3 ... 2 ... 1 ... DING!

What better thing to do whilst home-bound in a blizzard than to heat up Christmas dinner leftovers. Those who are familiar the culinary skills of my wife know that even leftovers at our house are extraordinary.

And since I am not allowed to cook anything – for the safety of those present at the meal – when I "cook," it has to be something heated in the microwave.

The extent of my skill is to just keep putting it back in until it is hot. I have no formula for exacting a time that will magically make the food the right temperature when ... DING ... it is supposed to be done.

I watch the timer count down ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... DING! Pulling out the container, I check the heat index. Too hot to touch and liquid around the edges is bubbling, but it smells wonderful. Hmmm. Hope I didn't leave it in for too long. (That's another thing ... how many times to you just guess at how long to cook something in a microwave then wait until that last second counts off the timer like the microwave will implode or something if you don't wait until each second clicks off.)

So I take a bite–expecting a bit of burn from the heat–and the food isn't even Luke-warm. (Also, with luke-warm, you aren't running cold water over your fingers after taking the container out of the device.)

The edges are boiling. Steam is rising. The container is almost dripping – yes, even a "microwave safe" container – finger tips are dancing around the rim looking for a safe haven from the heat. But the middle of the container still holds food molecules that refuse to get excited about all the energy aimed at it.

When snowed in for three days, you do have a lot of time so I thought I would write this blog to coin a new name for describing this heating paradox: "melt-the-container-cool" (substitute cold or frozen as appropriate).

So the next time you pull something out of a microwave and the edges are too hot to touch but the middle is not there yet, you'll know how to describe it, and smile. You're not the only one.

And with that ... DING! ... this entry is done.

Overcoming My Migraines

In marketing, there is such a thing called a Public Service Announcement (PSA). Today's entry could be called my version of a PSA. I am sharing a story about the first time I started having the symptoms of a migraine and stopped them before they progressed to the migraine itself. I can't promise this would work for anyone else but it did for me and it changed my life. Yes, migraines are that bad (for those who have never had the pleasure of such an experience) that this was life-changing.

I don't know what year it was but I remember the details of that day with crystal clarity. It was well over 11 years ago. I was on my way to a golf outing at an exclusive, private golf course south of Denver, Colorado. Beautiful blue was the sky with the sun shining brightly. A superb day for golf, especially free golf, especially free golf at an exclusive private golf course, especially when you don't have much money and you certainly aren't a "member" anywhere.

Sitting at a stop light, glancing at the bumper of the white van ahead of me, my eyes caught the piercing reflection of the sun. For me, that can be enough to trigger a migraine and sure enough, today was that day.

I get ocular migraines. Prior to actually having the painful migraine headache, something goes wrong with my vision in the form of a blind spot. Not that everything goes black in this area of vision–my mind would fill in the missing gaps. If I look at the bridge of someone's nose, then the right side of their face would have no detail, just blank shapes. Reading is out of the question and driving becomes impossible if the blind spot grows too large. I can tell the size of the blind spot because a visible "aura" shows the shape and size. The very second I notice my vision not working, I usually have about 15 minutes before it is too large to drive.

So I catch the sun reflection in the bumper and immediately the blind spot is apparent. No! Not today. Not now! I REALLY wanted to play this course. Making the turn, heading south, I rationalize that I live south so if it gets too bad, my wife can pick me up somewhere down the road. Switching hands feverishly, I rub my shoulders as best I can in hopes of relieving tension or something. I've never been able to stop the migraine before and have no idea what made me think I would stop it now. The blind spot is growing.

Edge of town. Do I stop or continue? Can I still drive? A few miles down the road is a little store. I think I can make it. I do. What could possibly get rid of a migraine? (By the way, this was before migraine medicine came out.) I buy asperin, chocolate, coffee and a few other things that just might do something and off I go.

Still growing, the blind spot is at the edge of being too bad to drive, possibly a bit on the other side of too bad. I really need to pull over. While sitting there, having consumed all my health aids, hands cramping from rubbing my shoulders so much, I sit on the side of the road wondering what my next step is. Possibly out of desperation, I trying breathing in and out, over and over. You know the kind of breathing. Ever blow up a dozen balloons then get light headed?

I am breathing like that but not getting light headed. In fact, the blind spot is receding! I continue until the blind spot is almost gone and continue to the golf course. I make it just in time to tee off. My head hurt the whole time and I still had a bit of a blind spot so I lost a few balls that day but it was well worth it. From that day on, I have been able to keep the headache part of the migraines from totally ruining the day.

This was absolutely amazing.

I chose to write about this because Tuesday I started getting a blind spot at 4:53 pm. Without hesitation, I began breathing deep and rapid. Called my wife "I'm getting a migraine, I am leaving now to pick you up and driving fast."

A few miles down the Interstate, traffic is STOPPED. I am in the left hand lane with nowhere to go and a blind spot that's growing every second I sit there. At this point, I am looking at the F-150 ahead of me and can only see three fourths of it. I can't trust my vision to try and make my way to the right lanes since I know my blind spot is too big. I am thinking of pulling off to the left.

I call my wife to let her know what is happening.

We try to coordinate a plan of her getting a ride to come to me but, due to the breathing exercises, my blind spot is fading and I can drive again. By the time I pick her up, the blind spot is totally gone.

If you suffer from migraines and have never tried breathing more than normal to get more oxygen in your system, try it immediately when you start having symptoms. In no way, shape or form can I promise it will work for you like it did for me, but there is nothing to lose and your life to get back. I have not had even ONE migraine headache since that day. Every blind spot has faded away using the breathing technique.

If it works, let me know.

©2009 Kurt Holdorf

Big Mac

Every year about this time I think about the big one that DIDN'T get away – the 25 lb. flathead catfish I named Big Mac.

I know there are bigger fish out there. Shows on cable constantly make Big Mac seem like a guppy. So be it. As any fisherman – or fisherwoman? – knows it's the story about the fish that lasts forever so Big Mac lives on, again, as I recap that great angling event several years ago.

Why Big Mac? This was the year Mark McGuire hit his record* number of home runs in a single season (yes, I asterisked record). McGuire's jersey was 25. The stars aligned and so it was named.

To set the stage, I was living in Kearney, Nebraska, at the time – over 10 years ago. Wow, didn't realize it had been that long. I worked right next door to Cabela's and often stared at the fish in their huge aquarium. Fishing in Kearney was great so I frequented Cabela's as necessary to replace line and try different tackle. Well, the best place to fish in Kearney for me and my son was right behind the Ramada Inn.

One day, we set up for a day at our spot. I threw my line in, turned around to get my pole holder and next thing I knew, my pole was heading for the water. I grabbed the pole and my 12 lb test snapped like it was nothing. Whoa! up to that point, a 9 lb fish was the largest I'd ever caught. What was in this sand pit lake?

