I have a hard time with Christmas because it's less than two weeks then to the anniversary of Daniel's death.
Since he died, the holidays have been a count down of sorts to the anniversary, although that has eased over the years. The holiday specials on television like A Christmas Carol are frequently too much for me to bear, so I turn them off or find a good mystery I can get lost in.
That does not mean, however, that I give up on the people who continue to live and love. This year Derek, my chosen son, is in from Colorado and we will meet him and his girlfriend for brunch today before they return home, and I can hardly wait. We are having Christmas Eve with our old grandsons David and Jonathan, and we'll spend Christmas Day with Shannon, Derek's sister. We'll be with our new grandkids, Alexa and Grayson, the following weekend, and with Bill, who is like a son - and Carter, his son - the next day. I focus myself in each moment, and I survive, as I have for the last 15 years, soon to be 16.
This year is a different challenge because my therapist, the woman who was going to take me to Florence and buy me a pair of leather slacks if I lost 100 pounds (a safe bet, hah!) also died - in early summer. I haven't replaced her because I have learned that people cannot be replaced: they are not interchangeable parts in the machinery of life. And I haven't found a new therapist yet because I haven't really looked for one.
I didn't intend for this entry to be such a downer. I am truly thankful for all our family - related and not - and our friends, and the people we know who provide a giant pillow of love, which is, as I think about it, the essence of Christmas. I'll get through it, land softly and savor the moments. It will be a good Christmas after all.
We all have problems, and each person's is the worst because it's his/hers. But we get through them because of the love of others.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Corruption in Illinois
Several people, particularly my friend Valerie, told me they expected a comment about our current, corrupt governor. Here it is:
Rod Blagojevich, indicted governor of Illinois, is an arrogant asshole, corrupt, vain, and not smart enough to curb his tongue when he knew the feds were listening in on his telephone calls.
How's that Valerie?
Please comment below.
Rod Blagojevich, indicted governor of Illinois, is an arrogant asshole, corrupt, vain, and not smart enough to curb his tongue when he knew the feds were listening in on his telephone calls.
How's that Valerie?
Please comment below.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Porgy and Bess
Last night I saw Porgy and Bess at the Lyric Opera, their first production of the work.
Composer Geroge Gershwin required that all productions of Porgy and Bess be sung by black singers. The acting and the voices were beautiful, soaring, true, clear. The staging was very interesting and the music is familiar and singable, despite being truly Twentieth Century with its typical discordant notes. I loved the production and I was deeply moved by parts of it, particularly the “Doctor Jesus” scene in which the citizens of Catfish Row (North Carolina) pray over the rape-traumatized Bess, and the scene in which Porgy, the crippled underdog, defeats Crown in a fight and kills him.
I loved also that I finally saw people of color at the opera, both on stage and in the audience. The audience remained, however, pretty much the elderly white people in furs that I am accustomed to see at my Tuesday night series.
Yet I found the story of the opera very disturbing and bleak.
Clara opens the opera by singing Summertime to her infant. “Your daddy’s rich and your mammy’s good looking” is ironic at best and certainly does not foretell both parents’ drowning, Daddy on his fishing boat and Clara trying to save him.
Porgy is a beggar, played last night with a club foot, and Bess is the drug-addicted moll of the outlaw bully Crown, who kills another character with a cotton hook - it looks like a big meat hook - on stage. When the white police come, they take a random old man and jail him as a material witness until they can find Crown, which they never do.
When Crown escapes, Bess and Porgy become a couple who apparently truly love each other (Bess You Is My Woman Now). Crown reappears, rapes Bess, and forces her to go away with him. Porgy kills Crown in a fight, and when the police require him to identify Crown, he refuses. The white cops jail Porgy for contempt of court, somehow completely blind to his guilt.
In the meantime Bess is re-addicted and leaves with her drug dealer for New York. When Porgy is released, he returns to Catfish Row, and in the spirit of false hope decides to find Bess in New York. But we know he will never find her.
All this is pretty bleak. I tried to fit it into a typical tragedy mold, and found I couldn’t. The hope at the end is falsely uplifting, but . . . But there’s really no hope.
I also found the language used by the librettists DuBose Hayward and Ira Gershwin to be condescending. It is more a mix of what educated whites (although Hawyard was black) expect to hear from poor black people than the way they actually speak. My problem was that it was a mix that incorporated sophisticated and subtle grammar - like the subjunctive mood - with Gullah dialect, the Ebonics of the 1930’s.
In the end, I suppose that I must accept that Porgy and Bess is a cultural artifact of the first half of the last century. (I have no problem reading, loving, and admiring The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, mostly because the only true, human character in the entire novel is the slave Jim.) And I should probably stop thinking, willingly suspend my disbelief, sit back, and enjoy the glorious music and voices that are Porgy and Bess.
As always I welcome you to click comment below and leave your thoughts.
Composer Geroge Gershwin required that all productions of Porgy and Bess be sung by black singers. The acting and the voices were beautiful, soaring, true, clear. The staging was very interesting and the music is familiar and singable, despite being truly Twentieth Century with its typical discordant notes. I loved the production and I was deeply moved by parts of it, particularly the “Doctor Jesus” scene in which the citizens of Catfish Row (North Carolina) pray over the rape-traumatized Bess, and the scene in which Porgy, the crippled underdog, defeats Crown in a fight and kills him.
I loved also that I finally saw people of color at the opera, both on stage and in the audience. The audience remained, however, pretty much the elderly white people in furs that I am accustomed to see at my Tuesday night series.
Yet I found the story of the opera very disturbing and bleak.
Clara opens the opera by singing Summertime to her infant. “Your daddy’s rich and your mammy’s good looking” is ironic at best and certainly does not foretell both parents’ drowning, Daddy on his fishing boat and Clara trying to save him.
Porgy is a beggar, played last night with a club foot, and Bess is the drug-addicted moll of the outlaw bully Crown, who kills another character with a cotton hook - it looks like a big meat hook - on stage. When the white police come, they take a random old man and jail him as a material witness until they can find Crown, which they never do.
When Crown escapes, Bess and Porgy become a couple who apparently truly love each other (Bess You Is My Woman Now). Crown reappears, rapes Bess, and forces her to go away with him. Porgy kills Crown in a fight, and when the police require him to identify Crown, he refuses. The white cops jail Porgy for contempt of court, somehow completely blind to his guilt.
In the meantime Bess is re-addicted and leaves with her drug dealer for New York. When Porgy is released, he returns to Catfish Row, and in the spirit of false hope decides to find Bess in New York. But we know he will never find her.
All this is pretty bleak. I tried to fit it into a typical tragedy mold, and found I couldn’t. The hope at the end is falsely uplifting, but . . . But there’s really no hope.
I also found the language used by the librettists DuBose Hayward and Ira Gershwin to be condescending. It is more a mix of what educated whites (although Hawyard was black) expect to hear from poor black people than the way they actually speak. My problem was that it was a mix that incorporated sophisticated and subtle grammar - like the subjunctive mood - with Gullah dialect, the Ebonics of the 1930’s.
In the end, I suppose that I must accept that Porgy and Bess is a cultural artifact of the first half of the last century. (I have no problem reading, loving, and admiring The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, mostly because the only true, human character in the entire novel is the slave Jim.) And I should probably stop thinking, willingly suspend my disbelief, sit back, and enjoy the glorious music and voices that are Porgy and Bess.
As always I welcome you to click comment below and leave your thoughts.
Friday, December 5, 2008
2008 Christmas Letter
Merry Christmas, Dear Friends!
In lieu of a Christmas letter, here’s a recap of our year:
January Bill breaks his ankle and makes a nest in the family room. Friends bring meals, walk dogs, visit - and haul his ass upstairs a couple of times a week for much needed showers. Ann waits on Bill with complete devotion and unflagging energy.
February More of the same, except Ann tires of the routine and spends time walking the dogs just to get out of the house. An estimate to turn the downstairs half bath into a bathroom with shower is outrageous and prohibitive. We decide to move from our split level to a flat house. When the housing market improves in, oh, thirty or forty years.
March The cast comes off. Bill spends hours at physical therapy. The weather breaks. Ann continues to walk dogs, glad not to be cooped up in the house with Bill. Bill uses a cane for everything but dancing.
April We get an Obama sign and put it in the front yard. The campaign lasts too long, but we support Illinois’ favorite son.
May Grandson David returns from his freshman year at Beloit College. He has survived and will return in the fall. We are glad to see that the boy who left for college returns a young man.
June Bill goes to Vermont to the Clockhouse Writers’ Conference for a week. Daughter Shannon gets a job in a western suburb and decides to sell her house in Homewood to avoid a three-hour round trip commute. We are sad.
July Ann goes with Bill to Centrum Writers’ Conference in Port Townsend, WA. She meets his west coast friends and sight sees. On a whale watching excursion Ann loses several pounds in the rough seas, but she sees a pod of humpback whales.
August Grandsons’ dad Tim gets married. Bill is Best Man. Ann is Mother of the Groom. She is beautiful, the bride is beautiful, the groom is beautiful, the wedding is beautiful, and the reception is beautiful. In his tux, Bill has Joan Crawford shoulders.
September It rains. With Travel Buddies Ted and Carol we drive to Spring Green, WI, where we take tours of Frank Lloyd Wright Stuff before returning to Homewood. Rains cancel Chicago architectural tours and trips to the Indiana Dunes, but we enjoy a leisurely liquid lunch at a local brewery.
October The presidential campaign is in full swing. We record television programs on the DVR and fast forward through the commercials, especially the political ones.
November Barack wins. Bill is downtown on election night. The energy of Chicago changes in a snap. People on the train are ebullient, a word we don’t get to use very often.
We have much to be thankful for. We participate in the Free Hugs Campaign in front of the Art Institute the day before Thanksgiving. And on Thanksgiving we go to friend Theresa’s for a wonderful dinner.
December The first snow falls on December 1, and the dogs go wild with joy. We bake cookies with grandchildren, one of our few touches of Americana. It’s cold, and the flamingo in the front yard wears a fuzzy red scarf, another touch - of something. . .
Merry Christmas!
Happy Chanukah!
And a Happy, Prosperous, Healthy New Year!
In lieu of a Christmas letter, here’s a recap of our year:
January Bill breaks his ankle and makes a nest in the family room. Friends bring meals, walk dogs, visit - and haul his ass upstairs a couple of times a week for much needed showers. Ann waits on Bill with complete devotion and unflagging energy.
February More of the same, except Ann tires of the routine and spends time walking the dogs just to get out of the house. An estimate to turn the downstairs half bath into a bathroom with shower is outrageous and prohibitive. We decide to move from our split level to a flat house. When the housing market improves in, oh, thirty or forty years.
March The cast comes off. Bill spends hours at physical therapy. The weather breaks. Ann continues to walk dogs, glad not to be cooped up in the house with Bill. Bill uses a cane for everything but dancing.
April We get an Obama sign and put it in the front yard. The campaign lasts too long, but we support Illinois’ favorite son.
May Grandson David returns from his freshman year at Beloit College. He has survived and will return in the fall. We are glad to see that the boy who left for college returns a young man.
June Bill goes to Vermont to the Clockhouse Writers’ Conference for a week. Daughter Shannon gets a job in a western suburb and decides to sell her house in Homewood to avoid a three-hour round trip commute. We are sad.
July Ann goes with Bill to Centrum Writers’ Conference in Port Townsend, WA. She meets his west coast friends and sight sees. On a whale watching excursion Ann loses several pounds in the rough seas, but she sees a pod of humpback whales.
August Grandsons’ dad Tim gets married. Bill is Best Man. Ann is Mother of the Groom. She is beautiful, the bride is beautiful, the groom is beautiful, the wedding is beautiful, and the reception is beautiful. In his tux, Bill has Joan Crawford shoulders.
September It rains. With Travel Buddies Ted and Carol we drive to Spring Green, WI, where we take tours of Frank Lloyd Wright Stuff before returning to Homewood. Rains cancel Chicago architectural tours and trips to the Indiana Dunes, but we enjoy a leisurely liquid lunch at a local brewery.
October The presidential campaign is in full swing. We record television programs on the DVR and fast forward through the commercials, especially the political ones.
November Barack wins. Bill is downtown on election night. The energy of Chicago changes in a snap. People on the train are ebullient, a word we don’t get to use very often.
We have much to be thankful for. We participate in the Free Hugs Campaign in front of the Art Institute the day before Thanksgiving. And on Thanksgiving we go to friend Theresa’s for a wonderful dinner.
December The first snow falls on December 1, and the dogs go wild with joy. We bake cookies with grandchildren, one of our few touches of Americana. It’s cold, and the flamingo in the front yard wears a fuzzy red scarf, another touch - of something. . .
Merry Christmas!
Happy Chanukah!
And a Happy, Prosperous, Healthy New Year!
Friday, November 28, 2008
Torches N 'Pitchforks
I just finished reading Torches n’ Pitchforks, an independent student literary journal sponsored by a friend of mine, Jim Churchill-Dicks, who teaches in Prineville, Oregon. He is a fantastic person as well as a fantastic teacher.
The students contributing to the journal have a lot to say, and as he commented, “If the standardized test scores told the whole story, they would say that Crook County High School has the worst student writers in the state of Oregon. Not that it matters, but maybe this will provide some alternative 'data' for those keeping score. What does matter, is that a handful of powerful kids who have spent their lives being discounted are getting to show a glimpse of who they truly are.”
I urge you to check out Torches n’ Pitchforks by clicking on the title. You will be blown away as I was. The journal is in the students' words, their vernacular, their syntax and punctuation and spelling. But don’t let that get in the way of their messages. We too often overlook substance because we are distracted by form.
I urge you to pay attention (that is, read!) editor’s note, about t n’ p, and the submissions sections, even if you don’t intend to submit. Then subscribe.
Don't bother to comment. Subscribe instead.
And check out Jim's blog, listed to the right, Beyond Telling.
The students contributing to the journal have a lot to say, and as he commented, “If the standardized test scores told the whole story, they would say that Crook County High School has the worst student writers in the state of Oregon. Not that it matters, but maybe this will provide some alternative 'data' for those keeping score. What does matter, is that a handful of powerful kids who have spent their lives being discounted are getting to show a glimpse of who they truly are.”
I urge you to check out Torches n’ Pitchforks by clicking on the title. You will be blown away as I was. The journal is in the students' words, their vernacular, their syntax and punctuation and spelling. But don’t let that get in the way of their messages. We too often overlook substance because we are distracted by form.
I urge you to pay attention (that is, read!) editor’s note, about t n’ p, and the submissions sections, even if you don’t intend to submit. Then subscribe.
Don't bother to comment. Subscribe instead.
And check out Jim's blog, listed to the right, Beyond Telling.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Free Hugs Redux
I hate to have my picture taken. I’m already too fat, and the camera puts on 10 pounds. Or so they say.
But I had my picture taken a lot yesterday afternoon in front of the Art Institute while Ann and I participated in the Free Hugs Campaign, and so did Ann. I hope you accepted my challenge and did your own Free Hugs wherever you were.
We took the noon train downtown, and even on the train heard a college student tell her mother about her friends who would be participating in the Free Hugs Campaign. Already we were validated.
Ann was nervous, but I figured the worst that could happen was that we would be told to stop and move on. We decided that the Art Institute of Chicago would be a good place to ‘set up shop,’ so Ann stood with her Free Hugs sign in front of the northern lion by the crosswalk from the other side of Michigan Avenue. I stood at the southern lion with my sign. It was cold, but we dressed for the occasion.
My first hug was from a friend at the opera (Lulu) Tuesday night, a lucky hug from Marianne.
But my first hug yesterday was from a woman who came up and said, “I’ve seen you on television.” I told her this was my first time, and I hadn’t been on television, but she could have a hug anyway. She smiled and we hugged.
After that probably ten to fifteen percent of the people who walked by hugged me, about a hundred by the end of our two hours. Frequently one member of a couple would hug me, and not necessarily the woman. A lot of twenty-somethings hugged. I got a group hug from about eight young people while one of them took our picture. An Asian trio wanted hugs and a photo. A lot of people took photos without hugging me, and I could almost read their minds: The crazies are out the day before Thanksgiving. I suppose we were.
Most of the people who didn’t hug found something fascinating in the architecture of buildings across the street so they didn’t have to make eye contact, or just stared stonily ahead. I suspect they were the people who most needed a hug.
Others who didn’t hug told me the smile I gave them was enough. Cool. Even cops waved, and taxi drivers honked.
I hugged and chatted with people from Athens, Ohio, where I was a grad ass for a year at Ohio University. With people from Texas, who told me how friendly Chicago is. With a woman who wanted to go to the Cloud Gate sculpture (the Bean) at Millennium Park and wanted to make sure she was headed in the correct direction. With a young woman from Long Island who told me I am an activist and only wanted to shake hands, which is also fine. She thought New York was friendlier than Chicago. I don’t think I’m an activist. And I find Chicago very friendly. Moreso since the election.
Ann had a young man with his own Free Hugs sign hug her and say “Eighty-nine.” (We didn’t count. I started but forgot to continue.) Another man rushed across the street, hugged her and said, “This is the real deal.” Whatever that means.
Two young Chinese women hugged her and told her that they knew of the Free Hugs Campaign because they have it in China. They asked if she were Christian, and told her they had never met a Christian before, that they are Buddhist. Ann told them she’s an Episcopalian with Buddhist tendencies, which probably confused them.
