Everyone needs good friends. If you're fortunate, you'll have some that are more like family than friends. (Actually, they might be closer than family--you can't pick your family but you can pick your friends.) Judy and I are fortunate to have a couple who are friemaly/famends (working on a combo word of friends and family but I don't think I've got the word yet--coining words is not a job for the illogical, illiterate, or idiots and there are days when I qualify as all three). Gary and Judy came into our lives back in ninteen-ought-seventy-seven. Our families matched up very well--except for our Chad. Gary and Judy didn't have a match for Chad, so our poor son was often the "victim" of schemes by the four older girls. Somehow he held his own.
During our years of friendship we've experienced: the birth of Chad; the weddings of all 5 of our children; the birth of 13 grandchildren (they've got 4 and we've got 9); the death of one of our grandchildren; the death of three of their parents and two of ours; Gary's heart attack (slowed him down for 72 hours); Judy L's bout with cancer (lasted a total of 6 days--a story within itself); my Judy's bout with breast cancer; my resignation from a church here in Lubbock; their car wreck; our moving to two different cities; and various and sundry events.
The last time they were in Lubbock was 3 years, 6 months and 3 days ago. While driving home their car hydroplaned, crossed a median and was struck by an oncoming vehicle. We nearly lost them that night. Our times together are further and further apart in time due to distance, jobs, and 13 grandchildren. But when we do get together, it's like we've just been apart a few days.
They were with us the last three days and it was pure joy. They left this afternoon following church and lunch. Got a text message a short time ago--they're safely home. We're relieved and already looking forward to our next time together. My prayer for you, dear reader, is that you can have a Gary and Judy of your own to share life with. They're a gift from God to us and I'm praying you receive such a gift for yourself.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Demented car
Dave Ramsey says everyone should have a "car with character." In other words, while you're working to eliminate debt, don't squander your money on vehicles that loose value by the minute. We have such a car. I've named her "Jezebel" after the wicked woman in the Bible. Personally, I think she's possessed.
Jezebel is a 1999 Chrysler LHS--the best argument for Chrysler Motors being allowed to go bankrupt and out-of-business. Based upon my experience, President Obama did NOT do the country a service by bailing out this car company. What would have been a service to the country?--a mercy killing of Chrysler.
Jezebel started out looking and acting like a respectable lady. She had her whistles and bells--and they all worked. But just as God made mud and little boys to go together, Jezebel was drawn to the dark side. It began with little things, like the radio. Oh, Jezebel has/had a good system with quality speakers--for a little while. Soon they began to distort. To be able to understand anything coming over the radio I had to shut down 3 of the 4 speakers and could barely distinguish what was playing. Not great, but I lived with it.(It helped if I'd tilt my left ear slightly up and forward.) Then, she began to play games with the CD's I'd attempt to listen to while traveling. (For a while I sold medical equipment--had 12 states in my territory--and spent a lot of windshield time.) Books on tape are my friend. Jezebel thought to irritate me by having her CD player quit at the worst moment. Just when the novel on tape was about to reveal the killer, Jezebel snorked the CD and left me totally unfulfilled as a listener.
As Jezz aged, she became more diabolical. She'd set off her security system in the middle of the night--for no reason. (Great way to meet your neighbors--3:00 A.M. and the car alarm is wailing--neighbors rush out to see if a car is being vandalized--not a great way to get on the good side of same neighbors.) Or in the middle of the afternoon in a parking lot. (ATTENTION WAL-MART SHOPPERS! WOULD THE DRIVER OF A GREEN CHRYSLER LHS PLEASE HAVE MERCY ON THE HOUND DOGS IN THE BACK OF THE PICKUPS AND TURN OFF YOUR CRAZY CAR'S SECURITY SYSTEM! And yes, I did get run out of Slap N Tickle, Arkansas, for irritating the Bubba's hunting dogs. Long story--not important--the buckshot wounds healed nicely, thank you.) The driver's side power seat decided to play tricks with my Sacroiliac and stopped moving forward and backwards--it started twisting sideways. (Wierd position for driving but it does make it easier to grab items from the back seat but try explaining that to a state trooper who wants to know why you're in a sideways position while driving instead of facing directly forwards. Got off with a warning and the purchase of two tickets to the policeman's fundraiser for disgruntled officers.)
