Hamilton C. Burger's Blog

I expect there will be a smattering of bottle rockets and firecrackers piercing the darkness tonight, scant reminders of yesterday’s celebrations. Tons of fireworks exploded above small towns, with names like: New Sweden, Maine - Athens, Alabama - Paris Arkansas - Prague, Oklahoma and London, California. Sons and daughters of the immigrants, generations past, who named those small towns, threw another birthday party, for our nation.

Colorful floats, marching bands and politicians—loads of politicians paraded down hundreds, maybe thousands of Main Streets, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from sea to shining sea.
Kids waited with anticipation, to collect the candy raining down from fire engines. The comforting smell of charcoal filled the air. A heightened sense of awareness over took colonies of ants with the slicing of every watermelon. It was a day of smiles and fun. It was a day of bbq and sun. For many and most, it was a day off work.

It is so easy to take down the bunting, fold the flag, put them away and go about our business until next year. Really, it’s just window dressing for the most part. It looks nice flapping in the breeze, bright and colorful. It’s convenient, for many, to fall into that mindset.

Graveyards across America and around the world hold the remains of our fore fathers, the men, and yes, the women, who gave their lives so we can have our party every year. They were grandfathers, fathers, brothers, and sons. They were grandmothers, mothers, sisters and daughters. They are unknown faces, long since forgotten. You might ask, “Why are they important?”

They are important because they fought and died for our freedoms, freedoms that are in perilous danger today. They died so people can have a blog and voice their opinions. They died so you have the freedom to practice the religion of your choice. They died so authors can write and readers can read the books of their choice. They died for these and many more freedoms that we take for granted.

I challenge you; do not take your freedoms for granted. I challenge you not to relinquish your God-given, rights. I challenge you to hold our elected representatives accountable for upholding the constitution, because – they work for us, We the People.

Benjamin Franklin said it better than I could ever hope to, “Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both.”

How does the ol’ saying go? Last Friday night and the following morning, I found out the hard way. Wife Olive and youngest daughter were already at our weekend home and I was on my way there.

Originally, I was to have dinner and see a hockey game with a friend, before making my way to meet up with my family. A steady downpour and dropping temperatures put a stop to those plans and coated everything in sight with close to an inch of ice.

I took the exit off the interstate and slid to a stop, slightly askew. Sure, it was slippery, but if one was careful, they could manage. With a light foot, I fought to keep the wheels from breaking loose and did everything in my power to keep the wheels from locking, when stopping.

On an ordinary day, the trip from the highway to the house is about a half hour. This night, after an hour of travel, I was within a quarter of a mile. In less than five minutes, I would be in front of a warm fire, a great weekend ahead.

That’s when I saw him. He wasn’t a man of large stature; in fact, he was somewhat puny. Standing in the driving rain, he looked like a drowning rat. Maybe pity played a part in my fateful decision.

A car had slid off the road and rolled over, causing the sheriff’s deputies to close the road while a tow truck tended to the accident. I was the second car to arrive. Looking out my driver’s window, I saw the first arrival—the wet, rat-guy. Resigned to not wait for the road to open, he tried to turn around and he was now stuck.

No—it’s raining. I’m almost home. I’m dry! These excuses flooded my thoughts. I fought to listen. The angel on my other shoulder spoke. Look—it will only take a minute. You know, it could be you. You’d want some help.
Okay, okay—I’ll do it!

I jumped out of my still running, car and shut the door. The road was like an ice rink. I gathered the rat-guy, gave him instructions and started pushing.

Soaked to the bone, I watched him drive off and skated to my car. I grabbed the handle and pulled. I pulled again. Are you kidding me? Just in case, I pulled once more. Out of habit, I had locked the doors…but with my keys and phone inside.

It seems that the police don’t carry tools for breaking into cars, these days. Maybe I’ve watched too much television. In any event, the officer did give me a ride in the back of her squad car.

I had called home just before exiting the highway. “I should be home in thirty minutes; we’ve canceled the hockey game.” It was almost an hour and thirty minutes after that call, when the deputy’s squad car pulled into the long driveway. Meanwhile, my wife and daughter were calling me and getting no answer. The frantic look on my wife’s face, when the squad car pulled up the drive, quickly turned to anger. “I thought you were dead! Why didn’t you answer your phone?” You never answer your phone!”

