Light in the Darkest Hours

It was a song from an underground hip-hop collective: lo-fi beats, heavy turntablism, and cypher styled rap verses: “The Night We Called It a Day” by Deepspace5. This song (along with the rest of their debut album) helped me fall in love with the art and culture of rap music. The track opened with a melancholic acoustic guitar sample and the static of vinyl before the DJ starts scratching records. In the scratches, there’s a single spoken line, broken up with the flick of the DJ’s fingers.

“Those who need light - light-light - for those who need light in they darkest hours - in they darkest hours”

It’s like a grown up version of “This Little Light of Mine” for those who enjoy coffee shops and old school beats. Millions of kids listen to hip-hop as a means of escape. They enter it like a refuge - an oasis in the desert of urban violence. I understand them. I once used grunge and punk rock as a safe place from the torment of the bullies who verbally and physically abused me through my teen years. It was my light in my darkest hours.

Even though it’s been a while since I’ve listened to the song, I still get this Deepspace5 phrase stuck in my head, repeating like a mantra. I walk around with those nine words on repeat. For those who need light in they darkest hours. They darkest hours. Light in they darkest hours. Then I see those in their darkest hours who need some light and feel moved to speak up, to do something.

These days, those who need light in they darkest hours are easy to find. Between school shootings and police violence, natural disasters and pandemics, extreme politics and foreign wars, there’s a lot of light needed for a daunting number of people in their darkest hours.

Not everyone seeks light from darkness. Many seek light in darkness. While it seems counterintuitive, there are those who find light through scary stories. Whether told around campfires, read in pulp novels, listened to in true crime podcasts, or watched on the big screen, the elements of horror can distract us from the frights of real life. Somehow the darkness of vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and aliens are brighter than homes filled with abuse and addiction.

Kids will watch a slasher movie and think “if the final girl survives the masked serial killer hunting down teenagers, then I’ll survive my abusive parents.” Those in pain will read books about an exorcism and think “if the demons can be cast out from this possessed child, perhaps I can conquer my own demons.” Laughing at jump scares in video games help some kids feel less fear when police arrive to defuse a domestic disturbance.

So why do I love the horror genre? I was raised in a safe community by two parents who loved each other with no darkness to escape. My parents were not abusive. Despite being poor, they fed me and kept a roof over our heads. They supported my creative endeavors. I did not endure any major adolescent trauma. I never got into legal trouble. I was socially awkward but still had a few great friends. My parents didn’t even allow me to watch scary movies. Aside from being bullied, I had a decent childhood.

And I have a good life today. My parents are still together after nearly fifty years of marriage. I am married to a woman who loves me more than I knew was possible. I have a great job. I’m DJing and writing and farming and raising kids and have a life so full I could burst. Between the dogs and the horses and the family, I am surrounded by a loving support system and many reasons to celebrate. Yet I still crave books by Stephen King and Dean Koontz. I’m enraptured by movies from Jordan Peele and Guillermo del Toro. I’m still thrilled when a creepy book or game keeps me awake all night. It seems I seek darkness in my brightest hours.

Thanks to the world of podcasts, I think I understand my unique proclivities. While driving around the INW for work, I’m listening to storytellers do what they do best. Hood Politics, Murder Myth & Mystery, The Secret Room, Haileywood. If iron sharpens iron, I hope to hone my own abilities to craft engaging tales.

In a recent episode of Morbid, Alaina Urquhart and Ashleigh Kelly shared stories of haunted lighthouses in America. One of those spooky landmarks is the Bolivar Point Lighthouse in Galveston Texas.

When a hurricane entered the Gulf of Mexico in 1900, H. C. Claiborne (the lighthouse keeper) wasn’t worried. He had purchased enough food to last through the season so he and his family could remain at Bolivar Point for a few months, and the lighthouse structure was strong. Claiborne was confident it could withstand any storm.

image courtesy of Lighthouse Friends

As you could imagine, meteorology was not as technically advanced at the beginning of the 20th century as it is today. No one was sure where the hurricane would make landfall. The big waves thrust into the shores of northeastern Texas became a spectacle with thousands of curious people crowding the beaches of Galveston Island and Bolivar Peninsula. Many of the onlookers ignored the warnings of local officials urging them to move inland and seek higher ground. By the time the storm surge reached land, it was too late. They were experiencing the deadliest natural disaster in American history.

