It’s been a while since I’ve ketched (get it…hee hee…I’m so funny) everyone up on the McKay family, so I believe for this week’s entry (no comments from the peanut gallery, please) I’ll go through the ole famdamily step by step, as much for my own edification as anything else.  Also, I’m an email behind to my mom and my sister, so this whey I can take care of three birds with one stone.

Braden (The Octopus)

Braden achieved his fifth birthday on February 22nd.  There have been many, many moments through those five years when his next birthday was very much in jeopardy.  Often, I describe Braden as the joy of my life, and the bane of my existence.  Alternately, mere moments apart, I rejoice in his antics, and in the very next instant would gladly seek the governor’s approval to just end things right then and there.  Braden is the church wild man–everyone takes great delight in seeing what he will do or say next.  Drew’s assistant baseball coach, Ryan Kline, goes to our church, and he interacts with Braden all the time.  Last week after Sunday School, Braden was headed down to the gym to play basketball, and as he went by Ryan, he pointed at him and said, “Hey Kline.”  Much to my chagrin, The Octopus is playing tee ball this summer.  Valerie mentioned to me that sign-ups were coming up, and I decided to have him do it…and almost instantly regretted the decision.  Bear with the old man for and allow me to brag for a moment–the little dude can hit.  We play baseball in the yard, and he can really hit.  I just know that in this league where every kid hits the ball, and everyone advanced one base, he is going to be bored silly and wonder why he can’t hit a home run every time.  Probably that was a mistake on my part…we shall see.

Brenna (Peanut)

On February 13th, Brenna turned a very precocious nine.  She is an energetic, entertaining, bright little girl.  You never know what she might say next…often we have to break out a dictionary to figure out what she said.  You would be hard-pressed to throw out a word she can’t spell–to my knowledge she has never missed a spelling word in three years of elementary school.  Peanut doesn’t watch much TV–she prefers to read or play quietly with her American Dolls in her room, but her favorite thing is to be outside in the woods.  She went hunting with Drew and I a few times last fall, and even watched while we gutted a deer (it was gross and smelled bad…which it did).  Like each of our kids, Brenna loves to have friends over to play.

Alexandra (Pumpkin Spice)

Alex is the family sweetheart…kind and generous to a fault.  She is a good babysitter and–as far as I can tell–much less into “drama” than most girls her age.  Alex went to Chicago with the church youth group to a Dare to Share event and enjoyed that very much.  Her basketball season went well.  Alex continued to rebound well and defend her girl hard, and towards the end of the year she figured out that she’s better at 12-15 foot shots than 3 footers!  Alex is looking forward to playing softball again this summer, and as warmer weather approaches, we all enjoy watching her mow her portion of the yard.  Our John Deere ZTR mower goes pretty fast, and Alex runs it full out.  She’s the only one of the six to turn the go-cart on it’s side!  Alex made the honor roll last grading period, which we were proud of.

Andrew (The Natural)

I like to tell Drew that he’s like a real person now.  He turned 16 on March 30, he has a girlfriend, and he’s driving!  Drew had a very successful freshman basketball season.  He made the JV team, and early in the year was just getting a few minutes here and there, but by midseason he was starting.  Drew earned the JV Coaches Award, and at the award banquet Coach Mellon said that by the end of the season they never wanted to take him out of the game.  The Natural can shoot the lights out–truly.  He’s no Jimmer yet, but he works hard on his game, as with everything else he does.  We got Drew a 2002 Cadillac STS with only 48,000 miles that we’ve all enjoyed driving…pretty nice car.  Drew is playing varsity baseball now, starting at second base.  He got his first varsity hit in the 3rd game of the season…a triple that he really smoked!  Drew continues to excel in school as well.

Valerie (Hot Wife)

She hates that nickname!  Valerie is actively involved in our church, leading a Bible study for women and a discipleship group for a few young ladies in the church.  Her most active role continues to be raising our children.  Braden by himself is WAY more than a handful, so by the time she adds in trips to ballet for Brenna, various sporting and student council events for Drew and Alex, and all the little side trips she takes for me, she barely has time for anything else.  HW is the office manager at our family business and is responsible for overseeing all aspects of policy execution.  Last summer Valerie put quite a bit of time into landscaping at our home, so we’re curious to see how much survived the winter and the dogs.

