My Shaving experience

 My Evolving Shaving Journey

I was 15 years old and ready to tackle my fresh beard for the first time. My father shaved every day with no problem. I knew there was a slim possibility that my face wouldn’t take well to shaving being a man of color, so I decided to test shave on the jawline on both sides of my face. I had no idea what a mistake that would be. I took the Bic razor out of the plastic package. This was 1985. The double-blade bic razor looked like something designed with Lego sensibilities. I lathered up a pharmacy-brand puck of shave soap and applied the soap to a small part of my jawline on both sides of my face. I lifted the razor and made small strokes on my jawline. The two areas I shaved were the length of my jawline and probably no more than half an inch wide. I rinsed off and applied old spice. It felt like fire on my baby soft skin. Then came the waiting game to see if my skin could handle shaving. I didn’t have to wait long. There was a strange itching sensation. Then there was redness. OK, I thought This would probably subside the next day. The next morning was much worse. The new growth was coming in and coming in under the skin. The itching was at level 20. Small white bumps were forming and I realized I probably should have shaved an area the size of my fingertip. What I thought would be a week’s worth of irritation turned out to be much much worse. The irritation went away after a month but the razor bumps were a problem for years. The bumps would go away and come back for the next 6 years. They weren’t very noticeable but the itching was very irritating. I had determined that razor shaving wasn’t for me. After that first attempt, I didn’t put a razor to my face for another 23 years. I used shape-up clippers to keep an extremely low stubble on my face. But it was a stubble nonetheless. At age 38 I decided to try again.

In 2008, I read an article that explained how men of color often had problems shaving with multi-blade razors because of how the first blade lifted the hair above the skin while the second blade cut the hair causing it to drop below the surface. The article explained how double-edge and safety razors were a much better option being much less aggressive. I went out and purchased a Van Der Hagen butterfly open double-edge razor. I certainly wasn’t going to experiment with a straight razor, after all. That was for men with a death wish. I also bought a boar hair shaving brush and some Williams shave soap. I stood over the sink with my new grooming kit and lathered up. I shaved a fingertip-sized area on my cheek, rinsed my face, and splashed on some cheap aftershave. I felt a good burn. Then I waited. No irritation all day. No irritation in the morning. Three days later I lathered up and shaved my whole face. This time, there was a little irritation on the neck area coupled with some shave bumps. But these bumps were manageable. I followed the suggestions of the article I read and exfoliated. The exfoliating made sure the whiskers were able to get to the surface more easily. But this time, the more I shaved, the less irritated my face became and the less I needed to exfoliate. I had finally been able to shave. Also, the more I shaved the more I liked it. Shaving was a relaxing ritual that made me feel happy. I looked forward to shaving and made sure I had time to shave undisturbed. I also made it clear to my children that Dad was not to be disturbed while shaving. My daughter is allowed to watch me shave. She likes to play with the lather and give herself foam mustaches and eyebrows using the shaving brush. I was doing pretty good with the double edge until I read another article that changed things and put me on course for some riskier shaving. 

A company called Bevel had formed. Bevel made a double-edged razor for men of color. A lot of research was put into creating the bevel shave system. Bevel provides everything from their specially angled double-edge razor to skin balms and shaving creams. It is a very well-thought-out and affordable system with the option of participating in the subscription-based program. And the razor itself is a nice double-edged razor that has gained a following from men of all ethnicities. But I didn’t buy into their system. I read an interview with the owner, Tristan Walker. He stated how many men of color shave with trimmers or chemicals that melt away their whiskers because of irritation caused by multi-blade razors. Tristan said he realized when he looked at turn-of-the-century photos of black men, they were all shaven and their skin was smooth. He realized their skin was smooth because they were shaving with straight razors. Though the rest of the article talked about the efforts he put into making the bevel, I couldn’t stop thinking of what he said about the straight razor. I did a little internet research and found there were men who swore by straight razor shaving. And they all claimed the straight razor was the best least irritating shave a man could have. I watched videos of a man named Lynn Abrams who made detailed videos of honing and shaving. He also answered questions thoughtfully. Lynn made straight razor shaving look so easy, that I wasn’t even apprehensive about it anymore. I looked on Etsy and purchased my first vintage straight for $15 dollars. It was an unrestored Genco. It was just what I wanted because I had seen some of the restorations on eBay and they looked horrid from the pictures. The package arrived and I examined the Genco. It was perfect. It was lightly used and had a spec of rust. It was tarnished but that was easily dealt with. I purchased a honing stone and a strop and got to the business of retouching the edge after I polished and sanitized the razor. Now it was shaving time. 

