

When it came time to take Communion, there were no ushers to pass trays of bread and wine to the assembled. We single-filed our way up toward Reverend Dave, who held a fresh loaf of bread for the breaking. As I broke off my hunk, Dave calmly said, "This is the Body of Christ."
I solemnly nodded, and began the shuffle to my left for the wine, when I heard him add,
"Don't worry; it's not the Italian loaf from the patio."

I probably wasn't supposed to laugh out loud in that moment, but I did, and I saw a huge grin on Reverend Dave's face. He knew how difficult the past few weeks had been, and I think he also knew that I deserved a smile. He was right.

I thought of all this as they were passing out Communion today, and I laughed nearly out loud about Allison's "Body of Christ" loaf, and I grinned thinking about Reverend Dave's words, and then I realized that Communion might now forever remind me of the holidays when my Mom died.

It occurred to me that there would always be so many little things that might trigger emotional thoughts and memories of Mom, and I might never actually stop grieving her death.
And as I contemplated the weight of that, I began to cry.

Debbie looked over, wordlessly, and simply held my hand in true comfort and compassion.
Like a true introvert, even in that moment, I felt self-conscious, and struggled to contain my
emotions. I gathered myself for a moment, slipped off again, and then focused my eyes on the
beams of the ceilings until I regained control. I had an unfounded concern that those around me might mistake my tears for some major spiritual breakthrough, and begin to lay hands upon me.

But alas, it was only the hand of Debbie. And God. And my Mom.

Afterward, as we walked out, I explained to Debbie that I had had a "Mom moment".
We agreed that I should get used to it, and I told her that I will always embrace these
moments, because they will keep her love fresh in my heart.

I hope they never go away.

Love you forever, Mom.

ok, now I can hear you....

2009-02-08T09:07:00.002-05:00

Frozen Custard

2009-02-01T17:08:00.003-05:00

I have some thoughts and memories on the Frozen Custard in Lafayette, Indiana, upon the recent passing of the iconic 101 year old "Cone Lady".

But these thoughts will have to wait until after the Super Bowl. After all, I can't miss all the great commercials.

Billy Powell, Lynyrd Skynyrd keyboardist dies

2009-01-28T18:37:00.006-05:00

(Piano solo starts around 2:40 mark)

Perhaps my all time favorite rock song is "Mr. Breeze", by Lynyrd Skynyrd,
due largely to the piano solos of Billy Powell in the middle.

I used to bug my brother and make a fuss about how awesome Billy Powell was
whenever I'd hear "Mr. Breeze". One night, shortly after Kirk was married, my
family had gathered at Scampy's after dinner for a few beers. Kirk's wife, Beth was there,
and at one point, "Mr. Breeze" came on the jukebox. Just as the piano solo kicked in, Beth
leaned across the table, and said, "Hey Jay; isn't this Billy Powell playing piano? Isn't he great?"
I was beside myself, that she not only knew the name of my piano hero, but had picked him out, and liked the song. We high-fived, and I started telling her more obscure Billy trivia, until I spotted my brother falling all over himself in laughter.

That's when I knew he had used his wife to set me up. And I had completely fallen for it.

But that's ok. R.I.P. Billy...you're awesome!!!

best man

2009-01-27T16:34:00.008-05:00

(click below)
Bill Cunningham's Inaugural take

I pulled the link above from one of my favorite blogs Kottke.org .

It got me to thinking.

I'm not an overly political guy, so I haven't been
overly passionate about our recent presidential election.
At one point, I expressed all-important FaceBook
"political view" as "are these our only choices?"

I must admit that, leading up to the inauguration,
I was thinking that the whole thing was way over-hyped,
because, I was thinking of it simply as a Democrat taking
office over my Republican guys.
Not that I really liked my team's guy very much.

Watching the event, I realized that, even if I was thinking of
Obama as just a Democrat, much of the country needed to see
him as the first African-American president, and be consumed
in the victory of that accomplishment, so that the moment could
be appropriately celebrated and marked. And I can appreciate that.
So I now am appreciating Obama, and the moment much more,
for the historical impact.