Mike (Irksome)

Not a lot needs to be said for me–I keep plugging away, waiting for the Lord to take me home!  I made it through sales season (I’m a salesman, but much of it goes against my nature) without going crazy.  Many thanks for my wife and children for their patience–I put way too many hours into prepping for meetings, so during sales season I’m often home after midnight.  But I did have a great sales season, and my total insurance book should top $1M!  The big deal for Irksome now is that my Harley Davidson is gone.  I traded Deucey for a 2009 BMW R1200 RT sport touring bike, and I absolutely cannot wait for the weather to improve so I can log some serious miles on this baby.  I watched a YouTube video of a guy going 170 mph plus in this bike, and while that’s certainly far beyond what I’ll ever do, it is quite a machine.

So that’s our ketchup.  Hope you enjoyed it.  We’ll turn the light off so people leave us alone!

Dear reader, please note: this post was written in the delightful haze which inevitably follows the consumption of pork, that most delightful of all hoofed beasts that aren’t cows. Care must be taken, lest you be tempted to run right out and find some pork of your own. Should that temptation befall you, respond with scripture, as our Lord did.

Baby Back Ribs, I deem thee nectar of the gods. Thou art good. Thou art wholesome. When smoked, the pig of thy origin is a creature whose delightfulness knows no bounds. You are my BFF, or at least my BF. Certainly, you are my F… I adore thee.

The farm show ran until 2000 tonight (for you 24-hour virgins, that should read twenty hundred hours), at the conclusion of which my b-o-l-o-g-n-a from noontime had left the building. Much to my chagrin, I was suffering from a total lack of pork, not to mention the wherewithal to smoke pork should I be fortunate enough to acquire pork. Recognizing the dire need for nourishment, I inquired of Roger the whereabouts of an establishment with a pork specialty. Roger recommended several such establishments, whereupon I proceeded to one Smokey Bones.

As the hour is late, this must suffice. The next time you feel a hankering for pork, I highly recommend Baby Back Ribs from Smokey Bones in their original sauce. You won’t be disappointed!

My dad, John Walter McKay, is retiring from the ministry next month–HE’S NOT RETIRED YET, AND DON’T SUGGEST THAT HE IS!–so I dedicate this blog entry to him, and to my mother.  Please tell them nice things about what you read, because I did well there at Christmas this year (see the previous blog), and hope to do even better in 2011.  I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t their favorite, and finally after 40 years it looks like the cream is finally rising to the top.  QSS.

My Dad was born into farming, and as the cliche’ aptly states, “You can take the kid off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the kid.”  For the past 46 years, however, Dad has been a farmer only by avocation.  His heart may have been on the farm, but his hands were in the Word.  But then that’s not right, and it’s not fair.  In his nearly 38 years of full-time church ministry, he invested all of his energies into the churches God led him to shepherd.  I think Dad will agree with me–I hope he will agree, because he’s hard to pry away from his position and Christmas is only 355 days away–when I report that ministry for Dad was more a matter of perspiration than eloqution.  When I think of his style of ministry, I don’t recall sermons delivered with aplomb or prayers dripping with pious eloquence.  Rather, I think of humanitarian mission trips…Florida after Hurricane Andrew, Missouri after the awful flooding of the Mississippi River in 1993, Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina, Evansville after the deadly tornadoes in November 2005.  I think of him working one-on-one with Mr. Craig, who knew he needed salvation but believed he needed to quit smoking first.  I think of him going into the church at 0300, single-handedly putting out a fire set by arsonists that did an amazing amount of smoke damage.  I think of him cutting firewood with the Lions Club on winter Saturday mornings.

