My book is out!

Hey everyone.

This past month I published my first book, “The Summer of Battle.” It’s a group of short stories about a boy who moves to the middle of nowhere, and discovers his big backyard is full of strange creatures and dangerous adventures.

I hope kids will enjoy this book (especially 8-12-year-old boys), as well as grown-ups who like to read to their kids. I hope some grown-ups will enjoy reading it themselves and feel like a kid again.

If you want to check out the book, the good news is you don’t have to face the disappointment of it being all sold out at the bookstore. You can buy a copy here on Amazon—I’m told their supply is endless.

Thank you for following my writing and being such an encouragement to my creativity over the years. It’s a gift for an author to have an audience to write to. I don’t take it for granted.

Hope you enjoy the book and thanks for continuing to follow me here!

The Fence

Around my home in an arid land
With tamarisk trees and steaming sand
My father built a fence.

Gathered ‘round the fire one night
Munching figs to our delight
He told us to not go past the fence.

When we asked why we couldn’t
He replied that we could, but shouldn’t
Wolves lived beyond the fence.

By our home we played and laughed
Shook our timbrels while we danced
We all stayed within the fence.

One eve I sat upon a stone
To see a deer come in, alone
Hopping over father’s fence.

The doe had such beauty and grace
Yet also wore caution on its face
As though it shan’t have breached the fence.

A stone whizzed through the air
And sent the doe off with a scare
Father warned of beauty ‘yond the fence.

One night a howl woke me from my sleep
Out the window one of our sheep
Carried off by a wolf past the fence.

One day in folly I went past
The boundary, leaving kin aghast
Breaking the rule about the fence.

Father snatched me from behind
Briskly moved me far inside
Then scorned me for leaving the fence.

As we grew the boundary stayed
In place while we still played
Within the strong, yet wind-whipped fence.

One eve we’d finished in the field
When a storm swept in to wield
Its might upon the fence.

The sun came up and we awoke
To see if anything had broke
Indeed missing were portions of the fence.

All looked at father now curious
Who would take such things quite serious
Yet toiled not to mend our fence.

One day a robber entered our land
Stealing ten sheep from my father’s hand
Simple was it to breach the fence.

That night father took twenty sheep to the line
For the robber to take this time
Yet no thief came near the fence.

Instead the next day the thief returned
With all the sheep, braced to be spurned
Yet father welcomed him inside the fence.

A fattened lamb was roasted on the flames
While father sat with us and explained
What to think about our old fence.

He said the old fence remained good
To keep in and out what it should
But at its best it was a mark
To keep us from wandering in the dark
For we were grown now and could discern
All the things our father yearned
To form our fence without a fence
To know the sheep from the serpents
To see the torment of the thief
Share our spoils for his belief
That boundary he made dear
Was built from love and not from fear.

Now that boundary seems far gone
Yet its spirit has lived on
For father’s heart became our fence.

Christmas and the Dial of Destiny

I finally watched the newest edition of the Indiana Jones saga, The Dial of Destiny. It did not disappoint.

It certainly could have. Indiana Jones has aged into a curmudgeonly professor, seemingly growing weary of his post as he nears retirement. The movie could’ve devolved into an old man’s quest for discounted produce, limping to the saga’s ending with Jones taking a grocery cart to his Achilles and spilling blood all over aisle 8.

But of course that’s not what happened, because in the 70s there are still Nazis around! And who better to give them a fitting, hilariously gruesome death than Dr. Jones? This movie had (almost) everything we wanted. Improbable chase sequences with tuk tuks outmaneuvering Merecedez Benzs. Disgusting things squirming out of centuries-old skeletons. Explosions leaving all the bad guys dead but Jones practically unscathed, simply needing a dollop of aloe for his first-degree burns. And Nazis. Lots of ’em. Some assuming Jones is just one of the Jungen and letting him snoop as he pleases. Others sounding the alarm passionately before taking skull-cracking projectiles to their face holes.

If there was one disappointment in the movie, it was that the Nazis didn’t get it bad enough. We were accustomed to watching their faces melt and heads explode when looking at the Ark, or rapidly deteriorating into a pile of bones when drinking from the Grail. I was expecting some version of Archimedes’ Sun weapon to send a million-degree ray through the German ranks and piling those boys up like frankfurters. But one drowned and the others crashed in a plane, and I realized that the director was a little more concerned with reality in his flick. But I know Spielberg would’ve served up another top-10-most-awful-ways-to-die.

