Feeling No Pain

For three years, I've lived with a broken tooth. Not only does that make me sound like I am capable and willing to withstand more pain than you, it makes me sound like I was just too busy to get it fixed. (Both are true, I assure you.) 

But after several nights of the most excruciating pain I think I've ever felt in my life (which came with sweats, elevated heart rate, and no sleep for free), the time had come for the big operation. I was going to have all four wisdom teeth removed. I was neither using those teeth nor their wisdom anyway.

My surgeon gave me three choices: to be knocked out in blissful slumber, to huff laughing gas so that I'd spend the next 8 hours thinking my pain was funny, or to get a local anesthetic. I opted to forgo spending an afternoon foggy-headed or saying funny things that I'd regret, and instead decided to feel something I don't feel every single day:

I went with the local anesthetic, and let me tell you, I was not prepared for what that was like! 

I reclined in their impossibly comfortable chair, wearing very unfashionable sunglasses, looking up into a cold light, when the nurse stuck two, long, cherry-flavor-coated swabs all the way to my back teeth, then left me alone for a few minutes. It was in this serene time of reflection that I noted this comfy leather chair had arm restraints as part of the design. Wonder what those are for. 

Presently, the nurse came back, this time with the surgeon. He made a remark that I reminded him of a celebrity (and now I can't remember who it was, but it couldn't have been anyone from the CMAE Hall Of Fame), yanked the swabs out of my mouth, and brandished the largest, most comically violent-looking dental syringe. 

Four mighty stabs later, my face was about to undergo the most interesting sensation that ever sensationed on my person. The surgeon commended me on not wincing or flinching during the mighty stabbing, and I didn't have the gumption to tell him that I was deliberately trying to prove a point (that is, I am capable of withstanding more pain than him...petty, I know). 

Then, the nurse and the surgeon left me alone with my thoughts again. The philosophical musings that I mused during that time would've made Socrates cry. The problems that I solved in my head would have made engineers respect me. I noted that there was some whirring machine in there and I hummed harmonious counterpoint along with it. I believe every one should spend 5 minutes completely alone, on your back, near intimidating surgical equipment at least once in your life. It was the most inspirational and meditative 5 minutes I've spent in a long time. The calm before the storm.

Suddenly, the surgeon appeared in the doorway.

"How's your mouth?" he said with the foreboding glee of a vampire at a blood drive.

The funny thing was, I went to answer him and found out that I couldn't move anything between my neck and my ears! At first, my brain panicked: my entire face had gone offline. But fortunately, my brain switched to relief because I couldn't feel any sensation at all. This was gonna be easy.

That meant when the bell rang and the surgeon pounced upon me like a linebacker at a home team game, I never once felt him crack, yank, or in other ways dismember my bridge work. But I could feel my neck and head being shaken and stretched as my wisdom teeth fought their last valiant fight. For about twenty minutes, he rooted around in there with heavy pieces of farm equipment (I think), keeping real-time track of how many teeth he conquered.

"That's one," he said as he triumphantly plunked it on the tray. 

The wrestling continued. I could hear the sounds of the struggle, but felt nothing. I was legitimately having a great time.

"That's two," he said, plunking another.

At this point, a thought crossed my mind that I'm sure crosses everyone's mind at this point in surgery. 

"Auntie Em, there's no place like home."

"That's three," this one went quicker than the others. 

He braced his elbow against my forehead, his knee against my chest, took a deep breath, a shot of espresso,  mumbled something in Latin, and extracted that final wisdom tooth with a mighty, Herculean heave. 

He washed his hands as I desperately tried to get the feeling back in mine. Even though my mouth felt nothing, my body must've known (somehow) that it was undergoing some severe trauma. I felt like I just went 100 rounds with Big Bird, yet still, felt no pain. It was awesome. I was out of breath, and still couldn't feel my face or my extremities.  

The post-op nurse ran me through the exotic list of medications I would be taking home, she also presented me with a little container with my dearly departed teeth. Then she said: "Any questions?" like it was some big joke.

Well, she mis-over-underestimated my propensity to talk. After making awkward walrus sounds for 10 seconds trying to speak English without any consonants, it occurred to me that my tongue was very mobile.

Twenty years ago, my dear sweet Grammy gifted me with a Charlie McCarthy doll for Christmas, and a book on ventriloquism came with it. Just like a bicycle, once you learn how to ride, you only look silly to people in cars. I began speaking to the nurse using ventriloquist verbalizations, creating consonants with my tongue against my teeth. It sounded a little wonky, but it was surprisingly clear. 

I walked back to the car with my dad who drove me. My legs were very wobbly, but I was very happy that I never felt a thing. I sang in the car the whole way home to Keith Whitley, Willie Nelson, and Alan Jackson.

My mom made soft foods for me at home. I soon realized that, in order to not spill, I needed to know where my mouth and lips were. I was quite sloppy for about 4 hours after the surgery until my mouth came back online. Then, elephant-grade ibuprofen 4 times a day kept any pain or suffering far far away. 

Recovery was a breeze, just like the surgery. I spent a whole week thanking God for a painless operation and a very speedy recovery. 

And now, I have four teeth in a jar than I'm trying to decide what to do with. Any suggestions?

The point of this whole post is to remind you that I am capable, willing, and proven to withstand more pain than you. And I had the time of my life!

Here We Go Again...

Could it be true?

Will I never learn my lesson?

Have I taken leave of my faculties?

These questions have been prying at your collective heads for more than 10 years now, probably unrelated to anything else. 

But fortunately for you, I have the answers at last: it is, I won't and I might!

It is true that I am a college student again. 

It is true that if I had learned my lesson the first time, I won't ever learn my lesson.

It is true that I have taken leave of my faculties. I barely know anything about faculties anyway. 

But it is so, my dear friends and gentle hearts, that I begin again where this blog began yet once: in the night during the churnings of a young college student looking for his outlet of loquacity and goofiness. 

I enter grad school full of bewildering naivety and churlish hope, ever excited to learn and terrified of earning less than a B+. I certainly require your prayers, and would welcome a kind word or three. 

Who knows, maybe I'll finally figure out how to use words good. 

Today's Forecast: Rain with a high chance of God's Mercy

 All across California this week, heavy rain has been making our roads soggy, and our hearts and minds yearn for soup season. If you hang around me at all, you know how much I love the cold rainy season in California. 

In the Bible, rain is often a symbol of God's mercy, as rain is crucial to crops: providing nutrients that are hard to come by even when watering artificially. Don't ask me the science, that's another post for another bowl of soup. 

I get to thinking at times like these that rain keeps me from taking God's faithfulness for granted. The Bible says His mercies are new every morning. That's the same cadence that my stupidity renews also, so I'm extra thankful. 

 As the cold rain falls and cleanses California of the summer heat, God's mercy on sinners like us falls when we call out to Him, and when He cleanses us, we are cleansed indeed.

