Once, there were two cousins from a mountaintop village named Roenig and Grunden.  Both had ventured to a far off metropolis when they were young, made great fortunes they accumulated through sharp business decisions and days spent working diligently.  They saved their money and re-invested it to produce greater profits, shrewdly gathering valued assets. 

When the two of them heard that their Grandfather had fallen gravely ill, they set out to return to their home in the far off mountaintop village.

As they packed their belongings for the long trip, both fretted over what they could possibly carry.  Since it was a long trip, the two cousins felt they needed some decent luggage to carry their belongings in.

They passed a carpenter’s house at the start of their trip, and the two cousins requested the tradesman build them some nice chests to carry their goods in.  The carpenter got right to work, putting together some nice crate luggage for Grunden.  When Roenig noticed that the man was hammering his nails with a rock, rather than a hammer, he asked the kindly carpenter why he was without a hammer.  The man sadly told Roenig how he barely made ends meet as it was, so he had no money left over for luxuries, such as tools.

“You’re a carpenter!” Grunden barked unsympathetically.  “One must consider this a necessity, a business expense and an investment in your work!” 

The poor carpenter averted his eyes and went back to his work.  But when he started on his second chest, Roenig stopped him.  Instead of allowing the carpenter to use up more of his lumber, Roenig reached into his pouch and handed the man the payment for a second chest, but one insisted the carpenter not build.  Instead, Roenig told the poor carpenter to him to buy himself a hammer with the money.  Grunden shook his head in disgust.

Then, the two of them went to the nearby stable to purchase two pack mules to carry their luggage. On their way there, Grunden mocked his cousin for acting foolishly with his money.

While Grunden bartered with the poor rancher to get the lowest price on the first pack mule, Roenig listened to the rancher’s wife tell him how these pack mules were their last remaining livestock after disease had killed the rest. Stricken with sorrow and pity for the poor ranchers, Roenig opened his pouch and offered the family some money, and left the second pack mule with the family. 

Grunden was proud of himself for stealing the first pack mule at such a rock-bottom price, but was confused when he saw Roenig trailing after him on foot, still carrying his own luggage in old pouches.  He was unsympathetic with his cousin when hearing the tale of how he’d given his hard earned money to the family with nothing in exchange.

“You fell for some sad sap story?”  He asked his cousin.  “I thought you were smarter than that!” 

The two men stopped by the vineyard farmer’s house to hire out two of his strong backed lads to assist with the long trip.  The farmer was stressed to see the men, and told them how the harvest was coming, and that he’d need all the help that he could get. 

“I’ll pay you double what your father pays you to work here,” Grunden told the oldest son. He opened his pouch and showed the boy some shiny coins, which he tossed at him. The young lad’s eyes grew big and enthusiastically agreed to go along.  Roenig looked towards the next lad in line and rather than hire him, opened his pouch and tossed his coins towards the father, suggesting that he hire some men to help with the harvest.  The astounded father was grateful. 

The two men continued further until they came to a cobbler’s hut.  Both men decreed that they needed some sturdy boots for the long venture to the mountaintop.  Grunden placed four coins on the table and requested that the cobbler start to work hastily.  The cobbler stated that he couldn’t possibly make boots for as little as Grunden was offering, that the material itself cost more than the payment, but the shrewd business man cited that any cobbler in town would make the boots for less.  Reluctantly, the cobbler made the first set of boots for Grunden, then asked Roenig what type he would like. 

Rather than ask for new boots, Roenig set his old ones on the counter and asked to have them repaired. He also placed four coins on the table.  The cobbler pushed three of them back. 

“It’s only one for repair,” he said.

“Well, then you keep the other three to pay for the material of my cousin’s boots.” 

The grateful cobbler fixed Roenig’s old boots swiftly and the two cousins were on their way. 

As the two men continued down the path, Grunden boasted that he was now riding a fine pack mule, wearing new boots, carried his goods in delicate pine boxes, and had a strong backed assistant to tend to his needs.  Yet, his cousin, who had spent just as much money, carried his own bags, ragged old pouches at that, walked on his own two feet in old boots, and had no one to help him with the trip.

As the two men continued their journey they reached the highlands that led to the mountaintop.  They began up the long winding roads into the foothills.  Grunden comfortably trekked on the back of the pack mule, giving orders to the farmer’s son to hand him the wineskins when he was thirsty, while Roenig broke his back carrying his pouches, and grimaced in pain as his old boots fell apart and he was left to walk over harsh terrain with holes in his shoes. 

When the snows began to fall at high elevations, the two men stopped at the home of a shepard to buy some wool coats.  But the sheep herder said that his sheep had been recently sheared, and all their wool made into materials that had quickly sold, so all they had to sell was the coats he and his family were wearing themselves. 

Grunden knew that he needed a coat for the cold weather that the higher elevations had brought, and offered to buy one of the family member’s coats.  He offered the shepard a handsome price, much more than the coat was worth, and walked out of his house with a wool trench to keep him warm.  The family looked at Roenig, who also needed a coat, and assumed he’d offer a handsome price for the coat of the shepard’s wife.

Instead, Roenig set his pouch on the table and brought forth his cotton overshirt. 

“I know it won’t keep you as warm as a wool coat, but it’s the warmest thing that I’ve got,” he told the grateful shepard.

As the two cousins made their way further into the foothills, Grunden stayed warm, while Roenig shivered incessantly and walked on snow with his holey boots.  And when they finally arrived in their little mountaintop village, Grunden arrived like a king, whereas his cousin appeared to be a no higher than a wandering vagrant.

