Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts

Sunday, September 2, 2007

I get by with a little help from my friends...

I get up every morning at around 2:00 a.m. It is my "personal time," I suppose you could say, set aside primarily for my writing, and other creative endeavors. I love these dark, pre-dawn hours when the house is quiet--the whole world is quiet, at least over here in my little corner of it--and I can hang around with a few of my best friends. Who are these friends, you might ask? Well, let me introduce you to them. They are a bit shy--as am I--so I doubt they will be making any more appearances here. If you would like to ask them any questions, you should do it now. We like to call ourselves "The Nerbs," because we haven't figured out yet if we are Night owls or EaRly BirdS.

By the way...this blog post has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I just purchased a new fancy-schmancy digital camera. Nothing whatsoever.

First up, I would like to introduce Angel.

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She belonged to my wife, originally, and was kept in a box of her things out in the garage. I came across her one day and was immediately smitten by her beauty. She's the real authority in our little group; calm, kind, and very wise. We all love her very much.
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Isn't she gorgeous?

Next up is this rascal, who goes by the rather unoriginal name of Beary.
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Beary is quite patriotic, as you can see, and of Scottish descent. He originally belonged to my mother, who has since passed away, and he always reminds me of her. He is also very smart, but mostly where it concerns fixing or building things. You see, he is sitting atop a complete set of Practical Handyman's Encyclopedias. His knowledge is a bit outdated--the set was published back in the early 1950's--but all in all, he is quite a shrewd and useful bear.

Next to Beary (and his girlfriend, or so he likes to think) is Regina.
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Regina is the main character in a video game called Dino Crisis, of which this poster is an advertisement. Regina's pretty hot, no doubt about it, and she certainly looks good in a black leather outfit, but once you get to know her you realize that she is actually very shy and reserved. You don't want to piss her off, though. She'll open up a can on your ass in a heartbeat. Regina is a very tactical-minded person, and she is invaluable to me as a sounding-board when I am fighting my way through various plot difficulties, or trying to figure out why my novel has gone all wonky all of a sudden. I think she has the most beautiful eyes that I have ever seen, but of course, I'm far too shy to ever tell her that.

Over here on the desk is a feisty little fellow named Irish (for obvious reasons).
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Irish was a gift to me from my wife, just this last St. Patrick's Day. He's quite a stern little fellow, and he seems rather preoccupied with making sure that I get my daily writing chores done. I think he fancies himself a writer, but of course he could never succeed at it as he has no pencil with which to write, nor any fingers with which to grasp the pencil (that he doesn't have). I sometimes suspect that he has the ability to write through me...sitting there seeming to glare hypnotically at me with his beady black eyes. I wonder how much of what I write comes from my own creative subconscious, and how much is actually channeled through me by this little green bear? I suppose it really doesn't matter. He's quite a nice fellow, once you get to know him.

Rounding out our little 2:00 a.m. cadre is Uni.
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Not a very original name, I will admit, but, then, neither is mine. Uni was a gift from one of my nieces, back a couple of birthday's ago. Uni is very magical, and she (according to my niece, Uni is a girl) tells the most fantastic stories of far away places and mystical things. I wish I could write a few of them down and share them with you, but for some reason they always disappear from my mind sometime after 4:30 a.m., while I'm getting ready to go to work. All that is left is a vague memory of some beautiful place full of strange and exotic people, and adventure. Lots and lots of adventure.

So, there you have us: The Nerbs. For the better part of the day they just sit around my office staring at each other; a couple of stuffed bears, a doll, a poster, and a ceramic statue. But at 2:00 a.m., when I come in here to begin my day's writing, they are very much alive. It is little wonder that these two and one-half hours are my favorite part of every day.

I like hanging out with my friends.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Moments

I woke up at around 3:00 a.m., same as I always do. But this was Saturday, and as I always do on an early Saturday morning, I felt a little thrill at the notion of two days doing whatever the hell I want. There were several thunderstorms rumbling through, but by 7:30 a.m. they were all moving off to the north east. I decided to make a donut run--my little tribe loves it when I do that--and stepped outside into an absolute wonderland of beauty. The storm clouds, billowing and dramatic, where gathered along the eastern horizon, right in front of the rising sun. I ran back to the house to get our digital camera, hoping to capture some little piece of the moment.

