The need for validation

Let’s face it – we all have it to a greater or lesser extent. Am I a good parent? A valuable contributor at work? Do folks listen when I share an idea that’s important to me and that I think should be important to them?

So many of the ways in which I’ve sought validation in my life thus far turn out not to matter, not really. At one time, I was totally vested in being one of the top paperboys for The Bellevue American. It was such a big deal to me to go to that dinner (free and you got to choose what you wanted from a huge buffet!) and have my name called. And as you might surmise, I am likely the sole living person who recalls today its importance to me.

The funny thing is, in retrospect that instance of recognition was extremely important to me. And still is. I was honored for something that I did that other people valued. And it was not a transient thing that they recognized that evening.

In order to attend that congratulatory event, I had to get up at oh-dark-thirty without waking the rest of the family, fold and stuff all the papers, then trudge around in the rain or the snow or whatever the Western Washington weather had in store for me that morning. The papers were left under cover at the doors in those days, so it was not the drive-by-and-toss sort of thing we see today. Many days I got home with an hour to spare before changing into my Catholic school corduroys and heading off to school. Other mornings, I would be soaked and muddy, with barely enough time to grab my lunch and head back out into the rain.

And of course, the first week of each month my after school time was devoted to collecting the receipts for the paper. I thoroughly hated knocking on doors and begging for money, even though it was owed me for services rendered. Not all of my customers were as forthcoming as I might have preferred and some required multiple visits before they would finally cough up their seventy-five cents. But I dutifully went back and back until all accounts were settled.

My point is that the recognition by the paper company was well earned. And to this day it makes me proud. More so that magna-cum-anything. Marriage and daughters aside, I consider it one of my prouder moments.

Look, I’m no more immune from the need to be recognized than the next guy. I enjoy being told that my chicken soup is tasty or that I’ve done a good job teaching. I like it when people compliment the fireplace surround I built, and I get revved up when I receive the news that my writing has touched someone.

It’s the things I’ve done that I like to have appreciated. I don’t suppose that makes me unique. And right up there in the top five is that paper boy award. It was work I did not much enjoy and it took a lot of it to make any considerable money. But I did it and over time, bought my first set of drums. And let me tell you, that was the real validation.  

Jacqeline du Pre

I like to run music in the background while I work on anything that is mentally demanding. I calms me and shuts out the randomness of office sounds so I can concentrate. The Internet has been a great boon to me in this regard, as it allows me to perfectly match music to mood with a few keystrokes. ‘Bluegrass’ brings forth offerings from The Dillards, Earl Monroe, even Flatt and Scruggs although a purist might cringe. ‘Classical’ allows me to choose longer works that will not demand intermediate choices while I work. I frequently choose a particular group such as ‘Seattle Symphony’ or composer such as, well, anyone.

Last week, I got on a sectional kick and queued up a full day’s worth of percussion ensemble concerts as background to a job of curriculum development. Turned out to be just the thing to get the proverbial juices flowing. I’m a big Dick Schory fan, particularly Music for Bang, Barroom, and Harp. Tuesday I was on a double reed kick – there’s a young oboist named Katie Sparks who has some of her Baylor recitals posted on You Tube and she’s quite impressive.

Thursday was given over to classical guitar, not least being Ana Vidovic. Check her out.

Then Wednesday I hankered for some cello music as the setting for sorting out some old files. I came across a recording of Jacqueline du Pre playing the Elgar concerto. It was wonderful. Her Elgar was so perfect and expressive that Rostropovich is reported to have refused to play it again after having heard her version.

There aren’t a lot of du Pre recordings on the Net because she stopped playing at 28 due to the effects of the multiple sclerosis that would finally take her at 42. And of course, recording technology during her performing life was not anywhere near what it is today. Still, I hope you’ll consider finding one of her recordings and if you can only choose one, choose the Elgar of her mid-twenties.

There are lessons to be learned from this sojourn but I won’t presume to tell you what they are.

Enjoy.

Watching and waiting

I have always been pretty good at watching. Waiting, not so much.

Which seems oddly out of sync to me, since both activities require flexing roughly the same disciplinary muscles. In each case, the whole point is the let it come to you rather than actively pursuing…whatever. Right?

I suppose you might say that watching is the more participatory activity in that it is acquisitive – taking mental ownership of idea, sights, sounds from an outside source.  Waiting is more inquisitive, and after all, who really likes the long pause before the answer?

I dearly love going on noticing adventures during which I can’t possibly know what I’m going to find but patience in anticipation of that which I know will be arriving (soon?) is quite beyond me and always has been. And it annoys me that I don’t understand why.

Writing a book is truly sublime torture. And no, that was not a non sequitur.

A list for the ages

Ages at which one should not do the things listed, in no particular order, not that I’ve done any of them (and we’ll start with writing incoherent sentences at age 61), based on personal experience:

·       Taking off cross country with Johnnie Sullivan in search of the ice cream truck – 4

·       Saying to Bill, “Yeah, what the hell, let’s do enlist together!” - 18

·       Telling your dentist that the reason you’re squirming in the chair is that you fell off the roof whilst installing Christmas lights and then expecting him not to tell your wife, whose appointment was a couple days later. – 41 (approx.)

·       Testing a rotary lint brush on one’s hippie-length hair – 23

·       Telling the cop who has asked permission to search your car “Why not, I didn’t kill anyone,” when in fact they are looking for someone whose description you resemble and who had indeed, just killed someone, at two a.m. while coming home from work at Jeff’s Restaurant– 16

·       Splitting your pants for the second time in the same show and this time, with your underwear unfortunately shifted out of position – 17

·       Falling off the stage in full Caiaphas regalia while singing “Fools, you have no perception – argh!” in front of a full house at the pavilion – 27

·        Throwing up in the jardinière between verses while singing Stookey’s Wedding Song for some poor girl who just wanted her wedding to be perfect – 23

·       Going to the K-Mart in San Jose dressed in a plastic Santa Claus costume  in the middle of August at one‘s brother’s behest to make his girlfriend laugh and getting ejected by the store manager (who was not laughing) and so having to do the walk of shame wearing a now-sweat-soaked plastic Santa outfit – 20

·       Admitting to the other guys (while, ahem, inebriated) that it was indeed remotely possible that up to that point in one's young but no longer teenaged life one had never actually had certain experiences of a carnal nature, which we need not enumerate here, and then engaging in a Navy version of Truth orDare– 20
 

Here’s the bad news – I have not included in the list any of my truly embarrassing memories. You’ll note that no item on this list references an age in the most recent two decades of my life. I’m going to pretend this is because I no longer do anything of an embarrassing nature.

