You can’t please no one none of the time, but you can please someone some of the time.

That’s something you often hear.

Actually, I don’t know that I have ever heard it said like that before; but I did just hear that in my mind, and I wrote it down here.

But, thinking about that and practically speaking, I think it is impossible for a person to be completely unpleasing.

If we fail to bathe, we please those who wish not to bathe.

And, the contrary.

If we fail to talk, we please those who don’t want to talk.

And, the contrary.

And, so on and so on and so forth and on and on. . . .

And, all their contraries.

And so, it seems you just can’t please no one none of the time.

Whatever you do or fail to do, you will cause the proponents of that to smile and be pleased.

Despite yourself, you will by yourself please someone in their selves by observing yourself.

I think it is not possible to do or be otherwise.

You simply cannot please no one, because some how and in some fashion by what you do, say or are, you will please someone.

It appears, then, that no person can be an island; and to human friendship, there can be no such boundaries.

Despite our selves, there will always be a person or persons who will be, can be and are our friends.

We seem not to be able to hide from them anymore than we can hide from us.

They will find you, and you will hate it, and they will like you even more for that, and it will wear you down and drive you crazy, and finally you will throw up your hands in disgust and say, “Okay! I am your friend!”

Then and there, whenever and wherever you and they may be, in your ways and theirs, you and they will be pleased and happy.

You will be pleased to know you cannot please no one none of the time.

You will smile and know that you can please someone some of the time.

And, you have.

Give it a try.

Or, don’t.

It won’t matter.

No person can be an island.

The human geography does not allow for that.

 

Grandpa Jim

 

Our mall is home to “The Large Orange.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As shoppers sail under, past and by its out-stretched arms, their minds somehow drift and fuse with the surroundings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time and space converge into tiny candy-pointed explosions of search and find floating on mulch black holes of thought.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red brights explode,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fade to yellow dwarf starlights,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twist and turn in phantastical shapes,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before whimsical watchers in many colored robes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a world gone Leaping Hare wild.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Light-sabered bunnies and bears

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tree a shy worried monkey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Above a fall of reachie prickly cacti,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Near a forest of mixed working sticks,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Behind a stand of frightened colored glass,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next to a web of greenie crawly spideries,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All close by the famed and shooting Pool of Tongues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We run hand-in-hand from the clutch of the bytie Jumble Down

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Past the cactus minion millions,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Skirting the wormy croonies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We rush quickly by the tiny sniffer sniffing where it lies hidden hiding in the bubbly bubbley gum patch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We leap the twisty reach of the field of limed crawlies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We dodge the islands of floating sticklies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We spin from the lapping lips of the spikey forked tonguies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaning forward in final sprint, we smash the bar of exit door and fall forward to the far side of outside, beneath a high clearing sky and an arching Rainbow of Hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home Again Home

From Another Day

At the Mall . . . . . .

 

Grandpa Jim

Some guys do not remember birthdays well.

I admit it.

I am one.

So, when the guests arrived, I was surprised. To my wife, they had brought the first budding roses of spring. How nice, I thought. Then, they said the words of revelation: “Happy Birthday. We know it’s a few days off, but these roses just said you. Happy Birthday.” Hugs and kisses were exchanged between them, while me, behind, I wiped the sweat from my brow: Whew, I had the time! My life would not end for having forgotten my wife’s birthday.

By buds, I was delivered, and by roses was I saved.

For that, I cared well for them in their vase. When the first bud bloomed, I smiled with remembered relief. I called that bright blossom: “Rose on First” — the Birthday Rose that got me to base and saved my life — at least for another year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the ballpark, my friend and I watched the home team sag in the heat. They were a new team of young players with few returning stars. It would be a long season, but it was a spring day on the bleachers in the warmth of a bright and shiny star. Everyone was cheered, if cheers to the field were few to find. There was time to sit and smile and talk.

“What do you do?” The young couple next to my friend asked.

“Did. I delivered babies.”

“You’re kidding. What hospital?”

My baseball buddy named the place.

“I was born there. Wait a second.” The young man dialed his cell phone. “I’m calling my Mom.” My buddy smiled. “Mom, who was the doctor who delivered me on my birthday?”

As we waited, I wondered if you could be delivered on a day other than your birthday. It was a curious phrasing, I thought, that this young husband had used with his mom. I know of a baby lion who was once delivered to another field. That was a mis-directed delivery, but when the stork dropped the package and it opened before the mother sheep, that was “the” delivery date. There was no other day. From that day, Lambert the Lion grew to be a fine sheep with a mighty roar and a kindly disposition. I guess the delivery day is the “birthday.” Yes, it dawned on me, and that is what and why we remember and celebrate on our birthdays. Delivery day is opening day, the first day, the first pitch, the start of the game and the beginning of the season of our lives. Let the fun begin! That’s what birthdays are all about. I like that. I can remember that. This is a good day.