The cold rain does something else to us too: it prompts us and compels us to search for warmth and comfort. That can be everything from a bowl of fresh tomato soup, or a tall hot cup of Pumpkin Spice Latte. Have you ever felt the pull to be near and close to God when you contemplate His mercy? That's how it's supposed to be. 

After all, were we not created to have fellowship and communion with Him? Just look at Genesis: when everything was perfect, Adam would walk and talk with God every day. Once sin separated us from God, we couldn't just walk and talk with Him anymore. But that's still what we've been created for. 

As you snuggle in for the remainder of the cool autumn rain, spend some quiet time with your Heavenly Father, and give thanks for the amazing gift of His never-ending mercy. 

And if you're planning for a night of tomato soup, please send me an invite. 

Mr. Big Shot

Hard to believe that ten years ago, I sat down at a keyboard and plunked out my first blog post. 

What transpired was ten years of wonderful, magical, inspiring, brain-rotting drivel. And yet, here you are still enjoying it. This is why we are best friends. 

Sometimes, chasing clout (a new, young-people term for doing things just for the attention) really pays off. But other times, I had to get a real job.

I will say, I'm quite blessed with the jobs I've had. If you hadn't Sherlocked it down yet (a new, invented-by-me term that means you used your brain to figure out something), I am a man of many words; some of the words I have are great, and other words I have not be great. It stands that a lot of the past jobs I've had were word-centric. 

Here's some free advice that I learned the easy way: if you are a word person and like people, go into the field of Marketing. It has been pure fun since I began being a big shot professional. 

A brand new venture has come to my desk that I have really enjoyed. You are now reading the blog of one of the members of the Greater Orange Community Arts Theater Board of Directors. 

That's me: Mr. Board of Director member. Calling shots. Making decisions. Making motions and seconding others. It all might go to my head. 

 But fortunately it doesn't. I really recommend getting involved in orgs, associations, and causes that benefit your community and neighbors. It's a great feeling to build buildings, bring people together, and watch ideas take physical form.  

Mr. Big Shot really comes back down to earth when he looks around and meets people who are just like him, in all walks of life. I sit around large tables in a coat in tie, then come home and have to empty my trash cans. I look over financial sheets and plot fundraising activities, then come home and still find holes in my socks. 

I guess being a big shot is really more a frame of mind than anything else. 

My First Rodeo

 It has actually and finally happened: I found an occasion to say "sorry, this is only my first rodeo."

The truth of the matter is, I wasn't actually sorry. I was stoked.

If you've read this blog at any point over the last decade, you'll know how connected I've been to cowboy culture, how my grandad was a cowboy, how my family is scattered all over Texas, how SoCal gave birth to the silver screen cowboys that I grew up watching. So I'm sure you can imagine, once I heard about the opportunity to participate in a real, honest-to-Gene Autry, local rodeo, I was ecstatic. 

Saturday afternoon found me and my siblings at the Rusty Richards Arena at the Circle S Ranch, representing a small gaggle of part-time cattle sorters from Trails End Ranch just down the road. My trusty arena pal, Rip was my companion again, and my new, shiny spurs flashed in the golden, Silverado Canyon sun. 

My mission was simple: win the commemorative belt buckle. My mission was also basically impossible. 

Team after team signed the roster. Seemingly thousands of riders poured into the arena, though it was probably only about 30 or so. My chances of winning were about the same chance of  German shepherd filing my taxes on time (you know how bad they are at standardizing deductions).

But to me, it didn't matter. I was just happy to be there. Rip was ambivalent. 

My first round came. As soon as Rip and I crossed the starting line, the judge gave us a number, and we were to find the corresponding cow. We got him, and cut him out. Great start. The thrill of it all was just too much for Rip. His horsey endorphins went into overdrive and he took me on a grand victory lap around the arena. 

Oh boy did he run; gleefully careening toward fences and people. While my longsuffering teammates continued sorting cattle in the appropriate order, I was begging Rip to salvage my cowboy reputation to all the other cowboys who could, at this point, probably tell I was a bit of a greenhorn. 

Suddenly, a blonde horse with braided mane caught Rip's eye and ol lover boy made a beeline and stopped right along side her. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind hanging out with a cute blonde now and then, but business is business. I finally convinced Rip to get back to work and we sorted a few more in order before the clock ran out, ending our round with an incomplete job. 

Team after team filled the next hour, placing impressive scores and displaying impressive horsemanship. Deep down, I hoped Rip was paying attention. "That's how its done, Rip", I told him, "See how they stick to the job and don't leave or nothing?" Somehow, I don't think Rip was listening. Mentally, he was somewhere else, probably filing taxes with a German Shepherd. Good luck with that.

Our second turn came, full of hope and low of expectations. 

"Rider, when you cross the line, your time will start," said the judge. "Let's go," I told Rip. 

Rip stood still. 

"Rider, you may cross the line when you're ready," the judge implored.

"C'mon, Rip", I said to a very motionless horse. 

At this point, I briefly wondered if I had mistakenly saddled the hitching post by mistake, but I felt him slowly begin walking and I was relieved to find at least a partial horse under all that leather and tack. 

We cut out the first cow, and no sooner had Rip faced the other way when lil Blondie caught his eye again. No victory lap this time, it was straight to that Jezebel horse to say howdy again. 

"You gotta pull the reins," offered a nearby cowboy who could sense I was a little out of control. 

I pulled the reins, but my goo-goo eyed horse was bent on letting that blonde ruin his life. Trust me, I've been there myself, but there's a time for everything and this wasn't it. By the time I finally got Rip back to work, my team was struggling keeping the small herd of cattle together. Rip and I made a few close saves, but at the last minute, a crafty calf snuck by out of order, rendering us disqualified for that round. 

Back to the sidelines we went, spending the rest of the evening gathering the cattle that wandered from the hold between rounds, talking with more experienced cowboys, and basking in the glory of realized childhood dreams. 

Needless to say, I won no buckle. I didn't win anything that could be claimed on my taxes (to the relief of a certain doggy). But I walked away with the biggest smile and fondest memory of my first rodeo. 

In spite of the challenges, I think I'm ready for the second. 

Hot Take

What I'm about to say, I hope that you will accept with grace. I might get canceled for this. 

I've said it onced or twiced to various people, and almost every time, I lose friends. Tragic for sure, but I'm not sorry for standing up for what I strongly believe is the truth. 

So take a breath, and let's walk through this together:

I believe with all my heart that crunchy peanut butter shouldn't exist; it is a waste of cupboard space and pointless in nature. 

I know, I know, all you crunchy peanut butter lovers are fuming right now. But, I maintain creamy peanut butter supremacy. 

My reasoning is simple and rooted in observational science. In the first place, is there anything called butter that has chunks in it? Honey butter, apple butter, body butter, milk butter, they're all smooth and creamy. Because that's what butter is. 

