Gadget Freak

I broke down and did it. I succumbed to the iPad G.A.S. attack (Gadget Acquisition Syndrome). I covet those that my friends have purchased and I finally found the right excuse(s) to acquire my own: tax write-off, Christmas, 25th wedding anniversary, my great-grandmother's birthday...

As many already know, I am the guy who gets the new gadget as soon as it comes out. Sometimes I have made mistakes like in the case of the ill-fated HD disc player that was obliterated by the Blu-ray a few years ago. I am now the proud owner of an HD boat anchor. Also, Apple's hand-held Newton comes to mind. I bought one of those several years ago and it became a door stop after it failed to catch on with the masses. Even as I strive to keep up with ever-evolving technology, new stuff gets released that makes what I bought yesterday seem as sophisticated as a button on a string.

It's a sickness. I love to surround myself with cool things replete with buttons, touch screens, WiFi, email, Twitter, Facebook, etc. There is probably a saturation point, but I obviously haven't found it yet. Just yesterday my Droid died for no reason. I fiddled around with it and then, suddenly, the screen filled with a great-big, scary, red exclamation point. I went into panic mode and rushed to my neighborhood Verizon store. The guy, who seemed to be about 12 years old, greeted me, snatched the phone from my sweaty palm, did a quick blur of what seemed to be ninja-type moves, and handed me the phone back. At that point I realized my dependence on gadgets had moved past a "mild sickness" into the "insane" realm. I put too much trust in these plastic wonder boxes to bring me happiness.

I know that my gadget insanity will need to be dealt with, but not before I order my iPad. I hear there are great apps available to help neurotic gadget freaks like me.

Y'all Come Back

North, south, east and west--it's confusing to try and divide the US into such distinct sections these days. But when speaking of American culture, we are forced to do it. When relocating to the south, after growing up in southern California, there was much to learn and plenty of adjustments to make. Southern Californians are, by nature, rebellious. Not in an overt manner, it's just that our forefathers who moved west were leaving the east for a reason. Some were looking to make a better life for their families--a life to be carved out of the wilderness, where wealth wasn't required as much as a strong back, courage and tenacity. The statement, "That's the way we've always done it...," can only hold people back for so long. Some folks just wanted to re-invent their lives. So when opportunity showed up, our brave, rebellious predecessors took the chance and bolted through the open door of opportunity.


It's not that everyone in California is aware or even remotely connected to the adventurous motivations of their ancestors. Most of the time we perpetuate the culture we've been handed only to pass it down without figuring out it's origin. One such cultural difference between east and west is how people respond to their elders here in Tennessee. It's appropriate to say, as a show of respect, "Mr. Jamie," rather than calling me by my first name alone. In the case of a new acquaintance, it is appropriate to say, "Mr. Harvill." When westerners tell a southern kid to drop the "yes sir, no sir," the child will usually answer, "Yes sir!" So don't even try to correct them--it's in their genes. It is an indelible part of the southern fabric.

As a native Californian I can say that we are ego-centric. Because so much cultural change has come out of Hollywood like movies, music and television, it's mistakenly easy to think that the US takes it's marching orders from us. When I visit California, my family always asks me how it is living in the south...kind of in a precious manner, head tilted to show curiosity, with a little dose of, "bless their hearts!" California can sometimes come off as the center of the universe and the rest of the world resents it! I know it's not done on purpose, but it comes across that way sometimes.

Since I am an adopted southern son, I will poke fun at one of the south's cultural idiosyncrasies. If a southerner ever says to you, "Y'all come back," don't show up next week, because they probably forgot, as they didn't really mean it to begin with--it's just an expression.

The truth is, we make our home where our heart is. My heart is in Tennessee. Y'all come and see us...just kidding!

The Harvest

It rained last night--probably the first time our soil has seen significant moisture in two months. Our lawn has taken a serious hit this summer. We made the decision to prepare the lawn for seeding in the fall by doing severe weed killing and fertilizing from the beginning of spring until now. The only thing that we've gleaned up to this point is a desert in the front yard. The poor lawn looks like a guy losing his hair. The only difference is that a lawn can't do a comb-over. There are spots in our front yard that look so pitiful, I've almost given up hope.