So what does this have to do with Christmas? Nothing really, I just wanted to talk about Indiana Jones and Christmas. But as I was thinking about it, the stories do have one remarkable similarity. What’s amazing about the Jones saga–and what will really always keep us coming back for more even if Indy returns as a fedora-donning zombie with a whip–is the adventure to discover history. The Dial of Destiny was yet another entertaining trip back in time to ponder the genius of Archimedes.

Indy always had something his counterparts lacked, which was the passion and knowledge to discover the truth. He studied ancient texts, he learned the languages, he cracked the codes, and he took the risk of finding out where something was, or if it even existed.

When we look at the Christmas story, we can observe similar knowledge and passion in its people to discover, and yes, make history.

Take the magi, those three rich old dudes riding camels in your Nativity. While there’s much we don’t know about them, the Gospel of Matthew offers intriguing clues to reveal they were just as nerdy about history and ancient texts as Dr. Jones. These wise men from the East were very likely from Babylon, and they understood the stars and Israeli folklore. They may have observed some remarkable events in the night sky in the last BC years–from the king planet Jupiter forming a conjunction with the mother planet Venus, to its settling around the king star Regulus in the Judah-lion constellation of Leo. They may have known their Hebrew scripture, thanks to Daniel and Israel leaving their culture behind in Babylon hundreds of years before. Prophecies in the Book of Daniel and Numbers would’ve helped them estimate a Messiah king would come in the time they were living. And all of these clues would’ve prompted them to take this expensive, several-month journey to Israel to find this King of Kings.

Or take the shepherds outside of Bethlehem near Jerusalem, who knew all about the Temple sacrifice system and how their little lambs would be used for Israel’s atonement. Then the angel comes, heralding the birth of Israel’s long-awaiting king, with the sign of “swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” Why, that’s what they as shepherds did to their newborn lambs to keep them spotless for sacrifice. Was this that type of king, and would the God of Israel choose these poor, insignificant men to join the story? They had to go see.

Or take Mary and Joseph, perhaps teenagers in the sleepy town of Nazareth, whose lives are turned upside down by their angel encounters. Both descending from the royal line of David, they would’ve been acutely aware of their ancestors’ lengthy, hundreds-of-years wait for the promised Messiah. Now like Indy, they found themselves wrapped up in the story, with the Hitler-esque Herod bent to destroy it all. But amidst the danger they took their faith steps and journeyed to Bethlehem to deliver their son. Only later would they understand the significance of their adventure, which ushered in the turning point of human history.

Indeed, all the people in the Christmas story were on their own dial of destiny. Prophecies to be fulfilled, ancient text to be illuminated, arduous adventures to seek, lives at stake, and ultimately a treasure to behold. Like Indy, it’s possible for all of us to explore and join the story. Ancient scripture is still being revealed. Recent archeological finds like Hezekiah’s Gate and the Pool of Siloam inspire wonder that the ancient stories are true. As time passes from generation to generation, new things are revealed. But only because someone does the digging. Only because someone looked at an ancient text and wondered if it was true. Only because someone took the effort and ardor to search, and go on the adventure.

I hope you may see this Christmas as an invitation to go on the great adventure our Maker has set out for us. If we have just a mustard seed of faith, we may be taken on a journey as grand as Dr. Jones.’

The Voice That Stilled the Sea

Cacophony upon me
A rancor room sans softening
Deafening doom soon offering
If only tuned toward scoff we be

The breeze now wind ominously
Forebodes the surge that swells the sea

Their voices raise, towering tares
Emotions blaze, incendiary snares
Sure path turned maze a thousand stairs
Would seem no way out of these cares

The waves now billow frightfully
Portends the tattered shore to be.

Words intent on resolution
Spur resent, no absolution
Incur a pent-up persecution
Sure to inflict a retribution

The tempest tempts us terribly
What shipwrecks now are sure to be.

