I’d managed to dodge all the 4:30 a.m. invitations run in the newspapers and commercials by the various local stores, promising me either a free or heavily discounted something or other, if only I show up, wallet in hand, before everything in the store runs out. Still shaking off a Tryptophan hang over, I was in no mood to toy with ”Black Friday” - the hallowed shopping day after Thanksgiving. Instead, I sent my wife out into the swarm of bargain shoppers and loaded parking lots by herself. Her little sister did go with her, though, which made up for the bad feelings I had had for staying home.

Out the door, her only instructions to me were this: I needed to be showered and fed by the time she returned at 2p.m., and, oh yeah, don’t forget the batch of clothes that need to be folded in the dryer. On this note, I nodded, yes, yes, absolutely, yes. I had my whole day planned out in my mind, which included mainly doing whatever I pleased with the utmost productivity. I gave her a quick peck on the lips and before her car even left the driveway, I had a jumbo sized pot of coffee going. It was a boiling cauldron of energy - Starbucks Latin American Super Blend, equivalent to a mule kick to the chops. I gladly wake up with it every morning. And the rumors kicking around about it having been known to kill moderate-sized animals is exactly that - just rumors. The main thing is that the rich coffee blend boosts my productivity at least 110%, and I had a ton of unimportant things to tend to.

But something in this batch was lacking - no - draining. It made my brain heavy and my thoughts groggy. Briefly, I questioned Hugo Chavez’s hand in all of this. After launching out a few badly composed emails, trying to make sense of a book I’m reading, and thinking hard about raking the leaves still covering our yard, it was almost noon and I had nothing to show for it. My pajamas pants were still on and practically becoming a second skin, and the effects of not showering began taking its toll.

But first, I needed to take care of my stomach. I found a can of condensed bean and bacon soup hidden in the shadowy back of the kitchen cupboard. I  hoped this might snap me out of the never ending brain-fog. I pealed back the lid, turned the can over and emptied the skin-colored contents into the pot on the stove.  Except it wasn’t that easy. The soup stayed put, clinging to the tin can walls with all its stubborn might. After a series of unsuccessful shakes and taps, I got a spoon to help speed things along. I stabbed the heaving mass to loosen it up, and eventually it worked, but not without first unleashing the kind of grotesque slurping sounds only a soft, fat, furless, pink, thirsty animal could emit.

When the clumps of bacon/beans finally dropped into the pot, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t hungry. But, so much work went into it. As stated in the directions, a soup can of water followed and was stirred in with the same poor spoon I’d used earlier. After all the hard work, an overflowing bowl of it joined me at the table.  Upon closer inspection of the thick, misty soup, it made me think that this looks identical to how my brain has felt all day. 

By the time Jess got home, I was spent - showered, fed and the clothes were folded, but spent. I’d somehow managed to complete my assigned jobs fifteen minutes before Jess came through the door (which, now that I’m thinking about it, makes me wonder if I ever used soap in the shower). She lined up her shopping bags of good buys along the living room wall and asked, “What have you been doing all day?”

I kind of smiled, slightly embarrassed. I couldn’t think of one thing I did. I sort of wanted to have my day back to do all over again. But if forced to list at least one accomplishment to show for the day, I’d go with I learned some lessons about myself. One, being grossly unproductive can be quite tiring. And, two, with Twighlight Zone strangeness, I get more things done with less time to do them in than if I have all the time in the world.      

Categories: Food, Life, Shopping
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It was a gray, chilly Saturday afternoon, with temperatures in the low to mid 40’s - a perfect day for the 2007 Turkey Bowl. This two year-long standing tradition between the Yosts (the defending champs) and Riddells, prompts its share of smack talk during the off-season and the days leading up to the big event.  Most of these are good-humored pot-shots sneaked in through email to make the workday a little more interesting.

But when the time comes to throw down, a marked seriousness falls over the faces of the citizens of Westerville. Both families temporarily cast aside their typical ”blood runs thicker than water” attitudes. Instead, it’s a regular Hatfields vs. McCoys brawl, where the two prominent blood-lines, Yost and Riddell, suit up (some garbed in flashier attire than others) and battle it out on Thanksgiving Day (or, as was the case this year, the Saturday after Thanksgiving).

This, of course, is done over the pigskin and accurately determines who will own the title ”survivor of the fittest” for a year.  The family who loses can do nothing but let the defeat and the disquieting dissatisfaction of 2nd place stew with a long, torturous burn until next year’s Turkey Bowl.