A buddy of mine who owns a landscaping business said to call him in October and he'll come over and make an estimate on aerating and seeding the lawn. He assured me that in the process the seeds will stay in the ground via a device called the super-seeder. It sounds dangerous...that's why I want to watch from the sidelines when he pulls that sucker off his trailer. He can't promise me anything, but if all goes as planned, and I do my job as the lawn daddy this winter, I just might be playing golf on the new turf by early summer (high hopes!).

I have made efforts in my personal and professional life over several months where, like the lawn, I hope to see a harvest from all the effort expended. My pesky flesh struggles with delayed gratification. I'm smart enough not to side with my inner child, but rather to take the adult route and wait for the harvest, knowing that good things come to those who are somewhat patient. I can get fidgety in the process, but I know that if I prepare the "soil," plant the "seed," and nurture it with prayer, I'll enjoy a bountiful harvest that only God can bring.

Chilling, Thrilling Halloween

Hey, I admit, I went trick-or-treating as a kid. I understand the spiritual reasons why our children need an alternative these days, not to mention the safety factor. But I did--and I had a blast. My family didn't know Christ back in those days, so we really didn't consider that the holiday celebrated death, the devil and spiritual darkness. I now know the origin of Halloween began as a religious observance of saints in the church. But as a kid, it was a chance to fill our pillow cases with as much free candy that we could gather in a few hours.

A few days out, my mom would let my brothers and I make a trip around the corner to Owl Rexall drugstore to purchase a Halloween costume. They were made of a cheap material that you would pull over your regular clothes. I'm sure that if a lit match touched the material, one would become a human torch. The mask was plastic and held to the back of the head with a stretch band that always hurt because it would get caught in my hair. There was usually a hole where the character's mouth was. I would spend all night unconsciously pushing the tip of my tongue through the slit. I had cuts on my tongue for days afterward. Some years, as we got older, we wouldn't even wear a costume. The anticipation that built up amongst the friends on my block was like a balloon about to pop. Just moments before we were to begin our evening of gathering candy, I would rip the pillow case from my bed and race out the door to haunt the neighborhood.

Some houses went all out with decorations and sound effects. We're talking the 60's here, where technical challenges like sound systems, lighting and fog were insurmountable by the average family. Nowadays you can find all you need at Walmart. I loved the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland and they had a really scary (for that time) record called Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House. Creative folks had the record playing over their stereo that they hid somewhere in the bushes in front of their house. One family decorated their porch with spider webs and a stuffed dummy next to the candy bowl. In one case, a neighbor rigged a speaker in a dummy's mouth and stood to the side with a microphone, out of view, to scare the kids who dared to snag the candy. We were frightened out of our minds when the dummy started talking. At that point, the candy wasn't worth it.

Halloween is a great time of year for our church in Murfreesboro. We serve some 20,000 locals with free candy, music, rides and a humongous cake walk. We take the opportunity to show families that Jesus loves them. Many people start coming to our church because of our Hoedown event every year. I enjoy seeing the creativity of the costumes. Even so, I still have great memories of our simple Halloween adventures back in the day. My mom told me many years after that as soon as we crashed into bed with exhaustion from trick-or-treating, she and my dad would rummage through our candy bags to pilfer some of the good stuff for themselves like Snickers bars and M & M's. She said they left plenty for us. Funny, I never noticed any missing.

The Mighty Pen

I have been writing almost everyday for six months. In that time this blog has come to life. I have discovered that I really enjoy the process of jotting down my thoughts. Sometimes I feel that it is a self-centered activity--writing about my journey through life. As I receive responses from folks all over the USA, I have reconsidered my stance on writing about what I know best: my sphere of experience.