“You delivered my sister!” The young man cheered ecstatically and offered to buy my friend a soda and a hot dog and peanuts and popcorn and, well, anything else you can buy to eat or drink at the game. “You delivered my sister!” he shouted. It was a good day at the ballpark.

That Doc is not as young as he once was and he doesn’t move as fast as he once did. When he did, he loved to garden and he loved irises. When I saw this one, I snapped a shot and called it “Baby Doc on Second.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memories are little things. They hide and wait to be found. A little like babies and deliveries and birthdays. Shy, a bit furtive, but wanting to be found. I smiled and called this one “Shy Lion Finds Third” in honor of that kindly gentleman and all his deliveries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To return to roses, there is an old-fashioned rose out back. It is a temperamental type, waiting to be sure that the cold is past to take that first step and show its color. Somehow, that rose seems to know to be in bloom for my wife’s birthday. She smiled and rushed to tell me when she found the first full bud back there. With baseball, roses and irises, there is hope for the season. I call that first bud’s bloom, “Grandma Rose Runs For Home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There, we have it: a reprieve, a respite and a reflection. As I thought and watched, the last of the birthday buds on the table bloomed to life. It was a good delivery. For that, I have no name, only a grateful and thankful sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Third rose to the end

Turn left, round

Home plate

& Cheer!

 

Grandpa Jim

 

 

 

 

Down the lane and around the corner, we spotted the orange glow of our first Indian Paint Brush of the 2015 Ennis Bluebonnet Trails Festival.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stopping the car, we stood and slowly turned. There they were!!!!! The Bluebonnets of Texas. Our first sighting of the bonneted prairie blues. Oh, joy!! They had returned, and we had spotted them. Our cell phones clicked away in a picture-taking frenzy. Following cars screeched and skidded to pull over and off the narrow road. Smiling occupants frantically alighted to turn, twist and flop before the vernal hues and verdant backgrounds in a wild worship of petalled selfies. Oh, joys!!!!!!!!! The pastoral traffic jam of floral spring had returned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yonder, a farmer’s open gate beckoned for a hillside climb. We carefully stepped, placing each foot where others had stepped before, not daring to bruise the blush of spring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even the grass was excited to watch the rush of blues to the encircling greens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bees eyed our passage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tiny whites hid and blinked at our passing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Until, on return to the farmer’s gate, a lone blue-white star bid us adieu.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We boarded to drive and down the road, only to skid again to stop. What a parting shot! Beyond the wired fence, a field of wild orange poppies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blinking, the double brights blinded our awe-struck sight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a good parting, in the fading lime of Purkinje’s light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We drove on to the fond Texas establishment that can only be found beyond the big city limits. DQ. Dairy Queen. There are none of those within tens of miles of our city home. Only out here. Among the prairies and hills. And, the flowers. It was a fitting end. The waitress turned the cup upside down to show the frozen blizzard inside of cream and candy would not drop or disappoint. And, it did not. It was a filling end to a fine fun day.

 

Good sights and tastes yours, to find the drive, and leave the city behind.

 

Don’t be shy. It is a friendly place to find. Out there. Beyond the sign.

 

Grandpa Jim

 

 

Spring has begun.

From the overnight thunderstorms, Live Oak tree wigglies wash down the driveway in staggered waves of brownish flotsam and clinging coats of pollen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up, up and beyond into the clearing sky, the pecan branches stretch and reach with green leafed tips of newish growth. It is the official saying in this region of Texas: “When the pecan trees bud with new leaves, the last frost of winter has passed and spring has officially arrived.” With the early rains, this change has made its official debut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Along the lines of old tree roots, mushroom families sense the difference and lift their fringed heads through the morning mists.

 

 

 

 

 

 

New light and warmth rush to melt back the delicate feathered blooms of night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pots watch and accept the change as they wait patiently for their turn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nearby, grandma rose buds bulge to life with a buzzing bee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hawthorns hasten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Houses harken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crepes cluster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And, from their new beds, the first tomatoes blink small yellow blooms of future fruit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, spring is in the air and before our eyes.

Dirt between the fingers and on the feet.

Now, the new year may truly begin.

Spring has sprung and is here.

With cheer and fine form.

