Steel-Eye McGinty and the Fight for Creativity

Greetings and well-wishes to you all, my dear Internet friends and neighbors, precious family, and especially all those patient authors who are waiting for a review.

It has been a week since I last made a post here, and much, much longer than that since I have been able to read to any good purpose, specifically with respect to writing a review.
It is not from a lack of appropriate material; I have (at least) 10 books in my TBR&R queue, and my perception, based on the authors, titles, and covers, is that these are books I will VASTLY enjoy. And some of those authors are important to me!
Behold, I shall conceal nothing from you: the last several weeks have been a challenge.

Not all is my story to tell. I have related a bit of the Georgia Monsoon of 2019 Septic Tank Disaster in my last post.
I have NOT mentioned the new, different, agonizing, sharp, stabbing, localized, intermittent, and migratory back pain I have been experiencing for the past six weeks. (More on that in a later post!)
And I don't recall if I have included a statement about the simultaneous failures-to-function-correctly status of our refrigerator, followed by the dryer and washing machine (those last two in the same day).
If those were not occurring in MY house, they would be brief, transitory, insignificant events, compared to what some of my dear ones are facing.
All of them, though, have contributed in some way to my inability to read.

If there is a virus that causes Writer's Block, then perhaps Reader's Block is a mutation.  And perhaps inspiring a burst of creativity will help.
With that in mind, I will relate to you one of the famous McGinty stories, composed a couple of decades ago for the Young Moose, now 27 years of age.

The Young Moose, 1996

Once upon a time there was a man called Steel-Eye McGinty. That wasn't his real name; his real name was Henry McGinty, but nobody called him that. He had lots of brothers and uncles and cousins, such as Gordon and James and Howard and Cecil, but nobody called them by those names. Everybody called them Tweety-Bird McGinty and Iron Pants McGinty and Crow Bar McGinty and Tow-Truck McGinty. Everybody, that is, except for their grandmother. She said all those names were a bunch of foolishness. She wasn't a McGinty; she was a McGillicuddy.

Henry McGinty got his name this way: He was not very smart, and not very strong, but he was as sweet as the day was long and he was the best mechanic and driver anyone had ever seen. He was hired by the mayor, and he took care of the trucks and buses and cars for the town, and he drove the mayor wherever he needed to go. He always took the best way (this was before the days of global satellites and traffic reports), and he got the mayor where he needed to go, on time and safely. The mayor had to go a LOT of places, because being the mayor, he had to promote the town's syrup factory, and he had to go see people all across the state to arrange to buy sugar cane and sell syrup. Everybody liked the mayor, because he took good care of their jobs, and he always had time to talk to anybody.

The mayor liked to talk. On the long trips across the state, he talked a lot with Henry (this was before cell phones; today, he probably would have been talking business with other people), about life, the universe, and everything. Henry liked those talks; they gave him a lot to think about, and the mayor was always interested in hearing what Henry had to say.

Henry especially like the way that the mayor helped people. He liked fixing the trucks and buses and cars, and he really liked driving the mayor, but he began thinking that he wanted to help people, too. He and the mayor used to talk about that on those trips. The mayor told Henry that he WAS helping people, because without Henry, he wouldn't be able to go visit farmers to buy sugar cane, and then the syrup factory would be hurt. Henry understood that, but he wanted to do more. But Henry knew he wasn't very smart, and he wasn't very strong, and he didn't make much money. What he really wanted to do was to go to other places, poor places, where farmers couldn't grow sugar cane because they didn't have enough water, and help them. He just didn't know how to do that.

His uncle Fill-up McGinty told Henry to just Do The Next Right Thing. Henry said he didn't know what the Next Right Thing was, and Fill-Up told him to Fully Rely On God (Fill-Up was a part-time preacher, but a very nice person anyway). Fill-Up told him some other things, too, but Do The Next Right Thing and Fully Rely On God were the things Henry remembered. For a while, he thought he should be a missionary to China, but Uncle Fill-Up explained that he didn't have to do that, and it was probably a bad idea anyway.

So, Henry and the mayor kept travelling, and they talked about syrup and the sugar cane crop, and water for irrigation,  The mayor was interested in Henry's plans to help people, and he told Henry that he thought Uncle Fill-Up was right. They were talking about ways in which Henry could know what the Next Right Thing was, headed east on US Hwy 82, when the chains on a log truck coming toward them broke, and dumped it's load in front of their car. Henry had just the barest moment to see it coming, and the last thing he saw was a log coming through the windshield.

Later, Henry found out that he had managed to steer the car just enough to the right that the log didn't kill him or the mayor. The mayor, in fact, didn't have a scratch on him, but Henry lost his left eye. The State Patrol had called in a medevac helicopter, and he was in the Trauma Center in Macon fast enough that they were able to save his life, but glass and pine splinters had damaged his eye so bad it had to be removed. He had a concussion , and a deep cut to his left arm (the mayor had used his belt to make a tourniquet to keep him from bleeding out), but they expected him to recover fully, except he would meed a prosthetic eye, and he needed some physical therapy for his left arm and hand..