Twitter is fun. I like to read tidbits from other people's experiences and not necessarily have to wade through all the extras that a place like Facebook offers (don't get me wrong, I LOVE the opportunity Facebook has given me to connect with lost friends). The ability to quickly and succinctly convey a thought to other people around the world is a remarkable benefit made possible by our nifty, Dick Tracy-like phones. My favorite person on Twitter is pastor Rick Warren. He seems to deliver the most power-packed statements related to being a Christ-follower. I am encouraged every time a new Rick-tweet makes it's way to my Android smart-phone. I would really be bummed if he stopped delivering his golden nuggets of wisdom throughout the day.

I realize the benefit of writing is for me more than the reader. I have the opportunity to think through what I want to say and, in the process, refine my thoughts to enable a more disciplined delivery. Like with the process of songwriting, I mull over everything, making sure that I am communicating my point in the clearest fashion while considering the grammar and spelling (sometimes a mistake eludes my attention and I have to quickly make repairs after they are later discovered). The process of writing is the only way one will discover his own voice. Over the past months I have had the opportunity to find my own.

I am excited about the future as I branch out with the prospect of several book projects that I have been dreaming about lately. In fact, today I start the outline for what I hope is my entree into the literary world. The pen is powerful--reading has changed my own life tremendously. With my keyboard before me, I am taking steps toward a new and powerful way to express my mind, faith and experience as a fellow traveler to all who will stop and read the words I put to an empty page.

Songwriters

We are a unique bunch. Every waking moment we seem to be meandering through our day like Mr. Magoo, dreaming up new melodies, the perfect rhyme, new ways to say what everyone is thinking, and praying that no one beats us to the idea first. It's a curious thing--making money with things that we made up in our minds.

I don't really know where the songs come from. Some say we catch them as they fall from heaven. I know that some songs have escaped me--especially those that come to me in dreams. Whatever the source, songs are never just written--the best ones are re-written--scrubbed, sifted, re-worked, over and over, until they are ready to face an audience.

I admire the songwriters who labor over their works of art. Mac McAnally is one of those writers. He is little known as an artist (a great singer, and multi-instrumentalist), but his songs are masterpieces. Another master songsmith is Jimmy Webb. He just released a country album of remakes from his illustrious library of songs recorded by other artists. Tunes like By the Time I Get to Phoenix, Wichita Lineman and Galveston are all his progeny.

Some of my favorite writers are of the Tin Pan Alley days--writers who wrote for Broadway shows and movies. Their lyrics and melodies are even being recorded today. I loved the tradition where a prelude was introduced before the song actually started. The craft of those artisans still serve as benchmarks for serious writers today.

I am blessed to be a songwriter. I have always made up stuff in my head that I thought was useless until I realized that other people liked to sing my songs, too. The day I signed my first writer's deal was a dream come true. I look forward to the songs that are in my future. I think the best ones are yet to come.

E-Ticket

In southern California, from which I hail, Disneyland was a frequented attraction for my family. Growing up just a few miles from the park, we were within ear and eye-shot of the Disney experience. We could hear the popping of the fireworks outside, through our screen door in the summer and, like clockwork every evening, knew it was 9:25 PM. It was Tinkerbell's cue to fly from the top of Matterhorn Mountain (via a tight wire, for the "non-believer"). Even when we weren't in the park, the park came to us.

Living so close didn't stifle the desire to visit as often as possible. One favorite stocking-stuffer at Christmastime was a book of tickets (coupons, as they called them) for a visit to Disneyland. The book came with tickets lettered from A to E. The progressing letters represented rides that were increasingly more desirable. Usually we'd come home with unused A and B tickets in the book. The reason was simple: the cool rides like the Pirates of the Caribbean, The Haunted Mansion, Space Mountain, The Matterhorn and the Monorail required an "E-ticket".

According to the meticulous historical research done by the folks at the website Yesterland.com,

"The beginning of the end for “A” through “E” tickets was the 1971 opening of Magic Mountain (now Six Flags Magic Mountain), northwest of Los Angeles. Magic Mountain sold all-inclusive admission tickets for $5.00. Tickets were phased out in the late 1970s and early 1980s and were eliminated (altogether) in June, 1982, when all-inclusive passports became the only form of Disneyland admission."

