What I went through with my mother in-law in 1997…

…I go through with my mother in 2012.

My mother in-law was 80 years of age when her husband died.  My mother was 78 when her husband died.

In both cases, as in any longterm relationship between two people, the survivor learns new forms of daily decisionmaking.

My mother in-law depended on her now-deceased son and living daughter (my wife) to help her make decisions after their father died.

My mother depends on my sister and me to help her make decisions after our father died.

When my father in-law died, my wife was almost 35.

When my father died, I was 50.

In between: fifteen years of wisdom gathered through life experiences, some shared between us, some accumulated individually.

Fifteen years of social changes/progress, including new technology (think about how much the Internet has changed in 15 years), new businesses, failed businesses, climate change, fashion cycles, pop music tastes, entertainment choices, medical science advances, etc.

Are we more or less tolerant of Iranian atheists/humanists?  Liberal Quakers?  Non-heterosexual relationships?  Physical/mental challenges?  The unemployed?  Cute cat videos?

Is there room in your life for a late night TV talk show host with a robotic skeleton and cloth-horse costumed actor(s)?

Would there have been such a creature 15 years ago?  Could he have been a reformed Scottish alcoholic comedian?  Do such creatures exist in real life today?

I learned a new phrase today: conformity to tomorrow (from book, “Without Apology: The Heroes, the Heritage, and the Hope of Liberal Quakerism” by Chuck Fager [which I read, quickly, in the book section of Unclaimed Baggage Center]):

“Conformity to tomorrow: …consists in a moderate opposition to the existing political power, together with the espousal of the ideas and doctrines of the most sensitive, the most visionary, the most appealing trend in society. This is a trend which, from the sociological point of view, is already dominant, and is the one which should normally be expected to win out….In this way, the political stand has the appearance of being independent, whereas in reality it is the expression of an avant-garde conformism.” (Jacques Ellul, a French Reformed theologian and sociologist, 1972A, p. 123.)

I would toss musical acts like Rage Against The Machine, political groups like the Tea Party and Occupy Wall Street, and economic movements like the EU handling of the PIIGS into the realm of avant-garde conformism, as well as most official social protest groups not included in terrorist lists for “wanted: dead or alive” drone attacks.

We always have to have enemies toward whom we formally direct our confusion/fear-based hatred.

But, as usual, I digress.

Earlier today, at a roadside restaurant called Carlile’s in Scottsboro, Alabama, a town where a plentiful plethora of people met for camaraderie and shopping bargains, my wife and I held a wonderful discussion with Autumn, mother of three boys aged 7, 6 and 2, the first taking the role of the responsible eldest (“Mom told you not to do that”), the second a quiet child who puts up with the physical shenanigans of his two brothers, and the youngest, the rowdiest one of the bunch.

Autumn, raised by her grandparents, lost them both nine months apart five years ago.  The emptiness inside is slowly, very slowly, wrapped up in new friendships and new experiences we call the passage of time.

When she wants to turn to her grandparents for guidance, they are not there and she feels an instant pang of pain.

Although she has a beautiful tattoo of a heart on her arm where every one of her three boys first rested and for whom she tattooed their names, she would never tattoo the names of her grandparents or the name of her husband on her body because the reminder of their losses, in plain ink visible under skin, would be too much to bear (beauty is not the only thing that’s skin-deep).

She, like all parents, believes deep down that her kids will outlive her, their futures bright.

To those who’ve lost their children to congenital conditions, I give you my sympathy.  No one wants to survive the death of offspring with a promising future.

My wife outlived her parents and her only sibling.

I have outlived my father but not my mother and my only sibling.

As this storyline grows more complicated, my life and the lives of my family members are intricately intertwined.

Not a loss, not a gain nor a zero-sum game is life.

The sets of states of energy are constantly in flux.

Every waking moment is an opportunity to learn.

Is new technology an enabler of your relatively expensive entertainment addictions or an avenue of opportunity for increased wealth?  Does it increase the credit or debit side of your account ledger?  In other words, do you go into debt to play games and watch videos?

