“Nice Mustache”

On By scottpetersenIn Nice mustache, Shave it don't save it2 Comments

Donna and I will take off in the summer and go up to Wisconsin. Or somewhere.  Long weekends.  Getaway.  These are the times when I tend to be lazy about shaving.   As I’ve said before, I have no strong inclination to shave.  Given my druthers, I’d probably look like Billy Gibbons.  Or Dusty Hill.  I shave to look neat.   Presentable.   But most importantly I shave to please a certain member of my family.  If you get my drift . . . .  (see 9/14/2014).  Over the last few weeks, I have left the caterpillar on my upper lip grow.  And expand.  Maybe it’s the manly levels of testosterone that pulse through my body.  My “stash” is looking quite cool.  At least I think it does when I look at myself in the mirror.  I give the edge a little twirl.  Smirk.  “Nice stash Studly.”

For people who haven’t seen me for a few weeks, I get a quizzical look.  As if to say “what the. . . .”  Time skips a beat or two.  They recover and blurt out the words  “nice mustache!”  Nice mustache.   At first I would do a fist pump and think yeahhhh. . . .  But I have come to realize that “nice mustache” is really the only civil observation a friend might offer when confronted by someone with mangy-looking facial hair.   And I have come to the conclusion that “nice mustache” probably translates to – “Petersen you look like a #%&*X! idiot.” 

That has been the conclusion of everyone in my family who now – led by my granddaughter – routinely chant “Shave it Popi, shave it!”  My hearing isn’t so good lately.  So all I hear is “Save it, Popi, save it!” 

So the guy who wanted a brownie. . . .

On By scottpetersenIn The Last BrownieLeave a comment

(A summer repeat from 12/2/2012)

So the guy who was on his deathbed in the previous post called his three best friends together – a priest, a doctor and a lawyer. “My friends,” he said “I’ve decided that I want to take my money with me. I’m giving each of you an envelope containing $300,000 in cash. Just before they close my coffin, I want you to throw in the envelope. I will be happy because I’m taking my money with me.“

The friends solemnly agreed and a short time later the man passed away. At the funeral, each of the friends stepped up and tossed his envelope into the coffin — just as it was being closed. Following the funeral, the three friends gathered to have a drink. After a moment, the priest broke down and tearfully said “I have a confession. I took $50,000 out of the envelope to give to a homeless shelter.” With that, the doctor broke down and sobbed “I have a confession — I took $100,000 to help fund the children’s hospital.”

The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. His stoic face turned to a frown. “I am ashamed of you. Ashamed! Taking money like that. I want you to know that I put my personal check in that envelope for the full $300,000. . . . .”

The Last Brownie?

On By scottpetersenIn The Last Brownie1 Comment

(A summer repeat from November 29, 2012)

A man lay on his deathbed. Perhaps a few hours to live. His hands were folded on his chest.  And his eyes were closed. Suddenly his nose began to twitch. A familiar smell. He drifted upward out of the deep recess of sleep. That smell he thought. CHOCOLATE. Brownies baking! One eye flickered open. Then the other. And he slowly tilted his head. The smell of chocolate was overpowering. The kitchen was just down the hall.  I need. . . one last brownie. . . .

With great effort, he rolled onto his side and let gravity take its course. He flopped heavily onto the floor. Slowly, laboriously he elbowed his way toward the kitchen. After what seemed like hours, he crossed the threshold of the kitchen.  And there – on the kitchen table – was a plate of warm brownies. He elbowed his way forward and then slowly extended his grasp . . . . fingers . . . . reaching . . . . almost there.

Just then his wife walked in the kitchen – “GEORGE!   You leave those brownies alone! Those are for the funeral!“

Henri Nouwen

On By scottpetersenIn Henri Nouwen, Return of the Prodigal Son1 Comment

(A summer repeat from July 12, 2012)
One of the great inspirational/spiritual writers of all time was Henri Nouwen (1932-1996). Henri Nouwen was born in Holland. At an early age, he felt a call to the priesthood. He was ordained as a diocesan priest in 1957 and studied at the Menninger Clinic in Topeka, KS. Henri went on to teach at Notre Dame, the Divinity School at Yale University and Harvard University. He died suddenly — and all too early — in 1996.

