Graduation

I do not often write about family, but I ask that my readers humor a proud Papa tonight.

Tonight, Little Darling graduated.

Tonight, Little Darling received an award of recognition upon graduation.

That is not an uncommon occurrence.

What is uncommon is the award itself. The Bishop John Maury Allen Award is not given for being the most popular or being the best athlete. It is not even given for academic excellence. It is not given every year. If there is not a deserving student graduating, the award is not bestowed at all. This award has only been given six times in the past fifty years. The Bishop John Maury Allen Award is only given to a student who exemplifies the standards of character and a personal commitment to excellence in thought, and integrity of actions that the school hoped to instill in young people when it was founded fifty years ago.

Tonight Little Darling brought it home.

I'm proud. Damned proud.

Teaching a Child To Shoot

I was asked recently "Why teach a child to shoot?" Why is a question that does not come to my mind frequently. To me, it is kind of like asking why we would teach our children to use the stove, a can opener, telephone or a shovel. Guns are not evil things, and the danger that is associated with them is not inherent in the gun. It is within the person wielding the gun.

I believe that if guns are to be present in a family, the children should be taught to shoot. Each child reaches the maturity level necessary at different times, as all children are different. The average time usually occurs around age seven, when the child reaches Erikson's industry vs. inferiority conflict. This stage, often called the Latency, is a time when we are capable of learning and accomplishing numerous new complex skills and knowledge. The skills and values learned at this time often stay with the person throughout their life, and form the foundation of their personality in adulthood. Many competent shooters, of all ages relate being taught to shoot by a father or uncle at age seven or eight.

But why shooting? Shooting accurately is a task that demands concentration and dedication unmatched in many endeavors. Holes in targets that spread across the surface or clump together like clover leaves on a bulls eye is instant, nonjudgmental evidence of whether the shooter is applying what they have learned. Other sports do not have this no error aspect. In basketball, there is always another shot. In football another down. Baseball has another inning. In most sports, scores are accumulated by success. In shooting, scores are tabulated by failures. There are lessons to be learned from that.

Even though I am not a hunter, I have to consider the values instilled in a child through hunting. The quietness necessary to get close enough to game is lost on many children. The one chance or go hungry aspect of hunting, especially as referred to by Rufus Hussey introduces the child to the realities of the adult world. Do your job right, and you will be fed. Continue to do it wrong, and you will go hungry....... Or get on public assistance.

So why teach a child to shoot? If done successfully, shooting provides the child with demonstrative evidence of their competence at a skill that elevates them above the common man. Competence in shooting is not measured by time spent, rounds down range, or firearms owned. It is measured by holes in targets. A ten year old child, competent with his rifle, can best a thirty year old man who is not. The result is self esteem and confidence in oneself. That is the real reason to teach a child to shoot, whether it is plinking at tin cans, or shooting competitively.

There are those who say that if there are going to be guns in the home, they should be locked away from children. Guns should be secured when not in use or under adult control. Children do not all have equal levels of maturity, and parents will often be surprised at what a child does when the child is alone with friends. Teaching the child to shoot removes the lure of the taboo from the gun in the home. If anything, the gun safety that the child learns will serve them well when they are at a friend's home, and the friend want to show off the unsecured gun in the house.

The bottom line though is that we owe it to our children to teach them how to shoot. Firearms are a means of self preservation unparalleled in defensive circles. Even a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick is eclipsed by the power of a 30.06. When we teach our children to shoot, we are giving them power. Power to do good, power to sustain themselves, and the power to preserve their way of life. Yes, we are also giving them the power to do evil, if they so choose. What we must remember is that we must not simply teach our children to shoot, or play ball, or do algebra. We must teach them the value of these endeavors. We must teach them to value themselves. What Randy Pausch said was true. It's a head fake. Indirect learning. We learn best the things that we did not even know we were learning at all. Perseverance. Discipline. Individual accomplishment. Responsibility. Self respect. Respect for others. Confidence. Humility. These are the values a child learns indirectly when taught marksmanship. They are also the values that will insure the child uses what they have learned appropriately.

