I AM A CONTROLLER

I AM A CONTROLLER

 

I am a controller.

I have had three wives, five retail stores, 23 automobiles, one of which nearly took my life during a bang up traffic collision, raised nine children, survived nine bowel surgeries, raised money for six failed presidential candidates, one of whom became a United States Senator after changing parties, and I have less available cash than I did as a teenage entrepreneur.

I am a vegan which has improved my health considerably.

I am a controller but apparently not a very good one.

I AM A CONTROLLER

I AM A CONTROLLER

 

I am a controller.

I have had three wives, five retail stores, 23 automobiles, one of which nearly took my life during a bang up traffic collision, raised nine children, survived nine bowel surgeries, raised money for six failed presidential candidates, one of whom became a United States Senator after changing parties, and I have less available cash than I did as a teenage entrepreneur.

I am a vegan which has improved my health considerably.

I am a controller but apparently not a very good one.

WHY DO YOU THINK THAT?

WHY DO YOU THINK THAT?

How many times have you heard the words “Why do to think that?”. If you find yourself facing such a challenge again be prepared to  notice that an answer to that question is probably not spontaneous unless of course you are a fast – thinking lawyer.

I was the victim of a skilled interviewer once and embarrassed when I had no answer. It wasn’t as though I had prepared for such a question; I wasn’t a PhD candidate in the midst of an oral exam – I was being asked to defend one of life’s values, a rule by which I had lived my life, a core value the rightness of which one does not question.

But…

I had no answer. And that was my answer. “I don’t know…” I replied. “I just don’t know.

And thus began a shift in the way I view life. I write about, I think about, I puzzle over and I seek answers to my own questions. And that is how I morphed from a life as a writer to that of a writer with purpose.

AN EVENING WITH A VOLUNTEER SOCIAL WORKER

AN EVENING WITH A VOLUNTEER SOCIAL WORKER

Thursday night I attended a dinner party of friends. We were tied together with a special interest. Close scrutiny would have revealed nothing more than the obvious: we were definitely not members of a particular age group. There were about 3 dozen people, several sales people, a nurse, a doctor. a lawyer (make that two lawyers), several business owners, an architect of world renown and I the oldest guy there (I thought) was starting a new career. Our common bond? We are all published authors.

As the festivities began there was a request for announcements. The lawyer (the one who entered my mind as an after-thought) said “Yes, I’d like to announce that yesterday I celebrated my eightieth birthday.”

I was stunned. Not because h of the large number of years but because in the 36 years that I’d known Phil I had never wondered about his age. As I thought about it I couldn’t remember any of the hundreds of people, perhaps thousands I had known who shared our common interest, whose age I had been curious about. And then it hit me. Damn, I’m seventy three years of age; am I supposed to be dying or something?

Many of  the successful people I know (they are many) are old by normal standards; most are still practicing their life’s work, building and selling homes, running corporations, performing surgeries, one guy plays piano at a piano bar in between gigs as a symphony conductor. The only retired guy I know cares for injured birds one day a week, teaches photography another and reads to preschoolers yet another. He and I are both volunteer broadcasters.  And one guy ran for president of the United States of America. He was nearly seventy. Yet another friend is nearly eighty.

And, as I think about it I’m beginning to believe that we plan our health, our lessening of it and our eventual demise as we plot out our careers. I do not know a single soul who ever planned to retire. I know that there are people out there who think that way and it makes me very sad. Those people are the ones I meet in the nursing homes.

I am a volunteer social worker.

Lee Broom

 

BROTHER FINCH AND THE FAMILY QUAIL

 

BROTHER FINCH AND THE FAMILY QUAIL

Thump.

(I know that sound.)

Thump.

I replayed it in my head.

I turned to look through the sliding glass door leading to my patio.

Six months ago as an early spring increased the quail community outside my yard and the cactus wrens and mockers and squawkers, the rabbits and lizards repopulated themselves, I cleared my head of winter grey and focused again on my favorite time of year, Though I live in the desert the changing seasons continue to have its effect; this was a day of new beginnings.

I was having breakfast as I recall, not on the patio yet, the mornings were still a bit crisp, but fully engaged in the process. I was watching the social events taking place, watching it all from my breakfast table. I could hear a peacock from a block away, wondering if this was the noisy fellow who had recently been starting his morning rounds by splattering green gooey stuff on the hood of my Chevy truck. Not that I was an actual target understand, but he seemed to be fancying the date palm near my parking spot as his new locale for performing his morning toilet.