The Turkey Bowl is played on an unmarked football field in a Westerville Park. It consists of a picnic table on the far side that you have to watch out for when “going long”, and an empty water bottle or wadded up sweatshirt, or whatever’s handy and doesn’t look like a leaf, for marking the endzones.

Although it is doubtful that it will affect Ohio State’s ranking, this year’s 2007 Turkey Bowl had the unexpected outcome of a tie. Both families went home winners. This was only made possible by a miraculous hail mary pass from Uncle Pete (aka. Uncle Flutie) to Andrew Riddell on the last play of the game to tie the score. “I slipped,” declared the cleat-less Tony Frabott.

Other highlights of the game include player Jessica Hodson who, when assigned the position of blitzing the quarterback, announced to the coach, “I don’t want to play that part”; and Cameron, the smallest but equally dangerous component of Team Riddell, sprawling face down on the field between plays, lost in deep thought over the custom-sized, red recliner awaiting him back at the house, where he’d later settle down for a two hour, post-game nap.

Afterward, the two families resumed their friendly relations and took family pictures beside the field. Then they had a nice Thanksgiving dinner together, dreaming of next year’s game.  

Categories: Sports
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Morning sun pours in,

Like winter warmth from heaven.

Golden life and sun-stained windows,

Wakes the singular soul. 

Shadow-rich pages, like plush pools,

Groans deeper than mere atoms;

Where the Creator greets my heart.

Categories: Christianity, Poetry
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Last summer my wife, Jess, and I hit Washington D.C. for a little week’s long vacation. Evidently, in junior high, I missed the boat on a school funded trip to our country’s capitol (something about grades, I guess). So now, nearly twenty years later, I decided to fund my own way, with my wife as my travel companion.

It helped that Jess has a cousin in D.C. who works for a congressman on Capitol Hill. She lives in a dizzying high-rise apartment building in the center of Ballston, Virgina (not to be confused with Boston, Massachusettes), a twenty minute Metro jaunt to the Capitol Building. She was nice enough to let us stay with her, and even sectioned off a makeshift bedroom for us in her studio apartment, which involved a curtain and a shower rod wedged between two walls. The light, breezy fabric of the curtain isolated us from the outside world, making it easy to imagine we were enjoying the comfortable quarters of an Arabian sheek.

Washington D.C. was fascinating. I got to see most the sights: the Capitol Builidng, the White House, the Pentagon, the Lincoln Memorial, the place where Forrest Gump and Jenny splashed to each other’s warm embrace in the middle of the Reflecting Pool, the Washington Monument rising majestically in the background. Standing in the exact spot where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had made his famous “I Have A Dream” speech, I aborbed the beautiful landscape of democracy. As a history buff, it was all I had dreamed it would be. But, surprisingly, one sight put itself above all the rest: the D.C. Metro.

I hadn’t spent much time on a real-life subway. Having grown up in a small town, the extent of my experience of public transportation was pretty limited. For the most part, it amounted to nothing more than my buddy driving over to pick me up, or, regarding my earlier years, being packed into a rowdy school bus full of children who, to my endless adolescent torture, played out their impish roles as products of bad parenting. 

As we descended into the deep underground, leaping from one escalator to the next, I half expected to meet up with the earth’s core. Backtracking a few missed turns, we finally stumbled upon out platform, which began to tremble. Two beams of light raced toward us, flooding the dark tunnel encompassing them. Our train screeched to a holt and flung open the doors. A hard light with the same wattage as a bug light burned out my retinas before I noticed that inside was a certain mix of society you don’t see everyday. Besides a federal prison, it was the only place I could imagine where all classes of society are jammed into one place together. Homeless men sat next to big shot lawyers reading the Washington Post. Blue-haired elderly women shared seats with gothic teenagers, clutching their skateboards, packed away into their own little worlds, just them and the tunes pumping from their i-Pods.

I was just starting to get the hang of the Metro, even liking it a bit, when it came to a stop and picked up a rather intimidating man with a physique that could hurt someone, a moustache, a battered army jacket, and a head that was skinned to the quick. He did not sit down but stayed standing, holding on to the rail. “Good morning,” he announced, loud and clear, to two poor teenagers sitting nearby. His articulation was impeccable and fast, like the man on the old 80’s Micro Machines commercial, but with a deeper, richer tone.