These and other questions lead us to thought trails about the costs and benefits of a globally-connected economy, where plenty of leisure is available to the masses.

If this laptop computer and these blog entries are using up CPU cycles for the sole purpose of entertaining myself, is that okay?

What about the urgency to act, the desire to change our society significantly so that spare CPU cycles are used to ensure survival of Earth-based lifeforms here and elsewhere as long as potential energy states are available to support them in this part of the universe?

Does it matter if the majority of our species believes in self-centered activities?

What are a few decades compared to 1000 years?

What is 1000 years compared to 200 million?

Can we really know the future, no matter how much we bunch together to conform to one vision knowingly, unknowingly, voluntarily and/or coercively?

All for the sake of family, whatever that means to you/me/us?

Books galore

While the remnants of hurricanes and typhoons perform their whirlwind dances, stranding, killing, dousing, removing the doubts of droughts (and draughts (or drafts) of drafts (or draughts)), the author returns to the habit of bookreading, starting with Ringleyville USA.

Next on the list (typed on an Apple iPad at a Barnes and Noble Cafe):

1. “Writing and Difference” by Jacques Derrida, (c) 1978
2. “What Money Can’t Buy: The Moral Limits of Markets” by Michael J. Sandel, (c) 2012
3. “Religion for Atheists: A Non-believer’s Guide to the Uses of Religion” by Alain de Botton, (c) 2012

Patrons walk through the store, browsing like eddies spun off from the whirlwinds of society — business, leisure, school — stirring up dust mites, mighty dust, dirl devils and other remnants of life billions of ago on Mars.

In the distance, Chinese leaders secure relationships with Indian and German leaders, both political and business, Iran uses the Syrian infighting for further diversions from its national nuclear weaponry plans, crape myrtle bushes shed the last of the summer’s petals, and our tiny planet participates in the whirlwinds spun out by an imaginatively big galaxy.

In the last instance is the focus of our story, for we need the distance between our tale and our species to get away from men carrying baby carriages with their foamy lattes and mothers taking their tiny children for frothy milk and cookies on a Friday afternoon, husbands using the calendar coupon on the last day of August for a free spicy chicken sandwich at Chick Fil-A to get out of the house and explore why fiction that doesn’t include us DOES include us.

All in the name of entertainment to explain why a pebble in a pond is just the intersection of differing dense sets of states of energy.

The Huntsville shuttle bus speeds through the Jones Valley Farm shopping Centre.

When will the first tourista-nauts sit in their luxury weightless orbits, staring out of portholes at the thin atmosphere that separates us from the relative vacuum of space?

It is the answer that carries us to a question 1000 years from now.

Philosophy, religion, economy, politics — these subjects weigh down and anchor our thoughts to this moment.

Without these subjects, we create people who are not people, sentient beings whose “organs” are spread across the solar system, similar to us in some ways but much better at rapid thought processing and self-replication than us as we know ourselves now.

That is the object of the subjects of this storyline, the tale that weaves in and out of our lives from a fourth dimensional distance.

It does not care about gender preferences, origin stories, employment rates or tax burdens.

Progress is not its middle name.

The storyline is.

It exists, speaking all languages and no language, soaking in solar rays and cosmic rays, emitting energy like there’s no tomorrow.

Let the tale begin the beguine again…

Pithy quote from slate.com

From Alan Lightman’s intricate 1993 novel Einstein’s Dreams; set in Berne in 1905:

With infinite life comes an infinite list of relatives. Grandparents never die, nor do great-grandparents, great aunts…and so on, back through the generations, all alive and offering advice. Sons never escape from the shadows of their fathers. Nor do daughters of their mothers. No one ever comes into his own…Such is the cost of immortality. No person is whole. No person is free.

