Day #3/ morning Day #4

I thought I was doing well when I shunned the funeral potatoes; after all, they looked quite good. We had to rush to get there on time so we didn’t have time to juice for the road, so we determined it would be ok to eat fruit or vegetables only. So we went to the store and bought nectarines and apples, cherries and bottled water. Which was ok until the funeral was over; but on the ride home we both were hungry, and grumpy. I found myself in a real fog; lots of negative thoughts about the diet were banging around inside my head. I honestly want to lose the weight, but I am afraid this diet is a bit extreme for me, let alone expensive, we’ve spent about $200.00 in this first week alone on fruits and vegetables. I believe it is healthy to juice, I am not-so-certain, however, that it is as healthy to juice fast for two months. In short, it’s really getting to me, and my resolve is wavering. I’ll stay on course for the time being, and hope this fog lifts. Oh, on a positive note; I ran twenty minutes on the elliptical yesterday and I’m down to 266.2 lbs this morning; which brings me to a grand total of 5 lbs, or2.26 kg’s (not loving metric as much this morning)!

Day #2/ Morning Day#3

Didn’t post last night, I was in bed before I remembered I hadn’t, and I often get really munchy at night if I am awake with nothing else to do…. So yesterday was tough, tough because I had the kids all day and had to cook all of their meals, and you kind of have to taste what your cooking, so I kind of cheated. I don’t want you to think I went on a feeding frenzy, I didn’t, I had a few spoonfuls and that was it, no train was derailed, I just made a choice. I think that will be the key, for me, if I can feel like I am controlling this thing, then it will be tolerable. I feel a bit bloated and have had slight headaches, but other than that I enjoy the light feeling I get when I have juice for a meal, it’s a much better feeling than when I eat too much and have to lay down in a stupor. Today should be a challenge; we are going back to the coast for a funeral. We still haven’t worked out the logistics; it’ll be interesting to see how it works out in the face of funeral potatoes.

Juice Fast Day#1

In truth, this first day wasn't so bad.... Even though breakfast food is among my favorite food groups, breakfast is a meal I generally force myself to eat, because I usually feel better for having eaten. And so consuming a juice made with nectarines, mangoes, carrots, grapefruit, apples, and honey dew melon wasn’t an exercise in torture, heck I even felt full. Lunch time rolled around and I was just starting to get hungry, so I had my really healthy juice: it was made from spinach, cucumber, broccoli, celery, granny smith apples, and half of a lemon. Again, I was quite full. A few hours later, however, I found myself fantasizing about a spoonful of peanut butter, and that was just the beginning; I was having rapid fire cravings, usually that’s when I head into the kitchen to cook, but this time the cravings just kept coming more rapidly and with an ever increasing amount of force. By the time dinner rolled around I was feeling pretty week, especially in the face of the amazing smelling the left over BBQ, potatoes, and beans from last night. I was offended that my girls didn’t finish every scrap on their plates, as I would have done if it had not been for my guilty resolve. Cold turkey is an abrupt ride for a carnivorous food addict like me; I just hope it is all worth it or that BBQ brisket will haunt me months from now.

A Juicy Introduction!!!