The two of them made their way to their Grandfather’s house, where they found the old man on his death bed.  He looked at his two grandson’s. One dressed well and appearing healthy, the other haggard, cold and poorly dressed.  Then he smiled and died. 

Grunden and Roenig mourned with the other villagers, and vowed to stay for a little while.  But when the Grandfather’s estate was settled, it turned out that he had great amounts of debt that Grunden and Roenig had inherited, and they were thrown into debtor’s prison.  When the debts were finally paid off, the two of them had their fortunes wiped out and were forced to return to the city to try and rebuild their businesses with nothing.

The mountaintop village was cold when Grunden and Roenig were released from debtor’s prison, and began trekking back to the city with absolutely nothing.  Both complained of the terribly frigid temperatures as they walked slowly down through the foothills. 

“Oh, how cold I am!”  Both Grunden and Roenig fretted.

When they passed the shepard’s house, they saw the sheep in the field and yearned for warm wool clothing.  That’s when the shepard spotted Roenig through his window and rushed out to him, carrying a new set of wool pants, shirt and coat that he gave to him.  Grunden waited for some clothing for himself too, but the shepard went back inside, never to return. 

They continued along the path, careful not to step incorrectly on any jags with their sole-less shoes. 

“Oh, how my feet hurt!” Grunden and Roenig both cried out.

That’s when they passed by the cobbler’s house.  The little man emerged from his house and presented Roenig with a pair of fine boots to cover his sore feet.  Grunden hoped for a second pair, but the cobbler refused him a pair without payment. 

As they continued their trek back to the city, the two men grew extremely thirsty.  When they passed the vineyard, the two cousins called out to the farmer in the field.  Seeing Roenig, he sent his sons to him with filled wineskins and gave him all that he could drink.  But to Grunden he offered none. 

Along the trail further, both men groaned with hunger pains.  They entered the city and begged for food, but could scrounge up nothing.  When they passed the rancher with the pack mules, he rushed out to greet Roenig and offered him a plate full of meat.  But to Grunden he offered none.

Finally, when nightfall came, the two men wondered where they would lay their heads.  They had no money for a room or a bed, and began to hunker down in a dank street corner. That's when the carpenter spotted Roenig and recognized him. Embracing him, he insisted that Roenig come stay in the new guest room that he’d just built, with the hammer Roenig had allotted him the money to purchase.  And as Roenig was welcomed into the carpenter’s house, the door was shut behind him.

And Grunden was left outside with only the amount of treasures that he’d given to others. 

There was once a kind and just prince, who came into rule in the days shortly following his father’s death.  His father, the king, had been an unjust ruler, and his son immediately ventured to set things right with the people of his new kingdom.  He asked the people what they needed most.

“We need food for our bodies,” they told him. 

The new king found that the people of the kingdom had gone without proper nourishment, so he issued a decree that the people shall each receive enough food to feed their household. 

And for a time, the kingdom folk ate well.  But soon their complaints began again.  The good king asked the people what they now needed.

“We need shelter to keep us warm,” they told him.

So the king ordered homes built for all his people.  And for a time the kingdom folk were housed, but soon the complaints began again.  The king asked what they now needed.

“We need jobs, so that we can have income for trade and supplies,” they urged. 

So the king asked each person what their field of expertise was, and designated positions throughout the kingdom to each of them based on their skills.  And for a while the people woke with purpose, but soon the complaints began again.  So the good king asked the people what they now needed.

“We need kinship,” they told him.  The king realized that his father had cut off the surrounding kingdoms, and had fought them in bloody wars, so the people were unable to go out and find wives and husbands from outside their small circles.  So he made peace treaties with the surrounding kingdoms and his people were allowed to go find significant others to love.  And for a while the people found new loves, but soon the complaints began again.  The king could not think of anything else the people needed. 

“What else could you possibly need?” The king asked his subjects.  “For every one of your needs has been met, yet you still resign to discontent!"

“The food we have is bland and our menus lack diversity,” one group cried out.  They threw some of the food in the nearby trash, stating that they couldn’t tolerate it anymore. 

“Our homes are too small, and are in need of constant repair!  We need bigger ones with better furnishings!” Another group exclaimed. 

“We hate our jobs.” Another part of the crowd shouted.  “They don’t pay well enough and we’re forced to work too many hours.  And the bosses you’ve chosen are ignoramuses!” 

The king was perplexed and stressed, when finally a final group shouted, “The kinship with the neighboring kingdoms isn’t working!  Our wives and husbands are not behaving in the ways of our kingdom, and it is making us frustrated in our households!” 

The king escaped the crowd and locked himself inside of his chambers and thought deeply about the dilemmas presented to him. 

He saw that the people had been hungry, so he fed them.  But rather than thanking him, they asked for better food.

He had seen the people unprotected, so he gave them shelter.  Instead of showing gratitude, they asked for better abodes.

He had seen the people were without jobs or income, so he created careers.  In the place of gratefulness, the people asked for better jobs and higher pay.

And finally, when they asked for kinship, he ended long standoffs with neighboring kingdoms.  Rather than showing appreciation, the people complained of the dissimilarities the new people entering the kingdom walls had.

So in great wisdom, the king re-emerged from his chambers with a new decree.  All food given to the people by the kingdom would be cut off.  All housing would be destroyed.  All jobs would cease as would the printing of money.  And finally, the kingdom would shut it gates to all outsiders. 

The kingdom went into uproar.  The king arrived on the balcony high above the people, where they shouted up at him to give them back the things he’d taken.  No words came to the king’s lips before he exited their presence.  Finally, amongst all the wailing and screaming, one man stood upon a stand and spoke.

