A confessional

It’s not easy to write this, but it is a story that must be told. All of us are quick to laud our favorable exploits, but the sad, tragic stories often go untold. Unfortunately, by keeping those stories to ourselves, we restrict the outpourings of grace that can come our way. Maybe we do not tell them because we do not want to subject ourselves to the ridicule that will also surely come. We do not want to be reminded of our shortcomings and our failures. But we all have shortcomings, and we all fail in one degree or another.

Here’s my story: I am a convicted felon. It is not something I am proud of. These are words I would rather not write, and I know that some have already judged me on the basis of this conviction. That is their right, but I hope you will continue reading and reserve judgment. On February 28, 2008, I entered a guilty plea to securities fraud in the 339^th Judicial District Court in Houston, Texas. There’s a long story associated with this, and in time, I am sure I will tell most, if not all, of it. Why did I plead guilty? Well, I did it. I operated an illegal investment fund for a number of years. Some friends were victims of my crime, and I deeply lament the position I put them in, as well as everyone else.

As I write this (Thursday, June 5) I know not what the future holds for me. My punishment ranges from probation to the rest of my days institutionalized. In late January 2006, I was visited by three officials from the Texas State Securities Board. I did not realize it at the time, but this was an answer to my prayers of the last several years. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but pride would not permit me to acknowledge my failure and exit the criminal enterprise I headed. To leave it behind – the right thing to do – I would have to admit my failure, and ultimately, maybe end up prosecuted. My hope and prayer was to stick it out and hopefully I could make things right. I even had a 5-year plan to do just that.

But that was not in keeping with God’s will, living EACH day as He would have us live. God had waited on me long enough, and He was not willing to wait an additional 5 years, which might have strung out even longer than that (do plans usually go according to Hoyle?). After several days of sleepless nights and angst-filled days, on February 4, I gave it over to God. But getting to that point required me to venture to the valley of hopelessness and despair that few people ever go.

On February 4, I was scheduled to drive to Waco, Texas to cook barbecue, one of my favorite things to do. I had decided that the shame and guilt and embarrassment and pain was too much to endure and had decided, that if possible, I would end all of it – the pain, the investigation, the repercussions of the investigation, and the looming prosecution – by taking my life. It was not something I decided easily or flippantly. But that was my solution, or so I thought. I had even gone so far as to envision the scenario: there is a stretch of Highway 6 between Calvert and Hearne that is just one lane in each direction. There have been several fatal accidents along this stretch over the 20+ years, and I had decided that I would drift across the center line into the path of an oncoming 18-wheeler. Sure enough, as I left Hearne and approached Mud Creek (the very stretch of highway I had pictured in my plan), I topped the hill and began my descent. A couple of miles ahead, heading south was an 18-wheeler. We would meet at the bottom of hill near the creek. I slipped off my seat belt and prepared for the event. And for the first time in my life, I felt the direct intervention of God in my life. On many other times, I had felt his presence and will. But this time was different. I felt His hand. I heard his intervention. I heeded His plea. “Don’t do this. It solves nothing and only messes up one more person. TRUST ME.”

So I did as He told me. I shelved those plans and when the truck driver passed, he waved. I returned the greeting. And just as quickly as I felt God’s presence, I felt all alone again. Maybe I was so consumed in my own emotions at the time. But there I was, an hour or so out of Waco, alone with my thoughts. The day passed uneventfully, except for a small confession to two friends that I was being investigated and that I was scared.

Later that night, while sitting in the guest room of another friend, God was back (though I know He never really left – I just stopped listening). “Trust Me, David. I’ll see you through this if you just let me.” And for the first time in several days, I felt peace. I slept through the night that night, for the first time in nearly a week.

I sat in court and listened to my crime reconstructed, and I listened to and watched the people who trusted me testify against me about how I had hurt them. And I did hurt them. Some have been gracious and forgiven me. Others are bitter and angry (and that is also justified). The friends who have pledged their support are friends I don’t deserve. I know this. I am a better person because of them.

Maybe I will write more. Maybe this will be my last post – I don’t know. For those of you who have prayed, keep praying. For those of you who are bitter, I hope something soothes that bitterness for life is too short to be consumed by it.

I know that God will be glorified in all this. I do trust God. He can and will see me through all this. God and I are tight now. I hope all of you reading this can experience that kind of closeness with God without going through what I had to go through (because of my pride) to get there.