Ministry is hard work, folks.  It’s not hard like digging ditches or chopping firewood, but it’s the kind of hard that keeps you up at night wondering if you’re getting through to anyone.  It’s the kind of hard where you know people are sprinting right into hell and you also know that in many cases you can’t stop their headstrong sprint.

Ministry is also a team effort, and I would be remiss not to mention that Mom has been with Dad every step of the trip.  She’s been a cheerleader and a trusted advisor, and she’s been active in ministry of her own in every way.  The paycheck had Dad’s name on it, but Mom could put it in the bank with knowing satisfaction.

My prayers for Dad and Mom in retirement are threefold.

1. First, that God will allow you years and years to enjoy your retirement
2. Second, that you will seek out opportunities to be a grandpa and grandma, even when it’s not terribly convenient
3. Third, that you will in various ways come to understand and appreciate the impact of your labor for the Lord

You did good, Pop.

My mom got me a throwing axe for Christmas. This is the
most recent, and most convincing, proof of how our relationship has
improved in the 21 years since I ran away from home/left for
college. It was wrapped, rather than thrown! Just kidding, Mom!
…mostly… Clan McKay had a fun Christmas break. Favorite
Christmas gifts: Octopus–Playmobil Coast Guard boat with two guys
and guns Peanut–”Lanie” American Girl doll Pumpkin Spice–Laptop
computer (with Drew) and digital camera Natural–Laptop computer
and Ripstik (during deer season he got a hunting bow and
muzzleloader which were early Christmas gifts) Hot Wife–gift
certificates for projects Irksome–throwing axe Next year for
Christmas I want a fireplace just like the one at Cracker Barrel.
We ate supper there on the way home from the folks on Sunday, and
just sitting close to that monstrous stone hearth makes me feel
like Jeremiah Johnson. For reasons known only to God, I have a
suddenly renewed interest in Western movies. Natural and I saw
“True Grit” on the 26th, and it was great. Much funnier than I
expected. John Wayne is obviously irreplaceable, but today’s
cinematography is far better than in the day. To satisfy the
curiosity you almost certainly don’t have, my other favorites
include the forenamed Jeremiah Johnson, The Outlaw Josie Wales, The
Magnificent Seven, Shane, Dances with Wolves, and my personal
all-time favorite western, Lonesome Dove. Robert Duvall and Diane
Lane were incredible in that picture. Nothing special to write
about. Sometimes you just have to plow the ground. Quod Scripsi
Scripsi

Surely Latin is the language of the gods. Perhaps even God. I should be not the least bit surprised upon inquiry of entry into Heaven to hear, “Salve!” in reply. If I hear, “Bienvenidos!” I shall soil myself.

Tonight I take pen in hand–more accurately, iPhone in palm–to tap out once again what thoughts may entreat themselves upon my mind, be they by invitation or intrusion. As my faithful readers know, I’ve not written for a certain spell…chalk it up to an early retirement unchosen. Beset upon the notion of scribery, but lacking a particular target, I chanced to peruse an incomplete listing of Latin phrases. There are many I love, among them Scribimus Indocti Doctique Poemata Passim (each desperate blockhead dares to write), Qui Tacet Consentire Videtur (by your silence, you are understood to consent), and Ignorantia Legis Non Excusat (ignorance of the law is no excuse). I chose the title of this little excursion into the Land of Come-What-May with every intention of expressing deep thoughts.

Turns out, the procession of jumble was neither lengthy, nor deep, nor of particular value to any decent person. In truth, deer (sic) reader, I write solely for my own amusement. Should a revisit of my scribblings prompt a smile, I declare mission accomplished and set sail the good ship USS Abraham Lincoln. Now that, verily, has set a grin. Should others enjoy my vagaries as well, so much the better.

Quod Scripsi Scripsi

Anybody out there ever been to the Gaylord Opryland in Nashville, Tennessee? I have. I am. Right now. We pretend to be down here for insurance meetings with Diversified Services, but the reality is that 25% of our time is spent in meetings, while the other 75% is spent “networking”–code talk for “let’s get together and drink alcohol. So we do the required stuff, put in enough time with the rabble to not be considered reclusive, and pass the remainder of our time enjoying the area on our own.

