Sunday afternoon, on our way back from church, Jess and I pulled over at Hoover Dam. She had the digital camera with her and couldn’t pass up the chance for some cool shots of the colorful trees that blazed like fire off the man-made lake.

 Well, her zoom wasn’t quite giving her the winning photos she’d imagined, and the frustration showed on her pretty, little face as she made her way up the incline of the boat ramp.  Over the past few weeks, The Columbus Dispatch has been running a photo contest with weekly winners. Jess is hopeful because the grand prize-winner is awarded the coveted Canon XTi digital camera with 18-55 lens (whatever that means), a retail value of $799.99. Lightening fast, the camera can capture the wings of a hummingbird at a hundred yards. (I might be exaggerating but I’m not sure since I know nothing about cameras.) 

We headed back to the car. Shaking off the last feelings of defeat, Jess mumbled a couple things about being a crumby photographer. We pulled back onto the road for home, but I had other plans. “Where are you going?” Jess asked, when I took a left at The Duke and Dutchess.

“You still want to get some pictures?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I detected her face was glowing, but her response was guarded, like I might be up to something. Another turn took us through the yellow autumn trees and up a windy road that snaked past the frisbee golf course and led behind Hoover Dam itself.

More or less, I was thinking wildlife action shots, maybe a close up of an irritated Alaskan wolf, or, perhaps,  a giraffe, unguarded with her babies drinking from the reservoir. I doubt if Jess was. But given the less than rugged environment of Columbus, Ohio (not counting the Columbus Zoo, of course), the best we’d probably get would be a washed ashore bluegill.

But, no, things went off better than expected. After missing the opportunity to capture an elusive yellow butterfly, we moved on. Jess had her camera out, firing away at the dam and its surroundings, near where the reservoir ended and the dam began. I was lost in a hypnotized world, under the spell of the pressure valve, which  produced a constant blast of lake water out the side of the dam.  

Drifting away, I leaned over the concrete wall that secured us from tumbling below to our watery deaths, turning my attention south to the near-dried up river (the Hoover River?) that once cut through the land, probably when George Washington was president. Almost thirty feet below, perched one-legged on a rock, was our award winning photo, posing for us in a massive heap of beak and feathers. It was a blue heron!   

 The bird looked so majestic and graceful among its brushy and still-water environs. Then again, it wasn’t so hard to imagine the 4 foot tall bird somehow getting ticked off and carrying one of us off forever in its giant beak. Either way, National Geographic was written all over it. Jess leaned over with her camera and did her best from an aerial view. “We’re up too high,” she said, followed by, “I’m just no good at this.”

But I wasn’t about to let her give up. “Let’s go down there,” I said.

“Way down there?”

“Yeah, down there.”

“We’ll get in trouble,” Jess said. “We’re not supposed to be down there. They’ll give us a ticket.”

Well, that was a risk we’d just have to take if we wanted to roll with the big-timers. Besides, my adventurous mood may have slightly clouded my senses. But I wasn’t about to admit that.

Searching for a way down, Jess followed closely behind with stories of people she knew or of those who someone else knew who had experienced the rigid Hoover Dam authority for straying off the park’s marked path. I didn’t see any prohibiting signs, and even if I did, I was on an anti-establishment high at the moment. It was in the name of art. Tell that to the judge.

 I grinned at this thought as Jess and I stumbled and slid down a near 90 degree slope of loose rock, briers and wild animal dung. Watch your step.

 ”Joe! Wait up.” O, yeah - Jess. I gave her my hand. “I don’t have the right shoes for this,” she said.

Jess had on a pair of imitation Native American moccasins. Once fashioned in the latest durable deer or bear hide style by careful, knowing hands, the ancient foot covering is now produced from flimsy synthetic fibers and thrown together by a brainless factory machine. They looked nice; she felt every pebble.

But I didn’t let on about this. ”Sure you do. They’re perfect. You have on the same shoes the Indians wore,” I said.

Finally, we reached the bottom. Waiting for us was another cleverly placed heap of animal dung, a little trap set by a raccoon or a feral cat with intestinal problems, no doubt. And it became obvious that some animals were down here making sandwiches before we arrived, because stuck in the bushes was a half loaf of Wonder Bread. 

“Is it still there?” Jess inquired about the bird. “Because if it’s not…”

“There it is,” I said quietly, not to scare it off or get it angry at us. We were completely vulnerable. There was no where to run. We stepped cautiously toward the heron, over the long grass and onto the rocks poking through the water. Immediately, I thought this could be a good home for water snakes, but I kept this to myself.

