Got a text message from Joel on one of the coldest days of this past winter. He is an avid Boston Red Sox fan and in his text he told me that he had just ordered tickets to see his Red Sox play on April 27th. That seemed like a fairly safe call because Amber’s due date wasn’t until June 2nd.

Obviously he is a man of faith and vision or why would he lay money down for baseball tickets the same time Mother Nature was laying 2″ of snow just for the fun of it?

Over the closing weeks of winter I heard him mention a time or two about those tickets. And that game. And how much he looked forward to seeing a green field and a white ball instead of a white field and no ball. His faith was recently rewarded as spring started and winter stopped.

But about the time he was gonna’ gas up his car and head north to the ball-yard; he was heading south to the hospital because Amber said it was time to see what the stork had left in that basket.

So instead of giving a second thought to those tickets, he quoted Robin Williams from the movie, “Good Will Hunting” where Williams tells the story of turning down Red Sox tickets to the ‘75 World Series. And sliding the tickets across the table to his buddies and saying that he couldn’t go to the game because he had to go see about a girl.

Some decisions aren’t hard to make at all are they?

But some decisions are a little harder to make. Some priorities are a little more difficult to re-think and re-rank.

I say all of that to explain to you that I have made a decision that has been rather difficult for me to make. But I have made it and those who know me well know that after I make a decision there is very little hope in changing my mind.

I received a phone call a few Saturday nights ago from a top notch friend who made an offer to me that any man in his right mind would say yes to.

I won’t go into it deeply because he and I have talked quite a bit over the last few weeks. Hammering out details and dates and what is in it for him and what is in it for me.

The difficult decision I have made is to take a break from writing this blog. And instead give my undivided attention and focus to those details and dates and what is in it for him and what is in it for me.

I have found tremendous pleasure in throwing thoughts your way over these many months. I often felt like it was just me and you sitting on my patio or around your fireplace sipping whatever the season dictated and swapping stories deep into the night. I am better for the time we spent together.

Your faithful interest in reading always amazed me. And even though I seldom posted your kind comments, I read each one and gave thanks for them.

I confess that I feel very satisfied that I have left nearly 200 entries for you to read and reread at your leisure. Hopefully something I have said in the past will help you with something you are dealing with in the present. That was my motive for writing in the first place.

But, I will write again….How soon is unclear to me just now. Lindsay has been telling me for several years now that I should write a book. I guess we should listen to our kids if we want them to listen to us…huh?

Maybe I will start again in the fall or maybe about the time Joel is ordering Red Sox tickets again. I am not sure when….but you will be one of the first to know because it has been so great sitting with you three times a week for well over a year. Other than a bowling league where else could we have had so much fun?

Thank you for reading.

I wish for you the absolute best….I really do.

Misted Up,

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For centuries it has been said that “the eyes are the windows of the soul” so I am not going to attack that belief for all the golf balls in your golf bag.

And over the years volumes have been written about what we can learn about a person from their walk or their talk. Or their handwriting or their handshake. Or the way they say hello or wave goodbye.

But have you ever stopped to think about what our shoulders say about us?

I don’t simply mean that all drooping shoulders mean that a heart is drooping as well. Sometimes shoulders droop because they have lifted too many bales of hay on a hot summer day.

But let’s stop for a minute and think about how our shoulders have the ability to tell on us when we didn’t even know that they had a voice.

There may be more, but three types of shoulders popped into my mind as I was massaging my left shoulder which has been “killin’ me” for several weeks now.

One type of shoulder that tells on us is The Cold Shoulder.

When I speak of the Cold Shoulder, I am not referring to how your shoulder feels when you trot out coatless on a wintry afternoon to get your mail.

We can play dumb and act like we don’t know what’s going on, but when we get or give the Cold Shoulder we know exactly what we are doing and we also know exactly why we are doing it. 

