Sad news...

Early this morning, my Grandmother Marilyn Edwards passed away. She lived in Aurora with my Grandfather, Wayne. She was my mother's mother. We called her Meme.

Over the past few years, Meme has struggled with scoliosis. She went into the hospital for corrective surgery twice; once in 2009 and the second time this year on January 12. We thought she was recovering well, and everyone felt she was getting back on her feet faster than expected. Late last week she left the hospital for a rehab center. Things were looking pretty good.

Then she fell backwards and hit her head, and was re-admitted to the hospital. Then, in the span of 4 days, a series of significant setbacks followed rapidly, one after the other: a low-grade fever, a slight case of pneumonia, a urinary tract infection, a blockage in her intestine, a burst intestine, surgery to repair the intestine and clean up the infection spreading in her abdominal cavity. It was all too much. She did not have the health and strength to fight it all off. The infection was powerful and caused a great deal of pain, and the medical staff used strong pain relievers to help her.

About 6 AM this morning, Feb 11, she left us. She was 76 years old. We believe she was a Christian, and is with the Lord. She is no longer in physical pain. Our pain is much less than hers was, but we are hurting.

We ask that you keep us in your thoughts and prayers, especially for my Grandfather Pappy, as we make arrangements and settle on a new life situation for him.

On blog titles starting with "On"

I like them.

I also like chapter titles in books that go something like:

"Ch. 6 - In which Arnold encounters a bear."

I don't think I can articulate why, I don't even know if I know why, I just know that I like them. Maybe it's because the author is him/her-self giving you a the subject. It comes across in a way that is different from other titles, as they are dry and impersonal e.g. - "Ch. 6 - The Bear" - Oh, a bear? Why do I care about a bear? I'd almost rather have the sparse "Ch. 6". Don't bother telling me about the bear, I'll get to it, and I'll get why it matters when I do. But if the author says "In which Arnold encounters a bear", it's though they're saying "Psst, Hey... Arnold totally runs into a bear in this part and it's awesome, so read fast but pay attention." Now I'm totally stoked about the next chapter.

It's the kind of thing that causes late nights reading. I'll be a few pages from the end of chapter five, eyes blurring and drifting across lines, creating words that weren't there and mentally distorting what I've read. How much further? I wonder. I slide a finger in the page and flip... 1... 2... 3... 4... more pages to chapter six. I'll stop there. Ch. 6 - In which Arnold encounters a bear... Protagonist meets bear? Really? Is there foreshadowing in Ch. 5? Am I missing something right now? Will there be a cliffhanger at the end of Ch. 5? I have to know about the bear! I wipe my eyes, maybe get up and go to the bathroom, get a glass of water. I am awake now, awake with intent. I must finish this chapter and read the next. Minimum. I wonder what Ch. 7 is called? Will there be a cliffhanger? What happens with the bear? Is this how the Antagonist comes into the story?

Two hours later, I will know. I'll also have read at least four more chapters, all with the same anticipation. I will be very tired, but it will have been good, and definitely worth it.

Short (pt.2)

It came and went really, the feeling...

The thought came with it though, they were inseparable.

It was though the pain was mental.

He felt it clearly.

And was anguished...

Short

Two times in the last hour.

Twice.

Twice he'd felt the momentary sting of the thought of it.

In the last hour.

Untitled: Storied Lives

This is the first in a series of stories about myself. Those of you who know me have probably heard some of them before, but I've never taken the time to write them down, so I think I will now...

I wanted to come up with some catchy, uber-cool name for this series of stories. I wanted something simple, but with meaning, something that had a ring to it, but went a little deeper. I so love the title 'This American Life' it's so simple, but goes so deep. I momentarily considered "This Americans' Life", but as freaking cool as Ira Glass is, I'm sure I'd still get sued for that one. I thought of 'Lives Lived' but that's something that would be on a major television network around one in the afternoon. I tried several others but all to no avail. So I decided to rip off the Denver Art Museum... they've been running a series of events called "Untitled" ... but somehow, the events end up with names like the upcoming "Untitled #24 (Crossbones)" ... I know, right? Kinda defeats the idea of 'untitled'. It cracks me up, so I stole it. Enough run-on about titles, and on with the story.