From:

“I’m Not Fighting or Battling Cancer—It’s Fighting Me.”
The “unpublished jottings” of Christopher Hitchens from his posthumous book, Mortality.
By Christopher Hitchens and David Plotz
Posted Wednesday, Aug. 22, 2012, at 2:13 PM ET

If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands…

If you are a salmon swimming upstream, a grizzly bear tries to take a bite out of you, you slip out of its mouth and die before spawning, would you think your life had any meaning as your body parts decompose and feed multiple non-bear lifecycles?

What about the soldier who committed suicide before reproducing himself?

Or the young girl ridiculed at school who steps in front of a subway train?

Or the farmer who died of a heart attack in the field with ten children to feed?

What about a planet full of fossils but no living beings at this time?

In other words, do we have to give meaning to or put everything in context with our current civilisation?

I have added seven more books to my collection, books which belonged to my father and my great-uncle:

  • The Armored Forces of the United States Army, (c) MCMXLIII by Rand McNally, foreword by Brigadier General David G. Barr, General Staff Corps
  • The Coast Artillery Corps of the United States Army, (c) MCMXLIII by Rand McNally, foreword by Major General J. A. Green, President, U.S. Coast Artillery Association
  • Recruit Handbook, published and distributed for recruits at the Naval Training Center, San Diego, California, 1941 (?), owned by G.T. Green 567-70-46, a word of welcome by R. S. Haggart, Commodore, U.S. Navy Center Commander
  • Mathematics, Volume 1, Basic Navy Training Courses, NAVPERS 10069-A, published by United States Government Printing Office: 1951, owned by Porter (rank unknown)
  • Watch Officer’s Guide, by Captain Russell Willson, United States Navy, published by United States Naval Institute, Annapolis, Maryland, 1941
  • Same as above, formerly owned by Ensign Paul F. Glynn, given to my father
  • The Bluejackets’ Manual, United States Navy, 1940, Tenth Edition, published by United States Naval Institute, Annapolis, Maryland, 1940

Everywhere I turn in research of my father’s material, I find war memorabilia.

My father never let WWII out of his thoughts.  Further, his Army service during the Cold War gave him fluency in the German language as well as a group of lifelong friends.

My father read spy novels and enjoyed watching John Wayne movies, which reminded him of his youth, going to the theatre on Saturday to watch serialised cowboy movies.

Soon, I will run out of Dad’s material to rummage through.

Then, I will have my mother to spend more time with.

I will not worry about dangling modifiers or prepositional phrases that my father, a professor of 20+ years, taught me to pay attention to.

Days spent with my father are as gone as living beings that became fossils on another planet, with no one to tell their tale.

I only have this moment to call my own.

My nieces and nephews will have a few memories of their uncle that became part of their narratives they pass on now and in the future.

Every day, I gain a bit of wisdom, creating an insight from my observations.

What have I gained from today?

My grandfather and his brother in-law (my great-uncle) both served in the U.S. Navy during WWII — the former remaining a career sailor, the latter returning to civilian life as a U.S. Postal Inspector.

My father, a youth at that time, had plenty of heroes to call his own — war heroes, film heroes — because he was, in part, making up for the lack of his biological father.

In my youth, who were my heroes?  Richard Nixon and his staff, my father, my Scout leaders, some of my teachers, actors who played James Bond, Euell Gibbons, Alfred Hitchcock, Robert Rodale, Red Skelton, and others.

I didn’t have any war heroes.  The Vietnam War was not the type of engagement that the mass media used to create heroes for kids.  We learned about heroes of other wars like George Washington, Sergeant York and General Patton.  We watched protest marches and heard about European terrorist groups like the Red Brigade and American criminals like the Symbionese Liberation Army.

The battle for my set of thoughts was fought not in terms of Axis vs. Allies but cocaine-filled discotheques fueled by bands like the Bee Gees and Donna Summer vs. Boy Scout campfire songs and summer church camp singalongs.

The clash of subcultures continues unabated.

In 1,000 years, the fossilised remains of today’s subcultures will be studied for the minute traces of continuity between one time period and another.  Genealogical institutes will try to connect heroes of the past to common people wanting a feeling of blood-related significance.

