Our Lady Ginger of The "Oh, My Lordy God!"

I can't tell you how many hours I've spent this past weekend, culling through literally thousands of photos packed in envelopes in a crate AND those shots which actually made it into my library of albums, gathering what I needed to create a slideshow for my graduating high school senior.  Oh, and scanning them into the Mac, too!  Is it possible to develop carpal tunnel syndrome in two days? 

In the process, I stumbled over gems that I couldn't leave well enough alone.  On Facebook, I uploaded a multitude of family pictures which encompassed almost every paper photo I could find of grandparents and great-grandparents on my husband's side of the family; I plan on uploading those from MY side of the family later this week.  They're simply too precious to keep to myself, stored in a box far away from admiring eyes, or crammed between pages which are beginning to yellow and fall apart.  For whatever reason, even before the dawning of the digital age of photographic ease, it has fallen to me to chronicle the lives and happenings of everyone around me from the time I married Jimmy, 22 years ago, up to today and beyond.

One album in particular housed an array of photos which allude to an interesting chapter in my life back when my children were yet quite young.   I made the acquaintance of a local woman in the small town of Lamar, Colorado.  Her name was Ginger Alba.  That initial meeting blossomed into a unique, sometimes rather precarious and strange, friendship over time.  But then again, Ginger was, herself, incredibly unique and different, and rather unstable if truth be told.  And I've got a thing for special cases.  For IMPOSSIBLE cases.

Ginger in her home in her trademark stocking cap and long-johns.

Ginger wandered the streets of Lamar dressed much like a homeless person.  She often wore her clothing, layers of mismatch shirts and sweaters and sweatshirts with logos and baby animals emblazoned across their fronts in the winter, worn jong-johns beneath loose jeans or sweatpants, and patterned socks, oft times several pair at a time, for days on end.  She had an endless supply of stocking caps which she pulled tightly over her head.  In the winter, of course.  Summer gave way to oversized t-shirts and blouses paired with a light cotton layer beneath.  But never skirts or dresses or shorts.  And ballcaps or hair ribbons.  During her time with me, I would often wash and dry her laundry, encouraging her to bathe in our restroom to rinse the sour odor rising from her body.  I also tried to match up an outfit here and there, like the one below.  And because she didn't visit the barber or hairdresser, I volunteered to cut her thick gray locks more than once.  She really did have an expressive face which was brightened and lightened with a washing and a trim!

Me and Ginger after a haircut in my kitchen.

Ginger developed a strong affection for me.  Perhaps too strong.  She used to hug me and say that I was like her sainted mother.  Her mother had died some time before I met her.  When conversations wandered in that direction, her mood became quite sad and her affect devolved into that of a young child.  She also discussed her siblings, recounting stories of her childhood and their role in it.  To hear her tell it, they kept her from spending more time with her mother and they didn't treat her right.  I did realize that her perspective was skewed and her maturity was stunted -- arrested development.  Her ideas about things sexual were innocently limited for a woman in her late 60's and she refused to actually say the proper name of certain body parts.  Ginger played with a full deck but some of the cards were blank, if you know what I mean.  Her ability to see life from another point-of-view was non-existent.  Therefore, understanding others happened through a narrow filter.  

Ginger with my kids.  Though she liked them in a general sense, over time she began to see them as competition for my attention.  That's when I realized we needed weaning, one from the other.

 You see, Ginger latched on to a woman she liked, someone who paid her attention and extended compassion, and remained her friend until her mind and heart reached a point where they could go no further.  Before me was a woman named Linda.  Ginger introduced us before Linda moved away from Lamar; Linda made a point to explain how demanding the sweet and humorous Ginger Alba could, and most likely WOULD, become.  She was absolutely correct!  But still I loved Ginger for all her quirky ideas and unreasonable fears and odd social behaviors.  Though she could be tricky, she was honest.  I found her quick shuffle-walk endearing.  I observed her enter local businesses for a hello and maybe a question or two . . . or six!  Locals knew who she was.  She didn't know strangers though she was a bit more standoffish with men.  Most folks engaged in chit-chat with her.  Every now and again, some imaginary slight would occur and Ginger would boycott a store or an individual, telling everyone she could that they should avoid the place or person because they did her wrong and therefore were rotten to the core.  It could be difficult to stop her angry verbal ramblings.  But I became quite skillful at it to my own exhausted detriment.  Her speech was peppered with the affectionate "Honey" (a distinct two-syllable, two-note, lilting pronunciation) and that famous personal exclamation reserved for anything which shocked, surprised, or otherwise caught her off guard, "Oh, my Lordy God!"  She did not possess an indoor voice.  Her firm but toothless gums sometimes caused her words to sound slightly slurred or liquid when she got herself worked up.  And a good many words had added letters in their formation as they passed by her lips.  For example, 'slave' became 'sclave.'  Nothing would change that.  "Ho-o-n-ney, I've been saying it that way all of my life.  Why would I want to go and change that now?!"  All wide-eyed and serious.

