If The Eyes Are The Windows To The Soul---

A few nights ago I was ensconced in my Morris chair, sipping a red of unremarkable vintage. I was plowing my way through a dreadful periodical, but since it had come highly recommended I was determined to finish it. Thankfully the phone rang and it was a dear friend from my school days on the other end of the line. He was calling to catch up, we try to stay in touch a few times a year, and eventually the conversation got around to current events happening in his part of Terra Firma. Unfortunately the news was not good, violence and mayhem all around with lots of finger pointing and blame to go around with it. Our rambling ranged from the philosophical to the ridiculous (as is our nature), the topic of discussion eventually turned to more pleasant thoughts and after promising to visit in the near future as we so often do but never accomplish, we rang off.

I got to thinking about our conversation and to one aspect of it in particular and it was this. Every time a tragedy occurs such as a mass shooting, rioting, a police killing or other things of that nature, eventually the discourse turns to the roles that music, television, video games and media in general might play in these occurrences. The arguments range from "media is responsible" to "media has no effect whatsoever". The arguments have gotten so predictable and so entrenched that no serious discussion can really occur because it dissolves into name calling almost as quickly as it begins.

While pondering all of this, I was reminded of a Scripture verse that goes something like this:
"Your eye is the lamp of the body. When your eyes are healthy your body is filled with light. When your eyes are unhealthy your body is filled with darkness".
I'm paraphrasing of course because I've never been one to memorize as long as I've known where to look things up. Anyway, as I was reflecting on our earlier discussion with this verse serving as a backdrop, my mind once again traveled back to our days in school, this time while at college.

I was attending a lecture about advertising and more specifically subliminal advertising and it's effects on the mind. An example used to illustrate the point had to do with movies being shown at drive-ins and theaters. Contained in these movies were split second images of things like popcorn, soda, candy, etc., all things served at the snack bar. These images were apparently imperceptible to the conscious mind but not the unconscious, so that by the time intermission came around people were craving the items contained in the images. Snack bar sales were said to have increased as a result of this advertising. When it was discovered that this was going on, there was an uproar and people demanded that this be stopped. At least that was my recollection at the time and I don't recall if it was stopped or not, but that is beside the point.

The point I am bumbling my way to however, is that on the one hand we have an uproar about subliminal advertising and the effects it might have on people's behavior. Yet, on the other hand, we have those who would argue that perceptible media such as music, television, video games, etc, have no effect on those members of society who would choose to act out in criminal and violent ways. I find this to be a curious dichotomy. One only has to sample certain forms of today's media to see that it is not too far a stretch to imagine the effects that these might have on an improperly formed mind that is continually bombarded by said media.

But herein lies the problem. If anyone even dares to mention that media, in whatever form, could be playing a part in these behaviors, they get shouted down with slogans such as, "it's the parents fault" or "if you don't like it, don't watch", things of that nature and there are countless others. It would seem to me however, that if a parent is paying the going rate to have music or television delivered to their home then certainly they should have some say as to what it is that is being delivered instead of being told not to watch or listen to that which they are paying for.

But now I am getting away from where I intended, which as you know is a common fault of mine. Suffice it to say that after giving all of this some thought, I decided there wasn't much I was willing to do about it and ceased from thinking about it further except for this:

If our eyes are indeed the windows to our soul, then it might behoove us to take better care of what it is we expose them to, lest they see that which is unhealthy and allow darkness to creep in.

Having decided I had wasted enough time on complex thought for one night, I chucked my periodical into the trash, poured myself some more wine and let my mind wander to happier and simpler times.

Cheers,
Dogwood

Simon Says

     I had just completed a mediocre round of golf which had left me winded, sunburned and in poor spirit; ah, the game that I love. Now when I say mediocre, I mean of course, by my standards, which are completely different standards than I hold for others. Another observer might say my round was a disaster and as it turned out, one observer did.