Valerie and I left our four youngsters with my intrepid mother, who, having raised three rascals of her own, feels compelled to keep coming back for more abuse. The Natural has two basketball games during the three days we’ll be gone, so that involves a bit of running about. Pumpkin Spice and The Peanut are both running fevers–PS at about 100, TP 100 down from 104 on Saturday–which means they will probably miss school on Monday and need to be waited on hand and foot. The Octopus is obsessed with guns and shooting deer, while at the same time readily admitting that he is afraid of deer and bears. He never wants me to drive south down our gravel road, preferring to go the longer route because he once saw three deer while traveling down the gravel road at night. We received a text message this evening less than eight hours after we left home that Mom was already irritated by the constant chatter about guns. Clearly, he has abolutely no idea what he’s talking about, but he can parrot with the best of them. Hang in there, Bonnie…this too shall pass (and I’m talking about his childhood; he’s our last one, so we’re choosing to enjoy pretty much every minute of it).

Back to my original question, the title of this little entry. This hotel is beyond the scope of anything that could be considered reasonable. Upon leaving the registration center, one enters an atrium area that includes ponds, waterfalls, four restaurants , 15 boutique shops, and walkways galore. The hotel then branches off into four wings, each of which has hundreds of rooms surrounding slightly smaller atriums, shops, and restaurants. As we were wandering about after supper, attempting to find the proper elevator area, we were amused to hear pretty much everyone else in the same state of confusion. We are in the Delta wing, and our atrium has a river running through it large enough that one can take a boat tour for $16/person, offered each evening. Tomorrow, hopefully, we are going to make a run to Wal-Mart to buy bread, which will give us enough courage to explore the other three wings while leaving a trail of crumbs like Hansel and Gretel. Either that, or I need to run out a string behind me like a dadgum spelunker.

I asked my Hot Wife a question tonight…sort of one of those questions that deserves to be asked, but for which there is no satisfying answer: “How big were the guy’s stones who built this place?” Using my vast repertoire of experience in big-time commercial construction, I would conservatively estimate that is a billion dollar place. Anybody that has enough guts to walk into a bank and ask to borrow the gross national product of most of northern Africa has my respect!

Interesting place…should be an invigorating three days. More later?

Don't Tread On Me

(Background)  My favorite posts are those that make me laugh out loud as I write them, and again as I read them.  This post won’t be funny, but I will enjoy it nonetheless.  I hope you do too.

I choose this moment in time to take a stand.  To you who feel compelled to tell others how they should live their life, I say:  DON’T TREAD ON ME!

(Many of my loyal readers should now be standing atop their soapboxes shouting, “You’ve been telling people for two years that Jesus Christ is the only way to heaven!  Hypocrite!”  I promise I’ll address this briefly, but later, OK?)

Let’s get a few vices out of the closet right off the bat.