Next time at Cabela's, I purchased some 25 lb test line. I was going to get whatever that was.

In a separate fishing excursion, I was fishing a spillway and tried to lift a bass up the wall but ending up breaking my pole. Not the brightest thing I've done but it is still several steps smarter than hooking one's self so I shrugged it off.

Who knows why but I saw an antique bait casting reel at a garage sale and bought it to put on the broken stick of a pole that I had left. Waste not, want not. No, that sounds too intelligent. How about "You know if you're a redneck if ..." That's better.

Of course, I put the 25 lb test on the antique bait casting reel on a broken pole. Why wouldn't you? After all, the reel had no drag so I needed heavy line.

Fast forward to visiting my parents who live on a lake. I take my Frankenstein set up just to get a laugh from everyone, and believe me, I took a lot of heat for the 25 lb test line. At 11 pm, I throw out some line – literally, with my son holding the pole, I walked off 30 feet of line then threw out the bait. Laid the pole in the back of my dad's boat on shore and went to bed.

The next morning I get up and look out the window. Even with sleep still in my eyes I could see the piano wire I had on my pole was taunt. I became instantly alert, awake and eager to see what was on the end of this contraption.

I walk up to the boat, trying to absorb what I am seeing. The broken pole is pointing almost parallel to the water, with line shooting straight out from it as far as you can see, never reaching the water before it disappears from sight. Whoa! The only reason the pole is not IN the water is because the reel is stuck on the lip of the side of the boat. Cool!

Grabbing the rod and reel, I crank the handle. No sign of life on the other end. I figured the fish wrapped around a log or something. Dang. A few yards from shore, the "log" came to life and pulled on the line so strongly that the pole was cracking from the tension. With no drag on the line, I had to unreel as fast as I could so the reel wouldn't come off the pole. Then reeled it in again. Let it out again. Reeled it in. This went on for half an hour. Finally, the fish was too tired and came to the surface (catfish hate the surface). A big swirl in the water gave it away. Half a second later, another swirl over three feet away. What the ... ? No way! This was a big one.

Without a net and nobody else awake to witness the event, I land a flathead that was almost three times heavier than the biggest fish I'd ever caught before. Measuring 42 1/2 inches long, it was the most exhilarating catch in my life. Finally, witnesses poured out of the house and we all gawked at this formidable thing on shore.

I put it on a stringer, called Cabela's, and asked if they wanted a 25 lb catfish for their aquarium. Sure!

My dad let me have a large container and off we went. I chuckled to myself thinking of scenarios of getting stopped by a police officer "Let me see what's in the container...". But, alas, no police stoppage.

We arrive at Cabela's and I feel like a champion fisherman – can't wait to tell the guys at work that the huge catfish in the tank is MINE. Well, this wasn't the first fish Cabela's ever saw ... they knew it had to be quarantined for a week to make sure it was healthy enough to put in the tank. A few days later, I got the sad news that Big Mac had died of a fungus. So close!

I've caught bigger fish since then but they were nowhere near as exciting as that first 20+ pounder. Once you catch a fish that takes almost an hour to reel in, you really want to experience it again. A lot of things in life are like that – just cool and awesome and very infrequent. They laughed at my thick line when I arrived that day, but not after Big Mac. I had the vision to catch a fish bigger than they could imagine and took the steps to achieve it.

Have a vision to do something extraordinary with your life and see if you can pull it off–even if those around you don't "get it" and scoff. If you fail, keep trying. Make special things happen with your life rather than watching other people do them on TV. Start small and keep reaching for the next brass ring.

story is ©2009, Kurt Holdorf photo is not actual, but looks exactly like Big Mac

Why Taligate?

Ever get someone driving behind you riding up on your bumper? Do you care? Does it make you mad? Do you not give it a second thought?

Well, today, I had one of those experiences that make you think about the dangers of driving--the SUV ahead of me pulled sharply away from a traffic light as it turned green. Whatever he was hauling wasn't secure and rolled into his back window, thus shattering glass all over the intersection in front of me. (I didn't actually see it at the time, I just saw glass flying and landing. Took a few blocks of following the guy to put the evidence together so I am just guessing that's what happened.)

Today I am asking the question "Why tailgate?" Forget images of hot wings and beer before a football game. That's not what I am talking about here.

Every day I drive to work I notice people driving a mere 15 feet or so behind another vehicle while driving 65 miles per hour. This isn't a video game, folks. Lives can change in a bad way in a heartbeat. And what is gained? Two seconds. For two seconds of getting somewhere faster you are going to risk your life? Your passengers' lives? The life (lives) of anybody you smash into?

Normal human reaction time is .25 of a second. Pretty fast, alright. In that .25 of a second, you just traveled 23.8 feet. SMASH. You lose--guaranteed. Actually, you would go 47.6 feet because first you would have to react by identifying what you are seeing (e.g. road hazard, car stopping, etc.) then you would have to act by using the correct controls to avoid the hazard. Double loser.

At 95.3 feet PER SECOND, the two second rule minimum gives you 190.6 feet between you and other cars for safe reaction time. Put in sports distances, that's well over half a football field and well over the distance a professional baseball player runs from 1st base to third base. That's the MINIMUM safe distance. (three seconds is recommended)

Add distance on top of that if you are eating, talking on a cell phone, smoking, applying make-up (I heard this one on an insurance commercial and thought they were making it up but I have actually seen this take place.)

We had a minivan several years ago and that thing weighed 4,000 lbs. If 4,000 lbs. could stop in 15 feet, the energy it would take to do so would kill you even if you avoided hitting the car ahead of you. Think people!

Ok, so you don't like science and never had physics. Well, ignorance of the law(s of physics) is no excuse. Just because you don't want to do the math doesn't mean your car can ignore friction vs. momentum, too.

I really don't care if people think I drive too slow because I am driving the speed limit. Go around. That's why there are more than one lane on a highway. But if you can't go around, you don't have the right to jeopardize my life because you can't wait two seconds longer to get where you want to go. BACK OFF! Or at the very least plan better so you are not in such a rush. It's not my fault you can't manage your time.

Where does my caution come from? Real life experiences. I've been on the road long enough to know that the unexpected DOES and WILL come at you when you least expect it.

Examples:

1) I was driving next to a semi just as it blew a tire and most of it flew right over my car. Could someone tailgating me avoid that? No. Loser.

2) A semi passed me one day. Just as it cleared my car, one of it's highly tensioned support straps snapped and whipped the concrete right ahead of me. I braked hard.

3) I've come up on no less than 5 deer standing directly in my path and 3 running across my path at night. More brake slamming.

4) I turned a corner on a dark highway one time and a TREE was blocking both lanes of traffic. No matter what they say in golf, it didn't look like 80% air.

5) Don't even get me started about slowing down in fog. Multiple car pile-ups are just plain dumb. If you can't see, don't zoom. Hmm.