“The king hath given us everything that we need.  Yet, how easily it is for us to forget these blessings!  When we hungered, we were fed.  When we were cold, we found shelter.  When we needed purpose, purpose was given.  When we sought love, the opportunity to seek was given. 

We were without need, but also without thanks. And without thanks, one is always in need.” 

All of your issues can’t be blamed on your parents.  Not only is it not fair to them, and irresponsible, but it’s simply not true.  Albeit, my parents had their flaws, because they’re human, and most of what I learned from them proved to be valuable lessons and pertinent teachings that I’ve been able to use every day of my life. 

But the same cannot be said about my older brother.  He may have downright screwed me up. 

As most young boys have a tendency of doing, I tagged along with my older brother on all his ventures.  He was a source of a plethora of information.  Unfortunately, little did I know, that most of the things he told me were concocted stories made up partially to see what I’d believe, and partially because as the older brother he was always supposed to have a practical answer to every question.

So when my dad installed a toilet in the laundry room for my brothers and I to use, I grew curious why it made noises deep down in the pipes.  Rather than gather the courage to ask my parents such a daring question (anything regarding poop, bowel movements, bodily functions or toilets was frightening to ask an adult), I went to my first professor. 

Mickey swiftly informed me that the noise made deep down in the pipes was a shark carefully placed there by the electric company.  I wanted to know why the electric company would place a shark in our toilet, and he told me that it was to preserve water.  If a person sat on the toilet too long, the shark would swim up the pipe and bite them on the rear end—and this bite was supercharged with electricity placed there by GE.  The only way to avoid being bitten was to flush frequently to push the shark back down the pipes.  Then you needed to wipe as fast as you could and get off the pot. 

To this day, I still won’t sit on the crapper for too long.  And I still flush multiple times.  I blame my older brother.

Later, sometime after dad built the second bathroom, he installed a wall heater in our playroom.  He must have got it used somewhere, because the thing squealed and squeaked each time you’d turn it on.  One day while eating cereal I asked the professor why the new heater squeaked.  We had just seen “The Return of the Jedi” at the drive-in movie theater, and my brother asked me if I remembered the Ewoks from the movie.  I nodded.

 “They live inside of wall heaters, and the squeaking and squealing is actually them playing their instruments,” he told me. 

“Oh, I knew that.”  I said, confident that the answer made sense.  After all, my older brother had told me, so it must be true.  But I cannot tell you how many times in the following weeks I tried to peer into the tiny cracks in the front of the heater to see the Ewoks living inside.

Shortly thereafter I also learned from him that it was okay to eat the green mold growing on food in the fridge.  After all, cheese was made from mold—or so he’d heard, so eating mold was the same as eating cheese.  His answer was so confident that for years I didn’t see any reason not to eat mold—and tried to convince my friends that mold was just cheese growing on food.

And had it stopped at the professor teaching me the reasons that our appliances made noise was because fictional animals lived inside of them or that the molds used to make cheese wasn’t actually the same green mold growing on the cheese itself, I would have been physiologically just fine.  But his teachings became much worse following this.  He, after all, taught me everything he knew about procreation, sex and the fairer gender.  Which, if added up, amounted to zilch.

When I first heard the term “humping” at school, I had no friggin’ clue what it meant.  I only knew that it was talked of with great secrecy and a barrel full of laughs following it.  To rumor that someone was “humping” was much worse than finding out they were holding hands or kissing on the playground.  When I heard the secrets that so-and-so were humping, I laughed along with everyone else, furtively having no idea what I was laughing at.  So I asked the professor.

“Mickey, what’s humping?”  I asked.

“Duh, it’s when two people bump their butts together.  When its two butts, it’s not a bump, it’s a hump.” 

“Oh,” I said, it all making sense now.  But I was suddenly stricken with fear.  I’d bumped my rear end into many things in the past, sometimes other people—especially when in cramped spaces.  I worried that I’d already humped and didn’t even realize it. 

I must have tucked my butt cheeks in for the next five years, fearing that I’d accidentally bump into someone with them.  When my dad tried to teach us how to box-out on the basketball court by throwing our butt up against your defender, I thought for sure I was sinning on the basketball court—all as a result of the professor’s teachings.

But I never thought I could have babies as a result of “humping.”  Mickey made sure of that.  He’d had his first taste of sex education in fifth grade, and after school tried to explain to me in the playhouse how men can get women pregnant.  It made sense to me when he said it was like the male and female end of an extension cord being put together.  Once they put the two ends together, they made babies.  I tried my best to imagine this experience, and for the longest time I thought women had penis-like organs too, similar to men’s, but with an inverted tip so that the two extension cords could fit together.  Imagine my surprise when I found out this wasn’t the case!

He also explained in later years, that men create sperm and explained to my friend Kevin and I where it came from and where it was supposed to go.

“What happens once it comes out of you?”  I asked in great fear, the whole idea of joining my extension cord with a woman’s and then having some weird stuff come out of me. 

“You have to go to the doctor to have it put back in,” he informed me.  The thought of going to the doctor scared me enough, but to go there to have something injected back into my penis sounded like the worst experience ever.  I reckoned I’d never use my “extension cord” for anything but pissing—ever.

And finally, when my last lesson regarding sex finally came, my parents weren’t quite certain if they should interrupt. 

While watching Saturday morning cartoons, I turned to the professor and asked, “Mickey. What’s sex?”  My parents overheard the question from the other room and were ready to jump in.  But the professor, after many ill-guided lectures, gave a perfect answer.

