Like Ainsley, I was a little ninja wannabe about 24 years ago.

I know it’s difficult to make out because of my stealth, but I’m actually standing in the middle of that photo. Hint: between the door and the bookcase.

It was kinda dangerous as a Halloween costume, actually, and not because of the deadly weapons I was carrying. But how many actual Ninjas wear bright clothes and reflectors when they go Trick-or-treating? Probably not very many.

Previous indications of my predilection for warmongering here.

Eating birthday cake in 1990 or 1991. It would help if I could remember if Anthony, Alejandro and John were the guys who joined me for the opening day of the original TMNT movie, but that tidbit seems to have escaped me.

Happy anniversary, Alison. Thanks for carrying me these last eight years.

Photo: April 2006. Me and Mom gaze upon my youngest niece, Abby

I have a great mom, and I don’t say that just because she’s my mother; I think it’s a pretty much universal truth. So I’d like to introduce you to my mom, Jo (or Joey).

The first thing you might notice about my mom is that she is humble, probably to a fault. She is soft-spoken, unassuming, completely unpretentious, down-to-earth, easy going and friendly. She’s the type of person you might walk past every day and never notice, unless you catch a glimpse of one of her trademark t-shirts, which unfailingly offer a spiritual message about God’s love or provide an uplifting quote from the Bible.

She is generous. When a family is down and out, she’s the one who delivers a thanksgiving meal and a box of groceries on the doorstep. When the upstart community church needs a new speaker system, she’s the one who anonymously purchases and donates the exact equipment needed, though it might mean exhausting her entire savings.

She is faithful. She held the unglamorous job of leading “children’s church” for a dozen years, always took us to sing Christmas carols at nursing homes, pitched in to help her neighbor who worked a dairy farm just because she wanted to be a friend.

She is joyful. For years she has visited and regularly sent cards to elderly ladies at hospice centers, simply to make them feel appreciated and not so alone.

She is kind. As a foster parent, she has opened her home to more than a dozen children suffering from emotional, behavioral and medical problems over the past two decades. Last year she had three siblings, ages 4-16, and she’s currently taking care of a 7-year-old boy who has suffered from a respiratory ailment since birth.

She is gentle. Even while she was struggling through a divorce, my mother acted as a nurse and took care of an elderly lady who was dying of emphysema. To thank my mother for her amazing charity, the woman’s widower invited us to move in with him, which was great since we had no place else to live at the time.

She is loving. My mother is not concerned with appearances or privilege but only with doing good, which is how she wound up marrying her second husband, a man who had been in a traumatic accident years earlier and as a result was handicapped, quadriplegic, and nearly unable to speak.

She is giving. When my grandmother reached the point where dialysis was no longer cutting it, guess who lined up to donate one of her kidneys? I don’t think it was just a coincidence that of my grandmother’s six children, my mother’s biochemistry was the closest match.

She is patient. Through constant heartache and disappointment, my mom has pressed on, pouring her heart out at thankless jobs just to get the bills paid. After years spent working at a sports clothing warehouse, she was unceremoniously terminated by her malicious boss. Since then, she has taken a series of temp jobs, including one most recently on an electrical assembly line that required her to use heavy, oversized tools that caused her carpal tunnel syndrome to flare up and left her wrists throbbing with pain. Due to the complexity and difficulty of the work, most of her temp coworkers left the first day after lunch. But she persisted at this job for two weeks, mostly because she was required to pay a deposit of some kind that she would be forced to forfeit otherwise. See a photo of her handiwork at right.

She is steadfast. My mother always made sure that we were fed and clothed and had a roof over our heads. She educated us, helped us learn to read while we were still toddlers, and she insured that we would do well in school. She taught us right and wrong, and she showed us (not just told us about) God’s love on a daily basis.

We, her sons, have always felt loved and cherished. We were never treated like we were a burden. She has delighted in our triumphs and comforted us in the bad times.

She has set the bar so high that I can’t even see it, and I couldn’t be more proud and more thankful that she is my mom.