We bid warm Hello.

And Welcome.

Welcome.

Home.

 

Grandpa Jim

 

 

 

 

 

CONVERSATE:

“What do you think about all this fracking?”

“Yes, I do like the sound of the ducks on the pond. All that quacking.”

“Not ‘quacking.’ ‘Fracking.’”

“Oh, that. A real problem. I read about it all the time in the papers. It’s all over the news. Nothing’s sacred anymore. Thieves can hack into anything.”

“Not ‘hacking.’ See my lips. ‘Fracking.’”

“I can see the breeze. Yes, it is a very good day for sailing. The marina’s not far. Tacking into the wind, with the wind in our hair. There’s nothing quite like it. You have a good idea.”

“You need a audiologist.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, brother.”

“Quite right. That’s what I tell my wife all the time. ‘Don’t bother.’ My hearing’s just fine.”

“Oh, brother.”

“We agree. This has been a good conversation.”

 

POSTSHAKE:

You can’t see an earthquake, but you can feel its effects.

In Oklahoma, before 2008, on average, there were fewer than five (5) recorded earthquakes above magnitude 3.0 per year. That’s it . . . per year . . . 5 . . . about that . . . no more. In 2008, there were only two (2). Last year, 2014, there were 584 earth shakes measuring at least 3.0. That is a big crash-bang-jump in frequency and feelocity.

To re-quake, in the twelve months of 2014, folks in Oklahoma felt the earth move under their feet almost three hundred times more than in 2008. That is not exactly what Carole King was thinking and singing in 1971 with her mainstream hit, but perhaps some parallels can be drawn. Carole’s lyrics jump and pop with her longing remembering of feeling “the earth – move – under my feet” and “my heart start to trem-b-ling.” As yet, in Oklahoma there is not Carole’s other line: “the sky tum-b-ling down – tum-b-ling down.” There, at least, is a certain comfort. Still, there is the feeling of the earth moving more, and more hearts are trembling. The shakes do seem to be growing in frequency and intensity. Perhaps it is time to look up and ask the question: What is this all about?

Quacks? They are in the air and on the pond, but seldom found underground. I think this is an effect we can duck.

Hacks? I suppose this could be. They do find their way into everything, and they are very disruptive, but they usually loot hard data not unlock hard rock.

Tacks? Even in permeable rock with the Beach Boys on deck, it would be hard to navigate the Sloop John B through the subsurface. If there is a slosh down there, it is not one to float a boat.

One of our list does remain.

To frack or not to frack is a long debate.

Fracking introduces fluids under pressure into the subsurface to crack the rock formation, which opens the way in one direction for otherwise unrecoverable oil and gas molecules to flow out and up to reach the surface and be utilized in our cars, homes and businesses; and fracking can also provide the openings in the reverse direction for the used fluids to be introduced back into the subsurface and managed out of sight and harm to the surface environment.

Fracking is an innovative, original, dynamic, cost effective, job producing and energy enhancing technology.

And, it raises questions.

What are its effects and where?

And, on balance do the benefits outweigh the costs?

To frack or not to frack is the question.

And, questions are always good.

It’s those pesky answers.

They’re difficult.

 

Quack? Hack? Tack? Frack?

That is the question.

What is your

Answer?

 

Grandpa Jim

Of the 68, four remain. Of my 31, two remain.

The NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament advances to Round #6, the Final Four.

Four teams remain standing of the starting sixty-eight: Michigan State, Duke, Kentucky and Wisconsin. Among them, there are two of my chosen thirty-one: Michigan State and Wisconsin.

On Saturday evening, April 4, 2015, in Indianapolis, Indiana, the Michigan State University Spartans from East Lansing, Michigan (“Green and White. . . . Fight! Fight! Rah! Team, Fight! Victory for MSU!”) will take the court against the Duke University Blue Devils from Durham, North Carolina (“Fight! Blue Devils, Fight! Blue and White”). Later that night, the University of Kentucky Wildcats from Lexington, Kentucky (“On, On, Blue and White, Kentucky Fight”) will face the University of Wisconsin Badgers from Madison, Wisconsin (“On, Wisconsin! Red and White. Fight! Fellows! – fight, fight, fight!”).

These are all good teams from great schools with winning programs in sports and academics and equally vigorous fight songs.

Prognostications are difficult but observations are available.