Boomer's thoughts

Transcendence

It's been a tough weekend. Work began for me on Saturday morning at 6 AM. It was a series of difficult, stressful cases, worked with a skeleton crew dubbed the call team. I did have one break in which I published the AR piece between cases. I had hoped to publish a bit more, but it was not to be. The schedule was relentless. When I finally got home, I ate no supper. I collapsed on the couch in my scrubs lest I be called back again. Around ten o'clock, I sleepwalked to the bedroom and fell face down on the bed.

Then my wife woke me up to the horror of Vivi's death. I found Vivi laying in the street, in a pool of blood a block away in our neighborhood. Her skull was crushed, her back broken. I took her back home, and laid her out. I briefly had the insane notion of burying her in the darkness, but after I had gathered the shovel and tried to pick a grave site in the blackness, I realized the futility of it all. I called both hospitals to check the schedules for today, and both schedules were empty. Thankful of my good fortune, I resolved to bury her in the garden at first light.

I could not sleep, and since Sunday looked like a free day, I blogged assisted Ilsa with her blogging. Then, as the sun came up and my breath blew out in puffs of white mist, I labored in the cold to dig Vivi a grave while my family slept. I awoke my wife, and we lowered little Vivi to her rest.

I stripped down to my boxers, took a shower and crashed into immediate REM sleep on the sofa. Beep beep beep beep "Whaaat" beep beep beep "th'" beep beep beep "Hell?" beep beep beep beep beep! It was the first case of the day. The emergency room night staff had neglected to call it in, and Dr. Balogh was upset that there was nobody there to help him work. I looked at my watch. It was 7:15 AM. I had slept for about twenty minutes. I put on my scrubs and got in my car.

I was too exhausted to be pissed as I staggered across the hospital parking lot in the cold. Dr. Balogh was writing notes as I tapped his shoulder and said "So, I understand someone might have a job today huh?" He smiled. At least I wouldn't have to endure a doc angry with me this morning. He had discovered the root of the problem, a nurse who did not know how to schedule a case, and who had decided to do nothing rather than learn how.

The rest of the crew filtered in, and we set the case up in record time. We scrubbed in, and we got to work. I did not mention the events of last night to Dr. Balogh. He could tell I was tired for some reason. We talked about LSU getting beat by Alabama in Death Valley instead. Jealous-U had lost in overtime 27-21. Dr. Balogh let me know we had one other case at the other hospital. As soon as I could, I sent half the crew there to begin setting it up. Later, when the day's work abated to the beeper again, I drove back home bleary eyed. My sofa was waiting.

When I awoke, My wife and Little Darling were asleep. I needed to ride. Alone. I put Ilsa in the back yard (I checked the gate) and I rolled the Raleigh Grand Prix out into the crisp air. I wanted an uncomplicated bike. Nothing to think about, except me and the wind. With my beeper attached to the collar of my hoodie, I set out.

I began to ride aimlessly about the neighborhood. I had to stay relatively close to home in case I received another page. A physician's tolerance only goes so far. I wanted my response to be swift if needed. The choice of the Grand Prix as my steel steed was a good one. It glided quietly and with grace beneath me.

As I rode, I thought about the morning's cases. I thought about how the ward clerk had slipped me a note telling me LSU had lost last night. I don't follow college ball, but the physicians I work with do. It's always good to have the latest basic information. As I rode, I ventured farther and farther from my home base, feeling more and more free. Still, I studiously avoided one area of the neighborhood.

Finally, I made the turn towards the fatal intersection. To the bloodstained black top where automobiles still sped through a residential district in excess of 50 miles an hour. As their tires spun past my dog's dried blood on the pavement, I tentatively edged my front wheel closer. Not knowing what else to do, I snapped a photo, and then another, and I retreated from traffic. I was well aware that my fate in a collision with one of these self absorbed fools would be no better than little Vivi's.

As another speeding car ran over what remained of my dog splattered on the pavement, I felt a great anger rush to my throat. I felt an urge to stand over the crimson spot, to protect it, to raise my fist in defiance towards unrepentant monsters who kill loved ones and drive away as though nothing happened. But I did not. I made the sign of the cross and said a prayer instead. I prayed for little dogs who just want to run free in the night, and for the souls of those who would take a little girl's beloved puppy and not even stop to say "I'm sorry."