Surprisingly, I wasn’t the least bit nervous about shaving with the straight razor. I’d honed it pretty sharp on an 8000. That is all I had at the time. I dry-shaved the hair on my arm with no problem. I got everything together and lathered up. I lifted the razor and held it just as Lynn had taught in his video. I was ready for the first pass. I put the razor about an inch from my face and my arm started shaking like a jackhammer was attached to it. What is happening, I thought? I pulled the razor away and tried again. Same result. I was nervous after all. I had to abort. Instead of a peaceful shaving experience, I could hear the death march playing in my head along with imagined images of my slashed face flashing to the music. I wasn’t ready for blood. I needed a day to calm myself. The next day, I prepared to shave once more. I had mentally prepared myself. I lathered up and lifted the steel to my face and made the first short pass with no blood. Not only was there no blood, but it felt like there was no danger. It took about 45 minutes, but I got through it and my face felt and looked great. I had a few weepers here and there. I hadn’t quite gotten the angle right. Over time, everything just came together. From stropping my razor to honing and keeping my razor dry, I enjoyed every part of straight razor shaving. Being a martial artist, I take well to repetition, technique, and improvement. Straight razor shaving was very similar to martial arts in that it is a discipline. For me, straight razor shaving is a meditation where my mind is only on the shave. Straight razor shaving creates a feeling of peace in me. I was happy with my own honing until I shaved with a rasals restored razor. I had to up my honing game. Now, after inheriting a coticule and a couple of straight razors from my uncle who was a barber, I patiently have put an edge on my razors that is closer to rasals sharpness. I am sure there are some secrets I have to learn. And that is the other good thing about straight razor shaving, you never stop learning. There is always something you can do to find something different in the shaving experience. Unfortunately, I have yet to meet straight razor shaving practitioners here in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania USA. It would be nice to know someone nearby who practiced straight razor shaving but I am not sad. Having to go online to internet groups has introduced me to practitioners from all over the world. So my shaving journey has been culturally informative also. 

I’d say if you haven’t tried straight razor shaving, you should. It isn’t as dangerous as you think as long as you respect the steel. Buy a vintage straight razor. Try a vintage straight razor and shave with something that has a history behind it. And if you are like me, you just want one to have a straight because it is pretty cool. And if you already shave with a straight razor, I bid you happy shaving from West Philadelphia, USA. Happy shaving! 

Trumps Mistake, Ignoring The Sickness

     Scientists are basically in agreement that humanity is responsible for the warming of the Earth. Our behaviors are dumping huge amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. From cattle farming to gas burning vehicles, we are the most significant contributor to increasing the greenhouse gases which raise the temperature of the earth. Humans put about 40 billion tons of CO2 into the atmosphere annually. Imagine a compressed cube of CO2  just sitting in front of you 2.2 miles wide on every side. Yeah, that is big and hard to imagine. You would think with information like this, the current President of the United States would say, "wow, we need more research to find out how to deal with this." But no no no, that isn't what is happening. Our president has appointed a climate science denier, Scott Pruitt, to head the EPA. The proposed budget cuts to the EPA will be $2.5 billion dollars. In addition, NASA's Earth science and education program budget is going to be cut $102 million dollars. The Earth sciences division monitors the climate of the Earth among other things. So instead of spearheading the climate change problem, the Trump administration is gutting any government agency or agency program that investigates climate change. The Trump Administration is choosing to ignore the problem. Common sense should tell Trump opponents and supporters alike, that this is a problematic strategy for our country and the world.