The centered now turned cynics
Splintered discourse with polemics
Winter’s the season lest we spin it
Talks they freeze in fractured tenets

Maelstrom’s mayhem crushingly
To damn all peace we’d care there’d be

Yet from the trenches one speaks kind
Gathers cashmere from each mind
Gets through to deaf and sights the blind
Uplifts lost, praises maligned
The lunar pull that changed the tide
These frightened hearts all now confide
In one who made the storm subside

To be like Him, that I may be
The voice that stilled the swelling sea.

The Father and His Messes

A small family lived in a Scottish cottage.
On a spot of land amidst cliffs and sand
Which they could boast
Was among the most beautiful on the Scottish coast.

One day the boy came to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know all ya favorite shirts ya hang up by the bay?”
“Aye” said the father.
“The seagulls pooed on them,” the boy announced in dismay.

“How bad is it?” the father asked.

“The white ones are all black and green
they’re rubbish now and can’t be cleaned.”
“If you wore them, you’d be the smelliest in the village.
Worse than Old Man Glenny, who reeks of rotten cabbage.
Anyway, da, I thought that you should know.
Before you went down there to see ya ruined clothes.”

“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me my lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy now knew he had a chore,
Of scrubbing poo down by the shore.
He spent all day and did his best,
To save the shirts, a nasty mess.

He brought them to his dad at last.
“They all clean now?” his father asked.
“Yes dad, the job is done.
Ya shirts are saved and can be worn.”

“Show me, lad, I want to see.”
And the lad held up a tattered tee,
Was white and grey and gull-poo green.

The boy smiled wide, his father nodded.
They supped and slept then in their cottage.
And the next day when the boy arose,
He saw the line of father’s clothes.
Bright white without a stain upon them.
The father’d solved the gull-poo problem.

The next day the boy came to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know ya crab cages I set to the south?
“Aye,” said the father.
“They’ve washed up too far—into Miss McGee’s house.”

“How bad is it?” the father asked.

“The crabs are loose, scuttlin’ round her kitchen
Clawin’ at her all her biscuits—and toes not to mention.
When I left several more had taken her bed
And she screamed ‘cuz a big one had latched to her head.”

“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy grabbed a rake and a mallet and ran
Back to poor Miss McGee with his best-thought-out plan
He did all he could to shoo the crabs out
Even bludgeoned the one ‘pon her head with a clout.

He returned home just before the sun set
Father asked, “Are all the crabs out her house yet?”

“Yes, Dad, every last one,” he replied.
The boy supped and slept with his father inside.
The next day he arose and looked out to see
His father giving goods to appease Miss McGee
She walked off dabbing her wounds with a tissue
The father it seemed had settled the issue.

The next day the boy came again to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know where the shore meets the cliffs with the crags?”
“Aye,” said the father.
“There’s a hungry man shipwrecked in nothing but rags.”

“How bad is it?” the father asked.

“The man’s bleeding with sores, he’s practically naked
And he’s chewing his hands like their strips of fried bacon
He’s so mad and thirsty he’s drinkin’ seawater
And shoutin’ to no one “‘tis a fine porter!”

“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy took some water and bread to the beach
Giving them to the man who devoured them each.

The boy came home, marking his part complete.
The father asked, “Lad, did ya meet the man’s needs?”

“Yes, he’s all better,” the boy’s pride strongly shown.
The father patted his son, and went out on his own.
Then returned with the man, all bedraggled and beaten
Washed his wounds up, gave him much more to eat then
Clothed him with pants and a clean, white shirt
Tucked him into the bed, so he no longer hurt.
He was peacefully sleeping when the boy went to check
Seems his father had righted this man who was wrecked.

Two days later the boy came once more to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know how I help to get mum out of bed?”
“Aye,” said the father.
“This morning she whispered she’d stay there instead.”
“Aye,” said the father, a little confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy went to his mum with some water and ham
Placed a rag on her head and held her weak hand
Told her ‘bout the silliness down by the shore
Made her giggle a bit so he told her some more.

The boy came to his father and told him she’d laughed.
“Ya did the best thing, I’m proud of ye lad.”
The boy hoped that day they could all laugh together.
“Won’t ya go to her, da, and make it all better?”

The father spent all of his day with his wife
The next day they gathered to remember her life.
At the mass the boy sat and kept his head down
Said nothin’ to no one ‘til his dad came around.
He looked up at his father, his small spirit conflicted.
And asked his dad plainly, “Why couldn’t you fix it?”