Storied Lives #1 - Covered In Bees

Several years ago my best friend Erik introduced me to a unique British comedian by the name of Eddie Izzard. Eddie has a strange sort of intelligent rambling that somehow goes somewhere, a two hour production that makes you think without realizing it; because you've been laughing. Nowadays I can't think of this story without quoting a particular bit Eddie does about beekeepers. "My father was a beekeeper before me, his father was a beekeeper before him, I wanna walk in their footsteps, and their footsteps were like this... AAAAAARRGH, I'M COVERED IN BEES!"

You see, my father was a beekeeper. Fred Henke, a family friend of ours, had been in beekeeping for dozens of years, and somewhere along the line Dad decided that he'd like to keep bees as well. At first it seems freaky, the prospect of having bees near the house, intentionally, but the bees complimented Dad's amazing vegetable garden, and made honey, so it was all worth it. From my perspective it was amazingly cool, because what other kid can say they have a massive bee-hive in their back yard? And there wasn't anything to it, you just get a few pastel-colored boxes, stick some bees in, and then go collect the honey. Or so I thought, and thus began my education on bees.

The first thing you learn about bees is that, unlike 1950's Americana, the 'worker' bees are female. And that unlike 1950's American film, the boss is a Queen. And then, if you're a guy, the next item on the list is rather disturbing. The queen uses the male bees (drones) to mate, and then throws them out the door to die. Whoa. Even at the age of six that one stuck with me.

Then come the cool parts. Like that fact that a honey bee will NOT sting you unless it feels as though it's life or hive is threatened. Because if it stings you, it will die. So, if you don't threaten a bee, you won't get stung. And my favorite bee fact of all time, that you can walk straight through a swarm of bees in shorts and a tank-top and not get stung once. Don't believe me? I've done it.

A hive of honey bees has one queen, and all the worker bees answer to that queen. The queen lays eggs and they hatch into workers, drones, and on the rare occasion, another queen. When a second queen is introduced into a hive, chaos ensues. The original queen will actually leave the hive, travel a short distance, and set up her new nest. All of the workers now have to decide which queen they will stay with, the hive splits and you have a swarm. The whole process is pretty impressive when it happens in the Cottonwood tree that your tire-swing is attached to.

Now, natural as it may be, swarming is a beekeepers worst enemy. You can lose up to 60% of your hive, and the more 'vigorous' bees at that, and often the remaining hive will be unproductive (as far a honey goes) because they're rebuilding. So it goes without saying that Mom called Dad real quick after I came running inside and told her that there was a swarm in the backyard.

Fred came over and he and Dad suited up in the traditional white suits and hats, but then Fred pulls a very-large, very non-traditional, Shop-Vac out of his truck. He and dad attached several extension hoses to the vacuum, and then Fred climbed the ladder to the point 20ft. up where the swarm was forming. And he vacuumed the bees up. As crazy as it sounds, it doesn't kill the bees, and within the hour they had them all sucked up. The next part was insane.

Dad spread a tarp out on the grass in the yard, and they opened up the vacuum. Spreading the bees out across the tarp, he and Fred began hunting for the old queen. If they got rid of her, the other bees would soon return to the hive, and life would go on and we'd have honey. I've been watching this whole spectacle from the kitchen window because Mom had little faith in the benign nature of the swarm. Suddenly I see Dad pointing at something, asking Fred is 'this what I'm looking for', and just as suddenly, Fred is screaming at my father... "KILL IT! KILL IT!! KILLIT!!!"

After that adventure, things with the hive went back to normal, and we were able to get our season's worth of honey from the bees. I was still a pretty young kid, but was really anxious to help with anything that I could. Unfortunately they don't have a 'boys' section for beekeepers suits, so somehow I convinced Dad and Fred that I could help them with the bees if I had a hat, we could just make a suit.

That's how I ended up wearing a bee-keepers hat, a thick sweat-shirt, blue jeans, suspenders, and gloves - all tied together with duct-tape. I was pretty freaking proud of my jury-rigged bee suit. I even got Mom to take a picture of me hanging out with the big guys.