A portrait of Ginger doing what she often did: just sit and hang out in the odd place.  Sometimes watching.  Other times mumbling to herself.  Here she is in front of the public library building.

Eating was a favorite pastime of Ginger's.  BJ's Burgers, a local joint similar to Sonic Drive-In, had a cheeseburger about which she loved to talk; any a time did I load her up in the Pathfinder and treat her to one.  From Sonic (which she called 'Sonic-a') she enjoyed milkshakes.  SO DID I.  She had a knack for showing up around the house at lunchtime, right about the moment I sat the kids down for their midday repast, and they always opened up a chair for her at the kitchen table.  It amused them to watch her energetically gum through a sandwich or a piece of fruit, especially a ripe banana.  And she knew her way surprisingly well around a good hunk of steak!  Talking while eating didn't seem to trip her up none, either.  It did, however, trip me up, and I took to averting my eyes if I shared a meal with her.  I sent Ginger home with care packages of leftovers and special treats when I could, worried that she wasn't getting the nutrition she needed.  It was only later that I discovered the fate of leftover food in her home.

I loved those thin hair ribbons Ginger sometimes wore in her hair.
They lent an air of youthful playfulness to her appearance.
I do believe she's lunching on fried chicken here.

There are more Ginger stories to tell then I could ever possibly hope to remember.  A good friend of mine who happens to read this blog knew Ginger, having met her through me, and picking her fine brain could probably free a few more bats from the belfry.  But a few incidents come to mind worth telling here.


The first involved a period of time when I took to waking up at 5AM several times a week to help Ginger clean the clutter in her home.  She collected everything, from newspapers to nickels, and threw away nothing.  The rental house itself looked in danger of falling apart, and many years after I left Lamar it did burn down, forcing Ginger to finally move into one of those assisted living communities she couldn't stand.  Her fridge shelves were loaded down with the remains of meals from fast food places, the plastic containers of leftover I sent with her, and partially-consumed candy bars and soda bottles.  In my eagerness to work, to help, to fix, I ignorantly thought that once I cleaned everything up right nice, she would see the pleasure in it and maintain it.  Now, I realize that whatever illness did, in fact, plague her brain, caused her to compulsively collect these myriad items.


While I did manage to fill countless black plastic waste bags with the detritus littering her crowded living room and kitchen, a great many other possessions were deemed too important to find their way to the dumpster.  A broken radio.  Outdated calendars with cats and kittens, her favorite animal.  Piles of old newspapers she couldn't even read.  I had to actually point out the mold on food and explain the harm in leaving it sitting around to propagate.


But the worst, by far, was the row of orange plastic buckets with lids situated outside the bathroom door.  Ginger determined that the toilet was a danger to her and had thus turned off the water supply and covered the lid with plastic so as not to use it.  Instead, she collected her urine and fecal matter in these buckets.  Inside her house.  Actually in her kitchen.  I knew I had to do something with them but what?! How many there were, I can't recall.  More than five and less than twenty.  Even ONE was one too many, though.  In the end, I lugged each bucket to the furthermost edge of her property (praying with each trip that the lid would not loosen prematurely and allow the mellowing melange of bodily waste to splash on my person) and dumped the putrid contents on the ground, diluting it the best I could with a spraying hose after each empty.  I knew she would only start the process again but I was powerless to stop her.