1. I ride a Harley Softail Deuce, and it is one sweet ride.  There is nothing in the world like cruising along in 4th gear at about 40 miles per hour, then romping on the throttle.  To me, the throaty growl is the sweetest sound on earth.  My bike is not obnoxiously loud, but it sounds awesome and the sound is distinctively Harley.  I’ve been riding a motorcycle for about 5 years, and I never thought I’d be riding a Harley.  But it happened, even to me.  I’m not turning into a tattooed freak, but I’m diggin’ the Deuce.  Every once in a long while I don’t wear a helmet, and to be honest I much prefer it that way.  The wind in your hair, hearing the chirps and tweets around you…good stuff.  But it’s too easy to think about bouncing my melon off the asphalt, so I throw it back on before the next ride.  I ride a Harley, sometimes sans helmet.  Don’t tread on me.
2. I smoke a cigar occasionally.  OK, so it’s really occasionally–about two or three times per year.  But by golly, you light up a $10 Romeo & Julieta or an $8 aromatic Acid (particularly when sitting on a rooftop overlooking the city valley in Quito, Ecuador), and you’re sucking deeply upon the marrow of life.  I fully agree with you that cigarette smoking is nasty, disgusting, health-wrecking, and an infringement upon all the health nuts around you.  I only smoke a stogie in the company of a few friends on my porch, as well as the one time in Ecuador.  Don’t tread on me.
3. I love the White Sox, and I hate the Cubs–quit freakin’ telling me I should like both.  I don’t like the Cubs, I don’t want to like the Cubs, and I don’t have to like the Cubs.  As it happens, I’m going to a game at Wrigley Field next week, but only to help out a friend.  He accidentally bought twice as many tickets as he meant to (Read: Internet impaired), and he asked if I’d be interested in a few because he had a lot of money out of pocket.  By the way, that’s another reason to prefer the Sox.  I’m paying $115 for a ticket to see the Cubs play the lowly Pirates.  The exact same seats at Comiskey against a crappy team would be $38.  Yes, I realize the Cubs can demand those prices because idiots keep paying that kind of money to watch their garbage team, drink beer, and watch girls dressed like prostitutes.  I planned to never see a game at Wrigley, mostly because people keep telling me that I have to go to at least one game there just to take in the atmosphere.  Screw the Cubs.  Don’t tread on me.

I could give you more, but I suppose that’s enough…the point is made.  Many years ago, 1754 in fact, Benjamin Franklin used the illustration of a snake cut into 8 sections to inspire the colonies to fight together in the French and Indian War, or risk being split apart permanently.  In 1775, the snake illustration was used along with the slogan Don’t Tread On Me to rally the troops again, this time as a call to arms against the British.  No one knows who first came up with the slogan, but Benjamin Franklin was the first to draw attention to it.  The idea of the slogan, and in fact 0f the entire Revolutionary War, was that very idea–we want to live life our way, without you constantly telling us what we’re allowed to do, where we’re allowed to go,  how much we’re required to pay for our tea…Ben, John, George, Paul, and the rest of the boys wouldn’t put up with any more of King George’s crap, and that’s pretty much where I’m at too.

Folks, this doesn’t apply to all of you by any means–truth is I have certain individuals in mind, but it’s rude to use names and it’s rude to only send this to a few people–but there is a lifestyle out there that is so certain about the brilliance of how they live their lives that they feel compelled to criticize others who don’t live the exact same way.  At various times, I’ve received criticism for some of the most ignorant things–which, by the way, I won’t mention for fear of giving away the individuals in my mind–and it just prompts this statement:  Unless it’s a matter of life and death, back off and let people live their own lives.  Quit telling me and everyone else around you the way we ought to live.  You live your life and let us live ours.  Don’t tread on me.

Now, quickly, to the salvation issue.  “I am the way, the truth, and the life.  No one comes to the Father but by me.”  Those are the words of Jesus Christ.  The Bible says it, and I believe it.  If you think heaven and hell aren’t real, or perhaps that Jesus Christ wasn’t who He said He was, or perhaps that there are many paths to heaven–you better be right!  Did you know that every known ancient civilization, as well as every obscure, newly found current people group, has a creation story?  And a flood story?  And a belief in a supreme being, whatever they may call him?  Those things, as well as the ability to know right from wrong and spontaneously generate a list of same that would very closely approximate the Ten Commandments, confirm what I learned in Romans 1–God has made Himself manifest in all of us.  Atheism and evolution are new inventions, created by people who could not and would not believe in something bigger than themselves.  That, friends, is life and death!

I am a baseball coach.  I say that without shame, remorse, or self-scorn.  Throughout the past fifty years or so America has been ripe with youth coaches who follow their sons’ progress from the coaches box, rather than the bleachers like a normal parent.  Some coaches–nay, many–truly know very little about the particulars of the sport they elected themselves to coach.  Pretty much what they know is what old Coach McNally taught them back when they were 9 years old.  “Keep the back elbow up, son.  You’ll never hit a ball if you don’t watch the ball hit the bat.  Bend your back.”  (By the way, the link has as interesting little piece on keeping the back elbow up for those among us who are interested in such silliness.)