Cell phone etiquette

I used to love cell phones. I even loved my cell phone. But folks have forgotten the rules of etiquette when it comes to a cell phone. What prompted this blog was what I witnessed this weekend at the restaurant. There was a woman, probably mid-thirties, very attractive, dining with seven other people. This is a nice place; the total bill was in excess of $300, so we are not talking about a local drive-in. While the other folks at the table conversed with one another, she talked. On her cell phone. For 20 minutes. I am NOT exaggerating on the time. In other words, she decided that she would rather talk to someone not there than someone was there spending part of their evening with her. At one point, her other cell phone rang, and I kid you not, she had a phone up to each ear as she sat the table.

I spoke with their server. She told me it was all she could do to keep from saying something. I wish folks would turn the damn phone off. I understand that emergencies arise and you have to be in contact with the office, or folks at home. But when that happens in public, excuse yourself from the table and take the call out of the dining area. Few things are so important that you must take the call right then. But if it is such an occasion, such as you are a physician on call, but courteous to your table mates and the folks dining around. Excuse yourself and have a brief, quiet conversation in a private place. But by all means, take it away from the dining table and out of the dining room.

Being able to stay connected to the rest of the world 24 hours a day is a good thing. But like all good things, it too can be abused. And sometimes, it is a good thing to disconnect from that world for a bit and enjoy the company of real people having a real conversation, without the involvement of bits, bytes, or bandwidth.

A funny thing happened on the way to grouchiness....

Occasionally, but all too infrequently, something – or if you are lucky, someone – catches your eye from across the room and everything changes. Not always for the better, but since I am a curmudgeonly optimist, let’s go with that one. If we go with the other option, no one invites you to parties or to bowl or to dinner. You pretty much become the drag in other peoples’ lives that you are in your own.

You see it. Perspectives change. The sky seems bluer. The grass is greener. It may be a woman. In my case, it would not be a man, but it might be in yours, and that’s okay, since you may be a woman. And that’s okay too.

No, lightning did not strike. Fireworks did not go off. Love was not in the air. And all that’s okay too. But perspectives changed. And when perspectives change, you’ve changed. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. But changing perspectives means changing yourself, and changing yourself is growing, which we should never stop doing. Changing yourself is also something you learn to do at an early age and don’t stop doing until your kids move you into “a home,” as if the one you were living in was not longer a home. They call it “a home” not because it is one – it’s simply a place to go and die, and if you are lucky, it is a place where you will live, a little or a lot, until you do. It is called a home not for your benefit, but for your kids that moved you into one, so that they can feel better about uprooting you to go live with a bunch of other folks closer to the tomb than the womb. But I’m not talking about that kind of changing yourself.

Seeing the world a little differently – that’s what I am talking about. If you think about it, each one of us is pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things (and that’s okay) but in the little microcosm of our lives and the people we see daily, we can be pretty damn significant. Or not so significant, depending on how you want it.

You’ve read this far and are expecting me to tell you about some wonderful new woman (and she is, but not necessarily in the way you are thinking) or some fantastic new job (and it is, for the most part) or love (it’s a best thing, when you are as prepared for it as the person whom you love), I am sorry to disappoint you. Guess what? It probably will not be the last time.

This is not about any of those things, but at the same time it is about all of those things. This one is about having someone make a difference in your life just by a smile, or a touch, or the twinkle in her eye, and feeling that difference so much that it changes your perspective that you want to reciprocate. Not out of selfish gratification, and not necessarily to that someone. You know the kind: maybe she likes me the same way I like her. In fact, this is about as far from that as you can be. This is the sort of change that happens in an instant yet at the same time is a lifelong process. It’s a realization that you can make a difference in someone else’s life that nets you absolutely nothing. Well not exactly nothing. It gives you pleasure, fulfillment, a purpose, and a sense of well-being.

And if she calls you “darling” or “sweetheart” with an evocative European accent, scratches your back (or your larger than it should be tummy) with her nails, and has the most delightful set of honey brown eyes that accent her wonderfully curly blond hair (no better head of hair exists on the face of this Earth – it’s true), than it’s all the better.

RIP BAYLOR UNIVERSITY: 1845 - 2008

In the last few weeks, rumors have flied at Baylor University that a dozen professor up for tenure were denied. Twelve does not sound like a lot, but it was 12 out of 30. That is an astounding 40%. Each of these professors invested 6 years or so at Baylor, and all of them had the recommendations of faculty, Deans and the University Tenure Committee, Some of these recommendations were unanimous. Yet apparently, this was not enough. There are also plenty of rumors floating around that the rules for tenure approval were changed by Baylor, sometimes without notifying the tenure-track professors that the standards had changed. This is wrong, especially when committed by the largest Christian university in the world and a university that holds onto and cherishes its historic Baptist and Christian identity.

The Waco Tribune-Herald has written on the issue here.