     I had two family members who were very dear to me ignore symptoms of illness. They suffered, but they did n't go to the doctor to get these issues checked out. They just said, "I'll be alright." Things did not turn out alright. The symptoms became so bad that they had no choice but to go to the hospital. Turns out, they both had cancer. And do you know what they said after they got the diagnosis? They said, "I was afraid to find out what was causing the problem." One of them was told that the type of cancer he had was one of the most curable cancers there is. But they both waited too long. Had they gone to the Doctor when the symptoms first occurred, the would likely both still be alive now.

     Ignoring symptoms doesn't heal anything. The result of ignoring the symptoms is premature death. The Earth is showing symptoms: losing state sized chunks of polar ice, sea level rises which are dislocating entire populations. Cutting funding to the EPA and NASA earth sciences isn't going to make things better. Cutting fuel efficiency standards for cars isn't going to make things better. We have a responsibility to our children, grand children, great and great great grand children to make sure the earth is still habitable for them. And addressing this responsibility will make jobs not take them. And the climate is not the only thing this president is treating with this ignorant behavior. HUD, Education and Medicaid are all on the funding chopping block. that means homelessness, sickness and education problems will be addressed by cuts to funding. It just doesn't make sense and it won't work. Write and call the white house. Write and call your senators. They need to know you are worried about the decisions of this administration. And they need to know, they won't be back for the term if they go along with the administration's assault on America and the world.

   

The devil's advocate.

I am always cautious around people who play the devil's advocate. I guess it has to do with the person playing "the devil's" advocate. They usually aren't aware that they are crossing the line from "problem solver" to "saboteur".

A worthy thought.

Never let someone's low opinion of you guide your life's path.

Music, A Troubled Neighbor and The Gravity of The Streets

Music, A Troubled Neighbor and The Gravitation of The Street

I consider myself a reasonable individual. I believe in giving a guy a fair chance in a disagreement and I try to talk things out. In most cases, if I feel disrespected, I walk away. I'll just put that person in a category with people I will not associate with. After all, how can two walk together if they can't even agree? This philosophy has served me well and kept me out of a lot of trouble. That is until I met my beautiful wife. My wife was a new homeowner when I met her. She had only been living in her house for about three months. Buying a house was a very wise decision as she was paying far more money in rent than she would on the mortgage for a house. When I first saw where she lived, I did not get good vibes about the small block. The block is not horrible. I just felt some bad vibes. Most people who have grown up in the city develop a type of "spidey sense" about their surroundings. We walk into a different neighborhood and with a minimum of observation, we can deduce a fairly accurate picture of safety, drug activity, neighborhood attitude and other environmental characteristics. One of the main vibes I felt from just a couple of homes on the block was possessiveness. My wife is originally from Massachusettes. When she moved to Philadelphia, she rented in a progressive University oriented part of the city. She left that area and purchased a house ten blocks away in a more mixed income section of the city.

Early on, I never told her about my observations. I knew she was proud of her homeownership. We fell in love and I moved from my building, an investment property, to her house. I observed that one of our neighbors was involved in selling drugs. We'll call him P. My wife noticed it also. P is an interesting character. He introduced himself to us one day and began talking about how he didn't have a father and how he had gotten involved with the wrong crowd when he was younger. He told us how he got in trouble with the law once because he was in a car with friends he didn't know had carjacked the vehicle. I don't know what the purpose of his revelations were. All I know is he didn't learn anything from getting into trouble in his youth. I would observe him doing drug transactions and look around to make sure no one was watching, all the while holding the money almost above his head and counting it. I heard him body slam a young man against the metal railing of his house then say to another associate that "the guns were in the car". One night a skinny little white guy came on the block looking for a cell phone that P's lady had taken. P kept telling the guy to go home. The white guy just kept saying, "I don't give a f??k." Apparently, P had approached the guy in a threatening manner and that's when we heard the gun shot. My wife and I were laying in the bed listening. She was six months pregnant and became very upset. She asked me if we should get on the floor. I giggled a little. I told her to relax. P's voice was heard way off in the distance at this point. The white guy let off another shot and repeated, "I don't give a f??k." I didn't want to see P get killed, so I called the police as did other people on the block. They arrested the shooter. P wasn't hit. The shots were just warning shots. While the police were outside, a neighbor came out and yelled, "You need to be ashamed of yourselves!"

