Happy birthday to me...

It's weird to me that so many of my good friends have birthdays within such a tight window. So happy birthday as well to The Mighty B, Kammah, !(bagels), The Joj, and - I'm sure - many more that I'm forgetting/missing. Capriquaricorns (and permutations thereof) unite!

This year, I gain a new 10's digit. Like most birthdays, that means that I don't feel any older today, but unlike most other birthdays, for some reason, 30 seems to indicate a passage of some sort. "He's in his twenties..." is used to excuse any number of childhood fallacies still lingering about one who has reached his majority, if not his adulthood.

My darling Bean is fond of asking a series of questions on one's birthday, and for many years, I've done my best to dodge answering them, but for the special occasion of my turning 0b11110 (yes, I did that) - not to mention the fact that I now have this cool bloggy thing - I am of a mind to share.

The kind of story I tell my daughter...

A while back, I was trying to convince a certain child of mine that she really ought to sleep, no matter how much she wanted to stay awake. When I tried shushing her, she just screamed louder. But when I talked to her, she'd shut up, so she could hear what I was saying.

I should tell her a story, thinks I to myself.

Yeah? That'd be awesome, thinks my brain back to me. Only... I seem to have misplaced every children's story you've ever heard.

No worries, I'll just come up with a new one - she's not going to know the difference at this age, anyway, I think right back. I'll just tell her about something that would put most folks to sleep.

And this is what happened (with illustrations)...

The Footnote tag

I wrote this post an age ago, but never posted it for some reason. Updated the math, and I'm just going to throw it out there now, lest it langour longer in the land of the lost.

The astute reader may have noticed that one of the most-commonly used tags on this blog so far is the footnote tag. There's an amusing story behind this - well, amusing to me, anyway.

So the wife has a blog. A fantastic, funny, witty, interesting blog. After she'd been blogging for a while, she made a comment to me that she felt like she was putting footnotes on every post. So I suggested that she make a 'footnote' tag, and tag every post that had a footnote in it, so that she could quickly see what percentage of her posts were afflicted with footy-notey goodness.

She then spent the better part of an evening going back through all of her posts and adding 'footnote' to the list of tags for all of her annotated posts. At the end of the day, that tag outstripped every other tag on her blog by a large margin. And by large, I mean "nearly double the next-most-oft-used tag". Even today, my quick napkin math shows that she has footnotes on 22.99% of her blog posts¹. I give her occasional bouts of heck about it.

Well, then along comes this here bloggy-space. And in my first real post (the baby announcements had already been drafted for emails to friends/family/coworkers), I find myself all up on the footnotes like Axe body spray on desperate teen boys.

What's good for the goose is good for the gander, so I've taken a dose of my own medicine and mixed metaphors like a metaphor-mixing fool who graduated from Metaphor University with a degree in MetaMixology.

So yeah, probably not as interesting if you're not - y'know - me, but there you have it.

¹ - (63 / (64 + 150 + 60)) * 100, for anyone who wants to check me.

Attention Splitting

I was talking with a friend in IMs today who said that he needed a way to split his attention six ways at once. That led to, well, silliness...

Try the new Attention Splitter!

Using patented prismatic technology, you can feed up to 10 data feeds into your eyesockets, for minimum enjoyment of more distractions than ever before!

That's amazing! How does it do that?!

How does it work? I'm glad you asked!

Simply replace an eyeball with one of our Attention Hub Occular Implants, and position a Transmission Hub Attention Receiver in front of your desired time-waster. Once you're set up, let the AHOI-THAR refract, reflect, and retransmit your attention from THAR to here!

(Set includes two AHOI-THAR interfaces, extra THAR sold separately)

But how do I know that there won't be any signal degredation!?

Signal degradation? What's that? We're beaming you the full monty, my friend. Your AHOI-THAR unit sends, uncompressed, the full feed of whatever you place in front of it! If you do encounter issues, however, we have a separate unit, the Optional Hub Attention Input, which can be used to boost the signal from a THAR by up to 100%. Your AHOI will then connect to the new OHAI-THAR link, providing you full access to distraction, no matter where you are!

