tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68369836516577142292024-03-05T05:20:02.596-08:00Type and ShadowsJoeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15354189817724039805noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-34418105015654730742011-04-05T10:22:00.000-07:002011-04-05T10:26:20.697-07:00Nothing Can Compete<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-g1qWnbXgCwndYyf9ff-emDjkFMKDUUC8-j4Q13WsHui_Npur6oYdlgPVatnX-41KreNF0NNCipPF1l4P0ZW3_-XCiXEPpjkhZoUHBm1nNxxfLoMf0uKMjcbjp_xJhNKaUiNMrA3yrSJ/s1600/Sunglasses.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592152056808522626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-g1qWnbXgCwndYyf9ff-emDjkFMKDUUC8-j4Q13WsHui_Npur6oYdlgPVatnX-41KreNF0NNCipPF1l4P0ZW3_-XCiXEPpjkhZoUHBm1nNxxfLoMf0uKMjcbjp_xJhNKaUiNMrA3yrSJ/s400/Sunglasses.jpg" /></a> <br /><div>Nothing...NOTHING...can compete with the place a grandson holds in the heart of his Papaw!!!</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-64150466613383598342010-12-31T19:29:00.000-08:002010-12-31T19:30:27.040-08:00Happy New Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCewQhQfRwAW9nn0YyHOzmS-9ao-jLYxD1f3PXlF1xUKQDuZrWdkfbqpcYWm-x_geblPSgq1qVzwhhZ3zFpZv6KkJ_e-memt_GwfVPYVDxkc1bOfcE6XVKjJADprAPju7nzJw05K5oZQ7/s1600/happy-new-year.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 263px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557054664422334690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCewQhQfRwAW9nn0YyHOzmS-9ao-jLYxD1f3PXlF1xUKQDuZrWdkfbqpcYWm-x_geblPSgq1qVzwhhZ3zFpZv6KkJ_e-memt_GwfVPYVDxkc1bOfcE6XVKjJADprAPju7nzJw05K5oZQ7/s400/happy-new-year.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-4852526652605936722010-12-25T07:08:00.000-08:002010-12-25T07:09:37.086-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMmMdJAQi4O1ANBm-XKc92HaZyHj_DwA3QZDgPdogzTpfSqWHZRo-Rz1Xc9unyzlIQZ914mq2cBoYhqTt6TzgGIAYFxJMFWYj0x7PJukKAuieod9fgSTWV3lZ2mk3QzCJmaSVizUJvHQ8/s1600/christmas-cards1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 264px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554637260979406722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMmMdJAQi4O1ANBm-XKc92HaZyHj_DwA3QZDgPdogzTpfSqWHZRo-Rz1Xc9unyzlIQZ914mq2cBoYhqTt6TzgGIAYFxJMFWYj0x7PJukKAuieod9fgSTWV3lZ2mk3QzCJmaSVizUJvHQ8/s400/christmas-cards1.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-43625078450308042202010-11-29T12:26:00.000-08:002010-11-29T12:34:33.607-08:00Holiday Season 2010<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDnUH1oblDdE77vtD5xZuJyI1Y0xwY4vtNGj3Ug82CFGW_RwqpNEYRVj5aaAJXQdv0ZRQopmSasiaCfvPqT6RaPQiD-UJU0mUzfVpraSlI_neo6zquR3Q9cUIbGib5mBvJlFdmxw0JYcI/s1600/66813_1533196044000_1057767972_31576537_1758610_n.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545072795043426754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDnUH1oblDdE77vtD5xZuJyI1Y0xwY4vtNGj3Ug82CFGW_RwqpNEYRVj5aaAJXQdv0ZRQopmSasiaCfvPqT6RaPQiD-UJU0mUzfVpraSlI_neo6zquR3Q9cUIbGib5mBvJlFdmxw0JYcI/s400/66813_1533196044000_1057767972_31576537_1758610_n.jpg" /></a><br /><div>His first holiday season...2010. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>He is growing quickly. Everyday his list of new experiences grows longer. His future is bright and ever present before him.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I miss him badly. I long to hold him in my arms and beam with pride as I tell the world, "This is my grandson."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I want to see his eyes as he gazes on the beauty of a Christmas Tree or rips open the wrapping of a present. I want to laugh as he smiles. I want to experience the holiday season beside him.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I love and miss you, John Michael.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>P.S. I love and miss his mommy and daddy too.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-2317560430210173192010-11-24T11:30:00.000-08:002010-11-24T11:32:14.299-08:00Happy Thanksgiving<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgjE8JDCMGxR8iYtBAut1Jjn5W9-kz3YXt6tf_Fo6Q1x5H43KRMg_MomHVUtLzCEyyx_BKc2h3QPZksJpEWl9a9i2rrwVQdIX1o1y6wpLBP27QbQFVBoRG9qlALb81Y3u8vxx8mTVIjYy/s1600/turkey.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 308px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543201295095527154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgjE8JDCMGxR8iYtBAut1Jjn5W9-kz3YXt6tf_Fo6Q1x5H43KRMg_MomHVUtLzCEyyx_BKc2h3QPZksJpEWl9a9i2rrwVQdIX1o1y6wpLBP27QbQFVBoRG9qlALb81Y3u8vxx8mTVIjYy/s400/turkey.gif" /></a><br /><div>Just want to say "HAPPY THANKSGIVING" to everyone. I hope your holiday is filled with family, food, and fun.