The crazy things we fans will do

Fandom is a strange bird.
In hindsight, I’m surprised at how much it has played a role in my life, especially in the last 10 or so years.
Most of my childhood was spent in the 1970s. I liked many things from that time, but nothing more so than “Star Trek” and “Star Wars.” I was certain I was the biggest fan alive of those two science fiction stalwarts. Then, in the early 1990s I began attending conventions and learned just how wrong I was.
I had my Captain Kirk shirt and a few toys, but that was nothing compared to the elaborate costumes and models that people had at these shows. There were fans that had patterned their lives around these programs and their characters. I was humbled and shamed – clearly put in my place.
I had the same experience in the realm of sports, feeling I was the biggest Denver Broncos fan on the planet – until I started going to games in the late 1980s. Sheesh! Do any of these people have a life?
I came to accept that I was not the biggest fan of anything and just enjoyed being along for the ride. As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to relish the fact that my devotion is to Christ and my family and that my fandom is merely a hobby.
Still, it was 10 years ago that I took Sandy to her first convention of sorts. It was the first Star Wars Celebration, held in Denver. It was there, standing in line in the rain and the mud to see some of the actors from the upcoming “Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace” movie that I asked her to be my bride.
Since then we have attended many sci-fi conventions, primarily Starfest, which is held each April in Denver. Oddly enough, outside of wearing T-shirts I have never dressed in costumes for these events.
Seven years ago my fandom took a step back in time. I rediscovered my interest in “The Lone Ranger” and took over publication of a quarterly Lone Ranger newsletter. That led to the formation of the Lone Ranger Fan Club.
Because of my position as founder and owner of the club, I am widely considered to be the masked man’s biggest fan. I can tell you from experience that I am not. I’m just the most visible. That became evident last year when we held the 75th anniversary celebration of the Lone Ranger. We were hosted by the Memphis Film Festival. A friend felt the fan club president should look the part, so he footed the bill for me to get a top-notch costume.
That costume nearly got me into trouble last weekend at the Texas State Railroad. We had gone to attend the Lone Ranger themed event. On the ride, bandits rob the train and the Lone Ranger and Tonto ride to the rescue. There were many related activities back at the train depot and, after being encouraged to do so by some on staff, I ducked into the men’s room and changed into my costume.
I was about to emerge when the station manager caught wind of what I was doing and came in to stop me. He said he could not have two Lone Rangers running around. It would ruin the illusion for the guests and it might also put his license to use the character in jeopardy.
So I changed back into my street clothes and put the costume back into the trunk of the car. My ego took a hit, but part of me was glad to just relax and enjoy the show.
One of the things I have learned is that there is a lot of fun in dressing up at these festivals and conventions and posing for pictures. That escape from reality is fun and it brings enjoyment to others.
It reminds me a lot of another job I once held. It involved wearing a red suit and a white beard and sitting for hours in a mall while children rattled off what they wanted for Christmas.
In about a week it will seem like Christmas to me when the new “Star Trek” movie opens. I can’t wait. I really want to dress up for it, but I no longer have my Captain Kirk shirt and I’m fresh out of pointy ears.
Maybe I’ll just take Sandy to see it and ask her as we stand in line for tickets if she feels crazy enough to live long and prosper with me for the next 10 or so years. After all, it is the logical thing to do.