As I was wandering around the neighborhood snapping pictures of the sky, it occurred to be that I used to notice these sorts of moments all the time. Lately--and by lately I mean over the last ten or fifteen years--not so much. Finally I had to stop taking pictures and just stand there, wondering why.

I wish I could say that I found some answer to that question. I didn't. The whole time that I was standing there, looking up into that awesome pre-dawn sky, I felt like I was on the verge of waking up, as if the last ten or fifteen years of my life had only been a dream. It was kind of exciting and kind of sad. Exciting because I'm glad to know that part of me...the part I think of as the real me...is still lurking about somewhere in there. Sad because I feel like I got off track somewhere along the way, allowed myself to be distracted from my pursuit of a goal that, now, I can barely remember.

I remember back in my twenties I used to tell people that I wanted to remember something special about every day of my life. "I don't want to go to bed one night, twenty-three years old, and wake up the next morning forty-two." Standing there with my little digital camera, age forty three, I couldn't help but wonder if that is precisely what I had done, all of my efforts notwithstanding. Maybe it's inevitable. At any rate, I'm awake now, and the world is just as beautiful and mysterious as it was when I nodded off, all those years ago.

I think I'm going to need to get a better camera, though.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Three Easy Steps


Says so right on the box. "Three Easy Steps." What they fail to mention (until you get the damn thing home and read the set-up manual, which is considerably longer than three pages, I might also add) is that the pool will only work on perfectly level ground. Honestly, how many places on the entire planet are perfectly level? Doesn't Nature abhor a straight line? I abhor this friggen pool. Yes, indeed I do.

Another thing that I learned...don't set the damn thing up under a tree. They don't make a heater for a pool this size, and the thing needs direct sunlight for most of the day. That is, unless you get some sort of perverse pleasure out of watching your children's lips turn blue and their teeth chatter whenever they swim in it. The most level stretch of ground in my back yard (one that only required three hours of digging and leveling) is right under a big old elm tree. I figured what the heck...it gets hot under elm trees, at least where I live. Not hot enough, obviously. My son hopped in the first time, shrieked, and he hasn't been back in since then. NOW I'm going to have to move the damn thing, which means I'll have to drain it, and God knows how much more digging and leveling. I hope I don't accidentally poke a big-ass hole in it in the process.

In other news, I'm trying to work out a cool interview with the guy who developed PageFour, the word processor that I use. Cool dude and cool product. Hopefully by next Sunday.

Thank you Blogger, for screwing up my "Picture Of The Day" element over in the sidebar. That thing has worked just fine for years, now it's goofed up. Appreciate it!

Still can't tell you the name of my Super Secret book project, but it is coming along nicely, thank you. I am out of "preproduction" and happily working away on the first draft. More on that in the near future.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

The Search

When I was a kid, say five to ten years of age, I had a most peculiar habit. When alone, and given some time, I would stare into a picture until I could see things inside the picture begin to move. Oil paintings, usually, or reproductions therefrom. My mother had an eclectic taste in art that ranged from God-knows-who to God-knows-what. This was back in the days when television only had four channels, counting PBS, and went off the air shortly before midnight most nights. This is back before computers and video games and iPods and every other G.D. thing we have today to fill our minds with useless NOISE. This is back when a View-Master(tm) and a pack of reels titled The Seven Wonders of the World could keep me occupied for the better part of an idle summer afternoon, and happily so.

I used to wish that I could disappear into pictures. Part of it was that I wanted to escape the roller-coaster reality in which I lived, but the greater part of it, the part that matters, was that I have always longed for exotic, distant, fantastical places. As I would lay and stare at some art reproduction, I would make up stories in my mind about the people and/or the place that I was viewing. Of course, I was always the hero of these tales. God knows how many imaginary villages and villagers are left standing today thanks in no small part to my diligent (and heroic) efforts against dragons, giants, and mean stepfathers...never pictured, always beyond the horizon, just out of reach of the artist's brush.