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-30202574014295636312010-11-10T11:06:00.000-08:002010-11-10T11:16:22.932-08:00A Grandfather is Born<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uS93AqHJbM240vMZFHKMDk-Y-4AgW7gYFSK8lt47YvKlXHKIaIqlhyphenhyphenmSdJdTUE8z0zuQqK9nAOCHF5JkZbjs1-l5HkJtAAguymFy7QvS7zCiEVHh_3DVaHIftb7a6BRwlcHDg0KisbnN/s1600/when_a_child_is_born_so_is_a_grandfather_poster-p228927653061830465tdar_210.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 336px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 336px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538001498898586978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uS93AqHJbM240vMZFHKMDk-Y-4AgW7gYFSK8lt47YvKlXHKIaIqlhyphenhyphenmSdJdTUE8z0zuQqK9nAOCHF5JkZbjs1-l5HkJtAAguymFy7QvS7zCiEVHh_3DVaHIftb7a6BRwlcHDg0KisbnN/s400/when_a_child_is_born_so_is_a_grandfather_poster-p228927653061830465tdar_210.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Grandfather!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Just the word itself brings to mind images of old men with wrinkled faces, white hair, and a stained beard. Maybe your image has the old man sitting on the front porch of an old, tar-paper house smoking a pipe and gazing into the distant sunset. Perhaps Grandfather brings to your mind a young Native American sitting at the feet of one of the ancient tribe members listing to a tale of history.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As a small child, I never dreamed of one day being a Grandfather. Now I am one. I just hope I can live up to the name.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-21197291621799106402010-11-01T19:43:00.001-07:002010-11-01T19:48:27.598-07:00VOTE for John Michael<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIaaNtJtX2rdfwvtvmhH7CLhyw2kagQin6VtEuB7FNostOiWPYz8Ub2TBIZbnJm5RTN-GKD6cc8NtRBWhPDeg6LjlRxnZcP0Jfiwir8sZDqVqMgXIyuI_-fZgnl3L_pNIORJxF7uU-5kS/s1600/flagii.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534778549871777410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIaaNtJtX2rdfwvtvmhH7CLhyw2kagQin6VtEuB7FNostOiWPYz8Ub2TBIZbnJm5RTN-GKD6cc8NtRBWhPDeg6LjlRxnZcP0Jfiwir8sZDqVqMgXIyuI_-fZgnl3L_pNIORJxF7uU-5kS/s400/flagii.jpg" /></a><br /><div>When John Michael was born, he automatically owed the government over $38,000 and rising. Tomorrow on Election Day, I ask you to please not put a greater burden on John Michael than he can bear. As Fathers and Sons we differ politically, and that is okay. But surely we can be united on Free Markets, Fiscal Responsibility, and Constitutionally Smaller Government.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As for me? Don't worry, John Michael, I'm voting to get you out of debt.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-16606588602615886162010-10-25T19:05:00.001-07:002010-10-25T19:12:17.864-07:00He is just sooooo cute!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd1bRa4520lSXXTbVlu_XMn72sWtArJ9NPKauTGy19IcBSjkBpDClDUYMB3Px7OKTRdS_XTOB5TR3_U37rukXSzfvO9FkrvQdLR2BJyqraZamupw5duRdu9vms01fZ-YSgWJR_QJUIYmE8/s1600/68817_1547295156469_1057767972_31607874_1490986_n%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532171569754592258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd1bRa4520lSXXTbVlu_XMn72sWtArJ9NPKauTGy19IcBSjkBpDClDUYMB3Px7OKTRdS_XTOB5TR3_U37rukXSzfvO9FkrvQdLR2BJyqraZamupw5duRdu9vms01fZ-YSgWJR_QJUIYmE8/s400/68817_1547295156469_1057767972_31607874_1490986_n%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:180%;">It is amazing how cool it is to have a grandson. For the first time in my life, I understand what people mean when they say, "If I had known grandkids were so much fun, I would have had them first."</span></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-32938385397251464622010-07-11T22:01:00.001-07:002010-07-11T22:01:44.751-07:00BooBoo
<br>Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®Joeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15354189817724039805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-7243532589438333372010-03-31T09:19:00.001-07:002010-03-31T09:35:13.361-07:00Life's Little Situations<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicj9_Bv29NO9mD61WHMCRCT91ZFEcbPPLoH1m-Rfm5SOGuetB84u_F_17EIG4uN_QEXMWDTo5sw6GxyxXEer83ZcBQTVGhzP_-gCkggVHS6k2FkPEN6GnaC10psjBeH0-GyL7wpSeQZC2I/s1600/Gunnar+in+Toy+box.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 238px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454834027338639730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicj9_Bv29NO9mD61WHMCRCT91ZFEcbPPLoH1m-Rfm5SOGuetB84u_F_17EIG4uN_QEXMWDTo5sw6GxyxXEer83ZcBQTVGhzP_-gCkggVHS6k2FkPEN6GnaC10psjBeH0-GyL7wpSeQZC2I/s320/Gunnar+in+Toy+box.