6) On a two lane highway, a car two ahead of me braked suddendly. The car directly ahead of me and the truck behind me weren't paying attention. Fortunately I was and had time to actually miss the car in front of me and come up with an exit strategy so the truck behind me didn't hit me. Three cars ahead was turning left. As soon as the vehicle they were waiting for passed me, I went into the opposing lane. By the time the truck stopped, it was even with the middle of our small car. This is real stuff, people.

7) Another time, a trailer hitch came undone ahead of us and separated from the vehicle.

8) A mattress flew off a truck coming the opposite direction and flew right over my car. What would you do if you were tailgating me when that happened? Again, LOSER. There is no way you can see what is coming if you are that close behind someone.

9) Another mattress fell off a truck in front of my wife's car.

10) Heating duct material flew off a truck directly in front of me. I was able to avoid it.

11) ICE! Hello? What are people thinking? So what if you have 4-wheel DRIVE. All cars have 4-wheel STOP and ice just doesn't care.

12) Years ago, my wife had a window SHOT OUT while on the highway. Do you think that was a calm smooth slow down? Do you think you could have seen it ahead of time if tailgating? Nope.

13) A huge piece of muffler pipe got kicked up by a trailer and came spinning in the air right at me. Nothing I could do about it at 75 mph. Fortunately, it hit almost dead square on my front bumper and I watched it skidding to the left of me, shooting up sparks. Hmm. That was close. I said calmly to my family who had no clue how close we were to disaster.

14) Oh, here's a good reminder: pot holes. When you insist on gaining that extra 1.85 seconds of getting somewhere faster, there is no way you can see pot holes, dead animals, debris, wood with nails sticking out or any other such road hazard. You will hit it. Period.

Maybe it is true that old people drive slower. I am getting old(er). I am driving slower. But I have seen the wisdom in it. You younger drivers who need to power zoom in and out of traffic, you are not impressive. All you are doing is showing you either can't manage your time, don't have emotional maturity, or don't have a clue. I wish you well ...

®2009, Kurt Holdorf story and illustration

Custer State Park, SD

As I was loading some photos from LifeLight 09 and a fishing trip to my computer today I thought a trip down memory lane would be nice so I reviewed some of the thousands of photos I have on my iPhoto catalog. By the way, if you don't take photos of your activities, I recommend you start. It is a wonderful way to remember that your life is full of fun activities. If you don't have fun activities in your life to photograph, recommendation two is that you start putting fun things in your life. I don't care how physically challenged you are, if you can think, somehow start putting fun things into your day-to-day activities so life is a joy.

As usual, I digress.

Back to this photo. As soon as I saw this buffalo amongst my photos, it reminded me of our trip to Custer State Park in the western part of South Dakota. If you enjoy seeing animals in the wild, this is an awesome drive. Recommendation three goes something like this: Don't drive a Rosewood colored minivan through buffalo herds.

In case you don't know what color Rosewood is, just check out the buffalo. I think you can see where this is going. One of the bulls, though he was somewhat sight challenged, tried to add our minivan as one of his fun activities in his life. Ok, not to the extent you might be thinking–we didn't have hoof marks on our roof. But he was thinkin' about it as he was sniffin' around the tail pipe for way too long. (I didn't know carbon monoxide was a buffalo aphrodisiac.)

After several tense moments, he decided not to buy us a drink and went on his merry way. Thankfully, we got the nerd buffalo who was too shy to ask us out. All I could think was "what could you possibly do if ... "

A few minutes later, we see several motorcyclists driving through the park. My thoughts changed to "there ain't a biker tough enough to handle that kind of situation." Fortunately, we didn't witness any buffaloes misbehaving so no reports were filed with campus police.

I drive a convertible now so I just don't see myself driving through Custer State Park in THAT. For a curious buffalo, it's just an annoying wrapper. And I know I am not "biker tough" so I won't be grinnin' any bears or buffalo into submission nor could I ever get that Crocodile Dundee hand thing to calm a wild animal either.

Back to my point about filling your photo album. All these fun memories were sparked by a simple buffalo picture. I have over 4,000 photos in my iPhoto album. There's never a need for a day to devoid of something fun–whether it be actual events or photos of them. Keep reminding yourself just how precious life and LIVING really is.

Get out there and ENJOY!

©2009 Kurt Holdorf, story and photo

Junk vs. Priceless Artifact

No doubt the photo to this story will give too many readers insight to my cluttered life. Somehow, though, I don't think I am the only one who has junk in the garage. Last weekend, while unraveling layers of debris, I uncovered dozens of memories all wrapped around a yellow frame with blue skis: my Snow Bob.

I have no idea how long I've had it--I only know I will never part with it. Oh, if you zoom in you can see the dings, the re-welding, and maybe even evidence that the front ski had to be straightened back from a 45° angle (something only Monk or Sherlock Holmes could discern just from the image).

Why keep such a beat up "thing"? The dozens of memories it holds--that's why.

Given that it is August and a bit early to be talking about snow (unless you're in the Rockies), please indulge me a bit on sharing some words about the "Best Snow Device Ever Made."

When I say best, I don't mean safest. When I say best, I don't mean "Hey, everyone should have one." It is, simply put, the best thing I'VE ever ridden down a hill.

The very first time I rode my Snow Bob, I knew it was something special. All the other kids could just go straight down the hill. A Flexible Flyer might be able to curve a bit to the left or right but I could zig zag all the way down to the bottom then kick up a rooster tail of snow at the end. It was cool to hear all the kids go "Wow! Look at that!"

I even took it down to college since the campus had some great hills. (Hey, I grew up in Nebraska--to understand the kind of hills we had, go to your kitchen table, lift up the table cloth and look at how nice and flat your table is. That's pretty much how hilly Nebraska was where I grew up.)

A college friend of mine thought it was a cool ride so he borrowed it one day. The hill he went down had a pond at the bottom. He couldn't stop in time before zooming off the bank to the frozen pond three feet lower and bent the front ski. It took awhile to bend the ski, weld the break and straighten everything. It still worked, though.

I found out it REALLY still worked a couple years later when I went tubing with my cousins in Rocky Mountain National Park. Yes, I took this speed demon down a mountain.

Not really thinking it through that we would be on a MOUNTAIN, I agreed to go and had the brilliant idea to take my Snow Bob. When I saw the steep tubing area I thought this was nuts. Who would do this? I walked to the top of the run wondering if I would have the guts to go down on this thing.

I surveyed the situation and decided the snow by the tubing run was too icy and packed, I would never survive. Moving over to a powdery area, I felt responsible and smart so I lifted my feet and off I went. Instantly, I was going too fast and put down my boots to slow down. These weren't just any boots, this was the era of Moon Boots which, for those too young to know, sport one inch deep tread. No affect. If anything, I felt like I accelerated.

