The homestead in the Spring

We’re having Papa Murphy’s pizza for dinner tonight. I know, it’s neither elegant nor particularly healthful. What it is, is go-o-o-o-d.

I’m finished with six weeks of heavy travel and budget constraints will keep me home for most of June and July. Mary and I have big plans for getting our landscaping work finally done. Or at least, advanced. Of course, our progress will depend on our ability to disabuse Odin of the opinion that each new planting represents the opportunity for a snout-burying adventure. The jury is still out on whether Big Dawg will survive until Rachel makes it home to protect him from Mary’s wrath.

Mary is cleaning up her car to prepare it to trade in for a more fuel-efficient model. I’m cleaning up the truck so she can stand to drive it while she’s between cars, if she is.

I’ll be out in the yard over the three-day weekend, weather permitting. And if not, I’ll be cleaning the garage. It’s time.

We’re going to try to migrate to better dietary habits, after the pizza, that is.

It’s springtime at the McDermotts’.

I'm ba-a-a-a-ck!

Okay, so I just competed a five-out-of-the-last-six-weeks travel rotation. Lots of good teaching and networking but not a lot of time to just sit and ponder. I promise more blog entries soonest.

Meanwhile, does anyone know a good cure for an airline-seat-shaped butt? Will it resume its normal shape on its own or will I need surgery?

Karaoke... or not

As I was eating my soup and Caesar salad at Applebee’s this evening, I noticed a DJ starting to set up for Karaoke Night. I started eating a bit more quickly, intending to be out of there before the festivities began.  And I was, paying the check and scooting out the front door just as the bass began to thump.

For those who knew me a lifetime ago, that might seem odd. I spent a good deal of my young adult life singing for audiences in one venue or another and I used to sing in piano bars before Karaoke. I would go with friends from the theatre but wouldn’t get up and sing by myself. But then, I would go back the next night without Tuthill and the others, and sing my heart out.

It might seem out of character for a singer not to want to perform at the drop of a hat, but I always saw the singing me as occupying two different sides of the coin. I’ve never had a problem with crooning in front of audiences when it was on my own terms. In scripted shows, in scheduled sets in a bar, for weddings and church services, I opened my mouth and the dulcet tones issued forth.

I’ve never known why karaoke should be different, but it is. There was a piano bar in San Jose years ago where I would regularly sing the same few songs, so long as I was comfortable with the crowd. Then one night, I was there with theatre friends, It was near closing time and I hadn’t performed, but thenout of nowhere the accompanist announced me to sing Lush Life.  It has always been one of my favorite songs to sing. I love the mood of it, the tone and timbre and how it felt , how it rested in the pipes. And that night I rocked the house with it.

And I never sang it again. And never again went to that piano bar.

I love to sing. I got out of the habit while distracted with little things like raising a family. But recently, I had the old Martin reset and tempered. And I’m feeling the old yearning again. I’ll sing again for Mary soon. There’s nothing quite like singing.

So long as the audience is right.

Bucket listing

Mary and I were discussing our bucket lists the other day during a drive through some of the most beautiful country I’d ever seen. It should have been easy in such a setting to imagine where I’d like to go, what I’d like to see and do.

The trouble is, I was already doing it.

We were on our twenty-fifth anniversary outing to Leavenworth, WA. It’s a faux Bavarian town and I have to admit I find it highly hokey. But I was there with Mary on a glorious weekend for walking and talking.  The Bernese Mountain Dog folks were having a big meeting and after the parade – they seem to really like parades in Leavenworth – I hung out with the dogs and their owners while Mary shopped.

We walked along the river and poked into the shops. Chose a dozen chocolates one by one and ate breakfast in a place where they really care about your dining experience.

We passed between ridgelines covered with windmills and past valleys populated by fattening ruminants. And saw Daughter One’s last ever college musical. Twice.

It was a good weekend all told, but I didn’t have much to add to the bucket list. I’ll think about it. But not when I’m this contented.

Heard on TV this evening

“..my exclusive collection, only available at K-Mart.”
 

Naw, too easy.

A book recommendation, sort of

I’m almost through reading Marlee Matlin’s I’ll Scream Later and for the most part, enjoying it. In my field, it’s really important to try to understand the folks I serve and I thought a deaf actor’s autobiography would offer a number of important insights. I was right.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s not the best book or even the best autobiography I’ve ever read. Ole Marlee’s pretty taken with herself, offering up uncountable long-winded, sycophantic rants from friends and colleagues about how beautiful, charming, genuine, and professional she is. I’ll give her those, since she’s not a writer by trade (and sorry to say, neither apparently is Betsy Sharkey, her ghost on this project). She jumps back and forth without regard to continuity or flow. I could do without the frequent detailed references to her sex life, too, but that might just be me.

My point here is that it’s not a book I would recommend as a good read. But I would definitely recommend it to anyone who wants to understand a bit about living with limitations in general and the deaf world, in particular.