It could have been deadlier - and would have if it had not been for Claiborne. The rising waters stranded a train with more than 300 passengers near the Bolivar Point lighthouse. They waded through the waters to reach the door of the tower. Claiborne opened it up and let in at least 125 of the passengers before he had to close and barricade the door.

Those who sheltered in the stairwell of the lighthouse found safety, but not comfort. Two or three people sat on every step of the spiral stairs, from the flooded entrance to the top level where Claiborne continued to perform his duties keeping the light shining to guide wayward ships into Galveston Bay. In the dark of storm and night, Claiborne rationed his family’s food supplies to make sure the storm’s refugees had something to eat, and the crowd drank rainwater to sate their thirst. What they didn’t know of until after the storm had passed were the bodies piling up outside the lighthouse door.

The Bolivar Lighthouse was a bright spot along the Texas coast. It was a beacon for sailors seeking safe harbor. Yet its greatest moment came when the tower was plunged into darkness and one selfless man saved 125 souls from a hurricane that killed 8000.

Within a week of hearing this story, I listened to a remastered episode of Lore about more lighthouses. The show focused on the reason tales of haunted lighthouses are so prevalent. These landmarks were designed to offer light, guidance, and hope. Yet throughout history, lighthouse buildings have been filled with the loneliness of isolation. They’ve been sites of grief and tragedy; homes to mental anguish, injury, and death. Ghosts may not exist but the reasons people believe they are real are valid.

Then the show’s host, Aaron Mahnke said something that was an a-ha moment for me. From this perspective, it all makes sense.

My interests and pursuits seem unlikely. A good boy raised in a stable Christian home should have never taken a liking to the horror genre. Yet I’ve found myself thriving somewhere between The Tell-Tale Heart and 30 Days of Night. I’ve lived a blessed life while reveling in the macabre.

The book I’m working on features characters enduring some dark events. When I’m done with this, I will begin working on a Christmas themed ghost story about a man haunted by his mistakes. The stories I’m crafting are filled with grief, loss, tragedy, and death - the basis of many of the monsters which lurk in the myths and fables of scary legends and modern lore. It seems Mahnke’s hypothesis is proven in me - my tales of horror come from where my light shines brightest.

In this way, I hope to become what God created me to be: a lighthouse. A place of light and a shelter in storm, often plunged into the agony, muck, and mire of human existence. Then from the darkness, continue to illuminate a way for others to survive the strife of their own lives.

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, for those who need light in they darkest hours.

Like Orion on a Cloudy Night

It was a stressful day. Which is weird because it should not have been so burdened by stress. The morning started like any other Sunday: Joylyn and Annie helped me complete barn chores before we all went out to breakfast as a family at our favorite little greasy dive in Rathrum. Later in the day, Annie went out for a horseback ride with one of her friends while I relaxed and played video games. I spent some time cleaning in the kitchen while Annie prepped the dining room table for a crafting project. Then we went on some errands to get wood stain and groceries. The day ended after a walk with our Mastiff at the dog park, more housework, and bedtime barn chores.

No dire emergencies. No kids arguing. No mishaps. No perceivable cause for frustration. Still, while we were on the freeway between home and Winco my brain declared battle against itself, like there was a civil war waging between my prefrontal cortex and my amygdala. From the coattails of a relaxing Sunday, I was suddenly and inexplicably overwhelmed by anxiety. My shoulders tightened, my chest was constricted, and my breathing grew shallow. Thoughts of impending dread and inevitable failure flooded over me.

There was no logical reason for me to feel the way I felt. Even in the moment I knew there was no validity behind my anxiety. It was what it was. I knew my emotional paralysis was devoid of substance yet I was powerless to avoid it. I felt better the next morning, ready to tackle a new work week and carry on as if I hadn’t been plagued by self sabotage less than 24 hours prior. But Sunday night, for causes beyond my capability to describe or understand, was rough. Sometimes it’s hard to get out of my own head.