One man, close to my age and very serious, seemed astounded by the Free Hugs Campaign. After we hugged, I told him that everyone can join, all they need is a sign, and there are no membership forms. He said that it is an important activity, “We live in perilous times.” He seemed very moved by the free hugs idea. I expect to see him with a sign some time when I’m downtown.
He was balanced, unfortunately, by a woman in her seventies with an Airedale that nipped at everyone they passed. She told me that no one would hug me because there is too much sexual abuse. Wrong.
After standing in the cold for a while, a woman came up and asked how many people I had hugged. When I told her twenty-five to thirty, she hugged me and said, “Now it’s thirty-one.” I felt warmed up.
In fact, despite the cold and not wearing gloves, I was warm the whole time I stood in front of the Art Institute Lion with my Free Hugs sign.
Please feel free to comment below.
But I had my picture taken a lot yesterday afternoon in front of the Art Institute while Ann and I participated in the Free Hugs Campaign, and so did Ann. I hope you accepted my challenge and did your own Free Hugs wherever you were.
We took the noon train downtown, and even on the train heard a college student tell her mother about her friends who would be participating in the Free Hugs Campaign. Already we were validated.
Ann was nervous, but I figured the worst that could happen was that we would be told to stop and move on. We decided that the Art Institute of Chicago would be a good place to ‘set up shop,’ so Ann stood with her Free Hugs sign in front of the northern lion by the crosswalk from the other side of Michigan Avenue. I stood at the southern lion with my sign. It was cold, but we dressed for the occasion.
My first hug was from a friend at the opera (Lulu) Tuesday night, a lucky hug from Marianne.
But my first hug yesterday was from a woman who came up and said, “I’ve seen you on television.” I told her this was my first time, and I hadn’t been on television, but she could have a hug anyway. She smiled and we hugged.
After that probably ten to fifteen percent of the people who walked by hugged me, about a hundred by the end of our two hours. Frequently one member of a couple would hug me, and not necessarily the woman. A lot of twenty-somethings hugged. I got a group hug from about eight young people while one of them took our picture. An Asian trio wanted hugs and a photo. A lot of people took photos without hugging me, and I could almost read their minds: The crazies are out the day before Thanksgiving. I suppose we were.
Most of the people who didn’t hug found something fascinating in the architecture of buildings across the street so they didn’t have to make eye contact, or just stared stonily ahead. I suspect they were the people who most needed a hug.
Others who didn’t hug told me the smile I gave them was enough. Cool. Even cops waved, and taxi drivers honked.
I hugged and chatted with people from Athens, Ohio, where I was a grad ass for a year at Ohio University. With people from Texas, who told me how friendly Chicago is. With a woman who wanted to go to the Cloud Gate sculpture (the Bean) at Millennium Park and wanted to make sure she was headed in the correct direction. With a young woman from Long Island who told me I am an activist and only wanted to shake hands, which is also fine. She thought New York was friendlier than Chicago. I don’t think I’m an activist. And I find Chicago very friendly. Moreso since the election.
Ann had a young man with his own Free Hugs sign hug her and say “Eighty-nine.” (We didn’t count. I started but forgot to continue.) Another man rushed across the street, hugged her and said, “This is the real deal.” Whatever that means.
Two young Chinese women hugged her and told her that they knew of the Free Hugs Campaign because they have it in China. They asked if she were Christian, and told her they had never met a Christian before, that they are Buddhist. Ann told them she’s an Episcopalian with Buddhist tendencies, which probably confused them.
One man, close to my age and very serious, seemed astounded by the Free Hugs Campaign. After we hugged, I told him that everyone can join, all they need is a sign, and there are no membership forms. He said that it is an important activity, “We live in perilous times.” He seemed very moved by the free hugs idea. I expect to see him with a sign some time when I’m downtown.
He was balanced, unfortunately, by a woman in her seventies with an Airedale that nipped at everyone they passed. She told me that no one would hug me because there is too much sexual abuse. Wrong.
After standing in the cold for a while, a woman came up and asked how many people I had hugged. When I told her twenty-five to thirty, she hugged me and said, “Now it’s thirty-one.” I felt warmed up.
In fact, despite the cold and not wearing gloves, I was warm the whole time I stood in front of the Art Institute Lion with my Free Hugs sign.
Please feel free to comment below.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is Thursday, and it is a time to reflect on what we are thankful for - besides too much to eat and too many football games on television and too many dishes to wash.
I have a lot to be thankful for, beginning with family: My wife of 41 years, Ann. My son Daniel who died almost 16 years ago, but is still with us in our hearts. It is amazing to me that he has been gone almost as long as he lived. His girlfriend Sandra, who continues to be in our lives, and her Mark, who puts up with us gracefully.
My chosen family, including grandsons David and Jonathan, and their dad Tim, who gave them to us after Daniel died. Their mother Priscilla who agreed to that arrangement, still honors it, and has done her best to raise them well. Tim’s new wife Karen, who happens to be a former student - who’d a thunk it?- and her kids, our new grandchildren Alexa and Grayson.
Of course, Derek and Shannon who chose me their dad. I tease that I’m their old dad and their new dad. And Bill and his son Carter, who are like son and grandson. And chosen sister Laurie, my sister the doctor, who received her Ph.D. from Stanford earlier this year. Go Laurie! And my cousin Rochelle, whom we love dearly, and her family. And my other cousin Margaret.
And our close friends, especially Theresa and Mark. Our wonderful neighbors, especially the “G” neighbors: Gertzes, Godfreys, Graces, Gordons.
Our church friends, and school friends, those I taught with as well as those I went to school with. And my writing friends.
My dog park friends, many of whom I know by their dogs: Monte’s mom, or April’s mom. But I know many by their own names: Beth, Kathy, Fred, Connie, Pat, Gail.
My opera friends Marianne and Gary. Certainly our travel buddies Ted and Carol. And . . . Well, the list goes on.
I am especially grateful this year for Barack Obama, who as a graceful politician earned the presidency and is now leading the country, W having taken a grateful back seat apparently. With time I can see President-elect Obama becoming a statesman as well a politician and leader.
What a joy to have the “Irish Mafia” back in the White House: the O’Bamas and the O’Bidens. That, of course, is a joke, but Obama’s great, great grandfather (or something like that) was from Ireland, and he does have Irish “blood” on days other than March 17.
I am thankful that we are able to continue to live a comfortable life, despite the current economic mess. And that I can say and publish whatever I want on my various blogs. I do try to keep them from being too nonsensical or too much of a rant.
Thursday we are going to our friend Theresa’s for dinner. Theresa doesn’t have a sports gene either, so there won’t be television blaring out football games (I know, how un-American!), and we’ll be able to talk, and play board games or dominoes, to settle the world’s problems after we eat.
That alone is plenty to be thankful for.
Don’t forget to join us for the Free Hugs Campaign either in your own town or in Chicago, something else to be thankful for.
Happy Thanksgiving.
As always, feel free to click comment below and leave your thoughts.
I have a lot to be thankful for, beginning with family: My wife of 41 years, Ann. My son Daniel who died almost 16 years ago, but is still with us in our hearts. It is amazing to me that he has been gone almost as long as he lived. His girlfriend Sandra, who continues to be in our lives, and her Mark, who puts up with us gracefully.
My chosen family, including grandsons David and Jonathan, and their dad Tim, who gave them to us after Daniel died. Their mother Priscilla who agreed to that arrangement, still honors it, and has done her best to raise them well. Tim’s new wife Karen, who happens to be a former student - who’d a thunk it?- and her kids, our new grandchildren Alexa and Grayson.
Of course, Derek and Shannon who chose me their dad. I tease that I’m their old dad and their new dad. And Bill and his son Carter, who are like son and grandson. And chosen sister Laurie, my sister the doctor, who received her Ph.D. from Stanford earlier this year. Go Laurie! And my cousin Rochelle, whom we love dearly, and her family. And my other cousin Margaret.
And our close friends, especially Theresa and Mark. Our wonderful neighbors, especially the “G” neighbors: Gertzes, Godfreys, Graces, Gordons.
Our church friends, and school friends, those I taught with as well as those I went to school with. And my writing friends.
My dog park friends, many of whom I know by their dogs: Monte’s mom, or April’s mom. But I know many by their own names: Beth, Kathy, Fred, Connie, Pat, Gail.
My opera friends Marianne and Gary. Certainly our travel buddies Ted and Carol. And . . . Well, the list goes on.
I am especially grateful this year for Barack Obama, who as a graceful politician earned the presidency and is now leading the country, W having taken a grateful back seat apparently. With time I can see President-elect Obama becoming a statesman as well a politician and leader.
What a joy to have the “Irish Mafia” back in the White House: the O’Bamas and the O’Bidens. That, of course, is a joke, but Obama’s great, great grandfather (or something like that) was from Ireland, and he does have Irish “blood” on days other than March 17.
I am thankful that we are able to continue to live a comfortable life, despite the current economic mess. And that I can say and publish whatever I want on my various blogs. I do try to keep them from being too nonsensical or too much of a rant.
Thursday we are going to our friend Theresa’s for dinner. Theresa doesn’t have a sports gene either, so there won’t be television blaring out football games (I know, how un-American!), and we’ll be able to talk, and play board games or dominoes, to settle the world’s problems after we eat.
That alone is plenty to be thankful for.
Don’t forget to join us for the Free Hugs Campaign either in your own town or in Chicago, something else to be thankful for.
Happy Thanksgiving.
As always, feel free to click comment below and leave your thoughts.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Free Hugs
Thanksgiving is coming up and certainly we as Americans have a lot to be thankful for.
Despite the economic turndown (crash?), we still have a lot to offer, and I have a suggestion that won’t cost anything except a trip to your local downtown area.
Ann and I are a part of the Free Hugs Campaign, and we’re going to “demonstrate” for the first time Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, for a couple of hours in the Loop in Chicago. We don’t know what anyone’s reaction will be. We hope for positive results
The Free Hugs Campaign is a loosely disorganized group of people who stand in busy pedestrian areas and silently offer, you guessed it, Free Hugs. They/ we hold up a sign and people are free to participate or not. Most don’t. Our grandson Jonathan (he’s 16 and a junior in high school) has participated in the past, and we were touched by his stories, mostly simple stories of people who ignored him or got a hug.
The Free Hugs Campaign was started by Juan Mann. Here’s his story:
“I'd been living in London when my world turned upside down and I'd had to come home. By the time my plane landed back in Sydney, all I had left was a carry on bag full of clothes and a world of troubles. No one to welcome me back, no place to call home. I was a tourist in my hometown.
“Standing there in the arrivals terminal, watching other passengers meeting their waiting friends and family, with open arms and smiling faces, hugging and laughing together, I wanted someone out there to be waiting for me. To be happy to see me. To smile at me. To hug me.
“So I got some cardboard and a marker and made a sign. I found the busiest pedestrian intersection in the city and held that sign aloft, with the words "Free Hugs" on both sides.
“And for 15 minutes, people just stared right through me. The first person who stopped, tapped me on the shoulder and told me how her dog had just died that morning. How that morning had been the one year anniversary of her only daughter dying in a car accident. How what she needed now, when she felt most alone in the world, was a hug. I got down on one knee, we put our arms around each other and when we parted, she was smiling.
“Everyone has problems and for sure mine haven't compared. But to see someone who was once frowning, smile even for a moment, is worth it every time.”
Will we accomplish much next Wednesday? I don’t know. I suspect people will react to us differently than the man, evidently a preacher, who shouts on State street in front of a major department store. He tells people that they are going to hell if they don’t repent. That God hates sex and certainly despises gay people.
My God is a God of love. He is probably too often disappointed in me and my friends and humanity in general. But I can’t believe He hates us. This Thanksgiving, despite my sin of gluttony, I’m going to try to pass along some Love.
I invite you to join us, if not in physically in the Loop on Wednesday afternoon, then in spirit. If you can’t be in Chicago, try your own city or suburb. See what happens.
Pass it along.
I invite you to comment below as always. If you join us, please let us know how you fared.
Despite the economic turndown (crash?), we still have a lot to offer, and I have a suggestion that won’t cost anything except a trip to your local downtown area.
Ann and I are a part of the Free Hugs Campaign, and we’re going to “demonstrate” for the first time Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, for a couple of hours in the Loop in Chicago. We don’t know what anyone’s reaction will be. We hope for positive results
The Free Hugs Campaign is a loosely disorganized group of people who stand in busy pedestrian areas and silently offer, you guessed it, Free Hugs. They/ we hold up a sign and people are free to participate or not. Most don’t. Our grandson Jonathan (he’s 16 and a junior in high school) has participated in the past, and we were touched by his stories, mostly simple stories of people who ignored him or got a hug.
The Free Hugs Campaign was started by Juan Mann. Here’s his story:
“I'd been living in London when my world turned upside down and I'd had to come home. By the time my plane landed back in Sydney, all I had left was a carry on bag full of clothes and a world of troubles. No one to welcome me back, no place to call home. I was a tourist in my hometown.
“Standing there in the arrivals terminal, watching other passengers meeting their waiting friends and family, with open arms and smiling faces, hugging and laughing together, I wanted someone out there to be waiting for me. To be happy to see me. To smile at me. To hug me.
“So I got some cardboard and a marker and made a sign. I found the busiest pedestrian intersection in the city and held that sign aloft, with the words "Free Hugs" on both sides.
“And for 15 minutes, people just stared right through me. The first person who stopped, tapped me on the shoulder and told me how her dog had just died that morning. How that morning had been the one year anniversary of her only daughter dying in a car accident. How what she needed now, when she felt most alone in the world, was a hug. I got down on one knee, we put our arms around each other and when we parted, she was smiling.
“Everyone has problems and for sure mine haven't compared. But to see someone who was once frowning, smile even for a moment, is worth it every time.”
Will we accomplish much next Wednesday? I don’t know. I suspect people will react to us differently than the man, evidently a preacher, who shouts on State street in front of a major department store. He tells people that they are going to hell if they don’t repent. That God hates sex and certainly despises gay people.
My God is a God of love. He is probably too often disappointed in me and my friends and humanity in general. But I can’t believe He hates us. This Thanksgiving, despite my sin of gluttony, I’m going to try to pass along some Love.
I invite you to join us, if not in physically in the Loop on Wednesday afternoon, then in spirit. If you can’t be in Chicago, try your own city or suburb. See what happens.
Pass it along.
I invite you to comment below as always. If you join us, please let us know how you fared.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Agent of Change
I sent the out blog below Congratulations America! as an email before I decided to post it.
I received a lot of responses, which seems interesting to me because the counter shows that people check out my blog on a pretty regular basis, but they hardly ever leave comments - it's probably too cumbersome a process to write a comment.
I am printing (without permission, forgive me) some of the comments I received.
Darlene, a friend from Goddard College wrote, "Jubilate! Thank you for this moving account, Bill. How wonderful that you were there to take it in. I thought McCain's speech was beautiful as well--generous, sensitive, responsible--he seemed freed from the shackles of his handlers and hate-mongers."
Our late son's girlfriend, a wonderful, beautiful, kind young woman wrote, "Ah... thanks for sharing Bill! I got teary reading this while on a call with a lady trying to set a dr's appointment. I don't think they noticed. I'm very excited about our future!!! "
My daughter, also wonderful, kind and beautiful, wrote, "Yes indeed. It didn't hit me until I was on my way to work this morning, and it occurred to me that for the first time in very many years, I am proud of 'us.'"
Elana (also wonderful, kind and beautiful) said, "What you've written is really beautiful, thanks for including me." Thanks, Elana, for the kind thought!
Bill said, (and the Supreme Court is deciding on his language - at least broadcast - as I write this), "What a night!! I haven't been this proud to be an American in a long fucking time . . ." I, of course, quite agree.
One of my jazz singer friends wrote me: "Hi Bill: Thank you for that wonderful story (Rochelle forwarded it to me). What a subtle but huge example of what we pray America (and the world) can become. You brightened my day and tuned up my focus. I believe God is doing a new thing in the hearts and minds of people...and I am ready." I have already added her email to my address book.
She refers to this response from my cousin Rochelle (who, as I think about it, is a warm chocolate brown): "This is from my 'cousin' - Bill Moser. Most of you know him. He happens to be an author. I wanted to share this beautiful story with the special people in my life. He happens to be white, and I always tell people when I introduce him and his wife as my 'third cousin on my mother's side' that 'it's a long story.' Bill and Ann have done much to improve if not change the way I feel about other races. Here's his story. I hope you enjoy it."
Rochelle's comment was the one that touched me most deeply. She labels us as agents of change, a role I never considered for myself. A long time ago, when I was in high school in a racially divided city, I decided that I could not, can not teach or live hate. (As a man who is flawed, I stumble. Damn!)
Since I made that decision I have learned that I am who I am by a total accident of birth, that I could have been born -or not - anywhere in the world, into any circumstances, and who I am is a gift.
I have also learned from the example of a lot of people like Marilyn and Chuck in Joliet who were our late son's god-parents; from Tim who gave us his boys to be grandparents to; from former student Tim who lived with us for seven years rather than choose between his separated parents; from Liz who ran the residential boys' camp in Wisconsin where I worked for a couple of summers; from Cyndie at our current church; and from Rochelle. All these people - and many more - taught me that God is Love by living that truth.