She relaxed slightly as I explained my situation. We all piled into her SUV and I drove to where I had left my car. In seconds, I was heading home and my wife on her way, as well. I headed north and she headed south. Her plan was to circle around on another road about a half a mile away.

I’m going to fast forward about four hours, so as not to bore you with the details of: The bus and car that did an ice dance, the same police officer that gave me a ride home, shutting down the road my wife was on, the lack of food and water in the SUV, the lack of a toilet in the SUV or the lack of gasoline in the wife’s tank.

I inch my car down the skating rink that has replaced the road I live on. I can see two figures, stark against the drifts of snow. My wife and daughter, holding hands, taking two steps forward, only to slide one-step back, are only a minute or two from rescue. Unable to drive up the last hill, they had resorted to foot power.

As I waited, I convinced myself that I couldn’t drive her car up the hill—it will be all right for the night. A woman in a speeding four-wheel drive, who slid past the front of my car so fast that ended up about thirty feet off the road, cinched the deal for me. Assured that she wasn't hurt, I made a quick phone call and had a wrecker on it's way.

At last, the wife and daughter were inside my car. I backed up the road, to avoid turning and slipping off the road and delivered them safe and sound.

I woke early on Saturday, anxious to retrieve our car. Once more I am going to fast forward, again to not bore you with: The fact that I slept about thirty minutes too many, the retired state trooper who witnessed the onslaught and left note on the windshield…only to tell me that he had no details, the county sheriff’s officer that came to the house to complete the report, looking at my wife and saying, “I know you…last night, right?” I won’t concern you with the fact that I’m still waiting for the estimate for repairs—“You’ll have the quote within twenty four hours.”

What I will tell you is this. If faced with the same situation, the opportunity to help someone, I would do it again, in a heartbeat. You see, it’s how I live my life—all or nothing. If I help one, who am I to not help another?

I have heard it said, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.” Well, I’ve also heard it said, “But for the Grace of God, there go I.”

Today was one of those typical mid-western, late summer days. Warm, humid and a touch of haze.

When I woke up, the single sheet of lined paper that my wife left on my pillow was stuck to the side of my face. “We went for breakfast and a walk. Would you run a few errands for me?” “We” is my wife and my youngest daughter, (aka The Prom Queen).

Knowing now that the number five and “a few” are one and the same, I readied myself, scooped up my faithful dog, Sam and headed off to complete my first task.

When Sam rides in the car, he sits in the passenger side, front floorboard. He really doesn’t care for riding in the car, but my first errand is to drop him off at the dog groomers, so it is a necessity. We motor out to the burbs and soon I am carrying the little guy into the dog spa.

“You’re almost five minutes late. Next time we’ll have to cancel your appointment. Do you want us to brush his teeth and give him a hot oil treatment?”

The young woman behind the counter must have had a tic—or maybe a tick, I don’t know. The whole time, she waited on me; she ran her fingers through her hair and then twisted the ends, all the while giggling. It got to be a little distracting but it stopped when I sat Sam down on the floor and he relieved himself.

It was all I could do to keep from running my fingers through my hair and giggling. Feigning surprise, I half-heartedly looked around for something to scoop the—er, mess up with.

“Uh—that’s okay. I’ll clean that up.” Her demeanor wasn’t nearly as—distracting as it had been.

Attempting to lighten the mood a tad, I warned, “You might want to wait— it’s still steaming.”

“Yeah, okay. You can pick Sam up at 2:30."

I smiled and nodded. "Sure, 2:30."

I headed out the door and off to run my next three errands. They went off without a hitch.

Seeing light at the end of the tunnel, I arrived at my last errand and I turned my car into the store parking lot. Choosing a choice spot under a beautiful locust tree, I put the convertible top up and walked up to the automatic door. It slid open just in time for me to walk through.

I commandeered a shopping cart and headed straight to the back of the store. I was in one of those big box, pet stores that fill suburban malls. You know—the place where people bring their dog on a leash and walk around shopping—thinking, the whole while, that it is normal.