On many occasions P would walk up and down the block yelling profanities into his cell phone for most of the day. The only time he would seem to leave the block was when he hopped on a small BMX Bicycle to run his errands. One day my wife was tending her garden when P came outside and began talking on his cell phone about how much money someone had in their safe and where it was located. Then he made a statement that his two best friends were Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. Even though P exhibited this criminal behavior, I just ignored him. He seemed to be trying to intentionally draw attention to himself. I grew up with some real tough guys. I was and still am friends with some of them. Real tough guys don't want to draw attention to themselves. Real tough guys don't want you to know what they have or what they will do. The just exude an air that lets you know; don't start none, won't be none.

Things on the block were mostly quiet apart from P's profanity filled cell phone conversations. That is until P bought a sound system with a sub-woofer. My wife and I were watching television when we heard music traveling across the front porch. It was loud. We could not enjoy the program we were watching regardless of how high we put the volume. The music continued and continued. Finally, my wife went over and asked them to turn the music off. They complied. She told me that the new sound system was on the porch and that there was no one outside with it. They were all inside drinking malt liquor. After that, they only played the music inside their house with the sub-woofer going almost full throttle. We couldn't tell what songs were playing, but we could tell the beat and base patterns. The music was coming through the walls of the row house. Funny thing is, our house is separated by one empty house and we could still hear the bass. Having already approached P about the music, we resorted to calling the police. The police would come, and the music would get turned off. But Philadelphia police don't make music a priority and P wasn't getting the message. P would play his music loudly. He would play it when he was home. He would play it when he wasn't home. One day I couldn't take the music anymore, so I went over to talk to him. My wife followed. P was outside having a conversation with the music blasting out of the front door. I walked across the empty porch and asked him if he could turn the music down. He then told his cousin to wait for him in his car while he talked to us. P then proceeded to ask if we were the ones who called the police on him. "Yes, we called the police and we'll do it again," my wife said sternly. I just continued staring at P expressionless, but inside I was thinking, why why why did you tell him that. He then proceeded to tell us that we shouldn't call the police because we didn't know "what goes on" in his house and that he could "get in a lot of trouble". I told him that I grew up with hustlers and that everyone has a hustle. I stated that the only way he could mess with my hustle is if he kept me up at night with his loud music.

He offfered his phone number and told us to call him if the music was ever too loud. We called him once with no success. That only led to a small argument. My wife had told him that after she has the baby, she would call the police if he kept playing the music. The police had to be called every now and then to get him to keep the music down. After a while, he seemed to have gotten the message. The music would be loud only occassionally in the day time. Then Jonah was born. When we brought our son home, we were welcomed with some loud music. It was like P was letting us know that we could kiss his butt. I wanted to go over to his house and solve the problem by this time but didn't want to get into a confrontation with an infant in the house. My sister and I have an investment property, so I took my wife and son there for a few days in the early evening. We would come back later when P would turn the music off. Then he stopped playing the music in the evening. I don't know why. I know he would, constantly, look at us out of his window . Maybe, if he were trying to be spiteful towards us with the music, he felt it was useless seeing us leave as soon as he started blasting it. All I know is the evenings were much more quiet.

My wife took three months off from work to stay home with the baby. Then I started getting phone calls at work. "P was playing his music today, it was ridiculously loud," my wife would tell me. Or she would mention it to me when I would come home. He slipped into a ritual of blasting the music early in the day. One day I came home and saw P walking over to my car with a not so happy look on his face. "Yo, can I talk to you for a second," he said. I got out of my car cautiously, since I don't trust him the slightest.

