The Inept Genius

Inept, a harsh word by definition. Yet used widely in all realms of media to describe anyone who misspells, misspeaks or missteps in public forum or physical place and time.

After browsing several online thesaurus and dictionary’s, I came away frustrated and even defensive. Synonyms like; clumsy, awkward, inappropriate, unskilled, and stupid popped up frequently in my searches. My favorites, “MALADROIT and GAUCHE”, what haughty gathering of “Horse-faced”, “Inbred Nobles” would one need to attend to hear such fancy degradation of another human being?!

I don’t get it. Why are we collectively so mean and why are we so good at it? What disturbs me more is that such language is more often directed at the less fortunate, less educated, the collective middle-lower class. (American Peasantry) seems more appropriate. That’s not to say that the oppressed and maligned are any less guilty. Since their voice has little affect on the upper class, they turn their frustration inward.

As for the upper class, (American Nobility) at least publicly, seem to be less vulnerable to the affects of bad press and snooty banter. They wield it among themselves like sabers dulled for the theater. At the end of Act One, everyone goes back to their glass towers and gated communities. No blood shed.

So what’s with the title of this piece, “The Inept Genius”? It was suppose to be about my father and to a lesser degree, myself. I was going to write about my father’s extreme intellect yet inability to follow through on most things. He was socially absent, yet could talk exhaustively “at you” about the gearing of a 1927 model X Duesenberg transmission, (that he rebuilt from original blueprints). The last a point never included unless asked. He had stacks of note books with mathematical equations and sketches of steam locomotives detailing the function of every part.

In the end, he died at 65 years of age from emphysema, a lifelong smoker of Raleigh non-filtered cigarettes, 4 packs a day.  And he was penniless, spending his last days in a nameless ward of a small county hospital.

His life in so many ways is a metaphor for our society. He was both a Nobleman and a Peasant. Where he was gifted with endless potential so are we as a collective. Where he failed to follow through so do we, both as Noblemen and Peasants.

It starts with our words and ends with our actions. Time will tell if we are able to follow through.


Note:  I only saw my father a couple weekends a year growing up. Those weekends were magical. I loved to hear him tell stories of running down to the train tracks to watch the steam locomotives come through town. We spent hours working on his model railroad and talking about cars, trucks and steamships. He had an album that had every article from the local newspaper that mentioned me in sports. I truly think I’m the only person he ever really heard when they spoke. I never felt so loved and important.

As for me, I’m working on being better at following through. I have a loving supportive wife that makes sure I hear when other people speak to me. And socially, I do pretty well. I hate small talk and avoid haughty people, although I can pretend when necessary. As far as genius.. What is that anyway? Success for me, is following through.


Managing Time

I just spent my valuable morning writing block reviewing the Writing Workshop of Chicago, May 14th, 2016. I just spent 20 more minutes eating cereal, staring at this first sentence and monitoring the time in the corner of my screen.

I’m now 40 minutes past my allotted time. The daily time I have set for writing is 9:00 am to 12 noon. So if I spent 20 minutes eating cereal then started writing again 40 minutes past my allotted time, WHERE DID THAT PRECIOUS 20 MINUTES GO?!.

Moving the 32 feet from the study to kitchen and back, taking a moment to pet our dog, Memphis the Mastiff, grabbing a handful of jellybeans…well, I guess that’s where it went.

I’ve never been to a writer’s conference or workshop. I’ve only been a serious writer for about 4 days…this time around. The Chicago workshop is only a 3 hour trip, so no overnight expenses, just cost of workshop and any extras, paid time with agents. etc.. I would have to take my wife. She’s my greatest advocate and best friend, not to mention, she remembers everything! So the cost just doubled. I don’t suppose they have a reduced rate for advocates and human dictation machines..?

Now it’s 20 after 1:00 pm. I’m suppose to be working up a bid for my first client with my new business, C.W. Hime Carpentry and Millworks. Don’t worry, I won’t let her down, she’s also a dear friend.

In assessing what I have done this week thus far; Monday I built my company webpage, Applied for a contractor’s license and reviewed state requirements. Blogged, motivated my unmotivated son to do something..he raked leaves. 

