This is a Test of a Cool New Program

It’s called “Live Writer” (Beta) and is brought to us by our friends at Microsoft. It will allow me to insert a hyperlink to My Website a photograph of one of my wife’s ponies, video, maps and more. If you like this and would like more information, google “Windows Live Writer” and download it for free!

Jerry's House

At the End of a Hunt

As is typical with my pointer, Karl’s day was a mixed bag of brilliance and embarrassment. There was no denying his passion for the task at hand; his points (once he settled down) were more intense and steady than I’ve ever seen from him and his energy seemed boundless. As further testament to the dog’s desire he at one point began to run after a Cessna he saw flying south of us—thought for sure it was the “catch of the day”.

So now I sit in reflection and evaluate the hunt (as I typically do) thusly: how did the dogs do? And it troubles me that that question is spiritually askew. But like it or not, I tend to live vicariously through my dogs while in the field. I want my companions to be impressed with their performance, and I want them to tell me what great hunters my dogs are. If they do I feel good about the day; if they don’t, I assume that the dogs’ erratic performance (some degree of which is almost guaranteed) has somehow diminished the quality of their experience afield. And I then flagellate myself for not being a better trainer. But even in these circumstances when I’m apologizing for the flushed-out-of-range birds and the busted points I’m secretly cherishing the time I’ve spent with my 4-legged hunting companions without regard to their mistakes or my friends’ evaluations. I’ve had the pleasure, no, the privilege, of sharing with them a moment of sheer bliss; they with noses full of intoxicating bird scent and me, well, just watching them enjoy themselves. Henceforth, that will be enough!

The Jerry Grinkmeyer Invitational Bird Hunt

“Gentlemen,” I announced, “I’d like to welcome you all to the first annual Jerry Grinkmeyer Invitational Bird Hunt!” I’d prepared a lengthy speech in which I would proclaim the righteousness of this hallowed event, introduce the significance of each of the attendees, make some comments about how it was not about us but about the dogs, then reveal the intricate logistics of who would hunt with whom, where, how, etc. My introduction was met with an attitude of dismissal, which I took as a warning not to get all full of myself; some of them had heard me pontificate before. “Alright, alright, here’s the plan. We’ll all walk up to the cemetery as a group and let these hounds blow off some steam. John, you come with me and Casey. We’ll hunt the east half of the cornfield, the rest of you can hunt the west.”

I shouldered the Auto-5 and started toward the cemetery, Casey and John close behind. “Come on Jake, let’s hunt ‘em up!”, said Oscar, and I turned to see the pointer, headed due north, disappear over a little rise with Karl in hot pursuit. “Shit! He’s headed straight for the fencerow”, I said to Casey. We’d planted several birds in the cover along the fence, hoping to give Oscar and the boys some realistic shooting opportunities toward the end of their trek. Logistics be damned, the hunt was under way!

That was the last I saw of Karl for a while. He’d gotten a snootfull of that bird and his trigger had been tripped “Come on, let’s head east”, I said, intent on following the plan I’d outlined. “He’ll see I’m gone and come looking for me”. But he didn’t come. I whistled and yelled and seethed internally but nothing would deter him. . He was like the berserk Marine with the cartridge belts strung across both shoulders and the machine gun sweeping down legions of Viet Cong, oblivious to danger, oblivious to everything but the task of seeking out and destroying his prey. I was frustrated, embarrassed and angry. We’d spent countless hours marching countless miles just to avoid this very situation. I watched him, 200 yards distant now, as he vacuumed the corn stubble and the edge of the woods. His movement was controlled frenzy, fluid, graceful, and totally focused. I was torn between wanting him with me and wanting to catch and wail the tar out of him.

I continued east, as per my plan, with Casey and John for a while, but the yells of excitement and the sound of gunfire in the distance were too much. “I’m going after him”, I announced, and headed off to join the fray and reclaim my pointer.

Karl hunted with me for a while, but not really. He hunted for Karl and it was our job to keep up with him. He pointed brilliantly and pointed staunchly, and Riley retrieved with the fervor and maturity of a dog that had had many more birds shot over him. We retired to the trucks after and hour or so to take a break. Karl passed Hershey’s syrup from his rear end and puked bile. Later that day I would loose him in the woods, intent on tracking down a wounded cock pheasant. John, Ira and I spent 15 minutes combing the leaf strewn floor to no avail. I called Karl when we’d thrown in the towel, listened for his rustling through the woods, but heard only silence. He was still on his own, I figured, and there was nothing I could do to get him back other than trust his homing instinct to find me when he’d had enough.

But as I stepped over the trampled barbed wire fence that separated the woods from the corn, I heard the unmistakable squawk of a pheasant about 15 feet to my left. I made my way over to the source of the bird’s plea for help and found Karl standing locked and loaded over the bird. He’d apparently tracked the cripple through the woods and driven the now flightless bird into a clump of brambles. I dispatched the wounded pheasant, hugged and petted and fussed over Karl, and removed his e-collar. All was forgiven, and a sense of pride and love and admiration swept over me. “Sometimes”, I thought, “it is indeed hard to see the forest for the trees.”