Two years ago, the Super Bowl was special because, for the first time ever,
there was not just one, but two African-American coaches in the Big Game,
and one would be the first black coach to lead his team to the championship.
In 2009, I will be rooting for Mike Tomlin to coach
his Pittsburgh Steelers to a Super Bowl victory, because I like his team,
and I like him as a coach and a person. But I'm not hearing nearly as
much this year in the press about him being an African-American coach.

I see that as progress.

Hopefully, in the future, the country will have healed and
developed to a point where we no longer have to celebrate the
"first African-American...",or even the"first woman", but rather,
we celebrate that the best person got the job.

Which I believe happened on January 20th.

jay

cell phone of the future?

2009-01-23T13:05:00.003-05:00

thanks Jill!!

my life theme song

2009-01-21T16:34:00.001-05:00

hard times

2009-01-18T00:39:00.003-05:00

I was thumbing through a stack of Christmas cards today, and this one caught my eye.
The sender seemed to be telling the receiver that times are tough, and a gift will have
to wait until things get better.

Certainly relevant at this moment in America, but this card was not sent for Christmas 2008.
I found it in a shoebox of old black and white photos from my Grandma's house.
This Christmas card was sent to my Great-Grandmother Lizzie in 1908.

Some things can be vintage, AND relevant.

Trouble on Wall Street today

2009-01-15T00:18:00.002-05:00

Trouble on Wall Street (1920)

(thanks to one of my favorite blog sites here )

2009-01-12T17:50:00.004-05:00

(thanks to kottke.org...)

Bono on Sinatra

Bono is is currently writing a series of guest op-ed pieces for the New York Times,
and my favorite blogger, Kottke, shared this piece, with Bono talking about moments
in life with Frank Sinatra, and what it means for our new year...and stuff.

happy birthday, Debra Jo!!!

2009-01-10T02:07:00.002-05:00

happy birthday to the love of my life, and my soon to be wife.....

Great-Grandma Dora

2009-01-05T22:26:00.010-05:00

I just found this old picture of my Great-Grandma Dora, my dad's grandma.
She was born in 1877, and died in 1962, according to her headstone in Southern Indiana.
I'll have to tell Aunt Rosemary I found the picture. She wasn't sure of the dates.

Aunt Rosemary is the one who corrected the myth in my head that Dora had
married a Native-American Indian farmer in Southern Indiana in 1898.
Turns out Oscar was a Pharmacist.

Click on "Oscar" and Pharmacist" for the back story of Oscar and Dora.

little mom

2009-01-02T16:20:00.004-05:00

Mom--1935

"Love You Forever"

2009-01-02T10:39:00.001-05:00

Mom passed away peacefully at 6:50am

on this 2nd morning of a 2009 she never saw.

Dad, Kim, Kristin, and I were at her side,

and watched her draw her last breath, a

breath that came much easier than those

she struggled for the past several months.

I'm sitting alone in her hospice room with her,

where the entire Horn clan got the chance

to say our good-byes yesterday, and Dad told

her last evening that it was ok to let go.

Thank you to all who have offered thoughts

and prayers.

Go hug somebody.

jay

soon

2009-01-01T20:14:00.002-05:00

8:20pm, New Years Day.

It is truly a vigil, at his point.

Her heart and lungs cannot keep up
with the fluid buildup. This the essence
of congestive heart failure.

There are signs that her one remaining
kidney is beginning to struggle.

We expect her to pass in the next
12-24 hours.

Yesterday, I had asked Dad if he had told
Mom that it was ok to let go. He hadn't,
and wasn't ready.

Today, shortly after the family gathered
at her bedside to take Communion with her,
the in-house Chaplain joined us, and asked if
we had given her permission to let go.
Dad was initially reluctant, because, he did
not think that Mom was coherent enough to
process the message.

But then, in an emotional, and tender moment,
Dad leaned in, told her how much he loves her,
and that he will miss her, but that it was ok to
let go. She has been suffering enough, and
he will see her soon enough.