Tuesday I did a controlled burn on our property, visited my clients condo, took measurements and discussed designs. Oh, and wrote the first draft prologue for my novel, “Donor Farms”, which you can read here on my site, page link at the top.

Wednesday I blogged, worked on my business plan, took some calls regarding my retirement, did some heavy cleaning around the house-loaded the truck for the dump.

Thursday I wrote the story concept for “The Mud People”, the second in the series novel to “Donor Farms”. You can read both here on my site. It too, has a page link at the top. We then drove our son to be dropped off for a spring break family trip. that was a 3 hour round trip.

So here we are Friday morning..well now afternoon. I’ve been with you most of my day so far. I will spend the rest of the afternoon working on my bid and drawing some designs. My wife will be home from traveling with work about 6:30 pm.

I guess my week has gone pretty well. As far as blogging and writing, I’ve managed to gut something out everyday. Not bad volume for a two-fingered, 1 thumb-space bar typist.

Did I say my wife will be home from work at 6:30 pm and our son is away on spring break?! I can’t wait to see her!

Nothing to do About Rain


It’s a rainy cold morning here on my hilltop. I took this picture off my deck just moments ago. The wide eaves of the house don’t allow for the traditional rainy day view. There are no raindrop laced windows to sell the mood. As you can see, the trees and fence are wet and a light mist rises from the distant lowland.

What is absent is the traditional wet pavement, umbrella’d pedestrians and sense of hurry and caution. There is no tranquil park for lovers to stroll in rain-soaked clothes, warmed by their hearts and lost in the moment.

The only signs of my being is the fence that keeps the dog in and the coyotes out. The hay field in it’s early spring awakening and the quarter mile long driveway that has nowhere to go today.

I suppose if I was a city folk, I would possibly find refuge in a type of brownstone, homogeneously tucked away among a dozen more. I would have a large rain-laced window to sit and ponder the lovers and umbrella’d pedestrians as they cautiously navigate the rain-soaked streets. I would wonder where they find refuge and what busyness drew them away from it on this rainy day.

Until recent, I lived in town far longer than I was ever meant to. And I have to admit, I spent little if any time in front of raindrop laced windows pondering anything. I did not take time to observe the silliness of lovers nor did I care about where all the umbrella’d pedestrians might seek refuge.

All that I knew was refuge was temporary and fleeting. I found it whenever I could, tucked between 12 hour shifts in ICU. Pedestrians were replaced with bodies, many many bodies. Raindrops were replaced with the blood and tears of lovers now faced with lose.

It will take some time on this hilltop and a lot of rain to wash away the blood and tears, to silence the weeping of lovers and to allow me to ponder where all those umbrella’d pedestrians might find refuge.

These are the truths as I know them; The rain will always come. The coyotes will always want inside of your fences. There will always be more bodies. Refuge is in the heart, whether on a hilltop or tucked away in a Brownstone.

As for those lovers, well that would be me and my wife. And I can’t wait to stroll in the rain, warmed by our hearts, lost in the moment. I love you Sateash

“I recently retired after 25 years in healthcare/critical care.  My truth; I am a carpenter, I am a writer, I am no longer a warrior…my war is over.”



“Much About Nothing” by C.W. Hime

Before I’ve written a word, I’m already sidetrack by the obsessive nature of my tendencies. I think I would like to eliminate the periods following the “C” and the “W’ in my name. It’s my father’s name actually, Charles William.

I use his name because I’m proud he was mine and I think a man like him should not go unnoticed. My father lived his life largely isolated, even from the few friends he had and most certainly, family save his mother and me.

Ironically, he went by Bill. He hated Charles and any of it’s synonyms like Charlie or Chuck. And if irony had a brother it would be this notion, my name is Bill, William Edward to be exact. I hate Edward and go by C.W. to honor my father!

Now none of this has anything to do with me wanting to write “CW” in lieu of “C.W.”. One could argue that “C.W.” is grammatically correct and I suppose it does look a bit more polished. But “CW” is easier to type, takes up less space and confuses the analytical fool that spends too much time staring at and pondering absurdly what kind of name is “CW”?!

Now if ironies brother had a sister it would be this, Grandma Hime was called “Mammy”, but her name was Ethel. I do not think she disliked being called Ethel or grandma or grandmother.