The Cold Shoulder causes people to vanish….you know…..just disappear. It says, “I don’t care if you are 7′2″ tall and you weigh 350 pounds, I don’t see you and you don’t even exist in my world because I don’t want to talk to you right now and the shoulder becomes known as….The Cold Shoulder.

I don’t know exactly how you are wired, but the Cold Shoulder is probably the most difficult activity that I have ever tried to participate in.

I dislike the Cold Shoulder because I like to talk/fight stuff out. And it’s kinda’ hard for a talker to pout so save your money and don’t buy me a ticket for that show. Not to mention that if I pout and no one asks me what’s eating at me for three or four days then I am in a real fix and it’s just not worth the risk.

A second type of shoulder that tells on us is The Chipped Shoulder.

The Chipped Shoulder tells an observant world that something bad happened or something good didn’t and the disappointed soul is pretty ticked off about it.

And because of what happened in ‘96 or didn’t happen in ‘98 hasn’t been effectively worked through, we often take our frustration out on innocent people and we find ourselves walking through life looking for someone to blame or someone to fight.

But a third type of shoulder are the kind of shoulders that I want to have holding my head up.

A third type of shoulder that tells on us are The Broad Shoulders.

The Broad Shoulders are the shoulders that speak of strength. We can be leaned upon and trusted to effectively carry the load when things get rough and tough.

The Broad Shoulders I want to have aren’t simply shoulders created by countless hours spent in the gym lifting barbells.

The shoulders I want have been developed through the exercises of faith found only through testing.

Testing that has an amazing ability to thaw the shoulders and polish out the chips and nicks. And leave in their places shoulders strong enough for someone to lean on and still have enough strength to carry whatever load needs carried.

Wanna’ know why we fail?

Wanna’ know why we sometimes gain weight when we really meant to lose it and spend money when we really meant to save it?

Wanna’ know why we are sometimes stuck at home instead of flying the friendly skies? Why we start strong and sometimes finish weak? Start happy and finish sad? Start with purpose and end with wondering and wandering?

Wanna’ know why we lay up and settle for instead of gripping and ripping and putting for pars?

It’s not because we are too dumb or too smart. Too tall or too short. Too thick or too thin.

Nope….not because we are too broke or too rich. Too strong or too weak.

Too handsome or too ugly.

It’s not because we are blind or deaf. Right handed or left.

Not because we went to school in the city or to school in the cornfields.

Not because we went to college or didn’t.

It’s not because of hardships or setbacks. Good breaks or bad.

It’s because of one thing….and only one thing.

It’s because of broken focus.

If you doubt me and want to debate it…..be sure to pack your lunch.

Because I have seen too many who did who shouldn’t have. And too many who should have who didn’t.

And the only livable conclusion that I can come up with is that someone let someone or something or some event or some setback or some excuse or some success to break their focus….and seal their fate.

Haven’t talked to you much about our new granddaughter have I?

Hannah was born 12 days ago today and I haven’t made a move since without wondering what she is doing.

A little bit ago I sent a text message to her crib with some thoughts that I hope she always remembers. I would have burned them on to a board and asked Joel and Amber to hang it in her room, but my wood burning kit is missing some tips, plus it sets off the smoke detectors about every time I heat it up.

So to be safe I just sent her a text and vowed to mention them again in the next handful of years.

 Have a great weekend and Happy Mother’s Day!

12 Things This Grandfather Wants His 12 Day Old Granddaughter To Hear

1. You are so beautiful….

2. We are so glad you are here….

3. You look good in that color….

4. You should have heard all the people cheer when your Daddy first told us about you….

5. You deserve the best…..

6. If a boy is ever mean to you make sure you tell your Daddy…..

7. Don’t resist nap time….

8. When your Mommy and Daddy say no, remember it’s for your good…..

9. I like your hair that way….

10. God will never let you down…..

11. You have the prettiest smile….

12. You are gonna’ love your Mommy and Daddy…..I know them well.

Bumped into a former major league pitcher in a store a few years ago. I recognized him much sooner than he recognized me. Between you and me I kinda’ got the feeling he didn’t recognize me at all. But to be fair to him, it is asking a lot of a fella’ to expect him to remember that I was sitting in the seventh row one night when he pitched in Cincinnati. Especially in light of the fact that he pitched in front of millions of people over his lengthy career.

