EVEN WHEN FICTIONALS' FALL

I hate it when a hero falls. For with it go dreams, goals, patterns, and models We so easily turn to the entertainment industry to find them. But they're found other places as well.

Maybe that's our first mistake. But we can't be too close to a real hero. Or we see his/her faults. I'm reminded of a poem I read in a Rend Lake College literary/art magazine by someone named Royce Shoemaker. The subject was not wanting to know this particular woman who had come into his life. It was entitled "I Don't Want to Know You", but I have only a shell of the poem in my memory bank.

"I don't want to know you/Because then all your imperfections will become known to me." I'm afraid I would just be butchering the rest of it, but his point was he would prefer the safety of viewing her from the pedestal that he had placed her on.

I think that's somewhat the way we are with our heroes. But still they fall. Still we see their humanness. Their weaknesses. Their commonality. We see them lower than ourselves by some of their actions. How many Pittsburgh Steeler fans had a pang when the recent actions of Super Bowl hero Ben Roethelisberger were revealed? And if it sounds like a similar golf story not that long ago, it is.

No sport or entertaiment field is untouched by bad behavior. No arena whether political or art is untouched. No small town or large city. The list goes on and on.

Does this mean that we should not have heroes to look up to? Does it mean we're all depraved? Does it mean we should avoid being near them, knowing as much as we can about them, following them?

As a freshman in high school, I went to a varsity basketball game with one of my senior buds. He had taken me as a plebe of sorts and I enjoyed being around him and his friends. I mean these were really great guys, highly respected by the school and community. Why they included me even taking me on a road rally that was a big deal, I don't know. But until the first basketball game of the season, I'd just seen them in a good light. We'd even study together at the public library some days after school. Me with my Algebra I book, they with College Algebra.

But at the ballgame, my coolest senior bud went berserk using language I had never heard him use. Yelling at the refs. He was completely losing it and it was completely out of character for him. At least what I had seen over the first quarter of the school year. My Spidey had been exposed. Uncovered. Discovered.

But I recovered. After that incident, I started hanging out with my freshmen friends a little more. They were goofier. Most never studied much at all. Most were never looked at as highly in the community. Most didn't care as much for the home team to get excited and act badly. Most were very transparent. And wouldn't know what to do with a pedestal if they were given one.

HAVING RABBIT EARS

I didn't want To go. I didn't want to take her. But some of the girls I wanted to take to the dance talked me into taking another. (By the way, it wasn't you, Ruthie; we had a great time at another dance).

I was right. There was just no feeling. No heart. I walked through the high school dance on Cloud 2.

When we moved to AZ, I purchased part of a season ticket plan with our next door neighbor. Great seats. Not so great a team. The next season I purchased fewer season games. Same result. The third year I left my neighbor's seats for better seats with a good church friend. Row 29, two aisle seats, just off to the left of home plate. But it didn't help.

As the song goes, "I was Born a Cardinal Fan," and I'm certain I will die one. Oh, I try to cheer for the Diamondbacks when they don't play the Cardinals, but it's like the high school dance--my heart's not into it with them.

Monday and Tuesday night I went to the ballpark. A nice enough park with the best food Ive ever eaten at a baseball stadium.

As I sat thirty minutes prior to play ball time, I was devouring a Polish sausage when the ubiquitous announcer's voice piped out, "Join the Arizona Diamondbacks in their attempt to rub out spit tobacco." Not real appealing to my culinary tastes as I bit into the mustarded sausage.

"Why doesn't he just add 'Join the Arizona Diamondbacks in support of our new restroom facility behind Section 118 where you can take a ... seat,' " I told my wife.

Who calls it spit tobacco? Who ever went to a store that sells tobacco products and says "I'd like a carton of Chesterfields, a lighter, some breath mints, and throw in a plug or two of spit tobacco while you're at it?" It's called chewing tobacco. Though having never indulged, I think most just keep it in a wad and stick in their jaw or under their lower lip, sucking out the flavorable(?) nicotine. I'd rather the announcer call it sucking tobacco.

Then he and I would agree. Because tobacco sucks. Sometimes having good hearing does, too. In baseball they call that rabbit ears.

WHERE'S YOURS?