Mom is now on a continuous IV flow of Morphine
to help with pain and breathing, and resting a
little better, but still struggling at times.

But we have said our goodbyes, and now pray
for God to take her into His merciful, loving arms.

Hospice

2008-12-31T12:16:00.003-05:00

noon on New Year's Eve.

It's come down to this.

Mom is relatively comfortable, but she is on
100% oxygen, at a full 15 litres, and still struggling
to breathe. Her lungs continue to fill with fluids.
She drifts in and out of sleep, or consciousness.

This morning, when the nurse asked her if she
knew who Dad was, she said it was her dad.

We are moving her to a nearby Hospice today at 2pm,
where her room will allow her to receive the oxygen
and minimally invasive care that she needs. By doctor's
recommendation, there will be no life-saving efforts made,
when her body begins to shut down. That could be today,
this week, or down the road, but it really just depends on
how long her heart and lungs hold out.

At this point, we all agree that we just want to make her
as comfortable as possible, so that she can drift away when
it is her time.

I thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

I'll keep you posted, dear friends.

Now, go hug somebody.

jb

non-sequitur

2008-12-30T00:35:00.002-05:00

I think Dad had a rougher day than Mom did today.

Dad has been staying close to Mom, and hasn't left St. Vincent's
in Indy since he arrived at 2am Christmas morning.
He's been sleeping in the cheap recliners in the Family Lounge I,
on the ICU ward. Not exactly four good night's of sleep for a 75 year
old man. Or a person of any age, for that matter.

Dad has twice taken advantage of a generous program at the nearby
Marten House Hotel that provides 90 minutes in a complimentary room
for family of patients, so that they might grab a shower and a nap, and some
comfortable time away from the vigil of the waiting rooms.
No substitute for a good night's sleep in your home bed, but a respite nonetheless.

I think that the stress of the uncertainty, or finality of Mom's condition,
coupled with sheer fatigue, may have caught up with Dad.

Debbie and I visited Mom after church on Sunday, and were greatly encouraged
by our visit. She appeared to be so much more comfortable than she had been,
and she was as lucid as I've seen her since she arrived here. When I asked if she
needed anything, she said, "Yes, a Fruit Drink from The Frozen Custard".
She smiled a bit, and I saw sparkle in her eyes that I had missed. When I gave
her a sip of water, she said that it was no Fruit Drink.

After we left, Mom had asked Dad where her Fruit Drink was, and it confused him.

Later that evening, Dad told me that Mom had been more coherent with Debbie and I
than at any other moment of the day, and he was clearly concerned about some of the
random, seemingly disconnected comments she had been making.

Talking to Dad Monday early afternoon, I could tell that he was very down, and
distressed. The Doctor had told him that they could find no evidence of any infection,
which they had originally thought had caused this latest episode. The doctor said that
this left further deterioration of the heart and lungs as the cause of Mom's Christmas
Eve crash. He suggested that any future attempts at CPR, or venting to breath would
be too hard on her body, and should be avoided. Dad is going to sign the DNR paperwork.

He said that they would make her as comfortable as possible.

I saw Mom Monday afternoon, and she recognized me in the doorway. Dad said that,
an hour before, she had opened her eyes, looked around the room, and said,
"Well, when will Jay be done painting these walls."

As confusing as it must be to hear her seemingly random comments, I still believe
that, with all her medication, sedation, and sleep over the past four days, and the
loss of any context for time, Mom is probably dreaming in and out of consciousness,
and her brain is struggling to filter her thoughts into appropriate context and relevance.

But the fact remains that she can't breath without at least a 9 litre push of oxygen right
now, and you can only push 5 litres at home. And she can't really walk alone.

If Mom does leave this hospital, it will likely be to enter assisted care, and she may never
live at home again. I was well aware of this today, as I boxed up her Christmas decorations.

And perhaps this is what is upsetting Dad the most.
Not the Christmas decorations.
He often says that it is so difficult to see her laboring to breathe, knowing that he can't
breathe for her. If her quality of life can't be even what it was before Christmas, he wishes
God's will would be to go ahead and take her now, and we'll catch up with her later.