In Southern California slang, the expression “E-ticket" came to mean any activity or event that was especially worthwhile or exciting. The term barely made it across the California line into the vernacular of other regions and states. I have seen people give me a strange look when I use the term, "That was E-Ticket!" Obviously, obscure Disney references escape the awareness of the general public.

I guess superlatives such as: "excellent", "extraordinary", "incredible", or "awesome" fit the bill for the masses as to what is considered the ultimate. For me, a kid from Fullerton, growing up in the 60's and 70's, "E-ticket" says it all.

Faces

Faces. No, I'm not talking about Rod Stewart's early band, but the thing that glares back at us in the bathroom mirror.

Mom's face is the first thing a child sees in this world (second to the scary men and women wearing funny, surgical outfits). We look to see if someone is pleased or annoyed with us by their facial expressions. I'm lousy at the "poker face" because what you see on my mug is probably what's going on in my head. People say I smile a lot--especially when I'm playing my guitar and singing. I am not aware of it, but they can see by my face that I really enjoy what I do.

I was watching a show recently where people were caught on tape, by a night-vision camera, as they walked through a Halloween haunted house. It's hard to hide your frightened facial contortions when a costumed ghoul jumps out at you from a dark corner. It's also difficult to hide when an expert in human behavior analyzes whether you are lying or telling the truth through subtle facial responses when answering a question.

All in all, our faces tell our story. I ran across some photos of inanimate objects that really tease the brain. They aren't Disney anthropomorphic characters--but real, every-day things we might miss if we are in a hurry. I thought you might get a kick out of them, too.

AM Radio Days

I listened to my parent's car radio as a kid with a different set of ears than when I listened to my stereo as a teen. The same is true now when I listen to new music through my iPod. I am obviously the same person, but the passage of time and my refinement as a musician has changed the way I hear music.

I was transported into another world through an imaginary portal inside the AM radio next to my bed. I turned it off just before I fell asleep--and when I woke up the next morning--I would switch it back on. I can tell you the release date of many of the songs from that era based on the years I had that little bed-side box. I didn't hear with a critical ear back then--I simply listened to songs as a whole. I wasn't concerned about stereo, just moved by the songs as they rolled out over the static and into my head and heart.

Now, with the search for those recordings on the internet to recapture that emotional experience from the AM radio days, I am disappointed. It's hard to ignore the out-of-tune vocals. The drums sound like dull, cardboard boxes, and the liberal use of reverb seems to make the mixes sound cloudy and dark. I want to re-connect with the way those songs once made me feel. Maybe the youthful wonder has been spoiled by knowing too much about the process of making music.

I remember hearing Black Sabbath's Paranoid and Deep Purple's Machine Head for the first time. Without realizing it, I was delving into the beginnings of of heavy metal music. I was mesmerized. I was blown away by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's Deja Vu. The Beach Boys probably had the greatest emotional effect on me. When I listen to these records today, it's hard to dismiss the flaws.

Flaws or not, those records changed my life. Today, many a vocal is tuned to keyboard-like perfection, drums are scooted around and tightened up, and the recordings are hiss-free and crystal-clear. I have learned that these changes don't necessarily make for better records. I'll always cherish that little AM radio. Static and all, it introduced me to the fantasy that I am living today.

A Constant Companion

Just yesterday morning on Facebook my sister-in-law posted that my nephew Peter had an eye exam. They found out that he was half blind. Brenda shot back a reply and said we found out the same thing about Betsy when she was in school. In Betsy's case, poor eyesight was handed down through me and my dad. Who knows how far back this malady goes in my family? I shudder to think what she missed all those years that we were unaware of her ablepsy.

Glasses have been plastered to my face since I was 13. The month my braces were removed, following a 2-year tangle with the orthodontist, an optometrist took his place with my diagnosis of near-sightedness. I remember borrowing a friend's glasses and being surprised to behold vivid colors and solid lines replacing the fuzzy, undefined shapes I was used to seeing. I had a terrible headache one Saturday after going to the movies, so my dad booked a visit to the eye doctor only to confirm what he already suspected.