His remarkable monologue first began with the Boston Red Sox - this I suppose because the one kid had on a Red Sox hat. He prattled on about a player for “The Sox” a long time ago who was appropriately nicknamed the human vaccuum cleaner, because of his ability to suck up sizzling ground balls from the field. From there, he continued to bounce from story to story, each showing zero relevance to the last, until finally he landed on the dangers of drug abuse. He blamed drugs for his inability to stick to one chain of thought for no longer than ten seconds at a time. I believed him. And Jess did, too, even though neither of us spoke a word about it until the man was off our train and at least two Metro stops behind us. Drugs had messed up his brain, and now he was a living poster child to all teenagers everywhere.

Then, just as quickly as drugs came up, he dropped the subject all together, and began again about ”The Sox”. Then it was drugs again. For his grand finale, he spoke of his faith in Jesus and how, why, just last night, for reasons unknown, he found a loaded gun stuck in his face.

When he finally reached his destination - thank the Lord - he got off, and everyone in our car sighed with relief and searched for someone or something sane to focus on for a bit.

Other than that, the Metro wasn’t such a bad way to get around. However, I did find it tough picturing Abraham Lincoln, back in the day, riding it to work.          

Categories: Travel
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Saturday morning we did not sleep in. Instead, Jess and I headed out to W.A.R.M. (Westerville Area Resource Ministry), where some friends and we had signed up earlier in the month to volunteer for their annual Thanksgiving distribution. W.A.R.M. is a cool little non-profit Christian organization, whose chief objective is to get those in Westerville who’ve had a tough run of circumstances back on their feet.  In an effort to do this, they collect and offer food to those in need (”clients”) and provide all sorts of career, family and Christian counseling. 

Its operations are housed in a low building directly off uptown Westerville’s main drag, tucked away in a small slumbering neighborhood. Through its doors are a handful of counselor rooms, a larger room for holding meetings, a waiting room for clients with appointments, and the inventory room, complete with donated shopping carts and canned and packaged food filed away on shelves in orderly fashion. A recently painted mural by volunteers decorates the back wall where food donations are deposited into a metal drop slot.     

We were assigned our positions beforehand via email, and I was given partial responibility for parking cars. The other parking attendants included my friend, Ben, and a spry older fellow named John, who wore an Ohio State cap and was very glad to meet us. Jess was especially pleased with her lot, for she was handed a camera and instructed to fire snapshots of the event at will. And Kelly, Ben’s pregnant wife, who is due with her second in less than a month, was placed in charge of greeting the clients and handing out pies until they ran out. 

Before the event took off, the staff and volunteers opened with a prayer, which Jess and I gracefully stumbled right into the middle of, because we were late. After the “Amen’s,” the woman in charge ran down the attendance list, and deciding that all but three of us were present, sent us directly to our stations.

 Ben and I were ripped away from our wives, who had long forgotten about us and were eager to get right down to business, and led outdoors to the frigid parking lot. Jess was nice enough to lend me her mittens. Here we were given complete reign over the parking lot, with nothing more than our arms for waving, our fingers for pointing, our mouths for screaming incase we got hit, and the specific instructions to park cars.     

A mother and her daughter were set up at the parking lot entrance for gaining the clients’ attention and to funnel them through to a smiling Ben, who would direct them my way. We stood like a bunch of winding clocks, waving our arm in a circular motion, guiding the general flow of incoming traffic. 

At first, it was widely held that my job was to throw the drivers into utter confusion and to obstruct any of their efforts to get to the W.A.R.M facility before the Ohio State-Michigan noon kick-off. I nearly arranged for a head-on collision between two cars, and, unknowingly, there was a further attempt on my part to lure a woman in a minivan into a defected parking space, containing a nasty looking piece of wood.

“I saw that wood,” said the lady out her minivan window, parking anywhere but the spot I was leading her. Feeling slightly embarrassed, I ran over and moved it to the side.

With time, however, the communication between Ben, John and me improved and it wasn’t long before I felt like I’d been parking cars all my life. “Got one coming your way,” I’d shout to John, confidently.

“Got ’em,” John would say, beaming, his left arm straight out, pointing the way like the North Star, his right bringing the driver home nice and steady. It was just like clockwork. At the bend, Ben was looking quite comfortable, too, and when a homeward bound car tore past him, attacking him with an emphatic ”O-H,” Ben fired back an “I-O” without so much as a hitch in his wind.

The clients were an exceptionally nice group, and almost everyone pulled up wearing Ohio State gear and joyful smiles. When the drivers got out, we’d converse in the universal language of Ohio State football. Then they’d go their way smiling and shouting “Go Bucks,” leaving me to think how great God was for creating sports and food for bringing together people we’d normally never meet.       