Talking to strangers

I’ve long had a propensity for chatting up strangers. I don’t recall being that way as a boy or young man, although I’d have to rely on old friends to find the truth of that statement. I believe I recall being more reticent up until about twenty or so years ago.

It may have been my daughters who brought about my late garrulousness (garulocity?). Spend enough time as one of the two or three bored-to-tears chaperones at your nth class outing and you’ll happily strike up a conversation with a car fender. Ironically, although they were directly invested in the causal chain that led to my penchant for engaging, Daughters One and also Two frequently find my friendliness uncool, even inappropriately so.

(Sigh!)

So, it is probably just as well that neither of them was with me in Terminal 2 at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport yesterday afternoon, because I was in a decidedly chatty mood. I was capitalizing on the confluence of an early airport arrival and an empty work carrel to further my writing career when a young woman sat down next to me and in the course of figuring out outlet-sharing, we got to talking.

Don’t ask me the youngster’s name, because I never asked, the exchange of names being utterly irrelevant to our conversation.  But we shared a delightful half hour during which I learned that she is almost the same age as One, works in stock brokerage, was on her way to Seattle to visit family and friends and is considering a relocation to the Northwest. She LOVES teaching (she is her company’s corporate trainer) so of course, we had that to talk about.

She is also something of an outdoors enthusiast, so I gave her my card with the name of a young woman with whom I work who is a certified rafting guide – the idea being that if she sends me an e-mail, I’ll put them in touch.

I can’t say I’ll ever hear from her but if I do, I will indeed introduce her to my young friend Diana.

I quite enjoyed talking to her and I believe the enjoyment was mutual.

During a week when there is so much negative foofaral going around in the news, it was nice to just unplug and engage with another friendly human being, without agenda or expectation, attraction, repulsion, or fear of rejection. I may or may not incorporate part of my mental image of her in one of the characters in my writing. But of course, whether I do or don’t the experience will stay with me and it all comes out somewhere.

What a lovely encounter! And now, back to work.

Vote

Please do. I truly feel this could be a pivotal election so it is important that the outcome represents the majority.

Brittany

Type that name – just that name – into your Google search criterion window at 6:57am Pacific Daylight Time on 30 October 2014, and the first three items that come up are articles by NBC News, USA Today and CNN.com about the young woman who has famously decided to take control of her own passing. The media’s approach to this story has been breathless, panting almost. Like a dog watching you grill a thick steak. Except that the dog’s attentions aren’t inappropriate.

But this isn’t a rant about irresponsible sensationalism in news reportage. Another time, perhaps. This one is about choice.

When Oregon passed its assisted suicide law, many opponents predicted a mass exodus of the depressed to Oregon, visualized (figurative) blood running in the streets. It hasn’t happened. In 2013, according to the information I found on Oregon’s own public health site, 71 people died in that state by legally assisted suicide. With the population of Oregon at about 3.9 million, that’s one assisted suicide for every 55,000 inhabitants. It’s one for every 478 of the 33,931 Oregonians or visitors who died from all causes that year. Since the law was passed in 1997, 1,173 prescriptions have been written and 752 people used those prescriptions to make their exits.

Not exactly an epidemic, I shouldn’t think. In Oregon in 2013, more folks died by homicide (90), unintended injury (1,739), other methods of suicide (626, after subtracting our 71). Most people (33,931) died of natural causes.

I could go on and on dissecting the cack stats for the State of Oregon but you get the picture. Currently, three states allow physicians to assist folks in arranging a relatively non-violent way to end their own lives – Oregon, Washington and Vermont. And opponents, mostly religious groups, are intent on preventing any more states enacting similar laws.

I wonder how many of those opponents can still feel comfortable manning the barricades after they watch Brittany describe her life, her decision and her process of dying. Because make no mistake, the girl is dying.  This is not about whether she dies but rather, about when and how. And for Brittany, how is the controlling consideration.

It amazes me that in a nation in which supposedly eminent ethicists can argue in favor of euthanizing non-perfect babies (Singer at Cornell, et al), we cannot respect and honor – even if we personally can’t embrace – the decision by an intelligent, life-loving young woman to choose a deliberate and gentle end, shared with her most special loved ones.

Message to the debaters: This is not about your religion or your fear of slippery slopes, it’s not about Kevorkian or your favorite TV pastor or any of the others who gain notoriety through the debate. This is about a young person who has chosen dignity at the end but also has chosen to give up some measure of that dignity and a whole lot of her privacy in order to show the rest of us that the horror is in her disease, not in her choice to leave us with love.

I truly wish her disease would somehow go away and that she would live a long and fruitful life. But failing that outcome, I wish we would just respect her decision and when the time comes, leave her family and friends alone.

Comfort weather

I’ve previously shared my love affair with weather.

Not all weather, mind you.  I’m not a fan of hot weather (anything above about 70 degrees for more than a few minutes) but I’m happy to experience it as a break every now and then. For example, during the Ball of Twine Tour around the country years ago, we drove through some of the hottest parts of the country at the hottest time of the year. While the experience did not inspire me to move there, it was an okay, even quite enjoyable experience. One time only.