True to what they say, when your life is in jeopardy, time slows down. I am analyzing my options for survival. Unfortunately, time only slowed, it didn't stop. I am barreling right for some playground equipment--tire swings no less. Time for calculating was over -- the two tire swings looked high enough that I could get my shoulders under them and my head between them ... SSSSSWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSHH. What a cool sound!

That sound was my heart slamming upside my eardrum, pumping at full throttle. If I was one hat size larger, I probably would have hit one of the tires and been rendered unconscious.

Bear Lake is at the bottom of the tubing run and I can do nothing about it. Remembering my friend's disaster with dropping down to ice level, I prepare for the worst. Unbelievably, it's a nice smooth transition to ice. ICE? I coasted to a stop clear on the other side of Bear Lake. Alive. Unharmed. Victorious! I can't get back up to the top fast enough. (Which reminds me, why is it that guys, more than women, are usually the ones doing stupid things on America's Funniest Home Videos?)

As I make my way across the lake and up the mountain, my cousins have gone down the hill on their big tube several times. Everyone was looking my way. Pointing and making comments such as "Wow, that guy's good!", "That guy has nerve.", "What an idiot."

All good.

At the top, I look down at my first run, following the trail visually to the tire swings and think the proper thought "What am I doing!" Totally losing all sense of coolness and nerve, I do the zig-zag thing. Zig-zagging is equally impressive to the straight-line tubers watching me, but has a far lower probability of me needing to be air lifted to a hospital.

The zig-zag run gives me a boost of confidence and the illusion I can control this crazy thing on a mountainside. Somehow the idea pops into my head to zig-zag down the next time and cross the tubing path in the process. Not just anywhere, but right at the end of the dip where the tubers go airborne. It is flat with the rest of the ground exactly at that spot.

zig-zag. Zig-Zag. ZIG-ZAG--picking up speed as I go, I am at the point of no return as the tubing path looms large in front of me. I missed my estimated "safe to cross" zone by only two inches and clip the dip. I shoot up into the air and, once again, witness time slowing down as I wonder (a) is anyone dialing 911 yet? (b) will someone win $10,000 on AFV at my expense? and (c) where, oh where, did I leave that Snow Bob?

Oh, yeah, here it is … conveniently at the edge of my fingertips. I grab the handle grip with my left hand. I grab the other handle grip with my right hand. Somehow, landing on the seat, never losing control, I glide safely toward the lake.

Not wanting to see time slow down anymore that day, when I got to the bottom, I turned toward the car and waited for my cousins to finish their runs with the tube. We all had a great time.

When I had kids of my own, I showed them how to be king of the hill with the Snow Bob. We had many great rides. Certainly, you can see why I'll never part with all those memories by throwing this beat up toy away. Especially since there are more memories to be made if/when I have grandkids and they, too, want that thrill of victory.

©2009, Kurt Holdorf Photo and Story

The Logic of Love

There are two subjects usually best to be avoided at a party … politics and religion. Well, this isn't a party so I am stepping out on a limb and throwing out some ideas on both.

I am writing this entry because I am very tired of hearing about lawsuits against Christianity--and the anti-Christian groups are winning! They claim Christianity is offensive. Well, sure, some of the things Christians DO is not right. And, some of the interpretations of what we SHOULD DO are not right. But, in the logical summary below, I will show that the essence of Christianity is love and I certainly don't see how that can be offensive to society.

In its broadest sense, religion is something--anything-- one believes in and follows devotedly (dictionary.com). I haven't met too many people who are able to 100% be devotedly religious--me included. Most people in America who claim to be Christian behave kind of like those pirates in the popular movie "Aye, they're more like guidelines, anyway. Arrr!"

I firmly believe our country is in decay because religion is getting a bad rap which means love is getting a bad rap and not enough people are able to stand up to the social pressure; sweeping their religion under the rug when company is coming.

How sad. So much about Christianity is wrapped around LOVE and so many people don't have the strength to stand up and say they believe in LOVE.

This is my LOGICAL assessment of LOVE as taken from the Christian Bible:

First:

In 1 John 4:8, we learn God is Love.

(Hang on to that, it is a common thread.)

Second:

From Matthew 22 (New International Version):
36"Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?" 37Jesus replied: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind."[b] 38This is the first and greatest commandment. 39And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself.[c] 40All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."

(everything past and everything future is about love)

Summarized even further: Love God; Love People

Third:

Said another way: Love LOVE; apply LOVE to all others

(if God is love and we are to love God, then we need to love Love)

Fourth:

We need to know what love is so we look at 1 Corinthians 13:
4Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

(if you skimmed over those, please go back and read them again and challenge who you are against each of those items.)

Part 1 of the Command:

To love God, is to love those things mentioned in 1 Corinthians: Love patience. Love kindness. Love not being rude. Love a state of being that isn't self-seeking. Love not getting angry quickly. Love not keeping a grudge. Love rejoicing in the truth.

(not easy to do, but that is what being a Christian is truly about.)

There are groups who find Christianity offensive. I can understand why when it conflicts with their established religion. What I don't understand is why non-religious groups start suing others in this country for being religious. What is it they find offensive about LOVE? I don't get it. Our founding fathers were quite religious. Matter of fact, the concept of separation of church and state was originally intended to protect the church, not protect the citizens from religion. Where and when did that get turned around? Remember the Pilgrims? They left the mother country because they were pressured by government to follow certain religious practices. Freedom of religion played a big, BIG role in the development of this country.

Part two of the command:

Love other people.

This goes much deeper than "I'm OK, you're OK." It goes much deeper than merely being politically correct. It commands a way of life that honors and loves all people, even the ones you might not even like.

Sadly, many view being Christian is only a result of brainwashing, stupidity or someone being weak. I disagree. It takes a lot of strength to love others in that way.

Even more sad is the fact that many use religion to do horrific things. That should be of no surprise. In the passages about the temptation of Jesus, what tool did Satan use to tempt Jesus? Scriptures. The concept is not new. However, the concept of LOVE, is fading away all too quickly.

Men: are you strong enough to follow all those ideals about love and still succeed? Women: would you like to find a guy with those traits? Kids: would you like to have parents who live love? Could you imagine a society that upheld these ideals?

I think we are naturally wired to crave all those qualities we read about up above. We are being led astray by those who have something to lose if the average citizen wasn't self-absorbed, self-centered, and didn't have the "what's in it for me" view of life. Imagine a car salesman saying "Your loan is approved but I really believe this smaller car would fit your situation better." No! Not in America! We have to keep throwing money away to keep the country going! "After all, you're worth it!" Well, so is the other person next to you.

How many gang shootings would there still be if love were more prevalent? How much crime would still go on if we cared about our fellow man/woman/child/child to be? How many billion dollar money schemes would rob people of their life's savings if people weren't so greedy? How many people would need turn to drugs to feel good? How many children would grow up in a single parent environment? How many spouses would go outside of their marriage for warmth and companionship?