When he was well enough to understand, they explained to him that he had a big insurance settlement coming, and that all his medical expenses were covered. That included $8,500 for an ocularist to make him a prosthetic eye that would be so real that no one could tell the difference. It would move just like his good right eye. The Georgia Eye Institute in Savannah would take care of everything.

And that's when Henry told them "No!"

He found out he would still be able to drive, once he learned how to adjust for depth perception, and he could still be a mechanic. He told them that he was going to Fully Rely On God, and Do The Next Right Thing, and he wanted to give the money to an irrigation project in South Sudan to help them grow sugar cane. He wouldn't change his mind, and after talking with him, the mayor and his family all gave him their support. The money went to the South Sudan, Education and Peace Building project, as a Designated Gift.

Since he refused to buy the prosthetic eye, he tried wearing an eye patch. He thought that made him look too much like a pirate, though. His physical therapist was having him playing with ball bearings to help his hand, and he decided to see if one of those would fit his eye socket. It did, perfectly! He also had to do some painting, to help his fine motor control, and he tried painting different designs on the ball bearing so it wouldn't look like he had Terminator eyes. At first, his art was pretty bad, and it never got REALLY great, but the kids liked it when they saw his new designs, and they started calling him Steel-Eye.

Steel-Eye remains happy with his choice. He has the internet now, and he is able to check up on the status of the sugar cane project. It is going well.

Kenana Sugar Cane

Although he does not seek publicity, his story has inspired many others. He has even had a hymn written about him, and although he says he can't sing a lick, he is often heard to be humming the tune.

Steel-Eye will trust Him
Steel-Eye will follow
Steel-Eye will listen to His every call
When the storm rages on
And he  can't find his way
Steel-Eye will trust you, Lord

So, now nobody calls him Henry; everybody calls him Steel-Eye. Everybody, that is, except for his grandmother. She thinks these nicknames are a load of foolishness. She's not a McGinty; she's a McGillicuddy.


And...that's the end of that.
Sure, it's a long story for the punch line, but I was almost there already from choir practice, and from telling Young Moose the McGinty stories, so I just went with it. If you'd like to hear the REAL words, click here.

I'm hoping this will jump-start my creativity, and I can start reading and reviewing again. If not, perhaps it will serve to amuse. And, if I can bring a smile to faces, then I smile as well.

Peace be on your household.

Angels: A F.R.O.G for Vanessa, a T.O.A.D. for Pat

Greetings, and abundant blessings to my dear internet friends, my neighbors, my beloved and beleaguered family, and to whoever in my Home Group reads this.

This is a post about angels.

In 1978, my wild and capricious lifestyle best thinking lead me to enroll in seminary, and to take a class in New Testament Greek. I had prepped the summer before by learning the Greek alphabet, and I suppose that did help a bit.

The very first Greek work that caught my attention was "ἄγγελος," and I think the best I can do to represent that in our lettering system is "aggelos." The Greek letters are alpha, gamma, gamma, epsilon, lambda, omicron, sigma.

"Hmm," I thought. "That's almost the same as 'angel,'  but there is no 'ν' (the Greek letter 'nu') to represent the 'n' sound."

And shortly afterward, I learned my first REAL Greek lesson: when there are two gammas written together,"γγ", the sound is changed to 'ng'.
And shortly after THAT, I learned my SECOND Greek lesson, and one of the more important lessons I learned in that entire year: the word "ἄγγελος" in all its' forms, singular, plural, etc,  "ἄγγελόν", "ἀγγέλων",  "ἀγγέλους", means "messenger." 

That's right: an angel is a messenger. 

And I will extrapolate only SLIGHTLY, and say that a message from God is carried by: an angel.

I have written about frog visits before, which came at a time of crisis. If you click on that link, you will see the first visitation, along with the circumstances. The second visitation came just about a year ago; another cute little green frog appeared in the living room.

Now, I THOUGHT that our current crisis was a septic tank that is non-functional due to the high water table from the rains we have had over the last two weeks. Later events changed my perspective on that, but it is true that all this past week, I have to be stationed downstairs with the Ridgid Blower Vac. I yell "GO," and they wash or flush or shower, and they get to use 16 gallons of water until I yell "STOP STOP STOP!"  (BTW: if you click on the Ridgid link, it will open a window on Amazon, where you can buy the kind of blower vac I am using. But even if you DON'T buy anything, click on the link anyway. It makes me happy when people click on the links in my blog.)

But, on Monday, as I was vacuuming out the drainage pipes, I found this little fellow swimming in the sewage I had just vacuumed up:

I washed him off and stuck him in a terrarium made out of a cardboard box.

Now, TWICE in recent years, we have had tiny green frogs appear in our immediate environment; that's a bit unusual, as we don't live near ANY water; no pond, stream, nothing. And the first frog appeared in our CAR in the Kroger parking lot, and the second frog appeared in our living room. Tiny, green, cute.