There was one particular reproduction that I am desperately searching for on the Internet. The problem is that I know virtually nothing about it; no title or artist, just a vague recollection of what it looked like. There was a house on the right side, with a lake in front of it that seemed to span the bottom part of the canvass. There was a little boat on the lake, and one or two people in the boat. The whole of it was blanketed by trees, and mysteriously dark, while on the left side of the painting an opening in the trees (possibly with a river or a stream running through it) opened out into a brighter place somewhere off in the distance. That's about all I can recall, other than that the painting seemed very dark and moody, but in a mysterious way. I think the thing that fascinated me the most about it was that the light was in the background, and I always wondered what was beyond that opening in the trees, in the clearing beyond.

I don't know if I will ever find it again, and there is a part of me that wonders if I should even try. Sometimes the way you remember things is better than the way that they really are. Sometimes a strange and mysterious thing from childhood is revealed as mundane and simple by the stark, white glare of an adult mind.

Maybe I'm searching for something else entirely.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Rain

I like rain, and rainy days. I'm not sure why--back when I was going through a horrible bout of depression I used to think that gray, rainy weather made me feel good because it matched my "internal weather"--but whatever the reason, rainy days always seem to energize me. I wonder, sometimes, if some beautiful childhood moment is associated with rain, locked away in my subconscious. This concept forms the heart of my current book project, tentatively titled Beautiful Rain. In it, I explore the magic of childhood fantasy, how and why it is lost, and whether or not a middle-aged person can recapture it.

That said, you can certainly have too much of a good thing, as the picture of the rain-swollen creek not far from my house attests. By this time of year that thing is usually bone dry. It rained nearly every day here for two weeks in June, and it has rained five or six days so far in July. And it wasn't just an on-again-off-again drizzle, either. It poured, sometimes for twenty and thirty minutes at a stretch. Trying to keep up with the lawn work has turned into a nightmare as the grass never completely dries before the next cloudburst comes along. I don't care much for mowing wet grass, so when I do get a break long enough for the lawn to dry up, the crap is high enough to harvest and bale.

But for all of that, I still get a mysterious little thrill when I am sitting here in the wee small hours of the morning and I hear a rumble of distant thunder, and I lean back in my chair and wonder again what happy, wonderful thing happened in my distant past having to do with rain. Maybe I kissed a pretty girl under a tree in some back yard, or found some bright, mysterious object to add to my "junk" collection. I don't know. I may never know. When I really reach back into my mind, all I get is an image of myself with some faceless, nameless friend, walking around the neighborhood in our small town after a summer thunderstorm. In this vague memory (if it is a memory, and not some romantic fabrication) the storm has just passed, and the sky to the north and east is awesome with huge black storm clouds and lightning. To the west, the sky is clearing, but for some reason I always picture that it is sunset, and my friend and I are cavorting around in the strangest, most beautiful glow of "magic light" that I have ever seen. Everything is wet green and bright burnt umber. There is a sense of urgency about the memory, as if I knew that my mother would be calling me inside soon, and I didn't want this special moment to end...more intriguing, that at the age of five or six, I understood that the moment was in fact special.

I suppose that is as much as I will ever know about it, and I will never be certain if it is a real memory, or just some creative wishful thinking born of my adult mind. Something is there, though. It's like a wonderful dream that you forget immediately upon waking...leaving nothing but an ache in your heart and a yearning for some beautiful thing that you cannot quite remember. I get that feeling, when it rains.

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

Independence Day 2007

I don't have any old family pictures specifically related to the July Fourth Independence Day holiday, but this old photograph of my grandfather having broken a lawn chair while sitting down looks kind of "summery." I can almost hear my grandmother saying "Hang on, Jack. Let me go get the camera."