“Duh,” he said. “It’s like on your license when they ask if you’re an M or an F.  That’s sex.” 

“Oh.” I replied.  It made sense.  I guess the answer was right on the money.  And why wouldn’t it be?  This guy was my older brother.  He knew everything.  And if he didn’t, I sure didn’t know.  He was the coolest of the cool.

This guy was the leader of his own gang—a gang he’d force new recruits to pick the nose of others and eat the boogers. 

He was tough.  Once, after I jumped off the roof and badly injured my ankle, he made me finish the game of basketball we’d been playing when I climbed onto the roof to get the ball—lest he’d tell mom and dad that I’d jumped off.  He’d taken a baseball bat to the head and a golf club to the skull—and lived to tell the tale. 

This guy was smart too. When we’d argue with words like “You’re a butthead times a hundred,” he’d suggest using a googolplex, a trillion squared and to the googolplex power. 

We’d look at him bug-eyed, wanting to know what a googolplex was or how to square numbers. 

But for all the stories the professor fed me, I can’t blame the guy.  My younger brother and I had something that he was never blessed with—an older brother to go through every experience of growing up before him.  My parents were learning how to be parents with Mickey, and frequently made their errors the first time around.  By the time Jessey and I got to similar points in our life, my parents knew exactly how to handle the situation.  Mick never had that.

He never had a professor of his own to tell him how the world worked.  Instead, my big brother had to figure out the world on his own—all so that he could guide his two little brothers through it.   

The Tale of the Alcoholic’s Two Sons

O’Malley was a tough man, raucous and gruff.  His upbringing had been tough, and he came from a long line of alcoholics.  So when he took up the bottle at a young age, it became a staple in his life. 

It terrorized his relationships with his wife, and the drunker he became, the worse she was bullied.  So when O’Malley had a son, Shamus, the stress of his hard life became worse.  He intimidated his son with his whiskey breath, and put him through a series of beatings long before the boy could defend himself.  Each night when his father would vanish to town to drink away the family’s money, the boy would plot a scheme of revenge against his dad—to even the grounds for what O’Malley had done to his mother and him.

In a nearby town, O’Malley had a mistress.  She was a younger woman than his wife, but similarly afraid of the man once he began drinking.  Soon, she became pregnant with O’Malley’s second son, Simon. O’Malley threatened to do all sorts of wicked things to his mistress if she confessed to anyone that the baby was his.  So for years she kept the secret.  But as Simon grew, his anger towards his father grew too, and he also plotted ways to make his father pay for the horrid home life he and his mother had been subjected to.

The two sons of O’Malley grew like weeds, but remained in dire fear of their traumatizing father, who would continue to beat them and their mothers if they so much as looked at him wrong. 

One dark evening, Shamus had the plan to follow his father as he went into town and come up behind him with a large blunt object and strike him down.  Then, he’d flee town and never return.  But as he struck out, a considerable distance behind his father on the trail leading to Blackwater, he noted that his father was traveling the opposite direction towards Queensberry. He followed his dad through the dark of night, and then saw him go into a house.  Shamus crept up on a ledge to peer in the window and was shocked to see his father acting as if he was the head of the household.  Cussing directly at a boy his age and pushing the woman inside to the ground.  Shamus looked directly at the boy, and realized that his father was not just an abusive drunk but a crooked cheater.  He ran home to tell his mother.

But later that same evening, when O’Malley left his mistresses’ house, Simon also followed his dad.  He stayed a considerable distance back and waited in the darkness for a moment along the trail when he could strike his father down with a large blunt object.  But, confused like Shamus had been, noted his father walking in the direction of the next town over.  So he followed.  And when O’Malley entered a house, Simon crept around the back to look in the window.  Inside he saw a boy about his age being pushed to the ground, and then a woman being smacked around, the same way his father did to his mother.  It all became clear to Simon that his father was not just a rough man, but a low down two-timer!  So he ran home to tell his mother. 

The mother of Shamus and the mother of Simon vowed to overlook the news given to them.  It frustrated the boys that their mothers would be so docile. So at the next opportunity when their father was away, both of the boys, having never met each other, ran away from their homes, vowing never to look back. 

Twenty years passed, as the two boys became men with wives and children of their own. 

One August, while on a business trip, Simon stepped inside of a small pub for a meal.  He was told that there were no tables available, but that he could sit at the bar and eat.  He hesitated, looking at the men and women pushed up against the counter and said he’d rather wait for a table.  A gregarious man, with a bright face, pushed out the stool next to him. 

“Come on, sit down,” Shamus told Simon.

“I’d rather not,” Simon politely said, neither he nor Shamus recognizing each other.  But Shamus wouldn’t take no for an answer.  As Simon finally sat down, he directly asked for a menu.  The bartender walked away.

“What’ll you have to drink?” Shamus asked him through Scotch-tainted breath.

“Water will be fine.”

“Water?” Shamus howled, and then turned to the bartender. “Samuel, give me another drink, and a second one for my friend here.”

The drinks were set on the counter.  Shamus raised his glass to the stranger, but Simon refused to pick his drink up.  He politely said that he would wait for his water.

“Aw, you’re a stick in the mud.  You’re probably a religious freak or something,” Simon growled. “You need a good kick in the pants to loosen you up, and if I were your daddy, I’d straighten you up real quick.”

Simon began to anger, haunting memories of his youth stirring in him. He turned towards Shamus and asked, “Why do you insist on drinking so much?”

Shamus humbled himself and took a long breath.  He looked longingly at the glass in front of him and said, “Well, my father was an alcoholic.  So what could you expect out of me?”