Another time, my mother stopped in to visit and met Ginger for the very first time.  "Oh, ho-o-n-n-ey, you're her mama?  Well, I'm real glad to meet 'cha. I love her.  I love Gloria.  She's good to me, and makes me something to eat."  She had this habit of scrunching her eyes real tight when she got to cogitating over something.  And when she took in the image on my mom's t-shirt, the eyes took on a hard squint.  "Why, you got kitties on your shirt, don't 'cha?" her finger raised up and moved toward my mother's unsuspecting chest where words marched across the top of the the kittens, "What's that spell there?  K . . . I . . . T . . . T . . . "  Ginger's face was inches from the shirt, her bold index finger poking the top of my mother's upper female parts much to the dismay and disbelief of my mother.  Ginger just went on trying to pronounce the mysterious word without so much as a 'pardon me.'  Finally, my mom stepped back and put some distance between herself and the offending digit.  Classic Ginger.


Once, in a daring move I can't quite contemplate, my husband and I decided to bring Ginger along with us on a road trip to New Mexico to help our neighbor's move.  I don't believe she had left the state in a very long time before that, if ever.  As the picture below with Ashley demonstrates, she was giddy with excitement over the prospect.  Overall, she handled herself pretty well, childlike with wonder and fully entertaining to Uncle George and Aunt Donna in LaVeta when we stopped in on our way either to, or from, New Mexico.  My memory is foggy on this point.  Not that it matters.  Anyway, Ginger insisted on having her own motel room during the overnight portion of this trip.  She even paid for it.  This was a very big deal for her.  After making sure she was settled, the rest of us hunkered down for a good night's sleep.  When we woke in the morning and went to check on Ginger, she was perched on the edge of her bed, tense and sweating and wide awake.  The heated air emanating from her room almost pushed us back!  "Oh my Lordy God but I didn't sleep a wink last night.  After you turned on the heater, it got real warm in here but I couldn't turned the danged thing off.  Oh-h, honey, but I'm so tired and hot.  Turn it off!  Please!"  This last word was delivered as a little-girl whine.  Petulant and hoping for sympathy.  We were appropriately sympathetic though I did ask her why she didn't just knock on the adjoining door and ask for assistance.  "I didn't want to wake you up, ho-o-ney!" 

A road-trippin' Ginger attempting a bubble with her gum!

As do most good things with Ginger, our friendly little union eventually came to an end.  Her neediness became smothering.  More and more she demanded my unflagging attention.  She soured around my kids; I could see her beginning to compete with them for my devotion.  That just wouldn't do.  They were my first priority.  Several times I tried to reason with her.  But there is no reasoning with a stubborn Ginger.  She came around less and less before stopping all together.   I'll not soon forget the incident on Main Street which occurred with my visiting brother, John, in the car with me.  We were headed for the grocery store and as we approached our turn, I noticed Ginger on the sidewalk.  "Oh, there's little Ginger!  Honk at her, Jimmy!" I entreated my husband.  Upon hearing the horn, Ginger squinted hard as she tried to discern the people within the noisy automobile.  When recognition dawned upon her wizened brown features, she leaned forward, clenched her fists, and STUCK HER TONGUE OUT AT ME with all the ugliness and force she could muster, turning her head and body to follow us as we turned.  My brother was in stitches, barely able to catch his breath as he wheezed, "THAT is the funniest thing I've ever SEEN!  I'm sorry, Gloria, but IT IS!"   Though I could understand his amusement, it was hurtful to me.  I knew that for her, it was the ultimate expression of dislike.  Totally in keeping with her personality and sensibilities.


If there was any question left in me concerning the state of our friendship, it was laid to rest once we moved from Lamar for the big suburban community of Broomfield, Colorado.  One day I received a call from my little sis, Rebekah, who was living in Lamar with her husband at the time.  He happened to be a local police officer.  She relayed the story of how Ginger showed up at the police station a few days earlier to lodge a complaint against me.  Apparently, she told them that I had broken into her house and stolen all of the nickels and dimes that she kept hidden in socks all around her house.  Again, one of my siblings laughed at Ginger's expression of anger with me for treating less well then she felt she deserved. But this time, I had to laugh, too.  She'd accused others of this atrocity before.  Even told me of it.  This, I knew, was classic Ginger.