Just don’t cherry-pick. If you pick up this book, read the whole thing. Her efforts to build a life that includes being deaf in a hearing world aren’t confined to a special chapter or occasional footnotes, because they’re not so confined in her life. Her deafness is part of the fabric and flavor of her life and in the book as in her life, it’s inextricable.

Ironically, I suppose it’s the fact that Marlee and her collaborator didn’t create great  literature here that makes it a valuable read. It’s honest, if frequently overblown, and it offers a window into a life well lived in spite of obstacles.  Marlee Matlin is a force of nature who has alternately  inspired and outraged both the deaf community and the hearing world. For reasons that frequently say more about the world than about Marlee.

I usually only recommend books that stand on their own as… well, books. So let me be clear, here. I recommend you read this book simply because you’ll learn from it. I know I did.

Our 25th anniversary

Things that have happened in the past twenty-five years:

1.       Twenty-four anniversaries;

2.       Two trips to labor and delivery;

3.       5,723 bricks laid by hand, one-by-one, in landscaping for the house which we then sold;

4.       And a next house which we still haven’t finished, going on twenty years later;

5.       Uncounted trips to choir practice;

6.       Four dogs;

7.       Two cats;

8.       Three hamsters;

9.       One parachute man;

10.   The Merman Zone;

11.   Hieroglyphics behind the old kitchen cabinets;

12.   Too many funerals;

13.   Six Cookiethons;

14.   Twenty-two Christmas trees (a couple years we traveled for the holidays);

15.   Speaking of Christmas, Blue Moon;

16.   Mary’s fortieth tapes;

17.   Old friends rediscovered;

18.   Ball Of Twine Tour;

19.   “It’s earrings!”

20.   Cheesy potatoes;

21.   She cooks, I clean, and we both weed;

22.   Me, lots of writing; her, lots of editing;

23.   Trips to the locks;

24.   And Denny Creek;

25.   And Clemmy’s  Pond;

26.   Sam’s last night;

27.   Watching two beautiful girls become stellar adults;

28.   Walking Right Down the Middle of Main Street USA an estimated 4,000 times;

29.   Bjornbecue;

30.   Reading in bed;

31.   33,000 plus moos;

32.   Memorizing Nick At Night sitting up in the wing chair holding sick babies;

33.   Six Whoopee Cushions;

34.   Shicken;

35.   Girl Scout cookie managers;

36.   Uncounted PTA volunteer activities;

37.   Very little money;

38.   Very much love;

39.   And never a backward glance.

Happy anniversary to me and my best friend!

May Day vandalism in Seattle

Dear media folks:

Kindly stop referring to the ones breaking windows as protesters.

They are criminals.

That is all.

Transitions

Mary and I are definitely going through some life changes. Daughter One graduating and going off to start her life, Daughter Two not coming home for the summer for the first time so she can do research at her college. Changes at work, not all for the better.

We’re looking at finally putting in landscaping that will last for as long as we’re here. I’m trying to overcome inertia and finally finish my B degree. Medical stuff, aging stuff. Seems like everything’s changing.

We went on a day trip today to recover that parka that I’d brilliantly managed to leave in a hotel room most of the way across the state. We had to drive through the mountains, which took us along the edge of Keechelus Lake. The lake is going through some changes of its own. Most of it is open water just now, although there are still some areas of ice on the Hyak end. It’s a shallow reservoir, and during the winter months, its surface is frozen - or not - in response to the weather on an almost weekly basis. And of course, being a reservoir, the area it covers expands and contracts as the water level goes up and down. As it contracts, the water line recedes, exposing the stumps of the forest that used to occupy the valley.  

The appearance of the lake is transformed again and again over the cycles of freeze and snow coverage, snow melt, drawn down to provide drinking water to the cities below, then rains and freeze and the cycle repeats.

The avalanche hazard areas by the snow shed are now largely mudslides but the ski runs and top peaks are all still covered in snow. For the moment, anyway.

Through the Yakima Valley, past Zillah and Toppenish to theTri-Cities there are miles and miles of farms with crops in all stages from fallow to full bloom. The alfalfa fields are already lush but the bean frames stand empty and rather forlorn looking.  

The road crews are working at full tilt and I hope they make a visit soon to the five or six miles through Snoqualmie pass where almost all the lane markings have been scoured away by winter ice, sand, and snowplows.

Everything is changing and I love it all.

As we drove, Mary and I talked about change. About the type of place we’d like to retire to, and what we’d like to do next with the house we currently occupy.  About how we’d like to spend holidays and vacations and days off.  It’s entirely different making such plans for just ourselves.

With the girls off on their own life pursuits, we’re cycling back to our days in the Donner house in Fresno, where we were last just a couple. I’m looking forward to what the future will bring.

Change can definitely be a good thing.

Errata

Big, big tilde!!!
It is NOT THE CASE that I will be better off for having left my daughters behind. Rather, the world will be better off for them having been left in it.