I thought I was going to be an artist when I grew up, and I was almost right, only now I design with software instead of pencils, paint with words instead of acrylics and use a canvas made of liquid crystals instead of stretched fabric.

But I still love real art, and real artists, and will occasionally pick up a brush or make some little cartoons or sketches. I like visiting art museums, and I’m a big fan of creative movements such as minimalism, surrealism, abstract expressionism, cubism. I appreciate skill, craftiness and near-photographic realism, but I’m more fascinated by the personalities behind some of the most whacked-out art: Warhol, Van Gogh, Dali, Picasso. Those are the guys who feed my imagination.

Art is a passion I may have inherited from my grandmother, who painted animals and country scenes and decorated wooden toys crafted by grandpa. She was still doing some painting here and there until she died, about seven years ago now. You can see some of her supplies and gear at this Flickr photo set, including this schedule from a painting class she took in 1980.

As a kid, I spent lots of time drawing and filling up sketchbooks with cartoons, parodies, sci-fi doodles, imagined faces, and even the occasional landscape. I also enjoyed writing little stories that went along with the drawings. Sometime I’ll have to post some drawings of “Ace,” my first cartoon hero, a ridiculous looking pirate-type dude that my brother teases me about to this day.

I was already a standout art student in grade school and middle school, so by the time I moved up to high school, my classes on drawing and painting were of supreme importance to me.

My freshman year, I was introduced to Steve Sams, a serious-looking man with old-fashioned glasses and a stern mustache. Contrasted against all the messy, frantic, free-spirited art teachers I had before, this guy was quite the disciplinarian. His classroom was clean and orderly, and compared to the creative work we’d done before, his assignments were stoic and regimented. He introduced us to art history and even gave written tests. All this was a rude awakening for many of the kids who had signed up for art because it had always been easy and self-directed, and several of them dropped the class. But while I shared some of my classmates’ reticence about Mr. Sams, I appreciated this new, disciplined approach to art.

By the beginning of my sophomore year, I had really warmed up to Sams, and he to us, now that our wild habits had been tamed a little. That fall semester, I spent lots of time chatting with him each morning because his was my first period class, and around that time I was getting to school very early in the morning. My locker was one of a few dozen located on the third floor right next to his classroom, and I would sometimes beat him to school and would hang out by his door reading or drawing in my sketchbook. He would often joke with me about it, asking if I had spent the night there.

Once inside, Mr. Sams would brew his specialty blend of coffee and turn on the stereo, usually something soothing like Enya. He had a collection of American Gothic parodies by his desk, and at the front of the classroom, there was a little sign that simply said, “Visual Communication.” Looking back, I was probably being a pest, but I saw him as a role model. With my parents divorced, my dad living in another state, my grandfather recently dead, and my brother off at college, Mr. Sams was the only man I could look up to.

One morning in November, I was sitting at his door as usual, probably drinking a carton of chocolate milk. It was nearly time for class, and Mr. Sams hadn’t arrived yet. When somebody else finally showed up, it was a classmate of mine. She was crying.

“What’s wrong,” I asked.

“Haven’t you heard,” she replied. “Mr. Sams killed himself last night.” (more…)

I didn’t know you played guitar! Do you still play?

The short answer to your question, Mike, is no.

A more complete answer is yes, I still have a guitar, and occasionally I pick it up and play a few of my songs, but I don’t really know what I’m doing, and probably never will.

I got an electric guitar for Christmas in my senior year of high school, the one you can see in this photo of Simon’s Function, our pathetic punk band.

Is that a real Stratocaster?

No, it’s a Squire, or perhaps a Squire knockoff, I don’t remember for sure. Whatever mom could afford. But I was thrilled with it. So that was the guitar I used to teach myself Green Day and Nirvana songs. I did buy a real Strat one summer in college, but I eventually sold it and replaced it with a cheap Fender acoustic.