A couple of well-planned turns and I was in the cat food aisle. I picked out something that sounded good. Goodness knows that it should at least sound good, because cat food sure doesn’t smell good. My cats don’t seem to mind, they were both strays and are quite content to have a place to eat and sleep on a regular basis.

Around the corner, I picked up a bag of—rat food. Yes, we have a rat. His name is Arlo. He is classically conditioned. He is a refugee from my daughter’s psychology class. I have adopted him.

Then I heard it. The first time, I didn’t quite make it out. Pushing my cart farther down the dog food aisle, I saw a young mother and her small son.

“Mommy, I have one brown shoe!” Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. The incredulous look on the young woman’s face, spoke perhaps to her youth. Never the less, someone needed to take action.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handkerchief that I had placed there this morning.

“Mommy, I have one brown shoe!” The boy had stepped into a surprise that someone’s dog had left on the floor. His shoe was covered.

I’ve raised two kids, have had pets all of my life and have traveled to many remote parts of the world. There is little that I haven’t seen or dealt with. I got down on one knee, smiled at the boy and then his mother.

Held steady by his mother’s hand, he wiped his eyes, lifted his foot and said, “I have one brown shoe.”

“Uh—that’s okay. I’ll clean that up.” I wiped the boy’s shoe clean, wished him and his mother a good day and headed to the check out.

I guess my mom was right when she told me to always carry a clean handkerchief.

I want to tell you why I write.

Quite some time ago, I downloaded an author's book. I consumed it in record time. I had been a reader all of my life, but had taken a hiatus, for a time. What caught my attention, rather than the marvelous story the author told, was the fact she gave her work away.

I decided to go to her website and learn a little more about her. Quickly, I found that not only could she write an amazing story, she was an amazing story.

Her first book, written on a dare, was traditionally published. She left the corporate world to write full time. She had two sons that she adored. She was married, thirty-some years, a feat that is very admirable, in this day and age.

I decided to drop the author a note to tell her I appreciated the book she wrote. Quite gracious, she responded. Over time, we swapped a few e-mails. One day I asked about writing a book. She was fast to tell me that I should and if I needed help, to ask.

Anyone new to the process may have expected a more hands on approach. Perhaps an outline of what you should do first, or an offer to read, edit or analyze your work. Her approach was quite different. She taught by example, telling me that she writes every day, asking if I was on Twitter or telling me that her day was consumed by re-writing a chapter. Most importantly, she told me that I was doing something that many talk about and that few do. Her attitude about being an author gave me the confidence to write.

Don’t get me wrong, when I tripped on the curb, and hit my head, she helped me up and would grab me by the shoulders, turn me a few degrees, until I was going in the right direction.

I was not surprised to learn that this author teaches creative writing to middle school kids and also teaches a writers class at a university. Many people will not share what they are mediocre at; She gives freely, what she is amazing at. That is a very admirable trait.

I have several books published now, we don’t e-mail as regular as we did. Just the other day, my wife asked, “Have you heard from that author, how is she doing?” I answered, “She’s doing great. She just won a readers choice award.”

I hope that I have said thank you to my friend, for the amazing gift she has given me…I can call myself an author. In case I haven’t, I want to take this opportunity to say, “Thank you”.

If I never sell another book, the exposure to such a remarkable process, the incredible fans and other authors, is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life. It is a gift, I attempt, in my own way, to share with others. It is a gift, which binds all authors together.
HcB

It was 10:30pm Friday night and I was in my office, leaning back in my plush leather chair, pounding away on my laptop. Elvin Bishop drifted from the Bose system, sitting on the credenza. I was in my zone. So when my phone vibrated (the chosen method for communication when family members choose separate corners and levels of the house) I was a little miffed, expecting a directive to take the dog out for his evening ritual.

It seems that the life of an author is not a 9 to 5 endeavor. If I’m not writing then I am tending to one of my websites or marketing my books. I need to make the best of every minute. Interruptions can put me behind the eight ball.

“Yeah.” Caller id alerted me as to the identity of the caller.

“The kids won!” My wife cut right to the chase.

“Won what?” I was totally oblivious!

“King and Queen.”

“Huh? King and Queen of what?” I don’t miss a thing…

“Prom Queen and King. They won!”

I was quite shocked hearing the news. My daughter and her young, gentleman, friend of two years, were crowned the Queen and King of their high school prom.It came as a total surprise.