The bird was still a good 30 feet away, but this time Jess had a better angle at it. She snapped a couple shots, moving closer and closer to it each time, before we saw that the bird was missing a foot. It couldn’t stand on two legs even if it wanted to. Poor bird.     

Pictures of how this may have happened flashed in my mind. Was it a bird fight? Did a bear catch it with a claw in mid-flight? Somewhere between these questions I lost interest. Sadly, I knew, that in a cold, vain world where malnourished clothing store mannequins shout to women from their store front windows, ”There is no room for physical imperfection,” that there was little hope for the acceptance of a one-footed bird. Not in this world.

 ”Are you ready?” I asked.

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Jess.

We clambered back up the slope, more difficult now. After spotting a park ranger truck creeping past overhead, a shot of adrenaline helped us pick up the pace. Once at the top, another set of steep stairs that ascended to the top of the dam waited for us. The ranger was no where in sight. We’d given him the slip. And the taste of forbidden fruit tasted so sweet. 

Huffing and puffing up the steps in the afternoon sun, I felt sad that Jess didn’t quite get the pictures she’d wanted. Then my mind drifted back to the bird, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been shunned by its circle of bird friends due to its missing foot. I doubt it. What does a bird know? Two feet or one, their tiny bird brains probably don’t even know the difference.

I turned to Jess, “So what do you want to do for lunch?” 

Categories: Nature, Photography, Xtreme
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Jess’ Italiano Kitchen is getting rave reviews. That’s the word on the streets, anyway. Last night I felt was as good of a night as any to try it out. Once through the door of the quaint establishment, complete with yellow painted walls, reminding one of the sunshine hue of the lush beaches of Sicily, and a brunette Italian bombshell of a chef with hair as brown and rich as a cup of premium coffee, my nostrils were hit with the bewitching aroma of herbs and tomato sauce.

Lured to the table by the heavenly scent, I found a breath-taking arrangement of pasta shells stuffed with spinach, ricotta cheese and ground turkey, bathed in a blush alfredo sauce, set before me. I took a bite. Packed with Italian goodness and flavor, my taste buds screamed for more, as they notified my brain of the exquisite variety of ethnic delight swimming inside my mouth.

It was the best thing I had ever tasted. Afterwards, I kissed my wife and thanked her for cooking such an excellent dinner. Oh yeah, and the price was reasonable too. 5 stars!

Categories: Food
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This is my new and improved blog. Feast your eyes…

Categories: Uncategorized
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It was a rotten feeling sitting there in the quiet dark of the morning, listening to the distant grind of the garbage truck making its rounds through our neighborhood. Yes, I forgot to put the trash out last night. And this morning, I sat at the kitchen table in the hard glow of the stove light helpless to do anything, hopelessly alone, just me and the approaching sound of the garbage truck as it neared the curb in front of my house. The empty curb, garbagecanless.

The problem was that the bulky, green garbage can supplied by the city sat in the corner of our garage, pinned in by my car. Somehow I had lost my own car keys in the midst of running errands last night in Jess’ car. For no good reason, I had instinctly brought them along. I remembered absently pulling them out of my flimsy jacket pocket at one point in the evening in the Target parking lot, thinking, I better not lose these. I must admit, that was very good advice to myself, but that was as far as it went, because I did just that: I lost them.

So as I sat there listening to the creaturely sounds of the garbage truck’s mechanical arm reaching down for my neighbor’s trashcan, I did my best to tune out the thoughts that my trashcan could have been next, if I wasn’t so stupid. Instead, I concentrated on that which lay in front of me: The Book of Ecclesiastes. Suddenly, for some reason, all the torture and trouble I was presently experiencing over my car keys felt so meaningless. It didn’t matter if I found my car keys and got my trash out on time or not. I was still ultimately destined for the grave, just the same as the guy who had his car keys and was on top of trashday.

When it was time for Jess to wake up, I reported to her that I had made the executive decision to leave the materials in our trashcan to mature an extra week. Then I told her the truth. “Well, won’t that pose a problem for getting to work this morning?” she asked about my car keys.

After reviewing all the facts (Until then, I hadn’t got much further than being upset over not getting the trash out), I said, “Well, actually, yes. Yes it will pose a problem.” So I made one last ditch effort to scan the house. After almost giving up in utter despair, I decided to include God on this, even though I felt it was such a trivial thing to pray about misplaced car keys. But, as I’m slowly learning, God does care about little things like these. Funny, I was just placing the period at the end of my prayer request when, lo and behold, my car keys were staring me right in the face. They were in the seat crack in Jess’ car, right where I’d been sitting.