One thing that amazes me about scripture (no implication that there's only one) is the word, words or even a few letters that have been there all along, but I wasn't aware of them. I think I mentioned that in a fairly recent entry, so it must be weighing pretty heavily on my mind.

For me, recently did I discover that the land between the Nile and Euphrates that God gave to Israel is called the Promised Land. I had always thought it was Promise Land, no d. That's not like me to overlook something like that. But for practically all my life I had.

Of course it makes senseto call it Promised Land since the Abrahamic Covenant established that gift from God to Israel. It was promised to them. A land of milk and honey as it was reported by Caleb and Joshua to the rest of the Israelites.

Which got me thinking. Where's your Promised Land? Or, if you prefer, your Promise Land?

To me, there's a huge difference. Promised means it was given to you by some kind of decree or proclamation. Maybe an inheritance due you. The Promise Land is future. All the promises that the land holds for you. Inalienable right stuff.

It's always been, for me, a land of the sun. Far too many gray cloud curtain days for me in my Midwest youth and young adulthood. Practically every Spring Break, we would make a hadj to Florida for better weather. Summer is what we preferred and those days of soda and pretzels and beer that Nat King sang of. For me, it was more of baseball, and swimming, and golf. Or tomatoes and watermelon and corn to go with a cooked out burger, brat, steak or hamburger. But I guess Mr. Cole got it right. At least lyrically tied into the rhythm ad music of great summertime times.

So I'm living in my Promise Land. Three hundred days of bright sunshine. However after our three mile walk yesterday before noon, I could have used some cloud cover. Naw. Just more of a breeze.

HONG KONG PHOOEY

The signing of a trade agreement, the view from Victoria Peak, the Festival of Moon Pies, and thankfully Peking Duck and blueberry pancakes. Those are only a few but significant memories of a Hong Kong I visited in 1996.

We were there along with 20 or so others including our governor and his wife to conduct some kind of trade mission. As a teacher, I was there to... well, I was just there. We had had a warm up trade mission with the guv the previous year and we had evidently passed with flying colors, so as a result of my wife's being on the State Chamber of Commerce Board and me tagging along, I got to experience the Far East. For my part, I did talk to teachers and students at a school in Beijing and presented them with some high school handbooks and memorabilia. The rest of the time, I just mingled and small talked.

And ate lousy Chinese, Japanese, and Korean food. What's wrong with them? They don't know how to cook good American Chinese, American Japanese, or American Korean food. A one time real lover of Chinese, with a few exceptions (PF Changs being one) I still try to avoid that cuisine.

Hong Kong is a great city though with magnificent views from Victoria Peak. When we were there, it was a national holiday--the Moon Pie Festival. For some reasion, Chinese people love those little chocolate bars with an egg and yoke inside. And, I'm sure they celebrate for some other reason, but I don't recall. They sit in the park and light candles, enjoy each others' company and eat moon pies. A sort of tail gating party preceding nothing. Or nothing to follow. Maybe more like a family reunion without the volleyball game.

So most places were closed, yet we were there, along with the media to sign this agreement between the two countries, so they took us to the finest restaurant in Hong Kong--The Jockey Club. It was featured on The Amazing Race or Celebrity Apprentice. or Phineas and Ferb or some show I sometimes watch. But the Cantonese food was horrible. We were told to move our food around a little if we didn't like it. Also, if we just ate the rice, it would be insulting.

I couldn't even handle the rice because it had been touched by the nasty sauce. So I moved mine all over the place. Where there was this big garbage can. Naw, but I would have.

The morning food was great because I could order blueberry pancakes at our hotel's restaurant. That was enough sustenance for the day, until Donnie, another on our mission who couldn't stand the food, found us a nice restaurant that featured Peking Duck. Oh, it was good. I still have a picture of us standing outside that haven fairly prominently displayed to note the only thing that kept me from being malnourished in the East.

Moaner, griper, complainer that I am, would I have traded the experience for anything? Yes, but it would take a lot. Hong Kong is well worth the trip and the 15 hour non-stop flight. But you may shed a pound or two there if you stay overnight.

WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT?

They arrived early. Dave's never early when he picks me up for golf. Never.

Till yesterday. We had a bright and early tee time. It was garbage day. It was dark in the garage. I was rushed. I'm getting older. These are the excuses.