After we returned home, and when the worst of the anxiety faded, I walked out of the house to retrieve groceries from the trunk. I briefly looked up and noticed a small break in the clouds perfectly framing the constellation Orion. The belt was shining bright. A few years of living on the farm has made those three stars the easiest for me to identify among the abundance of distant suns populating our night sky. I stood still for a moment and traced the outline of Orion up to the club and shield then down to the hem of his garment. I marveled at the unique position of my geographical location. The constellation was perfectly framed by cloud cover - grey masses above and below it, and to both sides. The overcast sky obscured all other constellations visible in early February.

I removed a few grocery bags from the trunk, closed it and looked up once more before going inside. In the time it took me to gather our purchases, the clouds shifted, blown by currents of wind. The only stars still visible were Zeta, Epsilon, and Delta – Orion’s Belt. A few seconds later and those stars also disappeared behind the overcast weather.

A couple hours later, I ventured outside once more to feed our animals and refill their water troughs. At the barn, my eyes wandered toward space again and the clouds populating the inland northwest earlier in the day had dissipated, pushed further east by the jet stream, revealing the clear and beautiful expanse of endless galaxies above us. Orion the hunter still stood proud above me, joined by his neighbors Cassiopeia and Pisces.

Orion is there somewhere

In a short span of time, Orion was the only constellation to be seen, vanished, then reappeared joined by dozens of visible constellations. Time and meteorological changes in the atmosphere alter the way we see the stars. Yet the shifts and adjustments in astronomy move slower. Night after night, Orion is still Orion. Mars and Jupiter move into and out of our night sky in long lethargic arcs. The moon cycles through its phases from full to new and back again every 29 and a half days, the subtle change barely perceptible from one night to the next.

As I pondered these quick adjustments in weather and its effect on our perception of the longer lasting existence of astronomical phenomena, I realized my struggles with depression and anxiety were much the same. My emotional state is often like the clouds, moved by circumstance and unseen forces. My melancholic disposition sways between bitter and sweet, often lingering where the two are blended. There are times my anxiety completely blurs my grandeur, other times it breaks long enough to observe glimmers of greatness. Then there are days where depression breaks and I feel as if I can shine. Regardless of how I feel from one moment to the next, I’m still me. I possess the same hopes and fears while overcome with anxiety as I do when serotonin and dopamine levels in my brain are stable. Moods come and go like the weather but my goals and beliefs remain, only to be changed through slow progression.

When I am feeling down, I know that feelings are only temporary. Anxiety comes, but it also goes. Happiness exists on the other side of these temporal adjustments. This concept isn’t an easy one to explain to someone who doesn’t struggle with depression and anxiety. If you want to better understand what it’s like to be me, just watch the stars on a partially cloudy night. Perhaps you could learn something from Orion.

The Coffee Habit

My wife is an addict. She can't go a day with out a cup (or seven) of hot black coffee. This doesn't bother me. I adore the aroma of brewing coffee filling the house and I enjoy an occasional cup.

But my wife has a problem. No, she doesn't drink too much. I jest about her her being a coffee addict, but I know people whose java addiction is a serious issue that makes Bekah look like a recreational user. Bekah's complication is not the rate of her consumption.

Her dilemma is the quantity of mugs used during the course of a day. She'll brew a pot, start sipping her first cup and set it down somewhere to carry on with the rest of her day. An end table, the kitchen counter, the bathroom, window sills, on top of the TV in our bedroom - she's fairly indiscriminate in where she abandons her cup of coffee.

One of two things happen: either it's lost its warmth or she forgets it's existence. Either way, she pulls a new mug out of the cabinet and pours a second round (or third... maybe fourth).

Some nights I've come home to find several mugs filled to varying depths littered through out the house. Other nights I've discovered a collection of mugs by the sink, waiting for me to load them into the dishwasher, each filled with some quantity of room temperature coffee stewing inside. And, on rare occasions, I've found mugs filled almost to the point of overflowing and cold - poured but not a single sip taken.

I'll admit, Bekah is improving. She's down to one or two mugs used on any given day. And to her credit she is a busy mommy. If you've read her facebook status updates, you may have experienced second-hand weariness in realization that she accomplishes more in a day than should be humanly possible. She keeps our kids safe and alive. If a pot or two of coffee is required to make all of that possible, I won't complain. Even if it means I have to scavenge the house to make sure there aren't any mugs left lingering in places they best not stay, I won't complain.