Categories: Life
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There is a dusty black suitcase in the unfinished part of our basement, left behind by the last owner of the house. It is bulky, like it may contain something heavy…or expensive. At first, I wasn’t drawn to it much. It seemed a trivial thing among the chaos of moving in. But now that things have settled down, my curiosity is on the rise. Many times I have considered unzipping the filthy thing for a look inside. For all I know, it could be bursting at the seams with gold bullion from an old train robbery. On the other hand, and this to me is much more likely, it could be packed with angry vipers. So a part of me - the scared part - wants to grab it by the handle and run with it full speed out the front door and throw it as far from our house as possible. But then again, what if it really is gold? Or priceless antiques? Sadly, I may never know.

Categories: Mystery
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I ran across this quote from The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis this morning and forgot how much I love C.S. Lewis. He had made such an impact on me in my early walk. For those who have not read The Screwtape Letters, I highly recommend it. The fictional book gives great insight on spiritual warfare, and is played out through the correspondence between two demons plotting against the salvation of a certain individual. Anyway, here is a section of one of the demon’s letters:

“Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our enemy’s [God's] will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.” - C.S. Lewis

I couldn’t help but be reminded of Jesus on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Categories: Books, Christianity
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Until just recently, when I exercised, my time between sets was used for memorizing Bible verses. That was before we bought a house with a basement. Upon closing, my exercise equipment was immediately banished to the creepy, crawly depths of the underground. Against my will I was forced do something else with my no-more-than-30 seconds between curls or lunges.

It started one early morning when, bleary eyed and semi-conscious, I descended into the basement. I flipped on the light, and when I reached the bottom step, a giant spider like you’d see on The Lord of the Rings was gripping the wall in front of me about chest level. It stood perfectly still, not moving a muscle, like all poisonous animals that are ready to strike. For a micro second, I stood frozen, terrifed, unable to scream. Then, my instincts kicked in, and with a move too quick for any camera with today’s technology to capture, I karate kicked the spider against the wall with an audible crunch.

It was a bloody mess, which, in my opinion, needed crime scene tape. With the dead spider still hanging on to the wall by a leg, I proceeded to go about my morning exercise routine, wondering how many of those things had made it into our bed as we lay helplessly fast asleep at night.

Since then, I’ve noticed that our basement is quite the den for an assortment of bugs (some of which are possibly yet to be discovered by Science), spiders and, yes, even an occasional snake here and there. So, these days it is not unusual to find me in the basement lifting weights and stomping on bugs in between sets. Why, just this morning, after a hard round of push ups, some poor bug with a million legs got a taste of one of my infamous bug-crushing karate kicks.

Joe - 1, Bugs - 0.

Categories: Fitness
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It’s a good hurt, I kept telling myself. By now, my breathing had reduced to a heavy wheeze and I started having serious questions about my heart holding out. It’d been no less than ten years since I last jumped into a full court basketball game. Now I was paying the penalty. Sure, I run. I exercise a little. But anything outside the usual strain of my exercise routine is quick to send me to my knees and keep me popping Aleve for the next 48 to 72 hours.

Some guys at work had rented out a court for two hours last night from 6 to 8. It was about 45 minutes into it that, after throwing up several bricks and watching my guy score yet another easy layup while I stood propped on my knees, I wondered if 8 o’clock would ever come. This was in contrast to my first 5 minutes on the court, when I secretly nominated myself as the team motivator.

At first, I handed out high fives and “good game’s” like Monopoly money, doing everything except the patented “good job” swat to the butt, which I had already determined would come later after I sank my first twenty shots and team comaraderie had a chance to build. 10 minutes later I was about ready to collapse, and this new sports attitude fell to a silent gasping for air.

When 8 o’clock finally arrived, I drug myself off the court ( I don’t remember saying bye to anyone) and woke up 15 minutes later at home. This morning I pulled out a pair of extra thick socks, to ease the friction on the developing blisters and bruised toe nails.

Categories: Fitness, Life, Sports
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One of the first things that popped out of Jess’ mouth this morning was that there should be a gum called Phoebblicious, named after Phoebe, our nervous nine pound Beagle-Chihuahua mix. Unsure and uncaring of the ingredients it’d contain, I quickly agreed both outwardly and inwardly. Two things I knew for certain: that the gum would be tan and white (the color of Pheobe’s ridicuously short hair), and that I’d chew it.