But on BOTH occasions, we were facing a tough decision about family, and whether or not we were going to offer housing.  And, it was bugging us both, but I think it was bugging my gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA, more.

It was on that first occasion that I realized the significance:  FROG is the acronym for Fully Rely On God. And it took a bit, but my wife DID understand that there is more to receiving a message from God than just hanging out at night in a field, keeping watch over sheep. Sometimes the message comes more subtly than that, perhaps so subtly, that it takes a while to accept the TRUTH:  there is a message for you.

And if there is a message, there is a messenger, and therefore, as I explained to Vanessa, the frog is an angel. And we both were able to accept the message to Fully Rely On God. And it was a great comfort to us in the days following.

By the way: with the appearance of the second frog, right before we had to take grandchildren into our home for over two months, at first Vanessa was having a hard time with the NATURE of the messenger. IT WAS A FROG! IN HER LIVING ROOM! And at first, that's all she could comprehend. But I helped her get past that point, so that she could   Fully Rely On God; I reminded her that God had other messengers. And if she couldn't hear the message of   Fully Rely On God, perhaps the NEXT message was Don't Rely Again, Girl, On Nothing: DRAGON! (I was JOKING, I was JOKING!)

Fast forward to two weeks ago, when the rains hit hard. The basement flooded, and we discovered it at 6:15 on Monday morning, as I was walking Vanessa to her car to go to work. It made her very, very upset; but I eased her past it, and told her repeatedly that I was going to take care of it, that there were things she could do, and things that I could do, and this was one of the things that she could NOT do, and one of the things that I COULD. And she was able to move on, after I let her know that afternoon that I had vacuumed the basement dry.

Fortunately, we didn't know at the time that the rains would keep coming until the ground was so saturated that our septic system couldn't handle it. And it's been about two weeks now that every usage of water has to be matched with usage of the wet-vac.

And then, I found the messenger. But it wasn't a FROG; it's a TOAD. And Vanessa really doesn't have a problem with  Fully Relying On God. And then I got It. Or, part of It. And then another It. And yesterday, I got the rest of It.
The message wasn't for Vanessa; it was for me. Before the Messenger from God appeared, I was VERY angry with whoever had flushed Wet-Wipes down the toilet, because you can't do that to a septic tank. But once the Messenger showed up, I was at peace.

And the message was: we got a message! God cared enough about what our condition was that He sent us a message! We got the package, but we didn't know what was in it; but it was tremendously comforting to know that He was watching, and He sent us a message.
Yesterday, as I was vacuuming up water so the kids could take showers before school, I was thinking about the significance of getting a TOAD. What does TOAD mean?

It was deeply personal; I won't go farther than to say I have a history of struggling with feeling incompetent. And then I saw God's message in the TOAD: Take On, And Do.

It's a tremendously affirming message to me, that God has found me worthy to Take On, And Do.He trusts me to take care of His family. He is confident in my ability to handle this, to do what I can, and when I see that I can't accomplish something, to reach out for help.  Take On, And Do;He is saying to me, once again: "You are not worthless." 

That's huge.

Ya know what's NOT huge? The septic tank situation. Oh, they are still there; the trip I made to Home Depot to get some parts I thought I needed was MUCH, MUCH less than a success. As soon as I get THIS posted, I'm going to spend several hours shuttling between hooking up the blower-vac and the dishwasher. and the toilets, and maybe the washing machine, and I'd LIKE to have the time to drill into my yard and find out if the Infiltrator system I have really IS full of water, or if the problem lies elsewhere. I'm betting on 'elsewhere' at the moment. I have a call in to my oldest buddy from back in the 60's who is a retired Genius Plumber, and I'm hoping he can speak a word of clarification.

But it's NOT huge, it's not even a problem. If you have the resources to deal with circumstances, they are merely arrangements, or opportunities. I have had the opportunity to serve my family. And I have had the opportunity to serve Angel, the tiny TOAD who has been hanging out with me in my man cave for the past three nights, when the temperatures dropped below freezing. It's DEFINITELY worth doing:

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it. (Heb 13:2, NASB)

But the outside temp is now 47 degrees, and so I shall close this post, and release Angel into the wild, and then Take On, And Do.

Peace be on your household. 

Does Your Ego Lose Its' Structure From The Faux-Pas From Your Lips?

Greeting, internet friends and neighbors, and those who are related to me by blood, and yet have found cause to examine this blog.

(Probably to see if I am talking about them. Not an unreasonable thought.)

(WARNING: This blog post uses more than one font. Please try not to burst into tears.)

When I was a lad of approximately...10 years old (? Maybe?) I had the great good fortune to be waiting (interminably) in the car, for a parent to return from some incomprehensible adult errand. Not being particularly wicked (must have been my mother, I guess) they left me with a book (my favorite thing) and the radio playing.

And then....across the airwaves...and penetrating the deep concentration/coma into which I customarily lapsed when reading (this was a book of Boy Scout stories, IIRC), came these dulcet tones:

"Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its' Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight?"