My 'Little Princess' is beautiful. I don’t just say that because I’m her father. She is a very lovely girl. I knew that she was voted as one of seven girls to be on the Prom court, but she wasn’t concerned, and I really didn’t give it a lot of thought. She, in fact, spent a great amount of time this last week studying and taking the ACT test, rather than fussing over prom plans.

My daughter isn’t a pageant girl. She isn’t a ‘fashionista’ or a clotheshorse. She always looks nice but isn’t obsessed with fashion. She can make a pair of jeans, a blouse and tennis shoes, look like a million bucks.

What she is…is a scholar. Her GPA is 4.5 out of 4.0. That’s right, 4.5! She is taking college credit courses as a high school junior. She has a good head on her shoulders and is already making plans to get her master’s degree. She also plays an outstanding role on her school’s scholastic bowl team. Most importantly, though, she is comfortable in her skin.

Needless to say, I am proud and would take a thousand calls like the one I got Friday night. However, what makes me the proudest is the fact that my little girl is becoming a young woman who is well rounded and is as comfortable with her nose in a book and she is on the runway, with a tiara and sash.

“Go, go, go! Kick it, kick it! Goooooooooal! Goooooooooal!” The click, click, click of a camera, captured the moment in time.

I had seen great soccer players pull their jerseys off and run around the field after scoring a goal. For a brief second, I contemplated doing the same, after the ball passed the opposing goalie and rested in the net.

Instead, I just stood there, the sun shining on me, a huge smile on my face and absorbed the applause—listening to the comments from the crowd.

“Did you see that kick?”

“That was perfect!”

I watched as players scurry back to their positions and the game progressed. I was riding on a high. I don’t remember who won the game. In fact, I don’t remember the rest of the season. The first goal of a soccer player’s career is something never forgotten. I know it is something that I will never forget.

As I’ve gotten older, soccer isn’t a part of my life any longer. Until just a few days ago, I hadn’t set foot on that field in at least fifteen years. Other endeavors have taken soccer’s place.

Strolling across the field that day, the grass looked the same as it always did. The goals were still in the same place, they had always been. Players were running back and forth, passing and dribbling the ball, as they always have.

I wanted to feel it…but the magic wasn’t there. I walked to the exact spot I was, when the goal was scored—still, I felt nothing.

I climbed back in my car and drove home. I left the radio off and tried to remember how it felt that day. Sadly, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull those memories from the depths of my psyche.

When I got home, I left my jacket in the foyer and trudged up the stairs to my office. I sat in silence for quite a while. Then I remembered the click, click, click of the camera, that day. I pulled a leather-bound album from my bookcase. I flipped through the pages and found the picture.

Adrenaline began to flow through my body. I picked up the phone and dialed. A voice on the other end answered, “Hi Dad!”

We talked about the day when a seven year-old girl scored her first, and what turned out to be her only, soccer goal.

My daughter is in college now. Soccer is far behind her as she finishes her psychology degree. For a few minutes, we went back to that day. The day I will never forget.

Often I’ve heard the saying, “He died doing what he loved.” My dad worked a full forty hours this week and then suffered a fatal stroke. I guess in his case, that saying holds true. He was eighty-two.

If you didn’t know my dad, I’ll try to give you snapshot of the man he was. You may have heard of the actors, John Wayne or Andy Griffith. Dad was a blend of men, of those types. He was that ever present force. The kind of man you could rely on, the voice in your ear…that told you to always do the right thing.

Dad was from a generation that saw hard times. He was from an area that saw harder times than many. He told me once about how he would take a lard sandwich, in a paper bag, to school for lunch. He then went on to say how he took a block of wood in the bag when they didn’t have lard, so it looked like he had a sandwich. Truth…fiction…I don’t know, but times were tough in 1930’s rural Arkansas.

As a young man, Dad enlisted in the United States Army. He spent time in Germany and reached the rank of Sargent…a drill instructor. He was a drill instructor in the Army too. He loved discipline and more than once his hand came over the front seat of the car, into the back seat, when the horseplay became too much for him to take.