I rode past the blood on the pavement. There will be no wooden crosses at the scene of this accident. No wreaths, and no orange cones to slow traffic. Eventually the crimson stain will be washed from the pavement, but little Vivi will not be forgotten. A Cardigan Welsh Corgi is a special dog. Ilsa thought Vivi was her baby, and they wrestled constantly. Ilsa would roll over and let the short legged growler gnaw on her throat. Then they would play chase again.

Vivi was an imp, and the instigator of all the doggie pranks that occurred in our home. She was so happy to be with us. She had found her pack at last. Much to Darla's chagrin, Vivi herded her. An older Pembroke Welsh Corgi should not be herded by any dog, but Vivi was insistent. Of course, Little Darling will never forget the first dog that was truly hers, even if only for a short time.

My wife, too, is mourning the loss of the little grizzled creature that used to sit proudly beside her. Her grief is worse of all, having felt responsible and being the first to find Vivi as I slept last night.

I continued to ride with greater haste as the sun sunk towards the horizon. I was alone and one with the bike. I did not know what else to do. I had done all I could. Sometimes being the father is an elusive thing. Fathers are supposed to know the way in which to lead their families. I did not know which way to go, but I had been there when needed. Perhaps that will be good enough. This evening though, I rode my bike. I felt the freedom and life that Vivi once felt, but I did not ride for Vivi, and I did not ride for me. I rode for transcendence.

Randy Pausch, Last Lecture

Randy Pausch died this morning. This video of his last lecture is long, but worth it.

The Power of Association

My son, whom I'm very proud of, knew everything as a teen. I told him then that he should make notes because he would never again be as smart as he was at nineteen.

One pearl of adolescent wisdom that he sowed among my middle aged furrows of bigotry is that it did not matter how he dressed, nor did it matter much how he and his friends behaved, as long as they were law abiding citizens. Thankfully he never went for the gangsta sag look, I would have never allowed that. Connor was too much of an individual anyway. He was more of a Goodwill store "I don't care" type who saw clothing as the malicious trappings of a society that judges on appearances. He viewed the clothing industry as a cog in a vast hidden machine of systematic mind control.

Recently, he has spent several weeks in Paris. Not Paris Texas, but rather that other Paris, where all those Frenchmen run around. He has decided to leave his job teaching applied mathematics at a major state university. He is joining an international corporation that uses mathematics to somehow determine where to drill for........oil. ....... Ah, Capitalism......Good old Capitalism. When a young man finds the girl he loves and decides to settle down, there's nothing like having a few greenbacks in your pocket instead of a bunch of philosophy in your head.

Connor called me to enlist my assistance on his resume and to garner some advice on what to wear to his interview. Shave off facial hair for the interview? Darned right. Get a Republican haircut. I'm rather proud that he didn't ask whether he should wear shoes or sandals. Instead, he asked what type of shoes, and if he really needed a tie. I informed him of my opinion. My son is approaching wisdom, not because he now understands why he needs a good paying job, and why he needs to act and dress appropriately to obtain it, but because he now knows that there is much that he does not know.......Without the knowledge of one's ignorance, the search for enlightenment will never be undertaken.

This afternoon, as I was re-photographing a small revolver, I thought about that......How much the trappings of our personal personae affect how others perceive us, and ultimately the direction our lives take.

I thought about my own choices, the one time artistic prodigy who enlisted in the US Navy, sailed the world, who became a rabid imperialistic Republican expansionist, and then left to become a nurse. The guy who now sports a French forked Balbo and rides a bike to work. The guy who advocates for the care of those who do not speak for themselves.
I thought about the son who has gone from voting for Al Gore and saving the rain forests from the horrors of human indifference, to a burgeoning Capitalist ready to do some expansion of his own.
Yep. That's my son. I'm proud of him. I hope he's proud of me too.

On Fatherhood

I spent today reflecting on Father's Day. I am a father of three children, two by fortuitous virtue of my marriage, one as a result of that marriage. Two are grown, and the last one almost there.