Brenda's eyesight has always been perfect until recently. Only a few years ago she began to need a little help from readers to enjoy her beloved Kindle. Joshua takes after his mother in that his eyes have needed no assistance whatsoever in seeing the world around him. I have never known a morning when I woke up without patting down the bedside table in search of my glasses. In fact, I have an over-sized digital clock next to me so I can see the time without them when nature calls in the middle of the night ( a whole other story for another time!). For a decade I have carried reading glasses to accompany my contact lenses. It didn't seem fair when my doctor told me I'd have to wear both. That revelation sucked.

I guess the only remedy would be surgery. It makes me cringe to think about that. I can't stand the thought of someone dragging a knife across my cornea. Trifocals do the job pretty well for me these days, as do contact lenses when I play on stage. So, to add to a challenged prostate, failing teeth, ear hair and rosy cheeks, glasses will continue be a constant companion.

Pretty When It's New

Merle Haggard has an extraordinary way with words. He has crafted many a hit that still find their way, via his greatest hits releases, into my iPod. As a master songwriter, his material should be studied by future songsmiths. Today I was listening through his new release called, I Am What I Am. In his 76th album, this 73 year old sings about love from an old and wise perspective, and says in a recent interview with American Songwriter magazine , “I’ve seen it all, and I’ve seen it go away.” His wife Teresa joins him on many of the tunes, one of which caught my heart when I first heard it:

Pretty When It's New

Love’s always lovely, when first two lovers meet.
Hand in hand, arm in arm, walkin’ down the street.
Always seen together, in everything they do.
Love is always pretty, when it’s new.

Love is always special, especially to the heart.
When it’s love on sight, and all is right, and there’s no doubt from the start.
Before it starts to crumble, there’ll be many shades of blue.
Ah, but love is always pretty when it’s new.

Love is always pretty, when it’s new.
Hey, there’s nothing bad about it, ‘til your lover says, “We’re through.”
Old love’s even sweeter, that old saying’s really true.
Love is always pretty when it’s new.

It's a sad commentary on our society when the statistic remains that half of all marriages fail. I heard that warning a lot when I was dating Brenda. People would say, "You better be sure before you take the plunge." The truth is, we all go into marriage with a bright hope for tomorrow, and plan to grow old and gray together. Somewhere along the road, some couples just find that life will be better splitting up and heading in different directions. Haggard's song says it well, "Love is always pretty, when it’s new. Hey, there’s nothing bad about it, ‘til your lover says, 'We’re through'." The only advice I can give potential partners is that marriage is a series of decisions made along the way in the interest of staying together on the same path. Feelings don't always accompany those moments of decision, but they will follow if given time. I heard it said that there's no better mate than the one you already have. That sounds rough to those in a marital crisis. But when you bring your old baggage to a new marriage, and factor in the blended family with all of it's challenges, you are better off working at sticking together.

I've been a witness to a 50 year love affair between my parents. Brenda's folks celebrated their 50th last December. Yes, love is exciting and invigorating when it's shiny and new. But, as the song implies in it's closing stanza, "Old love’s even sweeter, that old saying’s really true." As Brenda and I reach our 25th anniversary this December, I can say, "Amen," to that, Mr. Haggard. I am still madly in love.

Mom

My mom went to be with Jesus 13 years ago, April. Every once in a while, usually by way of a song, a whiff of dinner cooking, or simply a change of season, her memory comes to life. When mom was alive, I must have taken her for granted. Today, as the fall slowly continues it's transformation on the landscape, I am reminded of just how much color and beauty she brought to me. She was a quiet person, generally, until Aretha Franklin records played on the stereo. Man, she could dance! But when she settled down from her occasional funk-fest, you barely knew she was there.

Mom was small--right at 5'-2" when she stood up straight. But nothing ever got by her and she would wield a belt like no none else. I never saw her run or hurry anywhere except to defend her three boys if there was a hassle at school or if we were falsely accused of something. I remember the time I was assigned to a sixth grade teacher that my brother Rob had three years earlier. My mom must have deeply disliked this teacher because she yanked me out of Pacific Drive School altogether and put me in Mr. Neal's sixth grade class at Orangethorpe Elementary.