Lonnie Donegan

He was born in Scotland.

I had not been known for being able to hear a song played once, and then being able to sing it. But THESE lyrics set my toes a' tappin' and my synapses clicking:

Does your chewing gum lose its' flavor on the bedpost overnight?
If your mother says "Don't chew it!" do you swallow it in spite?
Can you catch it on your tonsils, and heave it left and right?
Does your chewing gum lose its' flavor on the bedpost overnight?

On the bedpost overnight!
A dollar is a dollar,
And a dime is a dime
We could sing another chorus,
But we haven't got the time!
On the bedpost overnight!

So, the song stayed with me, and I sang it on those frequent occasions when it seemed to be appropriate.

Decades passed...

I found myself in my middle 20's working in the Admissions Office at Georgia State University, and going to school at night, just as MOST of the clerical staff at the University were doing. Actually, I could take one class on my lunch hour, and another at night, and that was a full graduate load at the time, and I could go home before it got TOO late.

Interacting with the public, a LOT, side by side with other college and graduate students leads, inexorably, to using a lot of words. Articulate bunch, we were; and, in the natural course of things, a certain percentage of those words just went...wrong. Painfully, embarrassingly, WRONG. I hope I don't have to explain that to you, because it's sort of the driving point to this blog post. (Well, that, AND the fact that I'm HORRIBLY behind on reading (and reviewing) these books I've got in queue.)

And so, after some forgotten, but doubtless humiliating, episode, I wrote this song. If you HAVEN'T clicked on the link to the You Tube video, and you don't know the tune, then by all means, click the link NOW.

We'll wait....

Okay, got it?

I DO need to make one linguistic and cultural point: In the language of 1978-ish, a "boner" referred ONLY to a mistake. Southern conversation, especially that found in an institution of higher learning,  did not permit sexual innuendo in mixed company. Such references would have been  treated by all as crude, and might even have resulted in a quiet reprimand from a superior.

Here's my song; please, feel free to imagine four-part harmony:

Does your ego lose its' structure from the faux-pas from your lips?
Does your self-esteem take a nosedive from your fumbled, bumbled quips?
Does saliva from your foot-in-mouth result in falls and slips?
Does your ego lose its' structure from the faux-pas from your lips?

From the faux-pas on your lips...
A boner is a boner,
And a rhyme is a rhyme
I could sing another chorus,
But I haven't got the time,
From the faux-pas from your lips!

And: that's it. There is no point other than passing along a memory, and hopefully, bring a smile.

Peace be unto your house.

A Birthday Meditation

Greetings, Internet friends and neighbors, and the occasional relative who from time-to-time drops in this way, leaving not a trace of their presence!

(This is not the Appalachian Trail, guys, you ARE permitted to leave some sign behind.)

Today is my first-born son's birthday. Here's what I wrote him:

First, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Second, some meandering pursuit of whatever interesting things pop out with consideration of ages.
I was born in 1953; this year, I will celebrate my 66th birthday.You, my firstborn son, were born 30 years later, in 1983, and this year (this day!) you celebrate your 36th birthday.Heath Jordan, your first-born son, my first-born grandson, was born 30 years after that, in 2013, and he has celebrated his 6th birthday.

6; 36; 66.

What fun can we have with those numbers?

Well, let's factor Heath's Age: (HA)= 6 = 2 x 3. Nice and simple. The first two prime numbers.

Your age, YA = 36, gives a BIT more to play with, because your age, YA =HA*HA, or HA ²
YA = 6 ²⁼ 6 * 6 = 2 * 3 * 2 * 3, or 2 ² * 3 ² : The squares of the first two prime numbers; that's nice, isn't it?

My age (MA) , 66, has given me a bit more of a thought problem.
At first glance, it resolves into MA = 2 * 3 * 11, which is ACCURATE, yet strangely unsatisfying.

I wish to celebrate the resonance of father age as a function of first-born son!

Viewed that way, MA = YA + 30 = YA + (6 * 5) = YA = 2 * 3 * 5.
So:
HA = 2 * 3YA = 2 ² * 3 ²MA = 2 ² * 3 ² + (2 * 3 * 5)

...and that allows me to participate more fully in the celebration of my first-born son as well as HIS first-born son. And while I recognize that this is merely a case of personal satisfaction, and doubtlessly blesses no one else, it DOES compel me to reflect on the miracle of your birth for just a bit more than a simple card would have done.

Happy birthday, first-born son. If I had done nothing else in my life than be your father, it would have been enough.
Papa 

And thus endeth the morning's ramblings.

Peace be on your household.

I Was Ambushed This Morning by the Middle Schoolers

Greetings, to all my Internet friends and neighbors, and howdy to the one or two kinfolk who can read.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.

Didn't really care for it as a kid. I was painfully shy, and was never able to tell girls that I liked them. What if they said no?
I might DIE!
This was long, long before I learned to read body language and interpret tone of voice, eye contact, and that sort of thing. It was terribly limiting.
I no longer have that problem; so, let me take this opportunity to clear this up:

Kathy Powell, wherever you are, I was madly in love with you in the 7th grade. 