Ok, so I’m standing on the drop-edge of 40. The brand-new scale says I weigh 271.2 lbs, or in kinder metric speak, according to my calculations, 123.2 kg’s. ! I have hypertension, and am forced to take pills daily which medically regulate my blood pressure so I don’t end up on dialysis, or have a heart attack. I have an intimidating family medical history of diabetes and heart disease, on both sides, with my parents being the most immediate examples; my father has had two heart attacks, and a few years ago my mother was diagnosed with type II diabetes which she regulates with pills. I have made jokes about my weight for lots of years. Last year though I lost my best friend, who was much more fit than I, to an unexpected heart attack. That should have been wakeup call enough. It wasn’t. I didn’t curb my eating habits at all, or consistently exercise; in fact I made no changes at all, other than miss my best friend. I continued to joke about my weight.
The truth is my weight is something that no witty bend of language can camouflage. It’s not fun being fluffy, as I usually call it. Clothes don’t fit, I don’t feel comfortable in many situations, and it’s like life in a portable prison, a “Fat Cell”, so as to speak. Naturally I’m a big guy, I’m a big-framed, muscular, and unfortunately, I carry weight fairly well. When I went through basic training, I lost 50 lbs or 22.7 kg’s that is, I left basic training at 205 lbs/93kgs, which might have been great, but I felt sick. It wasn’t the right way to lose weight; the diet was unhealthy, I lost a lot of muscle because I stopped eating, you can only eat so many processed breaded pork sandwiches before you lose your appetite altogether…. In the subsequent years I have made up for all that I lost in the Army, and added a few/ a lot, for good measure. I LOVE FOOD! I love BBQ, pasta, breads, Coke, and butter, in great quantities. I’m a living testament to my love affair with food, in simple language, “I’m Fat!”, my weight might be acceptable if I were close to 7 ft. tall, but I’m only, roughly, 5’11” tall/short, whichever.
Yesterday I was flipping through Netflix trying to find some noise, so I could cook lunch when I ran across the movie/documentary Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead , I came out of the kitchen to watch when I heard an acoustic version of Men at Work’s “Down Under”, by Low Mass Tone. The movie was good and arresting; Joe and I have a lot in common (except he’s a rich and successful Australian). Pretty soon, though, the whole family, the two-year old included, were all enrapt, watching the journey of these vast, and vastly different men drastically changing their lives for the good. The method: going on a 60 day “Juice Fast”. They both lost tremendous amounts of weight, and gained healthier and more productive lifestyles. Needless to say it was motivating! So, being the desperate lemming that I am, I bought a juicer last night. We, my Wife and I, have decided to do a 60 day juice fast, starting tomorrow, July 7, 2011, or 7-7-11 sounds lucky enough…. Anyway, we are holding a celebratory last meal BBQ tonight. The menu is mostly Texas food inspired: BBQ brisket, chicken for the kids, cream potatoes, pinto beans, and maybe, grilled corn on the cob. After that, it’s juice for 60 days. I know this will be a rough journey; at least, that’s what I expect. We have determined not to tell anyone, and as no one reads this, it will be a safe to post on here. I have determined to use this blog as a journal of sorts. I will write if only briefly, every day. I will be keeping track of, not only, the amount of weight that I lose, but, of the difficulties as a self-proclaimed carnivore going on a strictly vegetarian juice diet. I’m sure it’s bound to be an enlightening journey and I’m excited to see the results….

The Flag of the United States of America

Mine Eyes have seen the Glory
By Jeremy Lister

It’s funny what you remember when you look back on events that changed your life. For instance, I can remember very clearly the person who unknowingly taught me that the flag of my country is a very special thing; something that should be treated with a great deal more reverence and respect than it is commonly given in today’s world.

Given enough time and distance our memories tend to become refined. Some elements of our memories are eliminated, mostly, the things which are not important. For instance, I don’t remember what I was wearing that day, I don’t recall how old I was, and I don’t even remember what season of the year it was. However, I remember that the grey-blue of morning was giving way to the golden sunrise. The sky was crisp and clear, the air was fresh and cool, and perfumed of mowed grass. I walked to school then and I was early, I was usually early. That morning instead of waiting by the doors, waiting for them to be opened, I sat on the large tractor tires that made up the bulk of the playground equipment at that elementary school. The choice of venue that morning, changed my life in a very powerful, indelible way, and I will always be grateful.

It was easy to know when the custodian of the school came to work, he was a whistler. I don’t mean he whistled tunelessly. He was an artist. I imagine he could have whistled anything he wanted, from Hank Williams Sr. to Mozart. You could hear him in the still mornings a block away; remembering this, even now, brings a smile to my face. He always walked in worn, highly polished black combat boots; there was life in his step. He seemed joyful; he always wore an inward smile, which readily, became outward with the addition of his shinning dark eyes, and a wink. He was always proudly attired in his immaculate steel grey custodial uniform; it looked starched and pressed, because the creases on his trousers and shirt were always sharp and crisp. His dark hair was neatly combed, and he smelled of Vitalis, and clean aftershave. He carried his black metal lunch pail in one hand, a thermos in the other, and his jacket was slung over his forearm unless the weather was too cold. I remember his name, which I won’t share out of respect. And mostly, I remember that he was usually quiet and always kind even if he had to clean up after a sick kid, or was carrying out the garbage at the end of the day. He was the kind of person you didn’t pay much attention to until you knew how special he was….

On this particular morning, I heard him coming and decided, for a change, to sit quietly among the tires and listen to his morning concert. When he got to the school entrance, he passed the thermos to the hand holding his lunch pail, took the keys from off of his belt, unlocked the doors, and entered the school whistling. A few moments later the whistling stopped abruptly. I next saw him emerging from the school’s entry carrying the flag. There was something arresting in the way he carried the flag. He didn’t have it carelessly slung under his arm; he carried the blue and white star triangle delicately, in both hands out in front of him, as if it were a newborn child. His steps were measured and cautious as he approached the flagpole. For moment he stood erect ankle to ankle. I noticed as he unfolded the flag, it how neatly it had been folded. He had an air of readied tension about him as he attached the flag to the hooks on the halyard, as if he would cast himself to the ground before he would allow the flag to touch soil. He attentively, raised the flag slowly until there was no danger of it touching ground. He then raised the flag to the top of the flagpole at a slow steady pace until it reached the top, he secured the halyard, and then with hand on heart he stood erect, and silent. I don’t know what he thought of but I was close enough to notice a few tears stream down his cheeks. A few moments of repose, then he smiled; he dropped his hand back down to his side; slowly spun around on the place where he stood, faced away from the flag pole, and quietly stepped away. I watched as he reached into his back pocket and with his handkerchief, he wiped the tears from his cheek. He resumed his whistling, and his endless task of keeping the school clean.