So here comes ironies sister’s illegitimate baby, my dad never addressed her with any of those, he just called her mom. Go figure…

And now you know too much about nothing. C.W. Hime

“Unlike Mr. Hemingway Continues” by C.W. Hime

Wow, how time steals from the things we love. Nonetheless, I am here. I see my last comments were June 12 of last year. So much life has happened since. So much time stolen…and perhaps wasted. After all, there is always some personal accountability is there not?
I turned 55 this year. I turned 54 last year and 53 the year before that. I see a trend here with no end in site. One might be tempted to point to the obvious, “death”.
But I would argue that if one is a spiritual person then death is only a step towards eternity. Or, if one is successful enough to have their life celebrated by the masses, it could be said that Mr. Hemingway will be 117 years old on his birthday, July 21st. Now that’s a life well lived! …I will deliberately forego mentioning he took his own life 19 days short of his 62nd birthday.
Hmm, I wonder what about 62 troubled him so?

Personally, I’m looking forward to 117. I hope I’ve actually done something more than write another paragraph or 2 once a year. That would be 70 or so paragraphs collectively over the course of the next 62 years. That’s not prolific, and very unlike Mr. Hemingway.

Unlike Mr. Hemingway, by C.W.Hime

I find myself sitting here in a labyrinth of my creation. Years of success and failure stacked precariously like ancient Greek columns rising from every available flat surface. A library of books and periodicals spreads from shelves to floor in an organized chaos that only I understand.
Here, I’m comfortable, surrounded by all that represents all of me. Every thought I ever committed to text lays before me. Every mood, cause, notion and whimsy lays here recorded. If I were to vanish from this earth, this would be my footprint.
This is where anyone who cared about me would come to touch what is left of me. Perhaps they would read through these pages and in doing so, hear my voice and feel my passion. Perhaps, the one I love the most, would sit at my desk, fingers tracing my doodles, comforted by the cologne of my scent and old leather as the arms of my chair wrap around her.
This is what I imagined it would be like ever since reading an article about Ernest Hemingway when I was fourteen years old. I think it was in National Geographic magazine and there where several black and white stills included. The one that captured me was of Mr. Hemingway wearing a house coat or robe. There he stood in a room much like I described above, frozen in time. He held a pad and pencil, appearing to stare off in thought.
The article went on to explain that this was his favorite way to write. I found this fascinating knowing in his early years he earned his bread and butter as a war correspondent. I can only guess he had some mad typing skills, something that seems to have eluded me over the years.
I’m at my best writing with a yellow legal pad and #2 pencil, Ticonderoga Wood-cased #2 HB to be exact. Unlike Mr. Hemingway, this is out of necessity rather than option. I have more than a few, “unlike Mr. Hemingway’s”.

Unlike Mr. Hemingway, I have no such room as described above. I have not amassed my life’s work in any such quantity. In fact, recently I have been going through my old writings and much to my dismay I’m afraid I can barely clutter my desk. So many starts and stops. I know there was more, between three moves and ultimately a divorce, things just seem to disappear.
It would be easy enough to run with this notion but lamenting rarely has the power to promote anything positive.
I did not start writing again to walk through barren fields.

As I stand today, what I see is tillable land with good dirt. The seed remains strong. I have never felt so free to write as do now at this stage of my life. I have never had such a partner as my wife. She is my crusader and a believer in who and what I am.
With every hour I write I’m building those columns. I own the books and like mushrooms, there always seems to be more. But unlike at fourteen, I realize those columns of notes and manuscripts exist by default. They’re the by-product of doing. My hope is for them to be read, to be published.
Words that remain sheathed and unread, serve no other purpose than to quiet the one who wrote them.

Our lives are measured in many ways and differently for each of us. Often we are measured by others. But people are a finicky thing. They come and go. And there is no uniformity to the measuring stick they use. So it falls upon those who love us and who know us. We should measure ourselves by how faithful we have been to our passion and to those we father and to those we call wife and husband.

Unlike Mr. Hemingway, I still have the opportunity to do all these things. We should not waste a day walking through barren land. This is tillable soil, the seed is strong. Unsheathe your words and go forth.