I took a semester guitar class at the University, but I learned very little, and for my final exam all I had to do was play “Frosty the Snowman.” I wish I were kidding.

A few years ago, I added an electric Epiphone Alleykat to my collection. I’ve since tried to sell it, but Guitar World won’t give me much more than a pat on the back for it. I originally bought it thinking I would be playing and recording quite a bit with some guys I met in 2001 and jammed with occasionally until 2004 or 2005. We recorded a couple dozen tracks under the name Spaceface. We even played two live shows, both for HopeWorks charity talent shows held at my church.

Members of Spaceface included:
Caleb — recording, mixing, production, guitars, vocals, keyboard, etc
Doyne — guitar, bass, drums, vocals
Mark — guitar, vocals
Mick — guitar, vocals

If it hadn’t been for my reticence and profound lack of skill, we probably would have played some real concerts. The other guys were good enough, and experienced enough, to have done it. But, as I saw it, there were three main problems:

1. I was forced into the lead vocal role, being the least skilled with every other instrument, though I can’t sing, either.

2. I couldn’t really play guitar, aside from punk riffs and sloppy rhythm. And last but not least,

3. The songs I wrote typically included only one verse and had a measly little one-line chorus, if that.

Between 1996 and 2005 I wrote more than 50 songs, song-poems, song fragments and riffs, with the majority of them created in 2002 and 2003 when Spaceface was recording together. Around 2005 or so, Doyne moved to another state and I fell out of touch with Mark. Then Caleb moved to Nashville. So I’m thankful to have the recordings we made together; listening to them always brings back good memories.

I know you’re just dying to hear some examples, so I picked out some fairly representative recordings to satisfy your curiosity, 15 in total. All of these tracks are courtesy of, and made possible by, Caleb’s Orange Room Studio.

NoOneElse (1997) “Since you lost your mind, you’ve been someone else.” This song is loosely about my confusion and grief following the suicide of my art teacher in high school. I’m still pretty happy with the way the recording turned out, even though it gets off beat and we were forced to drop the drum track near the end. Caleb added echo effects to the vocals that make it somewhat haunting. LINK

Leaving (1997) “I’m just trying to do what’s right.” One of my favorite things about Spaceface was how we recorded each other’s songs, added vocals and guitar parts, etc. Caleb made some pretty outstanding solo covers of songs written by Mark, but this is one of mine that he recorded. It’s about a girl I was absolutely crazy about in high school, but when Caleb recorded it, he was actually going through something much worse and (unfortunately) more appropriate. LINK

Send Me High (1997) “Whisper nonsense in my ear.” The first part of this song was written by Stacy (far right), but I never learned the whole song, so I added some suicidal lyrics to fill it out a little. Then Caleb added the funky beat. No cowbell, though. LINK

Repent (1998) “See you again when the leaves have fallen.” Doyne covers one of mine, though he didn’t know all of the lyrics. It’s ok, though, because this one’s not about anything in particular. That last, slightly-ironic guitar note is just signature Doyne; you can actually hear him smirking. LINK

Lips (1999) “As they survey the globe…” I wrote Lips during my last Summer spent in Des Moines, before my senior year in college. This was the first song of mine that Caleb heard me play, and what initially sparked his interest in recording with me. I think it was also the first song we really did anything with, filling it out and adding the drum track, etc. At the time I thought it was the coolest thing in the world, but listening back now, my vocals are so horrible that I can hardly stand to listen to it. LINK

Drown (2001) “I try to calm you down — you won’t go.” Originally known as “New Riff 1,” we recorded a very raw version of this song along with a string of other demos with me on vocals and guitar. But then Doyne and Caleb went back and made this rocking version; it still puts a huge smile on my face. LINK

Vacant (2002) “Got a dollar, we’ll take it off.” This recording is actually one of Mark’s riffs, with me ad libbing some vocals and adding a guitar track. The story is told from the point of view of a prostitute. LINK