And I agree.

mom--Sat....3:30pm

2008-12-27T15:31:00.002-05:00

visiting mom.

She is resting much more comfortably today,
than yesterday, when she had just had the vent
tube taken out. She seems to be in much less pain
and discomfort today. Her chest still is sore from
the chest compressions they did on her on Christmas Eve.

In the next 24 hours, they will begin transitioning her
back to much of her "at home" medications.

baby steps in the right direction...jb

jb and mommy--1962

2008-12-27T10:49:00.003-05:00

Friday noon

2008-12-26T12:02:00.002-05:00

got great news on my drive into the hospital.

They took Mom off the Vent-machine, and
she is breathing on her own, albeit, with the
oxygen mask she will always have.

I'll continue to update here.

9am Friday update

2008-12-26T09:07:00.003-05:00

(see post below)

On my way to Indy to spend the day at St. Vincent's with Mom.
As of this A.M., Mom is still relatively "stable" in ICU, although,
the doctors will say she is still very critical.

We still don't know what caused her to crash on Christmas Eve.
We should get some lab results today or Saturday to help identify
a potential infection that triggered this.

At this point, the sedation seems to be allowing her to "rest",
although, when she does wake up, and sees a family member,
it appears to be extremely frustrating and agitating to her that
she cannot communicate, as she is breathing through the ventilator,
and she can't move her hands, because they have secured her wrists
to protect all her hook-ups.

Yesterday afternoon, the nurse told us that she had been very surprised
to find out that she was in the ICU of an Indy hospital on Christmas day,
and didn't recall coding in Anderson the night before.

That would be difficult enough to process this news, but probably worse
yet to be unable to communicate to anyone about it.
Not even one question.

Mom's heart and lung health has deteriorated much over the past year,
and now she has an unknown infection, and is on a vent machine, which
the doctor cannot say would not be a permanent thing.

I am torn between praying that she get's better, and returns to the quality
of life she struggled with most recently, or that her body may finally be giving
all that it can.

Ultimately, I place it in God's hands, and I trust his will, and although I'm crying
as I write this, I am comforted in the faith that, either way,
I will always see her again.

And love her forever.

thanks for allowing me to vent...jb

Christmas over Indy

2008-12-25T03:43:00.009-05:00

My mom is 75 years old, and has been in and out of the hospital for most of the past nine months, struggling with respiratory and heart problems. Dad taking mom to ER has nearly become a bi-weekly routine to drain fluid off her lungs, and help her to breathe.

So when my sister texted me at 9pm on Christmas Eve to say that Dad had taken Mom to ER, I'll admit I had become a little desensitized to it, and went back to watching "Grinch".

But when Dad called from ER, and told me it was touch and go, and a nurse in the background used the phrase "very critical", we jumped in my truck, and raced to the hospital.

Apparently, she had collapsed in the ER parking lot drop-off, and when they did get her into ER, her vitals crashed to very critical levels, and they had to use the "de-fib" paddles on her at least once. Silver lining to this is that her heart had been out of rhythm for some time, and this episode has put her back into rhythm.

As they worked on her in ER, they suggested that all local family might want to get here ASAP. By midnight, they still hadn't been able to pinpoint the specific cause, but it seemed to be more like an infection, than a heart or lung issue, and it was decided that she might have a better chance of diagnosis at St. Vincent's in Indy, so she was lifelined by helicopter to Indy just after midnight on Christmas Eve.

I wonder if Santa passed by Mom's helicopter over Indy?

Dad, Kirk, and I made the midnight trip to Indy, and arrived around 2:30am. We weren't able to see Mom until after 4:00am, but were surprised to see that, even through the sedation, she was responsive, and aware of our presence at her bedside. Feeling a bit relieved, we allowed ourselves to close our eyes in the family lounge, however, the recliners fought us over gravity, and my 30 minute catnap was more than Kirk or Dad got.