I enjoy the fancy guns and the rugged clothes, the nature walks and the fellowship of hunting with a good friend or two. But at the core of my love for hunting is my love for the dogs that accompany on my outings. And I say with no reservations whatsoever that were it not for the dogs, all the accoutrements that hang in my closet or on my wall would be disposed of or relegated to another use and my hunting career would cease. It is a rare pleasure to have the opportunity to watch one of God’s creatures at their very best, doing that one thing they were designed specifically to do with near perfection. And that is what I witnessed from Karl that Sunday.

It is a modern convention, I suspect, to introduce things like discipline and handling into the pursuit of wild game. Our progenitors who hundreds of years ago used their canine companions to help send gamebirds to flight were in the fields for an entirely different reason than I. Their very lives depended on the meat they would gather, and there was certainly no concept of sport. Consequently, I have to believe that had some 1700’s bird hunter been in the field with my ‘disobedient’ dogs that day they’d have regaled their family with recollections of the efficiency of the dogs and the passion with which their supper had been presented to the gun.

Karl’s helter-skelter meandering was a lesson in passion. “Live with passion!”, proclaims Tony Robbins, and he gives the techniques that one can apply to develop this powerful tool in their lives. Hogwash! Passion is not intellectual, it is primal. It is the outward and uncompromising expression of that which is basic and unique to our nature, that thing which drives us to a greatness that is our destiny, that thing that most of us will never have the insight or courage to personify in our own lives. It is the power of an unknown and universal force we call ‘God’ flowing directly through us, unrestrained and uninhibited. Passion is a Mozart symphony, a Jordan slam-dunk, Microsoft, Inc., a young Mohammed Ali pummeling an aging Sonny Liston. Passion is not effort so much as it is surrender to the inevitable.

Late in the day Karl walked beside me through the corn stubble, exhausted from his efforts, and looked up at me with his pale green eyes. It was almost apologetic, that look, as if he was trying to make me understand why he behaved the way he did. I set my shotgun on the ground and bent down to hug him. “That’s okay boy, you did great today. You’re a good boy and a great hunter.” I understood and I forgave him. He trotted off to my right where Oscar and Dave were walking the edge of the woods looking for one last shot while I shucked the last of my shells to the ground. It was over for me this day but not for him. “Karl’s locked up, he’s got one!”

An Excerpt From "Conversations With Katherine"

On Sunday morning Rudy awoke to the sound of rapidly flapping ears and the feel of warm dog breath on his arm. The ears would be Karl’s and the breath belonged to Gracie. They were mounting a full frontal attack on his peaceful slumber but he was not going to give up without a fight. He opened an eye just enough to get a look at the alarm clock; had they seen the whites of his eyes the dogs would have commenced their victory dance. It was 6:45, the middle of the day for the attackers but still too early to rise and shine for Rudy. He played possum, hoping Joan would relent and get up to let the dogs out. He did not yet realize that his snoring had driven her into the front bedroom and she’d already withstood the canine attack without surrendering to their persistent “bothering.”

Rudy was just falling back to sleep when he felt his warm slumber-nest being aggressively disassembled. Karl had a blanket firmly locked in his jaw and was tugging backwards in short bursts, a little grunt escaping his mouth with each pull. Gracie stood behind him, no doubt offering encouragement in dog language. Rudy had been surprised and amused by Karl’s antics many times since the German Shorthaired Pointer joined their family over 12 years ago. But this little trick went beyond amusement and made a half-awake Rudy burst into laughter. He conceded defeat and got out of bed to let the dogs outside.

It was still dark but the waning light of a full moon made the three inches of freshly fallen snow sparkle and shine like a disco ball. His mood buoyed by this display of natural beauty, Rudy decided to get dressed and go to the barn to feed the horses. Their primary caretaker, who was still asleep in the front bedroom, would be pleasantly surprised and grateful she did not have to brave the morning cold.

Rudy went to the front closet and pulled on his parka and gloves while Karl stood beside him whining in anticipation of the as-of-yet undetermined adventure they were about to share.
“Gracie, you’d better call the vet. It’s obvious that Karl is suffering,” Rudy teased. When they reached the barn Rudy went to the breaker box on the wall and threw the switch that turned on the lights. His heart jumped as he looked toward the stalls. The horses were standing head-to-head and to their obvious glee someone was scratching their noses.
“Hello, Mama.”
“Hi Rudy; how ya’ doin’?”

“What happened to that cute little elf hat you were wearing; Pinocchio want it back?”
“That’s pretty funny, Rudy. Perhaps that rewarding career you are so desperately seeking has to do with telling funny jokes in smoke-filled rooms.”
They both chuckled and Rudy appreciated the light-hearted mood, though he suspected more serious discussion was in the offing.