His dad shook his head, he seemed quite confounded.
“Ya do yer best when you can’t do much about it.
If I said I’d no doubts, I’d be a liar
But to trust it’s now fixed, requires faith in who’s higher.”

Many years passed, as did the father
The boy grew to a man and had his own daughter.
One day she was fishing for cod by the sea
Caught a seagull instead, who she attempted to free.

It was flapping and flailing and squawking about
She couldn’t release it, called her dad with a shout.
When he got there her worry was deep for the bird.
So he held her, and it, and made them assured.

“I wanted to fix it and free it,” she cried.
“Ya got it to shore,” he joyfully replied.
Then the father lifted her chin off her chest
And said “My daughter, d’ya do ya best?”
She wiped her tears and responded “Yes.”
He held her cheek, with a warm caress.
“Then trust ya father, to handle the rest.”

Squeaky-Clean Politicians

I went on a search
For squeaky-clean politicians
The kind you could find
In important positions

I went to the mayor
He was kind and sincere
Yet spent most of his college
Shotgunning beers

I went to the senator
She was smart as a whip
But she fibbed in 8th grade
I watched the whole clip

I went to the judge
Justice was his passion
But he had one moral failure
Now he’s quite out of fashion

I went to the president
She was humble yet brave
But she lost me when I heard
She got high at a rave

So I’ve failed to find
A squeaky-clean politician
My vote is for fools
Full of sins of commission

No matter who graces
My unfortunate ballot
They surely won’t sate
My political palate

For they’re each full of pride
Yet a lot want to help
Every one of them flawed
At their best, like myself.

A Dad’s Spring Break in the Big Apple

What is spring break? Looking at the words alone implies stopping when spring comes, taking a rest from the busy things you normally do. You wouldn’t think it actually means speeding up to do thousands of things for thousands of dollars.

But if you take spring break to New York City, that’s exactly what it means. It’s a five-day, whirlwind, wallet-exploding adventure on taxis and trains, boats and planes, sidewalks and crosswalks, escalators and elevators. Even the walks—brisk ones through parks, fast ones over avenues, long ones across the island—are taxing and purposeful. It’s not a spring break. It’s a brakeless trip made possible by broken piggy banks. And it’s a crapload of fun.

Hello, New York

We flew into JFK Saturday afternoon, a dreary and stormy day casting doubt on what we could do. Our cab driver was a friendly fellow from Bangladesh, who told me about his journey to become a U.S. citizen. He commented on how the U.S. is unique in its support for helping immigrants into the country, compared to other parts of the world. It was interesting this was his experience and it made me thankful I never had to worry about living in a great country.

We stayed at a cozy yet satisfying hotel in Chelsea, with our room facing southward and offering a view of One World Trade Center. We dropped our stuff and made our way to Empire Diner, joining a bustling lunch crowd to tasty soups and sandwiches. As we stepped outside the overcast skies became clear and sunny, and we headed toward Hudson Yards on the High Line, our destination being the Edge, a 1,200 ft. skyscraper with an outdoor deck and glass floor. Disappointingly the sky deck was closed due to severe wind conditions. We had to make a choice to transfer to another day or go up with the chance they could open the deck back up. Given there was nothing else planned and the fam was given me the “better do something soon, in-charge man” vibes, we opted to go up. 

The clear day afforded us remarkable 360-degree views of the city. We were about to leave when we saw two staff members go outside with a wind meter. I was hoping and praying they’d let us out there. But as I was, I realized how fortunate I was to be up there in the first place. The fact that I lived in the year 2023 and could go to the top of a skyscraper to see such views was a gift in itself. They didn’t open the deck, but it was well with my soul.

Once that fun was over there became an unexpectedly urgent need for a hot dog. We found a nearby stand and did our first very New York thing: eating a sloppy hot dog on a bench with pigeons on standby for our crumbs. That was enough for the day. We’d need to conserve energy for the next.