Until now.

Our dogs are hyperactive. Spastic freakazoids. If autism could be diagnosed in canines, both George and Nita would be worthy candidates. They're cute, adorable, and quirky with raw cookie dough for brains.

What do two mentally impaired dogs have to do with Bekah's coffee problem?

Bekah is at work, the kids are in bed, and I'm sitting at my computer to watch an old episode of Glee. The dogs are running around the living room behind me, wresting and doing whatever it is skittish dogs do when they're restless. They've been fed, they're happy, and occupied.

That is when I heard some lapping. I didn't leave any water dishes out for the dogs, but even if I had, they would be in the kitchen. This sound? It was closer. Much closer. I swiveled my chair around to confront the suspicious sound to find a sheepish looking Nita. Back legs on the arm of a couch, two paws on the end table, head positioned above a tall brown mug, furry muzzle dripping with a dark liquid.

Bekah left a half full mug out today. Nita found it and indulged.

Nita spent the next dozen minutes chasing ghosts from the living room to the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the kitchen to the... Around and around in hurried circles. Then she wandered around for a few minutes like a drunken sailor while George watched with curious amazement. Finally Nita plopped down at my feet and looked at me as if waiting for some form of compliment.

Good news: caffeine has no long term detrimental effect on schnoodles. Hopefully, Nita doesn't develop a problem.

Good thing we're not Vulcan

Meet Nita. Nita is the black ball of curly fur on Zu's lap. She's the newest addition to our family. In case you're curious, Nita (Choctaw word meaning bear) is a schnoodle.

Schnoodles are half schnauzer half poodle. Here is irony. Bekah hates schnauzers* and I hate poodles. So what do we do? We get a dog that is half something we detest.

As Spock would tell us: it is a highly illogical choice.



* For the record, I dig schnauzers.

Answering life's ultimate questions (the answer is 42)

My friend Sarah posted a list of random questions on her blog that many of us have seen before. These questions have been circulated through e-mail for years and is now making it's rounds on MySpace. They are the so called "unanswerable" questions. I will now do my best to answer them.


Can you cry under water? Crying under water is possible... if you wear goggles.

How important does a person have to be before they are considered assassinated instead of just murdered? If you're important enough that everyone knows your name - then it's an assassination. If they mention your name on the news and people ask "who's that?" - it's murder.

Why do you have to "put your two cents in"... but it's only a "penny for your thoughts"? Where's that extra penny going to? You're thoughts are worth a penny. When you put in your two cents I keep the extra penny. It's my plan to get rich.

Once you're in heaven, do you get stuck wearing the clothes you were buried in for eternity? I'm pretty sure we'll all be naked in Heaven. That's how we arrived on earth, I'm confident that's how we'll depart.

Why does a round pizza come in a square box? Have you ever tried to make a round box? Not worth the effort. But they are making square pizzas these days!

What disease did cured ham actually have? That questions is severely misleading. It assumes that the pig was sick. Cured ham was cured of living like a pig.

How is it that we put man on the moon before we figured out it would be a good idea to put wheels on luggage? Space travel versus rolling luggage --- what sounds cooler? We beat the Russians to the moon - that's an accomplishment. Who put wheels on luggage first? Us, or the Russians? Who cares! Now, if it was self-propelled luggage... THAT would be cool.

Why is it that people say they "slept like a baby" when babies wake up every two to three hours? I wake up every two to three hours... does that mean I sleep like a baby?

If a deaf person has to go to court, is it still called a hearing? It's called a signing.

Why are you IN a movie, but you're ON TV? There used to be a customer who frequently called DirecTV customer service, complaining about people inside her TV. She claimed that they were trying to kill her. I guess I'm trying to say that being on TV just makes more sense. If there is someone in your TV, you might need to see a mental health specialist.

Why do people pay to go up tall buildings and then put money in binoculars to look at things on the ground? Tall buildings... money... binoculars... It's all about perspective. That's why Google is using satellite technology to view our world. Some one paid a lot of money to be able to read your license plate from high earth orbit.

Why do doctors leave the room while you change when they're eventually going to see you naked? Because the only thing more humiliating than the doctor's examination is stripping first. Now turn your head and cough.

