The Watch, The Door, and Chance…

I stood in the pastor’s office, my heart was beating a bit fast. I’m not so sure that I was nervous. Granted, I’m not so sure I wasn’t, either. My friend Chance was in there with me also, and since I had given him my watch to wear he kept glancing at it and mocking me as the minutes went by. The pastor walked in from his back office door, and realized in the process that it was unlocked. Smiling at me he locked it and said, “Wouldn’t do if you could just run away right now, would it?” I smiled a bit in return.

We went over a few details about what was going to happen in a few minutes and then he had to leave. As he left via the office door opposite of the one he came in, he looked at Chance and told him, “Now, make sure he doesn’t try to make a run for it.” Chance told him he had it well under control.

Now, Chance is about 6’5″ or seven feet tall. Somewhere in there. And at the time, he was about as skinny as anyone could get without looking emaciated. Me.. well, I was 6′ even, give or take 3 inches depending on how the Navy decided to measure me, and weighed in at the 220 mark. I was pretty solid at the time having been doing a lot of exercising on the ship prior to this point. So, I was pretty sure that if I needed to, Chance would have given me less trouble than the lock on the door. (Sorry Chance, it’s just how I remember it).

I don’t remember what we talked about over the next few minutes, I just remember my nervousness got more pronounced as each second ticked away the minutes. Eventually, a photographer came into the room and took a few photos. One of them is of Chance pointing at my watch and looking at me. Still have that photo, still makes me laugh. Somewhere in all of this, Chance even offered to help me make an escape out the backdoor, completely disregarding the pastor’s command. (btw, that’s how you know you got a good friend).

Eventually, Pastor Brocious popped his head into the office and told us it was time. Chance looked at me, made sure I was good, I took a deep breath, straightened out my Navy Dress Blue blouse (yep, that’s what it’s called), and we stepped into the chapel onto the stage. The chapel was filled with friends and family, the piano music was playing, Chance took his position next to me (at this point, I think he was more there to keep me from beelining it to the door in the office), and we watched as my groomsman walked family members into their final seating positions and then escort the bridesmaids.

The moment had finally come. I think Chance busted my chops a little right before she walked into the chapel, but as she did, it was like time and space decided to go sideways for a while. Her dad was at her side and they walked up the aisle toward me, her bouquet in her trembling hands and a nervous smile on her face. My heart was doing the jig at this point.

Which is pretty weird all things considered. Here I was, a Naval sailor, home from war (or the starting of one), having been out to sea for 6 months, trained to deal with all kinds of inconvenient things, who lived a life of pure stress for the last few months, and this girl, this beautiful girl, had me in a knot so big I couldn’t think straight. What’s up with that I ask…

Anyway…

There was a ceremony. There were vows. There was singing. There was a ring exchange (btw, her’s totally wouldn’t go on all the way). There was a prayer. There was a blessly riched. Then there was a richly blessed. (the pastor made a goof, it was funny). Then… there was a kiss.

That first one.

As husband and wife.

I got to say…who ever came up with that idea… good job.. because it’s not a bad way to start things off in a marriage.

The cake was pretty good too…

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fight or Flight.”

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The Watch, The Door, and Chance…

I stood in the pastor’s office, my heart was beating a bit fast. I’m not so sure that I was nervous. Granted, I’m not so sure I wasn’t, either. My friend Chance was in there with me also, and since I had given him my watch to wear he kept glancing at it and mocking me as the minutes went by. The pastor walked in from his back office door, and realized in the process that it was unlocked. Smiling at me he locked it and said, “Wouldn’t do if you could just run away right now, would it?” I smiled a bit in return.

We went over a few details about what was going to happen in a few minutes and then he had to leave. As he left via the office door opposite of the one he came in, he looked at Chance and told him, “Now, make sure he doesn’t try to make a run for it.” Chance told him he had it well under control.

Now, Chance is about 6’5″ or seven feet tall. Somewhere in there. And at the time, he was about as skinny as anyone could get without looking emaciated. Me.. well, I was 6′ even, give or take 3 inches depending on how the Navy decided to measure me, and weighed in at the 220 mark. I was pretty solid at the time having been doing a lot of exercising on the ship prior to this point. So, I was pretty sure that if I needed to, Chance would have given me less trouble than the lock on the door. (Sorry Chance, it’s just how I remember it).