Rochelle issues an implicit challenge to me to continue to be that agent of change. I pray that I can live up to her expectations and that role.
Feel free to comment below, despite how cumbersome it is.
I received a lot of responses, which seems interesting to me because the counter shows that people check out my blog on a pretty regular basis, but they hardly ever leave comments - it's probably too cumbersome a process to write a comment.
I am printing (without permission, forgive me) some of the comments I received.
Darlene, a friend from Goddard College wrote, "Jubilate! Thank you for this moving account, Bill. How wonderful that you were there to take it in. I thought McCain's speech was beautiful as well--generous, sensitive, responsible--he seemed freed from the shackles of his handlers and hate-mongers."
Our late son's girlfriend, a wonderful, beautiful, kind young woman wrote, "Ah... thanks for sharing Bill! I got teary reading this while on a call with a lady trying to set a dr's appointment. I don't think they noticed. I'm very excited about our future!!! "
My daughter, also wonderful, kind and beautiful, wrote, "Yes indeed. It didn't hit me until I was on my way to work this morning, and it occurred to me that for the first time in very many years, I am proud of 'us.'"
Elana (also wonderful, kind and beautiful) said, "What you've written is really beautiful, thanks for including me." Thanks, Elana, for the kind thought!
Bill said, (and the Supreme Court is deciding on his language - at least broadcast - as I write this), "What a night!! I haven't been this proud to be an American in a long fucking time . . ." I, of course, quite agree.
One of my jazz singer friends wrote me: "Hi Bill: Thank you for that wonderful story (Rochelle forwarded it to me). What a subtle but huge example of what we pray America (and the world) can become. You brightened my day and tuned up my focus. I believe God is doing a new thing in the hearts and minds of people...and I am ready." I have already added her email to my address book.
She refers to this response from my cousin Rochelle (who, as I think about it, is a warm chocolate brown): "This is from my 'cousin' - Bill Moser. Most of you know him. He happens to be an author. I wanted to share this beautiful story with the special people in my life. He happens to be white, and I always tell people when I introduce him and his wife as my 'third cousin on my mother's side' that 'it's a long story.' Bill and Ann have done much to improve if not change the way I feel about other races. Here's his story. I hope you enjoy it."
Rochelle's comment was the one that touched me most deeply. She labels us as agents of change, a role I never considered for myself. A long time ago, when I was in high school in a racially divided city, I decided that I could not, can not teach or live hate. (As a man who is flawed, I stumble. Damn!)
Since I made that decision I have learned that I am who I am by a total accident of birth, that I could have been born -or not - anywhere in the world, into any circumstances, and who I am is a gift.
I have also learned from the example of a lot of people like Marilyn and Chuck in Joliet who were our late son's god-parents; from Tim who gave us his boys to be grandparents to; from former student Tim who lived with us for seven years rather than choose between his separated parents; from Liz who ran the residential boys' camp in Wisconsin where I worked for a couple of summers; from Cyndie at our current church; and from Rochelle. All these people - and many more - taught me that God is Love by living that truth.
Rochelle issues an implicit challenge to me to continue to be that agent of change. I pray that I can live up to her expectations and that role.
Feel free to comment below, despite how cumbersome it is.
Congratulations, America!
CONGRATULATIONS, AMERICA!
I am walking on air this morning, to coin a phrase. We are seeing a change in our country, a change in the way the world will view us, a change from the politics of fear to the politics of hope.
I was downtown at the Opera last night and caught the tail end of the Obama Rally on my way to the train home. The air was electric with cars and taxis honking their horns, people yelling out of car windows and waving flags and pictures of Obama, pedestrians erupting into shouts of OBAMA! OBAMA! I laughed and cried all the way from the Lyric Opera to the Metro Station at Millennium Park. I'm not sure my feet touched the ground.
The Opera (Bizet's Pearl Fishers) ended about 10:30, and McCain was giving his concession speech when I left. I was floored. I expected the vote count to take well into the night. The skyscraper canyons prevented the signal from reaching my little radio completely, so I got a lot of static, but I was able to hear most of it. It was the finest, most sincere speech I heard him give, a speech to unite the country behind our President Elect Barack Obama.
As I neared the train station, huge crowds clogged the streets, and I was able to talk to people who attended the rally. On the train, I got a seat and we took off in a nearly three quarter empty car. The first stop was closer to the rally, however, and the rally-goers packed the train. A woman and her grandson who was probably six or seven got on. She sat next to the woman in front of me, and the little boy, Michael, sat next to me. It seems superfluous to mention, but they were black. At this point, I hardly notice. I asked if he had a good time, and he nodded.
As the train took off, his eyes started to droop, but he kept tight hold of the three balloons he held - red, white and blue, and covered with little stars. By the time the train reached Hyde Park, about a quarter of the way to Homewood, he had curled up on me deeply asleep, and I didn't move or disturb him until it was time for him and his grandmother to disembark. She didn't notice he had fallen asleep so comfortably, and apologized when she did. "I told him it was past his bedtime," she said. But people around us - both white and black - noticed and smiled and waved at me. When she tried to wake him from his very deep sleep, he finally stood up, and they got off at Hazelcrest, about three stops before me.
This is the way America should be.
We all have a stake in this country, and I look forward to your comments below.
I am walking on air this morning, to coin a phrase. We are seeing a change in our country, a change in the way the world will view us, a change from the politics of fear to the politics of hope.
I was downtown at the Opera last night and caught the tail end of the Obama Rally on my way to the train home. The air was electric with cars and taxis honking their horns, people yelling out of car windows and waving flags and pictures of Obama, pedestrians erupting into shouts of OBAMA! OBAMA! I laughed and cried all the way from the Lyric Opera to the Metro Station at Millennium Park. I'm not sure my feet touched the ground.
The Opera (Bizet's Pearl Fishers) ended about 10:30, and McCain was giving his concession speech when I left. I was floored. I expected the vote count to take well into the night. The skyscraper canyons prevented the signal from reaching my little radio completely, so I got a lot of static, but I was able to hear most of it. It was the finest, most sincere speech I heard him give, a speech to unite the country behind our President Elect Barack Obama.
As I neared the train station, huge crowds clogged the streets, and I was able to talk to people who attended the rally. On the train, I got a seat and we took off in a nearly three quarter empty car. The first stop was closer to the rally, however, and the rally-goers packed the train. A woman and her grandson who was probably six or seven got on. She sat next to the woman in front of me, and the little boy, Michael, sat next to me. It seems superfluous to mention, but they were black. At this point, I hardly notice. I asked if he had a good time, and he nodded.
As the train took off, his eyes started to droop, but he kept tight hold of the three balloons he held - red, white and blue, and covered with little stars. By the time the train reached Hyde Park, about a quarter of the way to Homewood, he had curled up on me deeply asleep, and I didn't move or disturb him until it was time for him and his grandmother to disembark. She didn't notice he had fallen asleep so comfortably, and apologized when she did. "I told him it was past his bedtime," she said. But people around us - both white and black - noticed and smiled and waved at me. When she tried to wake him from his very deep sleep, he finally stood up, and they got off at Hazelcrest, about three stops before me.
This is the way America should be.
We all have a stake in this country, and I look forward to your comments below.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Vote
As you know I am an Obama supporter. But that is neither here nor there when YOU enter the voting booth.
The important thing is:
If you haven't already voted, VOTE!
The important thing is:
If you haven't already voted, VOTE!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Organ Recitals
I don’t watch much television advertising. That isn’t to say I don’t watch television. Like most Americans, I probably (probably nothing!) watch too much.
And like many people in this land of too much plenty, we have a DVR that I’ve learned to use. It’s easier than a video recorder, but I learned to use one of those too.
The advantage of the DVR is that it records programs - we have the capability to record two at the same time. And we can watch something completely different while two other programs are recording. That may not sound like an advantage, but I generally fast forward through commercials. Sometimes, we start watching a program 15 or 20 minutes late so we zoom through commercials and end up watching the last few minutes in real time.
Occasionally we get “caught up” with our viewing and watch entire programs in “real time” and read through the commercials. I get irritated when my wife reacts to a commercial and interrupts my reading, just as I irritate her when I do the same. But we don’t have a don’t-bother-me policy. We keep communication open.
And so I was surprised to notice recently how many commercials are organ recitals. I don’t mean E. Power Biggs playing Bach fugues. Not that kind of organ recital. No, I mean discussions of medical problems.
The amount of drug advertising on television is astounding, and somehow it has crept up on me. And this is the political season. I can’t imagine what it will be like after the election.
I have watched huge numbers of men with ED, something I don’t particularly want to know about them. I was appalled when Bob Dole started hawking - in a most presidential loser kind of way- Viagra, and I continue to feel uncomfortable about men - actors, I hope - who talk about not being able to achieve manhood.
I am just as uncomfortable with women who can’t stop peeing. The teacher who almost doesn’t make it to the faculty washroom at the end of the day, the pipe people who have trouble with their plumbing, all of them seem to be airing their dirty laundry in public, to coin an especially apt phrase. When I taught, if I couldn’t wait, I threatened my students and rushed to the loo and back as fast as I could. There was never a problem. I was probably very lucky that no one got stabbed, but I also knew which classes I could trust and which ones would tear the place up.
I don’t want to know who has a stent to any place in his/her body. Or who has heart problems. Or who found cures at Cancer Treatment Center A or Nationally Recognized Hospital B. If they have to advertise, they’re jacking up their prices, something insurance companies pass on to me (to the tune of just under $15k per annum for my wife and me, and going up).
Other ads are for high blood pressure, rheumatoid arthritis, bariatric surgery, high cholesterol, diabetes, and teeth whitening, all diseases or complaints I want to talk to my internist or dentist about, not rely on advertising and drug companies to fill me in on.
Sometimes I think Americans have a fetish with bowel movements. There are mongo ads for nutritional supplements that encourage regular bowel habits. You can stir a tasteless (you can say that again!), odorless powder into any kind of liquid. You can eat yogurt with special active bacteria, something like gotothebiffy regularis I believe. You can even use a sugar free sweetener with a stool softener in the cookies you bake, the coffee you drink, or the lemonade you make.
Aaaaarrrrgggggghhhhh. What is it with us and our poop?
Is there an answer? Is there even a problem? I suspect that I just have to read more and fast forward through the commercials. That should take care of it.
As always I invite your comments. And in the previous blog I explained how to post them.
And like many people in this land of too much plenty, we have a DVR that I’ve learned to use. It’s easier than a video recorder, but I learned to use one of those too.
The advantage of the DVR is that it records programs - we have the capability to record two at the same time. And we can watch something completely different while two other programs are recording. That may not sound like an advantage, but I generally fast forward through commercials. Sometimes, we start watching a program 15 or 20 minutes late so we zoom through commercials and end up watching the last few minutes in real time.
Occasionally we get “caught up” with our viewing and watch entire programs in “real time” and read through the commercials. I get irritated when my wife reacts to a commercial and interrupts my reading, just as I irritate her when I do the same. But we don’t have a don’t-bother-me policy. We keep communication open.
And so I was surprised to notice recently how many commercials are organ recitals. I don’t mean E. Power Biggs playing Bach fugues. Not that kind of organ recital. No, I mean discussions of medical problems.
The amount of drug advertising on television is astounding, and somehow it has crept up on me. And this is the political season. I can’t imagine what it will be like after the election.
I have watched huge numbers of men with ED, something I don’t particularly want to know about them. I was appalled when Bob Dole started hawking - in a most presidential loser kind of way- Viagra, and I continue to feel uncomfortable about men - actors, I hope - who talk about not being able to achieve manhood.
I am just as uncomfortable with women who can’t stop peeing. The teacher who almost doesn’t make it to the faculty washroom at the end of the day, the pipe people who have trouble with their plumbing, all of them seem to be airing their dirty laundry in public, to coin an especially apt phrase. When I taught, if I couldn’t wait, I threatened my students and rushed to the loo and back as fast as I could. There was never a problem. I was probably very lucky that no one got stabbed, but I also knew which classes I could trust and which ones would tear the place up.
I don’t want to know who has a stent to any place in his/her body. Or who has heart problems. Or who found cures at Cancer Treatment Center A or Nationally Recognized Hospital B. If they have to advertise, they’re jacking up their prices, something insurance companies pass on to me (to the tune of just under $15k per annum for my wife and me, and going up).
Other ads are for high blood pressure, rheumatoid arthritis, bariatric surgery, high cholesterol, diabetes, and teeth whitening, all diseases or complaints I want to talk to my internist or dentist about, not rely on advertising and drug companies to fill me in on.
Sometimes I think Americans have a fetish with bowel movements. There are mongo ads for nutritional supplements that encourage regular bowel habits. You can stir a tasteless (you can say that again!), odorless powder into any kind of liquid. You can eat yogurt with special active bacteria, something like gotothebiffy regularis I believe. You can even use a sugar free sweetener with a stool softener in the cookies you bake, the coffee you drink, or the lemonade you make.
Aaaaarrrrgggggghhhhh. What is it with us and our poop?
Is there an answer? Is there even a problem? I suspect that I just have to read more and fast forward through the commercials. That should take care of it.
As always I invite your comments. And in the previous blog I explained how to post them.
Comments
I love to hear from people who read this blog, and I occasionally do. I hope that you enjoy what I write, and that I don’t come across as too much of an Andy Rooney curmudgeon. I regularly check the counter on the right hand side of the blog to see how many people stop for a look, but I never know who the lookers are unless they mention something to me in person or comment.
I have heard from several people that they are unable to comment at the bottom of each blog, so I thought I’d give some instruction here:
First click on comments under each blog. A popup window should appear with a box that says Leave your comment.
Write what you have to say in the box. I do not edit them, so good, bad and indifferent all get posted. It may take a few minutes for the comment to be posted but it will appear.
Below the box, you have some choices. If you have a Google blog, you can click the button that says Google/Blogger and then hit publish your comment.
If you prefer not to identify yourself that way, my suggestion is to click the Anonymous button. It may ask you to copy some goofy, hard-to-read letters that are wavy or have a line through them. That’s a way to keep automated programs from putting advertising or spam in each comment box. Keep following the directions, and you’ll end up with your comment posted.
If you are far more knowledgeable than I, you will know what to do with the OpenID and Name/URL buttons. I’ve never used them and I don’t know what to do with them.
By the way, the advertising “Ads by Google” are a way for me to earn income. Every time you click one, I get something like a tenth of a cent. When enough people click for me to collect $100, they’ll send me a check. I’m not holding my breath.
Again, I look forward to your comments. When you have a reaction, good or bad, click comment at the bottom of the posting. Thanks for reading.
I have heard from several people that they are unable to comment at the bottom of each blog, so I thought I’d give some instruction here:
First click on comments under each blog. A popup window should appear with a box that says Leave your comment.
Write what you have to say in the box. I do not edit them, so good, bad and indifferent all get posted. It may take a few minutes for the comment to be posted but it will appear.
Below the box, you have some choices. If you have a Google blog, you can click the button that says Google/Blogger and then hit publish your comment.
If you prefer not to identify yourself that way, my suggestion is to click the Anonymous button. It may ask you to copy some goofy, hard-to-read letters that are wavy or have a line through them. That’s a way to keep automated programs from putting advertising or spam in each comment box. Keep following the directions, and you’ll end up with your comment posted.
If you are far more knowledgeable than I, you will know what to do with the OpenID and Name/URL buttons. I’ve never used them and I don’t know what to do with them.
By the way, the advertising “Ads by Google” are a way for me to earn income. Every time you click one, I get something like a tenth of a cent. When enough people click for me to collect $100, they’ll send me a check. I’m not holding my breath.
Again, I look forward to your comments. When you have a reaction, good or bad, click comment at the bottom of the posting. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Second Chances
I’m a big believer in second chances, probably because I have received so many of them throughout my life.
My biggest second chances occurred after my son Daniel died at 19 in an accident in January of 1993. A couple years later, Derek and Shannon, whose biological father left when they were not yet in school, chose me their dad; and then my friend Tim gave us his two sons, Jonathan and David, to grandparent. I can’t imagine greater gifts than the gift of children and grandchildren. Derek, a veterinarian and veteran, and Shannon, who is working on an MBA, and whose previous degree is in criminal and social justice, are in their early thirties now, both younger than Daniel would have been, and David is a college sophomore, Jonathan a high school junior. They are, with my wife Ann, the greatest joys of my life.
Friend Tim recently remarried and we got two more grandchildren, Alexa and Grayson. The universe - in the form of God’s Grace - keeps on giving.
And the universe occasionally takes away. We have several friends who are quite ill, and with the help of very good doctors and the Grace of God, they too have second chances. Somehow I believe that God’s Grace is more important in their lives than the doctors who are taking care of them so capably. The people I write about below are certainly not the only ones in pain who need Grace, but I don’t want to overwhelm. If you are one of my friends whom I do not list, please don’t be offended.
Linda, a primary teacher, has ovarian and uterine cancer, but after surgery is in the middle of chemo. Her hair has fallen out, but her spirit and her life remain vibrant and optimistic.
Our friend and putative cousin Margaret had a cancerous tumor removed from her breast, and will start chemotherapy next month. She already shaves her head and is one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. Her beauty is physical, of course, but she glows with an inner beauty that is impossible to describe. A Gwendolyn Brooks poem that could have been written about Margaret is at the end of this blog entry*.