Did no one notice this faux pas on my part?

Two young women

There are two young women who make me feel that, regardless of what I accomplish or not, however I leave this world, I will leave it better off for having left them behind.

Thanks to Daughter One and also Daughter Two for making me better just by letting me share, helping me grow by watching you grow, and putting up with the occasional and horrifying sight of me trying to dance.

I hope we have many more years and that I’ll get to see the yous you’ll become. But whatever the future holds, you’ll be in it, and that’s good enough for me.

Coming home

Had some nastiness at work this week and didn’t feel up to blogging. Plus I’m in a killer travel cycle just now, but I’ll try to do better.

I looked at The Letters the other day and was taken aback by how many there are. By The Letters, I mean the missives I’ve written to my daughters (and occasionally to Mary, as well) over the years. I wrote them mostly on airplanes when I’d be on my way somewhere and get to thinking about some event in our lives or their progress in this or that or…whatever.  It was an idea I stole from some other dad in one of the Chicken Soup series.

These letters will serve to leave them something of me when I’m no longer able to communicate directly. I hope they enrich my daughters’ future lives. I know that writing them has enriched mine.

It had been several years since I’d written a regular column and many years since I’d written fiction. Other than occasional client writing, I hadn’t put pen to paper in forever. Writing those letters helped me get back in the communicating habit.

Those letters were the bridge that brought me back to myself in a very personal way.  Eventually, I was comfortable enough – and of course, the programmers of this web site put technology within my grasp – to try this blogging thing and I found I really liked it.

More than liked it, actually. This venue has given me such a lovely way to be in touch with a small group of good friends.

And now, I’m back to writing a book. I’m home and I have my daughters and Mary and each and all of you to thank for it.

Volunteerism

We’ve received several calls of late from folks who want us to volunteer for political campaigns. I won’t name them, because I don’t mean for this to come off as a partisan rant. And besides, what I’m here to complain about has nothing to do with planks or platforms.

Today’s moaning has more to do with gall. Not bile but rather, the inflated sense of self-importance that so many wannabe politicos seem to sport.

So, this friendly-enough-sounding guy calls to ask for Mary, who wasn’t home and would not have been receptive at any rate. He wants to let her know that an opportunity has arisen to volunteer for Jane Doe’s campaign for U.S. Congress. Yowser! And if she doesn’t feel sufficiently honored by the fabulous offer –he called three times without getting through to my lovely spouse - perhaps I’d like to seize the day for mine own self.

Now, what you need to know about candidate Jane Doe is that she’s a fairly young former Microsoft exec who exercised a gadzillion dollars in stock options, retired early and is now on her third attempt at using her hard-earned wealth to fund a run for the House.

We could talk all night about her qualifications (scanty, in my estimation), her vision (skewed, I’d say), or her propensity for running slam ads in the last couple of days before we go to the polls (including accusations that have in the past been proven specious within days AFTER the election). Let’s just say she’s not someone for whom Mary or I would probably choose to vote.

What she does have is money. Lots of money. Lots and lots and lots of money.

I won’t go into our family finances in this venue. Let me just say that the money Mary and I have could not accurately be described using even a solitary ‘lots.’ 

There is something out of touch about a bazillionaire candidate who thinks her best bet is to ask barely-middle-class folks with two kids in college to volunteer time to help her  get elected to an office for which she’s so ill-suited.

We believe in volunteerism. And I suppose there’s some irony to be found in the fact that I believe there should be much more grass-roots volunteerism and much less money in U.S. politics. But Mary and I tend to step up for things we believe in. Like the daughters’ schools. Friends with needs. Habitat for Humanity. Stuff like that.

We’re not inclined to volunteer to help seat yet another lackluster legislator. Particularly not one of questionable ethics who I suspect of viewing politics as some sort of rich person’s hobby.

Fifty-nine

Pro: Less than 60.   Con: More than 58  

Pro: Can afford to eat out.     Con: Can’t eat a lot of that they have to offer.

Pro: I’m still here.     Con: But for how long?

Pro: I have some really good old friends.     Con: No real con to this.

Pro: Young women no longer see me as a nerd.    Con: Young women no longer see me.

Pro: No sign of the onset of Alzheimer’s.   Con: Not sure my family agrees with this pro.

Pro: My hand bounces in time to the music.   Con: Even when there’s actually no music.

Pro: People still laugh at my jokes.    Con: Sometimes when they laugh, I’m not joking.

Pro: I’ve finally started writing regularly.   Con: At age 58, CRAP!

Sometimes justice does prevail

George Zimmerman was charged with murder today. And that’s appropriate.

I don’t know exactly what happened that night when he shot Trayvon Martin to death. The press doesn’t know, and neither do you.

I know what I suspect to be true, based on the reports I’ve seen. But I’m not qualified to judge, nor do I presume to know all the evidence.

This thing belongs in court where rules of evidence apply. That’s no guarantee of justice either – witness the O.J. fiasco – but it at least offers the possibility of fair play.