I don’t remember what we talked about over the next few minutes, I just remember my nervousness got more pronounced as each second ticked away the minutes. Eventually, a photographer came into the room and took a few photos. One of them is of Chance pointing at my watch and looking at me. Still have that photo, still makes me laugh. Somewhere in all of this, Chance even offered to help me make an escape out the backdoor, completely disregarding the pastor’s command. (btw, that’s how you know you got a good friend).

Eventually, Pastor Brocious popped his head into the office and told us it was time. Chance looked at me, made sure I was good, I took a deep breath, straightened out my Navy Dress Blue blouse (yep, that’s what it’s called), and we stepped into the chapel onto the stage. The chapel was filled with friends and family, the piano music was playing, Chance took his position next to me (at this point, I think he was more there to keep me from beelining it to the door in the office), and we watched as my groomsman walked family members into their final seating positions and then escort the bridesmaids.

The moment had finally come. I think Chance busted my chops a little right before she walked into the chapel, but as she did, it was like time and space decided to go sideways for a while. Her dad was at her side and they walked up the aisle toward me, her bouquet in her trembling hands and a nervous smile on her face. My heart was doing the jig at this point.

Which is pretty weird all things considered. Here I was, a Naval sailor, home from war (or the starting of one), having been out to sea for 6 months, trained to deal with all kinds of inconvenient things, who lived a life of pure stress for the last few months, and this girl, this beautiful girl, had me in a knot so big I couldn’t think straight. What’s up with that I ask…

Anyway…

There was a ceremony. There were vows. There was singing. There was a ring exchange (btw, her’s totally wouldn’t go on all the way). There was a prayer. There was a blessly riched. Then there was a richly blessed. (the pastor made a goof, it was funny). Then… there was a kiss.

That first one.

As husband and wife.

I got to say…who ever came up with that idea… good job.. because it’s not a bad way to start things off in a marriage.

The cake was pretty good too…

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fight or Flight.”

Gamer Life…

Gamer Life…

What diet?

What diet?

My Collection…

My office is kind of my place away from everybody. Which gets invaded on a fairly regular occurrence, cause, let’s face it… I live with a bunch of women. (My cats are even female) So, I have to do something to make my office mine. Hence the photo up top. That is my collection of stuff. Displayed on the wall behind me, in full view of anyone walking into my area. It is pretty epic if I do say so myself (and I am usually the only one saying so… so…..)

For those who can’t figure it out, that is a collection of Disney Infinity characters a midst a smattering of bobble heads and other miscellaneous figures (not dolls.. no matter how much the females in the house try to convince you otherwise). And yes, that is a real katana on display at the top (wife got that for me for Christmas this year).

I have a few other bobble heads in my collection, but they are too big to fit on that shelf. So, for now, they sit on my desk.. but less I leave them out.. here they are.

I’m pretty sure Chuck would have an issue if I left him out… and nobody needs that kind of problem. Not even the Wampa.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Wall to Wall.”

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My Collection…

My office is kind of my place away from everybody. Which gets invaded on a fairly regular occurrence, cause, let’s face it… I live with a bunch of women. (My cats are even female) So, I have to do something to make my office mine. Hence the photo up top. That is my collection of stuff. Displayed on the wall behind me, in full view of anyone walking into my area. It is pretty epic if I do say so myself (and I am usually the only one saying so… so…..)

For those who can’t figure it out, that is a collection of Disney Infinity characters a midst a smattering of bobble heads and other miscellaneous figures (not dolls.. no matter how much the females in the house try to convince you otherwise). And yes, that is a real katana on display at the top (wife got that for me for Christmas this year).

I have a few other bobble heads in my collection, but they are too big to fit on that shelf. So, for now, they sit on my desk.. but less I leave them out.. here they are.

I’m pretty sure Chuck would have an issue if I left him out… and nobody needs that kind of problem. Not even the Wampa.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Wall to Wall.”

Procrastination…

Of sorts.

It’s not really procrastination. At least I keep telling myself that.

I’m biding my time. Making good use of the moments that I have…

While not working on my essay for English class.

