Taking Responsibility . . .

Placing the blame

I once knew this skinny old drunk biker.

Lots of bad things happened to this poor guy. One time, he put the neatest little tiny bright red marker lights facing forward on the handlebars of his Harley.

The police didn’t like that – and it is against the law. He got an expensive ticket. (Red lights may only face the rear.)

Several times, this guy’s ride of the day (or night) was interrupted by the police, who issued numerous citations over a short time for Driving Under the Influence.

Finally, my old biker friend spent time in jail (a correctional institution) for his failure to ingest the niceties of the constitutional separation of drinking and riding.

Eventually, he was badly injured in a wreck, and now has lots of metal parts in his legs. Surprise, surprise.

These days, I see him only in a pickup truck. No more bike. So I asked about it. “That Harley was the cause of all my problems, so I sold it,” he says.

Next example: I once knew a man who lived in my neighborhood. Every day, I’d see him walking up the block to the liquor store.

Once in a while, I’d ask if he’d been able to get his motorcycle running. It was a laborious process for him and went on for many years. One sorry Honda failure after another.

Then one day I noticed he was limping. I had to ask, “What happened?”

“It was that damned motorcycle,” he said. “Caught on fire and burned me. I’m getting rid of it. I’m giving it away. Do you want it?”

Let me see. In both cases here, the motorcycle was at fault. Correct?

And no, I didn’t accept my neighbor’s offer of a free Honda. Motorcycles are dangerous. Probably cause me all kinds of problems.

The calving incident

Once when I was a punk newspaper reporter living in Riverton, Wyoming, I went out to a ranch to watch calving.

There was a bunch of hardened old cowboys and ranchers there. Calves were born, I took pictures, I took notes for a story, and I watched.

Suddenly, a Border Collie ran over and grabbed a steaming warm placenta and dragged it off into the sage and began to eat it.

Slim, one of the hardened old cowboys, went over to the corral, leaned against a fencepost and lost his breakfast, violently.

Another old cowboy went to comfort him, asking, “What happened, Slim?”
Gesturing toward the dog which was aggressively gnawing on the afterbirth, Slim said, “The son of a bitch didn’t even let it get cold.”

When Mother died – a related story

Within hours after my Mother died, a woman showed up at my Dad’s house to “comfort” him. And comfort him she did.

I know this happened because I had rushed to my parents’ home after Mom died. I was there, I saw the woman there. I know about the comforting part because my Dad told me it had happened.

How are these two stories related?

Think of me as the grizzled old cowboy helping with the calving. I wondered if Dad’s little “comforter” even let Mom’s ashes get cold . . .

I felt violently nauseous, but I couldn’t find a fencepost to lean on.

News about television

I’m given to understand there’s a change coming soon in the world of television. The news is, you must buy and install some kind of adapter to make your old set compatible with changes in broadcast technology.

So if you’re still using your old rabbit ears or antenna, be ready. The adapter isn’t expensive, and it will result in reception of more broadcast channels.

I can’t help but suggest, however, that this might be an opportunity to quit watching television altogether. You have an excuse, or a reason.

If you actually get up the courage and gumption to quit watching, I promise immediate benefits. You will experience a new freedom, a changed and more wholesome outlook on life.

It will be much like quitting smoking. You will discover within one day that you did not need the TV. I promise.

We have now been “TV Free” for 13 years. What do we do with the “extra” time?

Laura has become a prodigious reader. Lately, she has been practicing singing and playing the piano. She has a beautiful voice, and as she practices it gets even more beautiful.

Listening to her is a delightful way to spend an evening.

Me? Sometimes, I spend the time in my studio, painting. I also read, either the Bible or an assortment of antique truck and hot rod magazines. Other times, I study road maps, always planning for road trips.

Laura and I also visit, talking about our work, our church, our hopes and aspirations, our successes, our fears and worries.

Often, I spend my evening in the kitchen preparing delicious dinner, having a beer, making notes for the Friday Letter. (Yes, I make notes.)

We have become truly free individuals. Don’t believe me? A one-week TV-free trial probably isn’t enough. Give it two weeks or a month. You can be free too.

Just think, no more Babwa WaWa, no more Poopie Goldberg, no more Oprah Windfree. No more Playoffs, no more Broncos, no more Avalanche. No more Simpsons – Homer or O.J.

Do I miss anything? People tell me of the wondrous things on the History Channel – but I’ve seen all the World War Two newsreel footage, every last inch of it.

I don’t need to see the airliners hit the twin towers, and I don’t need to watch President Kennedy being killed.

It could be fun to watch the Discovery channel, although snakes-in-the-mud features wear thin after a while too.

Try life without television, you’ll see.

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We’re heading off to Idaho for a reunion with some of Laura’s family in Boise. So you won’t have the advantage of the Friday Letter for a couple of weeks.

When we started the Letter almost a year ago, it was intended to be a quick and easy method for me to be in touch with my family.

After Friday Letter #1, my daughter Tammy who lives in New Zealand became incensed at something I wrote. “Don’t ever try to contact me again,” she wrote back. I answered, “No problem.” Haven’t heard from her since. Oh well.

The other kids probably glance at my weekly effort, and there are relatives who correspond with us through this medium.

But it hasn’t worked at all as a method of communication with the kids. It’s been a dismal failure. I don’t hear all that much back, even though I often launch into the outrageous, just to test them.

I do have you – I know basically who you are – reading and responding. People from all over the world “visit” the blog site, and readership grows weekly.

So I do plan to continue writing, but I guess I’ll have to find some other ways to reach out to the kiddos.

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Word of the week: Quack. Webster says it’s a person who pretends to have a particular skill, who dishonestly claims to effect a cure.

Remember last week’s words? Chiropractor. Dermatologist. Urologist. This week’s word: Quack.

Word for next time: Hypochondria

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