On Baylor community bulletin board I said that if these rumors of drastic tenure denial numbers were true, Baylor had a bad case of institutional failure. If Baylor truly aspires to be a Christian university, what is Christian about the apparent deception in the standards applied to the tenure process by the administration? How are we to take seriously the Provost's statement that faculty voices are strongly considered when all of the evidence indicates directly the opposite?

Let's go ahead and admit what has been obvious to me for some time, although not acknowledged publicly, at least by me -- Vision 2012, the long-range plan of Baylor University, is a COLOSSAL failure. It has changed Baylor University, but not for the better. Our reputation in the academic community is a laughingstock. It has divided the university and the Baylor community. Maybe Don Schmeltekopf should put that is his Crossroads book; any objective assessment of the Vision would have to concur.

The goals, or imperatives of 2012 are admirable. The by-product of 2012 is shameful and embarrassing. The board is unaccountable; this usually is not a problem with self-perpetuating board since those member tend to take their tasks seriously and responsibly. Ours does not. Responsibility is a foreign word to the governing faction of this BOR. Good people on the BOR want to step down, but our fearful if they do so, the Cabal only strengthens its hold on the university and none of their actions will see the light of day.

I hope folks will show up at the next regents' meeting and demand openness and an audience. It is a shame when the State of Texas and the governing bodies of the TAMU and UT have higher standards on openness and transparency than our own Board does. When the Bliss scandal broke, former Baylor president Robert Sloan said we would tackle that problem with openness and transparency. I challenged him personally to apply that same standard to university governance. Obviously, he decloned my challenge.

Five years ago or so, I showed up (along with a couple of other folks who could not be as public as I) and demonstrated on the steps of Pat Neff Hall, broom in hand, protesting the presidency of Sloan. It's time for more civil disobedience: peacefully attend the BOR meeting; demand to be heard and seen and to hear all that transpires. Demand no executive session for the BOR, except under the standards set forth by the Texas Open Meeting Act, If it is good enough for the state, TAMU and UT, it should be good enough for Baylor.

I know there are good people right int he middle of this who are conflicted and torn about all this. Some even may have even played a role in this. I am living proof that redemption is possible. So too is it possible for Baylor University. But the Baylor I came to know and love no longer exists. She is dead. But as we observed last Sunday, resurrection is possible. Sadly, I don't think it will come after only three days. But I pray that it comes. And soon.

RIP Baylor University.

Why I Hate Self-Checkouts

Stopped in at my not so local Super Center tonight, and after picking up a few things, I made an impulse buy of Rockstar Pomegranate. I ring it up in the self-check line. Cost = $5.00! What!?! I ask the lady (quite young, so maybe lady isn't the best descriptive) if it really cost $5 (normally at my not so local Super Center, the cost is about $2). She verifies that it is. "Are you really sure? Could you look that up?"

She fumbles through some papers and types a few buttons on her computer, which I am now convinced was merely a ruse to let me know that she was looking the price up. "Yessir," -- she gets props at least for being polite -- "that's the right price." Stunned, I place my can of Rockstar on her lectern and cancel my order and move myself out of line. Flummoxed, I am determined to find a drink case with the price displayed. Sure enough, two lanes over, staffed by a real person, I see Rockstar Pomegranate and it is priced $1.88. I buy a can and the cashier rings it up -- again $5.00

"Doesn't that seem a little high?" I inquire.

"Yeah, I guess it does." He seemed genuinely concerned. Really. Not at all like the girl at the lectern.

"The sign on the front of the case says they are $1.88," I inform him.

"Yeah. that seems more normal," and he keys in $1.88.

Real interaction. Real results. And someone acted like they gave a damn.

Bernanke's (Failed) Gamble

First, let me state that Ben Bernanke was an outstanding choice for Fed chairman. In fact, it may end up being W's legacy, other than John Roberts as Chief Justice.

But the recent stock market action has demonstrated the fatal flaw in Ben's strategy: what if the interest rates don't work? How low can you go? Japan tried this in the 90s, and its economy has been mired in recession more often than not. And that is a nation of savers rather the debtors.

What Ben should do:

1. Recognize the inflation that is already present. You combat inflation by making cheap money more expensive. I am not advocating an increase in interest rates, but you've got to stop lowering them.

2. Bring back the dollar. The weakness of the dollar has helped our exports, but a strong dollar is good for America. Bob Rubin established that once and for all.

3. Stop selling out to the big boys of Wall Street. Yes. Merrill, Goldman, JP Morgan, BoA mean a lot to the economy. And if they are doing well, the economy is probably doing well. But correlation is not causality. The Four Horsemen of Wall Street do well when the economy does well; they do not cause the economy to do well.