Growing up, a son looks up to their Dad and thinks that he can do anything. I was no different. The only exception, my Dad could do just about anything. Mind you, he wasn’t an expert on some things, but he was good at everything; he never backed down from the challenge learning something new.

Addition on the house…check. Commercial roof-top, air conditioner modified to keep our house as cold as a meat locker…check. A push-button, George Jetson, faucet in the kitchen…check. The list goes on and on.

Dad had a way about him, given the fact that he only had an eighth grade education from the cotton fields of Arkansas. He could—and would, lecture you about the thermodynamics of a refrigeration system, which would leave you in the end, understanding it.

Dad was a wordsmith. He may have added more words to the English language than anyone else. Riddem, translation rhythm. Chimlee…chimney. Chrishtle…crystal, the list goes on. I think that it may have reached a point, in which he relished in the fact that we noticed and agonized the way he said these words.

Then there were the ‘Dadisms’: “Toe the mark”, “Drive it in the ground and break it off,” ”Jerk a knot in your tail.” “Sore as a boil”, “I’d stretch a mile, if I didn’t have to walk back”. There were others, I can’t recall.

If you are one of the millions of people who love Karaoke, my Dad invented it. Well, sort of, he used to sing made up songs. One favorite was ‘Sweet Jody Brown, Pass a Fakie Cup of Coffee’. Pass a what? Wasn’t a good song but it sure worked to embarrass my sister when he drove her to high school.

Do you have a green thumb? Dad had two green thumbs, eight green fingers and ten green toes…His toes—are an entirely other story. He could and did grow anything: Strawberries, cucumbers, peaches, apples, squash and much more. I’ve heard that fruit trees lined up at his front door begging to be planted.

Like most, Dad had his share of health problems, as he aged. He was not afraid to share those things, way too many things, sometimes. Did I mention the caster? They're most commonly known as a catheter. Some things you just really don’t want to hear about. But he was always ready to share.

Many families have difficulties being functional, ours was no different. But through it all, in our youth, Dad got us to church on Sunday. His faith is an inheritance, which will pay off for an eternity.

I’m sure that I speak for my brother and my sister when I say, that the things he taught us and showed us, are the things that make us better people. He taught us to have a strong work ethic, to stand up for ourselves and others, to be self-reliant, to treat people the way we want to be treated and, when we have nothing else, left to do, to do the right thing. These things will be with us, and with our children, and with our children’s children. These things will be the motivation, the courage and the conviction, to which we cling to in hard times. These things will be with the unborn, generations to come.

Dad, we love you, and we miss you, but we rest in the fact that you are in a much better place, waiting.

At the beginning of a new year, we look back and reminisce about those who have passed on in the prior year. 2013, is no different. As I get older, these lists seem to gain more importance. With the passing of each person on the list, a small part of my youth goes with them.
Some passing’s that are notable to me this year are:

Hostess – What can I say? Twinkies, Ho Hos, they were part of my youth. I remember saving my money to buy Twinkies so I could get the baseball cards they put on the back.

“Danger, Will Robinson!” Dick Tufeld, the voice of the robot on Lost in Space. I thought that robot was real, when I was a kid.

Robert Hegyes and Ron Palillo from Welcome Back Kotter brought many laughs during my teen years. They did it all without foul language an innuendo.

The Soul Train…Don Cornelius brought the urban music to the small town. The sounds of the ‘70’s include music he brought to us.

Davy Jones was part of the fictitious band, The Monkees. How could Saturday morning come and go without their show? At seven years old, I asked for maracas at Christmas.

Dick Clark – How could New Year’s come and go without thinking about him? Every Saturday, his American Bandstand was a given. His amazing math skills during rate-a-record always amazed me.

While I was more of a Gomer fan, George Lindsey’s Judy, Judy, Judy comes to mind whenever I hear Cary Grant’s name.

Disco queen Donna Summer…Love to Love You Baby. The voice of an angel.

Without Robin Gibb disco may have never happened. Like it or not, it was a huge part of the ‘70’s.

Many remember Richard Dawson for Family Feud, I remember him for Hogan’s Heroes. Funny man with a very quick wit.

Joe Kubert, I never knew your name, but I knew your comic book, Sgt. Rock. I spent many an afternoon, sitting in the shade of a tree, in battle beside him.

