IF, by Rudyard Kipling

I was named after the book Kim, by author Rudyard Kipling. Early in my childhood, my mother introduced me to one of his poems. It has always challenged and inspired me in life.

IF

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

The Other Day...

The other day… [STOP]

The post I was preparing to write needs to wait for a brief moment while I explain the phrase above – “The other day.”

I grew up in South Carolina. Along with sand fleas, mosquitoes and inbreeding, the south is known for several colloquial phrases. Where I come from, we know what “the other day” means, and it means something very specific.

“The other day” refers to a period of time that can be from yesterday to several decades past. The meaning, when used by a true Southerner, is to say “When it happened is something I am not prepared to commit to right now, and in fact when isn’t the damn point I’m trying to make and so don’t get hung up on when, or who even, just listen to what I’m getting ready to say next and know that it did in fact happen and it is important that you listen to the story and not get distracted by the facts -now.”

So when I say “the other day” I was listening to Oprah – it isn’t to tell you which episode or year so you can go back and watch it, I’m telling you that what I think about what I saw on Oprah “the other day” is something you need to know.

When I tell you “the other day” I was talking to Aunt Margie – it doesn’t matter that Aunt Margie has been dead for ten years; I’m telling you that she knew something that you need to know right now because it may save you a heap of trouble later.

And, most certainly, when your mother says to you “the other day” I was cleaning your room – be sure that what follows next will not be a discussion about which day ‘exactly’ it was but rather something much more critical to your living future…

I hope that helps. So, the other day…

A Writer's Block of Stone - Public Journey #001-2

I'm a bit late with the second phase my public writing journey. Here is what I've 'carved' from the raw block of words - so far.

I grew up in Myrtle Beach, SC one of the largest beach tourist destinations on the east coast. In many ways I was a beach rat, spending my summers working at my family’s ocean front hotels and making friends with our weekly guests, and their daughters. Mine was a life filled with those summer days of youthful zeal, sun-tanned skin, wind blown hair and new beginnings. Every week was a new start with clean rooms and new guests. The four month vacation season dominated all that we did. It seemed that school, and all things winter, were simply the time we spent remembering or preparing for summer. Summer was our time. Summer was the time when we thrived economically and personally. I always lived in summer. The heat of the sun blazed down from the sky and up from the sand. The sea tossed its mist into our air and we breathed in the damp essence of life. Living so close to the sea, we drew our life from it day in and day out. The sea held us and brought life to us. Its vast reservoir, pulsing with each tide, offered to and collected from everything it touched. It is this giving and collecting, that I have witness many times.

The sea gives. My grandfather and father were both sailors. Their comfort with the sea and its gifts of food and fellowship were passed to me. I can remember the day my brother and I spent a day catching hundreds of small ‘spots’ only to face the task of scaling and cleaning them into the night. My grandfather taught us that day about finishing the tasks we started and about the sequence of work to reward. It was fun to catch. It was work to clean. We had to do both to eat. It was the sea, as it lingered in the marsh and inlets that gave us this opportunity.

The sea gives. I have witnessed many occasions of children and adults finding the sea for the first time. They had been inlanders all of their life and never seen the sea. That seems strange to me, even now. What a change of perspective that must be – to see the sea, to see and feel for the first time the sea from which we are created…

November 25th, 2008

Happy Birthday Dad.

FW: a father's wisdom - profanity

My mother tells stories about my dad. He died 44 years ago, but I have learned much about his fatherly ways by these stories. It is interesting to me how a father’s wisdom can be forwarded.

“Your father never swore. He just didn’t believe it in. I heard him say more than once, after I said ‘shit,’ that I ‘had something in my mouth that he didn’t want on the bottom of his shoe.’

There was the one night that I remember him cussing. We were driving from Baltimore, Maryland to South Carolina to visit with family. This would have been before your sister was born (before 1952), and it was dark and rainy. It was a messy, slow rain that just wet everything and kept the windshield dirty. We had stopped and William Earl had done his best to wash and clean of the windshield. As we started back onto the road, a truck came by, hit a mud puddle and splashed muddy goo on the windshield. Your father said, ‘damn it.’ I knew better than to say anything because he was m-a-d. That is the only time he ever cussed that I know of.”

My father use to say, “Profanity is a sign of a person with a limited vocabulary.” I suspect he was right.