4. Admit that it is okay for the stock indices to slide. Even significantly.

5. Announce the Hillary's plan to freeze mortgage interest rates and impose a moratorium on foreclosures is perhaps the worst thing that could happen to housing industry. If the gov't wants to do something to help (and I am not so sure it should), then it should establish a pool of funds available to qualified mortgagees that pays the banks and extends the term of the mortgage, whereupon the govt would be repaid when the house is sold or the mortgage is paid off. Yes, this would cause a lot of folks to be upside down in their houses. But I am not unconvinced that is a bad thing. They still have a place to live. They have affordable notes. They don't have any equity available to overextend themselves and further indebt themselves with HELOCs and the like.

6. Use his bully pulpi to advocate a progressive consumption tax. We tax things we want to discourage. We incentivize things we want to encourage. So the USA, in its wisdom, has decided to tax income and incentivize debt. Go figure. I think a flat tax would be better in theory, but it will never sell. Instead, your tax return should ask two questions: how much did you make, and how much did you save. Your tax is based on the difference. As it goes up, so too does your tax rate. And you can still retain the biggest hoax ever perpetuated on us by the government: withholding.

7. Lastly, and restated because IMO it is the most important, fix the damn dollar. A weak dollar benefits some corporations and Wall Street, but Main Street hurts. When Wall Street is healthy, Main Street may not be. But when Main Street is healthy, Wall Street is too.

Big Love in a Small Town

First of all, let me say that I am in love with Sarah Johns. She's as country as it gets and a great singer. She wrote or co-wrote everything on her CD that bears the title of this post. Honky tonk angel is a phrase that comes to mind when I hear her sing, but she also knows the power of a good ballad.

I recommend her CD, but just remember -- she's mine.

A corporate farm defender repents, part 2

How bad has it gotten? How about genetic engineering of plants so that the plants cannot reproduce? Anyone remember the old slogan from the commercial of the 1970s? It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature.

My grandfather had a small garden at his house, and I learned from him that some seed had to be set aside for next year's crop. Monsanto, one of the six agribusiness giants that control 98% of the world's seed sales, has described "seed savers" as competitors and allocate more than $10 million each year to investigate and persecute these farmers -- whether they are big or small. Agribusiness seed "manufacturers" (they are more akin to factories than agricultural providers, IMO) have genetically spliced animal and/or bacterial genes into its seed, making the crop commit suicide so that there cannot be a second generation by setting back seeds. The farmer is forced to buy new seed from agribusiness.

And intellectual property law allows these agribusiness interests to patent their seeds, not just the seed technology. Big deal, right? Just ask Percy Schmeiser. Percy Schmeiser is a Canadian farmer who was sued by Monsanto to the tune of $145,000. Why? Because on a portion of Schmeiser's 1,030 acres some of Monsanto's patented canola seed had drifted. However, Monsanto admitted that Schmeiser did not plant the seeds. The fact is that the canola seeds did exactly what they have been doing for thousands if not millions of years: they drifted or were transferred by birds or insects.

There mere possession of these genetically-modified canola plants, even though he did not know he had them on his property placed Schmeiser in violation of the law. Furthermore, Schmeiser did what he had been doing for more than 50 years: he had been setting aside seed, like many farmers do. Possessing plants produced by these patented seed and possession of the seeds themselves (even though he did not know he possessed them) rendered Schmeiser guilty at trial, and the conviction was upheld by an appellate court (5-4) but Monsanto was denied any compensation. Canadian organic farmers have sued Monsanto and Aventis for making it impossible for them now to grow organic canola. The genetically-modified genie is out of the bottle, and there is no getting it back in. Fifteen countries have banned the importation of all Canadian canola because of contamination, over which Monsanto sued an unknowing farmer.

Can't happen here? Not only can it, but the federal government has ensured that big agribusiness will win with the passage of the National Uniformity for Food Act. Two dozen states had passed or proposed legislation to block or limit genetically-modified products, until the feds, backed by corporate agribusiness, intervened with NUFA, which would eliminate any and all food safety and labeling laws that differed from federal requirements.

A corporate farm defender repents, part 1

I've always been a pro-business guy. If it was good for business, it was good for America. For the most part. There are always exceptions, but I never considered corporate farming to be one of those, until recently.

I am a foodie. I always have been. I do a little moonlighting on the line at a nice restaurant, and love to show my culinary skills whenever I can. I;ve never been opposed to big corporate agribusiness farming operations, and for the most part, I still am not. But I no longer think that is in the best interest of the country. My repentance has nothing to do with the plight of the family farmer. What prompted it is the really crappy food being turned out by the mega-food processing companies.