American Museum of Natural History, Midtown, and Times Square

The plan on Sunday was to walk down to Washington Square for a bagel (20 minutes, come on people, that’s not so bad). Not so bad if you have man legs and don’t mind 35-degree wind whipping at your face. We made it 3/4 of the way, I took a wrong turn, and it was game over on that plan. New plan was find the nearest cafe for something warm. My tax for imposing a thoughtless, cold-weather-dad walk was a pair of four-dollar hot chocolates. The stop at Partners Coffee Shop in the Village was worth it. Alas, we needed an activity where we could be indoors, so we shifted gears and took a subway to the American Museum of Natural History. I love this part of Manhattan, the open, Central Park West area, home to trees, big streets, amazing buildings, and more hot dogs. We arrived at the museum, though not at its entrance, which was a decent walk from the subway. I didn’t realize how big this building was. There must be more stuff in there than I thought, I thought. 

Indeed, AMNH is a gargantuan museum. It’s five stories tall and covers the entire natural history of the universe. As a grown, introverted man not much would give me more pleasure than transporting my mind to civilizations that lived thousands of years ago or geeking out on the evolution of sauropod feet in the Jurassic era. Yet my crew doesn’t share this affinity for museum deep dives. They’re largely content to have a gander at a gander but not read about its complex migrational habits.

So the day’s mentality had to shift from “read stuff” to “look at stuff.” From “that’s interesting the megalodon had no cerebral cortex” to ” ‘dem bones were cool.” The fam did let me read some stuff, I just had to jog through exhibits to catch back up with them. Truly, we loved the experience and it really captured our wonder. Learning about natural history reminds me of how small I am, a tiny, almost insignificant speck in time and space. Yet that time and space is so majestically designed, so diverse and vast, so miraculously held together by the great Invisible. And that we tiny homo sapiens are significant and can actually do outstanding things.

From the museum we strolled Central Park, walked up to Belvedere Castle, and took a cab into Midtown. Hudson treated the Nike and NBA stores much like I did the AMNH, gawking at slick duds and memorabilia. Ella enjoyed the American Girl Doll Store, essentially a paradise for doll babies and their kid mommies.

When in NYC, you have to go to Times Square at night, right? Probably not, unless your kids haven’t experienced it, and then you just have to venture into all that fluorescent, commercialized cacophony. We arrived to street performers doing unimpressive things and people selling very expensive junk. We got a pie at Joe’s Pizza, a very New York experience. It was like standing, waiting, ordering, and eating a pizza with a crowd of people in an Amazon box. While having to pee. Thankfully we hustled our way into a nearby hotel and enjoyed their lavatorious spoils. When you pee semi-legally in Times Square, you’ve won.

World Trade Center and Statue of Liberty

The next day we subwayed to lower Manhattan and started walking the grounds of the World Trade Center. I hadn’t seen it since it was nothing but a cleaned-out crater ~10 years ago. The area is beautiful and the memorial was moving. It’s really an impressive tribute to such a world-altering tragedy.

The rest of the day was spent at Liberty Island and Ellis Island. The whole thing is an incredibly efficient New York operation. Getting hundreds of people onto a boat in mere minutes is the stuff Old West cattle herders would admire. The story of the Statue of Liberty was rich and intriguing and being up close to the monument was awe-inspiring. It was a picturesque day that gave us incredible views of Manhattan. Definitely a highlight of the trip. We also went to Ellis Island, also rich in history and something I’d love to do a deep tour of one day. But on this day the kids had museumed enough and could only stare at so many old pictures and glass-encased frock coats.

We returned to Battery Island and took a cab up to Midtown for dinner. Definitely the most interesting cab ride of the trip. I asked the guy how his day was, he said “good,” and then it was quiet for 15 minutes. Quiet inside the cab, that is. Outside was honking and sirens and bystanders gasping at near-death crosswalk encounters. Toward the end of the ride the cabby and I actually bonded over a very “I don’t give a damn” driving moment in front of us. It was sweet in a we-don’t-really-understand-each-other-but-we’re-trying-to-in-New-York kinda way. We enjoyed a tasty dinner at Javelina. It’s basically a Mexican restaurant that costs $125. New York wins again but I still felt like we won, too. The day ended with checking out the Harry Potter store and a nightcap of butterbeer.