Jezz started leaving a light on (not the kind Tom Bodett of Motel 6 leaves on) the dash indicating "door ajar." It's not ajar, but that's just Jezz' sick sense of humor.
Finally took the old gal to the home for wayward Chryslers (the Dodge house) and discovered she needs an exorcism to begin with (every try to find a priest to do an exorcism on a car?)and had/has a bad BODY CONTROL MODULE, among several other ailments. "Doctor, how much will it cost to fix the bad BODY CONTROL MODULE?" "Son, the BODY CONTROL MODULE will just be the beginning of the charge and it's $973.00. We don't know what else is wrong with the demon-possessed thing but we're willing to try as long as the meter's running on your credit card."
Understand that at this point I double the value of the car whenever I fill the fuel tank. And now this mechanic says I need to give him carte blanch to fix a car that probably should be burned at the stake or hung at high noon.
"Can we just disconnect the security system?" I hopefully ask. "Not possible, it's interwoven with her dahmler digital driving diagnostic disproportional dipstick."
"What can we do?" I hopelessly wailed. "Well, we could disconnect the BODY CONTROL MODULE, but there will be some side effects. It will be similar to neutering a cat."
"GREAT, I love neutering cats."
My demented, diabolical car has been neutered. The BODY CONTROL MODULE is disconnected and there are some strange side effects:
1) The horn honks every time I start the car. (I have to survey the area to see if any young woman is near so they don't think I'm seeking their attention. NOT GOOD.)
2) The heater automatically sets itself to 75 degrees and has to be reset TWICE.
3) The odometer is like a one-armed bandit in Lost Wages, Nevada. It keeps spinning, either forward or backwards, whenever I turn off the engine.
4) The power door locks are disabled, but the other day while I was driving, the door locks automatically locked. (Visions of "The Twilight Zone.")
5) My power seat won't work BUT recently while driving it twisted the seat. (Honest Officer, I didn't deliberately turn my back on you when you passed me--IT WAS CRAZY JEZEBEL.)
So, Dave Ramsey, I have my "car with character." Actually, I'd like to have a car without character, but that's for another day.
Jezebel is a 1999 Chrysler LHS--the best argument for Chrysler Motors being allowed to go bankrupt and out-of-business. Based upon my experience, President Obama did NOT do the country a service by bailing out this car company. What would have been a service to the country?--a mercy killing of Chrysler.
Jezebel started out looking and acting like a respectable lady. She had her whistles and bells--and they all worked. But just as God made mud and little boys to go together, Jezebel was drawn to the dark side. It began with little things, like the radio. Oh, Jezebel has/had a good system with quality speakers--for a little while. Soon they began to distort. To be able to understand anything coming over the radio I had to shut down 3 of the 4 speakers and could barely distinguish what was playing. Not great, but I lived with it.(It helped if I'd tilt my left ear slightly up and forward.) Then, she began to play games with the CD's I'd attempt to listen to while traveling. (For a while I sold medical equipment--had 12 states in my territory--and spent a lot of windshield time.) Books on tape are my friend. Jezebel thought to irritate me by having her CD player quit at the worst moment. Just when the novel on tape was about to reveal the killer, Jezebel snorked the CD and left me totally unfulfilled as a listener.
As Jezz aged, she became more diabolical. She'd set off her security system in the middle of the night--for no reason. (Great way to meet your neighbors--3:00 A.M. and the car alarm is wailing--neighbors rush out to see if a car is being vandalized--not a great way to get on the good side of same neighbors.) Or in the middle of the afternoon in a parking lot. (ATTENTION WAL-MART SHOPPERS! WOULD THE DRIVER OF A GREEN CHRYSLER LHS PLEASE HAVE MERCY ON THE HOUND DOGS IN THE BACK OF THE PICKUPS AND TURN OFF YOUR CRAZY CAR'S SECURITY SYSTEM! And yes, I did get run out of Slap N Tickle, Arkansas, for irritating the Bubba's hunting dogs. Long story--not important--the buckshot wounds healed nicely, thank you.) The driver's side power seat decided to play tricks with my Sacroiliac and stopped moving forward and backwards--it started twisting sideways. (Wierd position for driving but it does make it easier to grab items from the back seat but try explaining that to a state trooper who wants to know why you're in a sideways position while driving instead of facing directly forwards. Got off with a warning and the purchase of two tickets to the policeman's fundraiser for disgruntled officers.)