27 (2002) “Don’t it feel good to be alive?” I wasn’t yet 27 at the time, but I was having a quarter-life crisis, and I was afraid my life would be basically over once I got there. This one also has some little political references, which I always enjoy. LINK

Constant Dream (2002) “Find my way into the office, hide behind my seat.” I’m fascinated with dreams, I almost always remember them, and I write them down. So this song has me daydreaming about dreams, daydreaming and death. LINK

They Will Follow You (2002) “Eyes that look on empty land.” I was listening to Beck’s Sea Change album nonstop when I wrote this. For whatever reason I generally write songs and poetry that totally contradict my beliefs and values. I guess it’s more fun that way. But this one is more straight-forward. LINK

Abby (2002) “It’s everything we feared.” This song is about a little girl who is diagnosed with a rare, terminal disease. I wrote it about three years before my niece Abby was born, so now I don’t like to play it anymore. LINK

Faith On The Water (2002) “Face’n the tempest…” My vocals on this song were atrocious, so Caleb was kind enough to record this one for me. It’s about Simon Peter, and all of us who doubt God, written from Jesus’ point of view. LINK

Summer Couldn’t Come Too Soon (2003) “Children roaming the floor…” I write down some words and e-mail them to Mark, and just a few hours later, to my total astonishment, Mark sends me this completed, fully produced mp3. Yes, some of the words don’t fit, but it’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever heard. Maybe you had to be there. LINK

I’ve Been Told (2004) “Life will take its toll on everyone.” I wrote this in my head while driving to the bookstore one evening, which may or may not explain anything. LINK

Peace Corps (2005) “I’ve been working at the drug store that sits on every corner.” Who says a song needs more than a single, two-line verse and a one-line chorus?!! Not me. If this were a real song, it would be about the desperation I felt while being unemployed after college and then making slightly more than minimum wage at Walgreens. LINK

…that once upon a time:

I dyed and bleached my hair regularly.
I considered myself a “Christian punk.”
I taught myself how to play guitar by reading Green Day tabs.
I was in a band called Simon’s Function.
While being honored by the Kiwanis Club, I was asked by the host, “What is Simon’s Function?”
“I don’t know,” came my reply, to uproarious laughter (unexpected by me).
I was one of the only openly conservative, pro-life, Republican kids at my high school.
I was the ONLY kid as described above who also wore Hole t-shirts and painted his fingernails black.
I was elected Senior Class Vice President instead of a popular cheerleader.
I regretted winning after she was hurt in a serious car accident (she’s fine now).
I was involved with the swim team, the debate team, the student newspaper and the art club, and yet I still felt isolated and alone most of the time.
I lived in a black neighborhood, in a little house that officially cost us $1 through a government assistance program (though we were responsible for fixing it up).
My step-dad at the time was a paraplegic man who could only speak in grunts and growls (and yet we still understood him).

You learn something new every day.

Here’s another good one.

I’m not sure who the man is on the couch. Could be dad or gramp, but I don’t think so. Maybe an uncle or someone from church. Don’t know. But it amuses me that whoever it is was unsuccessful in moving completely out of the frame. It’s these half-efforts that really make holidays and birthdays special.

And nothing says “happy 5th birthday” like a timid, creepy squirrel.

I actually remember when this picture was taken. I was wearing my puffy-paint Pac-Man t-shirt, and Mom had me assemble my plunder for this historic Kodak moment (thanks Mom!).

Since my birthday falls near Easter, first we have the obligatory toy bunny, made of plastic and wire so you could bend and pose, and complete with giant, black clown shoes. But why pink?

What else? Let’s see:

- another card

- a role of Life Savers

- some righteous Pac-Man stickers

- a toy car that is activated by sticking a key into the back and then hitting a button to send it flying

- a new, crisp Washington (worth approximately $500, adjusted for inflation)

- an Atari game, no idea which one. Anyone know?

- a box of markers that smelled like chocolate and different color-appropriate fruit flavors

- a Presto Magix adventure set, possibly Spiderman themed

But the pièce de résistance has to be the plastic hand-grenade.