My mom was tough. But she had a soft spot in her heart and a deep love for my dad. She had to endure much as a little kid. Her own father left the family for another woman which caused her mom to uproot she and her younger brother from Clarksville, TN to Evansville, IN to worked in a cigar factory. Even before her father eventually returned to the family, my mom dearly loved and defended him. His drinking annoyed her, though. As an infant, her dad would take her to sit on the bandstand while he played trumpet in a jazz band. One time my mom, her brother and mother sat in a car at the curb waiting on her dad to collect money for a painting job he had done. The debtor, standing in his front doorway, refused the polite request to pay and my mom, hearing the exchange, leaned out of the car window and screamed, "You son of a ____!" She was fierce, protective, loyal and had a fiery temper!

My mom wasn't perfect. She had issues with trust. Money, or the lack of it, really tugged at her security blanket. But she taught me to stand up against what was wrong. She was an advocate for those who were shoved into the shadows--like the mentally handicapped she worked with for several years. She detested liars and often shined a light of truth on their dark deeds.

No one wants to hear the dreaded news. It came on a Saturday, just hours after I told her I loved her. She was gone--stolen from us way too early by a brain hemorrhage. Powerful things come in small packages. Mom made a powerful effect on my life. The changing season makes those memories seem so real today--almost like she never left.

Mom, Betty Jean, at age 17

I Got A Barbecue Jones

Tennessee is in my blood. Both branches on my family tree lived in this state for a couple of hundred years before moving west to find work, right around the depression. My father's relatives hail from Centerville and spread out to Franklin and Nashville. Middle Tennessee is Harvill territory. My mother's people, the Ryes and Hudspeths, hail from Clarksville, right at the border of Kentucky where my grandmother was born. Even though I was born in southern California, I was raised in a decidedly Southern fashion. Bacon grease was considered an herb in my home. Meat was consumed at every meal, and we didn't shy away from the succulent fat that outlined and marbled each piece.

I learned to grill as early as I learned to cut the grass. My dad gladly handed over the reigns to me. The smell of the coals as they burn off the lighter fluid still gives me reason to choose briquettes over gas to this day! I learned early that the best tasting meat wasn't cooked to death. I still can't understand how people can eat "shoe leather" steaks. My preference is medium-rare and my cut of choice is a rib eye, no less. Our health-conscious society frowns upon the marbled fat that ribbons it's way through a righteous rib eye. Though I have made serious changes in my diet, I will still kill for a rib eye every few months!

Barbecue is a staple of the Tennessee diet. Our ancestors--well, slaves to be more accurate--cooked outdoors, over an open flame, the discarded cuts of pork rejected by the main house, and used smoke to cure the winter's portion of meat. It is a poor man's food turned into a gold mine for many a restaurateur. Barbecue is as foundational to the Tennessean as a killer Mexican dinner is to the native southern Californian (I am a serious Mexican food fiend, too!).

When my Aunt Judy and Uncle Jim flew out from Orange County to visit us last year, they graciously took time to attend Betsy and Adam's wedding. When I was taking them back to the airport, they wanted to grab a bite to eat before their long, 6 hour, food-barren flight. I suggested a barbecue place right off the interstate. When our orders arrived, our salivary glands were teased by the sizzling, smokey delights that were placed before us. I asked Jim and Judy if they eat much barbecue. They went on to say that barbecue isn't big in SoCal. "What????," I screamed as the other patrons turned to see me pound my fist on the table (this is a fictitious outburst, of course, but the surprise was not).

Californians, according to my aunt and uncle, just don't have the hankering for smoked meat like we do here in the South. I suspect that it is for health reasons. But even so, the delight we spend millions on each year, this peasant food we call barbecue, will always have a cherished place in our Tennessee hearts and stomachs. I'll take mine with barbecue beans, cornbread and corn-on-the-cob with iced tea and lemon, thank you! Mama taught me well.