Why is "bra" singular and "panties" plural? I think the answer to this question is one of the great secrets women are hiding from us guys. Kind of like why women go to the restroom in groups.

Why do toasters always have a setting that burns the toast to a horrible crisp, which no decent human being would eat? No matter how light the setting, left in long enough - anyone can burn toast.

If Jimmy cracks corn and no one cares, why is there a stupid song about him? I care more about about the corn that Jimmy cracked than Fergie's humps. Her humps, her humps, her humps. Her lovely lady lumps. That didn't stop the Black Eyed Peas from writing a song about all that junk up in her trunk.

Can a hearse carrying a corpse drive in the carpool lane? Would you want to be the officer that pulls over a hearse carrying a corpse driving in the carpool lane?

If the professor on Gilligan's Island can make a radio out of a coconut, why can't he fix a hole in a boat? Every time the professor fixed the boat, their chances of escape was secretly sabotaged by one of the other castaways. Yet, he fears that he might have to start using a wheelchair again if he leaves the island.The island has strange thermodynamic and electromagnetic properties that the professor can not describe with science, so he has faith that the castaways were all brought to the island for a reason. The professor also found a mysterious hatch that fascinated him and distracted him from escaping the island, and it almost broke his sanity. Many people think he may have gone completely batty, because he has become ruthless and aggressive since being shot and left for dead. Now, the professor spends his time trying to discover his purpose while protecting Gilligan from the Others and outsiders whom he believes will kill everyone on the island. Oh, wait... wrong show.

If they're both dogs, why does Goofy stand erect while Pluto remains on all fours? At one time, all dogs walked erect. But the forces of nature made it more beneficial for dogs to walk on all fours. Survival of the fittest reigns supreme. Pluto is a more highly evolved dog. Goofy's kind must adapt or they will become extinct.

If Wile E. Coyote had enough money to buy all that ACME crap, why didn't he just buy dinner? Wile E. Coyote like his toys. Why do people build their own house when they could just buy one? Wile E.'s obsession with ACME is the same concept. The joy is in the process - the pursuit.

If corn oil is made from corn, and vegetable oil is made from vegetables, what is baby oil made from? From the oily extract of Babiana Absinthifoili Multiradiata, AKA: Baby Flowers.

If electricity comes from electrons, does morality come from morons? Of course morality comes from morons. They let us know what NOT to do. Remember, if you build a fool-proof device, they build a better fool. See my answer about burnt toast as an example.

Does the Alphabet Song and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star have the same tune? Can Amazing Grace be sung to the tune of Gilligan's Island?

Why did you just try singing the Alphabet Song and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star? For the same reason you're humming the theme to Gilligan's Island.

Why do they call it an asteroid when it's outside the hemisphere, but call it a hemorrhoid when it's in your butt? Could you imagine a baseball team called the Houston Hemorrhos? Not a pretty sight. Really, the astronomers who first dubbed the term "asteroid" had our best interests in mind.

Did you ever notice that when you blow in a dog's face, he gets mad at you, but when you take him for a car ride, he sticks his head out the window? Are you kidding? My dog tries to jump out the car window. One time, the only thing that saved poor Psuchen's life was his leash. And Psuchen doesn't mind it when you blow on his face; it tickles him. Then again, my dog is retarded, so my experiences may be a bit abnormal.


Well, there you have it Sarah. Everything you ever wanted to know (and some things you didn't).

***Bonus points for anyone who noticed the most cheeky pop culture references!***

The new puppy

The new puppy is home after a week at the vet. The battle over Parvo is not quite over, but she is getting stronger. Now she needs a name, and you can help us with that. Just tell us which of these three names you like best.

1. Terata (Ter-aht-ah: means Marvel or Wonder - often translated into Miracle)

2. Antagoni (An-tag-ohn-ee: shortened from the word antagonizomenoi- which means struggling against)

3. Elpida (El-peed-ah: means Hope)

Vote: 1. Terata, 2. Antagoni, or 3. Elpida

The elevator will make you JUMP - JUMP

Sorry about the Kris Kross reference. They were HUGE back in the day.

But there is something about elevators that makes you want to jump. Rumor has it, that if you jump just before an elevator descends, you get a weightless feeling. My big brother and I used to jump in elevators all the time, and nothing ever went wrong - except for an occasional tingling sensation in our nether regions(especially one those fast elevators like the one in the Space Needle).