Like, seriously, it’s only 500 words. I can do that with my eyes closed (honestly, sometimes I type my stuff with my eyes closed just to see how messed up my typing skills are). Now, make it make sense as it relates to critically analyzing a story I had to read and base the entire thing off of?

Well…. that’s a different subject. One that I truly don’t care for. One, because as I have previously written about, I don’t really like to read as much as I like to write. Second, this whole ‘analyze’ thing. Seriously, who does that? Who looks at a story for this deep meaning? Who reads a poem to figure out the ‘human voice’ it portrays (yep, one of my assignments for American Lit)? Where do people come up with this stuff?

Maybe I’m just a shallow writer. Maybe I just like to tell a good story. Maybe I really don’t include a ton of subtext in the fiction I post. Maybe… I do.

But why do we have to nitpick the brain of an author and figure out what they are saying.

And poets are the worst. I think I have seriously lost any appetite I have ever had for poetry in these two classes. All this context, subtext, pretext, text text.. I feel like I’m listening to teenagers tell me about conversations they had with the bae.

On a side note… bae? Really? That extra ‘B’ was just TOO much for you to type? Stop it.

Ok, back to whatever it was that I was trying to get at… oh, procrastination.

Yep, totally putting off writing this paper. I should be doing it now. Ok, maybe I should be working.. but.. moot point in this argument…

It is my own fault. I am the one who decided to take English 2 and American Lit at the same time.

So much reading… SOOOOOOO much….

If you need me, I will be somewhere else typing this monstrosity of a critical analysis about some old dude with huge wings.

Yah, fun.

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Procrastination…

Of sorts.

It’s not really procrastination. At least I keep telling myself that.

I’m biding my time. Making good use of the moments that I have…

While not working on my essay for English class.

Like, seriously, it’s only 500 words. I can do that with my eyes closed (honestly, sometimes I type my stuff with my eyes closed just to see how messed up my typing skills are). Now, make it make sense as it relates to critically analyzing a story I had to read and base the entire thing off of?

Well…. that’s a different subject. One that I truly don’t care for. One, because as I have previously written about, I don’t really like to read as much as I like to write. Second, this whole ‘analyze’ thing. Seriously, who does that? Who looks at a story for this deep meaning? Who reads a poem to figure out the ‘human voice’ it portrays (yep, one of my assignments for American Lit)? Where do people come up with this stuff?

Maybe I’m just a shallow writer. Maybe I just like to tell a good story. Maybe I really don’t include a ton of subtext in the fiction I post. Maybe… I do.

But why do we have to nitpick the brain of an author and figure out what they are saying.

And poets are the worst. I think I have seriously lost any appetite I have ever had for poetry in these two classes. All this context, subtext, pretext, text text.. I feel like I’m listening to teenagers tell me about conversations they had with the bae.

On a side note… bae? Really? That extra ‘B’ was just TOO much for you to type? Stop it.

Ok, back to whatever it was that I was trying to get at… oh, procrastination.

Yep, totally putting off writing this paper. I should be doing it now. Ok, maybe I should be working.. but.. moot point in this argument…

It is my own fault. I am the one who decided to take English 2 and American Lit at the same time.

So much reading… SOOOOOOO much….

If you need me, I will be somewhere else typing this monstrosity of a critical analysis about some old dude with huge wings.

Yah, fun.

And now, for a true story…

In a rare case, I post someone else’s story or thoughts. Today is one of those moments. This comes from MIkey’s Funnies email (you can subscribe to it here).

True story…

In September of 2005, a social studies schoolteacher from Arkansas did something not to be forgotten. On the first day of school, with permission of the school superintendent, the principal, and the building supervisor, she took all of the desks out of the classroom. The kids came into first period, they walked in; there were no desks. They obviously looked around and said, “Where’s our desks?”

The teacher said, “You can’t have a desk until you tell me how you earn them.”

They thought, “Well, maybe it’s our grades.”

“No,” she said.

“Maybe it’s our behavior.”

And she told them, “No, it’s not even your behavior.”

And so they came and went in the first period, still no desks in the classroom. Second period, same thing. Third period. By early afternoon television news crews had gathered in the class to find out about this crazy teacher who had taken all the desks out of the classroom. The last period of the day, the instructor gathered her class.