The only thing I know for sure is that in this confrontation, one guy was walking around the neighborhood carrying a gun and now a young man is dead.

Thanks so much, NRA!

Paella

So, I made my first paella tonight. For the sake of those of you who may never have attempted this wonderful dish, please learn from my failures by taking these few suggestions to heart.

1)      Start with the simple Rachael Ray recipe (available on the Internet) before you move on to more authentic (and difficult) recipes.

2)      Whatever recipe you use, read it before starting and follow it while proceeding.

3)      When purchasing the proteins, keep in mind that they all end up in the pan. So in deciding quantities, don’t treat each protein as though it was the only protein. Can you say, leftovers?

4)      Mise en place is everything. I learned this term on Top Chef and kind of smirked at the idea of needing to have everything in place before you start. Having tried to grab things from the cupboard as needed, this is the chastened me saying…Mise en place is everything.

5)      Making paella is not for sissies.

6)      Allow ample time.

7)      When you have dinner at the Simas’s and Sharon and Ernie make a flawless, gorgeous paella while serving drinks and carrying on conversations with their guests, be impressed.

My latest list

Advertising efforts that do not have what I assume is the desired affect on me:

1)      Waving signs at me on street corners;

2)      Any ad  that promotes the idea that parents are stupid, uncool or clueless and that pre-teen kids have all the answers;

3)      The Mentos spots in which we were supposed to laugh along with people being “fresh,” when in fact, they were just being obscenely rude;

4)      Anything with prominent butts – I do not want to see your butt on TV, no matter how shapely;

5)      Ditto breasts – context is everything;

6)      Any ad suggesting I may be entitled to a settlement for injuries;

7)      Public Service Announcements in which multi-millionaire actors tell me where to send my money, how to act, what to care about, etc. I love actors and acting but being able to deliver a line does not qualify you to give the rest of us life advice;

8)      Billboards;

9)      Anything inserted into a magazine that wafts scents when opened;

10)   Anything hung on my doorknob or inserted under my windshield wiper;

11)   People shoving handbills at me in any venue;

12)   Unsolicited sales calls to my home phone;

13)   2/3 of the crap that ends up in my mailbox;

14)   Text ads on my cell phone;

15)   Etc.

Can you tell I’m cranky today? Does it show at all?

My bus stop

The place where I stand waiting for the bus every weekday morning was designed to be a relatively pleasant and safe little nook. Besides the bus stop sign, it sports a nice concrete pad where one can stand out of the street puddles and away from traffic. And there’s a nice steel cloth bench, coated in that plastic stuff that prevents rust and makes a trouser snag unlikely.

I don’t mind waiting there. Early morning traffic notwithstanding, it’s actually sort of a peaceful place to gather my morning awareness. There are lots of birds testing their lungs and wings. The same elderly lady cane-clomps her way past me and we wish each other good morning after the 241 goes by but before the 210 shows up. The 210 is my ride and if it came earlier, I’d never have struck up this nameless friendship. Of course, one has to wonder what other potential morning friends I miss because they walk by after the 210 moves on with me aboard.

There are several wads of gum stuck to the signpost in one big clump right at eye level so I can’t avoid seeing it as I watch for my coach to crest the first rise below me. It’s annoying to see it every morning but for months of days I’ve forgotten to bring something with me to just scrape it off. And of course, now I’ve grown accustomed to it.

Behind me as I stand waiting and watching is a high hedge and someone’s side yard. Across the street lives the Asian family whose patterns of chauffeuring their son and daughter are timed to the minute. I wish I could grow grass like that. And the sister and brother who pass by on the way to their own bus stop down the street about four minutes before my bus arrives. Sometimes they walk with a third friend, sometimes not. I’ve come to know them and I always watch to see which one is excited to get to school today, which not so much, when they’re quarreling and when they’re sharing confidences. They pull at my heart in a sort of Geisel-esque  oh, the places you’ll go sort of way.

The other night, someone used my bus stop for an unintended purpose, if the torn wrapper and obviously expended condom are to be believed. It had rained pretty much constantly so I have to wonder just how desperate someone was.

They’ve sullied my bus stop. Some folks just have no class at all.

List relating to bus rides

Things you really don’t want to hear come out of the mouth of the gorgeous twenty-something girl in the seat behind you:

1.       “You look so-o-o much like my grandfather!

2.       That is all.

Neighbors

We’ve always tried to be good neighbors. And by and large, we’ve had good luck with the folks fate has  plopped us down next to. 

We rented our first house. It was your standard 3-and-2 Fresno ranch with a nice but badly deteriorated, fenced back yard. We planned to have our wedding reception there and made a deal with the owner’s rep that we’d pay for anything we needed to fix the place up and he’d let us have our way with what we did. Worked out just fine. And the neighbors on each side were friendly but unobtrusive, perfect for a young couple wanting to feel secure but unexamined in their first house.