"What's up," I asked.
"Your wife keeps calling the police on me. Every time I look outside, there is a police car sitting in front of my house."
"Oh really," I said.
"I have never seen the police so much in my life," P told me.
"She didn't call," I responded.
"Well, who else did it?"
"Who knows?"
"You didn't do it. You were at work," he said.
"We've already had this conversation," I responded. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Then P's lady came out and told me very calmly that she was going to file a complaint with the district attorney's office. I told her that I was fine with that and that she should do what she had to do. That's when I guess P decided I wasn't reacting the way he wanted me to and started to get loud.

"She's talking the DA. F**k that, things are about to get crazy around here," he yelled.
I stopped in my tracks at this. "Crazy? What do you mean crazy," I yelled.
"I mean things are about to get crazy," he repeated.
"You know what P. You are thinking about what could happen to me. You are thinking about all of the things that could happen to me and not about what could happen to YOU!!"

My wife opened the front door and told him that she would call the police right now. I told her to go back into the house. She kept arguing with that fool. She called him crazy. He told her if she wants to see crazy, he would show her crazy. The more I heard him talk, the more I wanted to run over to him and get physical, but I have a wife and son and didn't want to get arrested or even injured or do anything that could have my family without me for any period of time. I pulled my wife into the house and told her to let me handle it. She picked up the phone to call the police. I told her not to call the police; I was tired from work and just wanted to relax. My wife was very angry and for good reason.

"He threatened you and I am calling the police," she said.
"I'll tell you what," I told her. "Let's go down to the station and file a complaint there."
"OK, fine," she said.
"OK, you get our son together. I'll give you the car key. You open the car and put our son in his seat. Then you sit in your seat. I'll stand outside the car and make sure nobody tries to get 'crazy'."

My wife did as I asked. I stood beside the car so I would have a clear view of the car and a clear view of P's house. P was knocking on his window so that I would come up onto his porch. I ignored him. Then his door opened and he came walking down his front steps with his hand jammed inside his jacket like he had a gun. He was looking at me with a menacing look on his face.

"It don't even have to get to this," he said as he slowly walked up to me sideways so his tucked hand was aimed at me. "It don't even have to get to THIS, you know what I am sayin?"

I just stared at him with no reaction. I was in a ready stance. I am a martial artist. In martial arts we are taught to do everything to avoid a fight unless there is no other recourse. I probably would have walked back into the house when I saw how he was approaching me to avoid a situation, but my family was already in the car. In my field of martial arts, we are also taught that if we are about to have a physical confrontation, we should view our enemy not as a human but as a target. All I saw as P approached was, eyes, groin, knee, spine, neck, ear, and anything else that could be damaged and cause serious injury. He approached until he was about three feet away from me. "It don't even have to get to this," he said once more. I barely heard him. I was going to grab him behind his neck jump into the air and pulled his nose into my bent knee as I ascended. I decided I had to make sure he was armed before I did anything that could cause a catastrophic injury. I just stared at him emotionless. My mind was in combat mode. Then I spoke.

"Are you going to pull that gun or are you just going to keep talking?" I asked him.

P threw open his jacket. There was nothing there.

"Gun?!!!" he exclaimed. "What kind of guy do you think I am?!"

I just stared at him, still without emotion.

"You are playing a dangerous game," I said.
"I was cold so I was pulling my jacket closed."
"You just told me things were about to get crazy," I said. "Now, you tell that to the nicest guy on the block, and he might make you regret ever saying it. P you aren't the nicest guy on the block and I am NOT the nicest guy on the block."
"No," he exclaimed. "I don't mean it like that. I just mean that my lady is planning on calling the DA and things are about to get crazy, that's all."
"P, if I tell you things are going to get crazy, they are going to get crazier than you think."