Now, for a confession that I offer with a certain degree of discomfort;  most of those coaches drive me to distraction.  I appreciate a man who will admit, “I only did it because no one else would–I really know very little about the sport.”  On the other hand, there’s nothing quite like having a kid on your team whose dad is a self-appointed expert–no need to ask him, as he’ll tell you every time he gets a chance.  Now, granted, he was probably a terrible player, and his son is too, but his (fuzzy) memory is that he was scouted by the Phillies and would have made it if only he had played at a bigger high school.

To any coach who takes his responsibility seriously and goes out and spends time (and money) learning his trade rather than repeating the same old wrong crap he learned from Coach McNally, I say Thank You.

“Goodness, Mike, what has gotten into you today?  Why the rant?”

Aah, thank you for your concern, my friend.  Another confession…my baseball team is terrible.  I’d like to think that we’ll get better soon, or that these kids are just going through that stage of quick growth where their joints seem to operate out of whack, like a tire that is about to rupture, or a wagon that has three round wheels and a square one.  I’d also like to think that the Israelis and the Palestinians will start getting along soon, and that President Obama will lower our taxes, but those things probably won’t happen either.  We’re bad.

Years ago, the inimitable coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, John McKay, said, “Well, we didn’t tackle well today, but we made up for it by not blocking.”  That’s kind of like my team–we can’t hit, but we make up for that with poor pitching, bad defense, and bone-headed baserunning.  Back to Coach McKay–when once asked about his team’s execution, he responded, “I’m in favor of it.”  That very accurately describes how I felt about my team on Saturday.  There used to be a guy in one of my Dad’s churches who would say, “There’s nothing wrong with this church that a funeral or two wouldn’t cure.”  True dat.

First inning, first batter–slow bouncer right to the first baseman, who bobbled it, bobbled it, and then bobbled it, enabling the runner to arrive safely.  First inning, second batter–easy ground ball to the pitcher, who fielded it cleanly, then missed the first baseman with his throw by at least five feet.  First inning, third batter–4-pitch walk.  First inning, fourth batter–easy fly ball that landed about 15 feet in front of the center field, who never moved.  Don’t know if he lost it in the lights or just what.  First inning, fifth batter–walk.  It just got worse from there.  We gave up six runs in the first inning and got beat 11-1 in 5 innings.  We got beat 12-1 in game 2.

Joe Torry is one heck of a coach, but I think even he might scratch his head on this one.  There are a few bright spots, and I’m hopeful that out of the 16 fellows on the club, perhaps 6-7 of them might one day make the varsity roster.  The other 10 probably should consider cross country or track.

Anybody out there ever seen a bat up close?  I mean, up REALLY CLOSE?  I have, now.

Sunday night, 11:00 p.m.  Medaryville.  Clan is settling in for a cozy snooze.  With no warning, the Octopus lets out a blood-curdling scream and runs into our bedroom, all the way around to the other side of the bed.  His continued screams lead us to believe he has injured himself horribly, but a quick once-over reveals two arms, two legs, 10 fingers, 12 toes…hmmmm, normal…all seems to be in place, and there is no blood to be seen.  “There’s a bird!” he shouts over and over.

More screams, slamming of doors.

Hot Wife and Irksome venture cautiously into the hallway…

Hokie smokes!  There’s a dadgum bat in the house!  Beady eyes, small furry body, long fingernails, big origami wings…yikes!

Now, a few thoughts spring to mind very quickly when one realizes there is a venomous, evil, decidedly nasty little creature in the house that clearly belongs outside, but has somehow made its way inside.

• Why is that thing in here?
• How did it get here?
• Do you think it will fly back out on its own?
• How much is a flight to Costa Rica?
• How quickly can we sell this house?