Mom found this picture and sent it to me. Not sure what year it is or how old I am, possibly third grade?

I spy a cross/lamp, a large wooden fork with elephants engraved on the handle, some canned green beans sitting on a crochet doily, a bronze swan, a marionette, what might be the largest bible in history (the white thing in the bookshelf), some praying hands, two owls, pictures of the grandkids (I’m second from top).

Gramp’s name was Harry, but everyone called him Hub.

Hub worked for Iowa Power and Light, which is now Midwest Resources. If you look on the top shelf behind him, you can catch a glimpse of a statue of a utility worker climbing a light pole — that’s what he did, at least earlier in his career; in those days, you had to climb up the poles manually.

We used to have these glass and/or ceramic ornaments all around the house, all different shapes and colors, that were actually various electric insulators from his work. I think Mom said that one time he was accidentally jolted with a surge of electricity while he was working, and either fell or was simply hurt. It was around that time that his temperament changed and he started treating the kids differently (they had six children). It wasn’t until much later that he mellowed out quite a bit.

Gramp was the most manly man I knew growing up. He was stoic, yet jovial. He smoked cigarettes and had tattoos on his chest and forearms and a Clark Gable mustache. He was often found doing woodwork in the garage where he had dozens of tools, vice grips, stationary saws and drills. Gram and Gramp worked on various joint projects where he would cut lumber into toys or shapes, and she would paint them — trains, cars, animals, you name it.

He would frequently whistle, make up songs, or speak in sarcastic catch phrases like “women: can’t live with ‘em, can’t live with ‘em.” He loved watching John Wayne movies and other westerns.

When we visited, Mom would prod me to show Gramp my latest electronic or mechanical toy, as he was interested in how things worked. He would bounce me on his knee wildly and sing “Ridin’ on a hump-back mule, mule, ridin’ on a hump-back mule… when he passes by, he winks his rogueish eye, ridin’ on a hump-back mule.”

Then he would say we were “pals and buddies, buddies and pals.” And he would go on about us being buddies and pals, through thick and thin, over the hill and under the hill, pals and buddies, buddies and pals.

One time when I was in kindergarten or first grade, they visited us where we were living at the time, on the outskirts of a little town called Merrill, Wisconsin. I had the honor of leading them through a trail in the woods and showing them a few of my hiding places.

A few years later, my parents divorced, and we eventually moved in with Gram and Gramp (that’s their front door, above). I was in fifth grade, and my bed was in the basement, separated from my brother’s room by a plastic curtain.

One night, Gramp and I were up late. He had been working out in the yard all day, and we stayed up watching T.V. for a bit while everyone else was already asleep. Before too long, we turned in as well, and he gave me a hug and said “goodnight, buddy,” before sending me down to bed.

That was the last time I ever talked to him. And as far as I know, I was the last person he ever spoke to. That night he died of a heart attack, stretched out on the floor in the bathroom upstairs. I think he was in his mid-50’s.

Mom woke me up in the middle of the night, first to tell me he was taken to the hospital, then again to tell me he had died. I cried myself back to sleep.

I saw this photo in a box the other day and thought I’d post it on my birthday.

That’s me as an eighth-grader, if we’re to believe the date printed in the corner, but I know sometimes cameras with that “feature” were off.

I love the expression on my face, which is a great combination of relaxation and confidence.

Whoever took the picture made sure to squeeze in plenty of the wall, along with that beautiful lamp stand / newspaper depository.

The guy on the left is Hugh Ivis, my mother’s second husband’s father.

In his lap is Coco the Pomeranian. She was a very fluffy dog, but not all that friendly, and you could consider it a success if she would lick your hand once and/or let you pet her head once, at most twice, during any given visit to their home. Of course, this contact was predicated on the agreement that you would have been stretched out on the floor and completely motionless for upwards of 30 minutes.

Grandpa Ivis is deceased, as I’m sure Coco is. There’s no telling what happened to the gnome.