We gave up on sleep, and went in to see Mom at 6:30am, and saw that she had stabilized a bit more, although, we were told that her stabilized vitals were being somewhat propped up by her medication. And we can't minimize the fact that, for now, she is only able to breath through the aid of the ventilator machine. Know that there is nothing we can do, we kissed her forehead, held her hand, told her we loved her, and headed for the cafeteria for our Christmas breakfast.

We agreed that Kirk should drive home to Sweetser to open Christmas presents with his kids, and Dad and I have stayed behind. Sisters will be here later.

As of 8:30am, Christmas morning, Mom is still "very critical", but more alive than we could have hoped for 9 hours earlier. Dad and I have become that sleepless family vigil that we see too often in hospitals.

It's not quite how I had planned to spend my Christmas Day, but then again, for Christmas,
I do get to say, "Love you forever" to my Mom at least for one more day.

vintage Christmas memories

2008-12-18T23:52:00.014-05:00

1963

1961

manamana

2008-12-15T21:16:00.000-05:00

fish kisses at Christmas

2008-12-09T20:27:00.005-05:00



(I sent this as an email back in 2003, and I posted it
as an original blog entry when I started my HornBlog.

Beg your pardon, if you've already read it, but then again
you watch "It's a Wonderful Life" every year at Christmas
time, so perhaps you'll indulge a little Horn tradition here.)


Fish Kisses for Christmas

I heard a song at work the other day, and it made me smile.
Nothing unusual there, I suppose.  That happens to us all the time.
Songs take us back to a time, a place, or a person.
But I was at work, and amid a plethora of
endless Christmas songs,
I heard "Oh Holy Night", and it made me smile, and it gave me a chill.
I even chuckled a little.  And then I felt a pang of guilt for laughing.

But that's part of the memory.

When we were growing up, one of my family traditions was to open the Christmas
presents
on Christmas Eve, and then attend the Christmas Eve church service.
Kirk, Kristin, and I were usually so wound up from sugar and Christmas
festivities that we just could not sit still.  Especially in
anticipation of "Babs" doing her solo of "Oh Holy Night".  In Barb's defense,
she sang an inspired and lovely solo.  It's just that, when you are a kid,
you find humor
in silly things.  When Babs hit the big notes, her eyes got
really wide, and her mouth formed perfectly large, round "O".  For some reason,
this sight just cracked us up, and we could not contain our giggling, much to
the consternation of Mom, as well as, the serious congregation surrounding us,
who constantly gave us "the look".  They tried to make us feel guilty that,
maybe, we were ruining a wonderful Christmas moment with our laughing.
And yet, everytime Babs sang, we had the same reaction.
And we could  practically hear someone
whisper,
"Those darn Hornocker kids!"

Yesterday, as the Horn family got together for Christmas, someone asked
my young nephew, Zack, to do "fish kisses", and I was reminded of a new
Christmas
memory.

Last year, we attended the Christmas Eve service with Mom and Dad, and
Kristin brought  her young twins, Allison and Zachary.  Sadly, Babs was
no longer in the Choir, but as I sat in the pew teaching Zack to make
"fish kisses" with his mouth, making him giggle along the way, it felt
like and old memory coming back.
Something passed on to the next generation.

Thirty-some years ago, someone in the pew behind me"shhh-ed" us,
and gave us dirty looks, because we were fooling around during the
Christmas church service.  How dare I giggle during church.
If I didn't pay attention, I might miss the lessons, and the
meaning of Christmas.

Well, I am now
in my mid-forties, and to this day, whenever I hear
"Oh Holy Night", I smile, and I am awash with a feeling of love,
and the great family memories of many a Christmas that I spent
with my brother, my sisters, my parents, and now my nieces and nephews.

I don't feel guilty anymore, and I don't really think I missed the
lessons, and the meaning of Christmas afterall.

I hope that you all have cherished family memories to laugh about
when you gather for the holidays this year.