Take the Love Dare and 'Fireproof' your marriage

It’s amazing how stagnant life can become.
Get up, eat breakfast, rush to work, return home, eat dinner, get kids to bed, dabble on the computer or watch some TV, go to bed. It’s the same thing day in and day out. Weekends are a mad dash to do everything that didn’t get done during the week.
The next thing you know, it’s though as if you and your spouse are existing together, no longer living the life you dreamed of at the alter. Most of your interaction has to do with shuttling children, cooking meals or doing other household chores. The monotony of it can wear down a person – and a marriage.
Both Sandy and I had previous marriages that ended in divorce. When we got married we were determined that our marriage was going to defy the odds. Divorce was not – and is not – an option. Both of us would rather have had a spouse die than to have lived through the rejection and anguish of divorce. A bad marriage is better than a “good” divorce any day.
But no one need stay in a bad marriage. Instead of ending it, fix it! I’m not saying that Sandy and I have a bad marriage – we don’t – but we’ve been through some bad things that have definitely put a strain on us. Last year we were energized and encouraged by the movie “Fireproof.”
If you haven’t seen it yet, I highly recommend it. It’s out on DVD. It is the story of a firefighter whose marriage is falling apart. His father challenges him to take the 40-day Love Dare to see if there is any hope of restoring his marriage. The outcome of the movie is predictable, but the journey is worth the ride. It really sums up what’s truly important in life.
We began doing the Love Dare last fall, but stopped when we moved down here and misplaced the book. We found it again just in time to start a Love Dare class through our church, First Colony Church of Christ. So, we’re backing up and starting over.
The Love Dare is nothing to be taken lightly or dabbled with. It starts off easy, but soon gets you to face things in yourself that you don’t want to admit. Before long you are studying and learning about your spouse all over again. It doesn’t take you long to realize all the things you’ve taken for granted or neglected.
Doing the Love Dare has been like falling in love again with my wife. It’s been a long overdue cleansing in our relationship. Your marriage does not have to be struggling or in trouble for you to benefit from this. Even strong, healthy marriages can use a little polish here and there.
Sometimes it takes a little outside force to remind us or nudge us to do the simple little things for our spouses that we would have fallen all over ourselves to do when we were newlyweds.
When I was dating Sandy, I would have slain dragons, climbed mountains and swam oceans for her. Now that we’re married, is it too much for me to do the dishes or bathe the kids? It’s those little things in life that begin to add up. They eventually clog relationships and wedge marriages into mediocrity.
Relearning the Golden Rule and applying it can make a huge difference in marriages. The better I treat my wife, the better she treats me. The more I expect of her, the more she expects from me. When those expectations aren’t met, we become disgruntled and unhappy. That is so unnecessary if we just remember to treat one another like we want to be treated.
Healthy marriages are the cornerstone of civilization. The family unit is the core on which communities are built. When the core is rotten, the whole community suffers. If you have been divorced or know someone who has, you’ve no doubt seen or felt the impact on the children, relationships with friends, the drag at work, the break-up of social groups or cliques and so on.
The dynamics of a group – such as a Scout group, Sunday school class, sports team, etc. – change when one of the members is hurt or leaves because of the break-up of a marriage. It negatively affects everyone.
That’s why I feel it is so important for every couple to “Fireproof” their marriage. To borrow a phrase from the movie, fireproofing doesn’t mean the flames won’t come, it just means your ready when they do. The Love Dare is an excellent way to challenge yourself to meet the needs of the one you love the most.
That is why I would encourage you to see the movie, read the book and take the dare. It’s a small price to pay for the investment you’ve made for a lifetime.