We were pretty big on celebrating July 4th, though, for all my lack of pictures to prove the point. I think the fact that we used to be able to light our own fireworks--and create our own displays--had a lot to do with this holiday being one of my favorites when I was a child. As I got older the July 4th holiday lost a little of it's mystique for me. It turned into a bar-b-cue/beer party, with occasional forays to some park to watch a large, professional fireworks display.

Professional fireworks displays are okay the first few times you see them, but after that they sort of suck. One looks suspiciously like all the others, year in and year out. It was a lot more fun to do it ourselves, back in the day. And exciting. Every year you could bet that somebody (probably after a few to many adult beverages) would very nearly injure himself (or someone else) trying to light some small explosive device with his cigarette. One year that stands out in my mind--even though I was only four or five at the time--my stepfather and grandfather got into a "pop-bottle rocket" fight with some teenage boys across the street. I remember being terrified as those things whizzed past my head and exploded in the yard behind me, and I remember my mom jerking me back into the house and saying "Goddamned idiots!"

I recently began work at a new job and I couldn't help but noticing a big sign that the manager printed and stuck on the bulletin board: WEDNESDAY JULY 4 IS A NORMAL WORK DAY. I'm not sure why he felt the need to put the word NORMAL in there ... in fact, I find it a bit insulting. I work in a place now that doesn't allow time off for holidays, and while I don't mind so much for myself, I resent that it messes things up for my family. They don't want to go do anything without me (although I have urged them to do so), and our entire July 4th celebration will probably consist of grilling hotdogs in the back yard and watching whatever fireworks we can see from the front yard later in the evening.

Last year--when I still had a real job, and time off for the holiday--we took my son to a nearby park where the city had set up a nice little carnival/antique car show. This is the same nearby park that has the fireworks display that we can see (more or less) from our front yard. We had a blast, although putting my son on a kiddie roller-coaster that scared the bejesus out of him wasn't quite as fun as watching some drunk relative nearly blow his face off with a cherry bomb.

Those where the days...

Friday, June 29, 2007

This is a test

This blog is currently SCREWED UP. I changed the template without first backing up the old one, and now the "Read more..." links do not work. I apologize for the inconvenience. Technicians are busily working to resolve the problem, even as you read this...

This is a continuation of the test. All of this will be deleted later.

Or not. I guess I'll just make this an actual post...and a lesson. I was perfectly happy with the way Vacuum Genesis worked...it was the butt-fugly look that I had come up with that I wanted to change. So I started goofing around with it and the next thing you know I had changed the template. Looks great (or at least better), but suddenly all my crap didn't work. All of my posts were of the "expandable" variety, so that you could read the teaser and then click on "Read More!" to see the entire post. Alas, clicking on "Read More!" did nothing. I clicked and clicked and clicked, but there was no "more!" for me to "read."

I dicked the VG Blogrolls section all to hell as well, but I was able to fix that. Luckily, there was no content lost; just I have to go back through every post and delete some html crap that makes it so you can't see the full post. The lesson? Back up your crap before you do ANYTHING. it is so easy to click on a thing and suddenly realize, OHHHHH NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Now then, to make this an OFFICIAL post, rather than me just spilling my guts about my obvious lack of blogging skills...I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT. Vacuum Genesis will be one of several stops on author Christine Norris' "Virtual Book Tour." She'll be here next Friday (July 6th), discussing her new book Return to Zandria, which is a sequel to Talisman of Zandria. You do not want to miss this interview.

(Now you know why I was trying to spruce the place up).

Saturday, June 9, 2007

A Fellowship Of Silence

When I began working at my new job two months ago, everyone warned me about Mark. "He's...different," seemed to be the consensus of opinion about this slightly overweight, middle-aged man. I'm not one to form an opinion of people based on such off-hand remarks, but when a lot of different people say essentially the same thing about a particular person, it is difficult not to develop some preconceived notions. So, never having met or spoken to the man, and based entirely upon the preponderance of public opinion, I initially regarded him with some apprehension.