Jezz started leaving a light on (not the kind Tom Bodett of Motel 6 leaves on) the dash indicating "door ajar." It's not ajar, but that's just Jezz' sick sense of humor.
Finally took the old gal to the home for wayward Chryslers (the Dodge house) and discovered she needs an exorcism to begin with (every try to find a priest to do an exorcism on a car?)and had/has a bad BODY CONTROL MODULE, among several other ailments. "Doctor, how much will it cost to fix the bad BODY CONTROL MODULE?" "Son, the BODY CONTROL MODULE will just be the beginning of the charge and it's $973.00. We don't know what else is wrong with the demon-possessed thing but we're willing to try as long as the meter's running on your credit card."
Understand that at this point I double the value of the car whenever I fill the fuel tank. And now this mechanic says I need to give him carte blanch to fix a car that probably should be burned at the stake or hung at high noon.
"Can we just disconnect the security system?" I hopefully ask. "Not possible, it's interwoven with her dahmler digital driving diagnostic disproportional dipstick."
"What can we do?" I hopelessly wailed. "Well, we could disconnect the BODY CONTROL MODULE, but there will be some side effects. It will be similar to neutering a cat."
"GREAT, I love neutering cats."
My demented, diabolical car has been neutered. The BODY CONTROL MODULE is disconnected and there are some strange side effects:
1) The horn honks every time I start the car. (I have to survey the area to see if any young woman is near so they don't think I'm seeking their attention. NOT GOOD.)
2) The heater automatically sets itself to 75 degrees and has to be reset TWICE.
3) The odometer is like a one-armed bandit in Lost Wages, Nevada. It keeps spinning, either forward or backwards, whenever I turn off the engine.
4) The power door locks are disabled, but the other day while I was driving, the door locks automatically locked. (Visions of "The Twilight Zone.")
5) My power seat won't work BUT recently while driving it twisted the seat. (Honest Officer, I didn't deliberately turn my back on you when you passed me--IT WAS CRAZY JEZEBEL.)
So, Dave Ramsey, I have my "car with character." Actually, I'd like to have a car without character, but that's for another day.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Who knew?
It was 42 years ago last January (January 28, 1968) that I answered God's call to ministry. At that time the only real options for ministry (in a local church) were to pastor or be the worship leader. (God had not yet created Youth Pastors or Ministers of Education, or, gasp, Executive Pastors.) Lacking any kind of musical ability it was obvious I was being called to the pastoral ministry. So as a 17 year old boy, I reluctantly and shyly announced to God, man and the world that I was called to pastor. Everyone congratulated me and older and wiser (?) pastors told me of the duties I'd be required to fulfill in serving God and man. Somehow they left out some of the more "refined" duties of a "man of God."
Four years of college and 3 1/2 years of seminary (yes, I am a slow learner but the degree required me to complete 96 hours on my Masters) and I'm prepared for whatever challenges would come my way. I studied Greek, Hebrew, Systematic Theology, Biblical Preaching, Biblical Ethics, Evangelism, Missions, Church Administration, Church History, Baptist History, just to name a few. We had interesting discussions in class and writing assignments (pre-computer) that killed more trees than should be allowed by law (also pre-Al Gore days). I walked the lofty halls of Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary and heard some of the outstanding pastors and Christian leaders of the day. Aaahhhhh yes, called, committed, taught, groomed and sent out into the world to represent God to man and man to God.
Perhaps the first major awakening I had post-seminary was that while I had nearly killed myself jumping through the academic hoops of the seminary, they hadn't really prepared me for real church life. Time warp with me 35 years post seminary and let me tell you about my most recent challenge in ministry.
The church I serve (I'm the...gasp...Executive Pastor) owns 33 acres in the southern portion of our city. It is the promised land for prairie dogs. Those dogs have reproduced at a rate that makes rabbits look celibate. And can they eat? I don't have scientific facts but my observation is they eat 86 times their body weight each hour. They slicked the vegetation off our land like one of the Biblical plagues (I'm going to review my Hebrew because I think--just think, mind you, that the Hebrew word for "plague of locusts" can also be interpreted "horde of prairie dogs.") Being a living and breeding--errr, I mean breathing critter with an advanced digestive system, they produce---they produce tons of---uhhhhh, how can I delicately say this--they produce prairie dog.................................................poop.