Another cousin, Kathy, has multiple sclerosis and is mobile only because she has wonderful care and machines that get her places. At this point she can feed herself. MS is a dreadful, chronic, progressive disease in which the body betrays the mind. She too, is in good spirits and grateful to be alive.
Another friend, Bob, is in the throes of addiction. He goes up and down, and when he’s in the middle, he is the brilliant, charming, personable, witty, funny, wonderful guy we always loved. High, he isn’t that way. And when he’s in a low, he sleeps for . . . days. I despair that he will ever be well, but I continue to harbor hope. He says, “My continued existence is a little running gag that God and I have had going for the last thirty years or so... “ Grace keeps him alive too, and I believe that if he conquers his demons, he will be a huge blessing to the world.
As I said, I have been given second chances throughout my life. Please add your prayers that God will continue to bless these dear friends with His Grace.
Amen.
As always, I invite your comments - and prayers - below. Just click comments.
*To Those Of My Sisters Who Kept Their Naturals
Never to look a hot comb in the teeth.
Sisters!
I love you.
Because you love you.
Because you are erect.
Because you are also bent.
In season, stern, kind.
Crisp, soft -in season.
And you withhold.
And you extend.
And you Step out.
And you go back.
And you extend again.
Your eyes, loud-soft, with crying and
with smiles,
are older than a million years.
And they are young.
You reach, in season.
You subside, in season.
And ALL
below the richrough righttime of your hair.
You have not bought Blondine.
You have not hailed the hot-comb recently.
You never worshipped Marilyn Monroe.
You say: Farrah's hair is hers.
You have not wanted to be white.
Nor have you testified to adoration of that
state with the advertisement of imitation
(never successful because the hot-comb is laughing too.)
But oh, the rough dark Other music!
the Real,
the Right.
The natural Respect of Self and Seal!
Sisters!
Your hair is Celebration in the world!
GWENDOLYN BROOKS (1917-2000)
(1980)
My biggest second chances occurred after my son Daniel died at 19 in an accident in January of 1993. A couple years later, Derek and Shannon, whose biological father left when they were not yet in school, chose me their dad; and then my friend Tim gave us his two sons, Jonathan and David, to grandparent. I can’t imagine greater gifts than the gift of children and grandchildren. Derek, a veterinarian and veteran, and Shannon, who is working on an MBA, and whose previous degree is in criminal and social justice, are in their early thirties now, both younger than Daniel would have been, and David is a college sophomore, Jonathan a high school junior. They are, with my wife Ann, the greatest joys of my life.
Friend Tim recently remarried and we got two more grandchildren, Alexa and Grayson. The universe - in the form of God’s Grace - keeps on giving.
And the universe occasionally takes away. We have several friends who are quite ill, and with the help of very good doctors and the Grace of God, they too have second chances. Somehow I believe that God’s Grace is more important in their lives than the doctors who are taking care of them so capably. The people I write about below are certainly not the only ones in pain who need Grace, but I don’t want to overwhelm. If you are one of my friends whom I do not list, please don’t be offended.
Linda, a primary teacher, has ovarian and uterine cancer, but after surgery is in the middle of chemo. Her hair has fallen out, but her spirit and her life remain vibrant and optimistic.
Our friend and putative cousin Margaret had a cancerous tumor removed from her breast, and will start chemotherapy next month. She already shaves her head and is one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. Her beauty is physical, of course, but she glows with an inner beauty that is impossible to describe. A Gwendolyn Brooks poem that could have been written about Margaret is at the end of this blog entry*.
Another cousin, Kathy, has multiple sclerosis and is mobile only because she has wonderful care and machines that get her places. At this point she can feed herself. MS is a dreadful, chronic, progressive disease in which the body betrays the mind. She too, is in good spirits and grateful to be alive.
Another friend, Bob, is in the throes of addiction. He goes up and down, and when he’s in the middle, he is the brilliant, charming, personable, witty, funny, wonderful guy we always loved. High, he isn’t that way. And when he’s in a low, he sleeps for . . . days. I despair that he will ever be well, but I continue to harbor hope. He says, “My continued existence is a little running gag that God and I have had going for the last thirty years or so... “ Grace keeps him alive too, and I believe that if he conquers his demons, he will be a huge blessing to the world.
As I said, I have been given second chances throughout my life. Please add your prayers that God will continue to bless these dear friends with His Grace.
Amen.
As always, I invite your comments - and prayers - below. Just click comments.
*To Those Of My Sisters Who Kept Their Naturals
Never to look a hot comb in the teeth.
Sisters!
I love you.
Because you love you.
Because you are erect.
Because you are also bent.
In season, stern, kind.
Crisp, soft -in season.
And you withhold.
And you extend.
And you Step out.
And you go back.
And you extend again.
Your eyes, loud-soft, with crying and
with smiles,
are older than a million years.
And they are young.
You reach, in season.
You subside, in season.
And ALL
below the richrough righttime of your hair.
You have not bought Blondine.
You have not hailed the hot-comb recently.
You never worshipped Marilyn Monroe.
You say: Farrah's hair is hers.
You have not wanted to be white.
Nor have you testified to adoration of that
state with the advertisement of imitation
(never successful because the hot-comb is laughing too.)
But oh, the rough dark Other music!
the Real,
the Right.
The natural Respect of Self and Seal!
Sisters!
Your hair is Celebration in the world!
GWENDOLYN BROOKS (1917-2000)
(1980)
Monday, October 13, 2008
Guilt by Association
Here we go. Again. Preaching hate.
How can the McCain campaign in good conscience and with any kind of honor create a lynching atmosphere at its rallies and in its campaign in general?
Shouts of traitor follow, naturally, the declarations by the second runner up in the Miss Alaska contest that Barack Obama associates with known domestic terrorists. Her behavior is totally irresponsible and merely perpetuates the stereotypes of intellectually lightweight beauty queens.
The idea that Barack Obama is a traitor is absolute horseshit. Barack Obama was only eight years old when Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn founded the Weatherman Group and ploted an end to the Viet Nam war and destruction of the Pentagon. They are now - dare I use the term?- community activists, professors at the University of Illinois Chicago Campus, and mentors to new teachers. They are on the boards of several high powered charities, and it is in that role that Barack Obama met them.
The McCain campaign, according to this morning's Wall Street Journal, is worried about the South in general, and Virginia in particular, going for Obama. To that end, one of McCain's campaign chiefs, the chairman of the Buchanan County Republicans, in published a column, that said if we were attacked by Al Queida, Obama would have us all learn Arabic, "raise taxes to pay for drugs for Obama's inner-city political base," and replace the stars on our flag with the Islamic symbol of a star and crescent.
This is the lowest, meanest kind of race baiting and creation of hatred. I cannot understand why McCain and his followers would try to split the country in this horrific manner. This is worthy of Charles Manson, who thought that the murders of Sharon Tate, et. al., would foment race war in the United States and he could take over.
The behavior of the McCain campaign sickens me.
The only bright spot has been John McCain's statement at a campaign rally that Barack Obama is an honorable and decent man and this kind of behavior is unacceptable. McCain was booed by his supporters for his statement. It does not show his control and leadership.
What we need now in the United States is some pulling together. We have been polarized long enough, and the Bush administration has actively promoted the separation of rich and poor, Republican and Democrat, those who read the Bible as literal truth and the rest of us, those who believe in the Constitution and those who wish to supress it, hawks and doves, red states and blue states. At this point we are all Americans, and someone needs to show some leadership to point that out.
Sicking his pit bull with lipstick on Obama with lies about his religious background and "terrorist" activities shows that despite speaking out at a campaign rally, McCain has very little control of his campaign, and that he would rather continue the Bush policy of using fear to tear us apart rather than pull the country together to make us better and stronger. (Palin lied point blank when she told the media that the investigation into the firing of her chief of safety in Alaska showed no wrong-doing, either legal or ethical, and that it was the work of Obama supporters in Alaska. Her statement makes me twitch. The investigation began long before anyone ever heard of her on the national scene, and was instigated by Republicans.)
A good leader pulls more out of his followers than they thought they were capable of. Unfortunately, McCain and Palin incite only fear and hatred.
Enough!
As always, I invite you to comment by clicking below.
How can the McCain campaign in good conscience and with any kind of honor create a lynching atmosphere at its rallies and in its campaign in general?
Shouts of traitor follow, naturally, the declarations by the second runner up in the Miss Alaska contest that Barack Obama associates with known domestic terrorists. Her behavior is totally irresponsible and merely perpetuates the stereotypes of intellectually lightweight beauty queens.
The idea that Barack Obama is a traitor is absolute horseshit. Barack Obama was only eight years old when Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn founded the Weatherman Group and ploted an end to the Viet Nam war and destruction of the Pentagon. They are now - dare I use the term?- community activists, professors at the University of Illinois Chicago Campus, and mentors to new teachers. They are on the boards of several high powered charities, and it is in that role that Barack Obama met them.
The McCain campaign, according to this morning's Wall Street Journal, is worried about the South in general, and Virginia in particular, going for Obama. To that end, one of McCain's campaign chiefs, the chairman of the Buchanan County Republicans, in published a column, that said if we were attacked by Al Queida, Obama would have us all learn Arabic, "raise taxes to pay for drugs for Obama's inner-city political base," and replace the stars on our flag with the Islamic symbol of a star and crescent.
This is the lowest, meanest kind of race baiting and creation of hatred. I cannot understand why McCain and his followers would try to split the country in this horrific manner. This is worthy of Charles Manson, who thought that the murders of Sharon Tate, et. al., would foment race war in the United States and he could take over.
The behavior of the McCain campaign sickens me.
The only bright spot has been John McCain's statement at a campaign rally that Barack Obama is an honorable and decent man and this kind of behavior is unacceptable. McCain was booed by his supporters for his statement. It does not show his control and leadership.
What we need now in the United States is some pulling together. We have been polarized long enough, and the Bush administration has actively promoted the separation of rich and poor, Republican and Democrat, those who read the Bible as literal truth and the rest of us, those who believe in the Constitution and those who wish to supress it, hawks and doves, red states and blue states. At this point we are all Americans, and someone needs to show some leadership to point that out.
Sicking his pit bull with lipstick on Obama with lies about his religious background and "terrorist" activities shows that despite speaking out at a campaign rally, McCain has very little control of his campaign, and that he would rather continue the Bush policy of using fear to tear us apart rather than pull the country together to make us better and stronger. (Palin lied point blank when she told the media that the investigation into the firing of her chief of safety in Alaska showed no wrong-doing, either legal or ethical, and that it was the work of Obama supporters in Alaska. Her statement makes me twitch. The investigation began long before anyone ever heard of her on the national scene, and was instigated by Republicans.)
A good leader pulls more out of his followers than they thought they were capable of. Unfortunately, McCain and Palin incite only fear and hatred.
Enough!
As always, I invite you to comment by clicking below.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Hermes the Imp
I can’t tell you how much I enjoy being a grandfather, especially the grandfather of a sixteen-year-old young man.
In the spirit of fairness, I must also point out that I adore the college sophomore, David. And while I’m (we’re) getting to know Alexa and Grayson, the new members of our family, we love them more each day.
Jon is a junior in high school, one of my favorite ages when I taught English many years ago. The difference between the sophomore and junior years is amazing, and kids somehow have not only a growth spurt over the summer between the years, but a maturity spurt as well. It is joyous to watch and be a part of.
Jon reminds me of Hermes, the Greek messenger of the gods. Hermes is the archetype of an imp. He was the god of travelers, and he used his wits to delight Zeus, his father (somehow every minor god’s father) - and still survive Zeus’ wrath, which was frequent.
Jon is like that. He is an imp, and a kid who uses his wits to delight - eventually - all those around him. A couple of his exploits lately:
He and his friends went to the local appliance store and begged boxes. Refrigerator boxes, stove boxes, washer and dryer boxes. Big boxes. They drew giant faces on the boxes, made little holes so they could see out, bigger holes for their arms, and put them on.
Now picture Jon and his friends - probably eight or ten of them - marching in a box parade down the street where Jon lives, a kind of Father-Knows-Best neighborhood with a well-tended houses, green lawns, and a canopy of mature trees. One neighbor, according to reports the Hermes of his own youth, stood watching them march down the street and shaking his head, speechless.
Or . . . How about a few weeks earlier when he and his friends all put money into a pot and climbed a tree. The last one to climb down would receive the whole amount of cash. I don’t know what they planned to do about potty breaks. They found a huge old tree with long, sturdy branches at a local elementary school one Sunday morning about 6 and climbed it. They sat in the tree chatting for a couple of hours until a custodian (in all senses of the word) came in for work, found them and chased them away. Each of the tree-sitting participants took their cash from the kitty and went for breakfast, a little disappointed, but still having a great time.
I never thought of the kind of things Jon does, let alone acted upon them, when I was his age.
He never ceases to amaze and delight me.
In the spirit of fairness, I must also point out that I adore the college sophomore, David. And while I’m (we’re) getting to know Alexa and Grayson, the new members of our family, we love them more each day.
Jon is a junior in high school, one of my favorite ages when I taught English many years ago. The difference between the sophomore and junior years is amazing, and kids somehow have not only a growth spurt over the summer between the years, but a maturity spurt as well. It is joyous to watch and be a part of.
Jon reminds me of Hermes, the Greek messenger of the gods. Hermes is the archetype of an imp. He was the god of travelers, and he used his wits to delight Zeus, his father (somehow every minor god’s father) - and still survive Zeus’ wrath, which was frequent.
Jon is like that. He is an imp, and a kid who uses his wits to delight - eventually - all those around him. A couple of his exploits lately:
He and his friends went to the local appliance store and begged boxes. Refrigerator boxes, stove boxes, washer and dryer boxes. Big boxes. They drew giant faces on the boxes, made little holes so they could see out, bigger holes for their arms, and put them on.
Now picture Jon and his friends - probably eight or ten of them - marching in a box parade down the street where Jon lives, a kind of Father-Knows-Best neighborhood with a well-tended houses, green lawns, and a canopy of mature trees. One neighbor, according to reports the Hermes of his own youth, stood watching them march down the street and shaking his head, speechless.
Or . . . How about a few weeks earlier when he and his friends all put money into a pot and climbed a tree. The last one to climb down would receive the whole amount of cash. I don’t know what they planned to do about potty breaks. They found a huge old tree with long, sturdy branches at a local elementary school one Sunday morning about 6 and climbed it. They sat in the tree chatting for a couple of hours until a custodian (in all senses of the word) came in for work, found them and chased them away. Each of the tree-sitting participants took their cash from the kitty and went for breakfast, a little disappointed, but still having a great time.
I never thought of the kind of things Jon does, let alone acted upon them, when I was his age.
He never ceases to amaze and delight me.
The Way Out of our Financial Crisis
I’m wondering if we could bail out the economy by selling Alaska?
Of course, there’s no possibility we would or should give away the huge natural resources of such a beautiful and wild part of the United States. If we sold it to the Russians or the Chinese or probably any other country, we’d end up being the great loser. In the distant, Starwars-ish future we will no doubt find a way to exploit the resources of the state without destroying it.
The big advantages at this point, it seems to me, are that we could be out of debt to the countries that already own a majority of these United States, bail out the financial industry (giving golden parachutes perhaps to every American, the same kind that residents of the state of Alaska now receive) and certain incompetent candidates (did you watch the Katie Couric interviews!?) would lose their citizenship and thereby be ineligible to be vice president - or president in case of that person’s death.
On the other hand, and in a related but not relevant aside, I am predicting that the financial crisis will become so intense that Vice President Cheney and his minion President George Bush will declare an emergency and suspend the Constitution so they can continue to “rule” in royal fashion.
As always, I invite your comments below.
Of course, there’s no possibility we would or should give away the huge natural resources of such a beautiful and wild part of the United States. If we sold it to the Russians or the Chinese or probably any other country, we’d end up being the great loser. In the distant, Starwars-ish future we will no doubt find a way to exploit the resources of the state without destroying it.
The big advantages at this point, it seems to me, are that we could be out of debt to the countries that already own a majority of these United States, bail out the financial industry (giving golden parachutes perhaps to every American, the same kind that residents of the state of Alaska now receive) and certain incompetent candidates (did you watch the Katie Couric interviews!?) would lose their citizenship and thereby be ineligible to be vice president - or president in case of that person’s death.
On the other hand, and in a related but not relevant aside, I am predicting that the financial crisis will become so intense that Vice President Cheney and his minion President George Bush will declare an emergency and suspend the Constitution so they can continue to “rule” in royal fashion.
As always, I invite your comments below.
Monday, September 22, 2008
A Potato Shaped Like Jesus
Every spring we find a bin of sprouted potatoes in the pantry, and every spring we find a place in the garden, dig a trench, cut the potatoes into pieces, each with its own sprout and throw them into the ground.
This year we put them next to the asparagus, where last year the beans got tromped by the dogs racing back and forth along the fence barking at Monk and Mordecai, the large black dogs next door. This spring I got tired of all the barking and added a rabbit wire fence in front of the beds that border the back yard. The dogs stopped racing back and forth, the barking stopped, I had peace all summer. Yea!
I'm sure the nitrogen fixed by last years' crop, as well as the two years' worth of compost I pulled out of the bin and piled on top of the row, helped. Ann kept the little space weeded and when the potatoes had formed plants and started to bloom, she put newspapers covered with grass clippings around them to keep weeds out.
Then we forgot about them.