How would you like it if you found chunks in your normal, cowmilk butter? Grosses you out, doesn't it?

Secondly, I believe food needs to have some sort of continuity of consistency within each culinary offering. Soft dishes need to be soft. Hard dishes need to be hard. 

You may say "But Mark, s'mores are hard AND soft!" How right you are, but the continuity says the crunchy is on the outside and softly gives way to the creamy inside. It tells a story! 

One time, I had a PBJ sandwich with chunky peanut butter and it took me a solid minute to realize I wasn't losing my teeth: someone had done half a job when making the peanut butter. What story are we telling here? Fluffy soft bread gives way to soft, sweet jelly, and indecisive half-chewed peanuts kinda interrupt here and get in the way. Lame. 

I'll say it again for the people in the back: Crunchy Peanut Butter is a job half done.

I stand by this. 

Ode to Dad (An Appreciation Post)

In a world where everything is changing quickly, there is a unified cry among society for strength. There is an obvious omittance of stoic-minded leadership and wisdom. The glaring absence of righteous aggression, responsibility, courage, and the ever-assertive thirst for intrinsic independence to place a mark on their spot in the world. These things tend to be viewed as uncommon superpowers. 

As far as I'm concerned, my Dad is as close to Superman as I'll ever meet. 

He's one of those guys that, if I were not his son, I'd definitely want to be his friend. Maybe you know someone like him. If you do, you already understand the high-value someone like him brings to life. 

Frequently the tallest man in the room, my dad has stood as a pillar of strength my whole life. In a friend group, he is the silent type, with the uncanny ability to crack the wittiest remark at the perfect time whilst exerting minimal effort at all. I don't mind admitting it: Dad is funnier than me and always will be. 

My Dad is every bit Texan as could be. He still has the same pet turtle he rescued from his home state, he makes the most perfect steak you'll ever taste, and he is scared of neither man nor beast. He taught me to eat pralines as a breakfast item, and to fish using a bamboo cane pole. He makes shrimp and grits so good that it would make Willie Nelson cry. In a good way. 

My Dad is a natural born athlete. He made it to 6 feet tall before he left his teen years and aced every sport he tried. He taught me at a young age that "You never play for fun, you play to WIN". I've been a wimp most of my childhood so he taught me to lift weights and take Jay Robb Whey Protein, which I know this sounds like an ad, but I really do take it every day. You should too, it's good for you.

Its hard to imagine anyone cooler than my Dad. I recall once he stared down two drunk hobos who had encroached upon his family's personal space one night in downtown Nashville. My Dad neither flinched, nor raised his voice, but as they got closer (and seemingly more nefarious), all Dad had to do was look them in the eye and give them a gentle "Take a hike, boys." Those two guys probably had to change their underwear that night--I've never seen anyone so intimidated.

My Dad finished college later than most, with little baby children and a wife at home. He studied to get his teaching credentials and became a substitute teacher. He has this way with kids that's truly special. When I was a little tyke, we used to have a party trick where he would grab me by my ears and lift me off the ground. To achieve this illusion, I had to hold on to his forearms as he held on to my ears so in effect he was just relying on me hanging on, lifting me with ease, complete with theatrical shaking and flailing for effect. Not only was it fun for both of us, it made everyone laugh--it was a show stopper every time, and once the other kids learned how we did it, they all wanted to be lifted up by their ears too!

My earliest memory of Dad goes back to 1997: I was sitting on the front step of our house, drinking water from a yellow sippy cup. Dad was just an arm's length away, working in the yard. The smell of freshly churned dirt and misty lawn sprinklers imprinted so deeply upon me, that I still smile every time I catch the scent again. 

Today, Dad lives a charmed life of retirement. He tends to his lawn, his garden, his fruit trees, his bird feeders, and turtles. He still flirts with my Mom, his wife of 34 years, and still hangs out with his kids. He reads local news, has his favorite coffee spot in town, and never passes up a chance to go fishing. He still works out, and still puts peanuts in his Coke. He's the kind of man I sometimes think I'll never live up to. He has a discipline and work ethic that I aspire to. 

Without a doubt, if everyone had a Dad like him, this world wouldn't have a problem in sight. I'm sure glad to know him.

And if you couldn't tell by now, I'm really quite proud of him. 

Me More Cowboy Than You

Has anyone else noticed that the whole world has picked up the cowboy craze again?

And yes, I mean again. It was well documented in the 90s when everyone wore bolo ties, boots, and mullets. It was well documented in the 50s just before the space race. It was well documented in the 30s once silent films became talkies. Seems to be on a schedule I guess. 

I, for one, love to see it. In my opinion, everyone is much more attractive and smarter looking when they were large belt buckles, plaid, and the ol Cattleman crease.

Have you heard that song on the social media lately? The one that goes:

Me, me, me, me, me more cowboy than you.

I swear that I'm working class through and through

If you haven't heard it yet, I have no idea what rock you've been hiding under. It's been stuck in my head for months. Those Brudi Brothers have a prolific algorithm to go with their sharp senses of satire.

The tone of the lyrics just outright smack of the Bob McDill-penned, Alan Jackson-rendered Gone Country from my youth. Or even I Was Country (When Country Wasn't Cool) from my dad's youth. 

So have you noticed it? The world yearns to be cowboys and cowgirls again. There simply must be something ingrained within our very DNA that compels us implicitly to head for the barn and chew on hay. What's not to love about being everyone's hero, being a dependable and cool-headed member of a posse? Why wouldn't everyone try their hardest to cast long shadows of integrity and grit? But best of all, doesn't everybody think belt buckles are cool?

Fortunately for me, I've never been yanked around by the frivolous fads of society. Like Barbara Mandrell says, I was doing all these things whether or not they were considered cool.

I was wearing belt buckles when kids my age had those swoopy haircuts and were listening to Fireflies by Owl City. I was feeding cows before the movie Avatar was released to theaters. Unfortunately, it wasn't on MY ranch. I didn't have a ranch then, I was on a friend's ranch. Him more cowboy than me. Me still don't have ranch. Him still more cowboy than me. But back to me point:

All my life, I've looked down my little sunburnt nose at the blue alien loving crowds of people and boasted with "Me more cowboy than you". All my life, they've looked down their little noses at me saying "Why haven't you seen Shrek, it came out in theaters decades ago?"

And now that its popular to wear cowboy jeans in public again it's so hard for schmucks like me to stand out from a crowd. What's worse I look....trendy!

GAG!

I may not be the most cowboy person on the planet, and I'll certainly never be the most hip, but I'm thankful that cowboy culture has come around once again. Y'all are really looking good these days. I'll be right here when the fad comes back again. 

Happy trails, pilgrims.