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>Life is filled with those little situations that happen unexpectantly...like little Gunnar (left) here. When this little man gazed into the toy box, he saw lots of things he knew would make him happy to touch, to hold, and...like all little ones...to taste. However when he reached in the toy box, he got an unexpected surprise. I call these unexpected surprises "Life's Little Situations."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I'm proud of my sons. They fill me with excitement as I watch their lives unfold. They know how to enjoy the simple things in life, and they are becoming quite skilled at handling Life's Little Situations. I honor them for their love and wisdom.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But even as proud of them as I am, I sometimes look into the toy box myself and dream of the days when they were Gunnar's age, of when I could pick them up and hold them close, of when they would lay their little heads on my shoulder and fall asleep, and of when their Life's Little Surprises were as inconsequential as falling into the toy box.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-46134475726288433182010-03-22T09:03:00.000-07:002010-03-22T09:09:19.119-07:00Tazered<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4K1SToUhPczp-4UcqUKLYKq5wkK0ge4COLpYmvjpfT3GKjhZyik2NEnTBjDdPfq4G0NCjj_R001jse7En_j6aqy0E1Wp7tgLeaVlNztuBJh8GxYgm1OQjga1nGYFrz3mcN1f9nPSKxwbC/s1600-h/The+moment+of+pain.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451490823729315522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4K1SToUhPczp-4UcqUKLYKq5wkK0ge4COLpYmvjpfT3GKjhZyik2NEnTBjDdPfq4G0NCjj_R001jse7En_j6aqy0E1Wp7tgLeaVlNztuBJh8GxYgm1OQjga1nGYFrz3mcN1f9nPSKxwbC/s320/The+moment+of+pain.jpg" /></a><br /><div>It is hard for parents to watch someone inflict pain on one of their children! Here is a picture of a man shooting my youngest son with a Tazer. While I know it was part of his job as a Correction's Officer in Tazer training to be shot with one, it is still hard for me to see it. I guess that is why the picture taker hid the shooter's face...to keep 'ol DaD from coming down south and kickin some SC booty. :-)</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-59819245526641900152010-01-30T16:14:00.000-08:002010-01-30T16:16:42.795-08:00Snow<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLydbXuk00O2TuRARMr3kpbgduKTxwZK1ZpmMPE4FORKtDcXOB8i0LoSgofRllin9gTmHQ7HEsmxslC5ISC_443Bs_G3XTKhjz0DGWkIGgtzLE9YNPSqSIzaC8IzPs1vPKzTDVCMo2Mg/s1600-h/DSC05139-702796.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLydbXuk00O2TuRARMr3kpbgduKTxwZK1ZpmMPE4FORKtDcXOB8i0LoSgofRllin9gTmHQ7HEsmxslC5ISC_443Bs_G3XTKhjz0DGWkIGgtzLE9YNPSqSIzaC8IzPs1vPKzTDVCMo2Mg/s320/DSC05139-702796.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432691256835568370" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHttSlNF9nLP0l5ksgb6pOEIO3kVWuwb5KSgDmnoK0bjpKwa6jBqS2Rka42iBkosD_P-RBqLKbefPUPc8QufkZ-Sby6K7iHiRZ5imeNLB84nNFfMylp9kT0K8_47XhSmY3FYLiWXmJPc/s1600-h/DSC05128-704046.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHttSlNF9nLP0l5ksgb6pOEIO3kVWuwb5KSgDmnoK0bjpKwa6jBqS2Rka42iBkosD_P-RBqLKbefPUPc8QufkZ-Sby6K7iHiRZ5imeNLB84nNFfMylp9kT0K8_47XhSmY3FYLiWXmJPc/s320/DSC05128-704046.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432691268056094610" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixpyRy6b884W1Wll2ryya8WYzLZpTltOVwFq2RA2W49XuW4azgzAwaYfgHe1KpplcvfKeRLasfHwzSoFGfh6vQBOy92YVc0tAIsj4V25XkC9DhUxC0x3U10Ts3hdYcuGik4p5ilDw3Tdk/s1600-h/DSC05129-706112.JPG"><img 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href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrcZ5GTQRxT1juoShICYSlseHABZid9mwydgc9permN6jCFo14VgpXma0qdslG3eINNxJgN_Y7IBwOHmD0M4zX53_1UQ5BpClANN_NiMzAMQCyfXw1CWaeDU0bmkZoYPSGnXVcxyOIt8/s1600-h/snow2-722575.jpeg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrcZ5GTQRxT1juoShICYSlseHABZid9mwydgc9permN6jCFo14VgpXma0qdslG3eINNxJgN_Y7IBwOHmD0M4zX53_1UQ5BpClANN_NiMzAMQCyfXw1CWaeDU0bmkZoYPSGnXVcxyOIt8/s320/snow2-722575.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432691348475902338" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqR6K8Lb71uIyJXHwgNbMXKiYLPN-p96yTOOpMU24Wi9NZP1L2nvjKGZAH4H_jhvC6wj8fHo_uCALbrgoYy6Z6OJ2ht11gLfM9_hiSarvNFlmmRtvPt2KEOy6GfKpY2IJfJKGq03b4Ius/s1600-h/snow3-724082.jpeg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqR6K8Lb71uIyJXHwgNbMXKiYLPN-p96yTOOpMU24Wi9NZP1L2nvjKGZAH4H_jhvC6wj8fHo_uCALbrgoYy6Z6OJ2ht11gLfM9_hiSarvNFlmmRtvPt2KEOy6GfKpY2IJfJKGq03b4Ius/s320/snow3-724082.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432691354726237282" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12YDarPE1dANukLzi8IkNTBGPSZOyJhilV8vno8q1F3m2A6JmG7BQ7Ol_gc614-anTOyn4oWTEqDHMaVp1sxWhc5pwD96JUk422OQ295g34Ewt5pQKuxQvmUz-V8NBpk28919q0av0s0/s1600-h/snow4-725599.jpeg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12YDarPE1dANukLzi8IkNTBGPSZOyJhilV8vno8q1F3m2A6JmG7BQ7Ol_gc614-anTOyn4oWTEqDHMaVp1sxWhc5pwD96JUk422OQ295g34Ewt5pQKuxQvmUz-V8NBpk28919q0av0s0/s320/snow4-725599.