Our garden isn't very good, and we have problems growing many things to maturity because we have numbers of giant trees along the back lot line, which is the south. It shades our gardens and keeps crops (an optimistic term!) from growing as well as we'd like. On the other hand, our yard is very pleasant, and with the recent rain (more in the next paragraph), very green.
Anyway, our travel buddies Ted and Carol visited this month, and last weekend, in the rain that flooded basements (not ours, thankfully), raised rivers from the Gulf Coast to places even farther north than our south suburb of Chicago, and swept away houses along its track, we dug a "mess" of potatoes, washed them, boiled them, and ate them within an hour. The row of potatoes was beyond mud and mostly slurry, which made digging easier - and messier.
This weekend we bought fresh organic beets at the farmers' market, and decided to make borscht. We didn't have any potatoes, sprouted or otherwise, in the pantry, so we dug another mess. (I don't know why they are called a mess - it's somehow a rural collective noun. If we picked a couple quarts of beans, that would be a "mess" of beans. If we had okra this year, and picked enough to cut, bread, and saute, that would be a "mess." Yesterday I also picked a "mess" of green tomatoes, and we had fried green tomatoes with our borscht. We like vegetables.)
Because we didn't have any potatoes for the borwscht, I dug another mess, as I said before my long and parenthetical comment. The ones farthest away from the trees' shade were bigger, but none even half the size of my fist. I think we must have planted all fingerlings last spring because that's all that grew, so they couldn't grow very big in any event. We scrubbed them and used most of them in the borscht (2 C cooked beets, 2 C cooked potatoes, 2 Tbs. chopped cooked leeks, 1 quart or so of home made chicken broth, salt and pepper to taste. Combine, bring to rolling boil, blend [I use an immersible blender]. Put in bowls, top with a dollop of sour cream. Enjoy.)
We'll enjoy the potatoes we didn't use boiled with butter and dill tomorrow, and in a pot roast today. They tend to be much smaller and a few of them are misshapen. One looks like a platypus with little knobs pushing out in every direction. Ann was sorry it didn't look like Jesus, because we could sell it on e-bay.
Maybe next year.
As always, I welcome your comments.
This year we put them next to the asparagus, where last year the beans got tromped by the dogs racing back and forth along the fence barking at Monk and Mordecai, the large black dogs next door. This spring I got tired of all the barking and added a rabbit wire fence in front of the beds that border the back yard. The dogs stopped racing back and forth, the barking stopped, I had peace all summer. Yea!
I'm sure the nitrogen fixed by last years' crop, as well as the two years' worth of compost I pulled out of the bin and piled on top of the row, helped. Ann kept the little space weeded and when the potatoes had formed plants and started to bloom, she put newspapers covered with grass clippings around them to keep weeds out.
Then we forgot about them.
Our garden isn't very good, and we have problems growing many things to maturity because we have numbers of giant trees along the back lot line, which is the south. It shades our gardens and keeps crops (an optimistic term!) from growing as well as we'd like. On the other hand, our yard is very pleasant, and with the recent rain (more in the next paragraph), very green.
Anyway, our travel buddies Ted and Carol visited this month, and last weekend, in the rain that flooded basements (not ours, thankfully), raised rivers from the Gulf Coast to places even farther north than our south suburb of Chicago, and swept away houses along its track, we dug a "mess" of potatoes, washed them, boiled them, and ate them within an hour. The row of potatoes was beyond mud and mostly slurry, which made digging easier - and messier.
This weekend we bought fresh organic beets at the farmers' market, and decided to make borscht. We didn't have any potatoes, sprouted or otherwise, in the pantry, so we dug another mess. (I don't know why they are called a mess - it's somehow a rural collective noun. If we picked a couple quarts of beans, that would be a "mess" of beans. If we had okra this year, and picked enough to cut, bread, and saute, that would be a "mess." Yesterday I also picked a "mess" of green tomatoes, and we had fried green tomatoes with our borscht. We like vegetables.)
Because we didn't have any potatoes for the borwscht, I dug another mess, as I said before my long and parenthetical comment. The ones farthest away from the trees' shade were bigger, but none even half the size of my fist. I think we must have planted all fingerlings last spring because that's all that grew, so they couldn't grow very big in any event. We scrubbed them and used most of them in the borscht (2 C cooked beets, 2 C cooked potatoes, 2 Tbs. chopped cooked leeks, 1 quart or so of home made chicken broth, salt and pepper to taste. Combine, bring to rolling boil, blend [I use an immersible blender]. Put in bowls, top with a dollop of sour cream. Enjoy.)
We'll enjoy the potatoes we didn't use boiled with butter and dill tomorrow, and in a pot roast today. They tend to be much smaller and a few of them are misshapen. One looks like a platypus with little knobs pushing out in every direction. Ann was sorry it didn't look like Jesus, because we could sell it on e-bay.
Maybe next year.
As always, I welcome your comments.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Hate Mail
I realize that this is the silly season, that politics create strange bedfellows, and any other cliche about the upcoming presidential race you can think of.
I also realize that I am guilty of putting down Sarah Palin in particular, but also John McCain. And about a year ago Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton by suggesting that they have jobs in the Senate they were elected to that didn’t involve traipsing around the country campaigning for president.
I have to say, however, that I am tired of the constant emails I have been getting from all sides that perpetrate disgusting lies about each of the candidates. The ones that begin, “My brother lives in Wasilla, Alaska, and here’s what he says about Sarah Palin.” The ones that begin, “Here’s a list of 150 books Sarah Palin tried to remove from the Wasilla Library (or state of Alaska library system, take your pick).” The ones that begin, “Barack Obama sponsored legislation to require all kindergarten children to have comprehensive sex education.”
I am tired of getting fifteen to twenty of these every time I open my email.
Sarah Palin indeed did ask how to monitor the books the library had. Shame on her for even considering that. But she never had a list of specific books she told the librarian to remove from the shelves.
Barack Obama voted for a bill that would teach children, in an age-appropriate way, to avoid sexual predators. That’s stuff like Stranger-Danger, and nice people don’t touch you there, and talk to an adult you trust like your parent or a teacher. Props to him for helping to protect our children.
Too many of the hate emails come from people who know that I intend to vote for Barack Obama for president (and I urge the rest of American voters to follow my lead. Follow my lead is pretty arrogant, sorry.)
These hate-emails com from the same Karl Rove-ish bunch who told us in the last election that John Kerry’s did not earn his purple hearts.
Enough!
What kind of leadership can the presidential candidates provide that American needs?
What philosophies that they espouse do you also espouse?
What are their positions on issues?
Issues? you ask. Are there issues in this presidential campaign?
Yes, I believe there are. The economy is one, certainly this morning with the financial news about Merrill-Lynch and Lehman Brothers. Increasing national debt is another. Dependence on foreign energy (I kind of agree with T. Boone Pickens on this one) is yet another. The war in Iraq and the increasingly hawkish behavior to intervene in Georgia and Ukraine by ensuring their entry into NATO and then defending them is yet one more.
These are issues that affect me, that scare me, and some that delight me. And I know where Barack Obama and John McCain (and their vice presidential minions) stand on these issues.
Peripheral issues include age and experience and closeness to death. Is John McCain too far past the actuarial tables for old? Will some bigot try to assassinate Barack Obama? In that respect, are the vice presidential candidates truly prepared to run the country- at least as much as anyone is prepared to run the country?
These are ideas I have considered and will continue to consider up until the time I enter the voting booth.
I feel that the people who send me this hate mail, which I dutifully check out on www.snopes.com and find that 99 percent of it is either exaggeration or outright lies, see me as an easy mark, a thought-less person who will vote for whoever sends me mud last.
Some of these emails try to reinforce my current predilections. Others totally revolt me. In the end, they all disgust me. Actually, they’re very little different from the unsolicited emails I get that shame me about - and the try to tell me how to increase - the size of my manliness and satisfy any woman. Or the ones that try to arouse me with pictures of women and donkeys. (Vomit!)
After the first few, I began to delete them all. Without reading them. Particularly the ones whose subject lines say something like “The real truth about (fill in candidate’s name here)” or “This is really good about (again, the candidate’s name).”
I know I have friends who will read this and be offended. I’m sorry. If you are offended, we'll get together again after the election. Or better yet, right now - without the hate mail.
As always, feel free to comment below.
I also realize that I am guilty of putting down Sarah Palin in particular, but also John McCain. And about a year ago Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton by suggesting that they have jobs in the Senate they were elected to that didn’t involve traipsing around the country campaigning for president.
I have to say, however, that I am tired of the constant emails I have been getting from all sides that perpetrate disgusting lies about each of the candidates. The ones that begin, “My brother lives in Wasilla, Alaska, and here’s what he says about Sarah Palin.” The ones that begin, “Here’s a list of 150 books Sarah Palin tried to remove from the Wasilla Library (or state of Alaska library system, take your pick).” The ones that begin, “Barack Obama sponsored legislation to require all kindergarten children to have comprehensive sex education.”
I am tired of getting fifteen to twenty of these every time I open my email.
Sarah Palin indeed did ask how to monitor the books the library had. Shame on her for even considering that. But she never had a list of specific books she told the librarian to remove from the shelves.
Barack Obama voted for a bill that would teach children, in an age-appropriate way, to avoid sexual predators. That’s stuff like Stranger-Danger, and nice people don’t touch you there, and talk to an adult you trust like your parent or a teacher. Props to him for helping to protect our children.
Too many of the hate emails come from people who know that I intend to vote for Barack Obama for president (and I urge the rest of American voters to follow my lead. Follow my lead is pretty arrogant, sorry.)
These hate-emails com from the same Karl Rove-ish bunch who told us in the last election that John Kerry’s did not earn his purple hearts.
Enough!
What kind of leadership can the presidential candidates provide that American needs?
What philosophies that they espouse do you also espouse?
What are their positions on issues?
Issues? you ask. Are there issues in this presidential campaign?
Yes, I believe there are. The economy is one, certainly this morning with the financial news about Merrill-Lynch and Lehman Brothers. Increasing national debt is another. Dependence on foreign energy (I kind of agree with T. Boone Pickens on this one) is yet another. The war in Iraq and the increasingly hawkish behavior to intervene in Georgia and Ukraine by ensuring their entry into NATO and then defending them is yet one more.
These are issues that affect me, that scare me, and some that delight me. And I know where Barack Obama and John McCain (and their vice presidential minions) stand on these issues.
Peripheral issues include age and experience and closeness to death. Is John McCain too far past the actuarial tables for old? Will some bigot try to assassinate Barack Obama? In that respect, are the vice presidential candidates truly prepared to run the country- at least as much as anyone is prepared to run the country?
These are ideas I have considered and will continue to consider up until the time I enter the voting booth.
I feel that the people who send me this hate mail, which I dutifully check out on www.snopes.com and find that 99 percent of it is either exaggeration or outright lies, see me as an easy mark, a thought-less person who will vote for whoever sends me mud last.
Some of these emails try to reinforce my current predilections. Others totally revolt me. In the end, they all disgust me. Actually, they’re very little different from the unsolicited emails I get that shame me about - and the try to tell me how to increase - the size of my manliness and satisfy any woman. Or the ones that try to arouse me with pictures of women and donkeys. (Vomit!)
After the first few, I began to delete them all. Without reading them. Particularly the ones whose subject lines say something like “The real truth about (fill in candidate’s name here)” or “This is really good about (again, the candidate’s name).”
I know I have friends who will read this and be offended. I’m sorry. If you are offended, we'll get together again after the election. Or better yet, right now - without the hate mail.
As always, feel free to comment below.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Mother Robin Redux
I have been watching at the Republican Convention and have the same comments about it that I have about the Democratic Convention: C-Span offers coverage without comment and we are (ostensibly) intelligent enough to make up our own minds about what politicians (a word which can be, but is not necessarily, pejorative) have to say.
Again, feel free to comment below.
Again, feel free to comment below.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
10 Reasons To Be VP
10. You can show that family values and feminism are not mutually exclusive.
9. You're a green candidate, although in your case that means untried, untested, and possibly thoroughly un-vetted.
8. Pretty is as Pretty does.
7. The "Fourth Branch" of government, so-named by the current vice resident, allows you to decide what your duties are - like cooking moose hotdogs and nursing your baby at the office.
6. A heart beat from the Presidency.
5. Being a better shot that Dick Cheney, you can kill your target rather than just maiming him.
4. You get to attend funerals all over the world as the President's representative.
3. Living the American Dream: Better health care (GREAT health care) than you can buy - or afford - in the public sector.
2. Your new salary allows you to take care of your husband and five kids with style and grace.
1. You prove that Abstinence [sex] Education works.
As always I invite you to comment below:
9. You're a green candidate, although in your case that means untried, untested, and possibly thoroughly un-vetted.
8. Pretty is as Pretty does.
7. The "Fourth Branch" of government, so-named by the current vice resident, allows you to decide what your duties are - like cooking moose hotdogs and nursing your baby at the office.
6. A heart beat from the Presidency.
5. Being a better shot that Dick Cheney, you can kill your target rather than just maiming him.
4. You get to attend funerals all over the world as the President's representative.
3. Living the American Dream: Better health care (GREAT health care) than you can buy - or afford - in the public sector.
2. Your new salary allows you to take care of your husband and five kids with style and grace.
1. You prove that Abstinence [sex] Education works.
As always I invite you to comment below:
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Cynical Joke or Smart Choice?
John McCain has named Sarah Palin, the Republican governor of Alaska, as his vice presidential running mate. I have heard a lot of people describe this choice in different ways: cynical, smart, practical, insulting, anti-feminist, risky, and a joke.
I'm not sure which this decision is, and I tend toward cynical although it may turn out to be a very smart decision. Sarah Palin may well pull the Hillary Clinton supporters, whom she called whiners, into the Republican fold. I don't believe that any demographic group votes as a block. All Black people don't support Barack O bama, for instance. And I certainly don't believe - even despite acquaintances who tell me I'm wrong - that all women, most women, or even a substantial number of women, especially Hillary Clinton supporters, will vote for Sarah Palin merely because they all share anatomy.
Sarah Palin's views are diametrically opposed to Hillary Clinton's. According to published reports, Sarah Palin believes that any sort of birth control, including a married couple using a condom, is wrong. Unlike HC, she has neither national nor international political experience; in fact, her main claims to elected office include being named first runner up in the Miss Alaska competition in 1984, being a council member and then mayor of the little town of Wasilla, Alaska, and then governor of Alaska for one month longer than Barack Obama has been junior Senator from Illinois. In science, she denies that global warming is caused by human carbon use, and she advocates teaching creationism rather than evolution, which, after all is merely a theory rather than a proven fact. She is a life-long member of the NRA. None of these positions mirrors HC's.
I also wonder about Sarah Palin's common sense. She doesn't seem stupid, but she does seem insular and perhaps self absorbed. Why else would she deliver a speech in Texas after her water broke and then fly eight hours home to Alaska to have the baby a month prematurely?
Why would she name her children Trig? or Track? or Willow? or Bristol? or Piper? Can you guess which of them are male and which are female? Hint: she has two sons. (In the interest of fairness, I do believe that children's names should be gender based and not chosen because they're "a cool name." I don't believe that names should be a source of embarrassment or grounds for teasing.) Somehow, I'd like a little more quiet wisdom in my national leaders.
An acquaintance suggests that having five children, including four under sixteen and one an infant with Down's Syndrome, should preclude her from being in political office, indeed from working at all. This acquaintance, a female, a strong feminist, says that that choosing to have children means also choosing to take care of them; that being a baby machine and a full-time member of the work force means delegating to others the raising of children. If our country's most important resource is our children, then cherishing and nurturing and caring for them should be a priority.
Another friend suggests that having a developmentally challenged child will pull voters to her as the underdog. Who knows?
Perhaps, on the other hand others are more equipped to raise children than parents whose work is more important.
Will Sarah Palin help McCain's chances of being president? I have no answer to that. Is her choice cynical, smart, practical, insulting, anti-feminist, risky, or a joke? Again I have no answer. But I suspect that American's hidden bigotry may well play a more important role. No one wants to appear prejudiced and will therefore tell pollsters that they have no trouble voting for a person of color. But once they're in the privacy of the voting booth, they may not be able to vote their public declarations.
As always, I invite your comments.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Mother Robin - Take 2
In yesterday's posting, I didn't mean to sound as if I am against people expressing their opinions. I have no problem with that in most cases. And I am considered a loose cannon when it comes to opinions - for proof, read on:
My problem is that all too often the news media act as if opinions are more important than facts. Our local newspapers, the Chicago Tribune and particularly The Chicago Sun-Times, and our local television news teams, particularly Fox (I shudder, I shudder) present themselves as interactive and hold call-in and internet polls on matters of fact instead of opinion. Some of them are truly absurd: Does Iraq have Weapons of Mass Destruction? Does Iran have nuclear weapons capability?
The first, even though the Current Moron lied to us, has proven to be false. And even when the question was asked before we invaded Iraq in an illegal preemptive strike, no one knew for certain. Not the newscasters, not a kept-in-the-dark Congress, not lied-to Colin Powell, and certainly not the well-intentioned but naive people who responded to the silly polls. I hesitate to use the term slack-jawed yokels again.
The second question is equally unknown to the American public, although my guess is Not Yet.