“Does this mean I’ve successfully completed my assignment,” he asked.
Kay had turned her attention away from the horses and was squatting in order to dole out some petting to the curious dogs. Rudy remembered when they met on the stream how she and Gunner had hit it off. As if on cue she asked, “What became of Gunner?”
“He died on a brutally cold winter morning,” he replied. “A week before I noticed that his belly was blowing up and I figured he was full of worms so I took him to the vet. Dr. Grass met us in the lobby and I gave her my worm diagnosis; she looked at me like I was from Mars and pulled me into an examination room. She drew some blood and scheduled a return visit for the next day.”

“Joan came with me and the doctor explained that his problem was a long way from worms; he had liver damage and she speculated that less than 10% was still alive. She told us we could take him to the vet school at Purdue and spend $1500 with no guarantees, she could try to treat him with no guarantees, yada, yada, yada. I thanked her for her diagnosis and guaranteed her that Gunner would live out his days surrounded by love, not lab coats.”

“Gunner deteriorated rapidly. A few days after our second visit to the vet I followed him outside to witness his morning constitutional. When he finished he took a few wobbly steps forward and then, apparently exhausted, he sat on his haunches. I let him sit for a few minutes in the snow, then called him to follow me. He tried to stand but couldn’t; he whined softly and gave me ‘the look’.”

“Joan called Dr. Jantzen, the vet who’d amputated his leg, and asked if he’d do the honors; he said he would have it no other way. I called a friend who is in the landscape business and asked if he could get his hands on a backhoe. He explained that while he could easily find one, the ground was frozen 22” deep and nothing short of a nuclear warhead could penetrate it. Without me telling him why I needed a hole in the ground he expressed his condolences before hanging up.”

“Joan and I built a roaring fire in the wood stove and piled up blankets for the three of us to lie on. We hugged and petted Gunner, telling him what a wonderful dog he’d been and what a privilege it had been to share time on earth with him. Dr. Jantzen arrived with an assistant and they joined us in the family room. He’d put down a couple of Joan’s horses and I’d learned that he would not administer the injection until told to; after a few minutes I looked at him and said ‘It’s time’. Gunner died peacefully and as I looked around the room I saw tears in both the doctor’s and his assistant’s eyes. I wondered if Dr. Jantzen cried every time he put a dog to sleep, but I knew how special Gunner was to him and guessed that he did not. It was a fitting tribute to a great dog.”

Kay pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the end of her nose before wiping tears from both eyes.
“You were indeed fortunate to share time with such a wonderful creation, Rudy,” she said. “And I believe I can confidently say that about Karl and Gracie, too.”
“There can be no doubt about that, Mama,” Rudy agreed, noting that he had never told her their names. “Uh, Mama; about my assignment?”

Kay stood and brushed copious amounts of dog hair from her jeans as Rudy took a seat on a hay bale.
“I told you I’d see you again when you had, and here I am!” she said cheerily.
“I wasn’t sure,” said Rudy. “I finished the letter and I didn’t hear from you. I thought maybe I’d…”
“Saying goodbye was the assignment, but writing your letter had no inherent value. The value was in the lesson you learned.”
“I’m lost; what lesson did I learn?” Rudy asked.
“Think, Honey. What decision did you make as a result of your tirade against Grace?”
“I decided to run my life,” he answered. ‘I am accepting responsibility for my life, both past and future, and any results that I get from now on are due solely to the decisions I make and the actions I take.’ That’s what I told Joan; so that’s the point of this exercise!”

Rudy had a ‘eureka’ moment and Kay’s expression acknowledged her pleasure that he’d ‘gotten it’.
“Did you see my letter,” he asked timidly.
“Yes Rudy, I saw it,” she answered without comment.
“Pretty vile, eh?”
“It was pretty much what I expected.”
Rudy continued, “So what did you think of it?”
“I think you have a good grasp of sentence structure and grammar; in particular, profanity. And it was certainly honest; I didn’t detect a hint of a lie.”
Rudy was grateful that she did not pass judgment on him; or if she did, she kept her feelings to herself. He decided to file the letter in the recycle bin of his mind. Kay walked across the barn and sat on the hay bale next to him.

“So Rudy, how does it feel being in charge? Do you miss your helper?” Kate teased.
Rudy ignored her question and asked one of his own.
“Mama, I bet you’ve asked me that two hundred times; ‘how does it feel.’ Why is that so important to you?”
“I’m taking your emotional temperature,” she replied. “Your feelings are the thermometer of your emotional state. In fact, Honey, if you look closely at why you do what you do you’ll find that the reason is always ‘feelings’.”
They were facing each other and when Kay finished Rudy stared silently into her eyes, hoping to find an interpretation of the Chinese she was speaking to him. “What!?”