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432691362086363826" /></a></p><div class=Section1> <p class=MsoNormal><font size=2 face=Arial><span style='font-size:10.0pt; font-family:Arial'>Snow and ice all day yesterday, through the night, and for a few hours today. Got a layer of ice beneath, 3-5 inches today, and a layer of ice on top. It’s nice!<o:p></o:p></span></font></p> </div> Joeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15354189817724039805noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-23994667966601842832010-01-25T16:58:00.001-08:002010-01-25T17:22:44.060-08:00Baby Mustain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4oZO0DYTyrRHdYygbMWqn0b4vOzcZFrwB1otlI90aX-deqj6blowVp6gtJgIHuiA7Sbm7mRIR_6FJ6qrzFg2MUjqL3tYxp4VCbM7uwENcouEMw6Op6khcOqRYDnvLnQkTsyIr_G2CHXJz/s1600-h/14jan10+pic+of+baby+mustain.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430852217197085234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4oZO0DYTyrRHdYygbMWqn0b4vOzcZFrwB1otlI90aX-deqj6blowVp6gtJgIHuiA7Sbm7mRIR_6FJ6qrzFg2MUjqL3tYxp4VCbM7uwENcouEMw6Op6khcOqRYDnvLnQkTsyIr_G2CHXJz/s320/14jan10+pic+of+baby+mustain.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Baby Mustain,<br /></div><div>You are still in your mommy’s womb growing and developing. So far, you have made it difficult for us to see if you are a boy or a girl. You just will not turn the right way during the ultrasound. Maybe you are trying to surprise us all. Nevertheless, even as you are becoming who you are, I want you to know a few things.<br /></div><div>First, we love you. We do not know your name, your sex, your hair or eye color; we do not know how tall you will be. We do not know much of anything about you yet. However, we love you dearly, and we will always love you.<br /></div><div>Second, you are God’s answer to our prayers. Your entire family has been praying about you for a long time. Your mom and dad have thought about you, talked about you, and planned for you. At one point, we were not sure you were even going to come along. God, in His wisdom and divine love, has finally given you to us.<br /></div><div>Finally, I know your attention span is still pretty short so I will not write you a book here. You do not have to be afraid. The world you are coming into can be a scary place. There are people who are fighting with each other, wars, earthquakes, tornados, forest fires, and hurricanes. These kinds of things are even scary for adults. However, Baby Mustain, you are wrapped in your family’s arms and God’s arms. We will hold you and protect you. We will lead you and guide you. WE WILL BE THERE FOR YOU!<br /></div><div>So, keep on growing and don’t kick mommy too hard. We will see you in the summer.<br /></div><div> </div><div>I love you,<br /></div><div>Papaw</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-52580276461629172722009-12-31T09:34:00.000-08:002009-12-31T10:14:31.867-08:00Fathers, Sons, and the New Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUM9hCeOYS_t87TIto-0x_agZiSCEVQ7PieH0MjiYMBpFFU-MR7Tuc8mzGRV6yqFIfNUDVdtZvhkMIY88ZXlR668kBz-2nGShMur3OBxhqBOUjNMjx0HUyQKektlFecFJI16r6Fg4grwnj/s1600-h/John's+Face.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421464945444238402" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 126px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUM9hCeOYS_t87TIto-0x_agZiSCEVQ7PieH0MjiYMBpFFU-MR7Tuc8mzGRV6yqFIfNUDVdtZvhkMIY88ZXlR668kBz-2nGShMur3OBxhqBOUjNMjx0HUyQKektlFecFJI16r6Fg4grwnj/s320/John's+Face.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVTL1NXd5Yz5e3DV2mhyphenhyphenbZFn_pWeDGTUj2HLaEFwtnbQ7DfkJPy4u8ROPX-AlKqxHFv8nZfhlbS7qC6oqWSPK8Tr8v6AKsjzZz_GfuLEKCrlHixu9_rrvTOmOoxxP9BKw-LvAuwCNYKbN/s1600-h/Joey's+Face.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421463728981252882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 146px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 208px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVTL1NXd5Yz5e3DV2mhyphenhyphenbZFn_pWeDGTUj2HLaEFwtnbQ7DfkJPy4u8ROPX-AlKqxHFv8nZfhlbS7qC6oqWSPK8Tr8v6AKsjzZz_GfuLEKCrlHixu9_rrvTOmOoxxP9BKw-LvAuwCNYKbN/s320/Joey's+Face.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjl92Hf6ETomZ9d3RtqjWVPtnLEpt_5s0vmjK18qZWp2Hn6lIE_JWH4VuzqgphB-q9xAyLBHhJG47055lIfU0ARbPHivkylQBwehHDHAIRA7Nai_ESwQS0SYgZCLvKmOBVeXfJOh5JtM1/s1600-h/Shane's+Face.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421463637711971202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjl92Hf6ETomZ9d3RtqjWVPtnLEpt_5s0vmjK18qZWp2Hn6lIE_JWH4VuzqgphB-q9xAyLBHhJG47055lIfU0ARbPHivkylQBwehHDHAIRA7Nai_ESwQS0SYgZCLvKmOBVeXfJOh5JtM1/s320/Shane's+Face.