Merry Christmas.........jay b. horn

Charlie Blog

2008-12-09T08:37:00.004-05:00

(thanks Kirk...)

book

2008-12-03T13:26:00.000-05:00

Debbie teaches pre-schoolers at a private academy in Zionsville http://www.interactiveacademy.com/. As they work their way weekly
through the alphabet, this week happened to feature the letter "J".
So "Miss Debbie" brought me in as a special guest yesterday to represent
the letter "J". I was thrilled and honored to represent J's around the world.

I've never had kids, and I've never been a teacher. I've been an Uncle Jay,
but that is typically for a few hours, several times a year. I used to call it
"drive-by love". The nieces and nephews would come over, I'd get them all
wound up, and then hand them back to my exasperated sibling parents just
before their drive back home. Hopefully, with DVD players in the back seats.

So spending a few hours in a pre-school yesterday with over 20 attention starved
children was at first a shock to my introverted system.

I arrived at school just in time for a snack break. It's been awhile since I had
animal crackers and juice box, but I must say I enjoyed the snack.

After snack time, Miss Debbie led the group in a crayon lesson around writing
their letter J's. I got to sit at the tiny table and make some J's of my own.
They turned out pretty good. And I didn't break the little wooden chair.

Then it was time to read to the kids. Debbie and I had talked about this,
and we had picked out two of our favorite childhood books, noted above.

It was an amazing experience, sitting down in the big, comfy reading chair,
and being immediately swarmed by 20 three year olds, who began picking out their
favorite books, and waving them in my face, and begging me to read their choices.

Oddly, there was a book called "Our Body" that two kids seemed desperate to
have me read. I thumbed through it, and it seemed a bit wordy, and perhaps
more graphic than I was prepared to be able to explain. I flashed on a childhood
memory of sneaking curious peaks at the Encyclopaedia Britannica section
featuring the Human Anatomy, with the see-through fold-away pages that
showed the body from exterior skin to interior organs. Scandalous stuff.
I elected not to read "Our Body" to the group.

Despite the varied requests, I held fast to our original choices, and we had
a wonderful time reading together, "The Monster at the End of This Book",
and "Little Bear". Some of the kids knew the stories, but others listened with
eyes and mouths wide open. And I knew I was either a good reader, or they were
a good crowd, when I got the childhood version of an encore call, when they
begged me to "Read it again!".

Lunchtime followed reading time, and more childhood memories flooded back,
as I got to sit with all the children at the traditional kids lunch table, which hasn't
changed much since I sat at one, as in this picture from my 1969 yearbook.
I'm in the second table, next to Reid Estes.

We enjoyed Miss Sue's famous grilled cheese sandwiches, with tomato or chicken noodle soup,
along with apple wedges, baby carrots, celery, and cucumbers. Along with most of the kids,
I received a check mark for at least trying one of everything on my tray. But sadly, I did not receive a sticker.

We had a bit of free time after lunch, and I couldn't fit into any of the dress up costumes, so I wandered over to the reading chair to relax. As soon as I sat down, like moths to a lamp,
half a dozen kids came at me with books to read. I managed to once again deflect "Our Body",
but settled on "I Know An Old Lady Who Swallowed a Pie".

As I sat in the reading chair, I was aware that at least six children
were either sitting in my lap, leaning heads on my legs, or connecting to me in some way. And they could not have been more content and attentive.

I must say that I was a little sad when Miss Debbie told the children that it was time to go outside and play in the new snow. Abruptly, the reading spell was broken, and replaced with much cheering, jumping about, coat gathering, and boot tying.

As I stood by the window, and watched the kids scamper out into the snow,
I thought of their innocence, and the sheer joy and contentment they derive from such simple things as making snow angels, and having someone read them a book.

I've never had kids, and I've never been a teacher. But I am an Uncle Jay, and very soon I will be a Grandpa Jay to Miss Debbie's Grandchildren. So I think that a legacy and a gift I'd like to pass along more often is the gift of reading to the children in my life.

When was the last time you read "Go Dog, Go!" to a child?

I believe it's an experience that neither of you will forget.

Reindeer

2008-12-01T22:52:00.000-05:00

Deer leap to death from overpass

Last of 5 strikes truck's windshield on I-69; driver OK

by Michael Zennie, reprinted from The Journal Gazette (Fort Wayne)

For some drivers on Interstate 69 on Friday, it might have looked as though it were raining deer in Huntington County.