Red Envelope Day went uncovered

If one person received 2.25 million letters at once, would you expect to hear about it on television or read about it in the newspapers?
It did happen, just recently, and chances are this is the first you’ve read about the Red Envelope Project.
President Barack Obama received a crimson tide of empty red envelopes, mostly mailed on March 31, in protest of his position on abortion. The Pro-Life event was an Internet sensation, especially on Facebook.
Millions of people sent Obama empty read envelopes with this message printed on back: “This envelope represents one child who died in abortion. It is empty because that life was unable to offer anything to the world. Responsibility begins with conception.”
A White House mail office worker confirmed the 2.25 million number and said it was easily the largest mailing campaign there in the 35 years he has worked in the office.
My question is why wasn’t this widely reported in the mass media? Was it not big enough news? Or is it a case of the liberal media ignoring what it perceives to be a right-wing attack on their golden boy? I suspect a little of both, but more of the latter.
In terms of hard news, this amounts to a fluff piece. Or does it?
Sure, the White House being inundated by 2.25 million empty red envelopes is hardly earth-shattering news. But it deals with abortion and that’s at the heart of the religious and cultural war being waged around the world today. That, in my mind, makes it a huge story – right along with mainstream media’s failure to cover it.
Had they been green envelopes for Earth Day or pink envelopes for breast cancer, it may have earned some ink or air time.
I was horrified when one of Obama’s first acts as president was to pass legislation allowing for U.S. tax dollars to be used to fund abortions in other countries. With a stroke of his pen he paved away for this country to fund the genocide against the unborn abroad.
Part of the unconscionable deficit he has committed this country to for the next several generations is being used to kill innocents abroad.
I doubt many of those who painted a trail of blood in Iraq to George W. Bush will use the same brush when they look at Obama’s record against the pre-born. At least in Iraq the enemy has a chance to give up or fight back. The abortionists don’t give their victims that opportunity.
Now, before anyone jumps on me about Iraq, let me make it clear I do not condone our action there. I support and stand by our troops, but I think they should have been sent to Afghanistan instead. Saddam Hussein didn’t order the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, Osama bin Laden did.
Getting back to my point about the holy war going on in this country, abortion is just one battleground in a much bigger fight. This used to be a Christian nation. It was founded by Christians and based on Christian principles. But just as the federal government is eroding our Constitutional rights, so is the culture purging traces of faith from the mainstream.
Prayer in school? Gone. Creationism in science classes? Well let’s just say they’ve evolved. Sanctity of human life? Our laws are to the contrary. The push for gay rights makes all of us who believe in the Bible appear to be narrow-minded bigots. Even references to God in the Pledge of Allegiance and on our currency are under attack.
All of these things and more continue to chip away at the cultural acceptance of Christianity. One could argue that the end times predicted in the Bible are nearly upon us. It certainly feels like it to me.
Some time ago, Bill McCartney, co-founder of Promise Keepers, told one of the gatherings, “Men, we have been in a war, but we have not been AT war.” The war is against Christianity and the battle lines are not drawn neatly in the sand. They have evolved from an erosion of standards. I long ago joined the battle. That is evident in what I call my life behind enemy headlines. I see and hear a lot working as a Christian in liberal newsrooms.
Sending a red envelope to Barack Obama is but one small shot amid the numerous volleys being fired across spiritual and cultural lines. It’s not my first shot and it’s far from my last.
Despite Newsweek’s recent declaration of the “decline and fall of Christian America,” there are those of us who will fight to the glorious end for her. I learned long ago to not be ashamed of the name of Christ Jesus.
My journalism colleagues in Washington, D.C., may be afraid to say something, as evidenced by the lack of Red Envelope coverage, but I’m not afraid to speak. This column is evidence to that.

Moving memories

Every night for the past few weeks as Sandy and I crawl under the covers and snuggle up for another night’s sleep, we are serenaded from out of the past.
Almost like clockwork the big band sounds from the 1940s lull us to sleep – speaking to us from a bygone era. It’s a pleasant change from the monotonous thump, thump, thump that emanates nightly from the bar down the street.
The music wafts from the bedroom next to ours where Leonard Flemmons, or Grandy as we all call Sandy’s grandfather, prepares to settle down for the night. I normally hate to be disturbed by any noise when I try to sleep. But this I don’t mind.
I find the music soothing, more so in my understanding that it comforts Grandy and takes him back in time – to his time – a time that defined a generation. Grandy is pushing 88 years this month. But in his eyes and in the recesses of his memories he’s in his 20s again.
The war was just a small part of his life, but now in his waning years it looms larger than ever. It’ll be two years come August since Jean, his bride of 60 years, passed away. But lately his thoughts aren’t on his loss, but what he gained by serving his country in England during World War II. He talks of planes, bombs and a girl who wants him – or at least an American in uniform – even though the debutant is way out of his league.
Sometimes we talk about it, but mostly I just listen, soaking up the stories like a dry sponge. Sometimes I catch glimpses of him picking up treasures off a shelf or out of a foot locker, losing himself in the moment and then struggling to decide if the item is a keeper or not.
It’s hard for him, but he has known this day would come. The house my family now occupies in Rosenberg is his house. He has been there since 1963 – long before Sandy and I were born. (OK, not so long for me, but 10 years for Sandy.)
Living by himself in the four-bedroom ranch house has become a bit much. A nice retirement community beckons him, though he’s not ready to give up his home. By having us as caretakers, he can keep his home and move to the place where many of his friends have gone.
The plan sounds simple in principle, but takes an emotional toll in practice. The apartment is small; room enough for necessities and memories. The objects associated with the memories have to go. Family claims some of the treasures. The Salvation Army and eBay divide the rest.
The hardest room to deal with is the back bedroom. It was an ad-on shortly after they moved in. After Jean passed it became “the man cave.” At holiday gatherings the men folk congregate back there, watch sports, sip brandy and brag, scheme and solve all the world’s problems.
Now it’s my bedroom. It has been emptied, the wood paneled walls cleansed from years of cigarette smoke and decades of grime scrubbed from unreachable corners of the tile floor.
The room sparkles like a new penny, save for the crack in the floor that Hurricane Ike put there last year. The man and his things may be gone, but the memories linger. They will never leave as long as that old house continues to hold the foundation together.
Grandy is happy in his new apartment. Yes, he misses the house, just as we miss having him here. But his home is our house now. It is slowly becoming our home. And just like he has done, we are pulling boxes out of storage, determining the keepers and relegating the rest to charity and eBay.
It’s not easy to do. Some of these things have been with me for 10, 20, up to 40 years. I can’t imagine what it’s like to part with things after a lifetime. I commend him for doing it and for the graceful way in which it was done.
The nights are quiet once again. The sounds of Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller and the like still resonate in my head, though audibly replaced by the thumping noise from the bar. I look forward to the memories to be made and the living yet to be done in this house. Life, indeed, does go on.