“Rudy, what was the first thing you did when you got home from work last night?”
“I said hello to Joan and the dogs.”
“After that?”
“I fixed a big, fat Scotch.”
“Why Scotch; I mean, if you wanted something to quench your thirst why not fix a big, fat glass of water?”
“Trust me, Mama; it had nothing to do with thirst-quenching. It had to do with chilling out after a day at work.”
“’Chilling out’; what does that mean?” Kay asked.
Rudy knew she’d haltered him once again. But like the horses who quietly chewed the hay he’d thrown them Rudy knew that once the apparatus was attached there was no use trying to resist the pull of the person on the other end. He followed her lead and replied obediently,
“Chilling out means relaxing; and you already knew that, Mama.” She ignored his barb and continued her instruction.
“And relaxation is…?”
While a second ‘eureka’ moment sent snaps, crackles and pops through his brain Rudy replied, “A feeling!”

Rudy had taken the bait and Kay prepared to set the hook.
“Why do you lug all that heavy equipment around so you can play music with your friends?”
Rudy was smiling and looking through the barn door toward the breaking dawn. A globe of orange light was just beginning to peek over the eastern horizon.
“Because playing music makes me happy.”
“And happiness is…?”
“A feeling. I’m beginning to see your point,” said Rudy.

“Okay Rudy, let me ask you another question.” Rudy was enjoying the Q and A session and eagerly agreed.
“Remember the story you told me about Grace bloodying your nose at the dinner table?”
Rudy grimaced and answered, “Yeah; but I’d rather not!”
“Why not?”
“Because it upsets me; it makes me angry.”
“And anger is…?”
“Wait a minute!” he said. “You told me that we do what we do because we enjoy the feelings we get. I don’t enjoy being angry and I thought we, that is I, had said goodbye to Grace; why you bringin’ her back up?”
“I didn’t say we do what we do because we enjoy the feelings. I said that we do what we do because of feelings; there’s a difference.”
She’d dodged the ‘Grace’ part of his question but clarification of her premise was more important at the moment.
“And I suspect you’re about to clarify that difference?”

“Rudy, human behavior is complex; you’re beginning to learn that. But the reason we do the things we do is really pretty simple. The reward of every action is a feeling. If you believe that taking that action will bring you pleasure you will step up to the plate and take your best swing. But!...” Rudy listened carefully as she was about to make an important counterpoint.
“…if you believe that taking that action will cause you physical or emotional pain, they’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the dugout. You want to avoid pain and experience pleasure.”
Rudy stood and walked toward Jack the horse while digesting what she’d just said. He scratched a grateful snout and said, “Seems kind of hedonistic to me.”
“I suppose it is,” she agreed, “but be that as it may it’s the way your brain works. And understanding that principle can bring real power to your quest for your ‘self’.”

Rudy found her use of ‘self’ interesting. It implied that he was not currently himself, which begged the question ’Who am I?’ His head was beginning to swim and he made a mental note to return for an answer. But he now knew that Katherine’s visit involved more than checking to see how taking responsibility for his life was going.
He turned from Jack, faced her and folded his arms over his chest in preparation of receiving more pearls of heavenly wisdom.
“Please continue.”

“How do you feel about dieting?”
Rudy sometimes found the simplistic nature of her questioning annoying and whished she’d just get to the point. But he knew she was in charge and played along anyway.
“No good.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“It means giving up stuff I like to eat, like ice cream and bratwursts and Snickers bars.”
“And I find that painful,” he added playfully.
“And since you find it painful, what are your chances of succeeding at dieting?”
His annoyance of a minute ago faded as the implications of what she was teaching him began to reveal themselves. He smiled and answered, “Not good.”
“Okay. Now, what could you do so that your dieting regimen became pleasurable and your chances of success increased?”
“I could change the way I think about dieting. I could think about the health benefits or how buff I’d look to the babes. I could start looking at brats and Snickers as poison—naw, that ain’t gonna happen!”
“Very good, I think you’re getting the hang of it!” Kay said.

“Rudy, any time you’re having trouble doing something you know you should it’s because you are associating pain with taking that action. Pain avoidance is a primal survival mechanism that’s part of your DNA, and your brain will do anything it can to avoid it. If giving up a bad habit means sacrifice to you, you will interpret doing it as painful, sabotage your efforts and fail; your brain just will not allow you to continue doing something that hurts.”

“On the other hand, if you can associate pleasurable feeling with breaking the habit your likelihood of success increases considerably. Does this make sense to you?”
“Yes,” he replied, “absolutely.”
Confident that Rudy had grasped the pain/pleasure concept Kay set out to put it to practical use.

“Honey, tell me something you do on a regular basis that you find painful.” He did not have to contemplate an answer for more than a couple of seconds and said,
“My job. I hate my job.”
“Tell me what you hate about it,” she continued.
“Waiting on people is what I hate the most. Every time I approach a customer I think of the rejection that I’m likely to get; rejection is painful.”
“And why would they reject you?”
“Because I’m a frigging car salesman; they don’t trust me and they think I’m going to rip them off.”
“Are you?”
“No; I’m honest to a fault, if anything.”
“What else do you hate about it?”

