About the King of Texas
I will complete my “About the King of Texas” page later (and I have a lot to say about myself), but because my daughter made me promise to post something—anything—no later than today, I’ll keep my promise with this short prayer:
Oh, Lord, please deliver me from people that use the expression “can’t wrap my head around that.” How can anyone wrap their head around something? If one has difficulty forming a mental grasp of something one has heard, seen or felt, then say it, rather than using such an inane voguish phrase.
On the practical side, should one successfully wrap one’s head around something the cranium would be horribly distorted, and the process of unwrapping one’s head could be unsuccessful—consider just how disastrous that would be.
Far back in March of 2009 I promised to complete this page. What follows is not a completion—it’s more of a work in progress. This is all about me, and I take full responsibility for the contents of this posting. I did it without help from anyone—well, I used the events of the past 77 years from which to draw thoughts, so I suppose I should credit those years for the thoughts contained herein—to credit all the people involved—family, friends, coworkers, etc., would be a formidable task so I will not even attempt it on this page—my other postings should be sufficient.
As were all of us, I was born at a very early age. I came into this world kicking and screaming—naked, cold, wet and hungry, and that makes me the equal of every one that has ever been born, at least at the time of my birth. Just as was Jesus Christ, I was born without sin, original or otherwise, and given the concept of free will, any change in that category is strictly my fault. If such change exists—and it does—I did it all by myself and I take full responsibility for such changes. Mind you, I am not admitting to anything—there will be time enough for me to come clean at the final reckoning.
My equality with others and my similarity to others did not last very long. Everyone ever born, whether born before or after my birth, were and are better looking or uglier than I, taller or shorter than I, more or less intelligent, more or less diligent, better or worse lovers, better or worse parents, better or worse workers, slimmer or fatter, stronger or weaker, lazier or more industrious, and more or less successful in every aspect that can be imagined of life on this earth, whether spiritual, metaphysical or physical, all of which simply affirms that each of us differs from all the rest of us.
Most of my early years—those during which I was considered a little boy—were spent in various homes that had few decorative wall hangings—perhaps a calendar or two, but no framed paintings or prints. Walls were made to keep cold out and heat in and vice versa depending on the season, and to provide privacy and safety from the outer world—there was plenty of room for decorations, but my family had neither the money nor the inclination to aquire such items.
As an aside please know that, perhaps in an effort to right that bare-wall syndrome, our home is filled with artwork—we have artwork on our walls, in display cases, in bookcases and on the floor, including wall plaques, collector plates, crystal pieces and porcelain figurines, limited edition framed prints and original paintings. Some of the framed pieces are aligned along the walls as well as on the walls, and many more are stashed deep in closets. We also have books, countable but will never be counted because the task would be too great.
And this is an immutable truth—the day will come, a day that I trust is far in the future, a day that I will ascend—or descend, as the case may be. On that day I am certain that when I check the rear view mirror as I ascend—or descend as the case may be—I will see the granddaddy of all yard sales taking place at my home, hosted by those I leave behind—I’m at peace with that now, and I will be at peace with it then.
The only wall decorations I can remember from those early days are two small plaques, perhaps three by five inches in size. They were dime-store purchases, hung side by side in a front room that doubled—nay, tripled—as a living room, bedroom and game room.
I remember the texts of both plaques vividly. One had an image of an ocean-going sailing ship, and the text read as follows:
My ship went sailing out to sea
With a cargo of hope in its hold.
Someday it will come sailing back to me
With a store of wealth untold.
I am still waiting to claim that store of wealth—if my ship ever returns with those riches, I will probably be at the airport—my guess is that it sank while outbound. However, hope is free—it costs nothing to continue hoping so I still play the lottery, just in case my ship really did sink.
The other plaque had text that read:
There is so much good in the worst of us
And so much bad in the best of us
That it hardly behooves any of us
To talk about the rest of us.
For some years now—not through a lifetime but for some years—I have striven to adhere to the admonitions of both those small plaques by keeping hope alive, and by recognizing both good and bad in others. I try to cling to the good and accept the bad, a process in which, in varying degrees, I have both succeeded and failed.
I beam—inwardly of course—at my successes and cringe at my failures. And this concludes my About the King of Texas page. I welcome any comments, whether praise or rebuke, and I will acknowledge either or both—try me. Oh, although I said this concludes my About the King of Texas page, there’s more here—it’s all about me, me, me!