Our second abode together was our first purchase. It was in a brand new development and we had a lively set of neighbors gradually settle in around us. The elderly folks to one side were sweet and caring and taught us a lot about putting in a yard. On the other side was the ultimate Mutt and Jeff couple. She was short and plump and constantly talking a mile a minute and oh, yes…nonsensically. Easily the sweetest and dumbest person you could ever ask to meet. Her hubby was tall, lanky and spoke in an accent we struggled to penetrate. He was brilliant but possessed not an ounce of descernible sense. The two of them were always coming up with grand ideas that Mary and I would chuckle about in bed at night.

Across the street was a couple who had a young daughter about One’s age and we would share babysitting duties and play dates . She was a nurse and he was an architect. A lovely couple from whom we received Christmas cards until recently.

And next to them was Crazy George. No, not the professional cheerleader guy. This gentleman was named George and happened to be a few bananas short of a bunch. He was maybe the most obsessive-compulsive guy I’ve ever met (and keep in mind, I work as an advocate for people living with differences, so that’s saying something). He used to sweep and then water the dirt in front of their house before the lawn was put in and washed their car by hand about three times each week. He would come across the street to congratulate Mary and me as we worked on putting in our yard the old fashioned way. Told me he was proud of me, as though I did the work not out of necessity but rather to earn his approval. He’d stand there in his house slippers and walking shorts, a stogie clamped between two fingers. I don’t believe it ever occurred to him not to wave his noxious cigar around a woman who was fabulously pregnant.

Since we’ve moved to this house, we’ve had a string of neighbors, both good and not so good. Fortunately, the latter variety tends to move in and out fairly regularly while the salt-of-the-earthers stay longer term. So, we’ve had our share of folks revving up the Harley late at night and hosting underage drinking parties but for the most part, our neighbors have contributed positively to the richness of our lives. Susan and Bjorn are basically family. They helped raise One and Two and we’ve shared good times and bad. Mary is her shopping partner and he taught me to install kitchen cabinets. Next to them is an elderly German couple of heavy accents and sharp eyes. They watch the neighborhood carefully: when Mary’s old van had a short in the wiring, Bruno would call at 11:00pm to let us know the brake lights were once again draining the battery.  It became a regular thing – the phone would ring at the appointed time and one of us would grab the keys and head outside while the other picked up the phone to thank Bruno for the heads up.

Down on the corner, Jim was a wonderful Japanese guy who rode his bike to work well into his sixties but lost his will and gumption after his wife passed. He eventually passed on as well, but not before serving for years as the girls’ go to guy for buying their Girl Scout cookies or dispensing Halloween treats.

Martin and Emily were a wonderful pair – he a Lithuanian and she a Filipina and once you sorted out the accents, just the nicest couple you’d ever want to meet. Their dog, Bobick was the neighborhood’s friendly terror until they moved out of the immediate area. They still come back for things like graduation parties.

The Bobergs around the other side of the block shared kid raising adventures. When the power was out for days after the big snowstorm, Becky brought her sickly mother-in-law to sit in front of our fire while she (Becky) distracted the kids with group dancing lessons. Mark and I frequently share the same bus to and from work. We also share a propensity for using ear buds and iPods to shut out the random conversations and road noise. And their kids sit with our house and dogs when we’re both out of town.

No special reason for sharing all this with you. Except that most of you are old friends and when we’re together, the conversation seldom gets around to just everyday life. Too busy catching up on the big things, I suppose. Mary and I are both home feeling poorly from the colds that never seem to quite go away and sitting here in the ratty old writing chair, I just got to cogitating on the fact that not all family is flesh and blood.

Some things you don’t forgive

A front page article in USA Today this morning focused on sexual predators who’ve continued to be incarcerated after completing their original judicially-imposed sentences. There seems to be a great deal of controversy concerning the right to due process, etc., but the Supremes have come out in support of extended stay programs for persons considered “sexually dangerous.” The Supremes blew this one -  we should never be holding someone in prison absent imposition of a specific legal sentence.

Before you go off on me, I am NOT advocating for the release of these deviants. Anyone convicted of a sex crime against a child should never again see the light of day. I don’t care if they claim conversion or cure, whether a wart-covered monster or “doe-eyed” Mary Kay leTourneau. 

But we shouldn’t resort to such measures to accomplish the end of sequestering these miscreants. The answer is never to bend our own laws. The answer is to change the laws to reflect the need to protect society – and particularly, the most vulnerable members of our society – from those who would do them harm.  

Those who prey on children tend to become expert at manipulation and it is a sad fact that many, probably most sex crimes against children are never reported. Once reported, they can be particularly difficult to successfully prosecute.

I believe in the protections provided by the constitution. We shouldn’t be messing around with those protections to fill a gap in our criminal laws. It’s time to treat sex crimes against children as what they are – the worst possible depravity, deserving of life sentences.