And even though the questions are patently silly, the media all too often put the responses to these inane questions on the front pages of their newspapers or lead with them on television news - and use them as teasers for hours before the news. Iran has nuclear weapons! Details at Ten!
Unfortunately, the details turn out to be a horseshit call-in poll answered by a bunch of people who have no lives outside their own bubbles, and who spend their time watching Fox News and judging people who have what these flat earth-ers consider heretical religious beliefs.
I don't find this much different from the call-ins conducted by otherwise thorough C-SPAN that elicit answers like, "I worked for Hillary, but I don't agree with Obama's stand on abortion so I'm voting for McCain." How is Obama's view on abortion different from Hillary's? From what I can tell it isn't. This kind of illogic is crazy-making.
When I taught high school English in another life, I once had a student who didn't like studying vocabulary and tried to lead a revolt in the classroom. He said we should vote on what we thought words mean rather than learn a standard, universal definition. While this is an idea that Lewis Carroll's Queen of Hearts espoused: "It means what I say it means," it confounds communication rather than enhancing it. And this immature logic is very little different from that shown too often in the media.
As always, I welcome your comments. Click Comments below to leave one.
My problem is that all too often the news media act as if opinions are more important than facts. Our local newspapers, the Chicago Tribune and particularly The Chicago Sun-Times, and our local television news teams, particularly Fox (I shudder, I shudder) present themselves as interactive and hold call-in and internet polls on matters of fact instead of opinion. Some of them are truly absurd: Does Iraq have Weapons of Mass Destruction? Does Iran have nuclear weapons capability?
The first, even though the Current Moron lied to us, has proven to be false. And even when the question was asked before we invaded Iraq in an illegal preemptive strike, no one knew for certain. Not the newscasters, not a kept-in-the-dark Congress, not lied-to Colin Powell, and certainly not the well-intentioned but naive people who responded to the silly polls. I hesitate to use the term slack-jawed yokels again.
The second question is equally unknown to the American public, although my guess is Not Yet.
And even though the questions are patently silly, the media all too often put the responses to these inane questions on the front pages of their newspapers or lead with them on television news - and use them as teasers for hours before the news. Iran has nuclear weapons! Details at Ten!
Unfortunately, the details turn out to be a horseshit call-in poll answered by a bunch of people who have no lives outside their own bubbles, and who spend their time watching Fox News and judging people who have what these flat earth-ers consider heretical religious beliefs.
I don't find this much different from the call-ins conducted by otherwise thorough C-SPAN that elicit answers like, "I worked for Hillary, but I don't agree with Obama's stand on abortion so I'm voting for McCain." How is Obama's view on abortion different from Hillary's? From what I can tell it isn't. This kind of illogic is crazy-making.
When I taught high school English in another life, I once had a student who didn't like studying vocabulary and tried to lead a revolt in the classroom. He said we should vote on what we thought words mean rather than learn a standard, universal definition. While this is an idea that Lewis Carroll's Queen of Hearts espoused: "It means what I say it means," it confounds communication rather than enhancing it. And this immature logic is very little different from that shown too often in the media.
As always, I welcome your comments. Click Comments below to leave one.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Mother Robin and the Democratic Convention
N.B. Many of my political prejudices show here and since I'm heading toward my dotage, I get to take many tangents to express them.
The Democratic Convention in Denver is well under way at this point, and I watched some of it last night with the same kind of concentration lots of people devote to the Olympics.
I watched the Olympics for a while - the first week - but got tired of the same sports being featured (Beach Volley Ball and the scantily clad athletes? Too gruesome for words. Ann pretended to be really disgusted that the women who played BVB wore next to nothing and no doubt ended up with sand in unspeakable places, but the men who played BVB wore long shirts that covered up their pecs, their abs and their deltoids, and long, floppy shorts that deprived her of the eye candy our President seemed to enjoy so much as he awarded the female players with pats on the ass. The thought makes me shudder.) I would have thought, at least from the network coverage, that about two hundred people total participated in the Olympics - in addition to the million plus Chinese volunteers who spent a year making sure the Olympics went well.
So I learned from the Olympics and watched the Democratic Convention on C-SPAN. It offered complete coverage with no comment from so-called experts, at least during the convention sessions themselves. Early this morning when I tuned in briefly, the commentators on C-SPAN were interviewing people from all over the country about whom they would vote for: Obama or McCain - and why - especially in regard to the Clinton supporters who are re-focusing their loyalty, sometimes to McCain.
I heartily endorse the idea that the "common people" should have a voice, but it seems to me that the primaries and state caucuses are the forum to express their support for candidates. In February I hobbled over to the local school to vote in the primary after I broke my ankle, and rather than break more bones, I asked the election officials to haul a voting machine up to the landing of the stairs in accordance with federal handicap guidelines. Anyway, it seems to me that too many slack jawed yokels have opinions based on their emotional reactions to McCain's POW status, or their one-issue litmus tests (Abortion, Immigration, Censorship, or the Briefs/Boxers/Depends debate) rather than a broad examination of the issues and the candidates' stands on them.
I recorded one of the network's prime time programs of the Convention on our DVR. I was appalled first that the networks made America's Got Talent and Two and A Half Men (both no doubt part of the current administration's diet of bread and circuses) a priority over the nomination of the candidates for president. I was taken aback that for the single hour the Convention was broadcast, the regular number of commercials reduced actual coverage to about 40 minutes.
I was more disgusted with the coverage itself, however. Rather than showing the Convention, the talking heads commented on it. This speech was to the point. That tribute covered all the bases.
I am sick to death of being treated by the media as if I am too stupid to do my own thinking. I can watch Michelle Obama's speech and make my own judgments about it without being told what to think by so-called experts who pretend to be smarter than I am. I can watch the tribute to Ted Kennedy and realize that it is a beautifully done propaganda piece, not that the network I watched showed more than a few highlights.
Propaganda is not bad, it merely puts the best face on things. I knew when I was being emotionally manipulated - and I permitted it because Ted Kennedy is dying of brain cancer. And because he has done more things I admire than things I don't. And because his family has made more sacrifices in the name of public service than most I can think of.
On C-SPAN I watched Emil Jones, Illinois Senate Democratic Leader, mouth platitudes and fail to mention that he is retiring and has slated his son to take over his seat in an act beyond nepotism and into primogeniture. On C-SPAN I watched the leaders of the National Education Association and American Federation of Teachers speak about education and agreed with most of what they had to say about involving teachers in educational goals - instead of lawyers who somehow get elected to office and then think all teachers have to do is stand in front of a group of students and talk off the cuff.
On C-SPAN I watched Jesse Jackson, Jr. speak about his association with Barack Obama. He's my federal Congressman, and I enjoyed noting that he's listed as from both Chicago and Homewood, the village where I live.
On the national network, those people got short shrift or none at all. Instead, the talking heads talked to other heads about the speeches - if they mentioned them at all - and filtered those comments through their own prejudices. Just as I filtered my analysis of Emil Jones in the earlier paragraph.
Barack Obama has been accused by the Republicans of elitism. And the media have given his "elitism" a lot of play, at the same time they report on how many houses McCain owns or thinks he owns. It is the media that are elitist, however. They seem to believe that they can take in all the information, all the nuances, all the events at the Democratic Convention - and I'm sure at the Republican Convention coming up - chew them up, digest them for me and 300 million other Americans, and then, like the mother robin, vomit them into my waiting mouth. They seem to believe that they are without bias and reporting straight. They aren't.
I'm smart enough to make up my own mind about candidates and the people who support them. And until the current administration started testing all students on facts instead of the ability to think, so were most Americans.
As always I welcome your comments. Click on comments below to express them.
The Democratic Convention in Denver is well under way at this point, and I watched some of it last night with the same kind of concentration lots of people devote to the Olympics.
I watched the Olympics for a while - the first week - but got tired of the same sports being featured (Beach Volley Ball and the scantily clad athletes? Too gruesome for words. Ann pretended to be really disgusted that the women who played BVB wore next to nothing and no doubt ended up with sand in unspeakable places, but the men who played BVB wore long shirts that covered up their pecs, their abs and their deltoids, and long, floppy shorts that deprived her of the eye candy our President seemed to enjoy so much as he awarded the female players with pats on the ass. The thought makes me shudder.) I would have thought, at least from the network coverage, that about two hundred people total participated in the Olympics - in addition to the million plus Chinese volunteers who spent a year making sure the Olympics went well.
So I learned from the Olympics and watched the Democratic Convention on C-SPAN. It offered complete coverage with no comment from so-called experts, at least during the convention sessions themselves. Early this morning when I tuned in briefly, the commentators on C-SPAN were interviewing people from all over the country about whom they would vote for: Obama or McCain - and why - especially in regard to the Clinton supporters who are re-focusing their loyalty, sometimes to McCain.
I heartily endorse the idea that the "common people" should have a voice, but it seems to me that the primaries and state caucuses are the forum to express their support for candidates. In February I hobbled over to the local school to vote in the primary after I broke my ankle, and rather than break more bones, I asked the election officials to haul a voting machine up to the landing of the stairs in accordance with federal handicap guidelines. Anyway, it seems to me that too many slack jawed yokels have opinions based on their emotional reactions to McCain's POW status, or their one-issue litmus tests (Abortion, Immigration, Censorship, or the Briefs/Boxers/Depends debate) rather than a broad examination of the issues and the candidates' stands on them.
I recorded one of the network's prime time programs of the Convention on our DVR. I was appalled first that the networks made America's Got Talent and Two and A Half Men (both no doubt part of the current administration's diet of bread and circuses) a priority over the nomination of the candidates for president. I was taken aback that for the single hour the Convention was broadcast, the regular number of commercials reduced actual coverage to about 40 minutes.
I was more disgusted with the coverage itself, however. Rather than showing the Convention, the talking heads commented on it. This speech was to the point. That tribute covered all the bases.
I am sick to death of being treated by the media as if I am too stupid to do my own thinking. I can watch Michelle Obama's speech and make my own judgments about it without being told what to think by so-called experts who pretend to be smarter than I am. I can watch the tribute to Ted Kennedy and realize that it is a beautifully done propaganda piece, not that the network I watched showed more than a few highlights.
Propaganda is not bad, it merely puts the best face on things. I knew when I was being emotionally manipulated - and I permitted it because Ted Kennedy is dying of brain cancer. And because he has done more things I admire than things I don't. And because his family has made more sacrifices in the name of public service than most I can think of.
On C-SPAN I watched Emil Jones, Illinois Senate Democratic Leader, mouth platitudes and fail to mention that he is retiring and has slated his son to take over his seat in an act beyond nepotism and into primogeniture. On C-SPAN I watched the leaders of the National Education Association and American Federation of Teachers speak about education and agreed with most of what they had to say about involving teachers in educational goals - instead of lawyers who somehow get elected to office and then think all teachers have to do is stand in front of a group of students and talk off the cuff.
On C-SPAN I watched Jesse Jackson, Jr. speak about his association with Barack Obama. He's my federal Congressman, and I enjoyed noting that he's listed as from both Chicago and Homewood, the village where I live.
On the national network, those people got short shrift or none at all. Instead, the talking heads talked to other heads about the speeches - if they mentioned them at all - and filtered those comments through their own prejudices. Just as I filtered my analysis of Emil Jones in the earlier paragraph.
Barack Obama has been accused by the Republicans of elitism. And the media have given his "elitism" a lot of play, at the same time they report on how many houses McCain owns or thinks he owns. It is the media that are elitist, however. They seem to believe that they can take in all the information, all the nuances, all the events at the Democratic Convention - and I'm sure at the Republican Convention coming up - chew them up, digest them for me and 300 million other Americans, and then, like the mother robin, vomit them into my waiting mouth. They seem to believe that they are without bias and reporting straight. They aren't.
I'm smart enough to make up my own mind about candidates and the people who support them. And until the current administration started testing all students on facts instead of the ability to think, so were most Americans.
As always I welcome your comments. Click on comments below to express them.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Anniversaries
Nine-eleven. November 22, December 7. These are all dates that people of my pre-Baby Boomer generation and older remember. These are national anniversaries, all tragedies.
We all know nine-eleven, the day Al-Qaeda attacked the World Trade Center in New York City, the most recent of the terrible anniversaries. Most of us do not recognize it as the date of chosen son Tim’s birthday, however. It isn’t all bad.
November 22, 1963, is the day I lost my innocence, the day I realized that the world is not a nice place. John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas that day. December 7, 1941, is the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, HI, and drew the United States into World War II. That’s before my time, of course.
There are other dates I remember: September 8, 1973, is the day our son Daniel was born. December 2, 1940, is the date of the first self-sustaining nuclear reaction that occurred at the University of Chicago. December 2 is noteworthy date in other ways. It’s my birthday and more important, the date on which we baptized Daniel. The latter two are happy occasions. Perhaps all three are.
January 7, 1993, is the day our son Daniel was killed in a freak accident. It’s a day we always remember, but not a happy one.
And today is an important date. It’s the anniversary of our wedding in 1967.
Forty-one years ago it rained – poured, in fact. We got married in Ann’s parents’ home in New Lenox, IL. The campus minister came up from Charleston and officiated. (He later dumped his wife for his secretary, and then, I hear by the grapevine, dumped her for the new secretary. I don’t know how long the chain was, but he did better by us than by himself.)
We held the reception at Ann’s folks’ home, and Ann’s mother, the eternal Home Ec teacher, prepared the grand buffet herself and asked ladies from her church guild come in to serve. We didn’t see Ann’s parents after the ceremony until they visited us in Ohio (where I had a graduate assistantship at Ohio University) at Thanksgiving. We could never figure out where they disappeared or what they did when they vanished.
Our anniversary is somehow made more significant – and joyous – by the fact that in the general population the divorce rate hovers around 50 per cent. In our demographic, couples whose children have died, the divorce rate rockets to about 85 per cent. That’s an astounding figure and, I think, a testament to Ann’s willingness to make things work and the very good therapists we saw after Daniel’s death over fifteen years ago.
Before he died, we always joked that we couldn’t afford to get divorced, even if we had wanted to. Which we didn’t. After his death, we grieved in such profound and different ways that for a while it didn’t matter if we were married or not. We lived in separate bubbles for a short while. But as we came out of the grief and shock and guilt and anger and all those other conflicting emotions, we realized what love and strength we have together, and continued to build on it.
And no matter what has happened in our lives, the most important fact remains that we continue to love and support each other, that we expect to remain married forever.
We experience occasional joy and occasional sadness, but on the whole we live our lives in great contentment. Early this morning, just after midnight, when I went to bed after the Olympics, I woke Ann to wish her Happy Anniversary. She didn’t curse me for violating the biggest rule of the house: Don’t wake anyone unnecessarily. She didn’t snort and turn over. Instead she giggled and wished me the same. Then we both went right to sleep.
Not to brag, but our marriage works.
As always, I invite you to comment below.
We all know nine-eleven, the day Al-Qaeda attacked the World Trade Center in New York City, the most recent of the terrible anniversaries. Most of us do not recognize it as the date of chosen son Tim’s birthday, however. It isn’t all bad.
November 22, 1963, is the day I lost my innocence, the day I realized that the world is not a nice place. John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas that day. December 7, 1941, is the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, HI, and drew the United States into World War II. That’s before my time, of course.
There are other dates I remember: September 8, 1973, is the day our son Daniel was born. December 2, 1940, is the date of the first self-sustaining nuclear reaction that occurred at the University of Chicago. December 2 is noteworthy date in other ways. It’s my birthday and more important, the date on which we baptized Daniel. The latter two are happy occasions. Perhaps all three are.
January 7, 1993, is the day our son Daniel was killed in a freak accident. It’s a day we always remember, but not a happy one.
And today is an important date. It’s the anniversary of our wedding in 1967.
Forty-one years ago it rained – poured, in fact. We got married in Ann’s parents’ home in New Lenox, IL. The campus minister came up from Charleston and officiated. (He later dumped his wife for his secretary, and then, I hear by the grapevine, dumped her for the new secretary. I don’t know how long the chain was, but he did better by us than by himself.)
We held the reception at Ann’s folks’ home, and Ann’s mother, the eternal Home Ec teacher, prepared the grand buffet herself and asked ladies from her church guild come in to serve. We didn’t see Ann’s parents after the ceremony until they visited us in Ohio (where I had a graduate assistantship at Ohio University) at Thanksgiving. We could never figure out where they disappeared or what they did when they vanished.
Our anniversary is somehow made more significant – and joyous – by the fact that in the general population the divorce rate hovers around 50 per cent. In our demographic, couples whose children have died, the divorce rate rockets to about 85 per cent. That’s an astounding figure and, I think, a testament to Ann’s willingness to make things work and the very good therapists we saw after Daniel’s death over fifteen years ago.
Before he died, we always joked that we couldn’t afford to get divorced, even if we had wanted to. Which we didn’t. After his death, we grieved in such profound and different ways that for a while it didn’t matter if we were married or not. We lived in separate bubbles for a short while. But as we came out of the grief and shock and guilt and anger and all those other conflicting emotions, we realized what love and strength we have together, and continued to build on it.
And no matter what has happened in our lives, the most important fact remains that we continue to love and support each other, that we expect to remain married forever.
We experience occasional joy and occasional sadness, but on the whole we live our lives in great contentment. Early this morning, just after midnight, when I went to bed after the Olympics, I woke Ann to wish her Happy Anniversary. She didn’t curse me for violating the biggest rule of the house: Don’t wake anyone unnecessarily. She didn’t snort and turn over. Instead she giggled and wished me the same. Then we both went right to sleep.