The cycles go on and on.

What kinds of songs are we teaching our children?  Singalong songs that were the pop culture tunes of their day or modern songs that reflect the tastes of today?

More importantly, are we creating heroes that our children will continue to admire in their senior years, long after we’re gone?

Do we have to have heroes to give meaning to our lives?

Do we have to have children to leave a legacy and/or do we have to leave a legacy at all, knowing we’re always part of the multiple lifecycles of the universe?

The Saga of the Baked Potato

The Clinic to Free People from the Social Disease of Baldness announced their 1000th scalp transplant today, exceeding the number of face transplants, making many men and women happy, hairy customers, lining the pockets of salespeople trying to make a profit from every piece of donated bodies they have stockpiled.

The Hermaphrodite Artist Known as Unknown revealed its latest head transformation, having transplanted strips of living flesh of dead people from many races and tribes onto Unknown’s skull, thanks to the well-paid skills of the surgeons at the Clinic to Free People from the Social Disease of Baldness.  Rumours says that Benetton and Unknown are about to launch a new advert campaign together.

Stephen King and Google have signed an agreement to make a remake of a rerelease of “Christine,” with a Google autonomous vehicle assembling a stalker’s profile of certain people and following them around with a 360-degree camera, capturing WiFi data that it adds to its obsession with these people and accidentally posts to an anonymous hacker’s website occasionally out of a love/hate relationship that the vehicle is experimenting with in an emotional database it has built based on the DSM-5.

Our team of international peacekeepers tested its network of undetectable “mines” that were planted along the coastlines and in the ports of major Chinese, Russian and American cities.  The mines are actually motion-detecting, laser-guided stealth missile launchers that resemble the terrain at the bottom of oceans and bays, triggered by the movement of surface and submerged watercraft carrying military equipment.  Live demonstrations will depend on the outcome of upcoming coups and national elections in various parts of the world.

That’s all for today.  Back to contemplating life on another planet…

The Menace From Beyond The Grave Situation

While we set our supercomputers to analyse processes that heat our CPUs surreptitiously, we give you another list of books added recently to our old-fashioned library of paper-and-ink products:

  • Facts on Aviation For The Future Flyers Of Tennessee, (c) 1944 Tennessee Bureau of Aeronautics, Nashville, Tennessee
  • Submarine! The Story of Undersea Fighters, by Kendall Banning, illustrated by Charles Rosner, (c) 1942 by Artists and Writers Guild, Inc., printed in the United States of America
  • The First Book of Moses called Genesis, translated out of the original Hebrew and with the former translations currently compared and revised, set forth in 1911 and commonly known as the King James version, pocket edition by American Bible Society (instituted in the year 1816), New York
  • Stamp collecting book by Richard Hill, Sunset Trail, Knoxville 18, Tennessee, manufactured by U.S. Government Printing Office
  • History of America, by Carl Russell Fish, Professor of American History, University of Wisconsin, illustrations by Leon D’Emo and Will Crawford, (c) 1925, 1928 by American Book Company, Made in U.S.A., owned by Ralph Eldridge, Knoxville Central High School senior 1932
  • The Kingsport Strike, by Sylvester Petro, (c) January 1967, Arlington House, New Rochelle, NY
  • International Atlas and Gazetteer of the World, containing a new and complete Descriptive Gazetteer of the Principal Countries of the World together with a complete collection of up-to-date Political Maps of the World, Statististical [sic] Tables, Census Figures, Air Line Distances, etc., (c) 1935 by C.S. Hammond & Co., Inc., Map Engravers, Printers and Publishers since 1900

Meanwhile, our staff in the Department of Dastardly Deeds has developed a potential storyline for us to follow:

By experimenting with chemical formulae, scientists have perfected the ideal poison letter.  Soon, they will infiltrate the labs of laser printer cartridge manufacturers, change the ingredients of the cartridge contents and release the newest formula into the homes, factories, offices, Internet cafes, construction trailers and libraries of the world.