Song for upper respiratory distress

(To the tune of that song that’s going through my head right now, but I can’t remember the title)

Oh, Mary and I are both sick as can be,
Yes, oh so sickly, that's Mary and me.
We snort and we sniff,
Still, we can't take a whiff.
We just lay on the couch and sow down hot tea.

Tra-la-la-laaaaaa,  Lah-de-dah-de-da-daaaah!

(Slow way down)

Oh, I've already had two colds this year,

But I'm still one behind my Mary, my dear.

Make the TV pause,

Gotta go blow my schnozz.

And besides, there's dialogue we'll both want to hear.

Tra-la-la-laaaaaa, Lah-de-dah-de-da-daaaah!

(Speed back up)
I'm the champeen at hacking and hewing, I swear
But the pain in my lungs I really can't bear.
I'm hocking up snails
And raw oysters by pails.
And my nostrils are very much worse for the wear.

Tra-la-la-laaaaaa, Lah-de-dah-de-da-daaaah!

Note to missionaries

                                                                                                                
Five quick comments for the  LDS missionaries who terminated my nap by knocking on the front door this afternoon:
1.       I’m closing in on three times your age, so it’s possible I don’t feel you’re fully qualified to give me spiritual advice;
2.       When I say “Go away,” I don’t mean to crack a lame joke. I mean it’s time for you to leave now.
3.       I’ve read Under the Banner of Heaven. I know you’re not all misogynistic murderers but then, I’m not inclined to let you into my house while I sort out into which camp you fall.
4.       Kindly refer to my earlier posts concerning my dislike for being preached at.
5.       Yes, I have a cold. PLEASE do not take that as a sign that I was just not at my best today. When I’m feeling better, you will still be unwelcome.

Slogans

“Honk if you’re against tyranny.”

 Just a slogan written on a piece of cardboard, leaning against a light pole so that it’s visible to all the traffic going past.  No one claiming ownership or sponsorship. Just the sign, all by itself.

I have to say, I’m not entirely sure what to do with that one. Are we talking about tyranny of the masses or tyranny of the minority, the tyranny of tradition or the tyranny of dead ideas?

Do we mean tyranny as in despots enslaving their people? Or perhaps tyranny of the normal?

And even if I understood how the poster artiste meant for us to understand the term, what would it mean if I did honk? Is it the good guys who honk or the jerks? I mean, the writer could be the leader of a tyrant club and just trying to have their enemies self-identify so they would know whom to subjugate when the time comes.

Is this political and if so, is there a particular party or PAC or movement that represents tyranny in the mind of the sign-maker? Or perhaps the writer is an anarchist, so that in his/her mind, all the rest of us are joined in a common tyrannical enterprise.

And if we answer those questions, still I’d be left mired in indecision. Shall I honk once or make a series of toots, a quick beep or a long, brash, dopplered slide on through the intersection? Do I wave after I honk or just stare straight ahead, letting the horn do my talking?

This is going to bother me for awhile. I’d love to join the society of honkers – assuming they’re the good guys – but I just don’t know if it’s right for me.

Crap.

Now, “Honk if you’re indecisive?”  I see that one, I’ll know just what to do.

I think.

Valuing disconnection

It may seem odd in the context of a vanity blog devoted to sharing ideas with friends to highlight the value of disconnection. Bear with me.

I am spending the weekend at my buddy Sherree’s home. Mary is on a cruise with her sister, Daughter One is house-sitting back at the ranch and Daughter Two is on a retreat with her sorority.

As it happens, Sherree is at work and her daughter is hanging with a friend. So I basically have the grounds to myself. The cool thing here is that it’s the home of a dear and trusted friend and so I feel safe and welcome. But this is a friend with whom I’d been largely out of touch for years; therefore, the house itself doesn’t hold much in the way of mnemonics for me.

Bottom line, I feel safe, dry, warm and welcome but entirely outside my normal. I am completely free to observe, think, wonder and conclude without much of the usual pull of everyday stuff.

I was standing out on the patio watching two raptors (I can never be sure whether I’m looking at hawks or peregrines or…) “drawing lazy circles in the sky.” I wondered if I’d witness a stoop as they circled and peered, their bodies  following the air currents while their heads flicked back and forth, studying the ground below for tender morsels.

Sherree’s dogs ran in and out, one or the other occasionally stopping to see if I could be induced to provide a bit of  scratching, but mostly just hanging out, on the prowl for the next compelling doggie distraction.

The windfall tree leaning on the fence provided human distraction for awhile, as did the guy running around the track in the park below with his leashed dog trotting along beside.

And now a few minutes of tapping on the confuser.

I’ve no earthly idea how I will spend the remainder of my afternoon and the absence of plan or promise bothers me not one whit.

Another good day.

The give a shit factor

I’m going to start this one by refusing to apologize for the scatological title. I thought of using give a darn or give a hoot but… well… this is how I talk. Sorry if this offends anyone. Sort of.