Not to brag, but our marriage works.
As always, I invite you to comment below.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
A Toast not a Roast
Today is the big day: Tim, our grandsons' dad, is getting married to Karen, one of my former students. That sounds surprising, but it isn't. Some of my former students are in their middle to late fifties at this point. Karen, of course is not. She is considerably younger than my early students. And just for the record, she is younger than my middle students.
This week has been a whirlwind of pre-wedding events: Tim's two sisters are staying with us and we welcomed them at about 3 a.m. the other day because of plane delays. A pizza party followed by the bachelor party. The rehearsal. A shower for the ladies. The rehearsal dinner. And today is the wedding. Preceded by photos and followed by the reception. Tomorrow is the post-wedding brunch at the bride's parents' house.
I am the Best Man. Go figure. My duties today include not passing out during the nuptial mass, not crying too hard, and offering a toast. Here's the preview:
As the best man, I have the privilege of proposing the first toast.
I want to say a couple of words about Karen before I talk about Tim. She is one of my former students – as is her sister Susie - and I am happy to say Karen did not receive the only B of her high school career in my English class.
Karen is a lovely person on every level I can think of. In addition to being beautiful, she is kind, gracious, graceful - and I know that Tim adores her.
Now to Tim. When I met Tim I thought he was a very tall man. This was shortly after our son died, and he helped us through a very difficult time. He gave us his two sons David and Jonathan, whom we adore, to be grandparents to. For that magnificent gift, that new connection to life and family, we shall be always grateful.
As I said, I thought Tim was very tall. He told me that as I got to know him better, I’d find out he was not semi-divine, and he would start shrinking – at least in my perception. That happened. I discovered Tim is human. Sometime totally human. Never as human as I am. And he is shorter than I originally thought he was.
Today, however, Tim stands taller than I have ever known him.
Both Tim and Karen know how much I love them.
Let us raise our glasses: To Tim and Karen. Our love and best wishes for great happiness!
Please feel free to comment below.
This week has been a whirlwind of pre-wedding events: Tim's two sisters are staying with us and we welcomed them at about 3 a.m. the other day because of plane delays. A pizza party followed by the bachelor party. The rehearsal. A shower for the ladies. The rehearsal dinner. And today is the wedding. Preceded by photos and followed by the reception. Tomorrow is the post-wedding brunch at the bride's parents' house.
I am the Best Man. Go figure. My duties today include not passing out during the nuptial mass, not crying too hard, and offering a toast. Here's the preview:
As the best man, I have the privilege of proposing the first toast.
I want to say a couple of words about Karen before I talk about Tim. She is one of my former students – as is her sister Susie - and I am happy to say Karen did not receive the only B of her high school career in my English class.
Karen is a lovely person on every level I can think of. In addition to being beautiful, she is kind, gracious, graceful - and I know that Tim adores her.
Now to Tim. When I met Tim I thought he was a very tall man. This was shortly after our son died, and he helped us through a very difficult time. He gave us his two sons David and Jonathan, whom we adore, to be grandparents to. For that magnificent gift, that new connection to life and family, we shall be always grateful.
As I said, I thought Tim was very tall. He told me that as I got to know him better, I’d find out he was not semi-divine, and he would start shrinking – at least in my perception. That happened. I discovered Tim is human. Sometime totally human. Never as human as I am. And he is shorter than I originally thought he was.
Today, however, Tim stands taller than I have ever known him.
Both Tim and Karen know how much I love them.
Let us raise our glasses: To Tim and Karen. Our love and best wishes for great happiness!
Please feel free to comment below.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Port Townsend
Every time I travel, I check out whether or not I’d like to live there. I’m currently at Fort Worden State Park in Port Townsend, Washington, and this is a great place to visit.
The fort sits on a bluff overlooking Puget Sound. Across the bay is snow-covered Mt. Baker. At the bottom of the bluff is a wide sandy beach, a long boardwalk and pier out into the Sound that houses a maritime museum. At the north end, a spit with a lighthouse, a working lighthouse. It is beautiful and romantic.
So far the mornings are gray and foggy. But as the sun climbs and burns off the haze, the days have become sun filled and almost warm. The wind seems to pound relentlessly, although others in my group have reported periods of no breezes. Afternoons are glorious, and offer free time to nap, paint – as I did yesterday – or go to the lectures that we have paid for, even if we prefer to play hooky.
Next to the dorm – former barracks – where Ann and I are staying, picnic tables line the top of the bluff, and it is there we writers gather each evening to chat, and drink, and have un-wholesome snacks, snacks the opposite of the high fiber and heavy-on-the-tofu meals the cafeteria serves.
The barracks is built on a hill, and to the north of us, sweet peas cover the walls of a higher bluff. The oldest building in Port Townsend sits there. It is oddly shaped, a brick house with a three story, crenelated tower. It was home to the first Episcopal priest in the city. He became the British consul in Port Townsend eventually.
Our classes with successful writers are, appropriately, in the old schoolhouse. Before becoming a school, it was the infirmary, and the room where we meet with Chris Albani each morning used to be the mental health section, the insane asylum where crazy soldiers killed themselves. Rumor suggests it’s haunted, but the only unusual occurrences I have noticed are the wind in the vertical blinds that makes a skittering sound and a large yellow bug, probably a moth, that fluttered through class today.
I have barely left the grounds of the fort. Ann, on the other hand, took a day-long whale watching cruise. She said she has never felt so seasick, although the water calmed on the way back, and she saw a pod of whales before she had to go below and lie down again. Yesterday she went to Sequim (pronounced Squim), where, as she passed an elderly woman on her way into a restaurant, the woman smacked Ann with her cane. The natives are friendly, but only up to a point.
That is not to say that she hasn’t had wonderful experiences also. She has done some exploring and shopping and reading and napping and relaxing and she has gone with me to readings by the authors at this writing conference. Last night’s readings by Rebecca Brown and Brian Evnason were terrific and tonight we will hear Chris Albani and Kathleen Alcalá.
Tomorrow morning my fifteen pages get work shopped (yes, dears, you can verb anything) at Chris Albani’s workshop, and in the afternoon Ann plans to take a tour of the Lighthouse while I am at a lecture by Brian Evanson.
Sunday we pile our stuff in the rental car and drive the two hours to Seattle to fly home. We’ll arrive late Sunday night, no doubt happy to sleep in our own bed with our familiar pillows and eat regular low-fiber tofu-less food.
But even though I don’t want to live here, I’ll miss Port Townsend. I love the water, the sound of the waves and the tide rising and falling twice a day. I love the weather, which is literally no-sweat – it gets up to about 70 every day and the nights are great for sleeping.
What I’ll miss most of all is the camaraderie of good and trusted friends, particularly Beth Thorpe and Jim Churchill-Dicks (check out his blog
Beyond Telling listed at the right), whose residencies at Goddard I overlapped, and Rebecca Brown and Chris Albani, both of whom are inspired, inspiring teachers and writers. And I’ll miss Brian Christian whom I met last year and whose poetry will appear in Best New Voices of 2008!, and David and Lowell and Ted Wheeler (whose work will appear in New American Voices of 2009!) and Kyle and “Jim number one” all of whom have wonderful minds and great writing talents. Our paths will cross in the future. I’ll make sure of that.
The fort sits on a bluff overlooking Puget Sound. Across the bay is snow-covered Mt. Baker. At the bottom of the bluff is a wide sandy beach, a long boardwalk and pier out into the Sound that houses a maritime museum. At the north end, a spit with a lighthouse, a working lighthouse. It is beautiful and romantic.
So far the mornings are gray and foggy. But as the sun climbs and burns off the haze, the days have become sun filled and almost warm. The wind seems to pound relentlessly, although others in my group have reported periods of no breezes. Afternoons are glorious, and offer free time to nap, paint – as I did yesterday – or go to the lectures that we have paid for, even if we prefer to play hooky.
Next to the dorm – former barracks – where Ann and I are staying, picnic tables line the top of the bluff, and it is there we writers gather each evening to chat, and drink, and have un-wholesome snacks, snacks the opposite of the high fiber and heavy-on-the-tofu meals the cafeteria serves.
The barracks is built on a hill, and to the north of us, sweet peas cover the walls of a higher bluff. The oldest building in Port Townsend sits there. It is oddly shaped, a brick house with a three story, crenelated tower. It was home to the first Episcopal priest in the city. He became the British consul in Port Townsend eventually.
Our classes with successful writers are, appropriately, in the old schoolhouse. Before becoming a school, it was the infirmary, and the room where we meet with Chris Albani each morning used to be the mental health section, the insane asylum where crazy soldiers killed themselves. Rumor suggests it’s haunted, but the only unusual occurrences I have noticed are the wind in the vertical blinds that makes a skittering sound and a large yellow bug, probably a moth, that fluttered through class today.
I have barely left the grounds of the fort. Ann, on the other hand, took a day-long whale watching cruise. She said she has never felt so seasick, although the water calmed on the way back, and she saw a pod of whales before she had to go below and lie down again. Yesterday she went to Sequim (pronounced Squim), where, as she passed an elderly woman on her way into a restaurant, the woman smacked Ann with her cane. The natives are friendly, but only up to a point.
That is not to say that she hasn’t had wonderful experiences also. She has done some exploring and shopping and reading and napping and relaxing and she has gone with me to readings by the authors at this writing conference. Last night’s readings by Rebecca Brown and Brian Evnason were terrific and tonight we will hear Chris Albani and Kathleen Alcalá.
Tomorrow morning my fifteen pages get work shopped (yes, dears, you can verb anything) at Chris Albani’s workshop, and in the afternoon Ann plans to take a tour of the Lighthouse while I am at a lecture by Brian Evanson.
Sunday we pile our stuff in the rental car and drive the two hours to Seattle to fly home. We’ll arrive late Sunday night, no doubt happy to sleep in our own bed with our familiar pillows and eat regular low-fiber tofu-less food.
But even though I don’t want to live here, I’ll miss Port Townsend. I love the water, the sound of the waves and the tide rising and falling twice a day. I love the weather, which is literally no-sweat – it gets up to about 70 every day and the nights are great for sleeping.
What I’ll miss most of all is the camaraderie of good and trusted friends, particularly Beth Thorpe and Jim Churchill-Dicks (check out his blog
Beyond Telling listed at the right), whose residencies at Goddard I overlapped, and Rebecca Brown and Chris Albani, both of whom are inspired, inspiring teachers and writers. And I’ll miss Brian Christian whom I met last year and whose poetry will appear in Best New Voices of 2008!, and David and Lowell and Ted Wheeler (whose work will appear in New American Voices of 2009!) and Kyle and “Jim number one” all of whom have wonderful minds and great writing talents. Our paths will cross in the future. I’ll make sure of that.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Fourth of July
I’m home from Vermont in time to rest up for the Fourth of July Independence Day celebration – and another gigantic spate of mattress sales. I just don’t understand how selling mattresses – or having any other kind of sale - has anything to do with patriotism, unless we consider capitalism gone wild a way to express our love for our country.
In any event the neighborhood has been pretty calm – knock on wood. Instead of the usual firecrackers all night for two weeks in advance of the Fourth, I haven’t heard anything. With luck, dogs all over the neighborhood are neither peeing on carpets in fright nor jumping on their masters in the middle of the night at the sound of random explosions.
My dogs don’t seem to be afraid of firecrackers or thunderstorms, and for that I am grateful. Brando barks at the vacuum cleaner occasionally, but I ignore him and he lies down by himself pretty soon. Stella doesn’t seem to notice either way unless I put the suction hose on her body, and then she makes herself scarce. With good reason.
I know people whose dogs go wild at the slightest rumble and try to crawl under the closet floor to protect themselves. I don’t understand why some dogs tremble and others don’t, but I suspect it has to do with their puppyhoods. We didn’t have either dog as a little puppy, although we got Stella when she was six months old. Brando came to us six months later at a year old. Both are rescue dogs, probably not full-blooded anything, and that may account for their temperaments.
The Dogs Next Door are apparent basket cases last night and this morning, perhaps in anticipation of coming thunder. They have done nothing but bark. Stella pretty much ignores them, and Brando is working on it, but neither of my dogs has even been outside when the neighbor dogs have heard us – even in the house – and gone wild. The lawn people are here this morning and that is driving the DNDs crazy. Go figure.
In any event, we are going to the grandkids’ parents’ for the Fourth. The grandsons' (David and Jonathan, terrific kids!) father is remarrying in August, and his fiancée has two kids, our two new grandchildren Greyson and Alexa, who are also absolute delights. Now we have four grandchildren to spoil.
And maybe that’s the patriotic theme of this blog today. We have such freedom. Freedom not only to say what we want, and blog what we want, and think what we want, especially if we think George Bush is a mendacious moron. Freedom of association and travel and even, I suppose, mattress sales, are freedoms we can thank our founding fathers for. And we thank also those who have fought for us over the past 232 years, especially son Derek, who went to Annapolis and then gave another six years to the Navy and his country, our country. We owe them deep gratitude.
Happy Fourth of July! Happy Independence Day!
In any event the neighborhood has been pretty calm – knock on wood. Instead of the usual firecrackers all night for two weeks in advance of the Fourth, I haven’t heard anything. With luck, dogs all over the neighborhood are neither peeing on carpets in fright nor jumping on their masters in the middle of the night at the sound of random explosions.
My dogs don’t seem to be afraid of firecrackers or thunderstorms, and for that I am grateful. Brando barks at the vacuum cleaner occasionally, but I ignore him and he lies down by himself pretty soon. Stella doesn’t seem to notice either way unless I put the suction hose on her body, and then she makes herself scarce. With good reason.
I know people whose dogs go wild at the slightest rumble and try to crawl under the closet floor to protect themselves. I don’t understand why some dogs tremble and others don’t, but I suspect it has to do with their puppyhoods. We didn’t have either dog as a little puppy, although we got Stella when she was six months old. Brando came to us six months later at a year old. Both are rescue dogs, probably not full-blooded anything, and that may account for their temperaments.
The Dogs Next Door are apparent basket cases last night and this morning, perhaps in anticipation of coming thunder. They have done nothing but bark. Stella pretty much ignores them, and Brando is working on it, but neither of my dogs has even been outside when the neighbor dogs have heard us – even in the house – and gone wild. The lawn people are here this morning and that is driving the DNDs crazy. Go figure.
In any event, we are going to the grandkids’ parents’ for the Fourth. The grandsons' (David and Jonathan, terrific kids!) father is remarrying in August, and his fiancée has two kids, our two new grandchildren Greyson and Alexa, who are also absolute delights. Now we have four grandchildren to spoil.
And maybe that’s the patriotic theme of this blog today. We have such freedom. Freedom not only to say what we want, and blog what we want, and think what we want, especially if we think George Bush is a mendacious moron. Freedom of association and travel and even, I suppose, mattress sales, are freedoms we can thank our founding fathers for. And we thank also those who have fought for us over the past 232 years, especially son Derek, who went to Annapolis and then gave another six years to the Navy and his country, our country. We owe them deep gratitude.
Happy Fourth of July! Happy Independence Day!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Peonies
Thanks to Jim Churchill-Dicks for his peony photo on his blog at Beyond Telling, which is listed at the right among my favorite blogs. Click on it to see his photographic skill and how beautifully he writes.
Peonies in my little suburb of Chicago bloomed shortly after Memorial / Mattress Sale Day. In fact, mattress sales were extended for a week or so, and the peonies found their glory during that time. Then the weather turned briefly hot and rain flattened the blossoms on the ground where they became piles of independent pink and white and maroon petals until the lawn people came one Wednesday morning and cleaned them up.
Today, three weeks after the real Memorial Day, a month after the fake one, I’m at Goddard College in Plainfield, VT, at the week-long Clockhouse Writers Conference. The peonies here are just beginning to bloom. Last night heavy rain didn’t flatten the peonies. Instead diamonds now cover the peonies, and the waxy leaves of the hostas, and the fuchsias in the morning sun. They glitter like a sale in Tiffany’s window.
As the day progresses, again rain threatens and dark clouds glower at the horizon and pass swiftly overhead, but the sun shines intermittently, and everything is green and lush. Lady bugs swirl on flowers I can’t identify, and gnats try to form nests in my nose and mouth and ears. Little white and yellow butterflies flit around the wildflowers, and except for the slight smell of skunk in the village, the air is filled with the sweetness of the blooming clover, and peonies, and fruit trees.
I love Vermont. And I visit every year – this is the eleventh time I've visited since 2000 when I came for a college visit to see if I could handle a week every semester while I worked on an MFA (Master of Fine Arts, not what you’re thinking) in Creative Writing after I retired from teaching.
My current concern is that it is a good two day drive from home out here. And I hate to drive. Or an increasingly expensive plane ride. (Two years ago I paid $299 round trip, last year I came on frequent flyer miles, but this year the flight costs roughly three times what I last paid – plus a rental car for a week. My wife and I spent less per person when we went to England for a week last year to visit her English mum in Nottingham.)
An obvious solution is to move to Vermont, and it isn’t as if I wouldn’t love to. But I’d miss my two grandsons David and Jonathan who give great and consistent joy to my life. Not to mention my soon-to-be new grandson Greyson and new granddaughter Alexa. I’d miss my daughter Shannon, and our friends, and the energy of the city of Chicago. At this stage in my life, not that I’m swirling the drain by any means, I’d miss my doctor of many years and the great medical care available in the City.