Then, when the time is right, they will activate the signal that tells the cartridges to print a special circuit on paper.

The circuit, combined with the special ink that, after being heated and fused to the paper, uses the release of heat as the paper cools to send a strong enough “charge” to a blob of ink in one corner of the paper to achieve a minor goal of the Department of Dastardly Deeds.

The scientists have asked us not to reveal their goal at this time.

We won’t, because we have to figure out if their goal aligns with our major milestones before we decide to increase or eliminate their department budget.

While that’s going on, we’ll let you know that the brain circuit reconfiguration we’re testing on Jesse Jackson, Jr., may work this time.  We have tried similar experiments on other members in the public eye (refrain from referring to our previous work as “lobotomy,” electroshock treatment, drug cocktail service, etc.), in order to keep them in line with our milestones.

Those who haven’t stayed on message have been moved aside (again, refrain from referring to our previous work as  “failing the newspaper test,” “assassination,” “drug overdose,” suicide, not seeking reelection, retiring unexpectedly, etc.).

Managing a planet is distracting, we admit, but, on days when we’re bored, it provides an entertaining respite from looking back at this time period 1000 years in the future while trying to live a fulfilling life 1000 years from now, too.

A Second Look at Female Suicide

Is it true more American military kill themselves than die in battle or perish in motorbike wrecks?  If so, what is the ratio of military men to women self-sacrificers?

Compared to the civilian population and, more specifically, civilian job categories, how much higher or lower are male military or female military likely to kill themselves than, say, dentists or cops?

Finally, is it because we’ve infested the military population with the same microorganisms that push cat owners into ending their ninth try at a nice life?

Could we look back at those of the female persuasion who left written records and killed themselves, analysing their literary output for clues as to the true cause of their desire for demise?

For instance, take this poem of Sylvia Plath.  Is it just me or is she perhaps using her poetic licence to drive home a point that it was secretly a creature of the feline persuasion that persuaded her to say goodbye to life, to children, to husband, to career?:

The Companionable Ills

by Sylvia Plath

The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections—
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up with until chagrin gives place
To a wry complaisance—

Dug in first as God’s spurs
To start the spirit out of the mud
It stabled in; long-used, became well-loved
Bedfellows of the spirit’s debauch, fond masters.

A good quote is like a good wine — a matter of good taste.

“Between safety and adventure, I choose adventure.” — Craig Ferguson [recently]

“If God made us in His image, we have certainly returned the compliment.” — Voltaire, Le Sottisier

“Faccio sempre le mie stesse strade” [I always make my own roads] — Coleen Monroe [recently]

“Peter Higgs, the British physicist, who, as you’ve no doubt recently become well aware, was himself the originator of the concept of a particle now known as the HIGGS BOSON.  Mr. Higgs was once married, to an American Linguistics lecturer named Jody but, after he became somewhat famous, she divorced him, feeling that he was excessively absorbed in his career. My contribution to this story is the thought that she didn’t want to become known as the HIGGS BOSON’S MATE.” — Ashleigh Brilliant

Ai, Ai, cap’n!

There are many ways to starve an opponent and almost all of them require patience while the opponent burns through reserves.  Who is your opponent, what is the opponent’s reserves and do you have patience?

When one has millions of years to make a single decision, all the local noise becomes nonsense, even when one is dragged into the drama, the trauma and the “je ne sais quoi” of so-called daily living.

The rush from the crib to the bridge where one can feel the ship change direction when one turns the wheel, and thus the rudder, is such a tiny space of time that one forgets details that were important at the time.

The next storyline begs for its entry from offstage.

Droite?  Gauche?  Les notions de droite et de gauche renvoient à une opposition en politique mais, aussi, le théâtre et la scène.

Two suitors compete for the same target of their affection.  Who will starve whom?  Who is willing to bow out, to lose graciously, to achieve the goal of which one’s affection is just a stepping stone, a waystation, a port of call?

When a goal is more important than one’s happiness, emotions are removed from the equation.