I taped the Valentine's Day card you gave me over where I thought my heart was, and wore it to the 7th grade skating party at Durr's Lake. Just never was brave enough to tell you about it.
Probably made you nuts, but I was just too shy to let you know.

There. That's one more amends taken care of!

So, this morning, I got ambushed by the Middle School Brother Sister Tag Team. Now, I had spent ONE HOUR with them earlier, in serious, yet interesting, conversation, about menus, grocery items, and Proverbs Chapter 13.

And the did not say pea turkey to me about ....this.

But they were running a game on me, because just MOMENTS before they go out the door, faithful (yet often pestiferous) little sister Alicia comes into my man cave, and says (read this in a winsome girl voice):

"Papa Pat, when you go to the grocery store, will you get Kenneth a big heart-shaped box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, he's got this girl at school. and, just get the chocolate and the flowers, okay?"

"What girl?"

"She's this girl at school. Just get the chocolate and flowers for Kenneth, okay?"

"What girl?"

"She's a friend of mine."

"What girl?"

"It's SQUERDLOCK." (gives the name of a lovely young lady we have known for several years. )

"Well, I need to hear this from Kenneth."

Alicia vanishes, and a moment later, Kenneth APPEARS in my man cave. Actually, not ALL of him appears. Just his head and shoulders; the rest of him is out of sight, behind the door, with just the tips of his fingers appearing to have a death-grip on the door frame..

And HE says (read THIS in a ninety mile-per-second adolescent boy voice, devoid of any inflection whatsoever)

"PapaPatWouldYouPleaseGetMeABoxofValentineChocolateAndABouquetOfFlowers..."

...and he's gone. In the vacuum left by his passing, sheets of paper and maybe a tumbleweed fly through the air.

So, I get the flowers and the chocolate:

Roses, and Russell Stover's (the big box) .

Come big, or stay at home.

That's my motto!

And, a few minutes ago, Kenneth and Alicia got home from school. Their reactions were not what I had expected.

ALICIA got all excited upon seeing the flowers, squealing, etc. Kenneth's reaction was...meh.

So, I inquired. And got the entire story:

It seems that SQUERDLOCK and Alicia were talking, and SQUERDLOCK complained to Alicia that she didn't have anyone who would give her a Valentine. So, Alicia said she would get Kenneth to do it. And faithful (yet often pestiferous) big brother Kenneth said he would.

And now, he wishes that the earth would open up and swallow him, because he has ZERO desire to cause SQUERDLOCK any emotional pain, yet he does not wish to enter into a relationship with her. The lad is in a dilemma.

Fortunately, he has Papa Pat on his side. And Papa Pat, what with having raised teenagers before, and what with having been a middle school counselor for 16+ years, knows a thing or two about extricating yourself from sticky situations. 

And my advice is this: Kenneth will write SQUERDLOCK a note. In this note, he will tell her that when little sister Alicia informed him that she had no one to give her a special Valentine, he knew that this was an injustice that must be remedied, especially since SQUERDLOCK is the most beautiful girl in town. He would like for them to be Sweet-hearts, which is not the same as Boyfriend and Girlfriend. Sweet-hearts are friends who do especially nice things for each other from time to time. Sweet-hearts don't date each other, but if you find yourself without an escort to the Important Event, you can call your Sweet-heart, and they will take you. Boyfriends and Girlfriends usually break up in one or two weeks, but Sweet-hearts last a life time. You can always count on a Sweet-heart...

...and something like that is what we are going to attempt. Kenneth drafted a BEAUTIFUL first draft, but I sent him back with some suggestions for improvement.

I'll let you know how it works out....

Peace be on your household (and on mine as well!)

"Trace the Stars": Anthology Funding Student Entry to LTUE

Greetings, my dear Internet friends, neighbors, and the occasional family member who actually reads my stuff!

Papa Pat has something special for you today!

However,

DO NOT BE DECEIVED!!!

This book will NOT be published until FEB 14, 2019!!!

If you don't run an ad-blocker, you see the link. If you DO run an ad-blocker (as I do). you see zip, so here is this:

And the reason you see THIS, is because the proceeds from the sale of 

"Trace The Stars" 

subsidize student admission fees to the LTUE conference.

Also: If you click a link in my blog and then buy the product from Amazon, I get a referral fee. It's not much; I've made $20 over the last four years. However, whatever minuscule amount comes my way from referrals on this post, I will also donate to LTUE, and match, up to the aforementioned $20.

I received a copy of this work from the editor, who requested a fair review. I was happy to oblige, as at the moment I was watching my daughter cheer for her middle school basketball team, and any distraction was welcome.

Proceeds from the sale of this work will be used to sustain the ability to offer students attending the Life, The Universe and Everything conference a much, much reduced entry fee. That's worth doing, so, buy this one, okay? The authors DONATED their work to this cause!