Learning the Easy Way

"I had to learn THAT the hard way," you say to your friends or colleagues, after you detail some harrowing experience that was due only to your uninformed misstep. Everyone chuckles and takes your timely wisdom to heart. Then off everybody goes, on their merry way like usual.

But did I ever tell you about the thing I learned the easy way? Well, allow me:

I found myself, one pleasant winter day on the Trails End Ranch in scenic Silverado, California. Lately, I've had the amazing opportunity to learn the noble art of cattle sorting from some very experienced riders. I've done a small share of horse riding in the past, but nothing too much more than a trail ride. My experience would be what some would call "tenderfoot", which is just a funny way of saying n00b.

The concept of cattle sorting is very simple: you and one other rider alternate between guarding a corral "gate", and riding into a herd of cattle to pick one and only one out to guide it into the corral. This continues one at a time until all the cattle are in the new pen. Easy.

I sat on the back of a lazy ol' horse named "Rip," who is scared of waving flags, strangers, and hard work. Getting him in and out of the pen was comical in itself as all the other cowboys shook their heads when I reprimanded the horse multiple times saying inspirational things like "C'mon, c'mon, he's getting away...he got away...and all his friends with him." Thanks, Rip.

But one cowboy had faith in me. "You want to ride my horse?" What a beautiful animal she was, too. Tall, sandy brown, and muscular, "Jewels" stood gallantly awaiting my commission. As I settled into the saddle, the wise cowboy said, "Now just remember, she's a finely tuned horse, kinda like a—"

"A mustang?" I asked, thinking of a car and not thinking of how stupid I sounded comparing a horse to a horse.

"She's like a Porsche, very responsive to little effort," he said, not hearing how stupid I was.

Sure enough, Jewels was miles ahead of Rip. I practiced turning her around and found that she spun on a dime and gave Rip the change. It was time to put her to the test.

I lined up, awaiting my turn to enter the pen once more to sort cattle. As I was waiting, a thought crossed my mind.

"Hey, how do you back up with her?"

"Oh, it's simple. Just give a little rein and heel like so."

Simple it was. While waiting my turn, I had Jewels walk forward and backward in a single file line to practice. I felt good. I felt too good.

The pen opened and Jewels and I entered. I knew what I was there to do. Jewels had no clue what I was thinking. In my defense, in the heat of the moment, a cowboy has to make quick decisions about when to turn, which calf to cut, which to block, and has to make sure his horse knows too.

Left, right, forward, backward, stop, go, go faster, stop faster—I don't know how many signals I gave poor Jewels, the Porsche of Ponies, in just 10 seconds, but she had seen enough. Completely done with my amateurish indecision, she did something I've never had a horse do to me before.

She ran backwards.

And I do mean she RAN backwards. All the cowboys on the fence were shouting "Go forward!" and that sounded just fine by me. However, Jewels was done taking orders. No matter what I did, she only did one thing: run backwards.

Before I could come up with a game plan on changing the mind of a horse (which preliminarily only included leading one to water), she hit the fence, getting everyone's attention. Now all eyes were on me: the cowboy who lost control of the most finely tuned saddle pal there could be.

When smashing into the fence didn't rid her of the confusing cowboy in her saddle, Jewels did two very sharp crow hops, loosening my feet from the stirrups. Then, with one mighty rear, she reared a rear so reared that I slid all the way to the ground on my rear.

By now, my thoughts consisted of "this is fun" and "being trampled to death would end my fun," and I scrambled on my elbows and heels toward the fence, dodging the frantic hooves of a beast that was over me and my kind for good. Jewels didn't want to muck up her shiny shoes with my guts either, so she got away from me as fast as she could. Neither of us were hurt, and we certainly didn't score that round... all the cattle got away. Disqualified.

Since then, I got back with ol' Rip and we've come to an understanding. I have 100% of my instructions down like a fine science, and he agrees to comply with 60% of them. We are happy. We still DQ three out of four matches. Nice to be reliable.

The moral of the story is this: indecision is the quickest way to get thrown to the ground. Getting thrown to the ground hurts your rear.

I learned that the easy way.

Day of the American Cowboy

Could there be any more iconic example of all that is America than the cowboy?

Not only do I love starting blog posts with questions (hooray for online engagement), I love reflecting on my heritage as a long-time Western aficionado. For those of you who have never studied it before, an aficionado is like a really big fan of something. Or "avocado" with an Italian accent. Either one. 

Let's consider for a moment this symbol of American strength, this pillar on which American legend has grown and thrived, the avatar of that which the world envies to have.

The origins of cowboy culture couldn't be a more clear parallel to America herself. The outcast members of society (Irish, Mexican, namely) found their path to glory in the cattle industry, risking life, limb, and worse, comfort (shudder) to provide not only for their families but for the whole country. You know how we love our beef around here.  

What happened next will shock you. 

Or maybe not. Trying for online engagement again. But the "cowboy" became an American archetype that is a perfect meld of those diverse cultures. Just look at the lingo:

Doggie - n. DOH-ghee; a calf, from the Irish word. "Get along little doggies".

Hacienda - n. HA-zee-EN-duh; a ranch house, from the Mexican word. "C'mon by the hacienda for grub." 

My poor fingers would fail me to type up the complete, detailed history of cowboys. It's way more intricate than I let on. But like America, a bunch of scrappy nobodies overcame all odds to become extraordinary, world-wide legends, etched into the walls of history forever.

But beyond the historical period of the Wild West, which only was a thirty-year period from 1830's to 1890's, the cowboy enjoyed a once-in-a-generation spotlight with the TV Cowboy that captured the hearts of kiddos everywhere.

Who could forget Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger and more? Everyone wanted to be them. And all that besides, parents were comfortable with their ideals and morals of honesty, kindness, bravery, and standing up for the little guy. Classic. Heartwarming. America. (cue the screeching of an eagle)

I brag about it all the time, but my grandad was a cowboy briefly in his younger years. That's enough to make this ol California boy feel proud. I can't help but feel a connection to my childhood heroes and their horses. 

Here is your country. Cherish these natural wonders, cherish the natural resources, cherish the history and romance as a sacred heritage, for your children and your children's children. Do not let selfish men or greedy interests skin your country of its beauty, its riches, or its romance.
--Teddy Roosevelt

I honor this part of my national and familial heritage every day of my life. On my desk at work, I have a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, a cowboy once himself, jumping a fence on his horse. I have a sculpture by Michael Garman of a cowboy preacher with a gun in his belt and a bible in his hand. I wear boots to every function and belt buckles on my pajamas. Well, that might be hyperbole--but online engagement being what it is these days...

This is what I mean by being a western avocado. I mean aficionado. Sorry. My accent. Today is Day of the American Cowboy and chances are high that I will be donning my stetson, attending a rodeo, and saluting the cowboys that built our country, our culture, and our families. 

If you share my love of this, tell me who your favorite cowboys are. Bonus points if you can name their horses.