“It’s beneath me. I should be doing something important, not selling cars.” Rudy bowed his head in embarrassment as he spoke. He was telling the truth but ashamed of his arrogance. He expected Kay to challenge him but she did not; she’d found the pain she was looking for and forged ahead with the lesson.
“Why don’t you quit your job and do something important, then?” she asked
“I can’t quit my job, I’m married to the money. And I don’t know what important thing I’m supposed to be doing, at least not yet.”
The second part of his answer could be addressed later; Kay needed to drive home her point and spoke to the first.

“If you can’t quit your job it might help if we could find a way to reframe what you do so that it would be more fun, do you agree?”
“What do you mean by ‘reframe’,” he asked.
“Look at it in a new way, a new light or a different perspective,” she answered. “How does it make you feel when you do something, anything well?”
“It makes me feel good, of course.”
“Then how about this; what if, rather than waiting on customers with the intention of selling them a car, your intention was to do the best you could at giving the information they needed to make an intelligent car-buying decision. And what if your reward was, rather than money, the satisfaction of having put forth your best effort.”
“That’s brilliant, Mama! Instead of being a car salesman I become a teacher or a counselor; I like it! I’ll give it a try!”

When he and the dogs returned to the house Joan was up and waiting for them in the kitchen.
“Did you guys feed the horses for me?” She asked with exaggerated enthusiasm which brought Karl and Gracie running to her, tongues flailing and tails wagging. Rudy answered on behalf of all of them,
“Yes, in fact we did!” Joan produced two dog biscuits and handed them to two grateful dogs.
“Thank you all!” she crooned.
Rudy reveled in the early-morning joy and camaraderie of his family and told Joan,
“It was our pleasure!”

Lessons Learned From Guitars

Some of us can’t leave well enough alone. We look at a perfectly good incarnation of a designer’s vision and see beyond the safe waters of what it is and into the turbulence of what it could be. Harleys are a great example of this. I bought my first in April of 1982 (long before they’d shaken their bad-boy image) and before the end of summer I’d removed the tanks and fenders and had it repainted. It was still mostly the designer’s vision but it was now unique, different from the thousands of mass produced clones; it was mine!

I fell victim to the same affliction several years ago with guitars. Almost any guitar player will tell you of the one they pulled off the wall and knew that it would never return to its undistinguished place amongst its inferior peers. Mine was a 2000 Fender Precision bass. It was light, resonant and played like a dream. I knew we were meant for each other before I even fully cradled it. There was only one problem—I hated the color. It was a natural finish, glossy polyurethane over a beautifully grained two-piece ash body. It looked very 70’s, a time that Fender aficionados consider to be a dark time in the company’s history due to poor workmanship. And of course there was disco, too.

I thought I’d get over the color thing but just like my Harley the bass was a clone. So I decided to paint it. Internet research led me to a bountiful source of information on how to paint a Fender bass in pretty much the same manner of the masters of old, before the EPA declared lacquer a killer of humans. I’d decided on a sunburst, where an amber tint in the middle allows the grain to show, then fades into a darker and darker finish as you reach the edges. I was cautioned that it was folly to make your first attempt at a refinish a sunburst but it was too late to turn back, I’d already created a picture of the classic finish in my mind.

I gathered together my supplies, cut a template for the burst and headed for the barn to begin creating my masterpiece. I sprayed the amber tint first; it came out fine so I shot a couple coats of clear lacquer to lock it in place. Wet paint is a dust magnet so you can imagine the challenges I faced in a barn. But my Internet instructor told me to let it dry and sand out the imperfections. I waited a couple of hours, hit the dust particles with sandpaper and promptly sanded through my amber tint. What to do? I stripped the body and started over.

My second attempt got me as far as shooting the darker burst but my airbrush sputtered and deposited globs of brown paint where it hadn’t been invited. So I stripped it and started over. And then I screwed it up again. Finally, after my fourth attempt, the guitar body looked like what I’d envisioned several weeks ago when I started. I shot 15 coats of clear lacquer over a period of three weeks stopping numerous times to sand out drips, runs, dust and an occasional bug. But I knew that despite my many errors I was learning and getting closer to my bass guitar.

Once the appropriate number of clear coats are down the sanding begins. At this stage the paint texture is similar to that of an orange, hence the term “orange peel”. I flattened the irregularities of the surface with #600 grit and proceeded getting the surface smoother and smoother using progressively less abrasive grits of wet-dry sandpaper up to #2000. I spent many hours doing this and would guess that I did nearly 10,000 strokes on my way to creating my special bass. Once the sanding was finished I moved on to three different degrees of polishing compounds, all rubbed by hand. And then one day it was done. I attached the neck, wired the electronics, put on the strings and set in its stand so I could just step back and look at the finished product. I’d seen it a thousand times before in my mind’s eye but it looked even better now than I’d imagined.