He then went on to explain how we should work with him with the music and that he didn't buy the system just to play it on level five. He said that when the police were being called, they were being called on him, emphasizing that it was personal. I didn't respond to him. I was very angry and had to calm myself. I had to stop looking at him like a target that I would have to damage. I ended our conversation and drove to the police station with my family. I couldn't believe what had just happened inside of me. But that thing inside of me has always been there and ready. My wife is an attorney. I own my own masonry and plastering restoration business. We are for all intents and purposes, professionals. At this point in our lives, we are far beyond street confrontations and petty arguments. The problem is, people in the city and especially people of color in the city can at any point be pulled by the gravity of the streets- pulled into violence; pulled into confrontation; pulled into having to solve things through lawlessness.

Years ago, the city of Philadelphia began to tear down their housing projects. The projects were rife with crime and violence. The project model didn't work. Instead of housing projects, the city was going to implement section 8 housing where a person gets vouchers to live in an apartment or a house that is not government owned. The government instead pays part of the tenants rent based on their income. For and apartment that costs $600.00 a month, one tenant might have to pay $300.00 of the rent while another tenant may only have to pay $50.00. This program helps a lot of people get on their feet and helps good people find a nice place to live. But sometimes, it helps a criminal element live next door to me and you. As it turns out, P is just the type of criminal element who would have been living in a housing project, but instead, he lives in a section 8 house one house down from me, my wife and child. And his name is not on the lease. The lease was actually signed to two women. Believe me, I would not want to see P in a housing project. But I sure don't want him living next to my family. There are two adults who live in that house, neither of them work. Neither of them have any intention to work. P sells drugs and does other illegal hustles, and he is happy with that. Fine. But his illegal activities, including disturbing the peace, are being subsidized by the government. And because the government subsidizes his ability to live near us, my wife and I feel the gravity of the streets pulling us into P's world. We feel like fish out of water. I believe P also feels like a fish out of water. He honestly can't understand why we would operate outside the rules of the street and call the police. He told me just before I went to the police station that he would never call the police on anyone for "anything". P comes from a world where snitches get stitches. I come from a world where snitches call the police to avoid giving the stitches. But the section 8 program has helped our worlds to collide. My wife and I are planning to move prematurely. With a new baby and a new life, we just don't have time to fight for this small house on this small block. So we will have to rent the place or sell it. Both will be hard to do with a neighbor like P. If we have trouble renting or selling this property, it's no problem. We'll just bring in tenants from the section 8 program.

A Goat Story

My Grandfather had a magnetic personality. Everyone loved him very much, especially his children and grandchildren. He always had a good joke and always had a good story. Now, being from the south, he often told stories that were incredibly amusing yet at the same time had no particular moral to them. There is one story in particular that I never really understood. It was pretty funny the way he would tell it. But when you would stop to think about it, you would realize how cruel it probably was. It didn't really have a moral- that is until he lay on his death bed in what were literally his final days. I like to call this one-


A Goat Story. A Childhood Memory

My Grandfather always had a funny story about his childhood on the family farm in Virginia. He use to tell this story about wanting a goat. He just wanted a goat so badly as a pet. So one day he went to his father and asked, "Pappa, Pappa, could I please have a goat? Please Pappa please." He asked over and over again. So his father looked at him and said, "Son if you finish all of your work well this week, you can have your goat." Now we are talking about the early 1900's. So I am not talking about childhood chores. Children had to work back then. Having summers off for school back then was for the sole purpose that children could help tend the farm.

Well, my grandfather went out and did his work and did them well. He milked the cows, gathered eggs. He helped till the fields and feed the animals. He probably did a lot of other things I don't even know about which I am sure I would find unpleasant. He probably did some of the other children's work too just to get his goat. At the end of the week he went to his father and asked, "Pappa, Pappa, now can I please have my goat?"

"Did you finish all of your work well?" his father asked.
"Yes Pappa," answered my young grandfather.

His father looked at him, leaned forward and spoke, "You will get your goat when broomsticks turn to pine trees." This is the part where we would laugh at this story. Broomsticks turning to pine trees will never happen on this planet. Then we would ponder it and think to ourselves, geez that is mean. There was no particular moral to the story. The moral came much later when my Grandfather was much older and had fallen ill.