Someone somewhere discovered that corn was great for fattening cattle just before slaughter. But cattle aren't made to eat corn. A cow is a ruminant -- meaning it has four stomachs for digesting rather nasty and tough vegetation like range grass. On the other hand, corn is rather sweet, loaded with calories and fat when compared to grass, and it is digested in a completely different way from the way a cow digests grass. As a result of large scale feedlot operations, the USA has been slaughtering a bunch of unhealthy cows -- unhealthy because of their diet. We're feeding a machine corn when it is designed to run on grass. How is that different from running diesel in a gasoline engine? The engine will still run, but not nearly as effectively as it would otherwise. And while corn-fed beef does taste good, it is nothing compared to grass-fed beef.

If you haven't tried grass-fed beef yet, give it a shot. The taste is noticeably different, and you might not even like it at first. But it is cow the way cow is supposed to taste.

But why corn? Could it be Cargill and Archer Daniels Midland (ADM)? I'm not a big enough conspiracy nut to suggest that these two large agribusiness operations are behind it, but when you consider that they do set a lot of farm policy for the government through their powerful lobbying efforts, it's not a hard jump to make. There is no doubt the feedlot operation benefits the corn growers, and these two companies are two of the largest.

Feedlot operations also make it cheaper to produce beef. Instead of large grassy ranges, you now have much smaller lots. But does this really benefit the cattle rancher? Not really, if one considers that the ranchers now have to truck their beeves (I love the Brits' plural form) off to these feedlots, which are concentrated near huge slaughterhouses. Once upon a time, nearly every rural county had a slughterhouse where local beef was slaughtered, produced, and sold. Now Texas beef islikely to end up in Iowa or Nebraska, then trucked back down after processing to Texas. It seems we have added an unnecessary middleman. Middlemen are ner good for the guy at the end of the line, in this case, the farmer.

Give grass-fed beef a try. You may even have to try it a few times, because the taste is distinctly different. And buy local if you can. I'm in the process of reading Barbara Kingsolver's food memoir Animal, Vegetable, Miracle right now. In the book, she urges folks to buy local. My restaurant does, when it can, and I am a big fan of restaurants that do -- Alice Waters was one of the pioneers of this movement.

I'll have more on this later,including the awakening I had when I tasted a heritage hog and a real wild turkey recently. I may never buy pork at the megamart again.

In A Perfect World

As a teenager growing up in the Houston area in the late 70s and early 80s, it was impossible to escape all of the Urban Cowboy craze and Gilley-abilia associated with that movie. But somewhere therein, I discovered the hard, honky-tonk edge and the soul of "real" country music in artists like Gene Watson, Merle Haggard, and Gary Stewart, and in old-timers like Hank Thompson, Eddy Arnold, and Ray Price. There have been brief resurgences led by folks like George Strait, Marty Stuart, Dwight Yoakum, and unexpected newcomers like Teddy Thompson.

But country music -- more accurately, the music executives in Nashville -- sold its soul to formulaic jingles sung by beefcake crooners who rarely knew the heartache of real life, and it was reflected in their music. It was once said that the reason Hank Williams (the original version) was so good was because he had spent a lot of time staring at the south-bound end of a north-bound mule. The formulaic crooners, on the other hand, rarely experienced such hardships unless their stylist canceled their coiffure and manicure appointment.

But the soul of country music, while abandoned by Nashville music honchos, did not disappear. Recently, Raul Malo (formerly of The Mavericks) covered ten classics on his After Hours release. And Teddy Thompson's Up Front & Down Low CD did the same. As good as these CDs are, they are jazzier arrangements of old country standards (more so Raul Malo's) and they still lack the hard edge of a guy (or girl) singing sincerely about experiencing the pain and misfortune, or the joy and peace that is the subject of a good country tune because he's lived it himself.

Then along came (again) Gene Watson. A native of the east Texas town of Palestine, Gene worked in an auto body shop while singing each night in clubs in and around Houston. His music career took off during those great old days aforementioned, with such hits as Paper Rosie and Should I Go Home or Should I Go Crazy. Gene's back, and better than ever. This month, he released In A Perfect World.

His voice is still as pure and sincere and honest as it was a quarter century ago. Sadly, I don't suspect that he will get much airtime on commercial radio. After all, he's hardcore; he's in his 60s now. All he does is sing and sing well, and sadly that's enough for today's Nashville.

The CD contains fantastic covers of Don't You Ever Get Tired of Hurting Me and Merle Haggard's Today I Started Loving You Again. He is joined by such notables as Connie Smith, Joe Nichols, Vince Gill, Mark Chestnutt, and Lee Ann Womack, who instead of stealing part of the spotlight from one of the purest voices ever to grace country radio, are largely content to harmonize with Gene. A notable exception to this is the duet with Rhonda Vincent on the Buck Owens (or if you prefer, George Jones and Tammy Wynette) classic, Together Again.