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>As each year flows swiftly into the next, we as fathers and sons gain a greater understanding of each other. Fathers gain a better understanding of how their sons are growing, maturing, and becoming men of substance. Sons gain a better understanding of their dads’ wisdom throughout the years.<br /><br />For me, the ending and the beginning of each year gives me pause to weep over my failures, smile about my successes, and hope for my future. But the pause must be brief. Time doesn’t stop along with me and its ever flowing current pushes against me, urging me toward the future. Finally, tired of the strain from my attempt to hold back time, I move on leaving my failures and successes behind me.<br /><br />With fresh, fertile soil, 2010 offers the brightest of hope: for me, for my sons, for our families, and for the world.<br /><br />Happy New Year, boys. Revitalize your spiritual legions. Renew your marital covenants. Strive fervently to realize all your potentials. Never forget the loving ties that bind us together for eternity. I love you, and I thank you for being more sons than any father has a right to have.</div></div></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-67949926480122128082009-12-15T10:34:00.001-08:002009-12-15T10:41:23.743-08:00Ho! Ho! Ho! Wait Santa! Boys, come quickly!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUwtXSl-RYzZVF005SGpNYG192a-e5b7TFDjT4Uzk9Uxae9AVzrPOqZ-5S9i8NtEbMnZQVmEc0bBtMWf2KwvXFYRFMCrzH0u0k3mMHnPIk7TV4hHVqZX3-QVGnwAVVTHaDPseS9UK7asV/s1600-h/GingerBreadHouse.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415534804302530610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUwtXSl-RYzZVF005SGpNYG192a-e5b7TFDjT4Uzk9Uxae9AVzrPOqZ-5S9i8NtEbMnZQVmEc0bBtMWf2KwvXFYRFMCrzH0u0k3mMHnPIk7TV4hHVqZX3-QVGnwAVVTHaDPseS9UK7asV/s320/GingerBreadHouse.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Every year at Christmas, my family began the day with me playing like I had caught Santa Claus as he was leaving the house. I would yell for him to wait and call to the boys to hurry so they could see him. They alway missed him by only a few moments.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Since they missed getting to see Santa, my sons then turned their attention to checking out what he had left behind...presents under the tree.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Where did those days go? They disappeared as quickly as the Gingerbread house.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-31072097996250371312009-12-03T10:34:00.001-08:002009-12-03T10:45:47.925-08:00My Sons and Their Wives<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwgbd5cJOlkgVuUzeHPv2dnAQ14SrBAOaMtuwk7iMbz8cC1c81vZ1lvxPLMfzBiJq7CJRySfismiFrrSSFYgbx3fscdyAqatzWKXhfvJ0iff7VqGZWYwjIG4IJRiZt36TBCz2A3hrgZxA/s1600-h/shane+candice+karen+and+joey.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411080301369396514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 201px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwgbd5cJOlkgVuUzeHPv2dnAQ14SrBAOaMtuwk7iMbz8cC1c81vZ1lvxPLMfzBiJq7CJRySfismiFrrSSFYgbx3fscdyAqatzWKXhfvJ0iff7VqGZWYwjIG4IJRiZt36TBCz2A3hrgZxA/s320/shane+candice+karen+and+joey.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>These four came to visit me. Of this, I'm extremely proud. They brought their smiles and hugs and laughter. </div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>They stayed for a few days, then went home. But they left in their wake a deeply moved, happy, proud dad (and father-in-law).</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I am honored by their coming to visit, sadden by their departure, and anxiously anticipating their return.</div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I love and miss each one of you.</div><div></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-86075081822140947132009-11-27T13:18:00.000-08:002009-11-27T13:51:10.761-08:00My Very Brief Bildungsroman<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWq2IIVMQOUw8lpV08FPmG7kAuFQoLsIvfRUqrxTbHYn-346j_0Y9sP8eyMlPr5qrL6X6mRjT0uB2sovjd4VtMkY56V4s2W-kWdohrAPRt2_AOWdvOofhFoxUJMTfPKJ80HrotFTF8J0/s1600/DSC04561.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408896550132385138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWq2IIVMQOUw8lpV08FPmG7kAuFQoLsIvfRUqrxTbHYn-346j_0Y9sP8eyMlPr5qrL6X6mRjT0uB2sovjd4VtMkY56V4s2W-kWdohrAPRt2_AOWdvOofhFoxUJMTfPKJ80HrotFTF8J0/s320/DSC04561.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />I have no idea what the age of accountability really is. I've heard that it's that time when you know right from wrong, and maybe it really is that simple. But perhaps it's a little more complex.