Culture and couture – Midtown and Broadway

Tuesday was full of walking and visiting landmarks. Madison Square Garden, the New York Public Library, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Rockafeller Center, and boutiques and megastores in between. That afternoon, we thought we’d visit a few Broadway box offices and see if there were any tickets for the night’s performances. First we stopped at Wicked. There was only one group of four tickets left and I decided to not pull the trigger so we could visit a couple more places. So we walked briskly to Hamilton, which had one ticket left. But we saw Thayne Jasperson, a cast member, exit the theater on his bike, which made Ella’s day.

Then we hustled back to Wicked, with me saying little prayers like “if those tickets are still there, Lord, I know it would brighten my daughter’s day, but if not, I trust your will in me not dropping 500 bones on a play.” When we arrived, two of the tickets were still there–with another two in the very front row for the same price. One of those moments where you just gotta splurge. So we went back to the hotel to freshen up, had a nice Italian dinner at Chelsea’s Zia Maria, took a subway back to Broadway (which featured the train getting stuck for ten agonizing minutes followed by a healthy rat greeting us as the doors opened), and made it just in time for the show.

On our last day we visited Chelsea Market and indulged in various tasty treats, a taste of New York if you will. It was a great way to end the trip.

What New York is like

What can I say about New York? Perhaps I’ll try with how it appealed to my senses.

New York smells like marijuana. When you leave your hotel, when you step off the subway, when you walk into a park. Early in the morning, too, New Yorkers are consuming it like a cup of coffee. But really, NYC is full of smells. You pass through the stench of sewer fog to enter a bakery redolent of fine butter and the sweetest creams.

New York sounds like horns and talking. But there’s so much of that, it becomes white noise. It’s my family’s laughter I’ll remember hearing most.

New York tastes delicious. Food is good everywhere. It has to be because there’s so much competition, such high rental costs, such diversity in cuisines. Restaurants and cafes have to bring it, and we enjoyed the spoils.

New York looks huge, impressive, monolithic, dingy, and picturesque all at once. You walk by a building you’d surmise criminals or ghosts had been living in with the next one having a 200-year-old gothic design.

And New York feels like cold wind whipping between buildings to hot sun reflecting off of them. It feels like you’re in a metropolis that goes on forever. It feels like a great city in modern civilization, and it is.

We’ll always remember and be thankful for our amazing trip there.

The bugs I kill (and the few I rescue)

Life—all life—is precious. I’ve treasured this truth steadily more over the years. It’s taken me from my aggressive youth of smashing countless caterpillars upon an oak trunk, or waylaying helpless fireflies into gold dust with a tennis racket, to my enlightened (perhaps) adulthood of trapping bugs and taking them outside.

I’d like to think my high-falutin philosophy of life held true for all creatures. For if it didn’t, I’d invite the risk of being labeled a hypocrite—nay, worse, a ruthless Darwinian who picked and chose my victims based on their size and value to me.

And therein lies the rub, for not all bugs are created equal. Some are worthy of our greatest efforts of salvation, while some I’m content to damn to the deepest depths of my toilet bowl.

With that I permit myself to determine the destinies of these invertebrates like Caesar in the Colosseum with an outstretched arm and wavering thumb.

Live and let live

Ladybugs

Good golly if you kill one of these you have no soul. What is it about polka dots and teeny legs that transforms insect repulsion into grins and giggles? A litmus test for hexapod hanging is if the bug has a costume for babies, you shouldn’t kill it.

Crickets

They’re hoppers, not crawlers. Does that not add to the no-kill quotient? And it’s hard to think of this critter without a monocle and cane telling a boy that a dream is a wish his heart makes. How can you squash a dream weaver? You can’t, though they do make excellent fishing bait. Still, have fun catching it with the kids and taking it safely outdoors.

Butterflies

How did a butterfly get into your house anyway? Rejoice and just let that sucker enjoy the space, cuz who doesn’t love to watch its beautiful fluttering? Who can’t help but pause and wonder at its motions? Dogs, that’s who. Trap the monarch and release before nature clashes.

Use your best judgment

Spiders

Some of us respond to a spider in our house as if it’s a KGB operative. It snuck in from some crevice unannounced and is three seconds from killing us. We forget in these moments we’re roughly 76 times a spider’s size. If their eight eyes can see anything, they’re convinced they’re done for and would love nothing more than to exit back through the crevice. Most spiders can be gathered in a tissue ball and dropped outside. Unless it’s really hairy, fast, or looks like it dropped into your crib from the Amazon rainforest. Then you should find your biggest boot and pound it before it crawls onto your face and you eat it while sleeping. (Hey, “they” say that happens eight times in your life, so just know I’m not being provocative here.)