While the covers of the classics are great, it is the seven new songs that make this CD worth having in your collection. The title song evokes the sadness of a lost love and how life was perfect when his wife and little girl were still with him, but now, along with his dreams of the perfect world, they are gone. A Good Place to Turn Around is a hopeful song of redemption for a wayward soul, made all the more poignant by Gene's expressive vocalization.

This is Gene's first release on the Shanachie label, and I hope this will be the first of many. Kudos to Gene for sticking to what he does best, and what he does better than most -- still true country music with an edge and with a voice that is one of the best in the business. Unfortunately, I doubt this CD will ever get much radio play. But that is even more reason to add it to your library.

It's a good day when the heart and soul of country music reappears. It's even more joyous when it's from someone who never left it.

My Advent Wish

While we tend to get caught up in the Christmas season while still digesting our Thanksgiving turkey (or even shopping for it sometimes), in reality this is the season of Advent. It is not a time for celebration, but for reflection and preparation. Over the last couple of years, and especially since September 12, I have been forced to do some preparation, and I wish this on none of you. However, there are things that CAN be done.

I know that many things have changed in the world and in the lives of the people around me in the past year. And things have changed dramatically for me over the past year. Some things have been good changes, and some have been more difficult or sad. I do not know what my future holds, and frankly, I cannot worry about that. I can spend my time worrying about things I can change and trying to make life better for those around me. Hopefully, most of the time, I succeed.

The truest test of a person is how they treat others when times are tough, so I hope that we are all able to be kind to one another during the hard times and also when things are good. Life is a series of mountaintops and valleys. For too long, I expected the mountaintops, almost like I was entitled to them, and did what I could to maintain the mountaintops. But real life lessons are learned in the valleys, and real life is the ascending and descending of life's terrain. One cannot simply dream about mountaintops and expect them; it takes work and perseverance. Similarly, one cannot tarry in the valleys. Learn the lessons contained therein and begin ascending again. But ascend to the top knowing full well that there is a descent on the other side, so take stock in those mountaintop moments, cherish them, and store up your treasures. They will be needed for the forthcoming descent and subsequent ascent.

Stuff does not matter. The people with whom we share our lives do. My prayers for all of you this Christmas holiday season is that you discover and the joy of being close to those you love, and that this circle is bigger than it was last year, even if just by one person; that you have the opportunity (and take advantage of it) to do good deeds for others, especially when you do not take any credit or reward for it; and that you are part of a community of folks (yes, even strange bedfellows) who strive to make the world a better place than they found it.

It was just like the time I met Mickey Mantle...

When I was just out of college, I met the Mick. He was the guy my dad idolized when he was growing up. And there I was time, 4-5 inches taller than the Mick. I was bigger than one of my heroes (I was still skinny back then). It was a heart-breaking moment.

Tonight, I go to Lüke, John Besh's brasserie in New Orleans. And I was non-plussed. Yes, that was perhaps the most perfect cup of soup I have ever had in my life (corn and crab bisque). And the fries were exquisite. But you don't send a sandwich to the floor that has been over-toasted to the point of being more than a crouton. The bread was burnt. And much of it not worth eating, so I didn't.

And the service was bad too (how about a water glass that is chipped and broken?). I know Besh is good. I am praying that it was just an off night in the restaurant instead of the amateur hour it seemed to be. I've seen more than a few restaurants run by great chefs slide into mediocrity because they rested on the laurels of the celebrity chef. I hope this is not one of those times.

I lost a hero this week ...

On Thursday, October 11, 2007, my Pappaw turned 89 years old. At 7:45 that night, he passed away after a long illness and much pain. He left behind his wife of almost 70 years, two children, four grandchildren, one step-grandchild, five great-grandchildren and three step great-grandchildren. He had eleven siblings and half-siblings; only one survives.

He was a decorated war veteran and a career Air Force man. He served in the Pacific Theater in World War II and was a veteran of the Battle for Guadalcanal. He was a member of the unit that intercepted and shot down the plane carrying Admiral Yamamoto over the Solomon Islands. He joined the service in the late 1930s after watching planes fly overhead to the new Barksdale Airfield while he picked cotton. He told me he joined because the Army had to be better than picking cotton. I had the privilege once of seeing him with other members of his unit. One man pulled me aside and told me that no one was respected and revered more in that squadron than Sgt. Hilburn. He said he owed his life to my Pappaw.

After an lengthy and honorable service to his country, serving around the world and retiring as a Senior Chief Master Sergeant, he embarked on a second career as a civil service employee of the military. All combined, the United States was served by my Pappaw for more than 40 years.