But as we talked about his career and what he was doing since he retired, I glanced down at the floor and noticed he was wearing a pair of boots that looked rather dapper. They looked major league. Conversation was stalling a bit, so it was either comment on the boots or tell him about the time I pitched in little league and I plunked two, walked two and got yanked.

I really think he appreciated me asking about his boots, because he went on to tell me that he had bought them at a famous boot shop in New York City and that they were made out of kangaroo-butt or something unique like that. And that they were so comfortable that he wears them everywhere. We chatted a few more minutes and then shook hands. He went his way and I went mine. My way happened to be directly to the boot department to see if I could find for myself what he had found for himself.

I have never been much of a boot man except for those rain boots with metal buckles that are passed down for five or six generations. But I became a boot man that day. His boots looked like a pair of boots that a real man would wear. I think I may have mentioned this earlier, but they looked major league.

Anyway, I strolled into the boot department and was promptly greeted with a “May I help you find something?”

After I thanked him for asking, I proceeded to ask if he had any boots that were made out of kangaroo-butt or something similar. Evidently, the fella’ was new because he led me up one row and down another looking for something that had been made in Australia.

We looked at boots with steel toes and boots with pointed toes. Boots with rounded toes and some with leather straps and rings. We looked at boots for cowboys and cowgirls and a couple of minutes later he confessed that he “didn’t think that he had anything in the kangaroo.”

But I did find a pair I liked. Not exactly like the former big leaguer had, but they were close enough that I felt rather major league in them myself.

So I tried ‘em on and left ‘em on and started toward the home on the range. Almost got ran over in the parking lot because I was looking down at my boots more than the traffic. But several thousand steps from the store I began to realize that maybe…..just maybe….I should have saved up and held out for the kangaroo material, because my new boots…..well…..they hurt my feet…..they made me limp. I didn’t wear them past the warranty before I gave them to a buddy who owned a farm and I felt they would be happier there than in the city.

But those boots taught me a lot about limps. Specifically, we all have some kind of a limp in our lives. Something that slows us down and snags our progress.

Not the outward limp that can be seen from a distance and can make progress difficult and painful. But our inward limps….the limps of our hearts….the civil war of our souls.

A highly credible man who teaches me every week recently said it this way…..

“I have not met a man yet that doesn’t struggle with something. Pride, greed, lust, anger, jealousy…..something that they constantly do battle with.”

Those words encourage me. I guess I am not abnormal. I am not double minded in all my ways. I am just a man with a limp.

Don’t give in my friend…..keep fighting…..keep limping…..it’s OK.

Have you heard the slammin’ duet by Carrie Underwood and Randy Travis yet?

It’s like a lot of other country songs that twang about a romance that derailed and now the one who wandered away wants to wander back. But the only problem is the one who was punched in the gut and left with a broken heart has healed enough that he tells the returning wanderer just to keep on wandering. 

But before she hits the road again he does stop her on the porch and reminds her that he tried to tell her she was making a big mistake when she wandered away the first time. And since that painful goodbye he has experienced a joyous hello to someone else and the only parting words that he has for her is “I Told You So.”

No way am I suggesting that you have wandered from and now want to wander back, but I am saying that every one of us, at one time or another, has made some pretty dumb decisions. And the last thing we want to hear when we start to eat the plate of crow we have cooked up for ourselves is for someone to remind us that they tried to tell us something that we could only learn on our own.

I sometimes chuckle to myself when I hear someone hint that the stories in the Bible are irrelevant. Because one of the most relevant stories in the Bible is about a man who had two sons.