Memorial Day 2024

In the centuries of documented world history, stories are recounted of the heroes of humanity. Flawed or fictitious, famous or faithful, their names are invoked to inspire the writers of the future world to rise to greatness.

America has a unique place in world history in that its very creed and core values have birthed more heroes than one account of history could ever hold. America has bred and reared a most extraordinary kind of hero, one who holds the jaws of death with both fists while their countrymen and family sleep in domestic peace. These heroes, not celebrated oft enough, are contented to indefinitely or permanently belay personal ambitions and play a somber tune on the strings of destiny, knowing their last breath on earth will be a small, yet indispensable contribution to the domestic tranquility they swear to defend. 

Until they all come home, we the people pray for them. 

I was on a break during a performance last month, when I observed a man with a Vietnam veteran ballcap stopped by a passerby:

"You served in Vietnam?"

"Yessir," said the vet.

"That must've been hard."

"Still is," he choked.

I made a point to thank him personally. The weight of his service was completely unknowable to me. But I hope he knew that he's the American we all look up to. 

Today, we pause to remember the ones that didn't come home to us. It's wisely been observed that those who don't believe heroes exist have never been to the cemeteries to read the names of the most heroic people of all world history. These heroes didn't lose their life, they gave their lives. A life that is given in the name of liberty, equality, justice, freedom, and peace in a world of oppression, violence, and despotism, isn't truly lost. 

To the fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers who gave everything to protect and defend America, we thank you. You are the heroes the world will always look up to. 

Over the Edge of the Boat

 And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea. And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear. But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid. And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water. And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me. And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased. Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God.

 

Even in the presence of Jesus, it is too easy for us to be afraid of the wind and waves of life that threaten our peace. Sometimes we have to ask ourselves, ‘what would it take for me to stop doubting and start believing?’ But no matter what we see or experience, we still find a reason to doubt. Jesus could have easily let Peter sink to the cold depths of the sea for being scared of the wind and waves. After all, if Jesus Himself calls you out of the boat and causes you to literally walk on the surface of the water, wouldn’t THAT be enough to stop doubting and begin believing? 

Yet, as Peter’s fear took over his faith, Christ Jesus still reached out His hand with speed and haste and caught Peter before his own failure spelled his doom. 

This is a perfect parallel to the Grace that Jesus showed us on the cross: God commendeth His own love toward us that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. He doesn’t demand perfection first. He’ll sanctify and edify and reprove his children later. He only asks for you to step out of the boat, and to walk toward Him. He’s going to catch you, He’s going to save you, just where you are, just how you are. 

The Earworm

In the barren wasteland of my mind is a small hole in the ground. 

Within that hole, a creature lives a quiet and unassuming life, far away from the reaches of my cognition. 

I don't know him very well, but he recently began whistling a tune. I have never heard this tune before, but it is the catchiest darn melody I've ever encountered. 

I really can't remember this ever happening before. I've been writing songs for the better part of 10 years and I usually labor laboriously over the melodies. If you haven't noticed, words come way more easily. 

But for the last 3 weeks, this catchy little quirky melody has been whistling in my head day and night nonstop. Such noise for a usually empty brain! 

This little earworm creature usually is pleased to play songs I've heard before like "It's a Small World After All" or "Baby Shark", and for that, I'm hoping an earbird comes along and eats him. 

But alas, I'm stuck with a new, original, unforgiving melody. 

I feel like it's a great allegory for life (don't I always when searching for blog material?). Sometimes, we strive so hard for something that will happen almost by complete accident later. When it does come, all we need to do is let it happen and enjoy it. 

Lately, I've found tremendous comfort in just letting things happen. 

But enough with the snow job. This melody is driving me crazy. Hoping for meaningful lyrics!

...or an early earbird. 

Exacting Perfect Revenge

I would have invited them to carve the Thanksgiving turkey had I known they were this good at stabbing in the back. But, no matter, now that they've made a Caesar salad out of me (et tu, croutons?), I do what everyone learns to do when someone hurts their wittle feelings: I walk it off. 

And I plan the perfect revenge. Oh yes. After everything that made me sad, made me miserable, and that I certainly didn't deserve, it's time that my offenders learn exactly what it feels like to be hurt, betrayed, and implicitly mocked every time I'm reminded by someone. Because, again, I didn't deserve it. But they very obviously do. 

What could possibly feel more liberating to a hurting soul than to hurt another soul harder? All the impulses of the bleeding heart cry for a one-sided and tunnel-visioned justice that will promptly stamp out the source of pain and discomfort and set right what was set wronged. 

But is that actually going to bring peace? Is that what I truly want? If justice is to be completely satisfied, then I should be thrust into the incoming destruction in tandem with the perceived evils I wish to have vanquished as well. Then the victory to me would be more hollow than a dead tree. A hollow dead tree. Trying to paint a picture here. 

I feel like I could write a whole book on my personal journey with forgiveness. I've had very uncomfortable encounters with people in the past that were objectively wrong in my direction. Each time, I had to make a speedy decision to forgive. To just let it go. To let the offender get their own hurt out of their system so that I could move on and heal without spreading the poison elsewhere. Each time, the challenge was a little harder, but the forgiveness came more readily with practice. 

So why is this particular episode extra hard? Well, if you've followed my recent series of unfortunate events, you'll get a quick picture of why it's easy for me to feel like I've been kicked when I was down. I'll give you a quick summary: When things got tough, the girl I loved left me to marry the fellow she was seeing on the side, and right after that, there were a few family health scares and a damaged water pipe causing catastrophic water damage to 3/4 of the house I lived in. Everything happened at once. None of it could be helped, but that first thing felt extremely personal. 

I wasn't ready to move on. It was my first heartbreak and it came at the worst time. There were so many cross and harsh words I wanted to say. But I couldn't articulate a single one. So I gave up. No more fighting. No begging. I didn't deserve to have anyone, I thought. So in resignation, I published a book of poetry that encapsulated all my feelings about our long, tumultuous romance and its unexpected and abrupt ending then released it on my first Valentine's Day alone.  That'll show her. 

It didn't show her. She never read it. She doesn't know it exists. But it sure showed me. It showed me how deep my wounds were. It showed me how many wounds I had. Some wounds were my own making. Some wounds she made. Some wounds were from none of us and I have no clue where they came from. The darkness set in. 

Anyway, read the last two blog posts to get a picture of my feelings since that point. No need to hash that out again (again). But now I was ready to move on. In the midst of injustice, all my heart longed for was satisfaction. Any satisfaction. So in walks God. 