A moment or two later, however, clearer heads prevail, and we begin to process how to get rid of the monster.  Now, I’m no professional, but I have seen The Great Outdoors with John Candy and Dan Akroyd, so I do have a modicum of expertise in this area.  At the very least, I know that a tennis racquet, a broom, and some sort of headgear (to prevent the Big Evil from laying eggs in my hair as it buzzes the tower) are required for safe and quick removal of bats.  HW begins imploring the Natural to “be a man, and join your dad to get rid of that thing!” and shoves him out of the bedroom, much to his consternation.

Down to the basement we sprint–trudge, maybe–to prepare for battle with this creature whose intentions clearly do not include our health and well-being.  I don’t know why it is that bats view eating mosquitoes and humans with equal gusto, but evidence demands that we accept that as reality, MythBusters be damned.  A tennis racquet with a broken handle for the Natural, a racquetball racquet with broken strings for Irk…we’re both right-handed, so what goes in the off hand that can be used simultaneously for offense and defense?  There is no question in either of our minds that this mean bird will come in for the kill as soon as it sees we have its demise in mind…mean birds such as this may not be fully acquainted with human accoutrements, but I bet they are well-schooled in brooms and racquet sports.  We settle on blankets for the off hand…if we can’t whack it, we’ll smother it.

Back up to the library–this appears to be a studious Diphylla ecaudata, as it prefers the library to all other possibilities.  Having gotten only a brief glance, it certainly appeared to be the Hairy-Legged Vampire Bat, that most fiendish of all winged creatures.  Where is the crazy thing?  Five minutes ago it was treating the upper level of our house its own personal wind tunnel, but now it’s completely out of sight.  Do you suppose it has gone?  Probably no such luck…better to stay on the hunt rather than have it reappear in the wee hours of the morning to lay eggs in our hairs.  Cautiously–really cautiously–always with weapons at the ready, we move books, DVDs, cushions, toys, clothes…  What in the world?  Where did it go?  Chances that it left the area are slim to none, as all access to upstairs rooms has been cut off by doors that are locked, deadbolted, and nailed shut.  Whimpers and the occasional scream can still be heard within.

Ten minutes of search prove fruitless.  Relieved, we come to the conclusion that the H-L VB has moved on to greener pastures.  I can’t say I blame it–I never made it on the tennis circuit, but I still swing a pretty mean baseball bat, which prevents me from hitting a golf ball straight but may aid in the slaughter of a Hairy-Legged Vampire Bat.  It no doubt had ideas about spraying eggs in our hair, but I was equally motivated to dispatch it post haste.  The Natural goes to bed.  Hot Wife settles down with the Octopus, who couldn’t be removed from the behind that door with anything less than a full SWAT team–he’s taken himself hostage.  I take the armament back to the basement.

Now, I don’t throw around the word “hero” lightly, but I’ll go ahead and apply it to myself in this case.  With the rest of the Clan behind their triple-bolted doors, I sleep on the couch in the library on the off chance that the H-L VB should choose to make an encore.  I have to be entertained for a little while before I can get to sleep, and since Hot Wife isn’t available this evening (snicker, snicker–a little racy humor…she loves this sort of thing on the blog), I decide to pop that greatest of all current shows, The Office, into the DVD player.  Halfway into the first episode, I hear a rustle and, out of the corner of my eye, notice something that seems to be out of place.

Drat, it’s back!  With no one to help me defend the homestead, it’s all up to me this time.  The scream I emitted upon positive re-identification of the Hairy-Legged Vampire Bat seems to have gone unheralded.  My, they’ve certainly fallen sound asleep quickly this evening!

Because all vampire species fear light, I turn the library lights back on, as well as the hall lights, the kitchen lights, the garage lights…  First, I need to re-arm.  While proceeding from the library to the stairs, the flippin’ thing comes winging from the hallway back to the library.  Pastor Tom–forgive me–but I confess that a bad word has emitted from  my mouth with great volume.  I retrieve the racquetball racquet and choose a pillow for my backup plan should it attack from my blind side.  This time I have an easier time finding it–somehow, it is hanging on the sheer wall.  It makes sense that a Hairy-Legged Vampire Bat would have fangs and claws sufficient to dig in on a wall, but it’s still creepy to see it hanging there.