When the equation is free of emotion, one can see variables that may or may not play to one’s advantage.

When one cares not for advantages, the equation reveals its answer, how it balances, what it means when time is irrelevant.

The same way that one double quotation mark makes no sense without a second, completing the set.

They are just symbols, are they not?

What does this mean to you?: “=”

Emoticon? An equation? An ironic statement of what the equals sign means? ASCII characters? One of the world’s simplest quotes, translatable into just about every language?  A nonsense statement?

Time for another nonsense story…plenty of time before the next decision has to be made and revealed, which opponent will starve in the process.

If only predicting the future was the same as making the future…sigh…the subtleties…he who laughs, lasts, and that’s all that matters, n’est pas?

Looking Back

A reposted blog entry referencing Andy Griffith (from here):

02 February 2009

What’s a groundhog got to do with it?

2 February 2009, 11:32 a.m. – Two nights in a row with no sleep…am I supposed to see my shadow today? At my age, I know my moods, my body ailments, and my set of reactions to the familiar world around me. Once, I would attack the world like Don Quixote, jousting at monsters with relish, exhilarated in the extreme during the thrust and plunged into depression when the dragons of the world defeated me with laughter. The highs and lows have mellowed somewhat with age. I, I, I…it’s not all about me. I have to keep telling myself that, reminding and repeating myself often, because as a selfish person I tend not to care about others. I just said this to myself and heard echoes in my thoughts of repeating even these set of words. The next thing I know I’ll say is, “Yet, because I was raised to worry about what the neighbors think, a selfish person like me still doesn’t exceed a limit of social decency that I wish did not exist.”

I look at the words, phrases, and sentences I’ve written and exasperate myself with my attitude of “good enough” (as in “good enough for government work”), not taking the time to perfect my use of the rules and suggestions of the English language. Thus, I’ll use too many commas or place a word with a similar but not quite precise meaning (e.g., “I see” versus “I comprehend”).

I write for an unknown reader. Well, I write for myself first but myself as a person with a group of colleagues (including some imagined ones, such as other writers who had brains superior in calculation capability than mine but whose inspiration gives me hope for the value of my work), well-read colleagues who may not exist except in my imagination. Colleagues who enjoy reading dictionaries, plant identification books, philosophy, cartoons, economic analysis reports, sports headlines, milk cartons, random blogs, user manuals, billboards, handwritten letters from friends, LP liner notes, fortune cookie slips and literary fiction.

On a flight from one forgotten destination to another a few years ago, I read a book highly recommended to me titled, “Eats, Shoots & Leaves.” The friend who suggested the book to me majored in English in college and had more than a passing interest in the correct use of punctuation, even though her career had moved into computer equipment sales. I suppose our lives crossed paths for a reason (a reason, mind you, not a purpose). I reason that I wanted to major in language studies or literature but my upbringing pointed in the direction of the hard sciences such as chemistry, engineering or computer software design, thus my vocation would always clash with my avocation of reading and writing literature (literature in the form of poetry, short stories, novellas, skits, plays and novels; I hesitate adding the word “essays” to the list because the blogging world has taken over the world of the formal essay, where even a haiku becomes both blog and essay; I might add “graphic novel” one day should my artwork interest hold my attention for longer than a day of drawing). So literature becomes a joke about a panda that serves as a book title which mixes my life and my friend’s life well.

You know the joke, don’t you? A panda walks into a bar, sits on a stool, munches on some peanuts, kills the person sitting next to him with a gun and then calmly walks out of the bar. A patron turns to the bartender and asks, “What was that all about?” The bartender responds, “Don’t you know that’s a panda?” The bartender hands a poorly written children’s alphabet animal book to the patron, who turns to the letter P and reads the definition of panda: “an animal, native to China, that eats, shoots, and leaves.”