I love snow and cold weather as an experience but not as an environment. I look forward to the times when I’m called to work in Fairbanks or North Dakota during the winter but of course, I dress for the experience. Living somewhere that has a seven-month, hard winter would drive me crazy (I’ve had the experience and look how I turned out), if only for the constant added work of being prepared to be caught outside. And of course, at my age – and never having been the most graceful person in almost any gathering – there is the requirement to be ever on the lookout for frozen patches that might provide me with an unfortunate foray into (ballet? hip hop?). I recall with a shiver an episode forty years ago that resulted in a dislocated elbow…

I am perhaps at my most content, with feelings of absolute peace sitting in bed with the covers up to my chest, my morning cup of coffee on the nightstand, a good book in my hands and the sound of rain outside the window. And I dearly love an afternoon spent writing in the basement office, toasty warm while watching a truly impressive rainstorm through the window in front of me. (A snoozing dog at my feet doesn’t hurt the ambience.)

For being out and about, I’ll take a nice blustery day, cool but not cold and hold-your-hat gusty. Pink cheeks but without the frostbite, thank you very much!

Gotta cut this one short and head out to the vet with Odin the Large and Lazy, who seems to be shaking his ears a lot the last week or so. But I had one of those rain from bed mornings and just felt like sharing it with you.

Hope this finds you all warm and comfy.

Some favorite punch lines (you supply the inappropriate joke to match)

1)      Good, though!

2)      You might turn your wrist just a bit counter-clockwise…

3)      Twang! Slu-u-u-u-r-r-r-rp!

4)      I thought you meant today!

5)      So, I says to the archbishop…

6)      Hit the ball, drag Harry.

7)      Rectum?!? Hell, I kilt the sumbitch!

8)      One of his legs are both the same.

9)      Yeah, but it’s gotta be a mile wide!

10)   Who cares?

And before you start assuming you know the jokes and you want to judge me, here’s a special shout out to Sindy:

You’re thore?!?!? I’m tho thore, I can hardly walk!

The blooming

The umbrella crop was in full bloom today. I love rainy days!
Don’t hate me.

Day trip

Mary and I went for a little – okay, eleven hours – drive yesterday and it was absolutely perfect. We went from rain to rain shadow, from sea level to the tree line, across salt water and up the shoulder of a mountain. We saw some of the coolest little seaside towns and farms galore.  Oh, and had a fantastic breakfast at a local place in Sequim.

The main purpose of the trip was really just to get out for the day but my ulterior motive was to visualize locales for some writing I’m doing. Although the work is fiction and everything in it made of whole cloth, it helps to have a picture in mind and so I spent much of the day mentally and digitally recording the sights.

I found the perfect view from Max’s workshop that plays such a central visual role and the switchback road Julia will drive in Chapter Two. The view of the islands in the straits beyond the foothills from the house is now fixed in my mind, as is the view looking back from the ferry as it departs Edmonds.

Mary didn’t find it odd to share a date while my mind was frequently elsewhere; she’s used to me thinking about writing. She even took pics of the places I needed to capture precisely. So you could say she’s my partner in crime (that is, if you don’t like the book, assuming anyone ever reads it) and my fellow researcher if you do like it. I even found Georgia’s house which I hadn’t intended to describe but now think will provide the setting for a key scene. So IF I finish this hog and IF it gets published or I print off enough copies and IF you read it, you may spot echoes of yesterday’s little ramble.

One scene wasn’t part of the book research at all but did provide a moment of poignancy I want to share with you. About halfway between Edmonds and Kingston, the ferry slowed to a stop and the captain blew the ship’s whistle three times. Mary and I happened to be standing just by the pilot house when she hit the horn and if you’ve ever heard a ship’s whistle from close by, you will understand my saying that I nearly colored my culottes when that thing first went off.

The captain, seemingly unconcerned at having provided me with an embarrassing senior moment, explained herself by announcing a memorial service so we went to the stern to see how they did it. From our vantage on the promenade deck, we were above and behind the four people who had just ‘committed their loved one to the deep.’ They do these things by putting the ashes in a ceremonial container that’s designed to float for a few minutes before becoming sufficiently waterlogged that it sinks and of course, eventually biodegrades and releases the remains on the ocean floor.

For most folks on the M/V Walla Walla – perhaps four hundred people on this off-peak crossing – the slight delay was just a mildly interesting interlude, of no more import than the sighting of an Orca or watching a coastal steamer cross close aboard.  But for the two men and two women standing on the stern ramp of the main vehicle deck, this was a profound event in their lives.

They stood stock still as long as the container remained in view and when it finally sank as the stern began to vibrate and the prop wash began to stretch a broad swath behind us, they still stared. Not a word, not a movement among them until finally they peeled off one by one to head back to their car. The older blond woman in the red car coat blew a kiss before turning away, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

It was their moment and the two crew members assigned to help them get the container overboard without following it stood protectively and silently off to port and starboard. Once they reset the safety chain, one of them glanced behind before they headed off to do whatever deck hands do mid-crossing.

I had this great day driving the Olympic peninsula with Mary and checking sites for the book. And I’d like to think these four people had a good day as well, completing their final duty to someone for whom they’d clearly cared.

Toni's response

Toni's comment on my former post is important so I wanted to make sure you all see it, since I know a lot of people don't read comments. (And yes, I despise flash mobs.)

Toni says:

Well said.
Not liking to label myself, I never know whether to call myself a feminist, a humanist or just a woman who is fed up and pissed off!
During Presidential debates, the media focuses on the statements made by the male candidates and who the designer is of the pant suit the female candidate is wearing.
Almost every cop movie has a stripper pole scene in it. Most of our commercials objectify women.
Photos of women are still photo-shopped to the hilt so that even models and celebrities who make-believe in front of cameras don't look like themselves.
California just passed a law that defines that yes means yes and no means no and not hearing a "yes" means no too.
It pisses me off that we stop touching our boys in America by the time they are 5 years old even though it is proven that the average human being needs to be touched at least 12 times a day to thrive.
I know many men who are fed up with the neanderthal thinking but activism needs to start somewhere, and sometimes, without an invitation, apathy rules.
You have the biggest, kindest heart I know (except when flash mobs are involved) and teeny-bopper actresses tend to exist on the south side of wisdom but perfection doesn't exist. Dialogue needs a place to begin and maybe it starts with offending invitations!