     I had just finished putting up my clubs, shut the door to the car and about to head to the clubhouse for some much needed sustenance, when I heard a voice chuckling from behind. "Oh Laddie, that was quite a sight". My head dropped to my chest, I uttered a mild (by my standards) expletive, and turned around to face the music. "Hello Simon".
     "Aye, hello Dogwood, I haven't laughed that hard since the time I saw Lady Hathaway's terrier take her for a walk".

     Allow me to introduce Simon. He is the Head Groundskeeper at our local club and we are very fortunate to have him, or so he tells us. He is a sturdily built gent of undetermined age, with a burnished complexion from a lifetime spent in the elements. He has tended to the grounds of several courses over the years including some that are very prestigious and the hosts of many professional tour events. How he ended up at our club is an interesting story but I shall attempt to give you the short version.

     Simon is very meticulous when it comes to "His" course and it shows. The fairways are lush, the greens neat and tidy and beautiful landscaping along the way. The entire course calls to one like a Siren Song. But like the Song, there are dangers, or in golf-speak, hazards along the way; i.e., bunkers, water and rough, and these hazards can be difficult to get out of. However, you don't notice, because of the Song, until it's too late and your round is spoiled. But you come back, time and again, because you know that the next time will be different, and the time after that. But it won't be. It's the "Song" that keeps calling or rather Simon's Course. So the people keep coming and Simon's courses keep making money which is why he is always in such high demand.

     However, one particular day was different. Simon's previous club was holding their Women's Club Championship and the lady in the lead with one hole left to play, happened to be the mistress of the Club President. Well, as you might have surmised, after hitting her second shot on the final hole, she found herself in "trouble" and as a result so did the Club President. Demands were made and Simon was sacked.

     When our Club heard he was available, Simon was contacted, his terms accepted, and work begun. The transformation was magnificent. I remember the first time I played it after he had finished with his changes. The beauty of the course was like none I had ever seen. I was hooked from that very day. Every hole looked like an achievable par, my scorecard however, looked quite the contrary. And so I went out again, determined it would be different, and again, determined, and again...but with results always the same.

     So that is Simon, and while he stood there, still chuckling at his own joke or my round of golf, I'm not sure which, I asked, "but why Simon, why do you do it"? "Why do you set up the courses the way you do"?

     He chuckled again and replied, "Listen Laddie, the game came about by a bunch of sheep herders hittin' their way around a pasture. If they can hit their way out of sheep dung, certainly you can hit your way out of a bit o' sand and rough". Then he laid a hand on my shoulder and gently turned me to face the first hole, and softly said, "will you just look at that, aint she a beauty", and instantly mesmerized I agreed that she was. And somehow, Simon had slipped my bag of clubs over my shoulder and whispered, "you can do it Laddie, this time it will be different". "She's calling to you now, go to her" and so I did.

     I vowed to myself, this time it Would be different, this round Would be a good one and as I headed to the first tee box, somewhere off in the background, in answer to my questions, I heard a soft chuckle...


Cheers,
Dogwood


   
   
   

   

Reginald And The Problem With Dogs

     My friend Reginald called the other night, all in a snit, or so I presumed when I heard his voice, for that is usually the only time Reginald calls. It turns out I was correct for I had barely gotten out the words "Saunders residence" and he was off and running. I don't mean running in the literal sense of course, but rather speaking so rapidly that try as I may I could not keep up. "Regin, Regi, Reg, REGINALD, PLEASE STOP TALKING"!  I encouraged my friend to pause, take a breath and begin again, this time more slowly and with some small degree of enunciation.

     It turns out that the cause of the snit was this. Someone had the unmitigated gall to tell poor Reg that his dog was overweight. Actually, the word this person used was fat. Now I should perhaps explain that Reginald is extremely proud of his dog, "Barlow" by name, who is part Bloodhound and part "one-night stand". Still, Barlow is a striking dog in appearance, retaining most of the hound-like features with the exception of feathering (long hair) along his legs and tail, and two blue eyes. However, there is of course this; Barlow is indeed overweight. 