Anyhoo, in my business there are certain factors that serve as early indicators of how successful the customer is going to be. Most of them are the standard business factors – do they have certain processes well defined, are they following the processes and are those processes effective, how do they respond to issues that arise?

I look at planning and delivery of training and at the strength of supervision and of course, the quality of the goods or services being produced. But the most important single element to my mind is the give a shit factor. When it becomes clear that the people in an organization really care about the mission and objectives of their collective enterprise, I can pretty much figure we’re going to make progress together. It also frequently means I’m going to learn as much from them as they will from me.

If the perople care about the job and about each other, we can fix just about anything else that's not going well. And if they don't, we're sunk from the get go.

Today, I was in a room with about forty people whose give a shit factor was as high as I believe I’ve ever seen. They included job coaches and managers and rehab engineers and working supervisors and vocational specialists. They ranged from early twenties to maybe sixties and from a few months’ experience to a lifetime in advocacy.

And every single one of them is devoted to the cause of erasing employment barriers for persons living with severe disabilities.

I have the best job in the world.

What we do for love

Some of the potential side effects of Botox injections include: Anxiety, back and facial pain, constipation, indigestion, sweatiness, fatigue, severe allergic reaction, eyelid swelling, irregular heartbeat, paralysis, migraines, seizure.  (Oh, and duck lips, but I guess that’s not so much a side effect.)

Get liposucked and you may find yourself dealing with infection, slow healing, severe fluid loss, allergic reaction to the anesthesia, blood clots, fat clots, skin damage or burns, nerve damage, organ failure. I’ll keep trying the eat-less-and-work-more route, thank you very much.

Taking Viagra may cause headache, flushing, dyspepsia, nasal congestion, urinary tract infection, abnormal vision, diarrhea, dizziness, rash, decrease or loss of hearing, anxiety, amnesia, priapism, bleeding and seizure. All this for a woody? Seems ironic that you spend your teen years praying it won’t happen at the wrong time and your later years wishing it would happen any time. (Not that I have now or ever expect to have this problem, doncha know…harrumph!)

I’m not trying to belittle the feelings of people whose self-image is so low that they feel compelled to seek medical relief. But damn! I just hope the view is worth the climb.

Green Grow the Lilacs

Yesterday, I was reading the lyric to Green Grow the Lilacs, which was the first song I ever learned simply because I liked singing it. I may have been all of five. It’s a standard story of jilted love, and sounds more like a cowboy song than the Irish ballad of its origins.

This is a song that’s claimed by a number of cultures and nationalities as being authentically their own and for a very good reason. It’s universal and timeless. There are a number of versions, but the melody is beautiful and simple and pure.

Folk singing comes and goes in popularity. I vote it’s time for a “come” cycle.

Why I love blogging

I’ve always loved writing. Any kind of writing.

Which is not the same as saying that I’m always as disciplined as I should be or as insightful as I’d like to be. But I do thrive on sharing thoughts via the written word. And I am never quite so at peace with myself as when I’ve crafted an argument or explanation that even if not compelling, at least accurately conveys my thoughts.

So, why a vanity blog? Why not just keep a journal? Or go to the other extreme and actively seek the attention of a wider audience of readers? I know the answer to the first question. I don’t keep a journal because  I just don’t see the point of being a writer without a reader.

It’s all about communication, which is necessarily a two-way affair. I need to have an audience. I’d like to think it’s not a conceit to hope that others will enjoy some of the same ideas as me.

Maybe it’s a way of asking for absolution. Having been raised altar-boy-Catholic, I can see the parallels between this little blog and the confessional. I lay out my thoughts and beliefs in the sure and certain knowledge that I’ll be forgiven by the person on the other side of the screen.

Certainly, there’s an element of egoism here. I mean, what little boy never wanted to stand before an audience of friends and family and shout, “Hey, look what I can do!” And the ego is safe because even if the stunt isn’t perfect, this audience will smile and nod.

Self-analysis is a part of it, no doubt. Writing this blog allows me to look back on things I’ve done or failed to do, said or failed to say, and to reconstruct how I got to where I am. And perhaps be comfortable with where I’m going.

It could be that I write for the same reason a dog licks himself – because I can.

I love this little blog. And I hope you’ll continue to enjoy reading it. I just don’t like one-sided conversations.  

Money from the sky

Yesterday, one of my work buddies and I were walking toward our respective buses when at the corner of 3^rd and Pine, several dozen people start shrieking and laughing and running into the street. Right in the middle of commute traffic, blocking six lanes.

Down from the sky – okay, from some jerk on the top of a parking garage – comes floating maybe a hundred dollar bills. It was clear that this was a planned event from the number of young people standing around waiting for the event to start.

These people were disrupting everyone else’s attempts to get home for the sake of one or two dollars each. And of course, when the cops started yelling at them to get out of the street, they made videos which can now be found on You Tube.

There was an undercurrent of “police overreaction” to some of the comments. But the thing is, I watched it all from across the street. The truth is, they got yelled at. Not arrested or in any way manhandled.