I lived.  I loved.  I learned.  I moved on.  There's never been, nor will there ever again be, another Ginger Alba in my life.  I'm not sure if she's still shuffling along the streets of Lamar.  But I know a few folks over that way.


I think I'll ask them.

Easy Riders on Aisle 9

This close to midnight, all I can think to say is, "Thank the Lord for my iPhone when I forget my fully-loaded Canon camera at home!"  And, on days at Super Wal-Mart like today, I'm pretty darned grateful for my curious and friendly nature when the occasion warrants.

Because sometimes the parking lot yields delightful surprises worth a second look, or two, or THREE, in this case.  Meet Joe Blair and his two dreadlocked pooches. Six months out of the year, this close-knit trio straps on the saddlebags and straps into their respective places on the family motorcycle and crisscrosses the United States, rain, wind, or shine.  The other four months are spent planning their next journey at their homebase in Bowling Green, Kentucky. And, no doubt Joe tidies up the custom Rastafarian grooming he created for his little road buddies.

Where the four-legged bikers are perched is where they remain during their travels on the highways and bi-ways with the wind in their beards.

Though their name escapes me, I remember that this guy is the friendly one.  He's tucked ten years of chopper riding under his safety straps.  Those wee goggles crack me up . . . but somehow they go with his whole attitude. And perfectly match his hair!

This rather artsy-looking fellow is a seventeen-year veteran of the open road.  He prefers to remain aloof and does not welcome being handled by strangers.  TOO cool for school! I sensed his desire to be done with Wal-Mart and its onlookers.  He probably knows Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda. Absolutely born to be wild . . . 

A Robot and Her Pictures

You know, I love it when I can actually BE bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the early morning hours.  This used to be a much more common occurrence in years gone by and fading in the rearview mirror of my life. But, as my body began to more openly rebel against being used and abused as if it was a robot (which it decidedly is not . . . I don't think robots experience aggravating shoulder pain which precludes said robot from pumping out those 126 push-ups every other day which impart to said robot a feeling of self-worth and physical accomplishment . . . and then ingest a 6-day regimen of cortico-steroids which, while doing absolutely nothing for the burning joint pain, did cause burning BELLY pain and anxiety in the poor robot . . .  but I digress), um, as I was saying, my body reacts in ways most undesirable these days.  And, sadly, that includes requiring more sleep on the back end as sleep on the front end continues to remain rather elusive.

Sigh . . .

But since I'm am up, rise and shine, and hopping in true techno fashion between a Facebook photo album upload of my daughter's very-much-fun Senior Picture Photo Shoot (yes, it deserves first-letter CAPS) and this here blog entry and the dictionary app on Girlfriend (iPhone to you newbies), I thought I might as well upload a few pics here, too.  Especially after visiting the recent blog entry of one of my Earth Diva's daughters,  City Girl  (please click and read: you WON'T be disappointed -- pics of a St. Patty's Day Parade in Toronto -- the cute Asian girl and her man . . . hilarious!).

1.  There's something odd about this here yellow bell pepper.

2.  Mama loves frowning girls in green with floral headbands!

3.  The boy has decided to put more effort into his Honors English class.  Proud of that!

4.  This pair of mourning doves were a'courtin' one morning.

5a.  My daughter's boyfriend claims to dislike our cat.

5b.  He has a weird way of showing it . . . 

5c.  Oh, wait!  It's the CLAWS he dislikes -- those sharp curved scimitars in the foreground there!

6a.  Zachary needed $$.  Ashley agreed to pay him to clean her bathroom.

6b.  He's a rather brave boy to tackle the job.

6c.  That's what being cash-strapped will do to a fellow.

6d.  He didn't, however, extend his bravery to her bedroom.  Greed has its limits!

7.  Starbucks cups, with a few foreigners intermingled, that I'm saving for SOMETHING.

Any ideas?

8.  Taking candid shots of my sweet babycakes is a way of life for moi.

9a.  Evidently, sweet babycakes enjoys catching me in candid moments, too!

9b.  Whose the REAL BIRD here, anyway?

9c.  I can answer THAT question!