<br /><br />I knew it was wrong when I destroyed tens upon tens of glass Christmas ornaments. Yup. I had every clue. Was I accountable? Who knows?<br /><br />Was it evidence that my brother had not reached the age of accountability when he fed my dead rabbit for a week? Hardly.<br /><br />Had I become accountable the day I let a few drops of Dawn fall into the fish bowl because I didn't want to clean up after fish poop anymore? (I don't know if I've ever revealed that to y'all. Sorry.) Nah.<br /><br />What about the day I trashed classroom at the church building, splattering all manner of evil on the walls? Did I know that was wrong. Heck, yeah. I know it no more now than I did then.<br /><br />Was I accountable? Should I have been marched down to a cold, moldy baptistry and drowned my demonically sinful nature? <br /><br />I doubt it.<br /><br />Maybe the age of accountability isn't negative at all. Maybe it's not the result of some rite that causes an epiphany that'll bring guilt over you like a cold shower.<br /><br />What if it's the day you can finally put the obvious together and realize that your family is all you'll ever really have? And what about the day where you wake up and think about how nice it would be if you were loading up in a 1982 Ford Futura and heading off to first period? What about that precise moment when you wish you could go back in time and be a better son? How about that time before lunch when you wished you could call up your brother and go grab a bite together? Better yet, how about the day you look at a picture of the brother you took for granted and the father you hope knows how much you've learned from him, and you sigh into open air trying your best to believe in telepathy.<br /><br />I bet that's more like the day you became accountable, the age of accountability. That's probably a lot more like the day when you've taken your first step, the very first one, toward understanding.<br /><br />I guess if I'd truly believed that all along, then I wouldn't have been baptized until I was about 25.Joeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15354189817724039805noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-64775590782346992342009-11-23T12:43:00.000-08:002009-11-23T12:47:11.097-08:00My Sons Are Coming Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9HqeMn8DzmKxb7w87mUtDiCPF6ifmI68Y_J0IN0asu_LgSs-ru4dHd_ldiupDU6lSnPwFTfhyphenhyphenHmVwl38CFRj2s1TVsMJ5AMxbctJsa_AMw1Y0M7KRZT2liYJirXryI5wfYDPtPfSSyx5/s1600/joeyjohnshane.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407403111623353170" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9HqeMn8DzmKxb7w87mUtDiCPF6ifmI68Y_J0IN0asu_LgSs-ru4dHd_ldiupDU6lSnPwFTfhyphenhyphenHmVwl38CFRj2s1TVsMJ5AMxbctJsa_AMw1Y0M7KRZT2liYJirXryI5wfYDPtPfSSyx5/s320/joeyjohnshane.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>At no time throughout the year is my spirit as light as when my sons are coming home.<br /><br />Too long I joked when they were kids of breaking their plates when they turned eighteen. Too often I noted of how nice it would be to have the house all to myself. To many times when looking for a tool did I mumble under my breath, "I just wish they would put things back where they found them.<br /><br />Now...too many plates sit unused in the cabinet. Now…the house seems empty and bare and void of life. Now…my tools are all just where I left them gathering dust.<br /><br />Thankfully, though. My kids are coming home and bringing their wives. The dishes seem to shine with anticipation, the house seems warmer and more inviting, and even my tools...well they will just stay where they are because when my sons get home there will be far too much rejoicing to worry with work.<br /><br />My sons are coming home, and I am giddy pleased. </div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-42081547983840421682009-11-15T17:02:00.000-08:002009-11-17T19:25:32.462-08:00Great-Grandsons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSR4zBXunSzcqAJZXRhU-PVQwt7pko_MjMzqYTZ_cDxuPfxDqq023eF32oraxXS6oBLcnQHztQKOuLnygEOz2IobqJCereXu92rE9BFOPcm6bU7iE1zqKmhQQp3kwr10bDmNFn7fhGF_fP/s1600-h/joey+shane+and+grandpa.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404503050406515586" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSR4zBXunSzcqAJZXRhU-PVQwt7pko_MjMzqYTZ_cDxuPfxDqq023eF32oraxXS6oBLcnQHztQKOuLnygEOz2IobqJCereXu92rE9BFOPcm6bU7iE1zqKmhQQp3kwr10bDmNFn7fhGF_fP/s320/joey+shane+and+grandpa.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I am not sure who's pride is greater, the great-grandsons or the great grand-father.