I spent my life being told the dangers of looking at an eclipse unprotected, so I didn’t. Yesterday, my wife was going to watch it with the grandkids, so I researched the glasses.

I went to get a pair from a guy selling glasses from his truck, which had a table next to it. He handed me a pair, but I had the numbers written down. He was ready for me and read the numbers. All good, but one problem.

Me: These are 2015 glasses. They’re nine years old.

Him: I don’t know. 5 dollars.

Me: They’re nine years old. You get these for free and sell them for 5 bucks. You have quite a racket going here.

But I bought the glasses, went home, and warned my wife to be careful. I warned her the glasses were old. She reminded me that I said only the numbers mattered. I only bought one pair since I wasn’t going.

But after nine years, a scratch is enough, and after nine years, there had to be a problem. I kept talking to her, trying to convince her not to go. I told her she could be blind with a couple seconds of exposure.

A friend of mine came over. She handed him the glasses to try on. The guy has a head the size of a watermelon. Now, the glasses would fall off her head while watching the eclipse. I showed my wife pictures of people holding the sides of the glasses against their heads with their hands. I told her to make sure to do this to be safe.

When she left, I again instructed her to keep herself safe. I was going to stay home but decided to run an errand. I grabbed my cane—yes, I use a cane. It’s my Bat Masterson look.

We were in the path of totality. As I was driving, it was starting to get dark. I put my lights on, stopped the car, and glanced at the Sun. It looked hazy. When I got to the end of the back road, I stopped and looked again. The Sun was almost blocked, so I started driving again. Another mile, and I was where I needed to be. I looked up again. The Sun was blocked, and the corona circled it. My glances were all short.

When I returned from the store, the Sun was really bright. I looked up, but it was too bright. I got in my car and drove to Watermelon Head’s house—actually, one of the barns. I told him on the way over that I could see wavy lines in front of my eyes. I have a somewhat large floater, which was now still, and my eyes hurt slightly.

My wife called while I was there. I told her what I was experiencing with my eyes. She expressed disbelief after hearing what I had done after all of my yapping about the importance of the right glasses, but she showed no concern.

Me: I could go blind.

Her: We’ll get you a white cane.

Uproarious laughter from Watermelon Head.

Fight to win at all costs; fair fights don’t exist in today’s world. Someone might die, so make sure it’s not you. Rip off an ear, gouge an eye, don’t sweat it; the other guy has a spare. Getting punched in the face? Doesn’t hurt in the moment. If you do it wrong, throwing one back can mess up your hand, but this isn’t some ’50s Western; no one’s winning with a punch to the jaw shot. Use an elbow, a knee, or slam a fist into their gut or heart; that works. Strike first as your defense and keep moving. It’s twenty seconds of chaos tops unless you’re dumb. It’s no-holds-barred and looks wild, but it’s calculated. Be the rabid monkey.

Matthew 7:13-14, part of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, and it reads:

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.”

The passage emphasizes the importance of making conscious and disciplined choices to live a life aligned with God’s will. The “narrow gate” symbolizes the path of righteousness and faith, which is challenging and requires effort and dedication. In contrast, the “wide gate” represents the easy, worldly path that leads to spiritual destruction and separation from God.

The wide and narrow gates are metaphors. We all start on the path toward the wide gate. The narrow gate being hard to find doesn’t mean God is hard to find. God is accessible to everyone through creation, scripture, prayer, and the longing in our hearts.

It means we make choices and the discipline required to live according to God’s teachings. It’s less about God’s presence being hard to find and more about the challenge of staying on the “narrow path” amidst life’s distractions and temptations.

The narrow gate metaphor reminds us that while God’s grace is freely given, actively living in faith takes effort and perseverance. It encourages believers to seek and keep God with sincerity and commitment, even when it is difficult or you may doubt God’s existence.

Think of it, in part, of The Road Less Traveled by M. Scott Peck, a book based on the idea that personal growth and fulfillment often come through facing life’s challenges with discipline, responsibility, and grace rather than taking the easy way out.

Peck’s philosophy aligns in some ways with Matthew 7:13-14, as both encourage choosing the path that requires effort and commitment but ultimately leads to deeper rewards-whether spiritual, emotional, or personal. Here, we’re talking spiritual, which leads to growth in all other ways.

From memories, this date, 2021. Tomorrow marks 22 years since my dad left his earthly journey. I try to keep things fresh each year, but this has been one before. I’m sure if it’s about him or me; there’s a second linked story that is more memorable to me. I thought about editing it to make it shorter and add some humor-not now, maybe later for my blog.

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There are two stories, so to speak; the second story is linked at the bottom, and a special reminiscence accompanies the picture. It’s my thought that, collectively, the two explain why I am who I am – well, in part, anyway. The photo accompanies the linked recollection, taken on the same day as the subject of the writing. My guess is only a person with a penchant for masochism will wade through both, yet they are linked.