10.  My Eastern redbud and weeping willow caught holding hands.

Love is certainly in the air as spring doth approach . . . 

Have a LOVE-ly day, friends.

Just Say "NO" to Mrs. Butterworth!

If your household is anything like mine -- in the most general of senses -- then there's always something going on.  Especially if there are children floating about.  It doesn't matter what age.  Someone at sometime in some way has an ax to grind, a knife to sharpen, a fork to poke, and spoon to scoop.  At anything and everything.  And the scope and scale vary from day to day.  Last week, such a something occurred.  With the help of a fork and a tree.

Recently, one of my sweet sunshine rays of goodness and light had himself a moment that just about floored me.  Though what I'm about to say may seem insignificant when placed next to the behemoth issues which often run rampant across the ceramic tiles of our kitchen and the stained carpet of our stairs, it's a biggie for this nature-loving, uber-recycling, health-conscious mom who yearns for just a glimpse of her idealistic influences within the hearts and minds of her babies gone hormonal.

(A self-portrait of the syrup-sucking son circa 2002!)

I'm a fan of real maple syrup.  Beautiful light amber and handsome dark amber.  Grade A and grade B. Liquid gold.  Naturally derived and without unnatural enhancements.  It's history on this continent reaches back to a time before the white man ran his ships ashore.  I think of the colonists who, having learned the secret from native Americans, passed the trade down from generation to generation.  There are a host of complex flavors hinting at the transition from winter to spring which spurs the sugar maple trees into producing the wondrous sap for boiling down from a vat to a bucket.  It takes roughly 43 gallons to make one gallon of this lovely rich ooze; and the demand has yet to be outstripped by supply.  Obviously, this translates into a pricey product.  But with such a unique and warm profile, it stands heads and shoulders above any and all competition in the breakfast condiment arena.  Not to mention how it transforms ice cream and sweet potatoes.  My favorite use is with my oatmeal and flax most mornings -- a bit of butter, a dash of cinnamon, and a handful of nuts . . . delightful!

 
That thick viscous stuff  masquerading as syrup in myriad formulations of butter-flavored, lite, even maple-flavored, stored in lob-cabin'ish squeeze bottles and glass bottles shaped like ample-figured house cooks from an era best not memorialized in such a fashion, does little to titillate my tastebuds.  I'd rather swear off French toast and waffles for the remainder of my life than taint them with such drivel.  Besides the high-fructose corn syrup found in a place of prominence on the ingredient list, there's a host of other additions with names even I have trouble pronouncing.  Though it is quite cheap in comparison to its naturally-derived cousin, what it produces on the palate is often just as cheap.  It offers no depth of flavor other than that of bland white sugar.  And though my affection for sweets cannot be pushed off to the side of the road here, a sweet should reflect flavors -- be they chocolate or lemon, vanilla or caramel, berry or MAPLE -- which have been enhanced by sugar, and NOT run over by a Mack truck spilling a surplus of the grainy white stuff everywhere!

And THAT is exactly why my kids loved the fake stuff.  Much to my chagrin.  For most of their young lives, they worked those bottles of lite artificial syrup, suffocating their poor whole grain pancakes to within an inch of their short existences, and all the while their mama lovingly Maple-drizzled her biscuits with the respect due such a wonderful example of baking.

(While I don't have a pic of Zach eating his waffles, this here is my niece, Grace, 

enjoying her Auntie G's waffles quite some time ago.)

About a year ago, I did one of my motherly about-faces and banished said pseudo-syrups from the pantry.  Needless to say, the Valdez household experienced a revival of breakfast cereal for several months before one-by-one the members begin to defect.  Our Canadian friends would be proud!  But, alas, there was one holdout.  My sugar-baby boy.  He held steadfast and missed out on some of my best waffle iron work ever.  I didn't budge.  Not once.  Not ever.  Not to save a dime.  Well, until I did.  Last week.  I figured if a year had transpired and his palate had not evolved, this was a battle best surrendered.  The nutrition inherent with my style of cooking and baking could balance out this equation.  You win some.  You lose some.  (But I so-o wanted to WIN!)

(Gratuitous shot of ONE of aforementioned Canadian friends.)