After it was all said and done, I’d managed to wolf down a brownie offered to me by the W.A.R.M. staff and a cup of hot coffee. Things got slightly more challenging with a cup of coffee in hand, but by that time, I’d already mastered the art of parking cars one handed.

When 11:00am rolled around, we reconvened back inside where it was warm and listened to some of the stories shared about the day. The strong staff-client relationship was clear. There had been hugs, discussions of blessings, and an exciting annoucement by one lady about landing a steady job.

A good time was had by all, and we were glad we had volunteered.  

Categories: Christianity, Community
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The temperature took a nose dive once the sun fell behind the stadium and the bothered Buckeye’s fans, already squished together from the narrow seating, pressed a little closer for warmth (and in the end, for emotional support). Like Voltron, the stadium fused into a sea of scarlet sweatshirts and jerseys, rushing together our voices (and for many, our curses), to form one massive super fan.  But unlike the giant cartoon robot fashioned from mechanical fighting space cats, we would be unable to save our #1 ranked football team’s undefeated record from utter destruction. 

A frosty light projected onto the Ohio State battle field. Both end zones were meticulously painted movie theatre carpet red. Imitating jack-in-the-boxes, we took turns sitting and standing in order to catch a view over the heads of our fellow fans of the feature film playing before us, which, I might add, was winding down to an increasingly scary ending.

In the meantime, however, we did our part by yelling out the letters of our state at the opposing team. Each of us secretly hoped that this would somehow put a stop to the Fighting Illini’s nasty offensive drives. Like an overly zealous spelling bee, the air quaked with “O-H’s,” and was promptly greeted with ”I-O’s”. Yes, we were more than proud of the fact that we could spell our state’s name. As fans, it was our greatest weapon.

To try the same with our opponent, Illinois, would be just plain silly. The whole sound of it would never do. And, if you’re talking specifics, eight letters go into spelling Illinois to our four. It comes out to be twice the letters. This means two ”O-H-I-O” rounds could easily be fired off to their one. To set a more accurate comparison, this would be like matching a single shot pistol against a semi-automatic. Illinois fans would simply not survive. Besides, by the time it took to get around to uttering the final ”s” to the long-winded state, everyone would be flat out bored.

Once the fourth quarter hit, we all basically watched as the Buckeyes continued to work out their plans to hand over a free trip to New Orleans. Ohio State lost 28 to 21 to what was once considered a mediocre football team. With hanging heads, we all flocked back to our homes wondering why God let Ohio State lose, and trying our best to figure out what went wrong with our Ohio chant. Last Saturday, the world just didn’t make sense.

Categories: Sports
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After racking my brain for the past few days over articles I hope to someday submit to any publisher who is willing, here I am with half-written articles that seem to be going nowhere in particular. So, I’m back at my happy place, where everything I write is published - my blog.

Anyway, it’s been quite a rough work week with deadlines and software hang-ups. Last night, in the office (or rather, my “cubical”, for a more accurate word), I burned the midnight oil until 8pm. I say midnight, because since the time change, the darkest sky that I have ever seen hangs over this city come 5:30pm.

It has already sent me spinning into a mild depression. The hard fluorescent lights at work aren’t doing their job at replacing the sunlight. In fact, I think they’ve aided in producing a clog in my serotonin pump. 

It is my wish that they hurry and put up the Christmas lights, so I can battle these short-day blues with a little Christmas spirit.   

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Wednesday night, Halloween eased into town on a lazy autumn breeze. The temperature outside felt nice, and the air beneath the backlit clouds smelled of dry leaves and pumpkin guts.

 It was perfect weather for wandering the neighborhood in costume, banging on strangers’ doors for sweets. Personally, I think it’s a rather rough ultimatum: trick-or-treat. A tough decision, we opted for the later of the two, and my wife, Jess, and I sat ready with treats to quench the fiery demands of these tiny masked marauders.

We set up camp on the front porch ten minutes early of standard trick-or-treat time (that is 6pm). The Jesus fish pumpkin we’d carved earlier in the week and were quite proud of was lit and hoisted onto the flower stand and positioned just so for the whole world to see.  We sat straight as sticks in our canvas folding chairs, on watch for our first customers. Books sat on reserve beneath our chairs, incase conversation somehow grew stale or the night’s festivities failed to live up to expectations.  A large Tupperware bowl’s worth of candy sat between us.