Dislaimer: The product described above is in no way a good idea, supported by scientific or medical research, or available for purchase on any plane of existence. People wishing to pre-order the Attention Splitter device should take a step back and seriously re-evaluate their priorities, then have their sarcasm detectors recalibrated at their earliest convenience. Not responsible for damage to items left in vehicle caused by fire, theft, or giant Monty Python foot. 

From beyond the grave...

On Sunday last, during a rehearsal with my sister and her husband for our upcoming Celtic Christmas show, my brother-in-law let me know that cell phone numbers had been rearranged to make the best use of the plans and devices that were available, and that he now had my dad's old phone number. I noted this, but - as we were getting set up to rehearse - did nothing with this information.

Fast-forward to the next day, and I get a text from L saying that her battery has died, but that my sister is on her way to rescue her. God bless family. I chatted with her some while she waited on my sister to arrive, and

About 30 minutes or so later, I receive the text you see here. (Complete with the 'FUAutoCorrect'-style typo, but minus the mustache. That just seemed very much like a cooler option than a plain bar across the phone number...)

Yup. That's right. Nothing to see here, only my father texting me from beyond the grave!

Prayer of the Children

When I first heard what happened today in Connecticut, my first instinct was to want to run home and hold my daughter. It was nearly the end of my day by the time a friend told me what had happened, though, so I managed to hold out until quitting time.

On the drive to dinner (with L & El), I was thumbing through my music library, and found an old recording of my high school choir singing this song. Though I still remember all of the words, try as I might, I couldn't sing along.

My daughter is my world. I know that several people have said it before me, so I join them in saying that I cannot fathom what so many families are going through tonight. Simply hearing that another parent has been told that their child will never come home is utterly devastating.

I've only been able to watch the first few minutes of the President's address following this atrocity, and hearing the raw emotion in his voice - hearing the leader of the free world choke back a sob as he thinks about his own daughters - lets me know that I am at least in good company.

The song was written in a different time, in a different country, under different circumstances. I'm not saying that it is a perfect expression of the sorrow of today, but I'll share it anyway.

Prayer of the Children

Like so many tonight, my thoughts, prayers, and heart go out to the families and friends who lost loved ones today. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hold my baby and thank God that I have a baby to hold.

Edit: Because, formatting. And labels.

Great American Cowboy

I want to tell you about my dad. There's way too much I want to say for this to have any hope of being a short post, so I'll give you a second to grab a snack or go to the restroom first.

...

Randall Kent Welch

Welcome back. So yeah. My dad. Randy. That's him over there, looking quite dapper in the hat Linnea and I brought back from Ireland for him.

He loved to laugh, especially at bad puns and life's many ironies. A disbelieving groan was the ultimate repayment for his favorite jokes. From his wit, I learned the tale of the frayed knot, the relative hunting prowess of children in Native American culture¹, and that, though I knew it not myself, my nose and feet gave away my poetic leanings (they're long fellas, you see).

He loved to be surrounded by family and friends. He took great pride in his family, and loved to spend time talking with and listening to and loving everyone. He would have dozens of people over to play gospel music in his living room because he loved to see everyone and share laughter and music with them.

Reading at our wedding

He loved Jesus, and loved to share his own miraculous story with others, so that they - like my entire family - might know absolutely that miracles still happen. He received a heart transplant that saved his life many years ago. When he was placed on the waiting list for a donor heart, his doctors were not confident that they would be able to find one for him before the virus attacking his heart ran its ultimate course. By the same time the next day, he was sitting up in bed telling us that his new heart was so loud that it was keeping him from sleeping. Even then, I remember being told that there was no guarantee that he would make it long enough to see me graduate high school, much less see me married or get to meet my children. He apparently took that as a challenge, and did all three. Just three years ago, he surprised everyone again by surviving an aortic aneurysm and dissection - the latter of which was prevented from killing him outright by the scar tissue his heart transplant had left in its wake. That's just two of the absolutely unbelievable miracles he experienced, and he thanked God for the gift of time he was given.