Gender politics

I decided on a bluntly obvious title for this one – and on this sentence - in order to allow those of you who are understandably weary of political diatribes and gender warfare to opt out of reading it before you come across anything that aggravates you. That said, should you desire to stop reading here, I send you off with my best wishes and hopes that you’ll join me again in future.

I want to thank friend Angela for bringing this topic to the front of my mind and Daughter One for understanding that my lens is not hers and to grant me the respect for my unique and undeniably parallax view. This is neither the beginning nor the end of my consideration of this topic or, I’m sure, our discussion of it but perhaps a good time to offer some thoughts.

There have been numerous posts on my social networking feed of late that seek to define feminism and more than that, the proper role that males can and should assume in promoting gender parity. I have to admit to being biased regarding this entire subject and unevenly so. I react as an outraged individual when I feel unfairly lumped in with the Neanderthals among us, as the father of brilliant and self-directed, lovely daughters when confronted with an example of gender bias and (I hope and believe) as a thoughtful citizen when considering how society should deal with this or other issues of equality.

I used the word ‘lovely’ as an adjective in mentioning my daughters above. I did so intentionally so I could ask you to self-reflect for a moment. Kindly consider:

1.       Is my use of ‘lovely’ above in any way pejorative? Demeaning or dismissive? And if so, why?

2.       If ‘yes’ to any of the preceding questions, then please tell me if you’d have been equally alarmed had I referred to “brilliant and self-directed, handsome sons.”

I believe I know how many if not most feminists would answer those questions but I could be wrong. I would love to be proven wrong. The thing is, of late - and by ‘of late,’ I mean in the last decade or so – the message of feminism has morphed from “we demand our rightful place as humans and citizens” to one of disdain for all things ‘masculine,’ as in “men are evil and women are victims.”

  The legislators who voted to grant women the vote were 100% men. While some of them probably did so grudgingly as a political expedient, it is also probable that some were just decent, fair-minded individuals and some (viewing with distaste the regressive tendencies of some or even many of their male peers) were most likely crusaders for full participation. Some may even have grown weary of the burden of decision and welcomed more hands on the plow. Yes, it is true that then as now, many women were passive or even subjugated, but it is also true that women’s suffrage would never have become a reality absent the determined efforts of strong, wise, committed women. Women who might be horrified to find themselves considered passive victims.

If I am to be branded and browbeaten as a representative of the past, I can’t complain too loudly. I recognize that suffering written slings and arrows is less damaging to body and soul than being considered a second-class citizen, being denied a voice in governance of my community or country. I’ve no call to consider myself a victim and I acknowledge the advantages I enjoy as a male, white, educated, caringly raised and nurtured citizen of this country in this century. We could fill volumes, and wiser minds than mine have, enumerating the wrongs inflicted on various demographics by the folks then in power with whom I share certain social or gender attributes.

So, why this missive and at this moment?

You never know which straw is going to break the camel’s back and the one for me in this case caught me by surprise. It came as I viewed – at the invitation of one of my daughters through a shared social media site – the recent invocation by a young actress speaking in her role as “Women’s Goodwill Ambassador” for the United Nations. This young woman spoke out in support of feminism. That is, feminism as she defined it: “ the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities.” Hmmm, okay. Seems to me that this definition more rightly applies to terms like humanism or gender equity. Because the feminism she promotes involves men being invited by women to become their better selves, as displayed in their views and actions concerning gender equity. I found myself wanting to answer: why should belief in fair play be seen as particularly a feminine trait? And isn’t this point of view sexist in itself?

This actress, who I won’t name here so as to avoid providing a metadata hook for the crazies, gets points for her courage, as well as a nod to her youthful exuberance. But let’s be honest here - she is not where she is because of the depth and breadth of her life experience, or for her revealed wisdom or for any deserved recognition as a great thinker. She may well prove to be a profound thinker, but that is not what brought her to the world’s attention. She was placed on that bully pulpit based solely on her fame as a person who is accomplished at playing make-believe before cameras. She is an ‘ambassador’ because of a calculation of the social currency of her celebrity. I get that. But please, can we agree that movie celebrity is not a qualification for leadership?

I know there are countries, cultures and religions (DON’T get me started on the evils of organized religion!) whose denigration of women goes much wider and deeper that what you find in most of America. But in this epistle, my intent has been to stick to what I know and at least partially, understand. So as indicated above, I can’t help but speak through the lens of a middle-aged male, mostly white, generally conservative but with alarming leans to the left, well-but-not-superbly educated American in the early twenty-first century who spends loads of time reading, observing, considering and who is frequently full of beans. But I am not anti-women or dismissive of women’s voices and I do not welcome re-education by a speaker who is clearly well-intended but sadly ill-assigned.

A congressional candidate in (the U.S. State of) Georgia was recently quoted as saying a woman is welcome to run for office granted that she is “within the authority of her husband.”  Certainly, I can understand women being disgusted with this statement by a man who has the support of a significant constituency for national public office. What I can’t understand is why it should be solely a women’s issue to ensure this dunderhead is kept a country mile away from the reins of power.

Why would folks oppose this guy (and PLE-E-E-ASE do tell me you would oppose him!) solely under the mantle of feminism? Why not humanism? Why not simple fair play or courtesy or – dare I say it – reason?

For me, this is not a women’s issue any more than the lynching of Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner was a Negro issue. It is an issue for all of us, an issue that speaks to our collective need as a democracy to benefit from the wisdom of all voices. Any man who does not understand his own vested interest in inclusion of women’s voices is a fool and any woman who doesn’t understand that many men stand with her is simply not paying attention.