It was 6:05pm. The wait was eating me alive inside. Just married and new to the neighborhood, it was our first trick-or-treat as hosts. The excitement rushed through my veins like lava. Where is everyone? To pass the time, we fell to discussing such important matters as who’ll be in charge of passing out the candy. ”One per bag” - these instructions were strict but fair. Although, one tiny caped crusader would try for two, only to be denied by his slightly older brother, who, it was clear, was responsible for his little brother’s good conduct.   

My red sponge nose from the Kroger Halloween aisle, together with my painted-up rosy cheeks, now smeared because of an itch, transformed me into a clown. Early on I had trouble keeping my Kroger clown nose on straight, and as time went on, my nose grew extremely warm and sweaty. Jess was a cat, nothing fancy, her face meticulously marked with a set of whiskers and what was meant to be a feline nose. Our otherwise friendly mutt, Phoebe, was herself. Unfortunately, she acted badly and got herself put up early. All the dreadful looking intruders just weren’t sitting well with her and she was only able to cope by growling and barking her head off.      

As the evening light faded, the excitement sort of fizzled out. The first wave of trick-or-treaters was spotted huddled around a door some few houses down. They squealed in delight, wildly exclaiming something about receiving money. Money? Seriously? I didn’t even know money was an option, let alone a treat. What kind of house deals out money on trick-or-treat? Must be the house of a banker. I was about to go over myself and get my hands on some. Our mortgage was due the following day.

Who could live up to the money house? All we had were packs of candy corn with Bible verses printed on the back. I tried to regain my focus: That’s okay, heavenly treasures, right? To pass the time, I read one of the wrappers. Jess and I had been excited at this discovery when we had first stumbled upon them at the local Christian book store. The kids, we knew, would only be in it for the candy, so we had ruled out the possibilty of any shared enthusiasm over a John 3:16 verse. But what the heck.   

Our first trick-or-treaters! They scurried up to our porch, shy faces, eyes down, bags held wide open, mumbling something about treats and tricks. It was obvious for some that this was their first time and they hadn’t quite got the hang of their lines yet. ”And what are you?” I asked one knee-high, little girl.

“A princess?”

“Princess Jasmine?” Jess asked. Jess taught pre-school, and was eager to show-off her knowledge. She knew all the cartoons and toys that were popular with the kids.

“No,” barked the disgruntled princess, “Sleeping Beauty.”

“Darn! I always get the princesses mixed up,” said Jess. I learned that there is a cartoon featuring the Disney princesses that the kids watch. All night, a revolving door of girls under the age of five made bashful appearances  in lacy gowns of all colors. 

Wisening up now, the next little princess who blessed us with her royal presence I guessed to be Jasmine. Her little face lit up. “See,” said her daddy, “He guessed who you are.” I couldn’t help but be awfully proud of myself.

 I also couldn’t help but feel slightly subversive as we slipped God’s Word into each trick-or-treat bag, dangling below either a smiling or frightened face, depending on the age. Parents loitered around the driveway or the sidewalk, checking their watches, waiting for their kid to hurry up and get the candy so they could get on to the next house. If any grabbed candy without verbalizing their appreciation, the parent’s would bark at their child’s lack of manners, and they’d show back up offering a mumbled thanks. Then they’d disappear forever into the deepening night. 

By the night’s end, I was wiped out. I’d seen a lot of princesses and Scream masks - which surprised me, because, didn’t Scream come out over ten years ago? Must still be popular. Anyway, about a quarter till eight, Jess and I broke down camp, blew out the pumpkin and went back inside where Phoebe was whining and wagging her tail to be thrown out into the strange night. We told her no, and just as I thought the night had come to an end, the door bell rang, throwing Phoebe into a blood curdling fit of barks.

 With my foot, I nudged the small dog aside and opened the door to a pink girl no taller than a girl Tom Thumb. She had on one of those stage microphones that rest on your head and free up the hands for dancing. The little girl introduced herself matter-of-factly as Hanna Montana. She had more confidence than any five-year old I’d ever seen, more confidence than me, even. For all I knew, it might have really been her - the real live Hanna Montana on my door step - even though later I had to ask Jess who in the world Hanna Montana actually was. I tossed the girl a pack of Bible candy - a sugary little message from Heaven. She thanked me, then shot off into the dark.

Besides a few stragglers showing up past 8 o’clock, that was it - Jess and mine’s first Trick-or-Treat.  

Categories: Community, Culture
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