I’ve painted several guitars and basses since then and each time the procedure was the same. First, I’d envision the guitar in my mind. I’d see how it looked and I’d feel the pride of accomplishment that would be mine when it was done. I’d hear my friends’ compliments and see myself holding and playing the instrument. It’s never been a “when I’m done” kind of thing, it was always as if I was enjoying these feelings right now. With each guitar there were mistakes that had to be corrected causing me additional work and delaying the time of completion. But I never got frustrated and I never felt like any of it was work. My wife has been asking me to sand and refinish the top of her Aunt Carol’s old dresser for 30 years and I just can’t bring my self to do it. All that sanding would be work, and I have enough things to work on around the house as it is. But 10,000 strokes with sandpaper on a guitar I’ve dreamed of; nope, that’s not work, it’s fun!

Building guitars has taught me this: if I can clearly define and envision a goal, if I can propel myself forward towards my goal by experiencing the feelings right now that will be mine when the goal is accomplished, I will achieve it. And when I encounter the inevitable problems and frustrations I will move ahead as I will not be able to abandon the joyous feelings I’ve experienced so many times already. The process of achieving my goals will require effort and learning new skills but none of this will feel like work as it will be a labor of love. Painting guitars has reminded me that everything I’ve accomplished in my life, both good and bad, started as a thought, a tiny seed in my mind and through my attention, imagination and feeling was nurtured into a very real thing. Painting guitars has taught me to emerge from the fog and realize I have a choice as to what occupies my mental space. Painting guitars has taught to be aware of the seeds I choose to nurture.

Recipe: Shrimp and Grits

Ubiquitous is a fifty-cent word I like to spit out in front of my friends to impress them with my erudition (Look! Another fifty-cent word!). It means “constantly encountered” and applies to this edition’s recipe and its omnipresence on menus in Charleston, SC. This historic city is where my wife and I spent a few sweltering summer days soaking up Southern history, hospitality and cuisine. Our dining experiences ran the gamut from a stuck-in-the-50s diner that served an unworldly satisfying banana-pecan pancake to the boisterously elegant SNOB, the kind of place that enhances the eye appeal of its dishes by splattering colorful sauces all over the white serving plates. But it seemed that no matter where we ate there was a dish on the menu I’d never heard of, much less eaten—shrimp and grits. I once dated a girl whose mother would boil a pot full of water then throw in a package of noodles and a whole chicken; in an hour or so “chicken and noodles” was ready to eat, bones, skin and all. I imagined this apparently requisite Charleston dish to be as mundane, if not as disgusting, as the chicken and noodles that so repulsed me as a teenager in pursuit of a pretty lady. But at the urging of a charming waitress (another pretty lady who I was not pursuing) I gave it a try. Needless to say, there is more to the dish than the two ingredients for which it is named. Shrimp and grits comprise the blank palette upon which the creative cook will paint their culinary masterpiece; as such, there are as many ways to fix the dish as there are shrimp in the sea. But following is my interpretation of the recipe that first swept me off my feet and endeared me to this classic southern dish.

1 1/2 pound shrimp cooked, peeled and de-veined 2 tbs. flour
4 slices bacon 1 small onion, diced
1 cup “Quaker” quick grits 4 ounces cream cheese
3+1 cups chicken stock 2 tsp. Parsley flakes

Bring 3 cups stock to a boil and cook grits in a saucepan according to package directions. While grits are cooking fry bacon till crisp in a large skillet then remove to paper towels to drain. Leave 2 tbs. fat in skillet and add flour. Reduce heat to medium-low and stir until the roux turns a medium brown, the color of a low-fat mocha frappuccino latte. Add 1 cup stock and stir until a smooth gravy is formed. Timing now becomes important as we want the two elements of the dish to reach gastronomic fruition as close to one another as possible. Vary heat of grits and gravy as necessary.

When grits are done cooking add diced onion, cream cheese and parsley flakes; stir to combine. Add shrimp to bacon gravy and cook for two minutes, just enough to heat the little crustaceans through. Spoon equal portions of creamy grits onto 4 plates, then ladle shrimp and gravy on top. Announce the arrival of this splendid dish by declaring “Y’all come and eat now, y’ hear!”

Real Men Do Cry

I came to St. Michael Catholic School when my family moved from Champaign to Indianapolis. It was half way through my third grade year and as I recall, I felt no trepidation about meeting and making new friends. When my father told us we were going to pack up the Conestoga’s and head east, it broke my heart. I was going to have to leave Mickey Schmikler, my best friend as far back as I could remember. My parents told all us boys to keep our mouths shut about the move but I of course immediately told Mickey we were soon to be outta here. Much to my surprise, his parents had told him the same thing about their up-and-coming relocation.

The two of us were quite incredulous regarding this coincidence and spent a great deal of time (10 minutes or so) speculating as to its nature. We finally agreed that the only explanation had something to do with the Russians, an atomic bomb and the Griggs family that had invaded our neighborhood several months earlier. The Griggs’ were not like us; I was a Catholic, Mickey was Jewish and the Griggs’ family was obviously neither. They had funny accents, were very hairy and sometimes spoke in a language that Mickey and I could not understand. We finally discovered the family was German, so we snuck over to their house and painted swastikas on there windows with Ivory soap.