I've never been to LTU&E, and just from the reading I've done as prep for this review, it seems to me that the overall theme is this: what we do matters. Decisions must be made ethically, even if no one knows about it. I may be utterly wrong about that, but I include a couple of links so you can read up on it yourself:  About LTUE. ;   LTUE on Wikipedia;  A History of LTUE.

I began reading with a bit of confusion, due to the dedication. I find that my reading pattern involves routinely skipping over content-free sections of text, a category to which I have assigned poetry, proper names, and most designations of time and geography. This USUALLY works, although sometimes I do have to go back and re-read, when I find myself hopelessly lost. That was the case here.

The book is dedicated to (mumble mumble) “Doc” Smith. Well, that's reasonable. Doc Smith was one of the early SF writers, and a noted mentor to Heinlein, after all. So there is no incongruity in the dedication of a volume  of space opera to him. Right?

Wrong. My flash-reading let me down; in the place of the (mumble mumble) up above, I find not 'Edward Elmer,' but 'Marion K.' It's an entirely different Doc Smith, linked, as far as I know, only by love of science fiction, and the accident of academic credentials and a common last name. THIS Doc Smith receives proper homage in Monson's “Foreword,” and I encourage you to read it as well as the stories.

To which we now turn our attention:

“Angles of Incidence,” by Nancy Fulda. The good doctor Kittyhawk – call her Kitty – is perfectly happy dealing with dead things, whether it's pieces of beings or pieces of structures. They don't bother her with disturbing intrusions into her space; they just sit there, at peace and in pieces, and allow her to discover their secrets at her own pace. So, it's bothersome to her when she is pulled off her field site, and asked to solve a question under a deadline; particularly when this is a literal deadline.  Deadly serious actions, with elements of comedy.

“The Road Not Taken,” by Sandra Tayler. It's likely that every one of us have spent time wondering (or fixating upon) what would happen had we made a different choice. We think we would be happier, if we had gone the other way. I've read several stories revolving around ways to make the choice differently, and it never works out, but this is the first story I've seen with this approach. I DO hope the author was going for 'creepy' in the reader reaction, because this one sent chills.

“Log Entry,” by Kevin J. Anderson. He's really a masterful writer: gives you (almost) the punchline, then tells the story. It is an engrossing tale of resolve, youthful expectations meeting reality, and a very strange alien ecology. This is one of my favorites in the collection, as it speaks directly to my love of military sci-fi. 

“The Ghost Conductor of the Interstellar Express,” by Brad R. Torgersen. If he knows how to write a bad story, I have found no evidence of it yet, I've just reviewed his short story 'Scrith' in the recently-issued “Man-Kzin Wars XV,” (it was wonderful) and then I was pleasantly surprised to discover he has a story in this collection as well. WOOT! I don't QUITE know how to describe the feel of this work; it's a bit melancholy, almost. The protagonist, Caddy Brenton, was removed from her parents as a young child, and sent with an older brother on a centuries-long journey to colonize a planet that there was only theoretical evidence of. When the ship arrives, there is, in fact, a planet, but it is totally devoid of life and the chemicals needed to create or sustain life. The solution: send out comet-catchers, to snag long-period comets and divert them to orbit around New Olympia, where their raw materials will be used to bring a garden where there is only desert. And that's what Caddy's beloved older brother was doing, when he vanished. Just him; his ship returned without him. She has to find out what happened. 

“A Veil of Leaves,” by M. K. Hutchins. It's her wedding day, and to her great joy, the star-man arrives! The star-people have provided them with power and light; who knows what beneficence will come this time? Surely it will be something wonderful! 

“Freefall,” by Eric James Stone. Anyone who has read “The Cold Equations” will never forget it, and it has such an emotional impact that you overlook the fact that it's utterly preposterous. It's entirely possible you won't ever forget “Freefall,” either.

“Launch,” by Daniel Friend.  Charity Penland is on the witness stand, to give testimony that will convict a co-worker of negligence or sabotage of the colony ship that carried away, among others, her treasured baby sister.  

SPOILER FOLLOWS:

This one is over the top, in my opinion; it produces a visceral reaction, but at the expense of distorting how humans handle guilt and grief. No one can tolerate living with such strong emotions as are expressed here without blurting out a confession. Just my opinion.

“Glass Beads,” by Emily Martha Sorensen. I've read a couple of good treatments of First Contact where the inequality of trade is a factor, starting with "Liberation of Earth" (1953) by William Tenn, with the lovely riff “Any lendi, dendi?” It wasn't until years later that I heard Glenn Miller's band play “Got a penny, Jenny?”More recently is the entire Four Horsemen series, which MUST have reached a hundred volumes by this time (at least, it seems that way). However, I haven't seen the treatment done in quite this way, and really, it's a very good read.

“Sweetly the Dragon Dreams,” by David Farland. Space Monsters wish to destroy all life in the galaxy; on a distant planet, humans and allies fight back.  That sounds like science fiction, but this reads like fantasy. I NEVER read fantasy if I can help it. If you like fantasy, I expect you will like this. 