I was sitting in the break area by myself, eating lunch and reading. It was my second or third day on the job. Mark walked in and sat down at another table to eat his own lunch. Here it comes, I thought. For those of you who have never worked in an industrial environment, I'll let you in on a little secret. There is something about the sight of a person sitting in a break room reading (anything, a book, a newspaper, a magazine...doesn't matter) that is antithetical to the sensibilities of the average industrial worker. I'm not knocking industrial workers, or calling them unintelligent. I've worked in industrial environments off and on all of my life. But it is a fact that the sight of another person reading in a break area is apparently highly offensive to most people, and brings about in them an irresistible urge to interrupt the person reading, and engage in some conversation. Excuse me. I'm in the break room now. You don't have to bother with that boring old book anymore. You can talk to me, instead. Actually what they say is something like:

"Say, gotcha a book there, huh? Whatcha reading?"

"Well, it's..."

"I read a thing in the paper this morning (at home, where people should do that sort of thing) about where Paris Hilton got out of jail for having a rash. A rash! You think they'd let a regular person out of blah for a little blah blah blah I'd still blah her brains out, though blahblahblahblahblah."

BLAH! Not counting my ex-wife, I've probably never been as close to strangling another human being than I have been when someone wants to interrupt my reading so they can run their mouth about some idiotic nonsense.

So there I sat in the break area, waiting for Mark to ask me if or not I thought George Bush should be impeached, or who I'm pulling for on American Idol, or whatever, and the longer that it didn't happen the more distracted I became. Finally, I looked up from my book to see him quietly eating his lunch and reading a book of his own, a great big ol monster of a hardback. I was so surprised and pleased by this unexpected fellowship of silence that I committed the very sin for which I've called so many other people to account. I blurted out: "Say, whatcha reading?"

I've never actually farted in an elevator, but I would imagine that the look on Mark's face is a close approximation of the ones that I would receive if I were to do so. He recovered quickly, though, and in the brief conversation that followed I learned that he was a fan of science fiction, and that in his younger days he had attended a lot of SF conventions and had met many famous authors. I also learned that he was an aspiring screenwriter, and that he had an unfinished script upon which he had been working for over a decade. That was rather interesting, I thought, but by then my lunch period was over, so I couldn't pursue the subject any further. I left the man to his book and went on my way.

Due to the vagaries of my work schedule, I didn't share a lunch period with Mark again. That, or he saw to it that my ignorant and uncultured ass was never around when he wanted to eat his lunch and read, sans interruption. I kept an eye on him, though, and I came to the conclusion that the reason so many other people didn't respond well to him was that they were a bit intimidated by him. He was highly intelligent and articulate, but for the most part rather quiet and reserved. He brought cakes, cookies, and brownies in to share nearly every other day, and in a passing conversation I learned that he liked to cook and bake. In snippets I learned that he was liberal in his political ideology, and that he had taken acting classes at one point in his life, which explained the somewhat annoying manner in which he would get on the warehouse intercom and deliver, in a James Earl Jones like baritone, the proclamation: "INbound, door SEVenTEEEEN. INBOUND, door SEVenTEEEEEEN."

Friday, June 8, I had just arrived at work and was getting ready to begin my day when the manager walked over to me. "I have some bad news," he said. "Mark died last night. His wife said he had a heart attack." Even though I didn't really know the guy very well, and we weren't very close, the news came as a shock to me. I had just seen the man the day before, and I couldn't recall anything unusual about him at that time. "It's not really very shocking," the manager told me. "Not if you knew him. He's had a lot of health problems, and he didn't really take care of himself." That struck me as a rather crass summation, but I reminded myself that these were the same people who had warned me in the beginning that Mark was different. Indeed he was.

Indeed he was.

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Storm: March 30, 2007


As it turned out, nearly being hit by a tornado the day before was kind of anticlimactic.


This creek on the west side of our house is normally bone dry.


And here are the same areas the next morning, after some drainage...



About a foot of water overflowing the bridge over the creek...


Sunset at the western edge of the cold front

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Oh Say Can You ... Wait?