Men who are worthy of the description are disgusted at the thought that this idiot in Georgia would be seen by anyone as in any way representing our collective interests or points of view. But beyond any pique that men might feel at being lumped together with the worst examples of our gender, there lies the supremely important fact that gender bias is bad for society, not just for women and that it injures all of us.

Discounting the views and rights of women would negate the contributions of vital voices in our polity. Eleanor Roosevelt and Shirley Chisholm. Harriet Tubman, Sylvia Earle, Mary Fulton, Jane Anger and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.  Susan B. Anthony, Lucy Stone, Margaret Sanger, Catherine the Great (I didn’t say they were all nice people), Jane Austen, Indira Ghandi, Margaret Thatcher, Marie Curie, Amy Tan, Malala Yousafzai, Tsering Doltma Gyaltong (I apologize if misspelled – you see differing spellings in various writings by and about her), Margaret Behan, each of the Ee Girls, and yes, my Daughters One and also Two – all had or have experiences and knowledge and wisdom and a point of view to share. And we (WE!) should be listening.  You don’t have to be Betty Friesen to be an important woman. And you don’t have to be a famous actor – male or female - to deserve to be heard. The messages are as diverse and as equally important as the many voices, most of which will never be heard through social media.

Emma, thanks for your intent but I really don’t need you to invite me to the party. And I say this not because social equity isn’t an important issue for me but rather, because it is. It’s not your issue to invite me to take up. Rather, it is our issue, everyone’s issue and the twenty-something actor who deigns to ‘invite’ me is on a par with the young bicycle-riding ‘missionaries’ who offer to tell me how to order my life. It’s not that you’re wrong; you’re not wrong. But putting this message in your mouth and doing so on behalf of an international deliberative body inappropriately narrows the scope of the discussion and tragically misdirects the debate.  It trivializes one of the three or four key social issues of our time.

This is everyone’s fight, not just women’s.  Not just well-known actors'. Everyone’s. I hope you continue to contribute. But as one of us, not as the most famous of us.

(Side note: I hope and imagine Emma’s parents are just bursting with pride! Even though she is vastly experienced in appearing and speaking in front of audiences, she was clearly (or so I thought) nervous about this one. And she did a great job. She showed great courage. At an age when many of her peers famously go off track, she is engaging one of the great issues of her time. Goodonher!)

Contemplation

I’ve been in a contemplative mood of late. Not that I ever stop thinking about what might be, what might have been, what should or shouldn’t be. But for the most part, my ruminations along these lines would fit easily into a category that one might consider wool gathering. Not so, my flights of late.

 There have been a lot of changes in my life and our family’s lives of late. Nothing earth shaking but nevertheless the sorts of things that cause you to reconsider your position in various areas of your life – a serious accident, a new job, impending graduation, reconsideration of career choice, planning for retirement. I won’t get into the specifics of who and how and when and why. If you don’t know, you don’t need to know. And anyway, it’s not my central point here.

 Part of the plan or not, when these and other personal events that I won’t mention converge at a single point in time, wool gathering quickly gives way to deeper reflection.

Mary and I have been getting ever more focused in our plans for the future; that is, our future as empty nesters and eventually, as retirees. We know we won’t spend our sunset years in our present house. Microsoft and Genentech have trailed  their comet tails of young, wealthy retirees whose primary contribution to our hometown has been to make it a bourgeois enclave in which our lifestyle has no place. (No bitterness, I promise – the Bellevue version of gentrification is simply what’s happened in hundreds of communities around this country, only with a somewhat younger, more tech-savvy and more sociologically clueless face.)

To be fair, the demographic shift hereabouts is not the sole reason for our decision to relocate. We want to be close to Daughters One and also Two but of course, who knows where they will end up. Prevailing weather patterns affect our creaky bones.   I’d like to be less suburban. We’d like a more open plan house and probably smaller.

As I said, lots of reasons and the bottom line is a move, probably in three to five years. But our eventual relocation is not the sole or even primary reason for my shift in thoughts. 

I’m in (The Force willing) my terminal job before retirement and loving what I do, I’m freed from the need to think about career moves. I’ve zero interest in ever again having direct reports so as to my job, it is what it is. And what it is, I love to do.

Mary and I have shifted back into high gear concerning the many deferred home improvement projects that will make living here easier for us and more attractive to eventual potential buyers. We’re probably going to complete the landscaping (Oh, my aching back!) this year and even be able to enjoy it ourselves for a few.

My writing is taking a new twist. Producing much less for this blog, as you may have noticed but more in other areas.

Having spent most of my life with strong opinions about politics, I find myself more focused these days on formation than application and more on first principles than on current issues. Which is not to say I won’t chime in here from time to time when something particularly egregious or especially important appears on my radar. But I find myself reading the “news” less and history / philosophy more.

I take great joy and comfort in having circled back to old friends, although my connection methods are modern and streamlined in concert with social media. There are folks in my life that I’ve loved and always will and I try to make sure they know who they are.

I can’t say where all this contemplation will lead. But it feels right, so if you’ll excuse me, I have some serious thinking to do. 

Playing in the sand

I spent a decent portion of today playing in the sand. That is, I spent some time raking a sand bed and setting in place the recycled bricks that will form the platform for our grill.

We cook out fairly frequently. Poor man’s dinner out without heating up the kitchen, doncha know. And we don’t have a place to park the grill that doesn’t detract from our use of the main patio. So for years, I’ve been intending to put in this little auxiliary patio.

We salvaged the bricks from various tear outs around the yard and they’ve been sitting neatly stacked by the side of the garage since One was in middle school. Always intended to repurpose them but never got around to it.

Until today.

So, I’m about two-thirds through the process and this evening Mary and I made a run to the home improvement big box to purchase what I need to complete the job, since the recycled materials came up short of the requirement.

By this time tomorrow, we will have the grill installed in its new home, having reclaimed our main patio for purposes of sitting and staring. But that’s not the point of this missive.

The point is simple and it is this:

I REALLY had fun playing in the sand today.

Don’t tell Mary. She’s still giving me credit for you know, working hard.

Tee hee!