For several months in the 1970’s, Henri lived in a Trappist community at the Genesee Abbey in New York. In the early ’80’s, he lived in Peru among the desperately poor. After a time of contemplation, he left the seemingly bright world of academia — to go and work with mentally handicapped adults at L’Arche Daybreak in Toronto. It was at L’Arche that Henri felt his greatest fulfillment. He was a prolific writer and in 2003, a Christian Century survey rated his works number one among Catholic and mainline Christian clergy.

I was referred to Henri some years ago by my dear friend David. On his recommendation, I have read most of Henri’s works. Wow! Spiritual. Inspirational. Moving. And somewhat melancholy – knowing that Henri died at such a young age. Return of the Prodigal Son is one of his most famous – and probably my favorite. I was given a copy by my friend and priest – Fr. Bob. Return is worth a second read. . . . which I’m planning. . . . . If you have to pick one of Henri’s books to read — this is the one.

[Afterword – I read it a second time.  It is now on the shelf for a third]

Thank you, Captain. . . .

On By scottpetersenIn Thank you CaptainLeave a comment

(A summer repeat from 5/28/2012)

One of my favorite stories relates to Napoleon — the Grand Emperor of the French Republic.*  Napoleon was at a parade of troops outside of Paris. His Marshalls, his staff and his officers were all present. As Napoleon was reviewing the troops, alone and from a distance, a small animal ran from a bush startling his horse. The horse bucked. Reared up. And Napoleon fell backward in his saddle, clinging precariously to the reins. No one moved. Except for a young private who sprinted from the lines. His rifle clattered to the ground. His hat flew off. The private grabbed the reins of the Emperor’s horse, unceremoniously shoved Napoleon back into the saddle and snapped to attention.

Napoleon looked around. At his Marshalls. His generals. His officers. And then down at the young private. In a booming voice, Napoleon said “Thank you. . . Captain.”

The young man was flustered and asked “Of what regiment, Sir?”

Napoleon laughed. “Of my personal guard.”

The example of this courageous, young private can be an inspiration for all of us.  

*Source – Billy Sunday, the Man and His Message by William T. Ellis

“Oh Shenendoah”

On By scottpetersenIn Augustana College, GAB Fraternity, Oh Shenendoah1 Comment

(A summer repeat – from 8/14/2011)

When my daughter Lauren was born – from the day we brought her home from the hospital (and for years) – I sang to her.  Every night before she went to bed.  I would play my guitar and sing “Froggy went a Courtin’”  “This Little Light of Mine” “Trouble in Mind” and a host of others.  But I would also lapse into some old songs that we used to sing in the Gamma Alpha Beta (“GAB”) Fraternity at Augustana College.  And I would often close the evening, as Lauren was closing her eyes, with the GAB “Sweetheart Song” or “Oh Shenendoah” — a song that the GAB’s sang at a Homecoming event one year (and won). 

When Lauren was married just over two years ago, I thought long and hard about what song I should have played for the Daddy/Daughter Dance at the reception.  Then it hit me.   And I smiled.  Lauren had some general notion about the universe of songs from which I would select. “Dad, you’re not going to have them play ‘Froggy went a Courtin’ are you?”  No. . . .  Instead, I picked that melancholy favorite that I’d closed each evening with — “Oh Shenendoah.”      http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etC59HVD-tg 

The music started and we both had tears in our eyes as we danced to this song that will forever be in our hearts. 

How high can you jump?

On By scottpetersenIn Fosbury flop, How high can you jump?Leave a comment

(A summer repeat from August 11, 2011)
I have the aerodynamics of a sofa. “How high can you jump?” never resonated with me since the answer was never one I wished to share (“I can barely get off the ground“).

In the 1900 Olympics, no high jumper could hope to succeed unless he did the scissors kick to launch himself over the high bar. It was thought no one would ever jump higher – that is until 1920 when the track and field world was stunned by a high jumper who dove over the bar. This added nearly two feet to the world’s record. It was thought that no one would ever jump higher – that is until 1968 when a young man from Oregon revolutionized high jumping at the Mexico City Olympics by going over the bar backwards! Today, as a high jumper if you cannot master the “Fosbury flop,” you may as well take your gym bag and go home. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High_jump

So how high can you jump? What do you do to challenge yourself? Improve yourself? Motivate yourself – and others? What goals do you set? And reach? I like to think that the sky is the limit. W.N. Murray who was on the Scottish Himalayan Expedition said “Whatever you can do or dream you can. . . begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”

The Turtle in the Tire Track

On By scottpetersenIn Chappell Spade Ranch, The turtle in the tire trackLeave a comment

(A summer repeat from 2/13/2012)   In 1969 I was in Tucumcari, NM. I’ve always been interested in Indian artifacts so I took a drive to “look around.” Outside of town, I took the long road of the Chappell Spade Ranch along the Canadian River. I pulled up to the ranch house where a man was standing. I asked if there was a place one might find Indian artifacts and was told “Mr. Griggs” might help but he was out walking. “Out there” the man pointed. I was driving my 1964 Ford Falcon Sprint – ragtop. Top down. So I headed off into the desert — driving on a two tire track “road.”