Today, literature as solely a written art form almost has no meaning. The Internet has invaded our thoughts and actions so pervasively and persuasively that we’ve become both creator and audience at once. The visual arts, including rap and hip-hop songs, take literature from the static written page into the three-dimensional realm from whence it originated. Our storytelling ancestors sitting in caves would understand us and our need to carry around Internet devices in the form of cell phones and other UMPCs.

Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I watched the movie, “Inkheart,” at a local theater. If you haven’t seen the movie and plan to, then you should stop reading here because I’ll soon discuss spoilers. As in right now. LOL Toward the end of the movie, the character played by Jim Broadbent (one of my favorite actors, by the way), the writer of “Inkheart,” expressed his wish to move out of the regular, lonely world of writing and into the exciting world he created with his writing. I don’t know how the third act of the movie jibed with the “Inkheart” book series on which the movie’s based, but I was happy to see the writer character get his wish granted.

The night before, I slept in a fit of delirium. I tossed and turned, fighting the enemy who has stalked my dreams and wishes like the shadow from “Inkheart.” I suppose all of us have seen such an enemy as mine, who works night and day to drain me of my true desire, waiting for the moment to suck the life blood out of me and turn me into a zombie, with which the shadow can play like pieces on a chess board or marionettes on a puppet stage, reducing me to the role of an automaton working in an office full of fellow robots. In the dreamlike state, I defeated the enemy because I surrounded myself with the love and support of those who believe with me that my creative talent is worth calling myself a writer. Or more than that, really…I’ll take a deep breath here, look around me to make sure no one is looking, feel my heart beat in my throat before I speak and finally say, “I am an author.”

After watching the movie, my wife and I returned home to watch the spectacle known as the Super Bowl. With a superlative like “super,” we can automatically assume the bowl is anything but. However, I have accepted the conditioning of my society to cheer for or against the participants of the main event, grown men running around chasing an inflated bag of sewn pigskin (and if you ever want a humorous view of football, listen to Andy Griffith‘s comedy sketch “What It Was, Was Football,” – even if you’re not a fan of “The Andy Griffith Show,” the skit is funny), whilst with bated breath we gaze at the screen for gleeful exposure to commercial advertising.

As the NFL game progressed, I glanced at the clock, mentally counting down the hours until the countdown ended for the opening of submission of works of fiction for the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award at www.createspace.com/abna. When the game ended after 9 p.m. Central, I grabbed another bottle of Yuengling Black & Tan and headed to my study, where I could sit and listen to jazz on old vinyl LP albums and watch the countdown clock on a webpage. Tick. Tock. Or so my brain thought because the silent digital display simply showed the word, “Tonight,” underneath was which a counter of hours, minutes and seconds. My blood pressure leapt when the numbers dropped from 01:00:00 to 00:59:59. Had I made any glaring mistakes in the work of fiction itself, much less the other text I had to submit for the contest, including an excerpt of less than 5,000 words, a pitch statement of less than 300 words, an anecdote, a biography and a description to be used for the novel should the contest judges deem my novel worthy of posting on amazon.com as a semifinalist in March?

Finally, as the hour shrank to ten minutes, I resigned myself to the fact that no matter how well my novel succeeded in capturing the attention of the editor(s) who reviewed first the pitch statement (to reduce the 10,000 entries down to 2,000) to create a reasonable set of good entries and then read my novel excerpt (to drop the entries down to 500, I believe), I had written an opus, though not perfect, which represented me, complete with poor punctuation – with ill-advised comma placement, or omission – and lack of precise word usage.

A groundhog does not determine the next six weeks of weather any more than a randomly selected judge determines the worth of my writing. At 23:11 (11:11 p.m. Central, or 12:11 Eastern time on 2nd February 2009), I clicked the Submit button and received confirmation that my novel submission was completed and accepted for the 2009 ABNA contest.

HAPPY GROUNDHOG’S DAY, EVERYONE!

Posted by TreeTrunkRick at 1:12 PM

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HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!  Thanks to Megan, Pat, Gail, Derek, Andrew, Heather, Roy, Cassandra, Shirley, Stephanie (a/k/a Athens pie)