When it comes to reversing the decay in society, maybe the ad council doesn't need to scare kids with images of fried egg brains nor tell them to just say "No" as a means of getting through life. Maybe, just maybe, "we the people" examine our lives and figure out how to love more and say "YES" to kids asking for our time. Say "YES" to a spouse asking for companionship. Say "YES" to raising kids together as a family.

If the concept of loving one another makes so much sense, then why is our country in decay?

Just take one day and analyze every bit of media you get bombarded with on a regular basis. Seriously. Stop the MP3 player and get the lyrics online to really see what the message is. Stop the computer game and take a real look at what's happening on the screen. Stop the music video and really see what is the "hero" of the visuals.

The most popular materials out there will not be the ones showing the ideals we just saw in 1 Corinthians.

Can you be someone who stands up for LOVE? Do you have the guts and the strength to say to your buddy "No, I won't go to the strip club with you." To an acquaintance "Hey, I see that you are hurting, what can I do?" To your child "Sure, let's spend the afternoon together!" It's not easy to do with the way life is today. Can we change it? I don't know. All I know is that this is my attempt at saying out loud "Things have got to change in this country!"

Pass it on ...

(Disclaimer text: I am not a theologian, former pastor, nor fluent in Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic or any other language the original text was written in. I am just a regular guy with a regular Bible trying to understand a very complex subject. So, if there are holes in the thought process or if you find that I have divided by zero or other such crime of logic, please be understanding.)

©2009 Kurt Holdorf, text and bumper sticker, which is available upon request.

Pepe

For his 16th birthday, my son and I were on a beautiful fishing trip just west of Colorado Springs. If you can't picture in your mind's eye a crystal clear mountain stream, wind through the pine trees and the freshness of the mountain air, start making plans for your own trip. But, let this be a warning to you: a road on a mountain map does not mean it is a road you can actually drive.

We lived in Colorado for years so I've had my little Dodge Stratus up--and down--many a mountain road and didn't think twice when we looked at the map and said "Hey, let's take this road to the other side of the dam and fish the spillway creek for trout." It had been raining the night before so the spillway seemed like a sure deal for fishing.

We packed up our gear and headed down the road, winding our way along the route on the map, we get to the end of the lake, taking a left to traverse the little road to the other side of the dam. As we enter this area, every camper we see appears to be staring at our little red front-wheel drive car. We took note of this and wondered why we warranted such attention. Was my seat belt hanging out the door? Did I leave my thermos on the roof of the car? Hmm.

Just as we enter the woods the sign says it all "WARNING: Four Wheel Drive Vehicles Only" Ahh, that makes sense now. But, we didn't HAVE sense. On we go, in a low-clearance, front-wheel drive sports car.

The road was very muddy the day before but now was baked rock hard by the sun. Grooves and ruts were everywhere. We press on until we get to this huge mound in the road and since all four-wheel drive roads have these mounds, I am not surprised-almost. Leading up to the mound are numerous ruts. Only a few strips of regular ground were available for my tires. The ruts were so deep, I would bottom out if I went down in the deep grooves.

Determined not to be towed out and be on some camper's submission to "America's Funniest Home Videos," I analyze my options. If I keep all four tires on two 4-inch wide strips of non-grooved ground, I should be able to get over the mound. Done. No problem.

Mound two approaches. As if mound one were merely a warm-up, I add a water hazard to the grooves and ruts. I stop and think this one through. I need to go to the left of the water, where there are no puddles covering the grooved vs. non-grooved areas, then keep all four tires on two of the narrow strips available for driving, clip a bush, grab some traction then zip over the mound. Done. Feeling fine. No worries.

Mound three. Stop the car. You've got to be kidding. This one takes five minutes of planning and the best I can come up with is:

1. put the front tires on two narrow strips of non-grooved ground

2. go through the water (hoping I stay on the non-groved strips) on the right side (realizing that if I miss those narrow strips of ground, we bottom out)

3. gun the engine when the front wheels get to the mound so I can drag the back wheels through the muddy strips that keep me from bottoming out (it had rained again, in case I forgot to mention that).

4. as my front wheels go over the top of the mound, slide the back wheels to the left (keep in mind this is a FRONT wheel drive car so I have to whip the front of the car to the right in order to slide the back ones to the left)

5. go down the mound diagonally so I can hit all four tires on the 4-inch wide strips of ground that don't have the deep ruts

6. stay as far right as possible, where I'll clip a tree but the branches are thin so shouldn't scrape the car too badly

It took an additional five minutes for me to check my cell phone signal again, guess which direction to walk to find someone who might have a winch, look at how late in the day it was getting, and try to appear to my son like I knew what I was doing.

Steps 1 through 6 work like clockwork and my son says "You are officially the best driver I know." Oh, yeah. That's what I'm talkin' about--showing your teenage son how it's done.

Mound four.

No tire-swallowing ruts in the ground. Yahoo! No water hazards. Alright! However this one is a bit steeper than the others but after mound three, who cares. I check for rocks and other debris at the top--just a couple 1-inch rocks, no problem for clearance. Up and … grrrrrrindddd … over. That didn't sound good. I must have hit one of the 1-inch rocks at the very top of the mound. I get out to check the oil pan for damage. Something doesn't look right. No, not under the car, but on top of the mound. Curious, I go back to the mound to investigate. That little 1-inch rock I hit left an 8-inch hole in the ground. Not good. Not good. I check under the car, no oil is gushing out so we press on over several more mounds, all without incident.

Finally, we see another vehicle coming from the other direction. I pull half off the road so he can get by and I ask him how much further until we get to the spillway. He looks at my car. Looks at me. Looks at the car. Looks at me. Never once did he laugh, smirk or otherwise show on his face he was thinking "What an idiot!" I firmly believe he thought maybe we were doing a car commercial and had been airlifted into this remote place.

Now that I know it's just a bit further until we get to a real road, I am greatly relieved. It will be dark in an hour or so.

Five minutes later we come to the most beautiful fishing spot you could EVER imagine. Wow! Absolutely crystal clear water where you could see every trout swimming around no matter how deep they were. And this pool was DEEP. We fish. We are in awe and put the past few miles out of our mind. It was worth every stress moment.

The light was fading so it was time to go home. Victory. Almost. I forgot about hitting the oil pan guard and was "reminded" of the event when tremendous noises sounded at every bump in the road. I stop to find the oil pan guard is barely hanging on. That 8-inch rock I dislodged 7 inches out of the ground had won the battle. Oil is dripping but not gushing. We'd better get home quick but I can't drive Interstate speeds with the oil pan guard hitting the pavement.

Pulling off to the side, I put my best MacGyver survival skills to the test and secure the oil pan guard with 25 lb test fishing line I found in the trunk--yes, I actually do fish with 25 lb test line but that's another story. We make it the rest of the way home without incident.