Actually, He had been there the whole time. I was too sad to see. Over the course of the year, I spent time reading God's Word, praying in tears, and I let myself feel feelings so that I could learn how to navigate them. Here's what God taught me:

1. He's listening. Psalm 66:17-20

2. He chastens those He loves. Proverbs 3:12

3. He is my source of Strength (remember this one, it's important). Psalm 46:1

4. He will fight for me. Psalm 34

5. He will direct my steps. Psalm 37:23-24

6. He will avenge those who wrong me. Psalm 40:11-16

At this point, I was ecstatic. All these great lessons and now, like Jonah under the shade of the gourd, I awaited the destruction of those who had so horrifically wronged me. But there was one more lesson God wanted to teach me:

 

7. He will forgive those who forgive. Ephesians 4:31-32; Mark 11:25; Matthew 6:15; Matthew 18:21-22; Colossians 3:13; Matthew 5:23-24; Matthew 5:7; James 5:16 

But how can I? My broken heart longs to be patched up. If I forgive what was done to me, I would have to let the one who hurt me go free. You see, as a Christian, I have a very unique insight into what forgiveness is. Jesus paid the penalty for the sins I would commit before I ever repented of them. Complete forgiveness for me, even though I never deserved it. He has separated me from my sin as far as the East is from the West. He threw all my iniquities into the depths of the sea. As much as I never wanted to, God clearly tapped my shoulder to tell me now it is my turn to forgive. 

Ok, I'll do it after I heal a bit from the heartbreak. I'd hate to relinquish all the hurt she owes me only to be hurt again. But is that really forgiveness if there's no more hurting? 

At best, that's just calling a truce. 

Maybe I'll send her a card expressing my well wishes and that'll accidentally remind her about all the horrible and definitely evil things she did to me. Then when she says sorry, I'll triumphantly forgive her, scoring the winning round! But is that really forgiveness if I'm doing it to prove a point? 

At best, that's revenge. 

No, my friends. The time for forgiveness is now. When I'm hurt. When she doesn't ask for it. When nobody deserves it. When I won't get peace from it, or social clout from it, or recognition from it, or any kind of special favors. For it to be true forgiveness like Christ's, then the one who did me so wrong walks away freely, owing nothing more to me, with a record that shines clean like it never happened. 

Can a feeble, broken heart bear the heavy weight of such a task? Only in Christ. Cliche it may sound, it is only through the Strength (remember this lesson?) that comes from God that forgiveness can be offered from me to her. It is only through His direction (and this lesson?) that I can follow through with it. The burdensome fate can only be realized when I wrap myself up completely in the LORD. 

Do this with me: 

-Think of someone who has wronged you. Especially someone who wronged you and got away with it. 

-Tally up in your head every single thing that made it wrong and with it an equal and just punishment to effectively atone for what they did. 

-Now take that list in your head, and destroy it completely. Forget every piece of it. 

With no list of wrongs, no due punishments, this person is to you now just as clean as if they had never done anything wrong to you in the first place. As far as you're concerned, they haven't. 

Congratulations, we just forgave someone together. You know what's cool? We got to display a very significant aspect of God's love for us through our own sufferings. You see, love keeps no record of wrongs, and it endures through everything. If we are called to love one another, what better place to start than to truly forgive each and every person who comes through our short and significant life? Keep this lesson close to you. There will be others who will hurt you, others who will wound your fragile heart. It is your Christian duty, then, to forgive each and every single one -- that is to say, to love them as wholly and deeply as Christ does. It is certainly a task too big for us unless we rely on the Strength and Grace that only comes from our Heavenly Father. 

What could possibly feel more liberating than to forgive those who trespass against us as our Father in Heaven forgives when we trespass against Him?

The Shadow at my Door

 "Oh great, here comes that guy again," you say.

"Which guy?"

"That guy who's always complaining," moaning, you lament. 

But it's too late. Mr. Woe-Is-Me has already overtaken you to complain about a toxic ex and some gaslighting kin and relation. You're stuck. You're on the hook for a long, one-sided convo where you only contribute the occasional "dang that's crazy"s, a few "really"s, and if you're exceptionally generous, a hearty "wow, that sounds terrible." But you can bet your last icebreaker that you will straight up NOT be having a good time. 

You've been here, right? Nobody likes that guy. What a downer. What a soggy bowl of limp linguini. 

But what happens when it's you one day?  What if you actually did have a toxic ex and some gaslighting kin and relation, and now your heart is constantly heavy over it? What if you really just need someone who will listen and empathize? Your whole life, you've avoided Sir Complainer, Drainer of Health, Downer of Heart. But each time you open your mouth, you have to swallow hard to not say "It's just not fair," "Why is it me who has to suffer", and "I can't believe she would do this to me". So you straighten your crown, smile for the people, and cry in the shower.

Hardly seems right. But what's a Stick in the Mud to do?

You know, I just wrote a blog post that was my little spotlight opportunity to complain about some of the recent hardships I'm enjoying. Thank you all for indulging me in that. Let me just encourage you to always seek some healthy way of getting your frustrations out. It won't be the last time you'll need to vent, trust me. 

If you're anything like me, you've been suppressing the sad boi routine lest you be heralded in your circles as the Man of Constant Sorrow, and not in the cool Dan Tyminski way. This recurring depression-and-no-one-else-to-appreciate-it routine has become your Thorn in the Flesh. 

There was once a very famous Thorn in the Flesh bearer who wrote about his experience thusly:

And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.

For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.

And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.

Now let me just make this clear: I'm pretty sure ol Paul wasn't dealing with a former flame of his. However, he never specifically details what his Thorn is, probably because the specifics of it don't matter. The part that matters is what becomes of us when we are bothered, afflicted, oppressed, or in any other way bamboozled. 

I said in a previous post that there were so many lessons God was teaching me through heartbreak. Just when I think I've learned them all, a picture, a memory, a token of some sort crosses my periphery, and another exciting bout with the ol Black Dog begins. 

"...when I am weak, then am I strong." What does it mean? When the mood goes down and the proverbial plane begins to tailspin, it's hard to feel strong. If anything, depression feels like a pathetic weakness, especially to a man. I'm supposed to be the towering beacon of stoic strength and the embodiment of the "I don't give a feather or a fig" mindset. But when you see someone you completely trusted celebrating her engagement to someone else just under a year after she left you, there are actually a couple feathers and maybe a plump fig or two you could find in your heart to give. Where is my strength now?

My strength comes from the Maker of Heaven and Earth of course. Super easy to say. But it's only when your head is down, your feet are in the mire, and your eyeball condensation gets really bad (it's the weather, guys. Men don't cry.), you learn lessons like these in a way that'll stay with you awhile. There is no one else to trust than the LORD. There is no other deliverance from sorrow than He. Unless I claim these truths and run to Him, I'm never going to experience the strength that is made perfect in my weakness. 

There it is. My depressions, no matter how severe, are not only tolerable when Christ is at the center, but they are useful, beneficial, and even impactful. When pain or bitterness begins to grow in me, when that ol Black Dog is on my porch again, when my heart is in any way overwhelmed, I'm led to the Rock which is higher than I. I trust He's in control. I trust He's taking care of me. I trust He's worked everything out for my good. I trust He won't forsake me. I trust He will lead me beside still waters and restore my soul. 