I bounced along and found Mr. Griggs about 2 miles out walking with a young girl who was on horseback.   I asked about artifacts and he shrugged. “You just have to look.” Big help he was. He asked if I’d drive him back to the ranch – so I said “sure” and he hopped in.

We came to the top of a rise. Below, the two tire track ruts were full of water from rain the night before. He said “you better gun it or we’ll get stuck.” So I did. Whoosh! Down the hill. And then I suddenly jammed on the brakes – skidding and splashing to a stop with water up to my hubcaps. He said “what the. . .” I got out of the car and about 20 feet in front of us a big turtle was cooling himself. In the water. In the tire track. If I’d continued, I would have crushed him. I held up the turtle to show Mr. Griggs. I set the turtle on the side and got back in the car. He stared at me. I looked at him somewhat defensively and said “I didn’t want to kill the turtle.” He nodded and thought a moment “You did the right thing. You want Indian artifacts? Go that way” – he pointed.  I slushed out of the water and we lurched across the desert in another 2 tire track “road.” And we stopped, climbed to the top of a butte and he showed me an Indian burial ground. He told me the story of the Anasazis who had lived there. I found some neat things – some of which I took. Today, I have in my office a well-used mano (corn grinding stone) – one of three I found that day along with a metate (the stone on which corn was ground). Every time I walk in my office – and glance at the mano – I think of the turtle in the tire track . . . . and that very special day.

A Sixth Grade Lesson

On By scottpetersenIn Lessons in Life, Sixth Grade Lesson, UncategorizedLeave a comment

(The RH has been in and out of town.  Here’s a repeat from November 23, 2011). 

 On April 2, 2007, I presented a paper to the Chicago Literary Club on 5 lessons that I had learned in life (see post of August 16th for one). A big one occurred in 6th grade.

One afternoon between classes, I saw Tim H in the hall. In a show of 6th grade bravado, I grabbed him and pushed him bodily into the girls’ bathroom. And I held the door closed – chortling – while screams of girls and cries from Tim resounded down the hall. What happened next occurred in a kind of slow motion though I’m sure it took place in a flash. I felt a hand on my shoulder which spun me around. Suddenly a bright light exploded on the side of my face. My teacher, Mrs. S, had slapped me. Hard. “Don’t you ever do that again.” Tim escaped. I wobbled back to the classroom. When I got home, my mother was there – arms akimbo. She knew. . . . Instead of hugging me and spitting about the mean teacher, my mother simply commented that she hoped I’d learned my lesson. I had.

I learned a lesson. It was epiphanal. I learned that there were lines that were not to be crossed. In today’s world, Mrs. S would’ve been summarily fired, the school system would have been sued by some money-grubbing plaintiff’s lawyer and there would’ve been nasty articles expressing righteous outrage.

I tend to think our educational system needs options for teaching lessons (even like this one) — without the consequence. After all, who wins? I sure did. . . . .

So this Old Guy. . . .

On By scottpetersenIn Golf, So this Old Guy1 Comment

So this old guy goes to the golf course. “I’d love to play,” he says to the pro. “But my eyes are really bad. I hit the ball pretty well but I can’t see where the ball goes.”  The pro smiled – “I’ve got just the guy to pair you up with. Old Scott isn’t much of a golfer but he has got eyes like a hawk. I’ll put you and Scott together.”

So the old guy and Scott are introduced, shake hands and head for the first tee.  The old guy bangs his drive about 250 yards.  He turns to Scott “did you see where it went?”   Scott looks over “I saw precisely where your ball went.”  They get in their golf cart – and start rumbling down the fairway.  They drove and drove.  The old guy looks over at Scott “so where did my ball go?”  Scott rubbed his chin “gosh, I don’t remember. . . .”