Rainy days

It’s likely to rain tomorrow and I can’t wait!

Now, I know this will not going to come as a surprise to those of you who think of Seattle as the Rain Capital that rain approacheth. Of course, you’d be wrong, since Seattle and its environs ranks somewhere between 30^th and 40^th in annual rainfall among major American cities (the range is due to disagreements as to what constitutes a major American city). So while it does tend to start getting moist long about this time of year, it’s not because we live in place for which the best possible adaptation is  webbed feet. It’s because it’s Fall.

It will come as a surprise to some of you that I look forward to the advent of the rainy season. Some of you think of rain as a bad thing. After all, from kindergarten on we have been proselytized by a string of well meaning but misguided teachers to make the “rain, rain go away!”

Rain is a good thing. It makes our little corner of the world quite green, thank you very much! It feeds the rivers which feed the lakes upon which I love to paddle. It freshens, quenches, cools and conditions. Okay, it does make dogs smell bad but they’re pretty good at that on sunny days, so I don’t count it as a strike against precipitation.

There is nothing better than the smell and the quality of light after a nice gully washer. Of course, being caught out in said gully washer isn’t necessarily a peak experience. I recall one evening when I was about twelve and had stayed late at school and as I began my mile-or-so walk home the heavens opened, as they say. By the time I passed the blueberry farm, there was not part of me that wasn’t soaked through. It took me an hour to get warm after that little hike.

And I loved it. I recall it as one of my most enjoyable experiences. Don’t know why. I just really like rain.

I also like that until the back yard dries out again, Mary won’t make me lay the brick for the grill pad.

So there’s that.

Slowing down

I watched a TED talk the other day in which Carl Honore extolled the virtue of slowing down a bit. Slow down our lives, from conversation to sex and everything in between. It was a cool, thoughtful presentation. And it led me to begin my search for a copy of his book, In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed.

Bet I can find a copy at Half Price Books. Or Goodwill, mebbe.

Meanwhile, the whole topic has sort of assumed squatters’ rights in the ole noggin, and seeing as how I can usually get stuff off my mind by writing about it… Come on, you know what's next...

IT'S LIST TIME!!!

My list of things I like to do slo-o-o-owly:

·         Eat

·         Edit writing (except these little missives that get posted pretty much as they come out of the tips of my fingers)

·         Shower, but I’m usually fairly quick; dunno why

·         Read - in bed, in a lawn chair, in the recliner, in hotel rooms and restaurants on the road, whatever

·         Sight see

·         Walk, except when on a machine

·         Arise in the morning

·         Woodworking – I prefer using hand tools

·         Research for road trips

·         Paddle my kayak

·         Stroll through Pike Place Market during my lunch hour

·         Chat with friends

·         Pet a certain Great Dane of my acquaintance

·         Oh, and, hm-m-m

·         Um…er…yes, that (Don’t tell anyone!).

Sometimes, slow is a good thing.

A conversation with my daughter

I just completed a thoroughly satisfying argument with Daughter One, on a subject concerning which we were each fervent in trying to win over the other. Naturally, I prevailed because my position was correct and supported by the facts. Of course, One remains unconvinced of this, owing to the insufficiency of passed time to have allowed her the distance to realize the errors in her reasoning and the elegance of mine own.

It is not the primacy of my logic of which I take up pen to crow this evening. Nor is it the unassailable nature of my formation of my points, although they were things of rhetorical beauty, I assure you.

What floats my boat is that this young woman whose diapers I once cleaned has become a person with whom I can enjoy such intelligent discourse. I dearly love respectful argumentation and tonight she provided it in spades. She had points and counterpoints in depth and she matched me, thrust and parry. Didn’t get angry or hurt, resort to invective or logical fallacy, kept up her end and challenged mine.

She held her own.

‘Course, she was wrong. ‘Cause I was right.

Gifts

Mary and I spent a very confusing hour shopping last evening. Perplexing, I should say.

We’ve just celebrated Daughter One’s birthday and Daughter’s Two’s is just around the corner. We were intent on putting together a birthday-themed care package and so we went to a local wide line store to troll for ideas.

Ideas that failed to reveal themselves. Hmmmm…

When Daughters One and also Two were little, and even when they were older but still living at home, the choosing of gifts for them was a fairly straightforward matter. First of all, we had the advantage of peer pressure helping to shape their desires.  So we could watch ads and listen to comments at school events and sort of suss out for what they might be yearning. And of course, since there were living at home, we could glean ideas from the odd comment or the surreptitious, covetous glance while shopping.

Not so these days. For Daughter One, we got lucky. Mary happened to know of a couple things she wanted; I was able to choose a book and a couple videos she might like. It was not our best birthday effort ever but not for lack of caring and it worked out okay.

Two presents more of a conundrum. She’s studying engineering which we sort of understand in broad strokes and general terms but certainly not in sufficient depth to yield the perfect gift idea. We understand – or think we do – Two the young woman, and even Two the daughter. We watch her on social media and converse with her often. But as to her daily life we’re fairly clueless and our ability to predict what she might need next is rather constrained.

So there we were, wandering around a huge store where the offerings were clear but the choices not so much.

Two, if you read this, please know we tried.

Back to school

Tuesday was the first day of school in our district. My bus stop was suddenly downright populated with teenagers heading off to do battle with Algebra, English and such.

The girl who sat next to me was so obviously a first day freshman, it just made my heart ache. From the SPOTLESS tennis shoes to the equally spotless and stiff, new gym bag, she was the picture of a youngster trying to fit in. To be cool but not ostentatiously so.

She looked about furtively, hopefully as more and more kids got on the bus at succeeding stops. And was clearly unsure whether to get off first or middle of the pack or after everyone else. She walked head down with the rest of the high schoolers from the stop to the signal at the corner of Factoria Blvd and Newport Way, across the street from the Newport High. My last glimpse as we rounded the corner was of her trying to maintain the appearance of nonchalance while surreptitiously glancing around at her fellow travelers through high school. My bus buddy Andrea saw her as well and we shared a grin.