Two of the surviving four hale from my alma mater’s conference: Michigan State and Wisconsin are from the Big Ten. This is the third straight year that one conference has placed two teams in the Final Four (Kentucky and Florida from the Southeastern Conference in 2014 and Louisville and Syracuse from the Big East in 2013), but I am not aware that any conference has ever had two of its teams advance to play each other in the final National Championship game. For this reason, I read the nets to indicate that both Big Ten teams may not advance.

Two of the surviving teams have the same school colors: Blue and White adorn Kentucky from the Southeastern Conference and Duke from the Atlantic Coast Conference. For similarly garbed squads to race in streaks across the floor would wreck havoc to those watching, announcing and applauding WHO?? For this reason, the baskets tilt to indicate both teams of the blue and white may not align each against the other for the Tournament Finish.

So, if both Michigan State and Wisconsin do not advance and both Kentucky and Duke do not advance, who do advance? And if they both each don’t do that, who does advance? That is exactly the question and precisely why it is called March Madness.

You know, I think every round is better than the one before.

And each game is better than the last.

How can that be?

Must be

March

Madness

And the Big Dance!

 

Grandpa Jim

Oh, the horror of the devastation.

In a single day, yes, a single day, all five Texas teams fell.

Amid the flashing lights and clamoring reporters, the conquerors of the courts leaped in jubilation and marshaled their forces to advance and play again.

There is no need to name those who have fallen. We know them well. They are our schools.

There is no need to name those who have advanced. We know them well. They are our schools.

Seven of my thirty-one survived the first three rounds and now march forth under the banner of the “Sweet Sixteen” to do further battle.

We salute their advance and wait to take our seats again in dread and hopeful anticipation.

In this small time between, let us take a moment to reflect on the nature of time and the manner of memory.

Reflection of “Still Alice”: In the academic setting of this recent movie, we run, walk, stumble and numbly watch with Professor Alice, played by Julianne Moore. Julianne received the Oscar for Best Actress for her portrayal of Alice’s struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. Her memory fails and is lost. Yet, she is still Alice who knows who she is and what she was in the shell of her remaining self. The lesson we learn from Alice, through the tears of our frustration with her failing mind, is that each life, despite its brevity, is a unique experience to be treasured in the manner and time we have to hold and share it.

Reflection of “The Theory of Everything”: In the academic setting of this recent movie, we run, walk, stumble and fall smiling with Professor Stephen Hawking, played by Eddie Redmayne. Eddie received the Oscar for Best Actor for his portrayal of Stephen’s struggle with Lou Gehrig’s disease. His body fails and is lost. Yet, he is still Professor Stephen Hawking who can see the heart of the universe as his twisted body breaks the hearts of those around him. The lesson we learn from Stephen, through the tears of our frustration with his failing body, is that each life, despite its brevity, is a unique experience to be treasured in the manner and time we have to hold and share it.

A Best Actress lost her mind. A Best Actor lost his body. In showing us those losses, they showed us that the persons they portrayed did not loose either.

Despite their adversities, they both, in their own time and in their own manner, prevailed and won.

It is in how we handle loss that we truly win.

Twenty-four of my teams have already lost and boarded their buses for home. Yes, it is only a sport and a game, but in its way, it is life. Only one team will win the tournament. Even if it is one of mine, thirty will have not. In all, sixty-seven teams will have lost.

That is life.

Despite the losses, I suspect every one of the players on every one of the teams, including those of the final winner, will remember the tournament as a unique experience to be treasured in the manner and time they have to hold and share it.

In that, I think Professors Alice and Stephen would be quite proud of them.

In my way, I know that I am of each of them.

That is life.

 
Grandpa Jim

 

 

Iditarod – run – ran – run!!!

In the cold dark morning of March 18, 2015, the lone musher “Hike’d” his team up the last white hill, into the waking town, between the waiting police escort running beside him with their flashlights, over the snow-packed streets, past the gathering cheering crowds, and under the finish arch of the 2015 Iditarod.

Exhausted, Dallas Seavey knelt, hugged his dogs and posed for pictures with Reef and Hero, his two lead dogs. Ten dogs had started the run from Safety to Nome to bring them home. One dog, too worn to pull, had been lifted to ride the last miles in the sled. The rest pulled and Dallas mushed. They were a team. They ran together. They won together.

By Iditarod standards, Dallas is young. He is only 27, but he is a local, state, national and world wrestling champion, he was the youngest person to have run the Iditarod, this is his tenth race, and now he and his team have run to that far distant place for their third Iditarod championship.

It runs in the family.

Dallas’ grandfather ran the first Iditarod in 1973. With this year’s race, Dallas’ father, Mitch, has run 23 Iditarods, and Mitch Seavey has two Iditarod championship trophies of his own. For the 2015 race, Dad Mitch and his team crossed under the arch in Nome second behind his son.