Now let's take this situation up a notch. This Prairie Dog Promised Land sits next to a housing development. Our land is quite flat and sandy. Flat land sans vegatation tends to become part of the wind here in West Texas. And this has been a windy Spring. Much of our land has blown onto our neighbor's lawn, drives, swimming pools, etc. This has not made them very happy. (You'd think this "free" land acquisition would make them jump for joy. WRONG!) They began to register their displeasure with our church and their compaints made their way to me. E-mail has been the method of choice for communication. They've alternated between begging for relief all the way to threatening us with various and sundry forms of...well, never mind, you get the picture. They desire/demand/want us to do something to stop the dirt from blowing--no small fete in West Texas. Their pleas became more desparate. (Thank you for bearing with me to this point. You're about to see my dilemma of being un-seminary-prepared-for-real-ministry.) Here's the ultimate complaint.
"Dear Sir. Your land is blowing into my yard and swimming pool, which is disturbing enough. But today, the wind is filled with flying feces from the prairie dogs." FLYING FECES! How in the heck did the good professors at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary fail to prepare me for dealing with FLYING FECES? Prairie Dog Poop should become a required course at seminary to prepare young ministers for life in the real church world. I guarantee you they didn't prepare me for this. And what the old preachers told me in 1968--they didn't tell me all I needed to know. And if they did know and failed to tell me--well, I'll just trust God to get 'em for me. In the mean time I'm searching all known seminaries for an advanced course in prairie dog poop. Got any recommendations?
Four years of college and 3 1/2 years of seminary (yes, I am a slow learner but the degree required me to complete 96 hours on my Masters) and I'm prepared for whatever challenges would come my way. I studied Greek, Hebrew, Systematic Theology, Biblical Preaching, Biblical Ethics, Evangelism, Missions, Church Administration, Church History, Baptist History, just to name a few. We had interesting discussions in class and writing assignments (pre-computer) that killed more trees than should be allowed by law (also pre-Al Gore days). I walked the lofty halls of Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary and heard some of the outstanding pastors and Christian leaders of the day. Aaahhhhh yes, called, committed, taught, groomed and sent out into the world to represent God to man and man to God.
Perhaps the first major awakening I had post-seminary was that while I had nearly killed myself jumping through the academic hoops of the seminary, they hadn't really prepared me for real church life. Time warp with me 35 years post seminary and let me tell you about my most recent challenge in ministry.
The church I serve (I'm the...gasp...Executive Pastor) owns 33 acres in the southern portion of our city. It is the promised land for prairie dogs. Those dogs have reproduced at a rate that makes rabbits look celibate. And can they eat? I don't have scientific facts but my observation is they eat 86 times their body weight each hour. They slicked the vegetation off our land like one of the Biblical plagues (I'm going to review my Hebrew because I think--just think, mind you, that the Hebrew word for "plague of locusts" can also be interpreted "horde of prairie dogs.") Being a living and breeding--errr, I mean breathing critter with an advanced digestive system, they produce---they produce tons of---uhhhhh, how can I delicately say this--they produce prairie dog.................................................poop.
Now let's take this situation up a notch. This Prairie Dog Promised Land sits next to a housing development. Our land is quite flat and sandy. Flat land sans vegatation tends to become part of the wind here in West Texas. And this has been a windy Spring. Much of our land has blown onto our neighbor's lawn, drives, swimming pools, etc. This has not made them very happy. (You'd think this "free" land acquisition would make them jump for joy. WRONG!) They began to register their displeasure with our church and their compaints made their way to me. E-mail has been the method of choice for communication. They've alternated between begging for relief all the way to threatening us with various and sundry forms of...well, never mind, you get the picture. They desire/demand/want us to do something to stop the dirt from blowing--no small fete in West Texas. Their pleas became more desparate. (Thank you for bearing with me to this point. You're about to see my dilemma of being un-seminary-prepared-for-real-ministry.) Here's the ultimate complaint.