     I'm not sure why it happened, maybe it was because up until now I was enjoying a pleasant evening with a good book, a glass of wine, red of course, with my own dog at my feet or maybe it was because I just can't help myself, but what I did next is what I so often times unintentionally do. I poured gasoline on the fire. That is to say, I expressed to Reginald that perhaps the insulting person had a point. Well, as you might have guessed, Reg was off again, tirade building like a storm and all I could do was listen and take it because it was, after all, my own fault.

     Eventually, the storm blew itself out like all storms eventually do and I suggested to Reginald that in the morning we take a walk to the local park and see how Barlow compares to other dogs. He readily agreed at which time I took the opportunity to ring off as quickly as possible while I had the chance. Still reeling a bit from the effects of the storm, I poured myself something a little "stiffer" and was off to bed. 

     The next morning arrived much too soon for my liking, for while it appeared the day would be one filled with pleasant temps and sunshine, I knew for myself it would be grey and dreary. Reginald arrived right on time, despite my prayers that he be taken ill (shameful of me I know), with Barlow in tow. I gave the dog a pat on the head, and stroked him down along his side, actually feeling for any hint of a rib, for which I found none. This time I kept my foot planted firmly on the ground so as to prevent it from ending up where it did the night before. 

     Off to the park we went, each of us out to prove a point to the other and little did I expect that I was about to lose. Each and every dog we encountered appeared to look just like Barlow, which is to say, to my eye anyway, overweight. Reginald noticed it at once and immediately puffed right up like a strutting grouse. 

"You see" he said to me, "my dog is not fat, it is your dog that is too thin". Uncertain of what to say next, I suggested we sit a moment while I composed my thoughts. 

     I have a friend who lives in a nearby town. His name is Kenneth and he operates a kennel where he breeds and trains dogs of a few varieties. He is a crusty sort of chap, whose goal it seems is to murder the English language but he is a descent fellow just the same. I suggested to Reginald that we pay my friend a visit and ask his opinion on the matter. He agreed and off we went.

     One can never tell if Kenneth is pleased to have company or not, because of this occupational habit he has of talking in the same manner without regard to whom he is addressing, be they human or canine. We greeted Kenneth, to which he replied, "come" then gesturing to a bench "sit" and next, "speak". We explained our predicament and waited expectantly for his reply. He got up, instructed us to "stay", and went out to one of his kennels. He returned with one of the leanest dogs I have ever seen and asked us what we thought.

     Reginald jumped up (without permission) and vehemently exclaimed, "why that dog has been abused, he is emaciated". I can't say that I completely agreed with him, but I did wonder a bit as I could see the outline of the dogs ribs. My interpretation of what Kenneth said is this. He explained that dogs are built, or more accurately bred, for the job they have to do. This particular dog was an English Pointer, and it's job was to run several hours each day in search of quarry for it's owner. If the dog was carrying more weight, it would cause damage to it's joints, inhibit the function of it's organs, and in general shorten the dog's lifespan. What Kenneth actually said, was this. "That dog there is like one of them chaps what runs them marathon races. You never seen one of them blokes being a fatty did you"! Sigh.

     Next, Kenneth brought out two more dogs, one was an exceptionally looking Labrador Retriever and the other a powerfully built Alaskan Malamute. Without going into a long explanation of my interpretation of what Kenneth said and without subjecting you, dear readers, to what Kenneth actually said, suffice it to say he explained the work each dog was bred to do and how their build was suited to its work; the Lab swimming through strong currents and sometimes ice flows while making a retrieve, much like a football linebacker fighting off a block to make a tackle and then the Malamute towing heavy loads such as sleds filled with mail or supplies, much like those gents in "Strong Men" competitions towing trucks or blocks to a finish line. Each dog properly equipped with proper mass and muscle to perform its tasks.