It runs in the family.

For the reporters, Dallas had these words: “It takes a whole team to get any of us here. . . . As long as you take care of the dog team, make good decisions, good things will happen. Wins are a result of doing what we love.”

Good advice from a young champion who loves what he does so well.

Congratulations, Dallas, and now get some well earned rest.

Your Dad will be along soon and then, you know.

You can start the planning for next year.

Run – Ran – Run!!!

Iditarod!

 

Grandpa Jim

The Dance and Madness have begun!!!

Yesterday, on Selection Sunday, March 15, 2015, the 68 teams of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament were identified by name. That’s right — by name. For their followers, and they are many, these are exciting times in the land of hoops, dribbles and baskets.

This morning, my hopes were up. I grabbed the paper, turned to the Sports section, and began to trace a finger down the page.

My immediate concern was how many of “my” teams actually made the cut. Each year, some very good teams are snubbed and not selected to participate. It must be said that the process of selection is long, complicated and difficult. So, despite the time, effort and good will of the selectors, the outcome is never perfect — especially for those non-selectees with very good won-loss records. Last year, my hometown Dallas SMU Mustangs did not receive an invitation to the “Big Dance”. At that time, there was much sadness on the streets of Big D.

Like all good fans, I have to have “my” teams. And, for the Big Dance, I must define “my” broadly to capture as many teams as possible. Only by being generous in my loyalty and affections, can I increase the odds that some of “my” teams will remain through the seven rounds of play and possibly make the National Championship game on April 6, the Monday after Easter Sunday.

To paraphrase Ned Ryerson from the movie “Groundhog Day”, that first week is a doozy. Between the opening bell to start the first game of the First Round on Tuesday, March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, to the final buzzer of the game to mark the end of the Third Round on the following Sunday, March 21 (a span of a scant six days), the starting field of 68 teams will be pared to 16 remaining squads. This means that only 23% of the original selected teams will win their way to the Sweet Sixteen. That first week could be called “The Loud Lament.” The sadly departing are many, and the happily remaining are few. Truly, the frantic pace of those first six days merit the term “March Madness.”

So, I asked frantically, are “my” teams there?

Relief attended my dashing digit.

Yes, my original home state is well represented: Iowa (my alma mater), Iowa State (my brothers’ alma mater), and Northern Iowa (the old State Teachers College from our childhood hometown). That’s 3.

But, I must have more.

My adopted state of Texas is there also: Baylor (my wife’s alma mater – good move, selection committee), Texas Southern (from the town I lived in for thirty years), Steven F. Austin (in the Piney Woods), Texas (a niece went there and Pecan Street is there), and SMU (the Mustangs made it – the streets of Dallas are alive with the sound of cheers). That’s 3 plus 5 more, for 8.

I still need more of mine to make the run.

Wait, Iowa is in the Big Ten, and I am a Big Ten fan, and the Big Ten has six more teams in the race: Indiana, Maryland, Michigan State, Ohio State, Purdue and Wisconsin. That’s 6 to add to 8. I’m up to 14 teams.

Not enough. More are needed.

Wait again, Iowa State, Baylor and Texas are in the Big 12, and I’m a Big 12 fan, and the Big 12 has four more teams in the Big Dance: Kansas, Oklahoma, Oklahoma State and West Virginia. That’s 4 more to add to 14. I have 18 teams, a good start.

But, even more are needed.

Let me think. Yes, I have good reasons to clap and holler for others of those selected: Cincinnati (another niece lives there and her son plays basketball), Buffalo (a pretty place I visited in the summer), Butler (an exciting team we watched over pizza), Notre Dame (I have many friends who believe in leprechauns – especially this week), Wichita State (I’ve driven by the city many times), New Mexico St. (I love New Mexico), Arkansas (our little flower girl lives in Little Rock with her mother who is yet another niece), Lafayette (I like Cajun food), LSU (I’ve traveled often to the Red Stick, Baton Rouge), Louisville (I remember an exciting run for the finish), Boise State and North Florida (who doesn’t like an underdog – may be a few more in this category as the games progress), and Georgetown (they accepted me once, a long time ago, but I never forgot). There, you see, I have many good reasons to include at least 13 more schools. That’s 13 plus 18.

I’m up to 31 teams on “my” roster of schools to watch and wait and hope to see on April 6^th.

You know, I’m sure there are more.

This is going to be fun.

Let’s see now.

Who else?

 

Grandpa Jim