"Dear Sir. Your land is blowing into my yard and swimming pool, which is disturbing enough. But today, the wind is filled with flying feces from the prairie dogs." FLYING FECES! How in the heck did the good professors at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary fail to prepare me for dealing with FLYING FECES? Prairie Dog Poop should become a required course at seminary to prepare young ministers for life in the real church world. I guarantee you they didn't prepare me for this. And what the old preachers told me in 1968--they didn't tell me all I needed to know. And if they did know and failed to tell me--well, I'll just trust God to get 'em for me. In the mean time I'm searching all known seminaries for an advanced course in prairie dog poop. Got any recommendations?
Monday, April 12, 2010
To the victor go the spoils.
Life has its' share of mysteries. For the sake of brevity (and my lack of creativity tonight) I'll only mention the latest anomoly. It has to do with a certain illness known throughout the country as (cue Boris Karlov type organ music) MARCH MADNESS. It's a vicious ailment afflicting even the innocent. Case in point--my wife. After gaining a victory over her bout with breast cancer last year (apparently her immunity was weakened) she came down with a full case of MARCH MADNESS. (In all fairness, it struck a total of 7 in our family.)
Over the past few years our son, Chad, has developed a family bracket and invited any and all to post a bracket. I've not had much success, but my sweet wife has participated, primarily to save my pride by allowing me to not finish last (O.K. I've been next to last most years). But this year....
We spent Spring Break in Nashville with Angela and her family. We grabbed the paper and Judy filled out a bracket on the plane. However, that bracket mysterously disappeared. Judy went on-line and completed a second bracket, taking time to analyze the teams. For some strange reason that bracket didn't post. So, not to be outdone by disappearing paper forms and uncooperative computer brackets she filled out a bracket FOR THE THIRD TIME. Again, she researched and selected.
The young men in our family are sports aficionados. They follow the teams and keep track of records and abilities. Judy doesn't do this. They watch the teams play and root for their favorites. Judy doesn't do this. They make their selections based on history and projections. Judy picks her favorites. Statistically the guys should mop up. Judy should not.
By now you've probably guessed that my sweet wife won the bracket. She took sole ownership of first place from day one and held on to that spot all the way through. In my usual style, I started in second place and ended up second to last. Which brings up the question of who finished last since my normal "cushion" moved to first? Of all things, it was our son-in-law who lives and breathes basketball--the Kentucky Wildcat fan of all fans, Chris.
Here's the mystery of the moment: how can a nonsport fanatic like my sweet wife, AKA Granna, whoop up on all the sports hounds and kick butt in the brackets? Perhaps we'll never know. But for now, Judy/Mom/Granna gets the spoils. WAY TO GO JUDY/MOM/GRANNA!!!
Over the past few years our son, Chad, has developed a family bracket and invited any and all to post a bracket. I've not had much success, but my sweet wife has participated, primarily to save my pride by allowing me to not finish last (O.K. I've been next to last most years). But this year....
We spent Spring Break in Nashville with Angela and her family. We grabbed the paper and Judy filled out a bracket on the plane. However, that bracket mysterously disappeared. Judy went on-line and completed a second bracket, taking time to analyze the teams. For some strange reason that bracket didn't post. So, not to be outdone by disappearing paper forms and uncooperative computer brackets she filled out a bracket FOR THE THIRD TIME. Again, she researched and selected.
The young men in our family are sports aficionados. They follow the teams and keep track of records and abilities. Judy doesn't do this. They watch the teams play and root for their favorites. Judy doesn't do this. They make their selections based on history and projections. Judy picks her favorites. Statistically the guys should mop up. Judy should not.
By now you've probably guessed that my sweet wife won the bracket. She took sole ownership of first place from day one and held on to that spot all the way through. In my usual style, I started in second place and ended up second to last. Which brings up the question of who finished last since my normal "cushion" moved to first? Of all things, it was our son-in-law who lives and breathes basketball--the Kentucky Wildcat fan of all fans, Chris.
Here's the mystery of the moment: how can a nonsport fanatic like my sweet wife, AKA Granna, whoop up on all the sports hounds and kick butt in the brackets? Perhaps we'll never know. But for now, Judy/Mom/Granna gets the spoils. WAY TO GO JUDY/MOM/GRANNA!!!