Did you know that if five people jump simultaneously in the elevator connecting the Coeur d'Alene Resort to its parking garage, the elevator will temporarily accelerate causing built in safety mechanisms to jam the lift into place to prevent possible multi-story free fall?

Yeah. I didn't know that either. How was I to know? I've been jumping in elevators all my life and (like I said before) nothing bad ever happened. Tommy, Nate, Steve, Drew, and I jumped in the elevator in Boise's Hoff Building without consequence.

Yet, this last spring, getting stuck in an elevator was just the first step in a night when nothing could go right. Our friend Chase was moving to California the next day, so Bekah and I wanted to treat him out for dessert at the resort. No farewell party is worth anything without friends so, Rachie and AJ came with. We parked on the fourth level of the garage despite seeing plenty of parking available on the first and second levels. Once in the elevator, Chase and jumped a couple of times before someone (I don't remember who) suggested all of us jump at the same time.

Like I mentioned earlier, the resort's elevator did not like that proposal - it ground to a halt partway between the second and third levels. We did the only sane thing available, we used the emergency phone.

A woman with an Indian (possibly Pakistani) accent answered "Hai lowe?"

"Hi, we're stuck in the elevator." Unbeknownst to us, the lady who answered the phone worked in a call center in a foreign land and had no idea where our elevator was located.

"Hoh kae." She said. "Is that in the Kuh... Cure... Coower duh... Cure dee..."

"Core duh Lane." We finished for her.

"Yes, I zee. I will sent some un to halp you."

Shortly there after, Rachie began to mention her need to use the restroom. Chase, AJ, and I (being all guys, and being completely inconsiderate) began imitating the sound of running water. Incidentally, that does not help someone who has too pee. Forty-five minutes later, the repair guy showed up. By then, we all had to pee.

Now, before I go further, I must explain that Chase, Rachie, and AJ are all under 18. Bekah and I were under strict instruction to get the kids home by 10pm - after all, it was a school night. We arrived at the resort shortly before 9pm, and we were sure that an hour was enough time to eat a Gooey and return all three kids to their homes. So, at a quarter to ten, we still had yet to eat a gooey and were finally hearing from a repair person. Two of the three kids phoned home to let their parents know they were going to be late.

The repair guy shouted from above us. He told us it would only be a couple of minutes - all he had to do was reset the elevator and we'd be on our way. Up until this time we had lights inside the elevator. After the elevator got reset, we lost the lights. No movement. Ten minutes later, the repair guy returned and tried to reset the elevator again. It still didn't work. He said he'd need to call the elevator company to have one of their mechanics out to assist us. The elevator company was located in Spokane, it was going to be a while.

Chase called his father, a former police officer and some one that I would not want to ever piss off, who said he'd call the resort to see what could be done to get us out faster.

When Chase's dad called back, he relayed the conversation back to me and it went something like this:

"Thank you for calling the Coeur d'Alene Resort. How may I help you?"
"Yes, I'm calling about a problem with your elevators."
"What seems to be the problem."
"Well, the problem is that my son has been trapped in one of your elevators for over an hour in your hotel and I want to know what is being done to get him and his friends out."
"Well, I'm not sure."
"You're not sure?!? Do you know were the repair person is?"
"No."
"Could I please speak with your manager."
"Sir, I am the night manager."
"You're the manager?"
"Yes."
"So, you're telling me that there are five people stuck on one of your elevators. And you, the night manager, have no idea what is going on."
"Well..."
"Answer some questions for me."
"Sir..."
"Do they have water? Are they hungry? Do they have to use the bathroom? Are any of them hurt? Do they have lights?"
"(stammered)"
"Look, you will find your repair personnel. And you will get my son out of that elevator. And I will be down there tomorrow morning to talk to your boss." (click)

Within minutes of that phone call, the lights were restored. The elevator was still stationary, but we had lights.

Finally, at 10:58pm, the elevator lurched, then continued it's decent to the ground floor. Our first destination: the restrooms. We reached Dockside at 11:05pm. Dockside stops serving food at 11:00pm. And the kids were supposed to be home an hour earlier. So, defeated and hungry, we returned to the parking garage.