As I bit from one of the cinnamon rolls I had prepared the night before, I noticed one of the quail families out for their morning walk. As I reached for my camera I was noticed by at least two members of this group but their reactions were quite the opposite of each other. Mother, who was at the front, led her chicks into the safety of the oleanders. At exactly the same time the chick bringing up the rear of this procession turned to look my way. Curiosity won out over alarm and little Chickie Kid ran, no, sprinted the twenty feet from the perimeter of my yard to my patio. Scale speed would had to have been in the hundreds of miles per hour. Reaching the edge of the patio the four-inch elevation slowed this little bird not at all. With the reflexes of a jungle cat our little scamp hopped upward and forward again without hesitation, continuing to bolt in my direction until he at last met his reflection in the patio door.

Thump.

About face.

Sprint back to Mother.

Disappear quickly beneath the oleanders.

All of this activity took mere seconds.

No, I did not take pictures.

But there is a video in my head and an audio recording of the moment when Baby hit the glass.

Thump.

I replayed it in my head.

I turned to look through the sliding glass door leading to my patio.

There, lying on its back was an adult male house finch.

I walked out to visit my careless neighbor.

I talked with this neighbor of mine; his feathers displayed a splash of red, coincidentally the color of blood.

I watched this fellow traveler as he shrugged his shoulders and died.

I planted him in the oleanders.

Lee Broom

BROTHER FINCH AND THE FAMILY QUAIL

 

BROTHER FINCH AND THE FAMILY QUAIL

Thump.

(I know that sound.)

Thump.

I replayed it in my head.

I turned to look through the sliding glass door leading to my patio.

Six months ago as an early spring increased the quail community outside my yard and the cactus wrens and mockers and squawkers, the rabbits and lizards repopulated themselves, I cleared my head of winter grey and focused again on my favorite time of year, Though I live in the desert the changing seasons continue to have its affect; this was a day of new beginnings.

I was having breakfast as I recall, not on the patio yet, the mornings were still a bit crisp, but fully engaged in the process. I was watching the social events taking place, watching it all from my breakfast table. I could hear a peacock from a block away, wondering if this was the noisy fellow who had recently been starting his morning rounds by splattering green gooey stuff on the hood of my Chevy truck. Not that I was an actual target understand, but he seemed to be fancying the date palm near my parking spot as his new locale for performing his morning toilet.

As I bit from one of the cinnamon rolls I had prepared the night before, I noticed one of the quail families out for their morning walk. As I reached for my camera I was noticed by at least two members of this group but their reactions were quite the opposite of each other. Mother, who was at the front, led her chicks into the safety of the oleanders. At exactly the same time the chick bringing up the rear of this procession turned to look my way. Curiosity won out over alarm and little Chickee Kid ran, no, sprinted the twenty feet from the perimeter of my yard to my patio. Scale speed would had to have been in the hundreds of miles per hour. Reaching the edge of the patio the four inch elevation slowed this little bird not at all. With the reflexes of a jungle cat our little scamp hopped upward and forward again without hesitation, continuing to bolt in my direction until he at last met his reflection in the patio door.

Thump.

About face.

Sprint back to Mother.

Disappear quickly beneath the oleanders.

All of this activity took mere seconds.

No, I did not take pictures.

But there is a video in my head and an audio recording of the moment when Baby hit the glass.

Thump.

I replayed it in my head.

I turned to look through the sliding glass door leading to my patio.

There, lying on its back was an adult male house finch.

I walked out to visit my careless neighbor.

I talked with this neighbor of mine; his feathers displayed a splash of red, coincidentally the color of blood.

I watched this fellow traveler as he shrugged his shoulders and died.

I planted him in the oleanders.

Lee Broom

BROTHER FINCH AND THE FAMILY QUAIL

 

BROTHER FINCH AND THE FAMILY QUAIL

Thump.

(I know that sound.)

Thump.

I replayed it in my head.

I turned to look through the sliding glass door leading to my patio.

Six months ago as an early spring increased the quail community outside my yard and the cactus wrens and mockers and squawkers, the rabbits and lizards repopulated themselves, I cleared my head of winter grey and focused again on my favorite time of year, Though I live in the desert the changing seasons continue to have its affect; this was a day of new beginnings.