So, it's the scene of one of our breakfast-for-dinner nights.  His perfectly done waffles, crisp on the outside and steaming with tenderness from the inside, underwent his precise application of butter to each of the square cells on their surfaces.  Then, excitedly, Zachary grabs the cheap bottle of crappy goo and lets it loose.  His knife and fork work in tandem to release a bite.  The fork journeys to his mouth.  Several chews occur.  He swallows.  A queer look crosses his features, followed by the words I'd given up on ever hearing, "That is so gross.  It's thick.  Yuck."  He grins before pounding the sap-collecting spout all the way into our family tree, "I guess I like maple syrup better now."


Now THAT . . . is a something in my house.

The Pleasure of A Picture

There are few things that give me greater pleasure than taking pictures of the people and events in my corner of the world.  Except possibly sharing those shots with others. Though my status as an amateur photographer will most likely never change, I try to wring the most out of the opportunity as much as my ability and time constraints allow.  Sometimes, getting the best shot, the one frame which captures the mood, the moment, the must-see-ability, requires clicking off a number of pictures.  Digital technology makes this easier than ever, without all of the waste that film often incurs.  You try and try again.  Hoping for perfection but knowing that rarely happens.  Usually, something a bit better comes along.  Perfect can be rather dull.

********************** 

You start with one.  Kind of a warm-up.  Get a feel for what you hope to convey.

Here, it is important for me to forever record what it was to tug my mom around 

in her rollator while we both held our heads up high.

We're at the mall.  My Ashley is in charge of the Canon.

I'm in charge of directing her work.

"No, that's not it.  Keep snapping as I walk."

"You say I'm walking too fast?  Well, let me

PRETEND to walk . . . like this."

Mom's smile is still in place.

I decide that perhaps the other side of the entrance has better lighting.

Mom's smile is beginning to stiffen.  

My daughter wants to hand the camera back to me.

I'm still trying for just the right shot!

"How about THIS angle, Ashley?

Are you close enough . . . we need to FILL the frame!"

Mom's smile looks more like a grimace.

"Wait, this may be our better side!

Does it look like I'm walking?  My foot is cramping."

My smile has grown.

Mom's appears to have LEFT the building.

I think we all get the idea -- she's been tugged around enough!

**************

Then, there are those impromptu sessions which most likely amuse or disturb my neighbors in the early AM hours when the light is fresh and the birds are blissful in their song and habits.  I grab the Canon for a quick stalk-n-shoot.  Wrapped in my purple animal-print robe.  Wild morning hair shooting out at odd angles.  Crouched in my purple Crocs.  Waiting.  Focusing.  Holding my breath.  And smiling from ear to ear in my delight.  Because TRYING for just the right shot is sometimes as enjoyable as finding success at the end of my efforts.

I know that Cardinals are skittish.  And I've observed my hunter cat enough to understand stealth.  So, I wait for him to turn his head before I move one step closer.  And another.  And another. Looking through my viewfinder, I try to quickly find him and zoom in, angling to avoid large branches which might steal the focus.  This male is quite caught up in his romance with the female just out of shot range.  Their calls rise and fall in that charming musical collections of titters and trills which are responsible for causing me to fall in love with Tennessee so many years ago.

On this outing, sandwiched between setting the recyclables on the curb and packing my husband's lunch for work, my attempts to preserve an image of this gorgeous bird amongst the bright green of my weeping willow's new spring buds is unsuccessful.  He's a bit jumpy despite my catlike reflexes (hah, Crocs and a full robe do NOT lend themselves to stealth).  But the fact that I allowed myself to follow through with my impulse instead of ignoring it pleases me.  Admiring this handsome fellow in the throes of romance has been sweet.  I only wish Gayla had been around to shoot a picture of the large purple bird lumbering on the lawn, darting from tree to tree, resembling, for all the world, ME!

**********************

Every now and again, though, you nail it.

There's detail and thirds and foreground.

And to see it is to be moved.

The image conveys a season.

It has the power to disperse the clouds . . . 

and let the sunshine in.

*****************

And for me, folks, whether it be through words or image, THAT is my desire, my drive, my one true thing: to let the sunshine in and share it with whomever I can.  Whenever I may.