That night, my wife and I watch "Romancing the Stone" and laugh at one of our favorite parts:

- Where is the nearest phone? 

- Many miles from here.

- Can we get there in your car? 

- Who told you I had a car?

The men in the village.

They told you I had a car? They're such comedians.

They meant my little mule, Pepe.

Not bad for a little mule, eh? (as they zoom off in a big 4 x 4 truck)

From that point on, my little red front-wheel drive sports car's nickname was Pepe. It served us well for years after.

©2009, Kurt Holdorf

The Mighty Hunters

Some days start like any other. Some days start out exciting. Some days are just so different you end up writing about them 35 years later. This was that day.

My Dad is quite the outdoorsman. Hunting, fishing, and trapping were regular activities in his youth and he passed those interests on to the next generation. On one particular day, we were up before dawn for a big hunting excursion attended by my dad, my two brothers, me, an uncle or two, some cousins thrown in for good measure, and Jimmy Joe.

Before you jump to conclusions … no, it was not different because of some hunting accident. All of us kids had our official Hunter Safety patches proudly sewed onto our coats. No, it was not different because some wild animal charged us or something. Save yourself some mental energy and quit trying to guess. You're just wasting your time.

If hunting and its related activities offend you, this would be a good time to use the remote control to change channels if this were television. Since it isn't, there's a whole host of web pages to go to. See you later. I'll be happy to have you visit again when the imagery is not so barbaric.

[delay while you find a new web page]

OK, for those still here, it really isn't that bad. Matter of fact, if you're a hunter, I think you'll find this rather amusing.

We were poised and ready to begin the big hunt. For safety, not all the kids had shotguns. Our job was to just walk between the grown-ups so they could walk further apart. Made perfect sense.

The grown-up next to me was Jimmy Joe. Jimmy Joe was a pretty good story teller so you never knew when he was pullin' your leg or if truth was coming out of him. The sun was still just popping over the horizon so we weren't that long into the hunt when all of a sudden, Jimmy Joe freezes in his tracks. I signal that the line needs to stop walking.

Jimmy Joe, frozen like a statue, whispers something barely audible and I ask him to repeat it. "Th---- a pheas--- ri--- at my f---!" Still confused, I press for more info. He says, rather loudly, "THERE'S A PHEASANT RIGHT AT MY FEET!" I hear snickering at the other end of the line. Some of the adults thought Jimmy was, shall we say, less than coherent due to some sort of liquid none of us kids knew anything about.

Jim is looking at me like he is explaining with his eyeballs how the next few seconds are going to go down. I think I've figured out what's about to happen and, sure enough, in one fell swoop, Jim tosses his shotgun to me and jumps on a pheasant at his feet. He stands up with a rooster cradled in his arms.

He is so proud of his amazing catch that he doesn't even ask for his shotgun back. He walks the rest of the field, pheasant contently resting on his arm looking happy that it doesn't have to run or fly. [If birds could strategize, this would be an amazing idea, let yourself get captured by the enemy so they don't continue to hunt you down all morning. Brilliant!]

By this time, we're all laughing so loud about this we probably scared every other bird away within a mile. We didn't see much else so when we get to the creek, we take a break. Just as I am about to have a nice cool drink, my dad says "Does anyone want to shoot a rabbit?" "Me!!!" I blurted out.

Dad hands me his shotgun and points at the rabbit several yards off. I never really saw the rabbit. I just wanted to shoot the gun. I do my best to figure out what my dad was pointing at then pulled the trigger.

I knew this thing would kick because I'd shot a shotgun before at a practice range. But that wasn't my dad's gun. Like I said earlier, he was quite the outdoorsman. His specialty was letting others take a shot then, if they missed, he would pick off what was still flying. To do that, you need a 12-gauge, long tom with a full choke.

What does that mean? That means when I pulled the trigger, some seismologist in China said "Ooh, did you feel that tremor?" That means when I pulled the trigger, and happened to guess correctly as to where the rabbit was, there was no salvageable meat. You probably could have picked up that poor bunny with a magnet.

Just as my dad finished his autopsy of the rabbit, Jimmy Joe announces the pheasant meat was affected with gangrene and couldn't be salvaged. Then, as if smartness descended on us from above, we all thought at once, "Yeah, it must have been sick or something to just sit there in his arm without fussing."

So, after a full day of hunting we had no meat for the table. Every wild game feast our family had from that day on, however, had some mention of Jimmy Joe and his pheasant.

I highly recommend to everyone: get out and purposefully make some lasting memories with friends and family. Some day, all that remains will be one's glory days. Get out now and make life interesting so when your old and gray, you have some fun stories to pass on to the next generation.

©2009, Kurt Holdorf, Illustration and Story

A Day At Grandma's

TICK … toc … TICK … toc … bbbBBBOINGGGggg.

Just one boing on Grandma's old clock. It's one of those quieter boings – not one for counting hours – the kind that makes grown-ups say " it's a quarter passed." What does that mean? I am going to have to remember to ask Grandma tomorrow at breakfast. She can answer any question in such a way that I feel smarter after hearing what she says.

Remember … ask …… what ……… "quarter passed" ………… means. (I drift off to sleep snuggled in covers that are crisp, clean and COLD. The spare bedroom isn't heated as much as other parts of the house.)

Morning greets me with the smell of bacon and coffee. I hope she hasn't started cooking the eggs yet! Grandma makes the greatest eggs. She calls them "Peek-A-Boo" eggs. She ONLY cooks them for me. Grandpa never gets to have them. But, somehow, these cold sheets turned really warm overnight and I want to stay under them … bbbBBBOINGGGggg … bbbBBBOINGGGggg.

Two of those quieter boings! Gotta ask Grandma what THAT means. I jump out of bed, running toward the kitchen.

Grandma isn't there – just Grandpa and Junior, Grandma's brother. (They "took him in" because he wasn't very smart and his back was shaped weird. He couldn't hear very well, either.) Both are intently listening to the farm report on the radio. I've learned to be quiet and don't ask questions when the farm report is on. I can feel my question fading from my mind as I look around Grandma's kitchen and see all the interesting stuff. Just in time, they turn off the radio.

Grandpa! Grandpa! I heard the clock. Does that mean it's 50 cents past the hour now? Grandpa laughed. Junior just looked at him, puzzled. Grandpa pointed at his watch and yelled "He asked if it was 50 cents passed the hour!" They both laughed so hard it looked painful.

Here, let me explain … Grandpa tried his best to explain it to me but he just didn't understand my question. He kept talking about 60 minutes in an hour and 15 minutes and 30 minutes and stuff like that – pointing to his watch that didn't even have numbers on it – never once did he say anything about coins or quarters. I just nodded when he asked if I understood. "Where's Grandma?" I wondered.

Grandma was already cleaning. She did that a lot.