I had to work Father's day this year. I awoke at 4:45 so I could begin my first case at 6:00AM. In between cases I called my oldest daughter in Baton Rouge. She received her Juris Doctorate from LSU this year. "Hi Dad!" she exclaimed when she heard my voice. We exchanged pleasantries. I knew my wife and my youngest would be meeting her in New Orleans later in the day.

My son now teaches math at the University of Arkansas. I remember when he told me that he regrettably did not want to be a surgeon after all. He said he did not think he could handle the responsibility, and he changed the course of his life. I was stymied, but I realized his life is his to live. He has done well, he is a good man, and I am proud of him. My youngest, Little Darling, will be the healer among our children instead

I could not reach my son by telephone, but an email from him was waiting for me when I arrived back home. "Happy Father's Day!" it began. I was exhausted from a day of cases at two different hospitals. It was six-o'clock again, the other six-o'clock. I retrieved a cola and some cold potato salad from the fridge for supper, and began studying rafts of scent to better understand Ilsa's training. Beautiful Wife and Little Darling would not arrive home for another two hours, assuming they were not late. (Ha!)

Today, I began my day again at 4:45AM. I scrubbed in a bit later, at 6:30AM. I worked cases with family present in the waiting room, and cases with no family to be found. As I worked, I conversed over patients with the other men of heavy responsibilities and sometimes regrettable burdens with whom I work. We talked about Tiger Woods, LSU football, shooting, and of course Father's Day. I was not alone in spending Father's Day disconnected from my children.

In the conversational lulls that men inevitably have, I thought of my own father. He died when I was two years old, and I only have one precious genuine memory of him. My mother never re-married, and I grew to be a man without a father's guidance when needed. Yet he was there. The power of a loving father was kept alive in my heart by my mother's stories about him. I knew who he was, what he stood for, and that I had a legacy to uphold. He was an ethereal force within my life, even in death. Without his presence, I would not be who I am today. Not that I am boastful of who I am, but I know I would be a lesser man. He is buried too far away to visit his grave, but I wished him a silent Father's Day, and thanked him for being my hero.

That is what a father is. Anything less is simply a man with offspring. A father is his child's first hero. It is perhaps the heaviest responsibility any man will bear. Whether he accepts that role or not speaks volumes for his character. A man who is unwilling to be a hero for a child is an overgrown child himself. It does not take much to be a child's hero. Super powers or paternal instinct are not necessary. It doesn't even require a child of one's own genetic structure. It only takes the willingness to be there for a child when needed, and the wisdom to provide proper guidance when required. When the inevitable parental fall from grace occurs in the teen years the resoluteness to remain steady on course is crucial. During those years a child is like a swimmer exploring a vast ocean, and the parent is their boat. If their boat leaves, the child will drown unless another boat appears.

Heroes have been available for boys with absent fathers through most of history. In modern times, young men without fathers have access to a greater range of media information, but fewer men who measure up to hero status. Alan Shepherd was my hero as a boy. There was precious little information about this man who I never met available to me, yet I strove to be like him. Perhaps that was a good thing. In today's world, Shepherd's exalted status would likely have been disposed of before he splashed down in the ocean. We all have pasts, and media heroes are quickly laid bare to the vultures who pick at their bones.

Little did I know that my most influential and steadfast hero was within myself in the form of my own father. A child can run away from a father, but they can not escape his influence. A man will influence and teach his children by his character, integrity and deeds. Children are not swayed by words, and they quickly decipher the carefully crafted illusion of bullshit parading around as valor. They will be taught virtue, or they will be taught deceit. They will, however, be taught. It is inevitable.

I firmly believe that when we are dying, that even if we are not judged by a higher power, we will judge ourselves. The harshest failure that a man can bear is the realization that he failed to be his child's hero. It is often said that upbringing (or the lack thereof) leaves an indelible mark on a person's life, and children become who their parents were. That may or may not be true. What is true though, is we become who our children are. They are what we leave behind in this world. They will speak for us and remember us as we slowly return to dust. How we are spoken of and remembered is up to us alone. It is out of our control, except by our actions. We can chose to rot away forgotten, or we can chose to be a hero. The result is the ultimate dividend on how we invested our life.