And then, there's peace. The problem doesn't go away, but there's peace. I would've thought it impossible to have peace and depression simultaneously, but hey, if God made the platypus, is anything too complicated for Him?

I know this won't be the last time I get to feel the blues with a capital DEPRESSION. This may not even be the last time I feel bitter about someone. But each time, I'll learn a little more about how to rely on God alone for my happiness.  No longer will I wish for a certain event to become infested with rodents or for a certain cake to get stale. (Although, if somebody broke a nail before a certain event, it might bring a smile to my face.) I can take joy in knowing my Shepherd leads me to green pastures. Further, I need to not become vindictive and exact revenge against those who hurt me, because the Father forgives those who forgive others. See Matthew 6: 14-15. I'll write a post about that next, I think. 

Anyway, thanks for indulging me yet again. I send away the shadows of the dark now, hoping you'll come back to hear me out when they come back next time. 

A Word About Heartbreak

Sometimes, there's just nothing left to do. 

Last year around this time, I had my heart broken by someone who was extremely important to me. My first break up, my first heartbreak.  What followed was a very interesting journey of discovery. Let me welcome you to the world of experiencing heartbreak for the first time.

Originally, the first feeling was just of minor failure. "Ok, so I did this wrong," I reasoned. I was informed that it was all my fault so I set out to figure out how to never make the same mistakes again. There's such a strange feeling about breakups that make heartbreak feel shameful. I spent a full year expecting the hurt to go away. I even wrote a book of poetry to help me cope (released to hardback soon!), but the hurt kept coming back. I'm sure she doesn't talk about me anymore. She's got a long wonderful life just ahead of her. She probably can't even recall my name. I keep coming across the letters she sent me and I barely recognize her. 

But the Lord has an immersive lesson for me in this. In the middle of being in pain for the love I lost, I found myself surrounded by ankle-deep water in our hallway wondering how much of our belongings we could save. Yes, a pipe broke while we were on the road, causing a house full of water, a collapsed ceiling, and walls soaked deeper than a rum cake. There were so many parallel feelings between the pain of a breakup and the pain of losing half a house. 

So what first? I could cry about it. Done that, but there are still messes to clean up. The walls have mildew and my lost love is getting married soon. Crying is a waste of time. So is wishing to undo the past. I wrestle with a couple Latin phrases from philosophers of the past: Amor fati, that is, love fate, and memento mori, that is, remember you have to die. This sums up simply: I can't control others, their wants,  thoughts, or desires. I can only work with the remaining life that I have to make the most of the time I've been gifted. 

That leaves only one thing to do, and that is, my favorite coping strategy: rigorously apply humor. 

When surveying the damage, I tell my family "Hey what color would you like your new carpet?" When people ask me how my girlfriend is, I say "She's finally happy now that she traded me in for a newer model!" And both times, everybody laughs and feels better. But I still am in ankle-deep water, she's getting married soon, and sometimes, there's just nothing left to do. 

Now what? I'm going to learn a lot of cool things about rebuilding houses. I'm going to get a new wardrobe. I'm going to learn how to let go of sentimental things that have been ruined beyond salvaging. I'm going to smile as often as I can. After all, I don't really need pity, I don't really want it either. I'd just as soon nobody found out about my broken heart. I won't tell people I'm fighting. They don't need to know. 

She's preparing a honeymoon suite, and I'm not going to feel what home sweet home is for many months. Is it fair? Heck no. But who cares? No one. That's life. That's how I know I'm still in the game. Watching the ceiling collapse is the same feeling as being alone in love. You can repair one, you gotta leave the other be. Sometimes, there's just nothing left to do. 

If you're reading this and I've completely bummed you out, let me assure you that everything will be okay. In fact, here are some scriptures and jokes I'm using to grow out of this. Call this group therapy. 

The Lord is good, a strong hold in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in him.  Nahum 1:7

But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy, because thou defendest them: let them also that love thy name be joyful in thee. Psalm 5:11

Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book? Psalm 56:8

And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; Romans 5:3  

I heard my ex's dog died. So I bought her one just like it, but she wasn't at all thankful. She said, "What am I gonna do with two dead dogs?"

My ex left me because I didn't like her obsession with counting. I wonder what she's up to now?

Whenever life gets tough, I remind myself "This too shall pass". I mean, it'll pass like a kidney stone, but it'll still pass.

Rod and Reel Reflections

I had the esteemed opportunity recently to spend a lazy Texas morning fishing on Lake Livingston.  I took advantage of the opportunity to be introspective and meditative as my bobber bobbed and the waves waved and my hook didn't hook. 

Life can be a lot like fishing, yes, I'm sure you've cringed through this homespun proverb a time or two. You've heard all about how the enjoyment of fishing isn't always just landing the big one, but to be happy to have the time off from the daily grind. You've heard that line how fishing is just a jerk on one end of a line waiting for a jerk on the other. You've no doubt heard that it's just the friends you met along the way. Cringe, as the youth of our time say. 

But this particular day, I went through 3 different kinds of bait in an attempt to proverbially disentangle the cause of my lonely lure. I glanced at the jar of magic fishing power bait and began to really ponder the depths of what was on the label:

"Satisfying!" "Fish hold on 18x longer!" "The taste they love!"

How. In. Beige. Tarnation. 

How? 

How do they know this?

I can only imagine a group of scientists wearing lab coats and fishing hats training bass and catfish to ring little bells if they liked the taste of something. 

"Very good, Dr. Jeeves, I'll have more of that," the catfish probably says.

"Delectable, my good doctor. I could eat, like, 18 more of those," says the bass smacking his comically large lips. 

I can't say I'm convinced. Could it be that it's a group of scientists in lab coats and fishing hats tasting the bait themselves? If that's it, why am I throwing it into the lake? I want to enjoy something satisfying and tasty. It would seem like a waste. 

I paused at this moment to check for a poison control number on the label, an intrusive thought that I'm sure you've never had. 

No number. 

If it's not there, it's gotta be okay, right? No, wait, the Darwin Award slips out of my reach as I read the disclaimer "Not for Human consumption". 

Ok, fine... but what are they hiding from us? 

I think back to the trained fish. If the bait is satisfying, I suppose they don't go back for seconds. Just one bite, and then it's time for the post-supper-siesta we all come to love. I don't like the sound of that. The more I think, the less I want a satisfying bait on my hook. I want something they can't get enough of. Something that'll keep them coming back. Something that they'll share with their fish friends. 

Unfortunately, I don't think they bottle that. 

At this point, the sun got hot and my eyebrows started sweating so I packed up the enigmatic bait jar and my reel and walked back to the air conditioning. 