A Newsworthy Man

This is NOT Charlie Sheen.  Thank goodness!  This here is a regular good guy -- working a 9 to 5 job, fathering 3 children, supporting 1 quirky wife, balancing a mortgage, several cars, 1 wayward cat and 1 elderly dog.  You may know of one in your corner of the world.  You won't soon hear about him on NBC or CBS or ABC or any other news outlet because what he does is not considered newsworthy.  He doesn't have a drug problem supported by a grandiose ego and enabled by those around him who are either too starstruck or too worried about missing the story to confront him with the ugly truth. 

Though in high school he excelled in several sports, and he passed on his athletic ability to his one and only son (as evidenced below in what I must modestly proclaim to be a rather outstanding shot), his prowess on the field and the court did not translate into a multi-million dollar contract.  It actually ended without any newsworthy fanfare after a knee injury, followed by knee surgery, sidelined him from a semi-professional football team in his early 20's.  Thus ending his chances of becoming a retired-athlete-announcer on ESPN.

This regular good guy spends a rather large portion of his valuable breadwinner time on a computer, both at the job site and at home.  (At home, he must compete for screen time on his laptop with that self-entitled feline of ours . . . who quite literally spends his nap time ON the computer!)  He considers himself a PART of the team and NOT the pivotal player who MADE the team what it is.  Hmmm, definitely not Charlie Sheen.

When he's not busy speaking programmer's mumbo-jumbo on his iPhone, palavering with his peoples about various technical support and system crash issues which leave my head reeling, he likes to pick his (NO, not his NOSE) guitar and bang on drums.  There he is on the far right, providing excellent percussion to our church worship music.

Though his career path veered away from coaching, encouraging his son through his victories and losses fills that niche quite nicely.  While he won't sign any lucrative contracts, he can rest assured that his player won't suddenly up and take his ball/bat/singlet to another team.

In times of minor crisis, this regular good guy steps in to assist -- without fanfare or cameras.
(Save that one family paparazzi to whom he's been married almost 22 years this month!) 

Often for something as simple as burying the poor Valdez hamster, Snickerdoodle.

No one will call for an interview.  There will be no probing questions about his choice of 'casket' or burial site.  No queries as to the fine craftsmanship of the rubberband-and-stick cross -- compassionately constructed by the saddened high school freshman boy.

Instead of trashing my reputation and accusing me of outlandish behavior, he encourages me to do that all by myself through my blog!  Though I sometimes judge and pester him, he hasn't traded me in for two post-pubescent goddesses, yet.

He's a brother and a son.  I think they would both agree that he has not brought shame upon the family.  On the contrary, they all mutually respect and admire the accomplishments of one another.  Quietly.  Behind-the-scenes.

His children not only have a cozy roof over their head, neat clothing to cover the rest, and filling food for their bellies . . . they can also count on their dad to be home at night, present at their important functions, lucid, loving, and capable of putting others ahead of himself.

If he has any vice, it's that danged chewing tobacco those cowboys back in high school hooked him on (but you'd never know it to see him -- perfect oral hygiene).  Oh, and strong black coffee in his favorite pink cup!

You know, if you hadn't guessed, I'm just tired of hearing about Charlie Sheen when there's an entire planet worth of other subjects, other people, other men.  What's new about a famous guy with an inflated sense of his own importance getting caught up in drugs and alcohol, making a complete fool of himself, bringing children into the mix, leaving a trail of women in his wake, living in complete denial thanks to the walking paychecks surrounding him, escaping jail time thanks to fancy lawyers when regular guys like my brother pay through the nose?  The only thing new is the mass media attention he has garnered as every network and magazine jumps through hoops so as not to be the only one without coverage.  Coverage which will air on some primetime special when this very ill man self-destructs and his abused body finally gives out.  

If we need to hear about men who struggle with life but continue to soldier on despite their flaws and the challenges of the everyday, I'd rather watch a story on the regular good Jimmys, Jeremys, Jerrys and Johns,  Daves, Darrells and Duanes, Kens and Kevins, Rodneys and Rons, Chucks and Clarks, Marks, Phils . . . you get the drill?! 

NO MORE CHARLIE SHEEN!  EVER-R-R!!!  (At least until he's dried out and humbled?)