And the youngest of the two boys got a little bored with his Pappy and testy brother and asked his Pappy if he could cash his inheritance check early. And after he cashed that check and stuffed his wallet, he left so he could sow some wild oats that he had found in the barn.

He smooched the women and danced on about every table that would hold him. He smoked this and chased that. He drank about every type of fire-water he could drink and about the time he lost all of his cash he found some wisdom and decided to go back home. Hopefully there he would be able to work for food and take some time to figure some things out in his heart and his noggin’.

So with an empty wallet and heart he starts toward home not really sure of the response that awaits him. Without doubt while walking he is rehearsing the speech he will recite to his Dad and panics inside when he wonders what he will do if his Pappy lays an “I told you so” line on him.

But the amazing thing is when he is still about a five iron from home he sees his Pappy running toward him. And when they reach each other his Pappy hugs him so tightly he about squeezes the fire-water out of him. And through their tears the boy starts his speech but his Pappy tells him to shush because his very return says things that words can’t.

And before you know it they are eating an ox and dancing on about every table that would hold ‘em and his Pappy never mentions a word about what he may have told him when they were waiting in line to cash that check.

Not to pick on Carrie and Randy because I will bettcha’ you a buck they would both agree with what I am about to tell you.

But please understand that God’s boots will never dance to that song nor will he ever hum that tune while he bandages your wounds.

Oh, for sure you are going to need to come to your senses in the same way the wanderers I have mentioned did. But no matter what you have done….or what you have said….or where you have gone….he will never throw it in your face or play the “told you so” card that we so often discard.

Fact is….he will never bring the topic up again and you just remember I told you so.

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If you have read more than a couple of my entries you have probably caught the idea that I am passionate about the game of baseball.

My Dad introduced me to the game in the mid-sixties and there isn’t a seventh inning stretch that passes that I don’t think of him. Baseball is still a very strong connection between my Dad and I even though he passed away over 12 years ago.

Means to learn the game in the mid-sixties were few compared to today’s opportunities. “Back then” it was a good week if three games were available in our home. It wasn’t that Mom wouldn’t let us watch until the dishes were done. It’s just that the number of games televised were extremely limited. “These days” with my laptop and MLB.TV subscription, I have access to almost every game that will be played this season.

Without question the fastest way a ten year old kid could learn the players in the sixties was found in the collecting of baseball cards. At a nickel a pack one didn’t need to be a millionaire to build a rather large collection of cards.

But the true student of the game didn’t just collect the cards. He or she studied them. I can say it now because I don’t think the Dean will be reading this, but I confess that I studied those baseball cards with greater intensity than I ever studied any topic in all my years of higher education.

Thankfully, when I went to college my thoughtful parents took the time to carefully box my collection and store them for me. After dinner one night at their place, I ventured up into their attic and found a gold mine of cards in near perfect condition.

Long story short….I took a winter to catalog and categorize them and a couple of years later I sold a portion of my collection for a rather handsome sum of money.

When some of my buddies began to ask how ole’ Frederick was sporting new golf shoes and a snazzy new bag on opening day they were told about the night in the attic with the flickering flashlight.

One of my buddies put two and two together and when his wife got four she called me and asked if I would mind helping them understand the term “liquidation” when it came to his card collection in their attic. I agreed to look at his collection if she agreed to buy the pizza.

I had an extensive card collection, but mine paled compared to his. If he had a fraction of the cards he claimed he had then all we needed to do was shop them at shows and send his wife to the bank with an attractive deposit slip.

Well, the evening of initial appraisal game and so did the fella’ who delivered the pizza. We ate and talked and I just kept eating while they talked about all the things they were going to do with their money.

They talked about travel and paying off Sears. She squealed about new furniture and he just squealed. I reached for one more slice of pizza as she cleared the pizza boxes and he started loading the table with boxes of baseball cards.