The repair man was waiting by the elevators. He asked if we jumped in the elevators. We all said no.

"Funny." He said. "Usually the only thing that would make an elevator accelerate into an automatic shut off is people jumping in the elevator."

The next few seconds waiting on the elevator were some of the most awkward few seconds I've ever experienced.

Now, like I said earlier, the elevator was only the beginning of things that went wrong that night. We forgot to get gas before going to the resort, and our gauge was on empty. Bekah was in a hurry to get the kids home, so no time for gas. By the time we reached the intersection of Ramsey and Prairie, our poor car was running on fumes. We stuttered our way into the Holiday gas station and put a few gallons into the vehicle and continued on our way.

Now, I should mention that it was raining and we were driving with one headlight. On a particularly dark patch of road past Albertsons, we heard a loud thump and Bekah slammed on the breaks. We were all wondering what that sound could be when a large black dog limped into the beam of our one good headlight. I opened the door to see if it was injured and the poor thing bolted into the woods, it must be OK. We dropped the first kid off at his house, where we got out to inspect the car. Dang dog cracked our front bumper.

We dropped off the second kid without incident. Then we stopped by Bekah's parents to pick up our son before driving the third kid (who fell asleep in our backseat) home. As we turned back onto Ramsey a pair of headlights rushed up behind us and swerved. Bekah slowed down, paranoid that the driver was drunk. Then some colored lights began flashing on top of that car. Not a drunk, it was a police officer.

"License, registration, and proof of insurance please."
(handed it all over)
"Do you realize that you have a headlight out?"
"Yes, officer."
"What are you all doing out so late?" (still shortly before midnight - not that late)
Boy did Bekah have a story to tell. "Well, first we got stuck in an elevator at the resort for two hours and we didn't get to eat any gooeys which was the only reason we went to the resort then our car almost ran out of gas and we hit a dog. All I'm trying to do is get our students home even though they were supposed to be home almost two hours ago so that I can go home and go to bed." If she had cried she could have gotten an Oscar.

The officer took a look in the back seat and saw the sleeping toddler and teenager. He ran our plates to make sure we weren't "some psycho killer" and then let us go with a fix it ticket.

And to top it all off, when we finally got home, we discovered that the dog pooped in the house.

Chara {R.I.P.}

Today was a sad day in our house. Chara is the first pet that I've lost (except for a hermit crab I had in 5th grade) and she's the first pet that Bekah's lost suddenly.

The hardest question to answer is Christian's: "Where's Chara?"

How do you answer that? How do you explain to a two year old that a family pet has died? My first thought was that she's gone away. But what two year old is really going to grasp that concept? We could say that Chara is no longer with us, but that's what we tell him when Bekah's daycare kids finish daycare. And we don't want Christian thinking that all of Bekah's daycare kids are dead.

So, each of us are mourning in our own ways. Bekah is blaming herself. Psuchen is wandering around, lonely. Christian is doing what toddlers do. And I am wrestling with how to answer Christian's big question. Where's Chara?

the cute ones are always stupid

I am a dog owner. Rephrase that... a proud dog owner. Wait... a proud owner of a stupid dog. When I say -stupid- I am not trying to imply teasing as if really saying "just kidding, he's a smart dog." I'm serious, Psuchen is a stoopid dog. He is adorably cute, in a crooked sort of way, but as dumb as dirt.

For example, last summer he learned to climb out the bedroom window by using our bed as a stepping stool of sorts. He played in the yard for most of the afternoon. However, it took him over a half hour searching to find his way back to the window to return to the great indoors.

Bekah and I have discovered a fantastic game to play with him. (disclosure: this probably will not work with animals of greater intelligence)

I called out his name from the kitchen to scold him for digging through the trash (again). Normally this irritates me, as I'm sure it does most dog owners.

"Psuchen!" I called. Psuchen comes sprinting down the hall from the living room, jumps the baby gate, and dashes into our bedroom. Confused his human is not there he looks around for a moment. "Psuchen!" I yelled again. Out of the bedroom, over the baby gate, and down the hall to the living room. Despite being out of sight, I'm sure he had the same dumbfounded expression as displayed seconds ago.

