Grandfetus revealed (and how). It's a he, and his name shall be Gabriel

Since my daughter, Brenda, and her husband Idal told us she was expecting, I've been calling my future grandfetus "Critter."
This was tolerated, barely, by the future parents.
Now, halfway through the pregnancy, a sonogram snapshot confirms that "Critter" is a male.
Captured for all to see are the appropriate . . . accoutrements to the male gender. Let's just say, without bragging, that the evidence is impossible to miss.
Even if the viewer suffered poor eyesight. Just sayin.
Moving along . . . 
So, the child's name shall be . . .  Gabriel Mims-Tchinang Tchoundjo.
I suspect, as the years come along, I will be calling him "Gabe."
After all, it took me nearly a year to get the pronunciation of my son-in-law's name (he's originally from Cameroon) correct.
It is nice they included our family name in there, though.
And, who knows . . . I might even have a special nickname for little Gabe down the road.
Hmm.
Maybe . . . Critter!

P.S. Not sharing the aforementioned sonogram, at the parents' request.

P.S.S. I'd have to include a viewer's warning, after all.

Packing heat? Why, O why? Here's why

People who just can't understand why anyone would want a concealed-carry weapon's permit need to ride the 5 a.m. TRAX train to work with me, and get off in the dark one block north of three homeless/drug treatment facilities. 

Or, like today, just ride the train.

During their once-a-month, check-your-ticket visits to the early train to downtown, a Utah Transit cop came upon a fellow sitting across from me whose transfer pass was two days out of date. No I.D., but did give his name, and found he has twice before been cited for trespassing on the train . . . and had numerous arrest warrants. 

As she was citing him again, another guy -- tats, piercings, angry and obviously cranked up, started bellowing into his cell phone from two seats away:

"I don't wanna go back to Max and end up slitting my wrists, dude! Do something! Y'all ain't got my criminal history, I'll never get out, $#!@!" 

The UTA officer quietly called for backup, and when the second, burly transit cop arrived the bad boy was out the door and down the street and into the dark.

So, yeah. THAT's why. Armed cops were there, this time, a once-a-month fluke. One day out of 30.

So, perhaps a .38 Special with five 158-grain, "self defense" rounds in the cylinder, could be something of a comfort. 

You know, rhetorically speaking. Sort of.

It's Spring. Live. Just breathe.

Introspection, and the all-too-human arrogance of thinking our "plans" have any real meaning or permanence as they float around like neurons winking out in the mind of God, blinds you (me, all of us) to the pure joy of living.

 I realized this, an epiphany repeated for the millioneth time it seems, as I looked up from my work station monitor and out the window at the Salt Lake Valley. 

There it is: Spring, quiet, bright and airy, and thunderous in its silent witness to things ever so larger than my own petty concerns.

Just breathe.

 Work to live, to eat, provide shelter, clothe yourself and loved ones. Don't live to work.

St. Paul put it this way:

"But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that. Those who want to get rich fall into temptation and a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs." 1st Timothy 6-10 (NIV)