Anyway, I bade farewell to my friend and days later found myself being introduced to one of St. Michael’s third grade classes. “Class,” announced Sister Whomever, “I’d like you to welcome a new student; his name is Rooney Grinkmeyer!”, and just to drive the stake deeper through my heart, she proceeded to write my name on the chalkboard. The only time I’d heard laughter of this nature was when Alfalfa took the stage at his school’s talent show and sang “I’m In The Mood For Love” to Darla. I’d never thought about my name much, but as I stood there watching all those children laughing at me, it occurred to me that I’d never met another “Rooney” and any “Grinkmeyer” I’d met was a relative. I was years from learning about exponents but at this moment I had a very clear understanding of the concept of “2 squared”. I stood deathly still, pursing my lips, squinting my eyes and clenching my fists, wondering what unbearable level of cacophony would erupt when the tears started running down my cheeks. Fortunately, Sister Whomever came to my rescue.

“Class! Class!!” she yelled, and with three sharp claps of her hands the room fell silent. I was escorted to my desk and Catechism class commenced. That day at recess a couple of the boys roughed me up pretty good, but as the weeks wore on I began to be accepted.

By the time I’d reached the eighth grade I was not just “one of the guys” but “one of the guys to be”. My parents had elected to hold me back from the first grade for a year so I was one of the biggest in the class by then. And over the years I’d earned if not the respect of my classmates, certainly the fear, by doing well in academics, sports, and thoroughly beating anyone who dared call me by my birth name or any derivative thereof. I had, in fact, become a bit of a bully.

And I was the leader of what turned out to be the pick-on to end all pick-ons.

There was a big, vacant grassy area across the street from St. Michael’s school where the 6^th, 7^th and 8^th graders went for recess. The boys would roughhouse with one another or stand around and talk about girls and brag about all the things they were going to do when they got pubic hair and very large penises. The girls would forgo the roughhousing, but they would stand around in big circles and talk about all the things they were going to do when they got pubic hair and very large breasts. Or at least that’s what we boys assumed they were talking about. So one day I’m standing around talking to John and George and Dennis and the rest of the hoodlums I’d befriended and someone says “Let’s de-pants Tuba Fitz!” I think it was George. Tuba Fitz (not his real name) was a pretty good guy, but he was fat and freckled and had red hair. Not at all the swaggering stud that me and my prepubescent friends were. So we kind of picked on him.

Being the biggest kid in my class at the time and therefore the leader of the group, (and I’m sure the only one currently sporting pubic hair and, I might add, a very large penis!) I seized upon the idea that not only would we de-pants Tuba, but once we’d gotten his drawers down around his ankles, we would hoist his bulbous fat ass over to the girl’s circle and deposit him in the middle of it. Needless to say, my brainstorm was greeted with great enthusiasm and the deed was commenced.

Four of us each grabbed a limb and carried the de-pantsed blubber-boy towards the girls. They screamed at our approach, hands over their gaping mouths, but the only ones that moved were the ones that allowed us entrance to the circle. We deposited Tuba on the ground in their midst and I could see in their eyes the wonder, the awe, the curiosity as for the first time in their lives these Catholic schoolgirls got a glimpse of what lies hidden under the trousers of a male not related to them. Though our act was nothing short of cruel, it probably postponed the loss of virginity for several of the girls in that circle. The sight of Tuba’s fat, white, freckled legs and the dingy Jockey shorts that swaddled his big butt most certainly etched in some of their minds an image of male sexuality that served to keep them chaste better than the nuns’ promises of eternal damnation.

Tuba split out the crotch of his pants during the melee and had to walk home and change. He lived close and would be back before the bell rang to end recess and, being our buddy, we knew the incident would go unmentioned. We did not know, however, that Tuba’s father was at home and that upon seeing his split-pantsed, teary-eyed son enter the house demanded an explanation. Tuba fought the fight of his life, he assured us later, trying to protect his friends and tormentors. But dads were once 8^th-graders and they know what meanness 8^th grade boys are capable of.

Dino and I had been awarded the responsibility of going to the rectory after recess every day to pick up the school’s mail. I often thought about how I, as a younger child, would watch the two cool eighth-graders walk across the church parking lot to perform this honored task. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Sometimes I would gaze up into the faceless windows of St. Michael’s school and wonder how many 4^th, 5^th and 6^th graders were enviously eyeing me and dreaming of the day when they might achieve my status.