I got stung about five seconds later.

Right between my sweatshirt and those taped-up jeans of mine.

I had an awesome childhood, covered in bees.

UPDATE: Upon rising this morning, and reviewing this post, it is clearly evident that my 2am posting form needs some work and that this story could well use a trip through the editor machine. I'll do that, but I have to work now, so for the interim, forgive my language and grammar. - GT

Working on it...

“Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing.”

- Benjamin Franklin.

Thanks, Ben, for kicking me in the face.

I’m writing already, ok?

I wanted to write science fiction, but Joss Whedon so trumped my hand on that one that I’ve not picked up the genre since.

I wanted to write about technology, but now I work in the field, and besides being overloaded with it every day, I really can’t thanks to some prime NDA’s I signed.

I wanted to write about sports, but the Broncos won the Super Bowl and Elway retired and I realized that I’d seen it all when it comes to football, and Roy and now Sakic are gone so there goes Hockey, and the Rockies are great, but until they top Rocktober, I just won’t be able to be excited enough to write about sports.

I wanted to write about politics but despite (or perhaps because of) my involvement and interest in the last elections, I have come to see it for the circus of a runaround that it really is, and can’t devote myself to it.

I wanted to write about theology and philosophy but given the events of the last few years, I find the words that come are angry and spiteful, and that does the discussion no justice at all.

I wanted to write about an aimless wanderer because I felt that my writing was aimless and wandering, but the story went nowhere because it had nowhere to go.

I wanted to write about all of these things, and so many others, because they are the things others have done, the words others have written, the stories others have told. Well, truth be told, this is why I’ve failed. I’m hiking on someone else's trail...

“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thanks, Ralph, for punching me in the gut.

I’m working on it, ok?

that thing

I'm feeling more and more lately, that this 'block' I have writing, this lack of things to write about is likely less than I'm making it out to be. I have this distinct impression that if I find the right thing, it will come flooding out like an un-dammed reservoir. I saw a trailer the other day for a film called Julie & Julia, where Meryl Streep plays Julia Child and a young lady decides to cook her way through Childs' book and write a blog about it, and regardless of the merits of the movie, I latched onto that idea of having some sort of theme, some sort of 'basis' for writing to provide some consistency.

Now to find that thing.

Kitten Fray

My face is buried in the pillow of the couch, and only the blanket over me would let you know that I chose this position.

I hear the light rumble of kitten paws, eight of them. 'Skish' as one turns to face the other 'Whomp' as they collide, a 'that was rude' meow.

Bells jingle as they tussle and I drift in and out of the moment, consciously wishing them away, while sub-consciously appreciating their comforting presence.

The kittens play while I sleep,

The wind blows through open windows and curtains weep,

The night aire creeps in and caresses me,

And I pull my blanket tighter to my neck.

The kittens come closer in their play,

Tumbling over what ever's in the way,

A rumbling, bumbling Kitten fray,

I open my my eyes to peek and check.

And I appreciate their comforting presence.

from the Playing For Change project

WWW.hatmakesitgo.me

I can hear Sports Center on the TV in the other room.

Dodgers minus Manny "Holy Gloom and Doom"

I stare at the browser, what site to go to next?

Google Trends it is, who's better Trix or Chex?

Late night boring internet. This shouldn't be possible.

This thing should be endless. Forever probable.

Would watch Dollhouse if they had Episode 1.

Streamed TV is limited and not yet all that fun.

And then a moment passes...

My fingers touch the keys...

Inspiration flashes...

Boredom up and flees...

I slam in seven characters "dot com" and press return,

To my Blogger dashboard my flying fingers burn,

The internet is boring, it leaves me cold and 'lone,

The way for me to save it, is to make it all my own.

To make it all my own and say what words I will,

To write a post in 'Edit' mode and blank white fields fill,

To add a link and change the font and use fun colors too,

To type until I end up with cold hands and fingers blue.

And so sit and type away, dropping cheesy rhymes,

A better way to pass the time, than subscribing to the Times,

I take the internet in hand, and to it's volume add,

I've written this,

I've published this,

And this has made me glad.