“Working on Cloud Nine,” by John M. Olsen. Loved this one; didn't think I was going to at first, because it took me a while to understand the plain words on the screen. I have no excuse for that; it's a GREAT read! Sabotage on a space station, having to solve the problem before the rescue team gets there because unauthorized experiments; GREAT stuff! 

“Fido,” by  James Wymore. I was deeply taken into the world of the protagonist, a human on an alien spacecraft. He volunteered to go, because he felt he had nothing to hold him to Earth. After he discovers he was wrong, it's too late to return. And they are messing with his mind... Upon reflection, perhaps this is a horror tale; it's certainly of Twilight Zone quality. Very well done.

“Knowing Me,” by Eric G. Swedin. In 20+ years as an educator, I encountered more than a few kids  on the Asperger's/Autism spectrum that required modification of their educational program. A very few of them were also extremely intelligent.  Only one came anywhere near the limits and the abilities of this protagonist, and he wasn't even that close. What I find best about this selection is the sympathetic way in which he is treated by the author: this is not a monster or a freak. He is a highly gifted individual, with no social skills to speak of, and an overarching need for routine. It's through no fault of his that he was chosen to save the world, and that his selection cost him all that he had. Beautiful story.

“Making Legends,” by Jaleta Clegg. There are all sorts of ways in which we are denied our heart's desire. Fortunately, there are all sorts of ways we can find it, as well. Wonderfully wacky story. 

“Neo Nihon,” Paul Genesse. China has a population bomb that has already exploded on them; it's just that the shock waves haven't reached their limits yes. That's a truth, and this work uses that as a basis for the story. It's set in a far-distant time, and on a far distant planet, but it strongly evokes the Rape of Nanking, which some believe to be the true beginning of WWII, rather than the German invasion of Poland. I wonder if the author had the rape of Nanking in mind when he wrote this?

“The Last Ray of Light,” by Wulf Moon. You MUST read the Editor's Note and the Author's Note on this story! The author was 15 years old when this work was published. Seen with that perspective, it's a work of genius.  Otherwise, it's merely good, and the 'merely' qualification comes only because the characters' names are Xenon and Argon. That's the kind of thing a 15 year old inserts into the story to highlight the science fiction nature of the writing; it's not something an adult writer would do. Well, except for Isaac Asimov. The other noticeable discrepancy of the story is a function of the time in which it was written (1978) ; charmingly (to those of us of a certain maturity), the computer ends each sentence with 'STOP.' I am grateful they decided to release it in this form, instead of editing it to remove what would cause dissonance today.

“Cycle 335,” by Beth Buck. I really can't say very much about the plot of the story without spoiling it horribly, and I won't do that. I will say that the author sticks in nicely disconcerting thoughts in the protagonist's head. I'll also say that this is one of the worst wide-awake nightmares to have. 

“Sea of Chaos,” by Julia H. West. All of the science in the world won't make a good story if the characters aren't real. As far as the science goes, you really aren't asked to make too many leaps of faith. The first one is a standard, which is that there exists a FTL drive, in this case referred to as 'overspace.' However, the charming aspect of this particular drive, is that it is managed by a navigator using a VR interface that simulates the long voyages taken by the Polynesian explorers. Both of those are merely an excuse to bring the real joy of the story, which is of an old dog and some new tricks. 

So, the book will go on sale the day of the LTUE conference kicks off, February 14, 2019. However, I think you can pre-order.

Not trying to tell you how to run your life, okay? Only giving you some information.

Because that's how I roll.

Peace be on your household.

A Memory of the Time Before Marriage; Vows to God

Greetings, Internet Friends and Neighbors and Happy Family!
And howdy to glum family as well; I recommend a nap.

Nine years ago this week, I bought my gift-from-God, happily-ever-after trophy wife Vanessa, the elegant, foxy, praying black grandmother of Woodstock, GA, an engagement ring, and put it on her finger. It's a lovely memory. 
Then, I was cleaning up my browser bookmarks today, and ran across this bit of history. Before you read it, I must explain:

Three years after my long-time family unit disintegrated, I emerged from my cocoon, and sought counsel from my pastor about my future. Was it possible for me to begin a family at age 57? I had no idea about how that might happen; I had been married for a little over 32 years, and knew NOTHING about the contemporary dating scene.

He had a few ideas, thinking about some women he knew in the church, but none of those turned out to be a match. Too soon, too young, whatever. He suggested I look into dating websites, including Harmony and Christian Mingle. 

I gave that a try for a bit, but my results were not good. For some reason, my profile seemed to attract 70 year old ladies with no teeth who lived in a chicken coop in Despair, Montana, and that was about it. So, I had reconciled myself to learning to be single. After three years, maybe I was over the worst of the adjustment.

I decided to give it one last try.

POW!

(Ignore the yellow spots. 

This is a scan of the original picture, 

which I printed from the website 

and carried in my wallet for nine years.)

