Seeking Perfection

It was the perfect day.

It was the perfect moment.

It was the perfect opportunity.

Perfect for what?


Marjorie stood silently as she peered from her corner bedroom window. Dark threatening clouds were rolling in and blotting out the sunlight. The rumble of thunder resonated from a distance and an occasional flash alerted the coming storm. She smiled.

Across the street a young boy pedaled feverishly as he steered his bicycle into his yard and jumped off without stopping. The bike crashed against the picket fence as the boy ran up the steps and rushed into the house for safety.

Fallen leaves danced in circles along the street as a wind devil carried them in its powerful embrace. A lost page from a newspaper climbed into the sky like a kite and then floated back to the ground. The storm ever neared as Marjorie absorbed the moment and decided it was perfect.

Again I ask, perfect for what?

Marjorie was a forty something who had experienced little distress in her lifetime. A normal childhood by most observations, but the seed of illness had made her unsure of herself and destined for failure. In spite of her sometime despair however, the kiss of success had caressed her and she had become much more than expected.

A wife, mother, teacher and businesswoman, Marjorie had many titles and had prospered in all. It often seemed possible as the saying goes, “You can accomplish any goal you set your mind to.” But she knew that accomplishing her goals were impossible.

How can you begin again, start your life over with new parents and a new birthright. How can you overcome the doubt which had been instilled since birth, in spite of her family’s attempts to get her help? Marjorie had been successful for a number of years to set aside her weaknesses, but with age they were slowly creeping back and consuming her.

The mind can be a terrible place, a place for disease to fester and take away one’s resolve, a disease born from abuse and neglect. Marjorie suffered from bouts of depression and often disappeared from the world which looked at her every move and criticized her thoughts.

When she began to withdraw and remove herself from convention, she was first described as quaint by her friends. Later on, those who knew her least called her a recluse and a crazy. Those who have never suffered with this ailment or such an apprehension can be cruel. Paralysis caused by internal fear is very real.

Depression is defined as a psychiatric disorder showing symptoms such as persistent feelings of hopelessness, dejection, poor concentration, lack of energy, inability to sleep, and, sometimes, suicidal tendencies. To Marjorie it is simply the end of the road.

The lightening flashed and the crack of thunder shook the windowpanes. Rain began to fall hard and wind blew the drops of water against the house. Marjorie glanced at the clock and decided again, it was time, this was the perfect time.

For Marjorie, death was the way to begin anew. Her hope had been shattered by time and untreated disease. There would be no better days ahead for her for she had an impaired vision of the future.

I knew Marjorie as kind and sweet, smart and talented. To me she was to be singled out as an example to be emulated by her young followers. Her masking abilities convinced her acquaintances that she was perfect. She was a perfect success, a perfect example of a perfect life.

So once more, what is perfect? Is it a truth which we can rely on or just a falsehood of our own making to give us hope? And when we fail to reach that desired goal, are we failures for not achieving more?

Of course not. We succeed by trying our best and living to help others. Our internal goals direct us but are not our measure. We are measured by who we are and not what we have achieved, by the work we have done not the fortune we amassed. We strive to be the best we can be, knowing we will not be perfect.

But for Marjorie, she reached for her perception of perfection, and when she could not achieve it, she lost hope.

Then came the perfect day.

The perfect moment.

The perfect opportunity, and she reached for perfection one last time.

Forgive those who fall short and help those who are paralyzed in thought. They may be your friend.

Is It Time to Dance?

I have been wondering lately about that time of life. You know the time when you are on the downside of the seesaw, closer to the end than the beginning. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t a morbid study of life and death, but rather a checkup like when you go to the doctor.

I know I haven’t accomplished all that I have intended, but time goes on just the same. It is like planning the itinerary for a long vacation and highlighting far more things to do than you have time for. I often set the vacation plan aside midway and follow my instincts. It usually is a better route and relieves so much of the pressure.

So here I am, counting sixty plus on a scale of say a hundred. It will be more like eighty or seventy, I know, but one still is allowed to dream. The car is loaded and I have traveled long and hard and have cast aside my road map. I’m living by the seat of my pants and making smaller footprints in the sand.

I am reminded of a time when I was growing up. In my small town, we often had sock hops on weekends for the young teens. The large room with polished hardwood floors was filled with loud music playing and boys and girls near the same age. We would have high hopes of discovery when we entered the hall, but we soon found reality.

The boys would line up on one side of the room, standing or sitting and joking among themselves. The girls did the same on the opposite wall, hoping the boys would notice them and ask for a dance. The braver males would cross the DMZ, or neutral zone, and ask his favorite girl to dance, but the majority stood to build up nerve.

Now, I had a plan each time I went to the little gatherings, it had been discussed with my closest friend and rehearsed in my mind. It was a proposal which could not fail once enacted. But therein lies the problem. I was too shy to launch my plan.

I pause here to recall an old saying, “It’s time to put up or shut up.” I think that relates very well to my dilemma. Planning needs to be done to insure success, but to build an agenda is worthless without action.