He loved to write. For years, he wrote a daily worship thought - he called them the "Daily Torch" - that he shared with anyone who wanted to read it. I still have years' worth of them in my email archives, all of which I plan to read someday. He wrote songs, some of which he sang only once or twice in my recollection, and some others that we sang all the time, both as a family and later in his band. He even started working as a freelance writer, and was published in a smattering of places - I even seem to recall that he was working toward an article with Texas Monthly at one point.

Playing his bass fiddle

He loved music. I grew up listening to him sing and play - guitar, bass, and occasionally even banjo. He had a rich baritone voice and a love for the songs and stories of days gone by. The soundtrack of my childhood was provided by his love of country and American folk, but what I'll remember most about my father's music is the band he helped start (and that I later joined), Cowboys At Heart. Many of my favorite memories with my father come from the music we shared, and my passion for my chosen genre of Irish music is one he himself inspired when we discussed putting together a show that traced the Irish and Scottish roots of the Cowboy music we both loved. C@H only released one cassette tape, but today I converted that to digital so that I could make it available for anyone who wants to listen.

He taught me so much - how to sing; what it means to be a father; how important family is; how to play guitar; how to solve problems; how to pray; the full extent of love; when to be strong and when to ask for help. 

His was a life regularly punctuated by medical trials. Each of his knees had been twice replaced by the time I graduated high school, both of which gave him grief. He had two steel rods placed in his back, both of which had broken at some unknown point in time, adding 'chronic back pain' to his list. The surgery to repair the aneurysm in 2009 paralyzed his left vocal cord and the left side of his diaphragm, leaving him unable to sing (but that didn't stop him from recording a song with me). He's been in constant pain of one type or another for the better part of three decades, and through it all, he kept going. For family. For music. For his writing. For laughter. For the glory of God.

Cowboys at Heart

On 10 August 2012, he left all his pains and burdens behind. I will mourn the loss of a great man - though I've had 12 years to mentally prepare for his passing, no amount of preparation is equal to the loss of a father and dear friend - but far greater is my happiness in knowing that he will hurt no longer. I will always remember my father as the modern-day cowboy: a legend, a leader, and the Lord's witness here on earth.

I can think of no finer way to end this post than with his own words (with one minor tweak), from a song he wrote in 1993.

Lord, bless this cowboy; wrap him up in your arms
He's riding your range now, far away from life's harms
When we go out at night, he'll look down from above
As he rides this new range, let him feel his family's love

Mother's Prayer by Randy Welch

Welcoming Eleanor to the world

You can see where I get my rugged good looks

* If you're interested about the title of the post, it's from this song, by one of dad's favorite bands, the Sons of the San Joaquin.

¹ - There's a bad joke ahead. No, seriously. Read on at your own risk. You've been warned.

Many moons ago, a son was born to the wife of Hippopotamus, the most revered chief on the plains. As luck would have it, sons were also born to the wives of two other chiefs on the very same day. The three braves grew up as comrades, but also as friendly rivals, for each felt the burden of leadership looming, and knew that he must prove himself in order to live up to the legacy of his father. 

Many winters passed, and all three braves - on the very same day - went through the customary rites of passage into manhood. They were sent out from camp, alone, with only tools and weapons they themselves had made, to bring back food for the camp. 

The Hippopotamus waited anxiously for his son's return. Many hours passed, and a messenger brought back news from the first of the other tribes - the chief's son had returned, bearing with him two fine deer. Soon thereafter, a messenger arrived from the second tribe, to report that that chief's son had - as well - returned with two deer, and his father was most pleased. In time, the remaining son returned to his tribe, bearing with him on a makeshift litter four deer, which he presented to his father, who shone with pride. 

The Hippopotamus embraced his wife and turned to the messengers. "Take this message back to your chiefs: Let it be known that the son of the squaw of the Hippopotamus is the equal of the sons of the squaws of the other two tribes."