Phyllis Diller is not on this list for her effect on me. She is on this list because she made my mom laugh. Not just a chuckle, a hard belly laugh. It makes me smile to think about that.

Who doesn’t remember where they were when they heard, “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind”? I was sitting in the living room in the middle of the night, watching, I’m sure, with the millions of others. Thank you, Neil Armstrong.

In my youth, it wasn’t Christmas until Andy Williams had his TV special. A voice like velvet, it was a highlight of a family vacation a few years back to hear him sing in Branson, MO.

Larry Hagman may be best remembered by most as J.R. Ewing, but I remember him as the astronaut who found the genie’s lamp with Barbara Eden in it.

There were more people and things that passed last year, but none took a tiny chunk of me with them like those I’ve listed.

Lesson learned; enjoy the moment. Create memories that can be called to mind when the time is right. Love your family and friends. Tell people what they mean to you. Someday you may be on their list.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…to coin a phrase. The malls are full of people, franticly looking for that special item, to make smiles on the faces of loved ones.

Commercials bombard you from the radio and television. Your e-mail and smart phone are no safe havens, either. Just the other day I was given the opportunity to buy eyelash extension at a huge discount. Give me a discount for some hair on my head…now you’re talking.

The grocery stores are full canned hams, a few left over turkeys and of every kind of food you can imagine, colored in the hues of green and red.

My wife and I met some friends for dinner a few nights ago; all of the waitresses were dressed as elves. Had this entrepreneur been on his toes, he would have had the waiters dressed as Elvis. Sorry, that was funnier when it was rattling around in my head!

Every day in the office, someone will bring some kind cookie or candy that you have to try just once, but that you will covertly sample over and over. There will be pot-luck luncheons—something that personally, I can live without. Mysterious casseroles of cream of mushroom soup and who knows what else scare me. I’m not even taking into consideration that many are served below the recommended temperature of 145 degrees. “Hey, wait here, I’ve gotta run.”

Christmas, sadly, has become a commercialized profit center for the retail industry. Sure, it’s nice to receive a gift at Christmas. Remember, that's what Christmas is about—God’s gift to us.

Many people forget those hurting during the holiday season. Hospitals are full of sick a dying people, even on Christmas, if you can believe it. People are still homeless on Christmas Eve. Imagine waking up in an alley covered in a cardboard box on Christmas morning…alone.

So, when you are out during this busy shopping season, go five, or fifty bucks more, over budget. Give to those who are in need. Drop a few dollars in the Salvation Army kettle. Take some extra boxes and cans to the food pantry. You never know, you might be helping your next door neighbor.

Most of all, remember that Christmas is the season of giving.

The holidays are almost upon us again. While so many are excited about gathering with family for meals or looking forward to standing in line all night to get the hot Black-Friday prices, some are not so fortunate.

This morning my friend, Tim, drove five thousand pounds of new and gently used, shirts to a trucking company in the suburbs of Chicago. From there the shirts will go to the Red Cross in New Jersey. The cause: Jerseys for Jersey. Hurricane Sandy has left so many people wanting for even the most basic of comforts, like clothing.

Tim put the word out to friends, customers, colleagues and whoever else would listen. The phone started ringing and donations began to pour in. One school donated every jersey from every sport to the cause.

Tim is the kind of guy who leads, he does not follow. It’s not that he won’t follow; he just never is in the position to have to follow. He is always ahead of the curve. He is selfless with his time when someone is in need; he takes the bull by the horn.

Modest describes Tim’s efforts. No, they are not of modest means. He takes no credit and asks for none. Just a few weeks ago, he was interviewed on the radio. The Boy Scout troupe he leads was selling pumpkins. He never toots his horn, it's always for the cause. It amazes me how he finds the time, but he does.

If I can’t be more like Tim, and seize the day and take action, then I am blessed that he is my friend. All I have to do is follow his lead. The world is a better place for the likes of men and women like him.

So this year before you sit down for the special meal with all of the trimmings, think of the less fortunate. When you line up at midnight to shop for gifts, don’t walk past the person ringing the bell, by the red kettle. Stop and give to those who only dream of things that the truly blessed people take for granted.

I’ve heard it said that charity begins at home…my home, your home and my friend Tim’s home.