A Dad

I try to be a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay for their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots.

But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck.

Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars--all in the same day.

Dick's also pulled him cross-country skiing, taken him on his back mountain climbing and once hauled him across the U.S. On a bike. Makes taking your son bowling look a little lame, right?

And what has Rick done for his father? Not much--except save his life.
This love story began in Winchester , Mass. , 43 years ago, when Rick was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain-damaged and unable to control his limbs.

"He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life;'' Dick says doctors told him and his wife, Judy, when Rick was nine months old. ``Put him in an institution.''

But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was anything to help the boy communicate. ``No way,'' Dick says he was told. ``There's nothing going on in his brain.''

"Tell him a joke,'' Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain. Rigged up with a computer that allowed him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? ``Go Bruins!'' And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, ``Dad, I want To do that.''

Yeah, right. How was Dick, a self-described ``porker'' who never ran more than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, he tried. ``Then it was me who was handicapped,'' Dick says. ``I was sore for two weeks.''

That day changed Rick's life. ``Dad,'' he typed, ``when we were running, It felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!''

And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly shape that he and Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.

``No way,'' Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair competitor. For a few years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then they found a way to get into the race officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made the qualifying time for Boston the following year.

Then somebody said, ``Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?''

How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick tried.

Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15-hour Ironmans in Hawaii. It must be a buzzkill to be a 25-year-old stud getting passed by an old guy towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you think?

Hey, Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? ``No way,'' he says. Dick does it purely for ``the awesome feeling'' he gets seeing Rick with a cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride together.

This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston Marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best time? Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992--only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.

``No question about it,'' Rick types. ``My dad is the Father of the Century.''

And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. ``If you hadn't been in such great shape,'' One doctor told him, ``you probably would've died 15 years ago.'' So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston, and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland, Mass. , always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every weekend, including this Father's Day.

That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he really wants to give him is a gift he can never buy.

``The thing I'd most like,'' Rick types, ``is that my dad sit in the chair and I push him once.''

From Sports Illustrated, By Rick Reilly

More about Team Hoyt

Waltz

Little Darling is wanting to learn to waltz. This is going to be fun.......

The Heart of a Champion

"It is not enough that we do our best. Sometimes we must do what is required." Those words of Winston Churchill resonated with Little Darling this morning, after I gave her my "Rocky" speech. Little Darling had decided to enter a track meet a couple of weeks ago. She signed up for the 400 meter run, thinking it was half the track that ran around the football stadium.

Little Darling had fallen in love with running last year when she saw that she could out pace every girl, and almost every boy in her class. The one boy who could keep up with her became her friend, but her parochial school still did not have a track team. Two weeks ago, at a parent/faculty meeting, it became apparent that some well heeled parents, upset over the six man football team, were prepared to pull their children out of school the following year due to the lack of sports. Suddenly, a track team was thrown together and the accidental coach entered them into a track meet. Little Darling was ecstatic.

Each day after school, we rode our bikes to the stadium to prepare. I coached her, telling her that she only had to beat one person.......the person in front. I instructed her to stay on that person's heels, to put pressure on them, to wear them out. I instructed her to not try to pass them, to hold a reserve of strength until she entered the home stretch. Then, I told her.......smoke 'em. She really did not get the picture, so last night, to illustrate what I meant by holding a reserve I ran against her. I let her lead for most of the race. I had to. I had not run in years. I stayed on her heels though, and when I felt I could finish, I reached down into that pit of strength that is reserved for old bald headed men and I showed her the folly of staying out in front. It's not, I told her, who starts in front, but rather who finishes in front. I hurt all day today from that lesson.

Still, when I got off work, I headed to the track meet. The rag tag group of Episcopal girls had to share jerseys, swapping them out between heats. They were competing against three schools with established track teams. The relays were especially telling, with the other teams handing off the batons like professionals, while the Episcopal girls passed the baton like notes in class. When Little Darling found me, she told me the 400 meter was not half the track, but an entire lap. She had solved the problem though, by transferring over to the 200 meter dash.