Monday, April 5, 2010
A New Beginning
Last year I started a blog called "Tumbler2" to report on Judy's fight against cancer. It ended in early January with us stranded in China. We spent one extra day with our kids and then began the uncertain trip home. We had hopes of flying into Beijing on Monday, January 4 and snagging a stand-by spot. No such luck. We were stranded in Beijing by a 60 year record snow. Over 1,000 flights were cancelled in a 3 day period and rebooking was a...challenge (no, that's not descriptive enough)...daunting (still not right)...intimidating (yeah, use this word if I'm going for the sympathy of weak people)...uhhh, it was, it was...nearly an impossibility (there, that gets it).
We were scheduled to fly from Nanning to Beijing, departing at noon, Monday, January 4, arriving Beijing at 3:30. Our (delusional) thoughts were geared at arriving in time to book the 9:50 P.M. flight to Las Angeles. The plane finally left at 4:00, arriving near 8:00. We hopefully secured our luggage and found the INTERNATIONAL TICKET SERVICE. Air China had 3 agents "working" the counter. The lines were 15 people deep. We struck up a conversation with a man from Malaysia who had been in line 3 hours and the line hadn't moved AT ALL. Finally getting in touch with reality, we soothed our anguish at Starbucks. (What a haven.)
Next item--find someplace to stay until Wednesday and accept the flight we'd been able to secure while still in Nanning. Someone from Air China told us of a hotel that would provide a free shuttle, was close to the airport, would give us a good rate and had internet connections. We jumped at the opportunity. He gave us a card with the name of the hotel and it is.........you're not going to believe this...it was named....an unbelievable name. (I'll give a brief summary of our time in the yet unnamed hotel in my next post.)
The title of this posting is "A New Beginning." I decided to start a new blog that was not dedicated to Judy's battle with cancer. For the most part, that is behind us. She is free of cancer and only takes one--yes, ONE--little pill a day (and will for 5 years). Yes, she'll make semi-annual treks to MD Anderson for checkups. But we are soooooo blessed. Thus, a new beginning.
I hope to develop the discipline of blogging on a regular basis. The discipline of daily writing is a discipline I need to develop. I apologize for waiting 4 months before returning to the blogosphere, but life happens.
O.K., time for truth. The real reason I've had to start a new blog is that I've forgotten my password for the old blog and we've changed e-mail providers since the blog was established. So, the need for a new blog (but I really did want a new beginning to deal with life post-cancer). And I need to daily blog to kick-start my aging brain and keep it somehow connected to reality. (It could be interesting to see how my writing develops/changes/decays as I age.)
We were scheduled to fly from Nanning to Beijing, departing at noon, Monday, January 4, arriving Beijing at 3:30. Our (delusional) thoughts were geared at arriving in time to book the 9:50 P.M. flight to Las Angeles. The plane finally left at 4:00, arriving near 8:00. We hopefully secured our luggage and found the INTERNATIONAL TICKET SERVICE. Air China had 3 agents "working" the counter. The lines were 15 people deep. We struck up a conversation with a man from Malaysia who had been in line 3 hours and the line hadn't moved AT ALL. Finally getting in touch with reality, we soothed our anguish at Starbucks. (What a haven.)
Next item--find someplace to stay until Wednesday and accept the flight we'd been able to secure while still in Nanning. Someone from Air China told us of a hotel that would provide a free shuttle, was close to the airport, would give us a good rate and had internet connections. We jumped at the opportunity. He gave us a card with the name of the hotel and it is.........you're not going to believe this...it was named....an unbelievable name. (I'll give a brief summary of our time in the yet unnamed hotel in my next post.)
The title of this posting is "A New Beginning." I decided to start a new blog that was not dedicated to Judy's battle with cancer. For the most part, that is behind us. She is free of cancer and only takes one--yes, ONE--little pill a day (and will for 5 years). Yes, she'll make semi-annual treks to MD Anderson for checkups. But we are soooooo blessed. Thus, a new beginning.
I hope to develop the discipline of blogging on a regular basis. The discipline of daily writing is a discipline I need to develop. I apologize for waiting 4 months before returning to the blogosphere, but life happens.
O.K., time for truth. The real reason I've had to start a new blog is that I've forgotten my password for the old blog and we've changed e-mail providers since the blog was established. So, the need for a new blog (but I really did want a new beginning to deal with life post-cancer). And I need to daily blog to kick-start my aging brain and keep it somehow connected to reality. (It could be interesting to see how my writing develops/changes/decays as I age.)
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