     Poor Reginald couldn't help himself and at this point asked Kenneth to assess his dog. Kenneth obliged, looked the dog over and in his manner replied, "why that dog is just plain f#@%^& fat"! I thought poor Reginald was going to explode, his face turning purple, sputtering to try to find the right words, so I jumped in. I explained to Kenneth our experience in the park and asked his opinion. He explained (again my interpretation, you're welcome) that the average owner doesn't realize their dog is overweight, acquiring their dogs not for a purpose but for their looks and then proceed to kill them with kindness. They feed their dogs more food than required, spoil them with treats and give no thought to exercising them. A walk in the park is just that and only done long enough for the dog to relieve itself. He explained that this isn't the case with all dogs of course and that there are breeds better suited for a more sedentary lifestyle. Unfortunately, too many people acquire dogs for the wrong purpose. He added that people get so used to seeing overweight dogs, that an overweight dog becomes the norm. We thanked Kenneth for his helpful and colorful information and bid him adieu. 

We made our way back to my home where I prepared for us a small lunch and some iced tea. We discussed our morning's activities and I asked Reginald if his mind had been changed at all. He said it was not. He broke off a piece of his sandwich, gave it to Barlow and added his dog was definitely not fat. 

May your canine companions remain happy and healthy,

Cheers,

Dogwood

Nighttime Wonderings

A few nights ago I took the dog out for a walk so he could ready himself for his evening slumber. Now, this post is neither about the dog, nor his slumber, but rather about the night or more particularly, my thoughts of that night.

It was the kind of night that one reads about in novels where the scene is set in an English countryside. You know the ones I mean, gentlemen dressed in suits of linen with women in their gowns and bonnets as they stroll down a cottage lane. Well it was that kind of  night, sans gentlemen and ladies of course, just me and my dog. The moon and stars were out in full display, mountains and trees outlined against the sky while casting dim shadows upon the ground. There was just a hint of breeze, enough so that the air was clean and fresh, enjoyable to take in. A chorus of peepers were doing their best to gain my attention, (yes they were singing just for me), and succeeding admirably. The whole thing was wondrous which of course, got me to wondering.

Enveloped in this harmonious beauty, I found myself asking how could it be possible that all of this came about by random chance? Basing my answer on the evidence surrounding me, as well as other "evidence" provided me over the years, I concluded, it's not possible, in fact it's quite impossible. This notion of gasses existing forever until just the right sequence of chaotic events occurs, all on it's own, to provide a boom or a bang from which everything else comes forth seems, to me at least, to defy all reason. It's like saying we can have an easel, a canvas and a palate of paints and without any other interference we get the Mona Lisa. How insulted daVinci must feel. No, there must be some One or some Being to provide the spark, or in my example, the brush, for things to come about as they did. And so dear reader, this thought led me to another thought, or more accurately, a remembrance, for that is the way my mind works.

Several years ago I happened to observe a person of the Christian persuasion trying to "witness" to a Non-believer. Perhaps you've seen it yourself. The Christian was equipped with Bible in hand and was very eloquently quoting the Bible, book-chapter-verse, one quote after the other to prove the point to the "Non".
However, here was the problem as you have no doubt quickly surmised. If the "Non" does not believe in the Christian's God, he is not going to believe in the Christian's Book. This could only end one way,and so it did, with both parties walking away, neither one having convinced the other. Now, I'm not saying the Christian should not witness, in fact the Christian is called to witness. What I am saying is perhaps there is a better way to begin the process, for example by starting on some common ground. Which brings us back to my dog.

A favorite author of mine once wrote something which I only remember well enough to paraphrase. It went something like this. "The thing that separates man from the animals is that the man has the capacity to appreciate beauty". I thought of this line on that starry night, for while I was taking in all of the beauty that surrounded me, from the stars in the sky, to the shrubs on the ground, my dog took a sniff around said shrub and proceeded to relieve himself. Was the moment broken, no, not really, but it gave me a final thought, which was this.

If one really wants to try to convince a Non-believer, perhaps it's best to start not with a Book, but with a starry night and present the possibility that perhaps, just perhaps there is a some One or a some Being who provided the spark to the gasses, from which the rest of everything, including ourselves, evolved. And perhaps again, just perhaps, a little bit of that spark was placed inside each one of us.

Having completed our thinking and relieving for the night, my dog and I ventured back into our home and went to bed. I wish you pleasant dreams in your evening slumbers.

