The Centurion

As the one year anniversary of my grandfather Sheldon Hovis's death approaches, I would like to pay tribute to a man who truly personified the word pioneer and the significance of the years he spent here on this home we call earth.

My grandfather lived to be over 100 years old. Think about that.....100 years. He was born in March of 1908. He was alive when the Titanic sank; when the last great train robbery took place in 1912; and could have been friends with Wyatt Earp, who died in 1929. He lived to see transportation morph from horse and buggy to astronauts landing on the moon and regular launches of the space shuttle. He was was a young man during the Roaring Twenties, and survived the Great Depression. He was a cattle rancher, an oil man, and a well driller. He grew up in El Dorado, Kansas and worked his way through Texas, Oklahoma and other parts of the midwest.

I will never forget my grandfather telling me how the fire brigade would respond to calls wh

en he was a boy. He described the fire bells clanging at the building that housed both the firemen and their livestock, and how the double doors would open and out would come the fire wagon, drawn by horses that were as black as coal...firemen hanging on to the reins for dear life and the clatter of the horses hooves as they stormed down the main thoroughfare towards the location of the blaze. He described how people would come running out of their homes carrying buckets and would follow the fire wagon to provide assistance as they could. If I closed my eyes while listening to him, I could literally see the sparks flying up from the horses hooves and the whites of their eyes as they would pass by those on the street, It truly must have been a sight to behold.

My grandfather moved to Arizona permanently in 1935 with my grandmother Ella and my uncle Johnny in tow. They lived on a cattle ranch in a tent and cooked meals over an open fire. My mom came along in 1943 and helped my grandfather round up cattle and ensure they were fed and safe from danger. In the process she become an accomplished horsewoman and although she won't admit it, was a prolific barrel racing champion in her younger years.

My grandfather began losing his sight when he was still in his early fifties. By the time I was born, he was legally blind, but you would never guess that by the work he did and how hard he pushed himself to complete any task. He lived simply and took pleasure in listening to old 45 records and watching episodes of Hee Haw on television (Salute!). I spent many a day at his place going through his collection of old books and records...imagining what it must have been like to live in the days when those things were popular. He had an ancient typewriter and I would regularly pound out nonsensical letters to various people and he always promised to make sure they got delivered. My grandfather also authored a local book called "An Arizona Cowboy's Memoirs". He recited his recollections about his childhood and the early days of cattle ranching in the Arizona desert. His memory was photographic and he recalled details that most people would have long forgotten at his age

My grandfather lived on his own in Tombstone until only a couple of months before his death. I always thought it was fitting that he chose to settle in a location where the motto was "Tombstone: A Town Too Tough To Die". He attended his 100th birthday party with relish and while it was apparent that his energy was failing him, his spirits were always high. Ironically, two years previously, he spent his birthday dancing until almost midnight.....he sure did love to dance. One of the few pleasures he could still enjoy despite not having his eyesight.

My mom and step dad Ken took such good care of my grandfather. They ensured his finances were in order and took every possible measure to preserve his independence for as long as possible. My grandfather never wanted to be a burden and I know that fear must have weighed heavy on his mind as he grew older. He lived in the same little house in Tombstone for many, many years. And while it was not a palace, it was simple and plain and met his needs.

I think I still have a lot to learn about life by observing how my grandfather lived. He lived in the moment and appreciated the simple things in life. He was loved by many and made an indelible heart shaped footprint on a large number on people's lives. While he was not one to express his emotions very openly, I knew he was proud of me and my mother, and the things we had accomplished in our lives. I cherish those moments where he let me play on his tractor as a child; where he set up a mini-welding work space for me in his workshop; how he knew how much I liked marbles and was always on the look out for any additions to add to my collection.

So Gramps, this post is dedicated to you and all you accomplished in your time on earth. You are dearly missed, but I know one day we will all see each other again.

What's a Butt Monkey?

Time for a random blog post:

I love Beavis and Butthead and I am not afraid to admit it. I spent many a night after clubbing watching them in the wee morning hours on MTV (before MTV got swallowed up by Cribs, Dumb Dating shows and The Hills). You remember those days, right? When they actually played music videos during most hours and then showed Aeon Flux and other cool animation in the late night "Liquid Television" series.

But I digress. Finally a show that truly captured the essence of many of the high school (and junior high) adolescent males I encountered in my youth. Let's face it...a 16 year old male may not necessarily LOOK like these two clowns on the outside, but were mirror images on the inside. In some cases the physical resemblance to people I knew in my youth was uncanny.

Beavis and Butthead provided fodder for MONTHS of jokey sarcasm regarding Butt Monkeys, Butt Burglars, Ass Goblins and Winger (notice the trend). A co-worker and I went for months calling each other Butt Monkeys while other colleagues looked at us like we had tripped on acid. In addition to being useful as "terms of endearment", I have whipped out the occasional "Ass Goblin" reference on individuals who were being particularly annoying and basked in their complete surprise and utter lack of ability to respond to such a random and unexpected insult. The best reaction is when they turn around to look behind them...like there really is a goblin perched on their nether region. C-L-A-S-S-I-C!

I think I need to go buy the Beavis and Butthead collection on Amazon.

An Argument for Breast Implants

I don't think anyone would disagree that work related conferences have the potential to be snoozefests. Even I will admit to have done the occasional head bob dozing in an especially dry presentation. One time I almost fell out of my chair and it was only the quick intervention of my work colleague grabbing my arm that kept me upright and spared me from being the butt of numerous conference jokes.

As luck would have it, I just finished a week long conference in the Valley of the Sun. One of the perks of a conference are the networking events designed to enable you to schmooze and press the flesh with other attendees. One of the annual events that is a part of this conference each year is the President's Ball. It is a semi-formal affair and often times very reminiscent of a senior prom.

So I am invited to sit at the President's table as a guest, which put me right next to the dance floor. The DJ was spinning some great songs and there was a lot of people out on the floor shaking their groove thing. All was well in the world.....for now.

Flash forward 3 hours and who knows how many bottles of wine later. The DJ has gotten a salsa/old school rap thing going and the dance floor is packed. I am dancing with two other people (NOTE: Group dancing was designed for all of us third wheels so we could have fun too) and I spy something across the dance floor. I had not been drinking gallons of wine, but I also did not have my glasses on...so I stopped dancing and looked harder. I flagged down the girl who was part of our dancing "trio" and pointed it out to her. All of a sudden it hit both of us at the same time: Someone had lost their bra inserts and they were now laying on the dance floor. Instantly we both reach up to our own chests to do a check (despite the fact we were,'t wearing any). We then looked around the floor and everyone seemed oblivious to the falsies on the floor.

I could not let this moment go unshared, and rushed off the dance floor to tell our table. By the time I had pointed the unfortunate falsies out, a guy who had been drinking wine straight from the bottle and was dancing barefoot, had managed to get one of them stuck to the bottom of his foot. Using moves that have until now only been seen on Dancing with the Stars, he attempted to dislodge the insert (which now resembled a beat up veal cutlet) without disrupting his dance routine. It truly was a sight to behold. Unfortunately, he was not having much success.

The big mystery now is WHO did those inserts belong to? No one left the dance floor when they magically appeared on the floor, and in fact, no one else besides myself, the girl I was dancing with, Rico Suave and the people sitting at our table even noticed them. I wonder what type of dance move you have to do that will dislodge bra inserts? You have to give whoever owned them credit because they apparently kept right on dancing....those are what I call nerves of steel (or way too much alcohol).