I was having breakfast as I recall, not on the patio yet, the mornings were still a bit crisp, but fully engaged in the process. I was watching the social events taking place, watching it all from my breakfast table. I could hear a peacock from a block away, wondering if this was the noisy fellow who had recently been starting his morning rounds by splattering green gooey stuff on the hood of my Chevy truck. Not that I was an actual target understand, but he seemed to be fancying the date palm near my parking spot as his new locale for performing his morning toilet.

As I bit from one of the cinnamon rolls I had prepared the night before, I noticed one of the quail families out for their morning walk. As I reached for my camera I was noticed by at least two members of this group but their reactions were quite the opposite of each other. Mother, who was at the front, led her chicks into the safety of the oleanders. At exactly the same time the chick bringing up the rear of this procession turned to look my way. Curiosity won out over alarm and little Chickee Kid ran, no, sprinted the twenty feet from the perimeter of my yard to my patio. Scale speed would had to have been in the hundreds of miles per hour. Reaching the edge of the patio the four inch elevation slowed this little bird not at all. With the reflexes of a jungle cat our little scamp hopped upward and forward again without hesitation, continuing to bolt in my direction until he at last met his reflection in the patio door.

Thump.

About face.

Sprint back to Mother.

Disappear quickly beneath the oleanders.

All of this activity took mere seconds.

No, I did not take pictures.

But there is a video in my head and an audio recording of the moment when Baby hit the glass.

Thump.

I replayed it in my head.

I turned to look through the sliding glass door leading to my patio.

There, lying on its back was an adult male house finch.

I walked out to visit my careless neighbor.

I talked with this neighbor of mine; his feathers displayed a splash of red, coincidentally the color of blood.

I watched this fellow traveler as he shrugged his shoulders and died.

I planted him in the oleanders.

Lee Broom

AN EVENING WITH A VOLUNTEER SOCIAL WORKER

AN EVENING WITH A VOLUNTEER SOCIAL WORKER

Thursday night I attended a dinner party of friends. We were tied together with a special interest. Close scrutiny would have revealed nothing more than the obvious: we were definitely not members of a particular age group. There were about 3 dozen people, several sales people, a nurse, a doctor. a lawyer (make that two lawyers), several business owners, an architect of world renown and I the oldest guy there (I thought) was starting a new career. Our common bond? We are all published authors.

As the festivities began there was a request for announcements. The lawyer (the one who entered my mind as an after-thought) said “Yes, I’d like to announce that yesterday I celebrated my eightieth birthday.”

I was stunned. Not because h of the large number of years but because in the 36 years that I’d known Phil I had never wondered about his age. As I thought about it I couldn’t remember any of the hundreds of people, perhaps thousands I had known who shared our common interest, whose age I had been curious about. And then it hit me. Damn, I’m seventy three years of age; am I supposed to be dying or something?

Many of  the successful people I know (they are many) are old by normal standards; most are still practicing their life’s work, building and selling homes, running corporations, performing surgeries, one guy plays piano at a piano bar in between gigs as a symphony conductor. The only retired guy I know cares for injured birds one day a week, teaches photography another and reads to preschoolers yet another. He and I are both volunteer broadcasters.  And one guy ran for president of the United States of America. He was nearly seventy. Yet another friend is nearly eighty.

And, as I think about it I’m beginning to believe that we plan our health, our lessening of it and our eventual demise as we plot out our careers. I do not know a single soul who ever planned to retire. I know that there are people out there who think that way and it makes me very sad. Those people are the ones I meet in the nursing homes.

I am a volunteer social worker.

Lee Broom

 

MEADOWLARK HILL (I’VE GOT MY LOVE TO KEEP ME WARM)

 

 

That one lone tree on Meadowlark Hill; The song its tenants sang

The laugh and coo of newborn tots, reflecting yin and yang

The memories are distorted, the silence now a roar.

I left; here’s what they told me; return some day for more

More is what I needed; more became Amor.

Emotion came to greet me, My heart began to soar

Amor became commitment, commitment to the Source

The Source became the Doorway revealing an Inner Force

One day I’ll want to visit; pay respects to Meadowlark Hill

And mingle with the Tenants as through open beaks they trill

And remind me of the joy I found, That day on Meadowlark Hill.

Lee Broom

THE MYSTERY OF THE FRAYED COLLAR

 

 

THE MYSTERY OF THE FRAYED COLLAR

What could be more comfortable

Than the frayed collar

On that white, broadcloth dress shirt?

You wore it to the 2008 convention?

Did your guy win?

Did you win?

Were you wearing a windsor knot?

What could be more comfortable

Than that frayed collar.