Seek and destroy

Woolly boogers

There’s not really a better name for those hairy fellas with 36 legs that scoot across your living room floor. Just like you’d handle any booger, that thing belongs in a tissue and a toilet, pronto.

Cockroaches

They’ve survived natural disasters, nuclear wars, and ages where other species were entirely annihilated. Somehow they’re designed not to die. Yet the sight of one fills us with such murderous rampage, we have to check if we care for living things at all. But then we justify that a cockroach isn’t really a living thing. It’s a filthy, brown-armored terrorist tank that will require the heaviest tome in the room to exterminate. Usually that won’t even do the job. We stomp the book over and over, jar it around to squish every angle, yet inexplicably and inevitably that sucker’s legs are still twitching like it’s training to scale a landfill. Even as you flush its carcass down the toilet, it’s in fact not a carcass but seemingly a slightly handicapped invertebrate swirling to its next adventure. All said I’d bet even the kindest entomologist would be keen to send this dastardly critter to an eternal abyss. So should you.

Mosquitoes

There’s no bug on the planet that makes life so miserable. Not only are they annoying blood suckers, they kill more people than any other animal. Murderous menaces. Is there any animal on earth we’re so immediately ready to kill with zero conscience? We feel its bite and simultaneously smash it to pieces. As soon as we realize it exists we end its life violently. Its parting gift to us is at best an itchy bump and at worst a life-threatening disease. Its contribution to civilization is death for itself and others. When you piece it all together, mosquitoes are pretty much Satan’s demons and must be dealt with mercilessly. That’s why they hold the dubious top spot of the bug most worthy of death.

Well, now you know what happens to bugs in my home. So what happens to bugs in yours?

New news meets old news: What the World Cup and Christmas have in common

Really, what’s more exciting than the World Cup? Oh I’ve anticipated your canned answers. Promotions. Weddings. Babies. The Super Bowl.

But does the whole world care about your career? Think about the stress of planning a nuptial, the responsibility of caring for a helpless human. And we all know the Super Bowl is merely a side dish to your gormandizing 18-layer bean dips.

This November and December (really?) the world tuned in to watch the World Cup. That’s right, not just America, but every continent—probably even Antarctica—was watching. Yeah. If I lived in a glacier and waited around all day for a penguin to walk by I’d be sure to find a satellite TV and beam up that footy.

The whole world. People of every tribe and tongue. Even countries that suck at football. (I’m not going to desecrate this post by calling the world’s game “soccer,” because most of the world got it right when they noticed it’s a game where the foot kicks the ball and that’s about it.)

As I was saying, even countries that are crappy at football watch. Including America! Every nation cares, and that’s a beautiful thing.

The problem with exciting things is people can’t help but talk about them and need to share the news as quickly as possible. That’s fine when the game is in the North American Eastern time zone and the big matches are played at prime time.

But when the Cup is 7,000 miles and 8 hours away, the games come on in the morning and middle of the day. That’s just bad for people who before the Cup had things going on, like employment. Because folks like me have to record the games and watch them at night. By then all the beans are spilled like a busted Moe’s burrito. Friends and family have all texted me results and I might as well skip to the goals because that’s the extent of my drama.

To be fair, people weren’t texting me like a sports ticker and saying “Brazil 1 – Germany 0, goal by Neymar in the 80th minute.” That would just be cruel and unnecessary. But I did get results in a matter of words. “Viva la France!” Sounds like they won. Au revoir, drama. “Go USA!” Did they lose? Nope, no lucid chap would say that after a loss. “What a game!” I’d have settled for 90 minutes of crumpling thespians inhaling magic spray. At least then, I still don’t know what happens. No one says “what a game” to 0-0 or 1-0 or 1-1. So as long as that’s the score while I’m watching the replay, I mostly know what happens.