As I sat in the stands, I tested my camera. Dead batteries.....Damn. I did not let her know. I pulled out my cell phone. Little Darling lined up against five lanky but conditioned girls. They wore their school colors. Little Darling could not get one of her friends to give up a communal jersey, so she wore her school uniform shirt. With a shot from a starter's pistol, they were off. The lead two girls quickly out paced the rest. Obvious training was their forte. They ran like cats pursued by wolves. There was no catching them. Little Darling came in fourth.

I stayed in the stands, dreading her thoughts. Had I hurt her this morning, with my talk of winning against a stacked deck of cards? Would she think I was disappointed? Angry even? Thankfully, I had gotten a photo with my cell phone. Yet, she did not leave the field. She stayed at the runner's benches.

Finally, it was time for the last event, the girls 400 meter relay. I saw Little Darling put on a blue jersey. She had never run 400 meters. Oh my Gawd. The first wave was off and running with a bang from the starter's pistol, and again, the Episcopal girls were quickly out classed. After each lap and baton exchange, they were left farther and farther behind. Finally, as the fourth and last relay runner, Little Darling entered the lanes. When she accepted the baton, she was a quarter lap behind the girl in front of her. She took off like I had never seen her run. I was standing, cheering, fists in the air. Please God.........Just let her finish. Don't let my girl run out of gas. Don't let her give out. Just let her go the distance.......She was running back to back races. She was the anchor. She had never before run this distance.

The winner finished as Little Darling entered the back stretch. I looked to see my girl keeping her pace, gathering speed. Hang on Darling......Hang on.......Keep coming.......Her stride lengthened. She rounded the corner red faced, her hair a blur behind her. And then........She opened the throttle. She poured on the gas. She lit the fires of desire and reached down to that place that all Champions possess. When she could breathe no more, she stopped breathing. But she kept running. Faster.....Faster.......Ever faster to what she thought was the finish line, dead last. She saw and heard her friends cheering, and she slowed and stopped. The finish line.......Was five strides away. Crap! She took off again and leaped across it.

She was a bit upset with herself when she came walking up to me, unsure of what Daddy's response would be. She told me the girl who was supposed to run the relay had left early. Someone had to run it. She had come in last. She thought she had failed.

No. Darling, this morning, we talked about winning races and champions. We talked about coming from behind and smoking the competition. We talked about confidence and desire. We talked about Rocky and going the distance. Darling, I am here to tell you that you did win. You are a winner. You did not just do your best, you did so much more. You did what was required.........And that, my dear, is what is in the heart of a Champion. And you, sweet girl, are a Champion and my hero.

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

An Encounter At Wal-Mart

It was a balmy Sunday morning several years ago, and Little Darling had been saving her dollars and cents for a GameBoy. I am a man of the pinball generation, and I have little appreciation of video games. I see the results they build in skilled hand eye coordination among the younger laproscopic surgeons, compared to the surgeons of my own age strata, but still, I resisted buying her the toy. When she proudly announced she had the funds herself, I relented. Better to teach her the benefits of thrift than the tyranny of a father my wife told me. So, before church, we took off for Wal-Mart. She had her little purse of greenbacks and I had a 1911 under my sportscoat.

Inside the mega-store, she waited patiently as an employee summoned a manager and the manager found the keys to the locked case of video toys. No, we could not take it to the front to check out, so the milk my wife wanted would have to wait. I glanced impatiently at my watch. Little Darling stepped proudly up to the counter and counted out her money. After taxes, she was eighty-seven cents short, and tears welled up in her eyes. I fished the change out of my pants pocket.

Time was short as we made our way to the front of the store. I cringed as I approached the greeter at the door with a bag in my hand. Thankfully, the elderly lady ignored me and we exited the first door into the foyer. I became vaguely aware of two scruffy young men behind us as I stopped to look for traffic in preparation of entering the parking lot. They stayed behind us, rather than coming alongside.

I handed Little Darling her bag and took her hand as we began to negotiate the maze of parked automobiles. I glanced back and saw that the two young men had spread apart, one on either side of us and to the rear. That is when I felt it. They had matched my stride and were circling me. Like an antelope, I knew I was being stalked by jackals, only I did not know why. Time was accelerating at head pounding speed, and Little Darling, blissfully unaware, was along for the ride.