But, sadly, it had nothing to do with holiday reindeer. In a gruesome display of bizarre animal behavior, five deer leapt to their deaths off the U.S. 224 overpass and onto the northbound lanes of I-69 about 12:30 p.m. Friday.

The last one went through the windshield of a tractor-trailer rig, the Huntington County Sheriff's Department said. The driver was uninjured.

The 20- to 30-foot fall killed all five deer, dispatcher Brian Jenks said.

Wells County EMS paramedic Andy Stimpson said he was the first person to arrive at the crash scene, and he wasn't quite prepared for what he saw. "It's the weirdest run I've ever had in 28 years," he said.

The animals' mangled carcasses littered the expressway after their fatal jump, Stimpson said.

This time of year is stressful for deer. Hunters push through fields and woods, hoping to scare deer out of their cover. Farmers are removing the last of their crops from the fields. And the breeding season is in full swing.

Any of these factors could have pushed the deer onto the highway overpass, Department of Natural Resources spokesman Phil Bloom said.

If oncoming cars spooked them, they might have jumped off the highway, not knowing what was below them, conservation officer and DNR district spokesman John Salb said.

And the I-69/U.S. 224 interchange marks a likely spot for wildlife and humans to collide. The west side of the interchange is bordered by privately owned fields and the Markle State Recreation area, which is popular with hunters, Jenks said.

The east side of the interchange marks the edge of the town of Markle. And that stretch of U.S. 224 is heavy with traffic.

The falling deer is just one extreme example of the strained relationship between deer and civilization.

Jenks said he's seen about a threefold increase in car-deer crashes over this time last year.

Huntington sheriff's deputies work, on average, three deer-related crashes every night. On a single night in mid-October, deputies handled 14 crashes across the county, he said.

(and I thought "Bambi" ended badly...jbh)

hornblog 1.0 archive

2008-11-26T13:13:00.000-05:00

http://jaybhornblog.blogsome.com/

I haven't figured out how to link my previous blog site,
or how to import the 80+ postings, so for now,
you can link back to my original HornBar
through the above link.

hornblog 2.0

2008-11-26T12:04:00.000-05:00

(this was my first post from my first blog in August of 2007---jbh)

My brother, Kirk, says I've been a blogger for years. I think that's ok. I started keeping some kind of journal back in 6th grade, although the content wasn't all that memorable. In high school, Mrs. Shoe, our creative writing teacher, and "that teacher" who hosted chili, hot dog, and Euchre partries for clean fun on the weekends got us to start keeping more serious journals. I've kept one going rather continuously, if not sporadically, since then, which would've been around 1978.

My journal has evolved over the years into a combo-platter of journal/scrap-book. I made up a new word for it...Scrapnal. I'm not entirely certain what this has to do with starting an international blog, except to say that I've been trying to lay down my thoughts somewhere for years. Sadly, writing by hand and pen became too tedious at some point, so I drifted away from any real subtantial literal downloading onto paper. Hand cramps would've kept me from being a good, Bible translating monk.

Email changed everything.

I discovered email in 2001, and it has become my favorite way to download from the Jay-brain. It absolutely was a critical tool that helped me process through, and recover from my divorce. Oftentimes now, I'll generate an email to friends and family, and cut and paste the text into my Scrapnal. On the page next to the menu from that restaurant. or the ticket stub.

My Aunt Rosemary likes my emails enough that she keeps asking when I'm going to write that book that she knows is in me. I imagine my friends cringe when they get an email from me, cuz they know my proclivity for the e-novellette. But no one has actually complained yet.

Debbie's daughters have cool blogs, and after perusing them, I thought I'd like to have a go at one, and see where it took the J-brain. Maybe my regular emails won't be as lengthy. or maybe not.

so now I'll have to see if I can print this text, and paste it into my Scrapnal. Across the page from the menu from King Gyro on Nichol.

word.....jb