Back at our sock hops, the best time for interaction was when the boys and girls met at the cookie and punch table. It was an opportunity to talk without the other boys commenting. We cared so much what others thought and said that we were inhibited. But for the shy like me, even this attempt at contact was futile.

But there came a time at each dance where opportunity was running out. The party would soon be over and you had to ask yourself, “Do I want to dance with a girl or just go home? Again.” It was that time when you had to ask, “Is it time to dance?”

I think in my personal life that I have been successful; a long marriage to a wonderful wife, three great kids and five grandkids whom I adore. Outward possessions no longer worry me, I have become more introspective. Some of my friends count the days, hours and minutes remaining at the dance, but I have decided that I will stop asking that old question.
I know the answer, it is time to dance.

Will you join me?

A Round Table Discussion

I walked down the corridor, the long corridor leading to the room marked “Forevermore.” Picture frames hung precariously on the walls, each empty of purpose. I wondered the reason for the vacant display but heard no answer as I wandered on. I finally reached the room, the room of forever, a pale yellow room with no windows. The only illumination came from a crystal chandelier in the center of the room.

Directly under the light fixture was a round table. The mahogany structure was absent of carvings or style; a serviceable piece none the less. Six chairs circled the table and called for guests to be seated. The room was empty of rug or flowers, only the table and chairs. I walked around the perimeter and noticed that each chair was shaped differently.

What is the purpose of this table with mismatched chairs? For that mater, what purpose did this room serve? Was it a dining room for kings of six nations, or six brothers of different interests? No chair seemed dominate although they were adorned differently.

“Hello,” I said and heard my question replay as it echoed. “I seem to be lost, can someone help me?” There was no voice to answer other than the voice I hear inside my head. I was tired and in need of rest, so I pulled out one of the dissimilar chairs and sat.

I heard a voice begin talking, telling me of a love that flourished between a young man and a forbidden young girl, a love that for purposes of morality could never be consummated. The man had been tormented by his desire to have his love, yet he could not act on his need. This chair was becoming uncomfortable so I moved to the next.

The second chair had a softer cushion. I heard the story of this chair. A motherly lady with curvy bottom had occupied this chair for many years in her home. I could smell the rose petal scent of her perfume as I closed my eyes. She had a shrill voice but it was free of hate and made me smile. I liked that chair, but it was not made for a man.

The third chair was more my size and the heavy frame surely belonged to a man. I shut out the light and listened and heard shouts of terror and threats of murder. This man was a warrior who plundered his enemies and beheaded them and stole their women. Before he sold the concubines, he made pleasure with the more desirable few. I wanted to know more but the voice went silent.

The forth chair had held a merchant who dealt in furs and fine fabrics. He traveled far to gather his inventory and sold them at the highest price. On a gathering trip I went and found the condition of the poor people with whom he dealt. Poor they were and the fabrics were woven by children and old women with fingers knotted from arthritis and years of hard work. The man dealt with tribes for the furs and traded liquor and mystery herbs to distract their sense of business. I felt dirty in this chair.

The next chair was painted with a glossy red paint. It was not pretty, at least to my taste, but to another it might be their choice. I sat gingerly for it had no cushion and the seat was slatted. The voice didn’t have to tell me this was a chair of torture. My tail bone instantly complained and I wished I had more fat for padding. I was quick to get up and move to the last chair.

Sereneness came over me and I felt comfort as I had never before felt the very instant I sat in the chair. There was no discomfort to my buttocks or to any other part for that matter. However, after I luxuriated in the bliss for a few moments, I realized there was a heavy burden of responsibility which came with sitting here. It would take a special man to sit here, perhaps a godly man, perhaps God himself.

I quickly stood and replaced the holy chair and stepped away. I was not holy enough to sit there, nor could I be comfortable in that responsibility. I returned to the door through which I had entered and took a final look. This story table did not fit me and I would have to move on. As I followed the corridor of frames without pictures, I wondered. The voice that told me the stories of the chairs, was it real or imaginary?

Chairs have no voice so it had to be imagined my voice of reason told me. If chairs could talk, they could probably walk or dance or even run. It made me laugh as I listened to the voice inside me, my constant companion as I create. Chairs and tables have no stories to tell just the same as mellow yellow rooms with chandeliers. Stories come from the occupants who are human.

If you hear a room or piece of furniture, know it is alright to listen, but it isn’t wise to answer back, especially if you are not alone.

A Monument

I live in a small East Texas town. For many, Kilgore, Texas seems inconsequential, but to those who know the town and its past, this little clearing among the tall pine trees is legendary. Founded as a refueling point when the railroad came through, for many years Kilgore served the cotton and peanut farmers. No tourists came through town in those days for there was little to see.

But in the early 1930’s, everything changed. Oil was discovered. A lake of black gold was under the town and all around. Kilgore became a boomtown, growing in population from a few thousand to more than thirty-thousand in a year’s time. The rush for gold only lasted a few years. By then, most land had been leased and the great rush to drill leveled out.