They were at this time sitting on the floor around the sides of the room. She said, “Throughout the day no one has really understood how you earn the desks that sit in this classroom ordinarily. Now I’m going to tell you.”

She went over to the door of her classroom and opened it, and as she did 27 U.S. veterans, wearing their uniforms, walked into that classroom, each one carrying a school desk. And they placed those school desks in rows, and then they stood along the wall. By the time they had finished placing the desks, those kids for the first time perhaps in their lives understood how they earned those desks.

Their teacher said, “You don’t have to earn those desks. These guys did it for you. They put them out there for you, but it’s up to you to sit here responsibly, to learn, to be good students and good citizens, because they paid a price for you to have that desk, and don’t ever forget it.”

Hoo Yah, teacher.

HOO YAH!

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All Around the World, Mostly…

I joined the Navy when I was 18 and over the next four years got to see more of the world then I really ever wanted. Call me short-sighted, call me narrow-minded, call me non adventurous, call me a homebody… but I just don’t like traveling. At least, not anymore.

You see, in that four years I got to see Portugal, Spain, Palma de Mallorca, Italy, Sardinia, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Djibouti, Israel, Turkey, Greece, the Sinai Peninsula, Kuwait, Iraq, The Suez Canal, most of the Caribbean, Venezuela, Colombia, Peru, Panama, the Panama Canal, Ecuador, Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Brazil and I’m pretty sure I left off a few places…

I even got to see a few cities in the U.S. in that time frame too.

I’ve seen some of the most beautiful water you could ever imagine, sailed in some of the worst seas that I hope never to revisit, did some of the craziest (stupid) things I still can’t quite believe I did, and saw things that will be with me for the rest of my life.

But for all the photos I have, and for all the fun that I enjoyed, for all the memories that were made…nothing was ever like home. Watching our home port grow larger as we pulled in from being underway, manning the rail and scanning the crowd for my family, rushing into the arms of my wife (ok, she rushed, I was military and manly and.. didn’t cry at all.. nope), feeling complete again and that somehow that moment made the last 6 months worth it.

Yeah… home.

I’d be ok if I never had to leave her again.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “No, Thanks.”

Children…

As a side note… he is almost 23 and she (the one in the blanket) just turned 20.

Yep.. time bombs… both of them.

A Quote by C.S. Lewis

To Write or to Read…

It’s no surprise, I like to write. I fancy myself a bit of a story-teller. I enjoy when others enjoy what I create. A bit too much, some might say. Some. I take criticism about as well as anyone else, which is to say, I don’t mind correction, but I despise it when someone says negative things about my work.

There are times I feel more at home in front of a keyboard than I do anywhere else. Unless, of course, there are video games to be played. Then… well, the world needs to be saved, even if it is only a fake one. But I digress (a word I like to use as a way to explain my rabbit trails).

Flip that situation though, and make me the reader. Oh, that just won’t do. It’s not that I don’t like reading. I do. However, reading takes a mindset that I seem to posses in a very limited quantity. When it comes to reading, it either has to be something that catches my attention before I even start to read, or something I am required to read. As an aside, I don’t even like re-reading the stuff I write. It’s that bad. (my dislike of reading that is, not my writing. Oh, please, I hope my writing isn’t that bad.)

I think that makes me ironic. Or snobby. Or like a check valve…

So in the vein of the self diagnosis, my issue is rather one of the short attention span variety. There are times when I will be reading something and I end up in a thought that turns into another one, that trains into a few more ideas that I could incorporate into one of my stories, and two pages later, I have no idea what I just read. On top of that, because I never wrote down what I was thinking, I have lost those ideas. And now, I’m stuck with having to re-read what I just read AND not having done anything productive with my writing.

It’s the infamous Catch-22 (a book I really should read one of these days).

So, given the choice of being either a reader or a writer, I will chose writer every time.

It’s really a no-brainer.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Morton’s Fork.”

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Self-Deprecation…

Trying to convince the world

That something should exist

Is akin to hurling lightning bolts

While keeping a closed fist.

The true value of a thing

Can never be judged by another,

Hence the reason for the saying,

“A face only loved by your mother.”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do or Die.”

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No More Teacher’s Dirty Looks… | Thoughts from the Front

No More Teacher’s Dirty Looks…

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