“You from around here?” Simon asked. 

“No, in a little town called Blackwater.” Shamus responded.  “My old man was a gruff bastard named O’Malley.” 

Simon’s mouth dropped ajar, thinking about the little town situated next to his own hometown and the boy his father had with another woman.  He stood speechless.  Shamus finally looked up, and Simon quickly corrected himself.

“So you don’t touch the stuff at all?” Shamus asked him.  “Are you the son of a preacher or something?”

“No,” Simon confessed.  “I’m the son of a man named O’Malley from Queensberry."

There was a silence and a shocked look across Shamus’ face before Simon continued. “And My father was an alcoholic.  So what could you expect out of me?” 

-Every bad experience can be a good teacher, but a teacher has no value if the student refuses to learn-

The Parable of the Flounder and Salmon....

Once, a young flounder swam alongside his mother through the shallow mud.  They rummaged for guts and garbage to eat at the bottom of the sea. When the young flounder first spotted the bright, sleek salmon rushing in the waters above him, he watched them in their every swift move. Their bodies cut through the ocean blue with their lean, scaly bodies. 

As he looked down at his own body, he saw a flat, ugly, brown fish covered in sandpaper skin.  He watched the other flounders and saw how they flipped through the water awkwardly and sat at the bottom in the muck. 

Longingly, he wished to be one of the bright salmon.  They swam in the clean clear water up near the surface and were always in grasp of the sunshine that broke through the surface. 

As more salmon began rushing past in the early summer, the flounder longed to swim along with them, as they swam through the ocean towards the spawning grounds at the mouth of the bay.  He darted towards the surface of the water, trying to cut speedily through the sea as the graceful salmon did, but he couldn’t keep up. 

His mother saw his frustration and calmly called him back down to the mud at the bottom of the sea.  The young flounder pouted and cried, “I want to be a salmon!  They get the better, cleaner water to live in!  They get prettier bodies, stronger muscles and better food!”

His mother smiled.

“In a few weeks,” she said.  “The fishermen will arrive, with their boats by the thousands.  You and I are likely to be caught up in their nets.”
            

The young flounder gasped in fear.
            

“But not to worry,” she added. “For when the fishermen spot us in their nets, with our rough sandpaper skin, our unappealing appearance, and our meatless bodies they shall toss each of us back into the sea, where we may live long lives.  But when they see the salmon, with their strong meaty bodies and bright shiny skin, they asphyxiate them, cut them up and sell them to the market—where they will be devoured.” 

-Better to breathe deeply in humility, than to suffocate in prosperity-

Yesterday, upon arriving home in Oregon for Christmas, my mother cried desperately, and admitted that no one on this earth brought her closer to God than I did.  This isn't something to be proud of, however. 

She finds herself in prayer frequently asking for my safety because I'll commonly take a lot of risks.  For the past month I've been in frigid temperatures up near the top of the world doing heavy construction on Bering Sea fishing docks, but none of the dear death risks could have prepared me for what I was in for when I returned to the mainland two days back.

Upon having a stop over in Seattle on my flight in from Anchorage, Alaska to Los Angeles, I noted that there was a foot of snow on the ground and sleeping people littering the floors of the airport, many of them having been stranded there for days. 

The Northwest was being pounded with one of the worst storms in history, consisting of heavy snow, and worse, the ever dreaded freezing rain—making everything slick as a hockey rink.

This was of no concern to me, as I was headed to eighty degree Los Angeles, where I'd be able to finally see the sunshine after being in perpetual winter darkness in Alaska for a month.  My flight was delayed departing, but it wasn't too terribly bad.  But I didn't see the eye of the hurricane that I was standing in.

I went home to Los Angeles for 24 hours.  Rented a topless Jeep, because my vehicle was in storage and I'd have to get back to the airport the next day, and spent the day running errands.  I visited friends and got things taken care of so that I could leave again the following day for Christmas—believing for sure that the horrid winter storm would have passed enough for planes to get into Portland the next day.

Wrong guess.  When I got the call just hours before my flight was set to depart, that it was cancelled, I was miffed.  But when I called Alaska Air and found the next guaranteed seat they could offer me was on the evening of the 26^th, I asked the lady if she was a prankster.  She said that she was certainly not, and that people had been sleeping in the airports in the Northwest for days trying to get on these planes—so I was way down the standby list.  If I wanted to gamble and try my luck, I could gladly go spend the remainder of the week in the airport running from desk to desk trying to get on standby lists, but I'd have no guarantee of getting home for Christmas. 

This was unacceptable.  For all the promises in my life that I've broken, and all the times I've disappointed my family, one promise I've always kept was that no matter where in the world I go, I'll always be home with them for Christmas.

After all, the old song says, "I'll be home for Christmas. You can count on me.  I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams."  I hate that last line.  I can't stand when people dream things that are within their power, but don't do anything about them.

My options were to take the flight home on the 26^th, and fly back to LA with my return flight on the 27^th, which would mean I'd spend 500 bucks on a ticket home and be there for 17 hours, or find another way—so I asked for a refund. 

Due to circumstances, I was given one.  Last minute plane tickets home for Christmas on another airline couldn't be too expensive, right?  Try 898 bucks for the cheapest—with no guarantees that they were attempting to land in the crappy weather either. 

So flying was out, especially when I learned that PDX stopped incoming flights altogether until the weather lifted.  The freezing rain couldn't be kept up with and the runways were like skating rinks. 