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Frank and Mary only had two children...Bonnie and Vernissa. Bonnie and Harold had only three girls...Debbie, Pam, and Rhonda. Frank and Mary had to wait three generations before the boys came along.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Joey and Shane are the first grandsons! </div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-76780517434669127082009-10-24T18:59:00.001-07:002009-10-24T19:22:14.754-07:00My Dad<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYpiOkzxfU86N8Bqg-Yw80BjwxJMhZFAE5PWzU6_KwbJ17-PkQeQJjaUriowO83a5vtiZoG3SGdd2hN4EX-6ltXWGy4FXeRDrfHIYRFvj9dhQ9fZDPdEJLTkCorYnmWAO7MRMZ35Hk-6Q/s1600-h/Dale+G.+Mustain+1960%27s.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396354971156098434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 257px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYpiOkzxfU86N8Bqg-Yw80BjwxJMhZFAE5PWzU6_KwbJ17-PkQeQJjaUriowO83a5vtiZoG3SGdd2hN4EX-6ltXWGy4FXeRDrfHIYRFvj9dhQ9fZDPdEJLTkCorYnmWAO7MRMZ35Hk-6Q/s320/Dale+G.+Mustain+1960%27s.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>A short note about my dad...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Born in 1931, his tall stature captured at lot of attention from those who met him. In his own words, he stood "5 feet and 17 inches." His smile was infectious. His laugh would make you laugh with him. </div><div> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>He passed away on 15 February 1998.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I miss him.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-84397190071216600442009-10-12T18:42:00.000-07:002009-10-12T19:03:10.697-07:00The Coming and Going of Sons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmLAWPzeTAdlqP4UZKRg36pUATXslfo8Emew6C0C-XAhTWf_3kjKO1zQYFbIuTG1mK3JLRRvg1KzC0rFc8OoR0XpFDYIqLIffedRH7boUwTBZbDKelEfV38jRnvxlHJrvtYojPn9RqbhT/s1600-h/IMG_4120.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391894131820671474" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmLAWPzeTAdlqP4UZKRg36pUATXslfo8Emew6C0C-XAhTWf_3kjKO1zQYFbIuTG1mK3JLRRvg1KzC0rFc8OoR0XpFDYIqLIffedRH7boUwTBZbDKelEfV38jRnvxlHJrvtYojPn9RqbhT/s320/IMG_4120.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><strong><em>I love it when they come home, but can't hardly stand it when they leave.</em></strong></div><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><div></div><div> </div><div> Everytime Joey or Shane comes home, I am on cloud nine. Somehow my boys bring out the kid in me, and I love it. My outlook on life returns to normal and healthy. I even think my blood pressure drops to normal. For a father, there is nothing better for him than his sons coming home for a visit.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> But when I have to watch them leave, it feels like my arteries are opened and my life blood drains out of me. The house seems empty and cold. The bedroom where they slept seems useless (it's used only when they are here). My mood turns dangerously dark and morbid.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> So, here is my plan. I want my sons and their wives to move in with us. They can get jobs here locally to help with the groceries, but I will put a roof over their head. Right...? Of course, not.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> While the coming and going of sons is difficult, it is the natural way...that...I've got to live with.</div><div></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-74765192503129849062009-10-05T12:09:00.000-07:002009-10-05T12:35:31.353-07:00Physically Separated...Emotionally Connected<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0bIqrP0BO_FDShhr3PDj1xDaGqzBwAKvVmytaq5RtFl6K4CoDRDNiU1WwUXsPym4cs6uTQMZLfE1cHpOSdpucaMnpBRgCLTa3PXjuaUz9b70wC-R2gBNNdViZ0YiuAbQ8-Llwt8J1tGZ8/s1600-h/Shane+in+Hat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389195170323279554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0bIqrP0BO_FDShhr3PDj1xDaGqzBwAKvVmytaq5RtFl6K4CoDRDNiU1WwUXsPym4cs6uTQMZLfE1cHpOSdpucaMnpBRgCLTa3PXjuaUz9b70wC-R2gBNNdViZ0YiuAbQ8-Llwt8J1tGZ8/s320/Shane+in+Hat.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p>It's hard for a 50-year-old man and father to face down the reality that his sons are living their lives separate from him.</p><p>I know; I honestly do know that is what we raised them to do. I am; I honestly am proud of them. They have accomplished many wonderful things.</p><p>Still, take this picture for instance. My youngest son posted this picture on his Facebook account (doesn't he look great). I wrote and ask him if this picture was taken at the gift shop in Cades Cove. I don't know why where it was taken was important to me. Maybe I wanted it to be in a place where I had been. Maybe if it were taken in a place where I had been, I would somehow feel a little closer to him. But, alas, he wrote me back explaining it was taken in Charlestown, SC. I have only passed through Charlestown once over 30 years ago, and I have certainly never stopped in a gift shop there.