I said a little prayer on my way, thanking the Lord for a chance to fish, a Texas morning to wake up to, and for giving me the insight to not eat unconsumable power bait... no matter how satisfying its advertised to be. There are many things in life advertised to be the greatest thing ever, so pay attention that the labels say what the labels mean. 

Waiting as Fast as I Can

 Picture this: you are working from the road, or you make a cool social media post and are waiting for your friends to react, or you are awaiting the next soul-crushing news headline that you're so obviously addicted to, when all of a sudden, your travels take you to a place so remote that nothing, and I mean NOTHING on any smart device works. 

I'm assuming your first impulse is something like "oh no, my soul-crushing news headline that I'm so obviously addicted to!" And if it is, we're not that different after all. 

Such was a recent experience here. But I got to enjoy something special right after that incident: Nothing. 

That's right. Nothing. No notifications, no social media, no anything. That's incredibly special. 

If you get the chance, please go somewhere no one can find you and be alone with your thoughts. I promise it's not as dangerous as your therapist would have you believe. Ok, granted, it might be too, if it's worded like that. 

Facetious wisecracking aside; don't underestimate the power of a "smart device" fast. I've made it a point this past year to spend quality time alone with my own thoughts and to really work out some deep thinking. I find it to be immeasurably valuable to mental and spiritual health. 

Do you know who you are? Do you know what you want? Do you know why these things are that way? No matter your answer, turn off your smart device, grab a fishing pole, find a remote and scenic location and face yourself. You'll thank me later. 

The Wide Wide West

 If you live anywhere in the Western half of America, you are quite aware of the massive size of this whole region. If you don't live there, take our word for it. You can trust us.

I have just made the trek past Arizona and New Mexico, a voyage that took all the daylight hours we have, plus a few hours of night driving on either side. I watched the scenery change from desert, to desert with rocks, to rocks with desert. The sky was bright blue all day and every possible color at dusk. The music on the mighty Bluetooth speakers ranged from Bill Monroe to Toto, Prague Philharmonic to Willie Nelson, and George Strait to Joe Venuti. If you get a chance, I recommend with my whole being that you take a 20+ hour road trip to display your entire playlist. We even got a chance to indulge in Ranger Doug's Classic Cowboy Corral on Sirius XM. If a perfect day is a day where you can listen to all the music you want, the day could not have been more perfect. 

Every year, I forget just how long it takes to drive across our beautiful United States. In my most humble (but always correct) opinion, it's a perfect way to transition from the daily hustle into a sort of alternate universe where one city doesn't spill into the next, but where your vision is uninterrupted beyond the end of the highway in front of you. It's a good way to fully change the proverbial channel to my favorite program: Road Trippin and Pickin Bluegrass. I've said this before so I'll say it again: I've said this before --I will never grow tired of traveling and picking. 

Today, I write to you from Rodeo Grounds, a coffee shop here in Stephenville, TX. I haunt this place frequently when I'm here, and I would hope I can haunt this place when I'm here no longer. I wake every morning on the Bosque (pronounced BOZ-kee for those of you who haven't haunted this place yet) and watch a golden Texas sun filter through gargantuan pecan trees. Then, I walk to this place for a cup of coffee and a chance to enjoy being on this side of the wide, wide west. Can't beat it with a stick. 

-----

See us on the Road this summer!

7/1 - Jefferson, TX 6:30pm

7/2 - Jefferson, TX 

7/4 - Franklin, TN

8/2 - 8/6 - OC Fair, Costa Mesa, CA

When it Snows on Summer Ranges

Today I attended a funeral at the Fairy Baptist Church in Hico, Texas. 

Of course, when I say "attended", I don't mean that I was in Hico today. Actually, I was sitting in the bed of my dad's pickup truck, eating a roast beef sandwich, looking out on the Southern California hillsides. 

That is to say, during my lunch break at work, a beloved cowboy was being laid to rest in Texas and I was one of approximately 230 viewers on Facebook Live. Technology is cool like that. 

I don't remember the first time I heard about Don Edwards-- it may have been from my longtime friends JR and Rose Sanders, as they introduced me to a lot of cowboy culture when I was a young musician. I think I may have crossed paths with Don Edwards at festivals maybe a sparse couple of times. I know I saw him many times at the Santa Cruz guitar booth at NAMM. One year I even shook his hand.  I never formally met him or spent more than a couple seconds with him.  But I never could miss the piercing blue eyes beneath his big white hat. When I was in the presence of Don Edwards, I always knew it. There's no mistaking Don Edwards. 

This giant of a cowboy left behind a very long shadow this week, one that reaches even to people like me, who don't have inspiring, witty, or moving personal stories about him. 

Today I heard from his church family. They fondly recall Christmas caroling with him. They recalled the Sunday morning singing and his fellowship on the weeks he wasn't traveling. 

Today I heard from his children and grandchildren. They carry his torch into the future, lighting their way with his legacy. I heard them sing his signature song and read a poem they wrote in tribute to his impact on their lives. 

Today I heard from his friends Red Steagall and Michael Martin Murphey. They were deeply influenced in their own careers by the unwavering artistry and genuine entertainment he offered. 

And amidst the sorrow of losing a grandfather, a father, a husband, a saddle pal, a poet, a singer, a hero, and a friend, there was much joy. You see, as Pastor Bob Ray said during the service, how ever we remember Don at his best, he is currently even better than that. 

Don Edwards carried the brand of Jesus on him. He was saved by the sacrifice of Christ's burial and resurrection and he was not afraid to share his faith with others. 

"Hey Michael, I have great news," he once told his friend, Michael Martin Murphey, "last night I rededicated my life to Christ!"

"That's great news," his friend said. 

"I have even better news...I'm a Baptist!"

Yes, friends, Don is at this very moment enjoying the mansion Jesus prepared just for him. And all his friends, family, fans, and folks like me can smile through our tears that we have the promise to see him again in that sweet by and by. 

In the sweet meantime, we bid him adios, we tip our hat, and listen as one more coyote yips away underneath the western stars. I guess the whole point of me writing this is just this: you never realize who you influence. Don Edwards didn't know me from Adam. But I sure was moved by the impact he had on those who loved him. 

To close, here are the lyrics to the song Michael Martin Murphey sang today, in that small Baptist church in Hico, Texas --a perfect send off in my opinion:

I wish that summer could last forever

That cold winds never would reach our door

I wish old partners could ride for ever

On summer ranges forever more

But snow must fall on summer ranges

Old friends must face the bitter wind

And someday when the season changes

On summer ranges we'll ride again

So may my farewell always warm you

And let the sun dance in your heart

May thoughts of parting never harm you

For true partners never part

But snow must fall on summer ranges

Old friends must face the bitter wind

And someday when the season changes

On summer ranges we'll ride again

And someday when the season changes

On summer ranges

We'll ride again