I saw our vehicle and began to approach it, but I wanted to be certain. I walked past, and cut between two unoccupied SUVs, grabbing a shopping cart to block the path from my front. The man on my right turned towards me and cursed as he saw his path was blocked by the cart jammed between the two vehicles sideways. I spun and drew my pistol from it's holster, keeping it at low ready, facing off the other young man who was quickly approaching me from behind. My thumb had already snicked off the safety and Little Darling, confused, peered from behind me.

It seemed an eternity looking into the menacing, sneering face of the hoodlum who had began his approach from my rear. He sized up the man with the gun, a little girl behind him. I heard nothing to my rear. Not a word was spoken. Then "God damned mother fucker......." he snarled as he sauntered away. I said nothing. I couldn't. I turned to the rear, shoving Little Darling to the side. Nobody was there. I pivoted back around, my gun still at low ready. Nobody. I waited between the SUVs. Within seconds, a mother with her child in tow strolled past. I took my daughter's sack, as well as her her little hand, and used my remote to unlock my Jeep's doors two vehicles away. I held my pistol in my right hand, concealed underneath my jacket and left arm as we made our way to the vehicle.

I made Little Darling enter the driver's side and told her to crawl over. As she scurried past the console, I followed and locked the doors behind us. It was clear behind us as I started the engine. Then a green Cadillac paused behind us. I was trapped. The blue haired lady waited a moment in her Caddy, and then pulled forward. I took the opportunity and quickly backed out. I drove to an area of the parking lot that was empty for at least 75 feet all around us. I left the motor running.

I opened my cell phone and struggled to call the police. My fingers were still suffering from the loss of fine motor skills. When the cruiser arrived, I kept my hands visible and waited for the officer to ask me to exit my vehicle. The officer asked for my identification, and I presented my driver's license and my carry permit. At his request, I shut off my engine and got out of the Jeep. My knees were weak. I shuddered as I told the officer my story. I did not know why I was being herded and stalked, but I explained that I knew what was happening and felt it deep in my bones. I had been prey. I told him I had drawn my weapon. He asked if I was still armed, and I said yes. "Good," he replied. God I love Louisiana sometimes. He never asked to see my gun. He made out a report, which I gladly gave to prevent accusations of "a man with a gun" in the Wal-Mart parking lot. With a smile he told me I was free to go.

Through church and over the next few days I was perplexed. Why would a man of my stature, a fit six foot one, be chosen as prey by two criminals? I could not understand it. Those kind of things happened to the elderly, women, the weak. They did not happen to big guys with crew cuts and broken noses. Hell, most of the time, all it took was a cold professional stare to change the direction of young men. Was my world changing? Was I getting older? Did it show? Or were the cretins becoming bolder? I was dumbfounded. I did not know why I was singled out as prey, and it bothered me. I began to grow apprehensive. I could not change it unless I knew why, and I was still going into the worst of neighborhoods to provide nursing service. Were these thugs targeting me specifically? Did they know me? Had I unwittingly crossed into some unknown gangland pissing grounds? God damn it, did they want my child?

I doubled my awareness, and I slept lightly for two nights. Then, on Wednesday, as I was changing the dressing on Miss Eleanor's abdominal surgical wound, Judge Judy was blaring on the television. Two idiots were arguing over a GameBoy as though it was a bag of diamonds. It was then that everything became clear to me. The two thugs could not steal a GameBoy from the locked case inside the Wal-Mart. I remembered them being present looking at CDs while Little Darling and I waited on the manager to open the locked display case. They had waited for a customer to purchase the object of their lust, and then followed the customer out of the store to score. My little girl's life and my own life had been threatened for a damned toy. The idiots had not planned on risking their own life, however. The jackals had unwittingly encircled a lion.

That was the last time I drew my weapon in fear of my life. I still feel that my life and my little girl's life was at risk. While they may not have willingly killed for a toy, these criminals had no compunctions about starting a fight and possibly pushing a child into traffic to get a damned electronic toy. My world had not changed, but the world around me had. I relaxed a bit, and I released the knots in my stomach. I knew my selection as a victim had been the result of a specific action, not because of a perceived weakness.