After breakfast, she asked me to dust the stairs going up to the second floor. It was a HUGE wooden staircase and it took a long time to get to the top. When I got there, I noticed more stuff up there than before. Grandma said that my Mom's cousin and two friends moved in just before they went to the Navy. I didn't think much of it since I didn't know what the Navy was or anything. (It was only later in life I learned that Jimmy and his friends didn't have parents that treated them very nice. So Grandma and Grandpa "took them in" kind of like Junior, but different.) She said I was not supposed to go up there. It was off limits.

Later that day, I snuck up the stairs to see what all that stuff was. I shut the door at the bottom of the stairs so Grandma couldn't hear the stairs creak and groan. There was all kinds of things to explore but my fun was interrupted. Grandma was calling me. I needed to get downstairs FAST so I wouldn't get in trouble for being up there. I knew better than to run down the stairs but I had to go faster than walking. I sat on my behind and slid down each step. WHOMP … WHOMP … WHOMP and with just two more steps to go, the door swung open and Grandma yelled "WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT GOING UP THERE!" I was so scared I probably could have jumped all the way back up in one big giant leap but I just would have been in trouble again. So I just sat there eyes welling up and lip starting to quiver. Instantly, it became nap time.

With the shades pulled down it was dark inside, even in the middle of the day. Sleep never came right away at Grandma's. Everything was so different. She had this big shadow box mirror above the couch. I would stand on the couch looking at all the figurines. Little angels, birds, elephants, and a whole host of characters were on those little shelves. They would come to life right before my eyes. Some would wave at me and I would smile back. I would watch them for quite awhile.

The doorbell rings. Somehow I am laying down on the couch with my head on my pillow and a blanket pulled over me. I stand up on the couch and not one of the figurines is moving about. They probably have to hold still when company comes.

My Grandma's sister arrives from out of town, her little dog held in her arm. They go into the kitchen to visit. I am thirsty so I go into the kitchen for something to drink. Her sister is a big person and her dog is very tiny. However, I just couldn't believe what I was seeing. Her chest was so big and the dog was so small, it could actually walk atop her chest as she leaned back in her chair. Aunt Elizabeth saw me starring at the sight and started laughing. Somehow the dog never fell off. It just absorbed all the jiggling.

More relatives start popping in which always seemed to happen a lot around dinner time at Grandma's. More plates are set around the table. Somehow, despite not feeling very well, Grandpa makes the table even bigger as even more plates are added. Good thing Grandma has big pots for cooking. There was always room for one more and somehow there was always enough food for everyone.

After a fantastic meal, everyone is telling stories, laughing and having a great time. I try with all my might to stay awake and listen to all the jokes. I don't understand a lot of them but I just like the sense of belonging to all these interesting people. I fall asleep on Grandma's lap.

Those days are long gone but they still influence how I view the world. I learned many valuable life lessons spending a day at Grandma's. If someone is handicapped, you accept them. If someone is poor, you help them out. If someone is overweight, you don't poke fun at them. If someone is hungry, there's always room for one more. If someone has nowhere to go, you take them in. If your spouse dies from cancer, somehow you keep going.

And never, ever, do you feel sorry for yourself for bearing the burdens of those around you. That's just what love does … but, most importantly, never, ever, slide down Grandma's stairs on your behind!

©2009 Kurt Holdorf, Illustration and Story

7707

I walked past a television the other day and just couldn't believe what I was hearing. No, it wasn't the usual negative news, noisy advertising or other such dribble. A commercial was encouraging kids to get out and be active. Wow, where have I been?

I'll tell you where I've been – I spent my early years in the land of imagination and fun activites – in the land called 7707. My siblings would know exactly what I mean by that and probably chuckled at the title before reading a single word of this story. Those numbers were part of our address, part of our phone number and part of my Dad's license plate. They set the stage for having even the little things in life be just a bit different … just a bit more interesting.

When I was young, we zoomed out the door at the crack of dawn and somehow found our way back home at dusk. Ok, I admit occasionally one of us would hear the faint call of our name from some place far away called home and we would have to return to this place for something called dinner or bedtime, but, other than that, there were all sorts of options for staying active and, as I recall, we didn't need to be prodded.

Decisions. Decisions. What to do next. The possibilities were endless.

We could ride my big Tonka Dump Truck down the sidewalk and wipe out at the end of it, for some reason, never registering that this toy would not roll on grass like it did on cement.

Occasionally, a friendly dirt clod fight with our friends up the street would be the activity of choice. Of course, nobody could throw accurately enough to hit anyone so rarely was it a bad experience.

If one was brave enough, one could walk the deadly, dangerous pathway at the top of the hill. Well, the pathway wasn't the scary part. Mom's response to our having journeyed to the forbidden zone was the problem. Especially when she would look us right in the eye upon our return and ask "Have you been up at the pathway eating those wild mulberries again?" N-n-n-o-o-o-o we haven't. I don't know how she kept from laughing – faces and hands red as could be from gathering and eating those delectable mulberries. Duh.

When I was able to ride my bike without training wheels, boy, my horizons expanded … at least two blocks. Not sure if I ever fully explained to my Dad that the only way I could start riding my bike was to lean it against his car, the bike handle strategically placed just above the trim so I could ride along side the car, using it like a launch pad. For weeks I had to walk my bike home if I decided to stop riding it during my great adventures.

We didn't need to be entertained back then. We used our imagination to make just about anything fun.

Ghost In the Graveyard, Kick the Can, variation after variation of baseball – you had to make up new rules depending upon where you played and how many showed up – plus other games kept us energized day after day. No electricity. No batteries. No plugs of any kind were required. If you had a buddy back at "the fort" whom you needed to contact while you were out "scouting" the thick wild brush [read: vacant lot next door], you didn't pull out a cell phone, you didn't whine until your parents bought a Radio Shack walkie-talkie. No! You found a block of wood and a nail. You poked a bunch of dents into the front side with the nail for a speaker, then pounded the nail into the top of the wooden block as an antenna. As long as you could yell pretty loud, it worked just fine.

You just don't see kids unplugged any more. They have turned their minds over to an electronic gadget of some kind and always seem bored if they can't see a screen of some sort. I feel sorry for anyone who gets bored.

With all of today's instant gratification and mind-numbing constant bombardment of mental stimulus, many have either forgotten or never learned how to keep every day interesting. There is so much to do … so much to learn … so much to feel and experience.

I like blogs, Facebook, Twitter, MP3's, texting, email, and the like but I have come to the conclusion that, after all these years of enjoying electronic toys, I'd still rather be walking the path, riding my bike, playing a sport, or making up a game for my main source of entertainment.

Unplug a little bit more each day and see what's out there. Be someone who is entertaining, rather than one who has to be entertained. You just might like it.