And Vermont has winters that are a month longer on each end than Chicago’s. I like winter, but I’m not sure I like it that much.
In The Secular City Harvey Cox said, “Not to decide is to decide.” And I don’t know whether I’m deciding or not deciding, but I know I’m continuing my own personal status quo. I’ll continue to visit Vermont each early summer as long as I can scrape the shekels together. My little suburb south of Chicago will remain my home. And I'll get to see the peonies bloom twice.
Please click comment below to leave a response.
Peonies in my little suburb of Chicago bloomed shortly after Memorial / Mattress Sale Day. In fact, mattress sales were extended for a week or so, and the peonies found their glory during that time. Then the weather turned briefly hot and rain flattened the blossoms on the ground where they became piles of independent pink and white and maroon petals until the lawn people came one Wednesday morning and cleaned them up.
Today, three weeks after the real Memorial Day, a month after the fake one, I’m at Goddard College in Plainfield, VT, at the week-long Clockhouse Writers Conference. The peonies here are just beginning to bloom. Last night heavy rain didn’t flatten the peonies. Instead diamonds now cover the peonies, and the waxy leaves of the hostas, and the fuchsias in the morning sun. They glitter like a sale in Tiffany’s window.
As the day progresses, again rain threatens and dark clouds glower at the horizon and pass swiftly overhead, but the sun shines intermittently, and everything is green and lush. Lady bugs swirl on flowers I can’t identify, and gnats try to form nests in my nose and mouth and ears. Little white and yellow butterflies flit around the wildflowers, and except for the slight smell of skunk in the village, the air is filled with the sweetness of the blooming clover, and peonies, and fruit trees.
I love Vermont. And I visit every year – this is the eleventh time I've visited since 2000 when I came for a college visit to see if I could handle a week every semester while I worked on an MFA (Master of Fine Arts, not what you’re thinking) in Creative Writing after I retired from teaching.
My current concern is that it is a good two day drive from home out here. And I hate to drive. Or an increasingly expensive plane ride. (Two years ago I paid $299 round trip, last year I came on frequent flyer miles, but this year the flight costs roughly three times what I last paid – plus a rental car for a week. My wife and I spent less per person when we went to England for a week last year to visit her English mum in Nottingham.)
An obvious solution is to move to Vermont, and it isn’t as if I wouldn’t love to. But I’d miss my two grandsons David and Jonathan who give great and consistent joy to my life. Not to mention my soon-to-be new grandson Greyson and new granddaughter Alexa. I’d miss my daughter Shannon, and our friends, and the energy of the city of Chicago. At this stage in my life, not that I’m swirling the drain by any means, I’d miss my doctor of many years and the great medical care available in the City.
And Vermont has winters that are a month longer on each end than Chicago’s. I like winter, but I’m not sure I like it that much.
In The Secular City Harvey Cox said, “Not to decide is to decide.” And I don’t know whether I’m deciding or not deciding, but I know I’m continuing my own personal status quo. I’ll continue to visit Vermont each early summer as long as I can scrape the shekels together. My little suburb south of Chicago will remain my home. And I'll get to see the peonies bloom twice.
Please click comment below to leave a response.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Another Mattress Sale
Another Memorial Day has passed – or has it? Congress established Decoration Day as May 30 after the Civil War (or War Between the States, or The War of Northern Aggression, or . . .). In 1967 (an arcane fact) the name was officially changed to Memorial Day, and then a year later, it became the last Monday in May, apparently so we could have yet another three day weekend and a mattress sale.
Another Memorial Day has passed, but it didn’t feel like Memorial Day – or Decoration Day. My grandmother, who died in 1960, raised peonies and sold them every Decoration Day. Our peonies have yet to bloom, and with this spring’s weather probably won’t for the true, original Memorial Day, May 30.
This Memorial Day I did not travel to the National Cemetery at Chattanooga, TN, to decorate my father’s grave. (My mother’s ashes float somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico near Venice, FL, a no doubt illegal scattering.) I did not travel to Uniontown, PA, to decorate my paternal grandmother’s or my Great Aunt Lyda’s graves. I didn't go to Indiana to decorate my paternal grandfather's grave.
I didn’t go to Ohio to decorate my maternal grandparents’ graves.
And I once again failed to travel to Kane, IL, five hours south of my Chicago suburb, to lay flowers on my son’s grave where his ashes lie on top of my father-in-law’s remains.
Perhaps I should feel guilty. I don’t. Guilt is a wasted emotion for the most part, it seems to me, used by people to manipulate others. I had too many people in my life as I was growing up who used guilt to control me and I have pretty much rejected it because it too frequently paralyzes.
I don’t believe that Daniel lies in my father-in-law’s grave. He, rather, is in my heart, as are my father – and all those other relatives. Pieces of bone chips, which funeral professionals call cremains, are not Daniel. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I do. Every day of my life.
I remember and honor him by planting deep purple salvia close to the statue of St. Francis in our back yard. They were the flowers he always liked best and asked his grandmother to plant. I pray for him every night. And we take the occasional bouquet to church and put it in the Mary Corner, next to the statue of Mary. We light a candle.
Yesterday we did not decorate anyone's graves with peonies – or any other flowers.
We did not do that most patriotic of deeds: buy a new mattress. I don’t understand why national holidays create so much mattress advertising, so many mattress sales. (Is it that Americans figure out their mattresses are terrible when they finally have time to have sex on a holiday?)
Instead we planted a couple of eggplants and a tomato. We pulled a few weeds. We walked the dogs around the block.
And then we did that second most American of things: we went to the neighbors’ for a cookout.
We honored the past by celebrating the living.
Please write your opinions about Memorial/Decoration Day by clicking comment below.
Another Memorial Day has passed, but it didn’t feel like Memorial Day – or Decoration Day. My grandmother, who died in 1960, raised peonies and sold them every Decoration Day. Our peonies have yet to bloom, and with this spring’s weather probably won’t for the true, original Memorial Day, May 30.
This Memorial Day I did not travel to the National Cemetery at Chattanooga, TN, to decorate my father’s grave. (My mother’s ashes float somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico near Venice, FL, a no doubt illegal scattering.) I did not travel to Uniontown, PA, to decorate my paternal grandmother’s or my Great Aunt Lyda’s graves. I didn't go to Indiana to decorate my paternal grandfather's grave.
I didn’t go to Ohio to decorate my maternal grandparents’ graves.
And I once again failed to travel to Kane, IL, five hours south of my Chicago suburb, to lay flowers on my son’s grave where his ashes lie on top of my father-in-law’s remains.
Perhaps I should feel guilty. I don’t. Guilt is a wasted emotion for the most part, it seems to me, used by people to manipulate others. I had too many people in my life as I was growing up who used guilt to control me and I have pretty much rejected it because it too frequently paralyzes.
I don’t believe that Daniel lies in my father-in-law’s grave. He, rather, is in my heart, as are my father – and all those other relatives. Pieces of bone chips, which funeral professionals call cremains, are not Daniel. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I do. Every day of my life.
I remember and honor him by planting deep purple salvia close to the statue of St. Francis in our back yard. They were the flowers he always liked best and asked his grandmother to plant. I pray for him every night. And we take the occasional bouquet to church and put it in the Mary Corner, next to the statue of Mary. We light a candle.
Yesterday we did not decorate anyone's graves with peonies – or any other flowers.
We did not do that most patriotic of deeds: buy a new mattress. I don’t understand why national holidays create so much mattress advertising, so many mattress sales. (Is it that Americans figure out their mattresses are terrible when they finally have time to have sex on a holiday?)
Instead we planted a couple of eggplants and a tomato. We pulled a few weeds. We walked the dogs around the block.
And then we did that second most American of things: we went to the neighbors’ for a cookout.
We honored the past by celebrating the living.
Please write your opinions about Memorial/Decoration Day by clicking comment below.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Vache d'Or - conclusion
This is the conclusion of Vache d'Or. It begins eight posts below if you need to start at the beginning. Please comment at the end of this post.
“Make yourselves comfortable on the terrace with another glass of champagne and I’ll find something special,” the butler said While they waited, the butler unpacked their clothes and turned down the bed. Bellboys arrived with a cart piled with covered dishes. After lunch he cleared the dishes and discretely left.
Frank led CeeCee to the bed and undressed her, then himself. He put a chocolate truffle in his mouth and leaned down to kiss her. “This isn’t minty fresh, but I think you’ll like it better.” He smiled. “I know I will.”
Two hours later they woke from their nap, showered together, had massages, a private dinner.
“I love you, Frank,” CeeCee said, as they were preparing yet again for bed.
“I love you, too, CeeCee.” Frank stroked her shoulders with the tips of his fingers. He nuzzled into her ample bosom, making her shudder. “I love you too, mon vache d’or,” he whispered.
CeeCee pushed Frank away and sat up in the enormous bed. “What did you just call me?”
Frank rolled to one side and flushed. “I said ‘vache d’or.’ It’s like petit chou, little cabbage, a French term of endearment. It means my golden, um, sweetheart.”
She sighed and shook her head, murmured, “Vache d’or, indeed.” But she pushed his head back into her bosom and closed her eyes. “Did you know I was a French major in college?”
Frank blanched and shook his head.
“Don’t ever, ever, ever sleep with anyone else again. I’ll use a dull knife to cut them off and put them in the blender.”
Frank shuddered. He nodded and felt his penis shrivel and his balls pull up into his abdomen.
“And if you survive, well, then we’ll see.”
“Make yourselves comfortable on the terrace with another glass of champagne and I’ll find something special,” the butler said While they waited, the butler unpacked their clothes and turned down the bed. Bellboys arrived with a cart piled with covered dishes. After lunch he cleared the dishes and discretely left.
Frank led CeeCee to the bed and undressed her, then himself. He put a chocolate truffle in his mouth and leaned down to kiss her. “This isn’t minty fresh, but I think you’ll like it better.” He smiled. “I know I will.”
Two hours later they woke from their nap, showered together, had massages, a private dinner.
“I love you, Frank,” CeeCee said, as they were preparing yet again for bed.
“I love you, too, CeeCee.” Frank stroked her shoulders with the tips of his fingers. He nuzzled into her ample bosom, making her shudder. “I love you too, mon vache d’or,” he whispered.
CeeCee pushed Frank away and sat up in the enormous bed. “What did you just call me?”
Frank rolled to one side and flushed. “I said ‘vache d’or.’ It’s like petit chou, little cabbage, a French term of endearment. It means my golden, um, sweetheart.”
She sighed and shook her head, murmured, “Vache d’or, indeed.” But she pushed his head back into her bosom and closed her eyes. “Did you know I was a French major in college?”
Frank blanched and shook his head.
“Don’t ever, ever, ever sleep with anyone else again. I’ll use a dull knife to cut them off and put them in the blender.”
Frank shuddered. He nodded and felt his penis shrivel and his balls pull up into his abdomen.
“And if you survive, well, then we’ll see.”
Monday, May 12, 2008
Vache d'Or - part 7
This is the penultimate section of Vache d'Or, Begin it about seven blogs down. And feel free to comment. Enjoy!
“Who else have you been fucking, asshole? This is Toni.”
“It can’t be mine, Toni. And your language. We never slept together.”
“Like hell. Don’t hand me that shit, Frank. It’s yours. You’re the only man I’ve had sex with in the last six weeks, since you became a fucking encore virgin with Charlene.”
“We always used a rubber, Babe. Remember?”
“Yeah, and Ben likes to make pinholes in them. I thought you knew.”
Frank gulped. He forgot to check the condoms he took to Matt’s. “What about Jason? You spent a lot of time getting stoned with him. What else did you do?”
“Nothing. He was always too stoned. That’s why I know it’s yours.”
“If Ben poked the holes in the rubbers it’s technically his.”
Toni snorted. “All it takes is a paternity test later to take care of it.” She was silent for a few moments. “Or some cash now.”
“Let me think,” Frank said. He sat silent. With all the drugs Toni did, a baby would probably be fucked up. It would be a kindness to terminate it. “How much?”
Toni told him. “You have to come with me. And make up for my days off. Including tips.”
Frank agreed. He made a second phone call, then he called CeeCee in the B & B. “Listen, honey. You’re the only one I ever loved. Can’t we talk about this?” He held the phone out from his ear. When she was finished, he said, “I love you. I want to make this work. I’m weak. I’m sorry.”
He listened some more. “Well, I at least have to drive you home. I have the car.” He nodded. Smiled. “You know we need each other.” He had a plan.
The first two hours in the car on the way home were almost silent. About every fifteen minutes Frank said, “I love you.” CeeCee stared out the passenger window. Every time he reached over to pat her leg or feel her up, she batted his hand away.
“You’re going to have a stiff neck if you keep staring out the window, honey.”
“I’m not your honey.” CeeCee spoke without moving her lips.
She would have made a good ventriloquist, but this wasn’t the time to mention that, Frank thought. He wasn’t about to let CeeCee have the keys and leave him at a rest stop or gas station either. He put an easy listening disk in the CD player, and as they got closer to Cleveland, CeeCee relaxed. A little. She faced forward.
“You missed the turn.”
“No. I have a surprise for you. We’re still on our honeymoon.” Frank pulled into a downtown luxury hotel. He handed the keys and some folded bills to the valet. He took CeeCee’s arm. “You deserve a better honeymoon than a tacky room with a heart shaped bathtub in the Poconos. I bet we don’t get scalded here.” He kissed her and led her to check in.
Frank sighed with relief and CeeCee gasped when a private butler opened the door to the Honeymoon Suite and welcomed them. He poured champagne and handed each of them a glass.
“I never . . . .” CeeCee’s chin quivered and she hugged Frank tightly. “Look.” She was practically breathless. Rose petals covered the bed, and a tray of chocolate truffles sat on the table.
“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging massages for you this afternoon if that’s all right.” The butler smiled. “I thought a late lunch first?”
“Lunch is good. And the massages later, after we’ve rested.” CeeCee looked at Frank, who nodded. “It’s been a long drive and I’m a little tired.” She looked at Frank again, then held out her glass for more champagne.
Frank sighed mentally. He’d pulled it off. He winked at the butler. “What did you have in mind for lunch?”
“Who else have you been fucking, asshole? This is Toni.”
“It can’t be mine, Toni. And your language. We never slept together.”
“Like hell. Don’t hand me that shit, Frank. It’s yours. You’re the only man I’ve had sex with in the last six weeks, since you became a fucking encore virgin with Charlene.”
“We always used a rubber, Babe. Remember?”
“Yeah, and Ben likes to make pinholes in them. I thought you knew.”
Frank gulped. He forgot to check the condoms he took to Matt’s. “What about Jason? You spent a lot of time getting stoned with him. What else did you do?”
“Nothing. He was always too stoned. That’s why I know it’s yours.”
“If Ben poked the holes in the rubbers it’s technically his.”
Toni snorted. “All it takes is a paternity test later to take care of it.” She was silent for a few moments. “Or some cash now.”
“Let me think,” Frank said. He sat silent. With all the drugs Toni did, a baby would probably be fucked up. It would be a kindness to terminate it. “How much?”
Toni told him. “You have to come with me. And make up for my days off. Including tips.”
Frank agreed. He made a second phone call, then he called CeeCee in the B & B. “Listen, honey. You’re the only one I ever loved. Can’t we talk about this?” He held the phone out from his ear. When she was finished, he said, “I love you. I want to make this work. I’m weak. I’m sorry.”
He listened some more. “Well, I at least have to drive you home. I have the car.” He nodded. Smiled. “You know we need each other.” He had a plan.
The first two hours in the car on the way home were almost silent. About every fifteen minutes Frank said, “I love you.” CeeCee stared out the passenger window. Every time he reached over to pat her leg or feel her up, she batted his hand away.
“You’re going to have a stiff neck if you keep staring out the window, honey.”
“I’m not your honey.” CeeCee spoke without moving her lips.
She would have made a good ventriloquist, but this wasn’t the time to mention that, Frank thought. He wasn’t about to let CeeCee have the keys and leave him at a rest stop or gas station either. He put an easy listening disk in the CD player, and as they got closer to Cleveland, CeeCee relaxed. A little. She faced forward.
“You missed the turn.”
“No. I have a surprise for you. We’re still on our honeymoon.” Frank pulled into a downtown luxury hotel. He handed the keys and some folded bills to the valet. He took CeeCee’s arm. “You deserve a better honeymoon than a tacky room with a heart shaped bathtub in the Poconos. I bet we don’t get scalded here.” He kissed her and led her to check in.
Frank sighed with relief and CeeCee gasped when a private butler opened the door to the Honeymoon Suite and welcomed them. He poured champagne and handed each of them a glass.
“I never . . . .” CeeCee’s chin quivered and she hugged Frank tightly. “Look.” She was practically breathless. Rose petals covered the bed, and a tray of chocolate truffles sat on the table.
“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging massages for you this afternoon if that’s all right.” The butler smiled. “I thought a late lunch first?”
“Lunch is good. And the massages later, after we’ve rested.” CeeCee looked at Frank, who nodded. “It’s been a long drive and I’m a little tired.” She looked at Frank again, then held out her glass for more champagne.
Frank sighed mentally. He’d pulled it off. He winked at the butler. “What did you have in mind for lunch?”
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