But trains don't get put off by bad weather, right?  True.  But everyone else and their mother knew that too.  The next available seat on a train from LA to Portland was on Christmas day.  With a 26 hour ride, it would put me in town late on the 26^th too. 

So I tried buses.  With six mountain passes between LA and Portland, all nastier than the previous one, shut down except for those driving with chains, Greyhound had suspended any trips going up and over these passes. 

It appeared if I was going to get home for Christmas, I couldn't get a ride with a pilot, an engineer or a bus driver.  I was going to take matters into my own hands.

"Please don't tell me that you're going to drive," my mother said. So I didn't tell her anything as I looked at the prices for rental cars for one way drives from LAX to PDX.  221 bucks, not including all the gas for the 1000 mile drive. 

"They aren't letting drivers over the first pass.  It's closed. Why not find another route? Drive up the 101.  Get on the computer and check the weather on the passes."   My literary agent said. I didn't listen.

"Cazzey, you'd better sleep somewhere and wait until daylight," Dad told me over and over.  "This way the weather might clear up and snowplows will have cleared some of the roads first."

But did I hear any of their pleas?  Did I get a hotel somewhere?  Did I drink coffee to stay up or anything?  No.  After all, I was looking to get my mom closer to God, where she found herself on her knees praying a lot when I'd ignore pleas of good advice.

Instead, after having already been up all day, I turned in my Jeep rental, because it was only an in-town rental, and got a two wheel drive Chevy Geo Metro.  The perfect car for driving through freezing rain, mountain passes of white-out conditions and jackknifing semi-trucks.

Stopping at home to grab a phone charger, sunflower seeds to keep me awake, some CD's and a cup to spit in (and later piss in to obtain warm water to pour on the windshield to de-ice it), I was off.  It was like old days, when my favorite pastime was long drives.  I put 300,000 miles on my first car because I loved to head off on the long haul so frequently. But Los Angeles traffic has robbed me of my desire to drive much, so now I take other forms of transportation if I can. 

But that option truly wasn't available.  Not unless I was planning on walking home for Christmas—which believe me, I would have if the car wouldn't make it. 

The first 100 miles went by smoothly, until I came to the Grapevine Pass.  It had black ice on it, and I slowed the car and downshifted rather than braking coming down the otherside.  Since there was little snow and the ice was only in patches, I made it through fine, and guessed that if that was the worst I had it, it would be smooth sailing.  The next five hundred miles flew by, while I averaged 80-85 miles per hour.  It shocked me how much power the Geo had, especially with my big butt, my suitcases filled with Christmas presents and all the misguided sunflower seeds I spit all over it. 

But then around 2am, I couldn't stay awake any longer.  I kept hearing my dad's words of advice, stating that I ought to pull over and sleep.  I'd already gone six hundred miles without a break, and I was coming to Redding, the last stop before heading up into the mountains.  From what I'd heard in the news my dad read me via the cellphone, it was snow and ice from that point on.  I was still 450 miles away.  He again advised me to pull over and wait for daylight.  As it was, I had to have chains to continue anyway, so I was stuck until stores in Redding opened up.  It appears I couldn't continue.

So I found a Wal-Mart.  From my car traveling days, I knew that they allow people to sleep in RV's in their parking lot, so I figured I'd snuggle up in the snow in a Geo, brave the cold, though I had no blankets, and wait until the store opened. 

But as I parked at 2am, I noted that people were going in and out of the store.  God had thrown me a lifeline.  It was a 24 hour Walmart.  So at 2am, I went in and bought tire chains, and headed up for the pass at Mt. Shasta.  I also bought a package of trucker's wake up pills, which I'd sworn I'd never use again after what they'd done to me the one previous time I'd used them eight years ago.  But as it was, I'd been up for twenty hours by this point, and knew I'd need my senses for the bad weather ahead.

That's where the little Geo that could climbed to high elevations and met with complete white-out conditions.  After passing jackknifed trucks, stranded motorists and cars that were spinning their wheels, I got to a point where I couldn't see ten feet in front of the car.  At least at this point it was all still just snow.  That's where I first pissed in a cup and poured it on the windshield to get all the ice off that had frozen faster than my wipers could push away.

When I came to the pass at Mt. Ashland, it was even worse, and cops were pulling people over, requiring chains lest they couldn't continue—not that there were any people on the road.  Only idiots were dumb enough to try and drive white-out conditions at night before the snowplows came along. 

Thankfully, during the next pass, I got behind a plow that had arrived around 7am.  By this time I'd been up for nearly 24 hours and was starting to get very jittery from the trucker's pills.  I felt like I was shaking from as fast as my heart was beating.  Only once did I go into a super bad slide, which during this time I cried out to God.  He'd certainly been with me during this ride and I regained control before hitting the guardrail.

The next hundred miles or so was snowy, but the roads were clear.  It became rain for awhile, and by the time I passed Eugene I reckoned I'd passed the worst.  My dad told me exactly where the bad weather really hit, and it was just up the road.  All I could see was rain on the road where I was, and the temperature was 42 degrees.  I couldn't see how it could be that much worse.

But ten miles up the road, the temperature dropped twenty degrees and all the rain was frozen.  The foothills were still dark pavement, but when I saw hundreds--literally hundreds of stranded cars littered along the side of the freeway, I got out to put the chains on again, like the hordes of people stopped in every lane were doing. 

When I got out, I'd have been better off walking on a hockey rink.  That black pavement was solid ice.  The entire freeway was a hockey rink, and I still had eighty miles to go. 