Clearly some of us were more excited than others ...

We went to my wife's "Oath Ceremony" today. She was to be granted American citizenship. It was the end of a long road for her. The adventure began at 0830. We left the house and went over to pick up her mom. From there we had to stop at an ATM for some money ... we suspected that we were going to have to pay for parking ... and it was but the grace of God that I chose to take out $25 ... which gave me a $20 and a $5. The $5 wound up being essential to the entire day.

We drove downtown and the first shock of the day hit. They had started a bunch of road construction smack-ass on my planned route ... the route that we planned yesterday when we drove by the Federal Courthouse and figured everything out. How in the hell could they fuck shit up that bad in less than twenty four hours? But they did. I do not "do" downtown ... and its bullshit one-way streets and absolutely absurd layout. By the time I got near the Federal Courthouse and found a freakin place to park (for which I had to have exactly one $5 bill, or get towed), it was 0920. The letter that my wife was clutching desperately to her chest said we needed to be there at 0930. My wife's mother walks about .000000003000000021456 mph. I left them in the dirt, dragging my son behind me like a box-kite. My theory was that I could at least get in the building and tell somebody that my wife was in the vicinity, and that she would be along in a few days.

I hit a line. Turns out you have to metal-detect and show I.D. to get into the Federal Courthouse. We regrouped and showed the man our various forms of i.d. He noticed that I was out of breath and made some small comment. I let on as how we sure as heck wouldn't want to miss THIS particular 0930 appointment. He gave me a funny look, and then told me that the oath ceremony wouldn't even begin until 1230.

That was when I started to get a little worried.

It took us about ten minutes to get through the metal-detector. For whatever reason I had a crap-load of change in my pockets, and then when I had everything in the little basket, I still beeped going in. "Belt please." Grrr.

There was some confusion as to where we were supposed to go, beyond "check-point Charlie." The letter that she had received said "3rd floor, Room: none." As is usually the case when my wife and I don't have the faintest idea where we are supposed to go or what we are supposed to do, we start getting snappy with each other. Looking back, I wonder why we even thought it a problem. We found one huge courtroom at the end of a long hall with several hundred people gathered there, most of them looking like they were from a foreign countries. What the hell else would they be doing there?

We were hustled in and told to sit. We picked the back bench, left side. Shortly after that, an attractive and very professional looking black woman stood up and began to speak. She told us how the first part of the process would work ... essentially, sit there until your name is called, go down to the front, review your paperwork, turn in your resident card (the infamous green-card, which is not green, by the way) sign your certificate, grab a paper to fill out that will change your social security status from resident to citizen, take a seat number and head on down to the cafe in the basement for coffee and snacks. Be back in this courtroom at 1130 to prepare for the ceremony.

One hour and fifty minutes later, at 1120, when they finally called my wife's name, it occurred to us that we might not get to join the gang down in the cafe. Or get snacks. My six-year old son was a wonder through it all. He managed to sit through the entire ordeal with only a few episodes of the fidgets, and all I had to do to bribe him was promise to buy him a pet goldfish.

My wife hadn't even made it back up the aisle after having filled out her paperwork when the man started asking to see people's numbers. It was time for the applicants to take their seats down in the front, just to the left of the "bench." Other people were passing out a papers to the onlookers, an itinerary of the naturalization proceedings that would begin at 1200.

Thirty more minutes of waiting. I took the opportunity to explain to my son the significance of what was about to occur, and to advise him that once the guy came in and said "all rise!" there would be a moratorium on fart jokes and tickle games. At one point, the Designated Naturalization Examiner, Citizenship and Immigration Services, Department of Homeland Security representative wanted the applicants to practice the part where she would read out the names of the various countries from which the applicants had come, at which point the applicant(s) in question where to stand briefly and be recognized. Two interesting things happened at this point. First, when the representative called out Mexico, over half of the 150 some-odd applicants stood up. The onlookers in the gallery began to laugh, presumably because such a large portion of the applicants were (soon to be former) Mexican nationals. It struck me as odd that so many people would laugh. Given the recent attention on illegal immigrants from that country, I think they should have been applauding, rather than laughing. The incident made me uncomfortable. The second incident occurred when the country of Russia was called out. It turned out that the Russian woman didn't understand or speak English, and the people sitting around her had to quickly devise a signal system where-by the woman could be alerted when it was her turn to stand. I learned later that the incident annoyed the hell out of my wife, and several other applicants to whom she spoke. They were in general agreement that one ought to speak and understand a certain amount of English in order to become an American citizen, particularly since it is one of the requirements set out in the Naturalization process. I tend to agree with them on this point.