I get a picture of this drop-dead gorgeous woman on my page; and her screen name is a BIBLE VERSE! I look it up; it's a BOLD Bible verse!

For your husband is your Maker,
Whose name is the Lord of hosts;
And your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel,
Who is called the God of all the earth. (Isaiah 54:5, NASB) 

This drop-dead gorgeous woman is proclaiming that she is the wife of the Almighty God! 

And you should have seen the list of requirements she had for a husband....BRRRR! She said she was seeking a man who would be faithful like Abraham, passionate about God like David,  brave like Gideon, and love her unconditionally like Jesus. 
(I'm afraid I may have lost consciousness at that point. For a bit. But I got better!)

"But Pat," I said to myself, "this woman is TOO YOUNG for you! You are 57, she looks like she is, MAYBE, 30 years old!"

Except the age range she gives is 50-60, and she says she is a grandmother; is it, perhaps, a picture from a long time ago? We correspond, a tiny bit, and arrange to meet on Christmas Day, 2010. And that's when I discover that she really IS a grandmother, she really IS just six years younger than me, and she really IS that beautiful and looks that young.

Ummm...about that meeting: I left one tiny little detail out. You see, as soon as I saw that picture (THOSE EYES!!!) and read her profile, with her uncompromising stance on her Christian beliefs, I knew I wanted to marry her, and my greatest fear was that someone else was going to grab her up before I put my claim in. 

So, I did something that some may find a bit impetuous. Hasty, even. 
(I care not. This is my FUTURE we are talking about here!)

Ummm...I told her in one of the CM exchange posts (on December 23, 2010 to be exact), that when she asked me to marry her, I would say 'Yes.'

Well, no, we actually hadn't even met, yet. But she was EXACTLY what I wanted in a wife, to the tiniest detail, and I really didn't want to lose her to some guy who was just as smitten as I was. I wasn't depriving her of HER choice; she didn't even have to answer my messages if she didn't want to. I was just letting her know that I had found what I was looking for. Why keep on looking if you see what you want right away?
That was my perspective.

So, I went to her house on Christmas Day. I brought presents for her children, and for HER, I had something special: I gave her my high school ring (class of 1971) and my Army dog tags. 
(Always HAVE been a romantic!)

I chuckle, because it was obvious to me that she was scared pretty badly. I expect she was afraid I was going to attack her, or ask her to run off into the wilderness and join a survival commune or something. Nope. I was my normal, charming, polite self, acting just the way a proper suitor should act. I was nice to her kids, and spent whatever time talking with them that was convenient for them. 

And, within a few weeks, she DID ask me to marry her, and I said yes, and then we got an engagement ring and started a LONG (seven month) series of pre-marital classes. She said our relationship was like that of Ruth and Boaz. 
We were married on August 6, 2011.

There WERE some bumps along the way, even at the very end of the engagement period. Love prevailed, though. And what follows is something I wrote not long before our wedding day:

***

So, I'm marrying the wife of the Almighty God. That's a pretty tough act to follow! It's not news to me, though; in fact, I knew my sweet Ruthie, my darling Vanessa, was the Wife of the Almighty before I knew her name! So, I walked into this relationship with my eyes open.

But now, as I'm writing my wedding vows, I have realized something. I have to make vows to Vanessa, which is customary, but I also have to make vows to the Lord God. He's really her Husband; He's just loaning her to me, temporarily, until He returns for her. So, it's a pretty solemn event, when I promise our Father in Heaven, the Creator of the universe, that I will treat Vanessa, His bride, the same way He treats her. Query: is it even POSSIBLE for me to do that? Well, it must be, because there's no way He would permit His bride to be placed with some dork who wasn't going to cherish her, always desire her good, and take joy in serving her.

And truth be told, I am incredibly honored to be chosen! Check this out, all you dudes who read this: The Almighty God was looking for someone He could trust with His bride...AND HE PICKED ME! WHOO- HA! Did I win the lottery, or WHAT! Out of all the men in the world, He picked ME to stand in for Him. Listen, I don't know what your measures of success are, but this is better than being king. this is better than getting picked to be the chaplain to the United States Senate. This is bigger than being the Pope! Or being chosen to lead three major denominations at the same time! Listen to this: God went looking for someone who He could trust to be married to His wife, AND IT'S ME! That makes me like, I dunno, a super-hero or something! Maybe I'll get my own comic book: Stand-In Husband Man!

I ain't worried (okay, maybe a little bit, but just a little), because those He calls He equips. So whatever areas I currently am not up to standard in, God is going to issue me the equipment I need, or provide the training, or whatever is needed. That's because we are SURE about one thing: He is very, very serious about loving His bride.
Man, I've got to get those vows finished pretty soon. Only 17 days, 17 hours, and 23 minutes until the ceremony.

I love thee, sweetest Ruthie, darling Vanessa.

Your teddy bear is waiting for you.

***

And that's the way it worked out. And I'm glad.

Peace be on your household.