Having no better plan, I fling the pillow at the bird, but miss.  Retrieving a second pillow, I toss again…success, right on the end of his nose!  But rather than fall helplessly to the floor, the H-L VB takes to the wing!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Swing and a miss, strike one…swing and a miss, strike two…(was that eggs that I just felt landing in my hair?)…one more miss and I’m out!  Here it comes again, from the hallway into the library.  Like Casey, I take a mighty cut, but unlike Casey, I connect solidly and the H-L VB is propelled against the wall, then falls limply to the floor.  Interesting–a closer glance reveals that it evidently retracted its fangs and claws upon contact with the racquet, much like a turtle.  I use a toy to scrape it onto the racquet (toy will remain unnamed, lest it never receive use again) and toss it outside.

In the morning the Vampire Bat is nowhere to be found.  Did a cat eat it, or did it come back to life?

There’s neither profit nor necessity in saying, “It’s been a while, fans…”  I always pledge to make a go of it again, so I might as well re-re-re-commit.  Heck, even if it’s only my Mom, my friend KeKe, and HW’s friend Jo-Jo reading, at least it’s still practice to keep my literary pencil sharpened.  My mind is dull, but there’s no reason I can’t stick the proverbial pencil in the sharpener on occasion.  When I finally get my travel/adventure magazine up and running (that’s right, Kevo, I haven’t forgotten my ultimate cool-way-to-make-a-living plan), I won’t have to spray quite as much WD-40 in the gears.

“Staying busy, are you?”  That’s the question I hear most these days, possibly second only to, “So do you miss teaching?”  Farmers seem to make the assumption that crop insurance agents sign guys up, then spend the rest of the year sipping Coronas on the beach in Tahiti.  Just for the record, I’ve never been to Tahiti, and the one Corona I had was in a Chili’s.  I felt gay drinking a tall cool one with a lime in the bottle, so I’ve never gone back there.  Beer tastes nasty anyway–remember kids, you have to be 21, and even then, it’s a pretty bad idea.  Lots and lots and lots of ex-jocks walking around with skinny legs, skinny arms, and huge bellies.  But I digress.

Yes, I’m quite busy, thank you.  I fail to understand how people who are considering retirement are concerned about finding something to keep themselves busy.  I student-taught at Delphi HS with a guy named Bill Gray, and he once told me, “I’m seven years behind on my to-do list.”  He then proceeded to show me his to-do list, which was a typewritten piece of dirty, crinkled, folded piece of paper, and it did indeed appear that he was close to a decade behind.  At any rate, he certainly could have made the effort to put that document on a computer.  But I digress.

Like Mr. Bill, I am certain that if I could spend the next 90 days working at home on various pending/half-complete projects, I would wake up on the 91st morning thinking first and foremost of all the things I wasn’t able to get done.  Listen, folks–here it is.  I’m busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.  (For the record, I would have preferred to say “rumpus”-kicking contest, but it just doesn’t carry the same gravity…when a man’s trying to kick your rumpus, it sounds like he’s frolicking–I’m talking about busy like a man who’s about to get manhandled!)  Delivering seed, treating beans, mapping, coaching baseball, cleaning up after the Octopus (Please, God, help me!  If I find my $150 cordless drill on the garage floor one more time, there’s going to be one less Octopus in the world!)…yikes.  I finally hit upon a way to describe my feelings about Braden, and both halves of this expression are exactly right.  He is the joy of my life, and the bane of my existence.  When he’s right, I take trememdous delight in playing with him, watching him wrestle the Peanut…the other night, completely unbidden, he was switch-hitting off the batting tee.  Drew and I were rolling the ball back to him, and whichever side of the tee it stopped at was the side he hit from!  But when he’s wrong, I’m half-tempted to rip off his own arms and beat him senseless…with his own arms!  That boy ain’t right.  But I digress.

And……..I’m spent.  That’s enough for now.  At least I remembered where to find this blog thing and how to do it.

Jake Peavy–get bent!