After cutting my hands up on the cables, that had been frayed from the previous times using them over the mountain passes, I got in and began moving.  I noted that twenty was about my comfortable speed.  Anything more and I'd slide and fishtail.  Everything was smoothsailing again, while I passed more jackknifed trucks, stalled motorists and people spinning their wheels and sliding off the side of the freeway into banks of snow pushed aside by snowplows in recent days.  One semi even ran through the center median, smashing the concrete pillars into oncoming traffic.

For the next fifty miles I went no faster than fifteen or twenty miles per hour, until my left side chain busted.  The cables had snapped and began pelting the side of the car and the wheelwell with every rotation.  I kept stopping, trying to tie it up and figure ways to pry the broken piece loose.  Too bad I hadn't brought along my trusty bolt cutters….or a vehicle with 4wd.  I kept cursing at the vehicles with their 4wd and wheel studs flying by going a whopping 30 MPH.

Dad called and suggested I take my shoelace and tie it up.  I thought about the one pair of shoes I'd brought along for the entire trip having their laces ripped up under the tire of my rental car, and decided to use parts of the hundreds…literally hundreds of broken chains littered along the freeway.  After putting my chain together with bungee cords I found on the freeway, I was off again—for a hundred feet or so, when another cable busted.  By that time I gave up, and the chains rode on my inner axle for the last twenty miles, clanking the car and pegging the wheel well loudly like a drum at 2000 RPM.

Now riding on one chain, driving on ice and unable to start again if I stopped, I thought of the best route off the freeway that would enable me to take all flat and down hill roads to my parent's house. 

There are about six options I thought off, all involving uphill portions or huge downhill portions.  I thought of getting off at 99E, and driving over, because cops were pulling over anyone not using chains, and didn't want them seeing  me riding on just one.  But I wouldn't be able to get up Concord hill and thought of going down the massive Theissen hill and ending up dead after already having come 99.9% percent of the way. 

I'd hate to go 1000 miles and end up wrecking 400 yards from my parent's house.  So I exited towards Estacada, and couldn't get the car moving uphill in the ice towards Webster, so I turned the wheels and went downhill and skidded across the intersection onto old 82^nd and limped by to pick up my dad.

Dad and his buddy repaired the left side chain quickly, as I only had a bit of time left to get the rental car back within the 24 hour period, and we drove 20 MPH to the airport to drop it off. 

When I arrived at my parent's house, finally home, I'd been awake for 36 straight hours, had been shaking and jittery from the trucker's pills, my hands cut up, I was hungry, dehydrated from pissing all over the car, and probably smelled pretty bad from farting into a rental car seat repeatedly.  I calculated that the Geo had got 28 MPG, but that my average speed over the entire trip was 41MPH. 

But I kept my promise, and made it home for Christmas.  As I fell into my Mom's arms, and as she wept uncontrollably, having been worried sick over the previous 24 hours thinking she'd get a call that I'd slid off a mountain pass or off a cliff, she told me that those words that I'd mentioned earlier, that no one brought her closer to God than I did, and that she had all her friends praying that if only one dummy was stupid, ignorant and foolish enough to drive a thousand miles in a white out, and if it had to be me, that I'd make it safe.

After telling her, "See! I told you I'd always be home for Christmas!" I began to sing to her. 

"Mommy.  I'll be home for Christmas.  You can count on me.  I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my…coffin."

She didn't think my parody was all too funny but kept hugging me anyway.

This will likely be the last you'll hear from me for a while.  I head back into the wild again today, and don't reckon to have internet or cell phone access for the next two months (excluding the week of Christmas, when I'll be home in Oregon.)  Please continue to leave your messages, but if I take a while getting back to you, take no offense.  You're still loved. 

Cazzey

Prince Thadeus was a man of many friends among his subjects.  He dedicated himself to the relationships in his life, supporting them, nourishing them and giving equal time to all his friends, family members, co-workers and even strangers.

One day he met Sir Claud, who was also an individual of many friends from a nearby kingdom.  Claud had similar ideals as Thadeus, and abided by the same morals.  He was upstanding in the ways of looking out for others before himself.  So in Claud, Thadeus figured that he had found a lifelong friend.

Together they scouted far away lands and entrusted some of their deepest secrets with each other.  For a spell, they'd become inseparable. 

But one day, Prince Thadeus had the royal table set up for a great banquet and looked over Sir Claud when making the guest list.  This was a royal infraction, and considered highly disrespectful.  When the guests began arriving for the feast, Sir Claud was astonished to find that he'd been excluded, and was shocked at the actions of his supposed friend, for Claud had arrived at the banquet dressed to the nines and found his friends conversing amongst each other—but he was cast out by the guards, being that his name was not found on the list. 

By the time Prince Thadeus realized the great error in judgment he'd made, Sir Claud had vanished.  There was no note left behind and no indication what had prompted him to leave.  No signs of trouble or struggle appeared, and it seemed that Claud had voluntarily left without notice. 

Thadeus was saddened, and greatly troubled.  In his hour of agony he was tended to by Zacheus the cook, who made him great meals. Helena the desert maker provided him with a splendor of after-meal treats, Hobart the tailor made him nice new sheets to sleep in, Lethard the Carpenter built him a new comfortable chair, and Boris came by to give him massages to relieve his stress.  Yet none of their assistance brought Thadeus from his sadness. 

He heard rumors that Claud had spoken with some of their mutual friends, but hadn't bothered to leave any message for him, and it bothered him deeper. 

So Katrina the entertainer came to sing for him and Friar Ben and Duke Ivan sat with him, telling him of how adored he was by all his friends and subjects, but it was of no use.  The prince seemed to overlook all the friends that were remaining, and focused on the one he'd lost.