I had seen respect, honor, dignity, and true patriotism. That experience has forever changed the way I look at our Nation and its symbol. It was a lesson clad in the humblest person I have had the privilege to have known. The school is no longer there. The flagpole only stand erect in the recesses of my memory, but that memory burned brightly every time I was fortunate enough to be assigned flag duty in the Army. That memory flashes across my memory whenever my daughters and I raise the flag in our front yard. It means ever more to me as I remember my good friends who have given their lives for that flag, and our Nation. Or, the friends, who yet stand firm in harm’s way to defend them.

p.s.
It would be great if everyone who displays a flag would check out these websites dedicated to proper flag procedures, just to make sure they are doing it properly….
http://www.ushistory.org/betsy/flagetiq.html
http://usmilitary.about.com/od/flags/United_States_Flag_Procedures.htm

Gettin' Back to my Roots...

Those of you who know me will say, "Jeremy, you aren’t Maori," it's true, I'm not. I learned the art of bone carving from a friend who learned how to carve from a Maori. So I can at least trace my roots.... No, that’s not what I am really referring to. I have been carving since 1991. I have always wanted to draw or sketch, but despite what most artists say, I really can’t draw, not well anyways. I can carve though. My first piece was so bad, and I was so frustrated I almost quit--, but fortunately, the guy who taught me looked at it and said, "you're trying too hard, carving too much, you can't force the bone to be what it isn't, you have to know when to stop", or something like that…. Obviously, I didn't stop carving. I carve all the time. I’m good at it, and I find I’m getting better all the time. The main thing is I enjoy it, and I feel really good when a piece is done.
Initially, everything I carved was out of bone, but it became too difficult to acquire. I started carving coconut shell as a happy accident. It's easier to carve in many ways; it's softer, smells better to carve, and it's fairly easy to acquire. There are some disadvantages with carving coconut shell; it's hard to find one thick enough to be carved, it's usually quite curved, and there are a lot of flaws in every coconut shell. Bone once you can get some is wonderful to work with, minus the smell, and the hardness.... It can hold a great deal of detail, and is very durable. Anyway, it has been many years since I have done a carving out of bone, and it was an enjoyable experience (minus the smell, and the hardness).

Saint Patrick's Day/ Grandpa's B-day

St. Patrick’s Day is always a great reminder that I am undeservedly lucky. It is also the Birthday of my Grandpa Turner. My grandfathers were amazing men; they both were fiercely strong, hard working men. I would like to say that I am a product of them both, but the truth is I’m not even a respectable shadow of what they were. My grandfather could be counted on to tell it like it like he saw it, the only exception was he chose to show his love, rather than vocalize it. I started this poem shortly after he passed away, but couldn't finish it until recently. So, this is for you grandpa. Thanks for everything.

Grandpa

In cool blue-black mornings
I still hear him
do-tee-do-do-dum.
Greeting the morn “Down in the Valley”.
The gold brown smell of toast and coffee,
Tuck me in security
Warmed by a cedar wood fire
And a wool Indian blanket;
Iron clad in scratchy warmth.
Cups in hand, we sit watching the window,
He stokes the fire
With ancient work worn hands
A pat on the knee
A do-tee-do-dum verse,
A “Wild Irish Rose”
Song of love….
Words not needed.
The dawn comes slowly,
Thief of warmth.
The fire wanes,
blanket folded,
The song, chased
Out of the valley
In deference to the light of day
He left in the morn.
Blue-black, cold
Where warmth should have been.
I never said “goodbye”,
Words not needed.
He left me,
Iron clad in scratchy warmth,
Love never leaves…

SPINDRIFT

A desert boy I;
Clad, entirely blue.
A desiccated, decrepit shell fixed, fated to stand;
In rigid, disembodied prose;
At common, with detritus, and buffeted stone.
White capped mountains break on valleys.
The soul’s infinite repast,
Aloft, on the wings of spindrift, to points irresolute.
Unremarked, dark, icy, salinated fingers devotedly, caress;
Drawing sharp edges of anguish,
Through bared toes, and the worn soles of my feet.
Hereafter, the smile of a child, and I,
Are indelibly knit, to the strand.