I can't say my Grandfather grew old and frail. I had the honor of working by his side. Well into his late 80's he was outworking the younger guys on the job including me. It was something to see. Then suddenly, he began to get a little tired and sick to the stomach. He couldn't keep his food down. This went on for a couple of years but he was still outworking the younger guys till it started getting worse. When he went to the doctor to have it checked out, they found leukemia. It had spread to his lungs. He was told to stay home and not work. He was 90. He was going quickly. He was disappearing before our eyes.

He was on pain medication and was displaying some unusual eerie behavior. He couldn't walk so he was bedridden. He was having hallucinations from the powerful pain killers. He thought he was plastering his bedroom. He would call out to his brothers one by one. They were all dead. Most times he would carry on a conversation like normal. Big Pop, as we called him, knew he was going to die. There are two things he said in his dying days that really stood out. My Aunt Nell was keeping him company one day when he looked at her and said, "I am not afraid to die, but I am going to miss everyone something awful." The second thing he said revealed the moral and true ending of the Goat story. My Aunt was tending to him another day and he pointed into the air and said with such a satisfied whisper, "look at that little goat." My aunt turned to him and replied, "Daddy I see it. He is so beautiful."

God showed my 90 year old Grandfather the goat that was promised him when he was a boy of 8 years old. That funny story turned out to be a memory that had bothered my Grandad for years. That thing my Great Grandfather said about brooms turning to pine trees was painful. It was so painful Big Pop took it to his death bed. I am not saying my Great Grandfather was a bad man. He is the one responsible for our family being in the building trade. He provided for his family and taught his boys to do the same. But he said one thing to his son that hurt him to his core. He would have just been better off telling my Grandfather from the start that he could not have the goat, instead of making a promise and breaking it. I guess the moral of the story is, be careful what you say to your children. Choose your words wisely. They look to parents for guidance. They adore their parents. So parents make sure your children have good memories of you, not cruel ones. You plant seeds with everything you say. Make sure those seeds aren't weeds.

The Burning Man

My father and I have a Masonry and Plastering business. One slow cold day, we were looking at jobs and went back to my place to take lunch. I noticed a man in the driveway some distance away. Upon seeing us, the man quickly left and moved out of view through an empty lot. I paid it no mind. Many people would use that lot for a shortcut. My father and I went inside my place and ate our lunch. We watched a little bit of a the matrix after lunch then decided to head back out and do more estimates. When we got outside, we saw something burning in the driveway. My father was angry. He said, "I knew somebody was going to do something like this, setting trash on fire up here." I looked a little harder. "dad," I said. "Those are legs sticking out of the flames."

The man was too far away from my house to use the hose, it wouldn’t reach. Filling a bucket of water would have taken too long. So I ran down to him and started knocking his burning crumbling clothes off him with my jacket. It was working. I put everything out but his synthetic sneakers. He was laying there now naked with his feet still burning. The firemen had arrived when I was about to go get some water for the sneakers. They sprayed water on his feet. Unfortunately I was too late. Even though he didn't look horribly disfigured at all, the flames had shocked his system and stopped his heart. he looked to be about 45 years old. Turns out, he was 72. The heat had caused his skin to shrink and smooth out making him look younger than he was. He was on his back, arms and legs bent from the tightening skin pulling his limbs toward his center. Later on, when he made the news we found out a little about the man. He was mentally disturbed and had tried different suicide attempts in the past. This one worked. He had children who hadn't known his whereabouts for years. His wallet had survived the fired and the authorities notified his family, so when they were reunited with their father, it was only to bury him.

I had dreams about the burning man for only about two weeks after that. They were never nightmares. I dreamed I had reached him just as the flames had started and put them out. I dreamed that he was walking around engulfed in flames but remained unharmed like the burning bush in the bible. And I dreamed that I saw him burning just as I did in my waking life. In that dream, I went to get water and when I turned to help, he was gone. No trace of him there. I don't know what the dreams meant. I guess my mind was trying to make sense of the senseless, of something I would have only read about in fiction.