But Pappaw was first and foremost a family man. Not many people know that he turned down a battlefield commission in WWII. Had he accepted it, he would have had to stay in the Pacific Theater for the duration of the war. As an enlisted man, he could go home earlier. When he set sail for the South Pacific in 1942, Mammaw was great with child, and at the time of the offer of a commission in the Army Air Corps, Pappaw's dream was to get home and see his wife and meet his son for the first time. Declining the commission was, he thought, the quickest way to get it done, As fate would have it, he ended up staying for the duration of the war anyway. I always thought it was a bit unfair, and even asked him if he wanted me to pursue a retroactive commissioning based on not going home when promised. He told me he made it home safely and the military gave him a wonderful life and career and that he was proud to have been a Chief Master Sergeant.

While his memory failed him the last decade or so of his earthly life, he could still recount every detail of his beloved P-38. He took great pride in the fact that he never lost a pilot to a mechanical problem. "Those were my planes; I just let those other guys fly them." Every time he said this to me, there would be a twinkle in his eye and a little smile; I never knew if he was kidding or being serious. Maybe it was both. He loved to kid and joke, but never in a mean-spirited way. For the 44 years I knew him, he built people up. It is said that in the last days of the life of the Apostle John, all he had the strength to do was tell people to love each other. That was Pappaw too. He had his flaws, but he never ceased to love. When new folks joined the family, it was always Pappaw who made them feel at home. The rest of us may have been measuring them or sizing them up, but not Pappaw -- he just loved them and welcomed them.

When my brother and I were young, Mammaw and Pappaw used to take us on vacation with them. We saw the Grand Canyon, Disney World and Carlsbad Caverns. Those are cherished memories of my childhood. On one of those vacations, he taught me it was okay for men to cry when he got the news that his friend and neighbor Jack had died suddenly. But remember, he put family first, and my brother and I still got to see Disney World as Aunt Peggy and John Michael flew out to Orlando while he and Mammaw flew home. While he put his family first, his friends and their families were never far behind.

The last thing the two of us did alone together was go to a baseball game about two or three years ago in Houston. The Astros were playing the Cardinals. He didn't remember where he was or where we were going, but when we arrived at the ballpark, he became full of life (baseball has a way of doing that). He told me stories of the Gashouse Gang Cardinals of the 30s, and how he and his brothers would try to listen to the Cardinals games on KMOX on the old radio. They usually didn't get a chance to do so though. He could not tell me a thing about the current Cardinals or Astros -- he didn't have the memory for that. But hearing stories of baseball the way he remembered it made that night special. He was charming, innocently flirting with the stadium attendant who looked after his needs -- it was easy to understand why Mammaw fell for him. And just when I thought he might not be paying attention to the game going on in front of him, he asked me why the umpire through the ball out of play each time it hit the ground? If a pitch hit the dirt, the umpire switched balls and threw the dirty one out. If there was a ground ball to an infielder, after time out was called, the ball was switched out. I thought I had paid attention to ballgames before, but until he pointed it out to me, I never noticed it before. For a brief evening, I had my Pappaw back -- the man who taught me how to throw a curve ball and how to catch a pop fly (even though it caused him tremendous pain in his back to do so -- remember, he put his family ahead of everything, including his own well-being). On the way home that night, he asked me where we were and where we were going, and he had no memory of what we had done for the last three hours. The next day, he asked me if I took him to see a ball game, and when I told him I had, he thanked me for it and gave me the score and told me he thought he wasn't ever going to get to see a big league game again. Shortly thereafter, he again had to be reminded that he went to a game the night before.

He remembers now. He remembers his family. He remembers his friends, especially the ones he served with as part of the Greatest Generation. He's able to stand erect and he feel no pain. The twinkle in his eye is bigger and brighter than ever before. The laugh that sort of bubbled up from inside him rings across the hills of Heaven. He has reunited with old friends and family and fellow airmen. And it is his hope and prayer that ALL of his family will join him in Heaven one day.

I don't deserve to carry his last name. He is one of my heroes. And he always will be. He lived a full life. More importantly, he loved all of his life.

A new role....

Sunday morning, I was driving to work down on the Island, having just left the house when my phone rang. Well, work wasn't the first stop -- the first stop was Central Market to pick up some blueberry granola for my boss, friend, and expectant mother Kristen. She likes it, and it's healthy too. Heck, it's good -- even I like it.

My phone rings, and the caller ID indicates that is my good friend, who shall remain nameless. I answer, but it wasn't my good friend but rather his girlfriend. She's charming and quite hilarious and the mom of my special friend who calls me Big Guy, an affectation I have come to love. She asks what I am doing and I tell her. Then she begs me to come change a flat tire for her at Memorial Park. I surmise that she is stranded there, and who am I to decline a damsel in distress?