Hope she had a good first day.

A cool kid

It had been raining all day Saturday when Mary went to answer a knock at the door. The young man identified himself as a student at the local middle school and asked Mary if she had any odd jobs available. It seems that school starts this week and he had come up a bit shy in the back-to-school- clothing department.

We didn’t have anything for him just at that moment but we hoped he’d come back when we did. We were disappointed we couldn’t offer him employment that day.

Turns out that Susan across the street does have some chores she needs done this week and she gave him an advance so he could do some shopping before school starts on Tuesday. After going home to tell his mom he’d made a connection, she sent him back to Susan to nail down the work appointment.

I think we’re going to have him do some yard work for us. He’ll work hard. And we’ll pay him well. And we’ll both feel good about the deal.

It’s been years since a local kid came to the door and asked for paid work. It made me feel good that time, too.  

You couldn't make this stuff up

CNN) – “A 9-year-old girl learning to fire a submachine gun accidentally killed her instructor at a shooting range when the weapon recoiled over her shoulder, according to Arizona authorities.”

Do I even have to rant about this? Did anyone with a brain and a conscience get past “A 9-year-ol girl learning to fire a submachine gun…” without having to go back and make sure they’d read it correctly?

“Some experts say…” (an Uzi) “…is the wrong choice of firepower for instructing a child.”

You think?

And is there a right choice of firepower for instructing a child?

Sam Scarmardo, owner of Burgers and Bullets – the site of the little mishap – is quoted as saying “they really don’t know what happened.”

Hm-m-m… Pretty sure I do.

There are so many wrong-headed quotes in this article that I half expected it to turn out to be a parody. An unfunny one. Sadly, not so much.

One ‘expert’ opines that “there are some machine guns I could have trained my eight-year-old on. It can be done under the right circumstances.”

Is there a place in this universe where the ‘right circumstances’ exist for teaching young children to use automatic weapons? Or for that matter, weapons?

This perfect day (with apologies to Ira Levin)

Allow me to begin this by stating categorically that I love my wife and enjoy spending time with her. I love visiting with my sibs and I live for times spent with my Daughters, One and also Two. The EE Girls and Bill and others fill my soul.  I even enjoy the folks I work with. Well, most of them anyway…

But sometimes I really just like to be alone. And with me beloved in Ohio for a high school reunion, well…

Today was the first of a three day weekend for me. I just finished managing a conference in another state, the arrangements for which have had my brain running in high gear these last several weeks. So I scheduled a vacation day Monday to extend the weekend and allow time to wind down.

Which is precisely what I did all day. Wind down, that is.

I didn’t get up until almost 7:00am, much to the consternation of two canine members of the family whose usual breakfast hour is 6:00. (They survived this great trauma.) Having fed the mutts and made my morning brew, I went back to bed with coffee and book for the better part of an hour.

Breakfast was casual.

I started watching Under the Skin because I usually like Scarlet Johansson but I realized early on it was a boobs and butts movie and forced edgy, neither of which are high on my hit parade. I like movies with actual, you know, stories and as I’ve previously opined in these virtual pages, it’s all about context when speaking of nudity. Alone before noon with a cup of coffee and a naked Johansson just felt too creepy so I killed the movie and got on with the chores du jour.

I spent the greater part of the day dismounting doors, removing hardware, sanding and taping in preparation for Mary to paint said doors. Since these are doors of the French variety with fifteen lights per, the sanding and taping will continue tomorrow and possibly even Monday, although I’m hoping by then to have moved on to reorganizing the office.

This evening I grilled a small steak, watched a couple of Big Bang Theory reruns and got to my writing for the night. My other writing, the writing I do when I’m not blogging, which of course accounts in part for the paucity of blog entries of late.

Soon I shall repair to bedchamber mine with a new book, having finished the old one during my lunch break (pulled pork sandwich and nonfat milk).

Now, some or all of this might be boring to my faithful readers and at risk of being thought impolite, let me just say that this possibility does not really bother me all that much.

This was a perfect day.

MY perfect day.

Computers

The laptop computer I use at home – the one on which I’m composing this missive – is getting a bit long in the tooth. I haven’t had a new computer in maybe a decade, perhaps longer.Oh, I’ve had them new to me, but not, you know, new. This is because as One and Two went through high school and then college and Mary through various work-related upgrade needs, there has always been a hand-me-down available when my then-machine wore out. And since my needs are limited to creating Word documents and the occasional spreadsheet, there was never a need for me to have the latest and greatest machine.

The thing is, since I got a discounted copy of Office Pro 2013 and was gifted a good program for transferring VHS home movies to digital, where I’m going is no longer supported by my confuser. Plus, since it was a hand me down from my daughter, it’s a girl shade of purple, which is always a bit disconcerting when I take it out in public. So, Mary is currently shopping for a new computer for moi.

Why Mary, one might ask? As head of household, of course I make the big decisions – how to achieve world peace, whether there will be rain this Fall, etc. Mary makes the small decisions for which I don’t have time – where we live, schools for One and Two and which computer I get. It works for us.

Of course, she had to first know where my comfort level resides, so last night we went over to the computer emporium so I could try different arrangements of keyboards, sizes of screen, swipe screen versus mouse, etc. And it appears that my next computer will be substantially lighter and faster, small enough to use on an airplane fold down tray, flexible enough to comfortably use in my lap.

Of course, the same (except for being faster, of course) could be said about a pad of foolscap which has always been my favorite writing medium. But with my age has come shaky hands, which has made my horrible-at-best penmanship largely indecipherable. And I can still type about as fast as most people can talk so more and more, my writing is done by keyboard rather than with #2s on yellow pads.

So, as has been the case with so many small decisions over the years such as when she bought me my pickup truck, I’m a bit on pins and needles to see what my next keyboarding device will look and feel like.

I spend a lot of time with a keyboard. This is a big decision.