As time went by rumors swirled that Sir Claud had run into some trouble, and was distraught.  The prince rushed him letters, asking if he'd return to the kingdom so that he could help his friend, but none of the letters were ever responded to.  The prince didn't know how not to take it personally, and fell into a greater depression.

More time went by, and the prince went on with life, but never with much joy.  Jester Hershel would juggle for him and tell jokes, and the King and Queen would throw feasts in his name, but the smile never truly returned to Prince Thadeus. 

Until the one day when Sir Claud returned.  He rode into the kingdom and the word was immediately sent to Prince Thadeus, who rushed out to greet him.  The two embraced in a sturdy hug, and with this, the joy had returned to the prince. 

But when he was approached by all his friends, the singer, the cook, the masseuse, the dessert maker, the tailor, the jester, the duke, the friar and all the others, they asked him why he loved Sir Claud so much more than any of them—for none of them had ever made him so joyous as he was when his prodigal friend returned.   Some of them grew upset and said that this friend had left him and ignored his messages, whereas they had been there in his dark hours.

"Should we all run away from you?  For you have accumulated many infractions with each of us, and we've not angered with you."  One of his loyal friends asked.  "Is that how we gain your favor?"

Prince Thadeus firmly stated, "For there is greater joy in heaven for the one that was lost, but is now found, than the ninety-nine that were never lost!  For all that I have in my kingdom belongs to you who have been with me, but your brother who was lost is now found; let us celebrate!"   

As Thadeus and Claud gleefully went off to the banquet table, where the prince begged his friend's forgiveness, the loyal subjects groaned and whispered of mutiny.  Immediately the prince saw this, and knew that soon he'd have many more scattered sheep that he'd have to chase across any prairie. 

Prince Thadeus gathered his subjects and stated that it was an unexplainable mystery, why the only ones we ever seem to want are the ones that we cannot have.  And as he stared at all his friends that had stood by him in his sadness, he realized how foolish he'd been in ignoring the ninety-nine friends that stood by him, while he searched for the one in a hundred that had run off.  But in his justification asked, "Any one of you, if you have ten gold coins in your safekeeping place, but then finds that one is missing, will do what?"

"Why, I suppose we'd look for it!"  Duke Ivan shouted.

"Rather than dancing about cheerfully because you still have nine gold pieces left?" The prince asked.

"No! We'd be angry that someone had stolen the other coin, or that it had fallen from our pocket somewhere!" Katrina the Entertainer chimed in.

"And we'd search our pockets for holes to sew up!" Hobart the Tailor added. 

"And build stronger locks to keep out thieves!" Lethard the Carpenter said. 

"Then what will you do once you find the lost gold coin and return it to your place of safekeeping?"

The people all thought silently, then stated, "We'd be joyous and feel our life's investment is complete again!" 

"As it is with any one that you love," Prince Thadeus said.

Again, I've been pressed for my thoughts and beliefs on the upcoming election.  If ya'll are aware, I posted a blog a couple months back with an answer to "Who Will I Vote for in the Upcoming Election."  My vote hasn't changed, if you're curious.

But this past week, while struggling to carry the cross through the streets of West Hollywood at the Halloween Street Parade, I was swarmed all night with questions regarding "Jesus' view" on Prop 8.  For those who do not live in California, this is the ballot regarding same sex marriage.  Since I was grunting, groaning, couldn't see straight and spent most of the night praying that I wouldn't collapse, I had no time or energy to answer any of the picketers or individuals who followed us throughout the evening wanting to know the voting status of "Jesus." 

And though it's too late to answer those folks, I have mulled much over an answer.

Here it is.

Once, while Jesus was alone in thought, he was approached by those infatuated with the laws. Alongside of them they flanked some of those deemed sexually immoral, who were being prosecuted and persecuted for their various infractions.

According to the law of God, these individuals were to be judged and punished.  Knowing this, they asked Jesus if he'd vote yes on 8 and judge those on trial.  Christ, knowing the law, knew that if he said no, he'd be opposing God's law, but if he said yes, he'd be opposing the compassion, tolerance and love he'd been sent to bring to the world. 

So, surprising each of them, he said, "Yes.  Those who are sexually immoral should be judged by God's law as brought forth by Moses."

The lawmakers and those in power were excited to have Jesus' endorsement, and knew that Yes on 8 couldn't fail with his backing.  They rushed to cast their 'Yes' vote in the ballot boxes.

But as they reared back to create new laws, Christ stopped them.  Those preparing to vote 'No' grew excited, believing that tolerance and compassion would endure, so they neared the ballot boxes—knowing that No on 8 couldn't fail with his backing.

"In God's law," he reminded them "As scripture states, the sexually immoral do include those who lay with those of the same sex."  Those carrying 'No on 8' signs sighed and angered.  Jesus then turned to the other balloters.

"But it has also has been written that all those who exchange their bodies for sex are sexually immoral, as are those who marry or lay with a divorced man or woman, those who divorce outside of unfaithfulness, those who have ever been with a married person or a divorced person, anyone who spills their semen (masturbates or pulls out of a woman during sex) and all adulterers.  All of these have been written to be abominations, correct?  And doesn't it also say even if you look at a woman or man with lust or desire, then you have already committed adultery with him or her in your heart?" 

The lawmakers thought momentarily and nodded that all of these were referenced as sexually immoral. 

"Alright then," Christ said, looking at each of them entering their voting booths, either to vote No or vote Yes. "Then let the one amongst you who is without any immorality be the first to cast your vote."