I head over to Memorial Park, and I see that not only is the damsel present, but the beau's vehicle is present as well. "Great," I think to myself, "now he can change the tire and I can head on down to Galveston." But noooo, they had other plans. They were all dolled up in the church clothes, and the beau states, "I'm too pretty to change the tire and get all dirty." Now I don;t feel so bad about stopping at the Central Market to pick up the granola before I headed to the park. Guilt has left me.

I change the tire, all the while looking at him and chuckling. Okay, it was more than chuckling. And yes, I chose to mock him, a little. After all, that's my style. I even made up a little song for him too. But in spending the day pondering the incident, I decided that I liked the new role. No, it's not the role of doing man things when the significant other man can't or won't. It's the role of being the friend that's called to get something done, even if it involves a little sweat, a little dirt, and a little heat.

The more I thought about it, the more I was honored to receive that call. Yeah, maybe I am like Tessio or Clemenza to their Don Corleone -- I'm the one for the dirty work. But it's all good. The beau and his lady are dear friends, often in spite of me. And it truly is better to give than receive.

The two manliest men I know are my grandfathers. One is slowly dying, with dementia claiming what's left of his memory. He's been in the hospital or nursing home since December -- a hip replacement surgery that went as well as expected for a man that was probably too weak to endure it. But when I think about him, I think of a man who gives of his heart, of his time, of his energy. As a child, he and my grandmother used to take my brother and me off my parents' hands for a week or so and take us around the country on vacations -- the Grand Canyon and Carlsbad Caverns; Disney World; relatives in Kansas. I think of the awe and respect that the Army Air Corps soldiers give to him in their letters, cards, and in person at reunions and visits. Not because of his rank -- he was a sergeant when the war of our Greatest Generation was fought, but because of the kind of man he was -- and still is.

My other grandfather isn't my blood grandfather at all, but the man who married my grandmother when I was nine. None of that mattered to him. He was an exterminator in north Louisiana, and he treated a lot of widow's homes for free or for far less than he should have charged them. He also had a big garden, from which he grew food that he gave away to the older women of his church. I asked him why one day. "It's simple, really. I can do this, and they need this. It's my way of giving to them. They'd never accept a sack of groceries, but they will accept a bushel of beans or corn or turnip greens." He loved it, and I am sure he also loved the attention these women gave him, all 100% innocent of course. At his funeral in 1993, the funeral home was full of people he had given to, never expecting anything in return. Fourteen years later, that still leaves a mark and is a reminder of how far short I fall so often.

The common bond between these two great men is that they were great men of God. Neither one of them will be written up in the society pages or the front pages. And when you think great men, neither of these would ever say they were. But in doing the little stuff that God desires, they became great men of God. And that is better than any accolade the world will ever attribute to someone.

So if you have a flat, or need something done, don't hesitate to call me. The rewards are fantastic. And if you have a beau (or are a man), you might even provide me a good laugh or two or three or more. To my two friends who called this past Sunday -- thanks for letting me have the chance to be more like my grandfathers. And in being more like them, I was more like the Good Shepherd.

Like a fine wine....

Yep, that's me. I'm getting older. Two weeks I turned the big 44. Hank Aaron. Roy Oswalt. Some wine mellows with age; some turns to vinegar. There are days when I wake up and I feel like I am nothing but piss and vinegar; then there are days when I wake up and I feel like a kid.

Go figure.

Now on to more important things. I have a new favorite musical artist. Teddy Thompson is a Brit and the son of folk-rock legends Richard and Linda Thompson. In his new CD Up Front & Down Low, he tackles traditional country music -- songs like All My Friends Are Gonna Be Strangers and Walkin' The FLoor Over You. These are some old standards that should not be attempted by the faint of heart. But his best cover is of George Jones' classic She Thinks I Still Care. His voice reminds me of Dwight Yoakum, especially the early Dwight on numbers like Miner's Prayer and Bury Me. The lone original song on the CD is Thompson's own Down Low. But it is not out of place here. Not only can the man interpret great songs in new ways, but he does a damn good job with his works too.

So do yourself a favor if you like good country music, like they used to sing -- go get Up Front & Down Low. Thank me later.

Mercy vs. tough love

I came face to face with this dilemma last week, and it's still here. I am called to be merciful, to show grace, and to do what I can to help someone. But what do you do when that help becomes enabling?

I know I have disappointed others in my life. I KNOW this. And I am grateful for the folks who have given me second chances, especially when they didn't have to. At what point do you stop giving second chances? At what point do you force others to, as a friend once told me, "tote their own purse?"

When you're not involved in such a situation, it's relatively easy. When you've been living it for the last week (and even the last year), it's not nearly as easy.