Dancing to the copier

When I was younger, I was much more likely to spend my time making music than dancing to it. Add to that an unfortunate (and harmless, except that it crushed me) remark by one of my parents about how tall, gawky young guys looked so funny when dancing, and you have a guy who studiously avoids tripping the light, fantastic or not. Even at my own wedding, Mary and I had to pose in a “dancing-like” position so the photographer would feel he’d gotten his money shot and would shut the hell up and let me enjoy our party.

So anyway, the fact is I never learned to dance. No charm school, no Arthur Murray, no practicing in the mirror – ew, ESPECiALLY not in the mirror, sheesh!  – and absolutely never, ever danced with a girl, not even a little bit, not even for a minute.

Now, some of you who knew me back when are going to claim that I’ve forgotten all the shows I was in when I was young and shameless. But then I would have you consider whether Cornelius Hackl or Ezra Reber or Caiaphas or any of the other characters I played ever did anything that actually resembled dance. Nay, I say. No ballet, no tap, nor soft-shoe nor even clog. No pirouettes, whirls, twirls, flits, frolics, leaps or jetes for this boy, no soirée! Neither a Kelly nor a Baryshnikov shall I be.

In high school, I was impressed, even enthralled watching Jerry and Val and Cecille et al. I was amazed at how they moved so seemingly effortlessly and I wished like hell that I could move a tenth as well as any of them. For myself, I did the minimum amount of somewhat rhythmic shuffling to get through the shows I was in and that. Was. It!

Now, I do admit to the occasional insane flurry of disjointed flailing that I’ve been known to do when I thought I could get a laugh out of Daughters One and also Two. Or better yet, when I could horrify them.  That’s the best. But it’s not really dancing and no one will ever see me do the actual dancing deed.

Here’s the problem – I can’t help moving rhythmically in response to, you know, rhythm. I played drums for eleven or twelve years as a kid and The Beat is engrained in my soul. Can’t help it.

So how does one avoid the near occasion of gyration? Well, I never watched Bandstand and I avoided high school dances and I’ve never hung in bars with any wide empty floor spaces.

Still, there’s that rhythm thing. And the copier / printer I use most often at work creates a really danceable (I give it a nine, Dick!) percussive rhythm when you make more than about three copies. And as a curriculum developer and frequent teacher, I spend a fair amount of time in close proximity to this machine just when it’s doing its shiggity-diggity thing.

It gets me every time. I stand there positively shivering as I try me hardest not to start moving in response to this damned office machine. Of course, I can’t give in to these urges because someone might actually, you know, see me. And as a humanitarian, I just couldn’t do that to the people with whom I have to work the next day.

No Ricoh Rhumba for this boy! (And a sigh of contentment was heard throughout the land.)

Okay, it’s actually more of a samba, if the truth be told.

What I do

I’m running a conference next week so this week was hell week. Actually, the last few weeks have been hell week. I’ve come home every evening dog tired and brain dead. And it will all be worth it in a few days.

From Sunday through Thursday next, I will spend most of my time running to and fro, shoring up this, plugging that, dealing with A/V failures and special dietary needs and misunderstandings and egos and, and, and…

…and I will love every minute of it. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE!

The folks who will attend this conference spend their working lives and for most of them, significant portions of their personal lives working to achieve some measure of social equity. The way we go about it is woefully inefficient.  But it’s what we’ve got.

We should achieve social equity – and by this I mean its most basic form, an equal playing field for everyone who’s willing to come out and play – simply by everybody and every community being fair and compassionate and empathetic. But the thing is, not everyone is that way. And those of us who try to be frequently fall short of the mark. I know I do.

We shouldn’t have to create this whole web of non-profit organizations of people working to give a fair shake to people living with disabilities. But right now, we do. It’s what we have.

So, next week, as big of a pain in the yadooch as it will be to be the guy charged with running this sonference thing, as tired as I’ll be and no matter how many times I’ll want to just find a corner and cry, I won’t. Because I’ll be having a great time.

These are my peeps.

And that’s one of the most egotistical things I will ever be able to say about myself.

A shopping trip

I am NOT a big fan of shopping. When I go to retail emporia, I like to take a list with me. The better to get in and get back out doncha know. Grocery stores are better than other types but I would not be crushed to have our food delivered, most times. Except I’m also cheap, so I do go to the supermarket.

So, why am I so looking forward to shopping this evening? And especially because it’s to be shopping in a foo-foo mall for gifts for people I don’t know?

It’s like this… Daughter Two heads back to school clear across the continent in four days – three and a half, more like. Don’t know where the summer went but go it did. And of course, the few days remaining are work days, with evenings scheduled to be taken up with various get-ready-to-go-back-to-Boston chores.

In a few minutes, Two will get home from work and gym, shower and then we’ll all head out to an air conditioned mall for gift shopping. Fortunately for me, we’re a fairly pragmatic family. I will not be expected to pretend to take part in the shopping per se, given my utter dearth of any shopitudinous aptitude.

I will be allowed to follow along, looking at stuff I find interesting and not required to feign interest in the bulk of the retail offerings we’ll encounter. I can people watch and sip a coffee (NOT Starbucks, blech!) and just be around my daughter for another evening.

That’s enough for me. I really like time spent with my daughters. Even if it means going shopping.

Reasons to live

I am married to the best spouse in the world.

And still close friends with my first girlfriend.

And Sindy and Bill and, and, and…

One daughter is facing life decisions as an adult – which is exactly what she is.

The other daughter is facing life decisions as an adult – which is exactly what she is.

Dear friends are celebrating a healthy baby and FIVE generations!

Siblings are hanging out together with their collective children in Tahoe.

The weather is just right – warm during the day and cool evenings.

I’m seriously writing again – sorry if that impinges on my output herein.

We got another big home reno project finished.

I really enjoyed Pat and Patty’s visit and am in the early planning stages for Brocession, the epic road trip Pat and I will take (next fall?) and I can’t wait!

Mary passed her cert test (like there was any question).

I just had some really great watermelon.