Not that everyone moved away from Kilgore and left a ghost town behind, for the production of oil continued for the next sixty years. Even today oil is pumped out of the ground here, but not on the scale of the 1940’s and 50’s.

My dad came to East Texas at the age of nineteen from Oklahoma. The Sooner State had turned into a dust bowl due to long years of drought, followed by the Great Depression of 1929. Many of the boomers who diverged on the small East Texas town came from the small oilfields of Oklahoma.

Monuments come in all shapes and sizes. Some are carved out of stone and others are molded into bronze. Great buildings are erected and named in tribute for famous people. Houses and buildings designed by Frank Lloyd Wright stand exemplary of his imagination and design skills.

For the people who grew up in and around Kilgore, we have a monument like no other to salute the heroics of our fathers. On one city block of downtown, there are tall metal oil derricks standing where oil wells stood for fifty or more years.

The city named the block of wells The World’s Richest Acre. At the height of the boom, buildings were torn down or made smaller and twenty-four wells were drilled. The wells flowed without pumping units for many years, with the gas pressures below the ground forcing the oil up the pipes. When the pressure dropped, the pumpers took over, drawing out the last of the precious substance.

The derricks are an oddity today with modern portable drilling rigs which carry their drilling derrick with them, but during the boom, in the rush to drill the wells and get rich, they would build the derricks and abandon them rather than take the time or expense of tearing them down.

More than eleven hundred oil wells were drilled within the city limits in the first ten years of discovery. As the city expanded its boundaries, many more wells were added to that total. There are wells in town still producing after seventy-five years.

As a young boy, I enjoyed seeing the derricks and thought every town had the same display. Our monuments are an interesting sight at anytime of the year, but at Christmas they become magical. Lighted stars are placed at the very top of the tall structures, and many have long strands of lights streaming down the four legs.

At the Richest Acre, the words Merry Christmas are spelled out in lights and strung and span between two derricks. Another display saying Happy New Year hangs between two other structures. Truly a sight for sore eyes.

This small town with its rich history is proud of its monuments and the oil boomers who came here and wrote our history. We have been blessed to live here as were our parents. Every Christmas as I drive through my hometown, a lump of pride swells inside me and I remember the people who gave this to us.

I Have A Big Problem

There are things in life that we tolerate rather than do anything about because it is much easier than to try to change them. I have had to face that fact recently. You see, I have a big problem. I am too big to get into my pants and have had to buy larger ones.
The simple solution, of course, is to lose the extra weight. I say simple because it is simple to say. It is much easier to know the solution than it is to enact a plan to lose weight. I try to watch the food I eat and make sure I eat nutritiously, but I deserve better. A piece of Key Lime pie occasionally shouldn’t be a crime.
I started an exercise regimen and did well, but I have certain requirements when it comes to exercising. If it is too hot or too cold, I just cannot be expected to workout. Also, I can’t risk riding a bicycle and running is too strenuous, so I limit my time to walking. Thirty minutes a day, inside my house with the A/C running faster than I am walking.
I seem to do better if there is something good on TV. You can’t have a good walk while watching soap operas or the news. I have found CSI reruns make for a quick walk. One show was so good that I walked for almost the entire hour.
I went to a fitness center for a while, but to see the old people like me trying to kill themselves was so depressing. Many of the senior citizens were successful, may they rest in peace. But most were of the same opinion as me and decided it was better to watch exercise videos at home.
I have a friend who loves working out. She walks, runs, rides bikes and climbs... whatever, and I say more power to her. Her latest venture was a family team marathon. I haven’t heard if they all lived through the experience, but my prayers went with her. I slept in that Saturday and later took my wife to the local Italian restaurant where we both had too much to eat.
If fat weren’t such a friendly thing it would be easier to get rid of. You can always count on your friend to go with you wherever you go. And when I’m feeling lonely, my friend snuggles up close to embrace me. There is no question whether it will still be with me tomorrow, because our relationship just keeps growing.
I like to think of myself as a sometimes funny guy. Most people don’t agree, but my fat friend is my best supporter. Every time I say something which I think is funny, my friend supports me. As I laugh, my fat shakes and applauds by shaking like a lush bowl of Jell-O. Why would I ever want to lose a friend so supportive?
I read a report where scientist estimate fifty-percent of American’s are overweight and thirty percent are obese. For those who are slim and trim, they are quickly becoming the minority. I grew up in a time when it was patriotic to eat everything on our plates and where tossing out leftovers was taking food out of the mouths of poor people in some less fortunate country. So, I guess, in my own way, I’m being a loyal American by eating more than I should.
I realize that I won’t be able to keep this up much longer, but I hate to surrender the one thing which I can still do successfully. I can no longer work a full-time job and my physical strength doesn’t allow me to do the things I did when I was young, so eating and gaining weight provide me with a creative outlet.
Well, I guess I have exercised the fat between my ears long enough for tonight. I’ll go check the scales later, but I can assure you that I haven’t lost weight while typing this blog. I am more than a little disappointed, and the worst of it is that the only flavor of Blue Bell ice cream we have in the house is vanilla.