Still, it was a lesson reaffirmed. We never know when or why an attack might commence. We do not know what lengths others might take to obtain that which they deem valuable. It is impossible to predict any and all contingencies. Because of the differences between people, and the dangers that result from those differences, we can only be prepared to protect ourselves and our children, at any time, by any means necessary.

ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ

Answers to valid and pertinent questions.

Kalashnikov vs BB Gun

Mesa, Arizona -- She was asleep when Gricel Ruelas was suddenly awakened by a crash in the night. The fifteen year old girl let out a scream when the home invaders burst into her bedroom. She was grabbed by the hair and dragged away from the closet she was trying to hide in. The men brandished a Kalashnikov style rifle, holding it to her head.

Arming himself with a BB gun and a firm resolve to protect his daughter, her father, Leonardo Lucia appeared to face down the criminals. The intruder with the rifle dropped his gun and ran. Daniel Lopez, a parolee did not retreat. He was held by Lucia and an uncle until police arrived on the scene.

Lopez was taken into custody and booked into jail on suspicion of first-degree burglary, aggravated assault and criminal damage. Thus far charges of attempted kidnapping have not been filed. Police have not yet captured his partner in crime.

When seconds count, the police are only minutes away. When men like Daniel Lopez decide to pillage a man's family and property in the middle of the night, a firm resolve is necessary to repel the attack. A real firearm helps as well. Thank God the determination of Mr. Lucia and company as well as the fear and uncoordinated attack of the assailants made up for his lack of firepower. The best BB gun for a home invader is this one.

Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning?

I had already seen four patients that morning, dispensing wound care in the homes of those North of my city. I swung into the office on my way South, to pick up some supplies and new orders. It was about 10:15 CST. That's when I heard.

As I walked into the office, Denise, the office manager informed me two planes had hit the World Trade Center in New York. I thought "Oh, two planes.......collision, debris hits buildings......." I gathered my supplies and orders and blithely left the building. At the next patient's home, the lady of the house was upset because The Price Is Right was being preempted. She had turned off her television. I did my job and moved on. The next patient had no television. Then, I was off to a community fifty miles East of town. I popped some Smokey Robinson in the tape deck, and set the cruise control on the home health assault vehicle forged eastward.

There, I watched in horror on my next patient's television as the twin towers fell again and again. I watched as tape was played over and over of the inferno erupting from the second crash. Events became clear. I knew the United States had been attacked. I did not know what was occurring at Barksdale AFB.

I left that patient's home after completing my work, and drove to my six year old daughter's school. I removed her from class, and took her with me to see the rest of my patients that day. At each home, as I cared for wounds, I caught another glimpse of the scorched and smoking wound that radically changed US history and foreign policy. I do not know why I removed my little girl from class that day. No, actually I do. I wanted her close. I wanted her to feel safe with her daddy nearby, and I wanted to know if death were to randomly visit me that day, she would be with me.

I thought about re-enlisting. I knew we would be going to war. There was no question of that. My body had changed over time though. I was no longer the young warrior I once was. September 11, 2001 was the day I realized I was becoming an old man.

Killing Pumpkins

We went out to Cussin' Bob's today for some barbqued ribs and chicken. The usual suspects were gathered around the fire ruminating on subjects from real estate to pistol calibers.

My little darling had brought along a pumpkin to shoot. I decided this would be a perfect time to show her what a 12 gauge could do. I asked if I could take the first shot. She said I could for a dollar. I raised her right. I paid my dollar.

I took the first shot using my Winchester 1200 and Winchester low recoil 00 buckshot. All nine pellets went completely through the vicious orange desperado.

Seeing the pumpkin guts fly really charged up little Darling, and she loaded up her Western Field 550CD with Remington #9s. She then laid into that pumpkin with a skill that would make Dick Cheney green with envy.

Once she had made certain that big veggie would never again rampage across the lower 48, we rejoined the group of debaters at the fire. Next time.....skeet!