We entered the school and walked to a small office where we completed our “…appointed rounds.” As we headed for our classroom I glanced into Sister Mary Margaret’s office--she was the principal of St. Michael’s school. Her eyes were wide and her lips were pursed. Her back was straight as a two-by-four and angled forward toward the man and the boy sitting across the desk from her, and her hands were folded as if in prayer. The man was obviously agitated and the boy at his side sat quietly with his head down, his tousled hair shining at me like the red bubble-gum machine on top of a city policeman’s patrol car. I turned my head to face forward again, wide-eyed with fear, and continued the Bataan death march toward what was surely impending doom. “Holy shit!” said Dino, “We’re fucked!” For a few seconds my mind turned from the horrific fate that was soon to be mine and pondered what I had just heard coming from my friend’s mouth. The “s-word” was fairly common amongst us by now, and my personal use of it accounted for scores of “Hail Mary” recitations as doled out from the confessional. I new the “f-word” existed, kind of in the same sense that I knew short black men who lived in the rain forest and hunted howler monkeys with poison-tipped arrows existed. But I’d certainly never had any personal experience with either. And had we been magically transmigrated to the rain forest and I heard Dino say “Holy shit! We’re fucked!”, I’m certain I’d have been taken more aback by his use of the “F-word” than the screeching howler monkeys in the canopy.

As we approached the closed door to Sister Agnes Regina’s lair, our classroom, I began to hear muffled yells. I opened the door, the yelling became clearer and I nearly wet my pants. “The Rooney gang? The Rooney gang?” Yes Sister, heard your question the first time. The tiny nun with the pit-bull attitude had her back to me, and George, Dennis and John cornered. Three of the toughest guys in the whole school were standing at rigid attention, frightened and quaking like aspen leaves in a gale, staring down into the eyes of what was certainly the toughest gal in the school. I looked to my left and I saw virtually every one of my classmates staring back at me. Their eyes expressed deep, abiding sympathy, for they knew what was sure to ensue here in the next few minutes.

The door closed, the pit bull pivoted 90 degrees, walked across the front of the room and came face-to-face with Al Capone. “So! It’s the Rooney gang, is it?!!” She turned again. “You three, take your seats! You too, Dennis (that would be Dino)! I’ll deal with you later!” She turned back to a very nauseous me and pinched the flabby skin on the back of my bicep. “You, Mr. Gang leader, come with me!”

She marched me down to the principal’s office and finally released the channel-lock grip on my arm. Rather than unleash the righteous wrath of God upon me, as I had expected, Sister Mary Margaret very calmly asked me if I had indeed initiated the humiliating act upon Tuba Fitz. I considered lying but with Tuba and his father sitting there in the jury box I thought it best to admit my misdeed and take whatever punishment was forthcoming. “Yes Sister,” I replied to her query and hung my head to indicate the remorse and sorrow I was supposed to be feeling. And then, as an added bonus, I turned to the plaintiff and his father and apologized. “I’m sorry Thomas. I’m sorry Mr. Fitzpatrick.” They said nothing and I was excused.

The rest of the afternoon went quite normally and by the end of the school day I was feeling quite cocky again. I was barraged by questions from my partners is crime and assured them that the best way to handle ol’ Sister Mary Margaret, should the occasion ever arise again, was to simply feign remorse and apologize sincerely for your sins. Not at all unlike going to Confession on Fridays, something we were all familiar with. I boarded the school bus and went home, grabbed my mitt and joined the kids in the neighborhood for our regularly-scheduled afternoon game of baseball.

Dad got home late and I waived to him as he pulled into the driveway. I knew that in just a few minutes he’d be out on the pitcher’s mound, serving up gopher balls and offering advice on the finer points of the game to all assembled. But he did not show. Rather, Grace marched out of the house, stern-faced and car keys jingling from her hand. She grabbed my little brother and marched him toward her car. Steve protested and in a very uncharacteristic move she yanked his arm and told him to “Shut up and get in the car!” Grace then turned back to me and said “Rooney, your father wants to see you in the house. We were not very good friends, my mom and I, but I detected a look of real concern in her eyes, a look that a mother might give to a son who was about to board a train that would eventually take him to the battlefields of a war-ravaged foreign land. For a minute I was confused but then the cold, hard reality of what was about to happen hit me right between the eyes—“Oh shit! She called my parents!”

And indeed she had, that sly old nun. She’d been around the chapel a few times and she knew the difference between the mischievous pranks of an 8-year-old schoolboy and the outright meanness of a young adolescent headed for real trouble. And she knew when the limits of her disciplinary authority had been exceeded. And I think she must have known my dad too, or at least she suspected he knew how to steer his son in the right direction.

What followed between me and my father has gone down in the annals of Grinkmeyer discipline as the Coup de Gras of whuppin’s. The details aren’t important and many would feel that my father deserves to be jailed today for the punishment he meted out over 30 years ago. When the castigation was over, Dad approached me and said “I hope you know I had to do that, son”. “Yes sir”, I answered. I quickly wiped my tears because my father had taught us that men don’t cry. “I saw my buddies die right next to me during the war and didn’t cry”, he’d told us. But that afternoon as he stood in front of me a tear ran down each of his cheeks. And I don’t recall ever feeling closer to my father than at that moment.