PART 1

Eighteen years ago (tomorrow), my Dad died. On March 31, 2003, he went to the hospital and breathed his last breath around noon on April 7. One year later, I wrote a story about a hike he and I had taken about 20 years earlier. Anyone who wants to read the account is linked below. Is it related, in my opinion, to what I do today as an attorney? At least, that’s how I remember it. I haven’t read it since, but I remember the day and my thoughts.

As he did every year, my dad started riding his bike several weeks earlier. Mom had died about six years earlier, and I think my mom appears in the story. Due to illness, she couldn’t accompany us that day, but I knew she wanted to come along. In a way, though, it wasn’t a day for her, but I know she would have enjoyed it.

By learning from my dad, I learned about perseverance, standing up for what is right, accepting defeat, and moving forward. I should also have known, but I didn’t have a quiet yet determined nature. Determination, yes. He had a quiet sense of strength and calm, and for some reason, I couldn’t quite grasp his peaceful, easygoing nature, but I suppose I’m a work in progress.

He left me with the idea to pick myself up when I was down and try again. On of all days, April 1, 1966 (this was not an April Fool’s Day joke, although I wish it had been), I met three kids on a playground at 4:00 p.m. The sole purpose was to fight, but it was not much of a fight on my part. I didn’t know it then, and it made a difference; the main guy on the other side was more than three years older than me, and his life was fighting. I was good, but not that day.

Two odd things happened, and I made an error, and down we went to the ground. The punches started battering the right side of my face. How many, I’m not sure. It could have been 30, 40, or more. Yet, I never gave up. I was taught not to give up and to continue trying.

Then something almost comical happened. The punches stopped. I pulled myself to my feet and saw the three of them running away. I yelled to them to get back and fight, but I wasn’t done yet. Imagine that?! That’s the comical part because the side of my face was swollen. My mom was horrified and crying when she saw me a little later. She wanted to call the school and have action taken. My dad said no. Instead, he took me out back of the house to talk. He asked how many punches I got in. Sheepishly, I had to admit none.

I tried attributing it to an error I made (imagine getting sucker-punched twice in one fight by the same person). Still, he wasn’t interested in hearing about it. Instead, he wanted to teach me how to defend myself. Ironically, I already knew how, but looking at me, he wouldn’t have bought it. I didn’t do it well that day.

Dad had me put my hands up, and we sparred, no actual contact, just movement. He wasn’t encouraging me to go after the guy another day, just to be prepared if something happened again. It was like a time I fell off a horse; he immediately had me get back on because he knew if I didn’t, I would be more afraid to do so with each passing day.

Despite how I looked and felt, I had some friends playing basketball at an open gym that evening. My Dad encouraged me to go. I went and did the best I could. I lied earlier. I intended to avenge the fight, even if it took the rest of my life. Several days later, I ran into the older guy who had beaten me to pieces at a skating rink. He had blood on the front of his shirt, purportedly from three fights he had been in that day.

I walked up to him and announced I was not afraid of him and that we could do it again anytime. But, for whatever reasons, it was not to be. I doubt it scared him as I spoke, and it probably worked out best for me. Or maybe not. I would continue the hunt for vengeance, knowing each passing day would bring me the same body maturity level. I was prepared to wait until 18 or 19 and see him at a bar if necessary.

As a side note, he got in a fight that night and got beat, just not by me. A second side note is one of the kids on the playground that day I became friends with 45 years later despite our battles decades earlier. We became friends, but in three years, he would be gone.

So, my Mom would have intervened through the school. My Dad’s approach was better. I wish more parents would practice this lesson today, i.e., teach their kids to stand on their own.

Moving on to part 2, the link at the bottom is the important part), the picture shown is from the same day written of the event. It’s the only one I have and not a very good one. I tried to fix it. Dad was going 74 at the time and would be gone nine years later. In a sense, his death turned me into an orphan, but I learned a great deal from both him and my mom during the years I had them.

God knows I miss both of them and, of course, still love them both. The best thing I have is the memories, some of which have seen me through dark times and others that give me a good feeling. I still fall, but I get back up and try again as a result. That was the real lesson.

So, the story is linked below for anyone who wants to read it. I may reread it myself, yet I’m sure I won’t because I lived it. (added not-I still haven’t)

PART II actual story link

http://leeslegalnotes.livejournal.com/

I remember my mom giving me this. I was in the 7th grade, possibly the 8th grade. I cut it to the size of a bookmark and stuck it in my bedroom mirror, where it stayed for years. It’s nice to try to live up to, even though I suspect I’ve fallen short from time to time.

My version is attributed to an unknown author, the words modernized based on “The Guy in the Glass” by Peter Dale Wimbrow Sr., published in The American Magazine in 1934. The core message remains the same: valuing self-honesty over external validation.