OK, a few more. As I'm loading my golf shoes, bag, and clicker that allows us to get in the less used gate of our community, one neighbor comes over to greet the foursome. Armed with golf balls that have fallen like manna from hole number 6 into his yard, he gives them to one of my buds. Another neighbor, the blond stalker, jogs by and tells me it's a great day for golf.

I hop into the SUV, a little flustered because this is my second time in a row that I, never ever late, have been. I give directions to the course. In AZ there are simply eighty different ways to go to get anywhere and all drivers have their preferences.

We arrive after much sporting conversation. As I'm changing shoes and getting out of the others' ways, my friend Bob says "So where's your Cardinals bag?" as he hoists the clubs from the back. I look and repulse.

It's my wife's golf bag and clubs.

My tools for the round. "Ok. I'm using colored golf balls, so I'm hitting from the womens' tees." More of a defense than an attempt at humor.

Sure, I could have called and CQ would have brought my clubs. I could have forked out a small fortune for rentals. I played her clubs borrowing only driver and three wood from Dave and shot an 87. Just about my normal or average round anyhow.

Does that mean I'm such a good athlete that clubs don't matter? Does that mean I'm metrosexual. Yes. Yes to both, I guess. For either is better than the truth--I'm just stupid.

TWO NIGHTS NOW

Earlier his week as I was sitting at the computer, I heard this well-known voice. This call of need. One word: "Ted".

I went rushing to see where my wife was in need.

The kitchen. It was past time to toss moldy oranges that we had picked two months ago. When she picked up the heavy bag in the refrigerator, the shelf above containing glass bottles among other things had started to fall.

No harm, no foul as I saved the day.

Not end of story.

For two nights this week in the middle of the night, I have been awakened by that same call--"Ted" in the voice of my wife who has been asleep beside me. Last night I reached for her to see if it was another dream.

She was there. At least I'm getting used to it. But it keeps me, easy sleeper, awake for awhile because I was ready to spring into action. Without the need, without the chance, I have trouble going back to sleep. This morning the dream occurred at 4:38.

It took me till 4:41 to fall asleep again. A guess, but I wanted to punctuate how hard it was for me to slumber again.

So when I hear that call in the night, well nexttime I'm just not going to answer it. What? And miss out on a chance to be a hero. Not me.

I'D WALK A MILE...

My fascination with owls is more than my camel infatuation. Probably the wrong word for the old wordsmith here, but I really like them.


I rode one in Israel once. I cannot imagine having to ride one very far. Uneven terrain, well I'd be mighty sore.

Maybe it all started when our son had this big stuffed camel that we bought for him when he was a tyke. There's another misnomer, but I don't recall at what age "The Camel" was gifted to him.

He had a variety of uses. In his young years, I remember he was a big cushion prop for our son's tv watching on the floor of the family room. When he was in front of the tube, he sat on the couch striding an afghan throw that I won in an auction. Or another prettier throw made by Scott's grandma. Whatever throw didn't matter to the camel just as long as he was reclining somewhere and not in the aridity of the desert. (aridity? )

But where he made his name was in the movies. Scott and friends took over our camcorder. So much that I never once used it myself. Weekends were made for the movies. Our basement at another house served as the studio. All types of movies were made there by Scott, Brad, Chris, Wil, Todd, Paul, and others including "The Camel".

The recipient of more wrestling moves, it was the WWF back then, than Hulk Hogan or Bret "The Hit Man" Hart, the camel was a prop in every movie ever made. Even the ones for school projects. One even made at another studio. I'm glad he got all that rest in his early years, because he was lovingly abused in his later years.

When he was used as part of a skit in a school- wide assembly, I was made aware of his popularity, when probably one hundred students said "The Camel," in unison when he appeared.

I'm sorry to say, I don't know here he resides today. He may still be in the basement of the house on Olive. I haven't seen him in years.

I even named my rotisserie or fantasy teams after him--The Blazin' Camels, The Camel Jockeys, and The Camelotters. Unfortunately I changed all the names due to the cigarette connection. Though I never smoked Camels, I knew that I didn't want to be associated by name with the nicotine. So now, along with co-owners I'm The Flying Chaucers and The Burrowing Owls.

But I still have that draw to the camels. Second only to owls.