As I was gnawing on that last stolen slice of pizza, I opened a box and started sorting through the collection. I realized very quickly if all the cards were like the ones I was holding….then his collection was going to be worthless.

Did he exaggerate the fame of his cards? Or the cards that he thought he had, but somehow were missing.

No…He told it straight….very straight.

For example, in 1991, a 1968 Nolan Ryan “rookie card” was selling for $1800 – $2000. He had three of them. But they were worthless.

“Things” are only worth what someone is willing to pay, so would the difficulty of finding a buyer make his collection worthless?

No….I knew a handful of guys who could and would pay him cash…on the spot….but his cards were worthless. All of them.

And one of the most challenging things I have ever had to do was to let them down easy. To somehow word it in a way that they would slowly realize that there wasn’t going to be any new furniture or trips or shutting up Sears. Because his collection was worthless. And the reason he had nothing more than cardboard boxes of cardboard was because his collection had been damaged by neglect.

His cards were creased and bent and torn and folded. Some had been damaged by water and that which was once very valuable was worthless…..because of neglect.

I wonder sometimes what valuable friendships have been creased or bent or torn and folded because of neglect.

Or what has neglect done to our gutters and plantations all because we fired the maintenance man and let the weeds grow to the windows.

I don’t know what valuables you have in the attic of your life that neglect has devalued, but you might want to grab a flickering flashlight and go check it out.

You are smart enough to catch my point…..

Have a great weekend!

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It’s been 43 hours since I was called “Papi” for the first time that it counted. I confess it felt good and sounded great. But I don’t think that it had the impact that it will have when it someday comes from a little girl who already must me wondering about this guy wrapped around her little finger.

I haven’t always learned things as quickly as I learned grand-parenting, but I got this thing figured out. It all crystallized in my thinking yesterday during a visit to Amber’s hospital room.

A nurse came into the room on official business. She had a stack of papers that needed signed and as she started going over them I found myself feeling through my pocket looking for my ink pen. I have been signing stuff for years so I wasn’t rattled at all with the project she presented. 

I have signed field trip permission slips and signed permission for a fella’ to put wires on crooked teeth. I have signed the back of grade cards that proved it really did make it to Dad. I have signed ’em up for Little League and for piano lessons. One time I even signed an agreement with Sam Ash to rent a violin from him.

But as I clicked my pen and reached for the forms I realized the nurse wasn’t talking to me. Fact is….she was talking to Joel and even though I was standing beside him she never looked my way. 

As she instructed and he listened I heard her say something about one of the forms he needed to sign was the one that would obtain Hannah’s birth certificate. I don’t think anybody noticed, but as I stood there I misted up a bit because it just seems like 43 hours ago I was hearing the same instructions from a Kansas nurse about how to obtain a birth certificate with his name on it. 

As I stood there I realized that I wanted to sign something…..anything. I almost started writing on the wall. Does the ink pen really pass that quickly? Didn’t the nurse know that signing stuff was still my job and that there is still plenty of ink left in my pen?

You know what I realized yesterday? I realized that grand-parenting is really parenting all over again…except it isn’t your pen that does the signing.

Oh for sure we will do some parenting in this deal. We are called “grand-parents” for a reason you know. But we will be very sensitive and selective in the parenting we will do. We won’t do any of the “you can’t go to the football game Friday night” parenting. Most of our parenting will be the “Sure Honey” kinda’ stuff.

Without doubt we will be at that bus stop some August morning when a well prepared little girl climbs on a school bus bound for Kindergarten. And we will carry our seat cushions to some volleyball matches and drive my Caprice or Mrs. Brown’s Buick to a soccer field or two. Bettcha’ a buck that this Papi will be part of the posse’ that goes looking for the first little fella’ that would ever dare hurt her heart.

But the fact is….my signature isn’t needed anymore. And that’s OK because the man that is doing the signing now and all the signing in the future is more than capable of backing up what he signed for.

Hannah is a blessed little girl.