Or perhaps you sought to do me a solid and not reveal anything, with a simple “Did you see the game?” Even then you texted at 4:00 for a 2:00 game, which given the standard two hour matches means there was no extra time, which means I will know the result as the game nears the end of my recording. If I had a VCR I would beat it with a Nike boot. And not really because I’m mad at you but because it seems like the best use of a VCR at this point.

Anyway, I’m kidding about all the lovely souls who shared the World Cup with me over texts. But I’m not kidding about me turning off my phone for the month in the 2026 edition.

Now the World Cup is over just in time for the Christmas season. Many of us can add this time of year to our “excited list.” Just as the Cup is seen by many as worthy of urgent news sharing, we’re quick—and often unconsciously so—to extend a “Merry Christmas” to others. Yet I wonder if it’s lost it’s luster.

After all, this recent Cup feels like the biggest deal in the world to us football fans. Argentina and Messi have achieved their glory (if that was a spoiler then somehow you’ve eclipsed me as slowest recording watcher.) And while it’s top of mind now, what will we say in 4 years? Or 5 World Cups from now? Does anyone fondly reminisce about the 1934 World Cup and Oldrich Nejedly’s goal-scoring prowess?

Likewise, when we speak of Christmas’ origins, can we even remotely relate to the story of an ancient Israeli virgin who had a baby in the presence of shepherds, wisemen, and angels? It can sound and feel like a fairy tale. Perhaps nice to tell as a story, but not more than something for the kids to believe.

It might only be a story worth retelling if its believers made it a story worth reliving. I confess as someone who actually believes this story, my life is too often too pedestrian to remind anyone of the story’s meaning. You may know others like this, “followers” as bland as shepherds’ cloaks and failing to produce the miraculous, or even magnanimous, like their savior.

But maybe there is someone who takes their “Merry Christmas” to heart, who goes forth from the story and loves the poor, sits with the sick, invites in the lonely, and gives generously to the needy, like the stories of their Christ. If you find this person, and they happen to wish you a Merry Christmas, they probably mean it from the deepest part of their being. That to them, there would be no greater joy to have Christmas—”Christ’s Mass”—find its way into someone else’s heart.

What else is there to say, then Merry Christmas!

What we notice in a balloon

Who goes on a hot air balloon ride?

Other aviary options are more accessible, predictable, efficient, practical, and thrilling. We don’t often see hot air balloons and usually we have to go looking for them. They don’t really get you anywhere, which makes you think twice about the expense of taking one.

They don’t seem safe. Our experience with balloons is they pop. Add to that what keeps the balloon moving is a massive propane flame, literally towering inside the balloon, its sheer heat sunburning bald spots. Mix in wind and bird beaks and if you thought about it long enough, you may conclude you’re effortlessly floating through the atmosphere on an imminent death machine.

Alas, the hot air balloon is no death machine. It’s a simple, yet well-constructed marvel that’s expertly guided by a pilot with only two propane torches at their disposal.

A couple of weeks ago in Asheville, NC, I went on a hot air balloon ride with my wife, a pilot, and four other people. Stuffed in the basket like picnic sandwiches, we took flight and rose to 3,000 feet.

In a balloon, I found there are two unique sensations that distinguish it from other experiences.

The first is the tiny amount of space you take up in the open sky. Unlike a large plane, observation deck, or helicopter, you’re floating in a little basket with nothing else around you. It’s eerie to be in the middle of the sky with such a small vessel holding you up there.

The second is the quiet stillness. When the flame isn’t burning and the people aren’t talking, the flight seems motionless and deaf. You’re literally standing still in the air.

The small area of quiet stillness allows one to reflect on a world without sound, or motion. Below you, chaos and cacophony are kings. Their throne is speeding cars, blaring sirens, flashing lights, walkers, runners, bikers, yard workers, bulldozers, tankers, and a thousand other comings and goings. Yet from above it’s imperceptible. If a village screamed you wouldn’t hear it, if the earth quaked you wouldn’t feel it.

On a day like this, autumn’s peak bursting with warm hues stretched to the horizon, it would seem there’s no better use of time then to cease one’s frenzy and be forced to look at it all, 3,000 feet up in mid-air, no less.

It was up there I realized—or was in a fresh way reminded—that resting in motionless awe is one of the deepest yet simplest of human experiences. Looking upon such beauty in such silence can only be explained as something we were meant for.

If only we could fly in a balloon so often.