At 1200, on the dot, the man said "all rise!" and three judges swooped into the room and took their seats on the bench. The United States District Court, Western District of Oklahoma, was now in session. The Chief Judge made a few remarks, then she asked the Homeland Security rep to present the applicants. There followed a long spiel in which the examiner advised the court that the applicants had met all the requirements, and she asked the court to accept them and administer the Oath of Allegiance.

The courtroom darkened, and on a screen at the back of the room, to the right of the bench, President George Bush appeared to welcome everybody aboard. After that, there was a short and inspiring video, set to the tune of Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A."

The Oath of Allegiance followed, the penultimate point of the proceedings. All of the applicants were asked to stand and raise their right hand. The Clerk of Court read the Oath in parts, and the applicants repeated it.

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

I have to tell you, it was quite an emotional moment for everyone involved. It was as if the importance of what was going on, right before our very eyes, suddenly occurred to everybody. For those few minutes, I completely forgot about all of the discomfort we had endured to get to that point. And as great an emotional impact as it had on me, I cannot begin to imagine what those 150 some-odd applicants were feeling. They had waited for so long, had jumped through so many hoops, had encountered so many unknown and unknowable other difficulties on their long and separate roads to this moment. I would imagine that the discomforts and delays that we went through that morning were as nothing to them.

When they stood up and raised their right hands, they were immigrants, living and working in this country as guests. When they sat back down, they were American citizens. It was the most amazing thing that I have ever seen. There were a lot of teary eyes.

After the oath ceremony, the judges (there were three of them) each made a few brief remarks. The Chief Judge presiding recognized the representatives from the Daughter's of the American Revolution, and then one of the applicants, a doctor from China, read a short speech that he had been invited to give. He spoke English, to his credit, but I don't think anybody understood much of what he said through his accent. It didn't matter, when he was finished, we all applauded and cheered.

Everybody stood to say the Pledge of Allegiance, the Chief Judge made some closing remarks, and then the man banged the gavel and it was over.

Almost. It took another twenty minutes for my wife to actually get her certificate, and then we had to stand in another line for about forty minutes after that to change her social security status from resident to citizen. A young woman from Ghana, dressed in her full military outfit, was filling out her form beside us as we stood in line. My wife (who can be a bit nosy, but generally in a kindly manner) leaned over to the young woman and said "No. You are a citizen now." The woman had--probably from habit--checked the "resident" box on her form. The look of confidence and relief on my wife's face, and on the faces of the other newly minted American citizens around me, was transcendental. I would have stood there another four hours, if that was what it had taken, talking and joking with those happy, smiling people.

We left the courthouse at about 0130, and by 0200 we were all sitting in a nice little Mexican restaurant, eating a fine dinner and celebrating. There's not much to say beyond that. I was very blessed to have had that experience in my life. It's not the sort of thing that everyone gets to see. I found a quote while searching the Internet, and I think it sums the experience up nicely. It is by a man named George Mardikian. Mr. Mardikian was a naturalized American citizen born in Armenia, and he was awarded the US Medal of Freedom for his service to US servicemen during the Korean war.

You who have been born in America, I wish I could make you understand what it is like not to be an American -- not to have been an American all your life -- and then suddenly with the words of a judge in flowing robes to be one, for that moment and forever after. One moment, you belong with your fathers to a million dead yesterdays -- the next you belong with America to a million unborn tomorrows.

I don't think it can be expressed any better than that.