I then went about my usual morning routine thinking about Phoebblicious. This is rather uncharacteristic of me, since I usually like to save my day dreaming for work. Whether it is the cramped cubicle quarters or the drab interior design, all week dreams about being a farmer of sorts has plagued my mind. Yesterday, I had the whole dramatic thing laid out beautifully in my mind. The plowing, the discing, the planting - I’d be out in the open field, the soil freshly turned, listening to God in the sounds or silence of nature, over the soothing rumble of my tractor. A straw hat would look quite nice on my head, sheltering me from the blazing heat. At lunchtime, Jess would come up to the edge of the field where I was hard at work, with Phoebe and our kids in tow, waving her arms, indicating lunch was ready.

I’d automatically have a subscription to Field and Stream, and it would follow that I’d own a gun rack and know the ins and outs of the sports of hunting and fishing. Minus all the back-breaking work that comes along with farming, it’d be quite the good life. We’d live simply, relying on God for a good crop and to make ends meet. Things would only get better in the wintertime when the fields were covered with snow, and Jess and I’d be around the fireplace, drinking a warm drink, not having anywhere to go and…I’m not sure what else. Sometimes I get mixed up with Little House on the Praire. I guess one of us would have to learn the fiddle or something. At any rate, the kids would all be in bed (in their wooden lofts), and we’d be sure to fall into sleepy discussion about sewing or The Farmer’s Almanac and when a good time would be to put in next year’s crops.

When I proposed this wonderful new Utopia to Jess last night over dinner, she responded, more matter-of-factly than harshly,”You married the wrong girl for that.” Afterwards, I had to admit that, although farming actually was in my blood (I come from a long line of farmers), somehow this particular gene missed me. I’m probably not really cut out for it. And that was basically the end of it. So, now I entertain lesser dreams, like Phoebblicious chewing gum.

Categories: About a dog, Life
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While flipping between games Sunday afternoon, I found myself laughing at an episode of “Leave it to Beaver”. Beaver and his friend, Whitey, were at a book store where they stumbled upon get-rich-quick books. One book was titled, How I Made a Million Dollars in My Spare Time. To this Whitey replied with wide eyes, “Wow, can you imagine how much he’d made if he worked at it full time?” I roared with laughter, then I repeated the line to Jess who, in the kitchen at the time, didn’t quite catch the humor the way I thought she should.

It was so uncharacteristic of me to lay around watching old black and white reruns. But it felt really good and clean, and the humor was not lost in the process (as far as I was concerned, anyway). It all felt surprisingly healthy, like each laugh filled my body with vitamins and minerals. It didn’t take long before a sort of nostalgia swept over me. I longed for a better time in which I never lived. A time when things were happier, cleaner, and Ward Cleaver could solve every problem through patient reasoning and understanding.

But were things really better in the 50’s? It was, in fact, just a television show, I told myself. Just to get myself more grounded, I started running through a list of all the problems back then. Let’s see…there was the Korean War - that had to hurt something. Cigarette smoking was rampant - so, lung cancer. I think even doctors smoked while performing physicals on their patients. There were greasers (though that turned out to be a good thing for John Travolta). And rebels without causes. And, one mustn’t forget all the drag racing that went down.

Then my mind ran to the human condition. Surely, society still had their alcoholics, or families their screaming fights that kept the neighbors wondering whether they should call the police. Not that I was particularly rooting for this, or anything. No, people still had to be somewhat messed up…right? It was near impossible to believe that things weren’t all just soda shops and sock hops, as I watched the impeccable father-son relationship of Ward and the Beaver happening right there in front of me in black and white. Everything was just so…so…functional.

So my gears turned and turned, was society and family life really better back then? I landed on no real conclusion. But maybe TV was just better. Everything about “Leave it to Beaver” seemed to be of good taste. It taught good things about life, about relationships, about family. It taught our society good things. And although, no one could ever be the perfect father, like Ward, or the perfect wife, like June, or the…you get my point, it gave the viewers a good attitude to strive for. The old shows held society to a standard. Whatever may have happened in the 1950’s, whether good or bad, I at least felt it safe to conclude that “Leave it to Beaver” was a good thing.

And as I continued to think, with Jess begging me to change the station, a verse popped in my head:

“Whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things.” - Phil. 4:8

Categories: Television
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