Beware of roadside trees

Hunt and peck. Hunt and peck.
I haven’t had to use this method of typing in a long time. But the splint on my left hand doesn’t leave me much choice.
I broke my left ring finger a week ago Wednesday while driving home from work. I was just cruising along, minding my own business, when this tree jumped up and bit the side of my car.
I can honestly say that tree’s bite is much worse than its bark.
I’ve driven by the crash site a couple of times since then. I see that tree there, looking so smug and innocent. But I know better. I know that deep down beneath that tree is the root of all evil. I suspect the tree is plotting revenge for something we call “fencepost.”
Actually, the whole thing was my fault. At least that’s what the nice man in the trooper’s uniform told me. I’m very thankful that no one else was hurt. And I want to give a little shout out to Rick Aquino for coming to my rescue. He was kind enough to stop and call the ambulance for me.
And to Elizabeth, the Waller County EMT who took such good care of me, don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.
Of course the five hours spent in the emergency room at Katy Memorial Hermann reminds me whey they call them “patients.” The saving grace for me was the really terrific drugs that took me to my “happy place.” I just wish I had been on them when they brought in this medieval torture device called a ring cutter.
The nice solid gold wedding band that had not been off my finger since Sandy put it there more than nine years ago had to be cut twice to get it off. The emotional pain of that was second only to the physical pain – a very distant second.
The ring was already stuck to my pudgy little finger, but the swelling required its immediate removal. The nurse somehow managed to get the scissor-like appendage of the ring cutter under the ring, which really pushed down hard on the break.
I’m one who can generally take a healthy dose of pain, but had I been an al Qaeda operative, the FBI would now know where Osama bin Laden is hiding. Waterboarding has nothing on ring cutters!
By the time you read this, I will be recovering from surgery to install a plate and pin in my finger. You see, the accident left my finger making a hard left turn at the knuckle. And the finger is twisted. Don’t ask me how, I just know it is.
I’m not looking forward to surgery, but if I get to go back to my “happy place” for a while, all will not be lost.
Of course all this trouble is nothing compared to the pain of dealing with the insurance company. Apparently the COBRA people neglected to tell the insurance company that we were paying for insurance. The insurance company was showing our coverage terminated even though we had paid thousands for COBRA coverage.
You can bet Ma Bell learned some new vocabulary words if she was listening in on any of the many phone calls made in the last couple of days. It helps that my wife used to work for the insurance company and knew exactly what strings to pull. I pity the people on the other end of the line. She had their defenses mowed over in no time.
Having a wife with a nursing and insurance background is a really nice ace up my sleeve. She has saved us quite a chunk of money over the years with her ability to “have it out” with insurance companies. If there are any medical facilities out there who would like to have a hired gun like that, she’s available for employment.
But I digress. I am now back to the part of having to hunt and peck in order to write this column. If a football player breaks a finger, they just tape it up and send him back into the game. For a writer, that’s a different story. My fingers automatically know where to go on the keyboard. Now that almost half of them are out of commission, things move a little slower.
Please bear with me if I’m not able to get all the stories into the paper that I planned to. Personally, I blame the tree, which, if it were up to me, would be on its way right now to be pulverized into paper for this newspaper to be printed on.
P.S. Happy 14th birthday Wesley!