©2009 Kurt Holdorf

Commemorative of Walter Cronkite

Enjoying America's Game

by Kurt Holdorf

I sit in the dugout during the third game of the softball tournament and hear one of the older guys on the team joking about his aches and pains. I'd never say it out loud but I think to myself "If you hurt that bad, just quit."

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind him playing on our team; it's a church league so we are more about the fun and fellowship than beating the other team. Besides, he knows the game inside and out and still comes up with a good play now and then.

By the fifth game of the one-day tournament, he's hardly able to get off the bench to go play his position. He can still hit the ball so when he hit one to the fence, he had to run the bases. Did I say run? For most of the others on the team, if the ball gets to the fence, it's a triple or an in-the-park home run. This guy barely gets to second. Our next batter gets a hit so somehow he scores and makes his way to the dugout.

He sits down next to me, gasping and chugging water.

Not able to stop the words from leaving my mouth, I ask "Why do you play, old man?" He shrugged - third out - back on the field we go.

It took 20 years for me to get my answer.

As I enjoy my 40th season of baseball/softball, I find myself recalling the fun times I've had over the decades playing America's game. Some memories are of amazing "glory day" plays that only a 20-something body can endure, like all the diving catches and throws so hard they would literally lift me off the ground. Other memories are of failures so big, they become legendary. Those make me laugh. As you age, you learn to have more fun with failure. It can be quite entertaining.

Like the time we were playing on a short field with a 260 foot fence. In the top of the seventh, I hit a home run to put us up by a run. I was pumped up with adrenaline. In the bottom of the seventh, the other team had two runners on and the batter hit one in the gap which I chased to the fence. As an outfielder, I had a pretty good arm so I knew I could throw out a base runner to end the game. I bent down, grabbed the ball and threw it to third with all my might. Did I say third? No, this ball was going to make it all the way to home plate in the air! Did I say home plate? No, it was going to clear the backstop! Did I say backstop? No, I launched that ball over third, over home, over the backstop, over the parking lot and further yet into the creek. We lost the game, but guys on the team talked about that throw for years.

Then, there was the season I was on a church team whose games were played at a school playground with no fence. A batter smashed a ball way over my head in left field, I chased it down as fast as possible. But, before I could get to it, a piece of playground equipment deflected it around a corner of the school building. Like I said, I could throw the ball so without hesitation, I took a guess at the direction and heaved the ball over the school building then ran around the corner to watch the play. I track the ball. It's on target … it's on target. The runner is jogging so it's going to get there in time. It's going to get there in time! To my dismay, the catcher didn't try to catch the ball as the runner came toward home plate. We lost.

I asked the guy why he didn't catch the ball to tag out the runner. He said "Kurt, when I saw that ball flying over the school, I just froze. I couldn't believe what I was seeing!"

As an outfielder who could throw a softball 300 feet, I would just dare a runner to tag on a pop fly coming my way. I expected to throw someone out at home every game. When you are young, you take skills like that for granted. I never thought much of my ability to throw a ball. Probably because I was never a star player in high school. Sure, I batted 1000 but I was only up once and the coach wouldn't play guys who were just playing for fun. That's what baseball/ softball has ALWAYS been for me - just fun. Besides I wasn't very fast relative to the other high school athletes. Once, while running laps at a practice, the coach yelled out "Hey, Holdy, I'm going to clock your speed today, I got a calendar!" On top of that, when the pinnacle of your ball career is in third grade, nothing really seems impressive after that. Yeah, really, third grade.

It was in a Cub Scout softball league when I was nine years old. I batted 1000 our first seven games - only that season, I was up to bat quite often. The highlight of that year was one of our championship games when I pitched a perfect game. I mean a PERFECT game: no batted balls, no foul balls, no balls, just three strikes to every batter. We were champions that year. I could probably produce a tattered news article or two from that season if I looked through a couple of boxes in the garage. Several of us who played on that team as kids still talked about the experience at our 20th high school reunion. But, you can't live in the glory days, you just have to learn to move on to the next stage.

Well, I was forced into that next stage when my shoulder finally went out two years ago. Already worn out from so much throwing, I was relegated to catcher. It finally got to the point where I couldn't throw the ball back to the pitcher without a lot of pain. I had no choice but to retire from the sport. Next season I couldn't even go to a game to support my team from the bleachers - I knew I wouldn't be able to stay off the field if they needed another player. It was a very difficult summer for me.

That year I thought a lot about what the game meant to me over the years. I am thankful to my parents who made it a fun activity for me rather than pushed me to live out their dreams. I did my best to pass the enjoyment of the game to my children so they could build their own memories. Like when my son pitched in the USSSA World Series tournament and how my daughter, the only girl on five boys teams, played just as well as they did.

Last summer, after two years off the field, I was watching one of my daughter's softball practices and threw a foul ball back to the coach. Amazingly, it didn't hurt to throw! Wow! That next spring, I threw a few more balls, then some more. No pain.

Somewhat reluctantly, I told our church's coach to put me back on the roster. Every game I wonder if this will be the game my should goes out for good. But It felt great to be back out on the field. Several weeks later, we're playing in the mid-season one-day tournament and about the third game, I start joking about my aches and pains . I freeze mid sentence because all of a sudden I realize I became that old man. Finally, I get an answer to that 20 year-old question "Why do you play keep playing?"

Am I reclaiming my youth? No. I can’t play like that any longer. Am I reliving the glory days? No, I still look forward to tagging someone out or getting that clutch hit to win the game. I play simply because it is still fun. It's that simple. As long as it is still fun, I'll get off the bench and make my way to the field another season.

Compared to my 20's, I can't throw or run anymore but I can catch and tag so put me behind the plate, coach! And, as far as those one-day tournaments are concerned, after 40 seasons of playing ball, I've earned the right to bench myself if my body says "Enough!" After all, I've had my day in the sun. I'll settle for a couple of good plays a season, rather than expecting them each game. I'm OK with that. I've got nothing to prove–I'll leave that to the young guns who probably look at me, thinking "Hey, old man, if you hurt that bad …"

©2009, Kurt Holdorf (illustration and story)

Where does the time go?

Drawing sessions...drawing classes...art tours...learning Flash...mentoring students...add good quality family time and numerous church activities and all of a sudden, it is almost a fourth of the way through the year. Yikes!

It's all good, though.

Next up is a gathering for the Sioux Falls cartoonist society. Should be fun because everyone in the group has a fun sense of humor.

Well, just because my blog isn't full of entries, it doesn't mean nothing is happening. Usually means so much is going on, I am not sitting idle in front of my computer.

Get out and enjoy.

KH

Drawing for Fun!

Took some time off for the holidays and now it is time to get back to the drawing board.

Other than some life drawing sessions, it has been pretty slow in my art world. That will all change next week as I lead a class at the Center for Active Generations. It is a five week drawing class where I will show attendees how to have fun with drawing. Should be a great time.