Cheers,
Dogwood

Your Nineteen Minutes Are Up

There is a good chance that if you live in the Lakes Region of NH, you have heard about the brouhaha that took place at a recent meeting of the Gilford, NH School-board. The big to-do involved a parent who was upset with a reading assignment his daughter received, more specifically, "The Book". The event was immediately picked up by the media, local and national, who presented the issue in such a manner that there could be no question about the accuracy of the event's portrayal. (Thank you Fox for not muddling my head with useless info like facts and differing viewpoints).

I first came across this incident courtesy of our local newspaper which gave an accounting of the events. Naturally, the heading caught my eye so I read the article.
Knowing a bit about the good people employed at the school, I knew there had to be more to the story. But here is a funny thing about stories, they don't always include the facts, or at least all of the facts. One of my favorite sayings happens to be, "never let the facts interfere with a good story". (Thanks, I made it up myself as far as I know). Apparently, some of the reporters liked my saying as well.

The article referenced a YouTube video, and like the spectator at the scene of an accident, I couldn't look away. The video showed what seemed to be a somewhat reasonable person explaining his position and then becoming less reasonable as time went on. He was eventually escorted out of the meeting and arrested by a police officer for disorderly conduct. The video shows him being escorted outside to the cruiser, while the videographer tries to entice the few people accompanying him to express outrage.

The first question I asked myself upon watching the video was "who took this video and how did this person just happen to be at the meeting"? Well, once I saw the answer to my question #1, I had the answer to my question #2. My question #3 was "why isn't anyone else asking this same question"?

It became obvious to me that the event was staged. I say this for a number of reasons. First, the videographer is also the same person who happened to be "the friend" who was at the home of the parent and who happened to randomly open "The Book" to the infamous "Page 313". Secondly, it is obvious to anyone watching the video that it was edited to make the parent look reasonable even though it failed. Thirdly, one only has to "google" (is that a verb now?) the name of the videographer and conclude for oneself what is really going on here. In the words of the famous Inspector Louis Renault, "considering the seriousness of the issue, we have rounded up twice the number of usual suspects".

Which finally brings us to my point. Yes, the parent has a right to express his concern but there is so much wrong with the way he went about it. He claimed that his first amendment rights were violated, but they were not. Meetings are run under rules of order (e.g .Robert's Rules) and the moderator has the right under those rules to limit discussion. He claimed he was arrested for exceeding the two minute time limit, but he was not. He was arrested for disorderly conduct after refusing to be respectful of others, when asked to do so by the moderator. He claimed that there was a conspiracy between the police officer and the School-Board but there was not. The gentleman was belligerent and treated accordingly. The real conspiracy was between himself and his friend/videographer who concocted this mess.

The members of the School-Board especially the Chairwoman and the arresting Officer are to be commended for the way in which they treated the gentleman, both with courtesy and respect when he was not willing to reciprocate. Lastly, to the employees at GHS, continue to do the outstanding work that you do in preparing our children for the future. Bumps in the road are eventually smoothed over and this gentleman's nineteen minutes are up.

Cheers,
Dogwood

Introductory Blog

I decided to start a blog for one reason and one reason only. I don't fully understand social networking.
I have a Facebook account, (FB because I'm lazy), sometimes it's active other times it's not. Sometimes I write a single sentence post, other times a post that is much longer.
I once read that single sentence posts belong on Twitter, in the form of a "tweet". Really, I asked myself, if I want to say something brief I have to do something called "tweeting"? This didn't sound like something I was interested in, so I did not pursue it. I had also read, regarding FB, that posts that were too long belonged on a blog. I was somewhat familiar with what a blog was but not completely certain and am still not, but I'm willing to find out.
More importantly, I didn't want to have to keep deciding if my FB posts were too long, too short, or just right. I'm still not sure who decides, I only know when it's been decided.

So here is my blog, read it, don't read it, it matters little to me, it's only here to relieve my FB anxiety.

Finally, I would add, please do not let any inaccuracies, grammatical or otherwise, reflect poorly on my teachers. They tried their best to do their job, I tried my best to prevent them.

Cheers,
Dogwood