</p><p>I wonder why a man hopes his sons will travel down trails he has blazed...see the things he has seen, instead of blazing new trails all their own? It makes no sense at all. Sons will ride their own trails, blazing their own new trails. I did. My father did. It has happened that way throughout the generations.</p><p>So, I am left to find comfort in this: my sons will blaze trails I will never see, experience things I will never understand nor experience...that is the way it is with fathers and sons. Always has been and always will be.</p><p>Therefore, ride boys ride! Adventure down well worn paths, but cherish the less traveled pathways. Be courageous in blazing your own trails. You've earned your right to be explorers. You are men. Extraordinary men! But will you do me a favor? Remember to tell your old dad about your adventures. In many ways, his life is lived now through your eyes.</p>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-49273535777580624332009-09-28T14:16:00.000-07:002009-09-28T14:22:28.922-07:00Time TravelI wish I could go back in time. I want to return to the days when my sons were very young. I want to watch again as they play Kitty-Kat Football. I want to sit through their plays again. I want to listen as they pray before going to bed. I want to watch them riding bicycles. I want to hear them playing music in their rooms. I want to be in the passenger seat as they drive for the first time.<br /><br />I just want to <strong><em>be</em></strong> with them.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-77306922716109744632009-05-04T11:51:00.000-07:002009-05-04T12:17:17.379-07:00Shane's A Blogger<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXWLM8j29UL10HirOdg6P8rqI_LaJZo444DQqb6sfhabmTFavpSt7jKvNPuU89wy5VnNr0t30v2weLGvZgU6B0HRlaQBTOtC6uwE0VRupIl4H0V68r84EXyqFvJwlcChNR7MW4MmGZi8-/s1600-h/shane.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332049797617314818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXWLM8j29UL10HirOdg6P8rqI_LaJZo444DQqb6sfhabmTFavpSt7jKvNPuU89wy5VnNr0t30v2weLGvZgU6B0HRlaQBTOtC6uwE0VRupIl4H0V68r84EXyqFvJwlcChNR7MW4MmGZi8-/s320/shane.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>My youngest son has started his own blog, and I am so proud!<br /><br />His new blog has closed the circle for me. I started writing when I was a freshman in High School, or at least that is the first time I remember stringing words together in a way that I was proud to let others read. I have tried to pass that along to my sons.<br /><br />My oldest son has a blog, too. For a while he wrote in it often, but now it sits on the lonely Internet frontier like a bull’s skull laying on the abandoned prairie.<br /><br />Shane’s blog, however, is alive and well. You should visit it. He is really quite talented in his writings (he gets it from his dad).<br /><br />If you would like to take a look, go to <a href="http://www.onthebelltolls.blogspot.com/">http://www.onthebelltolls.blogspot.com/</a>.<br /><br />Let me say again, in a humble kind of way, I’M SO PROUD!</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836983651657714229.post-19134564830931746312009-02-25T19:20:00.000-08:002009-02-25T19:51:09.866-08:00Morgen Gave Me A Hug<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZYNzam7AGFtBy8hfONChsQe-toUwb3ID8sE8nOXAN54mgdg0tm487BzIBKe54E78mhibQOmkggAJ9S2uOi7nARb9SdPCTEAosVJetBqjGP_QhZjc2nGz8JWFdXPhZ4SxDE94D1eoquys/s1600-h/IMG_2045.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306948371529080018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZYNzam7AGFtBy8hfONChsQe-toUwb3ID8sE8nOXAN54mgdg0tm487BzIBKe54E78mhibQOmkggAJ9S2uOi7nARb9SdPCTEAosVJetBqjGP_QhZjc2nGz8JWFdXPhZ4SxDE94D1eoquys/s320/IMG_2045.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Morgen gave me a hug. It was a simple act. It only took a moment.<br /><br />I was sitting in a devotional at church tonight when my brother’s grandson, Morgen, walked by me. He stopped, turned around, and walked over to me. With a big smile on his face he just reached out and hugged my neck. He didn’t say a word. He just gave me a hug and walked away.<br /><br />I was touched. Maybe he sensed I needed a little hug. Maybe he was just being nice to Pappy’s brother. Regardless of the reason, I needed and enjoyed that hug.<br /><br />I can’t help but remember when my own little men would do the say thing: just give me hug without word or warning.<br /><br />I miss those hugs.</div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05575214886444841127noreply@blogger.com0