We repeated this process two or three times: "Psuchen!" prance, leap, prance, stand confused, then repeat. Finally, he thought to look in the kitchen where I had been observing this routine with my typical passive-aggressive tendencies.

Bekah had been watching us boys play from the bathroom doorway, the midway point in our hall. She wanted in on the fun too, I guess. She called his name, "Psuchen!" as soon as the dog reached her feet, longingly looking up at Bekah, I called. "Psuchen!" Back he came over the baby gate and into the kitchen. "Psuchen!" Bekah's turn. Away from me and over the baby gate. "Psuchen!" Bekah. "Psuchen!" Me. "Psuchen!" Bekah. "Psuchen!" Me. Back and forth the dog ran, from owner to owner, chasing the voice of whoever called.

This continued for nearly twenty minutes. The trash mess was forgotten. How could anyone stay mad at such a simple creature?

I've suddenly noticed some spiritual significance in this post, but I'll save that for later.

house warming... and F.B.C.

I am having waking nightmares of boxes and mountainous piles of clothes and... stuff. This weekend has been an interesting venture of pick stuff up, throw it in a box, move the box, then take stuff out of box. My wife and I have moved four times since getting married. Hopefully, we won't need to move again for a very long time.

The good news, we are less than two miles from my work, so I can begin walking. We're much closer to Bekah's school and Christian's daycare. So we will be able to do our part of protesting gas prices by driving less. There is so much with in walking distance. The video rental store, supermarket, Hastings, Shari's Restaurant, and a dozen fast food joints.

We also unpacked much quicker at this place than I ever have in any move. When we moved into our apartment in Sioux Falls, there were boxes I still hadn't unpacked from when I moved from Meridian to Boise while Bekah and I were dating.

The bad news, Christian and Psuchen left very different house warming presents for us. Christian has discovered how to bite, and has been biting everything he can get his hand on. Mamma's knee, mamma's arm, the baby gate, his crib, the coffee table, the TV stand, the arm chair, everything except for his TOYS! He also spent much of the last three days, whining as if he was hungry. His stomach is smaller than my fist, so I don't know where the food we feed him goes. Two sippy cups of milk, a cup of yogurt and a waffle for breakfast. Still hungry. Two fish sticks, a bowl of green beans and more yogurt for lunch. Still hungry. As soon as he woke from his nap, he instantly began to grunt and whine his "feed me" mantra.

(One of Bekah's best friends came to help us move and brought her son with her. He's only four months older than Christian, and when he wants something, he honks like a Canadian goose. Thankfully, God did not bless my son with that talent.)

What was Psuchen's present, you ask? We bought a kennel for him this weekend, so that he couldn't run free and chew/soil what ever he wanted while the humans of the house were away at school and work. After last nigh, I would be scared to see what our house would have looked like with out it. I opened the front door thinking get the leash, take Psuchen outside so that he can go potty. Too late. The funny smell hit me while walking down the hallway, and by the time I reached the bedroom, (the kennel's location) the pungent odor was almost enough to knock me unconscious. Almost. The dog looked like he bathed in mud and smelled like a mixture of ammonia and methane.

Oh how the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. We were ready to go to bed, but instead spent the next hour and a half cleaning. Scrubbing the paw prints out of the carpet, cleaning out the kennel, and the dog NEEDED a bath.

In entertainment news...

One of the headlines in my Yahoo start page announced Frances Bean's first interview at age 13. As some of you will remember, Frances is the offspring of grunge royalty Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love. I feel bad for the girl, normalcy was never a posibility for her and she is a textbook case of how kids get messed up. After losing her father to a drug induced suicide, she gets stuck with a basket case of a mother. Courtney's drama has been well publicized, multiple court cases both civil and criminal. Former versus Dave Grohl and Chris Novasellic over publishing rights to Nirvana's music. The latter due to arrests from drug and assault charges. When She appears in public, you never know what version of Courtney will show up, incoherent Malibu glamour, or incoherent gutter trash.

But, back to Frances. Only 13 years old, and she looks like a carbon copy of Kurt. That's probably a good thing, considering her mother is not an attractive woman. In the interview, Frances stated her desire to create her own identity, apart from her parents. She doesn't want to be known as Kurt and Courtney's daughter. Can you blame her? Again, I think that is a good thing.

There is hope for the hopeless.