They pulled a stupid, dangerous stunt and they got yelled at for it. WA-AH!

A matter of perspective

I’m a ‘member’ of one of those reunion sites, in this case dedicated to guys who’ve served aboard U.S.S. Long Beach. They have these sites for just about every “former military experience” you can name.

I signed up for the site a couple years ago and have received updates every now and again. I haven’t been active for whatever reason. By which I mean, I’ve questioned how welcome I would be in the company of “real” veterans, considering that I eventually left the service as a conscientious objector.

Today, I received one of their notification e-mails – “You might know this person” - and the name was that of a guy I’d wondered about all this time. So I went ahead and signed on, after first having them send me a new password since mine had retreated from the memory banks from disuse, and the next thing I knew I was scanning the names of former shipmates.

Hey, I remember this guy! I stood Shore Patrol with him in Subic a few times! And this guy used to stand Throttleman for GQ… I played chess with this guy, didn’t I? The names – McFeeley, Boone, Rankin – bring forth a series of nods and “Oh, yeahs.”  

Then, I started reading the comments they’d posted and I was amazed at how many of them have changed their views over the years. “I remember how much we bitched but now it’s all good memories.” And the one guy who posted an apology to anyone he might have hurt because he recalled being something of a jerk in those days.

As I read the words of these now-middle-aged men with whom I’d once been young, I realized how many of us recall ourselves as being the imperfect one in the bunch.

Truth be told, we were all imperfect. We were young and therefore, somewhat stupid. And we’ve mostly grown and become better versions of ourselves.

It was reassuring to find I’m not the only one who wishes he’d known then what he knows now. And disconcerting to find how many of these guys didn’t know how important they’d been to my own maturation. To our maturation as a group.

It turns out many of us question our inclusion in the ranks of our former peer groups.  It’s likely the same for vets and former high school friends and the gang from the old neighborhood.

 I suppose that’s the way of things.

Dogs make good friends

Odin and Zoey seem to know that I have a bad cold and am therefore not at my best in terms of coherency. They both scaled back their demands for the day. I slept much of the day and they just pretty much left me alone.

Mary will be home soon to ply me with comfort food. I may slip some to the canines. Don't tell Mary.

I have the best life!

Working with my hands

I’ve done a lot of things with my hands over the years. I’ve built beds for my daughters, end tables, an entertainment center, doo-dads too numerous to mention. For awhile, Mary and I supplemented our income making wooden craft items.

I can do electrical work, sweat copper, frame a house, hang drywall. I’ve built fences and walls. I can apply my own stage makeup, play guitar passably and make a mean waffle.

All these things I do with my hands. All these things require some degree of dexterity.

So why is it, when faced with my injured daughter’s need for help, that I proved an abject failure at wrapping a cast so that the shower stream can’t infiltrate? And why do Dad-made ponytails never look centered and tight?

I know I’m good with my hands, so these last couple of failures must be my daughter’s fault.

Good-hearted people

When your daughter is injured far from home, she really learns who her friends are. And you as a parent learn how good your daughter is at choosing her friends.

Daughter Two elected to go sledding on her elbow recently, with predictable results. While Mary and I frantically waited to hear the official medical pronouncements about the injury and prognosis, we didn’t know about the maelstrom of activity surrounding her. I thought I’d share it here.

Two’s roommate Tobi did everything a parent might have done and more. She rode in the ambulance with her, stayed with her during the whole ER experience, took her back to their room and made sure she had everything she needed.

Speaking of the ambulance, did I mention this is an entirely student-operated ambulance service? They sized things up, immobilized the joint, and transported her like any other group of professionals.

Back to Tobi, who helped Two move all her stuff across campus to the hotel room where I would arrive late the night before surgery to help see her through the ordeal of the first few days post-op.

Two’s sorority sisters and other friends made her feel cared about throughout. One in particular – Hannah B – visited more than once and came prepared to work. She helped Two dress, figured out the bandage cover that worked splendidly for the shower (mine for a later shower, ahem, not so much), and let me get out of the room for a half hour to walk down to the river – my first break in two days, and precisely what a worried dad needed at that point in time.

Then there was the young lady in the dorm who organized an activity for later in the week centered on things Two can do with her clown-sized arm getting in the way.And the prof who cut her some slack. And the Dean who checked up on her.

And of course, there were all the well-wishers who made us feel their caring from remote locations.

I guess a broken  elbow isn’t such a big deal in the grand scheme. But it was big to my daughter. And what folks did is maybe just what friends do. But it was big to us.

Various people in various ways stepped up and made my daughter feel valued and cared about. Yeah, that’s a big deal.

Thank you.

The latest list

List of things that blow:
1) Hyperbole in political speeches
2) Chefs who put brocolli or mushrooms in dishes that don't usually inlcude them, just to mess with me
3) Daughter Two in excrutiating pain after the nerve block wore off earlier than expected and caught her without pain meds on board.